by Nick Webb
“Helmsman, is our emergency gravitic shift course entered in?” Admiral Trajan asked.
“Yes, sir, emergency coordinates are for Vega—the nearest anchor star, sir.”
Titus could hear Mercer’s profanity-laden voice in the background squawk on. The bravado of these Rebels was starting to really annoy him.
“Sir! The Sphinx!” yelled the sensor officer. On the viewscreen, half out of view and behind the Phoenix, he saw the blue-white cloud enveloping the Sphinx, over-saturating the sensitivity of the camera.
Titus couldn’t believe his eyes. They were this close to crushing the Rebels forever. This close. He snapped his head towards tactical, preparing to give the order to launch the nuclear missiles, and end it once and for all.
Admiral Trajan remained remarkably calm. He paused only a brief moment before turning to the helm. “Helmsman, shift us away.”
Titus turned to the Admiral. “But, sir! The fighters! We’ve still got nearly twenty men out there, counting the men from the—“
“And would you have me sacrifice our lives to possibly save theirs, Captain?” the Admiral replied without even looking up from the command console. His voice sounded distant, almost lazy, as if he’d already mentally withdrawn from the situation and was busy planning the next moves.
Cold, calculating bastard.
And yet Titus knew that the Admiral was absolutely right. There was nothing they could do. Another one of those mines could be right under their hull. Still, it didn’t make the course of action any more palatable.
“Engaging gravitic drive, sir,” the helmsman said, and moments later the view of the flicking and wheeling fighters engaged in their dance of death, set against the backdrop of the massively damaged Phoenix, was replaced by the shimmering red orb of some out-of-the-way giant star.
“Not to worry, Captain,” the Admiral continued, as if reading his thoughts, “I finally have these Rebels figured out. We’ve made a mistake, but it is a mistake that will soon be rectified. It is clear that Mercer imagines himself some kind of guerrilla fighter who intends to build some sort of ragtag fleet to retake Earth. And now that I know his true intentions, we can lay our trap. And this time, there is no escaping it.”
Titus wondered where he’d heard that before. But all he could do was sigh, and say, “Yes, sir.”
***
Jake and Po watched as Doctor Nichols continued the surgery. Ben’s wounds were extensive, but not life-threatening, and Nichols insisted that he’d make a full recovery with minimal scarring, despite the deep, jagged cuts all over his back, chest, face, and arms.
Jake murmured to his friend standing next to him. “He’s not going to like those scars one bit. Nichols thought he could fool him, but Ben’s been around long enough to know what those cuts will look like in a year.”
Po shrugged. “And his mental wounds? Jake, you described to me the pain that just a few moments of that Domitian Collar were like. He went through hours and hours of it, hanging there like that. It broke that other man—the one that came back with Ben. The Fury crew member.”
Jake nodded. “That guy had been here for nearly three years. Ben only had a few days. And besides,” he turned to Po, “Ben’s made of some pretty strong stuff. He’ll pull through.”
He turned back to look at the ongoing surgery. Nichols seemed to be wrapping things up, mopping up the stitches with some swabs. “What do you think we should do about all those slaves down there? Volaski doesn’t seem too keen on giving up his little fiefdom, the bastard.”
She nodded. “Let’s just make sure he gives us the neodymium we need, and then we can decide. But really, we’ve no business here.”
He knew she was right, but it sounded cold. “Liberating slaves is not our business? I thought that was the reason we’re out here. To liberate.”
She turned to him. “To liberate Earth, yes. And whatever other world that wants to join us. But I think it’s clear that we’re not welcome here. No sense in getting ourselves involved in trying to break up the slave-trade on Destiny, as commendable as that would be.”
It felt unfair. It felt like a raw deal, and Jake felt dirty for nodding in agreement, but he did, and he tried to forget about the pale, sallow faces staring back at him in the darkness of the mine. No future. No hope. Only a lifetime of dusty, back-breaking work, far from the light of Destiny’s sun.
Liberate. The word reminded him of Jeremiah’s words. Back in the dark of the cave, when he’d muttered that strange bit about liberating captives. And death. Jeremiah said he’d die. He told Po.
“Well of course you’re going to die, Jake,” she said, catching him off guard.
“What?”
“You’re going to die. So am I. So is everyone. What’s so peculiar about that? Jeremiah the prophet, huh?” She chuckled. “Sounds like he needs to brush up on his prophesying.” She lowered her voice in mock-holiness, “This just in: today will end in you filling your stomach with floppy pork chops.”
Jake grinned, but the smile was short-lived. Floppy pork chops. Sounded a lot like Floppychop. Po’s smile fell too, as she read his face and knew his thoughts.
The door sliding open behind them cut off his thoughts. “Friend! I thought I’d find you here.” Alessandro Bernoulli, freshly shaven—except for his trademark half-mustache—ambled into the observation ward. “Good news. The shipment of neodymium from the surface isn’t as contaminated as we thought. I only need to do a few purification runs on it, and then we can start infusing it into the matrix. We’ll be out of here faster than a premature ejaculation—“
Jake, horrified, held up a hand to hush the man, but Po just laughed, the previous moment forgotten. “You don’t need to protect my virgin ears, Jake.” She patted him once on the shoulder before walking away. “I’ve got to go meet with Tomaga and his men. They performed brilliantly down on the surface, and I should congratulate them. And thank them.”
“They really did. Thanks, Po,” Jake replied, and watched as she slipped out the door, which slid mostly shut behind her, getting stuck with several inches to spare. The strain and trauma of two orbital battles, and the crushing ordeal of sitting under the polar water for a few days had had their effect on the ship, and it seemed like everything was only half-working or not at all.
Bernoulli nodded in the direction of the ongoing surgery. “Your friend, the Commander. Is he all right? He looked like shit when he rescued us.” Alessandro indicated the prone figure in the next room. Nichols had stepped away momentarily to retrieve another tube of surgical glue.
“He’s fine. And when he’s done in there, I want you in there next to get that damn implant out,” said Jake, fingering his own Domitian Collar that still surrounded his neck. The image of Suarez’s cross-eyed, blank stare as he collapsed to the ground would forever haunt his dreams. Hell, this job was turning nightmarish, with all the grim blue faces of the dead staring back at him when he closed his eyes at night. The men and women that died as a result of his decisions. Suarez. That young, new fighter pilot—what was her name? Xang? He couldn’t even remember, and it disgusted him.
Bernoulli wiped some grease on his uniform, which looked almost as dirty as the frontier clothing he’d worn previously. “Not to worry. That’s why I’m here. I don’t know how this thing will respond to the fluctuating fields when I outfit the gravitic matrix, so I need it out before I go back down there.”
Jake nodded his approval, but only stared at his friend lying on the table, in a small pool of blood from the surgery. The one who should be the Captain.
***
Ensign Ayala hurried down the hallway, eager to make it back to her quarters after spending the previous fourteen hours on the bridge. Po had gone to tour the damage from the battle, and Captain Mercer was getting some much needed sleep, leaving her in charge of the bridge again. Surely it was time to promote her to Commander. Or at least Lieutenant, for all the command-related duties she had been doing.
Command. It was not why sh
e entered the Imperial fleet and maneuvered her way into a position aboard a ship staffed by the Resistance. She entered it to, somehow, be a thorn in the Empire’s side. Not just a thorn. A dagger. A poison-tipped dagger.
Nodding at the repair crews that marched past, she turned the corner that led to the crew quarters for the junior-ranked commissioned officers. Ensign Alley, it had come to be called. Out of the eighty or so ensigns assigned to the Phoenix, only fifty-five remained alive, and the quarters of the dead were each marked with a little penciled in ‘V’ at head-height on the doors. So many dead. And here she was. Betraying them.
No. Not betrayal. Love was not betrayal. To deny her feelings would be the true betrayal.
But did he return the feelings?
Of course he did. He was the one that pulled the strings to get her assigned to the Phoenix, after all. Why would he put his neck out for her if he didn’t love her?
She strode into her quarters, and froze.
He was standing there, just on the other side of the door, his finger to his lips, as if shushing her. He beckoned her to enter.
When the door slid shut, she whispered, “What the hell are you doing?”
Galba’s face contorted into a broad grin, with sly eyes. “I’ve found him.”
“Who?”
“Your saboteur.”
Could it be?
She circled around him, debating whether to disrobe and distract them both—the battle had been harrowing, after all, and she needed to blow off some steam, or to cut to the chase.
“Where? She decided on the latter. Hot sex could wait.
Galba’s smile broadened even further. He held up a finger and pointed at the wall. “Three doors down. One of the Fifty-First Brigade. I caught him in there, digging into the computer system. When I checked on the terminal down in the utility room, I could see him navigate through the various critical ship’s systems. He even blew a few power routing stations halfway through that battle. Didn’t you guys feel that up there? Surely it disrupted something.”
Willow nodded, hesitantly. He was right, of course. The explosion had crippled the port ion-beam control system at a critical moment in the showdown with the Caligula and the Sphinx. They’d nearly lost because of it. But what if it was Galba who’d caused the blast? “Yes. Yes, we felt it. How do you know it was the Imperial marine?”
Galba’s brows rose. “Don’t believe me? Just go check for yourself. He’s in there right now, no doubt hard at work disrupting some other critical system. Which one do you think it will be next? The CO2 scrubbers? The internal gravitics? Hell, he seemed pretty suicidal last time we talked on deck fifteen, maybe he’ll just overload the antimatter tanks and be done with it.” He made an explosive motion with his hands. “But personally, I’d prefer he didn’t. I have many good years ahead of me.”
She turned towards the door. “Fine. I’ll take care of it.”
Galba reached for her arm. “Willow, be careful. He’s dangerous. Got in a fistfight with one of our burly marines a few days back. I don’t want to see anything happen to you. Shall I come too? Maybe we can both convince him to surrender.”
She pulled away from his grasp. Clearly, he had no idea who he was dealing with. She wondered why her acrobatic moves during their marathon tantric sessions hadn’t suggested a more powerful constitution than he gave her credit for. “I’ll be fine, Harrison. Trust me.” She forced a thin smile before heading out into the hallway and let the doors slide closed before she reached down under her shirt and extracted a small pen. At least, it looked like a pen. Five centimeters long, and full of Trimethylacetylbenzine. T-MAB, her people called it. Not the Belenites, but The Red. Her secret brothers.
At the third door, she stopped, and took a deep breath.
She must be swift.
The door did not move, so she entered her override code into the keypad.
The doors slid open, and, just as Galba had said, there sat a man at a computer terminal set up just next to the bunk. She stepped inside, the doors closed, and the man stood up.
“You’re out of your authorized area,” she said, in as neutral a voice as she could muster. In reality, she seethed. Here was the man responsible for possibly dozens of deaths. He nearly cost them the battle not half an hour before.
“You Rebel scum. I’ll go wherever I please. This is still an Imperial ship and I am an Imperial—“
She had closed her eyes and held out her arms in the traditional calming stance of the warriors of her people. Back when her people had warriors. The stance that calmed the nerves, but prepared them.
Prepared them for action.
“Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing, you Rebel bitch? Trying to work some of your Belenite voodoo shit on me?” He took a menacing step forward, which, due to the cramped space of the room, nearly brought him nose to nose with her.
Like lightning, she sprung, dropped to a crouch and lashing out with her foot, catching him on the ankles and sending his back arcing to the floor. But before he landed, she’d already spun around and met his fall with a quick stab with the T-MAB pen, which thrust a small needle into his back and ejected enough of the drug to fell an elephant.
He roared in anger and sprung back onto his feet. He swung at her, but missed as she dodged away faster than anything he’d likely seen, and she smashed an open palm into his nose, which spurted blood all over his face and shirt.
She counted. Five, six…. He was already wavering on his feet, and he punched again, this time as if moving through molasses. Like the molasses her grandmother used to put in her cookies when she was young, scampering about on their family’s refugee starship, orbiting some god-forsaken red giant star.
His knees buckled, and he fell, but she caught him, and lowered him gently to the floor. His eyes darted back and forth, but he didn’t move a muscle. Nor could he.
She whispered in his ear. “Now you’ve made me sin. Belenites must not draw blood with their hands.”
His mouth moved, and he forced out some breath.
“Fuck you.”
She smiled. “You’ve made me sin, and now a penalty must be paid. An expiation. You are familiar with T-MAB? The drug I injected you with? Long ago, hundreds of years ago, when my people first settled Belen, we found a lush world, full of native greenery, animals, birds, fish. Never before had a world been found with more than simple cyanobacteria. Never. It was like our own Eden, unsullied by man. Our first fathers decided it was a gift from the Celestial Enlightened One, and as such, sacrifices of thanks had to be made. And just like in the Old Testament,” she stroked his face, “we chose goats.”
She drifted forward to his ear, and whispered. “But they were gentle. They injected the goats with T-MAB before the sacrifice, to make the process as easy as possible for the poor animals giving their lives, answering for the sins of the people.”
The man’s lips quivered, and he struggled to speak again. “But … but … no blood. Belenites can’t draw blood….”
She smiled, and stood. “You’re quite right. But just as when our first parents fled the Garden, and the Enlightened One spoke to them, telling them that the serpent should have power to bite their heels, he also told them they’d have power to crush his head.” She lifted up a boot. “And so it is.”
Before he could speak again she smashed it as hard as she could down on his throat.
And again.
And again.
And again.
A snap indicated a severed spine and a crushed windpipe.
She smiled. The expiation was made. Her hands were clean. The Enlightened One smiled upon her, she knew. And her brothers and sisters, The Red, would be proud.
The ship was safe.
And soon, so would her people.
***
The Caligula orbited the nameless red giant star slowly, since they had found it necessary to put some distance in between them and the vast, flaming orb. The gravitic thrusters had been damaged in the battle with the Pho
enix, and they could not safely maintain the usual close orbit. So instead of the red fire filling their viewscreen, it shimmered distantly, looming about as large as Corsica’s sun—a red giant itself.
Titus scanned the damage reports. Two days until the gravitic drive would be repaired. Power generation at forty percent. Half their railgun turrets and ion beam cannons nonoperational. Refractive shielding down. Deckplate gravitics operating at less than fifty percent below deck eleven—he imagined that must make repairs harder, or easier, he wasn’t sure.
Ah yes. The casualty report. He winced. Forty-two dead. Sixteen missing behind collapsed bulkheads.
He chided himself for checking the casualty report last. That’s what he would do. Only someone coldly pragmatic and utilitarian like the Admiral would be interested in the damage report before the casualty report. He swore to never become like him. Never.
“Captain? Are the capacitor banks charged enough for a shift yet?” Trajan’s voice came calling like a deadly songbird. The voice was so oddly resonant and melodious at times that Titus wondered if the man hadn’t in fact been a singer at some point. The madman seemed to have mastered just about every other instrument, so why not voice?
“No, sir. Are we planning on leaving soon?”
Trajan looked up from his console at the captain’s chair. “Why, yes. Yes, we are. We’ve just received a gravitic communications pod, and we have urgent business elsewhere.”
Urgent?
“Sir, we’re hardly in a position to attend to urgent business. Especially if it requires a fully functioning warship.”
Trajan held up a hand. “Not to worry, Captain Titus.” Titus snapped his head towards the Admiral. That was the first time in his memory that the man had addressed him with both his title and his name. A wide, sly smile covered the Admiral’s face. “The situation will not require any offensive force.”
“Sir?”