SG: Aurora #27 - Scramble! (Part Two of Three)

[Frobozz]

[Continued From Part One.]

Colleen crawled through the technological intestines of Owchie Class
Cruiser one, an Invader spacecraft that had been captured months earlier by
a horde of ninja. It and its twin Ouchie Two had simply sat in the
Beanstalk's uppermost docking level, gathering dust and racking up one
enormous parking fee. Just days before TFA's dissolution, efforts had been
made to persuade the captured Invader crew to reveal the secrets of the
spacecraft. Of the entire compliment, only Ragaar the ship's Waste
Incineration Expert had cracked under the interrogation. Thus Canada found
itself in possession of the most efficient and advanced techniques for
liberally dousing trash with gasoline and lighting it on fire. Sadly, this
had proven less than useful in spacecraft operation, though the procedure
had been immediately adopted by many senators and politicians who found it
much more reliable than shredding for the disposal of documents which could
prove humiliating, mortifying or link said statesman to immoral usage of
goat farms.
Colleen had thus been ordered to leave the highly important (read:
tedious and repetitive) job of reactivating OUQT suits for the vital and
highly exciting (read: tedious and highly dangerous) duty of trying to
figure out which button needed to be pressed to get the starships'
viewscreen wipers activated.
Kent, Colleen's boss, knew that the woman was an absolute genius with
all things technological and had therefore felt confident in assigning her
this duty. This being a decision which made utmost sense, it naturally
would not pass muster when face to face with cold, hard reality.
Colleen was a technological genius, one of the most volatile and often
dangerous on the face of the planet. Tales of her scientific exploits
tended to occupy vast threads on sci.techwizards.be.afraid, though a good
number of these tended to involve the construction of interstellar craft to
get the hell(tm) off of the planet before Colleen could accidentally crack
its core while inventing the next step in the evolution of the egg whisk.
Though eminently reproducible, her inventions defied analysis by any
scientist not on the same plateau as she (translation: whacked beyond the
boundaries of sanity), involving as they did food products, the static
potential of Spanish moss and branches of quantum theory devoted
exclusively to the tendency of aluminium siding to exist on any given house
which actually needed it. Colleen's eyes were opened to the invisible world
of science and they saw it so clearly that she understood shortcuts to an
end far, far better than she could possibly understand the long-form which
involved research, testing and lengthy safety precautions. Why then was
Kent's decision to send this woman into Owchie-one such a mistake? Quite
simply: when Colleen was around technology, she felt the urge to improve
upon it. Drastically.
"We came as quickly as we could," said the Tornado suited trooper John
Clarke, leading the newly reformed Lavender With A Sort Of Teal Stucco
Border squadron. He stopped in front of Peter Kent, outside of Owchie-One
which sat dark and lifeless in one of the Beanstalk's orbital level docking
bays. "What's the problem?"
"Colleen entered that vessel ten hours ago," said Kent, the worry and
strain evident upon his face. "She has yet to emerge and has not answered
commo hails. I'm afraid that there were some booby traps that we hadn't
found in there that she might have fallen afoul of. We've got less than two
days to get ready to repel an alien invasion and we can't lose our best
engineer. Or my friend. Please, find her."
Clarke nodded, motioning to the rest of his squad, which advanced
towards the quiscient vessel. Kent caught up with them.
"Hold on, you'll need the key," he said.
Clarke nodded. "Sure. What is it, numeric keypad? DNA scanner? Retina
blood vessel verification?"
"Mechanical lock," replied Kent, tossing Clarke a Brinks key.
"Something happened to the high tech lock that the Invaders installed and
we had to replace it."
"What happened to it?"
"We discovered that it had an alternate key."
"That being?"
"Dynamite. Lots and lots of dynamite."
Clarke shook his hand and placed the key in the keyhole. Somehow, this
just lacked the glamour of those movies where a paramilitary squadron was
led into the bowels of a potentially dangerous vessel.
"So some of the machines in there might've trapped the woman after
they glitched?" asked one member of the squad.
"That's a distinct possibility," replied Clarke, fiddling with the key.
"We might have to find the problem to get the woman out?"
"Maybe."
"So level with me. Is this a stand up fight or just another bug hunt?"
"Jackson?"
"Yessir?"
"Please shut up."
"Yessir."
The lock opened with an audible *click*. As though this had been a
signal to the craft, at exactly that moment Owchie-one began to hum
violently. All along its hull, lights flickered and blazed to life, causing
it to suddenly resemble a model built by someone with too much time on his
hands and unlimited access to a hardware supply store. And slowly the door
opened with copious amounts of dry ice steam spilling from it for effect.
Clarke and his squadron watched, waited and gripped their weapons, each
knowing exactly that the length of time soldiers had to survive in any
science fiction movie where they confronted the unknown was generally
measured in minutes only in the extended play versions. From the mist
stepped a figure, terrible to behold...
"Ack, whae're ye all standing around like dummies pointing yer guns at
my head, lads?" asked Colleen, wiping grease from her face.
"Colleen?" asked Kent, running closer.
"Aye lad, who else did ye send in there tae hae a li'll look around, Job?"
"You're safe! And... you figured out the vessel!"
Colleen looked up in innocence. "Nae... exactly."
"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"
"I didnae figure the entire craft out, ye see..."
"But you made a good start, right?"
"Erm..."
"What did you do?"
"The ship was quite inefficient, ye see..."
"Oh... god."
"I couldnae help myself!"
"What... did you rebuild?"
"Very close tae... er... everything."
Kent placed his face in his hands. His voice was muffled as he spoke.
"Everything. How much of it will explode upon first use?"
"I take a good deal o' offence at thae insinuation!"
"How much?"
"Nae more than fifteen per cent. On the outside."
"I'll arrange for safety tests..."
"Ye dinnae need safety tests, Kent. Science is meant tae be exciting!"
"Yes, but wars aren't meant to be fought with ships that have
combustible life support systems."
"I used nae flammables in the life support systems. Merely a healthy
quantity o' nitrous oxide."
Kent sighed.
"I'm teasin' ye, test it if ye must. While yer testing it, see if ye
can find my wrist com, will ye?"
"You had to cannibalise it for parts, I presume?"
"Nae, nae, the last booby trap sheered the watchband in ha'."
Kent stared. "Colleen, are you all right?"
"Oh aye. T'was nae my commo. I'll ge'tae work on the other ship."
"Right... sure... whatever..." muttered Kent, muttering under his
breath something about 'engineers', 'impossible', 'deadly force' and 'power
tools'.
***
Space was quite ready to testify in a court of law that it had been
peacefully minding its own business being space-like - that is to say cold,
dark and empty of anything that could get it accused of being less spacey
and arrested on charges of being bodily - when for no reason it was warped
from behind. The armada of Invader ships that perpetrated this crime would
be willing to plead guilty to the charges of aggravated assault with intent
to twist space beyond recognition. They would then saturation bomb the
courthouse from orbit and haul off any unlucky survivors to be taught that
when the Invaders said die, it was so much better to obey rather than stick
around and make the conquerors more angry.
"Look at that," said Captain N'nsense, gazing through a viewscreen at
the panorama of space beyond him. Every moment, a rainbow flash became
visible as space parted to admit yet another vessel of war into realspace
from glidspace. The effect was mind-boggling to the captain, for no better
reason than he was dim enough to forget what the spectacle looked like
between jumps. "Doz-- er... hund-- er... thous--er... hundreds... um...
ships beyond number! All here to right the great wrong that Earth has
perpetrated against us!" He turned to face his second-in-command. "To
punish it for failing to stand as a sentient against the hostile
universe... for daring to be barbarians in the face of civilisation... for
the crime of ignoring a plaintive cry for help!"
The first officer reached up with a forefinger to wipe a speck of
spittle from his face. "Captain, you're expositing on me again."
"Oh, sorry."
"No please, go on. You were ranting?"
"I've finished. But look at all of those vessels, with more arriving
every moment! Isn't that so... so... what's the word that I'm looking for,
number one?"
"Excessively gratuitous?"
"That's two words."
"I didn't mean to overload your mind, captain."
"Don't do it again, number one."
"As you command, captain."
"How long will it take for every ship to make the transition from
that... place where we go real fast to that place where... if you go real
fast... um... you get heavier and approach um... really infinite mass. You
know the one I mean, right?"
The first officer sighed. "You mean the transition from Glid space to
real space?"
"Yes! Yes, that's the one. Clever chap you are, you'll go far in this
service provided you eat all your greens, listen to your superior officers
and practice annihilating sentient races before bed."
"Twenty two hours, captain."
"Is there any way to speed that up?"
"Only if you're willing to crash the ships into each other."
"Will that affect their performance at all, number one?"
"They'll be atomised balls of dust that will drift through this system
until eventually they're drawn into one of the planet's gravitational
influences and settle as microscopic fragments across it."
The captain considered that news for a long while.
"That would be bad then, wouldn't it?"
"Fairly so, yes."
The captain pondered further, looking at the ships reentering what was
known as Einsteinian space because the crafty scientist had been clever
enough to take out a patent on the thing but hadn't been quite clever
enough to make any money from this before he had died. The XO sighed once
more, wishing not for the first time that he could be assigned to a ship
with a reasonably more sane crew compliment. A lunatic transport, for
instance.
"No captain. Scowling at the armada won't speed it up."
The captain looked up, surprised. How had his first officer deduced
his plan so quickly? Clearly he was becoming predictable and that in of
itself was a liability. The captain resolved that no matter what, he would
be utterly random in the battle to come. But in the meantime, he knew that
he needed some vital tactical information from his XO before things could
proceed apace.
"Why not?"
The XO considered his answer very carefully. On the one hand, the man
was his superior officer and as an Invader, obedience was ingrained from
the moment that he could field strip a plasma cannon, indicating that it
was time for him to be taken from his crib. On the other hand, said captain
was a mental midget who lacked the ability to outclever an educationally
disadvantaged rock that wasn't really trying too hard.
"Because... no one will see it," said the first officer finally,
wondering if that was really as lame as it sounded. To his immense relief,
the captain seemed quite satisfied with the answer.
"As you say. Issue orders to all ships: gather at that planet there
upon emergence!"
The XO followed the captain's finger, which pointed to a distant speck
on the viewscreen.
"That's a star, sir."
"Oh, bother. In that case, have them meet at that planet there!"
"That's another star, sir."
"That one?"
"Star."
"What about this?"
"Star."
"This one?"
"Very starry."
"Over here?"
"That's a bit of dirt on the glass, sir."
"Hell(tm)'s bells!" cried the captain, in frustration. "How is someone
expected to navigate with all of these stars in the way? As soon as Earth
is dealt with, make a note that we'll put forward a proposal to have them
all removed!"
"Captain, perhaps it would be easier just to use the navigational
display of the solar system?"
"Would it help?"
"Couldn't hurt."
The two wandered over to a holographic display of the solar system.
The captain considered carefully before pointing. "The meeting will take
place... there!"
"Captain, there are ten bodies displayed on that chart. Of them, nine
are planets. One is a star."
"Yes?"
"YOU PICKED THE STAR!"
"Oh. I guess I'm on a bit of a roll today," shrugged the captain. "I'm
getting bored of all this. Why don't you pick the planet and give me a nice
surprise."
The XO nodded and gestured to Mars, relaying orders for ships to
gather around it. He looked at the captain's retreating back and
considered. With a small smile, he turned to check on the escape hatch
closest to his chair, making sure that it was oiled and ready to abandon
this ship at a moment's notice. Like an old friend, it was. There was no
true happiness like a well maintained and kept bolt-hole.
***
The room was lit in the style of most military installations, that is
to say barely. Unlike most military installations, competent people who
knew their jobs sat within it, waiting for a meeting to begin. Pencils were
tapped, itineraries looked over for the hundred and first time and one
bottle of vodka on vodka with a vodka chaser was consumed by a very
industrious woman who, one would be forgiven for assuming, seemed to have a
taste for vodka.
Arthur Doyle materialised in the room, his solid hologram projector
humming. All rose from their chairs with the exception of the vodka
drinker, who managed to compact this action down into the raising of her
middle finger.
"Have a seat, everyone," said Doyle, somehow managing to ignore the
one-fingered salute that had been offered. "You've all been briefed on the
situation at hand?"
Nods indicated that all had been informed; Doyle resolved a simulacrum
of a sheaf of paper in his hand.
"Engineering is pulling triple shifts to get everything in order,"
said Peter Kent. "The No-Doz is being passed out like M&Ms and we should
have everything in readiness by twenty-two hundred tomorrow."
"Is that wise?" asked Doyle. "Perhaps you shouldn't be pushing
yourselves quite that hard."
"We're working on Colleentech now," replied Kent, looking at Doyle
with bloodshot and tired eyes. "Seeing double's a positive asset in that
case."
"Noted," replied Doyle, looking at the next person around the table.
"How are the troops?"
"We shook a little rust offa them," replied Graham, nodding a bit.
"They're at peak efficiency as far as I'm concerned and I'm not easy to
impress. One snag, however."
"Yes?"
"No local video stores seem to be willing to rent popular musicals. We
may have to skip the Chorus Lineup and that would be very bad for morale."
"We'll put our top men on locating 'Tommy' and 'Superguy: The
Musical'." Doyle turned to the next person and heaved a sigh before
speaking again. "Commander?"
Commander Lydia Tonk looked up from her third liquid appetiser. "What
the hell(tm) do you want?"
"How are our space forces, commander?"
"My navigator's a right bastard. I'm probably going to have to
'accidentally' strand him in an airlock that's about to iris open before
too long."
"I meant how is their battle readiness?"
Tonk shrugged. "What're you asking me for?"
Doyle tried to count to ten; he made it to six when he realised that
he could think of one horrible thing to do to this woman for each number
that he ticked off. He decided to try reason in the vain hopes that it
would somehow work for once on anyone associated with this organisation,
though Doyle remained dubious.
"I ask because you, commander, are in charge of Aurora's space forces.
This means that I suspect you of having some knowledge of whether or not
they're ready to fight or if we should just convert them all to
McSquirrels' and sell dinner to the invaders so they can have a light snack
before annihilating Earth. Now please, what is their battle readiness
status?"
"Tanked up and ready to go."
"I can see that," said Doyle, looking disapprovingly at the bottle of
vodka. He realised that he wasn't going to be getting much more from her
and so turned to the next person in queue.
"The Tribe of Behn is ready to help however it can, Arthur," said
Aphra Behn, leader of said superguyish group. "Give us the word."
"We'll need all the help that we can get," replied Doyle, smiling at
his once-leader, Aphra. "I only wish that we could have reached any other
group for assistance. We'll need all that we can get."
As though on cue, and as the Author of this story is trying to keep it
under four parts by cutting out the randomly spaced encounters that
reinforce verisimilitude, the door opened to admit a vivacious, crew-cut,
brown-haired woman. Doyle nearly grinned as he rose to greet her.
"Portia!" he exclaimed, shaking her hand. "Good lord am I glad to see you."
"Hey Doyle," replied Jennings, still her all-military self though she
wore just the fainted hint of a grin. "I saw you shine the Bat-signal but
we were a little late getting here. Sorry about that."
"No... no, not at all!" he replied. "I take it that the group that
you're training..."
"The Brat Pack? Yeah, they're here and whipped into shape. They're not
great, but I guarantee you they won't break under pressure. We've been
through a lot together and the centre has held."
"Thank you _so_ much. We need every hand that we can get."
"You're going to need a crap-load more than just hands, A.D,"
interjected Tonk, leaning an elbow on the table as she made her way through
yet another bottle. "You're gonna need a miracle so big they'll give you a
whole chapter in the Bible just to hold the damn thing."
Doyle turned to her, sitting. "That's why we're here, to discuss strategy."
"You don't need strategy," shrugged Tonk. "You need prayer and lots of
it. Right now."
"If you go into battle thinking you'll be defeated..." began Graham.
"You'll be smart and stay home to crochet, crackers," groused Tonk.
"We're not gonna win this war with affirmations. Cliches don't do much
against lasers, you know. We've got two ships. Two crappy ships against an
armada. Even if we strapped a BBQ to the 'Laura Secord', filled it with
antimatter and whistled 'Come 'n get it' to the invaders, we still wouldn't
have a shot in hell(tm) of doing anything except making the most
well-cocked hot dogs in the history of the world."
There was an uneasy murmur around the table.
"You're claiming that the situation is hopeless," asked Behn.
"Pretty damn much," said Tonk, with a shrug. "Two ships against an
armada. Hell(tm), unless we fitted up a few dozen boarding pods and tried
to take out the armada's command structure from the inside-out, we'd still
only have about a one-in-three chance. One-in-two if we could add captured
vessels' fighting strengths to our fleet's on the fly. I mean, our chances
wouldn't improve all that much even if we did run a few possibly suicidal
distractions with the 'Laura Secord' to cover up the boarding parties."
Tonk took another swig of vodka, wondering why everyone was looking at
her raptly. Something twigged at the back of her mind and she sprayed a
fine mist of clear alcohol across the table.
"Shit!" she cried. "No, you didn't hear that! I didn't suggest a plan,
it just slipped out, you heard nothing, forget I said it, arrrrrrrrrgh!"
Those seated at the table grinned at her. Tonk sank lower in her seat
and proceeded to bash her head against the table, splintering the wood
slightly.
"Who're you going to get to command it?" she asked, already knowing
the answer.
"Our best commander, of course," replied Doyle.
"Of course," sighed Tonk, wondering how many cans of Sterno her weight
allowance on-board the 'Secord' would translate into.
***
[Continued In Part Three.]