Galactic Champion

by Dante King

  We’d been on the shuttle for nearly an hour. The crew had parked the Xeno ship on the far side of the only gas giant in the system to keep it out of plain view of the uninitiated.

  I turned to take my seat but caught something out of the corner of my eye. There was something familiar about this Xeno vessel. Something different. We were still pretty far away, so I turned to the right and checked the sensor array. Then, I saw it: weapon pods. They were unmistakable.

  I counted at least 30, just on the starboard side of the ship. Each was 13 feet wide, hemispherical like a dome, and attached to the hull like dull, silver barnacles. These had been placed in strategic locations to ensure there were no blind spots on the vessel. Weapon pods meant gunners, and gunners meant I had a tactical officer. I’d get the rest of the details once I boarded. Nobody had all the details until then. The mission was too secret.

  The engineers who’d worked on the ship had thought of everything, including some of the comforts of home. The vessel was studded with human weapons pods, which were normally used as quick battlefield replacements for damaged weapons systems on Federation ships. All the Federation Navy had to do was unbox one, weld it to the hull, and they were back in the fight. Should the need arise, I mused, I’ve got enough weapons to stand my ground. Maybe I’ll take-out a few buggers on my way out, too.

  Because of safety regulations, even regarding probable-suicide missions, there were rows of dark polka-dots along the side of the ship: escape pods. I shrugged inwardly. If it came down to it, they might come in handy. There was no telling what the future might bring.

  I took my seat, strapped in, and felt my big, cheesy smile starting to make my cheeks hurt. I couldn’t help it. As we approached the captured vessel, I started imagining what the Navy might come up with after this mission if it succeeded. Would we set traps to capture more enemy ships? It might be more economical to keep doing that rather than build our own. The hulls were tough and, worst case scenario, if one was too badly damaged in battle, we could toss it into a star and go find another one. The thought made me a little giddy.

  Our target was in sight. It must’ve taken the engineers a solid month to cut through the ship’s carapace to install hangar bay doors, but there they were. And we weren’t heading directly for them. Instead, we were headed toward the bow—toward what appeared to be a maintenance hatch.

  There was only one reason to perform an external docking on a ship this large: the hangar was already full. That was good. That meant there were enough supplies to last us a long time. It also likely meant I had fighters onboard. They had to be human fighters because Xeno buggers didn’t use hangars. They just attached themselves to the outside of their mother ships like lampreys.

  A few minutes later, we were docked and ready to board. As captain, it was traditional that I’d be the first to board the new Federation ship and the last to leave, so I took my place at the hatch. It was also customary to make a short speech and to invoke the name of the ship, which I’d decided on. I turned to the 20 others aboard the transport shuttle and looked each of them in the eye before speaking.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, drawing the words out to make sure I had their attention before continuing, “We are about to undertake a mission that no other humans have done before. We’re about to board a captured enemy vessel and use it to drive a spike into several million Xeno hearts.

  “For now, this vessel will be your home. You must care for it as you would any other Federation vessel, even if it is the ugliest one we own.” My words were answered by a wave of small laughs.

  “I expect professionalism from each of you. I expect you to perform your duties to the best of your abilities and to hold each other accountable to do the same.

  “Welcome to the Revenge.”

  The other passengers on the shuttle, and even the pilot, thrust a fist above their heads and cheered. I’d never been so damn proud in all my life. That was until the hatch opened and I saw who was waiting for me on the other side.

  Standing on the other end of the short tube connecting the ships was my MSM squad, all standing at attention. I caught a couple sets of their eyes darting my direction rather than staring directly forward. I also caught one of them unsuccessfully suppressing a smile.

  I should’ve known they’d send me with the best of the greenhorns. I could have guessed it, but I didn’t want to hope. Should we need direct-contact muscle, I had a squad I trusted—men and women I’d trained myself. I knew the squad leader and knew he could get the job done. Command had thought of everything.

  I marched onto my vessel, and as was also traditional, took a few minutes to dress-down my Marines. First, Sergeant Hadell, who looked like he was about to squeal with joy. “Wipe that smirk off your face, Marine! Your job here is to kill things I tell you to kill. Your other job is to kick the ass of any Marine who doesn’t do as you tell him or her to do. Understood?”

  Technically, I knew, the Marines weren’t directly under my command. But I had no doubt my squad leader would do as he was told if the time came. Joker would do his job, and I’d do mine. The bugs didn’t realize what they’d gotten themselves into. They were in for a surprise.

  I continued my march into my ship and was met by a pale-looking man in a First Officer uniform. The red stripe that ran across his epaulets and along the edges of his sleeves was bright against the all-black Navy uniform. His dark complexion, black hair, and dark brown eyes marked him—or his parents, anyway—as a Terran. While a few Martians found serving with Earthlings distasteful, I was of the older variety.

  A man cannot be measured by his heritage or lineage, I remembered the words from my school days.

  This man, for instance, had risen through the ranks to become my First Officer. Until he gave me reason to mistrust him, he would have my support, my sword, and, if necessary, my life. We were Martians. Nothing else mattered.

  “Welcome, Commander,” he said. I’d been temporarily promoted to fill my role for the mission. “I am your First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Bravi Zadair. I am here to serve Mars, at your discretion, Sir.”

  “And I’m glad to have you. Where’s the bridge?”

  “This way, Sir,” Zadair said.

  We walked in silence down the busy hallway. Crew members sprinted through hatches, ran full tilt on important business from one area to another, and appeared and disappeared through hatches, all without crashing into each other.

  “How long has the crew been aboard the Revenge?” I asked.

  “Most have been here since we captured her more than four years ago, Sir,” he said. “Is that her name, Sir? The Revenge?”

  “That’s what I’ve decided to call her unless someone has beaten me to it.”

  “No one has thought to name the ship, Sir. But I think it’s fitting.”

  “Good,” I said.

  As I approached the chitin door, it slid open with a familiar hiss and an unfamiliar grinding, scraping noise.

  “Sorry, Sir,” Zadair said. “These bug doors aren’t completely compatible with our systems. They’re going to be noisy until we wear the rough edges off of them.”

  “No matter—and no time,” I said.

  The bridge was laid out more or less the same way I’d expected a Federation-built vessel would be, including the position of the stations. There was a station directly in front of me for my First Officer and communications to my left along the bulkhead. Further away was the engineering station and a place for a couple of crew members who could jump on any station when needed. At the bow, just in front of the viewscreen, were two more places for crewmembers to stand ready.

  The crew members wouldn’t be specialists, I knew. We had enough specialists. They were there to fill in the gaps, cover other crew members while they slept, and provide whatever other services they were pressed into. They were invaluable.

  In the center of the bridge in front of myself and the First Officer was the navigator. He sat behind a semi-hemispherical station full
of blinking lights, displays of star maps, and power indicators from the different powerplants the Federation had added to the Revenge. Placing the navigator in the center would help ensure nobody would bump, jostle, or disturb him during his programming. One decimal point either way could drive us right through a star.

  Of course, that was when we were using fusion drives. Nobody was really sure what it meant to travel through a “portal.” Some called them “teleporters.” Others called them “Einstein Rosen Bridges.” Marines called them “portals” because it accomplished the same description without all the fuss. We had no time for techno-babble while there were bugs to kill and enemy hardware to slag.

  Nobody stood when I walked onto the bridge. I was relieved. My bridge crew were professionals. There was no need to stand on ceremony while we were on a war-footing.

  “First Officer,” I said. “How long until the ship is made ready?”

  “We’re ready now, Sir,” he said. “We’re scheduled to leave—”

  “Navigator,” I interrupted, “do you have a course… or whatever the bugs call it?”

  “Yes, Sir,” he said. “The calculations are complete. Ready when you are.”

  “Well, then,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear, “battle stations.”

  “Battle stations!” Zadair repeated while I climbed into my chair and began strapping myself in. The lights on the bridge dimmed and turned red. From somewhere deep in the hull, probably from several locations, the thrummers began pulsing out a pre-programmed pattern of vibrations. In situations where communication was still important, and loud, screeching klaxons would inhibit that, the thrummers were used. They had the same effect but also allowed us to communicate. “Seal the blast doors! Arm the weapons! Engineering, report!”

  The engineering officer was struggling with his straps. They weren’t quite meeting at his chest, and he couldn't get the clasp to close. I looked over my right shoulder to my Second Officer’s station and saw an older man—older than I’d expect for a Second Officer—sitting there. His white hair was cropped short but wasn’t thinning. Neither were his enormous eyebrows. The hairs were so long, they’d started curling up as they approached his ears. I made a gesture toward him, then toward the Chief Engineer, who looked like he was about to have a panic attack. He nodded, unbuckled himself, and rushed to the man’s aid.

  “Comm, report!” Zadair barked.

  “Comm reports five by five,” he said. “The battle station isn’t expecting us to leave for another 96 minutes—”

  “The captain said we’re leaving, so we’re leaving!” Zadair retorted. He was turned away from me, so I couldn’t see his face, but his body posture indicated he was ready to fight. The communications officer backed down.

  “Combat, report!”

  “No shields, Sir,” the 30-something hard-edged woman said. “Ship wasn’t retrofitted with them. But point defense is warmed up.”

  “Tactical, report!”

  The stout man turned his chair to face the First Officer and paused when the Second Officer ran back to his station. The Chief Engineer was secure.

  “Tactical reports ready, Sir,” he said. His wide mouth made me think of a frog, and his nose looked like he’d been involved in more than his share of brawls—some of which he might’ve won. His accent was difficult to place, but I guessed he was Terran, from one of the larger continents.

  “Engineering, report!”

  “Fuel capacity is at 99%,” he said with a measure of confidence that I found reassuring, especially after struggling with his straps. “All powerplants are online. Capacitors are charged. Cooling systems are nominal.”

  Zadair sat hard into his seat and strapped in before spinning to face me. “Bridge reports ready, Commander.”

  “Then let’s move into hyperspace.”

  It was time the Xeno got what was coming to them. The alien fuckers wouldn’t know what hit them.

  Chapter Six

  It’s now or never, I told myself. We were about to meet our enemy and deliver a swift, planet-ruining kick to the balls. I let my grin widen.

  “Engage the portal generator,” I ordered.

  “Engaging the portal generator… now, Sir!” the navigator confirmed.

  His head tilted down, and he stabbed a button with his finger, but nothing happened for several seconds. Then the universe tilted a few degrees to port.

  It started with a rising sound that began in the belly of the ship. It sounded like a harmonica, played by someone with no teeth or talent. It was a single note, high-pitched and shrill. When it reached a volume that made me want to shove a finger in each of my ears, it stopped, and so did the universe.

  The sensation was like being dropped from a shuttle directly into a gravity well by my belly button. Then, it felt like someone was trying to drag my belly button out of my left ear.

  And then it was all over. I shook the mental static from my head and noticed several others on the bridge doing the same. There were no fires. The environmental systems appeared to be functioning normally. Nobody was lying on the floor. Other than our tired, bewildered expressions, it appeared that nothing significant had happened at all.

  The viewscreen was totally blank, and I wasn’t sure whether it was simply offline or if everything outside the ship was shrouded in an all-encompassing blackness.

  “Status,” I ordered.

  “Status,” First Officer Zadair repeated.

  “Engineering board is green,” the chief engineer announced. “All systems are nominal. The portal generator is drawing a lot of power, but we’ve still got 70% in capacity.”

  “Comm,” Zadair prompted.

  The communications officer raised a finger to his right ear and listened to something. He slowly raised the index finger of his left hand in the universal sign for “hold on just a second.” I couldn’t see his expression, but based on his body language, we were in for a doozy.

  The bridge went silent. Several of the crew craned their necks or turned around to stare at the communications officer who wasn’t answering the first officer’s question.

  “I hear something,” he whispered as he lowered his index finger and tapped an icon at the comm station. “It sounds like chatter—sort of. Gimme a minute. I’ll clean it up.”

  The first officer turned his head toward me. Whether it was for confirmation, permission to discipline the communications officer, or what, I wasn’t sure. But, as chief of operations, he was their direct supervisor. I kept silent and waited to see what he would do.

  “Navigation,” he said, turning back to the bow of the Revenge, “where are we?”

  “Um…”

  “‘Um’ is not an answer, Lieutenant,” Zadair growled. “Where are we?”

  “Stand by,” the navigator said.

  Zadair looked over at me again. I ignored the unspoken request to turn up the heat. I could tell by the slope of the navigator’s shoulders, the way he traced his fingers along lines of data, and the way he held his breath that something was amiss. Another five seconds passed before he turned around.

  “Sir,” he said, squinting one eye, “I think we’re in hyperspace.”

  So, this was hyperspace. I wanted to stand, to see if there was anything different in how I felt, in how I perceived my surroundings, but we were still at battle stations. My job was to remain in my chair until I ordered my crew to stand down. And given the situation, that could be a while.

  The bridge buzzed with silent activity. Each person pored over the data at his or her station. Some whispered quietly and leaned over in their chairs to peer at the data from another terminal.

  “Sir!” the communications officer said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “I think I hear—”

  “Contact!” the tactical officer interrupted. “Bearing two degrees, mark five degrees. Five, no, six targets! They’re coming about, Sir! Distance… uh… I’m not sure. Looks like a quarter-million miles, but I can’t be sure. Our computers can’t make sense of an
y of this.”

  “Identify the targets!” I ordered.

  “They’re. . . they’re Xeno, Sir,” the communications officer reported.

  “Tactical,” I said with as much calm as I could muster, “I want to see them.”

  The image on the viewscreen took a full second to resolve, but there they were. Six ships, just as ugly as ours. Either the Xeno had known what we’d try, or they’d gotten extremely lucky. Either way, their presence couldn’t be denied.

  “But, we’re in hyperspace,” the navigation officer whispered. “How can they come about in hyperspace? We’re traveling millions of miles per hour! How could they—”

  “They are!” I interrupted. “How is not our concern. They’re here, and they’re making a hostile move. Can we stop?”

  The navigation officer shrugged. “Unknown, Sir. Probably, but I don’t know how to do it.”

  I had a choice. I could bring the crew in for what would almost certainly be the last fight we’d ever see, or I could abandon the ship. Either way, I didn’t think it was likely any of us would survive.

  If leaving the Revenge aboard escape pods would remove the crew from hyperspace, they could be separated by thousands or more miles. There might be a world they could land on and wait for rescue, but there would be no way to tell anyone where they were. There would probably be no way for any of the survivors to find each other. More likely, they’d float alone in the deep void until they ran out of breathable air, became dehydrated, or starved to death.

  Or I could take the crew with me and strike hard against the enemies right in front of us. The ship itself would be enough to destroy two of theirs if we could get the angle right when we rammed them. The weapons pods might take care of one or two more. And we’d take some of them out with us. It wouldn’t be the millions I’d planned on, but we’d do our part for Mars.

  For the first time in my life, I thought earnestly of the Void Gods. If they really existed, if they were supernatural beings of some kind, maybe they could help. It felt foolish, but I sent a thought to them anyway. One can never have too many tactical advantages in combat.