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