Gestapo Mars

by Victor Gischler

  Meredith wiped a dripping wad of green alien glop from her face.

  “Gross.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get to the cockpit.”

  Three more near misses almost knocked us off our feet as we stumbled our way forward. In the cockpit, we dropped into the pilot and copilot seats and strapped in. The engines were out, but I knew we weren’t going anywhere anyway. I told the ship to bring up the scanner display and open hailing frequencies.

  Our ship began listing slowly to port, nudged from its holding pattern by the near misses outside. The stars slid past slowly in front of us as two Reich zip ships screeched past, coming from behind us, the Swastikas on the rear tail fins clearly visible. The zip ships were two-man jobs about a third of the size of Meredith’s yacht, built for fast lethal strikes.

  The yacht kept listing, and another vessel drifted into view.

  Meredith gasped. “Is that the Coriandon ship?”

  “What’s left of it,” I said.

  The Coriandon light frigate spun a lazy circle to nowhere, blast points still glowing where the zip ships had shredded the hull with pulse fire. The glowing remains of what looked like escape pods drifted away from the ruined ship like fiery tears. The Reich wasn’t messing around.

  I checked the scanner display. In addition to the zip ships, I counted six other Reich vessels. The carrier—from which the zip ships had obviously launched—three frigates, one heavy cruiser, and an enormous War Demon class battle hulk at least a half mile long, two detachable pocket gunships clinging to the sides like lampreys. Not a full fleet, but a potent little battle group, and they were arranging themselves into a holding perimeter, which meant they were expecting more trouble—or maybe just being careful.

  The radio chimed, telling me someone in the battle group was responding to the automatic distress call. I told the computer to patch it through.

  “Unknown ship, this is Reich frigate Frankfurt,” the voice crackled in the speakers. “Identify.”

  “Private vessel registered to Meredith Capulet out of Luna. Thanks for arriving just in the nick of time,” I said.

  “Do you have enough provisions for forty-eight hours?” he asked. “We are on high alert, and cannot take refugees, but a cleanup trawler will pick you up if you can hang on.”

  I let time slow in the outside world, turned inward and let my brain work through all the permutations of the situation. Floating in deep space for two days with my thumb up my ass wasn’t an acceptable option. I decided a calculated risk was in order.

  “Action code 616-A,” I told him. “Top priority.”

  Meredith’s head snapped around to look at me.

  “What’s that about?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  After a nervous pause, the guy came on the other end of the line and said, “Hold please. This has to work up the food chain. Don’t budge. There are about a thousand pulse cannons trained on you right now.”

  “Check.”

  The silence stretched.

  Meredith pierced me with those deep green eyes. “Are you going to explain yourself, mysterious stranger?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think I like you anymore.”

  “I have that effect on people.”

  * * *

  At last, the radio operator came back on.

  “A zip ship is coming out with a tow line,” he told us. “He’ll take you straight to the flagship.”

  “Well, then.” Meredith sighed. “I guess I’d better change. Can’t meet the admiral covered in alien slime.”

  * * *

  “My men are already working on your ship,” Vice Admiral Ashcroft said. “It should be up and running within the hour.”

  The admiral was a squat, balding little man who fit poorly into a slightly outdated dress uniform with way too much gold piping and a ceremonial saber which clanked and clattered in his wake as we walked down the corridor to the bridge of the battle hulk. He told us he’d been pulled out of retirement when the Coriandons had unexpectedly broken through in a dozen sectors. The Reich, it seemed, had been caught with its pants down, and it was scrambling to catch up.

  “That light frigate managed to get off a signal before we pummeled it,” the admiral said, “so I don’t know what or when something might be dropping on our heads next. We’ll render any aid we can, naturally, but as you can see we’re neck deep in the shit. I have to get the carrier group off to guard the colonies in this sector. The battle hulk stays here to guard the wormhole. We’re spread way too fucking thin, let me tell you.”

  When I’d sent the top priority action code, they’d checked with Gestapo headquarters back on Mars. All the admiral knew was that he was to help me any way possible, and not ask too many questions. The downside was that my cover was blown. Everyone on board knew there was an undercover Reich agent on the ship, and even though the admiral had ordered everyone to shut up about it, the crew couldn’t help but wonder who the spy was, and what he might be up to.

  “I suppose we’d have more resources for the war if we weren’t constantly putting down resistance-spurred uprisings on distant frontier worlds.” The admiral tossed an accusing glance at Meredith. He wasn’t stupid—at least not completely. He’d run her name through the computer as soon as the zip ship had taken us in tow and brought us into the hangar bay.

  “I’m a law-abiding citizen of Luna,” Meredith said flatly. “My political views are not illegal.”

  “They’re not helpful either,” the admiral replied. “But please don’t worry yourself, Miss Capulet. We’ll make you as comfortable aboard ship as possible, after Mr. Sloan leaves to complete his mission.”

  “Ah, yes.” Meredith shifted her cold smile to me. “On top of everything else, Carter… Mister Sloan intends to steal my ship. Insult to injury.”

  “I’m borrowing it,” I insisted. “And if I don’t bring it back, it’s because I’m dead, so that should give you some satisfaction.”

  Her smile tightened. “Heaven forbid.”

  We walked onto the bridge, where a dozen crewmen bent over monitors and coordinated various activities, hopping from station to station. Through the front viewports I could see the frigates forming up to screen the carrier. It looked as if they were preparing to depart. The heavy cruiser was already on its way, its engines firing white-hot as it built up enough momentum to hit translight.

  The admiral saw me watching the ships and said, “We’re on our own now, but don’t worry. The War Demon class battle hulk is the biggest thing this side of a hollowed-out assault asteroid.”

  “I’m not worried about saving my own hide,” I said. “I’m worried about repairs to Miss Capulet’s yacht, and getting away in time to complete my mission.”

  “Long-range scanners don’t show anything,” the admiral said. “I don’t think anything’s going to happen very—”

  We all winced as a flash of white light flooded the bridge through all of the viewports. The carrier and its escorts had all jumped to translight. That left the system empty save for the battle hulk and the glowing wormhole in the distance.

  “They’re off,” the admiral said. “God speed.”

  “I know this is a busy time for you, Admiral,” Meredith said, “but is there a place I can freshen up?”

  Meredith didn’t look like she needed freshening at all. She’d changed out of her goo-covered clothes into a form-fitting red jumpsuit, the front unzipped just enough to offer the suggestion her breasts might burst free and make a break for it. But I suppose it had been a long day. She probably wanted some rest.

  My tuxedo had been ruined when I’d exploded the Coriandon guard, and I hadn’t brought a change of clothes. The admiral’s people had kindly provided me with a black jumpsuit. They’d removed the rank insignia, but there was still a modest swastika over the left pocket to remind everyone I was a member of the club.

  “I’ll have a steward take you to your cabin,” the admiral said. “You are both, of cours
e, invited to the admiral’s table for dinner tonight. Chef does an exceptional turtle soup, and for dessert—”

  A young officer interrupted. “Admiral! I think you’d better look at—”

  “At ease, Ensign!” the admiral snapped. “I’m talking to our guests.”

  “But, sir,” the ensign squeaked. “Ships dropping out of translight!”

  One of the admiral’s eyebrows raised itself into a question mark as he turned toward the junior officer at his scanning station. “Could it be the carrier group returning for some reason?”

  The ensign shook his head. “Sir, I think maybe it’s—”

  “New group of signals at mark point eight off the port side,” another officer shouted from a different scanning station.

  “I have nine ships at mark point one,” a third officer shouted.

  “Himmler’s nuts!” The admiral rushed to the main scanner display, bent over the viewer to take a look. “I want a full count, and I want it right fucking now!”

  A long scary moment passed.

  “Forty-five ships inbound,” the third officer said. She was a handsome, middle-aged woman with a shocking streak of white through one side of her black hair. “All Coriandon.”

  ELEVEN

  “Sound general quarters!” A second later the red alert klaxon sounded through the ship as the bridge erupted with activity.

  “Tell the gunship crews they have ninety seconds to detach,” the admiral shouted over the klaxon alarm. “They’re sitting ducks if they don’t maneuver.” He seemed to remember us at the last minute, and pointed at a pair of thrust loungers off to the side. “Strap in. It’s about to get bumpy.”

  Meredith and I threw ourselves into the padded chairs. I quickly scanned the bridge from my new vantage point.

  “Trade seats with me,” I told Meredith.

  “Why?”

  “I can see more of the scanners from where you are.”

  We traded places and buckled the straps across our chests.

  I opened my senses and, as always, everything slowed, the training absorbing every particle of information and making a picture out of it. The blips from the multiple scanner screens, the orders barked back and forth between the officers, technical readouts of inbound ships, the bright pinpoints of thrust as those ships grew in the viewports. The training latched onto each puzzle piece, arranged them all into a clear picture of the impending battle.

  “Nine more ships just dropped out of translight,” the ensign shouted.

  “Bastards must’ve been watching, and waiting for the carrier group to jump to translight,” the admiral said. “We must have missed a spy buoy when we swept the area. They’ve got stones the size of asteroids if they think they can take on a battle hulk, but with over fifty ships, they might just do it.”

  “Sir, I recommend a fleet-wide distress call,” the first officer said. “A few extra ships—”

  “Wouldn’t get here in time,” the admiral said. “Only the carrier group is close enough to respond, and calling them back would leave the colonies exposed—which might be just what they want. We’re the whole show, people!”

  “Missiles incoming!”

  “Count?”

  “Two-hundred sixty three,” the first officer reported. “They are likely coming in light to test our counter-measures.”

  “Oblige them,” the admiral said. “Give them a scatter spread, nice wide dispersal.”

  Four dozen scatter-spheres blasted from the battle hulk and streaked toward the incoming cluster of missiles. Three seconds later they exploded directly in front of the missiles, creating a “buckshot” effect. Every one of the enemy missiles hit one of the flying pieces of debris and detonated harmlessly, still several thousand miles from the battle hulk.

  “I want a return spread,” the admiral barked. “Target the forward dozen ships.”

  Four hundred missiles erupted from the battle hulk and hurtled toward the enemy group. A few seconds later, outer space around the enemy ships flashed and twinkled like hundreds of miniature supernovas.

  “Their counter-measures destroyed all of our missiles,” the third officer announced, still bent over her scanning station. “But ten of the other ships had to join in to catch them all.”

  “We’re still going to have to go dumb,” the admiral said. “All gun crews report to stations.”

  “Gun crews report to stations,” the first officer repeated into the ship’s intercom. “We’re going dumb. Repeat, we are going dumb!”

  I’d almost forgotten about dumb warfare, a common practice even back in my time. It had been at the height of an old twenty-year war with the Akrohn Empire, and had been invented by the intrepid and headstrong Captain John Luke Pishman.

  At the time, Pishman had been patrolling a backwater sector of space in a twenty-five-year-old frigate, recently updated with modern equipment. An Akrohn dreadnaught had dropped out of translight and had immediately opened fire. Pishman’s alert crew had launched counter-measures, saving the ship from the surprise attack just in time. They returned fire, only to find that the dreadnaught had equally effective counter-measures. For six days the two ships dueled, floating three hundred thousand miles apart. Each ship deflected the other’s missiles, jammed the other’s targeting electronics, absorbed the other’s laser blasts.

  They couldn’t lay a finger on each other.

  It was all too clear what had happened. As smart bombs and smart weapons got smarter and smarter over the decades, they’d finally reached the point where they totally negated each other.

  Once Pishman had made his decision, he didn’t hesitate. The older, smaller frigate had just a single advantage over the dreadnaught—it could accelerate much faster. Pishman ordered the frigate to move within point blank range, at which time he launched a dozen freezers full of Swanson frozen turkey dinners out of the forward airlocks.

  The freezers had no sophisticated electronics to jam, so the Akrohn sailors could do nothing but watch helplessly with their double-mouths hanging open as the freezers slammed into their engines, utterly destroying them. Pishman then knocked a hole in the dreadnaught’s hull with the reclining easy chair from his own cabin. After rendering the Akrohn’s laser weapons inert with an EMP, Pishman led the boarding party himself, going through the hole in the dreadnaught’s hull to bludgeon the Akrohn sailors to death with cricket bats. (Pishman’s crew had won the fleet cricket championship three years running.)

  Now Vice Admiral Ashcroft, like so many others before him, followed in Pishman’s footsteps, though without the cricket bats.

  “Move us in among them,” the admiral ordered. “They’ll have to risk shooting each other if they want to have at us.”

  “Another group of inbound missiles,” the first officer announced. “They still want to do it the easy way, but our counter-measures took care of them.” She peered at her screen, then added, “I see gun ports opening now on the lead ships. I think they’re taking the hint.”

  “Tell the pocket gunships to position themselves aft,” the admiral said. “I want them running interference for anything targeting our engines.” The battle hulk barreled into the swarm of frigates, and within a second the enemy was all around us. The ship shook with the impact of their guns.

  “Open our gun ports,” the admiral shouted. “Fire as they bear!”

  Six hundred gun ports opened across the hull of the battle hulk. The dumb projectiles were lead spheres about the size of bowling balls, shot with magnetic launchers. It was strictly line of sight, point and shoot. There were also elaborate hydraulic and compressed air systems to fire the guns, in case power to the mag launchers was cut.

  The battle hulk fired, lead shot blasting in every direction. An enemy frigate which had moved in close off the port side, attempting to target the bridge, was instantly shredded, the high-speed lead balls ripping through the hull as if it had been made of tissue paper. Another half dozen ships around it veered off as their hulls were peppered with shot.


  The battle hulk rocked and shuddered with impacts from enemy fire.

  “Explosive decompression in sections fourteen through twenty-one,” the first officer shouted.

  “Seal it off,” the admiral said. “Deploy the damage control bots.”

  The battle hulk emerged from the other side of the swarm of frigates, then swung around for another pass, inertia dampers keeping us in our seats.

  “How’d we do?” the admiral asked.

  “Four enemy ships destroyed,” reported the first officer. “Another dozen severely damaged.”

  “Let’s give them another taste.”

  “They’re forming up a little better this time, sir.” There was the slightest edge of warning in the first officer’s voice.

  “Full speed ahead!”

  The battle hulk plunged back into the fray. An enemy frigate placed itself directly in our path, and was blasted to pieces. The debris bounced off our hull, shaking us.

  The Coriandons concentrated their fire forward on the starboard side, at least a dozen ships firing their broadsides at once. The impacts would have knocked us out of our seats if we hadn’t been strapped in. Meredith yelped and grabbed my arm, forgetting her anger for the moment.

  Another volley rocked us, and I was thrown against the safety straps so hard I wrenched my neck. The bridge lights dimmed, but came back on immediately. More impacts shook the battle hulk. There was an explosion on the far side of the bridge and quickly the place filled with smoke. Somebody shouted “medic” as the auto-extinguishers hosed down the flames.

  “Vents!” the first officer shouted.

  The smoke cleared, and I saw the admiral pick himself up off the deck, rubbing at a bloody gash over his left eye.

  “Bastards,” he said. “Take us out of here! Position us between the enemy ships and the wormhole. Keep our port side toward the enemy. The starboard side is toast!”

  The ship shook with another barrage as we maneuvered away. This time the lights went out and stayed that way, the emergency reds coming on and washing us all in a hellish glow.

  “Report!”

  “I’ve already told work crews to re-route power,” the first officer said. “Engines are good at ninety percent, but we lost one of the pocket gunships in that last pass. No functioning weaponry on the starboard side. Explosive decompression in almost every section of that half of the ship.”