How Far the Stars (The Star Scout Saga Book 5)

by GARY DARBY

  Deklon nodded in understanding, “I know.” He gestured at Jadar. “He told me.”

  He raised his hand and laid it on Dason’s shoulder. “Dason . . .”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about me sooner, I—”

  Dason quickly stopped him. “It’s okay. I know. General Rosberg told me everything.” He reached up and squeezed Deklon’s forearm. “We’ll have lots of time to talk about all of it when this is over.”

  Deklon closed his eyes for a long moment before he opened them again and this time his eyes held a measure of sadness, but also deep gratitude that Dason was so understanding and forgiving.

  “Yes, we will. Now, go, we have scout mates that are in trouble. Jadar and I will be along shortly, soon as the doc here fixes me up.”

  Dason bowed his head to touch his father’s forehead with his own and whispered, “I love you, Dad.”

  Deklon whispered back, “I love you, too, son, and I’m so proud of you.”

  Dason whirled away and sprinted toward the hangar bay. It didn’t take long before he was through the Zephyr’s airlock and into the pilot’s seat.

  “She’s ready,” Alena reported crisply. “Green across the board and everyone is buckled in tight.”

  Dason slapped the comm’s button. “SlipSter, this is Thorne, we’re ready for launch.”

  Tarracas’ voice came back, “Roger, stand by for atmospheric decompression.”

  The bay doors began to slide back revealing a glittering of stars. The Scoutmaster then intoned, “Zephyr, you are clear for launch. Good luck, Team Thorne, and Scouts Out.”

  “Thank you, Scoutmaster,” Dason replied and with several rapid touches on the control panel sent the Zephyr rocketing out of the bay.

  Seconds later, he heeled the craft over toward the dusky prairie tans and grays and cream-colored clouds that blanketed the planet of Sarpens Two.

  * * * * *

  Aboard his hidden Star Dreamer, Adiak Peller stumbled forward, his breathing coming in gurgling, throaty gasps for breath. He whirled and yelled, “Shut it down and get me out of this!”

  He ripped the head mask of the SimLife controller suit off as his attendants scurried around trying their best to pull the remaining suit pieces from his body. Before they even had the last leg parts removed, the enraged man stormed out of the SimLink room.

  Like an avenging apparition, he stormed onto the vessel’s bridge. “Captain!” he bellowed, “have those dreadnoughts stop firing at the Mongan ship.”

  “Yes, sir!” the dark-clad man answered. A minute later, he turned back to say, “Order received sir, they’re standing down.”

  “Good, now, is there another ship out there that’s not ours?”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain answered at once. “It appeared out of nowhere just seconds ago.”

  “On screen!” Peller demanded.

  Peller spun around to face the large vu-screen where the image of an unusual-looking ship appeared dead center. Peller took several steps forward, his countenance a mask of fury and hatred. “The SlipShip,” he hissed.

  Seconds later, the ship rotated on its axis and sped off. “Track it,” Peller ordered, “I want to know where it’s headed.”

  “Tracking, sir,” the captain answered.

  “Well?” Peller demanded impatiently. “What course?”

  “Sir,” the captain began in a hesitant tone, before he turned to Peller with a fearful expression. “It—it just disappeared off the scope. One second it was there and the next it was gone.”

  “You mean you’ve lost it?!” Peller screamed.

  “Sir, I had it on the scope, and then—”

  “You incompetent fool!” Peller yelled.

  He paced the small bridge’s confines before he whirled and ordered, “Contact Admiral Rovinsky, have the War Thunder rendezvous and take us aboard. Tell him that the remaining fleet is to track down that ship.”

  He stopped and ordered in a hard voice, “Tell them that when they locate it, capture that ship at all costs. Understood?”

  “Perfectly,” the man answered.

  Peller strode over to the communications console and shoved the female technician out of the chair. In seconds, he faced his Faction leader in charge of the Sarpens operation.

  “Send out word to all units to clear the system,” Peller directed. “I’m going to activate the device.”

  “But sir,” the man sputtered, “I already have. The device was activated!”

  “What are you talking about?” Peller demanded.

  “Your son,” the man replied, “he gave the order and stated that it came directly from you. He transmitted an image of the device headed for the star. My ships have all gone to hyperspace per the prearranged plan; I was about to transit to n-space myself.”

  My—son—did—what? Peller choked out as he rose from his chair, his face dark and livid in rage.

  “Your son gave the order to abandon the system,” the man explained again. “He declared that he had activated the device, and it was inbound.”

  For an instant, Peller stood in absolute stillness, stunned by the man’s words. Then he ordered, “Do not go into n-space, wait until I contact you again.”

  He cut the transmission and his fingers flashed across the comm console, his tension mounting with each passing second until he made the connection.

  Leaning toward the image of the dark-uniformed woman with the ash-blond hair, he commanded, “Your status? Is the device safe?”

  With a perplexed look, the woman cocked her head to one side and insisted in a puzzled voice, “Of course it’s safe. I’m monitoring all systems as you ordered. Standing by for you to begin the activation sequence.”

  A tremor shook Peller’s body, as if he experienced a cathartic release, and a long breath of relief hissed through his nostrils.

  The woman leaned forward and peered at him with a worried expression. “Is everything all right? Has there been a change in plans?”

  He glanced up and gave a curt answer. “No. I was just checking. Continue with what you were doing, I’ll be contacting you in a bit.”

  He cut the connection to her and slammed his fist down on the comm's console. “They’ve tricked us!” he railed aloud to no one in particular. “Somehow they used Lavon to subvert my plans. My own son!”

  He reopened communications with his Faction commander. “Stop your ships and hold them in place, now!” he ordered in a loud and demanding voice.

  With a snarl, he ordered, “Prepare them for battle.”

  Breaking off the transmission, he whirled on the yacht’s captain. “Put the Mongan ship on the vu-screen,” he directed. Within seconds, he was staring at the blazing and battered vessel.

  Every few seconds, fiery explosions rocked the ship, and it listed to one side. It was evident that the vessel’s navigational and system controls were damaged to the point that the ship was becoming little more than a drifting hulk.

  In a cold, stone-hard voice, Peller instructed the captain, “Contact the dreadnought captains, tell them I want that ship totally and completely obliterated.”

  Wide-eyed, the man stammered, “Sir? But your son, isn’t he still—”

  As if he were a pouncing mountain lion, Peller sprang from the chair, his eyes and cheeks red in rage. “I said destroy it!” Peller shrieked at the stunned captain. “Tell those ships that I want nothing left. Annihilate every last bit of it!

  “Now!”

  In his day, the captain had been known as a fearless sailor, but at Peller’s towering rage and fury, he retreated before the crazed and irrational man. He stumbled over to the console and in a fumbling voice gave the order.

  Peller whirled to stare at the vu-screen. A few seconds later, a withering blaze of concentrated laser fire from the powerful battleships centered on the hapless Mongan ship.

  Blast after blast rained down on the ship, pounding it from stem to stern.

  The devastating explosions
grew in strength and ferocity, sending huge fragments of twisted, red-hot scorched metal flying into space. Finally, one scarlet beam sliced through the blazing ship to its engine core.

  In a thunderous blast of searing light and heat, the vessel disintegrated, leaving only tiny bits of charred and blackened metal to race through space in eternal, outbound orbits.

  Peller stared at the screen as if mesmerized by the expanding ball of heated gas that signaled not only the vessel’s death marker, but that of his son, too.

  As the glowing gaseous cloud began to grow dim and dissipate in the absolute cold of deep space, he staggered toward the vu-screen and stopped.

  He righted himself from his stooped posture and extended one hand as if trying to reach out to touch the ship’s blasted remnants in remembrance of his son.

  “First, you killed Kavon, and now you’ve killed Lavon,” Peller uttered in an ice-cold voice.

  “Marrels, you will pay. Not once, but a hundred, no, a thousand times over.

  “Deklon Marrel, before you die, you will watch your own son die a long and slow death. That, I promise!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Star date: 2443.115

  Inbound to Sarpens Two

  Reporting in a soft voice, Alena said, “We’ve got three Zephyrs running off our port side.” She peered at her board a second time. “And one dead ahead.”

  “That would be the general,” Dason replied. “See if you can contact him.”

  Alena leaned forward to open a comm's channel. “This is Team Thorne,” she intoned, “calling Zephyr Command.”

  “Go ahead,” Rosberg replied, “your status?”

  “We’ve a full-up team,” Alena answered, “and we’re closing fifty kilometers behind you.”

  “Good,” Rosberg answered. “All Zephyrs close on me. Once we penetrate planetary atmosphere, break off and carry out your assignments.”

  There was a slight pause before he reiterated, “Remember that by now, the Faction will probably have caught on to our ruse, so time is not our friend.”

  Dason accelerated the little craft until his ship was less than a kilometer behind Rosberg’s vessel. The tiny fleet of five Zephyrs didn’t slow as they hit the thick atmosphere of Sarpens Two.

  Dason shot a worried look at his thermal sensors. With each second, the temperature rose precipitously as the searing friction heated up the Zephyr’s outer skin to sun-hot temperatures.

  “For someone watching below, I bet we make for one pretty sight,” Alena muttered. “Five meteors all aglow—all in a nice pretty little row.”

  “I didn’t know you were so poetic,” Dason muttered.

  He shook his head in watching his navigation board. “We’re getting close to critical on our outer skin,” he pronounced. “If we don’t hit the brakes soon, we’re going to start sloughing pieces off and then we’ll really have a fireworks display for anyone watching.”

  Seconds later, Rosberg’s voice came over the communicator. “That should have gotten our teammates’ attention. Slow it down and head for your transport sites.”

  The little craft shuddered and rumbled for several seconds as Dason decelerated the craft before he turned to port in a long, arcing dive toward the surface.

  The ship slashed through high, thick yellowish-white clouds that obscured the terrain for several seconds before the Zephyr broke into the clear.

  “Have you got the transports on the scope, yet?” Dason asked.

  “I’m searching,” Alena responded. “Still nothing on the scope. No transponder pings, no heat signatures, nothing on forward or side-radar.”

  “You’re sure?” Dason asked in a tight voice. “At this height, we should be able to pick them up.”

  “I know,” Alena replied in the same taut tone. “And I’m telling you that nothing is showing up.

  “I’ve run it up and down the bandwidth; no pings on the MTI, on radar, electronic signatures, IR, or radar for that matter. The only thing I haven’t done is take out my micro binos and scan visually.”

  She shook her head in frustration and slapped the console with an open palm. “The sensor sweeps are showing natural terrain. If those transports are down there, they’ve must have them hidden inside a mountain.”

  “It’s possible they moved them, you know,” Shanon’s soft voice came from behind Dason.

  “And if they did,” Dason replied, “then we’re in all kinds of trouble.”

  He slapped the comm's button, “Command, this is Thorne.”

  “Go ahead,” Rosberg answered.

  “We’re coming up empty on the transports,” Dason stated. “We’ve got nothing across the sensor array.”

  “Command,” another voice chimed in, “this is Renn, same here. We’re looking at a dry hole.”

  “Lieutenant Staley? Gallen?” Rosberg asked.

  “The same,” both answered.

  The communicator went silent, as Rosberg no doubt digested the disturbing news. “What are we going to do?” Alena asked Dason in a small voice. “We can’t haul out several thousand scouts in five Zephyrs.”

  Before Dason could reply, Rosberg’s voice came over the communicator, “All Zephyrs, maintain your current position and stand by for orders.”

  There was a pause before he asked, “Intrepid, this is Zephyr Command, did you monitor our last transmissions?”

  “Roger,” Captain Federov replied.

  “Can you do a planetary sweep, look for those missing transports?” Rosberg questioned.

  “Already started,” Federov answered. “But sorry to report that we’re going to have to break off in a few minutes. They’ve spotted us and we have three enemy dreadnoughts headed our way.”

  There was a long pause before Rosberg declared, “Well, that tears it, they’ve seen through our little charade. How much time do we have?”

  “Less than five minutes,” Federov answered flatly.

  Dason and Alena exchanged somber glances before Shanon asked, “Can the Intrepid handle three heavies at once?”

  “Not likely,” Dason replied in a solemn tone. “And the SlipSter won’t be any help, she doesn’t have any armament.”

  “This just keeps getting better all the time,” Alena remarked. “Where’s the cavalry when you need them?”

  Rosberg spoke over the communicator, “Understood, Intrepid. Any sign of those transports on your sensors?”

  “We can see the camps, but no evidence of any transports,” Federov returned. “And nothing on the planet’s backside, either. Sorry, they’re just not there. Request permission to break off the search and engage our incoming.”

  “Permission granted, Intrepid,” Rosberg replied grimly. “We’ll give you what help we can.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Federov responded. “But with all due respect, you don’t have the necessary firepower against these battlewagons. I highly recommend you withdraw and link up with the SlipShip.”

  “And I thank you, sir, for your recommendation,” the general replied. “But it may be that those heavyweights are here not only to take us out, but to rain fire on our comrades below. And that, sir, would be unacceptable to all of us.”

  “Understood,” Federov replied with an audible sigh. “Then good luck to us all. Federov out.”

  There was a slight pause and then the general commanded, “All Zephyrs, close on me and let’s see if we can’t give the Intrepid some help.”

  Dason called over his shoulder, “Shanon, let everyone back there know what’s happening and make sure they’re locked in tight.”

  Shanon reached out and squeezed Dason’s shoulder. “Will do,” she replied and retreated back into the troop compartment.

  “Weapons primed?” Dason asked Alena.

  “Torps in standby mode, ion cannon fully charged,” Alena replied in a crisp voice.

  She drew in a deep breath and muttered, “Never thought we’d ever be firing at our own people.”

  “And I never thought we’d have to attack a homeworl
d,” Dason replied soberly. “I guess this is what happens when good people stand aside and let evil rule their lives.”

  Dason applied full power to the ship, sending it rocketing spaceward to rendezvous with the other Zephyrs.

  He stared straight ahead as the purplish-blue of the upper atmosphere turned to the midnight black of outer space.

  “And no matter the reason,” he whispered, “that should never, ever happen because when it does, the ones who get hurt the most are the innocent and decent people.”

  Alena nodded in agreement and motioned off to their right. “The general’s Zephyr is at mark one-four-six, up two, 1,200 kilometers distant. We’re tail-end Charlie.”

  “Got it,” Dason replied and swung the craft to starboard. “Have you got Intrepid and the dreadnoughts on the scope?”

  “Got’em,” Alena replied. “Intrepid is closing on three heavy battlewagons at mark one-six-zero, down five on the plane, two-hundred thousand klicks out.”

  She paused before saying, “Uh oh, the heavies just let loose a salvo. I think we’re going to be a little late to the party.”

  “As they say, better late than never,” Dason muttered.

  Over the ship’s transmitter Rosberg directed, “Zephyr group, follow me, come to course two-two-zero.”

  Rosberg’s Zephyr heeled to port and accelerated as though it were a sprinter bursting out of the starting blocks. Dason’s fingers flew over his navigation console, matching the general’s course and speed.

  “What’s he doing?” Alena asked in a puzzled tone. “He’s taking us on a tangent away from the fight.”

  A small smile lifted one corner of Dason’s mouth. “The gray fox is circling the chicken coop,” he explained. “Giving the gunners on those battleships something to think about other than the Intrepid.”

  Watching her scope, Alena nodded in understanding. “Makes sense. But just circling the coop won’t help the Intrepid forever.”

  A few minutes after the ships had so dramatically changed course, Rosberg ordered in a firm voice, “Ship commanders, on my mark come to course one-one-five. Prepare to fire all torpedoes.”

  Seconds later, he said, “And . . . Mark!”