Empire of Man 01 - March Upcountry by David Weber, John Ringo Page B
Authors: David Weber, John Ringo
Tags: Science-Fiction
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I to assume from that question that I should make the same arrangements for your personal gear?"
Before Roger could even think of a proper reply, he found his mouth, as usual, running away with itself.
"Of course you should!" he half-snapped, then nearly quailed as Pahner's face darkened. But he'd already climbed out on the limb; might as well saw with abandon. "I'm a prince , Captain. Surely you don't expect me to carry my own bags?"
Pahner stood and placed his hands flat on the tabletop. Then he drew a deep, calming breath, and let it out.
"Very well, Your Highness. I need to go make those arrangements. By your leave?"
For just a moment, the prince appeared to be about to say something, but finally he made a small moue of distaste and waved a hand in dismissal. Pahner gazed at him silently, then gave a jerky nod and strode around the table and out the hatch, leaving the prince to contemplate his "victory."
CHAPTER NINE
Captain Krasnitsky leaned back in his command chair and rotated his shoulders in his skin suit.
"All right. Let's bring the ship back to General Quarters, if you please, Commander Talcott."
The captain hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. He'd had a sonic shower before climbing back into the stinking skin suit, but the only thing keeping him going at this point was Narcon and stimulants. The Narcon was to keep him from going to sleep. The stimulants were to keep him thinking straight, since the only thing the Narcon did was prevent sleep.
Even with the combination, his brain felt wrapped in steel wool.
"Wait until they open fire, Commander," he repeated, for what seemed the thousandth time. "I want to get as close as possible."
"Aye, Sir," Talcott said, with rather less exasperation than Krasnitsky thought he would probably have shown in the commander's position.
The captain's mouth tried to quirk a smile, but his amusement was fleeting, and his mind flickered back over his options with a sort of feverish monotony.
DeGlopper was an assault ship, not a true warship, but she was a starship, out-massing the in-system cruiser by nearly a hundred to one, and had enormously heavy ChromSten armor. The combination of mass and armor meant she could take damage that would shatter her opponent. But she was also slower, and not only were her sensors damaged, but her entire tactical net had taken a hit from the sabotage. So like any blind, drunk bruiser faced with a clear-eyed and nimble, but much smaller, foe, she wanted to grapple. She only had a good right remaining, but one uppercut was all it would take.
The plan called for her to maintain the appearance of a damaged freighter, desperate to make landfall, for as long as possible. She was finally starting to decelerate, and the cruiser was piling on all the gravities of deceleration it could stand, as well, but the transport would still flash by the smaller ship at nearly three percent of light-speed. At those velocities, there would be a very, very limited envelope of engagement.
Which meant every shot had better hit.
"We're coming into radar and lidar detection range, Captain," Commander Talcott said a few minutes later. "Should we paint their hull?"
"No. I know we'd get better lockup, but let's play unarmed merchie as long as we can. Be ready to paint them the minute they do it to us, though. And we're going to be close enough that our antiradiation HARMs should be in range. When they paint us, launch a flight."
"Aye, Sir," Talcott said, and moved over beside the ship's defensive systems officer.
Now if the shuttles only came through it alive.
* * *
Prince Roger hunched closer to the tiny display, trying to discern anything from it, but the same flickering and distortion that had been evident on the bridge's tactical plot was even more pronounced on the smaller flat screen of the shuttle.
"Give it up, Your Highness," Pahner suggested, and there was actually an edge of humor in his voice. "I've tried to follow ship-to-ship battles on these
Before Roger could even think of a proper reply, he found his mouth, as usual, running away with itself.
"Of course you should!" he half-snapped, then nearly quailed as Pahner's face darkened. But he'd already climbed out on the limb; might as well saw with abandon. "I'm a prince , Captain. Surely you don't expect me to carry my own bags?"
Pahner stood and placed his hands flat on the tabletop. Then he drew a deep, calming breath, and let it out.
"Very well, Your Highness. I need to go make those arrangements. By your leave?"
For just a moment, the prince appeared to be about to say something, but finally he made a small moue of distaste and waved a hand in dismissal. Pahner gazed at him silently, then gave a jerky nod and strode around the table and out the hatch, leaving the prince to contemplate his "victory."
CHAPTER NINE
Captain Krasnitsky leaned back in his command chair and rotated his shoulders in his skin suit.
"All right. Let's bring the ship back to General Quarters, if you please, Commander Talcott."
The captain hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. He'd had a sonic shower before climbing back into the stinking skin suit, but the only thing keeping him going at this point was Narcon and stimulants. The Narcon was to keep him from going to sleep. The stimulants were to keep him thinking straight, since the only thing the Narcon did was prevent sleep.
Even with the combination, his brain felt wrapped in steel wool.
"Wait until they open fire, Commander," he repeated, for what seemed the thousandth time. "I want to get as close as possible."
"Aye, Sir," Talcott said, with rather less exasperation than Krasnitsky thought he would probably have shown in the commander's position.
The captain's mouth tried to quirk a smile, but his amusement was fleeting, and his mind flickered back over his options with a sort of feverish monotony.
DeGlopper was an assault ship, not a true warship, but she was a starship, out-massing the in-system cruiser by nearly a hundred to one, and had enormously heavy ChromSten armor. The combination of mass and armor meant she could take damage that would shatter her opponent. But she was also slower, and not only were her sensors damaged, but her entire tactical net had taken a hit from the sabotage. So like any blind, drunk bruiser faced with a clear-eyed and nimble, but much smaller, foe, she wanted to grapple. She only had a good right remaining, but one uppercut was all it would take.
The plan called for her to maintain the appearance of a damaged freighter, desperate to make landfall, for as long as possible. She was finally starting to decelerate, and the cruiser was piling on all the gravities of deceleration it could stand, as well, but the transport would still flash by the smaller ship at nearly three percent of light-speed. At those velocities, there would be a very, very limited envelope of engagement.
Which meant every shot had better hit.
"We're coming into radar and lidar detection range, Captain," Commander Talcott said a few minutes later. "Should we paint their hull?"
"No. I know we'd get better lockup, but let's play unarmed merchie as long as we can. Be ready to paint them the minute they do it to us, though. And we're going to be close enough that our antiradiation HARMs should be in range. When they paint us, launch a flight."
"Aye, Sir," Talcott said, and moved over beside the ship's defensive systems officer.
Now if the shuttles only came through it alive.
* * *
Prince Roger hunched closer to the tiny display, trying to discern anything from it, but the same flickering and distortion that had been evident on the bridge's tactical plot was even more pronounced on the smaller flat screen of the shuttle.
"Give it up, Your Highness," Pahner suggested, and there was actually an edge of humor in his voice. "I've tried to follow ship-to-ship battles on these
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