Wasp Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

“I won’t,” said March.

  Adelaide nodded and took a deep breath. “Better get going.”

  “Yeah,” said March. She took another deep breath and turned to her controls, and March stepped into the dorsal corridor, the door sliding shut behind him. Jordan stood in the corridor, looking nervous, and March heard Stormreel and Donaghy moving around the armory.

  “Good God, man!” Donaghy called. “How many guns do you have?”

  “Not enough,” said March, walking into the armory.

  He had converted one of the passenger cabins into an armory, and thanks to the racks of equipment and weapons lining the walls, it felt cramped. Donaghy stood gaping at the plasma rifles, while Stormreel armed himself with a pair of plasma pistols.

  “Breath masks are in there, night-vision goggles are in there,” said March, pointing at the respective shelves. “If the Wasps left behind any kind of biological contagion or virus, we’ll want breath masks.”

  “Good thinking,” said Stormreel, reaching for the shelf.

  March already had his plasma pistol at his waist, so he clipped another holster to his belt and took a kinetic firearm, a .45 semiautomatic with an eighteen-round magazine. He claimed a bandoleer and loaded it with grenades and spare power packs that would fit both a plasma pistol and a plasma rifle, and he also took a grenade launcher and slung it over his shoulder. For his primary weapon, he took one of the plasma rifles from the rack. The weapon was capable of single-shot, three-shot, and fully automatic fire, and could manage one hundred and fifty shots off a single power pack. Finally, March took a breath mask and a pair of goggles, strapping them to his head, and secured an earpiece with a camera in his ear.

  “Why did you take a kinetic firearm?” said Donaghy.

  “In case the Wasps can shrug off plasma fire,” said March. “That’s what the grenade launcher is for, too. Make sure you all take earpieces, and then we’ll do a communications check.”

  The three naval officers took the necessary equipment, their faces concealed behind the black goggles and breath masks. They did a communications check, confirming they could hear each other and Adelaide, and then March reached into the armory and took a device that looked like a bulky, oversized plasma rifle with a pair of tanks attached to the side.

  “You get to carry this,” said March, handing the plasma torch to Jordan, “in case we need to cut into the strong room.

  The mask and the goggles concealed Jordan’s expression, but the ensign took the heavy torch without complaint.

  “Have our preparations been sufficient?” said Stormreel.

  Probably not, thought March.

  “They’ll be good enough for what we need,” said March. “Adelaide?”

  “Here,” said Adelaide into his earpiece, her voice crackling a little.

  “We’re heading out,” said March.

  “Dr. Taren,” said Stormreel. “I suggest you keep the dark energy scan running. If any of the Eumenidae starships detected our arrival, they might come to investigate.”

  “That’s a good point, Admiral,” said Adelaide. The corridor’s lights flickered a little as she diverted power. “I’ll keep the scan running.”

  “They might not bother to investigate,” said Donaghy. “The Tiger wouldn’t have generated a lot of dark energy radiation when she exited hyperspace. Certainly not enough to indicate the presence of a capital warship.”

  “Either way, let’s be gone before they decide to investigate,” said March. “Let’s go.”

  He led the way down the corridor and the ladder to the cargo bay. The airlock in the cargo ramp cycled, and March and the other men stepped through the airlock and into the hangar.

  March took a few steps around, rifle ready in his hands. The HUD features in his goggles came online, noting distance and air temperature. They networked with his breath mask and informed him that they detected no trace of toxins or atmospheric contaminants. Of course, the software might not be configured to detect biological weapons created by ancient alien races, so March would keep his mask right where it was.

  The cavernous hangar seemed eerie. It wasn’t silent. The steady, faint rattle of the equipment required to pressurize such a vast space echoed through the hangar, and the maintenance and arming machinery overhead buzzed and hummed and occasionally clanged. Harsh arc lights bolted to the ceiling banished every hint of shadows from the deck. Scattered maintenance carts and tool cases dotted the hangar. From time to time maintenance drones on treads whirred out from doors in the walls, looked for fighters to service, failed to find any, and returned to their niches.

  “There was heavy fighting here, sir,” said Donaghy, pointing at the blast marks on the deck. “Here, here, and there.”

  “Yes,” said Stormreel. His masked face turned left and right. “It looks like a Eumenidae shuttle landed here, likely after the station’s fighter cover had been destroyed. I suspect the hangar technicians and a troop of station security made a stand here and were killed.”

  “And their bodies were harvested,” said Donaghy, voice grim.

  “Oh, God,” said Jordan. There was a quaver in his voice. “Oh, God. There were thousands of Navy personnel here, and they’re all dead. They’re all dead!”

  Perhaps bringing Jordan had been a bad idea.

  “Steady, Ensign,” said Stormreel. “It is our task to avenge our fallen comrades, and to defend the civilians of Vesper’s World.”

  “What’s the best way to the operations center?” said March

  “The lift system, probably,” said Stormreel, pointing with his pistol. At the far end of the hangar, hundreds of meters away, was a row of massive double doors, each one of which led to a maintenance workshop. Next to the workshop entrances were a half-dozen smaller double doors that led to the station’s lift system.

  “Unless it’s been locked down due to the intruders,” said March.

  “It might not have been,” said Donaghy. “From the position of the hull breaches, I think the Wasps just landed on the station and sliced their way inside wherever they detected enough life signs.”

  “Let’s find out,” said March. “I’ll take point. Admiral, you bring up the back. Ensign Jordan, Captain Donaghy, take the center, please.” The men moved into position, and March started forward. “Adelaide? Can you get any better sensor readings from inside the station?”

  “Negative,” said Adelaide. “The life sensor readings are inconclusive. But I can tell for certain that the main reactor is offline. Also, there are quite a few hull breaches near the operations center. I think there might have been heavy fighting there. To get to the commander’s office, you’ll have to either take a roundabout route, or you might have to find a vacuum suit.”

  “Great,” said Donaghy.

  “Acknowledged,” said March, and they crossed the hangar and reached the nearest lift door. March hit the button, and it flashed green, the doors sliding open. The lift car beyond looked like most space station lift cars, with seats lining the wall like a bus. March looked at the control panels next to the door.

  “System’s not locked down,” said March.

  “No,” said Stormreel. “But it’s showing damage.” He pointed at a map of the station’s lift system above the panel. Many of the available lines glowed red. “Especially near the operations and administrative levels.”

  “Would it be safer to climb through the maintenance corridors?” said Donaghy.

  “It might,” said March, “but that would be at least a kilometer and a half of climbing, and we’d lose a lot of time. Let’s take the lift car for now. If it breaks down, we can always climb out and use the shafts.”

  “Very well,” said Stormreel. “The lift system is clear until we get to the environmental control room. From there, I think we can use an access corridor to reach the operations center and then the commander’s office.”

  March nodded and tapped the control panel, setting environmental control as the destination. The lift controls chimed, the door slid sh
ut, and the car jolted a little beneath his boots. The hum of motors came to his ears, and soon the car was rising. He watched the numbers tick off on the display as they climbed the decks, and after about two minutes, the car came to a halt. The control panel chimed again, and March raised his rifle, leveling it at the doors.

  The doors slid open, revealing a lift lobby, but no signs of enemies.

  There were, however, signs of recent fighting.

  Both the deck and the walls were scorched and blackened in places from volleys of plasma bolts, and there was a massive reddish-brown stain on the deck that March recognized as drying blood. Here and there were spatters of grayish-green material that sort of looked like insulation foam.

  “Bloodstains,” said Stormreel, his pistol covering the doors at the other end of the lobby.

  “What’s that stuff, sir?” said Jordan, stepping towards one of the grayish-green spatters.

  “Don’t get too close to it,” said March. “That’s probably Wasp biomass. Blood, maybe. Or whatever their equivalent for blood is.”

  Jordan swallowed and stepped back. “The mask doesn’t detect any contaminants in the air.”

  “It might not be smart enough to detect Wasp contaminants,” said March.

  “Regardless, the material has dried out and is most probably inert,” said Stormreel. “Nevertheless, do not touch it. To judge from the lack of either human bodies or Wasp remains, it seems our surmise was correct. The Wasps attacked the station to remove it as a threat and to harvest biomass. Likely they have not realized our true objective. Captain March?”

  March nodded and took point again, covering the way ahead with his rifle. The doors at the other end of the lobby slid open, revealing a wide corridor of gray metal, lit overhead with white light. Emergency lights flashed crimson, and a computer’s voice repeated warnings over and over.

  “All hands to battle stations,” said the computer, the voice female and cool and calm. “All hands to battle stations. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill. Multiple hostile intruders have boarded the station. Hull breaches detected. Proceed to the nearest decompression station. All hands to battle stations…”

  The computer continued reciting its warnings to the departed crew.

  “The door on the left, at the end of the corridor,” said Stormreel. “That should take us to environmental control, and from there we can use the access corridors to reach the operations center.”

  March nodded and opened the door that the admiral had indicated. Beyond was a large room filled with computer consoles. A screen dominated one wall, showing a layout of the station’s environmental systems. Most of the big screen flashed red, showing the areas that had suffered hull breaches and the loss of atmosphere. March eased forward, sweeping the rifle back and forth and checking the corners and angles.

  “Whoever you are, don’t move!”

  The voice was shrill and terrified, and March whirled.

  A man in an armored gray spacesuit jumped up from behind a console, a plasma pistol clutched in his shaking hands.

  Chapter 5: Reconnaissance

  March’s reflexes took over, and he almost killed the man then and there.

  He stopped himself in time. The man wasn’t wearing his suit’s helmet, and his face was terrified beneath a coating of sweat. And from the way his hands shook, his plasma bolt was more likely to hit the wall than anything else.

  “Identify yourselves!” shouted the man in the spacesuit. “Put your hands in the air! Drop your weapons!”

  “Which of those,” said Stormreel with imperturbable calm, “would you like us to do first, young man?”

  The man in the space suit opened his mouth, closed it again. “You’re not…you’re not…”

  “My name is Admiral Theodoric Stormreel, Lord Admiral of the Seventh Fleet of the Royal Calaskaran Navy,” said Stormreel. “This is Captain Alex Donaghy, Ensign Daniel Jordan, and Captain Jack March, who currently has a plasma rifle pointed at your chest. That won’t be necessary, however, if you lower your weapon.”

  “Lord Admiral?” croaked the man. “I…I recognize you from the news videos.”

  “What’s your name, son?” said Stormreel.

  “Uh,” said the man. He blinked a few times, returned his pistol to its holster, and saluted. “Technician Second Class Samuel Warner, sir. I…uh, I was working in the environmental systems, upgrading the air handlers for the residential levels, and then…”

  “Steady,” said Stormreel. March eased a little, shifting his rifle so it didn’t aim at Warner, but he kept watching the room and the doors. If Warner had survived the attack, then others might have done so…and they might also be jumpy and trigger-happy. “What happened here?”

  “I…I don’t really know, sir,” said Warner. “I was upgrading the air handlers on the residential levels, and then the commander called all hands to battle stations. My battle post is here in the environmental control room. I had my sidearm with me, so I headed for the control room. Then the station started shaking, and there were explosions…and those things were in the corridors.”

  “Things?” said Stormreel.

  “Aliens,” said Warner. “I don’t know what they were, sir. Big things, stood eight feet tall or so. They were an ugly greenish-gray color and they had red glowing lights on their arms. A dozen of them rushed me, and I managed to shoot two or three. They’d have had me, sir, but then a missile or a torpedo or something hit the hull. The hull breach blew them out into space, but I had my suit since I was doing upgrades. I managed to hang on. I was stuck in the utility corridors, but I found my way out…and you’re the first people I’ve seen since. I think the aliens took all the crew and the civilians, sir.”

  “I see,” said Stormreel. “What are you doing now?”

  “I was making my way to the operations center, sir,” said Warner. “I…uh, wasn’t sure what to do. I can’t raise anyone on internal communications. Figured I had better get to the operations center and make sure we’re broadcasting a distress call. And then I could do an internal scan, see if anyone survived…or if any of those aliens are still on the station.”

  “Very good,” said Stormreel. “As it happens, we are proceeding to the operations center ourselves. You will accompany us, and then we’ll return to our ship, depart the station, and head for the Seventh Fleet.”

  “You’ve got a ship, sir?” said Warner, hope going over his tired face.

  “Well, Captain March does,” said Stormreel. “But we’re all in this crisis together. Once we’ve completed our business on the station, we’ll rejoin the Seventh Fleet. Then we can take the fight to the enemy.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Warner. “Uh…begging your pardon, sir, but why the hell is the Lord Admiral of the Seventh Fleet walking around a space station under attack? Isn’t that the sort of thing the Royal Marines are supposed to do?”

  Adelaide laughed in March’s ear. “He’s a smart one.”

  “The fortunes of battle, I am afraid,” said Stormreel. “You have a better knowledge of local conditions than we do. What is the best route to the operations center from here?”

  “Uh,” said Warner, running an armored hand through his sweaty hair. “Well, we’re about two-thirds of the way up the central core. The levels above us took battle damage, missile or torpedo hits or whatever. The lift system’s out above us. But the utility corridors are still intact, and we can make it to the operations center if we climb a bit.”

  “By all means, lead the way,” said Stormreel.

  “Yes, sir,” said Warner, taking a deep breath.

  “Keep your weapon out,” said March. “There might be more of the aliens on the station yet.”

  Warner blinked. “That’s…a good point, Captain…March, was it?” March nodded. Warner looked at him, likely confused by his lack of a naval uniform, and then shrugged. “This way, sir.” He crossed the room and unlocked a narrow access door next to the wall screen. “These aliens, sir…what the hell are they?”


  “Wasps,” said Stormreel.

  “Wasps?” said Warner, baffled. The door unlocked with a clang and slid aside to reveal a narrow utility corridor. The deck was a metal grill, and bundles of cables and pipes covered the walls. It was narrow enough that they would have to go single file. “Like, stinging insects?”

  “I’ll go first,” said March, leveling the plasma rifle. “Admiral, bring up the back. Donaghy, Jordan, Warner. Follow me in that order. Try not to shoot me in the back if you see any enemies. Warner, you’ll need to give me directions.”

  “All right,” said Warner. “Head forward for about ninety meters. That will take us to a junction box, and we can climb to the next level from there.”

  “Right,” said March. “Let’s go.”

  He led the way into the utility corridor, the others following single-file behind him.

  “Those aliens, sir,” said Warner. “The Wasps. What are they?”

  “You remember the song, Technician?” said Donaghy.

  “Song? What song?”

  Donaghy treated them to another rendition of the primary school song that March had heard in the Tiger’s galley.

  “Oh, those Wasps!” said Warner. “But I thought the Fifth Empire wiped them out.”

  “The Fifth Empire succeeded in destroying the Eumenidae incursions into human-controlled space at that time,” said Stormreel. “It is unlikely the Eumenidae were entirely exterminated. They are a migratory race, and it is probable other groups of them were moving through the galaxy or even traveling to other galaxies.”

  “Admiral,” said March. “I suggest we leave the history lesson until we return to the Tiger. No telling how far sound will carry in these corridors.”

  “As you wish,” said Stormreel, unruffled.

  They continued through the utility corridor and reached the junction box that Warner had described. There were no signs of fighting in the corridor, no blast marks or debris, and March suspected that the fighting hadn’t reached this part of the station. They climbed the ladders, making their way from deck to deck, and at last emerged into another utility corridor. Warner told March to walk for another fifty meters, and they stopped in a junction box formed by the intersection of three corridors.