We hit the first turn, went to Internal, adjusted and left in a stream of yellow ions. So far, we’d managed to keep an eye on Cionaodh 5th Daire by spelling each other and having Fire Dove sit in when his patients didn’t require attention. It was working but, the three of us were becoming frayed.
“J-Pop, I believe I have some information for you,” Stone Angel announced.
“Hold on a second,” I replied standing and slipping by him, “Have a seat.”
He sat in the pilot’s chair and gave me an odd look.
“Every time we talk it’s in the cockpit,” I explained, “My neck can’t take another conversation with you hulking over me and me straining to look up at you.”
“Oh, my apologies Sir,” he said, “It’s just…”
“None necessary,” I consoled him, “Tell me what you have on our friend.”
“Cionaodh 5th Daire. He’s a grower, meaning he was in charge of both types of hydroponic gardens,” the Striker explained, “Until he had a falling out with his Alpha. They ejected him from his troop and transferred him to another ship. Apparently, none of the Troops on the new ship would take him in. So the Officers were ready to shove him out of an air lock.”
“Wow, hold on,” I stammered, “He tended ‘both types’ of gardens? Troops? I’m getting the feeling we’re not talking about a military unit.”
“No Sir, Troop seems to refer to their family units,” he explained, “But here’s the best part. Both types of gardens, doesn’t mean a second garden. It means a totally different garden. One for the Troops and another garden for the Travelers.”
“So, who are the Travelers?” I asked trying to understand and sort out the information.
“Well, apparently, we’re the Travelers,” he said with a smirk on his face, “Our water, our food, how we look are all Traveler traits. You know, if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, it must be.”
“A Traveler, I get it,” I said interrupting him, “So Daire is the fifth grower? As in a few too many growers?”
“No Sir, he is the fifth of the Cionaodh line,” he attempted to explain, “It gets a little thin here but he’s somehow related to a Traveler named Cionaodh.”
“A decedent? Maybe the grandson four times removed?” I asked hoping for an easy answer.
“Nice try J-Pop, but none of the Troops have children,” he said, “I got lost after he said the Officers were all from only a few lines. And their General, Alpha, Admiral, or whatever you call the top commanders are decedents of Travelers. And they have children or, as he calls them, wee Travelers.”
“Okay, let’s go back to the garden thing,” I said hoping to get some logic out of this conversation, “Gardens, both types, go.”
“Well it seems the Troops can’t eat the Travelers food or drink their water,” he said, “but it’s not one sided. Seems the Travelers can’t stomach the Troop’s food either. So, they have two very different gardens on their ships.”
“What were those pills he put into the water?” I asked.
“Enzymes to break down the H2O and some other additional elements,” he said, “Cionaodh is a grower so he knows about the application. But he’s not a scientist, so he can’t give me details on what’s in the pills.”
“What about our food?” I asked, realizing the Troop might not be able to handle our rations.
“There we have an issue,” Stone Angel admitted, “We need to test some of our food to see if he can handle it. But from what he described, there’s nothing on this ship he can ingest for sustenance. We have no food he can absorb nutrition from, other than water with a couple of pills.”
“Is he aware being on this ship is a death sentence?” I stated going for the bottom line, “He’ll starve before we get to Planet Dos. Even there, it would take time to formulate food for him.”
“Oh, he’s aware. But, he was dead anyway,” Stone Angel informed me, “His only worry is for Heavy Rain. Seems, he believes Heavy Rain is his Alpha and saved his life.”
“Hold on, it was my shot that saved him,” I bragged.
“Sorry Sir, but you shot a Beta male,” he frowned while delivering the news, “Heavy Rain on the other hand took out a really mean Alpha. So death from starvation is alright. Cionaodh’s only request is that he gets to attend Heavy Rain.”
“Have you talked this over with Fire Dove?” I asked.
“Yes Sir, and he’s alright with letting Cionaodh 5th Daire have run of the ship,” he said.
“I don’t like it but I’ve got to admit,” I said, “It’ll be nice to get to sleep for a full watch.”
“Alert,” the Striker said agreeing with me.
Than a thought hit me and I asked, “If you get thrown out of a Troop, you’re devastated. What happens when you lose your Alpha or a Traveler?”
“I don’t know Lieutenant,” Stone Angel admitted, “Let me work on that one.”
“Get back to me,” I said, “Now get out of my chair.”
“Aye, Sir,” he said standing and squeezing out of the cockpit.
Two days later, a slightly small Cionaodh 5th Daire came up the stairs. On his back was Heavy Rain. The Troop gently lowered the Striker into an acceleration chair, made sure he was comfortable, then squatted in the aisle.
The Striker reached out and rested a hand on Cionaodh 5th Daire’s shoulder. The Troop looked up, smiled, and lowered his head.
“What’s with the hand?” I asked Stone Angel.
“Seems it’s a sign of acceptance from an Alpha,” the Striker reported.
“Speaking of Alphas,” I asked, “Did you get an answer?”
“Yes Sir, when an Alpha or Traveler dies, the Troop goes crazy,” he reported, “Cohesion is lost and some members of the Troop have been known to commit suicide. But that’s rare according to Cionaodh. Mostly it’s just mayhem until another Alpha declares himself.”
“Do you think we can translate that to their combat units?” I asked.
Memories of Constabulary unit cohesion disappearing during combat came to me. It happened the few times I fought them when a leader was taken out. Instead of an assistant taking command, the Constabulary reverted to basic behavior. As if waiting for a new commander.
“I wouldn’t know Sir,” he replied, “But traditions are the basis for behavior. Take the Marine Corps’ tradition of never leaving a man, dead or injured, behind. Battles have been won because Marines refused to retreat despite heavy causalities. Or more germane to this discussion, the tradition of the next Marine alive is in command. If there are only two Marines, the one with seniority is in charge. Thus, a Marine unit always has a command structure. It makes sense that a Constabulary unit with an Alpha culture would fail until another Alpha takes charge.”
“We need to record all of this information,” I said to Stone Angel, “Every word and every thought and every suspicion. It may not explain the Empress but it’ll help our tactical planners.”
“Aye Sir, I’ve already started,” he admitted, “Your combat experience with the Constabulary would be invaluable.”
“Alert,” I announced.
Over the next three weeks, Cionaodh 5th Daire weakened. At the end, it was Heavy Rain who prepared his H2O with the small pills. He sat next to the emaciated man placing drops of water on his cracked and dried lips. The Striker’s hand always resting gently on the Troop’s now slender shoulder.
His metabolism was fast and he rapidly shrunk to skin and bones. Sometime during third watch, while I was in the cockpit, I heard Heavy Rain sobbing softly. The Trooper had passed.
I knew Stone Angel had an issue. The Constabulary hard drive he could easily download. However, the information would be in Empress. It would take months to translate unless he had an alphabet, some verbs and a few nouns. I just happen to know them.
“Fire Dove, I’ll watch Warlock,” I volunteered, “Go up and take a break.”
“Aye J-Pop, thank you,” he said as he walked wearily towards the ladder.
As he moved dow
n the aisle on the lower deck, he passed two body bags. I saw him reach out and touch Thunder Eagle’s bag. He ignored where the Troop lay.
Once the Striker had climbed out of sight, I pulled out a tablet. A few key strokes later, it blinked ‘Off Line’. I needed an Air Gapped computer. If it ever went online, the Galactic Council Realm server system would scrub the Empress information.
I spent a few minutes observing Warlock. Her breathing was even but shallow. Not surprising as the Medic had doped her into a near coma state. The bruises I could see, those not covered by bandages, were an ugly black and blue. She was stable for now but, she’d need surgery soon.
With my Knight of the Clan gear slipped on over my flight suit, I began typing on the tablet. An hour later, there were files with the Empress’ alphabet and the corresponding Realm alphabet. After placing as many nouns and verbs as I knew in other files, I closed the computer.
Warlock hadn’t stirred during the data dump. I stripped off the Clan gear and stowed it in the strap. Swinging out an anchored chair, I sat and stood watch over the injured Striker team leader. From time to time, I’d turn and watch over Thunder Eagle as well.
We’d evolved to Internal Drive and were adjusting to the new heading when Stone Angel called for my attention.
“J-Pop, there’s a light trail,” he announced, “I’ve sent it to the lower screen.”
On the screen, two yellow ion trails stretched out from deep space. Straight lines from two External Drives, before they began to arc. Gently at first, but further on, the arcs became pronounced curves. Suddenly, the yellow ion trails blinked out.
“Did you get anything from them?” I asked meaning type of ship or affiliation.
“No Sir. They popped on and just as we began tracking,” he replied, “they disappeared. Should I keep watch on that area?”
“Don’t bother,” I instructed, “They were attempting to skirt a Black Hole. Could have been Constabulary ships trying to get ahead of us? It doesn’t matter now. I’d rather dodge a Coronal Mass Ejection than dance with a massive Black Holes’ gravitational field.”
“I can see why,” Stone Angel said softly.
We completed the turn and evolved to External Drive far from the Black Hole hazard. Our next evolution would be to line up with the traffic lanes leading to Planet Dos.
‘Hang in there, Warlock,’ I thought as I checked the math for the final leg of our journey.
Chapter 36
The inbound shipping lanes merged twenty hours from a merchant Station. The Station roamed in a controlled orbit far from planet Dos. It was there to service passing merchant vessels with resupply items and facilitate the transfer of cargo. Unfortunately, it didn’t have a full medical deck. So I called Master of Transit and requested a medical Shuttle.
It was the first thing I did when we evolved. I hadn’t even checked the screens other than to be sure the area around us was clear.
“Galactic Council Navy vessel 48,” I called, “Requesting a medical Shuttle for two injured crewmembers and two deceased bodies.”
It’s always best to lay out the requirements when asking for something. Now they could get the Shuttle moving while I filled in the details. Except they didn’t ask.
“G.C.N. 48, negative on the M.S.,” a voice replied, “All of our assets are occupied.”
Fearing a natural disaster or a ship’s collision, I ran a power scan. The area around Planet Dos lit up. Multiple ships ranging from BattlePlatforms, to GunShips and Fighters, swarmed around. Plus, there was a fleet of Shuttles racing from the main orbital Station to the planet. All the flight elements were a direct result of having a BattleShip and a Heavy Cruiser taking up the merchant ship parking area.
I located the civilian Clippers, Sloops and Yachts. They’d been moved to the other side of the planet and their new space was pushed much further out. I imagined the location wouldn’t sit well with the Merchant Fleet Captains and their crews. But, when two of the largest war ships in the Realm come calling, you accommodate them.
A thrill ran through me when I saw the BattleShip’s signature. It was the Ander El Aitor. Somehow, Rear Admirals Haitham and Tuulia had managed to survive the attack by the Constabulary Carrier and her Escorts.
The other big war ship was the Monserrat de la Astolfo, a Heavy Cruiser. They’d left a broad field between the two capital warships so each could maintain a minimal defensive screen. Doing so, they filled up the space causing the merchants to have a painfully long trip to and from the Orbital Station.
If I couldn’t get a medical Shuttle, I’d need to carry Warlock and Heavy Rain to the Orbital Station in the DS. The issue here was, the munitions on the DS. Orbital Stations aren’t keen on full armed visitors to their internal docks.
“G.C.N. 48 declaring a medical emergency,” I radioed, “Request clearance to the hospital deck on orbital Station.”
“The Orbital Station is closed per Real Admiral Remigio,” the voice radioed back, “Sorry, you’ll have to check in at the merchant Station.”
It was a ridiculous suggestion. The merchant Station was deep in space and unequipped to handle Warlock’s surgery. On the other hand, the Orbital Station was a massive complex in high orbit around Planet Dos with a full medical suite.
“Please clarify, who is Remigio?” I asked.
“He’s Captain of the Monserrat de la Astolfo,” the voice replied.
So the Heavy Cruiser’s Captain had ordered the Station closed to traffic. Well, I could play that game. I knew a Captain of a BattleShip. After switching frequencies, I called my contact.
“J-Pop to Real Admiral Haitham,” I radioed the Ander El Aitor.
“Stand by J-Pop,” came back the reply. Eventually a familiar voice replied, “J-Pop this is Wind Chime. The Rear Admiral has been relieved of command and taken to Orbital Station.”
“Is Admiral Tuulia available?” I asked.
“Same status. Can I help?” she inquired.
It wasn’t fair to the young officer and I knew it. But, Warlock needed to reach the Station, so I replied.
“I’ve got a critically injured Striker and I’ve been told Orbital Station is closed,” I stated, knowing any help from her would be the end of Jaya Perwira’s career.
“Maintain current course. I’ll be back,” she said.
I could hear mumbling behind her. She must have been at a station in Combat Control on an open mic. A half hour later, she was back, “J-Pop, your escort is in bound. Follow the flight leader’s directions.”
Suddenly my DS was being buzzed by a flight of four GunShips.
“G.C.N. 48, you’ve declared a medical emergency?” a new voice inquired in a clipped manner.
“Affirmative, I am declaring a medical emergency,” I responded.
“48 this is Marine Corps GunShip flight 1775,” the pilot stated, “We’re going External for a three minutes. Standby for evolution.”
The four GunShips went from crisscrossing around my GunShip to a paint scraping formation hugging the sides of the DS. They hit my GunShip with beams and my computer locked into theirs. We evolved.
“What’s up?” Stone Angel asked.
“It seems the Marine Corps’ flight wing doesn’t approve of Admiral Remigio’s order to close the Station,” I said, “He must have done something to them. Like insulting the Commandant or something worse.”
“There’s nothing worse than insulting the Commandant of the Marine Corps?” he replied.
“Alert,” I responded, “Get everybody strapped in tight. We’re going to be close to Orbital Station when we evolve.”
“On it Sir,” he said.
We evolved and the four GunShips split off in four different directions. They had to. The Orbital Station was so close I could recognize individual people in the viewing windows. A few jerked back in anticipation of the DS smashing into the Station.
I backed off the power, stood the DS on its nose and slammed the power to full. From a head on collision course, my view of the pla
ting on the Station changed to it being over my head. And, it was still getting closer. I didn’t know how Striker command and my boss Admiral Folkert would feel about me wrecking the Deep Space GunShip. I knew I’d be disappointed, if I lived.
The plating and view windows began sliding by, instead of toward me. I realized we’d cleared the Station and decided it was time to call for an intake tube. But, I got interrupted.
“G.C.N. 48, you are in restricted space,” a voice warned me.
I looked out the front view port and a flight of Fighters were closing in on me.
“What’s your call sign?” I asked.
“Call sign Duke. You are ordered to vacate the area,” he said.
“Tell you what Duke. I’m J-Pop,” I replied, “Give me a minute and we can talk.”
I wish I had a terrifying call sign. One that sounded as if I were tough and would put a world of hurt on him. Instead, I settled for jerking the DS up and aiming for an intake tube.
“Orbital Station, this is Navy 48 declaring an emergency at Intake tube six,” I announced, “I say again, clear tube six.”
“48, you are not cleared for landing,” Duke said breaking in on my communications with the Station.
He was beginning to get on my nerves.
“48, Intake tube six is clear,” the Station responded, “What’s the nature of your emergency?”
“I have critically wounded on board,” I said, “plus two dead.”
The DS hit the Intake tube with more forward momentum than was recommended. I dropped power to my big ion cannons and increased power to the small cannons as I manually pivoted them. There was a jerk and the DS eased through the air curtain. Once it lowered to the sled, I picked up the radio.
“J-Pop to Duke, J-Pop to Duke,” I called.
“This is Duke hot shot,” he responded. He sounded angry, “What can I do for you?”
I love leading questions. In his case, I didn’t have a request. I had a threat.
Galactic Council Realm 3: On Guard Page 28