by Zieja, Joe
Looking back at the control panel, Flash started mumbling.
“Damn, I forgot where I was. Flaps. Throttle. Lights.”
“There are people shooting at us!” Rogers screamed.
“Tower check-in,” Flash said, then pressed a button on the console. “Tower, this is Chillster Six-Five in the shuttle Bwana. Systems green.”
“Why, why, why are you checking in with the enemy traffic control?”
“Dude, if I take off without clearance I’ll totally get a nonqual on this flight. I gotta keep up my currency.”
Rogers buckled his seat belt and swore he would have this man grounded for the rest of his career if he could manage it. “Is the tower responding?”
“No.”
“That’s because they want to kill us! Fly the goddamned ship.”
“But the checklist.”
Rogers rolled his eyes. He could see through the cockpit that the security detail, since they weren’t being shot at anymore, were now feeling free to set up a giant turret.
“I thought you were supposed to be some kind of flashy, showy hotshot who didn’t follow the rules? Who cares about a goddamn checklist? We’re going to die, Flash!”
“But the checklist!”
The turret setup appeared to be complete, and Rogers thought that was it until a man in a crisp uniform came over to the turret with a datapad and began inspecting it, making check motions with his fingers every couple of seconds.
“See?” Flash said. “Checklists!”
“Oh for the love of . . .” Rogers yelled as he grabbed the controls, punched in what he thought was a start-up sequence, and pushed the throttle to full.
“Skip, what are you—aah!”
The shuttle jumped forward, the landing claw catching the body of the turret and knocking it across the hangar. The man with the datapad followed eagerly, and when the turret finally came to rest in a crumpled mass against the wall near the bay door, he knelt down and continued making marks on his datapad, shaking his head disapprovingly.
The shuttle screamed at incredibly unsafe speeds toward the open bay door, and Rogers wondered briefly why they hadn’t simply shut the thing. It didn’t matter now; they were home free if only they could—
A beep sounded on the console. If there was one thing in this world that Rogers was growing to hate more than anything else, it was beeping computer consoles.
“What does that mean?” he said, pointing to the console.
“It means you’re flying the ship in a tailspin,” Flash said. “Planetside, you’d be killing us right now, but since we’re in space, you’re probably just going to make us all throw up.”
Rogers finally realized he had been looking at his hands instead of the windshield, and now the world was going sideways very fast. The Limiter, still very close, was passing by in a blur.
“Will you take these damn controls and fly this damn shuttle!” he said, sitting back.
“I have the spacecraft,” Flash said atonally.
“Of course you have the spacecraft! I just told you you had the spacecraft. Why are you telling me you have it?”
“Checklist,” Flash said.
More beeping. Rogers looked at the display and his bowels turned to water. Well, they were kind of mostly water already, right? He was an engineer, not a biochemist.
More beeps and a warning siren kicked on as the defensive systems of the shuttle told Rogers some disturbing information. Rogers was starting to wonder about Keffoule’s no-fire order. She’d probably rescinded it after Rogers had humiliated her in the bar and then escaped her ship.
“What’s your checklist for being pursued by three Sine fighters?”
“Definitely have a checklist for that, Skip,” Flash said. “But it’s only got one item on it.”
Rogers looked at him, frowning. “And what’s that?”
The pilot grinned, his glasses shimmering.
“Get flashy.”
An Epidemic of Face-Kicking
A recovery crew and a fast but thorough medical examination later, Rogers rushed to the bridge of the Flagship. Some part of him thought he should have been appreciating the fact that he was home, taking in the sights, shaking hands with the troops amid cries of “Welcome back!” But really, he didn’t have time for that shit.
“What’s the situation?” he barked as the bay doors opened. He beat back the wave of nostalgia that threatened to emotionally overwhelm him—he’d been gone for a few days, at least—and focus on the task at hand. The bridge was on full alert, with both the offensive and defensive coordinators ready, equipped with laminated sheets and large headphones. Commander Belgrave was at the controls, possibly even getting ready to do something with them. The Viking had left Rogers rather abruptly, saying she was going to get the rest of the marines ready in case “shit went down,” and Tunger had passed out in the medical bay.
“The situation?” Deet said. Rogers hadn’t even seen him there, hiding behind a console. Why was there a turret hanging from the ceiling? “The situation? You want to know what the [EXPLETIVE] situation is? I’ll tell you what the [EXPLETIVE] situation is you [MATERNAL FORNICATION] [ANATOMICAL REFERENCE]. I’m probably going to kill everyone on the ship! There is no such thing as free will! When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you! Nietzsche!”
“Gesundheit,” someone said.
Rogers stopped where he was, about halfway to the command dais, and looked at Deet’s head poking out from behind one of the consoles. He drew a line from Deet’s head to the turret, saw the Meridan marine manning the controls, and put it all together. It also helped that the marine was muttering about “blasting that batch of recycled zippers.”
Rogers turned to Belgrave. “I’m assuming this is your fault.”
Belgrave shrugged. “The droid had questions. I suggested some answers based on existential—”
“Shut up,” Rogers said.
Rogers walked over to where Deet was hiding, shouting over his shoulder at the marine. “Get that damn turret off the ceiling. If anyone is going to kill Deet, it’s going to be me.”
“Don’t come near me!” Deet shouted. “I might crack and droid-fu you into little tiny pieces. Stop where you are!”
“Relax,” Rogers said. “First of all, you couldn’t take me. Second, you’re not going to droid-fu me against your own will.”
“There is no such thing as my own [EXPLETIVE] will!” Deet cried.
“Yes there is,” Rogers said. “Wait. I don’t know if there is. You might be a computer with mismatched legs, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make your own choices.”
“That’s exactly what that means,” Deet said.
Rogers got within a few feet, and Deet waggled his arms in a warning pattern. The last thing Rogers needed was a windmill droid fight in the middle of the bridge. For one, he’d lied—Deet could absolutely take him. Also, droid fu battles were possibly the most boring fights he’d ever seen in his life. It was just a bunch of arm-waving and shouting, not unlike many political rallies.
Behind him, he could hear the marine loudly protesting with a couple of technicians who were trying to help him dismantle the portable turret.
“I said take it down!” Rogers said. “That’s an order!”
He was pretty sure that was the first time he’d said “That’s an order,” but it felt kind of good. The marine locked eyes with him for a moment, muttered something else about recycled zippers, and started to help the other two technicians take the turret down.
“See?” Rogers said. “There’s nothing to worry about. The crazy people are going to take the gun away and nobody is going to shoot you.”
Deet’s eyes flashed, and he made an incomprehensible beeping noise. “That’s not what I’m worried about. You’re not listening.”
“I am listening,” Rogers said. “Do you understand what’s going on right now? There’s a giant fleet out there that is probably about to break its very brief truce with us and come and
blow us out of space.”
“Not helping things!” Belgrave shouted.
“And you’re sitting here cowering behind a computer console. Didn’t I leave you in charge?”
“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Deet said. “You’ve spent most of your new career trying to prevent droids from taking over the Flagship and then handed it to one. That was a monumental display of poor judgment.”
“Yet everyone is still here,” Rogers said. “You kept the panic from spreading while I was gone, and you haven’t sliced anyone into tiny, gross pieces yet. Right? Do you feel any urges to kill me?”
“Not any more than I usually do,” Deet said.
“See? You’re also making jokes. You were always so bad at jokes, and now you’re getting better at them. What would be the point of practicing your humor if you were just going to kill everyone around who could appreciate it?”
“I guess that’s true,” Deet said. He stood up a little straighter, exposing some of his body out from behind the console, and the marine who had been disassembling the turret drew his pistol. Deet shrank back down.
“Will you get off the goddamned bridge?” Rogers shouted.
“Yes, sir,” the marine grumbled.
“I need to figure out what’s going on, Deet. And I’m going to need your help in solving this problem for sure. So you need to put aside whatever doubts you’re having about your uncontrollable homicidal tendencies, come out from behind that computer, and be my deputy until this is all sorted out. We can answer questions about your free will later. How does that sound?”
Deet beeped. “Really [EXPLETIVE] [EXCREMENTAL ADJECTIVE].”
Rogers nodded. “Good.” He stood up, stretching his back, and turned back to the bridge crew, all of whom were staring at him. “Now, can someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”
Commander Rholos spoke first, covering the microphone on her massive headset. By the end of this, he would figure out what the hell that was all about.
“Sir,” she said. “We haven’t received any messages from the Thelicosan fleet, but it looks like they’re beginning to change formations. Several of their Battle Spiders are moving into something that is either an attack formation or a retreat formation. The Limiter has called back all its Sine and Cosine patrols, and several of the other carriers are repositioning themselves in a way that could indicate an immediate launch.”
Rogers nodded, taking all this in as he moved over to the commander’s chair. He sat down in it, putting his face in his hands and rubbing at his eyes. The last couple of days hadn’t afforded him much time to relax, and, to be honest, he was still feeling a little hungover. Had he really left an endless supply of Jasker 120 behind?
Think, you idiot, he thought. There’s more at stake here. What did Quinn tell you?
“Right. We have to assume they’re getting ready for war until we hear otherwise.” He took a deep breath; the news he was about to deliver would have sounded crazy coming from anyone. “During my time on the enemy ship I’ve learned that part of the motivations of the Thelicosans may be tied to an uprising of Jupiter.”
The bridge crew gasped, exchanging glances and muttering at each other. Rogers let them voice their astonishment for a moment; it really was a strange bit of news. For all anyone else knew, the Jupiterians had been assimilated for centuries.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But supposedly there is evidence that makes it a nondebatable truth. Communications, start a general sweep of the comm freqs and tell me if there are any holes opening up in the jamming net.”
The communications tech, who had been listening intently, swiveled around in her chair dramatically to get back to her console. She did so a little too enthusiastically, however, and had to make a full rotation before she got back to her instruments.
“Sir,” she said, “it’s all short-range, but it’s looking like some of the jamming has dissipated.”
Rogers nodded. “Good. Keep an ear open for incoming data packets and route all that information to my personal terminal. Someone on the Thelicosan ship has some documents that I’m going to need to review. Within the next day, expect a clear communications channel to be open to headquarters. I’m going to prepare a packet of data to send to them, and you are to do so immediately upon the channels being available. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!” the comms tech said.
“Good. Deet, I want you to come up here and plug in. You’re going to be my data filter.”
“But what if I suddenly decide I should trip the ship’s self-destruct mechanism?”
The marine who’d built the turret came running into the room holding a rifle.
“Get out!” Rogers said. The marine hung his head and left the bridge again. “Now, Deet, if you’re thoroughly done trying to become some kind of weird self-fulfilling prophecy, get over here and plug into the ship. Quinn is going to start sending us stuff anytime now.”
Deet walked over and found a power outlet near the command chair. He extended his “dongle,” as he called it, despite Rogers’ multiple attempts to tell him not to call it that, and plugged into the ship.
“Who is Quinn?” Deet said.
“A friend. I think. At least, someone who doesn’t want to kill me, kick me in the face, or marry me. So, at this point, I’d say she’s someone I can trust. When that information starts coming in, I want you to read and analyze all of it as fast as you possibly can, alright?”
“Got it.”
Rogers was forgetting something, he was sure of it. He couldn’t communicate with the rest of the fleet yet, so he couldn’t organize a response to the offensive formations happening in Thelicosa at the moment. Even if he could, he didn’t know a damn thing about battle formations in the first place. As he realized this, for some reason he was seized by a wave of despair. He didn’t belong in this chair; he was worse than Klein. At least Klein would have been able to inspire the troops. Rogers had tried that once and ended up confusing everyone by talking about poker.
“Sir?” Commander Zaz said, tapping his offensive coordinator’s sheet. “Should we launch our fighters and set up a screen?”
“Sure,” Rogers said. “That sounds like a great idea. How many do we have operational after our milk run?”
“About sixty-five percent,” Zaz said.
“Fine,” Rogers said. “Take half of them and have them gear up. Put the other half on standby. And make sure Flash doesn’t get in a goddamn Ravager. Or make any decisions. Or talk to anyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rogers snapped his fingers, remembering what he was forgetting. Tunger! He’d been on the enemy ship the entire time, able to move around freely without threats of betrothal or death. Rogers hadn’t asked him about what he’d discovered. Maybe Tunger would have a better idea of what was going on while they were waiting for the transmission from Quinn.
“Sir,” the communications tech said. “I’m getting something from the enemy ship, but it’s encrypted. I’m routing it to your terminal.”
“Got it,” Deet said. Quinn was right on time.
“Good,” Rogers said. “Someone get me Corporal Tunger. He’s in the medical bay. Tell him to come up here as fast as he can.”
The bridge got to work, doing whatever combat preparedness they could manage without being able to communicate with the other members of the 331st. The Flagship, being a, well, flagship, had ample firepower and shielding and decent maneuverability, but it certainly couldn’t conduct a war on its own. Rogers hoped Quinn had the sense to start opening up some of the local comm channels, too, or they’d get blown out of space before he could do anything to prevent it.
Rogers looked out the viewscreen, watching the Thelicosan formation doing whatever it was they were doing. He hated not knowing anything about being a commander. Why had they put him in this position? Why had they promoted him to acting admiral of the ship? It didn’t make any sense at all. He didn’t know a flanking maneuver fr
om a flank steak; if this did come to fleet-on-fleet war, he might as well throw himself out an airlock.
Glancing at Zaz and Rholos, who were talking animatedly into their headsets, he shook his head. He had people on this ship who knew what they were doing. He just needed to rely on them, give them enough room to do what they were trained to do. The Meridan Navy might not have been the best-trained, most disciplined, most prepared, most organized, most financially supported . . .
Forget it. They were totally screwed.
“This is some serious [EXPLETIVE] coming in, here,” Deet said. “Did you read any of this?”
“Yeah,” Rogers said, “I had plenty of time for leisure reading while I was fighting for my life on the Limiter.”
Deet looked at him squarely. “So why are you making me do this if you’ve read it already?”
“Sarcasm, Deet. What are you finding out?”
“Well,” Deet said, “first of all, this Quinn person, or whoever stole all this data, is an incredible computer hacker. She was able to blast through hundreds of layers of autocoded encryption, randomized into huge layers of entropy. Or she has some really powerful programs that do it for her.”
“Whatever,” Rogers said. “She’s just a bureaucrat. What did you find?”
Deet beeped in a way that might have been a little angry. “Have you ever heard the expression about not judging a river by its rocks?”
Rogers hesitated. “No,” he said slowly. “Have you?”
Deet ignored the counterquestion. “Anyway, the amount of information she stole is huge. You’re right, Jupiter is making an uprising, but it seems like they don’t have a centralized base of operations. They’re segmented into units and scattered throughout the Fortuna Stultus galaxy. I can’t tell how, though. They keep using the abbreviation SNG, but there’s no real way to tell what it is.”
Rogers swallowed. That was a lot of power, even if it was distributed all over the place. He’d heard of terrorist organizations that had similar structures in cities or on continents . . . but across the galaxy? That was a sleeper-cell situation on a grander scale than he’d ever heard of. But how did they do it? And what was SNG?
