Starhold's Fate

by J. Alan Field

  It was all so obvious. Harradoss tried to have patience with his comrade. “The Oplacai. Somehow, they activated our own Threshold and used it as we intended to.” As infuriating as the situation was, Harradoss found a certain ironic quality to the circumstances which clearly eluded the fearful Phersu.

  “Never fear, my old friend,” reassured the Massang leader. “The journey took a few months longer than planned, but the great prize is now within our grasp.”

  Phersu gestured agreement and turned back to his supervision of the command staff. Of late, his strong right arm had become a feeble alarmist. It was becoming tiresome. For years, Phersu and Shartok Minz had stood beside Harradoss as his chief aides—before he had Minz executed, that is. Perhaps he removed the wrong advisor.

  * * * *

  Typhoon and the rest of the Sarissan fleet had been in friendly space for nearly a month now. The Threshold had flung them some one hundred-ten light-years across the Milky Way—from Cor Caroli all the way to Sol in the blink of an eye.

  During the past few weeks, Chaz Pettigrew and his people had busied themselves preparing for the arrival of Harradoss and his forces. As it turned out, Cor Caroli had not been the climactic battle which ended the war, but this engagement surely would be. Pettigrew’s ships had been resupplied. Desperately needed repairs were quickly performed on Fifth Fleet’s most damaged vessels. The EarthFed shipyards in orbit above Luna labored around the clock to complete the work. Meetings were held with Fleetmaster Maria Rhaab and Earth’s command staff. Everything had been planned for the arrival of the Massang fleet—everything except this.

  For Pettigrew, an impromptu visit to Typhoon’s command deck on the brink of action was more than irritating, but Nyondo insisted. His place was on the flag bridge with the rest of his staff. If the summons had come from anyone else he would have promptly instructed an aide to deal with the situation, but Nyondo was adamant. Even now, as they rode together in the turbolift, she refused to explain the exact nature of the problem.

  As the lift stopped and Pettigrew stepped onto the bridge, Captain Swoboda was there to greet him.

  “Admiral on the Deck!” Swoboda announced to all as he snapped to attention. Everyone on the bridge stood to follow his lead.

  “As you were,” said Pettigrew suspiciously. This wasn’t the kind of formality usually found on a Sarissan warship mere minutes before going into battle. “Just exactly what is going on, Captain Swoboda? The Chief of Staff informs me that I am needed here on the bridge.”

  “Indeed, you are, sir,” said Swoboda. “A ship needs a skipper.”

  Pettigrew looked around at the faces of the bridge hands. If smiles were water, he would be drowning.

  “You see, Admiral, I have given myself a temporary demotion to Executive Officer,” continued Swoboda. “We were thinking… err, that is, Captain Nyondo and I thought…”

  “The conn is yours, sir,” said Nyondo concisely.

  It was a kind and thoughtful gesture—and wholly unacceptable according to Space Force procedure. Pettigrew let a slow, hesitant smile cross his face. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure Central Command would understand.”

  “With all due respect, Admiral, Central Command isn’t here right now,” said Swoboda loudly so that all could hear. It was an unusually bold declaration coming from the straight-laced officer.

  Pettigrew nodded. “Very well, I’ll do my best. Captain Swoboda, I relieve you, sir.”

  “I stand relieved,” Swoboda dutifully answered before moving to the XO’s console and settling in.

  The bridge crew quickly returned to their watch duties. Nyondo peeled away from Pettigrew’s side, walking briskly to the helm station. She tapped the lieutenant sitting there on the shoulder, a very unofficial shortcut to relieving him of his duty. At this point, nothing was being played by the Book. In fact, Pettigrew was positive that the Book had been chucked out an airlock somewhere back at Cor Caroli.

  “Captain Nyondo, have you ever piloted a battleship?” inquired Pettigrew.

  “Only on the simulator,” she said as virtual navigation displays sprang up around her. “Don’t worry, sir. I promise to drive carefully.”

  The regular watch officers looked on, their young faces painted with a combination of amusement and apprehension. They were probably hoping the old-timers didn’t screw up in some way and get them all killed. Pettigrew was hoping the same.

  “Eighty-Four Massang vessels have translated into the system, sir,” reported Swoboda.

  Lieutenant Navarro, the tactical officer sitting to Nyondo’s left, spoke up. “Admiral, the enemy force is getting under way. Looks like they are heading straight for Earth, sir.”

  Pettigrew pushed back into the command chair, raising his hands and steepling his fingers in front of his chest. It was time: time to bring this war to a conclusion, time to get on with his life. Time to be with the woman he loved and spend their days doing something besides killing people. Regrettably, to do that, they had to kill some more.

  “Take us out of orbit, Ms. Nyondo. Let’s finish this.”

  26: BE3

  Sarissan battleship Typhoon

  Sol System

  With the Massang fleet hurtling directly toward the most revered world of the human race, the Third Battle of Earth was about to begin.

  Pettigrew stared at a camera feed from one of the fleet’s recon drones. It was an image of the Blue Planet. Even for a man who had spent the bulk of his adult life in outer space, the sight sent shivers up his spine.

  Five million people currently lived on Earth with more arriving each day. The world that had been given a second chance now offered its children the same. Humankind was scattered over some fifty planets throughout the Renaissance Sector, but only one was truly home.

  OUR home… and I’ll be damned if I let the Massang or anyone else take it away.

  The Admiral shook free of his passing thoughts. “Sitrep,” he called out to anyone who might respond.

  Acting XO Swoboda answered. “Fleetmaster Rhaab’s flotilla have formed up to meet the enemy force. The Massang are holding course and speed. Their lead ships are thirty-plus minutes to missile range. Our position is currently fifty-seven minutes from enemy contact and closing.”

  The bridge crew labored in near silence as updates flashed across the main and secondary tactical displays. Multiple personal data windows hung in midair near several of the officers. The ship AI and its holo-projectors worked feverously to keep pace with the torrent of incoming information.

  Pettigrew broke the stillness which had seized the bridge, trying to relax his crew and himself with some chatter.

  “My guess is that Harradoss based his original plan on the element of surprise. Now that he’s lost that advantage, it will be interesting to see what adjustments he makes.”

  “He won’t make any,” Swoboda stated flatly.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Nyondo from the helm, her eyes stubbornly scanning the ship controls.

  “During the war, enemy commanders have shown very poor improvisation skills. Before humans joined this fight, the Massang got used to simply overwhelming their opponents. They don’t put much stock in tactics. Things like positions and formations don’t seem to concern them.”

  Pettigrew nodded. “Agreed. Tell you what, let’s give them a few more things ‘not’ to be concerned about. Comm officer—do we still have our link with the Artemis system?”

  “Aye, sir—Admiral Tovar is standing by.”

  “Signal her to commence operations,” ordered Pettigrew before addressing the Tactical Officer. “Mr. Navarro, bring our phase inhibitors on-line.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Inhibitors powering up.”

  In the space surrounding Earth, hundreds of drones came out of sleep mode, their mechanical bodies activating to flood millions of cubic kilometers of the Black with a hyperspace dampening field. It was a twist on the ploy used by the Massang at Cor Caroli. Hyperspace access near Earth was now sealed off, sav
e for one doorway…

  * * * *

  Massang flagship Chisellion

  “I suppose the phase inhibitors would be a clever trick,” smirked Harradoss, “if I intended to retreat. Captain Terux, prepare the fleet for battle. Bringing down that enemy titan will be a great prize, don’t you agree?”

  Before the holographic image of the captain could respond, an increasingly agitated Phersu interrupted. “Harradoss—the hypergate. Look at the Earth hypergate!”

  One of the Massang robotic scouts beamed back startling real-time data along with an image of the alien gateway. Lights were coming on, energy fields surrounding the structure were spiking—the portal was activating.

  “That hypergate was supposed to be disabled,” cried Phersu from halfway across the command chamber. “What could have happened?” His panicking associate was having a negative effect on everyone present.

  Harradoss summoned the shaken Phersu to his side. “Rest easy, my friend. Once we have gained orbital supremacy we will use it to support the landing of our invasion forces. If necessary, we will threaten orbital bombardment to halt the advance of any Sarissan ships. Five million human hostages will make a powerful bargaining chip. Besides, it will take any large enemy force coming through that Gate hours to make a full transit. By then every settlement on the planet will be under our guns. Rest easy, my good comrade.”

  Harradoss called for the nearby watch commander. “Order the Shadow squadron to detach from our main fleet. They are to turn and engage Pettigrew’s vessels. Their objective is to slow the Sarissan forces as we attack our primary target.”

  “It will be done, First Protector,” the officer confirmed.

  “I cannot understand,” nattered the anxious Phersu. His already huge eyes were now enormous with dread. Orange fright-blood flushed his face making it nearly iridescent. “That Gate should not be active. Our human agents have failed us!”

  “First Protector!” one of the staffers called out, pointing to the image of a Sarissan battleship edging its way through EarthGate’s aperture.

  The sight only served to ramp up Phersu’s distress. “Even if it takes the enemy time to transit the Gate, what about Pettigrew? His forces are closing fast. There is also the problem of the Earth titan to deal with.”

  “We have the firepower to handle it provided we move quickly.” Harradoss placed a lanky right arm around the shoulders of his longtime friend. “Phersu, walk with me.”

  As they crossed the command chamber, the second-in-command continued to unravel.

  “My friend, it has all gone wrong. We should rethink our position. There are other worlds for our people to settle. We could alter course, escape the inhibitor field, and…”

  As Phersu blathered on, Harradoss guided him into the corridor where a pair of Vanguard warriors stood watch.

  “Lord Phersu is not feeling well,” said Harradoss to the lead guard.

  “May we be of assistance, First Protector?”

  “No, I will handle it.”

  Swiftly reaching out with his left hand, Harradoss grabbed a dagger from the belt of the nearest guard and plunged the jagged blade deep into Phersu’s chest. A gurgling sound came from the throat of his comrade as he clutched at Harradoss. The Massang leader pulled the knife out and again thrust the dagger hilt deep into Phersu, who weakly clawed at his mentor before losing his grasp and collapsing to the deck.

  Harradoss extracted the knife and handed it back the guard. “Find the closest airlock and dispose of the body.”

  Both soldiers gazed down at Phersu. He continued to make pitiable noises, orange blood spouting from open wounds. “First Protector, he is not dead,” said one of the sentries. “Should we not take him to the cutting table?”

  It was the Massang way. Vivisection was the traditional execution—intimidating to the masses and highly entertaining as well, but Harradoss had neither the time nor inclination. For all of his shortcomings at the end, Phersu had served him well… mostly. Besides, there was a space battle to win.

  “I said the airlock,” Harradoss replied in a stark tone. “Follow my orders.”

  As the two Vanguard warriors hauled his longtime associate away, Harradoss touched a console on the corridor bulkhead.

  “Captain Terux—report to the command chamber.”

  * * * *

  Sarissan battleship Typhoon

  “Admiral Tovar on a secure laser link, sir.”

  “To my station, Ensign.”

  A hologram formed in front of Pettigrew’s command chair. Close-cropped platinum hair crowned the mature face of Nathari Tovar, whose flagship Paladin had crossed through the Earth hypergate fifteen minutes ago. It immediately took up a defensive posture to protect the Gate as, one by one, additional Sarissan warships moved through the artificial wormhole. The heavy cruiser Talos was making transit as they spoke.

  “Welcome to Sol, Admiral,” Pettigrew said with relief. “Glad you could make it.”

  “My pleasure, Chaz, although we can both thank OMI for busting up this Gate sabotage scheme.”

  “I take it that Colonel Dansby finally talked?”

  “Dansby is dead. He committed suicide in his jail cell,” she said with no remorse. “I’m sure he expected his underlings to follow suit, but once their boss was gone, his friends couldn’t wait to cut a deal with the government. We really dodged a bullet.” Tovar stopped, her eyes looking past him as if she were examining something. Finally, a perceptive smile settled on her lips. “Admiral Pettigrew, are you on Typhoon’s bridge?”

  “I am, ma’am,” he said with a shy grin. “A story for another time. What are your orders, Admiral?”

  “No, no—I’m the newcomer here. This is your show.”

  “But, Admiral Tovar, you are the senior officer in system.” Not to mention Chief of Naval Operations…

  “Your show,” she insisted.

  “Why are flag officers always so stubborn?” he joked. “Very well. Establish a bridgehead around the Gate. When you believe it to be practical, dispatch some of your vessels to reinforce the Earth fleet. I have a feeling they are going to need some help dealing with those Vanguard battleships. After your task force has completed the transit from Artemis, move on the main Massang fleet. My ETA is approximately thirty minutes.”

  Tovar nodded. “Copy that. Our readings indicate the presence of some Massang civilian ships mixed in with the hostiles. What’s that all about?”

  “A few of them left Cor Caroli with Harradoss. He’s using them as shields. I’m sending you as much info as we have.” The presence of civilians—even Massang civilians—had been nagging Pettigrew. “We will try to avoid harming those vessels, but I’m not willing to lose Earth because of them. It’s regrettable, but as far as I’m concerned, any civilian deaths are on Harradoss.”

  “Central Command and I fully support you on this, Chaz. We’ll do our best to avoid hitting Massang civvies, but Earth comes first. Good hunting, Admiral.”

  As Tovar’s virtual face faded, a real one begged for Pettigrew’s attention. It was an uneasy Lieutenant Navarro at Tactical.

  “Sir, I’m getting some very odd readings at two points to starboard. Something is very close, but I can’t tell what it is. I make it sixty klicks and closing, sir.”

  Pettigrew’s eyes narrowed. “Show me.”

  The main viewer displayed empty space. Scrolling across the bottom of the screen were the electronic signatures of Navarro’s phantoms, squiggly lines that one person on the bridge instantly recognized.

  “Admiral, I’ve seen this signature before,” Nyondo spoke up.

  “When?”

  “In the Serrat system, just before Tempest was attacked by a battlecruiser. The enemy was masked by some sort of cloaking screen.”

  “Yes, I read your after-action report,” he said, urgently jabbing at the comm key beside him. “Pettigrew to all ships! Bring all weapons to bear on designated coordinates and open fire—full spread. Do it now!”

  The sing
le Sarissan battleship and her seventy-one consorts immediately opened fire into the empty void of space—except it wasn’t empty. Missiles and torpedoes found Navarro’s apparitions as they struck home against sixteen Massang battlecruisers.

  “These guys were not with Harradoss when he fled Cor Caroli,” declared Swoboda while coordinating fire control across the fleet.

  “He must have picked up some stragglers along the way,” said Pettigrew. “Nyondo, alter course to zero-nine-two mark five. Let’s try to get above them. Mr. Navarro, as soon as we are within energy weapons range, light ‘em up.”

  “With pleasure, sir,” answered the grimly smiling Navarro. The junior officer’s face reminded Pettigrew of the spine-chilling expression the late Olivia Kuypers would assume before she was about to kill the enemy. It seemed that all Tactical Officers loved their work.

  Just as Nyondo guided Typhoon above the plane of the enemy ships, three of the Massang battlecruisers released a coordinated salvo of surgewaves. The hellish disruptions in space-time smashed into the Black exactly where Typhoon had been seconds earlier and where another Sarissan ship was now. The cruiser Inspiration took the blows head on, its hull cracking open like a bird’s egg in the hand of a giant. The crew was instantly annihilated.

  The destroyer Stiletto avoided the surgewaves, but could not dodge a large chunk of Inspiration’s wrecked hull as it wildly slammed into the smaller ship. The collision caused the destroyer to founder. Another enemy battlecruiser now poured fire onto Stiletto, somehow losing track of Typhoon which was passing just above it.

  “Tactical, get on those sons of bitches,” said Pettigrew with a vehemence that surprised even himself. Particle beams rained down on the enemy ship, carving through the battlecruiser’s lightly armored dorsal hull. Navarro tossed in a few quantum missiles for good measure and the staggered Massang ship abruptly blew apart, adding to an ever-growing debris field.