Dragons and Stars, Chapter 12: The Problem

“Those are pirates,” said Uncle John.

There was a dead silence as they all stared at him.

“Should I be goin’ to get the guns out?” asked MacHardy after a moment.

Uncle John looked grim. Neal knew what he was thinking. Would the pirates merely take their goods and go, or would they go for the crew as well? Neal had heard whispers of pirates who killed whole crew to keep from being tracked. A gutted spaceship had been found five months before, half its crew murdered and the others missing.

“We’ll leave the guns locked up until we’re actually to be boarded,” Uncle John told MacHardy and then walked back into the bridge control room. Through the door Neal saw the banks of computers that ran the ship, and through the small protected portals, the stars ahead, and Jupiter to one side, growing larger.

“Everyone buckle in!” one of the pilots said over the loudspeaker. Alarms sounded. Uncle John peeked back through the door. “Neal, come in here, please!” Neal hurried inside and buckled himself at one of the consoles. Acceleration kicked in then, pressing him back hard against his seat.

“You’re one of the best pilots on the simulaters, Neal,” said Uncle John. “Stand by.”

Neal’s head was spinning as the S.S. Samson continued to accelerate. The simulaters? Was Uncle John asking him to fly the ship? Sure he’d spent hours in the flight simulaters, practicing flying different ships. It was perhaps the one subject he was better at than Hanna. But it was one thing to fly a simulater and another to be here. People’s lives were involved. His hands began to shake as his heart pounded.

Neal looked at one of the displays in front of him. It showed the three ships still drawing closer, though more slowly. They were strange, bulbous shaped ships, with sharp angles cut and swept forward.

“Uncle John,” he said, pointing. “Those are Kiff’eem.”

Uncle John leaned forward to his display and studied it. “Are you sure?” he asked, sternly.
“Yes,” said Neal. They were one of his favorite ships to fly on his game simulater. The class simulator didn’t have it in the database.

“So they’re Janjaweed,” said Uncle John, his jaw clenching. “They will show no care for this crew. God help us.”

Uncle John sat for a moment, then closed his eyes. “Dear Lord,” he prayed, tersely. “We need you. Deliver us from the bloodthirsty and the hands of those who hate us. Give us wisdom.”

MacHardy crackled over the intercom. “Uncle John?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Hev ye thought upon jettisonin’ some of the cargo? It may distract ’em since they’re after loot’. And it’ll mek us lighter fer faster acceleration.”

“An excellent suggestion, MacHardy,” said Uncle John. He thought about it for a moment.

“Neal, you and Andrews stay here and guide the ship. Keep us apprised of what’s happening out there.” He turned and flicked the intercom.

“Attention, all crew. Put on your helmets and meet me at the cargo bay airlock in one minute. We’re going to unclip half the cargo for jettison.”

He got up, holding to the doorframe. Grabbing some handles on the low ceiling, he let his feet float towards the back of the ship and walked down the ceiling like a ladder to the back airlock.

The four miners, Hanna, Dr. Brut, MacHardy, and the second pilot all joined him at the airlock at the back of the lounge. “Mirk!” shouted Dr. Brut. Neal saw Mirk sullenly push off into view and drift backwards to the lock with the others. Mrs. Silver made her way to Uncle John and patted his arm. “I’m praying,” she said. “Be brave! God told me we will escape from them without harm.” Uncle John stared at her a moment, then pushed the doorpad. The airlock hissed opened. Putting their helmets on, they all squeezed inside, and the door closed, leaving Mrs. Silver alone. She worked her way back to a sofa and strapped herself in. “God will help us!” she called up to Neal. Neal fervently hoped so.

* * *

The next twenty minutes passed with agonizing slowness. Neal felt each second on the clock pause and wait before ticking to the next. The ships had drawn closer, nearly within striking range. Neal thought hard. If they jettisoned the cargo as they were, the pirates might still tag them and destroy them, then go back for the cargo later. But if….

Neal clicked the intercom. “Uncle John, request permission to change flight trajectory toward Jupiter.”

“What’s your thinking?” said Uncle John’s tense voice from the hold. He was breathing hard.

“If we jettison the cargo on a high speed flight path toward Jupiter, the pirates cannot continue to chase us and then go back for the cargo later. The cargo will continue at high velocity towards Jupiter, where it will fall into Jupiter’s gravity and disappear into the lower atmosphere. If they want the cargo, they’ll have to stay with it and catch it before it goes too far towards Jupiter.”

There was a pause. “Good thinking, Neal,” said Uncle John. “Permission granted.”

Neal nodded to Andrews, the other pilot, and they set about recalculating their direction. A simple turn and thrust toward Jupiter would not actually direct them to the great planet. They would continue sliding in a mixed trajectory. Instead they needed to turn and rethrust far to the right of Jupiter. Their vector would then change enough to take them on a collision path into Jupiter, still another two days away.

“Are the figures correct?” he asked, checking the new vector with Andrews. “Yes,” Andrews said. “Engaging redirected thrusters,” said Neal. “Engage,” said Andrews. Neal hesitated a moment. God help us! he thought. Their ship felt so fragile, like a glass vial that could be broken by the slightest contact. “Engaging in T-minus five seconds!” he said over the intercom. Timing it in his head, he hit the Engage button.

The change of thrust twisted them in their seats, wrenching their heads as the stars began to spin and turn outside the portal. After a few moments the thrust gradually readjusted to a single rearward thrust again, and Neal checked the trajectory. “We’re straight on to Jupiter,” he said over the intercom.

The Kiff’eem ships behind did similar trajectory changes after a minute. Their vectors tracked to contact range with the S.S. Samson in thirty minutes. Neal wasn’t sure what they would do then. Probably fire an EMP pulse which could disable their ship and leave it helplessly hurtling through space, a sitting duck. It would also take out their life support, so they would only have suit-air to live on. Until they were boarded.

The airlock hissed open, and the group came back through, taking off their helmets. “Keep your helmets at hand,” said Uncle John. He clipped his to his belt and pulled himself forward by the handholds to the bridge door.

“Any suggestion for what to do after we jettison half our cargo?” asked Uncle John.

Neal had been thinking. “Since Ceres is still the closest major base, I think after we jettison we should rethrust toward Ceres,” he said. He hesitated a moment. “I think if we steered through the Wilds it would add discouragement for them to follow us.” Uncle John eyed him for a moment. The Wilds were a nearby patch of the asteroid belt filled with small rocks and pieces of asteroids that floated randomly and were a true danger to navigate through.
“Can you steer us through the Wilds?” he asked, staring Neal in the eyes.

“I used to do it in the flight simulator,” Neal said. “With a 92% success rate.”

Uncle John sat back to ponder on it, weighing the factors that held their lives in the balance.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll rethrust through the Wilds. You’ll be steering, Neal, since you have the most experience in that.”

Neal closed his eyes.

Uncle John typed a few buttons on a display and thumbed the intercom.

“Prepare for jettison in T-minus ten seconds,” he said. Neal saw him push the button and open the back hatch of the ship. “Aim all positioning thrusters backwards and prepare for a two second burst,” he instructed Andrews. With a quiet whine, all the small positioning rockets on the sides of the ships turned backwards. These were the weak thrusters used for close-contact docking. “Engage,” said Uncle John.

Andrews engaged them, and Neal felt a slight tug forward. He checked the rear camera view. Slowly crate after crate of ore drifted out the back of the ship. The S.S. Samson slowly left the flock of forty or fifty crates behind. Uncle John checked the radar. “They’ll see that for sure,” he said, staring at the display.

“I’m sorry, Uncle John,” Neal said as they watched the crates drift farther back from sight.

“Crates of metal aren’t worth anything compared to human lives,” said Uncle John simply. He looked up.

“Neal, it’s up to you now. Take the helm.”