This story takes place in the universe created by fellow writer "farbeyondourstars".
Olympus Beckons - Part 11: "The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong."
The ship was at battle stations, yet there was something of a hush in her passageways and compartments. Not a silence as such, for the vessel's machinery hummed and whirred as it always did, its engines murmured, and all the many mechanisms that maintained the fragile existence of her crew carried out their tasks with their usual uncaring efficiency.
And what of the crew? They manned their stations and stood to post, waiting for the battle to start. As sailors had done since the days of wooden ships and iron men, and if there was a dry mouth or a shaking hand to be found among them, they kept it to themselves and hid it as best they could.
Frances looked about the bridge. The officers and ratings operating the assorted consoles were a microcosm of her crew as a whole, and as her eyes played across them, she would gauge their mood, carefully measuring their mettle for the action to come.
There was some chatter, but on the whole, they carried out their duties with quiet efficiency. The odds against them might not have been entirely favourable, but there was no panic to be seen, none balked, and she found herself smiling,
"As shipmates go, I could have done worse."
She turned to the XO with a rueful shake of her head and spoke up, pitching her voice just loud enough for the bridge crew to hear and plaintive enough to raise smiles, "You know, Damon, the one thing I hate about these suits is you can't drink a decent cup of coffee in one."
Taking his cue, the man nodded sagely, "I know, it must be terrible for you. Mind you, I suppose we could get the Chief to rig up a straw or something."
She blew out an indignant breath, "A straw? Dammit, man! Do you expect me to sup my java like I'm drinking from a toddler's sippy cup? Dear Gods, next you'll be saying I should be contaminating it with cream and sugar."
He turned to regard her, "No sugar for you, ma'am."
"You saying I'm getting fat?"
His only reply was a noncommittal, and distinctly mischievous, shrug.
Selene chirped up, "Maybe he's saying you're sweet enough, ma'am."
She grinned, "Damned better be, if he knows what's good for him."
The exchange provoked chuckles across the bridge, as well as perhaps a few other half-whispered, and apparently giggle-inducing, comments.
With tensions eased somewhat, she met Damon's eyes. Her lips quirked when he fetched her a sly grin, before his face smoothed once more into an expression of professional detachment, and he turned back to his console.
Task accomplished, she gave the crew their moment before keying a control and speaking to the image that appeared, "Tactical; your assessment please," she gave the man an impish grin, "if you're up to it, that is."
From his post in the Combat Information Centre, Leftenant Quadir appeared as roguishly handsome and self-possessed as always, though his cat-like smile may have been just a
little
more cocky than usual, "I assure you, Captain, my services are entirely unimpaired," his eyes may have twinkled, "in
all
departments."
Frances raised a brow, "And would Selene agree, I wonder?"
The man's insouciant smile was distinctly smug, "I think it would be fair to say our last engagement was a draw. The match remains undecided, and the game continues."
With a chuckle, the Captain nodded, "Splendid, I think I await the outcome of that little fracas with significantly more enthusiasm than I have for what appears before us today. So, to business, if you please," she grinned, "tell me...
stuff
."
He nodded, "Very good, ma'am. As you can see on your console, we have six contacts, approaching in a classic, 'Double Vic' formation. They consist of three cruiser-sized vessels, and three that appear to be destroyers. The warbook identifies the cruisers as 'Dominus' class attack cruisers," he shrugged, "which looks to be a fancy name for nothing more than a slightly beefed-up light cruiser that's been rigged for offensive operations."
He was clearly examining the data in front of him, and it was a moment before he continued, "Warbook indicates they're lightly armoured but have slightly heavier shields than a typical light cruiser. They have three tubes, and a railgun mounted fore and aft, though there are reports that some have been refitted with both railguns mounted on the bow. Looks like they have a quartet of defensive autocannon turrets situated amidships," he pursed his lips thoughtfully, "it's a post-war design, but they used a lot of surplus components left over from the war in their construction. Fairly standard sensor and tracking arrays, and mundane software packages."
He looked up, "To me, it looks like they were designed for ease of refit and repair using standardized components, which is what you'd expect of a merc outfit like the Corsairs."
Frances nodded, "And the destroyers?"
He tapped a few keys on his board before answering, "Caliban class escort destroyers, ma'am. They're very much like the cruisers only writ smaller as it were. Each mounts a pair of launchers and a railgun both fore and aft, though unlike the cruisers, they have a double ring of defensive autocannons," he examined the data, "no armour worth speaking off, but again, they have slightly beefed-up shields to compensate."
She ruminated a moment on the information, before her eyes once again focused on him, "And your analysis?"
He shrugged, "All six contacts are faster than us, and between them they have fifteen missile tubes to
Apollo's
four. If it were me, I'd try to hold the range open and overwhelm our point defence, while their escorts stop our missiles cold. Buuut," he grinned, "from their formation, one of the cruisers looks to be still damaged, or is at least leery of the fight for some reason, and the after-action report of the previous engagement indicates
Apollo
got a few licks in on one of the destroyers as well, though I can't see any signs of any residual damage from the scans."
"So?"
"Well, it could be they might want to get this over with quick, rather than risk a prolonged engagement where they might sustain yet more damage. I mean," he made a face, "they're here just to kill us, after all, not to fight a battle if they can avoid it. So, it's possible they could come boring in - try to take us out with their rail guns before they get in range of our main armament, and then, once we're dead, they can withdraw. And if they do that..."
Her grin was positively wolfish, "If they do that, I'm going to shove a full salvo of overloaded plasma torpedoes right down their throats."
"Exactly."
Frances tilted her head to one side, "Devonian brandy-flavoured chocolates."
He blinked, "Excuse me, ma'am."
"I'm told Selene has an inordinate fondness for them."
His eyes narrowed, "Ohh, really?"
"So I heard."
With a wry chuckle he nodded, "Now that is useful intelligence, Captain. Useful intelligence indeed. Assuming we live through this, I'll be sure to acquire a supply."
She grinned, "I have an unopened box in my quarters. And assuming we live through this, you can have them," she winked, "for the war effort, of course."
"Of course," he gave her a distinctly vulpine look, "uh, Captain, would it be impertinent for me to enquire
why
you have an unopened box of Devonian brandy-flavoured chocolates in your quarters?"
Her shrug may have been one of distinct nonchalance, but he fancied the gleam in her eye spoke otherwise; her smile certainly did, "Perhaps I have a fondness for sweet things, Mister Quadir."
He knew better than to pursue the matter, "Perhaps so," he drew himself up and gave her a firm nod, "with your permission, Captain, when we get to the other side, I would very much like to make use of those chocolates."
"Permission granted; I look forward to hearing a thoroughly detailed assessment as to their efficacy. But, in the meantime, good day to you, sir."
"Good day, ma'am, and, uh, good luck."
"You too," with a firm nod she gave him a last smile and cut the connection.
...
