by Ingo Potsch
Shortly after Astley had been taken on board the Warriors of Walhalla, the hyperspace fluctuations abated and the predominant branes became almost calm, save for the undulations caused by the swiftly-moving squadron.
Astley had just commenced a game of draughts with some of the officers who were off duty, when a messenger was received by the senior-most junior lieutenant – funny title, that, if one thought about it. But who had time to think under these conditions? And thinking was probably out-of-order as well when the following words were produced. Not until he had taken a couple of deep breath and cleared his throat did the young officer break the momentous news to the others, apologizing as if the information might unduly raise their hopes.
"I don't want to be too cock-sure, you fellows," he announced. "Looks as if the enemy battleships are out this time, but…"
"I propose we go on main deck," suggested an ensign.
"And see the whole of the Aesuron fleet together with anyone else on the central screen there," added another junior ensign facetiously, as he expected the order for battle-stations to be called out soon, but wanted to avoid embarrassing his slightly senior comrade.
And so it happened, just as expected.
"Anyhow, there's 'General Quarters'," retorted the junior lieutenant daringly as the respective signal rang out, the call being quickly observed and acted upon in various parts of the ship, "Look alive, you fellows."
‘General Quarters’ meant that the ship was in dire straits or was expected to be very soon. Every astronaut with a combat role rushed immediately to the pre-assigned position. For some, this was a weapons console. Others maned the combat information panels or defensive system seats. For the vast majority, it was a place where they can respond to any potential damage with the greatest alacrity.
"Stick to me, Astley," said the senior-most junior lieutenant, snatching his helmet from a rack and making a bolt for the door. "If there's anything to be seen of the action you'll have a good chance with me. I'm fire-control, don't you know."
Young Astley nodded his head in acquiescence. He was sorry that he was not on board the Mandana, since there was a greater possibility of the destroyer flotillas dashing in to complete the work of the battlecruisers than of the armoured cruisers getting within range; at least according to the ideas held on the Human Nation’s side. Of course, the enemy had their own strategy and that one was not including suicide either.
Gaining the deck where the central gun control was housed in its own armoured compartment, the Mandana's junior lieutenant realised the unmistakable swift shrieking of a super-velocity scouting craft. A glance to the monitor overhead confirmed the notion which the speakers had produced, as it indicated an armed probe rushing at maximum speed in an outward direction. By the typical pattern of dimensional distortions she caused Astley recognized her as a Human Nation’s one, without even having to see what the automated detection system said about her. It afterwards transpired that Admiral Bartholomew-Caffrey had ordered the carrier Ernest Hemmingway to send up super-velocity armed scouting vessels for reconnaissance work, and that hyperspace communication’s reports were received from the daring pilots that they had detected forty two hostile light cruisers. These enemy cruisers opened a hot fire with their long-range artillery and even expended a couple of missiles, though they all failed to destroy the scouting vessels. In this case, it had been the boundary between two hyperspace branes that worked to hold-off the missiles. While the bigger and more powerful scouting vessel made it to break through that boundary, the smaller missiles with their less sophisticated hyperspace drives failed to follow. Thus, in spite strenuous opposition from the enemy, the daring pilots gained their desired information and returned to their parent ship.
On board the Warriors of Walhalla, as was the case with the rest of her consorts, hands were hard at work clearing ship for action. Already the air-tight doors were double-checked to be closed, armoured hatchways were secured, and the fire protection systems with their pipes along the decks were checked for full functionality, so that in order to quell the fire that would inevitably break out should a hostile missile get her warhead too close to the armoured behemoth. All gear likely to interfere with combat actions were either unshipped or stowed securely out of the way, and tons of taxpayers’ property were jettisoned, the danger of their remaining on board being more than sufficient reason for their sacrifice.
At the battle stations, bottles of water were provided to slake the burning thirst of the crews and keep their kidneys healthy, for experience had proved that the acute mental and physical strain, produces an intense dryness of the mouth and throat, and was harmful to kidneys, with acute kidney failure occasionally happening in the middle of the battle, and thus knocking out valuable operatives just when they were needed most. Behind the armoured protection of the spaceship’s hull, paramedics and fire-parties wearing specialised mecha-suits were preparing for their stern work.
In the warfare vessel, the generators were cranking and the hyperspace drives churned up to ideal combat speed, weapons’ sensors were bristling and probing, and everyone was leaning forward, canines gleaming. The more experienced people were moving with quiet, deliberate speed to their stations, as their ships were turning toward the enemy, and everyone was glancing up from time to time to have a look at the general situation as indicated on the overhead monitors. On the carriers, it was mass chaos, though of somewhat predictable proceedings. Together with the battleships, the carriers were the biggest targets and those least able to defend themselves. The massive hyperspace drives were churning up sizeable dimensional distortions, and thousands of heavy doors were being sealed, and the crews were assembling near repair lockers and donning hoods and masks, ait-tight combat fatigue, and mecha-suits. Everyone was looking up every now and then, waiting to hear the dreaded call of ‘Vampires inbound, brace for impact’ call, meaning missiles were heading their way toward the carrier. Pilots were rushing to the ready rooms, and then sitting in idle frustration. Unless there was a call to launch, they were just super cargo.
Down below, away from gun turrets and missile tubes, far inside the vessels, the fleet surgeons and their staff were getting ready for their grim yet humane tasks. Operations have to be performed under great disadvantages, the complexity of wounds and injuries caused by space warfare adding to the difficulties under which the military medical staff anyway laboured. Contrast an operation in a well-ordered hospital on the ground or during peaceful times on board where perfect quietude reigns and everything is conducive to success with the conditions on board a war-ship in action. The indifferent attitude of those who weren’t acutely affected was often the greatest nuisance, though rarely the major problem. The quivering of the vessel under the vibration of the cannons, missile detonations, hyperspace distortions; the deafening concussion coming from outside as the ships gave and received punishment; the jerky motion of the vessels as they twisted and turned to the rapid movements of the steering and quivers under the titanic blows of hostile warheads; and the frightening probability of the ship entirety being shattered like an egg-shell by a powerful nuclear missile coming though the defences - all these formed but a part of the disadvantages under which the Space Fleet medical staff laboured during the progress of an action.
Literally imprisoned below the armoured bulkheads and decks, the ships’ engineers were preparing for the coming ordeal. Separated from the rest of the ship's company, they toiled like buffaloes in order to enable the generators and hyperspace drive to make the cruiser ‘run high’ at a speed far in excess of her nominal twenty three lights years per hour, for which she was built. This was possible only by exhausting all engines’ maximum safety levels. In action the lot of the engineers was perhaps the worst on board, especially when things had to be repaired. They were working in the direct vicinity of great forces, and they could easily get exposed to fatal levels of radiation, heat, or current. Knowing little of what was going on outside, they had to work in a confined, heated steel tub
e, keeping things running with a dexterity that was the outcome of years of strenuous training. Besides the risk of missiles and their nuclear warheads there was ever the danger of the generators giving way under the purposefully produced over-load condition, with the inevitable result - a horrible death in an armoured engine compartment suddenly filled with deep-frying radiation. And yet, for easy-going joviality and good comradeship the Space Fleet engineer was hard to beat. They were – most of them - face discomforts with smiling faces and cheerful hearts. They were ready to risk their life for their comrades – or when doing their duty to the human race.
These thoughts flashed through Astley's mind as he watched the rapid and methodical preparation of clearing ship for action. For once the junior lieutenant realized that he was a mere spectator - a sort of odd-man-out, dumped from a comparatively insignificant destroyer upon a cruiser mustering a complement of over six hundred officers and enlisted astronauts. He was aware of the fact that he was a basically dead weight - an individual having no right to take part in the forthcoming contest. The inaction seemed the worst part of the business as far as he was concerned.
Presently Astley's thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakeable voice flooding out from speakers summoning the ship's idle company – everybody who wasn’t on combat stations now - to muster on the quarter-deck, actually a hall called the quarter deck for historic reasons. At the double the men romped there - every astronauts currently ‘idling’ not actually prevented by pressure of duty elsewhere.
Since the captain could not quit the bridge the assembled ship's idle company was addressed by a supernumerary commander. In crisp sentences of simple brevity the officer explained to the astronauts the position of affairs. At length a big action was in progress, he announced, for hyperspace message had just come in to the effect that the battlecruisers were already engaging the enemy at the far end of the expected battle theatre. More than that, the Aesuron Battle Squadron was coming from the outward at a much steeper than expected angle, and there was a grave possibility of the Human Nation’s battlecruisers being engaged between the enemy battleships and the hostile battlecruisers. In which case, the commander hastened to explain, losses would doubtless be severe; but it was part of the Commander-in-Chief's plan to risk certain of his battlecruisers in order to cut off and detain the Aesuron fleet until the Human Nation’s Main Battle Squadrons got between the enemy and their bases.
"I do not expect that we shall go into action just at present," concluded the commander, "but should events shape themselves all right we will be in the thick of it before long. And I have not the faintest hesitation in expressing my firm belief that everyone of us will do his duty to the government and nation, and uphold the traditions of Human Nation Spaceship Warriors of Walhalla."
With that the astronauts were dismissed, and, all preparations having been made, they were at liberty until the order "Action Stations" was to be given. That interval was perhaps the most trying of all. Many of the ship's company were going into action for the first time. Some of them were laughing and cutting jokes, some did so to cope with the stress and some did so as they knew not better. Some fellows could be seen with grey, anxious faces as they thought of their dear ones at home; but amongst the whole complement there was not the faintest trace of faint-heartedness being displayed openly. From the captain down to the youngest astronaut recruit the same sentiment held sway: that the Warriors of Walhalla would be able to acquit herself with glory and with honour. Silently, many hoped merely for survival, perhaps by simply being overlooked and ignored by the enemy or because the ship was considered so big and strong and resilient.
Through the perturbed branes of hyperspace could be faintly detected the distant and constant rumble of heavy warheads detonating. The space sleet action was developing, although the already engaged portions of the rival fleets were still fifty or sixty light years away. The subdued noise made a fitting accompaniment to the stirring words of the commander.
Astley, still remaining in the hall called the quarter-deck, could not help admiring the steadiness with which the cruisers kept station, despite the again more agitated branes and the resulting dimensional distortions which tended to push spaceships around with great force of persuasion. From time to time orders were given from out of the flagship Defender of Justice, and the orders expressed were being carried out with the utmost celerity and precision.
A lieutenant descending from the bridge passed along the quarter-deck on his way towards the engine compartments on the half-deck.
"You're out of it, Astley, I'm afraid," he remarked, when recognising the young supernumerary. "We've just had another hyperspace message. Our destroyers are giving the Aesuron a bad time. The old Mandana is in the thick of it."
"Any losses?" asked Astley, feeling ready to kick himself for being out of the action, in his eagerness to earn his spurs.
"Don't know yet," was the reply. "I only…"
The lieutenant's words were interrupted by a sound originating from the speakers and resembling the blare of a bugle. Turning on his heels he rushed forward at top speed, for at last the alarming order "Combat Stations" was given.
In an instant all was a scene of "orderly confusion", each crew member who wasn’t already at the place of duty was running with a set purpose. For the most part the crew were clad in combat attire which withstood vacuum for some time if the ship lost atmosphere. It was a crowd of muscular-armed, deep-chested, clean-shaven men in the very optimal of condition. Still exchanging banter, they disappeared to their battle-stations, eager and alert to let loose a hail of missiles upon the first hostile vessel that came within range.
"Come along, old friend," exclaimed the young lieutenant who had previously already taken care of Jack Astley. "Now's your chance if you want to see the action."
The two junior officers made their way forward, past the houses of the starboard guns in their isolated and closely-sealed steel turrets, ran through hatchways and bulkheads until they reached the fourth forward compartment of the spaceship; the one with the foremost gun turret.
"Up with you," said Astley's companion laconically.
Astley agilely ascended along the narrow tube upward till he reached the little chamber which was known as the auxiliary fire-control room. Just in case the ship’s central weapons’ control room was incapacitated or the connection broke down, every major gun turret had its own fire-control station, working as back-up. The other junior lieutenant followed quickly at his heels, squeezed through the narrow aperture in the floor of the enclosed space, and slammed to the metal hinged cover.
"At last!" he exclaimed gleefully.
Astley only nodded in complete accord. A clock on the after side of the steel wall indicated the current time, according to Human Nation general standard. A glance with the bare eye into outer space showed no sign of life. Looking across the vessel’s armoured hull returned similar results. There was nothing to show that confined within that double layer hull were a few above six hundred human beings, all with one set purpose: to survive. Many of them wanted to win and conquer the enemy, too, but survival was o everyone’s list. Many thousands of tons of tough steel and hard ceramics, sophisticated alloys, and advanced composites forged ahead at full speed towards a distant and blurred indication detectable only with excellent hyperspace sensors, penetrating through the ever-varying haze-like frequency distortions of the superposed dimension.
Suddenly the Defender of Justice opened fire with her most powerful forward pair of missile acceleration tubes, sending two long-range weapons into the detected direction of the enemy. The ball had opened, the macabre death dance commenced.
"Fifteen point eight degree up, naught point seven degree starboard, sir," reported one of the range-finding officers from the main weapons’ control station, as Astley's heard from his comrades headphones.
Rapidly yet smoothly the Warriors of Walhalla's bow guns rose until Astley could see their muzzles showing like oval-shaped cavities against the d
ark blue velvet, for the auxiliary gun control room had small portholes, made of lead crystal and with solid flaps to cover them if need be. For a second or two, or about that, the weapons remained seemingly irresolute. But the time had not yet come for the artillery. The distances were yet too large. The guns were mainly used for defensive purposes, to destroy approaching missiles. Even though they were powerful enough to drive a projectile through an enemy ship’s armoured hull, they were rarely used for that purposes, as the occasions were rare when two hostile vessels encountered each other so closely. Usually, the fights were carried out on much longer distances, just within the respective range of missiles.
Then, with a perceivable jerk due to mal-dampened accelerator tubes, the armoured cruiser sent two missiles hurtling through the already busy hyperspace, while clouds of dimensional micro-turbulences drifted rapidly across her way.
At last the Warriors of Walhalla had her chance - and she was taking it with a vengeance.
CHAPTER VII - In the Middle of the Action
Leaving Junior Lieutenant Jack Astley in the narrow confines of the auxiliary fire-control station, it will be necessary to follow the fortunes of the vessel with which he had involuntarily departed - the destroyer Mandana.
