C H A P T E R 6
Orieste IV
Orieste Star System, 2184 C.E.
Mass accelerator rounds shot from the bow of the mercenaries' mothership, creating quickly evaporating blueish trails of ionized atmosphere wherever they entered the barren world's thin protective layer. The explosions those rounds caused on the ground where not quite nuclear, but they would have made the effect of even the largest conventional World War 2 bomb look like a child's temper tantrum in comparison, Captain Janina Craster thought as the Chimaera raced closer, coming from the outer reaches of the star system. The bombardment hit close to where her landing party had touched down, and her ship's sensors were advanced enough to make out the individual clusters of Geth that were the actual targets of the mass accelerator attack. Still, Kenyon and his band of losers had royally screwed this mission. Her face darkened at the prospects the mission report would have on her own chances of getting her old life back in some shape or form. She knew that if she did halfway good in this job there were powerful people back home just too willing to put her on a pedestal again, people her family had influence with. And getting back into the upper circles of society, getting the perks of her birth back, that was all that really mattered.
"Entering final flanking phase, ma'am!" her second navigator informed her, and Janina Craster's eyes focussed on the merc ships in her plot.
"Hail them and instruct them to withdraw from orbit until we have extracted our people," she flatly ordered her comm officer, and after a few moments centred her eyes on the middle-aged man, raising an eyebrow. "Well?"
"Sorry, ma'am, no reaction from them," the man shook his head.
Oh, but there was a reaction, no doubts about that. If anything, the large beast of ship seemed to intensify its attack, and four of the corvette-sized smaller vessels accompanying it broke off and raced to meet Chimaera on an intercept vector. With their high acceleration and Chimaera's high velocity, the distance between them seemed to melt away like ice in the sunshine.
"500K clicks and closing, captain!"
Craster intensively studied the four smaller vessels's course, the nodded to herself, entering a series of commands into her own console.
"Navigator, on my mark execute the orders I've just transferred to your work station."
The Chimaera's pilot briefly glanced at the new numbers in his plot, then looked back at his commanding officer with a mix of surprise and doubt. When Craster just stared back at him, he gulped and returned his attention back to his own instruments. Time seemed to run faster than usual as the two forces closed in further. At a fifty thousand kilometres, Janina Craster barked her order: "Now!"
The massive block of steel and engines began to roll around its own axis, belching massive accelerator rounds from the concealed gun port in her bow. Eight rounds with the speed and mass usually reserved for the main batteries of heavy cruisers raced to their targets, two for each of them. The whole manoeuvre was a simple, even dull military attack run, but it was executed against an equally dull intercept formation. The four corvette-sized ships ceased to exist from one moment to the other, vanishing in slowly expanding clouds of debris and plasma as Craster's attack easily overpowered their kinetic barriers. Half her bridge crew simply gawked at the destruction their ship had wrought, but Janina Craster had no time to waste.
"Pilot, direct intercept course on mercenary mothership. Ready main gun and aim at their bow!"
If the man had been captivated by the four explosions he managed to hide it well enough, quickly confirming her orders. In her plot, the larger ship began to turn with the slow speed of an old animal. It might have been upgraded to serve as a command ship, but it lacked the nimble abilities of ships like Chimaera or other, purpose-built military vessels. She had not even completed a quarter of her turn to face Craster's ship when the captain gave the order to fire. Again, four projectiles erupted from the human ship's massive main gun, bearing down on the merc ship's hull. The converted 300-metre ship had considerably stronger kinetic barriers than her four smaller escorts, but they could only deflect so much of the massive impact power. All four rounds hit, dealing crippling damage to the ship, turning the whole of its bow section into a twisted nightmare right out of a painting of Hieronymus Bosch, with steel and compound materials mangled with the remains of sentient beings while white gusts of atmosphere evaporated into the vacuum of space from a hundred gaps and gashes.
"Ma'am, they're withdrawing!" someone yelled, and Craster watched in her plot as the larger but crippled ship slowly left orbit to run. While her crew jubilated, Craster watched it all from behind the iron mask that was her face.
On Approach to Omega, The Terminus Systems,
2184 C.E.
Being together in one room with Janina Craster always felt like slipping into a bath only to find the water cold and already occupied by a squid. Maybe that was one reason why she had the hots for Asari, Amos thought wryly. Sadly the moment of humour didn't last long.
"Your task was to get in there silently and get the Salarian out without creating a fuss! What was so hard to understand about that?" Craster snapped, her hands clasped behind her back as she marched up and down in front of him. "I had hoped that such a simple wording would've been enough to convey the message that I didn't want an entry like in one of those godawful 'Blasto' movies, Mr. Kenyon!"
Standing at a parade ground rest Amos stared straight ahead, his face like a mask chiselled from granite. Nobody liked to be talked down to. Even fewer people liked to be talked down to by self-absorbed buffoons like his CO. But unfortunately, she was his CO.
"Our original mission plans didn't expect space and ground resistance of the magnitude we were forced to deal with, captain. As the highest ranking officer in the theatre I took the decision to alter our approach to meet the new challenges." And none of that wouldn't have been necessary if you'd even have bothered with doing some recon, he wanted to tell her to her smug, snub-nosed face. But he didn't. This wasn't official Alliance business, but the same rank structure applied and she was his superior.
"Bullshit." Craster stopped and turned to face him, looking up at his gaunt face with flashing eyes. "You went in there guns blazing, and as a result by now half the Terminus will know there's a new player on the field! Just the thing I'd have loved to avoid."
Amos lowered his gaze to meet hers and kept his tone consciously level. "Ma'am, you gave me a mission. With the amount of hostiles on location a stealthy intrusion and extraction was impossible. In fact, landing wasn't an option since our ships don't have the electronic warfare capabilities to fool Geth platforms and dedicated merc cruisers at the same time." And you staying safe and sound on your ass back on Omega for sure didn't improve our bargaining position! Her arrogance kept pushing bile up to his mouth, and he had to remind himself that she had been given the short stick with this assignment as much as he himself. The only thing worse than having her as his CO was imagining her in command of something really important: a carrier, a dreadnought, an ice cream truck in Vancouver...
"With all due respect, but us staying completely under the radar once we started operating with more than one ship was wishful thinking. And I believe you're overestimating our overall impact. The Terminus as well as the Traverse are ripe with small bands of independents. Except to Miss T'Loak nobody's likely to register us." At least not at this point, he hoped. "We got the Salarian researcher and he's been able to download some Prothean data. On top of that we didn't lose anyone."
The whole conversation was imminently pointless. Craster had done what no good military leader was supposed to do: she had taken it for granted that the situation would match her expectations. Now she was lashing out to make others look bad for her lack of support during the whole affair. The Antweilers' ship was damaged, Magnus' flyer was out of ammo, they had casualties but had gotten the job done. Like real professionals.
Amos liked to imagine Craster sitting in the Afterlife club, watching scantily clad Asari shake their asses in some bizarre hate-fuck fantasy of hers while he and his people were crawling through the Mars-like ravines of Orieste's fourth trabant. But that would be unfair to the Asari. All Asari. It wasn't their fault his CO had an unhealthy fixation on them. In fact, most Asari he knew were no more or less decent than members of other species. No, he needed to keep his thoughts together.
"Why did you bring that space gypsy onto my ship?"
The sudden change of topic took Amos by surprise. He blinked. Space gypsy? God, she meant the Quarian! He cringed inwardly.
"Zara'Koris nar Rayya would have been stranded planetside with Geth forces inbound. As I understand it she's barely more than a teenager. Once they come off age the Quarians send their youngsters out of the flotilla to gather experience and useful parts for their ships. Miss nar Rayya was just doing that."
Craster frowned at him, placing her hands on her hips. "I didn't want an introduction to Quarian customs 101. I asked you why she's on my Chimaera!"
Letting an emotion slip for the first time Amos tilted his head questioningly and scowled. "What was I supposed to do? Abandon her down there, either to starve or to be killed by Geth? Last time I checked that wasn't the way the Alliance treated non-combatants in need."
"So you want to play White Knight?" Craster snorted. "Fine, the gypsy's now your problem. Keep her away from sensitive areas of my ship, and when we're back on Omega you'll kick her ass onto the nearest docking ramp. Have I made myself clear?"
"Absolutely, ma'am!" Amos held her gaze, and after a moment it was she who looked away.
"Dismiss!"
Leaning back against the cold alloys of the solitary corridor Amos closed his eyes and embraced the soft and constant vibrations the ship's active drive core sent through every nut and bolt of the Chimaera. His shoulders sagged and he exhaled, the air leaving his lungs in a long and wheezing breeze. Craster was a problem. He would have loved to put it another way, but that's what the situation amounted to if he got to the bottom of it. She was a capable combat commander. If nothing else her entry and how she had dealt with those merc ships had proven as much. But her own bitterness and sense of entitlement made it hard, if not outright impossible to work with her.
And this was just the beginning of their mission! All they had done so far was to run an errand for someone who might just have the information they needed. Matters were bound to get harder and even more complicated from this point on.
Craster apparently believed she belonged in an Alliance uniform on one of the fleet's ships of the line. She wanted that bad, and she wanted it now. That petulant stance mixed with her command authority would have been a problem even under the best circumstances.
Amos didn't want back into uniform. Not really, if he was honest with himself. While it was all the life he had ever known he also knew he would no longer fit in with the service. He was damaged goods, no doubts about it. But all personal doubts aside he had an assignment here he intended to complete to the best of his abilities. Which brought him full circle back to Craster. She didn't respect anyone which made it hard for him to in turn respect her. Amos also doubted he could approach her with the necessary confidentiality that needed to exist between a commanding officer and her XO to establish a working relationship. His task was to act as a bridge between Janina Craster and her crew of misfits and malcontents and make the best of the situation. There sure was no doubt he'd been handed the short stick in that regard...
With a deep resigned sigh he reopened his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. There were still some issues he had to take care of.
The doors to Chimaera's sickbay slid open with barely a sound and Lt.-Cmdr. Amos Kenyon entered the brightly lit room. The attending medical officer didn't even look up from the patient he was treating. Doc Matthias Riker was overweight and perpetually grumpy, but from what little Amos knew the man also was a genuinely qualified surgeon. Under these circumstances that had to mean something.
Sun-Hi Tsen sat on one of the four beds that ringed the sterilized operating table, his chest wrapped tight in clean white bandages. Frederica Adams was with him, looking proud and concerned in equal parts. Noticing Kenyon she jumped to attention. Tsen slowly pushed himself off the bed and stood straight, his face tight.
Amos waved them off. "At ease, corporals. Just wanted to check in on your status, Mr. Tsen. How are you doing?"
"Still hurts, sir," Tsen answered with a warning glance at Adams. "The Doc's applied gel to all the lesions and stabilized three broken ribs, but aside from that they've got to heal the old-fashioned way, if a bit faster. And Corporal Adams was here to pity me since, how did she put it, ten years in the Corps and still no scars to show it."
Frederica Adams actually blushed and stood a little bit stiffer.
"Well, not to undo your aspirations but I think I'll keep you away from explosives for the coming weeks. I hope that's not a problem for you, Adams?" Amos hid a smile.
"No, sir. Certainly not... I... No, sir!" she stuttered while Tsen looked very straight ahead.
"Good. Keep going, people." He saluted casually and turned to the next point on his check list, walking over to Riker and the patient on the bed he was hovering over.
Auburn hair flowing over the pillows and pale, hollow cheeks resting motionless Karina Buckley nonetheless looked more peaceful than injured. An IV was feeding her fluids and the bedside screens monitored her vital signs. She'd aptly displayed once again that she was their problem child by collapsing after the evac shuttle had taken them aboard.
"How is she?" Amos kept his voice quiet, leaning down over her bed besides Doc Riker.
The medic harrumphed just as softly. "Totally exhausted and dehydrated. Nothing too serious. That kind of fatigue isn't uncommon for biotics, certainly not for some as frail as her. Quite frankly, I'll have to prescribe her some kind of high calorie diet to keep her up on her feet once she's ready to leave sickbay. But you'll have her back in a few days. All she needs now is some rest."
Amos just stared down at the young, exhausted face and the chest slowly rising and sinking beneath the sheets. This wasn't a marine. Buckley was barely even an adult! Despite all his reservations about Craster it was this young girl here who was the weak link in his corsair team. He shot a glance at Tsen and Adams and lowered his face even more.
"Doctor, I'm now going to ask you something which I believe falls under medical confidentiality. If you're not willing to answer me I won't hold it against you."
Riker's head turned slowly to meet his gaze, one eyebrow rising quizzically.
"Miss Buckley was... a hazard to herself and the rest of the team during the mission. And while her biotic abilities are undeniable she could've just as well gotten Corporal Tsen killed. I'm the leader of this team. Unfortunately I can't choose who is on it and who isn't," he grimaced, the motion making his facial features even more gaunt and pronounced. "That means Buckley is in, period. Under different circumstances it wouldn't even occur to me to ask, but... I need to get a handle on the situation. If there's anything you can tell me about her I'd greatly appreciate it."
The doctor's eyes went back and forth between the two corporals and Kenyon for a moment before he cocked his head. "Let's do this in my office."
Calling it an office was probably too much of a stretch. Riker's personal space was a cubicle filled with datapads and old school paper records stuffed into actual filing cabinets. He gestured to a chair opposite his crammed desk and produced a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the depths of his workplace. "Take a seat, Mr. Kenyon." His hands shook slightly when he handed him a filled glass. Sagging into his own chair with a sigh of relief he took a deep sip of the golden brown liquid, savouring its taste with his eyes closed. Then he began. "I realize we're more or less all in this together, lieutenant-commander. That means you and I both have to make due with the cards we've been dealt. Understand that under different circumstances I wouldn't even consider what I'm doing here and now. It goes against some of the deepest convictions of my profession." His eyes popped open again and he focussed them on Amos. "So let me make this perfectly clear: what I'm about to tell you stays between the two of us. Should I ever find out that you've spoken to anybody else about it you'll have made an enemy you can't afford to have."
The mask of the grumpy old uncle slipped and Amos suddenly felt cold despite the brandy. There was steel in Riker's voice, steel and a very real threat. He made a mental note. There was more to the man than the eye suggested.
Taking his silence for acquiescence Riker continued. "Fine. Buckley." He took another sip, letting the brandy roll down his throat in a slow wave of burning sensation. "Hard case of 'Red Sand' addiction for close to eighteen months. Started gambling to support her habits, then became a dealer when the gambling didn't work out in her favour. Medical dossiers also mention the possibility of prostitution, but that particular point was never confirmed. She's a repeat offender. They caught her three times before the judges gave her the choice that's landed her here, Mr. Kenyon. For the past three months she's been going cold turkey, resulting in abnormal mood swings, exhaustion and a lack of nutrition and hydration. If I didn't know it any better I'd say someone wanted her out here out of sight to die in some dirty corner." Riker met Amos' eyes levelly. "Enough for you?"
The lieutenant-commander frowned. After all it wasn't as if he was happy to have to dig into these matters. Frankly, there would have been nothing better to him than letting sleeping dogs lie. "She's displayed some very powerful biotic abilities when she was cornered. Is that normal?"
"Is it normal for a biotic to display biotic abilities?" Riker answered laconically. "I guess so," he waved off Amos' angry retort. "I get what you're asking, LC. To the best of my knowledge she's a naturally powerful L4. I'd also say there's a high chance she's suffering from some kind of bipolar disorder, but that field isn't my speciality. Regardless of whether that's the case or not, she was highly unstable to begin with, and that may have had an impact on her powers. If you're looking for definitive answers you'll have to make an appointment at Grissom University though," Riker shrugged and put the glass, now empty, away. "Have I satisfied your curiosity?"
Amos studied his own half-empty glass for a long silent moment before he slowly nodded. "Yes. Yes, I think you have. And thank you for that. I'll try to get my bearings for dealing with Miss Buckley in the future. No matter how I get there I don't see it being an easy journey. But you've at least given me something to work with."
The 'all clear' signal hummed through all stations' speakers and he looked up, emptying his glass in one swig. "We'll be docking at Omega soon. Thanks for the drink, doc."
Riker watched him go, considering in his mind the things he hadn't told Lieutenant-Commander Kenyon.