Spaceship Struggles

by Ingo Potsch

  The arrival of half a dozen astronauts enabled Astley to have the commanding officer removed below. Anxiously the junior lieutenant awaited Randolphfield's verdict. The report was long in coming, but the doctor's hands were full to overflowing. During that terrible time of the battle and the following retreat, many a man owed his life, under the grace of heaven, to the administrations of the young medico. Indifferent to his own peril, although the crippled destroyer was straining badly in the heavy hyperspace waves, then man nick-named Coroner toiled like a galley-slave in the semi-darkness, for the emergency lights kept on failing every now and then, and the temporary operating-room, crowded with ghastly cases, was occasionally illuminated only by the glimmer of three torch lamps.

  "Is that you, Coroner?" enquired Astley anxiously, as an officer, distinguishable only by his uniform cap stuck at a comical angle on the top of his head, clambered upon the bridge.

  "No – I’m Boxspanner," replied that worthy, using his own nick-name. "At least what's left of him. Where's the skipper?"

  "Knocked out."

  "Done in?"

  Astley shook his head.

  "Don't know," he replied. "Coroner has him in hand. In any case he's got it pretty badly. Well, how goes it?"

  "Can't get more than five light years per hour out of the generators," replied the engineer-lieutenant. "Port generator-compartment reduced to scrap. There was total lack of atmosphere but ample radiation in the transformer chamber, but it's subsiding, thanks to Gracious Heavens! Devil’s hell of a mess when the lights went out. In the compartment with the inter-flux buffer I stumbled over a man and banged my head. It feels like a blister on a steel beam when pointing the welding torch too long - liable to burst at any moment, you know. The fellow strafed me for treading on him. Asked him what the deuce he was lying there for, since he had wind enough to kick up a row. What do you think he was up to?"

  "Can't say," replied Astley.

  "Plugging a shot-hole with his back. Had his shoulder wedged against the gash. He'd been like that for twenty minutes - and he'd lost three fingers of the right hand. Luckily his armoured combat jacked prevented his lungs and bowels to be sucked out."

  "You'll have to make a special report," remarked the junior lieutenant.

  "A special report of every man of my department you mean!" exclaimed Boxspanner enthusiastically. "By Heavens! If you should have seen them…"

  The arrival of the doctor cut short the engineer-lieutenant's eulogies.

  "Just up for a breather," gasped Randolphfield. "Thought I'd let you know how things are going in my line. A bit stiff our butcher's bill. The skipper's pretty rough. Took a wicked-looking chunk of metal sheet and foam composite out of his forehead. I've had the deuce of a job to stop the flow of arterial blood from a gash in his leg. He'll pull through. He's as hard as nails."

  "That's good," said Astley and Boxspanner in one breath.

  "Talking of nails," continued Randolphfield, "I've just had a rummy case - Follet, the leading communications specialist. Took fifty pieces of metal from his hide. The poor wretch couldn't sit down, although the wounds were light. Those damned Aesuron had send over on of their small shells right on a rib of our hull. Didn’t go through but caused spallation resulting in a hailstorm of needles. Fact! I'm not joking! I suppose they haven considered our baby in need of some stitching together and so they made us a present of the needles. - How much longer till we can expect to establish contact with one of our own, at the earliest?"

  "About thirteen hours – at this speed," replied Astley.

  “What time is it now, by the way? The ship’s clocks all seem gone cases.”

  "I haven't a watch”, stated Astley

  He did not think it necessary to explain that his wristlet watch had been ripped from its strap by a flying fragment of debris. He was becoming painfully aware of the circumstance, for every movement of his wrist gave him a sharp pain, as the same fragment had cut into the flesh, too.

  Boxspanner crossed over to the temporary binnacle - one removed from the wreckage of one of the boats - for the destroyer's standard instruments had gone the way of the majority of the bridge-fittings, while the gyro-compass, placed in the safest part of the vessel, had been deranged by the passage of an unfriendly projectile. The binnacle had been the waist-high case on the bridge of the Mandana, mounted in front of the helmsman, in which navigational instruments were placed for easy and quick reference as well as to protect the delicate instruments. Its purpose was to hold the ship's laser gyroscopic compass, mounted in shock absorbers and gimbals to keep it level while the ship pitched and rolled. The upper part pf the binnacle was subdivided into sections and its contents include indicators for hyperspace conditions, the ship’s current position, and an emergency light source which was battery-powered.

  "It's only a quarter past eleven," he announced dolorously, as he consulted his watch by the feeble light of the replacement binnacle.

  "Rot!" exclaimed the doctor. "It was midnight when we went into action."

  The engineer-lieutenant made a second examination. The glass of the watch had been completely broken; not even a fragment remained. The hands had gone, while across the dial were two cracks in such positions that they had misled Boxspanner into the belief that they were the hands. Yet, on holding the timepiece to his ear and listening intently - for like the rest of the Mandana's complement he was temporarily deafened from the result of the violent impacts - he found that the watch was still going. Like many other astronauts, he wore an old-fashioned mechanical watch. Those time-pieces were fairly resistant to radiation, temperatures from hot to cold, electro-magnetic pulses, and a host of other calamities which befell electronic appliances. They couldn’t be hacked, too. But of course, nothing was totally invulnerable.

  "We’re getting closer to the Toro Rodriguez Mizell cluster," observed Randolphfield, pointing to a pale-reddish hue indicated on the replacement of the main screen – it had been created with a canvas and a beamer - toward the direction into which the Mandana was going. "Well, I must get on with my work. More patching and mending demand my modest attention."

  Slowly the wounded vessel made her way through the Grand Inter-Arm Void, where ephemeral of clouds of white noise were betokening a continuance of the hard fighting, and plenty of it, for clearer conditions meant more detection, which resulted in more use of weapons. With the amplitudes of the hyperspace waves rising, too, the task of the Mandana's crew increased tenfold. Anxiously the horizon of the detectors’ reach was swept in the hope of a friendly vessel being discovered, but the velvet darkness was unbroken. The tide of battle, if the action were still being maintained, had rolled away beyond sensor range of the badly battered destroyer, full of heroes who so worthily maintained the prestige of the Human Nation’s Space Fleet.

  CHAPTER XIV—Getting out of the Mess

  With the remaining machinery running under groaning and moaning and being whipped and petted on by the engineers, the damaged Mandana held gamely on her way, with any round of appraisal adding to the horrors of the aftermath of battle. The hull echoed to the clanging of the artificers' hammers who bashed into shape or out of the way deformed pieces of metal. Wearing mecha-suits, the astronauts’ force was multiplied by the cybernetic muscles. Once the recalcitrant bent steel planks and ribs had been whipped into shape or shaved off, the undaunted and tireless astronauts proceeded with the work of stopping leaks by closing them with welded-on material. On all decks steps were being taken to clear away the debris, and to set up new wires and tubes for communication and signals transmission, energy supply, and tubes for air-conditioning. The sole remaining gun was overhauled and again made fit for action in case of necessity. Although not anxious to fall in with a Cruiser or a stray fast scout cruiser, the Mandana's crew were determined to take every precaution to keep ready for rumble, should the event occur. That was madness, but who was there to tell them? And anyway, what did it matter? If they came across a functional Aesuron vessel of almost any kind, the
y’d have very little chances. But believing to be capable of holding on made them stronger. Not feeling as helpless victims but as warriors who were the captains of their own fate gave them power.

  For another hour the destroyer crawled on her long journey towards the far-off territory of the Human Nation. Then Astley issued an order which was repeated aft and down below. The hyperspace drive was stopped, the remnants of the crew mustered aft on the main deck, and the battle-scarred pieces of bunting lowered to half-mast. On the main deck there was being kept the flag of the Human Nation. Of it only a shadow of its former self had remained, yet it was the flag, the symbols of statehood, the symbol of the united human race.

  The Mandana's crew were about to pay their last homage to those of their comrades who had gallantly laid down their lives for species and nation.

  Sixteen canvas-enshrouded forms lay motionless at the after end of the deck. Bare-headed their messmates stood in silence as Astley, with a peculiar catch in his usually firm voice, read the solemn words appointed for the burial of those at sea. Then into the velvet, star-spangled, darkness of outer space, the bodies of those venerated warriors were consigned, to find an undisturbed resting-place in eventless peacefulness the Inter-Arm Void.

  It was no time for melancholy, though. At the word "Dismiss" the astronauts trooped forward, for there was plenty of work to do, and, in the Space Fleet especially, hard but necessary work is rightly considered one of the best antidotes for grief.

  Snatching at the opportunity to visit his superior officer, Astley hurried below to the shattered ward-room, where Bergerault lay on a mattress that smelt abominably of burned plastic and the lingering odours of charred wires. The lieutenant-commander had by this time recovered consciousness, and greeted Astley with a bad attempt at a smile.

  "We have kept our end up," he said feebly. "Think you will get the dear old ship back to base?"

  "I trust so," said the junior lieutenant guardedly. "I will do my level best."

  "I know," assented Bergerault. "Still, you have a tough job. I will be on the bridge in another half an hour and give you a spell."

  Astley said nothing. He realized that many hours - nay, days - would pass before his chief would again assume command. Bergerault was quick to notice his subordinate's silence.

  "Suppose I have had it pretty badly," he admitted reluctantly. "It was a rotten business getting knocked out at the critical time."

  "Nothing much happened after that," explained Astley. "We were out of it within twenty seconds from the time you were hit."

  "Man alive!" protested Bergerault. "You're altogether wrong. For nearly ten minutes I was lying there quite conscious and watching you. You're a jolly fellow, old friend."

  Before Astley could reply he was called away. A fast scout cruiser had been sighted, flying in the direction of the badly mauled Mandana.

  Quickly the remaining gun was readied. Although not intended for long-distance work against heavy, well-armoured targets, modification to the original mounting permitted it to be trained with such wonderful precision, that there could at least be a chance of hitting. How much that mattered was another, very different question. Anyway, the gun turret even had supplementary sights been fitted to enable it to operate without external guidance.

  The alien ship was still far off, and flying at a course which was to bring her just to the fringes of the Mandana’s artillery reach. Apparently undamaged, the Aesuron cruiser was proceeding at a rapid pace against the on-coming hyperspace waves.

  Deprived of the advantage of speed and manoeuvring powers, the destroyer would fall an easy prey to the fast scout cruiser's missiles unless the Mandana could make very good use of her solitary machine cannon. The weapon was loaded and trained abeam, thus give the destroyer the appearance of being incapable of defence.

  Astley made no attempt to alter helm. He had made up his mind to wait until the huge target came within easy range. He knew that the Mandana was under observation, and that the Aesuron were trying to ascertain the nature of the destroyer's injuries. Should they come to the conclusion that the slowly-moving Human Nation’s craft was powerless, and failing on her own, they would not be likely be inclined to waste their attention – and even less their weapons – on such an insignificant object. They were scouts and only fought if forced to by an attack. Anything else, they’d let others do. On the other hand, scouts had to verify the identity of whoever was roaming around on their designated area; and if there were enemies they’d have to find out their condition. Thus, Astley had to arouse the curiosity of the enemy cruiser, but avoid appearing either too dangerous or too harmless.

  Nearer and nearer came the huge spaceship, her bows steadily pointing in the direction of the destroyer. Range-finder in view, Astley curbed his impatience. Not until the fast scout cruiser bore at a distance of within the artillery range did he order the gun's crew to train their weapon upon the object of deadly desire.

  With a vicious spurt of flame and a sharp, resounding detonation last remaining artillery piece of the destroyer exploded. The weapons must have been defect before, but the failure must have remained undetected upon inspection. At least, before its final demise, the mechanism of murder sent a shell hurtling through the emptiness between the destroyer and her target. Admirably timed, it burst apparently close to the silvery-grey hull of the alien vessel. Almost instantly a huge cloud white noise enshrouded the fast scout cruiser.

  A rousing cheer burst from the throats of the Human Nation’s astronauts. The cheer was taken up by the wounded heroes down below, who, having heard in some mysterious manner of the alien ship's approach, were waiting the issue of events with mingled confidence and regret that they themselves were unable to assist in strafing the bastards.

  The cheers literally froze on the lips of the astronauts just a little while later, for when the short-lived cloud of white noise cleared away the fast scout cruiser was a mere speck on the surveillance monitor. Under cover of a discharge of white noise, produced by having her hyperspace drive and dampers operate at non-aligned frequencies, she had dropped the idea of inspecting the Mandana and had instead shot straight outwards to a safe distance.

  The Aesuron commander had received orders not to attack unless he could do so without risk, the fast scout cruiser being specially detailed for observation work. With a range of visibility of fifty or sixty light years she was of far more service to the security-conscious Aesuron Battle Fleet in warning them of the position of their arch-fiends than in strafing a solitary destroyer. Furthermore, she was short on missiles, having already spent many of them on deserving targets. This decaying destroyer, the Aesuron skipper reckoned, was either not making it back anyway, or would cry for help and attract other vessels, which could then be annihilated altogether. But even if not, the rescue missions for such wrecks were making great demands on the Space Fleet of the Human Nation, thus weakened the enemy. After all, a dead soldier was burrier, in a grave or in space, but a wounded soldier needed in average four others to take care of him. Therefore, it was much better to wound soldiers than to kill them. With ships, it was about the same. Rescuing such wrecks was in accordance with the human spirit, the Aesuron understood. It cost more than it yielded, though. Shall they have it, the alien had decided, when he let his fast scout cruiser absquatulate.

  With white noise from her bow wash and wake marking her course fore and aft, the Mandana still struggled on her course, steered by the hand-operated gear in conjunction with the inefficient boat's laser gyroscope. Hitherto the leaks had been kept under, but now the atmosphere was making its way out through the shattered tubes of the ventilation system. Those were smaller, often hidden behind cladding, and just so plentiful that even finding the defects as a lot of work, not to mention mending the holes.

  Before many minutes had passed Astley reluctantly came to the conclusion that he would have to give the order "abandon ship". Already the knowledge that the old Mandana was slowly foundering had become general, yet there was no panic
.

  Calmly some of the astronauts began to collect all the buoyant materials they could lay their hands upon for the purpose of constructing rafts, since there were no boats left. Others stuck gamely to the task of manning the volunteer repair groups, while the wounded were carried onto the main deck in order to give them a chance of getting clear of the decaying ship. As the Mandana contained neither a shuttle nor any other object capable of hyperspace travel, abandoning her would mean being stranded in normal space. Getting found there was unlikely, to put it mildly. But if the astronauts stayed within the ship, the loss of atmosphere was sooner or later going to kill them. Therefore, it was perhaps better to be in rescue rafts, which were at least tight. Even makeshift rescue rafts could better be made tight than the big hulk of the destroyer with her myriads of defects.

  Seven hours later a vessel was detected into the direction of the galaxy’s rotation, proceeding in an outward direction. After a few minutes of anxious doubt as to her nationality, she proved to be a mining craft from the Nenad, an alien race which had remained neutral in the war. That is, the vessel was a Nenad ship unless the identifying signature of her hyperspace drive was for real, not produced artificially by an Aesuron vessel or by pirates.

  Altering her course, the mining craft bore down upon the Mandana and slowed down within directional radio communication distance.

  "Come aboard, all of you," offered the Nenad skipper, a tall, broad-shouldered descendant of his race of pioneers. "We save you. Plenty of room for all."

  "We don't want to abandon ship yet," replied Astley. "We may weather it yet."

  "And I guessed that you would answer so," retorted the skipper. "You Human Nation’s astronauts are brave creatures. Humans good; Nenad good; Aesuron no so good. We stand by and help you." This particular Nenad was obviously not-quite neutral in the war.

  "Seen anything of the battle?" enquired the junior lieutenant.