Independence: Book 1 of The Legacy Ship Trilogy

by Nick Webb

  “Emergency response crews report ready,” said Yarbrough, looking up from his station.

  Proctor nodded. “Good. Let’s get this show on the road. Ballsy?” She leaned toward the comm speaker on her armrest.

  “Admiral?”

  “You have authorization to begin firing when they’re in position. And remember, we only get one shot at this.” She glanced over at Commander Mumford at the science station. “Status?”

  “The drilling beam has reached the core.” He shook his head. “Still not detecting any change on the ship’s surface, and sensors still can’t penetrate the hull.”

  Yarbrough stood up and paced nervously. Everyone was staring at the screen. “It could be different this time. We only have one data point we’re going off.”

  He had a point, Proctor thought. Still, it was their best bet. The last time that port opened they’d been able to reach inside with their sensors, but only barely. And best bet or no, they didn’t have time to—

  “Now!” yelled Commander Mumford. “A port is opening on the underside.”

  “Open fire,” said Proctor.

  Through the deck plates she could feel the stutter and pulse of the mag-rail guns as they opened up a barrage of high-velocity slugs at the alien ship. “Concentrate on one location,” she said, indicating one section of the ship on her tactical readout and sending the coordinates over to the tactical crew. “See if you can’t punch through in one spot. Didn’t work last time, but you never know.”

  “All fighters are engaging the hatch,” said Ballsy through the comm. “They’ve opened fire. No opening mechanisms in sight, but we’re raining hell on it all the same.”

  “Good. No return fire yet?” She turned to Lieutenant Whitehorse at tactical and her crew. The sensor officer shook his head.

  “No, ma’am.”

  Proctor turned back to the viewscreen. “Well that’s damn peculiar. They’re still drilling into the planet. Mumford, I thought you said it had reached the core?”

  “It has.” Mumford scratched his head. “They’ve decreased the intensity of the beam down to less than one percent power. I should amend my previous statement—they’ve reached the core, but the pressures down there are so intense that most of the hole immediately fills with liquid nickel-iron from the outer core.”

  “So what’s the beam doing right now?”

  Mumford shook his head. “Maybe just maintaining part of the hole open until it can launch its doohickey. No sign of that either, though.”

  “But the port on the ship is still open? Maybe the fighters are having an effect. Ballsy?” Proctor gripped the chair and leaned towards the comm.

  Ballsy’s booming voice filled the room. “We’re spraying that hole with everything we’ve got, Shelby. Whatever armor they’ve got, it’s damn thick, and probably juiced up with something like the old smart-steel armor our ships used to have back in the day, but, you know, a billion times stronger, since we can’t seem to make a dent in this thing.”

  She nodded, and watched the Golgothic’s purple-white beam as it started flickering, puttering towards the end of its life. “Whatever you’re doing, it looks like it might be working. The beam is shutting down, and the ship hasn’t launched its cargo yet like last time at Ido.” She turned to tactical. “Are the mag-rails having any effect?”

  Whitehorse shook her head. “Minimal. We’re hitting the same spot we were with the whole fleet last time. Finally gouging out a decent-sized hole, but that armor is … formidable.”

  Proctor stroked her chin. “At least we’ve shown it’s mortal.” She eyed the alien ship on the screen as its beam ramped down, pulsing, flickering. “This is unnerving. Why isn’t it fighting back like last time?”

  Commander Yarbrough studied his data readout. “It could be that it no longer even views us as a threat. When a few ants attack the treads of your boot, do you stop what you’re doing to stomp on them?”

  “Depends on the ant,” she murmured, trying to put the pieces together. Something was off. She turned back to Mumford. “Are we getting what we came for?”

  “Making progress … but I’m still running into heavy interference just inside that hatch. It would sure help if—”

  “Captain! Something’s coming out!” Whitehorse pointed up at the screen. Sure enough, the same small metallic sphere emerged from the ship’s hatch, and in a flicker of near instantaneous acceleration, launched itself down to the surface, following the remains of the purple-white beam, which still flickering and pulsing as it decayed.

  “Ballsy, target that thing and destroy it,” she said into the comm.

  On the viewscreen they all watched as several of the fighters looped around the ship and shot down towards the metallic sphere as it sped towards the hole on the planet’s surface.

  One of the fighters exploded.

  “The ship is firing!” yelled Whitehorse, even as they watched a second fighter explode.

  “Tactical, take that thing out.” Proctor said, standing up suddenly. “All available mag-rails. Fire.”

  Whitehorse shook her head. “It’s moving too fast for the mag-rail targeting computers.”

  Another fighter exploded as the Golgothic ship launched a massive rail gun slug of its own. There were three fighters left trailing the sphere, unloading their guns into it, to no avail. Proctor shook her head. “Call them off, Ballsy.”

  The three fighters pulled off. Only a few dozen kilometers remained between the sphere and the hole, and the distance shrunk quickly. Before long, the sphere plunged into the fiery storm of lava rain that was erupting from the hole, and completely disappeared from view.

  “It’s moving,” said Whitehorse. They all watched as the Golgothics started pulling away, the beam now completely shut off. “The hatch is closing.”

  Proctor paced back to the science station. “Commander, what’s the word? Did we get anything?”

  Mumford shook his head slowly. “I’ll need more time to break through that interference.”

  “How much time?”

  He shrugged. “Five minutes? Maybe? This thing is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s almost like a meta-space shielding going on in there, since I can’t even probe it with virtual particle scans.”

  “Ensign Riisa,” she called down to the lower bridge. “Flank it. Get in its way. Match its course if it turns. If it wants to leave, it’s got to go through us.”

  The general murmur of battle operations on the bridge fell quieter as they all understood the implications of that order. “Aye, aye, Admiral.”

  Yarbrough came up behind her and murmured in her ear. “This had better be worth it. We’re sacrificing a lot just for some data.”

  Proctor nodded. “Without data, we’re shooting blanks, Commander.”

  The Independence darted forward into the path of the alien ship. Proctor could feel the strain of the inertial cancelers pulse against the deck plates. “Is it slowing?”

  Riisa shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

  “Three kilometers,” said Whitehorse.

  Proctor had returned to stand behind her chair, and gripped the headrest tightly.

  “Two kilometers.”

  Whitehorse was shaking her head. “Still not slowing down.” She looked up, her face ashen white. “One kilometer.”

  Something darted out from the bottom of the viewscreen towards the alien ship, moving fast.

  A shuttle.

  Proctor’s grip on the headrest tightened. “Who the hell is that?!”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Irigoyen Sector, San Martin System, El Amin

  Fighter bay, ISS Independence

  Zivic had no sooner touched the shuttle down onto the deckplate of the fighter bay when the three students ripped their seat restraints away and raced towards the exit hatch.

  All three of them were covered in vomit. One of them had a wet crotch. Zivic rolled his eyes, but part of him couldn’t blame the kid—he’d put them through the wringer with those maneuve
rs. It was like nothing he’d ever done before. Not even since—

  As soon as the memory surfaced he shoved it aside. Seeing his father had finally brought it to the surface, and he’d been working hard to suppress it. But now was not the time. There were bigger fish to fry.

  He followed them out the hatch and bounded down the ramp. A deck hand was already examining the exterior of the ship. The nameplate, with the word Fenway printed on it, had nearly half melted off. “She going to live?” asked Zivic.

  The deck hand shrugged, his floppy blonde hair swishing as he shook his head. “I suppose it was either her skin, or yours, sir.”

  Not knowing where to go, the three students had grouped up at the bottom of the ramp, so Zivic pointed to the exit. “Your people are assembling in the flight deck mess hall. Out the door, to the right. You can’t miss it. There are bathrooms there so you can … uh, clean up.” His eyes darted down towards their stained clothing.

  One of the kids—Four-Eyes, the one who’d been cowering in the corner—looked like he was finally coming out of his daze. “Did you … did anyone get Chen?”

  Zivic paused. “I’m sorry, who?”

  “He was injured. I think. It’s hard to remember. But I remember him hitting his head, and he fell. I remember blood, but I was too freaked out at the time to … well … to check on him.”

  The other kid. The one laying on the floor in his own blood. His pulse had been undetectable. Though, in the heat of the escape, Zivic wasn’t one hundred percent sure he’d been dead. Ninety-nine percent sure, but … could he have saved him, too?

  Zivic shook his head. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. He’s dead, kid. “Let’s … just go to the mess hall. Get you guys cleaned up.”

  He ushered them to the door and pointed down the hall. When they’d gone, he glanced up at the window to the CIC. He’d be up there. Zivic half wanted to just go back to his cell. Go lay down. Commiserate with Sara, who he supposed was still locked up in a cell of her own.

  But he climbed the stairs.

  “What’s the situation?”

  Volz glanced up, a shadow of a scowl clouding his face. “Nice flying.”

  “Thanks.”

  Volz turned back to the situational screens. “Just figuring out how to get this hatch on the mystery ship to stay open.” Zivic followed his father’s eyes to the video feed, where he watched the alien ship start to move.

  Through the comm, Admiral Proctor’s voice boomed. “Ballsy, target that thing and destroy it!”

  Volz tapped the comm open to the group of fighters closest to the alien ship. “Raptor squad, pursue and engage the hatch. Unload everything you have. We’ve got to keep that thing open.”

  The six fighters of the Raptor squad looped around the alien ship and darted down underneath it, positioning themselves for shots at the hatch.

  “Can’t you target its opening mechanism?”

  Volz didn’t even look at him. “Thanks, Sherlock. Already tried it.”

  “Can’t we—”

  Volz’s head snapped towards him. “Get the hell out! Kinda busy here.” His thumb jabbed towards the door.

  On the tactical screen, one of the glowing icons indicating the fighters blipped out. The other screen confirmed it—a brief fireball marked where one of the fighters had been.

  One of the assistant CAGs swore. “Cliffhanger’s gone.” Another icon blipped out. Another fireball. “And Highside, too.”

  Zivic shook his head and left. He took the stairs three at a time and landed painfully on the flight deck. Before he could even see what the deck hand was doing, he was already flying up the ramp to the shuttle Fenway. He paused to yell down at him. “Detach that refueling line or there’s going to be some serious whiplash.”

  To his credit, the deck hand took it in stride, dropped what he was doing with some cylinders in the corner and rushed to snap the fuel line off the shuttle, his blonde hair flopping almost like a breeze was blowing it. “Good to go, sir.”

  Moments later the shuttle was arcing quickly out the bay doors, passing the atmospheric containment field. He clicked over to autopilot and set a destination: the alien ship. With the shuttle flying itself he sprung over to the flight suit locker near the hatch. Please don’t be empty, he thought.

  It wasn’t. He pulled the suit on without removing his vomit-stained clothes, and jammed the helmet into place. The seals engaged. He’d no sooner sat back down at the controls when the comm erupted in an explosion of yelling and cursing.

  “Ethan get your ass back here NOW!”

  His father did not sound pleased.

  Rather than waste time on a response, he angled the shuttle straight towards the hatch. The autopilot had gotten him close, but of course it had maintained a safe following distance.

  Safety was the last thing on his mind. The hatch was closing, and he doubted his effort would make a difference. But according to pops, and Admiral Proctor, that hatch had to stay open. So he’d keep it open, dammit.

  The distance closed rapidly, and at the last second he applied lateral thrust, rotating the shuttle such that the hatch was pointing away from the alien ship.

  The collision threw him out of his chair—he’d forgotten to secure the seat restraint. He flew out sideways and into the wall. A pop told him his shoulder dislocated, but the pain was absent, replaced by an adrenaline-fueled sense of GET THE HELL OUT.

  One glance out the front viewport told him he’d succeeded. The shuttle was firmly wedged into the alien ship’s hatch, whose door was now grinding down on the hull. If he was going to get out, now was the time.

  He punched the opening mechanism on the shuttle’s hatch with his good arm. It started to open, but ground to a halt. Jammed. “Well, shit,” he murmured. A quick glance out the hatch’s tiny window told him there was no chance it would open any further.

  The roof of the shuttle buckled as the alien ship’s hatch door closed down upon it, clenching the shuttle like a powerful jaw. All the air was evacuated by that point, but he could almost imagine the shrieking twisting steel of the shuttle protest the crushing force.

  “Think, Zivic. Think,” he murmured to himself, scanning the inside of the shuttle for something, anything, that would help him get out. He opened the armory locker. Empty. Of course, he thought wryly. It don’t rain but it shitstorms. That’s what Sara would have said.

  What would Sara do? She seemed to have an uncanny knack for surviving, during the two days that he’d gotten to know her. An image of her popped into his mind, standing above him in the bay of the Miguel Urquiza, brandishing the plasma welding torch she’d used to knock the Bolivaran Intelligence officer cold.

  Plasma welder. He yanked the utility locker open and sure enough there it was, right where she’d left it. He primed it, and cranked it on, crying out when the bright spot of plasma seared itself into his vision. His helmet should have automatically darkened, but it seemed to be malfunctioning.

  He felt the steel of the shuttle grind and shriek through his feet. His malfunctioning helmet was the least of his worries. Luckily, the welder was rated at vacuum: the sharp plasma flame was bright despite the lack of air in the compartment. He brought it to bear on the bottom edge of the hatch, where there was the most space already open to the the outside.

  Please cut, please cut, please cut, please cut…. The thing was a welder, not a … cutter? Is that a thing? He didn’t have time to think about it. He cranked the power up to maximum and, with a thrill of relief, sliced clean through the metal like it was butter.

  Very hard, cold butter. It was slow work, but a minute later he pulled the plasma torch away, anchored himself against the opposing wall, and kicked the section of the hatch away with a grunt.

  It flew out into space. He grabbed the edges of the hole he’d cut, his dislocated shoulder burning with fiery pain, and moments later he was sailing through the vacuum, tumbling end over end from the slight torque he’d applied to himself as he’d left the shuttle. Each
time he spun around he saw the alien ship brooding large above him, with its hatch now jammed half open.

  He heard a hiss. An alarm sounded in his helmet. The heads-up display showed the oxygen status of the suit—the pressure was dropping. Fast.

  But he’d done it. He watched the alien ship’s hatch re-open, then close, catching again on the shuttle.

  “Suck it, bitch,” he said, before passing out.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Irigoyen Sector, San Martin System, El Amin

  Bridge, ISS Independence

  Proctor watched in disbelief as the shuttle banked hard and careened sideways into the alien ship’s hatch. She slapped the comm. “Ballsy, who the hell is that?”

  The comm microphone picked up his sigh. “Who the hell do you think?”

  “Admiral,” began Commander Mumford, “I’m nearly there. The meta-space shielding has a modulation pattern that … well, long story short, just a few more minutes and sensors will be able to penetrate.”

  Lieutenant Whitehorse pointed up at the viewscreen. “It stopped.” Proctor looked up and confirmed: the Golgothics had indeed stopped accelerating away. “Shall we fire, Admiral? They might be vulnerable.”

  They could finally be gaining the upper hand against this thing. She shifted from one foot to the other, about to give the confirmation to fire. A flash on the screen caught her eye.

  “What is that?”

  They all stared at the screen at the alien ship. The camera zoomed in on the hatch as Lieutenant Whitehorse adjusted the image. A bright, flickering light was pulsing through the metal of the shuttle’s hatch.

  “He’s cutting through,” she murmured to herself. She pointed back at Whitehorse. “Hold fire.” They all watched with bated breath as the flickering light moved in a wide arc around the bottom part of the shuttle’s hatch. The Golgothic vessel appeared to be trying to disgorge the shuttle, its own hatch door opening then shutting against the shuttle repeatedly. Several pieces of the shuttle exterior instrumentation flew out as debris.