War Without Honor

by J. R. Geoghan

Rat City - Outer Canal

  Elexxan’s voice was tinged with excitement. “Target locked and transporting, Lord.”

  All eyes were now on the water.

  And then, faintly at first, now growing more intense, a light filled the atmosphere and the water began to boil. The Prime’s eyes were filled with the glow of triumph and power as he greedily watched the scene.

  A loud crack of sound shattered the warm morning air and startled even the hardened Praxxan warriors, causing arms to be thrown up before faces and weapons drawn by the attending soldiers. Then, the roiling water and fizzling air solidified into a solid wall of sound and motion and then, just as quickly as it had materialized, began to fade away. And as it did, the water rushed into the space created within it and filled up the void around a new, massive black object that settled into its element, tilting heavily towards the land where the Praxxans watched, transfixed by its sudden appearance.

  The water-ship was immense, even to the Prime’s experienced eye. His research had not prepared him for the real thing; this vessel was huge. He also saw that it was too large to occupy the waterway properly and its lean was permanent. Elexxan had apparently chosen a destination that was not deep enough for it to…what was the word? Float.

  The First Advisor called out. “Warriors, prepare to attack!”

  The Prime was on his feet, raising a hand in warning. “Stay!” To the officer he said, “You wish the glory. We shall see about your imprudence later.”

  The Captain of the warriors was there, weapon raised. “Your orders, Lord?”

  “Secure the ship, let no humans escape should they attempt it.”

  Elexxan was scanning the ship himself. “Lord, I read seventy-two life forms aboard.”

  “Excellent. Open it and bring the humans before me.”

  “Sir! Tom!”

  Halloran awoke to being shook by someone. His eyes focused on Chandler. “What…”

  “Captain, something happened.”

  Halloran sat up, immediately alert. “That’s for sure. Is the magnetic storm gone?”

  “Yes, sir. But…”

  Halloran realized that the deck was still canted at a significant angle. “Did we run aground?” He clambered to his feet, seeing the Control Room crew at their stations, looking bewildered and talking to each other all at once.

  “Not exactly. The reactor is cold. By all accounts we haven’t moved.”

  “The reactor is cold? How is that possible?”

  “Engineering sent a runner to confirm it. No one back there has a clue what happened.”

  Halloran gripped the chart table for support, seeing Buston’s grim face across from him and nodding in recognition.

  “Battery?”

  “It’s functioning but at a nominal level. Whatever happened all but drained it.”

  Buston chimed in. “At least we have lights and some power for the systems.”

  “Do we have a scope?” The ship’s “periscope” was an array of high-definition cameras mounted on retractable stalks above the sail. Instead of the traditional optical set of mirrors and tubes, the images were sent through fiber-optics to monitors in the conn area of the Control Room where watch members could scan the surface with visual, infrared and a host of other classified modes. Halloran glanced toward the bank of displays, which were flickering and showing pixelation.

  Yeoman Stiles was adjusting power settings at the console. “Working on rerouting power now, sir.”

  Every eye in the Control Room was turned to the monitors. When the flickering steadied into a serviceable image of the outside world, several sharp intakes of breath were heard from the crew.

  “What is that? Where are we?” Halloran and Buston both stepped forward into the conn area to get a closer look. The screen showed a barren, sandy landscape stretching out into the distance. Halloran touched Stiles on the shoulder. “Give me a three-sixty pan.”

  The view began to slide to the right, slower than usual as Stiles coaxed the weak battery power to move the topside stalk. Almost immediately the desert scene began to change, with buildings appearing and then a skyline of a huge, low-slung city. Halloran’s eye instinctively looked for a downtown complete with skyscrapers but saw nothing but a seemingly endless visage of brownish-gray rooftops, at the same time familiar yet foreign. Various metallic stalks and towers shot up in various places, looking like communications arrays of some sort.

  Buston commented, “Looks like a slum city mixed with high-tech bits.”

  Then the scope took in a huge, black structure that eclipsed the city dumped around its base. The structure was immense, reaching up and away from their viewpoint seemingly into the atmosphere.

  “What is that?” breathed Halloran.

  “It’s bigger than any structure or complex I’ve ever seen,” answered Buston.

  “Skipper, turn the scope down. The water pressure sensors are picking up something,” called Chandler from his XO battle station position.

  “Stiles, depress the elevation of the camera,” ordered Halloran. “So we’re in water but aground?”

  “Depressing to maximum, sir.”

  Then the knot of men around the monitors saw the soldiers.

  “What the...” Buston pointed. “Those men are...”

  “Red. That’s what they are,” answered Halloran. “And it looks like a lot more than a bad sunburn.”

  Stiles added, “Sir, they’re all huge.”

  “Seven foot, from the looks of them.”

  “Looks like a canal of some sort.” The sub was aground in some kind of inland waterway that was edged with concrete abutments and appeared to be in the neighborhood of thirty feet deep. Nowhere near enough to float the boat, whose draft was forty-four feet. Hence the roll.

  Stiles said quietly, “Sir, they’ve got cutting torches of some kind.”

  Halloran grabbed the mic for the 1MC all-ship intercom. “All hands, this is the Captain. Please be advised that the boat has been grounded at an unknown location and is likely to be hull-breached and boarded…shortly.” He caught sight of a knot of what appeared to be officers or leaders of the red-skinned soldiers. They were behind the others but came into view as the soldiers parted briefly. He also saw that the soldiers had some kind of large pad they were maneuvering across the ground towards the sub. It seemed to be huge but oddly floating through the air as they jostled it. “We don’t know what to expect but keep calm and do what is asked of you until I can see what we’re up against. Captain out.”

  Chandler and Buston joined Halloran around the plot table and everyone else in the Control Room busied themselves at their stations, either trying to get the monitors to fire up or make heads or tails from the pixelated displays.

  “We’ve got to weapons-safe,” said Buston urgently.

  Halloran met his eyes. “Already done.”

  The Admiral’s eyebrow shot up. “You sneaky SOB. You weren’t going to tell me?”

  Halloran shrugged. “Just playing it safe.” He looked at Chandler. “Skip, I’m assuming you’re with me that we can’t expect the crew to take up arms against this…whatever it is?”

  Chandler shook his head. “We’ve got a weapons locker but not near enough to repel boarders.”

  Buston grimaced. “I bet that hasn’t been said on a US submarine before.”

  “Gentlemen, I can’t fall into their hands.” Halloran looked around. “We don’t know their capabilities of extracting the unlock codes from my head.”

  Chandler nodded. “Well, for that matter, my concur portion of the code.”

  Halloran shook his head. “Skip, you don’t know this but Captains have the ability to override the XO concur code. In the event there is a conflict of wills or incapacitation problem.”

  Chandler, flabbergasted, looked to Buston for confirmation. When the Admiral nodded his eyes widened. “I had no idea.”

  Halloran picked up the mic at the plot table. “Engineering, Conn.”

  “Conn, Engineering. Your
audio is weak. Repeat, your audio is weak.”

  “This is the Captain. Get Commander Rittenberg.”

  Moments later the Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Commander Davon Rittenberg, came on the line. “Rittenberg here.”

  “Davon, we’re about to be boarded, breach area unknown. I want the reactor and all systems you can get to shut down and locked down. Make it very hard for them to do anything.”

  “What about the O2 generators?” The three large devices that created the sub’s atmosphere from seawater were in the non-nuclear engineering space. Turning them off would stop the regeneration of fresh air in the boat.

  “They’re still operating?”

  “One is, on battery power.”

  Halloran thought a moment. “Shut it down too. Make the boat uninhabitable within a day.”

  “On it, sir.”

  Halloran called Singletary up. “Weps, What can we do in twenty minutes to even further take the missiles offline permanently?”

  “Well sir, we could rip out some of the key controller circuitry and incinerate it. I can also have a couple of men run down the missile bay and pull out couplers that look alike on each tube.”

  “Do it. And destroy the manuals—paper and digital—burn them. Anything you can think of that an enemy could use to reconstruct things or study the system.”

  “Are we really being boarded, sir?”

  “It sure looks that way from up here, Terry.”

  “But I thought we’re still in Pearl?”

  Halloran sighed. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in once I have a clue myself. Captain out.”

  Buston leaned across and whispered, “Small arms?”

  Halloran held his boss’s gaze as he shrugged. “Why risk it? Boomers aren’t designed to repel boarders. We’ll just get more people killed.”

  Chandler disagreed. “Sir, we can’t be certain we won’t be massacred immediately. I say we fight—hold the point of breach as long as we can. We’re in a reinforced steel tube, after all.” Halloran saw the intensity in the man’s eyes.

  “No, XO….”

  “Sir! They are doing something at the hull amidships. Just aft of the sail.”

  The boat shuddered suddenly, a motion they all sensed.

  “Here we go, folks. Whatever happens, keep your heads—remember, we’re US Navy.” He nodded to Chandler. “Sound collision. Close all watertight doors.”

  As the klaxon sounded Halloran bowed his head in silent prayer. Only the good Lord knew what was happening to his crew and ship.

  Chapter 11

  “What is the cause of the delay?” The Prime was becoming edgy.

  “The ship’s hull is reinforced in a way unfamiliar with our team. They are compensating.”

  The Prime nodded thoughtfully. It made sense—the vessel would be designed to accommodate extremely high external pressures. Unlike modern spacefaring warships, where light, strong materials were used to create a sealable barrier against the relentless vacuum beyond. He idly studied the ancient warship, which was clearly out of its element. It was rolled a bit on one side, canted towards their guard unit on the canal bank. He noticed the slight movement from a stalk set into the high, center section. It spun, catching the reflection of the morning light as it moved. An observation port of some sort. He imagined the enemy captain behind that device, watching him in return as he conquered them. They have no idea what we have done to them.

  A tremendous crash from below his seat was followed by several shouts of exultation. His soldiers had broken through.

  “We are breached, Lord. Bringing the enemy crew before you now.”

  The Prime nodded. “Look for humans wearing rank insignias or elaborate uniforms. Take care to leave them unharmed—the others you may destroy if they resist.”

  “As you wish, Lord.”

  The power of Sol had begun warming the air properly by the time the first human crew members were herded up the bank from the breaching area. They were a pathetic mob, perceived the Prime. Their green uniforms were mottled in some odd way, consisting of simple cloth rather than body armor. In fact, he was mildly shocked to see that none of them were armed with an apparent weapon. Pathetic.

  Eventually several human males were brought before him, half-dragged and half-pushed. One was tall for a human. Another was shorter but had the bearing of a leader. His headgear carried a representation of a star. A third human was behind the first two, limping as though he had resisted the conquest.

  A large group of humans were clustered around, held at bay by the lances of the Praxxan guard. The Prime felt their attention upon him, and the thrill of the conquest passed through his body with a wave of intense pleasure.

  “Bring several of the crew forward,” he instructed.

  The guards separated some humans and shoved them towards him. More guards blocked access to the throne, protective of their charge.

  He ignored any possible threat, instead motioning towards the three apparent leaders. “Restrain them.” He then pointed at the human crew in front of the throne. “Execute them.”

  His guards lifted their lances and placed their tips against the humans, hovering for a moment to confuse the other prisoners. Then, with a coordinated thrust, they drove their weapons through those weak, thin bodies.

  The tall human leader struggled in his bonds, almost breaking free and forcing a second guard to pin him back. The human uttered a word, more like a strangled cry of some sort.

  The First Advisor leaned over. “Their language is not Standard.”

  The Prime nodded, enthralled by the red blood that was spreading in an expanding pool from the dead humans. The copper-rich smell of it permeated the air, reminding him of other conquests against this hated race.

  “They will not understand our intentions, Lord,” added Axxa, the Second Advisor. The Prime glanced over at him, hearing the hesitation laced in his voice. It was true, he perceived. Axxa was indeed concerned for the humans.

  The Prime smirked. “Bring the shorter leader—the one with the star on his headgear—to me.”

  The humans pushed against the wall of guards, clearly unhappy about it. The human with the star raised his hand in an apparent attempt to calm his crew. All this the Prime could relate to. Were it his crew, though, much more than a raised hand would rain down…

  A guard shoved the human leader, causing him to stumble as he approached. The Prime noticed his obvious attempt to divert far around the heaped bodies of his dead crew. Eventually he stood directly before the Prime. As the Praxxan leader gazed thoughtfully down at him, the guards edged forward out of concern for the proximity of the alien to the Prime.

  The human said something in that unknown language. He lifted both hands in what appeared to be a gesture of supplication, tilting his head and shaking it slightly as he repeated the phrase. The Prime could tell that he was trying to communicate.

  “Axxa, approach.”

  Cautiously, the Praxxan came close. “Yours, Lord.”

  He cocked his head at his Second Advisor. “Are you, Commander Axxa?”

  “Lord?”

  The Prime waved a hand at the human. “Execute him.”

  The Second Advisor, for all his proper breeding and background, was at a total loss and it was pure joy for the Prime. He watched him squirm slightly and step back involuntarily, savoring the moment before continuing. “Did you not hear? Comply with my instruction.”

  “Lord, I…”

  “You what?” The Prime looked around at his court, all of whom were riveted on the exchange. Several sets of eyes snapped back to him at their realization that he had turned his attention to them. “Gathered soldiers. What is the Second Advisor’s duty?”

  “To honor and serve the Premier until death,” came the united response, trained into them since birth.

  “And I am the lawful representative of your Premier, Commander.” He held out a hand and received a lance from a nearby guard. The same hand extended it to the hapless Axxa. “H
onor and serve me. I’ll not say it again.”

  Reluctantly, Axxa took the weapon and looked at it as though it was a Superian viper. He looked up at the Prime and whispered, “Why are you doing this, Lord.”

  The Prime leaned in towards him. “Because your loyalty is in need of testing, as is your apparent concern for these vermin before us,” he said quietly yet firmly. Sitting back, he indicated the human vessel before them. “All that matters are the ancient yet powerful weapons within that warship which we will turn to our own use for victory, as we have done with so many other human contrivances. Now,” he added, “make your choice.”

  The human leader had watched the interplay between the two aliens closely, as had the other leaders nearby. In fact, the whole assembly had quieted down and was rapt in their attention.

  Axxa’s shoulders slumped and he exhaled. Just as the Prime was about to order his arrest, he spun the lance deftly and rammed it through the humans neck, severing it cleanly.

  A moment passed, lasting deliciously forever, as the head fell to the ground with the body not far behind. Then both were down and the humans surged forward, the words and shouts of anger obvious despite the language barrier. But it was the tall human leader who drew the Prime’s attention. Not because of his struggling like the others, but because of his immobility. The human wasn’t moving at all.

  Their eyes met across the space. Melted into each other. Took each other’s measure in a new way.

  This human was different. The fire of war lit his eyes with an energy that rivaled even a Praxxan. The Prime marveled at the intensity of those eyes.

  Axxa, beside him, handed the lance back to the guard who it belonged to. Blood dripped satisfactorily from its tip.

  The Prime tore his gaze away from the tall human and back to his Second Advisor. “Well done, Axxa. You are dismissed from this assembly.”

  The insult stung him. “Lord?”

  The Prime waved a triumphant hand. “Go and think upon what you have done. Revel in it. Go now.”

  As the younger Praxxan departed, the Prime called over the First Advisor. “Kill another large group of the humans for sport and imprison the remainder below until I call for them. Especially that one,” he pointed at the tall human. “Watch him.”