The neon shadows of electronic stars and speeding streamers of stellar dust streaked by the window of Virek’s office like glowing rainfall in an endless, horizontal night. Burning through the rim of Commonwealth space, The Von was almost eighty light years out from Earth, almost eighty light years from his daughter Sarah Virek-Baxter, and yet the blue-green marble of the cradle of humanity and the waif-like girl who’d grown into a woman too fast haunted his mind, played through memories like actors on the broken frames of some ancient Hollywood movie.
Henryk breathed a tired sigh. In his own way, he was proud of her, proud of the achievements she had made as a researcher-instructor for the ivy league Zakharov Orbital Botanical University that hung suspended in a coordinated orbit of Earth with thousands of other artificial satellites. In her entire life, she had never been further out than the rocky moons of Epsilon Eridani B, and only then for a six-week visit to another botanical university as part of a faculty-exchange program. She wasn’t like her father– she had no interest in the untamed and colonial planets closer to the rim, worlds whose settlers had only had a few decades to build their dreams on the frontier and alien soil. The city-stations and built-up orbitals of Proxima, Wolf 359, Sirius and Luyten 726-8 were far enough from the planet of her birth for her. Out here, this far into the 24th century’s own wild west, the Von der Tann IV was the closest thing Henryk had to a home, her crew the closest thing he had to a family, friends.
Setting down his pen, Virek rubbed at his eyes, tried to ignore the sheet of silicon and the half-written report that tracked in steady script between edges of thin nanocarbon. Fleet Admiral Neill, Virek’s immediate superior, had been disturbingly quiet about the entire operation, about the sudden re-routing of the Wu Ang Hok against orders and the activation of warchest funds for a mercenary unit that hadn’t come cheap, but his secretary had made it clear– a full report was definitely in order. Virek peered tiredly through sluggish fingers, read absently from the silicon. As per my orders... the ringing of his office door chime cut the line of thought short, brought his eyes back to the desk, the room that the Navy expected him to spend his days in, the room he felt he’d spent too much time crammed inside of. Lips moved slow, absent.
“Yes.” He sat up, half-pulled at the edge of his uniform. “Come in.”
“Admiral.” A younger officer in full dress uniform pressed through the door, carefully removed his hat. Virek looked him over once, noted the name, the lieutenant bars on his sleeves. Zelenka. Part of the Administrative staff. “We just received a transmission on QE burst from the Hok.”
Virek gestured loosely, pushed aside the silicon report. “Sit.”
Nodding once, quickly, Zelenka carefully took the offered seat, cleared his throat.
“Captain Lazar reports that they’ve suffered heavy damage and heavy casualties, including the near-fatal injury of Admiral Faith Minear.” He paused, breathed. “They have no weapons, no defensive capability whatsoever and minimal sensors. Parts of the ship are venting atmosphere, their degen-drive is completely non-functional and sublight is at forty-seven percent.”
Virek inclined his head tiredly. “How far out are they?”
“Johanson estimates that, at full power, we should reach them just inside of six hours.”
“That may just be six hours too many.” Virek sighed. “Any idea how many of our people are still alive out there?”
“Fifteen at last count, but that number is from an earlier QE burst, and they’ve suffered additional casualties among their available pilots since then.” He shook his head. “I guess there’s a chance that none of them were ours, but the likelyhood...”
“That’s the horrible thing about war, Lieutenant.” Virek looked up, met Zelenka’s eyes so suddenly that the young man swallowed in response. “People always die.” The old Admiral sat up, eyes dropping back to his desk. “There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
“Yes sir.” Came the Lieutenant’s noncommital response.
“Do you have any family, Zelenka?”
“Earthside, yes.” The Lieutenant hesitated, continued almost nervously. “My father died when I was eight, but my baby sister and my ma live in Liberec.”
“Liberec. Hmm.” Virek nodded distantly, let his eyes rise slowly back to meet the young Lieutenant’s. “I have a daughter, about your age, maybe a few years older.” He picked up the pen, watched it as he pushed it absently through his fingers. “Her name is Sarah. She teaches at the Zakharov Orbital Botanical University.” He looked up again. “Never really leaves Earth, just... goes into orbit via transport every day.” He shook his head, set down the pen. “Doesn’t follow the war, doesn’t even watch the tripe they feed the news.” Eyes dropped back to the pen. “To her, the war is a distant thing, something her father is a part of, but nothing meaningful, nothing pressing or dangerous. A petty squabble over resources that will be over as soon as one side withdraws.” Eyes rose again to lock with Zelenka’s, suddenly strong, serious. “She doesn’t know about the sacrifices we make with every day that we spend out here, doesn’t see the names as they’re dropped from rosters, doesn’t shake the hands of the men and women who wear the uniform, who fly out to fight the blueskins day after day or write the letters to the families whose sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, fathers and mothers won’t be coming home when all is said and done.” He paused, breathed, gestured. “Next time you’re in the messhall, look around you. More than half of the people you see there will die before their term of service is up.” Virek shook his head, hesitated. “Those are the statistics. More than half, and most of them pilots. It’s a travesty.”
“Yes sir.” Zelenka managed, his tone wooden, uncertain.
“We are the last guard between the people we love and the people who seek to destroy us.” Virek said solidly. “Remember that, Lieutenant. Never forget it.”
“Sir.” Came the soft, affirmative response.
