by PJ Strebor
“Of course, Captain. You had no choice.” With each word, Nathan edged a step closer to the crazed officer.
“Exactly, no choice. No choice.”
“Who told you to do this, Captain?” Another step.
“A young man, yes, young, like you. I could not refuse, you see, could not.”
Nathan kept his tone conversational, as if reasoning with someone suffering from dementia.
“Sounds like a pretty good talker, Captain. What’s his name?”
“Name? Name? Ah, let me see. Saxon, yes that’s it, Lieutenant Saxon. He told me to betray my oath, you see. I did not want to, but I had to. Turn Poly’s weapons onto those poor ships. Oh no. God, what have I done? All those young people dead. But, you see, I had no choice. You see that, don’t you?”
“Of course, Captain. You had no choice. Saxon made you do it. It’s not your fault.” Another casual step brought him almost within reach of Cowdry.
“But I must obey. She won’t kill any more people, though. Oh, no, no more deaths on my head.” He chuckled knowingly. “I’ve fixed her.”
His gun hand was down. Now or never. Nathan began to move. The gun snapped up, pointing at his head.
“No! I told you not to move. I told you. I warned you. Why did you have to move?” The pistol wavered in his hand, but at this range he could not miss.
“Captain Cowdry, get a grip on yourself, Sir. You are a serving officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Now hand me that weapon immediately.”
“Weapon? Oh no, I cannot do that. You will try to stop me. He won’t let me stop. I must obey my orders. I am most frightfully sorry, young man.”
He squared up the weapon between Nathan’s eyes. Nathan steeled himself to drive at the captain.
Something flew past Nathan’s ear, continued on and struck the captain squarely above the nose. Cowdry dropped like a stunned buffalo. Nathan lunged forward and disarmed him. On the deck, beside the unconscious body, lay a bottle, the label reading, Toohey’s Oceanian Ale.
Nathan turned to the bar. Clive, the chief steward, stood with arms akimbo.
“From this distance, not a bad shot, if I do say so meself.”
“Clive, that’s a terrible way to treat good beer.” They both chuckled as Clive ambled over.
“It’s good to see you, Clive, but how—”
“I was restockin’ when the shit ’it the shields. Perishables, you see. Airtight storage. I saw people droppin’ on my monitor. A couple of months ago Admiral Grace, the prick that he is, gassed the C and C to show us how safe we were. Bastard of a man. I didn’t want to go through those withdrawals again, so I settled back to wait it out. I must have nodded off. Next thing I see is you and Captain Crackers havin’ a little chitchat. So I grabbed the nearest thing to hand and…” He shrugged.
“And saved my life.”
“Don’t spread that rumor, Mister Telford. Savin’ an officer’s life could bugger up me reputation.”
Nathan snorted.
“Thanks anyway. I don’t suppose you know how this setup works?”
“No, Sir. Apparently he” —he pointed to the cataleptic captain— “is the only one who does.”
Nathan sighed. “Shit.”
CHAPTER 63
Date: 24th March 322 ASC.
Position: Cimmerian outer marker.
Status: Talgarno battleship Emaonon’s Vengeance. Alert Condition Two.
Commodore Becklin had not felt the juices rise this way since his early days in the service. Soon a great victory would be his. Admiral Braun’s larger force followed and should be here soon. Not that he would need the additional forces. By the time Braun turned up, Cimmeria would be theirs. To pillage or destroy at their will.
“Commodore, all ships report they have egressed successfully. Awaiting orders, Sir.”
“Helm, set course for the Cimmerian inner marker. Nice and steady, if you please. We bumped into enough battle debris out here, let’s take it easy on the final leg.”
“Aye-aye, Commodore. Ahead dead slow.”
CHAPTER 64
Date: 24th March 322 ASC.
Position: King Charles Battle Platform. Cimmerian system.
The throbbing pain between Nathan’s shoulder blades spoke of a forthcoming storm.
Clive, ever the adaptable noncom, found a solution to one of Nathan’s many difficulties. Half an hour after his encounter with the crazed captain, most of the personnel had been secured aboard landing boats. Nathan did not know if an evacuation of the station would be needed, but prepared for the worst.
“Compad, scan battle platform personnel.”
“Scanned.”
“Give estimated time for revival of crew affected by kalbutine gas.”
“Estimated time of recovery is between twenty-seven and forty-three minutes.”
Shit.
Clive returned, flanked by two standard Bret ’droids.
“Nearly done, Mister Telford. Just these three to go.”
“Very well. Leave Cowdry.”
“Right you are.”
Captain Cowdry sported a sizable lump on his forehead. Nathan shook him, then slapped his face. Cowdry stirred, his eyes fluttering open.
“Ohhh, my head. What happened?”
“Captain, I need your help.”
Cowdry glanced about him, wearing a baffled expression, as Nathan hauled him to his feet.
“She tried to kill them all,” Cowdry muttered.
“Yes, she did. We need to take back command of this station, from her. How do we do that?”
Cowdry staggered to the main console and punched numbers into a panel.
“Authorization denied. Incorrect access code,” Poly said.
The captain tried again, with the same result.
“This isn’t right, this isn’t right. The access codes have been changed.”
“By who?”
“It was done from this panel within the last day. I am the only one authorized to—” His face paled. “Oh, my God, it wasn’t a dream. I did it. I killed all those poor people.”
“Captain, you weren’t yourself. You are not to blame. Remember, it was Saxon.”
“Yes, Saxon.”
“For now, Captain, we need to regain control of this station. How do we do that?”
“Do that? Do that? Oh, she won’t let us tell her what to do any more. We can’t stop her.”
“Captain, she’s killed thousands of Bretish sailors. She cannot be allowed to kill any more.”
“Yes, yes. No more. I fixed her so she’ll never kill again.” His teeth set in a grim smile.
“What do we have control over?”
“What?”
“Can you disarm her?”
“No, no, too well protected.”
“Can you shut her down. Kill her higher functions.”
“No, no. She’s fully insulated herself. Without the access codes, there is nothing I can do.”
“I don’t accept that.” Nathan tried to contain his growing frustration. “Can you give me helm and thruster control?”
“Perhaps, perhaps.” The computer expert went to work, his fingers a blur across the controls. “There, try that.”
“Ah, how do I…”
“Here, thruster control, here pitch and yaw, here roll over.”
“And the abandon ship alert?”
“Here.”
Nathan snorted. Sure enough, it was a big red button behind a safety shield.
Clive returned. “Captain, please go with this man. He will take you to medical facilities.”
Cowdry’s knees buckled and one of Clive’s ’droids scooped him up.
“Landing Boat Fourteen,” Clive ordered the machine. “So, Mister Telford, what’s the word.”
“The word, Clive, is prepare to abandon ship.”
“You’re kiddin’?”
“The computer system on board this station has been compromi
sed. The only person capable of fixing it is as crazy as a cut snake. This thing has killed and will kill again if it’s not stopped. So I’m going to stop it.” He keyed his mobile computer. “Compad, scan station’s personnel.”
“Scanned.”
“Report the number of personnel not contained within landing boats.”
“Three personnel not aboard landing boats.”
“Chief Petty Officer, I have an assignment for you.”
Clive straightened his back. “Yes, Sir.”
“As soon as you hear the abandon ship signal, get everyone off this station. Make for the far side of the planet as fast as you can. If you can make contact with Admiral Barrington, tell her what’s happening.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind you. And Clive” —he held out his hand— “thanks for everything.”
“A genuine pleasure, Mister Telford.”
“Now go.”
Am I doing the right thing? What if there’s no follow-up attack? What if—
“Shut the fuck up, Telford,” Nathan muttered.
Under his command, the station began to roll over, her guns facing away from Cimmeria.
That’s something, at least.
Nathan had to correct the maneuver twice to allow for the station’s enormous momentum. He stared through the solid rectangular block of clear composite. With the station now pointing in the right direction, the Grand Channel rested at center of the view plate, twenty thousand kilometers away. At such a distance, he could visually detect no enemy activity. However, the screaming pain between his shoulder blades said that condition could soon change.
He made a circuit of the C and C, stopping at a console he remembered from his tour of the station. He examined the displays. Weapons control?
“Poly, can you give me optical magnification of the Grand Channel.”
“Yes, Ensign Nathan Telford.”
Nathan palm-slapped his forehead. “Do so. And Poly, call me Nathan.”
“Yes, Nathan. Optical readings are available from your current tactical station.”
Nathan took a seat, located tactical readout and activated its optical function. Leaning over the viewing hood, he examined the channel. At this distance, he could not confirm what his senses were telling him.
“Poly, increase magnification by one hundred percent.”
“Confirmed, Nathan.”
On his readout the channel grew, the giant force field emitters trailing away to the far side of the Massey Archipelago. The channel looked inert, with no navigation lights showing. Could that mean they are not expecting an arrival? Nathan could discern little through the murky space that sat between him and the other side. Just a whole lot of grey. Then, in the far distance, movement.
“Increase magnification by fifty percent and augment image.”
“Confirmed, Nathan.”
He caught a glimpse of something as it disappeared from view.
“When is the next ship scheduled to arrive at the I/M?”
“Next scheduled arrival is the Oceanian convoy, in approximately seventeen point seven hours.”
“Poly, scan the I/M and report.”
At his last word, a ship passed by his optical scanners.
“I detect a vessel on the other side of the Grand Channel. Destroyer class, configuration unknown.”
Destroyer? A scout for the main force?
“Poly, is the destroyer pinging League IFF?”
“Negative, Nathan.”
“Conclusion?”
“Insufficient data to form a conclusion.”
“Proposal. Any vessel in League space not pinging League IFF must, by definition, be declared hostile.”
“That is possible, Nathan.”
Nathan groaned.
“Poly, examine your prime programming and define your purpose.”
“My prime purpose, as defined by my programming, is the protection of all League personnel and assets. But much has changed since my last reprogramming.”
“Still, Poly, your prime function is to protect Cimmeria. Is that not so?”
“Affirmative, Nathan.”
“Poly, warships not pinging League IFF must be considered hostile. As such, your prime function compels you to take such actions as are required to protect Cimmeria.” Nathan took a breath. “Confirm.”
“Nathan, my programming is in conflict. I must analyze further.”
“Yeah, you do that, you…” Nathan caught himself. Poly needed therapy.
Right, then.
Nathan stepped to the helm station. Both hands were needed to push the rows of thrust levers into the red. The station did not budge. He checked the controls. Power to the engines registered on the readouts.
Nathan chuckled at the obvious. This was not a monitor, but a giant slab weighing seven million tonnes. Building momentum would take time.
“Nathan,” Poly said, “you are in violation of standing orders with regard to the geosynchronous position of this station.”
“Poly, you did the same. Then you fired on the Bretish fleet.”
“I have no knowledge of such actions. Please, Nathan, return the station to its geosynchronous orbit.”
Did she say please? Perhaps Emile was wrong. This could be a date after all?
“Give me total control of this station, including all weaponry, and I will comply with your request.”
A sharp click made him turn to the control panel. The thrust levers had snapped back to zero. He pushed them forward again.
Through the view panel, the Grand Channel appeared to be no closer.
Click.
“Damn.” Again the thrusters had reset to zero. A small change to the horizon, only a few degrees off center, a slow and inexplicable alteration. Using the pitch and yaw controls, he corrected. Then the station began tilting to starboard, and he corrected. Once again he pushed the throttles forward, and waited, watched.
Click.
What did Cowdry say? He didn’t want Poly killing anyone, so he clipped her leash? So, in theory she couldn’t kill anyone. Probably the reason he had made it this far without getting fried. So she couldn’t kill, at least not in the conventional sense: the landing boats should be safe. He hit the big red abandon ship button. A slow, pulsing alarm sounded. Now the personnel would be safe regardless of what happened to him.
Nathan leaned on the throttle controls with both hands. He felt the resistance as Poly tried to reset. Then the station began to pitch over to starboard.
“Shit, where’s an octopus when you need one.”
Nathan found himself in a fight to the death with a computer that wanted to live. In order to destroy her, he might well have to stay with her until the end.
His back flared. He stared through the view panel. Nathan could just make out the rough silhouette of an E-boat, coming through the channel.
CHAPTER 65
Date: 24th March 322 ASC.
Position: Cimmerian inner marker.
Status: Talgarno battleship Emaonon’s Vengeance. Alert Condition One.
Commodore Becklin’s fleet formed into a line astern configuration.
“Commodore, all ships on course for the Grand Channel.”
“Very well.”
The E-boats would scout ahead, but with the battle station in their hands he foresaw no difficulties. Yes, today would be a very good day indeed.
“Commodore, flash feed from the strike force commander. Text only, Sir.”
Becklin nodded, then tapped his readout.
Commodore Becklin, my task force will be with you shortly. Hold for my arrival. Admiral Peter Braun, Commander, Strike Force.
Becklin slammed his hand down on his console. No. No, the bastard’s trying to rob me of my rightful tribute.
It was he who had seen to the nosy Bret destroyer. His idea to have E-boats scouting for his fleet. Now he had to wait. For what? To share the prize w
ith some upstart young glory hound. He’d been fighting for the empire when Braun still sucked on his mother’s teat. Wait? No, after a lifetime of service, this would be his reward.
“Comm, signal to the fleet. Form up in line astern on the flagship. We are attacking Cimmeria. Long live the emperor.”
***
Concealed behind an enormous asteroid, HMS Sword Mistress maintained her covert vigil. To aid her silent scrutiny, a small, powerful sensor buoy, tethered to the ship, sat just above the asteroid, relaying intel with regard to the KC’s intentions.
Admiral Barrington’s worst fear, that the KC would pursue her force, had, so far, not eventuated.
“Captain, I’m getting some pretty screwy readings.”
Captain John Richards looked up from his panel.
“Tactical officer, you’ll have to do better than screwy.” Beside him, his first officer stifled a snigger.
“Sir, taking into account the limited capabilities of the sensor buoy, my readings indicate that the King Charles Battle Platform has rolled over, and is heading, under full power, toward the Grand Channel.”
He leaned across to the first officer’s station.
“What do you think, Chris?”
“I’m pretty well educated, and a better than fair poet, and one day I might write a sonnet about this.”
Richards snorted.
“If the station was heading toward us, I would have volumes to say. Including that we should run away screaming. But this? I’m totally baffled. And that, Captain, is my report.”
Richards wondered how much more screwy this day could get.
CHAPTER 66
Nathan could make out the E-boat clearly as it closed the range.
“Damn, damn. If only I had weapons.”
Click.
Nathan switched from holding the yaw controls, back to the throttles.
“Fucker.”
The Pruessen E-boat glided past the impotent battle station, turning to port. In the distance, he could make out another one heading in.
“Compad, are all personnel clear of the station?”
“Negative. One person remains on the station.”
“Yeah.”
Click.
