The Last Hercules

by Ron Bender

  “On a lot of them, yeah.” I can name everyone who died on those missions. My anger and survivor’s guilt took its own sweet time to get over. “I guess we were.”

  “I have seen examples of original Russian-installed heavy implants.” He looks over at me. “It was very crude.”

  I can’t tell if he’s genuinely curious or if his comment is a backhanded slap.

  “We used the Russian tech as a jump-off point for upgrades.”

  He nods and starts walking to the exit. “I had heard that most of your unit was originally made up of debilitated soldiers. Is that true with you?”

  “All I can say is I’d be in a pretty sorry state if I hadn’t signed up.”

  I follow him to a locker. He strips his muscle shirt and dusts himself with shower-in-a-can before brushing off with the towel.

  “And so.” He pulls on a fresh undershirt and wraps the towel around his neck. “We come to it. I believe we are going back up the well together to recover your daughter.”

  “Yeah.” My mind goes to Maggie’s face before the impact. “I think Liberty Transfer EML One is a good place to start.”

  “There are a number of places at Earth-Moon L One that will need to be observed, checked.”

  I have information. Intel that part of my instincts are resistant to sharing with an old enemy. My need to get Maggie back outweighs the not so subtle programming. “The impact that started all of this was an old-style LEO freight hauler.”

  I recall the nametag on the glove. I could only hope that Rossalyn was already dead before the nanites ripped her down to her base components.

  “I read the reports.” His accent makes him sound abrupt. “That vehicle dissolved because of a nanite swarm. The crater was hazardous fill when our operative completed his recon.”

  “I saw the registration number before it dissolved,” I say quietly. “The craft had originally been registered as dismantled. It’s had at least ten other designations in its lifetime. It was one of our old covert ops craft.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting,” Morochevsky says. “But how would this help us now?”

  “I saw a name on one of the pilot’s glove tags. The name was the same as someone from my unit. Rossalyn Mos. She’d been stationed at a black point; one of our unmarked observation posts a long way out.”

  “A black point?” He sounds surprised, and asks quietly, “When were you going to say something about that last item?”

  “Listen, Morochevsky.” I lean forward to emphasize my point. “I’ve been hiding with a lot of guilt and grief for years from a threat that I thought had destroyed the entire project. I wasn’t going to say anything unless I had to.”

  “Fair enough,” he says with a grimace. “Let us instead go over what we have that is solid.”

  “Okay.” I gesture for him to start.

  “We have Bransen for a brief moment on a cam.” He pulls on his shirt. “He was seen at a lift pad in Texas. We have mercenaries who work for him also waiting at Liberty—”

  He stops mid-sentence. He holds up a finger. His eyes lock on mine. “Lee is here with me. We will go now.”

  I’ve already cleared a path for him to lead.

  He pushes his feet into his shoes and throws his suit jacket and tie over his free arm. “Our lift window has been upped. We have one stop. Then we leave for orbit.”

  “What’s happened? Why the change?”

  “An inspired Mr. Hall has decided he can assist us.” The Russian takes the stairs up to the maglift area. I can see one waiting. Its door flashing a This car reserved sign.

  “He is currently on a LEO heading up-well to a shuttle jump-off platform. In a few hours, he will meet with Bransen on Liberty Transfer.”

  “They’ll kill him.”

  “That likelihood is high. Da.”

  When the maglift opens, we’re in an impound garage. My field truck is parked in storage, complete with a coating of red Feral Land dust and dirt still in the treads.

  “I thought you might need something from here.” He waves me forward. “Favorite equipment or what have you.”

  I open the cab. My boarding ax is sitting on the seat. It’s been cleaned. Everything else is where I left it, but I know that Basillio’s men have picked through every seam looking for intel.

  The ax I hang through my belt. It takes me a moment to find the Eye-Spy book on the floor. As I head to the rear door, I tuck the book into an internal pocket under my armor. The final thing I’ll need is above the door. I shift aside a partially bolted panel and pull out my leaf spring bow.

  The colored beadwork and white feathers hang in contrast to the burgundy dye of the hide bow case. I made the bow and the arrows. The case was a gift. One of the women in the tribe made it for me after I saved her daughter. I used the bow to stop a Feral raiding truck.

  I sling the heavy case over my back.

  “That’s it,” I say as I jump down. The truck locks behind me. “Let’s go.”

  ˜˜˜

  AlphaTek doesn’t fool around. They leverage a lot of resources and Morochevsky and I end up on a docking approach in low orbit inside the hour.

  The SSTO shuttle had been accelerating most of the way. It’s a mid-sized cargo hauler, but we sit alone on rail mounted, removable seats in an empty hold.

  The Russian has a good head on his shoulders. I’m more sure than ever that he worked directly across from me during the orbital war. Something about his style is familiar. Subconscious warnings make the hair on my neck prickle.

  I let it go.

  AlphaTek’s willingness to assume responsibility for actions that are likely to be unexpected, fast, and violent on a multi-corporate space platform is freeing. I get the impression that ‘Ask Forgiveness Afterwards’ is the credo for the team.

  The plans we’ve developed have plug-in options depending on what we get back as intel about Bransen and David. That flexibility is a key strength, and it’s also a weakness. Sure, we can adapt the plans quickly, but we run the risk of those plans being too loose … and loose plans in space mean dead. With Maggie in the picture that isn’t an option.

  As the craft slows for docking, I can feel the tension ease out of my back. An internal sensor reads our micro-gravity at ninety percent, orbit speed seven-point-six-six km per second.

  The docking hatch opens and I’m greeted by the sight of a large AlphaTek logo, the double hex wall and digital shield in frosted silver on matt-black. Cargo Administration. Transfer Point Three is written under the image.

  Morochevsky says, “We will use this cargo bay for orientation exercises. Let us regain our space legs.”

  I unhook my restraints and instantly feel awkward. It’s been years since I was up here last. “How long do we have to do that?”

  “About fifteen minutes.” His noncommittal shrug as he unhooks from his seat is exactly what I expect from a former Russian Spetsnaz. He pushes off toward the hatch, making the movement seem easy. “Follow me.”

  Up here I lived my life by routine, combat, and routine combat. I thought it would be easy to return to. Instead the next fifteen minutes are a brutal refresher on how gravity can destroy a spacer’s career. I practice the basics of movement until I’m comfortable enough doing them without having to think.

  Morochevsky is far more comfortable up here than I am. It’s a fact that irrationally irritates me. We are about to try unarmed sparring when a slender looking woman glides through the interior hatch.

  I recognize her from our shuttle crew. The upgrade AlphaTek put in with my real-time translation program swaps her Japanese directly into English. The big change is that the software mimics the woman’s voice perfectly. “Excuse me, Colonel Morochevsky, your connector to Liberty Transfer Platform at EML One will be ready for boarding at docking ring four in ten minutes.”

  “Arigatou gozaimashita.” He replies in flawless Japanese.

  He executes a smoothly arcing dive and flip toward the opposite wall.

  “You’ve stayed fit, Co
lonel.” My own surety of movement and balance are augmented as my body adapts to the upgrades from AlphaTek. Only time will let me adapt to them fully. Time I don’t have.

  “I am lucky. I am here once a month, sometimes to teach, other times to appreciate the view.” He points to the porthole. “It keeps my skills current. But it is like a bicycle, da? Or sex.” He chuckles. “Once you know… it never really goes away.”

  “You might just be bad at it for a while.” I reply.

  His chuckle becomes laughter. “Da.”

  Looking through the thick glass, the brilliant white and blue of the planet curves below us. I realize that I’ve missed this. The Earth’s rotation under us makes my chest ache with longing.

  “When this is over and your daughter is safe.” He joins me for a moment. “You should consider employment with us.”

  “We’ll see.” Maggie’s survival first, anything after that is a different mission.

  “The offer is there,” he says. He looks at me. “Liberty Transfer has changed a great deal since you were active up here. With your appearance, you will not fit in so easily now.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “A new outfit is a start,” he says. “You will also want to meet the other men who will be working with us.”

  “Yeah.”

  I follow Morochevsky into a cramped wardroom. Six burly looking commando types are talking among themselves until we come in. They snap to attention as he enters. Morochevsky nods at them. “Get acquainted as we suit up.”

  He points me over to a locker and I spend a moment fumbling with the gear. A vac suit is a vac suit is a vac suit, except when it’s more than a decade newer than what you knew. The rig I pull out is about as heavy as my homemade jacket liner and rain shell. The pack is tapered to fit between the shoulders and is only a hand-span thick. Everything is integrated with the fabric, helmet, or pack. It looks impossibly sleek. We make a steady run of introductions as we run pre-suit-up checklists.

  Everyone strips down to their basics and begin to suit up. I do the same. The troops around me try not to stare. I let them look, taking my time. Only Morochevsky stops and blatantly checks out my back, arms, and heavy armor plates.

  “That is the improved hydraulic ram system?” he asks.

  “Arms and legs have ram augmentation,” I say as I open my left shoulder guard and swing it aside. The ram components are running a minimal pressure so I flex my arm and shoulder. “The bulk of my movement is done by a secondary light-purpose pneumatic system. At the time, electroactive polymers couldn’t get the density and strength the engineers wanted into the space they had. This is what they came up with.” The actuators hiss and vent as I move. “I can run them completely on internal gas supply but it’s easier to just vent. The synthetic muscle bundles in my hands are add-ons that I paid for a few years ago. Less maintenance on filters when I’m out in the dust.”

  “Damn. Pneumatics? That is old school,” the trooper nearest me says as he leans forward to look at the braided, coated hoses tucked into the metal support structures.

  “No shit,” the guy across from him adds. “That’s some serious gear.”

  “How much can you lift?” the first guy asks.

  “With the intramuscular mesh, locking carapace, joint and spinal braces, sequentially pulsed hydraulic rams and ratchets….” I point at the parts. “I just had a diagnostic at AlphaPlaza. I dead lifted just over sixty-three hundred pounds.”

  “Holy shit, I can lift less than half of that,” one of them exclaims.

  The first guy grins. “Newer doesn’t mean better.”

  “Okay, but how much do you weigh?” I ask as I flip the suit around looking at its control cluster. “Everything I own has to be custom.”

  I spent a lot of time manufacturing decent looking kitchen chairs so I could eat with Maggie at the table.

  “Everything from the bed I sleep in to the crapper in the head has to take my weight.”

  “Shit,” the second guy mutters.

  Heads nod with understanding.

  “Always a balance of pros and cons. As with everything in life.” Morochevsky finishes with his suit.

  “But get me in zero-g with everything else being equal….” I push the plate back into place and seal it with a shrug, letting my voice trail off.

  I begin pulling on everything. I accidently tab the power and the suit shrinks up as woven synthetic bands contract.

  Some of the team chuckle and I relax.

  “In zero-g you’ll be a graceful metal butterfly.” The quip comes from the far end of the wardroom. Their reaction is what I’m used to. It feels right. There’s a grin on my face as I toggle the power off and suit up the rest of the way.

  “A big angry metal butterfly,” I reply.

  There’s laughter and I know I’m in.

  I remember all of the people in my unit, the times just like this. I blank them out. Reminiscing just gets in the way of the job.

  Alexander walks up to me. “The suit’s power activates automatically whenever we hit hard vacuum. The banding will fit the suit to you. It has climate control woven in.” He points to the controls. “The helmet locks on this way.” He shows me on his and then walks me through locking my own. “Good. Is there room for your optics to dial out?”

  I try it and nod. “It’s good.” The suit weighs next to nothing. “How’s the armor on these?” I flex, everything fits perfectly.

  “Fast-reactive, constrictive, ablative, with auto puncture seal.” He lists components. “There are basic medical injectors as well. But those will not work on you because of your carapace plates.”

  “Good to know.” I remind myself to not get hit hard enough to need medical.

  As I check out the modified weapons that AlphaTek’s manufacturing division have put together for me, Nessa’s voice comes to me from back in the medical bay, “Just get Maggie back.”

  3.18

  Liberty Transfer

  I can see that Morochevsky is right; Liberty Transfer isn’t the small waystation that it was when I was up here. Through the shade-side portals, I catch a glimpse of the wide solar arrays and reflective antennae of Liberty. As we rotate, nose down, I see the platform itself and how large it has grown becomes obvious. This is what I used to call a station. Several hundred people could cram into it.

  The original EML One Modules look tiny and redundant. Corporate blazons cover the flags of the outdated countries who built them.

  A cube of space next to the transfer platform is filled with spacecraft. A three-dimensional parking lot, computer controlled and maintained, has at least fifty vessels on-station. Cargo shunting tenders, multi-armed maintenance flits, and resupply modules move in a precise grid between them.

  Most of the craft sport huge corporate logos.

  These ships were built up here and they aren’t designed for anything approaching atmosphere. Heat shielding and aerodynamics are replaced with Whipple shields, layers of dense plating, and chunky looking functionality.

  I stare at it all with a mix of pride and sadness. This, this is what we fought for … sort of…. I let the bittersweet taste of having lived through history mix with my emotions, and then I set them aside.

  Maggie could have seen this. She should have seen it with me.

  I’m surprised when we maneuver right toward the station.

  AlphaTek has some pull even here. No passenger transfer vehicle for us. We move nose first into position over the station’s other free hub.

  Our rotation matches the station and we inch forward.

  The locks glide closed with a subtle vibration. A generated voice pipes in over the shipboard com. “Locks crosschecked and sealed. Atmospheric pressure test is green. Docking complete. Shipboard hatch can be safely opened. Welcome to Liberty Transfer Platform at EML One.”

  “No time to waste,” Morochevsky says to us as we unhook from our seats.

  He’s gone over our plan with the others. Everyone understands we’re
arriving with a narrow window. Bransen, Maggie, and Hall have had a full five minutes on the station ahead of us.

  It’s too bad we can’t simply lock down the station and demand a search. Morochevsky has informed me that a lot of covert goods, developments, and operations would be interrupted and the retribution against the AlphaTek would be swift. I haven’t told him that, if I need to, I’ll pull a fire alarm. Fires on a station are serious business and everyone on board would have to leave via a couple of easily watched airlocks. There would be fines, but that’s not the kind of shit I care about. It’s my back up plan if things slip in a direction I don’t like.

  When we debark through the hatch tree, we pull ourselves along thick cable traces, hand over hand toward the axle and its maglift lobby. Three of the men break off and begin the task of securing the other airlocks and passenger gangways.

  At the main lock junction, we’re greeted by what passes for station security. The bored looking personnel clam up as we enter. It’s a little too late; I heard them talking about ‘pressing’ the last passengers for cash to turn a blind eye and I’m pretty sure the Russian heard them as well.

  I don’t even stop moving. I turn down one of the curved spoke passages.

  Someone else in the squad will deal with them.

  I loosen the bow-case across my back and pull myself along until the pseudo-gravity gets heavier.

  Security on the other end takes one look at me and backs down as I duck through the hatch and make my way out into the primary wheel.

  Morochevsky isn’t far behind. “I have a link to operations,” he says. “The delay in communications is negligible.”

  “What do they say? Anything to add? Or do we just start at one point and chew our way through?”

  “No chewing.” He looks up at me. “We have a plan. We work the plan.”

  I nod. Now I’m here and know Maggie is close, I want to get things moving. “Our hat? Are they any good?”

  “Our hat is named Lexi. Between her and our specialist, we should have intel flowing quickly.”