Spaceship Struggles

by Ingo Potsch

  Out from behind a dense cloud of hyperspace distortions leapt a Aesuron self-guided missile frigate. Her sensors had spotted the Mandana to be practically without steerage-way, and her commander had made up his mind to finish her up for good, to carry home one last ‘brownie point’ since his own craft was badly hit, too, and could not be reasonably expected to make it for much longer.

  Quickly Bergerault shouted an order. Despite the short distance, a missile leapt from the Mandana's rear starboard acceleration tube and disappeared quickly from bare eyesight. Anxiously the lieutenant-commander watched the lines of minuscule hyperspace events that marked the track of the locomotive weapon on his overhead screen. The target was a difficult one, although the range was comparatively short.

  The Aesuron skipper realised the approaching danger and attempted to port helm. Crippled in the hyperspace steering-gear, the Aesuron frigate was slow in answering. A flash of light, brighter than looking into the sun, flared up; by the time it subsided the hostile craft was no longer in existence.

  By this time the Aesuron frigates attacking the Mandana and her destroyer consorts had slowly about enough of it. At least two of them had been crippled by artillery-fire from the Human Nation’s vessels, while another pair, their conning towers and other upper-work on the hulls being reduced to masses of tangled scrap-steel, had received so much punishment from their foes that they were close to the end. Others had occasionally been driven away by the Human Nation’s destroyers with the result that an Aesuron destroyer had been sent to Nirvana by a missile from one of the Mandana’s consorts.

  Turning around, the battered remnants of the Aesuron frigate flotilla fled for the shelter of their battlecruisers. The path was now clear for the furtherance of the Human Nation’s destroyers' attack upon the larger vessels of the hostile fleet; but the difficulties had increased tenfold owing to the injury of some of the spaceships, which were compelled to slacken speed and drop astern.

  Yet undaunted, these galactic hornets with their scorched hulls reformed into some semblance of order, and, under galling defence fire, hurled themselves upon the formidable array of Aesuron battlecruisers.

  CHAPTER VIII - The "Mandana's Second Serve

  Of the mad, desperate, and, above all, wasteful race into the gates of a hyperspace hell Bergerault saw but little beyond his immediate front. Since the Human Nation’s destroyers were under the fire of projectiles capable of smashing through the sides of battleships, and confronted with missiles bearing warheads up to multiple gigaton size, it was evident that the Mandana's light-armoured fuselage and conning-tower would afford little protection, and if the destroyer were hit by a heavy shells or encountered a missile that made it through her defence artillery, the fate of all within her body would be sealed. So, standing on the starboard extremity of the bridge, the lieutenant-commander took his craft into the second phase of the destroyer attack.

  Up to the present moment the Human Nation’s destroyer squadron had suffered comparatively few casualties. Some of the remaining vessels had been compelled to retire, though, owing to damage received during their altercation with the hostile frigate flotilla; and thus the good start in this direction was no longer maintained.

  On the way to the attack, the Mandana senses a large Human Nation’s destroyer, subsequently identified as the Commander Norton, which had been struck by projectiles almost amidships and suffered severe damages. A rush of flames, followed by clouds of smoke, announced that at least one generator-compartment was wrecked, and that the vessel was no longer under control.

  Porting helm, the Mandana ran past the peaceful of the crippled destroyer, the smoke from which undoubtedly saved Bergerault's command from severe punishment. Bergerault intended to offer his help and he thus asked the other destroyer’s captain to give order to abandon ship and to ferry over to the Mandana. The fellow refused, though, maintaining that his crew and ship were still of great service.

  For nearly half a lightyear the Commander Norton carried way, until she came to a stop between the fronts. The last Bergerault saw of her was that the destroyer, still somehow holding together, maintaining a desultory fire, although a stationary target for an overwhelming number of hostile guns. The Commander Norton had expended all her missiles and was now shooting with her remaining artillery. The contributed a little to the defence against approaching hostile missiles, though that contribution was indeed humble.

  Suddenly Bergerault staggered, hurled sideways by an invisible force. His helmet automatically closed; as did the helmets of all others on the bridge. The guard-rail, which he was still gripping, was no longer supported by the stanchions. Falling heavily upon the bridge, he felt being dragged by strong wind towards a hole in the wall. He was scrambling for somewhere to hold and feared getting sucked overboard when the astronauts who had maintained the communications’ station gripped him by the ankles.

  The lieutenant-commander regained his feet in an instant, barely conscious of his narrow escape, for high-speed shell had passed through the Mandana’s bridge. The projectile has passed by so close to him that the windage had capsized him. The shell had entered the conning tower on the one side and left it on the other, tearing one small and one big hole into the cladding. Luckily, the shell had failed to explode and the constructive measures against spallation had worked out as they were designed to. Another shell crashed into the conning tower somewhat higher, and that projectile demolished the short scaffolding supporting the main hyperspace communications’ set, hurling the fragments into outer space. Some pieces of other equipment were now fluttering in the Mandana’s force field, while other debris had been blown against the mounting of the turret for the rear machine cannon.

  The artillery pieces were all of the crucial for the survival of the destroyer, for they were required to defend the ship against incoming missiles. Therefore, Bergerault ordered the rear gun turret to be cleared from the debris hindering it. Astronauts in mecha-suits were sent out through the nearest hatch to bring about the desired effect: get the gun going again.

  Hardly had the dauntless astronauts completed their necessity-imposed task when another shell struck the Mandana obliquely on the port bow. Penetrating the forecastle, it burst with a muffled report, but, instead of shattering the forward part of the destroyer, it emitted dense clouds of greenish-yellow dust that eddied through the shattered plating on the fore-deck and drifted sullenly aft.

  In a second Bergerault realized the danger. The shell had been filled with yellowcake, and just at the time when the ship was getting within missile-range, and the men had to direct all their energies upon get going the powerful weapons, the deleterious fine dust threatened to put them, at least temporarily, out of action.

  Yellowcake was a type of uranium concentrate powder obtained from leach solutions, in an intermediate step in the processing of uranium ores. It was a fine powder that had a pungent odour if smelled, was insoluble in water, and contains about mainly uranium oxide. Its radioactivity made it disastrous for advanced information technology. Usually, ‘dirty’ uranium was used for the purpose of producing the military variety of yellowcake; uranium with high content of radio-isotopes. Shot at spaceships at great velocity, the debris of such shells and the fine dust of this yellowcake permeated into every tiny crack and gap, from where its ionising radiation played havoc with the IT equipment. Furthermore, the stuff was unhealthy.

  With his helmet firmly shut, Bergerault awaited the noxious fine yellow dust to go away again, for the Mandana had enough holes for the stuff do get lost. Insoluble as it was, it could still be blown away by air-pressure. Unfortunately, the mecha-suits were sensitive to high-levels of radioactivity, too, but hoping that they worked long enough to get the job done, Bergerault ordered the maintenance crews to clear literally dust off the ship. Had he earlier expected that the wind caused by the out-rushing atmosphere was to rid the destroyer of much yellowcake dust, dispersing it by force of airflow, he realised that the stuff was stickier than anticipated under the
prevailing circumstances. With horrible persistence the cumbersome dust hovered betwixt the various projections anywhere, and settles predominantly into the smallest interstices.

  Apparently, the highly radioactive yellowcake was already having an effect on some of the mecha-suits. Bergerault was conscious of the quartermaster and the others on the ship staggering. Their mechanized armour wasn’t functioning well anymore. He saw them with their fingers frantically gripping their throats, which indicated that they weren’t getting enough air. The gesture was useless, of course, yet its meaning was clear. The communications’ in-charge who had previously saved his commanding officer from being sucked overboard was writhing in agony, clawing at whatever came to hand, until in a frenzy he took a flying leap out of the gaping hole in conning tower and disappeared out of sight quite quickly.

  Left to herself, the Mandana began a broad sweep to starboard. As she did so, much of the dust was shaken off to leeward, yet not before the men attending the forward pair of missile acceleration-tubes were temporarily overcome by the diabolical product of Aesuron ingenuity. Their task had been to dust off the missile controls in order to avoid lasting damage, yet the damage happened to befall the controls of their mecha-suits.

  In vain Bergerault attempted to rally the men. It was either now or never, for, unless the missiles were fired, the opportunity would be gone. He tried to shout, but no sound came through his own defective microphone and radio communication system; and if any signal was produced, it wasn’t heard by anyone, for theirs were defect as well. The motion control of his armour still worked, though, and thus Bergerault made his way in person to the respective compartment. Between the eddying clouds of fine yellow dust he could discern the missile-astronauts moving like stupefied bees. There was nothing to be done, he realised. Thus, Bergerault made his way back to the bridge.

  With an effort the lieutenant-commander regained his customary calm command of the situation. He turned to the quartermaster, who, although still gasping for breath, had come through the terrible ordeal with comparatively slight ill-effects, despite the temporary lack of oxygen. This fellow had managed to regain control of the most vital functions of his mecha suits, and at least the oxygen supply was working again, albeit only because the human had overruled the automatic system, which had failed.

  "Keep her steady on her helm," signalled Bergerault, and, literally tumbling down the bridge ladder which ran along on the side of the vertical tube running through from the peak of the conning tower to the bottom-most compartment of the vessel, he made his way down. The elevator wasn’t to be trusted. Having reached at the level of the main deck, Bergerault then made his way aft to the rear missile acceleration tubes.

  Pushing aside two victims of the radioactive yellow dust, one of them the Logistics Task Order, who lay athwart the corridor, the skipper made his way further aft. Having reached the control and maintenance comportment the lieutenant-commander gripped the hand-wheel and closed the breached of the pair of tubes. At a distance well within missile range, three large enemy battlecruisers happened to be close to each other, presenting a nice, big target, like a bull with an eye painted on his entire side. To miss such an objective seemed almost impossible, Bergerault reckoned.

  With a wrench Bergerault dropped the firing-lever of the starboard-side missile acceleration tube. The thin cloud of dust that emerged from the metal cylinder, being shaken up but the sudden force which had gone through it, he took as confirmation of the missiles having been ejected. With the compartment lacking portholes, he could not actually see the steel, cigar-shaped missiles as it leapt clear of the chip and disappeared with a mighty acceleration into the darkness and toward its intended target. Then, changing over to the larboard-side missile acceleration tube, Bergerault sent the second weapon on its errand of destruction.

  A sudden and a totally unexpected swerve of the ship prevented Bergerault from observing the result of his single-handed efforts. Instinctively he realized that his presence was again required on the bridge. As he hastened forward he almost collided with Surgeon Randolphfield, who, in his medical mecha-suit, had come up from below to aid the sufferers. For some reason, that device was protected better against the fine radioactive dust which had paralysed or at least damaged the other mecha-suits.

  Seeing Bergerault stagger along with his features contorted and his complexion showing a sickly pale in spite of the tan, the doctor hurried after him.

  "Not this time, Doc," protested the lieutenant-commander with a wan smile, as he lurched forward. His brain was whirling under the strain of the awful ordeal, yet he was dimly conscious that something was amiss, and that at all costs he must return to his post.

  He was barely in time. The quartermaster was huddled in a heap of scrap at the base of the captain’s seat and out of reach of the steering-gear. With a beam of steel having visibly injured at least one of his legs, for the knee was bent sideward in a ghastly angle, he was basically out of service. The destroyer, left to her own devices, once more was bearing down upon one of her helpless consorts.

  Thrusting the steering levers hard over, Bergerault found that the vessel was still under control. Almost by a hairbreadth she scraped the hyperspace force field near the port quarter of the crippled destroyer, whose hull was literally riddled by the enemy's artillery fire, and must resembled a charnel-house inside. Nothing could be done to save her, for she was already on the point of foundering. Of her crew not one repeated the called, and thus had definitively remained alive. She had fought to the death - a typical example of Human Nation’s Space Fleet vessel continuing to fight on autopilot when the crew had already succumbed. This ship’s zombie-type of endurance against overwhelming odds kept undue attention from falling on Bergerault’s destroyer.

  Her last missiles fired, the Mandana was free to make good her escape - if she could. Receiving a couple of glancing hits as she sped towards the shelter of her fleet’s heavier units, she slid past the foremost of the Human Nation’s battlecruisers, receiving three hearty cheers from the crew on the bridge there. With the communications’ equipment damaged, the Mandana was unable to receive that encouragement, though.

  The second phase of the destroyer operations was over. Although not so successful as had been expected, owing to the formation having been disturbed by the encounter with the Aesuron frigate flotillas, the dash was not without definite material effects, on both sides. Among the battleships, the Human Nation’s Space Fleet had lost Artunis and Phaidyme, which had not returned from their heroic foray into the middle of the enemy’s mass, and were presumed to be decapacitate, a surmise that subsequently proved to be correct, since a portion of their crews were rescued by Aesuron craft.

  Having brought the Mandana safely out of the inferno, Bergerault's next step was to take stock of damages and report to the commander of his flotilla, which was going to be difficult without functional hyperspace communications equipment. For that reason, one of his first orders when the destroyer was out of direct fire was to have that capability restored. About twenty minutes later, the hyperspace communications’ device was again made serviceable with rudimentary functionality, with several of the crew having worked on it diligently.

  Others were busily engaged in putting patches on the gaping rents in the hull and casings and closing the shell-holes in the thin plating. Fortunately the generator compartment had escaped serious damage, with only two casualties occurring, owing to an auxiliary energy duct being severed by a sliver of shell.

  On the whole the Mandana had come off lightly, given what had been fired at her. The worst damage had been to personnel, and this had been caused by the radioactive yellowcake dust, for, before the stuff had dispersed, seven astronauts had lost their lives because their mecha-suits failed, and ten others had been incapacitated by the same reason.

  "She is as fit as ever she was in my department," reported the engineer-lieutenant who was widely known as Boxspanner. "Hope to Heavens we shall not be ordered to haul out of it."

>   "I guess not," replied Bergerault. "Must turn a blind eye to some of the defects, I suppose. What did it feel like deep inside?"

  Boxspanner shrugged his broad shoulders. It was the first time he had been in action, his appointment to the Mandana being of recent date.

  "It was all right after the first half-minute or so," replied the engineer-lieutenant. "The racket at first was enough to stun a fellow. I suppose in this job one can get used to anything. Where's Randolphfield, by the way?"

  "Busy," replied Bergerault gravely. "Come and see him at work - if you can stand it."

  Well it was that the Human Nation’s Admiralty, with their customary promptitude to promote the welfare of the fighting fleet, had lost no time in appointing scores of probationary assistant surgeons to the destroyers immediately after the outbreak of hostilities. Previously the medical staff who had been carried on these small craft had been paramedics. As in times of war casualty occurring on board, and accidents with the high-powered equipment, were not of infrequent occurrence; the patients previously had to rely upon the well-meant attentions of paramedics and their comrades until they were transferred either to a parent ship or to one of the hospitals on planets and space stations.

  Doctor Aiden Randolphfield was a man who took life seriously. At times he was almost pessimistic, although there were occasions when a sudden spirit of youthful exuberance would take complete possession of him.

  In his specialised medical mecha-suit and with a blood-stained apron that an hour previously had been spotlessly white tied closely around his metal armament, the surgeon was working with deliberate haste, performing a serious operation at a speed that would have turned a hospital probationer pale with apprehension.

  The confined space which had been devoted to the sick-bay was at least fairly hygienic. The conditions for re-establishing atmospheric pressure were worked on. Till then, the wounded had to remain in their protective suit, which of course burdened them a lot. It was considered good form for a patient to utter a rough-and-ready jest at his own case, while grim, but none the less sympathetic, words were bestowed upon their nearest fellow-sufferers. It was a curious physiological fact that an astronaut who would have raved at a careless comrade for having accidentally dropped some gear, narrowly missing his head, greeted the information that he would lose his left arm or right leg or whatever with the nonchalant remark: "Anyhow, I will get home on leaf and then I will get a new one, and all will be paid and I’m being taken care of all the time, with income accruing and all." The analgesics worked well and were available in great quantities.