front of Chief Shamus Frost in shoulder to shoulder lines. The loaders and heavy suits were all at the rear wearing their two meter tall combat armour. Mechanics stood a meter ahead of them and the gunners were lined up down on one knee at the front. All eyes were on the Gunnery Chief.
Frost didn't use an amplification unit, proximity radio or his comm when the deck was quiet. His eyes scanned from one end of the line to the other, inspecting, looking for flaws in uniforms and gear that was simple, easy to get right and even easier to find flaws in. “Close your collar Bowes!” he barked. The gunner clasped the high collar of his dark grey vacsuit, as did a couple other members of the large team.
He nodded to himself. “What you can learn in a simulation is amazin'. You've learned ta work with the lower deck guns, some of you have learned how to arm, disarm an' reconfigure torpedo systems, an' others have even learned how to service a turret while half the barrels are firin'. Only twenty three washed out, now that's impressive. I expect ta send another twenty off my gunnery deck before the next hour is up since a simulation cannot teach you how ta manage yer fear,” he bellowed like it was the only way he knew how to speak. His salt and pepper stubble made him look much older than he was, and even though he was shorter than average with a squat build he seemed tall at a distance. His back was straight, his gaze ran up and down the line making eye contact with everyone as he went.
“A long time ago I looked to my father and told him that I'd be signin' up for a gunnery crew. He took me aside an' said; 'gunnery crews pay for their victories, their losses and their failures round by round. We're what's left over when Fleet's taken all the better men an' women inta service as pilots, engineers, general maintenance, comm officers, navigators, deck hands, infantry an' even damage control grunts. They look at the bottom of the barrel and see if the sludge can be trained to shoot, load or climb into a killing machine an' get it firing again. If someone can't be on a gunnery team, they can't serve anywhere else.' He was tryin' to tell me not to start beneath the bottom, an' when I didn't listen he showed me this.”
Shamus pressed a button on his arm length command and control unit and a two meter tall hologram appeared between him and the gunnery team. The view was from behind a much older turret. It was beat up, some parts were replaced through hasty but solid welding and it was built into the side of a ship, not installed in the top. The armoured suit the loader wore was showed signs of age and extreme wear and tear as well.
The armoured loader ran from another turret further down the line to stop at the one in the foreground. The paired guns were still blazing as one of the magazine wells slid back empty. The loader crewman reached to his right and took a three ton magazine of rounds from a leaning rack and transferred it to the empty well then flipped a large latch on the top of it so he could pull the magazine casing free.
When he pulled the empty magazine casing out of the well, leaving the rounds loaded inside, one round rolled out. He put the empty casing, a large, bottomless rectangular box, onto another rack to be reloaded then picked up the loose round.
Frost paused the playback. “What do we do here Acheson?”
“We put it into a safe waste container for matter recycling,” Acheson called the answer out.
Frost resumed the holographic playback. The loader placed the round into the large magazine well and the box closed on his armoured arm up to the elbow. In one swift motion the rounds were put in play and as the turret continued to fire most of the armoured limb was pulled right into the workings of the machine.
Most of the gunnery crew cringed. The crewman had lost his real hand and most of his forearm had been flayed to the bone. Frost paused the image as the crewman activated the emergency seal on his suit instinctively, severing his arm at the elbow.
One of the mechanics to the right turned and vomited. It echoed across the deck and several other crewmen turned green.
“This is the recording my father showed me, the man in the suit is my grandad. He made a bad judgement call on account of an ammo shortage. Within eight milliseconds the consequences of that act were paid. The deck was down one good loader, that turret didn't get repaired until after the battle, an' they had to replace two arms. The arm on that suit, and my grandfather's. He was lucky, damn lucky. Some of you won't be. That's the life, we fight hard, pick our targets like deadeyes because a shot that misses today could take out a civilian in twenty years. That's space out there lads, it's not like firin' planetside. Yer gamblin' whenever you shoot in the dark, odds are long that you'll hit someone or somethin' but when you're not sure, you're doin' harm.”
Chief Frost paused for a moment before going on, letting his point sink in. “I eventually became a loader, then a mechanic an' finally a gunner. I saved so many flyboy asses that they gave me my call sign. I liked that call sign so much I made it my last name. Let me tell you, there's nothin' like seein' a bomber after your ship, markin' it and splitting its hull wide open before it can launch! That kind of victory comes in time, for now if you see an important target, get three sets of eyes on it until it's gone. We don't have fighters, we don't have other ships watchin' our backs, but we do have the best gunnery deck this side of the Sol System, and a crew that did in five days what I thought we'd need a month for.
Be quick, be careful, be sure of your targets. Every decision you make matters. We're sendin' ammo into space, you don't know who you're killin' if you miss. Today we take this practice shoot, the Captain and the deck hands below were nice enough to provide us with a whole bunch of targets just floatin' out there. You'll learn to fear these machines first, an' someday that fear will turn into respect. Now get to yer stations an' let's do this by the numbers. Remember to watch everything going on in every direction or these machines will eat you alive. Triton!” he shouted at the end of his instructions.
“Deploy! Dominate! Disappear!” the crew replied, their raised voices echoing across the massive open deck.
Captain Valance approached from behind. He had heard the whole thing from the express car doors. “How are they Chief?” he asked Frost as he watched the crews run to their stations.
“Better than I was,” he eyed a burly fellow who wiped his mouth as he made his way off the deck. “Didn't see that comin'. Thought he'd make it past today.”
“We've put some of the washouts to work on cleaning and light repair rotations. One started tending bar in the main Observation lounge and I've had requests for him to stay on duty there.”
“Mahajic, aye, good man. I'm surprised there weren't more.” Frost muttered. “This is a good, clean, well designed deck, but she's intimidating as all hell. We'll probably lose two more as soon as we depressurize.”
“I meant to ask about that,” Captain Valance said as he looked at one of the turrets. The Gunner was getting strapped into the seat as the four magazine wells were drawn closer to the deck so they could be loaded.
“Aye, we depressurize to minimize damage from fire or explosions, and so we don't lose people if there's a hull breach. We just seal a section off and they keep operatin' if there's anyone left. If there are no turrets left ta run in their section they make their way in through an external emergency airlock an' rejoin the crew.”
“So you expect to take damage.”
“We expect to get pounded, there's nothin' like a lot of rail cannons on the field to complicate things. A smart enemy sends their fighters right after 'em, tries to do as much damage as possible to shake the crew up and disable the guns.”
“Makes sense. How are the lower gunnery posts doing?”
“Better. They practically trained themselves, some even have experience.”
“Do you think we'll be ready?”
“Aye. They're shakin' but they'll pull the trigger.”
“Good work Gunnery Chief Frost,” Captain Valance said, offering his hand.
Frost shook it firmly. “Thank ya Captain, you mark targets an' we'll shred 'em.”
Captain Valance turned back to the express car and looked at the gunnery deck as the large doors closed. It was like watching a ballet, with the mechanics checking vital components on each turret, the gunners activating systems as they slid up into the firing position, and the loaders moving four ton magazines from the large materializers set into the floor between them. The noise was incredible, but he knew that in just a few minutes they'd depressurize the entire deck, and they'd perform their dance in silence.
The express car doors closed and the vessel began to move. A sudden pain, like a steel rod being jammed into the top of his head stabbed at him. He clenched his teeth and fell to his knees.
Memories of a strange bridge, commanding the First Light into a battle they couldn't win against cloaking ships that beat at their flanks and rear with massive disintegration weaponry. The massive station was surrounded by asteroids containing the same material the First Light was constructed from. It was like returning to a birthplace, only there was pain, so much pain.
