Return to the Denoument Chapter Listing Page
Captain Stonozka looked up at the face of Fleet Admiral Nibnumber on the primary monitor. "The Reaver fleet is escaping into hyperspace, shall we pursue?"
Nimbumber sighed. "I know that, Captain, and you’re rather eager to pursue for almost getting your ass ripped off, marinated in teriyaki sauce, breaded, baked to a golden brown," he was almost ranting, yet he spoke with a calm, even tone and held Stonozka’s eyes in a steely gaze, "served with hot sauce, garnished with parsley, and handed back to you. What were you thinking?"
"Um… sorry, sir…" Stonozka looked around nervously at his bridge crew. "Didn’t see it. Are you sure this is a good time?"
"Damn straight it is-you almost got your people killed. And how do you not see a fragging superbattleship? Agh, I’ll chew you out properly later. Now, how do you propose on pursuing them, seeing how we lose all contact with them when they hyperspace?"
Stonozka looked down at his boots and coughed. "Sorry, sir. I… forgot that. I’ve never had to deal with Reavers."
"Forgot? What the…" Nibnumber’s nostrils flared, then he paused for a moment and quickly calmed down. "True; you have never had to deal with them. We will talk of this later. The Imcedi running the shipyards say we’re cleared to make repairs, so report in there in three hours. Ares out."
The monitor reverted back to a systems status display; luckily, we had taken most of the damage on our ventral side where our cargo bays are. We lost neither vital ship systems nor much structural integrity, although the status indicators were quite red. I stood up out of my chair and after a few shaky steps, followed Captain Stonozka as he stalked out of the command room and into his office. Looking over his shoulder, he waved me in as he passed through the door. I came in a few steps afterwards and quickly closed the door while he practically fell into his chair and buried his head in his hands, elbows on the desk.
"Um… is this a bad time, sir?" I offered.
He sighed. "Damn it all, I almost got us all killed." Looking up, he continued, "I almost got you killed, Officer Sovinto."
I somehow managed a shrug and attempted a mild laugh, although it came out more nervously than I would have wished. "Well, that’s one of the risks of signing up, sir."
He only shook his head. "What do you need, Shal?"
He’d never used my first name before then. Looking into his eyes, I saw a very tired and very frightened man. "I’m not sure this is the best time, but I’d like some sort of combat position, sir."
He groaned a laugh as, turning in his chair, he flipped the switch on a small electric teakettle that sat on his desk. "Enjoy the thrill, Diplomatic Officer?"
"Hell no, sir. I hated the feeling of helplessness. That’s why I need the position; it would give me something to do."
"Well, let me tell you, having something to do isn’t that great either. At least you aren’t responsible for anyone’s life. Still… I understand. Find someone who can use your help and run it by me. If they don’t think you’ll get in the way and you’re qualified, you’ve got it."
"Thank you, sir," I sighed with relief.
"Don’t thank me yet, we’re still at Event Condition One until Nibnumber feels that he gets a decent defensive perimeter set up. Then it’ll be rotation and drill, I guess."
"That would make sense. If I may go, sir…"
"Go ahead, Officer Sovinto; I’m not going to keep you standing on ceremony. Just close the door behind you." As I turned to go, he looked idly at the clear glass teapot. It was getting to a good rolling boil inside, bubbles fighting each other to burst on the surface in chaotic masses like ants in a hive. "Hell," I heard him mumbling to himself, "my ass is so dead when I report in."
"C-c-c-cold."
"Yes, sir, we know." A gentle lift onto something more comfortable than the hard ground, something being placed into one’s hands. It felt warm, almost scaldingly so, opposed to the chill. A short sniff, scent of cinnamon. "Urrr…"
"Drink it, sir."
A short, faltering sip followed by a deep gulp. Burns on the way down. It’s becoming clearer-the second battle, that battleship, the…
Pikbuuv shot up, dropping the mug of steamed wiffkol whose contents spread slowly across the corrugated deck plating. His executive officer and another Warrior steadied him as he staggered, disoriented, with uncertain footing. The general’s eyes tracked from left to right as he managed to grumble "Status?" from between dry lips.
"We are in hyperspace, sir, safe for now."
Pikbuuv turned his blue-scaled head to face the general direction of the voice. His executive officer was talking to him, but the sounds coming from the XO’s throat didn’t match the motion of his lips. "What of… the fleet?"
"Regrouping, sir. You need rest; you are unwell."
Pikbuuv closed his eyes, and consciousness slipped away from him.
"Thank you for saving my shipyard," the robed Thaurian on the monitor preened, "and I look forward to your continued assistance."
"The yard isn’t saved yet, Cleric," grumbled Nibnumber, arms folded and face set in a mask of thought, "not as long as an entire Reaver armada is gallivanting around. I need to use your Charlie-Three networks to organize an effective response to the incursion."
Imcedi Odegi blinked. "Charlie who?"
"C3? Command, control, communications?"
"Oh… we’re still trying to figure that one out ourselves."
Nibnumber blinked, then put a hand on the back of his neck. "Whaddya mean, ‘still trying to figure that one out?’ You still have at least a third of nominal fleet strength and almost all headquarters and local area command; go through the normal chain of command and-"
"Unfortunately, my dear Admiral," Odegi said with a hint of shame in his voice, "our military does not work as yours. Most vessels are commanded by local lords who have the resources to support the ship; you would probably consider their training and commitment to protocol… substandard."
Nibnumber threw his hands up, following with the ever-more-common hand gripping his temple. Damned theocrats wouldn’t know how to fight a war if they were given instructions condensed to twenty pages of large-point font and rationalized for reading at the third-grade level. "You have to have something."
"Well, um," Odegi looks off-screen for a moment, "our intelligence services are almost completely intact."
Nibnumber looked at Ka-Ri and grinned. "Oh, good. Put me in touch with them then." It’s like pulling fragging teeth.
Chreeti glared at Odegi from the shadows behind the holocamera. Odegi gulped slightly and, eyes darting from the camera to the Inquisitor, continued to the green-and-black-uniformed Human on the opposite end: "I don’t think that’s quite possible right now. I’ll get back to you when I have more information."
The brown-haired man on the screen raised an eyebrow and folded his arms again. "Are you saying you want me to fight a war with no information? Do you really want to keep your precious-"
"Good day, Admiral." Odegi closed the connection then glared mildly back at the Grand Inquisitor. "Why can’t you assist him?"
"Fool. Any data we give indicates an agent nearby; it would be child’s play for their counterintelligence to sweep us from the map then."
"That would make sense," Odegi muses, "except that they need our intelligence agents right where they are. The Zoners might be pagans, but they aren’t stupid."
Seeing the odd stare that his outburst gains him, Odegi shuffled deeper into his throne. Did I just get myself into trouble there?
"I shall filter the information through the Marshal of the Paladins, as is appropriate," Chreeti sneers, "and he can divulge it to our good friend the Fleet Admiral. Is this acceptable, Master-Cleric?"
Odegi gave the seething female his best attempt at a sheepish look. "Yes, ma’am."
"They want me to fight a war blind? Gah!" Nibnumber paced across Ares’ command deck, punctuating his words with clenching fists.
"Well, we are talking about the Thaurian theocracy, here," Val offered.
"Thaurians, nothing. This is just blatant stupidity."
"My point exactly, sir."
"Damn it all straight to whatever form of Hell they believe in. Sal, tell the fleet to maintain close defensive formation around the shipyards, rotate ships through for field repair starting with the worst off. Ka-Ri, keep weapons on full cap-charge and coordinate with Val for eyes wide. If anything comes in unannounced, terablazer it until it increases the particulate density of space by an order of magnitude. Oh, and tell the fabrication department to start working on producing more cruise missiles and torpedoes. I want our magazines double-filled by the next time we need them."
Philip stops for a moment, sighs, and ruffles a hand through his hair. "Anyway, thanks for doing an excellent job. I’m going down to the shipyards to debrief some of our more wet-behind-the-ears commanders."
I looked over Private Asla’s shoulder as he welded another rent in our ventral hull shut. Simple enough work, but I wasn’t hanging around to get into field repair; anyone dumb enough to don a hardsuit and go patch up the hull during a firefight is just asking to make a bad real estate deal.
"So, you think I could be of any use around the ship?" I broached. He was being awfully nice; he actually volunteered his time when I told him of my plan to find some combat work.
"Sure thing. Hold this please, ma’am,"--he handed me a hexagonal plate of energy-reactive armor, which I gripped by the sides and got out of his way as he some Quik-Switch adhesive to the underside--"I know you have skills, an’ I’m sure you can be useful somewheres. Okay, now slap tha plate in tha gap here."
I obliged, fitting the armor over the sealed rent in between some other tessellated plates of armor. I never thought, when I signed up, that I’d be doing depressurized field repair… but it had a simple pleasure to it. Not so hard. "Thanks, Asla; I just felt so useless in that fight. Honestly… I was scared out of my mind."
"Aw, I understan’" he replied, squeezing Quik-Switch in the seams between the plates and leveling it off with a trowel, "I had work ta do an’ I was scared too. Still, havin’ sump’tin’ ta do makes it easier. You coul’ work with tha chap’lin."
"Not funny, Private."
"No, not that way," Alsa whimpered, realizing what he had said, "tha sarge does damage control duties, inbetween bein’ a man of God and all."
"Who is this, again?"
"Act’lly, forget I said it. ‘E’s a bit hellfire-and-brimstone, even I don’ like ‘is take on faith… not at all what you need."
"Damn."
"Who else… well, how are ya with sensor grids?"
"I can operate them…"
"Well then. Talk ta Pelok, he’ll getchya set up. Tell ‘im I sent ya."
Pikbuuv awoke once more, curled in a fetal position in his Spartan bunk. On a tray nearby were a few fresh fruits someone had gone to the trouble of pulling from stores. Despite lacking hunger, the fruit pulled his attention, the only color in an otherwise gunmetal room. Huddling closer to himself for warmth and pulling the soft foam blanket closer, his mind slowly came to terms with a single question. He didn’t want to face it yet-he was tired, he was weak-but he knew that he must address it or his fleet would falter and die.
What do I do now?