Drawing Battle Lines

by Robert Culp

  “Why not use the ship scanners?”

  “Passive systems only. It’s pretty apparent they don’t want us here. Even with the quarantine—if there is one—why wouldn’t they allow the aerial probe? And given our cover story we may not be able to learn a tremendous amount of detail. And just for fun, get a flight of fighters and a platoon of troopers warmed up for recovery if need be, a five-minute status.”

  “Will do.”

  Fifteen minutes later the Intelligence tech says, “Two five ton shuttles have left the station and are headed for the planet.”

  I look at the tactical plot. They are on an intercept course with our stealth shuttles. Why can’t we seem to get this right?

  “Helm,” I say. “Use the maneuvering thrusters and nudge us closer to the planet. Weapons, get a passive lock on the station if you don’t already have one, please. Flight deck, put the rescue flight on two minutes.”

  Each station acknowledges in turn. “Captain, the station is calling.”

  “Station Gamma Echo, this is Prophecy.”

  “I’m addressing your captain. My name is Miles Droakeer of Station Gamma Echo. You have violated your word, broken our trust, and committed an act of aggression. You will cease all operations and depart this area immediately.”

  “Mister Droakeer, I am Sonia MacTaggert, captain of Prophecy. The ‘acts of aggression’ you mention were conducted without my knowledge and contrary to my orders. I’m new at this and the crew is testing their boundaries. I assure you, if you will grant us another hour for our Transit Drive—”

  “I have been made aware of your Transit Drive fable!” his voice explodes out of the grille. “You have demonstrated that you have maneuvering thrusters. Use them to get away from this world immediately!”

  Celeste whispers in my ear, “Shawna says she is registering missile lock. We have to help her.”

  I mute the holoCom and say back to her. “She is cleared Red Hot. Tell her we’ll help where we can.” To the helmsman I say, “Push us away from the planet, maneuvering thrusters only.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I open the channel again, “Mr. Droakeer, please understand, I am doing my dead level best—”

  “You have made your decision,” he says interrupting me. “A poor decision, but it is made.” He closes the channel.

  I see it on the tactical scanner, but Celeste states the obvious. “Each of those shuttles has fired on Shawna, ballistic cannon.” Both stealth fighters evade the cannon fire and head for the surface. How are they registering the stealth flight? Wait a minute! How do WE register them? If we can see transponder feed, anyone else can too. Damn it! That’s how they’ve been doing it!

  “Thrumlee, this is Prophecy Actual, shut down any transponders you may have open and RTB RFN.”

  “Prophecy Actual, this is Thrumlee, wilco. Spooky?”

  “Spooky copies.”

  Both ships disappear from our tactical display; hopefully they fell from everyone else’s display as well.

  “Captain,” Celeste says. “There are two large bay doors opening on the station. I think they are getting ready to launch a wing of fighters.”

  “Weapons, target those bay doors. Fire as soon as you have a solution.”

  “Got’em, Boss. Missiles away, warming up the meson cannon. Ice armor deploying.”

  “Navigator,” I say. “Plot a course for BeshbiKct’soh”

  “Plotting for Besh…Beshbi…that place, aye.”

  “Helm, once the ghost flight is back aboard, move us to Transit space and redline this tub as soon as you have a course.”

  “Wilco.”

  “Press the attack, ma’am?” the weapons technician asks.

  “Until I say otherwise.” I feel more than hear the echo of our meson cannon as it fires.

  “Aye, Cap’m. Both threat shuttles are destroyed, I presume by ghost flight.”

  “Prophecy Actual, Thrumlee. We should be back aboard in seven minutes.”

  “Thrumlee, Prophecy Actual. Counting the seconds.”

  “Missiles are negative effect, ma’am,” the weapons technician says. “I am guessing a force shield of some form.”

  “Ice shield is in place, Captain,” says Celeste. “We need to get out of here. There’s a real good chance that station has us outgunned.”

  “As soon as Shawna and Spooky are back aboard, we’re gone.”

  “The station is firing.” The defense technician, Gods bless him, has no panic in his voice even though we feel Prophecy shake as the weapons hit. The main viewer goes dark. “They also have a meson cannon. Our shields have absorbed about half of the blast. What got through took out about a third of our power grid, our own meson cannon, and a few other systems. As you can see, the main computer is offline; backups should be coming online about three minutes. All turrets still have manual control.”

  “Ghost flight is going to have to catch up!” Celeste yells, “Helm, get us moving!”

  “Moving to Transit space, aye!” the helmsman answers.

  “Belay that!” I yell. “Get that planet between us and that station.”

  “Aye, Captain!”

  “Sensors indicate our meson cannon took down one of their shields.”

  “Auxiliary computers are running the maneuver/evade programs,” Celeste says. “But if they hit us with that meson cannon again, we’re finished.”

  “Threat fighters leaving the station,” the defense technician says. “An even dozen.” Individually, the fighters are not a threat to us. They can’t deliver a knockout punch, but all the jabs they land will distract us from whatever the station does. And that can be devastating.

  “Weapons, all turrets manual control. Fire as targets are acquired. If it shows on their scanner, it’s an enemy.”

  “Roger that, ma’am.” Laser fire stabs from the ship towards the approaching fighters that are closing on our rear.

  “Weapons, don’t we have a rearward firing meson cannon? Can we aim it manually? And of course, by ‘we’ I mean ‘you.’”

  “Cap,” he says with a bit of a drawl, “as my uncle used to say, ‘we can shoot in there amongst’em’ and hope something hits. Aft cannon was down when theirs hit, or it would be off the table. It’s warming up now.”

  “Do it as soon as you have a charge.”

  The aft meson cannon fires and luck is with us. The blast strikes the station just as it’s hidden by the planet. Our observers report several secondary explosions. That doesn’t mean we’re out of harm’s way, but we shouldn’t be their highest priority right now.

  “Our gunners have taken out five enemy fighters.”

  “All stations this net, this is Thrumlee. I’m hit. My engine is non-responsive. Spooky, you will RTB. If I survive the atmosphere I will do the E&E mambo until captured. Acknowledge.”

  “Thrumlee, this is Spooky. Say again please, you’re coming in broken and stupid. Prophecy I’m flyin’ cover until the bus can get here.”

  “Spooky, you get your ass back on the ship now or I’ll kill you myself! Prophecy Actual I’d appreciate you issuing her an order!”

  Shawna’s right. I should tell Spooky to get back aboard, we should make our way to Transit space and get out of here. That’s what I should do. But I’ve lost too many friends out here. I’m not going to give up another one. I open an internal channel to flight ops. “Launch Blue flight. Weapons free. Prepare a rescue flight, Commander Lawson’s fighter is crippled.”

  “On it, Captain. Launch window?”

  “ASAFP. MacTaggert out.” I go back to the channel with Shawna. “Thrumlee, this is Prophecy Actual, if you want to give orders, you have to sit in the big chair. Your pickup should be on station soon. Spooky, this is Prophecy Actual, stay on station, the bus is coming. Be prepared to destroy Thrumlee’s bird as soon as she’s been picked up.”

  “Wilco.”

  “Weapons, inform turrets we have friendlies in the sky now.”

  “Already done, ma’am.”

&
nbsp; “Defense, what’s our status?”

  “Our different orbital velocity and our maneuvering have taken us to the far side of the planet with respect to the station. So they can no longer target us with direct fire weapons but they have continued to launch missiles. Our turrets and pilots are picking apart their fighters. What fire that is getting through is being defeated by our ice armor. The fighter’s smaller and weaker energy weapons are being refracted, the missiles aren’t getting targeting locks.”

  “When we complete the orbit, will we have weapons with which to engage that station? And speaking on missiles, surely we have some that do not require line of sight as well?”

  “Blue flight and the rescue shuttle have launched,” Celeste reports. “That’s a little anti-climactic, as soon as the enemy fighters saw we have more coming they maneuvered away.”

  “Yes to both questions, ma’am,” answers the weapons tech. “We can pepper them with missiles from 44,000 kilometers. But they have some top-notch armor. The meson cannon is the only thing we have that can make them flinch and if you’ll pardon me saying so, that we caught them with the bay door open is probably a mistake they won’t make again. Our best bet is to recover our folks and get out of here. Ma’am.” He isn’t offering a suggestion.

  “Prophecy, this is Spooky. Thrumlee is aboard the shuttle, we’re RTB.”

  “Roger, Spooky. Thrumlee’s bird?”

  “Big chunks of twisted plasteel are heading for the surface.”

  “Blue Flight, this is Prophecy Actual, RTB.”

  “Prophecy Actual, this is Blue leader. RTB, aye.”

  “Captain,” Athena calls. “The station is coming back in line of sight. The fighters that were harassing us have been joined by no less than one hundred more. Odds do not favor us in an encounter with them and the station.”

  I look at the view screen. I can see the space station clearing the disk of the planet. The tactical overlay shows all of the enemy fighters now moving our way. I’m pretty sure they’ve come up from the planet’s surface as well. If only we had more time!

  “Helm, slow us by ten percent,” I order.

  “Captain, we have enemy bogies behind us as well,” Celeste says. True, but they don’t have a meson cannon!

  “Flight ops, bridge. Where are my people?”

  “Bridge, this is Flight ops. The rescue shuttle, the surviving stealth fighter, and Blue Flight will be aboard in five minutes.”

  “They have two!” I tell him and close the channel.

  Prophecy rocks under numerous missile strikes. Looking at the tactical display, I actually feel relief at seeing several missile tracks not hit us.

  “Bridge, flight ops, all craft are aboard!” I hear after an eternity of waiting.

  “Flight ops, bridge, roger and thank you.”

  “Helm, redline this tub.”

  “Redline, aye.” Prophecy leaps out to Transit space then to our next destination, BeshbiKct’soh. Once it became evident that we were leaving, the fighters broke contact.

  A few hours later Celeste has the damage control parties fully engaged. Fortunately, the damage to the ship is not something that will impede her progress. I say “fortunately” because I am still an engineer. And I will do whatever it takes to keep my ship mobile.

  “Captain,” Athena says as she hands me a cup of coffee. “Chief Jenkins and I have examined the device and processed all of the data we’ve been able to glean from the downloaded logs and your estimates of the purpose of the circuitry and metallurgy. The device is a matter translator...”

  “'Translator?'” I interrupt her. “Why do you call it a translator?”

  “That's the mathematical term,” she says. “A collection of points moves along a vector from one set of coordinates to another.”

  “If you say so,” I say. “Please continue.”

  “I don’t think it can be called anything else. I have very limited information on temporal travel theories but I see nothing that indicates it may be a time machine. If it were, it would have…”

  “Stop!” I wave her off. “I have passing familiarity with some of the common theories. I trust your estimates. Engineering didn’t have a lot to do while we were negotiating with the station. Please gather, combine, and condense the AARs of Chief Jenkins and Gorb. If they haven’t submitted said AARs yet, please go get them. If they haven’t written them up yet, please wait for them to do so. When you have the condensed product, please forward it to me.”

  “And if they refuse?”

  “You are the ship’s Operations Officer. You have the authority to insist on their compliance. Once you do that, go over the flight records—all of them—of the stealth fighters. Every time they’ve been deployed, they’ve been detected. I want to know why. I have my opinions, but I want confirmation.” My perCom trills, “Excuse me, please. MacTaggert,” I say into the unit.

  “Doctor Brabdo here, Captain. Commander Lawson insists on seeing you.”

  “On my way,” I put the perCom back in my pocket. “XO, you have the conn.”

  “Aye, ma’am, Captain is off the bridge.”

  I walk into Medical and see that Shawna is still in her flight suit. It’s a modified APE that protects the pilot in the event of decompression but protocol is that she should have shed it as soon as she reported here. Shawna is sitting on an examination table, arms crossed and frowning. Dr. Brabdo is in front of her and two men are behind her.

  “It’s about damned time a positive IQ showed up in here!” Shawna yells as I enter the examination room. She jumps off the table.

  “What in the nine hells is going on?” I ask all of them. “Why are you still in flight gear? Why hasn’t your ship recorder been downloaded? And most importantly, why do you think you have the right to order me around?” She is the oldest friend I have on this ship and I love her. But even that has limits. And she’s pushing them.

  “The recording unit is still in place,” Shawna says as she reaches an ungloved hand into the neck opening of her chest piece. “Because first these clowns,” she gestures at the two nurses, “almost came to blows over who was going to retrieve it and then Commander Coldhands there,” she nods to the doctor, “thought he’d be able to pull rank on me. Here.” The recording unit is located inside the flight suit right over the heart. In practice, once a small ship becomes impossible to pilot, all of the computer logs are downloaded onto the recorder. The tradition is that the recorder is over the heart to give added incentive to keeping the pilot alive. Incidentally, there are other recorders inside the ship that have the same data stored on them, but as the ship was destroyed they are not available.

  “Thank you,” I drop the recorder into a cargo pocket. “Now, get out of that suit, once the doctor gives you clean bill—”

  “There’s nothing wrong—”

  “—of health!” I raise my voice just enough to interrupt her right back. “You will get back to work. If you are correct, that shouldn’t be long. I have work to do.”

  “Fine!” She crosses her arms and gives me her Defiant Child glare.

  “Your flight APE,” I gesture to her suit. “Get out of it.”

  She doesn’t take her eyes off me but she does begin to shed the armor. “And by the way,” she says quietly but still glaring, “thank you for sticking around for me. I’m not sure I would have done that.” That’s probably as close to a statement of contrition as I’m going to get.

  “I love you, too. Now, I have to get back to work.”

  We have a two-week trip to BeshbiKct’soh. The great thing about being a starship captain with an android operations officer and an executive officer that is almost just as meticulous is that there’s not a lot of administrivia I have to deal with personally. That allows me time to review the amalgamation of the AARs of Jenkins and Gorb. After two hours of reading the condensed product I realize the three of us came to the same conclusion: The capacitor was dispensing power faster than it could be consumed. The cell quickly charged to capacity a
nd then overcharged. It’s really no wonder that it flared like that. It is a capacitor, so by definition and design, it doesn’t hold very much power. It’s slightly more of a generator than a battery. But it—oh this is giving me a headache!

  “Chief Jenkins, this is the Captain. I’d like to get some time with you and Gorb, please. I think I may have a solution.”

  “Good news, Captain. Gorb has already built another cell and I’ve had to post a guard on it to keep him from charging it.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “So, we need a way for it to discharge power that the apparatus isn’t using. I figured to cover the maintenance droid and the cell in lights, fans, anything that will use electricity.” I’ve made some sketches on the wall monitor.

  Gorb raises his hand, “Why can’t the batterwy power the wobot too?”

  “How do you mean?” Jenkins asks.

  Gorb approaches the board and uses his finger to draw some lines. “We can guess how much juice the wobot needs to throw the switch, wight? What if we deplete its batterwy to that much plus enough to make it connect to the cell then disconnect its own batterwy?”

  “I’m not sure I see how…” Ross says.

  “It will be in space! It can start wunning its tweads, waving its arms, doing all kinds of silly things. Meanwhile, all the bells and buzzers and fans and lights and things are going too.”

  “I like it,” I say. “Oh, Chief, do you think you can make me a cattle prod?” He looks at me quizzically.

  “Gorb, I think I see where you’re going,” he says. “I like the idea. Captain, do you want something to just spit out electricity in no particular direction? I’ll check with security; they might have something like that.”

  “You’re right! Stun batons! If you need my authorization, give me a jingle. Okay, how much time do you need to rig all that together?”

  “Two days.” Gorb crosses his arms and locks a smug grin on his face. His eye twinkles as he says, “One and a half if the both of you gives me a pound of chocolate and stays out of the way.”

  “Make it happen.” I’m pretty proud that I keep a straight face until I’m in the hallway. Fortunately, I can laugh and walk at the same time.