Spaceship Struggles

by Ingo Potsch

  But, in spite of her size and superiority of armament, the Vulture of Vengeance did not come off unscathed, even though she was much superior to the cruisers she was fighting. At a critical moment her hyperspace dampeners jammed, soon followed by an especially unfortunate hit into one of her twin hyperspace drives, and round she circled, straight for the enemy's line. Before the damage could be rectified she was hit several times more, losing, amongst other gear, her hyperspace communications’ equipment. While she was still under fire a hostile cruiser let off a couple of gigaton missiles, both of which fortunately missed their mark. But as they exploded only a few kilometres away from the Vulture of Vengeance, the ceramic outer plating of her composite armour suffered severely.

  By this time, the action had already passed away from the battered Warriors of Walhalla. She had played her part and for her own good luck she was largely ignored by the Aesuron now. It remained to save her from foundering, if she could - a truly herculean task.

  CHAPTER X--Unconquered but Battered

  On projectile, actually a smaller one, hit the ship’s armoured hull in the vicinity of the auxiliary weapons’ control room where the two junior lieutenants stayed. The shell was comparatively small and it was rather slow. Yet, the spallation which it caused was fervid, and the shock wave vigorous. For the young officers, the lights went off; they were knocked out. For minutes they were subconscious. Then, almost as in a dream, Astley realized that he was still alive. His hearing was practically done for, owing to the terrific detonation following the impacts of the grenades. His eyes were red and smarting from the effects of numerous particles of soot and dust of the fire-control station that had drifted into his helmet through the shattered sighting apertures. He could hardly speak, his throat was parched and gripped by terrible thirst. His battle fatigue was rent in several places, while the right leg was feeling warm and moist inside the trouser. Unknown to him, a splinter of metal had cut a clean gash just above the knee. In the excitement of the action he had not felt the wound. Now it was beginning to throb painfully.

  "The foremost gun turret will go by the board before long," remarked an officer on the bridge, as the crippled installation of Number One Gun Turret gave a sickening jerk with the roll of the ship to starboard. The upper part of the foremost machine cannon’s housing was partially detached from the lower part. Projectiles had punched holes into the hull, thus exposing interior steel parts to the cold of outer space, causing them to brittle. Further impacts had ruptured the now-brittle steel – for this cold metal lost its ductile property below a certain temperature threshold – and worked to severe the gun turret’s cupola piece by piece. Now, it was hanging on to the main body rather by habit than by intention; being kept in place by internal supply hoses, energy cables, hydraulic connections, and the mechanics of the ammunition feeder system. "The sooner we get out of this mess the better, I fancy." The awareness had set in that space battle against the Aesuron was quite different from shooting clay pigeons.

  “Let’s get out of here”, also said Astley. “It’s all failing around us.”

  It was easier said than done. The combat attire of both junior lieutenants was torn and the visors of their helmets were shattered, thus incapable of containing atmosphere. At the moment, their current place of abidance was still holding tight. The damage done inside and to the young officers’ attire and health had been done by shock waves and the resulting spallation. How it looked below the hatch was unbeknown to them, though, lust like the conditions of the remainder of their way toward a safer place. Even if the attention of the astronauts on the deck below could be attracted by hammering against the walls - and these astronauts were busily engaged with fire extinguishers and hoses in quelling the numerous small outbreaks of fire on the ship - it was well-nigh impossible to form a reliable means of communication to ask precise questions get the required information. Furthermore, the chaps down there might now know either, how it looked in other places but their own current location.

  "Worth risking it?" queried Astley's chum, indicating the way down below.

  The supernumerary junior lieutenant shook his head.

  "A tall order," he replied. "I don't seem to have the strength anymore in my leg for a climbing-down from this height. No thanks, I'm not taking any."

  "If we had only a coil of halyard up here, I could let you down," remarked the range-finding officer tentatively, "We might also try it with me going below and supporting you, but in case I won’t hold it, we’ll both fall deep. Looks we’re left aloft here, damn it."

  In that moment, they started hearing Morse coded.

  "Hallo!" Astley’s comrade exclaimed. "There's a fellow climbing up." Being from a cruiser, a self-independent vessel which was more often exposed to operating far from other units, and having done the deep infiltration course, the fellow understood Morse code faster. “Maybe one of the paramedics?”

  "Paramedic" was hardly a strictly correct description, they the fellow was an enlisted astronaut, but from a very different Space Fleet Enlisted Classification. Climbing hand over hand was a man clad only in combat fatigue, a helmet on his head, and oxygen bottles on his back. In his rucksack, which he wore on his chest, he carried two emergency suits. Those were very light-weight and thin, but sufficient to protect the wearer from vacuum; for some time and under certain conditions, namely the absence of anything puncturing it, to which is was unfortunately fairly susceptible. On his feet he wore magnetic boots. His muscles, like whipcord, rippled as he ascended with steady, even movement towards on the ladder upward to the isolated auxiliary weapons control cabin. From his belt trailed a rope. The coils of this rope were being carefully ‘paid out’ by another astronaut standing on the low end of the conveyance tube reaching from the nearest continuous deck up to the small auxiliary weapons control compartment.

  By Morse code, hammered against the wall of the tube, the fellow had already informed the two young officers of his rescue mission. The tube and the deck below contained atmospheric pressure, yet the gasses where asphyxiating because of the combustion of inflammable materials and the lack of oxygen supply. The latter contributed to keeping the fires under control, and so nothing was done about it. Everybody on board the cruiser was supposed to wear ait-tight combat attire or at least have an oxygen mask. The decision was rather to sacrifice single unfortunate crew members than to endanger the entire ship. Anyway, having received the message that somebody was coming to help them and that there was atmospheric pressure in the conveyance tube, the two young officers opened the hatch.

  Half-way up the ladder the climber paused to regain his breath. Even though he was strong and well-trained, the additional equipment which he carried weighted heavy. As he threw back his head to gauge the remaining distance, his face was revealed to the group on the swaying platform.

  "By Heavens!" exclaimed Astley's chum. "It's the man you went into the ditch after."

  It was indeed Bourdenet. Having lost touch with his officer during the engagement, his first thoughts after the Warrior had ceased fire were for the junior lieutenant who had risked his life on his behalf. Enquiries elicited the information that Astley had been last seen while ascending to the auxiliary weapons-control room at the foremost gun turret. When that cannon housing received several hits and started to disintegrate, Bourdenet got worried for young Astley.

  "Give me a barrel of bear if they aren’t properly in a mess," had muttered the man, as he eyed the precarious place. "Here we go."

  Obtaining the consent of one of the officers of the Warriors of Walhalla to attempt his perilous rescue expedition, Bourdenet was now well on his way.

  Perspiring from every pore, his muscles creaking under the strain, the palms of his hands hurting from the climb, the astronaut halted for a few moments to take breath. But the position on the ladder wasn’t quite comfortable either. Having remained for a couple of breaths more before essaying the last part of his journey, he moved on with firm determination.

  Finally hav
ing arrived at the top and standing inside the auxiliary weapons control room, he looked around for some place to attach the roll which he had carried up here. At the end, he had no choice but to attach it to the uppermost step of the stairs inside the tube. This metal structure was then holding the pulling block, through which the running-gear had had to be rendered. The man examined the construction critically. To all outward appearance it seemed to be sound.

  Jockeying himself along the edge of the conveyance tube, Bourdenet rove the end of the rope through the block, and paid out until the line touched the deck down below. Fortunately there was enough to spare. Four astronauts of the Warriors of Walhalla's crew were standing by down there on the deck to give assistance, and quickly attached a set of climbing harness to one end of the rope. The climbing harness was a device used to suspend a person from a rope

  "Come along, sir," exclaimed the astronaut encouragingly. "We'll have the two of you down in a jiffy."

  He held out his hand to steady Astley on his dizzy journey along the steel tube, until a sudden thought flashed across his mind. What if the rope carried away or the pulley-block was defective?

  "Hold on, sir," he said. "I'll show you the way down."

  He signalled for the climbing harness to be sent aloft, reflecting that if the appliance were strong enough to bear his weight he could give Astley nearly a good twenty kilogram - the young officer would run very little risk. If, on the other hand, the gear carried away, he expected to hold himself to the stairs of the ladder. He reckoned to be in much better shape and have good enough reactions and sufficient power to do that.

  Sliding into the climbing harness, the astronaut motioned to his comrades to lower him a little, just to try out. Nicely the men paid out the rope until Bourdenet was hanging freely in the tube. The rope and the attachment of its upper roll were fine. Bourdenet trusted the stuff to carry the young chaps down safely.

  Astley was the next to descend, after a humorous argument with his brother-in-arms on the etiquette of seniority, until the junior lieutenant settled this very short dispute by agreeing that Astley was a guest, and that the question of precedence did not hold good in present circumstances.

  At length both the occupants of the auxiliary weapons-control chamber were lowered in safety. But barely had Astley's companion gained the deck when he gave vent to an exclamation of annoyance.

  "Damn it all!" he cursed. "I clean forgot all about that camera. Here we go, damn it."

  Slipping into the climbing harness he made the helpful astronauts haul away for all they were worth, and, spinning round at the end of the rope, the Warriors of Walhalla’ crazy junior lieutenant again ascended to the endangered location. With the steel up there being already brittle from radiation and cold, and further pre-stressed by impacts of projectiles, anything could happen any time.

  Astley watched him disappear into the recesses of the enclosed space, just to reappear moments later with the precious camera dangling round his neck. So precious was the thing to him – or the pictures it contained – that he was risking his life for it.

  "Wouldn't have lost it for anything," remarked the young officer as he regained the deck. "I've roamed around with it ever since I was at Maiden’s Mare, you know."

  “The thing certainly appreciates your loyalty”, Astley commented sarcastically. “I just wonder if it ever earned it. I mean, did it risk its life to safe you?”

  His companion laughed. “It’s special, that’s why.”

  “Come on”, protested Astley, “there will be scores of pictures from that battle, and full video footage, too.”

  “My camera is an old-style one, fully mechanical”, the other junior lieutenant replied. “Stands much more than any electronic thing: cold, heat, radiation, you name it!”

  "Take any pictures during the action?" enquired Astley.

  "By Heavens, no, I didn't! Damn forgot all about it."

  "And I fancy, old friend, you won't again," interposed an assistant paymaster, inspecting the camera closely. "It's done for."

  Which was only too true. A spallation-caused fragment had penetrated the case, reducing the delicate mechanism to a complete wreck.

  Astley glanced at his chum. The imperturbable junior lieutenant shrugged his shoulders.

  "Better to be born lucky than rich, old friend," he remarked. "But, by heavens, what a jamboree!"

  He could find no other words to describe the scene of destruction. Now that the ship was out of action, and the excitement of the titanic struggle was over, the grim realization of what a Space Fleet engagement meant was beginning to reveal itself to the survivors of the gallant crew.

  Many of the fires had already been extinguished, with the exception of a few big outbreaks which were difficult to get quench. At the same time, groups of astronauts in mecha-suits toiled desperately to get the many leakages closed. The Warriors of Walhalla was largely without atmospheric pressure. Already her hyperspace-drive and generator-compartments were without atmosphere.

  With the exception of medical mecha-suits, the usual versions afforded only limited precision. While they intensified a human’s force manifold, they were less useful for fine movements. Repairing many of the technical installations which had been damaged during the combat required such delicate finger work. For that purpose, atmospheric pressure had to be re-established. Working with oxygen masks was fine, but people had to be ‘themselves’, to get the jobs done.

  Engineer-officers in mecha-suits blackened from soot and scorched from heat encouraged the enlisted astronauts by word and deed. At whatever cost the Warriors or Walhalla had to be saved from foundering if human efforts were capable of such a herculean task. Undaunted, the crew toiled heroically, fighting fire, vacuum, and cold at one and the same time while still coping with the changeableness of hyperspace, for the ship somehow managed to hold herself in the superposed dimension, running on emergency default systems. Those were taxed at the utmost of their capacity, well beyond standard design levels for save continuous operation.

  Already the dead had been identified and given a hasty, yet impressive, outer-space burial, while - an ominous sign - the wounded had been collected from anywhere on the ship and laid in rows upon the main deck. It was a necessary precaution, and clearly indicated the grave possibility of the old Warriors of Walhalla being unable to battle much longer against the ever-worsening effects of the crippling damages, as from the main deck the evacuation could be achieved fastest. Despite the astronauts’ desperate toil, the substance of the vessel was disintegrating at an increasing pace. Over the years, ionising radiation had embrittled the steel of the ship’s body. Steel was an excellent material for spacecraft for its iron had the most stable core of all atoms but Protium hydrogen, thus withstanding ultra-hard radiation best. Its features of ductility and weldability made it a great material to absorb violent punishment and to be mended in case it still broke. Yet, everything had its limits and that of the Warriors of Walhalla’s skeleton, bulkheads, decks, and hull had come to its end.

  There was now plenty of work for Astley to do. Placed in charge of one of the fire-fighting teams he was soon strenuously engaged in trying to quench the conflagration. With the evacuation of the after magazine the danger of trouble coming from there – they had stocked yellowcake shells in this compartment - was now at an end. Still there was much trouble looming, and unless the flames were speedily quelled, the possibility of foundering would be materially increased, for ever more organic matter caught fire and the smouldering was advancing along data-cables, affecting the internal communications’ network of the spaceship as well as electric and electronic installations. Furthermore, several shell-holes had occurred in that part of the ship and made the task even more difficult, for they caused bulkheads and hatches to be pressurized from the side of the compartments which still held atmosphere.

  Although no doubt existed in the minds of the Warriors of Walhalla's crew as to the outcome of the general engagement concerning their own vessel, they
were in suspense owing to a total lack of news about how it stood for the remainder of the fleet. Without hyperspace communications they were debarred from communication with the rest of the squadron; and even more so left unaware with regard to the entire force. As helpless as a piece of rock in outer space, the battered vessel was floating in the vast expanse of the Inter-Arm Void without a single companion in sight. The dimensional distortions indicating the battle as detected by the remaining hyperspace sensors had rolled on far to the outward, and although the incessant rumble of the terrific thermos-nuclear explosions was distinctly perceivable, the Warriors of Walhalla was as ignorant of the course of events as if she had been a thousand light years away.

  A little while later, the almost flat calm had given place to sullen hyperspace undulations rippled by a steady increase of brane-frequency amplitudes that threatened before long to develop into a severe issue. Gravity waves from normal space influenced the superposed dimension massively and something must have happened in the vicinity of a couple of thousand lightyears, maybe a star switching from hydrogen to helium fusion or some planets colliding. Anyway, there was every indication of an angry superposed dimension before long.

  An hour had elapsed since the Warriors of Walhalla had ceased firing - sixty minutes of strenuous exertion on the part of all hands - when a vessel was detected apparently rushing in the crippled cruiser's direction.

  For some moments suspense ran high, for whether the strange craft were friend or foe no one on board could give a definite decision.