Read Online Solfleet: The Call of Duty by Glenn Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Glenn Smith
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yeah!”
the tactical officer exclaimed, waving her fist in triumph as she spun her
chair around to face the captain. “Target destroyed, Captain!” she reported
victoriously, just to make it official. “ Completely annihilated!” she
then added for good measure as she turned back to her console.
Lieutenant
Julienne Irons wasn’t usually so loud and animated, and Captain Bhatnagar
wouldn’t normally have tolerated such an outburst on her bridge. But the
younger woman had received word only yesterday that her even younger brother, a
Marine Corps PFC assigned to the Tripoli , had been killed in action two
days earlier in this very star system, during a boarding action his unit had
carried out against one of the Veshtonn command cruisers. Bhatnagar had
suggested she take some time off afterwards to deal with her loss, but Irons
had respectfully refused, saying simply that she had a score to settle with the
lizards. Since that time, her already superior performance of duty had risen to
a whole new level. So, as far as Bhatnagar was concerned, Lieutenant Irons’
dedication to her duties had earned her the right to celebrate every moment of
her revenge. She was not going to rebuke her for it.
“Mister
LaRocca,” she called out, turning to the helmsman instead. “Plot a course to
the Tripoli ’s sector and engage. Best speed. They need all the help they
can get over there.”
“Already
plotted, Captain,” the helmsman advised her as his long, slender fingers danced
over both his helm and navigation controls at the same time. “Engaging now.”
Bhatnagar
turned her chair around to face the fully manned four-station operations deck
that dominated the rear of the bridge, and saw right away that the new engineering
ensign was working there again—the teenaged-looking one whose name she could
never seem to remember. That made three days in a row. Commander Marshall must
really have felt a lot of confidence in the young man to assign him that much
bridge time. The chief engineer usually rotated his young officers through
bridge duty on a daily basis.
“Engineer,”
she called out. But before she could say another word, her chair suddenly
dropped out from under her and she found herself tumbling head-over-heels sternward
across the ceiling as a thunderous crash and the crew’s pained and frightened
screams resonated through the bridge. And then, when the artificial gravity
promptly compensated for whatever catastrophe had befallen them, she fell
backside-first to the operations deck with a solid thud. Excruciating pain like
a high voltage electrical shock shot up her right side and down the length of
her leg, and she let out a quick yelp of her own.
Purely out
of instinct—she’d always preached that a ship’s captain should know her vessel’s
heading at all times—she looked up at the viewscreen to find the stars rolling
upward rapidly. Whatever had happened had sent the ship into a sudden and
certainly unexpected high-speed positive pitch.
“What the
hell was that?” she demanded as she picked herself up off the deck, wincing against
the piercing pain that pulsed through her right side and shot down her leg
again and again with every move she made. Then, glancing around the bridge to
quickly assess the situation as she hobbled back to her chair through a
thickening cloud of acrid smoke, she saw that those officers and crew who were
able to, and who could afford to stay away from their stations for a few more
moments, were busy running around the bridge with hand-held extinguishers—the automatic
fire suppression system had apparently been knocked offline—putting out a
number of small fires that had flared up.
Those
personnel not helping with the fire control efforts were picking themselves up
from wherever they’d come to rest and would resume their posts momentarily. As
far as she could see, no one had been seriously injured. No small blessing,
that, and one for which she was very grateful. She could
the tactical officer exclaimed, waving her fist in triumph as she spun her
chair around to face the captain. “Target destroyed, Captain!” she reported
victoriously, just to make it official. “ Completely annihilated!” she
then added for good measure as she turned back to her console.
Lieutenant
Julienne Irons wasn’t usually so loud and animated, and Captain Bhatnagar
wouldn’t normally have tolerated such an outburst on her bridge. But the
younger woman had received word only yesterday that her even younger brother, a
Marine Corps PFC assigned to the Tripoli , had been killed in action two
days earlier in this very star system, during a boarding action his unit had
carried out against one of the Veshtonn command cruisers. Bhatnagar had
suggested she take some time off afterwards to deal with her loss, but Irons
had respectfully refused, saying simply that she had a score to settle with the
lizards. Since that time, her already superior performance of duty had risen to
a whole new level. So, as far as Bhatnagar was concerned, Lieutenant Irons’
dedication to her duties had earned her the right to celebrate every moment of
her revenge. She was not going to rebuke her for it.
“Mister
LaRocca,” she called out, turning to the helmsman instead. “Plot a course to
the Tripoli ’s sector and engage. Best speed. They need all the help they
can get over there.”
“Already
plotted, Captain,” the helmsman advised her as his long, slender fingers danced
over both his helm and navigation controls at the same time. “Engaging now.”
Bhatnagar
turned her chair around to face the fully manned four-station operations deck
that dominated the rear of the bridge, and saw right away that the new engineering
ensign was working there again—the teenaged-looking one whose name she could
never seem to remember. That made three days in a row. Commander Marshall must
really have felt a lot of confidence in the young man to assign him that much
bridge time. The chief engineer usually rotated his young officers through
bridge duty on a daily basis.
“Engineer,”
she called out. But before she could say another word, her chair suddenly
dropped out from under her and she found herself tumbling head-over-heels sternward
across the ceiling as a thunderous crash and the crew’s pained and frightened
screams resonated through the bridge. And then, when the artificial gravity
promptly compensated for whatever catastrophe had befallen them, she fell
backside-first to the operations deck with a solid thud. Excruciating pain like
a high voltage electrical shock shot up her right side and down the length of
her leg, and she let out a quick yelp of her own.
Purely out
of instinct—she’d always preached that a ship’s captain should know her vessel’s
heading at all times—she looked up at the viewscreen to find the stars rolling
upward rapidly. Whatever had happened had sent the ship into a sudden and
certainly unexpected high-speed positive pitch.
“What the
hell was that?” she demanded as she picked herself up off the deck, wincing against
the piercing pain that pulsed through her right side and shot down her leg
again and again with every move she made. Then, glancing around the bridge to
quickly assess the situation as she hobbled back to her chair through a
thickening cloud of acrid smoke, she saw that those officers and crew who were
able to, and who could afford to stay away from their stations for a few more
moments, were busy running around the bridge with hand-held extinguishers—the automatic
fire suppression system had apparently been knocked offline—putting out a
number of small fires that had flared up.
Those
personnel not helping with the fire control efforts were picking themselves up
from wherever they’d come to rest and would resume their posts momentarily. As
far as she could see, no one had been seriously injured. No small blessing,
that, and one for which she was very grateful. She could
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