“I'll grant you that, but the gesture is valid. We've been out in the depths of space for quite some time and I won't lie – I will enjoy the company of fresh faces.”
Once we were seated the drinks arrived. Condensation glistened on the crystal cut glass and the measure was more than generous. Sole raised his drink to us, tilted his head and smiled.
“To coincidence and good fortune – the most welcome companions on any voyage.”
We toasted and the meal began. I was grateful that, unlike most dinners hosted by those with ample means, the food wasn't pretentious. To start, Sole offered us a smooth orange and duck pate served with delicate slices of crisp, fresh bread or mushrooms bathed in garlic and chili. For mains, a section of roasted meats was placed in the center of the table and a man dressed all in white, who I assumed was the Captain's personal Chef, carved off great slices to Mason's delight. Steaming vessels of vegetables were brought in and ladled out in enormous portions along with rich beef gravy and other assorted sauces. Desert was no less sumptuous. Three cakes tiered several times were placed where the roasted meat had been and slabs were cut off each, chocolate, vanilla, and a heady rum concoction. Custard in the style of the English came in long boats along with melted chocolate sauce and fresh cream.
Throughout the meal, the conversation remained light while our stomachs grew heavy. Our engineer surprised us all by putting away great platefuls of food and helping herself to no less than three bowls of the rum cake which soon became my favorite.
“A family recipe,” explained Sole as he helped himself to another slice. “Passed down for over 200 years. The sponge is soaked in the liqueur overnight and fresh cream is then whipped and added on the top. Delightful.”
As the last of the dishes were cleared away and the coffee arrived, my mind was swimming. The vodka hadn't stopped coming and one of my great weaknesses, when company and food were good, was an inclination to drink to my own good health. Even Mason looked well oiled as we each took a cup of coffee and leaned back in our seats.
At that moment an officer was admitted into the lounge and she strode towards Sole at the head of the table. Words were exchanged and the woman was dismissed.
“The Agamemnon has just entered scanner range,” said the Captain. “She should be with us in a few hours.”
“That's good news,” I said.
“It is. Repairs will go much faster with the help of the fleet, diminished as it is.”
“Diminished, Captain?” asked Mason. Glassy-eyed, Sole leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, almost knocking over his empty glass. One eye seemed to grow larger as he took on a conspiratorial expression and began to whisper. I realized then that we'd all been 'well oiled' by that point.
“I shouldn't be saying this,” he began. “But we're all good friends here...”
We nodded and smiled like fools. Baz even winked as he leaned in.
“That little ruckus with the 'enemy fleet',” He even managed to do little scare-quotes with his fingers. “Argo would never admit it, but we fair got our asses handed to us if you understand my meaning.”
“We do,” said Mason.
“Never seen anything like it before,” he whispered. “Ships twice the size of ours. Ugly things, blocky, bulky, like something made from children's bricks but I'll be damned if they can't fight like the devil. Shields virtually unbreakable. I saw our finest shot just soaked up by them.”
“Where are they from?” I asked.
“Who knows? Scanners could barely get through the interference being put out by those defenses.”
“Are they... alien?” asked Baz. Sole snorted a laugh and flecks of spit showered onto the table.
“No, my boy, they aren't. Humans at the helm, like you and me.”
“How do you know?” he retorted.
“I saw 'em, that's how. If it hadn't been for the Captain, we'd never have lived to tell the tale.”
“Argo?” I put in.
“That's the one,” he grinned. “Surly bastard, to be sure, but got generations of Admiral's blood in his veins. No sooner had the battle begun than-” Here he stopped and with one sweep of his arm, cleared the space before him so that the cups and saucers and spoons nearly toppled onto the floor. An aide quickly ran to clear them away as he snatched for the remains of the bread basket.
“Here's how things lay,” he said and began arranging the bread rolls according to their formations. “The ones with a bit torn off represent the fleet. The ones without, those bastard ships.”
He recreated the scene for us, granted, in only one plane which wasn't unusual for large space-faring craft to do in fleet-to-fleet engagements. It made life simpler for both sides and appeared to be a kind of unspoken agreement. It was 'good form', one famous Admiral had said.
“This one with the coffee stain,” He sloshed a generous amount from his own cup onto the roll at the front. “Represents the Captain.”
Thus began a baked recreation of the battle with the enemy fleet. Sole had a great passion for recounting the event and he flooded the table with facts and figures, weight of shot and the effect upon each ship. It was clear from the beginning that although Argo had had the greater number of craft, the enemy had bested him in firepower and defensive capability right from the start.
“Fucking ships just kept coming,” said Sole towards the end. “Lancer. Broadside. Plasma. All nothing to those shields.”
“So how did you survive?” asked Jo.
“Ah,” he grinned. “Here's the pinch. The Captain, seeing that we'd already lost three heavy cruisers with all hands, knew that withdrawal was the final option. Don't forget – these creepy ships weren't responding to any hails and offered none themselves. They simply saw us and engaged. There was no hope of parley or mercy here and attempting boarding actions were out of the question.”
Sole began to shift the bread rolls on the table and re-arrange them as he remembered.
“One of their ships, a big one, looked different to the others. It stood out, not just because of its shape or design, but something about the way the shields refracted starlight caught the Captain's attention. He has an excellent science officer on board and, according to a meeting held after the engagement was over, he put him on that disturbance immediately.
“What do you know? Whenever the ship fired its broadsides, there was a split second opening, a fraction of the power needed to keep them going was diverted to the cannon.”
“That's a hell of a weakness,” said Jo.
“You're damn right,” he laughed. “And it saved our skins. The Captain, when he realized this, gave orders to follow his flight plan as he ran down the port side of the craft, within pistol shot as we say here in the Navy. It seemed like madness – he'd have to take every single hit from their cannon as he passed them.”
“But it gave you the chance you needed,” said Mason.
“Exactly!” Sole slammed his fist down onto the table and the bread rolls went flying. “I'll never forget it as long as I live. As the Agamemnon began to move we drew up aft of her, priming every weapon we could bring to bear. She let loose everything she had into the side of that craft just as they did. You should have seen the exchange, like two titanic fighters trading blows, fist for fist, punch for punch. I thought the Captain was done for.”
“And?” said Baz on the edge of his chair now.
“That's when we saw our chance. We had to fire blind. The NavCom wouldn't accept our firing patterns and so the other Captains and I had to guess when to let loose our shot. It was touch and go, believe me. As the Agamemnon soaked up the hits, we gave that ship everything we had. You've never seen so much plasma, so many streaks of lancer or cannon. Space was lit up from here to Earth, I'm sure of it.
“As the Captain, crippled and barely holding a course, passed the aft of the ship, we knew that our doom or our victory was at hand. We were committed to follow and if none of our shot had struck during that one window, we'd face the full weight of the enemy
broadside. Let me tell you, the Pearl is a fine ship but there was no way we'd survive half of what this craft was putting out.”
Silence fell in the lounge and even the stoic aides who had kept rigid discipline against the far wall had turned their heads as the story reached its climax. If Sole noticed he didn't mind – I was sure he was enjoying the captive audience at that point.
“As we made our run, I turned the viewer on the ship. I will never forget the moment when those shields came down and the enemy vessel shuddered with internal explosions up and down that ugly, hulking shape.”
Sole fell silent then and his eyes lost some of the light that had been in them from the beginning of the account.
“And that's when I saw them...” he said, hushed now, his face grave. “Hundreds of them. Men. Women. Children. The hull had split into several places on her port side like a tin can and bodies were being sucked out into space. Have you ever seen such a thing?” he asked. I didn't reply. It was the booze that asked that question for no serviceman ever spoke of the horrors of war openly. It was an unwritten rule, common courtesy and something for the quiet places of friendship or a lover's arms. Not for the dinner table.
“What happened next?” I asked feeling somewhat sobered by the telling.
“The Captain believed that this had been their flagship. Its destruction caused a full withdrawal of the enemy fleet without another shot fired. No one knew why. Perhaps the loss to them was beyond our understanding. Maybe they respected what we'd done. I guess we'll never know.”
“And the Agamemnon?” asked Mason.
“She came to within an inch of her total destruction. The engine cores had been breached and were on the verge of a meltdown. Only luck and skill managed to stop her from imploding. Hence the delay in our return; repairs have been going on ever since the battle ended.”
The coffee had gone and the room fell silent. Captain Sole, straightening his uniform, stood and we joined him. I guessed that the meal was over.
“I thank you for being such considerate listeners,” he said with a faltering smile. “But I will bid you a good night, such as it is. I find that good food and even better company makes me a little fatigued. Please feel free to remain docked for as long as you wish but you have my permission to leave whenever you will. Good night.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jo as he turned to leave. “That was one of the best meals I've had in a very long time. And one of the finest accounts of a heroic engagement I've had the pleasure of listening to.”
“Thank you, ma'am,” he said. Then he was gone and we left the room by another door. An aide led us down the corridor, back towards our ship.
“They won't make that mistake again,” said Mason.
“No,” I replied. “They certainly won't.”
10
We decided to leave the Pearl and stand off from her as the rest of the fleet arrived. Being a ship unfamiliar to Naval systems at that time, I wanted to appear open-handed and not a threat when the battered ships saw us.
Once my stomach had settled and I'd drunk some more coffee to sober up, I sat on the bridge and watched the feed relay the arrival of the Agamemnon. I felt exhausted and with only two hours sleep and far too much food, I craved a good, long nap. The others had gone for a rest while I took the first shift – something I always regretted offering to do, and I was alone.
“Computer, alert me when the Agamemnon is within range,” I said. There was a chime of response and I fumbled around for the mechanism that would recline my seat. Then, sitting skewed, I was able to put my boots up on the corner of the console and rest my head against the edge of the seat. I remembered to deactivate it too after a rather embarrassing incident the first time we took the Helios out. Then, tilting my cap over my eyes, I nodded off. I dreamt, that much I remember. Maybe it was other ship battles, maybe not, but on waking I thought that I could see that enemy ship destroyed, see those same bodies floating out into space and feel the same revulsion any normal human being would have felt. To die in battle was one thing, but to be a civilian killed simply for being on the wrong ship at the wrong time never sat well with anyone.
But I had no time to dwell upon that because the next thing I knew the console was chiming and a few hours had slipped past me while I dozed. The fleet had entered the area and was bee-lining for the Pearl. Twenty-two ships in a loose formation came out of hyper speed and it was clear from the scans that they'd taken a battering.
“When I see an unidentified ship standing off from one of my fleet I tend to shoot first and ask questions later,” said an all too familiar voice over the comms. I wasn't prepared to give him that much credit – no doubt details of our involvement with the Pearl had already been passed on to the Agamemnon.
“Captain Argo, we meet again,” I said. “It's been too long.”
“Indeed. I do not believe that you and your team are here on some kind of mercy mission so I suggest you come up alongside and discuss the matter in person.”
“So our friendship hasn't warranted the privilege of docking?”
“That's a luxury beyond my power to extend,” he said. “You may be aware of a little ruckus we've just had with some nasty elements. They've rendered our docking bay rather untidy for the moment. Surely that pretentious craft of yours has an umbilical?”
“I'm sure it does,” I lied, convinced that I didn't have a clue whether it did or not. “I'll be with you shortly.”
“Indeed. Agamemnon out.”
It didn't. Mason and I met in the loading bay, suited up and unhappy with the idea of what we would have to do to board. After scouring the buyer's guide several times it seemed that the engineering team had neglected to fit the relevant umbilical pairings, wiring and socket attachments given that we'd rushed the sale to leave the following morning. On this rare occasion, I took the blame for that, having never expected to connect to another ship in such a primitive and highly dangerous fashion.
“Classic Carter,” said Mason as we stood in the loading bay, watching the horrifically damaged port side dock of the Agamemnon appear before us. “You didn't read the small print.”
“It was hardly small print,” I said. “The engineers thought we wouldn't need it and, if I'm honest, neither did I. Plus it would've added to the prep time.”
“We paid for it, we should get it,” he replied. “Ever heard of a HARG inverter compensator?”
“No.”
“It's an optional extra for the HARG rifle, right?”
“If you say so.”
“It stops the projectile from overcharging and taking tiny fragments off the inside of the barrel. Fire it a hundred times, you might never notice the scoring it makes. Fire a thousand times and you might find yourself wondering why your shots are slightly off. Fire a hundred thousand times and the thing explodes in your face, probably taking your arms with it.”
“What's your point?”
“I made sure the HARG rifles were fitted with inverter compensators. That's the kind of small print I'm talking about.”
The Hikane was almost touching the Agamemnon at this point and I stepped closer to the forcefield that stood between us and deep space.
“How about the small print on these suits?” I asked. “Did you check those out too?”
“More than you know, mate. Now shall I go first or you?”
“What kind of question is that?” I cried. “You know the drill. Never let someone do something you aren't prepared to do yourself.”
“Well stop talking about it and do it, okay?”
“I'm going. Keep your suit on.”
I stepped towards the forcefield and hesitated. The distance wasn't an issue because gravity wasn't a factor. The problem was what waited on the other side. The platform I was aiming for was a tattered mess of broken steel and scorched plating and watching from the edge of the devastation was Argo himself with his arms folded behind his back. He was wearing that twisted smile, the one no doubt caused by nerve damage and beside him,
like bookends, were his two lieutenants.
“Well?” said Mason.
I shook my head. Then, taking a few steps back, I sprinted for the opening and felt the suit rumble as it passed beyond the forcefield and into deep space for all of three seconds. Another tremor ran up my body and the artificial gravity of the Agamemnon yanked me down onto the crumbling platform.
“Welcome aboard, Carter,” said the Captain as I stumbled to a halt before him. “I'm sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Not as sorry as I am, sir,” I replied and stood upright. “But needs must, I suppose.”
“Indeed.”
Mason landed beside me, elegantly and without the need to steady himself. He nodded to the Captain who gestured that we should follow.
“You'll find my hospitality lacking of late,” he explained as we left the docking bay. “My ship has taken quite a beating.”
He wasn't kidding either. The damage was extensive and every corridor we walked down was thronged with engineers and technicians desperately trying to repair and rebuild. Sparking conduits and venting gasses followed our steps and on one floor we found ourselves assaulted by the stench of burning plastic and a wailing klaxon.
“Is she going to hold?” I asked as we neared the bridge.
“Of course!” he roared over the deafening sounds of workmen cutting away a collapsed roof beam. “She's a tough old girl. She's seen worse.”
Mason gave me a skeptical look but we followed after him, taking a left at the entrance to the bridge and passed through a wide doorway. It was another lounge, this one far more spacious and lavish than that of the Pearl. The door closed behind us and the silence was almost deafening.
“My quarters took a fair brunt of the damage,” he explained, seating himself at the head of a curving metal table ornately decorated with carvings of old sea-fairing vessels. “I'm afraid we'll have to speak in here. Please, take a seat.”
Both Mason and I deactivated our suits and stepped out of them, leaving them standing against a far wall whilst we took chairs near to the Captain. His two lieutenants joined us though one now bore a great scar down one cheek, ending at her left shoulder. It looked recently healed.
Raw Justice Page 8