by Joe Vasicek
“I’m picking up something,” said Abaqa, narrowing his eyes at the scanner. “Two signals, coming over the horizon at negative thirty degrees.”
“I see it,” said Danica. “Are the shuttles out of detection range?”
He took a moment to check. “For the moment, yes. If they come within another hundred kilometers, though, there could be a problem.”
“We’ll have to force them to alter their course. Bring the railguns to bear and send a series of bursts along their current trajectory. I’ll activate the gravitics and dive at about a five degree angle to draw them to a lower orbital.”
“Yes, Captain.” As he activated the gun controls, he couldn’t help but hesitate for a brief, doubt-filled moment. He was about to fire on his own people, after all—under the orders of a planetborn woman.
“Is there a problem, Prince?”
“No problem,” he said, remembering his promise. “Firing now—stand by.”
The whole ship vibrated as the cannons came to life, the muzzle flash lighting up the exterior hull through the forward window. The bursts flared for a second as they traced an arcing path across the horizon, then passed away into silence.
“They’re altering their course,” said Abaqa. “Dropping into the gravity well—and answering fire.”
“Diving at seven degrees. Set up a plasma screen and prepare for impact.”
Abaqa nodded and activated the short-range plasma cannons, setting them to automatic fire. The ship began to groan from the strain of the dive. He mentally counted down the seconds as the projectile fire from the Hameji gunboats came closer. Outside, brilliant bursts of plasma flared across the starfield, and the ship lurched as the debris raked across their hull.
“Damage?” Danica asked, as alarms began to sound from the various consoles.
“Mostly superficial,” said Abaqa. “We’ve lost some armor and maybe a couple of laser-stars, but the plasma screen neutralized most of it.”
“Good. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.”
As she banked the ship, the horizon turned until it was almost vertical. Even though the gravity on the bridge remained the same, Abaqa couldn’t help but swoon a little at the sight.
“We’ve got three other signals coming in,” he said. “Two at twenty-five degrees, another nearly dead on. The first two are firing again—now the others are, too. We have incoming projectile fire from three directions.”
“What about the shuttles?” Danica asked, her face impassive.
Abaqa glanced down at the scanners, then back at her. “They’re below the altitude for immediate detection,” he said. “Unless the Hameji fly directly over their position, I’d say they’re safe.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Prince Abaqa. You’d better get to your escape pod now—this is going to be a very short battle.”
He rose to his feet and made for the door, then stopped and turned before stepping through. Danica remained calmly seated in the pilot’s chair, her hands steady at the controls without betraying any fear.
Honor and glory are not the only virtues in this universe.
“Captain,” he said. She glanced at him over her shoulder.
“Yes?”
He raised his hand in a sharp, respectful salute. “It has been an honor.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Prince Abaqa. Give your mother my regards.”
A lump rose in his throat, and he turned and left the room before betraying any of his confused emotions. Moments later, he was sliding down the escape chute, through the gut-wrenching blackness into the tightly cushioned interior of the escape pod. He sprawled out on his stomach, his body completely encased except for a little space near the viewscreen. The hatch clicked shut behind him, and he grabbed the controls just as the docking clamps popped open, releasing him from the ship.
The starfield spun wildly before him, but with practiced precision he stabilized himself and brought the pod to bear. Cycling through the exterior video feeds, he brought up an image of the Tajji Flame streaking quickly away. A series of missiles traced bright yellow arcs from across the horizon, and the ship flared like a brilliant star before breaking apart into pieces.
“Goodbye, Captain,” he said softly. As the lump in his throat began to quiver, he brought up the communications screen and prepared to make his transmission.
* * * * *
“What’s happening out there?” Hikaru asked softly, breaking the silence after the harrowing descent to the planet’s surface. All around her, the Tajji soldiers stared at the large display screen at the head of the cabin, as silent and somber as death. She shifted uneasily on the stiff, cracked seating. With almost twenty people crammed into the narrow space, every seat on the shuttle was filled. For her own part, she was pressed up against the wall with Roman’s prosthetic elbow jamming her side.
The screen showed a single point passing over the distant horizon. As the image zoomed in, several yellow lines traced their way slowly from three directions. They intersected at the point, which flared briefly and burst to pieces.
“Oh, God,” gasped one of the men. He covered his face, while others lifted their hands to their hearts as tears streamed down their cheeks.
“Goodbye, Captain,” said Lieutenant Maia at the rear of the cabin. “May the stars and constellations of Earth guide you to your heavenly home.” Yuri took his wife’s hand and let her bury her face against his shoulder.
“Is—is she gone?” Hikaru asked, her voice subdued. A horrible sinking feeling gnawed at her stomach. She glanced from face to face and read in their eyes the awful answer.
“It’s—it’s all my fault!” she sobbed, reverting to her native language as she buried her head in her hands. “I’m so—I’m so sorry!”
Roman put an arm around her, but the cold metal prosthetic gave her no comfort. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably as she sobbed like a little girl, ashamed for her outburst and yet hating herself for not being ashamed any sooner. She’d never wanted anything like this to happen—she’d only wanted to get away and see the universe outside the palace walls. But now … now, she didn’t even know if she deserved to go home.
“It’s all my fault,” she cried again, hitting her head against the wall in self-loathing. Roman’s heavy grip stopped her, but inwardly, all she wanted was to curl up and die.
Chapter 19
“Focus all fire power on the Demon of Tenguri,” said Katsuichi, his voice raw and his hands shaking. “I want that ship annihilated!”
“You do realize you’re gambling everything on this,” said Colonel Webb behind him, his voice subdued. “If Tagatai gets away, or the rest of his fleet falls on us before—”
“That’s enough,” bellowed Kenta.
Katsuichi leaned forward in his chair and watched the holographic projection as the small blue points surrounded the larger Hameji battleship. He keyed the pad at his armrest and zoomed in a little closer, so that the clusters of red points on the periphery fell away. Swarms of fighter drone squadrons weaved and danced like angry bees, while projectile fire and plasma bursts spewed out of the Demon of Tenguri in all directions. It was astonishing how much firepower Tagatai’s flagship had—almost half that of the combined Rigelan fleet. The sleek cruisers circled the larger Hameji ship warily, firing everything they had, but Tagatai’s defenses were still too strong to penetrate.
“Sir, the Hameji fleet is closing—less than five minutes to intercept.”
“Move the fleet closer,” said Katsuichi. “We’re too far from the target—they’re anticipating our fire and neutralizing our shells too quickly.”
“But sir,” said the gunnery officer, “if we get any closer to the Demon of Tenguri, those guns will tear us to shreds!”
“That’s a risk we’ll have to take. Order all fighter squadrons to make immediate strafing runs—maybe that will draw some of their fire.”
“Sir.”
The hologram shifted as the swarms of fighters began to converge toward the large red dot in the center. Overhead, flas
hes and flares cast eerily silent shadows across the bridge as the plasma fire intensified.
“We’re taking heavy losses on the fighters,” said the wing commander. “Casualties at thirty—no, forty percent and rising—”
“Sir, the Sagami and Masamune are heavily damaged,” shouted the communications officer. “They’re breaking formation—Commander Aizawa requests permission to—”
A bright light filled the bridge, making the officers shriek and cover their heads. It was followed by a deafening crash—one that shook the ship and nearly knocked Katsuichi from his seat.
“What was that?” he asked.
“The Demon of Tenguri is moving to intercept us,” said the pilot. “They’re concentrating firepower, and—stars of Earth!”
“Incoming!”
Another terrible crash sounded through the bulkheads, this time throwing Katsuichi to the floor. In an instant, Kenta was at his side, helping him back into the command chair.
“We’ve got heavy projectile fire incoming,” shouted the countermeasures officer. “Trying to establish plasma screen, but there’s simply too much to repel!”
“We’ve lost the starboard engine,” said the engineer. “More than half our armor plating has been stripped—one more direct hit and we’ll start losing hull integrity.”
“Our defensive screen has been breached in multiple places,” said the countermeasures officer. “If we don’t take evasive maneuvers—”
“No!” shouted Katsuichi, leaping to his feet. “Concentrate all firepower on the Demon of Tenguri—we can’t afford to let up now!”
“But sir—”
“Move the Divine Wind closer—yes, closer! We’re not going to get another chance at this. Better to die now than to let our people perish.”
His men stared at him, the fear in their faces only a hair’s breadth from panic. Some of them had already collapsed to the floor, curled up in terror—but most of them took heart at his words and returned to their posts with renewed vigor.
“Moving to engage,” said the pilot. “Evading fire—”
The ship shuddered, and a horrible scraping noise sounded outside on the hull. All throughout the ship, alarms began to blare.
“Just a glancing blow,” said the countermeasures officer. “The Akiba and Kurefune are combining plasma screens with ours—we shouldn’t see another one like that get through.”
“Sir, the Hameji point ships are within range and firing on our rear!”
“All ships reporting heavy crossfire,” said the communications officer, her voice cracking. “We can’t sustain this attack much longer.”
“How much damage is the Demon of Tenguri taking?” Katsuichi asked, clenching his fists. “Tell me we’re doing something!”
“Some of our shots are getting through now, but the armor is deflecting most of it,’ said the gunnery officer. “I’m sorry, Sir, but there’s not much else we can do.”
Another explosion rocked the Divine Wind, sending Katsuichi to his knees. Kenta helped him up again, but there was a deadness in the samurai’s eyes that betrayed just how close they were to failure.
“Well, intensify our firepower,” said Katsuichi, his voice hoarse and weak. “We can’t stop now—can’t—”
“Sir, I’m receiving an urgent transmission from the Mikawa,” said the communications officer. “Shall I put him through?”
Katsuichi nodded, collapsing into his seat. Overhead, the constant flash of plasma bursts made him shield his eyes.
“Your Imperial Highness,” came Admiral Uematsu’s voice over the din of the alarms. “I must apologize for the loss of the Mikawa.”
“What are you talking about?” Katsuichi asked, frowning. “Commander, I—”
“It has been the greatest honor of my life to fly with you, Your Highness. I hope that my sacrifice will not be in vain.”
The transmission died, while on the holographic projection of the battle, the blue point representing the Mikawa broke formation and made a beeline straight for the Demon of Tenguri. Shuttles and escape pods trailed in its wake, while the Hameji flagship directed its railgun and plasma fire at the Rigelan cruiser, pummeling it repeatedly.
“Sir,” said the communications officer, “Admiral Uematsu has abandoned ship and is sustaining intense fire. Hull integrity is falling—”
“Stars,” said the pilot, “he’s making a kamikaze run.”
Katsuichi’s eyes widened as the blue point shot faster and faster towards the red dot at the center of the projection. Too late, Tagatai banked his flagship in a clumsy attempt to evade the oncoming starship—but seconds later, the Mikawa collided.
A brilliant pinkish-white light filled the bridge of the Divine Wind, making him shield his eyes again. Only one thing could explain such blazing power—a blast from a nuclear warhead. The patter of debris and blaring of alarms broke the deafening silence, while the afterglow of the explosion lingered several moments after the initial blast.
“By the sacred stars of Earth,” muttered Kenta. He fell to one knee and bowed his head.
“Sir!” shouted the gunnery officer, his eyes wide with glee. “The—the Demon of Tenguri, it’s—”
“Gone,” said the communications officer, covering her mouth with her hand.
Katsuichi turned to the holographic projection and stared in disbelief at what he saw. The red dot marking Tagatai’s ship was gone, with faint lines tracing the debris outward from the blast. Two heavily damaged Rigelan cruisers were listing near the wreckage, but other than that, there was no sign of anything within a good ten kilometers—not even an escape pod.
“We did it,” he said, his heart pounded with excitement. “Tagatai’s flagship, the Hameji—”
“It’s finished,” said Kenta, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve won.”
* * * * *
Hikaru stared at the dull gray ceiling of the shuttle, tracing the line of hand-holds from the cockpit at the front to the airlock in the back. On the floor and seats around her, the soldiers slept in hammocks strung across every possible space, making it impossible to get through without jostling someone. Yet as the bathroom door of the overcrowded shuttle slipped open, another soldier did just that, followed by the next in line to use the facilities. She covered her mouth at the stench, but only halfheartedly. Just a week ago, she would have found these conditions intolerable—but now, she didn’t even know if she cared anymore.
Almost forty-eight hours had passed since they’d touched down on the surface of the dead, sunless world—forty-eight hours that felt like an eternity. It was almost as if she’d stepped out of her life and into a sort of parallel existence, one without beginning or end, where everything she’d ever known or experienced had never happened.
Yet the memory of the past few days still haunted her—memories of her own selfishness that filled her with shame and guilt. In the quiet moments that punctuated the long darkness, they played constantly across her mind, in perfect, awful clarity. She cringed as she remembered switching places with the maid-servant Chizuko, thinking she was embarking on a harmless adventure. How stupid she’d been! Stupid and selfish. And the childish way she’d spurned Danica’s advice to take responsibility for herself—that was just shameful.
The more these thoughts played across Hikaru’s mind, the more she realized that she didn’t deserve to return her people. The debt of honor she’d incurred would be impossible to repay. And the shame she’d brought upon her brother, at such a critical moment in the history of their people—it made her shudder just to think about it.
The toilet flushed, and the bathroom door hissed open again—but this time, no one rose to use it. Her body tensed, and she rose to her feet, stepping tentatively over the huddled bodies and ducking beneath the bulging hammocks. It took her almost a full minute to get through, but soon she found herself at the door of the pungent bathroom—and at the head of the corridor leading to the airlock.
She hesitated for a moment and looked back on the s
leeping bodies of the soldiers. Her heart raced in her chest, and she almost turned back—but her shame compelled her forward, past the narrow wall cabinets with the EVA suits. In the last few hours, she’d had a lot of time to think of ways to end her life and absolve herself of her shame. While the traditional methods would have involved disembowelment or beheading, in the cramped quarters of the shuttle, that would have made a terrible mess. Hanging, too, seemed impractical, considering how low the ceiling was, and how little space she had in which to do it. No—the best method was to climb into the airlock and space herself, the way bandits and pirates had always done in the old adventure stories. It was a clean, if somewhat terrifying way to go—but how could she let her fear get the best of her now? No—if she truly loved her brother, if she truly wanted to keep from staining his honor, this was something she had to face without flinching.
The access panel felt cold against her sweaty palm. She pressed her hand against it, and the heavy metal door hissed and groaned open. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the narrow, windowless chamber, the edges of her vision blurring as her heart continued to pound. Out of habit, she took off her shoes as the door hissed shut; the hard metal floor felt cold against her bare feet, but she was hardly aware of that now.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching out with a trembling hand to open the exterior door. “I’m so sorry—”
A large, heavy hand clamped down on her wrist—a hand of metal. She gasped and jumped in surprise, then turned to see the Roman sitting next to her. His laser-eye glowed beneath the single caged bulb in he ceiling, and he narrowed his good eye as if to scold her.
“Eh?” he grunted. “What’s this?”
“Let go of me!” she shrieked, jumping backwards. He complied, but stepped between her and the exterior door, blocking her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to regain at least some of her composure.
“I could ask you same question,” he replied.