Dragons and Stars, Chapter 13: A New Pilot

Neal breathed deeply. Through the portal, he could see a group of smaller asteroids approaching off to the left of the ship.

Neal lifted his hands. He was ashamed to see they were shaking uncontrollably. Uncle John looked at them, at him, but said nothing. Neal breathed again and entered a new flight pattern. “Check?” he said to Andrews. Andrews scanned the new trajectory which would take them on a left loop into the Wilds and straighten out to beeline for Ceres. “Check,” he said, eyes wide.

Neal adjusted the displays around him to ship statistics, forward camera view, and general radar. His central display he set to a trajectory radar view. This view traced the lines of detected asteroids and larger rocks and their trajectories in glowing red lines. It also traced the trajectory of the ship through the tangle of rock trajectories ahead.

Neal focused his mind. This was something he could do. At least nine times out of ten. “Engage at mark,” he said to Andrews. Andrews stared at his display, brushing his hands back through his shaggy blonde hair. “Engaging in T-minus eight seconds,” he announced over the intercom. Five, four, three, two, one… Neal felt the strange invisible force lift him, pull him around in his seat as the engines of Samson paused to redirect and roar in a new direction. Outside the portal the asteroids dipped, then turned and began to approach the ship rapidly.

Neal only had time to glance at the main radar. Two of the Kiff’eem ships continued on toward the jettisoned cargo. One turned it’s trajectory to follow them. Neal snapped his eyes to his forward radar display, putting his fingers on the buttons connecting to various directional thrust rockets. He watched the ship trajectory connect ahead with a two-hundred-foot meteroite. In twenty seconds they would collide at 100,000 miles per hour. Neal pushed two fingers down and two right side thrusters fired and the ship shifted. In the portal window a rock came into view and hurtled past them like one long streak. That was easy. Now came the hard part.
Neal breathed a silent prayer and then closed everything out of his mind but the spaghetti tangle of lines they were approaching. Little tinks and clatters began to shake the ship, as small dust and tiny rocks collided with the forward mounts. The Samson was equipped with two large forward plates of titanite, like an ice-breaker ship from old earth, or like the cow-catchers on the front of ancient steam locomotives. In addition a powerful charged electromagnet aimed forward, parting metallic small meteorites to the sides of the ship. But the plates and magnet wouldn’t hold off any rock larger than five or six feet. Especially at this speed.

Neal’s mind closed around the fifty or sixty rock trajectories ahead of them on the display. He quickly sorted through various options and their results in a sort of high-speed chess strategy. He paused for four seconds, watching the ship’s course, then rapidly began pushing buttons connected to the sixteen directional thrusters on the ship. The ship began gyrating, tilting this way and that, edging to the left, then downwards, and tilting back up. On the radar display the ship’s trajectory path slid and shifted, leaving behind a wavy line. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal could see the forward cameras showing dusts and debris parting almost miraculously in front of the ship, the occasional less metallic rock making it through to ding against the forward plates. Larger fragments of rocks loomed near, some blurring past above or to the sides of the ship. Meteorites and large chunks of rock flipped past them in all directions as the ship continued its slow dance.

Suddenly on the radar, Neal saw a smaller rock intersect with the Kiff’eem ship pursuing them.

“Their ship is hit!” shouted Andrews excitedly. “Yes!”

“Don’t rejoice when your enemy falls,” said Uncle John sternly.

Neal only heard their words with half an ear. His mind was locked onto the rocks and trace lines ahead, pushing buttons instinctively as the ship yawed and tilted like a giant whale dancing. A clear patch opened ahead, and Neal allowed himself to look at the general radar. The ship behind them was turning slowly end over end as it hurtled forward. Neal watched as another meteorite probably ten feet across approached the somersaulting Kiff’eem ship and went straight through it and out the other side as though the ship wasn’t even there. Pieces of small debris began floating from the ship.

“Anyone not suited up on that ship is dead now,” said Uncle John, staring.

Neal couldn’t take that in now. His fingers tensed, pushed, and danced on the buttons as his eyes tracked the spaghetti of lines tracing past the ship. All else faded from view. He felt his fingers tapping in slow motion, the ship shifting and turning like a movie on slow motion as ten, twenty minutes passed. Now the field was clearing. They blew through the last clouds of debris and out into clear space again, en route to Ceres.

He felt strong hands gripping his shoulders. Uncle John flipped the intercom so all could hear. “We’re safely through,” he said. “Thank the Lord. And thanks to a brand-new pilot, Neal Washer.” Neal heard pride in his uncle’s voice. And distantly, as though two hundred feet away, the sounds of clapping and cheering. He stared with glazed eyes at the monitor and the ship’s clear trajectory going straight ahead.

Then he heard laughter. His eyes finally focused when he heard Grummel’s groggy voice in the lounge area. “Good mornin’ ever’one. Whet’s all the clappin’ en shoutin’ aboot?”