A Big Ship at the Edge of the Universe

by Alex White

  Lights flickered on with her arrival, and Boots glanced up at the Midnight Runner, orange floodlights splashing across its hull.

  “Go time,” she whispered. They’re going to be okay. This will be different than Laconte. It’s open space.

  They’d salvaged a couple of seekers for the Runner back at Alpha, and she wasn’t sure of the exact make, but the missiles made for an impressive complement. Boots just hoped the nonstandard warheads were as mean as they looked.

  For the past few days, Nilah had sequestered herself in her quarters with about half of Orna’s tools and some dangerous-looking chemicals. She was creating a countermeasure for Mother’s power, but Boots hadn’t seen it yet. She only knew that the rest of the crew wanted nothing to do with the racer while she worked; something about the indolence gas kept them pretty spooked. For the first time, Boots was thankful for her natural immunity.

  A pair of mine launchers ran the length of the cargo bay ceiling, their silvery struts a makeshift mechanism from the quartermaster. Orna had loaded them up with thirty improvised limpet mines designed to cling to the battle cruiser’s hull.

  “Orna!” Boots shouted, and the quartermaster swung out from behind the launchers like a grease-stained spider.

  Orna plucked a spanner from her mouth and stowed it into a socket on her belt. “What?”

  “You heard the call. Ready stations in five.” Boots opened a hatch along the far wall and yanked out a flight vest and suit.

  “Finally.” Orna released the harness and dropped ten feet to the deck like a sledgehammer. “Nilah got the stuff ready?”

  “I think so. She’s supposed to be at muster.” Boots jammed her feet into the suit and pulled it up over her arms before pressing the form button on its belt. It suctioned to her body, granting her freedom of movement, but it pressed her wrinkled clothes against her skin. A puff of body odor shot into her face from the locking collar, and she winced.

  Orna nodded at her as she approached. “You ready for this?”

  Boots shook her head. “Is that even possible? I wish I had your fire support.”

  Orna tongued the inside of her mouth, and Boots realized she’d said something stupid, accidentally bringing up Ranger before a battle. “Yeah, well … just stay away from the battle cruiser. I don’t want one of these mines sticking to my fighter.”

  Picking up her helmet off the rack, Boots said, “You and me both.”

  “Good hunting, Boots.”

  Orna rushed off to the bridge, leaving Boots to climb up to the Midnight Runner and into the cockpit. She keyed in her access code, and the console rose to life. She eyed the mine launcher rails, perilously close to her fighter’s scaffolding, but Orna had assured Boots that the ship would take off just fine.

  “Departure, this is Boots, checking in.”

  “Departure acknowledges, Boots,” said Armin. “Stand by for preflight checks.”

  Boots ran down the list with Armin, her heart thumping every time she said a system was ready. She couldn’t help but feel like it was a countdown to their demise.

  “Boots,” said Armin, “you are cleared for departure on our mark. Stand by.”

  “Good luck, Prince,” she said.

  “To both of us.”

  Aisha boomed through the cargo bay, and the lights flashed red again. “All crew, ten seconds to normal space.”

  Atmosphere began to drain from the bay. Boots counted down and listened for the familiar thrum of the ship’s main thrusters. Right on the dot, she felt the skewing shift into normal space. For a category five zone, there weren’t any screeching explosions or searing beams—just the gentle hum of smooth sailing.

  “All stations, damage report!” Aisha cried.

  The crew ran down the litany of systems in her helmet earpiece, each one coming up nominal. But then, Orna called out, “Scanners offline, Captain. Systems responding, but they can’t penetrate whatever … this is.”

  What the hell were they talking about? Boots awaited her turn to report in, hoping they’d pop the bay door and release her. When it came to Boots, she said, “Runner here, ready to deploy.”

  “All systems … all systems operational, Captain,” said Aisha. “Except scanners.”

  “Then what is this?” asked Cordell. “You’re all feeling it, too.”

  Once more, the crew sounded off, each one confirming that they felt something horrible. Then it came to Boots.

  “Sir, I feel fine.”

  “Standby again, Boots,” said Armin. “We’re trying to assess the situation.”

  “Departure, I’d like to request a recon release,” said Boots.

  “Copy that,” said Armin.

  “Pop the bay and let her out,” said Cordell.

  The bay door opened soundlessly, though Boots could feel it grinding through the Runner’s mag clamps. As soon as it thunked to a stop, Boots launched, not waiting for orders. If they were in danger, she would do whatever it took to blow the enemy into space dust.

  Except once she reached open space, she found nothing—no arcing spells, no enemy warships, just the cool blue orb of Chaparral Two. Sickly light flickered from a nearby star, bathing the azure planet. Boots hadn’t expected to find an ocean world, given that the Harrow was supposedly secreted away there. Had they hidden it underwater?

  “Negative visual contact, but my scanners are down too,” said Boots. “What have you got, Boss?”

  “It’s our opinion,” said Cordell, voice labored, “that this place is magically suppressed. It explains why you’re the only one not feeling the effects.”

  “How bad are we talking here? We going to be able to cycle oxygen?”

  “Yeah. All the amps and subsystems still work … just a lot of funk out there. I feel certain,” he said, and Boots got the impression that he was addressing the entire bridge, “that we can all do our jobs today.”

  “Copy that,” said Boots. “You can still cast?”

  “We can, but it’s weak,” he said. “Don’t worry about us.”

  Before she could say anything else, a streak and a bright flash filled her vision. A battle cruiser sliced across the sky, missile pods bristling. Four fighters shot forth from its bay like angry insects, armed for bear at the Capricious.

  “Visual contact!” called Boots. “Five bandits: four fighters and a battle cruiser. Echo niner-niner-niner, carom two-zero-one, distance, uh …” she checked her camera’s visible spectrum analysis, “twenty thousand. Requesting weapons free.”

  “Prince here. Weapons free. Prepare for full burn.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Harmony and Harrow

  Boots fired her maneuvering thrusters to center up on the pack of fighters. She’d charge into them on the tail of the Capricious, using the marauder’s shields for cover.

  “Moment of truth, folks. The plan hasn’t changed,” said Cordell as a pair of shields spun into being around the Capricious’s nose. The translucent blue plates aligned, one over the other, hardening the fore defenses. “Execute full burn in three …”

  The distant fighters aligned for a strafing run. The marauder’s charge would force them to break ranks.

  “Two …”

  Boots flipped the safeties off all her weapons. They were fighting visual-only in a null-magic field. This was her battle to lose.

  “One …”

  Her fingers tightened around the throttle.

  “Execute.”

  The Capricious’s main drive flared, and the ship raced past Boots. She throttled up, falling in behind its engine wash, and inertia pressed her into her seat. She’d finally started to acclimate to her old settings, and the sporty discomfort gave her an edge in a fight. All the combat actions had resurrected her instincts from the bad old days, and she felt sharp as a knife; a little rusty, but still dangerous.

  Ahead of her, the halo of Cordell’s shield arced against the silhouette of the Capricious—he was taking fire up front from the fighters. Boots got in closer behind him, u
sing the mass for full cover. A missile corkscrewed past the Capricious into the blackness beyond, and Boots realized the fight had swung even harder in her favor—no scanners meant that seeker missiles couldn’t acquire targets.

  “Dispersers at full capacity,” called Nilah over the radio.

  “Keep them tuned up,” said Cordell. “Boots, we’re about to bust up that fighter wing. Peel up, because we’ve got a surprise for them. Missus Jan will call your mark.”

  “Distance five hundred,” said Aisha.

  “Copy that,” said Boots.

  The shield flared brighter as more shots bounced off the front of the Capricious, and the engines shone like tiny suns. One of the missiles struck home, sending sparks around the side of the ship in a spray, but it was an indirect hit.

  “Mark!” shouted Aisha.

  Boots angled her nose up as a pair of fighters streaked overhead. Her cheeks pulled toward her neck as she punched her booster. She clicked the trigger, spraying a burst of slinger fire at them, but they were too far away, and the shots went wide. The fighters spun in place and returned fire, their shots lancing past her as she broke cover to pursue. Her dispersers discharged and whined as they charged again.

  Just below her, the Capricious rolled and fired its keel gun at one of the bandits shooting at Boots. Aisha’s marksman’s mark brought the shot home, and the enemy fighter went careening off into space, engines sparking and painting a trail of viscous smoke.

  The second fighter charged directly for Boots, slingers blazing. She fired her keel maneuvering thrusters, pushing her fighter out of range of the bolts as she boosted up and over him. Her targeting computer indicated a lock, and she loosed one of her four missiles on instinct—

  Only to have it go spiraling off into nowhere, its warhead unable to acquire a target. She’d forgotten about the suppression field’s effects already.

  “Son of a—” she grumbled, peeling off after the Capricious. She should’ve shredded the enemy’s canopy with regular slingers, but a moment of inattentiveness had cost her the opportunity.

  “All okay, Boots?” Armin’s tinny voice echoed in her comm.

  “I finally get some missiles and I can’t freaking use them!” said Boots. “Can I get another shot from the keel gun on one of these clowns? It’s still three on one out here!”

  A spray of spells filled her vision, and Boots flipped the Runner, diving and rolling off-axis with one of the wing thrusters. In the distance, she spied the Capricious closing on the battle cruiser, streaks of powerful spells lancing out and shattering on the shields. Two of the fighters had followed, leaving their third member to deal with Boots.

  “You’re going to have to make do,” said Cordell, grunting as a large round blasted his shield. “We’re about to engage the battle cruiser.”

  The Runner shook hard with a deafening strike, and warning alarms filled her ears. The enemy fighter had tattooed a short line down the back of her main drive housing. She’d been lucky—a little to the left, and her eidolon core would’ve gone up.

  “Cheeky little bastard.” She spun her fighter to find the enemy entirely too close for comfort, and opened up with her guns. He dodged right, and she slowed her momentum with the main drive, allowing him to pass as she set up a line of fire.

  It cut his canopy in half like a chainsaw.

  “Two down, two to go!” shouted Boots, laying into her throttle and reorienting toward the Capricious.

  “Prince here. We could use your help,” called Armin. “These other two fighters are chewing up our rear, and the captain needs both shields to fore.”

  “Copy that.” Boots searched open space with her visible light gun cam and found the two fighters. She magnified them onto her console, setting a course. One of the enemy craft glimmered with an arcane shield across its nose.

  “Prince, we’ve got a striker!” she called in, checking her readout. “Echo one-one-three, carom four-zero-nine, distance thirty-two hundred.”

  “Striker” was their code word for pilots with the shieldmaster’s mark and fighter amps: fast spacecraft that could slam into warships while doing little damage to themselves. Boots put a full burn on her throttle, and her warning panel squawked a loud protest.

  “Boots,” growled Cordell, “I’m taking on the full firepower of a cruiser over here. I can’t spare a shield to block. Take him out!”

  The striker centered up on the Capricious, and Boots rocketed toward it as fast as she could. The Runner would never be as fast as something designed to eviscerate large military ships with its own body.

  The striker’s scanners didn’t work. It wouldn’t see her coming, and while a shield protected its front, its rear was open to attack. She punched in auxiliary power to her main drive, and the system positively screeched at her for it. Boots was no mechanist, but she could be reasonably sure her starfighter was upset with her.

  Her eyes darted between the heat sensors in her engine cowling, the visual intercept vector, and the view of the unfolding battle in front of her. Her ship made an unfamiliar rattle as it raced for the striker, whose engines flared brightly.

  “Go, go, go, baby,” muttered Boots, lining up the shot. Fire too soon, and the striker would notice her and peel off. Too late, and she’d be shooting through the enemy—into the open cargo bay of the Capricious.

  Her warnings reached a fever pitch as Boots loosed a spray of bolts. Enemy dispersers caught the first two hits, but the remaining volley went through. The striker exploded into a glittering eruption of purple eidolon dust and zero-g flames, like smeared orbs. Boots checked the spread of debris—it didn’t look like the enemy remains would hit the Capricious, so she didn’t have to chase them down and put a few shots into them.

  “Boss here. You take care of that striker?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Boots. “Dead as a doornail and one to go.”

  “Distance to cruiser, one thousand,” said Aisha.

  “Execute mining maneuver,” said Armin. “Boots, you’re going to want to stay clear.”

  The Capricious’s main drive angled down, pushing the ship into a forward tumble to point its open cargo bay straight at the battle cruiser. Cordell’s shields swung around to protect the back as the ship began to corkscrew.

  “Launch mines!” shouted Cordell, parting his shields long enough to let the dozens of discus-shaped charges through. They flew from the spinning cargo bay in a helical pattern, a deadly strand of DNA bound for the battle cruiser.

  The remaining enemy fighter made a fast pass over the Capricious, slingers perforating the marauder’s main drive—the engine it would’ve used to slow its attack.

  It was Laconte all over again. The Capricious was going to slam into the battle cruiser, shattering Cordell’s amplified shields.

  A stray bolt of slinger fire caught the first limpet in a chain, detonating it. The shock wave sent the others off-course, and Cordell had to bat them away with his shields.

  “How many more mines you got?” called Boots.

  “Zero,” said Armin. “Everyone brace for impact!”

  Boots was already vectored in to pass the Capricious from chasing the striker. She could make a hard run on the cruiser, no targeting computers, no certainty that she could turn in time.

  All she had to do was fly through the cruiser’s firing solution on the Capricious before the two ships collided. Once again she throttled up, and her ship rattled hard.

  “I’m going to smash this guy, Boss,” said Boots, designating the spot on the battle cruiser where she intended to strike—dead center, where the Capricious was going to hit.

  “I told you to take out the fighters! You’re my only wing, Boots,” said Cordell.

  She whipped under the Capricious, its secondary drives doing everything they could to alter its trajectory. A stray limpet streaked toward her and Boots blew it apart with her slingers, scattering debris and molten metal across the stars.

  The battle cruiser came into full view, its bright yellow sides
lined with burning hot slingers belching missiles past her cockpit like schools of fish. This was definitely a stupid idea.

  “Boots, do you copy?”

  “What the hell do you think I’m doing, Captain?”

  She depressed the secondary trigger, launching her remaining three missiles. All she needed to do was pierce the cruiser’s hull and weaken a central rib, and the Capricious might break through. At this range, the missiles wouldn’t miss, even without guidance, and since missiles weren’t spells, dispersers couldn’t stop them, either.

  Boots fired her forward maneuvering thrusters and her canopy thrusters, hoping to push her ship down and out of the way before she slammed into the cruiser’s hull like an insect.

  The first missile struck with the fire of a thousand suns. The cruiser buckled backward as though a god’s hand had shoved it. A spinning crescent flash smashed through the cruiser’s side, slicing the hull apart and sending both ends spinning outward.

  It was a warhead-sized discus round.

  “Holy—” came Cordell’s voice, but the second two missiles hit their marks, quadrisecting the battle cruiser into exploding chunks.

  Boots sailed through the wreckage, her eyes darting across the honeycomb of glowing orange metal. She spied the silhouette of an unsuited body, drifting freely from its former battle station. Lights inside the battle cruiser flickered and went out, leaving only the golden cross-section of decks.

  Boots spun her Runner to watch the Capricious blast through after her, its shields protecting it from the smaller debris. The marauder continued its corkscrew, planting a shot into the dead center of the last strafing fighter. The small craft went up like a bonfire, pieces of it streaking into a chunk of the battle cruiser.

  For a moment, the radio was dead silent.

  “So,” said Boots, “on my combat record, does that count as one ship, or …”

  Cordell’s jovial voice came over the comm, laughter erupting behind him. “Okay, okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Boots. How many more of those ridiculous warheads you got left?”