by Cheryl Angst
“By the nine sons of Aesculdan, that’s good to hear,” replied the avian. “I am Captain Quarl. Who am I addressing?”
“I am Cmdr. Santiago, executive officer on the Firestorm,” she replied. “Now, what can we do for you, Captain?”
“Our port quantum drive blew when we hit an ion storm in trans-light. We tried to cut the feed off but failed, and the resulting explosion knocked out navigational control and most of our power. We’re diverting everything from the starboard drive just to keep life support operational.”
“Captain,” Rebeccah replied, “I’d like to bring the Firestorm in for a closer look at your port engine. I assure you we mean no harm. Permission to pull within one kilometer of your port side?”
“I have terrified customers on board, Commander. Males and females who’ve only seen human warships in video feeds and visual entertainment stories.” Quarl sighed then made a sound Rebeccah assumed was a chuckle. “We’re in no position to stop you. Permission to pull alongside granted. I will inform my passengers.”
“Thank you,” she said. Rebeccah gestured to the officer at navigation. “Bring us in to one thousand meters and set our rotation to match the Wren’s.”
“Aye, sir.”
* * * *
John scanned the readouts, expecting to see signs of pursuit. With each passing moment he grew more anxious.
Where were they? Had he fooled them?
As soon as the raptor broke through the atmosphere, he’d pulled into a tight loop to the far side of the planet, tucking the craft in under the stern of a large cargo vessel where the wake from its engines would mask John’s rapidly cooling rockets. He matched the speed and course of the lumbering vessel and scanned the area around Cerces III for signs of raptors or other military craft.
Within ten minutes of his stealing the raptor, a sleek attack cruiser emerged from behind Cerces III’s largest moon. The warship entered orbit as the cargo ship John was using as camouflage drifted out of active sensor range. The odds of the avians finding him with their passive sensor arrays were slim, but John didn’t want to take any chances.
His pulse jumped as a squadron of raptors burst from the other ship’s belly and fanned out around the planet.
They swarmed between the dozens of vessels in the immediate area. Two raptors disengaged from the main group and angled toward his position. As soon as they entered visual range, his hiding place would be useless. The cargo vessel’s wake masked his smaller craft’s telltale engine signals, but it couldn’t hide his ship from a visual inspection.
John ignored the dangers inherent in powering up the quantum drive while nestled under another vessel and prepared to make the jump to trans-light. He couldn’t hide the flash of light and resulting energy spike from detection, but he wagered on the avians not knowing precisely which direction he headed. Bracing himself for possible destruction, he threw the tiny ship into trans-light and prayed.
He set course for the edge of the Cerces system, approximately half a million kilometers away from the last reported position of the Firestorm. John needed to appear as though he’d made a beeline back to human space; that he was unaware of his ship’s presence in the sector.
He brought the ship out of trans-light, intent on leaving a false trail for the avians to follow.
Luck, good or ill, he wasn’t sure, dropped his raptor into real space three kilometers aft of a military patrol. His proximity alarm went off as the enemy craft banked sharply and powered up its weapons.
A dog fight would leave one hell of a clue.
John powered his own weapons and brought the raptor into a tight roll down and away from the incoming craft. He timed his dive perfectly--the other vessel failed to follow and had to bank sharply to come around for another pass. John had only moments before reinforcements arrived. He targeted his adversary’s engines, pushed the craft to its limits, and followed the raptor in its climbing bank. Coming in from behind, John fired and was rewarded with a direct hit on the starboard engine.
The enemy raptor sputtered then quickly regained equilibrium as the pilot compensated for the loss of one engine. The craft no longer had enough power to return to its base, but it could still fight.
John braced himself for the strafing attack. Bullets riddled the underbelly of his raptor as he rolled and shot over the other craft. Pulling up hard, he managed to limit the damage to non-critical systems.
He threw his fighter into another roll and used the momentum to plummet into a steep dive. John fired all forward weapons, pummeling the canopy and upper fuel tanks on the raptor below him. The canopy held, but webbed with chips and cracks, reducing the pilot’s ability to see.
“Yes!” John cried when he saw a sudden plume of crystallized moisture shoot out from behind the canopy. He’d managed to puncture the primary fuel tank, which now vented plasma into space. He’d effectively crippled the enemy raptor.
Knowing the pilot would monitor and report his course, John laid in coordinates for the border of avian territory and threw his raptor into trans-light. After a slow count to five, he altered his course then dropped out of trans-light, shaking yet jubilant, at the coordinates Kree had supplied.
The Firestorm was nowhere in sight.
* * * *
The damage to the port side of the Wren was extensive. The drive continued to vent plasma, and multiple rents and tears in the outer hull showed exposed electrical conduits. The Wren would be destroyed if the highly explosive plasma made contact with an electrical current.
“Firestorm to Wren,” Rebeccah said as she scanned the viewscreen. “You’ve got a serious problem here. You need to stop that plasma leak before your whole ship goes nova.”
“Commander,” replied Quarl, “we’ve tried. We can’t stop it. Both the standard and emergency shutoff valves were destroyed in the blast. Short of jettisoning our entire engine core, and dooming thousands of people to a slow and agonizing death by asphyxiation when life support fails, I’m out of options. I don’t even have any small craft capable of going out to seal the breaches.”
“I wouldn’t advise either course of action, sir,” Rebeccah said. “Jettisoning the core isn’t feasible, and using plasma cutters near the damaged quantum drive is more dangerous than leaving the exposed conduits.” She sighed. She didn’t want to expose her crew to danger, but thousands of lives on the Wren depended on her next order. “The only solution is to cut away the quantum drive. That won’t solve your navigational issues, but it will stop your ship from exploding.”
“One problem at a time, right, Commander?” replied Quarl.
“Yes,” Rebeccah agreed. She had one problem she wanted to tackle, and Quarl’s ship was in her way. “You said you don’t have any small craft?”
“That’s correct,” Quarl replied. “If the engine’s going to be cut off, your people will have to do the cutting.”
“Understood. I’ll contact you when our flyers are in place.”
“Excellent,” Quarl chirped, “and Commander, I know I should have said this earlier, but thank you. The passengers and crew of the Brown Wren owe you a huge debt of gratitude.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied. “I’ll be in touch. Firestorm out.
“Lt. Monroe, I want two of our best pilots scrambled and out in less than fifteen minutes,” Rebeccah ordered. “Make sure the flyers are equipped with laser cutters. I don’t want them working with plasma near the exposed conduits.”
“Aye, sir.”
“I’ll be in engineering working out a solution to the Wren’s power loss,” Rebeccah said to Lt. Monroe. “Contact me when the flyers are ready to launch. You have the bridge.” She strode through the doors at the rear of the bridge before Monroe replied.
Chapter 53
“Damn,” John swore when he realized he couldn’t program the raptor to perform a standard UESF hunt. “Who designs a ship incapable of accepting predictive search patterns?”
Manually circling the coordinates using a systematic figu
re eight flight path that rotated around one of the three axes when returning to the center, John scanned the immediate area for signs of the warship. He made his task easier by programming the sensors to look for the Firestorm’s transponder ID.
The raptor would never find the signal without John inputting the precise frequency and encryption code. Most senior officers never bothered to memorize their vessel’s transponder IDs, rationalizing they would always be able to access the code through a UESF computer. Perhaps his action was a holdover from the war where capture was a real possibility and finding one’s ship again a necessity, but John made memorizing the Firestorm’s ID one of his first command tasks.
Rather than waste time looking for energy signatures that faded quickly over time and distance, John focused on tracking the transponder. After searching for what felt like an eternity, John’s diligence paid off with a sudden beep from the forward sensors.
He cheered and clapped his hands together.
He double checked the ID and set a course to follow the signal at a safe cruising speed. He didn’t want any surprises on his approach to the ship.
As soon as he entered communications range of the Firestorm, he sent out an automated message on a UESF emergency frequency. Fearful of losing the transponder signal, John refused to make the jump to trans-light speed. Instead, he relied on the automated message to reach the Firestorm ahead of him, alerting them to his presence and hopefully averting a disaster. John was already using the reserve oxygen tank to keep the air in the cockpit breathable. Another twenty minutes and the re-circulated air would be too stale to breathe.
* * * *
“Miller to Cmdr. Santiago.” The urgency of the call startled Rebeccah from her work with the engineering squad.
“Santiago, here,” she replied. “Has something happened to the Wren?” she asked, concerned. Images of a vaporized transport flitted through her mind.
“Sir, you better get up here now.” Lt. Miller’s voice held a mixture of confusion and excitement as she babbled over the communications link. “We’re receiving an automated signal on a UESF emergency frequency. The message is encrypted, which is odd because no one broadcasts coded emergencies, but the strangest thing is the transmission is coming from a raptor.”
“Are you sure?” Rebeccah was already heading out of engineering as she replied.
“Yes, sir.” Lt. Miller paused to catch her breath. “Do you think…do you think it’s the captain?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, Lieutenant,” Rebeccah admonished even as her own pulse raced at the thought.
“Aye, sir.”
“Get the message decoded, and get me coordinates on that raptor. I’ll be up in less than two minutes,” she ordered before ending the communication.
* * * *
Rebeccah strode onto the bridge and slipped into the captain’s chair. She called up the transmission and glanced at Lt. Miller, who was working feverishly at her console. In an effort to speed up the decoding process, she called, “Lieutenant, run the encryption through codes used during the war.”
Miller’s head shot up in surprise, nodded, and returned back to its previous position. Rebeccah opened a communications channel with the Wren. “Santiago to Captain Quarl.”
“Quarl here,” came the prompt reply. “Are you ready to begin cutting?”
“No, sir,” she replied. “I just wanted to inform you we will be altering our course for a moment.” She noted the location of the raptor and said, “We shouldn’t be gone more than twenty minutes, but rest assured, during that time our best flyers will be planning their cuts with care and precision. If we are unable to make it back before the flyers are ready, I’ll order the cutting to begin, regardless.”
“May I ask what is taking you away at such an inopportune time?” Quarl’s voice sounded mildly angry.
She steeled herself and replied, “No, you may not, sir. I’m afraid our departure is related to confidential UESF business, and I am not at liberty to discuss specifics. Rest assured, your ship and the welfare of those on board are our highest priority.”
“I see,” he replied doubtfully. “I await your return. Quarl out.”
“Sir, the flyers are ready to launch,” said Lt. Monroe.
“Good. Send them out,” she replied. Turning to Miller, she asked, “Have you cracked the code yet?”
“No--wait, yes, sir,” Miller replied. “It’s the captain. It has to be the captain.”
Rebeccah’s pulse skyrocketed with the news, but she needed her crew to remain calm. “Report, Lieutenant,” she demanded.
Lt. Miller instantly adopted a serious demeanor and reported, “Sir, the transmission repeats. The message reads as follows: Conspiracy. All stop. Seven-three-two-two-five, one-zero-one-nine, three-six.” Lt. Miller pleaded with her eyes. “Sir, that’s the captain’s service number.”
Rebeccah nodded. “Helm, set course to intercept the raptor. Maximum speed.”
“Aye, sir. Intercept at maximum.”
The fact he’d transmitted an automated signal rather than trying to contact them himself had her worried.
Hang on, John. Hang on.
* * * *
John yawned. He watched as first one, then two dots appeared on his navigation screen. The silk thread guided him to the one on the left. He yawned again and assumed it was the Firestorm. He idly wondered if the other vessel was the Brown Wren, and knew the second vessel should be a cause for concern, but couldn’t remember why. Instead, he closed his eyes and thought of reuniting with his crew.
“Captain.” He pictured Cmdr. Santiago’s excited reaction as he emerged from the raptor’s cockpit. “Captain on board,” she called, and several hundred crew snapped to attention behind her.
John grinned sheepishly as he lowered himself down the stairs beside the cockpit. “Commander, I’m glad to be back,” he said as he took her salute. John glanced at his sharply pressed UESF parade uniform and then back at the petite brunette with the startlingly green eyes.
“She’s quite pretty,” he said to Nate as they strolled along the pathways of the Senior Officers’ Training Academy.
Nate laughed and slapped him on the back. “So when do I get to meet this paragon of perfection who has foolishly agreed to become Mrs. Captain Thompson?”
John stopped in mid-stride and stared in horror at Nate. “Say that again.”
Nate gave John a look that said he thought John had lost his mind. Nate shrugged and said, “Captain Thompson.”
John closed his eyes and shook his head. The conversation made no sense! Why had Nate sounded like a woman? His ears must’ve been playing tricks on him.
“Say it again,” he mumbled and tossed his head.
* * * *
Rebeccah sprinted through the corridors as she made her way to the main hangar. She ran through the doors, scanned the area, and found the medical and security detachments already in position. The hangar had been sealed and re-pressurized, and the ground crew were in the process of wheeling portable stairs over to the raptor’s cockpit.
Her boots pounded across the deck and echoed around the room as she came to a breathless halt at the base of the ladder. Two of the flight crew were at the top using laser cutters to release the canopy. With a hiss and clatter, the transparent dome rose on its hinges and the crew got their first look at the pilot.
The one on the left called down, “Sir, it’s the captain.”
She was unaware of climbing the ladder, only of arriving at the top as the second crew member said, “I don’t think he’s breathing.”
She stared in horror at his pale face. His lips and ears were blue, and his slack body showed no sign of respiration or consciousness. Rebeccah ignored the guano-infused scent of unwashed bodies, leaned in, and called, “Captain Thompson.”
No response.
She tried shaking him. “Captain Thompson.”
A slap across the face elicited a shuddering intake of breath and a mumbled response that sou
nded like, “Say it again.”
Rebeccah turned to the flight crew and ordered, “Get him out now.” She slid down the ladder as the two flight crew struggled to extract the captain from the cockpit. Within moments they had him on a stretcher on the deck.
The medics worked feverishly to stabilize him as she stood next to his shoulder. The captain began to toss about on the stretcher, muttering incoherently. Putting her hand on his shoulder to hold him steady, she leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “Captain Thompson, please wake up.”
She was staring at his troubled face when she realized all the panicked activity around her had ceased. Looking up she noticed the medics were looking at her for permission to take the captain to the MIR. She was about to give the order when the loudspeakers in the hangar came to life.
“Sir, the flyers are ready to begin cutting.” Lt. Monroe’s voice echoed throughout the cavernous hangar.
“How far out are we?”
“Five minutes, sir.”
“All right,” she replied. “Tell them to begin--”
John’s eyes flew open. He grabbed Rebeccah by the front of her uniform, pulled her close to his face, and cried, “It’s a trap! Order them away.”
He tugged her even closer and ordered, “Pull them out. Now.”
His eyes were wild with fear and desperation, he was filthy, and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a year, but despite his terrible appearance she was certain this time he was aware of what he was saying. He refused to break eye contact, forcing her to meet his stare, as if he could convince her with the intensity of a look alone.
A chill washed down her spine as she realized he could. “Lt. Monroe,” she shouted.
“Sir?”
“Call off the flyers, now.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. Call them off and have them take up a position five kilometers aft of the Wren.”
“Aye, sir. Flyers are disengaging and moving off.”
