No Price Too High (Warp Marine Corps Book 2)

by C. J. Carella

  It’d taken some amazing engineering to provide the fighters with enough thrust to keep up with regular ships, but that didn’t matter. A slower-than-light fighter was just too slow and small to survive space combat. With a warp drive, the equation changed radically, of course. Warp fighter combat was unlike anything pilots from pre-Contact day would recognize, except for the constant risk of death. Fighters emerged into normal space at a pre-determined speed and heading, usually matching or slightly exceeding the target’s, fired a spread of weapons over five to ten seconds, and warped out of existence. During those brief seconds, it would be exposed to return fire, but its warp shields would protect eighty percent of its surface area. The very brief time to acquire and engage the unexpected target would make things very difficult for the defenders. Those warp systems were what make the fighters so deadly.

  They were also the reason she was having trouble walking in a straight line.

  The simulator couldn’t quite replicate what you felt when you performed a warp jump. Instead, if messed with your sense of balance to produce a similar sense of disorientation. It was plenty to make even the simplest things difficult, and when you got that jolt every five seconds or so, things got funky.

  She was getting used to it, which left her feeling proud and somewhat dismayed at the same time. After the first round of simulated combat, she’d puked her guts out, along with just about everyone else. They’d had their second flurry of washouts after that. The first one had happened when about half a dozen pilot candidates were deemed physically or psychologically unfit. Unfortunately, the fitness tests were classified, so those poor bastards had traveled all the way here only to be rejected and assigned other duties for the duration of the project. It wasn’t scut work; the washouts would end up in other occupational specialties in support, maintenance and flight control. But they weren’t going to be flying missions, and Lisbeth knew most of them would feel like losers; she certainly would have if she’d been in their shoes. All in all, they were down seventeen pilots from the original two hundred and twenty-three, and real warp endurance training hadn’t even started yet.

  “Best rollercoaster ever, isn’t it?”

  Lisbeth turned toward the speaker, who had just walked – well, staggered – out of another simulator.

  “I’m getting used to it,” she said. “This time I managed to keep breakfast down.”

  The fact that she’d skipped breakfast that morning had helped a lot, of course.

  “Yeah, I guess I’m getting jaded, too,” Lieutenant Fernando Verdi agreed. The Marine pilot was even more than a newbie than she was; he’d gotten roped into the project from the infantry, and any flying he’d ever done before had been while playing Halo of Duty’s aerial missions. He grinned at her. “Feel up for a second breakfast? I kinda went light on the first one.”

  “Yeah, me too. Let’s go.” Now that it was over she actually felt a little hungry, and her schedule was free until mid-morning.

  A few minutes later, they were scarfing down some ersatz eggs and bacon while enjoying the view from the mess hall. Clear sapphire-alloy windows looked down on the largely-barren planet where Groom Base – informally known as ‘Area 52 2.0’ – was located. Bacteria living in a nearby lake and similar other bodies of water generated some oxygen; the combination of the two made it cheaper to general basic consumables for the base. The star system’s location at the end of a single warp line deep inside American space made it ideal to build an anonymous, self-sustaining facility. With very few exceptions, everyone who arrived to Star System 3490 was there for the duration. That was one way to ensure word never got out until Project Lexington, a.k.a. the Flying Circus, was ready to show the ETs a thing or two.

  You could send emails or vids out, but only after a team of censors and decryption specialists went over every scrap of data to ensure nothing indicating the nature of the posting made it through. And they got the usual infodump of news, mail and gossip from the rest of the country whenever an American ship arrived bringing supplies. Other than that, they were completely cut off. It would be a boring posting without all the training and tests.

  “I looked at your service jacket,” Fernando said after a few minutes of eating in companionable silence.

  Lisbeth nodded. She’d have been surprised if he hadn’t. Everyone checked everyone’s public records and Facettergram profiles the second they lay eyes on each other. She knew, for example, that Fernando Verdi had been born in Memphis-Seven, was forty-three years old, had served in the Corps starting on his third year of Obligatory Service and had seen action on five occasions, earning a number of medals and commendations. He also liked to post cute kitty videos and play full-sensory MMOs in his spare time. With a little effort, she could find out what kind of porn he liked, but generally prying to that level was considered impolite.

  “I mean, I did a little digging,” he went on.

  Her grin turned into a frown. That meant requesting access to her full personnel records, which should have resulted in her being notified someone was snooping around. Living in the Second Information Age meant anybody could take a close look at you, but not anonymously. If you peeped on somebody, your identity was revealed to the one you were peeping on. Turnabout was fair play when it came to personal information. At least, that was the theory. There were ways around it.

  “I was just curious, okay? Not too many O-4s joined this program; we mostly got shuttle pilots. So I asked around, called in a few favors, unofficial-like.”

  “So you know the sordid truth. That I had my first command blown up right from under me,” she said, not fighting to keep the anger and bitterness out of her voice. If he wanted to pick a fight, he’d get one.

  Fernando’s expression didn’t show any contempt or hostility, though. “It would have happened to anyone, Zhang. The threat board was clear when you made your approach to Jasper-Five. Nobody could have seen that coming. And the stuff you pulled after surviving those mines, well, I think you’ll fit in just fine in the Corps. And you have starship command experience. Guess where that’ll take you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re refitting a whole bunch of assault ships for the Carrier Strike Group, plus a larger vessel, I think a cruiser although that’s still classified, to serve as the flagship. If this takes off, they’ll be building a lot more. And they’ll need people to captain them. You being a former bubblehead and now a fighter pilot, that puts you on the fast track to command rank.”

  She had thought about it during her precious spare time, but had dismissed the idea as highly unlikely.

  “The Navy will take over as soon as the program is successful,” she said. And the Navy wasn’t likely to forget her records.

  “Maybe. I think the Corps may get to keep the fighters for a good while. For one, they’re not just good for blowing starships to smithereens. They’re going to be very useful for ground-attack missions, too. Close air support might make a comeback.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The Navy clearly hadn’t wanted anything to do with this program. She could guess the admirals were all asking for more battleships and dreadnoughts while bitching about every penny spent on this ‘boondoggle.’ But if it proved its worth, they’d be falling over themselves to take over.

  None of that mattered though. She’d get to fly, one way or another.

  Assuming she learned how to survive multiple warp exposures per minute. They were starting those next week.

  Sometimes her job sucked.

  Three

  Associated Star Province Doklon, 164 AFC

  Why does the job always suck?

  Heather McClintock knew the answer to that, of course. Her previous assignment had sucked ass, but she’d handled it as best as could be expected. And her reward had been an even suckier job, which she’d handled yet again. And her reward for that was her current mission. The laughing faces of her parents and siblings mocked her during the seeming eternity of warp transition, ridicul
ing all the choices that had led her here.

  Emergence.

  The USS Narwhal (currently posing as the private freighter Cordero) arrived in the middle of the thick atmosphere of Doklon-Eight, a gas giant in the periphery of the local star system. The ship’s physical speed had been close to zero upon emergence, and its military-grade shields held against the impact, but turbulence made it shake uncomfortably. The winds outside were in excess of four hundred miles an hour, and the Narwhal’s inertial compensators couldn’t quite cancel them out. It was unpleasant but necessary: the massive bulk of Doklon-Eight would mask the energy signature of their jump from enemy sensor systems.

  Being shaken inside a tin can after nineteen hours in warp was a perfect capper for the three-month long mission. The Narwhal had spent its days traveling from one ley line to another, making an oblique approach towards Imperium space while behaving like the freighter it appeared to be. She’d spent the whole trip surrounded by a team of SOCOM operators, nine-tenths male, two-thirds of which thought it was their sacred duty to pick her up. Granted, they’d mostly been polite enough to take no for an answer, but the whole thing had grown tedious rather quickly.

  And now, after a final jump from neutral to enemy territory, the real fun was about to begin.

  “Doing a slow orbit around this gas ball,” Captain Douglas announced. They’d emerged on the far side of the planet, keeping its massive bulk between the ship and Doklon-Three, their ultimate target. “As soon as we have eyes on the objective, we’ll send out the insertion team and conduct our final approach.”

  Heather gritted her teeth. In less than half an hour, she and the rest of the insertion team would be warp-catapulted towards their final destination, the Satrap’s Manor on Doklon-Three. Most infantry warp jumps spanned no more than two light-seconds. This one would cover almost a light-hour. A miniscule distance for a starship, but pushing the limits of survivability for humans protected only by their armored suits.

  All part of the job, she thought as she adjusted the clamshell breast-and-back plates covering her upper torso after checking that the twin power packs supplying her force fields and suit systems were both full. She wasn’t as familiar with combat armor as a Marine or Special Ops trooper, but she’d had a very recent refresher course on Jasper-Five, courtesy of an endless horde or murderous natives. And now she’d be dropping into another hostile system, one populated by well-equipped locals led by actual Starfarers. This time, a moment’s bad luck would result in almost-certain death.

  Assuming she survived the warp drop in the first place, of course.

  After she sealed her helmet, a network of artificial muscles and carbon-nanotube armored fibers slithered out of their housings in the clamshell chest-piece and covered her limbs with a flexible and damage-resistant webbing that allowed her to carry a hundred and twenty pounds of equipment with very little effort on her part. She checked her weapons – a stubby blaster carbine and a pistol, both firing 3mm bullets – and the far more important portable computer, a small armored briefcase containing enough processing power to serve as a battle fleet information center. Everything was in order.

  A short walk through the narrow service corridors led her to the hidden hold where a warp catapult and the rest of the team awaited. Ten men and two women, SSEAL – Space, Sea, Air, Land – operators from the US Special Operations Command. Three of the men and both women had the heavy builds indicating extensive muscle-and-bone replacements, enhancements originally developed to allow humans to thrive in heavy-gravity environments but also useful to carry heavy loads and break stuff. Heather had undergone a light version of the procedure, which enabled her to bench press twice her body weight while still looking like a normal human being. The five troopers had gone for the full version: they were grotesquely broad-shouldered and thick-limbed, quite capable of wrestling a gorilla and coming out on top, or of rending a normal human limb by limb. More importantly, they could easily carry three hundred pounds of equipment and spare ammo even if their combat suits malfunctioned. One of the women – Petty Officer Faye Deveraux – had her helmet off; her delicate, freckled-skinned features and elfin-short red hair looked absurdly tiny compared to the rest of her body. She caught sight of Heather and gave her a wink before lowering the featureless helm over her head.

  Don’t worry, superspy, the operator sent out via her imp. We’ll take good care of you.

  That’s sweet, Faye, Heather sent back. Just don’t get in my way.

  Funny.

  The rest of the short platoon mostly ignored her. They’d all worked with spooks before, but the two communities didn’t care much for each other, and after rebuffing their advances, Heather had been classified as an ice queen who thought she was too good to fraternize with them. She was fine with that. They were all professionals, and they would all do their jobs to their best of their ability. They didn’t have to be best friends.

  Commander Ben Nalje walked over. The CO of the SSEAL platoon could have just as easily contacted her from the other side of the cargo hold, or anywhere else in the ship, but the physical approach was its own message to the sixteen-man group.

  “Everything’s nominal,” he told her on a private channel. “Ship passives just finished a pre-insertion scan. The visuals are fifty-nine minutes old, but the op-force is right where it’s supposed to be. No enemy starships in the system, just as expected. The next arrival isn’t due for six weeks.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, not sounding very reassured. They both knew this kind of operation could go sideways without warning, however. The tiniest bit of bad luck could turn months of training and preparation into chaotic and bloody failure. But that was part of the job.

  “We’ve got this,” Nalje added, all but exuding confidence.

  “Prepare for warp insertion,” the Narwhal’s skipper said over the all-hands channel.

  The seventeen men and women stepped onto the circular platform that would catapult them through time and space. The insertion team and their attached CIA officer been robots, their features hidden behind gray-black full helmets. Their body language was relaxed as the operators positioned themselves around the platform, weapons held at the ready.

  The countdown began. Heather took a series of breaths calculated to induce the proper state of mind. She closed her eyes in useless reflex; one could not avoid experiencing the reality of warp.

  Transition.

  Her own way of coping was to concentrate on the objective at hand. Heather went over all the data she would need when she came out the other side. As long as she did that, she could ignore the shadowy figures that surrounded her and the disturbing things they whispered to her.

  The Star Province of Doklon was a minor Galactic Imperium domain, a primitive world still in the process of being absorbed and properly colonized. The local species, intelligent tool-using Class Two centauroids, had risen to the equivalent of the Late Bronze Age when the Imperium discovered them. Conquering the planet had followed standard Gal-Imp procedures: the Starfarers had picked a compatible government – in this case, a loose alliance of city-states – and provided it with enough technical aid to take over the world within a few decades. The new ruling classes now served at the pleasure of an appointed System Satrap and sent their children off-world to be educated in the ways of the Imperium, after which they’d come back with more in common with their new overlords than the illiterate masses they would spend centuries uplifting into their roles as good proletarian servants. As far as that sort of thing went, the conquest and assimilation process had been rather civilized. The total number of locals murdered, enslaved and otherwise brutalized in the process had been a mere ten percent or so of the total.

  None of that was important to the mission, of course. What made Doklon-Three important was the presence of a Satrap’s Office in the planet’s capital. The administrative center had a full set of imperial systems on-site, their databanks holding exabytes of information the USA badly needed. Contact between the US and the G
alactic Imperium had been minimal; the two Starfarer polities did not have a common border, and trade between them had been done through a long chain of middlemen. Most of the information America had about their newest foe was second-hand. This raid hoped to change that.

  Kill you kill you killyoukillyoukillyou…

  The gleeful voice echoing through her head sounded just like Uncle Bert. He’d never said those words to her in real life, but there’d always been something off about him, and her childhood suspicions had been confirmed after his suicide and the ensuing discovery of vast volumes of snuff porn he’d hid inside his implant for all those years – some of which he’d produced himself. Here in warp space, his ghostly presence promised her the same horrible fate of his other victims.

  The job at hand. That was that mattered. She reviewed the data, ignoring the mad gibbering of the dead serial killer.

  Doklon Province was on a far corner of the Imperium, and its primitive civilization and remoteness didn’t warrant much in the way of defenses. The only modern facilities were in the Satrap’s Office, and they were guarded by a squad of Imperium Legionnaires. There were also two regiments of sepoy infantry nearby, locals armed with laser rifles and light personal force fields. The success of the mission depended on the local troops’ reaction time. The information they’d purchased in preparation for the raid suggested they’d be sluggish enough. If their intelligence was wrong, things would get hairy.

  Emergence.

  Seventeen men and women made the jump. Sixteen arrived.

  “Fuck. Jürgen didn’t make it.”