Battle Cruiser

by B. V. Larson

  At last, the final minutes came. I ordered everyone aboard into a crash seat and spoke to them through my implants.

  “Crew, this is the moment of truth. We’re standing, ready to take this attack launched by Earth, but we’re not defenseless. There are less than a hundred missiles incoming. Unlike previous cases, we’re not going to be able to dodge them all. Our defensive guns, countermeasures and the incredibly dense hull of this vessel will have to prove their worth.”

  Pausing, I checked the readouts. The ship shuddered as the first decoys were launched automatically. They would mimic the signature of our ship and provide diversionary targets for the incoming birds.

  “I want everyone to brace themselves. We’ve shown we mean no harm—but CENTCOM clearly isn’t convinced. They’re not bluffing. They’ve launched missiles, which clearly demonstrates their intent as well as the level of misunderstanding we’re facing. We’ll be undergoing evasive actions now. Captain Sparhawk, out.”

  I heard a cheering response and a babble of rising voices as I left the channel. I let them chat a while. Talking to others about positive developments could only raise morale—besides, my crewmen deserved to die with hope.

  “Permission to evade, sir?” Zye prompted me.

  “Do your best—but don’t kill us in the process.”

  In retrospect, I should have been more specific in my instructions. I might have said, for instance: ‘do not drive us to unconsciousness, internal bleeding or break our bones.’”

  But I hadn’t thought to be that specific.

  Left to her own devices, Zye was abusive. It all started with a gut-wrenching lurch. I regretted my last meal, then I felt that meal seemingly press upward, intent on entering my skull and sharing that limited space with my brain.

  The direction and momentum shifted, and now it was as if someone of great weight was hanging from my legs, pulling them from my hip sockets, dislocating, tendons stretching—

  We reversed again. I would have vomited, but my stomach had locked up into a tight ball of muscle that felt like a stone in my guts.

  My chair, throughout this ordeal, spun around and around. I’d never much enjoyed carnival rides, and after the next two minutes passed, I was sure I’d never so abuse myself again.

  Most of my crew lost consciousness. Two died, in fact, asphyxiating on their own vomit. Zye seemed oblivious to the red blinking names of these casualties—there was too much going on.

  The ship was unloading ordnance. Counter missiles, fast-tracking laser beams and tanks of chaff were pumped out to flow in our wake.

  Many of the missiles darted after our mimics. These exploded harmlessly—but the others learned. These were intelligent missiles. They were implacable, and they adjusted almost as rapidly as their brethren were destroyed.

  The surviving missiles bore in on us. They ignored our mimics. They dodged our beams, our tiny intercepting missiles and, in their final plunge, the main cannons themselves. These last fired with a broad scope, dilated open to their maximum aperture. They gushed energy in short-ranged, powerful blasts like searchlights stabbing at swooping moths.

  Less than one in ten made it to our hull. Would that be enough to destroy us? I didn’t know immediately.

  The hammering shocks carried through the hull into the interior walls. They folded the ships internal structures despite the fact the warheads hadn’t breached the armor itself. The deck of the bridge seemed to buck and ripple under me.

  A final, vicious lurch caused my helmet to be dashed into the ball of steel tubing that encased my seat.

  The visor cracked, and my air began to escape right in front of my eyes.

  I’d been undone by the fact that the seat was designed for a Beta. Like a child in a harness that’s too big, I slipped free and my faceplate had shattered. The vacuum that I’d personally ordered to be created on the bridge sucked the air out of my suit, and it deflated tightly against my skin like a falling tent.

  With conscious thought, I let the air out of my lungs. It was an easy thing to do; I simply opened my mouth and let the vacuum steal my breath from me like a ghoul in the night.

  Holding one’s breath under such conditions is a natural instinct—but a deadly one. The pressure difference will burst every sack in your lungs, giving you no chance at all.

  So I let go of my last breath, and I prayed with those final shreds of my mind which still operated that I’d survive to see another day.

  -36-

  A face loomed into my blurry field of vision. It was too large to be credible, and at first I thought I was dreaming.

  I blinked and then realized I was looking at Zye. She moved her hands over my cracked faceplate—and my vision blurred further.

  I realized she’d been busy slapping translucent plastic patches over my broken faceplate. It was an emergency measure, but it was working. I could feel the air pumping into my suit, filling it again like a deflated balloon.

  The pressure was thin. I couldn’t catch a solid breath at first. But there were strong hands on my chest, pressing rhythmically—Zye’s hands.

  “I’m—I’m okay,” I said in a wheeze. “I can breathe. Tend to the others.”

  Her stern face appeared again. It was blurred, but still visible in the red emergency lights. She flicked her eyes over my body until she seemed satisfied. Then she moved away.

  I tried to turn my head to see where she went, but the task was almost beyond my capacities. Allowing my aching eyes to close again, I began to shiver. The cause was mixed: I was both freezing cold and in shock. My body had been chilled by the perfect stillness of the void. Who knew what other damage rapid depressurization might have caused? I would probably get the bends—or I might die of an embolism.

  With so much to look forward to, I activated my implant.

  “Damage report, all decks,” I ordered.

  For a moment there was quiet, but a storm of sound soon came. People were chattering, crying and gasping in pain.

  “Crew,” I said with a sternness I didn’t feel. “We’re still alive. We rode out the attack. Well done, everyone!”

  This had some effect. Most quieted, and I began to get a trickle of reports. We’d lost people—seven in total. Even though many had come from Singh’s crew, I considered them all to be my crewmen. I wasn’t proud of my losses, but in battle, people tended to die.

  “Pull yourselves together,” I said. “Let me relay what I’ve learned: the hull wasn’t breached. I repeat, despite the fact that two missile bases launched over ninety birds at us in an unprovoked attack, the hull of this ship never cracked. We’ve taken their worst, and we lived.”

  There wasn’t any cheering but there were some sighs of relief. Some gave thanks to God, and a few sobbed. That was all.

  I closed the general channel and opened my command channel. I contacted Zye directly since she didn’t have an implant. She’d connected her helmet’s old-fashioned headset into our com system.

  “Well done, Zye,” I said.

  “Nothing was well done,” she said, “I failed you.”

  My blood ran cold for a moment. In my heart, I believed she meant there were more missiles incoming. Steeling myself, I asked her the next question, the one I had to.

  “Is there another attack coming?”

  “No. I meant…you ordered me not to let anyone die. You Earthmen are so fragile. I miscalculated.”

  Relief flooded through me. Zye was right, of course. She’d miscalculated several times.

  “Is Rumbold still alive?” I asked.

  “Yes. He did better than you did this time.”

  “I slipped in my harness. It’s too big for me.”

  “Perhaps Rumbold’s corpulence saved him.”

  I laughed, but it ended in a coughing fit.

  “Yamada,” I said, “you there?”

  “Here, Captain.”

  “Is there anything else coming at us?”

  “No sir. Not even the destroyers. They’re hanging back. I believ
e they want to make sure we’re dead. We’re drifting in space. Zye cut the engines.”

  “Right. They’re like jackals circling a dying predator, hoping we’ll expire soon but unwilling to be the first to take a bite.”

  “Uh…right, sir.”

  “Repressurize the internal chambers,” I ordered, feeling stronger. My body ached and my sinuses burned, but I felt certain I could function. “Check for leaks first.”

  “That process is already underway,” Yamada said. “We’ll have the bridge full of air again in about six minutes. It’ll be cold air—but you’ll be able to trade that cracked helmet for a good one.”

  I waited the six minutes, then four more for good measure. When at last it was deemed safe, I opened my visor and sucked in the cold, cold air.

  It was so frosty, so dry and so searingly cold I had another coughing fit and had to wait a few more minutes. Upon my recovery, I inspected the bridge carefully. A few consoles were cracked, but my panel had survived intact, as had the forward screen.

  “All right,” I told my crew. “I want everyone to get into their seats. I want every light on, and all damage concealed. This bridge has to look exactly like it did before the attack.”

  They climbed to their feet, groaning, and worked to achieve the effect I’d demanded. When we were finished hauling away a few broken consoles and a crash seat that was stuck in an inverted position, we assumed our places. I ran my fingers through my matted hair and toweled the sweat from my face.

  Even Zye was sweating now, I noticed.

  “Turn down the heat—that’s warm enough.”

  When the illusion of an unaffected bridge was complete, I contacted CENTCOM again. After several long seconds, the pale face of Admiral Cunningham appeared.

  “Admiral,” I said. “We’ve been struck by several missiles, but we’re still space-worthy.”

  “I see that,” she said, her face unreadable. Her nostrils flared. I could see her chest rise and fall rapidly—fear or anger? Perhaps both.

  “Can I assume you’re now convinced that we mean no harm? Will you allow me to approach Earth and slide into orbit over her?”

  “Commander Sparhawk, you may approach Earth,” she said after a pause. “We have no way to stop you as I’m sure you’re well aware. I urge you to remember your oath of office. I order…no that’s wrong. I request that you remember who you are and resist any temptation to take advantage of this situation.”

  “I’ve never had any other intention, madam,” I said. “I’m an honorable officer of the Guard.”

  She stared at me, as if truly seeing me for the first time.

  “If that’s true, Commander…well…we owe you an apology.”

  “Yes Admiral, I believe you do.”

  The channel closed, and we made our way without further mishap into Earth orbit. In our wake, the five quiet destroyers commanded by Admiral Hedon lurked. They were following us at a safe distance.

  I knew that we’d only managed to get this close to Earth because they’d had no options left. We’d beaten them. We’d taken everything they could throw at us and survived, without even throwing a punch back.

  The realities of the situation were disturbing. If it had been the Betas that had commanded this vessel, how would things have gone for Earth? The destruction that a ship like this could deliver upon a defenseless world was too grim to contemplate.

  * * *

  When we docked with Araminta Station, everyone aboard was tense. I figured the station crews themselves were nervous as well, since our ship was nearly as big as the Araminta itself.

  Rumbold accompanied me to the docking airlock, and he urged me to action with every step.

  “Captain, sir,” he said in a harsh whisper. “We can’t just open the doors, for pity’s sake?”

  “What else would you suggest we do, Chief?” I asked as I strode down the final passageway.

  Ahead, the arching sheets of metal that formed the airlock loomed. They were huge since Betas and their equipment were all oversized. The universal collars that docked ships to the station had strained mightily to clamp on and create a tight seal.

  “You could say it’s jammed,” he said. “Stall for time. Get assurances that we’ll be treated well. That they’ll arrest us rather than shoot us out of hand.”

  My eyes swept to meet his, then flashed back to the airlock controls. I pressed the pressurization button, and we heard hisses and rhythmic pumping sounds. The Beta ship began to equalize the pressure, temperature and oxygen levels automatically.

  “Rumbold,” I said, “I appreciate your concerns. But I’m not going to lie to or evade my superiors any longer.”

  “But they might just shoot you in the head the moment they open that door!” he said emphatically.

  Troubled, I looked at the steel sheets in front of me. “It’s possible,” I said. “But if that’s the case, I’ve signed onto the wrong service. I refuse to believe it. We’ve done as we promised. We’ve delivered a great prize to Earth. There’s no reason for them to react irrationally.”

  “The real world doesn’t always work the way it’s supposed to.” he said. There was a note of pleading in his voice that I found irritating. “Remember Hedon? He was hell-bent on taking everything we did in the worst possible light.”

  “True,” I said, “but now, we’re facing more than a single officer. I find it unlikely they’ve all turned against us.”

  Rumbold crossed his arms and sighed. “You’re as stubborn as your old man. You know that, don’t you?”

  I glanced at him. “Disrespectful—but accurate. Have faith Rumbold. After all, I’ve kept us breathing for this long.”

  He finally fell silent, and we waited out the lengthy repressurization process. When the doors opened at last, we were greeted by none other than Admiral Cunningham herself. She looked the two of us up and down, but she didn’t smile. Not even faintly.

  “Follow me, gentlemen. Have the rest of your crew report to Guard headquarters on deck three.”

  We followed her onto the busy station. I got the feeling that we were the talk of the post. As we passed by shops, offices and bars, everyone stopped what they were doing long enough to stare.

  On deck three, at the end of a long, dark hallway, I was separated from Rumbold. Each of us went into separate debriefing chambers.

  In the past, I’d been debriefed by hostile officers—several times in fact. Captain Singh had always had a special place in his heart when it came to abusing me.

  But this time was different. Instead of anger and invective, I was met with respect—even deference.

  As I went through the process at Araminta Station, I recalled courses in psychology that I’d taken at the Academy. It was natural human behavior to respect someone who has been previously deemed a threat, but who has turned out not to be. Probably due to a sense of relief. In addition, I noticed a certain sheepishness among the brass. They’d been wrong about me—horribly wrong—and they knew it.

  They didn’t show these feelings openly, of course. But they were revealed in subtle ways during our discourse. Rather than grilling me harshly about every aspect of my journey back to Earth, they accepted my initial tale with only a few requests for embellishment.

  Satisfied almost immediately, they moved on to other things.

  “Lieutenant Commander Sparhawk,” Admiral Cunningham said, “what is your assessment of our tactical situation?”

  I blinked. “In regard to what, madam?”

  “Compare our fleet to that of the Betas.”

  Nodding, I thought it over. “Tactically, if our fleet were to engage theirs—even with this battle cruiser as our flagship—we would be quickly destroyed.”

  They nodded, not even bothering to look up. Apparently, my conclusions matched their own.

  “What, in your opinion, should be done to rectify this situation?” she asked.

  “I’m hardly the one to make such decisions, Admiral.”

  “No. But you’ve spent
time with a Beta. You’ve been commanding a Beta ship for weeks. No one is more qualified to make a suggestion.”

  I glanced at her two companions, both of whom were rear admirals. They’d been statues most of the time, only nodding now and then. I knew they were here to listen, not to speak. Cunningham was the only one doing the talking. Perhaps they’d planned it that way. It was hard to be sure.

  Deciding to take a chance, I leaned forward. “Rebuild Earth’s fleet. Copy this battle cruiser as quickly as you can and design improvements. We have technology they don’t have, and they have secrets we’ve lost or never possessed. While you’re doing that, prepare a diplomatic delegation and strategy. If more Beta ships come—or others do—we must be ready to talk or fight.”

  “That’s good advice,” she said, “and not just because it matches our own. What obstacles do you foresee in achieving these goals?”

  “To be honest, it will all be political. My father leads a coalition that’s made a policy plank out of short-changing the Guard. We can try to make the Servants see reason.”

  She cocked her head and nodded. “You’re not like your father, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’m a seventy-percent clone. I’m not his copy, but I’m quite similar. The primary difference is one of goals, rather than capability or attitude.”

  “Well said.” She leaned back and tapped at a tablet. Her eyes unfocussed, and I knew she was consulting through her implants. Data was no doubt flashing into her field of vision, superimposed between the two of us.

  “Continue,” she said. “You know this person…Zye is the name, I believe. What do you think of her?”

  “She’s competent, loyal, and extremely tough in both mental and physical terms. According to her, there are many ships like this one. Those ships are identical in capability as are most of the Betas themselves.”

  I proceeded at length to discuss Alphas, rogues and what I knew of Beta society.

  “Sparhawk, we have a special mission for you,” Cunningham said at last.

  “What mission, Admiral?” I asked.

  “We want you to stick close to Zye. We’re sending you down to Earth. Show her around. Be her escort. She trusts you, and she should learn about our culture. If the Betas do show up, we’ll need her to talk for us.”