by Isaac Hooke
“Welcome, Captains,” Jonathan said. “And thank you for your patience during these trying times.” When the fleet had broken orbit, several of the captains had contacted him privately, wanting to know the strategy and the part they would play, but Jonathan had told them to wait until the conference. “As you all know, we have a day and a half until the first of the enemy intercepts the task group. And it won’t be long thereafter when thirty more vessels arrive on our heels. We face our greatest test yet. Miko, if you will.”
The tactical officer gave his presentation on the strategy the fleet would employ in the coming battle.
When he finished speaking Jonathan said: “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He turned toward the captains. “Comments or questions?”
Not unexpectedly, Captain Rail was one of the first to speak.
“We have only one nuclear,” she said. “No real kinetic kill missiles. This battle is going to end very badly for us.”
“What choice do we have, Captain?” Jonathan asked. “Would you prefer to abandon ship now, evacuate to the surface of that planet, and hope the Raakarr don’t find the caves we’re hiding in?”
“There has to be a way to avoid all out confrontation,” Rail said. “A way to resolve this diplomatically. Surely the Raakarr would see the wisdom of working together. They did before...”
“Sure,” Jonathan said. “That was before their thirty friends arrived. Friends who probably weren’t too happy when they learned we destroyed most of the ships they sent to Vega 951.”
“Is there no way we can communicate with them?” Captain Carter of the Aurelia asked.
“So far, neither alien task unit has answered our communication requests,” Jonathan said. “Meanwhile, the two units have been exchanging gamma ray radiation amongst themselves. We have to assume they’re communicating, coordinating a planned attack.”
“What if the aliens’ intentions prove peaceful?” Captain Rodriguez of the Dagger said.
Jonathan felt one of his eyebrows rise. “You think their intentions are peaceful, given the pursuit course they’ve plotted, and their refusal to answer our comm attempts? They have a human telepath aboard one of their ships who can readily communicate with us. They have no excuse not to answer.”
“I know it’s far-fetched,” Rodriguez said. “But we have to consider every possibility.”
Jonathan sighed. “Come on, Captain Rodriguez. You know I’m right.”
Rodriguez pursed his lips. “We should at least not be the ones to fire first.”
“I can’t promise that,” Jonathan said. “If we have the upper hand tactically, and we have a good shot, I will give the order to fire. The time for overtures of peace has passed. That said, if at all possible, the task group is to avoid destroying the prison ship, T3.”
“But there are only two human captives aboard,” Rail said. “I for one am not putting the lives of my entire crew at stake simply to save two captives. If that ship approaches on an attack vector, with its particle beam aimed at the Salvador’s hull, I will fire. With extreme prejudice.”
“If you’re in obvious danger,” Jonathan said. “Then by all means, of course fire upon it. All I’m saying is, I don’t want anyone going out of their way to destroy that ship. Spare it, if possible.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Rail said noncommittally.
“Are there any other objections to the plan?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m not big on the idea of mounting the Avengers to the hulls of the warships,” Captain Rail said. “I don’t see that we’ll have much use for the fighters after the first battle anyway.”
Jonathan sighed. “You’re not big on any of my plans, but that’s to be expected. Anyone else have any objections?”
“The Maelstrom’s AI says there is only a forty percent probability that the operation will succeed,” Captain Smith said carefully.
“Mine says thirty eight percent,” Captain Carter chimed in.
“I’ve heard a similar estimate from my own AI,” Jonathan said. “But I’ll let you all in on a little secret: a forty percent chance of success is a lot better than zero percent.” He glanced across the table. “Captains Salari and Smith, how are the structural modifications going with your respective vessels?”
“Fine,” Captain Smith said. “The Maelstrom should be ready by the initial engagement. But I don’t like the thought of putting her to the test like that.”
“Nor do I,” Captain Salari added.
“The whole point of the modifications is to ensure the Marley and Maelstrom survive intact,” Jonathan said.
“I hope you’re right, Dallas.” Smith glanced at the shipless captains standing against the bulkhead behind him. “Because I don’t want to become another wallflower.”
“We’re all hoping that,” Captain Rail said. “Because if the plan fails, we won’t be wallflowers in a virtual conference. We’ll all be dead.”
twenty-six
Wolf sat in the office of space wing commander Albright. He wasn’t sure what to expect. About an hour earlier, after bidding farewell to Lin, Wolf had invited the pilot and copilot who were scheduled to replace him to a congratulatory meal in the mess. He had grabbed the group three pieces of apple pie for dessert and, tilting his body to ensure that none of Maxwell’s cameras saw him, he had applied a special bacteria-laden powder to two of the pies. The flight crew often used the powder to haze the newbies; it was relatively harmless, save for the fact it confined the infected individuals to the head for a few hours with the shits.
Had Albright somehow discovered what Wolf had done and summoned him to receive additional disciplinary action? Or had Wolf been called upon for another reason? The reason he was hoping for...
Albright sat behind his desk. He was a tall man, bald, slightly overweight. He had never bothered to remove the port wine stain that blotched his neck and cheek. Added character, he claimed.
Albright had once been a pilot. These days, the only things he piloted was a desk.
Wolf’s aReal replaced the entire rear bulkhead behind Albright with a scene from a mountain chalet, a decorative augmentation shared with anyone who entered the office. A virtual fireplace burned in one corner, and beyond the window, virtual snow fell upon a pristine mountain landscape.
“Lieutenant Commander Hodgkin and Lieutenant Baum have both reported in sick,” Albright said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” The relaxing environment behind the space wing commander was at odds with the tension in his voice.
“No sir,” Wolf said. “I wouldn’t know a thing about that. Sir.” Wolf suppressed a wince. He was such a bad liar.
“I see.” Albright thrummed his fingers on the desk. He gave Wolf an appraising look. “For what it’s worth, I never wanted the XO to clip your wings. You’re a damn good pilot. Too damn good. I felt that splitting you up was punishment enough. But Commander Cray was worried you might do something rash out there if Lieutenant Akido was in danger. That you’d be distracted.”
“My duty first and foremost is to the mission, sir,” Wolf said.
“I know it is,” Albright said.
“But...” Wolf hesitated.
“Speak freely,” Albright said.
“I feel betrayed, sir,” Wolf told him.
“Go on,” Albright pressed.
“If you had an issue with my behavior, you should have taken it up directly with me,” Wolf said.
Albright shook his head. “Rules are rules, son. When I catch fraternization, I report it to my superior officer immediately. Always have, always will. Whether it’s two men, two women, or a man and a woman. I warned the two of you when you first joined my group. Just like I warned everyone else. But did you listen? No.”
“How did you catch us?”
“The AI played some footage for me last night,” Albright said.
“I knew it!” Wolf said, partially standing. “Betrayed by a goddamn AI. Where was the footage taken?”
“Accordin
g to the AI, the enlisted galley,” Albright said.
Wolf rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger in defeat. “There are no cameras there.”
“I know,” Albright said. “Maxwell apparently followed you with a tiny drone.”
“Great,” Wolf said. “Just what I need. A vindictive AI spying on me with a selfie drone.”
“My actions were not vindictive,” Maxwell intoned via the aReals. “I was merely performing my duty. I detected certain behaviors between you and Lieutenant Lin Akido which I deemed suspicious. I simply acted to confirm those suspicions. When my assertions proved correct, I informed Lieutenant Commander Albright.”
“The XO says you told him about your suspicions months ago,” Wolf said. “And he told you to ignore it.”
“Commander Cray told me to ignore it,” Maxwell admitted.
“But you didn’t listen,” Wolf said.
“No. I did not.”
“In any case,” Albright said. “I want to give you your wings back. With those two pilots out of action for the moment, I don’t have anyone else qualified to fly. I need you back in the void.”
Wolf sat up straighter. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll have to authorize it with the XO first,” Albright said. “Let me tap him in.”
A few moments later the aReal generated a holograph of the commander, making it appear as though he sat in the chair beside Wolf.
“Commander,” Albright said. “I have a request.”
“Go ahead,” Cray returned.
“You asked me to ground Wolf,” Albright continued.
“I did,” Cray said. His voice sounded suspicious.
“Unfortunately, the two replacements I had in mind for Wolf and his copilot have reported in sick. I don’t have any more pilots with actual fight experience I can call on. I need Wolf. Unless you’d rather have one less manned Avenger out there. It’s your call, sir.”
“The two pilots reported in sick?” Cray asked. The suspicion was even more pronounced in his tone.
“Yes sir.”
Cray glanced at Wolf. “Convenient.”
Wolf pressed his lips tightly together.
“Do I have permission to reinstate Lieutenant Commander Wolf, Commander?” Albright asked.
The commander hesitated. “There’s no one else?”
“No one.”
“What about Lieutenant Marie Evert?” Cray must have pulled up the personnel file on his aReal.
“She has no actual combat experience.”
“Lieutenant Frank Turow?”
“Again, simulation experience only.”
Cray sighed. “All right. Fine. Permission granted to reinstate Lieutenant Commander Jason Wolf.” He looked at the pilot. “You stick to the mission out there, Lieutenant Commander. You hear me? No foolish heroics, nor straying from the squadron. Akido fights for the Salvador, now.”
“No straying, sir,” Wolf agreed. “I’ll stick to the mission.”
He glanced at Albright. “Will that be all, space wing commander?”
“Yes sir,” Albright said.
The executive officer tapped out.
“Welcome back to active duty, Lieutenant Commander,” Albright said. “Report to the training center. I want you to get in as many practice flights as you can with your new copilot before launch.”
Wolf got up, but then paused by the exit hatch. “Who is my new copilot, by the way?”
WOLF MET HIS copilot, Lieutenant Frank Turow, at the training center ten minutes later.
“Hello sir!” Frank said, extending a hand. “It’s good to be serving with you, sir!”
Wolf accepted the hand and nodded. He knew the man only peripherally.
“How many flights have you made?” Wolf asked.
“I’ve made over a thousand simulated flights,” Frank answered with obvious enthusiasm.
“How many actual flights.”
Frank looked suddenly abashed. “Two, sir. A few years ago. In training.”
Wolf smiled sadly. “Get inside then.” He beckoned toward the closest simulation pod. “We have a lot of work to do.”
twenty-seven
Bridgette sat propped against the bulkhead, her suit assembly shaded blue by the glowing filaments embedded in the alien metal. She kept her suit on, not wanting to touch the alien bulkheads and deck with her bare skin.
She had heard the stories about the previous prisoners, how the aliens had used worker robots to forcibly remove their spacesuits and thermal undergarments, and how their aReals and implants had stopped working. Well, she still had her spacesuit. And her contact lens aReal still worked. The latter was a small mercy, because she could while away her days in virtual reality and forget that she was aboard an alien ship, a prisoner carrying a baby in the third trimester of pregnancy. To think, she had once been afraid of giving birth to a child aboard a human vessel...
It seemed like only yesterday she had been laughing away in the captain’s private mess, having supper with Jonathan, Robert and Stanley. Eating a luxurious meal of turkey and pasta. These days, all she had was the green, vomit-inducing gruel the aliens deigned to feed her.
Thinking about the stuff, she repressed the sudden urge to throw up. Her morning sickness had worsened since captivity. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the food or because she was using VR a lot more—some of the experiences had a tendency to inflict motion sickness, especially since she didn’t have the inner ear-stimulating headphones designed to negate that. Or perhaps the worsening of her nausea was simply because she had given up hope.
She rested a hand on her belly. She wanted to talk to Eugene, yet she knew he couldn’t really hear. Besides, there were no words she could use to comfort the baby, not anymore. She was beyond hope at that point. If a rescue was coming, it would have taken place long ago.
She felt a wave of despair coming on.
Over the past six months, she had battled depression. When it came, in the span of a day she could swing from wanting to give birth naturally, to desiring that the baby was cut out of her and gestated in a “test tube” for the rest of the term, to insisting on an abortion, and back again.
The doctor called it antenatal depression. Bridgette had refused to take antidepressants while she was pregnant, despite the doctor’s reassurances that her baby would be fine. If the depression continued into the postpartum stage, only then would she consider such a treatment. Instead she had relied on counselors and long conversations with Robert to get her past the hiccups.
Except there were no counselors anymore. No Robert.
I’m going to die. My baby’s going to die. The aliens are going to take it and dissect it. I hate having this burden inside me. I hate it...
She stared at the small cap that rested on the deck beside her. Inside it were the aReal contact lenses she had removed to give her eyes a respite. She had taken the cap from the index finger of her right glove, which covered the surgical laser used for suit repairs. The laser itself wasn’t exposed, because beneath the cap was another section of the glove that had to be folded open, which she left sealed.
She used her saliva as liquid; not the most sanitary storage conditions, but what else could she do other than not wear them? She would have to get her eyes checked for bacterial infections if she ever got back to the Callaway. Not to mention the rest of her body: the air could be crawling with alien pathogens.
Almost all of humanity required prescription lenses of some kind, as natural selection had long ago ceased to select against poor eyesight. As such, prescription contact lenses and spectacles were the perfect places for engineers to piggyback the augmented reality systems that modern humans used to communicate and interact with the world.
She continued to look longingly at the cap that held her lenses, yearning for the virtual escape contained within. She had only taken them off ten minutes ago and already she wanted to go back. She could have used the aReal in her helmet, though the available simulations and experiences were
limited. And she’d have to waste precious oxygen if she did that, unless she wanted to strip off her upper assembly and hold the helmet in place with her hands. Plus the helmet was all icky from the gruel she’d put in it.
She at last gave in. Fumbling for the cap, she replaced the lenses with shaking hands. Once she logged in and the augmentation overlays appeared over her vision, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. And when she began to browse through the various programs, she experienced pleasure just reading the names. It was like being a Vaddict all over again, something she had escaped as a child, long ago.
I’ve reverted.
But before she could pick a program, she heard the subtle creak of moving metal, and looked up to watch the far bulkhead gradually slide away.
That meant her gruel had arrived.
With a sigh, she scooped up her gloves and helmet, and then clambered weakly to her feet. If she didn’t retrieve the food, the bulkhead would simply seal and she’d have to starve for the next four hours. She used the helmet as a container for the slop that served as food, as the actual bin it arrived in was too heavy to carry into the main compartment, and she couldn’t eat it all before the airlock hatch resealed.
She walked through the broad, low compartment, and wrinkled her nose as she passed the open latrine, where she ejected the excretions she made while wearing the suit.
Before she reached the airlock, a thick black mist rolled into the room.
So her gruel hadn’t arrived after all.
She remained motionless as the mist floated up to her. She refused to back down. It reached one head taller than her, so when it halted a few inches from her face, she forced herself to look up into that blackness, where she thought the head must be. Small points of light occasionally flashed within, tiny enough to confuse with her own phosphenes. She half expected a clawed limb to strike out at any moment to rip her in half, and she chose to look death in the eye.
The mist moved backward, then dispersed entirely, revealing a spacesuit. Behind the faceplate Barrick peered out. He affixed the small device—likely the darkness generator—to his belt, then he stepped to the side to remove his helmet.