Chapter 23 #2
“The point-defense turrets,” she answered.
“Their power distribution networks utilize identical high-temp superconducting cabling to handle the rapid energy discharge cycles. Each turret housing contains two redundant plasma flow regulators of the exact specification required. And the capacitor banks feeding their rapid-fire sequences are operated by cabling sufficient to withstand the heat of the jump-drive.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Deafening.
Sark slowly lifted his head from the table, his eyes wide with dawning horror.
Letitia froze, her head snapping down to stare at the comm screen.
Norvik’s impassive mask cracked for a microsecond, a flicker of something like disbelief crossing his blue features. Even Zed’s sparking arm stilled.
Carmen felt the blood drain from her face. The cold dread solidified into a block of ice in her gut.
The weapons. She was talking about cannibalizing their weapons. Their only defense against pirates, against COPS patrols they might miraculously stumble across, against anything.
“You’re joking,” Letitia breathed, her voice barely audible. She took a step towards the screen. “Tell me you’re fucking joking, Mila.”
She shook her head slowly.
“I am not,” she replied. “The specifications match precisely. The cabling runs from the main reactor conduit through Junction Sigma-9 directly into the turret housings. The regulators are mounted internally on the dorsal aspect of each turret base. The capacitors are housed in armored compartments beneath the firing mechanisms. Access is challenging but feasible with Zed’s assistance. ”
“Feasible?” Letitia’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief and rising anger. “You want us to rip out our guns? Our shields are already fried! You take the point-defense, and we’re a fucking sitting duck! A blind, toothless duck, floating in the worst neighborhood in the galaxy!”
“She’s right!” Sark said, finding his voice, high-pitched with panic. “Without the turrets, if anyone finds us, even a garbage scow could pick us apart! We’d be space dust before we knew what hit us!”
Norvik steepled his fingers again, his black eyes calculating.
“The proposal presents a significant tactical disadvantage,” he conceded, his tone neutral.
“However, the alternative is a one-hundred percent probability of death within a finite timeframe, preceded by significant degradation in crew cohesion and functionality. The weapons offer no survival utility if we cannot travel to a habitable system. Mila’s solution provides a non-zero probability of encountering resources or assistance before life-support exhaustion. ”
“Non-zero?” Letitia scoffed. “It’s practically zero! We’re talking about jumping to the Forbidden Zone! Anyone we encounter is either a smuggler or the COPS trying to catch them. We’d be dead.”
“That presumes we will encounter traffic at the perimeter,” Norvik countered. “If the captain’s plan works as designed, we will arrive at the frontier, hack the security satellite, and continue on without being detected.”
“If,” Letitia spat. “If the plan goes according to design. If Zed can hack the kill-sat. If we’re not detected. That’s a hell of a lot of if’s you’re counting on. What do you suppose the odds of all them coming true are?”
“The alternative is zero, Letitia,” Carmen said, her own voice sounding strangely calm in her ears.
The ice in her gut was spreading, but it was a clear kind of chill. The cold of no-choice.
“Sitting here, we die. Slowly. For sure. Stripping the turrets is a gamble – a terrible one. But it’s the only play left on the table.”
She looked at Mila on the screen. The Xena met her gaze steadily. There was no push, no plea in those green eyes. Just the facts. The impossible, necessary facts.
That unwanted pull surged through Carmen’s mind again – not just biological but a profound respect for the calm brilliance facing annihilation without flinching.
“How long to strip the parts and install them in the sub-light engines?”
Mila didn’t hesitate.
“With Zed’s assistance and full crew participation focused on the task? Approximately ninety-six hours.”
Ninety-six hours. Four days. To tear out their own teeth. To make themselves completely vulnerable.
Carmen looked around the table. Sark looked like he might vomit. Letitia’s jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in her cheek, her eyes burning with furious protest she knew was useless. Norvik gave a single, minute nod. Zed’s lights flickered in what might have been affirmation.
The weight of command settled on Carmen’s shoulders, heavier than it had ever been.
Heavier than the guilt, than the fear, than the confusing tangle of feelings for the alien woman whose suggestion might save them or doom them faster.
There was no good choice. Only survival, bought at the cost of their last line of defense.
She took a deep breath. The air tasted like despair, but there was a nearly imperceptible flavor of possibility in it. It would have to be enough.
“Do it,” she ordered, her voice flat, final. “Letitia, take Sark and Norvik and start stripping the parts. Mila, you and I will work on making the repairs. Zed, you’re our eyes and ears. Guide us through every step and make sure we don’t fuck it up worse.”
She paused and looked them all over. She met every person’s gaze.
“Look, this is no one’s fault but my own. I gave all the orders that got us here.
“But I didn’t choose to bring Mila aboard. Either Maltese had some terrible plan to ruin us, or the gods just decided to fuck us over. Whichever it is doesn’t matter.
“The only thing we can do is deal with the situation in front of us. And the fact is, we are fucking dead, unless we cannibalize the weapons to repair the jump-drive. I don’t want to fucking die. Neither do you. So, let’s do what we have to do and get the hell out of here.
“You’ve all got your orders. Dismissed.”
The command hung in the air, thick and final. Everyone stared at her for what felt like forever. Then, one by one, they each offered, “Aye, Captain.” Even Mila.
She watched them file out of the mess hall. Regret burned in her stomach like plasma fire. They deserved better than this.
But all she could do was tell them to do the work that would save their lives, give them a fighting chance to get out of this horrible mess that greasy bastard, Maltese, had trapped them in.
She prayed it would be enough.