Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (45 page)

Organism 8139 infestation in quadrant three.

Source?

Unknown. With degree of gravitational disturbance in system and reported numbers of infected units, random source high probability.

Degradation?

Five percent failure in forward armaments and shielding. And increasing.

Divert all available resources to Cleaner Unit generation.

“What's our status, Eng?”

“Sickbay is overflowing,” Commander Oldfield said. “We've got Laser Two back up and three of the damaged ball guns on the port side. Starboard is trashed, through. We've used up all our molycirc getting the port back up and we'll have to find some more osmium before we can do anything on the starboard. And, frankly, sir, most of the guns are beyond local repair. The fabber isn't big enough to make some of the components.”

“That gives us, what? Seven guns on port and two on starboard?” the CO asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Prael said. “That's enough. Conn, set course for the brain-ship.”

“Sir, are you insane?” the Eng snarled. “We're going to get our ass handed to us! We've done enough!”

“TACO?” the CO said. “What was that about all the times I've busted up my ship?”

“ 'If I had been censured every time I have run my ship, or fleets under my command, into great danger, I should have long ago been out of the Service and never in the House of Peers,' ” the TACO said automatically.

“With your shield or on it, Eng,” Prael said. “With your shield or on it.”

“CIC, Conn. Two minutes to intercept.”

“I miss the music,” the CO said. “What do we have in the way of tunes?”

“About a billion MP3s, sir,” the TACO replied.

“What to play, what to play?” the CO said, accessing the entertainment server. “I'm getting a bit tired of rock, heavy metal and Goth. Hmmm . . . Ah. There we go . . .”

The TACO looked up as orchestral music started to pour from the 1MC and tapped his foot.

“I don't think I've ever heard this before, sir,” the TACO said. “Catchy tune, though.”

“That's because you were forced to attend that wimpy liberal school in Annapolis, Lieutenant,” the CO said. "If you were an Aggie, you'd have learned the words by heart.

"Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again,

Shouting the battle cry of freedom!

We will rally from the hillside, we'll gather from the plain,

Shouting the battle cry of freedom!"

“Yes, sir, very nice,” the TACO said, wincing. Like the XO, the CO really should let others sing. “But we've got an emergence at the warp-point.”

“What?” the CO asked, standing up and walking over to the sensor operator. “What class?”

“It looks like a Dreen convert,” the sensor tech said. “Dreadnought class. Pretty much like that one we captured in the Orion battle. But the readings are off enough I'm not sure. Accel is way up, total energy output is up about ten percent. So . . . I'm not sure, sir.”

“Just one more Dreen to engage,” the CO said, sighing. “Sound the battlecry, men, we're going—”

“CIC, Communications. Incoming transmission, SpacCom codes. Visual and audio.”

“Put it on,” the CO said, resuming his seat.

“Captain Prael, Admiral Blankemeier, Alliance Flagship Thermopylae,” Spectre said, grinning evilly. “I see you've managed to make hash of my ship. Again. Congratulations, glad to see the tradition has been upheld. But we've got this one, you can back off.”

“That is a bold statement, Captain Spectre,” Ship Master Korcan said. “However, a Dreen brain-ship outclasses this vessel by nearly ten to one. Our odds of survival . . .”

The two were viewing the battle from the Thermopylae's CIC, a massive room that looked like an auditorium with a two-story screen on the far wall.

Humans and Hexosehr didn't, frankly, know much about the race that had built the Thermopylae. The Mrreee sentient which had commanded it called them the Karchava. The massive dreadnought had been captured from the Dreen and converted to Human and Hexosehr use. This, however, would be its first taste of combat with a regular crew. And most of the crew was playing catch-up figuring out the systems. So it looked to be a trial by fire.

“Never tell me the odds,” Spectre said, leaning back in his command chair and interlacing his fingers behind his head. Technically, he had another similar compartment next door from which to command a fleet. And technically he shouldn't be sitting next to the commander of the ship, looking over his shoulder. But the Hexosehr didn't seem to mind about that sort of thing and the Karchava had installed a control point right next to the commander for some reason. With the massive Karchava chair replaced by a human control position, he figured he might as well use it. Korcan had been a corvette commander previously. A highly decorated one, but only the commander of a corvette. Stepping up to temporary command of the Thermopylae was a big step. Sometimes two brains could be better than one. And it gave him a chance to have this conversation more or less face to face, given that the Hexosehr didn't have eyes. “Did the Caurorgorngoth turn away in the Battle of Orion?”

“No,” the Hexosehr commander replied. “But the Caurorgorngoth was dying and far from outclassed even then. We are a brand new ship. Perhaps letting this one flee would be the wiser choice?”

“Okay, call it a human thing,” Spectre said, regarding the blinking red icon of the Dreen flagship calmly. The Hexosehr had managed to comprehend the Karchava systems well enough to change the color of the icons and the information readouts next to them. Fortunately, the rest worked really well. If humans ever met the Karchava, Spectre suspected they'd be people to get drunk with. “If so much as one ship escapes this system, the Dreen will know what happened. If not even their brain-ship returns, they will have only dread. I'm not the commander of this ship, Korcan, but I am your senior officer. And as your senior officer, my orders are to engage more closely. . . .”

Karchava dreadnought, identified as lost Unit 24801, approaching on course for warp point. Signals analysis indicates control by Species 27264.

Engage all weapons.

Forward systems inoperable due to Organism 8139 infestation.

Recall all fighter systems. Engage enemy combat unit.

Dispatched.

“It is not deviating,” Ship Leader Korcan said.

“It's trying to escape the system,” Spectre said.

“And we must prevent this,” Korcan said. “Entering our maximum engagement range. We should have been taking fire from the brain-ship before this. Their range is greater than ours.”

“Be thankful for small favors,” Spectre replied.

“Permission to open fire?” Korcan asked.

“Your ship, Ship Master,” Blankemeier replied. “I'm just along for the ride.”

“Very well,” Korcan said. “Main Gun Control.”

“Aye, sir,” the gunnery officer replied.

“Target the brain-ship. Open fire.”

“Dude, we need, like, those cool Death Star uniforms,” Gunnery Petty Officer Third Class Sherman Zouks said. He had the helmet of his ship-suit latched up and was looking at the gun board dyspeptically. “You know, black, shiny?” He dropped the helmet and hummed some ominous music. “Doom, doom, doom . . .”

“Man, you would bitch about anything,” Gunnery PO Second Class Santos Braham said. He'd latched down his helmet and had his feet up on the gun board. “Here we are running the biggest fricking gun in creation and you're all 'it's not the Death Star!' Puhleeeaze. Just hope like hell these suits are good enough to—”

“Mass Driver Control, Gunnery.”

“Mass Driver Control, aye,” Braham said, his feet slamming to the floor.

“Initiate Main Gun Fire Procedure.”

“Main Gun Fire Procedure, aye,” Braham said, looking over at Zouks. “You got the book?”

“Got it memorized,” Zouks said, pulling down the gun fire manual and opening it to a marked page. “Main Gun Fire Procedure Step One: Warm Capacitor Banks One Through Fourteen.”

“Warm Capacitor Banks One Through Fourteen, aye,” Braham said, pressing the series of buttons. “Warming capacitors.”

“Step Two: Ensure Capacitor Warm State by verifying indicators One Through Fourteen colored purple.”

“Ensure Capacitor Warm State by verifying indicators One through Fourteen colored purple, aye,” Braham said. “Capacitor seven orange.”

“Crap,” Zouks said, flipping to another page. “Contact faulty capacitor crew and determine status of capacitor . . .”

“Come on, work you son of a bitch!” Gunnery Petty Officer Second Class Salomon Shick shouted, hammering the carbon-fiber casing with a wrench.

“Cut it, Razor,” Gunnery Petty Officer First Class Colton Shafer said, grabbing the wrench. “Cracking the case would definitely put this thing off-line. Grab the manual.”

“It's always something,” Shick said, pulling down a thick tome. “I just fricking ran a diagnostic on this fucker.”

“Then we'll run one again. . . .”

“CIC, Gunnery.”

“Gunnery, CIC.”

“Main gun is temporarily off-line.”

“Main gun temporarily off-line, aye.”

“Oh, how truly good,” Korcan said. “I apologize for this lapse, Admiral.”

“Don't sweat it,” Spectre said. “Unless I'm reading this board wrong there's a passel of bandits headed this way, too.”

“Fighter control.”

“Fighter control, aye.”

“Determine optimum launch time for counter-fighter mission. Tell the dragonflies to get ready.”

“Why is my gun not working, PO?”

Gunnery Master Chief Daniel Todd strode into Capacitor Seven's compartment like rolling thunder. Master Chief Todd was the chief in charge of the Main Gun. As such, by both historical custom and lawful regulation he “owned” the gun and was responsible for ensuring it was good to go at any moment. Since it was the Thermopylae's main weapon, the chief took that responsibility very seriously. He was less than enthusiastic that at the precise moment when his gun was needed most, his gun was kaput. There were questions of manhood involved!

“Diagnostic is good on our end, Master Chief,” Shafer said, flipping through the manual. “The capacitor is warmed and ready to discharge. But main gun section is getting a fault.”

“Found it,” Schick said, sliding out from under the capacitor. “Communications relay is screwed.”

“And do you have a replacement communications relay, Petty Officer?” Todd asked, taking a sip of coffee.

“It's stored in Compartment Nine-Nine-Two dash One compartment inventory, Master Chief,” Shafer said, looking at the computerized inventory.

“Engineering, Guns,” the master chief said, tapping his internal communicator.

“Go, Guns.”

“I need a comm relay, standby number.”

“Ready.”

“Two-One-Six-Niner-Foah-Two-Fahv-Three-Six-One-Two Dash Alpha. Compartment Niner-Niner-Two Dash One inventory.”

“Two-One-Six-Nine-Four-Two-Five-Three-Six-One-Two Dash Alpha, aye. Compartment Niner-Niner-Two Dash One inventory, aye.”

“And I need it A mothergrappin' SAP.”

Spectre took a sip of coffee and regarded the discussion going on at the base of the CIC auditorium with interest. Three beings were involved: an Adar, standing nearly nine feet tall and wearing spandex shorts and a Hawaiian shirt; a Hexosehr, a race that looked a bit like a blind otter and disdained clothing; and a human, the lieutenant commander in charge of the Gunnery section. The three-way conference looked like it was about to become an argument.

“Do you think I should intervene?” Korcan asked.

“Your ship,” Spectre said.

“Not until they come to some consensus, then,” Korcan replied. “I would know what they are discussing, however.”

“And I think we're about to,” Blankemeier said as the threesome made its way up to the commander's position.

“Sir,” Guns said, looking at his Hexosehr commander and trying to pointedly ignore the human admiral sitting beside him. “The fault in the main gun has been detected. Capacitor Seven is functional, but it's in bad communication with the main gun control. All it is is a comm relay. Local controls indicate that it is in full preparation for discharge. I wish to fire before repairs are completed on the relay.”

“And there is disagreement,” Korcan said. “Ship Technician Caethau?”

“The personnel making the judgment that the capacitor is ready to fire are undertrained,” the Hexosehr engineer replied. “I have Hexosehr personnel on the way to verify the fault.”

“Time?” Korcan asked.

“No more than seven treek,” the Hexosehr replied.

“Human terms, Caethau,” Korcan reproved. “This is a human ship. Fifteen minutes. If the fault is as determined, time to repair?”

“Another two treek,” Caethau replied.

“Adar . . . Monthut?” Korcan said.

“Fire,” the Adar said. “This is a battle. If you wait for everything to be perfect, you'll never fight it.”

Korcan thought about it for a moment.

“Concur,” the Hexosehr commander said. “Lieutenant Commander Painter, you have my permission to fire.”

“Permission to fire, aye,” the human said. He turned and looked down at the guns position and made a gesture. “Firing, sir.”

“Override on Step Two, aye,” PO Braham said. “Override on Step Two.”

“Guess we're going to have to fire without seven, then,” Zouks said. “Step Three: Pre-energize power runs.”

“Pre-energize power runs, aye,” Braham said, pressing the controls. The room began to hum as if filled by a billion bees. “I hope like hell this step works. Got purple on all power runs.”

“Report main gun prepared to fire.”

“Report main gun prepared to fire, aye . . .”

“ALL HANDS, ALL HANDS. STANDBY FOR MAIN GUN FIRE.”

In the end it was as easy as pressing a button. And the dreadnought, as wide as a human supercarrier was long and nearly a kilometer in length, a construction beyond any human endeavor save the Great Wall of China . . . shuddered. Seemed to almost stop in space . . . 

“Yeah!” Shick shouted from under the capacitor. The discharge, despite heavy shielding, would have fried everyone in the compartment if they hadn't closed up their armor. It especially would have fried the technician fumbling around underneath it. “That's what I'm talking about!”