Ragnarok-ARC

by Patrick A. Vanner

  Bones grated together, and blood began to flow from her head, but Alex felt none of it. She did not feel Heron trying to hold her back; she was only vaguely aware of something slowing her. All she could feel was the hatred and rage pounding in her brain. The man standing in front of her was putting her crew at risk, and she could not allow that. Would not allow it. He had to be stopped, and if it meant killing him, and anyone who stood in her way, then so be it.

  "Alex, no!" Heron shouted, trying to break through to her friend, all the while holding her back from committing murder. "Green, get over here and help me!"

  Ensign Green bounded over at Heron's order and wrapped his powerful arms around his captain, trying not to hurt her in the process of restraining her, even as the shocked MPs finally moved to protect the admiral.

  Alex continued to struggle, her one good eye locked onto the man she intended to kill. She had to save her crew. Nerve endings already inflamed from heavy trauma overloaded as fresh damage was inflicted. The fresh, overwhelming pain pulled Alex out of her rage, the pain overriding everything else in her body. The self-preservation instinct of her hindbrain calmed her, allowing her to take in the situation.

  She saw the admiral standing in front of her, a look of abject fear on his face with the realization of how close to death he had come. The MPs surrounding him, uncertain as to what to do, placed hands on pistol butts. The huge arms wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her side, were unmistakably Ensign Green's. And standing off to one side, Heron massaged the knuckles of one hand with the other. Alex snorted at that, thinking she must have really lost her temper this time, if Heron had to punch her to snap her out of it.

  Putting the individual images together, she decided she must not have lost her temper. She must have lost her mind. Funny, that thought did not bother her as much as she thought it would. But then again, do crazy people know they are crazy? She began to laugh at that thought, and seeing the expressions on the faces surrounding her, she laughed harder.

  "Okay, Green, you can let me go now," she said as she stopped laughing. She could feel his reluctance to release her, so she let herself relax, allowing him to read her body language. "Really, I'm okay now."

  She felt his massive arms slacken their hold on her, and as her arms were freed, she raised the right one to probe at her overabused eye. Hissing in pain at the movement, she looked at her chief engineer.

  "Nice punch."

  "Yeah, well, next time I'll let Green do it," Heron said, shaking her hand. "That hurt."

  "Tell me about it," Alex said as she tried to smile past the pain that radiated from what seemed to be every part of her body.

  "Admiral," she said, turning back to him. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing at, or why, but I will make you a deal." She kept her one good eye locked onto his. "You get a relief ship here immediately, and I will surrender myself into your custody. But I will tell you this—if even one single member of my crew sustains an injury or dies because of your actions here, I swear to Christ that the last thing you see while lying in a pool of your own blood will be my face staring down at you. Do we have a deal?" she ended with a snarl.

  "Captain, you are in no position to bargain," Admiral Rachere said, regaining his composure. "Especially not after that little display. I think we can add attempted murder to the charges, don't you? Sergeant, take her into custody now."

  Alex could see the sergeant pause, looking around the command deck, a sheen of sweat appearing on his face.

  "What are you waiting for, Sergeant? Arrest her," the admiral barked, clearly trying to reestablish some form of authority.

  "Actually, Admiral, I think I am in a very nice position to bargain, and the sergeant here has seen it as well." Alex, ignoring the pain, forced a smile onto her face as she looked from the admiral to the sergeant then back again.

  "What the hell are you babbling about now?" he snapped, casting his gaze about the command deck, trying to see what she could possibly be talking about.

  "Why don't you tell him, Sergeant?" she said as sweetly as possible, just to annoy the admiral. What the hell, Alex figured. In for a bullet, in for a barrage. "I think he has heard enough bad news from me today." The sergeant swallowed before replying.

  "It's the crew, sir."

  "What about the crew?"

  "They're armed. Every damn one of them is armed, sir."

  The admiral looked around again, and this time Alex could see comprehension dawning in eyes, just as the worry returned to his face. Every single member of her crew present on the command deck was armed with a heavy flechette pistol, and over half had them drawn. While they were not directly pointed at the small group of visitors clustered together, they were not exactly pointed away, either. Those who did not have them drawn had hands resting on them, clearly ready to use them if the situation warranted.

  "This is mutiny!" the admiral, clearly panicking now, squeaked out past his dry lips.

  "Well, sir, I am the captain of this ship, and it seems to me that none of those weapons are pointed at me. So this is clearly not a mutiny. What this could be, mind you, is a response to a hostile boarding action. In which case, I think you and your MPs are about to join us in having a very bad day." Speaking calmly now, she wanted to make her point crystal clear. What she was offering him was a very simple and elegant equation. She would get what her crew needed, or he would die. "On the other hand, if you were here on my command deck to, say, inform me that a relief ship was inbound at max speed, well, this situation might just be an unfortunate misunderstanding."

  "I see. So either I get you a relief ship, or I get dead, is that it?" he said, the slight tremor belying the arrogant façade he was trying to project. "That's blackmail, Captain."

  "Actually, it's extortion, but let's not quibble over semantics." Alex continued to stare at the admiral. "So, tell me, Admiral, what exactly are you doing on my command deck?"

  The question hung in the air between them. Live or die, the decision was his now, and she could see that he knew it.

  * * *

  Admiral Rachere stared back into the eyes of the defiant captain standing across from him. He knew that he had lost control but could not quite figure out when that had happened. Everything had been going so well; he'd had her right where he wanted her, hadn't he? So why was he the one standing here with an ultimatum to answer? He came to a quick decision. He would give the captain her relief ship. So much the better for her to be in his debt as well as being forced to pay for past sins.

  "Very well, Captain," he heard himself say, blushing at the quaver he heard in his voice. "You have your relief ship. Sergeant, contact Lieutenant Web. Have him contact Folkvang station and get a relief ship to rendezvous with the Fenris as quickly as possible."

  "Yes, sir!" the sergeant snapped, sounding grateful and relieved.

  "Now, Captain, if you would be so kind as to join me on my ship, there are some things you and I need to discuss." He stepped aside and gestured toward the lift, inviting her on. The gall of having to do it this way burned in his throat, but he swallowed it. As long as he got her, that was all that mattered in the end.

  He watched as Captain McLaughlin, turning to the commander standing beside her, unbuckled her holster and handed it over.

  "Take care of that for me, would you, Heron?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And get our people home."

  "I will, Alex. I swear it."

  "Very well. Commander, you have the con," McLaughlin snapped out formally.

  "I have the con. Aye, ma'am." The commander's response came just as formally.

  Rachere watched this byplay disinterestedly. He did not care about the ship or crew at all, beyond using them as a weapon to hurt her. And he had accomplished that, albeit almost at the cost of his life. But now that that situation had passed, the incident added one more nail in her coffin.

  "Come along, Captain. We don't want to keep anyone from their duties, do we?" he sneered, twisting the knife
in her.

  "No, Admiral, we don't." Her voice was cold and emotionless.

  He watched her hold her head up and march to the lift, limping slightly, trying to appear as if still in command. Following her onto the lift, he gave her that moment. He turned to face the still-motionless crew assembled on the command deck and let them see the triumphant smile spreading across his face. Regardless of the circumstances, he knew he had gotten what he had come for, and from the hateful stares of the crew, he could tell they knew it, too.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Deep Waters

  October 8, 2197

  1625 z

  Groombridge 34

  The high commander did not look up from his displays, continuing to enter data into them, planning for the next step in the offensive against the Dry-Skins, trusting in his guards to maintain his security as his subordinate approached the command throne.

  "By your leave, High Commander," Si'Lasa said, dropping to one knee.

  Seeming to have not heard the vice commander's request, the high commander unhurriedly entered the last of his data. Done at last, he raised his head to watch the top of his friend's bowed head for a moment longer before breaking his silence.

  "Rise, Vice Commander, and give me your report. What is the status of the Swarm?"

  "We have suffered many losses, both in ships and in lives. The Dry-Skins, for all their faults, fought like a cornered tavark. It will be many tides before all of our losses are fully known, and even more before we are able to repair them."

  "Yet we are victorious, Vice Commander. We have defeated their largest swarm outside of their home system. This is something to rejoice in." The high commander inhaled deeply, picking up the scent of disappointment and regret emanating from his friend. "Why do you despair?"

  "Yes, High Commander, you are correct. We are victorious—but the cost was too high."

  "Too high?"

  "Yes. We will not be able to pursue the Dry-Skins back to their home system with sufficient strength to overcome them at this time, and reports from the kisnan that was assigned to intercept any ship attempting to flee show that one ship managed to escape our talons. They will not fail to prepare for our attack."

  "No, you are correct—they will not. Yet all is not lost," he reassured Si'Lasa. "I have a plan that I believe will give us our final victory over the Dry-Skins, and much sooner than you would seem to think possible."

  "I trust in your leadership, High Commander. I always have, and if there is a Xan-Sskarn that can perform this task, it is you," Si'Lasa told his superior, sounding relieved. "Might I know your plan, so that I can begin to prepare the Swarm?"

  "Not yet, my friend. I still must discuss it with the Swarm Masters. Your task will be to oversee the repair of our Swarm and to integrate the reinforcements the Swarm Masters will undoubtedly send us." Saying this, the high commander rose from the command throne to approach Si'Lasa, laying a hand on his shoulder and staring directly into his eyes. "Do this, and with the Supreme One's blessings we shall once again be victorious."

  Bowing his head once more, Si'Lasa spoke in a confident voice.

  "It shall be as you command, High Commander, and with your leadership we shall remove the threat of the Dry-Skins from our people. I will not fail you."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Naval Annex, Washington DC, Terra

  October 8, 2197

  1930 z

  Sol

  "Destroyed?" asked a shocked voice.

  "Yes, sir," responded a deep voice.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I believe so, sir. My office has been trying to compile and correlate all the information for the past several hours." The man speaking wore the uniform of a full admiral and continued to stare at the man sitting across from him. Though appearing to be a man once muscular, he obviously was slowly going to seed as age caught up with him. Pale, with dark eyes, his hair, which had been lightly flecked with gray only a few short years ago, was now totally white. Despite all of this, the steel in him was still evident.

  "How long ago?" the shocked voice asked.

  "Over ten hours, at least," the admiral answered him flatly. He knew what question was coming next and braced himself for the response his answer would bring, knowing it would be explosive. The kind of explosion that started an avalanche. He was not looking forward to the forthcoming inevitable conversation at all.

  "Why am I only hearing of this now?"

  Yes, that was the question the admiral had been expecting, and he gave his answer.

  "He did what?!" shouted the man behind the desk, his voice echoing around the handsomely appointed office, and the admiral sitting across from him winced as the avalanche began. The Secretary of War was well known to have a vicious temper and a tendency to collect heads.

  "As I said, Mr. Secretary," Admiral Greco, Chief of Naval Operations, said in a placating voice, "it appears that Admiral Rachere boarded the Fenris shortly after her translation into the system and proceeded to place her captain, Captain McLaughlin, under arrest, keeping this information from reaching us for several additional hours."

  "What the hell was that man thinking?" Secretary Lapinski asked, leaning back in his chair and mopping at his balding head with a handkerchief. Admiral Greco watched as the secretary's face grew redder and redder. Greco looked down at the pad gripped in his hands and knew that he should report the rest of the information he had, but he hesitated. He was at a loss as to how to explain what he had read—he did not understand it himself.

  "Richard, you know, you never were that good of a poker player. I can see you're holding something back. What is it? Did Rachere have reason to do what he did?"

  "Well, there is more, Mr. Secretary, a lot more, and it is very confusing. I have several reports here from members of the Fenris' crew, the crew of Courier 254, personnel aboard Folkvang station, and the admiral himself." Glancing down at the pad once more, he hoped that the information within had miraculously changed from what he had seen a moment before. Of course it hadn't, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the pad even tighter and brought his head up to lock eyes with the secretary. Well, if Secretary Lipinski wanted to kill the messenger, then so be it. In thirty-five years, he had never once shirked his duty, and he was not about to start.

  "Before we get into the specific reports, I wanted to point out that the 'how' of the destruction of Admiral Stevens' fleet at Groomsbridge 34 led the admiral to believe, and I'm afraid I must concur, that there is a traitor or traitors in our midst who gave away our fleet maneuvers at Groomsbridge 34 to the enemy.

  "In light of this theory, we have already begun adjusting our defensive positioning here in Sol system and alerted what few ships we still have remaining out-system. Obviously, security has been tightened on all fleet maneuvers, but until we catch the traitor or traitors, whatever our moves, we have to assume the Sallys might be aware of them." Admiral Greco paused, having finished summarizing the most important news.

  Secretary Lipinski leaned back, closing his eyes and locking his hands together over his ample belly. Sitting motionless like this, most would think that he had fallen asleep, but Admiral Greco was not fooled. The secretary was digesting and assimilating this new information, and the meeting would not proceed until this task was complete. After a long pause, the secretary's eyes opened, and he spoke. "And does this have anything to do with Admiral Rachere and Captain McLaughlin?"

  "Okay, Mr. Secretary, please keep in mind that all of the reports I have, naturally, are trying to paint a picture in the best light possible from their point of view." Admiral Greco waited for the secretary to nod his understanding before continuing. This was one shitstorm that was going to take a great deal of skill to navigate.

  "Out of all the reports I have, I believe that of the captain of Courier Boat 254, Lieutenant Web, is the most unbiased."

  "But not totally?" asked the secretary, leaning back in his chair.

  "No, not totally. Reading between the lines, I believe
that Lieutenant Web does not much care for Admiral Rachere. I had my adjutant do a quick records search, and it appears that neither of them has served together—granted, they could have run across each other without being posted to the same command," he added when he saw Lipinski open his mouth to speak. "But, given what I know of Rachere, both personally and professionally, I think he just pissed Web off."

  "I see. So, am I given to understand that you don't particularly care for Admiral Rachere yourself?" Admiral Greco watched the secretary's eyes stare at him levelly for a moment, clearly demanding an answer. He felt his expression change as he tried to find a way to answer that question without it sounding too judgmental. "Richard," the secretary said, "I can see you have an opinion. Just give it to me. I know you well enough to know that, no matter what your personal feelings, you will give me a professional, unbiased report. I've met Captain McLaughlin before, but not that admiral. I've my own opinions of only one of the two central figures to this little drama. I trust I know you well enough to know that my opinion would probably be similar if not the same as yours. Now, if you don't mind?"