by JE Gurley
They cycled through the airlock together. He was glad to have walls around him again. Space was so vast and empty that the eye became lost trying to find some point on which to focus. His limited perspective on a computer screen had not prepared him for the reality of the vastness of space. His mind still reeled from the experience. Zero gravity made removing his suit more difficult than putting it on. Even while bracing his feet beneath the low rail as directed by Peters, he swayed like a drunken sailor in a typhoon, or an advertising air puppet outside a used car dealership.
Through the hatch, he entered a melee of bodies floating at all angles, re-instigating his vertigo. The cacophony of voices made speech almost impossible. Gate noticed the size and closeness of the bunks. There would be no privacy on this trip.
Peters floated in close and yelled in Gate’s ear. “Your quarters are on the bridge forward.”
“Thanks.”
He pushed through the double hatch into the next compartment containing a small galley with a row of stools along a narrow bar that looked like a street diner. Two storage compartments graced either end of the room. A few more bunks lined the walls of the narrow corridor leading to the portside airlock and bridge. From the size of the galley, it looked as if they would eat in shifts to accommodate them all. He also noted the lack of stoves. Their food would be military MREs and NASA frozen meals heated in microwaves. He passed a door upon which someone with a sense of humor had posted a crude drawing of a man floating upside down while urinating over his head, the Zero-G bathroom.
The ship’s designers had situated the forward emergency airlock opposite the bathroom for a reason Gate could not fathom. He hoped it had more to do with engineering than the possible need to visit the bathroom to clean the inside of one’s spacesuit after a spacewalk. A touch of queasiness visited him when he passed through the double hatch into the bridge and noted the explosive bolts securing the bridge module to the habitat module. In an emergency, they could jettison any section of the ship. Since the bridge had no airlock, he now understood the imperative to keep his spacesuit handy at all times.
Unlike the bridge of imaginary movie starships, the bridge of the Javelin was a small compartment with three consoles along the port side and a bank of video screens on the forward wall. Two small viewports on either side of the screens and a single port on the starboard side of the cabin provided the only direct visual access outside the ship. The bridge looked nothing as he imagined the control center of a starship would. It more resembled non-partitioned cubicles in an office.
His three companions were already at their stations. They glanced up at him as he entered. He recognized two of them from Mission Control, Steven Goodman, an environmental systems technician, and Brad Worthen, communications specialist and assistant gravity drive engineer. Both were highly competent technicians. The third, a haggard-looking young man of about 22 or 23 years, seemed in distress.
“This is Jess Blivens, Dr. Rutherford, our gravity drive technician,” Goodman said. “I’m afraid he’s a bit under the weather. I don’t think he enjoys Zero-G as much as he thought he would.”
Blivens scowled at Goodman and grumbled, “Fuck you, Steve.”
Goodman chuckled. “Now, Jess. Play nice. Take another Tums.”
The dismally small bridge compartment would be his new home for the next three weeks. In Zero-G, he could sleep anywhere, but under gravity, he would prefer a bed. Three bunks inset in the portside wall were for the bridge crew. They all looked too short for his long legs. As a last-minute add-on, he wondered where he would sleep.
Goodman glanced around the bridge, and then back at Gate. As if reading Gate’s mind, he said, “It’s smaller than my dorm room at Cal Tech. I don’t think they designed the bunks for a man your size. There are some hammocks in the storage area. You can hang one from the ceiling in the corner. It should be more accommodating than the bunks.”
Gate nodded and slipped his laptop inside a small wall niche, and then strapped his space suit beneath a net attached to the wall beside the others.
After a loud belch from Blivens, Goodman said, “We’ll have gravity soon, Jess. Hold on until then. If you spew chunks, you clean it up.” To Gate, Goodman added, “I’m afraid Jess isn’t very pleasant under the best circumstances, but he is one of the best gravity drive technicians in the country.”
Blivens shot Goodman a withering look but remained silent.
The bridge crew’s attitudes reminded Gate too much of a frat house. No one seemed in charge. As much as he disliked assuming authority, his age and experience compelled him to lay a few ground rules.
“Gentlemen, it’s going to be a long voyage in very close quarters. I suggest we make an extra effort to get along. To be safe, I would also suggest as little mingling with the Lance crews and the Rangers as possible. The military has their own way of doing things, and it often clashes with the civilian method. They don’t mind placing their lives in our hands, but they would rather we didn’t remind them of that fact. We’ll take our meals here. It might reduce the chance of conflict.”
“Fine with me,” Worthen replied. He acted relieved that Gate had stepped up. “Some of those grunts looked like they would just as soon shoot you as talk to you.”
“Military types tend to get jittery before a battle. Err on the side of caution with them.”
Goodman grinned. “That’s right. You’ve had some experience with the military when you helped tale down Nusku. Maybe you can tell us about it.”
Inwardly, Gate shuddered. He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I will.” He pulled himself to the wall and strapped in. “Where are we in the pre-flight?”
“Gravity drive is green and ready to engage,” Goodman answered. “Environmental control is ramping back up after the sudden influx of bodies. The Soyuz will be moving off soon. Course is set for the initial leg of the flight. We’re ready to go.”
Once they were beyond the orbit of Mars, Gate would compute the first course corrections. Since no one had tested the gravity drive under real-life conditions, he would have to see how the Javelin reacted before that. “Colonel Sakiri will give us the word as soon as he arrives,” Gate replied.
“Please hurry,” Blivens moaned. His face was pale and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead in spite of the cool cabin temperature. “I can’t take much more of this.”
Gate sympathized with the young man. Space sickness was a serious condition, but it was too late to replace him. “Just a little while, Blivens. Grit your teeth and hold on.”
Blivens nodded but said nothing. Gate’s stomach did flip-flops of its own, but not from the Zero-G. The journey did not bother him. It was an adventure. He tried not to dwell on what awaited them on the other end of the voyage. He had faced Kaiju twice in his lifetime, but, unlike the adage, he suspected the third time would not be a charm.
7
August 12, Rome, Italy –
Fifty-six-year-old Johan ten Boom stared down at the smoking billowing from Vatican City and Saint Peter’s Basilica. He was too numb to cry and too frightened to be angry. Pope Francis was dead. In spite of the danger, the Pontiff had refused to leave his Vatican office. Now, Johan was the new Pope, appointed and elected by the Church of Cardinals in a hastily convened conclave before evacuating. There was no white smoke, no waiting crowd on St. Peter’s Square. The mantle of office was only hours old and already the weight of the world, one that he thought himself unworthy to bear, rested on his shoulders.
He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand with his left thumb, massaging away the ache of arthritis, one of many afflictions God had bestowed on him to keep him humble.
“What shall we call you, Your Holiness?” his aide, Bishop Peter O’Bannon, asked.
Johan had given his choice of papal name little thought in the rush to escape Rome. Now, he had no choice but choose one. “I shall be Clement XVI,” he said in a moment of inspiration. “Clement V was Dutch, as am I.”
O’Bannon raised one bu
shy eyebrow, as he stared at Johan. A slight sardonic grin creased the corners of his mouth, as he asked, “The Pope in office during the plundering of Rome in 1527 by Charles V’s mutinous troops?”
O’Bannon’s statement struck him as odd. He had forgotten about Clement V’s reign over the sacking of Rome. He regretted the irony of the name, but he would keep it nevertheless. God had inspired his decision. Perhaps the Church needed a fresh start in a new world. “I prefer to remember him as the Pope who commissioned Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment.”
The two men stood in the courtyard of the Church of San Pietro in Montorio on Janiculum, a hill south of the Vatican. From his vantage point, he could witness the destruction of Rome by the Kaiju, a great ebony demon sent from hell to punish the wicked and the saintly alike. The lengthening shadows of early evening highlighted the carnage. Modern Rome closely resembled the ruins of Ancient Rome dotted throughout the city. Raging infernos swept up the sides of Rome’s fabled seven hills, leaving in their paths only devastation and desolation. The Tiber flowed sluggishly with debris beneath its fallen bridges and Roman aqueducts. The Ponte Principe Amedeo and the Ponte Palatino were broken stubs protruding from the river. Johan tried not to look at the dark waters too closely, knowing that some of the small dots floating by were human bodies.
He stood absorbed by the annihilation around him, as the aliens tried to obliterate mankind from the face of the planet. He wondered if the aliens understood the significance of Rome, its place in history as center of a far-flung empire or home of the Holy Catholic Church, or if it was just another city, a hub of destruction designed to inflict the most damage.
O’Bannon grabbed his elbow. “We must leave soon, Your Holiness. The ship will leave Marina de San Nicola at dawn. They dare not wait longer. The roads will soon clog with refugees. It will be a slow journey.”
A patron of the Church residing in Ladispoli on the coast had offered his yacht to transport Johan and his retinue to Malta. “Yes, yes,” he answered, irritated by O’Bannon’s urgency, but his aide was correct. Italy had not seen such a movement of displaced people since WWII. The need to observe the destruction of Rome and to record it for posterity overwhelmed him, but matters pressed too hard. The faithful needed a pope. A pope and hope, he mused, but did not feel the humor of his poor rhyme. “We must begin our journey, a dark, painful trek whose end only God can foresee. I suppose I must place my faith in his will.”
“His will and the skill of our driver and that of the Swiss Guards,” O’Bannon added.
Johan glanced at the men who had accompanied them, Oberstlieutenant Rene Bossard and a contingent of eight Guardia Svizzera Pontificia, or Pontifical Swiss Guards, dressed in blue uniforms instead of the ceremonial Medici blue, red, and yellow banded outfits. They carried Heckler and Koch MP7A1 semiautomatic rifles firing 4.6x30mm rounds, each tipped with Kaiju-piercing coating, and Sig P220 10mm pistols instead of ceremonial swords and halberds. How the Guard had obtained the specialized Kaiju rounds usually restricted to various militaries, he did not venture a guess. The Oberstlieutenant was an unusually resourceful man.
The stoic gaze of the Swiss Guards never wavered, as they watched the swarms of Wasps darting across the skies of Rome. Standing in their midst, Johan did not fear for his immediate safety. The Swiss Guard was among the finest military units in the world. They had been guarding popes since Pope Julius in 1506.
Watching the cloud of dark smoke gather over the city, a mood of melancholy fell over him, darkening his heart and quelling his spirit, as if the ominous cloud separated him from God’s grace. A deep guilt troubled him at abandoning the Holy See. As Bishop of Rome, he should be there among the people, offering what solace and comfort he could in their darkest hour.
He sighed. “Do you believe we will ever see Rome again, Father O’Bannon?”
O’Bannon hesitated. “I’m a pragmatist, Your Holiness. I know that is odd for a man of the cloth, but I’m also Irish. One can always hope for a brighter morning, but one must plan for the darkest night. Candles are often more effective than prayers.”
“Indeed. Why not a candle and a prayer?”
“Aye, both together, but the candle first. Prayers in the dark seem so bleak.”
“Light your candle then, for I fear prayers are much needed.”
Malta, their destination, was 90-percent Roman Catholic, its official religion. At 316-square kilometers in area and with a population of 450,000, it was one of the most densely populated countries. Johan suspected the population would balloon with the influx of refugees.
“Our quarters will be at St. Paul’s Cathedral in Mdina. The Zghazagh Azzjoni Kattolika, the Catholic youth group, will provide security,” he glanced at the Swiss Guards, “along with our Swiss shadows.”
Johan shook his head. “Children with guns.” The idea appalled him. “Children should play games, not war.”
“There are few children now, Your Holiness. The aliens have seen to that. The ZAK is receiving military training in case of invasion.”
“You speak Maltese?”
“As a lad in the British army, I was stationed at Pembroke before they turned it over to the Maltese in ‘79. I picked up a smattering of the language, some perhaps a bit too delicate for a Bishop to repeat, but that was before my conversion. I’ve been brushing up the last few days.”
“Perhaps you can instruct me. I will need to say mass soon. Saying it in Maltese might ease some tension.”
“Most people speak English, but using the local language might make a few friends.”
“We will need friends, I think, Father O’Bannon.”
O’Bannon smiled. “Please call me Peter, Your Holiness. Father or Bishop sounds too formal.”
“Okay, Peter, upon you I will build my rock.”
O’Bannon chuckled at the Biblical reference. “Good luck with that, Your Holiness.”
From the corner of his eyes, Johan saw the Oberstlieutenant drop to one knee and raise his rifle. O’Bannon noticed too and shoved him toward the waiting armored Cadillac Escalade Limousine. Johan observed the bishop held a Sig P220 pistol in his hand, produced from a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
“We must go now,” O’Bannon urged.
The Swiss Guards opened up on a pair of Wasps patrolling the hillside that grew nosy and flew too close for comfort. Their fire was deadly accurate. One of the creatures fell from the sky on bullet-riddled wings and struck the cobbled courtyard. Now flightless, it remained nevertheless dangerous. It rose to its eight legs and scampered across the courtyard toward them. Three of the men concentrated their fire on the grounded Wasp, shooting until it fell to the ground, bleeding thick ocher blood from a dozen wounds. It kicked its legs for a few moments before growing still.
The second Wasp, enraged by the pheromone of its dead brethren, dove toward them. No man moved or sought cover. They fired round after round into the creature’s thorax and head. However, the driver, a civilian, panicked. He left the safety of the limo and ran for the church. The Wasp veered from the contingent of Swiss Guards and attacked him. He turned just as the creature stabbed at him with its harpoon-like stinger. The stinger struck him in the left side of his chest and exited near his right shoulder. He screamed in agony as the creature lifted him into the air, ripping flesh and snapping bone. The venom quickly did its job, rendering him helpless and silent.
Bossard and another Guard raced toward the Wasp before it could carry him away. From only a few feet away, both men fired into the back of its neck until it, too, struck the ground. Oberstlieutenant Bossard climbed atop the creature’s back and emptied his weapon into the side of its head. It stopped struggling. Satisfied that it was dead, they calmly reloaded their weapons.
Johan made the sign of the cross with his fingers and hurried toward the wounded driver. O’Bannon grabbed his arm and dragged him back.
“More will come soon, Your Holiness,” he said. “We cannot linger.”
Johan struggled but could not brea
k O’Bannon’s firm grip. “I must offer the Viaticum.”
“He cannot hear you. He is beyond the last rites.”
O’Bannon pushed Johan into the back seat, opened the front driver’s side door, and slid behind the wheel. As he cranked the Limousine, Bossard walked up. “He is right. It serves no purpose for you to die here. You are needed in Malta.”
Johan relented and moved over to let the lieutenant colonel sit beside him. He did not know if it was from fear or acceptance that many in the city, and across the globe, would die without last rites. He nodded and began to pray silently.
With Johan, O’Bannon, Colonel Bossard, and one other man in one limo and the remainder of the Swiss Guard in the second vehicle, they left the mountain. O’Bannon drove fast, heedless of posted limits or the sinuous curves of the narrow roads. Johan held tightly to the door handle, as the vehicle slewed left and right. The 420-horsepower engine roared like an angry beast, as O’Bannon pressed the accelerator as if trying to push it through the floor.
“We’ll follow the Via Aurelia to the SS1,” he said. He stared at Bossard through the rearview mirror. Johan wished he would keep his eyes on the road. “The A90 will be impassable. We’ll go through the mountains, through Malagrotto and Castel di Guido.”
Bossard agreed. “The creature came up the Tiber Valley to Rome from the coast. There have been reports of Fleas and Wasps both ahead of it and in its wake. We should avoid the area. The hills will be safer. These limos have BR6 armor, rated against hand grenades and 7.62 rounds. We shouldn’t encounter anything bigger than that.”