The Final Battle

“Negative, Varanasi.”

“What do you mean ‘negative’, Starlight?” The controller sounded angry.

Michael smiled. The woman should sound angry. Ships did not make a habit of refusing to do as they were told. Her instructions had the force of law, and captains who ignored them always paid heavily.

“Regret we are unable to comply with your instructions, Varanasi,” Horda said. “Have malfunction on main engines, so cannot maneuver. Am transmitting revised flight plan to you for our transit to Commitment.”

“Be advised, Starlight. Commitment nearspace is closed.”

“I can’t help that. It’s the only place we can get to. If we try for anywhere else, we’re screwed.”

“We’ll pass on the flight plan, Starlight, but I repeat: Commitment nearspace is closed, and any unauthorized incursion risks the use of deadly force.”

“Not much choice, Varanasi. Adjusting vector for Commitment now. Wish us luck.”

“You’ll need it, Starlight. And I’m still citing you for breaches of Varanasi navigation regulations. Varanasi Nearspace Control, out.”

“Arrogant pricks,” Horda muttered. “Right, then,” he went on. “We’ll jump as soon as we’re on vector for Commitment. We’ll be there in nineteen hours. Make the most of them. We need to get this right.”

“I know,” Michael replied, grim-faced. He did not need any reminders. “I’ll be down in the cargo bay if you want me.”

• • •

“Good luck, Michael,” Horda said. “Even after what you’ve done to me, it’s been good knowing you. I hope we can meet again someday.”

“You and me both,” Michael replied with some feeling. “You’ve got the holovid recordings? Believe me, if those Hammer sons of bitches even think something’s not right, they’ll make you pay.”

“Don’t worry,” Horda said. He patted a pocket in his shipsuit. “They’re safe and sound.”

“I’m sorry about Kalkuz.”

“Hah!” Horda snorted. “Don’t be. That bastard would have screwed us; no doubt about it.”

“I think he would have, but I’m still sorry the way it turned out.”

“He had other choices. Anyway, you should go. If I’m to drop you where I’m supposed to, then I need to pay attention.”

“See you.”

Michael made his way to his lifepod. He put his head through the hatch. “Room for one more?” he asked.

“Not really,” Akuna said.

“I’m coming in anyway,” Michael said. He found his seat and strapped in alongside Spassky, Akuna, and Mitchell. This is absolute fucking madness, he thought, looking at the bulky drop shells to which they were about to entrust their lives.

He put his head back to sit out the last few minutes before they dropped. He wanted to go now. He’d had enough of the waiting, of the uncertainty, of not knowing whether Anna was still alive. He glanced at the three marines, who were anonymous behind the closed faceplates of their skinsuits, and prayed that they would all make it through.

Then it was time.

“Stand by,” Horda said. “In three … dropping, now!”

In a blaze of ultraviolet radiation, the universe turned itself inside out, and Starlight emerged into normalspace. The Hammer response was immediate, a barrage of invective with a simple message: Jump back into pinchspace now or your ship will be blown to plasma. Michael ignored it. He was far more interested to know whether Horda had been able to do what he had promised.

Relief flooded Michael’s body. Horda had done it. They were close to the drop datum.

“Downloading updated position and vector data,” Horda said. “Stand by to launch pods … launching.”

At that point a great deal happened in a very short span of time.

With a series of whumps, explosive charges blasted four of Starlight’s lifepods clear of the ship, pushing them out at right angles to the ship’s track and away from the planet below, radiating preprogrammed bleats for help across all the international distress frequencies, their presence advertised by blazing double-pulsed orange strobes. There was a heart-stopping pause while Starlight’s ponderous bulk rolled into position, then more whumps to punch the two lifepods holding Michael and his marines into the ship’s wake, back the way she had come.

Seconds later, Shinoda’s array of jury-rigged chisels sliced effortlessly through hydraulic lines, venting fluid under enormous pressure. The cargo bay’s oxygen-enriched atmosphere filled with a volatile mist that hesitated for a moment, eddying and swirling. Then it detonated. The explosion blasted the cargo door away and drove the carefully assembled piles of scrap out into space. The roiling, tumbling cloud of radar-reflective confusion engulfed the fleeing lifepods. The chaos worsened as Hammer battlesat-mounted lasers seared the Starlight’s fabric into rolling clouds of ionized plasfiber and metal. Compartment after compartment was punctured, releasing yet more ice-loaded air and debris into space.

Deep inside the mayhem, the two lifepods trailed the Starlight as she drove on to her destruction. As one, engines burst into life and thin pillars of plasma erupted from their sterns to decelerate the pods to a safe speed for reentry.

Michael could do nothing except ride the lifepod out of orbit and down into Commitment’s gravity well. He focused his attention on the only number that mattered: the lifepod’s speed. If they hit Commitment’s upper atmosphere too fast, the stress of reentry would tear their drop shells apart. “Come on, come on,” he urged the pod even though the small part of his brain that stayed calm told him that he had nothing to worry about.

So intense was his focus that he missed the Hammer’s first attempts to communicate with the lifepods.

“Matrix Starlight lifepods, Commitment, over.”

When Horda finally deigned to answer, his response was a carefully crafted melange of bullshit, misinformation, and pathos, all underscored by a torrent of invective against the fucking bastards who had taken his beloved Starlight away from him because now the ship he loved was doomed to die. On and on he raved, the Hammer controller’s attempts to get a word in edgewise overwhelmed by the endless stream of words.

Horda was so good, Michael did not know whether to laugh or cry. He shut off the audio feed. Enjoyable though it was, what the Hammers had to say was not important. “Okay, guys,” he said. “We’re close, and provided the Hammers don’t shoot at us”-even the Hammers wouldn’t shoot down a lifepod, would they?  — “stand by to abandon ship. Final checks. Skinsuits, drop shells, inertial nav, survival packs.”

“All green, sir,” came the replies. The voices were thick with apprehension.

The clock ran off the seconds, and the time arrived. Michael armed the emergency jettison mechanism and blew the airlock doors off. Explosive decompression turned the air inside the pod to a thick white mist. His skinsuit stiffened around his body against the hard vacuum. He hoped that Shinoda and her team were okay.

Michael took a deep breath and threw off his safety harness; he forced himself into the airlock, his efforts to squeeze his skinsuited body through made more difficult by the drop shell strapped to his back. “See you on the other side, guys,” he said.

He pushed himself out into space and was greeted by the awful sight of the dying Starlight. She was finished, her hull slashed and lacerated by antiship lasers. As he watched, the first of the antiballistic missiles punched deep into her carcass; its warhead exploded, blasting a massive cloud of flame and debris outward. A second missile followed, then another, and another.

The end came fast. A missile lanced down to the Starlight’s core. An instant later, the ship shivered, then vanished, enveloped by a searing blue-white flash that consumed the entire hull and sent a sphere of incandescent gas into the void.

And when the gas had gone, so too had the Starlight.

Clear of the lifepod, Michael tumbled through the vacuum of space. Now all that mattered was survival. Shinoda and her marines either made it or they didn’t, and there was not a damn thing he could do to change things.

Thanks to the hours spent in the sims, it was all very straightforward as long as he did not think too long or