by Ronan Frost
"Thank you Ashian."
Unexpected feelings rose within the currach, his heart lifting and feeling as if it could pull itself up his throat. Myshia's cheek was soft beneath his caressing hand as he bent his head, stroking aside her wispy hair and finding her mouth in the darkness.
Neither knew how long that moment lasted, but the world was shaken into sudden focus as Myshia pulled away.
"Not now, city man. It is not the time."
A little perturbed Ashian managed to grapple with his emotions and force them away, a little stunned at what had happened. It had come so naturally and passed so rapidly, leaving him no time for thought. Blinking futilely in the darkness he ran a hand over his brow, his mind throwing a cover over the event as he blocked it from thought. "We'd better follow after Capac," he coughed, glad that the darkness hid a face burning with self-consciousness.
They moved together, forced to hold hands to guide each other as they stumbled over uneven footing. The torchlight flickered from beyond a corner, up a flight of what looked like broad stairs. Climbing them, at last free of the pools of water and the echoing splashes they created, they moved upwards into air that was musty and thick on the tongue. The memory of the brief moment they had shared re-emerged in Ashian's mind and held Myshia's hand a little tighter, his heart still beating fast and unsteadily.
Ashian nearly leapt backwards as Capac dropped before them, his cry breaking the ominous stillness.
"I've found a way out!"
It took a moment for Ashian to regain his senses and for his sight to adjust to the new light. His hand fell away from Myshia's and instinctively they drew apart at Capac's presence. Squinting, Ashian managed to make out Capac's form through the flickering light.
"What do you mean?"
"I found a door that leads to a tunnel," explained Capac. "The tunnel is fashioned from the soil and supported by rock, and looks crude enough not to be simply another building. It slopes upwards, and the section I followed looks promising."
"Their escape route," Ashian said. He paused. "But we can't leave yet."
Capac turned on him. "Why not?" Capac gestured to the low flame of the torch. "The wood is almost burnt through and there is no wood here that isn't rotten, we can't drink that stagnant water, and I don't like our chances of finding food."
Ashian searched for words, casting about for evidence to support his claims. "But we can't go. There is so much to explore! So much to discover! Nobody knows how the Ansarii lived, but we have a chance to discover that and learn their secrets. Please Capac, we have to stay."
"I don't know about discovering any secrets," replied Capac. "From what I've seen everything has practically decomposed. Besides, we cannot afford to stay, even if these caverns offered all the riches of the forest."
"Myshia," asked Ashian, looking for support. "What do you think?"
Myshia glanced at the rapidly dying torch, her forester instincts telling her physical survival was paramount. If they died searching these ruins then all hope would be lost. "No," she said at last. "We cannot stay. We must leave now." She bit her lower lip in thought. "We must search after Shaun; he cannot survive alone in this swamp."
Ashian bowed his head in acknowledgment, his heart suddenly heavy. When he looked up his eyes were bright. "Then we must go for Shaun."
Turning, Capac lead the company towards the tunnel and, hopefully, towards the surface.
5
"Wingman five kappa - what the hell are you doing?"
Richael Lowry hardly heard the voice through his headphones such was the intent concentration marring his brow. His pilot seat pivoted one-eighty degrees as the Minnow slewed, stars rushing past the computer visiports in long streaks. The crosshairs upon the heads-up display blinked and with snake-like quickness he flicked aside the safety and pressed the red fire button. The Sova-1 was circling around Richael's ship and had shot past his line of fire only briefly, but that was enough. Steel crumpled into vapour and fuel exploded violently and noiselessly in the vacuum of space.
"You're losing formation!" cried Robinson from the navigator's console. "Pull away!"
Richael shook his head, clearing it of the mindless determination to kill. Now that he had destroyed the Sova-1 he found himself able to recapture his surroundings, noting with slight alarm he had pulled nearly eight marks away from squadron five's vector. Snapping the safety back over the fire button he steered the small craft around, re-joining it with those others of the squadron.
"What the hell were you doing?" demanded Robinson. "We have strict orders to remain under cover of the Berana's deck canons until we are needed - yet you charged off without a thought for command!"
Squadron five loomed closer as Richael slotted into his position, brooding angrily. "That fighter was alone! I took him out easily, and if I hadn't he would have met squadron two from behind."
The Squadron Leader had tapped into the intercom and he interrupted their conversation. "That is not for you to decide, five-kappa. Keep close until we are given a vector." With a sharp crack the voice cut out, only to be replaced by Robinson's.
"What is it with squadron two? That makes it three times you've diverged into their path."
Richael was silent for a time before answering. "I have friends in that unit," he at last said. "I trained with some good friends there, and I can't let them go into battle without me."
"Well, you're stuck in squad five now so get used to it. We've just been patched a vector - it's in your computer now."
Immediately the eleven small fighters darted into life in a tight formation. Richael tweaked the last few touches to the joystick, keeping the nose of his ship just two metres from the leading craft. Activity had put though to the back of his mind, but still he felt anxious about his fellows of squadron two. Blinking harshly he forced himself to concentrate as his squadron at last met with solid opposition.
The clash was harsher than any he had expected. His pivoting seat swung upside down as he pulled back on the stick, flicking the safety off the fire button as a mass of Sova-1's darted past his nose. Inertia ruled in space, and it was with practiced ease that Richael spun about, applying just enough engine power to arrest his former motion and bring him around in a lazy circle.
His thumb pressed down and twin lasers shone.
"What the -!"
Robinson snapped alert. "What happened?"
Richael was still shaky. "A Minnow came between me and my target...damn near blasted his retro's clean off." The image flashed again in his mind's eye, and he knew he had come within a split-second of accidentally destroying a fellow Minnow. Richael applied more power, the acceleration pressing him into the back of his seat, giving him a little more clear space.
"Three Minnows from our squadron have gone down," reported Robinson from the back seat.
Biting his lower lip Richael plunged into the fray at full power, drifting sideways a little in the watery weightless of space. A grey metal shape flashed before his scope and he pressed the fire button, blasting a way clear through the mass of Hartrias ships. His craft bucked, and then suddenly they were through the other side, shaken but unharmed.
"You managed to pick off a Sova-1," observed Robinson, his voice holding an element of satisfaction. "Hold on! I've multiple readings from sector seven!"
Richael was in a world of his own now. Training drilled into his reflexes controlled his motions as he redirected power towards engines and ordered his navigator to lock in on the nearest target. The large rear engine glowed white-hot fed by the compact fission reactor, spitting a wash of invisible radio-activity in its wake. Richael fed power to the underside retros and his Minnow arced around, stars spinning dizzily past the viewscreen.
"Locked!"
Richael heard the cry from his navigator at the same time the Sova-1 flashed before his eyes. In that split second before he depressed the red plastic button atop the joystick he saw the stripe markings denoting the Hartrias ship's squadron and the worn grey of its hull. A mo
ment later it was a fireball, metallic debris flung outwards like shrapnel from a landmine.
The craft shook and Richael felt a definite slewing from underneath his seat. Displays dropped markedly and digital displays ran downwards in a confusing blur.
"We're losing air pressure!"
Richael tried to remain calm as he manoeuvred the stricken Minnow away from the advancing enemy. He focused just before his nose and the heads up display sharpened into focus. "How did it happen?"
Robinson's voice did not respond immediately. "Something's grazed us on port side. The leak has been localised."
Exhaling heavily, Richael felt an irresistible urge to pull aside his full-face helmet and wipe away the sticky perspiration from his forehead. Knowing this was impossible he gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. "That had me worried."
"You and me both," came Robinson's voice over the earset.
A quick burst from the side retros pivoted the Minnow like the opposite turning of a tank's tracks. Applying main engine power Richael discovered, with a mix of dismay and relief, that the band of Hartrias fighters was retreating. After running a check program to ensure his craft was operational Richael sought after his fellow wingmen.
"We've new orders." Robinson paused as his screen filled with a three dimensional map. "We pull back to the Berana."
"But the Sova's are retreating," responded Richael. "We can follow after and evade their mother-ship's lasers." Richael knew that the primary purpose of a fighter craft was to operate as a kind of guided missile that would dodge a battleship's laser defences and, moving slowly, penetrate the electro-shielding that would otherwise deflect a laser blow. Once inside this shield the fighter would deploy short-range missiles against the battleship. Richael was watching his screen. "If we follow after squadron two we can hurt that Hartrias bitc-"
"Follow the orders, Flightman," said Robinson levelly. "Pull back. The Berana is charging the planet even as we speak."
The Federation ship disappeared from the radar.
Force Master Loakar slammed his burly fist down, claw extended, as a sudden buzz of activity broke out on the control deck of the Rplore. "Where have they gone?" he demanded.
He had been in the process of ordering his craft around to position itself between the stranded Urisa and the incoming enemy. That was when the holographic radar simply failed to show the three class battle craft.
"Did they drop into jumpspace?"
Adviser De'olorn shook his head. "Skeeter's blanketing technology."
Loakar spun about, his gaze affixing to that of the robed Adviser. "This is the first I've heard of it."
"Confidential spy reports came in several standards ago," replied De'olorn, sunken eyes shadowed as his brows furrowed. "But none of our informants knew it had already been implemented."
"Their alliance to the humans should never have been permitted!" There was a short buzzing from the console of Captain Loakar's chair a moment before Weaponsmaster Treah's face appeared on the commlink. Loakar held Treah on hold for a moment.
"Have you any suggestions what we should do to combat this?" he asked of De'olorn.
The Adviser bowed his head slightly, shadowing his face beneath the heavy hood of his robe to indicate declination. Loakar turned his attention to the console and punched the activate button, bringing the sounds of the flight deck bawling through the speakers.
"-kar! The scout squadron has been destroyed and the defence region has been invaded. I've ordered twelve more squadrons of Sova-1's to be launched but they have no chance against that enemy frigate's laser."
"Keep them close to the Urisa," said Loakar into the recessed microphone as soon as the dirtied, chiselled visage of the Weaponsmaster fell silent. "They are to intercept and destroy any Federation fighters. The Urisa is to be defended at all costs."
Weaponsmaster Treah nodded. "A field of auto mines has just been set."
"Double them," growled the Force Master. "Without shields just one of their torpedo's getting through will mean the end of the Urisa. Also, I want one hundred SGT's spreading the area. The Federation ship has gone stealth and I want it found - now!"
"Yes, sir." Treah paused. "The remaining Daml bombers are on standby-"
"Launch them," interrupted Loakar, already moving to the intercom switch. "I want every available craft scrambled and awaiting orders!" With a quick motion he flipped the switch and the holographic image of the Weaponsmaster disappeared to be replaced by that of another Hartrias officer. The officer seemed momentarily surprised but rallied quickly.
"Force Master Loakar, sir," he stuttered.
Loakar studied the officer briefly. He wore a half-battle suit with the visor unclasped, grime and dust covering the armoured shoulders and breastplate. Behind the officer open sky could be seen and numerous robots and workers crossed across the field of view as they went about their tasks.
"Base Controller Seven," Loakar began. "Status report?"
There was a brief pause as the officer conferred with something offscreen. In those few seconds background noises of drills and machinery drifted through into the Rplore's bridge as Loakar tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the control chair. Then the officer returned, holding a piece of computer paper held between heavily gloved hands, flapping in the wind.
"The Skycannon is operational. Power is due to be connected in fo-"
"Do it now," put in Loakar. "We are under enemy fire and I want that planet defended at all costs. Your Skycannon is the only one functional so I want the tech's to widen the range and prepare for invasion."
The officer seemed taken aback with news of the sudden attack. "Y-yessir."
Loakar filled the officer in with some technical details and instructions before switching off the communicator. The semi-darkness of the bridge again captured his attention once again - the radar showing the spreading blanket of SGT scout pods, relaying a row of digits that flashed across the top of the panel. But still the invisible Federation ships had avoided detection. Irregular beeps broke the silence as the crew worked quickly but without panic.
"We have them!" came the shout.
Loakar sat bolt upright, eyes glued to the radar. Suddenly a strong blip dropped into sight as one of the SGT's came in contact with the Federation ship. Loakar saw the enemy ship had moved farther than he had anticipated.
"Accelerate to put us in front of the Urisa!" he ordered. "Have scout squadrons of Sova-1's attack first, then a wave of Daml bombers." Loakar hunted for a moment then punched a green, illuminated button. "Weasponsmaster Treah - take the offensive."
Chapter Eighteen
Front Line.
If I were fierce and bald and short of breath,
I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.
- Siegfried Sassoon.
"At this speed they won't be able to slow in time." Mitchell exasperated. "Even at full decelerating thrust collision speed will be mark oh two."
Captain Lockhart shook his head. "Keep us behind the Lanceman. We've got to be ready."
Subman Mitchell tore the headphones from his ears. "For what? The Scoipre is a scout, not a battleship. We should retire to a safe vantage while the Berana makes contact."
"Although I encourage personal opinions aboard my ship I will not have an astrogator giving me orders during battle," said Lockhart.
"Sir, I think Mitchell has a point."
Lockhart spun about in surprise. "What is it, Lieutenant?"
Loriena swept back her thick black hair before pointing to a flat-map display on her console. "There are only two Hartrias ships, and they are keeping close together and in tight orbit. Now, if there is only two ships guarding the most valuable prize in the universe-"
"Where is the rest of the Royal Fleet," finished Lockhart. He paused. "Give me a full screen display of our position and Mitchell, pull us away from the Berana and set for vector..."
The map blinked onto the main screen. Lo
ckhart barked for a plot of incoming jumptunnels, and a second later the spider's web like map overlayed it. Muttering almost to himself, Lockhart considered the most advantageous drop-point.
"If I were leading that Hartrias fleet I'd come up here," he mused. "Directly to the rear of the Berana." He spun to the astrogator. "Set vector 278 mark 134 - maximum thrust. If your hunch is right," he nodded in Loriena's direction, "this is an elaborate trap for the Federation ships. As soon as the Hartrias drop from jumpspace we've got to warn the Berana." He then turned to Mitchell. "Looks like you've got your way, after all."
Mitchell turned back to his console wordlessly. He knew that they were not pulling away from a battle - rather they were heading for the point where two tremendous factions would war. Caught between, the Scoipre would have to act as the Federation's eyes and ears.
The Scoipre about-faced and applied thrust to reverse it's motion, the massive steel bulk of the three Federation battleships pulling away into starry space. Once again the Scoipre was alone.
"The battle has just been joined," reported Tech Officer Waterly, pressing a hand to the speaker in his ear. His voice paled. "Oh my God...this frequency is just chaos. Everything is just happening at once; the Lanceman is hit."
Lockhart ordered the intership comm-line to be put over the bridge speakers. In the space of a few minutes the square jawed Captain heard reports of over two thousand lives lost betwixt showers of static and bawling orders.
Suddenly the attention of all those aboard the small scout craft snapped away from that almost unreal sounding report of disaster. Alarms flashing on nearly every console, Subman Mitchell pivoted his head towards the Captain, his grey eyes cold.
"Sixteen Class VII Hartrias warships have dropped into sector eight."
"Estimated four hundred Sova-1's closing on our position," spoke Loriena, almost over the top of Mitchell.