by Joshua James
“Novak, accompany me to CIC,” Olsen said, and started walking. “You look like you wish to say something.”
Novak straightened her head and lowered her eyebrows, and assumed the characteristic expressionless facade that she’d only let drop for a moment. “Sir, I didn’t want to question you in front of the crew, but I’m having problems understanding your decision to release Frega. Surely he would have been better as a prisoner that we could have used for negotiations at a later date.”
Before he replied, Olsen adjusted the setting on his mag-boots and stepped into the corridor. The stale air became replaced by a warm freshness from the fan-assisted heating units. Then Olsen turned back to Novak.
“I don’t think that’s true at all,” he replied. “Given they were set to execute Frega, I don’t think he’d make a great bargaining chip. And he’d be one extra passenger to worry about while we work out how to get that spatial detonator back.”
“So why not just eject him out the escape hatch without the pod?” Novak said. “That’s what I would have done in this situation.”
“Because he didn’t deserve to die. He helped us, Novak, and Frega will serve much better as an ally than dead.”
“Unless he betrays us. How do you know he isn’t a spy?”
“I just know,” Olsen said. “You know these things when you’ve been in the service long enough. You learn to trust your hunches.”
“And why didn’t you ask Admiralty AI for their advice in this matter? Surely it’s a big enough issue to refer to them.”
Olsen raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you try to stop me if this was going to be a problem, Novak?”
“I just wanted to be sure of the reasons for your decisions.”
Olsen stopped walking for a moment, turned to Novak, and looked her straight in the eye. “Look, Novak. Things have changed in Fleet Command since I was in the Admiralty. It used to be the case that Admiralty would ask the opinion of their more senior officers. Now we rely on Admiralty AI too much, when they don’t always have all the data, and they certainly don’t have the benefit of instinct. I won’t go against direct orders, but I will act on my initiative when those orders aren’t in place. Is that understood?”
“Very well, sir,” Novak replied.
They walked the rest of the distance to the CIC in silence. Olsen wanted to ask her if she’d report his actions, but such a question was pointless. Brownstone would hear about it from her, and he’d hear about it from Brownstone. But he hadn’t broken the chain of command, and so she wouldn’t strip his vessel away for such a minor thing. Frega, after all, was retired.
The junior on guard outside the CIC saluted Olsen and Novak before they entered. They stepped inside, and Olsen took his place in the captain’s seat. Rob had been overseeing things on the bridge, and everyone seemed busy, the sounds of fingers clicking against equipment and beeps from the display screens filling the room.
“Rob, are we ready to move on?” Olsen asked.
“Ensign Chang has already informed me you’re ready to move, sir. Things are in working order.”
“Glad to hear it. Santiago, is our course set? We have the sector mapped out?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Schmidt, weapons systems are ready?”
“The coilguns and laser turrets are set for automatic charging when we exit FTL-warp, sir.”
“And Cadinouche, are the engines in working order?”
“Ready and set, sir.”
“Then let’s go to FTL-warp.”
27
The modular fleet spanned as far as the eye could see, at the edge of the Ripley sector, a long way from the human super-dreadnought shipyard the Arstans so feared and the sun that would destroy it all. A mesh of shield, weapons, scanning, energy, boarding, and other functional modules had been arranged in such coordinated latticework fashion that the untrained observer wouldn’t be able to tell one Arstan ship from the next.
But Olsen would.
It wouldn’t be the first time Rear Admiral Aarsh had encountered him, but this time, he would make sure it was the last.
He’d encountered Olsen when he was a rear admiral at the Battle of Makorest, in a battle the humans knew as the Grashorn incident. He’d taken down most of the fleet, but Olsen’s flagship had escaped. Even though he’d claimed victory over the humans, he’d had to go back home with his head bowed in shame. According to Arstan tradition, a battle wasn’t truly won until he had a trophy from it — something belonging to the commander of the opposing fleet that proved they’d been annihilated for good.
Rear Admiral Aarsh, commanding officer of both the Kinlysta flagship and this flotilla, a wealthy duke and cousin second-removed of His Excellency Lord Empire of the Arstan Civilization, scanned the curved 360-degree viewscreen with admiration. He sat in the CIC, a roomy control center compared to most Arstan builds. Around him, about a hundred Arstans worked rigorously at their curved desks, making sure that each module was in the right place to deliver maximum effect. Their tails swished behind them as they worked, and there came an occasional grunt as an officer raised his hand to his mouth, let off a silent yawn, and then hunched back over his control panel.
Many Arstans snubbed this kind of work. They thought a good life shouldn’t be spent behind a desk, but out farming in a field or wading through swampland with a cannon on a shoulder and a rifle at the hip. Jobs that required strength and, occasionally, brutality. But everyone on this ship knew that it was upon the Arstan battleships where history was made. And if they ever showed any hint of not understanding that, they received a flogging until they did.
The scent of oleander filled the room — a fragrance that Aarsh had encountered in human slave colonies and grown partial to. That, and the taste of Sumatran coffee that lingered at the back of his long tongue.
In the foreground, against a backdrop line of Arstan weapons modules, a speck of white light appeared on the viewscreen. This suddenly grew, and then faded away to reveal a sleek-lined alien ship.
The Tauian was here, and it was hailing Rear Admiral Aarsh.
“Bring him on screen,” Aarsh said to no one in particular. He didn’t need to address crew members by name here. They followed his orders as a unit and did as they’d been trained.
A rectangle appeared on the screen next to the Tauian vessel. Ambassador Oort glowed out from it, the hues of his skin changing ever so slightly as he talked. “Greetings, Rear Admiral Aarsh,” it said.
“And to you.” Aarsh wouldn’t give the Tauian the title of Frande. Only those in the royal family, and Aarsh’s superiors, had that privilege. “I trust you are here to give a report.”
“I believe you are referring to the Ripley sector. Things are progressing well, but still, we cannot allow for any disruptions.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Aarsh replied. “And you can probably see that our fleet is well prepared. The Tapper cannot get past this fleet, so long as you’ve done your part.”
A hatch opened on the side of the Tauian vessel, and out of it floated a spherical object no larger than an exploration shuttle. Aarsh flinched, concerned that it might be a bomb, and he almost shouted out to prepare battle stations. But the rational part of his mind took over. Though he didn’t quite trust the Tauian — no one in high circles acted purely on altruistic objectives, such as Oort claimed — the alien had no reason to attack now.
“I see you’re alarmed, Rear Admiral Aarsh,” the alien said. “But I merely wanted to deliver the warp-jammer you asked for. Such a primitive technology, and yet your galaxy hasn’t proven capable of discovering it yet.”
“If you send us the schematics, then we can set to work on it immediately.”
“Oh, but it isn’t our place to interfere in the research progress of a civilization. Not unless we have the express permission of my superiors.”
“Very well. So how do we use this?”
“It’s already set up. I’ve done my job; now make sure you do yours. And r
emember, we want as many humans captured alive as possible. Captain Olsen and his crew know of the location of Fleet Admiral Frega, and the Arstan cannot be allowed to continue his plans.”
Aarsh lifted and interlocked his hands, letting his claws graze the topmost knuckles of his fingers. “As you wish,” he said. “We will try to cause minimum damage. But if we need to annihilate the ship and everyone on it, we will. Please remember this fleet is under Arstan, and not your, command.”
“We’ll cross that bridge if we ever come to it,” Ambassador Oort said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have many more important meetings to attend.”
Before Aarsh could even respond, the Tauian ship ghosted out of view. Aarsh tightened his grip on his hands. The fact that the Tauian was gallivanting from system to system in a series of meetings concerned him. Was it cavorting with the other civilizations too? Regardless, now was his chance to complete a job he’d started fifteen years ago.
Captain Olsen was finally within his grasp.
28
FTL-warp was one sensation no one quite got used to. Though every Marine and crew member would go through rigorous conditioning to battle the vertigo that would send a normal man vomiting, still you couldn’t move one muscle when traveling at this speed. All you could do was sit paralyzed in your seat as you watched bright light streak across the viewscreen, and take some time to reflect.
Unfortunately, the experience of it often sent humans into a refractory emotional state where their minds entered downward spirals of negativity triggered by the fight or flight response. And right now, Olsen was worried.
He had ordered a whole crew to their potential doom, much as they’d accused him of during the Grashorn incident. Chang might have been right — perhaps they should have waited longer. They had no time, dammit, and they were facing off an Arstan warship in a damaged state. Only a madman would give such orders, surely. How could he have done such a terrible thing to his ship and his crew?
When Olsen had gotten demoted, Brownstone had written ‘volatile’ on his career report. More recently, he’d felt he’d been riding his luck with each dangerous situation he encountered.
The anxiety abated somewhat as the Tapper slowed to sub-light-speed. Olsen grounded himself and waited for the light on the viewscreen to fade to a lower level of orange light coming from the Ripley sector’s sun, but it faded much more quickly than he’d expected. Almost as if they’d found themselves in the middle of nowhere, thousands of light-years from any burning star.
No, that was impossible. Once the coordinates were set, they were set, and the only thing that could stop them was a physical object of equivalent or larger size to their ship. But a collision at such speed would have annihilated both objects into fine specks of dust.
He waited until he had the strength to speak, then said, “Santiago, what the hell is going on? I thought I ordered you to plot us into the star.”
She didn’t respond, probably still recovering from the warp. On the screen, the white light had thinned even more, revealing ghostly shapes in the background, ever so tiny but approaching fast. On closer inspection, he saw these objects were a whole fleet of Arstan modules approaching.
“Santiago, dammit. What the hell happened? I thought you plotted the course?”
The navigator swiveled round slowly in her chair, clearly still battling the crippling effects of FLT-warp. She looked at Olsen with wide eyes, the upper whites showing. “I did, sir, but something appears to have blocked us. It’s orbiting us — some kind of spherical object with appendages, almost like a drone.”
Olsen gritted his teeth. “Schmidt, did something happen to the engines?”
“I’m still working it out, sir.”
“Sir, someone’s hailing us,” Cadinouche said from his seat at the front of the room. “The signal’s coming from a ship known as the Kinlysta.”
Olsen could see them now. The Arstan modules stretched out like a grin from one edge of visible space to the other. They produced their own light, glowing in hues of red and blue against the backdrop of distant stars. “Santiago, find out where we are,” he said. “And answer the hail, Cadinouche.”
A familiar-looking Arstan came on screen, the scales of his face colored a blend of lime green and mustard yellow. Two sharp teeth curved from his upper lips over the bottom of his snout. He displayed a malicious reptile grin.
The sight of him caused Olsen’s heart to jump within his chest.
“Rear Admiral Aarsh,” he said. “I had hoped we wouldn’t have to meet again.”
“Captain Olsen,” he replied. “So this time I have the pleasure of seeing the horror on your face before I impale it on a stake and deliver it to our Lord Empire. Please keep that expression when I do — his highness will be most pleased.”
“You’re getting nothing,” Olsen replied. He punched his armrest display to cut off the channel. “Santiago, any news on our location?”
“I only have a wide read on the Ripley sector, sir. Exactly where, I have no idea, but obviously it’s a long way from the sun.”
“I can see that,” Olsen said, and placed his hand on his chin. He turned to Novak. “Any advice based on protocol, Commander? Perhaps you’ve been trained for situations like this.”
She turned slowly toward him. “Surprisingly enough, being pulled out of warp to face an overwhelming force didn’t come up.”
“Pity,” Olsen said. “Maybe we should check with Admiralty AI?”
He’d meant it as a bit of gallows humor, but Novak missed it. “This is one of those time-sensitive issues we talked about. Our training also acknowledged that sometimes you need to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Olsen couldn’t help but chuckle as he opened the hatch on his armrest and punched the red button inset there. As the light lowered to a pulsing red and battle stations were announced throughout the ship, Olsen squinted his eyes and turned his attention back to the screen. “That’s the spirit.”
29
Red lights and klaxons pulsed around Olsen as he observed the green and blue glows growing on the weapons module on the viewscreen. Sweat pooled on his brow. Unlike the previous battle, the Arstans hadn’t this time placed the weapons modules behind the shield generators for protection. But then, there were so many laser cannons, ion-cannons, plasma torpedo launchers, sonic disruptors, and long spear-headed types of weapons that Olsen didn’t even know the names of that the Tapper no doubt didn’t prove a threat.
Meanwhile, that massive spherical drone kept circling the Tapper, whizzing across the viewscreen every so often like a passing comet, leaving a glowing blue trail in its wake. It was so fast that Santiago couldn’t even keep track of its position. But Olsen had had Rob analyze the ship’s vital signs, and the FTL-warp engine had been drained of energy. Somehow, this mechanical nightmare was blocking their escape.
Protocol would be to send out a smaller craft against a fast-moving target like this. But Redrock still lay unconscious in the sickbay, and the Extractor wasn’t exactly a top-of-the-line fighter ship. Plus, given they’d seen nothing like this drone before, they had no idea how heavily it was armed.
The whole crew now seemed unsure of what to do. They had stopped their frantic tapping away at their screens, and instead waited, also staring up at the viewscreen. They needed orders and, in all honesty, Olsen didn’t know what to say to them.
He’d never been outmatched like this in any combat situation in his life. A whole fleet against one tiny mining ship seemed absolute overkill. How the hell did they stand a chance?
Still, he had to do something.
Meanwhile, Rob had been keeping a hairline feed on the ship’s FTL-warp engine. And it was his news that jolted Olsen back into action.
“Sir,” the cyborg said. “It would appear the FTL-warp engine has come back online.”
“What? How long will it take to fire back up?”
“The reserves are heavily depleted. We need five minutes.”
“Do it,”
Olsen said. “Meanwhile, we need to take evasive measures against those enemy guns. Otherwise we’re toast.”
Soon after, that drone spun across the screen again, but this time it wasn’t glowing blue. Whatever it was, it seemed only to have a finite amount of power. But without ever having seen anything like it, there was no telling whether it could power on again.
He noticed a cluster of four shield modules slightly to the left and in front of the powering up weapons modules, ready to protect any targets the Tapper moved in to attack. Unfortunately, such formations weren’t static. If Olsen tried to use the shields as cover, they’d just move out of the way.
Come to think of it, it was strange that the weapons modules hadn’t unleashed their load yet. It seemed Aarsh didn’t plan to stagger fire, but to annihilate them in one shot.
“How long until they fire, Schmidt?” Olsen asked.
“They should be doing so by now, sir.” He sounded perplexed. “Everything’s powered up.”
Olsen unlocked his fingers and raised his hand to his chin. “Novak, why would they want to hold back fire? Do you think they want to taunt me?”
“Given his speech before, and the irrational enmity the Arstan seems to hold towards you, it would seem quite possible, sir. Although, in all honesty, I studied Aarsh, and he’s less hot-blooded in nature than most Arstans.”
Olsen chuckled. “Hot-blooded?”
It was almost as if half of a smile crept across the left side of Novak’s face. “Not physically, sir, of course.”
“Sir, if I may interrupt,” Rob said, “it would seem we have an opening.”
“Go on.”
“The foremost shield generators seem to be malfunctioning, sir. They’re emitting zero energy levels. We could damage them.”
Olsen shook his head. “What good will taking out four rogue shield generators do?”