Wings of Steele: Revenge and Retribution

by Jeffrey Burger

  He smiled at her. He couldn't help it, it was a natural reaction every time he saw her glowing face. “I was just getting ready to come see you...” But there was something odd about the group's appearance that he just couldn't nail down.

  She stepped forward, her entourage staying put, silently blocking the doorway, standing stoically.

  Steele raised an eyebrow, “What's going on, Alité?” he asked, forcing his voice soft and low, suddenly aware of the abundant audience.

  “Admiral,” she announced firmly, but without emotion. “Please kneel.”

  “Excuse me?” he said, taken aback.

  “Kneel.”

  “What? Kneel?” Kneel? For some reason the word held no meaning for him in the present context.

  “Kneel, Admiral.”

  “What are we doing here?” he whispered, shifting his eyes to his left and right, nervously aware of the crowd.

  Her hand reached back, grasping the hilt of her sword, “Kneel,” she repeated again. “Take a knee,” she hissed quietly.

  Her face softened momentarily and as he focused on her eyes, he realized they were brown... Alité's eyes changed color with her mood. He had come to understand those colors and what they meant. Brown was akin to neutral. Now black, that would be another story. One with a bad ending... He let out a low breath and looked around, the faces around him watching with a mixture of curiosity and concern. He dropped to a knee and watched as she drew the sword from its sheath, making a spike of adrenalin shoot up from between his shoulder blades into the base of his skull. He looked up into her eyes. Still brown. Maybe a twinge of deep purple. He took a measured breath to calm his heartbeat. Purple was love, passion, desire... Odd. None of this was making any sense.

  But it was more the way she moved that calmed him. She was slow, methodical, smooth. With both hands on the handle she held the gently curved samurai-like blade vertical and brought it to her lips, kissing the flat of the blade near the guard, on the detailed engraving of an angel in a flowing gown. She dropped the tip toward him and rested the flat of the blade atop his head and prayed softly, her eyes closed. Her supplication complete, she gently tapped him on each shoulder with the blade, crossing over his head each time to the opposite side. “My love. My husband. My guardian. My King...” She touched the top of his head one last time before swinging the blade back over her shoulder and sheathing the blade with one motion without looking or guiding it into the narrow slot. She extended her hand. “Kiss my hand,” she whispered.

  Her eyes had shifted to a deeper purple, staring down at him, unblinking, shining. He took her hand in his and kissed it, still totally clueless as to what was going on. He hoped this was not some elaborate joke at his expense. But the little voice in his head was chattering excitedly away in his ear without really saying much. He wished it would slow down so he could understand it.

  The Queen pulled on his hand, “Arise my husband. Stand with me, my King...”

  He rose slowly. King? Did she just say King? No, couldn't be... She must be speaking figuratively... Please let it be figuratively.

  She pulled him closer, facing him, removing an oversized gold ring from her finger, obviously made for a man's hand and slid it onto his left ring finger. It fit perfectly. Gazing from her eyes to the ring, he realized the top of the ring had the winged horse, Pegasus standing rampant against the red rising sun like the logo they had used on the Freedom. Like the one on the Medieval shield hanging on the wall in his home back on Earth. The sides of the ring had surprising details. On one side two knights rode tandem on a single horse, the other side had a religious cross passing through a crown, suspended over a Maltese cross. “How did you know..?”

  She touched his lips with her index finger. “Later,” she whispered. She drew him to her side, facing the silent, anxious group in the conference room. “I present to you,” she announced loudly, “my witnesses of this event... My husband, King of Veloria.”

  What? Steele swallowed hard. Oh hell...

  CHAPTER TWO

  UFW CARRIER CONQUEST : UNEASY LIES THE HEAD THAT WEARS A CROWN

  The Conquest had completely different ambient sounds than the Freedom and Jack was having difficulty getting used to her unfamiliar rhythms. Her heartbeat was different, her energy felt foreign. It made him restless, longing for the comfort he felt on his beloved Freedom. He supposed he would get used to it. Eventually. Even Fritz had been listless at first. He'd finally settled down and fallen asleep on the sofa.

  Designed to be a fleet flagship, the bridge of the Conquest had two ready rooms, one on each side, so the ship's Captain and the fleet commander, in this case, Jack, could have private areas to conduct ship and fleet business simultaneously without having to split time or share amenities.

  He was sitting at his desk, semi-reclined, feet up, contemplating the comfort of the sofa, but he didn't feel like disturbing the dog who was stretched out across two-thirds of it. Steele rolled the gold Pegasus ring around in his hand, examining the engravings, still amazed at the quality, detail and remarkable similarities the symbols had to his life's background. Alité didn't get a chance to explain to him before he left how she knew, how she did it...

  He looked up when the door chimed. “Come in.”

  Lisa strolled in, an e-Pad tucked under her arm, accompanied by her German Shorthaired Pointer, Gus. She took a quick glance around making sure they were alone, “Playing with your man-candy, huh?”

  Gus, rarely short on energy, bounced over to Fritz, and jumped up on the sofa initiating a play fight, the two dogs tumbling off the furniture onto the floor, rolling around, canines bared, huffing and snorting.

  Steele slid the ring back onto his ring finger, lifting one eyebrow. “Man candy?”

  Lisa plopped herself onto the now vacant couch, “King... are you freaking kidding me? Like your ego isn't big enough already... I'm surprised that you could even fit your head through the door.” She was one out of a very small handful of people in the universe who could speak to him like that without getting bitch-slapped.

  “Hey look,” he objected, “it wasn't my idea...”

  “Please,” she waved dismissively, “I know how your mind works, you probably had this planned out from the very beginning...”

  Jack sighed. “Did you come up here for a real reason, or just to give me crap?”

  Lisa shrugged with an evil grin, “Can't it be both?” She got up off the couch, slid her e-Pad across his desk and dropped back down on the couch again. “Paul wanted me to...”

  “You mean Captain Smiley?” he interrupted, slightly annoyed.

  “Yeah, is there another Paul?”

  Jack closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “To you, he is not Paul, he is Captain.” Aggravation crept into his voice. “Do not expect that your relation to me will cut you any slack with the members of this crew...”

  “But...”

  “No,” he said holding up his hand. “Don't fuck with this... it's a respect thing. If someone requests that you call him by his first name or in a friendly manner, that's one thing, but you can never make the mistake of doing it out there,” he pointed in the direction of the bridge.

  “OK, OK, I get it. We are alone, though...” she muttered. She studied her brother for a moment and realized there was more on his mind than just this. He wasn't someone who sweated the small stuff. Petty wasn't his style. Gus and Fritz took a break from their wrestling match and Gus backed up, leaning against Lisa's leg, looking for a friendly hand. Which he got. “What's bothering you, Jack?” she asked. “Is it the whole King thing? Because I didn't mean anything by it...”

  “Oh I know,” he waved, sounding apologetic.

  “So what's going on? You miss her? Because, y'know we've only been gone a couple of days...”

  He leaned forward pinching his lower lip in trepidation. “Yeah I do... Miss her I mean. Colton too, he's growing up so fast. But that's not it. I'm worried about her safety.” He leaned back, “I originally t
hought the whole King arrangement was primarily a figure for the people...” He shrugged, “To show a royal family unit... I was hoping it was just a title...”

  “Like a trophy wife in reverse..?”

  Jack smirked briefly, “Yeah, sort of.”

  “But...” prompted Lisa.

  Jack rubbed his chin. “It's in case something happens to her...” his voice was low, dropping off. “There would still be a leader for Veloria.”

  “You?”

  “Me,” he said flatly. “A real King. With all the responsibilities it entails. For a whole damn planet,” he sighed. “I didn't sign up for that...”

  “Woah...” she breathed, wide-eyed.

  He pointed at his sister, “Uh-huh, yep,” he nodded. “Now you're at where I was twenty-four hours ago when she told me. Let that run around in your head for awhile,” he said, wiggling his fingers over his head, “and you might be where I am now.”

  “Wow that's... umm...”

  “No shit, right? Like I'm not hip-deep in enough crap already...”

  Lisa leaned forward, “What are you going to do?”

  “I don't know,” he groaned. “What the hell can I do? It's not like I can quit...” He stared down at the ring, twisting it around his finger. “I'm just going to have to come to grips with it somehow...”

  “There's a lot of military support there... do you really think she's in danger?”

  Jack took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Yeah I do...”

  “Gut feeling?”

  He nodded. “And the little voice...”

  Lisa had long known about Jack's little voice, the insights and precognitive ideas it fed him. Heck she had her own. The whole family had this uncanny knack for knowing something was out of whack before it was obvious. Almost telepathic to some degree. Jack's little voice was probing, deductive, and alerted him to danger. Her knack was similar though a bit more empathetic; she didn't so much hear a little voice as she could sense and feel things. If Jack's little voice had warned him of danger, she was inclined to believe it. It was right more often than not.

  ■ ■ ■

  Jack Steele took the steps at the back of the bridge down a half level to the flight tower overlooking the flight bay. With his back to the upper deck of the bridge, Captain Paul Smiley was examining the system on a holo-chart, including the ships in the task force, a training flight and the fighters on patrol.

  “I hate to bother you Pappy...”

  Paul straightened up looking over his shoulder, “C'mon in, Skipper, what can I do you for?”

  “You got a spare bird? Maybe I can do a patrol? I need to clear my head.”

  “Sure your Lordship,” he joked, “whatever you need...”

  “Don't,” said Jack, raising an eyebrow, his ire raising. “Just don't.”

  “Sorry. Too soon?”

  “Yeah. Too soon. Indefinitely too soon...”

  Paul nodded, “Copy that. OK, let's change the subject, what do you want to fly?”

  “Whatever you've got, doesn't matter.”

  “You want a wingman?”

  Steele shrugged, “Probably wise. Got someone who's not chatty?”

  Paul chuckled, “Sure. Suit-up and head on down to the flight deck. I'll have one of the Chiefs fix you up with a couple of birds.”

  “Thanks Pappy.”

  “No sweat.”

  ■ ■ ■

  The crew of the Freedom had lost so much, not just their ship - their home. They lost all the little things, like their personal effects. It was hard to calculate how much until you noticed you needed something and realized it was gone. Like Jack's flight suit, helmet and gloves. It sounded like something so small and insignificant, but things like that made him feel a little melancholy. Everything and anything that connected him to home was gone. Civilian clothes, pictures, wallet, his original 1911, favorite leather jacket...

  “How does that fit, sir?” asked the crewman fitting his flight suit.

  Jack snapped back into his head. “Feels just right.” He flexed his arms and legs to test for room and movement.

  “Good, then the measurements I got from your crew were just right.”

  “You made this new?”

  “Everything is new, Admiral,” replied the man, handing him gloves and a helmet. “I'm sorry we didn't get your call sign on your helmet, but I didn't get that information.”

  Jack glanced down at the glossy, plain white helmet as he walked out onto the flight deck from the pilot's ready room. “It's Stainless, but that's OK, don't worry about it...”

  “Stainless Steele...” smiled the crewman, “I like that, Admiral. Have a good flight.” He saluted and pointed Jack across the deck to the port side of the bay.

  The bay was so much larger than the Freedom's bay, probably nearly three times the square footage. But then again she carried more than three times the craft that the Freedom did. The walk across the bay was almost worthy of a transport cart ride. At a total length of 1,987 feet in length, the Conquest was a big girl. Of course she wasn't all flight deck, but it was close. Sixteen launch racks lined each side of the bay. It was impressive that she could field anywhere from one, to thirty-two birds simultaneously. Each rack had an independent door that would open and close as needed for launch, sealing in the atmosphere with a stasis field.

  “Admiral...” The Line Chief stuck out a ham-sized gloved hand. He was wearing an IAS Independent Atmosphere Suit, something very few of the crew on the Freedom ever wore.

  “Chief...” they shook hands.

  “A couple Lancias suit you OK?” he asked, guiding Jack around to the left side of a Lancia sitting in a rack, the hull door in front of it still closed.

  “Sure, Chief.”

  “Good, then we're all set. Up you go,” he pointed at the ladder.

  Jack snugged his gloves and headed for the ladder, suddenly realizing the Chief was tethered to an anchor ring on the floor between the racks. “Chief, why are you roped to the floor?”

  “Ah, this?” he tugged on the long strap. “Just a precaution. Occasionally we get a blowout when one of the stasis emitters hiccups...”

  Jack paused on the ladder, the Chief below him. “Hiccups?”

  “Sure Admiral. Look, the old gal is nearly a hundred years old, she's not perfect. It's no big deal, it almost never happens...”

  “How often is almost never?”

  “Once in a while...”

  Steele frowned at him.

  “About once a month...”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, sir, we lock down the outer door, pull the unit, rebuild it and pop it back in. The rack is usually only down for a day. Sometimes less if we have a rebuilt or two in reserve.”

  “Why haven't we just replaced them all, Chief?”

  “Well we did... about twenty-five years ago.”

  “And how long did they last before they started to hiccup?”

  The Chief shrugged in his suit. “About twenty years I guess.”

  Steele rolled his eyes. “And in the last five years, how many people did we lose during these hiccups?”

  “A few...”

  Jack almost bit down on his tongue. “Why didn't the emitters get replaced again?” he asked disdainfully.

  “I guess the old man didn't want to take us out of service...”

  “Pottsdorn?”

  “Yes, sir. The Admiral wasn't exactly... um...”

  “Sane?” said Jack flippantly.

  “Uh yes, sir.”

  Steele stepped back down off the ladder. “How long would we be out of service to do the whole repair job? Replace all of the emitters?”

  “Well for just the emitters, probably about a week. But if you're going to do the emitters, you should actually replace the reflectors, sensors and cabling to avoid any other issues...”

  “How long?”

  “Two weeks. Maybe a little more.”

  “Could you do them one at a time while we were under way?�
��

  “Theoretically, yes. It would take us a lot longer though.”

  “Theoretically?”

  “Well we'd actually have to lock down three doors at a time, one on either side of the one we're working on to pull and replace the cabling.”

  Steel took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead through his open visor. “OK, Chief. Tell you what... Make a list of all the parts and supplies you guys are going to need... tools, anything. I'll make sure you get it. If we can't find the time to sit in a station, we'll do it under way. Either way we'll get it done...”

  “I'll need to get the engineers involved too...”

  “Do whatever you need to do, Chief,” interrupted Jack. “Your job is dangerous enough without having to worry about worn out equipment blowing you out into space.” He began climbing back up the ladder to the fighter's cockpit, “Good freaking grief,” he muttered.

  ■ ■ ■

  While the Freedom's launch tubes shot a launching fighter through about half the length of the ship, the launch run in the Conquest was barely longer than the length of the fighter. Staring at the door in front of the nose of his Lancia, Steele checked the seal on his canopy and initiated his systems. Going through his flight check, a wash of cool air surrounded him as the climate control system kicked on. Glancing to his left, he exchanged nods with his wingman sitting in a Lancia in the neighboring launch rack, who had already been prepared to launch before he arrived in the bay. He listened to the tower's comm traffic as he waited for the launch.

  The Chief retreated twenty feet behind the racks, crouched down and latched a short strap to the ring on the deck that his long strap was tethered to. He could now only move about five feet. “Nine and ten, all systems ready, drivers ready,” he looked left and right, “deck clear, ready for launch.”

  The red lights above the launch doors flicked to green and the blue stasis fields wavered into existence, the outer doors splitting horizontally like some toothy grin, opening wide. The door panels disappeared quickly into the ceiling and floor.