Spaceship Struggles

by Ingo Potsch

  Two days later the Human Nation counter-espionage authorities raided different places and captured the spies working for the Aesuron Empire. They were hurried away under close arrest. They had played their part as far as the Human Nation’s interests were concerned, since they had informed the Aesuron Admiralty of the supposed rendezvous of Grand Admiral Jollyheart's battle fleet.

  "Do you think there's something in the wind, sir?" asked Astley, as the Mandana, in station with the rest of her flotilla, was slipping along at nineteen lightyears per hour.

  Bergerault smiled enigmatically. He knew as much as captains of ships were supposed to know, which wasn't very much, but more than their subordinates were told.

  "Patience!" he replied. "Cannot disclose more at present. You might see how repairs to that defective machine cannon are progressing. Make sure it’s working well. We might need it badly soon."

  Astley descended from the bridge and made his way aft. Slight defects in the mounting of the stern turret’s machine cannon had appeared almost as soon as the destroyer left the Bodotria Tunnel, and the gun engineer's crew were hard at work rectifying the damage.

  The inspection of the work required donning a mecha-suit and getting outside of the destroyer’s protective hull. Gripping the stanchion rail surrounding the platform upon which the gun turret rose and making sure his security rope was fastened well, for the Mandana was rolling considerably in the wake of her preceding consorts which met with the athwart-running long waves of the predominant current here, and exposed to glistering clouds of mini-vortices which created rushing sounds inside the helmet, the junior lieutenant watched the on-going maintenance work. He had no need to ask any questions; there was little about the mechanism of this type of machine cannon and its mountings that he did not know. He could see that the repairs were almost completed, only a few finishing touches requiring to be done.

  "Man overboard!"

  The junior lieutenant rushed to the side just in time to see the outstretched arms of an astronaut in his mecha-suit emerging behind the tail of the swiftly moving destroyer. It was indeed fortunate that the man was still attached to the security rope which connected him to the Mandana. Yet, his position was precarious in the extreme for his mecha-suit possessed no hyperspace drive of its own. Therefore, the astronaut was kept in the superposed dimension solely by the influence of the Mandana’s hyperspace drive, which built-up and maintained a force field. This extension of energy into the near vicinity was the mechanism which allowed a vessel to ascend to the superposed dimension and remain there. If the over-boarded astronaut exited that force field, he would drop out of hyperspace, too. But even when exposed only to the fringes of energetic influence, the astronaut was to sustain severe injuries. It was obvious that the fellow was not able to return to the ship by himself. Perhaps, the impact of the rope had knocked him out.

  Without hesitation Astley made a flying leap over the guard-rails. Once clear of the side he drew up his legs and stretched out his shoulders as far as the mecha-suit allowed, and then caught hold of the rope and held it tightly with his steely-power gloves, while it was slipping through his hands with tremendous force. Good it was that he had taken this precaution instead of making a space dive in the ordinary sense of the term, for the acceleration differential caused him and the ship to separate quickly, and he would run a serious risk of dislocated limbs or a broken back had he not grabbed the rope immediately and slid along it while breaking with force.

  The Mandana was already a couple of dozen metres away, while the dangerous periphery of the hyperspace drive’s force field was near. Without making any attempt to slow down the destroyer flotilla held on, even though it was by now known that two crew members had gone over-board. Remembering his tactical education, Astley soon realized the necessity for this apparently inexplicable act of negligence. It was impossible without grave risk to the flotilla to break up the formation, while the danger was still further increased by the fact that another cruiser squadron was pelting along somewhere in the vicinity, and these vessels, being of a considerable tonnage, carried a tremendous amount of way and stirred up hyperspace tremendously. Falling behind would mean for the destroyers to be running in their wash, which was to be avoided. And then, and above all, it was war-time, and individuals did not count when greater issues were at stake.

  Presently the junior lieutenant’s feet closed up with the head and shoulders of the other over-boarded astronaut. Short as had been the time between the astronaut's tumble overboard and Astley's deliberate leap, but owing to the speed of the flotilla nearly a quarter of light year separated the location of the accident from the coordinates of the young man’s gallant attempt would-be rescuer from the object. The ride got rougher, though. The flotilla was entering areas of greater dimensional fluctuations.

  "No use hanging on here," thought Astley, as he clung to the rope. "Must get to the fellow somehow."

  By the time the junior lieutenant came within touching distance of the astronaut his limbs felt as heavy as lead, as the force of acceleration was driving his blood out of his arms. Even the multi-fold power-enhancement provided by the mecha-suit was of little avail, for the issue with the lacking blood-flow remained. Trying to save his crew member, Astley was by no means certain that he himself was in anything but a most precarious position. But once he reached the fellow, Astley found that the man he had risked his life to save was not half so exhausted as he was. The astronaut had come off lightly in his fall, and he had had recovered well from the temporary black-out which the sudden deceleration caused by the security rope had produced.

  The enlisted astronaut recognised his would-be rescuer with a look that betokened pained disapproval. He was one of those men who were almost ever at odds with discipline. To him the gold band and curl on a mecha-suit’s helmet meant something more than authority: it roused a spirit of sullen aggression.

  And yet Jordane Bourdenet had joined the Space with the best intentions. Fate, in the shape of a short-tempered drill sergeant who was doing basic ground-force training, had marred his career from the very start; for, on joining the training-school at Jim Short Barracks on Planet Aron’s Towers, one of the questions asked of him was the name of his birthplace.

  "New Waterloo Town, sir," replied young Bourdenet, giving the name, innocently.

  "Where did you say?" enquired the drill sergeant.

  The recruit repeated the words.

  "Water loo, did you say?" snapped the officer.

  "Yes, sir," replied Jordane Bourdenet without a moment's hesitation. "That’s because we’re civilised."

  The repartee came absolutely on the spur of the moment. A second's reflection might have made all the difference. It was a bad start, and the newly-entered recruit suffered for it. That was some years ago, but in the Space Fleet the old adage of giving a dog a bad name held on longer than anywhere else, despite that bad name having been given by an infantry drill sergeant who prepared the young folks for planetary combat, which the astronauts regarded as unworthy dust-digging anyway.

  Astley recognized the man as one who figured frequently in the captain's discipline reports. Young as he was, the junior lieutenant had a keen insight into human nature, and although he knew nothing of the first slip that had marred the enlisted astronaut's career, Astley was certain that there were good streaks in the crew member, and that underneath the fellow’s rugged, surly exterior there was something of true worth.

  "No need for you to tumble right behind after me, sir," said the man. "I can care for myself." He said so, but he didn’t have to power to pull himself toward the destroyer along the security rope either, despite the mecha-suit’s power enhancement.

  He spoke gruffly, but underlying the remonstrance was an unmistakable tone of gratitude. In the circumstances he was glad of company. He would have welcomed his chum, in preference to an officer, but at such times the difference of rank gives place to the equality of human peril.

  "They will pull us both in," declared Astl
ey, although in his mind he had grave doubts as to the matter.

  "Not they," replied the enlisted astronaut, indicating the direction of the destroyer with a jerk of his closely-cropped head. The bow wash in the form of micro distortions had increased and was now extending war to the back of the spaceship. "Conditions are getting rough out here and we’re soon outside the reach of the hyperspace field. Nobody wants to come out to pull us in now. They will fear that the micro-eddies behind out ship’s conning tower pull their bowels apart. They might twist our guts soon, too, anyway. But the cruisers of the rearguard might pick us up if we drop out here. But take hold of this, sir," he added, pushing his rope to within reach of the junior lieutenant. "You look as if you need to hold on to it more than me."

  Holding two ropes and thus steadying the dragging a bit more helped to reduce the swings to which the fellows were exposed.

  Both men relapsed into silence. Further conversation meant a waste of precious power. Their situation grew worse, though. The destroyer’s bow wash reached ever further behind and was soon to unite with the wake. At the same time, the ever-rougher hyperspace conditions reduced the effect of the ship’s force field keeping them all in the superposed dimension. Thus, the two chaps were getting ever close to its rim; or rather the rim was coming closer to the chaps.

  “We need to let lose”, said the other fellow. Astley agreed. The destroyers were rushing on, not least to give way for the cruisers of the rearguard. Those could afford to slow down and pick up two fellows. Thus, and considering what would become of them if they were to be dragged along for longer periods of time exposed to the seam of the hyperspace drive’s force field, the junior lieutenant and the enlisted astronaut whom he wanted to save opened the locks which held their safety ropes and let themselves drop out of hyperspace. It was a rough experienced and Astley blacked-out.

  When he regained conscience, he had a look at his watch. "They're a precious long time in coming up," he soliloquized. "Seven minutes ought to have done the trick."

  As a matter of fact, the rearguard cruiser squadron had received a hyperspace message from the Mandana within nineteen seconds of Astley's letting loose the security rope, requesting the vessels to keep a sharp look-out for the two astronauts.

  On receipt of the intelligence the armoured cruisers' speed was reduced to ten lights year per hour: and then descended from the superposed dimension rather a little too early than too late, and this accounted for the seemingly endless time that elapsed before the vessels came within sight of the two well-nigh exhausted astronauts as they hovered weightlessly in normal space.

  At length, though the velvet darkness that prevailed so far away from any star made it difficult to recognise them with the bare human eye, the outlines of the rearguard cruiser squadron came to be seen. The ships were coming along in the extended parallel formation which was most suitable for scouring outer space for dropped-out astronauts. The famous cruiser Defender of Justice, known to be the the Vice-Admiral's flagship, leading the starboard half of the cruiser fleet and the Warriors of Walhalla was leading the portside fleet.

  "They've spotted us, sir," exclaimed astronaut Bourdenet, as the alteration of the faint reflections on the approaching ship’s hull told them that the Warriors of Walhalla's helm was being ported.

  Almost before way was taken off the ship one of the Warriors of Walhalla's shuttles was rapidly released from its main hangar.

  Although only a minute and a half elapsed between the time the little ferry got away from the big ship and her arrival at the scene of the rescue, the interval seemed interminable to Junior Lieutenant Astley.

  With feelings of indescribable relief he realized that he was being gripped by two pairs of powerful steely hands belonging to a space fleet mecha-suit and pulled into the cargo bay of the ferry, while other astronauts in mecha-suits performed a like office for his companion.

  Smartly the ferry was brought back to the cruiser’s hangar. And thus Acting Junior Lieutenant John Astley found himself on board Human Nation Spaceship Warriors of Walhalla, in blissful ignorance of the most hazardous part the armoured cruiser was about to bear in the ferocious battle that was to follow just of the edge of the Reaper’s Razor Roughlands, an area to the edge of the other side of the Grand Inter-Arm Void, starting about three quarters of the way toward ‘over there’ and ending about a little less than one fifth of the distance to the far edge of that rather empty recess.

  CHAPTER VI – Double Feature Action

  The spaceship upon which Astley found himself as an unauthorized supernumerary was an armoured cruiser belonging to the second-latest generation, built and completed at the Planet Pam Broker dockyards ten years previously. She was one of a class of forty two that marked a new departure in Space Fleet architecture at the time – with lots of new features from the new hyperspace drive to the new missile launch systems, more modern machine cannon turrets, better dampers, and so on. At the time when she was laid down she was considered one of the heaviest armed cruisers of her day. With the exception of the following year's programme of the Antaeus class, the Warriors of Walhalla and her sister ships were nevertheless the last armoured cruisers laid down by the Human Nation’s Admiralty according to their type, for immediately after their completion the all new cruisers of the Fearless type simply outclassed at one swoop the previously preferred armoured cruisers of the Homo sapiens’ means of galactic power projection.

  Nevertheless, the Warriors of Walhalla was still a powerful unit, and reckoned by the Human Nation’s Admiralty to be more than a match for any Aesuron vessel of her size. Her designed speed of a fraction over twenty three lights years per hour - rate that when necessity arose could be exceeded, albeit under reduced service life - enabled her with the rest of her class to form a valuable, hard-hitting auxiliary to the vessels of the most modern battlecruiser squadrons.

  While Astley was being taken care of by an obliging brotherly junior lieutenant, a hyperspace message had been sent to the Mandana announcing the safety of her junior lieutenant and her enlisted astronaut Bourdenet.

  Bergerault received the gratifying intelligence with undisguised delight. His feelings were shared by the whole of the ship's company, for, almost without exception, the destroyer's officers were voted a band of jolly good fellows, and the possibility of Astley's death in a gallant attempt at the rescue of a lower-rank astronaut had thrown a gloom over the ship.

  As for the lieutenant-commander, his relief and gratitude to Providence knew no bounds. Between Astley's leap overboard and the receipt of the Warrior's message he had passed through a distressing time. Apart from his personal regard for the junior lieutenant, with whom he had shared adventures and perils in the Far-End Orion Region, the fact that he had been compelled to abandon Astley to the vagaries of fate hit him hard. He was even doubtful whether, with the possibilities of hostile vessels roaming around in the vicinity, the Human Nation’s armoured cruisers would risk slowing down to rescue two space soldiers and risking at the same time to present splendid targets for Aesuron missiles. However, the deed of rescue was accomplished, and the next step to consider was how to get Astley and the enlisted fellow back on the destroyer. The former's presence was highly desirable, in fact essential, while the other one still had a role to fulfil ad was hard to replace under conditions of deployment.

  In answer to the Mandana's lieutenant-commander's request, whether it would be possible for Astley to be sent back to the destroyer, the rescuing ship replied that, should opportunity occur, the Mandana could close, but that, in view of present conditions, such a step was most unlikely.

  "So you will jolly well have to make yourself at home here, old friend," remarked one of the Warriors of Walhalla's junior lieutenants, who as a young officer-recruit had passed out of Red Eyes Bull Space Fleet Academy on Planet Seven Spiders – named so for seven prominent islands resembling spiders from atop - at the same time as Astley. "Suppose the trip will do you good. Sort of hyperspace excursion out and home, don't you
know. Doing nothing, and never a sign of any Aesuron, unless it was a lone missile ejected from a mine; or two.” This Warriors of Walhalla's junior lieutenant voiced the opinion of the rest of the weapons’ crew. He was president of the mess and a mild autocrat over the junior crew members, and generally voted a jolly good fellow by the handful of ensigns, many of whom were to be surprised as to how much of action they were soon going to see; some for the last time.

  Yet, although there were quite a few among the personnel of the Human Nation’s Battle Fleet – especially some officers who hoped for the chance of showing heroism to be promoted - were as keen as mustard to meet the Aesuron, frequent and almost unvarying disappointment had been the lot of the eager and the relief of the secretly anxious. Over and over again Admiral Bartholomew-Caffrey's fleet had swept the Grand Inter-Arm Void without coming in contact with the enemy, until it was the general conclusion that, until the Aesuron Battle Fleet was actually sighted, it was of no use speculating upon the chances of the big deciding clash.

  And now, during the seemingly calm hours of the this deployment, the Third and Fourth Battlecruiser Squadron, three light-cruiser squadrons, with attendant destroyers, and a host of other units were ploughing outward across the Grand Inter-Arm Void. Their highest-ranking commanders were advancing with the knowledge that the hard-hitting Human Nation’s Main Battle Fleet, together with a formidable array of cruisers and destroyers, was to join them in some distance to the other side, ready, at the first call by their Grand Admiral, to engage and destroy the Aesuron fleet. The plan was to lure the enemy’s major spaceship into a sense of false security, and get them out from their protective cover. This need arose due to the very different strategies of the Human Nation’s Admiralty and the Aesuron Empire’s Military High Command. While the Human Nation was out for the decisive space struggle with battleships, the Aesuron engaged in cruiser warfare combined with hit-and-run raids on strategic targets, while keeping their main units nicely under the protection of scores of frigates and corvettes and other smaller units. The Aesuron battleships would come out, strike hard, retreat fast, and if the Human Nation’s ships followed, they were pestered by scores of smaller units firing off lots of missiles at them. The economics of such a fight were very uneven, for the smaller units were much cheaper to produce and their crews faster to train than the major ships. But strategy being as it was, the Human Nation’s Admiralty planned to enforce her concept of war on the enemy, rather than to adapt.