Starcruiser Polaris: Terrible Swift Sword

by Richard Tongue

   As the soft boom of an explosion shattered snow from the trees, a column of smoke rising into the night air, she found what she was looking for, and her tired, cold fingers worked the release mechanism, dropping the hatch free. Without waiting for Norris, she scrambled inside, rolling into the cramped chamber, merciful heat filling the air. As Harland noisily expired with a doleful cry, echoing through the darkness, Norris climbed in after her, tugging the hatch shut behind her.

   “You think we were in time?” she asked.

   “I don't know,” Cordova replied, pulling out her pistol. “Though if anyone decides to stick their head up through that hatch, I can promise you that they'll regret their curiosity.”

   The two survivors lay in silence, the sounds of battle fading beneath them. A solitary gunshot concluded the battle, followed by a desperate, fading cry, and Norris glanced at Cordova in confusion. They'd never know what happened down there. Only that a brave man had given his life for his comrades. That was enough for the history books.

   Cordova's spirits sank as she head the unmistakable noise of someone scaling the ladder, boots ringing on the metal, muttered curses from outside. First one, then a second, and they heard footsteps outside, whispered conversations from the two guards searching the exterior of the train. One of them drifted away, but the other grew closer, ever closer, coming up to the hatch. Cordova tightened her hand on the pistol, trying and failing to think of a way to escape. They were trapped, and the best they could hope for was to die in a hail of bullets.

   The hatch cracked open, and a familiar figure peered inside, the same guard who had directed them to the buggy, hours before. A smile crossed his face, and he winked at Cordova, peering down to his comrade.

   “Nothing out here,” he yelled.

   “You sure, Micky?” his partner asked. “I'm sure I saw someone climbing onto the tracks.”

   “Probably the one Fernandez shot on her way down. There's nobody here, anyway. Pass the word that the train is clear to proceed.”

   “Hey, wait a minute, sir. The regulations...”

   “To hell with the regulations. The cargo on this train is perishable, and there's a ship waiting in orbit to send it back to Earth. You want to be the one to explain to Secretary Ramirez why his daughter isn't getting that fur coat she wanted for her birthday? Close it up, and send the signal to the driver to proceed as planned.” With a last glance up at Cordova, he said, “Besides, I've got a hot date in town tonight, and I don't intend to miss it.”

   With a faint chuckle, the man outside replied, “Won't your wife be upset at that?”

   “You going to tell her?”

   “Depends on whether you can sneak me back a bottle of vodka tonight.” There was a brief pause, and he added, “We've cleared the charges from the pylon. Nothing to worry about.”

   “Then let's get going before the blizzard comes back.” Petrov dropped back down to the platform, slamming the hatch shut, leaving two confused rebels looking at each other, Cordova fumbling her pistol back into its holster. After a moment, the train began to shudder as it built up speed, rattling along the tracks on its long, twisted path to Ericsson City, the end of the line.

   “What the hell happened there?” Norris asked.

   “I think we just found Harland's contact,” Cordova replied.

   “But he killed him!” Norris yelled. “And Logan!”

   Taking a deep breath, Cordova said, “Logan chose her fate as surely as if she'd shot herself with that bullet. Trying to get back down to the surface was suicide. As for Harland, he had to make it convincing. If ColSec knew that someone had driven out to the pylon, they wouldn't have stopped until they'd caught them.” Shaking her head, she continued, “He gave his life to give us a chance.”

   Norris' eyes widened, and she replied, “I didn't think it would be this way?”

   “What did you think would happen?” Cordova snapped. “This isn't a game. This is a war, and in war, people get hurt, get killed. Sometimes you have to sacrifice someone to win. And we've got to win. There are thousands of people just on this planet depending on us to free them, and for the next hundred years they'll be singing songs about the Last Stand of Jake Harland. He knew that, going in. He'll never be forgotten. Not unless we betray what he died for.” She glared at Norris, and said, “It's a little late for you to bail out now. Don't make any mistake about it. That could be you down there, pretty damned easily. Or me, for that matter. And it would be fine, as long as it got us one step closer to our goal.”

   “I don't know how you can be so cold about it. Two people just died, and...”

   “And two people lived, and we've got a job to do.” She frowned, then asked, “Harland seemed to think that we'd get there in time for peak broadcasting. That's got to be eighteen hours away. How many stops does this train make?”

   “Dozens, I guess. It loads up at every work camp along the route, heading to the spaceport.”

   “Then we're probably going to be here until morning.” She looked around the cramped space, and settled into a corner, tugging off her coat and stuffing it into position to serve as a pillow. “We'd better get what rest we can. No point keeping watch. Either we'll make it, or we won't.”

   “How can you think about going to sleep after what just happened?”

   “Unless you've got a time machine in your pocket, there's nothing we can do about that. All we can do is make sure that they died for something. We've got a long road ahead of us, and we're going to need all our strength to walk it. Sleep, or don't sleep. Your call. I've made mine. Good night.”

  Chapter 10

   Mike sat in the command chair, watching fighters and cruisers dance all around him as the nightmare of battle unfolded, his squadrons ripping into the enemy forces, facing far greater odds yet still fighting valiantly. They were dying by the dozen, demonstrating greater bravery than he could ever ask, while the Federation forces closed in, sweeping on both flanks to envelop Canopus in a trap. Polaris was gone, a cluster of exploding wreckage far behind them, her commander defeated as three enemy cruisers closed on him, a devastating array of firepower far too great to be countered.

   “Get us out of here,” he found himself saying, leaning forward in his chair. “We've lost this game. Full speed to the gravitational threshold.”

   “Damage control reports serious damage to the main engines,” Schmidt replied. “Losing power, losing acceleration. We're struggling, Commander, and the enemy flotilla is gaining ground rapidly. They'll be in optimum firing range in less than sixty seconds.”

   “Inform Commander Duval...”

   “He's dead, sir,” Petrova said, coldly.

   “Then find out who the hell is in charge of our supposed fighter escort, Lieutenant, and inform them that they need to spend more time covering our flanks and less time on some sort of personal quest for glory! They'll have to cover our retreat.” Looking to the side, he said, “Castro. Any report from them?”

   “Serious damage to their outer armor. They're losing hull integrity, will have to reduce speed,” Schmidt replied. “They've offered to move to our rear, to cover our retreat.”

   Grimacing, Mike said, “Accept. Tell Commander Ortiz that he should abandon ship, and that we'll find a way to retrieve his people. Assuming we manage to fight our way out of the system ourselves.” His eyes were locked on the tactical display, and he continued, “And find out what the hell happened to their fighters!”

   “All gone, sir. Down to the last man. They died trying to get Polaris out of low orbit.”

   Shaking his head, Mike turned to the helm, and said, “Kenyon, more speed!”

   “There's nothing left, sir,” she protested. “I'm giving her all the acceleration she can stand. We've suffered too much damage to the superstructure as it is. She'll tear apart if I run any hotter!”

   “Newsflash, Lieutenant,” Mike barked. “We're dead if we stay. Take the
risk. Maximum power to the engines, and prepare for a best-speed transition to Sinaloa Station. We'll regroup there with anyone that's left. Signal...”

   “Castro, sir!” Schmidt said, gesturing at the viewscreen. Mike turned to the display just in time to watch his old friend die in a ball of fire, his ship joining the other mass of debris haunting local orbital space. That left only one significant target for the near-untouched Federation flotilla, four cruisers bearing right towards them, weapons hot. He looked up at the tactical display, trying to will his ship to greater speed, but already a series of red lights were running across the status monitor, the hull buckling as Kenyon forced it beyond safe stresses in a bid to escape.

   With an ear-splitting crack, the rear hull failed, the ship tumbling end over end in an uncontrollable spin, crewmen spilling out of the countless hull breaches, blown out into space with the escaping rush of atmosphere. Kenyon desperately tried to retain some sort of a trim, Schmidt firing one last burst of point-defense fire at the approaching salvo of kinetic warheads, but the end was inevitable, and swift.

   The lights flickered off on the bridge, and the doleful sound of 'Taps' played over the speakers, the computer ending the battle simulation with the destruction of the last ship in the rebel fleet. Mike sat back in his chair, rubbing his hand on his forehead, while the crew hastily began the process of returning the ship to normal flight operation.

   “Well,” Kenyon said, “I guess we've got some idea of how not to do that now, right?”

   “I don't think this is an appropriate time for levity, Lieutenant,” Mike replied. He looked around the bridge, and said, “That performance, ladies and gentlemen, was nothing short of pitiful. If that's the best you can muster, we might as well contact Admiral Yoshida and surrender now.” Rising to his feet, he walked over to Kenyon, and said, “Helm control was far too sluggish. You've got to anticipate a lot better than you are, or we're going to get killed.”

   “I lost four thrusters on the first wave of the attack, sir,” she protested. “There's only so much I can do with the equipment at my disposal. And the enemy formation shouldn't have been able to hide so effectively behind the moon. That's a simulation error.”

   “You really think they won't be able to throw us a few surprises, Lieutenant? We're attacking a prepared, defensive position. That means that we're going to have a lot more to deal with than with a traditional fleet battle. They know the lay of the sky, and they'll have their ships ready to go. Not something we'll readily be able to deal with.” Turning to Schmidt, he added, “Turret co-ordination was lousy. I want those crews drilled and drilled again until they get it right. And Duval's fighters were a bad joke. No cohesion at all.”

   “For most of them,” Petrova noted, “it was their first time acting together as a single flight group. It takes time for any group of pilots to get to know each other, get used to working together, and you can't expect them to...”

   “All of them are experienced pilots, graduates of Flight School, and they're all flying in their usual squadrons. I can't help but think that our current legal status has some of our people thinking that they don't have to follow the rules any more, but nothing could be further from the truth.” Looking around the room, he added, “I could cite half a dozen uniform violations off the top of my head. We're supposed to be an elite ship, one of the finest in space. Time to act like it.”

   “Commander,” Schmidt protested, “the whole purpose of this exercise was to find problems to iron out, defects to repair...”

   “Then we have indeed done well, Lieutenant, because we've found far more than I'd ever dared to fear. Get this straight, people. Nothing less than our absolute best is acceptable. We're going into battle, and the fate of billions of lives depends on our success. They're watching and waiting for them, and we are damned well not going to let them down!” Turning to Petrova, he said, “The enforcement of discipline is your ultimate responsibility, Lieutenant, and I want you to go department-to-department and see what you can do. Find the problem cases, and deal with them. I don't care how you do it, but I want every station on the ship at peak efficiency.”

   She looked at him, wide-eyed, and replied, “Aye, Commander.”

   “We're going to do this again,” he said with a resigned sigh. “And again, and again, until we get this right, even if we spent the next forty-eight hours in non-stop simulated battle. Because if we get ourselves shot up as badly as we did today, we're going to have a lot worse to deal with than some lousy music over the speaker. You're letting both the ship and yourselves down, and I will not have that any longer.” Rubbing his forehead again, he said, “Lieutenant Schmidt, you have the deck. I'm heading down to the hangar to debrief the pilots, and they'd better have a damned good explanation for the debacle I just saw on the screen.” Leaving his stunned staff behind him, he walked into the elevator, tapping a control for the lower deck.

   “Sir, may I have a word?” the hitherto-silent Hammond asked.

   “By all means, Lieutenant,” he said, holding the door open. “Come along.”

   When the door closed, Hammond began, “I know that I don't have much formal military experience, Commander, but with all due respect, you were out of line back there on the bridge.”

   “Indeed.”

   “You don't berate subordinates in public. Not like that. Especially not in a crisis situation. Lieutenant Schmidt was quite correct. The exercise was intended to find areas of potential improvement, and it did. We've got a list of things to solve for the next time, and you've got some good officers up there. They know what needs to be done, and you're riding them too hard.”

   “I'd rather they stayed alive to hate me, Lieutenant.”

   “It isn't a question of that, sir. They know that you're under pressure, and...”

   Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “I'm glad I have their sympathy, Lieutenant.”

   Shaking her head, she said, “That isn't quite what I meant, sir. Only that they understand that you might not be quite yourself right now, but you're going to have to lighten up on them a little. Cracking on the pressure isn't always the answer.”

   “Maybe I haven't quite made this as clear as I should have, Lieutenant, but we're going into battle in a little under three days, and we will be facing vastly superior odds in that engagement. Any mistake, any defect, and we will die. It's as simple as that. So I'm sorry if you think I'm being a little harsh, but I don't have the luxury of time. We were lucky during the Battle of Coronado, and we caught the enemy by surprise. We won't have that advantage this time.”

   Looking up at him, she replied, “I haven't known you for long, Commander, but this isn't like you. Everything I've heard about you suggests that you aren't this sort of officer.” Gesturing at the door, she added, “Those people have given up everything they once knew, everything they had back home, and they've done it because they believe in you. Their whole worldview is fragile right now, and in my personal opinion, sir, they need support. Not to be lectured on something they know perfectly well already.” She glared at him, and added, “If you think this insubordinate...”

   “No,” he replied, holding up a hand. “No, I don't. Had you said this on the bridge, I'd have thrown you in the brig. We're in private, and I've never refused to listen to the advice of my subordinates in the proper place and time. You get a pass.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Go back up to the bridge, and inform them that we will be holding a second exercise in two hours, and that I expect all department heads for a briefing in an hour to advise on how they intend to improve their performance next time. After we've completed the second exercise, we'll go on low time for twelve hours, give everyone a chance to take a breath. Will that satisfy you.”

   “Yes, sir,” she replied. “I'm sorry to...”

   “You did your job, Lieutenant. Now let me do mine. I stand by my statement that our fighter wing was a bad joke, and I don't think anyone other than Admiral Yoshi
da will be laughing if we end up fighting that way for real.” The elevator stuttered to a stop, and the doors slid open. “Dismissed.”

   “Aye, sir,” she replied, snapping a salute, stepping out into the corridor. Mike closed the doors again, his hand poised over the controls, hovering over the mechanism for the moment. He pulled out his datapad, looked at the date-stamp, and cursed, memories flooding back to him. Anxious fingers danced over the controls, going deep into his personal database, dredging up files he generally only recovered late at night, alone in his cabin.

   After a moment, he found the image he was looking for, one he had taken himself, fifteen years earlier. A tall blonde woman, hair cascading over her shoulders, with a baby cradled in her arms, a cute smile on its face. He looked down at the picture for a long moment, the only one he had left from those years, those happier times of long ago, and sighed, his hand shaking as he reached for the wall communicator.

   “Curtis to Bridge,” he said.

   “Schmidt here, sir.”

   “Cancel all battle drills for the next twenty-four hours. The ship is to go onto stand-down until then. You have the deck until further notice. I'll be in my quarters.”

   “Sir,” she protested. “We have to complete our tactical preparations, and the department heads...”

   “Handle it,” he replied. “Stand-down for twenty-four hours. I'm sure the crew will appreciate the break. Curtis out.” Shutting off the channel, he reached across for the controls, tapping for his quarters, leaning back on the wall as he sped towards his cabin, his eyes never wavering from the image on the datapad.

   “Damn it, Bill. Why did you have to come back today? Why today?”

  Chapter 11

   “Come on, wake up, Win,” a voice urged, shaking Kani from a dreamless sleep. “We're out of time. You have to move, right now!” Kani's eyes opened to see Petrov standing over him, a holdall in his hand, dressed in cold-weather gear. “Get this on, and come with me. If we're going to get out of here, we've got to go now.”