Olympus Beckons Pt 10

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

Olympus Beckons - Part 10: "Here They Come."

Khelgar was a busy place. One would have thought it more likely that people would stay in more populous, better patrolled space - closer to the core worlds, and safer than a star system situated on the outskirts of the Rim - but the innermost planet boasted no less than a half-dozen spectacularly beautiful moons. And while the world beneath them still had an atmosphere that was only barely breathable, its surface was almost completely covered in liquid, and teeming with life.

Despite the awe-inspiring weather and truly mountainous waves those same six moons produced, the vast sub-aquatic plankton and krill farms planetside fed a score of planetary systems, while the 'Moons of Khelgar' were a popular tourist destination with a multitude of luxury resorts.

While it was undeniably true the casinos and other 'diversions' on those resorts attracted a certain criminal element, the wealth they generated, and the system's importance as a supplier of protein, meant the place was well protected. Not only by the most advanced of automated defence systems, but also by the best private security outfits money could buy.

The indentured workers toiling beneath the waves might not see much of that wealth, but they allegedly benefited from the protection it provided... allegedly.

Another result of that protection was that the system became a 'stepping off' point for ships heading out into the dark. Of course, the rich patrons patronising the luxury resorts had no desire to actually mix with such itinerant travellers, and so 'Independance Station' was built, and it was situated as far away from those same rich patrons as was physically possible.

While

Zeus

was making its approach, Frances observed the station as it grew in the viewplate. It didn't seem to have changed all that much since the last time she'd been here; maybe a bit bigger, a bit more of a sprawling construct, but it certainly looked busier. Mind you, all she really remembered about that visit was how hellishly drunk she'd gotten, and that the place had smelled of fish.

"There she is."

Damon's voice brought her back to the present, and her fingers played over the controls of the viewplate, bringing the ship sharply into focus.

The

Apollo

nestled in the docking cradle, like a wounded animal, all covered in scars. Blackened scorch marks marred her steel hide, and her armour was torn and punctured in several places. Frances slowly shook her head as her experienced eyes played across the gaping hole that had been blasted in her lower decks,

"Lucky; looks like it missed main engineering and took out the cargo bay."

She could see the yard-dogs were hard at work, and from this distance, the halo of sparks from their welding torches looked like so many fireflies dancing about the ship's hull.

Apollo

was one of the Invictus-B class of ships. Basically, a modified version of the basic Invictus, and Frances pursed her lips. She'd never been entirely convinced that those modifications were worth it. Sure, she was faster, and had a longer-range punch, but she wasn't that much faster. And instead of upgrading her drive, they'd kept the same engines. Which meant to gain that increase in speed, they had to cut the mass; so, she'd lost almost half her armour.

The designers upped her range by ripping out the plasma torpedoes and replacing them with gauss cannons and a battery of heavy missiles, but they'd kept the same main gun, which was stupid. The thing was a mass hog and essentially useless at range. As far as Frances was concerned, there was no point in fucking around. She would have ripped the thing out altogether and replaced it with a truly hellacious broadside of missiles. The ship didn't have the armour to stand and fight and still wasn't fast enough to run, so she might as well beat the shit out of anyone before they got into range in the first place.

She sighed and turned to the XO, "Very well, Damon, you have the conn. Take us in, if you please..."

His acknowledgement was suitably brisk, "Aye-aye, ma'am. I have the conn."

...

Commander Wulf Thorsson looked about as wounded as his ship. Not physically as such; modern medicine meant most physical injuries could be treated and repaired with astonishing speed if given the right care, but the man was obviously exhausted, and he looked like his spirit had been... bruised.

He was a big man, long-limbed and solidly built, and even now, with his full beard of reddish hair, and his icy blue eyes, he looked more like some piratical berserker from the days of yore, than a modern spacer. He towered over her, and she could easily imagine that the man would probably have been happier carrying a battleaxe than a blaster,

"I bet he and Jeff would get on like a house on fire,"

she stifled her grin,

"well, somebody's house would probably end up on fire anyway."

But right now, he was clearly hurting. Stepping forward, she extended her hand, "Captain."

He took her grip in his own, careful not to crush her hand even as he growled, "Don't feel much like a Captain. Not yet anyway."

Giving him a sad, lopsided smile, she reached up to grip his shoulder, "I know, but that's what you are now, and I also know Horatio Hawke was not the kind of man who would have picked you to be his second-in-command, if he didn't think he could rely on you to look out for his crew."

She met his eyes, "Was he wrong?"

Drawing a deep breath, he visibly braced himself, "No, ma'am."

"Good man. Now, what is the status of your command?"

He rubbed a hand over his almost shaved head, "Well, apart from that bloody great hole in the cargo bay, we've patched the inner hull and repressurised all compartments. Shields and weapons are back online, and our main drive is functional. The hyperdrive is a bit 'iffy' still, but repairs are progressing. Our armour is shredded but the yard dogs are working on it," he growled, "we might have been in a scrap, but we can still fight, ma'am."

"Casualties?"

His brow furrowed in something like a wince, "We lost twenty-seven crew members, including the Captain, with twice that wounded, six of whom are undergoing various degrees of organ or limb regrowth. All other wounded are more or less fit for duty, or will be in a day or two."

She nodded, "Have you had a memorial for your dead?"

"Aye, it was a spacer's funeral."

"Very good."

With a nod, she slapped him on the arm again, "Best any of us can hope for in the end, Wulf. Will you join me for supper?"

"Beg pardon, ma'am, I thank you kindly, but if it's all the same, I'd like to stay aboard for now. I think it best to be with my shipmates, respectfully."

With a smile, she nodded, "See, that's why Captain Hawke picked you. Go and be with your crew. If there's anything I, or

Zeus,

can do for you, let me know."

The man nodded slowly, before looking back at her, "He thought highly of you, ma'am. Spoke of you often."

Frances had to shake her head and shrug, "I've no idea why. Apart from when he spoke up for me, I don't think we ever met, other than shooting at each other, that is."

The tall man grinned, "That may be so, ma'am, but his son was a young Midshipman on the

Hecate

."

Suddenly, it was as if the years rolled back, and she remembered it like it was yesterday. It was near the end of the war. The enemy had more ships, more guns, more

everything

, and the slow, bloody, process of grinding the Thorian navy into extinction might have been well under way, but it wasn't done yet. The

Hecate

and the

Hotspur

were two enemy ships that had been pummeling perimeter defence outposts when she had bounced them both. They had put up a brave fight, but were no match for the big guns of her battlecruiser, and she had blown them both right out of space.

She recalled how one of the ships, already badly mauled, had gamely tried to ram her command when her final salvo had broken its back. What was left of the vessel had keeled over as lifeboats spilled from the wreckage

Settling back in her command chair, she had nodded to the bridge-crew, "Well fought, people. Stand down from 'Action Stations' and prepare to pick up survivors."

The voice that had rang out from behind her was a hate-filled snarl. She particularly remembered the venomous sneering tone, "Belay that order. You will continue the engagement, Captain. Target those rebel scum and destroy them."

The Vice-Admiral was yet another of those stupidly vicious wankers she'd had to contend with throughout the entirety of the war. In his case, in addition to being an arrogant prick of the first order, he had an apparent love of standing on the bridge, presumably posing in some ludicrously dramatic fashion, while not wearing his helmet, instead of being buckled safely into a command chair.

When a jarring impact against her shields had sent the pompous twat flying into a stanchion, she half hoped the silly bastard had been killed outright, but, of course, she wasn't that lucky.

Blinking the memory away, she murmured, "I never knew."

Wulf grunted, "Well, the Captain wasn't the kind of man to get all emotional and such, but he never forgot it was you who refused the order to kill his son. Spoke of it in the wardroom he did, when folks got to talking about the war, and when they got to damning... well... you know."

"Thorians?"

He blushed, but nodded, "Aye."

"Don't worry about it; we deserved it. Did his son survive the war?"

Wulf nodded again, "That he did, ma'am. He was wounded and got a victory medal and all that. He retired after the war and got himself married, settled down with a family on Genarra. I think he writes."

The thought of the young man living a full and happy life, as far from the war as he could possibly get, brought a smile to her lips, and she chuckled, feeling strangely pleased for some reason, "Well, good for him."

The man grinned, "Aye, now, if you'll excuse me ma'am," he sobered somewhat, "but I have messages to record, to send to the families of the fallen."

With a sigh, Frances nodded, "I'd offer to help, but..."

He nodded, "My shipmates, my crew."

She gave him a sad smile and squeezed his arm again, "Aye."

He stepped back and saluted, "Then, I'd best be about it. Good day to you ma'am."

Becoming all business again, she returned his salute smartly, "My best wishes to your crew, Captain. Hopefully we'll talk again later. Good day, sir."

...

The "Ironclad" was as much of a dive as she remembered. It was very much a spacer's bar, patronised by deep spacers and Navy types alike. But despite the worn furniture, the dim lighting and smokey atmosphere, the booze wasn't watered, and it was cheap, and the place had live music.

The walls were lined with ancient, worn-looking posters of far-off holiday resorts, all happy smiles and sunshine, while the corners peeled and curled. Half those places had been abandoned long since, or been bombed during the war, but those leering faces still smiled down from the walls.

The woman on stage was maybe a bit past her prime, but she'd made a game effort to squeeze into a sequined dress that had probably barely fitted a decade ago, and her crooning wasn't half bad. Frances listened a while as she sat on her barstool, nursing her drink. On a whim she used her comlink to swipe a ten-credit tip in her direction.

A half-dozen wallowing freighters had finally mustered in the system, and she'd left Damon to gather them up and get them ready for transit. The crew had been given shore leave, and she'd decided that she had time to get off the ship for once and maybe indulge in a quiet drink.

She remembered this place. She and the bridge-crew of the battlecruiser

Sorcerer

had gotten royally shit-faced here sooo many years ago in a truly epic session. She couldn't even remember the reason for their revels, not that they ever needed much of an excuse to be honest, given the way the war was going. It was a good crew. She sighed wearily; they were all dead now of course, but she was glad she could at least remember their faces.

Raising her glass to her lips, she paused a moment to softly murmur, "Here's to you, lads."

Draining the glass, she lowered it to the bar, only to be surprised as another was placed before her, and a voice murmured, "I recognise that look. Memories?"

The woman sitting on the neighbouring barstool might have had dark hair once, but it was streaked with grey now, and the lines on her face showed she was at least well on the way to passing through middle age, though her eyes were still bright, and from the look of her, she obviously kept herself in shape.

Frances eyed her, she wore a well-worn spacer's flight jacket over clean coveralls. The blaster at her side was a standard design, and she wore it in a regulation holster,

"She's military, or ex-military at least."

Looking about, she picked out the watchful-looking man hanging back a ways,

"Bodyguard, maybe?"

Picking up the drink, she nodded her thanks, "Yea, they sneak up on a person," she grinned, "a bit like you, I guess."

The woman smiled and raised her own glass in salute, "Sorry, didn't mean to do that, but you looked a bit lost, Captain."

Frances sighed, lowering her drink back down to the bar in a deliberate movement, "Ah... You know me?"

"Sure do. You're Frances Frobisher, Captain of the

Zeus

. We, uhm, met," she grinned, "and not that long ago."

Staring at her, Frances shook her head, "I'm afraid I don't recall."

The woman gave her a bright smile, "Oh, I'd be hurt, but truth is, the meeting was sadly all too brief, but I'll say, you definitely left an impression."

Frances was about to reply when the lumbering shape of a spacer appeared behind her and an intruding hand cupped the left cheek of her posterior, giving it a hearty squeeze as the man slurred, "Hey, Navy. How's about you 'n' me get better acquainted? Whatchyasay?"

She blinked and then raised her brow to the woman beside her, "He with you?"

From the look of mischievous delight on the woman's face, Frances could see she was barely managing to contain an enormous grin. Instead, she shook her head, "Nope."

"Good."

Frances's elbow slammed back into the man's face with a wince-inspiring crunch, followed by a thump, as her would-be admirer crumpled in a heap to the beer-stained floor.

Unperturbed, the other customers simply stepped over or around the unconscious form as they continued drinking. After all, it was the "Ironclad," and such petty altercations was barely the stuff of Tuesdays.

Looking down at the unconscious lout, Frances shook her head, "Everywhere you go, there's always an asshole."

The mysterious woman was already pouring them both another measure from the bottle that the barman had placed before her. Squinting at the label, she grinned happily, "I think it was his admiration for your ass in particular that got him into trouble in the first place."

She slid the shot down the bar and Frances almost unconsciously downed it, before pausing, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you mind telling me why you're buying me drinks?"

"'Cos you looked like you needed it."

"Hrmph... You said we'd met?"

The woman downed her own and refilled both glasses, "Yup."

"Mind telling me where?"

"Sure."

There was a pause as the woman raised her glass, looking expectantly at the one still sitting on the bar.

With a sigh, Frances picked it up and raised it to her lips, "I'm not going to sleep with you, no matter how drunk I get."

She'd timed it perfectly. The mysterious woman spluttered and coughed as she tried unsuccessfully to drink and laugh at the same time, and ended up inhaling half of her shot.

Frances thumped her on the back until she got her breathing back under control, "Sorry."

"No, you're fucking not."

"True."

The woman gave her a mock glare as she snatched up a napkin and made to wipe the drool from her lips, only to stop as Frances pointed, "I wouldn't use that."

With a disgusted snort she dropped the offending object back onto the bar and looked about before resorting to using her sleeve, "Fine. We met on the edge of the Tiberius system."

"You don't look like a hooker."

"I'm not a damned hooker!"

Frances shrugged, "No shame in it."

"That's what Cassidy says."

Frances slowly turned to look at the woman, her lips curling in a knowing smile as she nodded to herself, "You were on the destroyer."

"Yea."

"Miss Anderson already gave me grief for that little misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding? You came boring in on my ship like a damned attack dog. I almost blew you out of the sky."

Frances grunted and picked up the bottle to pour a couple more shots, "Nah."

"Nah?"

There was a laugh, "Nah. You had no more intention of shooting at me than I did of shooting at you."

"Then why the fuck risk it in the first place? You could have just signaled me."

Frances knocked back her shot and thumped the bar, "Oof, that stuff's not bad. Hmm? Oh, a couple of reasons. First, to start with, I didn't know if you were bounty hunters or slavers, and warrant or no, I wouldn't have let you take them if you were slavers. Second, my crew were a bit green and needed the training. But mostly," she chuckled, "mostly, my XO was getting on my tits, and you were a handy distraction."

The woman downed her shot, "So, why did you bear off if you thought we might be slavers?"

"It was pretty obvious from the way they were maneuvering they were actively trying to get into your hold before we got into range, and the way you moved your ship between us and them? You weren't trying to capture them; you were shielding them."

"You are an interesting woman, Frances Frobisher."

"As are you, Angelina Martinez."

The woman sat back, "You knew who I was?"

Frances raised her glass in a toast, "After that little escapade, I made it my business to know," she pursed her lips as she recited, "'know your enemy as you know yourself, and you need not fear the result of a hundred battles'. Personally, I always thought that was a complete crock, but it sounds cool, and your file made interesting reading."

The woman sipped her drink, "And what did you learn from my file?"

"I learned you prefer being called 'Angie,' and that I'm really glad we didn't end up shooting at each other. The results of that might have been... problematic."

Angie raised her glass, "For one of us."

"Yup," she grinned, as the glasses chinked together, "for one of us."

...

When Frances finally made it back aboard ship, she wasn't... quite... swaying unsteadily, though her salute to the marine on watch may have lacked a

little

of its usual crispness. She gave the man's impish grin a mock glare as she moved past him, "Carry on..."

For his part, the marine manfully refrained from chuckling as she bumped into the bulkhead, and he heard her petulantly muttering something that sounded suspiciously like an aggrieved, "Who put that there," followed by, "bloody woman has hollow legs..."

She straightened herself, determinedly tugging at the hem of her tunic before moving on down the passage, weaving only slightly as she went.

Once safely in the confines of her quarters, she eventually managed to tug off her boots before slumping back onto her bunk with a wry chuckle, as she recalled her conversation with that Syndicate bint in the bar. The woman may have had a slightly piratical air about her, but she was certainly interesting company. They'd gotten to toasting each other's ships, then their crews of course, then past shipmates; and before you knew it, that bottle, and the next, were both disgustingly empty, and they were working their way through a third.