Free Serengeti by J.B. Rockwell

icy-eyed look. “I can bring someone else up here who can take this situation seriously if you can’t. Someone who’ll treat this crew with the respect they deserve.”
    Kusikov licked his lips, eyes flicking to Finlay. “No, sir,” he muttered, stabbing surlily at his station. “I’m on it.”
    “Yeah. Yeah, I can see that,” Henricksen grunted. “Alright. Everyone—eyes front. Things are about to get nasty and I need my bridge crew focused and dialed in tight, you hear me?”
    A chorus of ‘ayes’ spread across the bridge.
    “Good. Sikuuku—”
    “Weapons signature,” Serengeti cut in.
    Sikuuku swore softly and yanked hard on the joystick in his left hand. The gimbaled artillery pod swiveled, motors whirring softly as the gunner reoriented, data scrolling in long strings across the targeting visor obscuring his face. “ Parallax, ” he called. “The Aphelion’s powered up that big gun stuck to its nose.”
    Serengeti turned the Number Four probe toward the Aphelion to get a better look. A cobalt blue charge crackled up and down the length of metal rod sticking out from its bow. A ball formed at the end closest to the ship’s hull and quickly spread outward, expanding until it measured nearly a meter across. It hovered there, sparking wildly and then crept forward, growing larger, brighter as it went.
    “What the hell is that?” Henricksen asked.
    “Forced ion cannon,” Sikuuku told him. “All the rage a hundred years ago. Awful thing. Massive amounts of damage. Slow as hell, though. Takes a good three minutes to recharge between shots. And from what I hear, they have tendency to overload. Design’s all wrong,” he explained. “See that?” He released one of the pod’s joysticks and pointed to where the charging gun connected to the Aphelion’s nose. “Too much energy too soon and the charge arcs backward. Take the whole ship out, neat as you please. That’s why we stopped using ‘em. Too chancy. Not worth the risk. Give me one of these babies any day,” he said, patting the Artillery station’s seat. “Bertha never back talks.”
    “Bertha?” Kusikov snorted. “You named it Bertha ?”
    “Shut it, Kusikov.” Henricksen flashed a look of warning. Kusikov subsided into surly silence. Henricksen watched him a moment and then went back to studying the Aphelion, rubbing at his chin as he considered the crackling blue orb making its slow way down the length of its protruding gun. “So we’ve got…what? Two minutes give or take before that thing fires?”
    Sikuuku checked the Chron and then nodded. “Right bastard of a weapon, that is. When it goes off…well, let’s just say you really don’t wanna get in its way.”
    “Can you take it out?”
    “Not in range yet, but…” Sikuuku pivoted in his Artillery pod, motors whirring as he adjusted the main cannon, nudging the controls up and down, a bit left then right. “Damn. Smaller ships are blocking it. Can’t get a clear line of fire. Pound away long enough and I might be able to get through. Might,” he said meaningfully. “No guarantees.”
    “Forget it then. I want you focused on Trinidad . I know you can hit that. Tell the starboard-side batteries to focus on the Aphelion.”
    “Aye, sir.” Sikuuku muttered something into the comms unit attached to his targeting helmet and then pivoted away, refocusing on Trinidad’s mutated Heliotrope shape.
    Henricksen left him to it and spun back toward Scan. “Finlay. Keep an eye on the Aphelion. Not sure there’s much we can do about it, but I’d at least like a little advance warning before that thing goes off.”
    Finlay nodded and split the view on her Scan station screen, devoting one panel to Parallax, another to the wide crescent of DSR vessels ahead of them, and a third to Trinidad at its center. Serengeti watched with her, leaving one sub-mind to monitor the Scan feeds while her primary consciousness focused on the Meridian Fleet around them, and the DSR ships