TROPHY

by Paul M. Schofield

  TROPHY

  Revised Edition

  By Paul M. Schofield

  www.paulmschofield.com

  Published by: Galactic Publishers

  North Carolina, USA

  Publisher’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Paul M. Schofield

  Cover photography and design by Ronda Birtha, www.rondabirtha.com.

  Image NGC7006, and M57 courtesy Hubble esa

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

  Zenkati Fusion Engine™, Laconian Lager™, Europa Spice Perfume™, Mercurian Musk Cologne™ are trademarks of Galactic Publishers.

  ISBN-13: 978-1468132755

  ISBN-10: 146813275X

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010907092

  Acknowledgements

  A novel is a long and strenuous effort, but ultimately rewarding and satisfying when one's labors finally come to fruition. The final result was not accomplished solely by me and I wish to mention all those who helped me along the way. My sincere thanks go to:

  Monica Harris, MHM Editorial Services, LLC, in New York City, mhm68@me.com, for her professional editing, insight, direction, and encouragement. She was a joy to work with.

  Ronda Birtha, the catalyst who inspired me to continue in this endeavor. I am grateful for her technological expertise in photography, graphics, editing, proofreading, prodding, and cheer leading. She is a gifted artist, writer, and good friend. www.rondabirtha.com.

  Laura Fitch, for getting the ball rolling by typing the first chapters into the computer.

  My loving family for all their encouragement, technical help, and emotional support. These include:

  Ellen, my wife, for her constant support, ideas, proofreading, and business and marketing efforts.

  Rachel, my daughter, for her creative ideas and proofreading.

  Jared, my son, for his thoughtful insight and proofreading.

  Kris, my sister, for her support, creative ideas, and timely proofreading.

  And finally: Norman Stark, for his initial instruction in our adult education creative writing class, Plantation, Florida, 1991.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the countless animals that are mistreated or die each day at the hands of man. Although their existence is viewed by many as simple and mundane, these precious lives, both large and small, are worth our esteem, protection and preservation.

  Chapter I

  Earth Date: 475 N.V.A.

  Location: Kuiper Belt: trans-Neptunian region

  Janet Rogerton studied the NAV screens. Her large blue-green eyes, tinged purple from years in space and artificial gravity, searched for the subtle clues that would locate a cloaked ship. “Kolanna, any anomalies or shimmers on the screens yet?” the young Lieutenant-Warden said to her pilot.

  “Nothing, Ma’am,” Kolanna said, looking over her instruments. “The particle-stream sensors show nothing. The Black Eagle has to be here, the coordinate models all say so.”

  “I don't like it. The squadron is bunched too tightly – we're sitting ducks. I know what our orders say, but I hate being the bait in the trap. The bait always gets bitten.”

  Kolanna turned to her. “I know what you mean, who'll take the first hit? Our shields are at minimum so we appear unsuspecting, but the first blow could be lethal. At least our cruiser is close, ready for action.”

  “I hope so. They're cloaked, too. I hope we're not caught in a cross-fire.”

  “Ma’am, the NAV screen is showing a shimmer on the starboard flank,” Warden Elizabeth Archer said.

  “Yes, I see it now.”

  “It comes and goes,” Archer said. “Now it's stronger – now weaker. Wait, stronger again. Is it our cruiser? Why would it be here? Stronger – stronger – large ship decloaking, weapons powering up! It’s firing, pulse-cannon and hyper-lasers!”

  “All shields to maximum!” Rogerton said to her squadron. “Evasive maneuvers, pattern Epsilon Two! Target his engines! Full power to all forward hyper-lasers!” Her attention was fixed on the NAV screens. “It's Bestmarke! We have him now if we can take out his shields!”

  “Bestmarke has targeted Ship Three!” Kolanna said. “Their shields are breaking down, almost gone!”

  “Cruiser decloaking behind Bestmarke.” Archer said. “Now we'll see some fire-power.”

  “Ship Three’s shields are gone!” Kolanna said. “Bestmarke is cutting them up with his hyper-lasers! We have to stop him!”

  The powerful weapons of the Victorian Cruiser Laurel blazed into action in a terrifying display of power. Brilliant crimson colored hyper-lasers chiseled away at the shields of the Black Eagle while the continuous blue pulses of the ion-cannons slammed his rear shields, weakening them, blow by blow.

  Suddenly the Black Eagle focused its formidable arsenal on the cruiser in a barrage of devastating energy. Its mighty fusion engines surged and it began to pull away from the Laurel. The deadly volleys of both ships continued to crackle and dance along the edges of their weakening shields.

  Rogerton was on the COM to her remaining nine ships. “Alpha Squadron, circle tight to his stern, target both engines! If the Laurel can break his shields, we can stop him. Go in straight and fast, pull up at the last second! Attack pattern Gamma Four!” Her own ship led the charge directly at the Black Eagle's screaming engines.

  “The shields of both ships are collapsing!” Kolanna said, her purple tinged eyes wide with adrenaline.

  “Concentrate your hyper-lasers on the port engine!” Rogerton said. “Then target the starboard engine. He'll pay for his attack!”

  “Pull up in five seconds!” Kolanna quickly said.

  All nine ships continued firing, breaking off at the last second. They angled out in a precision move, sweeping around in tight circles for another run at Bestmarke’s ship.

  “Port engine weakened,” Rogerton said. “Continue the pattern. His engines are powering up – watch his wake!”

  “The Laurel’s shields are collapsed.” Archer said. “They're continuing to attack, but now they're vulnerable.”

  “They're taking the heat, giving us one more chance,” Rogerton said. “Hit Bestmarke with everything you have!” All nine ships targeted Bestmarke’s fleeing ship.

  “The Laurel is hit!” Kolanna said. “They're losing power and falling behind!”

  “Bestmarke’s shields are gone!” Archer said. “His port engine is losing power!”

  “Brace for attack! He'll concentrate on us!” Rogerton said. “Target his engines! If you are hit once, break off, don't sacrifice yourself!” The small Patrol Class ships bore down on the Black Eagle as it increased its laser fire. “Ship Four – break off your attack!”

  “His engines are shutting down, now we have him!” Kolanna said. After a few seconds her hope was dashed. “He's cloaked again and running wave silent – he's disappeared.”

  “Calculate his trajectory and target your probe-bombs,” Rogerton said. “He'll make steering changes with his thrusters. Watch your particle-stream sensors and NAV screens. We've hurt him – don't give up now. Remember our Sisters on Ship Three and the Laurel.”

  **********

  After forty-eight hours of continuous pursuit Janet Rogerton was tired, she longed for sleep. Her frustration grew along with her anger. Anger was her last resort, her admission that sh
e couldn't think her way through a situation and keep her self-control. Anger must be harnessed and channeled, not through the heart, but through the mind. This was difficult for anyone, but for a trained officer of the New Victorian Empire it was expected.

  It was times like this that she wondered why she was in the Corps, perched on the edge of death and destruction. What drove her? Was it more than a family tradition of officers for more than half the New Victorian Era? She remembered the first time she put on her uniform, how it fit her tall, athletic frame so well. It was dark forest green with brass buttons and a distinctive badge by her left shoulder, signaling rank. The fine black and purple striping enhanced the color of her eyes. She remembered how proud she was at that first look in the mirror. Was she thinking of battle and death then? She sighed and ran her fingers through shoulder length auburn hair.

  The Planetary Control Corps, the military arm of the Empire, was stretched thin in this vast empty region of the outer Solar System. Rogerton's small squadron struggled to keep up with its normal duties of maintaining civil order, regulating trade, search and rescue. But the situation grew more complicated when criminal activity became the focus of attention. Here at the fringes of the Solar System, far from the central government on Earth, the darker elements of human society held more sway in a subtle and often hidden system of operations. Far from the sun, all life literally existed in darkness. Within that literal darkness the figurative gloom was easy to hide in.

  Galen Bestmarke had attacked her squadron, and Rogerton was still after him. He was wanted for crimes against the Empire, but their real goal was the capture of Bestmarke's eccentric engineer, now wanted alive by the Empire.

  “Kolanna, what is our ETA for the Keyhole?” Rogerton said. “Bestmarke is headed in that direction. He'll probably make a run for it.”

  “At full speed – about twenty minutes, without knowing the exact location.”

  “We have to position our squadron between Bestmarke and the Keyhole. It's our last chance to stop him. The Star-Commander ordered that Franelli be taken alive. I would rather destroy Bestmarke’s ship and be done with it. I'm tired of this cat and mouse game.”

  “I agree. Full thrust in ten seconds, on my mark. All crew members strap in,” Kolanna said. Her voice was mechanical, her exhaustion evident.

  The small ship trembled as the engine surged to full thrust and the g-forces settled the crew deeper into their gravity seats. Rogerton was on the COM system relaying orders to the remaining ships in the squadron. “Ships two and six, continue your advance with the probe bombs. All other ships – fan out and continue the same general heading at full speed. The target is probably headed for the Keyhole. Remember, Franelli must be taken alive. Full alert until further notice. That is all.”

  She made a final sweep of her instruments and NAV screens. With a deep sigh she leaned back in her gravity seat and closed her eyes, content to savor even ten minutes of sleep.

  **********

  Galen Bestmarke stared at the NAV screens. “Fifteen lousy minutes,” he said, pulling at the collar of his charcoal colored jacket. His ship shuddered as probe bombs detonated nearby. After a two day chase they were closing in. His ship was invisible behind his cloak but the searching pattern of explosions was growing closer. “Louis, are you done repairing those circuits? We have to fire up the engines now!” he said, raising his voice, his face beginning to flush.

  Chief engineer Louis Franelli answered slowly without looking at him. “I’m almost finished, boss. I have to get it right the first time. Those PCC ships won’t give us a second chance.” He was exhausted and scowled at Galen. “It wasn’t me that got us in this ridiculous situation in the first place!”

  “Just fix it!” Galen said, his face and neck reddening.

  Space exploded close behind them and the ship shuddered violently as Louis rushed to finish his repairs.

  “Hurry up, somehow they've narrowed us down.”

  “Calm down, Brother, and give Louis some room to think,” Terran said, trying to defuse the tension. Full partner, ship’s pilot, and Galen’s identical twin, Terran was emotionally his opposite. “Louis is right, you know. You got us into this mess. You just had to take a shot at those PCC ships, didn’t you?” Terran looked him straight in the eyes. “We could have coasted right on by, fully cloaked and undetected.”

  “How did I know a cloaked Victorian cruiser was with them? They got a lucky shot at us, that’s all! But we nailed their cruiser, didn’t we?”

  “It was more than luck, Brother. They skillfully broke down our shields and knew just where to hit us. Their technology has improved and we have grown lax. Only our speed and our cloak saved us. And only Louis can get us out of trouble now.”

  “It was still a lucky shot!” Galen said. “Hurry up, Louis!”

  Terran rolled his eyes and sighed. “I'll be glad when this expedition of yours is finished. Then we can start making money again. Ever since Louis made it possible for us to use the Keyhole, you have been obsessed with your collection.”

  “This will be the final trip for my collection,” Galen said. He paused and took a deep breath. “After this we can concentrate on business again. Don't forget, this trip is our concluding test before we implement our human relocation program. Once that's underway we will have more power and money than you ever dreamed possible! I promise!”

  “You promise – right. How many times have I heard that?”

  “No! I promise! This will be...”

  “Cloak down! Shields up!” Louis said. The great ship trembled from the fierce explosion of a probe bomb hitting the rear shields, now fully operational.

  “The shields better be working, Louis!” Galen said, veins bulging in his neck. “Why did you drop the cloak? Now every ship in the region will see us!”

  Louis turned from his screens and stared at him with a measured silence, finally answering in his deep voice. “That probe bomb would have hit us, so I dropped the cloak and raised the shields. I had just finished repairing the circuits with a few seconds to spare. That gave us a comfortable margin.”

  “You call a few seconds a comfortable margin? You're sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Louis maintained his piercing stare. “Boss, the circuits held, the shields are intact, the probe bomb exploded harmlessly. There is no problem.”

  “Right,” Galen said, looking down at his NAV screens for a moment. “You’re good, Louis. You’re good. But don’t scare me like that.” Galen glanced at him again, his wide mouth and thick lips turning up to reveal white teeth, trimmed at the edges with gold. The ship shuddered again as another probe bomb hit the rear shields.

  “We need to lose these patrol ships now! Begin the engine start-up sequence.”

  “Start-up sequence commencing,” Louis said. He turned away, a faint smile forming on his haggard face.

  Galen scanned the NAV screens. His ship was twelve minutes from the Keyhole and the PCC ships were desperate to stop him. He cursed the Empire for its controls, regulations, and constant harassment. He had a gauntlet before him and hoped his ship was up to the challenge.

  Chapter II

  Galen flipped the COM switch. “Stelle! Are you and the pouncer connected, ready for action?”

  “Yes,” came from the defense control cube located in the front of the ship. Estelle Fairfield, a guider, was strapped and wired into her control seat next to her partner, Tommie, a five kilogram orange striped tabby cat, also known as a pouncer.

  They were a mentally-linked defensive team designed to protect the ship from incoming projectiles. The ship’s energy shields were effective against the probe bombs, lasers, and other beam weapons, but the projectile weapons were increasingly more difficult to counter. The combined consciousness of the feline-human mind-link was superior to control strictly by computer, but a strong bond was essential for a guider and pouncer to work smoothly together. If a guider did not love cats, the pouncer sensed it, dooming the chemistry of the partnership. The
re was no faking it.

  Estelle wore a wireless head-gear set that was strapped over her short, blond hair. A tiny chip had been implanted surgically near her brain-stem creating a direct, wireless interface between her central nervous system and the head-gear she wore. This arrangement connected her to the ship’s central computer. Tommie was connected in a similar manner and then strapped into a special seat to prevent any movement. When the interface between Estelle and Tommie was activated, they were essentially of the same mind and interconnected to the ship’s main computer. This enabled them to make instant decisions to defend the ship.

  The concept of a human-animal mind link was first discovered by a Guardian a century ago who had owned an exceptionally intelligent and responsive pet cat. Her studies and those of scientists after her had led to the development of one of the Empire's most useful tools. Of all the domestic animals researched and tested at CENTRAL, cats were the overwhelming choice for this kind of training. They easily accepted space travel. Most ships allowed and encouraged cats because they helped control the vermin that always found a way aboard. But the Thought Modified and Controlled training, known as TMC, was limited to just the few meeting the rigorous requirements. One of the key requirements was their ability to think of doing things without the actual physical movement. With special training that modified their thought processes, some cats could accomplish this, remaining motionless while in their minds they were running, pouncing, and killing their prey. Most cats could not separate these actions and remained normal cats with all their associated movement.

  TMC cats could be trained to achieve various skill levels and were given a rating from one to seven. Tommie was a seven, one of the best. But even properly trained cats needed guiding and control, they could sometimes panic or behave erratically. A competent guider could do wonders with a properly controlled pouncer. Guiders were selected women who were mentally matched with the cats, always for the life of the cat. Estelle had been matched with Tommie for three standard years and it was necessary to maintain daily training sessions. During these sessions their thought processes were harmonized in an interactive program much like a game. Estelle would guide and encourage Tommie through the game, giving him commands and exercises to keep him mentally sharp, and their relationship one of affection and trust. During a real situation Tommie would continue seeing the program as a game. Only Estelle would know the true danger at hand. She was trained to control and suppress any feelings of fear or panic and to mentally project calmness and well-being. This promoted stability and defused any panic situations, as far as the cat was concerned. Training sessions were at random times to prevent any regularity or anticipation of their time together. As a defense team they had to be ready at all times.