HMSS Broadside DAY 323 : THE OTHER SIDE Finale Part 2

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Flux Season 1 Finale Part 2

Personal Journal Serene Falk

Captain, HMSS Broadside

Mission Parameter: Hunting ghosts

Classification: SECRET Captain’s Eyes Only

As Flight’s words trailed off, everyone braced themselves.

Most of us were already secured inside our gravity harnesses, but you still instinctively sought something to cling to.

Then all hell broke loose.

Class 4 destroyers carry an array of torpedoes, ranging from standard ship-to-ship munitions to Armageddon-class nuclear weapons.

It was a safe bet that Exeter and Hood would not use the latter. As at this range, they would suffer severe damage themselves.

That meant they were probably using what we commonly referred to as Ship-busters: small, armour-piercing tactical nuclear torpedoes.

They had earned their name because the repulsion fields and layered armour protecting Fleet vessels did little to restrain the damage once their payload penetrated the hull.

Which left our survival down to the auto-cannons and anti-torpedo drones.

Concussion wave after concussion wave slammed into the Broadside as our defences intercepted the first wave of incoming torpedoes

But Hood and Exeter knew exactly how to fight one of their own.

They knew our defensive patterns.

They knew our blind spots.

They knew our limitations.

Flight’s final report painted that picture in vivid detail.

And turning to look directly at me Cara O’Brien delivered her final report with profound sadness in her eyes.

“Two bogies incoming. Contact in—”

The first torpedo struck.

Broadside was thrown into an uncontrolled roll as the explosion tore through our stern.

Bathed in the glow of the red battle lighting, everyone waited to discover where the second would hit.

A wall of concussion and noise ripped through the bridge.

There was our answer.

My ears were ringing. Smoke obscured my vision.

Through the haze, I became aware of movement around me. As those members of the bridge crew who were still able threw off their restraints.

Some tackled the electrical fires spreading through the consoles. Others tended to the injured or fought to bring Broadsides critical systems back online.

With our options disappearing by the second.

I shouted above the chaos.

“Flight, get us into the singularity!”

There was no response from Cara O’Brien.

Instead, a male voice I did not recognise answered.

“Yes, Captain. Mark in three, two, one.”

The familiar lurch passed through the ship, as though the floor had suddenly disappeared beneath our feet.

Broadside folded out of Standard Space and entered the singularity.

We passed into the Eye. Or, more precisely, the space between spacetime locations that exists within the Transit Manifold.

The term Eye had originally described the absolute stillness at the centre of a storm. And had since been borrowed to describe both the transit state and the strange sensation of passing through it.

Inside the Eye, time has no reference.

Therefore, it has no accurate measure.

The mind still attempts to fabricate what it believes to be an appropriate transit interval, usually based upon the distance it expects to travel.

But we had no idea where this singularity would take us.

There was no distance to measure.

No destination against which to calculate our journey.

The rush of real time returned without warning.

Broadside left the Eye and folded back into Standard Space.

Some of the less experienced crew needed several precious seconds to focus. But fortunately, a few of us knew how to handle the jolt back into reality.

As we had no time to waste.

Hood and Exeter would be close behind us.

What we needed was another jump point before they arrived. As it is virtually impossible to track a ship through a singularity unless its entry point can be marked. If we moved quickly enough, we could still lose them.

“Flight, find us another jump point. Now.”

Fifteen seconds later, Flight located a viable singularity.

We took it.

We ignored the fact that its projected exit point lay entirely beyond the charts, inside a region navigators simply referred to as Dark Space.

We folded again.

After returning to Standard Space, we repeated the manoeuvre twice more.

Finally, when we emerged from the last singularity, Flight delivered the news we desperately needed.

“Clear sky, Captain. Nothing on close or long-range sensors.”

As the ventilators cleared the smoke and the bridge lighting stabilised, I finally understood why a male voice had been answering from Flight.

Flight Officer Cara O’Brien was slumped over her console. Her hair formed a blood-soaked halo around her head. Her lifeless eyes remained open, looking back towards my command position.

A young male officer had instinctively taken her place during the chaos. And now looked around the bridge, white-faced, clearly in shock.

There were similar scenes everywhere.

The dead remained where they had fallen. The injured who could still work had returned to their stations, some of them obviously in need of urgent medical attention.

Every instinct told me to release my harness and help them.

But I needed a situation report.

I needed to know whether Broadside was still alive.

“Flight.”

The young officer’s eyes refocused on me.

“What is the ship’s status?”

Galvanised back into action, the officer, whom I later learned was actually ensign Markus Pauro. Opened the ship status report.

Following protocol, he read the damage assessment in order of critical priority.

It was bleak.

The first torpedo had struck our stern and sliced through the starboard quarter of D Deck.

Freshwater processing, food storage and several auxiliary systems had once occupied that section.

Now there was nothing but a collection of ruptured compartments vented to space.

The automated emergency air shields and bulkheads had responded instantly, preserving the atmosphere throughout the surviving sections. Which was good unless you were one of those on the wrong side of the bulkhead when they activated.

Some of us had seen that. Seen our shipmates and friends caught on the wrong side. We had watched their flailing, and watched them beating the bulkhead release buttons. But all we could do was watch helplessly as they grew weaker and weaker until they became still.

Because the automated systems operated without emotion to protect the living.

And If you were on the wrong side when they sealed, that was it. There was nothing you, or anyone else could do.

The second torpedo had struck Broadside amidships.

Fortunately, if such a word can ever be used in relation to a torpedo strike, its angle of impact meant that it had crushed and vented crew accommodation without penetrating farther into the ship.

Most of those cabins should have been vacant during battle stations.

But the torpedo’s proximity to the bridge and Command Centre made its intended target obvious.

It had fallen short.

Then came the body count.

In years past, this would have required a long and draining manual roll call.

The introduction of Personal Biomarkers (PBM's) had made the process much faster. Every active marker could be checked against the crew manifest within seconds.

As Markus continued, the tremor in his voice became increasingly pronounced. And every member of the bridge crew stood.

Those who could not stand without assistance leaned upon their shipmates.

Together, we listened to the numbers.

CREW STATUS REPORT

Active Broadside Crew Manifest :

08:00 SST, 24 December 2270: 821

Active Broadside Crew Manifest :

23:00 SST 24th December 2270: 695

Confirmed Deceased: 129

Injured: 74

Manual Medical Note:

Biologist Maytime Firat gave birth to twins at 11:05 SST.

Biomarker Status: No status returned.

Markus’s composure finally collapsed.

Through gritted teeth and a choked sob, he repeated the final line.

“No status returned.”

The babies were too young to carry Personal Biomarkers.

Their mother’s assigned quarters had been inside the accommodation section struck by the second torpedo.

Silence descended across the bridge.

After a minute, I stood and opened the ship wide communication channel.

As tradition demanded, I recited the Naval Prayer in honour of our dead.

Eternal Lord God,Who alone rulest the raging of the sea, Who has compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end: Be pleased to receive into Thy almighty and most gracious presence those who have gone before us. Preserve their souls, and preserve us who remain at the helm from the dangers of the sea and from the violence of the enemy. May we be a safeguard unto our most gracious country and dominions, and may we one day return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land and the fruits of our labours. With thankful remembrance of Thy mercies, we give Thee praise and glory in Thy Holy Name.Amen.

Every surviving member of Broadsides crew raised their voice in response.

Regardless of creed, colour, race or denomination, the same word travelled through every surviving compartment.

“Amen.”

I left our new Flight Officer to recover his composure and find his feet.

And turned towards the Chief.

“What have we got left, Hux? Can we still run and fight?”

Despite his smoke-stained face and the exhaustion carved into his features, I saw something burning behind his eyes.

“You know we should all be dead.”

He glanced around the shattered bridge.

“It was only the transit bubble and the singularity that saved us from the rest of those torpedoes.

For whatever reason, we’ve been given another chance.”

His voice hardened.

“One way or another, I’ll make sure we can fight our fucking way out of this. And whoever is responsible will pay for everyone they’ve taken, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

He straightened.

“Captain.”

I smiled wryly at him and nodded.

“Let’s get on with it, then.”

That was when I realised I had left the broadcast microphone open.

Our entire conversation had gone out across the ship.

Around the bridge, every person capable of doing so saluted.

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

Then returned to work.

The next question was where we had ended up.

Our first jump had taken us into uncharted space. We had jumped twice more after that.

“Flight, do you know where we are?”

“Waiting for Aux NavCon to calculate our real-time position, Captain.”

With everything that had happened, I had failed to notice that Clyde had joined Bonnie in becoming completely unresponsive.

But Cara O’Brien had noticed.

During the final stages of our escape, she had seamlessly transferred navigation to the auxiliary NavCon system.

It was functional, but compared with a fully sentient AI, it was little more than a glorified star chart.

When the auxiliary system finally produced its report, it appeared Broadside had achieved another first.

We were now farther beyond navigable space than any Fleet vessel had ever recorded.

I released my harness.

And removing my jacket, I walked across the bridge to where Cara O’Brien lay and gently placed it over her body.

Then I moved among the remaining crew.

I mentally catalogued every death and injury.

I drew strength from them.

Each name became ammunition for the anger burning inside my soul.

There would be a reckoning.

Even if I remained the only person who had seen through the performance aboard Hood and who had recognised the lies concealed beneath that façade of normality.

I would be enough.

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine the luxury of a shower, a hot meal and my cot.

After twenty-eight hours in the command seat, I was running on empty.

That was when Clyde started screaming.

Stay tuned for season 2