Chains of Destiny (Episode #2: The Pax Humana Saga)

by Nick Webb

  Volaski shook his head. “I’ve already got buyers. Just get the hell out.”

  Jake smiled dangerously. “I’m not asking.” He lowered his voice, and with an even bigger smile continued, “We’re returning to our ship now, and we’re going to kick some Imperial ass. When it’s all over, I expect a freighter filled with all that ore in my shuttle bay. If it’s not there by tomorrow morning at the latest….” He trailed off, hoping the other man would catch his meaning. Surely Volaski knew at least some of the capabilities of the Phoenix, having seen her in action against the Sphinx.

  Volaski grit his teeth, but then mirrored Jake’s broad smile. “Godspeed, Captain. And if you manage to survive your encounter with the Imperials, you’re welcome to our ore. I understand your engines could use a tune up.” He shook Jake’s hand, trying hard to stifle a sneer, and then retreated, waving his men to follow.

  Jake breathed a silent sigh of relief as he turned to run over to Ben. At least that mission was accomplished. They had their neodymium—assuming they could defeat the Caligula. But at what cost? His mind wandered to Sergeant Suarez’s crossed, bloody eyes as he approached his friend.

  “You’ve looked better,” he said, stepping up the extended ramp.

  “So’ve you.” Ben’s voice sounded raw. As if he hadn’t had a drink in days. Jake eyed the deep, bloody wounds on his chest and abdomen.

  “We need to get you up there. That’s bound to get infected, if it already isn’t.” He turned to the Phoenix crew members, including Jeremiah, and waved them aboard.

  “Might be a tight fit,” observed Ben. He hobbled into the ship after Jake, who also limped, still smarting from his sprained ankle.

  “Just for a few minutes. We’ve got to get up there, Ben. The Caligula is here, and if I know Trajan, there’s at least a few more ships on the way.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Ben asked as he followed Jake into the pilot’s compartment.

  Jake turned, and brandished his assault rifle with a lop-sided grin. “Do you have to ask?”

  “Yes.”

  He put on a reckless smile. “We’re going to blow that shit up.”

  ***

  “What have we got left, Ensign Ayala?” Po steadied herself on her armrests as another blast rocked the ship. The lights flickered ominously. The air recirculation had ceased over ten minutes ago. She knew their time was short—that whatever brilliant idea she was going to have needed to come quickly, or else not at all.

  “Life support is out. Gravitics are out. Power down to twenty percent,” Ayala answered, working furiously at her console. “We’ve lost about half our offensive capabilities. Starboard railgun crews report they’re completely out of slugs.” The white-haired young woman looked up. “If this doesn’t let up soon sir, we’re finished.”

  Po clicked open her comm. “Grace. Are those fighters equipped yet?”

  Anya Grace’s voice cursed, yelling at someone in the background. “We’re ready. I’ve got Quadri flying one, and I’m taking the other. Just don’t look out your window—I’ve heard these bastards get pretty bright.”

  Po nodded. “Very well, Grace. Launch on my—“

  “Sir!” Ensign Falstaff’s face had turned an even more ashen white. “The Caligula just messaged us that they’ll fire nuclear warheads if we don’t surrender in the next five minutes.”

  Po snapped to the tactical octagon. “Sensors? Can you confirm?”

  The short man next to Ayala scanned his board, and nodded. “Confirmed, sir. Radiological signature detected. I’m reading at least three warheads armed and locked on us. All from the Sphinx.”

  Po sunk back into her chair. “On our starboard side,” she muttered, realizing that with the railguns on that side of the ship out, they were unlikely to be able to intercept them with any defensive screen. And Trajan most likely knew it. “Grace? You still there?”

  “Where the hell do you think I am?” came the terse reply.

  “You’re clear to go. Godspeed.” Po breathed a silent prayer of hope. She’d never been religious. Not like her father, who prayed with the intense passion of an evangelical minister. It had never been for her. But she did now—not so much for actual divine intervention, but because it reminded her of the old man, how he’d grab her shoulders before the start of every school year and plead with his god to send her good grades. And somehow, whether from her fear of letting down her father or letting down his faith, she made it happen. She smiled at the memory, in spite of their dire situation.

  “Commander, I’m detecting a freighter approaching us from the surface. It’s coming in really fast,” said Ayala.

  Ensign Falstaff added, “And they’re hailing us.”

  “Pipe it through,” said Po.

  The entire bridge fell silent, waiting on the transmission with baited breath, not daring to hope that it could be their Captain. Rumbling explosions rang out through the expectant silence.

  “Megan, good to see the ship still in one piece. Mind sending us an escort? There’s an Imperial fighter closing on us.” As Captain Mercer’s voice sounded throughout the bridge, the crew breathed a collective sigh of relief. Po was tempted to roll her eyes—what did they think he was going to do that she hadn’t? If the situation were any less dire, she’d be offended.

  But wasn’t the bridge crew right to be relieved? Hadn’t Mercer somehow managed to get them out of the sticky situation at Liberty Station during the commemoration? It wasn’t all blind luck, was it?

  “Acknowledged, sir. Lieutenant Grace, stand down and send another one of your boys out to escort that freighter on their approach vector.”

  “Fine,” Grace said, and Po could make out another expletive as the impatient Wing Commander yelled at one of her aides to make the call.

  Moments later, Po watched as a lone fighter peeled off from the continuing battle, which had now intensified thanks to the arrival of the Sphinx’s squadron. But even so, their own fighters, with their superior gravitic drives, seemed to be holding their own—the one bright spot in the increasingly hopeless situation.

  “Commander, the Sphinx is arming the missiles,” said Ayala, her voice almost at a whisper.

  Po glanced at the clock. Two minutes left. They weren’t going to make it.

  ***

  Jake gripped the controls of the freighter, occasionally glancing over at his co-pilot to check on the man’s progress. “You hang in there, ok? Don’t go bleedin’ all over the carpet,” he said, pointing down to the stark metal deckplate.

  Ben grunted a gruff laugh. “I’ll be fine. Just get us to the ship—looks like we need you to blow some smoke in the Admiral’s face again while we regroup,” he replied, glancing out at the two Imperial heavy cruisers still pounding away at the Phoenix. Jake wondered exactly how many blasts from railguns the ship could take—it had certainly seen its fair share over the past few weeks. More than its fair share. He wondered if the CERN boys had managed to come up with some special hardened hull plating.

  “Captain, this is Gavin Ashdown. I’m here as your escort sir—We’ve got your back.”

  Jake glanced at Ben. “Gavin who? I don’t remember any pilot—“ he trailed off as he saw Ben mouth the words new recruit.

  “Lieutenant Grace sent us out, sir, said we were ready. Floppychop and I are at your service.”

  Jake nodded. “Sure thing, son. We can use all the help we can get. Just get us safely home’s all I ask.” Still looking at Ben, he added in a lower tone, “What the hell is Anya doing, trying to kill us?”

  Ben tapped a few buttons on the console to adjust their attitude. “Anya? Try to kill you? Nah. Just trying to screw you. But, what’s new?”

  Jake gunned the drive to weave around an Imperial fighter, which their escort blasted through with a stream of red gunfire. “Touché.”

  ***

  A few minutes later the freighter, barely fitting through the bay doors of the Phoenix, landed jarringly on the deck, and Jake dashed out the descending ram
p before it finished moving. Catching sight of Anya in her flight suit he yelled. “Where the hell do you think you’re going, Lieutenant?”

  She was halfway up the steps of a fighter. “Out.”

  Jake shook his head and thumbed towards the conference room. “Bullshit. No mission is so important that we can afford to lose our Wing Commander.”

  She rolled her eyes. “How convenient. Just like the mission to get the neodymium was so important that we could afford to lose our Captain, Chief of Security, and Chief Engineer all in one go? Time to practice what you preach, Mercer.”

  “I’ve learned the error of my ways,” he replied, with a tight-lipped nod. She was absolutely right, of course. He realized how stupid he’d been to go down to the planet himself. He should have sent some ensign from engineering. Someone—as much as he loathed even thinking it—expendable. At least, when it came to protecting the rest of his ship and crew, he realized he had to start thinking in such draconian, heartless terms. Otherwise, they’d all die, and quickly. He had to exchange his soul for their lives. “What has Po got you doing, anyway,” he added, as he eyed an oddly-shaped torpedo attached to the undercarriage of her fighter.

  “That’s a quantum field torpedo,” she said. “Any questions?”

  Of course. Jake made a point to commend Po on her brilliance. “Got it. But you’re not going, and neither is Quadri,” he said, glancing at the other fighter similarly equipped, and its pilot standing nearby.

  Anya fumed, looking like she was about to explode. With hands on her hips, she said, “And who the hell do you suggest I send, sir?” The emphasis on “sir” was cold.

  Jake glanced back at a young Gavin Ashdown, and his younger-looking long-haired copilot, who were just now jumping out of their fighter. He didn’t even know her name. Floppychop? That was her callsign, he assumed. “Send them. One per fighter. They fly ok, right?”

  She puffed out some air in exasperation. “Ok, sure, but only ok. Dammit, Jake, they’ve only been flying for less than a week—“

  “Seems like they fly good enough to me. They were holding their own out there in the fighter battle, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then do it. All they’ve got to do is shift over, launch the torpedoes, and shift back. Piece of cake.” He stared into her eyes and lowered his voice so that no one around them could hear. “We can’t afford to lose any more senior people, Anya. I know you don’t like it, but I don’t give a shit. Now move.”

  And before she could reply, he turned back to Jeremiah, who was walking towards him with Ben. “Get to sickbay,” he said, pointing at his friend. “Jeremiah, stay with me,” he added, thinking it wiser to keep the unpredictable youth in his sight, at least until he could assign him some quarters. But that could wait.

  For now, his job was to save the ship.

  Again.

  ***

  Gavin could hardly believe his ears when Lieutenant Grace barked their new orders at them, and as she marched away to tend to the fighter battle still raging outside, he leaned over to Jet. “She’s kidding, right?”

  “Didn’t sound like it,” she said. They walked over to the waiting fighters, Gavin still in a daze. Lieutenant Grace had ordered them each to pilot a fighter solo, get in close to one of the Imperial ships, fire the quantum field torpedoes at close range, and then fly like a banshee out of there before the quantum-field induced blast took them out as well.

  “You up for this?” Gavin asked. He knew his friend was an excellent gunner, but she hadn’t excelled as much at the flying—not as much as Gavin had, at least.

  She wrenched her headset back on around her ears, and combed her fingers briskly through a tangled knot of hair. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s do this—everyone’s counting on us.”

  Gavin nodded. Jet was right. If they could pull this off, the ship would be saved and they’d be heroes. He almost grinned inside at the thought of it, how just a few weeks earlier he was scrubbing the galley floors and now he was on the verge of being not just a regular space jock, but a celebrity. He slapped his friend on the shoulder before climbing inside his waiting fighter and slid into the pilot’s seat.

  Running as quickly as he could through his preflight checklist, he glanced out at the fighter deck and counted the fighter maintenance bays lining the wall. Sixteen. How many times had he done that now, he wondered. And would he do it again? Was this the last time he’d fly out of that bay? For a moment, he had the terrifying sensation of impending death, like he was about to fly straight into a solid steel wall, but he shook the thought aside and finished his checklist.

  “You ready, girl?” he said into his comm.

  “Ready. Let’s blow the fuckers up,” Jet replied.

  He chuckled. “They’ll never know what hit them.”

  ***

  Jake had no sooner walked onto the bridge than Anya announced through the comm, “It’s showtime, Mercer. They’re out, and awaiting your word.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said, trying to keep his voice formal. He wondered if she’d ever forgive him. If she’d ever let him rip her shirt off and press up against him like that one blissful morning in Florida.

  Po shot him an angry look, which surprised him. “Did I just hear Anya say that they’re out? I ordered her on that fighter. And Quadri on the other one.”

  Jake shook his head. “Sorry, Commander. I need Grace on the flight deck running the show. And Quadri is too—“ He glanced around the bridge, and leaned in close to her. “We can’t lose any more experienced pilots. The recruits will have to do this one.”

  She shot him icicles out of her eyes, pursed her lips, and looked as if she were about to argue, but just shook her head. “Jake, our time is almost up—Trajan threatened nukes if we didn’t surrender in five minutes,” Po stood up from the chair. His chair.

  “When was that?”

  “Five minutes ago.”

  He approached the center of the bridge with Jeremiah in tow, who looked warily around at the officers staring at them with questioning faces. “You sure like to cut things close, Grizzly,” he said, using her old callsign. “Get me the Admiral,” he said to Ensign Falstaff.

  “Channel open, sir.”

  Jake sat down in the chair vacated by Po and cleared his throat. “Admiral Trajan, this is Captain Mercer of the USS Phoenix. It’s so good of you to drop in—it really saved me the hassle of hunting your ass down myself.” He smirked a lop-sided smile.

  Admiral Trajan’s icy voice sounded over the comm. “Please, Captain, spare me the bravado. I take it you will not surrender? We’re detecting your railguns are not operational. Do you really think you can stop these nuclear warheads aimed at your ship?”

  “Well, Admiral, this is progress. At least you’re now referring to the Phoenix as ours.” He paused, letting the moment settle. “No, Admiral, we won’t be surrendering today. Not while I have a Vesuvius mine floating under your ass. Funny, seems like you can find just about anything down on Destiny.”

  Silence. Jake wondered if the channel had been cut.

  “You’re bluffing, Captain, there’s no way you could have launched any such mines without us knowing. Vesuvius mines have anti-matter, and as such they emit the tell-tale gamma-ray signature of matter-antimatter recombination.”

  Jake leaned forward in his seat. “Are you absolutely sure about that, Admiral? Are you willing to stake your life on that bet?”

  “I tire of this, Captain. Surrender now, or face the consequences.”

  With a flick of his finger, he switched the channel over to Jet Xing. “Floppychop, you’re good to go. Target the Sphinx. Mercer out.”

  He flipped the comm back over to the Caligula. “Admiral, I told you, I’m just not in the surrendering mood today. So you’re just going to have to come over here and suck my fat cock if you want me to give up my ship. And since you’re not going to do that, well I guess a little demonstration of the mines is in order.”

  And, as if on cue, the NPQR Sp
hinx exploded in a dazzlingly white blast. When the glare had faded, they watched in awe as the angry red embers—remnants of vast sections of the huge ship—disintegrated before their eyes. Soon, only a hazy, debris-ridden cloud remained.

  Jake had automatically shielded his face from the bright flash on the viewscreen before he remembered that the screen would not damage his eyes by looking at it. When the embers of the explosion faded away, he scanned the screen, looking for any sign of the former Imperial cruiser. But there was none. It was utterly destroyed.

  “Po? The fighter?”

  Po studied her board at the XO’s station, then glanced over at the tactical octagon to shoot a questioning look at Ensign Ayala. But the crackle of the internal comm answered Jake’s question. “Captain, this is Lieutenant Grace. Xing did not make it out.”

  A cold silence pervaded the bridge. No one dared speak. Jake looked up at Po, who closed her eyes tight.

  “Ashdown is standing by,” she continued, letting the sneer saturate her voice as she continued, “should I send him, too, sir?”

  Jake closed his eyes too. This is the price, he told himself. This is the price of freedom. Of safety for his ship and his people. The burden of command. This is the price of freedom.

  And he repeated it over and over to himself, until Po broke the silence. “Captain, the Caligula has shifted away. They’re gone.”

  But all Jake could see, in his mind’s eye, was the flip of tangled short black hair as Jet Xing ambled off to her fighter.

  This is necessary. This is the price of freedom. This is the price of freedom.

  He tried repeating it over in his mind.

  Eventually, it might make him feel better.

  It had to.

  ***

  Admiral Trajan rose from the Captain’s chair and approached the command console. Titus was absolutely sure that Mercer was bluffing, but it appeared that Trajan had started to think otherwise.