Randolph Lalonde - Fragments

"Get these lads clear of their posts! I want this section sealed off in five minutes!" Gunnery Chief Frost ordered over his proximity radio. The gunnery deck of the Triton was a disaster. He listened to the frantic chatter of his deck crew as he inspected the heat damage that had warped the outer hull and seized several of the large overhead gunnery turrets in position. The larger, three-meter tall loader suits were working to pry gunners from their seats and remove one-ton cartridges from the railgun emplacements before real repairs could begin. Their work worsened the combat damage, but there was no other way to get the gunnery crews free.

Past them Shamus could see the light twisting energy wall of the wormhole the Triton had used to escape the Ossimi Asteroid Ring. The damage they sustained to the aft dorsal section of the ship during their getaway was devastating. The Caran Enterprises battlecruisers had used broad particle beam pulses to superheat the hull of the Triton. Super cooled, high velocity rounds weren’t far behind, and the Gunnery Chief couldn’t remember being more frightened. Watching the outer armour of the transparent hull crack and shatter centimetre by centimetre was surreal. The memory had to be put aside. His people were at incredible risk while they worked beneath the fatigued section of hull. "How many gunnery positions do we have left, Hunsler?"

"Thirty nine 280mm turrets and three 450mm guns. I'm trying to get two more 450’s back online; they only have fried targeting systems. We have spare modules in storage."

"Good, get 'em running," Frost instructed as he limped out of a loading suit's way. Its plain, grey and blue armour plating and heavy gait made anyone think twice about standing near it.

"Are we expecting more trouble?"

"Never know. Captain's still out there somewhere, so we could be going back in it if we have to save his arse." Frost looked through the transparent hull above him as the repair crews rushed around, trying to get ammunition secured and the injured into express cars so they could be transported to medical. Only two of his team had been killed and ammunition explosions or direct heat had burnt fewer than two dozen.

Something caught his eye as he watched one of his gunners emerge from his turret capsule. He could see three lights growing in the distorted field of stars; there was something very wrong with how they were moving. The points were growing and too steady.

Chief Frost looked down the length of the massive main gunnery deck ceiling. It wasn't just the aft section that was busy with repairs and other operations. The whole deck was running full steam, dozens of loader suits secured ammunition and helped with repairs, mechanics climbed into the big four barrelled, ceiling mounted railgun turrets, gunners were being replaced or just getting out so they could stretch or help on deck. The controlled chaos was thanks to weeks of practice in simulations and live exercises. They'd had some seasoning thanks to a few encounters, but nothing that compared with the close call they had just seen.

He looked back up to the three points of light and was almost certain they’d grown. I don’t care if I look like a panicky rookie, something’s not right and I’m marking them so tactical gets a better look. Frost thought as he selected the three points and suggested them as targets in the system.

He hoped he was wrong, that it was just some odd refraction through the wormhole wall, but he wished the cleanup on deck would move faster just in case. The most damaged section of hull in the centre was a massive wound, a weak spot that left everyone vulnerable until it was sealed off. When their work was done the gunnery deck would be split in two parts that were each hundreds of square meters. Lieutenant Hunsler, the night Gunnery Deck Commander, would take charge of the aft section, while Frost would manage the larger forward segment.

That had been more like the stories his father and grandfather would tell him about serving aboard large destroyers. Men and women all doing the best they could, standing valiantly at their posts and running the guns. Grist for the mill, his grandfather said they were called. The decks he served on were nothing like the Triton’s. His grandfather’s time in the military was served aboard the long hulled Crossbow destroyers, eventually commanding the port side gunnery decks, where three levels of turrets were crammed along the side of the ship shoulder to shoulder, one above the other. He'd seen one of the ships on a family tour with his father and remembered staring in awe at the raw mechanics of it, the sheer potential firepower.

He felt a tingle of the same awe whenever he took a moment to look up at the ceiling of the main gunnery deck at the ninety-eight gunnery pods at his command. Not even the burning of his shin stump could diminish that feeling. He'd lost his foot and most of his shin weeks before when an Eden Fleet boarding robot, a silver killer, drilled through the hull. He stepped forward to face it in a loader suit and was rewarded with a sound beating. The memory of the limb being cut straight through still made him cringe, though he'd never admit it, especially not to Stephanie.

Chief Frost returned his attention to the puzzling flares above them. Triton tactical hadn’t analyzed them yet. To his surprise they had grown even more. He realized he was looking almost dead aft and did some quick calculations in his head, staring at the three points unwaveringly. He came to an alarming conclusion and opened a channel to everyone on the deck. "Abandon the aft most compartment! We're sealing it now!"

Before his eyes the wavering image of three light flares became the outlines of three ships and Frost turned to run, knowing it was too late. With a thunderous explosion against the outer hull the ship shuddered. The deck disappeared from beneath his feet. The ship had shaken so hard the artificial gravity failed. "Brace and secure!" he shouted, looking around for something to clip his safety line to. There was nothing in reach.

Through the transparent hull he could see the stars spinning madly, the entire ship was out of control, he was turning slightly out of sync with the deck as well. He knew he'd have a lot of gunnery personnel sicking up in their suits and hoped they could let the interior waste disposal systems work while they pushed through the discomfort. Strange thought to be having while I'm spinning four meters above the deck. Worrying about how the suits handle my crewmen’s sick as the ship spins outta control, that’s one for the Officer’s lounge. He mused.

The artificial gravity reactivated and he fell to the deck on his feet. His prosthetic foot squelched against his stump and turned awkwardly under the pressure. The fall hadn't injured him, but with his stump out of its proper place in his prosthetic, he wouldn't be walking anywhere quickly.

He winced as he started running towards the fore of the ship, trying to get out of the aft section of the gunnery deck. "Get yer arses out of this section so we can seal it off and concentrate on giving our attackers hell!" He ordered.

"Need a hand chief?" asked a Junior Sergeant in a loading suit as he stopped beside him.

Frost was about to turn it down out of pride, the edge of the section was only fourteen meters away, but changed his mind when he put weight on his stump again. "Aye, give us a lift." He grabbed hold of one of the handles tucked under the smaller loading suit's shoulders and let the operator pick up his legs piggyback style.

"Chief Frost, how long until your deck is firing again?" asked Commander McPatrick from the bridge.

"I can have seeker rounds or H29 explosive shells tearing into anything you want gone in sixty seconds or less."