The Last Hero

by Nathaniel Danes

  Trent’s eyes see-sawed across the display, counting roughly seven enemy ships. One battleship, three cruisers, and three destroyers.

  Guess Black Marble is very important to them. Wonder why? Not that it matters. I’ll be dead soon.

  “Holy shit!” the XO gave voice to the stunned expressions on the bridge crew’s faces.

  All but the captain that is. He never hinted as to how he must have felt.

  “Helm, turn us around and give me all she’s got as fast as you can. Comm, get on the horn with the Lepanto and...”

  “Sir!” the sensor officer interrupted. “The Lepanto is...advancing on the enemy. What the hell is he doing?”

  “Trying to save your ass, Ensign,” the captain spat. “You crazy son-of-a-bitch, Cullen. Thank you. Godspeed, old friend.”

  The screen and sensor panel lit up when the Bearcat fleet launched their attack. Dozens of missiles hurtled toward Earth’s Fist.

  “There’s too many, Captain,” the weapons officer shouted.

  “Get as many as you can son. Leave the rest in God’s hands.” the captain replied.

  Trent watched the missiles close on the ship. He hated the sense of helplessness he felt in this type of fight. He wanted to go down swinging, but all he could do was play spectator.

  The ship hadn’t come fully about by the time the anti-missiles batteries sprang to life, hurling laser blasts and projectiles at the advancing death. The fire proved effective against the first wave. The Bearcat’s sent another that simple math dictated would be too many. Just when it looked as if the protective umbrella of fire was about to be broken, the Lepanto came into range and added her guns to the fireworks.

  A cheer rang out across the bridge. The XO pumped a fist in the air. The jubilation soon died. Enemy ships continued gaining speed and closing the distance. Earth’s Fist finished coming about but would need time to accelerate.

  ***

  Captain Cullen leaned against the holo display, his calloused black hands gripping the edge. Unable to conceal his fear, a young ensign asked, “Orders, sir?”

  Cullen stood straight, running a palm over his sweaty bald head. He didn’t mind dying. Death was something he had become accustomed to growing up in the Greater Kenya Republic during the African Union Disintegration Wars. He didn’t wake up this morning expecting this would be the day he died. Nonetheless, he knew what duty dictated.

  “Helm.” His voice boomed. “All ahead full. Run the reactor at one hundred twenty percent. Weapons, I want every last missile we have launched. Keep them as busy as you can. We are going to give Earth’s Fist the time she needs.”

  Charging headlong, the Lepanto closed with the enemy, firing missiles Cullen knew full well wouldn’t hit their mark. That wasn’t the point. He hoped to get within their nuke range and cause enough of a fuss to make some of them deal with him.

  “Enemy missiles away!” an ensign announced. The tremor in his voice gave away the sensor operator’s uncertainty.

  “How many?”

  “Too many, sir.”

  Damn, all for nothing.

  “Wait!” the sensor officer said with a burst of joy, striking Cullen as curious. “It’s the Fist. She sent help!”

  Ten fighters and six drones zipped past the Lepanto. The small craft spread out to engage the missile borage, shooting down enough to frustrate the enemy’s attempt to make quick work of the Lepanto.

  The agile craft circled back and reformed around their new mother ship.

  “Now these bastards have a fight on their hands,” Cullen said, his vigor renewed. “Helm, make for the center of the enemy formation. Weapons, don’t concentrate on any single target. Spread out your fire. We want to delay as many as possible. Comm, order the fighters and drones to stay close and cover us. And...tell the fighters, thank you.”

  The small battle group ran head long, coming close enough to the enemy to negate their nuclear capabilities, but bringing them within range of conventional ordnance. The fighters and drones destroyed most of the missiles, but they could do nothing about the laser strikes rappelling across Lepanto’s hull.

  A swarm of enemy dart fighters launched.

  “Forward decks two through four are breeched,” the XO declared. “Sealing off the area.”

  Sparks fell. The bridge shook with each hit. Cullen stared calmly at the holo display. He had embraced his fate. All he had left was to accomplish his mission.

  “Helm, bring us to this point.” He touched a finger in between two enemy capital ships. “From there, only a few of their ships will be able to hit us without endangering their own ships.”

  “Aye, aye,” the helm officer replied.

  A little too much excitement in that lad’s voice. Cullen stroked his chin. Might be time to put him on the straight and narrow, if we survive this by some miracle.

  The Lepanto and her shrinking escort hugged the enemy, firing everything she had. Their fire found their target on many, but killed none. The horrific toll the ship took began to tell. Hull breeches opened faster than they could be sealed. The engine’s life drained, threatening to leave her dead in space. Fires raged on the bridge. The flames reflected off the sweat droplets forming on Cullen’s head.

  The enemy ships pulled away in an attempt to maintain a safe distance. No foe was more dangerous than when they had no more options.

  The valiant Lepanto and her brave crew were dying. Captain Cullen refused to go quietly. If this was his time, then he sure as hell would take as many of the enemy with him as he could. The Bearcats would understand the level of human resolve today.

  “Engineering!” he shouted over the comm system, praying someone answered this final call.

  Pause

  “Here, sir. It’s Master Chief Kilgore. The Lieutenant is dead.”

  With no time to mourn the loss, Cullen pushed forward.

  “I need everything you got, Chief. I’m sending all available power to you. Give me something.”

  Coughing filled the speakers. “We’re in pretty bad shape down here, Cap. I’ll give you what’s left. Just...just make it count. Chief Kilgore out.”

  “Helm! Make for this ship,” Cullen commanded by highlighting the lone battleship on the flickering holo display. “I want their flagship. Weapons...load as many nukes as you can.”

  He locked eyes with the weapons officer, who gave a knowing nod in reply.

  Like a dying fighter with one gasp of air left, heart pumping more adrenaline than blood, and a knife in hand, the Lepanto lunged forward regardless of the countless body blows she sustained. The panicked Bearcat flagship struggled to distance itself from the mad human ship. Its engines roared in full reverse, and its laser cannon blazed. All of its firing would not keep Captain Cullen from delivering his last shot.

  Aboard the Lepanto, only a few crewmembers remained capable of responding to their captain’s orders. The dead and dying littered the floor, populating the air with their cries. Cullen stepped away from the malfunctioning holo display and placed a hand on the weapons officer’s shoulder. Amid the sounds of pain, shrieking metal, and the final alarm warning of a reactor breach screaming throughout the ship, the captain uttered his final word, “Fire!”

  Microseconds before the fatal dual laser hits from the intended target and another ship hit, the Lepanto launched two nuclear tipped missiles at what in space counted as pointblank range.

  The mindless instruments of destruction didn’t care that their mothership no longer existed. They only knew their objective and sought to fulfill their purpose.

  The flagship’s anti-missile barriers fired, but had suffered damage. The short distance allowed no room for error. Managing to score one kill, the other missile detonated once the enemy ship came into the blast radius of the one-hundred megaton warhead.

  The radioactive fireball flowed toward the now helpless ship. Flames poured over the hull, consuming it. Secondary explosions resulting from the intense energy wave and hull damage sealed the fate of those inside.
The battleship ignited into a brilliant blast, adding its wreckage to the Lepanto’s.

  Somewhere, Captain Cullen raised a fist in victory.

  ***

  While a pleasure to witness, the destruction of the enemy flagship stood as small emotional consolation for the loss of the Lepanto, and the fighter pilots whose selfless sacrifice gave Earth’s Fist a fighting chance to escape.

  Of the seven enemy ships that jumped through the gate, the Lepanto managed to delay all of them to some extent. Four of them enough where they no longer posed a threat to Earth’s Fist. Counting the one destroyed, that left two capable of causing damage.

  The enemy ships enjoyed a head start in the race to light speed, but Earth’s Fist’s rate of acceleration increased at a faster pace. If she held on just a bit longer, the outclassed pursuers would likely lose their sprint.

  Trent locked his eyes on the screen. The enemy would soon reenter missile range, and it would fill with fast moving dots.

  “Thirty seconds to weapons range captain,” the sensor officer announced.

  “How many shots will they get off before we accelerate out of range?” the XO, a short Hispanic man, demanded.

  “One, maybe two,” the officer snapped back.

  “Thank God for small favors,” DeWalt commented.

  “Ten seconds!”

  DeWalt ordered, “Weapons, ready.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Five...four...three...two...one.”

  Nothing appeared on the screens. No one moved. None dared to breathe, but the expected enemy arrival failed to happen.

  What? Maybe we overestimated their range. Maybe they won’t be able to fire at us at all! Maybe...

  Trent’s wishful thoughts crumbled as speeding dots appeared, four at first. Then four more and another four. Twelve in all.

  ***

  Twelve missiles divided into three waves shouldn’t have presented an overwhelming attack, but DeWalt wasn’t taking any chances. Tapping a button on his chair, the captain opened a link to the entire ship. “All hands brace for impact.”

  DeWalt turned toward the weapons officer, who stared intently at his terminal readouts. He decided not to bother him with redundant questions. Having already deployed damage control teams to critical areas, the captain did the only thing he could, watch the action play out on the holo table.

  ***

  One by one, the menacing dots disappeared from the screen. Trent followed the action, which transpired with the apparent ease of hitting the delete key. Though, it certainly wasn’t that easy. Each kill required a highly complex series of calculations and alignments, all performed in the blink of an eye by a supercomputer.

  Despite the success of eliminating missiles, it would only take one and a mass of them still closed on Earth’s Fist.

  The temperature of the bridge seemed to rise as the missiles grew closer. His heart pounded, and his stomach sank to the floor. How he longed to be in a good old-fashioned shootout right now.

  The assault advanced to the verge of blast radius, but only one cluster of three remained. The anti-missile lasers retargeted and calculated for the final kills.

  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as the lasers shot their beams of light. The short-lived reflex quickly gave way to horror at the discovery that the lasers somehow missed one of the missiles.

  An error too late to correct. The computer couldn’t react fast enough. Before the crew could grab ahold of something, the nuke donated.

  The blast wave caught up with the rear cone, flowing over the smooth carbon fiber surface. The design worked to mitigate the impact, but it couldn’t prevent all of the damage.

  The entire ship jolted forward, sending many to the floor. Power surges caused electrical burns and systems to short out. After the initial cascade of harm passed, the captain opened a link to the engine room.

  “Engineering! Do we still have propulsion?”

  The answer would determine whether or not everyone on board lived or died. The alarms sounding to alert the presence of an aft hull breech didn’t serve to calm those awaiting a response.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the answer came.

  “Yes...yes I think so. Our readings are holding.”

  Trent exhaled for the first time in at least a minute before rushing to the aid of a downed crewmember whose face was badly burned. It appeared that her right eye had been destroyed. Ensign Lee kneeled down with him.

  Trent said, “I’ll take her to sick bay.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You’re Fleet. You might be able to help the bridge crew. She isn’t the only one hurt.

  Scooping her up in both arms, Trent exchanged nods acknowledging the plan. As he went to walk out the door, he paused and turned back catching the ensign’s attention.

  “Good luck, Lee.”

  “You too, Colonel.”

  Hurrying to the med bay, Trent zigzagged through the corridor, passing countless crewmembers rushing to repair important systems or extinguish fires. The cries of pain from the injured, disfigured woman ceased thanks to internal medical aid from her nanos. Fixing her damaged eye would require additional medical attention. The damage was too great for the nanos to deal with alone.

  Entering the med bay with a group of walking wounded, he found it to be a cross between an overrun ER and three-ring circus. With more patients than room, a nurse ordered newcomers to sit in the corridor to await treatment. The sandy haired brain surgeon Trent had met earlier was a few meters away, setting a broken leg on a screaming crewman. There was no time to administer painkillers for such a superficial injury.

  Leaving his passenger against the wall near the nurse tasked to keep the overflow patients stable until full treatment could be administered, Trent left to check on the condition of the Legion.

  Jogging along the metal floor to the general’s quarters in the front section, he realized how much of the massive ship remained largely untouched from the engagement. It would take more than one nuclear explosion to destroy a craft of such a design.

  His rising spirits took a punch in the gut when he entered General Banks’ office suite. The commanding officer he so loathed in the beginning lay dead on the floor, a puddle of blood pooled next to his head.

  Taking a knee near the fallen general, Trent reached for a wrist to check for a heartbeat in case his initial diagnosis was in error.

  Damn. He’s really dead.

  Looking around the room for an explanation, he saw a power coupling had burst open. Somehow, when the coupling blow shrapnel launched directly into the general’s brain. A million to one shot.

  Taking a sheet from the bed, Trent covered the body and said a silent prayer. One more was dead in the name of humanity.

  Leaving the general’s tomb, he spent the next hour touching base with as many squad sergeants and officers as he could, to check on their condition and inform them of their commander’s fate. Fortunately, the general was the only Legion fatality. The Legion escaped the chaos almost untouched, save for a few broken bones and some bruises.

  ***

  With the danger past, Captain DeWalt called a meeting of the ship’s senior officers. Trent attended as the acting commanding officer of the 1st Legion.

  Seated around a glossy black oval table in the conference room, he examined the tired faces of the bridge crew and chief of engineering. Everyone made eye contact, except the navigation officer, whose head remained down.

  A faint scent of smoke hung in the air, a product from the clothes of those in attendance who had battled the electrical fires. A few wore bandages covering burns.

  The door slid open, announcing the captain’s arrival. Cutting a path through the room, he stirred the air, sweetening the aroma ever so silently. Sitting down at the head of the table, he wasted no time.

  “Report.” The order was directed at the XO.

  Commander Pedro Sanchez, a Mexican national who spoke flawless English, ser
ved as the executive officer.

  “Except for waste processing, all systems are functioning.”

  “What’s the problem with waste management?” the captain asked.

  “The hull breech occurred in that section. We are working to seal and re-pressurize the area. Until then, we won’t know any details. We lost two crewmen working in there during the attack.”

  Shifting his head to the chief medical officer, he asked, “What are our casualties?”

  Doctor Jane Crawford was an aging surgeon who signed up out of boredom,

  She was annoyed at being there, not in the medical bay overseeing the care of the wounded and didn’t bother to remove her eyes from the work she brought. “Three killed and several dozen wounded, mostly burns and broken bones.”

  “Three? Who’s the third killed?” Sanchez asked.

  Trent spoke up before the doctor could.

  “General Banks,” he said.

  The surprise of the unexpected answer showed on DeWalt’s face.

  “How?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time. As near as I can tell, he was standing by a power coupling when it blew. A piece of shrapnel hit him in the head. He never saw it coming.”

  “Sad to hear that, Colonel,” DeWalt muttered.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry to say that isn’t the end of the bad news.” No one stirred due to the captain’s words. “It goes without saying that Black Marble Gate is no longer an option for our jump home. A review of the star map shows the next closest gate is eighty light years away.”

  From Trent’s perspective, the last four words weren’t as much spoken across the table as detonated. The verbal explosion’s shockwave literally pushed him back into his chair.

  All, but the navigation officer, experienced a similar reaction.

  “Ei...eighty...years,” Dr. Crawford finally managed to choke out, no longer interested in her work.

  “Yes, eighty light years away.”

  “Surely, the Fleet will make another strike through the gate.” Dr. Crawford said. “Can’t we find a place to hide out until then?”

  Trent slumped down, unable to speak or move. A dull pain settled in his heart.