by Mike Smith
Their screams of pain reverberated around the auditorium for a very long time to come.
*****
“He called me a coward, to my face, did you know that?”
“Uh, no my Lord. I didn’t,” the Captain replied with a startled expression.
“Two minutes until the assault shuttles arrive. Fighters in close escort formation,” the Tactical Officer called out faintly. He was even further along the bridge than the Communications Officer.
“Last person to even question my honour, I had him nailed to a bulkhead—by his tongue,” Granville said in shocked disbelief.
“I’m sure nobody has repeated it since, my Lord,” the Captain said diplomatically.
“Asked me what sort of role model I wanted to be for my grandson. What sort of question is that? He’s a Lord, by the way. Did you know that?”
“I did, my Lord.”
“I can sincerely relate to Stanton. He might be an evil, nasty, lying, two-faced son-of-a-High-Lord, but at least the man has good instincts.”
“My Lord?”
“Regarding Alex, that is,” Granville clarified. “And his intense desire to shoot him. A desire I hasten to add, that I share, as I’ve often wished I’d done the same, when I had the opportunity.”
“I see,” the Captain murmured.
“No, you don’t,” Granville corrected him. “But I’ve often thought them two sides of the same coin. One light, the other dark. Seems ironic doesn’t it that Alex Grey, whose men would blindly follow him into Hell, has lost everything. While Stanton, whose closest friend would gladly stab him in the back, just to be rid of him, is High-Lord over several star-systems.”
“One minute remaining, my Lord,” the Tactical Officer cried out.
“Alex tried to explain it to me once,” Granville carried on, unperturbed. “The Mandate of Heaven he called it. The divine right, granted by the Gods, for one man to rule over all others, based on their ability to govern, fairly and well.”
“Seems like the Gods picked the wrong man, this time around,” the Captain replied. Who considered that any man who told Granville, to his face, that he was a coward, had a lot to recommend about him. The fact the man was still alive, obviously also indicated that the Gods looked, more than a little favourably, on him.
“Indeed. How many of our Close-In Weapons Systems have been restored to operational capability?”
“Less than ten percent, my Lord,” the Captain replied apologetically. “If you recall I did bring it up during our last staff meeting, but you replied that it was a waste of your—”
“Yes, yes, I do recall,” Granville replied testily. “Then retract the docking bay and lower all blast shields. Bring on-line the guns and target the assault shuttles. When they’re in range, open fire. Ignore the fighters. They pose no risk to us, they don’t even have anything that could scratch us.”
“Understood. My Lord, should we broadcast an advance warning?”
Granville sat unmoving, staring sightlessly ahead, picturing in his mind’s eye the High-Lords laughing while they sat at his table, eating his food and toasting each other with his wine to their good fortune.
“No. I think not.”
*****
When commissioned in the early twenty-fourth century, Elysium Fields had approaching fifteen thousand Close-In Weapon Systems. These short range, point-defence weapon systems, were designed for targeting and destroying incoming missiles and enemy fighters which had penetrated the ship’s outer defences. Considering its main armaments, such an event was considered highly unlikely, however, for the first of the Nova-Class Dreadnaughts to be built, the original designers took no chances. Therefore, each CIWS was armed with a one hundred and fifty millimetre cannon, capable of firing twenty-five hundred rounds per minute. Each iridium tipped, armour-piercing round, was capable of penetrating armour up to twenty millimetres thick, at a distance of over twenty kilometres.
If a hostile target did ever breach the outer defences, there was no chance of it making it past the ship’s inner defences.
With only ten percent of these weapons operational, and an even smaller percentage actually facing the approaching ships, they locked on to them with a multi-millimetre radar, which was at least two centuries out of date. The electronic warfare systems on the approaching ships remained silent, no longer checking a part of the electromagnetic spectrum that had long since become redundant and now was replaced by quantum entanglement scanners. However, the ancient radar was still more than up to the task of calculating range, distance and bearing and passed this data onto a fire control computer which by modern standards was an antique. Yet, it was still with lethal accuracy that one-by-one gun barrels that hadn’t moved for more than a century came to life, pivoting around on their mountings, to point in the direction of the on-coming shuttles, now on final approach, ten kilometres distant from the Dreadnought.
With no advance notice of the impending threat, and overly confident in their own numbers, superior technology and firepower, the transports didn’t stand a chance.
The first few hundred rounds went aft of the shuttles, but the computer almost instantly adjusted aim, punching holes, six inches in diameter, clear through the first one. It disintegrated into a ball of molten fire and metal. With the mechanical killing efficiency of a machine, the fire-control computer switched targets, moving on to the next closest shuttle.
Now alerted to the threat by the destruction, moments before, of the first shuttle, the pilot of the second immediately tried evasive manoeuvres, applying full thrust to the engines, banking hard away from the massive warship. This brought them a momentarily reprieve, of at least a few seconds, before it too was torn to shreds, just like the first.
The fighters, which up until this time had remained in close escort formation around the shuttles, immediately scattered to avoid the incoming fire. Swooping and diving in all directions they helplessly tried to divert the incoming fire away from the less manoeuvrable and far more vulnerable shuttles, all in vain. The timeworn dreadnaught steadfastly continued to ignore them, instead focusing all its fire on the approaching shuttles.
In less than thirty seconds the squadron of assault shuttles had been reduced to nothing but torn and jagged fragments of metal, floating aimlessly in space. Cold, dark and very much alone. One-by-one the guns on the Elysium Fields fell silent again, as if in respect for the massive loss of life that they had just inflicted, with their merciless actions. The ancient warship meanwhile continued to float on, serenely, in space. A forbidding, apparently long abandoned, space-fortress, it seemed impossible to think that only moments before it had casually obliterated the approaching transports. The only sign now of its prior actions, were the dozens of fighters, angrily buzzing around it like a swarm of wasps, until even these were eventually recalled, having failed at their task to escort the shuttles to the dreadnought, safely.
While in the depths of space, everything seemed calm and serene, quite the opposite was currently taking place on the bridge of the Battlecruiser Valkyrie, where confusion and panic reigned.
*****
“Report!” Admiral Sloane bellowed to be overheard across the shouts and cries echoing across the bridge. Everything had been running on schedule, like clockwork, just the way that he liked it, when suddenly everything started to fall apart, literally.
“We’ve lost the entire assault team,” his Flight-Operations Officer reported, grim faced. “According to the Commander, Air Group, they’re all gone. He’s just issued a recall notice to the remaining fighters, as they don’t have any armaments to assault the enemy capital-ship.”
“Enemy capital-ship? What are you talking about? It’s a floating hulk in space and was decommissioned over two centuries ago.”
“It appears not Admiral, as the CAG is reporting that enemy fire emanated from that floating hulk in space, as you call it.”
“Very well then, we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way. Distance to target?”
&nb
sp; “One hundred and fifty kilometres, Admiral.”
“Tactical?”
“Outside effective range of our main guns Admiral, we could use the torpedoes, but—”
“But what?”
“We don’t have a clear firing solution, Admiral. I’ve checked. It’s absolute chaos out there. We’re currently tracking over two hundred unique contacts, ranging from small runabouts, all the way up to massive, interstellar, freighters. I’ve never seen so many ships in once place, outside of the Lagrange point on Capella. Business must be absolutely booming here.”
“By the High-Lords, we’ve got a shooting match going on out there, don’t they care?”
“Seems not, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer shook his head in disbelief. “I guess that the lure of profit outweighs the risk.”
“We’ll see about that,” Sloane muttered. “Once I’ve finished with this station, they’ll have to use a quantum entanglement scanner just to look for the remnants of what’s left of it. Communications,” he called out. “Broadcast the following to all ships in the system on the emergency guard frequency—to all ships in the vicinity of Elysium Fields, by order of High-Lord Stanton you are to immediately vacate this space. Extended combat operations are about to commence, any ships in the area will be flagged as hostile, targeted and destroyed. Leave. Now.”
“Civilian ships are vacating the area, Admiral. We now have a clear firing solution for the anti-capital ship torpedoes.”
“That’s all it takes to deal with these privateering scum, a show of force. Target the enemy ship, arm torpedoes and open all outer launch tubes.”
“All of them Admiral? Each warhead is armed with a fifty kiloton warhead. I thought you wanted to disable the enemy ship, not annihilate it?”
“I’m constantly reminded by all of the formidable armour of the Nova-Class Dreadnought, let me demonstrate to you all its ineffectiveness, in the face of such overwhelming firepower.”
“What of the High-Lord, Admiral? The last message that we received indicated that he was still on board?”
“He’s meant to be a God, isn’t he?” Sloane shrugged. “I’m sure that he will survive.” The thought of eliminating this bothersome ship and his loathsome superior, in a single volley, cheered him immensely. While the day had started off miserably, it had the sudden prospect of ending extremely well.
“Match bearings and shoot!” he roared.
*****
Jessica opened her eyes, staring upwards, into the long arm of a spiral galaxy.
Or at least that was how it first appeared, a hundred different stars moving in tandem, in a circular motion. It was only as her eyes slowly adjusted, having been momentarily blinded by the earlier flare of light, that she could pick out individual ‘stars’, but they were nothing of the sort.
“The pearls,” she breathed in sudden understanding, as they continued to re-emit the light from Alex’s fusion pistol. “So that’s why you insisted on being paid in Al-Keishi pearls.”
“I told you they were the best natural energy converts in the galaxy,” Alex reminded her from somewhere above.
“But how?” she shook her head in confusion. “How can they just be floating up there?”
“For the same reason that it feels like you’ve just lost several pounds, we’ve been slowly reducing the artificial gravity in this section, ever since you first arrived. It’s just been so gradual that you haven’t noticed. The effect on the pearls is simply more pronounced, as they possess less mass than you or I.”
“What happens now?”
“Now you leave, just like you should have earlier, having given me my payment. Find your father and go, but take care, as the artificial gravity has now been shut-off completely. Come to think of it, take my hand and I’ll lead you to him, the last thing that I need right now, is you floating off somewhere.”
Ignoring Alex’s outstretched hand, she reached out catching a firm hold on a nearby table, which must have been anchored to the ground, as unlike her it was firmly affixed in place. With a graceful summersault, she re-orientated herself in the direction of the room, pushing off from the table with her fingertips, stylishly floating in the direction of her father, who was frantically grasping at an exposed conduit, to keep himself in place. Glancing back, she observed Alex staring back at her, mouth agape, like a fish out of water.
“Three times zero-gravity gymnastics champion,” she said with an impish smile, as she sailed away from him.
“Of course you were,” Alex sighed out loud. “Stay close to Sanderson. I promised your father that no harm would come to you. Sanderson will look after you both and see that you get to safety.”
“What?” she cried out, tumbling in mid-flight, as she tried to reorient herself, but helpless to change direction and go after him. She only just had enough time to reach out to catch the same conduit that her father had wrapped himself around, like a python.
“Jessica,” he said relieved. “Thank the Gods that you’re safe. What is going on here? Stanton said that he would arrange everything, he personally guaranteed—who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“Good to finally make your acquaintance, High-Lord Hadley,” Sanderson replied formally, doing a passable impression of a bow, while floating several feet off the ground. However, he broke the illusion with his next question, “I don’t suppose that you’ve got a light, have you? Turns out that my lighter doesn’t work in zero-gravity.”
At the incredulous look from Jessica and her father, he sighed despondently, stuffing the cigar back into his jacket pocket, which it proceeded to float out from.
“I hate zero-g,” he complained out loud, to nobody in particular. “Anyway, we’d better get going, we’ve got a shuttle prepped and ready for launch. Templeton, Baracoa, stop messing around and get over here. I’ll take point, you two bring up the rear. You ready to go?” he turned back around to face father and daughter.
“Where’s Alex?” Jessica demanded.
“How should I know? What do I look like, his father?”
“I mean if you three are here, who is helping Alex? Murdoch?”
“No, he’s already doing the pre-flight checks for your shuttle. Which reminds me, one or both of you can pilot it, right? As I don’t think Alex has enough money to bribe Murdoch to fly you all the way back to Osiris.”
“You mean he’s out there, alone?” Jessica demanded incredulously. “Stanton, I mean High-Lord Stanton, still has men out there looking for him, they’ll kill—”
A high-pitched whine, followed by an abrupt scream, which was suddenly cut off, interrupted whatever she was going to say next.
“I think that answers that question,” Sanderson replied succinctly. “Time to be going, Lady Jessica, if you could give your father a hand please, I must congratulate you on your anti-gravity skills, but your father, he’s going a bit green around the gills.”
“Come on dad, let go and hold onto me,” Jessica reassured her father.
“I’m glad that all the money I spent on those zero-gravity gymnastics classes wasn’t wasted,” Hadley muttered, holding on tightly to his daughter’s arm. “Now, can you explain to me what is going on? Who are these people?”
“Shush father, later,” she replied, releasing the conduit and gently pushing off in the direction that Sanderson had taken, noting Templeton and Baracoa waited a few seconds longer, before pushing off after them.
The group flew onwards for several seconds, before coming to the first emergency decompression door, discovering, not surprisingly, that the door was already closed.
“Give me one minute, while I open this,” Sanderson grunted, finally managing to catch hold of a handle, pulling himself in the direction of the access panel. Tapping a few controls, he nodded his head. “That’s released it. Seems like all the internal pressure doors have been closed from the bridge. It’ll slow us down a bit, but we can still make the shuttle.”
Before he’d even finished, internal servo-motors began to whirl and the do
or centimetre-by-centimetre, inch-by-inch, started to open—to reveal half a dozen troops on the other side. In their combat armour, with compact assault rifles, it was obvious that they worked for Stanton. Even though terribly disorientated, facing in different directions, many spinning uncontrollably, they all immediately raised their rifles and opened fire…
*****
“Missile launch detected!”
The Weapons Officer screamed out from the front of the bridge, even two hundred metres distant, the fear in his voice easily carried the warning the length of the bridge. “The Valkyrie has launched six torpedoes, all running straight and true, estimated impact time, three minutes.”
“I think I might have upset Admiral Sloane,” Granville complained. “As he doesn’t appear to have taken the loss of those shuttles very well. These torpedoes, I take it that they do considerable damage?”
“They each possess a fifty kiloton warhead, my Lord.” At the confused expression on Lord Granville’s face, the Captain sighed. “Yes, considerable damage, my Lord. Normally I would recommend that we commence evasive manoeuvres, however—”
“Yes, yes,” Granville said crossly. “There is no need to continually labour the point. I’m aware that we have no engines. Do you have any idea how much those things cost? They wanted like half a billion, each, to retrofit a pair of Fusion engines. Look at me. Do I look like a man who has a billion credits, burning a hole in my pocket?”
“You’re often boasting about your personal net worth,” the Captain hedged. “Well, never mind, in that case I would recommend that we instead target them with the guns.”
“Are you mad!” Granville exploded from the captain’s chair to his feet. “Do you have any idea how much even one of those things is worth on the black market? More than I pay you each quarter, that I can promise.”
“I can well believe it,” the Captain grumbled.
“Order the ships, Phaeton, High Flyer, Spider and Curricle to intercept those torpedoes and retrieve them for me. Whichever ship successfully retrieves a torpedo; I’ll give the crew a bonus of twenty thousand.”
