by Bob Mauldin
Pleasantries concluded, Lucy signed off and waited. Knowing that people she knew and cared about were out there in deep space chasing their own possible deaths at her orders caused her no little concern, and she cursed the day Simon “died” and left her in charge of the fledgling Alliance.
Time lags between transmissions over the distances inside a solar system being what they were, Lucy had returned to her office before her first call was returned. Those same time lags prevented idle chitchat, so she detailed the course of action each ship was to take as the calls came in. Finished with the last call, she looked at her watch and realized why she felt so tired. “Almost midnight! Damn!” She recalled sending Diana away only moments before, or so it seemed, but that had actually been hours past.
She stood up, feeling each individual vertebra in her back pop as she did so. She waved to the night duty officer as she walked out of the building. Stopping at the bottom of the steps, she looked up into the clear New Mexican night and stared at the stars as they slowly made their stately way across the firmament.
“So beautiful it takes your breath away, isn’t it?” The unexpected question made her spin around in shock to see the shadowy figure of a man sitting on a nearby bench, smoking a cigarette.
“Beautiful, yes. But that same beauty has a dark and violent side, I’ve learned,” she replied to the stranger. “Who are you?” she asked peering hard into the shadows. “And don’t you know smoking is bad for you?”
“It also relaxes me after a hard day, and I’ve had a rough one,” he replied. “Besides, I only smoke when I get stressed, and it beats getting shitfaced. The name’s Tom Breen. What are you doing working so late, and can a guy buy you a drink?”
Realizing he didn’t recognize her in the dark, Lucy said, “My job has a lot of detail and stress, too, Tom. I was just going to bed, but a drink sounds good. I think I’ll take you up on your offer.”
They’d walked almost a block before a streetlamp revealed Lucy’s face and the insignia on her collar. When Tom Breen saw who he’d been trying to pick up, he paled. “First Captain! Uh, ma’am, I’m sorry. I didn’t know...”
She saw his face flush under the harsh glare of the light and laughed, her tone showing him that she harbored no ill will. “It’s all right, Tom. Relax. We’re both off duty, so I’ll let you buy me that drink. And call me Lucy, please. I let all my captains call me by my first name when we’re off duty.”
They walked another few steps before the meaning of her words got past Tom Breen’s embarrassment. “Wait. You said ‘all your captains.’ You mean...”
“Yes, Tom,” she confirmed. “The positions will be posted tomorrow anyway, so what’s a few hours advance notice? Anyway, it’s customary for the newest captain to stand for drinks for his or her buddies. And while I don’t quite qualify as a buddy, I did approve your promotion, so that should earn me one drink, right?”
I was an idiot to turn him down, she thought later as she walked alone into what had once been the home of the former base commander. He really is a hunk, but the complications! Oh, well.
An hour later, as she wandered through the three-bedroom house wondering what she needed so much space for, her comm jangled. Still feeling the buzz from the two drinks—one she’d bought for her newest captain in return for the one he’d bought her—she said, “Grimes,” with a touch more roughness than she otherwise would have done.
“Ma’am, I have an urgent message from Captain Miller on the Clarke. Should I have a runner bring it over?”
Shocked into total sobriety by the thought of Gayle sending her an urgent message so soon after receiving orders to intercept the bogey, she asked, “Is it marked any way other than urgent?” Getting a negative, she said, “Just read it to me, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the reply. “It reads: Captain Miller to First Captain Grimes. Subject: interception of alien craft in Earth space. Give me the coordinates it will occupy in two hours. The Clarke will micro-jump in and finish this now rather than two days from now. Arguments for this course of action—total surprise and an immediate resolution of the crisis. Arguments against—none. Respectfully, Gayle Miller, Captain, Arthur C. Clarke. That’s all there is, ma’am. Will there be a reply?”
“Not at this time, Lieutenant, but there will be soon, trust me. Connect me with Captain Baylor, please.” Now, why the hell didn’t I think of that?
“What?” a sleep-strangled voice barked after the third chime. “This had better be good.”
“It’s Lucy, Dan, and I think you’ll find it very good. How soon can you meet me in the chart room?”
“Ten minutes. I just need to get dressed.”
“Make it five and show up naked for all I care,” she responded. “We both missed a bet, and I think we can have our bogey under control a lot sooner than we first thought.”
Six minutes later, a bedraggled Dan Baylor showed up in tee-shirt, slacks, and slippers sans socks. Lucy looked at the slippers and grinned. “All they need is to be pink and fuzzy, Dan.” Turning serious, she asked, “Where is our bogey now, and where will he be in two hours?”
Still blinking sleep out of his eyes, Orion’s commanding officer asked, “Two hours? I can figure it out in no time, but why the hell do you need to know that? Shit!” He jumped for the computer console.
“Exactly. Shit. We transmit the coordinates to all three ships and have ‘em micro-jump in and solve the problem before it gets any worse. The only drawback is that we won’t have the Mambas from Libra for backup.”
“Unless you have them leave first under high boost,” he said over his shoulder. “One, it will make the bogey give itself away by powering up to either attack or escape. Two, the three main ships show up almost instantly, powered up and ready for either eventuality, and three, they can act as tenders for damaged ships and pick up any survivors and injured.” During all this, his hands were flying over the keyboard, entering figures and computing results. Silence descended on the room, broken only by the clicking of keys and the occasional muttered oath.
Finally, he finished his computations. “I make just over three hours if you start the Mambas now. Send these coordinates to each ship in this order,” he said, handing over a piece of paper. He collapsed into a chair and sighed. “I’m really getting too old for this, you know. Bridges and buildings are one thing, but space stations and ships are another thing entirely.”
Lucy stopped in the doorway and looked at her friend. “I know how you feel, Dan. I’m what, about half your age, and I feel the same. And it doesn’t look like it’s going to get better any time soon,” she said and started to head for the communications office.
“Lucy,” Dan said, stopping her in her tracks. She looked back at the man who seemed so much older than he had an hour before. “You know that people are going to die, don’t you?”
She leaned against the doorjamb and looked down at the paper as if it was about to bite her. “Yes, I do. And this time tomorrow I’m going to be so drunk you won’t admit to knowing me. A lot of those people will be ones I’ve known for years now. And some of them will be people I call friend.” She stood up resolutely. “But what choice do we—do I—have, Dan?” She took one step away from the chart room and turned back. “The only thing I’m going to add to this list is a notice to Libra to expect casualties. I think they’re going to have to act as a hospital station for a short while.” She straightened up and turned to leave the room. Speaking loud enough to be heard as she walked away, Lucy said, “What I don’t know is how I’m going to face myself once I sober up.”
Lucy walked into the communications room feeling like she’d just stepped into a death chamber. In one way, it was, but not for her. Orders flashed out to four different locations in the solar system, ordering ships to converge on a certain spot just inside Saturn’s orbit. The Mambas from Libra were the first to launch, leaving their station under high boost, each pilot knowing that he or she might not return from the m
ission but knowing, as well, that the mission they were on could define the course humanity would follow for centuries to come.
On three other ships, the clocks ticked down to zero and, from widely separate locations, they jumped into a space that contained themselves, forty-one Mambas, and one alien ship. Two of the ships, the Heinlein and the Niven, jumped in behind the guesstimated position of the alien ship, and the Clarke jumped directly into the projected path of the bogey. So close was the timing that mere minutes later, the squadron of Mambas passed her. Sensors tuned to their highest degree, the three major ships began quartering the area, looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. But thanks to the engineering expertise of Dan Baylor and his counterparts on the other stations with building and launching the sensor drones, and thanks to the computations derived from those same devices, the spatial haystack had become more manageable.
Barely an hour after the forty-four ships arrived at the projected coordinates, a lone Mamba pilot called, “Target lock! Sensors indicate alien metal composition similar to data in my computer. Probability ninety-eight percent. Request assistance!” She followed this with a string of numbers indicating her position.
Forty other Mambas turned like a swarm of guided missiles and began to converge on the spot where they could now make out the alien craft. It was two thirds the size of the Alliance’s own cruisers, like the Clarke, and oddly similar in style but with subtle differences.
“Target powering up!” the first pilot announced. “Instructions!”
Seconds later, a message arrived on the Clarke’s bridge. “Wait for them to fire first,” Gayle ordered. “We will not initiate hostilities! If fired upon, all bets are off, and good luck to you all.” Switching frequencies to her bridge crew, she said, “Comm, send to the bogey on all channels: ‘You are in Earth space. This is interdicted territory. Stand down or be fired upon.’ Send it three times and report any response.”
Her exec, Commander Scott Newman, “Captain, what if they don’t speak English?”
“I don’t expect them to speak English, Number One,” she answered, using the title from a sci-fi series she’d watched years ago. “What I expect is for them to see an overwhelming force and hear something being said to them. If they have the smarts of a doorknob, they’ll figure out that we mean ‘stop.’ Otherwise, we’re about to fire the second or maybe third shot in an interstellar war. Whatever, it won’t be the first shot. We will be defending ourselves with prejudice.” She stared at the computer plot. “I also expect to be saying goodbye to some of my friends in the next few minutes,” she said softly.
“No response to our message, Captain,” Comm said.
“Damn. What I wouldn’t give for a universal translator. Too bad they only exist on television,” Gayle lamented. She fingered her command panel. “Eagle One, fire one torp across the bogey’s bow and detonate it manually well short of the target, then repeat the warning. Report results.” Seven flights of five Mambas and one of six made up the forward assault force against the intruder. Now sitting squarely in its path, the lead ship, Eagle One, fired a single torpedo as ordered and repeated the order to stand down.
While she waited for the results of the Mamba pilot’s attention-getter, Gayle called another section of the ship. “Forward Fire Control, this is the Captain. Arm a full spread and load all tubes. Prepare to fire on my order. Code alpha, alpha, prime.”
The response came back immediately. “Arm a full spread, aye, Captain. Load all tubes. Code alpha, alpha, prime acknowledged.”
Gayle swallowed hard. “Helm, bring us directly into the bogey’s path. Hold your course.” She hit the all-ships button. “All hands, this is the Captain. The bogey has refused to answer our hails. I expect to engage within the next few minutes. Lock down all stations and prepare for combat.”
The bridge loudspeaker crackled to life. “Flotilla Leader, Eagle One. No response torpedo or hail. Request further inst—” The transmission broke off mid-word as the lead Mamba exploded, leaving only the hiss of interstellar space as her epitaph.
Immediately a gabble of voices came through.
“Oh, my God, she’s gone!”
“The Bogey has returned fire!”
“They’re attempting to run!”
Studying her battle plot, Gayle ordered, “All Mambas, attack pattern delta. Attack, attack, attack!”
The plan she ordered sent the remaining forty ships into attack mode in waves of ten, flushing their tubes of their full loads of torpedoes, now eight per vessel, followed by laser assaults until they passed their target. After being disarmed by their passes, the Mambas moved to regroup and return to Libra at just under maximum speed to preserve their engines and crew.
Four times, ten ships sent a total of eighty torpedoes at the enemy, the pilots recklessly careening close to the target to get the best laser shots possible. The attacks proved of little use as they blew up on the shields they hadn’t expected the enemy ship to have. Since the lasers were set up to fire forward only, this left each Mamba open to return fire while their only protection was their speed and maneuverability. Gayle’s battle plot showed most Mambas making successful passes and moving off into space to regroup, but a significant number didn’t as the enemy ship returned fire. Gayle’s heart ached with each wave that threw itself against the unknown might of the alien invader with little effect.
“Helm,” she said, a catch in her voice, “come to attack speed and follow the fourth wave in.” Switching frequencies, she called the other two ships in her fleet. “Heinlein, Niven, you are cleared to attack. Code alpha, alpha, prime. We have the point and will hold the enemy until you arrive. Good luck and God bless! Miller out.”
She went back to internal frequency. “Forward Fire Control, on my order, fire all tubes and reload.” She watched the plot, and just as the fourth wave of Mambas was reaching attack position, she ordered, “FFC, fire, fire, fire.” She felt the now-familiar lurch as her ship expelled twenty missiles, each tipped with more megatons of explosives than had been released in all of World War II. “FFC, reload and prepare to fire,” she ordered. On another channel, “Flight decks, prepare to launch both flights. Attack plan echo.” This plan would have the ten Mambas that were an integral part of each ship launching as the Clarke passed the enemy ship, trying to attack from the rear with the twenty Mambas from the Heinlein and the Niven as those two ships poured their immense firepower into the backside of the hopefully fleeing invader.
This last order proved to be unnecessary as the combined torpedoes of the last flight of Mambas and the Clarke’s first salvo met the target vessel almost simultaneously. Gayle watched as the ten little ships peeled off and went to join their fellows awaiting the outcome of the battle. The Clarke, however, much larger and harder to turn, was not able to escape the whirling, white-hot vortex created by one hundred missiles and the explosion of the enemy ship’s power core. Speeding right into the center of that unimaginably intense man-made inferno, the Clarke’s Mambas launched and moved away from the artificial sun, trying to come up behind it to contact any survivors of the attack. The Clarke’s shields, powered by the same principles that had destroyed her quarry, failed under the onslaught of the inferno she’d helped create.
Twenty missiles, still in their tubes, vaporized when the shields failed, taking out the entire forward half of the ship. Airtight doors sealed off the damaged portions of the ship as critical systems failed, leaving only the red emergency lights burning dimly, a fitting illumination for the hellish interior of the crippled ship.
Anything not nailed down became missiles careening around the interior of the doomed ship, killing or wounding almost as many as had died outright in the attack. Control consoles, unable to handle the high-energy backlash, erupted in showers of sparks, sending parts of themselves throughout whatever room they happened to be situated in. Four hundred eighty souls sailed the TAS Arthur C. Clarke into battle, and barely one hundred twenty survived the destruction t
hat followed the trip through the artificial sun they’d created. The bridge, situated in the center of the ship, barely survived, as did the engine room, rear torpedo rooms, and life support. Crew quarters, most of the flight deck, engineering, astrometrics, sick bay, hydroponics, communications and many others did not. Thirteen Mambas and their pilots never returned to base, adding to the total dead.
The missiles set off by the passage through the inferno caused the ship to begin tumbling, adding to the casualties. The Heinlein and the Niven, as soon as they were sure the enemy had been destroyed, moved in alongside the stricken vessel, using their capture fields to stop the tumble and move her back toward Libra, almost two million miles away.
Victor McCord, Commander of Libra Base, ordered the half-completed ship being assembled in his dock to be towed and set adrift near the base. More intimately acquainted than most with the construction of these ships, he knew that opening this can of worms was going to be a major undertaking. For whatever reasons, the Builders had neglected to provide airlocks for most parts of their vessels, a condition that had been noted but not considered a necessity until now. Another oversight of the Builders was the lack of spacesuits. It had been surmised, in innumerable bull sessions, that the Builders either relied solely on the construction pods or just never set down where there would be a need for that type of protection. So, with the Clarke’s flight deck gone, there was no way for an individual to gain access to the savaged remains of the ship that had so proudly sailed from this base mere months before.
