“Two minutes to docking.”
Commander Olivia Johnson relished another few seconds rest, then opened her eyes and leant forward to peer into the shuttle’s cockpit. “Thank you, Lieutenant. It’s been a smooth flight.”
The pilot raised his hand in thanks.
Johnson opened up a translucent window in her inner vision, and scrolled through the standing orders she had written for her new command.
I hope Captain Jeffries won’t mind that I’ve borrowed most of his.
“Do you think it will be bad... Ma’am?”
Johnson closed the text window and focused on the sub-lieutenant strapped into the seat on the opposite side of the hold. She’d only been vaguely aware of his presence since they’d left Conqueror. He must have been about sixteen, with close-cropped hair and no hint of stubble on his chin. Fresh out of Command School.
“Repulse took heavy damage,” she said. “I don’t expect it will be pretty.”
The young man frowned.
“They’ll have cleared away the bodies by now,” Johnson said, guessing his worry. “And the badly injured have been moved to other ships.”
“What happened?”
She queried his ID and a brief summary of his record appeared, floating beside his head.
“They volunteered to go in advance of the task force and nose around. When they found the Republican fleet bugging out, they realised the ships of the line wouldn’t arrive in time to catch them and decided to do some damage on their own.” Johnson paused and studied the boy’s face. “To put it simply, Mr. Hanke, the Repulse is a plucky little bulldog that bit off more than it could chew.”
#
“Welcome aboard the Repulse, Ma’am.”
Johnson returned the salute from the grime-streaked marine corporal, and stepped aboard. The airlock hatch closed with a dull clank. Seconds later, the Electronic Interface System grown into her brain supplied her transfer orders to the ship’s network, and status reports flooded her awareness.
“I’m sorry none of the officers are here to meet you,” the marine continued, falling into step beside her. “Those who are left are too busy supervising the refit.”
Johnson sighed internally, keeping her face and body neutral. “Understood. If you’d show me the way to the bridge, I’m sure the sub-lieutenant here will find his own way to his quarters...”
She’d memorised the layout on the shuttle trip over, but cycles of battle damage and repair often lead to changes.
I don’t think I’ve ever served on a ship where the plans matched reality.
Johnson followed the corporal through the ship, pausing occasionally to exchange encouraging words with crewmembers they met. It was impossible to miss the mixture of fatigue and pride on their faces. At one intersection, Johnson stopped to examine a recent patch on the wall, tapping a few places and scratching at the edges.
Very nicely done.
Her guide stopped by a ladder recessed into the wall. “Sorry, Ma’am, but the lift’s not been cleared by engineering yet.”
“Not a problem, Corporal. Two floors, isn’t it?”
He nodded as she grabbed hold of a rung. “At least they got the floor hatches responding to EIS again. Hand cranking them was getting rather tedious.”
“Ow! Bloody thing zapped me!”
Johnson stepped off the ladder and looked around for the speaker.
“Give it here. Did you isolate the board?”
Johnson followed the voices.
“No. I thought I’d leave it connected to the eight hundred volt ring while I poked it with my little metal screwdriver.”
Johnson peered round a corner. Two technicians crouched beside an open wall panel.
“You must have bridged a capacitor or something, then.”
Johnson coughed.
“Go away. Can’t you see...” The technician’s eyes focussed on her rank slide and he jumped to his feet, nudging his colleague with his knee. “Sorry, Ma’am. Thought you were someone else, Ma’am.”
The marine corporal appeared at Johnson’s side, scowling.
Johnson stepped forward. “What’s wrong with the board?”
The technician swallowed. “Erm, it got fried in a cascade failure when we were hit.”
“We’ve run out of replacement boards,” his colleague added. “We’re trying to repair this one in situ.”
“We salvaged the parts from ones we replaced,” said the first technician.
Johnson crouched and inspected the damaged node. “Ever done this before?”
The technicians both shook their heads. “Not with beaten-up parts like this. They just don’t want to fit.”
“Pass me your screwdriver, would you?” Johnson held her hand out. “And some putty.”
The corporal leant closer to Johnson. “Ma’am. I need to get you to the bridge.”
“I can take a bit of time to help fix this,” she replied. “There’s no immediate threat with Conqueror standing alongside.”
Two minutes later, she knelt forwards and slid the board back into place. She pressed it home with a click and passed the screwdriver back to the technician. “Connect it back to the ring, would you?”
Tell-tales illuminated the board, and Johnson eyed the flashing lights. Satisfied that the reconnection had been a success, she rocked back into a crouch.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” said one of the technicians. “I think you saved us at least half an hour working that out.”
“Glad I could do something useful.” Johnson stood. “You should mark that for urgent replacement as soon as you get new boards. And don’t let me catch you trying that trick on anything critical.”
“Yes, Ma’am. No, Ma’am,” they chorused.
Johnson smiled and nodded to them before turning to her escort. “Sorry about the delay. The bridge must be just down here?”
#
When she reached the bridge, it was almost deserted; two technicians worked quietly on one of the workstations, and a blonde lieutenant sat in the command chair.
“Captain on deck,” barked the marine, and the lieutenant jerked upright.
“As you were,” said Johnson, cursing herself for failing to pre-empt the announcement. She concentrated on the lieutenant, and details from her service record appeared in Johnson’s vision.
“How’s she hanging together, Lieutenant Levarsson?” she asked, motioning for the younger woman to remain seated.
“The hull’s fine, we took a hit amidships from a bomb-pumped laser but that’s been patched up,” Levarsson replied, settling back into the chair. “Engines will hold together if we don’t push ‘em too hard. And we have most of our weapons back online.”
“You seem to have everything under control,” said Johnson. “Are you OK to finish your shift?”
Levarsson looked at her, head to one side. “You don’t want to take over now?”
“You’ve managed without me up to now, and I could use some time to get up to speed.” She turned to the marine. “Corporal, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than babysitting me.”
He opened his mouth as if to protest, then saluted, and left the bridge at a brisk pace. Johnson made herself walk slowly over to the captain’s ready room at the side of the bridge, keeping her head up and back straight.
The moment the hatch closed, Johnson deflated. She sagged into the chair just inside the room. It was all too fast. Ten hours ago she had been the tactical officer on a battleship. Now she was the captain of her own destroyer. Her first independent command. She’d been fighting this war for almost ten years, and yet she didn’t feel ready. Hundreds of crewmembers would be counting on her, and she was a fraud. She’d only got this position because so many above her had died.
#
Ten minutes later, Johnson mustered the courage to sit at the captain’s desk. Her desk now. She stroked the fake wood.
Funny. I’ve sat on the other side of these plenty of times. Never guessed how close the walls looked from this side.
Her predecessor’s effects had been boxed up and put in storage ready for forwarding to his next of kin. She logged into the terminal and, as she always did when she took a new posting, changed the default display to the feed from an external camera. The unblinking stars reassured her with their familiarity.
Johnson pulled up the duty rosters. The technicians she’d met on the way were in the middle of their third straight shift. She frowned as she opened the details. Levarsson had added a note recording that they had insisted on working through to get things done, and an order that they stand down after this shift.
She’s definitely got potential.
She scanned through the surviving officers’ records, noting the lack of a chief engineer.
I wonder if I can get Honeywood reassigned here?
^Ma’am? Could you come to the bridge, please.^ The message arrived directly in her consciousness through the EIS.
^On my way,^ she replied, rising and striding to the door.
“It’s probably nothing,” said Levarsson as Johnson approached. “But there was a slight flicker on the sensors.”
Johnson sat at the tactical station and studied the lieutenant. She didn’t seem the type to jump at shadows, but she did look worn out. “Could it be the repairs?”
Levarsson shook her head. “Possibly...” She looked straight at Johnson. “I know I’m not making a good first impression here, and you’re probably thinking I’m all shaken up right now, but I’ve got a feeling about this.”
Johnson took in a breath and held it. She knew that feeling. The sense that something wasn’t right. You couldn’t put your finger on it, couldn’t give any evidence to back it up. Whatever clue had triggered the thought was too subtle to identify. She let the breath out. “OK. Sound general quarters.”
Johnson opened a channel to the Conqueror as strapped herself into her chair. “Captain, I’ve taken Repulse to general quarters, suggest you do the same.”
“What is it, Commander?” replied Captain Jeffries.
“Not sure. A hunch.”
“OK. Your hunches have been right in the past, I’ll go with it,” said Jeffires. “You are free to manoeuvre as you see fit.”
“Thank you. Johnson out.” She surveyed the available weapons and checked that the manoeuvring systems had the latest structural integrity updates.
“You let him think it was your hunch,” said Levarsson. Johnson couldn’t tell if it was an accusation or relief.
“Captain Jeffries and I have worked together for several years. He trusts my instincts.” Johnson smiled. “Besides, if it turns out to be a false alarm, this way it doesn’t go against you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to take the command chair?”
Johnson suppressed a shudder. “With Repulse as short-handed as she is, it’s best if I double up on tactical. You take piloting and sensors.”
Levarsson nodded. “Aye, Ma’am.”
“Put some more distance between us and the battleship. Slowly, don’t make it look like we’re reacting to a threat. And be ready to go active on all sensors.”
“Don’t spook anyone. Got it,” said Levarsson, keying in a set of instructions. “Which way?”
“Did you get an idea of a direction on the sensor flicker?”
Levarsson shook her head. “Sorry.”
“No problem... Head roughly towards the nearest jump point, but drop low.”
#
Johnson pinched the bridge of her nose and blinked hard. In another half an hour she’d have to start a rota of stand-downs across the ship; even a fresh crew couldn’t remain effective if they stayed at general quarters much longer.
“There it is,” said Levarsson, a note of triumph breaking through her fatigue.
Johnson shuffled upright in her seat and studied the blonde Lieutenant. “Light ‘em up.”
A bubble of electromagnetic waves expanded around the Repulse. The computer flagged eight possible targets, clustered not that far off their course. Johnson hunched over the tactical display, examining the data for hints as to what they were. The targets scattered, emitting radiation for the first time as their drives powered up.
“Republic engine signatures,” Johnson announced, forgetting there wasn’t a more senior officer to take her report. “Probably long-range fighters. I’ve sent an intercept course to the helm.”
“Got it,” replied Levarsson. The ship shook as she ramped up the main engines.
Johnson ran ideas through the tactical simulations. After the third attempt she banged the console with her fist. “They’re too spread out. I can’t even get half of them.”
She caught Levarsson glancing at her, and composed herself. “We’ll just have to do what we can. At least they didn’t manage to sneak any closer.”
Minutes later a flight of three fighters came into range. Even as railgun rounds and interceptor missiles poured from the Repulse, the enemy launched large missiles of their own. These accelerated hard, broadcasting signals to spoof the Repulse’s sensors. The staccato of the point defence turrets echoed through the ship. Two missiles disappeared, but it was too late.
“All hands, brace for impact,” announced Levarsson.
Johnson checked the compartments were sealed and tightened the straps on her harness. The missiles raced in. The hail of point defence fire took one down only a few hundred metres from the hull. The flash and EMP washed out the displays. Johnson took a deep breath. And nothing happened.
The sensors desaturated, and Johnson’s eyes widened as she reacquired the missiles.
“Conqueror, Repulse Actual. You have ship-killers inbound. Transmitting data.”
Johnson took a moment to examine the wider picture. All the enemy fighters had loosed their missiles at Conqueror. A handful were now merely smudges of rapidly expanding vapour thanks to Repulse’s barrage, the others had turned tail.
A minute later the Conqueror disappeared behind a glittering golden wall. The missiles ran into the battleship’s flak curtain and were lost to the Repulse’s sensors. Twelve seconds after that, the barrage petered out. The battleship looked intact.
A channel opened from the Conqueror. “Good call, Commander. If they’d been able to launch from closer, we wouldn’t still be here.”
“Thank you, Sir. It was actually Lieutenant Levarsson who spotted the glitch,” replied Johnson.
“In that case, well done on backing her up, and pass on my thanks to her... I’m dispatching some shuttles to sweep likely lines of approach for any more of those. You can stand down for now.”
“If it’s OK with you, Sir, I’d rather go after the remaining fighters. Something must have jumped them into the system and they may lead us back to it.”
The captain chuckled. “Be careful, and good hunting. Jeffries out.”
Johnson turned to Levarsson. Beneath the younger woman’s exhaustion, there was a glimmer of fire. “I take it you heard that? Having good instincts, and the faith to follow them, is an important part of being a successful officer. I want you to start training as the new tactical officer. I know it is usually a job for a lieutenant-commander, but I think you’ll do fine.”
A smile flickered across Levarsson’s face.
“But for now,” continued Johnson, “you look beat. Hit the sack, I have the bridge.”
Levarsson nodded and rose stiffly. “You have the bridge.”
With the bridge to herself, Johnson logged out of the tactical station and took the three paces to the captain’s chair. She ran her fingers along the top edge, feeling the stitching, then closed her eyes for a couple of seconds. With a sigh, she eased herself down. Pride at being given the honour of command won out over the fear of letting everyone down. She could do this.
Johnson opened an internal broadcast channel. “All hands, this is the captain...”
-o-
Alasdair Shaw grew up in Lancashire, within easy reach of the Yorkshire Dales, Pennines, Lake District and Snowdonia. After stints living in Cambridge, North Wales, and the Cotswolds, he has lived in Somerset since 2002.
He has been rock climbing, mountaineering, caving, kayaking and skiing as long as he can remember. Growing up he spent most of his spare time in the hills.
Alasdair studied at the University of Cambridge, leaving in 2000 with an MA in Natural Sciences and an MSci in Experimental and Theoretical Physics. He went on to earn a PGCE, specialising in Science and Physics, from the University of Bangor. A secondary teacher for over fifteen years, he has plenty of experience communicating scientific ideas.
You can continue to follow Commander Johnson’s career in the Two Democracies: Revolution series.
Homepage: http://www.alasdairshaw.co.uk/twodemocracies
Mailing List: http://www.alasdairshaw.co.uk/newsletter/newcomer.php