by Peter Grant
He hurried back to his command console and checked his calculations. Satisfied, he called to the Helm console, “Drive to full power! Change course to 090:100!”
“Drive to full, course 90:100, sir!”
The Helm operator was still startled and shaken by the sudden jolt of the near-collision with the mine. He didn’t operate the controls as smoothly as usual. Instead, he slammed the power slider all the way from ‘Stop’ to ‘Full Ahead’ in a single swift motion, even as he tipped the course control joystick over to one side.
The courier vessel jolted again, hard, as her drive cut in with unaccustomed abruptness. The remaining locking bar holding the cutter to the ship sheared under the stress. The cutter was ejected cleanly from the wide-open docking bay, floating away on the ship’s original course as the larger vessel’s trajectory began to change. It drifted, without power or beacon or anything else to indicate its presence, as its mother ship accelerated away.
HCS BOBCAT
Commander Darroch settled into his chair at the Command console as Bobcat’s crew charged to their action stations. He glanced at the Plot, and bared his teeth in an aggressive grin. The unknown contact had gone to what looked like full power, and was accelerating at a rate that proved she must be a courier vessel. No other type of spaceship could move that fast; but Bobcat came close, thanks to having a full-size destroyer power plant and gravitic drive in a hull at least twelve thousand tons lighter than that class of ship. She had touched point-three-seven-five Cee on her trials. What’s more, her missiles were cruiser sized units, with twice the range and power of corvette weapons. Judging from their minor course change, the enemy clearly did not expect or understand either factor.
“Command to Navigator. Give me a course to intercept, or at least put us within missile range. I think we can do it from here at max power.”
“Navigator to Command, wait one, sir… calculating… got it!” A course appeared on Darroch’s console. “Steer that, sir, at full emergency power, and we’ll be within missile range in about half an hour. She can’t change course much further without running afoul of either Monkshood or Datura in the outer system.”
“Helm, make it so. Full emergency power. Let’s get ’em!”
The OpCen throbbed with anticipation as Bobcat accelerated in pursuit of her prey.
BROTHERHOOD SHIP SARANDA
Lieutenant-Commander Malaj left the Navigator in temporary control of the OpCen, while he went to investigate the sudden lurch as Saranda had begun to accelerate. He excoriated Lieutenant Belushi in harsh, intemperate language when he discovered that the cutter was gone, and the docking bay open to space. “Why didn’t you find this out earlier, and report it to me?”
“Sir, I – we were busy with –”
“I don’t care what you were busy with! You’re the Engineer Officer, damn you! It’s your job to stay on top of your department, not mine, you useless sonofabitch!”
He stormed back to the OpCen, fuming. He’d highlight every line of Belushi’s next fitness report in red, he decided silently, and see to it that he never commanded anything larger or better than a sanitation scow for the rest of his career. He was so preoccupied with his anger and frustration that he failed to notice the movements of the nearest enemy vessel for some time. The OpCen crew, sensing his fury, were reluctant to draw attention to themselves by mentioning it. It was, after all, his responsibility to stay on top of the overall situation, not theirs.
At last the Plot operator said, hesitantly, “Plot to Command. The nearest enemy vessel is accelerating very fast, sir.”
“What?” Malaj was jolted out of his preoccupation. He scanned the display swiftly. “You fool! Why didn’t you report her earlier?”
“Sir, it’s not clear that she’s a threat. Corvette missiles don’t have the range or speed to catch us from her nearest possible approach.”
The commanding officer ran some rapid calculations, and mellowed slightly. “You’re right, but you should still have warned me. Besides, her gravitic drive’s more powerful than a corvette’s – more like a destroyer’s. Their missiles can’t reach us, either, but I’d prefer more of a safety margin. She can’t be a destroyer, though. She’s already moving faster than they’re capable of. What the hell is she?”
He made sure they were recording every detail of their escape. Captain Toci would want to know as much as possible about this new ship. As for the other ships, Saranda couldn’t change course much further without risking interception by the two corvettes further out in the system, which were already charging toward her predicted trajectory at full power.
“We’ll remain on this course,” he decided. “It’s the safest option open to us.”
HCS BOBCAT
“She’s almost in range, sir.”
Commander Darroch smiled in satisfaction as the Weapons Officer gave him the good news. “Hold on, Lieutenant. Let’s get closer. Once she realizes our missiles are much longer-ranged than a ship this size should be able to carry, she’s going to take evasive action. I want to get close enough to fire a pattern wide enough that some of our missiles will catch her, no matter which way she dodges. We can follow that up with a second pattern, if necessary, to nail her down.”
“Aye aye, sir. I’ll prepare a firing plan along those lines.”
“Do that, Lieutenant. If you miss her, I’ll cancel your commission, disrate you to Spacer Third Class, and have you on latrine duty out here in the Mycenae system for the rest of your career!” A chuckle ran around the OpCen.
It took no more than a few minutes for Bobcat’s powerful battle computer, newly upgraded to Kang Industries’ latest and much-improved design, to work out the details. The Weapons Officer reported, quiet triumph in his voice, “She’ll be in range of our wide pattern in seven minutes, sir. After that, it won’t matter what she does. We’ll have her by the short and curlies.”
BROTHERHOOD SHIP SARANDA
“Vampire! Vampire! Missiles fired, sir!”
Lieutenant-Commander Malaj jolted erect in his command chair, utterly astonished. “But they’re out of range! There’s no way their missiles have enough powered range to reach us as we flash past them! They’re wasting an entire salvo!”
Even as he watched, the incoming missiles diverged, spreading into a wide pattern. He knew what that portended. They wanted to make sure he couldn’t dodge fast or far enough to avoid them all. He thought uneasily, What have they got up their sleeve? They must know their missiles don’t have the range or speed to reach me from there!
Within a minute, it became obvious that these were no ordinary corvette or destroyer missiles. They were accelerating too fast. They had more power than they should have had, and probably more fuel, too. His stomach knotted in sudden fear as he hammered at his keyboard. The ship’s computer calculated an optimal course to evade, and threw it onto his and the Helm’s console. “Command to Helm! Get onto that course, fast as you can!”
“Aye aye, sir!”
It was no good. The thirty missiles screamed closer. He knew that at least two-thirds would miss… but six to eight might reach him. His only hope was that they would be at such extreme range that their laser cones, designed for a range of ten to twelve thousand kilometers, would spread so wide that Saranda could slip between their beams.
Unfortunately for his hopes, Bobcat’s big missiles carried cones stuffed with twice as many laser rods as those on corvette weapons… and they were long-ranged enough to get within effective firing range before unleashing them.
HCS BOBCAT
“Approaching engagement range, sir,” the Weapons Officer called sharply.
The OpCen crew stared in absorbed fascination at the Plot display as Bobcat’s missiles closed in. Seven of them made it to firing range, swiveled to point their laser cones at the target, and detonated in giant circular thermonuclear fireballs. Out of each explosion, no less than fifty laser beams slashed and tore at the fleeing vessel.
Saranda shuddered and shook as be
ams pierced her every compartment. More than half her crew, including Lieutenant-Commander Maraj, were already dead by the time a laser smashed through her fusion reactor, venting its fury on everything around it as it died an actinic death. The courier vessel vanished in a fireball to match those of the missiles that had destroyed her.
Darroch exhaled, a long, slow sigh of satisfaction. “Well done, Weapons! Looks like your commission is safe for now. Let’s –”
He was interrupted by an urgent call from the Plot. “Sir! Unknown beacon activated, far back along the target’s former trajectory. It’s not a lifeboat, or a ship – or if it is, it’s like no ship’s beacon I’ve ever seen. It may be a small craft, sir.”
“What the hell?” Darroch wondered aloud. “Let’s find out. Navigator, give me a course to close on that beacon. We’ll approach it carefully, and see what it is. Weapons, work up a firing solution as we approach, but do not fire, I say again, do not fire without my express authority.”
“Navigator to Command, aye aye, sir.”
“Weapons to Command, aye aye, sir.”
The senior Kedan spacer staggered to his feet aboard the drifting, slowly tumbling cutter, holding his aching head. He shook the two men lying near him, but they were still out cold. His eyes filled with tears as he saw Putera lying in the corner, not breathing, his head at an impossible angle to his body. Clearly, he had not survived whatever had happened.
He dragged himself over to the pilot’s console. He knew nothing of how to control a small craft, but he knew enough to recognize many of the dials, gauges, switches and levers. His eyes fastened upon the communications panel, and gleamed as he spotted the controls for the small craft’s identification beacon. He reached out and flipped a switch, then sat back. He did not know how long help would take to arrive, but surely someone, somewhere in the system, would detect it and come to investigate.
Softly, mournfully, he began to recite the prayers for Putera’s soul.
It took several hours for Bobcat to slow down, change her trajectory to rendezvous with the drifting cutter, and have her own small craft tow it back to her docking bay. Efforts to dock it were hampered by the snapped-off docking bars still attached to its hull, preventing the use of normal methods. In the end, an emergency airlock of flexible tubing was hurriedly jury-rigged, extending from the ship’s hull to the cutter’s rear ramp while the small craft was held suspended by tractor and pressor beams. Armed spacers opened the ramp, to find the hapless Kedan crew members inside. They were more than happy to surrender peacefully.
By then Commander Darroch had been in communication with Captain Haldane on Jean Bart. Following instructions, he treated the rescued spacers with kindness, communicating with them through commercial translation programs that had been refined through experience with the spacers captured from Ilaria some time before. By the time Bobcat returned to orbit around Mycenae Secundus Two, the Kedans were beginning to relax, reassured that their days of unending harsh treatment were over.
Frank met Bobcat’s cutter in the docking bay. Darroch exited first. As Frank shook his hand and congratulated him, the prisoners and their escort emerged, to be met with a relaxed martial formality.
The senior surviving Kedan spacer drew himself up and looked at the obviously senior officer speaking to Darroch. He clearly wished to speak. Frank noticed, and turned to him. “You wanted to say something?”
The spacer saluted formally, and Frank returned it. “Sir, our fallen comrade. It is our custom to bury our dead on the day they die, or at least as quickly as possible after that. Can… can anything be done to allow us to honor him?”
Frank listened to the computer translation, and frowned. “You said ‘bury’? We can’t bury anybody in space.”
“No, sir. We have had to accept the usual space custom of dropping the dead into the nearest star, when there is no other way; but there is a planet below us. May we bury him there, please?”
“You realize it’s an airless, lifeless planet? I don’t know that any human being has ever set foot on its surface.”
“That will not matter to God, sir. He created all things, including that planet. Even though our brother may be the only human ever buried there, and his grave remain deserted for the rest of time, his soul will know we did our best for him, and God will too.”
Frank was nonplussed for a moment. It would mean extra time and trouble for Jean Bart’s crew to escort the prisoners planetside, dig a grave, and bury the dead man; but it would give the captives peace of mind, and perhaps an incentive to provide information more willingly. On balance, it was worth trying. He nodded. “Yes, you may do that. How do you prepare your dead for burial?”
“We wash them, and wrap them in white cloth. Could we…?”
“I’ll give orders that you be supplied with the necessary materials. Prepare him, then a cutter will take you planetside, along with an escort.”
The spacer’s knees suddenly felt wobbly with relief. “Thank you, sir! Thank you!” Clearly, their captors were going to treat them far better than their employers had ever done.
The following morning, as time was recorded aboard Hawkwood’s ships in the system, a cutter descended toward the unnamed, airless planet. The Kedan spacers peered through the pilot’s viewscreen as it descended, and unanimously picked a small, flat peak in the foothills of an impressively soaring mountain range, looking out over a seemingly endless, dusty plain, pockmarked with craters. The small craft landed to one side of the summit, and its space-suited occupants got out, carrying with them small, improvised explosive shaped charges and other tools.
The charges made quick work of loosening the rock and hard-packed dirt, and shovels scraped it aside to produce a usable grave. The three surviving Kedans laid the body tenderly in the grave, and helped their escort cover it once more with the soil and shattered rock excavated to make room for it. A simple metal sheet, cut to resemble a gravestone, was inserted at its head, with the dead spacer’s name, and dates of birth and death, painted on it. The senior Kedan led his comrades in the traditional funeral prayers, after which the escort fired three volleys over the grave from their bead carbines. There was no sound in the airless void as the shots were fired. They aimed toward the mountains behind the grave, serving as a monumentally large backstop for the first and almost certainly the only time in their existence.
When the cutter returned to Jean Bart, the senior Kedan asked to speak to the guard commander. What he said led the NCO to make a hurried call, which led to more calls, which led to a visit to the brig by Captain Haldane.
“You wanted to see me?” he said to the spacer.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply through the translation computer. “You have treated us well, and helped us to render final honors to our fallen brother. For this, we thank you, and are willing to help you in any way we can. Do you need our services as spacers?”
Frank thought fast. “I don’t think I can do that, although if you’re prepared to give your word that you won’t make any trouble, we can give you better and more comfortable accommodation, with fewer restrictions. What we really need is information. We don’t know enough about the Albanians who hired you – how many people they have, how many ships, what their plans are. We don’t even know where their base is, for heaven’s sake! Anything you can tell us may be helpful.”
“We shall do that, sir. Ah… you said you don’t know where their base is?”
Frank felt a wild hope surge within him. “No. Do you?”
“Not exactly, sir, but I may be able to get close. You see, after our first trip to this system, our ship journeyed to a planet called Patos, and then back to our base again. I was in the Engineering crew the whole time. On the console there, they showed our course, plus the distance covered in each hyper-jump. Due to the age of her capacitor ring, restricting its storage capacity, Saranda jumped eighteen-point-four light years at maximum charge, rather than her designed twenty. I remember her course both ways, and how many times she jumped
on each journey between departure and arrival. Would that help?”
“It sure would! I’ll have you talk with our Navigator, and we’ll see what we can figure out.”
HCS JEAN BART
The following morning, Frank and Jean Bart’s Navigating Officer, Lieutenant Fullerton, met at the Plot console. “How did it go?” Frank asked.
“Sir, I have the approximate – but not exact – dates of Saranda’s trips to Patos and back from her base, and the courses she followed each time, reckoned from departure from each point to the system boundary, which I’ve presumed to be in a straight line to her destination. I know how many jumps she made, and I’ve been able to extrapolate approximately how many light years that covered each way. I know the movement of the stars, so I’ve been able to make some allowance for that, although without knowing exact dates for her trips, it’s impossible to pin down her starting and ending points with high precision. Putting all that together, I think I can place their base inside a sphere with a radius of about one hundred light years. I can’t be more precise than that, sir.”
“That’s still a hell of a lot closer than nothing! Show me.”
The Navigator changed the Plot display to reflect a star map, and highlighted a region. “There, sir. It’s about six hundred light years from here.”
