by T J Mott
She could tell, even from the outside, that the gunships did not have much of an interior. The two giant thruster assemblies bulged out on either side of the hull, making the aft section nearly twice the width of the fore, and were themselves half the length of the gunship. She thought she saw slots above and below them where the radiators deployed from, also half the length of the vessel. These ships were made to move.
“Impressive. And weapons?” she asked, noting two visible turrets. One was on top, one on the bottom, both on the main hull ahead of the thruster housings. And she also saw a suspicious-looking pair of openings in the bow, just below the bridge.
The Commodore’s assistant, Lieutenant Roth, answered, reading out data from a tablet he held. “Two dual-barreled laser turrets, one top-side, one below, rated for up to fifty megajoules per shot. Two hundred seventy degrees of rotation and they can depress far enough to overlap fields of fire to the fore and both sides. The turrets are modular and can easily be swapped out for other weapons systems. And finally, the Lancer-class has two forward-facing missile tubes which can be used to deploy guided missiles, decoys, drones, probes, or other ordnance.”
She nodded in approval, although she once again felt overwhelmed at all the changes since her time as the Caracal’s pilot and navigator. After they’d escaped the frigate’s destruction in a red giant star system near Waverly several months ago, Reynolds had been promoted to Commodore of Blue Fleet, taking on the role which until then had been officially held by Admiral Marcell himself. And then Reynolds had promoted her and begun to assemble a new unit for her to lead. Given her history with the Hyberian Raiders, he’d told her, he wanted her to train and lead an elite gunship squadron which would hopefully take its place as the Hyberian’s spiritual successor.
“I assume you want to see the inside?” Reynolds asked with a smile. She nodded immediately.
They stepped up to the bow of the first gunship. Its landing legs held the main hull two meters off the deck, though the giant thrusters barely cleared the hangar floor. She extended an arm and rubbed the bow, just a few centimeters above her head, as they walked alongside it. The hull was rough and coarse, covered in millimeter-sized dimples, and was painted a very dark gray. “This is weird armor. Dark, and not very reflective. How does it stand against laser fire?”
“We ordered them with the stealth package,” Roth explained. “It’s fairly basic ablative armor, one meter thick, but it’s mixed with additives to keep the sensor profile low. It can hold its own in a boxing match, at least for a little while, but that’s not what these ships are equipped for.”
“You don’t want to get in a straight-up fight with these,” Reynolds said. “Rely on stealth and a fearsome reputation. Appear without warning, strike your target, and make your escape before anyone can respond. Like you’re the ghosts of the Hyberian Raiders.”
“Hmm.” She suppressed a shudder at the mention of her former mercenary family. Although it was getting easier now. Revealing her history had lifted a hidden weight from her chest, and while the Hyberians would be gone forever, their mere mention no longer sent her back to that painful moment when she’d learned of their complete destruction. “Maybe I’ll call it Ghost Squadron.”
“I need something for the Table of Organization,” said Lieutenant Roth with a shrug. “I’ll just mark it down as Ghost Squadron for now. It’s easy enough to modify if you change your mind.”
She walked towards the ladder below the starboard hatch, letting her fingertips run across the armor’s rough surface as she moved. The hatch was just behind the bridge, and she quickly ascended the ladder and stepped into the tiny warship. Roth was right behind her, and the elderly Commodore Reynolds made his way in several seconds later. “This is cramped,” she said with a frown. She was in a passage that ran from port to starboard, connecting the two boarding hatches. The corridor was not quite a meter wide, and less than two high. She felt her hair brush lightly against the ceiling as she walked. Anyone of average height would be fine, but she was a tall woman, even taller than most of the men in Blue Fleet, and she wondered how many times she’d knock herself out on some of the conduits and ductwork which hung from the ceiling. “I don’t remember Lancers being this low.”
Reynolds chuckled. “You were younger and probably shorter the last time you were in a Lancer.”
“True,” she conceded. The Hyberian Raiders had been destroyed shortly after her teen years, and she still hadn’t quite reached her full adult height at the time.
The passage was about ten meters long, passing across the ship’s width and ending in the port access hatch. It crossed a central corridor at the halfway point, and she turned right to proceed forwards. The bridge was right there, its hatch open and beckoning her to enter. She ducked through and noted with relief that the floor was several centimeters lower in here, giving her more headspace. She no longer felt the need to hunch over.
The bridge was shaped like a half-circle, as wide as the main hull near the back of the room and rounding across the front. The interior was dark gray, just a shade lighter than the armor outside, and all the lights were out. The hangar lights shined in through the thick, curved window a meter tall which wrapped around the entire front. Just outside the window itself was an armored shutter system which could seal to protect the bridge during combat.
As she stepped around the bridge, she saw she had an excellent view of the hangar outside. Not that visibility meant much in space. The ship’s instruments were far more important than nice windows, but it made the bridge feel larger than it actually was and probably came in handy in atmosphere or when landing.
Two consoles sat side-by-side at the apex of the bridge. She smiled and quickly strode to them, settling into the left seat. It was, of course, the gunship’s main piloting station.
The ship’s reactor was offline, but most of its computer and control systems were in low-power standby mode, energized by the hangar’s umbilical cables. She examined the console, noting how dedicated it was to its purpose compared to the generic office-like workstation she’d used in the Caracal’s interior Command Center. It even had a sidestick and throttle assembly, something which had fallen out of favor in many newer starship designs.
She powered up the displays and was satisfied with the arrangement. There was a starmap, a vector indicator, logarithmic thrust indicators for every single thruster on the vessel, and a readout for the navigation sensors. And the ship’s full set of functions could be quickly reached using the rotary encoders by the displays. Engineering, hyperdrive, comms, and so on, all just a button away.
And the seat! It was so large and comfortable enough to sleep in!
“I hate to say it, but that’s your seat now.” Poulsen kicked at the floor, swiveling her seat around to face Reynolds as he spoke. He was pointing at the captain’s seat in the middle of the bridge.
She shook her head, smiling as if daring him to make her change seats. “No. I’d rather lead from the pilot station.” She was a pilot at heart, no way she’d give that up. Looking around the bridge, she saw only a few other consoles and workstations. “A ship this small…besides, Blue Fleet always runs on the thin side with crew. Six crew total, maybe seven.”
“It’s designed for a minimum crew of sixteen,” Roth said disapprovingly as he referenced his tablet, reading aloud from the manufacturer’s suggested list of crew positions. But he looked up and almost blanched when he saw the face Poulsen was making. “But…actually…six seems…almost reasonable. And it means nobody would have to double up on cabin space.”
She nodded, and smiled again. “We’ll almost certainly all fly together as a unit, not as individual ships, so not every ship needs the extra support roles. We can scatter them around. For ten gunships, probably two medics, a couple spare engineers, maybe some relief pilots who can also gun. Distributed throughout the crews. We can always dock and transfer personnel around depending on current needs.”
“This is your unit,” said Reynol
ds. “I’m happy to advise, but you can run it however you want as long as it’s effective and your squadron can meet its goals.”
“So when do I get a crew and go for a ride?” she asked, pushing the throttle control forward. 400 G’s. This has to be one of the fastest warships in the galaxy at sublight. If things start to go sour, a couple minutes at full throttle and we’d be clear of the battle just like that.
Reynolds laughed, and it sounded surprisingly ominous. “Oh, you have so much to learn. You have months’ worth of administrative work before you’ll ever get to leave the ground.” She frowned. “You need groundside facilities, flight crews, relief crews, maintenance crews, medical staff, an IT department, documentation and records-keeping, development of standard operating procedures and training procedures, supply and procurement, maintenance schedules, mission planning training, an intelligence officer/liaison, cooks, cleaning, laundry—”
She felt the color drain from her face. She had assumed all of that would come down from above through Blue Fleet. Did she really need to manage all that herself?
Reynolds had a sly smile across his face. “You may think sixty people can crew ten gunships, but you’ll need at least a hundred fifty groundside support personnel to make it all happen. Probably even more.”
Feeling like an idiot, she scowled, hoping it would hide her sudden embarrassment. She hadn’t even considered the need for her own groundside support staff—or that she’d be commanding more than just the gunship crews. A flood of self-doubt rushed in. While her role as pilot and chief navigator on the Caracal had included some administrative work, it had been minimal. That frigate had only had four people who were trained up for piloting and navigation. Was she ready to lead so many more? “I’m a pilot. I just want to fly a group of gunships. I don’t know anything about any of that…”
He was still smiling. “You’ll figure it out. I know you will. You’re very bright, and I have faith that your squadron will be quite a force once you know what you’re doing.”
Me, in charge of two hundred people? Or more? That was as many crew as we had on the Caracal…
He turned and made his way towards the back of the bridge, walking slowly, the rhythmic tapping of his shoes against the deck plating sounding surprisingly loud within the quiet interior of the bridge. He reached the door, and then paused. He turned again. “Lieutenant Commander Poulsen?”
“Yes, Commodore?” she replied, stiffening up at the usage of her full rank.
“This was a test, and you failed.”
“What?” She stood and scowled again. “What test?”
“You’ve realized you don’t know nearly as much as you thought you did. You’re doubting yourself, you’re not sure how to proceed, and you’re worried you can’t handle it. I can read all that in your eyes even though you’re trying to hide it. And you were about to let me leave here without telling me any of that.”
Her heart sank within her and and she felt her face flush from embarrassment. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know where to start now.”
He smiled again. “Good. Now. Here’s your next lesson. You’re right to doubt yourself, and you’re right to believe that you can’t do it. Because you can’t.”
“What?” Her embarrassment gave away to bewilderment. “So why offer me my own unit if you think I can’t handle it?” But he smiled slyly again, and stood silently at the back of the bridge with his hands clasped together in front of him, as if waiting for her to realize something.
She sighed in frustration. “Dammit, Commodore, if you have a point, just tell me. Or demote me and put me back in a pilot’s seat somewhere.”
And the sly smile remained. He was apparently enjoying this. “Next tip: Don’t give up when things look too hard.”
He was clearly toying with her, and she was rapidly becoming irritated. “So let me get this straight,” she started, raising her voice. “You have faith that I can lead a squadron, but you also know I can’t do it, and yet you won’t let me quit even though we both agreed that I can’t handle it. Am I missing anything?”
Reynolds nodded, but said nothing.
“I feel like you’re trying to embarrass me.”
He sighed. “I was trying to get you to realize something on your own. But you’re not quite thinking clearly enough to see what you’re missing.”
She glared at him, feeling her anger continue to build. “It might be obvious to you, but not to me.” She paused, wondering what she could say to get him to just say it. “Quit playing games with me. I obviously need help.”
“Exactly. That’s the answer.” He started to turn away again.
Poulsen shook her head in disbelief. “I still don’t understand whatever point you’re trying to make!”
He stopped and turned back to face her, and then absentmindedly picked at a piece of lint stuck to his sleeve. “Your squadron needs an executive officer. Someone who knows the rules, who can manage personnel for you, who can help you make decisions, and who can do all the day-to-day administrative work needed to keep a three-hundred-man unit supplied and operational while you focus on the larger issues.”
“Oh.” Her anger dissipated suddenly, replaced by another wave of embarrassment. She raised a hand to cover her face and shook her head in self-disappointment. An executive officer. Yes, he was right, the answer was so simple and she’d missed it completely. She pursed her lips, and prepared to ask what was probably a dumb question. “How do I get an executive officer? I don’t have the connections. Everyone I knew in the fleet was on the Caracal.”
“I’ll make sure you have an XO by the end of the week. And here’s your final lesson for the day. You will make mistakes. Learn from them, and don’t let them drag you down. Publicly losing confidence in yourself will hurt your crew’s morale.” This time, he actually left the bridge, turning into the side passage to disembark the gunship. Lieutenant Roth shot her a quick look of pity and then left as well, leaving Poulsen alone in the bridge to contemplate everything that had just happened.
She had half a mind to power up the reactor and take the ship out by herself as an act of rebellion. Instead, she finished touring the gunship. She first checked out the other bridge stations, examining the electronic warfare packages and sensor systems, and decided that the pilot’s seat was objectively far more comfortable than the identical captain’s seat. She knew she still had a lot to learn, but she would not budge there. When her squadron was out on a mission, she would be commanding from the pilot’s seat. If things get too overwhelming in combat, that’s why there’s a co-pilot.
The bridge was the largest open space in the gunship, by far. But there would be relative privacy if a crew of six could manage it. The galley looked to seat about six, if they packed into the booths tightly. The crew cabins were quite cramped, each designed for four, but the unneeded bunks could be removed to give them more space. Maybe one of the cabins could be converted into a small gym.
And the captain’s cabin definitely needed some work, she decided. The bed was too short and bolted down in such a way along the cabin’s shorter wall that her head and feet pressed into the walls when she lay fully stretched out on it.
Yeah it’s a bit cramped, but this will work nicely. And I’ll be in charge.
She wondered what her older brother, a major in the Hyberian Raiders who took her in and raised her after their parents died, would have thought if he’d still been alive. I know we didn’t see eye-to-eye, Ian, but here I am. I guess I’m trying to carry on the Hyberian Raiders’ legacy. And then she frowned as a new realization dawned on her. Back then, I thought you were unfair, holding me back, but you were only protecting me, just like you always said. I was just a naive teenager. And if you hadn’t, if you’d let me have my way, I would have died in the Sapphire Cluster with the rest of you…
Her delight at getting her own gunship quickly gave way to sober reflection, and suddenly she found herself hoping that whoever
Commodore Reynolds assigned as her XO would be brave enough to hold her back when she did make wrong, hard-headed decisions, just like her older brother had.
Dammit, what the hell did you do to me, Reynolds? I’m starting to think like a grown-up. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
Chapter 3
Thaddeus was hanging by a shackle on his right wrist. He had no strength, could not even stand on his own two feet, and all of his weight was suspended from that one arm. He was also completely naked and exposed. Spotlights blinded him from above, highlighting his bruises and scrapes and scars, and the air around him stank terribly of sweat, blood, and human waste. Had he any strength, he might have been embarrassed that he was standing in a pile of his own blood and excrement before an audience of hundreds of people, but his captors had tortured him so badly that he didn’t care anymore.
His left arm felt like an inferno, a wildfire of pain that threatened to burn him out into unconsciousness. And his left hand itself, including most of his forearm, lay severed in the mess at his feet. He was forced to stare at it by virtue of his weakened state; he could not hold his head up to look away even if he wanted. Not for long.
Indistinct voices filled the room. The spotlights were so bright, so blinding, that he almost felt alone, unable to clearly view the hundreds of figures which surrounded him. But one such figure he could see easily. She sat alone, at a table within and separate from the ring of tables that surrounded him. And she was lovely, but she stared at him with an expression of horror—and hatred.
Her mouth moved. He could not hear her, not through the din of the room, and yet he knew exactly what she was saying. “I don’t know you,” she said, her words not coming through his ears but seeming to emanate from within as if they were actually his own thoughts. “I’m afraid of you.”
