Act of War

by R. L. Giddings

  He was losing it. Another few seconds and it would be beyond his grasp.

  He worked the right handle round so as to bring the elbow joint up as high as possible but even then he couldn’t extend the mechanical hand out far enough. The top of the hand brushed against the anchor point but the angle was all wrong for it to get any purchase – the top of the pod was gently rolling away from him – and, try as he might, he couldn’t rotate the wrist fully enough to get a decent grip of it.

  Reflex sent him lunging in the opposite direction as he worked to rotate the arm through one hundred and eighty degrees. In practice, such a move was generally discouraged as it placed the shoulder joint in a compromised position – but he was desperate.

  He couldn’t face another miss.

  The out-stretched hand grasped desperately for the pod’s underside – as the northerly post moved away from him this would surely bring the southerly one up to meet him.

  But where was it?

  The moment he really needed to focus cruelly coincided with the moment the ship’s shadow fell across the pod, effectively obscuring its southern half.

  He couldn’t see anything.

  Nonetheless, operating at full extension, he pumped the handle rhythmically, once, twice, three times until finally it caught on something. Suddenly, the entire mechanism started to judder, threatening to rip the handle out of his grasp.

  “Okay, that was my fault,” Silva was saying. “Misjudged the approach. Re-routing now to see if there’s another possible pick-up.”

  “Whoa, not so fast,” Webster was up on his feet, desperately trying to keep hold of the handle as it twisted away from him, threatening to snap his wrist.

  “I think I’ve got something.”

  There was a pause while Silva checked her monitor.

  “I thought we’d lost that for sure. How did you manage it?”

  “I’d love to say, ‘pure skill’ but we both know I’d be lying.”

  He was struggling to keep control of the left handle, to the extent that he was forced to break protocol and release the right one in order for him to grab it with both hands.

  “Can I get some help here?”

  A whip-thin Marine appeared at his elbow. “Yes, sir.”

  “See that yellow button on the dash?”

  “The one that says ‘Don’t press!’”

  “That’s the one,” Webster managed. “I’d like you to press it.”

  The Marine gave a look but then did as he was told.

  There was a hollow clunk, not dissimilar to the sound a bowling ball might make in the unlikely event that one should rebound off the side of the hull.

  “Did I do something wrong?” the Marine asked.

  “No. That was me.”

  *

  Webster was standing in the cargo bay waiting for the pod to cycle through the airlock when Joanna Silva appeared. She had a new anaconda cast on her broken leg but didn’t look particularly happy about it.

  “Are you alright,” she asked. “I hear things went a little crazy back there.”

  “All my fault, I’m afraid. I’ve somehow managed to break the rotator arms.”

  “Aren’t they made of titanium?”

  “True, but there’s a first time for everything. What’s happening with the pod?”

  “Oh the pod’s fine, they’re securing it now.”

  “Did we get lucky? Was there anyone inside?”

  One of the first pods they’d recovered had been empty.

  “Better than that. After a difficult delivery, you’re now the proud father of twins.”

  Despite their easy banter, Webster felt there was something missing between them. His mind wasn’t processing information the way it should and, overall, he was suffused with a kind of numbness. Probably linked to all the trauma he’d witnessed in the past few days. The destruction of the Mantis, the deaths of Faulkner, Yamada and the others. It had been too much for him, he just couldn’t process it.

  Silva came around behind him, trying to see if she could see anything through the air lock window but there was nothing. “Okay, so what’s going to happen about the arm?”

  “The Marines are getting the repair drones up and ready. Going to be another couple of hours before they can get it fixed – if they can fix it at all.”

  “Good. That’ll give you a chance to get some rest.”

  “I’m not sure I’m capable,” he raised his hands defensively. “Honestly, I’m too wired to sleep.”

  “Fine, but you should at least go and lie down somewhere.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll go and lie down somewhere else.”

  They’d slept together three times since that first time back on Lincoln Station, though never while on board ship. Webster wasn’t sure if that constituted a relationship. Certainly, Silva had never made any emotional claims upon him. Even when she’d almost died – when her shuttle had crashed - he’d had to hear about it from one of the auxiliary crew.

  They got their first sight of the escape pod as it entered the airlock.

  “How many is that, now?” she asked.

  “Twenty three.”

  “Twenty three?” she sounded disappointed. “Is that all?”

  “I know. I thought we might get a few more but let’s not forget – that’s thirty eight people. We’re just going to have to try and raise our game.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible. There’s only so much we can do. The Dardelion’s hardly cut out for this sort of thing.”

  “Then we’ll have to improvise. Find another way.”

  Silva didn’t say anything. She just stood and watched the recovery crew as they opened the airlock. They always wore gloves while handling the escape pods, the exteriors being so terribly cold. It took a lot of effort to maneuver the pod through the hatch and onto the bed of the sled but somehow they managed it.

  The lance-corporal in charge turned to Webster.

  “What do you want us to do with this one, sir?”

  “Put it with the others for now.”

  “We’re going to struggle with that, sir. We’re running out of room as it is. Going to have to start stacking them before very much longer.”

  “It’s as bad as that?”

  The man nodded. “’Fraid so, sir.”

  He stood there with his hands on his hips, waiting for further instructions but Webster was all out of ideas. As a science ship, Dardelion’s lack of storage space was always going to prove problematic and Webster was still getting used to it. At least on the Mantis there had been some sense of personal space – albeit illusory - but here, everyone was squeezed in on top of one another. If they took on any more pods they were going to have to start storing them in the corridors, but that would present them with a whole new set of problems.

  He said, “See what you can do for the time being. We’ll have to come up with something in the next couple of days.”

  Webster couldn’t help sneaking a look inside the pod as it went past. Through the glass, he could make out the shapes of two midshipmen.

  “Not him then?” Silva said.

  “Who?”

  “Faulkner. That’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

  Webster made to protest but then decided against it. He didn’t have the energy to argue.

  “I just can’t believe that he’s …”

  “Gone?” she lowered her voice and stepped in close, taking his hand. “You’re going to have to accept it. He was on the bridge when the Mantis hit. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have made it out in time. It’s just not possible.”

  Webster gritted his teeth. He could see what she was trying to do but he didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Faulkner had survived against worse odds – had built a career out of doing it. He was such a larger than life figure, his presence seemed to fill whatever space he inhabited. The idea that he could have been snuffed out like that didn’t seem possible. There were an awful
lot of pods out there still, over two hundred, and as long as he kept searching, Webster was sure that he’d find something.

  He just had to keep looking, that was all.

  “Sir, could I have a word?” It was a corporal. A woman named Acosta.

  “What is it?”

  “Is it true that you told the lance-corporal to start stacking the pods?”

  “Why?” Webster couldn’t remember what he’d said. “Is there a problem?”

  Acosta looked pained. “I’m not happy stacking them. They seem sturdy enough but they’re not intended to be load bearing. Even if they were empty I’d be concerned but there are people in there. What if one of them gets breached?”

  “I suppose we’d have to resuscitate them. That’s a possibility.”

  The woman sucked in her cheeks. “I’m not sure we have that kind of capacity right now.”

  “Might be something we have to consider,” Webster said.

  If they could resuscitate them, they’d be able to dump the pods and free up more room. But it wasn’t as simple as that.

  Webster folded his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits. When he next spoke he addressed Silva. “What do you think, lieutenant?”

  Silva clearly didn’t appreciate being put on the spot and took a moment to consult her tablet. “That is an option. Seems to me we have all the necessary equipment on board. The issue is: what happens if we succeed. We’re still going to have to commit a huge number of personnel to caring for them. They’re not just going to wake up and go back to their duty stations. They’d be similar to coma victims just coming round and, normally, that’s not the sort of thing you’d even consider outside of a well-managed intensive care unit. The monitoring alone would be a nightmare: heart rate, blood pressure levels, ECG. It’s a long list and you’re going to need an experienced medical team to deal with it.”

  “Okay, I get the idea.” Webster pursed his lips. Like most commanders, he liked to defer any decisions which might put the safety of his crew in jeopardy but, at the same time, he was aware that they had to find a solution. But the longer they waited the worse the situation was going to get.

  “Sergeant, we have – what – three corpsmen on board?”

  “Three. Yes, sir, that’s right, sir.”

  “Take them off their other duties and get them looking into this. I’m not suggesting it’s something we want to get into right now, but I want us to be ready just in case.”

  The sergeant seemed surprised by this development. “Very well, sir. I’ll get onto it right away.”

  As the sergeant departed, Silva reached over and gently squeezed his arm.

  “You can only do your best.”

  “But what if my best isn’t good enough?”

  *

  The corpsmen were a lot more meticulous than Webster had expected, requesting a couple of computer specialists to help them oversee the resuscitation process. Initially, they wanted to focus on a group of six individuals, re-animating two at a time but it would be a long process, taking anything up to eight hours for each pair. They planned to resuscitate the next two at four hour intervals. By staggering the process, they’d all be going through the stages at different times, cutting down the chances of them all going into cardiac arrest at the same time. At least, that was the plan.

  If all else failed and the corpsmen were unable to stabilise the patients, there was always the option of the cyber-doc. This would give them the option of returning the patient to a state of stasis. There might be only two on-board but Webster was confident that this would be enough to give them the edge. They couldn’t cover every eventuality but this was probably as good as it was going to get.

  Webster spent the morning co-ordinating the team working on the robotic arm. Because of their lack of pressure suits, an EVA was out of the question so they were forced to operate via remote controlled repair droids. Repairing the arm was a lot more complicated than any of them had anticipated and he was constantly having to access tutorials in order to help with some of the finer work. Just as they were starting to get somewhere, Silva appeared.

  “Any luck contacting the Serrayu?” he asked.

  “Nothing so far, but our scans suggest they’ve already started some kind of Search and Rescue operation of their own.”

  Webster nodded. “Good, they’re going to be much better equipped for this sort of thing than we are.”

  That came as a huge relief. He didn’t like to think that he was going to be solely responsible for this whole mopping-up exercise.

  “Aren’t you just a little concerned about how they intend on treating our people?”

  “Why, should I be?”

  “Well, according to them, we are in a state of war.”

  Webster’s laugh lacked any warmth. “All I’m bothered about is recovering those pods. The other stuff we can sort out later. Personally, I’d rather wake up as a prisoner of war rather than not wake up at all.”

  “Fair point,” Silva said, though it was obvious she felt conflicted about the whole thing.

  “Here what do you think of this?”

  He pointed to his smart screen which was showing an exterior view. The three repair drones backed off, allowing him to rotate the huge robotic arm through ninety degrees. But, when Webster tried to operate the mechanical hand, nothing happened.

  “I think you should stick to the day job. In light of which, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “Is this to do with the funeral?”

  Corporal Grimes had been involved in an operation to sever Blackthorn’s umbilical. The operation had been a great success, saving countless lives, but Grimes had paid the ultimate price.

  “I know you don’t like to talk about it but something’s got to be done. The situation’s going to get worse the longer we ignore it.”

  “I’m not ignoring it,” Webster snapped. “But, as you can see: I’ve got other concerns at the moment.”

  Silva didn’t say anything. She just watched while he rotated the arm back into its original position allowing the drones to move in, prior to stripping it all down again.

  “Look, Alex, I know that you’re under a lot of pressure at present. We haven’t even had a chance to talk about the Mantis yet, but this thing with Grimes isn’t going away. The Marines are really cut up about what happened, even if they don’t want to acknowledge it. They think that what he did was truly heroic and I’d have to agree. If we don’t recognise his achievement in some way then I can see us building up to a lot of resentment.”

  Webster shut down his controls and turned to face her.

  “No one’s contesting what he did, I’d just rather wait until we’re back on-station so we can do this properly. A full military funeral takes a lot of organising.”

  “I’d agree, but there’s no telling how long that might take. It could be months before we’re back on-station the way things are going. I know that the guidelines say his body should be stored until the end of the mission but I think that this is an exceptional case. The Marines think that because you haven’t said anything … well, they think you haven’t recognised his sacrifice.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Webster stood up and began pacing around the room.

  “I know that but I’m not the one you have to convince.”

  “The retrieval of these pods has to be our first priority.”

  Silva got up and moved so that she stood directly in front of him.

  “Consider it from their perspective. Grimes knew that his thin suit wasn’t sufficient to complete that mission and yet he went along with it anyway. He knew he was jeopardising himself and yet he still went ahead and did it. And each one of these guys would have done the same. All I’m asking is that you recognise what he’s done. What they’re all prepared to do.”

  “Is this to do with Jackson?”

  LaCruz Jackson had been on the mission with Grimes but had survived because she’d been wearing a pressure suit. There had been rumo
urs that the pair had been lovers but Webster wasn’t sure he believed any of that, they seemed such an unlikely pairing. Grimes had been built like a basketball player while LaCruz was barely five feet tall.

  “LaCruz hasn’t said two words since this happened. I can’t prove it, but I think she’s still in shock. And that’s part of the reason I think a funeral would be a good idea. She’s a complete mess and, with no family to fall back on, she’s only got the other troopers to look to. I think the sooner we can get this resolved, the sooner she can start grieving.”

  Webster wasn’t sure what to think. Working with the Marines, he’d assumed that personal feelings could be put to one side while they attempted to resolve this whole sorry mess, but he was also conscious of how shaky his control over the whole situation actually was. They’d only ended up in this predicament as a result of circumstances – it wasn’t a natural fit for any of them, least of all him.

  Things would have been a lot more clear-cut if they’d been back on-board the Mantis. At least then they’d have the precedent of him taking on the role of CO, but with the Mantis gone, there was no ship to command.

  On the Dardelion, he might well be the officer commanding, but that didn’t guarantee him the Marines’ respect. And the chain of command could only take you so far. At a time of war, the bond between a captain and his crew could be sorely tested and if he didn’t command their respect there were a thousand and one ways they might conspire to work against him.

  But at the same time, the idea of fronting Grimes’ funeral filled him with dread. Without a chaplain to call on, he was going to have to run the whole ceremony himself - though no doubt, Silva could be called upon to lend some support.

  He felt like a complete fraud. Faulkner had commanded instant respect among his crew because of his war record. They might not have liked him – there were a number of NCOs who openly referred to him as ‘The Butcher’ - a reference to his Yakutian nickname of ‘The Butcher of Tsvengir.’ Even so, there was never any sense of anyone openly questioning his decisions. Webster had been the only one to have done that.

  By comparison, Webster himself had very little to offer. His last command, the Syracuse, had been little more than a glorified patrol boat. Even then, he’d deferred to his XO on any number of decisions. And his recent posting to Blackthorn Station hadn’t exactly covered him in glory. He’d been captured at one point and had had to rely on Sergeant Markham’s foresight in order to extricate him from the situation.