Shadow of Oblivion

by Richard Tongue

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” Volkov protested.

  “Find a way to make it happen, Lieutenant.” He paused, then said, “We need to smash that ship to pieces in a single salvo. We can’t afford to take too long, and we need to be well away from here before anyone thinks about asking questions. The Belters will be suspicious enough as it is.”

  “Forty seconds to firing range,” Singh said. “Enemy has a full charge on all weapons systems, and they have a firing solution.”

  “Hail them,” Corrigan said. “I want to speak to Captain Jones.”

  “You’re on, sir,” Dixon replied. “He can hear you. Whether he’ll reply or not is another question entirely…”

  “This is the Auxiliary Cruiser Xerxes,” Corrigan said. “I have eight fully-charged particle beams locked on you, Vostok. I suggest you surrender at once, and spare the lives of your crew, or I will be forced to reduce you and your ship to their component atoms. Reply at once.”

  “Xerxes,” a soft-voiced man replied, “We’ve scanned your ship. I’m afraid that I don’t believe you represent a significant threat, and I’m calling your bluff. Either surrender at once, or we will be forced to open fire.”

  Turning to Volkov, Corrigan said, “Arm all weapons, Lieutenant.” He glared at the gunner, who nodded. “Captain, don’t make me destroy you.”

  “I’m not fooled, Xerxes. For the sake of your crew…” Corrigan made a chopping signal with his hand, and Dixon cut the channel. He turned to Singh, a smile on his face.

  “Did it work?” Corrigan asked.

  “He’s still coming hard, but he’s not in combat formation, and as far as I can tell, he’s aiming to disable, not to destroy.” Frowning, Singh added, “He’s wide open, Commander. Shuttle bays open, ready to load.”

  “Precisely what I wanted,” Corrigan said.

  “Remind me not to play you at poker,” Novak said, shaking her head. “You’ve got the bastard thinking that our weapons systems are fake.”

  “Precisely,” Corrigan replied with a gleaming smile. “Vlad, you can go ahead and set up a firing solution now. Don’t make it too good. No attempt to target subsystems. Just smash him to pieces.”

  “Will do,” a disbelieving Volkov replied. “It’s too easy.”

  “Don’t jinx it,” Dixon replied. “He’ll work it out fast enough.”

  “Ten seconds to contact,” Singh warned.

  “Novak, I want him to fire first, but I don’t want the shot to get anywhere near the hull,” Corrigan ordered. “Make this girl dance.”

  “Enemy is firing!” Singh yelled, and a crimson beam lanced across the space between the two ships, Avenger nimbly sliding to the side, the shot missing by a dozen miles. Volkov opened up with the turret cannon, pounding away at the enemy to pin him down, playing with his expectations before unleashing an overwhelming salvo shot from the eight particle beams at the heart of the warship.

  It was the sort of armament normally found on a battlecruiser. The designers had been forced into any number of compromises in their bid to make the weaponry function as they wished, but they hadn’t sacrificed any of the combat potential. The lights briefly flickered on the bridge as the power distribution systems struggled under the load, eight emerald beams briefly connecting the two ships in a gossamer web of destruction.

  The effect on Vostok was immediate, and overwhelming. The overconfident Jones had failed to sufficiently firm up his defensive systems, instead opting to prepare for a boarding action that would now never come. His crew had lacked the paranoia that bitter experience engendered, and they’d have no chance to earn.

  Volkov, on the other hand, was one of the finest gunners in the fleet, and his experience paid immediate dividends. He’d fired two shots first, targeted carefully to punch holes in the defensive screens, hammer through the unprepared countermeasures, and a microsecond later, the other six cannons had burst through the gaps he had torn, wreaking havoc on the enemy ship, searing gaping wounds in her hull. Atmosphere burst from wrecked compartments into the cold vacuum of space, tossing the ship around, end over end, ruining any chance the enemy ship might have to return fire.

  “My God,” Corrigan said, shaking his head.

  “Nice shooting, Vlad,” Dixon replied.

  Volkov looked at the half-wrecked enemy warship, his hands shaking. He looked up at Corrigan, his face pale, and without a word, rose from his seat and raced from the bridge, the elevator doors slamming shut behind him. Corrigan glanced at Dixon, who quickly moved to take the now-vacant station, his hands dancing around the controls.

  “Six good hits,” Dixon reported. “Serious damage to the enemy. I rate him incapable of further combat action.”

  “Hold relative position, helm,” Corrigan ordered. “We’re going to have to finish him now.” Leaning forward, he said, “Come on, Jones, get your people into the escape pods. There’s no sense carrying on this fight. You’ve lost.”

  “I can’t raise them,” Dixon said. “I have a firing solution. One good hit and they’ll be torn to pieces.” He looked up at the viewscreen, and added, “Our best estimate is that she had a crew of about seventy-five. Probably at least a quarter of them are casualties.”

  “We’re at war,” Singh said, bluntly. “If Captain Jones doesn’t care about his crew, we don’t…”

  “We’re better than they are,” Corrigan snapped. “This is our chance to prove it. We’ll wait until the last possible moment. Helm, hold station.”

  “Holding station,” Novak replied, looking at the slowly tumbling hulk on the screen. “It’s possible they can’t abandon ship. Internal damage might be just too heavy for them to get to the escape pods.” Looking at the trajectory track, she added, “I didn’t think our armament was quite that impressive.”

  “Neither did I,” Dixon said, shaking his head. “It was one hell of a shot.”

  “Eight minutes until we have to break…” Singh said. “We’ve got escape pods launching now. I make twelve, correction, fourteen. Standard design, which means three men to a pod. They’re heading right for the surface.” He paused, then said, “A few of them are heading pretty close to us.”

  “I have no intention…”

  “I was thinking about sending a rescue drone out to snatch one of the pods, get us a few prisoners. We can release them when we get to Prospero Station, and they might provide us with some up-to-date information.”

  Corrigan paused, nodded, then said, “Make it happen.”

  “Forty-two crewmen, assuming all the pods are full,” Dixon mused. “There’s too much debris for the sensors to give us an accurate reading. Assuming one-quarter casualties and a full crew load-out…”

  “That leaves fourteen and a quarter,” Corrigan said. “I know what you are thinking. I know precisely what you are thinking. At the slightest move, the slightest twitch of a thruster, we’ll destroy that ship.” He reached for his controls again, opening the channel to Vostok once more, and said. “Captain Jones, this is your opponent. You’ve lost this game. Any attempt to ram this ship or take any further aggressive action at all, and I will destroy your ship. You have four minutes to abandon ship. Four minutes. That is all.”

  “Maybe the casualties were worse than we’d expected,” Singh said. “We haven’t got updated internal layouts of the combat conversions of those ships. Heck, maybe they’d put some crew down on Triton, or on a prize.”

  “Keep watching them,” Corrigan said, his eyes fixed on the viewscreen, on the ship that was slowly tumbling, end over end. Avenger had proven herself in battle, at least proven that she was capable of inflicting astonishing damage on an enemy. The Cyrus-class was a patrol cruiser, far from the most deadly ship in the Belter’s fleet, but one of the more common enemy types. Though had the commander possessed the experience his ship deserved, the battle would have been a far tougher proposition.

  “Get going, damn it, get going,” Singh said, shaking his head. “No sign of any change to enemy target aspect. They’
re just sitting there. Long-range communications are gone, but someone on the Belt must be tracking them.” Looking across at a monitor, he added, “Rescue drone has grabbed a pod, and it’ll be docking at Airlock Seven in one minute. I’ve isolated the entire deck and locked down all systems. There’s no way they can do any damage once they get on board.”

  “Flood the airlock with anesthetic gas,” Corrigan ordered. “I want them fast asleep when we throw them into the brig. Just in case this is some sort of a trick.” Looking at the viewscreen again, he added, “Though if it is, they’re doing a damn realistic job of convincing us that we’ve hurt them.”

  “Three minutes before we have to finish them off,” Dixon warned. “Commander, I hate to point this out, but someone is bound to come looking for them sooner or later. As soon as they do, they’ll know what happened.”

  “Almost certainly, but that will probably be days away,” Corrigan said. “The Belters don’t have so many ships that they’ll risk throwing them out here one at a time to be destroyed. They’ll have to put together a task force, and that’s going to take a while. There’s even a reasonable chance that our people might make it out here first.” He paused, smiled, then added, “Besides, if my plan works out, it won’t matter.”

  “Change to target aspect!” Singh reported. “Thruster firing. I think they’re trying to swing around for a firing pass. Twenty seconds.”

  “Christ,” Corrigan said. “Engineering, I need warp drive, now!”

  “You’ve got it!” Collins replied.

  “Dixon, fire at will. Novak, as soon as he does, execute warp jump.”

  “Aye,” he replied, stabbing a control that unleashed a second volley of fire on the enemy ship. This time there were no defenses, no ability to hinder their attack in even the slightest way, and the resultant explosion briefly illuminated the sky, a blinding flash that dominated the heavens for a split second before fading away, the cloud of debris racing in all directions, briefly providing Triton with a ring of ultra-fine particles.

  An instant later, Novak activated the warp drive, a second flash illuminating the sky, the force of the gravitational backlash tossing the remnants of Vostok far and wide as Avenger fled the system, tearing the fabric of space-time apart as it attained superluminal speed.

  “We’re in foldspace now,” Novak reported. “Thirty hours to Sigma Draconis, assuming no unexpected surprises.”

  “Secure from battle stations,” Corrigan said. He rose to his feet, and said, “I guess I’d better go talk to our new guests. Singh, you’re with me. Bring a sidearm. Just in case.” He turned back to the viewscreen, shook his head, and said, “Too easy.”

  Dixon looked at him, shrugged, and replied, “We got away clean. We were lucky. Maybe that’s all it was.”

  “Maybe,” Corrigan said. “Maybe.”

  Chapter 11

  Carter walked down the maintenance corridor, toolkit in hand, then turned into the forward gunnery control room. A pair of amber lights winked on the monitor panel, and she cursed under her breath as she walked up to the console, placing her toolkit on the floor as she began the diagnostic sequence. Avenger’s first battle had exposed a number of problems with the ship, and with only a handful of crewmen on board, they were proving tough to resolve. As the computer began its repair cycle, she saw a figure in the shadows, and turned to see Volkov sitting by the wall, his eyes staring out into space, as though looking for something, something lost.

  “Lieutenant?” Carter asked. “Are you all right?” She saw a tear running down his cheek, and added, “Do you want me to take you to Sickbay?”

  “I don’t think it would do any good,” he replied. “I froze. Right in the middle of the battle. I froze. After that first shot, that first salvo, I looked up at the viewscreen, saw what I had done to that ship, those people, and I just couldn’t fire again. I couldn’t face it.” He looked down at the deck, and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “We’re all new to this,” Carter said.

  Volkov snorted, then replied, “You are. I’m not. This isn’t my first combat. I was there for the Eureka Uprising, five years ago. I was Weapons Officer on a scoutship, Themistocles. A little ship with a handful of turrets, but we were only up against modified transport. Some crazy bastards decided they wanted to take over their outpost. We went in. I was at the weapons. Eight shots. Eight hits. Three ships destroyed. And I had nightmares for weeks, months afterward, but it wasn’t like this. Nothing like this.” He looked up at Carter, and said, “My nerves are gone. Shot. The bastards ripped them away.”

  Sitting next to him, Carter replied, “It’s only natural to feel something when you go into battle. Especially after…”

  “After going to prison?” Volkov replied. “After being arrested for murder, thrown into a kangaroo court and locked away for the rest of my life? I was in that hell-hole for months, and I thought I’d never get out. I kept thinking about ending it. That’s the one decision they’d left me, the one choice I thought I had, and I kept on thinking about taking it. And do you know why I didn’t? I didn’t have the guts. That’s me. Vladimir Volkov, ace gunner, and craven coward.” He buried his head in his hands, and said, “I just want the pain to stop. Is that so much to ask?”

  “Fine,” Carter said, rising to her feet. She walked over to the weapons locker, entered in an access code and pulled out a sidearm. Quickly checking the charge, she walked back to Volkov, and handed him the weapon, butt first, saying, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t make too much of a mess of the wall.”

  “What?” Volkov asked.

  “If you really want to make all the pain go away, then go right ahead and make it happen. There are too many ways for you to do it on this ship, and short of locking you in a cell, there’s no way to stop you. If you really think that you’ve had enough of life, end it.” She knelt down beside him, and said, “I’m not going to pretend I can even imagine what you are going through. I wouldn’t insult you by making the attempt. All I know is that we’ve got a job to do, and that we’re the only ones who can do it. There are eight billion people counting on us to work a miracle. Are you going to be the one that lets them down?”

  “I didn’t ask for this,” the gunner said, tentatively holding the pistol. “Nobody gave me a choice. Not one that was worth a damn thing. Back in my cell, when I was thinking about this, I got so wrapped up in the prospect of getting out, getting back onto a starship, that I never stopped to think what it might cost. I killed dozens of people. I did. I set up a firing solution, I charged the particle beams, and I fired them. I suppose I could claim that I was only following orders, but that’s the biggest cop out you can make. I made a choice. And that choice killed people.”

  “You knew that would happen. You knew that going in.”

  Taking a deep breath, Volkov looked at the pistol, then tossed it away, saying, “I guess I’m still just too much of a coward to do it.”

  “I’m no therapist, as I guess you can tell,” Carter replied, “but I do know that there is nothing cowardly about choosing life. I don’t know the details about what happened to you. I don’t need to know, I don’t want to know, and I don’t think you need to tell me. All I do know is that somebody took your life away, took away everything that made it worth living.” Placing a hand on his shoulder, she continued, “You get a second chance. You get to start over, start completely over, and learn from your mistakes.”

  “I can’t get rid of my memories that easily,” the gunner replied. “And how many people are going to have to die to give me my second chance?”

  “Dozens. Hundreds. Maybe thousands, if the fighting goes on long enough,” Carter said, “but the thing is, they’re going to die anyway, one way or another. We’re not making war on civilians. The people on that ship weren’t conscripted. They made a choice. They chose the risks that they took, and they lost. Next time it might be us. That’s how the game works.”

  “Life is not a game,” Volkov replied.

 
“Sure it is,” Carter said. “There are rules, and penalties, and rewards. You get better at it with practice. You just have to keep your seat at the table as long as you can.” She paused, looked at the door, and said, “Do you know your way around yet?”

  “Not really,” Volkov said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve only been on the bridge and in the gunnery rooms. I haven’t even gone to my quarters yet. It isn’t as though I had anything with me. I arrived in prison with the clothes I was wearing, and that’s pretty much how I left.”

  “Have the computer guide you to Commander Hanson’s quarters,” she suggested. “Take a look at the folders on his shelf, and when you get to the one labelled ‘Oxygen Requisition’, take it down and open it. You’ll find the best part of a bottle of bourbon inside. Go get drunk, sleep it off, and see how you feel in the morning. We’ve got long enough before we reach Sigma Drac. I’ll cover you with Commander Corrigan.”

  “That’s the best therapy a hyper-advanced warship can offer?”

  She shrugged, and replied, “Look on the bright side. Most ships in the Fleet don’t even have a bar. Unless you get on good terms with the engineering staff. We haven’t had time to rig a still yet. Maybe that’s a project you can work on when you feel better.”

  “That’s going to be a long, long time,” he replied. He looked at the door, and said, “Maybe I will go and get that bourbon.”

  “It’s a damn sight better than the alternative,” she said, as he wearily rose to his feet and walked out of the room. “And Lieutenant? Don’t let all of this bottle up. Talk to someone. There’s an auto-psych on the system somewhere. Give it a try. It’s meant to be pretty good.”

  “Yeah,” Volkov said, passing through the doors. “Yeah.”

  She shook her head, walked over to the console and returned to her work, continuing the corrections to the firing sequences. Too much power being drawn through systems that the book said couldn’t handle the load. The manual was conservative, the numbers given having little resemblance to reality, but someone had to convince the computer of that. She was so engrossed in her work, that she didn’t hear Dixon walking into the room.