by Ingo Potsch
"What do you make of her?" enquired Astley's chum as the two young officers, clad in mecha-suits, stood at the base of a partly demolished gun-turret and checked the news which was shown on their in-helmet interfaces.
"Precious little," replied Astley. "Can't say that I am able to recognize her. But in these times, with a new vessel being added to the space fleet every day, one can hardly be expected to tell every ship by the cut of her bow wash. But why does or automated recognition system not add the info?"
“Guess it’s out of order”, came the reply.
“Could have thought of that myself.”
"She might be an Aesuron," said the Warriors of Walhalla's junior lieutenant who had become Astley’s friend. "One that has got out of her bearings and is just sniffing around to see what damage she can do. Hallo! There's 'Action Stations'."
The Warriors of Walhalla was taking no unnecessary risks. She was still in a position to bite, although at a terrible disadvantage if opposed to an active and mobile foe. Gamely her war-worn crew doubled off to their combat positions, leaving their other important work alone. Given that they stopped holding the spaceship together, the Warriors of Walhalla would fall apart on her own within a couple of hours; and perhaps would not even last that long. Upon prompt from the cruiser’s commander, three rousing cheers announcing the fact that, although badly battered, the gallant Human Nation’s astronauts knew not the meaning of the word surrender. They were simply too busy surviving to rationally think about how to continue staying alive, or else they would have taken into account that the Warriors of Walhalla was in her present condition nothing but a piece of junk, facing only humble chances to make it to the nearest inhabitable world of the Human Nation’s territory alone.
Nearer and nearer came the mysterious vessel. She was by no means moving at the rate of a light-cruiser, her speed being about sixteen lightyears her hour. She continuously issued her signature, but, being end on and against the oncoming hyperspace brane waves, the signals could not be distinguished. To avoid casualties by friendly fire, even the enemy issued signatures during battle, and thus the transmission alone meant nothing. It was anyway a wonder that the Warriors of Walhalla could even detect that there was a signal issued at all, given that her hyperspace communications gear was ruined and that she was no relying on some alternative version, duct-taped together by her engineers from spare parts and components pilfered from damaged ferries which had been found in her hangars.
Presently the other vessel ported helm slightly. Another roar of cheering burst from the throats of the Warrior's men, for now the Morse code indications were discernible. They were not the widely feared notorious identity signals of the Aesuron Empire but the genuinely hoped for signature of the Human Nation’s Space Fleet vessels.
Immediately after the Warriors of Walhalla replied with her own identification code, a string of Morse code signals was issued from the other ship. Hundreds of astronauts on the Warriors of Walhalla could understand the Morse-coded letters, but the jumble conveyed nothing to them. Not until the decoding device was consulted could the vessel's identity be made known.
"Ernest Hemmingway, sir," replied the chief petty officer currently in-charge of signals. "One of our best and strongest, that's what she is," he confided in an undertone to another petty officer standing by his side. “Carries quite a number of high-speed attack units.”
A lengthy exchange of Morse code by means of hand-typed letters ensued, for other methods of communication on the part of the Warriors of Walhalla were impossible, owing to the clean sweep of nearly all her communications equipment.
And now, in the rapidly rising amplitudes of the on-coming hyperspace brane waves, preparations were made for taking the crippled Warriors of Walhalla in tow. Already the cruiser's stern was well hardly covered sufficiently be her dimensional force field anymore, and, badly deranged, she would prove no mean feat for a powerful, especially-engineered craft to tow, let alone the non-quite-purpose-built Ernest Hemmingway. The issues were many and the technical and physical problems were severe. With the enormous strength of carbon nanotube hawsers, it was quite well possible to carry along even the heavy weight of the Warriors of Walhalla. But given that both ships were in hyperspace and had to remain in the superposed dimension, the questions to be answered were going far beyond those that usually occur in the normal dimension. Remaining in hyperspace demanded energy, which had to come from the leading ship, for the battlecruiser was damaged too severely to reliably provide enough power even for the emergency hyperspace drive. Thus, that energy also had to be provided from the towing ship, which demanded special arrangements. The coordination of the two vessels had to be excellent because even small deviations of the force-field output in the superposed dimension meant great differences to the effective movements of spaceships. Unfortunately, it was impossible for the Ernest Hemmingway to extend her hyperspace force-field enough to cover the Warriors of Walhalla. Given that the two ships had to cross the Grand Inter-Arm Void, it was anyway questionable if the undertaking was rational at all. Anyway, given the values of the Human Nation’s Space Fleet, one of which was never to leave anyone behind, the attempted was made to save the vessel, and be it only to carry her out of the enemy’s reach.
Fortunately for the Warriors of Walhalla and her surviving crew members, Captain Fabrice Aurelian Caudrelier of the carrier ship Ernest Hemmingway knew his business, and handled his vessel with superb skill. Thrice he manoeuvred sufficiently close to establish communication between his ship and the severely damaged Warriors of Walhalla, twice the flexible carbon nanotube hawsers parted like pack-thread. While mechanically solid enough to pull the weight, the additional strain caused by the two hyperspace force-fields and their interaction had been too much for the hawsers. These force fields anyway produced massive issues as their interaction caused dimensional instabilities to which both vessels might fall prey. Thus, synchronising them was the most crucial challenge for the concerned engineers. This kind of getting the hyperspace force-fields aligned with each other was never going to be perfect, and therefore always remained burdening to the ships. Anyway, at the third attempt to establish the firm link the hawsers held, and the Warriors of Walhalla slowly gathered way, wallowing astern of the Ernest Hemmingway at a rate of barely four light years per hour – slow but nevertheless helpful as every minute was taking the unvanquished cruiser nearer the Human Nation’s side of the Grand Divide.
By this time all on board believed to know that their sacrifice had not been in entirely vain. Grand Admiral Jollyheart was known to have effected a junction with Admiral Bartholomew-Caffrey's hard-pressed squadrons, the Aesuron Main Battle Fleet was in reported to be in confusion, and between them and their bases at the edge of the Inter-Arm Void was the battleship Venomous Vendetta with her squadrons of the Human Nation’s Grand Fleet. The event had already proved to be a day of reckoning for anyone taking part, yet the final tally was still outstanding. To keep morale high, the bad news were rather kept quiet about. Had the astronauts on the Warriors of Walhalla known the aggregate numbers, they would have felt much worse than they did, having been told positive news mainly.
CHAPTER XI - The Wrecked High-Speed Intruder
With her stock of missiles replenished and certain defects mended, the Human Nation’s Space Fleet destroyer Mandana sheered off from her parent ship, and, increasing speed to twenty two lights years per hour shaped a course to re-join the rest of the flotilla.
Lieutenant-Commander Fabien Bergerault was in high spirits. He thought that he had succeeded in bluffing the commodore to give his permission to re-join the rest of the fleet instead of being ordered back to the Bodotria Tunnel. As a matter of fact, his senior officer, realizing that a "stout heart goes a long way", had purposely refrained from asking a lot of awkward questions concerning the Mandana's injuries. In the forthcoming and projected next round of the attack every destroyer available would be needed to put the fear of the Human Nation’s navy into the minds of the Aesur
on and gigaton missiles into the vitals of their battleships. While Bergerault was thinking of his promotion to commander when risking the destroyer which he was commanding and which was not quite in shape for another round of altercations, the commodore had the title of admiral in mind. Both were gambling at high stakes, though Bergerault risked more – his life – while the commodore’s gains would be greater.
The spirit of the Mandana's skipper was shared by quite a few member of the crew. Many of them were people who faced little prospects in civilian life and were into it for the promotions and the bonus. They risked their lives to make a living. If they survived, their livelihood was sustained by their jo in the Space Fleet, and by taking part in the current events they expected to be retained even during peacetime, should that happen in the foreseeable future at all. Therefore, even the wounded showed reluctance to be transferred to the parent ship; those whose injuries did not prevent them from getting about sturdily asserting that they might be of use. Those obliged to take to their bunks were emphatic in impressing upon their more fortunate comrades the request "to get their own back". After all, they fought for the survival of the human race. Since the war had been started, the Aesuron had been made to fight with all their might, as the Human Nation’s military effort was directed at the total destruction of this alien empire. Vice versa, the Aesuron fought back with similar zeal and it was widely assumed that only one of these two species was to survive; and this was naturally going to be the winner.
The battle had been in her ninths hour when the Mandana's hyperspace surveillance systems detected two vessels slowly making their way in the direction of the Human Nation. One, evidently badly damaged, was in tow of the other.
It was part of the destroyer's duty to investigate, since it might be possible that the vessels were hostile craft endeavouring by making a wide detour to reach their base.
A wireless message, in code, was sent from the Mandana, requesting the two vessels to disclose their identity. The reply left Bergerault no longer in doubt. The towing ship was the Ernest Hemmingway, while the crippled craft wallowing in her wake was the heroic Warriors of Walhalla.
It was Bergerault's opportunity to regain the services of his junior lieutenant if the latter had been lucky enough to escape from the terrible gruelling to which the Human Nation’s cruiser had been subjected.
Turning to run parallel with the ships, yet remain in safe distance so as to avoid his destroyer’s hyperspace drive to cause trouble to the other ships he signalled toward the Warriors of Walhalla:
"Request permission to take off my junior lieutenant."
To which the Warriors of Walhalla replied:
"Permission granted, provided no needless risk to any of the ships."
Bergerault smiled grimly. The idea of further damage being done to the Warriors of Walhalla seemed out of the question, while he considered his crew was quite capable of bringing a ferry alongside the cruiser without denting a single plate of the armour. His people would of course take care, not least because they were professional astronauts, but realistically speaking the Warriors of Walhalla was but a piece of junk and would never make it back to the Human Nation’s territory; not even when towed along. Four light years per hour was simply too slow, and with the battel having taken place on the enemy’s side of the Great Divide, the risk of detection by Aesuron vessels was exceptionally high, almost to the level of near-certainty.
Ordering "easy ahead", the command chief petty officer entrusted with the job brought the Mandana’s only remaining ferry - she had been allocated one by her mothership since she lost her own - close alongside the Warrior's port quarter, where there was a functional hatch. Although the waves on the hyperspace branes were now running forceful amplitudes, the command chief petty officer performed his task with great precision.
"There's someone offering you a lift coming alongside, old friend," remarked Astley's chum as the Mandana was made fast at the air lock. "No, don't trouble to return any equipment. It's positively not respectable for use over here anymore, on this proud vessel, worn down as it is. Well, so long! I'll run across you again before this business is over, I guess."
Scrambling over the debris, from which smoke was still issuing in faint bluish wisps, Astley gained access to the armoured cruiser's sideward airlock. Poising himself for an instant he leapt on the Mandana’s shuttle’s deck, followed by Bourdenet, the astronaut with whom he now shared two adventures.
"Can I be of any assistance, sir?" enquired Bergerault from the bridge of the destroyer, now having established direct laser communications with the other two ships.
The commanding officer of the Warriors of Walhalla returned the salute and shook his head. He was loath to detain even one destroyer from the fighting that yet remained to be done.
Amid the cheers of both crews the Mandana sheered off, and, porting helm, resumed her course, while the Warriors of Walhalla, in tow of the massive carrier Ernest Hemmingway, was confronted with the approach of steadily-increasing rough hyperspace brane waves.
The badly-damaged Warriors of Walhalla never reached port. After being towed for twelve hours, her position became so serious that the mighty carrier sent shuttles alongside and removed her crew.
Giving three cheers for the old ship, as the Ernest Hemmingway, abandoning her tow, increased the distance between her and the Warriors of Walhalla, the gallant crew watched the battered hulk rolling sullenly in the angry high amplitudes of the brane waves until she was lost sight of in the distance.
Having formally reported himself, Astley went below to make up arrears of sleep. The engineer-officer nick-names Boxspanner and the doctor were in the ward-room, both engaged in animated conversation, not upon the subject of the action, but on the merits and demerits of helium as a substitute for hydrogen as fuel for a spaceship generators.
With disjointed fragments of conversation ringing in his ears, and "fusion" and "neutron deposit in the covering mantle", and "generator-knock" figuring largely, Astley fell into a fitful slumber, dreaming vividly of the stirring incidents of the past few hours, until he was aroused by the reversal of the destroyer's twin hyperspace drives, the lightly-built hull quivering under the strain.
Instinctively he glanced at the clock. He had been asleep only fifteen minutes - it seemed more like ten hours by the length of his excited mental visions. – Poor chap!
Leaping from his bunk, Astley scrambled into his combat fatigue – for he assumed trouble - and hurried onto the main deck. It was still illuminated lightly only. The hyperspace drift was moaning at the exposed side of the ship’s dimensional force field, making her dampers pulse on conjunction; splashes of clouds of coiled-up micro-perturbations slapped the destroyer's back side as she lost way and fell off broadside on to the waves.
A couple of lights seconds to leeward was a large Human Nation’s high-speed intruder. It had been detected just now, for being quite small. She was listing at a dangerous angle, exposing her to the maximum force of the brane amplitudes, which burdened her faltering hyperspace drive a lot. Her starboard hyperspace drive – for she had a twin – seemed already out of order, and she maintained herself in the superposed dimension only by her sole remaining system, which issues unfavourable indications of bad health, too. Her heat radiators were ripped in twenty places, while the fuselage showed signs of having been hit several times. The tip of one blade of the dimensional rudder had been cut off as cleanly as if by a knife. All around her the space was iridescent with chatoyant ceramic powder that originated from shattered plating. Clad in protective combat armour and hoping for a friendly ship to come by and pick him up, was the pilot - a young junior lieutenant, whose face was blanched with the cold, for the energy supply to his attire’s heating had been cut. He had maintained his position at the controls in order to impart increased stability to the damaged high-speed intruder.
Lying on the floor of the fuselage was the weapons officer. The visor of is flying-helmet was blood-stained. Evidently his wound was o
f a serious nature, for he evinced no interest in the approach of the Mandana.
As the destroyer’s shuttle carefully drifted down upon the crippled high-speed intruder a dozen ready helpers, clad in mecha-suits were ready for support. A couple of astronauts swarmed along the frail fabric to enter the hull and provide aid to the comrades in need.
The rescue of the pilot was a comparatively easy matter, but it took all the skill of the astronauts to extricate the wounded weapons officer. It was not until some others of the shuttle’s crew came to the aid of their comrades, that the unconscious officer was brought on board.
There was no time to waste in salvage operations. At an order from the lieutenant-commander an astronaut, armed with a time fuse and explosives, made his way to the damaged high-speed intruder. A vigorous blow was to complete the work of destruction. Held back by the time fuse until the astronauts regained the destroyer, the high-speed intruder was finally allowed to be torn to pieces by the detonating explosives.
"Rough luck to chuck away an engine like that," remarked a voice regretfully.
Astley turned his head and saw that the speaker was Engineer-Lieutenant Boxspanner, and for once at least Doctor Randolphfield – nick-names Coroner - agreed with him.
The rescue of the high-speed intruder's crew threw additional work upon the already harassed surgeon, for the observer was showing signs of collapse, while upon examination it was found that the pilot had been hit in the forehead by a piece of his helmet’s visor which had gained independence by the effect of spallation.
Pulling himself together, the observer managed to impart important information before he fainted through sheer exhaustion. The high-speed intruder had sighted the main Aesuron fleet fifty light years onward in the rotational direction.
The intelligence was highly desirable. It settled without doubt the all-important question as to the enemy's whereabouts, and definitely proved that Jollyheart's ships were between the Aesuron and their bases at the rim of the Grand Inter-Arm Void. If steps could be taken to intercept the Aesuron vessels' retreat through the Gate of Cats Tunnel, it seemed as if they were doomed to annihilation at the hands of the Human Nation’s. This impression was based in the deeply rooted confirmation that the Aesuron were essentially inferior, and that their space fleet was week. Despite the frequent battering which the Human Nation’s ships had been taking at many occasions, this notion prevailed.