‹Unknown. With degree of gravitational disturbance in system and reported numbers of infected units, random source high probability.›
Degradation?
‹Five percent failure in forward armaments and shielding. And increasing.›
Divert all available resources to Cleaner Unit generation.
“What’s our status, Eng?”
“Sickbay is overflowing,” Commander Oldfield said. “We’ve got Laser Two back up and three of the damaged ball guns on the port side. Starboard is trashed, through. We’ve used up all our molycirc getting the port back up and we’ll have to find some more osmium before we can do anything on the starboard. And, frankly, sir, most of the guns are beyond local repair. The fabber isn’t big enough to make some of the components.”
“That gives us, what? Seven guns on port and two on starboard?” the CO asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Prael said. “That’s enough. Conn, set course for the brain-ship.”
“Sir, are you insane?” the Eng snarled. “We’re going to get our ass handed to us! We’ve done enough!”
“TACO?” the CO said. “What was that about all the times I’ve busted up my ship?”
“ ‘If I had been censured every time I have run my ship, or fleets under my command, into great danger, I should have long ago been out of the Service and never in the House of Peers,’ ” the TACO said automatically.
“With your shield or on it, Eng,” Prael said. “With your shield or on it.”
“CIC, Conn. Two minutes to intercept.”
“I miss the music,” the CO said. “What do we have in the way of tunes?”
“About a billion MP3s, sir,” the TACO replied.
“What to play, what to play?” the CO said, accessing the entertainment server. “I’m getting a bit tired of rock, heavy metal and Goth. Hmmm… Ah. There we go…”
The TACO looked up as orchestral music started to pour from the 1MC and tapped his foot.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard this before, sir,” the TACO said. “Catchy tune, though.”
“That’s because you were forced to attend that wimpy liberal school in Annapolis, Lieutenant,” the CO said. “If you were an Aggie, you’d have learned the words by heart.
“Yes, sir, very nice,” the TACO said, wincing. Like the XO, the CO really should let others sing. “But we’ve got an emergence at the warp-point.”
“What?” the CO asked, standing up and walking over to the sensor operator. “What class?”
“It looks like a Dreen convert,” the sensor tech said. “Dreadnought class. Pretty much like that one we captured in the Orion battle. But the readings are off enough I’m not sure. Accel is way up, total energy output is up about ten percent. So… I’m not sure, sir.”
“Just one more Dreen to engage,” the CO said, sighing. “Sound the battlecry, men, we’re going — ”
“CIC, Communications. Incoming transmission, SpacCom codes. Visual and audio.”
“Put it on,” the CO said, resuming his seat.
“Captain Prael, Admiral Blankemeier, Alliance Flagship Thermopylae,” Spectre said, grinning evilly. “I see you’ve managed to make hash of my ship. Again. Congratulations, glad to see the tradition has been upheld. But we’ve got this one, you can back off.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“That is a bold statement, Captain Spectre,” Ship Master Korcan said. “However, a Dreen brain-ship outclasses this vessel by nearly ten to one. Our odds of survival…”
The two were viewing the battle from the Thermopylae’s CIC, a massive room that looked like an auditorium with a two-story screen on the far wall.
Humans and Hexosehr didn’t, frankly, know much about the race that had built the Thermopylae. The Mrreee sentient which had commanded it called them the Karchava. The massive dreadnought had been captured from the Dreen and converted to Human and Hexosehr use. This, however, would be its first taste of combat with a regular crew. And most of the crew was playing catch-up figuring out the systems. So it looked to be a trial by fire.
“Never tell me the odds,” Spectre said, leaning back in his command chair and interlacing his fingers behind his head. Technically, he had another similar compartment next door from which to command a fleet. And technically he shouldn’t be sitting next to the commander of the ship, looking over his shoulder. But the Hexosehr didn’t seem to mind about that sort of thing and the Karchava had installed a control point right next to the commander for some reason. With the massive Karchava chair replaced by a human control position, he figured he might as well use it. Korcan had been a corvette commander previously. A highly decorated one, but only the commander of a corvette. Stepping up to temporary command of the Thermopylae was a big step. Sometimes two brains could be better than one. And it gave him a chance to have this conversation more or less face to face, given that the Hexosehr didn’t have eyes. “Did the Caurorgorngoth turn away in the Battle of Orion?”
“No,” the Hexosehr commander replied. “But the Caurorgorngoth was dying and far from outclassed even then. We are a brand new ship. Perhaps letting this one flee would be the wiser choice?”
“Okay, call it a human thing,” Spectre said, regarding the blinking red icon of the Dreen flagship calmly. The Hexosehr had managed to comprehend the Karchava systems well enough to change the color of the icons and the information readouts next to them. Fortunately, the rest worked really well. If humans ever met the Karchava, Spectre suspected they’d be people to get drunk with. “If so much as one ship escapes this system, the Dreen will know what happened. If not even their brain-ship returns, they will have only dread. I’m not the commander of this ship, Korcan, but I am your senior officer. And as your senior officer, my orders are to engage more closely…”
‹Karchava dreadnought, identified as lost Unit 24801, approaching on course for warp point. Signals analysis indicates control by Species 27264.›
Engage all weapons.
‹Forward systems inoperable due to Organism 8139 infestation. ›
Recall all fighter systems. Engage enemy combat unit.
‹Dispatched.›
“It is not deviating,” Ship Leader Korcan said.
“It’s trying to escape the system,” Spectre said.
“And we must prevent this,” Korcan said. “Entering our maximum engagement range. We should have been taking fire from the brain-ship before this. Their range is greater than ours.”
“Be thankful for small favors,” Spectre replied.
“Permission to open fire?” Korcan asked.
“Your ship, Ship Master,” Blankemeier replied. “I’m just along for the ride.”
“Very well,” Korcan said. “Main Gun Control.”
“Aye, sir,” the gunnery officer replied.
“Target the brain-ship. Open fire.”
“Dude, we need, like, those cool Death Star uniforms,” Gunnery Petty Officer Third Class Sherman Zouks said. He had the helmet of his ship-suit latched up and was looking at the gun board dyspeptically. “You know, black, shiny?” He dropped the helmet and hummed some ominous music. “Doom, doom, doom…”