Ship of Destiny

by Frank Chadwick

  “Happy, satisfied, and fulfilled,” she repeated. “Is there something you would care to add to that list?”

  “You didn’t mention sex.”

  “Yes I did, three times. It’s simply not all I mentioned. Now go, and don’t tell me we’ll talk when you get back. I am . . . superstitious about pronouncements of that sort. God bless you, Sam Bitka.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, hugged him harder than he thought she was capable of, and then she was gone.

  Ten million kilometers above the plane of the ecliptic, and closing on K’tok at fifteen kilometers per second, Helm Tatak Seven by-Noom through-Katchawaa—who had once been called Kakusa by-Vrook through-Kuannawaa, but through the magic of Lord Y’Areez had been transformed into another body, one which looked and felt exactly like the old one, but certainly was different because Lord Y’Areez assured her it was so—that increasingly skeptical Troatta of uncertain name sat in her command chair, and she brooded.

  Guardians lied! Their powers were great, including the power to make life and bend space. But really, their devices did those things, didn’t they? Claiming credit for the work of devices was one thing, but lying about a miraculous transformation which never took place was something else. The idea of the transformation was absurd. There were still three small nicks missing from the carapace of her strong-side forearm, chips broken off when an atmosphere circulator had dropped on her. When they transferred her mind to a different body, did they transfer the nicks as well? And how did they get that body into her compartment? And where had her old body gone? No, it was all clearly a lie, and it was a lie aimed at another Guardian. She was just incidental. P’Daan demands punishment for her disobedience. Y’Areez kills the miscreant—her. But he doesn’t want to lose the services of a trained helm, and so makes up this lie to satisfy P’Daan.

  Guardians quarrel. And they didn’t just lie to each other. There were now Guardians on both sides of this war, which made her wonder about the two other great wars the Troatta had fought, led by Y’Areez, always against rebellious races, or races led by demons. The enemy they fought had always thought they were led by a Guardian as well. They were mistaken, weren’t they? It had always been an impostor, a false god who had deceived their enemies and seduced them into wickedness, for which they paid a terrible price. Wasn’t that what the interlocutors told them? But Guardians lied.

  Guardians erred. P’Daan’s handling of their eight ships had been embarrassing until it became deadly and tragic. Tatak-who-had-been-Kakusa could have done much better. Most of the helms in the fleet could have, and P’Daan was a Guardian! Y’Areez had never made mistakes such as those, and she had assumed that was because he was a Guardian. But no. His skill was independent of his identity as a Guardian, wasn’t it? Otherwise, P’Daan would have shared it.

  And Y’Areez had also made an error. He had left Tatak-who-had-been-Kakusa alive. The thought chilled her. She shuddered with fear thinking that at some point Y’Areez might recognize his error and correct it, but so far not. She had been willing to die before, willing to give her life for her disobedience because she believed doing so was a way to better serve Y’Areez, her God. Now she had doubts.

  New helm-thing, Ship One-Two-One murmured through the arm contacts of the control station.

  “Yes, Ship.”

  Lord Y’Areez desires audience by holocommune. Are you ready to confront God?

  “I am, Ship,” she answered, although suddenly she was far from ready. Had God repented his error? The hologram of God and his interlocutor materialized in the bridge space. Y’Areez again towered over her, but the effect was slightly marred by the fact his lower legs seemed embedded in the machinery console on the left side of the bridge. Only a hologram—not his actual physical presence, but she had always known that.

  “Helm Tatak Seven by-Noom through-Katchawaa. Great is the power of Lord Y’Areez, and great is his mercy,” the interlocutor said.

  “Great indeed,” Tatak/Kakusa replied.

  “Your essence was kept alive for a purpose. You have fought the Cottohazz-things, commanded the eight Ships of Lord Y’Areez at Lord P’Daan’s Realm. How will they attack us?”

  Tatak/Kakusa withdrew her arms from the control sleeves, folded them across her torso, and held her shoulders. She wanted her breathing flanks open as she took a moment to pant and fight off the effect of her first flush of panic. She also needed to gather her thoughts, give as good advice as she could, but not pretend it was worth more than in truth it was.

  “Noble servant of Lord Y’Areez, I will gladly answer your question, but I must make three things clear. First, we fought a single ship, and so how that ship fought will not tell us how a fleet fights. Second, they fought against pairs of ships, not a combined fleet, and so their tactics will not necessarily be the same. Third, the ship we fought was commanded by S’Bitka, who was clearly an ungoverned being of erratic behavior, and may not reflect the practices of others. In any case, S’Bitka is P’Daan’s prisoner and so will not play a role in our fight.”

  There was a pause in which an exchange between Y’Areez and the interlocutor might have taken place. The nightshade-painted male then turned back to Tatak/Kakusa. “What you say is true and Y’Areez knew these truths when we came here, so speak.”

  Tatak/Kakusa took several deep breaths to calm herself and then began. “The Cottohazz-things use their hellstars to blind our sensors and cover their approach, and the approach of their missiles. They launch swarms of them, but we believe many of those objects are not hellstars, but decoys, making it harder to know which contact to engage. They are clever at striking simultaneously from different directions. Fighting well away from a planetary body is wise, as they use the world’s gravity to sculpt the course of their hellstars. I believe they will split their force of ships in order to strike from different directions. I also believe the lower our closing rate, the longer our main guns will have to destroy the approaching hellstars and their decoys. The fleet’s current speed is adequate.”

  After a short consultation, the interlocutor spoke again. “You mention only their hellstars. Are these their only weapons?”

  “S’Bitka threatened that they had weapons he had not used on us, but we could not verify the truth of that claim. Hellstars are the only weapons S’Bitka used the two times we fought him. The record of the fight at P’Daan’s World shows him using coherent light weapons against satellites, but they would have much less range than our own beam weapons.”

  When she finished, Y’Areez remained motionless for long seconds. God was inscrutable, but she wondered if he was thinking more of what she had just told him, or about what he should do about her. The nightshade-painted interlocutor shifted his weight after perhaps a minute and looked at Y’Areez, who bent his head slightly in a show of assent. The interlocutor turned to her.

  “Lord Y’Areez is pleased. Continue to serve him well. Great is the power of Lord Y’Areez.”

  And then they were gone. Just as well. She did not know how long she could maintain her façade of worship in the face of mounting lies and errors from her omniscient and infallible god.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Twelve hours later, on board USS John Fitzgerald Kennedy

  (the Fitz), CLS-222

  1 October 2134

  Captain Rockaway met Sam in the receiving bay of the Fitz with a salute and a handshake as the chief bosun’s mate piped him aboard.

  “Welcome back,” she said. “You’re looking good, Bitka, for someone we all figured as dead or worse.”

  Sadie Rockaway looked almost the same as when he’d last seen her, almost but not quite. The lower left side of her face had a slightly shiny look to it, which of course “Rocky” would never have considered toning down with makeup. That was the only evidence Sam could see of the reconstructive surgery she’d gone through to repair the injuries she’d suffered in the final battle of the uBakai War. Her expression, which had always been serious, looked strained.

  She’d
briefly been his commanding officer in that battle, only for a couple hours, from the time Commodore Bonaventure was killed until her own ship was knocked out. After that, no one was in charge. They’d worked together well then, but he did not notice any sign of pleasure in seeing him again.

  “Thank you, Ma’am. Good to be aboard. Congratulations on the command,” he said, looking around the docking bay, which was similar to that on the Bay, but smaller. “They got you back on your legs pretty quickly.”

  “Yeah,” she said, and then nodded to the chief bosun’s mate, who waved her side party to take Sam’s luggage and follow her toward the hatch aft. Rockaway watched them go and as soon as the hatch clicked shut behind them, she turned back to Sam.

  “So, enough chit-chat. When I said welcome back, I meant back to the Cottohazz, back to Human space, back home in general. I have to tell you, I’m not all that excited to see you on my ship. I still have nightmares about the fight here at K’tok. That was your plan.”

  Sam almost took a step back, surprised by the display of animosity. Sadie Rockaway had a reputation as one of the toughest, most professional captains in Destroyer Squadron Two, their former unit, and she hadn’t blinked once in the long, confused fighting around K’tok. Had her wounds and close brush with death taken something out of her? Or had she just been a really good actor? Or what?

  “Um . . . I didn’t realize you objected. You didn’t say anything before.”

  “It all happened so fast I didn’t have much time to think, just do. Later, in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think about it. To remember the crazy thing we did.”

  What was that line from the poem Cass had quoted?

  “Till through their bowels, we our passage wrought,” he said.

  “What?”

  “A poem a friend of mine quoted to me, said it reminded her of what we did at Fourth K’tok. Shot our way right through their guts and came out the other side. She didn’t exactly mean it as praise, either, but she did say not to be ashamed of it. It’s what I know, Rockaway. If you’ve got some better ideas, I’m all ears.”

  She looked away and shook her head. “No. Maybe there wasn’t any better way to approach the problem, but . . . you didn’t have to enjoy it so goddamned much. I just hate the nightmares, that’s all.” She turned back to him. “Do you have nightmares?”

  “Not about that.”

  After his reception from Rockaway, Sam wasn’t sure what to expect from Chief Menzies, but when she saw him her face lit up with a grin.

  “Captain Bitka!” She turned from the workbench in forward engineering, moved toward him half a step, almost as if to hug him, then remembered herself and came to attention, magnetic boots holding her to the deck.

  “At ease, Chief,” Sam said and held out his hand to shake hers. He saw the same evidence of scar tissue on her hands as he’d seen on Rockaway’s face, more noticeable here. A liquid hydrogen leak had seriously injured her hands in the last battle of the uBakai war. In a sense, her hands were her life. Music was her real passion, and her civilian career.

  “Good to see you,” he said. “How are the hands doing?”

  She held them up and flexed them.

  “Good enough to bolt missiles together,” she answered.

  “How about for keyboard?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir. You been gone, so you didn’t know, but I formed a local band—mostly swabbies like us. We been playing holoconcerts beamed down planetside. Been drawing real good, over ten thousand last show.”

  “That many?” Sam said. “Who’s your audience? Service personnel?”

  “No, sir. Mostly civilians—Varoki civilians from the colony. Great fans, sir! Really into Terrakultur, you know? Only thing is, they can only clap on the one and three. Tried to show ’em how to hit the two and four, but they just can’t get it.”

  Sam laughed. “Well, keep at it, Menzies. Maybe you can show them the light. So, tell me what you think of my crazy idea for long-range shooting.”

  She nodded, but her expression became guarded.

  “Very interesting idea, sir,” she said. “Revolutionary even. Should really surprise them.”

  Sam waited for more and then shook his head. “Come on, Chief. I didn’t get you assigned here to kiss my ass and tell me how smart I am. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Well . . . too many ostie de crisse moving parts, sir. All these things gotta happen in just the right order, and then they gotta fire simultaneously, it’s like . . . A-B-C-D-Z and then a de saint-sacrament miracle occurs. Like the nose cones. They all have to eject and clear away before the tracker heads can make any target locks. But the missiles aren’t going anywhere in real space, so why even have the nose cones on? And the missiles are mounted facing forward so they release and then turn laterally to find targets. Why not mount them facing out? And these securing brackets look like they’d take a couple gees of acceleration, but they don’t have to take any, so why have them, and then have to have these explosive bolts to separate the warheads from the ordnance carrier—all of which have to fire simultaneously? Why not replace the brackets with a de crisse piece of dental floss? Well, little more than that, but you know what I mean, sir.”

  Sam grinned. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Make it so, Chief.”

  A tingle at the base of Sam’s neck alerted him to an incoming comm. He squinted his menu open and saw Captain Rockaway’s ID. Sam held up his hand to Menzies and turned to the side.

  “Yes, Captain?” he said.

  Commander Bitka, we’re getting an incoming comm you need to see. Would you join me on the auxiliary bridge?

  “Yes Ma’am, right away.” He cut the connection and turned back to Menzies.

  “I have to go. We’ve got about nine hours to high orbit. Get the design modifications locked down. Once we make stable orbit and cut the acceleration, I want to start cranking the fabricators right away. Make this thing work, Chief. Oh, and . . . where the hell is the auxiliary bridge?”

  Sam found the auxiliary bridge empty except for Rockaway in the command chair. Sam slipped into the TAC One chair to her right and buckled himself in.

  “I was a little harsh when you came aboard,” Rockaway said without looking at him.

  “It’s nothing,” Sam said.

  “I’m trying to apologize,” she said, turning to look at him. The anger in her voice suggested otherwise.

  “Okay,” Sam said, “go ahead.”

  “God, you’re an asshole,” she said, and she punched the button on her console that lit up the main tactical display in the front of the room.

  That must have been the wrong thing for him to say, but suddenly he didn’t care. “You’re not exactly the first person to notice that about me,” he said.

  The holodisplay darkened for a moment and then Sam was face-to-face with P’Daan, whose head filled the air only meters in front of him and loomed over him, easily ten times life size. Sam’s muscles tightened and he felt as if the acceleration chair was pressing him toward the image.

  I know that S’Bitka has escaped and is among you.

  The commlink translated the strangely melodic speech of the Guardian, the words seeming to echo in Sam’s head.

  As retribution for the bombardment of the world you call Destie-Four, this fleet will bombard the surface of the planet you call K’tok, and will destroy every large structure on its surface. Then we will travel to the Human homeworld and bombard it. Then we will accept the surrender of the underspecies of this Cottohazz of yours, and destroy all those who resist. All of this is S’Bitka’s doing. As long as he lives, this will never end.

  Then the image clicked off and the room fell absolutely silent except for the faint hum of machinery from somewhere. Sam realized he was wet with perspiration and his hands trembled.

  “You let yourself be his prisoner to get your crew home?” Rockaway said and then shook her head. “Okay, Bitka, you and I got off on the wrong foot. Let’s try this again. Are you going to be able to kill tha
t son of a bitch? Because he needs killing.”

  “Believe me, we’re working on it,” Sam said. “But here’s the thing that’s bothering me right now. P’Daan’s big fleet that showed up right after he shut off the jump drives and sent out all those jump couriers—that fleet must have been waiting out in deep space, no more than a single jump away. One of the jump courier missiles he sent out in that big wave of departures had to have been to it to call it here, because it showed up immediately, right?”

  “Right,” she said.

  “Aside from that fleet, we haven’t picked up a single jump emergence signature in the K’tok system since I got here in Te’Anna’s ship.”

  “Not as far as I know,” she said. “So what?”

  “So . . . how does P’Daan know I escaped?”

  Four hours later, Te’Anna waited for the holocon circuit to become active and struggled with a sea of unfamiliar and contradictory emotions. She must have known feelings like this once. Otherwise she would not have the capacity to feel them now. Had she forgotten? Can someone forget to feel? They can forget to feel for others, she supposed. But they can remember, too.

  The circuit came alive and Bitka appeared.

  “Captain Bitka. You look well as a Human, although I have to say you look better as H’Stus than H’Stus does. I am very happy to hear you will not be directly involved in the upcoming battle. I would not like for you to expire sooner than necessary, although really it is not an absolute necessity for you to do so at all. But I am trying to respect the latticework of rules you seem intent to impose on yourself, even if they make little sense me. Aren’t we to speak with Lieutenant Ma?”

  “In a moment,” he said. “I wanted a word with you alone first. There’s something I’ve been wondering. Why didn’t P’Daan ever come to gloat once I was his prisoner? I mean, he did that one time, sent that one message, but that was it.”