HAB 12 (Scrapyard Ship) (6 page)

Chapter 6

The Lilly
phase-shifted to several hundred feet above the outpost, hoping to surprise each of the five Craing warship’s bridge crews. With her two rail guns deployed, she immediately went to work on the closest ship.
The Lilly
’s weaponry, especially her unique antimatter munitions, had become infamous throughout the fleet. One look at the distant ridge-line only reinforced the magnitude of destruction they were capable of. At that moment, these same munitions were ripping through the Craing ship’s shielding and decimating her drives. The warship fell from the sky like a rock and crashed into the desert below. The other four warships showed no interest in continuing the battle. One by one, they hailed
The Lilly
, surrendered, and landed at the outpost. Within minutes, U.S. armed forces were approaching the outpost from land and air.

Cramer’s militia fought on in earnest for several hours, but eventually, without the support from the Craing fleet of ships, gave up and laid down their weapons without further incident. Some chose to escape into the desert and take their chances against the elements, while others stayed to face the music. Jason’s first priority was to locate the missing base personnel. Tight-lipped, Admiral Cramer was no help. She had requested legal representation and said nothing more to anyone. Her militia second in command, a Montana hometown cousin, Ronald Billings, was eager to lead Jason and his father—first to one and then to the second of the two massive aircraft hangars.

All entrances had been chained and padlocked. Of course, nobody had keys. Valuable time was lost looking for an adequate-sized bolt cutter. Jason, his father, and two of Admiral Cramer’s now-quite-helpful militiamen entered the first of the two hangars. All four men retched. Ventilation had been turned off, making the corrugated steel building nothing less than a hotbox.

“It must be a hundred and twenty degrees in here,” Admiral Reynolds angrily said, squinting into the darkness. Reflexively, each of them brought their hands up to cover mouths and noses against the overwhelming smell. As Jason’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw what looked like bundles on the floor. A breaker was closed and the overhead lights came on. They’d discovered the missing outpost personnel. Nearly two hundred bodies here in this structure alone. Each body was tightly wrapped in duct tape and placed side-by-side, mummy-like, on the floor—unable to move, deprived of water, and lying in their own excrement for God only knew how many hours.
Were any of his
Lilly
crewmembers amongst these bodies?

Jason was barking orders and moving fast. “Get the air circulating in here and we need water—go!”

Some had survived. Most had not. Heat and dehydration had taken its toll. Those that did survive were confused and slow to recover from the effects of the odorless and invisible halogenated ether. The captives’ accounts told the same story. No one had expected an attack from within their own ranks. Well planned and executed, base personnel had been taken completely off guard. Apparently, Crawford’s militia had taken little care with their measurements. Once the best-guess oxygen and nitrous oxide formula had been mixed, and wearing gas masks, the militia introduced the
sleeping gas
concoction into ventilation systems throughout the outpost’s barracks. The few soldiers on guard duty were easily dealt with. A similar process was repeated for the Allied ships in orbit.

* * *

The shit hit the fan. Washington politicians and military brass alike converged onto the base like bees to honey. Troops from each of the service branches were deployed—the Army especially. They had recently gone above and beyond to filter out any Craing mutants from their ranks. Admiral Cramer’s rebellious grab for power had been quickly squashed. Her Alliance takeover plan was a shaky house of cards at best. To her credit, she’d managed to pull together several hundred devout followers—many of them Montana militia wackos and extremists. Her advantage had been the unhindered control over the remaining Craing fleet of two hundred and thirty-five vessels. She also had access to the Craing captives—prisoners—convincing enough of them to resume their previous posts as pilots and crew on eight of the battle cruisers. If she had been able to crew more of the warships, the outcome most definitely would have been different.

It would be years before government investigations, review boards, and tribunals had run their course. For now, Jason and his father sat in the largest of the outpost’s conference rooms, waiting for the hammer to come down on their heads.

Not officially under arrest, the two knew they were in deep trouble. Jason had fought for how the outpost would be managed and run—exclusion of the U.S. military being the hardest pill for the government to swallow. Now, with hundreds dead, not to mention embarrassment around the world, Jason knew things here would have to change.

No less than ten executive-level officers accompanied the Secretary of Defense. They piled into the conference room, stern-faced and arrogant. Jason and Admiral Reynolds stood and waited for all to be seated before sitting back down themselves.

“Jason, Perry. We have a lot to discuss, shall we get started?”

“Yes, sir,” they both replied.

“The failings of this outpost have been nothing short of stellar. What a clusterfuck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As of today, all the Craing vessels here are the property of the U.S. government.”

“Yes, sir.”

“
The Lilly
is the property of the U.S. government.”

“No, sir.”

Ben Walker eyed Jason and his father warily. “I could hold you, throw you both in a hole you’d never crawl out of.”

Jason was about to speak up when his father got there first.

“Ben, you want to blame the actions of a right-wing separatist wacko, one who should not have passed muster in your military in the first place, then fine. I’ll gladly take that on. But let’s not pretend you are carrying the big stick here, okay?” Admiral Reynolds said with a wry smile.

Walker’s face was turning red, “This isn’t a game. The president made it perfectly clear that this is not to be a negotiation. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Again, it was the admiral who spoke up. “Who am I, you ask? I am the only person on this planet who has experience leading military forces in deep space. I am the only person on this planet who has the foggiest idea about the enemy. For fifteen years, I have witnessed their cunning first hand, their brutality. I know how they think. And if that’s not enough, I am the only person on this planet who has strong, personal relationships with the leaders of the other worlds that make up the Alliance. Close to one hundred billion people. Bluster all you want, Ben, but when it comes down to
who I think I am
, I’m the United Planetary Alliance Commander for those worlds, and as far as they are concerned, I outrank the president, and I certainly outrank you. There is only one way in which you can take charge of any allied vessel, and that is if I allow it.”

Jason was having a hard time staying in his chair. In fact, he wanted to stand up and cheer. But Jason’s expression didn’t deviate, not even a smile crossed his lips. What made Jason really want to high-five someone, anyone, was seeing how his father had recaptured his spirit. The fight was back in his eyes. This was the man warriors across the universe wanted to follow into battle. He was back.

In the end, Admiral Perry Reynolds was appointed the interim Alliance Outpost Commander. The general consensus was his loyalty, experience, and commitment to the Alliance was beyond reproach.

Jason had learned a few lessons the hard way. He needed to better oversee to the care of his family, as well as
The Lilly
and her crew. He’d lost five crewmembers in those hangars.

* * *

It was close to midnight. Jason, Billy and Ricket approached the outpost’s subjugated Craing City from the south. Countless fires burned throughout the camp. The air smelled of soot and burning meat. Groups huddled close together for warmth against the brisk night air. There was an almost carnival atmosphere to the place; sounds of laughter and spirited conversations could be heard in the distance. Alliance soldiers patrolled the outer perimeters from outside the high metal fences. Only moments before, radios alerted sentries of Jason’s approach. At the gate, two soldiers looked up as the three figures stepped out from the darkness.

“Sergeants,” Jason said, as they came to a stop several paces in front of them.

“Good evening, Captain, Lieutenant … Um, I apologize, I’m not sure how to address you now, sir,” the sergeant said, his eyes darting from Ricket to the others and then back to Ricket.

“You can refer to me as Ricket—same as always.”

“Yes, sir—I mean Ricket.”

“How about opening the gate, Sergeant,” Jason prompted. “We won’t be here long.”

“Yes, sir.” The second sentry used a key to unlock a large padlock and swung the double gates wide enough for the three to pass through.

Once inside the compound, Ricket took up the lead, with the others following close behind. They headed off into the hordes of the three- to four-foot tall populace—all surviving prisoners leftover from the Craing fleet.

Heads turned and eyes narrowed as they moved past. The sight of Ricket within their compound created a commotion. Conversations abruptly stopped—small alien beings squared their shoulders and stood up tall. Open tent flaps revealed secluded card games in progress or individuals eating their dinners in solitude.

A group of excited Craing fell in behind them, a procession of sorts—all heading towards the back of the camp. Ricket slowed and came to a stop. A bonfire blazed. Three Craing sat on five-gallon buckets; the camp had gone quiet and a circle was forming around them. A Craing, seated on the middle bucket, rose to his feet and the two others also stood up. The center alien was surprisingly tall—close to four-and-a-half feet. Typically naked, or nearly naked, these Craing, and others seen around the camp, were wearing green army jumpsuits. Three more buckets were added around the fire. Jason took in the scene. These three Craing, especially the taller one, were obviously the leaders here.

“Pronunciation would be difficult, so you may call me, uh—Glenn—this is Rob and that’s, uh, Carl. You honor us with your presence.” The taller Craing bowed slightly and gestured for them to join them. They sat down in unison. The leader, Glenn, watched as something black and large was pulled from the open fire and placed upon a nearby table. Off to the side, two young Craing worked feverishly in the silence. Long knives moved quickly and with precision.

One by one, wood platters were delivered; first to the three visitors and then to the three Craing leaders. Smoke drifted into the air from charred meat. Jason’s mind flashed back to the flaming caldrons in the Craing Grand Sacellum—human flesh popping and sizzling upon their metal grills. Jason received a one word NanoText message.
Lamb.
Jason looked over to Ricket, giving him a subtle nod. They ate in silence.

Billy was licking his fingers and making appreciative sounds of mmm’s and ahhh's. “Amazing. Not sure what the hell I just ate, but wow.”

The taller Craing bowed his head and smiled.

Jason said, “Glenn, thank you again for sharing your meal with us. Ricket,
Emperor Reechet
, tells me you, as the leader here and overlord, wish to discuss something—”

“Yes, something of great importance, Captain. Although another matter presents itself which must be discussed first,” Glenn responded.

Jason nodded for him to continue.

“Our situation here. We would like to inquire about your plans for us.”

Several hundred Craing had encircled their group. They hadn’t made a sound.

“As you know,” Jason replied, “we’ve already returned many of your citizens to your home worlds. We have every intention of returning the rest. I apologize for these conditions—”

“You misunderstand, Captain. The Craing here do not wish to return to our home worlds. No, they would like you to help them migrate.”

Jason started to reply, but realized he didn’t know how to respond. “We fought against each other in battle. We’re enemies.”

“There is a small Craing settlement no more than three FDL days’ travel. We wish for that settlement to give us asylum. With your help, they can grant us asylum.”

The crowd around them stirred. Soft murmurs, then louder, “Asylum, asylum, asylum …”

“Our people, the crewmembers you have returned to the Craing Empire… They returned in disgrace. Without exception, each will come before a warrior’s claxon sword. Their heads an offering—their flesh to be consumed by their masters.”

“I didn’t know,” Jason said.

“It is our way.”

“Glenn, there is small Craing fleet, although possibly more powerful than the last one, leaving Craing space and headed for Earth in seven days. At least that is what we’ve been told. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Emperor’s Guard?” The three Craing sat still, eyes wide. Murmurs erupted from those encircling them.

“There is a good chance they will use nuclear or fusion missiles or some other advanced technology to destroy life on this planet. This might not be the best time to discuss this asylum thing,” Jason said with a shrug.

“Then this brings up the second thing we must discuss.”

Jason was getting restless; he wanted these people to cut to the chase. “What is this really all about?”

Glenn’s eyes darted to Ricket. He then stood and addressed the crowd. “Leave us now. Please. Let us talk in private.” The onlookers shuffled off. The two workers skilled with carving knives also left.

Glenn returned to his bucket and spoke quietly. “Are you familiar with Craing society?”

“No. Not really,” Jason replied.

“Two hundred years ago, the Craing Empire had few similarities to the one that plagues the universe today. We were a people of honor who kept to ourselves. Yes, we had our enemies. Yes, we went to war. But we had little interest in conquests.”

“What changed?”