Black Hawks From a Blue Sun

by F. Allen Farnham

  “Status,” the Gun demands.

  “Six hundred meters and rising. Currently tracking one hundred twenty-eight enemy contacts, including the twenty-three surrounding us. They are locked on.”

  Thompson lifts his face plate. The rush of fresh air cools his grimy, sweaty skin. He squints through the bright sunlight at distant aircraft. The planes are spread evenly, keeping an exact distance and ascending with the transport.

  “What are they waiting for?” he asks rhetorically.

  “Maybe they have something to do with it.” Beckert tosses his head toward the huddle of blueskins behind him.

  Thompson follows the Geek’s gesture. He looks hard into the quivering group, contemplating Beckert’s insight.

  “Sir,” Argo calls. “We’ve got a lot of extra weight here. Shall I take out the trash?”

  “Not yet,” Thompson answers.

  “Whoa!” Beckert thinks out loud.

  “What is it?”

  “Radio traffic just dropped from seventy-eight conversations to four.”

  Argo’s face curls. “Guess the argument’s over.”

  “Stay alert, brace for attack,” Thompson orders. “Geek, does this vessel have any weapons?”

  “No, sir, totally unarmed.”

  Argo snorts and pats his cannon, “Not totally.”

  “Contacts closing!” Beckert shouts. “Two planes advancing behind us.”

  Thompson runs from the cockpit, dialing his weapon up to maximum. He halts at the crying huddle and rips one up by the elbow.

  “Brick, take one and follow.”

  The group howls as Thompson drags his captive away then recoils at Argo’s approach. The Brick snares a heavy set creature with a thick mid-section when something clangs off of his helmet.

  Argo’s furious eyes bore into a more masculine creature full of anguish and rage. It stands and clutches a metal tube with both hands, bent in the shape of Argo’s head. With speed belying his great size, Argo releases his heavy set captive and knife-hands the standing blueskin in the throat.

  The masculine blueskin crumples, dropping its pathetic weapon and clutching its neck. As it gasps for breath, Argo takes the wheezing creature by the nape and drags it from the sobbing crowd.

  Thompson lowers the ramp, sending torrents of wind through the cabin. The operators march their captives to the end and, gripping with one hand, lean them over the edge.

  Tiny feet, clad in smooth soled shoes, scrape and dig at the edge of the ramp. Manicured azure hands clutch at the air, grasping vainly for a hand hold. Tails curl around the operators’ legs.

  With their free hands, Argo and Thompson aim their fully-primed weapons at the advancing planes.

  The planes’ noses lift suddenly, halting their approach, and level off. Thompson’s eyes drift over the aircraft’s fine details: the high caliber gun barrels, the whirling turbines, and the pilots perched high in their cockpits. The operators stare at the aircraft pilots. The pilots stare back.

  “What are we doing, Gun?”

  “Don’t move,” Thompson says coolly. “Wait for my command.”

  The hostages shiver in their captors’ grasp, perched at the precipice of a very long fall.

  “Geek,” Thompson radios, “status.”

  “Three kilometers and rising. Now monitoring twenty-eight conversations.”

  “What do they sound like?”

  “Anxious, sir. Most of the comm-traffic seems to be going through the plane in front of you.”

  Thompson mulls over the information, unsure of its usefulness, but his gut raises an alarm. The Gun props his rifle on his captive’s shoulder and zooms in on the pilot. The buffeting of wind and the vibration of the thrusting transport make it a shaky view, yet he can just see the pilot’s eyes above its ventilation mask. The eyes are intensely focused and narrow. The pilot’s head dips, attending some interior feature of its cockpit and lifts. The alarm in Thompson’s gut grows stronger.

  “Dialogues have stopped,” Beckert warns.

  The Gun’s sinews involuntarily tighten. He zooms closer on the pilot’s eyes, and they are drawn up at the corners. Hair on his neck stands.

  “FIRE!” Thompson bellows. Their weapons discharge just as a dazzling light washes over them. The operators crush their eyes shut against the blinding rays.

  Grinding, shattering metal hurtles from Argo’s target, and sounds of its failing engine drop out of earshot. Thompson’s target hovers briefly and slowly falls away in an uncontrolled dive.

  “Sirs! Sirs!” Beckert calls, “Are you ok?”

  “Gah!” Thompson grunts. He slumps back on the ramp, still keeping hold of his captive. He blinks over and over, trying to clear the dark blots in his vision.

  “Brick, can you see?”

  “Barely,” Argo says, squinting painfully.

  “Sirs! Four more aircraft incoming!” Beckert radios.

  Thompson lowers his faceplate and it seals with a hiss.

  “Dump ‘em.”

  Argo and Thompson roughly shove their captives. Curled tails slip from around their legs and the braying instantly fades in the rushing air. Thompson feels his way up the ramp with Argo’s guidance. The huddle screams at the operators’ return.

  “Get two more,” Thompson orders.

  Argo slings his cannon and steps into the crowd. His big hands grab the two closest to him.

  Barks and pleading yelps assault him. The others cling and clutch at the two being torn from their midst, yet their combined effort is insufficient. The Brick kicks the treads of his boot into any still holding on and marches his new captives down the ramp.

  Thompson moves halfway up the center aisle and turns back. He cracks open one eye, peering through electric blue spots. Only his peripheral vision is unfazed, and he cocks his head to see the crowd.

  Many in the crowd get to their feet, starting after Argo and their companions. Thompson perks up and menaces them with his rifle. The frustrated, enraged faces turn to him, and they sink back to their huddle. Loathing etches deep lines into their flushed, alien expressions.

  “Brick, what’s happening?”

  “Line of four craft, five hundred meters apart, closing slowly,” Argo radios.

  “Hold ‘em out. Let ’em see.”

  Argo dangles his victims beyond the ramp like large, flailing marionettes.

  “Geek,” Thompson calls, “anything happening?”

  “Uh, yes sir. They’re slowing, halting the approach. Sounds like they’re arguing again.”

  “Good. Brick, bring ‘em back, close the ramp.”

  “Understood.” Argo retracts his living puppets and marches the wobbly creatures up the ramp. The huddle reaches out for them, cooing and blubbering. Argo shoves the two into the outstretched arms. The arms take them, embrace them, and with soothing sounds, caress them.

  Argo steps up to Thompson, looking him in the face.

  “How’s your vision? Any better?”

  “Still full of spots. I…”

  One in the huddle climbs to its feet. Its mouth opens wide and words of outrage pour through it. The creature berates them accusingly, hatefully, sobbing between the unintelligible sentences of a vilifying monologue. Glistening tears fall from wild eyes, edged with green. Its arms gesture forcefully, repeatedly at the operators, at its companions, and at the floor. The delicate hands smack together, emphasizing the more powerful syllables spit at the armored aggressors.

  The diatribe is passionate, hypnotic with fervor. When it ends, the creature remains on its small feet, standing and staring defiantly.

  Thompson returns the baleful glare. In the silence, all hear the shick of his bayonet sliding into useful position.

  The creature tries not to look at the sharp and serrated blade, but the cruel-looking weapon has an irresistible gravity. Hands from the seated huddle reach up for the splendid orator, urgently pulling with hushed whispers.

  “…I’m starting to see through the spots,” Thompson finishes, stil
l staring at the orator. The creature sits and drops its head, averting its eyes. Thompson retracts the bayonet with another shick.

  “Where are we, Geek?”

  “Ten kilometers and rising. Do we have a destination?”

  Thompson thinks. “Those transports I saw must’ve gone somewhere.” He faces Argo and taps him with the back of his hand. “Probably that big ship. Geek, is that huge ship still in orbit?”

  “Affirmative. Plus forty-eight other contacts,” Beckert replies.

  Argo nods at Thompson approvingly.

  “Take us there,” the Gun orders.

  “Yes, sir. Hold on, I’m switching to boosters.”

  “Watch them,” Thompson says to Argo, flicking his head at the huddle. The Brick wedges himself into a row of empty seats and glares at the sniffling hostages. Thompson strides into the cockpit.

  “Just a moment,” he says to Beckert, and takes hold of the too-small co-pilot’s chair. He rips the securely-mounted seat from the deck plates and parks it outside the doorway. Settling into the cleared space, he looks out through the windshield.

  “Over there, sir,” Beckert indicates high and to the right with a pointing finger. Through the fading electric blue spots in his eyes, Thompson can just make out the distant outline of the colossal vessel. Several smaller vessels, still enormous on their own, have dropped below the great ship defensively.

  “All right, Geek, slow and steady.”

  “Starting main boosters.”

  The craft rocks smoothly back, and a surge of vibration issues from the stern. Thrust plants Thompson against the back wall of the cockpit.

  In the passenger cabin, an entire row of seats flexes under Argo’s mass. He reaches up and presses against the ceiling, bracing himself. The ascent is comfortable and quiet.

  “Transmit data to the orbital relay,” Thompson orders. “If you have time, add data on these ship configurations.”

  “Aye, sir!” Beckert’s goggles stream with code.

  With each blink, Thompson’s vision clears. He studies a hemispherical display, projected holographically, on the center console. All of the shining vessels loitering outside the windshield correspond to dots in the display. Alien script is captioned beside each projected dot.

  He focuses on the largest dot in the display. Near the waist of the curvaceous vessel, a row of identical dots forms a linear queue. The Gun points at them.

  “Geek, what are these dots, here?”

  The flashing in Beckert’s goggles halts. The Geek follows Thompson’s finger to the line and he smiles with recognition.

  “Those are transports like this one, waiting to dock.” Still grinning, Beckert banks the transport toward the queue.

  “You’ll like this, Major.”

  Intercepting vessels hasten to block Beckert’s approach, but the young pilot jinks and swerves around the larger and far less maneuverable ships. Grappling lines vainly slither at the craft. With ease, Beckert guides the transport past the snake-like cables and through the blockade.

  Thompson presses against the side of the wraparound cockpit glass. Outside, weapon batteries bristle from the massive interceptors. The Gun stares down dozens of rods and barrels, all of which track with the operators’ transport yet do not fire.

  “Almost there,” Beckert narrates.

  Thompson turns from the glass.

  “What are you doing?”

  Beckert points to the hemispherical display. “Watch this,” he says cryptically.

  Thompson’s eyes fall to the display. At Beckert’s approach, the orderly row of transports becomes loose and chaotic.

  “No, no, you’re not going anywhere…” Beckert’s goggles race with code. As Thompson watches, the ID tags of each transport are cleared and replaced with an identical marker to their own. The fleeing transports halt their retreat.

  “I have control,” Beckert reports. The halted transports swing about and head toward them. The small vessels envelop the operators’ transport, churning about randomly. Beckert folds into the shuffling crowd, mimicking the random movements and blending with them. Occasionally, another transport rolls so close, Thompson can see the wild-eyed pilots frantic to regain control.

  “Oof,” Beckert winces.

  “What is it?”

  “Trying to jam the wireless…” Beckert grits his teeth, concentrating hard. He draws the milling vessels closer together, their hulls providing partial shelter against the waves of broadcasted noise. He shifts frequencies over a wide band in his mesh network, just keeping ahead of the interference, and maintains a tenuous hold.

  “How are you doing this?” Thompson asks, bracing himself against Beckert’s sudden maneuvers.

  “The big ship…” The Geek breaks off in a moment of intense focus. “…was remotely piloting the transports into dock.” He cranks the controls to the limit of their travel, his goggles bright with data. “I hacked in.” He hauls the controls to the opposite extent. A collective gasp rolls forward from the jostled passengers.

  The nose of an intercept ship glides in front of the huge vessel’s docking bay, attempting to block it. Long, forward-angled struts jut from it like hundred meter whiskers.

  “Yeah?” the Geek snarls, “How ‘bout this?”

  Five transports peel from the jumble and bloom with thrust, streaking down toward the planet. Once the five are sufficiently distant, Beckert halts his violent maneuvering and releases control of the surrounding transports, allowing them to drift. ID tags in the display clear and restore their original configurations with an exception: the ID tag originally marking the operators’ craft is now streaking toward the planet below.

  The intercept ships dip and power away in pursuit.

  “Brilliant,” Thompson praises.

  Outside the cockpit glass, transports right themselves and steer toward the gaping docking bay. Beckert blends with their movements.

  The other pilots race competitively for the dock, crowding one another off course to be first. Beckert keeps close to the fray but hangs back, knowing the remote docking program will resume to prevent a massive pile up. Confirming his assumption, the transports ahead slow drastically and fall into an orderly queue again. The Geek takes his hands from the controls and the transport steers itself into line.

  “It really is too easy sometimes,” he quips.

  Thompson gapes past the row of transports in amazement. The ship they glide toward looms like a mountain range, impossibly large for a space going vessel.

  To lift every part and molecule from a planetary surface, the energy required…it may as well have been chiseled from a small moon.

  The docking bay, little more than a pore in the vessel’s great body when seen from distance, yawns openly before them and fills the windshield. The lead transports in the queue pass a transparent membrane and jet to vacant docking cradles. The moment the wheels touch down, their ramps lower and the craft vomit their bellyful of skittish passengers, enlarging an already dense mob.

  “So many,” Thompson mutters in disgust.

  Beckert’s eyes are glued to the hemispherical display. At the lower edge, all five blips have been snared.

  “That was fast…”

  Thompson turns from the windshield.

  “What was fast?”

  The smug look on the Geek’s face has straightened.

  “They’ll know we’re not among the five. I have to take control again.” Beckert grabs the controls, and his goggles flare brightly.

  Speakers at the upper corners of the cockpit blare with a gruff alien voice. Tremendous flood lights illuminate and sweep over the transports ahead. The gruff voice repeats its challenge.

  “Hang on!” Beckert’s goggles flash and the voice is silenced.

  The line of transports jumbles up and the Geek flies into its midst. Thus encircled, he thrusts the entire formation toward the bay.

  Thick shutters at the top and bottom of the entrance roll toward each other. From behind the closing shutters, thousa
nds of horrified yellow eyes stare at the formation barreling toward them. The terrified mob turns and presses to the back of the bay.