Faust howled, punching the side of his console till his knuckles grew raw. “I want to know when they can be fixed.” Dropping into the command chair, he made a call to Stella. “Anything on the S.A.L.V.O?”
“No,” she responded after a time. “I think... I think everything's calmed down. There are a few fighters leaving the station now, but by the looks of it they're Anvil Station's own.”
The Captain sneered. “Lot of help they were. And the station, I wonder? How's it faring?”
Kanpei brought up the station on the display, attempting to zoom in on Alpha Sector. A cloud of debris circulated about the sector and chunks of molten metal could be seen to litter the area, inside and out. The destruction appeared almost complete, and it was unlikely that anything inside was still functioning. Without its life support systems, Anvil Station was lost.
“Damn it,” muttered Faust. “We've lost her. Get Cleo up here,” he ordered, kneading his brow.
Cleo arrived on the bridge after a few tense minutes. “Ya called, Cap'n?”
“Please have a look at the damage report. I need to know how quickly we can get things fixed and how operational we are.”
She nodded. “Yeah, all right.” She joined Kanpei at his console and studied the reports for some time. When she was through, she sighed. “I'ma have to take a look at the damages myself, truth be told, but I'm thinking this is gonna set us back, Cap'n. I mean, the shields are pretty well shot. Dunno if they've got any life in 'em, and I honestly wasn't prepared for that kinda damage. The parts it'll take to fix that up are gonna be... well... let's just say difficult to track down, not to mention expensive. And then there's the matter of a damaged engine. Looks like we dinged up the right main engine pretty bad. She's putting out at fifteen or twenty percent right now. Not sure it's safe to let her run at all, so we might just shut it down for the time bein' and run with a single engine. Course, that'll cut our speed in half. Then, when you factor in the minor damages to the hull n' such... we've got a lotta work on our hands, Cap'n.”
The bridge was silent. None were looking forward to the Captain's reaction to such a dire report, and proved most unnerved when he began to laugh darkly. Faust doubled over in the command chair, stamping his feet. “Is that right? No shields, half-speed now, are we?”
Cleo gave a slight nod. “That looks to be about right, yeah.”
Faust drew in a deep breath and held it for some time. His face grew flush until he exhaled and stood up. Straightening his hair, he cleared his throat. “Right. Well, we're still in need of supplies, and now we need emergency repairs. We need to depart at once to somewhere safe. Drifting at half speed with no shields is most unsafe, considering the circumstances. And as things stand, we don't dare head for Earth. They'd pick us apart in an instant. We'll see where we go next, but for now I'd simply like to put a bit of distance between us and Anvil Station. This battle might've drawn unwanted attention. The aliens might send reinforcements, or the place could soon be overrun by looters and bandits. We're in no position to defend ourselves, so I'm afraid we must leave at once. Mr. Kanpei? Any ideas?”
“I'm working on it,” said Kanpei, searching nearby space for a new destination. “I'll let you know if I find anything.”
“Cleo,” continued Faust, “I want you to start repairs at once. I want someone working on the engine around the clock. It's only the shields that we haven't the parts for, yes?”
“I think so,” she shrugged. “I'll have to look again. The engine can probably be fixed with what we've got onboard, though. When I've found the parts and understand the extent of the damage, we just gotta stop somewhere so I can fix it up. It'll probably take a few hours.”
“Very well. It'll be some days before we dare venture to Earth, and perhaps a few more beyond that before we're ready to engage the enemy.” Faust dismissed Cleo and steered the ship away from Anvil Station. He watched sorrowfully from the bridge at the ruined station, a cloud of debris burgeoning around it. Small ships darted from its insides and disappeared in different directions. Hope the brothers made it out all right, he thought. “So,” he continued. “We've learned a few things about the enemy. They look as though they might be aquatic creatures, these things. They have access to small, highly maneuverable craft, however their shields and firepower are not especially advanced beyond our own. In that regard, we're on equal footing. It's only in speed and maneuverability that we're losing out. Of course, with a bit of strategy, we may be able to better accommodate that handicap of ours.”
“That object that came up on the S.A.L.V.O earlier. Do you think it was one of theirs?” asked Kanpei.
“It may very well have been. And if their larger ships are that fast and maneuverable, we may be in some trouble. Losses... did we sustain many?”
The Quartermaster gave a nervous laugh. “There's... there's really no telling, sir. In the dogfight we only lost a single pilot, it seems. But there were almost certainly some crewmen in the station who didn't make it back to the ship before all the chaos erupted. We may have lost a dozen or more. I'm being conservative, of course.”
Just then, someone entered the command center. Jack Savage, still in his jumpsuit, threw his helmet forcibly across the room, striking the wall. “They almost ate us alive out there! Do you see what you've done?” he screamed, his face scarlet. “This war you've started-- you've thrown us all into harm's way. And for what? Me and my men, what are we putting our lives on the line for? Why, you won't even let us train properly. Our ships were slower and our pilots less confident. I've told you time and again that they need more training. Let's be glad that only one of them bought it. It could just as easily have been the entire squadron!”
Faust glared across the command center at him, unimpressed. “Mr. Savage, thank you for your service,” he said cooly. “If you like, I can drop you off at Anvil Station.” He broke down into a chuckle. “Come off it. Get some rest. There will be more fighting, of that I'm sure.”
Jack stepped forward, his fists quivering. “You son-of-a-bitch, do you have any idea what it's like out there? What you just put us through? And you're doing it for no good reason-- just because you want to help the assholes down on Earth. Well guess what? I'm through with fighting. Next stop, I'm getting off. Then we'll see what this ship will do, yeah? We'll see how your Squadrons fare!”
Faust marched up and grasped Jack by the collar of his jumpsuit. Though Jack tried to resist, the Captain's iron grip held him firm. “You're done fighting, are you?” asked Faust, his eyes boring into the pilot's. “It is our ability to fight that separates us from the Earthlings, Mr. Savage. In space, to give up the fight is to die.”
Jack loosed a growl and attempted to swing at the Captain, but Faust caught his arm and wrenched it down to his side. Backed against a wall now, the rest of the crew looking on nervously, Jack glowered. “You're a prick, Faust. I won't die for you.”
Faust shoved him back and laughed. “No one's asking you to. I want you to live, Jack Savage. I want you live and fight for me another day, in fact!” He straightened his vest and began for the command chair. “See your way out. I expect you to be fully rested for the battles ahead. The other pilots depend on you.”
“You just don't--” Jack began to reply before he was interrupted.
“Captain,” started Kanpei. “There's a transmission from Earth. It looks like Kessler, sir.”
“Oh?” said Faust, arching a brow. “Put it on the main display.”
The recording began, the wrinkled face of Neo-Eurasia's Prime Minister appearing on the display. He seemed a good deal more threadbare than he did in the previous recording; his eyes were possessed of a great terror. Jack watched in rapt attention.
Faust of Methuselah, began Kessler, I am pleased to hear that you have chosen to ally yourself with Earth. I send this recording not solely to express my happiness at this fact however, but because time is of the essence. If you and your crew do not make haste, I fear the absolute worst. Another city has been devas
tated by the attackers. They came in the night and razed one of the capital cities in my region. I agree to your terms, Captain Faust. I just ask that you hurry. If you don't, then I'm not sure there will be any planet left for me to invite you to. As of this moment, only Methuselah has agreed to come to our defense. Our pleas have gone ignored by all except you, Captain. We of Earth welcome you with open arms! When you arrive in Earth-space, send me a message and I will meet with you personally, if you wish. We have much to discuss, and we must act quickly! I hope that this message finds you safe. The aliens... they are brutal.
The transmission ended there.
“Shall I prepare a new dispatch so that we can inform him of our current situation?” asked Kanpei, minimizing the transmission.
The Captain shook his head. “The truth is the last thing they need to hear right now.”
***
She wept as the hangar came into view. Tara had followed procedures, had evaded enemy attacks and had performed rather well, considering how nervous she'd been at the battle's onset. As her Scrambler screeched to a halt on the strip and the hangar door closed, she found herself without the strength to leave the cockpit, however. Something overcame her right then, paralyzed her in a way that no enemy strike could. The tears rolled from her eyes, but she couldn't hardly feel them. She pried off her helmet and sucked in as much air as her lungs would allow. And then she held it in. I'm alive. I'm alive. I didn't die. I'm still alive. She went on repeating it until she actually believed it.
It'd been Tara's first battle. She'd participated once before in warding off a small pirate vessel, however this had been her first true engagement. Nothing had prepared her for a dogfight. There were no assurances or procedures or training she'd received that had gotten her ready to whip around and exchange shots with mysterious, agile starfighters. So many times during the engagement she'd thought herself a goner. A bogey had crept up on her six, maneuvering gracefully despite her best efforts to shake it off. And still it didn't shoot her down. Tom hadn't been so lucky; he'd been obliterated in short order, right before her very eyes, and he'd had a few years experience on her. It didn't make sense; why had she made it through alive?
A technician ran up to her Scrambler and gave the cockpit a hard knock, rousing her from her weepy flashbacks. Her eyes still full of laser fire and her stomach still roiling, she opened the latch and crept out.
“Are you all right?” asked the technician, lending her a hand.
She stumbled from the cockpit, her cheeks red and tear-stained, and pushed past him. She felt violated by what she'd seen. No matter how she recalled the fight, she couldn't seem to exorcise the intense terror that now lived inside of her. She'd opened herself up to it, experienced the intensity of war, and was now paying the price. Her mind rambled along, her body still quivering for all the g-force it'd been subjected to.
“You all right?” called out a familiar voice. It was Mika. She threw off her helmet and ran up to the weeping girl. “You all right?”
Tara couldn't respond. She felt her legs weaken, her vision go spotty. As she wavered, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, Mika reached out and straightened her.
“You're OK,” said Mika, giving her a slight shake. “You made it, girly. Snap outta this. We're home.”
Tara nodded, though she couldn't fully comprehend what she was being told.
“C'mon, snap out of it,” continued Mika, slowly helping Tara to the ground. She was rapidly losing consciousness.
With her head on Mika's shoulder now and her limbs sprawled limply across the hangar floor, Tara continued to weep.
Another technician ran up. “Is she OK? Is she hurt?” he asked.
Mika nodded and sighed. “Yeah, she'll be all right.”
“What happened out there?”
“She learned what the job is really about,” replied Mika flatly, stroking Tara's hair and trying to calm her.
CHAPTER 8
Two days passed. Two days of nerves and round the clock repairs saw Methuselah regain a bit of speed, though the state of her shield system remained uncertain. Cleo decided not to touch it, considering it a lost cause. The necessary components were simply not onboard, and to attempt a fix could prove dangerous without the right parts.
During a spacewalk, Cleo and a few of her fellow mechanics managed to replace some of the smaller components in the damaged engine, but saw only a minute increase in its output when all was said and done. After working in shifts over a stretch of five hours, the engine was declared unusable, and the ship continued at fifty-percent speed.
Limping through space, her crew haggard and tense, Methuselah set sail for Medeiro. It was a trading post somewhat out of the way, several days' journey from Earth, but considered the safest place to perform repairs and re-stock the ship aside from the now-ruined Anvil Station. The course was set, and the ship's single engine labored through the void. Stella was forced to work almost around the clock, and mates were assigned to utilize the ship's native radar in tandem with the S.A.L.V.O, so as to catch sight of any threat without fail. Faust himself had foregone sleep, nodding off in his command chair only during the small hours and relying on stimulants to stay alert. In the two days since their skirmish at Anvil Station, they'd encountered but a few ships. Some trading vessels and two small nomadic cruisers. Space was eerily quiet.
The crew, sequestered in the defenseless ship and exhausted, were on edge. On constant lookout for the enemy, many grew embittered both towards the Captain and the aliens, as well. Drawing from a crude, commonly-used slang word amongst the space-born for fish, the aliens were dubbed the “Zhoiri”.
Regarded with equal parts fear and revulsion, Methuselah's crew worked tirelessly, trawling the whole of nearby space for any sign of the Zhoiri. The slightest blip on the radar was enough to trigger a security alert amongst personnel. Until they arrived at Medeiro and completed their repairs, there would be no rest for the crew. Their only sustenance on this voyage, the only thing keeping them going without rest, was terror.
***
Horace croaked an order across the kitchen. “Noodles! I need noodles!” he cried, sending a number of cooks scrambling for noodles. “They'll be down any minute for their meals. Why hasn't anyone begun boiling the noodles?”
Maybe because nothing we've prepared for dinner needs eaten alongside noodles, old man. Cook Rand Legge peered into the massive pantry, shoving aside boxes of potato flakes and other food supplies. He found the shelf for noodles completely empty, however. A thin film of dust had formed on it. Sticking his head out into the kitchen, he shouted back, “Looks like we ain't even had noodles in a long while. We're completely outta them, chef.”
Horace paused and then laughed, rubbing at his bald head. He leaned back on one of the counters and straightened his apron. “I guess you're right! Fetch me some rice then, my boy!”
Rand groaned. He'd been working in the kitchen for nearly a year under Horace, and found himself ready to quit. Only taking the job because he wanted to live an exciting life on a pirate vessel, he'd approached Faust once at port and volunteered his services. “Could've made me a gunner or a pilot or something. But no! He went and made me a damn cook!” Faust had taken him on, but noting his lack of experience in flight and combat, assigned him to the kitchen staff. It hadn't exactly been the exciting life he'd had in mind. Worst of all was working for the semi-senile Horace, whose recipes and techniques tended towards the inedible and impractical.
How many times now had he seen the old cook drop pans of food on the messy kitchen floors, only to scoop it back up and serve it to the crew? How many times had he over or under-seasoned things under Horace's supervision, leading to complaints from everyone? Been here a year now and I still haven't learned a damn thing about cooking from the guy. He cursed under his breath and dove back into the pantry, navigating stacks of food supplies and tall shelving units. It was fairly dim inside, the lights above blotted out by the shadows of stacked boxes.
Turnin
g a corner, he crashed into someone and fell back, taking a stack of cans down with him. Staggering to his feet, he appraised the obstruction, rubbing at his elbow. “What the hell are you doing in here, Gene?”
Gene Disalvo, the cabin boy, had also taken a spill. He sat up, grinning. “Sorry, mate. Didn't see you there.”
“We're busy cooking right now. What are you doing back here? Aren't you supposed to be running errands for the captain or something?” demanded Rand.
Gene laughed. “Nah, Barnaby's got me back here taking inventory. He didn't trust Horace's list of supplies, so he's got me doing it again. Anything we're in need of?”
Rand frowned. “We could use some noodles. And a new head cook, as a matter of fact.”
“Noodles...” Gene added another to his long list. “All right, sounds good. And what's the matter with old Horace, eh? The roast he prepared last week was pretty tasty, I thought.”
Cleaning his glasses off on his apron, Rand chuckled. They were thick frames, and sat awkwardly upon his chubby, boyish face. When he put them back on, they aged him a few years. “You mean on Thursday? The roast with gravy and carrots?”
“That's the one! I even got seconds it was so damn good. Ain't often that we have such good eats onboard.”
“Thought so. Horace wasn't feelin' too well that day and left Trish and I in charge of the kitchen. We whipped that one up, not him. Old fool would've burned the hell out of it or slathered it in something unsavory. I don't know how he ended up head cook, to tell the truth.”
Gene shrugged. “I heard he's been on Methuselah a long time. Longer than the Captain, even. Might be the longest-serving of the crew, that fella. I think the Captain hesitates to get rid of him because he's been so loyal.”
Rand threw up his hands. “Yeah, but he can't cook worth a damn!”
Gene stepped past Rand and made his way towards the exit. “Well, I'ma hand this list off to Barnaby now. I think I've got everything. Anything I should... uh... avoid tonight for dinner?”
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