Cavalry

by Thorby Rudbek

  We’ll just have to take our chances… Five Shells should do it.

  Kirrina reached over with one foot and kicked a specific panel lightly. The remaining Shell Field shimmered into existence and she grinned at her husband as he shook his head and returned to his seat.

  You do have a way! Richard noted with pride how great his wife’s intuition was – a part of the reason why her piloting skills naturally excelled his by such a large margin – and realised that, without that factor, their ship would unquestionably have been struck much more often, and just as inevitably, would almost certainly have been destroyed.

  The three Patrol Craft skimmed around the Moon, losing the rear-view of Earth at last. Ahead, they could see only the barren peaks as they seemed to rush by below – with some of them even somewhat above their low-level flight.

  Now we have no connection with Paranak and the others back on Earth… I hope we are still strong enough to handle the final Narlav defenders… alternatively, I hope we won’t regret keeping two ships with us on this attack, when perhaps they might be needed more desperately on Earth. Richard settled into his seat, uncertain about the validity of his decisions, but realised action was essential, even if it turned out to be a bad choice. The perils of being in command… He checked the scanners for energy tell-tales, in an attempt to reassure himself that there were no enemy ships unaccounted for.

  Brad looked at the peaks rushing by and wondered if this had been the view Harold Morton and Kevin Steele had seen, as they flew unsuspectingly into the lions’ lair, so many months earlier.

  “Kirrina and I will locate and knock out the Mecuba base defences. Tracy and Dan –” Captain Fletcher used PC Sixteen’s captain’s name for the first time since the battle had begun, realising, with a sudden, almost suffocating sadness on an emotional level that he had blocked out until this point, that they no longer had a large fleet to organise, and therefore they could relax their formal communications protocol. “– will watch out for the remaining Warrnam. Poko, you get them placed to handle those ships.”

  ***

  Crillak crept through the seemingly endless empty corridors of the underground base – some of which were natural lava tubes, slightly modified to provide a smooth floor – following the footprints of his prey in the light layer of Moon dust that intermittently coated the floors of the hastily built fortress. He reached the entrance to the airlock leading to his ship and found that the footprints went right up to the closed door and passed it by. His previous determination now wavered, as he realised he could save the destruction of the single, pathetic human for later, but the approaching ships would soon arrive and had to be dealt with, without delay. We must meet them in battle!

  Wintkarn moved around the Control Room of the damaged Warrnam, considering the options carefully. There seemed to be only two. Just three ships, coming in, low and fast, but still easily detected by our monitoring system.

  “Remember… this impossibility: they are coming!” Crillak’s voice issued from the Control Room sound system. “I acknowledge they are! I will not face them from the bottom of this crater,” he stated savagely, rejecting his earlier conclusion and plan. “Go get the Drive ready, no matter the consequences. I will be in the Control Room in a moment.”

  Wintkarn acknowledged the command, left the Control Room and moved down the huge ship to the long rows of Drive systems on which he had been trying to work his ‘magic’ since he had been released from the Mecuba project; he recommenced his repair work there and continued it for a couple of minutes, then powered up the only Drives he had been able to restore to some kind of imperfect operability. The ship groaned as it struggled ineffectually against the oh-so-slight gravity of the Moon.

  “We do not have sufficient power to lift off!” Wintkarn announced regretfully.

  “You must achieve flight by boosting beyond the safety limits!” Crillak was now in the Control Room and reached for the emergency override, but then held back, as a variation on his original idea came to him. Three ships! That’s all… The display still held the information Crillak had been checking just a few minutes earlier. He checked his laser rifle again, determining the charge was at maximum, and then added another weapon from the small armoury in the Control Room, strapping it to his barrel-shaped chest. A brief sequence, keyed in to the control panel before him, released certain inhibiting features on all ship-board weapons, features designed to prevent critical damage to ships’ systems and the potentially catastrophic effects of vacuum barrier penetrations. Now each weapon would discharge continually, not just when targeting a living creature, but whenever the trigger was depressed. A few seconds, and I will hit them right through the walls! They will die before they know they are being targeted!

  “Wait. No.” Crillak’s mouth stretched beyond the normal wideness as the audacity of his plan brought him momentary satisfaction. “I have decided to use another ploy. We won’t attempt to lift off. Let them think the ship is deserted. Instead of taking the fight to them, we shall let them enter our wounded Warrnam,” Crillak announced through his communicator. “Once they have entered, I can beat them all, as they try to capture this great ship. And if, somehow, some of them get past me, you know what to do…”

  Wintkarn stared at the Drive displays, his eyes unblinking, as he realised exactly what he would need to jury-rig. “They will never live to see the stars again,” he declared with absolute conviction, as he reached for his maintenance supplies – knowing that the explosion he could create by turning a large portion of the fuel into energy would hit the surface below them with a force big enough to obliterate all traces of Tsiolkovsky crater and rupture much of the Farside of the Moon, damaging deep into the interior, and – above them – would vaporise any ships adjacent to their stricken Warrnam, whether those ships were equipped with Shell Fields or not.

  As the first light of cloud-dimmed dawn glimmered, competing at last with the Narlav offensive’s overhead illuminations, the flames in the tunnel died down and the invaders started to funnel through, into the ‘safe’ area. As if to confirm the invaders’ impending victory, the huge hemi-Shell field wavered and went down, and a deep roar of triumph burst from the warriors as they rushed in from all directions, closing rapidly on the hangar in the centre.

  Sophie and Enid cut a swathe through the central mass of warriors as they passed the hideout. Sophie took those that had gone past, firing precise flashes of laser energy to make certain that her efforts would not accidentally hit the hangar, whilst Enid panned her continuous beam from the centre to each side until the bodies were piled so high she had to climb almost all the way out of their redoubt to see the enemy.

  Defenders inside the hangar aligned their weapons with the edges of the Transplyous panels mounted in the walls and targeted the hordes as they closed in, but there were too many and they kept coming, quicker than they could be killed. Holes peppered the walls and the plucky final forces inside, causing them to drop awkwardly onto the hard floor, many with torn or severed limbs and mutilated bodies.

  Then Patrol Craft Thirteen slipped down through the clouds and drifted serenely overhead, cruising freely where the Mega-hemi-Shell dome had existed moments earlier.

  “Quickly now!” Walt barked as he looked down at the fearful scene, already aware, from a terse message relayed moments earlier from Sophie, hidden outside of the hangar, of the closeness of the attacking Narlavs. “Target the ones nearest the hangar first, but make sure you don’t hit Enid and Sophie. Just don’t let any get in!” He was thinking of the defenders inside the hangar, realising how many of them must already have been hit. And below, there’s the last line of defence, the youngest of the survivors, kids like Spencer Norrington, Vanny Sharif and others even younger, equipped with specially prepared Arshonnan weapons, the lightest of laser pistols, who would be staring up at the construction chamber roof, waiting for the enemy to break through. Despite the heavy snow fall, he could see the orange and red tinged carnage on the once pristine snowy
ground all around the hangar, and desperately wished for these little ones to be spared.

  In response to his directive, multiple lasers blazed from several points as the mixed crew inside PC-Thirteen worked as many blue spheres as they could activate. Flashes seemed to hit the ground in every direction at once, then their aim became fine-tuned and the Narlavs were wiped out by the hundred, with a cold, quick, devastating efficiency that matched the weather the attackers had so vindictively created. Captain Konig cruised PC Thirteen around the perimeter of the hangar, allowing his gunners a clear view of the targets below.

  Laser light continued to add to the early morning illumination for several tense minutes, until no moving thing could be seen on the snowbanks. An eerie silence descended on the Earth-based defenders inside the hangar as the two ‘resistance fighters’ stepped fully out of their hole and scanned around for signs of life. The laser strikes from above had ceased as suddenly as they had started. No one – amongst the few not injured – inside the peppered building seemed willing to move. The huge bulk of the spaceship still circled overhead, blocking off the steady snowfall as in the distance the cloud-filtered sunlight touched the crumbling walls of the ruins that were all that was left of the Earthly constructions around the airfield.

  Amber released her laser control sphere and stepped back, shaking and triumphant. “Uncle Ed will realise he was wrong now, won’t he?” The blue sphere shimmered and disappeared, unnoticed. She turned to Judy and hugged her, trying to suppress her wildly fluctuating emotions. “He won’t try to ban me from fighting the Narlavs anymore!”

  Judy squeezed her even tighter and ached at the knowledge she had so recently acquired herself.

  Something about the desperate strength of the hold she was now subjected to made Amber pull back, a strange and terrible idea having burst into her mind.

  Brisson could not return the look and pulled her closer again, so that she could murmur into her ear: “Patrol Craft Ten was destroyed, just before Richard’s and Tracy’s ships reached it. He won’t be telling you what to do… ever again.”

  Amber pulled back once more and looked into her eyes, not willing to believe it.

  “I’m so sorry.” Judy’s stricken expression finally convinced the young orphan that the solemnly sober Brisson was telling the truth, and that Amber was even more alone now than she had ever been.

  Amber broke away, her eyes filling with tears. She looked around at her colleagues-in-arms, a part of her wanting to shrink back inside herself, to bury her emotions. There, right before her, was Judy, so willing to comfort her. But she still had her Latt, how could she understand? Or Walt, really more Beckie’s friend than hers, though she had never forgotten the role he played in her rescue from the snow; Sox, miraculously ‘restored’ several minutes after all signs of life had ceased; and Latt. Too aloof, except where Judy had melted his reserve. And Paranak…

  Paranak slumped slowly to the floor as the young, self-appointed field-Captain collapsed into his long, leathery arms, and he cradled her, almost as if he were her long-lost father, aware that, in some subconscious way, she had turned to him, attuned to his aloneness, drawn to him by his differences, succoured by his singularity.

  He looked over her head at the displays on the walls around the spacious room, seeing the remains of his supposedly invincible people, strewn thickly across the frozen ground. Now, I have truly become a warrior, like my ancestors long ago… The realisation left him feeling as cold inside as the viewscreens showed the ground surrounding their craft to be.

  “Attention GAF forces!” Walt’s voice sounded strong, confident as it issued forth from all the speakers in the upper and lower hangars. “The enemy is vanquished. We have won the fight for New Leeds!”

  Vanny Sharif and her younger brother Mo danced around, Abner’s daughter’s longer, almost frizzy hair bouncing across her shoulders in contrast to the nine year old boy’s much shorter style. Spencer Norrington put the little laser pistol down on the table beside him and looked at his hands; they were white from the pressure he had maintained on the weapon, and were shaking uncontrollably. His father, Frank, hugged him for a long time. Eventually they headed for the upper level to search for the rest of their family. Neither of them could maintain a smile – they knew that the confrontation outside must have been a tough one – and they were drawn inexorably to the scene of the fight, hoping for good news, but inwardly dreading what they would find on the battlefield.

  “Just a little longer, Spence, and we’ll be together.” Frank Norrington spoke positively, his arm still around the shoulder of his young son. A moment later and they had shimmered out of sight of the others ‘down below’, including those that were carefully disarming the self-destruction device that they had prepared for the old Scout Craft Drive sphere, now sitting so peacefully in the middle of the bronze-floored chamber.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The price of freedom

  Seagull and Stork patrolled low above the icy streets and fields, checking for any signs of life in the Narlav bodies, determined not to leave one enemy to continue the work of destruction.

  Magic Wagon flew low and dropped close enough – almost – to touch the laser-fractured and laser-slotted, frozen ground each time the crew located another member of the defence force. Once in proximity, Perry Vaughn, who had previously been proud to be known as the incendiary bomb launcher, experimented, body by body, with the awesome but not limitless power of the deceptively simple word: ‘Restore’. Some, seemingly dead, were successfully reinstated to life. Others, like Captain Alder and his gunner and the two Georges, were totally beyond the capabilities of even the much-vaunted Medic to revive.

  Patricia opened her eyes to see her mother leaning close over her. “I’m not dead?” She reached up with a sleeveless but perfectly formed arm. “I feel so cold.” She looked down to discover that her heavy winter coat ended several inches above her navel and her skin was bare all the way down to the top of her blood-stained underwear, where a half centimetre of the silky fabric showed above the waistband of her similarly stained trousers.

  “Let’s get you into somewhere warm,” Jennifer said, but as she looked into her daughter’s eyes and saw the horror mirrored there, the two of them fell into each other’s arms and sobbed uncontrollably.

  Penny-Lee walked around the corner of a burned-out building, leaning on Jane heavily, her semi-amputated hand wrapped in the remains of a bloodied, unidentifiable article of clothing – actually a piece of Jane’s turquoise and yellow striped silky sweater, deftly sliced free using her laser on a very low setting. The two stopped as they found the Norrington women, still in emotional overload, but clearly no longer physically injured, and the Magic Wagon pilot moved his craft a little, so that the Medic was in range. Penny-Lee gasped as strength flooded back into her and her hand was suddenly made whole again.

  Jane Kellogg hugged her dear friend, crying with relief.

  The reconstructed Ms. Croft opened her eyes after squeezing them shut to stop her own tears. Then she found herself focusing on the battlefield again.

  “What about these?” The former cheerleader gestured at the mutilated Narlav bodies with her newly re-fingered hand as her attention, released from the blinkered focus on her own pain, now was drawn to the aliens scattered thickly in every direction. Her sympathetic nature began to dominate her thoughts as her mind cleared with the ‘restored’ blood flow.

  Jane turned around, her thoughts diverted from the relieving sight of her best friend’s hand as the rag fell unnoticed to the icy ground. She focused on Penny-Lee’s concern and shuddered as she saw the Paranak-like forms, disassembled as if by a vivisectionist and scattered across the orange-stained surface. “If this is victory…”

  Tony waved at the Aircar as it came close to his position. Magic Wagon swung down low and hovered over him. He felt his leg knit back together and looked down at Terry’s still form, hoping faintly that there would be another miracle.

  The sun
broke through the cloud cover and shone obliquely onto Stadt’s body, mockingly restoring a healthier glow to his pallid skin.

  Nothing.

  Tony lowered his gaze, his eyes swimming in tears.

  “Hey there!” Terry said gently as the first few drops landed on his ragged coat, freezing almost instantly. He sat up, all signs of his injuries erased. “Don’t do that; I’m fine!”

  A moment later and they were pounding each other on the back, hugging fiercely.

  A few minutes after this, Patrol Craft Thirteen dropped down until it hung a scant few feet above the ground and the survivors struggled through the fractured ruins and landscape towards it. As they neared its impossibly smooth ebony walls, they shimmered and disappeared, one by one, into the welcoming solidity of the Arshonnan vessel and assembled in the reassuringly ice-free Main Chamber[45].

  Osgood and Wordsworth, unscathed except for a few bruises and with their winter gear coated with discoloured snow and ice, spotted the reassuring black bulk from the other side. They came up to the ship without passing near Magic Wagon and returned to the warmth of the interior with relief.

  Amber, walking or wandering aimlessly around the chamber now, the palms of her hands sweating, although she felt emotionally deadened and cold as ice inside, saw them, but turned away without a word.

  “What?” Captain Osgood whispered. She looked at her battle companion anxiously.

  Walt came over, alerted perhaps, by the movements of the young ‘acting Captain’, the brief ‘high’ of that experience now covered with a veritable avalanche of grief. He took Violet’s hands and made her sit down.

  “We destroyed every ship that came at us, but we lost six Patrol Craft. One of them was P.C. Ten. It was very quick.” He looked into her eyes. “Not like you had it down here.”