by Ron Bender
“What thing?” He makes a deliberately blank face. “You mean the mining vessel we are boarding?”
“Mining vessel?” I force my voice to go deadpan.
“Oh, very well then; this weaponized, armored, vessel with an unregulated drive,” he says with a shrug. “Is variant of mining vessel hull. We use these for fast patrol of the belt mines. We look for bandits.”
“Space bandits?” I had been gone for so long. I’d never heard of Origin Oasis and the belt was open only to megacorps. Belt miners going out, let alone bandits or the need to patrol for them… I try to not look surprised.
My space had changed.
‘Docking complete. Please debark.’ flashes above the hatch.
The team unhook and file out. Morochevsky and I are last off.
“Yes.” He tugs his kit close with a tether. “Basillio has shied away from calling them space pirates because they generally don’t kill anyone, rarely take hostages, or even steal equipment that they capture. They only want material… the ores.” He frowns and makes his way through the lock. “Basillio is splitting hairs I say. Regardless, this vessel is designed to protect miners who have contracts with AlphaTek.”
I ask him, “The ship Maggie’s on, if its headed to L Two can we get a visual on it from anywhere?”
“Orbital will follow them as much as they can. They will be in a blind spot as they pass behind the moon. It cannot be helped.”
“Can we overtake them in this?” I ask him as we make our way through the utilitarian interior. This ship feels more familiar, more military.
The rest of the unit are stowing gear and strapping in.
“It is.” He moves to the last empty seats and drops into one. “As we pass Lunar orbit we will be boosted by use of a magnetic coil shunt.”
He narrows his eyes at me. I can tell he’s checking me out for a reaction to the idea of a launcher. I had that PTSD stripped out long ago. “So, we get magnetically grappled, loaded, and fired off.”
“The instant we exit the accelerator we will reapply our drives at maximum velocity. We will come up fast right on their stern. This craft has plenty of power. We can return under full thrust from EmDrive the entire trip.”
The pod detaches itself with a subtle vibration. A second later I feel my ass being pressed into the seat. The pressure builds and plateaus.
“And you’re sure the shuttle doesn’t have sensors on it capable of tracking us?” I know I’m double checking only because it involves Maggie. I’m grateful he doesn’t hassle me for all my questions. Then I remember that at one point in his life he had children.
“Da.” He snugs his kit bag down onto the floor in front of him. The bag seals onto the floor as he opens it. After a moment, he starts running through a list for my benefit. “This ship runs black on black, has a full ECM, full degauss, and a combination absorptive and meta-material hull.” He starts to go through the contents of his gear as he speaks. “But you know like I do that there is no one hundred percent stealth in space. Thermal signature will always be a problem.” He laughs softly. “Always. An old problem but it has been reduced with new tricks. I will explain later. The real risk comes on the run up to troop deployment.”
“That’s how this job works,” I say.
He grimaces. “Always.”
˜˜˜
As Morochevsky com-links with his HQ, I ask the guy next to me, “You guys are all rated for high-gravity acceleration?”
“Yeah. Vascular restrict and dilate, blood holding tanks so we can circulate in or out extra if we need to, artificial eyes, thickened connective tissue… its sad man. We can armor the most important part of the meat sack.” He taps his temple. “Can put it in a shock absorbing box. Hell, we can even relocate down to your crotch, but we can’t keep it from tearing apart under long exposure to high gee.”
The ship has been accelerating steadily since the pod detached. My internal display shows us at two g. Some of the team just strap into their seats and let their bodies auto compensate.
There’s a chime and the pilot pipes over the shipboard com-system. “On target for mag-coil capture and boost. Two minutes.”
A count down timer glows overhead.
Morochevsky turns his head to look at me and drops his seat back. Strapped in, head first, and at speed. This is how it gets done.
I match his bland expression as I maglock in and run the harness across my chest. The acceleration couch fits itself tightly around me. “How risky is this boost?”
I know we aren’t slowing down to line up for this. The mag funnel and grapplers are for handling non-living cargo. For me this is a new application of a cargo gun.
“The pilot aims us directly into coil,” he replies.
“And then?”
“Then the coil will apply additional magnetic acceleration as we pass down barrel. A second, externally sourced acceleration if you will. This boost creates less heat signature to be cancelled on approach to the shuttle.”
“How many gee’s are we going to pull?” My body can take it but I can’t deny that I’m older. Older with more to lose.
“ Sustained,” he replies as his seat molds itself to him. “At least four.”
Four’s a lot for the amount of time well be under it. “For how long?”
He smiles. “Are you worried you aren’t rated for it Major?”
“No. I’ll be fine. Just curious. How long?”
“Forty minutes. Then we deaccelerate to match the shuttles velocity.” He replies.
I pull out a pack of tube food and pull the end open.
“You really gonna eat now?” the guy beside me asks.
“Not like it’s an MRE,” I say easily. “It’s paste.”
“Can’t do it. Nuh-uh not me.” He says. “Feels like ten pounds in my guts.”
“You watch.” Another one chimes in. “He’s probably going to nap like a baby after this too.”
“Yeah. That’s my plan.” I grin.
“Better hurry,” the first guy comments, nodding at the overhead countdown clock. “We’re hitting the coil gun in under a minute.”
I squeeze the entire meal into a side valve on my chest. “All done.”
“That’s kinda like cheating.” The second one shakes his head in disgust.
“But, damned that must be handy sometimes.”
I nod.
The pilot chimes across the ship board com. “Mag-coil in ten seconds.”
The ship vibrates as the magnetic funnel tightens down around us.
“Firing.” Comes the pilots voice.
The rush of acceleration would knock anyone else on their ass but we’re all geared, trained, and stowed like so much cargo. The cabin fills with a muted collective grunt of exhalation and then silence as each man deals with the additional g force in their own way.
My system detects the massive surge and takes care of it; breathing switches to an internal membrane running off of tanked air, dilators clench my blood vessels tighter throughout my remaining extremities and opens the amount reaching my brain. Pneumatic musculature overrides lighter synthetic ones.
The only place I can feel the rush is in the skin of my face pulling around the edges of my eye sockets. I’m sure it’s because I’ve aged and lost tone.
I com-link to the Russian. “I’m plugging in and shutting down for a while. When we flip to deacceleration I’ll join you and we can go over a plan.”
“Da, I have schematics of the shuttle. I will be go over it as well as passenger ledgers and room assignments.”
3.21
Decompression
For the first time in years, I dream. Maggie’s twentieth birthday. Torches flickering in the night breeze. A long sandy strand of beach. Music. Food. Dancing. So many smiling people, everyone is happy.
Salvador approaches and hands me a drink. “Great party.” he says. “Same as every year.”
“Where’s Maggie?” I ask.
“Right there.” Sal points with a tilt of
his head. We turn and there she is. Beautiful, tall, strong and proud looking. She comes out of the crowd, walking straight toward me.
“Dance with me Daddy.”
I take her hands. And as the music starts I pull her to my chest.
“Daddy?” The second refrain starts.
“Yes?”
She shrinks in my hands, as she says, “Why’d you let me die?”
I look down at her…her body is shrunken, small…as small as she is now…. The expressions of everyone around us becomes accusatory the music fades. Her body becomes ash and dust, coloring the synthetic skin of my hands as she slips through my mechanical fingers. Her mouth opens and her voice rises into a single shriek.
The alarm buzzer wakes me fully. I power on my eyes to see Morochevsky leaning over to nudge me. “I’m awake.”
“Good.” He says. “We go over the plan now.”
˜˜˜
“Helmets on,” Morochevsky says.
“Suits closed. Seal up.” The pilot says. His words are echoed across the screen in five-inch high letters.
Everyone, myself included, buttons into their suits. After we lock up we double-check the man on our left. The second man down the line doing double duty for having to also check the head of the line. “Systems check. Sound off.”
Lights in my helmet come on, a row of steady green. I wait for my turn to call. “Full green.”
The pilot comes over our com-links. “ECM suite is engaging now.”
My sensors have a field day for a few seconds before they cut out and reset. A few of the troops are smiling. One of them says, “We’re on an electronic version of a damn big roller coaster.”
The EmDrives pulse intermittently, slowing our craft, letting us glide up along-side the Speedwell.
Our drives are running off solid state power banks. A reactor would have us on a thermo scan in a heartbeat.
Helmet com-links cut in; “Preparing for thermal ghosting.”
This was the signature that everyone in space with an imaging cam can see. It’s the nail in the coffin for detection. Heat, the one thing that was the giveaway in space.
The lights overhead flicker amber, I feel the suit slowly constrict. I ignore the artificial feeling of compression input from my extremities. My limbs still needed coverage by a heated system to function. The fluids in my rams couldn’t handle vacuum very well.
The suit’s armor was a nice extra. But realistically only my torso and head needed protection from vacuum.
I fight the feeling of being an outsider here. The rest of the troops were modified flesh. I wasn’t. I was a bolt-on.
At my look, Moro explains via private channel, “The cabin is now evacuated of air. Nitrogen is circulated between the triple layers of the outer hull. It acts as a heat sink for anything ambient that might show through the hull. This craft produces a very tiny heat signature, far under the thresholds for scanners.”
I ask, “We aren’t packing around anything that would react to all nitrogen, are we?”
“No. Except for tanks where the interior atmo is stored there is very little to explode. Weapons on the other hand…” he shrugs a shoulder. “Whipple plate, and armored hull should keep the pop-up weapon mounts safe.” He shrugs. “For this kind of operation it is deemed extremely low risk.”
“It is not as though the shuttle we are stalking is armed well enough or even armed at all.” I frown. “And if they don’t have sensors…why bother refrigerating the hull at all?”
“Origin Oasis. Where the shuttle is heading. They have very good sensors. And the ship is chartered by them.” He says. “A drone probe fired from there can accelerate very quickly. What would take us another hour at three gee’s, a drone can do in ten minutes….”
“Got it.” I nod. Don’t kick the rich kids hive. I turn to an immediate, practical question. “How long before we overtake the shuttle?”
“We have been deaccelerating to match their velocity and will be on top of them in fifteen minutes,” is his reply.
I have time; time to try and remember making sandcastles on the beach with Maggie. That was three days ago. It had been a sunny day. The rippling sound of the field trucks antenna kite blowing out over the ocean mixed with the sounds of the surf, and her smiling laugher.
The time I thought I had slips away.
“Gear up. Remember.” He addresses the teams. “This is an incursion and extraction. The ship we board has a full passenger manifest. The cabin we need is marked on your HUD. Anyone else, stun them and put them into safety ball. If you are fired upon, return with lethal force, single shots only. I do not want to have to explain to Mr. Ferdinand why we shot up walls and doors.”
˜˜˜
The in-helmet display has our approach on the chartered shuttle showing. The pilot cut our deacceleration fifteen minutes ago. Our momentum carries us straight up on the shuttle’s stern, gliding along their underbelly.
The EmDrives cycled over hard. With a forward swaying motion that fades quickly, we match speeds, a thin tapered shadow nestled along the length of the girthy shuttle.
As we line up in the stack some of the men double check their weapon tethers.
The mission is what’s termed a ‘cold drop', which means we have only software to count on. We won’t have access to external com-links or a Hat.
Morochevsky spent some time assuring me that new incursion software is faster than having a programmer with us on the team but I still have my doubts.
Those kinds of doubts probably have the rest of the men thinking the same thing that I had when I was under the g-force load; maybe I’m too old.
The Russian hefts a military grade handheld sys-rig in his left fist; its screen is flickering with data, echoed on the inside of his helmet visor.
With two minutes to a mission green light, I slip the cover off my bow and slide the long quiver across my back.
Everyone stares while trying to look disinterested.
The master leaf spring had come from an old tractor I found in the dustbowl and gutted. The story of King Odysseus’s bow was in my mind the entire time I’d made this thing.
I hook the length of metal under my thigh, and bend it backwards into a wide tension loaded arc. I hook the braided cable up and over the cam wheels buckled through the eyelets. The feeling I get as I release the extra tension is one of wild, raw power.
I test it’s draw, ease it back and sling it around me.
Faces turn away as I look up.
“What is that arrow for?” Morochevsky points to the single arrow, a blunt that I have clipped down the side of the bow. Its tip is a cast trailer hitch knob.Three fluted spirals are ground into it spreading out from its rough point.
“It’s for killing big things.” I give him his answer. “Dusters in heavy plate mail, cars, trucks, and AVs. They all stop moving.”
Over the common channel someone whispers, “Damn…”
The countdown clock, the in-helmet counter, and my internal clock all hit zero. The cabin lights dim and go out. A wide seam, running floor to ceiling of the cabin begins to split. In a couple of seconds its open wide enough that men can pass through it. The view is of the underside of the chartered ship. I’ve recovered quickly from my time earthside. I have no disorientation even though I’m standing at a ninety-degree angle to our target, and looking ‘up’.
Software that hasn’t run in years kicks in dropping augmented reality flags onto everything. I don’t need it. My eyes and memory have picked out the key features, lights, cargo hatches, grapple points for towlines, doors for evacuation pods, handholds …
Out of habit I flush my internal air and keep using it instead of tapping into the suit’s supply. It effectively quadruples my oxygen.
A glimpse to one side, along the hull overhead, and I see stars, naked, except for my helmet faceplate. My adrenaline pumps up at the sight.
Alexander motions and the first two men gently kick off of the floor. They move with the grace of inevitability.
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When they’re halfway to the shuttle, the second pair pushes off. Then the third pair slides away from us. Finally, Alexander and I push off.
It’s been a long time since I was in space, EVA. The suns light, the stars, the black, I have a wrenching feeling, the feeling of having found something that I hadn’t realized was lost. I draw a deep breath and focus on my share of the job.
The other teams execute their tasks perfectly. Less than a minute in the mission and we’ve seized control of the onboard computer, overridden the airlocks, and locked down the escape pods.
Morochevsky uses his laser com-link to hook up with the team. The flickering light from the crest of his helmet is picked up by the cam on my helmet. The pulsing lights get decoded into his voice. “I have the crew and cargo manifest. This ship is supposed to be carrying seventy passengers. Internal detection indicates only sixty-eight based on heart rates and respiration.”
I have a sinking feeling in my gut. Two less lives; Maggie and Hall? “Let’s check it out.”
“Agreed. We move under the assumption that Maggie is somewhere aboard.” He looks at the team. “Confirm positions.” He waits for the men to signal that they were ready. He thumbs the program execute button on the handheld’s screen. “Go. Go. Go.”
Inside the ship no alarms will sound, no lights will flash, no cockpit indicators will blink warnings, and three airlocks cycle open and closed without a claxon.
Waiting for the outer doors to close and the lock to cycle Morochevsky and I ready weapons.
I separate myself from my feelings as much as I can. If Maggie isn’t on board, after Jimmy was so sure… where would I go? Was she even alive?
My suit relaxes until the indicators on my wrist and visor read full external pressure.
Morochevsky holds up his hand. As he drops it, he pushes a second button. Inner doors slid open. Team two, in the bridge, report a brief scuffle with crewmen but they take physical control of the ship systems. Team three, in the cargo area have no resistance, as expected, and secure the emergency evacuation vehicle locks and drive chamber.