by Linn Schwab
“How many numbers are on that list?”
“I don’t know. Some tens of thousands maybe.”
“Tens of thousands!” Commander Ingman exclaimed. “Please tell me you’re not serious!”
“Some of those ships may have been destroyed,” Pogo explained. “Remember, if this list contains every ship they’ve ever built, that’s almost two hundred years worth of warships.”
“Yes,” Admiral Sands said, “let’s hope that’s the case. Can you show us what it tells you when you enter one of these numbers?”
“Here’s a few that I’ve already had a look at,” Pogo said, toggling up and down through a list of entries on the monitor. “CVS Brahms, Niagara–class cruiser. CVS Scirocco, Nile–class carrier. CVS Saffron, Euphrates–class cruiser. All three of those ships are currently listed as active.”
“All their classes seem to be named for rivers,” Admiral Sands observed. “Is there a way to sort that list by class?”
Pogo shook his head. “I tried every shortcut I could think of. Name, class, current status. It doesn’t look like this information is really meant to be accessed at the ship level. I mean, how much benefit would a destroyer captain gain from knowing the current status of every ship in the fleet?”
“I suppose that makes sense,” the admiral said. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Lieutenant. It could turn out to be very helpful. We’ll assign someone else to go through this list so you can focus on getting the distress signal ready.”
“While we’re here,” Commander Ingman said, “there’s another matter we should probably discuss. Let’s assume the harpoon attack is successful, and Captain Hoile manages to snare a destroyer. How are we going to board this ship? I don’t expect they’ll just open the door and let us in.”
Admiral Sands seemed puzzled by the question, as if convinced the answer was obvious. “I was thinking we’d use a rescue collar to cut a hole through the ship’s outer hull. Then storm in with a heavily armed boarding party and attempt to seize the bridge by force.”
The commander held his index finger up. “There’s just one problem with that approach. What if the chamber we drill into is depressurized? If our boarding party is forced to wear EVA suits, that’s going to make them extremely vulnerable. And if we send them aboard without EVA suits, all the enemy crew has to do in order to kill them is depressurize the compartment they’re in.”
“Hmm. That is a dilemma. I’m beginning to see why we’ve never attempted this before. Lieutenant Amarelli, you’ve been inside that ship. Can the crew control the interior hatches from the bridge?”
“From what I saw, I’m pretty sure they can. They can easily seal themselves inside the bridge, and vent the atmosphere from all the other compartments.”
“What if we were to vent the bridge first?” the admiral asked. “Kill the crew, then send our boys aboard wearing EVA suits. Do you think that device would survive long enough for us to retrieve it?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Pogo advised him. “I’m sure it’s calibrated very closely to what the crew can survive.”
“What if we were to force a small pipe through the hull and flood the bridge with carbon monoxide? Can you say for sure that this device measures toxicity?”
“No, sir. But I can’t say for sure that it doesn’t, either.”
“So we knock them out,” Commander Ingman suggested. “We use an anesthetic gas instead of a toxic one.”
“That seems like our best option,” the admiral agreed. “Unless the lieutenant has reason to believe otherwise.”
“No, sir,” Pogo said. “I think that could work. We just need to make sure it isn’t strong enough to kill them.”
“Alright, then that’s our plan,” the admiral said. “Let’s get to work on putting it all together.”
After three refueling stops along the way and one overnight stay at Libra station, the Cricket arrived at her destination, where an open repair dock was waiting to receive her. When the engines shut down and the cabin lights faded, Robin removed her key from the card slot and led her crew out through the cargo doors. A technician greeted them as they stepped through the airlock. When Robin saw the girl’s uniform, she was instantly reminded of Genevieve.
“What ship is this?” the technician asked. She seemed every bit as friendly as Genevieve.
“CVS Cricket,” Robin informed her.
The girl reached into an oversized pocket and whipped out an archive interface. “Number three engine?”
“Yes,” Robin answered. “Can you tell us how long it might take to replace it?”
“Three days minimum. Probably closer to a week.”
Robin felt a twinge of disappointment setting in. After everything she’d been through in recent days, she really didn’t want to say goodbye to the Cricket. But three days was simply too long for her to wait, with Volaris already being short on destroyers.
The technician nodded to Robin’s right and pointed along the length of the spur. “Third bay on the left you’ll find a ship that’s just received a complete overhaul. She’s fueled up, and armed, and ready to go. You’re welcome to take her if that’s what you decide. Or you can wait around on Aries until the Cricket is ready. It’s your choice.”
“I guess we’d better take the other ship,” Robin said. “I’m sure Commander Carillo wants us back as soon as possible.”
Judging from the looks on the other girls’ faces, they were feeling the pangs of separation as well. With their heads hung low, they turned away from the Cricket and started walking along the spur.
Phoebe paused to look back, and said, “Goodbye, Cricket.”
Katrina answered her with a somber, “Chirp.”
They entered through the rear of the third ship on the left and soon found themselves at their usual positions on the bridge. Though the ship’s interior seemed very clean, its surfaces had a metallic patina that suggested it had been in service for a while. As Robin lowered herself into the captain’s chair, she couldn’t help but wonder what this ship had experienced, and how it had ended up at the shipyard. How many battles had it survived? How many enemy ships had it destroyed? And how many previous captains had it served? Perhaps at some point she would look into its history. But right now it was time for her to get under way.
With a sigh of resignation, she pulled out her card key and slid it into the ignition slot. The bridge came to life with the familiar crescendo of whirring machinery and beeps and chirps. Illumination from the instruments danced across the consoles, and a pleasant–sounding disembodied female voice announced:
“CVS Nautilus, Congo–class destroyer, Captain Robin Starling commanding.”
GENESIS 117
<<
Chairman Prescott looked up from the report on his desk and realized it was time to face the facts. The world’s economy was beginning to collapse. And it was taking Practical Solutions down with it.
For nearly a century the people of Earth had been at war with a planet in another solar system. And for nearly a century the costs of that war had continued to exact a heavy toll. Consumer spending — the lifeblood of Practical Solutions — was stuck in a slow downward spiral. If something didn’t happen to change that soon, the company would eventually become insolvent, and be forced to surrender all of its assets.
Discouraged, the chairman got to his feet and looked out his office window at the courtyard below. For generations employees had crossed that courtyard, on their way to work, or on their way home, or just to carry reports from one building to another. Some of them would even take their lunch breaks out there, relaxing on the benches or the terraced concrete planters while listening to the sound of falling water in the fountains. And occasionally they would look upon the faces of the chairmen — bronze statues of the company’s former leaders, arranged in a circle at one end of the courtyard, gazing up at a colorful lighted sculpture intended to represent hope and achievement. There was room for more statues to be added to
the circle. Room for more achievement and recognition. But if the company failed it would all be forgotten. The courtyard would change hands, and the buildings along with it, and the new owners would likely clear out those statues in favor of showcasing their own corporate legacy. That was a lot for Chairman Prescott to bear on his shoulders. So much would be lost if he failed to turn things around.
As he looked out across the expansive courtyard, he soon became aware that it was largely deserted. The sky had grown dark, and the walkway lights were all shining. Only now did he realize how late it was. Most of the employees had gone home to spend time with their families. Save for the security and custodial staff, their obligations to the company were done for the day. And now that it occurred to him, he vaguely remembered his personal secretary peeking into his office to inform him she was leaving. That meant he was all alone in the building. All alone in the company’s flagship office, with its extensive collection of plaques and photographs on display throughout the lobby and adjoining corridors.
Deciding it was time to go home to his family, the chairman finally stepped out of his office and found the lights in the building’s corridors dimmed. As he walked past his secretary’s reception desk, his eyes caught a glimpse of a plaque on the wall. A plaque he’d walked by every workday for several years now. It was an award the company had earned years ago for innovation in the field of renewable energy. That small slice of corporate history evoked a subtle sense of nostalgia in him, and drew him to a picture of the award ceremony, where the plaque was presented to a previous chairman. This in turn led him to the next photograph, and on down the line on a tour of the company’s historic achievements. Among the greatest of those achievements was the interstellar drive — the very reason Practical Solutions was still in business.
Chairman Prescott was familiar with much of the story surrounding the company’s darkest hours, when it had teetered on the very edge of bankruptcy at the mercy of Voorling Worldwide Industries. The chairman at that time – a Mr. Keith Ross — was on the verge of agreeing to an inauspicious merger, when a last minute reprieve arrived at corporate headquarters in the form of an off–world photograph depicting a mysterious lush green planet. This prompted an expedition with government backing, and sudden demand for an interstellar drive, which the company just happened to have sitting in a warehouse, and for which it was very well compensated, allowing it to remain independent of Voorling.
Following the death of Chairman Ross, the board of directors went forward with a plan to keep the company solvent for a time by leveraging potential income from interplanetary commerce. However, in a completely unexpected turn of events, when that first expedition resulted in war, the military started buying up interstellar drives as fast as Practical Solutions was able to produce them. And up until now, those profits had been sufficient to make up for declines in consumer spending.
But those days were over. Things were bad enough now that the company was faced with selling off some of its assets. And unless things improved for the world’s consumers, the numbers would only continue to grow worse.
Moving on past photos of the interstellar drive and the many related patents in framed displays on the wall, Chairman Prescott came across another research milestone. But this one wasn’t nearly as well regarded, and in fact had once led to a rash of lawsuits which had left the company greatly weakened. In the wake of those lawsuits, all items that had been produced with this technology had to be recalled at great expense, and were subsequently destroyed by government order. To this day, only one example was still known to exist. And in the photo Chairman Prescott was looking at right now, that example was staring him right in the face.
Socrates! Do I dare to trust you? Am I desperate enough to risk taking a chance on your advice?
He wavered for a moment, debating with himself over whether he should even be considering this. But before he arrived at a firm decision, his feet started moving toward the elevator, as if suggesting there was no other path for him to follow.
I can still turn around. There’s still time to back out.
He stepped inside the lift and pressed the lowest button on the control panel.
What are the chances he’s even still operational? How long has it been since anyone conversed with him?
The doors slid open. He stepped forward into darkness. A light switch sensed his presence and lit the way for him. Across the corridor was a room labeled Corporate Records.
Could there really be any harm in just asking? There’s nothing that says I have to follow his suggestions.
He opened the door and stepped inside. Backed up against the opposite wall, his potential advisor stood motionless and silent, looking much more like a furnace than a titan of intellect.
“Socrates, can you hear me?” he asked.
“Yes, I can hear you, Mr. Chairman.”
“You recognize me?”
“Of course. I have direct access to the world’s networked library archives, which contain a great number of media interviews.”
I can still back out. It’s not too late.
“Socrates, I need you to help me solve a problem.”
“Of course, Mr. Chairman. That’s my primary function.”
“You’re familiar with the war we’ve been fighting up in space?”
“I am. I’ve been monitoring the situation for quite some time.”
“Socrates, this war is a disaster for us. It’s destroying our economy. It’s destroying the company. And worst of all, people are dying in combat. We need a strategy that will enable us to win this war quickly. One that results in the lowest possible number of casualties on both sides.”
“Your request requires that I analyze combat reports. I will require several seconds to complete this task.”
“Combat reports?” the chairman replied, surprised that Socrates might have access to such things. “Shouldn’t those be restricted to military personal?”
“Task complete,” Socrates announced, conveniently ignoring the chairman’s question. “I have analyzed all available information from the war zone, including detailed accounts of enemy forces, and combat results of all engagements to date.”
“And?”
“I’ve concluded that victory cannot be achieved through the use of current strategy and combat tactics.”
The answer hit Chairman Prescott like a punch in the gut. “Are you saying there’s no way we can win?”
“Correct. The enemy fleet is simply too efficient with its resources. Their leadership has demonstrated a remarkable ability to successfully react to and counter our offensives. In order for our forces to gain the advantage, an alternate approach to this problem will be required.”
“I’m open to suggestions,” the chairman said, convinced he had nothing to lose at this point.
“One moment, please. I am reviewing the history of human warfare so I can formulate a plan that fits your requirements. Information compiled. Task complete. Based on my analysis of past human conflicts, and taking into account the characteristics of those most directly involved, I believe I have devised a solution to this problem. On the monitor to your left you’ll find formulas for two distinct organic agents which will need to be synthesized and delivered to the war zone. The first should be introduced to the planet’s atmosphere. The second should be stocked on each ship in the fleet, and administered by intravenous injection as needed.”
Chairman Prescott stared at the screen in unease. It’s still not too late. I don’t have to go through with this. The only downside is that the war will continue to drag on.
“This first substance, Socrates,” he asked with hesitation. “What exactly is it intended to do?”
“It should accomplish precisely what you requested, Mr. Chairman. Achieve a victory that results in the lowest possible number of casualties.”
>>
When his lunch break was over, Dylan left the cafeteria and returned to Gateway station’s loading bays. Word had already reached h
im that a freighter from Earth had just arrived. And like all of the previous freighters he’d unloaded, this one was likely to be packed to the gills with pallets of supplies and armaments. That meant many long hours of work lie ahead of him: unloading, sorting, assigning storage space. Since Gateway served as the fleet’s main supply depot, anything and everything needed to support the war effort could be found in one of its warehouse pods — from the smallest nuts and bolts to massive gun barrels, and even spare fighter craft held in reserve. A single freighter unloading at dock number six could mean days if not weeks of moving shipping crates around, checking their contents for accuracy, and wheeling them by forklift to the proper storage chambers. It was tedious, laborious, mind–numbing work. But it was far less dangerous than serving on a warship.
Arriving at the loading dock’s inner hatch, Dylan pulled out his card key and slid it through the reader. Due to the frequent presence of powerful munitions, the area was considered a high security zone, off limits to all but a few of the station’s personnel. One mishap in the warehouse could prove very costly. And there was always a potential for mishaps in a warehouse.
The door opened for Dylan, granting him access to bay six. He stepped inside expecting to find a mountain of shipping crates already waiting to be sorted and processed. What he found instead was an empty dock, aside from a single rectangular crate, and a pair of his long–time coworkers.
“What’s this?” Dylan asked, approaching the container. Nick and Andrew had already removed the lid and were standing beside it looking in at the contents. Inside was what appeared to be some sort of missile with an unfamiliar warning symbol painted on its nose cone.
“Special delivery,” Nick said. “Straight off the freighter. Our instructions are to set up a spare launch tube, and fire this thing out through the airlock opening.”
“They want us to fire a missile?” Dylan asked in disbelief.