Stars & Empire: 10 Galactic Tales

by Jay Allan

  The NPQR Peregrine.

  Daniels shook his head. Navis Populusque Romanis. Literally, the ship and the Roman people. Such a shame that they wouldn’t have time to scrub the designation off and replace it with something more fitting. USS Peregrine sounded far more worthy.

  They made their way to the bridge through the deserted, sterile hallways. As far as he could tell, there was really only one route there since all the other routes hadn’t even been constructed yet. The bridge door opened at his approach, and he was met by a cacophony of loose wire, half installed computer and viewscreen panels, and only one portable chair.

  He took off his helmet, and the rest of Omega team followed his lead. He looked into their eyes. He hardly knew them, but they had his respect. One of the women, a stout, brawny, black-haired girl of no more than twenty, lifted a hand to her forehead in a slow, solemn salute. He stood at attention and saluted back, trying to keep his face stoic.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  -o0o-

  “Shotgun, The Fury is signaling to fall back. Everyone is to fall back to the Fury,” said Kit.

  Jake glanced out the window. Just in time, he thought. The frigates looked like they were on their last leg. Slowly, they began drifting away from the Behemoth, and the remains of the two fighter squadrons covered their retreat.

  “So is it over? What the hell!” Crash’s voice blared over the comm. Jake could hardly believe it either. After all their advances the past week, they were retreating? Pritchard must be planning something. This was too pedestrian. Too sloppy of a move, for it to be an effective strategy. What good were the shipyards if they still had an enemy fleet out there that could take it back tomorrow?

  “Frigates are clear of the Behemoth. Let’s get out of here, Jake.”

  He gripped the controls until his knuckles turned white. “Roger. Returning to the Fury.” He pointed the bow towards their own capital ship, larger and deadlier than the Behemoth, but even it looked on its last leg. Two other Corsican capital ships had been pounding away at it the whole time, and now it began moving away from the shipyards at a crawl.

  Out of the corner of his eye, movement. Something was moving in the shipyards. He looked at one of the twelve construction rings, looked at the skeleton of a ship held in its center, and reassured himself that he’d only seen a stray fighter flit in between it and the ring.

  He glanced to one of the other rings.

  And his jaw dropped.

  “Holy hell. You see that, Rooster?” He pointed at the skeleton of a ship that now slowly moved away from its ring, connection tubes snapping into clouds of debris as it pulled away. With his eyes darting about the shipyards, he saw two more begin to move as well. Three of the twelve half-built battleships now accelerated slowly, almost imperceptibly away from their moorings.

  “I see it, but I don’t believe it. Do those things even have power?”

  “They must. They probably—”

  Kit interrupted. “Holy shit, did you see that?”

  He had. And he couldn’t believe his eyes. One of the ships disappeared. He snapped his head around, searching for it.

  And he saw it. Barreling straight for the Behemoth, with only hundreds of meters now separating them.

  Jake swore under his breath. “Pritchard, you beautiful, beautiful man.”

  The skeleton, nearly the same size as the Behemoth, impacted, impaling the other ship on its array of half-finished girders. When the core of the ship connected with the unlucky target, a flash filled their viewscreen.

  “There goes the antimatter engine,” said Kit.

  When the glare faded, all that remained in view was the Behemoth, heavily damaged, spewing flame from countless gaping holes in its hull.

  “There go the other two,” said Jake, pointing back to the shipyards. In the blink of an eye, both of the other two half-completed ships disappeared, and they craned their heads back to the Fury, which by now had put some distance in between it and its pursuing Corsican ships. The skeletons snapped into existence right in their path, and they collided with even more force than the first had with the Behemoth.

  Pritchard’s voice sounded triumphantly over the comm. “All squads. Do be so kind as to go clean up my mess. Viper and Hornet squads, Behemoth. Jackal and Wolf squads, take the Maximus. Dryad and Red squads, please dispose of the Parthenon, the little bugger—it took out my gravitic drive. Remember what we all learned in boy scouts, my friends: leave no trace. Now get to work, and happy hunting. Pritchard out.”

  Grinning, Jake pulled up hard on the controls and the fighter wheeled around in a sharp turn, pointing the bow back towards the wreck of the Behemoth. Streams of air, debris, and bodies still shot out of the jagged scars left by the crashed shell of a ship, but several of its gun batteries still blazed away.

  “Easy there, Shotgun, she’s still dangerous,” said Kit, thumbing the triggers every now and then when a Corsican fighter would come under his sights.

  “I see it. Crash, you still with us?”

  The comm crackled. “Still here, Shotgun.”

  “Let’s take care of those other ion cannon towers, then we’ll have free reign over the bastard.”

  “What about the fighters?”

  “Cover us. We’ll take care of the cannons.”

  He pushed the controls forward and they shot towards one of the remaining active towers. A pair of enemy fighters swooped down to meet them, eliciting a curse from Kit. “Shotgun, watch out.”

  “No worries, Rooster.” He looped the fighter up and around, giving Crash a clear shot at them, and came in again for another try. “There, Rooster. Have at it.”

  “Locked on. Torpedoes away.”

  As they shielded their eyes, a rocking explosion followed, which they felt from the impact of a shower of debris from the cannon.

  Streaks of smoke shot away from the Behemoth, which Jake recognized as missile fire.

  “Nuclear signal! She’s firing her nukes. I’m counting…” he looked up. “All of them. I’ve got fifty-two contacts. All headed towards the Fury.”

  “Intercepting fire from the Fury?”

  “Affirmative.” They looked out the viewport towards their flagship, watching as the dozens of streaks of light bolted towards the Fury, which erupted with a dizzying flurry of interceptor shells. As a shell slammed into a warhead, the missile would explode harmlessly, its nuclear capabilities rendered inert. But several continued on towards their target, zigzagging to avoid the outgoing shells from the Fury.

  “Three left. No, two,” Kit said, reading his sensor display. “Ha! One more down. Last one to go. Last one. Last one…” His brow furrowed. They both looked back out the viewport.

  “Cover your eyes, Kit!” Jake yelled, punching the autopilot button, and just in time. Even with both hands clamped down firmly over their eyes, they could see the blinding flash, the light glowing red as it trickled through their hands and eyelids.

  Jake opened his eyes and blinked several times. “Shit. What was our dose at this distance?”

  Kit glanced at the readout and pressed a few buttons. “Two hundred millisieverts, taking our shielding into account. We’ll be fine. But the Fury sustained a direct hit.”

  Jake peered out the viewport, studying the hull of the Fury. The port side of the ship looked bad—dozens of viewports streamed precious air out into space, and a gaping hole the size of a football field grinned out at them, revealing girders, trusses, supply lines, and deck plates.

  The comm blared with the voice of the communications officer on the Fury. “All hands, continue battle plan. Fury is fine, repeat, Fury is fine. Fury out.”

  They both blew out a sigh of relief. “She doesn’t look fine, but I guess we take her word for it,” said Jake.

  “That’s odd,” said Kit.

  “What is it?” Jake looked over at Kit’s readout.

  “The Behemoth is changing course towards the Fury. She’s accelerating. But scanners show that her antimatter is out.
Her warheads are expended. Gravitics are out. Permanently, it seems. She’s got nothing left. Jake,” he looked up. “They’re picking up speed. And that warhead took out the Fury’s maneuvering gravitics too. All she’s got are thrusters.”

  He thumbed off the autopilot and kept pace with the Behemoth.

  The comm blared to life. “An eye for an eye, Admiral. You reap what you sow.” Deodatus’s voice sounded raw, as if he had been recently coughing.

  “Fury’s status?” said Jake.

  Kit’s fingers raced across the readout. “She’s pulling away, but not fast enough. Speed of the Behemoth relative to the Fury is one point two kps and rising. That’s going to be one hell of an impact.”

  One point two kps. He glanced out the viewport towards the crippled Fury—it grew steadily larger. Estimating the impact to occur in just seconds, he sprung into action. Flipping the ship around so fast the stars outside passed as a blur, he darted the fighter towards the stern of the Behemoth.

  “Kit, get a lock on all aft starboard thrusters! Now!”

  “On it. Locking. Torpedoes away…”

  A knot in Jake’s stomach tightened as he counted each blast. One, two, three …

  “There’s still one thruster active. Targeting guns.”

  The guns pelted the last starboard thruster with a shower of high caliber bullets, but it remained active.

  Jake swore. Realizing there was nothing left to do, he gunned the engine, aiming straight towards the thruster. Kit gritted his teeth, apparently understanding Jake’s intent. The impact jolted both of them hard against their restraints, and the fighter ricocheted off the massive thruster towards starboard. Stars wheeled past the viewport like a blur.

  But they were alive.

  “We did it, Jake. Thruster offline. Behemoth is accelerating off course. Towards…” he glanced up at Jake with a grin. “Towards the atmosphere. They can’t escape gravity at that speed.”

  Thumbing the autopilot on to right the ship’s orientation, he watched as the Behemoth’s underside started glowing. The debris from the wreckage of the skeleton ship burst into white-hot embers and flared off the hull in streaks, which started to glow an even brighter red. Jake gave a whoop when the massive ship split right down the middle.

  Pritchard’s voice boomed over the comm. “Viper six! You bloody bastards, you poached my kill!” He erupted in laughter. “Thanks, mates. I’m sure there’s a medal or some crumpets you fellows are in for or something. Pritchard out.”

  Jake glanced over at Kit. “How we holding up?”

  “We’ve got no life support, no gravitics, no weapons, and from what it looks like, several bad leaks. But the remaining thrusters can get us back to the docking bay on the Fury. You know, Shotgun,” he continued, not even looking up, “that was incredibly stupid. You could have got us both killed.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.” Switching the propulsion over to thrusters from gravitics, he pushed forward on the controls, bringing the bow to line up with the Fury, which now appeared to be mopping up the remaining two Corsican capital ships. With the flick of a finger he set a course for the main fighter bay.

  “But I don’t like to lose.”

  CHAPTER 2

  THE TALKING HEADS on the news program were starting to annoy him, but Jacob Mercer still couldn’t manage to wipe the grin off his face. He motioned the bartender for a third round, and pointed at the monitor, nudging the man next to him.

  “I love it when they cut to Dallas. It’s like the whole city just exploded with confetti.”

  Crash nodded. The air conditioning was out in the tiny sports bar on highway ninety-eight—miracle strip parkway, the locals called it—so tiny beads of sweat glistened off the man’s ebony forehead. “Makes sense. Political headquarters of the Resistance, and all.” They gazed up at the screen, watching as flurries of white bits of paper streamed out of the hundreds of skyscrapers looming up like a forest of mile-high steel and glass, showering the millions of people massed in the streets below.

  “New York City’s party isn’t even a tenth of this,” he noted, thanking the bartender as he poured Jake another shot of whiskey. He glanced at his watch, a vintage titanium timepiece from the twenty-second century his father had given him for his birthday a few years ago—possibly the only thing the man had ever given him besides his name.

  “It’s oh-eight-hundred. We got to be at HQ in two hours, so don’t get too drunk ya bastard,” he said, watching the monitor switch to footage from the previous evening. The NPRQ Behemoth streaking down through the atmosphere like a giant asteroid and the enormous impact deep in the southern Atlantic Ocean kept playing repeatedly throughout the broadcast. Tsunamis barreled ashore all along the eastern coast of South America and the western coast of Africa, but in spite of the minor destruction the major cities across the world erupted in celebration.

  Live cameras displayed the rest of the battle as the USS Fury parked alongside the remaining two Corsican capital ships—the NPQR Maximus and the NPQR Parthenon—and proceeded to blast the two into oblivion with its surviving railguns and torpedoes. The two Corsican ships put up a valiant effort considering what they had just been through, but in the end the satellite cameras zoomed in on the Maximus blazing through the upper atmosphere like the Behemoth before it, exploding as its antimatter engine went critical.

  The Parthenon offered its surrender, which Pritchard accepted grudgingly, and after it was clear the battle was turning into more of a mop-up operation, the governments of the world publicly announced an official switch of allegiances to the Resistance movement, beginning with the North and South American governments, and followed swiftly by Europe and the rest. The only holdout was Asia, who insisted on a peace treaty before any commitments were made.

  “‘Drunk,’ says the man on his third whiskey. Cool it, Shotgun, or you won’t be fit to fly. We’ve still got missions after all—the war ain’t over.” Crash sipped his water, having finished his first and only beer nearly half an hour before.

  A creak of the old wooden door announced the arrival of a new patron. Jake glanced over his shoulder as a woman in half of a Resistance uniform ambled through the doorway. Half, since the uniform shirt was tied around her waist by its sleeves, revealing a torso covered only by a khaki tank top. He tried not to gape at her flawless body as she approached the bar. Curves in all the right places.

  She took a stool at the end of the bar, swinging her leg up and over it, and motioned for a beer. Swirling tattoos covered her shoulders in various designs, and her close-cropped blonde hair swept over her forehead, nearly covering her eyes. She blew it aside with pursed lips and swigged the beer offered to her by the bartender.

  “Stop staring, Shotgun,” Crash whispered.

  “Why?” asked Jake, as he forced his eyes to drift past the girl towards the monitor hanging on the wall. With his peripheral vision, he saw her glance at him, and smile before returning to her beer and looking up at the other monitor behind the bartender.

  “Because, you don’t want to repeat the experience of earning your callsign,” Crash quipped, reminding him of the unfortunate event in which he’d been dubbed Shotgun.

  Ignoring his buddy’s advice, he grabbed his drink and ambled over to the woman. She didn’t even look at him. “Mind if I join you?”

  She let out a mock-sigh. “I suppose.”

  He smiled as he sat down. A flirt. He liked flirts.

  “You come here often? Never seen you here before,” he couldn’t take his eyes off hers—not a hint of makeup, yet easily the most striking, intense eyes he had ever seen.

  “I only come here when I get through blasting Corsican bastards out of the sky. You?”

  “So you’re a gunner? Which ship were you on?” Jake leaned closer to her.

  “Gunner?” She laughed. A deep, throaty laugh. “No. Pilot. Hornet squad. Lieutenant Anya Grace at your service.” She set down her beer and offered her hand.

  “Jacob Mercer. Uh, also pilot. Viper squad … at y
our … uh, service.” He took her hand, silently willing his language processing skills to work as well as the lower half of his body. “Hornet squad, huh? You guys did some nice flying out there last night.”

  “You’re right, we did,” she smiled and took another gulp of her beer.

  Nice. Beautiful, flirty, and confident—his favorite type. He grinned and let his eyes drop from her face. She set the glass down and wiped her mouth. “Get a good look?”

  He snapped his eyes back to hers. “Sorry? Hmm?”

  She rolled her eyes, then stood up, facing him. “Look, sweetie, I usually come here because I know I can find men who know what they got, and can give it to me.” She glanced around the half-empty bar, waving her arm. “Is that you, or should I go sit somewhere else?”

  “No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am.”

  His heart pounded. A successful mission, a saved battleship, a grateful Admiral, and now this. He couldn’t believe how this day was shaping up.

  “Well?” she said, expectantly.

  He looked up and down her perfect body, feeling suddenly flustered. “What, you mean now? Here?”

  Her brow furrowed with a look of concern. “I can wait for you if you’d like to call your mom and ask her permission.”

  Wow. He shook his head in disbelief, held up his hands. She grabbed one and led him to the women’s restroom. Once there, she shut the door and locked it, turning to him to rip his shirt off. She pushed him back against the wall, with her back to the mirrors, and he got to see her from behind as he pressed up against her front. More swirling tattoos graced her back and shoulders. Serpents and dragons, and, almost out of place, a small heart above her right buttock.

  And she was good. Direct, forceful, and good.