GENELLAN: PLANETFALL(180)
* * *
"Engaging alien screens, flight leader," the konish copilot said.
"Very well," the interceptor pilot replied. The noblekone scanned his tactical display, checking the disposition of his squadron. The other interceptors were in position. His mission was to trail two flights of drones through the picket screen. While the first flight disrupted the screen defenses, his flight was to follow the subsequent brace of drones through the gap.
Everything was proceeding to plan. His tactical display depicted engagements in progress. The alien energy beams were powerful; two of the leading drone warheads had already been destroyed. He wiggled his broad shoulders and stretched his neck, trying to loosen the tightness. He scanned the limitless blackness of space before him, the enemy ships invisible in the distance.
Brilliant light ahead! A flowering incandescence provided a reference point in the infinite distances, and his rocket streaked past white and pink wisps of brightness as if they had never been there. A missile ahead of them had exploded, probably hit by an alien picket's beam of destruction. His flight was in the battle zone.
"Enemy ship closing from sector three," the copilot reported.
The pilot checked the tactical display and saw the symbol for an alien approaching. Another enemy symbol popped onto the screen—this one directly "overhead"—also closing on his track. But neither of the enemy ships carried enough speed; their vectorswere inadequate to intercept. His ships were through the screen! The konish flight leader shifted his attention to the radar returns of the distant starships.
* * *
"We can't catch them!" Carmichael cursed. He watched in vain as the enemy flight eluded them, moving too fast for an intercept from his position. Another flight of enemy missiles appeared on screen, and Carmichael horsed Peregrine One to a new vector, accelerating abruptly, using precious fuel. He would not allow another flight to penetrate his sector. "Uplink the enemy positions back to fleet ops, and pass the alert. That first group looks like trouble."
"Aye, aye, Commander," the second officer shouted.
"Our fuel situation stinks, Commander," the copilot reported. "I know! I know!" Carmichael replied in exasperation. "We'll make a pass at these targets, and then we have no choice but to bingo. Set up a lead pursuit. You got the ship."
Carmichael pushed back from the controls, flexing his hands. They had knocked out two more enemy missiles, one of which had been piloted, but how much longer could they keep it up? The screen ships were scattered over a wide area, most in pursuit, some destroyed or disabled by action, and some—like Peregrine One— too low on fuel to pursue at high power. How much longer would they be able to keep up their end of the defensive load? The motherships could not handle everything.
* * *
Tasmania drifted helplessly, spewing lifeboats into the darkness. Only skeleton crews manned battle stations. The lifeboats, infinitesimal motes, each with a cargo of frightened human beings, floated away on assigned vectors, their tiny strobes flickering nervously against the never-ending blackness of deep space.
Belligerent konish spaceships maneuvered to attack; Tasmania was their focus. Tasmania's skipper noted with helpless resignation the flagship maneuvering from the battle axis to support his ship's precarious situation. He could ill afford to dwell on those thoughts; a flight of two alien interceptors approached his weapons perimeter, another flight of four followed closely behind, and four more were behind those. They were coming to destroy his ship.
"Main batteries are recharged. Weapons has good lock, Captain," his officer-of-the-deck reported. "All targets are acquired."
"Very well," the captain replied. "Commence firing at range limit."
The first two aliens disintegrated just after entering Tasmania's firing range, the mothership's lethal directed energy batteries lashing out with massive power and accuracy. The next flight of four missiles poured through the same gap. The aliens had deduced the Legion lasers needed charging time, and the safest place to attack was through the "craters" made by previous discharges.
A second pair of Tasmania's energy batteries deflected hard over to cover the vulnerable sector, locking on the approaching flight. The battery director confirmed acquisition and target lock. She depressed the trigger button, and the great engine of power embedded in the operations core of the mothership hummed its deadly tune. The firing aperture flicked open and the glassy eyeball of destruction flared for a full tenth of second, darting a pulse of pure energy instantaneously across the great gulf of space. Nearly instantaneously!
In that fraction of time three of the interceptors jinked outwards leaving the lead ship to be vaporized as the huge, hot beam raced through its molecules. The surviving ships weaved and darted, but their tracks were unerringly defined by their common objective—the Tasmania.