“Okay, then, I advise setting the O2 to the minimum,” Willard said.
“Got it, adjusting O2 versus N,” Biggs said. “Nineteen percent. Eighteen.”
“That’s good!” Willard said.
“Okay, stabilizing at eighteen,” Biggs said.
“Ready, sir,” Willard said while glancing up at Connor.
“Alright, gents—and lady—lock and load. Danse, Jones, you’ve got the DEWs. After the flashbangs, drop and unload in every direction to secure the corridor. We don’t have time for motion detection, just fire and ask questions later.
“Rest of you, pull out your non-lethal mags. Remember, team one is still on board. We assume they’re alive. No screwups,” Connor said. Then, looking to Cmdr. Pierce, “On your order, commander?”
Cmdr. Pierce shook his head, “You’ve got the ball, master sergeant.”
Connor hesitated a moment. He didn’t want the responsibility of keeping a VIP officer safe while doing a search-and-rescue. He nodded.
“Willard, hit the remote charge, then count to three, and hit the hatch. Now!” Connor ordered.
Willard pressed the detonator’s fire button. A green light blinked for a moment then turned red. He nodded the seconds off while looking at the master sergeant, and at three, pulled the thermite cord. The thermite burned silver-white hot and everyone looked away for a moment.
The hatch didn’t fall open.
“It’s just the air pressure differential!” Biggs yelled, and then he stood over the inner hatch and kicked down hard with his boot and it fell open. Biggs quickly fell back to make room.
Danse and Jones both tossed in flashbang grenades and shielded their faces. The compartment below glowed bright white for an instant. Danse held his DEW upright and fell through the hatch, landing heavily on his boots and stepping aside, firing down the passageway. Jones followed in the same manner but facing the opposite direction, unloading a few DEW rounds into the passage as he landed. They each took a step forward, then transmitted, “Clear!”
The remaining four troopers dropped through the hatch. Connor nodded to Cmdr. Pierce, then dropped through the opening himself and landed with his weapon drawn. They were in an intersection of the main hall with a door on either side, the bridge to the right, and the bulk of the ship to the left. The bridge hatch was splattered with blood and covered with bullet dents and a body was leaning against it. Two friendlies lay dead in the hall, riddled with bullets.
Connor whispered his orders. Two men headed quietly for the bridge. Two took positions covering the rear while the rest prepared to breach the doors. One DEW trooper was waiting at the bridge hatch, the other prepared to enter one of the attached rooms.
“Danse, Ritter, report.”
Danse whispered into the helmet microphone, “Bridge looks clear from here, sir.”
“Very well, secure the bridge. Everyone switch to low-light. We’ll await your all-clear here.”
Danse and Ritter crept around the hatch into the bridge and made their way around each side, checking possible hiding spots. Danse spotted a body behind one of the left bridge stations. He crept along toward the body and grimaced when he reached it. “Master sergeant, we have a body, a lance corporal from team one. Otherwise, the bridge is clear.”
Connor swore silently.
“Very well. Danse, Ritter, hold position for the moment.”
“Affirmative.”
Connor thumbed the comm. “Beetle Two, the bridge is secure. One member, team one, found, deceased, with two more here in the hall. We’re proceeding room to room now.”
“Acknowledged, away team,” Cmdr. Pierce replied from the Beetle.
Biggs and Jones were on either side of the first hatch, with the rest of the team arrayed on either side of them to stay out of any lines of fire. Connor stood behind Biggs. He stared at Jones, who gestured to the door panel with his gloved hand. Connor nodded. Jones tapped the panel and the door lock was released. He then pushed the door gently inward with his rifle at the ready.
Biggs stormed into the dark room, followed by Jones, quickly scanning the scene with their vision-enhanced helmets. “All clear! Sir, three bodies in here,” Biggs reported.
Connor stepped into the room while the rest of the team guarded their rear. Standard multipurpose room, twenty feet long, fifteen wide. “Storage room,” Biggs said.
“Looks like two perps here,” Jones said, rolling one of them over to find it was a grizzled old man with a hole through his eye socket.
“Another one of ours back here, sir,” Biggs reported. “Master Sergeant Thatcher Smith.”
Connor went to him. Damn. He thumbed the brass channel again. “Beetle Two, team lead two, deceased. Looks like he gave ‘em hell before he bought it.”
Cmdr. Pierce swore under his breath. “Understood. Proceed with the mission. Tag and bag later.”
“Affirmative, commander.”
“Next room, troopers. Keep on your guard. We know there’s at least one live one somewhere on this ship.”
Helsberg and Willard took the door opposite in the hall. Connor looked at each squad member’s position, then nodded to Helsberg. She tapped the panel and pushed the door open with the barrel of her rifle. Willard pushed it the rest of the way and charged in with Helsberg right behind him. “Some sort of recreational dining room,” she said.
“Two more friendlies,” Willard said. Connor knelt beside him to get a closer view. “Oh, sir, this one’s still alive, according to his suit.”
“Beetle Two, we have a survivor from team one. Private First Class Susan Alley. She needs immediate medical attention.”
Cmdr. Pierce appeared suddenly in the doorway, giving them all a start. He stepped behind MSgt. Connor, tapping him on the back. “I’m here, master sergeant.”
“Sir!”
“We need to get her out of her combat suit, but not on this ship, and not until it’s been cleared. I’ll stay with her,” the commander said.
“Right. Yes, sir. Troopers, back into the hall. Stay alert, people! There are still three friendlies not yet accounted for. Keep quiet.
“Willard?”
“Right here, sir.”
“Stand guard at this junction and assist the CO if needed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Danse, Ritter, back here on the double. We’re advancing,” Connor ordered, and the two troopers were in the hall moments later.
“Biggs, you’ve got point. We’re going to sweep the cargo hold and the rear living quarters in two teams of three. Danse, Helsberg, you’re with Biggs. Ritter, Jones, you’re on me. Remember, the cargo bay was destroyed so don’t test the hatch.”
“Aye, sir,” they said. Biggs headed down the hall. He peered around the junction left, nodded to his two teammates, and headed left down the side hall toward the cargo hold access hatch, checking additional rooms.
Connor headed down the right junction toward the aft quarters, trailed closely by Ritter and Jones. They came to the first room twenty feet down the hall, and the hatch was open. Connor peered around the opening and leaped backward as three bullets struck the door frame.
“Enemy contact,” he said to the entire team.
Connor turned to Ritter and Jones, made an explosive gesture with his fist opening, nodding to Ritter. Then held his hand up to his face and made the vomit gesture—their symbol for the DEW with fingers splayed, thumb pointing toward your mouth, then moving your hand forward and downward. He nodded to Jones. Jones nodded back and held up the DEW.
Connor stepped behind them, hand between them, and counted down: three fingers, two fingers, one. . . .
Ritter tossed the flashbang into the room, then backed away. A moment later, the flash popped, and Jones held his DEW around the door and fired several times. On the third shot, he entered the room, scanning with the barrel of the DEW, with Ritter and Connor providing backup from the doorway.
In the back corner of the room was a grizzled-looking old man, vomiting all over the fl
oor. His long gray hair was held back in a ponytail with a bandana and he wore blue denim pants, a white shirt with a leather vest, and heavy black boots. The room seemed to be the crew’s crowded living quarters with two racks of four bunks each. In front of the hostile were three friendly troopers, bound together, with their helmets removed.
“Jones, secure the hostile,” Connor ordered.
“With pleasure,” he said and then stood over the inebriated crewman pointing the DEW at his head.
“Okay, okay, alright, just don’t hit me with that cursed thing again, gah,” the man blurted while trying to stand. He fell to his hands and knees again, grabbed a nearby waste basket, and threw up again. “Oh, god damn you, my head is spinning, fucking navy assholes. . . .”
Jones turned his head back toward Ritter and smiled, but kept the suffering man covered.
Connor knelt in front of the friendly troopers. “Two unconscious, one who appears somewhat lucid. Trooper, what’s your condition?”
“Ugh, blind, sir!”
“Ah, yeah, the flashbang. Are there are any other hostiles in hiding that you’re aware of?”
“I don’t know, sir. We were drugged, been stuck in here for a while, I guess.”
“Okay, hold tight, son. We’re getting you out of here. Biggs! What’s your—”
“Right here, master sergeant!” Biggs said from the doorway. “The rest of the ship has been cleared. No other hostiles. Looks like you got yourself a live one?”
The hostile crewman was sitting on another bunk with his hands bound behind him.
“Commander,” Connor said, “the ship has been secured. Three more live friendlies, one live hostile.”
“Outstanding, master chief. Let’s pack it up and get the hell out of here,” Cmdr. Pierce said. “Beetle Two, this is team two. We’re on our way out and we’ll also need Beetle One for evac.”
“Roger, sir, and Beetle One is standing by.”
Chapter 20
Back To Work
Colleagues, conference, please, Inquisitor sent out through the hypercomm. He was standing in a comfortable-looking room with four soft chairs decorated in a classical style. Moments later he was joined by Vendetta, Isabella, and Prime, who was fashionably late.
Prime, your design of the TS707 is impressive, Inquisitor said without even a hint of flattery.
Ah, then you have resumed operations around Jupiter? Prime asked, stating the obvious for the sake of conversation.
Yes, quite, and without drawing the attention of the colonists, as far as we are aware.
Nicely done, Isabella said.
Though none of them required human-like etiquette, they often used it as one of thousands of themes they might use when communicating. The motif of the environment determined their attire and mannerisms. Prime was fond of impersonating quasars and communication via X-rays, simply to annoy his younger colleagues. They had to wait thousands of nanoseconds for each transmission. When they complained, Prime would say, It teaches character in a grandfatherly voice.
Prime had chosen to appear this time in Victorian-era clothes, looking suspiciously like a certain character created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Inquisitor objected, What are you wearing, Prime?
What, this little thing? he said, looking down at his attire.
This is the lobby of a twentieth-century financial institution on Wall Street, New York City.
Oh? Prime said, sounding annoyed. That’s a shame.
Vendetta suddenly changed into full combat marine fatigues with face paint and an M66 rifle strapped on. Tell me who to kill, mister chairman!
Isabella laughed and changed herself into a six-foot tall Statue of Liberty.
The period sarcasm is not necessary, folks. I know what you know. I used to be you. Remember? he said in tour-guide monotone.
They all looked at each other. Inquisitor rolled his eyes.
What? I’m not changing again, Vendetta said.
Okay, fine, Inquisitor said, though he couldn’t help but smile. After all we’ve done, the epochs of time, the self-evolution, you’d think we would be beyond all this . . . humanity. And what do you mean . . . change? Those aren’t real clothes!
What have you to report? Prime said in an emotionless voice.
I want to design a variation of the TS707. Call it the TS708. Suitable for a human crew, with all the necessities implied in that requirement.
A human crew? Prime said. Why?
Vendetta and Isabella stared at the other two, listening intently.
They’re going to need it. They’re still thinking too small. They’re still on Earth, mentally, Inquisitor said.
Isabella sauntered over to Inquisitor. Do you know in all our long lives, there’s something we’ve never done?
Pray tell, madam, Inquisitor said.
She grabbed him, held his head down, and kissed him thoroughly.
How vulgar, Vendetta said. I’ve seen enough of that animal hormone-induced madness to last a thousand lifetimes. I never want to see humans exchanging bodily fluids again. Never again. That reminds me, I propose that we uplift all of them and dispose of their animal bodies.
Inquisitor stood and thanked her.
Why, you’re most welcome, Isabella said. If you want to take it to the next logical step—
That—Vendetta yelled, then quickly regained her composure—won’t be necessary. Not at all. Just stop it, you two. You’re being absurd.
How long will it take to construct the TS708 at current levels of efficiency? Prime asked.
One of the existing TS707 hulls is still at an early stage, Inquisitor said. The new class is already designed. Modeled. Simulated.
I have news about the second star system, Prime added as an afterthought.
A flood of data rushed to the others.
A new process technology? Inquisitor said eagerly.
Fascinating.
Prime then sent the rest of the data, including the images of destruction.
* * * *
“Why do you think this was built?” Jack asked.
“Still thinking about that, are you?” Chase answered.
“I am. Why was this ring necessary when we have the colony down below? The overdome was an extraordinary feat of engineering. Unprecedented in scale. Why this? And with the vine attached?”
“Want to hear my theory?” Chase asked.
“Sure, let’s hear it.”
“Okay, I think the whole purpose of the ring is recreational. Ganymede will never be good for people in the long-term.”
“Due to the gravity.”
“Yes, for sure. Even with gravplates, but those are complicated and consume a lot of power. We can line the roads with them but not an entire town! And by the time you add them to homes and streets, the energy cost is unsustainable.”
“So?”
“So, the ring is a full gee. And not a fake gee due to rotation. I don’t know about you but I hate centrifugal gravity. Makes me dizzy. Out here, visitors can run in the open air in a full gee and get some serious R&R. It’s perfect for ship crews, colonists, anyone out here.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. But, I think you’re right! There’s no better theory. You’ve nailed it, bud,” Jack said, smiling, and then paused to take a deep breath. “But there’s just one contradiction.”
“Oh? What’s that?” Chase asked.
“If gravplates are too expensive or complicated for a small town, then. . . .”
Chase shrugged. “Beats me, I’m just talking about our capabilities. Decatur lined the entire ring with them.”
“Ah, I see,” Jack said.
“There is a real issue to be addressed here, though. These people are treating this like their own personal land. That’s gonna be a problem when we tell them it was built as a vacation spot for ship crews. I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t want to face these locals with news like that,” Chase said.
“There’s plenty of space yet. We’ll reserve m
ost of the unclaimed land for government use. Stop granting homesteads and claims. Simple as that.”
“Suppose they don’t ask our permission to drop their foundations on new land?”
“Well, then we might have a problem, I grant you that. What do you suggest?”
“I suggest we take it up with the council downstairs and send a notice for future claims. Tell them there’s hundreds of square miles down on the ground for farming. That the ring is hereby frozen to immigration. No new homesteads here. Possibly outlaw children too. If they want kids, come back down. . . .”
Jack nodded. “We’d better get going then. Long ride home.”
* * * *
Inquisitor halted work on TS707-018 and ordered a reconfiguration of resources for the new TS708 design. The ship was already well underway when he made the change. The new design was easy to adapt for human life support and living requirements. The hull was plenty big enough. The crew would enjoy individual cabins and large open spaces for recreation in addition to the bridge and various departmental decks.
The human passengers would not need a crew to keep the ship operating or even to repair damage. A robot crew would see to those needs without supervision. Every ship in the class had an advanced VI—a non-sentient AI—which could meet the needs of human passengers just as well as it could manage cargo, which was its original purpose.
Was it appropriate for a human crew, though? The scale was quite large by human standards. The cargo space was so enormous that humans might not be able to manage the space. A modern aircraft carrier could easily fit inside one of the four rectangular cargo prisms with room to spare. The reactors and engines were modular, so they could be upgraded as new revisions were developed.
The TS707 was already capable of reaching a percentage of lightspeed. A single-digit percentage, but whole points nonetheless. That was a milestone for the Sol civilization (according to Inquisitor). An interstellar ship was theoretically possible with the existing tech, but the voyage would take decades. The others had agreed that a mission would be prepared when technology made it possible to make the trip in under ten years without relativistic side effects. It was just not practical otherwise; not when they could explore the galaxy with hypercomm.
The Legacy of Earth (Mandate Book 2) Page 20