Authors Note: ‘Sunstrike’ is a story I wrote at the end of sixth grade and the beginning of seventh grade. It is the story of Sam Spirenzi (a cargo ship pilot) and Jack Andrill (an army commander). Sunstrike was the first actual good story I wrote and I hope you like it. Oh, and don’t forget to review it, I need reviews, I’m serious.

Chapter 1

The following is an excerpt from Samuel Spirenzi’s journal shortly before his capture.

June 26, 2058:

“Pilot Spirenzi, the engines are ready for takeoff.”

I smile and nod to the copilot who had spoke. “Thanks Peterson,” I say, “Evalrous, do we have any antigrav problems?”

“No sir” says my other copilot. I touch a button and report to the officials at flight control: “We’re ready for takeoff”

The answer comes back through a speaker: “We copy Pilot Spirenzi.” I jam on a headset and strap myself into a hoverchair

“ 10...9...8...7...6...5...” I glance over all of the dials, double-checking my all clear, “...4...3...2...1...Liftoff!”

The incurable, unstoppable rush of happiness that I always feel washes over me as my ship, a red and black cargo freighter I call The Storm lifts off. I peer out of the viewport and watch the landing pad fade into the distance. My hands and eyes begin to flick over the controls as I monitor the engines as they start up.

“Turn off all antigrav devices, Evalrous,” I say as I rev the engines. I wait for the exact moment and then I press the button.

WHOOSH! I get jammed back into my seat as the antigrav devices turn off and the engines take over.

The Storm roars through the atmosphere and out into space in merely 5.4 seconds.

“Holy crap, those new engines are good,” says Peterson and I nod

“They were certainly worth the money,” I say, “Evalrous, watch the dials; I’m going to get some coffee.”

I unstrap myself and head to the back of the cockpit where there is a refreshment machine. I punch the button for coffee and smile as a mug full of the hot, strong drink pops out.

As I rest my back against the wall, I think while I sip my coffee. I certainly am lucky, I’m only sixteen and I already pilot my own cargo ship with two copilots under my command (both about 10 years older than me).

But to tell the truth, I feel as if there could be more to my life. I guess my childhood lust for adventure has not left me.

I think of my apartment back at home and a touch of homesickness bites at my heart. I bet my sister and mother are missing me.

“Not to alarm you, Samuel, but-”

Evalrous’ voice snaps me out of my reverie. I blink. Evalrous only uses my first name in times of dire emergency!

“What is it?” I ask anxiously.

“We’ve got some kind of meteorite on collision course with us,” he answers.

“Evasive maneuvers!” I yell.

“Yes sir,” says Evalrous and I strap myself in, my coffee momentarily forgotten.

Evalrous wrestles with the controls as if they were some sort of cloned wild beast like a bear with human and wolf genes, but… BOOM! …fate is not kind to us and the meteorite strikes the left engine a glancing blow.

“Damn!” yells Peterson and Evalrous grimaces as the ship spirals out of control. I guess it was damaged more than I thought.

“How in the world are we going to get our cargo to the Moon colonies now?” says Evalrous.

“Who cares about that, you idiot, we could die!!!!!” yells Peterson. It’s hard to believe that Peterson is ten years older than me. He has the emotional stability of a monkey. But then again, he is kind of right.

“Evalrous,” I say “Get those repair robots down by the engine, see if you can fix it; Peterson get this ship under control pronto.” Peterson is staring at the controls as if they were some sort of cloned bear. “Copilot Peterson!” I yell, “You get to those controls right now and do something to get this ship back under control!” Jeez, I never thought I’d be telling a 26 year old what to do, even if it is Peterson. Jolted back into reality, Peterson grabs the controls.

“Sorry captain” he says and punches the button for the emergency engine.

As Evalrous heads out of the cockpit I lean back on my hoverchair to figure out the best course of action for us. Usually when a crisis like this happens the oldest person in the cockpit takes over (pilot or not), or so regulation says. However, according to Evalrous that’s just stupid, in truth, he says, the person who is highest of rank (regardless of their age) should give the orders. And so now I have two people counting on me to get them back safe.

I try to think of something that could save us all but no light bulb goes on in my head. I guess real life is not like the movies. Think I tell myself, but my brain is as blank as a piece of printer paper. I then realize my mistake; I’m trying to hard. I’m trying to come up with a foolproof plan for survival in less than two seconds. Start simple I tell myself. Well, we need to get somewhere before the fuel runs out – That’s easy, Earth is still pretty close. So if we are going to land on earth then that means we need radio contact – finally, I have something to do.

I spin my hoverchair towards the consol next to Peterson and glance over all of the dials. It seems that Peterson has been successful; we are now drifting steady.

“Good work Peterson,” I say and he nods his thanks. He may be emotionally immature but he sure is a great copilot.

I hit a few buttons and pick up a microphone, “United States of America this is Pilot Samuel Spirenzi of The Storm. We have been hit by some kind of meteorite and our left engine is damaged. We need a place to land, do you copy?” No reply. The long-range-transmitter is filled with static.

I repeat the message again but still nothing. We now have two choices: I could boost the transmitter, which would probably take about a hour, or we could try to land without help from flight control, usually pretty dangerous but with the shape our ship is in, it would be suicide.

As I finish thinking this thought Evalrous comes back into the cockpit, his face smeared with grease.

“The engine is irreparable sir,” he says.

“Damn it,” I whisper quietly to myself, “Well gentlemen, we have no choice but to boost the transmitter so we can contact the authorities. In my opinion the sooner the better, the middle of space is not the best place to be, seeing how damaged we are.” Evalrous and Peterson nod in agreement and I take this as a sign to begin dishing out orders.

“Peterson, try to get us into the earth’s orbit; Evalrous, you get the repair robots to get some extra parts, you and me are going to work on that transmitter.”

Peterson grabs the controls and Evalrous and I pull open the door at the back of the cockpit and walk into the small room where we store our belongings during flight. Evalrous snaps his fingers and repair robots scurry over to us.

Repair robots are basically two-foot tall spherical discs with two legs and eight arms each with a tool attached. They have minimum intelligence levels when it comes to basic things but when faced with an electronical problem they are virtually geniuses.

The repair robots hand us tools and I open the hatch leading to the crawlspace, which leads to the engines and the transmitter. Of course, crawling down a dark crawlspace with repair robots at my heels would not have been on top of my to-do list on any normal day but this was definitely not my definition of a normal day.

When Evalrous and I reach the transmitter, the repair robots are already there. I take a bundle of equipment from one of them and hand it to Evalrous who looks it over.

“Equipment for boosting transmitter,” The repair robot says and explains, “For sending there are extensions for the antenna and nuclear power source as well as many other parts; for receiving there is bigger dish and receiver as well as many other parts.” I nod and Evalrous motions a robot with a welding arm over.

I don’t remember how long Evalrous and I worked on that transmitter but what I do remember was the explosion. I remember choking dust, I remember a loud boom, and I remember seeing Evalrous being engulfed by flames. I remember crawling back through the remains of the crawlspace choking on the smoke. I remember finding Peterson unconscious in his chair from oxygen deprivation and I remember ordering the remaining repair robots to seal off the cockpit just before I too fell unconscious.

June 27, 2058:

Darkness.

I cough and become aware of a piercing headache. Everything is dark. Slowly I lift myself out of the hoverchair and my memories come flooding back. Quickly I push them away, not ready to deal with them yet. I stumble over to the controls run my hands across them, getting my bearings. I manage to open a panel on the wall and press a button. For a few seconds nothing happens and I panic but then the warm glow of emergency lights appears and I breathe a sigh of relief.

With the cockpit lit up I allow myself to look around: everything seems normal, as it would always be, except for Peterson of course who is still unconscious in his hoverchair. I steady myself against the wall and stumble over to Peterson. When I reach him I shake him until he opens his eyes.

“…What…” he mumbles and I shake him again

“Peterson” I whisper.

“…What is it…” he says, still weak, “What happened…”

“You became unconscious due to oxygen deprivation” I turn to see a repair robot walking towards us. I’m surprised; usually repair robots aren’t smart enough to figure that out. It must be a newer model.

“Peterson” I say, “Evalrous is dead”

“…You’re kidding, right…you aren’t…Oh crap… how did he die?”

“The explosion,” I say.

“What explosion?” says Peterson

“The one that blew up half the ship.”

“Oh, that one.”

Peterson stumbles up out of his hoverchair and I walk over to the main control panel.

“Damn,” I say “all the dials are out”

“Damage caused by the explosion all engines destroyed, 63.4571

of the cargo bay destroyed, long range transmitter destroyed. More damage happening at this second due to vacuum of space, all cargo lost, cockpit and crew quarters sealed. Estimated that they will remain safe for 5.6982 hours,” says the repair robot.

“Five and a half hours!” I yell, “That’s all we have before we die?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it” I say, “What caused the explosion?”

“There is a high probability it was caused by a chain reaction which could have started at the transmitter when you were working on it.”

“Pilot Spirenzi! We’ve got a problem here,” says Peterson. I peer out the viewport he is looking through and I swear for the fourth time today,

“Damn!” It’s a Chinese orbital space station. Usually this would have been good but with the US at war with China they’ll think we’re trying to sabotage their station. Or at least they will once they read our registration markings and find out that we’re Americans…

“Oh, darn it, this is bad,” says Peterson.

Two ships fly out of the hangar of the station and approach us. They flank us and attach tow cables. They’re pulling us in – but why? Maybe they’ll take us as captives of war, maybe they will try to sell us back to the US! Or maybe they’ll interrogate us on US weapons and tactics. Whatever they’re going to do, I doubt it will be fun.

The station is coming nearer and nearer. Slowly the hangar doors open and we are pulled inside. With a hiss the hangar doors shut again and we are trapped in the station, at the mercy of our captors. Peterson says one word:

“Crap.”

As the Chinese ships pull our ship into a landing, a group made up of mechanics, salvage robots, armed guards, and Chinese officers approaches us. The salvage robots begin to tear apart the damaged part of the ship while the mechanics force the door open.

I look around the cockpit in panic but there are no weapons I could use. The Chinese guards level their handheld Lightguns as the door is finally opened (Lightguns are basically a strong light shown through an electron microscope, the beam that comes out is so concentrated that it can cut through two feet of solid diamond). I put my hands open, out in front of me and I motion Peterson to do the same. Hopefully the Chinese will take this as a sign of peace and they will not shoot.

“您 是谁，并且您这里做着什么？” One of the Chinese officers says. Uh, oh, he thinks I speak Chinese. I put on a confused expression and they seem to get it. Another officer walks forward.

“I speak English,” he says, “You were just asked: who are you and what you are doing here?”

“My ship was hit by a meteor and we were damaged later by an explosion. My name is Samuel Spirenzi and this is Jeff Peterson” The officer nods and walks back to the other officers, where they go into a huddle. About a minute later the English speaking one walks back over to where the guards are holding me at gunpoint.

“It has been decided that you and Jeff Peterson will be interrogated about the US strategy in the US – Chinese war; after that you will be held as captives until the US stops following the ridiculous notion of PSS” He motions with his hand and the guards escort us at gunpoint to a cell in the middle of the Chinese space station.

The cell is made up of two hoverbeds and a chair. There is a slot in the door for food delivery. All together it is a nice place to be held captive for at least a decade.

As Peterson and I are shoved into the cell I notice that the door swings on hinges! I’d forgotten how obsolete Chinese technology was.

The Chinese slam the door shut and I hear the electronic hiss as hundreds of locks snap shut.

“What are we going to do now?” wails Peterson and I grimace.

“I have no idea,” I say “But we might as well get some sleep before they interrogate us.” Peterson nods in agreement and we both plop down onto the hoverbeds.

As I lie there, I think. I think about what a predicament we’re in and if there is any way of escaping. Though I have never believed in God, I silently pray that I will get back safe.

The bed is very comfortable and soon I am asleep.

Excerpt from Samuel Spirenzi’s journal ends here.