“Something else, Captain,” interjected the sensor operator. “Scans show the gunship has been extensively modified and upgraded.”
Withers let out a derisory snort. “Probably fresh from the central worlds and a refit, the lucky devil. If she’s been laid up in space dock for an extended period, it would explain the crew’s use of an outdated clearance code.”
He wanted to add that Balsam badly needed an overhaul of her aging systems herself. He had asked to be taken out of the line several times, only to be rebuffed by Naval Command.
Sometimes he wondered if the planners back on Earth understood the toll space warfare took on both ships and their crews. It wasn’t just the Balsam that would benefit from a respite from the relentless grind of ongoing operations. He could do with some much-needed R and R himself, as could his people.
His comm officer nodded, head tilted to one side as she listened to a voice in her ear-mic. “The gunship’s captain states he has orders to join the flotilla and reinforce the blockade. The vessel is on final approach.”
“At long last, someone in Central Command has heeded my request for replacements, even if it is just a single ship,” Withers said. “When did the notification come through?”
When the comm officer didn’t reply, Withers rocked back on his heels and glowered at her. “Ensign?”
“Sorry, sir,” she stammered. “I’m checking now. Only it doesn’t appear we received advance notice that the gunship was being assigned to our group.”
Withers pursed his lips. “Typical bureaucratic incompetence. I swear, not only does Command’s left hand not know what the right is doing. Sometimes it seems to me the one is utterly ignorant of the other’s very existence.”
The comm officer wisely decided not to comment on this observation, and instead said, “Should I issue the gunship with deployment coordinates, sir? It is currently keeping station fifty thousand meters off our port bow.”
Withers’s brow crinkled as he scrutinized the tactical overlay. An upgraded gunship was a most welcome addition to his under-strength flotilla. Where best to position her? He just had time to open his mouth to issue instructions when an alarm shrilled.
“Looks like they fell for it.” The corners of Grady’s lips curled up in a satisfied smile as he adjusted the attitude controls, positioning Adventurer in a holding pattern well within weapons range of the destroyer.
“You took quite a gamble,” Tara said, eyeballing the sensor display, “using an old clearance code from our reality. What if they’d smelled a rat and challenged us?”
“It was worth the risk,” Grady said, his hand wrapped around the flight stick. “In our dimension, Adventurer was retired from active service at the end of the war along with thousands of other craft. There weren’t enough techs to purge the databases of every single ship before being mothballed or scrapped, and they tended to prioritize the largest vessels. Ours wasn’t the only ex-naval asset to be resold with some former authorization codes still lurking in the recesses of its data core.”
“Fair enough,” Tara replied. “But we didn’t even know if the code was legitimate in this dimension. What if they used a different authentication sequence?”
“Nah, didn’t seem likely,” Grady said. “Sure, some things are different in this corner of the multiverse compared to ours. But a lot is the same. So, it was a reasonable gamble, and it worked.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Zoe butted in. “We have a firing solution. Ready to target the destroyer’s primary drive and cannon emplacements. Give the word and I’ll raise shields and bring weapons online.”
Grady nodded and eyed the glowing green digits of the chronometer nestled below the large viewscreen. “The first elements of the rebel fleet from the Badlands should be about to arrive.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Mal, sound battle stations.” Then he twisted in his seat and met Zoe’s expectant gaze. “Let’s do this.” She grinned.
The bright overhead lights dimmed, replaced by the ambient ruddy glow of combat lighting. As the alert klaxon faded, Zoe’s fingers danced across her holo. “Firing.”
Grady felt the deck shudder as a broadside of laser and ion cannon discharges and plasma torpedoes lanced from the gunship, hammering the unsuspecting destroyer. The Earth Galactic vessel’s shields had not been raised, since there was no imminent threat—at least as far as its crew was aware.
He flicked the joystick, executing the maneuver he and Zoe had discussed after rendezvousing with the rebel fleet. The gunship’s thrusters ignited, sending it soaring above and around the destroyer as Zoe adjusted her aim, bolts gouging the enemy craft’s gun, torpedo, and missile batteries. Debris spiraled from the rear of the stricken ship, its engine casing shredded, plasma venting into the void.
Pinpricks and spears of light blossomed in the inky expanse of deep space—like fireflies sparkling in the darkness of a summer’s night—as ships of the rebel armada dropped out of FTL, led by Phil Lorcan in his armed freighter, which didn’t hesitate to open fire on the nearest enemy vessel.
Flights of fighters and bombers peeled off in a predetermined pattern, arrowing for the next enemy targets—frigates and smaller patrol craft—strung out in a long line.
Rebel scouts had identified the most serious threat to the rebel fleet: the super destroyer Balsam. Her impressive array of firepower posed a severe danger to the arriving rebels, but no longer. A second, smaller destroyer was positioned at the opposite arc of the wide perimeter encircling New Heb, too far away to be an immediate concern.
A confused cacophony of overlapping voices—some tainted with fear, some sounding panicked, others shouting orders—flowed across the enemy comm waves as the battle raged. Taken by surprise, the ships on either side of the picket line next to the Balsam found themselves under heavy attack.
Soon, as more Earth Galactic craft succumbed, a wide gap was ripped in the cordon of ships enveloping New Heb. The all-clear signal was issued, and the slower, more cumbersome rebel vessels began to arrive, the damaged freighter bringing up the rear, protected by a phalanx of fighters.
Grady activated the external comm. “Interstellar Coalition gunship Adventurer to the Earth Galactic destroyer Balsam. Your primary weapons and propulsion have been degraded, and several of the ships forming the blockade have taken serious damage. Order the flotilla to disperse, or we’ll be forced to annihilate you and them.” It was a bluff. He had no intention of firing on the crippled craft. But its captain didn’t need to know that.
After a moment’s pause, a tense, shocked male voice reverberated from the overhead speakers. “This is Captain Ezra Withers. Who am I addressing? And how the hells did you gain control of that gunship?”
“Captain Jack Grady here. How I came to take possession of my ship isn’t important. Save your crew, Captain, and give the order to disband the blockade. We know you are in command of the remaining flotilla.”
Grady could only imagine the chaos and confusion aboard the destroyer, which doubtless had suffered casualties during the unexpected onslaught. He brought Adventurer around, her forward batteries facing the mutilated vessel, the intention unmistakable. “I have a lock,” Zoe said, her fingers hovering over the weapons holo.
When he responded, Withers spoke in a resigned tone, his delivery clipped. “I have your word that my crew will be spared?”
“Yes, I give you my solemn promise as one ship’s captain to another. Your crew can take to the escape pods and be picked up later by your rescue ship. But only after I hear you issue instructions for the rest of your vessels to jump away from the sector.”
Grady waited a heartbeat and added, “You have sixty seconds.” He flicked his gaze to Zoe, her fingers ready to consign the destroyer’s crew to a fiery demise. “I’d accept my terms if I were you. I’ve got a gung-ho weapons operator straining at the leash to blast your ship to cosmic dust.”
This time, Withers’s response was immediate. “Very well, Captain Grady. I accept your terms and surrender my vessel. I am transmitting the dispersal order now on an open channel.” As if as an afterthought, he begrudgingly grated, “The day is yours.”
27
“You’re certain you don’t want to remain on board?” Grady sent Zoe a look of mingled sympathy and concern. Perched on a corner of the large table in the lounge, he took a sip of synth-coffee from the stainless-steel travel mug in his hand and rested his leg on a chair.
The wound in his leg inflicted during his encounter with the cyborg still smarted—as did his shoulder—and he hadn’t yet regained complete mobility. But thanks to the nanite infused healing gel, at least he was no longer obliged to walk with the aid of a cane, as he had the first couple of days after his release from the outpost’s medbay.
Tara had been delighted to assume solo flying duties while Grady recuperated in his cabin and Adventurer escorted the damaged freighter, Bright Moon, to the rendezvous with the rest of their modest convoy. He resumed his piloting duties when the convoy joined the bulk of the rebel fleet from the Badlands, just before the successful attempt to shatter the blockade around New Heb.
Doubts niggled at him. Had that success been too easy? True, the enemy force had been taken by surprise and suffered significant damage to several ships. Their hasty withdrawal made sound tactical sense. But how long before they returned, and in greater numbers?
