The Storm
By J. L. Young

A woman sat behind a desk. Uniformed and sullen. Her head in her hands. After several deep breaths, her lids pulled back as she reached for a tumbler. The liquid within was the medicine to ease her mind and to facilitate sleep. As the war wore on, more doses seemed necessary to accomplish the effect. She rolled the glass between her fingertips before swallowing its contents. She relished the burn.

The young Captain filled the tumbler again and spoke to it as though it were her therapist. “They keep coming. Too long have they stepped upon us and we held the line. Enough. How many of us must die only to gain nothing? They don’t fear us. They only see humanity as an impediment to be circumvented. And I fight this war on two fronts. They advance and we fall back. The bozos won’t sign off on any meaningful operations. What are they waiting for, a miracle? There’s nobody out there willing to risk their ass to help us. Nobody.”

She flung the tumbler onto the desk. It spun, teetering on its edge. She watched it intently. It approached the precipice and fell only to shatter on the deck. The pieces tumbled, scattered, and came to rest.

The Captain stood and snatched the decanter from its pedestal and took a swig. Her eyes fell back on the shards strewn across the floor. Her head tilted slightly as she studied the pattern of the pieces. After placing the decanter on the desk, she left her quarters.

Her quick jaunt led her to another officer’s room. She knocked on the door. A second passed, and then it opened. A man still suffering from sleep drunkenness spoke softly,“Captain Lock, this is unexpected.”

“I know this may be misconstrued as scandalous, but may I come in?”

He nodded and pushed the door further open. Lock crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her. “Goethe, I have an idea for a new operation. One surely to push the Rageons back. To show them we are not to be trifled with.”

He smelled the thick caramel scent of Lock’s favorite scotch on her breath as he sat in a chair attached to the bulkhead. “I’m all for hearing ideas. I doubt Command will be as agreeable.”

“We take twenty silent runners and push it behind the front. Disrupt their supply lines. We need to stop seeing this as a game and show them what 200,000 years of war has taught us.”

“I like it, but it’ll never be approved,” Goethe replied.

“Then we don’t seek approval. We just do it. Cripple them and let them flail. I’ll assume responsibility.”

“With all due respect, Captain. You’re drunk.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Their numbers are dwindling.”

“So our propaganda says. How many souls must die on both sides? We’ll fight to the last man and there’ll be no difference. They have the advantage.

“Unless you’re privy to intel I’m not, we don’t know that.”

“I can get the intel. We have to break their supplies lines, turn them, eradicate their ability to make war.”

“It sounds like a good plan. You should go back to your quarters and rest on it. We can take a look at it again with a fresh mind in the morning. Perhaps you’re right.”

A knock came at the Captain’s door. She answered. A Master-At-Arms stood, waiting. “What is this?” She asked.

“Get dressed and come with me, Ma’am.”

“Am I to be court-martialed?”

“I’m not at liberty to answer that question.”

She closed the door and slowly donned her dress uniform and styled her hair in accordance with regulation, savoring the moment as though this may be the last time she’d ever wear it. The Captain tucked her cover in the crook of her arm and took a breath before opening the door.

The Master-At-Arms escorted her to an elevator. Inside, he selected a level not associated with the court. She looked toward the man, “I demand to know where you’re taking me.”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information, ma’am.”

The elevator came to rest and the doors opened. In the distance, the near-transparent hexagonal pattern of the vacuum barrier could be seen. The Master-At-Arms stepped out and she followed. As they walked, she could see Goethe standing beside the carbon black, irregular hull of a silent runner. The Master-At-Arms snapped-to, saluted, turned about and stepped away.

“I apologize for the drama. The Joint Chiefs approved your proposal… for one ship and one crew. Make the best of it, Captain. This mission is classified above top secret. With that said, the ship has no official name or designation. The shipwrights call her The Storm. She emits nothing. Radar-Ladar systems can’t detect her. Best of all, Rageon detection systems are blind to her. She’s equipped with eight long-range tactical nuclear and eighteen short-range nuclear torpedoes, four forward and two aft rail cannons with armor-piercing sabots with various payloads ranging from incendiary to nuclear. And your greatest weapon, your crew, will be here tomorrow. You launch at 0800. Good hunting, Captain.”