Genellan: Planetfall Read online

  Genellan: Planetfall

  Скотт Г. Джир

  Genellan—a beautiful, Earthlike world where intelligent cliff dwellers waited in fear for the day the bear people would return, killing them for their fur…

  Genellan—the only refuge for a ship's crew and a detachment of spacer Marines, abandoned by a fleet fleeing from alien attackers.

  Stranded on Genellan, the humans struggled to make a home for themselves until—they hoped against hope—the fleet would return to rescue them. Lt. Sharl Buccari tried desperately to hold on to the threads of command over the spacers and the Marines—to keep her crew together and alive.

  Winter was coming. No one knew if the winged natives would be friend or foe. And now the bear people were returning, intent on destroying the humans—but not before stealing the secret of hyperlight drive, the key to interstellar flight…

  Scott G. Gier

  Genellan: Planetfall

  Dedication

  To Jean Maxwell Arthur

  Copyright © 1994–2005 by Scott G. Gier

  Cover Illustration by Jeremy Ellis

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN 1-932657-26-6

  Third Millennium Publishing 1931 East Libra Drive Tempe, AZ 85283. [email protected]

  Baen Free Library version by arrangement with the Author

  Baen Publishing Enterprises, P.O. Box 1403, Riverdale, NY 10471, www.baen.com

  Other Editions: Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 95-6829 1 ISBN 0-345-39509-3

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Third Millennium Publishing, located on the INTERNET at http://3mpub.com

  Any similarity of the characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  SECTION ONE — A NEW WORLD

  Chapter 1. Battle

  We're dead, Buccari admitted. A bead of sweat broke loose from the saturated rim of the copilot's skull cap and floated into her field of vision. She moved to keep the mercurial droplet from colliding with her lashless eyes. Humidity controls in her battle suit activated, and she swallowed to adjust for the pressure change.

  "Reloading forward kinetics," she reported, breaking the oppressive silence. She glanced up. The command pilot of Harrier One stared dumbly at the holographic tactical display.

  "Skipper, you copy?" Buccari demanded, switching to flight deck intercom and cutting out the rest of the crew.

  The pilot's head slowly lifted, his gold visor catching and scattering the brilliant rays of Rex-Kaliph, the system star. "Yeah, Lieutenant, I copy," he mumbled.

  Buccari's anxiety clicked up another notch. She pivoted in her acceleration tethers to look at Hudson hunkering at his station. "Nash, status on the fleet?" she demanded.

  "Nothing new, Sharl," the second officer replied nervously. "But main engine power's fading, and engineering doesn't answer."

  Buccari's scan jerked to her own power screen, confirming the bad news. "Crap!" she uttered, frantically trying to override.

  "'Already tried emergency override," gulped Hudson.

  "Commander, main engines are shutting down," she shouted. "Computer's rejecting command overrides. We got nothing but thrusters."

  Buccari pushed back from the instruments. Her scan moved to the tactical display—the blip representing the remaining alien interceptor moved outbound, a belligerent icon deliberately maneuvering for its next attack. She exhaled and looked up to see the corvette pilot still frozen in position.

  "Commander Quinn!" she shouted. The pilot, reluctantly alert, turned in her direction. She saw her own helmeted image reflecting into diminutive infinity in his visor.

  "Mister Hudson," Quinn said. "We've got ten minutes before that bug's in firing range. Lay back to engineering and find out what's happening." Hudson acknowledged, released his quick-disconnects, and pushed across the flight deck into the bore of the amidships passageway. The pressure iris sucked shut behind him.

  Buccari looked out into space, at star-shot blackness. There had been visual contact—brilliant, lancing streaks of argent. Aliens! They had found aliens. Had they ever! They had jumped into a frigging bug nest! A whole goddamn star system filled with aliens. Kicking Legion butt.

  Harrier One had destroyed two of the alien ships; she had even seen one explode through the digital optics of the corvette's laser cannon shortly before their powerful directed energy weapon had been disabled by a hammering near miss. A flashing radiation warning light on the overhead environmental console captured her attention.

  "Radiation damage, Sharl?" Quinn asked.

  "Background radiation," Buccari said. "Not weapons detonation—too constant. Probably solar flares from Rex-Kaliph. Sun spots. She's a hot one." Starshine poured through the view screens casting deep shadows and illuminating the crew-worn flight deck in stark shades of gray.

  "Looks bad for Greenland," Quinn moaned. "She got hit bad."

  "I'd be worrying about this ship, Commander," Buccari snapped.

  "Yeah," Quinn grunted. "You're right. We're out of options…"

  Buccari closed her eyes as the pilot flipped on the command circuit.

  "Attention, all hands," Quinn announced. "This is the end of the line. Abandon ship. I repeat: abandon ship. EPL and lifeboats. Two minute muster."

  Buccari gasped as if punched in the stomach. It made no sense; the EPL and lifeboats were defenseless—helpless.

  "Kinetics show full reload," Buccari persisted. "Arming complete."

  "Move, Lieutenant. You're EPL pilot," Quinn ordered. "I'll finish."

  Buccari disconnected her tethers, but her efforts to leave were stymied by the considerable mass of the chief engineer emerging from the access hatch. Warrant Officer Rhodes pushed across the congested deck and strapped into the second officer's station. Hudson reappeared, helmet and wide shoulders wedged in the hatchway.

  "Got the laser cannon hooked up to main power!" Rhodes shouted.

  Quinn jerked in his station. "What the…the cannon? But main power is gone! What've you guys been doing? Why isn't anyone on line?" Rhodes held up his hands; the pilot's transmission overrode all communications. Rhodes could not respond until Quinn's questions ceased.

  "Goldberg cleared and spooled the fusion ionizers-" Rhodes began.

  "But the reactor temps!" Buccari interrupted on suit radio.

  "Mains are hot," Rhodes said. "I re-routed power across the aux bus. That killed our comm circuits and kicked over the power manager. Primary bus is friggin' creamed, but we got a shot at syncing in five minutes. Auto-controls are disabled. Fire control will have to be manual."

  Quinn spun back to his command console and flipped the weapons switch on the intercom. "Gunner, you on line?"

  The response from weapons control, two decks below, was immediate: "Affirmative, Skipper," responded the gravelly voice of Chief Wilson. "I sent Schmidt and Tookmanian to the lifeboats. What's go—"

  "Stay put, Gunner. We got another card to play. You'll be getting a green l
ight on the cannon panel. Update your solution on the bogey and get ready to toast his butt. You copy?"

  "Huh…roger that, sir," Wilson growled. "No kidding? Bogey's squealing garbage all over the place, but I'm still tracking him solid. Down-Doppler. Estimate no more than seven or eight minutes before we reengage. I don't know what Virgil's telling you, Skipper, but my panel says we're two weeks away from a hot cannon."

  Buccari looked at Rhodes. The engineer threw back a thumbs-up with one hand and an «okay» signal with the other.

  "Have faith, Gunner," Quinn said. "Control sequence is manual and power's being transferred on the aux bus. Stand by."

  Buccari, floating above her station, stole a look at tactical. The alien ship irrepressibly passed the apogee of its turn. Screeching adversary warnings steadied out.

  "Back to your seat, Sharl. Fire control stations," Quinn ordered.

  She grimly complied, calling up weapons status as she strapped in.

  "Engineering's talking," Rhodes said, punching intercom buttons. "Goldberg patched the circuit. I'm going back to main control." The engineer clambered across the flight deck, hitting both pilots with sundry parts of his body.

  "Mr. Hudson, you've got the EPL," Quinn ordered. "Take charge of the evacuation. Get the Marines and non-required crew away from the corvette."

  "Sir?" Hudson blurted. "I'm not apple qual'ed. I—"

  "You heard the skipper," Buccari said. "You've just been qualified."

  "But—" Hudson protested.

  "Now, Ensign!" Quinn snapped. "Move!"

  Hudson stuttered a response, released his tethers, and sailed from the flight deck. Buccari shifted her attention to the chatter on the fire control circuit; Rhodes and Wilson were discussing preparations for manually firing the energy weapon.

  "Okay, gentlemen," she interjected, overriding their transmissions. "Full manual. Pick up the checklist at pre-sync."

  "Rog', Lieutenant," Wilson responded. "Ready for checks."

  "Power's too low for capacitance alignment, Lieutenant," Rhodes reported. "Need twenty seconds. We're only going to get one shot out of this mess. After we discharge it'll take a half hour to regenerate. Maybe a lot longer."

  "Standing by, Virgil. Let's go over pre-arm, Gunner," Buccari commanded. She struggled to suppress her rising anxiety. Was there enough time?

  As she orchestrated checklists, Buccari stole glances at Quinn, concerned he would slip back into his stupor of self-pity. Perhaps it no longer mattered: their crippled ship was hurtling helplessly through space, all aces played. During the hectic engagement the pilot had used the ship's decreasing power and diminished weapons to full advantage. His last blast of acceleration had been a desperate, spasmodic action, sapping the last gasp from the main engines, but it had propelled the corvette through a pattern of explosions and slicing energy beams, past the approaching enemy. Up to that point he had fought hard and well, with no hint of surrender, but then came the panicked messages—distress calls— from T.L.S. Greenland, the corvette's mothership. The horrible implication of Greenland's desperate pleas for help had melted the metal in Quinn's spine: his wife was senior science officer on the battered mothership.

  "Skipper," Buccari barked, "roll ninety for weapons release."

  Without replying, Quinn disengaged the autostabilizing computer, hit the maneuvering alarm, and fired portside maneuvering rockets. The ponderous corvette rolled crazily. Quinn stopped the rotational wobble with deft squirts of opposite power.

  "Nash! Evacuation status," Buccari yelled into her throat mike.

  Hudson's reply was instantaneous. "Apple needs another minute. Request hold maneuvers until I get the bay doors open. Lee and the injured are in lifeboat one, ready to go. Number two lifeboat is not being used. Still some confusion about who's staying and who's leaving, but that won't stop us from jettisoning on your command."

  An anxious voice—Dawson, the ship's communications technician—broke in: "Skipper!" she transmitted. "Flash override incoming."

  "Dawson, everyone to lifeboats," Buccari shouted over the circuit.

  "Commander!" Dawson persisted, her voice uncharacteristically agitated. "We've got a clear language burst transmission from a panic buoy. The task force has jumped, sir. The fleet's gone!"

  The ship was silent, the crew rendered speechless—no, breathless! The motherships had departed, gone into the massive distances, back over the measureless hurdle of time. Rescue was light-years away now. It would take months for rescue ships to complete a hyperlight transit cycle. Interminable seconds of silence dragged by.

  Buccari slammed a fist on the comm switch and shouted over the general circuit, "Dawson, get your butt in a boat. Rhodes, sync count. We got a bogey inbound!"

  Quinn stirred. His hands moved automatically, a robot obeying his program. The enemy ship steadily accelerated, gnawing at the corvette's unwavering vector.

  "Hudson! You reading me?" Quinn barked.

  "Yes, sir. EPL and lifeboat one ready to go. What's the plan, sir?" came back the disembodied voice. Hudson had moved quickly.

  "I was hoping you had a good idea," Quinn replied. "Right now I want you clear. Establish an outbound vector and hold it. Normal transponder codes. Keep in contact. If you don't hear from me in two hours, head back to Earth by yourself. Shouldn't take you more than three or four thousand years. If the bugs pick you up first, remember your manners."

  Buccari exhaled through a tight smile and checked tactical. The symbol for a planetary body had been showing up for several hours: Rex-Kaliph Three, the third planet from the system's star.

  "R-K Three's coming up in sector two," she said. "Might be reachable."

  Quinn nodded. "Hudson, get a downlink from the computer. Check tactical. Sector two. Planet in range. Head for it. Good luck, Ensign. Cleared to launch."

  Buccari switched the comm master back to the weapons circuit, clipping Hudson's response. "Status, Gunner!" she demanded.

  "Main control's predicting three-sigma," Wilson answered. "Mains are spooling. Power forty-five percent and climbing. Should have enough power to fire in four minutes, and we'll finish syncing optics any second. Rhodes'ss going batshit with shortcuts."

  "Okay, Sharl," Quinn said, bringing all of them onto primary circuit. "Let's take care of business. How many decoys left?"

  Buccari checked the weapons console. "Three."

  "Start laying decoys at sixteen hundred. How many kinetics?"

  "Twenty-three heavies and a couple hundred dinks," she responded. She brought her eyes up and scanned the infinite blackness, not seeing—nothing to see. Her attention was drawn back to the evacuation. System panels indicated launch bays had depressurized. A distant, sharp thunk followed by a high-frequency rumble vibrated the ship's metal fabric. Status lights changed, indicating bay doors had resealed. A lifeboat and the EPL—the Endoatmospheric Planetary Lander—had launched. The greater part of the corvette crew was away, thrown into the black void.

  Chief Wilson broke in. "Fire control has active track. We're warbling the signal and he's jamming, but we have sporadic lock. Power weak but steady. My board is green. Beta three point two and dropping. Passing manual control to the flight deck."

  "This is Buccari," she replied in sterile tones. "I have fire control. Arming sequence now."

  Quinn flipped back a red switch cover on his overhead. Buccari gave a thumbs-up. Quinn armed the energy weapon. Amber lights appeared on her weapons panel; a soft bell-tone sounded in the background. She flipped switches; amber lights turned green, and the tone took a higher pitch. Quinn disabled the alarm while Buccari stared at the firing presentation on her ordnance console. Range reticules moved inexorably closer; the enemy ship was established on track, only seconds from long-distance weapons range. A tail chase: she had too much time—time to think about what to do, and time to worry.

  "Firing range?" Buccari asked.

  "Hold until four hundred. We'll have him for lunch," Quinn replied.

  Buccari looked up. The
enemy had already shown far greater range. Proximity alarms sounded. Weapons circuit became hot. Gunner Wilson narrated a stream of weapon status and contact information. Buccari interjected terse preparatory commands while Quinn maneuvered the corvette, optimizing weapon release angles. His maneuvers were ragged; the battle-damaged thrusters were out of alignment, and power inputs were intentionally asymmetric in desperate attempt to slew the ship from its ballistic trajectory.

  Wilson: "Bogey at ten thousand, sector six. Overtaking velocity point eight. Engagement radius in thirty. Optical scan in tight oscillation."

  Buccari: "Roger that. Holding fire, all switches green." Wilson: "Bogey at six thousand, sector six. Trajectory is veering high and starboard. Now sector five. Scanning." Buccari: "Stand by to deploy decoys."

  Wilson: "Three thousand, sector five. Bogey is maneuvering. Intermittent optical lock."

  Buccari: "Roger optical. Firing decoys."

  Quinn manhandled the maneuvering jets causing the corvette to buffet and accelerate laterally. Despite the jerking excursions Buccari' s movements were measured and precise.

  Wilson: "Bogey at sixteen hundred, sector five. Bearing constant. Optical lock is firm. He's firing at the decoys."

  Buccari: "Roger lock." She pressed a switch on her weapons board. A salvo of kinetic energy missiles, sounding like popcorn popping, streaked their unholy fires across the flight deck's viewing screen. Quinn rolled the corvette ninety to port and fired a new set of maneuvering thrusters, unmasking additional weapons ports. Buccari pickled another set of kinetic energy missiles.

  Wilson: "Bogey at a twelve hundred. He blew our decoys away, and he's got us locked in!" Screaming radar lock-on warnings reverberated through the corvette. The enemy was preparing to fire, the high-pitched whooping sickenly familiar. There was no way to evade the impending explosions—not without exhausting their only means of fighting back. Their single option was to stand and fight, the laser cannon their final punch.