Resolution: Bad Star

by M. L. Baldauf

  A buzzing klaxon alerted Glenn that a weapons lock was available. He pressed one of the buttons on the head of his joystick and held it down, watching the HUD’s indicators of fictional missile paths streak toward their target. His computer pinged, indicating the successful simulated destruction of the station, based on the collective hits of all the fighters’ fictional arsenals. He smiled as he imagined the shocked expression of the station crew. One of Resolution’s computer engineers programmed a superficial virus to be sent to the station, causing a brief power outage and a skull and crossbones marque to appear on every computer display available. Moments after the stations simulated demise, all 60 fighters buzzed the station and continued their arch back to Resolution.

  “Head Case, how many personnel on that station,” Glenn called out to his wingman.

  “About two-hundred I think,” Headcase responded. “Why you ask, boss?”

  “Remind me to ask Captain McLeod to send a message to the U.N.C. quartermaster; two-hundred new pairs of pants. Post haste.”

  The bridge of the Resolution was nearly silent in anticipation. The ship had been slowed to a speed just fast enough to maintain orbit, shortening the final leg of the journey for the fighters. McLeod was turned towards flight operations, his eyes drilling a hole in Parker.

  She was intuitively aware of this, but she could do nothing to ignore it but stare at the unchanging computer monitors, waiting for the fighters to return to contact with the ship. The same phenomenon that left the Resolution invisible to the station, also left the station and fighters invisible to the Resolution, as long as they remained separated by the planet. Her anticipation to make contact was equal parts wanting to see the results of the drill, and wanting McLeod to focus on someone else.

  What seemed like an eternity passed before indicators for each fighter began to appear on the screens. Then, data from the mission flowed onto the screen immediately in front of her. She briefly went over the data before turning on her heels and beaming at the Captain.

  “Mission was a success, sir. Simulated destruction of the station was completed at exactly five minutes and thirty-six seconds on the mission clock. One minute after reaching visual contact, and thirty seconds after the first missile launch. They wouldn’t have known what happened till it was over,” She said, unable to stop smiling.

  The bridge and flight operations erupted in applause and cheering. Harper’s initial instinct was to scold the crews for their behavior, as crew discipline fell squarely on the shoulders of the first officer, but his second instinct was to check the Captain’s reaction, who was frequently flexible on matters such as celebrating success on the bridge. Sure enough, McLeod was beaming at the crew and allowing them their moment of joviality. Harper allowed himself a smile at their successful demonstration of Resolution's power and strategic value.

  “Commander, you have the bridge. I’ll be in the C.I.C. You should be expecting a shuttle from the station shortly. Have the admiral escorted to me when she arrives,” McLeod said as he glided down the stairs and out of sight. Harper watched after him with a brief look of confusion, a feeling he was becoming accustomed to, but not comfortable with.

  “Commander Parker,” Harper called below, waiting for her attention, “Complete the cycle. Bring our fighters in.”

  Over the course of eight minutes, the fighters made their landings without incident and were stowed away. The bustling activity on the flight deck had died down by the time Sato broke the silence on the bridge.

  “Commander, a shuttle is approaching from aft. An Admiral Cotton is requesting permission to land.”

  “The clearance codes check out,” Harper asked in bewilderment, as he had never heard the name before.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Permission granted.” Harper rose out of his seat and watched through the flight operations windows as the craft glided onto the flight deck. The appearance of the craft increased Harper’s confusion. Shuttle craft in the U.N.C. military closely resembled the space shuttles in use for the latter half of the twentieth-century, a design humanity frequently revisited, as it represented a transition from violently launching astronauts into space on crude rockets, to carrying them on extended stays in space.

  Harper was shocked by its cosmetic appearance, because Admirals’ personal shuttles were typically royal blue and adorned with gold filigrees. They could afford to have these flamboyant expressions of high rank, because even fleet admirals never left their flag ships while in harm’s reach. This shuttle was flat black like the personnel carriers aboard Resolution, and judging by gleaming gouges in the hull, had seen combat.

  His curiosity getting the best of him, Harper descended the staircase and approached the flight deck windows. There was a puff of steam as the starboard hatch on the shuttle opened and angled towards the deck, creating a ramp. Harper discretely entered commands into the nearest console, changing the screen from readouts on various flight deck systems, to a video monitor zoomed tightly on the shuttle craft. His actions hadn’t escaped the attention of Parker who was now standing to his left.

  They watched as one combat boot made its appearance through the threshold, followed by the other. A moment later, the admiral was crouching through the hatch and stepping onto the deck. Her movements didn’t carry the typical air of privilege that went with the ranks of Admiral, and in Harper’s entire military career, this was the first time he had seen anyone over the rank of Captain, smile.

  The Admiral was in her 40’s, with shoulder length gray hair that curled ever so slightly. She appeared to be very spry for her age, and her worn face was just beginning to loosen the appearance of what was clearly once a jaw line that could cut steel. An MP stepped into view and gave her a crisp salute, which the Admiral returned. As they shared a brief exchange, Harper felt Parker turn her gaze towards him.

  “She’s a fleet admiral,” She stated quietly, but also seemed to be requesting confirmation.

  Harper squinted at the screen, eying the circle of five silver stars on each shoulder, “You’re right. That’s a bit odd.” It was obviously impossible to know the name of every high ranking officer in the U.N.C. Navy, but anyone on the Resolution, or on any other vessel for that matter, could state with confidence that there are only five fleet admirals, and could name them from memory. Admiral Cotton was a stranger.

  Harper considered for a moment asking Sato to re-check the clearance codes, or perhaps open the service record on Admiral Cotton, but thought better of it. As next in line for commanding officer, there was very little he wasn’t privy to, and he accepted that which he wasn’t. He also knew the clearance codes would check out, as they had before, and had the strangest feeling that the service records would be classified above his clearance.

  He broke away from his ponderings and realized that the entire flight operations crew was staring incessantly at the new arrival. They were immediately aware of their XO’s attention, and returned to work without a word. Harper flipped off the monitor as the MP escorted the Admiral off screen. He turned to Parker who arched a brow at him expectantly.

  “So, how did we do, overall,” he asked.

  “Nearly too well to believe,” She said, as she lead him to her console at the center of flight operations, “This is hands down the most efficient fighter attack I have ever seen.”

  “You sound very optimistic,” He replied.

  “In all honesty, Commander, if they weren’t on my side, I would be afraid of them. The next time we encounter the Salaxians, we’re going to change the war.”

  “Try to keep in mind, this may have been a real-world exercise, but there was a wide margin for error and no imminent threat. We have some of the best military pilots alive, but very few of them has been in combat with the Salaxians outside of a simulator. That’s when we, and they, get to see what they’re really made of.”

  * * *

  The noise level in the squadron ready room was nearly deafening. The pilots were seated but talking jovially amongst t
hemselves, every one of them grinning from ear to ear. Glenn entered the room from the podium side with the same grin as he scanned the room, watching his pilots reveling in the glory of a flawless performance.

  “Alright, alright,” He shouted, and waited for the noise to die down. The room fell silent and left a painful ringing in his ears. “I wanted to congratulate you on a fantastic drill… I wanted to, but it seems like you were already busy doing that yourselves when I got here.” He shrugged and there was a brief outburst of laughter that was quickly quelled when he raised his hands.

  “I’ve gone over the numbers with Lieutenant Commander Parker, and what we saw was the most brutal and unforgiving surprise attack in the history of warfare.” He paused waiting for another outburst, but the pilots resisted. “Your performance was top notch, but I expect even better the next time we encounter the Salaxians. I will accept nothing less than sending those alien bastards crawling back to their bitch mothers.”

  There was an outburst of cheering and applause that slowly wound down on its own. “Now, the bad news. I talked with the crew chief, who was less than happy with you. Seems a lot of you got a little over excited during your landing and hit the deck pretty hard. Chief says if he catches you doing it again, you’ll have the choice between getting on your hands and knees to scrub the skid marks off the flight deck, or under your bird replacing the parts you broke with the most rudimentary Bronze Age tools he can find.” There were a few chuckles but the mood was instantaneously altered when Glenn looked up, and they saw the sincere expression on his face.

  “I told the chief that would do fine. We’ve got enemies that will do everything they can to tear your fighter to pieces. I don’t need you damaging your fighter for them. We’re light-years from civilization at any given time, and we won’t always be able to replace what you break. So, from now on, unless it is a combat necessity, you land on the flight deck like it’s your mother’s back.” He paused a moment for effect. “Dismissed.”

  * * *

  Harper absentmindedly sipped at his coffee, scrolling through crew reports on his personal data pad. He was stirred briefly from his perusing by the clatter of a tray to his right. Parker slouched into the seat behind the tray and started to unceremoniously dig in. She was even more stunning when she let down the formalities of a military officer.

  She noticed Harper staring and stopped to smile at him. “Not in the Captain’s mess, I see.”

  “Captain is eating with the admiral. Wanted to keep it private,” he replied, forcing his eyes away from her.

  “I see. Good reading?”

  “A first officer’s work is never done.”

  “Getting bored yet?”

  “Now? Or in general?”

  “In general.”

  “I suppose in a way, I’m a bit restless. It’s been almost six months since anyone has even mistakenly reported a Salaxian sighting. But I also realize that every day we don’t see them is a blessing.”

  “True.”

  “You’ve been keeping busy though.”

  “And grateful for it. I get all the excitement of battle without the pressure. I still can’t believe I got this assignment.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You? Captain said I came highly recommended, but I didn’t realize you gave the reference.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You were a fantastic pilot and an exemplary wingman in the S.S.D.F. I hear you filled the CAG position pretty well when I left.”

  “I had pretty big shoes to fill. Why did you leave anyway?”

  There was a moment of silence as Harper stared into her eyes. He turned back towards his cup of coffee. “You know exactly why I left.”

  “No. I know why you think you had to leave, but it was a load of bullshit.”

  “Commander, that’s enough.”

  “I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to offend you. I know you took that mission hard, but you received an accommodation. No one blames you for the loss of that ship.”

  “I said that’s enough!” Raising his voice attracted the attention of a few others in the mess hall. Harper noticed a few of them discretely looking over their shoulders or peeking around their fellow crewmembers. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get these duty rosters finished.”

  Parker turned after him wanting to call him back, but decided against it. She watched him exit the mess hall and returned to her meal in silence.

  Chapter 4

  Pirates

  June 12 2213

  1356

  Fomalhaut system

  Harper heaved a sigh as the ship came out of warp and flung itself in an upward curve towards the mining facility on Fomalhaut’s solitary companion. It was nearing the end of Alpha shift, and when the rush of warp euphoria left, the weary Commander began longing for his bunk.

  The patrol had been uneventful so far. Relatively, he thought. Resolution's MPs had helped keep the peace at a minor labor dispute, and the brief shore leave for the crew in the Capaldi system commerce planet resulted in, as it usually does, a handful minor disciplinary issues with various crew members. As first officer, Harper had to clear these crew members out of municipal holding facilities, and determine punishments for everything from bar fights to public intoxication.

  Most of the minor troubles Harper had to sort out, however, required little action from McLeod. He looked well energized, upright in his chair with the suspicious air of someone looking for trouble. Harper hoped to himself that the Captain would be disappointed. He wanted nothing more than to complete the check at Fomalhaut, and start the long uneventful trek to the Davinson system.

  The ship was approaching one of the unique man-made wonders of the colonies. The planet was a barren black rock, nearly thrice the size of Earth’s moon. The crust of the planet was the hardest natural mineral known to man. Inside a deep crater on that planet was the Fomalhaut Mining Facility. The crater protected the exposed shipping and receiving center from the daily barrage of meteor collisions, originating in the nearby debris belt, which would devastate any other human colony. From there, the facility branched out into the softer material under the crust, which was the facilities cash mineral, Fomalite ore.

  Though it was the one mineral humanity was unable refine as well as nature could, the resulting alloy, Fomalanium, paled only in comparison to the planet’s crust itself. It was used in countless industrial applications, as well as the hull of military vessels like the Resolution. While hard enough to survive most blows, when hit hard enough, it was more likely to bend than break, making it ideal for a ships armor. This facility was the sole source of the mineral, and the biggest cause for the success of the commerce planet in the Capaldi system.

  “This place always reminded me of those old off shore oil rigs on Earth,” Harper casually remarked to the Captain.

  “Why’s that Commander,” McLeod asked, barely able to remove his gaze from the glistening black rock in the distance.

  “A few hundred-people living and working in a treacherous environment for months at a time, just to cash in on the most precious commodity known to man.”

  “Fortunately, unlike oil, they expect this supply to last thousands of years. By then that debris disk may form another one like it. “

  “Either way, it may not be a problem. Fomalanium is almost infinitely recyclable,” Harper added. He had had the fortune of meeting one of Resolution's designing engineers in a bar in Cleveland during his last furlough. The engineer laughed incessantly when Harper referred to the ship as "new," sighting the fact that most of Resolution's Fomalanium hull was recycled from retired battleships.

  “Also, unlike oil.”

  “Also, unlike oil,” Harper confirmed with a chuckle.

  There was a sudden, mercifully brief, ear grating squeal as something struck the hull just forward of the bridge. The entire bridge crew cringed at the sound and nearly missed seeing the object bounce off one of the forward view ports.

  “That didn’t sound good,” Harper
said as he walked toward the forward view port.

  “Bio-spectral analysis if you would, Sato,” McLeod directed.

  “If I can find it. There! It’s a piece of a ship, small, non-military, standard titanium,” Sato read off.

  “Any indication of what happened to it,” McLeod asked, rising from his seat. He had found the trouble he was looking for but was unhappy with the brand.

  “Looks like there are some low yield laser weapon burns, and possible damage from improvised explosives.”

  “Pirates,” McLeod summarized, to no one in particular.

  “There’s a trail of this debris ahead, Captain. It appears to arch towards the mining facility,” Sato added, turning nervously toward the Captain.

  “Continue to the mining facility, best speed. Sato, attempt to establish contact.”

  “No good, sir,” Sato replied. “We’re not receiving a signal from the station.”

  “Try sub-light radio,” McLeod ordered. Sato pulled the corded device from above his head and adjusted the dials before keying the mic and broadcasting a standard greeting to the mining facility. No response. “Keep trying.”

  “What are you thinking,” Harper asked as the Captain joined him by the forward view port.

  “The worst, unfortunately. It looks like the work of pirates, and worst of all, I think we’re too late.”

  “You think they’ve already made their escape?”

  “Well, it couldn’t have happened too long ago. The debris field would have dispersed after an hour or so. But, I think that trail is the remains of the security detail trying to stop them.”

  “With that kind of head start, they could be in another system by now.”

  “Maybe. Let’s just focus on the facility for the time being. Commander, if we aren’t able to establish radio contact with them, I want you to take a small team of SSEALs to the station, make sure they’re not being held hostage. We can figure out what to do from there.”