Second Earth

by Stephen A. Fender

  “I’m not getting much, Raven. There’s some kind of localized ion disturbance in the area. I’m picking up the Agincourt, but she’s as cold as a fish.”

  Caitlin Hayes, monitoring all comm traffic from the Rhea, jumped into the Rippers’ signal. “This is Commander Hayes. Can you explain that statement any further, Lieutenant?”

  Jefferies was caught off-guard by the image of the Rhea’s operations officer on his vid-screen, but he recovered quickly. “There’s no heat signature of any kind, and no signs of power, internal or external. No life signs, either.”

  Roslyn took a moment to process the information. “What about the hull? Is there any damage?”

  Jefferies had his limited sensor computers construct a simple three-dimensional hologram of the Agincourt. As he watched it spin slowly in the space between his chest and the instrument console, his eyes caught sight of an irregularity on the front end of the destroyer’s bow. He held out a hand, stopping the spinning model in mid-turn, then zoomed in on the stricken bow of the destroyer; there before his eyes was a large hole burned right into it.

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s a whopper of a hole, right on the bow. I’d say it’s about fifty…maybe sixty feet in diameter. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “What about the recon squadron? What happened to Mitchell and the Black Lions?”

  Jefferies made several sweeps of the immediate area, but found very little to show for it. “I’m afraid I’ve got nothing here, Commander. They were probably very near the intruder when that weapon discharged. If the front hull of the Agincourt is any indication of the initial damage that alien can delve out, then our recon squadron didn’t stand a chance. I’m guessing they were atomized within the first half-second or so.”

  “Damn,” Roslyn swore on the net. She regarded the intruder with a renewed sense of distaste and disgust. “Has the enemy vessel made any further aggressive moves?”

  “Negative,” The Brain offered back. “Intruder is motionless.”

  “Drake,” she called to the squadron’s tactical officer. “Suggestions?”

  As tactical officer for the Rippers, Drake was weighing their next moves heavily. With all the options that would normally have been available to them, however, there was very little to reference in their current situation.

  “Whatever kind of weapon it’s using, it probably can’t track small fighters. The only reason our craft were disabled or destroyed was because they were in the weapon’s periphery. It probably draws a significant amount of energy to fire, considering they haven’t made any further aggressive moves against us, nor have they increased speed to intercept the Rhea.”

  “Sounds pretty logical to me,” Jerry replied. “So what’s it all mean?”

  Drake’s voice was calm and level. “It means that if we want to attack, we need to do it before that thing decides to take a bite out of the carrier.”

  Lieutenant Junior-Grade Gunderson was the next to speak. “That’s all well and good, but what if all we do is make it mad? I mean, one blast of that cannon could wipe out the whole fighter wing.”

  “Someday your pessimism is going to get the best of you, Weasel,” Jerry Santorum called out.

  “We don’t have much of a choice, Weasel,” Roslyn said. “We need to defend this position until we’re ordered to do otherwise.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Gunderson replied halfheartedly. “But I can already tell this isn’t going to end well.”

  “Just keep your eyes open,” Brunel injected. “Rippers, form up on my wing into an attack formation. McAllister, send out a fleet-wide broadcast signal to all squadrons: move in and fire at will.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bagpipes responded.

  In space, high above the ravaged surface of Second Earth below, the hundred-strong fighter wing of the USCS Rhea lined up abreast of one another, forming a firing line meant to pummel the intruder into oblivion. With a simple signal from Lieutenant Commander Brunel, the entire wing opened fire with long-range missiles.

  Hundreds of plasma trails lit up the darkness as the warheads streaked toward their target, and as the first missiles from the Unified forces impacted squarely against the hull of the still-unidentified alien vessel, small lights began to illuminate in the cracks and crevices along the port and starboards sides of the intruder. At first there was jubilation in the Sector Command forces, as they felt they had dealt the enemy a crippling blow.

  All at once those elations were quenched as a horde of small fighters poured out of the intruder like a swarm of bees attacking an invader. The enemy’s missiles, trailing a noxious-looking green vapor, streaked through the darkness and slammed into several of the Unified Interceptors that had earnestly begun to rush into the battle, destroying them in seconds as the two forces began to clash in a galactic free-for-all.

  * * *

  Shawn entered the empty hangar deck with little fanfare. The cavernous hold, appearing even larger without the fighters or other craft present, was eerily quiet as he stepped toward his fighter. To his surprise, it seemed that either the disgruntled flight chief—or someone else—had seen to getting the ship ready for launch. All the craft’s hard points had been outfitted with various types of weaponry, and Shawn marveled at the combined destructive power he was about to wield for the first time since the Galactic War had been waged.

  In space, there was little need for the aerodynamics a traditional wing would provide in atmospheric flight. However, the craft still needed to carry multiple types of projectile weaponry, and so far no one had come up with a better idea for their placement. Several years ago, Unified R&D had toyed with the idea of storing all the weapons internally in specially designed bays near the center of the fuselage. This idea was quickly abandoned when several incidents had occurred that rendered the bay doors inoperative, making the craft’s entire arsenal of heavy weaponry completely unusable. There were, of course, still the pulse cannons and Gatling guns—both highly effective at close range—but modern pilots were taught to use the tactical advantage of distance that the infinite size of space easily afforded. The close-range weapons tended to be regarded as weapons of last resort.

  After inserting his IDC into the slot, Shawn heard the computerized voice spring from the micro speakers in his helmet. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Commander Kestrel. Ready for query.”

  “Initiate the engines and bring the short-range sensors online.” He held his breath, wondering if the computer would again deny his request. He was delighted to see that his fears were unfounded as the computer replied to his command almost instantly.

  “Acknowledged. Engine initiators online and charging. Reactor core temperature at five hundred twelve degrees and rising. Thermolytic fission inducers on standby. Waveguide transceiver online. Sensor director array online.” With a slight whine, the craft began to hum with power as all her systems slowly came to life.

  When the computer had finished its readout, Shawn flipped a series of holographic switches on a secondary screen and brought up a diagram of the craft’s heavy armament: three infrared rockets on the pylons closest to the fuselage; a pair of micro-missile launchers—one on each of the center pylons—capable of firing fifteen plasma rockets; and on the outermost pylons, two photonic missiles, powered by a plasma-fusion hybrid propellant that gave them a tremendous speed. Shawn accessed the close-in weapons controls on his holographic HUD, initiating the nose-mounted neutron Gatling guns and the parallel-mounted pulse cannons.

  The bizarre silence that surrounded his fighter made the entire moment surreal. In a brief flash of sanity, Shawn wondered again what he was doing in this cockpit and on this carrier. For an instant, the controls of the fighter looked completely foreign to him, and he scanned from left to right in the cramped space looking for something—anything—that made sense to him. It wasn’t until he caught sight of the landing strut lever, just forward of his seat and to the left, that everything started to fall back into place. He pressed the last of the preflight controls: th
e switch that would link his communications with the Rhea’s combat information center—as well as with the rest of the combat wing.

  He quickly heard a dozen voices, most of them overlapping one another as they called out various battle orders. He heard the flight control officer, Commander Hayes, give out formational orders to have 301st Shamrocks and the 307th Gunfighters form up together and flank the enemy fighters in quadrant L-16, which Shawn knew to be the port-forward side of the Rhea. Caitlin parsed out several more battle orders, first to the Devil Dogs, then to the Rippers’ sister squadron of Maelstrom fighters, the Red Skulls.

  It was after those orders that Shawn distinctly heard Roslyn’s voice, asking with a worried tone when she was going to receive backup. Not caring to wait for authorization from CIC, Shawn Kestrel knew it was his time to launch. Although it had only been a few minutes since he had climbed into his craft, he knew that every one of them had counted. He turned on the null gravity plates that lined the underside of his sleek fighter, causing the already-light craft to hover a few feet off the deck. Moving with a grace only capable from a mind-linked fighter which used built-in receptors in his helmet, Shawn nursed the Maelstrom into pre-launch position on the forwardmost magnetic pulse catapult. He flipped on the automatic launch controls as the Rhea’s computer took control of his fighter. The thrusters made marginal adjustments, and then Shawn’s craft hung motionless, the hundred-yard-long semi-circular launch tube dominating his entire field of view.

  “Flight control, this is Ripper one-zero-three requesting launch.”

  A three-dimensional image of Commander Hayes appeared over the centermost display in front of Shawn.

  “Ripper one-zero-three, stand by. There seems to be a malfunction in the guide beam.”

  The guide beam was designed to keep the fighter on a straight course as a magnetic acceleration wave pushed the craft down the length of the launch tube. If the guide beam failed, it was entirely possible that the fighter could impact the side walls of the launch tube, and that would ruin just about anyone’s day.

  But Shawn Kestrel wasn’t just anyone, and he needed to get to Roslyn’s position as soon as possible.

  “No time to wait, Commander Hayes.” Shawn slipped the copy of the access card Melissa had handed him earlier into a slot in the fighter.

  “Ready for query, Lieutenant Commander Kestrel.” The voice, no longer female, now sounded more like a British butler.

  “Order the Rhea’s computers to override the safety protocols on launch tube seven.”

  “Command sent. However, course guide beam is down. A launch at this time would be ill-advised.”

  “That’s not my concern. Initiate the mag-catapult.”

  “Understood. Command sent. Stand by for launch.”

  Finally, a computer that takes orders like it should.

  Waves of magnetically driven pulses rippled down from the opening of the launch tube. Shawn could see them coming quickly, warping and twisting the visible spectrum of the overhead lights as if they were submerged in a pool of water. He instinctively tightened his abdominal muscles as he prepared for the push into space. Just as the waves were about to overtake the nose of his craft, the computer’s simulated voice called back into his helmet. “Launch in three…two…one. Mark.”

  Melissa Graves, short of breath from running through more corridors than she could count, arrived in the hangar area just as Shawn’s fighter was about to launch.

  At the same moment she’d entered the hangar, the pulse wave fully overtook the interceptor, then instantly reversed its course just as the Rhea’s launch computer released the craft from its proverbial anchor. The result was instantaneous. The wave, assisted by the fighter’s engines, pushed at the stern of the Maelstrom in a flash of brilliant light, rocketing the craft to impossible speeds as it barreled down the launch tube. The Maelstrom didn’t offer a single shudder as it slid along the tube and was ejected into the void.

  The rush of air from the wave tousled Melissa’s hair, and she had to hold the majority of it back as she watched the fighter depart.

  “Shawn Kestrel,” she said quietly to the now-empty space. “You’d better take care of yourself and come back alive.”

  Once clear of the Rhea, Shawn turned the fighter to port, quickly reveling in the freedom of open space once more. The celebration was short-lived. Just as he finished his turn, he watched as two Seminole fighters burst into flames under the onslaught from four of the alien fighters. Their debris pelted the side of his craft, causing no apparent damage. Shawn pushed his fighter full forward, narrowly avoiding a collision with the unusual-looking forms that sped past his canopy.

  Shawn watched out his canopy as the two forces engaged once another, and in the chaos that ensued he realized with abhorrence that war had once again come to the Beta Quadrant.

  Chapter 9

  Shawn brought the nose of his fighter up to get a clearer visual of the combat area. In front of him he could see the swarm of fighters—both friend and foe—pulsing and flowing around one another in the silent dance that was space combat. He quickly touched the matrix display to his left, bringing up his midrange radar and sensor output. He wanted to link up with the rest of his squadron, but he feared it might be difficult as he rapidly neared the fray.

  On the screen before him was a highlighted blue circle, about twelve inches in diameter, which showed each of the craft in a fifty-mile radius around his fighter. None of the enemy craft had made it behind his position, which was now just over halfway between the Rhea and the still-unidentified enemy carrier.

  Is the alien vessel a carrier? he asked himself. It had given the outward appearance of a cruiser, or perhaps a large destroyer. But that was before it had released its own protective screen of fighters. Shawn looked at the screen, watching what seemed like evenly matched forces battle it out in the vacuum of space, high above the blue-white gem known as Second Earth.

  I wonder if the intruder has committed all its forces as the Rhea has, or is it still holding another attack wing in reserve inside its bulk? There was no way to know for certain. In any event, Shawn knew he could only deal with what was in front of him. The rest would come as it may.

  He gripped the control stick with his right hand, conscious of the way the handle’s non-slip surface felt through his black glove. His grip wasn’t too tight, as a rookie might hold it; nor was it too loose, the sure sign of overconfidence in a machine that was, after all, built by fallible beings. The air inside the cockpit was a comfortable sixty-eight degrees, which afforded him the ability to keep the transparent blast shield of his helmet in the upright position. In the event he would need to eject, or jettison the forward half of the ship’s fuselage, his mask would instantly fold down to protect him.

  Shawn’s left hand hovered over the T-shaped throttle control, not at all dissimilar to ancient airplanes or their more modern relatives that many planet-dwellers still seemed to enjoy as a pastime. He slid the handle back toward him, reveling in the near-silent thrust the ion drivers provided. His thoughts again drifted back to the early lighter than air craft and their now-primitive methods of propulsion. Long gone were the clunky, noisy, fossil-fuel-driven reciprocating engines of the past. Modern enthusiasts appreciated the peace and quiet of magnetic induction drive if they yearned for a propeller to haul them aloft. Shawn much preferred the ion drive of his Maelstrom; a highly modified but very similar system to the one that propelled his one true love, his Sylvia’s Delight. No…no fighter could ever take her place in his heart. However, this wasn’t the time or place for his beautifully worn-down, somewhat temperamental but highly reliable Mark-IV transport. This was a time for fighters, when he needed the speed and maneuverability that only an interceptor could provide. D would still be there waiting for him, assuming the carrier was still there when this was all over.

  The radar display in front of him pivoted as his craft banked slightly to starboard, and in the field of multi-colored icons representing the various squa
drons from the Rhea, the familiar glowing yellow glyphs that represented his Rippers came into view. The first craft he saw was Ripper-Two, Raven’s craft. Shawn reached for the glyph on the screen and tapped it, opening a secure communications channel with his executive officer.

  “Raven, this is Hawk. I have you on my scope at two miles.”

  “Stand by, Skipper,” she said.

  On his radar, Shawn noticed a red blip representing an enemy craft just in front of her ship. He watched as Roslyn unleashed a short-range missile that gracefully obliterated the craft. A half-second later her voice came back over the tactical communications network.

  “Glad you could make it out here, boss,” she said with obvious delight. “What on Third Earth took you so long?”

  “I got held up by some paperwork. Status report, Commander?”

  “Not good,” her voice was crestfallen. “We…we lost Satellite about three minutes ago. Weasel is down, but not out. He’s limping back to the carrier now—and under extreme protest, I might add.”

  Combat pilots had little time to mourn the loss of their friends while they were still engaged in the fighting. That was reserved for later—if there was to be a later. Shawn made no exception to that age-old rule at this time. “Understood. What about the rest of the space wing?”

  “The ELINTs of the Star Kings have been cut in half, so the Discoverers are pulling double-duty to get us as much intel as they can manage. Our electronic jamming force has been knocked in half. We lost half the Sparks and most of the Shockers in the first few seconds, not that their efforts were all that effective.”

  Shawn knew that her remarked carried no insult intended for their fallen comrades. It simply meant that this new enemy was somehow immune to their current way of deploying electronic countermeasures. Still, to hear of the loss of dozens of craft and even more good officers, he became even more resolute. He swore he would not let those pilots have fallen in vain.