by GARY DARBY
“I suppose,” Deklon responded with another grimace.
“So, what do we do, brother?” Jadar questioned. “Hang around here and hope that somebody shows up that we can thumb a ride with?”
Deklon sat back and stared at the mass of thick, gloomy clouds that seemed to envelop the entire wrecked and smoldering ship.
“We could,” he replied, and nodded toward the gas strands that churned outside as if they were inside a smoldering chimney.
“But I’ve got a son out there who in a short time is going to lead his team into battle. I sure would like to be there, maybe even lend him a hand if I could.”
Jadar ran a sooty hand over his brow. “Well, what are you waiting for? We might not be able to get a shot off, but maybe we can help someone who can.”
Deklon turned to peer at his brother. “You sure?” he asked. “We can barely maneuver, can’t shoot, and we look like something that even the junkyard wouldn’t take, not to mention that we’ll be slower than a glob of thick molasses.”
Jadar shrugged in response. “In that case, then maybe the Mongans will take one look at us and start laughing so hard that they’ll forget to shoot.”
Deklon chuckled and shook his head. “From what I know about them, I don’t think they laugh so that won’t work.
“But maybe they’ll be so amazed that anyone in their right mind would ride this beat-up tub into battle that they’ll take pity and not fire.”
“Then, either way we’re covered,” Jadar replied. “So, twin brother, you want to gab some more or you want to get us back into the fight?”
In answer, Deklon ran his fingers over his control board and turned the Zephyr’s nose toward the nebula’s inner rim and the Alpha Prime planet where he knew the final battle would take place.
As the ship began its turn, Deklon had a tight feeling in his chest that this indeed might be the last fight for the two of them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Star date: 2443.116
In the Helix Nebula
Staring at the nebula’s frothing gas clouds, Peller scowled, his face and eyes hard. The churning vapors and stirred up dust swirls clogged up the vu-screen from any meaningful view.
And for Peller, the only meaningful view was, of course, his.
With great caution, his fleet was groping its way through the dense gas, feeling their way forward, trying to ferret out where the rebels might be hiding.
Their sensor eyes peered into the gloom, trying to determine where the rebels might be waiting in a deadly ambush.
“Anything?” Peller hissed at Admiral Rovinsky, who stood nearby, monitoring his battle board and the inconsistent and broke communications from the surrounding ships.
“No, sir,” Rovinsky replied, “no contact yet.”
“Are you positive?” Peller asked in an irritated voice. “They’ve tricked us before and it cost us. Don’t forget that.”
“I haven’t, sir,” Rovinsky replied firmly. “I’ve taken all precautions, considered every contingency. The instant they show, we’ll have them.”
Peller clenched and unclenched his hands in nervous tension before he turned back to stare at the vu-screen.
For some reason, to have to creep along in the nebula’s thick soup intensely irritated him and made him increasingly edgy. He didn’t enjoy this waiting game; he was eager to press on, finish what he had come here to do, once and for all.
But he accepted the fact that they couldn’t just forge ahead. Like Rovinsky, he knew that danger lay in the nebula, and he didn’t want a repeat of the Sarpens fiasco.
Rovinsky jerked his head back and stiffened, listening through his earpiece at some news. He spoke aloud, “You are sure? You’ve confirmed this? There is no doubt?”
He waited a moment before he turned to Peller. “Sir, excellent news, we’re approaching the nebula’s inner rim and the Grayling just sighted the rebel fleet.”
Peller spun on his heel, his eyes lighting up in excitement and anticipation. “Yes,” he demanded, “go on, man, what else?”
Listening to his earpiece, Rovinsky nodded and then an incredulous look creased his scarred face. “The rebels are attacking the Mongans.”
“What!?” Peller demanded in an astonished voice.
“Yes, sir,” Rovinsky replied, “they just started their attack. They—” the man stiffened and his eyes darted toward Peller. “Confirmed?” he demanded.
His eyes lighted up and he spoke in a rush of words, “Sir, the Scorpio reports that she has the SlipShip in her sights.
“It’s not moving and from what they can see the SlipShip’s damaged. She might even be dead in the water.”
He started to speak again, but then stopped, his eyes focused, not on Peller, but on a nearby bulkhead, listening again. His eyes widened and lighted up in amazement.
“Sir,” he gushed out, almost tripping over his words in his haste to deliver the news, “The Scorpio reports that the SlipShip’s hangar doors are wide open, and they can clearly see the device inside.
“It’s perfect, sir; there are no guard ships anywhere, and the whole of the rebel fleet is engaging the Mongans. It couldn’t be easier to capture, sir. Shall I order the Scorpio’s captain to board her?”
Peller clapped his hands as if he were a schoolchild who has just won his first game of Stars and Ships.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed, practically dancing in his glee. “What? No, no, tell them not to board her.”
He paused and then asked, “How far away is she?”
“We’ll be there in two minutes,” Rovinsky answered.
“Excellent, excellent,” Peller kept repeating as he began to pace the bridge. “They’ve played right into our hands.”
Moments later, Rovinsky all but shouted, “There, sir!”
Peller spun around and stood transfixed. The SlipShip materialized out of the gloom; her hull battered and torn, but of supreme importance to Peller, he could see straight into the hangar where the nova machine sat.
Peller’s broad smile stretched his lips into thin lines. For several seconds he just stared, resembling a skeleton with its mouth hanging open.
He whirled around to face Rovinsky. With rapid-fire orders he commanded, “Have my Star Dreamer readied, and have my bodyguard join me. I’m going to make this capture, personally.”
Rovinsky stared in disbelief before he summoned the courage to ask, “With all due respect, are you sure, sir? We could send—”
“No!” Peller snapped. “This I will do myself and take great pleasure in doing so. You, sir, will take the fleet and help the Mongans destroy the rebels.”
Rovinsky swallowed at Peller’s orders. “But, sir, the rebels are no match for the Mongans, we don’t need to—”
“But we do!” Peller shouted at the man. “To avenge those that the rebels killed at Sarpens, or do I have to remind you of what and how many we lost?”
Rovinsky shook his head and murmured, “No, sir, I remember. How many ships do you want to remain behind as your guard?”
“None,” Peller answered with a dismissive wave of the hand. “There’s no need. Besides, I want every ship in our fleet to have the pleasure of savoring the revenge that they so richly deserve.”
He turned away but stopped and turned back to his ashen-faced commander. “Once you finish your business with the rebels, meet me back here so that we can arrange to get that which is mine back to Imperium space.”
Spinning away, he called over his shoulder in gloating tones, “And once we have it back, we’ll see if anyone else dares to ever try and resist me again!”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Star date: 2443.116
The Final Battle
Flashing in and among the hulking Mongan warships, Dason drove his Zephyr as if he were a crazed wildman trying to outdance a whirling dervish.
The Zephyr zipped in and through the blazing Mongan laser fire with only centimeters to spare.
Dason’s quick and decisive reacti
ons and the speedy, responsive Zephyr saved them from the Mongans’ thunderous fusillades time and again in the first minutes.
Nevertheless, Dason and Shanon had no illusions as to their chances. It was just a matter of time before the Mongans scored a direct hit.
Around them, the other Zephyrs raced to the attack, their ion cannons readily finding their targets. Behind the small Zephyr fleet, the heavier warships of Stannick’s small armada slugged it out with the Mongan brutes.
Searing, fiery explosions signaled direct hits on exterior plating or laser turrets of both Mongans and Imperium ships, while enormous, blazing detonations marked final deathblows to unlucky vessels.
“Dason,” Shanon called out, “running low on the ion charge, do you want me to keep firing?”
Dason rolled the Zephyr on its side before diving to avoid a whole volley of cherry-red laser bolts from a nearby Mongan warship.
“No,” he ground out through clenched teeth as he pulled the Zephyr out of its sheer dive straight down. “Save what we have, we might end up needing it.”
He whipped the Zephyr around in a three-sixty turn before shooting back in the opposite direction. Around him, he could see multiple Mongan cruisers, their hulls torn and ripped apart by massive internal explosions.
“We’re hurting them,” he called out.
“Yes,” Shanon shouted back, “but is it enough?”
Then, dead ahead of them, an Imperium Prowler exploded in a massive fireball of flame and gas.
Pieces of cherry-red metal shot out, showering the Zephyr with glowing pieces of ship fragments even before Dason had time to turn the Zephyr away from the expanding, glowing cloud of gas.
Dason and Shanon glanced at each other with grim expressions. That was the fourth Imperium ship that they had witnessed disintegrating right before their eyes.
“We may be hurting them, but it’s obvious that they’re hurting us, too,” Shanon muttered bleakly.
“And bad,” Dason grimly replied.
He flipped the ship over so that he could see the AP planet far below. One look at the intervening Mongan ships told him that they were nowhere close to destroying enough ships to make a difference.
Stretching out one hand toward the huge, dark gash that marked the giant tunnel that led into the planet’s depths, he shouted, “There’s still too many! We haven’t cleared a lane to the surface!”
Dason accelerated the ship straight up, toward the nebula. For a second, his mouth sagged open and he sucked in a deep, hissing breath of air.
Coming straight at them, and opening fire on the closest friendly warships was a fleet of mighty dreadnoughts clustered in the center of an array of Prowlers, Predators, and Vanguards.
“Peller’s fleet,” Shanon stated in a hard voice. “They’re attacking us. We’re trapped in the middle, Dason, and there’s way too many for us to fight our way out!”
Dason flipped the ship back over and headed away from the oncoming fleet. “In that case, we’ll just have to stay out of their way,” he answered.
He dove the Zephyr down, gaining speed before he barrel-rolled it between two Mongan cruisers who held their fire for fear of hitting each other.
Just as they cleared the two Mongan monster ships, there was another huge flash and explosion in the near distance. Another Imperium ship had met its final fate.
He pushed the Zephyr’s nose down, before spinning it through a series of tight turns to the right and left.
Through pinched lips, he ground out to Shanon, “We can’t do this. We don’t have enough ships, enough firepower to break through.”
With a rapid motion, Shanon turned her head from side to side, as another set of eyes for her pilot and replied in the same desolate tone, “Dason, if we don’t . . .”
Before he could answer, Shanon’s hand flashed out and held Dason’s arm in a desperate grip. “Dason,” she exclaimed, “look!”
Dason peered upward at the Helix Nebula. As if they were a fleet of marauding Viking longboats emerging from a fog bank, a vast armada of ships passed through the dark green ramparts.
Staring in unbelief for several seconds, Dason started pounding on the console. “It’s the Sha’anay!” he yelled.
“It’s the Sha’anay!” he shouted back into the troop compartment. A shout of jubilation greeted his shout-out.
The communication console lighted up. “Take the conn,” he ordered Shanon.
Fumbling in his haste to answer whoever called, Dason managed to open the channel. “My human friend, my adopted son, Dason Thorne,” the holographic image of Tor’al began, “I greet you.”
“Elder Tor’al,” Dason gratefully acknowledged, “you are a sight for sore eyes. I greet you, too.”
“I know not this idiom of yours, but I hope your eyes grow well soon,” Tor’al replied. “The Sha’anay are here, both to honor our promise to our human friends, and to finally bring about the Day of Righteous Retribution upon the evil ones.”
“Elder,” Dason replied fervently, “we’re in trouble, we’re trapped between the Mongan fleet and a human fleet of our enemies.”
Tor’al glanced to the side, no doubt studying his battle board before he nodded. “This I can see.”
“What we need, Elder,” Dason explained, “is for you to do the following.”
In haste, Dason laid out their strategy. When he finished Tor’al’s eyes grew wide. “You are sure that this plan will work?”
“Yes, Elder, I am convinced that it will,” Dason replied. “But only if we can get our ship into the tunnel.”
“Then it shall be so,” Tor’al growled. “And after this is over, my son, my friend, you and I shall sit around the clan fire, drink of the Mir’al berry, remember those who gave of their lives valiantly, and laugh in thought of the peaceful days ahead of us.”
Dason smiled wide. “That we will, Elder, that—”he caught himself. “That we will my adopted father of my House and sept. That we will.”
Tor’al beamed wide at Dason’s response and raised his hand in farewell before his image wavered and then disappeared.
With a lump in his throat, feeling that he had said a final goodbye to both his human and Sha’anay family, Dason nodded to Shanon that he would assume command of the Zephyr.
Just as he reached out to the control planel, two scarlet beams crossed just in front of the ship’s bow.
Shanon lifted the craft’s nose ship straight up, but it was too late. A laser beam reached out and slashed at the twisting Zephyr. The massive blast to the Zephyr’s stern threw Dason and Shanon into the pilot’s console.
Dazed, Dason fought to regain control of the mortally wounded vessel.
The ship lurched up and then tipped over in a death roll.
Out of control and trailing dark smoke, the ship plunged headlong toward the planet.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Star date: 2443.116
The Final Battle
Peering intensely through the gaseous fog, Deklon questioned, “Are you sure that’s what you saw?”
Bringing their wounded Zephyr to a complete stop, he leaned forward, gazing through narrowed eyes out the ship’s front windows. “I didn’t see anything.”
“I’m telling you,” Jadar insisted, “I saw the SlipShip, her hangar bay wide open, and closing in was a Star Dreamer. Three points off our starboard bow.”
Deklon ran a hand over his sweating brow. His hands shook slightly from the throbbing waves of pain that swept through and over him.
He didn’t want to admit it to Jadar, but the pain from his internal injuries had returned and in force.
Though, he wasn’t a medical expert, his instinct told him that Stinneli’s patchwork job, though it had gotten him this far, wasn’t going to hold up much longer.
He was bleeding to death internally.
Ignoring the pain, he muttered, “There’s only one person in these parts that would be on a Star Dreamer.”
“Yeah,” Jadar replied in a voice thic
k with acrimony, “Adiak Peller and company.”
“Right,” Deklon replied. “Somehow they must’ve stumbled on the SlipSter and now they’re going to board her.”
Jadar peered at his brother with a fierce look. “You know we can’t let that happen.”
Deklon licked dry lips and swallowed as another wave of pain coursed through him. “No,” he answered in a gravelly voice, “we certainly can’t let that happen.”
He glanced around and asked, “Did you see any of Peller’s fleet?”
Jadar shook his head in response. “No, but, that doesn’t mean that they’re not out there. I doubt he’d go anywhere without a phalanx of Faction henchmen surrounding him and a flotilla of battlewagons guarding his personal yacht.”
“So,” Deklon began, “even though I would love to sneak up on him, I kinda think this Zephyr would give us away, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re right,” Jadar answered. “Unless we could throw them off the chase and sneak aboard another way.”
“Such as?” Deklon asked.
“Well, I know you don’t fancy putting on a P-suit,” Jadar responded. “But what do you think of us taking a little stroll over there while we let the Zephyr keep them occupied?”
Deklon hesitated in answering. “You’re right, I don’t fancy putting on a P-suit. But I have to admit, that for once, brother, you might have a bright idea.”
He glanced over at Jadar with a mischievous smile. “To make up for that boneheaded idea of yours that got us in this mess.”
“Aw, Deklon,” Jadar muttered, “Lay off. You know how sorry I am for that foul-up. If I could I’d do anything—”
“Hey,” Deklon stopped him with a thump to his shoulder. “Go get the suits while I set up the auto-pilot.”
Jadar grinned at him. “You got it, big brother.”
A minute later, Jadar was back carrying two P-suits. He dumped one on a nearby acceleration seat and started climbing into his. “Program set?” he called out.
Grimacing in pain, Deklon climbed out of the pilot pod. “Set. I gave us five minutes to get out.”
