Alien Death Fleet [Star Frontiers 1] Page 3

  “Get it,” he snapped. Norlin heard the deeper authoritative male tone in the computer now. He was in no mood to argue with a hunk of quantum-etched superconducting ceramic multi-dimensional nanopro-cessor.

  “Clearance for maximum blast obtained. Prepare for full acceleration in ten seconds.”

  Norlin blinked. The authorization had come back fast. That meant the first macroburst had been decrypted quickly. That anyone at the base had the sense to appreciate the gravity of the information startled him. Several new genetically enhanced officers had shipped in—personal favorites of Emperor Arian, it was rumored. All Norlin knew was that the genhanced line officers paid little attention to duty, preferring their own esoteric pursuits. Perhaps somehow, those esoteric pursuits had intersected with actual duty.

  He settled into his couch just as the lateral steering jets fired. The small picket ship realigned then blasted out at full speed. The monatomic hydrogen-lox engines got the ship moving and then shut down. Then the electric ion engines applied a steady thrust that rapidly drained the fuel cell batteries. This far from the primary, Norlin could not use solar panels to replenish.

  The cost and wear on the ship were not his concern. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of what he had seen. He rapid-scanned through the cerampix taken by the pilot. The dizzying array of sights and ships and destruction chewed at him.

  Empire Service had found three other alien races. Two had disputed the emperor's right to colonize their worlds. Both had been interdicted and effectively confined to their own systems. It had been from these two campaigns that the emperor's strategists had decided that destroying a civilized world was im-possible by fleet bombardment. The Empire Service fleet had sustained massive casualties in seven attempts on the two worlds. Even asteroid diversion had proven ineffective.

  Spacefaring races operating near their home worlds had advantages a foreign invader did not. Three ES-sent world-wrecking planetesimals had been blown apart while expeditions to launch seven more had been destroyed. And look as the Empire Service might, neither of the systems had significant oort clouds for the deflection of a comet into the worlds. Sending a snowball comet or iceteroid into an inhabited world would surely destroy it unless the target planet used efficient, effective lasers to melt the smaller, deadly incoming particles across a wide region of space.

  Norlin shuddered as he thought of the third alien race discovered. The Sien had not been able to carry the war to Earth. Neither had the Empire Service been able to penetrate into the small star cluster already settled by the prolific Sien. An uneasy truce had been drawn after fourteen years of sporadic, fitful fighting. Earth observed the treaty more out of fear than honesty. The aliens had their own reasons for not venturing into further contact with the emperor's colonies.

  A fourth alien race—a superior one—presented Emperor Arian with immense problems. Norlin had heard of the growing rebel bands on other worlds. He had personally seen the growing discontent of both Sutton and Lyman with the genhanced imperial line. Mutiny was becoming more common on Empire Service ships and executions for increasingly trivial offenses the norm.

  Even a sublieutenant like Norlin saw that Earth had internal difficulties with its colonies that needed immediate attention that was not being delivered. An overwhelmingly superior alien race bent on conquest could be the element needed to break the colonies away from Earth—and possibly destroy both Earth and the far-flung colony worlds. As frightening as it was, Norlin thought that Sutton might ally itself eventually with an alien culture rather than remain a colony of the Empire.

  “Where's the picture of the aliens? All I see are their robots.” He grunted as he moved to give the computer more instructions. Even a half-g acceleration wore him down after a few days of freefall in space. He had neglected to do his exercises—all pilots scorned them and paid the price later when they landed.

  “Scanning,” the computer reported in response to his keyed orders. A few seconds later, the computer reported, “There are no photos of aliens. All moving indications are of robotic machines controlled by a master computer or a shielded intelligence. The robotics, however, are of unknown design and motive power, indicating they are of alien design.”

  “That's just photonic,” he grumbled sarcastically. “We don't know what they look like, but we do know what their destruction is.” He punched in a new string of commands. The computer responded immediately.

  “Time of interception eight hours, three minutes. Recommendation: three-quarter oxygen intake to insure safe return to base.”

  “So ordered,” he said. Always suspicious of automated life support equipment, Norlin checked to be sure the computer had adjusted the levels properly. He felt a little lightheaded, but he was trained to operate at even lower oxygen levels. What held his attention came from a sensor panel, not life support.

  “What's giving the indication? We're still too far from the scoutship for visual.” He tapped in a quick command in an attempt to isolate the briefest of flickers on his readouts.

  “Vidscreen image enhanced to max,” the computer reported.

  “I don't see any—” Norlin bit back his denial. He didn't see anything—but something moved through space an AU away. Space black, it moved without showing jets or ion trail. The only way he knew it was there was by the occultation of a star pattern he knew well.

  “Estimate size of object,” he ordered.

  “There is no object within sensor range,” responded the computer.

  Norlin's heart skipped a beat. At this distance with sensitive research-caliber sensors, the ship could track a rocky nugget the size of his skull. But the computer had not detected anything where he had seen the stars wink out.

  There was only one explanation. The aliens had arrived in the system—his star system.

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  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Norlin worked to keep the scoutship centered in the vidscreen. His external visuals were limited; most sensors relayed information in the infrared or the far ultraviolet. Other research ships carried astronomical gear in the visible spectrum.

  “How far?” he asked the computer.

  “Another day's travel. The scoutship is at the limit of vidscreen range.”

  Norlin snorted. The computer didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. He worked on the image and magnified it to the limits of the equipment. The graininess increased to the point of turning the smooth contours of the scoutship into bumps. Infrared was not optimal for the information he desired most, but he had to work with what the ship had been outfitted with.

  He backed off and studied the hull. From this distance, he saw no trace of damage, as would have been evidenced by hot spots.

  “What about the alien vessel? Report status of detection.”

  “Lasercom report to base is being maintained.”

  “What's the lag time?” Norlin patrolled the outer fringe of the system now. The time delay had risen to eight hours while he had been accelerating; the delay time to reach base and get a response amounted to sixteen hours. His sense of isolation and danger mounted with every passing instant. The sight of the minuscule scoutship, apparently undamaged but turned into a spacefaring coffin, bothered him greatly, as much for the apparent death aboard as the information the pilot had taken with him.

  His attention turned to another sensor. The black ship sliding all but tracelessly into the Lyman IV system gave him a sense of foreboding, because he knew it had been there, even if his ship's sensors had failed to locate it. Norlin was not inclined to hallucinations and didn't doubt for a microsecond that the ship had been from the alien Death Fleet in the scout's report.

  “They're coming. Did they follow him? Or have they done their own scouting work?”

  He kept his far-flung sensory bubble of feeble radiation at its limit. He jerked when a chime sounded, alerting him to another contact.

  “Full detail. Turn everything we've got on the alien ship
,” he ordered.

  “This is pointless and counter to instructions,” complained the computer. “Many experiments will be ruined if all sensors are used.”

  “Do it.” Norlin's finger hovered by the override button in case the computer balked. It didn't. He heard gears grinding as mechanical mounts shifted to sight on the alien ship.

  He had no idea what types of radiation the other ship might emit. IR? UV? His densitometers and gra-vitometers had been designed for use on molecules subtly interacting with dark matter, not spaceships. He pushed them all to the limits of their design. Let the scientists complain later. A grim smile came to his lips. This might cost Neela her degree, but he would make it up to her. If this ship—or ships—was the vanguard of the Death Fleet, continuing experiments would be pointless. Survival would be the only important pursuit.

  He hesitated, almost reran the pix of Penum's rape. Only iron will prevented it. The images played over and over too clearly inside his skull—possibly etched there forever.

  “The ship is smaller than a cruiser,” came the computer's analysis. “There are no outward indications of armament. A few robotic appendages for unknown operations dot the hull. Other than these, there is nothing hostile about the craft.”

  “What radiation emission?”

  “Negligible. Interior shielding for transuranic pile is excellent. Power leakage is minimal.”

  “Don't you find that suspicious?”

  “It is efficient.”

  Norlin cursed. The computer struck to the heart of the matter. Except for its surreptitious entry into the system, the ship had committed no hostile act. It was only his imagination and the evidence from the scoutship that condemned the vessel as an aggressor.

  He almost tried to lasercom the stealthy ship. It might be from another race, a fifth intelligent spacefaring alien culture, fearful of meeting humanity straight on. From the alien viewpoint, this might be business as usual. Norlin's fingers danced over the computer console. The odds against finding two new alien races in such a short time were astronomical—this ship belonged to the same fleet that had devastated Penum.

  Nothing else made sense.

  He magnified the alien ship's outline as much as possible to see the external grapplers mentioned by the computer. At this range, he failed to find them other than by faint heat signatures. Norlin leaned back and worried his lower lip as he thought. This wasn't a warship. What was its purpose? Grapplers for mani-pulation of cargo? That served no purpose. What might the ship find that needed repair that the crew need not handle?

  “Scan and find,” he ordered. “Item: scoutship report. Initial entry into Penum system of unknown spacecraft.”

  He watched with increasing anxiety as the pilot's report began to match with what he was observing. He returned to scanning the alien vessel. No, it wasn't a peaceful scout from a race wary of contact with humanity. This ship had crept into the Lyman system and sought out the cometary detectors as it had in the Penum system. The small craft sneaked up and used those robotic appendages to reprogram the detectors to ignore the Death Fleet when it entered their range. They had done this before, according to the dead pilot of the scoutship. They were doing it again. Now.

  The aliens took no chances. Their assault came without warning because of careful preparation.

  Norlin entered his observations and sent them on the lasercom to base. Let the emperor's genhanced tacticians work on the data.

  If the aliens risked exposure slinking in to reprogram the detectors that meant they could be defeated in all-out battle. They minimized their danger of finding a world ready to defend itself. Norlin shuddered. They had reduced genocide to an efficient program of entry, alteration of sensors, full-scale invasion and destruction and complete looting.

  He finished his report and dropped off in an uneasy sleep, trying to keep both the alien craft and the scoutship on the split-view vidscreen. When he awakened, his neck muscles had knotted and his shoulders throbbed.

  The scoutship hung only a few thousand kilometers away. The computer had approached, decelerated and matched relative velocities in far less time than expec-ted.

  “Full scan,” he ordered.

  “Performed,” came the computer's answer. “Do you wish to enter? It is dangerous and not recommended.”

  “I'll do it anyway. We need all the data we can on the aliens.”

  “Base has confirmed your speculation on the alien's operating plan. You are to return directly to base with minimum delay.”

  “How long?” Norlin asked. He slipped into the transfer skin hanging by the airlock. The thin nanocloth clung to him with electric tenacity. He smoothed the wrinkles, slung the backpack containing the oxy-helium breathing mixture and slipped the airhose into its connector before dropping the helmet onto his shoulders. The momentary tingle that assured him an airtight seal had formed faded. Around his waist he fastened a toolbelt.

  “With maximum acceleration,” the computer answered, “eight days.”

  “Eight? But—”

  “You will sustain an acceleration of two-point-three gravities.”

  “Fuel?”

  “Sufficient,” said the computer. “Hurry in your current mission. We must launch in forty-seven minutes.”

  “Don't leave without me,” Norlin said almost flippantly.

  He experienced a curious euphoria as he cycled through the airlock, sighted on the distant scoutship and triggered his backpack's chemical jet. With constant thrust, he reached the ship in less than ten minutes. All the while, he thought about the alien advance craft and how it must be locating and modifying the deep-space detectors.

  He touched down easily on the scoutship's hull and shuffled toward the airlock. He frowned when he saw fabric in the locking mechanism. That told a grim tale of death he did not want to consider at the moment.

  He cycled open the hatch. No familiar gush of air met him—the lock had been vacated and never refilled. He pulled the cloth free and saw by the name patch that it belonged to an Empire Service maintenance tech named Benks. He tucked it into a pouch once he got inside the airlock. He had more worries than how this had fouled the locking mechanism.

  Inside the cramped ship, he checked the atmo-sphere. The carbon dioxide levels were dangerously high, and the oxygen too low to sustain life. The pilot lay sprawled across the control console, a notebook clutched in his hand.

  Norlin quickly examined the small cockpit and tucked the cerampix and the computer memory blocks into his pack. As he worked, an automatic camera recorded everything in detail.

  “Poor bastard,” he muttered when he finally examined the pilot. On impulse, he turned off his recorders before prying the notebook free from the man's death grip.

  Norlin read silently of how there had been four, then two, who shifted for Lyman IV. The pilot had been afraid of his passenger, especially after the man had cold-bloodedly murdered two coworkers. Norlin's heart went out to the pilot, who had known his own life hung suspended on a slender cord.

  The last page in the notebook detailed how the pilot had murdered the maintenance man Benks and shoved him through the airlock in shift space.

  He straightened, sticking the notebook into his belt. He turned on his recorders again and established a comlink with his own ship.

  “Time, please,” he requested.

  “Launch window opens in fourteen minutes. It will remain open for seven. The gravity augmentation from planet V will no longer be available after this, adding a full day to travel and placing fuel use at an unacceptably high level.”

  “I'm returning. Prepare for launch but do not initiate the final sequence without my direct command.”

  “Understood.”

  Norlin wondered if there was anything more he could do for the pilot. The man lay across his console, killed in the commission of his duty. Norlin couldn't think of a more fitting memorial. He saluted and cycled back through the airlock. For a moment, he paused, then bled out the gas inside the ship. The pilot wo
uld remain in this crypt for eternity, never decaying, always at his post.

  As a final gesture, Norlin took the notebook from his belt and flung it away from the ship as hard as he could. He doubted the ship's puny gravitational attraction would pull it back—or that anyone would ever find this silent tomb again for it to matter if it did.

  But to Pier Norlin it did matter. Let his report of the pilot being a hero go unchallenged. The admission of murder never need be mentioned.

  He jetted back to his ship and prepared for a week of double-gravity hell.

  * * * *

  “I don't understand,” Norlin said. “Please repeat.”

  He frowned as he scanned the orbital docking station above Lyman IV. His was the only ship locked into the spiral. The emptiness of a once-busy station coupled with the odd orders worried him.

  He checked under his seat for his Empire Service-issue pistol. The magazine popped out easily, and he saw the neat lines of ETPE-propelled caseless rockets inside. He rammed the magazine back into the pistol butt and thrust the weapon into his belt. This was far from regs, but he had no time to find the holster and strap it on.

  “Leave your ship and report immediately to Captain Emuna.” The blaring command from his console speaker made him jump.

  “I want to report directly to Commander Clarkson.”

  “Sublieutenant Norlin, do as you are ordered.”

  “I don't know Captain Emuna. What division is he assigned to?” He almost repeated his question because of the time it took to receive his answer.

  “He was deputy supply officer.”

  Norlin shook his head. A supply officer? Emuna didn't even rank in the table of organization. He was little more than a nuts and bolts counter, a bureaucrat and not a line officer.

  Norlin powered down the ship, leaving it on standby. As tiny as it was, he thought of it as his own—his first command. Deep down, he knew that he might never see it again.

  “Goodbye,” he said softly. Then he checked the pistol stuck in his belt, made sure a rocket had been properly chambered and the safety thrown. He left without a backward glance and wiggled into the spiral.