Chapter 3
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With the threat of capture by the admiral over, I reduced the throttle to the 24-percent level as Frig had recommended. We continued on a course outside the ion wall. I was determined to travel as far as possible in the uncharted space before heading back toward the Grid. It was the safest route we had.
Frig launched several more of the matrix probes, with the end result being that our signature was once again clean. Whatever had been emitting the signal that had enabled the Delta Runner to follow us had been attached to the Tantric container. It was a tail that I was glad to be rid of.
As the hours passed, I settled in for a new game of Bollox. I had only just begun when the Swift gave out a tremendous shudder and my console once again lit up with flashing red lights. This time, the cargo hold began to fill with smoke.
Frig said. “Sir, here is your rebreather. I would suggest you make use of it immediately.”
A fire on a closed vessel was about the worst thing that could happen. The air was soon toxic and acrid as we scrambled to contain the small blaze. Two of the ion feeds had ruptured due to the constant overheating and rapid cooling they had been subjected to. The system had performed another safety shutdown, but not before the ruptured feeds had set the surrounding structure afire.
Frig worked with precision. The flames were quickly subdued. The enviro-recycler took ten minutes of constant running before the air was once again safe to breathe. The panic aboard the Swift had come to a quiet end.
I pulled the grate and stuffed my upper torso down into the hole to inspect the damage. It was a sooty mess. The shattered feeds had punched several holes into the surrounding structure, which included several pipes. I prompted Frig to pull up the ship's schematics so we could fully assess the situation.
“Sir,” said Frig, “I have good news and bad news. The pipe on the left carries water from the shower to the recycler and back. The pipe on the right carries the waste product to the septic bay recycler. I am afraid we will not be able to shower... or poop, for that matter, during the remainder of this voyage. The punctured pipes are out of reach for any repair out here.”
That was significant damage, although my first worry was that we were going to have to remove the EID before we reached the Grid. No way could we chance putting her into a repair dock with the new technology fully exposed. I began to regret having purchased the mysterious technology from the Durian.
I replied, “So, tell me the good news.”
Frig looked at me patiently for several seconds. “That was the good news, sir. The ion stream coming from feed number 2 has damaged our hypercomm system. We are now limited to standard RF comms. With a direct path, any emergency signal will take eighty-six years to reach the Grid. In addition, we are beyond the ion wall, sir. Our comms cannot penetrate the field that separates us from known space. If we broadcast, no one will hear us.”
The news was bad. It would only get worse. Frig hesitated, and then said, “The comm system is not our most troublesome issue at the moment. Two of the ion feeds have ruptured, and we do not have the parts needed to repair them. If we are lucky, we may be able to restore the remaining feed to working condition. However, without the balance of the other two, we will be unable to sustain more than 3 percent throttle. I've done the quick calculations, and it does not look good for our situation.”
Frig continued, “With that power, we will only achieve 0.8 percent SOL. I am afraid our dead, cold bodies would not arrive at the Grid for another thirty-seven years beyond that which our emergency signal will take. Of course, that fact is rather useless, given that the ship's power system will only hold out for another nine months. It does put us in a difficult situation... sir.”
I had no doubt that Frig's evaluation was spot on. We were screwed, stuck in deep space with no way to contact civilization for help, and no way to get home. My dreams of gaining immense wealth while speeding through the galaxy had quickly come to a bitter end. We were stuck and going nowhere fast.
I sighed. “Well, let's get a move on cleaning up what we can. We might just get lucky and catch a break if we can put our heads together for a while.”
I turned and reached for the handle on the toilet door. Frig was quick to remind me of our “good news” problem. I was everything but comfortable as I squatted on a five-gallon bucket in the back of the hold. A sheet from my bunk served as a makeshift privacy wall. I was thankful the enviro-recycler for the air system had not been damaged. Our troubled ship smelled bad enough.
Four hours after the rupture, I was replacing the deck grate. “That's about all we can do. Let's give her a slow power-up and see if she holds together.”
Frig pushed several buttons on his console and then typed in a handful of commands. The ion pump sprang to life and the throttle was slowly moved up to 1 percent. After the ship began to vibrate and move forward, the throttle was pushed further to 5 percent.
As Frig had predicted, our speed topped out at 3 percent, leaving us short of achieving light speed. Unless someone came to our rescue, it would be a long ride home, a ride that we would not be able to achieve in our lifetimes.
Our slow journey continued for two weeks before two objects appeared on the proximity screen. Deep scans determined they were rogue moons, adrift on the outer edges of the galaxy. They were lifeless and had no atmosphere. After a short discussion, we decided that our best chance for survival would be to land and then broadcast our emergency signal.
Our fuel could be extended for nearly a year, but it was really of little consequence, as our food supply would be exhausted long before our power.
Five days later, we landed on the first moon and began to await our fate. Soon after our waiting began, the five-gallon waste bucket was placed in an air lock and hoisted down to the moon's surface for storage. The contents would freeze and the bucket would be dumped. Our stay would not be pleasant.
For three weeks Frig worked over scenario after scenario while I played Bollox. That play came to an end when an alert popped up on the proximity screen.
Frig pressed several buttons as he typed on his console. “Sir, we have a craft approaching from our starboard. I will have a signature analysis in a few seconds when the deep scan is complete.”
My initial thought of a rescue quickly turned to one of panic as Frig identified the ship. “The initial deep scan shows the craft to be a Rudian class C3 Panther. Unfortunately, it is the mainstay vessel of the Rudian pirate fleet. They are not a pleasant lot to deal with, sir. as they have a fondness for torturing other species, or worse, pitting them against one another.”
I knew just what Frig was talking about. One such unlucky Messenger had been captured while on a run with his two sons. The Rudians made his sons fight one another to the death as they watched and gambled on the outcome. When the game ended, the victorious son was shot in the head, all while their father watched as he, too, was being tortured. He was released just before death to send a message to others who crossed the open spaces to which they laid claim. Messenger families had mostly been left at home following the incident.
Frig continued, “Sir, our shielding should be sufficient to counter the weapons of a Panther. Perhaps we can make use of the coil gun against them. A well-placed shot might send the right message. Shall I prepare for defensive fire?”
The order was given and the gun was sequenced and loaded.
I made a sweep around the hold and the bunk rooms, tying down anything that could bounce around should we take a hit. A direct strike from the pirate bolt weapon would be anything but pleasant.
I said, “As screwed as we are, I'm still glad I purchased this rust bucket. The Blevin class was top-of-the-line for shielding in its day. We're gonna to get knocked around a bit. We should survive any blasts, but you'd better hold on to your hat!”
The Panther closed quickly and unleashed two ion bolts, which struck the ground hard just in front of the ship. A hail soon appeared on the consol
e. “5509, you have entered Rudian space without permission. You have forfeited your right to your ship. Prepare to be boarded.”
We were not about to hand ourselves over without a fight, and I soon gave them our answer as they hovered just in front of our cockpit. “Rudians, please accept our apologies, and out of respect, we offer this humble gift.”
I pressed the red “fire” button on my console, and a pea-sized tungsten pellet shot from our port coil gun. A small hole suddenly appeared in a tail cowling of the Panther. The Rudians turned and circled behind us as they fired their bolt blaster.
The Swift rocked repeatedly as the charged bolts pounded its hull. The Tantric armor was holding against the low-power ion strikes. I attempted another shot, which grazed their starboard side. Again, the Rudian ship swung around behind, continuing to pound our hull with a barrage of charged bolts. I strapped myself into the captain’s chair.
After the third pass and a miss, I lifted just off the surface and began to spin the Swift in the direction of our attacker. When a second hole was punched through one of their tail fins, the Rudians turned and fled, dropping over a nearby crater rim. I had no doubt they would be back.
Frig said. “Sir, damage from the Rudian bolts is merely cosmetic. I have run several calculations given the power and impact of their weapon, and a correctly placed bolt could penetrate our hull in several locations. Our modifications to the aft bay door do not have the same shielding as the remainder of the ship. The launch shafts on our port and starboard sides are also vulnerable to a direct hit. All are modifications that we made to the original hull.”
My confidence had suddenly turned to a nervous wince. I thought of the horror of being sucked out into the vacuum of space if the bay door was compromised. With a precise strike, there would be nothing left for the Rudians to do but a salvage cleanup. It would be an outcome they would be quite happy with. We continued to blast out an emergency message as we set back down on the moon’s surface, awaiting the next assault.
Nearly an hour passed before the proximity alert again sounded. Four pirates were on foot; coming just over the small crater wall we had taken refuge within. I was curious as to what they were planning, as their hand weapons were of no threat to the Swift's hull or our security.
Two of the raiders circled to the port side and began firing their hand blasters. It was absurd behavior, bordering on laughable as the pings from their tiny guns could be heard on the outer hull. The remaining two then revealed their cunning plan.
As the distraction continued, the third pirate fired at the starboard side as the fourth raced toward the hull. I had a moment of nervousness, wondering what explosive charge was possibly about to be planted. That nervousness soon turned to laughter as the fourth pirate turned and ran. Jammed up under his left arm was our five-gallon waste bucket. Even the normally somewhat stoic Frig let out a wail; our toilet had been stolen!
With their prize in hand, the other pirates quickly departed, disappearing back over the ridge behind us. Ten minutes passed before they were back to circling our position in the Panther. I continued to laugh as the tears streamed down my face and I pressed the fire button. That laughter quickly turned back into anger and nervousness as the port launch tube took a near-direct hit.
The outer door was blown free, and the inner seal was now bleeding our precious air out into space. Frig was instantly on top of the situation with a portable welder in his hand. The leak was soon sealed, but only after we had gassed out 20 percent of our cabin air. If a second hit were to come on that particular launch tube, our troubles would be over and the pirates would soon have their booty.
Frig stood with our suits and helmets in front of their locker. “I suggest we get into these immediately, sir.”
The pirates were relentless in their attack, changing tactics to stay out of the fire zone of our one and only weapon. After an hour of pounding our hull, the second launch tube was struck with a direct hit. The inner and outer doors were blown from their anchors, and our precious cabin oxygen spewed into space.
Frig sprang into action. “Sir, I'm shutting down the recycler and drawing the remaining air that I can into our compressor tank. We now have approximately seven days of breathable air between our suits and the tank. Should another round strike the open launcher tube, the ensuing concussion wave could knock out our power. Without ship power, our suits will only sustain us for about eighteen hours.”
I turned to Frig and offered a scowl through my face shield. “You are just full of good news today, aren't you? Next, I suppose you're going to tell me they have stolen the pillows from our bunks?”
Frig's response was not one of laughter. Our chances of survival were only getting worse.
I walked back to the locker while steadying myself against the blasts with my right hand on the wall. I retrieved our blasters and returned to my chair.
“Well, friend, I think you're going to need this after all. Let’s hope they at least attempt to come in for a fight and don't just wait us out. I never did picture myself as much of a turtle.”
Frig replied, “A turtle, sir?”
It was an odd reference to a creature that only existed as a digital pattern in the Grid database. “A turtle... well, it’s a small animal with a hard outer shell. And when something a—”
The proximity alert again sounded as a second craft closed on our position. The pirate vessel ceased its firing.
I watched the console as Frig did another deep scan. “I'm afraid it is not good news, sir. The second ship is a C4 Scallion. Our armor will only last for a handful of hits from its more powerful ion blaster. We will likely be dead within five minutes if they begin a full assault.”
I again sarcastically chastised Frig for the delivery of bad news. It was a last effort to bring back a sense of normalcy to an otherwise chaotic situation. I was not going to panic in my final moments of life—a life that could now be counted in minutes. The first round from the Scallion jerked the Swift violently, shaking us in our seats as it hit squarely in the top center of the hull. Two more rounds had us rattled to the core.
I turned and placed my hand on Frig's shoulder as the Swift reverberated from the fourth direct hit. “It's been a pleasure serving with you, my friend. Sorry to see we are going out like this. Not really the way I pictured it.”
Frig began to return a response when the bay door was struck with a round and bent heavily into the hold, the deafening concussion nearly knocking me unconscious.
As I attempted to shake off the fog of the blast, I noticed the Panther crashing down to the moon's surface in front of us, its tail section a smoldering mess. The hits to our hull ceased as the Scallion fled. There was a new flashing light on the proximity alert. A third ship had come in hot, taking down the Panther with a single shot. The Scallion had quickly left the area.
I looked to Frig for the results of a deep scan; he was unconscious, knocked cold from the bay door blast. I quickly pulled up the scan screen and smiled as a Grid military fast frigate came into physical view. It was a beautiful sight. One that was not expected.
“5509, this is Sergeant Jose Cortes III. You are now under the protection of Grid Force 3011-C. I hope we have come in time. You look pretty banged up down there.”
I pressed the comm link on the console. “We’re alive. And I have to say we are very happy to see you. I don't know how much longer we would have lasted down here... they stole our toilet.”
The sergeant was quiet for several seconds before responding. “I would presume this is Donald C. Grange? The current registered owner of this craft?”
I shook Frig lightly until he began to move his head. “This is Don Grange, and I have to offer you a hearty thank-you there, Mr. Cortes. We were taking our last breaths here. One more hit and we were goners. Good timing on your part.”
Cortes replied, “You're welcome... Don, and you can refer to me as JC if you like. The admiral decided you might be having a bit of trouble when you didn't return to the Gri
d. I'll have you a helping hand down there in a minute if you can hold out. We have a few pirates to collect from their downed ship before it will be safe for you to come out.”
I watched out our forward portals as several shuttles from the frigate popped just over the hilltop and settled in front of the Swift. Marines in battlesuits poured out, surrounding the Panther.
We gathered what personal belongings we could and joined the sergeant and his crew on a shuttle to the Ranger. It was the newest model of fast frigate, with twin ion cannons and new reactive Tantric armor.
The sergeant began a discussion as we lifted off. “Mr. Grange, er, Don, I've looked over your file, and I've been given authorization by the admiral to fill you in. Since hauling that first load, you are already in it up to your neck as the official records read. If thoroughly investigated, they will show that you knowingly arranged the ore transfer and then mysteriously disappeared with the cargo. The prosecutors will have a field day with the press mileage they could get out of convicting you. I'm sorry if we got you involved unwittingly, but the admiral believed you would be the right man for the job.”
Cortes continued, further discussing my past, along with my current involvement, followed by sketchy details about what the admiral was up to. The delivery of ore was for an off-the-books project the admiral was heading up, staffed by many of his most trusted troops. Zimmerman was building a second fleet of ships with the newest technologies. The ships had capabilities well beyond what our current fleets possessed.
The work was being performed off station on the far side of a small moon, in an area of space that was sparsely traveled. Grid 1244 was a distant sector that was heavily guarded by the admiral's men. The semi-automated factories being constructed would be able to turn out a standard fleet of 126 ships every two years. The costs were tightly controlled and kept to a minimum by the use of automation and non-Grid-union labor.
Many of the workers were a species called the Krell, who were transported to the factory where they would remain and work on a two-year contract, never knowing the location or what the final product was. It was a tremendous undertaking that was run with precise, tight controls and the utmost of secrecy.
I said. “Before I sign on, there is an important aspect of this whole thing I don't understand. Why is this being done? I mean, is a revolution coming? Why all the secrecy?”
The sergeant looked at me for several seconds before answering. “This whole operation is being conducted in the manner that it is, because the Grid has been infiltrated, at almost every level, with spies for the Milgari Empire. You won't see the Milgari themselves, but we have managed to track and identify several dozen Humans, Plethians, Maris diplomats, and others who have directly transferred information to known Milgari agents throughout this sector. Their network on board the Grid is... well, shocking. Political corruption is rampant.”
I knew there were always politicians who would twist the rules and bypass the laws of the Grid for their own gain. It was almost commonplace among those who seemed to repeatedly run for elected office. But I had no idea there were traitors among them who would sell out the station's security for a few extra credits. Such a selfish and idiotic act was hard to fathom. The Grid was our whole existence, our way of life, our only means of support as a species. Without it, Humans would quickly perish from existence.
The sergeant continued: “Admiral Zimmerman has been sticking his neck out for years. He's a good guy and a true leader. He sent me back to check on you. There was no sign of your ship, and I had a hard time believing that any sane veteran pilot would risk coming out here. I came out anyway on a hunch.”
I replied, “You lucked onto our location. We really weren’t expecting anyone to find us. And with those pirates, I thought our time had come.”
Cortes nodded, “Our comm and tactical screens immediately lit up with the emergency codes you were blasting out, and from the fireworks going off from their attack on your ship. I got here as fast as I could. The Rudians back there in the brig—we picked up six of them—may have some knowledge of the Milgari. The Rudians are active traders of information and goods. They don't seem to understand that if the Milgari Empire comes to this sector, there will be no more pirates. That's one of the first things they wipe out, as it's a way of life that often brings about rebellions. Anyway...”
Cortes continued to talk. As I listened I began to get a sense of patriotic pride welling up inside me. These were soldiers. They had taken it upon themselves to put their lives on the line for a cause they felt was being neglected. The defense of the Grid was in jeopardy, and they were willing to do whatever it took to ensure that the corrupt politicians and greedy merchants on the Grid would not be its undoing.
The admiral's fleet was only in the early stages of production. The ship we were riding on, the Ranger, had been the first to roll off the line. The ion cannons that made up its arsenal were nearly as powerful as the megacannons on the main fleet cruisers, ships that were many times the size of the Ranger.
The reactive Tantric armor on the forward edges of the ship had been expanded to cover the entire fuselage. The Ranger could take any number of hits from a weapon as powerful as its own ion cannon before surface fracturing would appear, after which it was as vulnerable as any other standard military hull. If a fight were to come its way, the Ranger could take a beating.
The ship's drives had been given some of the same balancing channel improvements that Frig had added to the Swift. The result was a ship that was capable of 212 SOL should the need arise. Fuel consumption was exaggerated at full throttle, but full throttle would only be needed under an extreme circumstance, such as during a fight.
The standard comm system, used throughout the galaxy by almost every species, had enhanced transmit and receive capabilities. It allowed a broadcast speed of 286 SOL while standard comm was limited to 244. The comms were also heavily encrypted and were undetectable by any known comm sensor equipment, allowing the admiral's hidden fleet of ships to communicate freely among themselves. The Ranger was also equipped with a signal inhibitor similar to the one on the Swift, which, coupled with the deep, flat black exterior and a lack of RF reflective surfaces, made the new ship extremely hard to detect. I was quickly gaining confidence in my newfound friend’s abilities.
Frig sat in a chair beside me and happily took in the knowledge that Cortes had been bestowing on us. His occasional technology question was met with a raised hand and the sergeant telling him he didn't know how the gear worked, only that it did. Our trip to the moon in grid 1244 took eleven days.
When we arrived at the base, Sergeant Cortes dropped us off in a holding room. A lieutenant was soon dispatched, and after a short security briefing, we were loaded on a cargo hauler headed for the Grid. I was eager to get home, but dreading the fact that I had no ship. Our time would have to be spent working up a plan for its recovery. My credit standing on the Grid, being as insignificant as it was, would not make recovery of the Swift an easy task.
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