In the quiet, backwater system of Halderon IV, the old war horse had been put to pasture. She floated majestically in geostationary orbit over the gas giant that star maps called HV-16 and the locals called Lesvous. A bevy of smaller ships darted around the system, all of them hopelessly obsolete by modern standards, consigned to system defense duty and anti-piracy patrols. Compared to the old campaigner, they were state of the art.
Almost one thousand years had passed since her massive, seventeen mile long keel had been laid down in the long ago vaporized shipyards at Arnhem. She had been the first of fifteen ships of her class. Massively built, heavily armored, carrying the then revolutionary, fifteen inch Particle Projection Cannons, and internal bays for a whole wing of fighter/bombers. In her day, she had been the pinnacle of space going naval technology and, with her sisters, had been a thorn in the side of the Terran Authority's reconquest of the galaxy.
For one hundred bloody years, she and her sister ships had protected the Gunarian Confederation from being annexed into the Terran Authority. The Treaty of Sol III in 3745 had marked the end of hostilities, as the Confederation had bowed to the inevitable and joined the Authority voluntarily, rather than face long years as an occupied power. Four years later, she had been refitted and with a loyal Terran crew and joined the Authority Navy.
In her nearly limitless positronic database, the bloody history of the reconquest was stored. She had rained fire and death on the rebellious planet of Sig-Alpha five, taken part in the great naval engagement on Centauri Prime, provided fighter support in the final battles against the Volluskuns and taken part in more skirmishes and fleet actions than most people could imagine. When her battle board was lit, she was as close to sentient as any machine humans had ever constructed.
Eventually, time and technology turned her cannons into pea shooters and her hangar decks into less than today's auxiliary carriers boasted. She had been consigned to the scrap yard, when some bean counter realized she was the oldest active duty ship in the Authority fleet. Rather than scrap her, the powers that be had parked her here in orbit and turned her into a training ship for new pilots.
The old warhorse was quiet now. The only sound and fury aboard came from raw recruits shooting at targets or blowing off steam. Her great guns had been silent for more than a century and the battle circuit that would bring her to full wakefulness had been dark for twice that. She slept, and perhaps she dreamed of battles in days long gone by. She remained as a living monument to man's determination to conquer the galaxy.
***
Erica Davies sat in the darkened conference room, watching the gas giant spin beneath the ship, through the big armalite picture window. Ancient wind storms left mottled yellow spots in the planet's dark green face. A belt of them along the equator had been ancient at the time the
Yorktown's
keel had been laid.
Departing from a small intra-system liner she watched the shuttles that were bringing in a new batch of recruits. For the last five years her job had been training others to go into combat. At forty-three she felt as old as the ship she was assigned to. Like her, she had been put out to pasture. Unlike her, Erica was still in her prime.
There was no hell for a combat pilot quite like the one she was living in. She felt like the attendant at a filling station, watching the cars go by, but forever kept away from the action. Despite the reams of requests, she was stuck, away from the adrenaline rush and excitement of active duty on a combat vessel. She held her hands up and examined them, turning them from front to back again and again.
She saw long, delicate fingers, with the nails cut short. The skin was still soft and supple, but for how much longer? she wondered. Time, the fighter pilot's most deadly enemy stalked her now. One day those hands would no longer react with lightning speed. The reflexes would fade and the strength would succumb to the ravages of old age. She still had them now and wasting away here while a major war was being fought was slowly killing her.
Every one hundred and twenty days she sent a new batch of freshly minted pilots to the combat zone in Delta quadrant. She had seen the casualty lists and knew that over eighty percent of them never lived to draw their first month's pay. The Trog were the first race humanity had met who matched them in both technological accomplishment and ruthless determination.
They actually called themselves the Slanesshs, but the Terrans referred to them as troglodytes, which had been shortened to Trogs. They were a reptilian race, taller and more heavily built than humans and covered in a scaly greenish hide. They breathed an atmosphere that was very similar to human tolerances and thus, both races coveted the same kind of planet, although the Trogs couldn't survive on the more arid worlds.
Exploration had led to incidents, incidents to threats, threats to confrontation and now a hot war raged. The Trogs had a numeric advantage, the Humans a slight edge technologically, and for the past decade they had been killing each other with zealous abandon. Stalemate gave way to frustration and frustration lead to atrocities on both sides. The war was basically a bloodbath, centered on the jump bottleneck at Yalo. Each side felt it could win a war of attrition, so the plasma kept flying.
Yalo was the key. The only planetary system with a star that provided enough energy to recharge a jumpship's engines, that was strategically placed to bridge the great stellar void called the abyss. Whoever controlled it could make incursions into the other's space with impunity. It was said that more beings had lost their life in that system than all the other systems in space combined. Erica doubted that, having some personal history that let her know better, but the Terran media repeated it like it was gospel in all the war newscasts.
Erica brushed a lock of her long blonde hair from her face as the door to the room slid open on almost silent servos. She didn't have to ask who was there, she already knew. Sgt. Major Tucker. With his arrival she scooped up the folders on the polished table and tucked them under her arm. Erica rose smoothly, with a fluid grace that was almost feline and turned on her heel.
"They're landing now," the grizzled veteran said in his customary soft voice.
"Bring 'em to the squad bay, Earl, and don't spare the fists. We need to toughen them up more, we're losing so many."
"Not your fault, Boss, don't even go there," he said quietly.
Ten years together did something to people. A mutual respect developed that was almost as deep and strong as lovers shared. Erica was a tough disciplinarian, and a stickler for the regs and military courtesy. The big NCO was the only man on the ship who could even think of being so familiar with her except the captain. To everyone else she was a straight-laced, no fun, kill-joy of an old bitch. Old tight-ass, they called her, though never when she was in earshot.
Tucker had watched over her when she was a raw recruit, drug her ass out of uncounted dives after William had been killed, and saved her from demotion or discharge on a dozen occasions or more when she was younger. It was something they never mentioned, an unspoken understanding that her gratitude was beyond words.
"Mercy. Just be prepared to ride 'em hard. New policy is in effect, we are getting criminals with high aptitude scores who are given a choice of prison or the military again. We aren't winning this one, Earl, and the Authority heads are getting desperate."
"You got it, Boss," he said before turning and disappearing into the cold steel hallway.
Erica glanced out at the stars one last time before heading for her office in the squad bay.
***
