A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [103]
“Stand firm, everybody,” Admiral Willis said, her voice smooth and reassuring.
“Easy for her to say,” Brindle mumbled after checking to make sure his radio mike was off. It was merely a matter of who would become a casualty first.
“Look at that!” said one of the pilots.
The four warglobes loomed over the coastal horizon, still spraying icewaves, erasing every stand of dense conifers, shattering observation towers, empty dwellings, and factory structures. They left dry land behind and soared out over the water, playing their frigid weapons in front of them as if they hadn’t noticed there was no longer any forest below.
Brindle could almost feel a physical shudder of dismay from the refugees crowded on the rafts when they saw the hydrogues coming.
“Remoras, ready to fire,” he said, though he knew it was completely unnecessary. Each pilot would drain every speck of energy from the defensive batteries in hopes of inflicting at least some damage before the hydrogues obliterated them all. “This is it.”
The terrible diamond spheres kept coming, strafing the ocean, blasting the water into icebergs. A storm of steam boiled around the warglobes, marking their progress over the calm sea.
“Come on, what more do you creeps want?” Brindle said. “You’ve already wiped out the whole continent.”
The terrified refugees cringed on their makeshift rafts. Some either leaped or were jostled off the foam platforms into the cold water. They seemed equally vulnerable, either place.
“Go for it, Brindle,” Tasia transmitted. “Let’s go down swinging. I’m right behind you.”
The first two Remora phalanxes jumped ahead at the front of the defensive line. A deafening flurry of uselessly defiant yelps and battle cries reverberated across the comm channels. All the pilots fully expected to be annihilated within seconds.
Then, unexpectedly, the warglobes began to arc upward, gaining altitude and leaving trails of ice behind them in the choppy, broken water. The spiked vessels climbed into the sky…without engaging a single EDF vessel. The hydrogues ascended into the clouds, streaking toward space, as if they had either completed their mission or determined that their real target was not to be found on Boone’s Crossing.
Knowing it was foolish, but keyed up with adrenaline and outrage, Brindle roared after them, punching his Remora engines to full power. He decided to follow the enemy aliens to see where they went.
Twenty other vengeful Remoras cruised along like indignant shepherds chasing a pack of wolves. Foolishly, they shot multiple blasts from their jazer banks, but the bolts skittered off the crystalline surfaces.
In response, the drogues fired back unhurried, almost dismissive, lances of blue lightning at the harrying ships, like a lazy swat at a fly. Two Remoras exploded; several others broke off and fled back to Boone’s Crossing.
But Robb Brindle kept going, hanging back out of range—he hoped—and following. He was, after all, the Wing Commander, and could make his own decisions.
“Remora squadrons, return to your base ships to assist in refugee retrieval,” Admiral Willis said over the channel. “This engagement is over, everybody. The drogues are on the run.”
Brindle couldn’t believe his ears. “On the run?”
As the other Remoras looped around and headed back toward the floating refugee rafts and the other EDF ships, Brindle set his jaw and watched the warglobes streak out into space. With his engines already at full speed, he could maintain pace and keep the enemy in visual range. “Acknowledged, ma’am. All Remoras, follow the Admiral’s orders. I’ll be back…as soon as I can.”
He shot ahead so fast that acceleration pushed him back into the cockpit seat. They needed information and, after what he had experienced today, even a stern lecture from Sheila Willis couldn’t frighten him. He raced out of the Boone’s Crossing system, maintaining a safe distance, but doggedly following the hydrogues.