Vorpal Blade

by John Ringo

  It was the buoyancy air to which the chief referred.

  "I hope we can do this, period," Weaver said, hefting his mop. "Prepare to gargalize!"

  "As a battlecry it leaves something to be desired, sir," Miller replied as the water rose over his sensor dome.

  The sensors stayed online as the water filled the compartment and reached full pressure. And no leaks sprayed across his pilot compartment. So Miller hit the air lock controls and stepped out.

  The air lock was on the top of the boat and he could see the mass of the crabpus blotting out the light from above.

  He clipped off a safety line and then, cautiously, walked down the exterior of the boat. There was another point to clip a line ten meters from the air lock and he clipped another line to that. Only then did he, oh so slowly, begin to fill the bags.

  Finally, he felt a slight upwards tug and halted to check his buoyancy. There was a delay effect and as the bags pulled upwards they jerked him off the deck.

  Flying up and slamming into the thing wasn't in the plan so he paid out the safety-line, ascending slowly. Looking to the side, he saw Weaver heading up as well.

  Dr. Robertson hadn't determined what the things used for senses but they had to hope there weren't many sensors on the underside of the thing. Otherwise, they were simply going to get eaten.

  As he approached the underside of the leviathan's shell he started trying to figure out where the ticklish patch was. There were twelve plates on the underside of the crabpus and he had to find the right one.

  Stopping just under the shell, he looked over at Weaver, who was gesturing farther upwards. The problem was, they had ended up approaching the middle of the crabpus' underside. The patch they had to get to was farther forward. The thing was resting with its "arms" around the ship, canted upwards. They could get to the patch by letting out more line, but then they'd be touching the underside of the crabpus. It was likely to react badly to that.

  Miller gestured to the scientist, then let out more line until the bags of air touched the underside of the crab. No reaction. He let out a bit more line and the bags slid upwards. Then the crab shifted, like a sleeper moving in a dream, the metal of the hull crunching briefly on the submarine rocks.

  Miller paused but the balloon was now away from the crab, floating invitingly near the patch he was looking for. He let more line out and wafted gently upward through the clear water until he was opposite the "tickle patch."

  His balloons, alas, were floating right in front of the crabpus' massive maw. In fact, as the current pushed him back and forth, they tended to drift between the giant mandibles. He'd just have to hope that "tickling" didn't cause the thing to close its mouth.

  And the mop still would not reach. But . . . It was the RonCorp Vibro Mop with patented extending handle. So he extended the handle, turned on the vibrator and now it reached.

  He looked over to see where Weaver had gotten to. The commander, though, was right there with him, on the opposite side of the patch.

  He'd have much preferred to be placing a heavy charge on the thing, but he lifted the mop and began stroking it back and forth. . . .

  "Whoa!" the pilot yelled as the submarine shifted, violently. As the tentacles loosened, the sub was pulled sideways and down to rest on its side.

  "Engage space drive!" the CO said. "Lift, now! Ten gravities!"

  The SEAL was jerked away from the patch as the ship lifted and the balloons flew upwards. This was one of several bits he hadn't been looking forward to but he braced in the Wyvern as the ship lifted upwards. Suddenly he was going down again as the balloons hit the surface. Worse, he could see the tentacles of the leviathan starting to shift. It was waking up.

  The ship lifted out of the water, fast, but he stayed three meters under, dangling from the buoyancy bag, as the giant crabpus began to move, one tentacle coming up for the ship . . .

  It had fallen asleep! The prey was escaping!

  One of the lashing tentacles slid across the steel hull, then wrapped around the metal cover of Number Two Laser. Hit, stuck as others began to wrap around the prey and drag it downwards . . .

  "We're stuck again, sir!" the pilot called, desperately. "I can pull us out, I think, but . . ."

  The sub began to shudder and shake as more tentacles wrapped around it. Spectre reached over and flipped open the switch for the view port and looked forward.

  "Pilot, give me six gravs absolute forward and HIT it!"

  * * *

  Weaver pulled up on his rope as a tentacle lashed by just under his feet.

  "Chief? You okay?"

  "Grapping mothergrapper of a behanchod . . . Try to eat my ride . . . Put some octo where the sun don't shine . . ."

  "Guess that's a 'yes' . . ." Weaver said as he was yanked downward. "What the . . . ?"

  The massive supercavitation system of the Vorpal Blade slammed into the carpalus plate of the sea beast at just under twenty miles per hour. Struck and penetrated, slamming the beast downward into the water. The beast spasmed but kept jetting outward, trying to escape, now . . .

  "And back at ten grav," Spectre called. "Hold that. Four degrees up, two left and gimme fifteen gravities! NOW!"

  This time the supercavitation system hit the crabpus at the juncture of the carpalus plate and the gargalus, the "tickle" plate, punching upwards into the monster's limited brain and exiting just between its eyes. The gigantic crabpus dropped limp.

  "Holy MAULK!" Jaenisch shouted as the ship erupted from the waves in a welter of foam. Stuck to the front, impaled by the "Blade," the weight of gravity having slid it all the way down so that it rested against the nose of the ship, was the giant sea beast. Fully exposed, it was apparent that its carapace was as long as the hull of the massive sub which was, itself, the size of a WWII battleship. The tentacles of the thing dangled limp as the ship, nose up to keep the beast impaled, rose above the plateau and hovered.

  "Captain MacDonald, this is the CO," Spectre said over the general announcement freq. "I believe your suits have some very good cameras."

  "Yes, sir!" MacDonald said. "Two-Gun, I want a very detailed still of this image, son. Make sure you can get those two Wyverns on the side for scale!"

  "I'm going to send a copy of it to grapping Space Command," Spectre said. "With my compliments."

  "I wanna know how we're gonna mount it," Jaenisch said.

  * * *

  "You're joking," the CO said.

  "Not really, sir," Weaver replied, taking a sip of Coke. He really thought that, all things considered, it should be beer. "Freeze-drying something is just exposing it to vacuum for a specified period. If we pull it up to orbit, leave it there for, oh, a couple of days, then take it back down to, say, that north polar continent . . ."

  "Yeah, but where are we going to store it?" Spectre asked. "I mean, once we get it back."

  "Someplace dry," Weaver said. "And secure. Area 51?"

  23

  A Voice as Stern as Conscience

  "We're down twelve Marines," Captain MacDonald said. "All of their Wyverns, even the ones we recovered, are useless. We can blage them for parts, but that's about it. And we're down one scientist."

  The CO had ordered the ship into deep space, then stopped to have a conference. They weren't in full "chill" mode, but most systems were powered down as much as possible and the chiller fans had been extended. The ship needed to chill in more ways than one.

  "I'm qualified in geology and planetology," Dr. Beach said. "As is Dr. Becker. For that matter, Dr. Robertson has a masters in geology and Dr. Weaver has a masters in planetology. Last, Lord only knows what Mimi is capable of."

  "Yeah, but we've taken a solid hit," the CO said. His jaw worked for a moment. Those losses were, after all, all "his" people. "And we're less than fourteen hours from Sol system. Time to head home."

  "Sir, with due respect," the XO said, frowning. "We are not done with the mission."

  "We've just taken casualties in more than a third of our securit
y contingent," the CO replied. "Not to mention a science team member. We've got damage throughout the ship, including pressure leaks from that damned squid thing. The sick bay is packed and we've got people in quarantine. And your professional opinion is that we should not return, XO?"

  "Sir, if I could interject?" Miller said uncomfortably. "I think I see what's going on here."

  "Go ahead," the CO said, leaning back and glancing unreadably at the XO.

  "Sir, sub officers and surface officers think differently," the warrant officer said. "I've worked, extensively, with both and it's something that SEALs notice. Sub officers will keep at sea even when most people would consider it much more . . . prudent to return to base. Surface warfare officers are more inclined to put in when something goes seriously wrong. I'm not saying which approach is better or worse, sir, but it's a very different approach. I think that's what's going on here."

  "I'd never noticed it," the XO said, nodding, "but the chief's right. Sir, I've been on boats that were leaking like a sieve and had half the machinery held together with spit and prayer and we stayed on mission. That's . . . the submarine service, sir."

  "Interesting point," Spectre said, frowning. "I'd accept further input."

  "The question to me, sir, is I suppose, which culture the space navy assumes," Weaver said, nodding in thought. "Taking that view of the two disparate cultures and given that this ship is, among other things, going to set the cultural tone of the navy that follows, which do you choose? Frankly, sir, viewed that way it's a much bigger question than simply 'do we turn back?' Assuming that we survive the Dreen, in a hundred years a captain of a spaceship, faced with the same decision, is going to say: 'What did Spectre do?' "

  "Oh, crap," the CO snapped. "Thank you so very much, Commander Weaver. So the choice is 'Damn the torpedoes' or 'Prudence at sea is always wisdom.' Not much choice there, is there? I'm much more worried about what the review board is going to say than what a captain a hundred years in the future is going to think. Not to mention if we can survive the rest of the cruise and return alive. This is the only spaceship Earth and the Adari have. Losing it would be a major setback. Not to mention terminal to everyone on-board."

  "Again, sir, I would say it depends upon the nature of the review board," Miller said. "If the review board is primarily former sub skippers, they're going to shrug and say: 'Of course you continue the mission.' Carrier commanders might wonder if you were sane."

  "And, again, that's going to set the tone of the space navy, sir," Weaver said. "Given what we've already encountered, the only difference here is that we've taken casualties. Serious casualties, admittedly, but that's the major difference."

  "The ship damage from the dimension jump and retanking the air systems was worse than the pounding we just took, sir," the XO pointed out. "Except for the casualties, we're in better shape than we were at Sirius. We filled our fresh water tanks, took on a bunch of O2 and chilled down while we were submerged. There were benefits accrued to being dragged underwater. On a comestible level, well, we're pretty good. Less use, among other things."

  "Commander, your tendency to look on the bright side can sometimes border on the annoying," Spectre said, shaking his head. "Okay, I appreciate the input. I'm going to have to give this some thought. XO, ensure I'm not disturbed unless a giant space beast attempts to eat the ship. And I'm authorizing an issue of medicinal bourbon."

  The CO stood up and left the compartment, headed for his office.

  "The term here, is 'weight of command,' " Miller said, standing up. "Fortunately, I'm not the commander, so I'm going to go get at the head of the line."

  "Medicinal bourbon?" Dr. Beach asked.

  "Every warship of sufficient size is issued enough bourbon for two issues per person on-board," the XO said, standing up. "Little bottles like you get on planes. The CO is authorized to issue it if he feels the entire crew needs some tranquilization. Given that Dr. Chet has two trank cases in the sickbay and everyone's looking a little rocky, I think it's a justified order. Now I need to go carry it out."

  "I thought you were going to go get at the head of the line," Weaver said, entering the mission specialist mess. Miller was sitting at one of the tables with a bulb of Coke in front of him.

  "What, you think I didn't bring my own?" Miller said, pulling a bottle of Aunt Jemima syrup out of a musset bag. "Grab a cup.

  "Absent friends," Miller said, lifting his cup.

  "Absent friends," Weaver said, downing the bourbon. "You've been hanging out with the Marines. I can't believe they lost an entire platoon while we were under water."

  "I room with their first sergeant, note," Miller said. "It is not sweetness and light in the Marine compartment right now. Apparently they were all going to get wiped out but one kid with an experimental gun stopped the charge."

  "Kid needs to get a medal," Weaver said.

  "Captain MacDonald has recommended him for the Silver Star," Miller said. "It still doesn't change the fact that we're down some serious troops. And we've got the wrong guns, apparently. The Marines say that their Gatlings hit and bounced off those things."

  "What was the experimental gun?" Weaver asked.

  "Believe it or not, a cut down Barrett," the SEAL said, shaking his head. "The kid uses them as pistols. His nickname is Two-Gun."

  "I'm almost sorry I missed it," Bill said as Miriam and Mimi walked into the compartment. "That would have been something to see."

  "Join us in some medicinal bourbon?" Miller asked. "It's good to see you up and around, Miriam. How's the edema?"

  "Gone," Miriam said, sitting down. "And I'm allergic to alcohol. But feel free. Most of my friends drink. I'm a great designated driver."

  "None for me, either," Mimi said. "Not ready to try it, yet. I hear that the Marines . . ."

  "Twelve dead," Miller said.

  "That's terrible!" Miriam said. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry!"

  "Nothing you could have done," Miller replied. "Those things weren't talking."

  "I can still be sorry," Miriam said. "Is there anything we can do for them?"

  "That's a good question," the SEAL said, frowning. "Honestly, you probably could. But I don't know if you should. Right now, they're going to be in the Marine mess, getting their issue of bourbon. There's some empty seats . . ."

  "And we could fill them?" Miriam asked. "I've done counseling before. But I'm not sure we're allowed . . ."

  "You're allowed," the SEAL said. "They're not allowed in our area, not the reverse. But we shouldn't go down there, yet. Not as shocky as they're going to be. Give it . . . fifteen or twenty minutes."

  "Okay," Miriam said. "So a question: Why are we just sitting here?"

  "The CO is trying to figure out if we should go home or stay out and finish the mission," Bill replied.

  "Go home," Miriam said.

  "Keep going," Mimi replied almost simultaneously.

  "We have people who are hurt," Miriam said, frowning prettily. "They should be in a hospital."

  "Dr. Chet is very good and there's nothing a hospital could do for them he isn't," Weaver pointed out.

  "Better food," Miller said. "No, scratch that. Worse food. Well, if you don't mind three-bean salad."

  "I mind three-bean salad," Weaver said. "But mostly because it should be outlawed on a submarine."

  "This is harder than we expected," Miriam pointed out. "This is only the second planet we've found with life and we lost all those soldiers, and Dr. Dean. What if other planets are worse?"

  "We didn't really know what to expect," Weaver said. "We've run into four alien species so far. Three of them were enemies. We've run into some weird space stuff, but that was to be expected. I thought it would be harder than it has been."

  "We haven't run into magic, yet," Miller said. "No giant floating heads in space, no godlike beings and nothing that's trying to eat us in weird ways. Hell, we haven't even run into another Boca Anomaly. Seems okay to me, so far. And, note, I probably spent more time wi
th those Marines than any of you. I knew them by name. But they were here to keep the scientists and commanders from getting eaten and they did their jobs. The ship's still working and we've got air, food and water. We're good. What do you think, Mimi?"

  "What's the purpose of the mission?" the girl asked.

  "Local area survey," Weaver replied. "Get a look at the local area. Get a feel for how many viable planets there might be in the galaxy and especially in the local area. Keep an eye out for the Dreen."