Into the Void

by Nick Webb

  “Oh?” Oberon? How in the world was he going to escape off the ship in the Oberon sector? And, even if he did, how in the world would he get back to civilization? “What for?”

  Ayala scowled. “Weren’t you listening? The Imperials can’t get at us there. It’s the perfect place to repair the ship, restock our supply of weapons and food, and maybe even have a break to plan out our next moves.”

  “I need to get back to Old Earth.” He reached out to stroke her face, and she didn’t recoil from it, but closed her eyes. As if concentrating? Or because she liked his touch? “Listen, Willow. You should come with me. Your place is not here on a battleship, fighting alongside a bunch of rebels. You having a higher calling.”

  She opened her eyes and snorted. “What, a higher calling as a Senator’s call girl? No thanks.”

  “No, of course not.” He withdrew his hand, but the bulge in his pants had already betrayed him, and she rolled her eyes.

  “Listen, Harrison, you should know Mercer has appointed an investigator to look into the unexplained explosions. The most recent one injured the security chief.” She lowered her chin and gazed into his eyes. “You wouldn’t by any chance know anything about it, would you?”

  “No. No, of course not.” He lied to himself. He needed to believe the lie himself if he had any hope of convincing others—a skill that had come in handy throughout his political career. “Why. What’s his name? Does he suspect there is an intruder on the ship? Does he suspect the 51st brigade? One of the crew?”

  “Her. Her name is Valkyrie. And she already knows it was sabotage—at least that’s what I overheard Commander Po saying.”

  He nodded, and sat down on the bed next to her. “Very well, my dear. I’ll stay right here in your quarters. Right on this bed.” He leaned in towards her and kissed her cheek, nudging her gently to face him. His hand brushed against the tattoo on her neck, and he was surprised at the fiery heat emanating from it. He frowned. Moving his hand he felt the cool part of her neck untouched by the ink, and moving over the tattoo again he felt the heat.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, looking at him, concerned.

  How odd. He didn’t know tattoos did that. He put a smile back on his face and moved in for another kiss.

  And was interrupted by the sound of distant rumbling, explosions, and the very near sound of ringing klaxons. It was a combination of sounds he’d grown used to over the past few weeks, but he asked anyway. “What the hell is that?”

  Ayala jumped to her feet and was out the door before he could say anything else.

  Under attack. Again.

  He waited a few minutes to assure himself that she’d truly gone, then slipped out into the hallway and into the quarters halfway down where he’d accessed the central computer several days back.

  Sitting down at the terminal he entered in his Imperial code—the one that could override any security system or firewall on any Imperial terminal—and set about accessing the long range communications system, careful to hide his tracks in case anyone on the bridge was watching for unexplained access, which he doubted as they were indisposed with the battle du jour.

  If he was to get off this ship anytime in the next few days, Trajan would have to know where he’d gone.

  ***

  Po was alive. Her fingers danced over her console boards and she barked orders left and right to her two assistants. Ahead of them, on the viewscreen, the now familiar sight of the Roc flashed into view, and the other ship immediately started firing on them with everything it had.

  “Reverse course!” said Jake, “Show them our ass!”

  The view on the front screen changed again as the orientation of the planet shifted below. Out of the corner of Po’s eyes, a message flashed on her console—the one she’d been dreading since the attack began.

  “Captain,” she began, “We are now completely out of railgun slugs.”

  She heard Jake swear under his breath. In a sense, it gave her a little satisfaction that he found the pressure of commanding a ship during battle as daunting as she. But the other part of her, the part that desperately wanted to win against the Empire—finally win, finally get justice and, dare she think it, vengeance—that part screamed out, do something, dammit!

  He sighed. “Po?” he said, looking over at her. “Send word to the flight deck. Get one of the newer trainees to prepare for that nifty trick you came up with three days ago.”

  “The quantum-field torpedo?” she asked, but unnecessarily. The scenario had already played out in her daydreams and nightmares for three days now. She sent that young woman straight to her death. She was like an ancient blood sacrifice made to some angry god so that the rest of them might live.

  And her face haunted her. What it must have looked like when she realized at the last moment that she wouldn’t escape the blast from the exploding Sphinx.

  “That’s the one. Have him ready to launch in five. What’s the name of the newest one?”

  She wondered if pretending not to know would make it easier. The ship rumbled around her, under the strain of the bombardment from the Roc, answering her unspoken question. Of course it wouldn’t be easier.

  “Ashdown, sir. Gavin Ashdo—“

  “Fine. Get him his orders.”

  Her mind flashed an image of the other trainee.

  The dead one. Jet. Jet Xing. Floppychop.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She started sending the order to Lieutenant Grace on the flight deck, but her fingers wouldn’t make the call.

  The assistant Ensign to her right noticed her hesitation. “Commander? Is there a problem?”

  She pressed her lips firmly together, forcing a grim smile. “No. No problem.” She pointed at his console. “Please get the crews down to deck eighteen. We’ve got casualty reports streaming in from there.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the Ensign.

  Po’s fingers still wouldn’t make the call to Anya. It was easy. All she had to do was press the button, tell Lieutenant Grace the order, and that was it. Easy.

  Yet her finger hovered. Suspended over the comm button, repelled as if by some micro-gravitic field.

  She watched the clock readout. It had been over a minute since Jake had called out his order. Two minutes since the Roc had shifted to their position and started firing again. She glanced up at the viewscreen in dread anticipation of what would surely come next, and, sure enough, the telltale gravitic flicker confirmed her expectation.

  “Sir!” began Ensign Minkowski, “The Imperator has arrived.” His voice faltered, and he added, unnecessarily, “And they’re firing.”

  The shaking and booming sounds of distant explosions intensified. Jake shot her a glance. “Is he ready?”

  “Working on it, sir,” she said.

  When he’d turned away, she sprang out of her chair and sidled up next to Ensign Ayala.

  “Willow, prepare a quantum-field torpedo for deployment through a launch tube.”

  Ayala’s eyes widened as she realized that Po was disobeying a direct order. “But, sir,” she whispered, “what about Captain Mercer’s ord—“

  “Just do it!” she hissed.

  Ayala’s tattooed face turned red, and she turned back to her console. “Very well, sir. It’ll take a minute.”

  Satisfied the Belenite Ensign was following her order, she slid into place next to the ensign in charge of the ion-beam cannons. “Ensign, we’re about to fire a torpedo. I want a full spread of ion-beam cannon fire accompanying it, arranged on a parallel path all around it. As an escort, if you will. Understood?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Po glanced at the clock. Three minutes since Jake’s order. As if reading her mind, he glanced up from where he was standing next to Ensign Roshenko.

  “Po? Is the pilot ready?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. There’s been some confusion. It won’t be ready for at least another five minutes. I suggest—

  “PO! WE DON’T HAVE FIVE MINU
TES!”

  Jake sounded furious to say the least, and Po made her best effort not to flinch. She was intimately familiar with his temper, though it had never been directed at her.

  “Captain, we have a torpedo loaded and ready to go. We can send a volley of ion-beam cannon fire to accompany it—to knock aside any intercepting fire they throw at it.”

  From out of nowhere, a voice called out “Yes!”

  Po spun around, before realizing the voice belonged to Jeremiah. He’d remained huddled up silently against the wall, and they’d all forgotten about him.

  Jake ignored him. “Fine. Do it. Target the Imperator.”

  Po raised her eyebrows. “Sir? Isn’t the Roc a more valuable target?”

  “You heard me, Commander!” His voice had calmed from a moment ago, but still thundered over the rumbling explosions. He turned back to the screen. “And besides, that is Crash’s ship. Some of them could still be on it, for all we know.”

  Not likely, she thought, but knew it was pointless to argue. She looked down at Ayala and gave a short nod.

  “Fire, Ensign.”

  Ensign Ayala wiped away a bead of sweat trickling down her forehead. “Firing now, sir.” She pressed a button. “Torpedo is away.”

  The ensign in control of the ion-beam cannons jabbed at his console, trying to clear a path for the pinprick of light now shooting away from the hull of the ship.

  “One more!”

  Po’s head snapped towards Jeremiah, whose eyes were transfixed on the screen. But he didn’t say another word.

  “Dammit!” shouted Jake. Without even looking Po knew the torpedo hadn’t made it, but had been intercepted by a well-placed railgun slug.

  “ONE MORE!” Jeremiah shrieked it this time, and now Jake had turned, with a strange look on his face. He took a step towards the boy.

  “Jeremiah, are you talking about the torpedoes?”

  Po advanced on Jake. “Sir, he can’t possibly be—“ but he waved her off with a hand.

  Jeremiah fixed his eyes on Jake. “One more,” he said, matter-of-factly, and calmly—as calm as Po had seen him yet.

  Jake steeled his jaw, and turned to Ayala. “Fire another, Ensign—“

  Po interrupted, “Jake, you know we only have six of those things left.”

  “Understood. Fire when ready, Ensign.”

  ***

  Admiral Trajan strode onto the bridge with a swagger in his step. Things had gone remarkably well the past few days—news of Admiral Pritchard’s capture, the completion of the refitting and restaffing of the Roc, and the fact that the Phoenix was still in orbit around Destiny, apparently still hobbled by disabled engines. They were trapped, and they knew it. Titus glanced up at him and nodded. He’d been expecting the Admiral any minute, now that they’d arrived back in the Destiny system, this time with significant backup.

  “Captain Titus, report.” He casually walked around the command console, opposite from where the Captain of the Caligula stood coordinating the advance on the Phoenix. Trajan was a thin, black-haired but graying man, wearing the traditional all-black command uniform and knee-high boots befitting a senior officer in the Imperial Fleet.

  “They’re attempting to evade us, sir,” said Titus, turning to address Trajan to his face—one does not talk to a senior officer while still issuing commands or studying one’s sensor readout. That would be a massive breach of Imperial etiquette, and Titus knew not to test this Admiral.

  Trajan nodded with satisfaction. He’d trained his officers well what to expect from him. Perhaps the Admiral wouldn’t feel like he’d have to kill any more of them during his stay on the ship. “But sensors indicate that their long-range gravitic drive is still out,” continued Titus.

  “Do they have short-range gravitic shift capabilities?”

  “Unknown, Admiral, but unlikely.”

  Trajan turned and walked back to the Captain’s chair. “Regardless, we are prepared. Signal the fleet to advance on the Phoenix, and execute the operation.”

  Titus nodded, and turned back to the console. “Captain Aurelius, Captain Nero, and Captain Octavius all report ready.” He paused, and tapped a few commands. “Ah, Commander Manson on the Roc reports ready as well.”

  Trajan closed his eyes, and motioned a hand to begin the music. Suddenly the bridge was filled was the rushing orchestral sounds of another requiem. Mozart. In D. Dies Irae. It was as if the Admiral decided the operation needed a theme song. Conventional, fast paced, precise, predictable, and utterly unstoppable.

  “They’ve shifted, sir.” Titus leaned in towards his console to get a read on the new location of the Phoenix.

  Trajan steepled his hands in front of his closed eyes and chanted, “A day of wrath and doom impending, David’s word with Sybill’s blending, heaven and Earth in ashes ending.”

  Titus shuddered a little on the inside and turned to glance at Trajan, who still sat with his eyes closed, reciting the Dies Irae, as if he were some ghoulish greek chorus providing an appropriate background for the upcoming violence. Still, it was better than the admiral micromanaging the battle, and Titus turned back to the sensors.

  “Found them. On the other side of the planet. Initiating the net operation. They won’t be able to run from all of us.” He watched with satisfaction as their little fleet spread out on five different vectors, each converging on the Phoenix from different directions. “Ten minutes at most, assuming they don’t shift. Commander Manson reports the Roc is ready to shift to their position. They can perform perhaps twenty short range shifts before recharging.”

  Trajan nodded, but continued his chant. “Oh, what fear man's bosom rendeth, when from heaven the judge descendeth, on whose sentence all dependeth.”

  Titus allowed the smallest smirk to cross his lips. “Are we the judge, sir?”

  Trajan opened his eyes and smiled back. Titus couldn’t remember a time when the Admiral had mirrored a smile back at him. He must really be in a good mood. “History is the judge, Captain. We are but the executor. You may not be aware of it, but the next few months and years will be a critical period of galactic history. Of human history. And history would not smile upon us doing nothing in this situation. The Resistance must be completely destroyed. Down to the last man. Down to the last woman. Until that time when we can return to Old Earth with nary a word of offense then our job is not done. And don’t forget, we still have the Heron to track down.”

  Titus stroked his chin. “Yes. Any word of progress on that front?”

  “Intel teams are deployed all throughout this quadrant looking for them. It won’t be long now. But our primary concern is the Phoenix. Why?” Trajan stood up, straightening his uniform. “Because Mercer has defied me. He has escaped my grasp two times now, and it will not happen again.”

  Titus nodded and returned his attention to the sensors. “Roc has shifted. They report they’ve engaged the Phoenix.”

  “Good.” Trajan paced the bridge.

  Several tense minutes passed as the operation unfolded exactly as Admiral Trajan had predicted. The Thessalonika shifted to join the battle, and the Phoenix shifted away to a new location. Titus read off the coordinates.

  “Our turn is next. Navigation, shift to these coordinates once the Roc has made its move. Cap bank status?” He looked down at the engineering section in the lower tier of the bridge.

  “Ready, sir,” came the reply from an engineering officer.

  “Death is struck, and nature quaking, all creation is awaking, to its judge an answer making,” continued Trajan, on his walk around the bridge.

  “Shift,” said Titus, and on his command console the viewscreen suddenly showed the welcome scene of the Roc locked in fierce battle with the Phoenix, the latter looking quite worn and battle-weary, scarred and feeble.

  “Commence fire.” Titus nodded in approval as the tactical station targeted the Phoenix, and on his screen he saw their own suite of railgun and ion-beam cannon fire join the chorus striking the rogue ship. It wo
uldn’t be long now. He watched explosions and flares dot its pockmarked surface.

  “A resilient little beastie, that ship is.” Trajan had stopped his tour around the bridge and had ended up standing next to Captain Titus, looking down at the screen.

  “Yes, sir. But now we have our own. The Roc is reporting all systems nominal—they can effect at least eighteen more short range shifts before needing to recharge their cap banks.”

  Trajan nodded. “More than a match for poor Phoenix. I suppose they only have a few shifts left in them.”

  “Yes, sir. Sensors confirm that.” Titus glanced at the screen again and saw that the Phoenix had disappeared. He looked over at the sensor station. “Track them.”

  “Scanning, sir.” The sensor officer manipulated his controls before announcing, after only a few seconds, “Found them. Relaying coordinates.”

  Titus smiled. The game was nearly up. There was only so many times the Phoenix could evade them before burning through all their power, ordnance, and will to resist. He tapped a few buttons on his panel. “And the Roc is away. They’ve reported they’ve engaged the Phoenix a third time.”

  A few minutes passed, Trajan still standing motionless beside Titus at the command console. The bridge hummed in quiet Corsican efficiency, everyone performing their duty as trained and expected.

  “The Imperator is away. They report both they and the Roc are bearing down on the Phoenix. Also,” he peered at the report to be sure, then turned to Trajan with a broad smile. “It appears they’ve exhausted their supply of railgun slugs. All they’ve got left are ion-beam cannons and lasers.”

  “Excellent, Captain. Well done.” Trajan watched the status reports on the command console as they scrolled past, speaking almost as an afterthought.

  “They’ve launched fighters,” said Titus. “Both of our ships have launched theirs in response.”

  Another breathless, tense few moments passed, when suddenly an indicator flashed on his console indicating an urgent report. “Admiral, the Imperator reports the Phoenix has fired a quantum-field torpedo!”