by Will Crudge
I mostly study the tactical displays, read the reports, in order to try and dissect the procedures that the previous shifts had been following. The skeleton crew is only on station in the event of an attack or emergency of some kind. They’re not the main crew that handles the heavy lifting and ops planning. They often are assigned busy work or any tedious task that the rest of the command crew is unwilling to do. That part is kind of depressing, but it works for me. Sometimes they try to pull away and be social, but more often than not they’re too busy quadruple checking reports to bother with me.
The last thing I need is to be sweet-talked by some Crimson NCO. Even if he could charm my pants off, he would change his tune when he found out who, or rather what I am. Crimson folks aren’t too keen on War Masters… even lowly candidates like me. But alas, I haven’t earned the honor of donning our traditional armor, so I just strut around in UAHC issued sub armor all day. Nobody seems to complain about it though. I guess my ass looks too fierce for them to ask me to wear something else! ;)
Besides, I’m old enough to be a great grandmother to most Crimson folks. They aren’t fans of nanotech to slow down aging, and only use rudimentary nanotech for life or death emergencies. It’s funny to watch them flirt with the UAHC, Unum, or GBE personnel as a result. They may not age as gracefully as my kind do, but they live three times longer than the average Crimson fuck-bag! Lol
As I smile inwardly, I notice something flicker. A dull red blip. It was there a second ago, and now it’s gone. What the fuck? I scratch my head. I decided I should either go get some sleep or go grab some coffee because my mind is drifting. I barely take another step before I see it again.
I wheel back around and glue myself to the image. But, poof! Gone again.
“Is anyone on the active scan?” I ask as I look around at the sparsely occupied workstations. Bloodshot eyes gaze back at me. Several folks share glances and shrug shoulders, but nobody answers audibly.
“I could have sworn I saw a red blip thing flash a few times. It was right off of this ship’s port-side hull. No more than half a click out.” I announce. Nobody says anything, but I notice a UAHC Soldier seem to get a curious expression on her face. She gets up out of her chair and stomps her hundred kilos of armor up to the display. I just put my finger right on the spot I saw the blip.
“It was right there?” She asked with a tone of astonishment. I just curl my lips inward and nod to confirm it.
“Right where?” I hear the Crimson major guy walk up. I’m actually quite shocked he would voluntarily walk towards the hulking woman at my side.
The UAHC Soldier points to the spot silently. I notice the screen on right upper arm. It’s displaying a Commander’s rank. I’ve always heard of the UAHC’s famed status display system but never bothered to pay it any attention until now.
“We’re in slip-space right now, so there’s any number of anomalies that the sensor array could be picking up on.” The major says. His name is Anders, but since he’s the only major on shift, I just call him by his rank.
“I concur.” The female UAHC Commander says without taking her eyes off the screen. I notice she’s got a nametag that says ‘Silvia.’ I can’t help but find it odd to display the first name on a military nametag. But that’s when I recall that UAHC Soldiers are required to drop their middle and family name legally. They can elect to only go by the family name, but it has to be requested and approved by a board.
“Well, maybe I just imagine things. I’ve been doing a lot of meditation lately, and it must be messing with my eyes.” I say dismissively.
“Why all the meditation?” Major Anders asks.
“Because she’s a War Master, moron!” Silvia spouts off. I see the blood drain from Anders’ face. He’s scared shitless… with good reason… Even the worst UAHC Soldier was selected from hundreds of millions of other qualified applicants and has completed fifteen years of rigorous training and body mods. She could tear his ass off with a mean look!
“Well, no,” I say. “Kinda, yes. But, no.” I say all red-faced.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Katherine.” A voice booms out of nowhere.
“Uh… Okay?” I say as I scan for a face. There is none. Major Anders and Commander Silvia don’t seem phased. They’ve both gone back to studying the display.
“I am Midas, by the way.” The voice says. I think I peed a little. Meeting Val is one thing, but meeting the oldest and most powerful AI in all existence is another thing entirely.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I say. I instantly realize that he’s about to tell me not to be so formal.
“Just Midas is fine.” He says. Shocker.
“Have you been here the entire time?” I ask.
“He’s always here.” Silvia chimes in. “As long as the QET is online, he can remain omnipresent on all juggernauts and certain allied ships.”
“That is true,” Midas says.
“Well, do you have any idea what these blips mean?” I ask Midas.
“I know enough.” He says. I pause to see if he’ll offer any elaboration, but he stops at that.
“What shall we do, then?” I ask.
“I’ve summoned some Zodiac assistance for you.” He says cryptically. Once again I stand there waiting for more of an answer. Once again there’s nothing more.
“Is there something more I should know?” I ask as if I’m getting irritated, but I try hard to not offend him.
“Yes. Prepare to be attacked.” He says. Major Anders and Commander Silvia both jerk their heads around. Anders’ eyes go wide, and his brows flare. Silvia’s face remains stoic, yet focused.
Interlude…
The glossy olive finish of the Doom-Raptor reflects the sparse lighting of the juggernauts hull as it flies within a few meters off of the massive hull. Darius works the controls with studious precision while keeping his peripheral vision on the HUD before him.
“Are you sure this is wise, boss?” Doom, the NAV asked.
“It’s the only way.” Darius calmly replied.
“Shadow and Sheba aren’t here, so I’m assuming you don’t think you need to pull from their collective consciousness?” Doom asked as if he were almost questioning Darius’ motives.
“I need them onboard the juggernaut,” Darius stated as a matter of fact. “If the Mwargoths can somehow track my presence, then I have to eliminate the possibility that my mental connection isn’t somehow – enhancing – their tracking methods,” Darius explained.
“So you think that the Mwargoths might be keying in on your superior mental mumbo-jumbo?”
“I can’t be certain, but it’s possible. Besides, she’s going to need their help.”
Doom projected an icon on the HUD that forms a stylized question mark. “Who is ‘she’ exactly?”
“Katherine.”
“The candidate? Are you fucking kidding me?” Doom spouts.
“Enough!” Darius chastised. “I need to focus. Get me a firing solution on that vessel.”
“What vessel?” The NAV asked with a frustrated tone. “Oh shit! I see it now!”
Without a further word, the tactical display began to flash with icons and telemetric symbols. The entire display field was surrounded by a green border, and an audible chime began to sound.
“Firing solution ready,” Doom reported. “Opening up weapons bays now.”
The vacuum of space denies the projection of sound, but the vibrations of servo motors began to vibrate under Darius’ feet. He knew the bays were opening, and in a second or two, the weapons cradles would be ready to unleash its complement of weaponry.
Darius eased back on the throttle lever and began to toggle retro-thrusters.
“I take it you’re not going to use relativistic ballistic weapons with the abrupt change in velocity, then?” Doom asked.
“Correct,” Darius said plainly. He flipped his thumb over a directional pad on his control stick, and soon the icon flashed for the plasma firing Gatlin Gun.
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br /> “This will be interesting…” The NAV said cheerfully. “Oh, look! We have naked eye visual. Enhancing now.”
The HUD expanded its view and then began to zoom in on the enemy vessel. It was difficult to see since traveling in slip-space meant that there was no ambient lighting to enhance a visual image. If it wasn’t for the fact that the LRF-90 was still within the perimeter shielding of the juggernaut, then it would be lost in subspace for eternity without its own FTL drive to escape. Darius knew the risks. He was playing the odds.
He didn’t exactly know what the outcome of his insane plan was, but he knew that the intricate multidimensional patterns in his mind were guiding his decisions. He learned to trust them at the Battle of Tangine, and would continue to do so until humanity found peace… or he found death.
“I’m guessing that’s a troop transport of some kind,” Doom stated plainly. Darius studied it for a few moments and was forced to agree with Doom’s assessment.
The hull was a general shoebox shape with no obvious superstructure. It was sleek in its hull lines, but yet seemed to have mechanical apertures on the prow. He guessed that they were some kind of airlock or retractable boarding door. It was vastly different than any Mwargoth vessel that’s been identified thus far. The typical Mwargoth warship resembled a corncob pipe or a single striking face Warhammer. This vessel, however, seemed purpose-built for breaching ship hulls.
“It’s struggling to jam our sensors,” Darius stated.
“I’ve given up trying to figure out how you know these things… I have to agree, based on my limited scan data.” Doom replied.
“Dial down our EM signature as much as possible,” Darius ordered.
“Doing it now,” Doom reported back in a snap. “Although I don’t see the point.”
“I don’t either. We just need to.” Darius said.
“You’re the Fleet Marshal. You only have to explain yourself if you decide you need to. I’m just a two-thousand-year-old asshole, who likes to blow shit up and talk trash.”
“Noted,” Darius said with a smirk. “We wait for the vessel to breach the juggernaut hull. Then we take out the thrusters, and then head for the command docking structure, got it?”
“Got it,” Doom said. “I like the way you think! We need prisoners, and the marines need to feel useful.”
“If you say so,” Darius said. “I honestly haven’t thought about the ‘why’ of it. Without Shadow or Sheba to merge with, I can’t devote too much energy into contemplating that part. I just know it has to happen this way.”
“You mean the way where we have millions of humans and AI’s that could be personally ambushing a Mwargoth boarding vessel, but the Fleet Marshal has to do it personally?” Doom said with no shortage of sarcasm.
Darius forced a laugh. He knew the NAV was right. “Exactly, old friend.”
“Breach is imminent!” Doom reported. Darius checked the visual display, and what he saw confirmed it. The aperture on the enemy’s prow began to protrude. A small flicker of light emerged from it, and Darius assumed it was a type of electromagnetic shielding. The flash of a hull panel on the juggernaut flared red and then glowed white a second later. The shielding that the enemy ship was projecting seemed to be sealing in the ship’s atmosphere. Then he saw tiny moving shadows begin to flow out of the enemy vessel, and into the juggernaut.
“That’s our cue!” Darius declared as he pulled the trigger on the control stick. Brilliant blue bolts of plasma flickered into the blackness of slip-space. It took several agonizing seconds before the energy shielded balls of plasma found their mark. The Mwargoth’s ship lurched from the impact, and the thruster array flared into a brilliant ball of light. The entire vessel shifted from a near perpendicular orientation to a thirty-degree bend in relation to the juggernaut’s portside hull.
“Take control, and get us back to the dock!” Darius shouted as he began to unstrap his harness and rotate the pilot’s seat one hundred and eighty degrees.
“And what are you going to do?” Doom asked.
“What I do best,” Darius said as he stepped into the fighter’s berthing area. “Smash things… with a gravity hammer!”
Back to Katherine…
I look at the flashing red icons that began to erupt a few seconds ago. It’s sensory overload for me. So much so that I barely notice the two panthers walk up behind me. I could hear the distinct clicking noise of Marbles’ feet striking the deck plating and heading into the CIC.
“Hull breach. The atmosphere is holding. Enemy boarders detected.” Midas calmly reports. I try not to vomit. Here I am trying to heal myself, but the war has decided that it doesn’t give a damn about my plans. Not to mention, I haven’t even gotten laid since I’ve been here! A hundred thousand choice cuts of man-meat on this fucking ship and my nether remain dormant!
“How many are we talking, Midas?” Silvia asks as she furiously manipulates virtual control icons on the holographic display.
“Thirty-one and counting.” He calmly replies. “Katherine, you need to order the ship to battle stations, and report the boarders.”
“Me?” I say as I freeze in shock.
“By order of Fleet Marshal Darius, you have FLEETCON until the command staff assumes their stations.”
Instincts kick in. My adrenal glands flare to life. This is what War Masters train for. We resist the paralysis of fear and can rely on our training to prevent hesitation. What seems like an eternity for me, only takes a few milliseconds in real time.
“Give me PA, Midas,” I say with every ounce of confidence I can muster.
“You have it.” He reports.
[All-hands! All-hands! This is War Master Candidate Katherine McAlister… By order of Fleet Marshal Darius, I am assuming FLEETCON! Report to your battle stations, and prepare to repel boarders!]
It goes off without a hitch… But Midas filters my words… He deliberately left out the ‘Candidate’ portion of it. I don’t blame him. Senior officers may not take kindly to taking orders from a glorified trainee.
Follow on automated voice commands flood the PA. NSAI’s throughout the ship are directing alert marines and security personnel to the location of the enemy boarders. Non-essential staff is ordered to muster stations in order to secure small arms, or man manual override controls for escape pods and backup systems.
I’m impressed, for sure. But my admiration for military efficiency is short-lived. Especially when I notice the location of the enemy boarders…
“Enemy forces have severed hard lines to secondary, and tertiary FTL control modules. They’re manually dialing down the FTL drive. We’ll be out of slip-space in twenty-three seconds.” Midas reports. I gasp.
I feel Shadow nuzzle up to my right hip, and Sheba does the same to my left. The melding occurred instantly. And then a voice comes from across time and space…
I open my eyes. Anders and Silvia both flinch in fear. Everything appears in hues of sublime blueish light.
I am Katherine… I am Primal Rage… I am Everything…. I am nothing.
“Bring us out of slip-space now, Midas!” I spout. I have no idea why I made that call… but it just feels right.
“As you wish,” Midas says. There’s a tinge of approval in his tone. Gone was the noble monotone Midas. I’m wondering if anyone else noticed it either.
“Ma’am, what are you doing?” Silvia asked sternly.
“The Mwargoths want us to come out of slip-space on their own terms. They likely have an ambush waiting for us in a predetermined point in normal space. We aren’t playing their game!” I explain with a shocking level of confidence. Surely this isn’t me talking! What the hell am I doing?
Silvia and Anders share a glance, nod to each other, and then Anders gives me a thumbs up. Whew! I don’t have time to quell grievances right now.
We all watch the holographic display fade into visual mode, and the violent lurch of normal space-time seems to snap the stars into place. It’s done.
“Check scans… focus on visuals. Time dilation is not on our side!” I spout. I have no idea who I was directing it towards, but I hear a handful of anonymous NCO’s shout acknowledgments from a nearby workstation.
Then the red blips begin to populate on screen. Holy shit! I was right! The red blips are ten light seconds ahead of us, and they’re arranged in a semi-circular formation, but it’s likely more of a parabolic one in physical space. I can only assume that we were supposed to have been taken out of FTL at that specific point, and then bombarded with whatever these fuckers fight with. Not today, ass-hats!
“Launch alert fighters!” I order. This time I understand why. We need to get the fleet out into space, but the cruisers and destroyers will be vulnerable until they can get out into open space. The fighters will provide protection until the larger ships are ready to engage.
“Ma’am!” Anders calls out. I notice he’s back over at his designated console. “I have two Crimson expeditionary squadrons standing by. With your permission, I can have them launch and reinforce the Mark-6’s and Mark-8’s.”
“Launch!” I order. He replies with a nod and begins relaying orders. The expeditionary squadrons are not an organic part of this ship’s compliment since they are just here for training and coordination purposes. They may only be Mark-4’s and a few older Mark-6’s, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“What should I be doing?” Marbles chimes in. I turn to see him standing there with his massive crew-service rifle at the ready.
“You standby in case the boarders make a break for the CIC. Shadow and Sheba will cover the two secondary exits, and you point out that big fucker at the main entrance. Anything that isn’t of Earth-based origin dies!” I rattle it off as if I were reciting an epic poem from memory. The words are flowing freely, and I feel at ease with command. It’s surreal.
