Olympus Beckons Pt. 11

This story takes place in the universe created by fellow writer "farbeyondourstars".

Olympus Beckons - Part 11: "The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong."

The ship was at battle stations, yet there was something of a hush in her passageways and compartments. Not a silence as such, for the vessel's machinery hummed and whirred as it always did, its engines murmured, and all the many mechanisms that maintained the fragile existence of her crew carried out their tasks with their usual uncaring efficiency.

And what of the crew? They manned their stations and stood to post, waiting for the battle to start. As sailors had done since the days of wooden ships and iron men, and if there was a dry mouth or a shaking hand to be found among them, they kept it to themselves and hid it as best they could.

Frances looked about the bridge. The officers and ratings operating the assorted consoles were a microcosm of her crew as a whole, and as her eyes played across them, she would gauge their mood, carefully measuring their mettle for the action to come.

There was some chatter, but on the whole, they carried out their duties with quiet efficiency. The odds against them might not have been entirely favourable, but there was no panic to be seen, none balked, and she found herself smiling, "As shipmates go, I could have done worse."

She turned to the XO with a rueful shake of her head and spoke up, pitching her voice just loud enough for the bridge crew to hear and plaintive enough to raise smiles, "You know, Damon, the one thing I hate about these suits is you can't drink a decent cup of coffee in one."

Taking his cue, the man nodded sagely, "I know, it must be terrible for you. Mind you, I suppose we could get the Chief to rig up a straw or something."

She blew out an indignant breath, "A straw? Dammit, man! Do you expect me to sup my java like I'm drinking from a toddler's sippy cup? Dear Gods, next you'll be saying I should be contaminating it with cream and sugar."

He turned to regard her, "No sugar for you, ma'am."

"You saying I'm getting fat?"

His only reply was a noncommittal, and distinctly mischievous, shrug.

Selene chirped up, "Maybe he's saying you're sweet enough, ma'am."

She grinned, "Damned better be, if he knows what's good for him."

The exchange provoked chuckles across the bridge, as well as perhaps a few other half-whispered, and apparently giggle-inducing, comments.

With tensions eased somewhat, she met Damon's eyes. Her lips quirked when he fetched her a sly grin, before his face smoothed once more into an expression of professional detachment, and he turned back to his console.

Task accomplished, she gave the crew their moment before keying a control and speaking to the image that appeared, "Tactical; your assessment please," she gave the man an impish grin, "if you're up to it, that is."

From his post in the Combat Information Centre, Leftenant Quadir appeared as roguishly handsome and self-possessed as always, though his cat-like smile may have been just a little more cocky than usual, "I assure you, Captain, my services are entirely unimpaired," his eyes may have twinkled, "in all departments."

Frances raised a brow, "And would Selene agree, I wonder?"

The man's insouciant smile was distinctly smug, "I think it would be fair to say our last engagement was a draw. The match remains undecided, and the game continues."

With a chuckle, the Captain nodded, "Splendid, I think I await the outcome of that little fracas with significantly more enthusiasm than I have for what appears before us today. So, to business, if you please," she grinned, "tell me... stuff."

He nodded, "Very good, ma'am. As you can see on your console, we have six contacts, approaching in a classic, 'Double Vic' formation. They consist of three cruiser-sized vessels, and three that appear to be destroyers. The warbook identifies the cruisers as 'Dominus' class attack cruisers," he shrugged, "which looks to be a fancy name for nothing more than a slightly beefed-up light cruiser that's been rigged for offensive operations."

He was clearly examining the data in front of him, and it was a moment before he continued, "Warbook indicates they're lightly armoured but have slightly heavier shields than a typical light cruiser. They have three tubes, and a railgun mounted fore and aft, though there are reports that some have been refitted with both railguns mounted on the bow. Looks like they have a quartet of defensive autocannon turrets situated amidships," he pursed his lips thoughtfully, "it's a post-war design, but they used a lot of surplus components left over from the war in their construction. Fairly standard sensor and tracking arrays, and mundane software packages."

He looked up, "To me, it looks like they were designed for ease of refit and repair using standardized components, which is what you'd expect of a merc outfit like the Corsairs."

Frances nodded, "And the destroyers?"

He tapped a few keys on his board before answering, "Caliban class escort destroyers, ma'am. They're very much like the cruisers only writ smaller as it were. Each mounts a pair of launchers and a railgun both fore and aft, though unlike the cruisers, they have a double ring of defensive autocannons," he examined the data, "no armour worth speaking off, but again, they have slightly beefed-up shields to compensate."

She ruminated a moment on the information, before her eyes once again focused on him, "And your analysis?"

He shrugged, "All six contacts are faster than us, and between them they have fifteen missile tubes to Apollo's four. If it were me, I'd try to hold the range open and overwhelm our point defence, while their escorts stop our missiles cold. Buuut," he grinned, "from their formation, one of the cruisers looks to be still damaged, or is at least leery of the fight for some reason, and the after-action report of the previous engagement indicates Apollo got a few licks in on one of the destroyers as well, though I can't see any signs of any residual damage from the scans."

"So?"

"Well, it could be they might want to get this over with quick, rather than risk a prolonged engagement where they might sustain yet more damage. I mean," he made a face, "they're here just to kill us, after all, not to fight a battle if they can avoid it. So, it's possible they could come boring in - try to take us out with their rail guns before they get in range of our main armament, and then, once we're dead, they can withdraw. And if they do that..."

Her grin was positively wolfish, "If they do that, I'm going to shove a full salvo of overloaded plasma torpedoes right down their throats."

"Exactly."

Frances tilted her head to one side, "Devonian brandy-flavoured chocolates."

He blinked, "Excuse me, ma'am."

"I'm told Selene has an inordinate fondness for them."

His eyes narrowed, "Ohh, really?"

"So I heard."

With a wry chuckle he nodded, "Now that is useful intelligence, Captain. Useful intelligence indeed. Assuming we live through this, I'll be sure to acquire a supply."

She grinned, "I have an unopened box in my quarters. And assuming we live through this, you can have them," she winked, "for the war effort, of course."

"Of course," he gave her a distinctly vulpine look, "uh, Captain, would it be impertinent for me to enquire why you have an unopened box of Devonian brandy-flavoured chocolates in your quarters?"

Her shrug may have been one of distinct nonchalance, but he fancied the gleam in her eye spoke otherwise; her smile certainly did, "Perhaps I have a fondness for sweet things, Mister Quadir."

He knew better than to pursue the matter, "Perhaps so," he drew himself up and gave her a firm nod, "with your permission, Captain, when we get to the other side, I would very much like to make use of those chocolates."

"Permission granted; I look forward to hearing a thoroughly detailed assessment as to their efficacy. But, in the meantime, good day to you, sir."

"Good day, ma'am, and, uh, good luck."

"You too," with a firm nod she gave him a last smile and cut the connection.

...

"You told me she was crippled!"

Augustus Alcantra was not a patient man. Nor was he known for his temperate nature, and he practically snarled at the Captain of his flagship as he jabbed an accusing finger towards the picture of Apollo, pulsing clear as day upon the imaging scope.

About him, the bridge crew of the cruiser took pains to keep their eyes fixed upon scope and screen, wary lest they caught his eye and drew his ire.

The focus of his anger turned to him, spluttering, "She was! You saw it as well as I did. We blew a hole in her big enough to land a shuttle in. The flare of her capacitor ring discharging was bright enough to be seen in the next fucking system."

The Castellan's eyes burned as he pointed, "Yet there she sails."

"They must have repaired her..."

Turning on him, lips curled back in fury, the Castellan's face was so livid with rage that the man took a step back, almost stumbling into the command chair as he did, "Tell me something I don't know, Captain Fucking Obvious!"

"H-her repairs can't be complete... Her hyperdrive. She was carried here, so maybe..."

"Maybe what?!"

"Maybe some of her other systems might still be impaired as well?"

The Castellan snarled, "They fucking better be."

Deep down, Augustus knew the Captain didn't really deserve to be the sole focus of his anger. At least some portion of it fairly belonged to him. They had been given the likely course of the cruiser, and their fake signal had drawn her in sure enough. But her captain had been a crafty one, not easily ambushed. He had stood off and sent in a shuttle to examine the wreck they had used as a lure, which meant the ship had avoided being crippled by the EMP bomb they'd planted.

"Apollo" could have jumped out, but they wouldn't abandon the shuttle crew to their fate, which was the sort of dumbass shit he half-expected from a Navy boat. Either way, it let him make an attack run.

But the data he had been given didn't mention anything about the thing being some kind of refit class. He expected her to be a typical Invictus; slow as fuck, built like a tank and armed with short-range weapons.

Instead, the bastard thing was half again as fast as she should have been and carried a battery of long-range missile launchers that all but blew one of his cruisers right out of fucking space. The escort destroyers were caught completely flat-footed, and the first salvo had bored straight in, flattening the shields on the "Gort", wrecking half her forward armament and killing a third of her crew.

His own launchers had battered the ship in turn, but not before she blew holes in one of his destroyers for good measure, "Damn it. I should have finished her."

He grimaced; there was no point in self-recrimination. Two of his ships had been so badly damaged that the next salvo from Apollo's rail guns could have wrecked either of them, so he had given the order to jump out. But fuck it, she was mangled; her drives were out, her shields gone, and she was leaking air like a goddamned sieve. There was no way she could be combat-ready this fast. It was impossible.

Yet there she was...

...

Aboard Apollo, Captain Wulf Thorsson turned to his chief engineer, his growling voice as implacable as granite, "I don't care if the reactor's overheating, and I give even less of a fuck about overloads. Do whatever it takes to keep us operational, understand? Piss on the damned thing if you have to, but keep us flying."

His eyes blazed with a vengeful fire his ancestors would have recognised in an instant, "Those are the bastards that killed the Captain, and I want their fucking heads. Now get it done!"

...

Frances sat back in her command chair, legs crossed before her, hands folded neatly on her lap, as she watched the consoles, her face serene and seemingly devoid of emotion.

Damon eyed her and shook his head, "She looks like she just ordered breakfast."

As if reading his mind, she turned to him with a sly smile playing on her lips, before drawing a breath, "Tactical; link battle computer with Apollo for synchronised defensive fire, if you please."

"Linking computer, aye; autocannons synchronised."

"Very good."

A moment later she turned again to Damon, "XO, contact Apollo and inform Captain Thorsson that he may begin the engagement at his convenience."

A moment later, Gail spoke up, "First salvo away."

Damon heard himself murmuring, "So it begins."

Frances chuckled, "A little dramatic don't you think."

With a rueful shake of his head, he sighed, "Yes, ma'am."

...

Alcantra eyed the display with an unhappy grimace, "Their missiles are heavier than ours, longer range too."

His flag Captain nodded slowly, pursing his lips as he considered, "They only have four launchers though, and bigger missiles means slower reloads."

Alcantra grunted, "It also means bigger warheads."

The man shrugged, "Yea, and that."

The Castellan blew out a breath, "Fine, continue closing, the closer we get, the more effective our railguns will be; but I want to stay out of the envelope of those fucking plasma torpedo launchers of theirs. In the meantime, move the destroyers further forward. I want them in position to intercept those missiles."

"Agreed," the Captain turned to address his comms station, "Squadron orders - Instruct Piron, Inferno, and Talon to advance and configure for missile interception."

Voices murmured as orders were carried out. The bridge was dimly lit, though the glow from the many screens illuminated the faces and visors of their operators, casting them in a pallid gleam that made them appear almost like ghosts in the darkness.

Instruments measured distances, projected vectors, courses, speeds, carrying out their merciless calculations with inhuman, uncaring precision.

A weapons tech looked up from his board, "Missile range in thirty seconds."

Alcantra nodded his acknowledgement, "Very good; set for time-on-target salvoes on the Zeus. We'll swamp their defences and batter her shields. Stand-by on railguns."

"Magnetic coils charging, railguns standing-by."

"Missile range... Now."

"Engage!"

...

Aboard the destroyer Inferno, Commander Killiman watched the oncoming missiles with distinctly mixed emotions. They were big bastards, which not only meant they carried a warhead capable of doing very unpleasant things to his ship, but also that they carried more fuel and could burn for longer. So, the fucking things could go further, and they were faster, and harder to stop.

They'd found that out the hard way, last time.

He sniffed, "Mind you, there's only four of them. Between just the three of us, we have twenty-four autocannon mounts. That should be enough to burn them down before they get to us.

A rating swallowed loudly, and looked up, "Here they come."

...

Aboard Zeus, a young scan-tech looked to her Captain, "Apollo's missiles making final attack run now, ma'am. Enemy missiles closing."

"Thank you, Gail."

Frances' soft reply seemed incredibly unperturbed, and her answering smile somehow gave the young woman enough courage to stop her hands from shaking; almost.

Keying a command, the Captain turned to the face that appeared on her comscreen, "Okay Bunny, time to do your worst."

"Aye, aye, Boss; fucking up their day... Now!"

...

Aboard Inferno, there was an air of anticipation. It might not have been exactly eager, but it was better than nothing. The gunnery officer grunted, "Enemy missiles entering autocannon range. Tracking is good; firing... n-"

There was an almighty scream of tortured metal, and the ship heaved sickeningly to one side, as if it had been kicked by one of the Titans of old.

Consoles overloaded, sparks flew in all directions as the crew were shaken like rats in a cage or hurled into bulkheads with literally bone-snapping force.

...

As the fury of the detonation lit her display, Leftenant "Bunny" Hopper gave out an ecstatic howling warcry, "Yesss!"

Turning to her co-pilot, she gave the man a smile of such hungry, shark-like ferocity he actually felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Her eyes blazed with murderous joy as she spun in her chair, "It's better than sex! Well, almost."

...

There had been two drones. They were meant for long range operations. Both were stealth-coated and difficult targets at best, but even so, if the ships they were stalking hadn't been concentrating so hard on their own prey, they might very well have been spotted. Mind you, "Bunny" was a crafty bitch, even if she said so herself. She had pushed them out as fast as she could, right into the paths of the destroyer screen, before cutting their power and letting them drift.

When the destroyers had rumbled almost directly over them, her fingers had lightly stroked the controls, causing her charges to slip gently in behind two of them, using the radiation from their drive plumes to conceal their own much smaller signatures.

Each of the drones carried four light missiles and a single torpedo, and when the Captain gave her command, they had fired the lot straight into the destroyers' engines at point-blank range.

The missiles had completely flattened the weak aft shields, though they did only minor damage themselves.

Then the torpedo hit.

Engine rooms exploded into infernos of radioactive flame. Plasma injectors ruptured, adding their own hell to the mix, and engineers were seared to a crisp or mercifully incinerated so swiftly they didn't even have time to scream.

On the bridge, Commander Killiman spat out a gobbet of blood and winced in pain as he waved feebly at the acrid smoke now filling the compartment. The spike of agony in his side and the teeth he spat out was grim testimony to the injuries he had sustained, and he looked about blearily, "T-the fuck happened?"

There was a horrified scream, "Incoming!"

Looking at the flickering display he wiped the blood from his eyes, just in time to see the missiles boring in, "Oh, shi-"

All four weapons struck near enough simultaneously. Each of them was probably enough to wreck the destroyer, four was a definite case of overkill.

Aboard the cruiser Maria, Castellan Alcantra watched his screen, transfixed in horror as the four massive explosions merged into one, utterly obliterating the stricken ship.

There were no survivors.

...

Commander Josephine Beck slowly picked herself up off the deck. One moment, Talon had been flying in close formation with her sister ships, and she was readying for the battle to come - the next she felt like she had been kicked in the tits by one of her ex-husbands and was face-down on the deck.

She thought her head was still ringing until she realised it was the scream of an emergency klaxon as the bridge lost atmosphere. She pointed, "Sss..." swallowing, fighting against the pain, she forced her brain to work, "seal that f-fucking breach!"

Her first officer was still in his own command chair, a gruesome crater where his chest had been. Whatever it was that had cleaved through her bridge had decapitated a rating, drilled through two consoles, and killed the man where he sat, before punching straight through the opposite bulkhead.

Her own console was dead, so she stumbled across the bridge to the navigator's station, "Status?"

The Lieutenant looked up, "Main drive is down, radiation leaks on three decks, reactor scrambling," the man gave a soft groan, and she could see the bloodstains marring the inside of his helmet. With feverish fingers, she linked their suits and began running through medical protocols while she listened to the litany of disaster.

"We're gonna lose main power momentarily, and the battery room is on fire."

She sniffed, "Weapons?"

The man winced and then sighed as the pain meds kicked in, "Missile tubes show green, but we've no power for the rail gun, and we're gonna lose shields as soon as the reactor shuts down."

"Can we move?"

He shook his head, "Thrusters only."

Unstrapping his webbing, she grabbed the man and hauled him to his feet, "Right, fuck it, abandon ship."

"Ma'am?"

"Abandon ship! Right fucking now. We're a sitting duck, and as soon as they see that, they'll blow us to bits," she put her shoulder under his arm and started dragging him from the bridge, "just pray we get far enough away before she blows up."

...

Captain Thorsson eyed the display on the main viewplate, and his teeth bared in an evil grin, "Railguns?"

The weapons officer replied with a smile that was every bit as hungry, "Railguns ready."

Slapping the man on the back, the Captain gave a positively bloodthirsty chuckle, "Then reach out and touch someone."

"Ohh, yea."

...

Railguns were heavy versions of the gauss cannons carried by smaller warships and Privateers. Theoretically, they had near enough unlimited range. They were reliable and well tested, and the ammunition they fired was cheap.

But like everything else in the realm of ship-to-ship combat, nothing was ever as simple as it looked on paper. Railguns were line-of-sight weapons, and the projectiles they launched were unguided. Further, the energy spike caused by the discharge of the magnetic coils as they fired was blatantly obvious and easily detected. That meant that any ship capable of evasive action could avoid incoming fire with ease, especially at long range. Also, shields could sometimes deflect such projectiles, almost like the sloped armour of the ancient tanks that crawled across the battlefields of old.

Of course, as the range fell, such things had a way of becoming more... problematic.

Unfortunately for the Talon, the damage to her main drive had effectively crippled her, rendering her incapable of evasive action.

The two railguns on the Apollo spoke as one. Each launched a twenty-kilogram ferrous steel slug and hurled it at its victim at a measurable fraction of lightspeed.

One struck a glancing blow, tearing straight through an autocannon turret, instantly reducing it to unrecognisable scrap before vanishing into the dark without slowing down.

The second hit the destroyer squarely amidships, and it hit with the force of a forty-kiloton bomb.

...

A hush fell across the command deck of the destroyer Piron as her sister ships were consumed in fire.

The explosion that engulfed the Talon was like an almighty boil, bursting in an eye-searing holocaust that reached out to blot away most of the fleeing lifeboats and escape pods as they desperately tried to abandon the murdered ship.

A moment later, Piron was rocked, almost gently, as she was nudged by the swiftly dissipating shockwave of agitated particles and seared fragments.

The brittle silence lingered, until it was broken by a terrified half-whisper, "Holy fuck..."

...

Aboard Zeus, lights flickered, and the ship shuddered. She was surrounded by streams of brilliantly burning tracer fire as the enemy salvo came streaking in, and her autocannons lit the firmament.

Between her and Apollo, the two ships threw up a furious lattice of fire that burned down missile after missile, blasting them from the skies with mechanical precision.

But no defence, however skillful, was perfect.

Two of the missiles broke through, sliding between the streams of cannon-fire, like the knives of an assassin, seeking some chink in the armour of their victim.

The big ship rolled nimbly aside, and one of the darts shot past her flank, only to be caught and executed as it came screaming round to make another pass.

The second struck the cruiser head on.

Fire blossomed across her bow in a blinding flare, and crewmen were pitched from their feet as the ship rattled. But if the enemy expected her to turn aside, they were bound for disappointment, instead she plowed straight through the fireball and held her course.

On the bridge, Damon eyed his console and grunted, "Shield's holding, no damage."

Frances smiled; it was neither a pleasant nor warming sight, "Make your heading directly for that last destroyer if you will," she chuckled, "lay me alongside at pistol range, as the saying goes... And stand by."

His reply was a growl, "Standing by."

...

The course change was not lost to the bridge crew of the Piron.

The skipper sat in his command chair, his face white and eyes bulging. He could almost taste the rising panic as he watched the ships bore down on his command, "This was meant to be an execution, a hit, nothing more. It wasn't meant to be a fucking battle with two heavy cruisers."

Enemy missiles were ranging on his ship, and he could feel the rattle of the autocannons vibrating through the deckplates.

A rating blurted out, "She's coming straight for us."

That did it. He turned his command chair and snapped out commands, "Fuck this noise. Helm; hard about! Steer one-eighty degrees and get us the fuck out of here!"

...

Frances watched the destroyer's frantic maneuver with the eyes of a shark, calculating where the vessel's curving path intersected with the projected course of her own ship, and running the numbers with the ruthless speed of more hours of practice than she could possibly remember.

She would have surged to her feet if she wasn't strapped to the damned command chair. Instead, her fist closed reflexively, and her voice barked out, "Now! Flank speed ahead; drives to emergency full," her eyes blazed, "Pour it on!"

Around her, Zeus shook again, and she could feel a rumbling deep in the bowels of the ship as her engines roared to life.

Voices sounded, "Another hit; forward shield weakening."

Eyes still fixed on her target; she hit a key on her armrest, "Reactor room."

The response was almost instant, "Reactor room, aye."

She sniffed, "Take the reactor to twenty percent over safety levels."

"Uh, ma'am?"

Her eyes flicked down to the console, "You heard me. Do it now."

"Aye, aye, Captain, setting reactor to one hundred and twenty percent."

She killed the connection without a word and looked up, "Emergency power to forward shield, maintain full burn."

Helen spoke up from nearby, "Chief Engineer on the line, he says the plasma injectors are overheating."

"Acknowledged."

There was a moment of silence before she spoke again, "Uh, Captain, he says if we keep this up, the engines might explode."

Frances didn't even look round, "Tell that fucker that if we blow up, he's fired."

After a moment she turned, "Any reply."

Helen blushed, "Uh, none I'd care to repeat, ma'am."

The lights dimmed, causing her to glance up, "Report?"

"Kinetic strike, a railgun round, but the shield deflected it."

"Good."

Damon eyed the readings on his board and cleared his throat, "Forward shield firming up, but we can't keep this up for long."

She turned to him, eyes hard, "We'll keep it up for as long as is necessary, XO."

He grinned, "A dead whale or a stove boat?"

"Too fucking right."

Lifting her eyes, her voice cracked out, "Tactical?"

The rating's head snapped round, "She's doing it, ma'am! We'll sneak into torpedo range just before he completes his turn."

He peered at his board, licking his lips, voice quivering with excitement as if willing the ship to greater speed, "Closing... Closing... Almossst there... Now! Torpedo range!"

"FIRE!"

...

Plasma torpedoes were heavy metal, sometimes classed as "Assault Weapons." The Thorians had first developed them years ago and then, seeing exactly what they'd built, they were quick to deploy them, with truly terrifying results. Sometimes called "Shieldburster torpedoes," they comprised of globules of high energy plasma, the very stuff of the stars themselves, held momentarily captive in a magnetic bottle, and then launched at whatever hapless target was unlucky enough to come within reach.

The magnetic bottle did not survive long, so the weapons had a horribly short range, and like rail guns, they were supposedly unguided, save for the disconcerting habit the torpedo had of homing in on other strong magnetic fields, like say, the field generated by a ship's energy shields.

Strangely enough, being hit by a bolt of incandescent plasma, about the size of a large aircar, had the unfortunate tendency of blowing massive craters in most things. They crumpled shields and melted armour like butter under the blowtorches of Hell, before bursting with the incendiary eruption of an active volcano.

One torpedo was bad enough.

Zeus launched six.

...

Castellan Alcantra watched as his last destroyer vanished in a massive fireball. The automated polarisation of the viewplate saved him from being instantly blinded, but when the glare faded, there was nothing left of the Piron, save a slightly glowing corona of dissipating atoms.

His Flag-Captain moved alongside, murmuring quietly and pitching his voice so that it went unheard by the bridge crew, "We should just jump out. This is a fucking disaster."

Tilting his head, Alcantra sighed and gave him a half nod, "There's something to what you say," then he shook his head unhappily, "but, if we run and abandon the job, then we're done. Nobody would ever hire us again. We'd go broke, and then all of this? All of this would be for nothing."

"What then?"

He grit his teeth as he made his decision, "We still outnumber their launchers. We'll form up in line astern and turn away from them, keep the range open and go for a missile duel. Switch target to the Apollo. If we can kill or cripple her, then we'll have taken away their ability to hit back, and we can stand off and pound them to dust."

"Their point defence is better than ours."

Alcantra grunted, "True enough. We're just going to have to do it the hard way; we'll run them out of ammo."

The Captain carefully cleared his throat, "And if they run us out of ammo first?"

"Unlikely, Captain. So far, our cruisers haven't come under attack, and our magazines are full, while they've been defending against several of our combined salvoes," he nodded definitively, "I'm confident we can outlast them."

"Very well, Sir, I'll give the orders."

...

Aboard Zeus, Frances watched the maneuvering of the three cruisers in her viewplate and shook her head in disgust, "Soo predictable."

With a weary sigh, she tilted her head in the direction of her second in command, "They're going to go for a long-range missile duel. Contact Apollo; they'll want to pull our teeth, so it's likely she'll be the target of their next volleys."

The XO nodded his acknowledgement, "Contacting Apollo now, ma'am."

"Thank you, Damon."

She huffed, "They should run."

Damon looked up, "Ma'am?"

Gesturing at the viewplate, Frances snorted, "They're forming line astern, which lets them send in massed salvoes, but it also means their point defence is no longer in mutual support range, so we'll just pop away at 'Tail-end Charlie' there until he gets unlucky, and we blow a hole in him. In the meantime, they're hoping their salvo density is heavy enough to get through our defences, which is possible, or that they run our autocannons dry."

"Uh, can they do that ma'am?"

Turning, she gave him a wicked grin, "Well, Damon, all things being equal, I'd say their chances are pretty good."

He eyed the display, and the incoming missiles, "And, uh, if they do?"

To his horror, her laugh actually sounded genuine, "Oh, if they do that, then we're fucked."

Pausing, she gave him a sly look and leaned towards him conspiratorially, eyes gleaming and teeth bared, "But then again, when are things ever equal?"

Straightening, she lightly tapped a control on the armrest of her chair and spoke a single word, "Now."

A moment later, six gunboats lit their drives as one and came screaming in at full burn.

...

The gunboats had headed for the edge of the system almost as soon as the enemy squadron appeared on their scopes, shaping their course towards the outer planet and using the lee of that celestial mass to shelter them from any hostile fire. They had no chance against such a weight of metal, and to fight against such odds was nothing short of suicide. So, nobody was surprised to see them cut and run, and as soon as they fell off their scopes, they ignored them.

That was a mistake.

Instead of jumping out, the gunships had burned dangerously close to the planet, curving around it in a wicked arc, using its gravity like a slingshot to boost their velocity and hurl them back into the system and back towards the battle. Then they had cut their drives and coasted.

The first warning the crew of the cruiser "Gort" got was when the gunships fell on them like a pack of rabid wolves, launching a blizzard of missiles right into the teeth of the already damaged ship and then closing to knife-fighting range as they raked its hull with their bow-mounted autocannons.

Shields flared and collapsed, and plating tore apart as a torrent of heavy calibre slugs ripped into the hapless warship. The cruiser's engines spluttered for a moment and then guttered out, electrical fires could be seen burning inside the drifting vessel, and atmosphere leaked from the scores of gaping wounds left by the brutal assault.

As quickly as they came, the gunships veered aside and curved away, leaving the maimed and mauled ship reeling in their wake. A few rounds of cannon-fire followed them, but it was a pitiful response to the damage they had inflicted.

Damon stared at the display and somehow managed to stop his jaw falling open in disbelief, "But they ran?"

Frances shrugged, "Did you see them jump out?"

"No, but..."

She grinned, "Neither did I."

...

From the bridge of his cruiser, Alcantra watched the ruthless display of butchery with dead eyes and a leaden heart, while in the background sirens sounded, and warning lights flashed as uncaring computers warned of incoming missiles. Drawing a weary breath, he eventually turned to his Flag Captain, his voice dreary with defeat, "Initiate jump; get us out of here."

The man started, as if he had been physically slapped by the words, "But, Sir, we can move to support. Our autocannons can chop those little bastards to pieces..."

His commander shook his head, "Yes, and while our guns do that, the missiles from Apollo will blow us out of the sky," he sighed, "we're done here, we need to leave."

Looking at the viewplate and sparing a hateful glare at the icons of the two Teraxan cruisers, even now lumbering through the few fragments of wreckage where his destroyer screen had been, he ground his teeth as he heard himself snarl, "There'll be other fights, other days."

Slumping back in his command chair, he stared at the projection, eyes fixed balefully on the image of Zeus, "You hear me, bitch? This isn't over, not by a fucking long-shot."

...

Tilting her head slightly, Frances watched as the icons of the two surviving enemy ships disappeared from the viewplate with the abrupt suddenness of a hyperspace jump, leaving the third cruiser, hopelessly lamed, in their wake.

"A bit late, but not unexpected; I suppose even a broken clock can be right twice a day."

Outside, in the cold and dark, bits and debris, doubtless including the charred particles of more than a few incinerated spacers, bounced from the shields as Zeus plowed on, and she felt her thoughts meandering darkly, "How many times have I done this? How many ships have I wrecked? How many lives have I taken?"

Around her, the cheers and exalted cries of the bridgecrew finally shook her from her reverie, and she forced herself to smile, "Well fought, people," she sniffed, "kill main drive engine and reduce reactor output to nominal. Let's give the old girl a breather."

She patted the armrest of her command chair, "She's earned it."

A light flashed on a console, and a comms rating looked up, "Captain, I'm picking up a communications beam from one of the gunships."

"Put it up on the main viewplate."

A moment later, an image appeared. She was both a striking and swarthy-looking creature, with arched brows that made her appear almost saturnine. Her eyes would have been dark, if not for a distinctly piratical gleam, and her lips were curled in a wildly ferocious grin. One side of her face was marked with tribal tattoos, and her long hair was braided and tied back from her face.

Frances suppressed a chuckle when she heard Selene's soft whistle of appreciation.

The woman on screen obviously had keen hearing, as her smile widened, and she tilted her head up, "Hoy, Zeus."

Her voice was heavily accented and had clearly not evolved on any of the inner worlds. With a nod, Frances returned the greeting, "Hoy, Mako."

The woman seemed pleased, but there was clearly a question in her eyes, "Our pact? Is still gút?"

"Sa Bueno, all gút."

"We was wonderin'. It good to know you not gone bad, living the soft life now, like you do."

Frances gave a chuckle, "Some would say I'm bad enough. And you should try the soft life now and again. You might like it."

On the screen, the woman shook her head, "Nooo, you wicked bad, 'tis true, but not bad-bad; BIG difference," she shrugged, and then lowered both her eyes and her voice suggestively, "and maybe I like soft things now and again."

"But not a soft life?"

She shook her head, "Never that."

Frances tilted her head, "Pity, but either way, our pact stands. My marines will seize the ship and take the crew into custody, after that, she's yours."

The woman leaned forward, eyes intent, "But we still get to make the offer?"

Again, Frances nodded, "A deal's a deal."

"An' it's okay we can come aboard to make our pitch?"

"You'd be more than welcome."

Sitting back in her chair, the woman gave the Captain of the Zeus a long, appraising look before speaking again, "That not true on many a corporate or Navy boat."

Frances shrugged, "More fool them then, I'll see you when you come aboard, just don't expect dinner, the food here's terrible."

The woman grinned, "Ahh, that be okay, we drink instead. I bring bottle, maybe bring two."

"Ver' gút."

...

Once the connection was cut, Frances sat there for a spell, then hit the release on the straps and cables connecting her suit to the command chair. Standing, she stretched her back with a quiet groan before looking about the bridge and turning to the XO, "Okay, stand down Action Stations. Damon, I'm going to go get cleaned up and finally get me some coffee, before our guests come aboard. I assume you can handle the boarding action on that hulk out there in the meantime?"

He didn't quite roll his eyes, "Yes, ma'am."

She grinned, "I was just asking. Very well, you have the conn."

"Acknowledged, Captain, I have the conn."

She nodded, "I'll be in my cabin. Let me know if the ship explodes, or if the Chief Engineer finally decides he's going to murder me for trying to break his toys... again."

"If we blow up, I'll be sure to let you know. And as for the Chief, I'm sure he's mostly kidding... well, mostly."