Centre of Gravity. Ian Douglas

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СКАЧАТЬ to snap around the tiny volume of warped space; the strain severed the ship’s spine one hundred meters from her aft venturis, and the broken segment tumbled wildly away into darkness. Abruptly, the remaining hull shattered, the complex plastic-ceralum composite fragmenting into a cloud of sparkling shards, continuing to circle the fierce-glowing core of the weapon until it formed a broad, flattened pinwheel spiraling in toward that tiny but voracious central maw.

      The disk of sparkling fragments and ice crystals collapsed inward, dwindling … dwindling … dwindling …

      And then the Symmons was gone.

      Seven of her Mamba missiles had cleared their launch tubes before the weapon struck.

      TC/USNA CVS America

       SupraQuito Fleet Base

       Earth Synchorbit, Sol System

       1540 hours, TFT

      Last on, first off was the custom for boarding and debarking by seniority. Buchanan swam out of the Rutan’s cargo deck hab module and into the boarding tube, followed by other, lower-ranking officers. Rather than wait for America’s forward boat-deck docking bay to repressurize, it was simpler to hand-over-hand along the translucent plastic tube and emerge moments later on the carrier’s quarterdeck.

      By age-old tradition, a vessel’s quarterdeck was her point of entry, often reserved for officers, guests, and passengers … though on a carrier like America it served as an entryway for the ship’s enlisted personnel as well. The boat deck offered stowage for a number of the ship’s service and utility boats, including the captain’s gig—the sleek, delta-winged AC–23 Sparrow that by rights should have taken him planetside and back. The quarterdeck was directly aft.

      “America, arriving,” the voice of the AIOD called from overhead as he pulled himself headfirst into the large quarterdeck space, announcing to all personnel that the ship’s commanding officer had just come on board. Following ancient seafaring tradition, Buchanan rotated in space to face a large USNA flag painted on the quarterdeck’s aft bulkhead and saluted it, then turned to receive the salute of the OOD.

      “Welcome aboard, Captain,” Commander Benton Sinclair said, saluting. Sinclair was the ship’s senior TO, her tactical officer, but was stationed at the quarterdeck for this watch as officer of the deck.

      “Thank you, Commander,” Buchanan replied. “You are relieved as OOD. I want you in CIC now.”

      “I am relieved of the deck. Aye, aye, Captain.”

      The ship’s bridge, along with the adjacent combat information center, were both aft from the quarterdeck, just past the moving down-and-out deck scoops leading to the elevators connecting with the various rotating hab modules. Both the bridge and the CIC were housed inside a heavily armored, fin-shaped sponson abaft of the hab module access, and were in zero gravity.

      “Captain on the bridge!” the exec announced as Buchanan swam in through the hatchway. Using the handholds anchored to the deck, he pulled himself to the doughnut, the captain’s station overlooking the various bridge stations around the deck’s perimeter, and swung himself in. The station embraced him, drawing him in, making critical electronic contacts.

      He sensed the ship around him. In a way, he became the ship, over a kilometer long, humming with power, with communication, with life. He sensed the admiral’s barge slipping into its boarding sheath forward, sensed the gossamer structure of the base docking facility alongside and ahead.

      And he sensed the battle unfolding just half a million kilometers away. God in heaven, how had they gotten so close?

      Long-range battlespace scans showed four Confederation vessels … no, five, now, five ships destroyed, three of them members of CBG–18. The enemy ship was accelerating now at seven hundred gravities … and, as he watched, it appeared to be breaking up.

      “Tactical,” Buchanan said. He felt Commander Sinclair slipping into his console and linking in. “Is it … is the enemy ship destroyed?”

      “Negative, Captain,” Sinclair replied a moment later. “It appears to have separated into twelve distinct sections. Courses are diverging … and accelerating.”

      Missile trails pursued several of the alien ship sections. It appeared that Symmons had managed to get off a partial volley before slamming into the alien’s gravitic weaponry.

      “CBG–18, arriving,” the AI of the deck announced.

      Good, Koenig was aboard. Buchanan allowed America’s status updates to wash through his awareness. Her quantum tap generators were coming on-line, power levels rising. The last of VFA–44’s Starhawks were on board and on the hangar deck being rearmed. Dockyard tugs were already taking up their positions along America’s hull, ready to push her clear of the facility. Weapons coming on-line… .

      “Seal off docking tubes,” he ordered. “Prepare to get under way.”

      “Docking tubes sealed off, Captain.” That was the voice of Master Chief Carter, the boatswain of the deck, in charge of the gangways and boarding tubes connecting the ship with the dock. A number of ship’s personnel were still inside the main tube, or at the debarkation bay at the dock, as the tube began retracting. The last men and women to make it on board were scrambling for their stations.

      “Ship’s power on-line, at eighty percent,” the engineering AI reported.

      “Very well. Cast off umbilicals.”

      Connectors for power, water, and raw materials separated from America’s hull receptors, reeling back into the dock.

      “Dockyard umbilicals clear, Captain,” Carter reported.

      By this time, it was obvious that the H’rulka ship was intent on fleeing solar space, that America and the synchorbital naval base were not in immediate danger. Buchanan did not understand the alien’s tactical reasoning; the bastard could have approached the base closely enough to utterly destroy the base and perhaps a hundred warships docked there. That they had not done so suggested other mission imperatives—a strategic withdrawal, perhaps, to get reconnaissance data back home, but it ran counter to Buchanan’s own instincts.

      It suggested a certain conservative approach to their tactical thinking, which might be useful.

      “The ship is ready in all respects for space, Captain,” Commander Jones reported.

      “Very well. Cast off all mooring lines.”

      “Mooring lines retracting, Captain,” Carter reported.

      “Ship clear and free to maneuver,” the helm officer added.

      “Take us out, Helm. Best safe vector.”

      “Aye, aye, sir. Tugs engaged. Stand by for lateral acceleration.”

      “Attention, all hands,” the voice of the ship’s AI called over both link and audio comms. “Brace for real acceleration.”

      Buchanan felt a slight bump through the embrace of the doughnut as the tugs nudged America sideways and away from the dock. For several seconds, he felt weight, a distinct feeling СКАЧАТЬ