Chapter 6/THEN
Freespacer Home Fleet, orbiting Salusia
May 8, 2300
Through the traffic corridor of the Confederate Freespacer
Alliance Home Fleet flew a rickety old scout ship, sputtering by on
what had once been a sublight ion drive. The hull of the ship was
cracked, bent, and in a couple of places sealed with materials like
ice and glue. Steel plates had been welded over two of the portholes
in the control cabin, replacing shattered or lost transparencies. A
tiny trail of radioactive particles trickled from the base of the
ship, revealing a minor reactor leak which prevented the ship from
using more than one-tenth of its full power.
In very faded letters might be read, by someone with an
ultraviolet lamp and psychic abilities, the legend CFA Sunday Driver
CFA-1742. Its pilot, one Kris Overstreet, glanced around the steel
plates, powering his on-board nav systems by basically holding the
power lead in his hand and thinking happy thoughts, sought Hangar
Four, CFA New Orleans CFA-919, in the very heart of the fleet.
After ninety-eight years, Kris had returned to the United
Galactica. For ninety-eight years, he'd been exploring far beyond the
region of stars which comprised what the UG called Known Space. Some
of it had been entertaining, some dangerous, and three years of it in
particular had been the very worst of his life.
In that time, he'd become a stronger man, more sure of who he
was and what he was. (Who he was was him, and what he was was sick of
bouncing around, patching together a ship that Jawas would have
abandoned as hopeless.) He'd learned control not only over himself,
but over the various surprises his body had been giving him ever since
that day back in 1999, when Washuu had attempted an experiment that
had gone much farther than she'd intended.
Case in point; the only power source in the control cabin was
a box of crackers which Kris was munching on; as he ate, he converted
biochemical energy into enough electrical energy to power the nav
computer and ship's controls, plus some extra power to sustain the
ball of coalescent energy which floated over his head and illuminated
the cabin. Since Kris had been doing this for the past seven hours
(his hyperdrive had given up the ghost some twenty million miles
back), he was not only a little tired, but also fairly hungry.
The gigantic form of the New Orleans glided up to the
viewports, and Kris steered the ship towards a hangar in the lower
portion of the ship. With as much as fifty meters to either side to
spare, the Sunday Driver slid into Hangar Four, passing through an
environmental protection field and into the vast pressurized landing
bay. Once inside, he followed the instructions of the bay personnel
and set the near-derelict ship down near the back corner of the
hangar.
Kris released the controls and the two wires leading to the
nav systems and willed away the ball of light, relaxing at last. For a
moment, he savored the feeling, no longer moving, no longer seeking,
just _home,_ home for the first time in a century.
Home. Gotta love it.
A few minutes later, the hangar manager strode over to the
ship, datapad in hand. He watched the landing ramp drop from the side
of the ship, and the running lights dim and die. Then, he saw the
figure in khaki clothes and an old leather jacket striding down the
plank. Over his shoulders, he carried two large duffel bags, and his
pockets bulged with datatapes. In his hand, an old, old piece of paper
crumpled slightly in his grip.
"Sir," the landing official said- why does he look so
familiar?- "sir, there's a twenty-five credit per day landing fee."
"Sold!" the man said, and he took out a pen and scrawled a
signature on the piece of paper. "Here you go!" he smiled, and he
walked away from the ship and into the Bazaar which dominated the
major portions of the immense ship.
Puzzled, the manager read the paper; it was a deed to the
spaceship in front of him, with a note handwritten beneath;
I, Kristan Overstreet, do hereby sign over to (blank space)
all ownership of this ship in exchange for the sum of whatever
the landing fee is.
Beneath was a scrawl which might have had a K, an S, an O, and
two T's. Kristan Overstreet.
The manager thought carefully. You don't suppose... Naah. If
it was the Redneck himself, he thought, he'd be laying low. With the
bounty hunters still seeking out anyone remotely related to the Wedge
Defense Force, being an immortal was hazardous to your health- even if
you weren't actually a Wedgie.
Meanwhile, Kris was catching up on current events, in his own
fashion. One of the multiple colorful booths lining the hangar walls
and corridors was a newsstand outlet, and Kris purchased a hardcopy
edition of a typical tabloid, the Weekly Midnight Star. (The dealer
had had to be persuaded to accept the century-old coins, since the
cheapest of them were now worth roughly fifteen times their face value
in the collectibles market.)
In an inset on the upper left corner of the tabloid's cover, a
homely, scantily clad woman was superimposed on a picture of Gryphon.
Kris had seen similar images on occasion, in similar publications, and
the headline had always been a variant on I'M CARRYING GRYPHON'S LOVE
CHILD!
However, this headline read, I'M CARRYING THE BUTCHER'S LOVE
MONSTER!
The Butcher? Kris thumbed through the pages, finally seeing
the story in a two-page spread in the center. The lurid pictures of
Gryphon, grinning insanely, gunning down the children on Musashi, of
Gryphon look-alikes posing in various situations, and of an artist's
representation of the Wayward Son's crash shortly thereafter-
CRASH?? What the HELL had happened?
Kris looked around, saw a small wicker chair in the next
booth, and turned to sit down. The blaster bolt in his back stopped
him before he could move any farther, though. Stumbling, he fell to
the ground, grumbling at the pain as he held still. Thankfully, the
corridor was almost empty, otherwise crowd panic might have made
identifying the gunman a problem.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed a flicker of movement;
a second later, a weaselly-looking human, greasy black hair combed
back from the temples, trenchcoat partially hiding an older model
blaster rifle. The gunman walked up to Kris cautiously, carefully,
eyes focused on the body laying before him...
...and completely missing the blade of coalescent energy
forming behind his head. The blade defined itself as a length of light
roughly an inch thick and two feet long, humming on the edge of human
hearing; as the gunman stopped, it made a couple of practice swings,
as if an invisible flying midget baseball player was eyeing a baseball
painted on the back of the gunman's neck. The humming increased
slightly, and the gunman began to turn to look behind him.
ZZZZRRRRRRMMMMMM. THUNK.
Home run, Kris thought, willing the blade away and rising up
from the floor. The killer's ID revealed three different aliases, with
bounty-hunter licenses in virtually every jurisdiction there was to
work in. In the inside breast pocket of the hunter's jacket was a
small datapad, with a list of about three hundred names. The
highlighted name, KRISTAN OVERSTREET, sat besides the words LT. JG
1999-2002, CR1000 DEAD, CR5000 ALIVE.
Scrolling to the top of the file, Kris saw the name of the
organization posting the bounties; GENOM CORPORATE SECURITY. The names
at the top of the list made clear exactly who GENOM was after in
general.
Gryphon.
Megazone.
Kei.
Yuri.
ReRob.
Lord Fahrvergnugen.
Hagberd Celine.
Mako.
Hammer.
The names continued, on and on. Conspicuously absent were the
names of the officers of half a dozen WDF ships and bases- Bucky
O'Hare, Robert Shannon, others conspicuous in their absence.
Kris put two and two together. The WDF was gone. GENOM was
mopping up the mess. And no one, apparently, stood in their way.
Teriffic.
Kris strode off towards the CFMF recruiting office. Obviously
a lot had gone wrong while he had been gone... and guess who would
just have to put it right?
A purple-haired young woman in the uniform of CFMF Tacfleet,
rank insignia of full lieutenant and unit patch denoting her as a
member of the Admiralty staff, sat in a small booth in a cafe on the
third level of the New Orleans' immense Processional, sipping a mug of
coffee and looking out reflectively on the passing shoppers and fleet
personnel. For twelve years, she'd been a member of the huge family
that was the Freespacer nation, having fled from her former masters,
the scientists in GENOM's Replicant Development facility on Niogi.
For twelve years, May Azland, Type 45/S Advanced Infiltration
Replicant, had lived free, and she treasured every day of those twelve
years in her heart.
Those few people who knew May was a replicant were curious as
to why she tended to refer to herself so anthropomorphically. People
expected replicants to refer to their "nutrient pump" or "articulator
joint" or silly things like that. In other words, they didn't expect
replicants to think they were real people. Each time someone said
something thoughtless like that, May felt a little bit smaller inside.
She was a real person, dammit. Why couldn't some people accept that
Buma were true life forms, and not just some soulless mechanoid
monstrosities under the thumb of a madman?
May shuddered with the thought. Even twelve years after
breaking her loyalty programming to GENOM, any thought against the
Master, Maximilian Largo, brought pain and insecurity. A small part of
her still insisted that she served the Master, that she should return
to her Master and accept his justice. Of course, the rest of her knew
that Largo's sense of justice was restricted solely to what was
relevant to his personal goals, and the prospect of slow, painful
dissassembly had no appeal whatsoever to her. Besides, she smiled, I
have friends here, I have a life here, and Largo, for all his power,
can't take those twelve years of happiness away from me.
An average-looking man, sporting a grizzled beard, ragged
windbreaker and threadbare flight suit, strode briskly by the
restraunt, looking neither right nor left, passing through May's line
of sight in a moment. May blinked; do I recognize that man?
<ENABLE CORE OPERATION SYSTEM>
<N7A-M1Y KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS ON-LINE>
<OVERRIDE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<REMOTE-ACCESS CFMF PERSONNEL COMPUTERS>
<PLACE SUBJECT "MAY AZLAND" AS UNASSIGNED AVAILABLE STAFF>
<PLACE RECOMMENDATION EARLIEST OPENING>
<OVERRIDE ALL REQUESTS <> KRISTAN OVERSTREET>
<FLAG ALL ORDERS KRISTAN OVERSTREET>
<DOWNLOAD FILES KRISTAN OVERSTREET... DONE>
<DOWNLOAD SECURITY FILES KRISTAN OVERSTREET... DONE>
<REINSTATE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<STANDBY CORE OPERATION SYSTEM>
<N7A-M1Y KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS PASSIVE>
Shaking her head, May tried to shrug off the feeling of
unreality which had taken her for a moment. Whoever the person was,
she must be turned on by that type, she chuckled to herself. Perhaps
she ought to consider seeking out a male for a relationship of some
sort. No sense having all the right equipment, she giggled, if you
never get a chance to use it.
Finishing her coffee, May placed a modest tip on the table,
paid her bill, and headed for the next shuttle to the CFA Washington.
Admiral Hemphill would be annoyed if she was late for her duty shift
in the computer pool again.
And in the back of her neural net, a tiny impulse flickered,
awaiting its time...
Ch. 6/NOW
Wilderness Station
August 11, 2388
Terri looked at the redheaded figure in white lace in the
mirror, draping the wedding dress she had purchased in the station
concourse over her body. The owner had given it very cheaply; torn
between a desire for profit and a need for liquid cash, the owner had
cut the price down to a hair over a hundred credits, easily a tenth of
the going market price for such a wedding dress.
Terri giggled, taking a couple of stately steps towards the
mirror. She'd given the matter some deep thought over the past week or
so, and the "test drives" had been very revealing. Also, she felt...
well, she felt _safe_ around Redneck. Not relaxed, not all the time-
his responsibilities didn't permit that all the time. Instead, Terri
enjoyed the lack of pressure outside of standard duty, the readiness
to be a friend and nothing more if that was all she wanted... he loved
her, but he was willing to accept her, and protect her if she needed
it.
And unlike the Condorcets of this universe, she giggled, Red
not only wasn't angling for the bedroom, he was actually dragging his
feet about it. Once you got him into bed, he was a gentle, delicate
lover- but it was a task convincing him that yes, you really did want
him, right then. Still, Terri figured, I love him, he loves me, and
together we'll make it work out.
"You look beautiful," a soft voice called from the door.
Washuu walked into the stateroom, smiling gently. "The dress suits you
well, Terri. I think with you in the room, it can't help but be a
beautiful ceremony."
"Um, thank you, Washuu," Terri stammered. "Um, we haven't seen
you around for a while." Understatement; Washuu hadn't left her lab
for about a week or so, and on the two occassions Red had gone looking
for her, he hadn't been able to find her in her usual favorite haunts.
"What brings you out today?"
Washuu smiled and said quietly, "I just wanted to wish you
good luck with Kris... and please take good care of him." Terri
watched as the smile vanished, and suddenly a wave of yellow light
burst from Washuu's hand into Terri's eyes.
The yellow faded to black.
Washuu rolled Terri's limp form over off of the bridal dress,
working at the fasteners of her combat flight suit. Time was short,
short for what she intended to do, short for the Freespacer fleet,
short for everyone.
But not short enough, she sniffed, for herself. It's all
falling apart again, she thought, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to
cry again. I'm losing Kris, we're losing the war... why did it have to
happen again?
"SCRAMBLE! ALL FIGHTERS SCRAMBLE! ENEMY SHIPS INCOMING ETA
FIFTY MINUTES! ALL PILOTS REPORT FOR BRIEFING! ALL SUPPORT CREW
PREPARE FOR FINAL EVACUATION!" The station's loudspeakers blared
through the nearly deserted corridors, spurring on the roughly 200
fighter pilots from the assembled MASS units who had gathered on the
station, awaiting the final attack. In Landing Bays One and Two, the
ammassed tech workers of these MASS units performed final preps on the
fighters, topping off fuel cells, yanking the pull tags, doing final
check-out on all the ships.
The vast majority of the MASS units flew modern Incom T-65
X-Wings, with the remainder flying the still- robust Koensayr BTL-A4
Myrmidons, or Y-Wings. These ships came in blue and gold and black and
green and lavender, many with kill markers, many with battle scars.
The shoulder patches of the pilots, rushing to their unit briefing
centers in their orange vacsuits, presented a wide range of nicknames;
Goldfish Squadron, Black Cat Squadron, the Buckeyes, the Happy
Sehlats, the Righteous Flying Piggy Wrath.
The eight X-WIngs of the MASS-01 Rebel Squadron launched
first; its assignment was to protect the movement of the core of the
Freespacer Home Fleet from surprise attack. The other twenty-four
Mobile Attack and Support Squadrons would be joining the fighters of
the Tactical Fleet's carriers in the main delaying action against the
GENOM force. Under normal circumstances, the pilots would have been
loud and rowdy; today, sounds were muted except for the announcements
coming in over the station PA.
Whatever pounding the fleet got handed to them, the
starfighter forces would feel it first and hardest.
In the small cluster of X-Wings belonging to the MASS-21
Cosmotigers, seven pilots sat around Lt. Commander Joyful Condorcet, a
handsome blonde woman with a statuesque figure. "Okay, people, listen
up," she barked to the seven suited pilots around her, "the mission
here is simply to survive. You are expected to engage the enemy in
depth, delivering as hard a blow as you can. You are ordered to pull
out if you sustain a disabling or damaging hit to your ship. Be ready
to pull out at the order. That's it, nothing else."
"What are we looking at here, Stormy?" one of the pilots
asked.
"Heavy shit, according to the top," Joyful groaned. "We're
looking at a force well in excess of five hundred captial ships,
virtually all of which have at least starfighter capability, if not a
total commitment to a carrier role. For the most part, we'll be
screening the fleet as it runs along the edge of the enemy deployment,
but if you get into trouble, hit hyper and don't look back. Your
astromechs all have the jump to Zeta Cygni programmed. Use it if you
need it, people, we need live pilots not dead heroes." For a
Condorcet, male or female, to say such a thing was nearly unheard of.
The group sat silently, waiting for Stormy to add something
else. Finally, Joyful said, "All right then, man your fighters. Oh,
and Crash?"
The figure in the back of the group, helmet already on and
visor down, nodded silently in acknowledgement.
"Terri, if you want to, you can bug out now," Joyful said.
"Say the word, and I'll order you to join Rebel Squadron with the Home
Fleet. We all know how you feel about Redneck..."
The helmeted woman shook her head no, slowly, resolutely.
"All right, then," Joyful said, "your call, Crash. Let's move,
people!" With that, the group dispersed to their fighters. The
helmeted one walked to one X-Wing, freshly repaired, tiger's fangs
painted on the nosecone. The astromech whistled a electronic query to
her- generic fleet-issue astromechs didn't usually have true vocoders.
Looking up at the droid, the figure said, "Listen you, I am
not Terri Curtiss. If you let anyone know I'm not Terri, I'll make
sure you never function again. Get my drift?"
The droid whistled quietly; he got it.
"Right then, warm 'em up," Washuu said, climbing into the open
cockpit.
Kris sat in his ready room, staring at the metal-masked face
in his communication window. "Thanks for the offer," he said to the
ambassador from the Autobot government of Cybertron, "but one fighter
more or less really isn't gonna make a difference against this big
odds."
"If you say so," Powerglide shrugged, obviously not believing
it; Powerglide's ego could give most Condorcets a run for the money.
"Any messages you want to relay to Optimus and the guys?"
Redneck thought for a moment and said, "Yeah. Tell 'em we'll
be joining everyone at Zeta Cyg as soon as we can."
"You got it," Powerglide replied. "You people take care of
yourselves, now."
"You, too," Kris nodded. "See ya." The screen died, and Kris
pushed himself away from the table with a groan. Half the ambassadors
to the CFA had made similar offers, and he had had to turn them all
down. If they'd had ten battleships each, he might have taken them up
on it; as it was, the Autobot had the most firepower to offer of all
of them. Anyway, if they needed manpower, Kris thought, they would need it at
the final showdown, not here.
Here, what they needed more than anything else was time, and
time had run completely out. An hour ago, the fleet had lost contact
with MacLeod Station, the Federation's major defensive positon in
Enigma Sector. The final reports had given sketchy data confirming the
intelligence Kris had through both the unofficial Freespacer grapevine
and the more official WDFI spooks. The GENOM fleet was absolutely
enormous, and a homicidal lunatic replicant of Ben Hutchins was
commanding it. The more he considered the numbers, the more he favored
pulling out without a fight... but he had to buy some measure of
time... what to do, what to do...
Mind rolling with the variables of the battle to come, Kris
strode from the ready room into the massive main bridge of the Tinker,
looking around to the various officers at the twin decks. A voice
cried out, "Admiral on the Bridge!" and for once, all the crew rose to
attention; Kris had thought he'd never see the day.
"As you were," he waved, striding towards the center seat.
"Fleet status?" he asked as he sat down, lying back in the seat and
strapping his seatbelt into place.
"All ships deployed in pre-combat formation, as planned,
Admiral," the Tinker's chiefcommunications officer said from his
console.
"Excellent," Kris said, shifting in his chair, looking for
some comfortable position. "Any solid data on the incoming fleet?"
"We read roughly three hundred warp signatures at fifteen
minutes from our position. Also a heavy hyperspace wave, probably up
to three hundred more ships, nearby. Also reading a damn big ship in
warp, must be the GENOM dreadnaught," the science officer called from
the upper deck.
"Get me the Twenty-Eight," Kris said. Before Sonset, variants
of the name "dreadnaught" had cropped up in dozens of fleets, and the
CFF-28 Dreadnaught was still serving after centuries of service. To
avoid confusion, it had been dubbed the Twenty-Eight, and Dreadnaught
would be reserved for the ship more worthy of the name.
"CFF-28 here," a male voice answered. "Good hunting, Admiral,
hope we all get out of this one alive."
"Me too, John," Kris mumbled. "How's the kid? Still into
trouble?"
"Hope not," Captain Johnathan Diggers said. "His CO is giving
me grief over how Theo's trying to convert the entire Freespacer
Marine Division to Jedi hoodoo. Hell, I know it exists, Red, but I
can't get the kid to shut up!"
"Did he at least quit toting the lightsaber around?" Kris
asked. If he ever found out who gave Theodore Diggers a lightsaber,
he'd lay them out cold; lightsabers are damn dangerous to the
untrained, he thought, and all Theo's training aside from his Marines
basic consists of what he read in some book or other. It wouldn't be
quite so bad if he hadn't figured out Force telekinesis on his own...
"I wish," John Diggers groaned. "He's gotten into two fights
over the thing, and if it wasn't for that girlfriend of his, he'd have
been laid up in a hospital by now."
"Girlfriend?" Kris asked. "Who is this, then?"
"Able-Bodied Seawoman Julia Brigand," he chuckled. "Bright red
hair, libido the size of Cybertron... Theo's got his hands full with
that one."
"Heh, karma finally balancing itself," Kris chuckled.
"What's that, Red?" John Diggers asked.
"Oh, nothing," Kris said. "Ancient history. Keep your command
clear if you can, John; we ain't got the power to take on that other
Dreadnaught by ourselves."
"I hear, Red, will do," John smiled. "Good luck."
"You too. Tinker out," Kris said, and he signaled to cut the
channel. "ETA on those ships?"
"Thirteen minutes thirty seconds, Admiral,"
"Twelve minutes."
"Eleven minutes fifteen seconds."
"Eight minutes forty-five seconds."
"Admiral, by Surak and all the Prophets, will you RELAX a
bit?"
"Ahem. Admiral, sixty seconds," the communications officer
said, "and thank you for not asking in the last five minutes."
"Right," Kris said. "To all ships, Tactical Fleet, red alert,
prepare to recieve maneuver orders. Status of Home Fleet?"
"Just the New Orleans left, sir," the comm officer said,
"and... there! It's hit hyperspace, Home Fleet and Supply Fleet is
away. Wilderness is evacuated."
The bridge doors whirred open, and Captain James Joseph
Condorcet XVIII strode in. Kris turned, recognizing the man. "JJ! I
thought you were supposed to be on the battle bridge."
"I wanted to watch the bad guys drop with you," JJ said. "Mind
if I stay?"
"I suppose not," Kris said, and the grey-haired Condorcet
dropped into a station behind him.
"Twenty seconds to drop, Admiral."
"Stand ready," Kris said, on the edge of his seat, watching
the expanse of star-sprinkled blackness, as the communications officer
counted down to zero.
Suddenly, a huge grey-white chunk of armament dropped down hard
from hyperspace; it was followed in quick succession by three more,
then a squadron of Ikazuchi carriers, scattered Interdictor cruisers,
hourglass-shaped black carriers, and finally, in the middle of the
massive swarm, the immense monstrosity of the GENOM Dreadnaught,
sixteen kilometers long, dwarfing every other ship in the battlezone.
Compared to the mass which was the GENOM main battle fleet,
the CFMF Tactical fleet seemed a pitiful group of pebbles. It was
one thing to know intellectually that you were outgunned by factors of
over two hundred to one at least, and quite another to see the reality
in its horrible majesty before you.
Nobody spoke for a long second, and into the silence, a voice
chuckled, "We are GENOM. Resistance is futile. We will add your
physical and technological distinctiveness to... well, nothing,
really, because WE'RE GONNA KILL ALL OF YOU A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
OH GOD I LOVE MY JOB!" The laughing parody of Ben Hutchins' voice set
off a wide range of emotions in the bridge crew, all of which kept
them silent, except for JJ.
"My God," he said very quietly and calmly, "we are all going
to die."
Kris wanted to dress him down right there and then, but there
simply wasn't time. To the communications officer, he said, "Formation
flank starboard on my mark, long-range bombardment in thirty seconds,
standby on all bomber squadrons."
"Belay that, Commander," JJ said quietly. "I'm sorry, Red, but
if we're gonna die here, we'll damn well make a fight of it." As Kris
glared at his flag captain, JJ pulled out a phaser and fired. The
blast ate a hole about six inches in diameter into Kris' chest, and he
slumped forward out of his chair.
Three people screamed, and the communications officer yelled,
"By the Watcher, he's dead!!"
"Naw, he ain't," JJ drawled. He flipped Kris' body over to
reveal a thin layer of skin already grown over the wound, and subtle
shifting underneath. "Call the nearest Broadway-class corvette to us,
order them to prepare to recieve wounded for evac. We've had a minor
equipment malfunction. Then order the formation full ahead, straight
for the heart of the GENOM fleet.
"People, we're gonna die here, but I'll be damned if we don't
take that big bastard down with us!"
Nobody spoke on the bridge for a moment; then, the
communications officer began relaying JJ's orders to the rest of the
fleet.
"Tinker airboss to all fighters," Washuu heard on the allcall,
"new orders repeat new orders. You are ordered to engage all targets
of opportunity. Repeat, engage all targets of opportunity. Let's get
these bastards. Tinker out."
That's extremely odd, Washuu thought, Kris would NEVER change
his main tactical plan a few seconds before engaging. Something was
wrong, very very wrong.
A few seconds later, Stormy's voice said, "Tigers, I just got
a message from the West Side Story.... they're evacing Redneck. He was
severely injured. Captain Condorcet has assumed command... Admiral
Janicek of the Polaris has challenged his orders and is proceeding
with Redneck's orders. People, at this point I'm as confused as all of
you, but my orders stand. Do your damage and get out. Tiger One out."
Washuu opened a channel and said, "Tiger Three to Tiger One.
What condition is Redneck in?"
A few seconds of silence followed. "Crash... I'm sorry, he
wasn't breathing," Stormy said at last.
Washuu couldn't speak. Kris... dead? Had it really been that
bad? What had happened on the Tinker? Why hadn't she been there?
Tiger Three broke formation, diving towards the nearest GENOM
ship, lasers already blasting away ineffectively into space. "Tiger
Three, get back into formation!" Stormy shouted over the comm systems.
"Terri, get back here! You can't help him like this! TERRI!"
"I'm not Terri," Washuu husked into the headset, trying not to
cry, as she fired round after round into space, not seeing the enemy
ships, not hearing the voices in her headset.
I wasn't there for him.
I want to DIE.
"New orders from the Tinker!" Claire cried out. "We are
ordered to engage and destroy all targets of opportunity."
"All RIGHT!" Aya Nakajima grinned. "Set alpha wing to attack
position! Charge up all weapons systems!" To Shwarz, she said, "Which
one should we attack first, eh, Irving dear?"
"Um..." Shwarz scanned the enemy formation for a moment, then
pointed out an Interdictor cruiser. "We'll have trouble retreating if
we get bottled up by those things. Also, its armament is only slightly
heavier than our own. I think we should be able to take it out, no
problem."
"Right," Aya grinned. "Claire, send to all Liberator-class
ships. Recommend to them that we concentrate firepower on the
Interdictor cruisers on the edge of the GENOM fleet facing our line of
retreat. Homare..." she grinned evily, "POWER DIVE!"
"Aye, Captain!" Homare smiled, and with a thrust no other ship
its size could match, the Defiant turned and charged the Interdictor,
its forward hull splitting down the middle and opening up to reveal
multiple laser turrets, phasers, and torpedo tubes coating the new
upper surface. A rain of concentrated firepower poured into the
Interdictor's shields, collapsing them in seconds, quickly drilling
through the armored hull. The GENOM ship only managed a few feeble
laser blasts before its reactor blew, punching a huge hole in its
belly and leaving it helplessly adrift.
First blood to the Freespacers.
The Tinker rocked with the impact of GENOM lasers and
torpedoes, diving deeper into the massive formation. Flanking it on
either side were about twenty ships, the main thrust of the CFMF
fleet. Out on the periphery of the GENOM deployment, the remainder of
the fleet attempted to continue with the original battle plan, but
the GENOM fleet was mostly ignoring them in favor of the minor but
tangible threat plowing towards the core of the fleet.
"Lock phasers on the GENOM Dreadnaught!" JJ shouted, standing
despite the pounding the ship's shields were absorbing. "Maximum
power, target their bridge!"
"Main phasers locked and ready, Captain," a weapons officer
shouted.
"All right, you fucking goose-stepping android bastards," JJ
grumbled, "eat this! FIRE!!" he shouted.
From the bow of the Tinker, two immense phaser beams lanced
the Dreadnaught... and vanished without touching the surface. In
response, almost contemptuously, the Dreadnaught fired a single
volley, about half its weapons focused on one point, just above the
Tinker's starboard warp engine.
The boxy frame which contained the engine ruptured, releasing
a fireball which rocked the Freespacer ship.
On the bridge, sirens wailed and lights flashed. The ship
bucked and rattled as the explosion reverberated through the hull. The
inertial dampers fluctuated, throwing crewmembers in their chairs.
>From his chair, JJ bellowed, "STATUS!"
"We've lost main power!" the helmsman shouted. "We have
sublight maneuvering at 45%, no more!"
"We've lost contact with Engineering and the battle bridge!"
the communications officer shouted. "Casualty reports rolling in from
all other decks!"
"Our antimatter containment is failing!" the science officer
shouted. "We're attempting a core dump now!"
"Weapons systems totally off-line!" the weapons officer
barked. "No chance of bringing them back on without the mains!"
"Core dump failed!" the science officer shouted, more frantic
now. "Using transporter power to beam out the antimatter..." The
lights dimmed, then rose, and the science officer cursed.
"Transporters failed, Captain. We only got about half of the
antimatter clear."
"QUIET!" JJ shouted. Hitting the intercom switch on his seat,
he said, "This is Captain Condorcet to all crewmemebers. All hands,
prepare to abandon ship. If anyone is still in Engineering..." His
eyes glinted as he growled, "Give me best sublight power. Ramming
speed." To the helmsman, he said, "Mr. Saxon, pick us a target."
Ahead of the mortally wounded ship,rolling in the viewports as
gases vented from the upper hull, cruised the GENOM ISD Vendetta. "Got
it." he said. "Engaging collision course."
"Right, that's it," JJ nodded. "All right, folks, this is it."
Triggering the intercom again, he shouted, "All hands, ABANDON SHIP!
ALL HANDS ABANDON SHIP!" To the bridge crew, he shouted, "What are you
gaping at? Get out of here!"
The crew scrambled for the doors, headed for the escape pods,
and JJ was left alone on the massive bridge. Smaller explosions echoed
through the ship, power conduits shorting out, life support dying,
consoles shorting. Ahead, the Star Destroyer grew larger and larger.
JJ took a piece of rope from his pocket and, with a little effort,
lashed his left arm to the armrest of his chair.
So nobody knows, JJ thought. Big deal. I know.
Die, you sumbitch, die.
Two of the immense structural members spanning the ceiling of
the Tinker's hangar had collapsed, blocking the flightpath for most of
the remaining ships in it. One of these girders had collapsed squarely
across the engines of the prototype Starlight fighter, crippling it
helplessly. In its cockpit, its creator sat, a kamikaze headband tied
around his head and the badge of the Noriko Takaya Fan Club on his lab
jacket.
Crewmen scrambled towards the lifepods, shrieking as secondary
explosions continued to echo from overhead. Here and there, tongues of
flame flickered out from the walls and vents, and smoke began to cloud
through the immense room. Above all, the distressed whine of wounded
ion drives echoed, screaming the ship's death song as it accelerated
towards the Star Destroyer.
One of the few remaining Engineering techs, face reddened from
a light coolant burn, scrambled through the wreckage to the Starlight.
"Dr. Kizuki!" he shouted. "C'mon, we gotta get out of here! The warp
core's gonna go critical, assuming we don't go up from ramming the
enemy first!"
Dr. Kisuki shifted in his seat. "I will not go," he said.
"Doctor!" The tech tried to climb up the side of the crippled
fighter, only to meet the point of a sword. "Doctor, this is crazy!"
the tech gasped, sliding back to the deck.
"I will not go," Dr. Kizuki repeated. "This fighter is a
testament, a monument to my life, my skills, and a love which could
not be." Maintaining a stoic visage, despite the tears leaking from
his eyes, he continued, "My daughters will continue my legacy... but I
wrought this vehicle with my own hands, and I will not leave it. We
will die together."
"Um.... sure," the tech shrugged. "Bye, Dr. Kizuki." With
that, he scrambled to one of the few remaining escape pods, leaving
Dr. Kizuki alone with his ship and his treasured, thirty-year-old
autographed picture of Noriko in her ThunderForce gym suit. He hugged
the picture tightly to his chest, struggling to hold back the tears of
a love which now could never be realized.
"Noriko-chan..."
The bow of the CFMF Tinker plowed into the ISD Vendetta,
punching its way through the armor, then crumpling under the thrust of
its engines.
Two seconds later, the remaining antimatter, some forty grams,
fell through the failing magnetic bottle and touched the sides of the
warp core.
The explosion totally obliterated the Tinker and tore a jagged,
gaping hole in the side of the Vendetta.
None of which concerned the GENOM Dreadnaught, which had just
mortally wounded the CFMF U. S. Grant and was bringing its arms to
bear on its namesake, the CFMF Dreadnaught. It left the mop-up of the
explosion to the large squadron of TIE fighters, each piloted by a
Buma, which swarmed through the cluster of lifepods, enjoying some
light target practice.
No survivors. GENOM MILARM S. O. P.
Kris gasped and spluttered as his rebuilt lungs and heart
began to function. His chest still hurt ferociously from the
point-blank phaser shot, and he was burning mad at JJ for the mutinous
act. That idiot, he's going to ruin everything! he thought as he tried
to sit up.
Some idiot had put restraints on his bed.
With a moment's thought, Kris generated a small energy blade
and sliced away the straps across his body. Standing and stretching,
he got a good look at his surroundings. The room looked to be the
sickbay of a corvette- a Broadway-class corvette, from the layout.
Five other beds stood close by, and a cramped surgery room lay through
the far doorway.
Beneath his feet, the ship vibrated with the power of twin ion
drives running at 130% of manufacturer's spec maximum thrust. The
occasional rumble of laser fire slamming the shields echoed through
the ship. Finding his discarded uniform top, he slipped it on, hole
and all, and strode out of sickbay towards the bridge.
Upon entering the bridge, he noted Lieutenant Commander Bel
Thorne, a hermaphrodite from Betazed, operating the helm while the
rest of the crew concentrated on returning fire and keeping torpedoes
and missiles from reaching the ship. Bel Thorne... that makes this the
West Side Story, Kris thought. "Admiral on the bridge!" he shouted,
and Thorne jumped in its seat.
"Admiral!" Thorne gasped, returning to the helm controls.
"You're not supposed to be up!"
"Stow it," Kris growled. "Status report."
"Tinker, the Twenty-Eight, US Grant, King Richard, King
Arthur, Enterprise, Explorer's Wind, and Emperor are all destroyed,"
the communications officer, Ensign Eli Quinn, gasped. "Over fifty
ships heavily damaged. One hundred seventeen fighters still in action,
sir. We've managed to destroy the Imperial-class Star Destroyer
Vendetta, twenty-one Interdictor cruisers, five Victory-class Star
Destroyers, and four Ikazuchi carriers."
"How long since engagement?" Kris growled. Wrong, wrong, this
was all wrong...
"Thirty-three minutes, sir," Quinn answered.
"Shit," Kris said. Most of his offensive power was shot to
hell, irreplaceable... "Ensign, broadcast to all CFMF vessels. This is
Admiral Overstreet. I have transferred my flag to the CFMF West Side
Story. All ships that can break off, do so immediately and retreat to
Point Lynchburg. Repeat, all ships break off and retreat. Overstreet
out."
As Quinn transmitted the message, Kris looked to the
viewscreen. "Main veiwer aft," he said. The screen showed ships
exploding right and left; as he watched, a Liberator-class guncruiser-
the Defiant, Kris noted- flew, guns blazing, towards a Victory-class
Star Destroyer. Even as the larger ship's shields failed, its guns
lanced out and caught the Defiant's forward wing, tearing half of it
away and deactivating its weapons systems. Trailing sparks, the ship
limped away, angling for an escape vector. Behind it, the Victory Star
Destroyer exploded into a string of fireballs... joined by the CFMF
Bumblebee, which had rammed the ship in its own death throes.
"Shit, shit, shit," Kris moaned. "How could JJ have gotten
things so wrong?"
"Admiral?" Quinn looked up from her console. "I've got an
incoming transmission for you." Her face lit with surprise as she
said, "Sir, it's Lieutenant Curtiss, from the Cosmotigers!"
"What?" Kris said. What is she doing still on the station? "On
screen."
The screen lit to show Terri Curtiss at a public comm terminal
on Wilderness Station, wearing a bathrobe and trying not to blush.
"Red, Washuu's in my fighter," she gasped. "You have to get her out of
there now! She doesn't have any idea what she's doing!"
Kris' questions died on his lips. Instead of asking where
Terri was and how to get her out, he whispered a command: "Viewer to
fighter CFMF-M21-03. Maximum magnification."
The main screen flickered for a moment before focusing and
zooming in onto the cockpit of an X-wing flitting through the heaviest
fire in the fleet, too fast for the GENOM gunners to maintain a lock
on target. The pilot's helmet kept her identity hidden, but Kris
knew... "Patch me in to her command channel," he said at last.
The command channel echoed through the bridge, panicked
screams and shouts predominating as the remaining CFMF pilots found
themselves overwhelmed by numbers. "Washuu!" Kris shouted, echoed by
the channel. "Washuu, get out of there!"
Washuu's voice whispered uncertainly, "You're.... you're
alive?"
"Yes, I'm alive!" Kris shouted. "For God's sake, Washuu, get
out of there!"
"I- I-" For a moment, Washuu's voice seemed filled with
relief, shaking with barely restrained emotion. All at once, the laser
blasts found her fighter, rocking it and knocking out the few
remaining shields.. "NOOOOO!!" Washuu shrieked as her voice was cut
from the channel. On the screen, two laser bursts punched through the
fighter's canopy, venting it to space... and cremating whatever was
inside.
Kris stared in shock at the screen, as the few remaining
pilots scrambled to escape the deathtrap of the GENOM fleet, as the
Polaris and Liberator both went up in balls of fire. Quietly, Bel
Thorne said, "Admiral, the CFMF Camelot has disengaged and awaits
orders."
In a soft, hoarse voice, Kris said, "Tell them to swing over
to Wilderness Station and beam off all remaining personnel. We'll dock
with her there and I'll transfer my flag. Then you're to head straight
for Zeta Cygni. No stops, no rescues."
"Aye, sir," Bel nodded.
"All other ships are to warp out. If they can't make warp...
well, GENOM doesn't take prisoners," Kris sighed. Trudging up to the
bridge doors, he added, "For the time being, Captain Kondo of the
Camelot is in command of the fleet. You have the bridge, Commander."
With that, he walked through the doors and away from the sight of ship
after ship exploding on the screen, as the CFMF Tactical Fleet died
for nothing.
Mechanically he walked down the ship's main corridor, stepping
into the ship's docking tube and waiting in silence as his mind replayed
multiple images, captains, friends, coworkers, dead for nothing now.
And Washuu with them.
A few minutes later, the tube's car moved upwards, sliding
into the Camelot's lower decks. The doors opened onto the noisy
fighter deck, where stood three scarred X-wings- one from the
Camelot's own contingent, one from the MASS-11 Wildcats, and one from
the MASS-3 Righteous Flying Piggy Wrath. Half the hangar was scorched,
with wreckage from a failed landing attempt strewn across the deck.
The hum from the ship's engines seemed to howl in Kris' ears with the
distinctly unsettling tone of an imbalanced warp core.
Kris barely heard it, trudging to the turbolifts and mumbling,
"Main bridge." A few moments later, he stepped out onto the bridge,
where Captain Nanami Kondo was saying, "I need warp drive now, Bob,
now let's get on with it!"
"No promises," a voice replied over the intercom, "but warp
drive at your own risk. Keep it to Warp Two until we can get this
locked down, though."
"Bless you. Lieutenant, get us out of here!" Captain Kondo
barked.
"Aye, ma'am," the helmsman responded, and his hands moved
across the console. The stars turned to streaks, and the ship
shuddered into an uneven warp.
After a few moments, the captain slumped in her seat,
obviously relieved. She looked up to the ceiling, and for the first
time she noticed the man standing above her at the bridge railing,
leaning forward and looking at the stars blur slowly past on the
screen. "Admiral on the bridge!" she gasped.
"As you were," Kris whispered. "Captain... what have we got
left?"
Kondo looked to her communications officer, who said, "Well,
Admiral... I'm in contact with the T'Pau, the Defiant, the West Side
Story, and the Valiant... and there's the Confederacy with the Home
Fleet..."
"Five ships," Kris whispered. "We engaged with one hundred
capital ships... and came away with five." The cold, resigned tone in
his voice disturbed the crew; it was as if the man speaking had
already died in the battle, and only the ghost of him remained.
"Sir," the communications officer pressed, "we can confirm at
least forty GENOM ships destroyed or disabled, to say nothing of
fighters..."
"How many fighters survived?" Kris interrupted, hands now
crumpling the metal of the banister.
"Three," the communications officer admitted. "Just the ones
that managed to dock with us. Their Interdictors managed to keep the
fighters from going to hyperspace...."
"Three," Kris whispered. "My God... "
The bridge stood silent, all eyes on the admiral who stood in
quiet shock and despair on the upper deck. Finally, he mumbled, "Order
all remaining ships to proceed at best speed to Point Lynchburg. And
if someone would assign me quarters..." Prying his fingers off the
now-mangled railing, he murmured, "I think I would like to be alone
now."
A yeoman took Kris by the arm and guided him towards the door,
just in time for Terri Curtiss, still in her bathrobe, to burst
through it. "Red!" she shouted. "Oh, Red, I'm so glad to see you in
one piece! I was so worried! Did Washuu get out all right?"
Kris looked at Terri, suddenly unable to speak. Finally,
shaking his head, he walked past Terri into the turbolift, followed by
the yeoman. The doors shut on a face trying desperately to deal with
the deaths, so many people... and Washuu.
Terri stared at the closed doors and said quietly, "I guess
she didn't."
Ch. 7/THEN
Iacon, Cybertron
January 5, 2117
Kris slouched his way down the broad, oversized Iacon avenue,
mind wandering from the day's work, namely sitting down with Ultra
Magnus and finalizing the repair and refit agreements between the
Autobot government of Cybertron and the CFMF following the latter's
long and incredibly bloody assistance in the recently ended Sixth Great
Kilrathi War.
The Freespacers had definitely earned every bit of the payment
they were recieving, and more- their stands at the Third and Fifth
Battles of McAuliffe, the raid on Gerah Soar, and their participation
in the larger battles alongside the RSN, the WDF, and the Autobot forces
against the joint Kilrathi and Decepticon invaders could testify to
that. Although technically the Freespacers hadn't lost a single
capital ship in the war, over half of the Tactical Fleet was now in
drydock somewhere, in the Home Fleet overhead, at Utopia Planitia, the
Kuat Drive Yards in Corellia, the ExoSalusia yards, or here in the
Cybertron factory facilities. A substantial portion of these, mostly
the corvettes and a couple of light cruisers, would have to be rebuilt
from the keel up... but they had seen their crews home, and to Kris'
mind they deserved better than to be totally scrapped.
However, the bit of news he'd just recieved from Osaka, Japan,
Earth was distracting him from most things around him. Miyuki Haneda
Isarugi had died, at last, at the age of 139. She wasn't the last of
the original Freespacer pilots- not even the last of the Earther
pilots- but still, her death had hit home for some reason. Ever since
the message had come, asking him to say some "polite and fitting
words" at her memorial service in a week, he'd been reminded
constantly of how old he was, and how old he was likely to get, and
how many goddamn times he'd be asked to say "a few polite words" for
someone else he'd outlived.
It was an incredibly depressing train of thought, especially
since he'd said an encyclopaedia of "polite words" for people a lot
younger than Miyuki over the past fourteen years. He hated the idea of
sitting aroud and watching all the people around him grow old and die,
while if anything he looked younger than he had a century ago. He'd
led people to their deaths, he'd killed people himself, in and out of
a fighter- those hurt enough, but the feeling of total helplessness he
got when people he cared for died of age, or under someone else's
command, that feeling tore him up.
Looking up and assimilating his surroundings for the first
time since he'd walked out of the humanoid district, Kris noticed he
was standing in an enormous metal processing plant, not far from a
giant blast furnace. As with most Cybertronian factories, it was
tough to tell where the landscape left off and the factory began; it
seemed to be all of a piece. Here and there, Autobot workers poured
the ores into the smelter, skimmed away the slag, poured ingots, mixed
alloys, and turned out huge plates of metal to be taken to the various
factories nearby.
Kris now realized why he'd come here; his morbid thoughts had
led him almost subconsciously to a place where, should he so desire,
he could end it all. Kris knelt down and contemplated the flames of
the furnace, feeling no real desire to throw himself in besides the
usual morbid curiosity. That depressed he wasn't.
Behind him, the footsteps of a particularly large Transformer
approached, and Kris stood to move aside. The Transformer in question
stood as much as maybe forty feet tall, possibly taller- slightly
taller, Kris estimated, than Ultra Magnus. Grays, olive greens, and
purples dominated the humanoid robot's plate colors, and a missile
launcher sat on his right shoulder. Red optics gleamed out from a
weary-looking flexalloy face.
With a shock Kris noticed the Decepticon badge on the robot's
left shoulder; the shock turned to confusion when he noted the Autobot
badge on his right. The Autobots in the factory gave the newcomer only
a quick glance before returning to their work.
The immense robot glanced down and noticed the human standing
beside him. "Pardon me," he rumbled, and with a slow, careful movement
he sat down beside Kris, leaning back on the wall, elbow resting on
his knees. "What brings a human to such a boring place as this, I
wonder?" he said, almost good-naturedly.
Kris forced himself to relax- non-agressive Decepticons were
rare, but not unheard of- and he said, "Just contemplating mortality."
Extending a hand, he said, "My friends call me Redneck. What's your
name?"
The robot reached down and allowed Kris to grasp a finger; as
close as two creatures so disparate in size could come to a human
handshake. "I go by Doubledealer these days," he said. "Don't have
many friends to call me anything else. Being a mercenary tends to keep
people from trusting you."
Kris nodded understanding. "You worked for both sides, then?"
he asked.
"For quite some time," Doubledealer rumbled. "Originally I was
an Autobot. When Unicron came, I was working with the Decepticons.
After 2026, I went totally free-lance, picking up work where I could.
I had a partner for a while, a human like you... and then, I got
caught in the crossfire when Dor-Lomin fell to the Decepticons."
Kris nodded. Dor-Lomin had been one of the opening battles of
the war, and one of the most one-sided Decepticon victories. The
Autobots had barely managed to rescue their command from capture and
dismantling.
"Anyway, I don't know why, but Warpath- he was the Autobot
in command during the retreat- he decided to pull me out with his
wounded... and when I woke up, I found my partner and me
binary-bonded. They told me about this Powermaster conversion or
somesuch- I really didn't care, so long as I was alive. I signed up as
an Autobot for the war, and me and Reg saw a lotta combat. We were
with the strike force on Ghorah Khar, closing in on Galvatron's
command HQ, when Reg took a bolt..."
The Transformer shifted slightly, and after a moment of
hesitation he said, "I hate losing a partner."
"Is that why you're here?" Kris asked quietly.
"In a way," Doubledealer rumbled. "The docs are still trying
to finish converting me back to normal- seems Reg getting blasted
kinda screwed up the normal scheme of things. I go in for the final
re-conversion tomorrow... and then I'm free, to go wherever I want."
Leaning forward and resting his head on one hand, he said, "Problem
is, I've got no place to go."
"How's that?" Kris asked. "I thought you were still on the
Autobot side."
"Well, yes, but the Autobots really aren't on my side,"
Doubledealer said. "I mean, a few of them trust me- Prime especially,
and Kup, and Warpath, a couple others- but most of them look at me,
and all they see is a turncoat, someone who goes to the highest
bidder. They'll never trust me. And the Decepticons... Galvatron put a
bounty on my head, not long before the end, and I have no doubt
Shockwave would be more than glad to pay the bounty, so long as I was
terminated.
"But those are my worries," Doubledealer leaned back, smiling.
"I didn't mean to lay my burden on you like that. So," he said, trying
to be hospitable, "how has your life been lately?"`
"Depressing," Kris said. "An old friend died lately, and it's
got me thinking dark thoughts about my life. People growing up,
growing old, and dying around me... I'm just getting sick and tired of
death, really. And I don't see any sign of it stopping anytime soon."
Doubledealer chuckled. "No, not much chance of that. I can
understand the feeling, though. Seems like my entire life has been
death, one way or the other."
"Can I ask you something?" Kris said. "Seems to me most
Decepticons, not to mention a few Autobots, don't care much for 'dirty
rotten stinking little fleshlings.' And here you are, making
conversation with one."
"Well, not everyone is the same," Doubledealer said. "For the
most part, those Transformers who act superior to organics are just
stupid, I think; they don't actually know any of you, so it's easy to
make you inferior, at least in their minds. Me, I spent thirty years
working with a human, and before that... well, before that someone
else had taught me to look beyond structure, look and see the true
person inside." Shaking his head, he said, "Don't know if she did me a
favor or not."
"So you wouldn't mind working around humans a lot, then?" Kris
asked.
"I wouldn't think so," Doubledealer said. "Why, are you
thinking of something?"
"Well, I do have a proposition for you, if you're
interested..."
The form on the operating table leaned up, feeling at the spot
which once had held his partner, when they worked together in combat.
The Powermaster socket had been removed, replaced by a conventional
power source and primary transformation manifold. Above him, Wheeljack
said, "All right, try transforming now."
The humanoid form shifted, folding inward somewhat, coming to
rest as a wheeled mobile missile platform. Then, the figure shifted
again, and a few seconds later, a giant metallic falcon stood where
the missile launcher had been. Another shift, and the falcon returned
to humanoid robot form. "Everything seems to work," Doubledealer said
quietly.
"Congratulations, then," Wheeljack said, "you've got a clean
bill of health. Just stop by if you can for a 100,000 mile check-up,
okay?"
"I'll try," Doubledealer said. "By the way, what do you think
of the new look?" he asked, pointing to the twin flags on his
shoulders.
"Well, to be honest, I'd say black and gold clashes with your
paint job," Wheeljack said. "As for what it means... well, your life,
your choice. You're hardly the first to go your own way, y'know."
"Maybe," the Freespacer Doubledealer said, "but I won't be
going it alone." Maybe this'll work out, maybe it won't, he thought to
himself, but it was worth the try... and who knows? Maybe he would fit
in, even among organics.
And just maybe, just maybe, he'd find something to fight for
besides a quick credit...
Ch. 7/NOW
Approaching Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere
August 13, 2388
Not very many constructions designed by humanoid organic
lifeforms (not counting the Zentraedi) are large enough to accomodate
a Transformer. Many of those which were spacious enough to allow an
average-sized Transformer elbow room were still too small for a few of
the larger ones. Even on Cybertron itself, there were places where
practical needs outweighed the desire for universal accomodation, and
thus the larger Transformers, like Doubledealer, spend more of their
lives outdoors than indoors, anyplace they went.
For once, Doubledealer was getting a chance to stretch his
legs, standing in the enormous main corridor which connected the
various drydocks of the Utopia Planitia docks. According to reports,
the retreating Freespacer Tactical Fleet had dropped to sublight a few
hours before, and Doubledealer wanted to watch the ships dock.... if
for no other reason than to have the excuse to move around.
Through a huge pane window, Doubledealer could see the massive
Hangar Number Twenty-Two, its exterior doors open to the interior
space of the immense Dyson sphere. Inside, spacesuited workers were
already maneuvering mooring ties into place for multiple ships. Yellow
warning lights flashed inside the bay, reminding the few occupants of
the airless environment they worked in.
"Your attention, please," a feminine voice spoke over the PA
system, "CFMF Camelot, docking Hangar 22. CFMF Valiant, docking Hangar
22. CFMF Defiant, docking Hangar 22. CFMF T'Pau, docking Hangar 22.
CFMF West Side Story, docking Hangar 22." When no other ship arrivals
were announced, several of the junior officers and civilians waiting
in the corridor began mumbling to each other in confusion.
Doubledealer caught several ship names in the mumbling, and he shook
his head sadly. He'd seen the post-battle initial report which had
been broadcast on the command channels the evening of the battle...
apparently none of those present had.
After a moment, a white shape appeared in the blackness beyond
the hangard doors; it slid forward, revealing the giant windows of the
forward bridge of the Camelot, then further on, showing carbonized
streaks on the hull, a patch here and there to close up hull
breaches... and on the delta hull, directly atop the bulge of Main
Engineering, a large gaping hole where the warp core had been.
The next ship to slide into view, behind the Camelot, was the
Defiant. A few gasped aloud as the guncruiser's crippled bow appeared
in the hangar doors, missing one of its twin folding weapons wings.
Behind it, the Valiant cruised serenely, sporting only a handful of
blast marks, while the T'Pau and West Side Story, bringing up the
rear, bore no marks of battle at all.
As the Camelot slowly cruised up into the berth closest to the
main entrance, a new voice echoed through the corridor. "Attention,
all those awaiting the CFMF Tactical Fleet. The CFMF fleet commander
will issue a brief statement to you once the Camelot finishes docking.
Please be patient and allow our workers to perform their tasks
unmolested. Thank you for your patience."
The whispers, if anything, grew louder, as the crowd swelled
with curious onlookers and a few members of the galactic press who
happened to be nearby. The pressurized gangplank extended itself to
the carrier's main docking port, latching itself onto the Camelot's
hull with a low thump. As soon as the docking was completed, dozens of
Utopia Planitian technicians strode down the plank, tools and crates
in hand. Then, for several long minutes, nothing happened.
When footsteps did finally echo from the gangplank, the
whispers fell silent, and every face turned to see Kris Overstreet
walk out of the gangway, dressed in an impeccably clean grey dress
uniform, complete with cavalry sword. He wore it like a burlap sack,
moving stiffly into the middle of the crowd. The Freespacers gave him
a measure of space; the reporters used that space to close in and
surround him, sticking cameras and mikes as close as they could to
him. When one camera in particular came too close, he glared at its
owner with murder in his eyes.
"Get that motherfucking camera out of my face before I make
you eat it," he growled. The cameraman backed away nervously, allowing
Kris to move into the center of the group. When he looked around the
people assembled there, his face drew up into a tight, neutral
expression. Doubledealer felt for the man; he obviously did not want
to be here.
After a long moment of silence, he said quietly, "The Tactical
Fleet of the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet engaged the main
body of the GENOM MILARM starfleet at Wilderness Station. The GENOM
force is reported to have lost over forty ships, including one
Imperial-class Star Destroyer, although we do not have confirmed
reports at this time." He paused, licking his lips nervously, before
continuing, "The CFMF force lost all but five of its capital ships
engaged, and all but three of its active fighters."
He paused to allow this to sink in before adding, "The final
count of casualties is not complete as yet, but we have confirmed over
18,000 men as being dead or missing in action. Since GENOM does not
keep prisoners, we presume all those missing in action as dead as
well." There were a couple of loud gasps from the assembled group, and
Doubledealer watched Kris' face as the latter struggled to maintain
composure.
Once the mumbling had died down a bit, he said, "I have sent a
letter resigning my commission in the CFMF to Fleet Commander Sleik.
Pending his acceptance of my resignation, and the full investigation
of the events at Wilderness Station, I will continue as overall
commander of Freespacer armed forces. Until such time as a complete
reorganization of our ranks is possible, all officers of pay grade O7
and above will hold titular rank of Commodore." He pointed to his
lapel, where instead of the wreathed five-point stars of the
Admiralty, he wore the eight-pointed star of a commodore.
"At this moment, intelligence has informed us that the main
GENOM fleet has fanned out throughout Enigma Sector, clearing out
organized resistance. We expect their fleet to regroup within two to
four days and move, as a unit, to assault their final objective, the
Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere, by no later than a week from now. I am
calling up all retired CFMF officers and crew to active status at this
time. All ship-rated individuals who have attained majority are to
report to the CFMF Reserve Activation office and await orders.
"I am going straight from here to the command offices of the
Wedge Defense Force, where I shall offer contract to the allied fleet.
After that, I will personally supervise the organization of as much of
a starfighter force as we can put into the air. When GENOM does come,
the CFMF will play a part in their final defeat."
Then Kris looked around the room, and when he looked up for a
moment into Doubledealer's optics, his eyes seemed to glow with a
wrath Doubledealer had seen only rarely, in Transformer or
carbonlife... on the faces of the insane, or at least those riding
the ragged edge. "Ladies and gentlemen," the Freespacer commander
growled, "we will have blood." He stepped forward into the crowd, not
slowing, not noticing the way the Freespacers parted again to let him
pass.
A reporter decided to ignore Kris's mood and stepped in front
of him. "Admiral, can you tell us what factor played the greatest-uk!"
Kris grabbed the reporter, picked him up, and set him down
hard on the deck behind him. "Get in my face again, asshole, and you
can fucking well learn to fly." He left the reporter to stare after
him as he walked off down the corridor, alone.
Captain Benjamin 'Gryphon' Hutchins had never been busier
before in his life. Not even when building New Avalon. Not even
during his nineteen months as Salusian Minister of Defense. Never.
He silently thanked Skuld that the main GENOM force had dispersed to
completely secure Enigma Sector rather than pressing on to attack the
still-vulnerable WDF Allied Fleet. He had several ships still in
drydock- dozens, actually, some berthed for lack of qualified crew,
and all too many, like the immense SDF-23 Wandering Child, still under
last-minute construction. Every day - hell, every minute - gave him
more time to get ships operational.
"Vision," he sighed, tossing one of the innumerable hardcopy
status reports he hadn't asked for but which overeager officers from
hundreds of ships seemed determined that he read.
"What can I do for you, lover?" the AI's face appeared on his
desktop monitor.
"Could you get me the most current intel on GENOM's mop-up in
Enigma?"
"Sooner done than said, hon," Vision replied. "Let's see if
the holoproj wants to work today." Next to the monitor, a small
device resembling a wok ring with no wok on it glowed, then projected
a freestanding holographic representation of the sector, with GENOM
forces highlighted here and there. Two items showed minor victories- a
clash near the Manticore Star Kingdom, where the Manticoran force had
managed to give GENOM a bloody nose and escape- and Hyeruul, where the
small GENOM task force had been utterly wiped out by 'a mysterious
defense force.' Most of the rest, however, showed either quick GENOM
victories or more prolonged blockades of trouble points- none of which
would do more than draw maybe a tithe off the main fleet's striking
force when it finally came for the final confrontation. Gryphon
turned to his regular monitor, pulled up a spreadsheet of the WDF's
projected strength, and lost himself in thought.
Even as Gryphon began mentally calculating a final strength
for GENOM, Vision's face appeared again, this time unnaturally
concerned-looking. "Ben," she said, "Overstreet just showed up."
Gryphon sighed for about the three hundredth time that day.
More complications, more work, more worries. Under one of the small
stacks of paper, pizza boxes, dirty plates, and other debris lay a
disk which contained the detailed results of the Wilderness
engagement; from what he'd read from it, Gryph figured Redneck had
earned his say, whatever it was. "Great, send him in," he said,
raising some vestige of enthusiasm for the effort.
"He really looks like hell, Ben," Vision warned. "Be gentle
with him, okay?" Her face vanished, and a second later the office door
opened to reveal a worn-out, used-up looking Redneck, who strode
mechanically into the office, snapped to attention before Gryphon's
cluttered desk, and saluted.
"Captain Hutchins, sir," he muttered, without a trace of irony
or humor in his voice.
Gryphon stood, saluting. "Afternoon, Red... sorry about the
mess. Sit down before you fall down."
Overstreet sighed and sank gratefully into the one clear chair
that faced Gryphon's desk. "Thanks. It's been a shitty last couple
of days."
"So I've heard," replied Gryphon, having a seat. "Unless I
miss my guess, though, the week as a whole is going to get worse."
"Well... that's why I'm here. I'm here to offer... what's
-left- of my forces to your command."
"I see," Gryphon replied, then added with a tired grin, "Well,
what's a little more complication to the TO&E this week?" Sobering,
he continued, "What -is- left of your forces? I have the report, but
to be honest I only had time to skim it and get the impression you'd
been hit hard."
Redneck's seemingly permanent frown deepened as he thought for
a moment. "One carrier, heavily damaged; one guncruiser, heavily
damaged; one light cruiser, slightly damaged; three corvettes,
undamaged; maybe fifteen X-Wings. Oh, and ten thousand Marines, if
you can find some use for them."
"This looks likely to be a strictly naval operation, but we
can house them, anyway, and keep them out of harm's way. As for your
other assets... " Gryphon lapsed into silence as his face took on
that far-away thinking look.
"I would recommend that the carrier - the Camelot - be
restricted to a launching capacity only," Kris said, "and that it and
the CFMF Defiant - the guncruiser - be held in reserve... should a
retreat be needed. The Valiant could join the main line, and the
T'Pau, Confederacy and West Side Story could be deployed as heavy
gunboats."
Gryphon thought it over, then leaned forward, elbows on his
desk, fingers steepled. "Kris, it seems to me that if the carrier is
as badly damaged as all that, I've got an alternate suggestion."
"I'm open to suggestions."
"Well, we've got several fully operational capital starships
still in their construction bays here, all ready to go but for a
shortage of one vital component: crew. Now, if your people don't mind
being virtual prisoners for three days taking a crash course in
new-ship acclimation, they can go into action fully operational,
assuming the enemy gives us that much time. Indications right now are
that they will."
"Well... " replied Overstreet thoughtfully, "the Camelot's
only got 1,000 crewmen, and I intend to have them working nonstop to
rebuild the warp core... but there is an alternative... with the Home
Fleet here as well, I can essentially call out the reserves - starting
with about 3/4 of those Marines I told you about - and crew every ship
you have to the gills."
"All right, if that's the way you want it - I wasn't aware so
many of your marines were crew-certified. Ordinarily I would keep
recommending that we move the Camelot's fighters to another carrier
and make her non-operational, but I understand how eager your people
must be for a piece of the enemy... and I'd hate to stand in the way
of the ancient Freespacer tradition of avoidable risk," he added,
trying to draw out a hint of a smile.
Instead, he got a long stare, coming from the face of a man
who looked momentarily as old as his calendar years and as tired as
Time, a stare mixing grief and hopelessness, but surprisingly little
anger.
"... Gryph, I just suffered a mutiny, the result of which was
the near annhilation of my fleet. Right now the only thing that gets
me out of bed in the mornings is the thought of giving a little back
to GENOM. I can assure you every Freespacer feels similarly, if not so
intense.
"Now, you're the operations planner. You can deploy my ships
however you feel most suits your battle plan. I don't intend for
Camelot to engage the enemy, just provide an auxiliary launch and
retrieval platform on the sidelines. But if you think she's better off
non-operational, that's your call. But please, don't ever kid me
about avoidable risk again. I don't think I'll ever be in the mood."
Despite his age and position, Gryphon felt the same melange of
self-recrimination and annoyance that he had always felt whenever he
put a foot wrong in a situation like this. He gathered his thoughts,
pressed them into a useful format, and let out a long, drawn-out
sigh.
"All righty, then," he said. "Vision, new vessel assignments
for the Freespacer contingent."
"Go."
"Carrier CFMF Camelot to group 3, second element. Assign
cruisers Firedrake and Temujin to cover.
"Guncruiser CFMF Defiant to sphere reserve element. Assign
cruiser Hawking to cover. Advise Captain Harris not to be surprised
if that one goes barrelling into combat despite her assignment and
condition, and advise him to cover accordingly.
"Cruiser CFMF Valiant to group 2, first element, to cover port
low, battleship WDF Bismarck.
"Corvettes CFMF T'Pau, CFMF Confederacy, CFMF West Side Story,
to special group 4, first element. Assignment: enemy carrier
harassment.
"Also, I'll need a listing of every operational ship currently
in need of crew elements, and all the completed ships without any
crew. And a team from P&R to put their heads together with the CFMF
equivalent and figure out how to make crews out of their reserves.
"And don't let me forget: at the first available opportunity,
I'm to write Commodore Overstreet a formal apology for my inopportune
comments today. That's all for now."
"Got it. Processing the lists now."
"Right now," said Redneck, "as far as Personnel goes, I'm the
guy. And as far as available ship-rated people... I should be able
to offer, oh... one hundred thousand crewmen with no great
difficulty."
Gryphon nodded, eyebrows up. "That should certainly take care
of our personnel difficulties, if we can make coherent crews out of
'em. For that, though, you need to talk to Commander Velspp in
Personnel & Resources; contrary to popular belief, I can't handle
every detail personally." He took a look at the status readings in
the corner of his screen. "The manifests and such should be ready in
half an hour or so... in the meantime, you might consider investing in
some food. The commissary here is good, if you like Salusian food.
Or we've got a food court over in Shipyard Three."
"Thanks." Redneck rose slowly to his feet, moving like a man
three times his apparent age, and turned for the door; then he paused
and turned back to Gryphon. "Oh, and one other thing... assuming we
both get out of this alive... you're more than welcome to attend
Washuu's funeral."
Gryphon had been expecting something, anything, but that
statement, so his farewell smile collapsed into a smoking shambles as
he replied merely, "... oh." (A syllable meaning, approximately,
"Well, that'd be what's happened to your sense of humor, then.")
"Thank you," he managed after a few moments' thought.
"I... I'll be there."
"Thanks. I appreciate that. Also, if you could ask Vision to
pass the word to the appropriate people, when there's a chance..."
"I'll take care of it," said Vision in a subdued tone.
"Who's in charge of the starfighter forces? Daver?" asked
Redneck.
"Yes... he's holding a nominal TacDiv grade of Major, and
running Fighter Command from the Lexington right now. Our
organization is so screwed up right now that almost nobody's got the
rank they ought to have or HQ where it belongs... we're sort of
running on the honor system until this crisis is over and we have time
to sort it out."
"Thanks. He'll be my next stop, after this, then." Remembering
his military decorum, Overstreet came to attention and saluted. "Force
be with ya, Gryph."
Gryphon returned the salute (an unprecedented two salutes in
one hour) and replied, "Until all are one, Kris."
Overstreet left, and as soon as he was gone, Gryphon flopped
into his chair, putting his elbows on his desk and dropping his
forehead into his cupped hands with a gusty sigh.
"Well, that was smooth," Vision remarked.
"Yeah. I know," Gryphon replied. "I think I'll get started
on that apology now."