Shields flared and as the engineers watched, another pair of shots scarred the hull of the Clover with only a single shot punching through the shields of the former Imperial Cruiser raking the nose of the ship in return. Then the Imperial Cruiser pulled off a powerful turn, her engines working at full speed as she came about and lined up for another pass on the old Battleship.
The Lucky Clover seemingly unconcerned until the Furious Phoenix started to come back around hard, suddenly spun on its axis and reoriented on the Cruiser to deny any strikes up the kilt.
“This is our chance, lad,” Spalding said through gritted teeth.
“Wha—” Brence started to say in alarm when the wily old Engineer jammed the throttle down, and with a boom the Lander shot forward. The gee-forces were incredible and even with overpowered grav-plates and the jelly, the old engineer could feel the stress—especially where the metal met the meat on his refurbished, old body.
“We’re going in!” Spalding screamed with delight, deliberately ignoring the pain in his joints and the alarm in his new engineering protégé. Since Gants had betrayed him by going Armory, the young slacker beside him had shaped up and shown him some surprising depth.
Brence made a girlish shriek when Spalding slewed the ship around using the thrusters. When their orientation was true, he slapped the button to transmit the IFF code and then hammered back on the atomic engine just as they passed through the shields on an intercept course with the Clover’s hull.
“We’re going to die!” Brence shouted just before the sound of his stomach coming up once again filled the com-link built into his face mask.
Spalding scowled with distaste. A little high-gravity, zero-gravity, and high-gravity again shouldn’t be debilitating to a real engineer, but he kept his silence out of respect. After all, the man had been willing to walk into a fusion reactor in active meltdown, so even though he was barfing like a cowardly lion, it probably wasn’t from debilitating fear.
As fast as he could, Spalding keyed the final sequence into the computer. The atomic engine spluttered away with a rapid fire series of ‘bang-bang-banging’ sounds as the Lander slewed around from side to side, almost as if it were trying to miss the Clover entirely by bouncing against the interior of the Battleship’s shields. Forcing the controls this way and that, he managed to steer the Lander toward his intended target: an airlock in an uninhabited part of the Battleship that had the closest access to the lift system of any airlock on the ship.
There was a flash, followed by a resounding crash and the two occupants of the Lander swayed from side to side within the ballistics jelly.
It took the old engineer several long seconds of recovery to remember to press the button on the console that would turn the Ballistics Jelly back into its liquid form and suck it out of the cockpit.
“Sweet Murphy,” Brence groaned after tearing off his facemask and falling back into his chair when the cockpit was half empty of the green liquid.
“No time for lollygaggin’ now, lad,” Spalding said, forcing himself back onto his feet. Reaching over, he helped the younger man to his feet, “You still have that skin suit I gave you?”
“Yes,” Brence said with a grunt as he swayed on his feet.
“Well, pull on a head bag and let’s get out of here,” Spalding said, putting words to action as he placed a head bag on his own head and thrust one over to the young engineer.
“Uh…we’re actually going outside in a head bag?” Brence asked, looking more than a little disturbed.
“Here’s a portable oxygen cylinder,” Spalding said impatiently, pulling a pair of cylinders out and handing one over to the younger man. Producing the attachment, he hooked it to his head. “A little space burn never hurt anyone,” he said, chucking the other man on shoulder.
Brence smiled weakly and hooked his face bag to the oxygen cylinder, and reaching to his collar, pulled up the small, plastic hood. Using the magnetic seal, he locked the hood to the face bag and gave the engineer a ‘thumbs up’ sign.
Opening the airlock sent the doors flying out into space in a decompressive blast, while the two men held onto their place inside the lander by dint of a pair of grab bars and reinforce belly belts.
Stepping outside the small craft that had got them over the Lucky Clover more or less in one piece, the pair of engineers stepped out onto the hull.
After clearing the Lander, Spalding looked back and blinked at the sight of the stern of the small ship. It had crumpled like a tin can, and by the looks of it they were fortunate to still be alive.
“Well, any landing ye walk away from’s a good landing, I say,” the Old Engineer transmitted over the com-links he had thoughtfully added to the standard issue head bags. With an uncaring shrug, he turned away and began tromping toward the airlock.
At the older Engineer’s words, Brence looked back and made a choking sound but refrained from comment as they continued over to the airlock Spalding had picked out.
“H-h-hu-hurry,” Brence’s voice came over the link, accompanied by the sound of teeth chattering.
“Hold yer horses,” Spalding said testily as his gloved fingers fumbled over the exterior airlock controls, “just hold your horses, boy. We’ll be inside in just a might.”
Half a minute later, the outer door cycled open. Stepping inside, the Commander started the cycle to close the outer door, fill the chamber with air before opening the inner airlock door.
As soon as they were in the ship, Brence tore off his head bag and threw it onto the ground.
“Watch yer equipment, Engineer,” Spalding barked, “we might need that head bag later on.”
“It’s cold,” Brence said, shivering and slapping his hands together, “whoever said a skin suit is rated for 25 minutes of exposure to cold space if given access to an adequate supply of oxygen is a liar!”
“Oh, pick it up, you whiner,” Spalding snapped, and then the realization broke over him like a thousand meter tall wave: he was back on the Clover! He closed his eyes and stopped long enough to take one deep breath. The smell of recycled air had never tasted so sweet.
“I’d rather face my chances in here than go back onto the hull!” Brence declared, and the old Engineer’s eyes snapped open the moment broken.
“We might need it in case of smoke or a chemical attack,” Spalding retorted angrily, and fitting mood to action reached over his back to pull out the flash shotgun he’d thought to bring in the Lander for his reunion with the Lucky Clover.
Brence blinked and then rushed over to snatch up the face bag before hurrying after the old Engineer. Reaching down to his belt, he pulled out the stunner he had brought.
“Shouldn’t we try to use non-lethal weaponry for as long as possible?” the young Engineer asked, his voice a whisper. “I mean, at least until we’re spotted.”
“The Mutineers deserve what they get,” Spalding declared, hurrying them toward the turbo-lift.
“Maybe I should go in front,” Brence suggested, increasing his stride.
“As if you know where you’re going,” Spalding scoffed, matching the other man’s pace and turning slightly to level a finger at Brence. “I know this ship like the back of my hand.”
“Sir-” Brence started to say right before Spalding cracked his head on one of the corridor support beams built into the side of the wall at regular intervals.
“Ack!” Spalding exclaimed, staggering away and clutching his head. “Stop distracting me!” he grumbled, staggering down the hall, rubbing his head cursing his new droid legs. Just as soon as he took care of that noisy whine, they decided to plague him with the reminder that they made him too blasted tall, as well!
“Sorry,” Brence said shaking his head with a smile plucking around the corners of his mouth.
“Not another word!” Spalding declared, stomping down the corridor.
Brence hid a smile and hustled along behind. Less than a minute later, they ran across a pair of environmental ratings running down the corner with a
hand scanner.
For a moment, the four stood staring at each other and the environmental tech’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of the cyborged Chief Engineer in their midst.
“It’s a space ghost come to take revenge on us, Blairt,” shrieked the tech on the left.
Spalding swelled with fury. “You’ve gone Parliament, Castawelli?” he thundered, lowering his flash shotgun and jacking in a charge. The fact that he had used Castwell’s name as part of the impromptu curse never even crossed the old man’s mind.
Brence snatched up his stunner, and with a pair of rapid shots dropped both the techs.
“Quick, Sir,” he said urgently, “we’ve got to get out of the area before anyone realizes they’re missing.”
“Death to Parliament! Death to the Mutineers,” Spalding raged, shoving the muzzle of his weapon down towards the fallen pair of men.
“Come on, Chief,” Brence yelled, grabbing hold of his arm trying to drag him along—and not coincidentally pulling his shotgun out of line with the Techs.
“Traitors!” Spalding shouted, trying to shrug the younger man off and only partly succeeding when Brence decided to cling to him like his arm was some kind of infernal life line. “I shoulda known Environmental would be the first ones to turn their coats,” he roared, “ye can’t trust the moles running around in the ship’s pipes, Brence. Any man willingly immerses himself in human waste for a career can’t be trusted, and now look at them. It’s as plain as the nose on me face!”
“Stop, Commander,” Brence said, sounding desperate, “we’ve got a duty to the ship—to the Clover! We can’t be delayed.”
“Ye’re right, lad,” Spalding said, breathing heavily and certain that what was left of his face was beet-red. He lifted his Flash Shotgun and Brence almost reluctantly let go.
“Come on, Sir,” Brence urged grabbing his upper arm and hurrying forward.
Spalding started down the corridor and then broke free of the younger man’s grip. Turning back around he lunged back and drew back his foot; faster than most men could blink, he kicked both of the Mutineers who had tried to steal away his Clover right in their guts.
“Sir!” Brence all but screamed.
“I’m a comin’, I’m a comin’,” Spalding growled, jerking around and putting the pair of traitorous mutineers out of his mind.
Twice along the way they heard the sounds of running feet, but each time the Engineer led them to a side corridor or a maintenance closet and in less than five minutes, with the ship shuddering around them, they hit the lift.
Heading over to the panel on the side of the lift doors opening, Brence punched in a code but nothing happened.
“Stand aside, Brence,” Spalding said pushing his way forward, “I’ve got the override codes.” Seconds later, a lift was on the way on a priority task.
Stepping into the lift, the old engineer entered another code and pressed the exclusion feature that would keep this lift from stopping to pick up any other passengers along the way to its current, final destination.
“I’m getting’ too old for this business,” Spalding complained, slumping against the side of the lift box’s wall.
“My neck still feels whiplashed from our crash-landing,” Brence groaned from his position against the other wall.
“That was a ‘controlled landing’,” Spalding stiffened with a growl, “there was no crash involved. We got down safely, and that’s all that matters.” When Brence opened his mouth, Spalding leveled a finger at him, “Not ‘nother word, or next time ye won’t be invited.”
The young Engineer shook his head from side to side, looking disgusted. Spalding was about to cut loose with a withering retort when the lift car gave a ding, indicating it was about to arrive at its destination.
Thoughts of castigating his assistant flew out of his head, and a wild look entered the old engineer’s eyes as he leveled his flash shotgun at the door.
“It might be a bit late to ask, Sir, but…where are we going?” Brence asked, his eyes flitting from the lift control panel and the flash shotgun as he pointed his own stunner at the door as well.
“Main Engineering,” Spalding said with a grin.
“Anywhere in particular?” Brence asked as the lift came to a halt and gave the final ding prior to opening.
“I’m glad you asked,” the ornery old Engineer said with a feral look, “we’re going into the Chief Engineer’s Office. I’ve a bone to pick with the Clover’s current management, and my style’s to start at the top.
Brence’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
Chapter 81: To the Locker, lad!
The two men jumped out of the lift, brandishing weapons.
“Blast,” Spalding cursed to the empty office, “I’d hoped to catch the blighting imposter slackin’.”
“I didn’t know there was even a lift in the Chief Engineer’s Office…and I’ve been in here before, too,” Brence said, clearly dumbfounded.
“Eh?” Spalding said irritably. “It’s been here all along,” and then a comprehension dawned, “oh, you mean the new Chief’s Office—that used to be a supply closet.” He grinned, “I moved in there ‘cause it’s a shorter walk; this is in the old administrative office. I never saw the point of bein’ so far from my fusion reactors, personally.”
“So we still have a five minute walk,” Brence said, taking a deep breath, “okay.”
“What are talking about man?” Spalding boggled, looking confused himself.
“Our mission, Sir,” Brence looked at him quizzically, “we have to go shut down the reactors and win the battle…what did you think I was talking about?”
Realization dawned and Spalding suddenly looked guilty. “The Fusion reactors…right,” he fumbled slightly before his voice firmed again.
“Is something wrong?” Brence asked worriedly, “the Admiral and the whole ship are counting on us, Commander. We have to get to those reactors.”
“Don’t worry; I have everything under control,” Spalding blustered, quickly regaining his confidence. “Aye, don’t worry yer head, lad; the reactors were only ever Plan B. I have a much better idea on how to save the Clover than to space her power plants! That kind of equipment is vital—vital!—to the survival of the ship.”
Brence blinked rapidly. “Why am I even surprised by anything at this point?” he asked rhetorically before taking a deep breath. “So if we’re not going to go shut down the fusion reactors, what’s the real plan?”
For his part, it was Spalding’s turn to be surprised at the lack of opposition. It almost threw him off his stride, if he was being honest. Clearing his throat, he shook his head and cracked a smile at this unexpected surprise, deciding to be a little freer with his words than was his usual modus operandi.
“Tell me, lad…have you ever heard of the Locker?” he said with a grin.
Brence’s mouth dropped open. “The Davy Jones, Sir? You mean the mythical place on every ship where everything that’s lost can be found? Where old equipment and the spirits of everyone who’s died in service to the ship goes to rest?”
“What if I told you it’s the same place that Captain Moonlight makes his secret lair?” Spalding said with a sly wink.
“You mean…it’s real?!” Brence nearly squealed, jumping up and down in his surprise.
“Yup,” Spalding said proudly, turning to the lift.
“I’ll be jiggered, Sir!” Brence said with feeling.
Chapter 82: Staying in the Fight
“I don’t know how much longer we can stay in this,” Laurent said, holding a hand with a trauma pad to the cut on the side of head.
“We’re not done yet,” I said, baring my teeth and turning to Tactical. “Make sure to present our right flank to the Vineyard as soon as it takes over pounding us for the Lucky Clover; we’ve lost too many turbo-lasers on the left.”
“Roll to present our starboard side, Aye,” Eastwood acknowledged grimly.
“At this point we could still attempt a withdra
wal,” Laurent advised quietly, “but if we wait any longer, they’re going to pound us into scrap. We rolled the dice and they didn’t come up sixes, Sir; there’s no shame in it.”
“We just need a few lucky hits,” I demurred in an equally low voice as our overheated turbo-lasers lashed out at the newly arrived Vineyard, “either from us, or from the Phoenix. If we can just hit their engines—”
The Vineyard made its presence known, and the bridge temporarily lost power.
“Severe damage to the Power Grid A,” Crewwoman Blythe reported with tension in her voice. “Combined with the damage to Grid B, we’ve had to reroute around the damaged areas by cross-connecting both grids. If we get a major electrical surge or ion spike, we’ll have…trouble compensating.”
“Fortunately, there don’t appear to be any ion weapons among our enemies,” I said shortly, while I started mentally cursing. Blythe was a steady woman, the sort of watch stander one wanted at the controls, so if she was starting to sound concerned then there was cause for alarm. Not that I needed her input to realize that the Armor Prince was in a bad way; the steadily mounting losses of weapons and damage to ship’s systems had already told me that.
“We’re not going to get a lucky hit. They’ve got the two ships, and frankly they’ve been out-maneuvering us with their slightly faster engines. If anyone’s going to get lucky, it’s the man with two weapon’s platforms and the faster drives,” Laurent cut back in.
“This is for all the marbles, Captain,” I replied, fighting the heavy feeling in my chest. I could make all the high-minded speeches I wanted, but I’d still only be able to get the best this crew had to offer; I couldn’t magically produce more warships or wish damaged turbo-lasers back to functionality.
Tactical gave a cheer and my eyes snapped back over to the Vineyard, but I didn’t see what all the hoopla was about.
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