by Drew Avera
"Give or take, sir."
Geraldo shook his head. "And I've probably sent them to their death," he replied. He felt a chill in the air, but it was unseasonably hot on Corla. Even with the windows closed and the air conditioning on it was difficult to fight the heat. But he knew what the chill was from. It was the chill of death coming for him as he looked to the sky and saw the faint outline of Vira Station growing larger as thousands of pieces of it fell towards the ground from the massive explosion. "Have we contacted Lasister Station?" It was on the far side of the planet, commonly referred to as the dark side and required the assistance of the now dead Vira Station to transfer the communication signals.
"We've sent messages, sir, but we've received no replies. And now that Vira Station is gone I doubt we will hear from them at all." It was yet another kick to the stomach on an already shitty day and the future looked bleak at best.
What about sending a message to the Mississippi?"
"And distract them from the fight? I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. We’re blind to what’s going on, but with Vira Station gone, I don’t imagine the battle group is fairing much better."
He’s right, Geraldo thought. What Good would getting word to the other station be if they lost the last fighting ship of the IDF in their sector? "What about sending a message to Earth?" It was a longshot, but they were far enough away that sending a message to their home world might make a difference. “We need to face reality that once the Swarm is done with us they will move on to a larger target and retaliate.” The Swarm was defeated before, but there was skepticism that it was dumb luck more than anything else that allowed humanity to rise and defeat the Cumrats. We could use a little more of that dumb luck today.
"Admiral Kershaw forwarded a message on our behalf."
Good, Geraldo thought. That's one less thing I have to worry about. "He was a good man, Admiral Kershaw. Let's hope Captain Everett to do what's necessary to save us now."
"Yes, sir," Lindsay replied. "Our lives are in her hands now."
Together, they watched what was left of Vira Station fall to Corla’s surface. Even dozens of miles away the impact caused the ground to rumble. The dust and debris kicked up from the impact rushed like a roaring wave across the surface towards Kersh, the capital city on Corla. “If we live through this,” Geraldo said, “I’m resigning my post and going home.”
There was silence for a long pause and Geraldo thought Lindsay might have left the room. As he looked over to the younger man, he saw wide, tear-filled eyes on his terror-stricken face. The expression was all the response he needed.
CHAPTER THREE
Corla waited—that shining, blueish green orb peering out against the backdrop of a deathly black canvas as the ISS Mississippi rushed towards her—panting from her wounds and in distress. It was remarkable how closely she resembled Earth, the womb of humanity, but as nations rose and spread across the galaxy they took with them the memories of their home world so that, in essence, there were many Earths, depending on how one pondered it. Corla just so happened to be the closest habitable world in the sector as well as one the IDF had sworn to protect. Countless lives basked in the dull sunlight on the surface, unseen by the distance of the ship and her crew, but Joan knew they were there and she was tasked with protecting them. It might only be a fraction of the size of Earth, but its surface was home to Earth’s children. And they were all about to die.
Admiral Kershaw sent the distress call less than an hour ago, and already Joan witnessed the inhabitants of Vira Station die in a massive explosion as the ISS Minerva slammed into it. There was nothing anyone could do for them now, but pray it didn’t happen to them too. It was unlikely anyone would survive the day, though. But the job was not done and Joan would be damned if she gave up. There was too much at stake to do anything other than whatever it would take to destroy the Swarm, even if that meant she wouldn’t live to see it.
The bridge cried in solemn silence as her crew scrambled to devise another plan for survival. Death was imminent, looming over the terrified souls struggling to forget the mayhem witnessed as the Swarm destroyed the Mississippi’s battle group. Mississippi burned as she fled, her wounds emitting flickers of dying flames as the vacuum snuffed out the blaze before it could mature. Her captain uttered a half-hearted prayer as she watched the destroyer, Newton, erupt in a silent explosion. The ripple of the devastation carried over into the bridge of the Mississippi, igniting within it a momentary lapse in sanity. That lapse slowly dwindled into something less dream-like, but the nightmare wasn’t over and so the only conceivable order was made.
“Enter Corla’s gravity well and hope her defenses can buy us some time,” she ordered, her voice hoarse from horrific screams she kept from escaping her lips. Mutually assured destruction or protection, however one looked at it, was the only thing floating through the terror-riddled mind of Commander Joan Everett as the Mississippi burned towards the lonely world. She hadn’t stepped foot on Corla, or any terra, in several years, but it called to her, mockingly. Joan did not want to go back, that was where death waited with cold hands, buried beneath the sands of time. She’d known death before this moment, and survived to tell about it. Still, she could not muster the strength to turn back and fight the seemingly unstoppable enemy pursuing her; not yet.
Joan Everett was the only Commander to hold a command position and, though she was prepared for almost anything, she was beginning to question her objectivity when it came to her leadership. She wasn’t the kind of person to run from a fight. Hell, she would run towards it if she had the option, but as the other IDF ships in her battle group were torn apart before her eyes, she had to make the call, any call, and here they were, drifting at a high rate of speed back to humanity’s womb. She felt like a coward in doing so, but it was more than just her pride at stake. Her eyes darted across the bridge at the souls she was responsible for; each one a representation of their own leadership positions over hundreds of men and women, sailors and marines. Their lives made the decision easier to swallow, but it also made her dread what would happen if she led the Swarm to humanity’s front door. Am I making the right call? Her conscious refused to answer as she shifted in her seat.
Joan was known as the woman who made the hard calls, the one who shouldered twice the bullshit and triple the disdain than her male counterparts, but that was the old days; more than thirty years since she received her commission and forced her way into a respectable position. It wasn’t easy, but seldom were things worthy of her desire considered easy. The fight always drove her forward: the fight to succeed, the fight to change minds, to turn heads, to gain respect in a world doused in hues of gray when it came to a woman like her being in charge. For every step forward there were two steps back. They called it progression; she called it a society shackled to the ignorance that hundreds of years could not seem to abort in the minds of men. That attitude went over well, but her biting words seemed to stick to the senior leadership, and so she promoted through the ranks. Her opinions cut against the grain, the very fabric of societal normalcy. Nate, her ex-husband, often said she loved the fight, and mostly he was right, until he wasn’t. The fight, she found, was a necessity, a compulsion, and it came at a cost not every person under her command was privy to seeing. There was solace in privacy, but loneliness as well.
They didn't give her command of the ISS Mississippi. She earned it through blood, sweat, tears, and a stubborn attitude that made some think of her as the Ice Queen. Never mind the fact she was junior in command to any of the other would-be captains of her war machine. She had the audacity to hope and, furthermore, to act. That action had awarded her command of the Mississippi, but it didn’t come without its hardships and adversity, especially amongst her peers. Joan took the ridicule; it was only talk after all. It had no real bearing on who she was as a woman, as a naval commander, as a human being. It was the things in her life that cut deeper than words which impacted her the most. The other captains might have tall-ta
les of her antics; usually they came from a place of misplaced admiration or envy. Wasn’t that the same thing? Still, their words meant next to nothing compared to the inner dialogue fermenting in her mind.
She hated herself for a lot of things, but mainly for pulling the plug on her son, Raymond, knowing she would've hated herself more for allowing him to live in such a state. He was the first victim of the coming Swarm that had any attachment to her heart, but he wasn’t the last. The pains of loss followed deeper into her personal life when Raymond’s father, Nate, fell into inconsolable despair and ate a bullet. She agreed to give the eulogy for the adulterous bastard, praising the man he had once been and neglecting the fallacies of his human condition. For all the heartache, those were easier decisions to make because they were the right decisions to make. Now, as the Mississippi bucked under the strain of reentry into Corla’s atmosphere, she found herself questioning every decision she made. She loved the ship. She loved the crew. She loved Corla, with its three silvery moons shimmering in otherwise pitch black night skies, and the way the days smelled standing next to the single ocean stretching across two hemispheres of the planet. She was caught between those things she cherished and the one thing threatening to destroy it all. I hope I’ve made the right decision.
All around her, the bluish-purple lights glowed dimly from their waffled lenses. It was combat lighting, designed to minimize distractions and increase the release of endorphins. Some said it made commanding a war vessel during an attack more efficient. Commander Joan Everett thought it was another bullshit gimmick from too many years ago to accurately trace back. The truth was the lights were a goddamned distraction.
"Someone, for god's sake, turn on the lights," she ordered. Seated at the helm, the monitor reflecting every parameter the Mississippi’s computers tracked, her hand squeezing tightly to the acrylic armrest, Joan cast the rest of her curses under her breath as the sharp pain in her chest and left arm returned. Was it another heart attack?
She really didn't want to know the answer.
The bridge flooded with piercing white light, but the momentary blindness fell away in time for another quake of the ship as it hurtled somewhere in Corla's suborbital atmosphere. She imagined the flames of reentry burning the proverbial candle at both ends as the ship fought the enemy hurdling their way. They called them the Swarm, but they had many names, none of which fully encapsulated her hatred for them. Cumrats was the closest derogatory term skittering through the ranks, both enlisted and officer alike. Tongue-in-cheek, it was a way to dismissively pronounce the invaders while not giving power to the fear burning deep in the gut of everyone she knew. The fear stoked harshly in her belly as well, but she shoved it down and reacted as she was supposed to, a leader of the men and women serving with her. She was the one they looked up to, the one charged with leading them, but more importantly, protecting them. That was the difference between her and other captains; she was the nurturer of the IDF fleet, at least in her eyes and in those who served under her. She was only the Ice Queen to those who didn’t know any better. Let them think as they please, so long as Corla, or, worse, Earth, doesn’t fall victim to the massive threat of annihilation growing ever so imminent. She hadn’t lived sixty-seven years to be sent to her final resting place by some conquering civilization from beyond the stars. If the growing count of the dead was any indication, it didn’t matter what she thought, though.
“Carter, where are we with the q-jump?” The question flowed from her quivering lips and through the tingling pain stringing through her arm. Joan took a deep, heavy breath and held it, using it to fight back tears just as ready to flow due to fear as they were to the pain she experienced. She hated the fact she might sound weak in her state, but it didn’t seem to affect the crew.
The Navigation’s officer canted to her, his eyes wide and sweat beading across his brow. “We are twenty minutes out from q-jump capability, ma’am.” Commander Carter had served in two commands with Joan, and never in all that time had she seen the man so terrified. She didn’t dare mention it, not now; bringing attention to fear always made things worse. Besides, they’d never faced anything like the Swarm before.
“Plot a course to Lasister Station,” she ordered, the grip on her armrest grew weaker under her sweaty palm. “We can use their defenses to help protect the ship. I don’t want to linger in Corla’s atmosphere longer than necessary if I can help it. There are too many lives at stake down there.” She shook the numb sensation from her hand and sat back in her chair. Believing in God can be a comforting thing. I wish I could bring myself to that point of surrender. The Mississippi pitched under thrust as the course corrected for their new heading. “Radio in and let them know we’re coming in hot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ensign Romero replied. The young woman had been on board for less than six months, but she’d proven to be a capable officer in Joan’s eyes. As the Operations Officer, she had no less than three divisions working directly for her, and each of those divisions had grown into fully-functional teams under Romero’s leadership. Joan was happy for her, and could see a command position in Julie’s future. Provided they survived the onslaught. “Captain, I’ve made several attempts to Lasister Station and no one is responding.”
Joan cursed under her breath, there had to be some mistake. “Is there something wrong with our communications?”
“No,” Ensign Romero answered. The younger woman typed commands into her computer. “I’ve run diagnostics three times. I’m on the fourth scan now.”
“Is there a chance the message isn’t getting to Lasister Station due to global positioning or something other than what the sinking feeling in my gut is leading me to believe?” It was an attempt at humor, but it felt dirty coming from her lips. Dark humor isn’t a way to bring comfort to a fearful crew and it sure as hell isn’t going to make anything better. The truth was that there was no reason the comms shouldn’t work. The ship was orbiting Corla and didn’t require the signal to be relayed as if they were on the ground on Corla.
“I may have an answer to that,” Carter said. “I’m receiving a strong signal from Lasister Station’s beacon, but the distance between us and the station keeps shifting by thousands of kilometers. I think there may be something damaging our ship that diagnostics isn’t picking up.”
“Thank you, Carter. Romero, have some people perform a visual inspection on the ship and see if we can isolate any possible damage that could be screwing up our communications.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Romero left the bridge at a full sprint.
Joan’s lip curled slightly seeing the enthusiasm and drive of someone who took their job seriously. Lives depended on Romero’s crew reestablishing communications, with Lasister Station or anyone. “Carter, what can we do in the meantime to make sure we make it to the station?”
Carter turned, swiveling partly in his seat. “If we stay under thirty-thousand feet, I can use topography RADAR to determine exactly where we are.”
Joan thought about it for a moment. “We aren’t advised to use topography at that altitude. We run the risk of radiating anyone on the surface. It’s not worth the risk to civilians. What else do we have?”
Carter’s eyebrows raised, “We could drop lower and try to feed positioning data from ground-based antennas. Though, I should add we aren’t allowed in that airspace.”
“Do it, just make sure the airspace is clear. I need real-time data on global positioning. If it takes longer to get to Lasister Station than it does to q-jump, I’m going to want to know sooner than later.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
Joan turned to the flickering monitor to her right. There was definitely something wrong with the ship. An explosion accompanied another bucking of the Mississippi. They had descended enough for outside sounds to be heard. Perhaps they were lower than they thought?
“Status?” she asked.
“We’re losing propulsion,” the Engineering Officer said from his console.
; “Cause?”
“Our number three engine is offline.”
“Can you restore it?”
She watched movement from his side of the bridge, the hunched over shoulders of a man with the weight of the world bearing down on him. She envied Lieutenant Commander Humberto none-at-all. “It’s not initiating. The engine’s dead,” he replied.
Joan rose quickly from her seat and grasped the intercom with a white-knuckled grip. “Mississippi, this is the captain speaking. We have lost propulsion on our number three engine after sustaining damage from enemy combatants. Our ship is rapidly descending towards Corla’s surface. I know many of you are afraid, but I charge each of you with not giving up. So long as our mighty ship can sustain flight, we are capable and ready to fight the Swarm.” Joan released the switch and turned to Commander Carter. “Neil, how long before q-jump?”
Spinning in his chair to look at the screen, Carter replied, “Less than seven minutes. But I don’t think we’ll last that long plummeting‒” he was cut off by another blast on the Mississippi’s hull.
Joan keyed the intercom and said, “Shipmates, we have less than seven minutes before we are capable of q-jumping to relative safety. Our ship has been compromised, but I have faith we can pull through if we work together. Keep up the fight. The mighty Mississippi has a job to do and that job is bigger than any of us. It’s bigger than all of us. Captain out.”
She dropped the intercom, leaving it to dangle from its chord anchored to the ceiling. Joan stood for a moment, feeling the pressure of the atmosphere change with their descent. I need to drop weight. Looking to Commander Carter, his eyes bulging back at hers, she ordered, “I want CAG to deploy all available aircraft. Help us reduce weight and when the time comes to jump, order the aircraft to return.”
“Roger that,” Carter responded.
Panic felt tight in her chest, the prolonged symptoms of whatever the hell was going on with her body was taking its toll. She felt a sharp pain behind her left eye that accented the dull ache in her chest and arm. Maybe it’s a stroke? Joan sat in her chair and watched the flickering monitor for a sign that something, anything, was going their way.