USS Jefferson: Charge of the Symbios Read online

  “Oh yeah.” He took several steps backward. Having given himself a running start, he leaped at the wall with an extended size fifteen boot. The wall didn’t crumble or come apart. Instead, it fell outward in one big piece—landing in the alleyway outside with a colossal whump sound.

  We all stared at the door-sized opening.

  “Maybe we should go before the shooting starts,” Wanda said, already halfway out the opening.

  By the time we made it back to Bon-Fallow’s small landing port facility, alarms were sounding in the distance.

  The attendant gave the six of us a suspicious look. “Best you don’t return here…not ever.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” Max said as we all hurried up the ramp into the Hub Gunther.

  Once inside, I provided each of them with a new TAC-Band. “Put these on…you’re now officially all back on the clock.”

  Chapter 1

  Pleidian Territory

  Stoiling Build Base

  Captain Galvin Quintos

  Catching a ride back on a Pleidian freighter, it took just over six days to return to Pleidian Weonan Territory and Stoiling Build Base. Max and his squad followed me into the space-way tube leading to the Jefferson.

  “What are your plans now?” I asked Max.

  “I’ve contacted command. We should have a new mission deployment in a couple of days.”

  “Not all of the GravLifts are operational, and I haven’t been down to the barracks yet, but make yourself at home.”

  We stepped onto the deck of the USS Jefferson at Deck 14—Zone D. Unlike the Hamilton, much of the Jefferson’s interior had yet to be SmartCoated—where bulkheads would literally gleam white and be subtly illuminated from within. It was a substance you could fire a shredder pistol point-blank at, and it wouldn’t so much as leave a mark.

  Together, we proceeded further into the vast ship. I heard Ham, or maybe it was Hock, say under his breath, “What a shithole.” I was tempted to snap at the young marine, already feeling protective of the old dreadnought, but let it go. At this point, she really was still a bit of a shithole.

  We split up at the bank of GravLifts, where I took a lift and headed forward. The noisy car shook and rattled, and more than once I had to reach out for a handhold. From what Shawlee had told me, sometime this week she would be able to assign more personnel, as many as a few hundred real shipbuilders, to help with the refurb. Since I’d yet to be reassigned to another ship, I was perfectly fine getting my hands dirty here. In fact, I found the manual labor relaxing. And for someone who was dealing with delayed-onset posttraumatic stress disorder or DOPTSD, I felt the quiet time was doing much for my recovery.

  Stepping out onto Deck 13, Whale’s Alley, my mind was a million miles away, actually light-years away.

  “Galvin?”

  I looked up to find Stephan Derrota standing there, waiting for me.

  “Stephan! I thought you were still back in Mumbai at the funeral…”

  He looked somber at the mention of his late father, who had recently died in some kind of a hover rickshaw accident. “He was sent off with a dignified Hindu ritual. I left soon after the cremation.”

  “And you haven’t been reassigned to another ship?”

  He shook his head. “I have some bereavement time still left.”

  “And you chose to spend that here?” I said with exaggerated bewilderment. “Ham just referred to the ship as a shithole…he’s not far off the mark.”

  “Ah yes, your rescue was a success then?”

  “More or less.” Together, we headed toward the bridge. “So, Stephan, what is it you want to tell me? We’ve been friends a long time. I know when you start to fidget like you’re doing, something’s on your mind.”

  My former science officer rubbed at his forehead, taking a moment before answering. “Don’t get mad.”

  “Okay…”

  “I know any talk of the PE2 is off-limits.”

  I gave him a sideways glance but didn’t interrupt.

  “I know transporter technology is a hot subject right now.”

  “And for good reason. Mainly instability among the Alliance. An alliance, until now, that has worked.”

  A crease formed between Derrota’s brows. “I never understood that. It’s a technology that literally can change the dynamics of the war. How the Thine, Pleidians, and humans all come together to cooperate should be a no-brainer.”

  “I think the problem is mostly on the human side of things. There are those within our own power structure that are unwilling to share. Unwilling to give that technological leverage over, even to our allies. It’s a subject I’ve broached a number of times only to be slapped down and told to drop it.”

  Derrota pursed his lips.

  “What? Just say what you need to say.”

  “The PE2 is off-limits…got it. What about the PE3?”

  I shook my head and shrugged, looking bewildered.

  “You see, Galvin, I had a lot of time on my hands on Earth. And my mind, it never seems to go quiet.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  Derrota stopped prior to us entering the bridge. “It’s not a device. It’s a dedicated compartment. One with multiple transporter pads…far more practical—”

  “You have ideas of how to make that come together?”

  “Ideas?” he scoffed. “Galvin, I have the thing designed! Plans, schematics, blueprints for the construction.”

  “You know we would be in direct breach of the ENUF, not to mention US Space-Navy Fleet Command, doing anything with those plans.”

  Derrota let out a long breath, looking defeated.

  “Then again, you also must know I tend to break the rules more often than any other officer in the fleet.”

  I looked up to the high metal rafters, searching for an easy answer. “One thing I won’t do is cross the empress. She’s done far too much for me, like giving me two dreadnoughts now. I doubt she’d be okay with us building this PE3 of yours…how about we table the idea until I talk to her?”

  “I couldn’t ask for any more than that, Galvin. Thank you for considering it.”

  We entered the bridge together. Derrota looked about the outdated compartment, his eyes settling on the entrance to the combat information center, the CIC—his previous domain.

  “Feel free to take a look. Keep your expectations low, though. As far as combat information centers go, it’s a far cry from what you were used to on the Hamilton.”

  Derrota hesitated again. “I’d like to be a part of that renovation, Galvin.”

  “You haven’t been assigned to this ship. No one has…mainly because it’s not officially a US Space-Navy asset. Not even on loan as the Hamilton was.”

  “But you could make that happen?”

  I smiled. “Now, knowing you actually want that, sure. I can talk to the admiral.”

  That seemed to have lifted a heavy weight from the man’s shoulders. “Then I would be honored to be your chief science officer once more, Captain Quintos.”

  “I have one condition then.”

  “Name it.”

  “Come with me…”

  We arrived on Deck 17—Zone E, an area of the ship that was chillier than any other part of the ship. Something to do with the environmental climate sensors being out of alignment. I showed Derrota the way to Hold E9, which was, like so many other holds on this vessel, a total mess. There were old crates and boxes stacked about that probably had been here since the ship’s initial deployment some sixty years prior. But there was one crate that was new. A composite material army-green coffin of a thing.

  I gestured to it with one hand. “This. This is what I need your help with.”

  “What is it?”

  “Not what, who.” I proceeded to tap out the unlock codes upon a small input pad on the top of the crat
e. The sounds of power-assist servos came alive as internal securing bolts retracted. The lid powered open as two separate flaps. Derrota leaned over and peered inside. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

  I said, “The Pleidians were able to refurbish the ChronoBot from a mechanical aspect. They got his articulating appendages operational, his weaponry functioning, his chrome plating buffed out and made all shiny and new-looking again. But that highly unique Bio-AI, that place where Hardy resided…it may be gone forever.”

  Derrota must have seen the pain in my eyes.

  “And LuMan? Has he been reactivated?”

  I shook my head. “The Pleidian techs were somewhat more optimistic about that. At the very least, perhaps you can help with that aspect.”

  Derrota gave the robot a couple of pats on his head. “Any of the labs up and running? I can’t work here. It’s too cold to even think.”

  “I’ll have a hover cart brought in here. Have the crate moved to one of our minimally functional labs.”

  Chapter 2

  Three days later…

  As cold as that hold was on Deck 17, of late much of the ship’s temperature was going in the opposite direction. Things were warming up—too warm—and too humid. It wasn’t uncommon for me to take two and sometimes three showers a day. And since there were so few people on board, I had no hesitancy wearing the most comfortable clothes to fit the sweltering, clammy conditions. Today’s project had me on Deck 18, Zone G, within the environmental conditioning department. I knew enough that this area would be the crux of the issue.

  To be honest, till now I hadn’t been the most mechanically inclined person. But I was learning—nothing like trial by fire, they say. They also say necessity is the mother of all invention—I would change that to necessity is the mother of all irritation. What I had to work with were decades-old ship schematics and my TAC-Band interface into the ship’s Main Artificial Thought Resource—commonly referred to as MATHR—the Jefferson’s central AI system, located physically within her own nook over in the CIC compartment. MATHR, like much of the ship, was only partially operational. She could be accessed only through mobile devices such as one’s TAC-Band or with various test devices. Speaking to her, her voice was that of a matronly grandmother, never having been updated over these many years. Ask her a simple question and she would come back with an answer, a retort that had a scolding aspect to it.

  I’d found the problem. At least I was fairly certain I’d found the problem. Apparently, there had been a small fire here within Environmental Conditioning. One console adjacent to a bank of master switches levers was fried. I wiggled beneath it and saw that a portion of the multistrand laser fiber—a kind of signal and communications braid used all through the ship—was little more than charred goo.

  “MATHR…this comms braid here, can I swap it out without getting shocked or electrocuted?”

  My TAC-Band displayed a bright red warning symbol. “Ship maintenance and repairs should be conducted by trained, authorized ship-wide maintenance personnel only!”

  “Thank you, MATHR. Command override parameter 2111364. Now please just answer the damn question.” This was the eighth, or was it the ninth time today I had to override MATHR’s infuriating withholding of information?

  “Yes…the power breaker for this console is turned off.”

  I let out a breath and reminded myself that killing the ship’s AI would be counterproductive. But the second Derrota had some spare time, MATHR had to go. Or at the least be updated to the version of software Hamilton had utilized.

  “Wearing shorts…I don’t think that’s standard issue for a starship captain.”

  I bumped my head upon hearing the voice. It definitely wasn’t that of MATHR. I wiggled out from under the console.

  “Wanda…how’d you find me here?”

  “I just followed the sounds of distant cursing.”

  I looked at her blank-faced.

  “Nah…tracked your TAC-Band location. Nice attire…shorts and a sweaty wifebeater. What do you got there, three, maybe four little hairs on your chest?”

  “I think it’s five. You come to tell me you’ve been reassigned?”

  “Nope. On the contrary, we’ve been assigned to the Jefferson.”

  “No way. I haven’t even been officially assigned to this ship. How is it your squad has been?”

  “Top secret…if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

  And she could, I thought. Sitting there on the deck, I didn’t like having to look up to her with her exposed brawny marine biceps flexing the way they did. I held up a hand, and she pulled me up.

  “Woof. You most definitely need a shower, Cap.”

  I sniffed my own armpit. “Yeah, I do kind of reek, huh?”

  She nodded. “Two things, Cap…we want to help. The five of us are up for anything you want us to do here. Although it’s hard to imagine anything less than an MEB would make a difference.”

  She was alluding to a marine expeditionary brigade (MEB), which was an antiquated historical reference to the formation of the US Marine air-ground task forces, reaching as many as fourteen thousand five hundred boots.

  “I’ve been assured more help is on the way,” I said. “I can put the five of you to work right away. What was the second thing?”

  She reached a hand out and gave my right bicep a squeeze. “Looking good. You’re in better shape…look at those guns you got there. But Cap, you need to keep up with what we started. You been practicing with the combat avatars?”

  “Some, but not as much as I’d like to.”

  She looked me over once more. “You and I, we’re resuming your training.”

  I smiled. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but with everything I have to do here—”

  “That wasn’t a request. We’re doing this. It’s not just about you being able to defend yourself or you not being such a pansy-ass…it’s about this.” She gestured to her head. “How you doing with that, what’s it called, delayed something or other?”

  “Delayed-onset posttraumatic stress disorder. It’s fine, I guess. It really only rears its ugly head when I’m in ultra-high-stress situations. Not much of that going on these days here…thankfully. But I do have to say, Wanda, your training…you kicking my ass all those days in the gym helped, I think.”

  “Good. Check your TAC-Band. I’ll set up a running schedule for us.”

  She left, leaving me back in my all-too-quiet solitude. I realized in that moment just how much I’d missed being around people. No, not just people—my people. Immediately my mind went to where I purposely tried to avoid having it go—to Viv and Gail. The two women had become more than subordinate crewmates and friends. Major doctor Vivian Leigh was my age, beautiful, and we’d been intimate on one occasion. Although, in my own defense, I didn’t know it was her at the time. I pushed aside the thoughts of her nakedness within the Hamilton’s Japanese garden and the dark and steamy hot springs where two anonymous crew members had come together by chance…or had it been by chance?

  My mind turned to Lieutenant Gail Pristy. No better XO had I ever served with. Smart, intuitive, and competent. And also beautiful in a different way. I looked about my dreary environmental conditioning department surroundings. Was this beat-to-shit old vessel an embodiment of who I had become? Once the personification of battle prowess and glory, only now little more than a broken hulk? Both had quickly been deployed to other ships. Of course they had been; they were amazing. I knew Doc Viv was with the 9th Fleet, heading up a HealthBay on a heavy space carrier. Gail now had her own command, but I wasn’t sure where or on what kind of ship. Perhaps I didn’t want to know. Both relationships were complicated—I’ll leave it at that.

  It took me four more hours to get the multistrand laser fiber braid swapped out for the console, and to my amazement, it fixed the problem of tropical heat conditions within the
ship. Feeling good about myself, I decided I’d take Wanda’s advice—head to my quarters and take another shower.

  * * *

  I found Derrota in the CIC, up to his elbows in circuit boards and cabling within the cubbyhole area where MATHR resided.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, startling him.

  He didn’t take his eyes off what he was doing. “I can’t take it. Not another fucking minute.”

  Derrota rarely swore. But when he did, in that Mumbai-accented voice of his, it always made me laugh.

  “She’s so bitchy. I feel like a damn reprimanded schoolchild whenever she talks to me. So, I’ve had it…I’ve just had it!”

  “Okay. So, again, what are you doing in here?”

  “First of all, I upgraded the Jefferson’s comms’ bandwidth to that of the Hamilton. With that done, I was able to upload the latest version of MATHR’s software. That comes with a much better speech synthesizer. Today, the old bitch is no more.” He inserted three circuit boards back into their respective card cage mounts and tapped on a series of buttons. Lights flickered on.

  Derrota finally looked at me with a triumphant smile. He pointed upward. “We should now be able to talk to her like usual.”

  I, too, looked up. I said, “MATHR…provide a self-diagnostics report.”

  I am operating at 72 percent functionality.

  Checksum inconsistencies caused by fluctuating

  anomalies at substrate locations B8, Q5, and X9.

  “The voice is better,” I said. “And we don’t need to talk to our TAC-Bands to communicate with her…that’s a good thing.” But I could tell Derrota was miffed he hadn’t fixed things 100 percent.

  “Well, at least that bitchy tone is gone,” he said. His brows shot up, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. You have several missed comms messages.”

  I looked at my TAC-Band quizzically.

  “That was another MATHR issue I fixed; high bandwidth messages were being bottlenecked. Both the admiral and Shawlee—”

  “Go ahead and direct them to the halo display,” I said, heading back out to the bridge. As I waited for the feed to open, I took a seat at the captain’s mount. The seat cushions buckled and crackled beneath my ass. There was nothing on board this old relic that didn’t need repairing or outright replacing. The halo display came alive with Cyprian Block’s craggy face. The EUNF US Space-Navy Executive Five-Star Fleet admiral looked tired—stress and long days had aged the man. Block had been a longtime friend and mentor to me and was one of the few executive officers that had had faith in my abilities early on in my career. In fact, he was the one who had promoted me to captain on the USS Hamilton.