Alien Death Fleet [Star Frontiers 1]

by Robert E. Vardeman

  Norlin tried to put his fears into perspective. He had seen many genhanced officers during his five years at the Empire Service Academy. He had thought all were strange, some eccentric and the rest completely irrational. Those few who seemed to have lost all contact with reality proved themselves the most brilliant in simulated combat tests. One of the saner instruction officers claimed they had no distractions to complicate their decisions. They saw the kernel of the problem and solved it.

  Pensky might prove to be one of the genetically altered tactical geniuses. Norlin still wished he knew how the captain had been re-engineered. It might give him some insight—and faith—in the man's abilities.

  “Can I fire them yet?” Pensky called out. He hadn't bothered to don the HUD command visor with its summary displays of the major systems.

  “Let's leave the station first,” suggested Miza. She glanced at Norlin and shrugged, as if saying Everyone has their quirks.

  Norlin found a dropseat in the corner of the bridge and sat down to observe, since he had nothing else to do. Pensky fired off orders, most of which sounded legitimate. The few that weren't could have been jokes to ease the tension—or they might have been stark, raving madness. The crew ignored those and concentrated on the reasonable orders.

  “Ready to launch. What are we heading out to do, Captain?” asked Miza.

  “Nothing! Everything! I don't know. We're being invaded. We have to fight our way out. I knew it would happen. I told Arian we should put up a big wall around Earth.”

  “A wall of sensors? Or warships?”

  “Brick! I wanted it to be brick. Fang wire isn't good enough. Too easy to get through. They can sneak under when your back is turned. Let's launch and go after them!”

  Pensky expertly guided the Preceptor from dock and spun the ship on its axis. A small, expert application of power, a precession to get into position; and then the cruiser leaped with sudden acceleration that pinned Norlin to the poorly cushioned seat. He marvelled at Pensky's ability to control the vessel without using the command visor.

  How did he know where they blasted without constant update information? Norlin had never heard of a genhanced officer with telepathic powers, although such were rumored and he remembered long hours at the academy disproving this possibility mathematically. Still, Bell's Inequality explained action at a distance—the emergency quantum interference beacon depended on faraway action. If two atoms could be quantum linked, it might be possible for telepathy to exist.

  But what brand of telepathy was it that would allow Pensky to control the cruiser without once referring to the torrents of data from the equipment?

  The most obvious worry Norlin had was how Captain Pensky knew where they travelled. The space around a major base was filled with traffic and presented considerable approach and departure problems for controllers.

  “We're finally free of sector control and on our own,” came Liottey's voice.

  “And they're madder than hell, too,” spoke up Miza. “We almost collided with an incoming Earther freighter loaded with electronics.”

  “Main engine shutdown,” bellowed Barse over the all-stations comlink. “Shut the damned jets down or we'll blow up!”

  “After them! They're everywhere. We can take them. I'm braver than any thousand of the swine!”

  Pensky stood in the command chair and waved his arms around like a rotary blade fan. Norlin felt part of the human-created air current brush across his face and evaporate the nervous sweat beading there. On take-off, Pensky hadn't known where he vectored; he had simply cast away from the dock and ordered the ship out at random. They might have collided with any number of vessels. Norlin closed his eyes and tried not to think about madness trumping telepathy as an answer for the new captain's behavior.

  “Shut down the goddamn engines!” roared Tia Barse. The engineer stood in front of the command chair and shoved her scowling face within a centimeter of Pensky's. “I don't want to end up a flash of plasma because some brain-burned cousin of the goddamn emperor wants to get his rocks off!”

  “Barse! You're talking mutiny.” Gowan Liottey had followed her in and stood nervously by the door to the control room. “Hush. It's not that bad.”

  “It is. Every light on my panel is red. I need to shut down and repair or the whole damned ship is going to explode. Do I make myself clear?” She shoved her chin out truculently and stopped it just a hair short of colliding with Pensky's.

  “Engineer Barse, how nice to see you. Would you care for a spot of green tea? It's so difficult finding anyone who drinks the refined beverage out here on the frontier. Such an ugly place.”

  “What?” Barse stepped back and stared.

  “The cha-no-yu tea ceremony. It is the rage at court. Even the emperor is learning the complete ritual. It's ancient and ever so complicated. None of the commoners learn it. That makes it so much more delicious.”

  “What's this got to do with my damned engines?”

  “Take tea with me, and I'll order them turned off or whatever it was you wanted.”

  “I'd walk through hell barefoot to put them right.” Barse glanced at Norlin. He nodded. He'd see what could be done while she drank tea with the captain.

  Norlin left the bridge and made his way to the engine room. On the way, he stopped and let out the ship's cat from the mess hall. The black feline with white back paws and chin whiskers stared up at him, yowled and pranced off toward the engine room, tail high. Norlin followed.

  “You're the only one left on board with any sense,” Norlin told the cat. “You don't want anything to do with this crew of madmen.”

  The cat jumped up and perched on a wrist-thick superconducting cable feeding power into the drive engine's exciter chamber. Norlin's nose wrinkled, and he backed away.

  “Barse said you had gas. I didn't realize she meant it literally.”

  He warily skirted the methane-releasing feline and studied the engineering board. A few minutes work at the computer console showed major problems devel-oping. Barse hadn't been out of line demanding immediate engine shutdown. Whatever had been done to the ship in dock at Sutton, decent repairwork had not been part of it. They had received better at Murgatroyd.

  Norlin was something of a perfectionist and reran the checks. He shook his head. If the Preceptor tried to shift, it would simply vanish in a puff of vapor. Trying to jet about inside the Sutton system seemed even riskier. Norlin saw a dozen places where fuel leaks had developed and sent cryogenic temperature sprays into the main compartment.

  He struggled with the engineering computer and summoned several RRUs from other parts of the ship, making sure he didn't take any from duty on the life support system. For once, Liottey had allocated resources well. An hour of hard work later, Norlin had metallic crews repairing the most obvious problems.

  “Good, you got most of them,” said Barse as she joined him. “I feel better having you on board. You've got more sense in your little finger than he has in his whole goddamn head.” She reached over and scooped up the fat black cat from his perch. “I see you let Neutron out. He's my secret way back.”

  “How's that?”

  “If we run out of fuel, I'll hook his ass up to a hose and run it directly into the fuel-mixing chamber. A spark for ignition and whoosh! we're on our way home with a limitless methane supply.”

  “What do you feed him?”

  “Whatever he wants to eat. He's an independent son of a mouser.”

  “Cut back on the protein,” advised Norlin.

  “You sound as if you've had experience. You don't strike me as the feline fancier type of officer.” Barse stared hard at him.

  “Just goes to show how wrong you can be.”

  They returned to repairing all that had been neglected back at sector base. The Preceptor might carry a full complement of genius missiles, but it lacked the ability to deliver them reliably.

  After six hours, Norlin called a halt to the work.

  “What else is there?” he as
ked.

  “Nothing the robots can't handle on their own, Cap'n,” Barse said.

  He looked at her and shook his head sadly. He liked being called captain, but he no longer had any real position aboard the Preceptor. He was supposed to advise Pensky, but the genhanced officer had ideas of his own.

  At least, he hoped the new captain had ideas. From the erratic way Pensky commanded, it was difficult to decide if there were any sane purpose to his orders.

  “I'd better see how we're doing,” he told the engineer.

  “Norlin.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment.

  “Go see what Captain Crazy is up to.”

  He smiled crookedly, nodded and left the engine room. His knowledge of the shift engine was limited but greater than anyone else's aboard ship except for Barse. Likewise, he knew more about each system than anyone but the officer in charge. He couldn't operate the weapons computer with Sarov's flair, but he could keep them from being destroyed. His abilities in life support matched Liottey's; he had been in training for executive officer before deciding command pilot suited him better. Of all the positions, he knew the least about what it took to work Chikako Miza's station. Norlin vowed to bone up on communications and detection. With Pensky in charge, he would have the spare time.

  He slid through the shielding baffles leading to the bridge and stopped just inside the hatch. Pandemo-nium reigned. It took him several seconds to understand that the Preceptor was at full battle alert—and that Mitri Sarov worked to load missiles for firing.

  “Who's attacking? The Death Fleet?” he called across to Miza. She shook her head. He had never seen her so pale.

  “Please, Captain Pensky,” she pleaded. “It is giving all the proper recognition signals. It's one of ours!”

  “It's been taken over by the aliens. Trust me. I know. It's an enemy ship. Tactical Officer, fire a full barrage. Complete spectrum of missiles. Get the forward lasartillery ready for use. They'll come for us if we miss.”

  “Captain,” pleaded Miza, “that's our destroyer. We can't fire on our own vessel. It's the ES Montgomery, out of Sutton. IFF confirms it.”

  “She's right, Captain.” Sarov swung around at his station. “I'm receiving counter-lock signals. They know we've homed in on them and are decoupling. The destroyer is friendly and trying hard to keep us from firing.”

  Pensky's finger stabbed down on a button at the edge of his command chair. The Preceptor hummed as one flight of missiles fired and the auto-loaders slammed replacements into the magnetic rail launchers.

  “An enemy! It's an enemy!”

  “We're getting recall notice from sector base, Captain. They're waving us off the destroyer.”

  “Don't listen. It's an alien trick. They know everything about our communication techniques. I told Droon we should have changed our recognition codes. They know everything about us!”

  Norlin looked helplessly from the ranting captain to Sarov and Miza. He had no standing on the ship. He had been assigned to advise and nothing else. But they had fired on a friendly ship. Both Miza and Sarov would not mistake an alien craft. They'd never hesitate—and both moved indecisively, Pensky doing their work from the command chair.

  “Captain,” came Miza's wail. “Base says they'll declare us outlaw and order the fleet after us if we do not break off the attack immediately on the Montgomery.”

  “Lies! They're tricking us.” His finger worked across the toggles for the forward lasartillery. When it failed to fire he screamed and sent out another flight of missiles.

  “Direct hit,” came Sarov's hollow voice. “We scored a complete on the destroyer. There's not a speck of dust left.”

  “Sir,” cut in Miza, “base has ordered four cruisers and a battleship to intercept us and...”

  “Blow us out of space,” finished Sarov. “I picked up the same message on my classified frequency lasercom to base. Sir, we just killed a friendly—and now we're the target!”

  Pier Norlin went cold inside with shock. Captain Pavel Pensky had turned them into an outlaw ship slated for destruction in less than a day of patrol.

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  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  Pier Norlin took the command visor Pensky had discarded and donned it. He winced when the HUD revealed what the genhanced officer had done. Sarov's summary displays showed the full weapons systems on the Preceptor and their status. Sixteen expensive genius missiles had struck the ill-fated destroyer; Sarov could be proud of an eighty-percent hit rate. According to the playbacks, the destroyer had deployed every countermeasure possible, to no avail. The Preceptor had proven too powerful and Pensky too clever.

  Norlin sat on the dropseat and shook. He couldn't tell if the skillful attack had been so deadly because of superior power or expertise. What commander expec-ted a friendly ship to open fire?

  “A small sweep-fleet is closing on us, Captain,” came Miza's frightened voice. “Should I send the recognition response and surrender?”

  “No! They're all aliens. This is a ruse. They'll blow us out of space if you try dealing with them.”

  “Captain Pensky,” Norlin called. “They're friendly. They're ours. Let's parley and see if we can't—”

  “No!” the genhanced officer roared. He danced around in front of the command chair, thin arms waving wildly. “They're all against me. Since I left Earth, everyone's been against me. I suspect Droon of being an alien in disguise. A clever disguise, yes, but a disguise. Yes, that's it.”

  Norlin glanced at Miza and Sarov. Their expressions were unreadable, but for the first time he thought he saw real fear in Sarov's brown eyes. The tactical officer enjoyed combat; he had no stomach for fighting his friends and allies.

  “We'll never surrender,” Pensky said in a normal voice. His mood had shifted quickly. “Accept this input, Tactical Officer.” He swung around, sat in the command chair and confidently punched in an evasion routine. Norlin tried to follow the salient points of the plan and failed.

  Sarov began to chuckle. He worked at his own computer to implement the plan.

  The Preceptor leaped along strangely changing vectors, acceleration throwing them from side to side and the hull beginning to creak in complaint. Norlin watched the progress of the pursuing ships. Two heavy cruisers fired missiles; the Preceptor dodged them easily without using precious ECM missiles. When the battleship began firing its immense lasartillery, the true genius of Pensky's course became apparent.

  Each bolt missed by kilometers. At no time did Norlin have the feeling the Preceptor was in danger, yet he knew the ships on their tail had been ordered to destroy them without offering quarter.

  Pavel Pensky had the spark of genius. But was he right about the destroyer? Norlin didn't think so.

  “Captain,” came Miza's worried voice, “I'm picking up considerable disturbance ahead.”

  “Range?”

  “Almost a light-hour distant from the Doppler reading.” She gave the coordinates in relation to their rapidly changing position.

  “The Death Fleet!” blurted Norlin. He studied the woman's readouts and matched them with spectral analyses of the radiation waves he had ordered in the Lyman system. The match was perfect.

  The alien Death Fleet shifted into the Sutton system. Thousands of ships.

  “I was right!” cried Pensky. “The bastards are waiting for us. We'll lead our fleet to glorious victory. Our pennants will fly high as we march into combat. Forward, and let any craven slacker be put to the sword!”

  “Wait!” cried Norlin. “You can't attack the whole fleet. There are too many of them. Even one is more than the Preceptor can handle. We need repairs. We need—”

  “We need courage from the crew,” snapped Pensky. “I shall supply all the genius required for illustrious victory in the face of overwhelming odds.”

  He leaned back in the command chair and acted as if wind blew in his face. Norlin had the fleeting impression of an ancient sea captain on his br
idge, the stinging salt spray from a water ocean driving against his skin.

  “Dammit,” came Tia Barse's aggrieved voice from the hatch. “You're doing it again. You cut off my ‘link. Ask for any more power and the whole rust bucket is going to pop.”

  She hesitated when she saw the expression on Norlin's face. Her colorless eyes worked around the room, from the now-confident captain to the frightened Miza and the increasingly nervous Mitri Sarov.

  “What's got everyone spooked?”

  Gowan Liottey pushed past her and ran to the command chair. He leaned forward, his long, thin fingers gripping the arm so tightly that his knuckles turned white with strain.

  “Please, sir, turn back. That's the Death Fleet ahead of us. I just saw it on the command vidscreen.”

  “An inspiring sight, isn't it? Thousands of them, just a small armada of us.”

  “You can't count on the ships behind us,” said Sarov. “They're trying to blow us out of space.”

  “What in hell's going on?” asked Barse, confused. “I heard the auto-loaders working. Did this brain-dead son of a bitch fire on the Death Fleet?”

  Norlin hastily explained all that had occurred in the past few minutes. Barse burst out laughing.

  “You're no good as a practical joker, Norlin.” She sobered when she saw the others’ frightened faces. “It's not a joke? He really did blow one of our own destroyers to hell and gone?”

  “He claimed it had been taken over by aliens—he called Droon a traitor.”

  “Captain Droon is no traitor,” spoke up Pensky. “He is a victim, as were those aboard the destroyer. They've been taken over by the aliens. Clever mind-controlling bastards. But we're smarter. I'm smarter. Emperor Arian will reward me highly for this victory, and I don't mean those gaudy jeweled medals he's so fond of. He'll give me an entire world to rule. I'll do a good job of ruling, too. I want to rule. I was meant to rule!”

  “Is he ranting?” asked Barse.

  “He showed remarkable skill in getting away from the cruisers and battleship assigned to destroy us.”

  “Base ordered them after us?” Barse shuddered when Norlin nodded.