Guns of the Valpian (Survival Wars Book 6)

by Anthony James

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s a video file. I will play it.”

  Duggan wasn’t surprised when Lieutenant Chainer’s face appeared on his screen. He was wearing a spacesuit without a helmet. The man looked tired and he was even scruffier than usual, with his hair tangled and his stubble overgrown. It was difficult to tell where the video had been recorded, since the angle and lighting were poor. Duggan suspected it was on the Crimson somewhere, though he couldn’t be sure.

  “Hello, sir,” the image of Chainer said.

  “Get on with it,” muttered Duggan.

  “Things have not gone well since you left the Crimson.” The image took an exaggerated look over its shoulder as though it was expecting hostiles to appear at any moment.

  “Frank, I’m going to wring your neck when I see you, if you don’t speed things up.”

  Chainer turned his face towards the screen once more and opened his mouth. At that moment, Byers interrupted, her words loud enough to drown out the recording.

  “There’s an incoming fission signature, sir. It’s close and it’s a big one.”

  “Ten to one that’s the Zansturm,” said McLeod.

  “When – or if – you receive this message, rest assured we will no longer be on the Crimson,” said Chainer.

  “They’re not here?” asked McLeod.

  “I don’t know!” said Duggan. “Listen!”

  Chainer’s mouth opened with glacial slowness as he began his next sentence. “A large spaceship appeared two days after you left for the enemy base on Nistrum.”

  Duggan felt like putting his head in his hands. “Please, Frank, keep it short,” he begged.

  “The Zansturm has appeared in local space,” said Red-Gulos.

  Duggan swore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE BATTLESHIP DIDN’T MAKE any overtly hostile moves. It held fire and started moving in a wide arc around the Antrajis station, maintaining a constant distance of three hundred thousand kilometres.

  “What are they up to?” Duggan asked himself.

  “We’re trapped, sir,” said Byers. “What are we going to do? Should we keep firing missiles at the space station’s shield?”

  “Hold for a moment!” said Duggan. He realised why the Zansturm had chosen to stay so far away. “They’re keeping out of particle beam range. They don’t want us to land a couple of lucky shots on one of their critical systems.”

  “Why don’t they finish us off?” asked McLeod. “If it was me, I’d be firing missiles at us as quickly as they’d reload.”

  The answer came to Duggan. “They want their warship back,” he said. “This must be the best they’ve got in its class. Perhaps it’s carrying new weapons, defences or just plain information that they can’t afford to lose.”

  “Didn’t stop the space station firing plenty of missiles at us.”

  “What else were they going to do?” asked Duggan. “They must have received instructions to hold us a couple of minutes after we engaged, so they’ve stopped the missiles.”

  “Shouldn’t we take this opportunity to try and destroy the Antrajis?” asked McLeod.

  “I don’t think we can destroy it with just particle beams – it’s too big,” said Duggan. “That wouldn’t usually stop me firing, it’s just that our crew may still be onboard.”

  “Haven’t we lost, sir?” asked Byers. “Maybe it’s time to go down shooting.”

  Duggan preferred to use the time to think of a way out of their situation, if indeed such a way existed. If they started unloading on the Antrajis, it might push the enemy into a position where they decided to destroy the Valpian anyway. The orbital looked significantly more valuable than the cruiser to Duggan’s eyes. Besides, the energy shields on the cruiser were almost depleted. The gauge was slowly recovering, but the shield would take a good few minutes before it reached anything like full strength.

  A voice intruded on the brief silence. It had been talking in the background, but some of the words forced their way into Duggan’s consciousness.

  “They used a new kind of disruptor on us,” said Chainer, as though he were having a gentle chat on a Sunday afternoon. “Not before we’d fired a couple of nukes at them from where we were on the surface. They didn’t like that one little bit.”

  “Is he going to tell us his whole life story?” asked Red-Gulos.

  Chainer continued talking, with Duggan keeping one ear on the monologue in case the lieutenant decided to divulge anything of importance to their current situation.

  “The translation modules are a little flaky on these things, sir,” Chainer continued. “However, I managed to pick up some details of where they’re taking us. I’ve encoded the information into this video.”

  That was more like it. “Sergeant, find the place Lieutenant Chainer refers to,” said Duggan.

  “They’re not here,” said Red-Gulos after a few seconds. “I don’t have details of where they’ve been taken – I can only tell you it’s not the Antrajis station.”

  “Good enough,” replied Duggan. “It’s time to go elsewhere and I don’t like to leave people behind. The shields look as though they can withstand another short bombardment. I’ll point us somewhere and we’ll take this chance to regroup. Let’s see what the bastards do when they see our fission signature.”

  “This might be our only chance to destroy the Crimson and prevent its technology falling into the hands of the enemy,” said Red-Gulos. “They lack the stealth modules you have installed onboard.”

  The Ghast was right – if they ever returned to the orbital, it would be protected by a dozen warships. Not that the Antrajis needed a great deal of assistance when it came to defence.

  “We have no choice,” said Duggan. “This one we can’t win.”

  With those words, he loaded up the fission engines and punched in the code for a random location. A countdown started, the strange alien symbols updating smoothly as they headed towards zero.

  “The Zansturm is still not firing, sir,” said Byers. “I’d have expected some kind of farewell salute.”

  “We’ll be out of here in ten seconds,” Duggan said. Something about Byers’ words bothered him, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

  “The Antrajis must be conserving its ammunition,” said McLeod. “Maybe they know we’re going to piss off – maybe they don’t care.”

  It dawned on Duggan why the enemy wasn’t firing at them. “Damn,” he said in resignation.

  His hunch was correct – the fission engines didn’t activate properly. They gave their usual vast energy reading for a nanosecond and then simply shut down as if they’d been purposely taken offline.

  “Well, that’s us screwed,” said McLeod.

  Byers proved to be more pragmatic. “Can we try again, sir? Perhaps we could load up the engines and fire a couple of last-moment particle beams at the space station and hope it shuts down whatever weapon they’re using to hold us.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Duggan said. “I need a moment to think.”

  “This is a stalemate,” said Red-Gulos. “How do they intend to board us? We will shoot down any troop transport vessels they send to recapture us.”

  Before Duggan could decide one way or another there was more bad news, which also answered Red-Gulos’ most recent question.

  “Here comes another fission signature,” said Byers. “If the last one was big, this one is a word that’s much bigger than that.”

  A vessel appeared near to the orbital – very, very near. Red-Gulos focused the sensors on it and the four of them stared.

  “Big…” repeated Byers, her mouth hanging open.

  Duggan had never seen the like before. The enemy vessel was close to the Antrajis space station in size and volume. It was eighteen thousand metres long, with two vast spheres at the front and back. These spheres were attached to a comparatively narrow hull beam which joined with a large, central superstructure which was the shape of a round-edged trap
ezoid. The vessel was almost black in colour, such that it would have been difficult to see without enhancement from the Valpian’s sensors.

  “What is that?” asked Byers.

  Duggan had no answer and could only shake his head in disbelief. Jagged flashes of white-blue skittered across each of the spheres in random places and at irregular intervals, like a storm of lightning held in place by a black hole. It was similar to the effect on the Valpian’s hull and much more intense. The only explanation was that the enemy vessel generated more power than it could contain and had to discharge the excess through its walls.

  Chainer hadn’t stopped speaking for one moment, most of his words being easy to ignore. Then came a sentence which answered more than one question and asked many more.

  “Then this warship – I’ve heard them call it a Class 1 Neutraliser - picked us and there was nothing we could do about it.”

  “There’s the Class 1 Neutraliser,” said Duggan.

  “I think it’s called the Excoliar or something,” Chainer continued. “If you see it, you’re probably screwed. It shut us down in moments, what little we had to shut down. Commander McGlashan wanted to initiate the Crimson’s self-destruct, but we were taken by surprise and then it was too late.”

  The lights on the bridge went out, leaving the crew in complete and utter darkness. Duggan waited a few seconds to see if the emergency lighting would come on. It didn’t.

  Duggan kept his suit helmet close by. It was an encumbrance to wear it constantly, so he was reluctant to keep it on except when he needed its sensor to translate Estral symbols for him. He could fly the Valpian easily enough now and the helmet’s external speaker acted as an interpreter for Red-Gulos. Duggan patted around beneath his chair.

  “That probably means no life support as well,” he said. “Get your helmets on.”

  He put his own over his head and realised immediately something was wrong – the HUD was off and there were no other signs it was operational.

  “Shit,” he said, ripping the helmet off over his head. “The suits are affected as well.”

  He remembered that each suit was equipped with a battery-powered torch, clipped to the belt. It was ancient technology, but when he fumbled his torch out of its fastenings he felt immense relief when its yellow-tinged beam cut through the darkness. He swung the torch left and right, illuminating the concerned faces of Byers and McLeod. They didn’t need to be told and they took out their own torches.

  The beams lit up the face of Red-Gulos. He remained in his seat, his expression impassive. The Ghast opened his mouth and uttered a series of harsh phrases. With the suit helmets disabled, there was no way to understand his words.

  Duggan swore again. “Let’s hope we can get by with sign language,” he said.

  “How long do the batteries last on these torches?” asked Byers.

  “I have no idea,” said Duggan truthfully. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d needed to use a suit’s hand-held torch.

  With the assistance of torchlight, Duggan tapped at certain areas on his console a few times to reassure himself what he already knew – the Valpian had been comprehensively disabled.

  “We’re dead in the water,” he said. “This is how they intend to resolve the stalemate.”

  Corporal Gax appeared, his looming, metal-clad shape looking like a cross between something living and something mechanical. He had his own torch, obtained from an unknown place. It gave off an extensive light and he pointed it straight at Duggan. Gax spoke and Red-Gulos responded.

  “This isn’t good,” said Byers.

  “Great use of understatement,” McLeod congratulated her.

  “Is there a plan, sir?” asked Byers.

  “I’m working on it,” said Duggan.

  Whatever had passed between Red-Gulos and Gax was a mystery, However, Gax left the bridge immediately, turning and hurrying away with a faint clatter of sound-deadened shoulder plates.

  “How are we getting out of this?” asked McLeod. For some reason, he didn’t sound especially concerned, as if he’d been in worse situations than this one on many occasions.

  “At least Lieutenant Chainer’s stopped talking,” said Byers with a mischievous laugh.

  There’d been a time when Duggan had lived for moments like these – the camaraderie of others as they faced insurmountable odds. The flame within him hadn’t died, but he wanted only to get everyone home as quickly as possible, rather than having to fight tooth and nail for each tiny step of progress. He didn’t know if they were any further forward than when they were sitting on the crash-damaged ESS Crimson.

  “We’ve still got a chance to shoot a few of those bastards when they attempt to storm the ship,” said McLeod. “Unless you want us to surrender?”

  “We’re not giving up are we, sir?” asked Byers.

  The fight was still strong within the soldiers and Duggan took strength from it. “Not while I’m still breathing!” he said. “Grab your weapons!”

  As the others scrambled to pick up their kit Red-Gulos got to his feet, evidently aware he was going to have to follow until they found a way to communicate again. Duggan nodded at the Ghast by way of encouragement.

  During this very short period of activity, Duggan conceived his plan. The potential of it roared through him like a vicious animal and he laughed at the lasting damage they might cause to the enemy if they managed to pull it off. There was only one potential stumbling block.

  “Something funny?” asked McLeod in confusion.

  Duggan ignored the question. “What do your field comms packs run off?” he asked.

  “It’s a type of mega low-drain battery,” said Byers. “I can give you specifics if you’re interested.”

  “Check it for me, please. Does it work?”

  Byers and McLeod kept their field kit against the back wall of the bridge. They went across and looked to see if their comms gear was affected by the Excoliar’s power drain.

  “Mine’s working,” said Byers. “There are lights on my rifle as well. They run off the same batteries as the comms gear.”

  “Mine too, sir.”

  “Look after those packs – we’re going to need them,” Duggan replied. “Does anyone remember how far away the Excoliar was parked from the orbital? I need corroboration of what I remember.”

  “Forty-one klicks,” said Byers without hesitation. “Far closer than necessary.”

  “To the contrary, soldier. They are at a near-perfect distance from the Antrajis station. Now come on!” he shouted. “Quickly!”

  The faster they acted, the easier it would be to pull off an audacious move that would give them a fighting chance to rescue the Crimson’s missing crew and return home. Duggan’s feet practically flew across the metal floor and carried him to the forward mess room. As expected, there were others of his squad there. They had their torches out and talked amongst themselves, clearly undecided on what they should do. Duggan provided guidance.

  “Find everyone and get back here. Do it fast.”

  “Yes, sir!” they responded, already heading for the exit.

  The troops were professionals and kept themselves within a limited area of the ship in order to watch over each other. Consequently, Duggan wasn’t waiting long. Soldiers – human and Ghast alike arrived at the double and stood before him in the room to hear what he had to say. Torch beams jumped around, their sudden movements a reflection of nervousness amongst the troops. The Ghasts stood amongst the others, though they surely didn’t understand a word of what was said.

  Duggan explained the situation for those who hadn’t already worked it out. “We’ve been shut down by a vessel called Excoliar. Our suits aren’t working, nor is anything else on the Valpian. If the life support is offline, we’ll run out of air in a few days, assuming we don’t freeze to death first. Fortunately, I have a plan that will ensure we don’t freeze or suffocate, as long as it works. Firstly, we’ll need to get to the external hangar bay door. It’s still open and has
been since we first stormed the ship.”

  Someone tutted in comedic judgement of his carelessness.

  “Yes, it’s like leaving your shoelaces undone,” said Duggan with unexplainable high spirits. “Just be thankful I had my hands full learning how to fly this thing, else closing an external door would have been the first thing on my to-do list.”

  In truth, he’d forgotten all about the open hangar until a few minutes ago. There’d been no alarms on the bridge consoles – the Dreamers appeared to deal with safety matters in an entirely different way to how they did it in the Space Corps.

  “Can someone tell me how many sealed doors there are between here and the rear hangar?” he asked.

  “Just one, sir,” said Lieutenant Ortiz, her voice heavy and slurred. Her eyes were distant and remote. “The rest of the Valpian is fully pressurised and able to sustain life.”

  “How far away is the door from the breach into the hangar?”

  “One hundred and ten metres. A straight run, sir,” she said, the words sounding like they cost her a great effort.

  The demonstration of Ortiz’s injury knocked the levity from Duggan’s mood, though it only increased his determination to succeed.

  “Bonner, do you have enough explosives to get through that door?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir. I used up most of my pack on the way in.”

  “Is there anything you could use in the ship’s armoury?”

  “There are explosives, sir. I’ve left them well alone.”

  “No professional curiosity?”

  “Curiosity gets you killed when you’re handling explosives, whether it’s professional curiosity or not.”

  “I understand your reluctance; however, we need to get into the hangar and we need to do it soon. Get what you think will do the job. Take Durham with you in case it’s heavy. Meet us at the sealed door as soon as you can.”

  Bonner went, pulling Durham with her. Duggan continued.

  “Does anyone know if there is any way to take one of those mobile plasma launchers from the hold and get it through the ship to the hangar bay?”