Conflict: The Pythan War, Invasion

by DK Williamson

  “I didn’t think I was going to survive.”

  “Well, when you call arty down on yourself I see why you’d think that, lieutenant,” the sergeant said. “Seeing how many dead Pythans there are here though, I understand why. What else could you have done? Still, bringing arty down on your own head takes big brass ones, LT.”

  “We need to get him medevaced, Sarge” the medic said. “This wound is serious.”

  “I’ll see to it,” the sergeant said looking at his command screen.

  Sealy passed out.

  -(o)-

  Lieutenant Sealy drifted in and out of consciousness for some time, not fully aware of how much time had passed.

  He remembered men lifting him into a landing craft, the wind, dust, blowing pieces of wood and grass, the ramp coming up, debris swirling through the compartment as they took off, then the side doors sliding shut with a bang.

  He remembered rolling under a ceiling of black grids, a wheel on the gurney squeaking, and then lying alone for quite awhile.

  He remembered two pairs of hands stripping off his uniform, warm water on his body, a mention of surgery.

  Never once in those moments of consciousness did a single thought cross his mind about the men that once made up his platoon.

  -(o)-

  CFSSF Mercy STH-02 Hospital Transport

  “Lieutenant Sealy? Can you hear me?” a gentle voice said.

  Sealy opened his eyes, squinting in the bright light.

  “Lieutenant, the surgery went very well. We expect you to recover fully,” the voice said. Sealy turned his head and could see the voice belonged to a military doctor. Her nametag read Colonel Bethany Coolidge, Medical Doctor, CFS Land Forces.

  “I also have the pleasure to be able to inform you that you will receive the Coalition Star of Valor, for your action on Planna. That is the Coalition’s second highest award as I am sure you know. A promotion is also coming I hear.”

  Sealy blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand, ma’am”

  “I am sorry if I threw a bit too much at you. The defense of your position is cited as one of the keys to the victory on Planna. The actions of your platoon and your own individual efforts in particular made the difference they say.”

  “What about Sergeant Scales and the others?”

  “They are all dead as far as I know. A soldier named Maholm was found alive, but as I understand it, his injuries were grievous. He is not onboard the Mercy, so I am afraid we must assume he did not survive. I can check for you if you would like.”

  “It isn’t necessary right now.”

  “I read an account that said the last of your men died providing you cover while you called for artillery.”

  “It’s still a little fuzzy.”

  “No doubt. You have been through a great deal. You are a hero now. The leader of a Platoon of Heroes, that is what the news feeds are calling you and your men. The Coalition needs heroes right now.”

  “A hero? I don’t feel like a hero.”

  “Heroes rarely do I think. Rest. You’ll be very busy when we get to Fencer.”

  -(o)-

  Interlude

  Not everyone was eager to go to war, and despite the fact that the Coalition did not yet draft service personnel, some Coalition citizens and their unique skills made them very valuable and sought after by Coalition forces.

  The crew of the Pier Franklin were such citizens, and the Franklin herself was a highly valued asset as well. Their employer volunteered the services of vehicle and crew, not entirely out of patriotism, nor for pay, since Franklin and her crew would make the company far more money outside of Space Forces employ. It was mostly out of practicality and survivability, because if the Pythans won, there wouldn’t be any more salvage business and in their own way, the vehicle and her crew might help win the war. The Franklin was a rare and highly capable piece of equipment, a salvage and rescue vehicle, and her crew was the best in the business. The war in space looked as if it would be steering a lot of work Franklin’s way, but before they joined the ranks, Franklin had one last job to do.

  …

  Not a Weapon of War

  “I told that liaison idiot from Space Forces that she’s not a fighting vehicle,” said George Tarkaris, skipper of the search and rescue tug Pier Franklin. “I know Space Forces needs salvage vehicles, but they better know that SRT’s like the Franklin aren’t built to fight. She’s built for salvage and rescue, period,” Tarkaris continued.

  “They have to know that, Tark,” Franklin’s Number Two, Tom Thompson replied. “SF uses a couple of SRT’s just like Franklin. They can’t be stupid enough to think we are a weapon of war.”

  “Tom-Tom, never underestimate the military’s capacity for stupidity. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a medal for extraordinary acts of idiocy.”

  “We’ll be military as soon as we complete this rescue.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Tarkaris said rolling his eyes. “Every time I see Lieutenant Whasisface I’m reminded of the fact. We’ll be in the Space Forces only as long as it takes us to win or lose, or until Pier decides they want us out of there. I answer to Space Forces only as long as the company says so.”

  The vehicle, owned and operated by Pier Space Salvage, Ltd., was soon to be the CFSSF Franklin SRT-03, Salvage and Rescue Tug, as soon as it returned to its home station at Erving. The Franklin was outward bound for the Prouste system to assist a spaceliner that had lost propulsion between there and the Frisco system. The vehicle had declared an emergency as it drifted out of a navigation lane, reporting it was moving toward an asteroid field.

  To those in the know, the SRT vehicles were a wonder. Extraordinarily capable, yet virtually unknown outside those in the salvage trade or those who owned vessels that might need rescue. When such was necessary, those that knew looked for aid from an SRT whenever possible.

  Despite their relatively small size, the SRT’s were powerful, its three engines were capable of muscling the mass of even the largest of space vehicles to safety. The engines were capable of articulation, either individually or in concert with one or both of the other engines. In addition, each engine was capable of thrust vectoring. All of those things were only part of the powerful tools that helped the SRT be able to maneuver a vehicle from peril in the worst conditions.

  The tug’s primary hull sat atop a chassis that allowed the SRT to orient itself as conditions or needs required.

  The SRT was able to secure itself to the hull of derelict or imperiled vehicles in a myriad of ways, but the preferred method was to use the lamprey skirt that ran along the edge of the chassis to affix the vehicle to almost any relatively flat portion of a hull. Molecular bonding created a tight, almost unbreakable seal, allowing the SRT’s crew the ability to enter the vehicle for rescue or repair, or in the event the SRT must provide propulsion, a solid lock for controlling the vehicle.

  As capable as the Franklin was, it was fitting that she be matched with a crew worthy of her. The men and women who made up a skilled salvage crew did not consider themselves mere crew, they called themselves salvors, and salvors saved vehicles. Many outside the salvage trade called them arrogant, and perhaps they were, but they did a job very few were willing—and even fewer were able—to do.

  To be a salvor meant being an expert in the repair of vehicle hulls, engines of all sorts, electronics of all sorts, life support, navigational equipment, electrical systems, reactors, and a multitude of other things. They not only had to be able to repair whatever ailed a stricken vehicle, they had to do so under difficult and all too often, extraordinarily hazardous conditions.

  The rescue mission the Franklin was currently on was such a situation. If the spaceliner drifted into the asteroid field before they arrived, there was a very good chance the Franklin’s crew would have to formulate a rescue strategy on the fly.

  “The five P’s, proper planning prevents piss-poor performance,” Tark grumbled. “Until we know exactly what we have, we can’t cre
ate a salvage plan.”

  “We’re three minutes from dropping out of the nav lane, we’ll know then,” said the Deck Chief, Marco Tedesco.

  Tark glanced at Tedesco. “Yeah, and that’s three minutes too long, Polo.” He walked a few steps across the cramped control deck, to stand behind the pilot’s position and leaned over the back of the chair.

  “You ready to get us on the whoa in a hurry, Bev?” he asked the pilot.

  She looked straight up and glared at Tark. “No, boss. I decided today is the day I take up half-stepping.”

  Tark smirked. “And you wonder why you get so few dinner invitations, Chimp. Two-Gee deceleration, right?”

  “That’s what you asked for, that’s what I got set up for, that’s what it’ll be. We’ll end up right next to the casualty. What’s it called, the Cassiopeia?”

  “Yeah.” Tark looked to another station a step away. “You run it all when we come clear of the asteroid field and drop out of the nav lane, Duck. If there are Pythans out there I want to see them before they see us.”

  “If they’re looking, it’ll be a tie, skipper,” replied Billy Drake. “You know that.”

  “Not good enough, besides, if there is a Pythan out there, that piece of shit has it’s ass pointed at us, right? The Pythans are supposed to be way behind us on tech so they might as well be blind.”

  Duck nodded and smiled at Tark’s nagging, never taking his eyes from the screen in front of him as he worked keys and joysticks on the arms of his chair. “I’m already looking with everything passive we have, active scans might give us away.”

  “Fine.” Tark looked at Polo. “Tell everyone not in their crew chairs to get there now.”

  Within a minute, the entire crew on all decks reported in as secured.

  “Notify company we are on the final leg, will report as needed. Request a slot on a message torp, rescue priority.” Tark said, looking toward Polo. The message would take weeks to reach the company by conventional lightwave transmission via navigation buoys and signal stations and relays by other space vehicles, but a message pod could reduce that time considerably.

  “Will do.”

  “Tark, good news, bad news,” Duck said.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  There’s a vehicle attached to Cassiopeia, pushing looks like.”

  “Is that the good or the bad?”

  “Good, boss. Make our job easier. Bad news, there’s a vehicle coming down the corridor in the asteroid field. Slowing hard. I’d bet Pythan.”

  “Shit. How long?”

  “I’ll pin it down when we’re clear, but I’d estimate four hours.”

  Tark knew Drake’s estimate would be on the money. His crew was as good as they come, they had to be to make it in the salvor trade.

  “Coming out of the navigation lane,” Bev said. “Ten minutes before we put the whoa on.”

  “Roger,” Tark said. “Polo, raise the Cassiopeia.”

  Duck looked at his screen, then glanced at Tark. “Skipper, that’s Dancer latched onto Cassiopeia. Blake’s crew.”

  “Amateur hour,” Tark said with derision. “We’ll run them off once we talk to Cassiopeia’s skipper.”

  “Cassiopeia on the horn, skipper,” Polo said.

  “This is Captain Carey of the Piedmont Cassiopeia.”

  Tark rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. A lot of spacefarers used a nautical model for job and vehicle descriptions, in addition to other nomenclature. In this case, the Cassiopeia was a ‘spaceliner’ and her skipper a ‘captain’. The fact that the Franklin was referred to as a ‘tug’ rankled him as well, but at least it was somewhat analogous to the seafaring craft. But still, Tark didn’t like it, Franklin was an SRV in his mind, a Search and Rescue Vehicle, and the Big Black was space, not an ocean.

  “I’m Tarkaris, Pier Franklin. Your company signed a NO CURE—NO PAY. I assume you were informed.”

  “Yes, and we informed Dancer, but they said you might not make it in time, so we accepted their assistance. They have not been able to effect repair of the engines as yet.”

  “We’ll take over from here. Let me talk with Dancer and we’ll get to work once we reach you.”

  “Hey, skipper, why are the Pythans sending a vehicle here?” Chimp asked.

  “You’d have to ask them, Bev. I’m thinking it’s a good place to interdict the nav lane, or maybe it’s a scout. Whatever the reason, we better have that vehicle out of here before they get here.”

  “What if we can’t, what about all those people?”

  “Ain’t no way in hell I’m letting Pythans take our casualty anymore than Blake and his crew are taking it. We deal with Blake first, then the Pythans.”

  Tark looked to his Deck Chief.

  “Polo, hold on sending the NO CURE—NO PAY to Dancer. Blake likes to play games and I’m in no mood.”

  “You got it, skipper,” he replied with a smile. “Blake’s on the horn.”

  “Blake, Tarkaris here. Clear off, this is our casualty.”

  “We were here first, Tark. Imperiled Vehicle Clause. You know what that is.”

  Tark smiled sourly and shook his head. He looked at Polo and gestured with a jut of his chin, then looked back to the commo panel. Polo broadcast a copy of the salvage agreement.

  “Sure do. I’m sure the Cassiopeia is glad you showed up. Check your coms, Blake.”

  Several seconds went by before Blake came onto the air again. “Fine, Tark. Your job. We’ll assist.”

  “Negative. It’s yours or ours, not both. Look at your numbers. You got the thrust to stay out of the asteroids?”

  “You know good and well we don’t, but we’ve been pushing two days, and working on the engines. That’s worth something, Tark.”

  “Sure it is. You put in your claim at the hearing, till then, fuck off.”

  “Damn it. Fine.”

  “What’s wrong with Cassiopeia’s drive?”

  “Fuck you, ain’t tellin’.”

  “Cast your sensors down the asteroid corridor, what do you see?”

  “Stand by.”

  A minute passed by before Blake broadcast again. “A vehicle. What about it, another salvor crew?”

  Tark looked up und sighed.

  “Check the propulsion readings, that ought to tell you something.”

  Another minute passed. “Antimatter?”

  “That’s right. What’s that mean? Pythans. If we don’t get Cassiopeia out of here before they arrive then none of us get paid. What’s wrong with the propulsion?”

  Several seconds passed. “We don’t know,” Blake said with irritation.

  “You said you were working on restoring the propulsion.”

  “We were.”

  Tark squinted his eyes in frustration. “How can you work on something if you don’t know what’s wrong?”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Tark. We’re unlocking and departing.

  “As fast as they can get that piece of shit to go,” Polo said.

  -(o)-

  An hour later the Franklin was locking up the lamprey skirt at the same position on Cassiopeia’s hull Dancer had vacated.

  Dancer was pushing for the navigation lane as fast as possible.

  “Blake did get Cassiopeia stabilized, makes our job a little easier,” Chimp said, her eyes darting back and forth between displays. “Be ready to shove in just a few.”

  “Good.” Tark said from his command seat. “Polo, tell Cassiopeia’s skipper what’s going down and tell him I’ll be coming aboard with the rescue and repair crew.”

  “Roger,” Polo answered. “He doesn’t know about the Pythans does he?”

  “No, and if he’s the skittish type I may not tell him. Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

  A few minutes later, Franklin’s engines came to life and began slowing Cassiopeia’s approach to the asteroid field with .5g acceleration.

  Tark unlatched the seat restraints that held him in place while they were weightless.


  “Tell the R and R crew to meet me at the hatch, Polo,” he said as he wound his way across the control deck.

  “Will do, skipper.”

  The control deck, as with all the other personnel decks, was located in a spherical module known as the crew ball. The module was designed to be able to rotate itself in any direction, mostly to be able to orient the crew decks according to the direction the vehicle was accelerating to provide gravity and help with orientation.

  By the time Tark reached the hatch that opened into the area enclosed within the lamprey skirt that would get them into Cassiopeia, the rescue and repair team going aboard the casualty was already there. Among them was Second Lieutenant Bernard Turner, the Space Forces liaison officer assigned to assist the Franklin’s crew in their transition into the military. Since his arrival, there had been little time for him to do much of anything but learn his way around the cramped and labyrinthine decks of the Franklin.

  Tark glowered at the lieutenant.

  “What’s he doing here, Brownie?” he said to Ronald Browne, the Franklin’s Repair Chief.

  “The kid’s going with us. He needs to see what we do.”

  “Oh? Who made that decision?” Tark asked as his eyebrows arched.

  “Alphabet and I did, skipper,” Brownie replied.

  Tark looked at Alphabet, called that because his given name was Mikhail Uisarionovich Szymborska. He was Franklin’s Rescue Chief.

  “He’s got useful skills, Tark,” Alphabet said with a grin. His eyes twinkled. “Besides, Drama said he has almost as much medical training as she does.”

  Tark closed his eyes and grumbled, then looked at his medical specialist, a tall sultry redhead named Alexandra MacDonald, known as Drama. “You fall for any guy in a uniform, don’t you?”

  She glanced at Lieutenant Turner and smiled. “Maybe.”

  Tark sighed. “Well, if he’s coming along, then he’s crew. You know the rule about romance, right?”

  Drama feigned being crestfallen. “If you say so, boss.”

  “I have no say in this?” the lieutenant said.