End of Worlds
Chapter 6
Granita Jump Point
Wreckage of the TCS Monrovia
Veronica System
Lieutenant Colonel Brenell Zollern fought back his own wave of nausea as he stood weightless in one of Monrovia’s burnt out corridors. His naval counterpart, Chief of Operations, Commander Kolowski. Brenell was never any good in microgravity. He grew woozy from every experience, but had yet to lose his previous meal all over the faceplate of his E-suit. His companion, on the other hand, seemed to be taking weightlessness in stride. Brenell knew Kolowski’s type were the exception to microgravity, but that was no consolation to his pride.
Both brought their own teams over to salvage what they could from the ruined ship. Brenell was more interested in small arms, weapons that could be used in boarding, or counter-boarding, actions. He never knew a Marine who went wrong by having too many plasma rifles or grenades. Given the way 2669, has thus far gone, Brenell knew those weapons would be put to good use. His Marines drifted about the corridors, passing to and fro, hauling crates back to waiting shuttles. Brenell made a point not to drift, using magnets on his shoes to keep him anchored in place.
“There has to be a more efficient means of salvage,” Brenell muttered, still waiting for his stomach to settle.
Kolowski chuckled. “I find microgravity hurries the process. Imagine trying to carry anti-ship missiles under standard gravity.”
Brenell frowned. The fact that any anti-ship missiles remained lead the Chief of Security to suspect Monrovia’s life-support system self-destructed. With all of Confed’s ships using nanotechnology in their life-support, it was decided long ago to be wise to install auto-destruct mechanisms upon them. The last thing Confed needed was the technology to fall into alien hands. Especially Kilrathi hands. As far as Intel knew, the Kilrathi never developed nanotechnology. Their current bio-weapons were bad enough; add nano-scale dissassemblers to their inventory and entire planetary ecologies would quickly cease to exist.
Kolowski’s thoughts ran parallel. “By as much of the ship that remains, I’d guess the Cats scored a hit on the life-support system.” The ship was thoroughly gutted, which was precisely what the auto-destruct would have done. Every nanite inside the ship had to be vaporized, for even a single machine could advance alien technologies. Unfortunately, nanites withstood higher temperatures than organic lifeforms.
“My thoughts exactly,” Brenell replied. “Though I’d require a team of engineers to confirm it.” He knew what auto-destruct would do to a ship, but in his line of work, it was not what one knew, but what one could prove. Before the debacle at Earth, Confed brass would have wanted detailed reports on such disasters. After the debacle– one ship, even a destroyer, was not that large of a concern. If the Cats ever assembled such a larger fleet as they had last year, one more ship would not even make a difference. Not even if it were a carrier.
Kolowski shook his head, his helmet visibly shaking. “No time for that. Salvage is our priority.”
Brenell said nothing. He was aware of the mission. Security personnel were stripping small arms from the arsenal, and weapons crews were stripping missiles. Even the ship’s engineers were stripping plates of durasteel from Monrovia, with intent to fuse it over Abby’s breaches. Engineers from Kaitan and Gemini were nowhere to be seen; both ships headed off towards the moon of Veronica VI, and a Kilrathi signal recently detected. With the jump point mined, and the only known Cat ship in the system gone, Absolution was in little danger of attack.
He was concerned, and he knew he could not be the only one, that the Cats had not yet sent a ship through the jump point. Of course they knew it would be mined, but that never stopped them before. Usually they would send a lightly manned– er, Catted– ship, or even a drone, through to test the space. That they had not was a great worry. Perhaps their discovery that Abby was not an old, fat Freighter made the local commander think twice. Or maybe they were up to something else.
One of Brenell’s sergeants floated up to him. He fixed his magnetic boots to the floor and came to attention. “Sir, we lifted all the grenades and plasma charges in the port armory. Starboard armory is blocked. You want me to grab some Techs and cut our way through the wreckage?”
Brenell considered it. He and his Marines could use those weapons, but whether or not they would get a chance to use them was another matter. Odds were, the Kilrathi would not even bother to board the Absolution, and plasma rifles have a very limited effect on warships. “No, Sergeant, leave the Techs to patch up Abby. Load the shuttles and prepare to return home.”
“Yes sir,” the noncom saluted. Shutting off the magnets, he pushed himself down the hall without a further word. Brenell felt ill just watching him float past.
He glanced over at Kolowski, careful not to move his head too fast. “Very well, Commander, it appears Marines are still more effective than you Navy slugs. I’ll take my guns and take my leave.”
The Commander snorted. “You’re just jealous.”
Zollern was about to follow his Sergeant, when he stopped in indignation. “What have I to be jealous?”
Kolowski smiled in his helmet. “The gun my men are taking off is much bigger than your’s.”
Brenell groaned beneath his breath. Such juvenile comments– he expected that much more from his own men than the professionals in the Navy. “Yes, good luck with that turret. Try not to blow offAbsolution’s nose when installing it.” the Chief of Operation’s idea was not a bad one; after all, a ship never did wrong with too many guns. Had they a proper space dock and two months to accomplish the task, he would all be for it. Instead, they had only the ship’s resources to integrate a turret off a Gilgamish-class destroyer on an ancient Odin-class battleship. The Marine should be grateful that nobody was trying to integrate Kilrathi weapons into Abby, instead of just cutting off chunks of durasteel from the Kilrathi wreck.
Kolowski only laughed at Brenell, as if he were joking.
Conference Room
TCS Absolution
Veronica System
It was one of the unavoidable parts of being head of security. At least once a week, Captain Powers calls together all his department heads for a meeting, a sort of briefing for the Captain. Brenell never much cared for meetings, and as of late, they brought nothing but bad news. This conference room was small, cramp with just the long table. It was doubly so with all the department heads sat along its sides. Walls around him, when not gun metal gray, were decorated with monitors. Two of them were out; one cracked when a something not held down flew out of control during the last firefight, and another simply out. Electrical or optronic or something. Brenell’s specialty was law enforcement and he was far from a skilled technician. Plasma rifles and shotguns were one thing, the ship’s information systems quite another.
Across from him sat the ship’s Chief Engineer, Commander Draaken. The Swede looked annoyed just being in the room. Considering parts of Abby, such as the conference room’s carpet, were on the verge of coming apart, Draaken had far more important matters to attend to than briefing the Captain on items he should already be made aware. His face turned into a stone glare as one of the overhead lights flickered, threatening to burn out. That was one more item on his department’s To-Do List. He had to ignore it, as he continued to speak of items the Captain had best already know.
“Repairs are progressing smoothly,” Draaken continued. “We’re still having issues installing the Monrovia’s pulse turret to out bow.” His gaze shifted to Commander Kolowski in a less-than-friendly glare. As with any good engineer or technician, he had to put up with scatter-brained ideas from those not qualified to repair a toaster, much less install a major piece of hardware without proper equipment. “As I’ve mentioned before, to complete this installation properly, we would require an extensive stay in space dock. Patching the breaches is a simple enough matter, but not mating equipment that was never intended for its location.”
The XO, Mindalo, spoke up. “Does Veronica II have any such facilities?” she asked. The planet was home to millions of humans, even if they were Border Worlders. Brenell knew not about Border Worlds’ technical skills. If they were anything like the Landreich, then their aid could be useful. The Marine remembered a story he once heard of some Landreichers installing a frigate– or maybe it was a corvette– engine on to a Scimitar. The funny thing was, the mix worked.
Draaken shook his head. “No sir, nothing that could handle a ship as large as Abby.” Like a man with any sense, he had already queried the ship’s computer on the Veronica System, and its industry. “Now if you want to put that turret on the Kaitan, then they could manage. It would still take at least two weeks to complete.”
“We don’t have two weeks,” Powers, sitting at the end of the table, growled. “That weapon needs to be up and running within a week.”
Brenell could visibly see Draaken grinding his temper between his teeth. “Captain, that won’t happen without the proper equipment. Trying to rush this installment will make that turret a bigger threat to us than the Cats.”
Powers snapped. “You’ll make do with what you have! Thanks to Gemini and Kaitan–“ Brenell could hear the scorn in the Captain’s voice when he mentioned the destroyer. “And their efficient dispatching of that listening post around Veronica VI, the Kilrathi have a good idea where we are. We can expect company sooner or later; and the way our luck’s ran lately, it’ll be sooner.”
Every officer around the table knew what the Captain meant. It was not our luck, but rather the way the war’s been going. Powers could not say that, for even in the worse conditions, the Captain must always ooze confidence around his crew, less they lose faith in him. Brenell was the same around his Marines and Naval personnel that served in his department.
“Are we expecting company soon?” Kolowski asked. The head of security sat to Brenell’s left, closer to the Captain. That suited the Marine just fine; he was a good shield against Powers’s wrath.
Powers nodded. “Half hour ago, I received news from the Commodore. The Kilrathi struck Trafalgar IV with the Life-Eater.”
Silence filled the room. Brenell could feel the apprehension radiating from the crew. He knew a little about Quattro, the name for Trafalgar IV. Since the Trafalgar System sat on the outskirts of the Tanhausen Nebula, its planets were not overly suitable for life– or at least nothing from Earth. The planet was pockmarked by habitat domes, some of them ten kilometer across, all used to keep in a breathable atmosphere, and to keep the planet’s not-so breathable one out. The domes housed the planet’s agricultural centers, with the actual cities being beneath the ground. If anything, those domes made the Kilrathi bio-weapon more effective, since it could not dissipate like it could across a planetary atmosphere. Anybody inside the domes when the Life-Eater breeched it, as well as the atmospheric curtains, was certainly dead. Even if the locals sealed the infected areas and were not killed outright, food shortages would soon have their affect.
Famine. It was a concept humanity thought it left behind when it sprang forth across the stars. All the worlds of the Confederation, at least all the habitable ones, were self-sufficient in food production. Even Earth, with its billion inhabitants and near Ice Age conditions, grew enough to support itself. Of course, after having a couple dozen cities wiped out, there was far more for the survivors. Brenell did not like thinking of just how close Earth came to destruction.
Powers continued, taking the silence for acknowledgment. “It gets worse,” he continued. “Surviving ships in the Trafalgar System reported the Kilrathi task force headed for the Veronica System.” At least they did until their communications were abruptly discontinued.
Mindalo picked up where the Captain left off. “No doubt the Cats are aware their observatory in this system has gone off the air.”
Powers agreed. “Gemini wasn’t as fast on the draw as Harris might have liked.”
“The Cats were probably on their way to Veronica II anyway,” Kolowski added. It would have been the closest target to Quattro. “I guess now they’ll enter the system expecting more resistance than a Border Worlds’ picket.”
Powers nodded. “According to reports from Trafalgar, we can expect a Snakier along with four cruisers and six destroyers.”
Silence greeted the revelation. Brenell could see the worry slipping between the cracks of military professionalism on the senior staffs’ faces. The Marine felt it too. Even if it were just six cruisers, Task Force 212 would be outgunned. Abby could destroy two of them with ease, probably two more before succumbing herself. Through in a carrier, even an older one, then the Cats could take out Absolution’sPTC turrets at a distance.
“How many fighters?” Commander Vincent, the ship’s Wing Commander asked. He only commanded a squadron, but those few ships were Abby’s entire wing. Like Brenell, Norman Vincent was too many years too young for his rank. Had he lived in peace time, he might have made Lieutenant by now. War could be good for one’s career, considering how many able men and women found themselves dead in a hurry. None of his hair had started to go gray– a condition seldom worried about in this war– but enough lines had grown into his face to make any observer instantly know the job has taken its toll.
Powers shrugged, a rather un-captain-like action in Brenell’s opinion. “Running assumption is a standard wing of sixty-four. Intel, for whatever that may be worth, suggests pilots would be of average skill.”
Vincent nodded in understanding. Kilrathi pilots will be about as good as his own. Even with Gemini’s nineteen fighters and Kaitan’s short squadron, they would still be outnumbered nearly two-to-one. With two of his own pilots dead, Vincent had some decisions to make. He would probably press Abby’s shuttle pilots into service, if not the shuttles themselves. The ships themselves would be outnumbered eleven-to-three, so left over pilots might be of little use. Everybody knew this, but nobody would state the obvious.
Powers’s expression did lighten somewhat. “The natives are more than willing to help defend their planet. Their corvettes and planetside fighters will stay to defend Veronica II, but the Border Worlders are sending their lone ship.” Powers tapped several keys built into the head of the table. A hologram sprang to life in the middle of the table.
Brenell tried to figure out just what it was. The ship, a generous term in this case, appeared to be a pair of pre-war destroyers or frigates connected together by a bulky box. Given the fact this box was open at either end, Brenell took it to be a flight deck of sorts. Like all the Frontier-made ships he had ever seen, it looked very makeshift.
“What a kludge,” Brenell muttered under his breath. At least he thought he muttered it.
“I agree,” Powers told him. “They call her the Tango. As you all can see, it’s nothing more than a pair of old Durango-class destroyers connected to a flight deck. She packs the firepower ofMonrovia, but carries two squadrons of fighters.”
“Don’t tell me,” Abby’s Wing Commander interrupted. “They’re still flying Firecats.”
Powers glared at him. “Very well, I won’t tell you.” It took a few seconds for the joke to set in. “No, nothing that old. The Commodore reports she’s carrying mixed squadrons; Scimitars, Raptorseven a couple of Sabers.”
Vincent said nothing, though his face told volumes. He did not think those old fighters would be of much use, even against Kilrathi second-class fighters. If the Cats were sending out fighters designed in the past decade– Scimitars would be good only to draw fire away from Confed’s fighters. Numerically, they might just break even with the Cats– assuming the Kilrathi cruisers are not hauling along a squadron each.
Powers’s scowl dissolved into a look of resignation, a rare show of any emotional this side of rage on his behalf. “Needless to say, we must make every effort to stop the Cats here and now. We’ll rendezvous with the Tango at Veronica II. After that, we’ll intercept the Cats at around 0.1 AU from their world. It’s well outside effective missile range of Veronica II. We have no idea knowing which ships carry the Life-Eater, so we can’t let a single one past us. If we can cripple a ship, we’ll board it in search of the virus.” That was not a likely outcome.
Kilrathi were not suicidal by nature, but they would destroy their own ship along with themselves to spite their enemy of a prize. It might be a one-way trip for any Marines sent out. Which meant it would be one-way for Brenell. He was not about to send out his men on a suicide mission while he sat comfortably in his office.
“That’s our mission, any questions?” What was there to ask? It was a not a battle anyone in the room expected to fly away from. This was Absolution’s last stand, plain and simple. Even if they destroy half the Kilrathi ships, they would remain outnumbered. When none were asked, Powers continued. “I expect my ship and crew to preform this task flawlessly. Dismissed.”
Officer’s Lounge
TCS Absolution
Not for the first time, Brenell wished there was no prohibition on board Abby. 2669 was a year to drive anyone to drinking, even if he was never real heavily into the vice. He understood the need for it– depression and depressants are not the best of mixes– but that did not mean he could not use a good, strong drink. Today was definitely a barrel of rum sort of day. He did not foresee any other type of day ahead. What few days lay ahead would keep most of the crew busy, but as always, the Marine felt more like a dead weight. There would be no boarding actions, either against the Cats or in repelling them. The battle would end with one side being utterly destroyed, and he had serious doubts that side would be the bad guys.
The mood in the little lounge was as solemn as ever, though he thought he heard one of the naval officers try the old line about boosting his morale on one his female counterparts. He heard nothing defeatist in the talk, so did not intervene. Had the officer been one of his Marines, Brenell would have had a talk with him, something along the lines of not harassing the naval personnel. Had the man been running his mouth about the end of the world, Navy or not, Brenell would have pulled him aside and raked him over the coals. Since he had not– Brenell could not blame the crew, more than half of them a few years younger than he, for trying to grab what minutes of happiness they could.
Outranking most of the crew, Brenell would not try such actions himself. He saw them as unprofessional, and almost felt as if he would be pulling rank on what was essentially a private affair. Without any defeatist words, Brenell ceased paying attention, and never did learn if the young man was successful in his endeavor. Neither he nor the other crewmember in question were in the lounge, but that proved what? His training in law enforcement always told him that it was not what he thought, or even knew, but what he could prove.
He was tired of this war, tired of the gloom and hopelessness. When he joined the Marines, victory looked, though not on the horizon, just beyond it. Now hope was a distant dream, and the future was as bleak as the darkness of the void beyond Abby’s hull. The only bright side of their impending doom, is that preparation for the upcoming battle kept the crew too busy to think about killing themselves. If Brenell never had to investigate another suicide, he would be rather pleased.
That left him one less thing to deal with. Instead of filing reports, Brenell was dividing his own security force among the naval crew. Departments were shorthanded, and with next to no chance of having the Cats board Absolution, the top Marine broke up his own force by specialization. A couple of the officers under his command had engineering degrees, and they went straight to Draaken.
Most of the enlisted ground pounders were transferred over to Abby’s ordinance departments. Most can take over at firing stations if the need shall arise. The rest could load missiles and pulse charges. Many will even be clearing out wreckage as the rest of the ship collapses around them. Above all, Brenell did not want his Marines to sit around idle, waiting for the end to come. He did not want to sit around idle, either. Thus, he planned to be on the bridge. Brenell was not a man who wanted to die without knowing what hit him.
His gaze refocused and shot towards the door the instant it hissed open. Too much time on Repleetah honed his situational awareness to a fine point. Of course, anyone without such awareness tended to end up slightly on the dead side, and in short order. Lieutenant Commander Mirat strolled into the lounge. Her uniform looked crisp, but her face was far from it. Her own eyes locked with Brenell as she approached. Brenell wondered how she was going to hound him this time. She was not bad looking, and might even have been a pleasant companion– if not for the chip on her shoulder the size of Hellas Basin.
“Ah Colonel, I was hoping to find you,” she said, a surprise to Brenell. He always had the impression she would not mind losing him and forgetting to look.
“You found me,” Brenell said dryly.
“Yes–“ Mirat agreed.
Brenell suppressed a sigh. “And what can I do for you today, Commander? Please do not tell me another crewmember has killed themself.”
Mirat shook her head. “No. In fact, morale seems to be pretty high, considering–“ She paused before continuing, giving Brenell time to wonder what he missed. Morale did not seem so high to him. Sure, preparations keep the crew busy, which kept their minds of doom and gloom, but even then he would never claim morale to be high.
Her face slumped into a grimace as she looked around. The few crewmembers still in the lounge gave her quizzical looks. The relationship between Lieutenant Colonel Zollern and Lieutenant Commander Mirat was antagonistic to say the least. Antagonistic to being almost legendary on board. Brenell would be surprised if anybody onboard did not know. When convinced nobody would overhear her, she continued.
“Between you, me and the bar, what do you think our chances are?” Mirat asked in a hushed voice.
Brenell shrugged. “As long as it stays between the three of us, I’d say nil was being optimistic. Even with that rattle-trap Border Worlds’ ship, we’re still outnumbered and outgunned.”
Mirat frowned. “No hope then?”
Brenell began to wonder if she sought him out for reassurance. Absurd, considering how hostile their relationship had been. “There is hope. We could damage or destroy whatever ships are carrying the Life-Eater; that would save Veronica II and its inhabitants.”
“Then it’s over,” her sigh was full of sorrow and regret.
Brenell scowled. “If that is how you feel, then keep it to yourself. We may all know the end is near, but it doesn’t do anybody a credit’s worth of good spreading that sort of attitude around.”
Mirat’s icy blue eyes narrows to daggers. Brenell held up a placating hand and continued. “I know I’m not your direct superior, but I am a superior officer, and I would be remiss in my duties if I did not jump on you about this.” Brenell would almost prefer jumping on a Kilrathi soldier, tomahawk at the ready, than to land on a fellow crewmember. He had more than a taste of that back in the trenches. In a way, the trenches on Repleetah were more comforting than a warship. Brenell found it rather difficult to dig into a durasteel floor.
“It is a fight for another day.” Mirat’s expression softened. “That is not why I sought you out. I wanted to know if you had any men to spare for the medical bays. We in Health Department are going to get rather busy.” She did not add that they would be rather busy, up until the point where Absolution blew up. She need not added that, for it was most certainly implied.
Brenell had to admire the doctors and how they would keep right on with their surgery, even if their position was about to be overran. That was another of the experiences on Repleetah, though not during a surgery. Aid stations were occasionally overran, and when the points were liberated, many doctors lie dead near their patients, some still trying to tend wounds just before their backs were pierced with the razor-sharp point of a Kilrathi pulse rifle. Their bayonets were built into their weapons.
Brenell nodded. “I have a few corpsmen on my staff, and three more with some knowledge of first aid. They will be at your disposal.”
Mirat seemed surprised by the victory. Surely she expected the Marine to put up a little more resistance. “Just like that?”
Brenell nodded. “Just like that. Unless, we’re boarded. In that case, I kindly ask you return them to me.” Mirat was no soldier nor a tactician, but even she could see the unlikelihood of the Kilrathi attempting a boarding. Why capture this old bucket when their fighters could easily chew her to pieces. Just how much Mirat knew about the details of the oncoming attack, Brenell could not say.
Mirat smiled. “Thank you.” Her face was pleasant enough when she smiled, though the Marine seldom had the wattage directed at him. Under better circumstances, who knew what could have happened between the two of them. He already had enough regrets in his lifetime, and he would not waste another so close to the end. The loss of his own wife the previous year, and Mirat’s hostility towards ground pounders made the rift between them as permanent as a bulkhead.
That made him think of Ellie, long dead on Sirius Prime. She was the only woman he thought was worth marrying. She was the love of his life, and when the Cats killed her, they killed his heart. He could never love another that way ever again. The only lady in his life now was his own flesh and blood. Serena will soon have to grow up in a world without parents, yet another orphan of the war. Well, not exactly. Her grandparents will take care of her.
Brenell smirked at her. “I believe that may be the first time you ever thanked me.”
Mirat’s gaze shifted towards the floor. “Colonel, I know we haven’t always got on well–“ That was an understatement if he ever heard one.
Brenell had the feeling he knew what was coming next. “Don’t worry about it, I hold no grudges against your attitude. You were trained to heal, I was trained to kill; ideological opposites if two ever existed.”
Mirat nodded. “I just did not want to leave any bad feelings this close–“ She trailed off. Brenell understood what she was doing. She wanted to mend wounds and fix bridges before the end arrived. She did not want to die with anything on her conscious. Standing there, Brenell saw past the cool exterior she usually war, like the ice crust of Triton, and realized she was but a young woman a long ways away from home. She could not have been even thirty– few crew members were past that ripe old age.
“Have you any family?” Brenell asked. He intended to write a letter to his daughter, though he had trouble composing it in his mind. She was far from old enough to truly comprehend what happened out here amongst the stars. He wondered why he put off the letter for so long; it was not as if he had much on his agenda at the moment.
“Yes, my mother is still alive, as is one of my brothers.” Like so many of her, as well as Brenell’s generation, she need not explain what happened to the rest. The war claimed those lives as it had billions of others.
“You might want to think about writing them, while you have free time.” He did not say while she still had time, for such phrasing did not a soul any good.
Mirat nodded again. “Yes, I shall do that. If you’ll excuse me, Colonel.” She was off before Brenell could even wave a dismissal.
As Brenell watched her leave, he could only think of life’s regrets. In a few days, none of those would matter any longer. When Confed and the Cats collided, all would be resolved. For better or worse– probably worse– regrets would be cast into oblivion. The biggest regret weighing upon his mind was that he would not watch his little girl grow up. In this darkest hour of the war, perhaps it was for the best that he would never see that world.
Chapter 6
Granita Jump Point
Wreckage of the TCS Monrovia
Veronica System
Lieutenant Colonel Brenell Zollern fought back his own wave of nausea as he stood weightless in one of Monrovia’s burnt out corridors. His naval counterpart, Chief of Operations, Commander Kolowski. Brenell was never any good in microgravity. He grew woozy from every experience, but had yet to lose his previous meal all over the faceplate of his E-suit. His companion, on the other hand, seemed to be taking weightlessness in stride. Brenell knew Kolowski’s type were the exception to microgravity, but that was no consolation to his pride.
Both brought their own teams over to salvage what they could from the ruined ship. Brenell was more interested in small arms, weapons that could be used in boarding, or counter-boarding, actions. He never knew a Marine who went wrong by having too many plasma rifles or grenades. Given the way 2669, has thus far gone, Brenell knew those weapons would be put to good use. His Marines drifted about the corridors, passing to and fro, hauling crates back to waiting shuttles. Brenell made a point not to drift, using magnets on his shoes to keep him anchored in place.
“There has to be a more efficient means of salvage,” Brenell muttered, still waiting for his stomach to settle.
Kolowski chuckled. “I find microgravity hurries the process. Imagine trying to carry anti-ship missiles under standard gravity.”
Brenell frowned. The fact that any anti-ship missiles remained lead the Chief of Security to suspect Monrovia’s life-support system self-destructed. With all of Confed’s ships using nanotechnology in their life-support, it was decided long ago to be wise to install auto-destruct mechanisms upon them. The last thing Confed needed was the technology to fall into alien hands. Especially Kilrathi hands. As far as Intel knew, the Kilrathi never developed nanotechnology. Their current bio-weapons were bad enough; add nano-scale dissassemblers to their inventory and entire planetary ecologies would quickly cease to exist.
Kolowski’s thoughts ran parallel. “By as much of the ship that remains, I’d guess the Cats scored a hit on the life-support system.” The ship was thoroughly gutted, which was precisely what the auto-destruct would have done. Every nanite inside the ship had to be vaporized, for even a single machine could advance alien technologies. Unfortunately, nanites withstood higher temperatures than organic lifeforms.
“My thoughts exactly,” Brenell replied. “Though I’d require a team of engineers to confirm it.” He knew what auto-destruct would do to a ship, but in his line of work, it was not what one knew, but what one could prove. Before the debacle at Earth, Confed brass would have wanted detailed reports on such disasters. After the debacle– one ship, even a destroyer, was not that large of a concern. If the Cats ever assembled such a larger fleet as they had last year, one more ship would not even make a difference. Not even if it were a carrier.
Kolowski shook his head, his helmet visibly shaking. “No time for that. Salvage is our priority.”
Brenell said nothing. He was aware of the mission. Security personnel were stripping small arms from the arsenal, and weapons crews were stripping missiles. Even the ship’s engineers were stripping plates of durasteel from Monrovia, with intent to fuse it over Abby’s breaches. Engineers from Kaitan and Gemini were nowhere to be seen; both ships headed off towards the moon of Veronica VI, and a Kilrathi signal recently detected. With the jump point mined, and the only known Cat ship in the system gone, Absolution was in little danger of attack.
He was concerned, and he knew he could not be the only one, that the Cats had not yet sent a ship through the jump point. Of course they knew it would be mined, but that never stopped them before. Usually they would send a lightly manned– er, Catted– ship, or even a drone, through to test the space. That they had not was a great worry. Perhaps their discovery that Abby was not an old, fat Freighter made the local commander think twice. Or maybe they were up to something else.
One of Brenell’s sergeants floated up to him. He fixed his magnetic boots to the floor and came to attention. “Sir, we lifted all the grenades and plasma charges in the port armory. Starboard armory is blocked. You want me to grab some Techs and cut our way through the wreckage?”
Brenell considered it. He and his Marines could use those weapons, but whether or not they would get a chance to use them was another matter. Odds were, the Kilrathi would not even bother to board the Absolution, and plasma rifles have a very limited effect on warships. “No, Sergeant, leave the Techs to patch up Abby. Load the shuttles and prepare to return home.”
“Yes sir,” the noncom saluted. Shutting off the magnets, he pushed himself down the hall without a further word. Brenell felt ill just watching him float past.
He glanced over at Kolowski, careful not to move his head too fast. “Very well, Commander, it appears Marines are still more effective than you Navy slugs. I’ll take my guns and take my leave.”
The Commander snorted. “You’re just jealous.”
Zollern was about to follow his Sergeant, when he stopped in indignation. “What have I to be jealous?”
Kolowski smiled in his helmet. “The gun my men are taking off is much bigger than your’s.”
Brenell groaned beneath his breath. Such juvenile comments– he expected that much more from his own men than the professionals in the Navy. “Yes, good luck with that turret. Try not to blow offAbsolution’s nose when installing it.” the Chief of Operation’s idea was not a bad one; after all, a ship never did wrong with too many guns. Had they a proper space dock and two months to accomplish the task, he would all be for it. Instead, they had only the ship’s resources to integrate a turret off a Gilgamish-class destroyer on an ancient Odin-class battleship. The Marine should be grateful that nobody was trying to integrate Kilrathi weapons into Abby, instead of just cutting off chunks of durasteel from the Kilrathi wreck.
Kolowski only laughed at Brenell, as if he were joking.
Conference Room
TCS Absolution
Veronica System
It was one of the unavoidable parts of being head of security. At least once a week, Captain Powers calls together all his department heads for a meeting, a sort of briefing for the Captain. Brenell never much cared for meetings, and as of late, they brought nothing but bad news. This conference room was small, cramp with just the long table. It was doubly so with all the department heads sat along its sides. Walls around him, when not gun metal gray, were decorated with monitors. Two of them were out; one cracked when a something not held down flew out of control during the last firefight, and another simply out. Electrical or optronic or something. Brenell’s specialty was law enforcement and he was far from a skilled technician. Plasma rifles and shotguns were one thing, the ship’s information systems quite another.
Across from him sat the ship’s Chief Engineer, Commander Draaken. The Swede looked annoyed just being in the room. Considering parts of Abby, such as the conference room’s carpet, were on the verge of coming apart, Draaken had far more important matters to attend to than briefing the Captain on items he should already be made aware. His face turned into a stone glare as one of the overhead lights flickered, threatening to burn out. That was one more item on his department’s To-Do List. He had to ignore it, as he continued to speak of items the Captain had best already know.
“Repairs are progressing smoothly,” Draaken continued. “We’re still having issues installing the Monrovia’s pulse turret to out bow.” His gaze shifted to Commander Kolowski in a less-than-friendly glare. As with any good engineer or technician, he had to put up with scatter-brained ideas from those not qualified to repair a toaster, much less install a major piece of hardware without proper equipment. “As I’ve mentioned before, to complete this installation properly, we would require an extensive stay in space dock. Patching the breaches is a simple enough matter, but not mating equipment that was never intended for its location.”
The XO, Mindalo, spoke up. “Does Veronica II have any such facilities?” she asked. The planet was home to millions of humans, even if they were Border Worlders. Brenell knew not about Border Worlds’ technical skills. If they were anything like the Landreich, then their aid could be useful. The Marine remembered a story he once heard of some Landreichers installing a frigate– or maybe it was a corvette– engine on to a Scimitar. The funny thing was, the mix worked.
Draaken shook his head. “No sir, nothing that could handle a ship as large as Abby.” Like a man with any sense, he had already queried the ship’s computer on the Veronica System, and its industry. “Now if you want to put that turret on the Kaitan, then they could manage. It would still take at least two weeks to complete.”
“We don’t have two weeks,” Powers, sitting at the end of the table, growled. “That weapon needs to be up and running within a week.”
Brenell could visibly see Draaken grinding his temper between his teeth. “Captain, that won’t happen without the proper equipment. Trying to rush this installment will make that turret a bigger threat to us than the Cats.”
Powers snapped. “You’ll make do with what you have! Thanks to Gemini and Kaitan–“ Brenell could hear the scorn in the Captain’s voice when he mentioned the destroyer. “And their efficient dispatching of that listening post around Veronica VI, the Kilrathi have a good idea where we are. We can expect company sooner or later; and the way our luck’s ran lately, it’ll be sooner.”
Every officer around the table knew what the Captain meant. It was not our luck, but rather the way the war’s been going. Powers could not say that, for even in the worse conditions, the Captain must always ooze confidence around his crew, less they lose faith in him. Brenell was the same around his Marines and Naval personnel that served in his department.
“Are we expecting company soon?” Kolowski asked. The head of security sat to Brenell’s left, closer to the Captain. That suited the Marine just fine; he was a good shield against Powers’s wrath.
Powers nodded. “Half hour ago, I received news from the Commodore. The Kilrathi struck Trafalgar IV with the Life-Eater.”
Silence filled the room. Brenell could feel the apprehension radiating from the crew. He knew a little about Quattro, the name for Trafalgar IV. Since the Trafalgar System sat on the outskirts of the Tanhausen Nebula, its planets were not overly suitable for life– or at least nothing from Earth. The planet was pockmarked by habitat domes, some of them ten kilometer across, all used to keep in a breathable atmosphere, and to keep the planet’s not-so breathable one out. The domes housed the planet’s agricultural centers, with the actual cities being beneath the ground. If anything, those domes made the Kilrathi bio-weapon more effective, since it could not dissipate like it could across a planetary atmosphere. Anybody inside the domes when the Life-Eater breeched it, as well as the atmospheric curtains, was certainly dead. Even if the locals sealed the infected areas and were not killed outright, food shortages would soon have their affect.
Famine. It was a concept humanity thought it left behind when it sprang forth across the stars. All the worlds of the Confederation, at least all the habitable ones, were self-sufficient in food production. Even Earth, with its billion inhabitants and near Ice Age conditions, grew enough to support itself. Of course, after having a couple dozen cities wiped out, there was far more for the survivors. Brenell did not like thinking of just how close Earth came to destruction.
Powers continued, taking the silence for acknowledgment. “It gets worse,” he continued. “Surviving ships in the Trafalgar System reported the Kilrathi task force headed for the Veronica System.” At least they did until their communications were abruptly discontinued.
Mindalo picked up where the Captain left off. “No doubt the Cats are aware their observatory in this system has gone off the air.”
Powers agreed. “Gemini wasn’t as fast on the draw as Harris might have liked.”
“The Cats were probably on their way to Veronica II anyway,” Kolowski added. It would have been the closest target to Quattro. “I guess now they’ll enter the system expecting more resistance than a Border Worlds’ picket.”
Powers nodded. “According to reports from Trafalgar, we can expect a Snakier along with four cruisers and six destroyers.”
Silence greeted the revelation. Brenell could see the worry slipping between the cracks of military professionalism on the senior staffs’ faces. The Marine felt it too. Even if it were just six cruisers, Task Force 212 would be outgunned. Abby could destroy two of them with ease, probably two more before succumbing herself. Through in a carrier, even an older one, then the Cats could take out Absolution’sPTC turrets at a distance.
“How many fighters?” Commander Vincent, the ship’s Wing Commander asked. He only commanded a squadron, but those few ships were Abby’s entire wing. Like Brenell, Norman Vincent was too many years too young for his rank. Had he lived in peace time, he might have made Lieutenant by now. War could be good for one’s career, considering how many able men and women found themselves dead in a hurry. None of his hair had started to go gray– a condition seldom worried about in this war– but enough lines had grown into his face to make any observer instantly know the job has taken its toll.
Powers shrugged, a rather un-captain-like action in Brenell’s opinion. “Running assumption is a standard wing of sixty-four. Intel, for whatever that may be worth, suggests pilots would be of average skill.”
Vincent nodded in understanding. Kilrathi pilots will be about as good as his own. Even with Gemini’s nineteen fighters and Kaitan’s short squadron, they would still be outnumbered nearly two-to-one. With two of his own pilots dead, Vincent had some decisions to make. He would probably press Abby’s shuttle pilots into service, if not the shuttles themselves. The ships themselves would be outnumbered eleven-to-three, so left over pilots might be of little use. Everybody knew this, but nobody would state the obvious.
Powers’s expression did lighten somewhat. “The natives are more than willing to help defend their planet. Their corvettes and planetside fighters will stay to defend Veronica II, but the Border Worlders are sending their lone ship.” Powers tapped several keys built into the head of the table. A hologram sprang to life in the middle of the table.
Brenell tried to figure out just what it was. The ship, a generous term in this case, appeared to be a pair of pre-war destroyers or frigates connected together by a bulky box. Given the fact this box was open at either end, Brenell took it to be a flight deck of sorts. Like all the Frontier-made ships he had ever seen, it looked very makeshift.
“What a kludge,” Brenell muttered under his breath. At least he thought he muttered it.
“I agree,” Powers told him. “They call her the Tango. As you all can see, it’s nothing more than a pair of old Durango-class destroyers connected to a flight deck. She packs the firepower ofMonrovia, but carries two squadrons of fighters.”
“Don’t tell me,” Abby’s Wing Commander interrupted. “They’re still flying Firecats.”
Powers glared at him. “Very well, I won’t tell you.” It took a few seconds for the joke to set in. “No, nothing that old. The Commodore reports she’s carrying mixed squadrons; Scimitars, Raptorseven a couple of Sabers.”
Vincent said nothing, though his face told volumes. He did not think those old fighters would be of much use, even against Kilrathi second-class fighters. If the Cats were sending out fighters designed in the past decade– Scimitars would be good only to draw fire away from Confed’s fighters. Numerically, they might just break even with the Cats– assuming the Kilrathi cruisers are not hauling along a squadron each.
Powers’s scowl dissolved into a look of resignation, a rare show of any emotional this side of rage on his behalf. “Needless to say, we must make every effort to stop the Cats here and now. We’ll rendezvous with the Tango at Veronica II. After that, we’ll intercept the Cats at around 0.1 AU from their world. It’s well outside effective missile range of Veronica II. We have no idea knowing which ships carry the Life-Eater, so we can’t let a single one past us. If we can cripple a ship, we’ll board it in search of the virus.” That was not a likely outcome.
Kilrathi were not suicidal by nature, but they would destroy their own ship along with themselves to spite their enemy of a prize. It might be a one-way trip for any Marines sent out. Which meant it would be one-way for Brenell. He was not about to send out his men on a suicide mission while he sat comfortably in his office.
“That’s our mission, any questions?” What was there to ask? It was a not a battle anyone in the room expected to fly away from. This was Absolution’s last stand, plain and simple. Even if they destroy half the Kilrathi ships, they would remain outnumbered. When none were asked, Powers continued. “I expect my ship and crew to preform this task flawlessly. Dismissed.”
Officer’s Lounge
TCS Absolution
Not for the first time, Brenell wished there was no prohibition on board Abby. 2669 was a year to drive anyone to drinking, even if he was never real heavily into the vice. He understood the need for it– depression and depressants are not the best of mixes– but that did not mean he could not use a good, strong drink. Today was definitely a barrel of rum sort of day. He did not foresee any other type of day ahead. What few days lay ahead would keep most of the crew busy, but as always, the Marine felt more like a dead weight. There would be no boarding actions, either against the Cats or in repelling them. The battle would end with one side being utterly destroyed, and he had serious doubts that side would be the bad guys.
The mood in the little lounge was as solemn as ever, though he thought he heard one of the naval officers try the old line about boosting his morale on one his female counterparts. He heard nothing defeatist in the talk, so did not intervene. Had the officer been one of his Marines, Brenell would have had a talk with him, something along the lines of not harassing the naval personnel. Had the man been running his mouth about the end of the world, Navy or not, Brenell would have pulled him aside and raked him over the coals. Since he had not– Brenell could not blame the crew, more than half of them a few years younger than he, for trying to grab what minutes of happiness they could.
Outranking most of the crew, Brenell would not try such actions himself. He saw them as unprofessional, and almost felt as if he would be pulling rank on what was essentially a private affair. Without any defeatist words, Brenell ceased paying attention, and never did learn if the young man was successful in his endeavor. Neither he nor the other crewmember in question were in the lounge, but that proved what? His training in law enforcement always told him that it was not what he thought, or even knew, but what he could prove.
He was tired of this war, tired of the gloom and hopelessness. When he joined the Marines, victory looked, though not on the horizon, just beyond it. Now hope was a distant dream, and the future was as bleak as the darkness of the void beyond Abby’s hull. The only bright side of their impending doom, is that preparation for the upcoming battle kept the crew too busy to think about killing themselves. If Brenell never had to investigate another suicide, he would be rather pleased.
That left him one less thing to deal with. Instead of filing reports, Brenell was dividing his own security force among the naval crew. Departments were shorthanded, and with next to no chance of having the Cats board Absolution, the top Marine broke up his own force by specialization. A couple of the officers under his command had engineering degrees, and they went straight to Draaken.
Most of the enlisted ground pounders were transferred over to Abby’s ordinance departments. Most can take over at firing stations if the need shall arise. The rest could load missiles and pulse charges. Many will even be clearing out wreckage as the rest of the ship collapses around them. Above all, Brenell did not want his Marines to sit around idle, waiting for the end to come. He did not want to sit around idle, either. Thus, he planned to be on the bridge. Brenell was not a man who wanted to die without knowing what hit him.
His gaze refocused and shot towards the door the instant it hissed open. Too much time on Repleetah honed his situational awareness to a fine point. Of course, anyone without such awareness tended to end up slightly on the dead side, and in short order. Lieutenant Commander Mirat strolled into the lounge. Her uniform looked crisp, but her face was far from it. Her own eyes locked with Brenell as she approached. Brenell wondered how she was going to hound him this time. She was not bad looking, and might even have been a pleasant companion– if not for the chip on her shoulder the size of Hellas Basin.
“Ah Colonel, I was hoping to find you,” she said, a surprise to Brenell. He always had the impression she would not mind losing him and forgetting to look.
“You found me,” Brenell said dryly.
“Yes–“ Mirat agreed.
Brenell suppressed a sigh. “And what can I do for you today, Commander? Please do not tell me another crewmember has killed themself.”
Mirat shook her head. “No. In fact, morale seems to be pretty high, considering–“ She paused before continuing, giving Brenell time to wonder what he missed. Morale did not seem so high to him. Sure, preparations keep the crew busy, which kept their minds of doom and gloom, but even then he would never claim morale to be high.
Her face slumped into a grimace as she looked around. The few crewmembers still in the lounge gave her quizzical looks. The relationship between Lieutenant Colonel Zollern and Lieutenant Commander Mirat was antagonistic to say the least. Antagonistic to being almost legendary on board. Brenell would be surprised if anybody onboard did not know. When convinced nobody would overhear her, she continued.
“Between you, me and the bar, what do you think our chances are?” Mirat asked in a hushed voice.
Brenell shrugged. “As long as it stays between the three of us, I’d say nil was being optimistic. Even with that rattle-trap Border Worlds’ ship, we’re still outnumbered and outgunned.”
Mirat frowned. “No hope then?”
Brenell began to wonder if she sought him out for reassurance. Absurd, considering how hostile their relationship had been. “There is hope. We could damage or destroy whatever ships are carrying the Life-Eater; that would save Veronica II and its inhabitants.”
“Then it’s over,” her sigh was full of sorrow and regret.
Brenell scowled. “If that is how you feel, then keep it to yourself. We may all know the end is near, but it doesn’t do anybody a credit’s worth of good spreading that sort of attitude around.”
Mirat’s icy blue eyes narrows to daggers. Brenell held up a placating hand and continued. “I know I’m not your direct superior, but I am a superior officer, and I would be remiss in my duties if I did not jump on you about this.” Brenell would almost prefer jumping on a Kilrathi soldier, tomahawk at the ready, than to land on a fellow crewmember. He had more than a taste of that back in the trenches. In a way, the trenches on Repleetah were more comforting than a warship. Brenell found it rather difficult to dig into a durasteel floor.
“It is a fight for another day.” Mirat’s expression softened. “That is not why I sought you out. I wanted to know if you had any men to spare for the medical bays. We in Health Department are going to get rather busy.” She did not add that they would be rather busy, up until the point where Absolution blew up. She need not added that, for it was most certainly implied.
Brenell had to admire the doctors and how they would keep right on with their surgery, even if their position was about to be overran. That was another of the experiences on Repleetah, though not during a surgery. Aid stations were occasionally overran, and when the points were liberated, many doctors lie dead near their patients, some still trying to tend wounds just before their backs were pierced with the razor-sharp point of a Kilrathi pulse rifle. Their bayonets were built into their weapons.
Brenell nodded. “I have a few corpsmen on my staff, and three more with some knowledge of first aid. They will be at your disposal.”
Mirat seemed surprised by the victory. Surely she expected the Marine to put up a little more resistance. “Just like that?”
Brenell nodded. “Just like that. Unless, we’re boarded. In that case, I kindly ask you return them to me.” Mirat was no soldier nor a tactician, but even she could see the unlikelihood of the Kilrathi attempting a boarding. Why capture this old bucket when their fighters could easily chew her to pieces. Just how much Mirat knew about the details of the oncoming attack, Brenell could not say.
Mirat smiled. “Thank you.” Her face was pleasant enough when she smiled, though the Marine seldom had the wattage directed at him. Under better circumstances, who knew what could have happened between the two of them. He already had enough regrets in his lifetime, and he would not waste another so close to the end. The loss of his own wife the previous year, and Mirat’s hostility towards ground pounders made the rift between them as permanent as a bulkhead.
That made him think of Ellie, long dead on Sirius Prime. She was the only woman he thought was worth marrying. She was the love of his life, and when the Cats killed her, they killed his heart. He could never love another that way ever again. The only lady in his life now was his own flesh and blood. Serena will soon have to grow up in a world without parents, yet another orphan of the war. Well, not exactly. Her grandparents will take care of her.
Brenell smirked at her. “I believe that may be the first time you ever thanked me.”
Mirat’s gaze shifted towards the floor. “Colonel, I know we haven’t always got on well–“ That was an understatement if he ever heard one.
Brenell had the feeling he knew what was coming next. “Don’t worry about it, I hold no grudges against your attitude. You were trained to heal, I was trained to kill; ideological opposites if two ever existed.”
Mirat nodded. “I just did not want to leave any bad feelings this close–“ She trailed off. Brenell understood what she was doing. She wanted to mend wounds and fix bridges before the end arrived. She did not want to die with anything on her conscious. Standing there, Brenell saw past the cool exterior she usually war, like the ice crust of Triton, and realized she was but a young woman a long ways away from home. She could not have been even thirty– few crew members were past that ripe old age.
“Have you any family?” Brenell asked. He intended to write a letter to his daughter, though he had trouble composing it in his mind. She was far from old enough to truly comprehend what happened out here amongst the stars. He wondered why he put off the letter for so long; it was not as if he had much on his agenda at the moment.
“Yes, my mother is still alive, as is one of my brothers.” Like so many of her, as well as Brenell’s generation, she need not explain what happened to the rest. The war claimed those lives as it had billions of others.
“You might want to think about writing them, while you have free time.” He did not say while she still had time, for such phrasing did not a soul any good.
Mirat nodded again. “Yes, I shall do that. If you’ll excuse me, Colonel.” She was off before Brenell could even wave a dismissal.
As Brenell watched her leave, he could only think of life’s regrets. In a few days, none of those would matter any longer. When Confed and the Cats collided, all would be resolved. For better or worse– probably worse– regrets would be cast into oblivion. The biggest regret weighing upon his mind was that he would not watch his little girl grow up. In this darkest hour of the war, perhaps it was for the best that he would never see that world.