Back From the Dead

by Rolf Nelson

  “The average adult eats about a half kilo a day, dry weight,” Kwon answers. “Young men, more. We have no emergency or reserve stocks if things go wrong. If the mission goes sideways we might wish we had twice that.”

  They’re sitting in the Officers’ Mess, looking over the contract and related details with Helton, Allonia, and Harbin. Bipasha is unconvinced. “It’s much more than what we’ll need.”

  “For just this trip, if nothing goes wrong,” Kwon agrees. “But I’m betting he lowballed the guess — brass always does. I’ll check the details, but for now triple the prep-packs, extra fresh, and at least 400 more cases of e-rats.”

  “More? 400 cases? That’s crazy!”

  “We’re near a war zone with no formal supply lines,” Helton says, “and a few locals don’t like us. I personally kinda like eating. Lay it in, if you can find it.”

  “But that’s an extra three tons at least!”

  “As you keep pointing out, we’re already packing thousands of extra tons. Three more?”

  “What about this?” Allonia says, pointing to another item on the list in front of her. “Why would the Colonel suggest rubber sheets? Sounds weird.”

  “What, specifically?” Helton asks.

  Bipasha reads over her shoulder: “200 berth sheets, rubber, type BB5L? We already have linens for the bunks.”

  “We’ll be carrying injured people,” Harbin says, “and may soon be transporting refugees.”

  “Sanitize easily,” Kwon clarifies. “Don’t leak.”

  Bipasha’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

  “BB,” Harbin amplifies. “They double as body bags.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, if we can get these items at the listed prices, then we just slightly more than break even, assuming nothing goes wrong and Stenson’s fuel estimates are right.”

  “Told you it would work out,” Helton gloats. Dinner has come and gone, and they’re still sitting around the mess table, going through the contract, supplies, and timetable.

  “If the only way to barely break even is to fly into a war zone on a high-risk mission, you may have a serious problem with your so-called business plan, assuming it also includes either get rich or die of old age.”

  Allonia follows her heart. “The injured soldiers need our help. I vote we take it.”

  “If we stay, I cook,” Kwon says. “If we go, I cook. Meh.”

  Harbin is cautiously positive. “I wouldn’t call this high-risk”, he says. “But it would help establish your name, and perhaps give us some first-hand intelligence.”

  “Anyone firmly opposed, with a specific reason?” Helton asks. “No? Okay, then. We go. Kwon, get the food laid in. Bipasha, get the contract all signed up, with the mods we agreed on. Allonia, get the rest of the supplies. Harbin, be your normal badass self, and get the recruits to get everything on the cargo deck cleared away. Are they staying here, or coming with us?”

  “It would be a good training opportunity for them. They can assist with cargo and injured personnel. Go with, unless the Colonel has other plans for them.”

  “Then pick up anything extra you think they might need: training gear, space suits, whatever. Looks like we have a plan. Look alive, everyone!”

  Loading

  It’s dark, and it’s raining. Two crewmen are loading a heavily damaged APC with a machine gun mounted on top, one driving slowly up Tajemnica’s cargo bay ramp, the other ground-guiding. They stop the APC just inside the cargo bay door, and the driver climbs out to help the ground guide secure it. Further inside are several more damaged vehicles and cargo containers chained to the deck. Some have guns, all have obvious damage.

  A multi-joint articulated arm silently unfolds from a long, narrow hatch at the side of the entryway, between the cargo bay doors and the ramp. It snakes out, extending silently over the heads of the men securing the tie-downs, and reaches for the top of the APC. The arm manipulates the machine gun, removing it from its mounts, then retracts back into the storage bay with the gun affixed to its end. The narrow hatch closes silently, concealing the arm and gun from view.

  The crewmen finish securing the APC and stand up. One looks at the top of the APC, cocks his head to the side curiously, and starts to say something. He turns to his partner and sees him walking away, then shrugs his shoulders, and turns to another task.

  The injured troops are loaded after the heavy equipment. They file into the cargo bay, past the tied-down vehicles. Some are missing legs or arms, or have simple temporary prosthetics, and some are in wheelchairs, pushed by fit soldiers. Some of the soldiers are happy to be leaving the war zone. Others are grim, all too aware of what lies ahead.

  Bipasha processes them, checking their names on her manifest, telling them where to bunk. Allonia, on the verge of tears, directs them to the stairs or elevators. Kaushik, Kaminski, and a squad of recruits carry duffel bags for those unable to carry their own.

  Injured soldiers shuffle down the middeck passage and into their assigned cabins, settling in as best they can. They stow their duffels in lockers at the end of the compartment. Those who can slide into the top bunks. Others slide awkwardly into the bottom bunks, a few needing help even to do that.

  “A new record!” Cooper says, “Only four check failures total, all acknowledged as mission non-critical. Time to see how she flies loaded. Aaaannnnd, powering up. Main power nominal. A-grav and drives show on line. Here we go!”

  Tajemnica rises slowly, faintly lit by lights on the ground around her and the weak glow of her drive field. She noses up, turns slightly, and climbs for altitude.

  Harbin walks slowly along the middeck passageways, checking on the worst of the injured troops. He pauses before one door to listen.

  “This is the smallest berth I’ve ever been in!”

  “When you sleepin’, makes no diff, though. An’ you sleep a lot on those drugs!”

  “Food’s best we’ve had in a while. Reminds me of home.”

  “And those curves goin’ round makin’ sure we comfy? Whoo!”

  Harbin grins at that: normal chatter from troops in good spirits. Then the lights in the starboard passageway brighten to full strength, and the conversations pause. Quinn walks down the passageway.

  “Light back to 50 percent,” Harbin says tersely.

  “I can’t do that,” the Ship AI replies calmly.

  “Why not?”

  “Proper pediatric ocular development requires a minimum of two hours Earth-normal full sunlight per day cycle and periods of enhanced UV exposure for vitamin D.”

  “Huh? Pediwhatic?” asks one of the injured soldiers.

  “Means kids’ eyes need bright sunlight,” another answers.

  “Whatever,” Harbin says. “Just don’t do it when he wakes up in the middle of the night.”

  “Of course not. At night, it’s dark.”

  Harbin sighs, shakes his head, and moves on toward the next cabin, but Helton’s voice calls over the PA: “Harbin, can you come up to the bridge?”

  “On my way.”

  Intruders

  On the bridge. Cooper is at the pilot station, Helton at command. Kaushik and Kaminski, wearing full space armor, stand at copilot and weapons, and Kat stands at com/sensors. Harbin walks in.

  Helton (before Harbin’s all the way through the hatch): Did Lag tell you about any pirates or military craft in the area?

  Harbin: No. See something?

  Cooper (keeping his eyes on the controls): We may have a problem.

  Kat: Saw an anomaly.

  Helton (into a mic): Stenson, any issues with the sensors?

  Stenson (over the intercom): Beats me. I’m getting all kinds of crap that shouldn’t be there. Not sure what’s going on. They were fine five minutes ago.

  Kat: If the readings are right, we have a low-profile vessel on an intercept course.

  Harbin: How “low”, Ma’am?

  Cooper (sarcastically): If we knew that, we’d know a lot more than we do right now.

>   Helton: More of a “hole” in the readings than something being there. Thermals show background temp, but visible has stars blocked. Radar, nothing. No noticeable drive glow.

  Harbin: Sub?

  Kaushik: I’d be surprised if sensors this old could see a modern mil sub. Hence the question.

  Harbin: How soon to intercept?

  Cooper: Soon. Didn’t see it until just a few minutes ago. Ten, eleven minutes out.

  Harbin: So. Rocks are cold, but they usually aren’t stealthy. If they wanted to launch missiles at us, they would have done it already. Too far for guns, except on a course-denial path, if they don’t know about our armor. Beams could be used any time, but would instantly show position and intent. Must be sneaking up to board. Who else is suited up, sergeant?

  Kaminski: Horkle.

  Helton (surprised): Why is Horkle in space armor?

  Harbin: He spent years in space with his parents. Got caught borrowing space yachts for joyrides. SOP is to keep a couple of bodies in space armor whenever in conventional, so if bad shit happens fast you have people with a couple hours of air and a weapon to deal. He was the only other option, Helton. Not my choice of time or place. What we can do for weapons?

  Helton: Armor we got, weapons, not so much.

  Kaushik: One of the containers has light arms, and we have our training ammo.

  Harbin grows a devious smile.

  Harbin: And, of course, shields and axes.

  Helton: Uh, what? And why?

  Harbin: Shiny stuff. If they want to board, then we let ’em board. Or at least let them think they are about to board unnoticed. Work every angle, have backups. Here’s the plan.

  Cargo bay

  Recruits fill magazines from stripper clips, handing them to other recruits who deliver rifles and the magazines to injured-but-able soldiers taking defensive positions. Some of the soldiers are on B-Deck, positioned around the cargo bay windows, where they have lines of sight to the side and end airlock doors. Others are positioned in rooms along the A-Deck corridors, with doors ajar.

  Kaminski and Horkle wait near an airlock, wearing minimal armored space suits and armed with light rifles and fighting knives, carrying belts from which small equipment pouches are suspended. The rest of the recruits are dressing in old-fashioned steel armor on the cargo deck, with large scutum-like high-tech composite shields, armed with small axes, short swords at their waists.

  Bridge

  “Okay, Stenson,” Helton says into the mic, “stutter and jack up the engines. Just not so bad we can’t un-jack ’em.”

  “They likely think they are already. Here goes.”

  Outside

  Tajemnica floats quietly in space, the faint glow of her drives dimming more, then flickering out. A sleeker ship of 30 meters, with a much more even and diffuse drive shimmer, glides up along the top and extends magnetic grapples, and pulls itself down atop of Tajemnica.

  Bridge

  The silence is broken by creaking, grinding, and banging as the other ship latches on. There is a ringing BANG of explosives on metal, then silence once again.

  “They tried to cut in topside with explosives, didn’t work,” Helton announces over the PA system. “Looks like they are moving to the midship hatch starboard. Everyone not on the cargo deck hold positions.”

  Outside

  The two ships float quietly through space, latched together. The smaller ship detaches, moves, and attaches to the side airlock area. As it moves, two space-suited figures come up from the end of the Tajemnica, jet over to the intruder’s ship, and land lightly on the side near a hatch.

  Cargo bay

  Two lines of recruits with armor and shields stand near the side airlock doors. Injured soldiers with suppressed rifles cover the hatches from the middeck windows above. At Helton’s announcement the recruits all turn to face the starboard hatchway, Harbin front and center in the line. He offers quiet, confident assurance. “When you see them come through the door, throw the first ax at them, then throw again. Draw your sword and stand your ground. All you have to do is throw and stand. You can do it. Breathe in, hold. Breathe out, hold.”

  More clanging and banging sounds from outside. The recruits look around nervously and adjust their grips and weapons and armor. “Fall back four steps! Give ’em room!” Harbin calls. “HALT! Now dress and cover! Hold, hold!” The line straightens out, evens up, closes up, and hunkers down. Then they stand motionless.

  Harbin continues his quiet, confident mantra, ignoring the smell of urine in the air. “Doin’ fine, gents. Stand, throw, throw, draw, and hold. Let them come to you. All you gotta do.”

  Intruder’s cabin

  Six men are stacked up next to the airlock hatch, ready to pour through. They wear black space armor, slim air packs, and helmets with tinted visors. They have carbines slung across their chests for ready action and a variety of weapons on their belts, including grenades, combat knives, ammo pouches, and sidearms. A man in similar space armor sits at a pilot chair to the front of the cabin, while another stands ready to operate an airlock door. They all look professional and disciplined, but there are no obvious insignia anywhere.

  Outside

  Horkle and Kaminski cling to the airlock hatch on the side of the intruder’s ship with magnetic boots and one hand each. A red light glows on the hatch access pad. Horkle pulls out a pair of credit-card-sized devices connected with wires and slips one into a slot in the access pad. He presses a few buttons on the other card, and the red light on the pad flickers, then green and yellow lights flicker on. More button pushes, and all three lights glow steadily. Horkle touches his helmet to Kaminski’s so they can talk by sound conduction. “Piece of cake. Air’s out, the warning lights are off.”

  “Okay. Pop it.”

  Horkle shoves the hatch hard and Kaminski dives through, then waits in the airlock holding his carbine in one hand while he readies a grenade with the other. Horkle swings in and closes the hatch behind him, then inserts his security override device into the access pad for the inside hatch. Lights flicker, then stay lit, and Horkle opens the inner door with a gentle shove.

  Intruder’s cabin

  Kaminski takes in the layout in a glance, tosses the grenade into the middle of the cluster of men gathered around the airlock on the far side of the cabin, and ducks back inside. Horkle closes the hatch, the grenade explodes, and there is screaming.

  Horkle shoves the hatch open hard, and Kaminski goes through fast, firing three-round bursts so close together it almost sounds like full-auto. The bullets and brass and blood fly fast and thick, and the intruders go down quickly.

  Cargo bay

  Kaminski’s voice comes in over the intercom, “Intruder has been secured. Stand down. Threat neutralized. I say again, threat is neutralized. Unload and show clear, make safe your weapons.” The recruits sigh in relief and straighten up, relaxing.

  “NOT YOU GUYS!” Harbin yells. “Stand ready until I say so.” He thumbs a button on his throat mic. “Harbin to Kaminski, private. Code?”

  “Gold three. I think you should bring Kat and Helton over to take a look at this. It isn’t what we thought.”

  Marque

  In the intruder’s cabin lie eight violently dead men in lightly armored dark uniform spacesuits, all armed. Kat, Kaminski, Harbin, Horkle, and Helton look over the carnage. One of the men is sprawled on his back, a badge showing on his chest. Harbin examines the bodies professionally.

  Harbin: Intrasystem Customs Enforcement, trying a no-warning boarding.

  Helton: Oh God what do we do now? We just killed a bunch of our guys.

  Kat: Not so much our guys as government guys.

  Kaminski: They’re pirates, just the kind with badges and formal pay grade.

  Helton: GUYS! What do we do with them? What will they do with us? Kat?

  Kat: Not really my specialty, but I’m pretty sure killing law enforcement is a capital offense around here.

  Horkle (looking rather green in the face): Oh
, just fuckin’ GREAT!

  Harbin: They acted like pirates. They get treated like pirates.

  Kat (testily): That’s not how the law works, you know.

  Harbin (unconcerned): That’s why I’m not a lawyer.

  Horkle (strained voice, rationalizing): Didn’t even notice the uniforms until they were dead. I popped the hatch for Ski, just like a boarding drill we practiced last week. He dove in, I followed, a couple of seconds later it was over. Dead man. I’m a dead man. First mission and I–

  Harbin: No. You are not a dead man, yet. (To the others) Options?

  Kaminski: If we toss ‘em all in the Carbon Recovery Unit, sterilize the weapons and the ship, it can’t be traced to us.

  Helton: Destroying evidence? That’s gonna look good at trial.

  Horkle: I think I’m going to puke.

  Kaminski: Why can’t we just CRU the bodies, strip the hardware, keep it, or sell it? It’s not like they need it anymore.

  Helton: We are not pirates.

  Harbin: They attacked us first, we just won the fight.

  Kat: Wait. Maybe there is a way. Are any of the injured soldiers pilots?

  Helton: I wouldn’t think so, but we can check. Are you taking him seriously?

  Kat: Give me a minute. I need to look at something in that word salad Lag calls orders. Don’t touch anything, don’t say anything. Go back to our ship, guard the door, secure things, and find a pilot or two if you can.

  Harbin watches as the recruits remove and stow their armor, then start cleaning up the various messes on the cargo bay deck. Most recruits are babbling non-stop, wired on post-action adrenaline, though a couple look almost asleep. One recruit looks troubled. He stands still, frowning, looking down at his neat pile of armor and weapons, slowly clenching and unclenching his hands. Looking up, he catches Harbin’s eye, turns towards him, and approaches him directly.

  Alvarez (quietly but intensely): Can I talk to you?

  Harbin (with understanding but firmly): If you feel the need to say something to a superior that might be not very polite, the proper thing is to ask for permission to speak freely.