Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

  She tried to stand up, but the deck suddenly shot upward with another clap of rumbling thunder and swatted her like an insect, sending her tumbling backward through the air. She crashed feet first into the wall several feet above the bed, then fell to the bed and quickly grabbed hold of the mattress and held on for dear life while the thunderous barrage continued incessantly and the ship pitched and rolled like an ocean liner on an angry sea.

  She wasn’t necessarily afraid to die, but the thought of leaving Karen behind crushed her.

  Then again, the chances of that happening as a result of this attack, realistically, were slim to none. Despite the attack’s apparent ferocity, she knew the assailing vessel or vessels had to be relatively small and lightly armed—probably nothing more than an enemy deep recon patrol gone astray. Otherwise the liner and everyone aboard it would have been reduced to space flotsam already. All she had to do was hold on tight for a few more minutes. Their escorts would put an end to the attack, and to the attackers, soon enough.

  Her biggest concern, aside from the fact that members of the ship’s crew would likely find her unconscious and buck naked before she ever woke up on her own if she happened to lose her grip, was that if the attack forced the liner to drop out of jumpspace, then it would take them a god-awful long time to reach another jump ring. They’d likely spend the next several weeks cruising through interstellar space at sublight. Perhaps months if current events prevented the fleet from committing sufficient resources to a search, which with Operation Mass Eviction having just begun they very likely would.

  Chapter 40

  Admiral Hansen was still finding it difficult to concentrate on his book. He had hoped, though he’d had his doubts, that once Heather finally turned off her videogame and went to bed, which she’d done more than an hour ago, it would get at least a little bit easier. But it hadn’t. Thoughts of the events unfolding in the Rosha’Kana star system were persistently preoccupying his mind, distracting him from everything else, and he was repeatedly finding himself having to reread the pages at least once and sometimes twice in order to follow the story.

  He’d arranged with the Joint Chiefs to receive at least one campaign update per day, two if possible, throughout the duration of Operation Mass Eviction, which had finally commenced two days ago. The first of those updates had come at 0839 hours on Thursday, barely an hour after the first shots were fired, and he hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else since.

  The task force had taken eight days to reach the besieged system. Eight long, anxiety-filled days to complete a voyage that normally took just a little over two. Even a massive flotilla the size of that task force could have done it in less than three, had they simply jumped directly to the system’s inner planets, but that of course would have been much too risky. Unnecessarily risky. All of the contingent commanders, human an non-human alike, had agreed on that point without debate. None of the advance recon scouts they’d sent in had been heard from—they were all missing and currently presumed lost—so they’d had no way of knowing what awaited them around the twin Tor worlds. Consequently, the task force had jumped back into normal space while still several days’ travel outside the system and had cruised in on inertia alone under blackout conditions and strict communications silence until they made contact with the enemy.

  That first enemy contact had reportedly been a two-ship scouting party. As soon as the enemy had reacted overtly to their presence, the entire task force had powered up and swarmed into the inner system to engage. But as it had turned out, those scouts had only been the tip of a very large and deadly spear. Several dozen previously undetected Veshtonn capital ships had appeared almost instantly and seemingly out of nowhere and had come to their defense, and in the ensuing confusion the scouts had escaped. According to the latest update, no one on the Coalition side had yet determined in what direction they’d fled, and given that the entire task force was now fully involved in combat operations, they likely never would.

  Hansen sighed. “Damn it,” he muttered. He’d just reached the bottom of the same page for the third time and he still had no idea what he’d just read.

  “Excuse me, Nick?” Hal’s voice called from the terminal.

  Hansen closed the book and dropped his hands to his lap. So much for reading. Whenever Hal called him at home... “What is it, Hal?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home at this hour, especially on a Saturday evening, but you have a priority message coming in from the S-I-A station commander in Tarko City on Cirra.”

  Hansen set his book aside and got up, then went over and sat down at his terminal. “Put it through, Hal,” he said.

  “Admiral Hansen,” the nondescript commander began the instant his image appeared on the screen. “I apologize for sending you a recording instead of reporting to you live, but I wanted to get Search and Rescue operations spun up immediately.”

  Search and rescue! What the hell...

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, someone you know well came to see us recently. That person departed this location two days ago to return to her point of origin. Approximately thirty-five minutes before I recorded this message, all contact with that person’s vessel and both of its escorts was abruptly lost. Now, for all we know, the problem might be nothing more than a simple communications malfunction. There’s been no indication of enemy contact, but we’re not taking any chances. I’ll notify you immediately with any news. Out.”

  The screen went dark.

  Hansen drew a deep breath and exhaled long and loud as he sat back. Then he rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and his head in his hand. Commander Royer. Liz. A pair of Veshtonn scouts had escaped the task force’s assault, and now Liz’s ship had gone missing in the same general vicinity. S&R operations were most likely already underway, but until they found something no one would even know if she and all those hundreds of others onboard were alive or dead. And worst of all, there was absolutely nothing he could do to make a difference.

  But there was one thing he had to do, and soon, before the story broke on the news. He had to go tell Karen that her wife’s vessel was missing. Liz wouldn’t want her to hear it on the news first, either. No, she’d want Karen to be told in person, right away, and would want him to be the one to tell her.

  Chapter 41

  Five Days Later

  Earth Standard Date: Thursday, 23 September 2190

  All Dylan could do was stand and watch while the compound around him twisted and bent at impossible angles, growing strangely more warped and distorted and surreal as the seconds ticked by impossibly slow. Shrinking and stretching, blurring and fading from view, like an underwater world seen from above the rippling surface of a crystal clear sea. It suddenly dawned on him then that the inescapable hell in which he found himself was nothing more than a horrible dream. He clung fervently to that small spark of consciousness and fought his way back. Fought to escape the terror of the chaotic hell that is war, and to escape from that hideous, blood-thirsty demon that had again invaded his nightmares. Finally, the din of combat began to fade, drowned out by the peace and quiet of the real world.

  He relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the sweat-dampened blankets, and as he slowly and repeatedly flexed his fingers to work the cramps out, he tried to visualize the creature in his mind. But with each passing moment the fleeting memory of its alien form faded further and further into oblivion, just as it always did.

  He drew a breath and sighed. What was it? What the hell was it? Why couldn’t he ever remember? In his nightmares the creature was as real as the bed he lay in, but when he awoke, nothing. It was just gone, as if it had never existed at all.

  But it had existed, and he knew that it was still there, still lurking somewhere within the realm of his subconscious. And he knew that it would return once again to destroy him the next time he slept. It always returned.

  So what the hell was it? Where had it come from? It wasn’t there, in the real battle. After two weeks of
almost daily counseling, at least he could be sure of that much. Where then? What dark and haunted chamber of the mind could have spawned such a demon, this monster of the disturbed subconscious that could erase all memory of its appearance from its own creator’s consciousness? And why? Why was it after him? Even the new doctors who had come in and taken over his psychological care after he told that S.I.A. woman about his nightmares hadn’t figured that one out yet.

  Doctors. What a joke. Psychologists and psychiatrists. Quacks, every damn one of them. Professional doubletalkers. What right did they have to call themselves doctors? They didn’t hold peoples’ lives in the palms of their hands. They couldn’t replace a blind man’s eyes or reattach a severed limb, or cut people open, fix whatever was wrong, and then sew them up again. What did they know? Absolutely nothing. Given a choice he’d stop going to his bi-daily sessions in a heartbeat. Hell, he hadn’t wanted to start them in the first place. He’d never liked the idea of someone poking around in his head as though he were some kind of lab animal to be experimented on. He didn’t like it at all.

  But of course, he hadn’t been given a choice. He’d been ordered to go. Regulations. Any service member who experienced some sort of traumatic event was required to undergo a series of psychological evaluations and be certified fit for duty before being allowed to return, assuming he or she was physically able to return. Any service member who experienced a traumatic event. Obviously, that included anyone wounded in combat, and right now he was that anyone. But why did that certification process have to take so damn long?

  He checked himself. He was doing it again—dwelling on his unfortunate circumstances and making himself angry. It was a pointless exercise, not to mention a self-defeating one, and would only serve to worsen an already bad headache. Hell, he’d been wounded just three and a half weeks ago. And besides, no matter how bad things might be, there was always somebody somewhere for whom things were a lot worse. His mother, God bless her insight, had told him that many times when he was a small child, and he had never forgotten it.

  He should call her. He usually tried to contact her at least once a month, but he hadn’t spoken to her since before the last FTX six weeks ago. She might be worried.

  He lay still for a few more minutes, listening for the rain that had been falling steadily for the last few days, but hearing nothing. Then he rolled his throbbing head across the sweat-soaked pillow, squinting hard against blinding shafts of sunlight that shone down through the quad-pane skylight like four proton beams aimed directly into his eyes. But squinting alone proved not to be enough and the painful brightness still forced him to turn back to the wall. At least the sun was shining for a change. And thankfully, for the first time in days he didn’t have any appointments with that team of doctors who’d been assigned to his case, medical or otherwise.

  He forced himself to open his eyes again, blinking repeatedly until they finally grew used to the sunlight. Then he drew a deep breath and held it, steeled himself, and exhaled sharply with a grunt as he rolled over onto his side, grimacing against the anticipated pain that shot through his shoulder like the energy pulse that had blown it apart. He dropped his feet to the thickly carpeted floor and sat up quickly to take the pressure off, but that only amplified his discomfort as daggers of sharp pain stabbed through his torso.

  Hesitantly at first, he drew several more deep, labored breaths, exhaling more slowly with each successive one until his ribs finally started to regain some of their flexibility. He closed his eyes and continued the exercise for several minutes, just as Marissa had taught him, until his heart rate decreased and the throbbing between his temples eased. But the moment he opened his eyes again that throbbing resumed once more.

  He sighed. Why did he even bother to try? He’d told himself at least a hundred times that without the formal training that only a live Tor’Kana Priest Adept could provide—training that Marissa had been fortunate enough to have received before she entered the service and had tried to pass on to him—he’d never master even their most basic mental healing disciplines.

  “Thanks for trying, Marissa,” he said aloud to the empty room.

  Marissa. He wished she could be there with him now to share his bed and wondered if he’d blown his chances with her for good. Despite the fact that he routinely slept alone for weeks at a time in the field, he’d come to realize over the last ten nights that he didn’t particularly like doing the same thing at home. He was used to sleeping with Carolyn, and the bed felt empty and very lonely without her.

  He didn’t love Marissa—not that way. He never had. That much he knew for sure. But he did care about her and he already missed her terribly. If only he’d given in to her advances and divorced Carolyn a long time ago. Maybe things would have turned out differently for them. Maybe, given time, he could have fallen in love with her and built a life with her. Now it was probably too late. She was gone. She was out of the fleet, back home with her family somewhere in L.A. He’d called her once, but their conversation had felt strangely awkward and forced.

  At any rate, as far as the Cirran mental disciplines were concerned, she’d been a patient teacher, and a pretty good one, too, considering that she’d been little more than a novice herself. Despite his lingering feelings of discouragement he’d grown noticeably better at employing the first discipline over the last several days. Nevertheless, his mind having finally conceded this round of the battle of wills to his body, he reached for the pill bottle on the nightstand to his right—he tried not to over-extend but inflicted more pain upon himself just the same—and dispensed a Liferin tablet into his hand. But rather than just toss it into his mouth he hesitated, stared down at it, until it gradually faded from view.

  * * *

  “Thank you, Corporal,” he said as he watched the little white tablet already beginning to dissolve in his sweaty palm. “You’re a life saver. My head is really killing me.”

  “You should have asked me for one a lot sooner.”

  With a little more effort than it usually required, Dylan filled his hot, pasty mouth with warm saliva and tossed the pill to the back of his throat and swallowed. Then he said, “I thought you didn’t carry these things anymore.”

  “Never hurts to have a backup plan.”

  “Good point.”

  “Anyway, that’ll fix you right up.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Did you at least try the discipline?”

  Dylan nodded...slightly. “Only about half a dozen times since we left. It worked a little bit, but this one’s a major skullquake.”

  “Aw, come on, Sarge. You oughtta know by now size doesn’t matter.”

  * * *

  He was smiling, he realized. He was sitting on the edge of his bed and staring down at the tablet in his hand, smiling. God he missed her. He tossed the tablet into his mouth, swallowed, and waited a few moments for it to take effect. Then, feeling almost like a new man, he tossed the warm blankets aside and stood up, creating a breeze that chilled his bare, sweat-coated skin. He raised his arms gingerly toward the ceiling—he could smell the sweat in his armpits—and carefully stretched every muscle from head to toe, then limped into the bathroom to shave and take a sorely needed shower.

  * * *

  He set the shower for medium-warm, heavy flow, then stepped into the stall and stood still as a statue under the pulsating stream.

  He cupped his rough, dry hands under the soap dispenser and held them there until the creamy white fluid overflowed and oozed down the length of his forearms.

  He lathered up.

  “Finally, to be clean again,” he mumbled. “Hey, Kenny!” he called out. “You in here?”

  “Yeah!” the answer came.

  “I told you I was still a white man under all this dirt!”

  “I’ll call my great-grandfather for you! Maybe he can help!”

  He laughed.

  He heard the door to the next stall slam closed with a sharp crack. Was maintenance ever going to adju
st the tension on that thing? He heard Marissa humming a soft melody that he didn’t recognize. When she turned the water on the sound drowned her out, but then her haunting melody exploded into a reverberating moan of such ecstasy that everyone in the showers, and probably in the locker room as well, had to have heard it.

  “Oh!” she cried out, sounding as though she were on the very brink of orgasm, eliciting assorted snickers and various comments. “Oh yes! Yes! Oh, it feels so good!”

  The snickering graduated into open laughter.

  Comments followed. Jokes. Profanities. Someone over-stepped their bounds. He said something to stop that in its tracks.

  He dropped his arms to his sides and just stood there shaking his head. “I think I’ll just stay in here forever,” he mumbled.

  “Great! I’ll stay with you.”

  * * *

  He wished she were with him now. But of course, he couldn’t really stay in the shower forever. His medical leave would end in a few more weeks and he’d have to report back for duty, provided the medical doctors and doubletalkers alike all cleared him as he’d been told to expect they probably would. When that time came he’d return to duty gladly and without regret. What’s more, he’d return with renewed enthusiasm. He missed being there. He was proud of his service and had every intention of continuing to serve, despite what had happened to him. It was the only thing in his entire adult life that he’d ever done right.

  But for now he was still on medical leave and it would probably be a good idea to go outside and enjoy the nice weather while it lasted.

  He rinsed himself off, turned off the water, and stood under the warm air dryer until his pale skin was dry and his dark brown hair barely felt damp. Then he stepped out and wiped the bottoms of his feet on the mat, and as he walked back into the bedroom he realized that he wasn’t limping very much anymore and that the pain in his ribs was all but gone. True, he had taken the Liferin a little while ago, but despite its strength to cure headaches it had never quite deadened his other aches and pains so completely before. Perhaps those long, painful hours of physical therapy he’d been putting in were finally doing some good after all.