Wrath of an Angry God: A Military Space Opera (The Sentience Trilogy Book 3)

by Gibson Michaels

  A color guard followed by a Fleet Marine rifle drill team led the procession, followed by the traditional riderless horse, with empty boots reversed in the stirrups, and then the caisson bearing Turner’s body coming next. President Arlene McAllister herself walked immediately behind the flag-draped casket, flanked on either side by Secretary of Defense Admiral Douglas Campbell (ret.), Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Simon Bradley, Chief of Fleet Operations, Admiral Enrico Melendez and his aide-de-camp, Commander Marilyn Fredricks. Just behind the president walked Turner’s elderly parents and his siblings, who insisted upon making the long march as well. Most members of Congress who had any intentions whatsoever of running for reelection, immediately followed behind Turner’s family.

  To the president and all who walked beside her, there was an eerie, but universal feeling of an invisible presence walking beside them... a familiar ghost who should have been there, but was not. The pageantry of J.T.’s funeral gave them all a newly profound sense of poignant loss for yet another hero and friend, one who would never be afforded honors such as these — one who had not so much as a simple stone to mark his final resting place, for none could begin to know where that might be.

  * * * *

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  One of the largest graveside services in living memory filled that prominent section of Arlinton National Cemetery. The tomb itself was not quite what it would eventually be... there just hadn’t been sufficient time to do everything, but they had gotten the eternal flame installed, which was jointly lit by President McAllister and J.T.’s father in a poignant moment.

  Work on the outer, above-ground area of the tomb would continue long after the crowds and holovision crews left — marble slabs set and inscribed, grass and flowers planted. All would eventually culminate in a three times life-sized granite statue of J.T. in a heroic pose, donated on behalf of the people of the Imperial Germanic Empire, by Kaiser Wilhelm VII. That crowning achievement would take several months of painstaking carving and sculpting to finish. Somewhere in the teeming throng of tens of thousands of mourners, a relatively obscure member of the German Royal Family was supposedly in attendance, representing the emperor.

  The folding of the flag that had covered J.T.’s casket and its presentation to his mother by the Fleet color guard was another high point in the ceremony, and holovision crews scrambled to captured every tear, many of which were actually unscripted. News producers loved capturing those moments, as they tended to add a touch of reality to the story. Of course, they certainly weren’t above staging whatever scenes were necessary, whenever reality didn’t actually measure up to the exacting standards the networks, for riveting viewers and maximizing their potential for selling dog food and laundry detergent. Edited versions of the event would later be played on all the worlds of humanity. Each would vary in length and content, depending upon local interest and the demands of advertisers.

  For security and traffic control reasons, President McAllister and her entourage were the first to actually depart after the conclusion of the ceremony, after one last officially scripted moment of her again offering her personal condolences to Turner’s family, which was certain to appear at the conclusion of the piece that ran on the evening news. Congressional members, high government officials and Turner’s immediate family were next on the Waston police’s list of priorities of VIP limousines, requiring police escort to escape the crowds. It literally took hours for the throngs to finally dissipate.

  Admiral Enrico Melendez and his aide-de-camp, Commander Marilyn Fredricks were among the very last mourners and cemetery workers left at the gravesite. Ensuring that all the T’s were crossed and the I’s were dotted, and that cemetery officials were on top of the final sealing of the tomb with a 20-ton marble slab which would have to be lowered in by a crane, would finally conclude their one last duty to an old friend. Even Marilyn’s eyes were finally dry — red, but dry. Her waterworks were finally as exhausted as she was.

  “I still can’t quite believe that he’s gone, Admiral.”

  “I know. I feel the same way,” replied Melendez softly.

  “Who is that over there?” asked Marilyn, as she nodded towards a black-draped couple that were moving forward towards the casket after the crowds thinned out. “I don’t recognize that uniform.”

  “German, I think, but definitely not their standard military full-dress uniform,” said Melendez. “It must be that royal family member representing the German emperor, who I heard was supposed to be here.”

  “Is he carrying a baby?” Fredricks asked incredulously.

  “Looks like it,” replied Melendez. “Perhaps I should go over and thank them for coming. That huge statue of J.T. the Kaiser has commissioned to stand over his tomb, is no small gift.”

  As they began walking towards the couple, they saw the man pass the baby to his wife and walk forward alone, oblivious to the Fleet Marine honor guards standing stiffly at attention on each corner, to stand beside the casket and gently place a hand on the lid.

  “Look at that, Admiral,” said Fredricks. “He reached out to touch J.T.’s casket… almost as if he knew him.”

  As they got closer, Fredricks stopped suddenly and grabbed Melendez’ arm. “My God, Admiral, look! He looks like Bat!”

  Melendez shaded his eyes with his free hand as he squinted into the sun. “Hard to tell with the beard. You’ve really been thinking a lot about Bat lately, haven’t you?”

  “It’s been hard not to, Admiral. First Bat disappears, and then J.T. gets killed. They were always like Frick and Frack… our two boys. Bat should have been here with us, for J.T.’s funeral.”

  “He would have, if he could have, Marilyn,” said Melendez softly. “I don’t know, it’s eerie... it’s almost like I can feel Bat here with us, sometimes. It’s like he’s here in spirit.”

  “Do you think that Bat’s dead too, Admiral?” asked Fredricks softly.

  Melendez patted Marilyn’s hand, resting in the crook of his elbow and sighed, “I don’t know what to think about Bat… I really don’t. I still pray that he’s alive and well somewhere, but…” Melendez didn’t finish, but just sighed resignedly.

  They reached the stunning dark-haired woman holding the baby, standing well back from where her husband still tarried next to the casket. As they walked up, Melendez stopped and said, “I’d like to thank you for coming. It must be a terribly long day for you, holding onto a baby so young, all this time.”

  “Oh, little Hans is no problem,” the woman replied in perfect English, with no discernible German accent. “He’s a very good baby!”

  “I’m Admiral Enrico Melendez, and this is my aide-de-camp, Commander Marilyn Fredricks.” Melendez didn’t extend a hand, as the woman had both of hers occupied, enwrapping the baby.

  “I am pleased to meet you both, Admiral… Commander,” replied the woman, nodding to each in turn. “I am Noreen Guderian.”

  “Is that your husband over there?” Melendez asked, nodding towards the man whose hand still rested on the lid of J.T.’s casket.

  “Yes, that’s my husband, Diet. Or should I say, Baron Dietrich Anton Guderian von und zu Fürt.”

  “I take it that you and your husband are here representing Kaiser Wilhelm?”

  “Yes, Kaiser Wilhelm is my husband’s great-uncle,” Noreen said. “During dinner with the Emperor and Empress in their palace last month, the Kaiser specifically requested that Diet represent him and the German people, here at this sad event.”

  “Well, we greatly appreciate your attendance, and also the generous gift of the German government of the statue the Kaiser is having commissioned for the tomb here,” replied Melendez.

  “You’re very welcome,” replied the baroness. “As my husband’s great-uncle is emperor, he gets the credit publicly, of course... but it was actually Diet who commissioned the statue and is paying the bills for the project.”

  “Your husband is paying to have J.T.’s statue made?” blurte
d Marilyn, startled.

  “Yes. It was originally his idea, actually.”

  “Well, the press certainly hasn’t gotten wind of that little wrinkle. I’d like to thank him for his extraordinary generosity,” replied Melendez.

  “Think nothing of it, Admiral,” Noreen replied. “For someone of his wealth and station, Diet is amazingly unassuming and quite reticent to draw unnecessary attention to himself.”

  “Well, we greatly appreciate his contribution to what is sure to become a national shrine,” said Melendez. “But I am somewhat curious as to why your husband would desire to do something like this, in honor of someone he didn’t even know?”

  Noreen’s brows pinched together in concentration, as she pondered the answer to Melendez’ question. “I’m not exactly sure, Admiral,” she said. “Diet may just think of it as his little contribution to the war effort, but subconsciously it probably has something to do with his brother.”

  “His brother?” asked Melendez, puzzled.

  “Yes, Diet’s brother Halbert was captured by the Raknii during their raid on Bavara, the day after Diet and I were married.”

  “Your brother-in-law is currently a prisoner of war, and is still being held by the aliens?” asked an amazed Melendez.

  “Yes, I really miss that rascal sometimes. We both really hope that he’s all right.”

  “I wasn’t aware the aliens still held any human prisoners, Admiral,” said Fredricks.

  “Neither was I,” replied her boss. “Remind me to send a message of inquiry to Admiral Kalis about this.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Fredricks replied, as she made a note to herself in her personal communicator.

  * * * *

  CSS Leviathan, Slithin System

  December, 3868

  “I think I’ve isolated the root cause of your little stomach problem, Captain,” said Doctor Nancy Wiesenthal, Ship’s Surgeon aboard the CSS Leviathan. “It turns out you don’t have a stomach virus after all.”

  “Good. Whatever it is, just give me some pills that will get rid of it, so I can get back to work without wasting so much time with my head in the head, puking,” replied Captain Dorothy Fletcher-Stillman, wife and Chief-of-Staff of Admiral Benjamin Stillman, commanding officer of the Confederate 2nd Fleet. Dorothy had been complaining of nausea and vomiting for several days and her husband finally ordered her to report to sickbay, as she was just too damned stubborn to come see the sawbones on her own.

  “I wish that I could, but there’s nothing technically wrong with you,” responded Wiesenthal.

  “Nothing wrong with me?” Dorothy asked incredulously. “You call barfing my socks up every morning, normal?”

  “No, I don’t call it normal,” replied Wiesenthal. “I call it pregnant.”

  “PREGNANT?” cried Dorothy, clearly distressed. “I can’t be pregnant! I’ve taken my…” Dorothy ceased her impending rant when Doctor Wiesenthal raised her hand to shush her.

  “I know, I know… I’ve no doubt you’ve been a good girl and taken your contraceptive pills religiously, but they are only 99.4% effective you know,” said Wiesenthal. “I’m afraid you rolled snake-eyes and fell into that 0.6th percentile last month. Congratulations, Captain... you’re going to be a mother. You and the admiral have just won the infamous Contraception Lotto and inadvertently made Electronics Technician 2nd Class Norman Purdy of the battlecruiser CSS Nasville a hell of a lot of money in the 2nd Fleet ‘Boobs’ Fletcher Baby Sweepstakes.”

  “Pregnant,” Dorothy murmured to herself, stunned. “At least I won’t have to worry quite so much about what to give Ben for Christmas this year.”

  “That’s the spirit, look at the bright side of it, Captain.”

  “But we’re in a war-zone. I don’t want to be shipped home!” Dorothy wailed, tears forming.

  “No reason that you should be,” Wiesenthal reassured her. “After what Behemoth survived, I’d say there’s nowhere within a couple of hundred light-years of here that’s any safer than right here aboard good old Leviathan. We have a state-of-the-art surgical suite, so we should be able to handle delivering a baby without any problems. For a patient with hips like yours, how hard could it be?”

  “Ben is old-school,” Dorothy commiserated. “He’ll order me home, just because it’s standard Fleet protocol to evacuate pregnant women out of a war zone.”

  “Standard Fleet protocol was developed for standard Fleet warships,” said Wiesenthal. “There’s nothing at all ‘standard’ about Leviathan and her two sisters. They’re totally unique animals. They transcend many of the old protocols, rendering them non-applicable in their case. Don’t worry, I’ll talk some sense into your Lord Husband.”

  “But I…”

  “NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS! ADMIRAL STILLMAN TO THE BRIDGE. ADMIRAL STILLMAN, PLEASE REPORT TO THE BRIDGE IMMEDIATELY. THAT IS ALL.”

  “Well, I guess I’d better get topside in case Ben needs me for whatever it is that announcement is about,” said Dorothy morosely.

  “Here, keep some of these in your pocket for the next few weeks and use them as needed,” said the doctor, as she handed her a small package.

  “What’s this?” asked Dorothy. “Something to help with the nausea?”

  “Sort of,” replied Wiesenthal with a smirk. “They’re barf-bags.”

  * * * *

  “What’s up, Scotty?” asked Admiral Ben Stillman, as he entered the hatch into Leviathan’s Combat Information Center, in response to the summons.

  Captain Scott Radkey, commanding officer of CSS Leviathan turned at the sound of Stillman’s voice and said, “We’ve got what looks on the scanner to be one of those half-scale antique spaceliners the cats use, that just emerged about three and a quarter light-minutes out, Admiral. Guess we have us a few more kitties that didn’t get the word they don’t own this real estate anymore.”

  “Have we got an eyeball on them yet?”

  “The Ready-5 Raptor off the Independence just launched and should be within visual range in about three minutes, Admiral.”

  “I’m sure glad we have that new miniaturized cat-translator that’s small enough for our fighter pilots to fit into the cockpit with them,” said Stillman. “I’d really rather talk to them than shoot at them, if they’ll let us.”

  “That makes one of us, Admiral,” replied Radkey. “I lost a third-cousin aboard the light cruiser USS Cheyenne at Minnos. I’d rather shoot the cat-bastards, myself.”

  “What if you’d run into the Cheyenne during the war, Scotty?” asked Stillman. “How would you have felt about having to shoot at your cousin back then?”

  “He’d have been just another damned yankee back then,” replied Radkey. “And I’d have been doing my damnedest to blow his ass, way the hell over yonder and back.”

  “He’d be just as dead if you had. So why the lingering bitterness towards the cats?” asked Stillman.

  “Humans against humans is one thing. Cats are a whole nuther thing,” replied Radkey. “We didn’t even know those shit-birds existed until they suddenly just jumped in our shit, guns blazing — without nary so much as a howdy-do, nice-to-meet ya, kiss my ass or nothing!”

  “Sounds like you’re taking the Raknii attack on mankind kind of personal,” observed Stillman.

  “I never did like cats,” said Radkey. “Always been more of a dog-man myself. Maybe if they looked more like a Rottweiler or a Bloodhound, I’d be more partial to give’em a break, but a cat’s only fit for a burlap bag with a couple of bricks, and a very deep creek to toss them in.”

  Stillman sighed internally. Obviously, racial bigotry wasn’t limited to just differences between people. To many humans, the Raknii didn’t yet qualify as “people.” Perhaps he should take Radkey down to the surface on his next trip to actually meet some Raknii. Maybe he’d learn something, revise his prejudices and eventually come to see them as intelligent creatures caught on the opposing side of an unfortunate war started by superiors far above either of their pay scales. Ignora
nce is correctible. Then again, maybe not. While ignorance might be correctible... stupid is forever.

  * * * *

  “Summit, this is Stormchaser-4. Do you read?”

  “Stormchaser-4, this is Summit. We read you five-by-five, go ahead,” answered Lieutenant Shirley Vilsack, acting communications officer on watch. After a three-minute communications lag, they heard:

  “Summit, this is Stormchaser-4. I have an eyeball on our bogy. It appears to be another one of those new, unarmed civilian spaceliners that we first encountered here, inbound toward Slithin. I’m trying to raise them on the kitty-talkie now.”

  “Very well, Stormchaser-4, please advise when you have established communications with the intruder,” responded Lt. Vilsack.

  Nine minutes later, the Raptor squawked again: “Summit, this is Stormchaser-4. I have established communications with the intruder via the kitty-talkie. They say they have a very high-ranking cat officer aboard, who is here to surrender all of their planets in this entire region of space to Admiral Stillman.”

  * * * *

  Chapter-25

  I quietly excused myself and went to the bar, to commune with spirits I know how to relate to. -- Mary Roach

  The Planetoid Discol, City of Waston

  January, 3869

  “Hal, just what in the hell are these?” asked Noreen, as she stood holding a pair of Confederate admiral’s uniforms in each hand, one black and one gray.

  Oh, I’m glad you found those. I was afraid Diet might have thrown them out again.

  “But what are they, Hal?”

  They are what they appear to be, Noreen.

  “Eh, heh… and just who do they belong to?”

  Where did you find them?

  “I found them hanging up, behind a shit-load of crap in Diet’s second closet.”