by Alex Deva
"So they're alive. Are they slowing down?"
The tactical officer checked his radar.
"Not yet, sir."
Shit, thought Gaines. One stone, two birds. And nearly got us, too.
"Comms, tell Wing Leader to task two of their Wings to engage in pursuit of Wing Two, grapple her and do an EVA to recover their crew. Then scuttle Wing Two and come here, dock, leave all non-essential crew, pick up some med supplies, and go after Six."
That took a moment to coordinate, but the confirmation came:
"Wing Leader reports, Wing Eleven and Wing Five have been tasked with search and rescue operations."
That leaves us with five Wings, Gaines thought. Two stones, five birds.
"Tactical, coordinate with helm and Wing Leader for the optimal pattern around the target. Let's break these sons of bitches into pieces."
The tactical officer didn't acknowledge right away. Gaines frowned.
"Tac?"
"Confirm, sir. I am to coordinate with helm and Wing Leader for optimum attack pattern."
"Is there a problem, lieutenant?"
"Sir, this ship just popped up on our radars out of nothing. It has no visible thrusters, no kind of conventional engines, but it pulled about fifty g entering that rotation, and even more stopping it in less than a second. Its crew can not only operate at those accelerations, but they can control the ship with an unbelievable degree of accuracy. That same crew can manhandle objects weighing over eleven thousand pounds, which I cannot believe they store on board for this purpose, so they probably manufactured them somehow, right there. Of a substance so dense that it seems like platinum. Sir, that is way more platinum than there ever was in the whole planet Earth. And either they have a hundred thousand tons of platinum which they can mould at will and then literally throw away, or they can make something equally dense. And that last sphere, sir, I think it was intentionally in-homogenous, to achieve that curving effect in flight."
"What are you saying, el-tee?"
"Sir, that ship is definitely worth more alive than dead."
Gaines didn't reply. At that particular moment, he wanted nothing more than to shove a nuke down the iris of that black ship and watch it disintegrate, to make it pay for what it did to his Wings and to teach those damn Queens a lesson.
But, he had to admit, his officer had a point. If that was indeed an Eurasian ship -- and what else could it be, with the inscription DOI so shamelessly prominent on its hull, and since it certainly wasn't an American ship? --, then capturing it would make for an invaluable source of intel.
He still had his own doubts, however.
"OK, Jameson. Answer me this: if the Queens had this wonder of space tech at their disposal, then, first of all, how come it doesn't have any offensive weaponry? It has the best defence system imaginable, but it also has to throw rocks to fight back? And second, why didn't they send it against us earlier, while we were kicking their asses?"
The lieutenant answered smartly:
"The two are connected, sir. They didn't use it against us because it wasn't ready. They've kept it hidden behind the Moon, and we attacked too early for their convenience."
"And how did it appear suddenly on your radar?"
"It must've been there the whole time, sir. No doubt, they have some anti-radar technology, which they turned off as it became ineffective anyway, once it came in visual range. Probably trying to surprise us, sir."
Gaines considered. It was a good theory, but he still wanted to blast that ship out of the solar system, on general principles. Just when he was about to make his option known, the lieutenant spoke again:
"Sir," he said. "And what if they've made more than one?"
XXII.
"I don't understand," said Doina.
"Neither do I," said Aram, who had just finished gulping down a handful of meal bars and was having a swig of water, back in One.
Mark didn't reply. He was intently watching the live visuals showing the ship's surrounding space.
The Americans had stopped firing, all at the same time. Now, five of the smaller ships were stationed around their starship, in the same plane and facing it; and Kennedy, the great cruiser, loomed above them.
They were all flashing lights. Simultaneously, and in short pulses.
Four flashes, then three, then two.
Then, a short pause, and they'd start again. They'd been doing it for a few minutes.
"Is that supposed to be another twenty-first century weapon?" Aram asked with disdain.
"No," said Mark. "That, my friends, is a nineteenth century tool. Four, three, two. Four hundred and thirty-two. I'm willing to bet those would be megahertz."
He met their blank stares.
"They're trying to establish communications," he said. "They want to speak to us by radio, on the frequency of four hundred and thirty-two megahertz. I know it doesn't mean much to you, but radio communication is the simplest way to talk over distance without any wires."
"Right," said Aram. "Because it's so much easier with wires."
"Doi, you said earlier that you could feel them painting the ship with something that seemed like ripples in the pond. Can you ask the ship how many of those ripples it felt in a second?"
She focused for a few seconds, then answered:
"About forty billion, and they're still doing it."
"Can the ship feel any ripples that come at exactly four hundred and thirty-two million per second?"
They waited while she approached the problem visually, navigating her way through the myriad of symbols that appeared every time she needed something. She made a large circle appear, and slowly started to shrink it by touching its edges and bringing her hands closer. Sometimes, the circle filled with white colour, and at one of those moments, she stopped.
"Yes," she said. "Here it is, every time we get hit by what you said, this circle turns white."
"I think you've just built an oscilloscope there," said Mark, grinning. "Now, can you convert those vibrations into the audible spectrum?"
"Well... I don't even know half of those words," she said.
Going from elation to frustration, Mark rubbed his cheeks with both hands, and tried to think.
"A radio is a very simple device," he said. "I'm sure this ship knows what it is and how to make one. I just don't know how to explain it well enough and quick enough."
He looked at them.
"I guess we're just gonna have to ask the Yanks to lend us one."
A section of the long cylinder that made up the USS Kennedy extracted itself out of the large cruiser. "The crate," a backronym for CRuiser Autonomous Transport Equipment, was a stubby, flying compartment specifically designed to be docked seamlessly into the cruiser. It looked like a half moon, with pointy ends where thrusters engines had been installed. Docked, it was accessed via an airlock placed right between the thrusters, that connected to the cruiser's spine -- a longitudinal corridor that spanned its whole length. When it was away, it left a sizeable dent.
The crate was built for short-distance operations and could carry up to nine people, including the pilot; it was ugly (hence the name) but functional and useful, and the Kennedy had four of them.
It fired short bursts of propellant to engage on a trajectory towards the black ship.
"Kennedy, Crate Two. Clear and on track," reported its pilot via laser link.
"Crate Two, proceed with caution," answered the cruiser's communication officer.
"Good job, Hendricks," said commander Gaines to the lieutenant who manned comms. "That idea of yours with the lights was fantastic. Who'd've thought that a ship like that doesn't have radio or laser comms?"
"They probably didn't get around to installing them yet, sir. Thank you."
"Weird, though, isn't it? I mean, when you build a ship, comms are among the first things you set up, otherwise how are you gonna coordinate work?"
"Maybe it uses some different type of communications," said Kevin Jameson, the tactical
officer.
"Writing on the hull? Doesn't seem very practical to me, son," said Gaines.
"That's not what I meant, sir. They may be using different frequencies or some principle that's altogether unknown to us. I'm sure that being able to write on their outer hull can come in handy and it certainly speaks a lot for their technology, but I doubt it's really meant for ship-to-ship comms."
"Well, it was unexpected, I'll give them that."
"Would never have seen it coming," said Hendricks. "To write Send a radio? On a ship's outer hull? In English, to your enemy?"
"Well. If the Queens ask the United States for a radio, then the United States shall give them a radio. 'Cuz we're good like that. Ain't that so, Jameson?"
"Yes, sir," answered the lieutenant smugly.
"You know what to do?"
"Yep," said Aram.
They clasped their hands and gave each other encouraging smiles.
"Good. Go."
"Good luck to us both."
The crate manoeuvred until it was just over the starship's airlock. Its navigational computer got a lock on the black cylinder underneath and automatically started firing tiny bursts to maintain that position. The rectangular airlock at the back of the stubby transport vessel opened, and two figures in space suits emerged.
They had sleek, form-fitting dark blue suits, with American flags on the chests, shoulders and backpacks. On the front of their helmets, they had the Navy SEALS logo, with the words United States Sea, Air, Land, Space engraved underneath. Across their chests, they wore matte black weapons, tightly secured so as not to impede their movements.
They turned back towards their transport and gently pulled out a large suitcase, that was attached to their suits with long, flexible cables.
As soon as the suitcase had cleared the door, four more silhouettes floated out. They turned head over feet so their boots made contact with the black starship, and tiny white clouds burst out of various engine outlets on their suits, as their autonomous computers fought to keep them in one place. Careful to avoid getting in the way of each other's stabiliser jets, they formed a circle around the starship's open iris.
They paused for a few seconds, conferring on private comm links, then the two soldiers who were in charge of the suitcase stepped over the opening together, and gently let themselves in. As the connecting cables tensed and the mass of the suitcase stopped their movement, a small flurry of jets appeared on top of their support packs, compensating and dragging the baggage inside, as well. Immediately, the other four soldiers followed in pairs, grabbing their weapons and bringing them to aim, each pointed in a different direction.
"Are you in position?"
"I'm right outside the airlock," answered Aram.
"Good. Doi, shut the iris, bring the air and grav back."
A few seconds later, the girl's voice came through the walls of the spoke:
"Air's back in, it's safe to open the door."
"OK, let's do this," said.
They shot Aram.
As soon as the panels between Aram's spoke and the airlock swivelled, the Americans opened fire. Small, round flechettes made of razor-like glass whizzed through the air. The Dacian ducked and then tried to hug a wall in retreat, but two sharp blades quickly managed to find their target. One of them cut his right shoulder just under the articulation, and the other went clean through the muscle. They continued into the curved, opposite wall and broke into tiny shards. Cursing in pain, Aram threw himself around the wall towards the nearest room door, which Doina opened for him, and in a well-practiced jump he exchanged wall with floor.
This took all of three seconds.
Mark's panel doors opened too, allowing him to hear the strange sounds made by the flechette assault weapons. They were like nothing he'd heard before: muffled, quick bursts mixed with high-pitched, spine-tingling hisses. He saw three soldiers in space suits chasing Aram, firing as they ran. Of the remaining three, two were busy disconnecting themselves from a large, white suitcase. The other one noticed Mark's opening panels and was just bringing his weapon around.
The Englishman took off running. Shards of glass bounced from the wall in front of him as the soldiers fired and barely missed. He covered his face trying to protect himself, ducked and managed to reach the room door in a few large strides. It was also opened for him. He jumped inside and quickly regained his vertical, then picked up from the floor the only defensive weapons he had had time to make for himself: a light, but incredibly rigid rod, about as long as his arm, which ended in a sharp blade.
Then, he stepped to the middle of the room and looked up. Doina opened the ceiling iris for him.
Aram put his palm on the wall and touched the symbol that would shut the panels behind him. He needed a few seconds to catch his breath. Mark had warned him about modern weapons and how he had to get clear of their line of fire, but he had not expected such mechanical violence. In an absurd second, he considered how the Dacian Wars would've ended, had they been given even a handful of such weapons to defend themselves.
He knelt and retrieved his trusted knife from his ankle. He squeezed the leather handle and felt the familiar weight. His right shoulder was burning hotly. Aram had been cut before, once, by a Visigoth's curved blade. That one had been a long, straight gash across his belly that had taken months to heal and had hurt badly during the first weeks. This felt like that painted bastard had returned to stab him over and over again. He inspected the exit wound; it was bloody but seemed clean. If the flechette had sharded inside his shoulder, he'd have had a hell of a time removing each tiny shard, so he tried to consider himself lucky in spite of the searing pain.
He had to stick to the plan. The floor iris was already opened and awaited him; he touched the wall again to open the spoke panels for the Americans, and as the panels swivelled and the flash-bang grenades flew into the room, he, also, flew out of it through the floor-door, which quickly shut behind him.
The grenades did a curious arc as gravity changed direction. Mark knew that would happen, but he also knew that the soldiers would not notice; nobody looks after a flash-bang.
The iris of the room above closed tight, and he didn't hear the grenades go off below, but he heard Doina's voice in the walls.
"Wow," she said. "You were right. Those things are pretty scary."
"How's Aram doing?"
"He's hurt, but carrying on," she said.
"Can you clear the room of gas?"
"Already doing it."
"Does it hurt?" she asked him.
"Ow," he answered. "Did you clean the room?"
"And turned the lights off. Do you remember the sequence?"
"Hope so," he growled.
"Are you ready?"
"Ready and pissed off."
"I cum Deo," she wished him in Latin, as she opened the ceiling iris.
"Gratias," he answered as he threw himself up into the darkened room.
The first soldier peered through the panel and his helmet headlights instantly came on. He stepped through and almost immediately lost his balance and fell onto his side. The next soldier was through before the first had got back his bearings, and used as he was with zero-grav ops, he fell as well.
Mark was waiting. He grabbed the nearest gun barrel and pushed it away from him. Even as he felt the thuds of the flechettes exiting the barrel as the SEALS man instinctively squeezed the trigger, he also squeezed his eyes shut. Hot, burning light filled the room, disorientating the two soldiers, as Doina closed the access panels, isolating the third American.
He jumped into a ball, thinking: East.
As Doina changed the direction of the room gravity, Aram fell right on top of the three soldiers in his room. He saw red spots in front of his eyes; he hadn't been quick enough to shut his eyes when the girl turned the lights on at high intensity. But he could see the shapes of the three attackers as they fell on their backs, when the wall became floor. He fell with his feet forward, aiming for the chest of one of the
m. Next to him, another man had momentarily abandoned the grip on his gun, trying to regain his balance. Aram tried to stab him with one hand while grabbing his gun with the other.
West.
Still clutching the gun barrel in one hand and his own weapon in the other, Mark jumped again, as gravity reversed and they all fell across the room. The Americans were trying to hang on to something, anything, but there was nothing. As they fell, Mark pulled hard on the gun and the other lost his grip on it, but stayed tied to the soldier's chest with a black, flat cord. As they landed hard on the curved surface of the room's wall, the Brit swivelled his sharp stick and, in one well-aimed arc, cut the strange assault weapon loose. He could hear muffled yells from inside the attackers' helmets.
Zero, hard North, and light ten times.
This time, Aram remembered to close his eyes. He felt his stomach floating, as the hot white flashes coloured the inside of his eyelids red. If that doesn't confuse them, nothing will, he thought as gravity returned from utter zero to three times its usual value, throwing them very hard against the room's arched ceiling. He tried to orient himself so he'd land on his feet, but the man whose gun he'd been holding had a respectable mass. Not letting go of the gun, Aram hit the ceiling hard, on his butt, losing count of the light flashes. Was it six or seven? Risking seven, he opened his eyes after ten and looked around. One of the soldiers had let go of his gun to lower his protective dark visor, but his weapon fell to the side with a clunk, under the heavy gravity force, still connected to his suit by its black harness. Fighting to breathe in, Aram looked around for the third soldier. He was lying on his face, with his helmet visor smashed and his left arm in an abnormal position across the back of his head, and he wasn't moving. The Dacian brought up his knife, which felt heavy like a broadsword now, and tried again to stab his attacker.
Hard East, then South for one minute, remembered Mark.