“The standard subspace pathing equipment on a cargo ship can’t generate enough power to destroy a Ka’Rathi capitol ship. A Fighter yes, but nothing up there.” The fleet officer accentuated his point by pointed up. “Besides, we’re still low on power.”
“Doesn’t this planet have a flammable atmosphere? Wont it burn up those ships?”
“Flammable gasses need oxygen to burn, professor,” the Russian woman cut in. Her flashing eyes told of an anger brewing at his interruptions, a storm that would soon rage in his direction. “Just one gas won’t work.”
Connor gritted his teeth at the mention of his unwelcome title but pushed on. “But terraforming began almost ten years ago. Could they have pumped enough oxygen in to make it work?”
The room fell silent for just a second as the realization sank in. Then every head swiveled to the Russian woman who, in turn, turned to a monitor. She tapped the screen to pull up different facts and run calculations.
During the conversation, Charisma had been watching the compound’s diagram very carefully. She had noticed small green lights within its walls, some moving through the halls, but most congregated in large, open rooms.
“What are these little green lights?” she asked.
“Life signs,” the CPF soldier with the Arabic accent said simply. He’d come over to stand next to them during the interaction. His voice had a hollow, morose ring to it.
“Life signs?” Charisma echoed back. “Human?”
The man nodded.
Connor scrutinized the display carefully. Some of the lights were a good distance away from any of the launch bays. The cluster in the commissary was especially far. “Will they be able to get on ships in time?”
“There’s nowhere for them to go.”
“But if we burn off the atmosphere…”
“They won’t survive.” The man’s voice was quiet and resigned as he finished Connor’s statement. “The combination of the terraforming compound and ship hulls will protect those aboard starships from the extreme heat. But I’m afraid there’s not enough protection for those left behind.”
Connor’s face went pale, a perfect match for a room that felt suddenly very cold. “Well, we have to tell them to get to the ships!” he said.
A regal man bearing the uniform of a Lieutenant Colonel in the Colonial Protective Forces walked around the console to Connor and Charisma. Even under the ominous glow of the monitors, the man’s ebony face was soft and his eyes shone with sadness.
“What’s your name?” he asked with a British accent.
“Connor Harper,” Connor answered, then gestured to the woman next to him. “This is Charisma Adams.”
“Well Connor and Charisma, I’m Lt. Colonel James Bradley. And what you don’t understand is the ships are full. No one else is getting aboard.”
Connor felt his stomach turn over. “There’s got to be room. Can’t we jettison the cargo?”
“Sir.” The Russian woman called. She was already speaking with the Fleet captain.
“Thank you Commander Volkov.” With one last look to Connor, Lt Colonel Bradley turned and walked to her. On his way he looked to the Arabic man and pointed to Connor.
The slim, and caramel skinned man offered a handshake to both Connor and Charisma. “I’m Specialist Dawud, the unit medic and combat surgeon,” he whispered. Dawud tapped on the consoles diagram of their cargo ship. “It’s not a question of room, but resources that precludes us from taking on any more passengers. Our life support systems can only handle so much. Cargo doesn’t need oxygen, but we do.”
“How many people are aboard?” Charisma asked quietly.
“Ninety seven. The standard crew complement for this ship is twenty four. Even with augmented systems cannibalized from the compound, our resources are stretched to the limit. The other ships are the same.” Dawud looked to the rest of his unit who were all congregated at the far end of the console talking quietly to one another. “If you will excuse me, it looks as though they have come to some sort of decision.”
The medic joined the group for only a moment before they broke up. Dawud returned to the pair and whispered, “You were right about the oxygen, but it’ll require a Lancer from one of the frigates to generate the necessary heat for the flashpoint.”
Connor felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Is there…” he started, but one look at Dawud’s face answered his question. It would be a one-way trip for that frigate.
“I’m going to the medical bay in case something goes wrong,” the medic said. “If either of you have medical training, I’m sure the ship’s doctor would appreciate the extra hands.”
Neither Connor nor Charisma replied to Dawud. They simply fell into step behind him as he left the bridge. Their route took them a few doors past the dark room in which they’d woken. The medical bay door wasn’t the solid and boring gray steel like the military usually designed. It had equal parts of gray steel and clear polymer as hard as steel with a large red cross in its center.
In the shade of the dimmed lights, the ship’s doctor wore colors that were inverted from the ship’s captain. He wore a white, button down smock that had a dark navy collar bearing the rank of Lieutenant. The man had two assistants, one male and one female. Both seemed pleasant and accepting, their ages floating somewhere in the mid-twenties.
A call over the intercom ordered the crew to secure the ship and close all viewports. Connor recognized the voice as the captain’s. He was about to ask Dawud about the frigate attack when the voice of the apocalypse howled into the ship from every direction. It started as a low rumble, something akin to distant thunder. But it quickly grew into a deluge of noise, forming a raging roar to shake the entire complex. The sound became deafening and, only a second later, all Connor could hear was the all too familiar buzzing in his ears he’d known from the Ka’Rathi concussion barrage.
The raging sound had become intense enough to be felt. Anything that wasn’t strapped down was vibrating and sliding around until it crashed to the floor. Charisma was hanging onto a partition curtain, eyes rolling in terror as her jaw stretched downward. In fact, as Connor looked around he saw everyone’s mouth opened wide. It took him some time to realize they were screaming, the roar of the burning atmosphere so loud that it drowned them out.
Connor seized one of the stationary tables, holding on for dear life as the complex shook. His mind floundered in a sea of panic. He couldn’t form a thought or conceive of anything other than world shattering terror.
Everything that he was, his entire being, became the embodiment of emptiness. Terror had created a vacuum where nothing human could exist. Only panic reigned supreme. The quivering mass that had once been Connor could do nothing but hold onto the one thing that still had substance: a table bolted to the deck.
The shaking was so violent that it made his teeth ache. He clung desperately to the thin hope that was the table as the cacophony seared his brain like a hot knife. Death raged just beyond the walls of the ship. There was no way out. Nothing in the universe could survive the onslaught of a raging atmospheric blaze. Connor knew only one thing: he was going to die.
Chapter 3:
Connor didn’t know how long he clung to the table, screaming in terror as his heart pounded out of his chest. His throat was raw, his voice hoarse, and the coppery taste of blood was strong in his dry mouth. Eventually, he noticed the table was no longer shaking. It was he that was shaking.
He stood, only dimly aware of the constant buzzing in his ears. For a while, Connor thought there were no other sounds to hear. Then he coughed. He felt the air leave his lungs, felt it pass through is larynx. But there was no sound other than that infernal buzzing.
Connor shouted a few times, hoping he might be able to hear something. That pointless exercise ended quickly. He had to focus on Charisma.
Yellow emergency lighting and red alert lights were the only illumination in the medical bay, casting it with a demonic glow. Medical supplies were str
ewn about the bay, as were its inhabitants. The male medical assistant lay on the floor, his neck twisted unnaturally and unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. The female assistant lay half inside the open doorway of the medical supply room. All Connor could see of her were legs. The ship’s doctor lay in a puddle of blood next to a table that had come partially free of its moorings, a deep gash on his temple. Dawud and Charisma were near each other, unconscious. The man was slumped against a wall, and the woman sprawled half over a medical bed just a few feet away. Everyone was bleeding from their ears. Only then did he think to check his own. His fingers came away wet with blood.
He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline or something else, but Connor got to his feet with surprising quickness. His muscles were shaking horribly, but it didn’t stop him from picking his way through the medical debris to Charisma. He placed a hand on her back, relieved to feel the rise and fall of her breathing.
Charisma? he tried to say. Only buzzing greeted his ears.
Her eyelids fluttered open as he tapped the back of her shoulder. Connor! He saw her lips move but heard only that hated buzz. She tried to rise but gave a sharp gasp after a few inches. My back! her lips said very clearly. She froze in that position, Connor’s hand uncertainly on her shoulder.
Connor raised his hands questioningly. What can I do?
She gave a tiny shake of her head as she tried to push herself erect through the pain. Then she motioned with her eyes toward Dawud. Check on him.
Connor left her and knelt by Dawud. He was bleeding slightly from his forehead. The wound itself was swelling like a golf ball, but his breathing was steady. Connor tried gently tapping the man’s face.
He felt something bounce off his arm. His head turned to find Charisma stiffly shaking her head at him. She motioned toward Dawud, then to her neck and waggled her finger. Don’t disturb his neck. Standing erect was painful for her, but she forced herself. She walked stiffly over, kicking carefully though the medical supplies on the floor in the process. She was looking for something, and as she reached them, she found it.
Charisma tapped a small cardboard box toward him with her foot. He opened the box of smelling salts, holding them almost at Dawud’s crotch and slowly moving them up until the man’s eyes snapped open.
What… his lips said, then brought his hand to his wounded head. Ow! Dawud’s jaw worked for a moment trying to pop his ears. He gave up after finding the trickle of blood from his ears. He looked around at the carnage, then to the two before him. Pointing at them asked if they needed attention. Charisma waved him off. She was already moving easier. Then he motioned to the injured for clarification.
Connor shook his head pointing at the male medical assistant, then raised his hands in ignorance as he motioned to the medical assistant half in the store room. Dawud motioned the two toward to the medical assistant while he rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled to the doctor. Dawud grimaced in agony each time his right hand had to support his weight.
The heavy smell of medical alcohol in the small room meant one of the numerous bottles must have burst in the attack. Charisma gave the woman a quick check before gently patting her face.
The woman didn’t awaken and she gave the store room a quick glance. When she didn’t find what she was searching for she turned to Connor. Charisma motioned to her nose, pointed two fingers toward her eyes, and waggled her finger around the room. Find that open alcohol container.
The lighting was even worse there than in the medical bay. Fortunately, his sense of smell zeroed in on the broken bottle almost immediately. He handed the bottle to Charisma who waved it under the woman’s nose like a smelling salt. She coughed and shook her head awake.
Her mouth moved but her lips moved far too quickly for either of them to understand. It took a few seconds to get the woman to her feet, but she seemed surprisingly uninjured. Charisma smiled sweetly, pointed to her ear, and motioned for the woman to follow.
Between the four of them they got the medical bay in some semblance of order just as casualties started rolling in. Dawud had the most medical training and took over as doctor, directing their actions as best he could.
Working with an all deaf staff created an unprecedented level of difficulty. But they soon found a method of communication that combined hand signals, written instructions, and small flying objects to attract attention. It was surprisingly efficient. For three of them, at least.
Connor had absolutely no skill in the medical field at all. Even when he wasn’t in shock he tended to screw up simple adhesive bandages. While the others soon moved like a well-trained unit, he constantly got underfoot. Soon, Dawud made it clear that he was to clean and ferry supplies.
During his efforts to stay out from underfoot, Connor took the time to open one of the room’s two view ports. The transparent metal that served as a window showed a dismal red sky. All the remaining flammable gasses had burned off leaving only the murky burgundy remnants of the original toxic atmosphere.
He watched out the window as often as he could, seeing the sky slowly darken like eternal night falling on life’s twilight. Connor stole a glance while cleaning off one of the countertops to use it as a makeshift bed. Tiny sparkling lights were slowly appearing through the suffocating red haze. Another glance while sweeping away used gauze and bandages showed a sky that was growing blacker as the twinkling lights intensified. They were at launch.
After what seemed like an eternity of constant patients, the injured finally stopped coming. The entire bay was full of injured people, both military and civilian. Even out of the way areas on the floor and the two crew quarters directly across from the medical bay had wounded people convalescing.
Connor leaned against a table, his entire body shaking from his efforts. Charisma, Dawud, and the medical assistant poured over the last of the injured at various points of the medical bay. He looked to each of them. Clothing torn, stains of blood, and various obvious injuries aside, they flowed through their work like professionals. They seemed to have some sense of what they were doing. Even Charisma had an innate medical sense. It was like she was born for this.
They were all glad the injured had stopped arriving, but Connor’s relief stemmed less from the humanitarian reasons of the others. He was tired of being underfoot. He was tired of being the dumb guy.
A tap on the shoulder from the medical assistant drew Connor’s attention to the doorway. The imposing Colonel Bradley had entered. Other than the soot smearing one side of his face, he seemed completely unfazed by the nightmare that had befallen everyone else. He was flanked by a tan-skinned beauty with long dark hair. The entire chest of her uniform was stained red with blood. It was soaked in the sticky fluid. From the way the women held herself, regal yet relaxed, Connor doubted it belonged to her. She must have been helping with the wounded in other sections of the ship. The woman wore a CPF uniform just like Dawud and the colonel, except her rank denoted a lieutenant. Her name tape said Tejeda. She and the Colonel appraised the room before the Colonel motioned Dawud to join them at the medical computer. Connor and Charisma tagged along.
Conditions? Colonel Bradley typed.
Seven dead, twenty four injured, six of which critical, Dawud typed. Doctor critical. Dawud tapped his own head, referring to the doctor. Head injury severe but should recover.
There was a moment where everyone just stared at each other as Colonel Bradley considered the information. Connor meekly pushed his way to the computer.
Good news? he typed. He couldn’t think of a better way to ask what happened with the Ka’Rathi ships. Colonel Bradley seemed to understand what he meant.
One Ka’Rathi ship remains, heavily damaged, the colonel typed. Gringolet sacrificed. Fleet grouping in high orbit before secondary destination.
Connor was shocked that they didn’t destroy the crippled Ka’Rathi ship. The bastards just killed hundreds if not thousands of people after all. He wanted to ask why, but his time at the console was over. Colonel Bradley pushed him
out of the way and began typing again.
Hearing loss permanent? the colonel typed.
Can be regenerated, Dawud replied. Severity = time.
Start with bridge, medical, engineering crews. Other military after. Civilians last. What do you need?
Charisma. Not a surprising response. Also, any/all medical supplies, military and civilian. Especially bio-plasm. When the Colonel looked up at Dawud after reading, Dawud tapped an ear.
The colonel nodded, then pointed questioningly at Connor. Dawud gave Connor an apologetic smile but shook his head. Again, not a surprising response. He’d been mostly underfoot after all.
Lieutenant Tejeda tapped a finger on the table near the console. When Colonel Bradley looked to her, she waggled a finger between herself and Connor. The Colonel gave a curt nod, then turned and left. Lieutenant Tejeda shot him a lively smile as she waggled a finger for him to follow her out the door.
Chapter 4:
Connor weaved his way through the maze of boxes and supplies that were piled up to the thirty-five-foot ceiling and held in place by thick cargo nets. Several times he got lost and was forced to use the warmly lit display panels on the walls to find his way.
It had taken almost five days, but Connor’s hearing was finally mostly back. If it hadn’t been for the physical regeneration compounds, called bio-plasm, his hearing would never have returned. Not even partially. It was the same with everyone aboard, and now that he’d finally had his treatment, he could actually hear his televids again.
More and more towers of boxes threatened to overwhelm Connor’s sense of direction as he wove his way through the maze, but eventually, his prey came into view. He strode forward pridefully, a winning grin on his face. He’d found the box labeled Paprika. The box had a hole in it, where the last user had torn it open to get at the popular spice. Connor reached inside and pulled out one of the three remaining canisters.
Echoes of Avarice Page 3