by Nick Webb
***
When Gavin Ashdown came to, the fighter was spinning wildly. Or rather, the space battle all around them was rotating at a dizzying speed. He swat Lieutenant Grace on the shoulder. “Sir, wake up. We’re out of control.”
She didn’t wake up. He glanced at her. The helmet on her head sported an ugly dent, and she was slumped over.
Dammit. Was she dead?
Was he alone out here? What were the chances of him getting of this alive now? Just over a week ago he was content cooking sub-par meals in the mess hall, hoping to get out and see the Thousand Worlds. Now he doubted he’d even see his bunk again.
He shook her shoulder again as a proximity alarm went off. Through the viewport he saw the hull of the Phoenix loom up ahead, spinning rapidly. “Grace, wake up! We’re gonna crash!”
She didn’t wake up.
Swearing again, he keyed in the command to transfer navigation to his console, and pulled up on the auxiliary controls just as the nose of the fighter was about to slam into the Phoenix. The gravitic drive whined, but they changed direction at the last second, skimming just above the scarred surface of their ship—what had become home in the last few harried weeks.
A voice came over the comm. “Grace this is Mercer. Talk to me, Anya.”
He opened his mouth to speak but his throat was dry from his fear. Willing moisture into his mouth he croaked, “Sir, this is Ashdown. Anya is out. I’m flying.”
“Ashdown? Get yourself to safety, son. This is no place for a newbie pilot flying all alone. Get yourself to—“ Captain Mercer broke off as he responded to someone in the background, and garbled speech followed. “—Straight towards us—“ Gavin strained to hear, but through the viewport he saw the source of their panic. One of the enemy cruisers was soaring straight towards the Phoenix, fire blazing from its oxygen tanks and streaming debris. It was out of control and about to hit the larger ship. He could still hear Mercer’s voice. “—are my torpedoes? Dammit, Ayala I—“
The cruiser neared the Phoenix, which had now begun to move itself, but far too slowly. It was not going to make it away in time.
Why weren’t they firing at it?
He pulled at the controls and absentmindedly fired off a few rounds at a passing cruiser, taking out one of its weapons installations. One of the smaller cruisers fighting the larger frigates came up behind him and laid down a burst of fire on the ship too, and soon it was belching flame and debris.
But still the Phoenix was not firing on the flaming wreck bearing down on it.
He thought back to Floppychop. She was the only friend he had out here, and she was dead. Sacrificed to save her cremates. Could he hope for anything better?
Gritting his teeth he made a decision.
This would be a video game. He’d fly like he owned the place, his life be damned—he could just hit reset anyway, right? He knew the truth, but gunned the gravitic drive anyway.
***
Jake pounded the tactical octagon. “Dammit, Po, where the hell are those torpedoes?”
Po grimaced as she examined her screen. “Crews are clearing debris out of the launch tubes, sir. It’ll be another few minutes.”
He jabbed a finger at the screen. “We don’t have a few minutes!” The approaching cruiser was nearly upon them. “Ayala? Have the caps cooled down yet?”
She shook her head. “That last triple burst nearly overloaded them, sir. If we fire now we’ll blow up engineering.”
A voice blared over the comm. “And friend, if you blow up engineering, I’ll never forgive.”
“Bernoulli?” Jake leaned over the comm receiver. “I need a miracle, buddy. Preferably in the form of getting us the hell out of here.”
“Sorry, friend. Gravitic capacitor banks still need twenty minutes to recharge, and we’re already pushing the grav thrusters to max. I was just calling to tell you to back off a bit. They’re running too hot.”
Jake turned to the viewscreen again. The flaming wreck of a ship was nearly there. Five hundred meters at most, and closing fast.
And in a flash, one of their fighters shot across its hull, streaking through space so fast Jake wondered how the pilot was able to coordinate between his flying and letting his gunner get a clear shot. As they all watched, the little bird orbited the cruiser in a tight, stomach-churning circle, blazing away at the larger vessel with everything it had. Explosions ripped through the ship.
Jake called back to Po. “Who is that?”
“It looks like Anya’s ship. That’s Gavin Ashdown, sir.”
He watched the little fighter break off its orbit and fly straight at the underbelly, right where the power plant should be. “Newbie?” he asked to no one.
And with a flash the cruiser disappeared in a cloud of fire and debris, and the Phoenix rocked from the explosion. When the screen cleared, Jake peered at the space left behind, searching for the fighter.
“Po? Did he make it?”
She was staring at her console, tapping her sensor array. Then she looked up and pointed. “There. He’s already moved on to the next one.”
Jake shook his head. “Well I’ll be. The kid can fly.” He stood marveling at the screen for a few moments before turning to tactical. “Ayala, target the nearest one when the torpedoes come online. Let’s wrap this up.”
The sensor officer in the tactical octagon looked up. “Sir, looks like that won’t be necessary. The belligerents are retreating.”
Jake let out a sigh of relief as he watched the viewscreen. Indeed, all the remaining heavy frigates had begun to accelerate away, and a few disappeared from sight as they grav-shifted to some unknown distant location. Soon, the only things visible were the remaining light cruisers who’d been fighting the frigates, the Phoenix’s fighters, and the distant world far below, appearing like a shimmering blue moon hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.
“Captain,” Falstaff looked up. “One of the cruisers is hailing us.”
He marched to his chair and sat down with a grunt. “Finally. Let’s see what we’ve gotten ourselves into, shall we?”
The voice over the comm was hoarse, as if it had been breathing smoke, but sounded pleased. “Hello! Unidentified vessel! Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, whoever you are.”
Jake glanced over at Po, who shrugged. “This is Captain Jacob Mercer of the USS Phoenix, out of Earth. We’ve come seeking supplies and refueling. I’m sorry to have interfered in this skirmish, but we were fired upon and chose to take action rather than stand idly by.”
“And it is fortunate for us that you did, Captain Mercer. If not so, we’d all be dead, and our world open to invasion from the Vikorhov Federation. I assume you’re on your way to Oberon?”
Jake winced. He remembered the old man in the mines of Destiny, Tovra, telling him about the Vikorhov Federation. A veritable mini Corsican Empire, only more petty, more cruel, and with fewer senators to keep happy. Little was known about this sector given its gravitic isolation, but in the few spare moments Jake had the night before he searched the ship’s database for anything he could find—at least, anything that wasn’t classified and therefore unaccessible to him. All the Imperial records indicated that the Vikorhov Federation was not an enemy they wanted at the moment.
“Am I to understand they were attacking Oberon?”
The voice coughed, and shouted something incomprehensible to his crew in some bastardized form of English and Russian, or possibly Ukrainian or Polish—Jake was never very good at recognizing Slavic languages. “Yes, Captain, but it’s worse than that. This was but the expeditionary force to soften up our outer defenses before the main invasion comes. And believe me, Captain, it’s coming. We’ve tried negotiating with them, we’ve tried paying them off, but with the Vikorhov Federation there’s only one thing they understand, and that’s force. Our world is a peaceful one, Captain. We are simply not equipped to fend off a force as overwhelming as the Vikorhovs, try as we do. Our world government simply doesn’t have the will to
sustain the struggle. The people are too content. Fat and happy.”
Jake nodded his understanding. He was only too familiar with governments that rolled over in the face of a strong opponent. Gods knew the Earth governments had enough politicians clamoring for peace in the years of the rebellion against the Empire. All of them most likely Imperial sympathizers or Corsican agents.
“And to whom am I speaking?”
The voice responded, “We use pseudonyms to protect our families down on Oberon, Captain. I am Captain Brand.”
“Well, Commander Brand, I’m afraid I can’t afford to insert myself in your struggle, as justified as it sounds. My ship is damaged, and desperately needs a resupply. Is it safe to dock on your world?”
“Absolutely, Captain,” came the quick reply. “The main Vikorhov fleet is not yet assembled for invasion, though they are preparing. Oberon itself is quite safe. As partial repayment for your service to us, I invite you as my guests. Your ship can dock at the main port in Dezreel City, the capital of Oberon. You’ve saved many lives today, Mercer. The least we can give you are a few supplies. Just follow us.”
The voice sounded sincere. Guileless. For once, in the first time in may weeks, Jake felt the tension leave his shoulders as he realized he might soon have a night’s rest without worrying about the imminent destruction of his ship. So many lives lost. So many wounded. His thoughts strayed to Ben, still resting back in sickbay under Doc Nichols’s care. His horrific experience on Destiny perhaps grated on him the most. His best friend had been tortured and experimented upon.
The friend who he’d lied to. The friend who should be captain. Would any of this had happened had Ben Jemez been in command?
No way to tell. To question the past like that would be futile. There was only thought for the future.
“Very well, Captain Brand. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He motioned to Falstaff at comm to cut the signal, and he leaned back to Po. “So? Ready for a little R and R?”
She smiled. Finally. He’d been worried she was ready to crack under all the stress of command and battle. And losing people. He realized she’d lost people too—she’d essentially ordered Floppychop to her death. He grimaced. Jake had helped, of course, giving the final command. But the entire strategy was Po’s, originally. “R and R, Captain? Refuel and resupply?”
Jake sighed. “Actually, I was hoping for a little rest. Recreation can wait. But really I’ll just settle for a good resupply and then we can plan our next steps.”
***
The Phoenix soared through the blue atmosphere of Oberon with a grace that belied the beating the ship had taken over the last few weeks. Ever since the battle of the Nine around Liberty Station over Earth, it seemed to Jake that they’d fled from one battle to another—they’d had no rest or time to so much as take a breath without fear of Imperial ambush. Finally, he thought, looking up at the blazing atmosphere steaming past on the viewscreen of the bridge, they’d be able to regroup. Gather their wits. Take a breath.
Mourn their dead.
As the leading edge of the hull heated up from the compression shockwave, sections of the pockmarked, crippled hull blasted outward in streams of debris. He shook his head—there was nothing they could do about it. The hull repair droids had worked full-time since the first battle over Earth, patching and welding and reshaping the metal shell into something resembling an intact hull, but inevitably there were pockets of debris and loose metal hanging loosely that the atmospheric shock wave heated up and blew off, and every time it happened the ship shuddered slightly.
“Hull integrity still holding,” said Po, huddled over her console.
Jake leaned over his armrest and tapped the comm button on his console. “Bernoulli, I need more gravitic thrust—we’re boiling off the hull a little more than I’d hoped.”
The voice boomed in reply over the speaker. “Friend, I wish I could help, almost as much as I wish there are beautiful escorts down in Dezreel City.”
Jake’s eyes went wide—he glanced nervously at women officers present, but they continued working normally, and gave no indication they’d paid attention. It seemed they’d grown used to the quirky formerly-half-mustached engineer. Regardless, he leaned closer into the comm receiver.
“Buddy, I can’t have you talking like that over the—”
“What? I’m sorry friend, I can’t hear you when you whisper sweet nothings in my ear like voluptuously naked brunette.”
Jake grit his teeth. “I said,” he raised his voice, “I want more power to the gravitic drive or I’ll toss you out the nearest airlock. Mercer out.” He flipped the switch in annoyance and stared back at the screen.
“Captain,” began Po, “we’ve slowed to one point five kps. I think we’re out of the woods.”
He looked up at the screen and sure enough the intense red glow of the forward hull had dulled down to a barely visible glare, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent. Follow the homing signal Brand gave us.”
His shoulders relaxed. In fact, all of him relaxed. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been the past few weeks until he finally realized they were finally safe.
At least for the moment.
Brand had assured them Oberon was completely safe, disregarding for the moment the threat posed by the Vikorhov Federation—they’d have plenty of advance warning if Oberon’s enemy suddenly decided to invade. Fleets take time to assemble and coordinate, and they’d never be able to grav-shift directly to Oberanian orbit from their home planet just five lightyears away. They’d have to shift to Oberon’s star first, and stationed in orbit was a small flotilla of ships—the Oberanian main fleet.
And now with the ever-present threat of death averted, he had time to finally take notice of his other senses and the smaller details of his surroundings. The bridge was still a wreck, in spite of the hasty tidying his bridge crew had apparently done when he hadn’t noticed. His nose prickled at the acrid hint of smoke still lingering in the air. A red outline marked the spots where Captain Watson and his XO had fallen from Ensign Smith’s deadly bullets a few weeks ago.
So much death.
And yet he’d pulled the ship through. From some combination of his strength of will and sheer luck, they’d made it.
Now he just had to figure out what to do next.
As if reading his thoughts, Po slid into the chair next to his. “Well, sir? Have you thought about our next steps?”
“Restock. Regroup. Rest. Catch our breath.” He searched her face. After the battle with the Caligula and the Roc, he wasn’t sure if he could trust her until she’d had a good long rest. She’d disobeyed his direct orders. Luckily it had all worked out. But it could also have ended in disaster.
“And then? I meant after Oberon.” She crossed her legs. Apparently she had no mind to leave the bridge until she had an answer.
“And then, I think we should rescue Pritchard. They’ve got him now, Po. The Empire. Who knows what they’re doing to him? Ben probably fared better on Destiny than Pritchard will at Trajan’s hands.” He knew it wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. She wanted to get the ship to safety. Permanent safety. She needed to protect her people. Her family. And get them someplace where she’d never have to order another crew member to their death ever again.
She nodded. “I understand.” A pause. “And how will that help us, exactly? What’s your goal, Shotgun? What are you gunning for?”
His call sign. He hadn’t been called by that name for weeks. And that impressed him—his crew, Po, even Ben Jemez had called him Captain and sir from day one. Ever since he’d left sickbay with his awful secret, fresh from Captain Watson’s deathbed, they’d fallen in line and given him all the support they could muster.
“Gunning? Who else? The Empire. I want the bastards off Earth, and I’ll be damned if I’m just going to give up.”
Po waved her arm around the bridge, indicating the rest of the crew, some of whom now watched them talk and followed th
eir conversation closely.
“Just us? Against the entire Imperial fleet?”
He grinned. “Sure. We’ve come through some pretty long odds already, Po. I think our luck will hold out, especially with the finest crew I’ve ever seen.” He glanced around the bridge knowingly, winking at a group of officers at ops. He had to show confidence in them. Not blustery over-confidence, but they had to know he trusted them.
“Luck. Exactly, Jake. We’ve been lucky. We can’t count on luck to see us through, and if we want to kick the Empire off Earth it’s going to take a whole lot more than luck.”
A voice answered from the rear of the bridge. “It’ll take a fleet.” Ben walked through the door. The bandage had finally been taken off the right half of his face, and his limp was less noticeable.
“Ben!” Jake stood and walked to his friend. “You’re up. Feeling better?” Ben’s foot hit a piece of loose debris on the floor—a blackened, twisted piece of girder—and Jake reached out a hand to steady him. But Ben shrugged him off and grabbed at the railing.
“I’ll be fine.” He looked down at Po, ignoring Jake. “But he’s right, you know. We can’t just go hide. We need to confront the Empire. And we can’t do it alone.” He finally looked up at Jake, but seemed to focus on his nose rather than his eyes, which Jake found vaguely unsettling. “We’ll need a fleet.”
***
Ben retreated back to the security station and sat down, wary of what Nurse Ypres would say if she caught him on his feet again. Not that she had leave to come on the bridge unbidden. But still, he may as well follow her orders as closely as possible.
He watched Jake return to his chair and immediately felt a wave of anger. Of rage. He wanted to reach out and grab his neck and bash it through the command console.