Star Wolf (Shattered Galaxy)

by David G. Johnson

  “Seven minutes.”

  Molon growled and shook his head. Seven minutes was a long time in the midst of a ship battle.

  “And are we likely to live that long?”

  He had addressed Voide, but it was Mel that responded.

  “Revenge is a little preoccupied, Molon. She is making best speed toward the Hatacks mainworld and broadcasting distress calls to System Defense.”

  “What put them on the run?” Molon asked, breathing a little easier at the news they were not on the verge of being obliterated.

  “Well,” Voide replied, “a Theocracy battleship, two man-of-wars, a half-dozen escort corvettes and a huge battle carrier with a cloaking screen projector captured her attention. Revenge has a few dozen holes in her hull, but is now out of range of everything except the battleship’s spinal mount.”

  “So,” Molon growled, fighting back the rage inside him. “Why doesn’t that battleship hurry up and blow that fancified scrap-heap, its double-dealing commander, and that dreck-sucking cyborg to atoms?”

  “Angel tapped us into the tactical frequency,” Mel replied. “The Theocracy commander, call sign Abbot, ordered the fleet to disengage and prepare to escort Star Wolf into voidspace. The smaller ships have already returned to the battle carrier to prep for transition.”

  “You are just going to let them get away?” Molon said, rounding on Angel, a snarl on his muzzle.

  “I’m not going to do anything, captain,” Angel answered with a sympathetic smile. “I am not in command of fleet operations.”

  Molon glanced around for something to throw, but there was nothing in the vicinity to grab. He settled for kicking the base of his captain’s chair, which the throbbing in his foot through his boot, and the sharp pain in his side from his injured ribs, made him instantly regret.

  “Well, isn’t that convenient?” he spat, wincing at his pain but biting it back as best he could. “You tell this Abbot that the Deputy Director of GalSec Intelligence and a Senior Special Interrogator who also happens to be a cyborg sub-cute augment designed to fight Angelicum are aboard that vessel? Maybe that’ll change his mind.”

  Molon half felt like slapping that condescendingly sweet smile off Angel’s face as she shook her head.

  “Abbot is fully aware who is aboard Revenge. This, however, is a rescue mission, not an attack raid.”

  “So call it a target of convenience,” Voide interjected. “Collateral damage.”

  “Unfortunately, given the Provisional Imperium’s retaliation policy, it would be a Pyrrhic victory. The destruction of a PI cruiser in a Dawnstar-controlled border system would virtually guarantee that a strike fleet from Hececcrir would be paying a visit to the Tede system in the very near future, and exterminating every man, woman, and child living there. Is that a trade you would be willing to make, captain.”

  Molon bit back the “yes” that had already formed in his muzzle as he considered John’s homeworld, his company, and all the doctor’s friends and neighbors living on Tede.

  “Fine,” he snapped resentfully. “But if Twitch dies, I promise you I’ll hunt that cyborg mongrel to the ends of the galaxy and the threat of destroying the entire Theocracy won’t stay my hand.”

  “I understand, captain,” Angel answered. “But given that the situation here is under control, at least for now, perhaps you and I should talk…alone.”

  “Mel, Voide, we all clear?”

  “Yes,” Voide replied and Mel nodded in agreement. “We’ll be in voidspace momentarily. No enemy ships in range. The fleet is standing ready to follow us. We’re situation green, captain.”

  “Yeah,” Molon replied, turning toward Angel. “Come to think of it, I have quite a few things to say to you that might not be fit for mixed company.”

  Twenty-Nine – Lost and Found

  John could not fight off a frown as he sat on one of the extra med-beds and read the information on the datapad he held. Patch had just handed him Twitch’s latest test results. John set the datapad down on the side table and sighed as he rubbed his face with both hands.

  “Come on, Doc.” Patch gave John a light chuck on the arm. “You’ve been at this for hours. She’s as stable as she is going to get. You can’t operate further until she gains some strength. Grab some rack time. Bob and I will take shifts keeping an eye on her. We’ll call you if anything changes.”

  “Rack time?” John laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve got two extra bunks filled with refugees from Ratuen camped out in my room and a security officer taking up what little floor space is left.”

  “So use my rack,” Patch replied. “Or sack out on one of these extra med-beds. Point is, if you go dropping off from exhaustion, you won’t be any good to anyone.”

  John did feel as though he were minutes from dropping from exhaustion. Even the antiseptic environment of the sickbay beds looked inviting. John shook his head.

  “I wish I could, but if I don’t let the captain know what’s what with Twitch, sleep deprivation will be the least of my worries. I’ve never seen anything get to him like this.”

  Patch nodded and glanced from John back toward the bed where Twitch lay, unconscious, convalescing. The automated med bed was busy controlling and monitoring her oxygen and the cocktail of pain medication, antibiotics, and sedatives John had cooked up.

  “He and Twitch are close, for sure,” Patch answered. “Back in the Scouts, they went through a lot together. If she don’t pull out of this…”

  “She will,” John said with far more fire than he intended. The corpsman was trying to help, but if Twitch didn’t pull through the captain wouldn’t have to pin this on John. It was his to own. None of them would have been here if he hadn’t hired them to return to Ratuen. Twitch was in that bed because of him.

  “Doc?” Patch said, snapping John back to reality.

  “Yes?”

  “I know I’m just a corpsman,” Patch continued, not looking at John but dropping his gaze to the floor. “But things don’t look good for the XO.”

  “You’re right,” John replied, glancing at the datapad filled with bad news as it rested on the table. “Even if she survives, she will never be the same.”

  Patch hesitated, toeing the foot of the side table and clutching one arm with the other across his midsection. John’s stomach fluttered wondering what was on the corpsman’s mind.

  “What is it, corpsman?” John asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  Patch took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something, and slowly exhaled. He finally lifted his head to look John in the eyes.

  “Honestly, Doc, it might be better if she didn’t.” Patch stared blankly at John with soft, glassy eyes.

  “Didn’t what?” John said, tension rising in his voice, incredulous at what he believed the corpsman was implying.

  “Live, I mean,” Patch said confirming John’s suspicion.

  The corpsman turned to stare at Twitch’s unconscious form, not daring to look John in the eye after making such a suggestion. John choked back the bile rising in this throat.

  “That’s not our call to make!” John rose suddenly to his feet. “I may not know all the military rules and regulations, but when you were an Imperial corpsman, didn’t you take an oath to do no harm just like civilian doctors do?”

  At John’s confrontational stance, Patch rose and squared off with John. John sensed the military training in the man and considered that it might not be wise to push his indignation much farther with the combat-trained corpsman. Patch returned John’s stare, but without the accompanying scowl.

  “Yeah, we do, Doc,” Patch answered, keeping his voice even but dropping slightly into an almost imperceptibly tensed crouch. “It’s not the same oath, but close enough.”

  “Then how could you suggest such a thing?” John replied, using all his self-control to level his own tone, trying to deescalate the tension.

  “I’m just saying,” Patch answered. “Knowing what’s ahead for her
, I’m not sure I would consider putting her through that as doing no harm.”

  John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew not everyone shared the Faithful’s regard for the sanctity of life, but the thought of euthanizing a patient wasn’t something John was willing to consider, no matter how grim the diagnosis or how hard the road ahead. While he was acting chief medical officer, that wasn’t going to be an option.

  Just then, the sickbay doors opened, ending the discussion. Star Wolf’s chief engineer stuck his large head in the doorway. Given the extra beds and Dub’s huge bulk, that was about all that would fit.

  “Hey, Doc, how’s Twitch?”

  “Stable for now, Dub. But she’s not out of the woods yet.”

  “Cap won’t like that news much,” Dub said, shaking his large bald pate.

  “I know.”

  John grabbed a portable skeletal knitter. Given the damage Simmons had done to Molon back on Revenge the captain would likely need some medical attention of his own.

  “I was just on my way to tell him. Did you need something?”

  “Actually,” Dub shrugged as he backed out into the corridor, clearing room for John to exit the sickbay. “I just needed to talk to you a minute, Doc. You mind if I walk with you?”

  “Sure, Dub,” John answered. “Patch,” John said flashing a parting scowl at Patch to let him know their conversation would resume later. “Call me immediately if anything changes, okay?”

  “You got it, Doc,” the corpsman replied, his eyes dropping once again away from John’s scorching gaze.

  The sickbay door closed behind them.

  “Everything okay with you and Patch?” the intuitive engineer asked.

  “Fine, Dub. Just a difference of opinion”

  John started to turn left toward the starboard bridge entrance, but Dub grabbed his arm.

  “Cap’s not on the bridge. Voide says he has been locked up in his quarters with Angel since we made voidspace.”

  “Okay,” John said, turning the other way to head toward the captain’s quarters.

  “Before you head there, though,” Dub said, gently placing one of his mechanically-gloved hands on John’s shoulder. “I’ve got something for you.”

  John frowned. He liked the chief engineer, but it had been a long day. John’s heart was already heavy with his own sense of responsibility in all this. Whatever Dub had to tell him, he hoped it was not some misguided attempt to cheer him up. Between Twitch’s condition and Patch’s gruesome suggestion, John didn’t feel very cheerful.

  “I’m just not in the mood for guessing games right now, Dub. What is it?”

  “No games, Doc,” Dub said, flashing his twisted, malmorph smile. “Just a gift.”

  Dub reached into a pocket and pulled out a cube dangling on a chain. It looked exactly like Elena’s datacube.

  John’s eyes widened, his mind scrambling to put together how the chief engineer had salvaged the cube. He’d seen Dub crush the thing to dust.

  “What?” John’s stuttered as he searched for the right words. “Is that...?”

  “Well,” Dub grinned, “kind of, sort of, in a way, but not exactly. I really did pulverize your wife’s datacube back on Revenge. I just neglected to mention I had made a copy.”

  “But when? How?” John babbled.

  “You remember when I had you scan the thing so I could build you a reader?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I might have…kind of…scanned more than just the physical dimensions. When you told me what was on it, I have to admit I was more than a little curious.”

  “Were you able to decrypt the data?” John said, on the verge of hyperventilating, his mind racing with the implications of Dub’s revelation. “Elena was very security conscious.”

  “Hah,” Dub shook his head, “You call that encryption? I mean come on, Doc, I’m a mutated, freak-show genius, remember?”

  John couldn’t control the quick laugh that erupted at Dub’s remark.

  “Yeah, sorry Dub. It slipped my mind for a second.”

  “It happens.” Dub’s jovial grin faded slightly. “Decrypting it was a breeze. Understanding it after decryption was the tricky part. Bunch of medical gobbledygook; I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Still, I figured you might, or might at least know someone who could.”

  Dub extended the datacube necklace toward John. His hand trembled as he reached out and took it.

  “Dub,” John said, suddenly tensing as he realized the possible implications of this copy. “Does anyone else know?”

  “Nope,” the huge engineer replied shaking his large head. “Nobody else’s business, not even Cap’s. I figured you had the right to do what you want with it.”

  John wanted to hug the huge malmorph, but had no idea how Dub might take that. Instead he chose to pat Dub on the arm. It took everything John could muster to choke back the tears threatening to fill his eyes. This research was all he had left of the Elena he had known and loved.

  “Do you have a way to make another copy?” John asked.

  Dub shrugged and nodded.

  “I was about to wipe the copy files,” Dub replied. “After I delivered this to you, anyway.”

  “Yes, you should do that, but make me one more copy first.”

  “Something wrong with this copy, Doc? I can rig up a reader in a day or so, since we are going to be in voidspace for the next four days without much demand on my time. I just replicated the original datacube since I already had the specs in the system.”

  “You can put the other copy on a standard mini-disc that I can work with in my room or in sickbay,” John said. “It’s just that I have a different idea about what I want to do with this one.”

  “Sure thing, Doc,” Dub replied, rubbing his chin with a biomechanical glove-hand. “I’ll even encrypt the data with your fingerprint, voiceprint, and DNA so only you will be able to access it.”

  “Great,” John said as he slipped the datacube around his neck and tucked it inside his shirt. Suddenly he stopped short and snapped a look at the chief engineer. “Hey, how do you have my fingerprints, voiceprint, and DNA?”

  Dub flashed a knowing grin before rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, clasping his hands behind his back, and whistling innocently.

  “Um,” John replied. “I guess it’s best if I don’t ask, huh?”

  “You can ask…” the engineer turned away and headed toward the bridge.

  “Dub?” John fought back tears as he called out to the malmorph engineer walking away.

  “Yeah?” Dub replied, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “Thanks.”

  “Null sweat, Doc.” Dub nodded as a playful grin slid across his face, before he turned away and resumed his whistling.

  *****

  Molon paced the floor of his quarters. He had been talking for hours with the Angelicum agent. She had laid out in rather sketchy detail the events leading up to their meeting aboard Revenge. Some of it Molon knew, or at least guessed, but the depth of it all had him reeling. The frustrating part was anytime Molon approached any truly meaningful question, he had been stalled, stonewalled, or evaded entirely. His naturally sparse patience was long since expended.

  The pain in his chest from the blow Simmons had given him still throbbed and did little to fuel cordiality. He would have to get John to look at the injury the first chance he got, but Molon was sure he had at least a broken rib or two. He turned toward the Angelicum agent seated on his sofa and decided to take one last push at prying something useful out of their recalcitrant rescuer.

  “So you are telling me the Angelicum have had agents in the Imperium and even GalSec since the Shattering?”

  “Since the Shattering?” Angel smiled knowingly. “Angelicum security agents assigned to Humaniti are called Watchmen. Watchmen have been keeping an eye on humans since long before they left Earth. You don’t think GalSec is the only intelligence agency in the galaxy, do you?”

  Molon’s brow furrowe
d. At least there was no record of any lupine or canine angels. Hopefully the Angelicum had kept their interests focused on Humaniti. Still, there were the Doppelgangers, so Lubanian physiology likely hadn’t made them immune to outside spying. He could understand spying on the vast, interstellar Empire of Humaniti, but Angel was saying there had been spies among the humans before there was anything worth watching.

  “That’s a long time to be spying on a pretty insignificant race, compared to the Angelicum Host at least.”

  “Insignificant?” Angel’s eyes widened. “You’ve got it all wrong, Molon. Humaniti is anything but insignificant. They have been in the Creator’s plan from the beginning.”

  Molon swallowed a growl forming in this throat. Here it was again. This woman was delusional.

  “So now you’re telling me you have met God?”

  “So have you,” Angel replied. “You just don’t realize it.”

  Molon harrumphed.

  “When have I met God?”

  “Unfortunately,” Angel’s gazed dropped toward the deck, “I’m not at liberty to talk about that with you right now.”

  Molon growled in frustration, bordering on a snarl.

  “Why does that answer not surprise me?”

  He was done with this evasiveness. John had at least tried to address the questions, but Molon wasn’t sure the doctor knew anything beyond what he’d studied from some books. Finally Molon had someone who might actually be able to answer some questions, and there was a gag order. That figured.

  “Okay, then,” Molon said, dropping the dead-end line of questioning and turning his inquiries toward something more solid. “Let me ask about you.”

  “I will answer what I can.” Angel’s gaze rose once again, looking straight into Molon’s eyes.

  “Are you trying to tell me, out of all the Angelicum operatives you guys have all over Humaniti, we were just lucky enough to bump into the one angel whose call sign is actually Angel?”

  The Malak laughed lightly and smiled at him, as if Molon was a child who had just asked where clouds came from.

  “Actually, my real name is Shamira, and you can call me that if you prefer. In truth, every Watchman operative who is forced by circumstances to reveal their Angelicum nature just uses the call sign Angel. This happens only when the completion of the mission calls for it,”