Starcruiser Polaris: Terrible Swift Sword

by Richard Tongue

   A glance at the strategic display brought a smile to his face, half a dozen enemy fighters breaking and running for home, a wide gap in the formation that he was able to exploit. Commander Curtis had given him a special mission, and the enemy squadron leader had given him the perfect opportunity to make it happen. Swinging his fighter around, he reached down to open the throttle to full, the force of the engine pushing him back into his acceleration couch as he dived towards the nearest ship, the Trotsky, her point-defense turrets already opening up as he approached.

   Behind him, the assault on Polaris was beginning to collapse as her defenses came into play, one of the enemy squadrons coming around in a desperate and doomed attempt to support their comrades. For a brief second, his wing paused, caught between two forces, but Voronova was quick off the mark in responding, leading Crimson Squadron to intercept the enemy in good time. So far, the battle had been almost ridiculously one-sided, but the enemy capital ships were moving into position to launch their attack, and both groups of fighters were running low on fuel and ammunition. It might have been messy and unnecessarily wasteful, but McGuire was pressing his attack. Only his fighter was in position to counter the attack, but as he moved into range, a loud report echoed from the rear of his ship, an explosion ripping into his primary engine, sending a cascade of red warning lights running across his heads-up display.

   A quick glance at his navigation computer confirmed his suspicions. He was below escape velocity, certain to enter the atmosphere of Hyperborea. Re-entry was difficult enough in a functional fighter, but in his current state, he was going to have to execute the landing of his life.

   “Voronova to Kani,” his wingman urgently said. “I'm on the way...”

   “Negative,” Kani replied. “I am irretrievable. Assume command of the wing and continue the battle. Defend Polaris at all costs. I'm expendable.”

   “Montgomery here, sir. I think I just have time...”

   “Negative!” Kani yelled. “I appreciate the sentiment, but neither of you have time to execute them. I can take care of myself. You two have to take care of the wing. Good hunting. Out.”

   Turning off the communicator, he looked at the lumbering capital ships above him, drifting out of range as he fell towards Hyperborea, and with a quick series of thrusts, he set his fighter up for atmospheric entry, looking at the status report on the heat shielding. As far as he could determine, the explosion hadn't damaged his landing systems, only his main engine, but there were some troubling alerts on his engineering status panel. Not that there was anything he could do about it now. He was committed to a descent, using the last of his thrust in an attempt to guide his fighter out onto the ice, his best chance for a smooth, safe landing.

    He drove his fighter down, watching the stress sensors on the hull as his fighter bit into the upper atmosphere, short, stubby wings giving him a measure of control. His ship was meant to fly through space, the designers not intending any serious atmospheric operation. Simply landing the fighter would be an act requiring rare skill, but with the damage he had sustained, he was asking for a miracle. One that would take all of his training to deliver.

   His sensors began to blur, unable to cope with the growing interference, but his last look at the battle was reassuring, most of the enemy fighters gone from the display. Three squadrons wiped out for the cost of only a handful of their own, a significant strategic victory in itself. Polaris still moved into position above him, slotting into an orbital approach path. Their destinies were diverging, at least for the moment, and finally, his sensors winked out, his bandwidth focused on the landing ahead.

   As he fell, his fighter was a ball of flame, the plasma sheath enveloping him as he slammed through the dense atmosphere, rocking from side to side as his thrusters struggled to keep him stable, to keep his heat shield absorbing the worst of the titanic forces tearing at the fabric of his fighter. His viewscreen flickered as the hull sensors failed, one by one, bandwidth rapidly diminishing.

   Amber lights flashed on as his fighter began to slow, damage reports streaming in. He'd expected as much, and had been resigned that this was a one-way trip. As his fighter settled into the glide path for terminal descent, he risked a quick glance at his status monitor, checking on the pilots he had left up in orbit. Nothing had disturbed them, all of them were still lazily cruising through the sky. Then, on the distant horizon, he found what he was looking for. Two clusters of lights, connected by a single, steady beam. The settlement, the capital of the colony, Ericsson City.

   Most of the planet was uninhabited, only a few remote scientific and mining outposts scattered across the ice. He had no cold-weather gear, no survival equipment at all, and knew that any delay in his recovery would cost him his life. He had to land near civilization, and his hands danced across the controls as he brought up a map of the surface, towns and settlements snapping into life on his heads-up display.

   There it was. Work Camp Five, his target. A hundred and ten miles from Ericsson City. He swung the nose of his fighter around, snapping off the warning alarms with the touch of a button, using the last of his thruster fuel to steady him into a glide path. His stubby wings could do little more than arrest his descent, but at least he still had an element of control over his destiny. Faintly, in the background noise, he could make out a tinny voice barking instructions, some ground controller attempting to guide him in, but his communication system had been too badly damaged in the descent. He knew where he was going, anyway.

   Thirty thousand feet, descending. The landscape rolled out beneath him, lush forest sliding into icy-white landscape, points of light scattered around, thin trails for monorails and transport links. His sensors picked up some civilian traffic in the air, all of it racing for the ground, for safety, as though they feared he would launch an attack. Even if he'd wanted to, none of his combat systems were working, his missiles useless in atmosphere.

   He paused, smiled, then brought up his tactical display, locking the missile clamps securely into position. They might not be able to shoot anything down, but they could certainly give him a final boost, and with his fuel tank warning lights winking urgently at him, he'd take all the last-minute help he could get. As the ground raced towards him, he tugged his restraints, making sure he was securely strapped in, and braced for landing, his computers using their final seconds to give him the best possible chance to live through impact.

   At the last instant, the missiles fired, sending him clear of a tall rocky outcrop onto a wide, frozen lake, a perfect spot for a landing. He tugged the nose up, giving himself one final lift, then slammed into the surface, a cascade of ice behind him as his landing gear ripped into the surface, snapping away in the first seconds, sending him into a lazy spiral as his engine faded away.

   More warning lights, a decompression alarm as his hull fractured in a dozen places. He could breathe the air, but it was cold, desperately cold, and his breath instantly condensed as he frantically engaged the capture protocols, purging his database of the precious information stored within. He reached down for a control, then cracked the cockpit release, sending a chilling blast slamming into him. The wind was fierce, snow falling from the sky in waves all around him.

   The computer displayed a final question, and he tapped a button to confirm, the destruct system activating with a sixty second delay, giving him just time to scramble from his fighter, sprinting into the safety of the tree line, slipping and sliding across the ice as the seconds ticked away. He tried to count down with the computer, managing sixty-two before the roar of the explosion echoed through the air, the blast hurling him from his feet as he wrapped his hands around his face.

   Behind him, the ice was melting for the first time in years, water bubbling up all around, and he finally reached the safety of the bank, collapsing into a snowdrift in the lee of a tall, frost-smothered tree. He looked at the column of fire and smoke behind him, and a smile spread across his face as he glanced at h
is watch. Nobody for a hundred miles could have missed that landing. With a little luck, he'd be in a nice warm cell within the hour.

  Chapter 3

   Hudson turned to Curtis, and reported, “Squadron Leader Kani has made it down to the deck, Commander. Our last telemetry readings showed serious damage, but our sensors tracked a figure running from the fighter before detonation. I think he made it.”

   “I hope so,” Curtis replied, looking up at the strategic view, at the three capital ships still bearing down on Polaris. “Time to go, people. Bring our birds home, and let's get the hell out of here. Full acceleration, Lieutenant Norton. Stand by to release ballute.” He looked up at the trajectory plot, a smile creeping onto his face. He'd dived in towards the planet, preparing their disposable heat-shield to make it look as though he was aerobraking into orbit, and McBride had happily danced into the trap, setting up his attack to intercept on that course.

   Space was big, though, big enough to give him ample room to maneuver, and he intended to use every bit of it in order to make his escape. Polaris' engines roared to full as her fighters raced to the landing deck, moving smoothly into approach formation, breaking calmly from the remnants of the dogfight taking place in orbit behind them.

   “I'll be damned,” Rojek said. “We're going to be leaving the system with two more fighters than we left it, and that's after our losses. Looks like some of McBride's people aren't willing to renew their acquaintance with the man.” Turning to Curtis, he continued, “I've got Sergeant Dixon on the hangar deck with a fire team, just in case one of them tries something stupid.”

   “What's the count, Lieutenant?” Curtis asked.

   “We lost three fighters, including Kani,” he replied. “All the pilots but Kani made it back, sir. Search and rescue managed to get them out of the air. Clean sweep.” Frowning, he looked down at his status panels, and added, “We'll be in firing range of Regulus in ninety seconds. Not for as long as we would have been, but they'll still have time to press an attack.”

   “Prioritize defensive fire,” Curtis replied. “We're not out to destroy that flotilla today, just get out of the system in one piece. Norton, go red-line on our acceleration. We've got to burn the engines as hot as we can. And calculate an escape course to Sinaloa Station.”

   “Course already plotted,” she said, turning with a smile. “Lieutenant Moretti, under protest, has given me one-oh-five on the reactor. We should outpace Regulus easily. We’re already drawing ahead of Trotsky and Ulbrecht.”

   “If I didn't know better,” Hudson said, “I'd wonder if he wasn't trying to make himself a target, trying to lure us back into battle.”

   “And what makes you think he isn't?” Curtis replied. “Never underestimate your opponent, Lieutenant, no matter how big an ass you think he is. Besides, Admiral Yoshida's pulling the strings, not McBride.” He looked across at Saxon, and asked, “Anything from the surface?”

   “Kani managed to come down exactly on target,” she said. “Less than three miles from our agent's location. Lots of foot and air traffic heading out there. I'd say that part of the plan is working just as we'd expected.” She glanced across at Curtis, and said, “I'm only worried that we've done a little too well. I didn't think we'd get this close to the planet.”

   “Me either,” Curtis replied, “but we are where we are. How long to firing range?”

   “Thirty seconds minus,” Rojek said. “Beginning defensive salvo. I want to put them off a little. Permission to fire at will if I get a good target of opportunity?”

   “Don't let me hold you back, Felix,” Curtis replied with a smile, settling back in his command chair to watch the action unfold on the screen. A series of rhythmic pulses pounded from the hull, the outer turrets opening up to throw shrapnel and particle beams towards their enemy. Not like their last battle, where they could only fire a single salvo. With every station manned, Moretti's technical crews watching over the systems, the full strength of Polaris could be employed, and he watched with satisfaction as a bow wave of destruction swept back towards Regulus, right into the path of their projected salvos. As the last fighters approached, Voronova had them turn to release their missiles into the fray, one last problem for McBride to worry about.

   “First impacts,” Rojek said, matter-of-factly, as though announcing that the coffee was ready. Outside, the forces of two equally-matched capital ships raged at each other, the wave sweeping back and forth as the ships gained momentary advantages, the skill of the two warring tactical officers ranged against each other. Theoretically, they could continue the stalemate forever, but on the flanks of the battle, Ulbrecht and Trotsky were moving into position, adding their force to the attack. Their half-dozen mass driver turrets could contribute little, but their defensive fire surged into play, pushing the threshold dangerously close to Polaris.

   Beads of sweat were running down Rojek's face as he worked, carefully making microscopic adjustments to buy them time, give them the edge they needed to survive the battle, to win through to the other side. On the viewscreen, Hyperborea flashed past, a dream in the distance as Polaris raced for the gravitational threshold, desperately gaining ground as they made for the safety of warp, the engines already warming up to rend space once more.

   “Closest approach,” Hudson said, quietly moving over to Rojek, ready to relieve him at a moment's notice if necessary. There were stories from the Revolution that the strain of prolonged combat had driven men mad, their minds unable to disengage from the silent fury of battle as it waged around them. Everyone on the bridge was silent, unwilling to disrupt Rojek's concentration for even a second, only the rhythmic pounding of the turrets breaking through the strained silence.

   Polaris was visibly gaining ground now, despite the best efforts of Regulus to catch them, McBride pushing his ship to the limit in order to catch them. Then, suddenly, the breakthrough, as Regulus abruptly ceased accelerating, dropping away behind them, listing lazily to the right. Saxon glanced at Curtis, a predatory gleam in her eye, and Hudson reached over to an auxiliary monitor, her grin widening as she read through the damage projections.

   “He was running one-fifteen at the high point, sir. Probable power systems failure. No chance that they'll be able to make repairs before we've left the system.”

   Instantly, the situation had changed, the bulk of the offensive enemy fire gone, the defensive formation broken as the two auxiliary ships struggled to compensate for the loss of their flagship, knowing that the hunted had suddenly become the hunter as the disparity in firepower instantly made itself clear, the line of battle sweeping drastically towards them as Polaris' turrets reached for new targets, getting firing solutions on Ulbrecht and Trotsky.

   “Felix,” Curtis said. “Get 'em.”

   With a nod, Rojek replied, his hands racing across his controls as he issued new fire priorities, directing the gunnery crews to throw everything they had at the auxiliary ships. Trotsky's commander realized the desperate situation first, hurling his ship out of the battle, turning back towards Hyperborea and the safety of the planet, gambling correctly that Curtis wouldn't give chance. That left desperate Ulbrecht on her own, pressing the attack forward.

   “Hudson,” Curtis said. “Warn them off, for God's sake. Offer a ceasefire.”

   “They aren't replying, sir,” she said, and Rojek focused his full attention on the doomed ship. Her crews were good, well-trained, but they were outmatched and they knew it, Polaris able to send wave after wave of kinetic projectiles into her side, ripping angry holes in her hull that sent fountains of atmosphere racing forth, tossing her around. Still her commander attempted to press on, desperately seeking to justify his attack somehow, render the sacrifice his crew was making worthwhile. A few escape pods launched, all destroyed instantly by the weight of firepower in the battlespace, two of them shot down by their own guns as they drifted in front of the surviving point-defense cannons.

   Curtis' heart
was breaking as he watched Ulbrecht lumber on, knowing that he'd have made the same decision if their roles had been reversed, that he'd have done anything he could to bring down the enemy ship, even if it meant the destruction of its own. He couldn't even order a unilateral ceasefire, not without exposing Polaris to immediate attack. All he could do was sit and watch while a brave ship died, another series of projectiles crashing into her hull, breaches on every deck, bodies hurled into the void on the fury of escaping atmosphere.

   The end was a mercy. A white-hot flash as the primary reactor finally failed, the titanic reserves of energy released uncontrolled in a split-second. Where once there had been a brave ship and her crew, now there was merely a tangled collection of wreckage drifting through orbital space, Polaris soaring well clear of any potential pursuit.

   “We are free, and clear to navigate,” Norton said. “Four minutes to the gravitational threshold. No chance of anything intercepting us before we leave the system. Clean sweep, sir.”

   “And Ulbrecht? Any survivors?” Saxon asked.

   “Not a chance, Major,” Rojek said. “Nothing could have lived through that.”

   Nodding, Curtis rose to his feet, and said, “Proceed to Sinaloa Station. Lieutenant Hudson, you have the conn. I'm heading down to the hangar deck.”

   Hudson looked at him, surprise on her face, and replied, “Aye, sir. I have the conn.”

   Curtis stepped towards the elevator in long strides, Saxon running after him, only just making it through the doors before they closed. She waited for them to clear the bridge, then stabbed a finger on the override controls, bringing them to a dead stop.