by MK Clark
He didn’t know how long he dozed, but he woke with a sharp pain in his bottom lip. There was a metallic flavor on his tongue that he recognized as blood. He watched silently as little red droplets floated up to join the clear ones. They landed on his face and the lining of his helmet. He took a few shaky breaths.
His whole body ached, but his chest was the worst. Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes as he fought back the pain. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t breathe.
No, Don thought. He had to stay focused. He shook his head to clear it and was rewarded with a searing fire raking across his torso. He bit back a yelp and felt the tears float away from his eyes.
He felt hands pull at him. He looked up into Lana’s face and heard her voice in his ear. “Come on, Don. You can get through this. I know you. You’re tough.” She slipped his helmet off, tears in her own eyes. “What have you done?” she asked, wiping the blood from his face as best she could.
He pressed his face into her suit, trying to block out the fire, but he couldn’t. Lana shifted a little, and Don tilted his head to see her. She looked so sad.
“Syke wants to talk to you…” She held his helmet next to his head.
Syke's voice came through fuzzily. “Don, you’ve got to hang on just a bit longer. I can see the Pilgrim on the radar. We’re almost there.”
“Going crazy,” Don gasped.
“Don’t you say that! Never say that! You hear me?”
Don opened his mouth to answer, but the words turned into a sharp cry as Lana touched his side.
“Don!”
“It hurts… really bad,” he whispered.
“I know,” Lana said. “I know it does, but please trust us, Don.” A thick silence filled the cockpit, interrupted only by Don’s erratic breaths. Lana watched him quietly and then turned slowly to face the front. “Look.” She pointed at a blip on the radar. “The Pilgrim is right there.”
Don looked from where her finger was pointed and then back at her. He nodded. “Okay.”
Lana reached for his helmet. He shook his head; he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to feel trapped again. She looked like she might argue but didn’t. She sat in silence, avoiding his eyes. Finally, he reached for his helmet and pulled it on one-handed.
He didn’t wait for her to say anything else. Instead, he ground his teeth together and pulled himself to the top of the fighter. He could tough this out. He had to; he’d said he would. Just concentrate on breathing, he told himself. Nothing else.
He didn’t know how much time passed, but Lana’s startled voice brought him back to the present. “Don, you’re going to have to fly.”
“You crazy,” he grunted.
“It’s the only way to dock. You can’t be floating up there when we go to normal gravity.”
Don turned his head so he could see out Lana’s HUD. The Pilgrim was very close now. He had to move now or not at all. The latter was not an option.
Slowly, he pushed himself off the top of the Cobra. He felt Lana’s hand grab him by the belt and then pull him gently. She put her arms through his and held him down by the shoulders. Don clenched his teeth as his chest protested. He had to ignore it, had to, or it would cost both their lives.
“Go ahead. We got permission,” she told him.
Don lined them up. It took all his concentration. As they passed through the gate, the weight of his body returned.
“Pull up!” Lana yelled.
He jerked the stick back as they slammed down and skidded across the deck. He cried out in agony. Lana hung on to him as best she could, but her grip slipped when they hit the safety net. Don was flung forward into the control panel.
He dimly heard sounds of the deck crew prying off the cockpit door as Lana dragged him back. White-hot pain filled him, shooting across his chest and out to his very fingertips and toes. Hands pulled at his arms, then nothing.
Beep, beep, beep.
Don stirred as the noise intruded on his dreams. He opened his eyes slowly. There was a bed beneath him. An oxygen tube ran across his face, and other tubes hung from his arms. He was in medical.
“Hey, man.”
Don turned his head toward the voice he knew as Sykes. “Hey, yourself,” he croaked.
Syke was sitting in a chair beside him. He stood and held a glass to Don’s lips, letting just enough water past them to relieve Don’s parched throat.
“How you doing?”
Don smiled softly. “Good to be alive.” His words slurred a little when he spoke. “How long?” he asked.
“Only two days,” Syke replied. “If it’d been more than that, I’d have started to get worried.”
“Must be crazy. Thought you said you weren’t worried,” Don whispered, his brain working rapidly. Something about Syke nagged him.
“You ‘ent crazy.”
“Then why the ol’ man here?”
Syke smiled a little. “I’m the ‘ol’ man’ now, huh?”
“Sure, gray hair and everything.” Don chuckled and then winced.
“Just take it easy,” Syke said, his concern showing through the bravado. “You messed up inside, an’ it’s gonna take some time to heal.”
Don nodded and closed his eyes. The machine beeped in the silence. He heard Syke get up to leave. He obviously thought Don had fallen asleep.
“Syke?”
Syke turned to look at him. “Yeah?”
“How’s Eli? Lana said—” Don cut himself off as a tortured look flashed across Syke’s face.
“Lana lied,” Syke choked out, avoiding Don’s eyes. “Eli never made it. She just... She couldn’t tell you. Not then.”
Don nodded numbly. Syke waited for a little longer, but Don said nothing more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered and then left. Don closed his eyes again. Exhausted, he fell back into the forgetfulness of sleep.
Chapter 24
June 8, 627 T.A.
While Don slept, a small funeral ceremony was held for Eli. He had been promoted to specialist and given the Medal of Valor posthumously. Not long after, the Zarweans were found, and Pilgrim, along with others in the Space Forces, was set on a course for interception.
Lana told him all this the first time she came by to see him. She had also brought him a mourning pin. He didn’t acknowledge it, but let her fasten it to his shirt. Later, she told him that Titus was allowing her and Syke to run as a two-man team in the upcoming battle. This news was comforting to Don in its own way, but it also meant the two were very busy and noticeably absent.
Thankfully, many of his comrades found time between preparations to visit. Even Titus had come by for a little. This helped stave off some of his restlessness, although he still found himself struggling to fill the rest of his time. He needed to get out of this bed. He needed a plan.
The next time the doctor came for his periodic checkup, Don was prepared for him. It was the first step toward freedom.
“How are we feeling today, O’Hara?”
“Stellar,” he answered, trying hard to not sound too grumpy. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.
“The dose on your pain medication okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If it weren’t for the getting blown up part, I wouldn’t feel a thing.”
“I’m glad you’re able to find humor in this.”
“I try my best.”
The man didn’t reply but continued to check Don’s chart.
“Say, doc,” Don started innocently. “What you think about taking this thing out today.” He motioned to the tube hooked around his face.
“Ah.” The man hesitated. “The NC really needs to stay, O’Hara. We have to make sure you get enough oxygen.”
“But, doc, I’m breathing well enough. You said so yourself, and it’s not like I’m gonna’ be jumping up here and running around. I’ll still keep breathing like I am.” He felt a little guilty about lying but refused to let it show.
“O’Hara, it’s my job to treat you, not to
cater to you.”
“C’mon, doc,” he pleaded. “I feel like an invalid with it in.”
The doctor pursed his lips and then sighed. “Fine. You’re like as not to take it out anyway.”
Don grinned. “Thanks, doc.” He reached up and snatched the tube off his face. Conscious of the reproachful look, he set it gently into the man’s outstretched hand. “So―”
“For crying out loud, O’Hara, isn’t that enough for one day?”
“Not nearly!” he answered in exaggerated shock, then pushed forward before the other could reply. “What about these?” he asked, motioning to the tubes in his arms.
“Do what you want!” the doctor answered in exasperation.
“Cool. How do I get them out?”
“Oh, sit back.” He dropped the tablet on the bed and pushed Don down. In moments, he was finished, and Don was tube-free. The doctor left in a foul mood, muttering about having to change Don’s prescriptions into pill form and ordering him to stay hydrated.
Having felt like he’d won a great victory, Don settled down, picking up his own computer tablet to pass the time. To be honest, there wasn’t much time left. There had never really been any. The Pilgrim would have already dropped him off at the closest space station if there had been one. As it was, Don had no plans of being bed-ridden during the fight. Not that the doctor knew.
He checked the clock. A little longer, and the doc would be heading for the mess hall. Don would make his break for it then. The plan was to get down to the PCC and watch from the back of the room. Hopefully, if they noticed him, they wouldn’t kick him out.
Don pulled the sheets back. Exhaling slowly, he pushed himself up and very carefully dropped his feet to the floor. The movement made him wince. The pain that had sunk into a dull ache flared up instantly. This probably wasn’t his smartest idea, Don thought as he perched on the side of the bed in indecision.
Finally, he inched forward. One small drop, and he was standing. Don wiggled his toes experimentally and smiled. So far, so good. As long as he moved slowly, he should be okay.
“Ah, now, O’Hara, you shouldn’t be standing up like that.”
Don lifted his eyes carefully to the door. Jessica, one of the nurses, was coming toward him.
“Just testing,” he said innocently.
She nodded understandingly, as if she expected nothing less from him.
He dropped his gaze to the object she was carrying. “What is that?”
“A brace,” she informed him, “for you.”
Don wrinkled his nose.
“Don’t even start with me,” she chided. “I am not a pushover. If you’re going to be up, you’re going to wear it.”
He squinted at her. “If I’m up, huh?”
“You don’t honestly believe I think you’re going to stay here, do you? I saw what you pulled with the doc. I understand you pilots better than you realize. Now stay still, and let me show you how to use this.”
With surprising speed, she had his shirt off. Don might have teased her, but he was distracted by the bruises blooming across his torso. Jessica held her silence as Don studied himself for the first time. He explored the colored skin with his fingers. Suddenly the pain, held back at a dull roar by medication, made sense.
When he finally looked up at her, it was with a trace of shock. “Ouch.”
“You could lie back down,” she answered sensibly.
Don shook his head.
“I thought not. Arms up.”
Her hands were a little gentler as she strapped the brace on him, teaching him with limitless patience. Jessica forced him to repeat what she had shown him three times before she was satisfied. Then she left, advising over her shoulder to stay in bed and rest, and knowing he wouldn’t.
Don pulled awkwardly his shirt back on and shuffled out. The halls were busy. He had counted on that. No one would pay him mind; they all had far too much to do. He stayed close to the wall and managed to avoid most of the jostling. By the time he reached the briefing room, it had been completely vacated. He stepped inside on impulse.
Despite the noise outside, the room was eerily still. Don shivered a little. He spied a few remaining tablets and edged his way toward the nearest one. He started to lower himself into a chair and stopped abruptly, biting his lip.
“Easy,” he whispered. “Easy, easy, slow and steady wins the race.” He set himself down softly and sat back with a little groan. Don groped for the tablet and opened it up to the mission notes.
There were pages of them. No way would each pilot be memorizing this. The CP had to have guided them through the most important parts. From what he could surmise, five ships would be joining them. Along with the Pilgrim, there would be two skirmishers, a frigate, a cruiser, and a battleship. Very good odds. It seemed the forces were taking no chances. The Zarweans could not be allowed to push the line further back.
The basic plan seemed to be simple: trap the Zarweans between two forces. The cruiser Cat’s Eye and battleship Solar Flare would hold the defensive line. The Pilgrim, plus both skirmishers, the Marauder and Lodestar, and the frigate Hadrian would come from behind. This would effectively prevent escape.
Don began to pull at his lip nervously as he read. There would be no Zarwean prisoners from this battle, no survivors at any cost. Why? What did it matter if they took a few prisoners to cut losses on their side? Think, Don, think. He forced the gears in his head to start moving. What could possibly provoke that kind of order? The consequences of such blatant ruthlessness could very well reach every corner of the war. Crossing a line, he thought. Or had the Zarweans crossed it first?
A knock interrupted his musing. Don glanced toward the door. Kuntz entered; he looked tired. He was one of the few pilots Don had not seen in the last few days.
“Haunting the briefing room is probably bad luck, you know.” Don started to stand as Kuntz spoke. He didn’t make it far before he was waved down. “Don’t stand. I would not have you hurt more on my account.”
“I’m not on my death bed,” Don said dryly.
“Are you certain?” Kuntz asked, leaning against the back of the chair in front of Don. “You look an awful lot like a ghost, to me.”
There was a tentative friendliness in the other’s eye that Don was not used to. “It’s just the garb,” he answered, motioning toward his medical uniform. “Brings out the best in me.”
“Hate to see you on a bad day, then.”
“Aw, thanks, Crash. Your support means so much.”
Kuntz frowned, and everything about him seemed to harden. “Don’t think you have a right to call me Crash anymore, there, O’Hara. You on the list now, too.”
“Fair enough.” Don nodded. “Was there something you needed, or was this amicable chat just for fun?”
“When was the last time I ever sought you out for something?” Kuntz asked incredulously. “I was just passing by, and you caught my attention.” He paused and then turned serious. He tapped the tablet. “I was, and am, wondering what you’re doing here, with this, out of medical.”
“What do you think?” Don spat irritably. “I’m snooping. I’m sneaking. I’m certainly not staying cooped up in medical.” He winced as he finished, a hand reflexively going to his side.
“Shit, O’Hara, you lucky to be alive! You only on your feet ‘cause you pumped full of painkiller.”
“Concerned for me, Kuntz? How sweet.”
Kuntz looked like he was going to argue more, but the fight suddenly left him. “Do what you want,” he finished, disgusted, and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Don called, and Kuntz turned back. “What’d you think of it?” he asked, referring to the tablet.
Kuntz considered him for a moment then shrugged. “I thought I should not read too much into it.”
Don considered this for a long time after Kuntz left. It wasn’t until the captain’s voice echoed over the ship’s intercom that Don stirred. The battle was about to begin. With some effort, Don picked himself
up and shuffled out of the briefing room and to the PCC. He entered without anyone even glancing toward the door. They were fixated on the screens and consoles in front of them. Don wedged himself into a corner by an unmanned console and waited silently.
Emory, the officer in charge of the PCC, was quietly giving out orders. Don watched as Tess only relayed parts of it. She was the voice of the Pilgrim to the pilots. Behind her stood Brite, a crew member Don had rarely seen. The hologram at the center of the room was glowing. Emory glanced at it occasionally, waiting for it to come alive with movement. Surrounding the Pilgrim were four of the flights making up their squadron: Blazer, Strike, Aspen, and Screech. Titus had deployed half of the Cobras on the Pilgrim, including himself. From the mission notes he’d read earlier, Don knew Lana and Syke were flying with Blazer.
“Contact on radar, sir.”
Don leaned forward in anticipation. The enemy ships were now beginning to appear on the hologram, one by one. Emory’s attention was not completely focused on the battlefield displayed in front of him. His assistant came to join him. Tess quietly spoke her last words of encouragement to the pilots before the battle began.
“Emory,” Brite called, “XO’s orders.”
“Let’s have them,” Emory growled.
“The Lodestar and the Hadrian are heading off a Zarwean divergence. The Marauder is going to back up the Solar Flare. All have requested assistance from our fighters. The captain wants one flight with us. We are holding the defensive line. The rest is up to your discretion.”
Emory rapped out his orders almost immediately. “Blazer and Screech with the Marauder. Strike with the Lodestar and the Hadrian, and Aspen on us.”
Tess relayed these orders to the pilots, and images flickered and moved on the hologram in response. Don could see the Zarwean ships scrambling to adjust for the incoming attack. Like a wave, the Space Forces crashed into them. Still, Don knew, the battle had only just begun.
