by Tony Healey
“Green Wing to Nest, Green Wing to Nest, do you copy?”
Aaron got into a staring contest with his targeting reticule. The hairline plus at the center of his forward view mocked him with the utter lack of anything his weapons could do about the situation. He had all the bravado in the world, but one could not intimidate, kill, or outwit the cold emptiness of space. He glanced to his left, past the Manta at Michael’s ship. The absence of a reply to Michael’s attempts to raise the carrier came as no surprise, though it still tainted his already grim mood.
He imagined a Draxx fighter out in front of him, tapping his finger on the trigger while making gun noises. In his mind, he had the perfect shot into the main engine of a Monitor, and flew through a cloud of metal particles. Aaron drew in a breath, watched a violet whorl drift past on his right, and then glanced at the Mosquito at the head of the diamond. Everyone had been quiet for at least twenty minutes, save for the intermittent attempts by Michael to raise the carrier. Aaron wondered if Emma was crying. He expected her to be, needed her to be.
That would let him keep some shred of his own courage.
The silence had lulled Lieutenant Emma Loring into an ephemeral sense of security. Keg had factored out a waypoint that pointed them to where the Manhattan should be if its course had not changed. Sure, the little droid was old and at least partially insane, but he was still a droid, and an astrogation droid to boot.
If anyone here could figure out where the hell they were, it had to be him, right?
She had resisted the urge to look at Sarah’s picture for the first few minutes, knowing the effect it would have. Emma was not ready to accept the concept of being adrift. After ten attempts by Michael to comm the carrier without success, she looked. Sarah’s roundish face grinned with cherubic innocence; the smiling visage had been recorded during the most recent holiday break. A rare moment when both of them forgot about the Fleet and the Draxx, before this crazy mission was anything more than a spark in the mind of some deluded admiral.
Why did I volunteer for this? Am I nutters or do I just want freedom from Dad’s political life that badly?
The Combat Coordination System remained dark. Emma scowled at the CCS screen; the omen of having zero contact with the carrier finally tugged tears from her eyes. How would Sarah handle the news of her older sister going MIA? Would she cope? Would she wind up one of those broken souls that just drift along, never truly alive after some traumatic event? Emma lifted her visor and wiped her face. Her red eyes hardened, it was still too early to give up hope.
Aaron’s voice made it easier to stop. “Bet she’s crying.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Make you feel more like a man?” She cringed; the emotion wavering in her voice gave it away. It faded, replaced with cold anger. “Suppose next hop I’ll just stay behind on the Manhattan and have hot tea and crumpets waiting for the men when they get back. Maybe I’ll throw on a sun dress and pine my way across the flight deck.”
“Sounds like a brilliant idea,” replied Aaron, mimicking her British accent.
“She stayed cooler than you did, Hunter.” Michael’s silken voice soothed her. “Empty space is a hard foe to intimidate.”
Liam mocked Aaron’s “Get it off me” plea.
“Very funny, Tell. All I’m saying is that she’s a distraction, the men will go out of their way to protect her and take stupid risks.”
Michael sighed, the kind of sigh that ends debates. “Guess you weren’t paying attention to that last engagement. She saved all of us by distracting that corvette.”
Liam chuckled, off the comm. Keg worked feverishly at the controls for the electronics suite, trying to get any sort of signal through the distorting effect of the Chimera Nebula. The click of metal grippers on the controls provided a mechanical lullaby that made it difficult to stay awake. Liam leaned back and yawned, and then got up.
“Go spastic if anything happens,” Liam stretched. “I’m going to have a constitutional.”
“Gotcha.” Keg saluted him with a light clank.
The bomber-style cockpit had a tiny bathroom. Cripes, even Emma would be cramped in here. Liam assumed the position, enjoying the one perk of being stuck in such an unmaneuverable machine. He battled his nerves, intent on preventing him from completing this side-mission.
“At least there’s one benefit to flying a giant pig,” he yelled at the door.
“Great amounts of firepower and standoff range capability?” asked Keg.
“Nope. Don’t need to wear a PWRS.”
The tapping ceased. “If we crash land on a hostile environment, the personal waste recovery system would provide you approximately eighteen additional hours’ worth of drinking water.”
Liam gagged.
“Tell, you got anything on the long-range?”
“Keg, we got anything on the―”
“No, sirs,” replied the droid.
“It’s clear, Dragon,” yelled Liam from the throne.
“Good. Keep your eyes open, I don’t want to get caught with our pants down.”
What the… “Oh that’s hilarious, Dragon. You’re quite the comic.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Zavex set Betty to the task of keeping his position in the formation, something the AI could easily accommodate while they traveled in a simple, straight line. He closed his eyes, meditating on the situation and thinking of Niria. He smiled, accepting that should he die out here, he would see her again. Despite the short duration of his mission, volunteering at all for such a dangerous expedition was honor in and of itself.
“Zavex, are you smiling?” asked Aaron.
“I am at peace with my fate.”
“No family to miss?”
Emma scoffed. “Maybe they’re like yours and don’t want him around.”
“Ouch,” said Liam, his voice echoing and distant.
“Cute, princess.”
Zavex opened his eyes. “I have a sister, Niria. She is with the Yldris, our military.”
Aaron’s hologram raised an eyebrow. “Wait, didn’t you say your women are all passive and meek and can’t hurt anything?”
“Talnurian women are generally docile beings,” said Zavex with a nod. “Niria is a Ra’ala, a healer. They are forbidden by vow from causing harm to another living being, unless not doing so would ensure their death or the death of someone under their care. If I should meet my end out here, my spirit will find her and we shall be reunited.”
“That sounds like an oppressive culture,” grumbled Emma. “Women aren’t all cuddly and timid.”
“I am afraid you misunderstand. Talnurian females are, by their nature, nurturing and kind. Perhaps docile is a mistranslation of what I am trying to convey. Many of our women choose to fight alongside the Yldris, they are not forbidden from war―most just choose not to participate. Our society does not project expectations on an individual based on their gender, it is a matter of physiology.”
“Talnurians exhibit a modest degree of sexual dimorphism,” added Keg. “Males reach an average height of 2.13 meters at full adulthood while females average 1.6. Additionally, Talnurian women possess prehensile tails while the men do not.”
Zavex laughed. “Some men have tails, though the ones who do often have more feminine personalities.”
“Wait,” said Emma, “So you don’t expect a woman to be passive?”
“Not at all. Talnurian females are nurturing because it is in their nature to be that way, not because society demands it.”
“Everyone hold it together,” said Michael. “Enough talk about not seeing our families again. Our ships aren’t damaged―”
“Much,” interrupted Keg
“―and we have an approximate heading.”
Michael paused as the sound of a flushing toilet invaded the comm channel. Given their complement of fighters, there was only one suspect. The sound made the rest of them uncomfortable, reminding them of something they could not, at tha
t moment, do.
“Hope you enjoyed that, Liam.”
“I did, Dragon, thank you.” Liam made an exaggerated show of sighing with pleasure as he resumed his place at the controls.
“Look, everyone.” Michael cleared his throat. “We all knew that coming into the Chimera Cluster was a dangerous mission with the potential to make a major impact in the Terran-Draxx conflict. We all signed on knowing that there was a reasonable chance we would not be coming back.”
“Statistically, our odds of survival are better than station defense squadrons along the front line.”
“Ray of sunshine as usual, Tell.” Michael grinned. “Look, I got family too. I know where your heads are going and we can’t let it eat at us. At our current speed, we should be able to have visual confirmation on the Manhattan in about four minutes.”
“Assuming we’re even headed in the right direction.” Aaron grumbled.
Keg sounded upset. “I assure you, Hunter, my calculations are perfect.”
“It’s not your calculations I’m worried about. We thought we were flying away from the anomaly before and wound up getting closer to it. Who knows where we are going; the nebula is wreaking havoc with our Navcon.”
Michael stared at Aaron’s holographic face. Had Aaron been smiling, or shown any trace of sarcasm, he would have screamed at him, but genuine worry leaked through the virtual pilot on his console. He resumed tinkering with the communications system.
“Should we turn on our distress beacons?” asked Liam. “Those operate on an extremely low frequency signal that might pierce this cloud.”
“Not just yet, if there are more Draxx out here, they’ll come running at a Terran distress beacon, looking for an easy kill.” Michael thought for a moment. “Betty, run a scan on any ambient electromagnetic energy out there. Radio frequencies, cosmic radiation, anything that might possibly affect sensors or comms.”
“You really think that will help?” asked Emma.
“It’s got to.”
hey’re going as fast as they can,” Chief Macintosh told Commander Robin Teague.
The Commander watched as the repair crews hustled to get both capacitors up and running. The Manhattan carried several spare units, so now they were busily doing their best to disconnect the twisted and burned wreckage of the old capacitors and replace them with the ones that had come out of storage.
“I know, Chief, but this is time critical. The Draxx are out there. Maybe they’re as blind as we are in this nebula, or maybe the only reason they’ve not come near yet is that they’re uncertain as to our intentions. They might simply be wondering why we’re just sitting here. Even to a cold-blooded killer like them, what we’ve done must seem out of the ordinary. And the fact they’re preoccupied with our fighters right now.”
“Well, Commander, we should have the primary capacitor up and running in the next twenty minutes or so. I have everybody out here working on it. Pop your head in the engineering section if you like―there’s nobody in there,” Macintosh said.
“I know. I passed through on my way here,” Teague said. In fact, on her way to Macintosh she’d indeed visited the engineering section and found it deserted just as the Chief claimed. Strange to walk in there and find it devoid of any activity.
“You just can’t account for sabotage,” the Chief said.
Teague studied the former capacitors. They’d once been shiny chrome cubes, pipe work running through them like arteries.
Now they were black hulks, barely recognizable. As if the explosive had not caused enough damage, the resultant blast of chemicals and electricity reduced them almost to slag.
“Is there anything I can do?” Teague asked.
The Chief’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “With the people you picked up along the way? No. Even I’m redundant. They know what they’re doing, and they have more than enough hands here to help them.”
Commander Teague slumped against the wall. “So it’s just a waiting game.”
“Sorry to say so, but it is,” the Chief said. His thoughts turned to the conversation he’d had with Captain Driscoll while they were at Jump.
“All because you didn’t know when to call it a day. You didn’t know there are limits to how far you can push men, women and ships,” the Chief had said.
Driscoll’s eyes had become hard pits of darkness. “I do now.”
Everything was a waiting game, wasn’t it? He’d always known that one day their paths would cross again. He’d never imagined that it would be aboard a ship like the Manhattan. A vessel he’d put so much energy and spirit into, only to watch that man step in and assume the Captaincy. He was surprised that Driscoll hadn’t chosen a different Chief of Engineering when it had come to reviewing the crew roster―but Driscoll was no idiot. Macintosh was the best, and given the fact he was already elbow-deep in the ship’s construction, an essential component in having the Manhattan’s cosmic debut be a smooth one.
They had their differences, their past―one day Driscoll will answer for what had happened those many years ago―but for now there was a job to do.
Macintosh startled as a loud crackling noise burst through the air on the heels of the scent of ozone. Cyan sparks lapped at the walls for a few seconds as workers leapt away with stunned faces. The replacement capacitor sat dark. Just as a wave of disappointment started to sweep through the crewmen, the front panel lit up and it hummed. On its front, the holo-display flickered to life with a pie chart: eighteen percent capacity and rising.
Lights came on around them, the heartbeat of the Manhattan returned, thrumming along the deck plating in surges.
One of the crewmen leaned back and cheered; his revelry screeching to a halt with a worried glance at the ship’s XO so close.
“Congratulations, Chief,” Commander Teague said.
On the bridge, all systems returned to life. Driscoll slapped his hands together and gave them a rub. “Okay, ladies and gents. Looks like we’re back in action. I want a full status report. Damage assessment, short-range sensor sweeps, medical bay report. Blair, re-establish contact with all deployed fighters. If you can’t get them, keep trying until you do.”
“Uhh, sir,” Lieutenant Brooke said. “I think we have company.”
Driscoll looked up at the viewscreen. There, closing on them, were the unmistakable shapes of three Draxx capital ships.
“All handsss, battle stationsss!” Lieutenant-Commander S’lestra yelled a second before alarms rang throughout the Manhattan.
“Full reverse!” Driscoll ordered.
Hardy didn’t hesitate reversing the mighty thrusters, backing the ship away from the Draxx threat. The Manhattan trembled, the inertial dampeners struggling with the sudden shift. Driscoll stumbled forward a few feet before regaining his balance.
He turned to Brooke. “Lieutenant, target the lead vessel. Charge all primary weapons.”
Thin amber circles appeared on the viewscreen, spinning in counter rotation as they shrank over the center vessel. Within seconds, they blinked and stopped spinning.
“Target locked, sir,” Brooke said. “Weapons online, sir.”
“Fire at will.”
ichael tapped at tiny square buttons around the outside of the comm display, keying in minute adjustments to signal wavelength. Each time the numbers ticked higher, he repeated his attempt to speak to the Manhattan. Green Wing continued through billowing masses of nebula, following the course that Keg had plotted.
“We should make contact soon if this plot is accurate.” Aaron’s voice pulled Michael out of the tedium of button mashing.
“I have faith in the little guy,” said Michael. “Strange that we don’t see anything yet.”
“Have we gone astray?” asked Emma.
Michael pinched his nose. “Keg, did you factor for Protocol Four?” He continued, not waiting for an answer. “Of course you didn’t, that was changed twenty years ago.”
“Protocol 4?” The hesitance in Keg’s voice made five living stomachs
sink. “Oh, bother. You are correct.” Keg flew out of the co-pilot’s chair to the electronics suite. “Upon loss of contact with allied ships, the Manhattan would have canceled thrust and attempted to maintain relativistic orientation.” He ran the calculation again. “They would not have kept moving forward, so we’d know where to find them.”
Aaron sighed.
“Fret not my fearless companions, this makes it easier.” Keg ‘grabbed’ the glowing waypoint on the map and dragged it backward along the Manhattan’s projected route. “Adjusting for the moment of contact loss, according to the Manta’s flight log, the carrier would be stopped about here.” He tapped it, causing a rippling of light to ping outward from a blue diamond on everyone’s screen.
Michael wiped sweat from his face. “Come about eighty-seven degrees. We should be travelling along the Manhattan’s flight path now. If they did stop, we will find them, and so help me if one of you says anything about the nebula disorienting us…” He laughed.
“D… Dragon?” Emma seemed hesitant; it could have been fear or hope.
“Proceed, Sylph.”
“Look at your CCS. Is anyone else’s doing that?”
Michael shifted his glance to the center of his console. The previously dark screen lit up at the bottom with one word: SYNCHRONIZING.
Aaron whooped over the comm, loud enough to hurt several ears. “We’re getting a signal!”
“Yes!” Emma cheered. Not a trace of her copious tears of joy sounded in her voice that time.
Zavex’s hand entered his holographic bust, tapping his forehead and falling through a spiral wave in front of his face. “Vas’una has guided us.”
Everyone held their breath as the string of periods at the end of their new favorite word grew.
Synchronizing…
Synchronizing……
Synchronizing………
Dark again.
Hearts sank. Then, the screen fluttered and the full tactical map lit Michael’s cockpit like a marquee. The red sector-delineation grid shifted and wavered through heavy interference. Green Wing was absent from the display, though they could see the Manhattan’s glorious carrier-shaped icon, and other clusters of diamonds where Gold, White, and Red wings hovered close to it.
