by Smith, Glenn
“They were all dealt with,” Matrewski pointed out.
“Only after they lashed out against both their neighbors and the interests of the west and murdered tens of thousands of innocent civilians,” Dylan clarified. “Until then they were given free reign to starve or enslave or slaughter as many of their own people as they wanted to for whatever reasons they decided justified their actions, all because of a spineless and toothless United Nations that discouraged interfering in a sovereign nation’s internal affairs. Do you want to see something like that happen here? Do you want to see thousands of innocent Cirrans slaughtered?”
“No, of course I don’t. But I think the Sulaini make a good point. They should be allowed to demand what’s rightfully theirs. Their methods might be wrong, but...”
“You can think whatever you want to think, Sergeant. Just remember, your duty is to follow your superiors’ orders and that is exactly what you will do, even if those orders tell you to jump into the jungle and kill Sulaini terrorists. Otherwise, you’re going to find yourself in a very uncomfortable predicament.”
“I’m well aware of my duty, Sergeant,” Matrewski responded, clearly offended. “I don’t need to be reminded of it. And I have no problem following my superiors’ orders as long as those orders are lawful.”
“Good.”
Dylan turned his back for a moment to hide his satisfied grin. Reminding one of his Marines, especially a fellow NCO, of his or her duty was a tactic he used on gung-ho grunts fresh out of Ranger training without any hesitation at all, whenever he felt it was necessary. It worked every time without fail, and usually without any further discussion. But this time a little further discussion was necessary, for Matrewski’s own sake.
He faced the young buck sergeant again and continued, in a softer tone of voice, “One more thing, Sergeant—a little advice from someone who’s been here for a while.”
“I’m listening.”
“Keep your pro-Sulaini political opinions to yourself when you’re out in public or you’ll find yourself visiting the political officer so fast you won’t even know how you got there.”
“Visiting the what?”
“The Cirran Defense Force liaison officer who will make a career out of watching your every move until you leave this planet if he gets wind of your sympathetic views toward the terrorists.”
An expression of shock crossed Matrewski’s face. “My sympathetic... Sergeant Graves, I do not sympathize with...”
“Good,” Dylan replied, interrupting. “Don’t ever let anyone suspect otherwise. Especially the Cirrans. Their government can be a little paranoid, and with good reason, so avoid even the appearance of evil by keeping your mouth shut when it comes to your opinion of their political situation. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Satisfied that he’d made his point, Dylan dismissed the younger man, then headed back to the briefing room to find Kenny.
No doubt Marissa would be waiting for him there as well.
Marissa. What was he going to do about Marissa?
Chapter 27
Starcarrier U.E.F.S. Rapier, Somewhere Near the Rosha’Kana Sector
Lieutenant Bellinger yawned, then shook his head vigorously and blinked several times to clear the advancing fog. Until today he hadn’t had much trouble staying awake and alert during his shift, despite the sheer boredom inherent in the ship’s current assignment. At least not as much as some of the other members of the bridge crew had been having—Ensign O’Connor had actually fallen into such a deep sleep at his post yesterday that he’d started snoring—but that first hour or so right after lunch could be rough. As a matter of fact, staring at sensor displays on a full belly had turned out to be the best cure for insomnia Bellinger had ever known, and today was the absolute worst of all. After more than a month of doing almost nothing else day in and day out, Bellinger was starting to feel downright narcoleptic.
Okay. So maybe he was having as much trouble staying awake as the rest of the crew after all. He only hoped the captain hadn’t noticed.
Without taking his weary eyes off his sensors’ display screens, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms out over his head, then stretched his neck muscles.
“Mister Bellinger,” Captain Erickson called.
Bellinger glanced over his shoulder to find his commanding officer staring back at him. “Sir?” he responded as he turned back to his screens.
“Why don’t you go get yourself a strong cup of coffee?”
“I’m all right, sir.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Lieutenant,” the captain advised him. “The Rapier is a very expensive ship. I can’t have my tactical officer falling asleep at his post out here.”
“Aye, sir.” Bellinger stood up, but stayed by his post and kept his eyes on those screens.
“Ensign O’Connor,” Erickson called as he spun his chair around and faced the young communications officer, “take Mister Bellinger’s post until he gets back, and keep your eyes glued to those sensor screens.”
“Aye, sir,” the communications officer confirmed. He rerouted Communications control to the Tactical station, then relieved Bellinger.
“Anyone else want some coffee?” Bellinger asked aloud.
Only one hand went up. Erickson’s. He spun his chair around to do a quick visual of the rest of his bridge crew, then told Bellinger, “Bring a full pot and enough cups for everyone.”
“Will do, sir,” Bellinger said as he left the bridge.
Erickson had considered, for a moment, telling Bellinger to stay at his post and calling down to the galley to have a yeoman bring the coffee up to them, but had quickly thought better of it. Bellinger’s head had started bobbing a few minute ago. He’d been having an unusually difficult time of it this afternoon. It would do him some good to stretch his legs.
Truth was they’d all been having a difficult time of it. Every last one of them. Over the past couple of hours every member of the bridge crew besides himself—there was always enough going on to keep a ship’s captain occupied—had had to stand up at their post for a few minutes to keep from dozing off. But Erickson couldn’t hold that against them. Over every other kind of mission they might otherwise have been tasked with, any one of which would have been preferable as far as he was concerned, the Rapier’s top priority over the last five or six weeks since the Tor’Kana were driven out of their home system had been to search for their few surviving vessels. True, they had drawn a couple of other assignments since then—nothing more than short, token diversions, really—but except for the relative excitement of having found the one Tor’Kana vessel a few days ago, which they’d passed off to a pair of escort ships only a few hours later, the duty had been incredibly dull. Each day had seemed longer than the one before, and most of the crew were bored to tears. Thank God there was only one more Tor’Kana vessel out there to be found. That they knew of, at least.
Erickson checked himself. The latest scuttlebutt to trickle down through the Command grapevine was that the Coalition’s continued existence—hell, its member races’ very chances of survival—depended on the survival of the Tor’Kana. The fact that there might really be only one more ship full of them out there was not at all something to be thankful for.
“Captain, I’ve got some kind of ping on the sensors,” O’Connor reported.
Erickson immediately punched the ‘all-call’ button on his command board. “Lieutenant Bellinger, report back to the bridge on the double.” He closed the channel as he spun his chair around to face O’Connor. “Can you be more specific, Ensign?”
“Sorry, sir. I’m...I don’t think I can,” the ensign explained regretfully. “It’s really big, whatever it is, and I think it’s metallic, but I’m not familiar enough with these sensor systems to give you much more than that.”
“That’s all right, Ensign. That’s not your job. Return to your station.”
“Sorry, sir,” O’Connor repeated as he got up.
As O’Connor returned to his station, the main doors parted and Bellinger hurried back onto the bridge. “Lieutenant Bell...”
“Check your sensors, Lieutenant,” Erickson ordered, brushing the reporting formalities aside. “Mister O’Connor reports seeing a large, possibly metallic object out there somewhere.”
“Aye, sir.” Bellinger took his station and played his board like an accomplished concert pianist performing an elaborate concerto. Then he reported, “The readings are varying with every pass, sir, and are getting consistently weaker. Switching over to active scanners.” After another moment he added, “Object is moving away from us at approximately eleven thousand kilometers per hour, Captain. We’ll need to get a lot closer and match its velocity for a good scan.”
“Close on it, Helm,” the captain ordered. “Cautiously.”
“Aye, sir,” the young woman affirmed. “Thrusters ahead. Now closing relative distance at...” She checked her board to be sure. “...ten kilometers per second.”
“Recorders on.”
Bellinger took a half second and snapped the recorders on, then turned all of his attention right back to his scanners. “Bridge recorders on, Captain,” he confirmed. “Putting the object up on the screen.”
The object appeared in the center of the viewscreen as something not much larger, and substantially dimmer in luminance, than the thousands of stars that surrounded it—just like the Tor’Kana vessel from the other day. But unlike that vessel, this object seemed to grow and shrink at short, regular intervals, as if it were breathing, or pulsating like a beating heart.
As the Rapier slowly drew closer to the object, Bellinger’s scanners were able to provide more precise information. “It’s them, sir!” he shouted with excitement. “It’s the last Tor’Kana battleship!”
“Magnification ten, Lieutenant,” Erickson ordered with his own sense of urgency.
“Aye, sir,” Bellinger replied. A second later an image of the last Tor’Kana vessel known to have escaped filled the screen, rolling and spinning, tumbling slowly end over end. Despite its magnified size, its lines appeared a little hazy due to its relative distance, but Erickson could still discern enough detail to determine that the pearlescent-white main structure was, or at least appeared to be, virtually unscathed. Then the keel, or rather what little was left of it rolled into view, and he and everyone else saw that the giant main gun that had once been mounted to the forward two-thirds of the vessel’s underbelly was gone. Only a scorched, gaping gash and at least three exposed decks remained.
Erickson stood up and took two slow steps toward the screen. “Mister Bellinger?” he quietly prodded without taking his eyes off the vessel’s gaping wound.
“Judging by the pattern of the scoring on what’s left,” the lieutenant offered, “it looks like the hull took a proton beam hit from well below the port quarter aft, probably right behind the main gun’s energy transfer casing. If that beam was strong enough to cut into the conduit and ignite the plasma, it will have produced an explosion large enough to blow the entire gun and most of the hull away from the ass end forward. My guess is that’s exactly what happened, and that’s most likely what sent them tumbling out of control.”
“How long ago?”
“I’m not reading any residual surface heat or atmospheric particles in the area, so it’s been several hours at least, but for all I know it might have been several weeks, sir. Without some left over effect, there’s just no way to tell.”
Erickson considered the ramifications of both scenarios. Several hours or several weeks. If the vessel had taken that damage weeks ago, then the passengers and crew were probably long dead. But if, on the other hand, the damage had been inflicted only hours ago, or maybe a few days at most, there might very well still be survivors on board. The Veshtonn were the only enemy the Tor’Kana had who would have dared fire on that ship, and they wouldn’t have done so unless they’d detected life signs aboard.
“Are you detecting any other ships in the area?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir,” Bellinger answered. “Except for the Tor’Kana and our own corvettes, short range sensors show nothing out there. Long range sensors show completely clear.”
“All right. Maintain visual scanning as well. I don’t want any of those damned bolamide torpedoes flying up my ass.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mister O’Connor,” Erickson called as he returned to his chair. “Signal stand-by alert.”
“Stand-by alert, aye, sir,” O’Connor confirmed. He pressed the appropriate alert switch, but the only evidence of the change in ship’s status they heard was a single, short tone. Erickson had insisted long ago that the three-pitch klaxon that would be sounding all over the rest of the ship for the next sixty seconds be disconnected on the bridge. Few things annoyed him more than irritating noises in the background when he was trying to issue orders.
“Helm, continue to close on that ship. Mister Bellinger, give me all you can as soon as you can. You know the drill.”
“Aye, sir. Continuing scans. As you can see, the vessel’s relative attitude is changing erratically. It’s spinning on all three axis—negative pitch and yaw, positive roll. If anyone’s alive over there, sir, it’s a good bet there’s nothing left in their stomachs.”
“Can the commentary, Mister Bellinger. Just give me the facts.”
“Aye, sir. Jump nacelles are intact but cold. Fusion engines and maneuvering thrusters are off-line as well. Aft-most surface gun emplacements have been destroyed. Port and starboard emplacements appear to be intact along the forward two-thirds. Looks like they kept the enemy to their rear. Must have been fighting on the run.”
“Facts, Mister Bellinger,” Erickson reminded him.
“Sorry, sir. Aft torpedo tubes are open, banks completely exhausted. Forward tubes are closed. The rest of the hull appears to be intact. No signs of venting atmosphere, as I said earlier. Radiation levels are well within safety limits as deep in as our scanners can penetrate. Energy output readings continue to fluctuate, but it appears they have at least some internal power.” In a much more somber tone he added, “The escape pods are all in place, Captain. I don’t know about the shuttles, but the bay doors are closed up tight.”
Just like the last one. “Life signs?” Erickson asked tentatively.
“Stand by for that, sir. We’re not close enough yet.”
“Get us closer, Helm,” Erickson ordered. “I want to be able to wave to their captain if I have to.”
“Aye, sir.” The young woman’s fingers danced over her board. Suddenly, the Tor’Kana vessel filled the screen, appearing as if it were tumbling directly toward them. Erickson and everyone else who happened to be looking the main screen at that moment instinctively drew back, pressing themselves into the backs of their seats.
“Reduce magnification, please,” Erickson requested.
“Factor one, sir,” Bellinger confirmed. The alien vessel instantly shrank to a much less stomach-churning size. Then, somewhat baffled, the lieutenant reported, “I’m not reading any bio signs, Captain...” He turned and added, “...living or dead.”
Erickson stood up again and took another few steps toward the screen. “Try to hail them, Mister O’Connor.”
“Hailing, sir.” The young man tried three times, per standard procedure, then reported, “There’s no response, sir.”
“Keep trying.”
“Sir, their comm tower is down,” Bellinger reported. “They probably can’t receive us.”
“If they’re even onboard,” Erickson added, giving a voice to what everyone else was probably thinking. “Belay my last, Mister O’Connor. Try the signal light.”
“Won’t do any good while they’re spinning like that, sir,” the ensign advised him.
Of course it wouldn’t, Erickson realized. If anyone over there did happen to see the signal light flash, assuming there was anyone over there, they’d tumble and spin out of view before they could see it flash more than one or two more
times, let alone enough times to actually understand any part of their message. Damn. That fact couldn’t have been more obvious. He needed rest. He was in worse shape than he thought.
“That leaves us no other choice,” he concluded, thinking aloud. “We’re going to have to bring that ship under control ourselves.”
Both Bellinger and the young woman at the Engineering station turned in their chairs and stared at the captain as if he’d just proclaimed himself emperor of the known universe.
“Sensors, Mister Bellinger,” the captain reminded the tactical officer, glaring back at him.
“Aye, sir,” Bellinger responded as he turned quickly back to his instruments. “Sorry, sir.”
Erickson threw the engineer a similar look and got the same result, then turned back to Bellinger again and asked, “How fast is that thing tumbling?”
“Taking its yaw rate into account, the vessel completes one revolution of pitch about every sixty-five seconds. The yaw rate itself is much slower, about one revolution every hundred and seventy-three seconds. However, she’s only rolling at...”
“Spare me the arithmetic, Lieutenant. What kind of G-forces would someone working on the exterior of the bow or stern have to deal with?”
“I’ll call up their specifications, sir, but I suggest you get a physicist up here for that one. The answer is going to be a variable in both value and exact direction, depending on exactly where on the bow or stern that ‘someone’ is working.”
Erickson turned briefly to the communications officer. “Mister O’Connor.”
“I’m on it, sir.”
“Engineer, take over sensor monitoring at your station. If you see anything that’s not there right now, speak up.”
“Will do, sir,” the young woman responded.
Moments later, a tall, lanky, dark haired gentleman whose uniform sleeves were too short for his arms stepped onto the bridge. “Lieutenant J-G Donmoyer reporting from Astrophysics, Captain,” he said as he gazed at the tumbling vessel on the screen.
That was fast. “Take the Sciences station, Lieutenant,” Erickson told him, pointing the station out to him. “Mister Bellinger is uploading some information on that ship out there. I want to know what the G-forces are at the bow and stern.”
