Starcruiser Polaris: Blood of Patriots

by Richard Tongue

   “We are free and clear to navigate,” Norton said.

   “Great flying, Lieutenant,” Curtis said.

   “Lieutenant?” Norton asked, turning her head.

   With a smile, Curtis replied, “Hell, if I've ever seen a good reason for a field commission, this is it. I'll let you know what branch of which military you're serving in later. For the present, I want a course towards the incoming ships for the next sixty seconds. Let's see if we can convince them that we're readier for battle than we are. Felix, can you hail the lead ship?”

   “Just a minute,” Rojek said, moving from the tactical console to the far end of the command deck, looking down at the communications console. “We've got to get more people up here, sir. Opening channel. Can't manage a scrambler, though. We're twenty years out of date.”

   “Broadcast in the clear. I want everyone to hear what I have to say anyway.”

   Throwing a switch, he said, “You're on, Teddy. Make it good. Twelve minutes to contact.”

   “This is Commander Edward Curtis of the Free Starship Polaris calling approaching cruiser squadron. I call upon you to withdraw. We have claimed this ship under the right of interstellar salvage, as regulated by the Treaty of New Delhi, 2045. Stand aside, and allow us to clear the system, or I will be forced to take actions that we will both regret.”

   After a second, the image of Diaz flicked onto the screen, this time with the political officer absent, his place filled with a communications technician who looked nervously around. After the debacle at Sinaloa Station, Curtis could guess why the command structure on Arcturus had shifted. Certainly Diaz looked far more confident than she had before.

   “Give it up, Teddy,” she said. “I don't know how you've got that ship flying, but there's no way you can have anything more than a skeleton crew on board, and she hasn't even lit her engines for decades. If we end up fighting a pitched battle, you'll lose.” She glanced off-camera for a moment, and said, “And I've seen that little fighter formation of yours. Just my ship can outnumber them eight to one.” Taking a deep breath, she added, “The Parliament wants that ship, and wants it badly. Badly enough that you might be able to work some sort of a deal if you yield right now. Taking it back will cause damage, I know that. You've got one big bargaining chip, but we're going to have to shoot it to pieces in a few minutes. For the sake of your crew...”

   “Save it, Liz,” Curtis replied. “I expected better of you than this. Take a good hard look at yourself, at what you've done since we served together. Is there anything there that you can be proud of? Is there anything there that you like? You've got a chance to turn it all around, if you choose to take it. But you've got to take the jump.”

   The viewscreen shifted, moving to a different bridge, a tall, balding man slouched on his command chair like a king holding court, rows of meaningless medals daubed across his chest. A black-uniformed political officer hovered over his shoulder, as though unwilling to stray too far from his puppet.

   “This is Acting Commodore Armstrong, commanding Task Force Alpha. I formally instruct you to surrender your vessel, in the name of the Terrestrial Federation. I give you my word that you and your crew will receive a fair trial if you surrender now, and that I will personally recommend to the sentencing board that the death penalty not be imposed.”

   “For a fair trial, Commander,” Curtis replied, purposefully ignoring the ego-imposed promotion, “you already seem convinced of our guilt.”

   “Isn't it evident?” Armstrong replied. “You've stolen one of our ships, Curtis, and we want it back. Even if I have to order my fleet to tear it to pieces in the process. So make up your mind. I'll give you five minutes to unconditionally surrender, or I will order my crews to open fire.”

   “I don't need five seconds, Commander, still less five minutes. I once wore the same uniform you do, served the same cause, fought the same wars. I was wrong then, and you are wrong now. I know that everyone on my ship would far sooner die than yield to the Federation, and I have no hesitation in telling you what you can do with your surrender! Polaris out.”

   “I guess that just about settles that,” Rojek said with a smile. “As someone once said, Teddy, you really do know the fastest way to start a war.”

   “Eight minutes, forty seconds to target,” Strickland reported, glancing across at her harried counterpart. “They're launching fighters, sir. Forty-eight birds heading our way. They'll hit us two minutes ahead of the main fleet. No sign of assault shuttles as yet.”

   Leaning forward on his chair, Curtis replied, “They left them behind at Sinaloa. That's how they moved so damn quickly. And Borealis must have burned out her drives getting out here from Sol so fast. This isn't quite as one-sided as it looks.” Turning to his crew, looking from station to station, he said, “The situation is not hopeless, people. We've still got a chance to pull this off.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Felix, connect me through to the ship.”

   “You're on, Teddy.”

   “This is the Commander,” he began, his voice echoing through the decks of Polaris, crewmen pausing at their tasks to listen. “In a little under six minutes, we will be coming under attack from enemy fighters, with three Federation Starcruisers following up two minutes later. Before we can reach the gravitational threshold and leave the system.”

   “I'm not going to lie to you. The situation is grave. Nevertheless, I still believe that victory is a realistic possibility. Fifty years ago, men and women working in freedom for the first time built this ship to defend their hard-won liberty from what became the Commonwealth Fleet. Every deck, every bulkhead, every bolt was imbued with the desire for justice, for freedom. Somehow, along the way, we lost all of that. The cause for which they sacrificed so much was betrayed, forgotten, replaced with a worse tyranny than the one the Revolution replaced.”

   “Today we have a chance to change all of that. Today we have a chance to strike the first blow of the Second Revolution, one that can be wiser, stronger than its predecessor, one that will remember and uphold the ideas and ideals we're fighting for. We can win a better future for ourselves and our children.” For a brief second, he thought of his son, somewhere on the bridge of a ship out in the stars, mercifully far away from here. “For the first time in decades, freedom is in our grasp. All we have to do is reach out and take it. I have faith in you, I have confidence in you, and I know that we can prevail. Curtis out.”

   “Should have been a speechwriter,” Dietrich said. “Not bad.”

   “I meant every word.”

   “That's why it worked.” Turning back to his station, he said, “Five minutes to first contact. Got any good ideas?” Looking back at the tactical telltales, he added, “I've got a crew heading up to the forward turrets, but I doubt they're going to make it in time to get them kicking again. We do have four defensive batteries ready, but against all of that death, I don't...”

   “Sir?” Strickland said, turning from her station. “It's Hanoi. She's on the move. Full thrust towards the enemy squadron.”

   “What's she up to?” Curtis asked. “Felix, any contact?”

   “Nothing,” Rojek replied. “Right now, we've got bigger problems.”

   Frowning Curtis nodded, then said, “Norton, set a course to follow Hanoi to the enemy ship. Maximum power. At least we can minimize our time in the battlespace. Don't wait for the order. Engage the Tau Drive as soon as you can, course for Gliese 625. And Strickland, keep monitoring Hanoi. There's something going on over there, and I have a feeling that our lives depend on it.”

   While his crew worked, he looked up at the strategic display, watching as the enemy contacts closed on them, moving into a classic envelopment. By the book, the application of overwhelming force to wipe them out. Somehow, he had to come up with a miracle. He had to find a way to win.

   But try as he might, he couldn't see one.

  Chapter 19

   Cordova and Saxon
raced along the decks, sirens echoing from the walls, the ship altering course, engines roaring beyond safe limits. Stolen pistols in hand, they sprinted along the twisted corridors, rushing for the detention area, hoping against hope that Hunter and her traitors had chosen to use the same facility to hold the loyalist members of the crew. Assuming there were any, that Hunter hadn't managed to suborn everyone.

   “Nearly there,” Saxon said, panting for breath. “I'm getting too damned old for this.” As they approached the corner, she paused, and said, “We'd better head for cover. I'll...”

   “We don't have time,” Cordova said, raising her pistol. “Who wants to live forever anyway?”

   “I do, actually,” Saxon replied, struggling to keep up with the racing rebel as she swung around the corner, the secure hatch of the detention area ahead, a single guard standing at attention outside. Cordova reacted before he could even move, placing a bullet between her eyes, dropping her with a single well-placed shot. Saxon looked at the dying guard, nodding approvingly before making for the lock, frantically entering command codes. Cordova turned to the status board, bringing up a view of local space, eyes widening as she saw the sensor data.

   “Three Starcruisers, dead ahead, and four fighter squadrons in the air. We're heading right for them.” Shaking her head in disbelief, she added, “Best guess is that we're moving to intercept, heading for safety. Hunter and Randall have probably relayed everything about Polaris they need to know to the enemy flotilla.” Turning to Saxon, she added, “They've caught us.”

   “No, we've caught them. Stop being so damned defeatist. They might have massively overwhelming firepower, but you've got two advantages on your side.”

   “I'm almost afraid to ask.”

   “Surprise, and me.” The door popped open, a grim-faced Sokolov on the other side, a trio of flight technicians behind him, sitting on their couches. When they saw Saxon, they rose, advancing menacingly forward, but she raised her hands, saying, “Hey, I'm the one who freed you!”

   “She's on our side. Hard as it is to accept,” Cordova added. “Any of you hurt?”

   “Aside from our pride, no,” Sokolov replied. “They caught us all on the bridge, some sort of tranq gas. We should have seen it coming. Have we retaken the ship?”

   “No, that's our job, and we're going to have to get on with it. Do you know how many of them there are?”

   “Just the eight that were in detention before, as well as Hunter.”

   “Nine, then. Counting the guard...”

   “Actually,” Saxon interrupted, “it's down to five. All on the bridge. I decided to steal Hunter's idea, and introduced some night-night gas into the life support system in Engineering. They're not going anywhere.”

   “We could take control of the ship from there...” Sokolov said.

   “No,” Cordova replied. “We don't have the time. Unless we can do something to change the shape of the battle, Polaris and her crew are going to die in five minutes.” Turning to Saxon, she said, “How heavily armed are they?”

   “Just hand weapons.”

   Sokolov snatched the dead guard's rifle, and said, “If you're thinking what I think you are thinking, Major, we're with you. All the way. I'd like to get a little payback.”

   Nodding, Cordova replied, “Don't stop, don't take prisoners, don't help anyone who drops. We're going to have to hit the bridge together, all at once, and secure the ship before they can report. If they manage to signal one of the Federation ships, we're dead. Don't give them the chance.” At the chorus of nods from the liberated crewmen, she said, “Let's move.”

   Six people raced back up the corridor, boots ringing on the deck as they made their way to the bridge, a quarter mile ahead. Every second they spent was one more chance for Hunter and her team to find a way to stop them, and at every turn, Cordova waited for the blast doors to slam down, isolating them from their objective, dooming their mission and the nascent rebellion.

   The bridge doors were open, Hunter and her crew sitting at their posts. Saxon had done her job well, ensuring that the internal sensors were out, preventing any warning of their attack from reaching them. Cordova took the first shot, catching the young helmsman, her bullet sending his figure slumping over his controls, while Saxon took out Randall with a pair of well aimed shots to the neck, one each side, crimson blood spilling into his uniform as he staggered to the deck.

   “Freeze,” Sokolov said, while Haggard moved to the communications station, looking down at the defiant figure sitting at the console. “One move, and you die.”

   “It's over, Hunter,” Cordova said, pistol aimed at Hanoi's commander. “This time you're going to be surrendering for real. There's nowhere to run, and there's no-one to help you.”

   Hunter looked at the twitching corpse of Randall, and nodded, saying, “I don't have a choice. I want you to guarantee my safety.”

   “Unless you do something stupid, I won't harm a hair on your head,” Cordova replied, Saxon looking at her as though she had lost her mind. “Sokolov, take the helm, and pass me that rifle.” She moved to the rear of the bridge, gathering the surrendered crewmen together in a cluster by the sensor station, well clear of any controls that could do them harm, or warn their enemy that Hanoi was under new leadership.

   “Orders, Major?” Sokolov asked.

   “Hold your course,” Cordova replied. “Keep us heading toward those ships. Ramp up to full acceleration.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” he said, running the throttle to full power. “We're moving ahead of Polaris. We'll be intercepting the enemy formation in three minutes, ten seconds. And will be past the fighters in two minutes minus.”

   Nodding, Cordova said, “Lock onto the enemy formation. Collision course. And make it quite clear that's what we're doing. I don't want them to have any doubt in their minds. Match them move for move.” Turning to Saxon, she added, “Take communications, and pass on our intentions to Polaris. Tell them that I recommend they slow down to give us time to smash through.”

   “On it,” Saxon said, looking doubtfully at the sensor screen. “Four minutes to impact. We're not planning on staying to the end, are we? I had plans for this evening.”

   “Course locked in,” Sokolov replied. “They're changing trajectory, Major. We should be able to match them, though, unless they veer off in the next sixty seconds or so.”

   Haggard looked up at the sensors, and said, “Fighters changing course. Heading right for us. Ninety seconds to firing range.” She smiled, and added, “That's taken a little heat off Polaris. Only one squadron heading their way now.”

   “Haggard,” Cordova said, turning to the paramedic, “Head down to the shuttle and prepare it for launch. Get everything ready. We can't leave until we're past the fighters...”

   “They'll blow us to pieces!” Hunter yelled.

   “But we'll need to get clear as soon as we are.” As Haggard moved to the door, Cordova added, “And if it all goes wrong, leave on your own. I mean it. No stupid heroics. There's no need for all of us to die here.”

   With a deep sigh, Saxon dropped into the vacated sensor console, and said, “Here I thought I was with the smart group. Fighters moving into swarm formation. You realize they'll throw everything they've got at us.”

   “I know,” Cordova replied. “Sokolov, put us into a slow roll. No point making it any easier for them than it has to be. And keep us running toward the enemy at all costs. Throw all the power we have into the engines.” Glancing across at the sensors, she added, “If I'm reading it right, three of the four squadrons now have no chance of intercepting Polaris.”

   “Unless they do something stupid,” Saxon replied. “Let's hope this isn't contagious.”

   Sokolov turned, and added, “I've locked the course into the computer. Whatever happens to us, Hanoi will finish her last flight. Though I'm with Saxon. I'd rather not be along for the ride.”

   Cord
ova looked at the sensor display, watching with fatalistic interest as the fighters swept into formation. She'd bought Polaris time, if nothing else. The first squadron drifted easily into a line abreast pattern, twelve missiles firing as one, diving towards Hanoi, as Sokolov played the thrusters to ward them off, desperately trying the impossible. Any military ship would have point-defense batteries opening up by now. Hanoi only had her armor, and the incoming warheads had been carefully designed to breach it.

   As the missiles raced towards them, the fighters opened up with their particle beams, punching into the hull, the wail of decompression alarms sounding through the decks. There hadn't been time for the bridge crew to don spacesuits, though realistically, the shrapnel now lancing through the rear section would have rendered them next to useless in any case. Monitors flickered off, the sensors rebooting as the power distribution network was severed, the automatic systems struggling to compensate, and failing.

   “Hold your course, Sokolov!” Cordova yelled, as Hanoi started to lazily list to the right, fountains of escaping atmosphere knocking her off course. The technician struggled with the helm, fighting his way back onto trajectory, when the first wave of missiles slammed into place, twelve neat punches into the aft section, wrecking the engineering section.

   Now Hanoi lurched again, toppling forward, but somehow, despite the odds, some thrust remained, and Sokolov slammed his hand on the thruster controls to drag the ship back onto some vestige of the correct trajectory, knowing that he couldn't hold her for much longer, and knowing that it didn't matter. In moments, the ship would be nothing more than an expanding cloud of debris, even if everything went as they hoped.

   “Second squadron incoming!” Saxon said.

   “Damage reports from every deck,” Sokolov added, looking across at the flashing lights on the flight engineering station. “Power distribution is out on half the ship, hull breaches in nineteen places, and we're venting atmosphere!” Sirens sounded louder, new alerts ringing through the decks as the second wave of fighters swooped in, adding their particle beams to the mix, holding back on their missiles. It wouldn't be necessary. That much was certain now. Hanoi was dead. She just didn't quite know it yet.