by Jay Allan
“Catchy.” Titus did not know if the Admiral liked it or not, and so erred on the side of caution. No need to alienate himself from the man over something as silly, as quotidian, as music.
“Catchy indeed. Rustic. Independent. A tad on the irreverent side, but deeply religious and patriotic, urging loyalty to one’s countrymen and people. Frontier country music, Captain. Nearly every man, woman, and child on the dusty moon of Havoc listens to frontier country music, at least in this form—a variation on the Old Earth style.”
“Yes, sir. I’m familiar with the style.”
The Admiral raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”
“I’ve been studying up since our last conversation in your ready room,” he said, internally repeating to himself the reference to the ready room as my ready room.
“Then you must know, without question, that no matter what the people of Havoc might tell us, they have no loyalty to the empire. None. They keep up the appearances for their survival’s sake, and during the Terran revolt they didn’t dare support the rebellion openly, but the truth lies in their souls, and I read their souls with this,” he said, pointing upward again, at the music.
“Understood, sir.” Titus couldn’t understand how the Admiral knew any such thing, but it was not the time for an in-depth musical discussion.
Admiral Trajan approached the central command station. “Navigation. Take us on an engagement vector towards the orbital defense platform. Tactical, prepare for multiple targeting options. Take out their weapons, and their life support.”
“Sir?” The tactical officer stared at the Admiral in horror.
Slowly, Admiral Trajan turned towards the Lieutenant and regarded him with an icy, one-eyed stare. “Did you have an issue with that command, Lieutenant?”
The woman gulped, and looking down, said, “No sir. Of course not, sir. Targeting offensive assets and life support.”
Titus had half a mind to intervene, but knew that if he did, he’d sit in the brig for the rest of the Admiral’s tenure. Targeting life-support systems? If the senate ever caught wind of it, the rabble rousers would have a heyday.
“If I may ask, sir … life-support?”
“If you’re wondering, Captain, no, I do not mean for them all to die from oxygen deprivation. But I want them to think they’re going to die from oxygen deprivation. At least, I want them to think Admiral Pritchard is killing them. And when we do it over something so petty as rare earth elements, specifically, their entire store of Gadolinium, Promethium, and Neodymium, well, let’s just say that the good Admiral’s approval ratings may take a hit.”
“They’re hailing us, sir,” said Ensign Evans.
“Let them meet static,” said the Admiral, and he sat down in Pritchard’s chair near the command station.
Titus glanced at his readout on the central command station in the center of the bridge. “Two klicks away.” He looked up at the Admiral with a quizzical look, asking permission, and the man nodded. Titus turned to the tactical officer. “Very well. Open fire.”
The railgun batteries swiveled to point at the modest, but deadly-looking orbital platform, and began blasting away at the structure. Beams of bright blue light shot out from the ion beam cannons dotting the hull of the Caligula, and a few torpedoes streaked across the empty space between the battleship and the platform before the defense station managed to fire a single gigawatt laser bank, which it began to do in earnest when its occupants realized it was under attack.
A cloud of glittering, refractive dust erupted from the port flank of the Caligula, and subsequent blasts from the laser diffused through the billowing fog of high-index particles, rendering them so divergent and defocused that they caused little damage to the hull. Meanwhile, railgun fire devastated the side of the platform facing the battleship, and soon, every gigawatt laser bank and railgun turret on the station ceased firing.
The Caligula, however, did not. A particularly intense azure beam erupted from the forward ion cannon and connected with a section of the platform’s core, blasting an entire chunk of hull away and exposing the tanks of the oxygen re-circulation system. One tap of the tactical officer’s finger shot a single railgun slug at the tank, rupturing it and causing it to bleed its entire store of oxygen to space in a matter of seconds in an explosive rush.
Ensign Evans said excitedly, “Admiral, they’re hailing us again. They’re signaling surrender.”
“Very good. Open an audio channel.” The Admiral stroked his chin and smiled. “Time for my performance.”
The comm crackled with static, and explosions could be heard on the other end of the channel, followed by yells and plenty of graphic swearing. “Unidentified ship, we surrender. Repeat, we surrender. Please hold your fire, for mercy’s sake. We’re burning over here.”
Admiral Trajan elevated his voice in a high, gruff, eerily accurate impersonation of what Captain Titus remembered Admiral Pritchard’s voice sounded like from all the intelligence briefings he had sat in on. “This is the USS Fury, of Earth Resistance fame. I’m terribly sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but I’m afraid you have something of ours.”
Unintelligible voices argued back and forth in the background before the first voice came back. “Did you say Admiral Pritchard?”
“The one and only, I’m afraid,” said Admiral Trajan, cocking his head to the side and raising the roof of his mouth in an effort to get the voice intonation just right. The man was good—Titus could give him that. Even down to the self-deprecating humor that was a hallmark of Pritchard’s.
“But Admiral, we have nothing of the Resistance’s. We’re a peaceful mining colony. We ain’t got no beef with no one. Why the unprovoked attack?”
“Simple, my good man. The Resistance needs supplies, and everyone knows that in this sector of the galaxy what the Resistance needs, the Resistance gets. And if you don’t like it you can bloody well take it up with the emperor for all I care.”
“But, we’ve got nothing you would possibly need! All we have here is minerals. Iron, silicon, magnesium. That’s it! You’re telling me you came all this way from wherever you’ve been hiding to blast some defenseless miners out of the sky for their metal?”
“Dog’s bollocks. You and I both know that you are not defenseless, and that you carry a very singular stock of rare earth minerals that are vital to the efforts of the Resistance.”
“But why the hell didn’t you just tell us you needed them! We would have gladly negotiated with you. Come to a fair price!”
“Ah, but my way is far more genius, don’t you think? I quite like the price I negotiated from you. A bargain, if you ask me. In fact, I’ll even sweeten the deal. You send one of your freighters over here with your entire store of Gadolinium, Promethium, and Neodymium, and in return, not only will I not destroy your platform, I’ll send over a replacement oxygen tank that will last you until you can evacuate the station. How’s that?”
Silence greeted them, and the Titus noticed the bridge crew officers glancing at one another with looks ranging from glee to shock.
“Very well, Fury, you bastards. Take it all. Do you know how many men died here today? Good men? And all for a bunch of shitty metal?”
“I am well aware, sir, and believe me, no one mourns their loss more than I. Their sacrifice will not have been in vain, I assure you. Pritchard out,” he said, and Admiral Trajan drew a hand across his throat to signal to Ensign Evans to cut the commlink.
Applause burst out from the bridge crew, and Titus could see that every last man and woman stood up, clearly impressed with the Admiral’s spot-on performance. Captain Titus had hand-chosen his officers, and knew that there was not one Resistance sympathizer among them, but he’d worried that the Admiral’s ham-fisted tactics against the miners would gnaw at their conscience.
Their applause told him he needn’t have worried.
-o0o-
The passenger carrier slowed, and began its approach vector towards the shipyard’s dock, engaging the moo
ring clamps with a sound that reminded Jacob Mercer of landing gear compartments breaking open before touchdown on the old, pre-gravitic fighters the Space Fleet used for training. Filing off the carrier, the crowd of men and women gathered around the deck officer for instructions.
Jake glanced around the giant bay, gawking at the huge pieces of equipment laying about—giant robotic arms with welding and electrical-line laying assemblies at the ends, portable 3D fabricators, a whole array of hydrospanners, useful for accessing all sorts of compartment and bulkhead doors and access points. Jake was a little bit of an equipment junky.
The pale deck officer spoke loudly, but strained to be heard over the bustle of the crowd before him, and his thin voice was nearly swallowed up by the immense space of the hangar bay. “Those of you assigned to the Eagle, and the Phoenix, report immediately to your ships. The rest of you will find temporary quarters in the crew section. Three decks down. Your ships are still in the final stages of production, and work has hit a snag, so you guys get to hang out in orbit with us for awhile.”
The crowd spread out, some aiming for their ships and the rest for the decks below. Jake fell into step with Ben Jemez, looking back at Po who conversed quietly with the deck officer. She waved him off, indicating she’d join up with them later. As luck would have it, the three of them were assigned to the same ship. The NPQR Phoenix.
“You know where you’re going, right?” said Jake, glancing at the tight little ass of a gorgeous ensign that couldn’t be older than twenty. He winked at her as they passed, eliciting an eye-roll from the young blonde woman.
“Of course I do. I’m Manuel, right?” Ben replied, cringing ever so slightly as he used his vaguely racist callsign. Back on his first day as a pilot, he had spent his first few hours in the air quoting the regulation manual to the rest of Viper squad, and when combined with his last name, his fellow space jocks had soon dubbed him with a callsign. “Not only do I read manuals, I read schematics. We’re heading for construction ring seven,” he continued, pointing down the long, curved hallway.
“Got it,” Jake said. “Hey, we’ve probably got time to head down to the commissary before we report. The bar there is supposedly staffed by ex-Panther cheerleaders.”
“You’re kidding, right? We’ve got to report to our stations at eighteen hundred.”
“Yeah,” Jake replied, steering them towards the elevators.
“It’s seventeen thirty,” Ben deadpanned.
“We’ve got time. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Ben frowned, but allowed himself to be pulled towards the elevator rather than continue on down the hallway towards the construction ring entrances. Jake grinned—he’d grown accustomed to his friend throwing up stiff resistance whenever he proposed anything fun, but this was his fastest cave-in yet.
They entered the bar. A rustic wooden sign hanging above the entrance read Liberty’s End, and a sleepy, droopy-eyed security officer slouched in a chair near the door. Techno-dance music thumped so loud that it nearly rattled the tables, making Ben wince, but Jake smiled as he surveyed the scene. The bar was loud, sure, but also huge, which surprised them both. But as he thought about it, Jake realized that hosting a few thousand construction workers and soldiers at any given time meant that if the shipyards didn’t provide a place for the grunts to blow off some steam, there would likely be a mutiny.
Ben didn’t permit them to sit, pointing to the imaginary watch on his wrist, and so they ambled through the crowd instead, Jake smiling and winking at whatever waitress he could make eye contact with. A familiar face caught his attention.
“Hey, Crash! Long time no see,” said Jake, wrapping his arms around his long-lost friend before separating and engaging in the manly ritual of some arcane series of handshakes. “How was your tour in Europe?”
“Not bad, bro, not bad. Stinky as hell, for one. But I was teaching at the European Imperial flight academy and didn’t have to deal with the locals too much. You?”
“Same as it ever was, man. Got assigned to the Phoenix. You see those bad boys out there? They’re huge!”
“Yeah, sure are.” The man sat back down, guzzled his bottle and wiped his mouth. “The Roc for me. I’m XO there. At least I will be as soon as this damned supply chain problem gets solved.”
“XO, huh? Wow, look at you. A commander!” Jake could hardly believe it. They’d served together for years, and had never thought of his friend as command material. Now the man outranked him. He supposed his own actions at the D-day battle had something to do with it. Whereas Crash had been promoted for heroism, Jake had been court-martialed for insubordination. Apparently, someone at HQ didn’t think his disobeying the order to protect the ground-based laser turrets was a laughing matter. Luckily, given the Truth and Reconciliation commission’s close involvement, the matter was dropped. “Yeah, I heard some of the construction schedules are delayed. Just a supply chain issue?”
“Something about those new engines, man. They need a whole shitload of stuff we can’t find on Earth anymore, and it seems no other world within fifty light-years has enough of it. The Fleet commander is pissed, too. There was supposed to be this whole big commemoration ceremony to coincide with the launch of the Nine, but with the way things are going they might have to piecemeal it. Officially launch each ship as it’s ready. Skip all the fanfare.”
“Fine by me, man, fine by me,” said Jake, ignoring Ben’s insistent hemming. Crash glanced at him, looking the man up and down.
“Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, sorry. Ben Jemez, Crash Jackson. Well at least that’s his callsign.” He turned back to Crash. “You know, buddy, in all our time flying I never even found out your first name.”
“It’s Crash,” he replied, noticing the incredulous look Jake shot him. “No really, man. Crash Jackson. Pleased to meet you.” He held his hand out to Ben, who gripped it firmly and nodded. Crash turned back to Jake. “You’re telling me that you spent our whole year and a half together on the Viper squad thinking that Crash was my callsign?”
“It was your callsign. You crashed your bird on the flight deck your first time out, right?”
“Wrong. People called me Crash because it was my name, and then everyone assumed it was my callsign.” He looked at Jake askance. “You really think I’d crash my bird, Shotgun?”
That’s how everyone gets their callsign,” said Jake, shaking his head in amazement, and embarrassment. How could he go nearly two years and not know his best friend’s name? “Everyone does something stupid, and their buddies slap a dumbass name on their back.”
Ben interrupted, looking quizzically at Jake, “Yeah? So where does Shotgun come from?”
“Uh, well, you know. I’m a straight shooter and all that.…”
Ben didn’t look convinced. “Straight shooting from a shotgun?”
Crash burst into a deep belly laugh. “Let me tell you the story man,” he said, resting an arm on the shoulder of a grinning Ben Jemez. “We’re in a bar, just like this, down in Miami one weekend, and he’s got a girl on each arm, drunk as a monkey and happier than a dog with two dicks, when in burst this wacko with his twelve gauge, yelling his head off. Seems his wife was sleepin’ around, and he saw Jake enter the fine establishment and mistook him for the guy screwing his wife.” Crash paused and closed his eyes tight, a wheezing noise escaping his nose—his trademark uncontrollable laughter. He was laughing so hard Jake wondered hopefully if his friend could even finish the story.
“And? What did he do?” Ben eagerly asked for more—Jake had always declined to tell him the story of the birth of his callsign.
Crash took a deep, labored breath. “He shoots once into the air, and immediately he’s tackled by MPs, it being a bar right next to the base there in Doral. They hauled the guy off, and Jake here doesn’t even skip a beat with his lady friends and invites them for a ride in his bird, saying it wasn’t safe there anymore or some shit like that.”
Ben stared at Jake. “You took civili
ans up in your fighter? What the hell were you doing with it down in Miami, anyway? You were stationed at Eglin!”
“Longer story,” said Jake, waving him off as he was trying to listen in on the conversation behind him. Two loud, foul-mouthed construction technicians were arguing, and Jake had heard a name that stuck out to him.
Pritchard.
One of the voices continued. “Yeah, Admiral Pritchard himself. On the Fury. That’s what my buddy said, anyway. The little fucker blasted the orbital station with everything he had for over five minutes—”
His friend cut him off. “But everyone knows Pritchard is dead. The Novembers killed him. They say the Resistance High Council is actually thrilled, since he’s become such a damn lightning-rod.”
“Lightning rod my ass,” the clearly drunk man slurred, slurping another swig of beer. “He was a traitor, along with every other ass-wipe Resistance fighter. Fucking traitors.”
Jake started to turn, but Ben placed a hand on his shoulder, giving his friend the barest hint of a head shake. Jake grit his teeth.
“Good thing the empire took out Dallas, or they’d still be running around acting like they owned the place. When I saw that on the vids that day … best day of my life. I sat down, grabbed some popcorn, and watched the whole thing. Thought I was going to get a replay of Belen, when they got their whole planet nuked. Fucking Terrans. They’ve always thought they were better than us outworlders.”
The friend made a rude noise. “Whatever, man. Even you’re not that big of a prick. I—”
“Hey,” the man said, in the half-whispered, half-slurred voice of a drunk man trying to be subtle, but failing utterly. “Watch this.”
Jake couldn’t help but glance over his right shoulder. A waitress walked past the table behind him. She yelped and dropped the tray she was carrying. The bottles crashed to the floor, spraying the legs and feet of nearby patrons and the men at the table behind Jake laughed.
“Hey little honeybuns. I’ve got a nice thick sausage here for you,” the man said, reaching back to grab at the waitress’s rear-end again.