“Ah, yes—the plan,” repeated Renata, wishing she had a solid answer. “Frankly, at this point, I’m desperate enough to plunge the starhold into civil war, except—”
“Except we don’t have enough military support to win,” Flood finished her thought for her.
Renata nodded. “Correct, although there are one or two people at Central Command that we might make use of. Short of a full-scale civil war, we need to find another way to rid our starhold of Channa Maxon and her ambition, and we need to move quickly—we don’t have much time left. I have the beginnings of a plan but I need help from all of you to flesh it out. A warning to all of you, this is going to demand a great deal of sacrifice…”
From some more than others.
24: Sanctuary
Star system 33 Hydrae
Codename: Sanctuary
Chaz Pettigrew wasn’t sure he would find Sunny Nyondo on the bridge this morning. As he stepped off the turbolift into the busy nerve-center of the ship, he was relieved to see the captain in her command chair.
“You’re sure you’re OK?” he asked sitting down next to her.
“Other than having the remnants of an amazing headache, I’m fine.” Yesterday afternoon had been another difficult hyperspace translation for Nyondo and many of Tempest’s crew. There was something about this region of space that was giving the Sarissans fits whenever they made the shift back into realspace.
Approximately sixteen hours ago, Tempest arrived in the star system human databases called 33 Hydrae. Pettigrew had given it the code name Sanctuary, and the Commodore was relieved to discover that his gas miners, Vasant and Maroth, had both arrived safely earlier in the day. With the refueling ships secure, his people would now have a good chance at making it back home—most of them, that is.
The crew of Warlock would never see home again, and somewhere, sometime, Pettigrew wanted to exact payback on their behalf. He wanted to hurt the Massang. From the moment of First Contact, they had been manipulating humanity, making them dance at the end of alien strings. There had been nothing but lies and deceit—at Beta Corvi, at Tuonetar, at Summit. The Massang were toying with humankind. It was offensive, and frankly, it was also humiliating.
At present, the idea of taking the fight to the Massang wasn’t even a consideration. Warlock was gone and Tempest was wounded. One of the enemy missiles from the surface of Stobi had struck the cruiser just as the ship was translating out of the Summit system. For now, it was best to lay low for a few days, patch themselves up, and head for a safe harbor—the nearest one being 150 light-years away.
“I was just in engineering,” said Pettigrew. “They are in pretty good shape considering that missile exploded just aft of them. Any update on the casualty report?”
“Five crewmembers are being treated in sickbay and six others are on medical confinement in their quarters,” stated Nyondo. “Most of them were in or near gunnery bay fourteen when the missile hit. We only had half a crew to start out with—this is going to stretch us thin.”
“It can’t be helped. At least we didn’t lose anyone. I’ve never heard of a missile hitting a ship after translation to hyperspace. Face it, we were lucky.”
“I still don’t understand how we didn’t spot that missile battery on the surface of Stobi.”
“Alien tech, Captain. Some sort of stealth screen we haven’t encountered before. Our people are going to have to go to school on the Massang—and fast. They already know a lot more about us than we know about them.”
Pettigrew looked around the bridge and leaned toward Nyondo to speak in a low voice. “How do you think crew morale is holding up?”
“Aside from the shock of what happened to Warlock, I’d say fairly good. Admiral Tovar’s mail drop certainly helped.”
Between shifts, crewmembers were excited to read their personal mail, which had been forwarded to Tempest on a subchannel during the brief contact with Central Command. Even the most generic and outdated words from a loved one was salve to the soul of a spacer who was 1.4 quadrillion kilometers from home.
“Everyone is focused on heading home, and home always helps morale,” said Nyondo. A soft alert on her command console caught the captain’s attention. “Washam is reporting that the gas miners have almost completed topping off their reserves.”
“Good. Have them start back to us the moment they finish. Even though it worked to our advantage at Summit, I don’t want the miners wandering around on their own from now on. What is the status of our repairs?”
Nyondo checked her console again. Running her fingers over the screen as if she were picking up something, she tossed the imaginary item into the air in front of Pettigrew. A virtual screen popped up before him, showing a camera feed from outside the ship along with relevant data.
“As you can see, sir, the work is about forty percent complete. The missile blast shredded the crystal plating on our armor from sections eighteen through twenty-three. Mullenhoff thinks the damage was so extensive because both we and the missile were in hyperspace when it detonated. That amplified the explosive force.”
Crystal plating was the top band of a multi-layered armor package covering Sarissan warships. It not only helped to protect a starship in battle but also served as a barrier from the various types of radiation found in both real and hyperspace. Considering the six-month journey which lay ahead of them, these repairs were vital.
“You only have one EVA team out there working on this, right?” Pettigrew asked as he examined the floating datascreen.
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Then why do I see seven icons?” A standard EVA repair team was comprised of six crewmembers.
“Oh, that,” smiled Nyondo. “Number Seven is—”
She was interrupted by an alert klaxon and the voice of Lieutenant Cahill, on duty at the tactical station. “Incoming ship! Single hyperpoint forming at bearing two-five-zero mark five. Materializing at ninety-eight klicks distant.”
“It’s not like that’s going to be one of ours,” said Nyondo. “All decks, general quarters. Bridge to EVA team—we have a hostile entering the system and she’s close by. Get your asses back inside—now!”
Pettigrew turned quickly to the communications station. “Segui, whoever this is, jam their signals. I don’t want them telling the entire sector we are here.” Turning his attention back to the EVA team, he watched as they slowly moved toward the nearest hatchway. Everything in space moved fast, sometimes at thousands of klicks per second—everything except humans. Even in the most streamlined extravehicular activity suit, people were reduced to nothing more than lumbering animals out in the Black.
“Who is in command of the EVA team?” asked Pettigrew.
Nyondo looked at him with a peculiar expression. “I was just about to tell you. It’s Kuypers. She was Number Seven.”
Pettigrew looked at the tactical station where Lieutenant Cahill sat. He had noticed that Kuypers was missing but assumed she was just off-duty. It all made sense though. She was the Chief Tactical Officer and probably volunteered for the EVA.
“Kuypers insisted on overseeing the repairs,” said Nyondo defensively. “I…”
“It’s a Massang warship,” stated XO Paruzzi. “Traveling solo by the looks of it. Our drones report no other contacts in system. CIC is tagging it as a cruiser.”
“We’ve got to get that EVA team inside,” said Pettigrew emphatically. “Paruzzi, this Massang ship—is it Harradoss? Is it the Yaxa?”
“Negative. Same class from the looks of it, but definitely not the same ship.”
Pettigrew checked the outside feed once again. “Ship, estimate how long it will take for all seven EVA team members to get back aboard.”
The computer voice responded calmly, indifferent to the crisis at hand. “At current rate of movement, all team members will be aboard in five minutes fifty-four seconds.”
“Six minutes?” muttered Nyondo. “They probably don’t have six minutes.”
“Captain,
” Lieutenant Cahill spoke up. “The enemy is maneuvering, bringing its bow around.” The forward viewscreen showed an image of the large triangular ship slowly rotating toward Tempest, light from the blue giant 33 Hydrae glinting off its ridged surface.
“They’re bringing around their main surgewave cannon to bear on us,” said Nyondo.
“Ship,” called out Pettigrew. “If the enemy vessel fires a surgewave from their current position, how long until it reaches us?”
“Unknown. Insufficient data on alien technology.”
Not the answer he was looking for. “Extrapolate data from observations during the battle between Massang and Lytori ships at Summit. Your best guess, Ship—how long?”
“One minute forty-one seconds.”
Pettigrew made a fist with his right hand and nervously tapped it onto the arm of his chair, desperately thinking. “We’ve got to buy the away team four minutes. Mr. Segui, hail the enemy vessel.”
“Sir, to do that, we have to break off our jamming. We can’t jam them and communicate with them at the same time.”
“I understand, lieutenant, just do it!” Pettigrew snapped as he watched the EVA team’s progress. They were actually moving well, but under the circumstances it all seemed so very snail-like. One crewmember was already back inside—Specialist Watts had only just left the ship with a jet-dolly loaded with plating panels when the enemy arrived. The other six were at varying distances to the nearest hatchway, with Lieutenants Kuypers and Rojas being the farthest from safety.
Commander Mullenhoff was now on the bridge, standing behind Pettigrew and Nyondo.
“Why haven’t we raised shields?” asked the Chief Engineer.
“We can’t,” said Nyondo. “The EVA team is still outside.”
“Bloody hell,” Mullenhoff said under her breath. Shields worked on an electromagnetic principle that few spacers understood, but everyone knew direct contact with a shield barrier was fatal.
“What if they all just pushed off and used their jetpacks to get as far away from the ship as possible?” asked Nyondo.
Mullenhoff shook her head. “Won’t work. They might get outside the shield barrier, but they would still be well inside the path of a Massang surgewave if they fire on us.”
Comm Officer Segui turned to the command staff. “The enemy ship is refusing our hails.”
“Keep trying,” said Pettigrew. “No—wait. Mr. Segui, signal the enemy ship that we request surrender terms.” All eyes on the bridge looked to him.
“Sir, you can’t be serious,” said Nyondo.
“We’re not really surrendering—I’m just trying to stall them until our people return to the ship. They won’t fire if they think they can capture Tempest intact. The Massang have lied to us so many times, I’m not sure I care how dishonest I might be with them right now,” said Pettigrew sourly. “Send the message, Mr. Segui.”
Mullenhoff leaned over to speak softly into her friend’s ear. “Chaz, I understand what you’re doing, but it’s all going to be on record. Even under these circumstances, you’ll face a board of inquiry when we get back home. Maybe even a court martial.”
“Swapping a court martial for six lives? That’s a trade I’ll take anytime, Commander.”
“Look!” said Nyondo. “Nakashima and Dawson are in.”
The window of safety was down to two minutes. If the four remaining EVA team members could make it in that time, Tempest could maneuver and fight.
Pettigrew watched the datascreen and clutched the arms of his command chair tightly. “Go, go, go,” Mullenhoff was saying softly behind him, trying to will the remaining four people into the ship.
“Energy spike from the Massang cruiser,” reported Paruzzi. “Surgewave on its way—impact in one-hundred seconds.
“They aren’t going to make it,” sighed someone in the background.
“The hell they won’t,” said Pettigrew. “Pettigrew to EVA team. We have an incoming surgewave, you have to pick up the pace. You’ve got one minute and… twenty-five seconds. Move, move!”
“This is the Captain,” Nyondo said over the shipwide speaker. “All hands brace for impact.”
“One minute fifteen seconds,” stated Paruzzi.
Mullenhoff stepped around to Pettigrew’s left and leaned close. “Chaz, they’re not going to make it. You have to be ready to raise the shields.”
“They WILL make it,” he said without taking his eyes off the screen.
“They won’t,” insisted Mullenhoff. “If we don’t activate the shields, we could lose the ship. Chaz…”
“Not yet. Give them time—they can do it.”
“One minute to impact,” said Paruzzi.
Pettigrew stood up. “Lieutenant Cahill, calibrate particle beam cannons to longest range and widest dispersion. Fire at the surgewave when it comes into maximum range. That might break it up.”
Mullenhoff shook her head forcefully. “No, it won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. Our particle beams won’t affect it. Our only chance is the shields.”
Comm Officer Segui interrupted. “Commodore, Ms. Kuypers is online. She’s calling for you, sir.”
Pettigrew reached in front of him to key the virtual window, which changed to a close-up of Kuypers. Her face was sweaty and her breathing labored. Her voice cracked with emotion. “Sir, I’m getting tactical feeds out here, too. You have to activate the shields.”
“Stop talking and get to that door. That’s an order, Lieutenant.”
Tears began streaming down her face. “Please, sir, raise the shields.”
“Livvy, you need to move. All four of you, c’mon, kick it! Go!”
“Thirty seconds,” said Paruzzi.
“Sir, we need to raise the shields now,” said Mullenhoff forcefully. “Chaz, now!”
There was something he wasn’t thinking of, something he was overlooking. The surrender gambit should have worked. It would have tricked most human commanders, given them enough time to… Think, damn it, think!
Particle beams shot out from Tempest at the oncoming wave of devastation.
“Beams had no effect, sir,” reported Mullenhoff urgently. “But the shields will.”
Kuypers pleaded with him. “Sir, please! The four of us are dead either way. Raise the shields.” A little whimpering noise escaped from her throat. “Oh, Chaz, I’m so scared… I don’t want to be swallowed by that wave, that thing! Do it! Put up the shields! Put them—”
The visual feed cut out, but the audio continued as Kuypers voice morphed into a scream, agonizing and horrid. Crewmembers around the bridge closed their eyes. Some covered their faces, and a couple pounded their fists against something in anger and grief. Comm Officer Segui tried to mute her horrific cry as quickly as he could, but the sound of her death scream was already seared into everyone’s mind.
“The shields are up,” said Captain Nyondo. All heads on the bridge turned her way as she stood beside the tactical station with her finger on the control panel. “My call—my responsibility. Mr. Cahill, you may resume your duties. Everyone, brace for impact.” Nyondo hurried back to her chair and sat down as collision restraints wrapped around her.
“Five seconds! Hold on everyone!” yelled Paruzzi.
Pettigrew sat and pushed back into his chair, letting the restraints take him. Just before the surgewave hit, he looked to his right. Nyondo was staring straight ahead. She was looking at the tactical board, but he could guess what her mind’s eye was seeing. She was recalling the faces of Kuypers, Rojas, Johnston, and Bhatia, the four crewmembers that had just been sacrificed by her hand so that many others might live. As a single tear slid down her cheek, an odd thought crossed Pettigrew’s mind.
If we still have our tears, we still have our humanity.
* * * *
“I thought the shields would be effective,” confessed Mullenhoff in a low voice, “but I never thought they would work this well.”
In fact, Tempest’s sh
ields were still at seventy percent effectiveness following three successive enemy surgewave attacks. Only the port side’s number four projector array had burned out during the Massang onslaught. In an odd tactical decision, the Massang commander had declined to follow up with a missile barrage, instead choosing to turn his back on Tempest and head for the Sarissan gas miners. Tempest was currently in pursuit.
No one had said much since the deaths of the EVA team, but the crew understood they didn’t have the luxury of mourning just yet. Lives were still on the line as the enemy ship hurtled toward Vasant and Maroth. There was work to do and grieving would have to wait.
“I’m not an engineer, but I’ve got a guess on why our shields worked so well,” said a subdued Pettigrew as he and the command staff huddled around the small tactical table at the back of the bridge. “Our shield technology is based on New Earther tech, which they brought from the Otherverse. Back there, humans had been fighting for their survival against the Adversary. So if the Massang are this universe’s version of the Adversary…”
“…then the shields were designed to fight weapons like surgewaves,” said Mullenhoff. “Pretty good thinking—for a non-engineer, that is.” She was trying to pick up his mood, but it was going to take more than light-hearted quips. Right now, the only thing that would improve Pettigrew’s disposition would be to kill that Massang ship. In his entire life, he had never craved vengeance so badly.
“Commodore, why do you think the enemy didn’t try to finish us off?’ asked Paruzzi.
“I’m not sure, Rico, but it fits in with the pattern.”
“Pattern?” asked Nyondo, who had been silent for a long time. “What pattern is that?”
Pettigrew took a sip of coffee from a cup someone had handed him minutes ago. “Something I began to notice when we were back at Summit. The Massang in authority, the Shartoks and their officers, they all seem to be particularly severe. Oh, they were nice enough to us, to keep up the masquerade, but I thought they seemed especially cruel to their own people. There’s an old word to describe it—Draconian. I think Massang society operates on some sort of sadistic-based code of behavior. Subordinates either obey or they are brutalized. That type of thinking may promote short-term discipline for the underlings, but not for their leaders. Their leaders seem to act more on impulse than any kind of disciplined conduct.
Keeper of the Sun (Starhold Series Book 3) Page 24