Starcruiser Polaris: Terrible Swift Sword

by Richard Tongue

 “You did the broadcast that started all of this. Only seems fair that you do the one that finishes it.” Fishing a datapad out of his pocket, he added, “I'll see what else I can find out.”

   Clearing her throat, Cordova said, “This is Major Cordova. I can announce that rebel forces under the leadership of Commander Edward Curtis have successfully defeated the Federation Fleet in orbit. All government forces in the capital have surrendered. The war, at least here, is over. Tomorrow you will begin the hard work of building the world you want to live in. Tonight, you can rejoice that the tyranny that has enslaved this world since the days of the first colonists has finally been defeated. You won this victory. Enjoy it. Savor it. And remember this day forever. Good night.”

   “Not bad,” Harland said, skimming over his datapad. His face fell as he read through a report, and said, “Oh, God.”

   “What is it?”

   Looking out at the crowd, he asked, “You know where Petrov is?”

   “No idea. I hope...”

   Taking a deep breath, Harland replied, “It's Canopus. Judging by the images I'm getting from the orbital satellites, I'd say the odds are pretty good that his daughter just died in action.”

  Chapter 27

   Mike's eyes fluttered open, pain burning through his head. A hand was shaking him, and he looked across to see Petrova jostling his shoulder, trying to wake him, the last remnants of a medical kit in her hand. He tried to rise, and agony swept through his system, stilled by a pinprick in his arm. He looked around the bridge, and his heart sank. Hammond was dead, prone on the deck, her glassy eyes staring at the shattered, twisted ceiling. Kenyon was sprawled over the helm controls, the ceiling strut which had brushed over his head full on her back. She'd said that she wanted nobody else to fly her ship. Fate had granted her wish.

   “Damage report?” he said, and Schmidt lurched over to him, shaking her head.

   “The last readings I had suggested total systems failure, Commander. The superstructure was shattered by the final salvo, and we've lost all sensor and communication systems. Emergency power is on, but I don't know how long it'll hold.” With a sigh, she said, “She's a dead ship, Commander. I'd say we're looking at a matter of minutes until total structural collapse.”

   “Then what are you waiting around here for?” he asked. “Just you two?”

   “Everyone else…,” Petrova said. “We were lucky, I guess.”

   Nodding, Mike replied, “Get out of here.”

   “We were...”

   “Lieutenant,” he said. “I'm dead. I don't think I can move, and even if I could, I'd only slow you down. You're going to be needed in the battles to come. Some of the escape pods on the underdeck might still be intact. Get to one of them and leave. That's an order.”

   Shaking her head again, Schmidt replied, “Not a chance, sir. Anna, you take his right arm, I'll take his left.” Glaring at Mike, she continued, “I don't want to hear a single damned word of protest, Commander. Consider that an order, if you want. Given that if any doctor was around, he'd declare you unfit for command in a heartbeat.”

   “I don't want the two of you to die for nothing,” he said.

   “We aren't,” Petrova said. “We're risking death for you.”

   The two women dragged him from the chair, pulling him over to the emergency hatch on the floor, already popped open by the force of the final salvo. Mike took one last look around his bridge, only a handful of the displays still working, flickering their final reports as sirens wailed in the background. A tear ran down the side of his face as he struggled to the hatch, Schmidt sliding down first to the deck below, only the flickering emergency lights providing illumination.

   Mike was next, his broken leg aflame as he caught it on the wall on his way down, Schmidt managing to break his fall, dragging him out of the way as Petrova followed. The corridor looked worse than the bridge, tattered debris everywhere, cracks running across the ceiling where hull plates had ruptured, and the distinctive odor of ozone in the air, the all-too-familiar sign of a life support system on its last legs.

   Turning a corner, he saw a pair of legs sticking out from under a pair of broken maintenance cabinets, and Schmidt raced forward, shaking her head as she quickly examined the dead crewman. Returning to Mike's side, she guided him gently over the debris, trying not to look at the man they'd left behind.

   “How many got away?” he asked.

   “We lost internal communications in the final impact, but I think I saw some escape pods heading away,” Petrova replied. “Hell, we don't even know if there's still a battle going on outside. For all we know, there are Federation boarding parties on the way right now.”

   “I don't think so,” Mike replied. “They'd have come around for another pass. There's been more than enough time for them to blow us out of space, and they'd have done it, even if it was just as a public relations stunt.” They turned a corner, and his face fell as he saw the row of sealed hatches on the wall, four of them, all silent testament to the departed escape pods.

   “At least someone got away,” Schmidt said with a sigh. She turned to the other corridor, a pressure hatch sealed shut, and added, “No way. Even if we had a spacesuit, there's too much debris to wade through.”

   A faint crackle came from Mike's pocket, and he fumbled down for his communicator, flipping the channel open and saying, “Canopus Actual. Go ahead.”

   “I'm coming to get you, son,” his father replied. “I'm sitting in a shuttle, about one minute from docking. I think I've got your signal traced down, and I'll be coming in to Airlock Nine-Nine. If I'm getting this right, that's one deck down from your current position. Can you make it?”

   “We'll be there,” he replied. A roar of static erupted over the channel, and he said, “Interference. I'm surprised the first message got through.” He paused, grimacing as his foot touched the deck, and said, “I'll say again what I said before. You two should get going.”

   “To hell with that,” Petrova replied, and they half-carried, half-dragged him down the corridor for ten painful steps before the lights flickered out, and with them, the artificial gravity which was weighing them down. Mike felt a queasy feeling in his stomach as he floated clear of the deck, drifting towards the ceiling.

   Experimentally, Mike pushed off a wall, discovering in the process that he had broken two fingers on his left hand, but at least he could guide himself towards their goal, floating through the cloud of debris rising from the floor. The hull creaked, and he heard a loud report from somewhere to their rear, another breach. The ship couldn't hold together for much longer, and the loss of gravity was the final nail in the coffin that Canopus was rapidly becoming.

   “Good God, look at that,” Schmidt said, gesturing at a gap in the floor, jagged metal ripped clean through where a conduit had exploded. The crack ran all the way to the wall, and Mike looked at Schmidt, the two of them knowing that they were close to the outer hull. Loud creaks echoed from all around them, the sounds of imminent structural failure.

   “Come on,” Petrova said, pushing Mike through the gap before diving after him, Schmidt following an instant later. Caught on a stray cable, Mike tumbled around, and had a perfect view of the wall finally giving way, the pressures from the other failed sections finally too great. A low hiss turned into a howl as atmosphere began to leech away, a force starting to drag him back towards the breach as Petrova pushed him onward, one final burst of energy that carried them beyond the sole remaining pressure door in the corridor.

   It should have triggered automatically. It didn't.

   Cursing, Schmidt dived for the panel, the force of escaping air threatening to drag her away as she entered the override sequence, the hatch mercifully slamming shut just as Petrova was about to lose her grip, sending her and Mike floating off into space. She gestured up at the ceiling, already starting to buckle.

   “We won't be so lucky the next time.”


   The three of them pushed off down the corridor, an airlock sliding open in front of them, Major Saxon waving for them to hurry as the sound of hull failure echoed all around, desperate cracks and rumbles, the pressure falling from pinhole leaks the detectors no longer had the ability to register. There was no thought for precedence of rank; Mike was the first one through, snatched out of the air by Saxon and tossed roughly in the direction of a crash couch, almost immediately followed by Petrova.

   Schmidt loitered for an instant, taking a final look at the corridor before diving in, the airlock slamming shut behind them. Without delay, the shuttle detached, the force of the emergency bolts ripping the ship free taking some of the deck plating with it, and as the engines roared, pushing them away from the side of the ship, Mike got the first good look at the remnants of his first command.

   Canopus was broken, the aft section already beginning to crack, thousands of hull breaches venting air into space. The corridor they had recently vacated was exposed to space, the integrity of the armor lasting just long enough to allow them to get away. After a moment, the engines died, and his father stepped out of the airlock, gesturing for Saxon to take control.

   “Well?” Mike asked, grimacing through the pain. “Did we win?”

   “We won,” he replied. “And God, did we win big. They came here with eight ships. Nine if you count the one we took down on our first visit. They left with one, and only a handful of fighters onboard.” He paused, then said, “Admiral Yoshida is dead. Regulus was completely destroyed. I know he was a close friend.” Frowning, he continued, “I just remember him as an ambitious Lieutenant who used to beat me at poker.”

   “He was my mentor,” Mike said. “More than that.”

   “He did what I couldn't,” his father replied. “I know some of the story. I figure we're finally going to have time for you to tell me the rest, soon enough.” Carefully resting a hand on Mike's shoulder, he continued, “You realize the magnitude of what happened here today. Sirius is damaged, but Meg Bishop thinks she'll be able to get her in fighting trim in a week. She's already heading back to Sinaloa Station for repairs. We started this fight with odds of eleven to two. We're up to six to five, and with a few auxiliary cruisers as well. The Directorate committed their whole auxiliary force to the fight. Mike, we've got the advantage now. A strategic advantage, in terms of both quantity and quality.”

   “It doesn't seem real,” he replied. “Though I suppose that might be the drugs talking. What about my crew?”

   Looking down at the deck, his father said, “Duval and Kani made sure that they didn't knock out a single shuttle from the first wave of evacuees. All of them made it to Newton Station, and are safe and well. As for your fighters, you lost twelve planes, five pilots. All killed, no wounded, but that's pretty normal for fighter combat.”

   “And the rest?”

   With a deep sigh, he continued, “We have confirmation of eighteen, Mike. I'm truly sorry. There might be more out there, but not many of the escape pods managed to clear the debris field. I've got search and rescue shuttles picking up the other survivors, and we got four others from Sensor Control, but that's about it.”

   Nodding, Mike replied, “I'd like to see them as soon as possible.”

   “You're going to have to get yourself pretty thoroughly checked out first, Commander,” Petrova said. “At a minimum, you've broken several bones.”

   “Mike,” his father said, “It was worth it. What your crew did was magnificent. They're already talking about it halfway across the Federation. We had footage of the battle piped on StelCom, thanks to a few friends in ColSec.” Shaking his head, he added, “Words I never thought I'd say. Hyperborea is ours, and there are insurrections on four colony worlds already. It hasn't been an hour. You can bet that every colony will be in full revolt in a matter of days.”

   “Then they're beaten,” Mike replied, nodding in satisfaction. He looked up at his father, and said, “We haven't finished yet, have we?”

   “They'll let every colony, every outpost go, but as long as they hold Earth and Titan, they can stand us off indefinitely. Build new ships, a new Fleet, one bigger than anything we can prepare in the time. This war isn't over. Not until we make it all the way to Earth itself. Not until we can dictate terms from Earth Orbit, and until the Federation is broken forever.” Looking down at his son, he added, “Get some rest, Mike. I'm going to need you soon.”

   “My ship...”

   “We just got a few new ones. For one thing, I'm going to need a flotilla commander.” Turning to Petrova, he said, “You're his minder, right?”

   “So it would appear.”

   “Get him fit for duty as fast as possible. Without doing anything stupid.”

   “That's a little...ambitious, Commander.”

   With a shrug, he replied, “We just took down the biggest fleet the Federation ever mustered, Lieutenant. After that, it should be child's play.” Looking down at his red-faced son, he said, “Though perhaps I see what you mean.”

  Epilogue

   The crowd outside were still cheering as Curtis sat at the desk in the office of the late Governor of Hyperborea, fiddling with the tie on his hastily-improvised dress uniform, dredged out of the archives by Rojek in a desperate bid to look impressive. At the insistence of McKinnon, Saxon and Ortiz, he wore a single star on each shoulder, the insignia of the rank they all agreed he had earned in the recently-fought battle.

   “In five seconds, Admiral,” the technician said, making final adjustments to the camera. If they'd got this right, he'd soon be live on forty-five worlds, including Earth itself, an appreciable fraction of the planetary power grid devoted to pulsing this message out to the stars. They'd all seen the battle, and despite the frantic propaganda being released by the Federation, they all knew that the rebel fleet had triumphed. As impossible as it seemed, his plan had worked, and the Federation's fleet was reduced to a fraction of its former strength.

   “In Two. One. You're on, Admiral.”

   Forcing a smile to his face, Curtis said, “Good morning. My name is Admiral Edward Curtis, and I have the honor to be the commanding officer of the forces that engaged and destroyed a Federation task force in Hyperborean orbit today. For the first time, Hyperborea is free and independent, her people rising as one to drive out their oppressors. Never again will they fall under foreign tyranny. Never again will they he used as playthings in the political games of distant masters. And never again will they live under the shadow of destruction. They are free.”

   Looking down at the desk for a second, he continued, “News has already reached us, here on Hyperborea, that other worlds are fighting to free themselves. That Caledonia, the longest-settled extrasolar planet, has seen uprisings in every city. That Cosmograd, a bastion of the Federation Fleet, has declared for the rebellion. To those in the process of overthrowing the tyrants that have oppressed them for decades, I pledge that the fleet under my command stands with you.”

   “Many good men and women have died. They died for you. For all of you. Died that the dreams of freedom you have been forced to bury for so long can at last be given their fullest expression. Died to give you the keys to the prison in which you have been held captive. Died to build a better tomorrow for our children.”

   Looking back up at the camera, he continued, “We will continue this war until the end. We will continue to fight on until the last moment, until we have defeated the Federation at its beating heart. To the Central Committee and the remnants of the Federation Fleet, I issue a warning. You will not be safe on Earth. You can't hide away from the rest of the galaxy and hope that all of this will go away. We're coming. We're coming for you. And this time, we will not be stopped.”

   The light winked out, and Saxon walked around the camera, a frown on her face, saying, “Was that wise? Telling them that we were coming?”

   “They have to know it's the final act of the war. We can dance
around the outer worlds for weeks, months, but the last battle will be waged in Earth Orbit. They know that just as well as I do.”  “I don't hold out much hope that you'll bring them to the bargaining table,” Saxon replied.

   “No, but I do hope that some of the rats might start fleeing the sinking ship. Every mid-level administrator or staff officer who decides to flee to the Halo Worlds throws them into that much more chaos. And for us, chaos breeds victory.” He sat back in his chair, and said, “Nice and comfortable. You think I could get away with taking it up to Polaris?”

   “Probably not,” she replied, walking over to the window, looking out at the stars beyond. “It'll be dawn soon. In a few hours.”

   “I doubt anyone out there got any sleep tonight.”

   Turning to him, she asked, “Which one is Earth?”

   Frowning, he rose from his chair, walked over to the window, and pointed at a tiny spot of light, one almost lost in a sea of stars, and replied, “That one. Right there. First thing any spacer ever checks when he reaches a new system. Even if he's never even been there.”

   Nodding, she said, wistfully, “It's been a long time since I've been there.”

   “Me too,” he replied. “But we're going back. And we're going in style.”

  Thank you for reading 'Terrible Swift Sword'. For information on future releases, please join the author's Science-Fiction Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX for updates. If you enjoyed this book, please review it on the site where you purchased it.

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  The saga returns in 'He Never Died', available soon…

  If you can't wait, why not try one of the author's other books, such as Strike Commander: Starfighter, an excerpt of which is included on the next page...

  Chapter 1

   The clock ticked down the final hours to the end of the Interplanetary War. Lounging with an air of feigned nonchalance in the squadron ready room, the pilots of the 25th Squadron of the Martian Defense Force watched the screen, a dark-suited newscaster bringing them the latest news from the Armistice talks.