Morning Star полностью

Bodies erupt out of the torchShip’s bridge, but Antonia continues to fire on the much-smaller ship until the nuclear core of her engines implodes. Pulsing white twice before devouring the ship’s back half. The shock wave pushes our craft sideways. Our EMP and pulse shielding holds, lights flickering just once. Something huge slams into the ten-meter-thick bulkhead beyond the bridge. The wall bends inward to my right. The shape of a railgun munition stretching the metal inward like an alien baby. Our gunners rip apart the 1.5-kilometer destroyer that fired on us, loosing eighty of our railguns directly into her bridge. Two hundred men gone. We’re taking no prisoners at this stage. It’s staggering the amount of violence the Pax can deal out. And staggering the amount we’re taking. Antonia dissects another part of my strike force.

“Hope of Tinos is down,” my Blue sensor officer says quietly. “The Cry of Thebes is going nuclear.”

“Tell Tinos and Thebes helmsman to punch negative forty-five their midline and abandon ship,” I snap. The ships obey and alter course to ram Antonia’s flagship. She reverses her engines and my dying ships carry on harmlessly into space. One goes nuclear.

We’re outmatched and outgunned here in the heart of the enemy formation. Trapped. No escape. A sphere forming around us. I only have four torchships left. Make that three.

“Multiple deck fires,” an officer intones.

“Munitions detonations on deck seventeen.”

“Engines one through six are down. Seven and eight are at forty percent capacity.”

The Pax dies around me.

Roque’s MoonBreaker looms ahead. Twice the length of my ship, three times the girth. A floating military dock city eight kilometers long. With a huge crescent bow, like a shark with an open mouth swimming sideways. She retreats from us at the same pace we advance. Making sure we cannot ram her as she punishes us with her superior weaponry. Roque thought I would pull a Karnus. Try to slam into their capital ship with my own. That’s now impossible. Our engines are nearly done. Our hull compromised.

“All forward guns target their railguns and missile launchers on their top deck, carve us a shadow.” I pull up a hologram of the ship and circle the area of fire with my fingers, directing the fire as Victra gives commands to the fighter groups which we’ve held on to till now. The ripWings scream out into space. The Pax rotates to present her main gunbanks to the Colossus to open a broadside.

It doesn’t matter what we do at this stage. We’re a wolf pinned to the ground by a bear and it’s smashing our legs one by one, carving off our ears, our eyes, our teeth but keeping our belly nice and ready for a raking. My ship shudders around me. Blues rip out of sync, vomiting in the pits as the datanerves in the ships, to which they’re linked, die one by one. My helmsman, Arnus, has a seizure as the engines are shredded.

“The Dancer of Faran is gone,” Captain Pelus says. “No escape pods.” It was a skeleton crew, but still forty die. Better than a thousand. Only two torchShips of my initial sixteen remain. They race around Antonia’s Pandora behind us, but that ship is a black, hulking monster. She shreds the fastmovers till they’re dead metal. And when escape pods launch from the quiet ships, she shoots them down. Victra watches the murder quietly. Adding it to Antonia’s debt.

Roque is inviting us to launch our leechCraft, drawing the Colossus closer to my dead ship. A kilometer away now. I accept the invitation. “Launch all leechCraft at the surface of the MoonBreaker,” I say. “Now. Fire the spitTubes.”

Hundreds of empty suits fire out the spitTubes as they would in an Iron Rain. Two hundred leechCraft launch from the four hangars of my ship. Spewed out in a stream of ugly metal, each could carry fifty men to pump into the guts of the MoonBreaker. Controlled remotely by Blue pilots on board Persephone’s Howl, they race fast as they can to cross the dangerous space between the two capital ships. And they’re wiped away before they make it half the distance as Roque detonates a series of low-yield nuclear warheads.

He guessed my move.

And now my flight of ships is nothing but debris floating between the two vessels. Emergency sirens flash on the ceiling of my bridge. Our long-range sensors are down. Our guns smashed. Multiple deck breaches.

“Hold together,” I murmur. “Hold together, Pax.”

“We’re receiving a transmission,” Virga says.