On Point

by J. Clifton Slater

  A tall slender man walked into the cabin and over to the examination table.

  “Smokejumper?” I inquired.

  “Yes, Sir. How are you feeling?” Ladislav asked.

  “Thank you for pulling me off that rock,” I said. “As far as my health, I’m fine. But starved to near death.”

  “The galley is building you a roast beef sandwich,” Smokejumper promised. “As soon as Chief Kadin clears you for solid food.”

  “Explain that rig you put me in,” I ordered. Right now, I’d listen to anything that would take my mind off the rumblings from my stomach.

  “Ancient planes had the ability to slow their air speed to near stall,” Smokejumper explained. “They had to account for the effect of a thick atmosphere and acceleration from g-One gravity on their target. The planet you were on has low gravity and a thin atmosphere. Our rescue boat could only slow so much. After calculating a lot of factors, we figured you could survive a high-speed catch in that environment.”

  “What would have happened to me if you figured wrong?” I asked.

  “A broken neck was the top probability,” Smokejumper admitted. “Secondary was damage to the integrity of your suit from particles suspended in the atmosphere. Both would have been bad for you, Sir.”

  “But you tried it anyway?” I asked.

  “The Heavy Cruiser is repositioning so we couldn’t call for a shuttle,” Smokejumper advised. “Glad you made it, Sir. Let me go and secure that sandwich.”

  Spaceman First Class Ladislav, Smokejumper, walked across the cabin and exited the treatment room. He’d just left when Chief Kadin came back through the hatch.

  “Your vitals are normal. In fact, after over thirty hours of exposure in a flight suit, and no solid food, you are in surprisingly good health,” Kadin reported the findings from a hand-held screen.

  “Clean living, Doc,” I said.

  Thanks to my enhancements from the Druid Council of Elders, my body healed rapidly and could take a lot of punishment. Sometimes I wondered just how much damage I could handle before dying. I shook my head to clear the morbid thoughts induced, no doubt, by a lack of calories.

  He laid the screen down and handed me a small glass of liquid.

  “Drink this,” he ordered.

  “You say An Tiodhlac Òir is moving?” I asked before taking a sip of the drink. It was as thick as mud and tasted like the worst flavor of energy bar. “Closer to Construction station to support a relief operation?”

  “No Lieutenant, the Heavy Cruiser is pulling back,” Chief Kadin corrected me. “The Constabulary Carrier orbited around Construction station and launched an assault on An Tiodhlac Òir’s defensive screen. Command ordered the cruiser to back off. Finish the drink!”

  “What’s in this?” I asked holding up the glass and eyeing the brown slush.

  “Electrolytes, vitamins and a medicine in case you were exposed to radiation,” Kadin explained. “If you hold it down, you can have solid food. If it comes back up, well, I hope you like broth.”

  The thought of my roast beef sandwich being switched over for a watery beef flavored soup almost made me gag. I downed the drink and smiled at the medic.

  “Food Doc, real food, please,” I begged.

  “Your gear is in that locker,” he said pointing to a storage compartment. “We cut off your flight suit so you’ll have to make do with a set of scrubs. You are released to the galley. However, if you feel the slightest discomfort, report back to me.”

  “I will and thank you,” I said as I swung my legs over the side of the examination table. “Which way to the mess deck?”

  ***

  Search and Rescue usually patrolled at the edges of a capital warship’s defensive screen. With the Heavy Cruiser’s new location, it took us eight watches to reach An Tiodhlac Òir. There was a bonus to flying on a rescue boat. Flight control placed it first in the queue. No pilot would complain or begrudge their lifeguards immediate access to any capital warship.

  We entered the intake tube, passed the air curtains, and dropped onto a sled. As we glided to a dock, Chief Kadin walked up to me.

  “There seems to be a tug of war over you, Lieutenant Piran,” he announced. “Regulations require a retrieved pilot to clear medical before any other duty. But, we have representatives for Navy Command, Special Navy Operations, Naval Intelligence, and Flight Operations all yelling to see you first.”

  “What would you advise, Doc?” I asked.

  When it came to medical issues, Marines always believed a Corpsman before a physician. Nothing against Doctors, it’s just you tended to trust someone who would crawl through enemy fire to treat you before someone in a white coat sitting behind a desk. And while I was no longer a Marine, old habits had saved my life before.

  “Medical first. Better safe than dead in two years because we overlooked something,” Kadin stated. “After that, see Admiral Folkert. If any of the others break heavy on you, at least you’ll have the Striker commander on your side.”

  “So how is this going to work?” I asked as the rescue boat’s sled nudged against a dock.

  “All the parties who want a piece of you will have a representative on the dock,” advised Kadin. “Simply fall in with the two Corpsmen. You’ll spot them easily enough. They’ll be flanked by two Marines.”

  You can’t go wrong when escorted by Navy Corpsmen and their Marine Corps guards. The voices of several officers echoed behind us as we entered a lift to the medical deck.

  ***

  I finished my report while I waited for the medical evaluation. Just as the Navy doctor walked into the examination room, I hit send and my report went off to Admiral Folkert. I decided to let him choose who else received the information.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, Senior Lieutenant Piran,” the doctor advised. “We’ll run some additional tests over the next two days. But, as far as the Navy is concerned, you are cleared for flight status.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I said then asked. “Is there a back ladder to the medical deck?”

  “Looking to avoid someone?” he inquired.

  “No, Sir. I just want to see everyone in a specific order,” I replied.

  “At the end of the hallway, outside this room, is a lab. In the rear of the lab is a hatch,” the doctor said. “That hatch leads to an emergency ladder. From that ladder you can access all but the command deck and engineering. Will that suit your purposes?”

  “As a matter of fact, Sir, it’s perfect.”

  ***

  The ladder continued but, I stepped off on the deck I needed. After marching down a long corridor, I arrived at the atrium. On the far side of the park area was a closed vault door. It made sense as the Heavy Cruiser had recently come under attack. The Druids’ response would be to buckle down the hatches, or in this case, access to the Red Heart plant.

  ‘Elder Corentin. The ancient White Heart and a Knight Protector of the Clan demand your presence,’ I typed. For good measure, I added, ‘Don’t play Druid games with me or I’ll have you shipped home on the next Yacht.”

  The threat from a Knight wouldn’t have been enough to hasten the Elder, but mention the old White and things happened. The vault door swung open ninety seconds later.

  “Say your words,” ordered the Elder. His words were the proper greeting but his thoughts screamed, ‘What do you want? Hurry up, I am busy.’

  This was something new, Druids got impatient. They’d never show it to Folks, yet, I could interpret his thoughts thanks to the gift from the Heart plants on planet Uno. I wondered if he’d be embarrassed knowing I could read his mind? No. Of course not, Druids don’t get embarrassed.

  I didn’t have time for Druid formalities. If I wasn’t in front of a senior naval officer soon, Command would issue a warrant for my arrest for disobeying an order. That was from the message flashing on my PID insisting I report to An Tiodhlac Òir’s command deck, post haste, or else.

  “Take charge of this and see that it gets to the hom
eland,” I said thrusting and holding the seed case against his chest.

  He hadn’t lifted his hands to take the case or stepped back to avoid contact. It rested in my hands, pressing on his sternum.

  “Are you going to take the case or do I have to shove it down your throat?” I demanded.

  “Rudeness is expected from a Knight,” the Elder stated. “We obey as is the custom. But know this, Druids are not your private postal service.”

  “Do you know what’s in the case?” I asked. Than uselessly, I added, “Aren’t you the slightest bit curious?”

  I really was in a rush and not thinking. Druids were never curious about anything not directly effecting their Heart plant or space cats.

  ‘Arrogant,’ he thought.

  “Close, Elder Corentin,” I corrected him. “But you have it wrong. It’s you who are arrogant. In this case is the ancient White’s seed.”

  I don’t know why, but I really enjoyed seeing the stoic, solemn Druid break his façade. His jaw dropped, eyes sprung open, and his hands shot up to gently take the seed case from me.

  “That’s more like it,” I said as I stepped back. “See that it gets to the homeland.”

  I was half turned when he asked, “How did you come into possession of a Heart plant seed?”

  “The ancient White delivered it to me,” I explained turning back to face him. “Now, I’ve delivered it to you. So, you deliver it to Uno.”

  Nice and condensed with repetitive words so even a Druid couldn’t misunderstand. I was proud of my statement and began to turn away.

  “What did the White say to you?” he asked forcing me to face him again.

  “Something about me being her messenger or courier,” I replied. “I’m not sure exactly, my aroma speech is limited.”

  “It is an honor to be chosen,” the Elder said. “You were chosen, Knight Protector of the Clan. It is you who must carry the seed home.”

  I started to reach up and point to my Senior Lieutenant’s bars. Realizing I was still in scrubs, my hand stopped.

  “I’m a naval officer and a pilot,” I told him. “You still have two Heart plants on Construction station. My time would be better spent flying in supplies and reinforcements than taking a leisurely cruise to planet Uno.”

  “It is an honor to be chosen,” he repeated.

  “If you mean I get a reward from the Druid Council of Elders for delivering the seed, I’ll pass,” I said dropping the hand and patting the muffler with the Knight’s gear. “I already have too many gifts from them.”

  “To be chosen is an honor,” he said again. “There are reasons you were called to the task. One seed birthed. One messenger selected. You are to guard the essence of an ancient until delivered. There is no way to pass on the obligation.”

  “It would take orders directly from Naval Command to release me from active duty,” I advised the Druid Elder. “In case you forgot, we’re in a shooting war and I’m a really good pilot.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt, messenger,” he said before spinning around and gliding through the vault doorway.

  What did he say? No way to pass on the obligation. I looked down at my PID which flashed with more than ten urgent messages. Special Navy Operations was one deck below the flight line. After pulling up a layout of the Heavy Cruiser, I sprinted off in that direction.

  ***

  “Admiral Folkert, the Marines are barely holding on,” I advised the SNO commander. “They are short of supplies. We need to get them everything from ammo to rations to reinforcements.”

  “I’ve read your report,” Major Wahid said from the other chair.

  While Admiral Folkert was the brains of Special Navy Operations, Wahid was the muscle in the form of the Strikers and their pilots. When I burst into the Admiral’s office, he immediately called in the Marine Major and slammed the door closed sealing the three of us in his office.

  “Then you know how bad it is on Construction station,” I stated to the Major.

  “Naval Command pulled An Tiodhlac Òir back after the Constabulary hit her screen,” Wahid reported. “They say we’re not ready to go on the offense, yet.”

  “If not now, when?” I demanded. “Sirs, the Marines are holding half a station with just over a hundred fighters.”

  “And Naval Command has folded to political pressure and placed their capital warships in orbit around planets Uno, Dos and major stations,” Folkert explained. “The Heavy Cruiser is here to watch the Constabulary not to fight them. Even the Ander El Aitor and the Monserrat de la Astolfo, who should be here for an offense, are patrolling the Tres, Dos boundary.”

  The Ander El Aitor, the Brave Father, was a BattleShip and the Monserrat de la Astolfo, the Jagged Mountain Wolf, was a Heavy Cruiser. Those two along with An Tiodhlac Òir, the Golden Gift, brought enough firepower to destroy the Constabulary Carrier and take back Construction station. However, galactic politics and naval movements were far above my pay grade. I settled for what I was trained to do.

  “Sir, if I may, I’d like to fly resupplies to Construction station,” I volunteered. “Just give me a shuttle.”

  “A resupply mission is already in the planning stages. If we ever get a go on the mission,” Captain Wahid said. Then he added, “There seems to be a lot of scuttlebutt about a Yacht named Elouan.”

  “She’s a Druid transport vessel,” I said. “Piloted by an old space dog named Captain Tanguy.”

  “Well that explains one thing,” the Admiral stated. “While Navy Command is playing it safe, the Druid Council of Elders has been quite vocal in demanding action.”

  “Sir, even if the Elouan is inbound, what difference can one Yacht make?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Folkert admitted, “And you, Senior Lieutenant, are wanted on the ship’s command deck. There are a lot of people who need to fill out reports waiting to speak with you.”

  “He can’t go in scrubs,” Major Wahid announced. “I’ll get him a flight suit.”

  After Wahid left, I looked at the Admiral for a second before asking, “The Druid Council of Elders. Do you actually speak to them?”

  “Verbally, no. Naval Command and especially special forces, like the Strikers, get suggestions from time to time,” the Admiral said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious, Sir,” I replied.

  ***

  Seven hours, five cups of coffee, and a scratchy throat later, Navy Command, the Marine Corps, Naval Intelligence, and the Heavy Cruiser’s chief of flight operations finished grilling me. Every time I pleaded the case of the isolated Marines, someone of a much higher rank, reminded me I was only a Senior Lieutenant.

  Admiral Folkert didn’t say much. Except when he reminded the group that I had infiltrated Construction station, gathered information, and crashed onto a barren planet during my escape. I was grateful for his acknowledgment of the mission as no one else seemed to grasp the dangers I faced. Or, as I gathered from Folkert’s secretive wink, the assembled officers were under orders to ignore heroics of any type.

  Outside the conference room, I left the Admiral and headed for my small cubical in the Striker pilot area. As I walked, I pondered the meaning of the brass’ almost total dismissal of my mission.

  The first rule of propaganda to stir up citizens for a major conflict was dehumanizing the enemy. The second was elevating heroes. It wouldn’t be too difficult dehumanizing Constabulary Troops, they were half alien. Of course, their real genetics were a state secret. Meaning, the path to winning the citizenship’s approval for war wasn’t public so no one wanted or need heroes. One lousy way to wage a war, I thought while stepping into a lift.

  I slipped on a fresh duty uniform and left the Striker area. For my next stop, I wanted to be viewed as a serious Senior Lieutenant. Superior officers could accept or even expect a flight suit. The maintenance department would see the suit and think of me as just another pilot. They needed to know I was anything but just another pilot. I was an angry Navy Lieutenant looking for
answers.

  ***

  “First Lieutenant Siham?” I asked as I stepped into the small office just down a corridor from the maintenance docks. “I’m Piran. And I have questions.”

  “Just a minute, Piran,” he mumbled while typing on his screen.

  I sort of felt for him. As a maintenance shift supervisor, his responsibilities included the mechanics and technicians, their reports of parts used in repairs, the never-ending flow of new work orders, and the final notices of work completed. After scoring high during flight school in ship maintenance, I could have ended up like Siham, buried in reports.

  My eyes burned a hole in his forehead while my shoulder leaned against the hatchway. It must have worked as a few seconds later, his head snapped up and he glared at me.

  “What can I do for you, Piran?” he challenged.

  “Your team put new ion cannons in an old transport,” I stated. “I flew her.”

  “Good for you. But, I don’t hear a specific question in that,” he noted.

  “Oh, I’m not done. Your staff’s new ion cannons failed to take power,” I explained. “Specifically, numbers one, four, thirteen and fourteen. I want to know who installed those ion cannons.”

  “It’s an old transport, what difference does it make? That configuration of wall has fifteen cannons,” he replied. “You had five to spare.”

  I realized Lieutenant Siham had no idea of the mission or the purpose of the doomed transport. For a second, I wondered if it was treasonous to tell him.

  “Let’s just call this a quality control issue,” I said avoiding any mention of the mission.

  “As the pilot, you have no authority to demand an accounting,” Siham reminded me. “Besides, the transport is a civilian ship. Bring her in and I’ll have Chief Silvan do a quality inspection.”

  “That would be difficult as the transport was lost in action,” I said. “Look Lieutenant, it’s important that I speak with the technicians who worked on the transport.”