War from a Distant Sun (Savage Stars Book 1)

by Anthony James

  “I guess they didn’t expect the life support hardware would end up dealing with two overstressed engine modules,” he muttered once the interior was stable again.

  Soon the warship was reduced to a low enough speed that Eastwood was confident they’d exit lightspeed near to their target destination. Recker gave the instruction to set a course for Lustre.

  “Not too close,” he said. “I don’t want us dousing every HPA citizen in ternium particles.”

  “There’s no proven link with any known medical condition, sir,” Burner reminded him.

  “Maybe not, but there’s a proven link with the amount of paperwork I’ll have to complete and the amount of ear chewing I’ll have to sit through if we turn up too close to Lustre with the Finality in its current state, Lieutenant.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Coordinates entered,” said Eastwood. “Fifteen minutes for the lightspeed calcs.”

  “I’ll let Sergeant Vance know what’s happening,” said Burner.

  It was a nervous wait and Recker divided his attention between the sensor feeds and the aft module status readout. Within a short time, the rear engine output went beyond 300%, but the rate of increase declined, and he guessed it might stabilize at about 400%. The pain behind Recker’s eyes didn’t go away and it intensified with each increase in the propulsion output. His crew complained about it too, so he knew he wasn’t suffering alone.

  “Five minutes and we’ll be out of here,” said Eastwood.

  “The size of our ternium leak is increasing as an exponent of the module output,” said Burner. “This is crazy stuff.”

  “It’ll give the research guys something to get excited about once we get back,” said Recker, refusing to concede that their successful return was anything other than a certainty.

  The five minutes felt as if they lasted an eternity. With a minute to go on the lightspeed calcs, Recker had his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles ached. His mouth was dry again from the pulsing waves of adrenaline and he felt like he could sleep for a week.

  “Twenty seconds.”

  “Particle cloud detected. Right on top of us,” said Burner. His voice was rock steady, like he’d either completely given up hope or was absolutely convinced the Finality was going to make it out of here.

  Recker could have said one of a hundred different things. Instead, he said nothing and only watched.

  “Ten seconds.”

  “The ternium wave is at its peak. It’s the annihilator,” said Burner. “Cloud starting its decay.”

  “Five seconds.”

  “Deploying disruptors,” said Aston. “Ready for their arrival.”

  A handful of drones wouldn’t do much good. They wouldn’t even put up a worthwhile show of defiance.

  The annihilator appeared, so close that its dark grey sides filled the entirety of the starboard feed, blotting out the white speckling of faraway stars. Recker hadn’t seen a Daklan battleship from such a short range and found himself hating this one with such an all-encompassing intensity that his body shook.

  “Goodbye,” said Eastwood.

  Recker wasn’t sure whose ears the farewell was meant for. The Finality’s propulsion thundered like the worst of storms and the spaceship entered lightspeed.

  Chapter Nine

  As well as his feeling of immense relief at escaping the Daklan battleship, Recker felt an almost equal happiness at the significant reduction in the howling of the two propulsion modules. Whilst the sound of it was intoxicating in small doses, it had rapidly become a pain in the ears and the ass, like a highly tuned sportscar that was great in short doses, but rapidly became draining on longer journeys.

  For a couple of minutes, nobody spoke, though the crew didn’t take a break. Like Recker, they ran through the extensive list of status checks required at the beginning of every transition into lightspeed. So far, there was nothing to report beyond the known issues from before the launch.

  Eventually it was Lieutenant Burner who spoke. “That wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had.”

  “Nope,” agreed Eastwood. “And now we’ve got to hope this old warhorse hangs together long enough for us to reach Lustre.”

  “It will,” said Recker firmly. “The Finality hasn’t let any of us down before and it won’t happen this time.”

  “No sign of anomalies on either module,” said Eastwood. “Everything looks fine.”

  “Five days to Lustre with all that extra power,” said Burner. “How much longer would it have been without the overstress?”

  “The improvement isn’t as great as you might think,” said Eastwood. “Time at lightspeed is governed by more than maximum propulsion output. A lot of it’s down to how much processing grunt a warship is packing.”

  It sounded bizarre, but it was true. It didn’t matter how many engine modules the HPA shipyards crammed into a hull, a spaceship was still limited by the number of lightspeed calculations its processing core could perform during the flight - and that had boundaries too.

  Thinking about it made Recker’s head spin. A warship at lightspeed created a tunnel towards its destination as it flew - a tunnel that required a combination of theoretical mathematics and the incredible output of a ternium drive to hold open.

  Recker had once asked a member of the lightspeed research team to explain it to him in simple terms. The man had grinned, shrugged and that was all Recker had needed. In the case of lightspeed travel, it was best to accept that it worked and not think too hard about the specifics. So far for Recker, the method was working great.

  “So how much time did we save?” pressed Burner.

  “Three hours,” said Eastwood. “If we had one of those new processing cores it would have been a whole lot more than three hours.”

  Burner let it drop, evidently satisfied with the response. “Five days to Lustre and then they might not let us dock for another five days on account of the hole in our armour and all the crap that’s coming out of it.”

  “And when we finally set down, expect a fortnight in the debriefing room,” said Aston with a theatrical sigh. “Followed by assignment to some old rust bucket that first came out of the yard sixty years ago.”

  “I was hoping they’d thank us for doing so well at Virar-12 and give us a few weeks off,” said Burner. He raised his hands in mock apology. “Yeah, I know. I’m too optimistic.”

  There was plenty to discuss about the mission to the Virar-12 system, but nobody brought up the subject, as if they knew the hunt for answers would only result in frustration.

  After six hours at lightspeed, the Finality hadn’t broken up and the crew detected no new failures in the onboard systems. Everyone was exhausted and Recker realized he couldn’t keep them on shift any longer. The spaceship’s mainframe had the military’s scheduling software installed and it produced a shift pattern based on details of the crew’s circumstances.

  “Commander Aston, Lieutenant Burner, you got your three hours.”

  “Three whole hours?” grumbled Burner. “I’m so wired it’ll take me that long to fall asleep.”

  “Maybe you should trim your caffeine intake to a lean dozen coffees a day,” said Aston sweetly.

  “I’d rather lie awake.”

  The two of them left the bridge, leaving Recker stifling a yawn. When he turned to check on Eastwood, the man raised a thumb, but the smile on his face wasn’t enough to hide the tiredness etched in his features.

  Recker paid a visit to the replicator for a water, a double-strength coffee and a nutrition block. His stomach craved something more fulfilling and he stared angrily at the malfunctioning device.

  “Is there anything we can do to fix this?” he asked.

  “You’ve only got to put up with it for five days, sir.”

  “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

  “It’s a self-contained unit. It gets plugged into the warship for power and that’s it. I have no access except through the front panel interface.”

  Reck
er was briefly tempted to check out the machine’s diagnostic reports, but common sense took over. A second machine was installed in the tiny mess area elsewhere in the ship – for use by the soldiers – and Recker promised himself he’d stop by when he got the chance.

  He finished his water at the replicator and returned to his seat with the coffee and grunt fuel. Nothing had changed on the status panel – lots of ambers and reds, but the backups were running fine.

  “Lieutenant Burner never finished analysing the sensor data we gathered from that cylinder,” said Eastwood.

  “Thinking of taking a look at it yourself?”

  “Not me, sir. I’m not multi-skilled like most of the guys they’re bringing in these days.” He gave a short laugh. “Besides, I’m too tired right now.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Recker. He wasn’t exactly struggling to keep his eyes open, but his focus wasn’t where it should be. Once more, he thought about taking one of the booster pills - Frenziol-13 was the name of the drug and Recker had no idea if that was an intentional joke or not. A single tablet would help him get through this shift at the expense of the three hours’ sleep he planned to take when his turn came. He left the pills untouched.

  “Anything to report on the propulsion modules, Lieutenant?” he asked. He was sure Eastwood would speak up if there was anything to report but talking helped Recker stay alert.

  “The aft module is steady at 402% and the forward module hasn’t moved since last time you asked.”

  “Think you’ll be able to shut them down once we arrive at Lustre?”

  “I know what steps I’ll be taking, sir. Whether or not they’ll work, I can’t tell you. What’ll happen if the modules won’t come out of semi-stable?”

  “They’ll rescue us, tow the Finality someplace way out and send a maintenance team onboard. If the maintenance team can’t shut the engines down, they’ll take more direct action.”

  “By blowing the spaceship to pieces.”

  “I’ve seen it happen, though not for the same reason.”

  The conversation ended, yet Recker couldn’t stop thinking about the likely destruction of the Finality. He knew it was stupid to become emotionally attached to a lump of alloy – a tool – but the spaceship had become an expression of his own determination to face the universe and come out of it unbowed by adversity.

  Eastwood was a great engine man – the kind who seemed to have an otherworldly sense for the hardware – and though he wasn’t infallible, he wasn’t far removed. If anyone could shut down the propulsion, it was him. Either way, the Finality was done. It would be quicker, cheaper and easier to simply scrap the hull and build a new riot to replace the loss.

  Three hours after she departed the bridge, Aston returned. She looked surprisingly refreshed, with her dark hair pulled back and tied in a short ponytail. Five minutes later, Burner appeared, carrying a coffee and apologising - without much enthusiasm - for his lateness.

  Recker completed the shift handover in a couple of minutes and headed for the bridge exit. He placed his hand on the adjacent security panel and the heavy door slid open to reveal a short passage leading to steps lit in the dull red of the internal alarm system.

  He paused, noticing how hot it was, and humid like a tropical greenhouse. His spacesuit kept his body insulated, but he’d left his helmet on the bridge, leaving his head exposed to the heat. The scent of metal was stronger here and mingled with another sharp odour which was always present, with a source he’d never been able to identify.

  The steps were narrow, and he could easily touch the side walls if he stretched out his arms. At the bottom, a corridor cut left and right. Here, the way was only just wide enough for two to pass and the lowness of the ceiling was made worse by the occasional pipe or grey-sheathed cable crossing overhead.

  At the first intersection, Recker stopped. Straight ahead was the door to the officer’s quarters. Left would take him to the mess area where the soldiers often gathered. It was a while since he’d shown his face and Recker knew from the internal monitoring that Sergeant Vance was currently eating. He ignored his fatigue and headed left.

  The mess was a compact room about four metres by three, with a total of three exits. The replicator was on the short wall to the left, while to the right, a couple of steel tables were fixed to the right-hand wall. Uncomfortable benches provided limited seating.

  Staff Sergeant James Vance was sitting with his back to the entrance and talking to the squad medic, Corporal Suzy Hendrix. She caught Recker’s eye and nodded in recognition.

  Recker didn’t sit at once and he ordered a couple of burgers from the mess replicator. The machine was functioning properly, though that didn’t mean too much. Two sorry-looking pale-grey lumps of reconstituted meat peeked out from between the halves of a seed-topped bun which looked like it had been dropped from altitude by a pack of quarrelling seagulls. Compared to the nutri-block, the burgers were gourmet dining at its finest and Recker bit into one as he made his way to the table.

  “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

  Pale blue eyes stared up. “All yours, sir,” said Sergeant Vance.

  Recker was a big man and while Vance was a little shorter, he was broader, with a fine-lined face and features which looked like they’d been hewn from a chunk of basalt. Somehow, he’d found the opportunity to shave recently and his blond hair was cropped to exactly the right length dictated in the grooming standards handbook.

  If you could take every single stereotype of the battle-hardened sergeant and compress it into a single package, Vance was the result. On top of that, his combat record checked out, though it was unusual to have a rookie assigned to a spaceship.

  There wasn’t much room on Vance’s bench, so Recker sat next to Corporal Hendrix. She was probably younger than thirty, but with hard features that made it difficult to determine her age just by looking, and her haircut was more severe than the military demanded. Hendrix gave him a tight, suspicious smile.

  “We’re on our way home, Sergeant. In less than five days you’ll have that touchdown we talked about,” said Recker. “How’s the squad coping?”

  “They’re fine, sir. Sounds like we took a beating and came through it.”

  “That we did. The Daklan had plenty of firepower out there and my crew did a good job. On top of that, we got lucky.”

  Vance nodded at the word lucky. Recker had a reputation for many things, not all of them bad.

  “What comes after this, sir?” asked Hendrix. She had a low voice, not quite husky, and an unusual accent.

  “Due some shore leave, Corporal?”

  “I’m due three months’ worth, sir. Like most of us. I’m not holding my breath.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say our feet will hardly touch the ground. Whatever we’re assigned to, it won’t be the Finality.”

  “What about my squad, sir?” asked Vance.

  Recker understood the unspoken question. Will we be coming with you?

  “I don’t know, Sergeant. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re here to stay.”

  Vance nodded again, his expression unreadable.

  Once his meal was finished, Recker didn’t linger. It wasn’t that he felt unwelcome – not that it would have made a difference to him anyway – more that he had nothing to say and nothing to learn. Recker was sure these soldiers had the skills, they just hadn’t had a chance to demonstrate them yet. Maybe they’d get the opportunity before they were helplessly incinerated by Daklan missiles.

  In his quarters, Recker barely glanced at the spartan furnishings. He was provided with a bed and a thin foam mattress, while a narrow doorway led into a cubicle with a toilet and a shower. An entertainment unit, bolted to the wall opposite the bed, could play any one of a million films or TV shows as well as providing a private comms link if Recker ever needed one. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d switched it on.

  Two minutes after rolling onto the mattress, Recker was asleep.

  When his alar
m went off, he woke with a grogginess that clung to him like a hangover. He hoped a quick shower would be enough to help him shrug off the lethargy and the hot water pelted him with the intensity of hailstones. Steam filled his lungs and the mixed sweat and grime washed into the drain, leaving him feeling considerably better than when he’d first woken up.

  A few minutes later, he was dressed and back on the bridge.

  Chapter Ten

  Five days wasn’t a long time to spend at lightspeed, but it was frustrating for Recker. The threat of hardware failure didn’t go away, though he didn’t worry about it. If it happened, it happened, and no amount of fretting would affect the outcome.

  Instead, the frustration came from knowing that he was carrying potentially vital intel that he needed to put into the right hands. The Daklan were busy in the Virar-12 system and the HPA military should do something about it, Recker thought.

  By day three of the journey, the crew had caught up on sleep and everything was running as smoothly as could be expected. Lieutenant Burner dedicated himself to analysing the data he’d gathered from the cylinder and the task kept him fully occupied. Recker was bored, agitated and irritable, and he checked through the status readouts for the hundredth time, waiting to see what his sensor officer would come up with.

  “I think I’m done,” said Burner at last.

  “What kept you?” asked Eastwood.

  “All the ones and zeroes in the raw data.”

  “Let’s hear it, Lieutenant Burner,” said Recker. “Anything significant?”

  “Yes and no,” Burner started. “Like I already told you, the cylinder is constructed from a material we’ve not seen the Daklan use in anything else. It’s a metal alloy, along with some other bits and pieces that our sensors don’t recognize.”

  “Still convinced it’s a weapon?”

  “From the information available, it’s either a spaceship or a weapon,” Burner said, in between sips of his coffee. “Or something so completely beyond our expectations that I have no point of reference to help me understand it.”