On Point Read online

  On Point

  A Galactic Council Realm Book

  By: J. Clifton Slater

  Also by J. Clifton Slater

  Galactic Council Realm

  On Station

  On Duty

  On Guard

  On Point

  Clay Warrior Stories

  Clay Legionary

  Spilled Blood

  Bloody Water

  Reluctant Siege (Spring 2018)

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living, or dead, is purely coincidental. All the errors in judgment, faulty concepts, misuse of military tactics, unworkable theories, and rewriting of historical groups are mine. Also, the names I use in this story are associated with languages from around the world. You’ll find them listed in the Appendix along with their country of origin and meaning. Again, any name having an incorrect meaning, is my error.

  I’d like to thank my tireless editor, Hollis Jones, for the many hours she spent correcting my spelling, grammar and convoluted sentence structure.

  I also want to thank Brian and Barbara Prezgay and Natalie Huck for their support and encouragement.

  I am a gamer and my time waster of choice are RPGs on my XBox 360. This book follows some of the aspects of video games. I hope you enjoy On Point: Galactic Council Realm.

  J. Clifton Slater

  Facebook: facebook.com/GalacticCouncilRealm

  E-Mail: [email protected]

  Twitter: @GalacticCRealm

  I write Military Adventure both Future & Ancient

  Thank you for reading On Point

  Sincerely,

  J. Clifton Slater

  On Point: Galactic Council Realm #4

  Chapter 1

  The old transport creaked and groaned as her structure compressed. Normally a ship under exterior drive was ridged in the cocoon of ions. But, this old girl had damage and wear on her frame. Every weak point folded, ever so slightly, until settling into a solid section.

  I glanced at the timer. Twenty minutes before I evolved to interior drive. Usually that was plenty of time. After listening to another round of screeches, I decided to power up the interior drive early.

  The automatic power shifter slid smoothly to fifteen percent. Just enough to power up the ion wall and run energy to the ion cannons. In a rush to get her flight worthy, the ion technicians had only installed ten refurbished cannons on the fifteen-cannon ion wall. Two more than the old transport required to bring the interior drive up to meet the lowest power of the exterior drive.

  The ion wall charged but just four ion cannons flashed green.

  I checked the timer. Eighteen minutes until evolution.

  Sliding the shifter back to five percent to keep the ion wall activated, I snapped opened the box giving me access to individual start buttons.

  Three rows of buttons with five in each column glowed red. The technicians had installed the ten refurbished cannons down the outside edges. This left the center, numbers six through ten, with old, out-of-tune ion cannons. I mashed the start button for number eleven, one of the cannons that had come online before. It blinked green. Only seven to go.

  Twelve also fired up. But, thirteen remained red. Insanity was repeating the same action and expecting different results, so I moved to the number fourteen button. It flashed green. Number fifteen remained red.

  I checked the timer. Seventeen minutes to go.

  At the bottom of the first column, I hovered over the button for number five. Pressing and praying, I released it and was rewarded with a green light.

  Four ion cannons were taking power. I was half way there.

  I pressed number four three times before inhaling and moving up to number three. Number three blinked green.

  Four, thirteen, and fifteen according to the technicians, were rebuild units. Why did they fail to fire? Right now, I didn’t have the time or the means to investigate.

  The timer showed twelve minutes.

  I had five ion cannons online and needed three more to evolve to interior drive. If I was unsuccessful in powering up eight ion cannons, before dropping out of exterior drive, bad things would happen.

  ***

  The worst case, I’d evolve without matching powers and times. My atoms would mix with the stream of yellow ions trailing behind the disintegrating transport. Of course, I wouldn’t be aware of the action as I’d be torn apart in a millisecond. Plus, I would fail in my mission.

  If the transport transitioned to interior drive a minute or two late, I would out run the escorts. The death slower as the Empress’ Royal Constabulary destroyed the transport with rockets and missiles. At least I’d be aware of my demise.

  Or, I could continue on exterior drive and go work on the ion wall. It would take hours to exchange filaments and diodes until I had three additional working ion cannons. Then she could evolve, providing the old transport didn’t nosedive into a planet. The planet was another quick death for me and an unsatisfactory ending for my mission.

  ***

  The timer jumped to eleven minutes.

  I pressed the start button for the number one ion cannon. It had newly calibrated parts or so I’d been told. After the second push it remained red. Thankfully number two button gave me a green light.

  Six ion cannons were online. But, four rehabbed ones were still in the red. This left me with no choice but to test the older cannons in the center column.

  The timer hit nine minutes.

  I mashed number six. No joy. I hit number seven. A weak green light flashed, faded to red, then happily it solidified into a strong green.

  The ancient transport had seven operating ion cannons. I wondered for a second if I could run enough power to overload the available cannons and match powers. But, number seven was old and, if it failed during the evolution, the result would be the most spectacular bad snap in Galactic Council Realm history.

  The timer flipped to six minutes.

  I pushed the button for number eight. Nope, the old parts wouldn’t take the power. Nine also remained red. With one ion cannon to go, I reflected on my time as a failed Druid candidate and my years as a Sergeant of Marines. An interesting life so far, it would be a real shame to end it in this old transport. I didn’t linger long on memory lane. There was one chance left to stay on schedule.

  The timer shifted to five minutes.

  In a new ship, five minutes would be rush time but not panic time. I was feeling panic. I pushed the last start button and held my breath.

  The number ten ion cannon indicator blinked green, red, green, red, bile rose in my throat before it steadied on green.

  With eight ion cannons online, I brought the power to fifteen percent. Then, nudged it to forty and the older cannons responded.

  The timer readout hit two minutes.

  I shoved the internal power shifter to eighty percent. Both clocks began spinning out of sync and the power bars hovered far apart. I pushed more power to the internal drive as the timer hit one minute.

  ***

  The powers bounced, drawing closer and closer together, while the clocks spun out of time. I reduced power to the exterior drive and upped the internal drive. Powers matched and I watched the clocks.

  The timer alert rang out zero minutes and began a negative count. I slammed the internal power to maximum and just as the clocks matched times, I dropped the external power.

  The old transport jerked and rivets from the hull pinged off the walls of interior corridors. Four hard snaps later, the flow of yellow ions cleared from the front shield.

  I wasn’t worried about structural damage. The pressing issue was the Constabulary warships pouring like silver flakes from an overturned bowl. Except the flow didn’t extend downward very far. The flow of warships bent as if an
invisible hose sprayed the flakes directly at the old transport and me.

  “J-Pop. This is Wrangler-One,” radioed my escort. “You still alive in there?”

  “Is she that bad?” I asked the Fighter flight leader.

  “You’ve major hull breaches in the aft section,” he reported, “We’re at full internal and should have eyes on your aft section in sixty seconds.”

  From his description, I’d evolved a few seconds late putting the transport far ahead of the three flights of Fighters. Not too bad when I considered the alternative of disintegrating.

  “Negative on the damage report,” I replied. “Keep our guests busy.”

  “We’re on them,” Wrangler-One said. “J-Pop, brace for incoming.”

  I gripped the railing around the pilot area. A second later, the transport shook from the impacts of three rockets.

  “J-Pop, you’ve a full house,” Wrangler-One reported. “Time to make your appearance.”

  “Give me five minutes then break off,” I advised the Fighter pilot.

  “I copy, five minutes,” he replied and I could hear the stress in his voice.

  One final glace out the front shield and I could see why. A mixture of Constabulary Fighters, Gunships and Patrol Boats soared through space in front of the old transport. Preventing the enemy ships from reaching my ship were a dozen Galactic Council Marine Corps’ Fighters. The flights of four held tight formations. They ran counter sweeps picking off any Constabulary ship brave enough to dare fly over their picket line.

  Tossing the headset aside, I ran to the ladder. With my boots on the rails, I slid from the command deck to the service deck. Then, I raced up center the corridor.

  ***

  Rusty, marred bulkheads flashed by as I ran. Four hatches later, I heard the rattling of the ion cannon wall. As if someone were shaking a large kettle full of marbles, the pinging and knocking sounded violent. Then, the explosion of rockets against the hull temporarily overwhelmed the noise from the ion wall.

  The Marine Fighter jocks must be giving up space to the Constabulary. Now the enemy had clear shots at the old transport and they were taking advantage of it. I pushed on passing four more hatches.

  ***

  A creative mechanic had explained, “It works with, or without, gravity or power.”

  I had to agree. In a storage room off the corridor, I faced a brass pole. It stuck through a round hole in the deck. Below this deck and going down five more decks, the pole and holes would allow me to fall if the power continued. Or if the power failed, I could grab the pole and pull myself to the lower decks.

  The power was still flowing so I leaped on the pole and let gravity pull me down through deck after deck. I almost forget to tighten my grip and squeeze with my legs as I fell out of the ceiling.

  Below me, an old Gunship rested on a steeply sloped ramp. The nose of the warship pointed at the deck. Its ion propellent tube only half a meter from the plating.

  ***

  I crashed down with bent knees to absorb the shock of the landing. Once steady on the solid deck, I ran for the Gunship. A leap over the two rings of sharp charges, and a short climb up the side of the ramp, and I crawled into the tilted Gunship.

  It took a handstand to reach the cockpit and a contortionist’s performance to turn my legs and guide my butt into the near vertical pilot seat. A final shove with my legs and I buckled the harness.

  “Wrangler-One. Wrangler-One. J-Pop is standing by,” I called the flight leader.

  “You wanted a crowd. You’ve got a crowd,” he radioed back.

  “Give me two and break off,” I ordered. “I say again. Two and break contact.”

  “Two on the way,” he replied. “Good luck J-Pop. Wrangler-One is out of here.”

  He must have been close as a second later, the walls of the compartments on either side of me flexed inward from the explosions of his rockets. That was my signal to set off the first ring of shape charges.

  In front of me a hole opened and I had a view of space. Several Constabulary warships came and went past the hole. I didn’t pay them any attention as I was typing in a search sequence. Another second passed by before I got a tone.

  Now, my Gunship was transmitting the Constabulary identity code. I triggered the second ring of shape charges. A huge section of the old transport’s hull peeled away and I released the brackets holding my Gunship.

  ***

  Easing power to the internal drive, I lifted the Gunship from the ramp and propelled it through the hole and into space. Not far outside the old transport, I turned her and released three rockets. From this distance, the explosions occurred almost as soon as I released the rockets. Pieces of the old transport’s hull flew out and, although none touched my vessel, I flipped on my emergency beacon and closed the blast shields over the front view ports.

  As a battle-damaged Constabulary ship, I limped my Gunship towards docks BCD&E. That was the half of the station where they manufactured midsized and smaller ships. It was A side where they built the capital warships, and my final destination. But, I had to get onto Construction station first.

  Chapter 2

  I pulled into a line of damaged warships. From their numbers, I could tell the Marine Corps Fighter pilots had demonstrated the meaning of ‘get some’ to its fullest measure. I hoped all the Marines made the three-hour trip back to the Heavy Cruiser safely.

  My board lit up with instructions from Construction Station’s flight control. They directed me to circle around to a secondary intake tube. As I eased out of line, I noticed all the Gunships had been redirected. There were eight of them besides mine.

  The Troops of the Empress were big creatures. As crossbreeds between Realm outcasts and a race from a distant galaxy, they required extra-large Fighters and modifications to our Patrol Boats to accommodate their bulk. What couldn’t be flown by the Troops were our tight, single seat Gunships. I wondered who was piloting the eight damaged ones flying with me to the secondary intake tube.

  ***

  I hit the second air curtain and the Gunship settled onto a sled. As it automatically moved towards the docks, I slammed the release, tossed the harness aside, and scurried around the seat. In the cabin, I quickly pulled on the Knight Protector of the Clan doublet and the matching black trousers. I expected to leave the warship stealthily. The plan, a rushed jump from the Gunship to dodge dockworkers followed by a tense sneak off the flight deck. Instead, I stood in the cabin waiting uncomfortably bent over. There’s not a lot of headroom in a Gunship’s cabin.

  As the sled continued to move, I got curious. Pulling the hood down, I initiated the reflective camouflage. All but invisible, I cracked open the hatch and peered out of the ship.

  My vessel glided by docks of new Gunships. Beyond the new, circles of older models were nosed in around circular docks. But, my sled didn’t stop at either of those locations. Opening the hatch further, I glanced in the direction my sled was headed.

  The sleds of the other eight damaged Gunships haphazardly bumped into a logjam of broken warships. There were four or five sleds between the newly damaged arrivals and the bulkhead. It seemed as if the Constabulary simply used a Gunship and, if it got broken, they tossed it aside and grabbed a new one. But, the pilots couldn’t be Troops. Again, I wondered who was piloting them.

  As soon as my sled bumped into the snarl of discarded Gunships, I pushed open the hatch and jumped to the deck. Racing around to the ion intake pipe, I ducked out of sight. Figuring a mechanic would come to check on the damages and the wellbeing of the pilot, I didn’t want to be found in the warship. The camouflage was invisible in low light or at a distance. But, if an enemy looked closely, they could see my shape shimmer as I moved.

  No one came. The eight Gunship pilots ignored me. They strolled away laughing and talking as they crossed the deck towards the islands of older Gunships. Each had removed their helmets. The pilots flying for the Empress’ Constabulary were Realm citizens. They could have been Travelers; the d
irect decedents of the outcasts who accompanied the Empress when she was exiled. But, Travelers had thick accents. The eight pilots spoke pure Realm without a trace of slurring, clipped words, or oddly structured phrases.

  I wasn’t sure what to think of them. Do I call them traitors, turncoats, or mercenaries? Possibly they were sympathizers. Partisans whose families had waited in secret for generations for the return of their Empress. In any case, they were now out in the open and identifiable as the enemy.

  Undamaged Gunships began flowing from the intake tube. These were routed to the islands of older warships. The eight pilots gathered around and were soon joined by newly arrived pilots. I’d seen enough. It was time I got started on the first phase of my mission.

  ***

  I stayed between the sleds picking my way through the discarded Gunships. High above the deck, a gigantic clamshell roof dominated the overhead. When the halves opened, large beams or sections of spaceships could be flown directly to the deck. Of course, with the entire area voided, anyone working the delivery would dress in a construction vac-suit, although a flight suit was adequate for a short period. I shivered at the prospect of being here when the roof opened to the void of space.

  At an airlock, I shoved through and emerged in a corridor. Down the hall, I located a crewman’s dressing room. Minutes later, I stepped out in a drab gray civilian jumpsuit.

  Gray was perfect for someone looking to blend in with the population. The workers on the BCD&E Decks wore brown or orange. While on the Construction Dock A side, the colors worn by workers were blue or yellow.

  I adjusted the station rebreather on my hip and the strap holding the plain bag where my Knight’s gear was stashed. It wouldn’t help with blending in if I walked around with a strap proclaiming me as an enforcer for the Druid Council of Elders.

  ***

  At a rotating door, I hit the switch and stepped between the glass sections. The door turned and as I walked into the station proper, I inhaled deeply. Then, I coughed and coughed again. Instead of the sea salt aroma of two White Heart plants, the air was foul with the stink of ketone and air filter cleaner. I started to reach for the rebreather mask but realized the residents of the station might be accustomed to the mixture. I left the mask where it was and climbed the stairs to a tram platform.