The Reign: Destiny - The Life Of Travis Rand

by Lance Berry

  Upon Christenson’s order, the Horizon and its complement of forty ships arced downward toward the waiting enemy fleet. As one they opened fire, scoring the hulls of the now unshielded dreadnoughts–searching for any weak spots which could be exploited. The dreadnoughts still had their weapons though, and the first shot from one of them struck the Horizon’s shields so hard that the Heavy Cruiser jostled and shook as if God’s hammer had been taken to it.

  “Holy shit,” Travis cried out in surprise, unable to believe the force with which they’d been struck; his hands had actually been flung away from the helm and he had almost been lifted out of his chair.

  “This bitch will buck, but she’ll stay faithful if you just hold onto her, Travis,” Christenson yelled out over the vibrational rumble that echoed through the deck plates–a type of feedback from the ship’s systems surrendering so much power to keep the magnetic shields intact.

  “Shields are down nearly twelve percent,” Mara announced from ops. The usually unflappable woman had been unable to keep the sound of amazement from infiltrating her voice. The ODC then made an announcing chime as a new com-line opened and Jamie Hughes’ voice filled the bridge. “Engineering to bridge. Captain, I’ve got several MPRS lines on the verge of rupturing down here!”

  “Don’t bother me with the little details, Jamie. Tend to them yourself,” Christenson said as he maintained focus on the viewscreen. “Helm, come hard about on our starboard axis and target the lead dreadnought’s engines. Christenson to Sagittarius–we need you to stay tight on our port side, keep us protected. This is going to hurt a bit, but we’ll get through it.”

  As Travis worked his console, the battle swung crazily toward the upper left of the viewscreen. Buttlefield looked back at the captain. “The Sagittarius received, sir…they’re moving in tight with us.” Indeed, the pounding on the Horizon’s shields eased considerably, the unwanted rocking almost ceasing. The ship righted itself, and the lead dreadnought’s engines loomed large before them.

  “Tanner, all forward weapons–fire!”

  Upstairs in the topmost portion of the bridge–tactical command– Tanner Matthews adjusted his console’s master override, opening every last one of the two hundred forward gun ports, including the pair of antimatter cannons. He tabbed a panel and watched on his command board’s holographic display as wave after wave of energy hurtled across the gulf of space, impacting against the lead dreadnought’s engine housing. Calvorian shield emitters were similar to UEF design in that they consisted of sectionalized grids set around each ship, each grid charged with the task of holding up their portion of defensive energy when attacked. Of course, a sufficient barrage could weaken or entirely crack down a grid, opening the way to major damage to the ship.

  The lead dreadnought’s protective engine grid cracked.

  The explosion was like an awesome blossoming flower composed of fire and energy. Its petals were made of white hot fire and electrical arcs which spread across the outer surface of the engine casing from inside, releasing whatever energy powered their vessels in a blinding flash.

  “Evasive,” Christenson cried as the explosion rapidly expanded toward them. Travis worked his console furiously, pulling the ship up and away from the devastated vessel, moving away to free space.

  “The Sagittarius is in trouble,” Mara reported, and tabbed a panel on her console. The image on the viewscreen changed from the stars around them to the Sagittarius, which had taken heavy damage while filling the gap between the Horizon and the second lead dreadnought. The engines on the Sagittarius were badly damaged, and it had been unable to keep up with Christenson’s ship as it shot up and away from the fight to regain. The second lead dreadnought took advantage of this fact and fired its masers, damaging the Sagittarius in such a way that its engines didn’t take the ship with them when they exploded; instead, the engines’ explosion simply ripped them away from the ship, leaving the Sagittarius listing like an out of control top. In a remarkable stroke of irony, the uncontrolled cartwheel brought the Heavy Cruiser right back toward the dreadnought that had crippled it. The Sagittarius collided against the dreadnought and exploded, taking a good portion of the alien ship with it.

  “Status of the lead dreadnought we attacked,” Christenson asked as he forced himself to focus on the battle. Mara changed the image on the viewer once more and all watched as the flower of raw energy danced along the rear of the vessel’s hull. All at once, the dreadnought exploded into hundreds of pieces, some of those fragments actually causing collateral damage to its sister ships.

  There was no time for celebration, however. “We’ve got a new problem,” Matthews called out over the ODC. “The ships in the rear have launched Skimmers–one hundred and fifty of them, to be precise. They’re heading in fast, spreading out to reach into our primary attack group.”

  “Christenson to attack squads Nu and Omicron–scramble your DFCs, a hundred each! They need to intercept before those snug little bastards begin targeting our weapons arrays.”

  “Heavy Cruisers Orion and Skender confirm twenty seconds to launch of DFCs,” Buttlefield reported from the rear of the bridge.

  “Show me the Skimmers,” Christenson ordered. Buttlefield switched the image, picking up a faraway shot of the rear of the enemy fleet.

  “Magnify.”

  The image jumped to a close shot of dozens of Skimmers–the enemy counterpart to the DFC–already racing toward the forefront of the battle. The taut, angular ships weaved around the Heavy Cruisers, far too small and fast to be picked off by the ship’s targeting sensors. Their maneuverability was such that they could move in close enough to a Heavy Cruiser’s surface to actually register as part of the ship. Once within the repulsion field’s perimeter, they would be able to angle to and fro in order to shoot out several of the Cruisers’ laser emitters. Just enough of a nuisance to be a deadly distraction for that Cruiser’s personnel, but not enough of a target to be hit.

  “A Lieutenant LeVoy in DFC One from the Skender reports that his squadrons are on their way,” Buttlefield noted.

  Travis couldn’t help it; a smile broke out at the mention of his old friend’s name. As opposed to Travis’ signing up with UEF military as Jared had been, Travis could never imagine him going that route. It was probably the planetary draft which got him, but LeVoy was never one to shirk duty. He may not have liked being placed in the military, but Travis knew that no matter the task, his old friend would always give it his all. Go get ‘em, brother! he thought proudly.

  “Then let’s let them do their job, while we tend to ours,” the captain said. “Helm, take us back in. Kappa thru Omicron squads, move in for cleanup!”

  With that, the Horizon and several of its accompanying ships tilted sharply on their axes and headed back into the thick of the war. With the destruction of the lead dreadnought and the severe crippling of the second, the Earth forces had rallied, now believing their victory to be a closer possibility than before. Four Heavy Cruisers surrounded two more of the dreadnoughts and relentlessly exchanged shots with them, the hulls of the Earth ships seeming to take damage faster than their enemies’. Yet the Earth ships held fast, and in the end it was the Calvorians who paid the price as one ship exploded entirely and the other lost all power and began to drift, a helpless dead hulk.

  With the remaining six attack squads entered into the fray, the battle reached a fever pitch unlike any ever met between the two sides. Both forces seemed to have the desperate insight into finality–that this truly would be the last battle, with only one species remaining dominant at its conclusion.

  Christenson’s tactical choices were brilliant, decisive and executed with nearly flawless precision. The Earth assemblage had managed to halt the enemy fleet’s advance toward their homeworld, keeping them locked in combat between Jupiter and the asteroid belt which encircled the Sol system’s inner planets. Unfortunately, the Mars Alpha Base couldn’t afford to allocate any Heavy Cruisers to the battle, since what few surrounded the bas
e would be needed to ward off any enemy ships that might have made it through.

  None did make it past Christenson’s divisions however, determined as they were to destroy the human fleet before claiming Earth as their own. The battle raged on and on, and under Captain Christenson’s direction, the enemy fleet lost three more dreadnoughts. LeVoy’s DFCs managed to make short work of the majority of Skimmers, and the fleet itself managed to keep the Calvorian ships broken apart enough so that the greater amount of Heavy Cruisers each had their own counterpart to tangle with.

  One of the captains of the remaining dreadnoughts finally got it into his head to rally the others though, and two of the monstrous war engines hurtled forward to encircle the Horizon, moving in tight to cut it off from the protective safety of its wing ships.

  “We’re losing shields fast,” Mara yelled over the relentless pounding, which almost sounded like the continual boom of a summer thunderstorm. “We’re down to seventy percent…sixty-three…”

  “Tactical, increase output to the shields,” Christenson called out.

  “Captain, there’s nothing left to give,” Matthews answered via ODC. “If I reroute anything else, we’ll be drawing power from the engine reserves. Then we’ll be unable to move while they rip us to shreds–“ There was a sharp, loud crackle over the com, and with a mercifully brief squeal, the line went dead.

  “Some type of overload from above,” Mara said.

  “We’ve lost communications with tactical,” Buttlefield announced. A sharp grinding sound followed, punctuating her statement as all on the bridge looked about wildly for its source. Mara’s head swung back toward her console and her eyes widened in dawning fear. “Shields are giving way in grids L-39 through S-14! The forced titanium outer plating has buckled! Hull breaches on decks twenty-nine through thirty-three!”

  “Where the bloody hell is our wing guard?” the captain demanded.

  “I’ve got them on my board,” Arroyo cried out. “The Babylonian and Aruba are on the opposite sides of the two dreadnoughts, giving it all they’ve got–but they can’t get to us.”

  “Travis, get us to them!”

  “I can’t, sir! They’ve got us so boxed in, there’s no room left to maneuver!”

  “Jesus, we’ve got to do something to–“ Another grinding sound clipped off Christenson’s sentence, and without warning the auxiliary tactical console where Lieutenant Donahue was seated began to spark and flash, electrical arcs slowly dancing across its surface. Donahue had flung his arms back and leaned away, but was frozen in fear at the sight, incapable of motion.

  “Donahue,” Christenson yelled as he leaped from his command chair, “Get the hell away from there! It’s about to go up!” The captain raced across the bridge as Donahue began to move far too slowly, his own eyes still riveted to his console. Christenson grabbed the young man by the arms and ripped him out of his chair–tossing him aside like a weighted sack out of harm’s way. And as Christenson was about to take a step back, the console exploded with such force and brightness that for an instant, his entire body was obscured from view.

  “DAAAVIIIIIID!” Mara screamed as the flare subsided and her husband fell back from the shattered, useless console, his body thudding to the floor in a manner which Travis had seen all too many times throughout his life. Both he and Mara rushed to the captain’s side, and Travis blanched at the acrid smell which rose from his body.

  Christenson’s uniform jacket and shirt were torn, rent completely. Bloody scratches and cuts were all over his chest and face from where micro-pieces of the console cut into his flesh. His face, neck and upper portion of his chest had caught the majority of the blast, and were virtually blackened. His hair was tousled wildly and his left eye was sealed, singed shut by the heat. His breath came in slow, painful rasps, and his good eye was only half open and focused weakly on Travis and Mara, who knelt beside him…his wife reaching down instantly to cradle his head in her lap.

  “Oh David, oh David, oh baby, please…hang on, hang on, my love,” Mara said, her voice nearly an inaudible whisper as tears fell unchecked from her eyes and dappled her husband’s darkened face. Travis was hardly aware anymore of the shuddering of the deck plates or the pounding sounds against the Horizon’s ever-weakening hull, as he craned his neck to put Buttlefield directly in his sights. “GET WILLIAMS UP HERE! NOW!!”

  Buttlefield seemed to nod in slow motion even as she turned to her console and sent the message down to sickbay.

  Sickbay. It was eight decks away, Travis realized as he looked back down at the captain, and their eyes locked. Both men knew what was coming, and that Ben Williams and his trauma team would never get here in time.

  Christenson’s good eye shifted to his wife. “M…Ma… ma…” he said weakly, unable to form the word he wanted so desperately to say. Mara continued to cry and now stroked his face gently, heedless of the fact that charbroiled skin was peeling away against her fingers with each stroke. “Don’t say anything, love. Oh God, I love you so much…”

  Tears fought to make their way past Travis’ eyes, but he refused them. He wouldn’t let his captain, his friend, and possibly the greatest man he had ever known, see him in such a state. With another labored breath, Christenson focused his eye back to Travis. With his last erg of strength, his left hand shot up, clutching and grasping at the younger man’s hair. Travis understood and leaned close, Mara’s tears now speckling one side of his face as he tilted his ear toward David’s mouth…

  “…take care of her…”

  And David Christenson’s hand fell away, flopping to the deck. With one last expulsion of useless air, his good eye closed, and he was gone.

  Travis pulled his head back, staring at the lifeless body in a type of disbelief he had never known, even from the first time he had witnessed death. There are certain people in the world for whom it seems impossible that death should be able to take them away. The spark of their life force, their personality, the almost inevitability of their existence seems to preclude them from having to surrender to the final embrace of the grave. Yet when they do, for whatever reason, though we know that all things must end and everyone’s time has to come, we are still amazed that such a thing could happen.

  Travis realized this as he stared at Christenson’s body. He also suddenly discerned that when such a realization hits, there are two things a human being can do. Mara was doing the first thing now, giving in to her grief, her loss…no longer caring, or capable of caring, what happened to her or anyone else around her. She and David dated before either of them had been assigned to the Horizon, and they got married within the first three months of serving together aboard the ship; they had been married in total eleven years. He was her world, and for her that world had just come to an abrupt end.

  Travis chose to do the second thing possible in this situation: he got pissed off, and decided to take action.

  The vibration and keeling of the deck plates came back to him now; he was aware of the pounding the ship was taking. This was not going to continue, if he had much more to say about it. He rose slowly, determinedly, not allowing himself to be tossed about by the ungainly swaying of the ship. He looked at the viewscreen, which was beginning to cloud over with digital breakup and static, and realized what thought had come to him as he observed Mara over her husband’s body…that she could no longer comprehend the gravity of the situation. Within that thought, one word held the key to their salvation: gravity.

  Lisbet Arroyo was sitting helplessly at her navigational board, unable to deduce a way to extricate the ship from its fenced-in predicament. Donahue had taken Travis’ seat at the helm, but he sat there equally impotent, a faraway look of helplessness on his face. He had the look of a man who knew death was coming for him and had chosen to accept it.

  Travis Rand would never accept death.

  He walked over to Donahue and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Get up. Go over to the secondary auxiliary console.” There was something new in Travis’ voice: so
mething fierce and unyielding, which nothing could stand against. With a mute nod, Donahue did as he was ordered.

  Travis looked at Arroyo. “What’s our fleet status?”

  She looked up at him, wild-eyed. “We’re losing,” she said in a harried way, a sound of disbelief in her voice at his question. He moved closer, leaning over her as he asked again, “What is the status of our fleet?”

  She blinked, the intensity of his voice cutting through the hazy fog of her disorientation and fear. She turned to her tactical/navigational board and checked. “We’ve lost about forty-five percent of the fleet. The enemy’s turned the Captain’s trick back on us; our ships are too split up to provide cover for each other.” She shook her head and looked up at him. “Is that okay? Is that what you wanted?” she asked as if seeking some type of absolution. He turned away and looked at Buttlefield. “Patch me in to the fleet.”

  Buttlefield said nothing. She adjusted her console masterfully, without even looking, and nodded. “You’re on.” There was a type of wonder in her voice, as if she couldn’t wait to see where this was going to go.

  Part of Travis felt the same way; a portion of him wasn’t sure at all if his plan–which he was still formulating–was going to work. Another part of him, the most primal part, thought Fuck it, we ain’t got nothing else to lose.

  He girded himself and spoke. “This is Travis Rand to all ships in the fleet,” he said, and it came to him to lean past Arroyo and begin working her navicomp as he continued, “The nearest ships, stop what you’re doing and bail out the Horizon. We can turn this around, but it won’t work if the flagship is blown to bits.”

  “This is Captain Hashimi of the Tycho Brahe,” a young woman’s voice cut in imperiously. “Who are you, Rand? What’s happened to Captain Christenson?”

  “Shut up and listen, Captain,” Travis snapped back. “We’re running out of time, and I’m not talking to you because my doctor prescribed it! I need the Ulysses, the Moscow, the Kennebunkport and at least three more ships to close ranks and let those bastards have it so we can pull all our asses out of the fire, right now!”