Olympus Beckons Pt 07

This story takes place in the universe created by fellow writer farbeyondourstars.

Olympus Beckons - Part 7: "Give Them the Good News!"

One moment, space was empty, just another bit of black in that endless sea of darkness. And then, from a swirling, crackling vortex of man-made lightning, a shape rose out of the depths of that non-Euclidean realm that is hyperspace, to breach once more back into the familiar domain of material existence.

The "Zeus" was not a graceful craft. She did not possess the fine lines and gleaming hull of some of the more modern vessels. For she was a warship. One of the last of the old Invictus class, with a hull sheathed in battered armour plate, showing the dents and scars of long years of hard use. She was not pretty, for she was built for combat, and violence was her trade.

Captain Frances Frobisher sat in her command chair. Her eyes bright, but other than that slightly predatory tell, she emanated only an aura of calm, barely glancing around her when the hull creaked, and the lights momentarily flickered as the ship returned to reality.

When she spoke, her voice was professionally detached, "Status?"

Damon, her executive officer, looked up from checking the boards at his secondary command station, "We've transitioned back into realspace. Nav shows us on the edge of the Scorpius Sigma star system. The ship is at action stations, all systems show manned and ready, all combat systems show green, shields raised, plasma torpedo tubes loaded, and main gun charging. Emergency power available at your discretion."

"Thank you, Damon."

She looked towards the slender, fair skinned woman manning one of the other bridge stations, "Navigation?"

Tapping a last few controls, lieutenant Collingwood confirmed her calculations before turning to her, "Distance to Scorpius Sigma II is two hundred and thirty light minutes, Captain. At standard speed we can make orbital insertion in just under eight hours."

Frances nodded and gave the woman a smile, "Very good, Selene, and nicely done."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Seeing a light flashing on her console, the Captain tapped a key, and one of her monitors lit to show the face of her chief engineer, "Go ahead."

The craggy old spacer nodded, "Engineering report, Cap. We strained the hyperdrive a bit, a couple of the baffles warped, and there were a few burnouts when we came out of jump, but it's an easy fix," he grinned, "this lady might be old, but she's tough, she won't let us down."

"I never doubted it. Is the drive still operational in the meantime?"

Running a hand across his bald head he blew out a breath, "Well, I'd prefer to do a bit of maintenance first and maybe let her settle a bit, but yes, we can jump."

"I'll see what I can do. Thank you, Chief."

"Contact!"

Her head snapped round, "Report."

The scan-tech was peering into her display, "Three, no four contacts, just coming into scanning range," she adjusted a dial, "they appear to be in close formation, in stationary orbit around Sigma II."

"Any identification?"

The rating shook her head, "We're still too far out, ma'am, but preliminary readings show that one matches the configuration of target vessel. Another is larger, and it looks to be in very close proximity to target, possibly docked. The others are both smaller than either of those vessels. I can't be sure from here, but they appear to be warships, and it looks like they are flying escort."

"Thank you, Gail, good work. Let me know if you can make out anything else."

The rating smiled at the compliment and bent back to her scope, "Yes, ma'am."

Damon shook his head, "They got here before us? That thing must have a hell of a hyperdrive engine."

Frances pursed her lips and gave a disgusted snort, "No shit."

Rising from her chair, she moved across the bridge to lean down beside the scan-tech's station, "Can you give us anymore, Gail? Anything could be useful."

The rating was nervous, and it showed, but she somehow kept her voice from trembling as she answered, "I've got the long-range telescopes focusing on them now, ma'am, and I'm getting some trace readings from their gravitic and electronic spoor. The tactical systems have pulled some tentative conclusions from the data. But," she swallowed, "it's not definitive, Captain."

Frances smiled and gave the woman's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "Don't you worry about that, Gail, I'll take all I can get."

The woman exhaled, "Right, um, okay..."

She pointed at her scope, "This one is almost definitely our boy. The readings, such as they are, match those of the 'Pistolero' pretty closely, so that's the one we're most sure about. Now, it looks like she's docked with this one. It's giving off a powerful gravitic and mass reading, so it's much bigger than the 'Pistolero', maybe three of four times the size, but the electronic footprint isn't that much stronger."

Damon sniffed, "So?"

Frances answered before the scan-tech could speak, "A warship that size would have a significantly more pronounced energy reading, and that thing doesn't, but what it does have is enough mass to indicate an armoured hull. So, it's either some modified piece of crap, which would be dumb as fuck, because adding the mass for armour but not upping the drive would make the thing incredibly sluggish and unwieldy, or..."

She paused, staring out the viewport as she considered, "It's a military prison transport."

"Ma'am?"

"They used them during the war. High-capacity prison hulks for transporting prisoners of war. She's armoured because the things sometimes had to make pick-ups in contested systems."

"Armed?"

Frances shrugged, "Minimal weapons normally, but they could have modified it. A lot of internal security though: automated guns, stun-gas, neural shockplates; that sort of thing."

"Sounds like a bastard to board."

"Yup."

She turned back to the tech, "What about the other two?"

Gail examined the data, "Much higher power readings. They're definitely warships. From the mass readings it's a pair of big corvettes or maybe a couple of escort frigates."

"Which?"

"I-I can't be sure, ma'am."

Frances chuckled, "Then give me your best guess, I won't hold it against you if you guess wrong after I pressed you."

Gail was sweating bullets by now, under the gaze of her Captain, and she licked her lips, adjusting controls as she tried to refine the readings. She peered into the scope again and then nodded, "They're frigates, about the same size and mass as the old Cassandra class. Still looks like they're maneuvering slowly about the docked ships in loose formation."

Nodding slowly, the Captain made a thoughtful sound, "Hmm, Cassandra class, eh? That's a Thorian design. Not seen one of them for a while."

Standing, she patted the girl on the back, "Thank you, Gail, very well done indeed."

Moving back the command chair, she sat gracefully before turning to the XO, "Recommendations?"

Damon made an exasperated sound and indicated to the instrument screens, "It sucks. As soon as they detect us, assuming they haven't already, they'll charge their hyperdrive coils and jump out before we can get anywhere near them. And if we try to close, they'll definitely see us."

She nodded sagely, "Agreed."

The man grimaced and shook his head unhappily, "We could try playing the lame duck, maybe lure one of the escorts out, but that wouldn't help us get the transports. They'd still jump as soon as we started burning in their direction, especially if we shot up one of the frigates first."

"Can't argue with you there," she sighed, "oh well, time to embrace the suck."

"Captain?"

Turning in her chair she looked out across the bridge, "Navigation, plot a microjump, please."

Selene's head whipped round, and the normally self-possessed young woman gave her an incredulous look of mixed horror and disbelief, "A microjump?"

"Yes, please," she pointed at the screen, "drop us right on top of them if you would."

"But that's fucking craz-" she swallowed the words and gestured at her display, "Captain, if I make even the slightest miscalculation, we could come out right in the middle of the planet behind them, or on the far side of the system, or... well, anywhere."

Frances barely blinked, "Better get it right then."

Selene stared.

Clearing his throat, Damon moved closer to the command chair, "Uh, Captain, a microjump will put severe strain on the ship, and if the hyperdrive so much as fluctuates at the wrong time we could come out in pieces, very small pieces."

"Do you have an alternative suggestion?"

"Uh, don't do it."

With a wry snort, she gave the man a grin, "Any

other

suggestions?"

He shook his head, "No, ma'am."

"Then carry out my orders, please."

He looked into those unyielding eyes and swallowed, "Yes, Captain."

Stepping across the bridge, he tapped a key on his console, "Ship's company, all hands - brace for turbulence, we're in for some heavy chop."

Turning to the navigator, he drew himself up before giving her a brusque nod, "You heard the order. Carry on, lieutenant."

"Shi... Y-yes, Sir."

...

Curtis swore, "Fucking thing..."

Nala eyed him, his mouth curled into that semi-permanent sneer he always seemed to have, "Problem?"

"I saw something," he gestured, "out there, right out on the edge of the system."

"Huh?" The big man moved closer and peered at the scope. After a minute he sniffed, "Don't see nothin' now."

"I'm telling you; it was there."

"What was it?"

"A ship, just hanging there, right on the edge of sensor range. I thought for a minute it was moving in closer, but..."

Looking across the cramped bridge towards a crewman currently slouching over a secondary console, he called out, "Hey, dipshit, how far along are we with the transfer?"

The man looked up from the reader in his hands and glanced at the display, "'Almost done on our end. Word from the 'Elmira' is they've finally started unloading at theirs. An hour, maybe two, and we're done, tops."

Shaking his head, Carson peered back into the scope, muttering, "I'm telling you, man. I got a bad feeling about this..."

Nala grunted. The "Pistolero" was a tramp freighter, but he'd spent too many long hours, as well as too many credits, over the years carrying out modifications on her. Her hyperdrive, and most of her other systems, were full-on military spec. And she carried a decent battery of seeker missiles, carefully mounted in hidden launchers, to back up her gauss cannons. The sensor package had similarly been overhauled and upgraded more than once, along with her shields and tracking software, so Carson's report was enough to give him pause.

Like most of the other crew, Carson was a merc; a cash-for-hire killer who didn't give two-shits what the job was, as long as it paid. But before that, he was ex-navy, a scan-tech, and supposedly a damned good one. Until drink, drugs, and a few of his other, more unsavoury, habits got him thrown into military prison and then dishonourably discharged. Still, the man was good at his job.

The ex-sailor looked up again, "Might not be a bad time to start recharging the hyperdrive, boss."

Nala grunted, "Mind yer business. Besides, if they detect us charging the drive, those wolves out there might just put a shot right into us. I don't trust these Thorian fucks."

"Then why the fuck are we doing business with them, man?"

There was a grunt, "For the only good reason there ever is; because they pay well. Now, you best keep a close eye on that screen and sing out if you see anything."

Still grumbling, Carson turned back to his scope, just as there came a flash, as space was ripped violently asunder, and thousands of tons of armoured warship erupted from hyperspace, heading straight for them.

With a cry he recoiled from the screen.

"Ohhhh, FUCK!!!"

...

With a scream of tortured metal, the ship literally

bucked,

as the Zeus tore itself back into realspace. Sparks flew, klaxons erupted all over the ship, and warning lights flashed brilliantly on every console.

There was a cry, "Collision course! Impact in thirty seconds!"

Frances barked orders, "Evasive port! Helm hard over! Point defence free. Go for the transports. Rake them as we pass. Take their engines, if you can."

The point-defence autocannons on a warship were a defensive system. A last-ditch stopgap designed to throw up a wall of fire into the path of oncoming missiles. But in a pinch, they could be used offensively, and at close range, their massive rate of fire could wreak havoc.

The ship heaved aside so violently that the gravity shear left half the crew puking and gasping for breath as she screamed past the two docked ships. But the tracking computers didn't concern themselves with such petty trivia. Coldly, methodically, they uncaringly measured ranges, calculated firing arcs, and issued their electronic commands.

The multi-barreled rotary autocannons were dual mounted in fast-tracking turrets. As one they swiveled, and a moment later multiple lethal torrents of heavy calibre slugs tore through the stern of the "Pistolero," ripping the hull apart, gouging chunks out of the ship, and reducing the engines to so much mangled scrap.

The prison hulk, with its armoured hull, fared much better, and though it was holed in a few places, it more or less shrugged off the stream of projectiles that hammered against it with impunity. That is, until the three plasma torpedoes that spat from the aft tubes of the "Zeus" slammed into the unshielded ship, blowing massive glowing craters into its stern quarter.

The lurking vessel lurched over like a punchdrunk sailor on payday, leaving a trail of atmosphere, corpses, frozen water vapour and other debris in its wake.

Aboard the Zeus, there may have been chaos, but it did not reign. Auxiliary systems kicked in, damage control parties went about, extinguishing electrical fires, while injured and incapacitated crew were ruthlessly pushed aside and their stations manned.

Felina was terrified, she had already pissed herself, and she thanked the artificer from the bottom of her heart for his skill. Now she was running behind a medical corpseman, her arms stuffed near to overflowing as she carried a pair of bulky trauma kits, while the seemingly tireless medic moved from compartment to compartment, patching wounds, administering stims, and doing what was needed to get people back on their feet.

They stopped next to a charred figure. It was a technician, and the smoking and sparking relay nearby was evidence enough of what had befallen him. The medic dropped down, tearing at the man's suit, uncovering his readouts, "Damaged, fuck... Gotta patch in. Felina, connect the trauma kit to his support pack and then plug it into mine. He's alive. Good, good..."

The medic grunted, "Well done, Felina, that's it. Here, hold this..."

Whatever it was the corpsman was going to hand her, she never found out. With a sickening lurch she was picked up and thrown into a bulkhead as a massive impact pitched the ship onto its side. Her head slammed against the wall with enough force to have literally bashed her brains out if it hadn't been for the helmet she was wearing. There was the urgent sound of a siren, a scream of escaping air, and the visor slammed shut.

On the bridge, smoke filled the air, and a rating shouted out, "Direct hit amidship by plasma torpedo. Starboard shield collapsing."

Frances nodded, and for the rest of his life Damon would remember just how utterly calm she sounded as she spoke, "Rotate ship, bring us about and present forward shields. Torpedo room, stand by."

The com crackled, "Standing by."

There was a sensation of movement as the ship responded, and her teeth flashed as she smiled, "Volley fire, target lead ship."

The crewman at the tactical station was nursing a few burns from electrical fires from a nearby smouldering console, but that didn't stop him, "Target locked."

"Fire."

Six torpedoes spat as one from the ship's forward tubes. Brilliant spheres of glowing plasma that screamed across space, straight into the front of the oncoming frigate. The savage blast obliterated her forward shield, scorching her hull and tearing at her weapon emplacements.

Frances snorted, "Nicely done," she looked to the XO, "main gun?"

"Charged and ready."

"Then give him the good news."

"Yes ma'am," with a snarl his fist clenched as he barked, "Let him have it!"

The gunner pushed a button, and there was a brilliant flash as the particle cannon lit the sky.

The frigate's shields had already collapsed, and the beam punched through the naked hull like a blowtorch through paper. Cleaving through the vessel from bow to stern and cutting the ship in two. The ship's reactor let go almost instantly, and both halves of the wreck were engulfed in a blinding ball of nuclear fire.

Damon hissed, "Target destroyed."

The other frigate lurched to one side as the blast wave reached for her, but its shields held, and the Zeus shuddered, hull ringing like a bell as it screamed past, guns blazing.

A voice from the damage control station sounded out, "Hits forward; gauss guns and one plasma torpedo. The second torpedo missed. Shields holding."

Damon watched the board as the smaller vessel peeled away, its drive burning bright, "He's running. Heading for jump distance at maximum burn."

"Get after him, helm."

Gail looked up from her station, "He's faster than us, estimate he'll be out of range in one minute."

The Captain gave her a wolfish grin, "Sixty seconds is a long time in combat."

Frances lifted her head, "Guns, go to rapid fire, all forward tubes. I

want

that ship. Get him for me, and I guarantee a trip to the best little whorehouse on Zesta for you and your gun crews."

The man grinned, "Yes, ma'am!"

The frigate zigged and zagged as it desperately tried to dodge, but torpedo after torpedo slammed into its stern, hammering at it until its shield finally crumbled. Another salvo followed almost immediately, and its already damaged engine blew apart, taking half the ship with it. Frances nodded as life pods spilled from the wreck, "Reverse course, take us back to the transports."

Damon indicated the screen, "What about the lifepods?"

The Captain turned to him, her eyes as cold as the vacuum outside, "What about them?"

...

The smoke of battle had cleared, emergency repairs were being carried out, and at least a few of the warning lights on the various consoles had been extinguished.

Frances eyed her officers as she strode into the ready room. Most looked suitably bedraggled, and she waved them back into their seats before they could rise.

Pouring herself a coffee from the dispenser, she stretched her back and scratched her hair before sitting down, "Firstly, congratulations on a well-fought engagement, you all did the ship proud. So, thank you."

There were a couple of embarrassed murmurs but also a couple of smiles.

She drew a deep breath and gave a weary sigh, "And now, the cost," she gestured, "Doctor Ostrow?"

The chief medical officer aboard the Zeus was a spry, silver-haired man, but despite being one of the oldest members of the crew, or so he thought, the twinkle in his eyes made an absolute mockery of his attempts to appear sober and fatherly. Instead, he came across more as the mischievous uncle everyone should probably have been ashamed of but liked too much. He was a good chess player, but his expressive face made him terrible at poker. He had a wicked sense of humour, and Frances liked the man immensely.

Right now, however, he looked a bit weary, which, given the circumstances was hardly surprising, but he still managed a smile as he put down his coffee cup, "Actually, Captain, the butcher's bill isn't so bad this time. We have twenty-two in sick bay with various injuries ranging from electrical burns to broken bones. A couple from the torpedo room suffered radiation exposure and are undergoing treatment, other than that only crewman Santiago is serious. He was electrocuted when a relay blew up in his face, and even though his suit took most of the brunt of it, he suffered from third degree burns and a broken back."