by Gwynn White
“Shall we continue the interview then?”
“Is there any point?”
“It'll pass the time.”
“We should be out there,” the admiral said, strolling to the door to peer outside the glass. Crew members were running to and fro. “We should be preparing for the fight. You can bet your ass the Umbra have already prepared.”
Ted bit his tongue. He'd heard that the admiral had gone a little wacky in his old age, but it was something else seeing it up close. Mendan had interrupted a live broadcast at the Pan-Galactic News Network to warn about the impending threat of the Umbra and had to be hauled off. It was an embarrassment for the Empire. The admiral allegedly issued a statement afterwards saying it was an error, that he'd just had too much to drink (which was apparently a positive trait when it came to war heroes), but Ted didn't buy it. He had a feeling they'd ship him off somewhere far away, keep him out of trouble, and lo and behold, here he was—far away, but still making trouble.
“You don't believe me, do you?” Mendan said, sitting back down. “I didn't believe it either for a long time, until I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Don't you have something like … what is it, glaucoma?”
“I'm not blind, boy! They did that to me. For all our science, our opticians said it was beyond their ability. We've had a programme of perfect vision in the military for the last two hundred years. No matter the ailment, we could fix it. No one was ruled out due to poor eyesight. The Empire would pay for it all.”
“Not a bad exchange for sending you into war.”
Mendan grumbled. “Yet this,” he said, pointing to his eyes, which were now partially webbed over, “this is something beyond science.”
“Nothing's beyond science.”
“They are. I'm not even sure they come from this universe.”
“The shadows,” Ted said, finding it hard not to sound condescending. He couldn't write this. He was supposed to remind people of Mendan's past glories, help rekindle a sense of wonder in the Empire's achievements. He wasn't supposed to be writing ghost stories.
“Mock me all you want, boy.”
“I'm not mocking you.”
“I've tried for years to get people to believe me. Everyone thinks I'm crazy. I might have lost a lot in battle, but never my wits, never my mind. We defeated the Umbra a thousand years ago. Blast, who knows how we did it? Maybe they were weaker then. And in the mean time, we celebrated, while they regrouped. They learned. They adapted. They studied our weaknesses and silently prepared to strike. Now, we walked right into their preparation.”
Ted didn't think the direction of their chat was going anywhere useful. The more Mendan talked about the Umbra, the more agitated he got, and the more Ted had difficulty stopping his eyes from rolling. He thought it better to change the topic entirely.
He glanced at the glass chamber in the corner, filled with water (or some other liquid), in which floated a woman's body. Her hair seemed to swim with a life of its own, but otherwise, she looked altogether dead. Ted had wondered if she was Mendan's wife, though she looked too young for him. He had heard rumours that it was his wife's death that started the descent into madness.
“I never asked,” Ted said, rapping his knuckles off the glass. He instantly wondered if that was disrespectful, though he knew that the admiral would tell him quickly if it was.
“They always ask.”
“Well, it's … a little odd.”
“Like me, hmm?”
“I didn't say that.”
“I bet you you'll write it though.”
“This is off the record.”
“Well,” Mendan said. “Read the label.”
“I did, but it doesn't explain what, or who, or … I don't know.”
“That's the body of Glacia Andros, one of the finest soldiers I had.”
“Why's she in the tub?”
“I'm gettin' to that, boy. Sheesh! No patience with your generation. As I was sayin', finest soldier I had.”
“Finest or one of the finest?”
“What?”
“You said one of the finest first.”
“Did I?”
Stars, Ted thought. And he thinks he's still got his marbles?
“No matter,” Mendan said. “That's not the point.”
“What is?”
“I was gettin' to it, I was! Where was I?”
“The finest soldier,” Ted said.
“Right.”
“Or one of.”
Mendan growled beneath his breath. “I'll have you in that tub if you keep that up, boy. Do you want to hear this story or what?”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Right, so. She was there, leadin' Third Division, a hundred good men.”
“All men?”
“Men and women. I call 'em men. Does it matter?”
“It matters for the facts.”
“I thought this was off the record?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Force of habit.”
“Y'know, a force of habit for me is shootin' people.”
Ted kept his mouth shut then.
“Now,” Mendan continued. “She was leadin' those men.” He paused, eyeing Ted. “Those soldiers,” he corrected. “And she was good at leadin' 'em. Got good fightin' out of 'em. Why, I could leave 'er to it. Didn't have to give commands.” He sighed. “Though maybe I should've.”
“What happened?”
“There was some kind of electrical storm. There often was on Trident Prime. We had to fly in between the boltwaves, as they called it. They were lightnin' waves. Never seen anything like it. They'd shoot across the ground, so they would, and then back, like the ebb an' flow o' the tide. Emperor knows how they worked. Might've been nature. Might've been something else.
“She said she saw something across the expanse. I told her to wait, but she'd gotten used to her own command. Got cocky, she did. If there's something I tell every young commander nowadays, it's: Don't you dare get cocky! We think we're smart, but the truth of it is that we don't know half of what's out there. Had a good lieutenant pull a gun on a glasswalker once, y'know. Reflected off and hit 'im right in the head. He thought guns worked on everything.” He let out a long, audible sigh.
“So, she went in,” Ted said. “Into the storm.”
“By the Emperor's high collar, she did. Brought the whole Division.”
“Then what?”
“We never heard from her again.”
“Oh.”
“We found her later, alone. We never found her men.”
“Wow. I'm … uh … sorry.”
“No point you bein' sorry, lad. She's the one who's sorry. Bet she regrets it now.”
“Now?” Ted asked. “Y-y-you mean she's still alive?”
“Well, the scientists say she's dead, but I say different.”
Ted stifled a sigh. She looked pretty dead to him. He sat back down, feeling like he was in a jar of his own, trapped and suffocating. This was supposed to be a quick job, a way to get some easy credits, and maybe crack open a new story—if the Empire didn't crack him open first. There was something about being trapped with a madman that put him on edge. Maybe it was the way Mendan told the story, or maybe it was how the light fell, or how the mind plays tricks, because when he looked at Glacia Andros in the glass chamber, it kind of seemed like she moved.
26
Suiting Up
After the encounter with Toz, Maggie went straight to her lab, where there were several half-abandoned projects, some that she was working on before this whole debacle began. One of them, in the corner, was an armour suit similar to the one Skip and his soldiers wore in battle, but heavily modified to suit Maggie's style of fighting: defensive. All the weaponry was replaced with shield generators and other means of survival. It wasn't quite finished, but then not many of her projects were. Even when she was working on it, she had a feeling Skip would put them in a situation where she'd need it soon.
Despite all the technological prog
ress in the Empire, it was still a little backward in many other ways. Many men still saw her as incapable of command, and some of the crew aboard the Gemini were no exception. She still remembered when Larsman tried to make her “more appealing” to the crew by handing her some lipstick, which he said would go well with the bronze of her skin. If she were the violent sort, she would have made him swallow it. She wasn't. So, she used it to write equations on her mirror. Some of them were still there in vibrant red, a reminder of the logical course of action she so often took. To some, her current choice wouldn't seem logical at all, but she had thought it out. She had added up all the variables, including the element of surprise. She only hoped it would get the result she'd worked out in her head.
She gave the armour a once-over, checking for any damage it might have suffered in the hectic flight. Everything appeared to be in good order. She took it down and started suiting up. The weight of each piece was phenomenal, so much so that it was difficult to move when she had everything bar the helmet in place. She had added little boosters throughout the armour to help address the movability issue, but she hadn't had time to test them. Some situations didn't wait for the luxuries of the scientific process.
She was just about to put the helmet on when the door opened and Toz walked in.
“I knew I'd—what're you doing?”
“What's it look like I'm doing? Suiting up.”
Toz shook his head. “Where're you going? There's nothing out here.”
Maggie placed the helmet on, and anyone looking upon her wouldn't have known who it was. Her voice sounded stronger and more resonant through the mask.
“I'm going to rescue Skip.”
27
Flying Solo
Before Toz could change her mind, she stepped into the transporter. She could hear the pad groan beneath the weight of her armour.
“This is madness, Maggie. This is exactly what Skip'd do.”
“Right,” she said. “We don't have to like each other, but we do have to work together. We're only as divided as we allow ourselves to be. He's one of us, so I've gotta do what I can.” That was the funny thing about believing in the sanctity of all life—it included Skip.
She signalled for the transporter to bring her to the pad closest to the Bridge on Gemini Right and boarded the fighter-bomber.
“Unauthorised access,” the computer said.
“Override.”
“Override not permitted.”
“Who's blocking access?”
“That information is not accessible.”
“Override. Clearance: Maggie Aries Antwa. Code: Y2-68J7.”
“Override not permitted. You do not have the necessary level of clearance.”
“Damn it, what's happening here?”
That wasn't meant for the computer, but it answered anyway. “You are being refused access to the controls of this vessel.”
“Only one person on this ship has higher clearance than me, and that's … that's Skip. He's not here.”
“Please state your request in the form of a question.”
Larsman's image appeared on the viewscreen. “Howdy, soldier.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “I should've known.”
“You're lookin' mighty fine today all suited up. Shoulda joined the navy.”
“Looks like I didn't need to. I'm seeing enough battle as is.”
“Maggie, we're formulating a plan to rescue Skip.”
“Good. I can help.”
“It doesn't involve you. Why don't you go back to the lab and grow some plants or something?”
“I'm more than just a scientist, Larsman.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart, but why don't you leave the fighting to the real soldiers?”
“Because I don't see any on board.”
“Maybe not on your side of the ship, but we've got plenty this side.”
“I hear a lot of talking, Larsman. I don't see any action. That's the difference between you and Skip.”
“Yeah, well, that's what got us into this mess in the first place, right?”
“Right,” she said. “But we're here now. We need to act.”
“When did you become all guns blazing?”
“The moment we lost one of our own.”
“I thought you two hated each other?”
“We had our disagreements, but you know, out here, we're not that different.”
“Oh, you and I are,” Larsman said. “You're crazy and I'm not.”
“I don't care, Larsman. How are you blocking my access? I have higher clearance than you.”
“Yeah, but I have Skip's access card. He gave it to me before he left. Standard procedure. You might think you're in charge, honey, but even when Skip's not on board, he's still pulling the strings. He's the Captain, not you.”
“And not you either,” she said, turning off the viewscreen. She blocked the signal, one of the few things the computer would still let her do, and then ducked down beneath the console. The armour made it difficult to get down, and she could only imagine what it would be like getting back up. She punched through the casing, tearing off one of her gauntlets to pull at the wires. She hadn't hotwired a ship in quite a while. That was one of the things that got her landed with this galaxy service in the first place. She wondered if the galaxy would thank her for rescuing Skip, or if that story would be rewritten to make him out to be the hero.
The engines turned on and the security block ended. She struggled up and collapsed into the driver's seat, hearing the leather creak beneath her. She disengaged from the rockets and blasted off. Her eyes caught the flashing lights on the fighter console, highlighting the missing torpedoes. There hadn't been time to reload. That didn't matter. She planned to do this without firing a single shot.
28
A Gamble
It took some time to get back to the space barge without the power of the Infinite engines. If Larsman had really wanted, he had could outrun her, even without the coupling of those engines. Each alone could outrun the Bridge at ease. But Larsman didn't want to go back to the space barge, at least not this soon. He'd made that very clear. Every second lost was one closer to Skip's death, if he wasn't dead already. Maggie didn't like the thought that she was potentially making this gamble for nothing.
She saw patrols of fighters circling the area. It would be hell to fight through them, and she had no fighting power. She was betting everything on defence. It had paid off before, but sooner or later the fates started favouring someone else.
She gave her boosters everything, thrusting the ship forward. Then she killed the engines and knocked off the lights. She let the vessel drift from its own momentum for a while, spinning a little, making it look like she had lost control. She assumed it must have looked good, because she felt she'd lost it too.
If she had told Larsman this plan, he would have locked her up with Admiral Mendan. Yet no one thought the same thing about Skip's mad ploys. More often than not he tripped and stumbled into victory than anything else. The Man of No Tears. The Man with No Plan, more like.
Maggie waited. For a while, it seemed like nothing was happening. Then the fighters spotted her, still drifting slowly towards them. They turned like rabid dogs who'd caught the scent. They didn't bare fangs. They bore cannons and turrets. Maggie didn't even have the shields up. By most accounts, this was suicide.
But Maggie didn't just fight her enemy. She studied them. She learned their methods, what made them tick. She'd seen how they reacted to the Offspring previously. They were scavengers first and fighters second. If there was no fight to be had, they would loot what they could. She was hoping for that. She was betting on it. Stars, a part of her that didn't even pray was praying for it.
The fighters approached, coming into firing distance. Maggie started to second-guess herself then. That was one of the big differences between her and Skip. She might have had her own impulses, but she was always questioning. Skip, on the other hand, just went with his gut, come hell o
r high water. Well, hell came and went, and the waters couldn't get much higher.
She sat back, waiting. She could see the targeting console showing that her vessel had been locked onto. They might have been scavengers, but they were cautious ones. They'd already learned what firepower the Gemini had. They weren't risking anything. She was risking everything.
They didn't fire. Two ships came in close, launching magnetic tow cables out towards her vessel. Then two more came and followed suit. In time, eight ships were there, hauling the Bridge towards the space barge, slow and steady. Several others flew alongside, an armed escort.
They pulled the fighter-bomber into a loading bay. It must have seemed like quite a catch. All of their vessels were makeshift, a mish-mash of different parts, a fleet of mismatching vessels. All of them looked stolen and scavenged. Yet they didn't have a vessel like this. Now they did.
The gamble was paying off, and all Maggie could do was sit back and wait it out. This part was treacherous, but it was still the easy part. As the vessel was pulled into place and a boarding crew prepared outside, she knew the hard part was just about to begin.
29
Making Room
Skip didn't make a good prisoner. He kept antagonising the guards, much to El-erae's dismay, though she had a way of talking that made it seem like she'd come to terms with everything, even him.
“Your actions will get us both killed,” she said. She almost seemed fine with that. Her statement was more matter-of-fact than anything else.
“Maybe even a dozen times,” Skip quipped.
He didn't joke so much when the guards opened the cell. He thought this was it. Death number two. It was funny, that. Humans usually only got one. It made Skip wonder if maybe cats chased rats because they had more lives than them.
The guards entered, and Skip involuntarily flinched. He wasn't sure why. He had trained for this. He had taken beating after beating and been tortured to death's door. He was ready for death. He just wasn't sure if he was ready for what was beyond.