by P. R. Adams
“I may not be particularly welcome, but I’ll be fine.”
“All right.” He took a step, then paused when the hatch opened. He seemed to finally be caught up in the moment again. “When this is all said and done, we’ll need to talk.”
“About?”
“Everything.” He smiled, then exited.
Was he hinting at whatever Lo was sending to her?
Scalise glared from the couch, where she had embedded her command tablet into a clear gel sheathe and surrounded her legs with the gel-filled straps from the bottom of her couch. “Don’t like the couch in your cabin?”
Benson settled into the adjoining couch. “I couldn’t do without your company.”
“I could have made the call.”
“But you didn’t.”
Benson set her communicator and command tablet in a sheathe, then cocooned herself. She could stay connected to the systems while the computers ran everything. It wouldn’t be particularly pleasant, but the ship systems knew what humans could handle and what the ships themselves could. They were dealing with an inconvenience—a long, slow inconvenience—not a threat to their lives.
Unless something went terribly wrong.
Which it almost never did. They weren’t vulnerable to attacks, really, not maneuvering like they were. And system redundancies were such that only a catastrophic failure would put them in danger.
But precautions were necessary when ships did hard maneuvers like they were.
Seconds dragged into minutes, then gravity tugged at her, pressing her against the gel straps holding her into place. They were firing maneuvering rockets at a much greater thrust than normal, adding to the thrust of the main rockets, then veering in a different direction. It went on for an eternity, but the tug finally abated, and chatter started to fill the channel.
The Marie Belle, the Pandora, and the Pulsar were all reporting in with no problems; the Istanbul had teams addressing a minor issue.
Lieutenant Bales passed along status updates from the shared acceleration couch stations throughout the ship: green everywhere.
And the gunship was closing on their positions.
Benson relaxed. They were minutes out from the gunship reaching them, at which point they could match its velocity and get a clear visual.
She connected to Scalise. “I think we’re good. Would you agree?”
The lieutenant commander sighed. “Yes.”
“All right. I’m going to ask Lieutenant Bales to connect me with this Captain Barrowman to pass along the update.”
“That’s your prerogative.”
Benson ground her teeth and disconnected. She wondered if she’d ever been half as bad, even as a child, but knew she hadn’t. There was something seriously wrong with Scalise.
It would be someone else’s problem soon.
Benson’s communicator buzzed—Lo’s promised package.
She licked her lips. Did she have time for this?
Just a preview.
There were fewer than twenty files. She opened one in preview.
And blushed a deep red.
Someone had an image of her. Naked. From years ago. Some other ship. It was labeled: Captain Sleeparound.
No. No!
The sense of violation was immediate and deep. Who? How?
Blood roared in her ears. Who’s seen this?
Only one person could be behind it: Patel.
She would have to talk to McLeod. This wasn’t acceptable.
Benson connected to Bales. “Lieutenant—” Her voice shook. She swallowed. “—could you establish a connection with the defense fleet, please?”
“Um.” The lieutenant sounded stressed. “I…”
Does he know? Has he seen the pictures? No. He’s worried. “Is there a problem?”
“I can’t raise them, ma’am.”
“Are we having comms problems?” It was almost a relief—to finally have an issue that was bigger than her. Could there be some connection to the gunship issue?
“No, ma’am. We’ve got good signals to the rest of the task force, but…”
“Yes?”
“Just a second, ma’am. We’re getting a connection now. I’ll pass it to you.”
An itch slowly crept up Benson’s back. She couldn’t pull her arms free from the safety straps, so she tried to wiggle her back against the couch.
She froze when the connection came through.
It was choppy and full of static. Audio artifacts made the words almost senseless. And they were nearly drowned out by the roar of klaxons. But then she caught them.
And her stomach twisted violently.
The words repeated again and again. “All hands! General quarters! We are under attack. We are under attack!”
5
Rip. That was the sound of Benson’s acceleration couch unraveling at emergency speed. It was long, drawn out, and terrible, as if she were ordering it to self-destruct. But it was just segmented straps tearing free of their anchors. The couch would be reusable. The cool gel—like ice against her anxiety-heated body—would be sucked back into its reservoir.
What mattered at that moment was getting free, seeing things with her own eyes, and having the crew at their stations.
The last of the straps tore away, and she pushed up, wincing at the sudden stab of pain in her knee. There were still weeks to go before it would be fully healed; she had to remember that.
The helm bay crew slowly escaped their own cocoons. They mumbled among themselves as they slid their system remotes back into the console.
Scalise’s couch was only now starting to open and that slowly. Her body odor oozed out, as if it had been compressed into a liquid in the minutes squeezed inside the couch. Her face was red and wrinkled. Benson could feel the anger rolling off the other woman but couldn’t look away.
Finally, the lieutenant commander kicked free of the last section and crossed to the command station.
Ships filled the giant display screen—the task force and the defense fleet. Defensive systems surrounding Kedraal slowly filled out. These were orbital missile and gun systems that should support actions in their battle zone.
But none of them were firing, at least not according to the computer-generated imagery on the display.
Not even the defense fleet ships.
All across the display, data scrolled down in an unending stream. Damage reports. Failed systems, casualties. Ensign Chao kept backing out through the levels of detail to make sense of ship status. The amber glow from his display seemed to drain vigor from his deep, golden skin. Hunched over, focused so intensely on his console, he seemed even smaller, as if the muscles of his frame had atrophied. He had been the calmest of the helm team, but now he seemed close to overwhelmed.
Benson stepped closer to the helm station. “Keep it together.” It was a private message to the crew. Whispered. Reassurance that she needed to hear as much as say.
And, of course, it annoyed Scalise. “Ensign Chao, Lieutenant Bales, Lieutenant Ferrara—status!”
Once you’re through chatting with Commander Benson! That was heavily implied.
And it was almost one step too far for Benson.
She stepped back, head bowed, knuckles massaging her brow. Something was tearing apart the Home Defense Fleet—the most capable fleet in the Navy. This wasn’t the time to let petty differences in personality get in the way of doing their job.
Bales was the first to provide any hope. “Comms fully re-established with the fleet, Commander.”
Scalise squeezed the ring over the command station. “Pipe it through, Lieutenant.”
A cacophony buzzed over the speakers: voices shouting, someone screaming in pain, orders being bellowed over klaxons.
Some bits of data jumped out immediately.
They couldn’t lock on to the enemy.
They were suffering sensor and weapons failures.
There was a sizable force attacking.
Casualties were disrupting
fleet efficiency as primary crews suffered the brunt of the damage.
At least some of that was normal. Shock always knocked even highly trained military personnel off balance, but it sounded like there was no single voice of command pulling everyone together. The attack just so happened to launch at the same time of the task force’s arrival, which would have been just before shift turnover. The crew would have been at their lowest guard just by virtue of their focus on preparing updates for the next shift.
And they had been distracted by the task force arrival, something made worse by the gunship’s strange problems.
That was at least one mystery that could be resolved while the puzzle pieces were still being gathered.
Benson edged over to the command station. “Any word from the gunship?”
“What?” Scalise glared down imperiously. “We’re gathering status.”
“I understand that. Maybe understanding the status of our own task force—”
“We need to know the Clarion’s status first. The task force can wait.”
“Commander Scalise, has it occurred to you that—”
Lieutenant Ferrara called out, “Course adjusted. Headed for orbit once more.”
Heat bloomed in Benson’s cheeks. Limits. There are limits.
She coughed softly and moved in closer, doing her best to ignore Scalise’s stench. “Has it occurred to you that this attack happening at the same time as our arrival might be something other than coincidence?”
Scalise scowled. “No. The universe is all about coincidence.”
“That’s one way to view it. Please have Lieutenant Bales try to—”
The lieutenant commander pounded a fist against the command station console. “If you want to run this task force, Commander Benson, just say so!”
The helm crew turned. Not fully. They wouldn’t do that. But enough to let on that they were aware something might be amiss between their captain and the head of the task force.
Benson lowered her voice just above a whisper. “Lieutenant Commander Scalise, our most important fleet is under attack. This is not the time to argue—”
“Then quit arguing with me, Commander!”
It was screamed. Spittle curled out and dripped from the husky woman’s bottom lip, which seemed to turn a darker red than her contorted, tear-streaked face.
The limits had been reached.
“Lieutenant Commander Scalise, you’re relieved of command.”
What had been a few tears became a steady stream. Scalise’s face darkened even more. She shook.
And then she brushed past Benson and stormed off the bridge.
For several seconds, it was hard to breathe or to even think clearly. But command required rising above personal conflicts. It required not thinking of the individual or the self. There would be time to cry and to work a punching bag that just might look like a troublesome lieutenant commander. That would come later.
Like the data Commander Lo had sent.
Now, Benson stepped up to the command station, lips forming an “O,” and she sucked in deep, long breaths.
Then she synced her command tablet to the command station console. “Lieutenant Bales, sound general quarters, then please attempt connection with Gunship-028.”
The communications officer turned back to his station. “Yes, ma’am.”
More data filled the display. Hits. Bright lights flashed across the simulated battlefield, and each one caused more chaos in the communications channel. Or worse—caused less.
Bright lights. Lines. The computer simulating weapons fire.
That seemed…odd. “Ensign Chao, is the fleet engaging the enemy?”
Chao’s creased face turned to her. “They don’t have anything to fire at, ma’am.”
“Then those lines, they’re enemy weapons fire.”
He glanced up at the screen. “Yes…ma’am.”
It was sinking in for him. He madly tapped and swiped. The other two officers manning the helm station turned their heads just enough to watch his frantic movements, and Benson leaned forward despite her best effort to stay ramrod straight.
This was important.
The weapons officer turned around, face jumping from fearful grimace to hopeful smile. “Those are our computer simulations. Feeding from the Pandora.”
“Then we can see the enemy ships.”
“The Pandora can, ma’am.”
Ferrara wiped sweat from his brow with a cuff. “Adjust course, Commander?”
Fight or flight. That’s what the decision boiled down to. The Home Defense Fleet was being pummeled. Before long, too many ships would be too damaged for the fleet to be a meaningful combat threat. Several of the smaller ships were already completely red on the display. Could some old vessels and a gunship really make a difference?
Her stomach knotted. “Bring us around to the approximate location of the enemy, Lieutenant.”
Bales looked up from his console. “Gunship-028 responding, ma’am!”
“They have the vessel under control?”
“Comms were blown. They have everything redirected through a secondary system. It’s a little light on bandwidth, but it’s functional.”
“Good enough. Inform them of our plan.”
The lieutenant straightened. “What is our plan, Commander?”
“We’re going to see how the enemy likes it when someone sees them.”
The three junior officers exchanged a glance but went about their duties.
They’re right to be concerned. This is too big for me to simply assume for myself.
She tried to connect McLeod, but the colonel still showed offline. Rather than ask for an update, Benson flipped through the status data available on her console. All the acceleration couch stations were still showing green, and no one was reporting damage or casualties.
Benson tried again. Then a third time. If something had happened to the colonel—
McLeod established a connection with her. “Commander, something’s not right.”
“You could say that, sir. Are you okay?”
“Yes. My acceleration couch was reluctant to release me, and I’ve had to talk to your Chief Parkinson about replacing my communicator, but I’m fine. What’s the matter?”
“The Home Defense Fleet, sir. It’s taking a beating.”
“I gathered as much from the general quarters.”
“They apparently can’t detect the enemy. No return fire, and from the chaos going through the comms traffic, it sounds like they might have lost some important people in the chain of command.”
“I…see.”
“There’s one bit of silver lining, though. Maybe.”
“And that is?”
“We can apparently see the attackers. Somewhat. The Pandora is tracking weapons fire.”
“Tracking? So what’s ‘apparently’ about it? We can see them, right?”
“Perhaps. I’ve ordered a course change to turn us toward them.”
It sounded like McLeod was breathing heavily. “I’m nearly there, Commander.”
“Good, sir. This is a call that best falls to someone of your grade.”
“We’ll have to see about that.”
He disconnected without asking why Scalise wasn’t on the call. Did he expect that the lieutenant commander would have been removed from duty at some point? That seemed a terrible thing to do—forcing a newly promoted officer into disciplining someone with a history of trouble. Was leadership really such a disaster that they couldn’t manage even simple rehabilitation of troublesome personnel?
Just the idea that Scalise was the best the Navy could do was discouraging. The woman was bright. She had potential, but potential without the discipline to see things through? Useless.
The sound of voices shouting over each other in the open fleet channel—that’s what happened without discipline and leadership.
Does it all really matter when you’re being killed by an invisible enemy, though?
Cha
o sent her console an update. “Confirmation our ships have no lock-on, ma’am. Looks like the first attacks hit without warning. Shields were down on several ships.”
Shields down? Why? “But we’re seeing them? The Pandora? It was supposed to be able to do more than scramble enemy sensors, right?”
“That update I sent?”
Benson checked.
A long-range scan from the Pandora. There were easily twenty hazy shapes in the sensor feed. She estimated two were cruisers; most of the rest were destroyers and frigates. Even without being invisible to sensors, it would have been a serious challenge for the fleet.
And she had just her little task force.
“Thank you, Ensign Chao. Can we get an actual lock-on?”
“We should know soon, ma’am.”
“We’re almost in range?”
“They’ve diverted several smaller ships toward us.”
Why waste a capital ship? It made perfect sense. “Send me the scan, please.”
Her station display refreshed: a couple smaller ships close to the gunship in design, four frigates, and what might be a destroyer.
It wasn’t overwhelming, but it would be enough to take the Clarion out in a few exchanges. Assuming the enemy ships got in close enough without being detected. “I want to know the second we have lock-on. If they get within weapons range and we can’t manage lock-on, I want to know that, too.”
“Yes, ma’am. Commander?”
“Yes?”
The ensign glanced at the other helm station officers, who nodded. “Who are they?”
Benson brought up the long-range scan again. The ships were similar to Kedraalian design. There were blockier aspects, and maybe a few sections were slightly different, but the overall configuration, the size, the apparent capabilities…all in the same range as what she knew of her own fleet.
“Azoren.” It came out with more confidence than she’d expected, which was probably good.
The crew needed reassurance, even if she was wrong.
A hiss—the hatch opened, and a breathless Colonel McLeod hurried through. His eyes went straight to the giant display, and a few seconds later, his head shook. “Commander, do you have anything more?”