Starfighter (Strike Commander Book 1)

by Richard Tongue

   Flashes of the bodies of Bowman and Hubbard danced through her mind. Four years in uniform, and she'd never actually killed anyone. A few fights, yes, and street brawls, but never a fatality. Blood was on her hands, and she had no idea how to get it off. The doors opened, and she drifted into a scene from a horror movie.

   A dozen crewmen were dead at their stations, the control consoles smashed, damaged beyond repair. She looked at the corpses tumbling in the air, her eyes wide, fear and shock replaced with dark rage. As the doors closed behind her, she drifted forward, datapad in hand, looking at the comrades and friends, taking careful shots of the room, at the comrades and friends who had been massacred. There had to be a reckoning, one day. Someone had to pay for this.

   There was no sign of any guards here, the most critical facility in the station. That meant only one thing. Blake and his men weren't interested in conquest, and they didn't dare leave any evidence of their handiwork. They were going to destroy the station, blot out all trace of this atrocity, then escape with the artifacts. The ones she had selected for them, the pick of half a year's work.

   For a second, thoughts danced through her mind of retaking the station, leading a boarding party to capture Hermes and take them for trial, but she soon dismissed them. She was the only Espatier on the station, the only one trained for this type of combat, and they'd managed to catch them completely by surprise. At the touch of a button, Operations could be isolated, locked down, securely sealed, but the duty officer hadn't had a chance to touch it, or had waited too long, allowing false trust to override caution.

   She couldn't stay here. A quick glance at the pistol confirmed that she had seven rounds left, and no way of reloading it. Heading for the armory would be a good way to commit suicide, not a viable battle plan. Floating over to the heart of the room, she pushed up to the ceiling and pulled down an inspection hatch, ducking inside and locking it into place just as she heard voices in the distance. She paused for a moment, wondering for a second if some of her friends had managed to rally, despite the odds, but she didn't dare take the chance.

   Pushing up the long shaft, she swam to her destination at the far end of the station, periodically hearing the sounds of battle, screams, bullets and explosions, echoing through the passages. The air was full of the scent of cordite, the ventilation system working overtime to try and clear the atmosphere, sweeping it here, towards the carbon filters. She doubted it would have time.

   Swinging out of the vent, down into a corridor, she saw an unfamiliar face diving towards her with the Hermes flash on his sleeve. Pausing only long enough to brace herself against a wall, she fired, the bullet roaring towards its target, sending him diving back the way he came, blood spilling out after him in floating crimson droplets, splattering against the wall. Somehow, the second time was easier than the first, or perhaps adrenaline had taken over.

   Kicking through the final hatch, she emerged into another corridor, at the top of the station, an observation port running down the length of the passage. Looming below her was the dead world they were orbiting, the home of a long-dead alien race. And perhaps, if she was very fortunate, her sanctuary.

   The escape pods had been locked down, sealed to protect escape, and she silently thanked her instructor in Combat Hacking as she overrode the system, the monitoring lights flashing from red to green, the nearest hatch sliding open to admit her, a welcoming cocoon to hide in. Pausing for a second, she reached up into an overhead compartment, throwing a spacesuit into the nearest pod, following it up with a spare survival kit.

   More shouting echoed from behind her, the internal sensors betraying her intentions, but she had no intention of waiting to find out what they had in mind. Then she paused, detecting a familiar call, a cry for help, but as she turned back to the corridor, a terribly final scream filled the air, punctuated by the horrible crack of bullets finding their prey.

   She ducked back into the pod, pushing the cargo onto the second couch while sliding into the first, the automatic systems engaging, one after another, automatically running through the launch system. After what seemed like an eternity, the panel showed green, and she turned the key that enabled the launch mechanism.

   With a loud cluck, the pod detached, spinning away into space, and the braking thrusters fired, the deceleration pushing her back in the couch as she fell out of orbit. The heads-up display flicked on, showing a sensor display of the local area, and she saw the station slowly recede in the distance, dropping back as she dived towards the surface.

   A single dot appeared, detaching from Hermes and moving towards the pod. Her heart skipped a beat as the trajectory track locked on, someone chasing after her. Under normal circumstances, the occupant of a pod such as this would be praying for a pick-up, but all she could feel was cold dread, as she raised the pistol once again, pointing it at the airlock.

   Not that she would have a chance to use it. They wouldn't try to capture her, not now. It wouldn't take much to destroy the pod, just a quick pulse with the shuttle's engines at minimum range. All she could do was wait, and gamble that she had enough of a head-start to keep her clear of her pursuer. The station only had two ground-capable shuttles, one of them laid up for maintenance, and it was an orbital rescue vehicle chasing after her now. They didn't dare get too close to the surface, not if they wanted to rise once again.

   The thrusters kept firing, her finger periodically stabbing the override control to prevent the automatic systems pushing her towards what it believed were her rescuers. Slowly she curved down, falling into the gravity well, diving towards the ruins she had spent months studying. Let her get down onto the surface, and she'd be able to hide for days, weeks. Long enough that they'd never find her.

   The first shuttle swung back around, giving up the chase, and she allowed herself a brief smile before spotting a second craft diving down, racing away from the station, larger this time. Glancing at the sensor display, she guessed that she'd have a short window on the surface, a few minutes before the unwanted company arrived.

   Ignoring the display with an effort, she started to pull on the spacesuit, carefully sliding each component into place, locking herself in. Even if this plan worked, she'd be relying on it for a long time. Her helmet slid on just as the landing jets fired, the on-board computer flashing green. Another quick override to make sure she didn't log into the orbital network, the communications system and beacon disabled, and she was on the ground.

   Snatching her two survival kits, one in each hand, she pushed through the makeshift hatch, the atmosphere violently erupting into space behind her, ripping the fabric of the pod. She glanced back, smiling. That might convince them she hadn't survived the landing, but she had to move, and quickly.

   The surface was a mixture of browns and grays, glorious desolation, framed by a glistening sea of stars. Craggy rocks jutted towards the sky all around her, and in every direction, crater walls rose high, more than a kilometer straight up. She bolted for the nearest in long, low bounds, taking easy strides across the terrain, waiting for the shuttle to loom overhead and catch her. Each step was carefully chosen, gliding from the rocks, leaving as little trace of her passing as she could.

   She was looking for a shadow on the wall, and she found it, the opening to a cavern they had only uncovered a few days ago. Unless they were carefully examining the latest reports, they'd never find her, not here. With one last pace, she dived inside, sprinting heedlessly through the ancient storage area, over the carefully labeled remnants of a lost culture. A looming statue made her freeze for a moment, tears running from her eyes. Bowman had found it, less than a week ago. He'd been so damned excited at the find. And now he was dead.

   A bright light shone behind her, the shuttle skimming low over the terrain. It hovered over the escape pod, burning its jets back and forth, finishing the job the forced decompression had begun, before lifting off on its return to orbit. Relief flashed into her mind, followed rapidly b
y despair. They didn't need to look for her. Just to make sure she had no way of calling for help. She couldn't leave this planet, and didn't have a friend left in the system.

   They'd killed her, as effectively as a bullet in the brain, just a little more slowly.

  Chapter 3

   Conway relaxed in his couch, running his eye over the helm telltales to satisfy himself that he hadn't forgotten anything. Satisfied, he looked back up at the viewscreen, waiting for the starfield to reappear, and he couldn't wait. It had been eighty years since mankind had finally cracked the trick of faster-than-light travel, ripping a hole into the fabric of reality to find a shortcut to the stars, but the thought of briefly flashing through eleventh-dimensional space still made him nervous. Worse was that they'd be stranded there for five days, forced to wait for the dimensional stabilizers to do their work.

   Stepping over to him, Sullivan, once his tactical instructor and now his First Mate, placed his hand on his shoulder, a smile cracking his dark face, peppery gray hair trimmed close to his head, a ghost of the bushy mass that had long since been swept away. It flashed across his mind for a second that he was getting old. That they all were. He thought back to the letter in his cabin, unread until that morning, and sighed, turning his attention back to the display.

   “Nervous, skipper?” Sullivan asked.

   “Always,” Conway replied, glancing back at his old friend. “It's a good survival instinct. Learned that in the War.”

   “Come on,” Xylander, his wingman from long ago, currently riding the astrogation panel, said. “This is just a milk run. Pick up a load of artifacts and deliver them to Vlad at Belzoni.”

   “On the frontier…,” Sullivan began, but Xylander interrupted.

   “Frontier? There's nothing on the other side but dark, empty space.” Shaking his head, he added, “Though that gives me the shivers a little. Three expeditions, and no one's found anything out this way.”

   “Maybe there's a reason for that,” Conway replied. “Don't talk to me about nice, easy missions, Dirk. I ran exactly one too many of those.”

   “Sorry,” the astrogator replied, his face reddening as he looked down at his controls. “I didn't mean...”

   “I know,” Conway replied, softly. “I know.”

   Frowning, Sullivan said, “I'm going to get a missile in the tube, just in case. Don't worry, I'll make sure it doesn't show.”

   “Good idea.” According to the official records, Churchill was a civilian freighter, one of dozens of war-surplus interstellar craft sold after the War, fifteen years ago. At some point, someone had managed to squeeze in a launch tube, buried deep in the sensor pickups, just a faint shadow on the outer hull. Unless anyone started to strip the ship, they'd never spot it. Conway had never fired it in anger, but it always made him feel a little better knowing that he'd have something to shoot in a battle.

   “Coming up on exit interface,” he said. “Mo, tell Cruz I'm going to want the shuttle right away, and that I want Angel in the co-pilot's seat. Preferably with her nightstick on stand-by.”

   “Right,” Sullivan replied, muttering into a microphone while Xylander looked on, still shaking his head.

   “There's an old saying, boss. Something about finding trouble if you look for it? We're supposed to be visiting a Triplanetary Fleet facility, not cleaning up Dodge City.”

   “Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you, Dirk,” he replied. “Egress in two. One. Now.”

   With a bright blue flash, Churchill slid into normal space, Conway carefully guiding the old freighter through the stress of the dimensional transition. The viewscreen flickered into life as the sensors began to get readings that humans could actually interpret, and a dull, brown world appeared on the screen, surrounded by the welcoming stars.

   “See?” Xylander said. “Everything's still here.” Grimacing, he added, “I think I'll pass on shore leave this time, though.”

   “Don't you like ancient alien ruins?” Sullivan chided. The door slid open, and Dixon walked in with a datapad clutched in her hand.

   “Everything's ready downstairs, Jack,” Dixon said. “All cargo bays ready to receive.”

   Reaching across for a headset, Conway slid it on, flicked a switch, and said, “Karnak Station, this is the Free Trader Churchill on unlisted passage. Put me on to Senior Lieutenant Hubbard.” Only static answered him, and he repeated, “This is the Free Trader Churchill. Karnak Station, come in, please.” Shaking his head, he looked up, and said, “Damn comm system must be out again.”

   Stepping over to a vacant console, Dixon said, “Looks fine to me, sir.”

   Snapping his head to face him, Conway barked, “Don't call me sir.”

   “Sorry, force of habit.”

   “Get out of it. And try and get that communicator working.”

   She shrugged, sitting down with a sigh, and began to run diagnostic checks. Circuit patterns and status reports flashed onto the overhead screens, all of them a healthy green, only a few amber alerts, and none of those new. Sullivan frowned, then turned to the viewscreen.

   “If the communications are out, so are the sensors.”

   “Why?”

   “There's nothing there. Just a patch of debris that might be about the right size to match the station.” Glancing at a display, his eyes widening, he added, “And organic residue, as well.”

   “Bodies?” Xylander asked.

   Tapping a button, Conway said, “This is the Captain. All hands to alert stations. All hands to alert stations, and arm yourselves, just in case. Prepare for hostile salvage operations. That is all.”

   “Getting flashbacks, boss?” Dixon said. “For the record, the comm system is fine.”

   “So are the sensors,” Sullivan added.

   “Then start a full sweep of the system, starting with the planet and ranging out to the Kuiper belt. If someone's lurking somewhere, ready to pounce, I want to know about it. Dirk, plot me a course out of here.”

   “We can't...”

   “From a hendecaspace point five days distant at our maximum acceleration.”

   “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “On it.”

   Reaching down, he threw a lever, and Churchill's engines rumble into life as the ship moved towards the planet, a trajectory track snapping into position as he guided them into orbit close to the shattered remnants of the station. Xylander threw him a look, but he ignored it, holding his course. Something terrible had happened here, and he had to find out what. If for no other reason that they were stuck here until they could jump again.

   “Looks like the station was destroyed eight days ago,” Sullivan reported. “I might be able to get it more precisely for you later. No indications about how, but an analysis of the debris will tell.”

   “We don't have those sort of facilities,” Dixon protested.

   “No, but they've got them at Belzoni,” Conway added.

   Shaking her head, Dixon said, “We should get out of here. Make one quick pass and head for the outer system. Whoever did this might come back...”

   “There were more than fifty people stationed on this station,” Sullivan replied.

   “Besides, it does us no harm to take a look. Keep a constant check on the nearest egress point, and if there's any sign of activity, we can run for it,” Conway said. Rising to his feet, he continued, “I'm going over there in a shuttle, see if I can find anything. We might be able to...”

   “Got something!” Sullivan said, triumphantly. “Trace out-gassing on the surface of the planet, close to what I think is the primary dig site. Some oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide.” Turning to Conway, he added, “My guess is leakage from a structure, maybe even a spacesuit.”

   “No power or heat detection?”

   “Maybe they've masked it, dug themselves in,” Xylander said. “Like those troops on Sutter's World, remember.”

 
;  The grin across Sullivan's face widened as he said, “Visual confirmation. A crashed escape pod. At least, I think it was. It looks melted. If there's anyone left alive in this system, he's there.”

   Tapping a button, Conway said, “Chief, is the landing shuttle ready?”

   A gruff, female voice replied, “All set and clear for launch. I had it done thirty seconds ago.”

   “Get Kirk and his magic medical kit down, and tell Angel to draw two rifles from the armory. I'm on my way.”

   Nodding, Sullivan said, “I'm with you, boss.”

   “Wait a minute,” Xylander replied. “I'm not sure about this.”

   “I am,” Conway said. “If there's someone down there, then after eight days they're going to be in pretty urgent need of help, and we're the only ones around who can provide it.”

   “There's no sign of activity anywhere within a hundred million miles,” Sullivan added.

   “Mel,” he said, turning to Dixon, “You're in charge until I get back. Do anything needed to protect the ship, and if that means blasting out of orbit and leaving us behind, do it. I'll find a way to get back to you before you leave the system. Understood?”

   “Aye,” she said, shaking his head. She tapped a control, and said, “McGuire, get up here. I need you on the sensors.”

   Conway moved over to the hatch, Sullivan following him, pausing briefly to pull a pair of pistols out of the bridge storage locker, quickly checking to make sure they were loaded. The two of them walked down the corridor, all around the perimeter of the ship towards the hangar deck.

   “Are you all right?” Sullivan asked.

   Turning to him, Conway replied, “The cargo we came to pick up has been smashed to pieces, fifty people are dead, and we're stuck in a deserted system with someone waiting to jump on us at any moment.”