Galactic Council Realm 3: On Guard Page 15

  “Mycosis is what?” I asked motioning him to sit.

  “A fungal infection. It usually starts in the lungs as inhalation. The most common way spores are introduced into the body,” said the reluctant young Medic, “In the case of the Druid plants, the White-spores conflict with the Red-spores. Basically, they’re fighting for dominance in the infected person. From what I can gather, the Doctors administer a drug to kill both types of spores. After treatment, the Red-spores reenter as a benign presence.”

  “So what drug do I need?” I asked holding out a hand in case he bolted.

  “Sir, I’d have to look it up in the medical directory,” he stated, “The dose is based on the patient’s weight and the severity of the Mycosis. So you see Sir, I cannot treat you.”

  “I am the third highest ranking officer on the Ander El Aitor,” I informed him, “And for reasons I can’t explain, me walking around with an oxygen mask and noise suppression gear, isn’t a good idea. So, do your research, pull the drug from the pharmacy and treat me. That’s an order.”

  The drug was 5-fluorocytosine and the medicine was dripping into a saline bag which in turn dripped into my right arm. I couldn’t tell him I had a meeting with the ship’s Druids in less than three hours. Or, that any sign of weakness from me could prove fatal. So here I lay as an antimycotic drug flowed into my system, watched over by a frightened Medic.

  The Medic was nervous and worried about me and his career. My Druid enchantments caused my body to metabolize drugs rapidly so he needn’t worry about poisoning me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t explain it to him. While he was tense, I wasn’t. I closed my eyes and dreamt of a White Heart plant.

  It had been dark for so long. A sliver of light freed a spurt of my essence. The young Druid absorbed it. It became dark again.

  A burst of light, shouts, and the casement, keeping me in the dark and away from my people, opened. The deck rocked. Some came to visit me and inhaled of my essence. Dead forms lay at my roots. Some were my people but most were strangers. They were waiting, so I waited.

  Some left, I could sense their absence. There was much activity. Some spoke of gold. It concerned me not. I waited.

  Youthful people came to visit. There was much activity. It concerned me. My tomb was sealed. It moved so I moved in it. I waited.

  Earth, bare and not fit for my roots. Air barely sustaining. An enclosure was built. Nutrients bathed my roots and my essence grew stronger. My people absorbed the power of my essence.

  I missed my sisters from the temples. My sisters understood me not. I, the hardiest White Heart plant to ever blossom.

  Yet, I feared. Feared as only a young stalk ripped from its planting bed could know. Fear I fought by making my people strong.

  “Lieutenant? Lieutenant Piran,” I heard the voice but struggled to wake.

  I held up my left arm and extended a finger to signify for him to stop. The dream, seeming so real, faded as I came fully awake.

  “How are you feeling, Sir?” he asked with worry lines creasing his face.

  “Not sure,” I admitted, “Let’s test it.”

  Pulling the mask off my face, I smelled cinnamon. No sea salt undertones, just the pleasant aroma of a Red Heart plant. The noise suppressors went next. From the passageway outside the treatment room, I heard voices. They buzzed in my head for a second but, by concentrating, I was able to separate them.

  “You do good work,” I said praising the Medic, “I’m…”

  The violent eruption from deep in my gut spewed vomit from my chest to my boots. I inhaled between bouts and choked on the slimy fluid. Once my stomach was empty, I raised my eyes to the Medic.

  He stood with a look of horror on his face. A barf bucket hung from his hand.

  “One of the side effects,” he said while offering me the bucket, “It usually takes a few minutes before we see any.”

  There was an example of my rapid metabolism. Instantaneous side effects.

  “Sorry to mess up your area,” I said pointing to the chunks of partially digested power bar suspended in yellow bile.

  “Not a problem, Sir,” he said happily, “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to submit a medical paper on your treatment. It’ll go a long way with my next promotion board.”

  “You write it up and I’ll attest to your proficiency,” I stated assuring him of my support.

  I needed a meal, and right now. But, I couldn’t go wandering around a BattleShip in an ill-fitting, vomit soaked uniform.

  “You wouldn’t have any uniforms around here?” I asked holding up a wet sleeve.

  “Yes Sir. The doctors all keep spare uniforms in their lockers,” he replied.

  Chapter 18

  I grabbed a long, hot shower in the doctor’s lounge before sorting through the lockers. After a few minutes of searching, I found a Senior Lieutenant’s uniform that fit. The only adjustment required was peeling away the medical insignia. I’d no more walk around identifiable as a doctor than I’d expect a doctor to go about with winged-rocket pins.

  My Medic drew some blood, looked in my ears, listened to my heart, and ran a diagnostic scan. He finished up and smiled.

  “In my medical opinion, for what it’s worth,” he pronounced, “You are fit for duty Lieutenant Piran.”

  “Thanks Doc. Right now on this ship, your opinion, and the rest of the Medics’ opinions are the best we have,” I said slipping on the uniform blouse, “And, it’s appreciated.”

  I looked good. From the jaunty tilt of the cover, down along the sharp creases of the uniform to the shiny shoes, I looked every part a Senior Lieutenant in the Galactic Council Navy. Hopefully, it would get me fed on the mess deck.

  Warlock had messaged me. The Councilor had eaten, dressed, and was waiting for the Marines to give them an all clear. Once the VIP deck was secure, a Marine guard detachment would escort him to the Bridge. This gave me time to get a bite to eat.

  Despite the situation, I felt good. My hearing was still hyper sensitive but controllable. The BattleShip was still undermanned with an enemy fleet heading towards us but we would soon have Council authority to launch. And, I had a meeting with the Druids which might end in help or a slaughter. I felt good but hungry.

  I walked into the Officer’s Mess and was greeted.

  “Officer on deck,” a Messman shouted, “Attention.”

  There were men and woman jumping up from the tables. Playing cards went flying, some still falling to the deck, when I walked in. Obviously, I’d disturbed their recreation time. It wasn’t authorized as I could surmise from the sheepish looks on a lot of their faces. Without officers and senior NCOs, the military order of the mess deck had dissolved. In its place was a listless group of bored youths.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said channeling the Marine Corps’ Sergeant I’d been before the Navy fastened the winged-rocket pin on my chest, “Stand at ease. “

  They relaxed but watched me wearily. An old adage states, ‘an army travels on its stomach’ meaning if you don’t feed your people, they can’t or wouldn’t fight. The same can be said for the Navy.

  “We’ve a situation here,” I began when one messman spoke.

  “Sir, we were just killing time until the senior Chef returns,” she explained.

  I ignored her and continued, “As I was saying, we have a situation. Your senior NCOs and Officers are not returning to the Ander El Aitor. They’ve been taken hostage on Planet Tres.”

  I let them moan, gasp in disbelief and otherwise express surprise but, I didn’t let them go too deep into their negative emotions.

  “Are you done?” I asked as heartlessly as I could, “Self-pity has no place on a Galactic Council Realm BattleShip. Now, here is the ugly truth.”

  I paused not for effect but because I heard three pairs of boots in the outer corridor. When they stopped, I ignored the unknown personnel. Instead, I decided to continue speaking with the Mess crews.

  “Not only your mess supervisors but every section leader, sen
ior mechanic, command officer, and flight commander are on planet Tres,” I said slowly, “And every department on the Ander El Aitor is being run by its junior staff.”

  After letting that sink in for a half minute, I picked up the pace, “Some departments will fail. Their crews falling short of their duty. Some departments will eek by, squabbling and arguing with each other over minor details, but somehow getting the job done. And some departments will shine in the presence of adversity.”

  “Now, do you know what the difference will be?” I asked looking around the room making eye contact with a number of them, “The difference will be you. Your department unlike any other on the ship, touches every department. From the mid rations for the crews on the flight decks, who aren’t sure of their repairs, a smile and a sandwich goes a long way. How about the frightened pilots who shoulder the responsibility of command for the first time? A hot meal and a well ordered mess will give them an anchor. Or the junior officer looking for a cup of coffee and a minute of peace to think. To think if their next command will get someone killed.”

  I noticed a stiffing and straightening of their spines as a sense of pride drew their shoulders back. They were standing taller and I could hear their heart rates increase. I wasn’t finished yet.

  “This department will be the difference between life and death,” I stated, “Between the Ander El Aitor completing its mission or being destroyed by an enemy fleet. Yes, there is an enemy fleet on its way to Tres. Every crewmember, Navy or Marine, who comes to the mess deck will have doubts. What will they find when they come here? A meal on an ordered deck and a mess crew with heads held high performing to their maximum. Or a card game and a bad attitude? You are the difference. You are fighting something more important than an unknown enemy. You are batting doubt, insecurity and personal fear. Will you rise to the mission?”

  As one the mess crews shouted, “Aye, aye Sir.”

  Before I could say another word, the boots from the hall clicked, and three bodies steeped into the mess deck. It was the Master Chief, who Warlock had selected. He was accompanied, I was happy to see, by two armed Marines. He marched up to me and stopped a hands width from my face.

  “Master Chief. I apologize if I over stepped my bounds,” I said to the hard eyed NCO.

  “Lieutenant. Do you really believe the mess deck is the heart of the Ander El Aitor?” he challenged never shifting his gaze as he drilled me, “That mess men and women are the difference between success and failure? That out of all the crewmembers on this ship, this department, and its naval personnel can control the future of a BattleShip?”

  “Aye! Master Chief, I do,” I replied as gruffly as the NCO had asked the questions.

  He turned his head slowly and ran his eyes over the assembled mess crews.

  “Well people, is Lieutenant Piran right?” he asked them, “Can you be the difference?”

  “Aye, aye Master Chief,” they responded in full voice.

  “I believe you,” he said softening his stance, “Now, let’s sort out your chain of command.”

  “Master Chief, do you think I could grab a sandwich or something?” I asked remembering my mission in the first place was to find food.

  “Who is top short order cook?” he asked the assembly.

  Heads turned and they stared at a thin man standing in the back. He looked uncomfortable to be singled out.

  “If you would, fix the Lieutenant a steak, please,” the Master Chief ordered, “The rest of you break into groups by sections. We need to appoint group leaders.”

  I ate in the kitchen area so as not to intrude on the Master Chief as he questioned, prodded and appointed section leaders. After forking the final morsel of steak into my mouth, I thanked the cook. Out in the mess hall, I walked by the Master Chief. He glanced up and told me his opinion of my performance with a reassuring wink.

  He must have given the same motivational speech, I’d delivered, to every department on the ship. My speech had saved him the need to do it on the mess deck.

  I took a few minutes to speak to several of the men and women. Attitude was important and would be the glue that held this young crew together. So I did my part as a naval officer. By the time I left, on my way to Combat Control, the mess deck was almost organized.

  Five decks above the Mess deck and two decks below the Bridge, the Combat Control center was an area separate from the rest of the BattleShip. The start of the interior armor plating was identifiable by a thick access hatch. This was one of only two openings in the hard shell surrounding the ship’s fighting complex.

  From Combat Control, BattlePlatforms also known as Bricks, Fighters, Patrol Boats and GunShips were tasked and controlled. Also under the authority of Combat Control were the ships offensive and defensive gun batteries, rocket launchers and missile tubes. These were manned by Navy and Marine personnel in batteries strategically placed around the BattleShip.

  Usually, admittance to Combat Control was controlled by a single Marine. At the desk in front of the armored hatch, I was greeted by three armed Marines.

  “Name and tab, Sir,” one of the Marines challenged.

  “Lieutenant Phelan Oscar Piran,” I replied waving my PID over the scanner, “Here to see Captain Haitham.”

  “Please stand by,” he said picking up a ship’s phone, “Lieutenant Piran for the Captain.”

  He listened to a short reply, cradled the phone, and nodded to another Marine.

  “Access granted, Sir,” he stated.

  The hatch was opened just far enough for me to enter the Combat Control center and then was closed quickly behind me.

  I’d seen Combat Control centers many times. In flight school, we’d drilled, planned and simulated space battles using our space fighting resources. It was a two deck high oval. Above and below the access platform, where I stood, screens displayed the areas around the BattleShip in layers. Views, from near space to the edge of the ship’s protective screen, dominated most of the screens. Several more displayed sectors deeper in space.

  These required targeting as space was so vast, it was impossible to watch all of the sectors at once. Three of the deep space screens were locked on one sector. They displayed nine streaks of ion trails. The Ander El Aitor and Captain Haitham were keeping eyes on the inbound Constabulary fleet.

  It was always hushed in Combat Control. Ramps from the access platform stretched to workstations on multiple levels. Each of the flying workstations had a different field of responsibility. Ten work stations and six people manning the stations would generate a lot of sound in the caverns space. So everyone in a normally staffed workstation kept their voices low. But in this Combat Control center, the silence was due to understaffing. Each of the ten stations held only two or three staff members. The missing staff were the senior leaders. Their absence was obvious.

  The Combat Command platform was centered among the other workstations. A tube, dropping from the curved ceiling, connected the Bridge to Combat Control. This allowed senior officers to travel quickly for Combat Control to the Bridge.

  Captain Haitham and an Ensign were shifting between workstations. They had divided up Combat Control. Eaglet would consult with one team, issue instructions, and walk to another workstation. While he moved quickly, the Ensign seemed to need more time at each station. All the while, they were speaking into mics on their headsets.

  They were traveling between workstations when Captain Haitham noticed me. He changed directions and waved me to join him at the Combat Command workstation.

  As I crossed the ramp to the Command station, he spoke into his mic. The Ensign responded immediately. From that, I assumed the Captain and the Ensign were not only speaking with the staff but with each other as well.

  “Lieutenant Piran, this is Ensign Jaya Perwira,” Captain Haitham said by way of introduction.

  She was in a flight suit and he was still in his dress white uniform. Apparently, she’d just come from a flight and him from the Shuttle. Neither had taken time to chang
e. It made me feel a little guilty standing there in a fresh duty uniform.

  “Nice to meet you, Ensign. Call sign J-Pop,” I said shaking the Ensign’s hand.

  “Wind Chime. How are you feeling?” she asked, “We heard you left sick bay to rescue the Councilor. Then went back to the Medical deck.”

  This was the pilot from the GunShip who’d first challenged us at the edge of the protective screen. I hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed when the Captain brought me in to help run Combat Control. Or would he?

  “J-Pop, Wind Chime is my Assistant Flight Control Commander,” he informed me letting me know I wouldn’t be in Combat Control, “She knows our pilots and a familiar voice will help more than an experience Senior Lieutenant. I hope you understand.”

  He was worried about naval decorum. Passing me up for the position wasn’t standard practice and would, in other circumstances, be a slight to me and my rank.

  “No problem Captain. I’m with Special Navy Operations so close combat is more my specialty,” I replied, “I support Ensign Perwira’s promotion to Assistant Chief of Flight Operations.”

  Captain Haitham blinked and hesitated. I’d used the full title of Wind Chime’s position and conversely, bestowed a title on him.

  Up till now, Haitham had been ‘acting’ as a fill in, but now he needed to accept he was the Chief of Flight Operations on the Ander El Aitor. Every pilot and every gunner depended on him. For all the combat departments, his was the final word.

  “Gracious of you, J-Pop,” Eaglet admitted, “We’ve got the Councilor in route. Lieutenant Piran, please accompany me to the Bridge. Ensign Perwira, you have Combat Control.”

  “Aye, Sir, I have Combat Control,” parroted the pilot who had started the day flying a GunShip on the outer edge of the BattleShip’s screen. Now, Wind Chime was in control of the flights for the defensive screen and the ship’s gun batteries. Her head must be spinning.