Resolve of Steel (Halloran's War Book 2)

by J. R. Geoghan

  Sar’yana. He would go to her afterwards, probing her further about the visions she’d been experiencing recently. Something about a new presence, a force within the Sight that had interacted with Axxa in some way. Perhaps an assassin? His consort was wise far beyond her years, but the Premier gave her too little credence in his quest to rule.

  The page stood, looking slowly and officiously around the seated council members, eyes resting lastly on the Premier. “We have the required number to begin, Lord.”

  The Premier nodded his assent.

  As the young Prax—who was a rising member of his family—opened the morning’s meeting, the Premier remembered his early days in these very chambers, seeking to build his own coalition. Many were seated here today, but many—too many—were gone now, lost to battle and disease.

  Fools fail to calculate the cost. He had faithfully adhered to the time-worn Praxxan maxim and calculated everything for so many cycles that he’d grown accustomed to seeing plots in every deferential answer, finding double and triple meanings in every seemingly careless word spoken. But was he uselessly fighting a destiny that he could not escape? These are the thoughts of an old fool, he told himself as he watched Terxan confer with an advisor over his shoulder. But still, he couldn’t shake the growing sense of foreboding.

  The blazing sun had no effect within the High Family residence where Sar’yana sat behind a thick wall of transparent material, gazing out across the valley and Great City below. But her eyes didn’t truly see the vista before her, and her hand held the section of food she’d cut away long ago, now forgotten in mid-lift as the Sight had taken her.

  Instead, her glazed-over eyes saw shapes, colors, faces, lives intertwined, blackness replaced by a blinding light and then darkness returning, voices both near and distant. The panoply of civilizations seemed to parade before her mind in a balance between madness and incredible clarity.

  She felt the presence of many humans, forcing their way into her vision. Distorted faces, anger…rage. Disgusting. And many more of her own race, the Prax matching the humans in hate and anger. War. This was nothing she hadn’t seen for as long as she could remember in the Sight; the conflict with the humans had been ongoing since her youngest years. The Sight sucked her in without notice, as if it had a will of its own. Which it did. Trying to show her something.

  Sar’yana stilled her racing thoughts to focus on the visions, to isolate events or individuals that seemed important. The cacophony of action crystallized into the face of a human, seemingly in the act of bending over her, concern written on his face. She recognized the name Thomas once again—this human was a recent addition to the parade of human faces and one she’d recently seen in the company with their son, Axxa. Sar’yana leaned closer in her mind, trying to talk but knowing it wasn’t real, but a phantasm of this human. She repeated her entreaty over and over to the wavering face, trying to capture the moment. Then, as he leaned even closer and his pale face filled her view, she felt a shock of recognition at the face reflected in the human’s glistening eyes.

  Sar’yana blinked. Exhaled. Her hand registered the weight of something in it, and she looked down, feeling as though she’d just woken from a deep sleep. The food was in her hand, held there throughout the whole reverie. With a sigh, she set it down and placed her hands in her lap, trying to remember the details of the vision as they had been placed before her by the Sight. Over the cycles since discovering her gift she had become adept at making some sense of the images and twisted sounds. Her skill, in fact, surpassed that of any of the other Praxxan females who were of the See’r order.

  She stood and stretched after a time, attempting to feel the life within her flow back into her aging bones. After that she placed a hand on the thick, clear wall and watched the Great City bustle below her, seeing the Center in its midst and wondering what was happening down there. Her mind was now scorched with the memory of what she’d seen in the Sight, her concern slowly building. She must speak with her husband soon.

  Chapter 5

  USS Serapis

  Petty Officer Gerry Wilson was in quiet conversation with Chief Reyes and Yeoman Christina Butler as Halloran walked up the passage. When he arrived, Reyes nodded as Butler and Wilson saluted. “Morning, sir,” said the Chief of the Boat.

  “Morning. Where are we with things?”

  Yeoman Butler said, “I’ve got the crew organized into decent sections: Electrical, Engineering, Life Support, Ops, Weapons and Security. Plus Whitney as Corpsman and Richards as Mess under ops of course.”

  “Is Mess a thing yet?”

  Reyes shook his head grimly. “Not yet, sir. Still can’t find the cause of the processor failure.”

  When Halloran didn’t reply, Wilson said, “Weapons I’ve got PO Flagler leading; she’s crawling all over the equipment with DeBartelo and Cochran. When the time comes to fire, I think they’ll be ready. But…three crew plus me isn’t much to cover the size of this ship, and thirty weapons stations that could fail or be hit, needing repair in a fight.”

  Halloran nodded. “Well, we’re sitting at least thirty percent of the full crew complement, based on my translation of the Prax documents Axxa and I looked over. It’ll have to do.”

  Reyes said, “I gave them a brief of your proposed plan, sir.”

  “I’m heading to Engineering now to talk to them directly about it.”

  Reyes slitted his eyes. “Sir, if you can get Bruce Brown to one side, pump him up a bit. He’s been moping about his brother.”

  Chief Scott Brown, Bruce’s older brother, was one of the 12 men left behind on Earth when they—namely Halloran—had to choose to save weight on their escape shuttle. “I think about them every time I wake up, Chief. We could use them right about now, in fact.”

  “You’ll get them back, sir,” Reyes offered helpfully.

  “Want me to come along to Engineering?” asked Wilson. “I can talk to Brown, too. We go back in the boats, his brother and me.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Wilson.”

  As the two walked to the lift, Wilson asked, “What do you think about Captain Kendra, sir?”

  “Meaning?”

  “She’s angry. Like dangerous angry.”

  Halloran enjoyed Wilson’s frank assessment of people. With a chuckle, he said, “Kendra is an Admiral’s daughter.”

  Wilson cocked an eyebrow at his Captain. “Oh, yeah, sir?”

  “She likes to be in the action, you see.” Halloran tapped the lift button to summon the car. “Our kidnapping her is just slowing down the process of her getting back into the war.”

  “We kidnapped her?”

  “Well, sort of. I think she was already in trouble with somebody back there.” He waved Wilson into the lift ahead of him, following after. “For now, she’s content to be heading in the right direction, I think.”

  “She’s not acting content about much around the crew, sir. You heard about the dust-up with the alien?”

  Halloran nodded. “I did.”

  “The two of them hate each other.”

  Halloran looked hard at Wilson. “Don’t forget, Gerry. In this time, humans have been crushed by the Prax and anyone alive now is going to hate—I mean really hate—them. I’m surprised she or Travers haven’t tried to grab a gun and just shoot Axxa yet.”

  “Um, understood, sir.”

  Halloran poked the man’s shoulder. “That’s your job. Keep the guns locked up and an eye on everyone aboard…for our safety.”

  The door opened on C deck.

  “After you, sir.”

  After walking through the plan to jump to the Struve System with the Engineering section and encouraging them to keep the ship running, Halloran met Gail Carruthers and Sonar Tech Chapan in a corner of C deck. “Who’s at your station?” he asked the two.

  “Malone, sir,” answered Carruthers.

  Halloran nodded, pointing at the bank of equipment that was before them. “This it?”

  Chapan began running his hands over t
he various readouts and tapping things for emphasis. “This is definitely the main control panel for the Hidden Claw system. You can see here that it’s drawing power direct from the reactor. Doesn’t appear to be tied to the ion drive, but only the jumpdrive.” He grinned at Halloran. “It’s ingenious, according to Mr. Travers. It actually routes the light around us rather than moving us through it.”

  Halloran thought a moment. “But the sensors? The Fleet ship that was shooting at us lost sensor contact with us when you turned that thing on. Otherwise they could’ve kept firing in the blind.”

  “The bubble the Hidden Claw creates works like a reflector. Signals of all sorts bounce off of it. Bend around it.” He looked apologetic. “We’re still figuring it out, sir.”

  “But we can see out?”

  “Yes, sir. It radiates outward somehow. Travers seemed to grasp the physics better than I.” Carruthers grinned. “I’m used to salt water, sir.”

  “I get it.” He fixed her with a stare. “Are your people ready to operate this device and the other comm equipment and sensors in a combat situation?”

  The new officer sighed. “I’ve been working on the language with Mr. Axxa, sir. I think I’m getting better at reading the prompts in the system when I boot it up.” She looked at Halloran. “You know, we’re lucky that it was already booted up when I hit the engage button for it during the battle. Someone had kindly left it set up for us.”

  “Just make sure you’re more in control of the situations and outcomes next battle, Lieutenant.”

  She straightened at the mention of her rank. “We’ll make it happen when you need it, sir.”

  On his way back to the bridge, Halloran paused by his favorite window at the rear extreme of A deck. It was a quiet spot, and the stars twinkled in the black expanse beyond the transparent material of unknown origin.

  He placed his hands on the material, feeling the cool of its surface on his palms. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his mind and relax it.

  So many details. So much left unknown. He needed three more of him to grasp all of the advanced concepts and inscrutable technology that made up a spaceship—and an alien one at that. They had gotten so lucky in their first, harried engagement with the enemy; the element of surprise had carried the day rather than their tactical prowess. Now the ship was holed, compartments vented to space, and important repairs undone. Yes, the crew had rallied to their new ship well, setting aside concerns for loved ones and focusing on the tasks assigned to them. But that was what Navy did. It didn’t make the heart ache any less.

  He thought of his kids. Where would they have gone in life? What had been said about his—his ship’s—disappearance? He would assume that, after a lengthy investigation, the DoD would’ve listed them as lost at sea. On eternal patrol.

  Halloran exhaled slowly, feeling the tightness in his chest and realizing that he was carrying too much on his shoulders. I need to give these people a boat they can believe in. And get back to my crew left on Earth. The ones I abandoned… Then we can decide our own destiny, be it going back to 2029 or staying here. But staying alive and defensible are my top priorities.

  He forced his feet to take him forward up the passage. Passing the bridge, he glanced in. Djembe, the human smuggler who was now their pilot, was showing the Deacon how to operate something. The two seemed to get along, which Halloran appreciated. Deacon had seemed perpetually out of sorts since leaving Earth. The young man with the hard eyes had never been off the planet and the time in space hadn’t worn well on him. Halloran understood that the guy had been a smuggler and spy on Earth, two unsavory enterprises but necessary for survival on their grim homeworld. Deacon needed something constructive to focus on.

  Antonov sat in the Command station, watching the pair himself. Sonar Technician Yusef Malone manned the comm station and was studying a screen in front of him. All seemed quiet enough. Halloran made the decision to keep walking and continued on to his cabin, thinking that a short nap would do him good.

  The last thing he remembered as he hit the pillow was thinking how big the Prax Captain’s bed was.

  Twenty minutes later he sat bolt upright on the still-made bed, groggy and mind racing.

  He’d dreamed of a series of tall ridges that seemed to go on into the hazy distance. Every time he crested a rise, the destination seemed just as far away. They reminded him of the hills in Central Pennsylvania where he’d grown up.

  There’d been Cindy. His wife had urged him on, declining to follow him while she cradled their infant child in her arms. Him, begging her to accompany him…but her turning away. His grown kids, Tom Jr. And Laura, waving at him from the nearest hilltop only to vanish as he arrived, panting.

  And a woman, watching him as he toiled but not aiding him. She was dressed strangely and he couldn’t make out her face, only seeing her height as she towered over him in flowing robes. He’d seen her before, in other dreams.

  But what had woken him was when the hills turned blood-red and sky burned like fire, and the specter of a Prax—it had to be one of them—lying bleeding on the ground before Halloran. Bending over and frowning, assessing his wounds but not seeing sources for the blood everywhere, staining the dust in an expanding circle that encompassed Halloran’s boots. Then the Prax’s head rolls to one side, being cleanly severed by a lance of some sort embedding into it...

  Halloran pulled up a corner of fabric and mopped his brow, shivering. Am I losing it? The dreams had started when they jumped into this time about a month prior, but this one had been the most violent and stressful yet.

  The loud “alarm” sound that reverberated the hull walls shocked him back to reality and he leapt for cabin door, straightening his uniform as he did. He immediately noticed how close it sounded to the “general quarters” onboard ship back in 2029.

  As he pounded down the short passage to the bridge, a voice came over hidden speakers along the way. “Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge.”

  With a snort, Halloran calmed himself as he stepped onto the bridge. “What’s the meaning of this?” He walked directly to the pilot station where Djembe sat, looking up in sudden indecision at the clearly-annoyed Captain.

  “Captain on the bridge!” called Malone.

  The pilot half-smiled and lifted an eyebrow. “We figured out the shipwide announcement system. And the battle stations siren. Ummm.”

  Halloran stood glowering down at him. “I suppose I should be thrilled, Pilot?”

  A chuckle sounded behind Halloran. “Told you he wouldn’t like it.”

  Halloran spun on Antonov. “That created an unnecessary distraction from work that needs to be done,” he said firmly with fist clenched at his side.

  The Russian looked him up and down, slowly and deliberately, pausing his gaze on the Captain’s fists. Then he looked up. “Can we speak privately for a moment? Mr Malone, you have the conn.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Halloran felt the anger drain out of him, realizing he’d overplayed the moment. As he followed Antonov across the bridge he half-turned to Djembe. “Good job figuring out the intercom.”

  The pilot nodded gravely as he turned back to his work.

  “Captain leaving the bridge!”

  In the passage outside, Halloran held up a hand immediately. “I know.”

  Antonov leaned against the bulkhead. “In my Navy we have a man—usually a senior enlisted officer—aboard ship whose assignment is to watch the Captain and Executive Officer. But mostly the Captain.” He raised his eyebrows at Halloran. “His job is to tell them when he thinks they are pushing themselves too hard, getting close to making bad decisions that would affect the crew, the ship.”

  “Interesting.” Halloran could figure where this was going. “I have Reyes, to be honest.”

  “An excellent choice for Senior Chief. But, he is overtaxed by his current assignments, as are all the others at this time.”

  “Okay. Look, Pyotr, I appreciate—.”

  “I will
be your man, Captain.” He glanced down. “You need a fresh uniform and a nap…but not in that order, yes?”

  Halloran stretched. “I tried a nap. Didn’t work out too well.”

  “What is the problem?”

  “I have…nightmares.”

  Antonov looked sympathetic. “About your family?” Halloran’s wife and infant child were killed in a car crash just months before the day they were abducted. Hundreds of years ago now, Halloran reminded himself. It was all so weird. “No. Yes. Maybe.” He smiled faintly. “Maybe I just haven’t given it enough of a try. There’s so much to understand about this time we are in, this ship.” Halloran waved a hand at the passage around them. “I have this sense of dread that the situation is going to disintegrate before we’re ready.”

  The Russian shook his head and crossed his arms, still leaning against the conduits set into the wall. “We will never be ready, Captain. This is too much for our people, and we must recognize that. You wish to have a ship of your own back, but this vessel does not belong to either the US or Russian Navy. Or even the twenty-first century.” He smiled tightly. “All we can do is our duty to each other now.”

  He was right. Despite Halloran’s burning desire to restore normality, it would never return for them. At least in this century. And whether they could ever return to theirs was still an unknown.

  Halloran exhaled, rubbing his temples furiously. “Okay, okay. I’ll try some more sleep. Then we plan the jump to this system with the metal we need.”

  Antonov’s smile morphed into a small grin. “This is already plotted. Djembe is a very good pilot, sir.”

  Halloran took the good-natured rebuke on the chin. “To bed with me, then.”

  He was halfway back to his cabin when he had a thought, turning and walking backward a moment to see Antonov. “Who’s assigned to watch the Executive Officer?”