Эндрю Маккей - Star Cat - War Mage

SHUNT… CREAK… GROWLLL!

“What the hell was that ?” Jaycee applied his weight to the ceiling.

The three suns warbled together like an unholy light bulb of God, “Captain, we could use some guidance here.”

Tripp looked around the floor and snapped his fingers, “Manuel?”

Snap-snap. Still no response.

“Something must have happened to him,” Tor placed the sole of his left boot on the ceiling and the other on the adjacent wall. The utilities clanged around his boots.

“The comms must be cut. We need to get to control.”

“Wool?” Tripp asked.

“Yes?”

Tripp saw Jelly sliding across the ceiling toward the far wall, “Is what you said true? About Jelly?”

Wool pointed at the upside-down E-MRI. Three glowing dots appeared in the abdomen section of the holographic diagram.

“It’s right there. What’s the state of Botanix?”

“Jaycee took care of them,” Tripp said. “Stay here with Jelly and keep the door closed. Bonnie, Jaycee, Tor. Come with me to the control deck.”

“How are we supposed to get there when the ship is spinning like a spit roast?” Bonnie asked.

Tripp pushed himself onto the ceiling of the level three walkway, “Improvise.”

USARIC Chief Executive Officer Maar Sheck sat at the head of the conference table.

When he first arrived in the bunker it resembled little more than a makeshift nuclear shelter. Only the common survival tools one would expect to see were present – a large refrigerator and a sectioned-off compartment acting as a makeshift bathroom.

Now, many months later, and upon his insistence, a selection of life’s more amenable luxuries were installed.

A plush couch lined the wall. An antiquated one-hundred-inch TV screen installed on the long wall. It reminded him of his younger days.

His right-hand man, Kaoz, stood by the open door as the board members shuffled into the room.

“Quickly, please,” a hurried Crain McDormand led them inside. He placed his briefcase on the central table and took a seat next to Maar.

“Is this all of them?”

“Only seven of the twelve could make it,” Crain snapped the locks up on his briefcase and removed a bunch of papers.

Maar pressed his hands together and made eyes at each board member. They took their seats around the table.

“Are we quorate, though?”

“Yes. Seven makes it over half.”

“Right, I’m starting—”

“—But don’t you want to go through—”

“—No,” Maar stood up and held his hands at the seven members of the board.

“Good people, I’m very sorry you’ve been rushed here on short notice. I’d like to apologize for the lack of refreshments and change of venue. Sadly, it is necessary in light of recent events.”

“Does anyone know you’re down here?” asked an elderly female board member, “We’re concerned about you.”

“That’s very touching. And, no, no one knows I’m here. Not even my family,” Maar waved his hand over the table.

A holographic vector of something named Space Opera Charlie zipped to life and rotated on its axis, “And by the way, no one can know I am down here.”

“Space Opera Charlie?” another board member pointed at the vector. He clutched at the name placard resting on the desk: Samuel Moore.

“Yes, Samuel. We received a communication from commander Tripp Healy on Opera Beta. Captain Daryl Katz and two of his crew had been killed trying to rescue those on Opera Alpha. Healy went on to confirm that they had decoded Saturn Cry with the help of Anderson, the winner of the Star Cat Project. Then, they disappeared.”

“We’ve heard nothing since?” Samuel looked at the others for a reaction, “What’s this got to do with Opera Charlie?”

“As major shareholder of USARIC, I seek approval to change the operational remit of Opera Charlie.”

The female board member adjusted her lens-less spectacles and rifled through her papers.

“The board approached the select committee to green light the rescue mission. They agreed and confirmed a launch date of August 29th, 2119.”

“That’s two weeks from now,” Samuel said. “Who are the team?”

The female board member read from her paper, “Colin De St Croix, Captain. Joined the American Star Fleet in 2110—”

“Ah. They’re not going, anymore,” Maar snapped.

“They’re not?” Samuel asked. He expected Maar to explain himself but, instead, received a look of disdain.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” Samuel asked.

“I want to change Opera Charlie’s task and finish remit.”

“You what, now?” Samuel pulled at his collar trying to cool himself down, “You can’t just change Opera Charlie’s without proper consultation—”

“—Yes I damn well can , Samuel,” Maar spat and thumped the table. “I’ve been trapped in this godforsaken bunker for two months. I’ve been told I can expect to be here for months, maybe even years . Don’t talk to me about consultation, you imbecile. Look at the damned vector.”

The Space Opera Charlie image continued to revolve. An exact replica of Beta and Alpha before her, it contained a control deck, fit room, botanical garden, and medician center. The board noticed its reduced size when held up against its predecessors.

“No N-Vigorate chamber?” Samuel asked. “You’re not taking any canaries on board?”

“No. No need,” Maar said. “Are you getting the picture, now?”

Samuel spread his fingers and enlarged the entirety of the second level on Opera Charlie; USARIC Weapons & Armory.

“The whole of level two is Weapons & Armory?” Samuel swallowed hard and leaned back in his chair, “It’s not a rescue mission, is it?”

“No.”

“It’s a suicide mission.”

“Not quite.”

“What is it if not a suicide mission?”

Maar nodded at Crain, who turned to the board and rose out of his chair.

“After Dimitry Vasilov’s assassination, and the expulsion of twenty-three diplomats from US soil, we feel we should exercise damage limitation. I want there to be no doubt before we seek approval from the board for the new motion.”

Crain played the recorded video message sent by Opera Beta. Tripp’s face fizzed to life above the table.

“Commence playback, please.”

Tripp appeared to speak to the members of the board. In reality, it was his recorded message to the lens on the N-Gage control panel.

“This is Tripp Healy, assumed captain of Space Opera Beta. We have lost her captain, Daryl Katz….”

The board watched as the lens caught sight of Saturn and her revolving rings through Opera Beta’s windshield.

“Shortly before boarding Space Opera Alpha we deciphered enough of Saturn Cry to ascertain that it was, indeed, sending a distress call. Baldron Landaker and Tor Klyce are in incarceration. Dimitri Vasilov, I hope you can hear this. Maar, I hope you’re with him. This has been a deliberate sabotage of our mission. I hope USARIC finds the powers it has to rectify the situation.”

Tripp shifted the lens. The board, and Maar and Crain, peered into the holographic video. A beautiful pink shaft of gas stretched out from the middle of Enceladus.

“Is that what they found?” Samuel asked.

Crain paused the video and enlarged the image with his fingers. He traced the pink light coming from Enceladus with his fingertip.

“Yes, this is what he was talking about. Resume playback, please.”