Connah’s skill saved Vorderman and himself from the next barrage of high speed railgun sabots. His Predator changed direction abruptly; suddenly reversing and jerking to the left all at once. Vorderman, instinctively, had disengaged the safety limiters just in time. Connah’s radical punishment of the Predator’s engine, flight systems and fuselage took the four metre long spacecraft just out of range of the railgun rounds.
“We’re still here,” Ameena’s eyes were wide as terror gripped her, “We’re the… we’re the only ones left…”
Connah pushed the main thrust lever forward to maximum. The ship did not respond. The fusion engine had shut down after its forced, torturous surge in output. Now the Predator spiralled in a wide arc as the Enrilean fighters powered towards it, their weapons recharging.
“We’ve had it,” Connah said frankly, “A disappointing conclusion, Lieutenant, to what I’m sure was going to be a very brilliant career.”
She smiled behind him, shaking her head. Her bright teeth shone inside her large mouth as she closed her eyes, sighing with deliberate volume so he could hear her through the intercom. But when he said nothing, she allowed some of her nervous laughter to come through. The fighter was continuing to spin, but slowing as the engines began to come back to life.
“In our current predicament I truly fail to see what you might be finding amusing. I was merely passing a comment in an attempt to express how satisfied and… pleased I have been with your performance, Ameena.”
“You really are like some kind of robot, Marcus,” She said, “And, God knows, it’s really cute,” Her smile faded, but the corners of her mouth were still turned upwards. The stars were flashing as the ship moved out of control through space, looking something like the trail left by a handheld sparkler making patterns in the dark sky. She remembered, then, a moment in her childhood when she had done just that. A happy time, twenty years ago. A bonfire in a field. A hotdog. Some cocoa. A Christmas tree, or at least some Christmas lights. The smell of burning rubber, cheap aftershave and stale beer. The hot, strong reassurance of her father’s hand around her own fragile, frightened loose fist.
“Nevertheless,” Connah interrupted her thoughts, “I want to express how much I have enjoyed our professional relationship. There isn’t much time, I’m afraid. The main engine is failing to restart and we’re spinning out of control. In a few moments I’m certain that we’re going to be destroyed.”
“Killed.”
He hesitated, but only for a breath.
“Yes, killed.”
The Predator continued to spin out of control as two of the Enrilean fighters fired their missiles. The missiles were powerful enough to completely destroy the Predator, leaving fragments of wreckage no larger than the size of a golf ball. The three metre long missiles streaked towards the disabled, helpless, wildly cavorting ship. An instant before the first one struck, a miracle happened.
The Predator’s last missile detached itself from the mounting bolts under the left wing. The three inch, u-shaped metal connector had a manufacturing defect. A microscopic, hairline fracture running from the oval centre of the bolt halfway through the inch thick metal. It had remained undetected thanks to the incompetence of three men. The parts fitter, Jack Lion, who’d allowed the liquid metal for batch 435 to overheat. The safety inspector, Carlos Hemenez, who hadn’t spotted the warning light when the errant component had gone through his scanner. Finally, Jessica Lawson was responsible for the automatic system failing to pick up on Hemenez’s lack of attention. She’d turned off the automatic alarms whilst she’d taken a sneaky thirty minute break to call her new boyfriend. Lion, Hemenez and Lawson had allowed the failed component to make it onto the underside of Predator NAIO890’s portside wing. The component would have stayed intact and in place despite the defect, but the forces imposed on it by the wildly out of control finally became too much. It gave way, releasing a missile which flew outward and away from the stricken fighter.
The closest Enrilean missile smashed into the stray projectile and detonated, creating a powerful energy wave that detonated the other Enrilean missiles that followed close behind. The resulting fireball blinded the Enrilean sensors for a fraction of a second. Long enough for Vorderman, with her quick-witted wisdom, to switch off the fighter’s power systems. Connah smiled thinly, nodding gently. He didn’t know what had happened, only that the alien missiles had failed to strike home. Ameena had done something that he would not have attempted, even if he’d been able to. He continued to smile, expecting death to follow in the next few seconds. He wanted to say something to Ameena, but to be heard without the intercom he’d have to shout at the top of his lungs. He didn’t want to do that.
The Enrileans did not fire any more missiles. The fighters shot by the spinning Predator, the nearest Dart passing about four hundred kilometres to the right. Connah and Vorderman could not see the aliens as they passed by. They both sat there quietly in the dark, waiting for death.
Seconds turned into a minute. Vorderman had already begun to hope that her ploy had worked. Connah was the endless pessimist. It took him a further minute to realise that the Enrilean attackers were not coming back. He was sitting, eyes closed, with a blank mind. Just waiting. He didn’t have a mother to think of, or a father. There was no sweetheart back home waiting for him. Not even a dog or a cat in his little apartment in the Sydney Harbour complex. There was nobody for him to think about. There never had been. Another minute passed as he contemplated the possibility that they’d somehow survived.
And then Lieutenant Ameena Vorderman restarted the Predator’s power unit.
“What were you saying about it being such a pleasure working with someone of my absolute brilliance?” her voice quavered from the cold, the words coming out in a fine white mist.
“I was merely expressing my satisfaction...”
“I get it,” she laughed, “I love you too, Spock. Alright, now the fact that we've survived is a pretty good indicator that the Enrilean fighters think we were destroyed.”
“I concur, Miss Vorderman. Otherwise we would not be having this discussion.”
“But we can't say for sure where they've gone to, because if we fire up the active sensors we risk being detected.”
“Correct. So we...”
“We wait a little bit longer. We can't risk contacting Armstrong. If the Enrileans pick up our comms we'll buy it. If we start our engines and they detect us we'll buy it too.”
“Again, I agree. But we cannot remain here,” Connah said, “The second planet – Relathon – lies between our current position and Joan Gallsin. I suggest we fire up the active sensors and see if we can pinpoint the Enrilean fighters. If the fighters are chasing after Armstrong then we'll be able to get Relathon between them and us.”
“But we're still going to have to make a run for Joan Gallsin,” Vorderman stated.
“Of course,” he said, “But if we can use the second planet as a shield we'll stand a better chance of making it in one piece.”
Vorderman surveyed her engineering display. She gave some of the information there closer scrutiny. The results of her quick but thorough examination of the information there alarmed her. She tried to keep her voice calm, but she couldn't keep all of the panic down. The fear made her throat tremble just enough that her voice raised to a higher pitch for a moment as she spoke.
“Weapons systems are messed up,” she squeaked, “Port engine is twelve percent out of alignment. We have two missiles left, but we'll never be able to launch them. The main life support generator is off-line. We're using the emergency system. We've... we've maybe got about thirty eight minutes of breathable air left.”
Connah digested the information. He didn't feel any fear. The facts just presented themselves to him as a problem to be scrutinised and overcome.
“We can make the wormhole in twenty minutes,” he said, finally.
“Not with the port engine as it is. The alignment's out, and it'll get worse the harder we push it
. And we're going to have to push it if we want to stand any chance of making the rendezvous site.”
“Then I suggest we stop talking, Lieutenant.”
Vorderman smiled one more time. Her eyes were wide with fear. She started to power up the Predator's engines. The damaged coil assembly would ruin the Predator's stealth characteristics, but Ameena didn't think that mattered too much. So far, the Enrileans didn't seem to have had any problems detecting and targeting the Predators so far. The extra energy field generated by the misaligned engine unit wouldn't make the ship stand out more – she hoped.
The small ship had stopped spinning. Ahead, the bright blue and white marble that was the planet Relathon didn't look too different to Earth. Beyond it lay the invisible wormhole. The USS Neil Armstrong was out there in the darkness. So were the Enrilean fighters. And the Enrilean home world. It was so far away that it was invisible to the naked eye. But it was out there, in the darkness.
The engines came to life. The Predator shuddered violently, but only for a few moments. Then it surged ahead, sparks of energy bursting out of the left side of the ship. As the fighter increased speed the trail of lightning almost seemed something akin to a comet's tail. Ahead, Relathon began to grow in size. The marble became a ping pong ball. Soon it was a tennis ball. There was no sign of the Armstrong on Ameena's sensor displays. The Enrilean Dart fighters, too, seemed to have disappeared. The Predator streaked through the darkness, its comet tail brightening the emptiness of space for everyone to see. Everyone, anyone and no-one. Not a word had passed between Connah and Vorderman. They were silent. Ameena was quietly terrified. Marcus was pushing his fear down. He crammed this new, agonizing experiencing onto the tightly packed, almost fossilised layer upon layer of childhood fears, adolescent abuses and painful teenage memories.
2195AD - SS Glasgow.
“This is the last time I'm going to tell you!” Vazquez slammed both hands into the uniformed man's chest hard, “I ain't going nowhere unless I'm going on this ship.”
Vinn Apple's eyes widened. The young junior lieutenant was reaching for his sidearm. Apple stretched his long, sinewy arm and grabbed the African American's wrist. He was much stronger than the slim built, scared eyed boy. He held the man firmly, leaning towards him so their eyes could meet.
“No,” he said simply, “That's not a good idea, my friend.”
Frank Brooks was suddenly right behind the young man. With a swift, decisive movement he snatched the black gripped automatic pistol from its shiny leather holster.
“Well, holy shit!”
The voice belonged to Val Stamford, who was standing with his arms folded and a huge grin on his face. He was wearing his gold rimmed vintage aviator sunglasses. His head was shaking from side to side.
“Now things are starting to get a little bit out of hand,” he said.
The other man from the Rocket Rescue was a strongly built forty eight year old man. He was the Rocket Rescue's roustabout. A quiet spoken, broad shouldered wall of a man with medium dark brown skin. He raised his work worn palm to Brooks. Apple continued to keep a firm hold of the young Lieutenant's hand.
“Nobody do nothing stupid,” the roustabout stammered, “Nobody… do nothin!”
Stamford’s smile did not fade, but his cold blue eyes were steel behind his sunglasses. His lips barely moved as he spoke. His eyes were fixed to Vinn Apple’s, even though it was Frank Brooks who held the Beretta 23 Smart pistol aimed at the side of Lieutenant Tyler’s temple. Brooks’ hands were beginning to tremble. He was breathing hard and loud, almost groaning with each breath.
“Nobody's doing anything,” Stamford grinned, “We're all just standing around trying to work out the solution to this wee problem. So don't you get yourself riled up as well, Gumm. This is all going to work out for all of us. But we're going to have to work it out pretty quickly, you see, because what you all might not realise is that right this very minute there's a really big alien spaceship coming towards us,” he stopped to laugh and shave his head, “Come on now, Frank. It is Frank Brooks, isn't it?”
“How the Hell do you know that?” Brooks hissed. His hands were shaking quite heavily now. He was breathing through clenched teeth. The long barrelled automatic pistol now aimed waveringly somewhere between Stamford and the young, frightened Lieutenant Woods. Stamford was standing with his arms folded, grinning broadly. Apple let go of Woods' wrist. He pushed the youngster away with a slow, firm push to the man's chest.
“We're the USS Neil Armstrong,” Stamford laughed, “We know about everything there is about your little ship. We're the Cavalry, friend. You're supposed to be pleased to see us.”
“We're pleased to see you,” Vazquez growled, “But leaving the ship behind isn't an option. You have to understand that this ship is important to us. It's everything we've worked for five years to keep. We can't just leave it behind. We're not leaving the ship behind.”
Apple looked at her. He thought that he was shaking his head, but it wouldn't move. She caught his eye and just stared back at him coldly. He couldn't tell what she was thinking. Glasgow was his ship. But she was his girl. Hearing her defend the ship made him feel conflicted. She'd turned her gaze back to the tall, bronzed slightly effeminate Lieutenant Commander Stamford. He was still smiling, his eyes hidden behind his strange antiquated glass wear.
“Ma'am, there's a spacecraft heading towards us that's bigger than anything we got back home. Armstrong's already taken on two of their smaller ships and she'd been badly damaged.”
“War?” Brooks lowered the gun, “We're at war?”
Stamford's grin disappeared. He cocked his head to the right and placed his hands on his hips, mirroring Vazquez's tomboy stance.
“They destroyed the USS Drake. We destroyed a couple of theirs. So, yeah, I guess we're at war.”
Brooks looked at the gun in his hand. He licked his lips. His face was a mask of confused tension. Stamford regarded him and smiled thinly. He looked towards the young Lieutenant Woods and spoke softly.
“You want to retrieve your sidearm, Mister Woods?”
“Yes, sir.”
Brooks handed the gun over. He looked embarrassed and drained. He felt like he was going to collapse. Apple noticed and went to his side. But Brooks stayed on his feet, swaying a little. Suddenly, the fifty eight year old veteran space pilot looked his age.
“We still ain't leaving,” Michelle said, her voice full of menace and attitude, “We're flying this ship home. Isn't that right, Captain?”
Apple swallowed. She'd never called him that before. There was something almost blackly comical about her referring to him as some kind of leader. The command structure on the Glasgow was all but non-existent. Everyone more or less did what they were supposed to do. Except for Jonas Jackson. Handling the “Captain's Assistant” had been the only time that Vinn had even come close to seeing himself as any kind of authority figure.
“That's right,” Apple nodded, “This is my ship. Its everything I've got. Everything we've got. You're going to have to give us a little bit of time.”
“Therein lies the problem,” Stamford shrugged, “I have orders to abandon this ship if we can't get it out of here before the alien warship arrives. You have to trust me on this, Captain Apple. You guys really don’t want to be here when that ship turns up.”
“It don’t matter to me,” Vazquez said bravely, “Bring those motherfuckers on.”
“Shelly,” Apple whispered, “That’s not helping.”
“We have about twenty minutes before the Devastation gets close enough to fire its weapons,” Stamford’s smile disappeared yet again, “When they get close enough they’ll fire. We won’t even see it coming.”
“Then we got to get the ship running,” Vazquez said, “It’s as simple as that. If you ain’t gonna help then get out of here and let us get on with it.”
Stamford smiled again, but there was a coldness in his eyes. And something else. Something like admiration. Apple could see the eyes peeking
out from under the almost ridiculous sleek, thin gold rimmed mirror lensed sunglasses. He could see Frank Brooks’ face reflected in the glass. Brooks was looking at him. But then he realised that everyone was looking at him.
“We have to save the ship,” Apple said, finally, “Help us, or leave.”
It was the roustabout who spoke next, surprising everyone including himself.
“Val, we gotta make a move now then. If we gonna get this heap moving in twenty minutes. We gotta start now.”
Stamford sighed loudly. He waved at the big man, sending him on his way even before the words came out of his mouth. When they did, Brooks and the Rocket Rescue’s big engineer were already moving away from him.
“Get a move on then, damn it. I didn’t come here today to get killed.”
SS Glasgow’s altered momentum engine had overheated. Safety valves designed to prevent the overheating had long ago been rewired by Brooks and Apple. Now eight of the thirty year old contraption’s high speed gyroscopic generators had fused to the inner casing. Brooks already had an idea that this was what had happened. Luckily, Gumm was more than familiar with the Volkswagen AM series three engine design. With Vazquez’s help, the big man was able to physically pull apart five of the palm sized components. As Apple removed the scorched outer shield from each circular component, Brooks and Vazquez fastened the spares in place. Luckily, there were plenty of spare gyro shield casings. Apple had acquired a dozen when he’d bought the ship. The previous owner had told him that he’d bought a job lot of a hundred and didn’t know what to do with them. They’d gathered dust in the Glasgow’s storage area next to Brooks’ Navy Rum and a pile of oily rags that Brooks used to polish the offline gyros.
Beyond the Starport Adventure (Bullet Book 1) Page 43
