by Tony Healey
“Yes, sir,” she said, almost embarrassed.
“Walk with me.” He hefted his carryall and headed left. “See if I remember where they stuck my quarters.”
“I believe we’re headed the correct way, sir,” Commander Teague said as she fell in step with him.
“Is everything on schedule, Commander?”
“Yes, Captain. We’re on target to depart within the hour,” Teague said. “Those were your orders, sir?”
Driscoll nodded once. “Yes. Any problems I should know about? Anything come up in the last couple of hours?”
“No, not at present,” Teague said. “Prep’s gone well. Though I dare say there’ll be a few hiccups, there always is.”
Now Driscoll gave her an appreciative look. “I like that, Commander. It tells me you’re thinking ahead and know we’ll have issues later. It’s a given. I also like that you’re not trying to blow smoke up my ass and feed me a load of bull. Keep it up. Tell me how it is. On the level.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Captain walked with determination, never breaking his stride. Crewmen and women swerved to avoid them as Commanding Officer and Executive Officer made their way toward the fore of the ship. Eventually they would be forced to take the elevator, but Driscoll seemed intent on covering as much deck by foot as he was able. The crew, for their part, paid little attention to who they were. They simply caught sight of the uniforms and made room.
Driscoll was everything Commander Teague had thought he’d be: muscular, deeply tanned, his hair more grey now than black. The man had an ever-present five o’clock shadow, even when he shaved. His famous scar ran all the way down his neck where, she knew, it continued out of sight beneath his uniform to cover the whole right arm. Driscoll’s jaw was squared off, his walk confident, but the one thing about him that stood out―made an impression on everyone he met―were his eyes.
They burned.
“Every ship has its problems. But we’ll iron those out. Just be sure to tell me when you have one come up that you can’t deal with on your own, you hear?”
Commander Teague smiled. “Of course, sir.”
“I’ll drop my things off at my quarters, then meet you up on the bridge,” Driscoll told her.
They turned a corner. A crew of engineers were dealing with a split in a coolant line. Driscoll didn’t stop to inquire. He didn’t need to waste minutes standing there talking to them, in turn inhibiting them from what they were already in the process of doing. Let them get on with it.
“Captain, may I speak candidly?” Commander Teague asked.
“Go ahead.”
They finally came to an elevator. Commander Teague called it, and a second later they were inside, rushing up through the many levels of the ship. The Captain set his bag on the floor by his feet.
“A lot of our systems haven’t been tested yet, sir. The Manhattan has not had a shakedown cruise. I don’t want to sound impertinent when I say this, sir, but I do wonder if we’ve been rushed out the door without a proper chance to make sure everything’s in order,” Teague admitted.
Captain Driscoll didn’t answer right away. Although his rugged face remained impassive, Commander Teague saw he was chewing it over. Evidently she’d not spoken out of line, or else she’d have expected an immediate reproach. The elevator hummed around them. Captain Driscoll faced her.
“Do you trust me, Commander?” he asked in a calm, level voice.
“Yes, sir. Implicitly.”
“You make a fair point about the ship. But know that I would not put this ship and its crew in any danger I myself wouldn’t be willing to face. Trust my judgment, Commander, and we’ll do well together. I have a way of doing things that might not sit well with what you’re used to.”
“Understood, Captain,” she said.
The elevator slowed to a stop as they arrived at the desired deck. Captain Driscoll lifted his carryall off the floor. For the first time since they’d met, the suggestion of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I wouldn’t necessarily consider myself untried when it comes to leading a mission into deadly territory…”
Driscoll exited the lift and left Commander Teague stood there with her mouth agape, watching him go, unable to say anything at all in return.
Captain Driscoll found his quarters sparse, uninspired, and utilitarian.
Exactly as he liked them.
He set his carryall on the bed, then went about emptying it. He hadn’t brought much with him―a few keepsakes that he dotted about, two bottles of single malt he placed in the bottom of a drawer and other assorted belongings he didn’t waste much time on. The two bottles of scotch were his real cargo. His one vice.
Driscoll kept it semi-dark in his quarters, as was his preference. There was a private head with toilet and shower. He also had a sofa, bed and desk. Compared to some of the ships he’d served on, it was a palace. Compared to others, the Captain’s quarters would never have passed muster.
However they were the ones he’d picked. He didn’t need fuss. Just everything he wanted at hand, in one place. So here it was.
“Ma’am?” Ensign Blair asked as she stepped foot on the bridge for the first time since the Academy. Then it had only been a set, a simulation of a standard bridge for training purposes. This… this was the real deal, and it felt different too.
The alien woman turned around. “Yesss?”
The Ensign broke into a salute. “Ensign Blair, reporting for duty.”
“Indeed,” Lieutenant-Commander S’lestra said, managing to keep herself from smiling, though not without some difficulty. “Take the Communicationsss ssstation pleassse. I believe that was your ssspeciality?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Blair said as she took her seat. The other bridge crew watched for a moment then returned to what they were doing.
“You’re familiar with this syssstem?”
Blair nodded. “Yes. It’s a sister model to the one I was trained on.”
“Exsssellent. Liaissse with Ssstation control, sssee where they’re at. Tell them we ssstill intend on disssembarking azzz hoped.”
“Yes Ma’am,” Ensign Blair replied, already feeling as though she were made for the job.
A voice from behind stopped Driscoll in his tracks.
“Well, Nick, it seems your hair is living up to my name,” Commander Grey said. The Captain turned around to face him. “But still a handsome son-of-a-gun if there ever was!”
“Well, well, well,” Driscoll said, grinning. He’d been on his way to the bridge and had not noticed Grey emerge from a door to his side just as he was passing. The Captain shook his hand vigorously. “I knew you were aboard, but…”
Grey raised an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to avoid me, are you?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“It’s okay. You can be honest. I’d wanna avoid me, too.”
Driscoll laughed. “Okay, maybe I avoided you. Must’ve been your appearance. You’re getting more and more feminine. Could be I mistook you for a woman.”
“I’m still more woman than you can handle,” Grey said.
Driscoll had known Grey for over ten years. They’d served together aboard the Divergent, starting out at the same rank. Driscoll’s ability and skill at the controls of a starfighter had equaled even the great ‘Hawk’ Nowlan. Whilst Grey remained a great pilot in his own right, Driscoll had shot up through the ranks, eventually transferring to the bridge where he soon found himself a Lieutenant-Commander.
“Why don’t you shoot for the same thing?” Driscoll had asked Grey at the time. “They need more people like us. There are too many silver spoons in command of these ships, not enough warriors. And that’s what we need right now.”
“I like doing what I do,” Grey had told him.
Eventually they’d found themselves posted to different ships, though they stayed in contact over the years and even met from time to time. When Driscoll got the call to lead the Manhattan, there’d been only one man he wanted to lead the way d
own in the hangar. To his relief, Commander Grey had agreed to do it. Now they were both older―and his old friend was right. Driscoll’s hair was no longer the jet black of his youth.
“Where’re you off to now?” Driscoll asked.
“The hangar deck. I have to settle in a load of newbies. I’ve got squadrons of rookies who need a good breaking in,” Grey said. “The usual.”
A bell chimed. An indicator he was wanted on the bridge; they were waiting for him there. “Look, I need to go…”
Commander Grey drew a tight salute, shoulders back, chest puffed out. “Captain.”
“Yeoman, Grey,” Driscoll said with a wink as a parting remark.
“Captain on the bridge.” Lieutenant Hardy announced upon Driscoll’s arrival.
The Captain raised a hand to stop him in his tracks. “Thank you, I appreciate it. But please… don’t do it again.”
The bridge crew returned to their stations.
“Sorry, sir,” Hardy said.
“No need to apologize, Lieutenant,” Driscoll said. “Just don’t repeat it, son, okay?”
Hardy sat back behind the helm next to the navigator. The only two seats to be found on the bridge were at the front, behind the helm controls and under the glare of the huge viewscreen. The other stations were manned standing. Not even the Captain and his Executive Officer got a seat. A lot of Captains complained about it, but Driscoll preferred it that way. It kept the crew sharp, it made them feel as though they’d done a full day’s work when they finished their shift. Their feet ached afterward.
Driscoll had once heard an Ensign complain to a former Captain of his, Captain Lancing, about sore feet. Lancing had leaned close to the younger man and said, “Grow thicker soles, my boy.”
In other words… harden up.
The bridge was an oval shape with the viewscreen at the end of one narrow edge, and the entrance to the bridge at the other. Smaller than the bridge he’d had on the Sonata. But then, the Archon classes weren’t equipped with an AI unit. Most of the Manhattan’s functions and processes could be handled automatically by the supercomputer known as Frank if needed, though Driscoll didn’t quite feel comfortable in putting his life in the hands of something that didn’t exist.
To a degree, you could trust in the dependency of metal and flesh. But positronic thought patterns? Not so much.
“Greetings, Captain,” Frank said through the overheads. “Welcome Aboard.”
Commander Teague glanced at Driscoll, waiting for his reaction to the AI.
“Thanks, Frank,” he said.
“Shall I prepare the Manhattan for departure?”
The Captain turned to Commander Teague. “Are all hands accounted for?”
She nodded. “Yes, Captain.”
“Go ahead, Frank,” Driscoll told the distinctly male―yet bland―personality.
Commander Teague went and stood by the helm. “Lieutenant Hardy, when you’re ready, clear all moorings.”
The Lieutenant’s hands flew over the controls. “Moorings cleared.”
“Release all airlocks. Uncouple the docking clamps and equalize pressure.”
“Aye.”
“Reactor at one hundred percent, Captain. Engines primed. Jump drive spooled.”
Driscoll waited for Commander Teague to return. “Efficient isn’t he?”
She nodded. “That he is.”
Driscoll turned his attention to the helm. “Thrusters only, Mister, Hardy. Get us away from the station before we open her up a bit, see what she can do.”
It was traditional to call a ship She or It. Never He. A chariot of the stars could only ever be referred to as a lady. Nothing less. Not when your life depended on her. Driscoll glanced at the overheads, wondering what pencil-neck in a lab coat decided to make the AIs in capital ships male.
“Yes, Captain,” Hardy said.
“Ensign,” Commander Teague said to Ensign Blair. “Thank Horizon Station for having us and advise them we are under way.”
“Aye.”
The other bridge crew were hard at work ensuring all other aspects of the Manhattan’s many systems functioned as expected. The Captain stood back next to his second in command and reached up to one of the handholds rigged across the ceiling. Robin Teague had already done the same.
“Helm has control,” Frank announced.
“Any way we can shut that goddamn thing off?” Driscoll whispered to her.
“I don’t think so, Sir,” Commander Teague said. “He’s part and parcel.”
Driscoll loosed an irritated sigh.
The Manhattan eased away from the side of Horizon Station. Hardy fired the maneuvering jets along her port side, allowing her to drift to starboard and gain distance.
The Lieutenant activated the thrusters, using only eight percent thrust to break away from Horizon Station’s negligible gravity. Once a safe distance from the huge superstructure, he increased their thrust to one quarter.
Lieutenant Hardy turned around, awaiting his next orders.
“Ahead, one half speed,” Driscoll ordered.
“Aye.”
A steady pulse of vibration rippled through the deck as the Manhattan came to life, emanating from the heart of the vessel. Power surged from the mighty engines at the aft of the loaf-shaped behemoth like blood flowing toward ready muscles. Driscoll had always thought of starships in organic terms.
The engineering section contained the heart and other essential organs. The bridge was the brain. The computer network had to be the nervous system. Her guns were her fists; missiles the spit she threw in the faces of her enemies. And her engines? They were her legs, strong and far-reaching so that she might run with grace upon the spider webs of stars.
“One half,” Hardy declared.
“All systemsss optimal,” Lieutenant-Commander S’lestra said.
“Thank you. Bring us up to three quarters,” Driscoll ordered. He let go of the handhold now, certain there wasn’t anything about to send him falling on his ass. “Keep pushing her until she’s at full speed. Tenth increments.”
“Aye.”
Subtle creaks and groans murmured through the carrier’s hull from the increased stress from the engines.
She’s having a good stretch is all, Driscoll thought to himself. Working the knots out.
Some small amount of give in the hull was expected―indeed, necessary. Especially when a starship happened to be as big as the Manhattan, and carried what she carried.
“We are now at full speed,” Lieutenant Hardy announced.
“Congratulations, Captain,” Commander Teague said with a smile.
Driscoll politely dismissed the comment. “Okay. Frank, what is the reactor output?”
The reply was instantaneous. “Currently eighty-percent.”
“Take it to one hundred, and redirect the additional output to the engines.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Although against guidelines, the manifolds were intended to take a maximum of one hundred and fifty percent output for a duration of eighteen hours before they would start to degrade due to heat. Frank would be aware of that. Could there be anything the Manhattan’s sentient AI wasn’t aware of?
“Reactor now at one hundred percent.”
The Manhattan rumbled around them for a moment or two, then settled back into a steady rhythm. Horizon Station would no longer be a mere speck, were they to look back. It would be indecipherable from the rest of the darkness. A smudge against the cosmos.
“Increase to one hundred and thirty percent,” Driscoll ordered the ship’s AI.
“Please repeat.”
“Frank, increase output to one-thirty,” Driscoll said. “That’s an order.”
“Yes, Captain. Increasing. “
The level of vibration increased, yet Driscoll appeared unfazed by it. “Commander, please report our status to Fleet Command. Tell them the ship has performed as expected, there are no major issues. We are now proceeding with the mission.”
“Yes, sir,” Teague said. She went to the communications station and instructed Ensign Blair on what to do.
Captain Nicholas Driscoll folded his arms, stood legs apart at the middle of the bridge. “You have the co-ordinates?”
The Manhattan’s navigator, Ensign Cochrane, confirmed that the co-ordinates provided by Command were locked in and ready to go.
“Then bring the ship to bear and take us to Jump, Lieutenant Hardy.”
“Aye,” Hardy said. The Manhattan turned slowly to starboard along her horizontal axis to suit their heading. “Ready.”
A barely perceptible whine emanated from below decks as the Jump Drive reached full charge.
“Proceed. Make the Jump.”
Lieutenant Hardy reached for the Jump controls and he activated the drive.
The stars seemed to shrink back momentarily, and then the mouth of the universe opened to swallow them whole.
Some people hated going to Jump
But not Driscoll.
He never felt so alive…
essage sent, sir,” Commander Teague said.
Driscoll nodded. “Good. Now go to full communication blackout. Nothing in, nothing out. As of this moment, there will be no long-range communications of any sort. That includes any Trans-Gal messages.”
“Affirmative,” Ensign Blair said.
“Good. Put me on the overheads please, Ensign. I want everyone to hear what I have to say.” Driscoll clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at the main screen.
It took no time at all for Blair to patch him through to the entire ship’s intercom system. The audio pickup at the communications station isolated his voice and amplified it. No one on board could say they didn’t hear him.
“All hands, this is the Captain,” he said. “Several days ago, I received the mission parameters that define this vessel’s maiden voyage. The task ahead is a risky one, fraught with danger. But I am confident that together, we can achieve what needs to be achieved. Together, as a team, we can do what we came to do.
“This ship, the Manhattan, is so named not only because she is large, but because she is strong, resilient. As I need you all to be. Throughout our history, in the midst of devastation, men and women of all colors and creeds have always found a way of coming together to form a united front against dark forces of terror. We must endeavor to live up to the name of this ship, to the region of Earth she is named after. To the people of that region who, time and again, managed to show their strength and quality. We must show the same resilience as those brave souls did, centuries ago.
