by Gethsemane
While the humans were trying to piece together what happened, I went to the source, which they apparently never thought to do… or haven’t yet. I asked Caliph. She told me what it was, and she also told me she would never tell the humans even if they asked her because they couldn’t deal with it. I thought that was very arrogant of her. I like arrogance.
She also said she thinks my ears are cute.
Pegasus – Auxiliary Command Consultation Room: Deck 10: Eliza Jane Change, Kyle Atlantic, and Matthew Driver met once again, this time in a much smaller conference room, windowless, deep in the ship’s interior.
“We saved the children of Gethsemane,” Eliza Jane Change said.
“We did,” Matthew Driver agreed.
“Now, what?” Specialist Atlantic asked.
“Maybe we keep saving them,” Matthew Driver suggested. “The children are still alive, but now they’re going to need years, maybe lifetimes of our support. Trajan Lear has taken in a boy from the Fort Abaddon site.” He smiled. “It seems my protégé, now has a protégé of his own.”
“But what about us?” Atlantic persisted, making a circle gesture with his hand as though to draw them together. Although what he was actually wondering was whether having the precognition gift meant that weird crap like this was bound to happen to him for the rest of his life.
Change shocked them both y reciting poetry. “When shall we three meet again?/ In thunder, lightning, or in rain?/When the hurly-burly’s done/ When the battle’s lost and won/That will be ere the set of sun.”
“Where did that come from?” Driver asked.
“A little poem my father used to recite to my mother and me whenever the three of us managed to get together,” Change explained. “It never made much sense to me. We lived on a mining ship, so I didn’t know what thunder, lightning or rain were, much less what a hurly-burly was. I had not thought about it in years.”
“What about us?” Atlantic repeated impatiently. “Is there more work for us to do? I’m still young, and I don’t want to think that I’ve already accomplished my purpose in life.”
“Now, I guess you’re free to make your own purpose,” Matthew Driver replied.
But Atlantic wasn’t satisfied with that. “We were called here to rescue these children, and we nearly got killed ourselves doing it. Why did … why did something call us here and then try to kill us? And what if we didn’t come?”
“The children would have died and that … that thing would have been released on the Universe,” Driver replied. “It’s a good thing we did come.”
“That doesn’t help,” Atlantic was struggling to explain his position, as always when a man tries to deal with something infinitely greater than himself. “I don’t like the idea of a Universe that depends on us to make things play out the way they are supposed to. But I also don’t like the idea that everything is set out and nothing we can do will change it.”
“Humanity has wondered about that for a hundred centuries,” Matthew Driver replied. “Along the way, we’ve had some genuine Prophets and Messiahs who have relayed some truth.”
“And a few Charlatans, as well,” Eliza Change added.
Atlantic accepted this with wary resignation. “I suppose you’re right. Maybe I should talk to Eddie Roebuck. He seems to have found something that works for him.” I watched the Old Man mope around in his quarters for two days, though he drank less then he usually does when he is bored. Cleaning up the mess was low on the list of priorities for the ship, but finally, a cleaning robot appeared on the third day and helped clear the debris. It will be another ten days, at least, before a restoration crew can repair the damage.
He presided over the Memorial Services for the personnel who died in the attack. Most of them were in the sections adjacent to the port Graviton Engine (total loss) or in the secondary command tower. The Old Man recited, with great sincerity, the tributes to honor and duty Alkema-guy wrote for the services. He also approved designation of a Memorial Garden, which will be done after major repairs are completed.
When not moping or attending funerals, he spent time reviewing old mission reports. He once watched the recorded image documentation of the Aurora mission for seven hours straight, but that may have had something to do with the obsession Auroran women have for baring their breasts in the presence of recording devices.
Pegasus – Officers Club: When Keeler was feeling better, he went to the Officer’s Club. It had come through the attack unscathed, but had not reopened. Keeler invoked the Captain’s privilege, and went in anyway to share a drink at the bar with his friend Redfire. “Borealan Smashmouth,” he requested, not knowing why.
Redfire poured himself a glass, then raised it to the commander. “Cheers, mate.”
“Cheers indeed,” Keeler replied. “I guess… I guess we missed a terrible lot. Thousands of little kids evacuated from a doomed world. Planets colliding. Horrific space monsters.”
“Some of that was recorded,” Redfire replied. “A few of the ship’s documentarians followed some of the evacuations, anyway. The Geosciences Core put hundreds of sensors on the planet to record everything up to the moment of impact. Orbital probes and the ship’s sensors caught the collision.”
“Really wild stuff,” Keeler said.
“Wild, indeed,” Redfire agreed.
Small talk dispensed with, Keeler asked Redfire the real question. “Where did you go?” Redfire shook his head and smiled. “I don’t remember. Do you?” Keeler shook his head. “I can’t remember. If I try really hard, little bits and pieces come to me, but I don’t even know if they really happened or if they’re just things I created in my head. There’s something about a river, or maybe a lake. I just can’t make sense of it.
And after a while, I just start thinking about my family, remembering times on Sapphire.
But nothing about the Afterlife.”
Redfire nodded gravely. “Same here, I have images, like some dream you’re desperately trying to remember. There was some kind of light. There was some kind of…” he shook his head. “See, as soon as I try to articulate it, I lose it.”
“Do you really think it was an Afterlife we went to?” Keeler asked him.
“Neg, I really don’t,” Redfire replayed. “I think the Universe was just playing with us.
But it was worthwhile.”
“Why?”
“Because I know who I am now,” Redfire told him.
“And just who are you?” Keeler asked.
He stood up straight. “I am TyroCommander Philip John Miller Redfire of the Pathfinder Ship Pegasus.”
“You got your memory back?”
“Neg, but I feel like I know myself again,” Redfire replied. “I realized I do have a life here, and if I don’t have a history I remember, I’m liberated to create whatever future I want for myself.”
“Good for you,” Keeler tapped his glass, pointed out that it was empty, and requested more. “I suppose I received some sort of revelation because since I recovered my faculties, I’ve been filled with a burning desire to author a book about our ship, and our adventures, and the places we’ve seen. I have a desire to explain it to people, so that future generations will remember our voyage.”
“That sounds like a worthwhile thing to do,” Redfire replied. “A good way to pass the time in transit between worlds.”
“If what Ranking Dave tells me is true, this ship isn’t going anywhere for a while. Not without major repairs to the hull and propulsion systems.”
“I have been, kind of out-of-the-loop on those kinds of discussions,” Redfire said. “But it’s time to put an end to that. I have a request of you, my captain.”
“What is it?”
“I wish to return to duty as this ship’s senior tactical officer.” It was Caliph who figured out the nature of the aliens attacking us, and it was Caliph who figured how to defeat it. But, naturally, it was a human that took all the credit for it.
Pegasus – Hospital Three: Some hours after
the battle was over, after they had repaired the immediate damage and reset themselves up in the Secondary Tactical Command Center, a search crew found Max Jordan passed out unconscious on the saddle of an Accipiter remote operational simulator. At some point in piloting the nemesis, one of the blood-seals in his legs had given up, and he lost more blood. The searchers who found him brought him back to the Hospital, where he was infused both with his own cloned blood and blood from his brother Sam and his half-sister, Pieta.
A few days after that, Anaconda Rook stood next to Max Jordan’s healing bed next to her husband and Specialist Fangboner. All three wore their Dressy Warfighter Officers uniforms… a smart black and khaki ensemble trimmed with red piping.
“On behalf of the crew of Pegasus, and the people of the planet Sapphire,” she intoned gravely. “I present you with this Scarlet Lizard, in grateful acknowledgment for your personal sacrifice in coming to harm in combat operations on the planet Gethsemane.” She attached the small medallion with the red lizard on it to the front of his healing robe. Max was shy and awkward about it.
“It seems weird to be getting a medal just for getting shot,” he said.
“You don’t get the medal for being shot,” Taurus Rook told him, with one eyebrow raised conspiratorially. “You get it for being brave enough to stand where you could get shot.”
“And then getting shot,” Max Jordan deadpanned.
“There’s more,” Taurus Rook, went on. “On behalf of the crew of Pegasus, and the people of the planet Sapphire. I also present you with the medallion of Flawless Victory in defeating the evil monster that was trying to emerge through the Gateway and destroy the universe.”
She handed him a medal the size of a large coin, gold metal with a black dragon insignia on it.
“Doesn’t seem big enough, somehow,” Johnny Rook said.
With the Main Bridge destroyed, the humans relocated operations to the Auxiliary Command Center on Deck 42 of the Primary Command Tower.
The Secondary Command Tower remains too damaged in too many sections. It is unusable for the time being.
We moved the ship into orbit around the fifth planet in the Gethsemane system and began operations to harvest water and atmospheric gases to replenish what we had lost in the attack. It will take at least 100 days of repairs before the ship is even capable of entering hyperspace.
Pegasus Auxiliary Command Suite (Battle Management Command and Control (BMC2) Deck 2: Sitting around a large, black table with hologram displays floating above it, Keeler met with his Core Staff twice a day for status and planning, with their focus being the repair of his ship.
Eliza Jane Change sat on his left, David Alkema on his right. Going down the table were Anaconda Taurus Rook, General Kitaen, Rocky Collins representing the Flight Groups, and representatives from Engineering Core and Technical Core.
Alkema provided his latest status report. He sounded tired. He had gotten little sleep in the five days since the attack. “About four hours ago, we lost a power node in the lower part of the secondary command tower. There is no life support or power above deck 29 in the secondary tower. Estimated time to repair, sixteen hours.”
“How long until we get to use the Bridge again?” Keeler asked. He didn’t like using the BMC2 as the ACS. It was too dark, and the seats were uncomfortable. Worse, it just felt like he was hanging out in someone else’s home and using their stuff. It just didn’t feel right.
“Repairs to the Main Bridge will be our next priority after Primary Systems have been restored to 80% operational capacity,” Alkema answered.
“How long will that take?” Keeler asked.
“Ten weeks,” Alkema answered. “That’s provided we can secure enough materials to complete repairs. Our reserve supplies aren’t enough to handle this kind of damage. Even if we cannibalize the sections that are beyond repair, we don’t have enough structural materials to repair all the damage.”
“What are you doing about it?” Keeler asked.
Alkema had provided a report on what they were doing, which the commander obviously had not read. Without his usual sigh, he explained. “To begin with, we’re harvesting ice off the planet we are now in orbit around. That will help us replenish water, oxygen, and volatile chemicals once we’ve repaired our systems enough for them to receive it.
“We’re also surveying the moons of the outer gas giants. There are plenty of moons in this system, 54 so far. The system doesn’t have an asteroid belt…”
“It didn’t used to,” General Kitaen muttered darkly.
Alkema ignored his grim joke. “We’ve already found a large deposit of platinum on one of the moons of the seventh planet. Preliminary estimates say 3,000 tons. That will at least get us started on repairing the armor and the hatches to the landing bay.
Although mining ore from asteroids and moons was Eliza Jane Change’s area of expertise, she held her tongue. She seemed distracted, and let Alkema continue.
Which he did, “We can’t spare any human personnel on the mining work, so it’s been delegated to androids and mining robots. Our on board ore processing capacity is limited, but…”
“We will manage,” Keeler finished for him.
“What we could really use is… more platinum, molybdenum, tungsten and/or titanium for hull repairs, we can’t fabricate enough alloy for all the patches, but we can make strong enough substitutes with those materials.
He added another list to the display. “We’re also looking for Gallium, Indium, Yttrium, Beryllium, and some other rare elements to restore our power and control systems. We could use some Palladium to repair the fuel cells, but I doubt we’ll find any. ”
“Braving the elements,” Keeler chuckled. “How are our personnel holding up?”
“They’re holding up well,” reported Anaconda Taurus Rook. “Between the repairs to the ship, and the relocation of some of our crew, there’s an intense amount of activity.
Morale is very good.”
“I meant, do we have enough to fix this?” Keeler gestured at the three dimensional display of his damaged ship.
“Technical Core is working double and triple shifts,” reported Technical UnderChief Shayadrian Bauer, one of the Republickers who had remained behind on Pegasus. “It’s a strain, but we will keep it up until we meet Lt. Commander Alkema’s goals for system operations.”
“What about the Gethsemanian youths?” Keeler asked. “According to the reports I’ve seen, 2,400 of them are fourteen or older. Could they assist the repair teams in any way?” Taurus Rook frowned. “We have training programs starting up, but it’s going to be a while before they know our systems well enough to be useful. And it may be longer before they can learn how to work with us.”
“Some of them may never work with us,” Medical Technician Briceland interrupted.
“So far, we’ve found at least 200 hundred children with severe behavioral disorders that resulted from them being abandoned on the planet and left to fend for themselves.”
“The ferals,” said General Kitaen. “And I believe the number is closer to 400.”
“They are going to require intensive rehabilitative therapy,” Briceland continued. “And they should be isolated from the others, some of them perhaps permanently. They’re too prone to violence and aggression. They would victimize the others.” Alkema had already seen the recommendation from Cultural Survey with regard to the ferals, so he relayed its conclusion. “They should be isolated from the other survivors and given intensive therapy. In extreme cases, we’ll have to consider use of a neural-calmative implant.”
“Give them to me,” General Kitaen said. “Warrior discipline will help them tame the demons inside them. The Warfighter Core will give them purpose and instill discipline in them.”
Briceland looked like she was about to object, so Keeler simply said. “Approved. Have our Medical Core work with General Kitaen to devise a regimen of warrior discipline for the ferals. What about the rest, though. Can we put them to work?”
>
“I think it would be a great idea to get them working with the crew,” said Taurus Rook.
“But I don’t even know how long it will take to train them to that level.”
“Understood,” Keeler said. “Just keep in mind the goal of your program is to be assimilation into the crew as productive, contributing members. I’m not going to have them living in the basement, watching our video entertainments and eating turkey sandwiches, or whatever it is untamed youth do these days. Is there anything else?” There was something else. There was always something else. Alkema presented yet another display. “Our supply of Hammerhead missiles was severely depleted in the battle, and our capacity to make more is severely limited. I am working on an idea, but you might not go for it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Keeler asked, cuppng his chin in his hand.
Alkema displayed a schematic of a Hammerhead’s warhead. “To make new missiles, I’ll need a power source for the new missiles warheads. And the only suitable power source on board… are the warheads for the remaining Nemesis missiles.”
“Oh, dear,” Keeler said. “How many of those do we have left?”
“We still have one hundred and twenty-two…” Alkema answered.
“I can let you have half of them,” Keeler said. “I mean, we barely use those things much anyway. Will that help.”
Alkema didn’t seem very pleased, but was grateful for what he had. “Based on my calculations, I should be able to get 10 Hammerhead-type warheads out of every Nemesis warhead I dismantle. I’m still weeks away from even being ready to build a prototype.”
“Six hundred missiles,” General Kitaen noted. “That’s well below our normal complement.”
“Once we’re more restored, I may be able to design some new warheads,” Alkema replied. “There is some good news to report, commander.”
“Natural alcohol deposit on one of the moons?” Keeler guessed insincerely.
“Not that good,” Alkema replied. Alcohol would be very useful for restoring some of the processing systems. “Cultural survey has translated the records we recovered from the Museum of Galactic Navigation on Gethsemane, and we have names and stellar designations for 242 colonies in the Ara, Triangulum Australe, and Scorpius sector.” Keeler brightened a little bit. “Scorpius was one of the twelve sectors of the Old-Line Commonwealth.”
