Gun Ship, page 21
Both Lena and Babar were busy manning the Stinger’s plasma cannons.
“Activate my station! Give me the two aft cannons!” Justin yelled.
Babar glanced back at him with an unsure expression.
“Do it . . . I know what to do!”
With that, the console and two virt-stick controls hovered right there in front of him. Taking one in each hand, Justin joined the fight. His thumbs triggered the firing action and he felt a tactile response, from the virtual controls, along with the patter of gunfire. Justin couldn’t keep the smile from his lips. His eyes were glued to the holographic 3D battle model; somehow, he was able to determine which two streams of plasma fire were derived from his cannons.
The Stinger had wreaked surprising damage upon the enemy vessels. One seemingly catastrophic explosion after another followed in their wake. As each missile found its mark, the resulting explosion illuminated the gun ship’s bridge like repetitive camera flashes. And the successfully targeted areas on the Pinterthor’s and Mortise’s projected 3D model’s flickered out.
Approaching the mid-ship area of the two warships, Justin noticed things were getting more than a little warm within the confines of the bridge.
“Shields down to 30 percent . . . outer hulls starting to overheat,” Lena said.
Justin could see the same readings, the entire ship’s telemetry, but found Lena’s verbal announcements strangely comforting.
“We’ve got company!” Babar said.
Justin looked up and saw them through the starshield. Five, no six, enemy Rage-Fighters. “Only six?” Justin said.
“I made sure to take out both ships’ flight bays first thing, so not sure where even these guys game from. Perhaps a training shoot—”
“It doesn’t matter! They’re big trouble for us,” Lena said, cutting Babar off.
“Leave them to me,” Justin said. “This is what I was trained for. I want all six cannons. Do it, now!” he demanded.
Babar and Lena didn’t hesitate. Babar said, “You have all the cannons!”
Justin went to work. A part of him was back within the academy’s battle simulators, another part later, when he’d sat within the cockpit of a FireCat fighter during live battle sims. No one had scored higher than he had—not within his own academy squad, nor any of the others. In a battle situation, it was as if a switch got flipped. He became an intuitive, high-functioning, killing machine at the controls. Tapping at his control board, he brought up a separate virtual bounding box tracker for each virt-stick control.
The fighters came at them head on, then split apart mere meters in front of them, three per side.
“They’re coming around . . . flanking us,” Babar said.
“Shut up and let me concentrate!” Justin snapped back. He watched as the sets of three Rage-Fighters were positioning for their simultaneous attacks. “This isn’t going to work—give me help helm control!” Justin said, his voice even and self-assured.
This time Babar did hesitate.
“Don’t do it!” Lena yelled. “He’s just a kid . . .”
“You have the helm,” Babar said. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”
So did Justin. Or was it Markus? He banked the Stinger hard left, throttled forward into a downward reverse-barrel roll, and then banked hard right. He’d positioned the Stinger right in behind three of the fighters—undoubtedly surprising them in the process. He let loose with all six plasma cannons at once.
One, two, and then three Rage-Fighters exploded right in front of them. Justin cranked the controls, avoiding hitting their remnant space debris. “Three down . . . three to go,” he said.
“Yeah, well they’re coming up on us fast from our stern!” Lena said.
Justin held their current course. He even slowed a bit.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lena barked, spinning around in her seat to glare at him. “They’re right on us . . . do something! We’re taking it up the tailpipe—our shields are just about gone!”
Justin ignored her—waited, waited, waited, then flipped the Stinger up vertically like a ready-to-turn pancake. Again, he did the reverse-barrel roll routine and again throttled forward. Streaks of bright crimson plasma fire shot by both side windows. As he came out of the next tight maneuver, the gun ship was approaching them from below and to the left. Justin’s thumbs engaged the Stinger’s plasma cannons. All three rage fighters exploded at the same time. Neither Babar nor Lena said anything.
Again, Justin eyed the virtual 3D battle model. Only five vulnerable hull areas remained highlighted—one on the Pinterthor and two on the Mortise. Apparently, Ocile had continued firing more missiles, even during the course of the looping, dodging, dog-fight moments before. Impressive.
A massive explosion erupted from the stern area of the Mortise—one unlike any of the others thus far.
“We need to get out of here,” Babar said.
Both Lena and Justin watched as the warship seemed to take on a strange inner glow.
“She’s going critical . . . internally, already engulfed in fire. Any moment, her engines will erupt and we’ll be atomized right along with her. Get us out of here, Justin!” Babar said.
He gunned the Stinger’s dual engines. At first it seemed as though they weren’t moving at all—as if were stuck in place. But it was an optical illusion. The Pinterthor was moving along right with them at the same pace. Justin glanced down to the console—they had put close to a hundred miles between themselves and the doomed Mortise.
Then she exploded.
Momentarily, it seemed as if another sun had appeared in space behind them. The blast was so bright, Justin had to squeeze his eyelids shut.
He blinked—he knew there was still another warship to contend with. Expecting to find it still out his port-side window, he was surprised to see it hadn’t kept up.
“Taking back helm control,” Babar said. “And good job back there.”
“I think you and I both know that wasn’t me . . .” Suddenly exhausted, Justin let out a long breath and leaned his head back. He felt his heart rate slowing. The spiked hit of adrenalin in his bloodstream was now normalizing.
Babar, keeping the Stinger a good distance away from the Pinterthor, was circling the big, clearly crippled warship. Bright flashes here and there, like electrical discharges, made for an eerie scene. Justin wondered if this once-formidable warship was soon to follow in her sister’s path.
Babar said, “OCI . . . provide status of the enemy’s weapons systems.”
“Ship-wide weapons systems have been destroyed or significantly damaged.”
“And propulsion?” he asked.
“Marginally operational. Taken off-line for crucial repairs.”
“Good, so she’s no threat and not going anywhere anytime soon . . .” Babar said.
Lena said, “OCI, how many survivors are there?”
“There are 207 organic life forms still present, 205 of which are consistent with Horthian DNA.”
Lena said, “Those are Empire lifeforms . . . probably from the areas around Demyan.”
Justin considered that. “What about the other two? So they aren’t Horthian DNA?”
Ocile replied, “Correct. Both human. A male and a female. Both are being held within the Pinterthor’s high-security corridor. What you would call the ship’s brig. I have verified contact with one of them is possible.”
The three of them exchanged perplexed looks. Justin said, “Just how would we do that? Communicate with one of them.”
“Archaic technology, wireless personal communications devices which receive their signals from land-based towers. A ‘cell’ is typically the area of several kilometers around a tower in which a signal can be received—”
“Hold on, Ocile . . . you’re telling me one of them has a cell phone? And it’s turned on?”
“That is correct.”
“And—you can communicate with that kind of signal?” Justin asked.
“Of course, rudimentary.”
“Do it. Call the phone on that ship.”
Chapter 39
Aila Tuffy—Shortly before the battle
Demyan Empire Warship, Pintertho —Earth’s High Orbit
Aila sat upon the cold, hard, metal bench with her arms wrapped tightly around her pulled-in legs. This can’t be happening, she told herself for the tenth time. She was being held within an approximately ten-foot-by-ten-foot, glass cage—a prisoner. And she wasn’t alone here. The big gangbanger, GG-Guns, was sprawled out on the deck, dozing. Fear and uncertainty had turned to anger. She thought about standing up and kicking GG in the balls. She pictured herself doing it—she’d put all her weight into it. Maybe kick him two or three times, consecutively. It was because of him, and Lewis, and those other vicious losers, that her cousin was dead. And now she was a captive—a captive stuck here with him!
Aila and GG had been escorted over to a fast-moving elevator and then through a maze of interconnecting passageways. Eventually, they had been deposited here, to this glass-enclosed jail cell. And here she sat, staring at the now-snoring gangbanger on the floor. She had a number of questions. How the hell had GG-Guns just fallen asleep given the circumstances? When would Zeab come to speak with her again? What am I supposed to do if I have to pee? There was a white cube-like thing in the corner. Is that a toilet? Am I supposed to know how to use that thing—and use it, like, right here in the open?
The bench beneath her vibrated, then jostled her body more vigorously. An alarm sounded from somewhere overhead, a klaxon blaring four times, then pausing, then four more. She stood and approached the enclosure—placed her palms on the glass and stared out. “Hello? What’s happening?”
The floor beneath her shook harder—it was like an earthquake. But how is that possible? This was a massive spaceship. What could possibly cause . . . Oh no . . . It was faint at first. The sound of distant, repetitive explosions. Explosions that were now getting louder and louder. The jail cell began shaking to the point Aila had to lower herself down to the floor. GG’s unconscious form rolled this way and that like a floppy, dead carcass. Suddenly, Aila was in the air sideways, her back careening into the seat of the metal bench. She screamed out, feeling a sharp pain where her ribcage took the brunt of the hit. More explosions erupted around her, even louder now—and like a ragdoll, she was tossed to the other side of the cell. For another five or six long minutes, it continued like this—where at any moment, she was sure the next blast would land right on top of her and GG-Guns.
When the ship finally stopped shaking and the explosions had stopped, she was on the floor, the back of her head lying next to GG’s. His eyes were wide open. His mouth agape. It wasn’t until he blinked, that Aila was able to confirm he was alive.
“What’s happening?”
She rolled onto her side, and wincing with pain, got herself up into a seated position. GG-Guns appeared terrified. She smelled the acrid odor of warn urine—the young man had pissed himself.
Aila stood, finding that her balance was somewhat off. She took a tentative step away from him, and then another. Only then did she look down at him. She stood two paces away from his easily size-twelve shoes. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t even have to think about it. She took one, then two steps, and drove the toe of her right shoe into GG-Guns’s testicles. Was it all she’d imagined it would be? No. So she kicked him twice more.
For another ten minutes, she sat on the hard metal bench, watching GG curled up into the fetal position, groaning and moaning—his tear-streaked face frozen in agony.
The ship had clearly been attacked. And it seemed it had come out on the wrong side of things. What now . . . are we just going to die here, trapped in this little room, GG and me?
“What is that?” she said, trying to wrap her mind around a sound coming from GG-Guns’s back pocket. Then she knew what it was—“Nuthin’ But A G Thang.” GG’s phone was playing an old Dre and Snoop rap ring tone. But how could he be getting a phone call here—up in space? That would be impossible.
By the chorus of “It’s like this and like that, aha . . . and it’s like this and like that,” Aila was on the move. She’d watched as GG attempted to reach for his back pocket. She dove, but he got to it first, bringing the phone to his ear. He raised his foot, kicking her away.
GG said, “Hello. Who is this? I need help!”
Chapter 40
Justin Trip—Present Time
Gun Ship, orbiting Earth . . .
Justin listened to the clicks and pops as the connection was being made. The ringing phone sound filled the confines of the bridge.
A man’s deep voice answered, and Justin responded. “Who is this? Who am I talking to?”
“I need help . . . I’m being held here—in a damn jail or something.”
“And you’re on a spaceship?” Justin confirmed.
“Yeah! It makes no sense . . . no sense at all!”
“Okay. Tell me your name?”
“Gordon Gerber. But everyone calls me GG . . . GG-Guns. So, are you gunna help me or what? Who you?”
Justin’s eyes narrowed hearing the name. The last time he’d seen GG was him laid out on the factory floor. “Tell me who’s there with you, GG. Who’s the other person?”
“Um, her name’s Alliyah or something.”
“What? Aila? No.”
GG said, “Look, you need to call NASA. Get me the hell off this—”
“Put her on. Hand Aila the phone,” Justin said, his mind racing—trying to connect the dots. How was it possible she was onboard that ship? How was it possible either of them were?
“Hello? This is Aila . . .”
It was like being zapped by an electrical shock, hearing her voice. “Are you okay, Aila? Are you hurt?”
“Justin?”
“Yes. We’re close . . . coming for you. Are you hurt?”
“Hey! Wait a minute . . . we’re doing no such thing,” Lena said defiantly.
Aila said, “No, I’m fine. GG could use an icepack for a bruised ball sack, though. We’re locked some kind of glass prison cell.”
“Hold on a sec, Aila . . .” he said.
“What can we do?” He put his attention on Babar. Justin already knew where Lena would stand on the situation.
Babar, still piloting the gun ship around the perimeter of the Pinterthor, had called up several new projection readouts. He said, “Virtually every one of the ship’s systems is either heavily damaged or destroyed. Environmental support is no longer producing breathable atmosphere. But what’s most concerning—the propulsion system, at some point, will go critical.” Babar looked back to Justin. “The ship’s going to blow up . . . soon.”
“I heard that!” Aila said.
“We need to get away from here, now!” Lena said.
Babar said, “Ocile . . . can you access what’s left of the Pinterthor’s network?”
“Affirmative.”
“And the security latches for the ship’s brig?”
It was several moments before Ocile spoke again, “Disengaged.”
Babar asked, “Is the flight bay accessible?”
“It can be . . . one moment . . . Complete.”
“Good, show me the quickest escape route from where Aila is situated to the flight bay.”
Justin could now see multiple small craft escaping the doomed Pinterthor via the flight bay.
Babar said, “Zoom in.”
Ocile had projected a 3D holographic internal layout of the Pinterthor. It zoomed in to show precisely where Aila and GG-Guns were being held, along with a highlighted green path that led to the flight bay. “Ship’s lifts are off-line. I have indicated the stairwell to their closest proximity.”
Babar examined the model. “Can you send this image to Aila? To her communication device?”
“Complete,” Ocile said.
Justine said, “Aila . . . you see it? What we just sent to your phone?”
“Um, yeah . . . just trying to make heads or tails of it.” She sounded like she’d put the phone on speaker mode.
Lena rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated breath.
“Give that to me,” came GG’s voice. “Read maps like that in the Army.”
“You were in the Army?” Aila asked.
Justin was more than a little surprised by that admission, himself. He heard shuffling sounds and fast footfalls. They were making their way through the ship’s passageways.
Babar had navigated the gun ship to the Pinterthor’s bay opening. It was a glowing blue energy field, undoubtedly designed to allow for smaller ships to pass through while keeping the larger ship’s atmosphere contained. But the energy field was faltering—blinking on and off.
“Babar . . . don’t do this,” Lena said. “You have an obligation to protect sovereign subjects, at all costs.”
A running count-down clock was now being projected above Babar’s station. Justin didn’t need to ask what it was for. They had just twelve minutes to pick up Aila and GG and get themselves the hell away from here.
Babar looked at Lena with tired eyes. “Princess, your lack of compassion never ceases to amaze me. We’re going to at least try to save that human. You can report my conduct to the Magistor, if we get out of this mess.” Babar piloted the Stinger in through flight bay’s energy field.
Justin hadn’t been prepared for the crazy pandemonium happening within the ship. Multiple fires were burning, and the air was thick with soot. Even through the Stinger’s hull, he could hear a repetitive klaxon alarm. Surviving crew members were hurrying to board the few remaining shuttles. He saw why there had been limited Rage-Fighters confronting them out in space—at the far section of the bay, a whole portion of the ceiling had fallen from their attack, blocking what looked to be hundreds of parked fighters.
There was another vessel though, sleek, with a reflective, mirror-like hull. A contingent of uniformed officers, along with several well-dressed dignitaries, were making a mad dash to the craft’s lowered gangway.
“You see him?” Lena said.
