Icarus

by Stephen A. Fender

  “How did he know it was you?” Jerry whispered sideways.

  Shawn shook his head quickly. “Brunel might have told him we were coming.”

  “Need me to come in for backup?”

  Despite his frustration over his current situation, Shawn still managed a weak smile. “I can handle Krif on my own, Nova. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Lieutenant Santorum gave a nod, stepped away from the still-closed doors and departed down the corridor. When the lieutenant was nearly out of sight, Shawn turned back just in time to see the doors to Krif’s cabin part and slide into their alcoves.

  Richard was seated behind his desk and, save for his uniform shirt hanging neatly on a hook near the foot of the bed, was still fully dressed in his bridge attire, including his command ball cap. He was leaning over his computer terminal, reading something Shawn couldn’t see from his current position on the opposite side of the screen.

  “I thought you’d be curled up in the fetal position in your cabin by now. What took you so long to come up, ace?”

  “I was busy trying to figure things out around here, but everyone seems to enjoy making it as complicated as possible.”

  “A likely excuse,” Krif grunted. “You were probably eyeballing more of my female crewmembers. You’ll have to get used to it at some point, hotshot. We’ve got a fifty-fifty mix of males to females here. I expect you to keep yourself under control.”

  “Is that a request?”

  Krif momentarily averted his eyes from his screen and directed them at Shawn. “It’s an order, Lieutenant Commander Kestrel.”

  Shawn smirked. “I still think ‘Captain’ sounds better.”

  “There’s only room enough for one of those on board, and it’s me. Last I checked, your reactivation didn’t include a promotion.”

  “Well, fancy that. That’s just what I’m here to discuss: my reactivation.” Shawn said as he folded his arms in defiance.

  Krif’s eyes never left the screen. “What about it? Have you forgotten how to read your orders? I assume they were in your folder.”

  “What’s this I’m hearing about me taking over the command slot for the Rippers?”

  “It’s part and parcel with your rank, Commander.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that, due to your rank of Lieutenant Commander, and given the high marks in your service record, you’re eligible for such a position.”

  It was a contrived answer, as scripted as any Shawn had ever heard. “I highly doubt you would have cared about such things.”

  “You’re damn right about that, Kestrel.” Krif’s eyes were still scanning his computer screen. “I was perfectly content bringing you on board as an observer…maybe even an instructor for some of the junior pilots in the fighter wing.”

  “So you’re saying this came from Sector Command?”

  Krif let out a harrumph. “No, this came down from even higher.”

  “Wait. Don’t tell me. The Office of Special Investigations?”

  Krif nodded slowly. “Give that man a cigar. You’re catching on quick, ace.”

  “What about Brunel?”

  Krif rolled his eyes and finally gave Shawn his undivided attention. “Jesus, Kestrel. What about her?”

  “She’s more qualified, more experienced—”

  “All true.”

  “Then why?”

  Krif sighed heavily, turned off his computer and pivoted in his chair to face Shawn. “You remember Franklin Brody?”

  The image of Shawn’s former wing mate instantly popped into his mind. During the war, Brody and Shawn had become almost inseparable. They practically flew every mission together, and when the duo was joined with William Graves, they formed a trio that had the best kill ratio on the Fahrenwald. Shawn hadn’t heard much of Brody since the war had officially ended, knowing only that he had been promoted to Lieutenant Commander shortly after the ceasefire had been called with the Kafarans.

  “Yeah, of course I do.”

  “Well, Commander Brody was the CO of the Rippers up until a month ago. Brunel was his executive officer.”

  “Brody’s here on the Rhea?” Finally, Shawn thought excitedly, someone I can talk to and get a straight answer from. I can’t wait to hear what he’s been up to.

  “He was.”

  “Was? Where did he transfer to?”

  Krif leveled his eyes at Kestrel. “Tagus Sector.”

  “Tagus sector?” Shawn replied in confusion. “There’s nothing out there.”

  “Wrong. Somewhere out there is Commander Franklin Brody.”

  “Lost?” Shawn’s jubilation instantly turned sour.

  Krif shook his head. “No. Dead.”

  “What happened?”

  “His patrol wing radioed in that they’d seen something…something they were unable to identify. It was big, it was fast, and it was definitely not natural. He and his wingman separated from a group of six fighters, leaving Lieutenant Commander Brunel to take the rest of the squadron to a defensive position in case of trouble. Brunel’s sensor reports showed that, as soon as Brody and his wingman were within a thousand kilometers of the unidentified target, they were instantly vaporized.”

  “What did Brunel do?”

  Krif shrugged. “What she was trained to do. She brought her squadron, as well as all the sensor data on the intruder, back to the Rhea. We immediately changed course to intercept the target, but by the time we got there, it was gone.”

  “And you didn’t recover the ship’s recorder box from either Brody or his wingman?”

  “As I said, they were both instantly vaporized. We found some debris, but nothing larger than a mouse turd.”

  “And no trace of the unidentified target?”

  “Not even an ion trail. And, insofar as we know, no species—Kafaran or otherwise—has anything that can completely hide an ion trail.”

  “What happened next?”

  Krif withdrew a cup from his desk and poured tea for himself before continuing. “The incident was logged, a funeral for Brody and his wingman was performed on the hangar deck the following day, and Brunel was given the job as acting Commanding Officer of the Rippers. Life went on.”

  “So I still don’t get why I’m being asked to—”

  “It’s not a request, Kestrel. You’re being ordered to assume command of the squadron, not asked if you fancy the idea.” Krif took a sip of the tea, made a sour expression and then set the cup down. “It probably has something to do with the fact that you taught Brody virtually everything he knew about being a pilot; what he became was a direct result of your friendship and mentoring…with a few exceptions.”

  “Meaning?”

  Krif exhaled slowly. “You see, there’s a fundamental difference between you and Brody: I liked him. He was a good pilot, a good officer, and a good commander. You might be able to fill his position by rank—possibly by your skills in the cockpit as well—but I don’t think you’re a particularly good officer. However, Sector Command made sure this whole thing was going to happen, and it now seems you and I are both stuck with it for the duration, so we’d better get used to it.”

  “You give the orders and I follow them; is that how it’s going to go?”

  Krif nodded sharply. “That’s how it’s going to go. If you don’t like it, I don’t care. You signed on for this voluntarily. Keep that in mind if—and when—the shit hits the fan.”

  “Anything else?” Shawn asked, rolling his eyes and deciding not to press the captain any further on the matter.

  “Your assignment is to command the Rippers. Lean on Brunel if you need to, but not too heavily. She’s a young Lieutenant Commander with a good head on her shoulders, but she’s still green when it comes to command. You’ll also have to maintain minimal flight hours, which means you’ll need a ship. But before you even set foot in one of those, I’ve already taken the liberty of assigning you to simulator training. That should get you up to speed on the basics. You won’t
need to know more than that.”

  “I’m sure you’re wrong.”

  “I’m quite certain I’m not,” Krif replied matter-of-factly.

  “What if I’m out there and I get into trouble?”

  “First off, you won’t be out there all that often. Secondly, as soon as Brody was killed, Sector Command initiated a new policy: no commanding officers can detach from their assigned group at any time during a patrol or combat situation; that’s what the junior officers are for. Aside from the simulator, you’ll never need to learn advanced combat tactics for the new fighters. If you see trouble, meaning if you see anything remotely exciting or enticing, you’ll radio it in and let someone else take the credit.” Krif added the final words with a sneer.

  “And what about you and me?”

  “Just follow orders and generally try not to be such a pain in my ass. Do that and we will get along fine, all things considered.”

  “All things considered, Dick, I’m sure that’ll never happen.”

  “Let it go, Kestrel. It was a long time ago.”

  “Not to me, it wasn’t.”

  Krif rubbed his hands down his chin and then leaned back in his chair. “Are you still having the nightmares?” he asked in a more congenial tone. He took Shawn’s glare and silence as an affirmation. Before he could say anything more, a buzz came through the intercom mounted in the desktop. “Yes, what is it?” he asked after pressing a switch.

  “Captain, this is Commander Ashdoe,” came the stern voice of the ship’s executive officer. “Lieutenant Commander Kestrel’s presence is requested on the observation deck in forty minutes.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Krif replied before switching off the channel. He turned his attention back to Kestrel. The man looked tired, and far older than he should have. Regardless of his personal feelings toward him, no officer should be allowed to stand duty in that condition. “You eat yet?”

  Shawn, still glaring, slowly shook his head in silence.

  “My cook is one of the best in the fleet. He has this really annoying habit of making too much food, and I hate for things to go to waste. My personal dining room is right next door, and dinner should still be warm. If you feel up to it, make yourself at home. After that, report to the observation deck as requested.”

  Shawn didn’t say anything. He simply stared the captain down for one final moment before exiting the space.

  *

  Shawn put down his fork and, after taking a drink of water, instantly wished for something a little stronger. He looked around the captain’s personal dining area and found it to be immensely more comfortable than the crew’s general galley. The room was probably fifteen feet wide on each side, with a table and settings for four, and a pair of large rectangular display screens on one of the walls. Against the wall opposite the screens was a large, comfortable-looking leather couch that appeared to be new, save for a small tear that had been repaired on one of the back cushions. Beside the couch and occupying a corner of the room was a small, wooden cabinet. Opening the cabinet, Shawn found the captain’s personal liquor stockpile.

  Well, Dick did say to make myself at home, so why not?

  Shawn withdrew a tall bottle containing a blue, unnamed liquid. With no label on the bottle, Shawn knew he’d have to investigate this oddity the old-fashioned way. He swirled the liquid around the half-empty bottle, seeing with approval that it had about the same consistency as Terran whiskey. Upon uncorking the bottle, he was assaulted by the smell of something akin to a mixture of anti-freeze and liquid propellant. He smirked at the bottle and withdrew a glass from the cabinet, setting them both on the tabletop. Shawn poured himself half a glass, swirling the liquid in his cup as he remembered the last time he and Frank Brody had flown together. He looked to the view port in the starboard wall, out to the luminous points of stars as they streaked by, and further beyond, to a distant sector in the old Outer Sphere.

  Shawn held the glass up toward the window in a toast. “Here’s to you, Commander Franklin Brody. You were the best damn wingman a guy could ask for.” He downed the glass in a single gulp and, giving the view one final glance, left the captain’s wardroom in search of the observation deck.

  *

  Within minutes of leaving the wardroom, Shawn realized that he was very likely lost. He’d passed several computer terminals—not to mention crewmembers—that he could have queried as to the whereabouts of his destination, but his old determination had begun to resurface, and he’d been sure he could find the observation deck without too much trouble. After fifteen minutes of going nowhere, he looked at his watch and saw he would be late for his appointment if he didn’t get his bearings straight. Why do they have to make every one of these damn corridors look so similar? When another crewman approached him, a rather plain-looking fellow—save for his single, unblinking eye—Shawn inquired as to the location of his destination.

  “You got me, sir. I’ve never laid my eye on it. If you’re lost, I’d suggest trying one of the computer terminals.” And with that, the young man was on his way, whistling an obscure tune Shawn couldn’t place.

  “I doubt that,” Shawn muttered under his breath when the ensign was out of earshot, deciding that cursing the officer’s ignorance was beneath him. He turned a corridor and came upon a computer terminal, its display screen cycling with images of planets and nebulas the Rhea had visited in the last six months. Shawn watched the slide show for a moment before an image of Minos came up, its crystal clear waters and tropical breezes beckoning him to leap into the screen and get back to his old life as a humble trade merchant. He laughed at the current impossibility of the daydream and pressed his identity card on a flat panel on the terminal’s side.

  “Ready for query,” the fervent feminine voice responded.

  “Observation deck.”

  “Acknowledged. Observation deck: a large compartment on the ship that provides a nearly unobstructed view of the surrounding space. The first observation deck in space was installed on orbital research station Alpha-4, placed in First Earth orbit on date—”

  “I don’t need a history lesson, okay?”

  “Acknowledged,” it responded in almost detectable sorrow. “Stopping playback. Ready for query.”

  “Location of observation deck.”

  “The observation deck is on deck three. Ready for query.”

  “I’m on deck three.” Shawn replied.

  “Concur,” it replied cheerfully, as if Shawn had just won a prize. “You are currently on deck three, section twenty-three alpha, frame sixteen, compartment number twelve-beta. Ready for query.”

  “I know where I am! It’s written right here on the wall.”

  “Concur. Ready for query.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” he said in frustration.

  “I’m sorry. Only an authorized network technician can query the status of the ship’s computer from this terminal. Do you wish to notify an authorized network technician?” The image of a computer core superimposed over a metal wrench appeared on the screen. “Do you wish to report a malfunction on this terminal? Please respond with ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ or ‘exit’ to return to the main menu.”

  “You bet I do!”

  “Acknowledged. A request has been submitted to an authorized NAMS technician. Someone will respond shortly.” With that, the terminal screen went black and all power lights abruptly shut down.

  Perfect.

  Shawn balled his fist as he attempted to restrain himself from pushing it into the screen. Whoever had coined the term ‘artificial intelligence’ had obviously never met this particular terminal. He turned and continued down the hall, only to come to another terminal a few minutes later. Shawn took a few moments to compose a question that was sure to get him where he needed to go. He held his card to the plate and waited.

  “Ready for query.”

  “Can you please tell me how to get to the observation deck from my current location?”

  “Of course, Lieutenant Com
mander Kestrel. Please stand by.”

  A moment later a diagram appeared on the screen, showing Shawn’s current location as a blinking green dot, which connected to his destination by a flashing yellow line. The observation deck was right around the corner, no less than twenty feet away. Shawn peered his head around the corridor and saw a sign on the bulkhead with the words ‘Observation Deck: Lower Level” emblazoned on it. He could only laugh at his luck.

  “You’ve been a great help. Thanks.”

  “Acknowledged, Lieutenant Commander Kestrel. However, appreciation is not required. Per a previous user request, all computer terminals in this section are now going offline. Thank you, and have a good day.” The screen abruptly changed to an animation of a computer taking itself apart and then being rebuilt, surrounded by a band of alternating red and black stripes with the words ‘Terminal Down. Please Find Another.’ on the upper and lower portions of the screen.

  Shawn turned on his heel, and a few paces later was inside the Rhea’s obscenely large observation deck. True to the computer’s unnecessary description, the room allowed for a nearly unobstructed view of the space around the vessel. The lower deck was as much a recreational space as it was a large lounge, with two or three dozen small tables organized around a deck that sloped down gently on all sides. Surrounding the room were two parallel rows of tall windows, each perhaps six to seven feet high, separated by metal ribs that sealed the ports in place. Between the two rows, in a horseshoe shape that ringed half the room, was a balcony about six feet wide. Shawn could see tables and chairs up there as well, occupied by both on-and off-duty personnel. Overall, the space was dimly lit, allowing for an even deeper visual penetration into the streaming field of stars beyond. The brightest lights in the room came from the tabletops, some of which were lit from below, though most were turned off. At one such illuminated table on the lower deck, on the opposite site of the room, he noticed the person he hoped had been the initiator of this meeting.

  He strode confidently to her side, narrowly avoiding a waiter carrying a platter full of colorful drinks in the process. When he was within a few feet of the table, she turned her eyes from the stars and looked at him with a mild start.