The Belt Loop _Book One

by Robert B. Jones

  Haad started to protest but Yorn waved him back into his chair. “I know you have to assemble another dispatch for Fleet HQ. I’ll see to it that the courier boat is turned around and ready to launch within the hour.” Yorn turned and hit the hatch before Haad could say a word. The captain was surprised that Yorn was now taking a rather large chunk of the command responsibilities off his shoulders. Maybe that little talk they had about the Mobile Bay was finally showing some results. Yorn was ready for his own ship, Haad mused, now all the XO had to do was convince himself that he deserved it.

  * * *

  A large crowd had gathered at the air lock to hangar bay two. Most were just curious, yearning to see the aliens up-close and in-person. When the lifeboat burned its way onto the deck and the atmosphere containment field was closed behind it, two dozen necks strained to look out of the observation port. They knew that this was probably the closest they would ever get to one of those things. The OOD wasn’t even going to recycle the atmosphere back into the hangar bay until the eleven alien capsules were safely transported, in a portable containment field, to the waiting medtechs in Doc Isaac’s sick bay. That transit would be accomplished using one of the large access locks at the head end of the bay.

  Still, cooks, staff yeomen, maintenance ratings, and personnel of all stripes watched and waited. After a few anxious minutes the huge side door of the boat popped out and slid aft, silent in the vacuum on the hangar deck. Two guys in evo suits jumped down and helped about ten others disembark. Then the first of the floating handcarts nosed out of the lifeboat. Two of the returnees helped settle the cart near the starboard door and took up positions at either end, jockeying the device around until it lined up with the doorway. Then the capsules came out.

  A small chorus of oohs and ahhs escaped the crowd. But not all of the assembled sailors and marines felt the same. If one listened carefully, words of dissent could be heard. “Why’re they bringing them over here?” and “Should just vent them out the hangar door, ask me,” or “Shit. More trouble. Those things have already killed dozens of good men!”

  Of course, the aliens had not killed anyone. Not even close. The four men that had died on the worm did so as a result of their own negligence or inattention. But the average crewman was more apt to believe the rantings of his peers than the official line from the bridge. They all knew that if there indeed was a serious threat from these creatures, they would be the last to know.

  At least that’s what CPO Rich thought. He was at the back of the crowd and only watched. He held his tongue even though he agreed with most of the negative comments swirling around him. Well, he had plans of his own. His only regret was that they had brought those things to the Christi before he’d had the chance to carry out his own agenda.

  “Bullshit,” someone in front of him said. “We don’t know anything about those things. I think we should get them off the ship before we find out that they’re toxic to human life or something.”

  “What if it was you drifting out in space and an alien rescued your ass? Then they threw you out into the Loop. You still think that?” his reply.

  A female rating offered, “Don’t you people have an ounce of compassion?”

  “Oh, I’m compassionate, all right, but not when it comes to shit like this.”

  This started another round of talk that lasted until all of the alien capsules drifted out of view into the cargo air lock. Rich waited until all of the crewmen disbursed before he left the observation window. For many long minutes he just stared at the lifeboat and took shallow breaths. He was working up his nerve, steeling his spine, getting ready for what he had to do. If the captain refused to put the safety of the men first, he brooded, then he would be forced to act.

  Eddie Rich turned smartly on his heels and retreated to his weapons locker. Time for final prep.

  Chapter 24

  Fleet Admiral Harold (Har) Hansen stared at the tiny screen that was below him and to the right. He was situated in an air vent on deck seven and he thought he was overlooking the ship’s laundry. There were several large vats and monster-sized tanks surrounded with tension strapping and heavy steel cables. Big pipes grew out of the top of the vats and drains made out of iron dropped from underneath them. The big pipes were decorated with what he imagined were control valves or shut-off handles. The steam and the smell of cleansing soap pervaded the air in the huge compartment. Ratings in their trousers and t-shirts pushed huge hand carts back and forth between the vats, each cart overflowing with soiled linens and uniforms. Yep. This space had “laundry” written all over it. It was a place that he had never visited before, but had only heard about from his mom. She took care of his clothes, electing to take them to her private quarters to wash them in her sink rather than to bag and tag them for the general populace to wonder over.

  But what had riveted his attention was the tiny screen on the comm stack near the port hatch.

  Har ducked his head instinctively as a huge bundle of clothes in a laundry bag whooshed out of a nearby chute and plopped close to one of the vats. The noise had caught him off guard and he jerked his head around to locate the source of the sound. Once he figured out what was going on, seeing other bags hitting the deck further down the line of vats, he sighed and chided himself for his anxiety. Then he returned his gaze to the comm stack screen.

  A terrible fascination crept into his mind as he watched the alien cocoons being lifted off that lifeboat. He shivered when he saw the cart being brought into the ship proper. He knew those things were up to no good, “playing possum” he thought the proper term was, and now they were on the ship! How could the captain allow this? The women would never be safe once the aliens got their tentacles on them, ripping and tearing at their sheer clothes. Har reached around his back pack and patted the rear of his oversized pants. The chisled outline of the M2-A2 UAW reassured him.

  He wished the angle had been better on the feed from the hangar deck. It offered him no direct view into the top of those capsules, no direct view of the aliens inside. He had overheard crewmen talking during his rest stops and had determined that they looked like birds. Some of them.

  Much to his dismay, he hadn’t recalled ever seeing a bird with tentacles on it. There must be some mistake, he thought, someone was trying to hide the truth.

  Whew. It was hot down here. Har figured it must be because of all the steam and stuff.

  Time to go. He had three, maybe four, more decks to get past, then, if his understanding of the ship’s blueprints was accurate, he would be in a position to see the aliens for himself. Shoot one if all went well.

  He was thinking about what kind of pose he should strike on the cover of the books they were going to write about him when the air duct ahead of him closed in a scratchy metallic grinding sound. He turned around and tried to scamper back to the vent above the laundry but before he made it all the way, that opening was irised shut as well. He was trapped.

  * * *

  The young cryptologist was making quick work of the alien language. After a few fits and starts, after commandeering one of the bridge consoles from Olson, Mols started to scan in what characters she could find, paying close attention to the glyphs on the winking buttons.

  It only took her and her computer twenty minutes to find the string for OPEN, CLOSE, UP, DOWN, ON and OFF. That led her to another console and once there she was able to figure out the character string for FREQUENCY, SEND and RECEIVE. Piggy-backing on the discoveries made by Max Hansen, the genius cryptologist soon had the ship’s intercom working. Next she had Johns go out into the access tunnel and told him which stud to push and they carried on a conversation using the alien comm stack, broadcasting their muffled conversations throughout the entire alien ship. Once her basic vocabulary was augmented by deciphering all of the strings on the hatch control pods, she went in search of the Holy Grail: the ship’s logbook. She had deciphered the dashboard and now it was time to find the owner’s manual.

  Convinced that the log wou
ld be available both in written and digital form, she started plundering through the many alcoves and storage cabinets on the bridge. She had to politely excuse herself many times as she pushed and plowed her way through the fifteen other sailors on the bridge. Sometimes she screwed up and overturned things; sometimes she pulled drawers out past their intended functions and spilled assorted alien junk all over the place; other times she got in the way of some of the electronic techs and had to be told to stow her enthusiasm. But, being the kind of person not used to ever being put on hold, she held forth.

  Mols finally stopped in the middle of the bridge and did a three-sixty. Then she started to reconstruct in her mind what must have gone on in here in the final throes. It was clear to her that some kind of battle had been fought for control of the vessel. Some sort of “last stand” effort that had spilled from the bridge to the hypersleep chamber that had yielded eleven of those things in plastic capsules. And it had been the final horror for another seven aliens, mostly birds.

  That got her thinking.

  She pushed past a few technicians and worked her way into the sleep chamber.

  What I seek should be in here, in this room, she told herself.

  After twenty minutes of searching, after pissing off Lieutenant Hansen no less, she found the book.

  Soon, the alien world would be opened to her.

  * * *

  Looking at his new orders for the second time Captain Paxton Curton frowned. He guessed that Captain Zane on the Casco Bay had received the same dispatch from Fleet at about the same time. He did some dead-reckoning calculations. Shit. Getting to the Christi in a little over twenty-four hours was going to be a haul. The CNS Pearl Harbor was thirty light-years from Elber Prime and outbound of the system. Captain Haad’s vessel was seventeen light-years inbound. He would have to pour on the steam to make it by the rendezvous time. Also, he knew that Robi Zane’s ship was still two light-years further out from the Pearl and he was probably simultaneously cursing up a blue streak at this sudden change in orders.

  The two destroyers had been on routine maneuvers out in the Belt and had been shuttling sailors back and forth on courier boats for cross-training exercises and fitness updates. This latest folly from Fleet would put both destroyers, and their associated tenders, in a world of hurt.

  Curton figured the fold characteristics in his head and then got his quartermaster and helmsman to confirm his reckoning. Orders were given and the ship was made ready. He instructed all of his department heads to make preparations on the voyage out, and have the Pearl ship-shape and battle-ready. He at least had the foresight to prepare for the worst, not knowing what his interdiction would ultimately amount to.

  Once his course was laid in and the massive AM engines came ready, he gave the order to proceed. It would take him about twenty minutes to bring his speed up to the Dyson Drive threshold and push enough space in front of his bow to achieve fold penetration, the ship well-contained in its Higgs Field. At maximum speed, hitting the folds at just the right plane, the helm bounced a transit time of 25.66 hours at him. Fair enough, he thought. His tender boat could draft in his bowshock wake and be on station less than an hour after that.

  Spatial mechanics and drive dynamics was not his strong suit, but after twelve years out in the Belt Loop he took his shortcomings in stride and relied on his well-trained crew and his super computers to do the rest. After all, wasn’t that what the Navy was paying him for?

  * * *

  Milli Gertz felt trapped. Doc Isaacs had come and gone, pronounced her still under observation and quarantine and left her no choice in the matter. She bitched vehemently but he was way ahead of her and quoted chapter and verse from the book of regulations. She wasn’t going anywhere and until she pumped out all greens on the medkit scanner, she was stuck in the containment field with her new best friend, the dead alien bird. She would not be allowed to go down to sick bay and poke at the new arrivals. The live ones. Five more bird-like creatures and six man-sized worms. All viable, all resting comfortably in their sleep capsules.

  All because of a torn suit, fifteen stitches in her arm, and a low-grade temperature that under ordinary circumstances would not even get her two asprins and an invitation to call in the morning.

  Gertz cursed her dumb luck and made up her mind to just keep working on her inspection of the bird. She had managed to open the thing up and had found all of the essentials required to be a bird: heart, lungs, belly, breast, throat, tibio-tarsal articulation on the legs, and scales on the taloned feet. The only thing that struck her was that this version of an avian creature had evolved to the point of distraction. The wings still existed but the seemingly useless feathered tertials and coverts only served to cover thin arms and small three-fingered hands with fused metacarpus and carpus bones with an opposing thumb-like claw. She speculated that the anisodactyl arrangement of the feet allowed the creature to be adept at standing more so than landing.

  She was just beginning to probe the thing’s reproductive system when her suit comm barked at her.

  “Hey, Milli, you there?” The voice belonged to Silvie Tan.

  “No, you’ve reached me at my beach house overlooking the Scorpius.”

  An awkward moment of silence. “Okaaaay, I guess I got you by mistake,” the medtech said. Milli was not known for her sense of humor and the interplay had caught Ensign Tan off guard.

  “What is it, Silvie?”

  “Just thought you’d like to be consulted about these worms, that’s all. You know, you being all in-charge and everything. . .”

  Gertz dropped her probe and stood up straight. “You bet I would! Show me what you’ve got. Feed it through.”

  “Your stack on?”

  “It is now. Quit stalling. Show me,” Gertz said, getting annoyed.

  “Okay, hold it. I’m going to switch to a portable. Just a sec. I want you to see these things up close. There’s a lot of crystalline ice on the inside of these capsules, but we shot a blower across one of them to clear it from this side. Hold on.”

  Gertz was just about at the point of preparing a six- or seven-word string of diety-bashing curses when the image on her comm stack finally stopped bouncing around and stabilized. There were a few bursts of vertical-hold maladies at first but eventually she could finally see a clear image. It was the palm of an evo suit glove.

  “How about moving your damn hand, Silvie? Come on, quit fucking with me. Let me see it.”

  “Sorry, boss. I was just adjusting the focus ring. Here we go.”

  The image bounced a second or two once Silvie removed her hand and then the up and down motion of the hand-held. The picture flared briefly when the reflection of the bright overhead lighting bounced into the lens from the shiny sarcophagus. Next she saw a gloved hand wipe some unseen impediment from the front of the glass then the image zoomed in. There it was. The worm.

  The creature was tan in color and sported nothing that could be confused for hair. Thin ridges circled the bullet-shaped head and continued down the visible length of the body. There was a row of thin slits about ten centimeters from the top of the thing’s head and these were eye sockets. Gertz determined that by noticing one of the four slits was open and a gold iris shone brightly around a pupil the color of charcoal. No nasal structures were evident. The camera zoomed in on what surely must have been a mouth. An angry red slit erupted between the fourth and fifth annelid segments. It was closed but a thin string of ropy mucus had oozed out of the lower corner of the slit and had hardened.

  At the seventh segment the worm broadened out into what looked like shoulders. It was hard to tell because of the silver material that covered the rest of the body but Gertz supplied the missing information with informed guesses of her own. Perhaps the first pair of setae had somehow evolved into upper arms or maybe the creature possessed a full set of legs underneath the covering. Only a thorough examination would reveal the truth. One thing was certain, though. These were the creatures that the ship mimicked. Even d
own to the line of pores that dotted the upper torso she was looking at.

  As the image panned down to the lower extremities it began to fade. Not from some failure of the camera. The lower half of the plastic sarcophagus was encrusted with internal ice, and as a result, the view was limited. Gertz noted a thin mist circulating within the pod as well.

  “Geez, Silvie. What’s going on? I can’t explain it.”

  “Don’t worry none about that. Neither can we. And until we decide on how to revive one of these things, we’re at a loss as to what else to do. Doc Isaacs just stares at them. He’s going to try to get a gas chromatograph of the stuff inside one of these chambers before we do anything else.”

  “No! He shouldn’t open them, containment field or not!”

  The image on her screen bounced around and finally resolved on the faceplate of Silvie Tan. “Relax, Milli. He’s going to shunt off some of that gas from the recirculating unit at the base of one of the capsules.”

  “Can’t you guys just light it up with a probe light and read the spectra?”

  Silvie looked away for a moment. “I don’t know. Hey, I’m not in charge over here, you know.”

  Damn! And here I am stuck in this fucking containment lab! Gertz considered her options. “Well, you tell Isaacs that he should do everything in his power not to violate those capsules until he’s damned sure that he won’t kill them. Does he realize what a find this is? We get a chance to see truly sentient beings never before examined by anyone. Tell him to wait for me, tell him —”

  “Tell me what, Mildred?” Isaacs said in a raspy voice.