To Mu We Go

“Goddammit, damage report! Witold, are we okay?!”
“We have sustained substantial damage to the outer hull,” said Witold. “Hangar 1 has been disabled. Engine 2 has sustained damage as well, but fortunately our emergency slipspace jump was, obviously, successful. Casualty reports are coming in now…” The AI avatar, draped in the uniform of a World War II-era Polish Army officer, decorated in medals, with a rogatywka atop his head, turned his head and placed his hand near his head, a sign he was being transmitted information. “Total confirmed KIA or DOW stands at ninety nine. Total wounded… at... three hundred and five.”
“My God. Near 50% casualties.” I moved to the command chair and sat down in it, slouching in exhaustion. As the reports came in and the fleet’s holographic representation was assembled before me, I noticed we were missing numerous vessels, most importantly the flagship.
“Where is the Singapore?” I asked.
“I presume that Rear Admiral Singh fought a covering action, and deliberately remained behind in the Roth System,” answered Witold.
“So… the Singapore is lost with all hands.”
“That…” Witold paused briefly, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in a little bit, “…is a logical conclusion.”
I took notice of what remained of our fleet again, the holograms floating above the table where Witold was standing, who patiently looked at me, upright, his hands behind his back. His avatar stood probably sixteen centimeters tall, but his presence was nevertheless assuring. There were only four ships displayed: my own, the Władysław Sikorski, a destroyer, the Kamehameha I, and two frigates, the Come and See and the Thimpu.
“To whom does command of the fleet fall to?”
“If the other fleets’ admirals report in, they shall take command of any and all remaining forces.”
Here entered the Seventh and Eighth Fleets. For the Seventh, there were only four frigates: the Hlobane, the Douglas Albert Munro, the Isle of Mann, and the Quito. For the Eighth, only two destroyers and a frigate remained: the destroyers were the Tlaxcala and the Uttar Pradesh, and the frigate was the Mithridates VI. I stared at these ships forlornly, their names beside the holographic ships floating in the holographic ether. As their casualty reports came in, numbers were calculated and displayed beneath their names. All of them had at least 50% casualties, all of them sustained significant hull damage. Both of the Eighth Fleet’s destroyers had one of their engines damaged.
“No Marathons, Witold?”
“None, Captain. It would seem we are the last one. The sole survivor.”
“Which means overall command falls to me.”
“It would seem so.”
I continued laying back in my seat in anguish. All those losses, all those people. Rear Admirals Singh, Horowitz, and Adewayo. Then another thing caught my notice: the Hudson was missing.
“Where is the UNSC Hudson?” I asked Witold.
“From what information I could gather before our jump, the Hudson sustained severe damage to its engines, and was unable to jump. So, its commanding officer, Captain James Impreveduto, elected to engage Covenant vessels.”
“Oh, Jimmy…”
While the bridge hummed with beeping alarms and the clamor of its crew, silence fell between myself and Witold. Again, he stood attentively, patiently, although a sorrow developed on his face.
“Jimmy was a good man, Maksim,” he said. “A funny man, but serious when he needed to be. And I do not doubt this is an end he would have preferred: shooting at some Covenant.”
I let out a light chuckle. That was Jimmy, indeed. He loved joking around, but he knew to lock it down, especially in front of a superior officer. And he never backed down from a fight. Not from our days in the academy, where he usually showed up to the dorm with a black eye or a bloody nose, or during the war.
I was brought back to the here and now, rather quickly, by Witold. “Captain,” he started, “the UNSC Tlaxcala is hailing us.”
I stood up straight. “On-screen.”
Here appeared Captain Rachel Dowdy. She was a recent graduate of the academy, but already made it to captain. There were rumors that she was an ONI informant, but nothing could be confirmed about that. She definitely was not a spook, though: we would have all steered well clear of her.
“Captain Nestorenko,” she began, “we’re in bad shape here. All the admirals are dead, so command responsibility’s fallen to you. We need a new plan.”
“Agreed. We have to head to the nearest inhabited system. Where is it?”
“The Mu system, Captain,” said Witold.
“Good. Head to Mu immediately. We shall see if anyone there can help us salvage this mess.”
“Understood,” said Dowdy. “I’ll relay your orders to the rest of the ships. And Nestorenko? I saw the Hudson go down. I know how you and Impreveduto were friends, and I just wanted to express my condolences.”
“Acknowledged,” I replied bitterly. “We go to Mu.”
Dowdy nodded. “End communications,” she ordered to an off-screen individual. The picture disappeared, revealing my previous view of a blue gas giant orbiting a red dwarf, with several badly damaged UNSC ships in the distance.
“Shall I plot a course to the Mu system?” asked Witold.
“Do it.”
To Mu we went.
Category:The Weekly