by M. Alan Marr
“Landing gear operation is via the side button on the throttles.”
Chaz sees the small button and nods. “Same spot as the auto-throttle disconnect on the 767.”
Dev activates the com line. “Crown fighter 42697, Commander Dev, ready for departure.”
“Crown fighter 42697, standby for launch clearance.”
The proposed taxi routing, transmitted by the controller, populates on the navigation display in yellow. The route switches to green, signifying the ship is clear for movement
Dev rolls the throttle grips slightly to lift into a hover and retracts the fighter’s landing gear. “The landing gear also has a fast retract auto sensor, so if you have to ground-launch in a hurry, the gear will take care of itself.”
Dev eases the throttles slightly forward, and the fighter begins a slow hover taxi. Dev uses the rudder pedals to make the turns from the fighter tarmac to the nearby launch pad. The pad is well defined and has a long clearway farther downrange.
Chaz looks around. “Is that the runway?”
“Departure pad,” Dev replies and then keys the com line. “Crown Fighter 42697, Commander Dev, requesting combat launch to Triton.”
Blast diverters raise from the tarmac behind the fighter.
“Crown Fighter 42697, combat launch approved. Triton corridor clear. Launch when ready, Commander.”
“What does that mean?” Chaz says.
“This!” Dev simultaneously yanks back on the stick and jams the throttles open. The fighter launches and immediately goes vertical, pinning both men sharply to their seats. The blast of the engines creates a luminous contrail and several sonic vapor halos all the way to orbit.
Chaz yells over the engine noise, “THIS IS SO COOL!”
The fighter clears the atmosphere within seconds and is heading outbound toward Triton.
Dev powers way back after the bit of showing off and laughs. “I had to show you what this thing can really do.”
“I absolutely cannot wait to fly one of these!”
“Very well, sir, you have command,” Dev says, holding up his hands.
Chaz smiles and happily takes the stick and the throttles. His forward canopy displays appear, as Chaz is now flying.
Dev sits back and folds his arms. “Our course to Triton is that hollow x in the middle of your attitude display. For minor course corrections, the indents of the x will elongate or constrict if you’re left, right, above, or below your flight planned navigation course.”
“I see it,” Chaz says.
“For large course changes, the entire reticle will move toward your new heading.”
“Got it. Can I add some power?”
“Go ahead. Just be careful not to advance the throttles past the forward stops or you’ll engage the compression drive.”
“I’m definitely not ready for that.”
“Oh, and don’t pull the trigger. Our weapons are hot.” Dev adds, “And if we run into a Yeti, I’ll immediately take command.”
“Understood.” Chaz looks at the holographic detection grid in the center display. “Am I reading this right? There’s no other traffic out here?”
“Correct. The Admiralty restricted all non-essential travel after the attack. The sky is all yours.”
Chaz can barely contain his excitement and advances the throttles open. He moves the control stick around and plays with the fighter. The ship rolls and swoops to the left and right. Chaz is having great fun. What a truly incredible machine. Dev sets both canopy displays to be fully active, no matter who is flying, so he can monitor the flight.
“Your canopy display has several modes of operation, depending on what you want. During combat, the display reduces significantly to give you a clearer field of vision: target reticle, weapons selected, and orbital boundaries, internal system alerts. Now, because the Brigands are so erratic and maneuverable, your eyes are your best source of tracking, so most of our combat is done visually.”
Chaz is still flying the en route portion of the flight, although with a more professional, steady stick now. He looks over the various displays and notices the ambient gravity reads 1.30 g. “Hey, how come we have nominal gravity out here?”
Dev chuckles. “This isn’t a trainer. How did the Range Rover salesman put it? This baby has all the bells and whistles.”
The fighter rapidly approaches the beautiful blue gas giant, Triton.
Chaz’s face registers a question. “You guys don’t wear spacesuits?”
“There’s an environmental suit under each seat.”
“What if we have a leak or something?”
“The cockpit and canopy are made of extremely strong materials. If anything can get past that, a spacesuit isn’t going to help you.” Dev adds, “However, if there is an actual breach, the environmental system will surge into extremely high output. It won’t be very pleasant, but should give you enough time to get the suit on.”
“How big a breach can it handle?”
“The environmental engineers say the system can handle a hole the size of your fist, but I really don’t want to be the one to test that theory.”
“Yeah, no. What about helmets?”
“Distracting,” Dev says. “Your seat contours to your specific body requirements. In heavy-g fighting, the headrest automatically adjusts to protect your neck and head.”
“This thing really is fully loaded.” Chaz laughs. Outside the beautiful blue gas giant, Triton, looms dead ahead. The course reticle on the canopy display signals a tone and then moves off to port. Chaz eases the stick left and takes up the new course toward the Triton moon Bellerophon.
Dev keys the com line. “Bellerophon Control, Crown fighter 42697 inbound, request landing clearance, Citadel Base.”
“Crown fighter 42697, Bellerophon Control, telemetry received. Identities confirmed. You are clear to enter Bellerophon airspace. Transmitting approach course to Citadel Base.”
Dev looks at the navigation display, which populates with the new approach course. “ETA for reentry is five minutes. Time for me to fly, Chaz. I have command.”
“You have command,” Chaz says and holds his hands up. He is surprised when his canopy display doesn’t blank out. “Hey, my heads-up display is still on.”
Dev nods. “I set it that way. The more exposure you have to our stuff, the better.”
“Cool beans.”
“Okay, listen,” Dev adds, “you did really well with the gravity back on Trieste. This is going to be a lot harder. Bellerophon has more than twice the gravity you’re used to on Earth.”
Chaz takes a nervous breath. “Should be interesting.”
Dev pulls a breathing apparatus from the sidewall by his left leg.
“What’s that?”
“O2 compensator. Lower sidewall by your right leg.” Dev puts the harness on over his head but lets the mask hang to the side. “You’ll get winded very easily down there. The mask will deliver concentrated O2 under positive pressure. Trust me, you’ll be glad you have this.”
Chaz grabs his O2 unit. “You lived there for four years. Are you putting that on for my benefit?”
Dev shakes his head. “The air is going to be pretty thick with particulate matter from the attack. I personally don’t want my lungs full of obsidian ash, do you?”
“Uh, no.”
Chaz looks for an attachment on the mask itself. “How does this stay on?”
“Just put it over your nose and mouth. The edges will suction in place. There are speakers on the sides to relay your voice locally, and can auto-link to shipboard comms, so just use normal speaking tones.”
Chaz puts on the triangular mask and takes a pronounced inhale and exhale and speaks in a low deep voice. “I’m your father.”
“Huh?”
Chaz pulls the mask off and laughs. “Sorry.”
The time has come. The fighter enters the dark Bellerophon atmosphere. Chaz immediately feels the heavy crush of gravity in every fiber of his being. “Damn—” H
e immediately starts breathing in heavy, short breaths as he feels the extreme pressure on his body. The gravity even has an effect on the flames and plasma of reentry, bending them downward from the ship. Dev feels it too, but is much more practiced at it and spent four years living here.
“Watch your breathing,” Dev cautions. “Controlled breaths. If you get lightheaded or feel any numbness in your extremities, put the mask on.”
“O—kay.” Even speaking in heavy gravity is difficult.
It is extremely cloudy. Friction lightning flashes and forks out from the towering black clouds. It is daytime, but it looks more and more like night as they descend. Higher engine readings in the cockpit even reflect the stress of this environment. Engine noise is more pronounced, and even sounds like they are working harder. Rough conditions all around.
The ship, now very heavy on the controls, requires a lot more power from the ventral systems to properly slow and approach the landing site. Dev lands at the Citadel Base, blowing a huge cloud of dust away as he touches down amidst a lineup of basic Tertian training ships, all covered in ash. As the fighter makes contact with the ground, the landing gear audibly strains. The Grav-Lock function barely needs to draw any power at all to secure the fighter on the pad.
Inside the cockpit, it feels like they just hit a wall. Outside, it looks like they are in the neighborhood of a volcanic ash eruption. Grey, dreary, and inhospitable. While Dev powers down the ship, Chaz tries to unbuckle his harness and finds his arms require much more effort to do something even that simple. His second try gets it, and the harness quickly drops to the side, hanging stiffly against the gravity. The canopies open slowly, the motors straining that much harder here. Shakily, Chaz grabs onto the forward canopy rail to pull himself up. He feels like he weighs over four hundred pounds, because, in this gravity, he does. The thought of having to make a precarious climb down off the ship in this environment takes on an ominous feeling.
A ground support crewman climbs up to assist Chaz. “I’ll help you down, sir.”
Straining against the gravity, Chaz manages to get his leg out of the cockpit and over the side. Another crewman sees the difficulty taking place and moves into position and assists in delivering the struggling Lieutenant Commander to the ground in one piece. Chaz nearly collapses, but the two burly crewmen prevent his fall. They know all too well that newcomers to Bellerophon, and even seasoned veterans, can be taken by surprise by the heavy gravity if they’ve been away for too long. The second crewman makes sure Chaz is steady on his feet before continuing his work. There is no room for pride on Bellerophon. Chaz takes a deep breath and tries to take his first steps while hanging on to the crewman. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Chaz can barely speak. “This . . . is . . . freaky.”
Dev, wearing his mask, comes around from the other side of the fighter without much effort. “You okay?”
“Fan . . . tastic,” Chaz says, breathing heavy.
“Put your mask on.”
Chaz nods, or tries to—his head jerks downward then back, clearly not used to the way these forces translate on his body. The crewman, completely acclimated to the conditions, places Chaz’s mask over his nose and mouth.
“Take a breath, Commander.”
Chaz wheezes like an asthmatic. “How . . . do you . . . get used . . . to this?”
“It’s not easy, sir,” the crewman replies. In addition to Chaz feeling like he’s got two hundred extra pounds pressing on his chest, it’s also very cold out, but one crisis at a time.
“Come on,” Dev says, taking hold of Chaz’s other arm. “Take measured steps until you get your bearings. Step, stop. Step, stop, there you go.”
The lead ground crewman flags over an open air vehicle. He sees the Lieutenant Commander is going to need transport as soon, and as close, as possible. Everyone outside is wearing heavy hooded coats, O2 compensators, and goggles, since the atmosphere is blowing flecks of obsidian ash from the Yeti detonation.
The crewman driving the vehicle salutes. “Welcome to Bellerophon, sirs.”
Dev returns the salute. Chaz’s arm is not fully cooperative and manages only a slight downward wave.
“Quite a mess you’ve got here,” Dev says to the driver.
“Yes, sir,” the crewman replies and pulls two heavy coats out of a box on the transport. Dev and the lead crewman both help Chaz into his coat first.
“Great . . .” Chaz wheezes. “More . . . weight.”
As Dev puts his own coat on, the driver pulls two pairs of goggles out of another box and hands them to the two officers. The lead crewman speaks to Dev. “We’ll have your fighter serviced, sir.”
“Good,” Dev replies. “We won’t be here long. It’s fully armed, but have the fuel brought up to one hundred percent.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chaz plops down onto the seat of the open transport, trying to cope with the harsh environment. Even the cushioned seats are compressed and hard under the strain. Chaz concentrates on his breathing and finds that he has to work at long, slow, controlled breaths. Dev looks at him with concern. Chaz gives him a shaky thumbs-up. The sky is almost black, and the wind brings waves of ash like angry black snow. The heaviness, darkness, wind, and cold give this place a foreboding feeling of dread.
Chaz doesn’t know how long the drive took before they come up to the large Citadel constructed out of something that looks like black granite, probably polished, but in the ashy torrent, the blocks and even the mortar lines between them makes the entire fortress look dirty and gritty.
The gleamingly clean main entry of the Citadel fills with a cloud of ash as the front doors fly open. The Senior Midshipmen of the Watch, manning a long table flanked by flags and an honor guard, stands with the expression of supreme irritation as she sees the entry foyer inundated with ash. All she sees are two people in crew coats and her now-filthy foyer. The Senior Mid is furious, since the entire brigade had been advised to use an alternate entry point. She marches right over, primed for action, just as Dev and Chaz shed their goggles and outer coats, sending a further cloud of ash to the floor. The Midshipman of the Watch now sees shoulder boards and flight suits. Suddenly, she checks her irritation, literally, at the door and stands smartly to attention. The honor guard snaps to attention as well.
The dust settles fast in this gravity. The interior staff aren’t wearing O2 devices. Dev is the first to look at the Senior Mid.
“Flight Commander, sir!” The Midshipman of the Watch salutes. “Brigade Fourth Midshipman Bev Pleiades.”
Dev pulls off his O2 mask. “Commander Caelestis, Lieutenant Commander Ronaldi.”
She recognizes the name. “Welcome to Bellerophon, sirs.”
“Changed a bit since I was here last,” Dev says, while sweeping some ash from his flight suit.
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand the bombardment was confined to the Obsidian Gorge?”
“Yes, sir, not one casualty . . . except for the weather.” She adds, “The Yeti miscalculated.”
“Fortunately,” Dev comments. “We’ve come to see Leftenant Idris Adelle.”
“Yes, sir.” The Midshipman checks her interlink device to locate Idris. “Leftenant Adelle is in the Primary Academic Wing. Third level, dissertation room two, starboard. May I escort you, sirs?”
“I remember the way,” Dev says, handing the Midshipman his O2 compensator. “Carry on.”
Chaz manages to walk with Dev toward the lift without complaint. Internally, Chaz is screaming in agony.
Dev presses the button for the lift and speaks quietly. “By the way, Mids never use an officer’s first name.”
The heavy metal doors open, and Chaz uses all his strength to enter and turn around. Once the doors close and the lift starts upward, Chaz all but collapses into Dev’s arms. “God . . . this sucks.”
“Stand up. You weigh a ton,” Dev says, trying to right him.
“Sorry,” Chaz wheezes, and then takes off his mask. “Must be . . . all th
at . . . food . . . Franz fed us.” They laugh, but Chaz’s laugh turns into a gasping cough.
“Keep your mask on,” Dev advises, and puts Chaz’s on for him. “At least until we get to the classroom.” Chaz takes a couple of deep breaths to recover.
One usually doesn’t feel discomfort when an elevator stops. But when this arrives on the third floor, Chaz winces, feeling like a pile driver just pounded him into the ground. The heavy lift doors open to a large and vacant hallway. Everything in the Citadel looks substantial, built to last in a heavy-g environment. Class is clearly in session, as the corridors are empty. The walls have polished silver handrails installed on both sides, running the entire length of the corridors, with breaks at each classroom doorway.
“Take the handrail if you need to,” Dev tells Chaz, who promptly does. Dev adds, “But don’t let anyone see you. Upperclassmen make it a career hassling the Mids that have to hold on.”
“I’m . . . not . . . a Mid,” Chaz declares, and lets go of the rail, finding renewed strength.
Dev appreciates the conviction. “No, sir, you are not.”
Chaz leaves a handprint on the gleaming rail, which some poor Midshipman will surely be blamed and later pay the price. But that is as far off of Chaz’s radar as could possibly be at this point. Slowly, they make their way to dissertation room two, starboard side. Fortunately for Chaz, he doesn’t have to walk very far. Dev looks at him before opening the door and brushes some ash off of Chaz’s shoulder boards. Chaz stands straight up and takes a deep breath before pulling the O2 mask off his face. He takes a couple of quick breaths, trying to get used to breathing on his own. Dev waits until Chaz is ready. After a few more seconds, Chaz nods, mostly with his eyes. Dev opens the door.
The dissertation room is similar to any classroom. Desks are two-person stations of computer and writing space, arranged in a multi-tier broken concentric semicircle directed toward a central station occupied by the instructor. Behind her are large ‘blackboards’ that mimic what she is writing on her computer surface. Leftenant Idris Adelle is instructing her class in Compression Dynamics. Chaz notices off to the far side, a holographic image of the compression drive system components suspended in the air, slowly rotating. The students are totally engaged, until one of them notices one of Dev’s shoulder boards in the doorway.