by Don Foxe
“Statistical commonalities?” The question came from a private who had slowly worked herself to the front of the group. From her wide eyes, and pinched expression, this may have been the first time she heard the complete tale of the Space Rangers Project.
“No two survivors had anything in common to explain why they had lived, while two hundred-eight equals died. Seven males, and five females. Eight white, three black, and one asian. Two US, two Canadian, two Brits, one Spanish, one French, one Russian, one Ethiopian, one Japanese, one Israeli.”
Henry looked the private eye-to-eye, holding her with his dark gaze. The story told, Henry explained the conditions which followed.
“No one could say why twelve lived, and the others died. The risks verses rewards proved too high to continue. The UEC ended the program. Twelve people were insufficient to create a Space Ranger force.”
“If not Space Rangers, what?” the private asked.
“They were incredibly gifted, and extremely valuable. They were also going to live an exceedingly long time. They were the first, and to this day, the only exo-metahumans.
“Survivors could select any service they wished to join. They could attach with any military, police, or para-military group aligned with the UEC.
“Or opt for civilian life. But they had to remain in service to the UEC, who guaranteed they received support, income, and access to medical, and psychological services when, and if, needed.
“As another condition, they would not be allowed to serve in any military branch at the rank of General, or Admiral. They had a rank ceiling. Finally, because the survivors faced extended lives, and would remain physically young, they could switch disciplines, or even affiliations, with approval. If the UEC was not going to have a Space Ranger Corps, it would have the best trained military special operators on Earth.”
Smith let his last words settle. He stood quickly; the action startled his little audience. “Gotta go. Work calls. Lt. McCormack, thanks for the cake.”
They watched him exit the employee entrance, and turned, as one, to look at the swinging door leading to the Officers’ Lounge. Imagining the room beyond, and the special group within. McCormack allowed a moment of reflection, before ordering her staff back to business.
In the Officers’ Club on MSD, at two tables pushed together, sat nine of the original twelve Space Ranger Grads. The three absent were dead. Two KIA in separate missions on Earth, and one suicide.
Present from the crew of the PT-109, Captain Daniel “Coop” Cooper (US), Captain Elena “Elie” Casalobos (SPN), Colonel Anton Gregory (RUS), Colonel Rachelle Paré (CAN), Colonel Senait “Sindy” Kebede (ETH), and Dr. Hiroshi “Hiro” Kimura (JPN).
Representing SFPT-99, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt, were Captain Samuel “Sam” Harrington (UK), and Colonel Noa Tal (ISR).
EMS2’s latest Chief of Security, Colonel Benedict “Benny” Claflin (UK), completed the nine.
Ship’s Counselor, Genna Bouvier, avatar, occupied a tenth chair. Coop invited Genna to the meeting because, as an engineered human, she had much in common with the re-engineered grads of the Space Ranger Project. For that same reason, Adele, the Roosevelt’s avatar, made number eleven.
Cooper stood, and raised his glass. “To those missing, but never forgotten." The others stood, and all, but Genna, and Adele, said in unison “Boorah,” then downed their drink of choice.
Once reseated, Cooper continued, “We haven’t been together as a group in over twenty years.”
“Closer to twenty-five,” Anton corrected.
“Twenty-five,” Cooper amended. “I asked Fleet Admiral Patterson to contact each of you with an offer to complete what we started thirty years ago. The chance to go into space, and make a difference.
“My thanks to Elie, Anton, Rachelle, Sindy, and Hiro for joining me aboard the 109.
“My congratulations to Benny for accepting the Chief of Security position on EMS2. I understand it will soon include security for MSD, and Mars as well. Benny will help develop the final line of defense, should the Zenge get through the rest of us. To Benny!”
A chorus of ‘BooRah’ from everyone, but Anton, the Fleet Marine, who called ‘HooRah.’ Genna joined in this time, having no idea what BooRah or HooRah meant. Experiencing Scotch whiskey for the first time in her short life. The effect . . . warming. Adele, not yet the confidence to shout along with the others, but the whiskey did have a calming effect.
“Please recognize Noa Tal, the new Chief Pilot for the 99.”
“BooRah,” louder, and drinks downed quicker. Adele joined the BooRah, and giggled as she sat down.
Noa, a strikingly pretty Jewish woman with light olive skin, and curly black hair, raised her glass, and responded. “My thanks to Captain Cooper for recommending me to the Admiral." She turned, and faced Elie, seated alongside Coop. “My thanks to Captain Casalobos, for turning the job down to fly off into the galaxy.”
“Finally, we give sincere congratulations to Sam Harrington. Formerly British Royal Air Force, then UEC Air Force, and now assigned as Captain of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”
The loudest “HooRah” of the night, joined by all, and appreciated by the other officers present around the lounge.
Harrington, a ruddy-faced Brit with short brown hair, and bright blue eyes, turned to face Genna, seated on the same side of the table. “My special thanks to Genna Bouvier for kicking Captain Black’s arse off the command chair of the 109, and out of consideration for the 99. And to Anton,” a nod to the Russian, “for hauling her skinny arse off the bridge.”
“BooRah,” which was the last thing Genna, or Adele remembered of the evening.
CHAPTER 10
Genna planned on giving a personal good-bye and good-luck to Adele. Instead, she held onto the toilet in her cabin’s head, unable to stand, and afraid to lie down.
Kennedy sent their regards to the AI of the SF PT-109, Rosy, who would pass them to Adele, who had not emerged from her cabin. Nothing in Fleet protocol required the avatar’s presence for the official launch of the ship. Few rules existed regarding Space Fleet avatars, as only two currently served.
Captain Tal, feeling queasy herself, refused to let it show. Slowly, and carefully, she piloted the ship away from the dock, and into space. The AI helped assure the ship made it up, and out of the opened roof without incident.
On the viewing platform, crew members from the PT-109 were present for the 99’s departure. They stood alongside MSD personnel; civilian and military. A delegation from Earth, led by Fleet Admiral Patterson, and including, in toto, the Governing Board of the UEC, cheered when a bottle of Champagne hovered out, and shattered against her hull. Their newest spaceship disengaged from the magno-clamps to more cheers.
Five high-ranking officers from the 109 wore sunglasses, against accepted protocol for a Fleet event. Col. Anton Gregory, without shades, appeared alert, and engaged in the ceremonies.
As the Roosevelt moved away, Patterson moved to Cooper’s side. Sotto voce, she asked, “Celebrate a bit much last night?”
“I’d say about exactly enough,” Coop replied, not looking directly at the shorter officer.
“Meeting in my office, in one hour,” Admiral Patterson said. “I’ll bring Nathan, and you can make sure Anton is there.”
“Yes, Ma’am. One hour.”
****
Nathan handed Cooper a data stick.
“Everything you, and Hiro require is on the stick. When he inserts it into his scanning systems, it will automatically adjust them to pinpoint deposits of the crystals. It could locate storage locations, if they store crystals in sufficient quantities.”
“Nathan asked to go with you, and was denied,” Patterson’s use of first names indicated this was a more personal, off-the-record meeting. “We cannot afford to lose him. Manny Hernandez will join you. He has the expertise to get the tachyon cannons operational on Rys. He is as familiar with crystal technology as Nathan.”
“Don’t think Manny would
like knowing he’s expendable,” Nathan quipped.
“Coop and Anton are to make damn sure no one is expended,” Patterson responded. “Coop, it is also your responsibility to stay on mission. Your priority is getting crystals. If you make friends with the races on Rys, it’s a plus, and important. But if you have to use force to get those crystals, I am giving you final authorization for the use of that force.”
Patterson turned her attention to the Russian. “Anton, your Marines are our back-up, if diplomacy fails. You will be greatly outnumbered.”
Anton shrugged. “Outnumbered is not outgunned. We will face gem cutters and miners. I’m sure they are tough enough, but everything we know suggests they are not fighters. We also have the 109, and Demon watching over us. If we must use force, we will have force-capable assets.”
Patterson sat back before continuing. “No one can know the potential military aspect of this mission unless absolutely necessary. Anton, you have to prepare your Marines for the possibility of a forced extraction of materials, without letting them know who they may confront.”
The Marine Colonel replied, “No problem. It’s how we train anyway. Always train for the probable, expect the improbable, and treat enemy combatants with respect for their ability, regardless of how stupid they may appear.”
“Nathan, final report on the 109’s tachyon refit, as well as crystals, and materials for the weapons designated for Rys?" Patterson seemed glad to leave the subject of potentially going to battle, if not war, with the Lisza Kaugh, and the Dwards.
“The new weapons systems on the 109 perform to specs. Material needed to build six surface-based cannons are stored aboard. Once the 99’s trial is complete, the 109 can take off,” Trent informed them.
“Dr. Trent, and I must return to Earth,” Patterson said. “Because we will not be here when the 109 departs, I will say this now. God’s speed and good luck.”
CHAPTER 11
Two weeks passed without incident. Time spent in drills, and practice with the tachyon cannon. Crew and ship integrated its firepower with the other armaments.
The John F. Kennedy’s flight pattern placed her near the Mars Shipyard and Docks orbital station when word arrived the Franklin Delano Roosevelt, SF PT-99, had returned to EMS2. Systems functioned above standards. Every trial taken, and passed. The JFK was free to begin its mission to Rys.
Travel required four uneventful days in space-fold to reach the rim of the solar system. Once there, the reduced gravitational effects from the sun, planets, and objects within the system allowed them to operate the crystal-laser array at maximum output. The ship entered natural space to verify conditions, and beam a good-bye to MSD.
ENS Harper Leigh, twenty-three, and a statuesque brunette at six-feet, occupied the pilot’s seat. Coop ordered the ship into space-fold, and Leigh directed them toward the Rys system.
The only other person on the bridge, LCMD Sonoritsch, a Bosine, and former Assistant Captain of the Star Gazer cruise ship, operated the Operations/Tactical console. He methodically ran potential scenarios for confrontations between the 109, and Zenge battleships. The threat-analysis based largely on tactical data obtained during the Star Gazer battle. Op-Tac programs would determine possibilities for success, or failure of a confrontation. The gaming involved the 109 facing a battle group of Zenge warships. The LCMD varied the 109’s weaponry from a full compliment, to having no weapons available, to a number of possibilities between.
“Anything interesting, Sonoritsch?” Coop asked. ENS Leigh’s head came up to listen.
“The 109 seems to do fairly well against ten or fewer Zenge ships. With either the tachyon cannon, or the railgun functioning, and laser cannon operational, we win. Loss of the tachyon cannon reduces our chances of success against numbers by twenty-percent. If we lose the railgun, we are more likely to get killed than kill. If only lasers and torpedoes remain available, we have a chance of escaping with minimal damage, while rendering six Zenge ships non-operational. If we possess torpedoes alone, or we deplete our torpedoes, and have no weapons available, then I would suggest we use our speed to get the hell away, and fight again another day.”
All three wore Fellen-designed translators, and Leigh snuffled at the last comment. With translators, you were unsure how near the intended meaning a remark might land. In this case, Coop, and Leigh decided they heard exactly what Sonoritsch meant to say.
“Commander, you have the bridge,” Coop told him. “I have an appointment with Dr. Kimura." The bridge of the 109 performed less formally than the traditional Navy ships modeled by Space Fleet crews. Coop did not require a reply, nor expect the Bosine to actually take the command chair. He left him to his war games. ENS Leigh would monitor ship’s systems until relieved.
Coop’s appointment with Dr. Kimura had nothing to do with the doctor’s expertise as a planetologist. Hiro Kimura came to the Space Ranger Project from a private para-military group which protected the last remaining royalty of Japan. While no one admitted to it, the group was rumored to consist of Samurai warriors. Hiro selected to represent the Japanese, because he was the best they had.
In his cabin, Coop changed into his training gi, a black karate uniform with red stripes. He reverently removed a katana sword from a secure storage unit. The weapon gifted him by Hiro, nearly three decades earlier. During the Space Ranger Project, the two discovered they were evenly matched in hand-to-hand combat, and both proficient with edged weapons. They sparred whenever their paths crossed with time available to schedule a session. The upcoming session would occur in the Marines’ training area. The third match held in the past six weeks. Hiro won the first, and Coop the second. The first two featured wood Kendo swords. This time they would practice using their personal weapons. First cut decided the victor.
Coop, running late, quickly completed dressing, cinching his black belt around the pull-over top. He took the shortest route to the training space. With sheathed katana in his left hand, he entered the designated studio, and was nearly pushed back by the roar of the crowd inside.
Hiro stood apart, across the room, on a corner of the mat serving as their ring. He joined his sparring partner to chants of “Coop, Coop,” led by two blue females.
Hiro wore traditional bottoms, flared at the calf, and cinched at the ankles. He wore no shirt, displaying a six-pack, muscled chest, shoulders and arms. The Japanese warrior-scientist shrugged as Coop neared. “I believe word has spread of a grudge match,” he told the taller Cooper.
“And I believe I know which two played a hand in spreading the word,” Cooper replied, eyeing Sky and Storm. The pair seated on benches no more than five feet from the matted area. “Do I smell popcorn?”
“It would also appear Chef Sandro has provided refreshments. And Col. Gregory is, I understand, in charge of wagers.”
Cooper looked around, and spied Anton Gregory standing on a crate, with a tablet in hand, inputting credits wagered, and by whom. Cooper yelled at the Russian, “Odds?”
Anton smiled. To be heard over the fifty-something people, humans and aliens, filling the training room, he yelled back, “Hiro, by a mile. I’m keeping the odds down on purpose, to persuade a few people to lay a few credits on how long you’ll last.”
Captain Cindy Shah, Anton’s top officer, and the person in charge of Marine’s hand-to-hand combat training on board, would act as referee. “When people heard you would fight with real edged weapons, everybody on board, not stuck with a job, decided to show up,” she said to both. “As referee, I fully intend to stay the hell out of the way, and not interfere in any manner whatsoever. When I see blood, I’ll blow my whistle, and the match is over.” She left them to join Sky and Storm.
Coop and Hiro nodded. Fighting with distractions constituted a major part of learning to fight the proper way. The crowd would only bother them up to the point the duel began. Coop backed away from Hiro, stepping backwards on the mat, and across twenty-four feet, until he stood in the opposite corner. He knelt, and placed his sheat
hed sword on the mat. Hiro mirrored his actions. Both placed foreheads to the mat, with both hands on their swords.
After a heartbeat, and in unison, they removed the katanas, blades up. The crowd quieted. The singing of the swords unsheathing filled the room. With left hands, they placed sheaths off the mat, then rose fluidly from kneeling to standing position. They stepped to the center of the mat, slight bows of respect exchanged.
A sword fight is commonly over quickly. Swordsmen hardly ever use more than a fraction of the techniques and strategies learned over years of practice. Cooper, actually more comfortable with a spear or stick, had taken to the sword quickly. He learned a great deal from Hiro, and other sword masters, over the years.
There was no official start. They would not fight in rounds. The match would begin with first strike, and end with blood.
Hiro struck first using the most fundamental Japanese sword cut. From an overhead position, with the sword perfectly horizontal, he cast his katana out, much like casting a fishing rod by pulling with the left hand at the bottom. Using the hand like a lever, aiming for contact with Coop’s head or shoulder. The follow-through would bring the sword down, to stop horizontally again. The action done without power, but with incredible speed, allowing the blade to drop quicker than the eye could follow.
Hiro did not use too much force in the right hand, which was simply guiding the blade. His intention was to cut Cooper, not slice through him.
Cooper raised his weapon with both hands, catching Hiro’s blade cross-wise. His speed matching the Japanese master, and his strength halting the downward track of the katana.
With his sword already at horizontal for the block, Coop continued the swing, much like the basic attack Hiro initiated. The blade begins facing out horizontally, sliding beneath Hiro’s sword, and levered by the left hand, arcing out with the cut moving back toward’s his opponent’s torso. The tactic designed to make contact with the target, and cut through to the other side.