The black destroyer, p.1
The Black Destroyer, page 1
THE BLACK DESTROYER
The Green Zone War – Book 6
By Jake Elwood
Copyright 2023 by Jake Elwood.
This is a work of fiction. A novel. Totally made up. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, interstellar conflicts or seventh-dimensional rifts is entirely coincidental.
Boarding Party is a short story set during Tom's training. Grab a free copy, plus some more free books, by visiting my website: http://jakeelwoodwriter.com/
Contents
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Author Notes
Chapter 1
The Salamander drifted through the Octagon Rift, seething fingers of storm energy stretching toward her on every side.
A column of emerald fire the size of an apartment building billowed out from the nearest wall of storm energy, blasting toward the little ship with the speed of a galloping horse. Tom Thrush sat in the padded captain’s chair, carefully not speaking as the woman at the helm nudged the ship gently back. The Salamander could ignore pretty much any storm in hyperspace, but Ella Van Camp had served for a decade on an armed freighter. For her, avoiding storm energy was as automatic as breathing.
The column had almost reached the ship when it started to dissipate. It spread like a mushroom cap, expanding until it was a kilometer across by the time it engulfed the ship. Static flickered on the bridge screens, just for a moment, as the windows filled with green light. The glow faded, and before long the ship was once again in open space.
The evasion was unnecessary, but it was adroitly handled, with none of the jerkiness of Van Camp’s earliest days at the helm. Tom said, “Nicely done. You’ve really got the hang of it.” It felt odd to praise someone who’d first taken the helm of a ship at around the time Tom started kindergarten, but he was determined to be positive and encouraging.
Van Camp seemed to share his perspective, because she didn’t respond. Like most of the crew, she followed orders, but gave no sign that he’d actually earned her respect.
A lean gray-haired man standing along the starboard bulkhead gave Tom an unreadable look. Lars Helfgard was his first officer. Helfgard had been captain of a succession of small freighters since before even Van Camp was born. He wasn’t openly insubordinate, but he managed to convey that Tom didn’t impress him much.
Tom shrugged inwardly. He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t demand respect from Free Planets crews. In time they would fully accept him—or not. Maybe once we finally see combat.
The ship had been in combat in the early days of the war, when she’d been part of a United Worlds fleet. She’d been crippled and towed to the nearest friendly port, then turned over to the Free Neorome Navy.
The crew had seen combat as well, on five separate armed freighters. Every spacer on the Salamander but one was a veteran. Tom himself had seen far more combat than he ever would have wanted. But he, this crew, and this ship had never fought together. They’d spent three weeks training and patrolling, and it was going well, but until they faced the enemy, no one would know for sure if their crewmates or their captain or their ship could truly be relied upon.
The bridge door hissed as it slid open behind Tom, and he glanced at the reflection in his tac screen. The sight of a nervous teenage boy hesitating on the threshold made Tom smile in sympathetic amusement. He smoothed his features before turning. “Mr. Westbrook.”
Westbrook stiffened. He was all of seventeen, filled with a mix of enthusiasm and terror that was as endearing as it was amusing. His green uniform was tailored, but he somehow had the look of a child playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes. He was Van Camp’s nephew, and he was the sole novice on the crew. The Salamander was his first ship. Their first fight would be his first taste of combat.
Tom said, “Take the helm, if you please.”
Van Camp blanked her screens and moved to the next station. Westbrook hurried over, sat, activated his screens, then froze with his fingers just above the glass.
“Let’s start with something simple,” Tom said. “Describe our position.”
“Uhhh ….” The boy took a deep breath, swallowed, then spent a moment tapping and swiping. He looked around at the windows, as if verifying what the instruments told him, and said, “We’re in the Octagon Rift, close to the south end?”
The Octagon Rift was a more-or-less-stable ribbon of storm that stretched along thousands of kilometers of space near a cluster of Green Zone colony worlds. The seventh dimension compressed spacetime to such a degree that the Rift would extend for light-years in normal space. The far end of the Rift jutted toward the heart of the Dawn Alliance.
Small craft could use the currents within the Rift for a speed burst. Larger ships could use it for cover, plunging into the storm to hide from enemy vessels. In a few months the Rift would either drift into the depths of empty space and become irrelevant, or dissipate and fade. In the meantime, it was an obvious funnel for ship traffic to and from the Dawn Alliance. The Salamander’s assignment was to patrol the Rift and watch for enemy activity.
Westbrook was hunched over his screen, head curled forward, peering at menus and columns and numbers. Tom said, “Never mind the coordinates. In the Rift, close to the south end, is exactly what I need for practical purposes.”
The boy straightened up, looking relieved.
“I think there could be a ship approaching,” said Tom. Westbrook glanced at him, alarmed, and Tom smiled to let him know this was just an exercise. “Take us into cover.”
Westbrook took a deep breath and held it. Aside from that one tell, his reactions were exemplary. His fingers moved deftly across the screen, and the ship glided sideways until the windows showed nothing but a haze of shimmering green. The ship came to a stop, and Westbrook exhaled.
“Excellent.” Tom meant it, too. Westbrook was actually better than his aunt, who had long years of experience on little freighters to unlearn. The Salamander was the only ship Westbrook had ever helmed, and he was very good at it.
The boy’s back straightened just a bit, and Tom smiled. “Take us north. See if you can follow the Rift without breaking cover.” ‘North’ was, by common convention, the far end of the Rift where it stretched toward enemy space.
Westbrook nodded, losing some of his nervousness as the task absorbed him. Tom settled back and watched the windows, judging their depth by the brightness of the storm energy. The windows lightened somewhat as the storm thinned, darkened as the ship moved deeper, but Westbrook did a decent job of keeping them in the fringes.
“Bring us out of this mess so we can take a look around.”
A UW-trained crewman would have acknowledged the order as a matter of course. Westbrook simply leaned closer to his screen, frowning in concentration. The ship turned, cloud sweeping past the bridge windows. In a moment they broke out into the heart of the Rift, where a river of clear space ran between vast walls of storm.
“Bogey,” said a voice.
Tom checked his own screen, saw no contacts, and swept his gaze around the bridge. Carina McBride at the tactical station glanced at him. “I caught a glimpse of something. It’s gone now.” She pointed ahead and down, giving Tom a quick intuitive sense of where she’d seen the contact, then rattled off a bearing. “It was just a blip,” she added. “Could be anything. Could be nothing.”
Van Camp and Westbrook moved simultaneously, drawing their feet in, ready to switch seats. The boy, Tom decided, needed some practice functioning under stress. He said, “Mr. Westbrook. See that wedge of lemon pie almost straight ahead?”
The Rift curved to starboard, with a triangle of lemon-yellow storm energy jutting in from the starboard wall to block their path. The clouds faded to near-white around the edges, creating an impression almost like merengue. The blip, if it was real, would be somewhere on the far side.
“Take us through.”
Westbrook nodded, and the ship surged forward. He was more fearless than most helmsmen when it came to storm energy. The ship plunged into the wedge of storm energy, the windows turning yellow, then deepening toward orange. A moment later the light faded, then vanished.
“Definite contact!” McBride exclaimed.
This time, Tom spotted the ship on his own screen. It was a good hundred kilometers ahead, and as he watched, it vanished around another curve in the Rift. He brought up a summary on his secondary screen.
“Maybe half again our mass,” he said, speaking for the benefit of the bridge crew. “Low power output. Only one engine.” He paused, running through a catalog of ships in his mind. If it was a warship, the Salamander would do best to duck back into the storm. No military craft would have such puny engines, though. “It’s not a warship. That makes it a viable target. Mr. Westbrook!”
Westbrook half rose from his seat, clearly expecting to be replaced.
“Pursuit course.”
The boy settled back in his seat, shoulders tight with tension. “Pursuit. Right.” He tapped his screen and the Salamander surged forward.
“We should let this one go. I don’t like the size of her.”
Tom looked sharply at Helfgard, who gazed blandly back. No captain wanted to be undermined in front of his crew, but now was not the time for that particular battle. “Report to B2, Mr. Helfgard.”
Helfgard marched out without another word. His post during combat was the secondary bridge, from which he could take command if the bridge took a hit. Tom watched him go, wishing he didn’t feel so relieved to be free of the man’s silent, vaguely scornful gaze.
The Rift twisted and turned like a crumpled ribbon, but the convolutions were on such a vast scale that the ship was able to travel a fair distance in a straight line. Westbrook lifted his fingers from the screen, and Tom drew a microphone from under his console. He checked that he was addressing the entire ship, and cleared his throat.
“All hands. This is the captain. We might be going into action. Everybody suit up.”
Muffled sounds came from the far side of the bridge hatch as spacers hurried to suit lockers. Bridge crew glanced at one another. Van Camp rose and headed for the lockers along the forward bulkhead. A couple of others joined her.
Tom hesitated, then decided this was as good a time as any to grab his own suit. The crew weren’t as strict as they could be about suiting up before action, and he was determined to set a good example. He far preferred the fitted suit in his quarters, but he went to the line of lockers, grabbed a medium suit, and pulled it on over his uniform. He tossed the gloves into the helmet and returned to his seat.
The Salamander reached a bend in the Rift, turning to skirt a bulging green lump of storm energy that made Tom think of broccoli.
“Keep us in the edge of that blue mess.” Tom gestured to starboard, where the wall of the Rift shone a garish teal. Westbrook had his back to Tom and didn’t see the gesture, but he veered the ship to starboard.
The contact appeared on Tom’s tac screen, running ahead in open space. The storm energy surrounding the Salamander was enough to hamper their scans and reduce the other ship to an icon with very little additional data. With luck, the Salamander would be hidden from the bogey.
It seemed to be working. The contact flew in a straight line as the Salamander closed the distance between them. The warship was taking a more convoluted route as it hugged the fringe of the storm, but its superior speed meant it was drawing ever closer.
Either they don’t know we’re here, or this is an ambush and they’re waiting for us to get close. Nothing about the bogey made him think the Salamander was in any danger, but he knew precious little, and even a freighter could land a lucky shot. Tom sealed the front of his suit and clipped the helmet to his console. He hated wearing gloves when he could avoid it, so he left the gloves in the helmet, making sure he knew which glove was on top.
“No transponder,” McBride noted.
Well, that might mean anything, Tom reflected. Broadcasting an ID in contested space was pretty much asking for trouble.
In theory, he could assume the ship was hostile. Allied and neutral shipping were supposed to inform the Free Neorome Navy of any visits to the Rift, but that didn’t mean much. The UW told their Neorome allies as little as possible, and the government-in-exile of Neorome, its armed forces less than two years old, lacked an effective bureaucracy. Messages got misrouted, ignored, or lost. Just because no one had told Tom about the ship ahead didn't mean it wasn’t friendly.
“There’s a bend coming up,” Tom said. The Rift curved sharply to port a few kilometers ahead. “As soon as they’re out of sight, cut the corner.” He paused, considering. “Suit up, first.”
Van Camp finished sealing her suit and reclaimed the helm station as Westbrook, looking simultaneously relieved and disappointed, headed for the suit lockers. Tom checked the seal on his own suit, glad to have something to occupy his fingers for at least a moment. After that, it was back to consciously fighting the urge to fidget.
The other ship faded from Tom’s screen as it turned. Van Camp waited another few seconds, then turned the Salamander sharply to port. They raced through the open space between storm fronts, then plunged into lavender storm clouds. The windows darkened almost to black, then brightened quickly. A beep told Tom the mystery ship was back on his screen.
“Keep going,” he said. “Take us straight at them. I want to know who this is.”
Cutting the corner had closed the distance by quite a lot. The other ship was just two or three kilometers distant when the Salamander came out of the storm. The smaller craft must have finally detected them, because it reacted instantly, turning to race for the far wall of the Rift.
“Turn on the porch light,” Tom said, and a yellow icon appeared on his console, telling him the Salamander was now broadcasting her transponder. The bogey didn’t respond, didn’t slow down.
“It moves like the Common Loon.”
Tom glanced around, finally figuring out that the speaker was Shimon Epstein at the communications console.
“Passenger ship,” Epstein said. “Fancy job. Only a few cabins. Take you where you want to go in luxurious comfort. Run by a brother and sister team out of Heller’s Beach.”
Heller was on the border of what had been Dawn Alliance space before the war, and had hosted a small United Worlds outpost. Both factors might inspire DA sympathies in the colony. Tom shrugged to himself. The only way to know for sure what the Common Loon was up to was to board her and take a good look around.
The bogey plunged into a wall of indigo storm energy, the Salamander close behind. As the windows went dark, Tom considered his options. Civilian ships weren’t as agile as military craft, as a general rule. The bogey had turned pretty sharply, so she had an edge over the typical freighter or pirate ship. Still, the wall of the Rift was only so thick, and the little vessel was moving quickly. Would she be able to turn before she popped out the other side?
“Maintain this heading,” he said. “Take us right through.”
The gamble paid an immediate dividend. The windows brightened, and the Salamander burst out into open space, giving Tom a bug’s eye view of the Rift from the outside. A blue-purple wall, impossibly huge, stretched away to his left, then twisted in a tight zig-zag. The color brightened toward pink as the wall jutted to the right.
The bogey was a dark spot against the pink, fleeing in almost a straight line across a wedge of open space. In a minute or so it would plunge once again into the Rift.
“Put a shot in their engines if you can.”
A beep told him a laser had just fired. The other ship wobbled on his screen as it attempted small evasive movements.
“It’s the Loon all right,” said Epstein, squinting at a magnified image of the bogey on his screen. “I can see the company logo.”
He was the least busy person on the bridge, at least until the Common Loon decided to start talking. “Find out what you can about the ship,” Tom said. “Speed, mass, the works. And whether she’s armed.”
Bureaucratic constructs like ship registrations were pretty informal in the Green Zone, despite decades of effort by the UW to tighten things up. Tom doubted Epstein would find much, but you never knew. Tom turned to his own screen, estimating the time to intercept the fleeing vessel. It looked as if the Salamander would be only seconds behind them as they reached the wall.
The Loon changed course ever so slightly. It was hard to tell with the little ship twisting and darting to evade fire, but she curved to starboard and up a bit, aiming for a dark red knob jutting from the storm wall. Tom frowned, wondering what the other captain was trying to accomplish. It would add very little extra time to the transit, but still, the Loon was taking fire. Every second she spent in open space was a terrible risk. He couldn’t see how a small course change could put the Salamander in danger, but ….
He set his gloves in his lap, put his helmet on, and sealed the neck. It restricted his vision, and even with the faceplate up it muffled sounds and made them directionless. Still, if the Common Loon was somehow leading them into a trap, every instant might count.
The fleeing ship was close enough now that he could make out the glow of engines and the curving shape of the aft hull. A flash of light showed a laser strike, but the engines continued to burn. She was close, so close he felt he could reach out and close his fist around her. Victory was so near he could practically taste it.
Still ….
“Helm. The moment she hits the storm, I want a course adjustment. Cut to starboard a bit. I don’t want to pop through right behind her.”
