Spaceship Struggles

by Ingo Potsch

  "And what explosive energy?"

  "Many megatons," was the reply.

  "Then damn rotten stuff you’re running," commented the lieutenant-commander as he motioned for the prisoner to be removed below and be held captive in the solid compartments of the storage deck.

  With the alien captive having been taken away, the destroyer’s skipper called his second-in-command: "We will give these detonations another quarter of an hour before we board the cruiser."

  The stated time passed without any signs of further internal explosions. The Mandana made good use of the interval, the local military headquarters at Planet Bald Beldame being communicated with by hyperspace message, announcing the capture of the prize, and requesting an extra-large dock ship to be dispatched to carry the disabled alien cruiser into a military space port where she could be inspected and researched thoroughly.

  "Now I think it's all right," remarked Bergerault. "Sure you're keen on the job?" he addressed his second-in-command.

  Astley flushed under his tanned skin. His skipper was quick to notice that he had blundered. He was obviously ambitious, but being exposed as such was a bit embarrassing.

  "Sorry!" Bergerault said apologetically. "Ought to have jolly well known you better. Off you go, and good luck. By the by, take a volunteer crew."

  Of the sixty nine crew members of the Mandana almost every one would have unhesitatingly followed the junior lieutenant, as ambition drove them to volunteer of such missions which were counting toward promotions. Asking for volunteers for a hazardous service was merely a matter of form under these conditions. There was quite a mild contest to take part in the operations of boarding the alien cruiser.

  By this time the entire surface of the wrecked spaceship had nicely cooled down and the boarding crew could inspect it as they pleased. There were four hatchways in addition to the emergency exit at the conning-tower, each of which had basically been welded close by the vicious friction heat to which the hull had been exposed during the vessel’s violent ride through the planet’s atmosphere. Through the open aperture in the conning-tower Astley made his way. Below all was in darkness, for the reactors had failed; two of them on their own and one by the deficient self-destruction attempt. Heavy smoke of dark fumes and some yellowish smoke – probably from burned-up plastic – wafted in the confined space.

  The junior lieutenant and his boarding crew switched on the lights on their mecha-suits’ helmets. The rays barely penetrated the smoke beyond a few meters. Yet, the stranded cruiser was to be investigated. Luckily, the mecha-suits contained ample equipment for enhanced vision and detection, including mini-radar, infra-red and ultra-violet sight, and acoustic imaging technology.

  Between all the compartments or sub-divisions of the hull were solid bulkheads and the passages connecting these were closed by means of airtight doors in the bulkheads. They were all closed, as was usual when a spaceship prepared for crash-landing; and it was the standard, too, for enduring combat operations. Cautious commanders anyway took care that all hatches were tight for as much time as possible at all.

  Together with the other members of his boarding crew, Astley made a brief examination of the huge ship. On either side of the long passage – apparently the main channel through the wrecked enemy cruiser were further hatches, all firmly closed. The boarding party carried power tools to open them, but lacked the time to do that in each case. Of missile-acceleration tubes there were no signs discovered, which was due to the unsystematic approach of the search, lacking in rigour. And neither were stored missiles to be found anywhere else on board, which indicated that either they had been expended or hinted to incomplete investigation. Given that the enemy cruiser had not fired missiles at the destroyer, the likelihood was with them being spent. Having failed to discover quite a number of secret which the Aesuron vessel held, the junior lieutenant and his boarding crew, trudging through the huge wreck in their heavy mecha-suits then finally did discover something of military importance. The cruiser had not been used for missile work alone but for an even more sinister task: that of mine-laying. Not a single repository of latent destruction had remained on board. Already the cruiser had sown her crop of death; would there be time to destroy the harvest?

  CHAPTER IV – Out of Control

  Quickly the news of the captured cruiser's former activities was radio-signalled from the shuttle which had carried the boarding crew back to the Mandana, and with the least possible delay the information was transmitted by means of hyperspace communications to the military headquarters on Planet Radiant Ruby and Planet Bald Beldame.

  Until the minefield was located and destroyed it was unsafe for any shipping to proceed to or from Planet Yardmaster Yester, for it was assumed that the mortal machines had been brought out there in the vicinity.

  Questions put to the cruiser's crew elicited that the vessel was one of seven similar vessels used for mine-laying, operating in conjunction with the raiding cruisers. While the Aesuron fleet was bombarding Planet Yardmaster Yester, these older cruisers - having on account of their slower speed set out on the previous day - proceeded to lay a chain of mines from the Solar System known as Worlds of Wonders through the hyperspace pathway narrows called Shark Mouth Gate, and thence to a point just a little outward of the Planet Gordy Town hyperspace navigation buoy, thus completely cutting off Planet Yardmaster Yester from the main channels through the superposed dimension. The VD17-K04 - that being the designation of the prize, for the Aesuron used numbers, not names for their vessels - had just completed her task when she detected the Mandana approaching. She had then attempted to retreat at accelerated speed but her systems failed.

  It was not long before several mine-sweepers came lumbering outward from the fleet base at Planet Yardmaster Yester, while others proceeded in different directions to clear up the mess, as their crews tersely described the dangerous operations of destroying the mines.

  The Mandana, still standing by, had missed the upward limit of the Aesuron minefield by a few light seconds only. Had she held on to her former course, the probability was that she would have bumped upon the one or other of the infernal contrivances - and been blown up with the loss of all her crew.

  The destroyer Mandana had been sent on particular service. Other side issues had demanded her attention, and, with the adaptability and resourcefulness of Human Nation’s astronauts, her crew had risen to the occasion. To them it was all in the day's work, with one ulterior motive - to push on with the war and win it.

  Deftly, the result of months of experience, the mine-sweepers set to work. With little delay the first of the mines was enticed to eject her missile, which was intercepted on approach by a counter-missile. Others were destroyed in quick succession with the same method. Others proved more intelligent and evaded the counter-missiles, and came dangerously close to the mine-sweepers, which were only saved by their proximity defence artillery. A few of the mine-sweepers got badly scorched in that process but none of them was entirely destroyed and all their crew members survived the incidents. In two days, the mining crafts having swept the whole extent of the hyperspace thoroughfare at Worlds of Wonders, and the minefield there was reported to be destroyed, with one way of commuting open again.

  Working with the mine sweepers also awarded the destroyer with the opportunity of exchanging information which wasn't to be obtained via the official military hyperspace communications, for restrictions on sensitive content prevented their generous exchange. "What damage done to the planet?" enquired Bergerault, as the nearest mining craft sidled under the destroyer's stern, close enough for directional beam radio communications, which had very limited reach in the superposed dimension, and thus could hardly be intercepted by the enemy for one more reason.

  "Precious little, sir, considering the amount of ammunition expended," replied the master of the mine-sweeper. "A few space stations knocked about, some bunkers crushed, a few mines inaccessible and a score or so of people killed or injured, with a couple of factories flat
tened. Might have been worse," he told and shook his fist in the direction in which the raiders had fled. In fact, the damage done to the military capabilities there had been significant and the hampering of strategic industrial production resulting from that raid was to hurt, but the political and military leadership of the Human Nation was never going to admit that. Nothing shall injure the confidence of the population that the war will be won soon and easily and without much loss to men and material.

  Sedately, as if conscious of having modestly performed a gallant service, the mine-sweepers bore up for home, and once again the Mandana was left to stand by her prize.

  She was not for long left alone. A number of smaller patrol gunships came buzzing round like humming birds round a blossoming bush. The work of transferring the Aesuron prisoners was quickly taken in hand. They were put on board the patrol gunships in batches of half a dozen. It saved the destroyer the trouble of putting into space port when she was supposed to hold no communication with the planets and stations.

  The last of the patrol gunboats had brought up alongside the Mandana when Astley recognized the Junior Lieutenant in charge as an old friend of pre-war days.

  Rodolphe Lautier was a man whose acquaintance with outer space was strictly limited to weekends spent on board the Lucky Lucifer Space Yacht Club's headquarters – which happened to be a luxurious space yacht by the name Spelling Sorceress – roaming around a little in the fairly calm hyperspace vicinity in and around the solar system of Mercy of Mercator. Given a craft with functional hyperspace drive, he could steer her with a certain amount of confidence. Of the more-than-superficial science of navigation in the superposed dimension and the art of an astronaut to cope with the abundance of accidents he knew little or nothing. Energy flows were a mystery to him, and the hyperspace astronaut's multi-dimensional quantum-gyroscope a basically unknown entity, other than by name. In short, he was an outer space tourist; the counterpart of somebody taking metro trains somewhere on a civilised planet to get around successfully.

  Upon the outbreak of war, commissions in the Human Nation’s patrol gunship service were flung broadcast by the Admiralty at the members of the space yacht clubs and about anyone else who was considered half-way capable of commanding and coming along with even the most humble hyperspace experience. Amongst those who donned the dark-blue officer-coat with the shiny wavy band and curl was Rodolphe Lautier. At first he was given an auxiliary job, doing a sort of postman's work on the Crowing Cranes Hyperspace Pathway, until the experience, combined with his success in extricating himself, more by good luck than good management, from a few tight corners, justified the experiment of granting a commission to a comparatively callow space tourist.

  Then he was put through a rapid course of signalling and elementary navigation, and, having stuck at it, the budding Junior Lieutenant was sent to the relatively calm forward areas around the Maidens’ Money Solar System on a small gunboat with the prospect of being given a fast patrol gunship when deemed proficient. Calm this area was in terms of being frequented rather very unfrequently by the enemy. Less calm were the hyperspace conditions there, because a nearby twin neutron star was relentlessly stirring up the branes in the superposed dimension like an extra-large blunder.

  Gone were those halcyon days on the Crowing Cranes Hyperspace Pathway, broad and smooth as it was. Now, he had to take his craft out at any hyperspace conditions, be they just ordinary inconvenient or outright hostile. Those matters were of no concern to his superiors who determined the operations schedule. As there happened to be some neutral traffic in the area – despite being rough it was a shortcut used by several species uninvolved in the war – there was control work to be done. Boarding suspicious vessels in outer space hardened his nerves and gave an unwonted zest to his work. At last he was doing something definite: taking an active part in the Space Fleet's work.

  "My first trip in this soul reaper, my old friend," he announced to Astley, indicating with a sweep of his hands the compact patrol gunship that now peacefully ran parallel alongside the destroyer's armoured hull. "A wizard for manoeuvrability. She would outrun your craft in any close quarter navigation. She made it ladylike through Bookforth hollows. Wants a bit of handling, don't you know, but I think I brought her alongside very nicely, what?"

  The last of the Aesuron prisoners having been received on board the patrol gunship and passed on to the storage area on the lower deck, Junior Lieutenant Lautier prepared to cast off. But being a bit of a jolly good fellow, he thought of waving good bye to his old chum in reality, not just via the screen and the communications’ system. He thus went to the patrol gunship’s open airlock, through which the captive Aesuron had also entered the vessel, and stood there, waving with one hand while holding the security handrail next to the open hatch with the other. Touching the peak of his helmet with the slightly tarnished officer’s insignia - for months of exposure to all kinds of conditions had dimmed and scratched the pristine lustre of the once resplendent headgear - he gave the order for the engines to be churned up. But hardly had he spoken those words into his helmet’s microphone when he realised that he should better have remained silent.

  Holding with only one hand on the security handrail, he immediately felt the force of the machines – and he realised that he had made a mistake.

  Like an arrow from a bow the powerful box of machinery leapt forward. The result was disastrous as far as Junior Lieutenant Lautier was concerned. Unprepared to counteract the sudden momentum, he was literally left behind, for he found himself alone in outer space the next moment, with his vessel having gone; and accelerating further at high rate.

  Fortunately his space suit held well, despite the superficial tear and wear, and was quickly hauled into the destroyer's hangar, a surprised but still cheerful object.

  Several of the Mandana's crew laughed outright. Even Bergerault and Astley had to smile. The exposed Space Fleet officer was quick to enter into the joke against himself.

  "Hope I won't get reprimanded for leaving my ship without permission," he remarked facetiously.

  "You haven't asked permission to board mine," Bergerault reminded him. "It's the custom of the service, you know."

  Meanwhile attention was being transferred from the rescued officer to the craft of which he ought to be in command. Evidently her crew were unaware of what had occurred. They were all busy with their own piece of work, functioning just like they were supposed to, being an efficient crew – though under the command of a gentleman whose main qualifications had been cats in the cradle and a silver spoon. The patrol gunship was tearing along at thirty eight lights year per hour, and, owing to the torque of the now unbalanced twin drive, was describing a vast circle to port.

  It was an astronaut recruit who first made the discovery that the little craft was without a guiding will. He was deep down in the rearmost accessible compartment tidying up some mess which had been haunting the spares storage for some time, when he found a long-searched for piece which the mechanics must have had mislaid. Anxious to get into his superior officer's good books, for the young fellow was the bane of Lautier's existence on board, the recruit ascended from the underworld to the small bridge of the vessel. To his surprise he found no helmsman.

  Guessing that something was amiss, he alarmed the other crew members. One of the latter, scrambling out from his workplace at the weapons’ control where he was just fixing something steadied the vessel on her helm, at the same time ordering the powerful twin hyperspace drives to be eased down. He was convinced that Lautier had been jerked overboard and was struggling for dear life a couple of light years astern.

  By this time the Mandana bore almost due along the rotational direction, at a distance of six light years, for the patrol gunship had described a complete semicircle. For some time the boat searched in vain for her missing skipper, until the command master chief petty officer suggested returning to Planet Yardmaster Yester to report the casualty.

  "Better get back to the destroyer, Flo
rent," counselled another of the crew. "Maybe they've got our skipper. Anyway, there'll be no harm done."

  Somewhat diffidently, Florent up-helmed and ordered full speed ahead. He, like the rest of the crew, was, before the war, a paid hand in some rich fellow’s space yacht; keen, alert, and a thorough astronaut, but unused to military vessels with such powerful hyperspace drives. Bringing a "match-box crammed chock-a-block with machinery" alongside a destroyer decently was a totally different matter from his earlier work; but, as it had to be done, Florent clenched his teeth and gripped the controls firmly, determined to succeed.

  It was then that the patrol gunship got sucked into the Panthers’ Cross Crest Funnel, a tornado-like hyperspace vortex usually avoided for the rough ride which it provided, though occasionally used for fast transit. The twisted dimensional currents shortened the way across the Grand Inter-Arm Void by a couple of hours because they worked like a conveyor belt, albeit one which had been installed on the scaffolding of a rollercoaster. The Panthers’ Cross Crest Funnel was a bit of a sneaky entity for it kind of hid itself, unless and until it was almost touched upon. In that feature it resembles a panther, who preferably hunted prey from an ambush, leaping forward forcefully only once the designated to-be-meal came into comfortable range. As the Panthers’ Cross Crest Funnel had two such ends, the plural for was justified. As for the term ‘cross’ in the name, several explanations existed: One set of people maintained that it was because it was crossing part of the Inter-Arm Void, others on the contrary claimed that it was because of travellers got damn crossed once their navigators, captains, or helmsmen failed to avoid the thing. Yet others related it to the term ‘crest’, which again was explained with different legends, one of them containing the notion that the cluster of stars on the Human Nation’s end of the funnel looked like a panther’s crest, which was of course nonsense as panthers build no crests, and because that cluster in no way resembled a crest, no matter what kind of creature was supposed to having built it.