by Tony Healey
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we embark on a mission that will test the limits of every man and woman aboard this ship. It will test the depths of our resolve, our commitment, and our technology. All of you are here because you share the same goal―to end the Draxx threat. To end over one hundred years of conflict. An end to war.”
Driscoll paused for effect.
“We make war only to end it. That has always been our purpose. Regardless of what happens from this point on, I want everybody to try and remember that. If you feel that I push this ship, if you feel that I demand too much from you, remember why we are here. My resolve will not waver in the face of adversity. I expect the same dedication in return. Driscoll out.”
“Our orders, sir?” Commander Teague asked.
Driscoll looked about at the bridge crew. “In the conference room, Commander. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“Shall I head there now?” she asked.
“Yes. Go ahead. I’ll be along.”
He watched her go, then turned to Lieutenant Hardy. “How long until we reach our destination?”
Hardy made a quick check of his readouts. “Two hours, sir.”
“Excellent.”
“Uh, Captain, might I ask where it is we’re going? It’s not coming up on my screen. Just the co-ordinates,” Hardy said. “I mean, the Chimera Cluster is a pretty big region of space.”
Driscoll smirked. “That’s because the route by which we are arriving there is classified. It wouldn’t do for every Tom, Dick, and Harry aboard the Manhattan to have access to that sort of information, would it, son?”
Lieutenant Hardy swallowed. “No, sir. No it wouldn’t.”
“Precisely. Lieutenant-Commander S’lestra, you have the bridge. Alert me if anything crops up. I’ll be in the conference room.”
Chief Dave Macintosh listened to his new CO’s speech, whilst around him the rest of engineering remained a hive of activity. Under normal circumstances, he would have ordered they pay attention. But on this occasion, with the Manhattan fresh out of the gate and embarking on her maiden voyage, he’d made the decision to have them continue working. Of course, he himself had stopped to hear what Captain Driscoll had to say.
All very stirring stuff, however it did little to alleviate the Chief’s concern that they had been forced to leave before the Manhattan had been properly broken in.
Once assembled in her basic state, the Manhattan had been hauled to Horizon Station to have her hull fitted. Her many systems and components were connected with the Station’s AI for a brutal gauntlet of simulations and evaluations.
Chief Macintosh had been involved from day one, from soon after approval of the Manhattan’s design to his official posting as Chief of Engineering.
Although he had never intended to play Chief to Driscoll…
With the Captain’s speech over, the Chief got back to work. While the Manhattan was at Jump, the engineering crews had their hands full monitoring every system to ensure each and every aspect of the ship operated as intended.
Driscoll… he’d not even had a face-to-face meeting with the man yet. Apparently his posting had been something of an eleventh hour event, mere days beforehand. They’d pulled him fresh from his previous command to take the Manhattan out. Of course, it wasn’t like Driscoll was some hot new talent trying to make his mark.
Nick Driscoll needed no introduction.
Despite his own private feelings about the man, the Chief couldn’t deny he was a veritable legend in his own right. Of course they’d wanted him for the Union’s latest ship…
“Chief, we’re about to disengage the polaron influx tanks. Do you want to supervise?” Lieutenant Daniels asked.
“Yes,” Macintosh said, his reverie broken. “Get to it, lad, I’ll be right there.”
Nick Driscoll. Of all the people…
Once Driscoll was off the bridge, Hardy turned to the Manhattan’s navigator, Ensign Tom Cochrane.
“Serious, ain’t he?” he said in a low voice.
“Guess he has to be,” Cochrane replied.
Hardy whistled through his teeth. “And that scar down his neck? D’you see that?”
Ensign Cochrane nodded. “Yeah. I know how he got it, too. The battle of Tamaka. I noticed he didn’t like the traditional stuff, either. Shot you down pretty quickly.”
“Well, I guess I walked into that one. I mean, I―”
A sudden presence loomed behind them. A voice, low and scratchy yet at the same time distinctively feminine.
“Sssomething to sssay, gentlemen?”
They both looked over their shoulder at the same time. Lieutenant-Commander S’lestra glared down. Her bright jade green eyes sparkled with an inner fire that might have been curiosity or anger.
“Uh, nothing Ma’am,” Hardy said.
“Hmm. Well, let’sss keep it that way,” she said, squinting. “Mouthsss shut and handsss firmly on joysticksss, pleassse.”
“Yes Ma’am,” Ensign Cochrane said, blushing.
Lieutenant-Commander S’lestra returned to her post at the science-tactical station. At seven feet tall and cast with golden skin, she made for an imposing figure. Dark brown dreadlocks hung to the bottom of her back. They were not merely hair, but nerves and feelers, all woven together into plaits. She was a Thriknor, renowned throughout the galaxy for their seductive abilities and tantric lovemaking.
This fact alone was enough to make every male member of the Manhattan nervous in her presence―which suited her just fine. As the only Thriknor aboard, it gave her the edge she needed to demand their attention and obedience. Of course, being the size she was helped too. Were she any other race, her conduct might have been called into question. Thriknor could not help their peculiar sex drives, but were known for their professional competence.
Absently, she wondered if any of the males aboard would be able to handle her when it came to bedroom aerobics. There was only one she could think of.
And Captain Nicholas Driscoll looked like he could handle anything…
hundred or so men and women milled through two sets of doors along the south wall, filing among rows of auditorium seats. Fighter pilots in white, bomber crews in black, one squad of search and rescue in drab green, and a handful of electronic warfare operators in grey. The room sloped downward toward the front, a descending grade that ended at a large round holo-emitter table and a podium. The rear wall caused many of the arriving pilots to do a double take; the high-resolution star-map created the illusion of a hole in the hull.
Michael Summers took a seat on the right side, followed soon by Aaron, Liam, Emma, and Zavex. It seemed as though bunk assignments followed suit with unit membership, the clustering in Briefing Room A echoed the assignments of quarters. He leaned back in his chair, at ease as if they were about to use the giant star-map to view the latest Zinbaru game.
Emma kept her hands on her knees, staring at the tendons along the back as if the weight of her gaze would keep them from shaking. The reality of her surroundings sank in, leaving her second-guessing her decision. For a moment, she wondered if her father had enough pull to get her out of here. Rigid, she made fists and resisted the temptation. Across the way, one of the erratic Recon pilots decided to leap two rows of seats to get to an empty spot. His wild howl made her jump.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” whispered Aaron to Liam. He pointed at Emma with the hand he had used to shield his voice. “Look at her, poor little thing’s trembling.”
Liam scoffed. “You don’t honestly think she’s the only one in here that’s nervous, do you?”
“At least the others have the ability to hide it. I don’t want to get stuck out there with a nervous Nellie.”
She frowned at his less-than-quiet belittlement, and resumed the staring contest with her hands. Michael leaned forward, blocking the line of sight between Aaron and Emma, eyebrow cocked.
“I’ve seen her sim logs, Lieutenant Vorys. She’ll do just fine.”
Aaron squinted at him, then gave Liam a light elbow to the arm. “Why’d we get this guy anyway? What happened to Squid?”
Laughing, Liam rubbed his eyes. “Ahh, ol’ Squiddie had political ambitions. He didn’t fancy this hop; can’t run for office if you’re dead. You know this particular suicide mission was all strictly volunteer.”
Emma gawked at him.
“So…” Aaron glanced at Michael’s shoulder patch. “Dragon, eh? What’d you do to get that Callsign?”
“I had an old martial arts gi with a red circle on the back; it had a dragon head through it.” Michael coiled his right hand in the shape of a serpent about to strike.
“Spent most of his free time in personal combat holo-sims or watching bad movies where the words never fit the lips,” said a voice from the row behind them.
“Hey, Duck.” Michael shook hands with a pasty-faced man a head taller than everyone else in the row.
“Duck?” Aaron made a disapproving face. “That’s kind of a weak callsign.”
Michael laughed. “Academy guys always threw crap at his head, he never moved.”
“Hope he has better reaction times to particle beams,” Aaron laughed.
Eddie “Duck” Larsson frowned.
“What about you, princess?” Aaron leaned forward, challenging Emma with a glance.
“Sylph,” she said, in a voice much calmer than she looked. “Not sure if it’s because of my size or my sim score.”
“Sixteen kills, not one incoming hit,” said Michael with a raised eyebrow. “Impressive.”
“Only sixteen kills?” Aaron rolled his eyes. “I got ninety-three.”
“And you got blown up forty-one times. She doesn’t have a single incoming hit, that’s not death count.”
“What,” said Liam, blinking at Michael. “Did you memorize our dossiers?”
“Not quite, but I had to look at them.”
“Well, I don’t think my forty-four and eleven record is that bad.” Liam folded his arms.
Aaron put on an air of sanctimony. “You only got eleven deaths because you lurked at the perimeter in every damn match; real combat won’t afford you the opportunity to snipe.”
“Real combat won’t afford the opportunity to hot dog. You could get away with it in the sim because a helmet shock is a lot less permanent than getting vapped.” Emma couldn’t take it anymore. “It’s not about scores or kills; it’s about staying alive to go home. Dead pilots can’t stop Draxx.”
“What about you, Aaron?” Liam nodded at the man’s patch. “Where’d you get ‘Hunter’ from anyway?”
“I heard he chose his own callsign,” said Emma, not looking at anyone.
The others gave him accusing glances, Liam cringed.
Aaron waved dismissively. “Well, so what? The one they came up with wasn’t right for me.”
“Bad luck, man. Bad luck,” said Liam, shaking his head.
“What is callsign?” asked Zavex.
Emma looked to her side, almost jumping at the sight of the alien’s face so close to her. “Sorry, I’m at sixes and sevens now. Callsigns are just nicknames pilots give each other to make things quick and easy on comm traffic. They usually happen during Academy and stick with someone for life.”
“Well, I think my―”
She put a hand on his arm. “It’s a dodgy thing to pick your own, bad luck. You’ll get one when the time is right.”
“Right on that,” said Liam. “A real jinx.”
“Bunch of superstitious ninnies,” grumbled Aaron.
“What was the original one?” asked Liam. His grin broadened at the silent treatment he got. He’d struck a nerve.
“Alright, listen up.” An authoritative voice washed over the crowd, hushing the din of a dozen whispered conversations.
A man in his later forties wearing the dark blue utility jumpsuit/uniform of a capital ship officer stood behind the silver podium. Charcoal-hued stubble surrounded most of his shaved head, save for a white moustache. He waited all of ten seconds for the murmuring to subside before he continued.
“My name is Commander Ellison Grey. I am the Operations Officer on board The Manhattan. For the next twelve months, I will be your father, mother, best friend, worst enemy, and the stuff your future nightmares are made of. Just for the record, I’ll put it out right here―if anyone experiences a pressure mishap with the latrines, you are responsible for cleanup. Just because you are officers, don’t try to fawn it off on some junior enlisted. You blow mung in the head, you clean it up.”
Faint chuckling emerged from the pool of black flight suits on the far left side of the room. The bomber crews; they looked less new than everyone else.
“Well, many of you have impressive records on the sims, and we even have a Falkirk celebrity on board. However, except for a handful of you, there is more water behind your ears than we have in our potable tank. I don’t care what kind of superstar you think you are, sims are not real-world conditions. Those little tricks you learned on the computer won’t work out here. There’s no game over waiting for you out there, just the cold obscurity of a mass of crystallized guts floating through the endless vacuum of space. My goal is to bring all of you home at the end of this, but I harbor no illusions. Some of you will not be with us when we get back.”
A murmur of disapproval drifted through the crowd.
Commander Grey leaned on the podium, curling his fingers around the front edge. “The Draxx are deadly enough without getting any help from fools. Stay professional.” He paused to slide his gaze over a silent audience, and then stood up straight once more. “As Captain Driscoll said, we are about to embark on a mission that will test the limits of every man and woman aboard this ship. It will test the depths of our resolve, our commitment, and our technology. All of you are here because you share the same goal: an end to the Draxx threat.”
A few unsteady cheers turned into a dull roar.
“Now then.” Commander Grey tapped at the podium, the light on his face tinted white from text no one else could see. “Many of you should be Ensigns, given your tenure and status right out of the academy. I’m sure you are all acutely aware of the risks of this particular mission. As a token gesture, command has fast-tracked a fair number of you to O2. Those of you selected as squadron leaders have been given a promotion to O3. These are battlefield advancements necessitated by our undertaking. When the fur stops flying, your rank may revert to Ensign unless you carry yourself in a manner that deserves otherwise.”
Emma closed her eyes, trying to get the image of her sister out of her mind. Aaron leaned forward; irritated at the thought his rank was impermanent. Michael reclined, a practiced posture from less interesting classes. He might have been sleeping with his eyes open.
“For most of you, the ink on your rank insignias isn’t even dry. Therefore, your flight groups do not yet have proper names. When you convince me you deserve them, that will change. For now, I have assigned names based on the crayons you kids are playing with.” He swiped his finger at the podium, the color of the glow on his face darkened to green.
“The wings and squad leaders are as follows: Black Wing, Lt Brian “Dentist” Worley, interdiction. Blue Wing, Squad Leader Lt Uma “Momma Bear” Zeitsev, interdiction. Gold Wing, Lt Tran “Whisper” Huang, interdiction. Green Wing, Lt Michael “Dragon” Summers, multirole. Silver Wing, Lt Cara “Shootdown” Wallis, interdiction.” Commander Ellison paused, raising an eyebrow. “I hope that came from your flight performance and not your downtime at the cantina.”
The room chuckled.
“Green wing? Is he serious,” seethed Aaron in a whisper.
Liam gave him a light punch in the leg. “Shh, you’ll get us reprimanded. He’s not calling us green, it’s just a damn color.”
“Magenta Wing, Lt Greg “Wolf” Pearson. Magenta will take on a close-support role, your squadron will be comprised of all Manta-class fighters.” Cmdr. Ellison swiped to the next page. “Orange Wing, Lt Curtis “Glimmer” Walker,
also close support. Red Wing, Lt Sean “Hamfist” O’Loughlin, multirole, and finally White Wing, Lt James “Knight” Heath.”
Emma grinned.
“What’s so funny?” whispered Liam.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just being silly… White wing, Knight… white knight.” She blushed.
Michael smiled.
“Due to time constraints,” continued Cmdr. Grey, “we were forced to accept seasoned bomber squads and could not obtain fresh, untrained meat like the rest of you. Lcdr. Sam “Mole” Donovan heads Piranha Wing, Lt Javier “Scorpion” Medina is the squad leader for Rapier Wing, and Lt Rory “Hatter” Thompson has command of Vandal Wing. Multirole teams should get on good terms with them as soon as possible; you will stand between their bombers and a fiery death. Please try not to adopt any of their bad habits.”
Commander Grey waited for another wave of mirth to peter out.
“As you all know, our mission will bring us in to the Chimera Cluster.” The star-map shifted, blurry points of light swarmed off to the side as the image tracked to a particular sector. A nebula cloud of peach and violet dominated the screen when it stopped scrolling. “This region has been, so far, avoided by both Terran and Draxx forces due to certain irregularities in its energy signature. Neither side has much in the way of research data regarding the nature of certain phenomena that may or may not occur within it. The Manhattan is equipped with some experimental technology intended to combat these effects.”
“It’ll be a miracle if it works,” whispered Aaron.
Once again, Liam hit him in the thigh.
“The Chimera Cluster, and its associated nebula, border the Draxx Combine along most of its rimward edge. Up until now, the Draxx have enjoyed relative safety from this angle due to the effects of the region. It is our mission to change that, either by exploiting their lack of defenses there, or by creating enough of a threat that we attract forces away from the front lines and provide our compatriots with an opening.”
