“Just activate the thrusters and go,” I said wildly, as we floated through a hail of criss-crossing blaster and green, attack ball fire.
“Please designate a destination, or activate the manual controls,” the Computer repeated, bringing up a series of possible images on it screen.
“Anywhere, just go—drive,” I screamed, right before plowing into a green attack ball.
A jolt of what felt like lightning crashed through my body, and I vaguely saw a green, crackling lighting shooting over the body of the Lancer I’d rescued. I must have caught the ball using him as an impromptu shield, I thought before every muscle in my body clenched up.
“I’ll disassemble you, you piece of space junk! I’ll get my reveng-” my words cut out as another massive jolt surged through me, locking my jaw again. In the distance, I thought I heard a dry mechanical voice speaking and then everything faded to grey and swirled into darkness.
Something jabbed my arm, it felt like I’d just been shanked in the shoulder with an icepick.
“Aargh!” I hollered as I returned to consciousness.
“Computer intelligence engrams down to 78% effectiveness: damage to right hand joint actuators; damage to biological systems; life support temporarily offline. Initiating stage two of recovery mode,” said the voice of my computer.
“I’m awake, you blasted toaster,” I gasped right before another icepick jammed itself into my other arm.
As it did, this time I felt a rush of unnatural clarity and my heart started racing in my chest. I’d just been given drugs! Some kind of stimulant, I knew with a certainty I rarely felt.
“What did you do that for you, blighted piece of—,” I cut myself off mid-curse, as what it had said right before initiating stage to of torturing me back to life, “What do you mean ‘life support is offline’?!”
“Ionic damage has deactivated onboard oxygen recycling—system is currently offline,” reported the Computer, as if hadn’t just handed me a death sentence.
“Well, get it back online,” I screamed, thrashing my head from side to side as I regained control of my body. It felt like ice had been injected into me from shoulder level, and was slowly trickling down my body but wherever it touched I no longer felt the irresistible urge to twitch uncontrollably, and the sensation had already spread down to my stomach.
“Unable to comply—full system reboot required,” the computer said in an uncaring voice.
“This is all your fault for not activating those thrusters,” I said angrily, “don’t think I’ve forgotten that little factoid just because you stabbed me in the blasted arms!”
“Mild irritation is an expected side effect from rapid revival/recovery protocol,” the computer reported uncaringly, “This protocol has been activated following user/operator death or incapacitation,” it added.
“Take us back down to the hull,” I ordered after a moment. Surprisingly, I had no interest in discovering if I’d been dead—yet again—or simply incapacitated by the Bug attack, “and remind me to see about better ion shielding in my next suit,” I said cuttingly.
“Notation made,” the Computer reported, “however, unable to comply with previous command; this unit is currently in contact with hull, following standard recovery program.” I was feeling suddenly hot, and not just about the stupid computer in my battle-suit I realized with widening eyes.
“Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?” I asked, forcing down the panic I was starting to feel with brutal, ruthless determination. I didn’t have time to panic; I could do that when I got back to my quarters on the ship, and not one nano-second before.
“Thermal regulation system offline,” the Computer said pedantically.
“Just give me the straight download and tell me how long I’ve got to live,” I scoffed at it, and then a thought occurred to me. “Belay that last order, computer; just take me and that Lancer I saved to the nearest airlock quickly—activate your thrusters.” I didn’t know how long I had before passing out from lack of oxygen and I didn’t want to know. Some things are better left a mystery.
“Unable to comply,” the Computer reported in its mechanical voice.
“What! Whyever not?” I demanded.
“As part of standard rescue/recovery protocol, this unit returned to the nearest airlock, and a rescue beacon was activated. Currently awaiting confirmation of emergency signal receipt from Medical personnel,” the Computer reported.
“Forget that nonsense,” I said scornfully, “and activate me a light; my internal vision enhancement systems seem to be on the fritz and I can’t see a thing in this darkness,” I realized that this was true as soon as I tried to look around.
“External optical systems offline; unable to comply,” the Computer reported.
“Then just direct my hand to the nearest set of manual controls,” I said, my breath starting to come in short gasps as I began to labor for breath and my lungs began to burn. I didn’t know if it was psychosomatic or if it really was getting hot in the suit…I mean, I‘d never been particularly claustrophobic before, but…
Under the mechanical guidance of the suit’s computer system, I managed to fumble my way into the airlock and with a great deal more fumbling, seal it back up again and activate the re-pressurization cycle.
The cool air was just starting to fill the vacuum of the airlock when everything started to go black. I had time to pop the manual release on my helmet just before hitting the floor. I didn’t feel like passing out this time, but those first few seconds before there was enough air to really breathe with, I sure wished I had.
When the team of orderlies arrived, I was taken back to medical on gravity stretcher for ionic shock to my nervous system, as well as probable lung damage. I wasn’t able to tell if the Lancer I ‘rescued’ was still alive or not, though, but I knew there was nothing more I could do for him now.
Chapter 15: Brence reaches Omicron
“Well that was sixteen hours of my life wasted,” Brence said with a sigh.
The Captain of the ship swiveled in his chair until he was facing the Engineering Warrant Officer. If the Captain had been anywhere other than in his ready room for a private meeting just between the two of them, Brence would have expected to have his head torn off. As it was, he was on the receiving end of nothing more than a powerful scowl.
“That’s ‘sixteen hours of my life wasted, Captain’,” said Captain Lighter. “I’d like to think you MSP boys would be able to remember small things like military courtesy, even if we are in a private meeting.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Brence said, bracing to attention but even though he was a reformed crewman—or rather, a Warrant Officer now—the man who reformed him was Chief Engineer Spalding, and the Chief was a man who took nonsense from no one. So neither the man he had been—the ‘thumb your nose at pig authority and its stupid rules’ man—or the man he’d become had any use for the Captain and his little tirade…which is probably why he said what he said next.
“You’re absolutely right, Captain Lighter, my apologies,” Brence said with an unrepentant smile. “I guess in all the flurry we ‘MSP’ boys let military courtesy drift a bit in favor of courage in the face of the enemy and following orders, Sir,” Orders like how we were supposed to proceed directly to the Omicron without passing go or stopping to collect five hundred credits along the way, he thought sourly.
The Captain stiffened in his seat with outrage. “I don’t like your tone, Warrant Officer,” the Captain barked.
“And I don’t like waiting around in cold space, sitting dead for no apparent purpose when there are no new ships hanging around Omicron Station and we’ve got all the correct handshakes and call-signs, especially when I’m on a time critical mission,” Brence paused deliberately before adding, “Captain.”
“It’s not too late to throw you in the brig, Warrant Officer,” the Captain said tightly, the twist of the mouth at the end of his statement making his use of Brence’s rank into something other than
a courtesy.
“That is your right,” Brence admitted, inclining his head but refusing to back down an inch. He didn’t have time for this man and his tin pot dictatorial attempt to micromanage Brence and his engineering work crews. Yes, they were all in the same service, and yes, he was willing to help out on this ship, but they were passengers, by Murphy and his blessed Wrench. Not only that, but they were on an independent mission not part of this man’s regular crew, and Brence was fed up with the bureaucratic nonsense, “And if you intend to forget a ‘small thing’ like our orders to move with all haste to drop me and my men off at the Omicron, then that threat might even have some teeth to it, Captain,” Brence said leaning back in his chair.
“As Saint Murphy is my witness, I’m the Captain of this ship and I will have your blasted respect, Warrant Officer. Either that, or I’ll have you up before a Captain’s Mast so quick you won’t have time to blink!” Captain Lighter said, slamming the open palm of each hand on his desk and levering himself up to his feet.
“I think I’d rather decline a Captain’s Mast in preference to an Administrative Review back at headquarters,” Brence, said suppressing the urge to gulp, “we can let them decide which of us needs an official reprimand placed in his file.”
Lighter glared at him. “You’ve got some set of balls on you, especially with a record jacket like yours, Warrant,” the man snapped, “watch your words or I’ll have the marines in here before you can say another barracks-lawyering word edgewise.”
“I think neither Commander Spalding, my immediate superior, nor the Admiral himself, will look kindly on a Captain who prefers to halt his ship in favor of punishing the leader of an Engineering away party he’s supposed to be transporting,” Brence said carefully.
“By the space gods, neither of those men are here now, are they?” the Captain said, straightening his back and sitting down in his chair. “Besides even if your Admiral was here right now, I’m the Captain of this ship,” he continued coldly, “and in cold space, I’m the master of this ship, under Murphy and after the Space Gods.”
“Then it’s safe to say that you want me and my men off this ship as much as we want to oblige,” Brence said keeping his face blank of emotion.
The Captain stared at him for a long several seconds. “Get out of my ready room and report to your quarters until it’s time to assemble your men in our cargo bay for transfer to the Omicron,” he said dismissively.
Brence opened his mouth to ask if they were really heading to dock with the former pirate station this time, but then thought twice about it and instead stood to attention and saluted before marching out of the room.
He noted that for all the Captain’s apparent indifference as he marched out, that the young engineer was in fact escorted out by a pair of marines.
Arriving on the run-down deck of the Omicron was more than a little bit of a letdown. Brence took a long, deep breath of the greasy, slightly acrid air of the station and for a moment he felt more at home than he had during the entire ride over. Engineering compartments smelled more like the Omicron than the fresh, constantly recycled air of the crew quarters does, and Brence was an Engineer through and through.“It looks like we’re going to have our work cut out for us if this is the best they can do with an airlock and greeting bay for visitors,” one of Brence’s three Senior Petty Officers said, shaking his head.
“Not our job,” Brence said with a shake of his own head, “note that the locks make it impossible to get out there and review, repair, or refit any of those pirate hulks.”
“Hello, Warrant Officer,” said an imposing Marine Colonel in new-style Caprian power armor as he clomped over to Brence’s party, “it’s good to see we haven’t been completely forgotten out here on the winging hind end of cold space.”
“Colonel Wainwright, Sir,” Brence said, giving the other man a salute before proffering the data chip with his hard copy orders, “the Admiral sent us to see what we can do about getting a few more of the warships around here up and running.”
The Colonel gave a short, hacking laugh, and Brence felt like wilting when he heard it. The Colonel wasn’t sounding too encouraging.
“I need more Marines…or, Lancers, rather,” the Marine Officer said, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair, “and the Admiral sends me Engineers for support?” He shook his head in disgust.
“I hope there’s no confusion starting here, Colonel,” Brence said carefully. Unlike the Captain of the Light Destroyer, the Marine Colonel could cause him a lot more trouble, which would last for as long as he was here on the Omicron, “we’re here to check over any hulks that weren’t able to be hauled over to Gambit and see if there’s anything we can do to either get them back into service here, or repaired enough to make it over to Gambit for a full overhaul.”
“I understand your orders, son, fat lot of good it’s going to do you but by all means, look around,” Wainwright growled and shook his head again.
“Sir?” Brence asked cautiously.
“The Sundered are pretty crack engineers…force of necessity I suppose,” the Colonel said dismissively, “I doubt you’ll be able to do much more than they could with the repair facilities here, but then again who knows; I’m not a qualified engineer. It’s just that right now I’m forced to rely upon former pirate technicians to keep this place from falling apart, and most of those technicians are the same ones who are responsible for letting it fall into disrepair in the first place.” The Colonel paused and then ran a hand through his hair once again, “I suppose in fairness that’s not entirely true, but even still…”
“I understand, Colonel,” Brence said quickly, “you’re on the long end of a thin supply line and were hoping for more help than my two hundred engineers and trainees.”
“Well said,” the Colonel grunted, “anyway, get your men squared away and I’ll have my quartermaster get with you and see about the particular needs of your unit. However,” the middle-aged man said, pinning Brence in place with laser eyes, “if and when you find your mission to be a waste of time, I expect you won’t have any issues with helping out around here. We’ve got a few things we need fixed but never seem to have the hands for. Having enough security-cleared men to work on the levels and areas we’ve set aside for our unified Caprian/Confederation mission has been a bit of a bear.”
“We’ll help out as we can, Colonel,” Brence offered cautiously.
“That’s all I’m expecting, Warrant,” the Colonel said with a sharp nod before turning on his heels and stalking off.
“Well, that went better than I’d expected,” Brence said releasing a pent-up breath.
Seeing a man he assumed was the quartermaster, Brence straightened up. It was time to get squared away within the station so they could get ready to see what they could do about breathing a spark of life into anything that could still fly.
“Lead the way, Sir,” Brence said to the quartermaster, who had the rank insignia of a Marine Captain. Brence sure hoped his mission hadn’t been in vain, at least not to the degree that the Marine Colonel seemed to expect. Straightening his shoulders, he motioned for his men to form up and follow their guides.
Chapter 16: Tis But A Scratch
It’s hard to issue orders from a sickbay bed and still appear to be an effective Admiral, but until the doctors decided to release me I had little choice in the matter. I’m sure that using a data slate instead of a proper holo-receiver, on a proper console only made things worse.
“Communications Technician,” I said as soon as my priority codes allowed my slate to make the connection to someone in the Communications Section.
“Admiral,” the man at Comm. seemed surprised to see me. I wonder why? Could it be that word of the Admiral almost dying and being taken to sickbay had leaked already? I shook my head at myself, knowing it was a stupid question to ask, even of myself. Gossip on a ship was the only thing as fast as a point transfer through hyperspace, after all.
“I need to contact a C
utter,” I said, doing my best to appear like an Admiral who just happened to find himself in sickbay instead of a man who actually needed to be in Medical for the benefit of his continued health.
“A Cutter,” the Com-Tech said slowly, “any particular Cutter, Sir?”
“No,” I said coolly, “just get me the Captain of one of those ship types.”
“Right,” the com-tech blinked furiously and then nodded, “right,” he said again, “I’ll get right on it, sir.”
If that man said the word ‘right’ any more times, I was liable to reach through my data slate and strangle him. He was clearly not one of this ship’s brighter lights, so I took a deep breath, decided to be charitable and left it at that.
I looked up at the slate and the Com-Tech was still looking at me.
“Any time now, Technician,” I said as kindly as I could manage, which wasn’t very. Why couldn’t I have found someone like the former Communication Technician Steiner on the other end of the line?
“Right away, Sir,” the Tech said and my mouth tightened at his use of the dreaded word yet again. This time I didn’t suppress the urge to roll my eyes, “Oh and, Admiral,” the tech said quickly.
“Yes?” I said through gritted teeth.
“While I work on setting up that connection for you, the Captain wants to speak with you,” the tech paused, “I mean, Captain Laurent, Sir.
“I gathered that,” I said grimly, “however, please tell the captain to wait—”
The technician disappeared from my data slate, only to be replaced with an image of the Captain.
“Admiral Montagne, the bridge is gratified to see you are alive and recovering in the sickbay,” Laurent said with a smile.
I was in no mood for pleasantries. “Thank you for the concern, Captain,” I said shortly, “please relay my appreciation for the kind thoughts to the men as well.” Laurent nodded in agreement as I continued, “However, I just placed a call to another ship and am expecting a response directly. So…” I deliberately trailed off.
Admiral's Revenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 15
