by Drew Avera
Her thumb found the ascend button for the lift. Slowly the hydraulics powered up and the slow climb towards sub-orbit began. From her perch in the umbilical she could see everything, beginning with the swath of industrial complex that was Port Carreo. The Luthia navy used the port for many things and from her elevating vantage point she could pick apart the years of expansion as the landscape and building colors changed the further out Port Carreo crawled across the landscape. Everywhere the sea touched was owned by the Luthian Navy, and even parts more inland had been appropriated for the war effort. Like cogs in a machine, everything had a place and was used for the purpose of defiance. Hardly anyone said win anymore in relation to war, at least no one who knew better. Maybe that’s why I’m so afraid now, she thought. The propaganda was finally getting to her, professing the sort of truth that poisoned patriotism by making the patriots to afraid to rise. But the propaganda was perpetuated by the Luthian Government, why would they psyche out their sailors and marines before shipping them off to fight? Nothing seemed to make any sense to her anymore.
The window fogged with her breath. She wiped it clear with her hand and looked out at the vast lit network of Luthian cityscape. Beyond Port Carreo’s perimeter was a world ignorant of her upcoming tribulation. Perhaps it was better this way, to not know what was coming or going from the giant umbilical network of Port Carreo; each umbilical sending a son or daughter out, reaching for the stars. Soon her view would shift to nothingness beyond dense clouds. It came sooner than she expected, the ground she had grown up on disappearing in the span of a breath. Even in such a short period of time she struggled to remember what the grass smelled like, or the untainted seawater she smelled as a kid, the only time she and her father left Surda. Why she was remembering that moment now, she had no idea. Maybe it was because she never really wanted to leave Luthia in the first place; or maybe because now it was too late to change her mind.
Anki looked at the screen on the lift and saw she was only one-third of the way to her transport. Her knees ached, but not from the strain of exercise. Most likely the pain was from standing, her body poised in a tense way as she gawked out the window misremembering her purpose for being here. She knelt, moved her bag against the wall of the lift and sat on the luggage with her back against the wall. Through the steel construct she could feel the gentle climb and the rustling of gears grinding upon each other. It was a slow ascent, the lull of it comforting despite the terrifying heights she would reach. The air was thinner here, but she was adaptable. She felt the drowsiness coming over her like a warm blanket. With nothing better to occupy her time, she slept.
The jarring of the lift stopping stirred Anki awake. She didn’t know how long she had been sleeping, but the stiffness in her neck led her to believe it had been a decent amount of time. She stood up and grabbed her bag from the floor of the lift, slipping her arms through the shoulder straps and groaning under the weight. She took a look out the umbilical’s window and was met with relative darkness. The only light to be seen was from the other umbilicals and the transports tethered to them. Flashing anti-collision lights beamed a blinding white light and she turned away from it, blinking to overcome the temporary blindness. The airlock to the lift opened with a chime and she saw the transport awaiting her. It was a single-person transport, also used for evacuations when the crews needed to abandon ship. This was her first time seeing one up close, though.
Anki stepped into the transport, hunching over due to the low ceiling of the airlock, and strapped her bag behind the pilot’s seat. The cockpit glowed in a yellowish light, bright enough to make things out, but dull enough to not be overbearing. Once the bag was strapped down, Anki took her seat in the transport and strapped herself in. two shoulder straps joined together with lap-belts to hold her to the seat. The controls were fairly simple, but there was sign that read, “Emergency Controls Only: This ship is rigged with an auto-pilot feature which will fly occupants to designated locations. There is no need for pilot intervention unless in a state of emergency. Please do not touch the controls except in an emergency situation. Thank you.”
The sign is a little impersonal, Anki thought with a smile. She could only imagine how many would-be pilots had commandeered the small transports and attempted to fly them out into the dark. She doubted the flying part was all that hard, but landing on another ship under thrust was probably tricky. She decided to keep her hands to herself for the duration of the flight. She didn’t think enough of her piloting skills to want to test fate any more than she had to.
A voice prompt filled the cockpit, startling her. “Please state your name,” an electronic voice said.
“Anki Paro, marine combatant, Luthian Navy,” she answered.
“Acknowledged, Anki Paro, please ensure you are strapped in and your helmet is secured firmly in place. To confirm you are ready for launch, please depress the confirmation switch on the upper right-hand console.”
Anki turned to see the helmet placed on the left console and grabbed it. The hard white plastic enveloped her head and face and was augmented by a cold gel that formed around her where the helmet did not touch. If not for the nose piece, with hoses connected to the bulkhead for air, she might have felt like she was drowning. She reached for the confirmation switch and pressed it, noticing an immediate dimming of the console lighting when she released it. Her first instinct was to be concerned, but she realized the console lighting was unnecessary power loss if she wasn’t piloting the vessel. The helmet did much to drown out sound, but she could still hear the rumble of the engine through the clattering of the metal hull. The vibration caused by thrust chimed like a musical note, driving her forward; or at least relative to that direction. In a matter of moments the sound went away and all she noticed was the low vibration of the ship as it hurtled through the darkness. Experiencing flight in outer orbit was something she had never imagined. She knew that sound didn’t carry in vacuum and that the only reason she was breathing now was the helmet forcing breathable air into her nostrils.
What once felt like thrust was a quiet sway as the vessel seized its way towards the Seratora. Anki rested her eyes, letting the dim lighting remind her of night. Luthia was behind her; or below her depending on how she perceived it. She was off world, out in the dark abyss, in a place she never imagined she would be. She felt like an alien visiting an otherworldly sea, the depths rich with the things the Luthian cloudscape obscured from ground level. The dark was beautiful, the Luthians moons bouncing back the light of a near-absent star. It helped her understand why the light was in hiding this time of year, the star perched behind a gas planet between it and the Luthian sky. Only a sliver of it was noticeable from where she was oriented and with each moment that sliver grew smaller, the gas planet, Balceo growing larger, darker as the transport burned towards Seratora. She had a few hours of flight before the transport mated with the Seratora. With nothing else, but the dread of dying to occupy her mind she decided to sleep. With sleep came peace and with peace came the distraction from the horrible things her mind could conjure up.
A warning alarm sounded somewhere between normal sleep and momentary wakefulness. It was a buzzing in her ear; or helmet, she was too disoriented to tell at first, but it caused her to stir and then wake up. The console was illuminated, and the sound of static accompanied the buzzing noise in her helmet. Anki sat up, the cool movement of oxygen in the helmet helping her to be cognizant of what was happening. On the monitor was a large dark mass, the Seratora. It appeared to be sitting still, stoic in the darkness, but the instruments read that the ship was burning hard, faster than any vessel Anki had ever laid eyes on.
For a moment the static and buzzing went away. There was absolute quiet followed by a transmission. It was a woman’s voice speaking in Anki’s ear, but it had the cadence of a recorded message. “Marine Combatant Anki Paro, Luthian Navy, this is LNS Seratora. Your transport has entered our vicinity with a request to dock. I have approved your request and am sending instructions
to your auto-pilot now. There is no need to do anything. The transport’s programming will maneuver you as needed. The Seratora and her crew look forward to accommodating you. Welcome aboard.”
The transport shifted, the view of the massive ship changing abruptly, but Anki only felt the sensation due to the swift movement of the monitor. If she had closed her eyes, chances were she wouldn’t have felt the disorienting effects of the maneuver. The monitor shifted again, this time the feed came from a different camera from the top of the transport she suspected. It looked as if the Seratora was drifting closer to her, descending on her transport like a leaf falling to the ground, but she knew it had to be the other way around. The transport was drawing closer to the massive ship, waiting to mate airlock to airlock. Then she would be home, or whatever you called it when you lived somewhere else for a semi-permanent temporary portion of your life. The screen went black and the transport shuddered, the rattling of the hull was strong enough Anki could feel it in her teeth. Her helmet deflated and she realized how uncomfortable she had been the whole time now that she could freely move her jaw. Dead silence followed, then every light on the transport illuminated.
The airlock opened as the vacuum pressure was relieved. Suddenly she felt all of her senses, as tangible as they had been on Luthia. There was no greeting party on the other side of the airlock, though. Just a sign that read “Check-ins this way” with an arrow pointing left. How very low-tech, she thought, grabbing her bag and leaving the transport for the vast spaciousness of the Seratora. She was heading towards a fight with the Greshians and there was no turning back now.
Chapter 8: Brendle
Mast was an awkward thing, standing in dress uniform, perspiration moistening the nooks and crannies of your body, and the anxiety that makes so you don’t know if you want to pass out or soil your pants. Brendle felt all of it as he was led to the bridge. Ensign Ilium Gyl led the way, a gleeful pep to his step that screamed his excitement for witnessing the downfall of one of his shipmates. Some people just lived for drama, fed from it. Some were comforted by its existence. Not Brendle, he could live a lifetime and not miss an ounce of sleep if he never experienced any drama. Now, thanks to Ilium’s report, Brendle wouldn’t have much left of his lifetime to live. There was an irony to it if you took the time to over think the situation, but mostly Brendle just wanted it all to go away.
The brig was about as far from the bridge as the shipbuilders could make it. Brendle was sure it was designed to prevent a prisoner from escaping and commandeering the vessel, though it would take a lot of prisoners to overpower a crew as big as the Telran had. With more than three-thousand onboard, the Telran boasted one of the largest crews the Greshian fleet controlled. Brendle had once been ecstatic to receive orders to this command, but years adrift in the dark changed his mind. Perhaps those years changed more than that, but there was no way he was a traitor.
“Halt,” Ilium ordered. Sweat was glistening on his upper lip and Brendle didn’t know if it was from the heat of the uniform or the long walk from the aft section of the ship where the brig was located. Ilium turned to look at his men standing behind the prisoner. “Guard him while I check and see if Captain Elastra is ready,” Ilium ordered. The man pivoted stiffly and marched towards the hatch leading into the bridge, leaving Brendle alone with men who thought him to be a traitor. He wondered if they recognized that trait in their leader walking through the hatch, a smug look of superiority on his face.
Brendle wasn’t bound, but he didn’t need to be. The weapons trained on him were enough of a tether to keep him in line. He also knew that if he tried to run he would end up a splatter against the cold steel bulkhead. At least he would be a well-dressed splatter, Brendle thought as he looked down at his uniform, the crisp red fabric adorned with medals depicting the achievements he’d made in his short career. They meant nothing now. A promising career cut short by a misunderstanding that he was taking the fall for with his life. After this day it didn’t matter if they gave him a chance at life by not tossing him out into the dark. The future was already marred by how history would remember him, the traitor. For all intents and purposes he supposed he was a traitor, at least to his family. He betrayed the legacy of the elders who served Greshia by never buying into the idea of empirical governance. It was a mistake too late to rectify.
Ilium returned, pulling Brendle from his thoughts. The man stepped close to whisper. “The captain is prepared to receive you. I will give the order to enter followed by a secondary command to report. You will salute and state your business. My men will be posted behind you, so don’t get any funny ideas. Do you understand?”
Brendle nodded his head, a precursor to answering before he swallowed down the nervousness that threatened to make his voice squeak. “Yes, I understand.”
“Very well,” Ilium said, returning to the bridge and disappearing behind the hatch. A moment later he shouted the order. “Ensign Brendle Quin, post.”
Brendle took a deep breath and marched into the bridge. He started on his left foot, keeping the swing of his arms as neutral as possible, the act of marching in a military manner was so engrained in him that it was damn near autonomous. The bridge was well lit, the polished deck reflecting the bright, white lights to the point they were almost blinding. Captain Elastra was standing behind a dark-stained lectern. He was wearing the underway uniform, not bothering to dress for the occasion. Brendle wasn’t surprised, though. The captain had more things to worry about than deciding what uniform to wear for a mast. Besides, Brendle was the one being charged, the captain could wear his underwear and still be right according to regulations.
“Report,” Ilium ordered as Brendle came to a stop at Captain Elastra’s podium.
With a sharp salute Brendle said, “Ensign Brendle Quin, Combat Control Officer of the Telran, reporting as ordered.” He held the salute, waiting for the next command.
“Ready, two,” Ilium said, the order meant for Brendle to drop the salute not reciprocated by the captain. A traitor deserved no military courtesy.
Brendle’s right hand fell to his side and the bridge was filled with silence. All around the bridge were other officers, leaders of their departments throughout the ship. Their eyes watched Brendle, boring holes into him with their gazes. Captain Elastra just stared stoically, the tufts of gray hair brushed behind his ears, the cold hard gaze of emerald eyes seeming to glow with unhindered rage. Brendle wasn’t standing before the old man for a good reason, but the impact of seeing the fury in his captain’s eyes made him feel weak in the knees, the anxiety building like a pressure ballooning inside of his chest. This day wasn’t shaping up in any way like he thought it would. Fear was soaking through his uniform, radiating like a thousand stars.
A long silence followed and Brendle felt every inch of his body begin to trickle with sweat. He realized he was holding his breath and fought to maintain composure as he inhaled deeply. “Shipmates, we are here today to prosecute one of our own. Ensign Quin, Combat Control Officer, has been a member of our family onboard the Telran for almost two cycles. Despite his pay grade, his tenure here has made him one of the most senior officers on this ship. For almost two cycles he has held our lives in his hands. Hands, I might add, that belonged to a man who did not wish to conform to the standards of ethics everyone in this room swore to uphold when they were commissioned in our military.
“Ensign Quin spit on the oath he took to serve Greshia honorably. Ensign Quin took it upon himself to send a message back to Greshia rebuking our cause. War is not for the faint of heart, nor is upholding an oath you swore to uphold with your life. For that reason, Ensign Quin has agreed to confess his guilt in exchange for his life. He has revealed in the form of a written statement his discontent with Greshian policies. He has revealed his disdain for the murderous acts of our society that are in place to protect Greshia from the growing conflict of intergalactic traveling and the sure destruction that would befall our world if we were not to act. He thinks us animals becau
se we dare to stand against civilizations who would defy our way of life. Yes, he has admitted his guilt of treason in exchange for his pitiful existence and it is the coward’s way out. I have no respect for a man unwilling to face his mistakes and own up to the punishment due him. But I am a man of honor. I will uphold my end of the obligation. No harm will come to this young man whose unwillingness to conform to our mission has made him a weak link in our chain of command. No harm will be brought to him because to do so might make him a martyr for his ungodly cause. A traitor is not a man and Ensign Brendle Quin is not a man in my eyes.”
Somehow, standing before Captain Elastra, knowing that his world was about to come crashing down, Brendle was in a state that resembled peace. A better word for it would probably be shock, but he wasn’t aware of that. Everything seemed to move slowly, as if he were dreaming he was running through sand. It only made sense to him and he had to remember to close his mouth when he realized his tongue was rubbing against dry teeth. If the worst day of his life had a soundtrack it would be the muted thud of his heart beating rapidly, filtered through the congested ears of a hyperactive imagination. He wasn’t at peace at all. The resemblance was just a facet of his mind mulling over the news of his imminent death and trying to come to terms with it in a way that didn’t make him shut down. If it were up to him, he would have preferred the mental breakdown over whatever this was. Still, he was cognizant of the fact that the words Captain Elastra used to quote him were dead wrong. They were a fabrication, but he couldn’t find the strength to speak up about it. Instead, he stood there and took the punishment, the marring of who he once was to his shipmates on the Telran. There was no coming back from this so he just rode the experience to its bitter conclusion.