0300 Book 2 - 7. Chapter 7: Geneva 0300 December 31st

Chapter 7: Geneva 0300, December 31^st

The trill of the communicator woke Paul. He fumbled, and heard the gadget strike the floor. “Nova sol!” Now he was wide awake. He kicked off the covers and sat up. He found the instrument by the light of its LED.

“Stewart here.”

“Captain Stewart, this is Ensign Martin at Fleet Headquarters. Admiral Davis’s compliments and would you report to the USF Hope at your earliest convenience. A shuttlecraft will pick you up in . . . 26 minutes.”

“That means earliest convenience is 26 minutes plus flight time, huh, Mr. Martin?” Paul said.

“Yes sir, that’s what it sounds like.”

“Thank you, Mr. Martin. I’ll be waiting. Stewart out.”

Paul glanced at the text of the orders that appeared on the communicator’s screen, frowned, and then flipped the device closed.

Glad that he had showered before going to bed, Paul pulled on his uniform. The Hope is a hospital ship, he thought. My last command was a cruiser. I hope they don’t want me to nursemaid a bunch of doctors. The orders were just to ‘report.’ I guess I’ll learn what I’m supposed to do when I get there. What about the CERN-Higgs assignment? I was supposed to take over that program next week. Not sure I’ll miss that . . . the only thing worse than trying to command a bunch of doctors would be trying to command a bunch of theoretical physicists—or, maybe, herding cats. These thoughts ran through his mind while he tucked an extra uniform, his iPad and charger, sidearm, toiletries, and a few other essentials into a duffle bag.

The communicator buzzed. “Stewart.”

“Security detail, sir” the tenor voice said. “Fleet said you were exiting your quarters. We’re in position.”

“Is that you, Danny?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy replied. “George is with me. Will you need an escort?”

Does he sound wistful? Paul wondered. My orders don’t include him or George. “Not yet, Danny,” he said. “My orders don’t include the team. I’ll work on it as soon as I find out what’s going on; you can be sure of that.”

The exterior lights were already on, triggered by Danny and George who were standing at the foot of the steps. Their MK-7 rifles were at port arms. They did not salute. “No escort?” Danny asked, again. “Really?”

“Hi, Danny,” Paul said. “Hi, George. At ease. No, no escort. I hope that means this will be a short trip. A shuttlecraft should be here in a few minutes. I’m headed for the Hope. Um, would you double-check that I left everything in okay condition inside? And . . . well, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but there’s a huge container of sandwiches in the fridge, as well as chips and dip, soft drinks, and a lot of ice cream for the New Year’s Eve party tomorrow . . . that is, later today. If I don’t get back in time, would you make sure the team gets them? They were mostly for y’all, anyway.” Paul dropped his duffle and stretched out his arms.

“Paul, you gonna be okay?” Danny slung his MK-7 over his shoulder and stepped into Paul’s arms.

“Gonna be fine, Danny,” Paul said. He hugged the boy. “Gonna miss you and the gang, though. Y’all have a great time at the party.” He bent his head down and kissed the boy lightly on his forehead. Danny turned up his head and kissed Paul firmly on the lips.

Danny stepped back and took his rifle in his hands. George slung his rifle, and got a kiss, too. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

“None of that, now,” Paul said. An electric tingle announced the arrival of the shuttle. The hiss of the opening door was loud in the stillness of the night.

Paul kissed George again, and got a weak smile from the boy. Paul walked to the edge of the landing pad, and then stepped to the door of the shuttle.

“Shuttlecraft Carl Sagan,” he said, reading the name on the side of the door. “Permission to come aboard?” Paul saluted the cadet who stood in the shuttle’s open doorway. The cadet was staring at the two armed boys behind Paul.

“Uh, permission granted, sir,” the cadet replied, returning the salute. “This way, please.” He gestured toward the bow of the boxy craft.

A few steps took Paul to the bridge: a vainglorious name for the cockpit of the shuttle. An ensign occupied the left seat; the right seat was empty, but certainly belonged to the cadet. Paul pulled down the jump seat behind the pilot and extended the safety harness.

“Uh, don’t you want the right seat, Captain?” It was the cadet’s voice.

“Actually, no,” Paul said. “That’s your seat, isn’t it? Oh, and no ship may have more than one captain. It’s an old tradition, not often honored. The Captain of the Carl Sagan is the Ensign in the pilot’s seat. My name is Paul.”

“Uh . . .” both boys were unsure of themselves to the point of paralysis.

“That was an invitation to dispense with formality,” Paul said. “I am a passenger, and this is your ship.” He looked closely at the cadet, and then at the ensign, who had turned his head to look at Paul.

The ensign nodded. “I’m Kevin; my copilot is Casey. Welcome aboard, Paul.

“Casey, strap in,” he continued. “We’re cleared for straight up and hot.”

Paul watched over Kevin’s shoulder, paying particular attention to the Mach meter. Straight up actually meant a southeastward arc that would add Earth’s rotational speed to the shuttle, and point it toward the Hope’s orbit. The boy-pilot kept the shuttle just under the speed of sound until reaching 10,000 feet. Then, the shuttle lurched forward, pressing them all into their seats.

“That was pretty abrupt,” Paul said.

“Yeah,” Kevin answered. “But I watched you strap in, and I saw your eyes in the mirror. You were watching the instruments. You’d have known, and been ready for it.”

Paul nodded, and then winked as he caught the boy’s eyes in the mirror. Kevin grinned.

Paul punched buttons on the repeater console by the jump seat, and sent a message to Fleet Command for Admiral Davis. En route USF Hope. Instructions? There was no reply. Guess I’m on my own, he thought.

“Carl Sagan is attached to the Newton,” Paul said.

“We were in low orbit and closing on Africa . . . at least an hour closer to your position Earthside,” Casey said. “The Hope is at L5 . . . a long way away. And they said this was important.”

Paul nodded. These boys didn’t know any more than he did; but he would find out soon enough. At least, he hoped so.

The Hope filled the viewscreen. A globe nearly half a mile in diameter, the hospital ship was attended by a swarm of shuttlecraft and replenishment tenders. The Carl Sagan appeared to be lost in the melee.

“Hope, this is Shuttlecraft Carl Sagan requesting approach and docking.”

There was a long pause while the controller’s voice dealt with several other ships. Then, “Carl Sagan, you are number 12 in the landing queue; standby.”

Kevin looked at Paul and raised his eyebrow.

“Someone may have dropped the ball,” Paul said. “Perhaps your mission to retrieve me wasn’t as important as you and I were led to believe, or someone didn’t tell Hope how important it was. What precedence were you given?”

“Red One,” Kevin replied.

“Perhaps you should tell them that,” Paul said. “If that’s not sufficient, we’ll wait.”

“But, you’re a Fleet Captain,” Casey said.

“And sometimes, a Fleet Captain can throw his rank around. Sometimes, he shouldn’t. Until we know better, this is a shouldn’t time. Why?” Paul addressed the cadet.

“Because higher precedence ships carry medical emergencies?”

“That’s almost certainly correct,” Paul said. “Good thinking.” He smiled. Casey beamed at the praise.

Red One was sufficient to move the Carl Sagan up to number eight—behind other shuttles, but ahead of tenders. Under Kevin’s eyes—and Paul’s—Casey brought the shuttle into a landing bay. Casey didn’t see, but Paul saw Kevin’s pride in his cadet’s performance.

Before he left the shuttle, Paul handed Kevin a card. The boy’s eyebrows rose in question.

“That’s my communicator code and my email address,” Paul said. “It’s less efficient than an electronic synch. But, it’s a lot less impersonal, too. Both of you, please keep in touch.” Casey, saw me kissing George. It surprised him; it shouldn’t have. And, he’s smart. Kevin’s smart, too. Got to keep an eye on them.

Kevin nodded, and then turned to his controls. The Hope’s flight deck controller was rather in a hurry to get rid of them.

Paul followed green indicator lights to a door. He stepped into an anteroom where the chaos was only slightly less than on the flight deck. People in medical whites moved from stretcher to stretcher, examining patients. Those who seemed to be in charge directed teams of litter bearers to move the stretchers through one of several doors. Triage, Paul thought. He looked around, trying to decide where he should go, trying to understand why he had been brought here.

In moments, he discerned the pattern. That door, he thought. They are the least injured. There will be less chaos and urgency, there. I would be less in the way, too. Perhaps I will find out why I am here.

Kids filled the space on the other side of the door. They ranged in age from maybe six to perhaps eighteen. Most were sitting on the floor. Some appeared not injured at all. Paul saw that there were two groups: one in what looked like play clothes—shorts and T-shirts, sandals or trainers. The others were in uniformly black and gray clothes with long pants and long sleeves. All the injuries seemed to be in the second group. Both groups were talking quietly among themselves, occasionally looking curiously at the other group. Paul looked around. That one, he thought, and walked toward a boy in dark clothes.

“Please tell me,” Paul said to the boy, “what has happened? Why are so many young people injured? And, what can I do to help you?”

The boy sitting on the edge of the stretcher looked coldly at Paul. “Who the . . . ” The boy’s voice trailed off when he realized Paul was in uniform. Still, he seemed too upset to apologize.

Paul understood. Well, not entirely, but he understood that something was badly wrong.

“Cadet, my name is Paul. I was just brought here, with no knowledge of what’s going on. If I am to help, I must know. Please help me understand?”

The boy blushed. “Sorry,” he said. “I forget that there’s folks here from everywhere, and not everybody knows what all I’ve seen.

“They attacked us,” the boy said. “They had the Army on their side.” The boy hiccoughed. “All we had were kids . . .” He dropped his head into his hands, and sobbed.

“Who attacked, Cadet? What army? Who was attacked?” Paul asked.

“Why do you call me cadet?” the boy countered.

“You appear to be of that age,” Paul said. “All the boys I know who are your age are cadets. My boyfriends are cadets. I assumed you were—”

“Boyfriend? You can say you have a boyfriend?”

“Uh, yeah,” Paul replied. Huh? Where is he from . . . ? “Yes, I can. Please, start at the beginning. It may be hard; but, no matter how hard, you must believe I am here to help you.”

“Must?” the boy said. His lip curled in a sneer. Doubt dripped from his voice and painted his face.

“Must,” Paul affirmed. “Must. On my life.” He pushed, and thought, something’s really wrong . . . perhaps he doesn’t trust adults; perhaps it’s the uniform. “The beginning, please.”

The boy’s eyes widened when Paul said, on my life. The boy took a deep breath. His body shuddered as he did so. “The beginning? That would be almost 90 years ago: 1926 when we celebrated the 150^th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. The people who led the celebration were the UFC, the Universal Fundamental Church, and President Scudder. They claimed that the United States was a religious nation, and that religious law was ordained. Of course, what was religious law and what wasn’t was up to them. Pretty much, anything they didn’t agree with was against the law.”

He’s either an exceptional storyteller, or psychotic, Paul thought. Or both . . . or neither. He seems sincere.

“Homosexuality was one of the things they didn’t agree with. That’s why I asked about your, uh . . . boyfriend. Every week a couple of fags—the spawn of Satan—were caught, and were executed, beheaded, on the televisor. The televisor didn’t show one part, but everybody knew it happened—first, they burned off their . . . um, sexual organs. Then they branded the number of the beast on their foreheads. Then, they killed them.

“By 1976, when we celebrated the 200^th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, the Reverends controlled almost all of the United States—one nation under their god—and a lot of the rest of the world. But not everybody.

“Some kids managed to escape to California. I was one. I’d been born in Las Vegas. The Reverends called it a city of sin, but that didn’t stop them from coming there. I saw what the Reverends did there . . . fucking girls and boys . . . always young ones . . . gambling . . . eating and drinking . . . everything they preached against.

“My Reverend said that they did it so that they could know the sins of the flesh, and could preach against them. But the ones that fucked me seemed to like it, a lot. A couple of them came back, over and over again, since I was ten. I guess they needed refresher training or something.”

This is not right, Paul thought. Yet, he believes what he’s saying. What is going on? He almost missed the boy’s next words.

“California was the only state they hadn’t taken over. The only reason California was independent was it controlled the Pacific ports—San Diego, Long Beach, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver—and the Reverends needed trade. They sent food, wheat and corn mostly, iron ore, coal, other stuff, to the Hegemony of Asia. In return, they got weapons, tanks, and aeroplanes.

“Anyway, some of us kids got together, and decided we were going to take back our country. An army of kids. Full of dreams, piss, and vinegar.” The boy giggled. Then, his face turned to stone.

“We were going to Las Vegas and infiltrate the Christmas Retreat. I’d been there for four years before I escaped. I knew that New Years Eve would be the best time. The top Reverends would be there. We had explosives . . . what we could get some of the youngest kids strapped to themselves. They were going to get into the retreat and blow up themselves and the Reverends . . .”

The boy choked as he gasped out those words. He took a deep breath, and then continued. “We got nearly all the way to Las Vegas. I led a battalion. Our job was to get the kids with explosives into the arena where the Reverends were going to be for New Year. Then, things went to shit.

“The Reverends brought in the Army.

“They hurt us, bad. They had automatic rifles, flame-throwers, gas, and tasers. They rolled their tanks over us . . . crushing us flesh and bone into the desert. The little kids with explosives . . . they ran to the tanks and blew themselves up. It didn’t do anything. Then these boxy aeroplanes appeared. They didn’t have wings!

“The aeroplanes shot lightning at the tanks and the troops, and then landed to pick up our wounded . . . and our dead.

“They brought me here. I’m not hurt too bad . . . just a bullet in my leg.” He pointed to the bandage wrapped around his shin.

“I know we’re not on my world any more. And those kids?” He gestured to the group in play clothes. “They aren’t from my world, either.”

The boy had finished his story. A corpsman came to check his bandage, and give him a shot for pain. In seconds, the boy fell asleep. I brushed his bangs out of his eyes and stared at him. He was so sure that what he said was real. How? Where? Children! I wiped a few tears from my own eyes, and then tucked one of my cards into his hand. I hoped he would understand.

I stepped across the invisible line that separated the kids in gray and black (from one world, the boy had said) from the kids in play clothes (from another world). A boy, who might have been 12 and who carried a child of perhaps six on his hip came to meet me. “Ensign Alex Long,” he said. “How can I help you, Captain?”

“Please tell me where you are from and how you got here,” I said.

“It’s about time somebody asked,” he said. “Sorry, sir, it’s just that—”

“Don’t apologize, Mr. Long. But please be brief.”

The boy nodded. “We were on the way to Orlando. A flight of 30 shuttlecraft. It was to be a celebration. We’d picked up our brothers from all over . . . Australia, Hawaii, California, Oregon, Utah, Iowa . . . England, Wales, Russia, all over. We rendezvoused over Charleston. We circled the cemetery and were about to head to Orlando where our parents were waiting for us.

“Then, things went to hell.

“Sorry sir. What happened was that a crack opened in the sky and we were pulled through.

“We were in a dark and ugly place. The telepaths started crying . . . they felt pain, hurt, anger, hatred. But they led us to where we were needed.”

Telepaths? I thought. He says it without fear, as if it were not unusual.

The boy continued, “Not all of us were armed, but the ones who were, were formidable.

“But there were so many wounded. We didn’t know where to take them. Corey said that the hole over Charleston had closed, but there was another hole in the sky. Our nav computers identified a hospital ship on the other side of that hole. We thought at first it was ours; then, we found out it wasn’t. Still, Corey told us to go there.

“There was nowhere else to go.

“When we got here, we took everyone off the shuttles . . . all but a pilot and whoever had medical training. The shuttles went back for more wounded.”

“Who is in command of your shuttles?” I asked.

“My brother, Captain Corey Long.”

I gave the boy a card. “Please ask him most urgently to get in touch with me as soon as the situation has stabilized. He can show this card to any crewman on this ship.

“Are you getting food and water?”

“Yes sir. They took us a bunch at a time to a cafeteria. Uh, I think he wants to talk to you.” The boy looked over my shoulder.

I turned to find a Fleet ensign standing behind me. He opened his mouth to speak. I got there first. “Take me to the Hope’s Captain, immediately, please.”

The boy stammered for a second, before asking me to follow him.

We entered not the bridge but a conference room. A man with a captain’s triple-diamonds sat at the table.

“Captain? What’s going on?” I asked. At first, the man did not reply. He stared into space and wrung his hands. Literally. He twisted his right hand inside his left, and then reverse the motion.

“There are so many of them . . . some of them said they were from Rigel . . . a planet named Rigel. Not the star, a planet. But not a planet around the star. And from Endor. There was a witch of Endor, you know? She’s a myth, of course. They brought wounded and dead . . . children . . . horrible burns, little bodies crushed, it’s awful.”

His voice rose and fell, almost as if he were singing the words. The man was nearly catatonic.

“Who’s in command?” I asked the ensign. The boy gestured to a door. “The XO, sir.”

I walked through the door and into chaos that resembled the bridge of a ship.

A lieutenant (j.g.) wearing a caduceus sat in the command chair. Medical corps. Not a line officer; he’s a medic and a staff officer. At least he had the guts to take charge.

He was clearly overwhelmed. “What shuttle does he claim to pilot?” he said into his microphone. “Does he have wounded? Then let him in. And find out what is an Endoran, are any of them wounded? Are they human—do they have special medical requirements—do they have special environmental requirements?”

“Nova sol! Who are you?” This was addressed to me.

“Fleet Captain Stewart. I am assuming command of the Hope. Take the Number Two seat.”

The lieutenant jumped from the command chair into the next seat. I took the command chair and triggered the PA system. “Attention on the bridge!”

I had to say it again. “Attention on the bridge. Quiet, please, everyone.”

I looked around; after the chaos, the silence was overwhelming.

“I am Fleet Captain Stewart. I have assumed command of the Hope. Medical personnel not in essential bridge positions report to the primary flight deck for triage or assignment. Comm Officer: notify Fleet of the change of command as of 0558 Zulu.” It had been less than three hours since I woke up.

“Then contact the Sir Isaac Newton. My compliments to the captain, and will he assign us the crew of the shuttle that brought me here as well as one shift of bridge crew and any medical staff he can spare.”

I thought about Danny and George, and grinned. “Comm-O, next, contact Geneva Main and ask that Cadets Stewart and Rogers from my security detail be sent here, Code Red Two.” This is a time for a Fleet Captain to throw his weight around. I’ll bring the others after I find out what’s really going on.

“You,” I addressed the lieutenant who had stood from the Number Two seat. “Stay here and pay attention. You’re still XO, and are essential bridge personnel. What’s your name?”

The boy plopped back into his seat. “Lieutenant Evans, sir.” I nodded.

“Quartermaster?” I looked around. A kid turned in his seat and raised his hand.

“Cadet Hamlin, sir.”

“Mr. Hamlin, keep a running inventory of medical supplies. Send an updated requisition immediately and then every two hours. Send the requisitions directly to fleet supply. Let me know if you run into any problems or shortages; otherwise, deal with it, yourself. Forcefully. Use Code Red One, but only where necessary. Understood?”

The kid paled, visibly, but then sucked in his gut and nodded. “Sir, yes sir!”

Good, I thought. That one’s got some courage.

“XO? Lt. Evans? What’s the patient population: how many beds do we have unfilled, what does the intake look like from the hanger deck?” The boy turned to his console.

“Yes, Comm-O. What’s your name? What do you have?”

“Cadet Hanson, sir. Shuttle Carl Sagan will reach the Newton in 90 minutes. They will send a bridge crew and some medics. ETA the Hope, two hours 48 minutes.

“A shuttle will launch from Geneva in five minutes with your key security detail; ETA, one hour, 15 minutes.”

“Good. Thank you. Now—you’ve been monitoring fleet comm?”

The boy nodded.

“What is going on? A summary, please.”

The boy took a deep breath. There was dead silence on the bridge. Everyone turned to look.

“Sir, about four hours ago, shuttlecraft started popping out of empty space about 10 degrees ahead of L5.”

The Hope’s sitting at L5; the shuttles were popping out about 42,000 miles ‘in front’ of us, relative to the moon’s orbit, I thought. The boy kept talking.

“Their IFF signals were odd, but the computers accepted them. They were loaded—sometimes overloaded—with injured. Mostly cadets. Wounds were from projectile weapons and burns from some sort of energy weapons, crushed limbs—”

“Hold on, please, Mr. Hanson,” I interrupted. “XO, give me a display of all fleet assets in lunar and cislunar orbits.” He looked startled. I bit my lip a couple of times rather than help or correct him, but he finally got the display on the big board.

“Display Fleet and individual Defcon status,” I ordered. The kid punched a couple of buttons. The fleet . . . they’re all at Defense Condition Zero! They’ve done nothing to respond to this. After four hours!

“Comm, open a channel to Fleet Command and patch it to my console. Code Red 5.” I imagined I saw steam come from the ears of the kid on the comm station. Red 5 was as high as it got. It meant alien invasion, or worse. Actually, that might have been on the mark. I was pleased to see that this didn’t slow the kid down. He nodded when the connection was established.