Starweb

by Warren James Palmer

  'Sheffield and Ajax prepare to reverse track. You've got six dreadnoughts in pursuit,' she ordered in a calm, steady tone, knowing that the mental operants would relay her message. 'And the rest of you prepare to open the formation to accommodate our guests.'

  Donahue didn't listen for the acknowledgments to her orders. Her entire concentration was devoted on the holographic display as events began to unfold. She waited until the dreadnoughts were virtually within projectile range of Sheffield and Ajax. Only then did she order the squadron of scout-ships to turn and flee for the safety of the human fleet.

  As she had hoped and expected, the Starweb dreadnoughts continued to pursue the humans, heading straight for the trap. The mainframe computers which ran the dreadnoughts might be intelligent, but they certainly weren't wily; a fact which Donahue was set upon exploiting,

  So intent were the pursuing Dreadnoughts upon catching their prey, they appeared to be totally unaware of the trap until it was too late. Like the gate closing on a cattle corral, the Starweb dreadnoughts were drawn into a vast net from which there was no escape. The pursuers suddenly became the prey as the full might of the human fleet was turned upon the vessels of the Guardians of God.

  Plasma cannons, chain-guns and multiple missile launchers rained destruction upon the armoured composite hulls of the dreadnoughts, punching holes through successive layers until vital innards were exposed. However, the battle wasn't all one-sided. Despite their own beam weapons being nullified, the Starweb dreadnoughts still packed a hefty offensive punch. Regardless of the rest of the human fleet, they bore down on the Ajax and Sheffield, eventually closing the gap sufficiently to bring their missile launchers and chain-guns to bear.

  The destroyers didn't stand a chance, their defences were overwhelmed by the concentrated onslaught and both vessels flashed out of existence in a blaze of fury, as their artificial singularities catastrophically collapsed.

  With their first objectives destroyed the dreadnoughts turned their attention on the rest of the en-globing fleet. Despite the damage being wrought on their own ships, they turned on their attackers and attempted to mow them down. Donahue perceived the appalling logic of their strategy. The dreadnoughts were doomed; their was no way they could survive the combined firepower of an entire fleet, therefore they set upon taking as many of the opposition with them as possible. With an automated crew, the survival of the individual meant nothing. The Starweb could afford to lose most, if not all, of its fleet in the pursuit of its goal—the humans couldn't.

  She watched in helpless horror as in their dying moments, eight of the dreadnoughts collided with vessels of her fleet. The battleships Shanoa and Ark Royal were struck amidships and flashed out of the ether along with several dreadnoughts. The heavy cruiser Kilovstock managed to avoid a catastrophic collision, but its hull was breached in numerous areas leading to the Dyason crew manning the lifeboats. Capetown lost its port wing and limped to the rear of the formation, badly crippled.

  The last dreadnoughts broke-up before they collided with any other vessels, but a spinning section of jet-black hull sliced through a small destroyer like a surgeons blade, spilling men and machinery into the sub-ether. But the battle wasn't over yet, hordes of Webfighters continued to flit about like a swarm of stinging insects, pursued by squadrons of Flyships and Snubfighters. There was never any question of them cutting-tail and running, the Starweb could afford to loose any number of these minute ships.

  Group Captain Fitzpatrick engaged one Webfighter after another in a melee, which spread throughout the formation. The battle became one fighter against another as wingmen became separated from their leaders in the battle for survival. He pulled the Flyship's nose up in a classic 'Cobra' manoeuvre which forced the Webfighter on his tail to overshoot and fly straight into the main armament of a nearby scout-ship. He didn't wait to watch the Starweb machine turn into a fireball, but wheeled about in a crushing twelve 'G' turn to face the next opponent.

  'Lancer One, break, break, break…!' he heard the desperate call, but his reactions were slowing from the fatigue and stress of extended combat. He reversed the turn, pulling so much 'G' force he began to blackout. His vision became tunneled, then faded and his blood-starved brain slipped into unconsciousness. Which was a blessing in disguise, because he didn't feel any pain as one of the last Webfighters raked his Flyship with explosive shells. Fitzpatrick was obliterated in the ensuing fireball joining his lover and wing-woman sooner than later.

  The battle eventually came to an end, as the last of the Starweb fighters was cut-down. Admiral Donahue stood in stunned silence as the last enemy indicator blinked out in the holo-projector. Her mind perceived the state of the human fleet after this first encounter with the hordes of the Guardians of God. She was appalled…

  Sixteen dreadnoughts and fifty-nine Webfighters had been destroyed for the cost of four destroyers, three cruisers, two battleships and thirty-nine fighters. Technically the battle had been a success for the human fleet, but it was a hollow victory. The remainder of the Starweb fleet was continuing on its way toward the three humanoid planets, still intent upon their genocide.

  Donahue had to admit to herself that they failed to even slow their progress. After all, what was the loss of a few ships compared to the thousands at their disposal? With an attrition rate such as this, the human fleet would be decimated long before the Starweb fleet, and when the last of their defences had been overwhelmed, the automated minions would still be plentiful enough to complete their mission.

  The admiral ordered the withdrawal of the fleet to the security of the deeper layers of the sub-ether, where they could lick their wounds and rethink their strategy. She was almost overwhelmed by a wave of depression. Time, and the sheer weight of the Starweb numbers were against them, any advantage gained was nullified by this simple fact. The truth was, unless saved my a miracle, the human species was doomed…

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  United Nations building, New York,

  USA, Earth. 07.50hrs, August 20th 2057.

  ‘As New York rouses itself from another night of violent street protests, the sun rises over a smoky city, devastated by riots,’ Bruce Quaid, lead anchorman of streaming channel CNK announced. His eyes look suitably tired, as if he had been up all through the night, but in reality, it was mainly the work of a good make-up artist.

  ‘The street battles between state troopers, police and supporters of the “Triplanetary Church” continued through the early hours of the morning, with horrendous casualties on both sides. Now however, as a pail of smoke hangs over Manhattan, Central Park, The Bronx, and large swathes of the city, a strange calm has befallen. It’s as if the start of a new day heralds a moment of reflection in each of the warring parties.’ The video stream displayed views of street barricades manned by mainly young people, many wearing the robes of the “Triplanetary Church”, peering over their hastily built parapets at the line of riot-gear clad state troopers and police. The two sides faced each other with open hostility, but without moving.

  ‘Meanwhile, after hours of inactivity, the hostage situation in the UN building is entering a new phase. The ladies and gentlemen, senators of the United Nation council, convened soon after midnight at an emergency session. At just before 2am Eastern Standard Time, Lord Steel, the English industrialist, took to the podium and demanded the UN commence peace negotiations with the AI network known as the “Starweb”. During the ensuing commotion, Lord Steel shot dead Senator Jefferson and armed members of the “Triplanetary Church” forced their way into the auditorium; where they have been holding members of the UN council hostage ever since.’

  The video stream changed from displaying the destruction on the streets of New York, to that of the auditorium in the United Nations building, courtesy of the cameras strategically placed to record UN sessions for the media. Disheveled and clearly stressed, men and women sat in clusters for mutual support, whilst visible at all the exits to the auditorium stood impassive white-robed young
men and women, all armed with automatic weapons. Lord Steel sat on a chair beside the speakers podium, his eyes glazed over and his face expressionless. The camera angle changed to an exit at the rear of the auditorium where a group of white-robed activists where man-handling a silvery cigar-shaped object about two metres long, into the UN chamber. Once inside the auditorium they released it, whereby it duly floated up into the air and powered by four small electric motors, it promptly began to smoothly propel itself towards the main speakers platform.

  ‘In the past few minutes, we have watched as the hostage-takers brought into the auditorium the strange object you can see flying around. It appears to be a ‘blimp’, a radio-controlled airship, which is being flown in lazy circles around the auditorium. ‘ Bruce Quid told the viewers, using his best disbelieving tone of voice. ‘Bizarrely, the words “Only through penance can you seek redemption”, are written in bright flashing LEDs on the side of the blimp. Quite what this all means Ladies and Gentlemen, I have no idea! Your guess is as good as mine!’

  The remote cameras followed the blimp as it flew firstly around the edges of the auditorium, then directly over the heads of the hostages. As it passed slowly over the huddled groups of terrified UN senators, a mist could be clearly seen exiting the underside of the small airship and descending directly onto the exposed heads of the horrified captives. There were audible gasps of fear and outrage as people did their best to cover their mouths and heads with jackets and scarfs, but there was no escape the cloud of unknown substance.

  Another remote camera zoomed in on the hostage-taker Lord Steel. His eyes flew open and he stood up abruptly, his arms wide and head raised to breath in the mist which now filled the entire auditorium. His expression was manic, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. He moved behind the podium and in the strong voice of a preacher declared, ‘Breath in the perfumed air of salvation my flock! Do not resist what is inevitable! Only through penance can you seek redemption!’

  ‘We are looking at dramatic scenes here, ladies and gentlemen,’ Bruce Quaid told the viewers in an animated voice, whilst privately thinking to himself that this days work would seem him win many news and media awards. ‘The radio controlled blimp which is being controlled by the members of the “Triplanetary Church” is flying directly over the heads of the UN senators and spraying them with some sort of green mist. Despite their best efforts to avoid being touched by whatever it is, there seems to be no escape from it! Are they being gassed? Will they all die? We simply do not know…. It’s clearly terrifying for the poor people of the UN senate, and horrifying to observe! Stay tuned CNK to see what will happen next, right after this word from our sponsor….’

  Officer O’Brian regarded the strange spectacle from the cockpit of his NY Parks Patrol boat. The object had been reported by an armed unit of the parks police at first light, and since then O’Brian had been fighting to keep curious pleasure boats away from Liberty Island, despite it being only eight am. He thought it strange that with all the riots going on in Queens, Brooklyn and Manhattan, people would want to stay away from any other potential threat, but no, not a bit of it. Once word got out about the thing hanging from the jib of a crane, suspended over the plaza in front of the Statue of Liberty, New Yorkers took to their boats, or stood with binoculars at the nearest quayside to peer at the bizarre object. Maybe, like himself, they’d been up all night unable to sleep whilst all the violence took place on the streets outside their houses and apartments. Maybe, they were just glad of a distraction from all the anarchy taking place around them. Whatever the reason, there they were; ignoring the cordon his colleagues and himself had attempted to throw up around Liberty Island and the nearby Liberty State Park.

  It was certainly odd. There it hung from the extended arm of mobile crane, swinging gently in the morning breeze on supporting wires, about one hundred metres from the ground. Bright orange, with two black stripes, it looked incongruous, nonthreatening. Yet, is was unmistakably; to anybody with an interest in twentieth century history, a very accurate replica of the first atomic bomb dropped on Japan in 1945—code named “Fat Boy”. Why it was there, placed in position during the previous nights power black-out, he had no idea. The military had already checked for radiation, there was none… and multiple scanning had not revealed any signs of explosives or hazardous materials. So, its purpose was a mystery…. Probably a publicity stunt associated with the lunatics in the “‘Triplanetary Church”. Those freaks seemed to be everywhere these days, O’Brian thought to himself.

  He looked up into the clear blue August sky, distracted by a change in the sound of the various machines patrolling the immediate area. He could see several news ‘drones’, multi-rotor remote controlled camera ships, operated by the various news streaming services. They hovered at the edge of the temporary exclusion zone setup around the Statue of Liberty and Liberty Island itself. Occasionally, a news drone attempted to dash into the exclusion zone in an attempt to get a better shot of the ‘hanging bomb’, but they were generally thwarted by the police drones which zipped in to block their paths.

  To O’Brian, the sound of news drones was just part of the background noise that accompanied life in New York, so he tuned them out. This sound was different, and it took him a few seconds to work out what it was. Eventually it came to him, it was an aero engine, but not just any aero engine, it was the low rumble and bark of a vintage radial engine. The type fitted to vintage gas-guzzling aircraft of a bygone era. Not the whine of a modern electric aero motor, but something far more ‘meaty’. A vintage aircraft enthusiast in his spare time, O’Brian reckoned he could even identify the type of engine itself, a Pratt and Whitney ‘R-985’ nine cylinder radial engine of 1940’s vintage. He lifted the pair of binoculars that sat next to his commanders chair and looked toward where the sound was coming from. ‘Can you hear that?’ he asked coxswain Mahoney.

  ‘Yeah, I can hear it lieutenant,’she replied nodding, not taking her hands away from the small boat-wheel. ’Sounds like one of those ol’ warbirds you’re so much into. Where’s it coming from?’

  O’Brian peered past the head of the Statue of Liberty, in the direction the sound was coming from. He was rewarded with the shape of an old biplane coming into focus through the lens of the binoculars. It was a Boeing Stearman, a biplane and popular training aircraft from the mid twentieth century. It droned steadily towards Liberty Island, towing something behind it. It was too far away to be sure, but it looked like a traditional aerial banner, the type once used to advertise at football matches and the like.

  ‘There it is… about two mile out, heading straight for Liberty Island,’ he told Mahoney. ‘Kinda weird that the NYPD drones don’t seem to be paying it any attention… I would have thought they would have intercepted it by now…’

  ‘Dunno, lieutenant. I’m strictly a harbour girl. I don’t know nothing about airplanes. That’s your thing…’

  O’Brian grunted, picked up the radio mike with one hand, whilst still peering at the approaching biplane through the binoculars.

  ‘Control, this is patrol boat Whiskey Delta Two Fiver…’ he called on the police radio.

  ‘Whiskey Delta Two Fiver, go ahead… What’s the problem O’Brian?’ the bored sounding controller answered in her broad Brooklyn accent.

  ‘I’ve got eyeball on a vintage biplane—type, Boeing Stearman, approaching Liberty Island. Can we confirm the air division are tracking it. There’s no sign of any intercept,’ he asked.

  ‘Wait one, O’Brian,’ the controller replied. O’Brian patiently waited for a response whilst he watched the old warbird get ever closer to Liberty Island and the bomb swinging from a jib. ‘Yeah, O’Brian, they say they’re on to it and you’re not to worry. And Cap’n says you’re to stick to worrying about those pleasure boats, not shit in the sky….’

  ‘Roger that…’ O’Brian replied, ignoring the smirk on Mahoney’s face. Like they said, it ain’t his problem, but even so….He looked once more through the binoculars at the blue bi
plane, which was still heading merrily towards Liberty Island, completely unmolested. Now he could make out the letters on the long streaming banner which was attached to the tail of the Stearman. The letters shone in the morning sun and O’Brian could read the words “Only through penance, can you seek redemption”. Quite a mouthful to be towing on a banner O’Brian thought to himself. What it meant, God only knew…

  He returned to scanning the quay-sides and shore lines that faced Liberty Island and the iconic Statue of Liberty, as Mahoney slowly steered a path through the harbour waters. He could still hear the deep bass note of the old biplane’s radial engine as it continued to fly toward the statue. It was hugely distracting, and as the crowds began to notice the Boeing Stearman and its aerial banner, O’Brian could see people point and look towards the sky. This was ridiculous! Why the hell weren’t the NYPD drones forcing the pilot of the Stearman to turn away? Did they actually want the machine to fly around the island and add to the theatre?

  ‘God Dammit!’ he cursed aloud and looked away from the waters and up to the sky. The Boeing Stearman with its blue fuselage and bright yellow wings looked resplendent in the morning sun as it began to lazily circle around Liberty Island entirely unmolested. The long streaming aerial banner it towed from its tail fluttered and shimmered as it caught the suns rays, its message now clearly visible to the crowds. “Only through penance can you seek redemption!” the banner declared in letters nearly two metres high.