Alien Death Fleet [Star Frontiers 1]

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “Let's see if we can't get it off their ship.” Norlin had high hopes of luring the alien scoutship close enough to board and engage the mysterious crew in personal combat. They had destroyed at least three human-colonized planets and not once had they revealed themselves. His curiosity about them soared—and hope died when he saw how cautious they were.

  The scout hung back a few klicks, and the robot salvage crew landed on the Preceptor's hull. They began drilling their way in just aft of the crudely mounted radiation cannon.

  “We don't need this. Sarov, what chance do we have of getting the scout with one shot?”

  “Not good. They might be in touch with the other ships.”

  “Miza?”

  “Can't say, Captain. I'm not receiving any crosstalk from their fleet. It's as if the ships are programmed and following AI routines.”

  Norlin considered this. The Death Fleet might be totally automated. If so, they might face only robots. He shook off the notion. It didn't seem likely that a computer intelligence directed the fleet. Why strip the planets as they did? Robots didn't need such a wide spectrum of products—and he had seen foodstuffs being loaded into one automated looting factory.

  “Can we get them off our hull?” He checked his display and saw that the strain from the boring equipment had mounted to the point of causing a breach. The laser drills would penetrate the Preceptor's tough composite skin in seconds.

  “Captain, we can blow the section,” suggested Liottey. “There's nothing there but storage.”

  “Good idea. Do it,” he said, coming to a quick decision. “Blow the damned robots back toward the scout.”

  The ship shuddered as Liottey jettisoned the entire storage module. The cruiser was no longer battleworthy, but it hadn't been before getting rid of the invading robotic snoops, either.

  “There are no other major warships within easy range, Captain,” reported Miza.

  “Engineer? What speed can we make at current power levels?”

  “Quarter,” came Barse's immediate reply.

  “Tactical Officer, open fire on the scout. Hit it with everything.” Norlin watched as Sarov expertly launched the proper mix of missiles. Ten fired, three struck. The resulting explosion far outstripped the killing power of the missiles.

  “They self-destructed. Suicide circuit,” said Sarov.

  Norlin slumped. He had hoped for a chance to study the alien power plant. How did they recharge their radiation cannon so quickly? Or did they? Did they rely on sheer numbers rather than superior technology? To fight them successfully, he needed to know everything.

  “Analyze debris,” he ordered. He didn't care who obeyed the command. His own attention was focused on a minimum-energy, maximum-speed orbit back to Sutton II.

  The engines fired for several minutes. Norlin shut them down when he saw the power levels dropping abruptly.

  “Thanks, Cap'n,” said Barse. “I don't want to go dry.”

  “This is for the best,” he said. “We must look as if we're drifting out of control and dead in space.” He checked Miza's display and saw that the Death Fleet had gone on, ignoring them. The planetary defenses would give them a true challenge. A single cruiser, crippled and tumbling through space, could be ignored.

  He hoped they thought that way. If they didn't, he and everyone aboard was doomed.

  Job done for the moment, Norlin climbed down from the command chair and went to Pensky's side. The genhanced officer's eyes had fogged over with death. He didn't appear any different from any other dead man. Death leveled all ability—and cured insanity.

  “We can feed him into the ignition chamber,” suggested Miza. “He'd finally be good for something that way.”

  Norlin decided against it. “I want him stored in a vacuum coffin. Captain Droon might want to ship the body back to Earth. He was the emperor's cousin.”

  “Emperor Arian has thousands of cousins—all from a test tube.”

  Norlin shrugged off her cynicism. He had to attempt to return the body to Pensky's kin. They should know how he died. The Empire Service had centuries of tradition, but few were stronger than seeing to those who had died in battle.

  He grunted as he heaved the dead weight across his shoulders and lifted. Liottey came onto the bridge and hurriedly backed away.

  “Get a coffin ready,” he ordered the executive officer.

  “Sorry. They were in the section we jettisoned.”

  Norlin cursed. “Empty a food storage locker, then. I don't want him rotting and smelling up the ship. It'll be days before we can get back to Sutton II.”

  * * * *

  He dropped Pensky onto a table in the galley and went below to check Barse's progress. He could have made the inspection with a single glance at his command visor displays but felt he needed more personal contact with the woman. She was the only one on the Preceptor he felt any affinity with. Chikako Miza's bitterness sometimes overwhelmed him. Mitri Sarov was too aloof and intent on his job. And Gowan Liottey shared so little in common with anyone Norlin often wondered if the XO wasn't more alien than those in the Death Fleet.

  He entered the engineering section and was greeted by Neutron. The black cat rubbed his head against Norlin's leg and peered up at him accusingly, as if every problem aboard was his personal fault.

  “He hasn't been fed today, and you looked like an easy touch,” said Barse.

  “I am. Feed him. That's an order.”

  “Wouldn't you rather I get the engines back into condition?” Barse lounged against a pile of parts that had been stripped from a converter unit.

  “Both. Feeding him won't take long.”

  “Shows what you know,” she said, making a wry face. “Keeping that cat fed is a fulltime job. About the engines—I've got an idea. I plugged into Chikako's board and took a gander at our vector and location.”

  “And?”

  “Give me a few days and complete use of the robot repair units, and I can get the ship back into fighting trim.”

  “How? We're not going to be able to dry dock when we get back. Not with the Death Fleet working on Sutton II.”

  “Let sector base take care of itself,” she said. “Chikako located the ship Pensky killed. We're in good position to salvage what we need from it.”

  “I thought it was completely destroyed?”

  “Usable parts, Cap'n,” Barse said enticingly. “I can use them—the ship can use them. They're going to waste out there.” She sobered and said, “We can also recover bodies and return them with Pensky.”

  “We can,” he agreed.

  He considered their predicament. The Preceptor lacked enough firepower to aid in the sector base's defense. If anything, they would be in the way. The Death Fleet would have the planet ringed by now and be working on destroying all life with their deadly radiation cannons.

  If the Preceptor functioned at full capacity, as Barse promised, they could serve the purpose intended by the Empire Service. A warship waged war—and they knew the enemy.

  “Two days?” he asked.

  “Make it five. What's the hurry? And another three to refit and get powered up to max.”

  “We can use the time,” he decided. “Get Miza on the ‘link and tell her to lock on to the dead ship.”

  Barse smiled from ear to ear. “I already did. I knew you were smarter than Pensky, Cap'n.” She slapped him on the back and turned back to her work.

  Norlin leaned against the converter unit, shaking his head. He had much to learn about command.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Aren't you finished yet?” Norlin paced back and forth in the engineering section, hands clasped behind his back. Barse watched him as she petted the purring cat.

  “The RRUs are hard at work,” she said, “and have been for the past week. We're almost back at full strength, but I need to try a different solid-state switch on the radiation cannon. If I don't, we're going to drain ourselves down
to our shorts every time we fire than alien monstrosity.”

  “It saved us a week ago,” he reminded her, his mind on a dozen different things. “We're going to start radiating energy when we're back to max. The Death Fleet pulled back from Sutton and is starting a blockade. They destroyed four cargo ships that shifted into the system. The instant we move a muscle, they'll be on us...”

  “Like flies on shit,” Barse finished. She tossed the black cat toward the corner of the room. Neutron yowled in protest as he spun around adroitly to get his feet under him for an easy landing. He turned and glared at her, green eyes filled with disdain at such undignified handling.

  “It doesn't matter,” Norlin told her. “Even if we get only one shot with it, we're going to contact base. They've held out for a full week. They need to know there's someone who can help behind enemy lines.”

  “In enemy lines is closer to truth,” she said. Barse heaved a sigh. “Cap'n, let me tear into an alien power plant. I need to know what they use. We're going to cinder ourselves shooting that damned popgun of theirs if I don't.”

  “You saw what their scoutship did on approach to take us into tow. It suicided. They aren't going to let us dance in and rip apart their equipment so you can reverse-engineer it.”

  “Never hurts to ask,” she said, smiling crookedly. “Just a joke,” she said when she saw his reaction. “We're going to full power within the hour. You ready to start swatting flies?”

  “I'll be sure Sarov is.”

  Norlin went to the control room and studied the readouts. Barse and the never-tiring robot repair units had worked wonders in the past week while they drifted through space. The Preceptor lacked a few minor systems because of Barse's parts pirating, but she had put to good use the equipment from the remains of two Empire Service ships found drifting dead in space. Both had been struck by the aliens’ radiation cannon, killing the crews but leaving the ships esssentially intact. Norlin would have preferred having the ES vessels at his side in battle rather than as parts donors, but that option was closed. Pavel Pensky had been too clever by far in blowing apart the first destroyer.

  For the hundredth time that week, he reran Pensky's battle plan and studied the finer points. The man's tactical sense was unsurpassed. Like too many of the genetically enhanced, though, he had slipped over into insanity with no one daring to help him.

  “Load the launchers,” he ordered Sarov. “Here's our preliminary plan. Choose what you need carefully. We won't get a second chance to do it right.” Norlin punched in the salient points of his approach plan and let Sarov work out the details. The tac officer handled tactics; it was up to Norlin to decide strategy—what their goals were.

  “That takes us through the rear echelon of the Death Fleet,” said Sarov. “We can skirt them and not use any nukes.”

  “I need the static from EMP and confusion,” said Norlin.

  “We can always shift and spread the warning,” suggested Gowan Liottey. The sandy-haired XO wiped beads of sweat off his upper lip. Norlin wished the man would either grow a mustache, which seemed unlikely and might look ludicrous, or stop rubbing his lip. He irritated Norlin with all his nervous mannerisms, although in truth, he had pulled his weight more since Pensky died. For that Norlin was grateful.

  “We've told sector HQ,” he pointed out now. “We don't need to go any farther. They've contacted other colonies by now. The Death Fleet can't stop all message packet missiles.”

  “They might. Communication is still spotty,” the XO said, his voice growing increasingly shrill. “You know the attrition rate on courier missiles in shift space.”

  “This is our assigned duty station,” Norlin said coldly. “To do anything other than attempt to lift the blockade is treason—cowardice in the face of the enemy.”

  “They might not even have faces,” whined Liottey.

  “Makes staring them down harder,” said Miza. “But what's the difference? For you, Liottey, it's impossible to even look in a mirror without flinching.”

  “Full power, Cap'n,” came Barse's terse, tense voice. “Sure you want to bull in like this?”

  For an answer, he activated the attack program he had worked on for the past four days. All the computer simulations and mock battles meant nothing now. If he had erred in any significant part, the Preceptor would be dust floating through the Sutton system.

  “Missiles loaded. Auto-loading ready for second firings, too, Captain,” came Sarov's measured, deep tones.

  Norlin stared at the back of the man's bullet-shaped head. He had let his hair grow until he looked like a bristly hog.

  “I've got pick-up on an approaching enemy ship. Big one. We're not going to dance away from him.” Miza's displays showed an alien battleship changing course to intercept.

  Norlin cursed. He had hoped to take on a smaller vessel. The few scouts they had encountered had proven a match for the Preceptor. Such a massive warship outgunned and out-everythinged a Nova Class cruiser.

  “Too late to shift out,” he said. “We fight. Barse, get the radiation cannon power feed ready. Sarov, fire at will.”

  The Preceptor shuddered as Sarov's computer locked onto the target and sent a flight of genius missiles at the intruder. The AI circuits sought the shortest path with the highest probability of detonation on target. A randomizing factor had been built into the missiles to prevent a pattern from developing during long exchanges to further confuse enemy countermeasures.

  “One impact. Negligible damage,” reported Sarov. “We got its attention, though. Pre-corona discharges on three turrets. He's hot—and he's mad!”

  “Comlink established with base, Captain,” cut in Miza.

  Norlin blinked in surprise. “How did you manage that?”

  She shrugged. “Luck. No skill involved. They might be letting us through to see what we've got to say to each other.”

  “Who's on the other end?” Norlin's attention focused on the computer display representing relative positions of the Preceptor and the alien battleship. Being burdened with official orders would only complicate the situation.

  “Admiral Bendo from an underground bunker. The station has been destroyed.”

  “Captain Droon?”

  “Vapor,” said Miza.

  “Keep firing the missiles. Ready the radiation cannon for one quick shot. A microburst, not a full blast.” Norlin sucked in air and let it out slowly. “Patch the admiral into my ‘link.”

  The line officer's face appeared a few centimeters beyond Norlin's heads-up display. Voice meshed with picture in a few seconds.

  “Captain Pensky?”

  “Pensky died during an attack. Sublieutenant Norlin in command of the Preceptor once more.”

  “Highly irregular. You were—never mind. Report.”

  Norlin transmitted a microburst of coded information. Even if the aliens intercepted the nanosecond spurt, it would do them little good. The encryption could be broken, given time. Decoding it a month from now gave the aliens no edge.

  “Received and verified with cyclic redundancy check. I'll put in for a medal for Pensky. An Empire Star, the same as we gave Dukker. As for you and your crew, Norlin, land in a shuttle at these coordinates.” A sharp hiss sounded in Norlin's ear. He frowned, wondering what had happened.

  On his private circuit with Miza, she said, “Got the microburst a few seconds before he said he was going to send it. The second burst is a decoy.”

  “Record,” Norlin ordered mechanically. He was too engrossed in thought. Admiral Bendo had ordered them to the surface of Sutton II. They didn't belong there. They needed to be in space where the real battle could be fought. Prevent the Death Fleet from landing its world-devouring metallic factories, and Sutton II was spared the destruction wrought on Penum and Lyman. Keeping the planet from total destruction such as happened to Murgatroyd lay beyond Norlin's hope.

  “Indications the battleship's main turrets are warming for attack,” came Sarov's even, measured voice. “Missiles away, each aim
ed at a gun emplacement.”

  Norlin glanced at the progress from Sarov's weapons display. Enough explosive power had been unleashed to level half a good-sized continent. The first two missiles hit squarely and didn't even scratch the hull.

  “Why do you want us to land, Admiral?”

  “Don't question orders. You have the coordinates.”

  “True coords marked, trap ones discarded, Captain,” said Miza. “It looks good and official to me.”

  “Fire the damned radiation cannon,” he ordered. When Sarov hesitated, Norlin used his command chair override. His finger stabbed down and hit the button with a ferocity he had not thought he possessed.

  The Preceptor screamed in agony as the alien weapon discharged. The lights dimmed but did not plunge the ship into total darkness.

  “Good work,” he complimented Barse.

  The only reply he received was a string of profanity as the engineer worked to fix the new damage caused by firing the radiation cannon. Norlin grinned when he saw they had disabled the battleship. The massive craft had taken the deadly beam square on the bridge. What had been destroyed aboard the vessel, he didn't know.

  It hardly mattered. The ship tried to limp away. The mistake gave Sarov the opening he needed. Flight after flight of missiles sought out vital parts of the space-borne fighting machine and chipped away tiny pieces. The behemoth was being brought down by gnat bites.

  “Got it. One up the rear engine exhaust,” crowed Sarov.

  The shudder that passed through the battleship brought a cheer to Norlin's lips. He quieted. Only he and Sarov saw the victory. A human cruiser had met and defeated the largest ship in the alien's fleet!

  “I don't want to see anything but molten droplets on the vidscreen,” he told Sarov.

  “Hard to do, Captain. The lasartillery is best for this work, and we're down two mounts, one dorsal and the other ventral amidships.”

  “Turning the Preceptor.” Norlin worked the cruiser around its axis to bring the remaining lasartillery batteries to bear. Barse cursed even more volubly when Sarov powered up the laser cannon and began working on the battleship parts.