Hide the Lightning

by Kevin Steverson

  “Bahroot,” Harmon said into his personal comp, “I want you to head away from the battle. Now.”

  “I will, Uncle Harmon,” Bahroot said, “but you know the distance may affect how much communication I’ll have. The signal from the gate is directed into the star system. If I get too far out of it, even I will lose signal.”

  “Yeah,” Harmon agreed, “I know, but I can’t take a chance with that gunship out there probing for you. As small as it is, your shuttle and the two mine layers wouldn’t stand a chance if he gets a lock on you.”

  “I need weapons,” lamented Bahroot. “I should have saved a couple of mines.” He was far enough from the upcoming battle, he should have been safe. For some reason, the Bleeve commander had sent a small ship to investigate where the minelayers went, leading it toward Bahroot’s location.

  “Do you want me to lock the gate?” Bahroot asked.

  “No,” Harmon said. “It sounds like a good idea, but if something happens to you or your communications equipment, we’ll be stuck here for a while, if not permanently.”

  “I understand,” Bahroot said. “I’ll gather my minelayers and head out at a speed they’ll never reach. Even if they somehow detect my ship, they can’t catch it. Remember, I’ve calculated if you launch twelve seconds after the Bleeve, the EMP area of affect won’t include your outgoing missiles. Good luck, Uncle Harmon.”

  Harmon turned to his tactical officer. “Have the carriers hang back, especially Special Delivery. We can’t risk the troops.” Harmon stared off for a minute as he decided. “Also, have the entire fleet launch fighters. Let’s get them out of the bays in case their base ships get damaged or destroyed. We’re going to need everything we have. Once Rick Kashka and his fleet finish on the other side of the planet, they’ll launch, too.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the Leethog.

  The command was given, and all the fighters in the fleet began launching. Almost five hundred fighters moved out and away from the bays. They formed up in squads and prepared for the type of engagement where beings and their ships fought for position and angles. Their opponents would do the same, and the dance of the fighters would begin. For some, it was the opportunity to add another silhouette on the fuselage of their craft, an act that was common in all systems, for fighter pilots were a breed all their own, regardless of race. For others, it would be their last dance.

  * * *

  Bleeve Dreadnaught Devastation

  “The enemy has launched fighters,” announced the tactical officer. “It is hard to determine the numbers, but it looks like a mass launch.”

  “Tell the fleet to launch,” the admiral ordered. “Put what you can on main screen. Are the sensors we placed able to show me?”

  The tactical officer moved one of his screen images to the main screen. It wasn’t a closeup, but the thrusters from hundreds of fighters could be seen moving away from the incoming fleet. Those ships were growing larger.

  “Sir, we may have an issue,” whispered the tactical officer to the vice admiral.

  Vice Admiral Ashlah glanced back to the admiral. “What do you mean, Lieutenant?” he whispered back.

  “I have detected something,” the lieutenant said. “Ten objects of some type keep flickering on and off the screen. I have tried to narrow it down, but there are no signals coming from it. They appear inanimate.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded the vice admiral, looking back again to the admiral. Luckily his attention was on the main screen. The last thing he wanted to do was deliver more bad news. The loss of the task force near the gate had infuriated the admiral earlier.

  “Sir,” explained the nervous officer, “if we were not headed into battle, I would say they were small meteors of some type, or maybe wreckage from somewhere moving across space. Once I adjusted my system to look for heavy metal and not electronics or evidence of a power plant, they showed up clearly, and are on a direct path to us. Well, us and several other ships.”

  “How far away are they?” Ashlah sighed. “I must notify the admiral.”

  “They are close,” answered the lieutenant. “I am now sure of their flight path. Oh, and they are moving at an exceptional speed.”

  Vice Admiral Ashlah turned away to let the admiral know of this development. He started to speak when a shout behind him let him know it was too late, whatever it was. He turned quickly and looked at the side screen on the console. He could see the symbols for missiles.

  “Sir, the objects came alive with electronics, and sixty missiles are headed into our fleet!” shouted the lieutenant as he scrambled to return the rest of his displays to their normal setting.

  “What?” demanded Admiral Gorligthah. “How did they get this close? Can you calculate their targets?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the tactical officer. “Twenty-four are headed directly for us. The defensive lasers are attempting to destroy them, but they are smaller and faster than normal missiles. The other thirty-six are split between the two missile carriers.”

  “Somebody’s head will roll if we live through this!” shouted Gorligthah, rising up on four legs, “and somebody get me the status on those cursed task forces!”

  He was nearly knocked from the dais as missiles hit the forward shields. The violence of the blows surprised him enough to calm him down. “What is the status?” he asked.

  “Forward shields down to sixty percent,” called out the bridge engineer. “Repairs underway.”

  “Sir, the Web of Lies is not answering the call,” stated the comms officer.

  “Sensors indicate no engine activity,” Ashlah said as he stood over the tactical officer’s console. “She’s venting atmosphere from several places and drifting out of formation. It appears the whole forward section has broken apart.”

  Another slate flew against the bulkhead. “The battle has not even started, and we have lost a heavy missile carrier! See if you can reach Entrapment. Maybe we still have one left.”

  “Entrapment reports forward shields at seventy percent,” Ashlah answered. “The destroyer Strangler took the brunt of the missiles. It is a total loss.”

  “At least one commander knew his job, unlike the useless gate guard,” the admiral said, disgusted. “How long before we are in range?”

  “One minute, sir,” announced the weapons officer.

  “Launch when able,” ordered Admiral Gorligthah, “and keep launching.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Salvage Title

  “Sir, they’ve launched at extreme range,” the tactical officer announced.

  “Thanks, Jim,” Harmon said. “Bev, you know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” the weapons officer said. She rolled her shoulders a few times as if she was ready to fight herself.

  Harmon grinned at the Leethog. Like the rest of his bridge crew, she was ready to go. The time before battle, whether it was hours or days, made one anxious. Rarely did one come into a system intending to do battle and have it happen right away. Well, except for advance task forces like Task Force Bravo. They were still at the gate, repairing and consolidating what they could.

  “Clip, you and Jayneen ready down there?” Harmon asked using his chair comms.

  “Yeah, man, we’re ready to do the doings…and stuff,” Clip answered.

  “What the frost does that mean?” Harmon asked. “Never mind.”

  “Launching a full spread,” announced the weapons officer exactly twelve seconds after the Bleeve launched.

  “The fleet has launched with us,” the tactical officer added a moment later.

  “Hey, Zerith,” Harmon asked. “You got me back there?”

  “We are ready.” Zerith paused a moment and swallowed something. “Everything iss in order. The little oness are frusstrated already and anticcipating the damage to their power plant and enginess. You should let me stay on the bridge ssometime and you come down here for a battle.”

  “Oh, no,” Harmon said. “That’s all you,
buddy. All you. The last thing I want is to face an angry Kyla and Vera.”

  “It wass worth a try,” Zerith replied. Harmon heard him take a bite of something crunchy.

  “Well, tell them to get ready,” Harmon said, “missiles are flying.”

  Jayneen cut in overhead, “Harmon, you know missiles don’t really fly in space. They move. To fly would mean…”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Jayneen, a figure of speech.” Harmon grinned. He looked over at Sergeant Major Jontilictick. The sergeant major grinned with every tooth in his mouth showing.

  “I will leave Private Norblon here on the bridge,” Big Jon said. “I need to see to the repair teams.” He turned and left the bridge, leaving a four-foot being by the lift.

  Harmon looked over at the Larbink in approval. Like most of her race, she was under four and a half feet tall, with rough grey skin and jet-black hair. Her arms went to her knees when standing upright, and Harmon knew from attending some of the combatives training in the ship’s gym, she was incredibly strong. It came from living on a high-gravity world. She initially came to Salvage System to find a job mining, something her race was known for, but decided to join the Marines instead. Harmon liked her attitude; she refused to quit, and always had a grin on her face.

  “Their missiles are nearing the mine field, sir,” announced Jayneen. “The EMP mines have started going off. I can confirm it’s a chain reaction. None of their missiles made it through. Ours have passed the debris field, and only a few struck pieces; the rest are on track.”

  “Launching another salvo,” called out the weapons officer.

  “Sir, they’re swinging wide,” the tactical officer said, “and moving away from us in a wide arc. They’ve noticed the Kashkal Fleet coming around the planet.”

  “At this distance, we can’t make them come right at us,” Harmon said, standing. “This one won’t be quick. We’ll be going round and round slugging it out for days.”

  * * *

  Defensive Bridge

  Salvage Title

  “Forty-eight missiles incoming,” announced Jayneen.

  “Fire a triple spread of shotgun missiles,” ordered Clip.

  “Twelve missiles on the way,” answered the Leethog in Defense Position One.

  The twelve small missiles consumed their fuel in only eight seconds, but by that time they were moving at an incredible speed. Two seconds from where they would meet the missiles, their warhead exploded, sending a handful of steel balls out in a cone-shaped pattern. They were small, but devastating to the incoming missiles. At the speed the two met, without actual shields, the missiles detonated prematurely, came apart, or flew off course. Some became little more than space scrap, continuing on to bounce off shields and doing little to them.

  “Two, get the scramblers ready,” Clip said. “We’ll see if we can give theirs a headache.”

  “Sixteen missiles still inbound,” Jayneen announced. “Engaging with defensive lasers.”

  “Brace for impact,” Clip announced suddenly. “Two got through!”

  * * *

  Desert Shade

  “Continue launching,” ordered Lieutenant Commander Nicholson, “and move us further up the port side of the flagship, Kaylerk. Every second counts.”

  “Yes, sir,” called out the pilot with a clack of his beak in emphasis. He ruffled his feathers slightly and tucked his wings in tight.

  Suddenly everyone on the ship felt the slight vibrations as hundreds of small turrets swiveled as one, and the defense lasers began engaging the incoming missiles. Not only did the ship defend itself, but its extensive system helped protect Salvage Title.

  The ship shuddered when one of the Bleeve missiles struck its forward shield. Big Nick looked back in time to see Corporal Galooth leave the bridge at a run. Several fuses blew on the shield generators, and she intended to make sure they were repaired in a hurry.

  “Status?” Big Nick asked loudly.

  “Forward shields down to seventy percent,” answered the bridge engineer.

  “The flagship took two hits,” announced Lieutenant Ferlock, the ship’s executive officer. “Her shielding is still up.”

  “Squat!” exclaimed Big Nick. “I have an idea. Run a sustained shot across the path of the next salvo with the main lasers. Let’s see if we can get lucky and sweep across a couple. But do it after you fire a salvo of anti-missiles missiles. That’s repetitive; we need a new name for them.”

  “Yes, sir.” The ship’s weapons officer grinned. The Yalteen’s huge fingers flew across her console as she programmed the main lasers.

  * * *

  Skrittle

  Salvage System

  “Look here, y’all,” Twiggy drawled. “Ain’t no tellin’ when they’re coming, but you can bet it’ll be soon.”

  He was looking at the main screen at the same beings he’d met with two days ago on the conference call. Bradford had been able to get the suspicious traders to talk. Twiggy didn’t ask him how. Some things were better left unsaid. Mike got into their main computers and determined they’d been sending messages to the Bleeve system through the Galaxy Network. Once he was sure of it, Bradford went to work on the Ojarnap.

  “Cube is in position,” Mike volunteered. “I say we stage all the fighters in the big bay to begin with. We can launch them all together if we need them.”

  “Yeah,” Twiggy agreed, “that’s a good idea. Parlak, we’ll form a wedge on your ship. Maybe we can herd ‘em toward more of the platforms.” He paused for a moment. “I’m gonna be honest with y’all. They may send in more than twice the number of ships we got. Hell, if there’s any size to ’em, we got some serious problems.”

  “Hey, sir,” Mike said, “if you don’t mind, I think I’ll put out an All Call.”

  “A what?” asked Twiggy. “What in tarnation is an All Call?”

  Twiggy watched Bradford take out his cigar and whistle. “It’s a desperate move, that’s what it is, and it ain’t cheap.”

  “He intends to enlist the aid of every mercenary company in the system,” explained Parlak. The Kashkal continued, “The Mercs’ Honor All Call has only been used a few times, but it’s known across the galaxy. It can’t be used against other respectable mercenary companies, but if a unit is in dire straits or has been wronged by someone they’ve contracted with, it can be called. It’s never good to break a contract. Contract is life.” The junior Kashkal officer on screen repeated the phrase solemnly.

  “Well, hell,” Twiggy said, brightening, “Call ‘em up.”

  “Sir, one thing,” Mike said, leaning back in his seat, crossing his leg, and taking a sip of his coffee. “If they answer, it’s not cheap. They can charge the maximum rate, and there’s no negotiating.”

  “JoJo?” Twiggy asked.

  “We have it,” JoJo answered without hesitation. “Credit’s not something Salvage System will ever have to worry about, trust me. Time? Not so much, but credit? No problem.”

  “Who’s in-system, anyway?” Twiggy asked.

  “There are three units that I know of,” Mike answered. “One with four ships, a light battlecruiser, a frigate, and some Q-ships. Another has an old Gorsian heavy and two destroyers looking for some modifications. We were in negotiations about the cost. Well, they’ll be able to afford it now. And finally there’s the Dalgitt outfit. They have two light missile carriers and a destroyer. I know they’ll answer the call. The commander’s younger brother works for us.”

  “That Gorsian unit has twenty gunships in the bay of that heavy,” Bradford volunteered. “It doesn’t carry fighters.”

  “Impressive,” Parlak said.

  “There’s a new unit in the system, too,” Bradford said. “One ship. They just came in and docked at the Hub. I’ve never seen a ship like it. It’s a cross between a shuttle and a frigate. Rumor is they’re looking for work.”

  “Well, the more the merrier,” Twiggy said. “Make the call, and y’all get ready.”

  * * * * *

/>   Chapter Nineteen

  Salvage Title

  “Fix what you can, Mayla,” Harmon said. He switched off the comm and sat back, exhausted. Task Force Alpha had been hit as hard as the others. He’d already spoken to Marteen and learned Task Force Delta was in the best shape of all of them, and even they were hurting.

  The battle had been ongoing for hours and hours, both fleets staying at extreme range, circling, neither taking the chance to come in close and allow the other to use their main weapons. Harmon knew the lasers on the Bleeve ships would cut through his fleet, and the Bleeve commander knew from the reports of the gate guard before they’d perished how powerful the pulse cannons were.

  The problem, Harmon had realized earlier, was the number of missiles his fleet had left. With every exchange with the Bleeve, the stocks got smaller and smaller. He was forced to order small ships with massive damage to lock on to ships with adequate shielding. In some cases, it added to the number of missiles the two of them were able to fire; in other cases shuttles went back and forth, moving missiles from ships too damaged for them to be of use.

  He knew the Bleeve were going through the same struggles, but he also knew, based on the smaller size of their missiles, he would run out before they did. When that happened, it would be all but over, and he had yet to put troops on the planet Nazrooth.

  Sitting there with his head back staring up, he called out, “Path, get me Rick Kashka.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the communications officer. “On screen.”

  Harmon sat back up and looked at his friend. The Kashkal was seated in his command chair, his pale green skin a contrast with the black leather uniform. The amber eyes above his nose slits looked…tired was the only word that came to Harmon’s mind. “How you doing, Rick?”