CODE: S2/S17
Episode Seventeen
Niall Turner & Greg Miller
War Stories: Pride
In the open area at the rear of ‘Earth’s Pride’, a young woman waited impatiently.
Impatient to be on her way to the war raging in the space around her home planet, Earth. Not Nova Mondas, Earth!
If anyone had the right to be there it was she. And yet, here she was waiting to catch a ride with a bunch of Draconians, all because no one would issue her ship with the transponder required to transmit the Federation signal. Without that, ‘Earth’s Pride’ would be targeted as a hostile ship in the no-fly zone.
It was no wonder she was impatient. Her memory only stretched back a bit over half a year, with the rest of her twenty-odd years lost to her. Still there, but somehow out of reach. Like when she’d started calling the Doctor ‘Professor’. And he’d told her that she had previously travelled with a possible future version of him. She hadn’t needed to deal with that initially, what with piloting the ship and fighting Pels, but after they got back to Alpha Centauri…
Much to her disappointment, this piece of knowledge wasn’t the key to unlock her hidden memories. And she wasn’t even sure she wanted to know any more. Once you open a can of worms, there’s no way the contents will ever fit back in.
And when she’d decided that she needed to do something rather than sitting around thinking, she’d gone to the Doctor’s shop. He’d gone, off to the war with the Cybermen, or so EnalcKarnip had said.
All her friends were gone or otherwise out of reach. The Doctor, off to war. Nick and Vlaash, who knows where. Ssaard and the other inmates of IC5486, under lock and key and she was banned from seeing them. Even Vishkalaar, the only workmate she’d really gotten on with, had made it plain that he could not afford to see her at the moment. Any anti-Federation links were being checked after the revelation of Cybermen spies and the betrayal of the Supreme Senator.
The Supreme Senator… How he had ever thought he’d get away with sacrificing Alpha Centauri to the Cybermen and using the resulting war to shore up his faltering position she’d never know.
She drew the dagger Vishkalaar had given her, warrior to warrior, as a sign of his support when the officious Blooradab had threatened to report her for being ‘overly familiar’ with the Martian prisoners. Hell, it was probably the Alpha Centaurian who had got her sacked!
She put the dagger away and picked up another old memory. A battered black bomber jacket, the last of the clothes she was wearing when she… well, however she got to Alpha Centauri. There were lots of tiny rips on the lapels and sleeves, as if many things had been attached once and torn away. The back was similar, with only a very tattered letter ‘A’ slightly left of centre.
A is for Alf. Maybe that’s why she’d kept it, when all the rest of the clothes had been long since junked. It was bizarre that she, the last Earthling, was named for the first thing she could remember seeing - Alf, short for the star Alpha Centauri. That kind man she’d met so soon after her memories began had given her that name, but had not mentioned his own. She smiled, remembering how she’d initially thought he’d been chatting her up. Instead, he’d taken the amnesiac last survivor of the human race and given her a meal, a name and sent her off to get the job she needed to make her own way. She suspected he’d put in a good word to make sure she’d been hired as well. Three wishes granted, just like a fairy godfather.
She sighed. Enough of the past. What she wanted was to do something. Fight a war; find Nick; anything except wait. Typical bloody Draconians. If there’s a right way or time to do something, you can bet they’ll do it that way and at that time.
She sat down on the bench that doubled as a bunk, swung her legs and waited. Impatiently.
* * *
He turns his head, buoyed by the slight movement of the healing nutrients.
Static. A message from far away. He barely hears it, ambient sound on the edge of consciousness.
Raising a lazy arm he pushes a button in the side of the flotation tank. The temperature rises but not uncomfortably. He traces a manicured nail across the button and its neighbours, watching as the nutrients separate and run over the scales of his arm.
He flexes. Forms a fist.
Strength is power. Power is strength.
A smile.
His father would have agreed with the sentiment. His father was a true politician of the old school. He is also dead.
And his father was wrong. Strength and power mean one thing only: Danger. Always danger. Because somebody always wants to test the boundaries. An image of the Doctor rises in his mind, oddly disquieting. He frowns, pushes another button. The liquid begins to rise about him.
The Doctor understands politics but he is not a politician. He is born to speaking, a priest orator of old but he is not a politician. No… far too much feeling on display.
Worrying thoughts play at the edge of his consciousness but the nutrient level is above his head now and hyper sleep is beckoning. Something to do with the Taurean child but he can make no sense of it… He likes this feeling of floating towards unconsciousness, almost like really sleeping…
The healing systems take over and the thoughts are lost. Supreme Admiral Vorkuuthh, Commander-in-Chief of the armies of Draconia allows the world to recede to a comfortable distance.
* * *
Later.
The auto systems have run their course. He stands naked on the small deck of the iso-pod, staring down into the purple gloop of the nutrients. The tank cover slides to with a pneumatic hiss, jolting him from his thoughts.
“Clothing.”
Micro drones mould synthetics and body armour swiftly about him. The sensation is not unpleasant, reminding him of youthful nights in the massage parlours of Rill.
“All systems active. Update.”
“FORTY-FOUR MESSAGES INCOMING UNANSWERED: TEN, SENATORIAL PRIORITY.”
“Never mind the bureaucrats! Rate of progress!”
“FLEET PROCEEDING IN HOLDING FORMATION - ESTIMATED ARRIVAL ON EDGE OF MONDAS SYSTEM - FIFTY SEGMENTS. FORWARD LOOPERS REPORT SKIRMISH CONTACT - NO CASUALTIES SUSTAINED.”
No casualties sustained. That will change.
“Time until rendezvous with our allies?”
“TWENTY-FIVE SEGMENTS.”
“Good. Activate ship to ship and plot course for the ‘Imperium’. That is all.”
Systems hum into life, the body of the iso-pod subtly shifting. A viewing screen springs into life on a control panel. First Ensign Rukaar stares at him from the deck of the ‘Imperium’.
“Supreme Admiral! My life at your command! We have been trying to contact you for the past four segments…”
“Yes, yes and I shall be with you inside the next one, boy!” Efficient but stupid this one. “Now, tell me the important bits.”
“You have forty-four incoming messages. Senator Akrulan reports that the Empress…”
He feels himself bristling. “The important stuff boy!” Does he have no brain at all? With his personal staff split between the ‘Draconia’ and the ‘Imperium’, Vorkuuthh finds himself having to make do with whoever is available.
Rukaar is looking to one side. He steps out of view to be replaced by the familiar figure of Commander Ultarch.
“Supreme Admiral. There is a message from your wife and children. Also a blockade ahead - possibly Peace Timers. The companion of the Doctor, the girl Alf, has embarked from Centauri and will dock in three segments.”
“Thank you commander.” A smile of acknowledgment passes between them. He fingers his beard, lost in thought for a minute. Ultarch waits patiently. “Prepare the conference suite on A-deck and run the strat-comps in time for my return.”
“Yes Admiral.”
* * *
An insistent bleeping broke into Alf’s reverie. It should be the proximity alert, hopefully picking up the ‘Imperium’.
She nipped back into the cockpit, smirking briefly at the memory of the Doctor’s bulk becoming wedged briefly in the narrow confines at the front of the ship. He had seemed somehow out of place on the ship, and that incident had proved the impression had been correct.
Activating the view screen, she used the touch pad to direct the display to the segment of space in which the detected object was located. There. A small glimmer, visually different to that of the stars. She selected that area of the view screen and zoomed in.
Shit. She knew that Draconian battle cruisers were immense, but that had not prepared her for the image that filled the view screen. Somehow combining the conflicting attributes of immense size and a sleek shape, the ‘Imperium’ looked like nothing she’d care to be going up against in combat. Possibly the impression of sheer size derived from the fact that, unlike her previous encounters with spaceships, there was no nearby planet to provide scale.
The ship was cylindrical, a design feature which allowed the Draconians to aim the prow of the ship at the opponent in combat, focussing the force shield on a smaller area and hence improving its strength. This turned the Draconians’ ‘no retreat’ attitude in their favour.
Zooming in on various features of the ship, she took careful note of the positions of the neutronic blaster cannon arrays. That was a shitload of firepower, but she already knew that from the grid memory patch she’d downloaded in preparation for the trip.
Wait a second. The power reading was way too high for an inactive weapon. That set of blaster cannons was aimed directly at her!
Damn damn damn! Transmit a recognition signal before you get yourself killed, girl! She shot off the pre-arranged signal, keeping the view screen focussed on the blasters targeted at ‘Earth’s Pride’. She relaxed as the readings told her the array was being powered down to stand-by level.
Good lesson here: do what you have to do before you admire the equipment!
Incoming comms signal… She allocated an area of the view screen to display the visuals.
A Draconian in uniform displaying communications flashes appeared. “This is Lieutenant Krastaarn of the ‘Imperium’. Your recognition signal has been received and confirmed. Your incoming signal has been analysed, and appears to be a true visual signal, not CGI. You are the human Alf?”
“That’s me. So, what’s the procedure from here?”
“We will shortly beam a homing signal to guide you to the appropriate hold. You will fly your ship and land in that hold, where a representative of the Draconian Fleet will meet you. Given your association with the Draconian Ambassador to the Federation Senate, I have been advised that First Ensign Rukaar of the Supreme Admiral’s own staff has been assigned to this task. He will ensure you are scanned for Cyber implants. Oh, and Pilot Alf? Do not deviate from the homing signal. Should you do so, the Galactic Federation and the Draconian Fleet will accept no responsibility for your death even if it is caused by our weapons. ‘Imperium’ out.”
Alf swallowed. These blokes weren’t pissing about!
* * *
Alf disembarked from ‘Earth’s Pride’ and into the attention of a small greeting party. She took a small amount of pride that she warranted six armed troopers before they confirmed that she wasn’t an agent of the Cybermen.
The seventh Draconian wore a far more fancy uniform than the others - doubtless the ensign assigned to meet her. Yep, there was that chest beating salute of the Draconian Fleet. Mind you, he was giving her ship a dubious look at the same time.
“Pilot Alf? I am First Ensign Rukaar of the Draconian Space Fleet. On behalf of Supreme Admiral Vorkuuthh I welcome you onboard the ‘Imperium’.” He held up the implant-scanning wand. “With your permission…?”
Alf stepped forward, raising her hands in the air. “Be my guest.” The wand hummed as it was passed over her body but, apart from a mild tingling in her fillings, there was no obvious effect.
“You appear to be clear,” said Rukaar. Behind him, the troopers visibly relaxed. “Now, Pilot Alf, we need to determine what your precise skills are so that we may appropriately deploy your services.” In place of the wand, he now held a datacom.
“I’m hitching a ride on this ship to the war zone. When we’re there, I’ll take ‘Earth’s Pride’ and head off. That’s simple enough.”
“You intend to fly this… ship into battle? Surely a qualified pilot would be better served with a current model. Might I inquire as to the name of the academy at which you attained your qualifications?”
The tone of his voice was so officious that Alf found herself counting the number of limbs Rukaar had. Only four, so despite his attitude he wasn’t an Alpha Centaurian. “I didn’t study at any academy. I downloaded the piloting and astrogation skills from the experiential memory transfer grid.”
“The grid? Then you aren’t a qualified pilot at all! There is no way that you will be allocated any pilot duties. Grid learning is a most inferior substitute to personalised tuition and experience, you know.”
“Is that so? Or is just your way of feeling superior to people whose parents can’t afford to put them through la-de-dah academies?” She looked the junior officer up and down. “Looks to me like you’re fresh out of that academy - no practical experience! What you don’t seem to understand is that the grid simply feeds in the information, you actually have to practice to turn what you download into real skills.”
“It isn’t the practice that is important, it is the way you acquire the skill. The way you learn teaches you about living an honourable life. What you have done is little more than computerised grave robbing.”
“Grave robbing? Listen, I may be a guest on this ship, but where I come from we call that sort of thing ‘fighting words’.”
“‘Fighting words’?” Rukaar looked at her closely. “Am I to understand that you are challenging me?”
Oh, good work! Hardly set foot on the ship and I’m already in a fight. “If you like. I’ve got nothing to prove here, you’re the one who seems to have the need to feel you’re better than me.” She smiled at Rukaar, but it wasn’t a nice smile.
There was a sudden bleep from the ensign’s uniform. “First Ensign Rukaar? It is almost time for the Supreme Admiral’s conference. Your presence is required in the conference suite. The Supreme Admiral also requests the presence of Pilot Alf.”
“Message received. On my way.” Rukaar pressed at a device oh his uniform, presumably preventing his next words from being broadcast. “You heard that. We need to go to the conference now. But this matter is not concluded.”
“Raise it again any time you like, sunshine.”
* * *
Now he has a headache, pushing, relentless, right behind the eyes. Rukaar, in particular, is annoying him. Sometimes he suspects Akrulan has had the ensign assigned to him as a joke. What the boy’s doing in the fleet the God Empress alone knows. Definite senatorial material but never a soldier.
Speaking of Akrulan, he realises the senator is addressing him. The thin figure wavers in the grey light of the holo-beam from table’s centre.
“Vorkuuthh?”
He frowns. “I’m sorry senator, could you repeat the question?” There is movement from beside him. Rukaar.
“Do you require a stimulant Admiral?”
He feels himself bristle, missing Akrulan’s response in the process. “No I do not require a stimulant!” Insolent fool. “Sit down!”
Rukaar sits amidst the embarrassed rustle of papers. No one at the table can hold his gaze. No one but the girl, her eyes smiling. For a minute he wants to ask her what she’s thinking. Damn females! She winks at him and he gets to his feet, pacing a circuit of the table. Necks crane to follow him.
“We must prioritise!” Akrulan from the conference suite on Draconia, querulous as always.
Vorkuuthh pauses, smiles in spite of himself, reminded of some piece of bureaucratic nonsense. “Yes, prioritise… Perhaps we should, how do you say it Akrulan, step outside the box?”
The diminutive figure glowers from the holo-beam. “Yes, thank you Vorkuuthh, when you’ve stopped playing God on the battlefield perhaps you’d deign to lower yourself to our humble affairs.”
His eyes narrow. The silence in the room has become palpably dangerous. Even the girl has stopped smiling. Akrulan’s comment is below the belt, unworthy of the memory of his late brother.
“And don’t bring Ishkavaarr's name into this Vorkuuthh!”
Bastard spawn of a Gaasshnaarrkk swamp dweller!
“You two are worse than a pair of kids, you know that?” The girl, staring pointedly at the table.
“Be silent female!” Rukaar, attempting to throw his weight around. Stupid.
She laughs openly. “That’s really amazing, mate - a talking arse. How long you had that?”
He feels the situation slipping away from him. In a way the girl is right. “Silence!” His tone is thunderous.
There is silence.
Akrulan clears his throat from Draconia. “The two main points are your broadcast to the people of Draconia and…”
He interrupts - blunt. “Run the standard footage - give them the pomp and circumstance.”
“That is not sufficient! You are required under article seventeen…”
“Article seventeen be damned! Get Ultarch if you want a voice over.”
Compromised silence.
“Very well.” Akrulan concedes, clearly not happy.
“We are all ready too far behind the main fleet. I should be seen to lead, not skulk in the backwaters like some political leech!” He glares about the table, daring anyone to disagree. No one does. The girl is grinning. He frowns. Careful female, I am not your friend.
She shrugs, as though reading his thoughts.
“There is also the matter of the Peace Timer blockade.” Rukaar, prompting Akrulan.
“Ah yes,” Akrulan is smiling now. “I cannot countenance your request to go around the blockade, Vorkuuthh.”
“The delaying tactics of these ‘peace’ protesters will cause thousands, maybe millions of unnecessary deaths, Akrulan!”
“Vorkuuthh, we know you are concerned for your son but under the fourth statute of the Federation Treaty of Individual Right to Self-Expression…”
He doesn’t even hear the rest. This is personal! By the gods he’ll -
It’s very quiet, disconcertingly so.
He realises he’s cut the holo-link without realising.
“Admiral?” Rukaar is looking at him questioningly.
He places a hand on the ensign’s shoulder. “This meeting is at an end. Summon all strategic personnel to the forward observation deck.”
No one argues with that either.
Except the girl, who remains sitting, watching, as the others file from the room. “You’re a bundle of laughs, Vorkuuthh, you know that?”
He stares. “What do you want female?”
She leans forward. “These Peace Timers - tell me about them.”
He looks at her again, really looks at her. She is young but more of a warrior than the likes of Rukaar will ever be. And her eyes, there is something dead in her eyes. He can’t explain.
She smiles, gets to her feet. “Yeah, you and me both mate.”
She understands. There is no need to say anything. He nods for the Honour Guard, hovering, to leave them in peace. The doors slide to as the girl crosses to the observation window, looking out into the gulf of deep space.
He moves to join her, the void drawing him in. For a moment he feels his vision and consciousness slip. He speaks without realising. “My son, he is with the Peace Timers.”
“Your son? Shit!”
“My eldest son. Voraann. He is probably aboard that blockade.”
“Gordon Bennett…”
“Gordon Bennett? He is there too?”
She smiles. “No mate, sorry, turn of speech. He’s not there.” She pauses. “That Akrulan’s a right idiot isn’t he?”
He shakes his head, turning away from the observation window. “With the loss of his brother he is the finest political mind we have.” A pause. “And no mean strategist, though it pains me to say it.”
“What’s that?” She is staring ahead, pressing her face sidelong to the window. Dim specks of light in the distance, amber and blue.
He directs her gaze downwards, to the random of the Settii cluster below them.
“Wow!” She sounds impressed in spite of herself.
“The Settii cluster, satellites of Settii, the gas giant. Comparable in size to Centauri but uninhabitable.”
The cluster passes below them, crude formations of ochre brown and brilliant orange, laced with sudden startling striations of sapphire and silver, reflecting pinpoints of light from the blockade ahead.
“Are they inhabitable?”
He frowns. “Possibly. There have been two exploratory expeditions I know of. Neither returned.”
She grins. “Unfriendly then.”
He returns the grin. “If you will excuse me, I must talk with my wife.”
“No problem.” She heads for the doors, looks back. “See you on the blockade then?”
Presumptuous of her! He laughs and nods a wave.
* * *
Alf looked around the hold that acted as a docking bay. She smiled briefly at ‘Earth’s Pride’, looking forward to the other end of the journey and being free to pursue her own interests.
She then looked back at the group of Draconians that had been selected for this mission. Aside from the Admiral, mostly an Honour Guard. She couldn’t imagine he’d want a crowd for a meeting with his estranged son, but it appeared she’d got under his guard enough to be one of the party.
Oh no! There was Rukaar. She’d hoped to avoid him, but she should be so lucky!
He was giving her the evil eye. Give it a rest!
Uh-oh. It looked like the group was ready to board that shuttle over there. She’d missed whatever briefing Ultarch was giving.
As she walked across to join them, the ensign moved to block her way. His face was like thunder. She paused before they came too close. Alf noted that Commander Ultarch was eyeing the two of them with concern, but that Vorkuuthh himself appeared to be looking around distractedly, focussing on nothing in particular.
“A problem, ensign?” she asked.
“There is no place for you here. This party represents Draconia and the Galactic Federation in its dealings with some misguided citizens. It is no place for a former security guard dismissed from Federation service.” Seeing her surprised look, he continued, “Oh yes, I know about you. The Federation database has informed me that you have no real history, first entering the record in the last year. It tells me you are suspected of complicity in releasing Martian traitors from legal custody. And it tells me you claim to be a native of the home world of the Cybermen, from a race extinct for over five centuries. What it doesn’t tell me is which enemy you truly work for. Or why anyone should trust you.” He paused. “And in the future, refer to me by my correct rank: First Ensign!”
“And even if all that is true, what’s your point? I’m coming on this mission at the direct invitation of Supreme Admiral Vorkuuthh. And there’s nothing some junior spaceman like you can do about it.”
She moved to step around him, but he continued to interpose his body. Alf was beginning to think that thumping him was the only way that she’d break this stalemate when Ultarch placed a hand on Rukaar’s shoulder.
“It’s time for you both to board the shuttle. First Ensign Rukaar, you are to pilot the shuttle, as you’d know if you’d listened to my briefing.” His eyes moved between them, looking for any sign that either of them would disobey him. When it was obvious that neither would, he stepped back and watched them board the shuttle.
“It looks like you will be safe for the moment,” Rukaar said, as they entered the shuttle.
“Oh, you think I need to hide behind your superior officers, do you? I told you before, anytime you like. While Vorkuuthh’s with the Peace Timers, if that suits you.”
“Agreed, female.” Rukaar looked at her, smiling crookedly. “You will soon learn why Draconia is the premier members of the Galactic Federation in most matters, and particularly combat.”
* * *
Now he isn’t laughing. The events of the past segment are a blur. He remembers the look Makaara had given him on hearing his decision. She knows he is making mistakes. Mistakes? No, too strong a word. Although no word could be strong enough for the news from home. He tries to push the thoughts away but they will not leave, a nagging cloud of mental blood feeders.
“Supreme Admiral?” Rukaar from the flight deck of the shuttle, cautious.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Access codes received. Airlock tunnel pressurised. You are safe to embark.”
Idiot! This is a war situation. Nobody is ever safe.
“Admiral?” One of the Honour Guard at his side. The girl, Alf has elected to stay with Rukaar. There is something unspoken between those two but he has no time for it now. Now he must, he must… His headache is returning with renewed force. He cannot think clearly.
There is a soft hiss as the airlock shutter rises. Somehow he snaps himself back into the present, un-holsters his energy weapon.
“Yes, we should embark.” He hears himself bark laughter. “Do our official duty with due regard to individual freedoms.”
He senses the Honour Guard exchange a look. They are good men but they do not understand. No matter. The time for understanding is over. He steps into the subdued light of the airlock tunnel. Now it is time to talk with his son.
“Follow me.”
* * *
Voraann is waiting for him on the outer hub of the blockade. This section seems to consist of an adapted merchant man; old and new technologies mixing in an absurd cross-junction of wires and circuitry across walls and floor. As motley an assortment as Voraann and his associates. Ossoban intellectuals, the disaffected aesthetes of Centauri and Taureas II, others unidentifiable. All of them have the stench of liberal hypocrisy about them.
“Father.”
“Voraann.” He wants to scream. Sees himself gunning them all down. Holds his tongue. The news can wait. He wants to be alone with Voraann. The boy isn’t afraid of him, he knows that much. He has his mother’s eyes and bearing. Proud, unafraid. Standing there before him in all his gaudy Peace Timer finery, blasphemous trinkets and sigils about his person.
“You look tired father.” A smile.
He motions for the Honour Guard to wait by the airlock entrance. “I am tired my son. Yet we will speak. This I know.”
The smile broadens. “So we shall. My life at your command.”
A ripple of laughter runs through the group, the Centaurians bobbing absurdly at the humour.
He frowns. Two at the back, of a type he doesn’t recognise. One dark skinned, handsome, the other pale with blonde hair as askew as his smile. They do not look like Peace Timers, despite their garments. They…
Voraann is directly before him. The moment is lost. “Doubtless you wish to talk alone father?”
The impudent young fool turns his back and walks steadily away, towards a curve in the corridor. Then turns, a laconic eyebrow raised. The Peace Timers are beginning one of their absurd chants. With a muted snarl he stalks after his son, shouting an order to the honour Guard. The chant pursues him down the corridor, an angry hoard of Gaasshnaarrkk blood feeders at his temples again.
* * *
When they were alone, Rukaar ordered the shuttle’s computer to close the airlock. He then directed that the internal configuration to be changed from passenger to troop carrier mode. The seats folded down neatly and retracted into the floor. Some benches were projected from the cabin walls, presumably for the senior Draconian officers to use while their troops made do with the open area.
All things considered, Rukaar seemed the type to settle the thornier issues by combat rather than negotiation and compromise. Even at her age, she recognised there was a need for pragmatism in living life. You had to pick the fights that were worth fighting and pass on those that were not. This was a lesson that Rukaar had yet to learn.
Maybe this was an opportunity to teach him?
Rukaar turned to her. “You understand that this is not a battle to the death? Regardless of any views either of us may have, my life is sworn to the Galactic Federation’s war effort. I cannot risk it for any purpose but the winning of the war. When I defeat you, you may not seek a duel to the death with me until after the war is over.”
Arrogant git! “You beat me? In your dreams, sonny. No weapons, right?” She put her pistol and knife on a convenient shelf. She thought she saw the Draconian’s eyes follow the dagger. Bet he hadn’t expected her to have a Draconian weapon.
Rukaar stepped back and removed his ceremonial robes, leaving only his under-robes. He reached into them and removed a pair of gloves, which he pulled on. Alf saw that they were reinforced around the finger and thumb areas, muffling his claws and effectively disarming him of his natural weapons. He’d come prepared.
* * *
Carefully he places the info tab down. The Peace Timer demands are absurd but astute. They know their statutes well. Some of them appear to have been willingly starving themselves to death for the simple purpose of diverting medtech funding and equipment. Blind, pathetic fools! He cannot think about this now, let alone answer. Makaara was right; she should have done this, not him.
“How many of you are there?” A question to distract. His voice sounds unfamiliar, flat.
Voraann waves a disinterested hand from the other side of the room. “Six, seven thousand. This is a community father. Doubtless you see it as some idle political statement.”
A community! He stares about the confines of the room. Crudely functional. Adapted again with a mix of technologies. He frowns at the control panels. Some of this is very sophisticated. They have walked some distance and gone deeper inward to be here. It feels strange to be so close to his son after all these years, at the heart of the world Voraann has made for himself. Part of him feels they were always destined to meet here. He starts. Voraann is unwittingly asking the question.
“And what of mother and my dear sisters? Not to forget brave Harkothh. How could I forget my little brother?”
“Harkothh is dead. He died fighting for that which you do not believe worth defending.”
Ages pass.
The silence hangs heavy between them.
* * *
Rukaar strode to the centre of the room, striking a combat pose. “Now we shall learn whose words have the greatest truth.”
Alf sauntered far more casually into the combat floor. “On Earth we had a saying, ‘don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched’.” The combat position she assumed was far less formalised and ritualistic. She could see Rukaar’s nostrils dilate in disdain. “Come on then, if you think you’re hard enough!”
The ensign began to circle around to her left, slowly but with the impression of a compressed spring. He certainly had done this before.
She moved forward suddenly, feinting with a roundhouse kick. As Rukaar moved to counter it, she struck quickly and landed a blow on the side of his head. The knobbly scales abraded her bare hand, showing her that her opponent would require careful handling if she were to avoid hurting herself.
Rukaar retaliated with a kick to her midriff, knocking her backwards and to a semi-prone position. As the Draconian moved forward to take advantage of her imbalance, Alf pushed herself forward, driving her shoulder into her opponent, forcing him to stagger backwards.
The two combatants regained their balance and prepared to begin again.
And then the lights flickered…
* * *
A tear is making its way slowly down Voraann’s cheek.
“You will never understand father.”
He is raising the energy weapon, almost unconscious of the action. “No my son, I will not.”
Gunfire. Distant. The airlock!
“Voraann! What have you done?”
A smile. “As you say father, this is war.”
The room lurches under a series of tremendous explosions, the power cutting in the same instant.
He hits the floor hard, the scream and grind of tearing metal in the darkness all around him.
* * *
The lights flickered a second time, and the entire room shook violently. Alf and Rukaar were thrown apart and to the floor.
The two combatants looked at each other. What had happened?
“Computer? First Ensign Rukaar speaking. Current SitRep, please.” The Draconian spoke at the empty middle-distance, and looked somewhat puzzled when there was no reply.
Climbing to her feet, Alf crossed the still shaking room to a wall-mounted computer monitor. “Sometimes the old ways work best,” she said, activating the monitor by the touch pad. Obviously her current security clearance was still active.
The view screen display was filled with variable levels of static, sometimes so strong as to drown out the image. She used the touch pad to call up an image of the ship to which they were docked.
And that was when things really went bad.
The screen showed atmosphere bleeding off into space in rapidly dispersing white jets. The whole ship shook violently again, in time with a blinding flash on the view screen. And then chunks of metal, spinning and glittering on their way off into space.
The decompression alarm sounded, and emergency bulkheads slid across the entries to this cabin. Even the flight deck was closed to them. They were trapped!
Looking up from the floor, where she had once more been thrown, Alf could see the airlock with which they’d docked was blackened, misshapen by the explosion. And getting smaller all the time. The shuttle was no longer attached to it, and was shooting off into space.
Just what I need, she thought. Lost in space, and Rukaar will make the perfect Doctor Smith!
“Rukaar! We’ve been blown away from the blockade. I’ll need you help to try to take control of the ship from here.”
The Draconian had climbed to his feet for the first time since the initial explosive jolt. “One side, female!” He shoved Alf none too gently. “We must determine our trajectory quickly. This area of space is too crowded for us to careen about at random!”
While somewhat annoyed at the rough handling, Alf took Rukaar’s point and stood close behind him. The ensign was using the touch pad to call up an image of what lay directly in the shuttle’s path.
A small planetoid filled the pixelating screen. As Alf watched appalled, it seemed hours, days and even years were squeezed into each passing second. As the seconds ticked by like decades, the features of the Settii planetoid’s surface became increasingly detailed.
A collision was inevitable.
One word filled Alf’s mind: Nick!
Next Episode:
War Stories: Fall
CAST
Sophie Aldred as Alf
Bernard Horsfall as Supreme Admiral Vorkuuthh
Wil Wheaton as First Ensign Rukaar
Terry Walsh as Commander Ultarch
John Woodnut as Senator Akrulan
James Beamish as Voraann
Sally Wiget as Lieutenant Krastaarn
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