by Zieja, Joe
He was probably pretty naive to expect a rousing cheer or one of those slow salutes he hated. Instead, what he got was the stunned silence of the bridge and Belgrave shaking his head and muttering offensive things under his breath.
“No,” Rogers said. “Listen. I know how that sounded. Um. It’s not that I don’t know anything about space strategy.” He paused for a second while he tried to gather the words that seemed to keep falling stupidly out of his mouth. “It’s that I have a new strategy. A secret strategy. Yeah, that’s it. A secret strategy that I’ve been saving to combat Sun Tzu Jr. And now that we have the chance, I’m finally going to employ it.”
“What’s it called?” someone shouted from the back.
“Common sense,” Rogers said.
“Captain,” Commander Belgrave said softly, “this is the military. You can’t just come in here and start throwing those words around.”
Rogers ignored him. “Everyone listen up. We’re going to win this battle—”
“Sir!” the communications tech said. “There’s a message coming from the Limiter.”
“. . . Right after I take this call! We’re going to win this battle in like five minutes!”
Rogers sat down and nodded to the comm tech, who changed the display to show what appeared to be a woman who had just rolled out of bed. And down a hill. The picture was fuzzy, and the audio was a little crackly, but after a moment Rogers finally recognized who it was: Secretary Quinn.
“Secretary!” he said. “Are you okay? You look like hell. Shouldn’t you be hiding somewhere on the ship?”
“Hiding? And miss this? Ha!” Quinn said.
The person looking back at him was definitely not the woman he’d met on the Limiter. The conservative, careful woman had been replaced by a teenage girl who had stolen her father’s convertible. Her hair wasn’t even in a bun, and she appeared to be holding a pen like a bowie knife.
“Did you just say ‘ha’? Do you even know how to laugh?”
“I’m learning. Listen, I have something to tell you.”
“The floor is yours,” Rogers said.
“I’m not going to be able to lift the entire jamming net the way I’m doing it now. I need to get to the bridge.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“During combat operations, the bridge doors lock and can only be opened from the inside or if an emergency evacuation is triggered.”
Rogers frowned. “Can’t you just pull the fire alarm or something?”
He couldn’t see very clearly in the picture, but he was pretty sure Quinn made an are-you-stupid face at him.
“Are you stupid?” she asked. “No, I can’t just do that. There are fail-safes in place for that. I’m going to need you to score a direct hit on the Limiter and send me the message that the Grand Marshal has been broadcasting to the other ships in the fleet so I can show it to the Limiter’s crew.”
Rogers barked a laugh. “Fat chance. I think I can turn the tide a bit, but it’s going to take me a long time to punch through all that other stuff.”
“I can fill out a form to disable the shields for a small window and transmit the location of the ship’s outboard emergency response system to you. If you can put a single warhead on that target, it should trigger the ship’s evacuation system and open up the bridge. Then I can take Zergan down and lift the jamming net.”
“What do you mean ‘take Zergan down’? Since when are politicians taking anything down except education funding?”
“Very funny. Can do you do it or not? I might be able to bring down the organic defenses, too, so they can’t launch countermeasures.”
Rogers thought for a moment, chewing on his lip.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “But do me a favor—don’t kill Zergan. I’ve got some questions for him when we’re done here. And Secretary . . . how are you doing all this?”
She actually, no-kidding grinned at him.
“Properly,” she said, and the line cut out.
Rogers stared at the screen for a moment. Combat certainly did strange things to people.
It was an absolutely insane plan, but it was the only one they had. And if it was going to work, he’d have to open a hole wide enough in the Thelicosan defensive line to get enough ships in, then find someone who was crazy enough to dive straight into the enemy with no regard for his own safety or the safety of his wingmen.
It would have to be someone who practically exuded chaos. An agent of mayhem.
“Get me Lieutenant Lieutenant Fisk,” Rogers said over his shoulder. “Tell him I’ve got something for him. And tell him it’s . . .” He sighed, not believing what he was about to say.
“Tell him it’s flashy.”
The whole world of space tactics seemed to open up to Rogers at once. Once his nose wasn’t buried in ellipses that ended in the words “in space,” he thought he could really start to see what was going on out there. The display made more sense when he was looking at it instead of diagrams on his datapad, and he found it was much easier to keep a mental inventory of the ships and ship types when he wasn’t also concerned with trying to understand the meaning behind phrases like “the quality of a decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon . . . in space.”
Rogers wasn’t a biologist, but he was pretty sure falcons died in space like most other organic matter.
Seeing that some of his larger battleships were being pressed by the more agile Battle Spiders, he ordered some of the Ravagers peppering the Sine and Cosine screen to break off and distract the Battle Spiders. That might give them time and space to reposition themselves and start punching holes in the line of Thelicosan gunships that were peppering space with cannon fire.
Of course, Rogers didn’t give all these orders directly. He used Zaz and Rholos, and just sort of started spouting random ideas at them and having them translate them into stuff that the rest of the fleet could use. Communications were still spotty, and he found that often large groups of his ships wouldn’t get a particular message, but that just added to the chaos he was trying to create. Predictability was his enemy in this situation, and that strategy seemed to be working.
“My calculated probabilities of victory are shifting every moment,” said Deet, who, for some reason, had taken to narrating the battle like a horse-race announcer, giving odds and trying to encourage members of the bridge to bet. Rogers had no idea where this had come from; perhaps Deet had been digesting human news reports or something.
“And they’re off!” Deet said as the squadron of Ravagers that held the key to their victory—which also happened be the Flagship’s last reserve of fighters—came out of the hangar and shot straight toward the Limiter.
“How soon until they can fire?” Rogers asked Zaz.
Zaz looked at the screen, then thought for a moment. “At top speed, I would say six, seven minutes tops. If they get diverted because they have to dodge fire, though, it’ll take them longer.”
Rogers nodded. “See if you can get the Rigor Mortis and the Valiant to swing around to the flanks and start dumping cannon fire into the center. If we can keep a curtain in front of them the whole way it might keep them from having to divert.”
“The Rigor Mortis won’t budge,” Rholos said. “Their engines are out.”
“Damn it,” Rogers said. “See who else we have in the area who can do it. Quinn, are you getting all this?”
Rogers thought he could hear the screams of people over the comm channel, and he couldn’t help but wonder what that crazy woman was doing to all of them. Whoever she was, she was one tough bureaucrat.
“I’m getting it. I’ll set the shields to drop in five. The window is only three minutes. Got it? I’m going to get to the bridge. Good luck.”
Before Rogers could respond, the transmission cut out. Rogers wiped his hand across his forehead, and it came away slick with sweat and pastry cream. Deet had made a donut run down to the mess hall after realizing that he really didn’t have much to do in
a space combat situation. That level of uselessness/boredom might have encouraged his horse-race announcing, too.
“Grand Marshal,” Rogers said over the comms, “take any of your ships that are close enough to the Limiter and start trying to clear a path in front of it. We’ll try to open it up from the other side.” He turned to Zaz. “I want everything we have focused on a point half a kilometer in front of that formation. If they get diverted by more than a few minutes, we’ll have to win this the old-fashioned way.”
“You’re going to rape and pillage all the cities on Thelicosa?” Deet cried. “That’s terrible!”
Rogers shot him a look. “Go get me another donut.”
“[EXPLETIVE] your donut.”
“I meant attrition,” Rogers said. “And with Zergan in control, I have a feeling it’ll be one of those dead-to-the-last-man kinds of things. I’d rather have Quinn ‘take him out,’ so let’s make sure this happens.”
“Yes, sir!” Zaz said.
“Yes, sir!” yelled Tunger.
“What are you doing here?” Rogers asked. “I don’t think you can ride lions into this battle, unless you’ve developed some kind of lion VMU.” He thought for a moment. “You haven’t developed a lion VMU, have you?”
“. . . Noooo . . .” Tunger said, not looking into Rogers’ eyes and turning very red.
“No,” Rogers said. “You are not allowed. Go back to the zoo. Zaz, how are we doing?”
Zaz pointed to the display, as he was currently in the middle of talking very excitedly into his headset, and Rogers saw the indicators start to swarm and converge on the wedge-shaped formation of which Flash was the head, carrying one of the last Lancers they had. That meant it was the Viking’s turn.
“Patch me into the marines’ ship,” Rogers said.
The picture was much clearer thanks to the proximity of their shuttle, and Rogers was glad of it. Staring back at him was the shining face of the Viking, decked out in full raid gear, the scary-looking helmet adding lines to her face and making her look intense and beautiful. Rogers nearly forgot what he was going to say.
“What?” the Viking asked.
“Oh, um. Hi,” Rogers said. “I was just checking in.”
“We’re flying through space,” the Viking said.
“Yes, I know that,” Rogers said, maybe sounding a little irritated. Couldn’t she just say one nice thing to him? Ever since their awkward conversation in-line, it was like she’d become twice as cold as she used to be. She hadn’t even threatened to physically harm him in at least a couple of hours. Rogers missed it.
“I was making sure you had everything you needed,” he continued.
“Well, now is kind of a shit time to ask that question. We launched five minutes ago.”
Rogers felt himself getting angry. “Fine,” he said. “Just try not to bash Zergan’s head in when you pick him up. I want to talk to him.”
“Whatever,” the Viking said, and the transmission cut out.
Rogers sat back in his chair and sighed.
“And the Viking delivers an absolutely crushing blow to the captain’s ego!” Deet announced.
“Shut up,” Rogers said. “You don’t even know what an ego is.”
“I know a wounded one when I see it,” Deet said. He beeped and went to stand by Belgrave, who had become sort of his philosophy mentor. Rogers didn’t like it.
Looking back up at the display, Rogers saw a mass of blue and red swirling around in a way that was—strangely, he understood—beautiful. The wide line of the Meridan fleet was starting to curl inward, and though he couldn’t see a display of the actual guns firing, the view out the bridge window was enough to put any fireworks display to shame.
Except, you know. People were dying. Rogers tried not to think of that too much.
“Okay, everyone, this is it!” he shouted. “The Limiter’s shields and countermeasure systems are going to come down in less than a minute. Flash, are you ready?”
“Ready to serve up some pickles!” Flash’s voice crackled over the radio.
“Remind me what that means?” Rogers asked Belgrave.
“Back on Earth the Nordic people used to throw pickles at enemy bombs to make them explode before they hit the ground.”
Rogers squinted at him. “Are you sure that’s what you told me last time?”
“Hey!” Flash said over the radio. “There’s totally a Cosine right here that doesn’t see me. Going in for the kill.”
“No,” Rogers said. “We talked about this. You’re not out there to dogfight. You’re out there to put one weapon on one target. You don’t even have any missiles!”
“I wouldn’t use ’em if I did, Skip!” Flash said. “Cannons are way flashier.”
Flash broke from formation and deftly spaced one of his own Ravagers. The ejection pod fired, and the bridge went quiet.
“Splash one bandit!” Flash said over the radio.
“Please get our rescue crews ready,” Rogers said quietly. “And find me the person who certified that idiot to fly combat missions.”
“Admiral Klein, sir,” Commander Zaz said.
“Yeah. Yeah, I figured. Now, Flash, can you please stop playing chase-the-shiny-object and get back on target? Bring up the Limiter’s battle specs on the screen.”
Rogers stared at the display, awkwardly feeling like he was in a hospital room waiting for a patient to die. All sorts of measurements popped up on the screen, but he was paying particular attention to the shields. They couldn’t monitor everything, of course, but the energy output of a deflection shield was strong enough to be read from a long distance—that was why most ships traveled with their shields down to avoid detection.
Rogers looked at the clock.
“Fifteen seconds, Flash. Are you ready to fire on the emergency system?”
“Copy that, Skip. A-firm.”
The world seemed to stop as the wedge formation charged toward the Limiter. The rest of the Meridan formation was a complete and total mess, which made it very hard for the Thelicosans to counterattack, since Zergan was expecting the same formation that was in The Art of War II. Rogers wouldn’t give it to him. He’d give him what Rogers was best at—a complete and utter mess.
“Shields down!” Commander Rholos said.
“Fire!” Rogers yelled.
“A whole container of spicy, thinly sliced deli pickles!” Flash said.
The whole bridge went silent.
“Does he have to say it like that?” Deet asked.
“Shh!” said everyone on the bridge.
Rogers didn’t really know what he expected. This was a big moment, one with galactic consequences. But when the Lancer hit, all he saw was a little blip on the radar screen, and all he heard was a pleasant ding.
“Congratulations on disabling the enemy’s capital ship!” came a voice from the console. “You’re entitled to—”
“Shut up, Sara!” Rogers shouted. When he noticed everyone looking at him, he cleared his throat. “What? I think that’s her actual name.”
The irony of having a Snaggardir’s employee congratulate him on stopping their plans was not lost on him, and Rogers didn’t have to wait long for news of whether or not this had been worth it.
“Rogers! Rogers!” a voice came over the radio. It was Quinn, and the background noise sounded beyond intense. Shouting, guns firing. Someone might have been making popcorn. “The bridge is surrounded. I’m playing the message to the whole fleet now but I don’t have time. Get your troops in here now or—”
Quinn didn’t have to say any more. Rogers heard the sounds of a door crashing down, disruptor fire blasting through the speakers, and the Viking’s combat yells shaking the ground. A few moments later, an eerie, crackling quiet was the only thing coming through the communications channel.
“Got him,” the Viking said, rather anticlimactically, Rogers thought. “What do we do?”
“Captain Rogers.” Keffoule’s voice came over the console. “Edris is a f
ormer member of the F Sequence. Not only will the Limiter’s brig not hold him, he may have sympathizers who may help him escape. You need to bring him onto the Flagship, and he needs to be someplace where he can’t use his training to escape.”
Rogers thought for a moment. “I think I have the perfect place. Tunger, get Cadet the cat out of my old room for a while. I don’t want him being influenced by our new guest. Oh, and Captain Alsinbury?”
“What?”
“. . . See if you can bring back some of the Limiter’s toast.”
Destinations to Which One Goes in a Hand Basket
The war was over. Well, in reality, they’d prevented it from ever starting, which, Rogers supposed, was better. Keffoule had been reinstalled as the commander of the Limiter and the Thelicosan fleet, and Flash was being court-martialed for multiple counts of reckless endangerment while simultaneously being awarded the Meridan Flying Ambiguous Nonreligious Symbol for his competency/psychosis in both his rescue of Rogers and the final assault on the Limiter. Of course, the court-martial would acquit him of charges based on combat performance, but there was still a process that Rogers had to follow.
Sitting on the commander’s chair on the bridge munching on a piece of toast—goddamn it was so good!—Rogers felt a little bit lost. Things were sort of moving automatically right now, and with all the momentum he’d gained through all this chaos, he really felt like he should be doing something.
Eating toast was doing something, though. And he had to admit, it was a good break from the insanity.
“Long-distance communications are almost up,” S1C Brelle said. “Shouldn’t be more than a few more minutes, sir.”
“Thanks,” Rogers said. “Prep a hail to Meridan HQ so that we can talk to them right away.”
Space, outside the window of the bridge, was back to being a peaceful, beautiful place, if you discounted the fact that there was still an enormous “enemy” fleet within striking distance. Rogers could hardly count Grand Marshal Keffoule as an enemy anymore, though. Their parting had been brief and totally devoid of both marriage proposals and/or kicks to the face. In a weird way, Rogers was sad to see her go.