Weight of Gravity

by Sheron Wood McCartha

  “Why so?”

  “Many feel they’re being railroaded into accepting candidates they know little about based on one man’s opinion, and who, by the way, is married to a Terran. Do you realize that a good third of your suggestions for captains are Terrans?”

  “I’m aware.”

  Trace pressed his lips together, paused, then said, “Many feel that it is dangerous to turn over control of an armed spaceship to a race who has different values, a different mindset, and who wants control of Alysia.”

  Richard threw up his hands in frustration. “You want to put the building of our ships into the hands of a military that is antagonistic to everything we want to accomplish. General Forte wants my program to fail so he can take back the entire military program again. He doesn't like to lose his turf. Rumors are surfacing that the ship is unstable. I suspect sabotage, but no one lets me near the construction site. You need to look into the program to see if there are any improprieties.”

  “At some point, I have to trust my military is doing the right thing.” Trace gazed over toward the window and tugged at his pale, blue collar, clearly upset.

  Richard glanced away and sipped his wine. After a pause, he said, “That would be a mistake. Forte has no idea how to build a spaceship and neither do the engineers under his supervision. You need to put the project under my control before it’s too late.”

  Shaking his head, Trace disagreed. “Those ships should be under the control of the governments that fund them, not some hand-picked elite group whose loyalty is questionable. We have no proof any aliens will attack here, just your say so from some shadowy future person.”

  Richard jerked upright at the comment. “Ouch. When has my loyalty ever been in question? Tell me, Trace.” He shifted in his seat, clenching his fists. “If the Fallen attack Alysia, I’m sure even Terran loyalty will be unquestioned. I’m just afraid the ships will fail when it comes to a real battle because of all this jurisdictional in-fighting. The Terrans know how to build space worthy ships, so why don’t you let me run the program and quit playing games with everyone?”

  A muscle twitched in Trace’s cheek. “You know very well why. Politics.” Trace gulped down his wine, took a breath. “I’ve always hated politics, but in my position, you have to play the game. We can’t fund this alone.”

  Abruptly, Richard stood up. “I understand politics, but right now our world is at stake. Politics be damned.”

  With a weary gesture, Trace placed the wine glass on the table. “I’ll have I.N.Sys look into your allegations. If they are true, I’ll suggest to Sean Courtland to move the project under your guidance. But if we find nothing, General Forte keeps the program.”

  Leaning forward to push his advantage, Richard asked, “What about the simulations? We need simulators with more realistic programs for better training. What we have is little more than fancy video games.”

  “Commander Underhill demanded that portion of the program, claiming that the Air Force was the best qualified to provide pilot training. They had the funds. You didn’t. You don’t officially have the funds for a ship building project either, and the atmosphere in the Government Gallery is not favorable to throwing more money at a program where so many ships could be under Terran command.”

  Slapping a fist into the palm of his hand, Richard grated out, “Those Terrans have already fought against the Fallen, and survived. Good grief, they have battle experience against the enemy. Very valuable. They really don’t want to risk their lives for Alysians, but I’ve convinced them that this world needs them. We’d be fools not to use them.”

  “All right, all right. I realize that.” Trace brushed the air with a hand. “I’ll get some people to lobby for your list. And, I’ll talk to Sean to see if he can pull a few strings at the Galley. Also, I’ll put someone undercover to investigate your worries over the construction of the ships. I certainly don’t want to jeopardize any innocent lives.”

  The tension eased out of Richard. It was more than he had expected, but less than he’d hoped. “Let me know the outcome as soon as you can. If I’m going to get the crews ready, I’m going to have to know what kind of ships they’ll be flying.”

  Trace made his way over to his desk. “If I find out anything, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” Richard moved to the front of the desk. “Thanks, Trace. Thanks for your help.”

  “I can’t promise anything, you understand?”

  “We have to make this work, or we’re lost. You understand that I hope.”

  ***

  “Fire, fire, fire. Frag, you missed.” Deane checked his screen as he watched the three missiles soar away, leaving their targets intact. “Maybe I was wrong, and you don’t belong in the hot seat,” he told Lucas.

  The crews had returned to Sunpointe Academy to continue training. Competition was heating up to win the honor of being the first to fly the prototype.

  “Something’s wrong with this sim,” Lucas grumbled.

  Garrett swiveled in his seat. “You were more than a degree off. This program has drift built in.”

  Lucas snorted. “You and your drift. You flew the ship off the line on that shoot, that’s what happened.”

  Deane groaned inside. He couldn’t have his crew wrangling if they were going to win. At the velocities in the program, and the quick reaction time needed to maneuver, he needed everyone focused on their job and functioning as a unit. “Look, we’re in the top rankings. We can go down in history as the first crew to fly the prototype but only if we can get our act together.” Deane studied his new member, Harry. The kid was a skinny, acne-faced-bundle of nerves. But he had a fantastic eye and an accurate hand on the trigger. “All right, back to the original setup. Lucas, you’re helm, and Harry you’ve got the hot seat.”

  “Finally! Sanity.” Harry nudged Lucas out of his seat, clearly excited to be back in charge of weapons.

  “You’re booting me out of helm back to nav?” Garrett was going to pout. Deane just knew he would be in for it. As captain, he didn’t need this pushback, especially now.

  Thankfully, he got rescued from an unexpected source. “Garrett, sweetie, you make a great nav. No one can calc like you can. You nailed the drift when the rest of us missed it. Own the position, hotshot.” Jet raised her eyebrows. “Would you want my comm?”

  Garrett paused, then laughed. “Frag, no. That’s your seat. No one does it better.”

  “So there. End of discussion.”

  Deane rubbed his hands together. “Okay, we need a short break, followed by a trial on the new setup. We take a fast practice run, and then, log in and record a win.”

  “Let’s make this happen.” Jet smiled at the crew.

  They took their break nearby in Sunpointe’s aerospace lounge where the other cadets, loaded with nervous energy, awaited their sim time.

  Trailed by his crew, arch rival Davis approached with a swagger in his step. “Heard you blew that last sim.”

  “Word sure gets around fast,” Deane answered, putting his hands into his pockets where they would be out of trouble. Davis was out to start a fight, and he couldn’t afford one.

  “We were practicing with a different arrangement,” Lucas intervened. “It was a trial run. We weren’t logged on.”

  Jet edged forward. “You guys still behind us in the numbers? Last I checked we were impressively out front. I understand your need for worry.”

  Scowls appeared on the other faces. “We’ll be first soon,” Davis drawled. “As soon as you stop messing around and let us log in, we’ll burn your asses into the next galaxy.”

  “Big talk,” Lucas growled. “You guys couldn’t hit the broadside of a moon.”

  Davis lurched forward as Lucas took a step to meet him. Deane grabbed the back of his crewmember’s shirt. “Save your energy for the cockpit,” he said, yanking hard.

  Last thing he needed was his crew injured in a brawl.

  A captain from yet another cre
w stomped up. “When can we use the sim? We’ve been waiting all morning.”

  Deane smiled at him. “We’re on schedule. One more run and it’s open for the next in line.”

  “We need more sims,” Davis groused.

  Jet put up a hand. “New ones are coming tomorrow. I was led to believe they’re quite the challenge.”

  Groans greeted that announcement.

  “Okay, lets’ not keep these guys waiting any longer than we need to. We want to make this next one count. Come on, folks.” Deane waved them out before anything happened that he would regret.

  Chapter 36

  A Trial Run

  Deane couldn’t believe they were adding new training tapes and amping up the difficulty.

  Garrett scratched his head. “These recent tapes sure have a lot of shooter programs in them.”

  The crew gathered in the ready room, donning silver-metallic, custom-made, space suits and lifting out of lockers specially designed space helmets.

  “Yeah!” Harry rubbed his hands. “Did you see the rail guns they installed? And the lasers? Do you think the real ships will have that many weapons? Why would they indicate that in sim if they weren’t going to put it on board?”

  Jet zipped up her suit and flicked her eyes around. “As if they were preparing for a space battle somewhere.”

  Garrett rubbed an arm. “Yeah, I get that impression too.” He fiddled with a latch, flicking it back and forth. “Jet, you know anything?”

  “Lots of unusual activity coming out of Tygel Space Center. I wouldn’t rule out bad company coming to visit.”

  “Hey, guys.” Lucas strode up. “You see the new sim pods they’re installing outside the ship? The pod’s orientation is slaved to bridge controls, so it’s even more like flying a real ship.”

  Jet raised her head. “The way I hear it, they want faster reaction time, so they’re brewing up a concoction that will kick us into overdrive. It’s a Terran cocktail. Anyone ever meet Merek? He’s Elise’s bodyguard who’s lightning fast. Augmented to the hilt.”

  “Holy Lady! Can they do that?”

  “They can do anything they want.” Garrett imitated a drawn-out voice, saying, “I’lllll bet it will eeeeven make Jet’s speech sound sloooow.”

  Jet wrinkled her nose at him. “What? You just listen too slow. Kick it up a notch and try to keep up.”

  When Deane plugged into the captain’s console, it had a gleaming white faux leather captain’s chair complete with drink cup and a new complicated touchpad.

  “What’s this?” he asked, peering at it.

  Leaning in, Jet added, “I bet that’s the new network system.”

  “The what?” He stared at the black glass rectangle.

  “They said something about networking the teams together and flying them in combat formation.”

  Lucas sniffed. “Heck with that. If we fly with them, I’ll burn ‘em out of the sky.” He rubbed his hands together.

  “Hey helm, tone down your swagger. Just because you’re still winning in the helm maneuvers, doesn’t mean you should rub their noses in it.”

  “I’m the best, and they should know it.”

  “We’re still a crew that needs to work in sync with each other. The key to selection is a team win, not individual glory.” Deane swore that getting his crew to act civilized was worse than corralling asteroids. “Heads up, helm. You follow my commands.”

  “Yes, sir! I do everything my captain asks.” Lucas smiled a smarmy smile at him.

  A snort from Garrett answered that response.

  As Deane rounded up his crew for a practice run in their shiny new equipment, Richard Steele showed up with a newcomer. “Today, I want you to observe an experienced helm,” he said, as he opened the door for a slender man with piercing dark eyes and a finely etched face, the color of toast. He was dressed in a similar silver spacesuit and carried a helmet under his arm.

  Richard asked Deane, as captain, to introduce the crew.

  Unsure who he faced, he stumbled over the introductions. “Er, welcome to Team Red. I’m Deane, this is Jet, Lucas, Harry, and Garrett.”

  A wide grin revealed dazzling white teeth. “You may call me Bashar,” the man responded with a short bow.

  “Bashar will be taking helm for this sim.” Richard turned to Lucas. “I want you with me in the observation room to watch and take notes.”

  Lucas’s eyes widened. “Hey, sir, I’ve been doing really well. Why would you replace me?”

  “I’m not. I merely want you to watch and learn.”

  The cockpit hatch opened, and the newbie slid into the helm position as if he had been born to it.

  Lucas glowered at Richard, gritted his teeth, and followed him into the observation room. Looking over his shoulder, he mouthed, “This is bullshit.”

  Deane replied with a shrug and raised eyebrows.

  One by one Deane’s crew climbed through the hatch into the new pod, settled in, and buckled up. This time their usual preflight banter was absent. Everyone stared at the new guy with nervous anticipation.

  “For this run, color will indicate which team is communicating,” Richard informed them as he pointed at various colored buttons on the comm console.

  “Good luck, everyone.” He edged out with a wave.

  Checking over his station, Deane tried to regain his composure, lost due to the sudden change. He centered his thoughts. “We’re on the count for separation from the mother ship. Stations report in.”

  One by one, his crew chimed in with an all-go.

  “New Found Hope, what is your status?” Deane asked.

  “Separation is a go,” answered The New Found Hope. Bolts clanked, signaling release.

  “Wow that sounded real,” Jet commented.

  “Control hand-off to pod is complete,” a gravelly voice reported.

  Deane reviewed his launch sheet. “Close all helmets, secure your harness. Stow goods. We’re going out. Comm, give me a countdown.”

  Jet began “Ten, nine, eight…”

  At zero, Deane said, “Take us out, helm.”

  Everyone held their breath.

  Smoothly, their new crewmember guided them away from the space station. Jett opened a comm channel with the four other teams, as one by one, the monitors showed different colored blips launching and forming up.

  “Alysia Station here. Team Blue, Team Red, Team Orange, Team Black, and Team Green, acknowledge.”

  As the acknowledgments came in through his comm, Deane noticed two new captain’s voices. “Team Green here. That you at helm, Bashar?”

  “It’s a fact, Henry. Is Sam flying the Captain’s seat?”

  “I’m taking helm for Blue Team this trip, Bashar,” the voice answered. Deane thought the voice sounded familiar. He’d heard it somewhere recently.

  “How’s it feel, Sam?”

  “Not bad. Not bad at all... for a simulation, it feels real so far. Are we going to battle Fallen this go-around?”

  “We’re going to wipe ‘em out and show these green cadets how it’s done.” Bashar gave Deane a dazzling grin.

  Deane had no idea what they were talking about, but it was time he took over. “Form up, helm, and give me less chatter,” he said in a gruff captain-like tone, even though he felt sweat pouring off his forehead inside his helmet and his stomach jittered inside the bulky suit.

  Bashar swung around in his seat and slid the craft into formation just as ten blips showed up on their screens.

  “Okay, crew, everyone has visuals on the upcoming crafts?” Deane asked.

  “Affirmative,” they all responded, a quaver in their voices. The targets had arrived.

  “I’m Sam Spencer from Team Blue, your designated Fleet Commander,” a voice said over comm. “I’ll be choosing our strategy for this run. The Fallen like to bunch up their opponents. Most likely, they’ll split off and try to come around and flank us in a pincer maneuver.”

  Two enemy ships split off and circled out.

&nb
sp; “Almost as if he wrote the program,” muttered Bashar.

  “We’ll run a three by two formation. Back two ships take out the circling ships while the three in front will go for the main body. Try to split them up. Divide and conquer.”

  The enemy opened fire with lasers and missiles. As an Alysian ship exploded, the blue light winked out on Deane’s panel. The Commander was down. Chaos erupted as ordnance filled the gap between opposing ships.

  “Frag ... o-nite!” Garrett yelped.

  “Hold on,” Bashar warned. The bridge tilted wildly as Bashar appeared to dance the ship among a barrage of firing attackers, deftly evading laser fire and missiles.

  “They’re bearing down on us.” Deane’s hair stood up on his arm and his body trembled as two ships came straight at them.

  “Ever play pool?” asked Bashar.

  The ship swerved sharply to avoid incoming fire and then righted itself.

  “What?” Deane scrambled to reposition himself in his seat, barely hanging onto its arm.

  “Captain, have Harry punch the left side of that leading ship,” Bashar suggested, tapping his screen.

  “Targeting.” Harry leaned forward, stroking his keypads eagerly.

  “Fire when ready.” Deane watched a missile strike the left side of the enemy ship, knocking it back into its companion, exploding both ships.

  “That’s called a twofer,” Bashar chortled as he yanked the ship around, then climbed. The simulator’s pod slanted ninety degrees, then swung violently back.

  Deane’s stomach convulsed, and his vision blurred.

  “Bogey coming in behind on the left,” Garrett warned with a gasp.

  “Hate that,” Bashar murmured. “Hold on.”

  “Haven’t let go,” Deane muttered. In a stronger voice, he said, “Loop around. Get on his backside.”

  “Here we go.” Bashar acknowledged his order.

  Their ship dove, twisted, and came up behind the enemy. Deane struggled to reposition his stomach out of his throat. He grabbed a breath to focus and blinked hard.

  “Targeting.” Harry bent over the kill button.

  Deane saw their opportunity. “Fire at will.”

  “I got a hit,” Harry chortled.