“That flight jumped very close to the station,” observed Kaela.
“Correct, Commander. Analysis says they were fifty thousand K closer than approved procedure.”
“They were in a hurry.”
“So it would seem, Commander,” the tech agreed.
Then they watched a different vessel detach and proceed around the moon. “What is that vessel?” Kaela asked the room.
“No identification, Commander. I do verify that it arrived shortly before the explosions occurred. Wait, the system is telling me that the ship is in the data as Praxxan in origin. Known hull design of a small transport with jump capabilities.”
“Sneaky one, that. Came in with the local traffic. From Earth? See if you can work its vector regression.”
The new, smaller ship assumed a jump posture in the distance of the video. Then, a large warship appeared at high speed out of a corner of the screen and fired on the first vessel, apparently striking it just as it winked into jumpspace.
The tech announced what Kaela had already surmised. “That is the Valor, Commander. As Captain Heres reported, they fired on a small rogue vessel that seemed about to pursue the 3033 transport.”
Kaela rubbed her chin. Heres… Someone her family was acquainted with. Heres was a wildcard ship’s commander. Brash, undisciplined. But she remembered that he’d rated a new cruiser—his recent record was excellent. “It seems that they hit it.”
“Yes, Commander, the Valor reported confirmed ship’s debris in the field.”
The conversation was interrupted by the blinding flash and explosion of the station. The video footage shuddered for a moment, then resumed to show a massive, expanding debris cloud that radiated outward from the moon into the black.
“The timestamp shows that the station self-destructed at thirteen thirty-six local time, Commander.”
“Self-destructed?”
“Confirmed. The pattern of explosion corresponds with the establish set of charges designed for such an eventuality.”
“But why—who—would order the station to blow itself up? There had to have been hundreds of people aboard it.” Kaela leaned against an equipment bank, flabbergasted.
“The data logs of the station were destroyed, of course, as a precaution against a Prax invasion,” the tech reminded Kaela unhelpfully. So they would never know exactly who was there at the moment of the blast.
“Package everything up and send to Admiral Kendall’s team.” Kaela felt sick to her stomach. Can I carry out my order when the time comes here on Mars? To let my entire team perish…at my hand? “I’ll be in my office.” She stalked off, feeling the imaginary, accusing stares on her once again.
Part Seven - Learning
Chapter 44
Intersystem Transport 3033
His eyes popped open with a suddenness that startled even himself.
Someone jumped back—someone who’d been standing over him. “You scared me,” announced Elias Whitney, the ship’s corpsman.
“Hmm. Ugh, me too.” Halloran frowned, trying to reacquaint himself with his body. “Ughhh.”
Whitney leaned over him again. “Not sure what happened here, but let me tell you—the medical tech they have here is astounding.” He arranged something tight wrapped around Halloran, making him wince. Whitney noticed it. “Sorry, sir. It’s a chest wrap. More to restrict your movements than to promote any healing.” He caught Halloran’s eye. “You had a huge chunk of glass buried in your back, close to your spine…let me tell you.” He straightened. “You lost a ton of blood. But their machine replaced your blood and healed up that hole quick as you please.” He noticed Halloran’s strained look. “Oh, sorry sir. Too much info?”
Halloran groaned. “It still hurts.”
“That’s because your nerve endings were severed, Captain,” announced a new voice. A short, stocky man with close-cut lightish hair and a reddish complexion stepped into view. “You do hold the rank of Captain, correct? Your people seem to address you as such.”
Halloran approximated a nod. “That’s right.” His voice felt cracked. Parched.
“Kell. Ship’s Medtech.” Kell handed him a cup. “Water.”
Halloran gratefully accepted the cup, taking a sip. As he did, his eyes roamed over the space they were in. Obviously a medical bay of some sort. Most things were white or light gray. He focused on Kell. “You Fleet?”
The man chuckled. “No, sir. We ship Fleet people back and forth all year long, but no self-respecting Fleet man would sign up for this vessel.”
Halloran took another, longer sip. “You seem to run a tight operation. That’s a compliment; you have my profound thanks for saving me.”
Kell waved it off. “This is my job. You were just a bit worse than my typical grumpy passenger with an ingrown toenail.” But Halloran caught the gleam of pride that ran through the man’s eyes as he turned away.
Whitney added, “I can tell you that their tech is amazing.”
Halloran grinned at the young man. “You already said that, Elias. But I get the message.” He had a thought. “Where’s the rest of our party?” He remembered the bodies in the hall…and bolted up in his bed. The pain shot up his back.
Whitney gently eased him back. “Not so fast, Captain. Give the meds time to work.”
Kell returned. “Yes, the process is far from complete. While the foreign matter has been removed and the wound closed, your amount of blood loss required a very large transfusion. Plus, the equipment discovered a concussion, which was treated but also requires healing time. The nerve damage alone will require a day at least.”
Halloran’s eyebrows went up. “A whole day? That’s like, forever.”
Kell shrugged. “It’s the best our tech can do. The Fleet has better resources.”
“I was kidding.”
Kell touched the translator embedded in Halloran’s neck. “I see you cannot speak Standard? What is your system of origin?”
Halloran decided that the interview was over. “I’d like to see Captain Antonov, Whitney. Where exactly are we?”
“Transport ship 3033, sir.” Whitney glanced at Kell, as if asking for correction. “It’s a passenger ship of some sort. I’m not sure where they are going, though.”
“Coloran, of course.” Kell looked surprised at the remark.
Halloran touched Whitney’s arm. “Just get me Antonov.”
When the Russian appeared in the doorway with Whitney, Halloran asked Kell for privacy. After the Medtech had grudgingly disappeared Halloran looked at Whitney. “Guard the door, please. Let’s keep things private.” After Whitney had slipped out Halloran let out a massive sigh.
“Good to have you back, Halloran.” Antonov laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Good to be back—I think.”
“Do you remember me pounding on your face and screaming at you?”
“I…think so. There was a battle.”
“Your man dragged you in half-dead, followed up by that red monster who was gripping a new gun and looking fierce. We had already overwhelmed a couple of guards who decided against shooting us—very fortunate.”
“Then what?”
The red one and your Chief Reyes made their way to the cockpit to convince them to launch immediately. I think the rifle in the red man’s hands convinced them more than anything.” Antonov’s eyes were twinkling.
“I bet.”
“I stayed with you. Your corpsman realized that you were not, ah, breathing. We worked on you until you revived.”
“Thank you for that.”
“It is nothing. We need you, Halloran.”
“You called me Tom. I remember that much.” But he realized that he remembered other things.
The Russian smiled but said nothing.
“So…we’re on some kind of a cruise ship traveling through the galaxy?”
“More of a transport. It seems luxurious compared to what we’ve endured thus far, though.”
“Other passengers?”
Antonov nodded. “There were about fifty people in the main cabin. The guards decided that their new task was to keep them separated from your crew.”
Halloran’s eyes hardened. “Where are the crew? We lost some back there.”
“I understand. The Chief has them in a forward stateroom.” He smiled, clearly avoiding the topic of death. “First class, I think. The ship’s Doctor is looking them over.”
Halloran laid his head back. It hurt now… “Destination is this Coloran place?”
“I was actually on my way to ascertain our specific destination when Mr. Whitney accosted me.”
“Sorry. Thanks for everything, Pyotr.”
When Halloran opened his eyes Whitney was staring back.
“How long was I out?”
“Um, about a day, sir.”
Halloran sat upright. “What?”
“Sir, don’t be alarmed. You needed the time to heal.”
Halloran tried to swing his legs off of the bed. “I don’t need to be on my back when I’m needed…”
Whitney grasped his shoulder. “That’s just it, sir. You’re not needed at the moment. We’re on a week-long flight, not much to do. Apparently, the way this ship flies through space, nothing can get to us. A smooth trip, you might say.”
Halloran appreciated Whitney’s attempt at bedside manner. “Understood, Corpsman. You’ve been outstanding. I certainly needed your attentions. But,” his feet touched the cool decking. “It’s time I made my appearance.”
“Yes, sir.” Whitney helped him get to his feet without further protest.
The next surprise came when Whitney handed him his uniform shirt. Halloran turned it over in his hands. “Hold on, now.” He cocked his head at the young man. “This thing would’ve been torn to shreds and bloody. Did someone donate theirs?”
Whitney smiled. “Actually, no. They have a device onboard that does your laundry—and mends clothing. I just threw the messed-up shirt in and this came out moments later.”
Halloran looked it over again. “Well I’ll be. We could sure use this in the submarine force.”
“Agreed. And take a look at your pants.” They were the same—immaculate.
“They even got the crease right.”
Whitney handed him his boots. “Nothing but the best for our Captain.”
Halloran stretched. The pain levels were well within tolerable limits. “Feels good.”
“Kell said it’ll be a few more days before the nerves acclimate. You’ve still got time, sir.”
“Well, let’s go take a walk, why don’t we?”
The ship was simple yet clean, with obvious passenger-oriented components like marked restrooms and carpeted decking. Halloran let Whitney lead him down several passageways to a large central one that seemed to bisect the ship. Whitney pointed one way. “Aft.” And the other. “Forward.” He opened a door for Halloran. “First-class lounge.”
“Now we’re talking. Is there a bar?” Halloran stepped in.
Immediately he was surrounded by well-wishing crew members. He noticed as he pumped hands and slapped shoulders—gingerly—that everyone looked one hundred percent better than the last time he’d seen them. Uniforms were pressed and most of them had caps on. When he asked about it, Petty Officer Wyatt had grinned back. “Their fancy ‘replicator’ machines made extras for us!”
Antonov waved Halloran over to…a bar.
Halloran ran his hands along the wood. At least it was woodgrain, actual material unknown. “You’re kidding me. This is too much.”
Antonov slapped a glass in front of him. Halloran stared at the clear liquid.
The Russian held up his own glass. “You drink. I believe a vodka is owed me.”
They clinked glasses. The stuff didn’t exactly taste like real vodka, but it was more than close enough. Halloran sat the empty glass down. “It’s perfect, Pyotr.”
“Ah,” corrected Antonov. He plopped another glass down that he’d held in reserve.
Halloran slapped the bar. “Don’t tell me. Bourbon.”
“Prosit.” The Russian held his own amber glass.
After the toast was done, Halloran turned to survey the room. The warmth spreading in his belly from the drinks felt like a lie; the seeming joviality in the room matched the feeling. They were on the run from a murderous foe. The Prime’s own son—an assassin of some sort. And he’d miraculously killed one of these assassins… He’ll be gunning for me all the more, Halloran thought. He saw Axxa, standing quietly as usual in the corner. Their eyes met and the Prax’s head dipped in acknowledgment. They want him even more badly. Halloran knew they’d stop at nothing.
His crew was looking more shipshape and he was glad for it. He had allowed the casual interactions just now because they needed the touch from from. To know that for the moment, they were safe. But they needed to get back to work. They needed a plan. He caught Antonov’s eye. “Let’s call an officer’s meeting. With Axxa and Reyes.”
Fifteen minutes later they convened in a side stateroom adjoining the lounge. Halloran paced up and down as he recounted the fight at the station and what the Xu had said regarding Axxa. “Can you add anything to this account, Axxa?” He paused to look over at the Prax.
“No, other than that I believe that Calxen—that is the Xu commander’s name—never planned to spare any of you. He is a bloodthirsty killer, not a true warrior.”
“I guess we’re glad we got away, sir,” replied Reyes from where he sat at the table.
Halloran looked at Antonov. “What did you find out about our destination?”
“This vessel doesn’t have the, um, ‘jump capability,’ to make it all the way to this other star system in one hop. So they lay over in a system called ‘Luyten’ where there’s a mining colony that supports a spaceport.”
“Hmm. Time of the layover?”
“The Captain said usually less than a day.”
Halloran returned to Axxa. “Would this Claxen guy come after us there?”
Axxa nodded. “Calxen. It would be logical. He would have access to the intelligence concerning human transport routes.”
“So we need to convince this Captain to tread lightly as we approach this Luyten place. I’m assuming this ship has little or no offensive capability?”
Antonov nodded. “Correct.”
Hummel spoke. “The crew is in excellent physical condition, sir. Well-fed. The ship’s Captain has been generous.”
“What about the passengers already aboard?”
Reyes answered, “Those overzealous guards have been standing over them, taking watches, for two days now. I snuck a look out there, sir. The bunch looks safe enough. They just come and go from their staterooms and sit quietly, reading or whatever. Meals are served normally.”
“What are you suggesting, Chief? A meet and greet?” Halloran got a group chuckle out of that joke.
“No, sir, I think we should bring them in on our situation—their lives may depend on it.”
Halloran resumed pacing. “Point taken, Chief.” After a minute of thought he stopped. “Alright. I’ll take Reyes and talk to the guards about briefing the passengers. Antonov, you take Axxa and confer with the ship’s skipper about contingency planning as we arrive at this mining colony. Lieutenant Hummel, you and Whitney get the crew organized and prepped as much as possible for the next time we’re thrown out on our own. I mean provisions, medical supplies, spare clothing, whatever you can scare up from the ship’s crew and stores.”
Djembe was waiting in the corridor. “You seem to be in charge now.” His voice had a bitter edge to it.
Halloran looked at him. “Would you rather be?”
“This isn’t my ship. Thankfully I had time to order her to an auto-dock on Pluto before we jumped.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“From what I’ve seen, being too close to you or that red murderer is not a great place to be.”
Halloran sighed. “Djembe, you are welcome to part way
s with us the moment we dock at this next stop.”
The pilot tapped the bulkhead in impatience. “Seems like the universe is determined to ensure that I don’t get paid.”
“What happened to you, Djembe?” Halloran had crossed his arms.
“What?”
“You’re a great pilot. Yet you seem to obsess over getting paid rather than contributing to this war humanity’s fighting.”
“I did my time.”
“Seems like we need you now, sir.” Halloran spread his arms. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on the run and you’re the reason we’ve gotten as far as we have.”
Djembe snorted, but his eyes never met Halloran’s.
Halloran tapped the man lightly on the chest. “If I can have you…I want you. I can’t offer any money—yet—but if it’s in my power I will make it happen. You know, we got paid in our Navy.” He smirked. “Not much, but it paid the bills. I know where you’re coming from.” He turned to leave.
“Tomalloran.”
“Yeah?”
“So, what was the name of that ship of yours? Bonome.”
Halloran folded his arms. “Bonhomme Richard. USS. United States Ship, that means—meant.” He frowned.
“What does that mean?” Djembe persisted.
“Well,” Halloran exhaled. “In the old US Navy—very early on—there was a Captain. During our country’s revolution against…another country that was oppressing it. The late 1700’s on Earth.”
Djembe waited expectantly.
“So,” Halloran continued. “This Captain—John Paul Jones was the name—made a name for himself in ships fighting this other country—the British—and managed to move around the Atlantic in the process. The French had joined our side, mostly, and the King offered a ship to Jones. It was called the Duc de Duras, but Jones renamed it the Bonhomme Richard after a nickname for Benjamin Franklin…” Halloran noticed he was losing Djembe, his translator mangling the proper names. “So…Jones got into a fight with the HMS Serapis on September 23rd, 1779—.”
“You know much about this man’s life.”
War Without Honor Page 28
