Solfleet: The Call of Duty (8 page)

“What about
weapons and propulsion, Ensign?” she prodded impatiently, addressing two of the
most important systems in a fight.

“Aft gun
emplacements are all destroyed,” he answered as he continued down the list.
First chance he got, he intended to reset the computer’s ‘priority systems’
subroutine back to its default setting so that it always listed weapons and
propulsion systems first and second. Whoever had changed it was an idiot, as
far as he was concerned. “Rear quarter port and starboard guns took some damage
as well, but are still about eighty percent operational.” He coughed yet again,
and again, and the others on the Ops deck started as well. “Energy overload in
the starboard fusion reactor is approaching critical, but leveling off rapidly.
Looks like Engineering’s got that under control. Main weapons and
countermeasures, the drive systems, and life support are all still online.” He
coughed again, and again, then fell into his chair, suddenly overcome by a
coughing fit that he seemed unable to recover from.

“Emergency
environmental!” Bhatnagar shouted, barely able to keep from coughing herself as
she suddenly realized that the systems hadn’t already kicked in automatically.

She’d been
determined before. Now she was angry. She’d been stationed aboard the
Victory
for more than seven years and had been its commanding officer for the last
three. Not once in all that time had any enemy vessel ever gotten close enough
to strike directly. Not even a single-seat fighter. Theirs was a record that
she’d grown quite proud of over the years. One whose end—even an indirect
strike counted, in her book—she took very personally.

“If we’ve still
got weapons and propulsion and life support, then we’re still in this,” she
proclaimed loud enough for everyone on the bridge to hear. “Miss Irons, locate
the sorry bastard who did this and prepare to send them straight to Hell!
Mister LaRocca, as soon as
Saratoga
’s escape pods are clear and we know
where the enemy is, go after them!”

“Yes, ma’am!”
the helmsman answered with determination as he finished bringing the ship’s
attitude back under control.

Unable to
reach for her comm-panel without shifting her weight to her throbbing hip,
Bhatnagar leaned slightly forward at the waist and tapped the comm-pin on her
collar instead. “CAG, this is the captain. What’s the latest on our fighter
squadrons?”

“
We’ve just
lost two more planes from the One-Eighteenth, Captain,
” the air group commander
answered immediately, “
but they managed to take out that Veshtonn capitol
ship that was bearing down on the
Tripoli
first. The rest are hooking up
with a fighter wing from the
Nimitz
as we speak to go after the
battlecruisers in that sector.
”

“Hold one of
the interceptor squadrons back to cover our rear. We just lost our aft guns and
we’re going after the bastard who’s responsible.”

“
Understood,
Captain.
”

“Miss Irons...”

The ship
suddenly lurched again, tossing everyone who wasn’t sitting down to the
shuddering deck as multiple strikes rumbled one after another through her
bowels. The lights flickered and dimmed, flared brightly, then went out
altogether. Fortunately, the emergency lights came up a second later. Red
tinted and dimmer by half than the main lights, but adequate.

“Damage
report!” Bhatnagar demanded.

“Main
weapons and starboard missile launchers offline, Captain!” Irons shouted. “Port
launchers destroyed!”

“Life
support on emergency backup!” the engineer added, his fear more than evident in
his near panicked voice.

“Damn it!”
Bhatnagar exclaimed. “Damn those bloody lizards! Sergeant Noonian, find me a
clear channel to Task Force Command and scramble it. I want to talk to
Eagle-One Actual.”

“Yes, ma’am,”
the cyberclone responded, staring blankly into space as always. Having
originally been grown just prior the Brix-Cyberclone Cessation Act of 2162 and
enhanced to serve as a combat platoon’s radioman, Staff Sergeant Noonian’s
cybernetic implants included a universal communications port hardwired directly
to his brain that enabled him to plug himself into his panel and manipulate his
equipment simply by thinking about it, which made him the fastest
communications specialist in the fleet. Given a choice, he’d have preferred to
become a scientist of one kind or another, but when the BCC Act was originally
passed all those years ago, eliminating his military obligation, he’d found
himself to be one among thousands like him with nothing to do and nowhere to
go. Society’s prejudices at the time had prevented him from getting the
education necessary to pursue his dreams, so, like many other young men and
women of his kind, he’d decided to enlist anyway, though he’d avoided the Army and
the Marines. Free to choose from among all of the careers he’d qualified for,
he’d chosen the big ships instead, and given the nature of his enhancements,
Communications had seemed the logical choice.

“Channel
open, Captain,” he informed her. “Routed to your panel.”

Wincing with
the pain that shot down her leg again, Bhatnagar let go of the arm of her chair
and slammed her fist down on the blinking direct channel switch on her
comm-panel. “Task Force Command,” she hailed, “this is Captain Bhatnagar of the
starcarrier
Victory
.”

“
This is
Eagle-One Actual,
Victory
,
” the rear-admiral in command of the task
force’s Solfleet contingent responded. “
Go ahead.
”

“The
corvette
Saratoga
has been destroyed, sir. S-n-R operations are currently
underway. Starcarrier
Victory
has taken critical damage to several primary
systems. All main weapons are either exhausted or offline. Aft guns destroyed.
Life support systems on emergency backup. As of this moment, I am declaring the
Victory
combat ineffective and ordering our withdrawal. My fighter squadrons
are still out there, Admiral. I’m recalling the interceptors, but you’re free
to assume control over the rest and redeploy at your discretion. Do you copy?”

“
Affirmative,
Victory
,”
the admiral answered, clearly disappointed. Disappointed
simply in having lost two more ships, Bhatnagar knew. Not at all disappointment
in her for having made the call to withdraw from the fight. “
I copy and I
concur. Starcarrier
U.E.F.S. Victory
declared and confirmed combat
ineffective as of this date and time. So declared by Captain Suja Bhatnagar,
U.E.F.S.
Victory
, Commanding. Confirmation, Rear-Admiral Joseph Wandstadt, Commander,
Solfleet Contingent, Task Force Romeo-Kilo.
”

“Sorry to be
leaving you, Admiral. Good luck.”

With the
official declaration reported and confirmed, and before Bhatnagar could sign
off for good, Admiral Wandstadt added, “
Your fine vessel has made a major
contribution to this effort, Captain. Please express both the Tor’Kana
government’s and my personal appreciation to your officers and crew
after
you
get them to safety.
”

“Will do,
Admiral. Thank you. And once again, sorry to be leaving you.
Victory
out.”

She closed
the channel, then launched herself forward to the helmsman’s side. Having
forgotten about her injury for the moment, she almost fell into the pilot
console when the sharp pain shot through her right hip and down the length of
her leg again.

“At last
report, the local jumpstation hadn’t come under attack yet,” she told him when
she recovered, grimacing, teeth clenched, trying her best to ignore her
discomfort. “We can make our most vital repairs there and get back into this in
a matter of days. Plot a roundabout route, taking us in the opposite direction
until we’re out of Veshtonn scanner range. Then swing us wide around and
alternate our route along all three axis.”

“Yes, ma’am,”
the young man responded.

Somehow,
Bhatnagar didn’t quite believe that he completely understood the importance of
her instructions. “Look at me, Ensign,” she ordered. The ensign looked her
square in the eye. “It is absolutely vital that we not lead the enemy to the
station, at all costs. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Ensign?”

“I
understand perfectly, ma’am,” LaRocca assured her. “My sister is stationed
there.”

Bhatnagar
stared back at him for several seconds. She’d never met his sister, but she’d
heard a lot about her over the last few years. Having faced more than their
fair share of hardships growing up, LaRocca and his younger sister were very
close and contacted each other quite often, sometimes talking for hours on end
just to hear each others’ voices. Given the current circumstances, that gave
her cause for concern. If the jumpstation did come under attack, how difficult
a time might the helmsman have concentrating on his duties? Would the
distraction prove too much for him? Might he make a mistake at some critical
moment that they would all then pay for with their lives?

Irons had
lost her brother and had only grown stronger and more determined as a result, but
that wasn’t the same thing. In her case the loss had already occurred. She hadn’t
had a chance to fear for her sibling’s life—no more than usual, anyway—but in LaRocca’s
case...

She snapped
out of it. No time to speculate what
might
be. What
already was
required
her undivided attention. “How fast can you get us there given those parameters?”
she asked him.

LaRocca
entered the pertinent data into his board, then explained, “Given the current
condition of our fusion drive, we’re looking at an E-T-A of approximately two days.
Maybe a little less if I keep the course changes to a minimum.”

Bhatnagar
sighed. Two days. Clearly, that wasn’t at all what she’d wanted to hear. But
the station
had
to be protected. “I guess that’ll have to do,” she said.
“As long as our life support holds out, that is.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“CAG, recall
the interceptors,” she ordered, speaking a little louder as she limped back to
her chair. She knew from the immediacy with which the CAG had responded to her
the last time that he was monitoring an open channel to the bridge.

“
Aye,
Captain,”
he answered.

Minutes
later, as soon as the last interceptor had returned and landed safely, and with
great regret filling her captain’s heart, the Solfleet starcarrier
U.E.F.S.
Victory
withdrew from what had quickly grown into the largest and most
vital campaign of the entire decades-old war.

Sweating
profusely and writhing in agony on the deck, while at the same time crying for
his slaughtered family, Federation Vice-President Jonathan Harkam somehow still
managed to reach out and grab the front of Hansen’s jacket in his quivering,
blood-stained fist. He pulled him closer, bared his clenched teeth and spat
streams of red saliva over his chin as he grunted against the pain, then stared
up at him through red, swollen eyes.

“Please!”
he managed to force through the pain. “Oh God, it burns! Make it stop!”

Hansen
took hold of Harkam’s wrist with both hands and tried with all his strength to
pull free of his desperate, vice-like grip, but the dying man only tightened
his grasp to the point where Hansen thought he heard a finger snap and pulled
him closer. “Mister Vice-President,” Hansen responded as calmly as he could. “I
can’t just...”

“Yes you
CAN!” the dying vice-leader of the unified free world roared. Then, gasping for
every breath, he pleaded, “Please, Major! KILL me! Quickly! Stop the...Stop the
pain! STOP THE PAIN!” he screamed.

“Dad?”

Hansen
whirled around as far as the vice-president’s grasp would allow and glared
wide-eyed at the horribly brutalized, lifeless body of the dying man’s teenage
daughter. But she was already dead! The beast had ripped her open from the
inside out—from her genitals to her sternum! She couldn’t possibly have spoken!
She couldn’t
possibly
!

Harkam
jerked Hansen hard, drawing his attention back to him. “Please, Major!” he
pleaded, crying openly, barely able to speak through the agony anymore. “Do it!”
He coughed suddenly, spewing a foot-high fountain of dark red-brown blood that
barely missed Hansen’s face when he recoiled, then splattered back over his
chin and his suit coat. “Do...it,” he begged once more.

“Dad?”

Hansen
ignored the dead girl’s ghostly voice. Harkam’s entire family had been brutally
slaughtered, and the vice-president himself had been pumped full of...of
whatever it was that damn beast had pumped him full of. If the poor man’s cries
were to be believed, then he was literally burning to death from the inside
out.

He drew
his sidearm and slowly pressed the muzzle to the vice-president’s temple. He
drew several short, deep breaths and licked his suddenly very dry lips. But he
just couldn’t bring himself to squeeze the trigger.

“DO IT!”
Harkam shrieked through the pain, his tears tinted red with blood. Then he
suddenly started shaking Hansen violently back and forth as he lost whatever
control he’d been clinging to and convulsed, screaming and crying even louder
than before. “OH GOD!” he screamed, spitting and coughing up blood. “DO IT!”

“Dad, wake
up.”

Hansen
closed his eyes and turned away. “Forgive me,” he whispered. Then he drew a
long, deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.

He gasped
and opened his eyes wide, startling Heather, who quickly retreated several feet
back from where she’d been sitting on the side of his bed. Then, after taking a
moment to catch her breath, she slowly approached him again and asked, “Dad?
Are you okay?”