War Fleet: Resistance

one more time.” They had already tried three times, but Olsen was hoping that a little persistence would get an audience and buy some time. But then, his Marines had already fired on the Arstans on the surface.
Olsen looked up at the corner of the viewscreen, where he could see two of Kota’s Marines – Turgin and Connery – taking cover against fire from several Arstan troops. On the lower right corner, Kota or Singh had just thrown a high explosive at the mansion. It had erupted in a brilliant display of white, but the smoke hadn’t cleared yet, so Olsen couldn’t see the results. He’d better leave Kota to it. Too much micromanagement of a ground assault was a sure way to get his people killed down there. And up here, if he ignored the situation.
“Sir,” Schmidt said from behind his computer, his craggy face lit blue from the glare of his computer screen, “the station’s powering up its weapon.”
“What are we up against?”
“23,000-Celsius laser cannons, sir. And incendiary pulse torpedoes.”
“Dammit, they’ll wipe us out in one. Cadinouche, evasive maneuvers.”
“I believe I can keep outside their range by moving us until their own shields are between us and them,” Cadinouche said. “But that won’t work as they get closer.”
“We’ll worry about that when the time comes. For now, keep us out of the line of fire. And Schmidt, keep our shields powered up. Santiago, any enemy fighters inbound?”
“Negative, sir. Although from the shape of the station’s module clusters, I think I can spot some hugging the outside of the structures.”
Olsen nodded. “They’re masking the size of the force until they see what they’re up against. There’s no pretense here – this is a skilled commander.”
He could see the light glowing in space now, indicating the laser cannons getting ready to fire. But Cadinouche had made the right calculations, and the enemy’s own shield now provided cover between the ship and the station.
“Sir, with all due respect, what happens if they turn their shields off?” Novak asked.
“They wouldn’t risk doing that,” Olsen said. “They could end up destroying their modules, creating more damage than it’s worth for one measly mining ship. Besides, they’ll have us in range soon enough.”
“But they already know that their old fleet admiral is under threat. Plus, Arstan space station weapons have come along well during the last few years. Their torpedoes now have auto-navigation capabilities, and their weapons can track at precision, with only a few meters’ error.”
Olsen found himself frowning over at his new XO. “Seems like something you could have mentioned earlier.”
“I’ve only just realized it, sir. I remind you my recommendation was to flee, and you’ve already discarded that option.”
“Duly noted,” Olsen said as he scratched at his chin, also noting that she’d defended herself against a superior officer, which was something he expected of senior officers but didn’t necessarily know to expect from Novak — even if she did clearly think highly of herself. She was still an enigma to him.
“Incoming, sir,” Schmidt said. “They’re firing torpedoes.”
“Before the laser turrets?” It didn’t make sense. If a torpedo hit them before the laser turret did, its energy would disperse into the shield. Shields were much better at taking damage from matter-based weapons than energy-based ones.
He watched in dismay as the station’s shields turned themselves off in the wall in front. They had probably thirty seconds — ships nowadays didn’t engage in close combat. “Fire back at it, Schmidt.”
“Sir, I—”
But Schmidt didn’t have time to finish the sentence before one of the laser turrets from the Arstan defense station ignited. It passed right through one of the gaps in a cluster of shield wall latticework and hit the Tapper’s shield right on. The ship rocked, and the protective sheen of blue surrounding the Tapper faded to nothing.
Olsen realized immediately why they’d done it. This way, the Tapper wouldn’t have time to start the second shield before the torpedoes hit.
Shortly afterwards, the viewscreen was filled with bright blue light. They could see a trio of missiles approaching now, like an overexposed will-o’-the-wisp out of a fairytale picture book.
“Brace yourselves,” Olsen said. “We’re going to get hit.”
He had only just enough time to turn on the emergency mag-floors, so hopefully, no one would get thrown too far or too hard by the force of the impact.

22
Call her a psychopath, but Kota couldn’t help but love the way explosions looked and felt. The thunder, the shaking ground, the rising torrents of flame, the brilliant intensity of light, followed by smoke like the whole place was covered in a forest fire.
And this final stage was the best time to move in. Cover up the mouth, don’t breathe it in too heavily, don’t even bother to check if the guards are dead. Just move forward, grab the target, and either succeed or die. Maybe there was another way, but she didn’t know it.
“Singh, it’s time,” she said. “Follow my lead.”
“Yes, sir,” Singh replied.
She just had to hope that the ordnance had blown a hole large enough for her to get through. That was the worst thing that could happen right now. But if that didn’t work, she’d unleash a whole XM-461 magazine until she’d punched a hole through.
Before Kota sprinted forward, she changed the comms channel. “Connery, Turgin, status report,” she said, but she didn’t wait for a reply.
Her legs took her as fast as she could without them cramping out. She’d kept herself fit, fortunately. The Tapper didn’t have a gym, but they had girders and magnetic floors, making the ship suitable for a variety of high-intensity weight training. Pull-ups took on a new definition when the floor pulled you back towards it as you lifted yourself.
Singh kept pace, lagging ever so slightly, but Kota only checked over her shoulder at him twice before she reached the front of the mansion. The smoke burned in her lungs, even with her mouth covered by her sleeve, and she could only see a meter ahead of her if