EUV Carrier Houstonian
T
he
Executive
Officer
was
lasered
and
tossed
out
an
air
lock,
so
the
scuttlebutt
ran.
Did
he
die
from
the
blasts,
or
did
he
experience
the
vacuum
of
space?
The
man
would
never
disagree
with
his
captain again.
Do
what
you’re
ordered
or
else,
was
the
expression
on
the
Houstonian
.
How
could
a
madman command a war ship?
Perhaps the entire galaxy is insane.
Marek
was
only
a
contractor.
Would
the
captain
hold
him
to
the
same
discipline
as
he
held
his
military
crew?
Would
the
captain
murder him if he interfered with the latest order?
“Target is acquired,” the tech on station two reported.
“And verified,” said the man on station three.
Marek
was
in
space
instead
of
teaching
sectertiary
quantum
physics
at
MIT.
He
had
no
choice.
The
Earth
Union
needed
his
particular
skills.
Called
it
civil
conscription.
They
didn’t
need
him
in
a
uniform.
They
just
needed
his
understanding
of
sub-light
and
faster-
than-light drives and their reactors.
Granted
the
pay
was
better,
but
in
front
of
a
classroom
he
didn’t
have his guts wrenched by the decisions of war.
Rather be indigent.
Marek
supervised
his
team
as
they
readied
the
missile.
They
all
listened
to
the
chatter
from
the
bridge.
Did
his
team
members
feel
as
stunned as he did, hearing the captain’s order to prepare a nuke?
A
hundred-thousand
kilometers
out,
the
missile
would
take
thirty-nine
short
seconds
to
reach
its
destination.
They
had
no
need
to
deploy
an
FTL.
The
resistance
didn’t
have
the
technology
to
target
the Earth Union’s stealth missile, even if it was sub-light.
They would wonder why no fighters or bombers exited the carrier.
“A lot of people are going to fry today, Doc.”
He
didn’t
look
at
the
man.
The
tacky
remark
incensed
Marek,
turned
his
stomach,
but
what
could
he
do?
The
tech
didn’t
say
it
as
a
joke.
The
man
needed,
he
figured,
to
say
something,
anything,
but
he
couldn’t
express
the
true
emotions
generated
by
what
they
were
forced to participate in.
Marek felt like screaming.
There
were
more
than
a
million
people
living
on
the
partially
terraformed
moon
displaying
on
their
main
viewer.
Probably
only
dozens
had
any
connection
to
the
resistance.
Yet
all
would
pay
with
their lives for living, or just visiting a moon hosting rebels.
Many
wouldn’t
be
lucky
enough
to
die
right
away.
The
initial
blast
would
vaporize
thousands.
The
damage
to
the
surface
infrastructure
would
doom
the
rest,
locked
behind
iron
doors
in
darkness
until
their
air ran out, or they slowly froze with no hope of rescue.
Marek
thought
of
the
enormous
effort
to
make
the
moon
a
home,
of
the
millions
of
tons
of
oxygen
generated
every
hour
by
the
tiny
amoeba
that
had
been
transported
to
the
surface.
A
city
was
under
construction.
A
whole
new
world.
All
of
it
was
going
to
be
history,
thirty-nine seconds after the captain said, “Fire.”
It’d
be
no
big
deal
for
Marek,
as
the
Armaments
Control
lead
scientist
to
disarm
the
warhead
in-flight.
But
what
would
be
the
point?
When
it
reached
its
effective
destructive
altitude
and
failed
to
detonate, the reason would be uncovered in seconds.
Dr.
Marek
Janis,
physicist,
amateur
photographer,
runner,
reader
of
fantasy,
Jaycee
and
Big
Brother,
loving
son
of
Drs.
Georgia
and
Enrique Janis, would be summarily executed.
The
techs
would
be
ordered
to
prepare
another
missile.
It
would
start over.
“Watch your levels, Anthony,” he said.
Marek
didn’t
like
what
they
were
called
to
do,
but
he
had
to
do
his
job,
didn’t
he?
He
was
no
soldier.
But
signed
the
oath.
Didn’t
have
a
choice. Sign or go to prison, never work again.
“Validate the reactor’s power outputs,” he told another tech.
The
EUV
Carrier
Houstonian
had
fighters
that
could
deploy
pinpoint ordnance to take out resistance craft, kill specific targets.
Marek’s
focus
had
been
academics
his
whole
life.
Thirty-seven
years.
There
was
no
woman
who
cared
for
him,
to
his
knowledge,
who
bore
him
offspring.
He
wasn’t
sure
if
he
could
relate
to
a
spouse
or
children
expiring
under
the
explosion
of
one
EU
bomb,
but
he
could
understand that mass murder for any reason was wrong.
This incident was more pointless than most.
What
kind
of
person
could
make
the
decision
to
destroy
a
whole
colony?
What
kind
of
sadistic
sonofabitch
could
do
that?
Was
it
that
important
to
send
a
message?
Did
it
take
a
million
souls
to
make
an
example?
“Station one, report,” he ordered.
“Station one is green.”
“Station two?”
“Green, Doctor.”
“Station three?”
No
one
had
any
excuse
to
deny
the
bridge’s
request.
Marek
depressed
his
mic
and
answered
for
the
weapons
team.
“Captain,
AC
is a go.”
The captain responded. “Fire.”
The
view
in
the
forward
monitor
was
disrupted
for
a
moment,
before
the
distortion
of
the
SL
drive
dissipated
and
the
missile
blended into the ambient background.
The
green
patches
of
vegetation
that
had
no
doubt
just
begun
sprouting over the last year were visible again on the moon.
The
ship
was
too
far
out
to
make
anything
else
out.
The
scene
otherwise
looked
peaceful.
The
surface
could
have
been
virgin,
without a single human anywhere on it.
The
firing
computer
displayed
the
countdown
on
the
large
viewer,
as
well
as
on
each
station
monitor.
In
a
few
moments
the
accreting
atmosphere on the moon would be burned off with a single flash.
No
one
was
likely
to
ever
return
here.
Remain
a
cemetery.
Easier
to
move
on
to
another
satellite
or
planet
than
clean
up
the
mess
they
left today. Bodies would remain where they were.
No headstones.
Thirty-five seconds before mass murder.
Marek turned and headed for the hatch. “I’m going for coffee.”
“We’re
at
battle—”
one
tech
called
to
him,
but
Marek
ignored
him.
He
didn’t
want
to
see,
hear,
or
think
of
any
of
the
people
on
the
Houstonian
.
Too
many
souls
were
about
to
perish.
His
stomach
churned, throat burned.
In
seconds
he
realized
he
was
lost.
He
wasn’t
that
familiar
with
the
massive
vessel
to
begin
with.
He
had
been
assigned
there
almost
eight
months
but
veered
very
little
off
his
comfortable
route
between
his cabin, the galley, the shower, the gym, and his work station.
That had been his world for eight months.
His
mother
and
father
could
easily
be
on
the
moon,
presenting
a
paper.
How
did
he
know
they
weren’t?
They
traveled
extensively.
They
were
renowned
experts
in
their
field.
Both
or
either
could
be
consulting with a corporate client at that moment, far below.
How
many
babies,
children,
innocents
are
about
to
die?
Families
starting over, far from the crowds and anger of Earth.
Marek
jerked.
He
struggled
with
the
urge
to
vomit.
Sweat
beaded
his forehead. He checked his watch.
Twenty-nine seconds before mass murder.
He
didn’t
remember
entering
a
stairwell,
but
he
stood
on
the
deck
below AC. He walked to the next intersection to orient himself.
He
felt
like
a
rat,
one
of
the
Houstonian
vermin,
lost
in
the
maze.
The
air
felt
acidic.
Thrummed
with
a
life
of
its
own.
Polluted
by
ozone. The effluvium of thousands of other vermin.
Twenty-five seconds before mass murder.
Vertigo
made
him
reach
out
as
he
looked
down
the
long,
monochrome
corridor
in
front
of
him.
The
wash
of
gray
made
him
feel
as
though
he
drowned
in
a
drab
ocean.
His
stomach
lurched
as
he
ran to the near stairwell.
Nineteen seconds before mass murder.
Marek
ran
up
the
flights.
The
clanging
of
his
shoes
on
the
plating
rang, the bells of a church tolling an impatient call to a funeral.
Back
on
his
deck.
Where
the
hell
was
he?
Did
he
have
time
to
get
to
a
com
station?
Could
he
call
Earth
and
see
if
his
parents
were
home?
Was
the
Houstonian
in
communication
blackout?
That
was
very
possible,
at
battle
stations.
Did
they
disable
external
communication?
He
checked
his
watch.
How
many
hours
difference
from
Boston?
He
couldn’t
think.
Seven
hours.
Subtract,
would
make
it
four,
AM
or
PM? Would they be on campus or fast asleep?
He
would
wake
them
if
they
were
on
Earth.
If
he
woke
them,
what
would
he
tell
them?
If
they
were
on
the
moon
below,
he
could
do
nothing for them.
What, just say goodbye, I love you? I’m sorry?
Fifteen seconds before mass murder.
His
brain
seemed
to
finally
click.
Thoughts
came
into
focus.
He
recognized
the
letters
and
numbers
on
the
bulkhead.
He
needed
to
travel aft to make his way back.
Ensign
Tasken
greeted
him,
a
fine
young
man,
just
out
of
the
academy,
had
a
great
sense
of
humor,
of
duty,
one
of
maybe
ten
people
Marek
had
interacted
with
since
coming
aboard
the
Houstonian
.
Tasken’s
words
wouldn’t
connect
in
Marek’s
mind.
They
made
no
sense, rather they were irrelevant.
Don’t you realize we’re about to erase a world?
“Did you see the movie last night?” the man was asking.
Movie? Who cares about a movie—don’t you realize?
Marek
heard
himself
telling
him,
“No,
I
spent
the
evening
reading.”
“It
was
okay,”
Tasken
said.
“Just
like
every
other
re-make.
Never
as good as the original.”
Marek
nodded
numbly.
“I
have
to
get
back
to
my
station,”
he
told
him.
“See
you
later,
Doc.
Maybe
we
can
get
together
for
some
backgammon.”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
Great?
How
could
anything
be
great?
We’re
about
to
kill
a
million
people.
Marek
hurried
to
AC.
Images
of
past
students
crossed
his
mind.
Good,
young
people.
Caring
people
with
goals
and
visions
of
the
future, who loved and were loved by others.
They
were
going
to
use
their
education
to
make
the
galaxy
a
better
place,
help
explore
those
thousands
of
sectors
no
one
had
yet
visited,
assist in the terra-forming of worlds.
They
were
going
to
improve
the
efficiency
of
FTL
travel
so
those
worlds could be more quickly populated, to ease the burden on Earth.
Nine seconds before mass murder.
How
many
of
my
former
students
are
on
that
moon
right
now?
What
does
blood
look
like
when
it
hits
a
vacuum?
Evaporate?
Float
away?
“Good. You’re back.”
Marek glanced at Stephen. We’re killing people. Nothing is good.
He sat. Worked the console feverishly.
“Doctor,
the
bridge
says
they
have
an
alarm
indicating
another
missile is coming on-line?”
“Just trying to be proactive,” he mumbled.
“Sir?”
“Ignore
it.
Just
running
a
test
so
we
don’t
get
caught
with
our
pants down,” Marek told him.
“Aye, Doctor. I’ll inform the bridge.”
You do that. They’ll want to know we’re doing our job.
“Doctor? The warhead has gone off-line.”
“Couldn’t
have.
We
have
a
few
more
seconds.
Perhaps
on-board
sensors
identified
parameters
that
modified
the
estimated
maximum
destructive altitude. It may have overridden what we set.”
“I don’t think so, sir. It just went off-line.”
“Can it reset itself, sir?” another tech asked.
“I’m checking,” Marek told him.
“What
happened
to
our
bird?”
The
voice
of
the
temporary
XO
over
the
com
was
calmer
than
it
should
have
been.
Probably
nothing
like
the captain’s. He was surely screaming.
Maybe he’ll have a painful coronary. Dirty bastard.
Marek depressed his mic. “We’re checking, sir.”
“Make it quick. Good thing you prepped another nuke.”
You don’t know how good.
“Doctor,
the
new
nuke
is
showing
a
simple
countdown.
There
is
no target registering. It shows a five second timer—
“Doc! It’s running down!”
His
call
connected.
His
dad’s
voice
echoed
with
a
tinny
vibration
in
his
earpiece
that
felt
like
an
audio
aftertaste.
Marek
tried
to
swallow the sensation away.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Marek?
Why’re
you
calling
so
early
in
the
morning?
Is
everything
all right?”
“Dad,
sorry
for
waking
you.
I
just
wanted
to
tell
you
I
love
you
and
Mom. I’m sor—”
© R. Mac Wheeler 2017