Part Four
Darkness. All darkness. Then a light... so bright... painfully bright...
A futile attempt to cover his eyes was impossible; his hands were restrained. Consciousness lapped towards him like an unstoppable tide, and his senses began to act. Smooth, cold metal enclosed his wrists and ankles. He was lying on a steel table, and he could feel it against his bald head.
Automatically he searched for the solid, sterile, calm of the computer implant in his mind, but all he found is emptiness. He could visualize the gaping wound in his temple where his computer was. Shock covered him in a blanket of sweet bliss, but only for a few short seconds. Then the horrible bright light tore him back into the world of his pain...
He wriggled, and screamed in a dry, croaking gurgle, desperately trying to escape the light. His throat was dry, his breath ragged. Everything was drifting away, and he groped wildly for some pillar of reality.
A slow, solid voice permeated his head, echoing endlessly.
"I will ask you questions. You will answer them," it said calmly. It was not so much a command as a statement. No argument was possible; it was the sole truth in his twisted world.
"Yes..." he croaked wretchedly.
"What is your name?" the voice asked slowly.
"Morgan J. Hamilton," he replied automatically.
"What is your identification number?"
"31840-92058-39482-U1," he cried out.
"What is your homeworld?"
"Atlantic Station, Liat System, Sector 4A!" he screamed desperately. A new, wild fear rose in him, a powerful longing to escape the terrible voice.
"What is your rank in the United Earth military?"
"LIEUTENANT, FIRST-CLASS!" he roared, and writhed until the skin on his wrists was torn away.
"What is the name and type of the vessel you are assigned to?" continued the voice in its endless monotone.
"Chicago-4.8, a fighter type A2, assigned to the U.E.S. Chicago, a Carrier type B4," he whispered. A heavy exhaustion fell over him, and he felt a sharp prick of pain in his arm. Slowly drowsiness overtook him, and the light became dimmer.
The voice was silent.
Hamilton awoke later, into blessed, cool darkness and silence. He lay on his table, and the pain from the removal of his piloting computer throbbed on endlessly. Slowly his breathing slowed, and he tested his bonds. Of course there was no sign of weakness in them, but nevertheless he strained until every muscle in his body ached.
He relaxed again, and breathed deeply. His foggy senses were clearing, and his thoughts quickened. Tentatively, carefully, he prodded his memory...
And was flung into the cockpit of his UE fighter, Chicago-4.8. His sensors showed his squadron, number 4, in tight formation around him. The squad leader flew at the front, transmitting orders and coordinating the vessels.
A hail from the Chicago came through. "U.E.S. Chicago to Number 4 squadron, six Turncoats and one-niner Helians detected...Vessels have just entered system. Proceed on intercept course, fire at will. Authorization code transmitting..."
The squadron leader radioed with precise instructions. "4.6, 4.7, and 4.8, take the Turncoats. Rockets and cannons. 4.2, 4.3, 4.4, 4.5, come with me and engage Kraits. 4.9 and 4.10, attack the Helians. Number 3 squad has radioed that they will be strafing the Turncoats, so coordinate with them. Channel 1 is now in-squad, Channel 2 is to the ships assigned with you, Channel 3 is to the Chicago, Channel 4 is to other squads. There's your authorization, now break up into your flights."
With incredible precision, the fighters separated and flew towards their specific targets. Hamilton warmed up his blaze cannons, fired a test round, and opened his rocket bay doors.
The computer in his temple sent a steady flow of information in, and his instruments appeared in his vision. Targeting crosshairs flicked across the computer-generated map of enemies.
He sub-vocalized his commands to his piloting computer. "Target Turncoat A-3, rocket lock, blaze lock. Switch to standard view."
Followed by the fighters 4.6 and 4.7, he zoomed towards the first Turncoat. Blaze fire rocked his fighter, spraying in a steady, iridescent stream from the turrets on the renegade vessel. "Rocket lock acquired," said his computer.
"Aim vessel and fire," replied Hamilton. For several seconds, the computer took control of his vessel, and used the microthrusters to align the fighter correctly. It jolted as a rocket shot away from its underbelly.
As control came back to him, he flipped the fighter back towards the rear of the Turncoat and let loose a stream of blaze fire. Damage diagnostics splashed across his screen, displaying the Turncoat's shields in detail. Near the rear they were fading, and as his rocket impacted in the front, energy was rushed there. This left the shields on the engines so threadbare that a well-aimed blaze volley would punch through them.
His trigger finger depressed, and the fighter shook violently as it sent thousands of blaze particles speeding towards the Turncoat's engines.
A quick flash of fire came from a hull breach near the engines. He reported to his flight. "4.8 to flight, Turncoat A-3 has weakened engines. Commence strafing runs."
"Affirmative, 4.8," came the reply, and his wingmen dove in.
Suddenly his computer screeched: 8 needle missiles were homing in on him. He threw the ship into wild evasive maneuvers, but to no avail. Impacts shook his ship, and he watched in horror as his shields sank lower and lower.
A torrent of blaze turret fire struck him, and suddenly all the lights went out. Instruments were not responding. He was disabled. The last thing he remembered was a renegade Helian flying towards him...
He lay in the darkness on the cold steel, breathing heavily, sweat rolling down his face. He finally knew his situation. He was captured by the renegades.
Part Five
Commander Kraine strapped himself into his command chair and nodded to the Helmsman. Several seconds later, the Star Lance began its descent into the atmosphere of Iothe Prime. Stronger and stronger vibration shook the destroyer as it sank lower into the atmosphere. Her thrusters turned off as gravity took over. Now the rocket engines pointing towards the planet's surface began to fire, slowing the Star Lance's fall. Finally, she hovered at 3000 meters.
A computer beacon locked on, and guided the destroyer towards a landing platform. Slowly, jerkingly, the vessel touched down.
With a hiss of released pressure, a ramp slowly unfolded. Kraine unbuckled himself and stood up, rather shakily.
Nodding towards his bridge crew, he walked towards the lift. "Contact Johann, Merault, and Fredericks. They are to accompany me, along with a half-squad of marines." As the doors of the lift began to close, he added, "And after that you all have a half-day shore leave."
Meeting with his three most trusted and senior crewmen in the main docking entrance, Kraine strode down the ramp and onto Iothe Prime.
Half an hour later, he was sitting at a large table in The Burning Pirate, a prominent restaurant and bar in the planet's main starport. Fredericks and Merault were scanning the seedier establishments for potential allies, but Kraine and Johann had chosen the upper-class community. The likelihood of finding a pilot of a larger vessel was higher here.
The two men examined the crowd carefully, measuring every patron's clothing, actions, and face. Finally Johann whispered into Kraine's ear and subtly pointed at a young man in a leather bomber jacket who was leaning casually against the bar. His hair was cut short, and he wore stylish sunglasses. A small computer implant stood out from his temple, indicating that he was a pilot of a combat vessel.
Kraine stood and slowly approached the bar. He had taken civilian clothes and packed away his UE uniform, for a long time if need be. His sidearm, a fully automatic Terranic pistol, was uncovered and prominently displayed. Putting his forearms on the bar, the former Commander glanced over at the young pilot.
"How's life?" he said quietly.
The pilot slowly looked over and raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What's it to you?"
"I could make it a whole lot better for you," replied Kraine.
"A job?"
"High-paying, too."
"What's the job?"
"Combat."
The pilot looked up at Kraine and asked, "Against who?"
"A pirate named Kobolewski. Boris Kobolewski. Ever heard of him?"
The pilot smirked. "Where've you been the last ten years, grandpa?"
"Notorious, is he?"
"Quite. Infamous for his brutality, and incredible boldness. He makes raids on inhabited systems, and then jumps out before the local militia can reach him. His power has been growing steadily for a decade now."
"So, are you interested?"
"What do you have on your side?"
"A UE destroyer."
The pilot sucked in his breath. "This I've got to see. I'll hear some more."
"Good." Motioning to Johann, Kraine walked out of the bar and towards the public hover-train system. The pilot followed closely.
Three hours later, Kraine and his senior officers sat in the officer's mess on the Star Lance, along with their candidates for hiring. The young pilot that Kraine and Johann had found sat next to an assortment of captains, ranging from a respectable-looking freighter merchant to a young pilot who had just bought his first Krait. Together they numbered 20 men.
"The war will be short and furious. I aim to destroy Kobolewski and scatter his raiding forces. The pay will be high, and the risk also. I cannot afford to only attack when a victory is likely, so there will be losses on our side. I need freighters to transport ammunition and supplies, and any combat vessels for the actual fighting," Kraine said firmly.
"Are any of you interested?" asked Johann.
Each pilot sank into private contemplation for a while, and finally the young pilot raised his head. "I'm in," he said.
At this several of the younger combat pilots also agreed to join, but the merchant and some more experienced pilots remained doubtful.
Finally the merchant asked, "Exactly how much money are we discussing here?"
Kraine thought for a second, and then replied, "I would say 20 to 30 thousand credits for each battle or supply run."
The merchant stood up slowly. "That does not compensate for the risk involved. Have a nice day, gentlemen." With that he walked into the lift and departed.
Four other pilots followed him, and when they had left Kraine was left with 15 able men who were willing to join him.
"Very good. Now I would please like you all to fill out a form at one of the terminals stating the exact specifications of your ship," Kraine said. "Afterwards, we can begin to plan our first intelligence-gathering expeditions against the enemy."
Part Six
Hamilton lay on his table, concentrating intensely. He could feel the slight vibrations of approaching footsetps through the cold steel. As the electronic locks on his cell door clicked and opened, he braced himself for the light.
It did not come. Slowly he opened his eyes, and could barely make out a dark figure slinking towards him. He watched in a mixture of apprehension, hope, and terror as it carefully began to insert a thin metal tool into the locks on his wrist and ankle restrainers. With a barely audible snap, his left ankle was free.
The figure moved to his right ankle, he stared at it intensely, trying to discern facial features. The figure wore a mask, though, and after it had released his wrists as well, it placed a small pistol on the table and left quietly. The door remained unlocked.
Panting with excitement, his heart pounding in his ears, Hamilton picked up the pistol and crouched down to the ground. He carefully peered out of the doorway and into the deserted corridors. He dashed out of his cell and into a small alcove on the opposite side of the hallway, and slowly peered both ways.
Suddenly he heard footsteps. With a fleeting glance he saw a guard walking slowly down the hall, a machine gun in his hands. Hamilton readied his pistol and watched from his alcove in the shadows. He prepared himself for a mad dash that could lead only to capture, because after the retort of the pistol, an alarm would surely go off.
Hoping feverishly for some stroke of good luck, Hamilton aimed carefully and fired.
The guard, who had been just about to glance at Hamilton's deserted cell, fell with a thud.
No sound came from the pistol.
In disbelief Hamilton examined it closely, and saw a tiny muzzle silencer fitted onto it. His heart racing with relief, he clambered over to the dead guard. The guard's uniform was drenched in blood, rendering it useless. Slinging the automatic weapon over his shoulder, Hamilton ran quietly down the dark hallway.
Suddenly, he rounded a corner and ran directly into a group of renegades. For several brief seconds, nobody moved, but as the shock wore off, several renegades began to draw their sidearms. One of them carried a huge phased-plasma rifle, and as he aimed it towards Hamilton the pilot leaped behind a crate of supplies. The rifle roared, and a fireball exploded into the side of the hallway, leaving huge black scars and flames licking across the now exposed electronics in the wall. The remaining renegades opened up with their pistols, and ricochets rang and whined around Hamilton's crouched form.
In desperation, he gripped the machine gun he had taken from the first guard and leaped out of cover. He opened fire, and was surprised at the lack of recoil from his weapon. His first few shots struck the man with the plasma rifle, and the remainder of his burst swept across the tightly grouped renegades. Screams echoed down the hallways as a dozen of them fell to his fire. A mad scramble for cover ensued, and suddenly nothing was moving in the darkened hallway except for several wounded men who were screaming in pain, and the smoke from Hamilton's gun that snaked its way towards the ceiling.
He dashed down another corridor, running at breakneck speed, desperately seeking a place to hide from the now-alerted guards. He noticed a service ladder leading up, and slinging his gun over his shoulder, he scrambled up and into a thing maintenance crawlspace. Wires and pipes protruded from the walls, slowing his progress. Near the end of the tunnel, he saw a thick mesh of wires, and threw himself in, digging his way deeper and deeper into them. Finally he was lying at least a meter away from the crawlspace, in a tangled mess of wires and circuitry.
He sank his head to the floor, and breathed painfully. His temple throbbed, and he knew that the chances of his escape were slimmer than ever.
(This message has been edited by moderator (edited 04-22-2002).)
Really, it's a good piece, but I haven't had time to go over it in depth the way I like. Real comments coming soon!