by S. H. Jucha
Adrianna’s tactics represented a danger to her ship, but she hoped it would convince the aliens that she wasn’t trying to provoke a fight. However, she wondered what she’d do if she couldn’t establish a détente.
“Where is that oversized Omnian, with all the first-contact experience, when you need him?” Adrianna muttered.
On hearing their captain, the bridge crew smothered smirks and grins behind their hands or by facing away.
Once the Guardian crossed the midpoint between her warship’s starting position and the battleship fleet, Adrianna received a clear indication of the alien fleet commander’s intentions.
“Missile launch,” the telemetry officer warned. “Counting … eight inbound from the lead battleship.”
Adrianna immersed herself in the ship’s controller, absorbing the telemetry on the missiles — their acceleration rate, distance from her ship, and the possible escape routes.
Time was of the essence, the missiles had already achieved tremendous velocities, and they were still accelerating. Adrianna’s first inclination was to reverse course, but she realized the missiles would catch her. Then a thought occurred to her, and she smiled.
“Pilot, make for the planet now,” Adrianna tersely ordered.
“Yes, Captain,” the pilot replied. He was happy to do anything that drove their ship away from the approaching destruction.
“Hold a course toward the center of the water world,” Adrianna explained. “Then, at the final moment, brush the edge of the atmosphere and orbit the planet.”
The chief engineer regarded his second-in-command, whose worried expression mirrored his own.
The pilot laid in the parameters for the controller. As the ship neared the planet’s atmosphere, which the controller sensed, the Trident angled to skirt its leading edge.
As Adrianna expected, the missiles unerringly tracked the Guardian. The Trident was under maximum acceleration, and the missiles were fast closing the gap.
The Sojourn’s probe enabled Adrianna and the telemetry officer to observe the missiles’ vectors, as the Trident entered an orbital track. The armament shifted trajectory to close on the Omnian warship.
“The missiles aren’t entering the planet’s atmosphere,” the telemetry officer reported. “They’ve changed trajectory and are headed into the dark.” Moments later, the telemetry officer added, “Eight detonations.”
Adrianna could see the relief in the bridge crew’s faces, and she said, “Well, it appears our alien interlopers regard this planet as their new conquest, and they intend to colonize it.” Her remarks were greeted with curious expressions from the crew, who pondered the ramifications of what it meant for the trapped explorers.
“Orders,” the pilot requested, having been apprised of engineering’s report on hull temperature.
“Break orbit,” Adrianna requested. “Return us to our original station.”
Later, when the pilot announced the ship had reached the position the captain ordered, Adrianna thought to the aliens, Dwell on that maneuver. She hoped she had signaled the fleet commander that her warship wasn’t about to be intimidated into abandoning the system.
Nothing more happened for two days, and Adrianna plotted new tactics with her bridge crews. It was the telemetry officer who noted the rock storm passing inward of them.
“Perhaps, we can use the rock field to our advantage, Captain,” the officer suggested.
“Perhaps, we can,” Adrianna agreed. “And since the aliens have demonstrated that they don’t want anything to do with us, we’re free to harass them.”
The pilot accelerated the Guardian to ensure the engagement time was minimized. While the Trident arced through its programmed trajectory, Adrianna tracked its progress.
“Pilot, pass the battleship at its stern. Gunners, target the ship’s engines,” Adrianna ordered.
The Trident flew past the battleship faster than human eyes could follow. The gunners programmed the controller to direct their ship’s twin beams and determine the firing time.
“Captain, the battleship had close-in defensive armament,” a lieutenant reported. “Nothing struck the ship. I think they were late in activating them.”
“Damage to the battleship?” Adrianna requested.
“Two strikes on the target’s stern,” the telemetry officer reported. “Extent of the damage is unknown.”
“And apparently you did anger the fleet commander, Captain,” the lieutenant said. “Fifty-six missiles are chasing us.”
“Pilot, execute the escape plan,” Adrianna ordered.
The pilot activated the controller’s program that he’d set up, and the ship completed another arc, which returned it to the ecliptic. He made adjustments to the trajectory. It sent the ship toward the thickest part of the rock storm. He had the controller searching for a straight passage through the broad jumble of space debris.
“Missile distance has closed to five hundred thousand kilometers,” the telemetry officer reported.
“The controller’s found a clean line,” the pilot added.
“Excellent,” Adrianna replied, “Time to spread the missiles out.”
The pilot swung the Guardian in a series of slight course corrections, always keeping the ship on the ecliptic. He made the twists and turns completely ad hoc, while whistling a tune in his head.
The missiles sought to follow their target’s movements, but they were forced to keep their distance from one another. Their programming allowed those on the group’s periphery to spread farther apart, while those near the center made little course changes.
Eventually the pilot returned to the line the controller had chosen to pass through the rock field.
“Missiles at two hundred sixty thousand kilometers,” the telemetry officer reported. “They’ve gone ballistic,” she added eagerly, which made her captain smile.
The minutes ticked by slowly, as the missiles closed in their pursuit.
Finally, the Guardian reached the rock storm and shot through the open path.
“They’ve gone active,” the telemetry officer reported.
“Too late,” the lieutenant commented.
The missiles were formed into seven distinct groups and varied in their positions, depending on when they were launched from each battleship. The first groups to enter the field struck rocks, detonated, and threw massive amounts of energy and debris in all directions.
The following missile groups flew into the fiery mass and added their own destructive power to the expanding wave.
The final group of eight missiles had lagged the main body. They’d come from the battleship that the Trident had struck, and they made it through the huge hole that had been cleared by the first forty-eight missiles.
“Eight missiles on approach. Eighty thousand kilometers,” the telemetry officer reported. His voice squeaked a little, and he fought to sound calm.
“Executing final evasive maneuver,” the pilot said. He arced the ship below the ecliptic and out into the dark.
The eight missiles were a mere ten thousand kilometers behind the Guardian and would impact in a few seconds, when the warship executed a short transit. After exiting the transit, the pilot reversed course and made a second transit to return to the system.
Grins bloomed on faces throughout the ship, as the pilot returned the Trident to the original station.
&nb
sp; “Our captain definitely isn’t the diplomatic type,” the chief engineer said to his second, “but at this moment, I don’t care. I’ll take the warrior we have in command.”
Adrianna continued to annoy the fleet commander. She intimidated the small vessels that left the battleships. As soon as the craft appeared and made for the planet, the pilot, following standing orders, executed an attack run.
Inevitably, the vessels immediately reversed course and returned to their battleships. Then the pilot resumed the Guardian’s starting position.
One day, a duty officer woke Adrianna to tell her that six battleships had broken formation. Unfortunately, the alien ships couldn’t close on the faster and more maneuverable Trident. When the aliens’ effort proved to be ineffective, the battleships launched hundreds of missiles at the Guardian.
In response, Adrianna ordered her pilot to abandon the system. The pilot headed for the dark, made a short transit, looped the ship, and made a second transit. Two days later, the battleships resumed their stations over the planet, and the third-shift pilot directed the Trident to its starting point.
* * *
“How do you defeat a warship that won’t engage?” Sa-Foosee complained, when he saw the alien ship take up its same station. His visions of a short and effective engagement of the enemy ship that ended in its obliteration had turned into a lengthy period of frustration.
“Better that you should ask yourself if all these alien captains are equally trained and experienced,” Or-Deebaa replied. “If so, a fleet of them would make remarkably dangerous foes.”
“But we have the numbers and the greater armament. Why don’t the aliens admit they’re powerless against us and leave the system?” Sa-Foosee asked. His tentacles hung lax below his smooth face, exhibiting his despondency.
“Actually, I’ve been wondering about that myself,” Or-Deebaa replied. “I can think of two reasons. The first is that these aliens have recently claimed this system, and that warship is waiting for reinforcements.”
“They would have to send a ship to their home world or colony,” Sa-Foosee volunteered. “Perhaps, it was the ship we recorded that exited the system as we entered.”
“That’s a possibility, Captain,” Or-Deebaa replied. “Our problem is that we face too many variables. What do we do if their fleet arrives? Do we flee or fight? What if we fight and lose? Then any ship we’ve sent home to transfer our race would return and sail into a trap. And what if their ships didn’t have to leave the system to communicate with their home world or colonies? What if their comm technology is vastly superior to ours?”
Sa-Foosee’s head reeled from the numerous questions and possible alternatives, and his tentacles twitched in agitation. “You said there was a second reason you thought the alien warship remains in the system,” he reminded the commander.
“My other thought is the ship that left the system, as we arrived, was exploring this planet, and it left crew behind,” Or-Deebaa explained.
“But we’ve seen no landing craft or individuals on the islands,” Sa-Foosee pointed out.
“Who says the aliens would remain on the surface?” Or-Deebaa asked rhetorically.
“But we’ve lost two flyers who ventured into the waters,” Sa-Foosee objected. He assumed his race was superior to others, when considering living in watery environments.
“And maybe the aliens are better prepared to survive in these seas,” Or-Deebaa posited. “Then again, maybe the aliens don’t know if their crew members are truly lost.”
“If either of these conditions is true, then the alien warship will never leave, and it will probably not stop attacking our battleships or craft,” Sa-Foosee opined.
“You should appreciate the alien captain’s actions, Sa-Foosee,” Or-Deebaa remonstrated. “The captain has threatened our landing craft but never attacked them. Only our battleships have been fired on and then only at our engines.”
“It’s possible the captain lacks a warrior’s instincts,” Sa-Foosee ventured.
“Don’t think that for a moment,” Or-Deebaa scolded. “The captain is a wily one, who chooses not to inflict unnecessary casualties on our crews. It’s an indication of a morally advanced race.”
“Are you saying that as representatives of the Gotlians that we aren’t exhibiting the greater morality?” Sa-Foosee asked.
“Remember who was here first, Sa-Foosee. Think on that, and you’ll discover the answer to your question,” Or-Deebaa said. Then he turned and exited the bridge.
Sa-Foosee was bewildered by the exchange, and many questions occurred to him that he wanted to pose to his fleet commander. However, it appeared that Or-Deebaa wanted him to find his own answers. This would be a turning point in Sa-Foosee’s life. He’d always been a faithful follower. Now he perceived that it was time for him to question what he knew, what he saw, and the traditional wisdoms of his race.
-6-
Orly and Smitty
“You remember what happened to our traveler on Celus-5 when it was trapped?” Smitty asked Orly.
“Hard to forget,” Orly replied. “Why?”
“That traveler had its power crystal drained because of a hard connection to the shell,” Smitty amplified.
“True,” Orly agreed.
“And Mickey said he would fix that,” Smitty continued.
“He did,” Orly replied. “His engineering team designed and installed a power flow switch. It prevents the energy in the grav engine power crystals from leaking into the shell if it’s grounded.”
“Can the controller access the switch?” Smitty asked.
“I don’t think so,” Orly replied. “I think it’s just part of the circuitry.”
“Would you check, please?” Smitty requested.
Orly shrugged and linked to the controller. “There’s a diagram that shows the switch, but we don’t have access to it. At least a pilot doesn’t have access. What’s this all about?”
“We’ve two problems,” Smitty explained. “We’ve been swallowed, and the ship’s interior is a meter deep in cold seawater.”
“And we’re miserable,” Orly interjected.
“Too true,” Smitty agreed, “but that’s beside the point. What I want to know is if I find a way to rid us of our first predicament, can you handle the second?”
“You get this creature to spit us out,” Orly replied enthusiastically, “and I’ll get us to the surface. Then, I’ll find a way to dump enough water to lift.”
For the first time in days, Orly experienced a glimmer of hope. The crew had participated in designing schemes from the simple to the ridiculous, and every one of them was rejected as liable to be ineffective or too dangerous. Trying to stay out of the water that sloshed across the deck had drained the team’s energy and dulled their wits.
“Then you don’t have a plan on how to rid us of the water?” Smitty pursued.
“I’ve got some ideas,” Orly replied. “I just don’t know which ones will be effective. So, what’s your plan?”
“We locate that power flow switch, and we find a way to open it or negate it,” Smitty replied. “Then we dump enough energy into this big hunk of jellyfish to irritate it and make it regurgitate us.”
Orly mulled over the idea. “It could work,” he admitted softly. At this point, he was desperate to try anything that sounded reasonable. “We need techs who have power circuitry expertise,” he added in a determined voice.
The two men pulled their feet off the console and climbed down from the top of their seats. Then they waded into the main cabin.
“We need experts in this ship’s electronic circuitry,” Orly announced.
“Ian, you’re an RT tech, with drone expertise,” Smitty said.
“Drones, yes, Smitty, but I don’t know anything about a traveler’s power systems, if that’s what you’re asking about,” Ian replied, with trepidation. Drones were low-power systems; a traveler’s energy banks were anything but low power. And, not to mention, they were a meter deep in
salt water, which was highly conductive.
Scientists and techs stirred, waking those who had managed to doze on makeshift platforms set atop the seats. Orly repeated his request, when he saw the entire team was listening.
“Here, Ser,” Yoyo Tamora replied, wiping the sleep from her eyes, and raising a hand.
“Excellent,” Smitty enthused. “Anyone else?” he asked. To the men’s chagrin, there were no other volunteers.
“Yoyo, Ian, come this way,” Orly requested and led the way to the pilot’s cabin.
In the cabin, Orly offered his helmet to Ian, who was reluctant to accept it, and Yoyo snatched it from Orly’s hands and quickly donned it.
“Energy paths for the power system, specifically the shell and power crystal circuitry,” Yoyo identified, recognizing the schematics.
Orly and Smitty beamed at each other. It was a good start.
“What’s the idea?” Yoyo asked, slipping off the helmet, and handing it to Ian.
“We want to take control of the power flow switch that prevents the drain of the crystals through the shell,” Smitty explained.
Yoyo glanced from Smitty to Orly. “You want to shock the creature,” she declared excitedly.
“That’s the plan,” Smitty acknowledged.
“Can the two of you do it?” Orly asked.
Yoyo frowned. “I don’t know,” she admitted.
Smitty regarded Ian, who said, “Yoyo identified the circuitry. I wouldn’t have. I can assist her, but I can’t lead.”
“What do you see as the problems, Yoyo?” Smitty asked. He hoped to guide her thinking.
“It’s the switch itself,” Yoyo replied. “It’s simple in its operation … power is only allowed to flow one way. I don’t think there’s any way of reversing it.”
“Okay, say there isn’t a way to reverse the switch,” Smitty allowed. “Can we circumvent it?”
Orly glanced at Smitty. He admired the way Smitty pursued his idea. The sergeant was determined to make it work, and that’s what the crew needed to be free of this calamity. Whatever had happened topside, it was obvious that they’d have to rescue themselves.