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Chapter 3 - We Fly - Part 1
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My 'punishment' for daydreaming during active combat has not been lenient. In fact, both Birgit and I have been worked off our feet for the last couple of hours.
First, we were each handed an SMG and thrown into the boarding party. With the Seeker squad defeated, we still needed to arrest the crew of the enemy supply ship and see what they were carrying.
The Caravel is small so it doesn't have a dedicated combat team. Still, two dozen of us geared up and under the leadership of Lt Vitka swept through the little freighter. In the end, and much to my relief, the small crew of only twelve surrendered without much fuss, so there was no need for an actual exchange of bullets.
Interestingly, this tiny crew was both fully dressed in TSU uniform and were clearly understaffed for the size of the ship in question. It became pretty evident to everyone that if the presence of the Seekers wasn't already a giveaway, the small military crew more than proved this was no civilian transport. We brought them aboard the Caravel, hands and legs bound and left in a little circle in the hangar bay, with a constant guard of course.
Next, I was included in the team that went back aboard to inventory the supply vessel’s entire shipment. A tedious process of carefully counting every can of food and unboxing every crate.
We brought some of the haul on board, mainly fuel and water, which would allow the Caravel to remain in the field for longer, as well as some machine parts and a giant experimental-looking cannon. I know that might sound a lot like looting, but… Well, Chief Gros said to think of it as 'scavenging' instead…
Once that was done, there was still no break in sight for me – Heck, even Birgit was allowed one! But not for me; I was handed the heavy, cold-to-the-touch SMG again and subbed in for guard duty on our little group of prisoners.
So here I now stand along with four others, feeling absolutely exhausted.
Mind you, I can't let that show. I can't even yawn because also standing here are Chief Gros and Captain Katherine, 'interrogating' the captives, “Come on now, surely one of you can give me more than rank and name, eh?” Gros growls. He has a quality growl that suits his rotund build. Sure, there's some muscle on him, especially around the arms, but as a short, squat, balding man with a clear alcohol issue in his fifties, the disgruntled growl definitely fits.
His main target, the captain of the enemy vessel, simply turns his face away. He's rather old himself, with a wrinkled face, a greying pencil moustache and rather rigid facial features. His eyes are weary, like a man who has been doing this job far too long and maybe even feels a little relief at finally being caught.
The whole crew looks like this, stern and tired – except for one younger member sitting right next to the old captain – perhaps this younger guy is a new addition to their crew?
Speaking of, our own Captain is the next to speak. Cap Katherine is a couple heads taller than Gros. Her hair is long and a light brown shade that goes well past her shoulders and floats about a bit in the gravity-less environment. Her prosthetic arm is as always, proudly revealed for all to see; it lends to her imposing presence.
“Now gentlemen, surely you can tell me something about what you were doing in our airspace, not using a military transport but a regular civilian freighter, huh?”
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That's when it happens: The youngest member of the prisoners who had been fidgeting unhappily, finally makes a verbal outburst, “Territory! You people are terrorists pretending to have a cause and nothing more. You don't have territory, y-- Oww C-captain?”
Before he can run his mouth further, the enemy captain manages to elbow his subordinate in the ribs, but it's too late. An altogether evil grin has spread across Gros's face, “What do you think, ma'am? shall I put the screws to him somewhere a little more private?” A shiver runs down my spine as I realise what he's suggesting.
Our captain seems to be giving it some thought, laying her natural hand over the mechanical one. But before she can answer, there is a loud “Ahem” from behind us.
Now out of the tactical gear he wore earlier (meaning he no doubt got a break) is Lt Vitka holding a small digital tablet.
Vitka is about the same height as the Captain, although while she is rather muscular, Vitka is far sleeker. Even his light brown hair, a similar shade to the Captain’s, is cut excessively short. Or perhaps that's simply the impression his rather tight-fitting suit always gives off.
Behind him is Templar. They say never meet your heroes, but I think 'they' are wrong. Just a couple hours ago, I watched this man take down an entire elite enemy squadron, but now he looks no worse for wear. His broad shoulders, his nearly seven-foot tall height, that silver hair he sometimes braids in a wolf-cut, and those striking red eyes that match with the primary viewing camera of his mecha. For an older man with no voice, his presence never disappoints.
“Master Templar would like to remind you both that we do not condone irregular interrogation methods aboard this vessel,” Vitka says sternly.
Gros scowls at this comment. The Captain grins, “Right you are. Besides, the intelligence division can better handle this, we have enough info as is.”
“Like what?” Vitka says back with a raised brow. Now it's Gros's turn to perk up; “Oh, we got plenty. Johnny is working on breaking into their ship’s computer systems. They tried to delete the flight log, but the lass reckons she can grab it. That'll tell us where they were going; but their cargo says even more. Yo kid, you're a mechanic. Give me your analysis of the cargo.”
I blink stupidly, “M-me?”
“Yes, you. Who else, dumbass!”
“Eer-ah-right, ah...” Growing flustered, I do my best to review everything we catalogued as quickly as possible. Spare machine parts and that weird prototype gun that we'd brought aboard the Caravel to mend the Type-C with. Far more food and water than a crew of twelve, or seventeen counting the Seekers, would need, so some of it was probably being delivered too. But none of that is strange, is it? Other than that, boxes of processors, expensive ones at that.
I think desperately, trying to remember exact numbers in the hopes that they might reveal a clue to this pop quiz. As hard as I try, the only thing was simply those seventy-odd top-of-the-line processors, so I do my best to focus on them.
They really are special, each about the size of a person. At that size and quality, they’re no doubt for weapons, but then that doesn’t make much sense. A shiny, delicate computing instrument like that would be wasted in a Vijaik or fighter jet that is liable to be blown up randomly. So then...
“The processors. Something like that wouldn't be needed for the gun we found with them, so they’re probably unrelated. They are also the wrong kind for warships, meaning whatever is at the place the ship was headed – no, except even a high-spec Vijaik like the Crusade would never be given such a processor – there's just no need for it. Sure, it might increase the performance of the machine’s computers a little, but it's just cost-ineffective. The only war-machine that could properly use them would be, no, wait, that doesn't make sense, there's seventy of them... No one has ever tried to make seventy at once, have they?”
“Seventy of what Crewmen Kris?” Vitka asks sternly, perhaps unpleased with how I'd been rambling.
Gros answers in my place after taking a swing from his ever-present flask, “Why ain't it obvious, the one class of mecha that's complicated enough and least likely to be destroyed. Seventy processors for Seventy Casnels.”
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