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"If you will not fight for right when you can easily win without bloodshed; if you will not fight when your victory is sure and not too costly; you may come to the moment when you will have to fight with all the odds against you and only a precarious chance of survival. There may even be a worse case. You may have to fight when there is no hope of victory, because it is better to perish than to live as slaves."—Winston Churchill
If it was true in the past, why should the future be any different?
“Major Parson, vital signs indicate that you are losing consciousness.” The artificial intelligence voice snapped Mac ‘Race’ Parson back from near dozing.
“Just daydreaming, Allison.” Mac checked the data log and scanned his Starfury IV interceptor’s search monitors. “Imagining that I was in my leather recliner, relaxing after catching a string of crappies outside my cabin.” He tapped several screens, updating them. “You remember. My tiny corner of paradise in the northern Appalachians.”
Mac already knew Allison’s reply, mouthing the words as they came through his helmet. “Major Parson, your statement does not match the physiological data stream.” He’d selected the AI’s voice, feminine and a bit scratchy, but most of the program parameters weren’t of his choice. Allison, always business.
He peered through his fighter’s canopy at the scattered array of asteroids hanging above him. Most resembled the one his fighter clung to: potato-shaped and twice the size of the Behemoth class freighter that’d deposited the carrier pod in this sector. And while each asteroid rotated on some random axis, all slowly spiraled toward the same gravitational doom.
Rotating into alignment with Mac’s line of sight, on a sister-chunk of iron silicate eighty-two kilometers away, Mac’s wingman sat in his own Starfury. To Mac’s unaided vision, Bronco Bob’s asteroid was a barely perceptible shadow, owing to the not so distant red giant. Far more impressive was the star’s gaseous tendril unerringly pointing to where its mass was being siphoned off: the quadrant’s dominant astronomical phenomenon—an all devouring black hole.
“If it was indeed paradise, Major Parson,” inquired Allison, “why did you voluntarily re-enlist?”
Mac pondered Allison’s question. Not why he abandoned retirement. The Truhl-ghat invasion made that a no-brainer. No, to Mac, defending humanity in his Starfury far surpassed any retirement paradise.
Mankind had discovered clues of a space-faring alien existence thirty years ago: interstellar robotic probes and satellites that self-destructed whenever approached. News of that broke when Mac was a raw recruit. By the time he’d graduated from combat flight training, a peace treaty had been ‘negotiated’ with the Ghats.
Every man and woman with a gram of military training just knew, deep to their heart’s core, the treaty wasn’t worth the breath the politicians expended selling it to the civilian population.
The pilots in Mac’s original squadron poked fun at his white hair, suggesting it had prematurely gone from blonde to white because he stressed over political promises everyone knew would be broken. “Maybe they honestly intended to remain vigilant,” Mac muttered to himself, almost forgetting the AI’s previous question.
Allison interrupted Mac’s oft repeated grumbling. “Inquiry—”
Mac cut her off. “Sorry, Allison. Access records of previous conversations. Key phrases: ‘Failure to maintain robust fleet defense’ and ‘forced retirement due to precipitous decline in military expenditures.’”
Mac didn’t mind that his interceptor’s AI program knew his views. A month after the Truhl-ghats seared through the undermanned and poorly equipped outer defenses, they annihilated the rim colonies. Before another week passed, every diplomat and politician who’d diverted resources from humanity’s defenses over the years, even in the face of the Ghat’s increasingly bold treaty infractions, was gone. More than a few committed suicide once the scope of their misjudgment emerged. Or so it was reported.
Through his canopy, Mac spotted a nearby glint, and clenched his fists. It was one of the scattered thousands of shattered hull fragments, remnants from the previous battle in this sector where mankind had failed to hold the line against the invaders. “Easier and more expedient to accept lies than risk confrontation.” He took a deep breath and checked his monitors again. It didn’t matter anymore, anyway. The war was already lost.
Before Allison could interject another inquiry, Mac tapped his com-screen. “Let’s check in with Bronco Bob and see what he’s got to say before rotating beyond line of sight. “How you doing, Bronco. Report.”
Allison took care of aligning and encoding the split-second laser burst packet. Radio broadcast, even minimal strength and narrowly focused, produced risk of reflected noise, offering a chance of detection, minuscule as it was.
“All clear and quiet, Race,” Bronco replied. “How do you maintain vigilance for such long stretches?”
Mac recalled his first deep space rotation, and how nervous he’d been. And the stakes weren’t nearly as high. “Sing Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” he suggested.
“Really? That works for you?”
“Nope,” Mac chuckled. “You’re doing just fine. Nothing from our friends on Evanescent Static?” Having the electronic warfare shuttle hiding on an asteroid about four-hundred kilometers beyond Bronco’s interceptor made Mac a little more confident in their mission.
“Negative on that, Race.”
Mac expected that reply. Odds were the EW craft would pick up subspace disturbance indicating a Ghat vessel dropping out of hyperspace ten or fifteen seconds before Mac’s Starfury IV would.
“Been thinking on what you said, Race,” Bronco interjected quickly. “‘Bout those New Vegas odds before the government blacked them out.”
Mac understood Bronco’s anxiety. The odds makers had posted humanity having a one in eighty-six chance of maintaining active military resistance through the New Year and his wingman, less than two months from earning his bronze flight cluster, was just coming to realize that humanity was facing its twilight. “Not now, even on a secure com.”
“Acknowledged.”
Mac checked his instruments. About twenty seconds before rotating out of LOS. He’d be guilty of adding to already poor com protocol, but he felt it better not to end his transmission on a disciplinary note. Nobody, not even the techs on Evanescent Static would intercept. And Commander Roeth back on the hidden carrier pod would understand keeping a green pilot relaxed, should someone decide to query the AI com-logs. “Only three hours, twelve minutes before we’re recalled. No answer yet?”
“About your call name’s origin. No clue, Race.”
“No guesses?”
“No new ones.”
“I won’t even consider it cheating if you consult, Betsy.”
“AI support ain’t cheating?”
“Not this time.” Mac checked his panel. “LOS rotation interference in six seconds. Radio silence protocol Delta-XJ4.”
“Delta-XJ4, acknowledged,” replied Bronco. “Next window, two hours twenty-one minutes, eighteen seconds. Out.”
“Inquiry, Major Parson.”
“I know, Allison. Remember I asked you to update and recalculate the odds of humanity’s survival?”
“Affirmative. But you asked me to withhold the results. You indicated it would be depressing.”
“That I did. But I’d like to hear it now, anyway.”
“Based on available trends and data,” said Allison, “by the new year, two hundred and twelve days from today, there is a zero point two-one-nine percent likelihood of military forces successfully maintaining an active defense around Earth.”
“That’s why we’re here, Allison. Safeguarding the plan to shake up the odds.”
“Would you like me to inform you of the offensive’s chances for success?”
“No, Allison. I know it’s a Hail Mary.”
“Inquiry, Major Parson. Which definition of ‘Hail Mary’ should be applied to your last statement?”
“Either one works, Allison.”
“Even if successful, Major Parson, the strike is unlikely to favorably alter the long term prospects for Earth’s defense.”
“I know,” said Mac, once again enacting a routine check of his Starfury’s monitors. “But maybe the Ghats will learn that some games end with no winners.”
“Inquiry, Major Parson.”
“Enough for now, Allison.” Mac tapped a screen to his left, selecting coffee, two-hundred milliliters black and hot. “Let’s wait in silence for a while. Intel suggests an enemy scout ship won’t show for at least another three hours at the earliest.”
Mac sipped some of the hot caffeinated bean juice—vitamin fortified as always—through his helmet’s nutrition tube. He knew Allison’s analysis lacked several bits of data, leaving her assessment of Earth’s defense overly optimistic. The veteran pilot let out a long sigh and took another drink.
Mac monitored two Starfury interceptors maneuvering under minimum power, taking up position on asteroids about seventy kilometers beyond the electronic warfare shuttle. They were his and Bronco Bob’s relief patrol. An hour of layover while detectable signs of thruster energy dissipated, then back to the carrier pod for a little downtime before his next patrol.
“Twenty minutes to LOS with Lieutenant McKinney’s Starfury IV interceptor.”
“Thanks, Allison,” Mac said, calling up the standard visual and anatomy files on the Truhl-ghats for the third time.
Based on his military experience and security clearance, Mac found employment as a security analyst at a communications research division during his retirement. That led to recruitment by a military think tank focused on interstellar defense issues.
Who could be afraid of a fifteen kilogram alien? A question often thrown about by naysayers. Until the war started. Best described as a scaley yellow centauroid cross between a centipede and a chipmunk, Ghats were damn ugly. Even if their saliva was venomous, physically they weren’t intimidating. But, with instinctive tactical skills and advanced technology, their military prowess was another question. Both on the ground and in the vacuum of space.
One vital bit of data that Allison lacked: Pieced together from disparate information obtained through intercepted communications by stealth probes and deciphered two months prior to Mac’s reactivation, and later through brutal yet methodical interrogation of captured Ghats, humanity learned the mystery of the enemy’s reproduction.
Humanity only encountered or captured Ghat males. The females of the alien race, believed to resemble bone-crested slugs, emerged like cicadas at the apogee of their homeworld’s orbit—once every seven revolutions, or every thirty-eight human years. In addition, the reproductive cycle was reportedly near impossible for the enemy to reproduce on planets and moons they’d colonized.
A weakness.
Mac didn’t have the whole picture, only parts gleaned during his military and civilian careers, through private and professional contacts, and deductive reasoning supplemented by intuition.
The second data bit Allison lacked: Implementation of Project Reforger. Many suspected the government’s investment in secret colonies, hidden caches to secure humanity’s survival, or to avoid extinction depending on one’s semantic preference. Very few knew of Reforger’s actual existence, let alone its official name. Even fewer knew of its implementation. Mac did, or strongly suspected. His niece, a gifted quantum physicist, had taken a mid-semester vacation. In a whirlwind she’d visited friends and relatives, some she rarely even acknowledged. Gave away her cat. And sent her most favorite uncle a goodbye e-vid that’d been edited to disguise halts in speech and face-reddening tears. It wasn’t openly a goodbye communication, but when Lydia Lynn abandoned her university’s tenure track position for an ‘off world’ position—Mac recognized the signs of a black project—he knew.
Then orders came down to reorganize the scattered elements of humanity’s once proud interstellar fleet. Quietly, core colony defenses were left to patrol gunboats and def-sats, assuring them the same doom, but a handful of months sooner.
Initially Mac chafed at being passed over for fleet carrier duty. Part of the Final Strike Fleet, part of operation Ragnarok. Any person with rudimentary logistical and tactical knowledge recognized it as a one way assignment. One hovering somewhere between heroic and suicidal, patriotic and foolhardy. But the need to secure a logistical path as far as possible toward the enemy’s homeworld was vital. Besides, if the Final Strike Fleet had seen combat before passing through, there might be room for him and his Starfury. Otherwise, once the fleet passed through, one of sixty cryo-tubes housed on the c-pod had his name on it.
Mac’s control panel flashed a warning yellow. “Spatial distortion forming,” Allison announced. “Eighteen hundred kilometers, six o’clock high,” she added, using old-style orientation Mac preferred.
Mac confirmed the coordinates. “Almost show time.” With his gloved hand he touched his chest where beneath his flight suit a silver cross hung. A gift from his grandfather, the one he’d worn while a combat pilot.
“Passive sensors detect a Truhl-ghat battle frigate emerging from hyperspace.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Mac said before taking a deep breath to steady his adrenalin rush. A battle frigate was twice as large and carried sixty percent more firepower than a scout ship that normally patrolled and maintained tripwire satellites.
Allison reported, “Active scanners and electronic signaling detected.”
“Probably trying to locate and interface with their tripwire sat.”
“Search pattern focus concurs with your assessment, Major Parson.”
“Well, the dummy sat we replaced theirs with won’t do much against a battle frigate’s armor when it detonates, unless they park right next to it. Which they won’t.”
“Accurate assessment, Major Parson. Detecting launch of a shuttle.”
“Maintenance shuttle. Things are going to get interesting real fast. Hope Bronco Bob’s ready.”
“I am confident he is, Major Parson.”
“Me too, Allison. You know, the last battle in this sector didn’t turn out too well for our side.” Mac licked his teeth and added silently, “And things aren’t looking too good this time either.”
“Have faith, Major Parson. You are a skilled veteran interceptor pilot. Our side has the advantage of surprise.”
“Maybe so, Allison. We’ll fire-up and close when that fake sat detonates. May draw their attention for a few seconds. Or,” Mac added, his monitors registering the frigate’s expanded intensive scan of the sector, starting with the asteroid field. “They might just pick us out among these floating rocks despite the debris.”
Only fifteen seconds passed before Allison announced, “The shuttle has halted five hundred twenty kilometers from the satellite.”
“They smell a rat.” Mac watched the readouts. “They haven’t recalled the shuttle.”
“Correct. Enemy battle frigate accelerating in our direction.”
“Fire up the second Evanescent Static opens up on them, or our c-pod launches the rest of the squadron.”
“Counterfeit satellite destroyed by shuttle’s class 4 energy beam.”
“Damn,” muttered Mac. “They’ve upgraded their maintenance shuttles. Things keep getting better and better.”
“The shuttle was on the outer edge of effective blast radius, Major Parson.”
“We’re gonna do more than rattle a few teeth before this is over, Allison. Get ready.”
“I always am, Major Parson.”
“I know. Just habit.”
“I know. Just part of my programming.”
Mac rolled his shoulders in an attempt to keep loose. “Hope Bronco’s ready.”
“I am sure—” Allison began before switching topics as the Starfury’s passive sensors lit up. “Electro Magnetic Pulse detected, Major Parson.”
“That’s Evanescent Static,” said Mac, recognizing the readings of a focused EMP beam. He flipped the switch, releasing the grapple anchoring his Starfury to the asteroid. “Activate sensors, bring power and thrust engines to 100%.” He tapped three screens, bringing full communication and tactical tracking online.
“Bronco, form up on me.”
“Acknowledged, Race. Ready for launch.”
“Allison, launch and vector for interception. Then give me the stick and throttle.”
Despite the gravity-dampening plates, Mac braced himself against the intense g-forces as his interceptor rocketed away from the asteroid and came about, the distant enemy frigate centering on his main tactical screen.
“We’ve got to be fast, Bronco. Static’s just shot her wad.”
Mac’s wingman slid into position. “Not tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t already know. Got your four o’clock low.”
Mac began jinking his Starfury using throttle and thruster bursts. “No sense being an easy target. Allison, feel free to add your own complexity to our approach pattern.”
“Implementing supplemental Tactical Evasive Approach Program S-X12, Major Parson. Lieutenant McKinney is employing T.E.A. Program X142.”
Mac recognized the AI’s hint. But he felt an added human touch would be more difficult for enemy targeting computers to guess, despite the reams of data asserting otherwise. He examined the current tactical information now displayed on his helmet screen.
The Ghat battle frigate resembled two thick horseshoes welded together at right angles along the apex of their arches. Beautiful compared to the boxy shuttle it’d launched. Or even compared to Mac’s Starfury, which more than a few design engineers described as an outward clone of the late 20th century F-105 Thunderchief, but on steroids.
“Beautiful, but deadly as a rabid wolverine,” Mac grumbled.
“Starfuries Three, Four, Seven and Eight,” crackled the voice of Major Lidov over Mac’s com-system. “Continue on approach vector. Target and destroy enemy message rockets, top priority. Prepare for simultaneous launch of anti-ship missiles.”
“Starfuries Four and Three, acknowledged,” Mac replied to Evanescent Static’s commander. Until the carrier pod revealed its presence through launching interceptors or opening fire, Lidov was in charge.
The battle frigate was still closing, but angling to present her starboard side gunports to the approaching interceptors.
“Bronco, arm AS missiles,” Mac ordered his wingman in Starfury Four.
“Already done.”
“Arm self-defense rockets too.”
“All four armed and ready, Race.”
Allison said, “All weapon systems armed and energized, Major Parson.”
Out of procedural habit, Mac verified Allison’s statement, including activation of his Starfury’s L4 Railgun. Slower and less energy efficient than newer models, still, it remained Mac’s preferred weapon system.
“Damn,” muttered Mac, as low energy beams that mimicked light bursts began streaking from the enemy frigate, reaching out toward Mac and the nearby interceptors. Mac knew if one of those beams touched his Starfury, the imbedded feedback signal would return accurate targeting data to its source.
“Did you see that, Race?”
Mac didn’t but his tactical readout relayed what had happened, noting Evanescent Static’s destruction through a single red blip where the EW shuttle’s plot had been. Flashing screen text confirmation followed. ‘Evanescent Static eliminated by class 2 energy beam.’
“Enemy disrupting all com-frequencies,” said Allison. “Switching to Line-of-Sight laser com.”
The destruction of the EW shuttle and resorting to laser communications made a coordinated attack far more difficult. It also left Mac the senior pilot engaging the enemy.
He ordered, “Furies Four, Seven and Eight, continue on interception vector.” Increased light emanations from the frigate’s port thrust engines—the terminus ends of each horseshoe housed one primary and one secondary thrust engine—verified what readouts showed. She was increasing speed and turning back toward Mac and his remaining flight of four.
Energy weapons again began reaching out toward Mac’s interceptor. Fewer but more than enough. Just as he was about to order launch of primary AS missiles, a class 2 beam seared through Starfury Seven, destroying it in an explosive instant. At the same time Mac detected an aft-ejected rocket racing away from the conflict. Compounding the rising combat complexity, the frigate’s dorsal thrust engines vibrated and flared out.
Particle beam from the pod carrier, thought Mac. Readouts indicated it was launching the rest of the squadron as well.
“Bout time,” said Bronco over his LOS com.
“Allison, what can you tell me about that rocket?”
“Spatial distortion pattern building around the rocket indicates it is—”
“A message rocket. Bad news,” said Mack, realizing if it entered hyperspace, the fleet and probably all of humanity was screwed. Or at least screwed sooner than otherwise would be. “Furies Four and Eight, use railguns to take out that rocket.”
Commander Roeth confirmed Mac’s fear, but countermanded his order. “Starfury Three, Four and Eight, break off engagement with battle frigate. Starfury Three, primary objective is to engage and destroy the enemy’s deep-space shuttle.”
Mac had forgotten about the shuttle. The carrier pod’s sensors, along with the backup EW shuttle it probably launched, were vastly superior to his Starfury’s. Both he and Allison had mistaken it for a maintenance shuttle.
Mac scanned his tactical screen. Good call by Roeth; the enemy shuttle was heading toward the black hole and his flight was closest. “Allison, plot intercept course. Furies Four and Eight, target enemy frigate and launch primary AS missile, then form up on me.” It normally took a wave of missiles to overwhelm enemy defensive fire, but any distraction would benefit Commander Roeth’s efforts. And one might leak through.
“Allison?”
“Targeted.”
“Launch on enemy frigate then bring about maximum thrust.”
The 3.5 meter missile dropped from the left wing, fired its rocket engines, and accelerated toward its objective, 20 megatons of thermonuclear blast to be delivered. Two more missiles, utilizing similar evasive approach measures, raced to close as well.
Despite the grav-dampening plates, Mac braced himself for the g-forces caused by the sharp turn and acceleration. He grunted, “How’s it look?”
“The deep-space shuttle’s acceleration curve is lesser than that of a Starfury IV, but it has the advantage of eighteen seconds at maximum acceleration.”
“Must have suffered no damage from the satellite’s explosion.” And Mac knew an enemy deep-space shuttle’s top-end maximum speed surpassed even the newest model Starfury. “Can we catch her?”
“Negative.”
Mac checked the distance and made a snap decision. “Starfuries Four and Eight, charge railguns and engage enemy shuttle.”
Bronco and Splitter must’ve done the math as well, as both simultaneously replied, “Acknowledged.”
The railguns would draw too much energy, draining the dampening plates and requiring the Starfuries to cut acceleration. And they were already near maximum effective range.
Railguns activated, Starfuries Four and Eight each began shooting cylindrical tungsten-superalloy bullets at 1.8 second intervals. A single eight-centimeter long, five-millimeter diameter bullet carried enough kinetic impact to cripple or destroy an enemy shuttle.
Mac said a quick prayer, knowing the odds of success.
“How long until she’s out of range?”
“Nine point seven seconds.”
Already he was leaving his wingman and Splitter well behind.
“Detecting seventeen point two percent reduction in acceleration,” Allison stated.
“You did it, Bronco!”
“Actually, Race, I think it was Splitter.”
“Nah, fifty-fifty,” said Splitter.
“Doesn’t matter, pilots. Great shooting! Now turn around and help take out that frigate. I’ll take it from here.”
Even as they followed orders, Bronco asked, “You sure, Race?”
“Sure as your shootin’, wingman. We’ve each got work to do.”
As if to emphasize that point, the enemy shuttle sent an energy beam flash that came within ten meters of Bronco’s interceptor.
Mac immediately shoved from his mind, concern for Bronco and the desperate battle going on behind him. He had one objective: Destroy the shuttle, thereby ensuring that it didn’t launch a message rocket to warn the enemy.
Light flashes reached out toward the trio of fighters, two of which had vectored off.
“Allison, isn’t that shuttle’s energy beam front-mounted?”
“It is. The long range shuttle cut thrust engines and pivoted one-hundred eighty degrees.”
“Then, we’re gaining.”
“That is correct, Major Parson.”
A light flash shot past less than three meters off Mac’s starboard wing.
“Okay,” said Mac, “I think we’ve gained our eighteen seconds back. Initiate protocol R31 intermittent laser transmission back to the C-pod, both tactical and cockpit. Then energize our railgun.”
“By energizing—”
“I know,” said Mac, bracing himself. “But if he wants to duel...”
The gravitational effects, even under reduced acceleration, compressed Mac against his seat.
“Enemy shuttle pivoting and reengaging thrust engines.”
Mac worked with the computer-assisted targeting solution, trying to lock on. The kinetic energy of one solid hit would settle the issue. He depressed the stick-mounted trigger and held it there. Ventrally mounted and spanning the fuselage’s length, the L4 Railgun launched its first bullet, which missed wide left by thirty meters. The second missed low by over forty.
Respectable, thought Mac, firing over 14,000 meters with both his Starfury and the enemy jinking about with evasive lateral and vertical thrusts.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Mac said, wondering about the phrase’s origin as he de-energized the railgun and ordered maximum acceleration. Certainly Allison knew the phrase’s origin, but instead of lending that insight, she provided some bad news.
“The enemy shuttle appears to have repaired sixty-four point six percent of the damage to its thrust engines.”
“Can we still—”
This time Allison cut Mac off. “Affirmative. Enemy shuttle has altered trajectory.”
“Let’s do it.”
Mac verified the minor shift in his Starfury’s flight path through the tactical readout. “All things remaining equal, we should reach optimum railgun range in fourteen minutes, eight seconds. Maximum range to employ defensive rockets in offensive mode in seventeen minutes, sixteen seconds.”
“Major Parson, the enemy shuttle is running directly to where the stellar-mass black hole is drawing in stellar matter from the red giant. That is where radiation emissions are the most intense.
This particular black hole was non-rotational. And since the black hole and its binary partner slowly circled each other like two dancers clasping hands, the red giant’s matter was drawn in through a single shaft stretched between them.
Mac briefly considered ordering Allison to temporarily put him under and accelerate beyond what a human could endure while conscious. But, he knew that some Ghat deep-space shuttles were armed with EMP cannons. Knowing human physiology, the enemy might recognize Mac’s gambit and risk the EMP’s short-range backlash while knocking his Starfury’s systems off line, including Allison. Sitting duck. Dead target before he could recover.
“Keep chasing, Allison. We’ve got to press—destroy’em before they can launch a message rocket.” Mac activated an auxiliary screen, called up the gamma and x-ray emission levels, and frowned. “I need some good news, Allison.”
The AI program replied, “The enemy battle frigate was lured within eighty kilometers of an asteroid concealing a new model MT300 thermo-nuclear mine. Estimated combat effectiveness now at thirty-seven percent.”
“What about the squadron, and Bronco?”
“Seven Starfuries remain combat effective. Starfury Four is among them. However, they have expended all primary and secondary anti-ship missiles. The asteroid sheltering the carrier pod has taken heavy damage.”
“Have you been receiving tactical updates?”
“Negative, Major Parson. Data collected and analyzed from aft sensors on passive setting.”
The squadron’s struggle against horrific odds drove any notion of self-preservation from Mac’s mind. “Don’t worry, Allison. They’ll take her down.”
“My concern is for you, Major Parson.”
“The radiation? No problem,” he said, checking the diminishing distance between him and the enemy shuttle. “We eliminate our objective, you put me into hibernation, they shove me in a cryo-tube. Years later, doctors unthaw me and repair the damage.” Allison knew better than Mac how fanciful the plan was.
“Major Parson, you are indeed a brave and true patriot.”
“No premature eulogies, Allison.” For something to do, Mac added a few random jinks to Allison’s evasive approach program. “It could be worse.”
“Inquiry, Major Parson.”
“Allison, we could be chasing them directly into that black hole.”
“How is that better, Major Parson?”
“AI programs endure radiation far better than they do the crushing gravitational effects of a collapsed star.”
With the anti-radiation drug cocktail flowing through his veins, Mac fought to ignore the headache it invariably caused. “How we doing, Allison?”
“Shielding remains ninety-four point eight percent effective.”
“Still too much getting through. Aren’t Ghats more susceptible to radiation than humans?”
“Affirmative, Major Parson. They are.”
“They did upgrade our squadron’s shielding prior to this patrol.”
“Central Command was aware of increased background radiation in this sector.”
“Guess they did more than one thing right,” said Mac. “Maybe a good omen. Two minutes until optimum railgun range.”
“Radiation bursts will degrade targeting accuracy, Major Parson.”
“Understood. How goes the fight behind us?”
“Aft passive sensor collection no longer effective.”
“Were we winning?”
“Four minutes, three seconds ago, enemy battle frigate estimated to be at twenty-one percent combat effectiveness. Starfuries Four, Eleven, Seventeen, Nineteen and Twenty still engaged. Two of two enemy message rockets successfully destroyed.”
“We still sending cockpit and tactical reports?”
“Affirmative. Enemy shuttle altering course.”
Mac looked over at the radiation sensor. He’d just passed the LCt50, the lethal concentration and time exposure. “Guess they miscalculated. Turning to fight?”
“Negative. They’re vectoring toward the gravity well of the stellar-mass black hole.”
Mac gritted his teeth while shaking his head. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Altering course to improve angle of interception. L4 Railgun optimum range now in one minute eight seconds.”
“They’ve calculated their shuttle can hold up to the gravitational stresses and escape greater gravitational pull than we can.” Mac tapped up the limited specs on Ghat deep-space shuttles. “Can they, Allison?”
“Indeed, they can, Major Parson.”
“Well, let’s change the equation. Energize railgun.”
Mac’s Starfury cut thrust to 40%.
Allison warned, “Enemy shuttle ejecting canister.” Before Mac could respond, Allison fired a self-defense rocket targeted on the canister.
Mac allowed the AI program to paint the canister with a laser, guiding the rocket to its target. Allison could do that, along with the ten-thousand other tasks she was dealing with, and assist as he focused on engaging with the railgun. No sweat.
Even though he couldn’t get a lock, Mac depressed the trigger. Before the second bullet was fired, the rocket and canister met in a fiery display followed by scattered firecracker-like flashes.
“Canister destroyed before deployment of caltrop mines.”
Mac sensed, more than by identifying through status displays, something different with his Starfury.
Allison anticipated his query. “Increasing effects of the gravity well, Major Parson.”
Mac examined the tactical screen and the trajectory, and noted how the enemy shuttle was tracing an arc along the black hole’s influence, slowly spiraling inward. “So, it’s a game of chicken. They go in closer, daring us to follow.”
“Recommend rerouting energy from the L4 Railgun to the gravity-dampening plates in eighteen point four seconds.”
Mac nodded in agreement. He felt the black hole’s tug to his left as they continued the chase, pursuing the enemy inward, toward the event horizon.
“Program the secondary AS missile as follows,” Mac ordered, still failing to lock on but continuing to fire his railgun.
“Major Parson, at this range—”
Mac knew a single AS missile wouldn’t get through enemy defensive fire or counter-measures, and they were still too distant for early detonation to guarantee sufficient damage. Mac ran the scenario through his head. “We’ve got to do this quick, before we go in too far. Have it appear to malfunction, flaring out after eight or so seconds, angling 45.23 degrees starboard, 2.1 degree drop. After twenty and some random fraction of a second after that, set it for minimum thrust to escape the black hole, plus two percent. Once clear set on active target acquisition, drift mode. It’s not to engage unless the enemy shuttle rises beyond this distance from the event horizon.” He paused. “Allison, time dilation, is that a factor now?”
“Affirmative, Major Parson. At this point the time variance remains minor.”
“Minor, now but it’ll change.” And that added too many formulas and variable calculations. “Given the stated parameters, Allison, you do the math. Set proximity fuse detonation at 1150 meters. Do it now.”
Less than a second later, the missile dropped from its mount and rocketed erratically away, Allison having added her personal touch to the deception effort.
“Our ace in the hole. Now, discontinue evasive maneuver so I can get a few good shots.” Mac felt the collapsed star’s tug even more as Allison fired the portside thrusters to stabilize their trajectory.
“Eight seconds until rerouting of energy.”
Then, one of Mac’s shots clipped the shuttle along its dorsal edge, tearing a small chunk away and sending a fantail of debris into space—which immediately curved in toward the black hole, caught in its grip.
Mac saw, even as Allison announced, “Enemy shuttle pivoting, one-hundred eighty degrees. Enemy shuttle reengaging thrust engines.”
Mac grinned, but it was a lopsided grin as he fought gravity to keep his head straight. “They think they can win a true game of chicken?”
“Port thrusters overheating. Rerouting energy from L4 Railgun.”
Light flashes began streaking past Mac’s Starfury. He didn’t bother to ask Allison if he was imagining the light’s slight arc as it shot toward him from the enemy shuttle.
The fully energized dampening plates masked most of the gravity well’s effects. But without his railgun, Mac knew the enemy’d begin to slice up his interceptor within seconds. “Target and fire self-defense rockets.”
The rockets shot away, but at a starboard angle. Mac knew why. Even so, the black hole dragged them off target. “She ain’t getting past us, Allison. Ram her if we have to.”
“Distance, 8000 meters, Major Parson. Enemy shuttle trajectory shifting. Now thrusting away from the singularity’s gravitational pull, perpendicular to the event horizon.”
“They’re trying to climb out.” Mac angled his stick, adjusting to parallel the shuttle’s efforts.
“Allison, can they escape?”
“Seventy point three percent chance of success, Major Parson.”
Although his Starfury was one-hundred and fifty meters more distant from the event horizon, he’d followed the warning data on the bottom corner of his tactical screen since entering the gravity well. He asked anyway, “Can we escape?”
“Negative, Major Parson. Insufficient fuel reserves. Tracking of your eye movements indicated—”
“No apologies necessary, old friend. I saw it.” He took a deep breath. “If the railgun is energized, could you get a shot off?”
“Negative, gravitational forces would distort the parallel rail system if the gravity-dampening plates were de-energized. Already they are functioning at one hundred ten point three percent. Four-thousand five-hundred meters. Closing at one-hundred ninety-four point four meters per second.”
“Take over, Allison.” Mac checked the tactical. “Do we have the angle?”
“Negative. Emergency thrust engaged. Twenty seconds to potential contact.”
Mac checked the metallic hydrogen fuel status. Ninety percent depleted and draining fast. “Do you think the Ghats know the battle out there is over?”
“Intelligence indicates enemy computer systems are on average four-hundred twelve percent more efficient than those of human design. Ten seconds to potential impact.”
“Well, we can’t let them get away to wander around and find the C-pod. Everyone’ll be in cryo.”
“I too am confident that Commander Roeth orchestrated the destruction of the enemy battle frigate.”
Even as Allison spoke, she began firing thrusters, trying to counter the shuttle’s evasive efforts. But a well-timed point defense laser, even though measurably altered by gravity, accurately sliced into the Starfury’s starboard thruster, sending her into a spin—aft of the shuttle and into its thrust exhaust.
The intense heat triggered structural warnings. Mac ignored them and activated the grappling hook. Allison flipped the Starfury and fired it—to no avail.
Once beyond the grav plates, the black hole’s gravity took hold. Allison detached the hook’s cable and righted the Starfury. “Hull integrity down to seventy-three point two percent. Thrust engines three seconds from emergency shutdown. Reducing thrust by twenty percent.”
The AI’s words fell on deaf ears as Mac watched the Ghat shuttle slowly climb out of the well as his interceptor slowly sank. Being a deep-space shuttle, she had far more fuel reserves to burn.
“Allison. You knew that grappling hook wouldn’t work.”
“Affirmative, Major Parson.”
“Thanks for trying,” said Mac, checking the fuel reserves. “Ninety-eight seconds until we’re empty.”
“Are you still sending reports, Allison?”
“Affirmative, Major Parson. I initiated high-energy radio transmission once I noted the asteroid harboring the carrier pod had been damaged and its known trajectory was altered. In addition, I boosted the signal when distortion of the gravity well commenced.”
“So, as things stand, Operation Ragnarok is probably over.”
“Estimated time dilation between us and the Strike Fleet, yes it is, Major Parson.”
Mac watched the now distant shuttle. “We did all we could, right?”
“Affirmative, Major Parson.” The AI paused before adding, “Knowing your religious beliefs, I recommend the time for prayer is nigh.”
Mac felt the growing pull of gravity, pressing him against his seat, and his cross against his sternum. He didn’t know if the power systems supporting the grav-dampening plates would fail before the fuel tanks ran dry. And he didn’t care to ask. It’d become a task to breathe, and speak. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you use the term ‘nigh’ before.”
“I have not, Major Parson. But it seemed the appropriate word.”
Mac sucked in a breath and smiled. System warnings began shifting from yellow to red. Hull integrity was below 50%.
“No, I said my prayers before launching this patrol.” He could no longer lift his arm from the seat. “Let’s answer a friend’s puzzle.” He paused, straining to continue speaking. “Call up Turu the Terrible. We’ll enjoy it...as much as we can... together.”
The AI shut down the beeps and flashing that warned of imminent systems failures. “Of course. Your favorite, Major Parson. And mine too.”
The pilot closed his eyes and listened to the late 20th century cartoon’s introduction: Electric guitar with tremolo, trumpets, and drums, accompanied by eerie bird-cries, gunfire, growls and explosions.
Calming relief of pain medication coursed through the pilot’s veins. “Th..thaankss.”
“Anything for a friend, Mac.”
Metallic hydrogen reserves expended, the thrust engines flamed out.
“Lieutenant McKinney,” called a feminine voice. It seemed distant, but descended closer. “Robert McKinney. Can you hear me?”
To say that Bob McKinney felt horrible was an understatement. Every bone ached as if caught in a vice. Every muscle burned as if hot coals danced within them. Even his eyes stung, but he forced them open.
He blinked, trying to focus on the speaker whose head hovered over him.
“Your tear ducts have just started working.” She squirted yellow fluid from a syringe into his eyes. “Give it a minute. I’m Med Tech Sheryl Parson and you’re in recovery from cold sleep.”
Parson? Bob tried to sit up, only to fall back, wracked with pain. Still, the recent memories of his flight leader chasing that enemy shuttle into the grips of the black hole—he had to know. Race’s Starfury had turned red; Commander Roeth said due to a gravity-induced Doppler effect. Race’s signals chronicling the pursuit stretched out as well. An AS missile emerged, set on trip-wire pursuit mode. That was all.
Then the Strike Fleet passed through and everyone entered cryogenic sleep.
Bob forced the words through his exsiccated throat. “Wha...wha appen ‘t Raysss.”
Sheryl thought she understood the question. In part, she was there to discover the fate of her great uncle as well. “Robert,” she said, gently holding his shoulders, pressing him to stillness on the bed. “He’s not among those in cold sleep, but we’ll find out.”
The next day Bronco Bob and Sheryl Parson, daughter of Physicist Lydia Lynn Parson, along with Commander Roeth and the two other surviving Starfury pilots, sat in the recovery room. A semi-circle of padded chairs had been arranged around a holographic projector.
None were happy that, during the past thirty-nine years, Earth and all her known colonies had been ravaged by the Truhl-ghats. But the remnants of humanity, reunited with refugees of Project Reforger, had mounted a second surprise attack, a second Operation Ragnarok, just as the Truhl-ghat females once again emerged like thirty-eight year cicadas.
What all were happy about was the signed armistice forced upon the Ghats through the wholesale loss of two generations. They and humanity were once again on equal footing.
The c-pod’s AI program had recorded the deep-space shuttle emerging six weeks after all personnel had entered cryogenic hibernation. It also recorded the waiting AS missile acquiring the target and eliminating it.
Over the intervening years, Starfury Three’s drawn and weakened signals slowly escaped the black hole’s grip. Bronco Bob held Sheryl’s hand as they watched the restored archival view into Race’s cockpit.
“Answer a friend’s puzzle?” Sheryl whispered to Bob, repeating her great uncle’s words. “He means you, right?”
“Yeah,” Bob whispered back, listening to his flight leader’s final moments, bantering with his Starfury’s AI program. “He’d bet I couldn’t guess his call name’s origin.” Bob wiped a tear from his eye before it could fully form. “Race.”
Later that evening, Bronco Bob would find a note left on his email account, suggesting he search the key words ‘Jonny Quest’ to answer his puzzle.
But in the recovery room, none in the semi-circle could see the screen playing the cartoon. Yet all listened to the odd 20th century music and saw Mac’s grin beneath his visor. Each involuntarily gripping the arms of his or her chair as the cockpit view distorted, then froze upon reaching the event horizon—as Major Harold “Mac” Parson stretched into that stationary second, drawn into eternity.
“Seconds of Eternity” first appeared in Loco-Thology: Tales of Fantasy & Science Fiction, released by Loconeal Publishing (www.loconeal.com) in July 2011.
