by Rob Buckman
Devon whistled. “You don’t want much, do you?”
“No, not much. But I was rethinking the premise of one ship for everything. After seeing how the aliens fight, I can see the need for dedicated carriers. The battleships will take the brunt of the fighting and have their own air contingent to act as an overwatch cap.”
“I don’t disagree, Scott, but go on,” Devon murmured.
“The cap will act as a backstop against a similar style of attack, and intercept any torpedo bomber the aliens launch before they get close. That will cut down on the number of targets the point defense systems will have to handle. But, the carriers will have to be as fast, if not faster than the battleship, so they can launch and get the hell out of the way.”
“That means they’ll have to have their own escort group to protect them,” Brock added. “That means we’ll have to build a hell of a lot more ships than we planned on.”
“Well, that’s how I see it. Anyone got a better idea?” Scott looked around the group, seeing them shake their heads.
“I’ll have to see about increasing our shipbuilding capacity as soon as I get back,” Devon said. “Also, for ships that powerful, or any ship for that matter, it comes down to the available power you have to accomplish all that. And that takes one damn big power plant.”
“What we need is some radical technology.”
“You all know the old saying, you can’t railroad until it’s railroading time,” Devon commented.
“Pardon?” Kat asked. “You lost me.”
Pete sighed, seeing Devon’s point. “You can’t railroad until it’s railroading time. In other words, you can’t build the engine, or the track, until you have the ability to make the steel. The old maxim was true a thousand years ago, as it is today.”
“And, you can’t make the steel until you learn to work iron, you can’t work iron until you learn how to mine and smelt it, and so on,” Brock added.
“Oh, I see. That’s good, Devon, I’ll have to remember that.” Kat munched on another sandwich, thinking. “So even if we found some really advanced technology, we wouldn’t be able to duplicate it, or use it, until we understood it completely.”
“Now you have it, lass,” Devon said. “We have to use what we can understand. That way we can duplicate it over and over again, and improve on it as we go.”
“I think we have a great invention in antigravity,” Scott said, “and I feel it hasn’t been investigated fully yet. The people who invented it weren’t looking for other applications like we are, so I suggest we go back to square one and look at it again.”
“I’ll do that as soon as I get back,” Devon said, seeing Scott shake his head.
“Not until we have this spy problem sorted out. As of now, Pete, I’m promoting you and placing you in charge as chief of intelligence. You report anything you find to six people in a descending order, and as you see fit. Myself, Gunny, the PM, Hira Yamaguchi, Kat, and Devon.” He could see Devon wasn’t happy. “You look upset, Devon, what’s up?”
“Well, it’s just that I’m going to be busy with ship design and building, and essentially out of the mainstream of events.”
“So?”
“We know there are spies and saboteurs on the moon, and I think it would be incredibly dangerous to include me in that list of six.”
“All right. I tell you what. Pete, if you get any information pertinent to Devon’s operation or field of interest, pass it on to him.”
“Aye, skipper, will do. What about people, who do I use?”
“Draw from our marines, and Hiro’s people. All messages are to be in person, no electronic transmissions until we can come up with a foolproof way of doing it without fear of compromise.”
“Just like the old King’s messenger service,” Devon chuckled.
“Exactly. All messages to self-destruct if tampered with, etcetera, you know the drill, and I’ll leave up to you how you set it up.”
“Who takes over my present duties?” Pete said.
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yes, I want to promote Pam Brock.”
Brock’s eyebrows shot up. “What! You mean you want to make my wife your number two?”
“You’ve got it, Gunny. You have any objections?”
“I think I’d better not have, thank you very much,” he muttered, looking at the scowling faces around him.
“That’s settled,” Scott said. “Also, I want you to promote Janet Blake to major and place her in charge of all base security.”
“Agreed. It will mean I’ll have to do some reshuffling,” Brock muttered, and looked off into the distance.
“I want to see as many of ours and Hiro’s people promoted as soon as possible. We need an officer corps as quick as we can get it, and our people have been sitting around playing poker long enough.”
“Yes, it’s time they got up off their duffs and did some real work,” Brock added.
Pete chuckled. “Boy, are you going to be unpopular.”
“That’s all right, I’m going to tell them it was your idea,” Brock said with a smile.
“You wouldn’t!” But the look on Brock’s face said he would.
“Is there anything else we need to discuss before we adjourn this meeting?” Scott asked, looking around the group.
“Other than building a bug detector, and some way to destroy them, no, I think we have just about covered it for now.”
“All right then. I’ll work out the details of getting the children shipped to New Zealand, so get onto the building department and set up billeting arrangement as soon as we get back, Gunny.”
“Ten-four.”
“Pete, start work on your intelligence system, posthaste.”
“Ten-four,” he repeated.
“Hiro, report all you have seen and heard to your sensei as soon as possible.”
“Ten-four,” he answered, mimicking the others.
“Devon, start working on a new design as soon as possible, but don’t bring any of the others of the design team in on it yet, also, don’t leave anything lying around.”
“Understood Scott.”
“Kat, start thinking about a radical new design for star-fighters.”
“Ten-four,” she said, wondering when she would have time.
“That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Now I feel better, let’s go back to work.”
“Pardon, Scott-san. There is one more item that needs addressing.”
“Shoot.”
“We need to find those aboard the New Zealand responsible for sabotaging your shuttle.” Scott nodded in agreement. “To that end, my bothers and sisters will track them down and ask them some questions, but …”
“How far should you go, and what to do with them after, right?” Scott finished for him. Hiro nodded.
“You can go as far as need be, Hiro-san. After that, I personally don’t care what happens to them.” Brock growled before Scott could answer. It also placed the life, and death, of anyone involved on his head, not Scott’s. In a way, knowing how close Scott and Kat came to getting killed frightened Brock, and he wasn’t an easy man to frighten.
They played it safe and didn’t rush back, sitting in the grove of trees near the shuttle, drinking the wine and shooting the breeze for anyone who might be listening, and to make sure any spy sat pictured a group of people lazing about. As evening fell, they dressed, and Kat took a leisurely trip back, stopping here and there to look at some point of interest along the way, just as if they’d taken the day off and were reluctant to get back to work. When they did arrive, the base was in a high state of excitement: news the Auckland and the Wellington had captured the alien mother ship and were towing her back. Hopefully they would get here sometime late that night, and drop her into Earth orbit for inspection. The final preparations were made for the funeral the next day, so it was a part-happy, part-somber mood that infested the base.
CHAPTER THREE: …Police officers, soldiers, and other warriors are like
that shell, and someday the civilization they protect will grow into something wonderful? For now, though, they need warriors to protect them from the predators… LTC (RET) D. Grossman
At 20:25 hours, the mother ship was inserted into orbit, and the captain of the Auckland, Rachel Haas, took a shuttle down to report in person to Scott and Brock, and didn’t look happy when she came into the office and saluted both of them.
“Sit down, Rachel, have a drink first, then you can tell us about it.”
“Thank you, Admiral, I will.” Doffing her cap, she dropped into an easy chair beside the desk with a heavy sigh.
“After twenty-eight straight hours in battle armor it’s nice to relax,” she said, accepting the glass. Brock nudged Scott with his foot. “This isn’t some of Doc Chase’s moonshine is it?” she asked. Despite her iron control, her hand shook slightly.
“No, Rachel, it’s the real stuff.”
“That man should be arrested and flogged for trying to pass that stuff off as liquor,” she grouched. Neither Scott nor Brock pressed. They could see something was eating at her.
Her face was drawn, haggard looking, with dark circles around the eyes. Her body language spoke volumes, but the most unusual facet was, she couldn’t or wouldn’t look either him or Brock in the eyes. When she was ready, she would talk, Scott decided. In all, it took three glasses before she started.
“We finally cornered the bitch,” she coughed to clear her throat as she spat the words out, sipping on her fourth glass, “while she was making a run to solar east. I sent Wellington and her escort destroyer at flank speed on a wide sweep around her, and it worked. She had nowhere to go, so when she tried to double back, one of the destroyers managed an up-the-skirt shot at her drive system. Bingo, she was dead in space, but the moment we closed on her, two small ships launched and managed to slip past us.”
She grimaced, clenching her hand around the glass so hard Scott thought it would break. “If I’d known … I sent three destroyers to give chase, but they vanished into a warp point over toward solar north, and we lost them.”
“So, go on. What happened next?” Brock pressed.
“We boarded her!” she sobbed, desperately trying to hold something back, gulped the rest of her drink and held the glass out for a refill. Brock and Scott looked at each other.
“Take it as slow as you like, Rachel,” Scott whispered. Rachel looked at him then, and tears were running down her cheeks.
“Admiral, it’s … it’s a fucking food processing ship.” She let go then, all defenses down, and wept.
“Oh my god!” was all Brock could say as it dawned on him what she meant.
“The kids!” Rachel screamed. “They were processing the kids for food.” She pounded the arm of the chair. “Bastards, motherfucking, slimy bastards,” she screamed, her fist striking the arm, punctuating each word. In fury she flung the glass across the room, smashing it against the far wall. “And I let the cocksuckers get away,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands.
For a moment, it felt as if someone had reached into Scott’s chest, wrapped cold fingers around his heart and squeezed. “Brock, get a team together with Pete. Be careful how you pick the people, and I want this documented, now!” he snarled. “Every last stinking detail.”
“Wait! There are some of them alive, I think,” Rachel said between sobs.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re zombies, and some of them aren’t human, or at least from what I could tell.”
Scott looked at Brock and nodded. “Take care of them, get them to Doc Chase and Kessler as soon as possible.”
“God damn right!”
“Maybe he and that mad gnome can do something for them.”
“Yes, sir, I’m on it,” Brock said, vanishing out the door.
Rachel asked, “Did you capture any of the aliens onboard any of the other ships alive?”
“Yes, we did. What about on the mother ship?”
“Killed every last one of them,” she snapped. “I kicked a few of the motherfuckers to death myself.…” She stopped and let out a gasping sob. “I wish I had kill …” She couldn’t say more, but Scott knew what was she was going to say, and felt the same way.
“Good.” Scott could feel the repressed fury in his chest as the enormity of what she was saying sank in.
“Where are the ones you captured?” Rachel asked, her eyes hard.
“In the security area, why?”
In answer, Rachel stood and pulled out her side arm. It was clear she was in no mood to be reasoned with, so Scott walked beside her as she headed for the prison. The guard challenged them, and Scott quickly identified himself and the captain. He knew what Rachel was going to do, but then again, so was he.
“Sir, can I help you?” the guard commander asked as he came running out. The young lieutenant was one of the new people, and he didn’t like the look on Scott’s or the ship captain’s face, or the fact she had her side arm out.
“You will stand aside, Lieutenant, and let Captain Haas conduct an interrogation. We need to get these prisoners to talk, now!”
“Yes, Admiral, but …”
“Do you want to live to see the sun come up tomorrow, sonny?” Rachel asked in a bleak voice.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Then get the fuck out of my way!” she snarled, and he did. The rest of the guard team fingered their weapons nervously, wondering what to do.
“I’ll take full responsibility for this,” Scott said, taking them off the hook. “Open the cells and let them all out into the exercise area.”
“All at once, sir!”
“That’s what I just said, wasn’t it?” he growled.
“Yes, sir, but that’s against the ru … yes sir.” Scott’s look was sufficient to send the man running for the control center. He hit the master locking control and opened the entire cellblock at the same time. Scott and Rachel passed through five separate security doors and entered the exercise area. Slowly the lizard-like aliens came out of the cells, curious as to what was going on. From his pocket, Scott pulled out the translation disk Doc Chase had given him, and hung it around his neck.
“We are here to ask you some questions,” he said in a loud voice. “If I don’t get an answer, this woman will start shooting each one of you until someone talks to me.”
“We will tell you nothing,” one of the aliens in a red cape hissed. The translator indicated the alien had said more, and the device didn’t work on the last part of his sentence, but Scott was betting it wasn’t nice. Before he could say anything in return, Rachel went over to the nearest alien and shot him in both kneecaps. The impact of the needle round drove him back against the wall, jerking and flapping his arms. He hit the wall and slid down, keening in pain and leaving a reddish-green stain behind him.
“Now then, who would like to talk to me?” Scott asked. The aliens were jabbering away so fast to each other, the translator didn’t work well. They started backing away, with some rushing back into their cells. “Anyone?” he asked again.
Rachel didn’t wait; she walked across the yard and shot the wounded creature in both arms, shattering the elbows. She turned, and shot another one in the back as he tried to run. The round’s impact drove him into the cell, but she followed, and the ripped-cloth sound of the weapon discharging could be heard.
“This will get you nothing, darth (food animal)” the translator murmured as the red-caped alien hissed out the reply. Brave words, but the creature’s eyes were wide, the crest on his head flat again his skull, suggesting fear. “Without your weapons you are mucklar (prey).”
Scott let go of his anger, and realized why these aliens had that suggestion of a smile on their faces every time someone tried to talk to them: you don’t talk to food. Scott took out his side arm and handed it to Rachel. “Keep them covered.”
“You can count on it, sir!”
“All right, big mouth, I have no weapon. Come and show me how tough you are,” Scott
said, walking toward the one with the red cape. This one had to be some sort of a leader, but no one had been able to discover of what.
“It will shoot me if I do,” the alien snarled, its snout jerking toward Rachel.
“You don’t have to worry about her, just me,” Scott said. He went down and back up, leaping into the air, spinning as he did.
The side of his extended foot caught the alien along the side of its face, knocking it sideways. Stumbling to recover, it gave out with a spitting roar and charged. Scott faded to the side, slamming his fist into the alien’s side as it passed. The alien roared again, in pain this time, and with lightning speed whipped around and struck at Scott. By now, his senses were in overdrive, and it appeared to him the alien was slowing down. He put this down to the two solid hits it took rather than anything else, so when the creature turned and struck again, he saw the clawed, four-fingered hand coming at him long before it connected.