by Nick Webb
Trajan snapped his head towards Titus. “And?”
Titus waited for the next report, and sighed in relief when he saw the result. “Destroyed. Intercepted by railgun fire.”
Trajan clucked his tongue. “When will they learn?”
“Still, best that we be there to assist in shooting down any more of them. They might have exhausted their gravitic cap banks and are just throwing everything they’ve got out the window at us.” He turned to engineering control. “How much longer until we can effect a short range shift?”
“Not for another twenty minutes, sir,” came the reply, and Titus winced. Those short range shifts really sucked the juice out the caps. He couldn’t wait until they retrofitted their engines with the technology on the Roc and the Phoenix.
“Very well. I’m sure the Imperator and the—” Another flashing indicator caught his eye. “Another quantum field torpedo! Imperator reports they’re attempting a shoot-down.”
Titus waited for the confirmation, but it never came. The sensor stream from the Imperator ceased abruptly. He stood with his mouth agape at the screen, hoping it didn’t mean what he thought it meant. After another tense moment, a report from the Roc confirmed it. Titus grit his teeth and felt his stomach tighten into a knot.
“The Imperator is destroyed, Admiral.”
Trajan looked down. “When the Judge his seat attaineth, and each hidden deed arraigneth, nothing unavenged remaineth.” He turned to Titus, his eye-pit twitching with the muscles still deep inside moving the ghost of an eye with an eeriness that only added to the pit in Titus’s stomach. “Order the Roc to retreat to a safe distance. They are to wait for us and the Thessalonika to assist. No sense in losing our most advanced warship.”
“Aye, sir.” Titus relayed the orders to the Roc, and nodded with satisfaction as they reported their withdrawal to fifty klicks—more than enough distance to shoot down any more quantum-field torpedoes fired at them.
“When we, the Thessalonika, and the Bolgia have the ability, shift all vessels to join the pursuit. It is likely they have lost their short range shift capabilities, otherwise they would not have launched their fighters.” Trajan turned away from Titus and stalked back to the Captain’s chair. “It won’t be long now, Captain. The Imperator was a disappointment, but it was an older ship anyway, due for retirement. This possibly just saved our work crews a whole lot of hassle dismantling the old bird.”
Titus wanted to pound the command console to express his revulsion, but knew it was pointless. He understood by now that the Admiral didn’t care for individual lives. Even lives in conglomerate. All he cared about was his mission, whatever it was. Nothing would dissuade him. Nothing would dishearten him—especially not the deaths of the five hundred-odd former crew members of the Imperator now buried in the cold of space.
Trajan had been studying the console next to the Captain’s chair and now a slow smile spread over his face. “Plus, Captain, it seems we’ve already accomplished part of our goal. We knew it was a risk trying to subdue the Phoenix again, and it was enough that we discover poor Captain Mercer’s next destination. We have alliances in the system they’re going to that can do the dirty work for us, with no more loss of life on our part.”
Titus glanced up in surprise, not only at the suggestion that Trajan knew where the Phoenix was headed, but that he even acknowledged the losses of life on the Imperator. “Oh?”
“We’ve received a coded transmission for my eyes only from my source aboard the Phoenix. Inform engineering to prepare for a long-range shift. We’ll need capacitor banks at full for this one.”
***
Jake could hardly believe his eyes as the torpedo somehow, inexplicably and improbably, wove its way through the oncoming barrage of anti-torpedo fire from the Imperator, and smashed right into the underside of its glistening hull. Dreadnaughts were not small ships, and don’t make for small explosions when their time has come. The front viewscreen oversaturated with the intense blinding light from the quantum field disrupting the material that made up the other ship, atom by atom. Within ten seconds there was nothing left but a cloud of debris and several glowing sections that had broken off in the explosion.
He turned back to Po. “Megan? I—” He trailed off. Words failed him.
“Captain, I’m sorry. I acted out of sorts. I’ll be in my quarters.” She turned to leave, brushing back a stray lock.
“Megan,” he said, interrupting her retreat, “remind me never to doubt you. That was risky, but it may have just saved our ass.”
She gave a hint of a grin, and thumbed a finger towards Jeremiah, who still sat by the door to the bridge on the floor. “Thank him. He seemed to know just what to do.”
Jake walked over to the boy, who looked up at him expectantly, almost hungrily. “Just one more, huh? Jeremiah the Prophet indeed.” he said, crouching down to slap the boy on the shoulder.
“Can I?” the boy replied. His face had changed suddenly, now spreading over with a broad smile.
“What?”
“One more?”
“One more what?” Jake was confused.
“That angry man in the galley. He said only one plate.” Jeremiah held his stomach, which had filled out surprisingly well in the past three days but was still woefully thin. “I asked for one more and he yelled.”
Jake was speechless, and slowly closed his eyes and put his head in a hand. “Yes, Jeremiah, you may have one more. As many as you want.”
Jeremiah stood up and bolted out the door, calling back, “THANK YOU!”
Standing up, Jake looked questioningly at Po, his mouth hanging open. She shrugged. “Don’t look at me, Captain, he’s your guest, not mine.”
“Did I just almost waste one of our precious quantum-field torpedoes because our seventeen year old visitor had a grumbly stomach?”
Before she could answer, Ayala called out from the tactical octagon, “Captain, the Roc has retreated to a safe distance, out of weapons range.”
Right. There was still a battle to win. Or at least escape from. He strode back to his chair. “What are they doing, Ensign?”
“Nothing, sir. Just sitting there.”
“They’re probably waiting for the Caligula and the Thessalonika to show up again. How far out are they?”
Ayala scanned her sensor board. “Thessalonika and Bolgia in fifteen minutes, Caligula in twenty, both assuming they’ve exhausted their short range shift capabilities.”
Jake tapped the comm. “Engineering, bridge. How are my engines coming along?”
Lieutenant Caraway’s voice greeted him with yet more good news. “Now, sir. I just initiated the recrystallization of the matrix. We’re good to go, sir. Remember, we’re only at half capacity.”
“Fine. Ensign Roshenko, get us the hell out of here. Calculate a shift to one of the nearby stars. Initiate when ready.”
“Already calculated, sir.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Roshenko touched a button on her console, and nodded once. “We’re gone, sir. In orbit around star FC 194.”
Jake took a deep breath. He sensed a collective sigh as the bridge crew all looked up at the viewscreen and saw not the brown, barren landscape of Destiny looming up at them, or any Imperial battleships, but the placid view of an unremarkable red dwarf star.
Bernoulli. Dammit. Jake jumped up and headed for the door. “Po, get the repair crews working. Get me a damage report in an hour, and a casualty report. I’ll be in sickbay.”
CHAPTER THREE
“HE’S FINE. JUST A BUMP on the head, is all.” Doc Nichols waved one of his cigars in the general direction of the tables in sickbay, half-filled now from the just-concluded battle. “Our chief engineer is made of tougher stuff than anyone else I’ve seen come through here. From the way Lieutenant Caraway described it, the beam that fell on him should have killed him. As it is he only has a mild concussion, a pretty nasty scrape on his head, and some burns.”
Jake watch
ed Bernoulli’s chest rise and fall regularly, and, satisfied that his friend was ok, glance around at the rest of sickbay. It seemed he’d spent far too much time there over the past few weeks, and never for himself.
But always because of himself.
The beds were filled once again with crew members—some burned, some suffering from the effects of decompression, and others with vicious contusions and breaks from the violent pounding the ship had taken just minutes ago.
And of course, the dead. As his eyes rested on the sheet draped bodies off to the side by the wall Doc Nichols followed his gaze. “Ambush?”
“Yes.”
Nichols took another drag on his cigar and swore under his breath. “We’ve left Destiny? Always in the nick of time, Jake.”
Jake nodded. “I think we’re going to a place where we can catch a breather. Take some time to make some real plans. Restock. In fact, get me a list of supplies you need and I’ll see if we can’t procure it.”
Nichols grumbled, turning to stalk away to his office. Jake followed behind. “Give the job to Jemez. God knows he needs a basic, non-violent task to do. Something that won’t reopen old wounds.” Nichols’s tone was loaded with meaning as Jake realized he was talking about several things at once. The physical torture. The mental torture. He assumed that whatever Ben had gone through had scarred him not only deeply on the outside, but the inside as well.
“Right, Doc. How’s he doing?”
“Nurse Ypres ran some scans but I’ve been so busy here I haven’t had the time to see the results.” He sat down with a sigh in his office chair and kicked up his boots on the desk. “But just off the top of my head, I’m worried about him, Captain. He shows signs of deep psychological stress. PTSD for sure, and who knows what else. Those wounds he has were sustained over the entire length of his stay on Destiny. Not all at once. He didn’t get them all in one fight, no matter what he’s told you. His wrists are all torn up, probably from rope or chains.” He glanced up at Jake with deep, sunken eyes. “He was tortured, Jake. Brutally, and systematically tortured. In fact, I can’t recommend him for duty.”
“I need him, Doc. Under normal circumstances—”
Nichols waved a dismissing hand. “Sure, sure. I get it. We’re at war. Fighting for our survival. Fine. Just don’t push him. Not yet. Give him time to heal.”
Nichols lifted his boots off the desk and reached over to a pad. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got death certificates to sign.”
“Thanks, Doc. Keep me apprised of Ben’s status. And Bernoulli’s.” Jake bowed out of the room, stopping just before the exit at an examination table—the occupant, a young technician with half his face bandaged, had reached out a hand to grab his arm as he walked past. His hair was singed down to the scalp and the hand itself was purple from bruising. It looked like the tech had had a rough ride.
“Captain, are we safe?”
Jake smiled and grabbed the hand in his own. “We’re safe, Yeoman.”
The young man smiled, and Jake glanced down at his name tag. It was half-melted and scorched, and he couldn’t make out more than ‘Jo…’. Jake wondered how the other half of the kid’s face had fared. Not well, judging from the name-tag.
“We getting back to Earth soon? My wife was due any week now.” The young man looked expectantly at Jake, whose heart sank a little. He forced a smile, but inside all he felt was anger. Anger at Admiral Trajan. Anger at the human tragedy that he’d witnessed the past few weeks. All the needless suffering just to satisfy some damned Emperor’s penis envy.
“We’re working on it, son.” It seemed odd calling the kid son, seeing how he was probably only eight years or so older than the tech, but it felt right. “Don’t worry. You’ll see her. And your kid. I promise.”
“Good. I knew you’d pull us through. It’ll be good to see Earth again.”
He patted the man’s shoulder, extricated his hand from his, and escaped to the hallway. “And we’re going to just about the most remote part of the known galaxy,” he mumbled to himself. “Earth can wait.”
***
Two uneventful days passed in orbit around red dwarf star FC 194. Repairs were made, the medical staff tended to the wounded, and Willow Ayala led her first Milagro as a service for the dead. Everyone came, except for Anya Grace and her fighter crew—she was far too busy running them through drills and exercises to have any time for, in her words, damn Belenite verbal diarrhea, of the soupiest kind.
The bridge hummed with quiet, determined efficiency. Jake nodded his approval—he hadn’t felt this confident in his chosen course of action since—well, since he’d lied to Ben about Captain Watson’s preference. Of that he’d been sure. Absolutely sure.
But almost everything since had been disastrous.
Five dead. Fifteen wounded. Just minutes before, he’d returned from sickbay, where he’d watched Doc Nichols amputate a poor technician’s arm. The man had been foolishly repairing a power conduit in engineering during the earlier battle with the Roc, and the damned thing exploded. Right in his face.
Oh, dear God, his face.
It wasn’t recognizable. Lucky for him, it was mostly superficial. But the arm was destroyed.
Master Sergeant … Zwick? Ziff? Damn. He couldn’t remember. So many names. So many wounded, bloody faces. So many pale, blue, dead faces.
And it was his fault.
Dammit. Shut up, Mercer, he told himself, shaking his head. He had to stop second guessing himself.
If he doubted himself in the heat of the next battle, it could be the death of them all.
“Status report, Ensign?”
Ensign Ayala typed at a few buttons. “Engineering reports we’ll be ready momentarily. It’s nearly time for the gravitic signal, according to Tovra’s information.”
At that moment, the door to the bridge opened, and Alessandro strode through, his arm hanging limply in a sling. But something was wrong with his face. Jake noted several red and black smudges on his cheeks, indicating where he’d been burned by the fire in engineering, but there was something else.
“Friend, I’m no use down there.” He collapsed into an open chair at the ops station. His voice sounded mournful. An emotion Jake had never heard from the flamboyant chief engineer.
“Bernoulli? What’s wrong? Shouldn’t you be in sickbay?”
Alessandro stroked his chin, and scratched his upper lip.
That was it.
“What the hell happened to your mustache?” Jake strode over to him, and peered at the now fully bare upper lip. His trademark half-mustache was indeed absent.
“Gone.” He dropped his head into his hands, before looking back up, “GONE! Burned off!” His head drooped back into his hands and he sighed.
“Damn, Bernoulli. But,” he tried to crack a smile, in the hopes of comforting his friend, “At least you’re alive, right?”
Alessandro looked up at him with a skeptical expression. “Friend, is this what you call living? Look at me! I’m a shell of my former self.”
Jake snorted, and started walking back to the captain’s chair, under the smirking eye of Commander Po. “Al, it’s a mustache. And only half of one, at that. It’ll grow back.”
“It’s not just half a mustache! Friend, you could say that I am like Samson. That genocidal freak of nature in that old Hebrew book.” He stroked his now bare lip. “This was my Samson mustache. Remove it, and I am but a normal man.” He seemed to notice Jake’s skeptical glance, and he added, “Seriously! I’ve tested my IQ both with and without the mustache, and with it I score at least forty-six percent higher, with a confidence level of over ninety-five percent of statistical significance!”
“Forty-six?”
“Yes! Friend, I’m now just a common troll! I could work at Los Alamos! My CERN friends wouldn’t dare be seen with me at any conference!”
Ensign Ayala cleared her throat. “Captain, engineering reports engines are ready, and the chronometer indicates it is now time.” She glance
d up from her station. “Assuming, of course, that Tovra was telling the truth about this gravitic signal.”
Alessandro perked up, and swiveled around in his seat to jab at the console next to him. “Perfect. I’ll coordinate engine response and calibration from here, friend, since we don’t know what we’re dealing with and I can adapt faster if there’s no comm separating me from the action.”
Jake shook his head. The scientist seemed to shake off his state of mourning for his half-mustache easily enough—he wondered if it was a show.
“Very well.” He glanced over at the comm station, “Falstaff, patch me through to the ship.”
At Ensign Falstaff’s hand gesture, Jake started. “All hands, prepare for gravitic shift. This one’s experimental, people. We’ve never done anything like it, and we don’t know what situation we’ll find ourselves in when we get there. So look sharp, and be on alert. Hopefully we’re in for a little rest and recovery while we plan our next move. Mercer out.”
He sat down in his chair, and, after a nod towards Commander Po, he glanced back at Bernoulli. “Engines ready, Al? You sure your baby can take this?”
“Yes, friend. The neodymium has been properly infused into the crystal matrix. And if this gravitic signal works exactly as Tovra claimed, it’ll be simple enough to lock onto the artificial mass source and perform the shift.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
Bernoulli raised an eyebrow and said, with a straight face, “Then I guess that’s when the shift hits the fan.”
Jake groaned. “Very well. Ensign, keep scanning for the gravitic signal. It should be coming from the direction of Antares. FC 194 is in the same line of sight as Vega, so we should see it.”
Ayala nodded, cutting him off, “Actually, Captain, we’ve got it.”
Jake gripped the armrests of his chair and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? Very well. Commander Po? Is the ship ready?”