Chains of Destiny

by Nick Webb

  But Ben. Ben didn’t drink—he just set his canteen aside and started confronting Velar. Something Jake should have been doing himself.

  His head pounded, he raised a slow, groggy hand up to his face to rub his eyes. What the hell did they do to him?

  Dammit. Ben was right. He was right all along. The man never trusted anyone, and Jake had believed all along that it was one of his friend’s faults. But now, it turned out that if Jake had have deferred to his Ben’s judgment, they’d never be in this mess.

  Why did I take this command away from him in the first place?

  His decision to lie to his friends and assume command of the ship started to seem incredibly foolish. Who the hell was he to think that he could do a better job than either Ben or Megan?

  Doc Nichols. The doctor supported him; he approved of his erstwhile decision. He’d seen decades of service in the Imperial and Resistance fleets, and he should know a good officer—a good captain—when he saw one. Shouldn’t he? Didn’t he say that Captain Watson was a friend, but that the man was not the most competent of captains?

  No, those were not his words. He said the Captain lacked imagination. Initiative. Drive. Those were things Nichols said he saw in Jake. Well, not so much saw in Jake, so much as didn’t see in Ben.

  And the man was right. For as long as Jake knew his friend, Ben had never been one to creatively think his way out of situations or to do anything other than quote the regulations. Hence his callsign: Manuel, a semi-racist play on the word manual.

  Looking around the room, he tried to focus his mind on his situation. Yes. Time to get his bearings. Know his surroundings so he could formulate a plan. Get them out of there. That’s what he did, right? That was his talent? Getting out of trouble? He sure as hell could get into it, so he must have some experience getting out of it.

  Each brick wall was studded with rings, through which the chains that bound all of their arms and legs passed. A table was against the third wall, next to which rested a set of shelves that held several more menacing-looking collars like the one around his neck. A set of tools lay scattered about on the table, including a scalpel, several small drills with multiple, bloodied attachments, and one end of the table looked as if someone had bled heavily on it, and someone had hastily tried to clean it away, with mixed success.

  The fourth wall held only a door. No other openings into the room could be seen. Not even so much as a ventilation shaft. Still wincing in pain, Jake struggled to his knees, and attempted to raise his body upright in a kneeling position.

  His head spun, and he lay back down.

  “Avery,” he croaked.

  “Yeah?”

  Jake glanced over at the marine, whose head was in his shackled hands.

  “You ok?”

  Avery rolled his head around, and Jake could hear a succession of distinct pops from his neck. “Yeah. I’ll manage.” He fingered the wire sticking into his neck and started tugging on it. “What the hell is this?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mess with it though, we’ve got no idea what’s at the end of it.”

  Avery scowled, but released the wire and stood up with a grunt. He wavered on his feet for a moment before steadying himself against the wall. “What’s the situation, Captain?”

  “I just woke up a few minutes before you. Commander Jemez is gone. Haven’t seen him.” He felt a little sick, but shoved the feeling of nausea deep down inside. Ben was alive. He knew it. The man was built of stronger stuff than he was.

  Avery examined the iron brackets on the wall, testing their strength. “Do you think the Phoenix knows we’re captured?”

  Jake shook his head. “I’ve got no idea how long we’ve been out. Feels like a few hours, but it could have been days for all we know.”

  The other two men started groaning. Jake reached out and wiggled Alessandro’s boot. “Hey, Bernoulli. Wake up. Time to get moving.”

  Alessandro opened one eye—the same side as his half-mustache. “Have you brought me on vacation, friend?” he said, groggily.

  Jake couldn’t help but chuckle. “Best vacation ever. No obligations, holed up with the three most standup guys you could hope for, and I imagine there will be room service later.”

  Suarez grunted. He sat up and touched the collar around his neck with his good hand. The other arm was wrapped tightly to his chest, supposedly to keep him from moving the shoulder. Jake wondered if they had gone ahead and operated on it, since it appeared their hosts were not planning on returning them to the Phoenix anytime soon.

  The Phoenix. He hoped that Megan had the sense to keep the pirates off the ship, no matter what offers of help or threats they made.

  Suarez wrapped his hands around the wire sticking into his neck. “Bitches aren’t going to collar me,” he said.

  “Suarez, NO!” Jake yelled, but before Avery could reach over to his companion, Suarez yanked on the wire as hard as he could.

  POP.

  Suarez’s head snapped at an angle, his eyes screwed up into odd directions and turned crimson red, and two bursts of blood shot out his nose.

  He slumped back to the floor, motionless.

  Jake’s nausea returned and he doubled over and vomited onto the floor.

  Avery jerked against the chains to reach towards his friend but it was no use. There was no point.

  Suarez was dead.

  ***

  “Commander?”

  Po shook her head. It was all coming so quickly. The landing team unable to communicate. Then Volaski saying that they were captured as slaves, to be sent to work in some god-forsaken uranium mine. Then the pirate captain claiming a change of heart, and that he wanted to help the Phoenix recover her crew. And now the Caligula. The fighter deck conference room seemed to spin around her.

  She leaned in towards the comm. “I’ll be right up, Ensign. Maintain position, and cut all active scanning of the planet and the orbital space above it. Cut all systems that could give away our position, except gravitics. In fact, lower our position by Z minus 1000 klicks.”

  “Aye, sir,” came Ensign Roshenko’s reply.

  She cut the comm and turned back to Volaski, Ayala, and Lieutenant Grace. “I’m afraid something has come up. Captain, please follow Ensign Ayala and me to the bridge. Grace?” She glanced at Anya, who had risen from her chair in half-alarm. “A word?”

  She led the woman to the anteroom and spoke in hushed tones. “Is your fighter crew ready?”

  Anya whispered back. “No. But they’re what we’ve got. They’ll hold up in a fight with any pussy-ass pirates. Why? What’s up?”

  Po leaned in close to Anya’s ear. “The Caligula just shifted into orbit.”

  “Shit,” breathed Grace.

  “They probably haven’t spotted us yet due to our position over the pole, but they will. Eventually.”

  “Are we fixing for a fight, sir?” Anya almost looked eager. But Po knew better than to fall for the bravado.

  “No. But get your crew ready just in case.” She turned back to the waiting Ayala and Volaski.

  “What’s the likelihood that they’re just here by chance, sir,” said Ayala as they made their way to the bridge, after Po had filled them in.

  Po glanced sidelong at Volaski, who shook his head. “Zero.”

  The atmosphere on the bridge was far tenser than when Po had left it. The tactical station was a hive of activity as the officers and technicians there scrambled to get a passive sensor reading on the Caligula, and the operations station struggled to coordinate the shutdown of the nonessential systems that might be detectable.

  “Status?” said Po as she approached the command console. She motioned to one of the two marines stationed at the door to stand by Volaski and watch him.

  Ensign Roshenko looked back at her. “We’ve lowered our altitude. Now hovering 2000 klicks above the pole.”

  “Science, what’s the likelihood that they can read our gravitic signature from wherever they are, given our position over th
e pole?”

  A young man at the science station hesitated. “It’s hard to say, sir.”

  “Best guess, Ensign.” She eyed the man—not quite a boy, but young nonetheless. Probably a Los Alamos volunteer—the weapons lab had sent a steady stream of scientists to be officers in the Resistance fleet back in its heyday, and this man fit the bill—he looked a little awkward in his uniform, as if unused to formal authority.

  “Maneuvering gravitics certainly leave a smaller trace than shifting gravitics, sir. The energy consumption is smaller by several orders of magnitude. But it’s still a gravitic signal, after all. The ionic and electromagnetic interference of the pole might mask us, but then again, it might not.”

  Po grit her teeth. No, that was unacceptable. They had to get rid of their gravitic signature. But there were only two ways to do that. Either put on a burst of speed to enter a stable orbit, or….

  “Ms. Roshenko, lower us to the ground.”

  Ensign Roshenko spun around again. “Sir?”

  “You heard me. Take us to the ground. Quickly.”

  Volaski still hovered near, under the watchful eye of his marine escort. “Commander, the Admiral knows you’re here somewhere. Down there you’ll be a sitting duck for whatever he decides to throw at you.”

  She didn’t even look at him. She was still too angry that it was his syndicate that got the Phoenix into their precarious position, in spite of his assurances that he just wanted out like them. “They know we’re at Destiny, but they don’t know where. If we can get down to the surface before they find us, it’ll buy us some time.”

  “And when we get down there? Are we just going to twiddle our thumbs while the Admiral decides whether he’d rather take us out with nukes, or just conventional torpedoes?” Volaski had turned to her in a confrontational manner.

  Po didn’t even look at him, but stared straight at the viewscreen, watching as the distant surface loomed larger. “Control yourself, Captain. This is the only way we buy time without directly engaging them. And we are in no shape to do that at the moment. Helm, are we moving?”

  “Yes, sir. Halfway to the surface,” said Roshenko.

  The science officer cleared his throat. Po struggled to remember his name. “Sir, uh, there is no surface there. It’s ocean.”

  She spun around to him. “It’s not ice?”

  “It looks like the northern hemisphere is in the last few weeks of summer. Nearly all the ice has melted.” The young Ensign looked as if he loathed being the bearer of yet more bad news to the frazzled Commander.

  Po steeled herself. She must not look frazzled. She had to appear in control and in charge and on top of things and put together and….

  “Take us down anyway. Put us under the water, and then maneuver us under one of the chunks of ice, if there are any.”

  The entire bridge crew turned to look at her.

  “Get to work, people. You heard me.” She didn’t even look at them.

  The science officer hemmed and hawed a little. “Uh, sir, these ships weren’t exactly designed to go underwater.”

  She walked up to talk to him more directly. “Any reason we can’t …” she peered at his name insignia, “Ensign Szabo?”

  Ensign Szabo shrugged. “Well, for one, the hull was meant to withstand positive internal pressure. If we go much more than a few meters under water, the pressure differential will go negative. A lot. The hull wasn’t designed for that. It’s not even in the specs what it will—“

  “Ensign, it’s not in the specs because no one has ever needed it. We need it. I’d reckon that if our hull can withstand the vacuum of space, that it could handle a little external pressure.”

  He shook his head. “Yes, but sir, the pressure differential between space and us is only one atmosphere, with the force gradient pointing outward. Under water the pressure will be many times higher than atmosphere, and the force gradient points inward. There’s no telling what will happen.”

  She sighed, quietly, so that the young man wouldn’t hear. “Thank you, Ensign Szabo. Take us under, Ensign Roshenko. Keep us as close to the surface as possible, and get us under ice.”

  “Nearly there, sir. Another ten klicks. Decelerating now. Five, four, three….” She began to slow the countdown.

  “Sensors, still no sign of the Caligula?” She kept her gaze on the viewscreen, which displayed the vast, ice-pocked ocean now surrounding them.

  “None, sir. But there’s only so much passive scanners can pick up,” came the reply from tactical. She wasn’t even sure who had responded. It felt like she was in a tunnel—just her and the viewscreen, watching as the ocean reared up at them. The voices around her faded into the background and she braced herself for the moment the hull would contact the water. She wondered how the gravitic compensators would handle it.

  A gentle wave, and it was over. They were floating on the surface, but steadily sinking.

  “Push us under, Roshenko,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steely and calm.

  Glancing at Roshenko, she saw her hand shake as she touched the controls that would take them under the surface. She walked up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “We’ll be fine,” she said, with a small smile. She desperately wanted to believe it. Roshenko’s shoulder felt tense. Po didn’t blame her, and yet also inwardly marveled at the Ensign’s steely resolve, in spite of her shaking hands. Any other Ensign fresh out of the academy would have broken under the pressure about two battles ago.

  The science officer, Szabo, called out, “Two atmospheres of pressure, sir. We’re now past the hull rating.”

  The picture on the front wall changed as the water engulfed the camera on the front of the hull, replacing their view of the vast field of ice islands with a blue, turbulent vortex, pierced by low, streaming shafts of weak sunlight that managed to shine through the maelstrom of water.

  Szabo continued. “Four atmospheres.” They watched the maelstrom of water and light turn darker. The deckplates moaned and the girders behind the walls creaked.

  “Six atmospheres. Eight. Ten. Sir….” Szabo began, but Megan cut him off.

  “Maneuver us underneath that ice sheet, Ensign,” said Po.

  The entire bridge crew waited with baited breath as the water began to settle, and Ensign Roshenko—a bit calmer now with Po’s hand on her shoulder, pushed the ship under one of the larger sheets of ice. Something snapped behind one of the walls, making everyone on the bridge jump. But no explosions. No water rushing in. After another minute, it was all over. The water on the viewscreen cleared, and Roshenko breathed a sigh of relief.

  “We’re there, sir.”

  Po turned to the science station, shooting a quizzical look at Ensign Szabo.

  He studied his console, tapping a few buttons. “Hull is holding, sir. Pressure at twelve atmospheres at the bottom of the ship. Two at the top.”

  A collective sigh swept through the bridge. Po felt like a Caligula-sized weight had just been lifted from her shoulders.

  She’d done it.

  For now, at least.

  Po backed up to the captain’s chair, and as she did so, her mind turned back to her friends down—now up—on the surface. She had absolutely no desire to make that chair her own. “Good job, everyone. Now, let’s get to work trying to detect that ship, and our people. I want some answers.”

  ***

  Captain Titus leaned over the command console, studying the readout. He glanced up at the one-eyed man sitting in his chair. The captain’s chair. “We’ve shifted into orbit, sir.” He looked over at the tactical station. “Any signs of the Phoenix?”

  The Lieutenant sitting over the technicians at the station shook his head. “Only about a dozen or so merchant frigates.”

  Admiral Trajan, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet for the past several minutes, finally spoke.

  “They won’t be in orbit, Captain. They’re far too cautious for that.”

  Captain Titus felt his br
ow furrow in surprise. “Oh?” He turned back to tactical. “Does Destiny have a moon I’m not seeing?”

  The officer at tactical shook his head, but Trajan responded for him, apparently already quite familiar with the Destiny system. Titus wondered again what had brought him here before. “No moon, Captain. Check the poles.” He turned in his chair to face tactical. “What’s the interference like at the poles?”

  The officer studied his readout. “Heavy interference, sir. Ionic storms are generating a significant EM noise signal.”

  Trajan nodded, and looked back at Titus, who kicked himself for not thinking of it before Trajan. Yet another instance of the Admiral making him look foolish in front of his own bridge crew. “Incline our orbit to take us over the south pole, Captain. If they’re not there, take us over the north.”

  “Yes, sir,” and he nodded to the helmsman in confirmation. Turning back to Trajan, he cocked his head. “Do you suppose Velar and her gang could have secured the ship by now?”

  Trajan paced the bridge. “I doubt it, Captain. Mercer is far more capable than you give him credit for. But who knows? Maybe our work here is already done.”

  The helmsman announced, “Orbit adjusted, sir. We’ll pass over the southern continent in a few minutes.”

  Titus glanced over at tactical. “Engage all visual and infrared cameras. Cover every portion of the sky—they could be above us, below us—I don’t want to just stumble on top of them and blow our surprise.”

  “Yes, sir. Cameras engaged,” came the reply.

  For once, the Admiral seemed to be in a pensive mood, and the bridge fell back into silence. Whenever Trajan was present, Titus didn’t feel like it was his purview to initiate conversation.

  He glanced at the Admiral. His one eye was shut. The gash over the other half of his face had begun to heal, though the man had scoffed at the idea of going to sickbay to have the doctor look at it. The man was fiercely independent—Titus surmised that the Admiral refused to believe that he needed anyone around him, including the doctor. Including Titus. He suspected that every one of the bridge crew was a giant disappointment to the man, who probably would have staffed the bridge with robots if he had his druthers.