Also, it was too soon. No rousing speech from me or anyone else could lift morale aboard our two ships. It was too soon after we lost most of our crew in the incident we were calling Armageddon.
Correction: I lost most of the crew. Me. The commander. It happened on my watch. Ultimately, all those deaths were my responsibility.
So, when the muted cheers died down and people looked at each other, silently asking themselves ‘WTF do we do now?’, I excused myself from the bridge. Physically, I was going to the galley to get coffee. Really, I needed to be alone.
Reed followed me out of the bridge, waving for someone else to take over as duty officer. As we were waiting for the Dutchman’s jump drive capacitors to recharge, the Valkyrie wasn’t going anywhere, and there wasn’t much for a duty officer to do. “Sir?” She called me. “Do you have a moment?”
“Sure, Fireball,” I tilted my head to let her know I used her callsign affectionately. “Before you ask for permission to speak freely, the answer is yes. Always speak freely. Consider that a standing order.” Then I had an unpleasant thought. “Uh, unless you’re testifying to a Congressional committee.”
It was her turn to tilt her head. “Colonel, if I am testifying to Congress, again, I will stick to the written remarks the Air Force approves for me.”
We were all sick of being questioned by the military, by White House advisors, by Congress, by the UN, and by anyone else who felt they needed to express their outrage and concern. The questioning after we returned from our renegade mission was annoying, but considering that I had just delivered the wholly unexpected news that Earth was safe for several hundred years, it was not overly unfriendly. The investigations after the President authorized a nuclear strike against Dayton Ohio were mixed. Some of the investigators were pissed that Earth was, in fact, not safe, and blamed me for some reason. But, to my surprise, the majority of the questioning about the Dayton Incident had been very friendly to all the Merry Band of Pirates. Part of the friendly reception was because my new sort-of friend Brock Steele had used his connections to put in a good word for me and my crew, so I owed him for that. “That’s good advice. What is it?”
“Sir, that was a good speech. About no more sneaking around, and kicking ass out here.”
The way she spoke, she wasn’t giving me a compliment. “Uh, thank you?”
“Like I said, good speech. Is there a plan, Sir?”
“Well,” my mouth twisted the way it did when my mother caught me in a lie.
“Flying around the galaxy, randomly blowing up shit, is not a plan.”
Crap. Maybe my officers felt too free to speak. Dammit, I am a colonel, even the Army acknowledges that now, and-
No. That was bullshit. I needed to hear the truth, whether I liked it or not. “Agreed,” I responded. “Go on.”
“Colonel, you’re not the only Pirate who is sick of sneaking around out here. I would love to take the fight to the Maxolhx directly, but the timing isn’t right. That battlegroup we trapped outside the galaxy wasn’t due to return for just under fifteen months,” she quoted the number Skippy had pulled from the battlegroup’s orders. That fifteen months included traveling to the Earth end of Gateway, spending several months investigating the behavior of that wormhole, and the return flight. Plus swinging past Earth on the return flight, to check on the status of our unimportant little world. “That gives us fifteen months, possibly longer, before the kitties declare the battlegroup overdue. Fifteen months to do something useful, whatever that is. But if we stir things up out here, and the kitties realize humans have one of their ships, they could send another battlegroup, or a whole lot more than a battlegroup, a lot sooner.”
“I hear you, Reed.”
“I hope so, Sir. If you have a plan, do you mind sharing it?” She knew that all too often, I kept plans secret between me and Skippy, until I was forced to include other people.
“Reed, when I said ‘Kick some ass’, I was expressing a sentiment, not a plan. However we hit the Maxolhx, or,” I waved a hand vaguely in what I realized too late was not a confidence-inspiring gesture. “Whoever we hit, we will do it in a way that helps Earth’s prospects for survival. And yeah, I know that having this badass warship,” I rapped my knuckles on a bulkhead, “comes with a strong temptation to use it, whether that is a good strategy or not.”
“You are also aware that you are feeling pissed off, and guilty, about the people we lost?”
I stared at her. It was almost a glare, except I couldn’t be angry when she was trying to help. Trying to do her job, a job she didn’t want. “Psychoanalyzing your captain, Reed?”
“Doing my job, Sir,” she wasn’t giving an inch. In fact, she leaned forward slightly. “I am your executive officer for the moment, plus the chief pilot. The emotional state of our commander is my concern, if it affects your judgment.”
“Don’t worry, Reed. I’m not going to take us into combat just because I want revenge for the,” I choked up and needed to turn away and swallow. “The people we lost. Or because I’m feeling guilty.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes,” I bobbed my chin up and down deliberately. “Because if I did, Gunny Adams would be disappointed in me.”
Reed’s eyebrows lifted slightly. She didn’t need to say anything about me and our gunnery sergeant. “What are your orders, Colonel?”
“Soon as Nagatha finishes topping off the Dutchman’s capacitors, we’re going back to Avalon.”
“Avalon?” Her eyebrows shot up more than slightly that time.
“We need more pilots, and to replenish the STAR team. Plus, we need food and other supplies.” In case our return to a beta site was delayed, the UN had wisely provided nearly two years of food for the survey team. Since we couldn’t go back to Earth, Avalon was the only place we could replenish our dwindling stock of consumables. “Chang will be taking the Dutchman as captain, I’ll bring Simms aboard Valkyrie as my XO, so you won’t have to wear two hats for much longer.”
“We didn’t leave any STARs on Avalon,” she reminded me. “Most of the pilots we left there aren’t checked out to fly anything other than V-22s and Kristang dropships.”
“Training up the pilots will be your job, Reed,” I stated, provoking an entirely understandable groan from her. “The other military personnel,” I shrugged. “If they can hold a rifle, Kapoor can work with them. He’ll probably recycle most of them,” I meant that most of the new people would fail to meet the exacting standards of the STAR team. “But we won’t lose anything by trying.” It occurred to me that I needed to speak with Kapoor. With our personnel shortage so critical, he might need to consider relaxing his standards, to fill billets. Or maybe we could create two tiers for combat personnel, cavalry and STARs. Not every soldier needed to be, or could be, qualified as a special operator.
Shit. Our situation was bad, and getting worse. Without a full complement of pilots and special operations troops, our options for hitting the Maxolhx were limited to whatever the mighty Valkyrie could do on her own. I did not like that.
Part of the reason I did not like the idea of taking Valkyrie into combat alone was simple numbers; one ship against a Maxolhx fleet that could bring in reinforcements quickly. The kitties could also rely on relatively short supply lines and multiple ship-servicing facilities. Our supply line for most consumable items stretched all the way back to Earth, which was still cut off to us, due to the blockade of the Gateway wormhole. If we needed spare parts, or to repair major damage to the ship, we had to make do with what we had. Valkyrie was constructed from multiple ships, and after Skippy snapped the Lego pieces together, we had plenty of pieces left over, pieces that were now attached to the Flying Dutchman. I should call that old star carrier the Flying Dutchman Four Point Oh, because Skippy’s Miracle Garage had significantly modified it again. Version Three, after he slapped it together in the Roach Motel, had been short compared to a typical star carrier. Version Four had a spine about half the length of the Ver
sion Two he built at Newark, but the spine was much thicker and did not have docking platforms. Instead, the new spine was covered with leftover pieces of Maxolhx warships. Most of the aft section we found in the Roach Motel junkyard was gone, replaced by reactors and jump drives from Maxolhx ships. Dutchman Version Four also had upgraded weapons, shield and stealth field projectors, and new sensors. Underneath all that cool new stuff, the Dutchman was still a comparatively old and crude Thuranin star carrier, so we would not be taking our faithful old ship into combat against the Maxolhx. She would be a supply ship, to support combat missions conducted by Valkyrie.
Except, at that point we could not actually take Valkyrie into battle.
I could explain why, but it is better if I tell you what happened.
That night, I woke up with-
First, have you ever had a dream where you are falling, like off a building or a cliff? Somewhere I read that everyone wakes up from a falling dream before they hit the ground, because otherwise, they would be dead. I don’t know if a dream can be so powerful it can kill you. It makes more sense to me that a falling dream always ends before you hit the ground, because the sensation of falling jerks me awake immediately, before I have time to fall more than a couple feet.
Or, have you ever just been falling asleep, and in your semi-dream state, you step off a curb? For me, that makes my legs move with a jolt in real life, that wakes me up also. That is annoying; just as I am blissfully slipping into much-needed sleep, my stupid dreamworld self has to step off a curb.
My dream self is a jerk.
Anyway, that night, I woke up in my bed with the sheet tangled around my neck. What happened is I must have turned over and gotten one part of the sheet trapped under me. When I was a little kid, something like that happened more than once, because of our dog. In the winter, he liked to sleep on my bed, snuggled up against me. It was nice to have a warm companion on a freezing cold night, except when he got up, turned around and flopped down half on top of me, or took up part of my pillow. When he did that, I couldn’t turn over without tugging the sheet too tight around my neck, so I would have to get half out of bed, shove him out of the way, and hope I could get back to sleep.
That was a pain in the neck, literally.
Man, I loved that dog.
That night aboard Valkyrie, my groggy brain informed me that I was not in my old bedroom at my parents’ house, and there was no dog aboard our mighty battlecruiser.
And the sheet was really tight around my neck.
Really tight.
I couldn’t breathe.
Instinctively, I tried to shout for help and reach up with both hands to claw the sheet away from my neck, but only the faintest sound came from my mouth. My hands got a grip on the sheets to either side, which did nothing to relieve the crushing pressure on my throat. With blood pounding in my ears, I flailed on the bed. The sheet was tight around my neck and getting tighter, it was also cold-
Oh shit.
Even in my oxygen-deprived state, I understood what was happening.
The ginormous, California-king-sized bed I had inherited from the ship’s previous captain, did not have anything like a comforter or bedspread. Only a light sheet was needed to sleep under. That sheet was self-cleaning to a certain extent, plus its smart nanofibers sensed the body temperature of each person lying under it, and adjusted its temperature up or down for comfort. The sheet could keep your feet warm and your torso cool, and it learned your preferences over time. Like I said, it was smart. Not smart like Skippy, but for a bedsheet, it was genius-level.
That damned sheet was too smart.
In addition to heating, cooling and removing stains from itself, the sheet had a limited ability to alter its shape. That feature, according to Skippy, was designed to avoid interfering with anyone who used the bed. How can I say this delicately? If the occupants of the bed are engaged in, let’s call it ‘gymnastics’, and one or more of them got their feet tangled in the sheet, it could be distracting. The sheet had the ability to sense, and even anticipate, when it might interfere, and alter its shape to slip away from entangled appendages.
Now, that shape-altering feature was killing me.
The ship’s original AI must have hacked into the sheet’s controls, and wrapped it around my neck while I slept. How tightly those nanofibers could squeeze and for how long, I couldn’t guess. Again, I tried to tear the noose free from my neck, but it was like iron. Calling for help was of no use since I couldn’t make a sound-
My zPhone.
It was on the table next to the bed. With my right hand, as I felt my consciousness fading, I reached out for the credit-card sized phone. My fingers were numb, maybe I touched it. Yes, there it was under my fingers. It slid toward me-
And it fell to the floor.
That’s the last thing I remember.
In her own cabin, forward of the captain’s and one deck above, Katie Frey had just fallen asleep. She was not rudely jerked back to reality by stepping off an imaginary curb. She was roused by the sensation of a sheet smoothly sliding across her neck.
It felt like someone else occupying her bed had gotten up, or rolled over in their sleep, and tugged the sheet with them.
That was annoying.
She used to have a boyfriend who hogged the sheets while sleeping, to the point where she would awaken in the middle of a Canadian winter night, shivering from not having any covering over her.
That had been only one of many good reasons for dumping that guy.
Not wanting to disturb the pleasant buzz of oncoming sleep, she tugged the sheet back to loosen it, and-
And it suddenly tightened around her neck.
That woke her up fully.
“Li-” Was the only sound escaping from her lips when she tried to turn the cabin lights on. No sound emerged when she tried to call Skippy for help.
The sheet had doubled, tripled, quadrupled over itself, forming a thick rope like iron. Her fingers could not get between the sheet and her neck.
Screw that, she told herself.
Reaching under her pillow, her left hand closed around the knife she kept there. With her thumb, she flicked the sheath away, and lifted the razor-sharp weapon up, tearing through the single ply of sheet on that side. The knife’s edge was sharp as a razor because she had just honed it the day before. She honed it regularly because a dull knife was useless, and because, well, that is just the way STAR team operators did things. If you had a weapon, it needed to be properly maintained, ready and available for use. That was why she kept it under her pillow, where it was close at hand.
She cursed herself for leaving her zPhone on the desk across the cabin. The wake-up alarm was set on her phone, and she did not want it close to the bed, lest she be tempted to turn off the alarm and go back to sleep. She had learned that part of self-discipline was not allowing yourself the opportunity to slack off.
The sheet must have sensed what she planned to do with the knife, for another section attempted to wrap around her right hand. With her left, she gripped the sheet and ripped it away with all of her strength, freeing the knife for use.
Knowing she had to act before she lost consciousness, and that her exertions were using up what little oxygen her brain had, she got the knife’s blade dangerously close to her neck and began sawing away. The sheet resisted her as the nanofibers parted under the intense pressure of the razor-sharp blade, a pressure the sheet was not designed to handle. Suddenly, the tangled fibers under the blade let loose and the knife jerked upward, slicing Frey’s cheek. Numbly, she felt little pain, and a dim sensation of hot wet blood flowing onto her neck.
The sheet, momentarily escaping the knife’s assault, adjusted itself and tightened again around her neck. Katie Frey was not going for any of that shit. Now knowing how to attack the problem, she sawed downward, risking the knife slipping and slicing into her left shoulder, an injury she could deal with. The sheet twisted as the knife severed the fibers, cutting through layer by layer unti
l it tore and the knife’s tip stabbed into her left bicep.
Wasting no time, she rolled off the bed, gasping for breath. There was a manual button for cabin lights, a button she could not find in the utter darkness. “L-lights,” she choked out, and nothing happened.
The sheet, searching for her, tentatively caressed her right leg. “Ski- Skippy!” She coughed, stabbing downward with the knife and slicing off a piece of killer sheet.
“Captain Frey,” the AI’s tone was mildly irritated. “I am kind of busy right now. Besides, you are supposed to be sleeping. If you want a bedtime story-”
“I want,” the act of talking with her bruised throat made her double over, and she swept the knife around to keep the unseen sheet at bay. “You to, stop, being,” she couched, unable to speak. Catching her breath, she shouted “USELESS!”
“What?” He screeched, astounded and hurt. “Why- Oh, holy SHIT!”
The next thing I remember was being shaken side to side and opening my bleary eyes to see two scary-looking maintenance bots hovering over me. There would have been an instinctive, impressive scream echoing around the cabin, except I couldn’t talk. The terror was instinctive because the bots’ legs looked like spiders, and their manipulator arms were creepy tentacles, thus hitting two deep biological fears of the human brain.
Valkyrie (Expeditionary Force Book 9) Page 2