Galactic Council Realm 2: On Duty

by J. Clifton Slater

  Five hours, stooped over in a cramped uncomfortable work tug, is not a pleasant experience. The asteroid was a bare gray rock but as I drew closer, it became beautiful to me. Pitted, scarred without a centimeter of atmosphere, I loved every rough peak and dark valley. I slowed to a stop in the shadow of the rock.

  The GunShip would drift a little but the asteroid’s minimal gravity would hold it for a few days. At least the rock wasn’t rotating, if it were, my geo-synced GunShip would roll around and become visible to the enemy ship. I left it hanging in space and hoped there were no hijackers around.

  The alloy shield, a lot smaller now, still blocked the signature of the tug’s small ion drive. My less then combat worthy assets rolled around the rock like so much space junk. The first view of the enemy ship left me confused. It was a Clipper ship with a cargo sleeve. Maybe I’d made a mistake, maybe the ship was a capture. If so, where was the parent ship with the rest of the torpedoes?

  The tug, shielded behind the elevator, drifted closer to the aft of the Clipper ship. As I neared the cargo sleeve, it became apparent, this was the parent ship. Port covers ran in a series around the cargo sleeve. Someone had converted the space crate holder to a weapons’ launch platform. It was a clever idea as the Clipper could, in an emergency, disconnect the sleeve and escape. It could, but if I had a say in the deal, it wouldn’t.

  I had a new plan. It wasn’t a ship of war with double hauled access hatches and defensive arcs. A cargo sleeve was accessible. If I could avoid the fore section with its few defensive guns. I could board it.

  A gentle shove with the articulating arm sent the damaged elevator on a course to pass by the Clipper. If they were watching, they’d be satisfied that the space junk was just that, space junk. Me, I aimed the tug for the back of the cargo sleeve. As I neared the five story high sleeve, I applied a little power and guided my chariot up the slope. Below me, the metal of the cargo holder spread out until it curved away.

  I halted the tug just below the crest of the sleeve. Using the arm, I latched onto one of the launch ports. For a second, I started to push the button for the electronic motor. I stopped.

  The flexible air lock tube would need to be extended by hand. So for the next ten minutes, I rotated a handle as I cranked out the tube. Here I sat, in an amazing space vehicle, a marvel of maintenance with, although small, a capable ion power plant, electronic motors for everything from the articulating arm to the air lock tube and I couldn’t use any of it. Perfect.

  The tube moved slowly but it eventually reached the port. A connecting tool on the side of the arm secured the ring of the air lock. It was time to dismantle the enemy. I floated through the air lock tube to the port cover.

  I struggled with the launch port cover.

  The cover was controlled electronically and there was no release from the outside. The dismantling of the enemy would have to wait while I floated back to the tug for a wrench.

  Chapter 11

  Inside the launch tube was dark with no ambient light. My shoulders fit but there wasn’t enough room to turn around. That was alright, there was only one direction I wanted to go. After floating at what I estimated to be about half way down, the Clipper ship’s gravity caught me. I had to use the sides of the tube to control my descent.

  It was dark. How dark? My helmet hit the loading hatch. I’d made it undetected to the Clipper, opened the launch tube and traversed the length of the tube. I was inside the cargo sleeve.

  Torpedoes are smart weapons. Unlike missiles which burn consistently, torpedoes can launch then shut down and wait for another launch signal before seeking their targets. This means inside the launch tubes are control attachments. Where you have attachments, you need maintenance and where you need maintenance, you need access. I found the level and opened the aperture. I rotated out of the tube and dropped to a platform.

  Row upon row of torpedoes stretched out to either side of the platform. I turned and peered into the dark to see more holding racks and more torpedoes. This wasn’t a simple ambush of a Galactic Council Navy Patrol Boat. There were enough munitions for a coordinated attack on a much larger ship. A big ship such as a Navy Frigate.

  In less than a day the Reina de la Adosinda would evolve into this sector of space and be greeted by hundreds of torpedoes. The sheer number of smart weapons were sure to breech the ship’s defensive capabilities. Whoever this was, they planned to deliver a devastating blow to the GC Navy.

  I was in a cargo sleeve so I looked around for bugs. Not seeing any large webs or cocoons, I took off my helmet, secured the rebreather mask and pulled out my Clan gear. The trousers and hooded doublet slid on easily over the flight suit. Then, I shoved my hands into the pouch on my Clan strap. The back of my hands and wrists emerged with guards and in my hands were the Knight Protector of the Clan fighting sticks. Now I was ready to go hunting.

  The platform connected to an incline ramp. As I moved downward, I saw other ramps from this section converge on a single hatch. Beyond that hatch was the Clipper ship and the enemy. I rotated the handle, pulled and jumped into the Clipper.

  Three men, big boys all, spun to look down at the open hatch.

  One spoke pointing to the swinging cover, “Incorrect door security.”

  Another grumbled out loud, “Prior shift. Response required from Watch Officer.”

  I could barely understand the thick accent. I imagined the dialog was a complaint about unsecured hatches and the ever popular ‘blame it on the other guy’ excuse.

  The third man strolled over, bent down and closed the hatch. By then, I had moved behind them. If they had known what to look for they would have seen a shimmer, a distortion of the bulkhead as I slid away from the hatch.

  I didn’t want to start a blood bath just yet. First, I wanted to get an idea who I was dealing with and gather some intelligence. They were paramilitary. It was obvious by the uniforms complete with bars, stars and stripes. The one bending over to close the hatch had stripes. No doubt an NCO leading me to believe the stars and bars were officers. How did I know? The NCO was getting his hands dirty while the other two seemed comfortable jawing the topic to death.

  My attack would be successful. I didn’t believe for a second it wouldn’t be, more so, if my enemy was separated from reinforcements. So I eased back from the men in the control room and entered one of the access tunnels. The Clipper ship resembled the Uno Shoda and I knew the layout. It was a simple jog to where the tunnel ran parallel to the ion wall.

  I examined the open hatch. There was no way short of welding to create a steadfast seal. Even that would only delay sailors coming to retake the control room. I had to settle for slowing them down. I grabbed the wrenches off the bulkhead on either side of the hatch. Using one, I removed the locking wheel on the far side, closed the door and spun it down tightly. They could open it but someone would need to find a wrench and it would take time to unscrew the mechanism.

  Back in the control room, the three were taking on communicators and making adjustments on panels. I assumed they were preparing to launch a spread of torpedoes. The deadly net of munitions to be launched once they had a fix on the Frigate. Their plan and mine were on a collision course, but they didn’t know it.

  Unseen, I moved through the control room and ducked down the other access tunnel. At the hatch, I began to take the wrenches then paused. I didn’t know my enemy, not good field craft. Placing one foot over the raised knee knocker, I leaned through.

  I pulled my rebreather mask off and sniffed. There was no rich aroma from a Heart Plant but a Clipper wouldn’t necessarily have one. I did smell antiseptics mixed with a pungent sweet smell. Not unpleasant but not an odor that sat comfortably with the olfactory senses.

  I tossed back the hood which had given me images of the men, the electronics surrounding them and the unfamiliar structure. All the gadgets and wide spectrum sensors in the Galactic Council Realm will never replace the human eye.

  Stretching down the corridor were posters moun
ted on the bulkhead. Lighting was subdued, almost dark, and from the low number of recessed fixtures, it was about as bright as the hallway could get.

  Dim lights to calm and save energy combined with the undertone of antiseptic, this Clipper reminded me more of a hospital ship than a ship of war. I needed to see some of those posters. My other leg lifted over the hatch frame and I approached the nearest poster.

  The poster depicted a sad scene. A kneeling man holding a thin child. An air mask covered the emasculated face while the man’s face seemed to scream in anger. The background was muted but from the lines, cables and rounded edges you could tell it was the interior of a space ship.

  My heart went out to the man. Why would a war ship have such a forlorn poster on the wall? I turned around to study the poster on the opposite bulkhead.

  This poster painted an agonizing scene. Men, women and children with ribs protruding lay around an empty food bin. Their cracked and dried tongues seeming to lick scraps of food from their bony hands.

  I identified with the misery of those people. But why these posters? I stepped over to view the next picture.

  The illustration was of a massive passenger space ship half destroyed in a crater. Beyond the cascading dirt, smoke and fire, the vista changed to a pastoral scene. Among lush grain plants and tall sturdy trees, people in torn clothing wandered wide eyed.

  A sense of hope for the survivors flushed through me. I stepped over to the next.

  This poster portrayed a regal visitation. A tall woman in flowing robes with an ornate headdress walked among bodies. As she passed, her hands reached out and a few people stood and followed her through the piles of corpses.

  The message of a savior was clear in this one but who and when? I turned to the next picture.

  Am imp or demon in a robe was being chased by a mob of angry people. Waving farm implements instead of weapons, their mouths set in sneers or firm resolve, they chased the gnarly devil. Driving it surely towards a set of gallows where other robed fiends hung from ropes.

  All those people were angry at some group. The imps must represent a true evil to these people. I shrugged and turned. Then, confusion set in and I was lost for a few seconds.

  The final horrific picture was in front of me and burning my eyes. It was of a gang of ferocious people desecrating a Heart Plant. The blasphemy knew no bounds. From bodily fluids to poisons thrown on the beautiful plant to attacks by flaming torches and hatchets, the vile despoilers were murdering the Heart Plant.

  I spun to the former poster. The robes should have been obvious, on closer inspection, I saw what could be sheers and shallow watering pans on the ground below the gallows. These people hated Druids and held my revered Heart Plants in revulsion.

  My blood pressure surged and I spun to retreat to the control room. There I would butcher the three men of the war people. My plan to disable the hatch completely forgotten.

  Voices, laughing and conversing in that strange dialect echoed down the corridor. I slid my hood up and pressed my back against the bulkhead. Three big men formed a single file to pass through the hatch. Their nearness caused me to convulse as I fought the urge to kill them on the spot. Instead, after they’d disappeared down the tunnel, I reached for the wrenches on both sides of the hatch.

  With the doors secure and two shifts present, I had only to disable the communications and I’d have plenty of time. The shift coming off watch may or may not be missed. The tradeoff was worth it. Better to have the relief here than have them show up to find the hatches locked.

  The access box to the fiber optic cables opened easily and I used the butt end of my right fighting stick to smash the connections. One side down, one more to go. I hooked through the control room again and traveled the other tunnel far enough to be out of sight. At an access box, I opened it and smashed the connection.

  The control room, the torpedo laden cargo sleeve, and the six men were cut off from the Clipper ship. Cut off from reinforcements and the ability to notify the ships commanders, but not cut off from me.

  Those guys were big, thick with muscles and as with all shift changes they were bored. I could tell because they stood around in conversation some of which might have been about their job. Most, I’d bet, were about personal stuff like scores of games, friends and tall tales. Blended into a corner, I watched and gathered my thoughts as to the best approach for their demise.

  Wading into full combat with six large men wasn’t going to work. I might get a few but the sheer weight and numbers were against me. I needed to separate them and take them down in ones and twos. A fox hunt came to mind.

  I squeezed passed a pair of legs. A gentle twist and hatch one was a nudge away from falling open. Duck walking around another pair of legs, I placed a second hatch on the verge of opening. At the third hatch, I pushed the bar so the locking nubs was barely through the retaining hitch. A slow crawl back to a position between hatch one and hatch two and I paused to take a breath.

  The Druid Masters during Ritual training preached about the Druid or Pure Mind. One open to all senses, a mind that ignored direct stimuli, input that demanded attention, and pulled the person into a specific and predictable set of reactions. They tried to teach me to open my mind and let the stimuli flow. With a Pure Mind, the Candidate could move instinctively in a changing environment both mentally and physically. I’d failed every exam because there were always distractions. Right now, I needed to remember the drills and embrace the concept.

  I stopped looking at the men’s legs a mere arm’s length from my face. I resisted the urge to project strengths and weaknesses on my six opponents as a group. Rather than prepare for a fight, I relaxed and opened my mind to the environment.

  The control room, four meters by six meters, was occupied by six men standing around a cabinet. Three ports lead to the dark cargo sleeve and two tunnels ended at disabled hatches. My mind reached out for the men one at a time.

  Confident, a leader, but a missed beat in the rhythm of his heart. He was the Senior Officer. Would the heart mummer effect his response time?

  Nervous, waiting for someone to dismiss the impromptu gathering. The youngest Officer, newly promoted. His back stiff maybe from a resent accident. Would it limit his flexibility?

  Bored, a Senior Sergeant, this was the most dangerous of the men. Could he traverse the distance to me before I could separate the six men?

  Hurting, restricted blood flow to his knee. This Senior Officer was fighting the urge to sit down. He probably wanted to massage it and put a heating pad on the knee. Stop, don’t get distracted. Would he be mobile enough to chase me?

  Seething with anger, the distain for the others poured off him like sparks from a bad ion cannon. This Junior Officer neither respected his Senior Officers or his Sergeant. Would this limit his effectiveness as a leader?

  Fear, the Sergeant was, no not fear but sadness, the emotion seeped from his pours. Oldest man in the room, he was close to retirement and he feared the future. Fear not my good man for your future will be short.

  I had planned to pop open the first port to the cargo sleeve but I adjusted. Easing over to a position between the second and third sleeve hatches, I paused. Seconds later, I stood up and slammed my fighting stick into the chest of the Senior Officer. He doubled over as his weak heart missed more than one beat.

  There was a momentary pause as the officer fell over clutching his chest. The other five, unaware of the danger, bent to comfort him.

  The painful knee exploded in agony from a strike with my fighting stick. I went from that officer to hatch three. It swung free and four pairs of eyes watched it tumble open.

  Hatch two opened and the eyes pivoted to stare at that dark hole. I moved onto hatch one, popped it open than slid around the control counter. Now they knew something or someone was in the room and they responded. The old Sergeant his fear now replaced with purpose turned to look at the open hatch one. I reached over the counter ran the tip of my fighting stick up through his neck int
o his brain. His worries about retirement ended.

  Three down with two of them not necessarily dead but certainly out of the chase. I sensed rather than saw the bored Sergeant shift. He was in motion arms stretched out as if to collect the wind. But, I was already at hatch three having completed a circuit of the control room. I pulled the port closed behind me.

  In the dark of the cargo sleeve, I sprinted around until I reached hatch one. As I hoped, the three remaining men were arguing. And, they had armed themselves. Two were holding narrow pipes, the third was bent over the two wounded Senior Officers. A thick metal tube lay on the deck beside him.

  The not so bored Sergeant replied to something, “Bastard ran to the cargo sleeve. Chase him down, I say.”

  “No, we seal the hatches and wait for reinforcements,” the angry officer stated, “Where would he go?”

  If they had closed the hatches fast rather than arguing, my plan wouldn’t work. But they didn’t and I dropped lightly to the deck and resumed my corner in the control room.

  Officers who give respect, receive respect in the form of obeisance to orders. Officers who didn’t respect their men, got just the opposite. Mister angry officer and the Sergeant were in a classic NCO verse Officer head-knock. I watched.

  “Enough Sergeant. Seeing as you’ve screwed up the communications,” the Officer sneered, “I’ll go alert the Captain.”

  He spun on his heels and strutted away down a tunnel. The Sergeant shook his head, shrugged and went about sealing the other two hatches. While he was busy, I rose from where I was camouflaged in the corner.

  The angry Officer had a head start on me but I knew his progress would be halted. I caught up with him and ran the alloy tip of my fighting stick through the nape of his neck. He fell, no longer angry, in fact, he was a little sad.