The pinging of the Prax warships resumed. Djembe made a startled sound that caused them both to look.
“There’s a major fleet battle going on right near Earth,” he announced as he studied his readout. Halloran tried to look on but the display in question seemed just a mass of swirling dots. It had an interesting 3-D appearance, however.
“Is that bad?” Antonov asked, trying to strain to see something in the black outside.
Suddenly, a bolt of what looked like yellow-blue light passed by the viewscreen. At first it seemed harmless, like a spotlight had been turned on somewhere. Then, the ship shook violently and Djembe fought the controls.
“Plasma burst,” the pilot announced. “They have our range.”
“That’s bad,” Halloran concluded.
Djembe didn’t answer but continued to change course radically as they moved further and further away from their home planet.
Between Luna and Earth
“Sir! Long-range sensors are picking up a small ship that just exited the Earth atmosphere near the Northern Pole. Two of the Prax destroyers are moving to intercept.”
Commander Tarsa fixed the man with his gaze. “Can you confirm the ID of the vessel? Read life forms?”
“Too far to read specifics but the ID of the ship is…interesting.”
Tarsa walked over, sufficiently interested to spare a moment from monitoring the battle on his display. “Explain.”
The man, a young officer with tousled blond hair, looked up. His face showed the inexperience. “Well, sir, it’s showing as an old military transport. Last active service over fifty years ago.”
“Class?”
“Gopher, sir. What’s a gopher?”
Tarsa looked away, remembering. The Gopher…not a ship to be trifled with. “Good,” he breathed, “You’ve got a good ship. Now we help make you a hole to fly through.” He strode back to his station near the back of the bridge, calling commands.
More beeps. “What now?” Halloran asked.
“Incoming projectiles,” was Djembe’s short response.
“Leave the man alone,” Antonov croaked. He was clearly battling the G-forces as well. “He needs to get us out of here.”
The pilot was darting this way and that, a pattern that Halloran dimly realized through his nausea was a form of three-dimensional zig-zag. An evasive maneuver.
A grunt from Djembe. “They struck the first destroyer.” He sounded pleased as he re-adjusted his controls.
So we are getting outside help, Halloran thought. That’s got to be good.
The Imani dodged another huge bolt of energy and the ship’s hull vibrated again, this time with an accompanying groan of fatigued metal.
Not good.
The stars swayed from one side of the viewscreen to another and back again as the ship bucked and ducked numerous fresh bolts. Halloran was at his limit—used to being in command, he found himself a mere passenger in a deadly dance in a blackness that sapped away his sanity. He squeezed his eyes closed, deciding that live or die, the next moments were some he didn’t need to hurl over.
Antonov gave in and puked behind him, the immediate smell taking the American right to the edge himself. He could hear the audible groans emanating from the men in the hold.
More warning chimes and the pilot put the ship into a semblance of stable flight. Suddenly a huge gray mass passed directly under them—clearly one of the enemy ships—rushing by only meters away.
The pilot grunted in satisfaction. “By passing right over them we don’t allow their targeting to keep up. It’s a lost art, small-ship handling in combat.”
Now Halloran felt the vertigo of seeing something so large flying by seemingly only meters away and leaned over, heaving his breath in a last-ditch effort to stave off the vomit. Then a mass of liquid caressed his cheek, looking like a glob of floating slime and stink. Antonov’s puke.
Halloran gave his stomach reign and crunched over, dumping his guts into the air on the side away from Djembe.
He heard a chuckle from the pilot. “No space legs.”
The ship bumped and rumbled again as the chimes sounded. “The Fleet must really want you people. They are firing volley after volley of long-range projectiles at our pursuing destroyers. We’re clear of number two’s shadow, they’ll be shooting back now.” Djembe frowned as he turned the Gopher on its side and accelerated in a totally new vector.
“Ugh,” was all Halloran could muster. He tried to push the encroaching mass of floating puke away, but instead his hand sank into the mass. When he yanked it out the mass separated and moved toward him again. “Ugh.”
More warning beeps. “Incoming.” Then, “Nice shooting. They just took out the second destroyer’s bridge section with projectiles. It’ll be a shambles in there.”
Antonov gripped Halloran’s shoulder tightly. “Where do we go from here?” But Halloran was still pulling himself together and could only shake his head.
Djembe answered. “My flight plan was to land your Prax back there at a village on the far side of Mars. But,” he waved at the display of ships on his panel, “there’s two entire fleets battling it out between us and there.” He sighed. “I should have stayed underground at Rat City. You people are going to get me killed.”
Halloran coughed. His white face had regained some color. “Is this normal? I mean, space battles and everything.”
A plasma bolt passed in front of them. Djembe pushed down on the control stalk and the ship dove away. “Don’t know for sure. There’ve been several big battles that I’ve heard of in my time out-system.” He pulled the ship in a new direction with the controls. “The Fleet has been at war with the Prax for a generation, trying to reclaim Earth. When I got out we’d already fought dozens of major engagements with them. Now, I keep my head as low as possible and avoid contact…with either side.”
Halloran respected the older man’s cool under fire. He was almost chatty as he deftly manipulated the ship. It was very obvious that he had a reserve of skill that allowed him to talk as casually as he did. Look at me; I’m practically scared out of my mind, he noticed with some frustration.
Djembe was accelerating toward the melee of bolts criss-crossing the black palette of space before them.
“Umm,” began Antonov. He was attempting to recover from the puking session.
“The only vector to any place you’d want to go at the moment is straight through that,” Djembe said with a short chop in the forward direction.
Antonov continued. “We’re going to catch a shot of that bolt-weapon—”
“Plasma,” Djembe corrected unhelpfully.
“Plasma weapon…and it’ll cut this boat in half.”
The pilot had had enough of defending his course and instead ignored them for the next few minutes. At one point a rush of black flew past them on both sides, the Gopher seemingly sailing right through the middle of the barrage. Those are the projectiles, Halloran observed. Silent, black as space and deadly. He was starting—dimly—to see how warfare might be waged in space. He heard one of the crew calling hoarsely from the back. “We almost there, sir?” He didn’t answer—no need in creating false hope right at this moment.
A new warning beep began sounding in the cockpit.
“Hmm.” Djembe studied the newly-illuminated panel.
“What is it now?”
“The Fleet is hailing us.”
Chapter 32
Between Luna and Earth
“Let me try.” Tarsa shouldered in alongside the comms tech and leaned toward the interface. “Unidentified Fleet vessel, this is Commander Tarsa. State your destination and intentions. Repeat, state your destination and intentions.”
Over the constant background of damage reports and hushed, clipped commands across the bridge, the speaker was silent.
After a moment the tech said, “Their transponder is turned off. They don’t want to be found.”
Tarsa stepped back. He needed to attend to the battle, but this an
cient, rogue ship plowing straight into his quadrant intrigued him. He was sure that the small transport held the thing that Kendall had so worried about. But was it a defector? His curiosity was getting the better of him at what he also knew was an inopportune time. “Keep hailing them, and watch their vector like a Coloranian hawk. If they lock onto a known destination alert me immediately.”
“Distance to the Gopher is just under one hundred thousand kilometers.”
“Commander! Aragon has taken a full barrage and is drifting! Do we move to intercede?”
The Aragon was the second-largest vessel in the group, after Tarsa’s flagship. “Move to intercede,” Tarsa barked to the Captain. “Bring the support ships right in underneath Aragon and have them return fire on the Prax as soon as they are in position.”
The Captain moved close. “Sir…”
Tarsa waved a hand. “I know. We’re going to need to withdraw. I just want to give those lunatics in the Gopher a fighting chance to get through this blockade.” He met the Captain’s dubious expression resolutely. “We owe it to Kendall. And that crazy pilot.”
The man’s solemn nod was cut short by “Captain! Multiple inbound projectiles!”
And then the bridge lights went out as the sound of hundreds of slivered projectiles slashing through the hull filled everyone’s ears. Tarsa fought the overwhelming urge to duck under his station; he’d be spaced before he showed that sort of weakness in front of the crew.
Then a rush of screeching metal and he was thrown sideways by the air pressure of the projectile. His head hit hard and stars danced before his eyes. Breathing became labored as he dimly recognized that the atmosphere was escaping into space.
Some time passed—minutes, hours?—and he felt himself being levered upright. The bridge lights were on, but flickering. Moans punctuated the fresh air that now filled the compartment. Tarsa recognized an Ensign on his staff, her arm bloody and still dripping. So minutes, then.
“Sir, can you stand?”
He grabbed for his station and exhaled to clear his head. “I’ll be able, Ensign. Damage report?”
She shook her head. He saw the blood mixed with her hair as she frowned. “Captain Stepan is dead, sir. Other than that I don’t know, sorry sir.”
He patted her arm. “Get to the medbay, Ensign. Send up the acting Captain from operations.” He glanced over at the comm tech’s station but the man was nowhere to be seen.
“Sir, we’ve taken heavy damage. “Acting Captain is enroute but asking for permission to organize a withdrawal.”
As usual, the Prax will win, Tarsa thought bitterly. And we got so close this time… “Give the Acting Captain my approval to withdraw along with Aragon and her remaining support ships. Signal the Fleet that our group is preparing to withdraw from the quadrant.”
He glanced again at the empty comm tech workstation. We’ve done all we can today; now it’s up to the pilot of that Gopher to make good his or her escape.
“There it is. Setting course now.” Djembe had just ducked under incoming fire and pushed the stick as far as it would go. At the same time, his eyes roved over the instruments, a model of multitasking. Halloran, having little else to do, watched the man closely. It also helped his queasy stomach to have something to focus on. And his frustration and suppressed anger.
“Should we be answering that Commander Tarsa’s hail?” Halloran asked. “He sounded important.”
“No Fleet for me. I’m taking you somewhere I can drop you at without the Fleet.”
Halloran was uneasy. He didn’t understand the politics at play, of course. But he knew that his responsibility was to get the men & women seated behind them to safety.
Djembe seemed to read his thoughts. “It’s not safe out there in the battle sector, anyway.”
“So where are you heading?”
“There’s a clear vector to Charon.” He checked a readout. “Just over eight hours. I will see if we can stop at Vesta first, in the Belt.”
“Charon?”
“At the edge. Only clear vector I have, anyway. Which is fine for me.”
“The edge?” Antonov asked.
Djembe exhaled with annoyance. “Questions later. We go now.”
Halloran sat back, bracing himself. “All for it. Punch it.” He glanced uneasily around for a marauding blob of puke.
The pilot just cast Halloran a look that paired well with the exhalation—of annoyance—and busily tapped what looked like coordinates on a keypad of numbers. Halloran had already noticed that the numerals in use were English, of which he was glad. At least something I can understand in this godforsaken space world. He found that he already missed Earth.
No amazing burst of speed happened, which was somewhat deflating. But Djembe’s face showed that all was normal as he pushed another control and the ship’s acceleration began to build, gently forcing Halloran back in his seat and gripping him firmly there. The pilot was focused on something else but Halloran saw the battle, now close aboard their port side, and the massive ships trading light bolts and maneuvering aggressively. Up close, he now could tell the difference between the human and Praxxan warships; the alien vessels were angular with what seemed like forward-swept wings. Hidden gun emplacements spun and discharged energy weapons toward their human opponents. For their part, the human Fleet ships were gray in the tradition of the Navy (he hoped, at least) and were more blocky, boasting angular ranks of guns and lit viewports that reminded him of a painting he’d once seen of an ocean-liner at night, steaming across the Atlantic in the 1920’s. Despite their proximity, however, the alien ships seemed to pay no heed to the tiny vessel accelerating past them. Halloran half-expected a barrage of plasma bolts emerging toward them. It was as close as they would get, he guesstimated.
“Commander, the Prime wishes to speak with you. It’s urgent, sir.” The aide waved at Xylan from across the bridge.
Doesn’t he know we’re in the middle of a pitched battle? Xylan listened to damage reports and tried to focus on the targeting monitors before him, but the aide’s frown warmed the skin on the back of his neck to the point where he spun on his heel and stalked over. “I’ll take this,” he waved the Prax aside and leaned into the comm panel. “Xylan here.”
The Prime’s voice betrayed his extreme frustration with the old soldier. “Xylan, where have you been?!”
“Lord, I am directing the battle at close quarters—”
“—You are to scan for a small human vessel, target it and destroy it immediately!”
Xylan entertained the notion that the Prime was unhinged. “Lord, the space in this quadrant is literally filled with small vessels and debris.”
“Do you understand me, Xylan? Destroy it immediately!”
The Commander looked over his shoulder at an aide standing patiently nearby. “Scan our sector for a small human vessel.”
“Sir?” The Praxxan’s face betrayed his confusion.
Xylan sighed, wondering momentarily if the sound would reach the Prime’s ears. He didn’t care. “Look for something out of place, something with a transponder off, anything that looks unusual.”
“Lord, as you desire.” The Prax marched over to the bridge sensor workstation and began arguing with the officer there, waving his arms to make a point. The officer argued back and they didn’t seem to get anywhere.
“Lord! The human flagship has taken heavy damage,” called the command officer from nearby. “An excellent, well-placed projectile volley.”
“Congratulations,” Xylan complimented him, then remembered the Prime still on the channel. He could hear the leader yelling something in the background to underlings at his end. “Lord, is there anything else you desire? We are on the verge of a great victory in battle and I must attend to it…Lord.” The last title was given in a calculated accent of exasperation. Xylan had better things to do.
“Find that ship, Commander! Or it’ll be your—”
Xylan cut the channel and smiled at the dismayed Prax attendant.
No doubt the younger man thought Xylan insubordinate at so treating his Prime.
He patted the man’s shoulder. “I stopped our ears from hearing things we would not be able to un-hear.” At the Prax’s continued confusion he added, “You’ll understand one day when you attain your own rank.”
“Commander,” called his aide from across the bridge.
Xylan came over, glancing over the bridge crew as he did. All seemed attentive at their stations.
“We have indeed acquired a small human vessel of military origin traveling without a valid transponder signal.”
Xylan nodded. Even though Praxxan technology had yet to crack the human codes they could tell when something was amiss in the transmission. “Location?”
“One hundred fifty six point seven thousand and opening the range. We can trace back their energy trail to Earth; apparently the ship passed through the screen provided by our detached destroyers. Those have both reported heavy damage from long-distance barrages of large-caliber projectiles.”
Xylan’s eyebrows went up. “Aimed?”
The Prax nodded. “According to the surviving Captain aboard the Xxlanta, the volleys were deliberately aimed despite the distant ranges.”
“So the humans are fighting this battle simply for the opportunity to close the range and allow for—this small single ship—to effect and escape from Earth?”
“It would appear as if the suspicions were correct, Lord.”
“Can we take out the ship as it stands now?”
The aide glanced at the officer working the sensors, who of course was listening in. The other Prax checked his panel. “We can fire a volley of projectiles, Lord. Be advised, however, that our supply of weaponry is very low and our own engagement is yet to be concluded with the human warships in close proximity.”
Xylan didn’t need reminding. He pursed his lips. “Status of the human Fleet?” he barked.
Another bridge officer looked his way. “Lord, they are repositioning for a withdrawal, according to their maneuvers. But…”
“But?”
War Without Honor Page 19