by Mark Wandrey
T’jto led Rick and Lynn to their quarters in Section Two. Their rooms were next to each other. Rick looked inside and found a space configured for Human use, about eight feet by five feet with a little desk and a fold-out chair. There was a small Tri-V projector and a slate sitting on the desk. Home sweet home.
“You two are bunked next to me,” T’jto explained, “so any questions, just knock.”
“Everything looks new,” Lynn said, feeling the smooth, shiny metal fixtures.
“That’s because it is. Not too long before you came, a missile destroyed almost the entire deck.”
“Oh,” Rick said. “Any casualties?”
“Yes,” T’jto said, “all the marines except my squad.” She turned and went into her quarters/office, leaving Lynn and Rick alone to think.
* * * * *
Chapter 22
The beds came equipped with the choice of nets or straps. Rick had always felt fairly at home sleeping in zero gravity, so he slid a strap over his legs and one over his abdomen, and he slept like a baby. The alarm woke him six hours later.
When he felt awake enough, he floated down to his section’s bathroom and used the vacuum shower to clean off. He floated past Lynn in the hallway and nodded to her. As they were both naked, she would have been a sight to enjoy, but he showed no sign of noticing. Human mercs, like Human military, were fully integrated, and you didn’t get far if you couldn’t ignore the fun parts when you weren’t off duty.
He got dressed in his quarters then grabbed his slate. His duty shift began in two hours, so he spent part of that time going over the ship’s layout and basic organization. The crew was made up of 300 enlisted and 80 officers and senior enlisted, and the ship was divided into sections, depending on assignment and duties. There was no segregation of sex or species; any race that didn’t get along, didn’t stay. Discipline was handled on an escalating scale, depending on the offense. Failing to carry out assigned tasks could result in fines or the termination of your contract. Insubordination got you fired. Assault or directly disobeying orders that resulted in casualties or failure to complete a contract, could get you tossed out an air lock. Most merc units had capital punishment written into their employment contracts, though he’d heard it wasn’t often carried out. Per the manual here, it was, and had been. He filed that away.
An hour before his duty time, he left and went to the galley. He was surprised to find an actual cook and not an autochef.
“Morning, private,” a rail-thin man in his later years said. Morphagenic tattoos of women doing lewd acts danced on both arms, and humor flashed in his eyes. “Welcome aboard. Gabriel Ponzetti is the name, grub is my game. What can I do you for?”
“Morning Mr. Ponzetti, Rick Culper. Call me Rick.”
“Gabriel is fine, or Gabe,” the man said and took Rick’s hand in a firm shake.
“How about an omelet?”
“Sure,” Gabe said. “Ain’t got no real eggs, but the synthetics are pretty good. The cheese is the real deal, made by a lady here in Karma. What do you want in it?”
“Meat. Earth veggies. Surprise me.” The cook gave a sly grin and nodded.
“You betcha.” He turned and began cooking. Rick could see the cooking unit was designed for zero gravity or acceleration. It was simple and efficient, like almost everything else on the ship.
“I was surprised to find out we have our own galley,” Rick said as the man cooked.
“Main galley is up on Deck 12,” he said and pointed up toward the nose. “The spacers don’t like marines all that much, and it’s about 300 feet between here and there.” He cackled and shrugged. “I guess someone along the line decided it was less annoying to give us marines the convenience of our own grub-hub than having to see us tromp through their pretty ship three times a day.”
“You’re a marine?”
“Used to be. I served with the Hussars for 30 years before retiring. Too brittle to get folded into a suit anymore. Now I play backup pilot and cook for you kids.”
“You weren’t here when…” Rick looked around and made an explosive gesture with his hands.
Gabe laughed again. “No, I bunk up in the enlisted spaces. You folks only need me a few times a day. I prepare lunch and store it in the cooler. The rest of the time I help out in the hangars.” More redundancy of duties, Rick realized. He wondered how big the crew would be if each member only did one job. While Gabe was finishing his meal, the other Humans new to the Hussars began arriving. Rick’s meal was finished and delivered to him on a plate with a cover (so it didn’t float around the room). Since Gabe now had several more customers, Rick floated to a table, hooked a foot through a strap on the deck and pulled himself down.
A short time later, he was joined by Lynn, then Bill Alvarado and Alan Bacord from Raptor Squad. Ed O’Neal, the only Human from Zenith Squad, also joined them. The Hussars had hired fifteen new mercs for the marine positions, yet only six were Humans. It felt strange that he’d be fighting with aliens instead of against them.
The group chatted while they ate, each one fishing into the container that held their food for bites or, in the case of Alvarado, opening the container and shaking some out to catch with his mouth. Lynn watched him for a minute with displeasure on her face. When a piece of egg got away from him, and he caught it with his left hand and scooped it into his mouth, she couldn’t contain herself anymore.
“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to eat like an animal?”
“Mother died when I was born,” Alvarado said without looking up, his mouth full. He smiled open-mouthed as he chewed. “Why?”
Lynn ground her teeth and looked away. Alvarado laughed.
“Gabe make you all some good food?” Johansson asked as she floated in. Everyone said how much they were enjoying it, except Lynn who was staring at the wall. “He keeps us fat and happy.”
“I try, Corporal!” Gabe said from the little kitchen. He was busy making sandwiches and storing them in small containers. Floating ingredients were plucked and utilized as needed. Johansson consulted her slate and spoke.
“Okay, we’re going to break you up into two groups. First, I want O’Neal, Bacord, and Alvarado to head over to the armory to finish getting their CASPers fit. Jordan and Culper come with me to medbay.” Everyone acknowledged, quickly swallowed their last bites of breakfast, and dropped the containers into the recycler on the way out.
The medical bay was located under Zenith Squad’s bunks. It was a decent-sized setup with two examination tables and three recovery units. Rick recognized a slightly more advanced medbot than the Coronado’s, in addition to a pair of ultra-modern medical nanite fabricators. What he wasn’t prepared for was the medical staff. Johansson introduced them.
“This is our assigned physician, Dr. Gorge Ramirez. He’s listed as second physician for the Hussars, and if we don’t have medical problems here, he’s up on Deck 14.” The man was handsome and fit, looked to be in his forties, and was dressed in a white-accented version of the Hussars black uniform, with a caduceus logo on the arm opposite the Winged Hussar logo. “And this is his assistant, Nemo.”
What Rick had assumed was a medical device full of liquid turned out to be a temporary habitat affixed to the upper deck. A mass moved inside and tentacles slithered out. The shape that resolved itself looked surprisingly like a large octopus, complete with a bulbous mantel with a pair of blue eyes. It flashed a bright and varying pattern of lights and colors, and a Human voice came from it.
“I am pleased to meet my new crewmates.”
“I don’t recognize your race,” Lynn said, obviously fascinated.
“We are not common,” the pulsing lights were rendered into speech, not by each crewman’s translators, but by a device the being wore. “My race is known as the Wrogul by your race. We are not mercenaries by career, but instead ply a valuable trade in genetic cures and surgical techniques.” Dr. Ramirez smiled and spoke.
“Nemo likes to joke it is more an instrument
than a person, but the truth is it is an extremely accomplished surgeon and bioengineer. It has some amazing talents that have saved many crew’s lives. Nemo probably knows more about alien physiology than anyone else in the galaxy. It’s rare to find a Wrogul; they tend to stay on their planet or work in the Science Guild.”
“It is true,” Nemo admitted, “despite our natural affinity for new species and unusual lifeforms. Our bodies are fragile and the environments we can survive in limited, so we tend to be somewhat xenophobic.” Rick thought that was an interesting combination, to be both an expert in various lifeforms and xenophobic at the same time.
“You’re here because you are the only Humans we have who don’t have pinplants,” Dr. Ramirez explained. “The good news is you have one of the best beings you could ask for to do the procedure. The bad news is it isn’t Human.” He was straight-faced for a moment, then chuckled at what he thought was a great joke. Lynn and Rick weren’t nearly as amused. “Who would like to go first?”
“I will,” Rick volunteered. Lynn didn’t object. He was led to the autodoc chair where he was strapped in and the sensors attached.
“We don’t want you floating away during the procedure,” Ramirez explained. “The anesthesia is entirely voluntary.”
“Won’t it hurt?” Rick wondered.
“You will feel nothing,” Nemo assured him.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Rick said, and got a sympathetic look from Lynn. The problem was, he wasn’t afraid. He logically knew he was about to have his brain modified, and that didn’t bother him in the least. Rick wondered just how far fearlessness would go. Could he jump into a fusion plume without fear? “I’d rather not be anesthetized, then.”
“Very well,” Dr. Ramirez said. He floated around behind the chair, and Rick heard it come to life and respond to his controls. After a moment, he spoke again. “Nemo, we’re ready.”
The Wrogul had been floating near the center of the room, its huge eyes watching Rick. Upon hearing its name, the being’s tentacles gathered in a mass, and, with a “Phfft!” of expelled air, Nemo propelled itself toward Rick and the autodoc. The medical assistant caught the chair with a wet slapping sound. In a moment, it had swung around behind Rick and out of sight.
Rick was about to ask what function the Wrogul had in the surgery when he felt something brush his hair. It felt a little like someone had blown a gust of air across his head, and he felt something wet against his scalp. Lynn caught his attention. Her eyes were bugging out of her head, and her mouth had fallen open. Rick felt a sensation inside his skull. A slight pressure and a feeling like his brain was moving by itself.
“Woah,” Rick said as the room swung, and he suddenly knew what the number seven tasted like. “This is weird!” He heard wet sounds, and the inside of his skull itched. He was suddenly glad they’d tied him down.
“Oh…” Lynn gasped, her hand going to her mouth, “oh god!” Dr. Ramirez launched himself toward her with a plastic bag in hand. He wasn’t quite quick enough.
* * *
Alexis arrived back aboard Pegasus under the watchful eyes of Zit and Jeejee. Even though the Flatar didn’t have his Tortantula, he was still formidable enough on his own with his huge pistol. As formidable as a foot-tall chipmunk could be, anyway. Paka had said it was better to go low key, and the Goka and Flatar were the least flashy of the experienced marines. Least flashy, but also two of the most trigger-happy when things went sideways.
The shuttle wasn’t piloted; instead, it was a drone cargo shuttle with only two seats folded down from the walls. She’d shared the space with the two marines and 40 tons of various consumables. Alexis wondered if that, too, was her XO being overly protective.
The shuttle magnetically clamped to the docking bay floor of Pegasus, and, as the hatch slid aside, the furred face of Paka was waiting.
“Status?” Alexis asked.
“We’re still not ready to push off,” the Veetanho said. “The last of the engineering spaces are being secured, and the tanker bringing reaction mass is due in an hour.”
“I thought we were supposed to get fuel six hours ago.”
“Everything has been behind schedule,” Paka said.
Alexis cursed under her breath.
“
“What’s happening?”
“
“Paka.”
“Captain?” the XO asked, sliding along behind her.
“I want us ready to move as soon as absolutely possible.”
Paka’s whiskers twitched as she accessed her own pinlink, contacting the engineering and materials handling teams. As Alexis reached the bay doors, she had the answer. “Three hours, ma’am.”
“Damn it,” Alexis said and shot for the gangway. “As soon as I’m in CIC, get me Long in engineering.”
Paka grimaced, but said she would. Chief Engineer Long was going to get an earful.
* * * * *
Chapter 23
Alexis soared into the CIC, expertly caught the back of her command chair, and flipped into it. She didn’t bother strapping in; there was too much to do.
“Report!” One at a time, sections reported they were ready until they got to engineering. “Where is Long?”
“He’s directly supervising the crew finishing up on Reactor Two,” Guylan told her. Alexis’ mouth became a thin line. She could feel every second ticking by.
“Start spinning up the other two reactors,” she ordered.
“Most of the engineering crew is seeing to Reactor Two,” Guylan reminded her.
“I’m aware of that, but the computer can handle a gradual power up.”
“” Alexis activated her pinplant.
“Thanks,” she replied. “I’m trying to get us out of here.”
“” Alexis’ face was a mask of concern. She usually didn’t get that kind of direct help unless things were dire.
“Tanker is alongside and reaction mass is transferring,” the loadmaster reported via intercom.
“About damned time,” Alexis snapped. Displays showed the tankage status, and reports were relayed as she sat in her seat, fingers tapping impatiently on the arm rest. Everything in her screamed to get away from the station, to put her ship under power so it wasn’t a sitting duck. The Tri-V of near space showed just what she’d been told earlier—no ships except the tanker were within a half mile. In the crowded space around Karma Station, that was crazy.
“
“Battle stations!” she barked, and the command crew, despite the unexpected command, lurched into action. As soon as sections began calling in their readiness, the first alarm went off. “Report.” It was Guylan who was responding to the signal.
“The tanker is not responding,” the elSha DCC said. “We’re nearly at capacity.”
“Shut off flow,” Alexis ordered.
Guylan worked on his control board, then shook his head. “The system is not responding.”
Alexis touched a control and a Tri-V came alive next to her with the external cameras. She pulled up the aft series and then the one that overlooked the starboard fueling point. The tanker was far enough away that only a curve of its hull was visible. A series of thick hoses curled across the space between Pegasus and the bulk of the tanker. They were jerking spasmodically. There was no sign of any of the tanker’s crew which should have been visible in space suits.
“Pressure now above red line,” Guylan said, “and still rising.”
“Damn it,” Alexis said, “get me someone in engineering!”
A second later a Human voice came over
the PA. “This is engineering, we’re under attack!”
The voice was punctuated by an explosion.
* * *
Rick was in his little cabin, with the accordion-style door pulled closed, and his straps holding him in bed. He’d thought that horrible day in that fleabag hotel in Houston was the worst day of his life, up until now. After the implants, he’d spent a glorious hour completely disoriented, bumping around the place, as the marine armorers Gene Crenshaw and Skitee (an elSha) fit him with a CASPer. There were so many other new people getting their armor and gear that the Geek Squad was on board as well. Even Sato had been enticed to abandon his experiments and help, something Rick was led to believe was a rare event.
The implants, he thought. He hadn’t even had time to get used to them yet. That procedure was just the icing on the shit sandwich. He nostalgically thought back to the day in the hotel room as he tried to get to sleep while simultaneously trying to forget the feeling of octopus tentacles in his brain.
“Oh, fuck me,” he groaned and gave up. He slid sideways in zero gravity and found his bag where it was hooked onto a clip on the wall. In an outside pocket was a little plastic container with sleeping pills. Sleeping in zero gravity was easy, going to sleep was often challenging for him. He almost popped four, the maximum dosage, then thought better of it. He was aboard his duty station now, and his instructors at Mickey Finn had drilled into him; “Shit doesn’t call you to schedule when it plans to go south; it just does.” He took one pill. Luckily, it did the trick, and he was asleep in less than five minutes.
When his alarm went off, Rick rolled over and looked at the display next to his bunk and saw it had only been six hours. He should have had another hour. Then he realized the wheep, wheep, wheep sound wasn’t his alarm, but the ship’s battle stations’ claxon.