Starship Valor (The Galactic Wars Book 5)

by Tripp Ellis

  “I'm incinerating this once we reach the surface," Tyler said. He stuffed the specimen container in his pack.

  "You can't do that. You are under orders.”

  “My orders are to recover Dr. Noble,” Tyler said. “The UIA didn't say anything about the specimen jar.” Tyler leaned into him. “Or you, for that matter.”

  “I don't think anybody's going to miss this cat," Faulkner said. “If something were to happen to him.”

  Sweat was beading off Elliott’s forehead. "You can't kill me,” he said, incredulous.

  Tyler and Faulkner just grinned. They had no intention of killing him, but Elliott didn't know that. Might as well have a little fun with him.

  “It doesn't matter,” Elliott said. “Holly will re-engineer these things.”

  “No. I won't."

  “I plan on noting your insubordination in my report,” Elliot said to Tyler. “I’ll have you stripped of rank and put in the brig for the rest of your life.”

  Tyler chuckled. “Good luck with that."

  Elliott struggled against his bonds, but he wasn't going anywhere.

  Tyler checked his watch again. His eyes darted around, studying the construction of the command center. Then his eyes found Dr. Noble. "Are you sure this structure is going to hold?"

  “We’re 2.9 miles underground. This facility is carved out of solid rock and reinforced with composite steel.”

  “That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

  Holly shrugged. “It should be able to withstand the blast.”

  “That's not a yes.”

  “There are no absolutes in life. You should know that by now, Ensign.” She had a glimmer in her eye. There was something flirtatious about her sassiness. Maybe she was doing it to piss Weston off. She was a good looking woman. She could flirt all she wanted, Tyler thought. He didn’t mind.

  The four of them waited in silence. It was awkward and uncomfortable. An ominous feeling of inevitability filled the room. It was like being on a freight train speeding toward a cliff. Five minutes passed. Then five more. It felt like hours. Tyler lost track of time.

  The chemical storage tanks exploded.

  The blast ripped through the layers of rock. The command center jolted and swayed. The quake would have registered 20 on a scale of 10. Tyler and the others were bounced around the command center like ping-pong balls.

  One of the support beams buckled and collapsed. The roof caved in. Chunks of rock slammed down through the breach in the ceiling. It seemed like the quaking was going to go on forever. When it finally stopped, the air was filled with dust. The command center was in chaos, littered with debris.

  The main lighting was out. A few moments later, emergency lighting came up. There was enough backup battery power to keep the command center operational for months. CO2 scrubbers provided fresh, recycled air.

  Tyler staggered to his feet, hacking up dirt from his lungs. His eyes found Dr. Noble on the ground a few feet away. He rushed to her. “Are you okay?”

  She fumbled for her broken glasses. One of the lenses was webbed with cracks. “I’m fine,” she said with a scratchy voice. She coughed a few times.

  Tyler helped her stand. She slipped on her glasses and looked around.

  The sight of her broken glasses brought a terrifying thought into Tyler's mind—the specimen container. He felt his pulse rise as a wave of panic washed over his body. He frantically dug through his pack.

  The specimen container was still in one piece.

  Tyler breathed a sigh of relief.

  Painful moans filled the air. Tyler recognized the voice.

  “Faulkner?” Tyler yelled.

  Faulkner moaned again.

  Tyler staggered through the debris to find Faulkner crushed under a fallen support beam. He knelt down and felt for a pulse in his neck. He felt a faint blip on his fingertips.

  Tyler grimaced. “Hang in there, buddy.”

  The fallen beam had punctured Faulkner’s chest. Even if Tyler could lift it, Faulkner would bleed out in seconds. The beam was probably the only thing keeping him alive.

  Tyler pulled a med kit from his pack. He fumbled for some pain medication and injected Faulkner’s arm.

  “You're going to be okay. Just hang in there.” Tyler gripped Faulkner's hand.

  "Liar." His voice was thin and raspy. "Say it. Just one time."

  Tyler forced a smile. His eyes welled. “Let's get this party started," he said in his action movie voice.

  Faulkner smiled. Then his hand went limp. His eyes fixed at the ceiling, and his last breath escaped his lips.

  Tyler grimaced as a tear flowed down his cheek.

  Elliott had been thrown onto the floor. He was beginning to stir and moan. His nose was bleeding. He hit the ground face first. With his hands tied behind his back, he had no way to brace himself against the violent quaking. “Help me. I think my arm is broken."

  Tyler wanted to let the little rat bastard suffer. He wiped his eyes and stood up, then moved toward Elliott.

  Dr. Noble knelt beside Weston and looked over his arm.

  Elliott screamed in pain as she touched him.

  “I think he's got a broken ulna,” Holly said.

  “Maybe he’s faking,” Tyler poked at Elliot’s arm just to watch him whine.

  He squealed again. “Ow! Goddamnit!”

  “I think we should cut him loose," Dr. Noble said.

  Tyler scoffed at the idea.

  “It’s not like he’s much of a threat. Look at him. He's pathetic.”

  Elliott frowned.

  Tyler scowled at Weston, then pulled his tactical knife from its sheath. It was an imposing looking weapon. Black anodized steel blade. Serrations on the spine. A razor sharp edge.

  Weston’s eyes went wide.

  Tyler cut through the zip ties around Elliott’s wrist like they were paper.

  Weston screamed with pain again as the tension was released.

  Tyler cut through the restraints on Elliott’s ankles. “You're already on my bad side. If I get anymore trouble from you, you're going to get to know this blade a whole lot better."

  Tyler stood up and marched toward the entrance. But the main door was jammed. The frame had buckled under the force. Tyler strained to pry it open by hand, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Dr. Noble helped Weston to his feet. She escorted him to the medical center. It was fully equipped to treat common injuries suffered by the miners. Sprains, abrasions, contusions, broken bones, concussions. A diagnostic scan revealed a simple fracture of the ulna. Dr. Noble was able to set the bone and apply a cast within the med center. She also injected Elliot’s arm with pain medication and a regenerative compound that would speed up the healing process. He’d be as good as new in a few days. Actually better than new—the bone would heal stronger.

  “How does that feel?” she asked.

  Weston smiled. “I can’t feel a thing. Thank you.”

  Holly returned a thin smile.

  Weston was silent a moment, then let out a deep exhale. “Look, I’m sorry. I think you’re right. This technology is probably too dangerous.”

  “Probably?”

  “I mean, you can’t deny it has merit. This has been your life’s work.”

  "Yes. And I thought I was doing some good. I thought this might be away to protect mankind. But after what’s happened here…”

  “Every weapons program has setbacks,” Elliott said.

  "This is a little more than a setback."

  "I just don't want you to give up on the project entirely."

  “Weston, you've already dug yourself a hole. Don't make it worse.” Dr. Noble strolled out of the med center and found Tyler. He was still trying to pry open the main door.

  “I’m sorry about Faulkner,” Dr. Noble said.

  Tyler frowned. “Thanks.” His voice was bleak. “He was a damn good Reaper.”

  “I feel like this is all my fault.” Her crestfallen eyes filled. “I just thought I was doing
something to help mankind. But all I’ve done is make a mess.” Her head fell into her hands.

  Tyler watched her for a moment as she quietly broke down. “If you are depressed, you are living in the past. If you are anxious, you are living in the future. If you are at peace, you are living in the present.”

  Holly looked at him like he was crazy.

  “Lao Tzu. The father of Taoism.”

  “I must say, that's not exactly what I expected from you."

  Tyler shrugged. "Even Reapers can have a spiritual side.”

  “So, Mr. philosopher. Are you at peace right now?"

  Tyler grinned. “No. Actually, I'm a little anxious, if you want to know the truth. I'm worried about the future and being stuck in this command center. Is there any other way out of here?"

  “One way in. One way out."

  “Well, that was genius."

  "Don't look at me. I had nothing to do with the design of this place."

  Tyler pulled a small handheld plasma torch from his pack. He pulled down his tactical goggles to protect his eyes, then he began cutting through the mangled steel door.

  Sparks showered as the plasma cut through the metal. It took a few minutes to cut out a rectangle in the door. After it cooled, Tyler pried the plate of steel free. It slammed against the floor. Loose rocks tumbled into the command center from the opening. The entrance was still blocked by boulders and debris.

  Tyler deflated. It didn't look like they were going to be getting out of the command center anytime soon.

  “We’re going to have to dig our way out." Tyler tried to sound optimistic. But the boulders blocking the exit were massive. More than a person could lift by hand. Without a team of people, and adequate tools to break up the rocks, escape was looking hopeless.

  45

  Walker

  The Revenant emerged from slide-space at Auva Prime. The robots’ mega-structure was easily 150 miles in diameter—a floating colony in space. The design was sleek with modular geometric shapes. It was a remarkable piece of engineering.

  Slade stood in the CIC and watched the LRADDS display. Several enemy warships approached. She had been off in her estimates of the strength of the synthetics’ fleet. There were nearly double the number of warships she had anticipated. To make matters worse, the Decluvians were nowhere to be found. The odds just went from challenging to impossible.

  Slade had a tough decision to make—stand and fight, or run and live to fight another day. Everything about the situation was bad. It screamed retreat. She watched the warships close in on the LRADDS display.

  “What are your orders, Admiral?" Zoey asked.

  Slade's pensive face stared at the display. Several inbound nukes raced across the star field. The Revenant’s Mark 25 turrets swiveled into action. The cannons thundered as they peppered the star field with armor penetrating super-sabot rounds.

  “Fire Control, target the inbound warships. Fire everything we’ve got,” Slade said.

  “Sir, I don’t think the Decluvians are coming,” Zoey said.

  “Then this is where we die. Launch all fighters!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Zoey relayed the order.

  The fighters were ready and waiting on the flight deck, and dozens of pilots scurried toward them.

  “Commander Clark,” Presley Johnson yelled. “What about me?”

  She was 17, and was graduating high school this year—only there wasn’t a school left to go back to. She had narrowly escaped the destruction of New Earth, and the Revenant had become her new home. Presley had demonstrated some piloting skill, and the ever present need for good pilots gave her an opportunity to join the squadron, despite her lack of formal training. She had a few classes in high school, the equivalent of driver's ed. But she had been spending every free moment in the Phoenix, trying to make her hours. She was a fast learner, and she wanted to fly fighters. It normally took years of training. Intensive studying at the Advanced Fighter Weapons School. You had to work your way up the ladder. But wartime demands created opportunities that wouldn’t normally exist.

  “You’ve barely had any flight training,” 8-Ball said

  “I’ve got 42 hours in the Phoenix.”

  “That’s barely anything.”

  “It’s enough, sir.”

  “Kid, most of us aren’t coming back from this one. Sit it out, that’s an order.” Commander Clark put on his helmet—it had an 8-Ball painted on it. He dashed toward his fighter.

  Presley stood on the deck eyeing the Phoenix. She knew they were going to need every vehicle out there fighting—even if it was an old gunship relegated to flight training.

  Cameron sprinted across the deck and climbed into the cockpit of his VXR-9 Stingray—a sleek black fighter that was one of the fastest and most versatile tactical space fighters in the galaxy.

  His callsign, Momma’s Boy, was emblazoned on the fuselage. He used to hate the callsign, but now he wore it like a badge of honor. He was damn proud of his mother. He didn’t care anymore if he ever lived up to her legacy. He was just going to do his job and be the best pilot he could be. And hopefully, today, that would be good enough.

  The fighter ran through its preflight checks— all systems clear. The deck crew gave him the thumbs up. The cockpit was pressurized. Cameron secured his helmet and buckled his safety harness.

  Flight control cleared him for launch.

  Cameron gripped the joystick and engaged the thrusters. The catapult launched him across the deck and flung him into space. Zero to 260 kilometers per hour in less than a second. The force slammed him back against the seat and pushed his skin taught against his skull. It was like a bad facelift.

  Dozens of fighters launched and quickly fell into a combat spread. Cameron's stomach fluttered. Hundreds of enemy fighters were launching from the oncoming warships. The odds were so tilted against them, he almost had to laugh.

  Cameron put aside the notion of ever returning to the Revenant. This was a one-way trip. He, and the rest of the squadron, knew it.

  “Alright,” 8-Ball shouted over the comm line. “Let’s make them earn it.”

  The squadron prepared to face the onslaught. Nearly a hundred Stingrays dotted the star field. The number paled in comparison to the swarms of fighters flowing from the enemy warships.

  On the flight deck of the Revenant, Commander Walker marched toward the last of the SRV-707 Specters. He was wearing a War-Tek T 6000. It was a self-contained, pressurized suit of full body armor. Made of a composite nano-fiber polymer, it was light, nimble, and bullet resistant. The atmosphere re-processor allowed 48 hours of continuous air supply. The visor had a heads-up-display that provided tactical information, targeting, vital statistics, and interfaced with the UPDF mil-net. But they weren't cheap. At 1.6 billion credits each, they were in limited supply. And with the current state of affairs, they weren't making anymore of them. But one day, these suits would change the face of modern warfare.

  In his backpack, Walker had several mobile thermonuclear warheads. Each one had a blast yield of 20 megatons—20,000 times more powerful than the bomb dropped on Nagasaki.

  Walker marched up the ramp. He pressed a button on the bulkhead and closed it behind him. He slid off his pack and set it in the copilot seat as he slid behind the controls. Then he programed the jump coordinates. It was the most crucial part of the mission. The slightest screw up could put him in the middle of the mega-structure.

  The distance of the jump had to be measured precisely from his current location to his intended location. He didn't have any margin for error. And with both objects in motion, there was a lot of guesswork. The computer had to calculate the movement of both objects and create a future position probability solution. Then the jump had to be executed at precisely the right moment.

  Walker engaged the thrusters and lifted from the deck. He eased forward and glided out of the bay. It was safer to put some distance between the Specter and the Revenant—no sense in taking a chunk of the flight
deck with him when he made the quantum jump. He let the computer handle the calculations and make the jump at precisely the right moment.

  He looked out the window and could see the chaos ensue as the Stingrays engaged the slew of enemy fighters. They were insanely outnumbered. He had a sinking feeling of doom.

  The bulkheads rippled and warbled. Walker felt his stomach twist in knots. The Specter vanished. A moment later it materialized, partially embedded into the robots’ mega-structure. Walker looked down—the mega-structure’s hull cut through the deck of the Specter. A few inches more and Walker would have lost his feet.

  46

  Tyler

  Dr. Noble disappeared down the hallway. She returned a few moments later with a spray tank and two respirator masks. “Here, put this on. You don't want to breathe this stuff.”

  They both donned the masks.

  “What is that?" Tyler's voice mumbled through the respirator.

  "It's a microbial agent that dissolves rock.” She aimed the nozzle at the boulders and sprayed them with the liquid, coating them thoroughly.

  “How long does it take to work?"

  She pointed at the rock which seemed to be melting away. Tyler's eyes widened. The rock was turning into a fine powder.

  “The microbes eat the rock and excrete waste particles."

  “You mean that dust is microbe shit?"

  "That's one way of putting it."

  As the boulders dissolved, the pile of rocks shifted and fell. Tyler hopped out of the way as one careened toward his foot.

  A gap had opened up among the boulders. It was almost enough to squeeze through. Tyler was going to try to climb out, but Dr. Noble stopped him. “You might want to let those microbes finish doing their thing first. They could be a skin irritant. And by the looks of you, your skin is pretty irritated already."

  Tyler’s skin was raw and flaking.

  "There's some ointment in the med lab that might help. You might want to see if the showers in the locker room work. If we are going to be stuck here until a rescue ship comes, might as well make the best of it.”