Space Battleship Scharnhorst and the Library of Doom (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure)

by Timothy J. Gawne

  Do we have a plan?

  “Why yes we do. I try and kill as many of the Amok robot spider things before they board me in about two hours. Then, we hunt down and kill the rest inside my hull before they kill us.”

  A simple plan. I always liked simple plans. You have a rare gift for strategy.

  ---------------

  Fanboy worked on repairing his damage, but there was limited time and resources for that. Frisbee thought that they should split up and kill the Amok spider-things piecemeal, hiding in cover and waiting for them to pass by, but Old Guy and Uncle Jon would have none of that. They insisted that they had to maintain cohesion, and be able to support each other. If one of them gets pinned down the others maneuver to kill the enemy from behind or from the flanks, that’s how it’s done.

  Fanboy’s repair drones set up boobytraps throughout the hull, and armed themselves with salvaged weapons from demolished defensive systems. Old Guy, Frisbee, Uncle Jon and Rock Dancer each carried massive plasma cannons (at least they were massive compared to a human form), crude things without hand-grips that had been ripped out of their mountings and connected to bulky power-packs with finger-thick electrical cables. Zippo the space monkey had a single small slug-thrower and crossed bandoliers with extra ammo. He looked like a tiny metal Pancho Villa.

  Fanboy’s internal structure had always been complicated, but now it was even worse. There were gaping holes, parts of him were near collapse, and a mis-step could easily send someone flung out into space by the centripetal force of Fanboys’ rotation. Olga tried to follow along as they mapped out paths throughout the complex ruined geometry of Fanboy, but had trouble understanding it. It was like a 3D brainteaser puzzle where you need to tilt the maze in order to get the little ball to roll into a hole and fall to the next level where there is another maze and so on.

  “I want a gun,” said Olga.

  I hardly think that, in your current state, you should be carrying a firearm.

  “I want a gun.”

  Be reasonable: you are injured, and biological, and more likely to make a target of yourself than to help out.

  “I said that I WANT A GUN!”

  All right I heard you, the lady wants a gun. Have you had any experience with hand-weapons?”

  “Well let’s see. I started out on flintlocks, both long guns and pistols, that was in the 1600’s or thereabouts. My father wanted me to be able to defend myself, and even after he passed away I kept the habit. I remember using flintlocks for I think centuries, what a pain. When cased ammunition came along it was such a joy. The M1 Garand was a favorite, as was the Glock pistol chambered in 9 mm parabellum. Don’t give me that crap about 9 mm being a wussy round: it was rugged, light, a decent magazine capacity, accurate, the ammo was cheap and available, and a 9 mm hole in the head kills someone just as dead as a 10 mm hole. I also liked the M16 automatic rifle in 5.56 caliber, same reason, although there was this big six-chambered 40 mm grenade launcher, I can’t remember the model number but it was a good weapon. For a while I hung around some guys who liked to target shoot at ranges of over a kilometer using a BMG50 caliber round, that was fun but the muzzle blast was a pain (the guys were cute though). Still, I have a soft spot for a 12-gauge pump action shotgun, I had one or another of those hidden in a closet like forever. Saved my life, twice. Then flechette weapons came around, I think that I liked the Marconi Arms S-23B the best, big magazine, accurate, good shock power. Of course the development of plasma weapons changed things a lot, give me a Solartron 4000 any day, although plasma weapons were too big and clumsy for routine personal use. Then there were the free electron lasers, the mini-railguns, the x-ray lasers, and the nanofilament weapons but they always seemed to me to be more fads than serious get-the-job-done-without-jamming-and-blowing-up-in-your-face weapons. My personal all-time favorite was the Amalgamated Armaments AA234 personal mini-rocket launcher, the one with the 100 round magazine, projectiles with full seeker capacity, and an automated guard and counter-fire capacity. For all that, it was amazingly reliable for such a sophisticated weapon, and if you really needed to you could manually chamber and fire an unguided round. I would have sex with an AA234 if it were a man. Certainly an AA234 was more dependable than most men, and they didn’t snore. You wouldn’t have an AA234 around, would you?”

  Sadly there are no AA234s in the inventory, but I do compliment your choice of weapons. If we survive I promise to make you one, although I expect that a certain space battlecruiser may become a bit jealous. Most female hominids don’t go in for the whole gun culture thing. I can see why Fanboy likes you so much. Did you ever get much experience with a trebuchet?

  “A trebuchet? No I never used a trebuchet. How old do you think that I am, anyhow?” Olga looked suspicious. “Why, you aren’t planning on using a trebuchet, are you?”

  No I was just kidding. Here, take this.

  Old Guy produced an enormous five-cylinder revolver.

  It’s my backup weapon, taken from the original stores of the humans that built Fanboy. A modified vacuum-hardened version of a Ruger Alaskan in 454 Casull, but loaded with custom armor piercing rounds. Double-action, no safety, no electronics, just pull the trigger and shoot. If it were any simpler it would be a big rock. Serious recoil though, the rounds are super-powered compared to the original model, it could break the wrist of an early model human. Even with your strength you should shoot it two-handed. Try not to kill yourself with it, and if that is beyond you, try not to kill me.

  Olga swung out the cylinder, inspected the rounds, then snapped the cylinder back into place. She gripped it two-handed and checked the balance and sights. The stubby barrel was nearly as wide as it was long. “Got any extra ammo for this thing?”

  No, as I said, this is just a backup weapon. Short range, five shots, if you run out that’s it. Oh, and it has serious trigger pull, about a kilogram. You are not going to win many target shooting contests with it but if something gets close enough this weapon will put a serious hurt on it.

  Fanboy opened a private communications channel to Old Guy. “Old Guy, do me a favor.” he said. “Keep the vampire safe, will you?”

  It is only fair for me to say that your own survival is my primary mission, but I will do my best. I will keep her close by. But if you feel so strongly about it, why don’t you take care of her?

  “Um. Well, first, because she distracts me. I need to be focused. I might need to sacrifice her if circumstances get dicey, and I would rather that someone else do that. You are also a more experienced ground commander. If anyone can keep her in one piece, you can.”

  I appreciate your confidence, but you must realize that most of my past successes were more due to luck than to anything else?

  “Luck is the bastard child of skill.”

  Perhaps. But as I said, I will do my best.

  ---------------

  As the Amok boarding units got closer, they had increasingly high-definition images of them, which they studied carefully. There were an even thirty of them. They looked superficially like spiders, six jointed metal legs, multiple glass lenses around where the head would be on a real spider, and cutting tools where the mouthparts would be. If the legs were stretched out they would span three meters, and Fanboy estimated that they weighed 250 kilograms apiece. On the back of each was mounted a light cannon, he estimated maybe 20 mm caliber. They would not know for certain until they entered into direct combat, but it seemed likely that one-on-one these units outclassed them. They would need to rely on intercepting as many as possible before they boarded, the home-field advantage, and tactical skill.

  The spiders made small course corrections as they got closer. Fanboy projected their trajectories: they had precisely targeted to enter the gaps in his armor as he rotated. That was unfortunate: they enemy would not likely bounce off of his rotating hull into space, and they would not have to waste time boring through his armored hull either. On the other hand it meant that the defenders would know exactly when and where the spide
rs would land, and they could make better plans.

  There were no pressure-capable zones left, and getting ready for the assault took priority, so the vampire had to stay sealed in her suit. Fortunately the suit was designed for this eventuality, and the vampires’ low resting metabolism made that even easier. The only problem was that her headaches kept coming back. However, before the shuttle had breached Old Guy had dissolved some analgesics into a vacuum-rated water bottle that mated up to a port on the suit, so she could sip on it when the pain got too bad.

  “So what should I do?” asked Olga.

  We thought about just having you hide somewhere, but if an Amok spider found you that would be that. In addition we’re short-handed, and everyone counts. Therefore the plan is that you tag along behind me, but stay in cover and watch my back. If I get killed, pick up my plasma cannon and do your best with it. Whatever else, listen to the intercom and do what we tell you without question. Things are going to move fast and we need to be a team.

  Old guy showed her the firing button for his plasma cannon, it was jury-rigged to some bare wires and attached to the side of the weapon with heavy gray vacuum-rated tape.

  Nothing fancy, no interlocks, no auto-targeting, push the button and it fires. Just remember which end to point at the bad guys. It’s got power for about 30 shots, so don’t spray fire, but one good hit should be enough for this level of opponent.

  The waiting, as usual, was the worst of it. They watched video feeds of the Amok spiders as they got closer and closer. Old Guy helped Olga make a holster for her pistol out of heavy gray industrial tape: the weapon was too big for her to wear on her hip so they made it into a kind of front-chest mount. The vampire tried to take a nap. Fanboy stopped his self-repair efforts and equipped all of his drones with salvaged light weaponry. They worked on refining their tactical plans. Fanboy killed some spiders with his remaining interceptors. The enemy units closed to within a kilometer and were moving fast. There was a brief burst of activity as the surviving point-defense weapons went off, then 15 surviving spiders fell through the gaps in his hull.

  The spiders were quicker and smarter than they had expected. They had set up an ambush for the main enemy force, there was a blur of motion and when it was over six spiders had been killed, but at the loss of three of Fanboys’ repair drones, and Frisbee’s android had been destroyed along with his plasma cannon. Old Guy was worried: he had hoped for a better exchange ratio in their first engagement, it was only going to get tougher as the spiders adapted to their tactics.

  “The others are spread out and heading towards what is left of my vital systems,” said Fanboy. “My internal sensors are in poor shape, and the enemy are cutting cables and smashing cameras as they go so it will only get worse. I suggest we take on this pair next.” Olga’s space suit had a tiny integral data screen, it showed the projected course of the surviving nine spiders. The two nearest were headed towards Fanboys’ central spine, which contained his most generally vulnerable and vital systems.

  Agreed. Let’s use the plan where Zippo takes the lead. Move out.

  They raced through the passageways, spreading out in a coordinated pattern. Olga struggled to keep up, and she managed, barely. Old Guy was quietly impressed; his android was moving faster than any normal human, and with the curved floors, strange forces due to the hull rotation, and missing floor sections, it was as tough an obstacle course as any he had ever encountered. The vampire forced herself along, matching his speed despite her nearly dead prosthetic leg and the pain of her wounds. Old Guy got a glimpse into her helmet: he could tell that Olga was in agony from the effort, but she was not complaining. Old Guy could only imagine what this rapid motion was doing to her unhealed head-injuries; well, nothing for it for now. If they survived they should have the leisure to patch her up properly, and if not, it wouldn’t matter.

  Zippo raced out of cover and surprised the two spiders. He flicked along almost as fast as a projectile himself, shooting his tiny slugthrower at the spider’s central optics. His weapon was ineffective against their armor but he was distracting. The spiders tried to shoot him but he was so fast that they had trouble maintaining a target lock. Old Guy, Rock Dancer, and Fanboys’ androids popped up and killed the spiders with their plasma cannons. Zippo did not do any backflips or hoot for joy: he was in total focused combat mode and wasted no efforts. He reloaded his tiny slugthrower from a bandolier with the speed of an automated nail-gun, then took up a scouting position and waited for new orders.

  Better, thought Old Guy. That’s seven bad guys left. If only we had more space monkeys, and weapons better suited to their size. Damn but this Zippo is fast. Also, I can’t believe that I just wished for more space monkeys.

  They headed off to intercept another spider.

  “Got another one!” said Fanboy. “Uncle Jon got it in a forward bay. But I’m afraid the floor gave way and his android was flung off into space. If we survive we can pick him up later, but he is out of this fight. Still, just six more Amok to go!”

  They caught up with the spider that they were tracking. As before, Zippo shot ahead, but this time the spider ignored the little space monkey and was ready for them. They killed the Amok unit, but the Fanboy android was totaled.

  Hey, Fanboy, can you still hear me?

  “Yes, Old Guy,” said Fanboy through his local intercom system. “I’m fine although my android is a total loss. Sorry. Just five spiders left, but they seem to be slowing down. I think that they are backtracking through areas where they have destroyed my internal sensors, so that I can’t follow them. They might be setting up ambushes for us. We have to be careful, we don’t have many forces of our own left.”

  Indeed. Let’s reduce the pace here. Zippo scouts ahead, your drones guard the flanks and rear, let’s wait and see what happens.

  Old Guy and the vampire were huddled together in a cargo hold behind some large containers. Old Guy was concerned about Olga, she had been through a lot. He helped her fit a canister of preserved blood to the access port of her space suit, then a bottle of water laced with painkillers.

  Hey, Olga, stay with me. How are you doing?

  “Not well. I’m not doing well at all. I feel like my head is going to explode. And we lost Fanboy? Is he dead? I saw him die.”

  No Fanboy is fine. It’s just his android that got trashed. His main self is intact. He is worried about you though. We don’t have much longer. Just five more spiders to go. Then we can get you looked after properly.

  “Can we expect any help? Aren’t your buddies sending reinforcements?”

  Of course they are, but you have to understand that we have already used up most of our combat strength in the area. We are scheduled to get some serious firepower in the next hour, but that would be large nuclear-tipped missiles. Not exactly what we need right now. Nobody expected that we would require infantry. Our comrades have been informed of our situation, and assistance is on the way, but the specific help that we need is over ten hours off. We just have to hold on that long. Ten hours is not so long to wait, is it?

  Olga did not answer, but just slumped up against Old Guy. By contact vibration he could tell that she was sleeping: good, some time to rest and heal was exactly what she needed. Old Guy reviewed the status reports from Fanboys’ local network. He wished that he had his own main body here, he would have made short work of 100 times this number of Amok combat spiders. If wishes were fishes, we would have a fuck lot of fishes. It was worrying that the enemy had gone off radar. They were up to something, he could sense it.

  An hour passed, then another.

  Fanboy, any word of our Amok friends?

  “Not a peep. They must be keeping to my dead-sensor zones. How is Olga?”

  Sleeping soundly. As far as I can tell, her condition is stable. But it would not be a bad thing to get rid of the last of these Amok spiders so we can move her into a pressurized compartment and get her out of her space suit. What’s the schedule on our reinforcements?

&nb
sp; “I have re-emphasized our need for help. Our comrades have burned the candle at both ends, so to speak, and we might expect useful aid in six hours. Perhaps we should just wait them out?”

  That’s not a bad idea. The Amok have no way of knowing when, or if, we are going to get reinforcements. Yes, let’s just sit tight, and in six hours the cavalry arrives. Good plan. But. If the Amok don’t cooperate, we need to be ready to act.

  So they waited. Old Guy sat with the vampire Olga Razon sleeping on his lap. Rock Dancer waited impassively, Zippo cautiously creeping around scouting. Fanboy the giant space battlecruiser did nothing much but think, he would have liked to have gone back to repairing himself but his every repair drone was needed on the combat line. An hour passed. Then two. Perhaps they could just wait the Amok out until their friends arrived.

  “Fuck! Old Guy, Rock Dancer, the Amok are going for it! All five remaining spiders are headed in an assault on my main spine core systems! Shit! You have to do something soon or I’m done!”

  The stats display showed the remaining Amok spiders in a coordinated formation heading off towards the center of Fanboy. If they got there, and were unopposed, they could systemically destroy his remaining key systems, then head back and kill the rest of them. Damn. Old Guy shook the vampire, hard, then headed off without checking to see if she was following. No time for that.

  Old Guy caught a spider from the rear and killed it with his plasma cannon. Four to go.

  Rock Dancer got another. Then he was wasted himself by a barrage of cannon fire from another spider. Three to go.

  Zippo attacked the spider that had killed Rock Dancer, he scuttled up the side of it and started tearing at its vulnerable optics and antenna. The spider was too strong to be hurt by Zippo, but still it was distracted and spun around trying to get the little space monkey targeted. Old Guy killed that one as well. Two to go.