Galactic Council Realm 1: On Station

by J. Clifton Slater

  The Red Hearts emit a cinnamon aroma and are used in all Navy Heavy Cruisers and BattleShips. It thrives on External engines with a broad and powerful red ion flow.

  The Blue Hearts flood the ship’s atmosphere with a berry aroma and are used in Navy Frigates and some commercial Clipper Ships. It thrives on External engines with a steady and reliable blue ion flow.

  The Yellow Hearts release a citrus aroma and are used in some Navy Patrol Boats and in some civilian Yachts and Sloops. It thrives on External engines with a swift and smooth yellow ion flow.

  The White Hearts discharge a salt sea aroma and are used on space stations, orbiting mother ships and track stations. The pale color doesn’t have a tolerance for an aggressive ion flow so it thrives on the ions from an enormous white internal drive.

  “No, our engines are not directly related to the Heart plant. The Heart Plants seemed to have morphed to take advantage of specific ion flows. In the right color, they flourish and clean the air while supplying fresh rich air. The atmosphere also helps our bodies thrive in space. Without the Heart Plants’ rich air added to our manufactured air, we’d lose our minds after being in space for a long time.”

  “But we don’t have Heart Plants on the BattlePlatform or a lot of other ships,” Shark observed.

  “How long would you last with just manufactured air? Let’s test the theory, how do you feel after sixty days in space during maneuvers?”

  “I feel dried out and my head gets fuzzy,” Vulcon said.

  “That’s because you are fuzzy,” Bowman announced flying his PID at her head.

  “Lecture’s over,” I stated standing and moving to the rebreather station. As I hung the emergency apparatus on my hip, I said, “Luck to you all and be safe out there.”

  My room was at the far end of the squad area and I noticed the breeze was soft. The station had reduced the air flow in respect to the shrinking number of occupants on our deck. After the rich air of the lounge, the change was depressing. Reflexively my hand reach to caress the rebreather.

  I thought as I entered my small room about what I hadn’t explained to the Brick pilots. I didn’t tell them that once back on the home planet of Uno, Gitta Shea was separated from the plants. The exclusion, and according to legend, the shoddy treatment of the potted plants by the officials angered her. So, she became a rebel.

  Gitta Shea kidnapped the Heart Plants and took them to her Clan’s home in the mountains. After a few year of fruitless fighting, Mother Gitta and the Continental Government reached an agreement. Her Clan would care for the plants and she would allow the government to use the Heart Plants under supervision. The agreement transferred to the Galactic Council when it was formed.

  Mother Shea, as she is known in the Clan, became the first modern day Druid. And, Asthore’ Mother Shea was my great, great, great Grandmother.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning or first shift as we space officers like to say, I put on my sweat gear and shoved off for the gym. The large area was crowded with rows of York 5,000 units and gel running tanks. Air flowed like a mild summer storm, nice. I selected a 5,000 far away from some newly arrived pilot candidates.

  How did I know they were newly arrived? The tipoff was if a group of lost young people are being herded about by large NOCs in as loud a manner as possible, it’s a sure bet they are new students.

  The York 5,000 starts you in a crunched position. Knees jammed into your chest, chest into your chin, ears buried in your shoulders, and arms resting on your shoulders. During the first stretch rep, electrodes are attached to the main muscle groups and a few of the minor groups as well. Not much happens on the down stroke where everything gets crunched back to the original position. It’s the second stretch where the current innervates the muscles.

  You pushed hard and reached while your muscles fired according to your personal profile. The specs for the machine explained that the brutal exercise built muscle mass and strengthened bone.

  ‘What it is, is torture. The only time the 5,000 is fun is when you’re done,’ I though as I grunted out the reps.

  After twenty-five minutes, I was done.

  Once I disentangled my frame from the York beast, I hobbled to the gel tank. Fitting my feet into the tall boots, I raised the gel to my shoulders and began to run. The resistance of the gel and, the movement of the treadmill belt under the boots, made for a good run. Forty-five minutes later, I was really done and hungry.

  After a quick shower, my stomach growled like a space cat in a vermin fee transport. The mess hall was only three decks down so I used the stairs. There was almost no breeze in the enclosed stairway. I kept a hand on the rebreather. While the White Heart supplied some oxygen, it was the generators that produced a majority of the stations’ air. Moving the mixed air to large occupied areas was easy. Out of the way passageways, don’t always get an even flow, thus everyone carried a rebreather.

  To my surprise our section of the mess hall was still reserved for my class. Rows of empty tables faced me and for the first time in two years, I wasn’t rushed while eating.

  A mess Petty Officer wondered over and spoke to me, “Last day this section will be reserved for your class, Sir. From now on, you’ll have to sit with station personnel.” He smiled while placing a fresh cup of coffee in front of me.

  “No problem and thank you.”

  I watched the NCO walk back to the food section. Picking up my cup of coffee, I thought of how a Marine Corps Sergeant with sixteen years of service ended up as a Navy aviator with the illustrious rank of Ensign.

  Chapter 5

  It started with a crack.

  Maybe it was a metaphor for a midlife crisis or a break in my mental armor caused by boredom, either way, one moment I was sitting with two of my gun teams watching a judo match. One competitor a Navy crewman named Takeru who was lighting fast began a hip throw on Khadija. The other combatant, Khadija, a left door gunner on a combat shuttle, punched towards the mat in an attempt to get braced for a counter move. Takeru dropped to a knee and Khadija’s writs took the full weight of both men.

  Crack, the wrist snapped, and I jumped up. It wasn’t a noticeable motion as Khadija fans were also standing. But my purpose was to move, to get out of the gym and to find Jian Tian.

  Staff Sergeant Jian ‘Noble’ Tian was the crew chief of Combat Shuttle, GunShip 7, and his quarters were three decks above the gym. Because my brain wasn’t engaged and my half formed idea might solidify into some kind sense, I bypassed the lift, and made for the stairs. The level had a mild breeze so I took the first flight two steps at a time. On the second level the breeze ended and I slapped on my rebreather mask. Right there I should have paused and thought through the idea. But, I’ve always been impulsive.

  Arriving at Jian’s quarters, I rang, announced myself and entered at his invitation.

  “Sergeant Phelan Piran, haven’t seen you for weeks,” Jian greeted me with a smile, “you can’t be lonely with four gun crews to manage.”

  “No, I’m surrounded all the time by the teams. It’s about a Judo accident. Jian, Khadija Betserai is down, It looks like a broken wrist,” I said, “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “I told him not to fight with Takeru,” Jian moaned, “Takeru has a sadistic streak. He really likes to pick fights with lesser skilled opponents. Khadija shouldn’t have taken the fight. Now I’m short a left door gunner and we have a hop tomorrow.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I confessed, “I’d like to hitch a ride on your GunShip.”

  “Well you’re qualified,” Sergeant Tian acknowledged, “If you can get free, I can clear it with my pilot, Captain Othon.”

  He knew I was qualified. We’d begun our Galactic Council Marine Corps’ careers as Privates in the Fleet Marine Force as combat fodder. After eleven years, he moved to GunShips, and I filled a position as a weapons instructor. Now, we were the leaders that we’d once bitched about.

  “Great, I’ll see you on the flight deck.”
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  Our Heavy Cruiser, Tres el Fuerte, had arrived at its area of operation two days ago. Its mission to patrol the asteroid belt was considered by many, me included, as a boring training exercise. No Pirates would attack a Heavy Cruiser. Even given that fact, on the month long voyage to the asteroid belt, we’d had plenty of time to run gun drills. Enough time for me to be sick of making petty corrections and for my four gun crews to have nightmares about the banana seed picking Sergeant Piran. So when I approached my Lieutenant about taking a stand down day, unfortunately, he agreed.

  Stand down days were a naval standard that let personnel on long cruises take some extra time. Most used the hours to play in video game tournaments, watch entertainment marathons, sleep or participate in any number of off duty endeavors. None used the day to leave the ship and go joy riding on a Combat Shuttle. No one except me.

  An hour before the start of first watch, I stood on the flight deck looking at GunShip 7. She was 15 meters of sleek metal with gunner bubbles on opposite sides and duel mini guns folded against the nose. Two rocket tubes to a side flanked the minis. A Combat Shuttle is a tube with a tapered tail and a snout that was all business. GunShip 7 looked deadly just sitting on the docking sled.

  Two minutes later, Jian ‘Noble’ Tian hustled through the hatch and waved me into his six.

  “Got to get you a pressure suit,” he said over his shoulder, “Then we do a pre check. Bishop likes everything done before he arrives.”

  “Aye Sergeant, lead on,” I replied.

  The pressure suit was constructed of over lapping plates attached to an air sealed fabric. It fit tight while not restricting movement. To top off the ensemble a 180-degree bubble helmet with wires and tubes dangling like dreads was pushed down over my ears. Walking as if I had a full diaper, I followed the similarly suited Tian over to the Armory.

  I signed out a hand-held cannon. Well it wasn’t a cannon; it was a really big pistol but we called it a cannon. The cannon was the GCMP45, Galactic Council Military Pistol 45. It spits out large 45 caliber kinetic rounds. None of the projectiles would penetrate the skin of a ship but they would do serious damage to an armored combatant. After belting on the GCMP 45 pistol, and strapping it down at mid-thigh, we walked to Environment.

  There I turned in my ship board rebreather and exchanged it for a flight crew rebreather. My emergency capacity had just gone from two hours of air to ten. And my right hip and thigh felt the difference in the increased size of the equipment. They also gave us medical kits and energy bars. Hopefully, we wouldn’t need the med kits, but we certainly would eat the chow.

  Back at GunShip 7, we did an external check by pulling maintenance tags and noting them in Tian’s PID. A sled arrived with the door guns and ammo. We helped slide the trunk size magazines into the fittings. Next we opened the gunner bubbles and our twin barreled machine guns were mounted and calibrated. Tian climbed into the pilot’s seat and awakened the four mini guns.

  With everything set, we walked back to the dock, turned and admired the Combat Shuttle. It looked like the head of a snake. Our bubble twins were stored in an up tilted position like eye lashes while the wicked mini guns extended out front like the fangs of death. Yes, the GunShip looked like and was a dealer in destruction for enemies of the Galactic Council Realm.

  “Attention,” announced Staff Sergeant Tian.

  We snapped to attention as a suited up Captain strutted towards us.

  “At ease,” the Captain said as he returned our salutes, “I’m Captain Berthe Othon. I take it, you’re Sergeant Piran.”

  “Yes Sir, stepping in as a replacement for the left door gunner,” I replied.

  “Very well Sergeant, on this hop, I am ‘Bishop’. Sergeant Tian goes by ‘Noble’,” he said expansively, “What is your nom de plume?”

  Combat Marines and Marines assigned to gun positions on ships don’t use nicknames, handles, or nom de plumes. We use unit designations. For instance, the Sergeant for ‘F’ company second squad would be Fox 2-1. If he or she went down in a battle another Marine would assume command of 2nd squad as Fox 2-1. This way, field commanders would know in an instant who was in charge of any given unit. Flight crews and pilots liked nicknames because they sounded brash and daring. Or, maybe they were used to shorten communications during flights. As a feet-on-solid-deck kind of Marine, I liked the sarcastic brash and daring reason better.

  “Oscar, Sir, he’ll go by ‘Oscar’,” Noble explained.

  Good choice, I thought, he’d used my middle name.

  “Excellent, Noble, is preflight completed?” the Captain asked.

  “Yes Sir, Combat Shuttle 7 is flight worthy. exterior inspection completed by Oscar and me. Weapons and ammo are installed and calibrated. All prepared except for engine checks.”

  “Then let’s saddle up Marines,” Bishop said with flair. He turned and walked away.

  “Aye Sir,” Tian and I replied. I wasn’t sure about Sergeant Tian but I did a tiny roll of my eyes.

  As we followed the Captain an announcement came over the ships PA system, “All hands prepare for Internal evolution. Repeat, prepare for Internal evolution in five minutes.”

  Internal evolution meant that in five minutes the Tres el Fuerte would transitions from its External drive to the Internal drive. If the navigators were correct and they matched the time out puts, the transaction would be smooth. If they miss aligned by a little, we’d either get a jolt aft or a surge forward. If they truly screwed up, every unlocked down item, including some Sailors and Marines, would be tossed around like so much salad.

  Gunship 7 was tasked as part of the defensive screen around the Heavy Cruiser. Once the ship dropped its red ion flow, we’d be rushed out. The screen would be layered with eight fighters flying in close, two BattlePlatforms circling beyond the fighters and 6 Combat Shuttles farther out as early warning. If any pirates or rebels attempted to attack, the cruiser could launch even more fire power in minutes.

  We sealed the hatches and buckled into our jump seats. Captain Othon called, “Flight Control, Combat Shuttle 7, reporting as Shield 7, is ready for departure.”

  “Roger 7, sled out to the first curtain and hold,” Control directed.

  The GunShip rose slightly and eased out of the dock and turned left. Suddenly it sounded like rain on a tin roof as the ion canons of our Internal drive began to fire. We slide between the slits of the first air curtain and Bishop increased power. As the tin roof rattled, the ship rose.

  “Control, Shield 7 has separation from the sled,” Bishop reported.

  “Standby 7, the Bricks are moving through your launch portal,” warned Flight Control.

  “7 Standing by,” Bishop replied.

  I looked at Noble and gave him a thumbs up. He understood. If a GunShip collided with a speeding BattlePlatform, the Combat Shuttle would be totally annihilated while the Brick would maybe get a dent.

  “Shield 7. You are next to launch, safe flight,” Control advised us.

  “Thank you Control. Shield 7 is moving to curtain two,” Noble alerted the controller.

  Outside all light faded as we floated in the dark. I always wondered, besides the obvious need to have barriers between the void of space and the docks where humans worked, why the area beyond the second air curtain was so dark. Something bonged and Bishop upped the power and we moved again.

  “Control. Shield 7 is ready to jump,” Noble stated.

  “Shield 7, you are clear, repeat, you are clear for launch,” said the controller.

  Tian and I were jerked back as the GunShip broke the gravity of the cruiser. We went from a gentle float to a rib crushing burst as the ship shot out of the launch tube and continued to pick up time. We could tell the enormous power being put out because the Internal ion cannons sounded like chainsaws ripping apart kettle drums.

  “External evolution,” warned Bishop.

  The transition wasn’t perfect as my ribs once again attempted to eat the harness. A second later, the Internal ion flow bega
n and all I heard was a purr from the engine.

  “Have a look,” Noble invited me. He gestured to the air curtain at my gun bubble.

  I released the harness and poked my head through the slit in the fabric. The bubble was yellow with streaming ions flowing over the clear surface.

  “It’s beautiful,” I announced.

  “It’s why you came along for the joy ride, isn’t it, Oscar?” Bishop asked from the pilot compartment.

  “Yes, Sir,” I replied with a smile.

  Time multiplied by power equals distance in space travel. After an hour, Bishop announced an Internal evolution. He missed timed the transition badly and we were slammed back into the seats as the Internal engine took over.

  “Noble and Oscar,” announced Bishop as if were we on a parade deck, “Best test your guns, Semper Fi.”

  “Aye Sir,” we replied as we released our harnesses.

  The left side turret was separated from the six seat cabin by a thick air curtain. I pushed aside the oxygenated strips and settled into the pivot seat. My air tubes and communications’ connection creating a small hole in the air curtain fabric.

  “Gun three, ready. Request permission for a test fire,” I stated.

  On the other side, Noble reported, “Gun two is ready.”

  “Guns free, Marines,” Bishop announced releasing us to test fire our twins.

  Before either Noble or I could fire, we heard the big minis burp out first one burst and then another as Bishop tested the front guns.

  I wrapped my fingers around the control handles and thumbed the weapon’s triggers. First I pivoted through the full180 degree field of fire to test the mechanics. Once satisfied with the range of motion, I triggered the twins. Duel streams of jet powered rounds poured out into space. At a preset distance, every tenth round exploded. Like water from a swinging hose splashing against a bulkhead, the streams arched back creating a small fireworks display.