CHAPTER 3
One day later, most of it spentreviewing intelligence briefings or sleeping, we were in position forour jump. During the long flight, we took the time to put on our CEVAsuits. The Combat Extra-Vehicular Activity suits were the latest andgreatest kit around. They weren't the bulky beasts that Fleet used toissue. Those things always reminded me of the sort of winter clothingyou wrapped a little kid in; bulky and hard to move in. The CEVAswere different. They were form-fitting, made of interlocking platesof a metallic material I couldn't spell, let alone pronounce. Theyallowed for almost as much range of motion as the thin sensor weavewe wore underneath. They could take a relatively powerful blastwithout breaching, and they had hours of air built into the backpack.Best of all, they didn't have a separate helmet. Instead, with thepress of a button, it emerged from the back of the neck and sweptover the head like a hood, closing a transparent plate over the face.
As the first jump ended, therattling in the deck plates and in my teeth finally subsided, and ourmother-ship, the Nautilus, came through the wormhole. The lightsaround us flickered back to life, slowly, unevenly. The deep humsubsided, and I loosened my grip on the straps holding me into mycushioned seat. Kyle, sitting to my left, was still gripping hisstraps fiercely, with his eyes shut tight. He was probably focusingon not puking, something he often did after jumps.
I closed my eyes until the lights inthe cabin were all fully lit. The flashing sometimes nauseated me,especially after a jump. The scene around me seemed to shiftslightly, left then right, before setting itself straight and steady.I popped my helmet, and as it retracted behind my head I took in aslow, deep breath. The air was very cool, pumped into the cabin thatway purposely to help keep passengers clear-headed. My hands stungfrom the straps, their marks dug deep into my palms. If not for thetough skin of the CEVA's gloves, I might have been cut. I flexed myfingers, working out the soreness in the muscles.
The jumps only took a few seconds,but the buildup took several minutes of ever-increasing rumbling. Ahundred different noises rattled the ship, and being in aneedle-jumper, docked but not part of its mother-ship, we felt it allthe more. It was like being a bull rider, with all of the bull'senergy focused on that single-handed grip.
"Launch in three minutes,"the voice from the Nautilus control center echoed in the cabin.
"Okay everyone, check yourgear," I growled through the fading nausea.
Regulations included a long list ofchecks that were supposed to be made before a needle-jumper waslaunched from its mother-ship. There were strict sets ofconfirmations to be made, dictated by a list handed to each passengerbefore launch, all intended to ensure a safe deployment. I don'tthink we ever used it. By the time a marine took up a slot in a reconsquad, they had better know the routine without a list to read from.My squad had done this more than a few times, and we knew what neededto happen.
I unbuckled myself from my seat andchecked over the straps holding down my duffel bag. The others didthe same. Kyle practically fell out of his seat, landing with hisknees on the deck. His face was six shades of green. He tried tosteady himself, planting his palms on the deck. His lips werequivering, and his eyes drooped, the sort of look a person gets whenthe room is spinning round and round, and they're trying not tovomit. It's a horrible feeling, one I rarely encountered as severelyas that. My own nausea was generally brief, in and out in a moment.Kyle, sadly, was not so lucky.
"He's gonna blow!" Rajcalled out, moving away from our sick man with an instinctual jumpthat spoke of past horrors. The last time Kyle threw up after a jump,Raj had been in the way. That went badly for everyone.
"Fuckin' shut up," Kyleslurred and mumbled as he tried to take in deep gulps of the coolair.
Normally with someone as sick Kylewas, we'd shoot him up with some nice, quick-acting drugs. There wereplenty of meds out there for nausea, but he was allergic to all ofthem. He learned that the hard way back in basic training, and hisreaction to those meds almost cost him his career. One of the drugsalmost killed him. Thankfully, his instructors had an alternate meansof sorting out their puking recruit.
"Here she comes!" Davidcalled out, as he up-ended the small cooler over Kyle's head,splashing him with ice and water.
Kyle cried out in shock, even thoughhe expected it. He arched his back, taking in a loud, deep breath asif he had just come up for air from a long dive. He pushed himselfoff his hands, falling back onto his ass, and throwing his head back.His eyes were wide, his mouth open in a gasp. The cooler of ice waterwas just what the doctor ordered, or in this case, the technician. Inan instant, Kyle's nausea was gone, the shock of the cold watershaking him out of it.
"Holy fuck," he said,spitting out the words with a cry.
Everybody laughed, including Kyle.He lay there for a moment, leaning up against the seats. He wiped thewater from his face, his eyes still wide from the surprise. He tookin deep breaths, slowly calming himself, screwing his head back onstraight. He dried himself with the towel David threw at him. After amoment, I helped him to his feet.
"Better?" I asked with agrin, wiping my soaked hand against my pants.
"Yeah, no worries," hereplied with a laugh. "Good as new."
"Great," I said, kickinghim gently. "Get up and help."
I offered him my hand, and hauledhim to his feet. He was still a bit unsteady, but I could see fromhis eyes that his head was clearing. He gave himself a shake, andwent about checking his gear. I could hear him going through hisbreathing exercises, just the way his instructors had taught him.After a few minutes, his skin had lost its greenish tinge and he wasgood to go. It was usually just the first jump that hit him.Hopefully, when our needle-jumper made the combat jump in a fewminutes, he would weather it better. We didn't have a second cooler.
I picked up the headset at the frontof the troop hold. A voice responded instantly.
"CIC, go," the femalevoice intoned.
The Command Information Center wasthe nerve center of the Nautilus. They were responsible for ourlaunch. I had not heard from them during our entire voyage, but thatwasn't entirely out of the ordinary, especially during something assecret as this mission. Still, I needed to hear from the ship'scaptain. It was a habit of mine. I didn't actually need to speak tothe captain, but if I and my men were going to be shot like a bullet,thrown through a wormhole, and jabbed into the side of a ship whichmay or may not be wreaking havoc with space itself, I wanted to hearthe 'all clear' from the guy in charge.
"Zulu-two-three Actualrequesting to speak to Nautilus Actual, over," I said.Zulu-two-three was my squad's call-sign for this mission, and I wasits commander, its 'Actual.' I wanted to speak to the Captain, their'Actual.'
After a moment, an older male voicecame in over the headset. "This is Nautilus Actual, go ahead."
"This is Zulu-two-three Actual,checkin' in. Are we good to go?" I asked.
"Affirmative, Zulu-two-three."There was a pause. "Actual, please go to headset."
"Already on," I replied.
"Captain Mallory," thecaptain said in a low voice, "I am not permitted to ask you forthe details of your mission. Still, I am launching your squad, and Ihave some concerns." His voice trailed off.
"I'll give you what I can,sir," I replied. I appreciated any captain who took his ship'ssafety seriously. For the moment, that included my men and me.
"My people are having sometrouble opening a wormhole to the assigned coordinates." Therewas more than a little concern in his tone. "In ten years as acaptain, I have never seen the kind of readings we're getting. Wouldyou care to explain that?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't dothat." I hated having to say that. I knew how much I hated notknowing things I needed to know, but I was already up to my eyeballsin trouble over that business on Alpha Centauri, and breachingsecrecy protocols wouldn't help.
"I see," he muttered, thenpaused. "Captain, I want to make sure you understand what it isI am sending you into. I know, I know, you obviously have moreinformation than I do, but here is what I am seeing. I am about tolaunch your needle-jumper through a wormhole which is only nominallystable, into an area of space I cannot properly scan. I am notpermitted to communicate with you after launch, and I am notpermitted to hold position and wait for your retrieval. If somethinggoes wrong on your end, I am not permitted to render you assistanceunder any circumstances."
I cleared my throat. "Yes sir,I understand. I appreciate your concern, but that's the way theorders are written."
"Very well, Captain. The bestsailor's luck to you. Nautilus Actual out."
The headset went dead, and Ireplaced it on its mount.
I looked to my guys. They werealready strapped back in, their weapons ready to go, and helmets backon. I joined them, as the voice from CIC warned us of the imminentlaunch.
"What did the captain have tosay?" David asked.
I repeated our conversation. Isuppose other commanders might not do that, but on my team nothingwas a secret. Not knowing something could get you killed. Worsestill, it might get your buddy killed. Before David could comment,CIC interrupted.
"Launch in five, four, three,two, one," the voice barked at us.
"I hate this shit," Kylemuttered, preparing for the jump. We were all out of ice water.
The words were barely out of Kyle'smouth when we felt the jolt. Jolt is a word, but it really doesn't dothe launch of a needle-jumper much justice. I once got to fire off anold bullet-shooting sniper rifle. The kick was wicked hard. This wasworse. Here, we were the bullet.
The launch was deafening, eventhrough our CEVA helmets. The speakers in our ears cut out as we werefired, saving us the brunt of the sound of our ship being launched,but the horrendous boom still rattled me. My ears rang, and my brainsloshed in my head from the sudden launch. If not for the restraints,I would have ended up pressed against the rear bulkhead, no doubt alittle bit thinner and a lot less functional. As it was, it felt likeall of my organs were pressed against my right side, and that mylungs were about to squeeze out through my ear.
"Fuck me!" Kyle howled,loud enough to be heard despite the fact that our headset hadn'tkicked back in, yet.
The pressure on our bodies waspainful, something like eight gees. Eight times normal Earth gravity,pressing down on us. The CEVA suits were designed to protect us fromvacuum, and would even stand up to small bullets and energy blasts.They were not intended to save us the shock of a needle-jumperlaunch. These ships had been in use for thirty years, and nobody hadfound a way to save their passengers from the launch itself. Sure, wecould probably suit up in something more secure, but we had to beready to fight when we got to our destination. Needle-jumpers werenot used for pleasure cruises or surprise birthday parties, afterall.
I watched the small status displayacross from me. It counted down our distance to the wormhole's eventhorizon. The distance was shrinking quickly, as our ship fled theNautilus. In the few seconds since our launch, the Nautilus wouldundoubtedly be out of sight, if we had had a rear port to look outof. As it was, my eyes were fixed on the distance counter. Wetraveled dozens of kilometers in a matter of seconds, something onlythe best technology out there could accomplish without killing us.
I heard my headset beep back tolife. "Here it comes!" I yelled.
A moment later, we crossed the eventhorizon.
A wormhole jump is a bizarre thing.People did it every day. It was a very safe way to travel, all thingsconsidered. Humans had been using the technology for way over acentury, closer to two, after all. Other races had been using it forfar longer. I had long since lost track of how many jumps I'd done.Jumping was to us what hopping on a jet aircraft would have been tomy great great grandfather. Still, it rattled me every time.
The first thing I felt was thesplash. There wasn't any water, but still, my whole body felt asthough someone had throw a bucket of thick goo on me. For a moment, Icouldn't breathe. My lungs refused to work, and I just sat there,frozen. My eyes seemed locked open, and my muscles stoppedresponding. It was less like being held down than it was having yourstrings cut, like a puppet. That lasted a few terrifying seconds.
That was the Splash. Next came theDash.
A second wave washed over me,electric, like a million needles digging into my at once, eachattached to a live wire. I felt every muscle in my body spasm. I feltthe desperate need to move, like a kid with ants in his pants. Ishook from the feeling of it, flexed every muscle, wiggled myfingers, crunched my toes, and threw my head from side to side. Thiswas the second jump in just over ten minutes, and despite being usedto it, my body was not completely recovered from the first one. Thisjust added to the Dash. I twitched as though I was having a seizure.
Then the wave of nausea hit me.Again, I didn't suffer the way Kyle did, but that didn't mean it wasfun. The entire world seemed to shift left and right in front of me.I gripped my restraining straps tightly, despite knowing that it wasall in my head. I clenched my eyes shut, and took in a deep breath.The suit detected my condition, and lowered the suit's airtemperature until I recovered.
When it was all over, we were on theother side of the wormhole. We were still traveling at extremespeeds, but the first of the rough part was over. It would be fifteenminutes before we got to the really bad part, the insertion. Thatwould be enough time to screw our heads back on, and assess thesituation.
"Talk to me," I called outas my helmet retracted.
"Raj good," came the firstreply.
"David good," followedright away.
Kyle didn't answer.
"Kyle?" I called out. "Yougonna live?"
"Uh huh," he said withthat slur. I heard him gulp loudly. "Please don't make me talkright now."
Good enough for the moment, Ithought. I looked at the display across from me. It was picking upthe Saturnus, but there was a great deal of interference. The longrange sensors couldn't see anything beyond the ship's silhouette. Noreadings, no transmissions. It was like the ship was a dead hulk. Wewould be close enough to see the ship in about ten minutes, and Ihoped that we would have something by then.
"Fire 'em up, guys," Iordered.
I felt my rifle start to hum as itswitched on. The lights glowed green and I saw that it was ready togo. I got thumbs up from everyone, even Kyle, who was still slumpedin his seat. At least he was functioning. He'd be fine by the time wereached the Saturnus.
The next ten minutes were tedious,quiet. Our ship's sensors still couldn't get any reading from theSaturnus. We were sending out the usual hailing signals, transmittingon the emergency frequencies that had been preset for the Saturnus'mission. Nothing, not even static came back at us.
"There we go!" Kyle said,pointing toward the display.
"She's bigger than I thought,"David said with amazement.
Even from our great distance, theship was obviously huge. Cruisers like the Saturnus were usually farsmaller than a battleship. We all knew the basic dimensions of theship, but the Saturnus somehow seemed bigger, to look at her. Maybeit was the forward pylons, or the odd shape. Or maybe it was that wewere coming at her like a bullet.
She loomed there, quiet, unmoving.
"Her running lights are on,"David noted.
The lights covered the hull,illuminating its length. The lights only covered some of it, mostlydocking ports, engines and so forth. It created the same effect as aflashlight shone into someone's face from below. Just like that oldcampfire classic, it created menacing shadows, a glowering vesselwhich only half-revealed itself to us as we approached.
"Running lights don't meanmuch," Raj added. "They would run on battery power if theengines were down."
David nodded, scowling at thescreen. "Yeah, but if there were problems on board, the computerwould trip the emergency lights. I don't see any red flashers. Theywould kick in even if nobody switched them on. The ship's computerwould have done it the moment it registered damage to its systems."
"Considering what the Saturnusis doing out here," I mused, "they may have that sort ofthing turned off."
"Then why have running lightsat all?" David asked.
"Why don't we just knock on thehatch, and ask?" Kyle said, shaking his head.
As our ship got ever closer, theSaturnus began to loom large on the screen. The monitor told us thatwe were only three kilometers away, but the way the Saturnus filledthe screen, it felt like we were close enough to reach out and touchher.
Maybe it was time to do just that,if in a less physical way. I reached for the headset of our ship'scommunication console. I tapped in the proper frequency.
"UES Saturnus," I started."United Earth Ship Saturnus, this is marine call-signZulu-two-three, come in."
The headset was silent. I repeatedthe hail. Nothing.
I tried a third time. "UESSaturnus, this is Zulu-two-three on approach. I come with priorityorders from Echo-two." I hoped using Admiral Bishop's call-signwould get their attention. It didn't.
I turned to the guys, and shook myhead. They frowned, all except for Raj. I could see that cruel grinof his start to curl up the left side of his face.
I gave one more hail, with Davidwatching the monitor for any sign that they heard us. Maybe theircomm gear was down, or the antenna itself was damaged. If so, theyshould have been blinking their running lights as a signal. Nothing.
I sighed. "Alright, I guess wedo this the hard way." I looked to David. "Are we gettingautomated approach signals?"
David worked the monitor controls."No," he said, annoyed. "Their docking ports aredisabled. I can't tell if that's on purpose or not."
"Hey!" Kyle pointed at themonitor. "Zoom in."
"Where?" David asked.
"There," Kyle said. "Justbelow the engines."
As David zoomed in the camera, weall leaned in for a better look. The camera shifted focus, zooming inand moving along the hull. The light gray-brown hull, metal platingdesigned to shield the ship from the forces inside a wormhole, seemedundamaged. A large blue stripe ran from top to bottom, just behindthe bulge where the experiment equipment was housed. The camerapassed over it. The paint was still fresh, lacking the pitting andscrapes that space debris would leave over time. It reminded us howvery new this ship was.
"There!" Kyle said,prompting David to stop moving the camera. "There is it."
"Great," Raj muttered."Squid ship."
A squid ship. The Edra, hundreds ifnot thousands of years ahead of us technologically, used the smallships to move their commandos. I'm sure they had their own name forthe little spacecraft, but we just called the squid ships, for theirshape. I had seen a squid ship only in pictures, and it wasunmistakable. About eleven meters long, the small troops carriers hada small troop cabin, with a powerful engine attached to it. Extendingout from the hull was a set of arms that looked and moved just liketentacles. When the ship was ready to attach itself to a targetvessel, the ship flipped over and the tentacles took hold of thehull. Then the troop cabin extended a small docking ring, and cutthrough the hull. According to our best intelligence, they could cutthrough the thickest armor and board a ship in under a minute.
"They're already aboard,"Kyle grumbled. "That explains why we aren't getting any responsefrom the crew."
"I guess this means we're notgoing to saunter up and knock, huh?" David commented.
The Saturnus wasn't a warship, butit still had a nice laser point defense system to knock out incomingmissiles. Those same lasers could be turned on us, if the Edracontrolled them. Our needle-jumper had a reinforced hull, designed towithstand the shock of a forced insertion through armor plating, butthose lasers would still slice us up if we gave them half the chance.
"We're going in hot," Ideclared. "Let's get ready."
I moved to the navigation controls,and entered in the appropriate instructions for the needle-entry.These ships were mostly pre-programmed, usually en route. This shiphad been prepared even before we docked with the Nautilus, so it wasjust a matter of telling the nav computer to make a forced entry. Ourentry location had been selected for us, and though we would normallyhave input into that, here we had none. The needle-jumper was set toinsert us near the forward edge of the ship, three decks above thekeel. The area was mostly storage and non-essential systems. Moreimportantly, the area was usually free of crew, so we wouldn't haveto worry about killing anyone just by inserting.
By the time I had the nav computerready to go, the guys had set our seats for entry. The chairs rotatedin place, facing forward. Chairs not being used were locked down,their seats folded up. Raj checked the gear strapped to the deck. Ifwe struck the Saturnus and the straps snapped, all of that gear wouldbe thrown forward and crushed against against the forward bulkhead ofthe cabin.
I sat in my seat, and strapped in.My helmet swung up and over my head, sealing in place. I felt therecycled air wash over me.
"Ready?" I asked.
Everyone replied in the affirmative.I reached over from my seat, and flipped up the yellow-black hazardcover to the launch initiator. I turned the key clockwise, and tappedthe button below it. Instantly, the air in the cabin was evacuated.If our hull breached and we had atmosphere in the cabin, the suddenrush of air through a small hole would make it bigger or worse yet,it might send us careening out of control.
The automated voice of the navcomputer counted down from five, and then kicked in our boosters. Ifelt it before I heard it, the eight gees of pressure forcing me sofar into my seat that I thought I might actually start to feel bonessnap. Thankfully, between the gravity plating and the seat design, Iwas alright, even if I couldn't breathe for the moment.
The monitor to my right was out ofsight, but I wasn't sure I'd want to see it anyway. The needle-jumperwas hurtling toward the Saturnus faster than the fastest spacefighter could manage. Imagine ramming a needle into armor plating, inthe hopes of breaching that plating. We were the needle.
This was going to hurt.