Annihilation (Star Force Series) (41 page)

“We have theories, but no data. It’s complex—I’ll explain when you arrive at Welter Station. I can assume you’re coming, yes?”

I realized at that moment that the ship was accelerating under me. It wasn’t the full-press roar that one felt on a destroyer or a cruiser, but we were definitely underway. The big carrier
Gatre
was somewhat underpowered, but there was at least an extra G weighing me down, despite the inertial dampeners.

“Looks like Captain Sarin has made that decision for me,” I said. “We’re underway, and leaving the Blue’s homeworld behind. We’ll be out there in about twenty hours.”

“Make that thirty hours,” Miklos said. “As you must recall, you removed several engines from the design, sir.”

I could tell by his voice he was still hurting about that. I rolled my eyes.

“Right,” I said. “We’re taking the scenic route. Keep an eye on the Macros, and give me a count every hour.”

“I could advance into the system, Colonel. The Crustacean homeworlds are undefended.”

I considered pointing out that the Crustaceans were technically allied with the machines, not us, but I didn’t bother. In some ways, Miklos was right. We had a responsibility to the Crustaceans. They’d helped me militarily when I called upon them to do so. They might well have permanently broken their alliance with the Macros by firing on them. Sometimes, it was hard to know for sure how the machines had judged an event. I’m sure the Crustaceans were trying to deal with them, but that didn’t always go as planned.

“A good idea,” I said, “but I don’t think they’re after the Crustaceans. They’re probably coming here, as the Blues have been calling for them. If I had to bet, I’d say they were planning to take another shot at your battle station.”

“Let’s hope the third time is not the charm in this instance, sir.”

“It won’t be. We’ll gather our entire fleet into a single fist this time. I don’t want to split up my ships in the face of the enemy again. Wait for me. An hour after I reach Welter Station we’ll set sail for Thor-6 if we think we can take their fleet without the station backing us up.”

“Very good, sir.”

We signed off and I lay back down. Strangely, I found it easier to go to sleep this time around. Instead of worrying about Sandra or any other females, I had a war to fight. Battles were things I felt comfortable with. They were problems that could be solved.

-35-

I managed to get a good, long night’s sleep. Knowing I had thirty hours before the carrier task force reached Welter Station helped me to rest. If bad news came in now, I wouldn’t be able to do much about it. Every veteran knows that in wartime they should sleep whenever they can. I wished I could store up sleep now for the long slog I knew was ahead of me. Unfortunately, I hadn’t figured out a way to do that yet.

 About ten hours out from Welter Station we began decelerating at a stately, deliberate pace—the only pace
Gatre
was capable of. I was awake by this time and well-fed. I’d even begun a workout in the ship’s cavernous gym. It was really an extra hold we were using right now, but with some well-designed ergonomic equipment I was able to feel some strain on my muscles.

A few of the cadet fly-boys were watching me with interest. Under two Gs of centrifugal gravity, I could curl about two tons of weight and bench-press more than three. I guess this impressed them. When I got up from the bench and mopped my brow with a towel, two of them applauded. One of these two ventured forward to talk to me.

“I bet you don’t remember me, do you sir?” she asked.

It was a common enough greeting from Star Force personnel. Usually, they were right. But in her case, I
did
remember her. Not her face, but her name.

“Fleet Commander Becker? I’m surprised you’re here.”

She smiled, pleased that I remembered who she was. The first thing I noticed about her was her reddish-blonde hair, which was cut short into what I would call a modified page-boy look. Her body was lanky. She seemed to be all arms and legs, but with the sharply-defined muscle tone that tended to identify everyone in Riggs’ Pigs. Judging by her attractive but lined face and piercing eyes, I guessed her to be in her mid-thirties.

“Aren’t you supposed to be out scouting around in the Helios system?” I asked. “As I recall you took part in the effort to run down General Kerr in his battleship.”

“Freshly transferred, sir,” she said.

“By who?”

“Captain Sarin and Commodore Miklos. I tested out weeks ago on the new fighters, and I received a top rating. They ordered me to switch from the scouts into the fighter wings.”

“I thought we’d replaced all our lost fighters from the Thor action.”

Commander Becker shifted uncomfortably. The lines in her face became deeper. She put her long thumbs into the pockets of her flight suit. I could tell she didn’t quite know what to say.

“We built new
birds
, sir,” she said at last after an awkward pause. “But not new pilots.”

“Oh, of course,” I said. I wanted to kick myself. Of all people, I should know that we could stamp out a new flying machine every hour, but pilots took twenty years or more to grow up and train. They were not so easily replaced.

“Well,” I continued, “I hope you’re commanding a wing of them!”

“Just a squadron, Colonel.”

I lifted a finger and pointed it at her, squinting. I remembered where I’d worked with her in the past.

“You were at the first battle at Welter Station, weren’t you?” I asked. “Back before we even called it Welter Station.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I was scouting both sides of the Thor ring back then.”

“You did a damned good job in the face of an advancing horde of enemy ships. I’m honestly surprised you survived that mess.”

“Everyone who got out of that alive was surprised. My scout partner wasn’t so lucky, however. He was taken out by the Macros before they invaded the station.”

I nodded, vaguely recalling the reports. “I’m glad to see you in this new position. A fighter jock’s got to be a survivor.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and turned to go.

I frowned, then said: “Hey, would you mind showing me around your fighter? I haven’t had a chance to check out the new model.”

She brightened immediately, and I could tell she’d forgotten about my slip-up concerning why new pilots were needed. I was still kicking myself about that one.

I followed Becker to the hangar. I knew that if there was one thing all fighter jocks like to do, it was show off their bird. I looked over the sleek craft with interest.

The fighters had never been very big, and this new model wasn’t any exception. If anything, they’d managed to make it more compact. It was built like a plane, but with very short, stubby wings. The wings could extend or retract to provide more lift if needed when gliding down into an atmosphere. The tiny ship reminded me of the old, extinct NASA shuttlecraft, but on a smaller scale.

The wings weren’t the only part of the ship that could be reconfigured. The canopy was designed to coat itself with metal and turn opaque, or it could be left transparent like traditional aircraft.

I knelt beside the ship and put my hand on the wing. The nanites inside shivered slightly at my touch. Looking at the undercarriage, I saw the ship didn’t have wheels, but used skids instead. With grav-lifters for basic propulsion, I guessed the fighter would tend to land perfectly if you could get your airspeed down far enough.

I ran my hand over the wings, and the nanites again buckled at my touch.

“Jumpy, aren’t they?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “This is a brand new bird. They tell me the constructives will settle down and stop squirming soon. They still think they’re in programming mode, or something.”

I chuckled and stuck my head into the cockpit. There was only a single seat inside, but it was roomy enough. In space, a pilot had to carry more gear than aircraft usually did. You never knew where you might end up when you were flying around an uncharted star system.

“Big backseat,” I said. “What do you usually put back here?”

“A bladder full of nanites, or small explosives, maybe. Sometimes, it’s just for ferrying food or even a passenger.”

I nodded, and realized I was looking at another of Miklos’ elaborate designs. He had a different set of tendencies than I did. He liked to build craft that were capable of multiple mission types. I tended to build craft that were specifically shaped for a single purpose. His ships definitely provided more utility, while mine were slightly more deadly.

“I guess that can come in handy,” I said.

“Do you want to take a ride?”

I looked at her, startled. I realized she must have thought I was hinting around, hoping she’d offer. In truth, I’d been thinking about Miklos and his overly-robust designs. I didn’t feel like telling Commander Becker that, so I smiled instead.

“Uh, yeah. I guess so. We can circle the carrier a few times.”

She reached out, slapped the canopy, and it yawned open. She climbed in and ordered the ship to build a second seat. Less than a minute later, we were requesting permission from control to launch.

Captain Sarin gave us the okay personally. I winced when I heard her voice. She knew I was taking a joyride. What was she thinking now? That I was out playing around or maybe even hitting on Commander Becker?

Once we fired out of the launching tubes, however, such idle worries melted away. The fighter was much too exhilarating to allow me to think about anything else. I whooped when we hit mach I, and we hadn’t even come out of the tube yet.

Friction and heat roiled around the craft, making it vibrate. The roar was deafening. The launch tube was really a railgun system. If I’d ever wondered what it would be like to be fired out of a cannon, I was in suspense no longer.

The launching bay was designed to get the fighters up to as great a speed as possible before releasing them into space. Accordingly, the tubes ran the length of the mothership, from stern to bow. We fired out of
Gatre’s
nose as if we’d been spat into space.

“You can take the helm, sir,” Becker’s voice shouted in my helmet. “Careful though, the controls are—”

There was a sickening lurch and I was thrown against the left wall of the craft. We flipped over and went into a two-axis tumble. Becker was barely able to speak, and I wasn’t doing much better.

“Sorry,” I grunted through gritted teeth. Outside the canopy, the big carrier, the sun, and about a million stars flashed in a repeating loop. The speed by which they did so was sickening.

“I swear, I barely touched the controls!”

“Let go,” she hissed out.

I did as she asked, taking my hands off the stick. The craft automatically righted itself after a few seconds.

I laughed. “That was great,” I said.

Becker craned her head around, but couldn’t quite look at me. “Are you serious?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “There’s nothing to run into out here.”

“No sir…but a spin like that would cause many pilots to lose consciousness. You’re not even a little sick?”

“Nah,” I said. I decided not to tell her I was cheating. Marvin had engineered plenty of fixes into the body of good old Kyle Riggs. My many physical edits had originally been planted there to allow me to survive extreme environments, but they also did well in keeping my brain functioning during a teeth-rattling brush with centrifugal force.

Becker shook her head. “You should be a pilot sir. You’d be a natural once you got the hang of it. In fact, you’re flying it again now, aren’t you? Very smooth. Almost feels like auto pilot.”

I nudged the controls very gently. I thought about doing some hard banking rolls, but I thought I should wait a few minutes and give the girl’s stomach a chance to settle down. Instead of violent turns, I did a long, even bank and pulled around to face
Gatre
again. Then, I figured I’d gently cruised around long enough; I put the hammer down.

The ship responded like the very best of sports cars—only infinitely better. Even I felt compressed into my nanite-formed seat as the Gs built up.

“
Gatre
is dead ahead, sir,” Becker reminded me.

“I’ve got it now, Commander. I want to see what an attack-run feels like.”

She stayed quiet, but I knew I had her worried. I didn’t mind. I worried a lot of people.

We buzzed
Gatre
at about thirty thousand miles an hour. At that speed, you really couldn’t see the target against the black of space. You had to rely on your instruments. I twitched the stick up, and then down again a tiny fraction of a second later. That was the only thing that kept us from smashing into the big ship and splattering ourselves like a big bug on
Gatre’s
windshield.

I could hear Becker’s breathing over the intercom. It was labored. But to her credit, she hadn’t taken the helm from me in a panic. I knew she could, as the ship’s pilot. But she’d held on and trusted me with her ship and both our lives.

A few minutes later, we parked the fighter on the flight deck and a half-dozen crewmen rushed out to service her. Apparently, an alarm had gone out.