Born of Ash and Iron — Chapter 4
TWO WORLDS REPUBLIC SHIP, ‘HOUND’
/ / SO8.iv_o-sply · Somari Eight / /
A spike of pain rippled through Volm’s eardrums as the airlock opened, and he instinctively planted his feet against the powerful torrent of wind that followed the sudden change in pressure. It didn’t matter how many times he’d experienced that sensation; it wasn’t the kind of thing you get used to.
The stiff wind equalized after a minute, but not before rattling Volm to his bones as the hallway’s duct system shuddered and quaked. Volm could feel the sudden lightness of air as the Hound’s oxygen system struggled to keep up with the new demand.
Lieutenant Nancy Polmhorn saluted from the other side of the yellow and black striping that marked the edge of the airlocks. Her junior officer uniform was a dark grey, repurposed from the previous crew. “Commodore Volm, Lieutenant Polmhorn, senior surviving officer aboard the Republic destroyer Crescent. Permission to come aboard, sir?”
Volm looked down and considered his blue uniform for a minute. He glanced back at the midshipman who joined him at the airlock, clad in dark green coveralls. There was virtually no consistency amongst the officer corps, save for insignia on their caps to denote rank.
“Granted,” Volm said, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nancy. I don’t have much in the way of formal affairs, but we have a cook extending our rations as various kinds of soups, if you and your crew would like to join us for a meal.”
Nancy smiled, feeling a slight relief from the pressure of command. Her people had been running with low oxygen and on emergency bottles since the battle. Trying to eat anything had proven difficult, not just because of their limited supplies. “We lost our galley and mess hall in the battle,” she replied before realising that Volm likely already knew when he extended the invitation.
Rather than chide the Lieutenant, Volm simply smiled and nodded. “Next mess is thirteen-hundred.” He scratched at his nose for a second, then turned to his nearby midshipman. “Pass the word for Captain Riley of the Fireball, I want all hands at that meeting so I can address the fleet.”
“Understood, sir,” the midshipman replied.
“In the meantime, I’ll have my engineer, Lieutenant Jea, task a team to find out what’s wrong with Crescent’s oxygen system.”
“Much appreciated, Commodore,” Nancy answered. She let out a tight breath that had been rattling in her chest.
COMMONWEALTH CRUISER ‘SNOW’, WARDROOM
/ / SO6_v-prk · Somari Six / /
“Sir, we spotted one of the rebel ships,” the second-watch sub-Lieutenant reported as Admiral Fisker ate another bite of the protein-enriched oat cake with strips of recently acquired aquatic white meat.
“Where?” Fisker asked, then took a long drink of water. If the ship had been on approach or a threat, the klaxon would’ve warned him.
Looking at the report pad in his hands again, the sub-Lieutenant grimaced as he scanned the document for details. “Somari 8, the telescope picked them up silhouetted against the gas giant.”
“Only one?” Fisker asked, wondering where the other two ships had wandered off to.
“Our intel packet says there is an emergency buoy station there,” he wiped his nose quickly, hoping the Admiral wouldn’t notice. Other officers had been flogged for lesser etiquette infractions. “The intelligence chief thinks they’re probably repairing while the other two are holding a patrol pattern around the nearest moon to the station.”
Fisker let the sub-Lieutenant see his eyes narrow in suspicion. “Could be,” Fisker’s voice trailed off as he rubbed at his ear. Fisker snapped his finger at the sub-Lieutenant. “How long until you stand before the commissioning board?”
“I only have six of my certifications, sir,” the sub-Lieutenant replied sheepishly. He was on pace to reach his thirty-six certification by his eighteenth birthday, but that didn’t make it easier to admit how few he had to an Admiral.
“Ah, ok,” Fisker replied. “Well, let’s game this out then.” Fisker pushed his meal back and motioned for the sub-Lieutenant to sit. “You have a fleet of three destroyers that you stole.” Fisker began ticking his fingers as he spoke. “Your enemy has three destroyers to match you and an additional two cruisers, but both fleets are in need of repairs.” Fisker’s eyebrows rose. “What do you do?”
The sub-Lieutenant’s eyes widened, unsure of the answer his Admiral was looking for. “I’d attack before the enemy can call for reinforcements!”
Fisker let out a frustrated sigh—just enough to let the sub-lieutenant know he was disappointed in the response. The kid was too young. “What reinforcements?” he asked. I didn’t list any.”
“Oh,” the sub-Lieutenant paused, feeling his shoulders drop. “Hide in a planet's well and wait for an attack?
Fisker sat back, only now realizing he’d been leaning forward, anticipating the kid’s answer. “And that’s why you only have six certifications,” Fisker said, unable to hide the disappointment dripping in his voice. “Pass the word for Prime Lieutenance Obo, I’d like to see him in my office.”
“Aye, sir,” the sub-Lieutenant said as he scampered to his feet, saluting. Fisker could see the glistening of the kid's eyes as he fought back tears.
“Toughen up, kid,” Fisker almost shouted, feeling the flush of rage color his cheeks. “Or you’ll end up like Bogavine,” he said, motioning at the meatloaf on his plate. “You’re either an officer I can depend on, or protein to be eaten.” Fisker felt himself snarling.
In truth, very few sentient species could be safely eaten, but it just so happened that Cartolangious were one of them. So, when Bogavine defied him during a time of war, the punishment was death, and the crew had shark cakes for the next week.
Fisker realized the sub-Lieutenant was waiting to be dismissed. Technically, he was correct in waiting, but Fisker was tired of the child. “Go,” he demanded, waving his hand dismissively.
Absentmindedly, Fisker tapped on his terminal for his personal steward, “I wonder if Bogavine’s native Bog Water would provide a nice chaser to these filets.” Fisker asked the steward.
“I’m terribly sorry, Admiral, I’m unfamiliar with Bog Water.” His steward replied, turning their attention away from the visual receiver. “I don’t have it with my recipes.”
“Not surprised,” Fisker grunted. “I have no idea what’s in it. It’s a putrid, vile drink that’ll take your breath away.”
“I do have some Crüniac,” the Steward said, lifting a discoloured pale yellow bottle into the visual pickup. “It’s been known to knock the wind out of a mule bear.”
Fisker shook his head and waved away the drink, “It’s not the kick of the alcohol, it’s the taste. And, perhaps, the texture that truly defines Bog Water.” Finishing the loaf of meat on his plate, Fisker shrugged. “I’ll find a Nothonian pub hole at some point and introduce you to Bog Water.”
“Very good, sir,” the Steward said and disconnected the call with a nod.
MARKET DISTRICT, HILLTOP HEIGHTS, SOMARI PRIME
/ / SO1_p-cptl · Somari Prime / /
Omark was in violation of his parole.
He’d come to Somari Prime with a simple mission: convince the planet to join the Rhyno Commonwealth. He’d been successful on Irari A, so there was no reason to expect an issue here.
Well, that had been the issue, actually. Omark had not expected the people of Somari to have such a violent repulsion to their neighboring star system. It was ridiculous. The suns of Irari and Somari were binary star systems with independent planetary orbits. Gravitational forces bound them, yet their people were like oil and water.
Omark had mentioned that the people of Irari A had joined the Commonwealth and that, at the next moment, his entire diplomatic corps had been arrested and their task force seized. If Omark couldn’t do something to make this right, the losses would fall squarely in his hands when he returned. Violating his parole seemed to be the only option available.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for an OmniWeb cafe?” Omark asked a cart vendor who was feverishly pushing wares into his hands. Somari Prime had such a diverse population that in his civilian clothes, Omark fit right in.
“You can use my uplink,” She said, pushing another prison issue synthetic scarf into his hands. She had added some trim and clearly repaired and cleaned the scarf, but in the end, she was still selling the discarded textiles of the former prison compound.
The OmniWeb uplink would let him login to a non-descript infotainment page that had been established for the diplomatic corps by the intelligence services.
Omark paid for the overpriced garments, and the vendor handed him a portable tablet with an uplink antenna. “Do you mind if I use it at those benches over there?” Omark asked, motioning to a nearby seating area.
The vendor held up a svelte hat, placing it on his head. “I might be okay with that,” she chided as he handed over another currency slip.
COMMODORE VOLM’S CABIN
/ / SO8.iv_o-sply · Somari Eight / /
Volm shot to his feet in a panic.
The deck plates rumbled beneath where he was resting on the floor. Volm had been sleeping on the floor since taking command. He’d spent the last eight years sleeping in a gap between a local storehouse's roof and the supports for the prison's elevated landing pad on Somari Prime.
While others would have welcomed the change in scenery, Volm simply couldn’t get to sleep on the command cot. His ever-sensitive skin felt every bump, fibre, and scrape of the supposed luxury bedding. The cold, hard deck plating felt familiar. If he was being honest, the strange nostalgia for a brutal existence made him feel more at home. The floor had not been without its irritations and fissures, but at least it didn’t smother him like a plush bed would.
He had previously offered his cabin to Alkora, but his friend refused because he respected his officer's command. However, Volm now questioned whether the decision had more to do with Alkora’s sensitive skin.
Pulling his attention back to what had woken him, a sharp bang pulsed in his ears as the sound of a massive freight train rumbled past the opposite side of his door. Putrid, choking, charcoal filled his nostrils as the klaxon finally caught up with Volm’s senses.
Spinning the wheel lock on his door, the air-tight seal held fast as he tugged against the door. Grunting, Volm gripped again, braced himself, and yanked hard. With a groan and the sickening sounds of melted plastic, the seal broke and the door swung inward.
The corridor before him was charred black, and the burned corpse of his sentry glistened black. He must’ve died from the pressure wave, as Volm never heard him scream.
Coming towards him, an almost unidentifiable enlisted man struggled down the corridor. His uniform melted into his skin where it hadn’t burned away. Embers still clung, burning, to the edges of his uniform. “Commodore,” he spurted out as fluid and blood ran freely from his lips.
Volm recoiled as the man attempted to touch him. It was instinctive for a Declanian, an unwritten social rule – you don’t touch non-Declanian flesh if you can help it.
Volm reached for the man, fighting his natural hesitation, and guided him to the deck. “Crewman, what’s your name?” He asked, trying to break the man’s shock.
“Patakin.”
Volm knew the man was dying—his quiet response amidst his labored breathing. The shock of the blast or the burning was overloading Patakin’s senses.
Volm held Patakin’s head to his chest and rested the two thumbs on his right hand on either side of the man’s jaw. The Declanian hand contained a posterior and anterior thumb on each hand, a product of their genetic engineering.
Gripping the jaw, Volm laid his inner three fingers over the man's eyes. Concentrating, Volm subconsciously reached into his cranial ridge, trying to view into Patakin’s mind. The quasi-psychic touch was rarely used on non-Declanians, and Volm didn’t even know if it would help.
He knew he was needed in command, but Volm had always had a soft heart for suffering, and if he could ease this man’s passage into death, he would.
Like wisps and vapors, Volm slowly lost the feeling of his grotesque skin touching his fingers and arms. The rank smell of charred insulation and skin sank into the background. Even the klaxon dropped in appreciable decibels, although he couldn’t shake it completely.
Patakin was suddenly in Volm’s consciousness with him. They couldn’t talk to each other, but Volm could feel his pain. Volm could feel Patakin’s skin burning; the overwhelming sense of constant assault on his nerves sent Volm into a spiral.
The rattle of death almost shook Volm out of the trance, but he held firm. The wash of death drummed in Volm’s ears, the pain of a thousand knives tearing his flesh asunder, a scream welling in his guts boiled as nausea gripped Volm from his guts to his heart.
And then there was silence.
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