by Ralph Prince
He reclined in the pilot’s chair and lifted his feet to the main control panel. The view screen was dark, leaving only the pale instrument lights by which to see. There was a slight lurch as the ship re-entered the standard space-time continuum. Most men would not have felt it, but Donald Benjamin Garris was not like most men. Virtually his entire life had been spent in space, and some of his crew joked that he could feel a dust particle strike the ship.
The Nova lurched again. This time, it was more pronounced; it certainly hadn’t been a dust particle striking the ship.
“Red alert!” blared the data-five unit. “All personnel, report to battle stations.”
“Status report,” ordered the commander, activating the front screen.
“Enemy drones,” reported the computer. “Fourteen Quillan class F-9 warships. We are surrounded, but the plasma shields protected us from the initial blasts.”
The ship pitched again under the enemy onslaught, as the captain quickly assessed the situation on the tactical display screen. The fourteen ships were converging upon the Nova from all directions, firing energy blasts as they closed.
“It looks as though they knew we were coming,” he said, establishing the neuro-link to the ship’s sensors, and poising his fingers above the helm controls. “Switch to manual control, and activate the holofield. I’ll take over.”
“Manual control and holofield initiated, sir,” said the computer.
The holofield emitter on the floor between the pilot and co-pilot stations began to glow, and the walls of the Nova seemed to melt away as an immersive panorama of outer space appeared around the captain, augmented with tactical data on the approaching ships. Only the control console before him remained, the rest of the bridge having been completely veiled by a holographic virtual reality. Not only could he feel his surroundings through the ship’s sensors via the neuro-link, he could see them as well.
Under the captain’s expert guidance, the Nova surged forward, toward one of the attackers. With a casual flick of his thumb, he fired the forward photon cannons, reducing the small crystalline ship to debris at the last possible instant. The maneuver carried the cargo vessel from the center of the constricting sphere of ships.
“Enemy drones continuing the offensive,” informed the computer.
Glancing over his shoulder, the captain saw the remaining thirteen warships closing in tight formation, from behind. Technically, they weren’t ships at all, as they had no pilots. They were drones specifically grown by the Quillans to engage in space warfare. More than anything, their complex fractal structure of translucent crystals resembled three-dimensional snowflakes.
“Eh, b’y?” an exuberant voice asked him from beyond the holofield’s boundaries.
Though masked from view, Captain Garris immediately recognized the voice as that of the ship’s systems analyst, and his best friend, Victor. “Quillan drones,” he replied, “about a dozen of them. They must have found out about the shipment somehow.”
“Giv’n’r, b’y,” Victor urged enthusiastically, taking his post at the tactical station. “Show those silicon bastards what we carbon life-forms can do, eh?”
The ship pitched violently as two other crewmembers entered and took their respective stations: Jackie Monet at the communications center, and Edward Nash, the copilot, at the captain’s right side.
“There are too many of them to fight,” the copilot said in disbelief, as he appeared within the holographic scene. “And we’ll never be able to outrun them.”
“Jackie,” the commander ordered, having somehow sensed her arrival, “contact Space Force Command. Tell them where we are, and that we’re under attack.”
“Roger,” she replied, busily adjusting the transmitter controls.
“Aft shields weakening,” reported the data-five, as the ship shuddered again under the combined onslaught of weapon fire from the remaining enemy ships.
“Giv’n’r,” Victor encouraged. “Take them all down with a cargo ship; that’ll teach them not to mess with the United Systems Space Force.”
“Quiet, Victor,” the captain reprimanded. His back still tingled from the sensory feedback of the latest barrage. Sometimes Victor’s jovial overconfidence could be annoying; this was one of those times. “Nash is right; there are too many of them. We need to find the control ship.”
The drones were fast and maneuverable, but not heavily shielded. They possessed advanced artificial intelligence, and quickly adapted to their opponent’s combat style. However, though highly analytical, they were lacking in insight and creativity. The less predictable the target’s actions, the less likely they were to adapt to them. Typically, the drone ships were sent tactical advice from a control ship, crewed by the Quillans themselves. The control ships stayed at a distance from the battle, and if approached, used their superior understanding of quantum-based computers to take over the systems of the approaching vessels, disabling or destroying them.
Captain Garris knew he had to exploit all their weaknesses in order to save his ship, crew, and, most importantly, the cargo. Keeping a vigilant eye out for more approaching ships or the control ship, he shut down the photon engines and increased the inertial compensators to maximum.
“Hang on!” he called as he executed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree bootleg turn, firing the photon cannons into the squadron of pursuing ships. Even with the inertial compensators, the force of the turn had the unsecured crewmembers struggling to retain their seats. Though now facing the enemy, the Nova still sped, backwards, away from them.
“Damn!” Nash exclaimed, “I thought only fighter ships could pull off that maneuver.”
“Aft shields are inoperative,” the data-five informed. “Starboard and port shields are weakening. I suggest you implement the self-destruct sequence, as per Space Force protocol.”
“Negative,” replied the captain, making a quick count of the remaining drone ships. Nine remained. “We’re not beaten yet,” he declared as he re-started the engines, sending the cargo vessel toward the approaching swarm.
The Nova rocked under the barrage of weapon fire as it bore down upon two of the Quillan fighters. Directed by the pilot’s masterful battle skills, the photon beams vaporized the F-9’s, like a surgeon’s laser scalpel removing a malignant tumor. Seven remained.
“There’s no reply from Control,” reported Jackie. “The Quillans must be jamming our transmission.”
“Port shields inoperative, fore shields weakening,” the computer reported as the remaining ships reestablished pursuit. “Long range sensors reveal eight more drones coming in at vector 145 degrees, declination 86 degrees. I strongly suggest you implement the self-destruct sequence. Your orders clearly specify we are not to allow this shipment to fall into enemy hands.”
“Negative,” the captain persisted. “I’m working on a plan. Besides, they just told us where their control ship is.”
“You’re not going to do something crazy, are you?” Nash asked, as the data screen showed the Nova veering toward the eight new oncoming ships. “If you are, I want to go on the record as saying I think it’s a bad idea and am against it; no matter what it is.”
“Noted,” replied the captain.
“Port sensors inoperative,” the data-five said, as the ship shuddered violently. “Again, I suggest you implement the self-destruct…self-destruct…self-destruct…”
“B’y,” Victor warned, “we must be in range of the control ship; they’re trying to hack our computer. What should I do?”
“Shut that damned thing down before it kills us all,” ordered the commander, as the holofield to his left degraded into chromatic pixilation due to the loss of sensor information.
“Roger,” Victor replied, disconnecting the computer’s main power coupling. “Tactical computer disabled; they’ll probably try taking the other systems next. If you don’t get us out of this one, b’y, command isn’t going to be very happy.”
“I’ve got a red light on the weapon systems,” N
ash reported. “This isn’t good. They’re shutting the whole ship down system by system.”
“Victor,” said the captain, “I’m going to need you in engineering. I don’t want Schmidt back there alone, and with Singh guarding the cargo…”
“It’s been nearly five years,” Victor interrupted. “She’s not a rookie anymore. You can trust her.”
“I want someone back there who can follow orders, not just procedures,” the captain continued. “I need a manual bypass to the jump units as soon as possible.”
“An E-R jump without the computer?” Victor asked, rising from his chair. “Ballin’, this sounds like fun. Give me three minutes.”
“Make it two,” urged the commander, his concentration never wavering as he narrowly dodged another volley of enemy weapon blasts. “We may not have three.”
“Two minutes it is,” Victor replied, rushing from the bridge.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Nash said, shaking his head. He had heard stories of the captain’s reckless heroics, but in his three months aboard the Nova, this was the first he had witnessed. He hoped the commander would live up to his near-legendary reputation.
Tense moments passed as the seasoned pilot skillfully evaded the enemy weapon fire and continued in the direction of the second wave of drones. Despite being totally blinded on one side, the captain managed to keep most the enemy ships to the more protected side of the Nova. With the weapon systems inoperative, the only thing he could do was avoid taking more damage, as the eight warships came into view in front of them.
“All of the shields are down,” reported the copilot. “We haven’t got a prayer. Maybe you should self-destruct; at least that way, we’ll take some of them with us.”
“You’re starting to sound like the computer,” growled Captain Garris. “We still have internal function controls. Jackie, tell Singh to secure himself. Nash, turn off the inertial compensators for the cargo bays, and increase the atmospheric pressure on the port side to ten standards. When I give the word, open the port cargo doors.”
“What?” Nash demanded in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“The shipment and Singh are in the starboard hold,” reminded the commander. “All that’s in the port hold are supplies. Just do it!”
The Nova went into a barrel roll attack, cutting a channel through the oncoming drones. On the captain’s command, Nash opened the cargo hatch, causing instant decompression and centrifugal force to jettison the supplies. Scattering, the eight ships scrambled to avoid collision with the Nova and the sensor-confusing debris field of dumped cargo, inadvertently moving into the paths of the pursuing warships. Several explosions followed, rocking the Nova from side to side. Ten ships remained.
“Sir,” Nash said, as the holofield melted away, “there was an impact in the port hold. The cargo hatch won’t close, but the inner bulkheads are structurally sound. The control ship is on long-range sensors dead ahead. We’ve lost all systems except sensors, monitors, helm control, gravity control, life-support, internal communications, waste reclamation, and a handful of others. It’s only a matter of seconds before they have us completely helpless. We need to implement self-destruct now.”
“Jackie,” the captain said, discounting Nash’s report, “ask Victor if he’s about ready back there, and send the monitor images to my panel.”
“He’s ready,” she responded after a brief pause. “Just give the word.”
“Standby,” said the commander calmly, increasing the ship’s velocity to its limit and entering data for the jump into the helm controls.
The Nova surged forward toward the enemy command vessel. There was no longer time for evasive maneuvering. If the ship failed to attain the proper speed when the wormhole opened, the tunnel would collapse before they could enter it, possibly ripping them apart as it closed on them.
“Enemy ships on our tail,” the co-pilot reported. “Even if we do manage a jump, it’s possible they’ll be able to follow us through the wormhole at their current distance.”
“Now!” shouted the captain, as the ship reached optimum jump velocity.
Ahead of them, space began to warp as the drone ships continued firing at the unprotected rear of the cargo vessel. Looming beyond the forming wormhole, the Quillan control ship awaited its prey. At the last instant, the Nova veered to the side, missing the opening to the spatial gateway. The drone ships, unable to react in time, entered the wormhole, only to emerge from the other end an instant before impacting against their own control ship.
The Nova bucked, and tendrils of electricity leapt to the captain’s hands from the control panel. The ship had clipped the edge of the wormhole, causing a power overload throughout the ship. He fought to maintain control with pain-numbed hands, as Nash screamed in agony beside him. Glancing to his right, he saw the copilot sagging in his chair, knocked unconscious by the shock.
The monitor screens showed only debris where the Quillan control ship had been before his instrument panel went dark, followed by the entire ship. Seconds later, the emergency lights bathed the bridge in crimson illumination.
With a sigh of relief, Captain Garris slumped back into the chair. “Jackie,” he said, between gasping breaths, “you had better check on Nash. I think he took quite a jolt there. I’ll try to figure out how much damage we’ve taken. As soon as we get communications working, contact command and tell them to come and get us. We’re not going anywhere in this condition.”
“Roger, Don,” she responded, hastening to the co-pilot’s station. “That was a nice bit of flying you did back there. You should get another medal out of this, if not a promotion.”
“It was nothing,” he said with sincere modesty. “I just—”
“Kapitän, wir sind zurück hier geschlagen worden,” a woman’s voice interrupted. It came from the intercom speaker, and the Germanic utterance was unmistakably Chief Engineer Schmidt’s. “Victor ist verletzt.” Only coughing followed.
“Victor’s hurt,” said the captain, leaping from his chair and rushing from the bridge. His mind blanked as he sprinted down the hallway, which ran nearly the entire length of the ship. He dared not imagine what he might find. At the far end, the door to the engineering section stood half opened, spewing forth a cloud of thick smoke.
He paused on the walkway overlooking the room below, his vision unable to penetrate the smoky haze. From within the shroud, he heard Schmidt’s feeble coughing. Using the sound as a guide, he descended the stairway to one of the two engineering stations. There, he saw the chief engineer standing next to Victor, who was slumped back in a chair before a blackened instrument panel.
“Victor!” he yelled, rushing forward. Fear enveloped him: fear of losing his only true friend. Pushing past Schmidt, he gazed in horror upon the senior airman.
Severe burns obscured Victor’s youthful face, and his cloudy white eyes stared blindly toward the ceiling. His left arm was little more than bone with clingy strips of blackened flesh. His left upper torso had been fused with the chair he was sitting in by intense heat. The whole of the rest of his body was singed and covered in fire retardant foam.
“Ve Vere hit in den Motoren,” Schmidt said, wiping at the blood that flowed freely from a gash on her forehead with her sleeve. “Die Plasmaröhre ruptured und exploded. Victor was caught in the plasma steam.”
“Victor?” the commander repeated, dropping to his knees and frantically searching for any sign of life.
“Eh b’y,” Victor gasped, extending his remaining quivering, blistered hand toward the captain.
“I’m right here, Victor,” he replied, gently grasping his hand. “Jackie’s on the way. You’re going to be all right.”
“No I’m not; you never could lie to me. Did we make it, eh?” Victor asked feebly. “Is the ship safe? Are we green?”
“We’re green,” Don assured, choking on the words. “You saved us all.”
“The plasma tube had the biscuit,” Victor said, coughing up gouts of
blood. “I couldn’t deke out of it. It burned like hell for a moment, but now I can’t feel anything; just cold. It looks like I won’t be walking away without a scratch this time. Promise me you’ll take care of Jackie, and tell … I love her.” His voice trailed off as he went limp in the chair.
For several moments, the commander didn’t move. He just knelt next to his friend, cradling his hand. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet and turned away.
“I shut off the vent as quickly as I could, but…” Schmidt said, her eyes wide with shock and horror. Tears mingled with her blood and ran down her face. “It should have been me, not him. If he hadn’t taken over my station, it would have been me.”
“You’re not to blame, Inga,” the captain assured, using her given name for the first time in years. “No one’s to blame.”
The captain’s mind and vision cleared, and he realized he was still drifting at the engineering room’s upper walkway. Most of the smoke had dispersed, giving him a clear view of the room below. The instrument panels appeared much the same as those on the bridge: fire-scorched and dark. The photon engines were silent and still, but the antimatter chamber status lights indicated the containment field was holding. The ship was stable, but there was much work to be done before the Nova would be fully operational again.
Hesitantly, he guided himself into the room, piercing the imaginary barrier which had prevented his entrance earlier. “I’m sorry, Victor,” he whispered, though the echo returned like thunder in the silent chamber. “I’m sorry I caused your death.”
CHAPTER 4: Miracles
The smoke on the bridge had cleared, but still, the crimson emergency lights were the only source of illumination as the two lieutenants continued with the repairs. Lieutenant Monet steadied herself on the console next to the tactical station, beneath which Porter was working. Being a med-tech by profession, she knew little more than basic electronics; and so, had offered her services as a tool caddie. She had tied her hair back in a ponytail, donned a pair of friction-grip boots, and thrown on a sleeveless robe over her teddy. She had considered changing clothing, but it proved problematic in the weightless environment; the chilly air on the bridge made her regret not making the effort.
