The North Star, page 7
part #1 of Galactic Sentinel Series
“Any sign of survivors, Briggs?”
“Too much noise for details, but I’m getting a few sporadic readings.”
Movement near the horizon caught Grimshaw’s eye.
“What’s over there?” He pointed it out to Briggs.
“There’s too much interference, sir, but I think I can get a signal.” The comms officer worked at the controls, and a blurred image appeared on the Barracuda’s VD. “I’ll try to clean it up a bit.”
The VD turned static before a much clearer image returned inciting curses and blasphemies from the crew.
Angry flames bellowed foreboding clouds of black. According to the scanners, the flaming heap was Stork Beta.
“Any life-signs?” Grimshaw already knew the answer and swallowed hard.
“I’m not getting anything, sir.”
“Looks like she didn’t deploy on time, or got hit on the way down,” Dann whispered as he guided the Barracuda with one hand and kissed the cross around his neck with the other. “Poor bastards. May God bless their souls.”
They rode the rest of the way in contemplative silence. The Bakura wreck wasn’t far, but reaching it felt like an age to Grimshaw. A Stork full of troops gone, and most of them were cadets. There had been industrial and commercial accidents on a similar scale, but such a loss hadn’t been recorded by the Confederation fleet since the Kragak war.
Grimshaw’s suit felt too tight all of a sudden.
“As close as this girl’s gonna get, sir,” Dann said.
It was a welcome interruption, and he was more than happy to get out of the claustrophobic cockpit.
“Pull up behind that bulkhead, Dann. Briggs and I’ll go on foot from there.” He pointed to a large section of twisted metal twice the size of the Barracuda. “Between that and the smoke, hopefully we’ll be hidden if the enemy shows up again.”
“Long-range scanners are still busted, sir,” Wedgey said. “Short-range is reading high levels of radiation. Nothing a suit can’t handle, but that could change fast in a wreck like that.”
“Is it the engine?”
“As far as I can tell, the core’s sound. But that fire doesn’t look good.”
“We won’t be long.”
Grimshaw and Biggs unstrapped and made their way to the rear compartment, and the vehicle’s back parted in several sections like an maw. Grimshaw scanned the sky and sea of debris beyond. He signaled the all-clear to Biggs, and they made a run for the wreckage.
He darted from a pile of rubble and into a shadow cast by an upright segment of armor plating that cut deep into the ground.
They moved from one form of cover to another, all the while remaining alert, watching for signs of the enemy.
Grimshaw ran into a section of tunnel created by folded debris and emerged within a stone’s throw of the wreck.
From the looks of the damage, she had hit the ground belly-first and carved a long gouge in the land. Her undercarriage was a mangled mess, and gaping wounds had been torn from her hull. The bridge section was entirely missing, which he took as a good sign. If not for one partial wing still marked with her name, the Bakura would have been unrecognizable.
“Looks like the bridge made it,” Briggs said.
“I hope so. We’ll need to get long-range scanners working as soon as we can.”
Shadows obscured by the shimmering heat moved about in a vast hole in the Bakura’s side.
Grimshaw signaled for weapons and leveled his rifle. He looked down his scope for a better view but still couldn’t see much through the haze.
“Looks like survivors, sir.”
Grimshaw took his word for it. Being a specialist comms officer, Briggs was equipped with better scanning equipment.
The smog cleared somewhat as they got closer, and Grimshaw ran to assist a pair of cadets climbing out of the hole. They were male and female but were so caked with blood and soot he didn’t recognize them. Grimshaw was no medic, but the man seemed injured.
“Are you okay?”
“We’ll live, sir,” the woman answered, supporting her fellow cadet.
“Are there other survivors?”
“Heard shouts earlier, but the heat and smoke…” She coughed, and her voice trailed off into despair. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay, cadet. Can you get your friend to the Barracuda back that way?” He thumbed the direction to the APC.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”
“Good.” He tapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t delay. The enemy has eyes in the sky.”
The tattered survivors moved on as he and Biggs climbed into the body of the ship.
Grimshaw’s suit lights came alive and barely cut through the smoke. He activated his VD’s grid matrix, and it overlaid an outline of the ship’s interior on his visor.
His scanner was still scrambled, but he caught glimpses of life-signs. “My scanners are all over the place. Any luck?”
“Just ran a deep scan, sir. Results are coming back now.” Briggs slapped his helmet as though trying to get it to work. “There are two clusters. One’s in sickbay. The other’s in engineering.”
“You carry on ahead, I’ll take engineering.”
Briggs nodded and headed deeper down the throat of the ship, his silhouette appearing against occasional sparks before being swallowed completely.
Grimshaw traced his way to the rear of the wreck, his memory and the grid matrix leading the way. He encountered a collapsed wall and had to make a detour through a network of maintenance tubes. Eventually, he reached the entrance to engineering. Several life-signs emanated from just beyond the doors. Grimshaw activated the keypad, and the motors whined, but the doors didn’t open. He removed a wall panel to the left and accessed the hydraulic override. He pumped the lever fast, but it made no difference. The door had been jammed from the inside.
He opened a short-band vox channel in the hopes that someone might pick it up.
“This is Commander Jason Grimshaw. Does anyone read me?”
He waited for a response, but none came. He was about to try again when a familiar voice spoke in his ear.
“Lieutenant Chekhov here. Was that someone on the vox?” The signal was weak and static-ridden, but he could just about make her out. “Was someone communicating on this frequency?”
Grimshaw adjusted the signal. “Chekhov, it’s Grimshaw. Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear now, sir.” She coughed violently. “Good to hear you’re alive.”
“Can you open the door, Lieutenant? We need to get you out of there before the fire spreads this way.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for us, sir.”
“What are you talking about? Open the door!”
“It’s no good.” She cleared her throat. “The core containment unit was damaged. We had to execute the engineering lock-down protocol. The radiation shields have activated. No one’s getting out of here.”
“We can override it.”
“Not that simple, sir. There was a leak before we stabilized the field. Even if we could leave we’re already dead. We have to stay, though. We can keep the containment field erected manually, but I don’t know how much longer we’ll last.”
She sounded like she was in a lot of pain.
“Chekhov—”
“Sir, you need to get off before the core blows.”
He searched for words, but none came to him.
“Before you go, sir. Can you do something for me?”
“Of course, Chekov.”
“I’m sending you a file,” she said. “Please get it to my wife and kids.”
“Of course, Lieutenant.”
“And, sir. It’s been an honor serving with you.”
“Likewise, Lieutenant.”
“Chekhov, out.”
The line went dead, and the vox crackled.
Chekhov was right. There was nothing he could do for them, and there was no point in letting their sacrifice go to waste. He gathered himself and dashed back the way he came.
As he arrived at the maintenance shaft, an explosion tore through the bulkhead ahead and collapsed the tubes. That left both routes back to the exit barred.
He opened a ship schematic and skimmed through it quickly. There was another maintenance tunnel that led to an emergency airlock, but it meant crawling half the length of the wreck, and there was no guarantee that route wasn’t also blocked, but it was his only option.
Grimshaw hurried along the corridors and arrived at the maintenance tunnel entrance. He felt along a wall for the access panel. It clattered on the metal walkway, and he descended on a ladder into the bowels of the ship hoping that Chekhov and her team could hold the containment field long enough for him to get out.
It occurred to Grimshaw that he hadn’t tried the vox. He dialed Briggs’s channel and got nothing but static.
His boots clanged on the bottom of the shaft, and he ducked into a low tunnel, crawling faster than he’d ever crawled before. The tube seemed to stretch on for miles, and just when he was about to stop for a breath his hand touched the airlock junction.
His relief was quenched when he found out the airlock door was buried under debris. Grimshaw dug it out one piece of scrap at a time until he was sweating profusely. There was only so much his suit’s moisture reclamation system could do.
Grimshaw finally shifted the last of the junk and manually removed the airlock clamps. He pumped the hydraulic lock and raced through into the airlock chamber where he closed the metal door behind him. His arms burned as he repeated the process with the outer door while trying not to imagine the coffin-like space as his final resting place. If the core blew before he could get free, chances were he’d be dead before he felt a thing.
Small mercies.
The lock disengaged but the door didn’t open. Grimshaw repeatedly kicked at it to no avail. Inside his suit grew warmer than he could bear and sweat trickled down his spine.
He redirected additional power to his arm servos and gave it one more try. When the hatch didn’t budge Grimshaw stumbled against the circular metal plate, the last of his energy spent. Nothing short of explosives was going to open the portal. The vox crackled as he called for help, but once again no one answered. It looked like he would be joining the engineering crew after all.
A crack issued and before Grimshaw knew what was happening, he spun through the air and landed hard in the dirt.
He lay on his back stunned, the smoky sky spinning above. By some miracle, the airlock had opened. After catching his breath and making sure nothing was broken, he willed his legs to run for the Barracuda.
Briggs was already in the back of the APC with about a dozen survivors. Officer O’Donovan was among them, his face still swollen after his treatment.
“We need to hurry.” Grimshaw wheezed as he caught his breath. “Engineering’s going to blow.”
“What about the life-signs?”
“Chekhov and her crew sealed themselves in to contain the radiation. They’re manually holding the containment field to buy us time.”
“Shit!” Briggs spat, reaching for the cockpit door.
“Get us out of here, Dann. That core is going to go critical soon.”
Grimshaw struggled into the cockpit and strapped himself into the Commander’s chair.
The Barracuda’s engines flared to life, and a howl issued overhead as an enemy ship sped by.
“Did they see us, Wedgey?”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
He was about to sigh in relief.
“Hold on. It’s circling back.”
“Put the foot down, Lieutenant!”
“Yes, sir.”
The APS reversed suddenly, and Grimshaw lurched forward. It then accelerated sharply, throwing him back into his chair.
He linked into Wedgey’s visual feed and watched as the enemy ship lined up behind them.
It swooped in for an attack when a beam erupted from the Bakura, narrowly missing a wing and forcing it to pull out of attack position.
“Someone on the Bakura fired that gun.” Wedgey sounded as surprised as Grimshaw felt.
Grimshaw had a feeling he knew who fired the weapon. “It must have been Chekhov.”
“No celebrating just yet, they’ll be back.” Dann steered sharply to dodge a chunk of debris, and Grimshaw was pressed sideways into his straps.
How Chekhov managed it from engineering, Grimshaw could only guess. But if anyone knew the Bakura better than anyone else, it was her chief of engineering. When she spoke about the ship, Chekhov made it sound like it was one of her own children. It almost seemed fitting to Grimshaw that she should go down with the vessel, but that didn’t lessen the pain he felt.
The Haugh Forest came into view in the distance when Wedgey called over the vox. “Coming in hot from six o’clock.”
The Barracuda's guns roared above them, and the APC rocked as it took fire.
“Shit. It got the guns,” Briggs spat. “Wedgey. Wedgey?”
There was no answer.
“Shields are down too.” Dan swore. “Passengers are okay. But one more of those, and we’ve had it.”
Grimshaw unstrapped, stumbled into the back of the cockpit, and crawled into the hole-ridden turret station. Wedgey’s suit was torn to shreds, and his life signs were flat.
At least it was quick.
Grimshaw drew his knife and cut Wedgey out of the chair. The gunner’s body tumbled to the ground below, and he climbed into position.
The turret controls worked, but the actuators had been hit and only turned at half-speed.
Grimshaw lined the guns up with the red bleep on the turret’s VD. The ship was circling above the debris-strewn surface, and based on its speed it would sweep down on them before they reached the trees.
The bleep on the VD sped toward them, and Grimshaw stared at the fluttering spec through the smashed turret window. White flashed, and a second later searing plasma blasts sprayed all around him.
Grimshaw ducked and pulled the turret’s triggers. To his relief the guns fired, sending pounding vibrations through his arms, and high-velocity shells into the sky.
A burst of plasma glanced off the Barracuda’s armor, spraying him with flecks of molten metal. The turret cried angrily and almost rattled him free, but Grimshaw refused to let go.
As he ducked under another spray of white-hot metal, a flash erupted from the plane followed by a rumble like a thousand thunder rolls. So intense was the light, Grimshaw was forced to look away.
When the blinding flash faded and his eyes cleared, he looked over the rim of his console. An expanding plume reached for the sky followed by a rolling column of boiling smoke. The Bakura’s core had reached critical mass.
The wounded enemy ship streaked into the trees to the south, a bold black line in its wake.
The Barracuda jostled into the trees and Grimshaw exhaled.
Relief swept through his bones, instantly followed by fatigue. He wearily descended the ladder and leaned down for Wedgey’s tags, stowing them in his suit.
“Rest in peace,” he whispered for Wedgey, and Chekhov, and everyone else who had perished that day. They had given their lives so that others might live. It was his job to see that those sacrifices were not made in vain.
Green sped by as the Barracuda cut through the darkness cast by the thick canopy. They had survived against the odds, but night was coming, and they were far from out of the woods.
DEAD OR ALIVE
As Clio’s eyes parted, a searing pain drove through the back of her head like a white-hot knife. She choked and warm vomit soaked through the front of her uniform. She cradled her head until the wave of agony passed. It faded to a hum but hid just beneath the surface, threatening to spring again.
Blurred lights floated about her in stark darkness. She rubbed her eyes to rid herself of the smudges, but it made no difference. If not for the pain raking her body, she would have entertained suspicions of the afterlife.
Processing her thoughts through the head-fog proved difficult. She vaguely recalled steering the Bakura into Targos on Colony 115.
Is that where I am?
Something tickled the back of her throat, and she coughed. The action caused the vomit-inducing pain in her head to explode, but it simmered down quicker than before.
How am I alive?
Their chances of survival were negligible. There was a high-rise. That was the last thing she remembered.
She clenched her teeth against the pain and drew a deep breath through her teeth.
Are there others?
“Hello.” The sound was barely audible. Her throat was dry, and her lips felt like sand. She tried wetting them with her tongue and tasted blood.
“Is there anyone there?” she called into the darkness, the words a little louder.
No one answered.
Either the other survivors had abandoned her, or they were already dead.
Why is it dark? What’s with the lights?
Clio inhaled again, the air filled with the stench of blood, waste, and fumes. Her senses gradually returned, and she mustered the strength to push herself off the pilot’s chair.
She made it partway before falling back to her resting position, head thudding against the headrest, burning stars tearing through her brain. She fought down the urge to vomit again. The smudges of light spun and faded as consciousness slipped. Clio grabbed the arm-rests tightly as if to root herself in reality. She bit the inside of her cheek, and a brief surge of alertness filled her veins.
An unknown amount of time passed before she steadied her breathing and took stock. Something heavy had her pinned to the chair. With the splitting-headache subsiding, she noticed there was no feeling in her legs.
Her hands tentatively reached out to determine what was pressing down on her. Her fingers brushed a cold pitted surface, like textured sheet-metal. She traced where the metallic edges touched her thighs and found a sharp edge had cut into her left leg. As far as Clio could tell, everything was intact, and hard coagulated lumps surrounded the wound. At least it wasn’t actively bleeding. Perhaps the debris was keeping pressure on her blood vessels. It meant her legs may have been lost.
