Spaceship Struggles

by Ingo Potsch

  Spaceship Struggles

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I - The Dire Duty of Human Nation Spaceship "Mandana"

  CHAPTER II - The Recovered Relay Station

  CHAPTER III - The Stranded Cruiser

  CHAPTER IV – Out of Control

  CHAPTER V - Astley to the Rescue

  CHAPTER VI – Double Feature Action

  CHAPTER VII - In the Middle of the Action

  CHAPTER VIII - The "Mandana's" Second Serve

  CHAPTER IX - The Warriors of Walhalla’s Last Stand

  CHAPTER X - Unconquered but Battered

  CHAPTER XI - The Wrecked High-Speed Intruder

  CHAPTER XII - An Attack into the Darkness

  CHAPTER XIII - Astley in Command

  CHAPTER XIV - Getting out of the Mess

  CHAPTER XV – Safely Back Home

  CHAPTER XVI - Too Late and Yet Just in Time!

  CHAPTER XVII--Safe in Port

  CHAPTER XVIII -

  SPACESHIP STRUGGLES

  CHAPTER I - The Dire Duty of Human Nation Spaceship "Mandana"

  It was dark lonely morning – according to Human Nation Standard Time for the early shift crew, roaming with their spaceship somewhere in the Inter-Arm Void; to be more exact, nineteen light years north and seventy five degree west of the position assigned to permanent observation ship Bardiya. Like so much else, the terms for the cardinal directions for orientation had been taken from historic precedent, with ‘west’ in the Milky Way context meaning ‘against the galactic rotation’.

  Viewed from the bridge of Human Nation hyperspace missile destroyer Mandana, there was little in the outlook to suggest that a state of war had existed for twenty two months already. The same hyperspace currents, the same velvet sky, the almost spotless horizon with its sparkling stars, tiny dots of light, towards which many sophisticated sensors were directed in the expectation that "they" had at last come out.

  ‘They’ were the Aesuron, or rather their main battle fleet. The Aesuron were a species in many terms similar to the Humans, yet – or perhaps for that reason – the great enemy of Homo sapiens. It hadn’t always been like this. For long, it liked like peaceful coexistence or even mutually beneficial cooperation between the two races was the modus operandi of their relation. Then, some well-connected people with special interests deeply entrenched into the system of society, state, and media had begun to feel the competition from the Aesuron. What followed was another case of the tail wagging the dog, as a small group of people managed to get the Human Nation to finally declare war on the Aesuron Empire. It had happened under the pretext of assisting some small and rather helpless yet utterly undeserving ally. This ally was herself committing horrible atrocities against some third alien nation, yet her conflict with the Aesuron Empire served those special interests groups within the Human Nation only too well to let this chance of a ‘morally justified’ war elapse. As it turned out, the Aesuron were much stronger enemies than had previously expected, and they led the war by their own ways, which were disturbing for the Human leadership.

  In average, the Aesuron were a bit bigger and stronger than the Humans, though in practice that usually didn’t matter. Most of them had yellow or green eyes, and yellowish fur, more or less dense. Their heads were slightly bigger than those of humans, which was largely due to the more robust skeleton, with thicker, more resilient skulls. The colour of their coat ranged from dusty yellowish to whitish yellowish, with few specimens going into the darker and more brownish direction. Like Humans, the Aesuron had hands with five fingers and feet with five toes and they had evolved along quite similar lines, only that their race never shed their fur, though they had lost their tails, too, just like the Hominids.

  With similar brains and similar evolutionary history, the Aesuron came to evolve as a species creating a technical civilisation similar to that of the Humans. They developed science in similar ways and their industry and commerce were organised on similar lines. Without the cunning, scheming, conniving small group of deeply entrenched people with special interests within the Human Nation, those two species could have been the best of friends; and they had actually been quite close to each other in such terms, before the evil propaganda started among the Earthlings, finally leading to the declaration of war.

  No matter how phoney and stupid the reasons for the war might have been, now that it was going on, the Humans were into it body and mind. Fired up by their media, with the writers sitting peacefully in secure places, yet enticing and urging their conspecifics to risk their lives in fighting the artificially –made enemy, the Humans fought like hell. The Aesuron refused to rank much behind in that respect, though. They were veritable enemies and gave at least as much hell back as they received. While the Human Nation was attempting the strategy of hyperspace blockade of the enemy’s galactic trade and shipping while at the same time preparing for the great class of the battle fleets, the Aesuron had embarked on a counter-strategy of cruiser warfare, doling out many hurting pinpricks, while holding their heavy units back. The method of ‘hit-and-run’ forced the Human Nation to expend vast resources on hyperspace control, which stretcher her resources to the limit.

  And then, there was another strategy by which the Aesuron frustrated space travel conducted by the Human Nation. It was by the abundant distribution of sophisticated space mines that the Aesuron war effort claimed some victims and caused great nuisance and enormous cost. Space mines were actually rather missiles resting in protective and stealthy repositories in normal space. When their hyperspace sensors detected vessel which was to be attacked, such a repository opened, ejecting the missile, which then accented into the superposed dimensions. There, the missile attacked whatever vessel had the misfortune to having ventured too close to the resting devilish device. Often, the missile flew in the wake of the spaceship which had caused its slumber to end.

  When vessels where ploughing through the superposed dimension, they caused distortions, commonly called bow wash and wake, just along the lines of tradition. While the distortions caused at the front of the spaceship were of some hindrance to the hyperspace sensors, the wake was causing bigger issues, with another ship or a missile running right in that perturbed stripe of space often being practically undetectable. Now being seen but gladly following the broad, clear path of the wake, the missile then approached the farting fat bum of the forcefully on-ploughing spaceship and plucked itself right into it, where it then caused a massive bang when it detonated, taking the target along.

  At two light seconds distance from the Mandana, a typical old meteorite mining craft, sturdy and bulky. Carefully she was slowly moving ahead. Another vessel of a similar type was going in almost the opposite direction, and on a course that would bring her close under the stern of the almost motionless destroyer. From the bows and stern of each meteorite mining craft a disturbing amount of hyperspace distortion was issuing, the reverberations of which washed across the Mandana's deflector fields indicating pretty plainly the nature of the commotion caused by those vessels commotion, despite them trying to be ‘silent’. Of the crew of either craft no one was really happy to be here. Together with their respective helmsman on the bridge they were all on their stations, doing the utmost to stay alive. They tried to get their jo done, but more so they would have love to be somewhere else.

  Junior Lieutenant Astley brought the destroyer’s main telescope to bear upon the near-most mining craft. The action was merely a perfunctory one. He knew both mining crafts almost about as much as their own crews did, and certainly more than their respective owners in pre-war times. For close on fifty hours, watch in and watch out, the Mandana had been dancing attendance on these two almost insignificant specimens of the meteorite mining-fleet - the Nab
onidus and the Cassandane, both registered at the Planet of Marischal Woodland.

  Very carefully, lest the dimensional distortions caused by herself interacted unfavourable with those created by the rough civilian vessel, the destroyer glided slowly past the Cassandane's port quarter. From the mining craft's stern a flexible carbon-nanotube hawser led into the long wake of the bulky, carrying on its rear end a device producing commotion that did not gladden the heart of the young officer of the watch.

  "Any luck yet?" shouted Astley through his microphone, which transmitted his words as tightly focused directional signals via the communication’s equipment to the other ship.

  "Not the least, sir," replied the master of the Cassandane from the mining craft's bridge. The skipper, Corentin Oakley, served with the Human Nation’s Space Fleet and had been posted to that civilian vessel. "Are we right, sir?"

  The acting lieutenant on the bridge of the destroyer had a few minutes previously taken an observation. The destroyer was playing the part of nursemaid to the two mining crafts, for although both skippers were experienced navigators, their civilian vessels were anything but made for war-time deployment. It was thus necessary to protect them from approaching evil; as far and as long as that was possible. If they were encountered by an enemy cruiser of the latest state of evolution, they might all be out of that world before they’d have much time to think about what went wrong.

  "Ought to be right over it," replied Astley. "Carry on, and trust to luck."

  The mining crafts were "creeping" with decoys. They were searching for mines. It was an unpleasant business although there was actually not such a great possibility of hooking one of those fiendish contrivances in these coordinates. That was a risk that the tough conscripted astronauts on the drafted civilian vessels faced with an equanimity bordering on fatalism – for they had no choice but to acquiesce. Mine-sweeping they had engaged upon almost continuously since the notable day when the war was declared by the Human Nation. Now they were on particular service - a service of such importance and where so much secrecy was imperative that these two mining crafts had been sent expressly from a far-away base to scour the bed of the Inter-Arm Void in the neighbourhood of Planet Radiant Ruby, where there were Government craft for disposal in abundance.

  Astley, disengaging his attention from the view which the telescope projected on his supervision screen and turning, found that his superior officer had just come on deck and was standing at his elbow.

  First Lieutenant Fabien Bergerault the highly decorated "owner" of the destroyer, was one of those young officers who had made good use of the chances that the war had thrown in their way. Specially promoted for good work in the Luparian Narrows, he found himself at a comparatively early age in command of a destroyer that had already made a name for herself in the gallant but ill-starred operations against the Nushion aliens, a minor yet nasty ally of the Aesuron Empire.

  "Well, Mister Astley?" he asked.

  "Nothing much to report, sir," replied the Junior Lieutenant. "But we'll definitely find something yet," he added confidently.

  Evidently "something" - hardly ever referred to by any other designation - was more elusive than Bergerault had imagined. A shade of disappointment flitted across his tanned features. The task upon which the mining crafts were engaged was a matter of extreme urgency. At Capital Space Fleet Headquarters anxious admirals awaited the news that "something" had been fished up; but "something", reposing serenely on vast emptiness of normal space in the Inter-Arm Void, had resolutely declined to receive the allure of a couple of noisy decoys.

  Fishing for space mines worked like this: Some vessel, usually an old and cheap type with a crew publically lauded as heroes but internally and secretively considered expendables pulled a decoy device on a long carbon-nanotube hawser. The decoy might even get supplied with energy via that hawser, as that reduced the cost of the decoy. The device was producing hyperspace distortions artificially resembling a major unit, like either a capital ship of the Space Fleet or a major cargo vessel. The space mines deposited by the enemy were hoped to detect the decoy, regard it as valuable target, and attack it. If the nuclear missile emanating from the mine’s protective hull engaged the decoy, it also annihilated itself, for its method of destruction was to explode. Thus, being necessarily a on-off item in terms of destruction, it was then ‘cleared’ as well. Not being entirely stupid, the Aesuron understood that as well. Therefore, they equipped their mines with enough artificial intelligence to sometimes distinguish decoys from valuable targets. Then, the missile might either return to its origin and snuggle itself into its cushy oat again or alter its attention and direct its ire at the vessel pulling the decoy. For these purposes, the spaceships pulling the decoys were usually equipped with anti-missile weapons, or they were accompanied by military craft serving as bodyguards.

  Bergerault, after giving a searching glance to other surveillance monitors around the bridge, took over the captain’s seat. Astley then stepped into the elevator which would bring him down from the conning tower to the ship’s main deck. Exiting there, he almost ran into an alert midshipman, who just was on his way to start his shift. Returning the salute, Astley gained the main deck and went aft, his mind dwelling on the prospects of breakfast and a much-needed sleep.

  The ward-room, a scantily-furnished compartment extending near the middle of the ship, was showing signs of activity. From one of the adjoining dog-boxes, termed by courtesy a cabin, a short, full-faced, jovial-featured man had just emerged, clad in comfortable ground-work trousers and a jersey. His curly light-brown hair was still wet, as the result of his morning shower, a slight gash upon the point of his chin betokened the fact that he had tempted fate by shaving while not yet fully awake, and by the aid of an ordinary manually-operated razor instead of the sophisticated technical equipment which was available for that task – if it wasn’t out of order or had been forgotten.

  "Oh, it's quiet down here…” he began singing in a ringing baritone.

  "No need to rub that in, Coroner," exclaimed a drawling voice. "The fact is conspicuous to all of us. Can't you give us that complaint that 'they don't offer first class suites on our commuting line' by way of a change?"

  Theron rested a tale: something that had taken place when Aiden Randolphfield had first joined the mess at the Planet Hawkers’ Market Space Fleet Barracks as a Probationary Surgeon, in the service of the Human Nation’s Military.

  "I called attention to the fact that it was quiet down here with deliberate intent, my festive Box-spanner," retorted the surgeon. "At last, after weeks of expostulation, your minions have succeeded in quelling that demon of unrest, the hyperspace drive’s frequency equalizer. For the first time for a fortnight I have slept serenely, and, thanks to that blessed balm, I feel like a giant refreshed. Now, how about it?"

  He made a dive into the adjoining cabin, where the engineer-lieutenant was in the act of struggling with a refractory collar. “Just let me alone, you menace of a quack!” shouted an angry voice from that cabin.

  "Time!" exclaimed Astley authoritatively. "Look here, you fellows. I haven't had my breakfast, and I suppose you haven't had yours? Not that it matters to me. And, Coroner, has your supply of bromide run out?"

  The squabblers immediately shut up – for a moment – and then diverted their attention to the fellow who had cut short their little customary quarrel.

  "You logged some great success during your shift, I hope, Astley?" asked the engineer-lieutenant in tones of mock anxiety. "Any luck? Have they got anything?"

  The junior lieutenant, now that conversation had reverted to the inevitable "something", was bound to admit that the preceding night's labours had been fruitless. The possibilities of the recovery of the much-desired items monopolized the attention of the occupants of the ward-room until the steward, outwardly stolidly indifferent to the unsympathetic treatment of his labours, provided another repast.

  They were boyish and high-spirited officers on Human Nation Space Fl
eet destroyer Mandana. Their pranks were but an antidote to the ceaseless strain of days and nights of watch and ward.

  "To get back to things mundane," persisted the engineer-lieutenant as the trio sat down to their belated meal, "Do you think that they will find something at all?"

  "It is my firm belief that they will," replied Astley decisively. "Even if we have to mark time about here for another month."

  "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the surgeon appalled, "I pine for fresh water. Your vile condenser-brewed fluid is simply appalling, my festive Box-spanner. And I yearn for fresh bread – baguette, please, and croissants - less than a week old."

  The engineer-lieutenant glared defiance at his medical confrère. He knew perfectly well that the water on board was brackish and insipid, but it was condensed under his personal supervision. Any disparaging remarks upon his metier - even if uttered jokingly - touched him to the quick.

  A resumption of the nonsense talks seemed imminent, when an enlisted astronaut, entering with a salute through the ward-room door, announced: "Captain's compliments, sir; they've just hooked up something."

  Instantly there was a wild scramble on the part of the three officers to gain the bridge, all other topics of interest vanishing before the all-important information.

  The off thing about it was the long time frame. None of the involved thought of it, though. Space mines and the ejected missiles meant business. Usually, everything was over within seconds; the one way or the other.

  “Look at that!” the skipper, having stood up from his captain’s chair, exclaimed.

  On the main monitor was shown the representation of an object which was anything but a mine.

  “That’s big”, exclaimed the junior lieutenant.

  “That ain’t no missile”, diagnosed the surgeon.

  “Our system has recognised it as an Aesuron battlecruiser”, declared the skipper. “It’s still far but it will catch up with us in a few minutes.”