Torchship Pilot

by Karl K Gallagher

  The telescope slowly spun through the bridge. Hiroshi pulled his knees up to his chest. “I can’t believe it. We’ve always trained to defend all the Disconnected Worlds. Shishi wouldn’t abandon the rest in battle. No.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Mthembu. “That Bonny had his insults in alphabetical order. You don’t do that when you’re angry.”

  Mitchie snagged the telescope before it hit the bulkhead. She focused on the Fusion fleet. “The Fuzies have big plumes now. Must be pulling at least twenty-five gravs. Maybe thirty.”

  Hiroshi straightened out. “It’s faked?”

  Mitchie chuckled. “Art of War. ‘All warfare is based on deception.’ The Chief has a copy he can loan you.”

  “Oh.”

  “But that’s for later. Mthembu, transmit ‘Foxtrot’ to the squadron.” She punched the PA button. “Bosun’s Mate Setta, deploy defenses.”

  Mitchie had wrangled the two step promotion for the deckhand before heading out. She wanted to make sure her own spacer would be supervisor of the two temporary crew who came on board with the antennas and other gear.

  Joshua Chamberlain’s hull relayed the noise of the cargo hold doors opening and the crane moving back and forth. At Setta’s request Hiroshi put a gentle spin on the ship. From the bridge they couldn’t see what was ejected until it was well clear of the ship. At that distance counter-missiles, jammers, and decoys all looked alike.

  Deploying the broadcast antenna was quieter. Mitchie couldn’t tell what had happened until Setta reported it had passed the self-checks. She used the PA to praise the crew for finishing faster than any other ship in the squadron.

  The other ships reported “Yare” within the hour. Mitchie transmitted targeting angles. The ships would make a fence of their narrow beams along the edge of the kill zone. Attacking outside that carried a risk that the infoweapon would be reflected or retransmitted to Bonaventure.

  Now they waited.

  ***

  The theatrical disintegration of the Disconnected Worlds fleet continued. Shishi’s ships had widened their lead, showily trading missiles and counter-missiles with the Bonnies. Akiak’s pulled into a tight defensive formation and saved their missiles for discouraging the Fusion from picking on them. The largest contingent belonged to Bonaventure. They fired missiles freely in both directions.

  The arguments on the voice channels now had a Fusion member. She claimed their quarrel was only with Bonaventure. Not even the Shishi spokesman pretended to believe her.

  No communications came to the analog squadron. Mitchie recognized this as good security practice. Their best defense was for the Fusion to not notice them. Still, a reassurance that the fleet was working to the plan would have made her less lonely.

  When she calculated the Fuzies were twelve hours from entering the kill zone Mitchie sent orders for all crew and captains to take four hour naps. It took persuasion from Guo and a bit of plum wine to make her obey her own order.

  At three hours to the zone entry everyone on Joshua Chamberlain was in position and alert. Mitchie trusted the other ships were the same but she’d ordered radio silence so there was no confirmation.

  “They’re coming close,” said Mthembu.

  “Shifted their course closer to the sun,” answered Hiroshi. “Might be trying to outflank, cut us off from the Disker gates.”

  Mitchie updated her plot. “They’re closer than I’d like. We don’t have wide enough coverage to get them all at once now.”

  Captain Ingram’s voice came from the speaker. “Tonga. Tonga!”

  Mthembu flipped through the code book. No one on the bridge had memorized that word’s meaning. “Jesus save them. Ma’am, he sent ‘incoming missiles.’”

  Mitchie aimed the telescope at AS Camel’s position. She could see the missiles maneuvering to evade the counter-missiles streaking in on them. Camel’s defenders all hit. But there were still a dozen missiles left. Decoys lit up and moved away. Some missiles followed them.

  One hit Camel. Then a second enlarged the explosion.

  “Well, she was closest,” said Mitchie. “Most likely to be spotted.” She’d put Barito farthest from the enemy, her own ship in the middle.

  “What do we do, ma’am?” asked Hiroshi.

  “Nothing. We sit tight and wait for our moment.”

  “God have mercy on their souls,” said Mthembu.

  “Amen,” said the others.

  The Disconnect fleet noticed the loss of one of their secret weapons. They launched multiple waves of missiles at the Fuzies. The explosions would jam their sensors and distract their crews.

  Mitchie focused her telescope on the constellation she’d picked as the marker for approaching the kill zone. When the first Fusion plume entered it she ordered, “Red light signal.”

  At the comm console Mthembu sent out a Morse code signal. Two of the decoys began to glow bright red. More red dots appeared as the other ships of the squadron turned decoys into warning lights.

  Mitchie checked the chronometer. There’d be at least a two and a half minute delay before she saw any reaction from her fleet.

  The arguments continued on the voice channel. Then a new voice broke in, saying only “Mike mike mike mike mike mike.” The Disconnect voices went silent. Mitchie started a three minute timer. The Fusion propagandist kept talking. A puzzled note entered her voice as no one interrupted her.

  The time counted down to zero. When it finished Mitchie ordered, “Mthembu, send ‘Kilo’ to the squadron.” She activated the PA. “Setta, let it loose.”

  Setta and her techs attached the power cable for the transmitter. She slammed home the activation switch personally.

  The transmitter sent out copies of the infoweapon. The antenna focused them toward a narrow cone through the Fusion formation. The signal flew through millions of klicks of empty space.

  Mitchie and her pilots watched the Fuzie fleet. It was large enough to be visible at this range even if they couldn’t pick out individual plumes.

  “Mthembu, stay on the Morse key. If you see any incoming release the counter-missiles.”

  “Aye-aye,” said the co-pilot.

  Hiroshi said, “This is frustrating. On a warship you see missiles going out, or explosions when you get a hit. We can’t see anything with this.”

  “If it works I’ll take the whole crew to a fireworks show sometime,” said the captain. The others laughed.

  Mitchie tried to wait calmly. Fidgeting would be bad for morale. Not that it matters. If this doesn’t work they’ll blast us out of space.

  ***

  Fusion warships created dynamic networks when operating together. Ships didn’t just relay orders and intelligence to each other. They passed along their own status and intentions. A captain could look at his formation mate’s target priorities and set his own in response.

  Supporting the network required constant data connections. Every side of a warship had a high bandwidth transceiver ready to talk to any ship that came in view. Add in the regular communications gear, electronic warfare listening antennas, and missile control systems, and their hulls were mostly antennas.

  The FNS Kamimura’s port side transceiver pointed directly at Joshua Chamberlain’s oversized antenna. A complete set of the infoweapon patterns went into its memory to be checked for proper identification codes. Pattern B began overwriting itself onto the transceiver’s stored code keys.

  The system monitoring processor noticed the transceiver had stopped making its heartbeat report. The monitor began a diagnostic, pulling a copy of the transceiver’s memory into its own.

  On the bridge a status light went red. The Internetworking Officer wasn’t bothered. Space was harsh, bids were low, and the enemy added entropy. She was pleased she’d kept 100% availability as long as she had.

  Pattern A fit the monitor. Overwriting proceeded rapidly. Other systems reported in. Instead of the usual curt acknowledgement bit they received back a pattern packet. Usually the wrong one—bu
t they’d get another when their next heartbeat report went in.

  Computers began failing all over the ship. Operational ones sought to route around the damage. They queried neighbors for their status. Patterns came back.

  The bridge crew tried to find an explanation for the cascade of failures. Frantic speculation found nothing useful. Then they abruptly went into free fall as Kamimura’s torch shut down. The lights failed next. The crew argued over the cause until a Chief Gunner’s Mate silenced them. “Don’t panic. It wastes oxygen.”

  ***

  Mthembu kept his eye on the Fuzies. “They’re flickering,” he said.

  Hiroshi lifted the telescope. “There are plumes going out. And—shit. Incoming missiles.”

  The co-pilot hammered the Morse key. When he finished they could see their counter-missiles fire their attitude jets. The decoys became glowing blue balls moving away from the ship.

  “Transmit ‘Tonga,’” said Mitchie.

  Mthembu obeyed.

  She pressed the PA switch. “All hands, suit up.” She set an example for speed-donning a pressure suit. Her utility uniform would leave dents in her skin, but time was only one reason for not removing it on the bridge.

  White light seared their eyes as the counter-missiles shot off. The enemy missiles were visible now, blue circles with black dots in the middle. The circles shifted, becoming streaks as they maneuvered around the defenses. Bright flashes made them cover their eyes.

  When Mitchie lowered her hands the missile plumes were gone. Along with the counter-missiles and decoys.

  BANG BANG BANG. The sharp noises were followed by high-pitched whistles. The pilots grabbed for their helmets.

  “Just patch the holes, boys,” said Mitchie. “We’ve had bigger ones than that in here.” She recovered the telescope. The Fusion formation now had stripes in it. She grabbed a slide rule and a pad of paper.

  By the time they had all three holes filled with sealant she had the new aiming angles for each ship in the squadron. Mitchie took the comm console’s seat and read out numbers and code words. All four of her remaining subordinates had survived this Fusion barrage. Mitchie directed Hiroshi to align Joshua Chamberlain toward her new targets.

  Soon the bright stripes of the Fusion formation began to dim. Scattered missiles were launched but vanished before reaching the squadron.

  “What got them?” wondered Hiroshi.

  “We did,” said Mitchie. “The Fuzies like positive control of their missiles. So they’re covered with radio receivers. If the angle’s right they’ll pick up our broadcast.”

  “And then shut down,” said Mthembu.

  “Yes. That probably happened to half the missiles in the first wave.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later most of the Fusion fleet was dark. Some plumes moved erratically, seeking safety. Other survivors clustered to create new missile defense formations. Mitchie shifted her ships to aim at them. More plumes went out.

  As targets became scarcer the captains asked permission to hunt targets of opportunity. Mitchie divided the sky into five sectors and turned them loose. She let Hiroshi handle Joshua Chamberlain’s targeting. He was almost as good as she at finely adjusting the ship’s attitude. She bit her tongue and let him get the practice he needed.

  An hour later the only Fuzies still active were burning for the Lapis gate. The squadron’s transmitters couldn’t push a signal through a torch plume. Mitchie signaled the squadron to secure their transmitters and ordered Setta to do the same. When she heard the cargo doors close she started checking the other ships with the telescope. Once every ship had its antenna retracted she ordered green buoys deployed.

  Shortly after they lit up a voice message came in. “Roar to Macy. Well done.” It was Admiral Galen’s voice.

  Mitchie replied, “Macy to Roar. Thank you.”

  “There’s a few trying to escape but we positioned a squadron to block the gate. I think we’ll have them all in the bag.” The admiral didn’t seem to care about communications security any more. “We’ll start search and rescue shortly. Reconfigure your holds for prisoner transport. You’ll take Fuzies to Bonaventure.”

  “Aye-aye, Roar.”

  Third Battle of Bonaventure, phase two.

  Chapter Twelve: Aftermath

  Mitchie turned her squadron loose to pick up POWs from whichever warship had the most to hand over. They filled up quickly. Less than twelve hours after receiving the first bunch of survival bubbles Joshua Chamberlain was boosting for Bonaventure.

  At a comfortable ten gravs they’d be there in four days. By then most of the prisoners would be dead of suffocation. Fortunately a thoughtful Fuzie engineer had designed the bubbles so their air tanks could be refilled from outside. Guo rigged some hoses to handle it.

  Sorting through the bubbles to find yellow “low air” lights was the hard part. The pile of bubbles almost reached the top of the hold in spots. The clear patch of deck for recharging air tanks was in constant danger of avalanches.

  Setta organized the mechanics and EW techs to set up partitions with tarps and the cargo net. Bubbles went from the “unchecked” to “checked” side of the net if they were green, to Guo if they were yellow. Setta found herself on stuck on security duty after finding too many Fuzies were too heavy to lift over her head.

  Guo had four hoses feeding bubbles. A couple more bubbles were waiting their turn, wiggling about as the occupants tried to see what was happening through their little portholes. One bubble’s light turned from a green rectangle to the word “FULL”. He unplugged the hose and rolled the bubble over to the net for his mechanics to add to the “checked” pile.

  The next bubble was out of the hose’s reach. Its light was orange. That ship hadn’t been keeping its bubbles properly charged. Guo rolled it over to the hose, then gave it a quarter-turn to put the air socket on top.

  As he picked up the hose the bubble’s zipper opened. “Hey! Stay in there,” ordered Guo. “I’m getting you more air. You’ll be fine.”

  Arms and a head came out of the bubble. “Get back in the bubble. You’re not allowed out!”

  The Fuzie twisted to put his feet on the deck. “No, I can’t take it anymore!” he shouted. He stood up, the bubble puddled around his ankles.

  Guo tried to be soothing. “Look, we all hate being in bubbles. But there’s not enough room—”

  The tall Fuzie shoved Guo with both hands, knocking him flat. “Fuck you, Disker! I’m not getting back in that thing.”

  POP POP POP POP. He turned to face Setta. She held the pistol steady on him. The Fuzie touched the hole in his chest. He sat on his bubble, cursing and coughing blood.

  Guo picked himself up. “Nice shooting.”

  “No, no, I missed,” said Setta. “I missed twice.”

  The Fuzie fell onto his side.

  Setta holstered the pistol and ran across the deck. Two bubbles were deflating, air hissing out under the pressure of the bubbles piled above them. She grabbed one and pulled. The punctured bubble didn’t budge. One above them popped loose and rolled down the slope past her. “Guys, I need muscle here!” she said.

  Guo set his handcomm to PA. “Medic to cargo hold. Make that medic kit to cargo hold.” Then he joined the other crewmen in extracting the accidentally shot prisoners.

  Both of them were alive. The female was covered in blood but calm. Her bubble was oversized and she’d been leaning against the far side. The bullet fragmented coming through the wall of the bubble and scattered small wounds over her arms, legs, and belly.

  The other had lain with his back against the side toward Setta. The bullet went in below the ribs as one piece. Some pressure stopped the bleeding. He was in shock and unconscious.

  Mitchie came down the ladder with the medic kit slung over her shoulder. Not getting a new medic after Bing quit now seemed her worst mistake as captain. Bouncing and crawling over the bubbles seemed to take forever.

  By the time she reached the deck both patients
had been moved into an empty container. Mitchie regretted offloading the Pilgrims’ dorm. The prisoner who’d started the trouble had no pulse when she checked him. Treating the other two came down to bandages and the medicines recommended by the medic kit’s manual.

  “Ma’am, what do we do with the body?” asked mechanic Ye.

  “Check his pockets for ID, then toss it out the airlock,” said Mitchie.

  “But he’s all soaked in—”

  She glared.

  “Aye-aye, ma’am.”

  Setta had started the bubble sorting again. Once everyone had a full air tank she wanted the prisoners to get some water.

  Mitchie took Guo aside. “Let me know when Setta goes off shift,” she whispered. “I want to catch her for an informal chat.”

  He nodded.

  ***

  When Setta came up to the main deck Mitchie was sitting at the galley table. “How’s watering them working?” asked the captain, waving the PO to a seat.

  Setta fell into it. “We’ve got the routine down. Unzip the bubble, hand in the cup, tell them there’ll be food too the next time. Make them give back the cup. They say, ‘I have to pee.’ We say use the spacesick bag and zip up the bubble before they can say ‘My ship didn’t put spacesick bags in the bubble’ or ‘My skin is sensitive’ or ‘My back hurts from curling up.’”

  Mitchie had taken two cups and a bottle from a cupboard while the PO talked. She poured them each a drink. “Here. You earned it.”

  Setta sipped, coughed, tossed the rest down. “Strong.”

  “Yep.” Mitchie refilled both cups. “Are they giving you trouble?”

  “Not while there’s a gun pointed at them. We tried having two water them while one covered them, to go faster. Too many of them tried to get out of the bubble. So now we have a gun pointed at their face the whole time.”

  Setta tossed down the second shot of whiskey and continued, “The worst part is I’m getting used to it. The first fifty I felt so bad, making them stay in the bubble and piss themselves. Now it’s just, yeah, sucks for everybody.” She stared at the cup. “I don’t want to get used to shooting them.”