“Do not press that button!”

  Webster’s voice cut through the silence. Then, in a more measured tone, he said, “The mainframe is calculating precise trajectories. We need to wait a moment.”

  As he said this, Rodgers was aware of the ship completing its tilting manoeuvre.

  It was Webster who began the countdown. “In five, four, three, two… firing!”

  Johansson tapped the screen and, less than a second later, three hundred ingots had been fired into space.

  The retort from the gun was enormous. The whole compartment shuddered, displaced particles suddenly filling the air. Rodgers and Johansson clung to the console as the gun was shunted back along the rail.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Webster said. “Let’s see if we can do that again.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  On the bridge, Webster watched as the rail gun’s projectiles raced towards their target. Then his screen switched to a close up of the alien craft itself.

  It was like nothing he’d ever seen. It wasn’t completely round as Johansson had said and reminded Webster in many ways of the shell of a hermit crab. There were no straight lines anywhere in the craft’s design and it was this, more than anything, which he found most disconcerting. In an odd way, there was a certain crude beauty in its design which made him hesitate over what it was that they were about to do.

  Not regret, exactly, but a strange kind of reluctance came over him then. He wanted to know more about this new threat it was as simple as that. He tried to put it down to that old staple of ‘know your enemy’ but that wasn’t true either. Perhaps it was just simple curiosity, but something was unsettling him. Which was strange, considering the ruthless way these people had dispatched the Meridian but he couldn’t completely shake the feeling that by engaging them here, they might well be making a terrible mistake.

  “Looks like the captain was right about that EMP strike,” Yamada observed. “Our ordnance is flying straight and true. The enemy’s shields appear to be down.”

  The stream of projectiles appeared as a silver trail along the bottom of the screen, cutting across the face of the alien ship before disappearing off into the distance.

  “Oh, that’s great!” someone remarked.

  Despite all their calculations, they had missed.

  The second burst of fire appeared from the same point on the screen and for a second it looked as if this was going to follow the same trajectory as the first. But then something peculiar happened: the line of fire began to curve in towards the ship, peppering its surface with multiple impacts. A chain reaction of explosions blossomed beneath the ships surface but then, just as quickly, disappeared.

  Yamada moved alongside Webster and lowered his voice.

  “Commander, am I going mad? Did those projectiles just change course mid-flight?”

  “Iron ingots,” Webster said. “Magnetic iron ingots. It’s a new thing the Admiralty has been playing around with. I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but several dozen crates of them were mistakenly delivered to us just before we left Lincoln. Luckily, we’ve been able to find a use for them.”

  Yamada nodded sagely. He’d like to say that was impossible, but things like that happened in navy shipyards all the time.

  The effect of the third rail gun volley was different again from that of its predecessors. This time, the volley struck the target amidships. The level of damage it inflicted was instantaneous and overwhelming. Powerful explosions could be seen beneath the ship’s hull, blowing a large mass of debris out into space.

  In the absence of any resistance on the enemy’s part, Bertran had already launched two waves of six Arachnid missiles which angled in towards their target at high speed, their on-board navigational equipment homing in on the ship’s already exposed flanks. They punched through the ship’s hull like a perfectly targeted meteorite shower, plunging headlong so that they penetrated deep into the interior. The bridge watched as a massive wave of destruction rippled freely across the ship’s surface.

  Mantis followed this with a pulse beam bombardment. The point defence lasers were capable of firing several times a second at low power but Faulkner had given instructions that each laser station should recharge for ten seconds between each barrage.

  All the while this was happening, the rail gun was firing volley after volley, each one raking across the face of the enemy vessel.

  They had only had a matter of minutes before the enemy was past them and Faulkner would want to take advantage of every opportunity. So, to that end, he had authorised Bertran to fire two volleys of four Magdalene missiles. Not known for their speed or manoeuvrability, it was something of a risk to use these at close range – a Yakutian ship would make short work of shooting them down. But this wasn’t a Yakutian ship, Webster was sure of that now, and since they had the enemy at a disadvantage they would be foolish not to make the most of it.

  “Approaching launch eclipse.”

  They’d calculated that this was the point at which the enemy captain would most likely begin his counterattack. Having scrutinised what they’d seen so far of the enemy’s available ordnance, the data analysts had done their best to try and calculate their missiles’ optimum operating distances. Launching their missiles before this point - a relatively short distance - wouldn’t allow the missiles enough time to accelerate to their maximum operating speeds. As this was a major part of their effectiveness, it was assumed that the enemy would choose to wait until they were far enough past the Mantis before resuming their assault.

  For long seconds they watched as the first wave of Magdalenes, portrayed as green icons in the fish tank, edged ever closer to the enemy. Webster fully expected them to be taken out by defensive fire but that never happened and it was something of an anti-climax when they did eventually find their target.

  “Four strikes confirmed,” Yamada said.

  Webster didn’t wait for the second wave to hit home. He lowered his head and spoke directly into his console.

  “Petty Officer Rodgers, Signalman Johansson that was some pretty impressive shooting. Now get yourselves out of there. Proceed directly to the sick bay. A medical team is briefed and standing by.”

  A few shouts of encouragement echoed around him. The bridge was crowded with off-duty crewmen and women who’d come up from the lower decks in the hope of making sense of what was happening. They watched the screens with pin bright eyes. For many of them, this would be their first taste of actual combat and Faulkner seemed happy to allow them to experience it first-hand.

  The bombardment continued for several minutes with no response from the other ship. The bridge watched via a drone as the final wave of Magdalenes struck home, each one punching through the hull before triggering a whole raft of explosions which could be seen ripping through the ship’s decks.

  “What are your thoughts, number one?”

  Webster was trying to make sense of what it was that he was seeing.

  “Obviously, I’ve no experience with this type of craft but we must be inflicting some pretty catastrophic damage as far as their operating systems are concerned.”

  “Then how do you suggest we proceed? Press our advantage? Finish them off?”

  That sounded like some sort of a test and Webster hesitated before answering.

  “Sir, I’m not sure,” he admitted. “The fact that she isn’t returning fire suggests that she’s been severely compromised but that doesn’t mean she’s defenceless.”

  She wouldn’t be the first stricken ship to self-destruct in order to take her tormentors with her.

  “You’re talking about a possible self-destruct scenario?” Faulkner managed to sound both intrigued and disappointed. “You think that’s likely?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but I’d advise caution if we’re to pursue her any further.”

  Faulkner nodded soberly, as if recalling something. Then he said, “Mr Yamada, any luck in hailing them?”

  “No luck so far, sir. They’re just not responding, though I am detecting some sort of sensor pulse.”

  “Perhaps they’re trying to contact their sister ship,” Faulkner said. “Try and block that if you can, I don’t want them communicating with one another if we can help it.”

  “I’ll try my best, sir. It’s in a binary code but I can’t make head nor tail of it. Seems to be on a loop, constantly repeating itself.”

  “An automated distress signal no doubt.”

  Yamada didn’t seem to think so but chose not to contradict his captain. Faulkner had already moved on though, his thoughts engaged with their next problem. Webster didn’t know what to make of him. As the battle intensified, he’d expected Faulkner to falter, to show signs of weakness, to start making mistakes. But now, the reverse seemed to be true. Faulkner had only grown in stature, his resolve strengthening as the enormity of the threat they faced began to hit home.

  And now this strange kind of capitulation on the enemy’s part.

  He didn’t know what to make of any of it.

  Whether she was crippled or not remained to be seen, but one thing still intrigued him: here was a million tonne starship, purportedly of alien origin and seemingly defenceless. If that were true, they were faced with a veritable treasure trove of scientific wonders: ground-breaking weapons and drive systems, alien technology of untold complexity, concepts which, for the people on board, might appear routine but which, for the Confederation, might present solutions to problems which lay outside the framework of traditional physics.

  In short, here was a prize that the Admiralty would do almost anything to possess.

  The practicalities of capturing such a ship, however, presented their own set of problems. The alien ship was currently traveling in the exact opposite direction to the Mantis. Even if they wanted to catch her, it would take the Mantis a good half a day to come to a complete standstill and another day – if the engines could be persuaded to co-operate – for them to be able to match trajectories and catch up with the enemy ship. In that time, there was no telling what repairs the enemy captain might have effected, plunging the Mantis into a completely different scenario.

  No, they couldn’t afford to let such a valuable prize slip away from them, but they were going to have to act quickly if they were to have any hope of seizing it.

  A number of different plans had occurred to Webster while he’d been standing there and he assumed that Faulkner was considering similar options. None of these ideas was without some element of risk - it was just that some were very much riskier than others.

  *

  Morton was waiting in sick bay when the first of the casualties arrived. She’d been involved in the emergency response to the initial attack. There’d been nothing they could have done for the six gunners who’d been lost to the void and, other than that, she believed they’d gotten off fairly lightly, with one broken neck, several head wounds and a number of people presenting with ruptured internal organs.

  They’d extended the sick bay area by half as much again, anticipating a sudden influx of new patients but so far they hadn’t had to resort to using it. The other three doctors present, along with all twelve nurses, were kitted out in surgical scrubs and were currently dealing with the twenty or so crew members who had been injured in the second attack.

  She, on the other hand, was decked out in full on radiation gear. Faulkner had contacted her directly when he’d discovered that one of the men operating the rail gun was the same Petty Officer they had flown with on the night of the Wasp attack. Faulkner clearly felt a similar debt of gratitude to him that she did and wanted to ensure that he got access to the best care possible.

  As with all types of radiation poisoning, time was of the essence. She had very little idea of how much radiation the two men had been exposed to. Her main concern was that a section of their hull had been badly breached, so she was preparing herself for the worst. The conditions would be akin to both men operating outside the ship at the time of the blast. In all likelihood, they would have received more than enough radiation to kill the pair of them.

  Their pressure suits would have given them some protection but what was critical was the length of time they had been exposed.

  There was rumour going around that the nuke hadn’t come from the enemy but had been fired from the Mantis herself. She hoped that wasn’t true – the use of any type of nuclear armaments was abhorrent to her – but, at the same time, she found that she could dismiss the notion completely out of hand. If everything that she’d heard about Faulkner in the last few weeks were true then perhaps he was more predisposed to this type of reckless behaviour than she’d initially given him credit for. She genuinely hoped that she was wrong but she couldn’t help recalling that tattoo of his.

  Oderim dum metuant.

  Let them hate so long as they fear.

  Her fellow clinicians, on the other hand, seemed genuinely unconcerned about the particulars of what was happening. They were simply resigned to the idea of taking casualties. All they really wanted to know was whether the action had been decisive. Had the enemy been defeated?

  Had they won?

  No one else seemed particularly concerned about the cost of that victory.

  Morton knew all about the dangers of radiation poisoning. During the Long War countless crewmen who had survived the initial hostilities had subsequently gone on to suffer long and painful deaths due to their exposure to radiation. Nowadays, survival rates were likely to be markedly improved as a result of the introduction of the new range of autodocs. These were capable of diagnosing and treating the symptoms of radiation poisoning in a fraction of the time through an intensive course of gene therapy.

  The Mantis had recently been outfitted with two such autodocs. The problem was that one of them was already occupied. There’d had been issues with the re-fit of one of the fusion engines earlier in the week in which an engineer had received a potentially life-threatening dose of radiation. It looked like Morton was going to have some difficult choices ahead of her.

  The two men were semi-conscious by the time they were brought in and Morton watched as her team cut the first one out of his suit. The nurses worked with practiced ease, quickly slicing through the reinforced material. The man himself was unconscious and they were having problems scanning him properly because they couldn’t get through the suit’s collar and therefore couldn’t get his helmet off.

  The main charge nurse held up a section of the suit.

  “What do you want us to do with this?”

  “Bag it up,” Morton said. “It’s all going to have to go into the incinerator.”

  There was a name tag on the chest.

  PO 1 Rodgers.

  *

  “Sir, the enemy frigate just exited through the Felicity Gate,” comms officer Jansen said. She had replaced Yamada at the workstation.

  There had been a full duty rotation on the bridge which both Webster and Faulkner had yet to comply with.

  “Was Yamada right about the enemy trying to contact her sister ship?” Faulkner said.

  “That’s correct, sir, but so far we’ve been unable to decipher it.”

  Faulkner got up from his command chair looking tired and drawn.

  “We’re going to have to get someone onto that.”

  “Agreed,” Webster said though they were both too exhausted to do anything about it now. “Why do you think the frigate was so keen to leave? Why not stay with her cruiser, lend her some support?”

  Faulkner rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I think we might be coming at it from the wrong direction. What’s the traditional role of a frigate Ms Jansen?”

  Jansen seemed surprised that Faulkner knew who she was.

  “Well, they’re normally built for speed and manoeuvrability, sir.”

  “Armaments?”

  “Usually light armaments,” she said, warming to her subject. She was tall and rangy with short blonde hair. She looked like she’d just stepped off a volleyball court. “It’s the sacrifice you make for high speeds. Allows you to operate ahead of the main fleet, sir.”

  This appeared to please Faulkner. “Exactly. Lets you scout out potential threats. If you ask me, it seems as if this frigate performed her role admirably. She survived the engagement and then withdrew, taking her hard won intelligence with her.”

  Webster looked across at the image of the crippled battleship they were currently engaged with, a fresh idea dawning. “So you’re saying that the battleship sacrificed herself in order to ensure the survival of this frigate. That all this was just … what?” he made a vague, inadequate gesture taking in everything around him. “A diversion?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. The battleship needed to keep us occupied long enough to ensure that the frigate escaped. Their technology might be alien but their strategies and tactics seem all too familiar.”

  It was interesting how quickly the word ‘alien’ had been taken up once everyone had got a look at the other ship.

  “Okay.” Webster hated Faulkner being so certain about everything but there was no denying his point.

  Jansen went on. “A frigate is classified as being too small to stand in the line of battle. Which probably means that there may be other, larger vessels massing on the other side of the Henrietta Gate waiting to put in an appearance.”

  “I’d agree. The frigate has to get her intelligence back to the relevant authorities. Unless their set-up is completely different to ours, I’d say there’s got to be a main battlefleet out there somewhere. How else would they be able to refuel?”

  “Do you think that their intelligence would include our little trick with the EMPs?” Webster said.

  “I have no doubt about it. What was it you said earlier about the enemy being…?”

  “A great teacher.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Well, they’ve certainly learnt a great deal today. And it’s time we returned the favour. Mr Webster, I’d like to speak with Major Mackie as soon as possible.”

  *

  LaCruz stood in line at the armoury with all the other Marines.

  She poked the guy standing in front of her, one Daylon Grimes. Grimes was the tallest guy in the whole company, which meant he was forced to move around with permanently stooped shoulders as he tried to avoid bumping into everything.