by Smith, Glenn
“Very well.” Having finally found relative comfort by leaning on her left elbow, resting her right ankle across the top of her left foot, and pushing off the right arm of her chair to keep the pressure off her right buttock—how long was she going to be able to hold that position?—Bhatnagar looked back over her shoulder as best she could. “Engineer,” she called out again. Try as she might, she still couldn’t remember the kid’s name. “Give me a damage report, please.”
“Massive structural damage to our aft keel, Captain,” the stubble-haired tenderfoot began, reading from one of his numerous status screens. He hadn’t sat back down yet, either. “Loss of atmosphere on deck fifteen aft. Partial pressure only and zero gravity on decks twelve through fourteen aft. Emergency bulkheads...” He coughed, “...in place. Gravity on decks ten and eleven aft at forty-nine and twenty-seven percent respectively. Looks like something really big hit us, Captain,” he commented. He coughed again, and then added, “My guess is Lieutenant Irons is right about it being a piece of the Saratoga.”
“What about weapons and propulsion, Ensign?” she prodded impatiently, addressing two of the most important systems in a fight.
“Aft gun emplacements are all destroyed,” he answered as he continued down the list. First chance he got, he intended to reset the computer’s ‘priority systems’ subroutine back to its default setting so that it always listed weapons and propulsion systems first and second. Whoever had changed it was an idiot, as far as he was concerned. “Rear quarter port and starboard guns took some damage as well, but are still about eighty percent operational.” He coughed yet again, and again, and the others on the Ops deck started as well. “Energy overload in the starboard fusion reactor is approaching critical, but leveling off rapidly. Looks like Engineering’s got that under control. Main weapons and countermeasures, the drive systems, and life support are all still online.” He coughed again, and again, then fell into his chair, suddenly overcome by a coughing fit that he seemed unable to recover from.
“Emergency environmental!” Bhatnagar shouted, barely able to keep from coughing herself as she suddenly realized that the systems hadn’t already kicked in automatically.
She’d been determined before. Now she was angry. She’d been stationed aboard the Victory for more than seven years and had been its commanding officer for the last three. Not once in all that time had any enemy vessel ever gotten close enough to strike directly. Not even a single-seat fighter. Theirs was a record that she’d grown quite proud of over the years. One whose end—even an indirect strike counted, in her book—she took very personally.
“If we’ve still got weapons and propulsion and life support, then we’re still in this,” she proclaimed loud enough for everyone on the bridge to hear. “Miss Irons, locate the sorry bastard who did this and prepare to send them straight to Hell! Mister LaRocca, as soon as Saratoga’s escape pods are clear and we know where the enemy is, go after them!”
“Yes, ma’am!” the helmsman answered with determination as he finished bringing the ship’s attitude back under control.
Unable to reach for her comm-panel without shifting her weight to her throbbing hip, Bhatnagar leaned slightly forward at the waist and tapped the comm-pin on her collar instead. “CAG, this is the captain. What’s the latest on our fighter squadrons?”
“We’ve just lost two more planes from the One-Eighteenth, Captain,” the air group commander answered immediately, “but they managed to take out that Veshtonn capitol ship that was bearing down on the Tripoli first. The rest are hooking up with a fighter wing from the Nimitz as we speak to go after the battlecruisers in that sector.”
“Hold one of the interceptor squadrons back to cover our rear. We just lost our aft guns and we’re going after the bastard who’s responsible.”
“Understood, Captain.”
“Miss Irons...”
The ship suddenly lurched again, tossing everyone who wasn’t sitting down to the shuddering deck as multiple strikes rumbled one after another through her bowels. The lights flickered and dimmed, flared brightly, then went out altogether. Fortunately, the emergency lights came up a second later. Red tinted and dimmer by half than the main lights, but adequate.
“Damage report!” Bhatnagar demanded.
“Main weapons and starboard missile launchers offline, Captain!” Irons shouted. “Port launchers destroyed!”
“Life support on emergency backup!” the engineer added, his fear more than evident in his near panicked voice.
“Damn it!” Bhatnagar exclaimed. “Damn those bloody lizards! Sergeant Noonian, find me a clear channel to Task Force Command and scramble it. I want to talk to Eagle-One Actual.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the cyberclone responded, staring blankly into space as always. Having originally been grown just prior the Brix-Cyberclone Cessation Act of 2162 and enhanced to serve as a combat platoon’s radioman, Staff Sergeant Noonian’s cybernetic implants included a universal communications port hardwired directly to his brain that enabled him to plug himself into his panel and manipulate his equipment simply by thinking about it, which made him the fastest communications specialist in the fleet. Given a choice, he’d have preferred to become a scientist of one kind or another, but when the BCC Act was originally passed all those years ago, eliminating his military obligation, he’d found himself to be one among thousands like him with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Society’s prejudices at the time had prevented him from getting the education necessary to pursue his dreams, so, like many other young men and women of his kind, he’d decided to enlist anyway, though he’d avoided the Army and the Marines. Free to choose from among all of the careers he’d qualified for, he’d chosen the big ships instead, and given the nature of his enhancements, Communications had seemed the logical choice.
“Channel open, Captain,” he informed her. “Routed to your panel.”
Wincing with the pain that shot down her leg again, Bhatnagar let go of the arm of her chair and slammed her fist down on the blinking direct channel switch on her comm-panel. “Task Force Command,” she hailed, “this is Captain Bhatnagar of the starcarrier Victory.”
“This is Eagle-One Actual, Victory,” the rear-admiral in command of the task force’s Solfleet contingent responded. “Go ahead.”
“The corvette Saratoga has been destroyed, sir. S-n-R operations are currently underway. Starcarrier Victory has taken critical damage to several primary systems. All main weapons are either exhausted or offline. Aft guns destroyed. Life support systems on emergency backup. As of this moment, I am declaring the Victory combat ineffective and ordering our withdrawal. My fighter squadrons are still out there, Admiral. I’m recalling the interceptors, but you’re free to assume control over the rest and redeploy at your discretion. Do you copy?”
“Affirmative, Victory,” the admiral answered, clearly disappointed. Disappointed simply in having lost two more ships, Bhatnagar knew. Not at all disappointment in her for having made the call to withdraw from the fight. “I copy and I concur. Starcarrier U.E.F.S. Victory declared and confirmed combat ineffective as of this date and time. So declared by Captain Suja Bhatnagar, U.E.F.S. Victory, Commanding. Confirmation, Rear-Admiral Joseph Wandstadt, Commander, Solfleet Contingent, Task Force Romeo-Kilo.”
“Sorry to be leaving you, Admiral. Good luck.”
With the official declaration reported and confirmed, and before Bhatnagar could sign off for good, Admiral Wandstadt added, “Your fine vessel has made a major contribution to this effort, Captain. Please express both the Tor’Kana government’s and my personal appreciation to your officers and crew after you get them to safety.”
“Will do, Admiral. Thank you. And once again, sorry to be leaving you. Victory out.”
She closed the channel, then launched herself forward to the helmsman’s side. Having forgotten about her injury for the moment, she almost fell into the pilot console when the sharp pain shot through her right hip and down the length of her leg again.
&nbs
p; “At last report, the local jumpstation hadn’t come under attack yet,” she told him when she recovered, grimacing, teeth clenched, trying her best to ignore her discomfort. “We can make our most vital repairs there and get back into this in a matter of days. Plot a roundabout route, taking us in the opposite direction until we’re out of Veshtonn scanner range. Then swing us wide around and alternate our route along all three axis.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young man responded.
Somehow, Bhatnagar didn’t quite believe that he completely understood the importance of her instructions. “Look at me, Ensign,” she ordered. The ensign looked her square in the eye. “It is absolutely vital that we not lead the enemy to the station, at all costs. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Ensign?”
“I understand perfectly, ma’am,” LaRocca assured her. “My sister is stationed there.”
Bhatnagar stared back at him for several seconds. She’d never met his sister, but she’d heard a lot about her over the last few years. Having faced more than their fair share of hardships growing up, LaRocca and his younger sister were very close and contacted each other quite often, sometimes talking for hours on end just to hear each others’ voices. Given the current circumstances, that gave her cause for concern. If the jumpstation did come under attack, how difficult a time might the helmsman have concentrating on his duties? Would the distraction prove too much for him? Might he make a mistake at some critical moment that they would all then pay for with their lives?
Irons had lost her brother and had only grown stronger and more determined as a result, but that wasn’t the same thing. In her case the loss had already occurred. She hadn’t had a chance to fear for her sibling’s life—no more than usual, anyway—but in LaRocca’s case...
She snapped out of it. No time to speculate what might be. What already was required her undivided attention. “How fast can you get us there given those parameters?” she asked him.
LaRocca entered the pertinent data into his board, then explained, “Given the current condition of our fusion drive, we’re looking at an E-T-A of approximately two days. Maybe a little less if I keep the course changes to a minimum.”
Bhatnagar sighed. Two days. Clearly, that wasn’t at all what she’d wanted to hear. But the station had to be protected. “I guess that’ll have to do,” she said. “As long as our life support holds out, that is.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“CAG, recall the interceptors,” she ordered, speaking a little louder as she limped back to her chair. She knew from the immediacy with which the CAG had responded to her the last time that he was monitoring an open channel to the bridge.
“Aye, Captain,” he answered.
Minutes later, as soon as the last interceptor had returned and landed safely, and with great regret filling her captain’s heart, the Solfleet starcarrier U.E.F.S. Victory withdrew from what had quickly grown into the largest and most vital campaign of the entire decades-old war.
Chapter 6
Sweating profusely and writhing in agony on the deck, while at the same time crying for his slaughtered family, Federation Vice-President Jonathan Harkam somehow still managed to reach out and grab the front of Hansen’s jacket in his quivering, blood-stained fist. He pulled him closer, bared his clenched teeth and spat streams of red saliva over his chin as he grunted against the pain, then stared up at him through red, swollen eyes.
“Please!” he managed to force through the pain. “Oh God, it burns! Make it stop!”
Hansen took hold of Harkam’s wrist with both hands and tried with all his strength to pull free of his desperate, vice-like grip, but the dying man only tightened his grasp to the point where Hansen thought he heard a finger snap and pulled him closer. “Mister Vice-President,” Hansen responded as calmly as he could. “I can’t just...”
“Yes you CAN!” the dying vice-leader of the unified free world roared. Then, gasping for every breath, he pleaded, “Please, Major! KILL me! Quickly! Stop the...Stop the pain! STOP THE PAIN!” he screamed.
“Dad?”
Hansen whirled around as far as the vice-president’s grasp would allow and glared wide-eyed at the horribly brutalized, lifeless body of the dying man’s teenage daughter. But she was already dead! The beast had ripped her open from the inside out—from her genitals to her sternum! She couldn’t possibly have spoken! She couldn’t possibly!
Harkam jerked Hansen hard, drawing his attention back to him. “Please, Major!” he pleaded, crying openly, barely able to speak through the agony anymore. “Do it!” He coughed suddenly, spewing a foot-high fountain of dark red-brown blood that barely missed Hansen’s face when he recoiled, then splattered back over his chin and his suit coat. “Do...it,” he begged once more.
“Dad?”
Hansen ignored the dead girl’s ghostly voice. Harkam’s entire family had been brutally slaughtered, and the vice-president himself had been pumped full of...of whatever it was that damn beast had pumped him full of. If the poor man’s cries were to be believed, then he was literally burning to death from the inside out.
He drew his sidearm and slowly pressed the muzzle to the vice-president’s temple. He drew several short, deep breaths and licked his suddenly very dry lips. But he just couldn’t bring himself to squeeze the trigger.
“DO IT!” Harkam shrieked through the pain, his tears tinted red with blood. Then he suddenly started shaking Hansen violently back and forth as he lost whatever control he’d been clinging to and convulsed, screaming and crying even louder than before. “OH GOD!” he screamed, spitting and coughing up blood. “DO IT!”
“Dad, wake up.”
Hansen closed his eyes and turned away. “Forgive me,” he whispered. Then he drew a long, deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.
He gasped and opened his eyes wide, startling Heather, who quickly retreated several feet back from where she’d been sitting on the side of his bed. Then, after taking a moment to catch her breath, she slowly approached him again and asked, “Dad? Are you okay?”
He rolled his head toward the voice to find Heather standing beside his bed, looking down at him. He exhaled sharply—he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath—then drew another deep breath and relaxed as his eyes finally focused on her. “I’m fine,” he answered. Then he asked her, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. At least not with me anyway,” she answered, her voice full of concern as she sat back down at his side again. “But it looked like you were having a pretty bad nightmare. Are you sure you’re all right?”
He nodded, then answered, “Yeah, I’m sure. Sorry if I woke you up.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “you didn’t. I was already up. It’s almost nine o’clock in the morning.” She hesitated a moment, then continued, “Dad...” but stopped right there and looked away.
Hansen gazed at his daughter as the fog of sleep cleared and he gathered his wits about him. She obviously wanted to tell him something, or more likely wanted to ask something of him, but was seemingly afraid to do so. He gave her a few more moments to gather her courage, but when it became apparent that she didn’t know how to say whatever she wanted to say, he prompted her by asking, “What is it, Heather?”
She glanced at him again, hesitated for another moment, then finally looked him in the eye, took a deep breath, and spoke up. “Okay. Now, I know I’m grounded for two weeks, and I know it’s for a good reason, but Candice and Corrine just called me a few minutes ago. They’re getting together with Debra in a little while and going out to brunch, then going to see that new Kent Rowland movie at the Rotunda theater, and they invited me to go with them. I was just wondering if it would be all right for me to go with them, just this once?”
“You’re right, Heather,” he assured her. “You are grounded for two weeks, and it is for a good reason.”
“I know, but it’s only for a few hours,” she calmly explained.
“No.”
“Please, Daddy?” she whined, raising
the center of her brow and flashing her baby greens in her best imitation of innocence yet. “There’s no shopping involved, and I’ll come right back after. I promise.”
“You were caught stealing, Heather,” he coldly reminded her, unmoved. Years of near constant training had made him immune to her distraught pleas for leniency. “Again. And this is the last time I’m going to repeat this without additional consequences. You are grounded for at least two weeks, and are not going anywhere.”
“C’mon, Dad!” she practically begged. “Please! It’s Kent Rowland!”
“I don’t care who it is, Heather,” he calmly conveyed. “You’re not going out for at least the next two weeks, and that’s final.”
“But all my other friends are going to see it this weekend, too!” she complained, near tears. “I’ll be the only one who hasn’t seen it, and I won’t be able to talk about it with them!”
“Two weeks,” he said firmly, bringing the discussion to a close, at least in his mind.
But Heather wasn’t finished. “That’s not fair!” she shouted, switching from desperation to anger in the blink of an eye, as if someone had thrown a switch inside her head. “You never let me do anything I want to do!”
“Want to try for three weeks?” he asked sternly, staring her down—no easy feat for most other people when lying on their backs and looking up at the person they’re arguing with, but easy enough for him—confident that she’d finally realize he was dead serious, and that that was that. End of discussion.
She recoiled slightly, stared back at him for a few silent seconds, then slapped her hands down on the bed with an angry grunt and shot to her feet and shouted, “You can be so fucking unreasonable sometimes, you know that! I fucking hate you!” Then she whirled around and stormed out of his bedroom, no doubt wishing there were some way to slam the door as it quietly slid closed behind her.
