Fortress of the Six Moons
Perry Rhodan
The Third Power #7
Fortress of the Six Moons
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Fortress of the Six Moons
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1/ SOMEONE ALWAYS GETS IT ON THE DAWN PATROL
Shrill whistling.
Thundering reverberations.
Vain thoughts of beginning their flight under more comfortable circumstances were knocked out of their heads by the nerve-wracking jolt of the ejection, which they suffered with stoic calm.
Shooting out of the airlocks, they were dealt double blows: physical and mental.
It wasn't until they switched on the powerful pulse drive engines, shifted the tiny fighter spaceships to full thrust and set the automatic pilots for their destination that they could at last relax.
Approaching the speed of light they were hurtling in free fall through the immense planetary system of a star which, according to the reliable evidence of the astronomers, was twenty-seven light-years away from Earth.
The three astronauts weren't the sort to question too often the purpose or reason for an order. This patrol flight seemed necessary; so why worry about it?
S-7, the huge spaceship which was their base and which the formation had just left, remained in a standby position near the thirty-eighth planet of the colossal Vega sun. The docks of S-7 were wide open and the guide-beam projectors manned by dependable friends. It would be strictly routine to return to the mother ship after they'd accomplished their task, then to enjoy the pleasant regularity of a well-run service.
The team of three had been sent on a long journey. They were outstanding men who had seen the expanse of the Vega solar system close-up by an improbable accident.
Major Deringhouse acted as commander of the space pilots who had already taken part in more than fifty attacks against the odd-shaped spaceships of an alien race.
They had taken off with a certain feeling of confidence. They didn't give a thought to the dangers which they undoubtedly had to face in the vicinity of the fortieth planet. They relied on the high acceleration potential of their lightening-fast pursuit ships, on their steady nerves and - last but not least - on the pulse-energy cannons situated in the needle noses of their crafts.
They'd been stretched out for almost twelve hours in their reclining pilot seats when the automatic scanner locked onto the fortieth planet. Then they came alive.
Four of the six moons were clearly and unmistakably recognizable. The fourth moon had just begun to appear from behind the giant sphere which lowed in a reddish light. This world was in the outermost regions of the Vega system, and it was, for this reason, dying and uninhabited. It barely received any warmth from the rays of its sun, which was a mighty atomic furnace, the biggest star in the northern sky, as seen from Earth.
Calverman, the tall, black astronaut with the logical brain and instantaneous reactions of a positronic computer, had, strangely enough, noticed the danger last.
When the shrill scream uttered by Rous reached him over the telecom, Calverman's engine already resembled an atomic torch spitting bolts of lightning.
He was hanging on, jammed in his narrow cockpit filled with hot gases and steam. His space helmet, which he'd flipped back on his shoulders in order to be more comfortable, snapped shut in its magnetic collar locks with a hard click, triggered by the automatic pressure-equalization device.
Now Calverman's spacesuit was locked hermetically. Everything had begun to work perfectly, only Calverman's body failed, as did the most essential element of his space fighter, the advanced pulse-drive engine with its tremendous power. As a consequence, his heavily damaged craft gyrated crazily and drifted more and more toward the fortieth planet, already so close that its gravity began to take effect.
The automatic pilot of the machine was knocked out. The air-conditioning and emergency generator ceased to function. Only the two visiphones kept operating on separate circuits, powered by special batteries provided for such a disaster.
The temperature in Sergeant Calverman's cabin rose, a few minutes after he was struck, to 5,800°F, which was hot enough to incinerate him instantly without his special spacesuit.
However, because of his suit, he hardly noticed the heat, especially as the hull of his fighter didn't retain it long but radiated it quickly into the vacuum of space.
An inferno was raging behind the helpless astronaut.
Meanwhile, Major Deringhouse and Sergeant Rous were grimly defending themselves, trying to save their skins. As long as it was possible for them to correctly utilize the structural advantages of their tiny, ultra-fast and extremely agile space-fighters, there was practically nothing that could happen to them except, as had been Calverman's misfortune, an accidental hit from one of the countless ray-cannons of the enemy which emerged so unexpectedly out of hyperspace.
Major Deringhouse - young, wiry and tall - sat with his back to the armor plate shield which protected him from the radiation in his engine compartment.
Basically his machine simply consisted of a long torpedo-shaped shell which contained, in addition to the small cockpit, only the powerful engine and auxiliary components. It was not built to give the lonely pilot luxurious accommodations or even sanitary comfort.
These machines were nothing more nor less than weapon-bristling, stinging space wasps which were carried on board larger spaceships to occasionally execute special tasks, the most important being reconnaissance of space sectors when unsafe for the big vessels to proceed.
Major Deringhouse no longer solely relied on the screen of his automatic radar. Wherever he looked, the area was suddenly swarming with enemy units which had leaped recklessly into the planetary system of Vega, thus achieving total surprise. Spaceships approaching in fifth-dimensional hyperspace simply couldn't be detected in time.
It was sheer coincidence that Deringhouse and his small team were at exactly the same point where the armada of the nonhuman Topides emerged from hyper-space into the normal universe.
Again and again the ray beams shot toward Deringhouse almost with the speed of light. These aliens aimed with precision, a fact which Rhodan had learned from the excellent firing equipment of previously captured enemy craft. Deringhouse had no other choice that to call off his attack immediately and to change his course with howling and flaming starboard jets.
He could see Sergeant Rous's face on the small screen of the telecom. It was white as chalk. His bloodless lips resembled two thin lines, distorted into waves by the mirror effect of the transparent visor of his space helmet. Rous's position was about six hundred miles behind the group leader. Bright points of light emanating from the Topidian super spaceships flickered ahead, above and below.
The Topide commander seemed to consider the three space-fighters as annoying flies, even though they had already knocked out three Topidian cruisers. The burned-out Topidian wrecks, hit by pulse-energy shots, drifted like Calverman's fighter in the direction of the fortieth planet. The enormous gravitational force of the giant world was negligible for intact ships but not for units which had completely lost their propulsion motors. More-over, the velocity of such ships was much too low to compensate for the increasing gravity with the kinetic force of high speed.
Calverman's machine, too, followed this law. Naturally, it hadn't been Deringhouse's intention to rush by the moons near the speed of light, because his mission was to probe them.
Deringhouse had taken some chances. It was known that the opponent had constructed fortified bases on the six satellites of the fortieth planet. At least they'd begun to do so as was demonstrated by the reinforcements which popped out so suddenly from hyperspace.
However, the major's thoughts were of necessity concentrating only on survival. The enemy knew no mercy.
Deringhouse noticed a high shrieking noise in the weak energy bubble which protected his machine. The ray blast from a barely visible giant ship, registered in the last second, must have possessed the energy of a miniature sun.
"Too slow, much too slow," the speaker bellowed. The faster-than-light Arkonide telecom even now transmitted perfectly and clearly. The higher order of its impulses was not affected by static or other normal disturbances.
"I'm stuck in the biggest mess you ever saw!" Rous kept shouting. "They'll get me yet! The line of fire is getting more accurate. What now?"
Deringhouse spun his machine around again. Because of his evasion tactics he could barely get in a shot. Rous heard his muffled groan and then his strained words:
"You better stay where you are. If you try to push out, they'll catch you. We can't accelerate at a fast enough rate to escape their accurate shooting. What's Cal doing?"
"He's in a tailspin. Going down to Number Forty. I can hardly see him anymore."
Deringhouse looked around. The furious roaring of his generators clearly indicated the threat that the inertia forces of his wild manoeuvres could no longer be absorbed. He was sure that he'd already exceeded the performance limit a few times. If the shock-absorbing installation quit as a result of excessive loads, he'd be torn to atoms in his next evasive turn. This was a law of physics which a relatively weak organism couldn't ignore without peril.
The Topidian ships were optically recognizable on the scanner screens only when their rotating armed turrets were flashing. However, it took seconds, or even minutes, for the light to arrive. They had leaped into the Vega system at long intervals in order to minimize the danger to themselves.
The major's voice came through: "Let's scram! Direction Vega, but not too fast. Change your course constantly and steer manually. Automatic manoeuvres could be too easily calculated. I-!"
He heard Rous scream. This time something flaming and shining which looked endless came shooting obliquely from above. It was almost as fast as light and, for this reason, could be seen only at the last moment. The energy detector lost its usefulness under these circumstances.
Deringhouse once again pulled up his machine with his forward jets. At his moderate speed of barely three thousand miles per second, relatively tight curves of escape were still possible. Tight - for a space-fighter pilot who was used to flight curves with a radius of 120,000 miles. At still higher velocities a radius of millions of miles was common.
Here in the seemingly infinite empty space distances lost their meanings. They shrank until they became negligible at top velocity.
There was a signal from the major's sensors. The Characteristic outline of a Topidian ship appeared on the small visiscreen, no larger than a hand. It was long, pencil thin and showed a bulging ring around its center. Deringhouse knew that the enemy, thinking in non-human terms, had installed the engines and the most important machinery in these central extrusions. Humans and the humanoid Arkonides preferred the arrangement in the aft deck. But the intelligent defendants of a reptilian race figured differently.
The positronic micro-brain on board his vehicle functioned with unbelievable swiftness. The distance was measured, the velocity of the ray-beam was computed and the lead determined, all in the fraction of a second. Otherwise it would have been quite impossible for Deringhouse to find his target, since his foe also had a speed of approximately three hundred miles per second and was, moreover, flying in another plane in space.
When the green lamp blinked, Deringhouse, screaming mindlessly, doggedly pressed the firing button of the outsize pulse-energy cannon. The weapon was really much too big and powerful for his small pursuit ship.
Still screaming, he shut his eyes as they were blinded by the dazzling glare of the pulse-ray as it shot from his strange cannon with an infernal roar.
He didn't notice the lightning fast whoosh of the spontaneously released and uniformly directed atomic forces whose concentrated impact contained the heat of a sun. The ship he'd detected was only twenty thousand miles away, a ridiculously short distance.
The violent shaking of his fighter had not yet died when his blow smashed its target with deadly precision. Deringhouse simply observed a brightly glowing point which mushroomed with breathtaking speed into a shining energy cloud.
Rous's bellowing was incomprehensible. It was the mad, hilarious screaming of a wounded man who, at the time, could think only of escape and safety.
Deringhouse skirted the fringes of the gas ball. There was nothing left to be seen of the Topidian ship except this artificial miniature sun. A hurricane raged in his protective screen, formed by fifth-dimensional energy units. When he passed by with blinded eyes and saw the deep, black void again, he had to dodge once more.
Sergeant Rous was behind him. Seconds later he was passing him with blasting jets. Deringhouse realized that he'd succeeded in breaking away when he scored the last hit. With quick reflexes he pushed the lever of his pulse-drive engine full speed ahead. Only the vastly superior accelerating capability of his fighter could save him now. With an acceleration value of more than three hundred miles per square-second, he was able to reach the speed of light in about ten minutes.
He followed Rous in it crazy zigzag course. Close ahead and below to the right, the great mass of the fortieth Vega planet was shining bright and red. Earth's sun was surrounded by nine satellites, but this giant star had forty-two.
Deringhouse was engulfed in a gossamer filigree maze of blue-white thermo-rays. The adversary kept his fierce fire up, knowing that only a lucky hit could make the kill.
"What's the matter, Calverman?" Deringhouse shouted with despair into his helmet mike. "Cal, speak up! We have to clear out!"
the speaker resounded in the cockpit of the tumbling crashing space-fighter. The major's words came clearly and distinctly through the radio in the helmet.
Seconds later the two pilots could hear Calverman gasping. Simultaneously the visiscreens of their telecoms became activated. Cal was still alive.
Deringhouse suppressed a moan when he saw the gaunt face of his friend on the screen. The transmission was three-dimensional and in color.
Cal's dark, almost black face was covered with red blotches and streaks.
"Explosive pressure loss," his voice came over weakly. "My helmet was off, damn it! I have a jabbing pain in my lungs. It tore the breath out of my mouth. Get out while you can!"
The last words were hardly audible. Calverman's helmet banged against the camera so that only his dark, painfully narrowed eyes were visible.
"You're falling into the atmosphere," Deringhouse cried desperately. "You don't have enough speed left to get into orbit. Did your engine break down?"
Calverman managed a laugh. Although he was choking and coughing, he laughed. It meant more than words.
"Get lost! Say goodbye to the chief. There's a small Topidian fort on the third moon. Just made that out. Get back and don't try to fish me out. By the time you get here, I'll be down. Beat it!"
The last words were filled with pleading, and then he closed his eyes.
"Rous, you keep going. I'll try to pick him up. I'll get him in my cockpit somehow...."
A sudden jolt slammed Deringhouse against the wide safety belts of his upturned contour seat. The engine of his pursuit ship - already at three-quarters the speed of light - whined shortly before it quit with a rumbling noise.
Deringhouse heard the howling of the decompressor as once more he was pressed against his belts. The glittering stars in far-flung space turned into a centrifuge whirling around with frenzied speed. The visiscreens of his 360° monitors created fantastic effects of circling lights. His space-fighter was spinning madly
around its axis.
The glare outside was bright red. Deringhouse believed he was beginning to feel the rising temperature inside, although his spacesuit was good for at least 900° F.
He was struck like Calverman, whom he was going to rescue, but with the difference that he didn't suffer the explosive decompression. His pressurized cabin remained tight and his air-conditioning was still functioning.
Yet his fighter had become a wreck in seconds and glowing gas particles were trailing his vehicle as it moved with incredible speed through the void. It was some time before Deringhouse noticed the desperate shouting of Sergeant Rous.
Rous had immediately stopped his fast acceleration manoeuvre. He was now gliding through space in free fall without increasing his momentum. About six hundred miles behind him and off to one side his group leader's machine wobbled aimlessly around.
"All clear," reported Deringhouse over the telecom. "I'm okay. Are they still shooting?"
"No, but your machine is spinning like a top," Rous's voice crackled from the loudspeaker. "If they pursue us now, they'll get us at our rescue attempt. Stabilize your crate. I'll figure out my manoeuvre."
Deringhouse made no reply. He manipulated his controls and revved up the gyroscope of the stabilizing device. Little by little he managed to straighten out the balance of his craft. The hit didn't appear to be critical. It was a glancing blow at most with small effect inside the weak defense screen. Nevertheless it was enough to incapacitate the sensitive machinery.
Far ahead of him, and only recognizable by the fiery flashes of his directional jets, Rous was navigating the extremely difficult approach. He had to regulate and match his speed carefully and then pull alongside the major's fighter in order to transfer the group leader to his ship.
"Cal - how is Cal?" came a whisper through the speaker in Rous's helmet. "I wanted to get him."
Sergeant Rous gnashed his teeth. He knew as well as Deringhouse that their friend was beyond help. Where he was, the enemy was too. The fortieth planet was steadily growing smaller in the distance.