Star Peregrine

by Jake Elwood

  A babble of voices filled his ears, at least a dozen people trying to speak over one another on the suit radio. He looked around the bridge, saw no casualties, then glanced over his shoulder and felt his blood run cold.

  The aft bulkhead of the bridge was gone. Shattered bits of polymer stuck up from the deck plates, but he could see into the next compartment. It should have been the wardroom, but it was hard to tell by looking. The room was an utter shambles.

  Never mind that. What's happening outside? He looked at his console, saw nothing but static, and looked out through the frame of the window instead.

  The Kestrel was nose-down, the carrier barely visible through the top edge of the window frame. Tom saw flashes of light as the carrier fired another salvo, and he gripped the arms of his chair, bracing himself.

  He felt nothing but a faint vibration through his fingers.

  The radio chatter had died down. The suit radios would be networking with each other, working out who was close to whom, and switching suits to different channels. By this time the bridge crew had a channel to themselves.

  "We just lost the engines," Trenholm announced. "We're going down."

  "They're holding their fire," Harris said. "I guess they know we're finished."

  Tom stood, then grunted in surprise as he rose almost to the ceiling of the bridge. The force fields that gave the ship artificial gravity were failing. He waited for his feet to descend to the deck, then took a long, gliding stepped to the front of the bridge. Careful. One miscalculation and you'll go sailing out through the window.

  He gripped the edge of the window frame, feeling the jagged edges of glass splinters through his gloves, and peered up at the battleship. He could see a dark rectangle where the Kestrel's last missile had ripped away a hull plate, and wondered if there might be time to strike one last blow. "Can you reach Franco?"

  After a moment of silence Harris said, "There's no reply. I think the missile room took a direct hit."

  A memory flashed through Tom's mind, an orientation session in the missile bay during his first days on the Kestrel. Franco had reminded him of a rooster, a short, graying, prickly man completely unimpressed with Tom's rank. He'd been proud of his missile bay, proud of the people who worked with him, and ready to tear into an upstart sublieutenant if Tom had been foolish enough to open his mouth.

  Tom tried to remember those other faces, the ones who'd served with Franco in the missile bay. He couldn't remember them at all, and that saddened him.

  "I've got some lateral controls," O'Reilly said. "Do you care where I put us down?"

  Tom shrugged. "No, I guess it doesn't make much difference." He turned back to the view through the window frame.

  He was just in time to see a point of light appear on the surface of Little B far below. The point became a line of white, tinged red at the center. The line rose, gaining speed, and shot past the nose of the Kestrel, bright enough to make him squint.

  An explosion blossomed against the underside of the battleship. Armor plates burst outward, spinning and somersaulting into the darkness. The belly of the ship burned, and she tilted, her port side twisting toward the moon. Tom stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

  Trenholm said, "What happened?"

  "One of the missile crews is still alive," Tom said. "And they just made a very good shot." He turned to O'Reilly. "Can you set us down close to the origin point of that missile?"

  The man nodded. "I think so."

  "Do it." We may as well reunite what's left of the crew. He let go of the window frame and made his way cautiously to his chair, where he belted himself in. "Someone call that battleship. Tell them we surrender." Speaking the words felt like chewing on glass fragments from the bridge windows, but he couldn't deny the truth. This fight was over.

  "The battleship's firing her engines," O'Reilly said. "One engine, anyway. Looks like they're going into orbit." He twisted around in his chair. "I think we crippled her, Sir. She won't be able to make hyperspace."

  Tom nodded, too weary to reply.

  "It'll be enough," O'Reilly said.

  "What?"

  "They can't hide her," O'Reilly said. "They can't keep her behind the moon. She'll be right there, in orbit. Impossible to miss. Every Free Planets ship that pops out of hyperspace will see her instantly. They'll have plenty of time to bug out."

  By this time Tom had all but forgotten about the Free Planets rendezvous and the danger to the stream of armed freighters and small gunships that would converge on Black Betty over the next day or two. He glanced over his shoulder at the ruin of the wardroom and the rest of his dying ship. It better be enough. We paid a high enough price.

  Several seconds passed in silence as the ship descended. Tom used the screen in the sleeve of his suit to contact the ship's computer and request an all-hands broadcast. Finally a chime sounded in his ears and he began to speak.

  "This is the captain speaking. We've done our best against overwhelming odds, and I'm proud of each and every one of you. The battle is over. The ship is crippled, and soon we'll be landing for the last time on the surface of Little B.

  "We are surrendering unconditionally. When Dawn Alliance forces arrive, I want you to offer no resistance."

  He paused, thinking. "I want all Free Planets personnel to report to the brig. I want the marines to lock you up. You're prisoners, not members of the crew. And none of you are from Neorome or Tazenda." Tom sighed. "Maybe that will get you some better treatment. Everyone else, lay down your arms and wait for Dawn Alliance forces to arrive."

  He broke the connection, then braced himself as the Kestrel thumped onto the surface of Little B.

  She wouldn't be rising again.

  What now? Will they swoop in and take us into custody, or will they shoot us to pieces from orbit?

  Or ignore us completely, and leave us to die when our air runs out?

  He undid his seatbelt and walked to the front of the bridge. He stared out across the dark expanse of the moon, then tilted his head to look up.

  The heavy cruiser floated beside the carrier, directly above him. The battleship was several kilometers away and receding.

  A bright spark appeared on the underside of the cruiser. It descended toward the moon, and another spark appeared behind it. One after another they dropped from the belly of the cruiser, a couple of dozen points of light that scattered in the last moment before they touched the ground.

  The last handful of lights was still descending when the first skirmish line appeared. It was heavy infantry, eight huge figures bouncing across the plain toward the ship. Massive enough to dwarf Tom's marines even in full battle armor, the approaching figures wore exo-suits that made their arms and legs as thick as a man's torso.

  A line of crimson light flashed out from the nearest armored figure, and the roof of the bridge exploded. Tom dropped into a crouch, bringing his arms up to protect his head. When he looked up there was a mech standing on the battered hull plates just beyond the window. One arm pointed at Tom; the other arm pointed into the bridge behind him. Both wrists bristled with weapons, a mix of gun barrels and mini rockets.

  Tom raised his hands and exhaled wearily.

  It was over.

  Author Notes

  The adventures of Tom Thrush and the crew of the Kestrel continue in Prison Planet, coming in May 2018.

  Jake Elwood is a Canadian writer of science fiction, especially adventurous space opera with a dash of humor. When he's not at a keyboard he likes hiking and biking and sometimes kayaking on the Bow River. He is also the author of the Hive Invasion trilogy, beginning with Starship Alexander.

  For more titles and releases by Jake Elwood check out his website. Sign up for his mailing list and get a free book: http://jakeelwoodwriter.com/

 

 

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