by Nick Webb
As another explosion registered in the background he launched himself straight through the debris—in the back of his mind he realized he didn’t actually hear the explosion, but holding onto the bay doors he’d felt it, and feeling the vibration through the metal seemed to create the perception of sound in his head.
From the state of the bodies it was clear the emergency had taken them completely by surprise: none of the techs were wearing the environmental suits that would have saved their lives, and the pilots were all helmet-less, their partially donned flight suits insufficient to save them from the vacuum. He tried not to look at their bloated purple faces as he passed.
Except for one, which had a helmet on, and was flailing and trashing around, several meters off the deck. She was terrified, and calculating the risk in his head, he decided to take it. Better die with honor than live with the shame. He bounced off a tumbling barrel full of lubricant grease and used the collision to redirect himself upward towards the woman. They collided, he grabbed her upper arm, and as they hit the ceiling he pushed off with a grunt, aiming for one of the remaining craft, and prayed that his aim while maneuvering in zero-g was as good as it was with the fire controls of a fighter.
It was. They nearly bounced off, but at the last second he grabbed the small handhold near the hatch with his free hand, wrenching the flailing woman towards the fighter with his other.
The hatch to the fighter opened far easier than any of the doors he’d opened so far, and a quick glance over the controls told him the craft was in good shape. Whatever had barraged the station had fortunately missed this particular bird. He pushed the woman into the space behind the seat, secured her as best he could with the auxiliary restraint, strapped himself in, fired up the engines, and pulled away from the deck with a quick burst from the maneuvering thrusters, tapping the button that would have opened the exterior bay doors.
They didn’t budge. Of course, he thought, that would be far too easy. He keyed in an override code for the doors, but they still didn’t move. After all that work, he was stuck in the bay.
An alarm sounded from his helmet’s headset, and he glanced at his console to see what the new emergency was.
The core. It was going critical. He had maybe fifteen seconds. Twenty tops. Soon, the entire station and everything inside would be nothing more than a glowing cloud of molten radioactive slag.
He gripped the firing control, aimed the guns at the bay door, and fired with everything the little bird had.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. One of the floating bodies. A pilot.
His helmet was on, and the man was struggling to maneuver in the debris field floating over the bay’s deck, unable to get enough leverage to launch himself towards the remaining fighter.
Zivic glanced at the console, even as he continued pummeling the doors with shells.
Ten seconds.
He caught sight of the other pilot’s face as he rotated into view. Contorted in sheer terror.
But there was no time. Either Zivic got them out of there now, or he stayed and tried to help the other man, and probably kill all three of them in the process.
He could only be so much of a hero.
Zivic squeezed the trigger of the fighter’s guns and the doors blew outward, revealing the safe embrace of empty space beyond. He breathed deep—he hadn’t flown in two years. Not since…. Don’t think about it. He kicked in the accelerator. Two g’s thrust him back in his seat and his vision went momentarily dark as his body struggled to keep up. The broken bay doors sailed past and he shot out into space.
Two seconds later, Watchdog Station exploded.
Chapter Twelve
Irigoyen Sector, Bolivar System, Ido
Bridge, ISS Independence
“Coming up on the mutinous ships, Admiral,” said Lieutenant Whitehorse, though there was no need to say it. Everyone felt it. They felt the distance between them and the alien ship shrink with every passing second. The calm, cool, rational part of Proctor’s brain wondered at the science behind it, how amazing it was that whatever field the Golgothics were broadcasting it was somehow perfectly tuned to be able to influence their actual brain chemistry.
The cavewoman part of her brain, strengthening by the second, could only say, Run! Fight! Have sex! Beat the shit out of that ship! Punch Yarbrough! Rub Mumford’s beefy shoulders! No—RUN!
She shook her head and tried to think through the oncoming rush of confusing thoughts and emotions. “Steady, people. Use your brains. You know what is rational, and what is crazy.” Her jaw was clenched so hard her teeth hurt. This was going to be some battle. If they were fighting themselves, and the mutinous ships, and the alien vessel, things would get interesting—and deadly—very quickly.
“In weapons range, Admiral,” said Whitehorse.
“Are the mutinous ships in between us and the alien? Perfectly aligned?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Proctor nodded, as calmly as possible. Was this rational? Was using the ships as cover the right thing to do? The moral, ethical thing to do? The cloud was too thick to rationalize either way. The only course she had was action.
“Fire. Ballsy, standby to deploy fighters.”
The Independence, and the rest of the fleet accompanying it, opened up with a barrage of mag-rail fire and pulsed laser beams that, under normal circumstances and against a normal enemy, would have torn any ship to shreds within seconds. The mag-rail slugs and beams shot past the mutinous IDF ships and slammed into the alien ship, which had slowed down and seemed to be holding over Ido.
“Any effect?”
Whitehorse shook her head, far more quickly than was probably normal for her. “No, ma’am.” She whirled to one of her mag-rail crew officers. “You’re out of sync! Get it together, Ensign!” She slammed her fist down on the tactical console. The ensign swore under his breath, but to his credit, kept it together and relayed instructions to his gun crew.
They were all going to lose it soon if they didn’t either win, or get the hell out of there.
“Maybe we can weaken one spot if we concentrate our fire.” She brought up a schematic of the Golgothic ship. “All ships, concentrate fire on…” she tapped on a random location on the ship’s hull, “these coordinates.” The computer automatically broadcast them to the tactical station and the rest of the fleet. “Ballsy, deploy fighters. All ships, deploy fighters and engage that location on the ship.”
She held her breath, waiting for the concentrated barrage of mag-rail slugs to finally break through. Dozens of fighters from the Independence and her fleet swarmed out, targeting the chosen location on the alien ship.
Nothing. Every slug, every round from every fighter, all just bounced off. Every. Single. One.
“Impossible,” she breathed. The primordial rage and terror boiling under the surface was starting to surge up.
“Admiral, the Davenport is firing. On us!” yelled Whitehorse.
The deck shook. Klaxons rang out. “Captain Shee, cease fire immediately or your vessel will be destroyed,” she said as calmly and yet urgently as possible.
Commander Yarbrough called out from the XO’s station. “Damage on decks seven and eight, forward sections. Evacuating section one.”
The barrage from the Davenport continued, while the Independence and her fleet continued pounding the alien ship, to no avail. Dammit.
“Fine. Alter targeting to the—”
“Admiral! The Golgothics are firing. Reading energy levels completely off our normal scales!” Lieutenant Whitehorse’s hands were a blur on her tactical console. On the viewscreen, past the mutinous IDF ship, the stationary alien vessel had initiated some sort of pure energy beam. Shimmering purple-white, it lanced out, not at any ship….
But towards the moon below. It bored down through Ido’s surface, digging deep into its crust. Debris, dust, and explosions blasted out from the drilling zone in a hellish maelstrom.
“What the hell…?” Proctor leaned
forward. “What is it doing?”
Commander Mumford shook his head. “The beam is an ultra-high-energy composite mix of anti-gallium, boron ions, gamma-, x-, and ultraviolet rays, along with pure anti-proton ions. Adjusting sensor scales now….” He looked up at her, his face draining of color. “One hit from that beam and any ship is a goner. Instantly. I’m reading billions of terawatts coming off that thing.”
The deck shook again. The Davenport was still firing on them, and now a few of the other mutinous ships had joined in, shooting mag-rail slugs at her own fleet.
Rayna Scott’s voice boomed over the comm. “Shelby, can we tone it down some? Those bastards are hurting my engines.”
“Sorry, Rayna, we’re in the thick of it. How are we holding up?”
Rayna grunted. “I’ll keep her together. But one more well-placed rail-gun slug and the core starts getting fussy. Rayna out.”
Proctor nodded. “Target the Davenport’s weapons systems. Fire.”
The deck pulsed with the regular thumps of mag-rail fire, and the Davenport’s surface was peppered with tiny explosions as the slugs tore into the hull.
“The alien ship is opening fire with their rail gun again,” said Whitehorse. “Their drilling beam is still on, but aimed at the planet.”
“So they can walk and chew gum at the same time,” murmured Proctor. “Who’s getting hit?”
“Mainly the Davenport. A few of the other mutinous ships. One of our ships, too. It’s basically targeting every ship it has a clear shot at.”
“So our shield is working,” she said. God help us. “What’s the status of the Davenport? Are they still firing on us?”
“No, ma’am. Their laser turrets are dead. Mag-rail tubes destroyed. Reading power fluctuations all over the ship. I think it’s going to—” Lieutenant Whitehorse didn’t even get to finish her sentence.
The Davenport erupted in a blinding explosion as its core went critical.
Chapter Thirteen
Irigoyen Sector, Bolivar System, Ido
Bridge, ISS Independence
When the glow diminished, the expanding cloud of molten slag that had been the ISS Davenport dissipated enough that Proctor could see through to the other side, where the alien ship still drilled into the little moon. Ido now sported a hole the size of the Independence on its surface, and the purple-white beam continued to plunge into it.
“Sir, something’s happening,” said Whitehorse. “Detecting movement on the ship. A port is opening.”
Proctor snapped around to the tactical station. “Scan it. All bands. We need to see inside that thing, or we’ll never know how to beat it.”
“Scanning.” Whitehorse bit her lip. “The opening is still covered by some kind of dampening field—similar to our atmospheric containment fields. Except this one is blocking all EM bands.”
“Neutron scan, then.”
Whitehorse shook her head. “Same.”
Proctor did a double take. “They have have an EM field that’s blocking a neutron scanning beam?” She glanced over at Commander Mumford. “How?”
The scientist shrugged. “Unknown, Admiral. Apparently their technology far exceeds our own,” he deadpanned.
Proctor’s eyes stayed locked on the viewscreen image of the Golgothic ship drilling into Ido. “Commander, you win the understatement of the year award.” She scratched her chin. “No change in its offensive stance?”
“No, Admiral. The other mutinous ships have finally all withdrawn to a distance that appears acceptable to the alien ship. At least, it’s not firing on them. Or us.”
“So what the hell is it doing, then?”
As if in answer, something shot out the port that had opened on the ship. Too fast for Proctor’s eyes to track, she glanced at her command console. “What the blazes was that?”
“A small tungsten sphere. Contents unknown. It’s heading straight down into the hole on the planet.” Whitehorse glanced up at Proctor. “Shall we fire, Admiral?”
“Negative. As long as the ship is not attacking us, we just watch.” She noticed Commander Yarbrough eye her with surprise. “For now,” she added.
On the viewscreen, they all watched the sphere arc down towards the surface of the moon. The purple-white beam shimmered briefly, pulsating in its last gasps, then disappeared right as the sphere entered the hole that had opened up on Ido’s surface.
The entire bridge waited with bated breath. Waiting for the inevitable explosion, or moonquake, energy spike. Or whatever massive destruction the alien device would cause on the small moon.
Nothing happened.
“Lieutenant?” Proctor said to Whitehorse. “Anything?”
“Sensors are quiet, sir.”
“So what the hell did that thing do?”
Whitehorse shrugged. “Nothing on any bands. Just faint tremors, but that looks normal considering the bastard just drilled a hole down to the moon’s core. I can scan using—”
Yarbrough interrupted them. “Look!”
The ship was moving. Away from the Independence, away from the small, battered mutinous IDF fleet huddled in the background. And moments later, with the tell-tale flicker of a q-jump, it disappeared.
Instantly, the intense, overflowing surge of emotions dissipated. Her heartbeat slowed to something normal. Everyone on the bridge breathed a little calmer.
Lieutenant Qwerty called over from the comm station. “Receiving messages from the captains of the mutinous ships, Admiral. They’re … uh, apologizing. Profusely and all sincere-like.”
“Well,” began Proctor, swiveling around to face her bridge crew. Her eyes drifted over the spot on the deck where Captain Prucha’s blood still stained it, then back up to the viewscreen which still displayed the tiny moon Ido. “This certainly qualifies as the oddest alien invasion I’ve ever seen. Still no changes from the moon?”
“No, ma’am.” Whitehorse’s brow furrowed. “Unless you consider a point zero zero zero zero zero one percent increase in its mass to be a significant change.”
Chapter Fourteen
Irigoyen Sector, Bolivar System, Bolivar
High orbit
When Zivic woke up, his first thought was to wonder at which point he’d passed out, and why. Must have been the sustained high-g thrust. Or maybe they’d run into something on their way out of the station and he’d hit his head. Or maybe the expanding apocalyptic sphere of the exploding station had caught up with them. Whatever it was, something was tugging persistently on his arm. And, distantly, he could hear a similarly persistent voice.
The woman. She was pulling at him, and yelling something, which of course he couldn’t quite make out since they both had their helmets on. But he didn’t need to hear her to understand what she was saying, since with her other hand she was frantically pointing up through the cockpit.
He looked up.
Oh shit.
Bolivar loomed up above them, or below them, since they were technically falling. Falling very quickly, judging by the orange shock wave of compressed atmosphere taking shape between them and the planet.
He grabbed the controls and pushed on the accelerator.
It was dead.
“Oh, hell no,” he said, punching buttons on his console in a vain attempt to restart the engines. But they were dead. Cold out.
The distant voice suddenly magnified a thousand fold. “The reaction chamber is fine. I think it’s the plasma conduits.” He nearly jumped out of his seat hearing the bullhorn sound in his ears. She must have figured out what comm channel his helmet was on.
“What? How do you know?” He still fumbled with the controls, his hands trembling now that that the cockpit was shaking from the reentry. He wasn’t sure if they were trembling from fear or momentum transfer.
“We hit something a few minutes ago. I think it cut through the main plasma line, and the auxiliaries are notoriously unreliably on these birds.”
She sounded oddly confident in her diagnosis and assessment of the little shi
p’s idiosyncrasies. “Mechanic?” he said.
“Yeah.” She was breathing heavily, rapidly. Unless she slowed down she was going to hyperventilate. Not that the imminent fiery death coming for them wouldn’t quickly solve her breathing problems.
“I’m Ethan. What’s your name?”
She gulped, and panted into her helmet’s microphone. The shuttle shook even harder. “Sara.”
“Look, Sara, we can pull out of this, but I need your help. Can you fix it?”
“I—I think so. I don’t know. If I were down underneath the fighter and had all my tools, maybe.”
“Not the main plasma line. I mean the auxiliaries. You sound like you know all about them. Can you get them working? We have access to them right there in the back of the cockpit.”
She nodded. “Oh yeah. I—I should have known that. Sorry.”
It was obvious that she was in shock. Her hands trembled, and her eyes kept darting around the cockpit, up through the transparent cockpit windows overhead toward the glowing shock wave and the icy blue planet beyond.
“Look, Sara, we’re going to pull through this. Just get back there, and work your magic with those auxiliaries.”
She nodded vigorously, again. Her restraints fell away and she squirmed her way back into the rear of the cockpit, and he could hear the access panel fall away. “Ok, I see the auxiliary lines. Backed up, just like I thought.”
“Can you … unback them?”
“If I had my tools—”
The roar from reentry was getting loud enough to hear through the helmet, and almost loud enough to make it difficult to hear her voice.
