Starship Doi

by Alex Deva

  "Are those bodies?!" asked Doina, a sudden trembling edge in her voice.

  Whole people or torn body parts were hurtling towards them. The whole ones seemed to be wearing space suits, in various states of destruction.

  "Oh, good God," she said.

  "What the hell happened here?" asked Aram in confusion.

  Some of them fell towards the Moon, others were catapulted into the void beyond. And some of them were still moving, limbs helplessly waving about in their suits. Doina quickly gestured and turned off the ship's anti-collision system.

  "We were killing those people!" she said, petrified.

  "I think we were doing them a favour," Mark said, softly.

  She just looked at him and said nothing.

  Debris and bodies flew towards them, unstopped. Some of it impacted their starship, and sickening, dull thuds reverberated through the hull. The young girl's eyes welled up as she recoiled in horror.

  A huge, broken spaceship appeared above the horizon, explosions constantly rocking it and altering its trajectory, people and debris flying away from it. It was about five times as big as their starship. It was shaped like a long cylinder, with multiple solar arrays that were now pierced and broken.

  Laser beams connected the explosions with an even larger behemoth, that now loomed further away underneath them, appearing in their field of view as they all rotated around the Moon on different orbits.

  The larger ship was obviously destroying the smaller one. Those laser beams didn't seem to be having any effect, but closer inspection showed that they merely acted as guidance for large-caliber ammo. Two huge turreted guns, mounted on the top and on the bottom of the bigger ship, were spitting tons of ordnance into their enemy. Tracer bullets don't light up in space; instead, black streams of projectiles seemed to ride the laser beams, crashing into the victim and causing primary and secondary explosions.

  The attacking ship also had the general shape of a cylinder, with a thicker vein that spanned its entire length, and a bulging section where the cannon turrets were mounted. Behind them, long solar arrays expanded like petals, and behind those there was an enormous antenna array.

  Then more ships appeared.

  They were smaller ships, but still larger than a twenty-first century space shuttle, with aerodynamic profiles, obviously designed to survive multiple atmospheric re-entries. They were all armed and engaging each other. Very little was different between the opposing types of smaller ships; only the sleek line of their wings and the markings on them appeared to set them apart. They were in slightly higher lunar orbits, which explained their delay in breaching horizon. They had smaller cannons, also mounted on underbelly turrets, also laser-guided, and they were flying in a complicated dance, with complex attitude changes.

  "What... what is this?" asked Aram again, in awe.

  "Some kind of space battle," Mark whispered, his eyes jumping from one detail to the next.

  "Yeah, but who's fighting who?"

  Doina enlarged the big, aggressive ship until it almost filled the room.

  On the long, main shaft, in stark red letters, it said: USS KENNEDY, next to a flag that was unmistakably American.

  "Oh, fuck," muttered Mark.

  And then, they got noticed.

  XVI.

  Commander Steven Gaines was suffocating. Clutching the arms of his command seat, he gritted his teeth, counting three short breathes before drawing in lungfuls of air. Out, two, three, breathe in. Out, two, three, breathe in. His g-suit automatically compressed his legs and his torso, in sync with his efforts, squeezing his lungs on each exhalation. As the suit performed its rhythmic pumping, fighting the accumulation of blood in its occupant's legs, his vision began to darken just as the cruiser finished the tight manoeuvre and the eleven g subsided briskly into almost nothing.

  Struggling with the urge to immediately relax his aching muscles, he quickly scanned the instruments on the great panel in front of him. His visor was lowered, his helmet secured, and small patches of mist appeared under his nose, as his body tried to lower its internal temperature by eliminating moisture as vapour. The life support system automatically compensated, trying to keep his face and body dry. Only his cropped hair was wet, underneath the microfibre bonnet.

  "Turn complete," the navigator announced via the intercom, his voice strained by the huge physical toil.

  "Firing paused," said the weapons officer, the same stress showing in his voice.

  The enemy vessel was marred by explosions. Its occupants were flying in all directions. Gaines knew that rescue efforts would be pointless; those people did not carry enough air to last them until the battle was over.

  "Target moving to lower orbit, firing main thrusters," said the tactical officer. "It's trying to escape beyond the far side, sir."

  "Helm, hard roll, sixty degrees negative, announce and execute," ordered the commander.

  Ship-wide, the ambient light gained a tinge of red, signifying that a hard-g procedure was about to take place. All crew members braced for the effort.

  Two telescopic arms, each with a moveable thruster at the end, quickly extruded at both ends of the long cylinder. The thrusters fired for a few seconds, then their arms retracted as the huge cruiser began to rotate counterclockwise. Thrusters on the opposite side fired almost immediately afterwards in the retracted position, causing the rotation to decelerate smoother than it had been initiated.

  "Fire main thrusters, but hold this orbit. Let's pursue and engage," he continued.

  At the rear end of the cylinder, five large engines arranged in a circle lit up simultaneously, briskly accelerating the cruiser forward.

  The weapons officer reflexively began controlling his own breath, as his own g-suit responded to the new forces.

  "Targeting, lateral aim towards their thrusters, number two gun."

  To literally save her breath, the targeting officer pressed the "acknowledge" button at her finger twice. She fired up her aiming laser, and telemetry immediately inundated the screen at her front, overlaid with live imagery from the gun camera. The laser controls were synced to the suit's acceleration sensors, requiring larger or smaller amounts of movement to operate, depending on the forces that the operator had to endure. She quickly found the side of the enemy's thruster cones, operated the fine adjustments needed to centre the cross-hairs on it, then pushed the "track" button. The laser and the gun camera continued tracking the target, and would do so until the geometry of the two ships' relative positions made it impossible, or until another obstacle came in between. If that were to happen, the tracking computer would automatically follow the last trajectory of the target and pause the gun until either the target became visible again and reconfirmed, or the operator retasked it.

  And it did happen, when a body in a space suit crossed the path of the laser for an instant. She was able to briefly glimpse the other woman's panicked face through the gun camera. It was the face of someone who knows death is inevitable, and who would do anything to avoid it. It could be me, thought the lieutenant. It can still be me.

  "Target locked and tracking, distance eight thousand three hundred feet," she blurted, voice trembling.

  "Orbital speed," asked Gaines.

  "Ninety-eight percent orbital, coming to zero main thrust," answered the navigation officer.

  "Helm, apply directional thrust as needed. Weapons, commence firing number two gun."

  Once again, the acceleration disappeared and the cruiser continued flying on its current orbit, at ninety-eight percent of the optimal speed for that lunar altitude. The gun under the ship's belly began to fire.

  Inside the ship, the high-powered rounds generated reverberations through the hull, as their cartridges detonated. Thrusters on the opposite side automatically engaged to counteract the recoil.

  "Direct hits," announced the targeting officer.

  The thruster cone of the smaller ship withstood the attack for maybe two seconds, then disappeared in a cloud of debris. The sh
ip itself changed its attitude, partly because of its new asymmetrical thrust, partly trying to yaw in order to protect its remaining two engines.

  "Target destroyed," she announced.

  "Number two gun paused," said the weapons officer, behind her.

  "Acquiring new target." She moved the guiding laser a few meters to one side, to the most exposed of the other cones.

  "Locked and tracking at eight thousand five hundred feet," she reported after a moment.

  "Sir, enemy ship is tracking our number two gun," said the tactical officer.

  "Weapons, lock number two turret, close number two gun dome."

  A hemispheric dome closed around the gun barrel, completely covering it. Seconds after that, the thuds of incoming rounds hitting the reinforced, protective dome vibrated through the cruiser's hull, but they did not have a rhythm and stopped altogether after a few seconds.

  "Damage report?"

  "Weapons compartment took direct hits, but no hull penetration yet, sir."

  "Tac?"

  "I think their gun is malfunctioning, sir. We counted less than a full ammo supplement since the attack, so I don't think they're out just yet."

  "A trick?"

  "It fired really out of rhythm, sir. I don't think they can do that on purpose."

  Gaines thought for a second.

  "Do we still have a solution on their thrusters?"

  "Only just, sir."

  "Open dome. Resume tracking and fire."

  "Yes, sir. Firing number two."

  Again, the big gun spat out a long stream of bullets towards its target, but the other ship had already managed to turn, with its engines now pointed at the Moon."

  "Target lost."

  "Number two gun on pause."

  "Status?" asked Gaines.

  "Unknown, sir. I can't see from this angle."

  "Comms, give me Wing Command."

  "Yes, sir." And then: "Go for Wing Command, sir."

  "Wing Leader, this is the Kennedy. I know you guys are busy, but can any of you see anything underneath that big bucket? We need confirmation of the number of destroyed thrusters."

  "Kennedy, Wing Leader. Wait one."

  "Targeting, aim for their comm array. Fire when you have a solution."

  "Aiming for the target's comm array, aye sir."

  * * *

  "Wing Four, Wing Six, this is Wing Leader."

  "Go for Six."

  "Go for Four."

  "Jack, Tom, can anyone in your crews see underneath that big Queen ship? Kennedy wants to know how many of their engines they'd busted."

  There was a pause, as the two Wing ships -- capable of both space and atmospheric flight, but smaller and less powerful than the great cruiser -- adjusted their attitudes and tasked some cameras towards the dying ship, while still engaged in battle with the enemy's similar vessels.

  "Leader, Six. I count one engine remaining, currently off."

  "Leader, Four. My chief says he counts the same."

  "Roger, one engine remaining. Thanks. Keep 'em dead, guys."

  * * *

  "Sir, Wing Leader reports one engine remaining, currently off," said the communication officer.

  "Good job, weap, targ. Looks like they're not going anywhere fast," said Gaines.

  "Yes, sir," said the weapons officer.

  "Thank you sir," said the targeting officer, too. Then, she continued: "Enemy comm array locked on and tracking, distance seven thousand nine hundred feet on gun number two."

  "Sir, suggest starboard yaw forty degrees and port roll fifteen degrees," said the tactical officer. "We can bear both guns on target if we just turn a little."

  "Engines, bridge."

  "Go for engines," answered the chief engineer from the remote aft section.

  "How are we for propellant?"

  "Fifty-eight percent, sir. Thirty-five left until we gotta fill'er back up."

  "OK, thanks." Then, on the cabin circuit:

  "Helm, medium yaw forty degrees positive; medium roll fifteen degrees negative, announce and execute," ordered the captain.

  The two telescopic thrusters arms extended half-way, the small engines at their ends automatically angled to achieve both yaw and roll in the same time, and they fired simultaneously.

  "Same target locked and tracking, same distance, gun number one," said the targeting officer. She had activated the opposite guiding laser and gun camera, and had been waiting for the manoeuvre to bring the other ship into range. As soon as that happened, she locked the laser beam on the big antennae of the other ship, and the turret on the opposite side of the cruiser began tracking so it always maintained the same direction as the beam.

  "Fire one and two," ordered the commander.

  The two unprotected parabolic antennae were shredded in a matter of seconds by the concentrated fire from the two big guns.

  "Sir, we're being hailed on VHF by the enemy ship," said the comms officer.

  "Put me through," Gaines said, and heard a crackling, male voice in his headset.

  "Hello, Steve," the voice said with a slight German accent.

  "Hi, Karl," answered the American.

  Static filled the comms circuit for a few seconds.

  "I have lost thirty-two good people," the voice said. "And three Pinions. One of them was shot down by your Wings while they were trying to rescue their shipmates."

  Gaines said nothing. There was more static.

  "Remember when we first met, Steve?" said the voice from the dying ship. "We were skiing in Switzerland, before the war. Where was it? Zermat? We both tried to hit on the same French girl. Remember her? Short red hair, tattoo around her neck? We were both fresh out of last year at Academy."

  "I remember sleeping with her that night, yes," said the American.

  "Yes, you won then, too. Seven years ago."

  Again, Gaines said nothing.

  "The Monnet is down to one single engine, and we only have four Pinions left, Steve. Your Kennedy is nearly untouched and you have ten Wings. You get the girl again, Steve."

  Gaines stayed silent.

  "Let us go, Steve. Enough have died today."

  "We're taking back those mines, Karl. That's my order. Whatever it takes."

  "We're no longer a threat, Gaines. My gun is broken, and we're out of missiles, as you very well know. Let me pull back my Pinions and send them home to Taiyuan."

  "Pull them back now."

  "Do I have your word that you'll let us go?"

  "Pull them back now."

  Again there was static.

  "Give me your word as an American officer, Steve."

  "What happens to the Monnet if I let you go?"

  "You know what. We'll take our chances trying to slingshot back to Eurasian space."

  "Then fix the ship, get a new crew, load up some nukes and fuck with us again."

  It was the other's turn to be silent. Then, he said:

  "I didn't create this war, Gaines. I follow orders, just like you."

  "No, Karl. You don't follow orders like I do. Because I'm willing to bet that your orders didn't include a provision to surrender."

  "That's easy to say when you're the guy with the bigger guns, Steve. Aren't you tired of death yet? Isn't it enough that you'll probably get the mines?"

  "Well, I didn't get them yet. And death seems to be the only way to keep you Queens off them."

  "We dug those mines, Steve."

  "We put you there, Karl."

  "Sir, new bogey, high lunar orbit, eleven thousand feet and closing," interjected the tactical officer via the intercom in Gaines' helmet.

  Gaines muted the ship-to-ship comms and asked:

  "Well, who the hell is it?"

  "I... I don't know, sir. I've never seen a ship design like this. It's a black torus, sir, with three spokes."

  The tactical officer was seated to the back and left of the commander, with his own screens. Gaines could not see the telemetry that was flowing at that moment on the lieutena
nt's displays.

  The Kennedy's command centre had forward-facing windows, but in its current attitude, they were still pointing towards the lunar surface, so Gaines could see nothing but lunar pockmarks and the Monnet. But he did have his own radar screen, whose orientation was slaved to the one used by tactical and, when he looked at it, he immediately saw the strange, round profile of an unidentified radar target.

  "Show it to me on a camera," he ordered.

  "Yes, sir," answered the lieutenant, quickly transferring the radar bearing into the video acquisition computer. The machine tasked a telescopic camera with the necessary orientation, and automatically calculated a tracking motion to compensate for the cruiser's own relative movement.

  "This should be it, sir," he said, confused.

  "Sir, we're getting hailed by the Monnet again," said the comms officer.

  The commander was looking at the black screen, seeing nothing but the stars behind the Moon, and he immediately noticed that some of them went out, while others appeared out of nowhere, as if a black shape was crossing the field of the camera.

  "How could you miss a huge thing like that?" he asked.

  "I am sure I did not, sir. It just came out of nowhere. One moment it wasn't there, and the next it was. I'm looking at the radar logs, see what I can find out."

  "Go to low light," he said.

  The lieutenant used the computer to reconfigure the intensified charge-coupled sensors of the camera.

  "Switching to ICC imaging... now."

  The stars became sharp discs of light, moving slowly across the screen, and on top of them, the black torus gained volume and presence.

  "Well, well. Just what the fuck is that, now," whispered commander Gaines.

  The alien ship was slowly rotating; its three inner spokes belied that motion. And, as it did so, three large, irregular letters came clearly into view.

  Gaines switched his ship-to-ship comms back on.

  "You son of a bitch, Karl. Thought you could keep me busy while you waited for reinforcement."

  "Whatever that thing is, Gaines, it is not Eurasian, I assure you of that."

  "Yeah, right. Well it sure ain't Martian, Karl. Unless Martians use the Latin alphabet."