by Athena Storm
“Move,” Yeats calls out to me. I find my feet, but as soon as I reach the portal, another blast sends me flying and I crash into a control panel. The wind is knocked out of me, and I have to shake the haze out of my eyes.
“Sir, I’ve got a little power.” Gus pipes up from across the bridge, “It may just be a surge in the system, but I’ve got something.”
“What are we dealing with?”
“Odex, sir.”
“Change of plans, Moebius,” Yeats fires my way. “Get down to Operations and authorize all remaining power to defensive weaponry.”
“Yes sir.” Sailing through the portal, I can smell smoke curling down the corridor. It’s dark, with only the intermittent glow of the emergency sirens to light the path. Using any of the lifts would be out of the question, so I race to the nearest stairwell, making doubly sure to hug close to the walls in case the ship takes another hit.
There’s been enough clattering around for one day, thank you very much. This is what comes of IHC involvement in intergalactic affairs. If we had let the Alliance ship be, we wouldn’t be any more a target now than other human vessels have been in the past.
Clambering down a dark flight of steps would be an unpleasant prospect in any circumstance, let alone when the threat of being tossed headlong down them feels so imminent. The thought puts an extra hustle in my step.
When I reach the Operations deck, the door doesn’t yield. I have to double down and put my shoulder into a solid push to pry it open. A blast of fetid smoke billows into the stairwell and the acrid smell of an electrical fire greets me. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
A heap of charred metal has lodged against the door, and once past it, all I can see is darkness and smoke.
“Commander Yeats,” I call into my COMM unit.
“Copy, Moebius.”
“It’s a lost cause down here, sir. Operations sustained a direct hit.”
A long beat greets me before Yeats’ voice rattles over my shoulder again.
“Did Mason survive?”
I squat down low to get under the clouds of smoke and shine my light into the wreckage. By the faint light, I can see that the emergency barricades have been deployed – evidently a pretty massive hole was punched in our hull. Amid the detritus, I become dimly aware of twisted bodies scattered among the hissing circuitry.
Keeping low, I push my way deeper into the carnage to see if there are any survivors.
“Moebius.”
Yeats has been left waiting.
“Searching, sir.”
“Copy.”
The moment lingers, and I can imagine the tense flight deck awaiting my report. Near a console in the center of the room, I find what remains of Mason. There isn’t much.
“Commander Yeats,” I call.
“Yes.”
“There are no survivors.” It’s an ugly report to make, and I do everything in my power to suppress my emotions. I knew Mason. Hell, I knew all of them. These were good people and excellent technicians – they are worth more grief when I have the time to spend it.
“Daphne,” Yeats’ voice comes over the line. It may be the first time he’s called me exclusively by my first name. “You’re going to have to kick over the auxiliary power. Can you find the control panel?”
“It’s a wasteland down here, sir.”
“I understand that, but you have to try. Find the center console.”
That’s a small matter. I’m at the base of it now, staring into what used to be the face of our chief engineer. Taking a deep gulp of relatively clear air, I rise far enough to get a look at the control board under my light.
“Sir.”
“To the far side of the panel should be a series of switches. One has a red cover on it. Lift the cover and flip the switch.”
Finding the one he indicated, I do. At once, the hissing cacophony around me diminishes and the low, persistent hum of the ship goes quiet.
“Sir.”
“We’re live here, Moebius. Get back to the bridge.”
My lungs are burning with the smoke and holding my breath, and I hit the deck and gasp for anything fresh. It’s a short sprint to the door, then back up the stairs to cleaner air.
Only once I’m back in the main corridor does it occur to me that the ship hasn’t sustained any hits since I was dispatched on the mission. It seems unlikely that the Odex would take a series of shots without finishing the job. That’s outside of their behavioral patterns, and I can’t help thinking something must be interfering with their objectives.
The portal to the bridge slides open and I see the entire crew locked in feverish activity. A handful of the screens are live again, and our gunning stations are in full operation. Yeats is intent on his screen, and his seconds are working to restore a semblance of order. Rachel has made herself at home on a nearby station and is monitoring as much as she can.
“How are we faring?” I ask as I come upon her shoulder.
“Better now,” her eyes find mine for a second and a tiny giddy smile pulls at her lips, “an Alliance ship is firing on the Odex. We might just get away with this.”
Though grateful for the rescue, I can’t help thinking: the last thing we need is more shooting.
Three
Duric
My lips peel back in something between a grin and a snarl as I line up the Odex destroyer in my sights. The vapor trail is fuzzing my sensor array a bit, making a direct target lock impossible, but one of the things we Vakutan drill on extensively is striking our targets without computer assistance. A favorite Shorcu tactic is to disable targeting computer systems to nullify Alliance accuracy.
I’ve often thought that the armament consoles on Alliance ships should have a built in trigger, but that would require a design change and eliminate the modular nature of our work stations. With just a flat screen that can be reconfigured into dozens of designs, it’s hard to dedicate just one function and leave it at that.
Pressing buttons to fire seems to remove one from the act of warfare, but I work with what I am given. Once I have mentally calculated the drift of the Odex vessel, I press ‘fire’ and ignore the warnings that computer target locks are down.
There’s a deep hiss, like a heavy downpour, and the cabin heats up several degrees as our twin photon arrays unleash a barrage of white hot solid light wavelengths. Too fast to follow with the naked eye, my salvo strikes directly upon the stabilizing thrusters along the port side of the Odex vessel. My aim was true, but the thrusters are recessed within the hull and protected by some of the heaviest armor on their ship.
“Direct hit Commander. Enemy vessel has suffered minor damage but has experienced no systems loss.”
“I see that, Yeoman.”
“Odex vessel is moving to intercept our course.”
“Keep us on the opposite side of the vapor trail. Without computer targeting, they’ll never hit us.”
“Sir, that will require dozens of course corrections per minute—“
“Don’t bore me with details, Yeoman, just get it done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sweat stands out on his brow, both from the increased heat and the stress I’m putting on him. I have no doubt he can succeed, but I see no reason to use platitudes to reassure him, such as ‘you’re doing fine, Yeoman.’ That’s not the Vakutan way, and it’s certainly not my way.
I return my full attention to my targeting display. Once again the vapor is interfering, but I’m able to manually make the necessary calculations and corrections. The hiss returns, and the vapor trail is torn asunder in two spots as the heavy photon blast sunders through space. I again connect on the port stabilizers, and this time I’m rewarded with a damage readout and an expanding globe of fiery debris.
“Direct hit, Commander. Odex vessel has lost eight percent of their stabilization thrusters on port.”
“Despite Alliance protocol to the contrary, there is no need to update me on their status, Yeoman. Your job is to keep us safely
behind our glowing green curtain.”
“Understood, Commander—incoming enemy fire. Initiating evasive action.”
“Use a light touch, Yeoman. They’re firing blind. Minimal movements only, and keep us behind the vapor trail.”
“Yes, sir.”
Our Buzzard drops a few dozen feet, just enough to avoid a plasma barrage from their twin batteries. My fingers dance over my console, making minute adjustments based upon their firing trajectory. This time, I aim for their starboard stabilizer array.
My calculations are slightly off, and I only graze the underside of their hull. Still, I manage to destroy ten percent of their stabilizers. One more hit in that area and they’ll lose the ability to make fine adjustments to their course. That should make boarding, their favorite tactic, next to impossible.
I check the status of the human freighter. They’re barely operational, lacking propulsion or weapons systems. Only their life support is holding, and from the looks of things it may not last for long. It’s a good thing we came in when we did, or they would have already been annihilated by the Odex.
“Sir, the Odex vessel is charging us, ramming speed.”
“Calm yourself, Yeoman. This was expected.”
“Should I initiate evasive maneuvers?”
“Negative. Hold position until my mark.”
“Yes, Commander.” He swallows nervously as the bigger Odex craft looms on our view screen. The prow of their vessel features extra armor plating and mass, designed for just such a tactic. True, about one time out of three the Odex wind up badly damaging their own vessel and face extermination, but the Ataxia Coalition treats the hairy brutes like cannon fodder.
Just as they used to treat the Vakutan, before our rebellion.
That doesn’t mean I sympathize with the Odex, however. We fought for our freedom, if it’s important to them they will fight too. The Odex are fond of violence and conquest, but lack the discipline and sense of honor we Vakutan possess. Brutes in every sense of the word, I have no compunctions about sending them to join their ancestors.
“Sir, Odex vessel within seventy meters and closing.”
“Steady, yeoman. When they reach ten meters I want you to initiate a bootleg turn.”
“Ten meters?”
“I thought the Pi’Rell had superior hearing, Yeoman.”
“Ten meters, sir.”
Ten meters seems like a wide margin for error, but when you’re maneuvering tons of ship through the vacuum of space it’s like playing the human game of Russian Roulette with a fully loaded pistol, hoping for the one in a hundred chance the gun will jam.
I have faith in our pilot, however, and the overzealousness of the Odex. We slide through the vapor trail just as the nose of the Odex vessel jams itself into the space we were just occupying. It was a lot closer than I thought it would be, and part of me wonders if it was worth the risk.
But now we are again on the opposite side of their vapor trail, and we’ve swung around one hundred and eighty degrees. This gives me a great shot at their rear thruster array, which I gleefully take.
A growl escapes my throat as I fire three separate barrages of solid light photons at the Odex vessel. Debris spreads in a globular cloud, along with a sphere of amber inferno which rolls over our ship. The buzzard gets jostled about by the turbulence, but our hull suffers no damage from the nimbus of flame.
The damage readout is impressive, but not sufficient. Over eighty percent of their thrusters have been destroyed, but they have enough redundant systems to maintain some maneuverability. But while they are still in the fight, the success of my bootleg turn means they probably won’t try the risky ramming tactic again.
“Just maintain the status quo, Yeoman. So long as we’re on the other side of the vapor trail, they can’t get a target lock. We can pick away at them all day if we have to.”
“Understood, sir.”
I crack a smile at the bit of swagger in his tone. Well, let him enjoy his momentary success, as we all might die in an orange ball of fire at any moment.
My fingers type rapidly on my console, trying to line up another, shot, but the Odex are no longer engaging us. They’re moving away from our position at top subluminal speed.
Right toward the IHC freighter.
“No, you coward, if it’s battle come to me.”
They can’t hear me, of course, and all I can do is cringe as they unleash their full weapons array on the helpless IHC freighter. Explosions rip along their hull, sending clouds of fast moving debris out in all directions. Our hull takes dozens of tiny hits from the debris cloud, even though we are on its outer edges.
“IHC freighter has suffered massive damage, Commander. I don’t think they can handle another hit.”
“Damn them. All right, Yeoman, we’ll play the game by their rules. Lock in an attack vector on that Odex ship, full speed ahead.”
We leave the protective curtain of green ionized gas, and charge toward the Odex vessel. This was what they wanted, of course, to draw my ship into a straight up toe to toe contest where I am at a tremendous disadvantage.
But I can’t sit by and let the freighter be destroyed, even if it is filled with soft, whiny, narcissistic humans.
My photon barrage rakes along their aft hull, creating an impressive light show but doing little actual damage. I know I have their attention, but unfortunately they were already firing their plasma cannon.
All I can do is watch helplessly while the tremendous energy discharge rips right through the IHC freighter, cleaving their ship in twain.
Four
Daphne
Now that the adrenaline from my run is wearing off, I can’t seem to stop myself from shaking. It’s not much – hopefully not enough that anyone will notice – but my hands seem to have a mind of their own. To steady them, I grip the console and nestle in next to Rachel to check the progress and see how I can help.
The Alliance ship is doing a fine job of keeping the Odex busy. They’ve miraculously found a spot where they can attack while largely unseen, and the brutes on the other ship are having one hell of a time keeping up.
A drop smacks onto the screen, magnifying the pixels before Rachel reaches out to smear it away. Huddled up against her, I notice for the first time that she’s shaking. Here I thought it was just me.
“You said no survivors in Operations?” Her voice is even, but her breathing is shallow. She can’t look at me.
Oh, fuck. Victor.
“It was too much of a jumble to say for sure…”
“Don’t, Daphne.” Her voice is hard. More than I’ve ever heard. “It’s okay.”
We both know it’s not. I open my mouth, but there’s not a thing that I can possibly say. Instead, I place my hand on her back, right between her shoulder blades and rub lightly. It’s what my mother used to do when I cried as a child. She would rub gently until I could catch my breath. Sometimes even until I was asleep.
“Brace!” Yeats’ voice peals out across the room and the ship careens wildly from a substantial hit.
The quiet was too good to last.
Well anchored this time, both Rachel and I manage to keep our feet, but I see Weaver buckle to the floor a few steps away. Striding over to him, I make to pull him to his feet, but he waves me off vehemently. I’m trying to help you, you dick!
Leaning down again, I see why he’s so intent on pushing me away. The whole front of his uniform trousers is soaked in urine. I feel so bad for the reedy little runt that I yank him to his feet and pretend not to notice. My own anxiety is coming in waves.
It’s as though every time fear threatens to overtake me, something happens to require action on my part. Maybe it’s just distraction, but it’s working.
“There’s nothing I can possibly say right now,” I offer when I return to Rachel’s side. She tightens at the beginning of what is bound to be a banal sentiment. I push on, “but you should know that Thomas Weaver has just pissed his pants.” Rachel snorts with laughter
and a mixture of sobs and chuckles tumble out of her throat.
“Doesn’t it just fucking figure?” Her voice takes on a wry quality, “He’s the one who makes it.” Rachel’s face purses together and she starts to cry in earnest. I let go my grip on our anchor and just hold her. It’s what we both need. If another strike comes, we’ll either brace with the warning or go down to the deck together.
“What’s the status on the ammunition reserves,” Yeats says into his COMM unit.
“Not – sir. We’re hol – for now, but – ing will be…” the cutting in and out obscures the exact words, but you can hear the answer in the broken voice. Things are not looking good. There’s only so much the Alliance ship can do without putting itself at risk. It’s only a matter of time before the Coalition brutes return to their primary target.
“Tracer, we’re going to need an analysis of escape pod viability, can you get on that?”
“Yes, sir,” Rachel returns. The task steadies her. Our screen flickers as she runs through the systems and it’s impossible to get a read on what is or isn’t feasible for use. At last, it cuts out.
“Inconclusive, sir.”
“Right,” he assesses, “go for a manual scan.”
“Sir?” Her breath comes in short. Yeats is essentially ordering her on a suicide mission.
“You heard me, Tracer. Go out and make the circuit and bring back word how many pods are functional. Now.”
My hand is still on her back and I can feel Rachel’s spine go rigid.
“Sir.” She turns to go and I clamp down on her arm, locking her in place.
“Don’t, Rachel, I’ll go.”
“The hell you will, Daphne. It’s an order and I’ll follow it.”
“Damnit, you’ll die,” I whisper through gritted teeth.
“Then I’ll be in pretty good company, won’t I?” Her face holds more determination than I’ve ever seen on anyone. I try to memorize every line of it in this moment. Friends are a precious commodity, and I know I’ll never find another one like Rachel Tracer.
