Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4) (49 page)

The Samartians, apparently in response to the Heron’s statement that they did not want to fight any more Marfikians just now, resumed their holding ellipse on their side of the border.

The Heron followed suit. That was a decision which made itself. Regardless of the casualties, and of the damage to his ship, Alex knew that they had come too far to pull back now.

He was grateful, though, that the Samartians left them alone. They needed time to carry out the most urgent repairs, to catch their breath, to realise what had happened.

It was several minutes before that began to dawn on Alex. He had been so focussed on the casualties, the damage, the immediate need to hold his ship and crew together, that he had not even begun to think about what they had actually achieved. It was only when Davie passed him his primary analysis of data from the battle that Alex began to see that they had achieved anything at all.

Davie had captured images of the Samartian ships as the combat brought them within visual range of the frigate – the first time anyone had been able to capture such images. They were, as expected from the heatscan images, long, thin ships, some sixty three metres long but only six metres wide. They were, indeed, constructed as four modules, each with engines, weapons and manouvering thrusters. What
hadn’t
shown up on heatscan, though, was the external skeleton, a scaffolding structure around the hull which obviously helped to reinforce it for those hull-ripping manoeuvres.

Davie had also been able to get a mass-to-core ratio, revealing that the Samartian ships were considerably lighter than League ships of the same size would be, almost forty per cent lower in mass. Davie had suggested, given their known skill in producing nano-tech sensors, that they made extensive use of nano-tech aboard. Davie owned Vetris, the most progressive shipyard in the League, and had been personally involved in the design of the new Dart-class destroyers. He was well qualified to analyse the design and performance of the Samartian ships. His report noted that if he could get the answers to four questions, he would back himself to have Vetris producing a version of the Samartian ships within two years. Even the information gathered from those fleeting glimpses was enough to steer ship designers in creating very much faster, more agile vessels.

That, in itself, was enough to justify their mission here, to make all of it worthwhile. If what they had found out helped to keep their worlds safe then Ali Jezno would had given his life in a truly heroic endeavour.

Davie, though, had also noted that they had learned, today, how to rescue a ship that was going into dephase.

That took Alex entirely aback – he had assumed without thinking about it that the dephasing Samartian ship had exploded, and that the two ships which had gone after it had been doing so in order to pick up whatever lifepods had been fired.

Davie, though, had picked up data from their fighters which showed what had actually happened. Alex had to look at it twice, himself, before he could believe it. The footage was fuzzy, but clear enough to see that the two undamaged ships had raced in to the tumbling one, matching its rolls and somersaults precisely. Then in the next moment all three images merged, making it clear that they had either docked on to it or got so close that they’d fired grapnels onto its hull. Two seconds after that, a white-hot dot spat out of the merged ships and detonated just on the edge of the fighter’s scopes. Davie had analysed this and produced convincing data to support his belief that the damaged ship had ejected the dephasing core, firing it out at such high speed that it was more than a million klicks away before it detonated. Historically, League ship designers had abandoned the ‘core eject’ option centuries ago, deeming that it was too dangerous and rarely worked anyway because the dephase had already caused catastrophic damage to other systems.

The Samartians, though, had evidently perfected a method by which the dephasing ship was stabilised by the two others locking on to it. Davie suggested that in addition to providing a physical tow, they were almost certainly providing a power feed, so that the damaged ship could shut its own engines and power generators down entirely. As Davie observed, if they could learn to do that, both in terms of technology and pilot training, they could save many ships which currently had to be abandoned to their fate. And that, too, would in itself justify their mission here.

But that wasn’t all. Diplomatically, they had achieved something tremendous. They had fought alongside the Samartians, defeating a Marfikian squadron together. If that did not win trust and progress the relationship, nothing would.

Alex looked up from reading the report, looking doubtful. Davie was talking about the battle as if it was the biggest victory the League had had against the Marfikians for a century or more, and Alex wasn’t feeling that at all.

‘It was hardly a triumph,’ he said, taking issue with one of the words Davie had used. ‘The combat lasted twenty seven seconds and involved eight Samartian ships, our frigate and three fighters against three of their Thorns – twelve against three, not what I’d call a triumph.’

Davie stared at him. ‘You just destroyed three Marfikian Thorns,’ he reminded him.

‘Only because the Samartians kept driving them back under our guns,’ Alex objected.

Davie shook his head, a little impatient. ‘You’re missing the point,’ he said. ‘Look, the last time the Marfikians strafed a convoy, there were eight Fleet ships, twenty seven fighters and forty six armed freighters. Combat lasted four seconds and cost three ships, two fighters and twenty eight people dead. They did not manage to land a single shot on the Marfikians, not
one
. You had three Thorns at your throat, three at once, unable to get away, cornered, giving you everything they had. And you destroyed all three in less than a quarter of a minute. I call that a triumph, achieved by high speed, highly coordinated manoeuvring, superb gunnery and tactical missile deployment, carried out by a crew who have honed their combat skills to a degree no other Fleet ship is even close to. It is a
triumph
, and I refuse to alter either my opinion, or one word of that report.’

Alex considered for a moment, then nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he conceded, ‘that is your prerogative.’ He didn’t add ‘it just doesn’t feel much like a triumph at the moment’, though Davie saw the wry twist to his mouth, just for half a second.

Buzz didn’t need to see it to know how Alex was feeling. He knew very well what gut-churning Alex was experiencing right now, with all the responsibility for what had happened weighing on him like five gees of acceleration. Buzz could see how much effort he was having to make, to stay so calm and speak as if this was a perfectly ordinary day.

Buzz said nothing, though, beyond the necessary reports as damage control progressed. He gave the skipper no sympathetic looks, not even a comforting ‘dear boy’. The time would come for that, later, but Alex would not thank him for it now. All he needed from Buzz was a steady, supportive professionalism, so that was what Buzz gave.

Both of them were waiting for news from sickbay, though, with a dreadful sense of apprehension. The first news, at least, was good. Tina Lucas, indeed, was discharged within half an hour. Her injury had been a clean fracture of the tibia, easily repaired with bone sealant and treatment for muscular injury around it. She walked out of sickbay with a small dressing on her leg and a stand-down order to rest for twenty five hours.

Tina came straight to the command deck. She said nothing, at first, just stood there and waited for Alex to look up from his screens and the discussion he was having with Morry, the engineer. When he did look at her, his expression showed relief, and enquiry – he was obviously about to ask how she was, but the expression on her face stopped him. That was just not a question she wanted to answer at the moment.

‘Sir,’ she said. Just one word, but it carried all the explanation and appeal she wanted to convey. Tina had been the officer in charge on mess deck two; it was her team that had taken the hit. Her own injury had been caused in the blast – her foot had caught in a freefall bar as her whole body was slammed against the ceiling. The survival suit had protected her from that impact and the flash fire that had engulfed her, but her leg had been forced to an impossible angle.

She had been lucky. Banno Triesse had been beside her at the time. In the moment after she had been flung at the ceiling, shrapnel had ripped through his suit like machine gun bullets. Ali Jezno, nearest to the air processor, had taken the full brunt of the explosion. Tina had to know that it was not her fault, that there was nothing she could have done, but that wouldn’t stop the pain. Alex understood that better than anyone. So, balancing her needs against medical orders, he gave a slight nod and gestured her to the seat beside him.

Tina sat down with a quick, grateful look and got straight to work on the screen he passed her. It was routine work, but better than doing nothing, and just to be there, sitting by the skipper, was comforting.

Half an hour later, Alex got a report from sickbay that made him let go a sigh of relief. Simon and Rangi had confirmed that they could save Banno Triesse, though they had decided to leave him in stasis for three days to give them time to prepare for his surgery.

Alex put that report on the notice board immediately and heard the exclamations of relief across the ship. They were followed, though, just as in his own mind, by the immediate question – what about Ali Jezno?

There was no word about him, just the continuing status of ‘evaluation pending’ on the casualty board. It was forty minutes later that Simon and Rangi asked to meet Alex privately, in his daycabin.

Everyone understood what that meant, and a groan of dismay sounded mournfully throughout the ship. Alex got up, bracing himself.

The ship went very quiet as the captain and the two medics met at the door to his quarters, Alex ushering them in and closing the door behind them.

Alex looked at the two men as they all sat down. His hands were clasped lightly on the desk in front of him, his gaze was steady. There was a sense of absolute control.

‘So,’ he said.

‘Skipper, I’m sorry,’ Rangi Tekawa really sounded as if he meant that. Ali Jezno was not just a patient to him, he was a friend. His voice held grief, even a note of anguish. ‘In my opinion, Ali Jezno’s injuries are not survivable.’

‘Yes they are,’ said Simon Penarth. He sat with his arms folded in a pose of stubborn defensiveness. As Alex looked at him, Simon’s jaw set firmer. ‘I can save him,’ he declared.

Rangi looked even more distressed at that.

‘Simon, you
can’t,’
he said, clearly continuing a discussion they’d been having before they came to the daycabin. ‘Quite apart from anything else, it’s
illegal
to give someone more than thirty per cent cloned brain cells!’

Simon gave him a look which held some ferocity.

‘Unlawful,’ he corrected. ‘There’s a difference. And I
have
done it before: Jaymes Winthrop.’

‘Yes, but the Medical Ethics Authority is still investigating that case,’ Rangi pointed out. He would have gone on, but Simon interrupted with a complex noise registering contempt and impatience.

‘They’ll be at that for years, before they have to admit I was right,’ he said, and turned back to Alex, aware that the skipper was the one he had to convince, here, not Rangi. ‘Listen, the rules about how much cloned brain material you’re allowed to use are so out of date, they’re
archaic
, and have always been more about irrational fears and politics than they have about medical science. It says it all, in that, that the official legal-medical term for giving someone more than thirty per cent cloned brain matter is ‘zombification’. It’s true, admittedly, that in the early days of geno-neurology the best possible outcome was one of severe brain damage, but medicine has moved on a long way since then. Even a basically competent neurosurgeon could repair Ali Jezno sufficiently to have him on his feet again, and you’ve got
me
, okay? I am without any doubt at all the best neurosurgeon in the medical profession. I have pioneered treatments other consultants are still trying to understand. I can do this, okay? I’m telling you, Alex, I can
save
him.’

Alex looked at Rangi, who was making a heroic effort to keep it together so that the skipper would listen to him. It could not be easy for him to take any kind of stand against Simon, his hero, but it had to be tearing him apart to be taking
this
stand, with a friend’s life on the line.

‘No, you can’t,’ he managed to keep his voice almost steady. ‘He’s already gone. Everything that made him Ali, his memories, his personality, his spirit – his soul, that’s
gone
. You can’t save him, you can’t bring him back. It’s just
wrong
, Simon. I’m sorry, but …’

‘Shut up,’ Simon told him. Then, seeing that Alex was about to tell him not to fling such blunt commands at his ship’s medical officer, he went on in slightly more appeasing tones, ‘Look, I’m sorry, but have a little faith in me, here. We are not talking about bringing back a shambling idiot. Jaymes Winthrop is back at
work
, right?’

‘He is also,’ Rangi pointed out, ‘suing you for what you did to him.’

‘No, he isn’t,’ Simon gestured dismissively. ‘He’s only suing me because the media kept calling him a zombie, which he lays at my door for having used the word ‘zombification’ in the press briefing. Me, I don’t mind that one bit – the man has his life back, his kids have their dad, that’s a result in my book. The fact that he’s alive and able to
be
peed off at being called a zombie is great news as far as I’m concerned. And I’m telling you,’ he went on, turning back to Alex, ‘that I can save Ali Jezno. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to bring him back to a hundred per cent functionality, there will be memory loss and he may drop some IQ, but I
can
save him.’

Alex looked back from him to Rangi. He was still trying to understand this. He had been so sure that they were coming to tell him officially that Ali Jezno was dead.