John Ringo - Claws That Catch

Humans and Hexosehr didn’t, frankly, know much about the race that had built the Thermopylae . The Mrreee sentient which had commanded it called them the Karchava. The massive dreadnought had been captured from the Dreen and converted to Human and Hexosehr use. This, however, would be its first taste of combat with a regular crew. And most of the crew was playing catch-up figuring out the systems. So it looked to be a trial by fire.

“Never tell me the odds,” Spectre said, leaning back in his command chair and interlacing his fingers behind his head. Technically, he had another similar compartment next door from which to command a fleet. And technically he shouldn’t be sitting next to the commander of the ship, looking over his shoulder. But the Hexosehr didn’t seem to mind about that sort of thing and the Karchava had installed a control point right next to the commander for some reason. With the massive Karchava chair replaced by a human control position, he figured he might as well use it. Korcan had been a corvette commander previously. A highly decorated one, but only the commander of a corvette. Stepping up to temporary command of the Thermopylae was a big step. Sometimes two brains could be better than one. And it gave him a chance to have this conversation more or less face to face, given that the Hexosehr didn’t have eyes. “Did the Caurorgorngoth turn away in the Battle of Orion?”

“No,” the Hexosehr commander replied. “But the Caurorgorngoth was dying and far from outclassed even then. We are a brand new ship. Perhaps letting this one flee would be the wiser choice?”

“Okay, call it a human thing,” Spectre said, regarding the blinking red icon of the Dreen flagship calmly. The Hexosehr had managed to comprehend the Karchava systems well enough to change the color of the icons and the information readouts next to them. Fortunately, the rest worked really well. If humans ever met the Karchava, Spectre suspected they’d be people to get drunk with. “If so much as one ship escapes this system, the Dreen will know what happened. If not even their brain-ship returns, they will have only dread. I’m not the commander of this ship, Korcan, but I am your senior officer. And as your senior officer, my orders are to engage more closely…”

‹Karchava dreadnought, identified as lost Unit 24801, approaching on course for warp point. Signals analysis indicates control by Species 27264.›

Engage all weapons.

‹Forward systems inoperable due to Organism 8139 infestation. ›

Recall all fighter systems. Engage enemy combat unit.

‹Dispatched.›

“It is not deviating,” Ship Leader Korcan said.

“It’s trying to escape the system,” Spectre said.

“And we must prevent this,” Korcan said. “Entering our maximum engagement range. We should have been taking fire from the brain-ship before this. Their range is greater than ours.”

“Be thankful for small favors,” Spectre replied.

“Permission to open fire?” Korcan asked.

“Your ship, Ship Master,” Blankemeier replied. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Very well,” Korcan said. “Main Gun Control.”

“Aye, sir,” the gunnery officer replied.

“Target the brain-ship. Open fire.”

“Dude, we need, like, those cool Death Star uniforms,” Gunnery Petty Officer Third Class Sherman Zouks said. He had the helmet of his ship-suit latched up and was looking at the gun board dyspeptically. “You know, black, shiny?” He dropped the helmet and hummed some ominous music. “Doom, doom, doom…”

“Man, you would bitch about anything,” Gunnery PO Second Class Santos Braham said. He’d latched down his helmet and had his feet up on the gun board. “Here we are running the biggest fricking gun in creation and you’re all ‘it’s not the Death Star!’ Puhleeeaze. Just hope like hell these suits are good enough to — ”

“Mass Driver Control, Gunnery.”

“Mass Driver Control, aye,” Braham said, his feet slamming to the floor.

“Initiate Main Gun Fire Procedure.”

“Main Gun Fire Procedure, aye,” Braham said, looking over at Zouks. “You got the book?”

“Got it memorized,” Zouks said, pulling down the gun fire manual and opening it to a marked page. “Main Gun Fire Procedure Step One: Warm Capacitor Banks One Through Fourteen.”

“Warm Capacitor Banks One Through Fourteen, aye,” Braham said, pressing the series of buttons. “Warming capacitors.”

“Step Two: Ensure Capacitor Warm State by verifying indicators One Through Fourteen colored purple.”

“Ensure Capacitor Warm State by verifying indicators One through Fourteen colored purple, aye,” Braham said. “Capacitor seven orange.”

“Crap,” Zouks said, flipping to another page. “Contact faulty capacitor crew and determine status of capacitor…”

“Come on, work you son of a bitch!” Gunnery Petty Officer Second Class Salomon Shick shouted, hammering the carbon-fiber casing with a wrench.

“Cut it, Razor,” Gunnery Petty Officer First Class Colton Shafer said, grabbing the wrench. “Cracking the case would definitely put this thing off-line. Grab the manual.”

“It’s always something,” Shick said, pulling down a thick tome. “I just fricking ran a diagnostic on this fucker.”

“Then we’ll run one again…”

“CIC, Gunnery.”

“Gunnery, CIC.”

“Main gun is temporarily off-line.”

“Main gun temporarily off-line, aye.”

“Oh, how truly good,” Korcan said. “I apologize for this lapse, Admiral.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Spectre said. “Unless I’m reading this board wrong there’s a passel of bandits headed this way, too.”

“Fighter control.”

“Fighter control, aye.”

“Determine optimum launch time for counter-fighter mission. Tell the dragonflies to get ready.”

“Why is my gun not working , PO?”

Gunnery Master Chief Daniel Todd strode into Capacitor Seven’s compartment like rolling thunder. Master Chief Todd was the chief in charge of the Main Gun. As such, by both historical custom and lawful regulation he “owned” the gun and was responsible for ensuring it was good to go at any moment. Since it was the Thermopylae’s main weapon, the chief took that responsibility very seriously. He was less than enthusiastic that at the precise moment when his gun was needed most, his gun was kaput. There were questions of manhood involved!

“Diagnostic is good on our end, Master Chief,” Shafer said, flipping through the manual. “The capacitor is warmed and ready to discharge. But main gun section is getting a fault.”

“Found it,” Schick said, sliding out from under the capacitor. “Communications relay is screwed.”

“And do you have a replacement communications relay, Petty Officer?” Todd asked, taking a sip of coffee.

“It’s stored in Compartment Nine-Nine-Two dash One compartment inventory, Master Chief,” Shafer said, looking at the computerized inventory.

“Engineering, Guns,” the master chief said, tapping his internal communicator.

“Go, Guns.”

“I need a comm relay, standby number.”

“Ready.”

“Two-One-Six-Niner-Foah-Two-Fahv-Three-Six-One-Two Dash Alpha. Compartment Niner-Niner-Two Dash One inventory.”

“Two-One-Six-Nine-Four-Two-Five-Three-Six-One-Two Dash Alpha, aye. Compartment Niner-Niner-Two Dash One inventory, aye.”

“And I need it A mother grappin’ SAP.”

Spectre took a sip of coffee and regarded the discussion going on at the base of the CIC auditorium with interest. Three beings were involved: an Adar, standing nearly nine feet tall and wearing spandex shorts and a Hawaiian shirt; a Hexosehr, a race that looked a bit like a blind otter and disdained clothing; and a human, the lieutenant commander in charge of the Gunnery section. The three-way conference looked like it was about to become an argument.