Hampton Lanes

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But Lt. Johnson's screams rebounded and rattled in the empty lifeboat.

He screamed until his ears rang! Screamed until his throat hurt.

He screamed as he watched his ship disintegrate beyond the port hole.

He screamed as the escape deck he'd launched from disappeared in a blinding flash.

He screamed as his shipmates, his friends, his brothers... died. Extinguished like a blown-out candle.

They'd pushed him in. They'd all run for the life boats, as the klaxons blared, as the Captain gave orders to abandon ship. He'd run ahead to open the hatch, and as an ungodly scream of tearing metal sounded along the ship's spine, his friend had shoved him in! He'd watched as they slammed the hatch shut, and in the split second before the lifeboat automatically ejected, he'd seen them all silhoueted in fire and metal, yanked from the floor by torrents of escaping air.

Johnson tried to scream. Tried to unleash the pain he felt, the loss and anger. But only air escaped. He coughed, sobbing, and continued to scream silently. Screaming silently, in the vacuum of space.

It had happened so fast! There wasn't even the usual call to battle stations that they'd drilled for! The ship had shuddered once, and the alarms called for general quarters. Three more shudders, and the alarms changed, becoming shriller, almost scared. And then, the captain had given the order to abandon ship. Five minutes. It had taken all of five minutes to scuttle the latest the RCS had to offer.

The small egg-like pod drifted among the debris of his ship. The RCS Virginia, the navy's crown jewel, now nothing but space dust. Among the glittering specks, limp bodies drifted and bumped. Eyes blurry, Johnson peered out of the window, the debris outside like a fog on a lake bed. He could see the occasional spurt of venting atmosphere, a blue flash of igniting plasma. But the LCD display by the hatch already told him what he'd known all along. There were no other life boats out there. No one had escaped. Maybe some parts of the Virginia had stayed intact, still held atmosphere. Maybe some of the battlecrew survived in the suits. But there were no other lifeboats. He was alone.

There were twelve seats in the pod. Twelve people, more deserving than him, had died with the Virginia. The supplies could last twelve people two weeks. The air cyclers could last a year. So, if some unfortunate soul found himself completely alone on this small metal ball in the void, he could sustain himself for three months. Of course, the pods were meant to be found, and the rules of warfare were clear, that all life pods should be recovered, no matter whose. So all he had to do was push the little green button by the control panel, and he'd be found in a day or less.

But why should he? The Virginia was gone. He was little more than a lieutenant, and the least deserving of the rations the pod had to offer. The only people out here were the enemy. They'd pick him up, take him back to their prison stations, and parade him like a trophy. No, thank you. All things being equal, perhaps it was best to use up the rations, then step outside for a walk before starvation kicked in.

A flash of light outside caught his attention! A search light swept along the debris, silhouetting scrap and bodies. As it hove into view, Johnson could see it was a small shuttlecraft, a pinnace. He was too far to read the inscription, but he recognized the smooth lines and flowing geometry of the enemy. The "plug kissers," as they were called. Little better than the computers they worshipped! As the pinnace moved away from the field, Johnson carefully nudged the lifeboat to turn, following its progress. In spite of his loss, he was morbidly curious to see the monstrosity that had made a mockery of his ship. His family.

The pinnace grew smaller as it moved further away. Then, it seemed to grow larger again. Was it coming back? Had they seen his lifeboat? Johnson held his breath, not daring to move. Had his curiosity cost him his solitude?

...no.

No, it wasn't getting close. It was getting bigger! He stared in horror as the pinnace produced the skirt of violet static of a hyperspace field. But instead of jumping away, it seemed to sprout an entire ship behind it! The RCS Virginia had been a magestic in its rows and decks of guns and electronic warfare suites. The lumbering hulk that appeared had hints of the pinnace's curvature, but seemed bulky and cumbersome, with odd angles. Johnson's blood seemed to freeze, his insides hollowing out. The pinnace hadn't docked with the ship. It was the ship, attached and secured like an obscene hood ornament!

As Johnson watched, his mind still grappling with the tricks his eyes continued to play, the crackling violet static surrounded the ship once more, and it flashed into a purple streak, off into the Hampton hyperspace lanes.

And at last, Johnson understood why the Virginia had died so suddenly. That wasn't a pinnace at all. It was a command deck. A bridge from which all warfare is coordinated. And the rest of the ship had somehow "sunk" into hyperspace, leaving only the bridge in realspace. To an outside observer, the pinnace wasn't even a threat, no matter how maneuverable. But this pinnace had the firepower of a warship behind it! And the shields!

Johnson now had a new mission. He would not die. Not of starvation, not of exposure. He would survive for as long as he could, until friendly search parties found him. The lifeboat's telemetry wasn't spectacular, but it might just be enough to corroborate his story.

And that wasn't all! When the warship exposed itself, just before it jumped, he could clearly see the inscription on its prow.

His enemy had a name.

USS Monitor