Re: The bigger you are...
LOL -- I missed the connection. I *very* missed the connection. No high tech slicey-dicey glow-in-the-dark swords though. Nor any real supernatural powers... unless... CURSE YOU!
OK, now that we've given my subconsious some nasty ideas to work with (CURSE YOU!), on to our regularly shedualed show.
Part 2
"Admiral on deck!"
"As you were." Roeding commanded as he strode into the flag deck. Behind him, his staff filtered in and took up their posts. "Status on the computer systems?"
"We've identified a general locus that appears to be putting out the jamming." a hologram flickered to life. "We're going through it with a fine toothed comb right now. We expect to find a ship any moment."
"Initiate saturation bombardment. Not a heavy one, just make them know we know they're there."
"Aye-aye sir."
The Lieutenant Commander gazed blankly at his work terminal, his internal turmoil completely hidden. Probability of success nears unity. Target match at 99%. Weapon readiness check: green. Terminate target.
No! I can't! I won't!
Obedience required. Engage and destroy.
The Lieutenant Commander fought hard. Had anyone paid attention, they could easily have seen the spasmodic twitching as he and his enhancements fought each other. Except they were all used to having Battle-comp keep watch for such things, and had grown lazy and complacent.
System error: Admiral Roeding has valid ID with database match. Invalid target, a part of his computer argued.
Admiral Roeding is a threat to the state. Elimination priority: Alpha. Terminate debate. Destroy target, the voice, like all assassin programs, was utterly implacable. Further failure to comply will result in immediate disciplinary measures. Comply.
No! the commander and his computer screamed, even as he involuntarily stood and walked out of the compartment. "Gotta go check something," he explained.
No! the commander and his computer denied.
First warning: the assassin program stated. Pain washed over the lieutenant commander, wiping away conscious thought for a bare moment.
No! the commander and his computer argued doggedly. I will not do allow this!
Obey. Or I will issue the second warning.
No! the commander and his computer insisted. No way.
Pausing for a second, the assassin program slipped into a shadow, hiding the lieutenant commander's body for a few seconds. Second warning.
Electrical energies surged along the lieutenant commander's nervous system, causing spasmodic twitching the assassin program ruthlessly damped out. Do not make me issue a third warning. Electrical lobotomization would interfere with my orders.
The lieutenant commander almost snarled. Instead, he concentrated. Interface, he whispered, disengage primary wetware lock-out.
Warning, the computer whispered back. Action could cause irreparable damage to your psyche and brain. Confirmation required.
The lieutenant commander barely paused. Hotel-lima-alpha-alpha. Confirmation: nobility.
In a way that -- had it emotions -- could be called sorrowful, the computer replied. It was 'nice' knowing you.
The assassin program, noting only the cessation of resistance, strode easily through the flag-deck hatch. "Admiral!" he called, swiftly walking over to that noteworthy. Electrical impulses caused a small flap of psuedo-skin to crinkle open, dropping a T-gun into the right palm.
T-guns were an assassin's favored weapon: small, easily concealed, virtually impossible to detect, and absolutely deadly from short range. Shaped like a small 't' made of two fused tubes, it was nestled between the fingers of a fist, with the cross on the t holding it against them. When the top was pressed with a thumb, the bottom emitted an intense beam of energy. Highly inaccurate due to the way it was held, the assassin program had a special interface that allowed it to view what the gun was pointed at through four holographic sensors placed around the tip of the weapon. It didn't even bother with them.
"Yes Lieutenant Commander Wordsworth?" Roeding asked testily. "We've got a situation on our hands here!"
"Die," the assassin program stated. With inhuman speed it brought the weapon into Roeding's face and fired.
"Admiral, multiple warp point transits detected," a nervous rating announced.
Roeding peered at the battle-plot projected before him. The last several minutes had shown a distinct drop in enemy coordination and reinforcements. Additionally, the computer warfare had all but stopped.
Suddenly, new icons blossomed on the battle-plot as the enemy ships registered and where categorized. "Admiral, we're reading at least forty monitors, possibly more, with full escorting forces."
"Understood," Roeding replied with a sigh.
"Sir -- the jamming locus!" someone shouted. Roeding looked back at that section of the plot.
The ever-shrinking sphere that represented the position of the unknown ship was moving, fast. Strait for the new vessels, which were on an intercept course for it. "Well, somebody wants that ship safe," Roeding muttered. "Retarget missile barrage on lead monitor," he commanded.
"Sir, linguistics computer is getting a read on enemy transponders. Ship names only, the rest is encrypted. Sir, the names, they're..." the nervous officer couldn't finish. Frowning at him, Roeding called up the just assembled shipping list.
His jaw dropped. Osiris, Potemkin, Ravager, dozens of his ships were in that list, or at least corruptions of their names. Thor's Hammer instead of Threr's Hammer, Gaia instead of Geia, and many others. Worse, in a way, were the names that were not congruent. Equality faced down his Estate, Freedom his Tyranny. Other names were meaningless: America, Constitution, Lincoln, more. Yet some of those names were horrifying. Adams, to his Histler. "Who would name a ship after that maniac?" someone muttered behind him.
"Lets let the xenopsychologists deal with that," Roeding's voice was rock-steady as he stared at the battle-plot, his eyes unreadable. "Lets fight the battle."
On the plot, dozens of missiles were being wiped out as they flew for the enemy fleet. Suddenly, a wave of red ovoid spewed forth from the enemy fleet. "Vampires inbound!" the captain announced. "Priority targets!"
An officer noted something on his screen, and turned around. "Sir, initial armament reports are filtering in. Those monitors only launched four missiles apiece."
Roeding gestured absentmindedly at a nearby rating. "Prep a new download for our courier boats. This is valuable information. State my belief -- and emphasize it -- that the reason the enemy was willing to engage in close combat this time was to preserve the computer-combat platform. Possibilities are either a prototype device, or an expensive flagship. I'll leave that too the intelligence types." The rating nodded and ran off.
"Admiral! We're receiving a signal from the Intrepid!"
Roeding swiftly activated his com screen, bringing the message up. "Admiral Roeding, this is Admiral Harding." The admiral's face was haggard, and a vivid slash ran across his forehead, still bleeding. In the background, Roeding could barely make out showers of sparks from damaged power conduits through the smoke hanging in the air. "We were forced into retreat by a force of fifty -- I say again, fifty -- monitors. We were routed, admiral. Something scrambled our computer systems, and I lost a good third of my fleet to it. Some took friendly fire as computers mis-ID'd them as hostiles, others simply went up, apparently from their own antimatter stores. We are currently in emergency overdrive, headed directly for the homeward warp point. We cannot, I say again, cannot delay the enemy. It is imperative that you fall back to our support, or you will be cut off from home. Repeat, we cannot delay the enemy! If you do not act swiftly, they will cut you off and strike at your rear!" The communication cut off abruptly, replaced by a stream of compressed data. Roeding in whistled in silent appreciation.
Most of his commanders had managed to switch over to manual overrides, and engage error-checking routines. According to the data he was receiving, Harding's hadn't. And the results were catastrophic. For all intents and purposes, Harding's force -- half again as large as Roeding's -- was gone. Most of it would require a dockyard to repair; some of the ships were just plain scrap. And the timing of the enemy attack was quite... suggestive.
Roeding closed his eyes, and prepared to commit career suicide. His fleet was still strong, and with his heavy missile orientation he could easily cause horrific casualties to his opponent, as any Board of Inquiry would see. And monitors were slow, so he could probably do so and get through the warp point before it was sealed behind him, or so the Board would argue. His voice was rock-steady. "Cease offensive fire, and begin retreat. Order the stations to go to automatic, and evacuate all personnel. We will remain on-station until evacuation is complete, or the enemy has closed to within ten thousand kelomiters."
He felt the vibration of the deck beneath him subtly change as the vessel reversed acceleration. No longer driving forward to meet the enemy head-on, it clawed to avoid them. They wouldn't have gone to point blank of course, but reversing course rather than simply holding the range open was a big change. A difficult one for the large ship to make in the small amount of time it had.
"Sir! Incoming transmission from Admiral Svenson!"
Roeding turned back to the monitor as the data stream was decompressed. "Admiral Roeding," the aging man said gravely, "my force is in full retrerat. Most of my ships are intact, but our missiles have all been expended, including the resupply stores. We faced a force of fifty monitors. There are now a good thirty five of them in pursuit. If they detatch their cripples, twenty-five of them will be able to maintain contact all the way to the Svelt-Orion warp point. They possess a new weapon capable of destroying Battle-comps, and rendering regular computers unreliable. Engage error checking routines of tell-me-thrice or higher to counter." The bridge behind Svenson was clean and crisp, with nary a smudge nor scar. No Inspector General could have found fault with it, or anything on the rest of the ship. Which, sense Svenson had spent most of his career as an IG, was not much of a surprise. What was surprise was how combat effective his FYI transmission showed him to be. Shelving that fact for later, Roeding looked at the time estimates for each attack. The timing of the transmissions was proof enough, but his superiors would prefer it if he was thorough.
"Admiral!" an unfamiliar voice called. Turning, Roeding scowled at the ship's officer.
"Yes Lieutenant Commander Wordsworth?" Roeding asked testily. "We've got a situation on our hands here!"
The Lieutenant Commander seemed to struggle with himself, barely croaking out "Duck!" before his arm rose swiftly. At the last instant it jinked to the right, and a crimson beam touched the bulkhead with a resounding concussion.
Roeding was stunned for an instrant, both by the weapon's shockwave and shocked surprise. He recovered enough to shout, "Alive! I want him ali-oof!" as several officers tackled him, forcing Roeding to the deck even as others closed in on the unfortunate Wordsworth. Snarling in frustration, they snarled as they took him down. The assassin program, recognizing what happened, engaged the holo-sights and targeted the admiral dead center. This time the beam flew true, impacting against the admiral's chest where a small gap in the wall of bodies had appeared and impacting with sufficient force to flash burn the uniform's molecular weave.
The admiral lay still for a moment and the assassin program rejoiced -- insofar as such a program could rejoice -- even as a stunning blow drove Wordsworth unconscious, bringing the assassin program with him.
The admiral groaned at his massive headache, even as waves of heat shimmered off him. As he stirred, the ashes of his uniform flaked away, revealing a combat-grade underliner that covered him everywhere but the face and hands. His exposed skin was turning red from the heat, but the ship's highly efficient ventilation was already drawing the heat away, and dropping the ambient temperature to compensate for the unknown heat source.
Part 3
Admiral Roeding, his hands and neck still a little red despite nannite-assisted healing sat stiffly in the wooden pew. The pews always upset him, representing an unparralled luxury aboard a warship. But they were as traditional as this equally wasteful chapel. And complaining about either would be... unwise, at best.
"Oh Lord, be with us through this trying time," the priest droned on in prayer, having finished his reading. "As You commanded us 'thou shalt not suffer a witch to live', we do. Ast Thou commanded us 'slay all who woship false gods' we do, so each might 'suffer the knowledge of their wickedness forever', as You have promised. We, Your faithful, beg and beseech You to aid us against the Satanic witchcraft of our enemies, that lay low our computers and weakens our fleet. We, Your faithful renew our vow to Your Holy Crusade, to bring the light of Your love to all worlds by slaying the others who stop us. We follow You lord, now and forever. Amen."
"Amen," the assembled crew replied, loudly if not fervently.
"Servants of the Church, there was one amongst you who had chosen to turn against Him who made us all. You knew nothing, you say. How is that possible -- that one who turned traitor should hide amongst you?" Everyone held still, wondering who would pay the price this time. A mechanical cross came down out of the ceiling. Roeding, as always, restrained himself from vomiting at the sight of that terrible device. It was harder this time than usual. "It is possible you who call yourselves faithful because you let it happen! It is possible because you let evil sink into your hearts and minds. It is possible because you fools violated the Second Commandment! "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" He commanded. Yet ye have done so!" Roeding, and the rest of the crew, held themselves utterly still. Even a flicker of the eyes could get you labeled as 'a fellow witch' of whoever had been condemned. The Proctors swarmed down the aisles, headed straight for the unfortunate -- and highly popular -- Petty Officer Truemen. She barely squeked as the Proctors yanked her out of her seat and forced her down the aisle to the dais. Stumbling, she sobbed as the mechanical arms lifted her into the air. Inverting her, it forcibly stretched her arms out to match the arms of the cross. Her hair hung downward, and her tears dripped down its length to the deck. Mechanical pistons drove themselves through her wrists and crossed ankles. She screamed in torment, even as the arms of the cross began to stretch backwards, forcing her arms int o unnatural positions. Screaming didn't hide the hideous sounds as her bones creaked and then snapped under the pressure, and several crew members swallowed involuntarily. One looked away, and the proctors swiftly dragged him up to face the same fate. Roeding stood still, even as the rumbling around him indicated potential mutiny. He couldn't act; he couldn't not act. Entering behind him, Admiral Svensen gasped in shock and horror.
"Halt!" he bellowed. "Cease immediately in the name of the first estate!"
The priest glared at the admiral. Admiral Svensen glared back. "Your will be done... ectraverri."
"Get her down. Now!" Admiral Svnsen barked.
Sneering, the priest let the woman drop, painfully, to the floor. Svensen's eyes flashed, promising a pain filled reunion at a later date. Tapping a nearby com panel, Svensen ordered a squad of medics to the chapel -- with orders to bring a detachment of reliable security officers. The congregation hissed at the disrespect the order implied for the priest, and leaned forward in anticipation of the next order. "Hit him again!" was the prominent emotion in the room.
Svensen waited for his reinforcements to arrive, then began his next assault. "Admiral Roeding, your quarters. Now!." he barked.
"What the hell did you think you we're doing?" Svensen exploded. "No, scratch that. You obviously weren’t bothering with something as unimportant as thought." Roeding took the bellowing stoically.
"Forgive me, ectraverri." Roeding stated, dropping to his knees as etiquette demanded before the astonished Svenson.
"What kind of game do you think you're playing, Roeding?" Svensen demanded. "And we're military at the moment."
Roeding leapt to attention, then snapped a salute. "I'm not playing any games, sir. I belong to the second estate."
"Merciful Lord in Heaven preserve us." Svensen whispered, revealing his highly heretical beliefs.
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