Sagitta Page 8

  Morgan took them. “What are these?”

  “Tickets to the ISF’s annual space show, all airfare paid. It’s next Saturday on Starlight. We’re showcasing the new Firefly fighters, and we’ll be giving a few rides.” He winked. “You should take your friend and go check them out. They’re the best fighters ever made.”

  With that, he left them.

  Mrs. Greenfield waited to speak until the Porsche was well out of sight. “What a silly idea, you running off to be a glorified traffic cop in outer space.”

  “Yeah,” said Morgan. He smiled at the thought of pulling over one of his family’s freight shipments. I should do it, if only to spite her! Of course if he did something like that, he’d never hear the end of it.

  “You’ve got a better future, thank heavens,” continued his mother.

  “Yeah,” he said half-heartedly. A future collecting samples from zero-g rice paddies.

  “Oh come now, it’s true,” she said, hugging him. “Look, you’re not seriously considering anything that man just told you, are you?”

  “Not really,” said Morgan. It wasn’t quite a true statement, but it wasn’t worth the debate.

  His mother seemed satisfied. “Good. Now, come back inside.”

  Morgan looked down at the tickets. A trip to low earth orbit wasn’t cheap. Could he pass up a free ride? A space show might be fun to go to, especially if he had someone to go with.

  Chapter 9

  Supreme Fleet Commander, thought Mog. He sagged against the handrail of the transpod as it rushed through the innards of the Narma Kull. As a young boy, he had always dreamed of space, and of his own command. It was a dream that many boys had but few achieved. Now, at only thirty-nine years old, he had his own ship plus everything else the Navy could muster. Unfortunately that didn’t amount to much.

  Words from his childhood classes came to him, unbidden.

  Ramas: 2:21

  There we stood before the rising tide, staring across the abyss at the Destroyers. Azhra, on his dark horse, stared back at me, resolute in his mission. He raised the banner of our father, and as the Ta’Krell swelled around him, he bellowed out our sentence: Death!

  He snorted. It was all rubbish. Azhra, Ramas, the whole lot of them. Then why are the Ta’Krell real? The army of darkness is real! The holy book predicted they would come again.

  His hackles began to rise. “Foolishness,” he muttered to himself. “This is not prophecy. They are not the Ta’Krell of legend. They are just using that to scare us. They can be beaten. We just need some help.”

  The problem was he had no idea where the help was going to come from. He didn’t want to burden his officers. They had enough work on their hands already, and in the battles to come, he would need them focused solely on the operation of the ship.

  There was always the chance the Ta’Krell wouldn’t find the hyperspace pocket that hid Sledgim. He doubted this fantasy would bear out—maybe they had a few years, but more than likely it would be only a matter of months until the Ta’Krell found them. Then, he would just have to make do with the wounded leftovers of the once great Maurian Navy. Even Tiarg Noma, the mastermind tactician from the first Talurian war, would dread such an encounter were he alive to command it.

  Mog straightened his uniform, savoring the remaining seconds until the transpod reached the bridge. He tried to imagine Mauria as it once was, alive with green and blue. Sometimes, he could almost convince himself it hadn’t happened, and that all those people were still alive.

  Almost.

  A chime indicated the lift had reached its destination. Mog stiffened, and pushed away from the handrail. The doors parted, admitting a melody of beeps and whirrs.

  At first glance, the bridge looked like it had nine years ago when Mog had first taken command. A new chair had been bolted to the command platform, its untested leather glistening under the lights. Most of the workstations had been overhauled—he had helped with this himself over the last few weeks, glad to have something to do to keep his mind off other things. The deck plating and bulkhead sheathing had been repaired, and new lighting installed. Still, it wasn’t hard to see past the shine. If he allowed his vision to linger, he could see the scorch marks where power had overloaded, and creases where underlying stiffeners had been damaged. He supposed that, like himself, his ship would always carry her scars.

  Still, it wasn’t a bad patch job for two months.

  In front of the helm was a magnificent new viewscreen. The immense display was twice the size of its predecessor, and curved to fit the bridge’s profile. It was so large that its edges almost met the glowing workstations that lined the perimeter of the lower level. The image on the screen confused him at first. Then, he realized that he was seeing the latticework of the orbital repair bay that enveloped them. Beyond, there were no stars.

  “Are you planning to hold up the transpod all day?” said a gruff voice.

  Mog looked to the command platform, where a brown-furred officer was leaning against the railing. It took him a moment to recognize the man, and when he finally did, he leapt out of the transpod.

  “Ryal, you’re back.”

  The last time he had seen his first officer, Ryal had been bedridden in sickbay, barely clinging to life.

  “You sound surprised,” said Ryal. He bowed. “Commander on the bridge!”

  All around, officers and crewmen stood to attention.

  “As you were,” said Mog. Yes, I’m glad to see you all too. He crossed the upper level and went down the short flight of steps to the command platform. “Ryal, I thought I’d never see you on your feet again.”

  “I could say the same of you.”

  Mog grasped his friend’s shoulder. Ryal returned the embrace. A glimmer of reflected light caught Mog’s eye, and he looked down. Ryal’s hand was metallic and cold. Mog saw a faint outline of his own face looking back at him from the hand’s polished surface.

  “Not quite the same am I?” said Ryal, releasing Mog’s shoulder.

  Mog looked up. “What happened?”

  “My arm got cooked during the battle. The doctors on Sledgim tried to save it when we got back, but in the end they gave up.”

  He rolled up the sleeve of his green officer’s uniform. It wasn’t just his hand that had been replaced. It was his entire arm.

  “They just cut it off?” said Mog.

  “I thought that much was obvious. It’s not bad though—this isn’t your standard can opener.”

  Mog flinched as Ryal flexed his hand. Five metallic claws sprang from between his fingers, their edges as fine as any combat knife.

  “It’s also got a communicator, a scanner, and an illuminator built in. Do you want a demonstration?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Ryal wiggled his shiny fingers. “Not really.”

  Mog took a step back. The bridge crew had stopped what they were doing to watch.

  A terrible screech tore through the air as Ryal slashed his claws through the command platform’s handrail.

  “Stop that,” said Nali from the tactical station. “They just replaced that this morning.”

  “And they can do it again,” said Ryal. “So what?”

  Nali hissed at him, but Ryal ignored her. Mog grinned. The war may have taken his first officer’s arm, but it hadn’t stolen his spirit. “It’s nice to have you back, Ryal.”

  Ryal inclined his head. “You too. I hear your stay on the planet wasn’t a vacation either.”

  “That’s right,” said Mog. He looked around and found many sets of eyes watching him. There were many new crewmembers whose names he didn’t know yet.

  “Alright everyone, back to work,” he said.

  The crew snapped back to their tasks. Mog watched them for a moment. Laleg and Vrail were gone, and so was Vrag, the ship’s astrophysicist. The replacement officers, whose names he didn’t know, had some big shoes to fill.

  “When they told me you had Isamal’s Syndrome, I thought it was some sort of
prank,” said Ryal. “You’ve never been sick a day since you became a commander.”

  “It’s not a normal illness,” said Mog.

  “Still, I never thought—”

  “Enough about me,” said Mog, running a hand over his ears. “What about you? The first thing Kremp told me when I got back is that we have you to thank for getting the power back before those monsters could board us. How’d you do it? Weren’t you in sickbay?”

  “Yeah,” said Ryal. “Chock full of painkillers from our last fight. I’d broken three ribs.”

  “I remember,” said Mog. “Go on.”

  “It was pure chance. I was coming around, and the medics hadn’t had time to sedate me again. I knew the ship was hurt, because the power cut out and the jolt threw me off my bed. The medic’s computer told me what I needed to know. So, I dragged myself out there and shunted the power to the secondary bus. That’s where I cooked my arm and passed out. I didn’t know the outcome until much later. I woke up on Sledgim with a trauma team standing over me.”

  Mog looked into his friend’s face. “We’d all be dead if you hadn’t reset that relay.”

  Ryal looked away. “Might have been better off if I hadn’t, huh? Considering…the general state of all this.” Ryal waved a claw in the air. “Enough of that though. I’m sick of thinking about that fight. Nothing to do now but get ready for the next one.”

  “Agreed,” said Mog.

  “What’s the word from the king?” said Ryal. “Are we to fight?”

  “We’re not going back out there,” said Mog. “At least not yet. The king wants us to rebuild the fleet and defend Sledgim. We won’t be leaving until we regain a modicum of strength.”

  Ryal flattened his ears. “I thought as much.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Aren’t you? After what the Ta’Krell did—my hearts burn for Mauria.” Ryal took hold of the sundered railing, which squealed as he twisted it with his artificial hand. “I will spill their blood, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “On that point, I agree,” said Mog. “We’ll have our vengeance. But we need to rebuild. Without more ships, we’ll be crushed. We can’t avenge Mauria if we’re dead.”

  “I know. Ruba doesn’t sit on the throne because he’s stupid. We will follow the king’s plan. But, when we are ready, he had better not hold us back.”

  “He won’t. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “You’ll make sure? How?"

  “I’ll explain to everyone at once. Assemble the crew.”

  Ryal lowered his voice. “You can tell me what’s going on, right now.”

  Mog knew Ryal wouldn’t budge until his question was answered. He flexed his claws. “Ruba put me in charge of the fleet. That makes the Narma Kull the flagship.”

  Ryal flashed his teeth. “Excellent. We will be the tip of the spear that skewers their hearts. I’ll get the crew together.”

  Ryal ascended to the upper level, leaving Mog alone on the command platform. He put a hand on the new chair, its virgin leather smooth, lacking the creases that come with age and war. He closed his eyes, and distant sounds of battle returned, echoing dimly from afar. He would never forget the way the bridge had looked on the day they lost Mauria.

  He opened his eyes and the sounds faded. “We’ll fight again,” he said under his breath. “But this time, things will be different.”

  Chapter 10

  Hrain reclined in the pilot’s chair, hoping Angel’s ECM system was sufficiently masking their presence as they pursued their target through hyperspace. It hadn’t taken them long to locate a Ta’Krell cruiser; one had been skirting the border of Talurian space, executing a jump-and-scan search pattern. He studied the ship, which was magnified on his tactical displays against a backdrop of swirling hyperspace colors.

  “They don’t get any points for style,” he muttered. “Nothing at all like you, Angel.”

  “No,” said Angel. “Then again, my design possesses that quintessential beauty against which all ships fall short. Even the majestic Vinitavi pales in comparison to me.”

  Hrain stifled his response. I may agree with her, but there’s no sense stoking her ego any further.

  Unlike the Angel’s Fury, the alien ship was massive and rectangular. Passive scans showed it to be almost twelve hundred marks long and four hundred wide. The ring of engines at the vessel’s stern was nearly six-hundred marks in diameter. The emissions from the engines dimly illuminated the ship’s hull.

  Normally he wouldn’t be concerned. He had gone up against massive warships before. But this time was different. This was the ship from his nightmares.

  Active scanners would give him away, so he had no topographical map of the target’s hull. He had considered reaching out with his mind, but a terrible foreboding had come over him and he had abandoned the idea.

  “Well girl,” he said into the empty cabin, “Let’s see what we’re up against.” His reflection stared nervously back at him from the cockpit’s curving windows.

  He straightened up and tapped one of the control consoles, readying the containment field around the reactor for battle. Next, he brought the targeting computer online and locked on to what he thought was the enemy ship’s power core. He wasn’t sure of the location, but the bulge on the dorsal surface, just forward of the engine ring, was a likely target.

  “Ok Angel, get ready.”

  She chirped at him. “I’m always ready, ever since the day you rescued me.”

  “The day we rescued each other,” said Hrain.

  What a day that had been. Angel had made the perfect escape vehicle. After learning of her existence from the minds of the government scientists, he’d broken out of the orphanage, journeyed by darkness to the shipyard, and liberated her. The Navy hadn’t been too happy. During their escape, Angel had outfought a Vinitavi Class cruiser. It had been the most vicious fight they’d ever been in. Until today, perhaps.

  “They’re scanning us,” said Angel. “Broad-spectrum active sweeps.”

  “Have they raised shields?” said Hrain.

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  They had closed to optimum firing range. The electronic countermeasure panel said Angel’s emissions might be detectable. That didn’t matter anymore. If the Ta’Krell didn’t know they were here, they would in a few seconds.

  “Ramas guide us,” he whispered.

  Angel snorted. “I don’t know about your silly god, but don’t worry. I won’t let you miss.”

  Hrain ignored her. With a flick of his wrist, he diverted the power from the stealth system into the PPC capacitors. On the tactical display, the three status bars that represented the compression coils for each plasma bank filled with color.

  The first shot would be critical. He gripped the flight stick and aligned the targeting reticle. Angel made a few adjustments, and then confirmed weapons lock.

  Hrain held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

  There was a throbbing whine, and three PPC beams lanced out. The impact, magnified by the shimmering hyperspace eddies, was blinding.

  Hrain whooped as the blue beams burned a hole into the Ta’Krell’s hull. “Take that!” The vessel’s engines flickered out. Angel shot past the stricken ship, which disappeared as it fell out of hyperspace.

  “Ha ha!” said Angel in a sing-song voice. “We got you good, you ugly brute.”

  “Easy there,” said Hrain, patting the control panel. “Let’s not gloat too early.” Still, it had been good. Thank Ramas. He switched off the hyperdrive. Outside, the menagerie of distorted colors and looming shadows became the star field of normal space.

  He jerked the flight stick to the left and looped back around, his lips parted in a warrior’s snarl. Angel told him that the Ta’Krell ship was a few light-minutes away.

  “Micro-jump?” she said.

  “Do it.”

  Angel hummed a playful tune as they popped back into hyperspace for a fraction of a second. When they emerged
in normal space again, the Ta’Krell ship was a pea-sized speck on the sensor plot. Angel aligned their course and Hrain accelerated. As they came closer, Hrain saw through the cockpit windows a black dearth of starlight where his sensors showed the ship would be. Angel lit her searchlights and played them over the ship’s dark hull.

  It’s massive, thought Hrain. The big ship, tumbling lazily about its central axis, showed no signs of life. “Full scan.”

  Angel’s active beams didn’t penetrate far into the Ta’Krell’s hull, but the damage to the surface was severe. In addition to the hull breach, one of their engine ring support pylons had been shattered. Plasma gushed into space.

  “I wish the empire could see us now, Angel. Maybe then they’d leave us alone.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I recorded everything.”

  He wondered if this would change anything. Probably not. The Elite Guard had been hunting them for almost a decade, ever since their escape from Sledgim. The Navy wanted their ship back, and the government scientists wanted Hrain, if only to cut his head open to figure out how his telepathy worked. We’re doing this for our people, not for that bastard mar-Ruba, he reminded himself. As he glared at the Ta’Krell vessel, he thought of the children he’d grown up with at the orphanage.

  They were the closest thing he’d ever had to family, after he’d been driven away from his parents and his infant sister…after a navy officer had shot his father. A pang of guilt struck him as he pictured Nail. He’d wanted to rescue her, to rescue them all, but he’d been too afraid. But now, if the Maurian Navy has been overrun, maybe I can get to them, assuming the orphanage is still there. After this encounter was over, he’d send Ezek the coordinates to the Ta’Krell ship and then set course for Sledgim.

  “Angel, are the drones ready?”

  “Drones loaded,” she said.

  They’d gone over this plan en route. One drone would lock onto the enemy’s hull and transmit an encoded pulse, a homing beacon to help the Talurians claim their prize. The other drone would enter the enemy ship and scan everything it could, providing advanced intelligence to the Talurians prior to intercept.