NOTE: I do not own the Dragonriders of Pern series.
PARADISE
The seven vessels continued through space, heading unknowingly toward a lost remnant of humanity, a long forgotten human outpost of some sorts, the hive mind could ascertain this much.
The eighth T'Hranii vessel continued to follow them, just out of range of their weak passive radar. Intent on a slow and methodical vengeance for the loss of its brother hive minds. The fleet of vessels must be going to this planet, it concluded that the humans must be know of it somehow, regardless of what their telepathic mind probes on them indicated. A human colony in a sector of space uncharted by Terrans was peculiar.
It then began to lay out a plan.
The vessel suddenly sprang to life, skirting the fleet of human vessels, setting course for this tiny human outpost.
The hive would have its revenge, and it would be, delectable. It would have the satisfaction of 'killing two birds with a single stone' as the humans once said. Both the destruction of the humans and their ships that had caused it so much grief, and the annihilation of this previously unknown human colony.
It would have its revenge.
"By the Gods, we are screwed without a miracle."
The man in the captain's chair said these words with solemn resignation. The look of grief just flickered across his face; he was a man who had lost everything, everything except the will to live, and to fight. Those alone had carried himself and his fellow crew that far.
He was not the man who should have sat in that chair. The entire bridge crew of the C.T.S. Sargasso had been sucked into space when a torpedo from a T'Hranii destroyer impacted the ship's superstructure. No survivors.
First Officer James Falcanar was in fact the second-in-command of another ship, the Adriatic. That ship had been destroyed in the surprise attack that decimated the Second Fleet. As far as he knew, out of the dozen or so survivors that made it off that doomed vessel, he was the only officer to make it out.
His wife and son were on the surface of Tzu 32 when the Crosseyes attacked; their legendary QD Cannons made short work of the planet. There were no known survivors from the surface. Zero survivors out of four and a half million, their graveyard so many fresh asteroids.
Falcanar would have to grieve later, the dead could wait. Keeping what was left of the Second Fleet alive was more important to him right now, the only thing important.
The Acting Captain looked around himself at the ruins that were the control consoles of the bridge. The men in the room were all from other ships, since many of the Sargasso's own crew were killed in the attack. The superstructure had been mostly repaired by the Nanotech systems during their last three days of flight. It could slowly repair the actual structure of the ship, but could do little for the countless pieces of electrical equipment that would have to be completely replaced.
Falcanar had read accounts from his History classes back at the Academy of how the T'Hranii used devastating EMP weapons to cripple starships, destroying their navigation's electronics. Their weapons could bypass any shielding and strike where it hurt the most. Falcanar had been surprised the Nanotech even still functioned, at least that was a godsend.
The Nanotech also could do very little to improve the horrible morale in the Fleet. This situation felt like a straight and utter defeat. Falcanar knew that they would have to improve that or He and his comrades would not survive.
The man was roused from his deep state of thought be a bridge operator.
"Sir, these are the checklists for crew and supply transfers that you asked for."
Captain Falcanar turned to the officer. "Thank you. Please tell the Captain aboard the Sierra that we aboard the Sargasso thank him for transferring supplies to us."
"I will sir. Also, I have been asked by the Supply Officer aboard that he is concerned about our levels of Contra- Terrene Fuel and rations for the crew. He said that the new supplies will last the crew a few weeks at most."
"Tell the Supply Officer not to worry, at least not right away. That is all."
"Yes Sir." The Officer crisply saluted Falcanar before turning to leave. As he left, another man entered. Judging from his grungy appearance, The Captain recognized him straight away as the Chief Engineer, Marcos McNally.
McNally, at six nine, stood head and shoulders above Falcanar. The Engineer stormed onto the bridge, bee lining for him.
"Captain, when the bloody hell are we going to get those engine computer replacements? We're barely holding together as it is, we need computers to regulate the engines, not a half dozen accountants with calculators-"
"I the event you didn't already know, which is unlikely, we are currently a little short on computer hardware at the moment. Just be thankful your Boys figured out how to regulate fuel consumption without a computer."
"I know that, I know the Venturas was carrying an entire cargo of computer equipment that we could use-"
"Which was ruined when the Cross Eyes attacked us. I told you all of this when I took command. I don't enjoy repeating myself."
"I know that sir, McNally replied, It's just-"
"Just what?"
"It's just that the guys you got down there are damned near exhausted, four-hour shifts or not. I pray they don't make a mistake with fuel intakes and blow us all up."
"We're all tired, from fighting, from running. I also don't have time for this. Tell your men they'll be commentated for their services when this is all over. Dismissed."
"Yessir." The Engineer saluted and left as well.
The Acting Captain turned back to the partially restored viewscreen on the Bridge. Most of the feeds were still snow, but the primary showed what was directly in front of the Sargasso, only distant, empty space.
The Captain turned to the crewman in the Comm. chair. "Ensign, give me a view of the main hangar area if we have a working cam down there," He ordered.
"There is Sir, on main screen," He replied.
A moment later a view of a vast compartment within the ship appeared on the screen, the floor space dominated with several dozen Stiletto starfighters, most fueled up and at the ready. Some, beyond repair, were being salvaged for parts. The huge Hangar shield, almost dominating the background of the image, flickered slightly. Falcanar noted with slight relief that there was a hoopball game in progress of the floor area. He was glad that at least someone on this ship was at least attempting to have a good time.
Those pilots that survived the destruction of the Kikital are certainly having a good time, Falcanar thought. He had only ever glanced at the report on the New Instrumentation Project (NIP), a program to train fighter pilots from birth. Nearly every pilot that had been temporarily drafted into the Sargasso's fighter wings were teenagers, ages ranging twelve to nineteen.
It went against many of the morals that The Acting Captain stood for, using children to fight and die in wars. Even though these children were among the best pilots he had ever seen, the least kills in actual combat during the Farbanti Rebellion was six, and were all technically Aces, He still could not help feeling it was wrong.
"Ensign, how are our new pilots doing?"
"Judging from the impromptu tournament they have set up, it would seem that they are recovering from this ordeal somewhat easily," the Comm Operator replied.
"What was the name of their WC again?"
"I believe that the Wing Commander's name was Skye, Sir. He holds a rank of Colonel and at age sixteen too."
"Colonel Skye, huh? Well, this guy must have done something important to have risen in rank so quickly. He's younger than my grandson." Was, Falcanar mentally corrected, holding back tears, just barely remaining composed as he recalled recent events.
"We do need them, Sir," The operator replied. "They are pretty good-"
"I know that Ensign, I didn't ask for your opinion," The Captain suddenly snapped at the Operator.
"Yessir," He replied, somewhat warily.
The Acting Captain turned back to the checklists that had been delivered to him by the Supply Officer earlier. Deep down, He had a feeling things would soon become a whole lot more interesting in the coming days and weeks ahead. Captain Falconar relaxed, half watching the little contest.
The game was tied fourteen-even. The team that scored the winning point won the case of genuine Vegan Goldfire Bourbon sitting on ice in a cooler off to the side. Despite the fact that every last pilot in the Fighter bays was technically underage, and that alcoholic beverages were banned aboard all CTS Naval starships, someone was cunning and clever enough to have smuggled an entire case of the spirit onto the Sargasso. That case was now the prize to whichever flight wing's sponsored team won the Hoopball tournament that was all the Colonel's Idea. The championship game was between the teams from the Bloodtails and the Lugers' sponsored teams.
Colonel James "Skye" Redbour watched this with idle fascination. At just five-ten, he wasn't as tall in stature as some of his fellow fliers, but he was absolutely lethal behind a flight stick, with a record forty-two kills during the Rebellion. His deep brown eyes were like bottomless pits into a man who was deep and complicated, staring out from behind a pair of nonreflective black sunglasses. And he wasn't afraid to speak his mind to anyone, not even that crazy "Acting" Captain Falcanar. Skye was Bloodtail Wing member himself, he silently cheered his team on from the sidelines. It had been an exciting game series so far.
He never expected that the simple suggestion to hold a tournament to improve morale would grow to be such a major event. Officers from the other vessels had shuttled over to watch the bout. Someone somewhere had scavenged some media equipment, and, despite the current limits to radio traffic between the ships in the fleet, was being broadcast play by play to every other vessel.
The reward of this contest, a case of pure contraband, had been discovered during a search for replacement computer parts in a near-forgotten storeroom aboard. Surprisingly, none came forward to claim ownership. Skye had to sweet-talk the captain for five minutes to persuade him to allow it to be used as the 'reward' in the morale booster project Skye was working on. He was fortunate to have gotten to him before Falcanar cycled it out the nearest airlock.
The Lugers suddenly took possession of the ball from the Bloodtails, hell-bent on reaching the goal hoop. The Bloodtails had played a murderous defense throughout the final game so far, the Lugers' Offense the same. Skye wasn't at all surprised; anyone would kill for a drink after several months of parched regulation-enforced dryness. Too bad they hadn't had a chance to even dock when the T'Hranii hit.
The Lugers were going for the winning point. The lead dribbled down the small court, up to the hoop, leapt like the wind graceful, to make the point and land back down a winner-
-When the ball was knocked from his hand, out of nowhere, by a person who had to have been even more graceful to have done that. Lieutenant Thomas Falsner. Callsign "Endgame". How appropriate for this current situation, Skye thought.
He landed with amazing agility, leaping into a sprint to the opposing goal like a gazelle, the ball a mere blur between his hands as he darted between players toward the goal. The Lugers could do little as he leapt up and slammed the ball through the hoop.
The ball had yet to even touch the ground as the entire hangar erupted with cheers, every spectator and winning Bloodtail roaring with approval. Even several of the defeated Lugers cheered or clapped, the emotions running that high. Skye knew that they would all get over the recent events, it only took time.
Well that, and a bottle of newly won Vegan Sin-in-a-Bottle.
The Yoko, above Pern
A'rak, you dozed off again.
Brown dragonrider A'rak woke at a start, the familiar voice of Lageth waking him from a fitful sleep. He had been dreaming he had been back at sunny Southern Boll, before he was searched.
The watch post aboard the Yokohama was tedious at best. Though he was never alone aboard, there were always a few others who could use the various panels and controls on the "Bridge", he still felt a little lonely away from other dragonriders at Fort Weyr. Then he started dreaming of his childhood. A'rak uncurled himself from the painful position in what had one been the Captain's chair. He could see that night on Pern was fast approaching, as darkness crept across the surface of the planet below. He must have been sleeping a while.
And his dragon had woken up from his sleep, curled up in the Cargo Bay.
They had both been bored for the three days that they had been cooped up here. There were few things to do for a dragon.
Janga and Ceras had been his only other company for some time now. Both of them harpers, these two were the ones that kept an eye on the "radar," as it was called. The only reason A'rak was here at all was to offer support in case of an emergency. Nothing had happened in the turn since they had set up a regular watch here. In A'rak's opinion, nothing ever would.
Janga rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. Tiredly, he raised himself from the the chair he had sat at for the last three hours, stretching out the cramps.
"I think I'll go relieve myself," he said.
"Do you think you could bring me some klah on your way back?" Ceras asked over her shoulder.
"I will." Then he left the bridge.
After he left, Ceras turned around to A'rak. "Do you do anything else other than sleep?"
"Of course," he replied. "I fight Thread."
"All dragonriders do. I mean with other people."
"I have always been sort of a loner."
"Oh I see, you just don't like women too much."
"That's not true, I just never-"
A'rak, something is coming.
No doubt a message from the surface, though they could have used that communication device. "What is it Lageth? Another dragon?"
No. Bigger.
"From Pern?"
No. From space.
A'rak was suddenly alert, his senses suddenly alive.
Ceras turned around to A'rak, "Are you talking to your dragon again-"
No sooner had she said the words, the lights on the console began to flash and beep.
Jenga, came rushing in, his pants nearly half-way down. "What's happening?"
There is something on radar, approaching fast. It will be here very soon. It's some kind of ship."
"Who is it? The FSP?"
"I don't know," Ceras said. "This thing's saying it's unidentified."
A'rak hurried to a window. "Where is it?"
At first there was nothing. And then the object appeared, far larger than his Lageth, larger than even the Yokohama, it seemed to even dwarf the planet below them.
It is here, Lageth said.
"By the shards," A'rak muttered under his breath.
Standardized maintenance is a bitch.