Weston nodded.

“Further,” Waters spoke up again, “I’m afraid that the Archangels just don’t seem to be carrying enough firepower to really damage the enemy cruisers. We’ll need them for fighter coverage, but they’re not going to shift the odds substantially.”

Weston didn’t like to admit it, but the young man was most likely right. The weapons load for the Archangels wasn’t intended for the level of power being thrown around in these engagements. Even the heaviest missiles they had available for the fighters were originally intended to sink seaborne battleships and dreadnaughts. Weapons that appeared to be roughly the equivalent of popguns against these alien cruisers.

“All right, I need alternatives here. Waters, talk to your department, talk to the civilian researchers, talk to God himself if you have to, but get them to me. If I can’t use the Archangels, find me something I can use,” he told the young man, then turned to Lamont. “Get as many people on the repairs as you can, and have Engineering start siphoning off more power from the reactor to the auxiliary capacitors. I want as many charges in the pulse tubes as I can get this time.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” they both replied, stiffening as they gave him a quick salute and turned to their tasks.

Weston picked up his induction mic and slapped it onto his jaw. “Commander Roberts.”

“Yes, Captain?” the commander’s voice returned a moment later.

“I’m coming up to the auxiliary bridge to discuss the current situation.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be waiting.”

Weston closed the link and turned to Waters. “Lieutenant, you have the watch.”

“I have the watch, sir.”

Bermont snarled under his armored helm, the vibrations of the whining, roaring weapon only reaching him in his imagination as he fired another burst into the scampering, skittering drones. They’d appeared from some crevice or another like wraiths, firing a burst at his team, vanishing around a corner or into some hole they’d found.

The soldiers had managed to avoid any serious injuries, though Bermont himself was sporting a burn on his thigh that was going to sting like a bitch once the local anesthetic started wearing off. It had been a glancing blow from the enemy’s beam weapons, but it had been enough to cook his armor—and by extension, his thigh—before he’d managed to roll free.

Most of the others now sported similar wounds, or at least scarred patches on their armor to show how close they’d come to joining the club, but they were getting wise to the enemy’s tactics now and it was showing. The last attack hadn’t scorched anybody, and the Drasin had lost another drone in the attempt.

It was a pity, Bermont thought, that the thermal guidance on their bullets wasn’t able to manage ninety-degree turns. They’d have fried a great deal more of the spiderlike things if they could, but the system only allowed relatively minor course corrections, especially over short distances.