themselves, they’re doing it on a very tight beam.”
“Keep sending at all times.”
“Ninety seconds,” Orlova said. Her mouth was dry, cracking; she reached under her chair for a bottle of water and squeezed a mouthful out while Zebrova gazed on disapprovingly. One more thing to unnerve her. She concentrated on her station, her universe ranging from fingers to controls to displays, with nothing more.
“Do I let them take the first shot, sir?” Orlova said.
“Standard doctrine…” Zebrova began, but Marshall broke in.
“They threatened a Triplanetary-flagged freighter and have ignored all calls for surrender. You may fire at will, Orlova.”
“Aye, Captain.” Those were the sort of orders she liked to hear, ones that would provide her with additional tactical options rather than limiting her, restricting her moves. She started to line up trajectories, selecting combat yields and targeting specific sub-systems. This couldn’t simply be a shoot-to-kill, not unless there was no other choice; the scout, certainly, could provide an excellent yield of prisoners.
“Sixty seconds,” she said, as much to herself as to everyone else on the bridge. Another clock stood by to begin its countdown above her, ready to count down the five and a half minutes they would have in firing range. More than enough time given their comparative argument – at least, she hoped it would be enough.
The seconds seemed to take forever to tick down, her hands resting gently over the missile controls. In her head she had plotted out her opening moves, as if she was about to play a game of chess where she knew every physical limitation of the board and the pieces, but with no idea what her opponent was thinking. She set up to make full use of Alamo’s armament – there didn’t seem to be any point holding back.
“Guidance,” she began, “I’ll be wanting a straight-line firing solution seven seconds after we enter firing range on the scout. Engines for preference.”
“Aye, ma’am,” McGuire replied. She glanced across at the young near-officer, and saw her hands shaking a little, slightly uncertain as she moved to set up the maneuver. Before Zebrova could say anything, Orlova cut in.
“Don’t give them any warning, Midshipman. Execute it as one swing, just set it up for now.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”
“Try and relax,” Ryder said. “Twenty seconds.”
Hastily, Orlova threw on the countermeasure screens, sending confusing pulses of electronic noise out into space, and readied a dozen decoys for launch. She had a few new tricks she was looking forward to trying, and given how close they were going to be – less than a thousand kilometers at closest approach, she marveled – she suspected that she would have ample opportunity.
“Red light!” she cried, and slammed down the missile release. Six missiles dashed out of their tubes, and automatic mechanisms hastily reloaded from the magazines at Orlova’s direction. They leaped forward as one, before spinning off into a carefully calculated star formation, one rushing towards each of the targets, sending their formation into pieces. On cue, Alamo began to swing down at the scout, the power building up in the laser cannon with every second. Orlova waited for the moment, then fired, an instant behind the computer.
A lance of light instantly danced through space, only to miss the scout by half a mile. Nothing in cosmic terms, but from the point of view of the scout’s crew, it was as if Alamo hadn’t fired at all.
“Damn,” Marshall said.
Glancing up, Orlova replied, “Forty seconds to laser recharge. First wave missiles running true, second wave in thirty seconds.”
“Leave something in the magazines, Sub-Lieutenant,” Zebrova said, coldly.
“Energy spike!” called Bryant at the sensor systems. “Incoming missile salvo!”
“Orlova…,” Marshall said.
“On it. Countermeasure
“Keep sending at all times.”
“Ninety seconds,” Orlova said. Her mouth was dry, cracking; she reached under her chair for a bottle of water and squeezed a mouthful out while Zebrova gazed on disapprovingly. One more thing to unnerve her. She concentrated on her station, her universe ranging from fingers to controls to displays, with nothing more.
“Do I let them take the first shot, sir?” Orlova said.
“Standard doctrine…” Zebrova began, but Marshall broke in.
“They threatened a Triplanetary-flagged freighter and have ignored all calls for surrender. You may fire at will, Orlova.”
“Aye, Captain.” Those were the sort of orders she liked to hear, ones that would provide her with additional tactical options rather than limiting her, restricting her moves. She started to line up trajectories, selecting combat yields and targeting specific sub-systems. This couldn’t simply be a shoot-to-kill, not unless there was no other choice; the scout, certainly, could provide an excellent yield of prisoners.
“Sixty seconds,” she said, as much to herself as to everyone else on the bridge. Another clock stood by to begin its countdown above her, ready to count down the five and a half minutes they would have in firing range. More than enough time given their comparative argument – at least, she hoped it would be enough.
The seconds seemed to take forever to tick down, her hands resting gently over the missile controls. In her head she had plotted out her opening moves, as if she was about to play a game of chess where she knew every physical limitation of the board and the pieces, but with no idea what her opponent was thinking. She set up to make full use of Alamo’s armament – there didn’t seem to be any point holding back.
“Guidance,” she began, “I’ll be wanting a straight-line firing solution seven seconds after we enter firing range on the scout. Engines for preference.”
“Aye, ma’am,” McGuire replied. She glanced across at the young near-officer, and saw her hands shaking a little, slightly uncertain as she moved to set up the maneuver. Before Zebrova could say anything, Orlova cut in.
“Don’t give them any warning, Midshipman. Execute it as one swing, just set it up for now.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”
“Try and relax,” Ryder said. “Twenty seconds.”
Hastily, Orlova threw on the countermeasure screens, sending confusing pulses of electronic noise out into space, and readied a dozen decoys for launch. She had a few new tricks she was looking forward to trying, and given how close they were going to be – less than a thousand kilometers at closest approach, she marveled – she suspected that she would have ample opportunity.
“Red light!” she cried, and slammed down the missile release. Six missiles dashed out of their tubes, and automatic mechanisms hastily reloaded from the magazines at Orlova’s direction. They leaped forward as one, before spinning off into a carefully calculated star formation, one rushing towards each of the targets, sending their formation into pieces. On cue, Alamo began to swing down at the scout, the power building up in the laser cannon with every second. Orlova waited for the moment, then fired, an instant behind the computer.
A lance of light instantly danced through space, only to miss the scout by half a mile. Nothing in cosmic terms, but from the point of view of the scout’s crew, it was as if Alamo hadn’t fired at all.
“Damn,” Marshall said.
Glancing up, Orlova replied, “Forty seconds to laser recharge. First wave missiles running true, second wave in thirty seconds.”
“Leave something in the magazines, Sub-Lieutenant,” Zebrova said, coldly.
“Energy spike!” called Bryant at the sensor systems. “Incoming missile salvo!”
“Orlova…,” Marshall said.
“On it. Countermeasure
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