Story #157 - Fleet Action

Fleet Action

Being a Captain in the galactic fleet was not all it was cracked up to be.

“Captain Jens! Captain Jens!” That was Sw'olep, his Second, who had yet another crisis to report. The problem with Sw'olep, aside from his abysmal breath, was that he made everything into a crisis, no matter how insignificant the matter might actually be.

He'd contacted Command several times about having the Second transferred – preferably planet-side for the rest of his tour – but had been told that due to the “sensitive nature of the agreement” that the brass had with Sw'olep's homeworld, there was no option for a transfer or re-assignment.

Jens had been around long enough to know exactly what that meant. Thirteen cycles ago Command had decided there were a number of resources that they wanted on the Sithher world, and with the recent addition of the warlike Guando to the fleet had gone and taken what they wanted from the Sw'olep's people without even bothering to negotiate. The result was a decaying world, mined of resources and barely able to support its own people. Anti-Command protest groups had sprung up and after a decade of activism, the boys at the top of the food chain had decided it was in their own best interests to make peace.

They'd provided resources and credits to help the Sitthers rebuild their shattered world, and posed for picture after picture with the downcast Sitther leadership. The PR was great back on earth, and protesters decided that although there hadn't been any formal admission of guilt, the assistance given to help poor Sithhers like Sw'olep was good enough.

Young and hopeful candidates for space flight were quickly drafted by Command, and Sw'olep was among the first. There was some concern that their people were not suited for the rigors of intergalactic travel, since their only space program was scrapped after a single mission, but Command was insistent, and hundreds of young and eager Sithhers poured into the fleet.

Their elongated arms and wide feet set them apart almost as much as their wrinkled faces, and they were forever tripping over raised edges and falling into bulkheads. Sitthers had never been a particularly graceful race, he had learned from Sw'olep, and their coordination got worse, not better, with age.

His Second had at least ten cycles on him and would live twice as long as he would, and he felt a twinge of pity for whatever Captain got the tall Sitther next. He also felt a measure of relief at the idea of finally being left in peace, even if that peace came at the cost of his body in the black.

“What is it, Sw'olep?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, more on principal than politeness. Sitthers had a difficult time picking out human emotions in conversation, but he felt he owed it to himself and the rest of the crew to try and maintain at least some sense of decorum.

“The breakfast mess, Captain. It's late!” Sitther emotions were large and easy to read, and along with the sweeping gestures that Sw'olep was making, there was no question that he was upset. Jens felt his mood darken.

“Second,” he said slowly, “are you telling me that you've come up here in a panic because of a galley complaint? Because breakfast is going to be late?” There was a danger in the question, one his Second missed altogether.

“No,” Sw'olep said earnestly, “I'm here to inform you that it was late. It has already been served!”

Jens ground his teeth hard together. “Let me see if I understand this, Second,” he paused for a moment to see if the Sitther would try to interrupt, but the tall creature just stood there looking at him stupidly, “you've come up here to to tell me not that the breakfast mess will be late, but that it was, and that all of the men are now fed and on-shift?”

Sw'olep nodded eagerly. “Exactly, Captain. You understand the gravity of the situation well.”

That was it. The last straw.

He had tried to be patient, to be understanding, as directed by Command. He had tried to respect inter species diversity and toe whatever other lines the brass were selling, but this simply wasn't going to work.

“Second,” he said “you are a disgrace -” he cut off as he was thrown hard to the right, his leg driving into the sharp edge of his chair. He had been meaning to get that fixed.

“Tactical!” He bellowed. “Report!”

Phyt, his weapons officer, answered quickly. “Blaster hit, Captain, and it looks like we've got another one coming. Hold on!”

Jens grabbed the arms of his chair and rode out the blast, and Phyt called out again. “Bringing the firing ship up on visual now, Captain!”

The shape that wavered into view on the screen in front of him was not a configuration he recognized. Sweeping wings with dozens of blaster ports lined each side of the large ship, and a high-mounted engine section at the rear spoke to a need for large amounts of power very quickly. Jens might not recognize the race that owned the ship, but there could be no mistaking the ship's purpose: war.

“Trei” He yelled to his comms officer. “Tell them to back the hell off! Tell them they're violating Command's territory and if they know what's good for them they'll turn around.”

It was a bluff; the fleet did control this sector of space, but the nearest reinforcements were three days away, and it was clear that his ship would have no luck going nose-to-nose with the one hanging in front of him.

“No,” it was Sw'olep of all people, his voice deep and confident in a way that Jens had never heard it, “do not speak to them. It will only make the situation worse. Captain, we must speak in private. The Al'aktal have found us again, and that means they have found you as well. You are in grave danger.”

Jens cursed Command under his breath as he stood up and motioned for his Second to follow him. The ship could endure blaster fire for some time; he needed to know what the hell was going on.

- D