Rescue at Waverly

by T J Mott

  “Aye.” Maney started configuring the hyperdrive controller. “Setting up a fifteen kilolightsecond jump away from Headquarters. I’m going to take it slow first. Opening up the phi-band telemetry link…Hangar 7, do you guys copy?”

  “Copy, X-11. We can see everything you see. Proceed at your convenience.”

  “Jumping now…”

  The hyperdrive clunked, the view outside went black, and the hyperdrive began growling out the low, deep rumble which was typical of short-range, slow speed jumps. “All instruments look normal,” Maney said.

  “Yep. That sure looks like hyperspace,” one of the techs stated while staring at the pure blackness outside.

  Ten minutes later, the ship dropped out of hyperspace. A moment later, they reacquired the phi-band link to Hangar 7.

  “X-11, Hangar. How did it go?”

  “So far, so good. How does our jump accuracy look?”

  “Phenomenal. We’ll run the numbers a couple more times to be sure, but you’re actually within fifty meters of your plotted destination this time. Granted that was a short jump, but your margin of error is smaller than the ship itself. That’s one well-tuned hyperdrive.”

  “Impressive!” Coop exclaimed. He grinned. “Hey, Maney. Do a couple more jumps to confirm our jump accuracy. Then I have a special request.” His grin widened even further. “Can you jump us to a hundred meters off the Phantom’s bow?”

  Chapter 12

  “Sensors have recorded over three hundred phi flashes in our area. It’s getting difficult to track, but many of them are correlated, suggesting that most of them are the same ships making short-range jumps in a search pattern.”

  Most of the officers were seated at the conference table, but Bennett stood up by the wall of computer terminals. During the past few minutes he’d been nervously pacing the row of darkened screens. At the moment, he was actually standing still. “I bet every starship owner in Waverly is out here,” he said while shuffling his feet in place. “Estimate how many ships?”

  “It’s likely more than a hundred starships are within a tenth of a light-year of us.”

  Reynolds looked at his executive officer with worry, noting the open anxiety in his expression. “How close was the nearest flash?” he asked the group.

  “About seventy thousand light-seconds.”

  “They tracked us, as expected,” Reynolds said. “But not very well. Which tells us that nobody has a precise profile on our phi signature.”

  “For now,” Bennett said, his voice raising a few pitches above normal. “As soon as we jump again, they’ll spot us, and they‘ll have another point of data which will help them correct the profile.”

  Reynolds nodded in grim agreement. With each jump they tracked, their pursuers would get closer and closer, eventually catching up to the Caracal. “Seventy thousand this time. Maybe ten thousand by the next jump. A couple jumps after that and they’ll track us to within a few light-seconds.”

  Commander Allen looked up from the damage summaries that hovered in the air before him, projected above the conference room holotable near his seat. “But with each jump, we’ll lose most of our pursuit,” he stated optimistically. “Most of these starships are going to be locals looking for excitement. Not many of them will have experience at tracking ships through hyperspace, and I’m sure many will get frustrated and go home before too long. So a hundred tracked us this time, next time it could be twenty, and after that only two or three.”

  Reynolds glanced at his Chief Engineer. “Perhaps. But who would those two or three be?”

  Allen hesitated, then shook his head in realization as he considered. “Experienced crews that know what they are doing. Mercenaries, smugglers, system police.”

  “The very people we don’t want to face right now,” Bennett said sharply. “What’s our damage, and readiness for another battle?”

  “It’s not good,” the Chief Engineer answered. “Two of our main thrusters are offline so sublight maneuvering is very limited. Our entire portside weapons array is gone. Heavy damage to our armor, especially to port. And our biggest problem is that they shredded our portside radiators and blew out the port heat tank.”

  No, that’s not good at all, Reynolds thought. The frigate’s giant radiators were its lifeblood. The hyperdrive systems expended energy at rates difficult to fathom, and generated massive amounts of heat as a result. Starship designers spent considerable time and budget designing the systems which safely stored that heat away from the hyperdrive (and the ship’s occupants) and released it into space after each jump. Losing radiators meant after-jump cooldowns would take longer. Losing the heat tank meant they couldn’t travel as fast or far on each jump.

  Lieutenant Poulsen had been curiously quiet up until then, silently playing with the holoprojected map in front of her and contributing little to the meeting. “We can’t even outrun them,” she said. “We can average about point-seven light-years-per-hour, including cooldown and recharge cycles.”

  Bennett grunted. “Point seven! Once they get our profile recorded, they’ll be waiting for us at the other side of the jump!” He shuffled around in frustration and walked to a terminal along the wall behind his seat. He pretended to study it but Reynolds could tell the screen was not even on. And was his executive officer actually trembling? Reynolds wasn’t sure.

  “What of our VIP?” Bennett asked, abruptly changing the subject. He was still looking down at the blank terminal. “Do we know who she is?”

  “She hasn’t said much,” Janssen replied. “She’s tired, malnourished, and drugged. And she’s very confused right now.”

  “What did you find out?” asked Reynolds.

  “I confirmed her name is Adelia, like the Admiral said.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Bennett snapped. “Marcell got her name from the Cassandra’s manifest. That doesn’t mean he actually knows her!”

  The doctor flashed an annoyed look at Bennett before continuing. “And, she was indeed a slave, but she’s from Paris.”

  “Paris!” Bennett repeated with a disgusted look on his face. He turned on the terminal and began querying the ship’s encyclopedia. “M-class red dwarf, total population of less than a million, basic mining and refining economy, and a minor vassal state at the edge of the Norma Empire.” He killed the screen and turned around to face the group. “Marcell was wrong,” he said flatly. “She’s not from Earth. Just like we all expected.”

  Reynolds sighed and immediately changed the subject back to more pressing concerns. Adelia’s identity was secondary to survival, and he didn’t need his officers wasting valuable time better spent figuring out how to escape their pursuit. “We still have the matter of maintaining the appearance that the Panther is still traveling with us.”

  “Backup gravity generator number one is toast,” Allen said. “There’s no chance of field repairs, the entire unit needs to be replaced. The timing on that double-jump was rough on the gravity generators. I don’t really recommend we try it again unless we have no choice.”

  “Opinions?” Reynolds glanced around at the other officers.

  Poulsen’s holographic starmap now showed icons for every detected phi flash in the area. Hundreds of them were scattered seemingly at random in all directions within half a light-year of the Caracal’s location. The Panther’s icon floated nearly two light-years behind them. “I think most of the pursuers followed us. But we’re out of phi sensor range to detect any flashes at the old location.” She turned from the map and looked at Reynolds, her expression dead serious. “Sir, the Panther is crippled. If we can double-jump one more time, I think we’ll greatly help their chances of survival. Because once the enemy realizes we’ve split up, some of them may double back in their search, and the farther away we are from the Panther when that happens, the more time they have to get away from their last recorded location at sublight speeds.” She turned to Commander Allen. “What’s the danger to our gravity generators?”

  “I thin
k the primary generator is safe,” he answered. “I don’t know whether it’s because it’s more robust, or if it was somehow shielded by the secondaries. But the number two secondary does show minor damage, and I expect it to fail the same way if we do another double-jump, which would leave us with no backup generators.”

  Reynolds eyed his nervous executive officer. “What do you think?”

  Bennett shook his head, put his hands on his hips, and stared up at the ceiling “I don’t know, Captain. Either way, we put one of the ships at more risk. Either we put them at greater risk of being discovered, or us at more risk of losing our remaining gravity generators and stranding ourselves, too. We can’t use the hyperdrive without functioning artificial gravity.”

  Reynolds frowned. Bennett’s analysis was factually correct, but his unwillingness to pick a side and help make a decision was very concerning. A good executive officer should be a trusted adviser to his captain, and right now Reynolds was not getting any useful advice from him. He would have to deal with this once they returned to Headquarters.

  “Okay,” he said, realizing no one else had any input on the matter. “Let’s plan on one more double-jump. I think the risk is worth it. Meanwhile, we’ll adjourn for today and I want more ideas on the table by tomorrow morning’s briefing.”

  ***

  When Green heard the door open behind him, he quickly switched his terminal to an innocuous inventory screen. He nonchalantly swiveled his chair around and watched Lieutenant Durant enter the cramped office space which adjoined the frigate’s starboard weapons battery. The second-in-command of the Gunnery Department closed the door behind him.

  “It doesn’t look good, does it, Boss?” Durant said.

  Green narrowed his eyes in response. “I’m a little behind on our status,” he replied, which was an outright lie. “I’ve been too busy dealing with the damage to our weapons systems.”

  “Oh.” Durant took a seat at the desk closest to Green. “We’re heavily damaged. We’re down half our weapons, half our thrusters, and half our radiators. We can’t run, and we can’t fight.”

  Green held his expression as neutral as possible. Although he’d missed out on the latest status meetings, he was actually well aware of the starship’s condition. The executive officer regularly entered ship, crew, and mission status updates into the general logs, with the most important data sent out as brief digital memos to update the crewmen who did not have the time to read the full logs.

  In actuality, he’d avoided the meetings out of simple anger. If he had to be in the same room as Marcell… “What does the Captain plan to do?” he asked.

  “The Captain intends to keep running.” More information Green already knew of from the memos. “He hopes to stay one jump ahead of our pursuit, and lose them by passing through a high-traffic system on the way home.”

  “What do you think?”

  Durant paused. He frowned and looked to the floor. “Honestly, I don’t think we can make it like this. Our pursuit will have our hyperspace profile figured out within the next few jumps, and we won’t be anywhere near a busy system by then. And even if we somehow did everything right…well, have you seen the crew? Morale is terrible. No way they’ll perform well in another scrap. At some point they’re going to give up.” He slouched in his seat and rubbed his eyes.

  Green felt a sudden chill travel down his spine. He’d certainly picked up on the crew’s gloomy attitude. Nobody greeted or even acknowledged each other in the corridors. The mess hall was silent at meals. And his own Gunnery Department members kept to themselves now, isolated, silently grieving the loss of so many of their friends and comrades. “Maybe they’d be right to,” he said quietly.

  “And do what? Just let them blow us out of space?” Durant chewed on his lower lip and looked over at Green. “They might give up on Marcell though,” he stated, very softly.

  Green raised an eyebrow. “But Captain Reynolds won’t.”

  “He’s too old to care about his future anymore, the rest of us be damned.” Durant glanced at the door again. Satisfied that it was still closed, he continued, but he spoke slowly and carefully, as if evaluating Green’s reaction to each word he said. “But we don’t need him either. Or even Bennett, for that matter. He’s too flaky and can’t lead when things get tough.”

  Green stared at his junior, the second-in-command of the Caracal’s gunnery department, and wished he could read minds. He realized he didn’t actually know the man that well. He didn’t know his motivations or history, or how he came to be here. Outside of their duties, they mostly ran in different social circles.

  He reached his hand into his right pocket, feeling the grip of the small pocket laser he’d taken from the armory earlier. Without properly signing for it, of course, which, with all the chaos aboard the ship following their skirmish against the Cassandra, had proven a simple task. Now that he was actively paying attention to such things, he’d noticed that security was actually pretty lax despite the intense secrecy of the organization.

  “There are a lot of bounties on Marcell,” Green told his subordinate. Durant sat still and at first didn’t react at all, but after a long moment he finally nodded.

  “So I’ve heard,” Durant said. He paused. “I’ve talked to some others. Who want out.” This time Green forced himself not to react, though he felt his heart rate jump. Green passively watched his face, feeling a sense of paranoia as he looked for any indication that this was a trap. “I think we could hypothetically grab Marcell, take one of the Marine transports, and give ourselves up to whoever catches up first. And offer up everything we know about the organization for a share of the bounties.”

  Green kept his hand on the pistol as he considered. He’d been making the exact same plans and considerations, in private, like he did on every mission. Was Durant actually on his side? Or did he sense Green’s hidden mutinous attitude and was only seeking the opportunity to turn him in and take his position as Gunnery Chief? The members of some mercenary and pirate groups could be exceedingly cut-throat. Was that true here in Marcell’s organization? Aboard his own flagship?

  He considered his own plans, and how few crewmen he trusted enough to share them with, but admitted to himself that he needed more help. The Caracal was lightly-crewed, especially with the casualties from the battle, but the frigate still had an entire platoon of Marcell’s Marines aboard. And they were a complete wildcard to Green. They were not regulars aboard the ship and had few, if any, relationships with the crew. He did not know how strong their loyalty to Thaddeus Marcell was, or if that loyalty would persist against impossible odds. He knew most of them were former career infantry in the militaries from many of the galaxy’s spacefaring nations, and had to assume that they took their duty far more seriously than Blue Fleet’s collection of mercenaries, smugglers, pirates, and adventurous civilians.

  He slowly drew a breath, and realized his options were few. He could trust Durant and raise the odds of getting away alive. Or he could not trust Durant and run the risk of failing and dying once Marcell’s enemies caught up.

  Or he could trust Durant, get betrayed, and die in the brig anyway.

  He slowly removed his hand from his pocket, empty, and switched his computer to the display he’d been studying before. It revealed a detailed schematic of the Caracal. Some areas were color-coded and annotated. “I’ve talked to some others too,” Green said. “Very discreetly, of course.”

  Durant slowly smiled. “I hoped you were planning something.”

  Green nodded. “Too many people just died on this insane search for Earth. I can’t go on with this, and if I don’t get out now, I might never have a chance again.” He studied the screen, his eyes flicking from the annotations on the sensor systems to the ones on the hypercomm unit, and finally to the couple sections used as Marine barracks. “I have a plan, but I don’t have the right people yet. I need some guys from Engineering or Deck. Guys who can make a few minor…modifications to some things, without setting
off any alarms.”

  “Well, Boss, I just happen to have some good friends in the Deck Department.”

  ***

  Ward Three, where Commander Janssen had kept the more minor cases, was nearly empty. It was still a terrible mess, though. In the aftermath of the battle, the frigate’s undersized crew was still far too busy to be overly concerned about neatness. And so the beds were unkempt, with mounds of sheets and clothes and hastily abandoned Marine combat gear piled up on a number of them. The only garbage receptacle in the room was buried within a heap of trash several times its own size. Rags, bandages, wrappers, small medicine boxes, and other supplies and their packaging were strewn around, almost as if one of the Wyoming windstorms from Thad’s youth had somehow arrived here and scattered everything.

  Thaddeus stepped further into the ward and promptly cursed his clumsiness as he tripped on something. He nearly fell down but caught himself on a nearby bed. Looking back, he saw that his foot had caught on the square corner of that bed. Dammit, I didn’t drink that much! Did I? He sighed. I’m glad Janssen wasn’t here to see that. He’d make another of his holier-than-thou attempts to remove me from command.

  He shook his head and continued on, soon finding Adelia right where she had been last time. She was lying on her back in her bed, either resting lightly or sleeping uneasily, he wasn’t sure which. Her breathing was shallow and irregular, and her skin was still very pale.

  He stood at the foot of the bed and watched her for a moment, feeling torn between his desire to wake her—to catch up on old times, and to find out what she knew about Earth—and the understanding that she really needed rest. He looked around, finding a nearby folding chair leaning against the bulkhead, and set it up beside her. He sat down with a groan, feeling all the muscles and ligaments he had overworked on board the Cassandra. Joining a boarding party and running around in Marine battle armor after so many months of inactivity—and drinking—had not been kind to his body. He could feel every old injury he’d ever had, too. His left shoulder was stiff, where years ago he’d been shot in the back by private security during a raid to retrieve a shipment of supposed Earth artifacts from a collector he’d been unable to reach an agreement with. And parts of his abdominal muscles twinged, beneath a horizontal strip of molten-looking scar tissue that marked where a beam from a high-powered laser weapon had once skimmed his stomach.