Galactic Council Realm 2: On Duty

by J. Clifton Slater

  Two dead, two wounded, leaving two still in the chase, my work wasn’t done.

  The Sergeant and the young Officer had moved the two senior officers to a corner. They stood in a defensive posture blocking access to the wounded. The metal rods were active and I could see they were shock sticks. Each swung their electronic Prod creating a protective zone. That was interesting, I hadn’t seen where they’d gotten the weapons. It took me a second to spot the storage cabinet for the weapons.

  My Clan hood analyzed the crackling tips of the prods. Mostly, this type of weapon was considered nonlethal. Used to stop a body or keep one in line, the tips would shock but not kill. These shock sticks projected an electronic arc a hand length from the tip. These wouldn’t just shock, they would kill.

  I was squatting just inside the tunnel and watching. My Clan doublet and trousers were projecting the view from behind me on the front of my gear. I was virtually invisible. Dueling with two large men and those prods didn’t appeal to me.

  Reaching under the doublet, I drew my Galactic Council Military 45. They saw an un-camouflaged pistol and the senior NCO charged. He was four steps away when my kinetic rounds punched him in the chest. Center mass hits and he involuntarily bent forward. The next two kinetic rounds entered the top of his head. One, as designed, rattled around inside his skull. The other found the soft tissue at the base of his neck and blew out along with chunks of brain matter.

  I didn’t hate these men. I hated what they planned to do so I was merciful. The young Officer died quickly as did the two wounded Senior Officers. Holstering the 45, I reached down and retrieved one of the shock sticks.

  It was almost three times the circumference of the handle of my fighting sticks. These weapons were constructed for large hands. Maybe these six hadn’t been unusually large, maybe they were normal size. They must be from a Clan of big people.

  In the weapon’s cabinet, I found four more Prods. Shouldering six of the shock sticks, I opened the hatch and stepped into the cargo sleeve. Row upon row of torpedoes greeted me. I smiled as an idea formed.

  Smart weapons, unfortunately for me, wouldn’t explode without the primer being triggered. I didn’t want to stand in the cargo sleeve and hammer the warhead of a torpedo. The result, I’d die. Besides the direct approach, they would explode in the presence of an immense shock wave. A really catastrophic milieu of expanding gases, flying shards of metal and immeasurable pressure. I could make that happen but first I needed duct tape.

  The armorer’s work chest wasn’t locked. I pulled out a hex head wrench and a roll of duct tape.

  Four screws per plate, three torpedoes and I had the covers off of each exposing the circuit boards. The silicate plates were thin enough to flex under my thumb. Below the boards, about four fingers away, lay kilos of TNC, Tetranitrocarbazole, an explosive material that was stable until triggered. TNC’s advantage was its an easily manufactured compound and its expanding properties once triggered.

  I duct taped pairs of Prods together then set each next to one of the torpedoes. My Clan gear and fighting sticks went back into the pouch on the Clan strap. Next, I fitted my helmet to the space suit, opened the aperture to the torpedo tube, and I paused to wonder if I’d survive the next few minutes.

  Between the TNC and the circuit board was a layer of alloy. My thought and hope was the silicate would be eaten away quickly but the metal over the TNC would hold back the electronic arcs. Before the alloy melted away and the arcs triggered the explosives, I hoped to be in my little tug motoring towards my GunShip.

  I cradled the three sparking Prod pairs and cleared my mind. Running between three torpedoes, I placed the electronic tips in the openings. One, two, three and I dove into the torpedo launch tube.

  At first I was climbing against the weak gravitational pull from the Clipper ship. Soon, the pull lessened and I clawed my way up the tube. It seemed longer then when I’d entered. It had to be my sense of survival that made the climb seem like forever. Finally, I reached the exterior hatch.

  I envisioned metal melting away and electricity exciting molecules of resting TNC. No longer worried about being discovered, I thumbed the motor to retract the air-lock tube while pouring power to the tiny ion cannons of the tug.

  The Clipper ship knew I was there after firing up their tail array. I watched it strobe as my tug cleared the end of the scanner. I was moving so slowly and counting the seconds until the Prods reached the exposed explosives. Counting until…

  Chapter 12

  My universe blurred into a spinning ball of flames. My view screen pelted with shards of metal and a fog. Next it revolved to black space before rotating around into the storm of the exploding cargo sleeve. Fog, black, fog, black, black fog and I started to regain my equilibrium. The small tug was rolling but seemed intact.

  The gray rock of the asteroid began to replace the black of space. It filled my view screen as I continued to tumble from the explosions. If I was going to die splashed on an inert rock beyond the Galactic Divide, at least I’d save the Navy a Frigate.

  I shook my head trying to clear the muddled feeling. My eyes not fully focused, I reduced power and turned into the spin when it wasn’t facing the gray mass. A burst of ion cannons followed by a reduction, another shot and the little tug took the heading.

  The explosion from the cargo sleeve had carried me to the face of the asteroid. I used the location, after regaining control, to climb up and over the immense rock. There sitting beautifully on the other side was my GunShip.

  Up and over the asteroid I flew. At the GunShip, I extended the air-lock tube. I’d miss the little maintenance tug, I thought as I released that end of the tube. It drifted away as I climbed into the back of my ship.

  ‘Good hunt,’ I felt the words brush my mind.

  ‘Breann?’ I thought back, ‘good hunt.’

  The atmosphere in the GunShip was stale and the oxygen readings were near the dangerous mark. I reached across the pilot seat to ignite the ion cannons. A small furry head raised up and brushed the underside of my arm.

  ‘More spiders,’ he sent than added, ‘Pleased.’

  I knew he meant more enemies with the ‘more spiders’ comment. It was the ‘pleased’ I didn’t understand. Was he pleased I survived or pleased there were more enemies in the area. With Space Cats, you could never tell.

  It took three nudges to get Breann’s attention and even then he was reluctant to give up his place on the pilot seat.

  ‘Unless you get longer legs and opposing thumbs, I need to drive this ship,’ I sent to him.

  ‘Comfortable,’ he sent back.

  The cabin pressure rose with the increasing rumble from the ion cannons of the Internal drive. Oxygen levels returned to optimum operating levels and I removed the restrictive helmet. Once she was at full power, I snapped on the scanner. I’d taken out a torpedo ship by myself. If the enemy wanted a fight, now, I was armed with more than a work tug. I punched up the scan.

  Amazingly some of the Clipper ship was still intact. And a new player had just evolved to Internal drive. A Patrol Boat was racing on a course to the distressed Clipper. I shut down my scanner and did some calculations.

  In a classic Naval matchup, a GunShip didn’t stand a chance against a Patrol Boat. A Patrol Boat was a powerful patrol vessel and carried two GunShips, plus missiles and sported flank guns. I didn’t want to go broadside to broadside with it because I couldn’t win. But I certainly could ruin his day.

  By applying a little power, I eased the GunShip to just below the horizon of the asteroid. My calculations, if correct, would place the newly arrived Patrol Boat at the Clipper in a few minutes. This gave me time to think.

  The posters on the walls of the Clipper told a tale. I didn’t know the story but the moral was clear. Druids were evil and the cause of the mysterious people’s troubles. But, the hatred for our Heart Plants confused me. I’d have to do some research but first, I had a Patrol Boat to ambush.

  My rocket tubes lit off
and four ship to ship weapons streaked away. I poured power to the ion drive. Up and over the crest and I was closing on the Patrol Boat. It was tied to the fore section of the Clipper. It had to be that section as the rest of the Clipper was twisted space junk. Their air-lock tube I ignored. The single goal of my strategy was to damage the Patrol Boat’s ion wall. If I could inflict enough damage, they would be forced to run. If they stayed to battle it out with me, it would be ugly, for me.

  I fired off two more rockets and triggered the guns on either side of my ship. My first four rockets impacted mid ship, peeling away a layer of metal. Rocking my guns, I targeted the quad machine gun on the left and the GunShip elevator on the right. My last two rockets launched. I broke to the right, away from the quad’s stream of rounds.

  Using the asteroid to block my movement, I swung around it and came up on the tail of the Patrol Boat. My goal was to dissuade the launching of its GunShips. Peppering the aft section, I closed on the enemy vessel. My surprise attack would either pay off or I would be in deep trouble.

  The Patrol Boat tore away before detaching the air-lock tube. A ragged portion of the fiber tube floated alongside her as she put distance between the Clipper and me. Then, she began a tight turn. My stomach flopped. If she returned to the fight, I was a goner.

  Her nose swung in my direction and I waited for the missiles. The Patrol Boat’s missile tubes released atmosphere which looked like smoke as the air hit the void of space. It was a perfect snap shot, them to me quick and deadly. I could have turned and tried to run but why? I was in their sights.

  The bow continued to swing until she was aiming, not at me, but at the ruined Clipper ship. Four missiles, three headed for the Clipper and one off to my left. My attention was split between the two flight paths. The Clipper virtually imploded from three direct hits. What was at least identifiable as the form of a merchant ship was now so many pieces of alloy drifting in space.

  The missile off to my left was aimed for the section of space where my GunShip would be, if I’d attempted to run. Chalk it up to guts and glory if you want. I knew it was fatalism that had saved my GunShip, Breann and me.

  I watched as the Patrol Boat struggled to do a three snap evolution before going to External drive. I had hurt her. Breann leaped to my lap as I turned my GunShip towards the damaged Swanhilde and any of her crew that was still alive.

  My GunShip evolved to Internal drive and I had time to survey the damaged Swanhilde. She was a bird with clipped wings. A gash stretched across her skin exposing the ion wall. Some power was still flowing as displayed by the sparks that twinkled in the dark recess. Aft of the wall, where hanger deck one should have been, was a festering wound of twisted metal around a concave hole.

  I looked out into space. Hunks of wreckage glistened in the distance. None large enough to house a body. No Lieutenant Ayana Tani, no GunShip one and no small pieces of pink silk, all blasted away by a direct hit from a torpedo.

  My GunShip nosed to the other side of the exhausted Patrol Boat. On my side, hanger deck two lay like an open storage bin with the cover removed. Other than the rough grooves that marred the top, there was little damage. The real harm was the crushed metal where the access tunnel was flattened.

  “GunShip one to Swanhilde,” I radioed hoping for two things.

  My call was to try and locate any survivors. It was also a call to alert anyone manning the ship’s weapons that I was a friend. It would be a terrible waste, if after my small battle, I got killed by my own shipmates.

  “J-Pop to anyone on the Patrol Boat? Come back Swanhilde.”

  I applied power and move the GunShip further up the side of the Patrol Boat. The quad guns on this side was nothing but four twisted pipes jetting out of a cracked metal half shell. It was obviously out of commission and I didn’t hold much hope for the gunner.

  A roll under the untouched belly and I eased up on the other side of the wounded bird. Here, I saw four retracted barrels and an intact turret. My hope rose but soon faded as I noticed the coating of white frost on the gunner bubble. Not definitive but a quad gunner hanging in space could freeze to death if the main heater failed. Their suit’s backup warming system was there to enhance, not to create balmy weather.

  I rolled again, this time to the top of the Patrol Boat. The area to the fore of the ion wall was smooth, almost pristine until I flew over the command deck. Where the pilot seat, navigation and weapons stations would have been under layers of alloy, they were open to space. From side to side like a screaming mouth, the command deck was gouged out. My command crew was gone. Captain Viljami, Commander Millaray Lunes and the nervous navigator Lieutenant Måndag Blomma had been obliterated.

  I surmised that we’d steamed into the path of a torpedo cluster. As soon as the Patrol Boat evolved to Internal drive, the weapons had gone active. With no time for evasive action, the Swanhilde made a perfect target.

  I swung from the Bridge area and cruised to an underside access hatch. The port lay below the bunker where the quad ammo and missiles were stored. My GunShip edged into alignment. The small air-lock tube slid along the metal until it connected with grooves of the clamp. It barely held, the interlocking apparatus was powerless but at least it had a grip.

  Lifting Breann off my lap, I stood and placed him on the pilot’s seat.

  ‘Stay,’ I thought to him as I pulled on the helmet.

  ‘Warm. Sleep,’ he thought back.

  I pushed through the air curtain and hit the switch which reduced the oxygen in the crew compartment. Conservation of air was important if I found survivors, plus, if the air on the Swanhilde was fouled, I wanted to reduce the contamination to the GunShip.

  The air-lock tube was shaky and I moved by brushing of my fingers on the flexible tube. As if I were swimming, I floated more then pulled on the fabric afraid I’d yank loose the tentative connection with the Patrol Boat.

  I’ve never been happy with air-lock tubes of any size. Too wobbly, too thin a fabric between me and the void of space, I sweated as I traversed the tube. It was a relief when the metal of the Patrol Boat blocked my way.

  After latching the air-lock connection to be sure it was air tight and firm, I began the task of unscrewing the hatch. Usually, I’d have communications with a suited up crewman who would open the hatch from the inside. But I didn’t, I blindly pulled and released screws. They floated around me like tiny missiles. They reminded me that there was still the likelihood of enemy ships in this sector.

  The solid wall of the bunker faced me as well as smoke issuing from the air vents. I found my way, by feel, to the crew access ladder. Up on to the lower deck, where the air was thick with a greasy haze, I floated to the next set of ladders.

  Where once a low angled set of steps ascended to the upper deck, a twisted bent metal obstacle partially blocked the hatch. My back to the bulkhead, I strained with my legs until the wreckage shifted. It moved enough for me to pull my body up to the level of the maintenance deck.

  The aft wall was buckled inward and the two hatches were collapsed sealing off the mess deck and the ion wall beyond.

  I turned my attention to the disorderly mess of the repair equipment that was scattered around the deck. Digging through the tools, hoses, new and used parts, I located a rebreather. It was a ship board one. Okay for a few hours of emergency oxygen, it wasn’t what I needed. Shuffling further, I located four flight crew rebreathers, two medical kits and a big box of energy bars. Until then I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, but you can’t fit food through a space helmet. Believe me, if there was a way, I’d be chewing rather than looking for a couple more pieces of equipment.

  I found them in a cabinet that somehow was still latched despite the crumpled door. Two hard jerks and the door fell off in my hand. I let it float away and reached for the sealed packages. Emergency Air Curtains, sealed to maintain freshness and still at factory specs for oxygen.

  You couldn’t use them to breath. They were barriers between space and an oxygenated co
mpartment. I’d need one to protect the GunShip, when I returned, to seal out the smoke. The other I secured over the hatch to the gun deck. From my observations of the exterior of the Swanhilde, it appeared the deck with the quads and Marines was the only pressurized area. I wanted to keep it that way if possible.

  I reached through the tight sheets of the air curtain fabric and spun the hatch’s locking mechanism. The hatch swung away from me and I shouldered my way in pulling the supplies with me. Seeing clear air, I slammed the hatch closed and spun the wheel until the hatch was secure. Then, I turned to inspect the deck.

  My bags of supplies gently drifted to the deck. This let me know that enough power was flowing through the floor plates to maintain partial gravity. Most likely from the batteries, which wouldn’t last over a few more hours.

  Quad two was blocked from view by an air curtain. That wasn’t a good sign for the big gun, and definitely bad for the Marine gunner. What worried me more were the streaks of blood along the edges of the fabric. There was too much and its smeared appearance told me the man who’d set the curtain was badly hurt.

  That man, Sergeant Kukka, was across the deck on his knees at quad one. He was bent to a task with a wrench as long as his arm. Unfortunately, he had it cradled in the crook of his arm and was using a knee to steady the tool. As I got closer, I could see why.

  Both of his hands were smashed with twisted fingers jetting out in unnatural angles. He had positioned the tool over a deck bolt and was screaming out curses. Even if he’d been fully functional, he couldn’t remove the deck plate screws by hand. It required an impact wrench with a pneumatic assist not brute strength.

  Beyond the struggling Marine, lay two still figures. He’d positioned them so while he wrestled heroically with the deck plate, he could still keep an eye on his wounded. Galactic Council Marine Corps’ Sergeants were unselfish, honorable and when they weren’t kicking the butt of a foul up, the best companion you could ever have.