Starfighter (Strike Commander Book 1)

by Richard Tongue

   “Not what I mean,” he said, as the two old friends walked side-by-side down the passage. “You've been in an odd mood for a week, and I can guess why. You got another letter from her, just before we jumped.”

   “How did you...”

   “After twenty years, Jack, I can read you like a book. What is it this time?”

   “Susan's graduating from Purcell High in two months. Honor list, the whole package.”

   “Excellent,” he said. “You should be very proud.”

   “Why?” he replied. “I didn't have anything to do with it. As my darling ex-wife made abundantly clear in the letter.” With a sigh, he said, “My daughter graduating high school wasn't exactly a shock, Mo. Around New Year, I wrote to see if I could be there for the ceremony. You guys can manage without me for a while.”

   “Hell, it'd be nice to have quiet life for once,” Sullivan replied. “No-go?”

   “No. She doesn't want to see me.”

   “So Kat says.”

   “It isn't her fault,” Conway said with another sigh, turning around a corner. “I don't blame her. I don't think I would in her place.”

   “I think you would,” Sullivan replied. “She's only, what, sixteen? There's still time.”

   “She's been accepted to the Academy,” he added. “Officer training, all the way. John Cunningham wrote me she'd qualified for Flying School.”

   “Better and better.”

   “She turned them down. Guess she's doing her best not to follow in the old man's footsteps.”

   Pulling him to a stop, Sullivan replied, “Jack, none of this was your fault. None of it. She's the one...”

   “And I was the one pulling triple-shifts at the nearest bar.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I was the one who got court-martialed, and I was the one who walked out. So she slept with someone else. Why wouldn't she? I didn't have anything to offer.” Sullivan waited patiently, looking at him, and he continued, “Sorry. I shouldn't be taking it out on you.”

   “That's what friends are for, isn't it?” With a smile, he added, “Look, you've been through some pretty dark places. Five years on the front line, all over local space. That's more than enough for anyone.”

   “It doesn't excuse...”

   “But it does explain. And that might have been you, back then, but it isn't you now. Your own ship, your own company...”

   “Stuck on the far side of nowhere and one bad mortgage payment away from repossession.”

   “It's more than most people manage.” Clapping him on the shoulder, he added, “You've come a long way, Jack. Don't let this drag you back.”

   The doors opened, and the stocky form of Ginger Cruz stepped out, shaking her head as she said, “Get a room, guys.” Turning to Sullivan, she added, “That bitch Kat again?”

   “Wait a minute…,” Conway began.

   “Yep,” Sullivan added.

   “Comes around this time every year. The leaves come back onto the trees, and Jack Conway mopes about the life that might have been.”

   “When was the last time you saw a tree?” Conway asked.

   Ignoring him, she continued, “The shuttle's ready to go, and Angel's in the rear section with Kirk. I tossed in a couple of survival packs as well, and that prefab base module we found. Just in case you find too many people to take up in one run.”

   “Thanks, Chief,” Conway said, stepping into the hangar bay. The room was huge, a relic from Churchill's first life as a fighter tender, though empty today aside from a pair of shuttles, one with wide-swept wings for landing, the other short and stubby for orbital transfer. He walked towards the nearest, stepping into the cockpit, followed by Sullivan, and settled down into the pilot's couch, running his hands over the controls.

   “Mel, this is Jack,” he said. “All clear up there?”

   “Scope's still blank,” Dixon replied. “You're clear to launch at your discretion.”

   “Right,” he replied, pushing a button. The elevator airlock whirred into life, dropping the shuttle down through the decks, the upper hatch closing behind them as the air was sucked out of the chamber. While he waited, he tapped in a course to take them down to the planet, as close as possible to the source of the out-gassing. He turned to Sullivan, frowning, and his old friend nodded.

   “Yeah, I thought that to. If some bad guy was through enough to wipe out the station, how come they missed a trace of atmosphere?”

   “Mind-reader,” Conway replied.

   “I think it's new. Someone's been using the same life-system for too long, and the filters are failing. If we'd come into orbit yesterday, we might not have seen it at all.”

   With a loud crack, the lower hatch opened, and the rotation of the ship threw them clear of the hull, the shuttle slowly tumbling as the thrusters fired in brief pulses to stabilize the ship. Throwing a switch, he fired the engines, the navigation computer guiding them onto the correct trajectory, slowing them to fall out of orbit.

   “Hell of a place to be stranded,” he said, looking at the jagged rocks and shattered lands below. “I wouldn't want to be stuck down there for a day, never mind a week or more.”

   “Better than being on the station when it blew,” Sullivan replied.

   Unstrapping, he said, “Keep an eye on things for a minute. I'm going aft.”

   “Right. I'll let you know if we start to crash.”

   A grin on his face, Conway stepped through the door into the rear section, the two passengers looking up at him as he approached. A thin, nervous man clutching a medical kit sat next to a tall, narrow-eyed woman nursing a rifle, carefully checking to make sure it would work on the day. She'd won a bronze in the Interplanetary Olympics a few years back in the boxing events, and still looked the part.

   “We've got to get some better hardware,” she said, shaking her head. “This crap is all last-decade junk.”

   “As long as it works,” he replied.

   “Yeah, that's our favorite saying out here,” she muttered, darkly.

   “You all set, Kirk?”

   Nodding, Kirk Doyle, the closest thing the ship had to a medical technician, replied, “I've got everything I need. Full diagnostic check.”

   “Yeah,” Angel replied, “but will you understand what that flashing box of lights tells you?”

   “Better than you,” he snapped. “Don't worry, skipper. I'll be ready.”

   “Good. Angel, you and I are going out first, so get suited up and ready. I'm very much hoping that we're going to find friends down there, but in case we don't...”

   “Target practice. Got it.”

   He turned back to the cockpit, pausing for a moment to bask in the view as the shuttle swept over a tall mountain range, emerging into an ocher bay filled with craters, small piles of oddly-shaped rubble scattered around, connected by what could only be ancient roads, blasted into the rock uncounted eternities ago.

   “Maybe this wouldn't be a bad place to visit after all,” Sullivan said. “I've had a look down there with the scanners. Lots of ruins to explore.”

   “Not my scene,” Conway replied, sitting back in his couch. “I'll stick to flying, thanks.”

   He took the controls again for the final landing sequence, gently guiding the shuttle down to the ground, clouds of dust kicking up all around them as the thrusters ripped into the landscape. Reaching up, he threw a half-row of switches, and the engines died as they settled into position. Pulling himself to his feet, he stepped back, Sullivan right behind him.

   Angel was already suited and ready to go, tapping her foot by the airlock, but he ignored her looks as he pulled on his spacesuit, patiently running through the checklist, Sullivan a little slower as he did the same. For a second, he thought about leaving someone behind, but shook his head. If there was anything nasty down here, one man stuck at the controls wouldn't make a difference.

   “Finally,” A
ngel said, as she stepped into the airlock, taking the lead. Conway moved behind her, holding his rifle, ramming a new clip of ammunition into position. The outer hatch swung open, and they stepped out onto the soil, their footprints leaving deep impressions in the dirt. He gestured towards the side of the crater wall, then pulled out a hand sensor, following the traces they'd picked up from orbit.

   “Churchill to Conway,” Dixon's voice said. “Report status.”

   “All fine down here.” Peering ahead, he added, “Looks like those emanations are coming from a cave. Would be a great place to hide.”

   “Or to set up an ambush. Be careful.” He paused, then continued, “Still nothing new up here, and we've swept the whole system. We're alone.”

   “Let's hope it stays that way. Conway out.” Flicking through frequencies until he found the standard Triplanetary Fleet channel, he said, “If anyone is reading me, come in, please. We are a rescue party from the Free Trader Churchill.” Tapping a control to set the signal to repeat by itself, he carried on towards the cave, looking back to make sure the others were following.

   “I don't like this,” Angel said. “Mel's right. It's too good a spot for an ambush.”

   “I'm not happy about it either, but we don't have a choice.”

   “Of course we do,” she replied. “We go home. If someone wanted to be rescued, they'd be out here right now, waving their arms and thanking their pet deity for deliverance. If they're hiding, that means they're up to something.”

   “Or,” Sullivan said, cutting in, “Maybe they watched as their whole crew was wiped out, and they think we might be here to finish the job. We're certainly well-armed enough.”

   Nodding, Conway threw his rifle to the side, gently settling to the surface in the low gravity, and said, “You wait here. I'll go on alone.”

   “Jack,” Sullivan began.

   “No,” he interrupted. “My decision, my risk.”

   “Let me go,” Sullivan pressed.

   Ignoring him, Conway bounded ahead, throwing caution to the wind as he raced towards the cavern, leaving the others trailing in his wake. Behind him, Angel tossed his discarded weapon to Sullivan, who easily caught it in his hands as the trio moved into cover, hiding behind some oddly-carved rocks.

   As he approached the side of the wall, he could make out strange symbols carved into it, graffiti left by some long-forgotten race thousands of years ago. For one brief moment, this world was important once again. He wondered if it appreciated it.

   Pausing at the mouth of the cavern, he shone a flashlight inside, watching the shadows dance within, then took a half-step back as he saw a figure looming out of the gloom towards him. After a second of insanity, he shook his head, laughing. Only a statue. Some strange creature, multiple arms and legs writhing in the air, the face totally alien yet, on some level, understandable. There was great sorrow there, a heaviness in the eyes that he recognized.

   The impact of a bullet right in front of him jarred him out of his reverie, a shallow crater smashed into the dust by his feet. There was no point trying to take cover. He'd never make it in time, but if his unseen assailant had wanted to kill him, he would be dead already.

   “Damn it,” he said, raising his hands. “I'm here to rescue you.”

   “Prove it!” a shaky female voice replied.

   He paused for a moment, and said, “Aside from actually getting you out of here, I'm not sure how I can. I'm the commander of the Free Trader Churchill. We jumped into the system less than half an hour ago, found the station destroyed...”

   “It's gone?” she asked.

   “Nothing but debris.”

   “Any other survivors?”

   “Not that we've spotted, but we were lucky to find you.”

   She stepped forward, her spacesuit covered in dust, patches slammed on in half a dozen places, limping on her right leg, and replied, “Not so lucky. How do I know this isn't a trick?”

   “Because if it was, you'd be dead already.”

   Nodding, she said, “Good point,” then crumpled to the ground, her gun toppling out of her hand. He raced forward, just catching her before she fell, placing her down gently in front of the statue.

   “Kirk, get up here!” he yelled. “Angel, get a stretcher. On the double.”

   “On the way,” she replied, as the medic moved in. He knelt down beside her, wiping the grime from her status display.

   “Well?” Conway asked.

   “Not good.”

   “I could have told you that.”

   “She's burned through every drug in the suit medikit, and as far as I can tell she's almost out of air. If we'd been a couple of hours later, we'd have found a corpse.” He reached down, tapping a control, and continued, “That should keep her asleep until we get her back to the ship. It's going to be a while before she wakes up, I think.”

   “I guess she's been through a lot,” Sullivan said.

   “Go and see about that stretcher, Mo,” Conway replied, looking up at the oddly-leering statue again. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

  Chapter 4

   Conway looked down at the still figure lying on the medical bed, then over at the paramedic. Periodically, the overhead display bleeped as it updated its readings. The unit had been salvaged from an abandoned UN transport, and was of dubious vintage, but she seemed to be responding well to the treatment of the auto-doc. Her eyes began to flutter, and Conway moved closer, wondering what she had gone through.

   “I think she's coming around,” the medic said.

   “About time,” Conway replied. “How...”

   “I'm not a doctor, damn it. I don't know.”

   “Easy, Kirk, easy.”

   The door slid open, and Sullivan walked in, asking, “How's the patient?”

   “In a minute or two you'll be able to ask her for yourself.”

   Her eyes blinked, then opened, panic flashing on her face.

   “Who are you?” she whispered, struggling to talk.

   “Don't worry,” he said. “You're safe here.”

   “Am I?” she asked, her voice faint and raspy. “I know you. You're the one from the cave.”

   “Captain Jack Conway, at your service.” Gesturing at the others, he added, “Kirk Doyle, our long-suffering paramedic, and Moses Sullivan, my First Mate.”

   “First Mate?” she asked. “Where am I?”

   Shaking his head, Doyle said, “A couple of questions first. Name and rank?”

   “Ensign Nicola Morgan, Triplanetary Espatier Corps. Well, sort of.”

   “Sort of?” Conway asked, earning a sharp look of rebuke from Doyle.

   “What's the date?” the medic asked.

   “The date?” she replied.

   “I need to know if you are alright. The oxygen levels in your suit were a lot lower than I liked when we picked you up, and I don't necessarily trust the auto-doc’s diagnosis.”

   With a visible effort, she nodded, and replied, “March 22nd, 2171.”

   “Five days out, but that's to be expected. It's the 27th, actually. Oh-six-hundred, if that helps.” He looked at Conway, and said, “I think she's going to be fine. Weak for a while, certainly, but in a few days I think she'll make a full recovery. Though I wouldn't mind getting one of the doctors at Belzoni to look her over when we get there, just to be sure.”

   “Belzoni?” she asked, struggling to sit up. “You didn't answer my question. Where am I?”

   Doyle nodded, and Conway replied, “You're on the Free Trader Churchill. We arrived in orbit five days ago, and spotted you on the surface.”

   “I was pretty well hidden.”

   “I've been riding sensor consoles since before you were born,” Sullivan said with a smile. “It'll take more than a little concealment to fool me. Though you didn't make it easy, I'll admit.”

   “What happened here?”
Conway asked.

   “Could I have something to drink?” Doyle passed her a bottle of water, and she replied, “Thank you.”

   “We know the station was destroyed, and we've picked over the remains as best we can. All we found were a few bodies, probably blown clear by decompression, and a half-intact storage module. No data recordings, nothing.”

   “There wouldn't be,” she replied. “A storage module?”

   “Mostly artifacts,” Sullivan said. “We've transferred them all to our cargo bay. They won't get damaged any further, we have them well secured.”

   “I'd like to see them.”

   “As soon as you're feeling a little better, you can do an inventory,” Conway said. “Are you an archaeologist, then?”

   “An anthropologist, actually, but I did a lot of work on the dig.” She took another sip of her water, then started to feel her pockets, panic spreading across her face. “Where is...”

   “I think this is what you are looking for,” Doyle said, passing her a datarod. “All of your other bits and pieces are in the storage locker at the far end of the room.”

   She clutched it as a drowning man clutches a lifebelt, and asked, “Are you anything to do with the Triplanetary Fleet?”

   “No,” Conway replied, his face darkening. “I can assure you of that. We're a civilian trading outfit, that's all.”

   Morgan looked from face to face, into each man's eyes, and Sullivan said, “We're here to help you. There's no need to be afraid.”

   “You're a liar, but you don't know it,” she replied, passing him the datarod. “Put that in, and look for the last images recorded.” Looking around the room, she added, “You might want to sit down.”

   The three men looked at each other as Sullivan slid the datarod into position, flicking through the file manager until he found the image he was looking for. A scene of horror flashed into view, bodies tumbling around a control room, their faces a mask of betrayal and terror. Conway looked at the display, shaking his head, while Doyle turned to look at the far wall. After a moment, Sullivan snapped it off, and returned the datarod to an ashen-faced Morgan.