by J F Bone
“Not too smart,” Fiske observed. “That rear ship’ll have to hyper to get ahead of us, and by that time we should get a crack at our long eared friends up ahead.”
“Bearing zero one eight—range one thousand—closing. Bearing one nine zero—negative.” the talker interrupted.
“Our little follower’s gone back into Cth,” Pedersen said.
“Gives us three minutes at least, before he can adjust on us.”
Bearing zero one six—range five hundred—closing.” the talker said.
“Stand by all stations,” Fiske said calmly—“Bearing zero one six steady—range four hundred,—three hundred,—two five zero,—two two zero—two hundred,—one eight zero,” the talker’s metallic voice was flat in the tense silence of the ship.
“At my command,” Fiske said as he poised his finger over a large red button on the control console.
Over the complex network of spotting, ranging, and computing devices electronic orders flowed into the gun, and torpedo stations. Servos hummed as the weapons aligned on their target and gun crews alertly followed the movements of the automatics ready for emergencies or malfunctions.
“Bearing zero one three, range fifty-closing,” the talker’s unemotional voice continued. Fiske’s hand stabbed the button and an instant later the “Dauntless yawed violently to the blast of fire that erupted from every weapon capable of bearing on the Eglan.
“Enemy has fired,” the talker said. The “Dauntless” slewed violently as the pilot took evasive action.
For a long second the Eglan hung in space her screens blazing. Then she began to turn,—but it was too late. The concentrated fury of the “Dauntless” broadside erupted against her screens in blazing pyrotechnics. The Eglan staggered and spun off at a tangent. A second later, the “Dauntless” bucked and jumped as the Eglan’s fire crashed home. The secondary screens flared and vanished. The primaries crackled into the violet under the enormous load of dissipating the megatons of energy that flared against them.
“Holy George!—what sort of stuff are those fellows carrying?” Pedersen breathed, “They outgun us too!” A trickle of blood ran from his nose.
“No—we’re about even there,” Fiske said as another broadside erupted from the “Dauntless” and another load of destruction hurtled towards the Eglan.
“Enemy has fired,” the talker said, and the “Dauntless” again turned off to one side. This time the salvo missed by a comfortable margin.
“What’s wrong with them?” Pedersen asked as he stared into the tank; “They’re not evading.”
“Maybe they can’t. We hit him near the drives.”
“There they go—too slow, way too slow!”
The “Dauntless” salvo struck and for a moment an intolerable flame lighted space, and when it died the Eglan cruiser had vanished.
“Bearing zero four five enemy cruiser—range one hundred—closing,” the talker’s voice interjected. “Enemy has fired.”
The “Dauntless” yawed violently as Fiske stabbed at the Cth switch. The familiar quivering shook them as the ship clawed at the edge of hyperspace—and simultaneously a pile-driver blow struck them astern tearing crewmen from their safety webs and slamming them with bonecrushing force against unyielding plates and bulkheads. The “Dauntless” rang like a giant gong—the sound disappearing slowly with shimmering reverberations that assumed tangible shapes as the harsh red of lower Cth closed around them.
“Skipper!” the ship intercom rattled. “We can’t hold her here! Number three converter’s dismounted and there’s a hole in the engine room big enough to drive a truck through!”
“Enemy cruiser Cth yellow dead ahead—dropping to our component,” the talker said.
“Well—we got one of them,” Pedersen said. “Might as well take our medicine like good boys. He’ll be sowing mines in a minute.”
“That Eglan was cold meat,” Fiske said. “The broadcast worked!”
“That second ship wasn’t. They came in on us like a hawk at a chicken.” Pedersen answered.
“They didn’t have time to get the full benefit of it.”
“You going to give them another chance?”
“We’ll have to. We can’t stay here. We can’t run, and up here the broadcaster doesn’t work. So we go down again. With that noise of Bordoni’s we should be able to jar their back teeth loose. Which reminds me—I’d better see how he’s doing. That broadcaster is pretty near the engine room.” He punched the intercom selector. “How’s it going, Bordoni?” he asked.
An anguished wail came out of the speaker. I was just changing a platter when we got struck. I sat on them! Even on my Stan Kenton album, and that’s a classic!! They’re busted to hell! All of ’em!”
“Bordoni!” Fiske snapped.
“Sir?”
“Valve it off son. It can’t be helped.—Have you any more?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you sing or make noise.
or something?” Fiske asked hopefully.
“Negative sir. I’ve got mike fright—always did have.”
Fiske sighed—“Very well—you’re relieved. Report to your station.”
“Now what?” Pedersen asked.
“We get something else.”
“What?—Bordoni had the only squirm aboard. I know. I shook the ship down—there isn’t a thing one tenth as—”
“Enemy has matched components,” the talker said.
“Down two shades” Fiske ordered. “We can dodge for awhile,” he said absently as the ship dropped into a deeper red monochrome “but he’ll get us eventually.”
“Sir, the engine room broke in. The converters aren’t going to take much more of this—we’re on twenty percent overload right now!”
“They’ll have to take it,” Fiske snapped “If we want to stay alive!”
“I’ll try to keep ’em going, boss,” Sandoval’s voice broke in.
“Thanks Sandy.” Fiske cut off. “Now about the noise business—”
“Well,” Pederson said—“You might try doing it yourself. Seems that I remember you howling like a wounded wolf a few days ago, just before we clobbered that Eglan base. If it’s noise you want, why don’t you give out with a few warwhoops. You damn near lifted the lid off this can.”
Fiske’s eyes widened. “You have something there,” he admitted. He flipped the selecter to communications “George,” he said, “can you rig a continuous tape playback into that broadcaster? Bordoni’s aborted,—smashed his records.”
“Sure. Give me ten minutes.”
“Make it five and send one of your boys up here. I have a package for him.” Fiske switched off and turned to Pedersen. “Have someone go to my quarters and get that roll of sound tape out of my locker. It’s in the upper left compartment. Give it to George’s man when he shows up.” He looked at Pedersen’s puzzled expression and grinned. “We’re not licked yet, Oley.”
“Enemy has matched component,” the talker said.
“Down two shades—and keep changing our course. Don’t follow one line for more than ten seconds. Fiske ordered.
“That gives us about four more drops before we breakout,” the pilot’s voice said over the speaker. “And we can’t dodge too long. He can outmaneuver us, and ride us right out of Cth.”
“How long?”
“Maybe five minutes—maybe less.”
“Well—get on with it—we can’t stay here”—Fiske looked glumly at the control board. There was nothing he could do at the moment.
“Aye sir.” The red monochrome deepened a trifle as the “Dauntless” dropped closer to breakout.
“Damn—they’re quick!” Fiske muttered.
“We’re not going to be here long at this rate,” Pedersen observed.
“We do what we can. Unless we get that broadcast rigged we’ve got no chance at all.” Fiske lapsed into silence.
A minute passed as the “Dauntless” dodged frantically and the Eglan maneuvered for position.
>
“Enemy has matched component,” the talker said. Instantly the “Dauntless” was surrounded by a reddish-black gloom.
“Infra band coming,” Pedersen remarked. “Our spotting isn’t too good there. He can be on top of us before we know it.”
“Let’s hope theirs isn’t either,” Fiske answered absently.
“Enemy has matched component,” the talker said.
“Well—that’s that,” Fiske said with grudging admiration as the ship went dark, and began to buck and shudder in the stress area at the border of Cth and normal space. “He’s just about kicked us out of commission.”
A violent shock lifted the cruiser and shook her. Metal screamed and ripped as the ship, struck by a mine at the very edge of Cth, was driven downward through the border into breakout. Flashes and pinwheels of light flamed across Fiske’s eyes as the ship spun madly into normal space.
The talker wakened him “Enemy cruiser, range three fifty-steady.”
Fiske cursed weakly at the unemotional robot voice. Somewhere amidships a dull explosion shook the ship, and then the whole mass of the cruiser moved sideways as a broadside let loose.
Fiske came to awareness with a jerk. Beside him was Pedersen, his face a bloody mask, calmly operating the control board. A piece of scalp had been stripped neatly from his head and hung down the back of his neck together with the smashed wreckage of his helmet.
“Break off, Pete—I’m back. Get a patch on that scalp and a new helmet. You’ll look silly breathing space if they hull us up here.”
“I thought you had it, skipper,” Pedersen grinned through the blood. “That last jump was pretty rough.”
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know. Our Eglan friend is shooting at us from long range. He doesn’t seem very eager to close. Came in to three fifty and has been matching us ever since. Looks like he’s waiting for help.”
“We can’t let this go on.—What’s our situation?”
“Damage control reports we’re about eighty percent effective. They’re working on the number three converter but it’ll be at least an hour before she’s ready. We’ve lost two secondary batteries, but the mains are all right and our screens are keeping out the stuff our playmate’s sending over.”
“Our drives?”
“Okay—except for the converters like I said.”
Fiske looked into the plotting tank. “Full right turn,” he ordered. “If he won’t close—we will.”
“Skipper!” the intercom chattered “We’ve got that tape in. We’re ready to roll down here.”
“Well—get going,” Fiske snarled. “Do I have to tell you everything?”
“No sir—but we thought—”
“Stop thinking and turn that broadcast on!”
“Yes sir!”
“Eighty five degrees right turn—down five,” Fiske said. “Full drive—execute!” He bent over the tank and watched the Eglan. The enemy response was slow. “It’s working,” Fiske murmured happily.
The blindest observer could see that something was wrong with the alien. His maneuvering was sloppy, his fire confused, sporadic, and inaccurate,—and as the “Dauntless” shells crashed into his secondary screens there were no evasive maneuvers or blazing pyrotechnics of point reinforcement. Fiske grinned ferociously. A few more salvos and that would be the end of him.
A violent blow wrenched the “Dauntless” sideways, and another hurled her forward with a tremendous burst of acceleration. And the drives stopped dead. Under momentum alone the cruiser shot onward.
“We’ve had it, boss.” Sandoval’s voice came in like a knell of doom. “Torpedo caught us right on the drive lattice. The drives are shot.”
“Enemy cruiser coming up dead astern,” the talker said. “Kange eighty—closing slowly.”
The “Dauntless” lay dead—coasting through space. The faint hiss of escaping air and the clatter of booted feet were the only sounds in the hull. The lights still burned on emergency power—but the drive and the powerplant were gone, and with them the “Dauntless” capability to fight.
Fiske wondered dully what was keeping the ship intact.
Somehow the riddled hulk had failed to explode in the sunburst that usually marked the finish of a fighting ship. The guns were silenced. The last mine and torpedo had been fired. The intercom was a shambles of shorted circuits and dead lines. A hole fully a foot across had been ripped through the right side of the control room giving a free opening onto the blackness of space. One more shell, Fiske thought—and that would be the end of it.
But it never came.
The Eglan ship matched velocity less than a hundred yards away—and a dazed communications officer reported—“Sir—they’ve opened a channel—they want to surrender!”
Fiske looked at Pedersen.
Pedersen looked at Fiske.
The blank incomprehension on the face of one was precisely matched in the face of the other. This was incredible! The Eglan was still in fighting trim. The “Dauntless” was a wreck. Yet the aliens were offering to surrender—and they never surrendered!
“A trap?” Pedersen asked.
“Why? They’ve got us. We’re helpless and they know it.” Fiske turned to the intercom. “Tell them we accept. Tell them to lower their screens and prepare to receive boarders.” He turned to Pedersen. “Wonder how we’re fixed for a boarding party? You have any idea?”
Pedersen shook his head.
“I’m going to have a look.” Fiske removed his safety harness and rose stiffly from his chair, moving painfully toward the manway that led aft to the main gun batteries and the drives.
He passed shambles. Bodies were everywhere. The sick bay had been destroyed by a direct hit. Guns and torpedo mounts were twisted wreckage garnished with dead. The communications center was miraculously untouched, still operating on emergency power, still broadcasting over the all wave transmitter as the endless tape ran and reran through its guides. A hulking figure was bent over the transmitter, working with torch and welding rod resetting tiedowns broken by concussion. With dull surprise, Fiske recognized Sandoval.
The big man saw him and grinned feebly. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been opened up, but his battered armor was intact except for several minor rips covered with patches and sealant. His helmet was dented and the short range communicator at its back was shot away. Fiske shook his head as he approached and laid his helmet against the engineer’s.
Sandoval’s voice came through.
“I’ve got what’s left of my boys working on the drive. Give us an hour and we’ll be moving again.”
“Call them off, Sandy. There’s no need. The Eglan has surrendered.”
“They’ve what?”
“Surrendered. Quit. Given up. We’ve won!”
“You sure you’re not in shock, skipper?”
“Just get your men together. We’ve got to make up a boarding party out of this mess somehow. We’ve got to collect the wounded and get them out of this wreck. Since the Eglan’s still intact we’ll take over his ship.”
“But skipper, everybody knows that the Eglani don’t—”
“Break it off Sandy, and do as you’re told. That’s an order.” Shaking his head the big man floated off as Fiske shrugged and turned upward toward the gun-decks, picking his way through torn and splintered metal, collecting survivors and issuing orders similar to those he had given Sandoval. In the next twenty minutes Fiske destroyed forever his carefully built reputation for compassion and humanity . . .
THEY assembled on the main deck—what was left of them. The whole and the wounded, barely thirty men of a crew that had numbered over a hundred. They gathered in a tight knot staring into the vision screen that gave a clear view of the alien drawn up alongside. The Eglan ship hung black and massive in space, her seamless sides blank save only for the circle of yellow light that marked an open airlock. No glitter of screens reflected the icy glint of the stars. There was a stillness about the ship that was almost frighten
ing as she edged slowly closer to the battered sides of the “Dauntless.”
“Boarders away!” Fiske ordered and the motley group of survivors towing the wounded who still lived, opened the airlock and pushed off across the intervening space that separated the two ships. Fiske waited until the last man disappeared into the circle of light in the Eglan’s side before pushing off. He blinked once or twice to clear the traces of moisture from his eyes as he looked around the empty stillness that had been his ship. It wouldn’t do at all for his men to suspect that besides being a softy, he was a cry baby to boot . . .
The Eglan had a double airlock, and as he emerged through the second airtight valve, he was met by Olaf Pedersen. Pedersen’s helmet was off and there was a peculiar expression on his face.
“Well? What did you find?” Fiske asked, anxiety in his voice.
“She’s all ours. There’s no fight left in them.” Pedersen said. His voice was oddly strained. “We just moved in and took over. The men are collecting the prisoners now—what’s left of them.” He pointed down the low wide manway that led into the interior of the ship. “Control room’s down there,” he said.
“I know.” Fiske looked around curiously. The ship was like the other captured jobs he’d seen. Even the two decapitated Eglani on the deck were familiar—and the other enemy dead he passed on the way to the control room were not abnormal. One expected to see them in a captured Eglan ship. It was the living who were strange, tight faced, thick bodied, stiffly erect aliens and their human guards who stood in the cross passageways watching him as he passed. Fiske shivered. Pie had never in his life seen eyes so hell-haunted as those the Eglani turned on him. The aliens looked like they would shatter at a touch, brittle shells held intact by a force greater than their wills.
“Gives you the creeps, doesn’t it?” Pedersen asked in a low voice.
“It’s worse than anything I’ve ever seen,” Fiske replied. “These people are on the edge of collapse. This is chaos!”
The feeling of brittle tension increased as they entered the control room in the center of the ship. A short wide Eglan stood beside the master console. He raised his arm in what was obviously a salute, which Fiske punctiliously returned. A muscle in the Eglan’s cheek twitched spasmodically. His fingers were clenched, the knuckles white against his greenish skin.
