Augment

by C R MacFarlane

  The Tactical console beeped in alarm. She looked down at the screen as two rocket torpedoes launched from the warship.

  “Evasive!’ screamed Hoepe.

  Rayne clung to the console as the ship lurched. Why was the warship firing? Why hadn’t they acknowledged her hails? Maybe Hoepe was right. They didn’t want to know the truth. They had already chosen their side.

  “Rayne!” Hoepe turned around.

  She roared, her fingers flying across the controls. The Pilot took them on a dizzying series of rolls, as laz-fire arced across the space between the ships. Rayne moved with the shifts, her hands and eyes fixed to her console. She was a tactician and a cracked good one at that; there was no way she was going to let the ship, her ship, be destroyed.

  Despite it all, the warship landed another hit. The lighting flickered and her console blinked out. The Augment beside her swore. A second later, the console blinked back on. “Shields at five-percent.”

  “Kieran,” shouted Hoepe, “What about those shields?”

  A minute later, the engineer’s frantic voice responded: “Their cannons are too powerful, the energy is getting caught up. It’s frying the shield generators themselves. I don’t know what we’re gonna do. If it overloads….”

  “If it overloads, it will be just like The North,” said the man beside her.

  “The shield will implode. We’ll be destroyed, just like Earth,” finished one of the other Augments.

  Rayne gasped. If the Augment designed shields overloaded, the energy would tear the ship apart. If the shield integrity went down to 0%, they were all going to die.

  “I have an idea,” said the engineer. “Yer not gonna like it.”

  “Tell me,” said Hoepe.

  “We can wire that energy into the weapons array — supercharge the laz-cannons.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Might be,” said Kieran. “I can’t fix the FTL in time. I don’t see any other options.”

  “Do you think it will work?”

  He paused. “One of two things is gonna happen: we’re gonna fry all the circuits, and I mean all of ‘em. Or we’re gonna whoop this puppy’s butt.”

  Hoepe furrowed his eyebrows together. “Pardon?”

  Kieran coughed, “Er, destroy that UEC ship.”

  “Do it.” Hoepe turned to Rayne, his voice quiet. “Remind me to do a brain scan of that boy if we ever get the chance.”

  If she ever got the chance, Rayne would recommend him for every type of commendation she could.

  She looked down at her console again. It was impossible to keep the panic out of her voice. “Shields at three percent.”

  Hoepe nodded. “Keep firing. Hold them off long enough for Kieran to make his modifications.”

  She fired again and again, the Pilot twisting the ship mercilessly, but it was no use. The Comrade was the pinnacle of Army ship design, the flagship of strength. Twelve 3,000mV Class 8 laz-cannons, polarized hull plating that reflected light weapons, a spread of over a hundred rocket torpedoes. What chance did they have? More startling, what reason could the Central Army have ever had to build such a warship?

  * * *

  Kieran stripped the wires that controlled the shield generator, squinting against the bright sparks that flew into his face. The idea was too crazy. But his dad had always said, ‘if it’s crazy enough, it just might work.’

  “You need to have a ground,” one of the Augments reminded him, hovering over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, I know,” he shrugged, “but there ain’t no ground here big enough for this.”

  Another of the Augments passed him the end of the cable that ran into the laz-cannons. “Who are you?” questioned a gravelly voice.

  He didn’t bother to answer, as he spliced the thick cable into the wires and three hands reached in to solder it together. He wrapped the splice in insulating foam, calling out a set of instructions before he’d even finished.

  “Got it, redirecting power,” replied one of the Augment’s working at the main console.

  Kieran glanced at the central display, a new red light on the 3D diagram of the ship catching his attention. “Thrusters are running hot. I need a team on the fore-starboard thruster coolant,” he shouted.

  Someone replied, “On it!”

  “Sir.” An Augment ran up, waving a tablet. “I can boost the steering controls, we’ve checked the calculations twice.”

  “In real-time?” he asked.

  “I’d need the system offline for a few minutes.”

  “Then no go. No steering system leaves us sitting ducks.”

  “Sitting what?”

  “Maybe once we get out of this mess, yeah?” he clapped her on the shoulder.

  One of the ion scrubbers clogged. He grabbed the woman and two others, dragging them to the engine. “Do you know how to bypass this, pull the scrubber, clean it out, and recharge it?”

  They nodded.

  “Good. As fast as you can. Then see if any of the others need to be done.” At least he had a crew again even if they were battered and bruised. And a few of them knew about engines. He stopped himself from thinking about Sarrin.

  The overhead comm stopped him in him tracks: “Kieran,” said Rayne, “I’ve lost three laz-cannons.”

  What else could go wrong? He mopped the sweat from his short hair, wiped his hand on his coveralls. He needed to start his recording device.

  “On it!” he replied, and started tapping into the diagnostics. The results flashed on the screen. Damn. Kieran hit the comm: “Looks like the crystals are fried. Too much energy passing through them. Keep firin’ ‘em, though, to dissipate the energy from the shields. Maybe we can make the others last a little longer.”

  Kieran’s eyes drifted to his office, where the recording chip sat in his desk drawer. There were no immediate crises, so he took the chance. It might be a little selfish, but he needed to capture this to report home — if they made it out alive, which was not at all guaranteed.

  At least if they didn’t, maybe someone would find the recording and piece together what happened, for better or for worse.

  “I’ve lost another one, Kieran,” Rayne shrieked over the comm.

  Jesus, that was four. Out of five.

  “We need options,” said one of the Augments.

  He huffed, “I’m fresh out. The FTL is fried. The shields are dangerously close to catastrophic failure. We’re down to one laz-cannon. At this rate, our only option is going to be destroy the ship before someone else does…,” he joked darkly. But the thought started an idea. “Wait. That’s it!”

  A man nearby looked up. “What?”

  “Crash the ship,” he said.

  Movement in the engine room stopped.

  He held his hands out, asking for the chance to explain. “They’re hunting us, they want us dead, right? Make it look like we’ve been destroyed and their mission will be complete.”

  The faces around him contorted into a weird sort of dismay followed by realization.

  “Engineer,” someone called him from a console on the wall. Kieran did a double take: Hoepe — but he couldn’t be on the bridge and in engineering. The doctor zoomed out and pointed to one of the moons. “This body has a high concentration of magnetic ore — the distortion field will mask our bio-signs and heat signatures.”

  “Perfect.” Kieran smiled. Pressing the comm control, he signalled directly to the Pilot’s console. “I need us to land on body alpha-8. Give me ten minutes. Make it dramatic.”

  “Acknowledged,” came the reply.

  Hoepe nodded. “The pilot’s name is Isuma, she’s capable.”

  Kieran’s mind ran through the possibilities. “Thanks, Hoepe.” He clapped him on the arm as he rushed away.

  Hoepe gave him a funny look. “Yes, I hope it works too.”

  Kieran dashed across the bay. Part of always looking forward to recording some kind of historic event or disaster was always being prepared. He was almost out of tricks, but he
had been stockpiling potentially useful equipment since he’d arrived. “Where’s Grant?” he asked no one in particular.

  A girl paused, silently pointing to the door at the back of the engineering bay that led to the storage lockers. Hurriedly, Kieran pushed through the door.

  Grant sat with his back against the wall, his head in his hands. His limpet suit covered his body.

  Kieran rushed over. “You’re a pyrotechnic expert, right? I need your help.”

  Grant turned his head slowly — God, the piece hadn’t grown back where Sarrin ripped it apart, exposing one regret-filled eye. “No.”

  “What?” Kieran gritted his jaw.

  “I can’t. I tried. Look what happened.”

  “Get up.” Kieran grabbed his rubbery arm, heaving him to his feet. “We don’t have time for this. Stuff happens, things don’t go according to plan — happens to me all the time. Pick yourself up and help me.”

  Grant towered over him, his one visible eye narrowed.

  “I don’t know what happened down there. I’m sorry for what I said. But right now, there’s a very good chance that what happened to Sarrin is going to happen to the rest of us. I have an idea, but it’s only going to work if you rig me a great big bomb.”

  * * *

  “Take us into the debris cloud,” Hoepe ordered. The pilot didn’t hesitate, already zipping around the moons, grinning wildly. Hoepe worried he might be the only sane one left.

  The pilot drove the ship towards the ring of space junk. Pieces of scrap floated across the view screen. Among them were huge, torn chunks of starship with multiple decks exposed along jagged edges, interspersed with free-floating I-beams or sheets of hull. The freightship would end up looking the same if they hit any of it. Still she pushed in.

  The warship stopped at the edge of the debris field, firing a volley of torpedoes.

  This far into the cloud, the torpedoes couldn’t weave through all the debris. Indirect implosions sent a wave of free floating pieces flying wildly in their direction.

  The pilot rolled the ship’s steering sphere violently. “Impact,” she shouted. A vicious shudder ran through the ship.

  “We lost part of the aft-port wing,” Rayne reported.

  “Switching to manual,” shouted the Pilot. “Aft-port thrusters went with the wing, and the computer algorithms can’t compensate.”

  Another Augment ran to the helm and started analyzing the debris field on the positional display.

  Their weakened shields flashed constantly as they deflected micro-debris.

  Hoepe’s mental timer reached ten minutes, and he hit the comm. “Ten minutes are up, Kieran. What’s your plan?”

  “Nearly in position,” his panted. “What are you doing on the bridge?”

  “Trying not to get torn apart.”

  “It’s just…. I swore you were here a second ago. Or someone who looks a heck of a lot like you.”

  The pilot grunted, “We have to go soon, or that crash is going to be more real than we want.”

  “We’re ready,” shouted Kieran. “Keep the comm open.”

  She took the ship into a steep dive, conferring with her co-pilot. The ship shook and rolled, klaxons screaming. The co-pilot zoomed in on the tactical display, studying the moon. They exchanged a few terse words and a nod.

  The moon spun on the view screen, growing larger at an alarming pace.

  “Crash in minus one minute. Brace for impact,” yelled the co-pilot.

  Debris knocked the dorsal section, sending them spinning stern-over-bow. The force pushed Hoepe into his chair. He would vomit, he thought, if the Gs weren’t pushing everything down.

  The ship bounced off another clump of metal, throwing the spin sideways.

  “Top deck sections 3 and 4 are crushed,” called Rayne.

  “Fifty seconds,” said the co-pilot. The Pilot deftly tapped on the controls, maneuvering slightly, just before they made contact with another piece of space junk. Sparks flew across the viewport as they grazed off an old section of hull, and the Pilot triggered the thrusters hard, pushing them into an eccentric roll.

  Horrified, Hoepe realized she was doing it on purpose.

  “Forty-five.”

  They pinged against two more space objects before flinging out of the debris field.

  “Engineering,” the pilot hit the comm, “vent ion debris.” The ship jerked forward, and Hoepe could imagine the glowing trail streaming from the ship’s thruster vents.

  The klaxons raged. Every computer console flashed with incessant red warnings. Someone in the back retched.

  “Thirty seconds,” informed the co-pilot.

  They tumbled down, aiming straight for the moon. It rotated in and out of view on the viewscreen. Hoepe’s body forced him to take a breath.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  He tapped his five fingers to his chest and closed his eyes.

  “Ten. Nine. Eight….”

  He forced his eyes open. The view screen still showed a spinning view, rapidly alternating between moon and planet and debris and space. His eyes caught on a huge canyon on the surface of the moon.

  The pilot exhaled and hit the thrusters. The force bounced Hoepe out of his chair, sprawling him across the deck. “Impact!” she shouted. Lunar dust billowed around them, the viewscreen turning dusty grey-brown and then black. A terrible grinding noise shook the entire ship.

  Warnings on the display showed the cargo bay doors opening, and half the atmosphere venting. Behind them raged an unreasonable pyrotechnical show — some of the plumes were twenty kilometres high.

  Hoepe gulped. The engineer was a lunatic.

  The ship decelerated, the deck tipping forward as the bow buried itself in the dust.

  The co-pilot murmured, staring at her screen: “Ten thousand. Nine thousand.”

  Hoepe looked up and inhaled sharply. Dust had fallen from the viewscreen and he could see again. On either side of the ship, grey walls towered above them. They were in the canyon, but the walls narrowed, the end of the trench directly ahead, the solid wall rapidly approaching.

  The pilot nodded, somehow satisfied. She turned off the power to the engines and the thrusters and the view screen.

  “Four thousand. Three thousand,” murmured the co-pilot.

  Hoepe’s breath rattled as it left his lungs.

  “Five hundred. Three hundred. Two hundred.”

  He shut his eyes tight.

  The ship stopped, coming to a grinding, tilting halt. On the viewscreen, an intimate close-up of the canyon wall. The displayed showed they had stopped less than a hundred metres from being crumpled and crushed.

  Hoepe grunted, picking himself up from the floor. Kieran did say he wanted dramatic, hopefully that would suffice. Hopefully that would be enough to keep the warship at bay.

  EIGHTEEN

  HALUD DROPPED TO HIS KNEES on the deck of the shuttle hangar of the UECAS Comrade, his arms raised above his head. A full squadron of heavily armed soldiers surrounded him, rifles trained on his head, but he swallowed his fear and announced himself in a clear, booming voice, “Halud DeGazo. Poet Laureate of the United Earth Central Army. Mouthpiece to the Right and Honourable Hap Lansford. Tau Sigma Omega thirty-nine Bravo.”

  The squadron leader tapped a comm device on his wrist and spoke into it, requesting instructions.

  He didn’t hear the reply, but the leader made an abrupt hand motion. Two soldiers let their rifles swing to their sides and came towards him. They grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and pulled his hands down, securing them behind his back before lifting him to his feet.

  “I wish to speak to the commandant,” he said.

  The leader gave him a side-long look. “My orders are to remove you to the brig.”

  “The brig?” Halud held his shoulders square. “Need I repeat my designation?”

  “I had no trouble hearing it the first time.”

  “Then you will bring me to your commandant.” He modified his voice, deep, controllin
g tones rolling from his lips. “This is an urgent matter. I insist.”

  The man frowned and spoke again into his wrist-comm. At the reply, he nodded. “Bring him to the bridge.”

  Halud breathed a sigh of relief, even as the two guards shoved him forward. They steered him roughly through the corridors, letting him stumble through the doors that led to the bridge. Pristine white uniforms with white consoles, chairs, and floors startled him, burning his eyes in the harsh light.

  The commandant stood at the centre of the deck, hands clasped tightly behind her back. A new commandant, one he had not seen before. Tall, slender, hair tied up in a high tail. Her features were sharp and angular. She turned, eyes scanning him rapidly. “Master Poet,” she intoned, voice fully devoid of emotion, “I hear you have been insistent.”

  His guards stepped back.

  The view screen wrapped around the whole bridge instead of a ceiling or walls, making him feel as though they were exposed to space. The fore section caught this attention where the tiny freightship twisted and dove, a show of electric light flashing across the space between them.

  “Direct hit, sir,” announced the tactical officer. “Minimal damage.”

  The commandant dipped her head once, her order reverberating darkly in Halud’s heart: “Fire at will.”

  “Leave the ship alone,” Halud said, putting as much authority into his voice as he could manage. “The crew are not part of this. I commandeered the ship, it was me and me alone. I am who you want.”

  A sadistic grin spread across the commandant’s face. “You’re not what we want.”

  Halud recoiled. “Spare the crew. They’re good officers. They took my orders without hesitation.”

  “These are my orders.”

  “I’m giving you new orders.”

  She snorted.

  One of the bridge crew put a hand to his ear. “Ma’am, surface has confirmed they have captured the target. The rest have fled.”

  “Destroy them.”

  “Wait!” he cried — their deaths would be on his hands. “There are Augments on the ship, government assets.”