“Captain! They’re adapting,” Doall announced.
On the screen, they saw the Cyber ships breaking away, retreating to a safer distance and gathering into a new formation, latching together like giant, evil, Cybernetic Space Legos. A few remained behind to provide cover for the retreat, and the Impulsive’s weapons team made sure they paid a dear price for it. Even so, enough survived that they could complete their intended form.
As the new configuration started to become clear, Jeb swore. “Doall, jam them!”
“The jam is on all frequencies, sir – even FM. Kind of sounded better that way, too. But it’s not working anymore. This must have been a programmed failsafe.”
“See how they connect, then move?” Loreli added, because her job is to study alien behavior and because she hasn’t been mentioned yet in this scene. “They’re getting commands through physical contact. I’ve made a note for HuFleet and the Union tacticians.”
The last of the Cyber ships broke off to join the rest, which had formed themselves into a large wedge.
“Bloody copycats,” Smythe said.
“Captain?” Cruz asked. He’d slowed the ship and it hovered, ready to attack or run.
As if sensing his thoughts, Doall said, “The formation contains 57.8 percent of the original hive. Still enough to integrate the entire system. Our shields are holding at 87 percent.”
Jeb narrowed his eyes at the screen. The tiny camera by the viewscreen focused on his determined expression for its visual report and potential intraship memes.
“Smythe, sharpen that wikadas shield. It’s chicken time.”
***
Imagine, if you will, two ships hanging in the blackness of space. Alone. Silent. The crew waiting with bated breath for the commands of their captains. If warp drives could rev, they would.
Okay, now hold that emotional image in your hindbrain because it’s good TV, but it’s not really what’s going on. In fact, on the Impulsive:
Smythe downloaded and encrypted the ships logs and deployed them by buoy and subspace transmissions.
LaFuentes was sending instructions to Deary, who shouted at his engineering crew, who scurried about making untested modifications for the battle while wondering if the chance to visit the pleasure planet of Alura was really worth the equally sized chance of dying a horrible death by warp core breach, panel explosion or Cyber API.
Doall ran sensor sweeps and consulted with her team about new ways to disrupt the swarm’s communications.
In the teleporter rooms, Dour’s team was making sure the Einstein batteries were fully charged and typing in modifications. Dour downloaded his last pattern into Smythe’s transmissions. If worst came to worst, he would return.
In the bullpen, the second-string bridge crew had put away their air guitars and were catching up on what the bridge crew was doing in case, you know, someone died and they got to step up.
Cruz was wondering how he could rev the warp drive.
Captain Jeb Tiberius was thinking about the last time he’d played chicken. It had not ended well. His father had grounded him for the entire summer.
On the Cybership, the drones were all thinking, “We are Cyber. We are integrated. We will kick this frickin’ ship’s butt, then integrate it.” Of course, that’s not a direct quote, but if the Impulsive were to voice it for the crew, that’s about how it would come out, only Pulsie would not use the words “frickin’” or “butt.”
Jeb asked his crew, “Got my miracle yet?”
“Not until we are in contact with the Cybers,” Doall said.
“It’s tricky and untested, but what the heck?” LaFuentes added.
“Show me.”
Doall sent a simulation to the captain’s console. He and Smythe grinned when they saw it. “That’s imaginative. Cruz, ready?”
“Dum vivimus vivamus,” he said, quoting one of the great space philosophers of his people.
Jeb gripped the arms of his chair.
Smythe raised a brow. “Your father isn’t going to ground you,” he said.
Jeb snorted. “Pa’s an admiral. Want to bet? All hands, this is the Captain. We’re making history or dying. Saddle up. Cruz, redline those engines.”
“Yes sir!”
In space, no one can hear you rev, but the impulse engines went from zero to full so fast that the astronomers on Clicha-Alpha-Two swore they saw the Impulsive buck and spring forward. Almost immediately, the Cybers reacted, racing toward them. At full impulse and then some, there was no time for anyone to have second thoughts or veer away. There was, however, just enough time for the Impulsive crew to enact their imaginative plan.
As the ship rushed toward the hive, the angle of the wikadas blade extended forward and rotated so it no longer met blade-for-blade. Meanwhile, the teleporter crews pulled from the Einstein batteries to convert the energy they contained into matter – pure unobtanium, the hardest substance in the known universe – into a very solid blade reinforced by the deflector shields.
The Cyber intelligence barely had time to register surprise when the blade sliced through its shields and the first row of ships.
“Initiating spin,” Doall said, and the blade began to rotate, matter and energies bashing into the wedge-shaped hive from above and below and in between. When contact was made, the drones were treated to “Fibonacci Transforms in B-minor and C-major” by the Logic musician, B’Lather. Heralded by critics as “so complex and mind-numbing it may induce coma,” the composition came with warnings for non-logic species. Of course, logic-based species often shunned the song because of its insidious earworm quality.
As communication between the Cyber ships shut down, replaced by the song, Loreli made a note to add Cybers to the list of alien races that should never be subjected to it. Or always. Can one adapt to an earworm?
Captain Tiberius frowned at the chaos on the screen as the Impulsive blended its way through the Cyber hive, which had become paralyzed beyond the ability to adapt or react.
“It’s almost tragic,” he said as Cruz swung the ship around to hit the hive from a new angle and LaFuentes took pot shots at the straggler ships. “Why hasn’t someone used this before?”
“FTBC is forbidden on all human ships,” Doall said. “We’re just lucky we have a Logic on the crew that’s a B’Lather fan.”
“What? Ensign!”
“Don’t worry, sir. We purged the ship’s systems as soon as we transmitted, and Minion First Class Ja’az is in isolation until he can stop himself from humming.”
“Sir,” LaFuentes cut in, “I think we’ve destroyed or disabled the last of the ships.”
“Really? That was easy. Anticlimactic, even.”
“Captain! The swarm has activated a self-destruct–”
Before Doall could finish her sentence, the ship rocked as a handful of drones around them exploded. Immediately, red alert sounded. An engineering console sparked and electrocuted the crewman watching it. Immediately, three secondary crewman dashed out of the bullpen, two to drag their injured comrade to safety, one to assess the damage to the system and get it running. All three were too professional to yip with glee at the chance to be useful, but the two carrying the injured crewman to the lazivator did grin at each other when no one was looking.
Meanwhile, Doall reported aft shields down and damage to the engines. “That was the first explosion. The other ships were having problems concentrating through the song, but they’ve got it now. Next explosion in twenty…”
“Do we still have reverse engines? Cruz, get us out of here.”
“I’m trying, but reverse will take us back into the swarm. Even turning us around will expose our vulnerable parts.”
“Shields?”
“Shield control is offline. I can’t remodulate,” LaFuentes said.
“Engineering is on it, sir, but they had a feedback surge from the explosion that’s wreaking havoc with the systems,” Secondary Crewman #3 called from his still-smoking console. He barely suppressed
a squeal of glee over having spoken a whole sentence in this scene. His name would be on the credits of this report for certain, now.
“Twelve…”
“Teleporters – Dour?”
“The Einstein batteries are depleted. It will be at least an hour before they can service my mistress again.”
While Smythe made a note to – if they lived through this – once again counsel Dour on his phrasing, the captain called for evacuation of all outer decks.
“Nine – Captain. Four ships approaching. Seven…”
“What now?”
All eyes turned to the screen except for Doall’s, who was concentrating on the countdown, and our secondary crewman who was composing a hasty message home to tell his mom about his big day. If it was his last alive, he wanted her to know he died relevant.
On the screen, two Kandor ships and three Clicha vessels warped into view. They immediately extended their shields around the Impulsive.
“One.”
Wrapped in a cocoon of five shields, the Impulsive didn’t even rock as the explosions sent shock waves through the system.
The crew cheered.
Princess Katrin’s face appeared on the screen. “Impulsive, are you all right?”
Captain Tiberius laughed. “We’ve been better, but we’ll live thanks to you. That was close.”
Katrin sighed. “I wanted to be here earlier, but Petru insisted we wait.” She looked offscreen with an exasperated but besotted smile. The viewscreen camera panned out to show Petru approach her side and take her hand. After giving her an adoring look, he turned a more serious, yet happy, one to the screen.
“Captain,” he said, “your crew has not only accomplished your mission, but saved our system. Let us escort you to the Clicha homeworld where you can make repairs. And, of course, you are all invited to the wedding!”
***
Captain’s Log, Intergalactic date, 676776.76
The Impulsive has been repaired, courtesy of the Clichan and Kandor empires. The Union has been informed of the battle and has dispatched a janitorial ship to clean up the debris from the battle before it becomes a hazard to travel or attracts other Cyber ships.
As for our mission, there was a brief scare when the bride and groom had a fight the night before and called off the wedding, but the groom’s wise granny intervened with some timely wisdom, and the two made up just in time for the ceremony. It was beautiful. They wrote their own vows. Petru cried. Best of all, Lieutenant LaFuentes did not have to dash in at the last minute and throw himself at anyone’s mercy, nor did Lieutenant Loreli need to inject herself with imposazine, although Doctor Pasteur did treat the wedding party to .1cc’s each. Their skin never looked better.
The entire crew was invited to the reception, and since it lasts three days, everyone will have a chance to let off a little steam and enjoy our victory. With the Einstein batteries charged and Deary providing the specs, we were able to treat everyone to an earth delicacy – stout.
The grand ballroom held fifteen different buffet tables, three dance floors with different bands, and ten kegs from the Impulsive. Crew and natives mingled like old friends at the buffet tables and danced like they’d just met and wanted to get to know each other better. Deary held court at one large table where he’d set up a holographic display of the wikadas blade and was lecturing the attending engineers and military commanders on its many unique purposes. Dour, meanwhile, held another audience in thrall with the metaphysics of teleportation. He wore his black robes for the occasion; a few of the bridesmaids watched him intently, their elbows on the table and chins on their fists, occasionally sighing dreamily. Wrapped up in his discussion of the Science and Dark Art of Transmitting Matter, he didn’t notice.
Meanwhile, Prince Petru’s black-sheep uncle, Sli, had cornered the captain and first officer to talk about the Impulsive and brag about his own military exploits. In between praising the beer, of course.
“Thish stuff is amazing!” he declared as he sloshed a mug of beer in Captain Tiberius’ direction. He was on his fifth pint and had already declared half the male crew his best friends and made passes at more than half of the female crew.
“I want to have more,” he said. “Long term, I mean. Shet up manufacturing, you know what I mean?”
“You’d have to take that up with Commander Deary,” Smythe said, leaning away from Sli’s breath. “It’s his family’s recipe. They have intergalactic patents, I believe.”
“Patent-schmatent. I’m sure we can come up with an equitable agreement.” Sli tilted his head back and drained his drink. Then, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell backward. Some of the nearby guests squealed or yelped with alarm. A few of the Impulsive crew, who had had a couple of pints themselves, fell into giggles. Four servants set their trays aside and hurried to grab the unconscious man and carry him to his chambers.
Jeb tapped his comm badge, which only by coincidence looks like a beer glass with a six-pointed star. “Captain to the doctor.”
“I see him,” the doctor replied cheerily. “Nothing .7cc’s imposazine can’t help – five, if they want him to keep the hangover.”
As they watched the doctor follow the group out, Councilman Edor approached with Doall in tow. The ops officer was blushing even though she’d only had half a glass of Kandor champagne.
Edor said, “Captain, I cannot praise the brilliance of your crewman enough.”
“But, really, you already have,” Doall replied. With her eyes, she begged for the Captain to make him stop.
“No, I agree. You did a hell of a job in the battle,” Jeb started, but Edor waved his hands dismissively.
“Battle, schmattle. I’m talking about how she planned to engineer the reunion of the prince and princess. It was sheer genius.”
“We never enacted the plan,” she protested yet again.
“True, Ellie. Events took their own turn, but what you said in that briefing room. It was inspired! Inspired, I say. You have an understanding of our people that is unparalleled by any in your species. Captain, I’m requesting that you relieve Ensign Doall of her commitments to your ship and let her come to Clicha as your Union ambassador.”
“And Captain,” Ellie said, “I’ve been trying to convince him that I’m not senior enough. Besides, I like my job.”
“Nonsense! Captain, tell her…”
From a short distance away, LaFuentes and Loreli sipped at their mugs and watched the goings on with amusement.
“Enigo,” Loreli said, “the Prince is happily married. I’m no longer under threat of his attentions. You should go have fun.”
“There’re plenty of security threats aside from Petru. Gotta stay vigilant. Besides, who says I’m not having fun?” he asked, but when she raised one perfectly pruned eyebrow, he relented. “Okay, fine. I’d rather be dancing. So, let’s go.”
“Enigo, my job as xenologist is to observe the rituals of other species, and as ship’s sexy…”
“…it’s to be competent, aloof and admired. I know. But you will be both better able to closely observe and to be admired on the dance floor. You’ve got to be a competent dancer. Come on. I know how to hurricane.”
Her face softened with surprise. “You know the dances of my people?”
“Claro. You think all we did on the Hood was fight? Come on, what do you say?”
“Well… if it would contribute to morale…”
“Certainly improves mine.” He held out his arm fist up so FEAR showed on his knuckles. She covered it with her hand and they moved to the dance floor.
The two took the center of the dance floor, raised their arms and began to sway in time to the music. Soon, others joined in. From where she rocked in Petru’s arms, Katrin pointed and giggled at the group. Petru whispered something in her ear, and the two rose to leave.
Now imagine the camera panning back from the happy scene: dancers, diners, and of course, the bride and groom giggling their way up the stairs. The mansion grows sm
aller as we rise, swallowed up by the city, where thousands of lanterns are being released into the sky in celebration. Next, the fireworks – watch out! – and then we are in space, where the Impulsive is stationed in orbit, always falling but never descending, hull new and gleaming, ready for its next great adventure.
Polarity Panic
Captain’s Personal Log, Intergalactic Date 676786.68
We’re back on patrol again after a brief stop at the Union’s station at Argo for some repairs, and to rub it in the face of the Union fleet that we defeated a Cyber hive while they were on a wild goose chase. It was all the funnier that some of the captains didn’t have a cultural reference for geese, wild or otherwise. That joke just never gets old. Since everyone wants the secret to our wikadas shields, they had to take it in good humor, so for once, we had minimal incarcerations due to bar fights… with the exception of our chief of security. Lieutenant LaFuentes met someone from a rival gang on the Hood, and well. I can’t blame him; he was still on edge after nearly having to throw a fight with the Clichan prince.
Fortunately, Ensign Doall was able to convince the magistrate that a knife fight is considered a cultural greeting on the Hood and punishing the participants was inherently racist, so both he and Lieutenant Deisel had their charges dropped from
“attempted murder” to “littering” and were fined the cost of cleaning up the blood they spilled in the passageway.
On a side note, between this and her work with the Clichans, Doall has been contacted by the Diplomatic Corps. They think she has a promising career as a diplomat. That’d be a shame. She’s too good an ops officer. Damn glad I followed cliché and put her on the bridge crew ahead of more senior and experienced officers.
“Captain?” Ensign Ellie Doall’s voice over comms interrupted his musings. “We’re picking up subspace anomalies.”
“Cybers?” Captain Jebediah Tiberius asked, dropping his feet from the desk. He had hoped they’d be done with Cybers for a few episodes.
She laughed. “As if! We’d be on red alert already. No, sir. But there is a ship in the center of it. They could be in trouble. Commander Smythe has hailed them, but it’s a new species. He requests the honor of your presence for when the translator has figured out what they’re saying. Poll has three-to-one odds for it being a distress signal.”
Hold My Beer Page 5
