He Who Dares: Book Three Read online

  HE WHO DARES

  Book Three Ver 1.1

  By

  Rob Buckman

  Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidences are the product of the author’s imagination or are used functionally, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishment, event, or locales is entirely coincidental. My object in writing this, and other novels, is to tell you the reader, an interesting tale for your enjoyment, and not to win any English composition prize or a spelling bee. That said, this version, 1.0 is the result of readers proofreading the story for me, and removing the as many of the errors as they could find. That means there are a few spelling and grammar errors that got by me, and their poor tired eyes, so please overlook any that we failed to catch. For those that take note of such thing, this story is 96,000 words, or about 175 pages long. Happy reading. Thanks to all the readers who have sent me corrections, as noted in version 1.1 much appreciated.

  RB ([email protected])

  CHAPTER ONE:

  H.M.S Nemesis completed warp transfer, entered Sol space and began her long inward cruise towards Jupiter and the fleet. She passed the lonely beacon, broadcasting its endless warning into the blackness of eternal night that the Pluto warp point was off limits to all ships. Mike Gray sat in his command chair watching the view screen as the forlorn sentinel drifted by, pondering its implications. Even since Captain Enright’s fateful, inter-dimensional transfer almost three hundred years ago, this beacon had warned ships away. Every intersystem Notice to Mariners since that date contained a warning of the dangers of trying to negotiate the Pluto warp point. Only one other ship, some one hundred and fifty years after that first fateful jump ever attempted it. The ship was never seen or heard from again. Now Mike knew why. Unlike Enright, that captain hadn’t been so lucky, and was lost forever when he jumped into the gravitational embrace of the black hole or the class II giant star. Now, no one questioned it, no one thought about it. It was a fact of life, like the sun coming up in the morning, until now.

  As their scout torp proved, the alien ship on the other side was telling the truth. You could now use it safely, within reason. You still had to know what to do once you exited, what with a class II giant star and a black hole warring with each other on either side of your exit point. Too high an exit speed, and you’d end up within the reach of one or the other, not to mention the gravity flux and the intense radiation. It would take a captain with guts and a helmsman with steady nerves to make that jump without any prior knowledge of what was there. With any luck, that bit of information would remain a secret for a long time. The Pluto warp point was the only one the Admiralty knew for certain the Sirriens weren’t watching. Why should they?

  In his mind's eye, Mike plotted the course he would take if, and when, he had to go back through. His first problem was getting enough H3 to the alien ship for her to survive and therein lay the rub. If he reported to the admiral, per his orders, he’d have to tell him about the alien ship. Then ask for permission to take a tanker, or several tankers back through the Pluto warp point to refuel her. Being human, the admiral would immediately see the possibility of obtaining a treasure trove of advanced weaponry, and god knows what else from her. He would then have to request help from Earth and would get scientists, technicians, and a whole gaggle of looky-loos who just wanted to go and see an actual 80,000-year-old alien battleship. Once that happened the secret, of not only the alien ship, but also the fact the Pluto warp point was now open, would no longer be a secret. With so many leaks in the government, and the Navy, it was anyone’s guess how soon after that, the Sirriens would know. Probably immediately if Mike was a betting man. Once that happened, it was almost a copper bottom bet the war would be on. There was no way the Sirriens could let Earth get their hands on advanced alien tech, and sooner, rather than later, the Sirriens would come knocking on Earth’s front door with a full battle fleet.

  Later, while compiling his official report to the admiral, Mike debated entering that piece of information, and then decided not to. As far as anyone knew, he’d been on a long range survey mission to look for Sirrien spy ships in the Oort cloud. That’s how his report would read, nothing more, nothing less. He said nothing about the letter from the president of Avalon to the King. Nor that they were in the process of building the first one hundred King Class ships as they’d come to be called. With any luck, they would be ready within a year, but then what? Who would go and pick them up or crew them? That was something for Admiral Rawlings to work out. He’d done his part in taking the King’s letter to Avalon, and finding a way to use the Pluto warp point. Mission accomplished; now for some well-deserved shore leave. That brought up the question of his own crew. Even if he swore them to secrecy, one drink too many, an incautious word to impress a girl and the cat would be out of the bag. It was a situation that almost begged him to take the Nemesis somewhere else instead of Earth. Or risk getting members of his crew kidnapped right off the streets by Sirrien agents. Without the truth drug, TD-Penta, the Sirrien method of extracting information would be brutal, and lethal in the extreme. They dared not let whomever they kidnapped live after that.

  “Damn it to hell!” Mike swore softly. Fate had conspired again to put him in a position where he had to decide the destiny of people he knew. His crew and some whom he might say he loved. A quick look at the ship’s clock on the bulkhead showed it was well after midnight ship’s time, and he was nowhere near finishing his report. He wasn’t even sure what he should put in it.

  “More tea, or coffee, Skipper?” Jenks stuck his head in and asked. Mike shook his head.

  “Thanks, Jenks, but no. Don’t think I should have any more.”

  “Then you should at least try to get some sleep.” Jenks eyed the clock as he said it, and gave Mike a disapproving frown. “Even for an Avalon superman, you need your sleep, Sarge... Skipper.” Any other Captain would have taken that remark as disrespect, but not Mike. He and Jenks had bled too much together to let that happen.

  “I’ll take your suggestion under advisement, Corporal Silverman.” He said, cocking an eye at Jenks, seeing him smile. “Think I’ll take a walk first… and by the way. Why are you still up?”

  “Well, someone’s got to take care of you, ’cuz you sure ain’t taking care of yourself, mate.” Jenks popped out the door before Mike could come back with an answer.

  “Cheeky bugger!” He yelled, hearing Jenks’ laughter out in the passageway.

  With his battered cap pushed to the back of his head, and his grandfather’s old leather pilot’s jacket on, Mike ambled his way around the ship, nodding to people on watch here and there, but not stopping long enough to disturb them. The dog watch on any ship has a rhythm of its own. The slight background hum from the electrical systems, the soft sound of the hull expanding and contracting, and all the other little sounds any working ship makes. The soft sigh of the air circulating system coming out of the overhead vents, to the sound the plumbing makes when someone flushes the head, someone laughing, or the tread of space boots on the carpeted steel deck. To the accountants in London, a warship was nothing more than a hole in space that you poured money into. To a civilian it was nothing but a cold steel coffin as lifeless as the metal she was made of, but not to a sailor. A ship, any ship was a living, breathing entity that they loved and cursed in the same breath. Each ship had its own personality. Some good, some not so good. At times, a sailor would say “she” was grumpy today, or that “she” felt more alive. Some ships sailors wouldn’t go near unless they were dead drunk or down on their luck. Others had a waiting list for crews as so many wanted to sail on her. Mike felt that way about his ship. The Nemesis had the personalit
y of a wild horse, always chomping at the bit to get wherever they were going as fast as possible.

  Inevitably, his footsteps took him to the star-port chamber at the foot of the upright sail, and opening the hatch, he stepped into the darkened room. Every ship had one, ostensibly for the navigator to take direct star sightings if the navigation computer ever went down. It happened rarely nowadays so mostly it was used by the crew who wanted a quiet moment alone. In some ways, it had become the default ship's chapel. Here you could be as close to the diamond bright stars, and the eternal blackness of interstellar space as it was possible to be without going outside in a hard suit. Some said that they felt closer to God here than in any church or magnificent cathedral on Earth. Here Mike felt at peace, as though he were looking at the face of God, the siren song of deep space eternally calling to him.

  For a while, he sat and looked out into the star speckled darkness and let his mind wander down the meandering pathways of his life. Being the captain of a secret new ship was a long way from the flight deck of an old deep-space tug, thinking of the events that brought him to this point. Inevitably, those meanderings came to a stop at the point his grandfather died. Thankfully, the grief wasn’t so hard edged now. He smiled slightly remembered the joy they both felt after that wild fly-by of Christchurch. It was inevitable that his thoughts would drift to that fateful day. Even now, years later, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been his fault. If he hadn’t been so reckless or had stopped for a moment to consider the ramifications… He sat there looking out at the uncaring stars unshed tears in his eyes as he remembered.

  * * * * * *

  Prometheus plunged down, picking up speed as she headed in at a perfect 300 angle. Her sunburst navigational lights strobing ahead marking the path of her fly-by. Eight minutes later, she brushed the outer fringe of Christchurch’s atmosphere, speed against gravity as they roared around the planet, streaking across the night sky like some giant comet. By this time, everyone on the night side of Christchurch could see them. Like her namesake, she was the flaming arrow of God, Prometheus was living up to her name, stealing fire from the Gods themselves and bringing it to man. By now, Mike was in the engine room cranking up the cooling unit, but the temperature on the bridge still climbed. Their mad charge dug them deeper into the atmosphere, causing ionization of both the meteor and the rad screen that made them flare as they bled energy. This made them light up, surrounding the ship and container string in a sheath of burning air and displaced heat. The heat generated had to go somewhere, in as well as out. Andrew Tregallion shed his jacket then his sweater as he fought the yoke to hold her steady, grinning from ear to ear. Now it was just a question of physics, a fight between velocity and gravity, one cancelling the other. The container string bucked and swayed undulating back and forth like some giant snake, but the optical tractor bollards held. The containers on-board guidance systems helped keep them on track like a pack of obedient dogs. Mike laughed as he climbed the stairway to the bridge, bouncing from side to side between the bulkheads, wincing at each jolt. No matter what happened, this wild ride was worth it. Prometheus exited in a blaze of glory on the other side of Christchurch picking up enough speed to meet the freighter, Martian Star, before she hit the hyper wall. Orbital Center was still screaming, but both Mike and Gramps tuned it out as they laughed and sang their victory song.

  “Come cheer up my lads, it's to glory we steer,

  to add something more to this wonderful year.

  To honor we call you, as free men, not slaves,

  for who are so free as the sons of the waves.

  Hearts of oak are our ships,

  Heart of oak are our men.

  We are always ready,

  steady, boys, steady,

  we’ll fight and we'll conquer, again and again.

  Our worthy forefathers, let's give them a cheer,

  to climates unknown did courageously steer.

  Through oceans to deserts, for freedom they came,

  and dying, bequeathed us their freedom and fame.

  Hearts of oak are our ships,

  heart of oak are our men.

  We are always ready,

  steady, boys, steady,

  we’ll fight and we'll conquer, again and again.

  * * * * * *

  “Martian Star, this is Sierra-Whisky-Gulf 893, do you copy?” Mike radioed.

  “Prometheus, we copy you.” A laughing voice came back at them. “This is Captain McGinnis of the Martian Star.”

  “Good to hear your voice, Captain.”

  “That was some show you put on back there, Prometheus.”

  “Well, you said you wanted this cargo, and we do aim to please.”

  “We see you coming up astern, how long do you calculate for your zero/zero intercept?”

  “If you remain on your current heading and acceleration, we should be there in two hours and sixteen minutes.”

  “Very good. I’ll have my deck monkeys standing by.”

  They made the rendezvous as predicted and transferred all the containers in record time. Once done, they headed back to Christchurch tired and contented, but it was late at night before they docked. Mike let out a happy sigh as he signaled “Finish with Engines” on the telegraph, hearing the compensators spooling down. One by one, he cleared the board by the numbers as his grandfather expected. By now, he didn’t even have to refer to the checklist he knew it so well, shutting down each system, or putting it on standby mode. His last act was to lock and seal the port hatch, and lock the optical bollards on the dock.

  “Good trip, Mike.” Andrew sighed, as he stepped onto the dock, and closed the engine room hatch and locked it.

  “Yup, be glad to get a good night's sleep.”

  “Me too,” his grandfather answered, yawning and stretching. “The feces won’t hit the fan until tomorrow, sometime after breakfast I suspect.”

  “Who cares, as long as I get a good sleep before they start yelling at me.” Mike laughed.

  “It won’t be you they will be yelling at, son.” He laughed, putting his arm around his grandson’s broad shoulder and giving him a hug.

  “Gramps… I…”

  “Are we going to go through all that again, Michael?” The old man grumbled, raising one bushy eyebrow.

  “Guess not.” Mike smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. To Gramps, the subject of who was going to take the blame for the fly-by was closed. Mike would have preferred it be him, but arguing with his grandfather was a losing battle once he’d made up his mind. He was right, of course. A black mark on his captain’s ticket wouldn’t look good to the examining board if, and when, he sat for his nth space license. Gramps kept his arm around Mike’s shoulders, something he rarely did, feeling proud that he’d raised a boy to become a man, walking towards the air car and home.

  With no immediate contacts in the offing until the board of inquiry issued their findings they worked on the ship, cleaning polishing, and checking equipment. Mike did go fishing and checked the lobster pot, bringing several nice fat lobsters home for dinner. All in all it was a boring two weeks of doing make work until one morning Mike looked up at the sound of the chimes from his computer and swore.

  “What?” Gramps asked, looking at him over the rim of his coffee cup. Pulling his eyes away from the screen, and the newsfax report about their fly-by.

  Of course, the Newsies were all over it, some calling it a crazy stunt, others a brilliant maneuver. Throw in the fact they’d discovered, and disarmed, several bombs aboard during their inbound flight just added to the hoopla. Calls for a full investigation shot back and forth, while one mining company accused the other of all sorts of nefarious doings.

  “Damn it! I got so wrapped up in this book, I forgot I had to cram for today’s lecture.”

  “Serves you right.”

  “Thanks, Gramps, that’s a lot of help.” He muttered as he walked out of the room. He quickly sat in front of the entertainment center and fitted the VR headset
over his head before stepping into the virtual classroom.

  “So nice to see you all again. Good morning, students!”

  “Good morning, Professor.” The virtual students replied.

  Mike added his belated “Good morning” as his avatar walked into the classroom and took his seat. He, along with fifty other students, sat in a virtual lecture hall, each with a reasonable facsimile, or persona. There were a few exceptions as one student came clanking in wearing a full set of medieval armor.

  “Ouch!” The unfortunate individual yelped, as the professor zapped his avatar and him.

  “That will do for the comic mode, Carstairs.”

  “Sorry, Professor.” The professor gave him one of those looks the professor was famous for then turned his attention to the rest of the class.

  “I live in eternal hope that all of you have applied yourself to the assignment I gave you?” He looked around his audience expectantly. Even in VR cyberspace, it was possible to hear the groans around the classroom.

  “Arr! I’m encouraged, by your enthusiastic expectation of the coming test. Let us begin then.” He said, ignoring the sounds of pain. “Mr. Worthington, what is your answer to the question of the similarities between the Hebrew-Greek wars, the medieval wars, in particular the battle of Agincourt, British naval warfare, the Napoleonic wars, and World War I?”

  While Worthington was stumbling through his non-answer, Mike tried frantically to think of his. Mike found he was brain dead. It didn’t work, and all he could hear was the question going round and round inside his brain like some maniacal clockwork toy.

  “They were all fought by man?” Worthington answered at last. The sound of a raspberry filled the room as the Professor hit a button on his “desk.”

  “Wrong. That will get you a ‘C’, Mr. Worthington. Next?” The Professor looked around the room for another sacrificial victim. “Cathy Williams, how about you.”