by TR Cameron
Kate spoke into the silence, “Targets two and three are marked. Watch out for them. They have one of those connected energy beams, and they’re heading in our direction. We have just over a minute before they reach us at current speeds.”
Cross nodded, adding them to his mental picture of the battle. As they reached effective range of their target, the enemy ship was still firing at the starbase. “Standard broadside pass, starboard,” Cross ordered.
Lieutenant Walsh unleashed all the weapons on the starboard side simultaneously. Energy plowed into the enemy’s shields—the lasers trying to overload the shields with pure power, the plasma cannons trying to melt their way through. A second salvo of torpedoes followed the first as quickly as the tubes could reload. Attention on the base, the enemy ship never had a chance to defend itself. The additional missiles overcame its protections and blasted it into glowing particles. Lieutenant Lee, keeping careful track of the other two targets, maneuvered to avoid their attempted trap.
The battle net chattered in Cross’s ear, signaling that the Caracas had entered the zone. He barely had time to register the words Aguayo yelled at him before the Washington was struck hard in her starboard aft section, instantly changing her direction and sending her into a tumble. Screams, grunts, and other noises of surprise sounded across the bridge, and he knew his voice was adding to the shocked din. Cross’s brain rebooted. He noted that the lights were out, the displays were dead, and there was a faint scent of smoke in the air. He flicked the button to connect to engineering and found it nonfunctional.
Moments later, emergency illumination snapped on. Cross swept a glance around the bridge and saw Jacobs unconscious in his seat. He alerted Kate, who quickly unbuckled and checked Jacobs’s vitals with one hand while rebooting the tactical station with the other. Cross staggered to the wall-mounted intercom, a vestige of the Washington’s original design that functioned through a direct-wired connection, and hit the button for engineering. “Chief? Anybody home?”
Enough time passed for Cross to feel uncomfortable before Jannik’s gravelly voice responded. “Engines are offline, and the feed from the batteries was severed by the impact. Partial battery power up in about two minutes.”
“Make it one,” said Cross, killing the channel. He walked around the bridge, checking on his people. Except for Jacobs, still unconscious from injury, their restraints had limited injuries to minor scrapes and bruises. He sat down in his chair and listened to the absence of sound coming from his dead ship. He’d never heard it like this, and he hoped to hear nothing like it again.
At one minute and thirty seconds, power was restored and the bridge displays came back to life. Lee was the first to report, “We’re tumbling on both axes, and I don’t have thruster control. Local space is fairly empty as we’ve been knocked out of the thick of the battle.”
“Contact engineering, figure out the thrusters as quickly as you can. Tactical?”
Kate responded in a rush of syllables. “Primary shields down, secondary shields active. Point defense cannons functional. Without our main shields, though, we’re in bad shape.”
Every officer knew main shields required the main engines, and that engineering was no doubt working on restoring both. There was nothing they could do to hurry or assist that process from the bridge. “Weapons?”
“Lasers offline. Plasma cannons offline. Torpedoes available. Torpedo reloads, offline.”
“That’s something at least. Sensors?”
“Fifteen seconds to battle display. The computer is just now coming back. Short range sensors active, long-range, not a chance.”
“Communications.”
“All internal communications are down, except for hardwired intercom. No external communications available.”
“Okay, we know where we are. Do we know how we got here?”
The main display flickered, then came alive at about half of its normal intensity. Icons for UAL and enemy ships appeared on screen, including one giant icon they had only seen once before. Lieutenant Flores filled in the final piece of the puzzle from the sensor station. “The Goliath transitioned into the space we were occupying. It won.”
Ten minutes of intensive repairs later, the Washington was ready to reenter the battle, albeit on one engine, half-powered shields, and limited to projectile armaments. The good news was that the point defense cannons continued to be an option, and the torpedo reloading system was back online. Cross ordered Kate to review disaster protocols to find systems to shut down so they could redirect additional power to the shields. Medical had removed Lieutenant Jacobs, and Lieutenant Commander Claire Martin had replaced him.
Even better, they’d regained their connection to the battle net, and had a plan. All the ships in the sector would make a concentrated strike on the Goliath using a shared targeting point provided by the Caracas. Where individual attacks had failed, perhaps in combination, their weapons might pierce the defenses and destroy the behemoth. The Washington limped into maximum torpedo range and fired. After launch, Walsh reported, “Failure in the reload system. It’s offline.”
“Dammit,” Cross breathed, his whisper carrying to his officers. “Okay, get some people in power suits to manually reload the tubes. However many it takes, get it done.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, frustrated at the Washington’s inability to contribute to the battle, limited to watching as the weapons closed on the Goliath.
Since entering the system, the Goliath had been pounding on the starbase, assisted by numerous enemy starships. The starbase’s defenses had failed in several locations. It was venting sections to space, causing massive power losses and turning its stable position into a slow spin. As the Goliath detected the incoming barrage, it changed tactics. Its energy weapons fell dormant and a torrent of small silver objects flowed from one of its spikes, arcing in a glittery spiral before tiny engines ignited and sent the projectiles hurtling toward their targets. The majority of the torpedoes were intercepted and destroyed, and the rest were rebuffed by the Goliath’s shields.
The captain of the Caracas spoke across the battle net, “To all ships, this is Captain Emiliano Aguayo, in command of the task force. The starbase reports that its leadership has been killed, so I am now the senior officer. All ships capable of doing so should retreat to the rally point and set a four-jump path back to our next forward starbase. We’ve lost this sector. We must preserve what we can. Any ships unable to make the trip, fight a delaying action as best as you can. The starbase has entered self-destruct mode, and will detonate in ten minutes, assuming it survives that long. Good luck and make tracks, people.”
Cross looked to Kate, and he could see she was thinking the same thing he was, doing the same math. She shook her head at him, looking dejected, confirming his own thoughts. They couldn’t reach the base in time to rescue anyone. He called over his shoulder to Lieutenant Fitzpatrick, who was standing by the intercom. “Tell engineering we need the wormhole drive up as soon as possible, and the tunnel drive shortly thereafter.”
“Captain, look there,” Flores pointed out an escape pod on the battle display that was on a trajectory the Washington could intercept.
“Lee, take us over to it,” Cross said, pointing at the icon. “Kate, get a Marine or two into the starboard docking bay. We’ll grapple them and pull them inside." She sprinted from the bridge shaking her head. On the screen, Cross saw the Xroeshyn hunting down and destroying the escape pods one by one. “Bastards,” he said, louder than he intended. “Barbaric bastards.”
The intercom whistled, and Jannik’s voice came over it. “You’re stressing the drive too much, Cross. It’s possible we’ll lose it if you keep pushing it past fifty percent. Wormhole drive is ready. The tunnel drive will take several hours of repair, but we can do most of it while we’re in the wormhole. Try not to blow up my engine before we get there.” The channel closed before he got the chance to give Jannik the angry answer he so desperately wanted to share with him.
“Camera from starboard docking port on main display, throw it in a corner please.” A member of the bridge crew made that happen, and the real-time view of space whipped by as they approached the escape pod. The screen also showed a Xroeshyn ship closing in on the Washington.
“Walsh, looks like we’ll need some torpedoes to dissuade that ship from messing with us before we can make our pickup. What do we have?”
“Two fore, two aft, and three, make that four, loaded on our starboard side.”
“That’ll have to do. Helm, maneuvering thrusters, spin us around so weapons can launch all our torpedoes.” Cross laughed, a dismal echo of humor. “That ought to make life really uncomfortable for our Marines.” A couple members of his bridge crew laughed with him, the long-standing antipathy between the Navy and Marines a familiar touchstone for them all. Even though Cross liked the Marines assigned to his ship, he still had the Navy’s reputation to uphold.
“Weapons launched.”
“All right, Lee, get to that pod. But don’t exceed half power on the engines. It’d defeat the purpose if we blow up and take the pod with us.”
He watched on the cameras as the grapples fired, their strong magnets adhering to the skin of the pod and pulling it near. The Washington adjusted its course toward the wormhole entrance to the next sector. Their torpedo barrage had dissuaded the Xroeshyn ship from following them.
Kate’s voice came over the intercom several minutes later, “We’ve opened the escape pod. No survivors. Something battered them beyond the pod’s ability to protect them.”
Cross sighed and took one last look at the main display. The sector now belonged to the Xroeshyn, except for the damaged UAL ships staggering toward the safety of the wormhole entrance. “Martin, you have the deck and the conn.”
“Aye,” she said, but Cross had already left the bridge, heading for the bottle in his quarters.
Chapter Eight
Cross was six hours into his sleep cycle when the chiming of his intercom pulled him from his nightmares. He reached up and smacked it, and the voice of Lieutenant Ricardo Casco spoke words more bracing than his usual morning coffee. “Captain of the Caracas wants to speak to you. Twenty minutes.”
“Affirmative. Cross out.” He stood, stretched, and accelerated for the shower. Eighteen minutes later he was dressed, groomed, and sitting in the captain’s ready room with a cup of strong coffee in his hand courtesy of the galley crew.
The monitor displayed the United Atlantic League logo—a stylized representation of the member nations of the UAL as they were arranged on Earth. At the appointed moment, it switched to the upset face of Emiliano Aguayo.
“Commander Cross, when I give you an order, I expect it to be obeyed. Every single time. Without hesitation. Just to clarify, do you understand my position on this matter?”
Cross sat forward, giving eye contact to the camera that was sending his image back to the Caracas. “I understand your position, sir.”
“Then would you like to explain why you disobeyed my orders, Commander?”
“I saw an opportunity to save some lives, Captain. To protect the people fleeing the starbase.”
“Commander Cross, would you say preserving human life is the highest calling of a starship captain?”
Cross, taken aback at the abrupt shift in the direction of the conversation, opened his mouth and closed it without speaking. He deliberated for only a moment, then replied with what he hoped was some confidence, “Yes, sir, I would.”
“In that case, this may not be the right career for you.” Aguayo shook his head and took a deep breath before continuing, “Your duty as the commander of a starship is not to any individual, Cross. It’s to the existence of the UAL, to the protection of all of those lives, that your efforts must be singularly dedicated. In your position, occasionally you’ll operate without direct oversight and can decide based on the knowledge you have at hand.”
The captain of the Caracas took a sip from a mug bearing the logo of his ship, grimaced, and continued, “But in a situation where there are many ships, and you’re under another officer’s command, it’s not for you to worry about what choice will bring the greatest advantage to the greatest number. That’s not your role. You are a cog in the machine, and that machine serves the goal of protecting all the people of the United Atlantic League. If one component of this machine fails, or, say, goes rogue, the entire strategic initiative could be lost.”
He allowed the silence of the moment to stretch. Cross felt as if the captain was looking right through him, his sharp gaze traveling the distance between their ships to do so.
“Do you see what I’m getting at here, Commander?”
Cross loosened his muscles, unaware he’d stiffened them in response to the ongoing critique. “I do, Captain.”
“Very good. Everyone makes mistakes. The key is to learn from them. You’ve made yours, and if you fail to learn from it, your tenure as commander of the DC will end in the very near future. I take great comfort in knowing we won’t need to have this conversation again.”
Cross began to reply, but was cut off as the captain killed the channel.
He leaned back and discovered he was frustrated at everything: the lack of adaptive cushioning in his chair, the need to follow orders from people with questionable objectives, the existence of Marines on his ship, the realization that his coffee was now cold. He stood and pitched the cup across the room, smashing it against a bulkhead with a wordless bellow. He stayed locked in place, panting, fighting to bring himself under control. Finally, he was able to straighten, to set his shoulders where they belonged, and to adjust his disheveled hair.
Maybe he wasn’t the right person for the job of starship commander. Maybe he cared too much about the people he led, to risk them when another choice was available, as demonstrated by trying to rescue that one escape pod. Maybe.
He spent the next hour brooding in the captain’s chair, practically daring anyone to break his concentration by doing something so bold as to speak to him. No one did. The bridge was silent, except for the clicks and hums of equipment and the quiet murmur of essential communication. Finally, Lieutenant Erin Smythe at the helm reported, “Wormhole transition imminent.” Moments later, the Washington emerged into real space to prepare for their sequence of tunnel jumps.
Although most of Cross’s mind had been occupied with brooding, the small part of it that had been considering the situation at hand came to the forefront. “Communication, message to the captain of the Caracas: Recommend that we sweep ships for tracking devices before tunneling to next destination.”
He flicked the switch on the side of his own chair, and spoke into the partially repaired comm system, “Chief engineer, please deploy spiders to search the hull.”
Moments later, Jannik’s voice came back to him with a simple, “Affirmative.”
Cross stood and looked around. “Lieutenant Casco, summon Commander Flynn to the bridge. Until she arrives, Smythe, you have the conn.”
Cross traveled down through the decks of the Washington. His destination was the exercise space and training room he rarely found time to utilize. After a brief warm-up, he entered the combat area, and programmed the computer to supply him with a series of targets. Six heavy punching bags that had been granted locomotion and self-determination rolled out of the corner and took positions around him. On each was a display of a humanoid figure, and as the sequence started, the skull of the one closest to him lit up. Cross leapt in the air with a yell, bringing his right elbow across for a strike that would’ve broken an opponent’s jaw. His feet had just touched the floor when another charged him. He delivered a jumping sidekick that also propelled him away from the opponent, launching a punch into a second glowing target as he landed. As the minutes passed, the opponents became more aggressive and the targets flickered more quickly, until Cross was dripping sweat and unable to continue. He slumped onto his hands and knees and concentrated on not passing out.
“It’s a whole
lot easier to simply shoot them, Commander.” The genteel voice of Rhys St. John was the perfect punctuation to this day. The last time they’d interacted in any significant way, they’d battered one another until they were forced to stop. Cross knew he couldn’t beat the better trained Marine, but he also knew he would never quit fighting while life remained in him. Cross groaned and rolled over onto his back.
“It is, but it makes a mess of the practice space. Lovely to see you as always, Rhys.”
“And you, Anderson.” The bigger man leaned down, offering him a hand up. The petty part of Cross thought about rebuffing him, but the aching and tired part of him was grateful for the offer, and soon he was on his feet.
Cross grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his neck. “Can I ask you something?”
“Is it something polite?”
Cross gave a laugh. “Point to you. Yes, it’s polite. Kind of. Have you ever lost someone under your command?”
St. John’s face shifted from amiable to neutral. Cross judged that he was trying to figure out the motivation behind the question, but after a moment he shrugged and answered, “I have. Several times.”
“Would you say your chief responsibility is protecting human life?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So, what, you just take orders? Do what you’re told? Let the chips fall where they may?”
St. John stepped forward, so that his face was mere inches from Cross’s. “I will assume that you’re not deliberately twisting me up, Commander. If I find you are, we’ll continue our last discussion, and you’ll enjoy it much less than you did the first time. To answer your question, my job is to do whatever it takes to protect the people at home. My soldiers are not expendable, but they’ve made the choice to stand and defend those who cannot do it for themselves. If I lose sight of that aim, I dishonor their choice. And that, Commander, is something I will die before doing.”
