by G. P. Eliot
“Have you got it?” Steed was whispering over her shoulder as his knuckles turned white on the back of the chair.
Lory looked at the readouts on the screen. “Almost,” she gritted her teeth. The Shimmering Path agent was using the Confederate satellites above to access the hidden sub-space channels that her dissident group used. It was a protocol that she had done many times before, but never with this…urgency.
Narrow-band message. 0.0–2Ghz wavelength. Transmit to these co-ordinates: Alpha 00’42’23…
“That’s the listening satellite we’ve got,” Lory murmured, as in front of her desk Hank was sauntering to the viewing windows and watching the blood-red dusk settle to a deeper, purpling night. There was the bright glimmer of hard stars up there–but were they really stars, or the stationary orbits of the Confederate defense craft?
“One of our Agents managed to sneak the probe onto a Union launcher, and it was deployed along with their listening devices,” Lory explained. Only it was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It would only be activated by the exact codewords and used by the Path to monitor Union activities.
‘Message Received!’ Steed’s computer suddenly blared.
‘Input Code:’ was all it said.
“Lincoln,” Lory repeated the top-level, catch-all Shimmering Path code word, and suddenly the screen glitched and scrolled with distant commands.
“Activate emergency channel,” Lory said. “All agents. Send out location and request immediate assistance.”
The cursor flashed once, twice, three times–and then the automated words Sending appeared on the screen, followed by three dots that repeated themselves over and over as they waited for someone–anyone to reply.
“How long will it take–we haven’t exactly got much time…” Hank turned on his heel to say to her.
Well, it would help if you weren’t already sozzled, Captain, Lory thought with a burst of annoyance. Maybe she shouldn’t be so harsh on him. If she were in his position–chased out of his home world and halfway across the Milky Way galaxy by the fanatical, obsessive Union agent called the Jackal–maybe she would get drunk right now, too…
‘‘Message Received!: Agent Cox, we have your co-ordinates. There are operatives at your position, on board the Union war fleet. We’ll do what we can…’’
“Much appreciated. Any help you can offer would be a godsend…” Lory said urgently.
“Can they co-ordinate with our forces–Confederate forces, that is? If we could team up…” Steed was saying.
Lory wasn’t sure if they even had time for this sort of high-level diplomacy, but she tried anyway.
“Requesting possible assistance for Confederate forces. The people here are working towards the same objective…” Lory spoke into the computer terminal.
“The Message,” came the affirmative back. “We’ve been trying to build contacts with the Confederates for years—"
“Tell them I can send them a secure access link to speak to Confederate command—” Steed was partway through saying, when Hank interrupted him.
“Although your CO is a complete bi—”
“Agreed.” The Shimmering Path operative said on the other end of the line.
This was it, Lory thought. With the Shimmering Path able to coordinate their attacks on Union strongholds with Confederate help–then maybe they might just have a chance to defeat them…
KA-WHUMPFH! Suddenly, a shockwave rippled through their feet, as if this forested, prehistoric Eden had just discovered earthquakes.
“Oh Butang-crap!” Steed was already rising, looking at the tactical map. In horror, Lory turned to look at the map to see the glowing ring of the perimeter fence and, a few klicks out from that, the expanding detonation circles of something.
A damned orbital bombardment!
Far above their heads in the tumult of space, the battle was raging. The missiles that the Confederate defense satellites had fired had scattered across the front line of Union battle ships like thrown confetti.
But the man who was the lead counsel for the Union battle-group–all a hundred and thirty-six Union Hydras was clever.
That is, if the Jackal could even be called human anymore, with his metal hands and prosthetic plastic and metal throat.
The Jackal stood on the Bridge and looked out on his own overlaid tactical map over the viewing screen. He might have been a handsome man once, were it not for the wolves that Hank had trained. The Jackal had tracked Professor Alan Serrano to the Outlying Planets, with orders to execute the dangerous traitor, but this man–this nobody–had thwarted his efforts.
But the Jackal was also one of the Union’s best Wolverines. He had to be, because even his bosses would never have spent the money it took to repair him if he didn’t have such an exemplary record for getting the job done.
Even his superior officers thought that the Jackal was insane, and that made him smile. It was a good reputation to have for someone in his position. He had seen his own Union psych reports. It is amazing what a good lock-pick and a loaded gun can do… Latent psychopathic tendencies at birth, they had read. And a prognosis: ‘If this man hadn’t been picked up by the Union military forces, then he would probably be languishing in a Union top security institute for the Criminally-Insane…’
Ha. What did they all know about him? the Jackal thought. Being who he was, the sort of man he was, he had always wondered at the levels of fear that most people carried around inside of them.
People really were just bundles of neuroses and vulnerabilities, the Jackal considered once again as he watched the tactical map.
“Take the Confederates right before us, for example…” the Jackal murmured, continuing his small, motivational speech for the somewhat nervy Confederate bridge officers and tactical personnel.
“They surely must realize that they will be beaten–so what is the sane thing to do?” the Jackal mused. “In their position, I would be launching kamikaze runs, and using tactical nukes…but they won’t. Why not?”
None of the other Confederate Bridge officers dared to answer his question.
“Because they are afraid. Surely, they must see that their only way out is through, and yet they refuse to commit!” He pointed out the paltry efforts of the Confederate defense satellites. “They should have loaded them with tactical warheads instead of the TNT loads they had…”
“We’ve lost eighteen ships of the line, sir!” one of the officers burst out–a career lieutenant, the Jackal inwardly sneered. He’d probably sat at that desk for the best part of ten years, and never even bothered to put in for promotion.
“And we have over a hundred left!” the Jackal crowed with glee. The ‘career lieutenant’ had been right, however; the defense satellites had indeed taken out a small number of their leading ships–but now the first sixty-five Union Hydras were in amongst them, using short-burst lasers to disable the satellites before they turned their attention to the larger threat…
The Confederate forces. Fifty ships versus sixty-five, with another forty or fifty Union Hydras in reserve. The Jackal knew that he could overwhelm them easily if he sent in his entire fleet, but he also kind of enjoyed the fact that the numbers were near even. It was the same savagery that led the Jackal to fight the way that he did.
Let’s see how good you REALLY are, he thought as he saw the Confederate forces start to rise from their positions in three battle groups of ten, splitting to attack the flanks and the middle of the approaching wave just as the Jackal had predicted.
But then again…The Jackal had never prided himself in being honorable. It wasn’t honor that motivated him, but a cold sort of fascination in what happened when you pushed an enemy to their very limits…
“Fire the Corkscrews,” the Jackal hissed.
“But we haven’t even broken the defensive line yet!” said the career lieutenant.
I’m really going to have to have that man shot, the Jackal thought.
“Did you hear me, Lieutenant?” the Jack
al turned to glare at him full in the face. It was clearly an unsettling sight for the man, to see the puckered and pink flesh around the Jackal’s new throat, and the sleek hybrid metal and plastic hands clasped in front of him…
“Uh–I, sir yes sir!” the man swallowed nervously, and gave the orders.
At various positions along the reserve Union fighters, weapons bays were deployed along their undercarriage, and the launch tubes opened to erupt with fast-evaporating gas and flame.
Giant missiles, each a gleaming silver, were thrown down towards the surface of the planet on A.I.-assisted paths. The A.I.s on board each of the missiles were barely conscious, little more than targeting computers, but clever enough to keep a constant awareness of where the other Union ships were at all times, and to navigate around them with tiny bursts of positional thrusters—
These giant missiles, each one almost a quarter of the size of a Hydra battleship itself, swept through the fiery battle zone. Some of them turned the swerving and fighting Confederate ships to great bursts of flame and plasma, breaking them apart into fragments in a heartbeat.
But even that wasn’t the intended design of the Corkscrews. Those remaining–only five, all told–emerged from the far side of the battle and started to glow white-hot from re-entry.
“You know, I’ve never seen these used before, and I’ve always wondered how effective they are…” the Jackal murmured as his forward sensors magnified the images of the missiles as they fell forwards…
Passing through the meso- and the strato-sphere, the outer silver casings of the giant missiles ruptured and burst from their bodies, revealing thinner columns of galvanized titanium, striated with deep grooves and ending in a wickedly-sharp spike. The difference in air tensions sent them into a spin as their thruster propellant finally burnt itself out.
Not that the Corkscrews needed any more propulsion than they already had. They had terminal velocity on their side now…
WHUMPFH!
WHUMPFH!
They hit the jungle Eden like the hammers of a vengeful god, sending shockwaves that even the Jackal could see rippling through the trees and vegetation—
But the wave of shaking flora and fauna lasted only a nanosecond, before the bodies of each missile ruptured and the explosive payload caught. It was night time on the planet below, but the ground was quickly obscured by the rising black cloud of pulverized rock and dust as each Corkscrew dropped down into the planet’s crust.
It was bad enough being underneath one of them–but the Corkscrews were really engineered as city-killers. Nation-killers.
The explosion rippled through the ground, heaving plates of earth the size of soccer pitches; creating sudden canyons and sinkholes; throwing trees and burying entire herds of the docile giant Sloth-like creatures; the Butang.
And then the advancing tide of destruction hit the Confederate base.
“Brace!” Lory heard Steed shout seconds before the impact hit. There was a sound of growing thunder and the entire room seemed to jump and fall into the air–and then everything went black.
“Argh…” Lory groaned in pain. She was no longer seated at General Steed’s control desk but was instead lying on the floor with something hard on top of her–and something soft underneath her.
“Huh?” she moaned.
“Well, I like you too, but…” coughed the voice of Hank Snider, as he shifted his weight.
“God’ dammit!” Lory hissed in annoyance, shifting the metal table where it had fallen across her legs to roll off of the man, just as the emergency red lights came on.
“Status Report!” Steed was shouting, his face now smeared with dirt and dust. The entire Briefing Room looked as though someone had crumpled one edge of it, and Lory could see the improbably gigantic branches of a tree now spearing through where a window once had been.
“Guard Control Reporting” came a muffled voice from some still-functioning set of speakers. “Perimeter fence is down. Crew Quarters 1 through 5 is destroyed; Guard Towers 1 and 2 are down–and they’ve taken out the cafeteria!”
“Priorities, priorities…” Lory saw Hank groaned as he sat up in front of her, rubbing dirt and rock from his hair and reaching to his left thigh holster to come away with only the broken top of his hip flask. The guy stank of spilled Cubanian whiskey. “Right, that damn well does it…” she heard him say fiercely.
“Captain? Snider! Lory!?” a new voice burst into the room; it was Drake Madigan, his huge, man mountain-like form pushing aside the bits of broken door and jumbled furniture between them.
“Where’s the Professor?” Madigan was saying. “We’ve got to get out of here. The Lordstar avoided the worst of it, but another blast like that and we’re going to lose our ship!”
“Damnable, mouth-breathing, bottom-feeding…” Hank was snarling angrily as he accepted the large hand of the other Shimmering Path agent on his crew, as there was another whimper from deeper inside the room.
“Err…I seem to be stuck…” It was Professor Alan Serrano, who turned out to be, thankfully, alive and mostly unhurt save for a few scratches.
“Madigan’s right. We can’t wait for the Path to save us…” Steed was saying, as he helped Lory to her feet and the foursome clambered and struggled out of the wreckage, to sprint through the fragmented corridors to the Lordstar.
“Captain?” The ramp was already down, and the door was already open to reveal Malcolm Cortez, their terrible cook and excellent engineer.
“Lory–thank god you’re alive!” the man immediately reached out a hand to help the beautiful agent on board, who batted it away.
“Cortez–save your charm for the engines, please!” Lory groaned as she raced into the ship. Why is that guy always trying to hit on me? She thought. Men. They always think with their—
“Forward tactical ops to the Lordstar!” Behind them, Steed’s last act as a General of the base was to get the failing Confederate tactical computers to synch up with the Lordstar’s own. Lory heard the dull alerts and alarms pinging ahead of them as they raced to the Bridge.
“General evacuation order Alpha-Green!” Steed was shouting as he took his place at the comms console, and Lory saw Hank’s look of puzzlement behind him as he took the command chair.
“Oh, don’t mind me, General Steed. I’m only the captain of this boat…” he murmured.
He might be a complete mess to work with, Lory thought as she slid into one of the piloting chairs, but she could see that Hank was working just as fast and hard as the rest of them were.
The Captain’s hands flickered over the controls, calling up Cortez in engineering to start prepping the engines for an emergency take-off, as well as scanning the near-orbit for a possible route of escape, and priming the Lordstar’s weapons.
“Steed, Lory–you should see this…” Lory heard Hank say as he ‘threw’ a tactical display map up onto the screens above them.
It was of the battle above, which had turned into three whirling knots of attack vectors; one colored grey, and the other colored red.
“What am I looking at?” Steed said.
“That’s the battle, Steed. Your Confederate forces are getting wiped out,” Hank said grimly, all trace of his earlier sarcasm gone. “But take a look at the top right-hand corner…”
Lory looked, to see that there was another knot of red attack vectors, and they were apparently attacking each other.
“I know the Union can be a bunch of loonies–I used to work for them, after all–but I don’t remember them completely forgetting which side they were on…”
“It has to be the Path agents!” Lory guessed immediately what was going on. “They’ve seized control of some of the Union ships and are fighting back!”
“They’re getting wiped out, you mean…” Hank said. “But it does give us a very small window of opportunity, if we move now.” The tall captain clicked buttons on the command chair and called out. “Cortez? How are we doing on those engines?”
“She’
s warmed up and ready to fire on your command, Captain!” returned their terrible cook’s voice.
“Then fire them already!” Hank said. “Lory, you’re with me on piloting.”
Lory was amazed at the change that had come over the man that she had fought beside. Hank Snider never ceased to surprise her, turning from irascible, irreverent, irresponsible in one breath to a coldly-competent commanding officer in the next.
No wonder he was kicked out of the Union forces, Lory thought. He was too wild and too unpredictable.
On her own command console screens appeared the drop-down list of piloting controls, all of the positional rockets and gravity-eliminators while Hank himself had the main directional flight stick.
