The Reign_Destiny_The Life Of Travis Rand

by Lance Berry

  “Calypso, Rieko and Prometheus, form up tighter on us. Attack teams two, four, five, ten and eleven–time to close it up a bit. Arrowhead straight to the core,” Christenson ordered.

  Thirty-four of the most powerful mobile weapons ever built by sentient beings punched a solid hole straight through what remained of the enemy’s defenses and headed as one toward the alien outpost. The base’s few operative energy cannons opened fire, but were no match for the Earth vessels’ shields.

  On the Horizon’s viewscreen, the base was a large and tempting target. Christenson leaned forward in the command chair, elbows resting on its arms as his fingers steepled under his chin. “All ships in my squadron, fire all forward emitters, energy rammers and torpedoes on my mark…fire!”

  The ship captains carried out the order, their vessels unleashing a firestorm of energy. The technicians who had built these ships theorized that individually, any one of them could devastate a planet if necessary. But with over thirty of them working in concert…the base’s shields gave out in seconds, and the installation itself virtually disintegrated as explosion after explosion covered the asteroid’s rocky surface. The ships fired for nearly a full minute, making absolutely certain that nothing was left standing.

  On the bridge of the Horizon, David Christenson sat back in his chair once more, his lower lip curled downward in stern satisfaction as on the viewer, chunks of rubble were all that remained of the asteroid that once hosted the enemy installation.

  “The base has been destroyed, Captain,” Matthews reported in over the ODC. “And the Calvorians are routed… several of the remaining ships are attempting to retreat.”

  “Christenson to fleet–not one ship is to escape. Seek and destroy any stragglers.” He briefly looked upward, eyes raised to the grated ceiling as if in prayer. “Tactical, find me Captain Vakol’s ship.”

  There was a momentary pause, then the reply came in from Matthews: “The Snare is located, sir. Feeding coordinates into navigation now.”

  The navigator checked her board and nodded to Travis, who had just finished feeding the coordinates into his own command board. “Helm, take us to the good Captain,” Christenson said wryly.

  “On it,” Travis replied, and worked his console, now more at ease since the battle was nearly won. On the main viewscreen, the stars appeared to swing about sharply, when in reality it was the Horizon which was turning hard about to starboard. Travis adjusted the ship’s pitch one last time, and the image on the screen stabilized, focusing on the severely wounded Snare, which had fires exploding from holes in its hull. The fires quickly died out in the vacuum of space, but the ship continued limping on its course nonetheless as it tried desperately to make its way to clear space in order to jump out-system.

  “The Snare has multiple hull fractures and breaches along its port side,” Matthews chimed in. “Its power systems are fluctuating, and energy reserves are low. Primary reactors are damaged. Shields are down, and I’m scanning at least ninety-six dead.”

  “How’s the bridge?” Christenson demanded.

  “Some light damage, but all life signs scan vital.”

  Christenson nodded and looked over his shoulder at Buttlefield. “Give me a line to the good Captain.”

  The young com officer worked her console. “I’ve got an audio line for you, Captain.”

  “Good day, Captain Vakol,” Christenson said pleasantly enough, although his voice held a certain edge to it. “In case your sensors are damaged, I just wanted to give you a ring and let you know that things aren’t going too well for your side at the moment.”

  A spark of static across the com-line, then Vakol answered. But when he spoke, his voice was halted, weaker, as if he had been wounded sometime in the engagement. “I spit on you and all your descendants, Christenson. May they be cursed from this day forward, to one day fall before our blade.”

  “Don’t think so, mate,” Christenson said, his voice suddenly dropping an octave, taking on a darker mood. “You and your kind should never have set your sights on us. We would have been content to live our lives alone in peace, but you had to try and move in on our home soil. That just doesn’t stand, old boy. As Captain of Earth’s flagship, I hereby charge you with crimes against the peoples and populace of the planet Earth–crimes against humanity. Just as your kind has done to our ships’ crews on several occasions I hereby sentence you to death. And on a personal note…I hope this hurts a whole bloody lot.” His eyes narrowed as he took a last look at the Snare. “Tactical, antimatter torpedoes…fire.”

  Almost instantly, six glowing black/white balls of energy shot forward on the viewscreen and hurtled unerringly toward their target. They struck the Snare in the aft section, where the engineering room and its reactors would be. Several explosions built up within the ship, fracturing and breaking free of the hull, until they united into one massive explosion that completely eviscerated the ship and blew it apart. As the conflagration finally died out and the debris cloud dispersed, only twisted metal wreckage remained.

  Buttlefield turned toward the captain. “Sir, the fleet is reporting in…only a few enemy ships remain. One of the craft, the Devastator, is crippled completely and can’t move at all.”

  “Completely…” Christenson muttered aloud, more to himself. He then said to the ODC, “Tanner, scan that ship, the Devastator. Is it capable of firing at all?” The reply from the security chief took only a moment. “It’s taken an amazing amount of damage and energy expenditure. Their reserves are down to less than fifteen percent. They’d do more damage to our ships if they were using spit-balls.”

  Christenson exhaled lightly, his mind racing over various options. In only a few seconds, he eliminated all but one of them. “Commander Matthews. How much time would it take to board one of the Calvorian ships and take some prisoners, if we got you aboard their bridge?”

  “Captain, that’s quite a tall order,” Matthews answered, the hesitancy clear in his voice. “Calvorians are known for usually choosing death over surrender. And they’re fierce fighters in close quarters.”

  Mara swiveled her chair around to join in on the exchange. “Besides which, if we keep the transpace net going much longer, the fact that no communications can get thru is going to become suspicious. Enemy reinforcements are sure to arrive.”

  “In addition, their hangar bay is a good mile away from their bridge,” Matthews spoke up again. “How are we supposed to fight our way all the way up to take a few of their officers–if we can get them–and fight our way back to the transport?”

  “Leave the problem solving to me, Commander,” Christenson said firmly. “Just get a team together–twenty of your best people. Have them ready to launch in five minutes. Christenson out.” As the ODC shut off, he looked back at Mara. “Have the launch bay prep two transports for immediate launch…by immediate, I mean yesterday.”

  “Aye, sir,” Mara acknowledged as she turned back to her ops console.

  “Buttlefield, patch me in to the Avenger, the Hermes, the Sato and the Bismarck,” Christenson said. As Buttlefield worked her console, Travis girded himself and turned in his chair to face the captain. “Sir, if I may–?” Christenson and Mara looked at him curiously, but the captain nodded for him to go ahead. “As you’re aware, I was a member of security aboard the Archimedes, sir. And I’m one hell of a shot, if I say so. I think I could be of service in Lieutenant-Commander Matthews’ assault team.”

  “I’m well aware of your record, Lieutenant,” Christenson acknowledged. “I’m also aware of your high scores as a marksman, and the incident with the Calvorian you captured on Argones IV. However, you’re now a helmsman, and I need you at your place on the bridge.” There was a finality in his voice; the decision had been made, and that was all there was to it. “Yes, Captain,” Travis nodded in defeat and turned back to face the main viewscreen.

  Buttlefield informed the captain that he was tied in with the ships he wanted to address, and he cleared his throat lightly before spea
king. “This is Captain Christenson. We’re going to do something no one has done before, and that is to take live Calvorian prisoners from their own ship. The enemy battle cruiser Devastator is currently crippled and unable to move. Our five ships will surround the enemy vessel at a distance of five hundred kilometers each. We will then fire our forward lasers in synchronicity at the coordinates I will give you. Once that is complete, the Avenger and Bismarck will fire together at a second set of coordinates, opening a hole large enough for two transports to pass through. My troops will engage the enemy and if all goes well, come back with prisoners. This entire operation must take no longer than twenty minutes. Any longer, and we risk another engagement with reinforcements which will surely come …and this time they’ll arrive en masse. We will proceed in two minutes, on my mark. Horizon out.”

  The com shut off, and Travis shared a look of bafflement with the navigator, a lovely Native American whose name tag read “Arroyo”. Nothing like this had ever been done before, as Christenson had told his fleet captains. Judging from the furtive glances around the bridge, the rest of the crew was also anxious about this course of action. However, Travis had to concede to himself, if anyone could pull something like this off, it would be David Christenson.

  Travis glanced over his shoulder and noticed the captain managed to quickly rise from his chair and go over to Mara at the ops console in just a few steps, without seeming like he was in any great hurry. Mara’s voice dropped to a whisper, but Travis still managed to hear her say, “And we’re going to pull this off how–?” The two officers chattered quietly among themselves a moment, and Mara began to patch orders into her ops console as the captain gave her instructions of some sort. Travis swung back around to face forward as Christenson stood straight once more and headed back to his chair. “Helm, move us in to coordinates one-five-seven by eight-oh-two.”

  “Moving in,” Travis replied as he cautiously edged the Horizon forward. The ship held position at five hundred kilometers out from the aft section of the Devastator, and Travis’ board showed the other assigned ships had taken up a semi-circular positioning around the same section.

  “Bridge to Matthews. Is your team in place?” Christenson queried. “Yes, Captain. We’re set up on two transports as ordered. Standing by,” the security chief replied confidently. “Launch transports,” Christenson ordered, then immediately glanced over at Buttlefield. “Give me my ships.”

  “They’re holding for you, Captain.”

  “This is Christenson to my squad. Fire at the coordinates you’ve been given…now!”

  On the central viewscreen, two of the other Heavy Cruisers were visible, along with an aft view of the Devastator. The four ships and the Horizon fired in unison, their forward lasers striking at several points around the engineering section. There was an intensely bright explosion, and then as the smoke cleared, the aft section of the Devastator was sheared off almost neatly, and simply fell away from the rest of the ship, electrical arcs of energy sparkling about it and some minor explosions making themselves known as the engineering compartment and a few bodies floated away.

  “The Avenger and Bismarck are moving into position,” Mara said to the captain. “Position of our transports?” Christenson asked as he got to his feet and walked over to the navigator’s console. “They’re approaching the Devastator, and are approximately three hundred kilometers out from it,” Mara replied after briskly checking her console. “Tell Matthews to hold position a moment,” Christenson said distractedly as he gazed down at Arroyo’s command board and verified the two ships were where he wanted them. “Christenson to Avenger and Bismarck: concentric circles from your two points please, on ‘A’ level. And…fire!”

  The two sister ships had lined up on directly opposite sides of the crippled Calvorian vessel. Now they opened fire with their forward lasers, each scoring direct hits very near the bow of the ship, just aft of where the bridge was situated. They carved matching circles in either side, then fired one shot each from their forward energy rammers, blasting those circles into shredded matter. “Well done,” Christenson said admiringly. “Assault team, you’ll go in one side and out the other. Time from my mark is–“ he glanced at Mara, who checked her board’s chronometer. “Fifteen minutes left,” she said.

  “–fifteen minutes,” Christenson affirmed. “We’re a bit pushed, so if you don’t have anything by that mark, move out and head back to the barn.”

  “Acknowledged,” Matthews said as the two transports made an appearance on the viewscreen, sweeping on an upward arc toward the Calvorian ship and neatly flitting into the starboard hole, one after the other. The com-line shut off, and bridge officers couldn’t help but look at the captain in wonder as he calmly strode back to his chair and reclaimed his seat. He stared at a point on the floor a moment, lost in thought it seemed. Finally he raised his head and almost imperceptibly nodded, having reached a decision. “Lieutenant Buttlefield…notify all ships to shut down the transpace interference net.”

  Buttlefield’s eyes widened, but she slowly nodded as she acknowledged the order and started to turn toward her console. Seated beside her at ops, Mara quickly placed her hand on the young officer’s, causing her to pause as the commander turned to face the captain. “If I might remind the Captain, once we shut down the net, communications in this sector of space will almost instantly resume. The Calvorian Beltarian Command will wonder why their outpost isn’t responding. They’ll send ships, if they haven’t already.”

  “I’m quite aware of the situation, Commander,” Christenson said without looking back at her. When he spoke now, it was to address the crew’s unspoken concern as much as the one she had voiced. “We’ve been in this sector for nearly an hour now, and no reinforcements have arrived. If they’ve been trying to reach the base and the transpace net clears, they’ll try some more before choosing to allocate more ships to come here, figuring the loss of communication may be due to natural interstellar phenomena, such as the base’s proximity to the double star. Clearing the net is a stalling tactic. A risky gamble to be certain, but one I believe will give us just at least a few minutes more than we might have had, and therefore worth said risk. Buttlefield, carry out my order.”

  Again, the tone was clear-cut and left no room for argument. Mara let go of Buttlefield’s hand and nodded in compliance of the captain’s wishes. Buttlefield sent the necessary signal to the other ships in the fleet and after a moment looked back at Christenson. “The ships have stopped generating the free-floating ions, Captain. The net should disperse within a matter of minutes.”

  Christenson nodded. “Now, we wait.”

  The two transports from the Horizon entered the starboard hole the Bismarck had blown in the Devastator’s side, and landed together one behind the other. As they touched down, crunching the wrecked shards of hull beneath them, the deck creaked and groaned severely under their combined weight.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Corporal Chandis said apprehensively as the sound echoed throughout transport one’s cabin. “No shit,” Matthews said as he snapped to his feet and retrieved a VK-12 Blastrifle from a rack on the wall. “Just say a prayer that this deck holds up. I’m sure it’s not happy to suddenly have an extra ninety tons placed on it.” He did a quick check of the remaining atmosphere in the corridor outside, then hit a com panel on the pilot’s board. “This is Matthews to transport two. Do you copy?”

  “Corporal Grace responding,” a strong male voice came back over the board. “We read you loud and clear, sir.”

  Matthews kept the line open as he turned to the troops in his cabin. “We’re not going out into zero atmosphere, but I still want everyone to slap on rebreather masks just in case. The transports are lined up so that no enemy troops can make their way past without climbing under or over our ships, which would just make them easier targets.

  “Grace, choose three from your team to stay with transport two to guard it. I’ll select three from here, and we’ll meet outside in thir
ty seconds. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Grace replied.

  “Transport one out,” Matthews said, and hit the panel to cut transmissions. He looked to his people once more.“ Chandis, Porter, Kauffman–you’re the watch. When troops arrive, keep them away from the bridge at all costs. Stay in the transport and shoot from behind the doors, you’ll be better protected. The rest of you, grab Blastrifles and follow me.”

  The doors to both transports opened, and Matthews and his two teams jumped out quickly, rebreather masks on and Blastrifles at the ready. The corridor was long and dark, the majority of overhead lights blown out by the Heavy Cruisers’ weaponry. There was the remnant stench of energy carbonization in the air, which even the breathing filters couldn’t fully keep out. The holes on either side of the corridor were covered in an eerie blue wave as the ship’s redundant force fields worked to keep the deck from depressurizing. The gravity within the corridor had lightened slightly, a result of the explosive entry into the vessel, and the automatic gravitational backups hadn’t yet kicked in–if they still worked at all. Matthews began to repeat his last orders to Grace, who informed him that he had already guessed what his commander’s next step might be and had taken the initiative to instruct his troops as to what needed to be done. Satisfied, Matthews and his fourteen troops tucked their guns tightly to their chests and almost as one, ducked and rolled beneath the two large transports, across the groaning floor, and out to the other side. They straightened up and raced toward the singular door at the far end which led to the bridge.