by Nick Webb
He laid out the case slowly, and carefully, repeating the details of the ships’ capabilities so that there was no misunderstanding, and when he had finished the room was abuzz.
Jake wasn’t sure he understood all the technical details, or even all the tactical and strategic advantages to the new innovations the Freedom-class ships sported, but by the end, he was grinning from ear to ear, and couldn’t wait to get started.
CHAPTER FOUR
EPSILON ERIDANI, THE NEAREST SUN-like star to Sol, was a great disappointment to the first explorers setting out from Earth. Captain Titus surmised that if the first voyages had been crewed by rich investors or government researchers, the desolate, solitary moon orbiting the bulging yellow Jupiter-like third planet might never have been settled.
As it happened, the explorers in those first ships were less-than-affluent adventure seekers, and though the prospects seemed daunting, they laid down roots in the thankless soil of Havoc—the first human colony outside of the solar system. Luckily, there was a thick, wet, argon-nitrogen atmosphere, which precluded the need for completely air-tight structures, and the soil held ample amounts of silicates, metal oxides, and rare earths, which, coupled with the abundant amounts of helium three—required for the nuclear reactors at the time—in the gas giant’s atmosphere, meant that the first humans had just about everything they needed.
But life was difficult, and through the generations, it showed in their descendants. Uncouth, rough, uncivilized, and brash were all words regularly used to describe the inhabitants of Havoc, and Captain Titus loathed the idea that they might have to have dealings with any of the folk.
Ah, but they were not there to deal. They were there to engage in psychological warfare, as Admiral Trajan put it—a far more worthy term than stealing.
The gravitic shift placed them in high orbit around Epsilon Eridani Prime, an intense, yellow star, and the gravitic thrusters took them the remaining six light-minutes to the third planet in a matter of hours. And near it, the moon Havoc, hovering like a gray speck against the swirling red and orange clouds below.
“Order all hands to stand down from gravitic navigation stations and cancel yellow alert,” said Captain Titus to his XO, Commander Lasciveo, a lanky, gray-haired man with a stern, drill-sergeant’s manner.
“Aye, Captain,” Lasciveo said, and relayed the orders through the comm to the various departments.
“Inform Admiral Trajan we have arrived, Ensign,” he said, glancing at the communications officer. “And Mr. Evans?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Remember the Admiral’s orders. No off-ship communications without his express approval. Maintain radio silence. Do not answer any attempts to hail us without the Admiral’s presence on the bridge.”
“Understood, sir.”
Titus thumbed open the comm. “Lieutenant Pierce? Did you manage to get the hull nameplate changed before the shift?”
“Affirmative, Captain. We even matched the font.”
Titus smiled, and he remembered why he’d hand-picked his operations officer. He had an extreme, almost obsessive-compulsive attention to detail. It was a wonder the man could even get out of his quarters some days for all the time he spent on his reports.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Excellent work. Titus out.”
All right then. Show time.
The door to the bridge slid open and Admiral Trajan stepped though, accompanied by the twang of a selection of music that followed him as he stepped up to the bridge deck. Apparently, he’d asked the computer to pipe the music through to wherever he went.
“Do you like it, Captain?” the Admiral asked, pointing a finger towards the ceiling, indicating the music. Titus listened to the twang, the steady, predictable, percussive beat, and, he almost frowned in disapproval, the jingoistic, workman-like lyrics.
“Catchy.” Titus did not know if the Admiral liked it or not, and so erred on the side of caution. No need to alienate himself from the man over something as silly, as quotidian, as music.
“Catchy indeed. Rustic. Independent. A tad on the irreverent side, but deeply religious and patriotic, urging loyalty to one’s countrymen and people. Frontier country music, Captain. Nearly every man, woman, and child on the dusty moon of Havoc listens to frontier country music, at least in this form—a variation on the Old Earth style.”
“Yes, sir. I’m familiar with the style.”
The Admiral raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”
“I’ve been studying up since our last conversation in your ready room,” he said, internally repeating to himself the reference to the ready room as my ready room.
“Then you must know, without question, that no matter what the people of Havoc might tell us, they have no loyalty to the empire. None. They keep up the appearances for their survival’s sake, and during the Terran revolt they didn’t dare support the rebellion openly, but the truth lies in their souls, and I read their souls with this,” he said, pointing upward again, at the music.
“Understood, sir.” Titus couldn’t understand how the Admiral knew any such thing, but it was not the time for an in-depth musical discussion.
Admiral Trajan approached the central command station. “Navigation. Take us on an engagement vector towards the orbital defense platform. Tactical, prepare for multiple targeting options. Take out their weapons, and their life support.”
“Sir?” The tactical officer stared at the Admiral in horror.
Slowly, Admiral Trajan turned towards the Lieutenant and regarded him with an icy, one-eyed stare. “Did you have an issue with that command, Lieutenant?”
The woman gulped, and looking down, said, “No sir. Of course not, sir. Targeting offensive assets and life support.”
Titus had half a mind to intervene, but knew that if he did, he’d sit in the brig for the rest of the Admiral’s tenure. Targeting life-support systems? If the senate ever caught wind of it, the rabble rousers would have a heyday.
“If I may ask, sir … life-support?”
“If you’re wondering, Captain, no, I do not mean for them all to die from oxygen deprivation. But I want them to think they’re going to die from oxygen deprivation. At least, I want them to think Admiral Pritchard is killing them. And when we do it over something so petty as rare earth elements, specifically, their entire store of Gadolinium, Promethium, and Neodymium, well, let’s just say that the good Admiral’s approval ratings may take a hit.”
“They’re hailing us, sir,” said Ensign Evans.
“Let them meet static,” said the Admiral, and he sat down in Pritchard’s chair near the command station.
Titus glanced at his readout on the central command station in the center of the bridge. “Two klicks away.” He looked up at the Admiral with a quizzical look, asking permission, and the man nodded. Titus turned to the tactical officer. “Very well. Open fire.”
The railgun batteries swiveled to point at the modest, but deadly-looking orbital platform, and began blasting away at the structure. Beams of bright blue light shot out from the ion beam cannons dotting the hull of the Caligula, and a few torpedoes streaked across the empty space between the battleship and the platform before the defense station managed to fire a single gigawatt laser bank, which it began to do in earnest when its occupants realized it was under attack.
A cloud of glittering, refractive dust erupted from the port flank of the Caligula, and subsequent blasts from the laser diffused through the billowing fog of high-index particles, rendering them so divergent and defocused that they caused little damage to the hull. Meanwhile, railgun fire devastated the side of the platform facing the battleship, and soon, every gigawatt laser bank and railgun turret on the station ceased firing.
The Caligula, however, did not. A particularly intense azure beam erupted from the forward ion cannon and connected with a section of the platform’s core, blasting an entire chunk of hull away and exposing the tanks of the oxygen re-circulation system. One tap of the tactical officer’s finger shot
a single railgun slug at the tank, rupturing it and causing it to bleed its entire store of oxygen to space in a matter of seconds in an explosive rush.
Ensign Evans said excitedly, “Admiral, they’re hailing us again. They’re signaling surrender.”
“Very good. Open an audio channel.” The Admiral stroked his chin and smiled. “Time for my performance.”
The comm crackled with static, and explosions could be heard on the other end of the channel, followed by yells and plenty of graphic swearing. “Unidentified ship, we surrender. Repeat, we surrender. Please hold your fire, for mercy’s sake. We’re burning over here.”
Admiral Trajan elevated his voice in a high, gruff, eerily-accurate impersonation of what Captain Titus remembered Admiral Pritchard’s voice sounded like from all the intelligence briefings he had sat in on. “This is Admiral Pritchard of the USS Fury, of Earth Resistance fame. I’m terribly sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but I’m afraid you have something of ours.”
Unintelligible voices argued back and forth in the background before the first voice came back. “Did you say Admiral Pritchard?”
“The one and only, I’m afraid,” said Admiral Trajan, cocking his head to the side and raising the roof of his mouth in an effort to get the voice intonation just right. The man was good—Titus could give him that. Even down to the self-deprecating humor that was a hallmark of Pritchard’s.
“But Admiral, we have nothing of the Resistance’s. We’re a peaceful mining colony. We ain’t got no beef with no one. Why the unprovoked attack?”
“Simple, my good man. The Resistance needs supplies, and everyone knows that in this sector of the galaxy what the Resistance needs, the Resistance gets. And if you don’t like it you can bloody well take it up with the emperor for all I care.”
“But, we’ve got nothing you would possibly need! All we have here is minerals. Iron, silicon, magnesium. That’s it! You’re telling me you came all this way from wherever you’ve been hiding to blast some defenseless miners out of the sky for their metal?”
“Dog’s bollocks. You and I both know that you are not defenseless, and that you carry a very singular stock of rare earth minerals that are vital to the efforts of the Resistance.”
“But why the hell didn’t you just tell us you needed them! We would have gladly negotiated with you. Come to a fair price!”
“Ah, but my way is far more genius, don’t you think? I quite like the price I negotiated from you. A bargain, if you ask me. In fact, I’ll even sweeten the deal. You send one of your freighters over here with your entire store of Gadolinium, Promethium, and Neodymium, and in return, not only will I not destroy your platform, I’ll send over a replacement oxygen tank that will last you until you can evacuate the station. How’s that?”
Silence greeted them, and the Titus noticed the bridge crew officers glancing at one another with looks ranging from glee to shock.
“Very well, Fury, you bastards. Take it all. Do you know how many men died here today? Good men? And all for a bunch of shitty metal?”
“I am well aware, sir, and believe me, no one mourns their loss more than I. Their sacrifice will not have been in vain, I assure you. Pritchard out,” he said, and Admiral Trajan drew a hand across his throat to signal to Ensign Evans to cut the commlink.
Applause burst out from the bridge crew, and Titus could see that every last man and woman stood up, clearly impressed with the Admiral’s spot-on performance. Captain Titus had hand-chosen his officers, and knew that there was not one Resistance sympathizer among them, but he’d worried that the Admiral’s ham-fisted tactics against the miners would gnaw at their conscience.
Their applause told him he needn’t have worried.
***
The passenger carrier slowed, and began its approach vector towards the shipyard’s dock, engaging the mooring clamps with a sound that reminded Jacob Mercer of landing gear compartments breaking open before touchdown on the old, pre-gravitic fighters the Space Fleet used for training. Filing off the carrier, the crowd of men and women gathered around the deck officer for instructions.
Jake glanced around the giant bay, gawking at the huge pieces of equipment laying about—giant robotic arms with welding and electrical-line laying assemblies at the ends, portable 3D fabricators, a whole array of hydrospanners, useful for accessing all sorts of compartment and bulkhead doors and access points. Jake was a little bit of an equipment junky.
The pale deck officer spoke loudly, but strained to be heard over the bustle of the crowd before him, and his thin voice was nearly swallowed up by the immense space of the hangar bay. “Those of you assigned to the Eagle, and the Phoenix, report immediately to your ships. The rest of you will find temporary quarters in the crew section. Three decks down. Your ships are still in the final stages of production, and work has hit a snag, so you guys get to hang out in orbit with us for awhile.”
The crowd spread out, some aiming for their ships and the rest for the decks below. Jake fell into step with Ben Jemez, looking back at Po who conversed quietly with the deck officer. She waved him off, indicating she’d join up with them later. As luck would have it, the three of them were assigned to the same ship. The NPQR Phoenix.
“You know where you’re going, right?” said Jake, glancing at the tight little ass of a gorgeous ensign that couldn’t be older than twenty. He winked at her as they passed, eliciting an eye-roll from the young blonde woman.
“Of course I do. I’m Manuel, right?” Ben replied, cringing ever so slightly as he used his own vaguely racist callsign. Back on his first day as a pilot, he had spent his first few hours in the air quoting the regulation manual to the rest of Viper squad, and when combined with his last name, his fellow space jocks had soon dubbed him with a callsign. “Not only do I read manuals, I read schematics. We’re heading for construction ring seven,” he continued, pointing down the long, curved hallway.
“Got it,” Jake said. “Hey, we’ve probably got time to head down to the commissary before we report. The bar there is supposedly staffed by ex-Panther cheerleaders.”
“You’re kidding, right? We’ve got to report to our stations at eighteen hundred.”
“Yeah,” Jake replied, steering them towards the elevators.
“It’s seventeen thirty,” Ben deadpanned.
“We’ve got time. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Ben frowned, but allowed himself to be pulled towards the elevator rather than continue on down the hallway towards the construction ring entrances. Jake grinned—he’d grown accustomed to his friend throwing up stiff resistance whenever he proposed anything fun, but this was his fastest cave-in yet.
They entered the bar. A rustic wooden sign hanging above the entrance read Liberty’s End, and a sleepy, droopy-eyed security officer slouched in a chair near the door. Techno-dance music thumped so loud that it nearly rattled the tables, making Ben wince, but Jake smiled as he surveyed the scene. The bar was loud, sure, but also huge, which surprised them both. But as he thought about it, Jake realized that hosting a few thousand construction workers and soldiers at any given time meant that if the shipyards didn’t provide a place for the grunts to blow off some steam, there would likely be a mutiny.
Ben didn’t permit them to sit, pointing to the imaginary watch on his wrist, and so they ambled through the crowd instead, Jake smiling and winking at whatever waitress he could make eye contact with. A familiar face caught his attention.
“Hey, Crash! Long time no see,” said Jake, wrapping his arms around his long-lost friend before separating and engaging in the manly ritual of some arcane series of handshakes. “How was your tour in Europe?”
“Not bad, bro, not bad. Stinky as hell, for one. But I was teaching at the European Imperial flight academy and didn’t have to deal with the locals too much. You?”
“Same as it ever was, man. Got assigned to the Phoenix. You see those bad boys out there? They’re huge!”
“Yeah, sure are.” The man sat back down, guz
zled his bottle and wiped his mouth. “The Roc for me. I’m XO there. At least I will be as soon as this damned supply chain problem gets solved.”
“XO, huh? Wow, look at you. A commander!” Jake could hardly believe it. They’d served together for years, and had never thought of his friend as command material. Now the man outranked him. He supposed his own actions at the D-day battle had something to do with it. Whereas Crash had been promoted for heroism, Jake had been court-martialed for insubordination. Apparently, someone at HQ didn’t think his disobeying the order to protect the ground-based laser turrets was a laughing matter. Luckily, given the Truth and Reconciliation commission’s close involvement, the matter was dropped. “Yeah, I heard some of the construction schedules are delayed. Just a supply chain issue?”
“Something about those new engines, man. They need a whole shitload of stuff we can’t find on Earth anymore, and it seems no other world within fifty light-years has enough of it. The Fleet commander is pissed, too. There was supposed to be this whole big commemoration ceremony to coincide with the launch of the Nine, but with the way things are going they might have to piecemeal it. Officially launch each ship as it’s ready. Skip all the fanfare.”
“Fine by me, man, fine by me,” said Jake, ignoring Ben’s insistent hemming. Crash glanced at him, looking the man up and down.
“Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, sorry. Ben Jemez, Crash Jackson. Well at least that’s his callsign.” He turned back to Crash. “You know, buddy, in all our time flying I never even found out your first name.”
“It’s Crash,” he replied, noticing the incredulous look Jake shot him. “No really, man. Crash Jackson. Pleased to meet you.” He held his hand out to Ben, who gripped it firmly and nodded. Crash turned back to Jake. “You’re telling me that you spent our whole year and a half together on the Viper squad thinking that Crash was my callsign?”