by J. F. Holmes
McHale walked over and sat down, looking exhausted from almost getting spaced by his rookie student. She looked at him with a smile, and kicked her feet off of the desk. “Nice landing, Ghostrider. I like to leave my gear up and tear off all of the FTL antennas too.”
“Kiss my ass, Jumper,” McHale snagged the cigar out of her hand and took a long drag, getting up and walking around behind her. He squatted down behind her chair as she continued to scroll down the schematic she had on her tablet and whispered in her ear. “It's not like I haven't seen you drag your bare ass across the floor a time or two.”
She gave a sinister smirk that reflected off her tablet and, not looking up from her screen snatched the cigar back out of her commander’s mouth. She took a deep drag, turned and exhaled it into Alex's ear softly saying “Pozzhe,” then looked at him with cocky eyes and returned back to her studying.
Alex stood up, walked over to his locker, and opened it. The door had pictures of his Talon fighter jock days, war photos, busty pin ups and a pair of dog tags hanging from the inside that had only one word on them, “Jackal”. He looked up at the mirror next to the tags and turned around as someone coughed behind him.
“That packet boat is almost ready to go,” said Captain Meric, referring to the small, three-person boat, grav tethered to the Lex. “Get out of that flight gear, Alex; I need you and Chief Sparks up on the bridge in fifteen minutes.”
Meric walked away, passing Zlatcov at her desk. “Ensign, quit smoking while they’re servicing the Oxygen on the shuttle. Are you trying to kill us all…again?”
She gave McHale the “What the F is he talking about?” look and then looked over toward the bay. Recruit Cahr was fighting with an O2 hose that had broken loose during a nonscheduled service. It was whipping him in the face, venting high pressure oxygen everywhere. She slapped her palm on her face, got up lazily, picked up a spanner wrench and threw it at Cahr, yelling all sorts of obscenities. The non-ferrous wrench clanging down the hangar floor, the loud cursing and yelling, all blurred out of McHale's vision and hearing. He was staring intently into the picture of ten guys in sunglasses standing in front of a Firehawk on a far, far away world, under a different sun. Hanging up his sweat soaked flight gear in an almost ritualistic manner, McHale slapped the picture of all his buddies and slammed it shut.
Chapter 7
“And translating in three, two, one…MARK.” The navigator kept his hand on the manual override of the FTL engines, in case the computer failed to bring them out of nullSpace. The darkness outside dropped away to reveal a field of stars, with a brightly burning one centered on the screen.
“Give me a fix, Asote,” said Captain Meric.
“It’ll be a few minutes, Sir.” He watched the readouts, checking the redshift on known pulsars, letting the computer scan their pulse rate. Grunting in satisfaction, he turned back to face Meric.
“About two AUs out from Saint Martin, slightly above the system plane.” Meric did a quick calculation in his head. The ship was well outside the gravity well / jump distortion from Saint Martin’s M class star. The colonial capital itself was almost directly in line with their entrance. Their jump signature would probably be noticed, but not for another, say, sixteen minutes. Sixteen minutes for a radar pulse to reach out for them. Sixteen minutes for it to get back to point of origin. That gave them almost an hour to shift course and hide in the vastness of space. Once again, he was thankful for his ship’s ability to turn into a black hole.
“Ensign Box, give me a rundown on stealth.” The alien let out a sigh of exasperation and unfolded off the wall, where he’d been watching his systems. His true name was unpronounceable, and his form had evolved to cling to the crystalline structures of his homeworld, giving him a flat, angular appearance. Hence the name “Box”. A flat limb unfolded and ran across the screen, then touched the translator embedded over his thorax. Buckley’s annoying whine came out.
“Captain, Doppler Radar deflection (Passive) is integral. Laser Scatter (Passive) is degraded ten percent due to dust accumulation at the Graveyard. Gravity Masker (Active) is currently at one hundred percent, pending engine power fluctuation. Infrared masker functional, not active.”
The IR masker operated on a heat pump system that ran through the skin of the ship, and shifted and dumped heat off the side of the ship oriented away from any threat vector. The penalty was that the heat, usually excess bleed from the engines into the ship’s structure, sometimes built up faster than the system could shift it. Right now, coasting in to Saint Martin, there wasn’t any need, and the Captain decided to hold off on more active measures. “Sounds good. Alex, status of the packet?”
McHale listened to his comset as Lt. O’Neill checked in. The small ship had been following them in nullSpace, jumping as they jumped and winding up close by.
“We’re five by five, bossman. I’m gonna ride this baby right up that Frenchie’s keister.”
McHale laughed and radioed back “Just remember, you’re there because you’re the Senior pilot, not because you’re expendable.”
“I’ll come back and haunt your ass. Banshee out.”
The packet lit off its engines, accelerating at a steady two gravities, quickly running away from the Lex, heading in system. The privateer fired thrusters to head off on a slightly divergent course and ran up its own engines, accelerating more slowly. The Lady Lex could pull some serious speed when it needed to, but her main strength lay in stealth.
On the packet, Jenny “Banshee” O’Neill sat and watched a movie on the ship’s system. The small starship wasn’t big enough to have an AI with any kind of personality, but the French Diplomats were used to travelling in style. There were thousands of vids in the database. She brought up “The Seven Samurai” and nuked some popcorn.
“Gonna be a shame to waste this pretty little boat,” she said to no one, and glanced around at the furnishings. Gold leaf was everywhere, and she took out a multitool and started prying off some fixtures, one of which looked to actually be solid platinum. She whistled a mindless tune while she worked, slipping pieces into the various pockets of her flight suit. Her sister Brit would love this, she thought. Then she thought of their other sister, Sandy, dead these two years from a French raid, and Jenny O’Neill scowled as she pried off more gold. In system, the Saint Martin Flight Control had picked up the accelerating ship, and quickly started broadcasting a hail in French.
«Navire non identifié, s'il vous plaît assumer vecteur d'approche de 237 degrés et la vitesse du jeu à quai à la douane,” which her ship quickly translated for her. Not that she cared.
“Suck my ass, Frenchie bastards,” muttered Jenny, and answered, “Fallo de motor… aceleración constante…fuga de radiación…” then flipped the ships identifier beacon off and on several times, letting it transmit in bursts, finally turning the transmitter off. “Let them stew on that for a while,” she thought. The ID, instead of showing the diplomatic courier signal, now broadcast a distress call from a private craft registered in Nuevo Madrid.
As she got closer, O’Neill used an optical scanner to key in on the location of the French Fleet, and had the ship’s computer determine a turn point that would give them maximum surprise, giving her a chance to get away. She tapped the course into the nav plot, aimed for maximum burn, and then sat back. Another hour till she jumped ship. The radio continued to squawk at her, and she turned it off. On the visual, a Frenchie patrol boat had departed the customs station and was steadily climbing outsystem to come to an eventual course match. Not that it would ever happen, but it would be a tough intercept. She was still accelerating at a constant four gravities, and piling on the speed.
At ten minutes out, she climbed into the hardsuit that was crammed into the airlock. It was more ship than suit; the only thing human about it was the two grappling arms that extended to either side. At about eight feet long, it resembled a bullet shaped coffin more than anything, and was usually used to for external ship repairs. At its base, Comma
nder Lynch had welded on a single use booster. The outside was covered in radar absorbent paint. Hopefully the Frenchies wouldn’t notice the much smaller object kicking out of the side of the ship.
Lying braced in the hardsuit, her pale skin covered in anticipatory sweat, Jenny counted down along with the Heads Up Display in her visor. At “THREE”, she keyed the antimatter containment shutdown the Captain had rigged. At “TWO”, the airlock door blew open, just as the ship’s thrusters started to turn it toward the main French fleet and the engines redlined. At “ONE”, a giant fist hammered her down into her restraints as the rocket motor burst into life, throwing her at ten gravities out of the side of the ship. The pilot’s body was pushed down into the bottom of the hard suit, and she felt a bone pop in her ankle, sending excruciating pain through her leg. Her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, and she grunted, trying to stay conscious.
The burn lasted a full sixty seconds, her leg shooting pain signals the whole time. “HOOOLLLLLYYYYY SSSSHHHHIIIIIITTTTTTTT!!!!!!,” she screamed for the first twenty, then passed out. Pushing her away from the courier ship even as it ran toward the fleet itself, she woke up soon after the main engine quit. Freefall grabbed her, and she felt herself wanting to throw up. Instead, Jenny flipped the HUD to a camera that faced back the way she had come.
The courier ship, only a few thousand kilometers from the fleet when it started to curve in a graceful ballistic arc toward them, was a blazing star of engines firing full thrust. Particle beams started to reach out for it, creating a dazzling light display, but the defensive systems had hesitated for a minute, informed earlier by System Flight Control that the incoming ship was an ally that had declared an emergency.
It bored into the formation, directly for the Governor’s Flagship, RFF Roi de la Lumière, keeping station between two battleships. The defensive fire came ever closer, trying to match the turn, but then shut down as the ship entered the fleet itself, automatic systems preventing friendly fire damage. The engines of the Lumière lit briefly, a split second before the courier impacted on its port side shield. The ship’s antimatter containment system let go, just as Meric had programmed it to do, and a blinding light overwhelmed Jenny’s camera, turning it pure white.
When the camera cleared, it showed the Frigate broken, front third gone, still glowing pieces impacting on the shield of the battleships on either side. As she watched, individual blinking lights started flashing, indicating where life pods were jettisoning. The main hull of the ship started careening through space, out of control engines still trying to move it.
“TAKE THAT, YOU GODAMNED PIGS!” she screamed. “THAT ONE’S FOR MY SISTER!”
Chapter 8
“And matching velocity…now.” The call from Poison was a welcome relief. The Lex had to stay passive; they couldn’t use any scanners to track O’Neill’s suit. She had lit off a beacon only a few minutes before, after coasting for more than thirteen hours.
The drop ramp whirred open, exposing the troop compartment to hard vacuum. A suited figure fired a magnetic line that tagged the hardsuit, then set the line in a winch and slowly brought it in. Repressurization took a few minutes, then the red light turned to green. Some of Knife’s assault crew cracked open the hardsuit and helped O’Neill sit up. She was pale and sweat had dried on her skin, leaving her clammy and dirty.
“That took too long. Pissed myself. And I gotta shit, really bad. Get outta my way!” She hobbled past the arms locker and slammed the door shut on the small latrine.
Knight grinned, prompting Recruit Cahr to ask, “What’s so funny?”
“Oh nothing,” said Knight, “just reminds me of my pregnant ex-wife. Always pissing herself.”
On the bridge, they readied for jump. Behind them the Saint Martin system looked like an anthill that had been kicked. The flare of ships’ drives burned like tiny sparks, creating long arcs that would sear themselves into your vision without a filter. The flagship had burned out, automatic airlocks keeping air from feeding the fires. Even as they watched through computer magnified video, the rest of the hulk slowly spiraled into the atmosphere of the planet, disappearing into the night side in a long trail of red.
“Much as I hate to say it, I hope they got most of the crew off.” Chief Sparks stood behind the commander’s chair, watching the main screen. Once the battle was over, it was over, and the survivors became almost brothers and sisters, facing the dangers of space again. Not that they would have shown any mercy to the Lex’s crew, had their roles been reversed.
“Course laid in for Miranda, Captain. It’ll be about three days travel time,” said Asote.
“Punch it.” The navigator hit the execute key on his console, and the stars moved aside into the blankness of nullSpace.
Meric got up from his chair and tapped his communicator, opening an all ship channel as he walked toward the ladder. “This is the Captain. We are secure for nullSpace running, five days to Miranda. Section chiefs’ meeting at 1700 ships time. Bring your section reports with you. That means you too, Commander Lynch. Captain out.”
He slid down the ladder, using his feet and hands to glide downward, and turned left to go to sickbay. The ship had a fully self-contained, pressurized surgical suite that took up some of their cargo room, but he’d never regretted the cost or the space. They had in been more than a few scrapes where prompt medical care had made the difference between life and death for some of his crew. The airlock cycled through, and he patiently waited for the UV microbe scan to run up and down him, then stepped in. There was a large sign that read “WATCH YOUR STEP: LOW GRAVITY”, and he shuffled as it dropped to 0.75g.
“What have you got, Doc?” he asked the white coated figure bending over a scanner.
The ship’s surgeon had come from a low gravity world, though he couldn’t remember the name of it. It had made her thin as a willow and tall, standing well over six feet. Doctor Morano looked up from her instruments and then down at her patient with an amused smile on her face. “I’ll let HER tell you.”
Lieutenant Jenny O’Neill was fuming. “I CAN fly! One broken bone does NOT stop me from it, and if you give my bird to that noob dumbass Bats, she’s going to run Knife into the side of the Lady Lex!”
“No one said anything about taking your ship from you. That’s my decision, along with Commander McHale and Doctor Morano. But I’m the only one that can beach you. Lucky for you, we have five days in nullSpace for you to heal, and then a few days at Miranda while we refit and resupply.” He turned to the Doctor. “So what’s the damage?”
“Broken right second and third metatarsals, damaged capillaries in both eyes, affecting vision. She can’t take any G forces for at least a week, or she might blow out a blood vessel, permanently damaging her eyes. The bone in her ankle needs to heal, so she’ll need to be on crutches for at least a week, prosthetic boot for two weeks after that.”
O’Neill pitched a fit. “Three WEEKS!” She hammered her fist down on the blanket covering her. Meric looked at the material stretched tightly over her naked form, then looked quickly away. NEVER SLEEP WITH CREW. NEVER SLEEP WITH CREW. NEVER SLEEP WITH CREW.
He coughed and said, “Doctors orders. You’re on limited duty while we’re in nullSpace, anyway. Frenchie and Stedham can oversee maintenance; you need to take it easy.” He ducked out of sick bay, followed by a string of curses, and stumbled when gravity returned to normal at the airlock.
The conference room was full when he got there, with each of the section chiefs sitting in chairs or standing along the wall. Meric took his place at the head of the table, and called the ship’s AI.
“Buckley, record, ship’s status meeting, nullSpace, date 238201301700.”
“Like I wasn’t going to do it anyway. I think sometimes you talk just to hear yourself talk.”
“Buckley, please keep quiet unless directly called on to answer a question or you find an obvious flaw in some plan or something.”
A burst of static and a barely audible “like that’ll be har
d,” punctuated by a click and then the speaker went silent.
“OK, Ship’s Purser has some good news. Chief Behm?”
Behm looked up from his tablet and announced, “Single payout of 232nd of a share from the Admiralty court payoff of our capture of the RF merchant ship Actuelle Océan works out to be $10,688.00.” The total pay grades for each crewmember, from Recruit at a one to the XO at an eight, were added up and a quarter of the take was divided by that total, which stood at 232 right now, from sixty-two crewmen. The math was complicated, but Behm was an expert at it, along with running the ship’s logistics.
Cheers broke out among the gathered crewmen. Commander Merrifield, who pulled in at his rank a multiple of eight, would get more than $85,000. Lt Commander Lynch knew that he stood to take in much more than that with the card games he ran in the engine room, something Chief Sparks had been trying to shut down for months now.
Meric held up his hands to quiet everyone. “I’m going to turn it over to the XO for section chief reports in a minute, but the next item on the agenda is our next target.” Merrifield brought up a holo projection of a ship over the middle of the conference table. It was hard to determine the size, but it was a beauty. Running at sublight speed, deployed antenna arrays swept out in graceful arcs from either side of the ship, giving the appearance of delicate wings.
“French Colonial Science Ship Ecouter,” said the Captain, “has been conducting research in the Wilds along a parabolic arc centered on a certain point in known space. We,” and he gestured to Asote and then pointed to himself, “figured it out, with a little assistance from Solbliatski’s intelligence sources.”