Star Peregrine

by Jake Elwood

  This is my very last chance. The last card I have to play. I need to make it count.

  But how?

  He could land the ship, but the cruiser would know within a few hundred kilometers where the Kestrel had set down. Landing would only delay the inevitable, and not by much, either.

  "Change course," he said. "The moment we're over the horizon." He dragged his fingers through his hair, wondering if he should put his gloves and helmet back on. He decided not to bother. "Turn us ninety degrees to starboard. Then keep running, just above the surface."

  "Aye aye," O'Reilly said.

  No one else spoke, and the silence pressed in on Tom. He imagined that it held an accusing note. You're the captain. You're supposed to get us out of situations like this. You're supposed to know what to do. Instead, you're giving the helmsman pointless maneuvers. What good will turning do? They'll spot us instantly.

  "Belay that," he said. Once we're over the horizon, maintain your course." He thought for a moment. "For, let me see, sixty seconds. Then point us straight up, away from the planet. Give the engines thirty seconds at maximum burn, and then shut them down."

  O'Reilly looked up, meeting Tom's gaze. His eyes were full of doubt, but he nodded and turned back to his console.

  There was a chance – a tiny chance – the heavy cruiser would be slow to react. That it would overlook the Kestrel for a few precious moments, searching for her close to the surface of the planet. If they could slip away, get a little farther from the planet, open a portal into hyperspace …

  It was hopeless, he knew. The cruiser would have no trouble following them into hyperspace, and it could plow through storms that would shatter the badly damaged Kestrel.

  Still, there's a chance. I'll run us straight into the heart of the biggest storm I can find, he decided. It might rip us apart. But if we survive the storm, they'll never find us.

  "We're over the horizon," O'Reilly said. He muttered something under his breath, then said, "Hang on."

  The dark line of the planet vanished and the windows filled with stars as the ship turned its nose upward. It kept all the momentum it had had before, but the straining engines added a new vector. They sped away from Black Betty, and then O'Reilly tapped his console and the engines went silent.

  On his console Tom saw the red icon of the heavy cruiser rise over the horizon. And alarms blared as lasers touched the hull of the Kestrel.

  Damn it. They spotted us immediately. "Full power to the engines. Evasive maneuvers."

  The Kestrel twisted and jerked as it fled, while behind them the cruiser raced along, just above the surface of the planet. At any moment her nose would tilt up and she would close in on the Kestrel and finish her off.

  Tom watched in helpless frustration as the cruiser moved closer and closer to the point where she would have to turn to begin the final stage of her pursuit.

  And he watched, baffled, as the cruiser continued to follow the curve of the planet.

  "What the hell?" said Harris. "They know where we are. Why aren't they …."

  "They're losing altitude," O'Reilly said. "They're sinking into the atmosphere." He looked up at Harris. "Did we hit them?"

  "Maybe, with a laser," Harris said. "We sure didn't cripple them." He looked from O'Reilly to Tom, baffled. "I can't explain it, Sir."

  "It's the cruiser," said Trenholm. "The light cruiser, I mean. It's in trouble. They're rescuing survivors."

  Tom straightened in his seat. "Well, whatever the reason, we've got a chance now. Let's make the most of it. How long until we can open a portal?"

  "Five minutes, twenty seconds," O'Reilly said promptly. "But the cruiser will see it."

  "That's fine. Open it up as soon as you can."

  Several minutes later he watched with a sense of profound relief as the familiar rectangle of light opened ahead of the ship. And then his heart sank.

  "We'll never survive that," Trenholm said. "Not in the shape we're in now."

  Light filled the portal, surging vermilion clouds laced with threads of black. It was an intense storm, as bad as anything Tom had ever seen. He would have hesitated to fly the Kestrel into it if she'd been fully repaired. In her current state, it would be suicide.

  "Close the portal," he said dully. "We'll keep going. We'll try again in ten minutes or so."

  "Sir?"

  Tom looked around, trying to place the source of the voice, and saw Naomi Silver looking at him. He raised an eyebrow.

  "I have a suggestion." She pointed out the window to port. "We should go behind Little B. Then the cruiser won't know if we opened a portal or not. And when we finally open a portal and go through, they won't be sure where."

  Tom looked in the direction she pointed and saw the bulk of the moon as an inky circle where no stars shone. The Kestrel's desperate flight around the planet had disoriented him. He'd assumed they were still heading away from Little B. But there it was, ahead and off to one side.

  "There's a battleship and a carrier on the other side of Little B," Harris objected. "It's the last place we should go."

  "If they're still there," said O'Reilly. "It seems pretty strange that they're staying out of the fight. I bet they opened a portal and bugged out."

  Harris shook his head. "Why would they do that?"

  "The battleship's damaged. They'll want to get her safely away. And they need to get word out about the ambush."

  "I don't know," said Harris.

  A beep sounded, and O'Reilly looked down at his console. "The heavy cruiser is moving. Whatever they were doing, it looks like they're done."

  "That settles it," said Tom. "I'm not going to be hounded through hyperspace by those maggots. We need some cover, and there's only one place we're going to get it." He pointed at the black starless circle. "Take us to Little B."

  Chapter 25

  Alice was gasping for breath by the time Bridger's light illuminated a pile of rubble on the plain ahead. She turned on her suit radio, shot a worried glance at the warships in the sky above, and said, "Cartwright! Can you hear me?"

  There was no reply.

  "Singh?" She couldn't remember the name of the third member of Wasp Nest One. "Anyone?"

  "Cartwright won't be answering." The light flashed back and forth, and she turned to look at Bridger. He was a dozen meters away, kneeling beside a pile of rubble.

  Except it wasn't rubble.

  "Give me a hand here. I'm almost out of air."

  Swallowing a rising sense of dread, she hurried to his side. Cartwright was dead, one arm completely missing. The oxygen tank would have shut down when the suit lost integrity, and she felt a rush of shame as she realized how thankful she was that he had died quickly in the first fusillade of missiles.

  It meant there was more air left for her.

  Frost coated the inside of Cartwright's helmet, mercifully making his faceplate opaque. She helped Bridger turn him gently onto his stomach. It felt wrong to take from the dead, but life in the colonies had never been easy. Alice knew how to be pragmatic, and the needs of the living always took precedence over the needs of the dead.

  Her fingers found the seal on the back of his suit, and she peeled the fabric back, exposing a small, flat metal tank. Bridger detached the tank and held it up. "How's your oxygen holding up?"

  Alice tried to answer, and found she was panting too hard to speak. Bridger's eyes widened, and he stood. When she tried to stand as well he put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down. Then he knelt behind her and warning lights appeared inside her helmet as he pulled apart the fabric and exposed her oxygen tank.

  It seemed to take an endless time, but at last oxygenated air flowed into her helmet. She hadn't realized how fogged her mind had become until it began to clear. Did I really use the radio? That was foolhardy. She glanced up. What if they're listening?

  If they're listening, she realized, it's probably for the best. My options right now are capture by the Dawn Alliance or a lingering death from asphyxiation.
/>   If a portal opens and those ships fly away, Bridger and I are dead.

  She pushed the thought away. First things first. I've got oxygen for a while, but Bridger's almost out.

  We need to find another body.

  It was, she realized, too late for the remaining members of Wasp Nest One. If they found someone still alive, he'd be out of oxygen. There was no longer a way to keep three people alive.

  Shoving the bleak mathematics of survival from her mind, she walked away from Cartwright's body and started to search. She did her best to move in a straight line, scuffing her feet with each step as she landed so she'd have visible boot prints for reference. She bounded forward thirty hops, turned ninety degrees, took three more hops, and started back, doing her best to stay parallel to her original path.

  The search didn't take long. When she found Singh he was no more than a dozen meters from Cartwright. He was alive, the side of his helmet dented in, his face covered in blood. His skull had to be crushed, but she could see vapor on his faceplate as he exhaled.

  "I found Shannon."

  Alice looked up. Bridger was a dark silhouette nearby, lit from behind by his hand light. He was on his knees, already unsealing the back of someone's vac suit. "I need a hand. My tank's pretty much empty."

  Alice, weary and sad, forced herself to her feet. She trudged over to Bridger, took the oxygen tank he handed to her, and swapped it for his empty tank.

  "That's better. Look at – Alice? Where are you going?"

  "I found Singh," she said. "He's dying."

  She knelt beside the fallen man and took his hand, wondering if there was anything she could do. If she could signal the battleship, would they get to him in time? Would they try to treat him?

  If they did, would it help? She looked at the dent in his helmet. Could anyone survive that?

  Bridger knelt across from her. "I think he's dead."

  "No, I can see vapor when he …" Her voice trailed off.

  There was no more vapor on Singh's faceplate. She put a hand on his chest and closed her eyes, focusing her attention on her fingertips. For an endless minute she waited, and his chest neither rose nor fell.

  He was dead.

  "I found the missile launcher."

  Alice looked up.

  "It's right beside Shannon." He shook his head. "The radio beacon is there too, but it's smashed."

  "So we're dead."

  He shrugged.

  "I suppose launching a missile is one way to let people know we're here."

  She couldn't see Bridger's eyes through the faceplate of his helmet, but his eyes crinkled as if he was grinning. "Did they leave us any missiles?"

  "As a matter of fact, there's a missile in the launcher."

  "Huh." She stood. "Well, let's go take a look."

  Little B loomed directly ahead of the Kestrel, coming closer and closer until darkness filled the bridge windows and there wasn't a star in sight. Somewhere behind them the heavy cruiser had resumed its pursuit. The Kestrel had a head start of almost twenty minutes, more than enough if she could slip into hyperspace unobserved. Tom had a different plan, though. He was going to do a fast burn for deep space, then shut the engines down. By the time the heavy cruiser made it around Little B, the Kestrel would be a distant speck, almost impossible to detect.

  He figured the cruiser would hurry into hyperspace and look for the Kestrel there. Then she might do a careful search of the moon's surface. The depths of normal space would be a distant third priority. We'll coast until we're impossible to see. We'll coast for days if necessary. Then into hyperspace, and head for home.

  All he had to do was get the ship to the far side of Little B and the options for escape would be so numerous the cruiser would never find them.

  "Changing course," O'Reilly said, and stars appeared as he turned the ship to follow the surface of the moon. There was no atmosphere here to drag at them. The Kestrel whipped along a scant five or six kilometers above the surface.

  Tom watched the tactical display as Little B slid between the Kestrel and the pursuing cruiser. He stared until the cruiser's red icon vanished.

  "That's it," Harris said, looking up from his console. "We're free and clear." He turned in his seat, looking back to grin at Tom. Then his head whipped around and he stared through the bridge windows. "Oh my God."

  A vast shape rose over the horizon, a monster of a ship, her running lights making her gleam against the void behind her. It was the battleship, so big, so ominous, that Tom didn't even notice the carrier until he looked down at his tactical display. He was just in time to see a quartet of fighters launch from the carrier and move into position as a buffer in front of the battleship.

  I should have known. It wasn't a productive thought, but it filled his mind, driving out every other idea. We knew it was here. Why did I assume it would be gone?

  Because it had to be gone, or you were dead anyway. But it's still here, and now the fight is over.

  We're dead.

  He sat frozen, staring through the bridge windows, and the distance closed with every passing second. Somewhere deep in his brain, buried under a paralyzing terror, he knew he needed to order O'Reilly to change course, to get them back over the horizon, away from this new threat. But he sat, unable to speak, as the battleship grew and grew.

  "They're firing," Harris announced, and the Kestrel twisted sideways before Tom could give the order to evade. The ship did a barrel roll, the moon briefly above them, then straightened out. And a little bit of reason returned to Tom's brain. Battleships didn't have much in the way of weaknesses – but their guns were concentrated on their top sides.

  "Take us low," he said. "Under her belly. We'll try a missile at point-blank range. We'll hit them with everything we've got." Which isn't much, I have to admit. But we'll go down swinging.

  The Kestrel dove, then rose, then did another barrel roll. The battleship was closer now, making the Kestrel harder to miss, and the hull boomed and echoed as shells found their mark. A laser strike burned a hole in the hull just forward of the bridge windows, and a cloud of vapor puffed out before the ship's force fields sealed the puncture.

  Then they were in too close for most of the guns. One turret belched fire at them, a last salvo that streamed past the nose of the ship as O'Reilly fired braking thrusters.

  An instant later, the Kestrel was below the battleship.

  Tom found himself staring up at a laser turret with barrels almost as thick as his leg. The range was terrifyingly close. The battleship was no more than thirty or forty meters away, and the two ships were almost stationary in relation to each other. There was no way that laser could miss.

  A weapon like that would put a hole right through the Kestrel and punch fairly deep into the moon beneath them, to boot. The turret didn't move, though, didn't take aim, didn't fire. A ragged hole showed at the base of the cluster of lasers. Mine damage, he realized. The gun's disabled.

  "She'll spin," Trenholm said. "She'll rotate on her axis and blast us with the top guns."

  The battleship was turning, pointing her belly at the moon. She was turning with painful slowness, though, and Tom had a sudden wild urge to laugh. The battleship's thick armor had made a mockery of almost every mine she'd hit, but even a battleship had its weak points. Her navigational thrusters had to be as badly damaged as that laser turret.

  "I think I see a gap in her hull plates," Harris said, pointing. "We should hit it with a missile."

  Tom looked where he pointed. For the most part, the underside of the battleship was a smooth plain of thick armor plates. One plate, though, hung loose. The metal was pitted and scorched, whether by mines or by missiles from the surface Tom couldn't tell. It was the closest thing to a weakness he could see, and he barked, "Do it."

  "We've got company," O'Reilly said.

  Tom looked down at his tactical display, which showed four red triangles sweeping under the hull of the battleship.

  "Fighters incoming!" Harris said, t
hen leaned into the microphone on his console and started giving orders to the Kestrel's gun crews. One fighter vanished immediately, destroyed by laser fire. The others scattered, zipping around the frigate like swallows.

  A flash of motion in the corner of his eye made Tom turn his head. He was too late to see the missile strike, but he saw the loose hull plate rip free and spin away toward the moon below. The battleship didn't seem seriously damaged, and he wondered if he could keep the Kestrel in position long enough for Franco to get another missile loaded.

  A moment later he had his answer. It was not the answer he'd hoped for.

  Directly ahead, the carrier sank below the nose of the battleship, putting herself at the same level as the Kestrel. She had no missiles, but four separate gun turrets swivelled around to point at the frigate.

  A fighter flashed past the nose of the Kestrel, firing. A line of shells bounced from the bridge windows, making Tom flinch and pitting the glass. Then the tactical display showed all three fighters moving away from the Kestrel, getting out of the way of the barrage that was about to begin.

  Tom reached for his helmet, reflecting wryly that leaving it this late was pretty stupid. He was pulling the helmet over his head when the bridge windows exploded. Something hit the back of his hand, he heard a clatter as more shrapnel bounced from his helmet, and then the helmet slid into place just in time for him to see clouds of broken glass go sailing out through the gap where the windows had been.

  The ship's force fields, able to handle small hull breaches, were completely overwhelmed. He jammed the helmet down as far as it would go, twisted it from side to side, and knew it had sealed when the faceplate slammed down. There was a knifing pain in his ears, unnoticed in the turmoil of the moment until it disappeared as air flooded into his helmet.

  Strong fingers closed around his wrists, and he looked down, startled. His hands were bare, the sleeves of his suit constricting around his wrists to keep air from escaping.

  I didn't know the suits did that. He fumbled at his thigh pockets, pulling his gloves loose, tugging them over his exposed hands with desperate haste. A red bloom appeared on the back of his left hand as a capillary burst. He got the second glove on, sealed it to his sleeve, and felt the suit release its grip on his wrists.