The Belt Loop _Book One

by Robert B. Jones

  “Fine. Come up around 1630 hours. I’ll leave word with the sentry. The bridge has been sealed against unauthorized personnel.”

  Max nodded and thanked him again. She was a little more upbeat now, the threat of discovery having been superseded by the prospect of her bereavement leave. As she turned her attention away from Haad and Yorn, she noticed Lieutenant Commander Haslip doing her slow burn at the end of the table. Her face was as red as a lobster fresh out of the cooking pot. What, Gena? No invite to the slide show on the bridge? Aww, too bad, bitch.

  * * *

  Surveying the efforts of her troops, Val Young stood by the inner hatch to the airlock. She had to admit, they were giving the space a pretty good once-over. Her gaze wandered back to the floor and for the first time, due to the angle of the overhead lighting, she saw the slimy tracks on the floor, glistening like the room had been criss-crossed by some kind of snail. Or worm. One of the tracks went right up to a cabinet door and just stopped. Corporal Ginty was just about to open that door with his left hand. His right hand was steady, a few centimeters behind the other one, the dark armored glove blending in with the coal blackness of his weapon.

  “Corporal, stand down!” she yelled.

  Ginty did two things at once. He turned his head in the direction of the lieutenant and simultaneously pulled the door open. The enraged creature practically fell out on top of him and immediately began chewing through his body armor. The worm was taller than an average man but not quite as broad. It had small arms below its bullet-like head and the main torso was covered in a silvery fabric. Small holes, four to each side, marched down the front of its suit and tiny grappling-hook legs protruded from these openings. It used its four foot-like appendages to secure the corporal’s legs while it had its way with him. The marine twitched and loosed a bolt of brilliant electrical energy from his UAW but the shot was wide and burned a hole in the overhead. The worm tore the upper part of his arm off and the gun was quieted.

  It all happened so fast that Young was the only one to react. She brought her M2-A2 to bear on the alien and fired a short burst of energy. The blue-white bolt hit the worm just below its head and tore a path of sinew away from the creature. It emitted a chittering cry and turned toward the stunned lieutenant. Never releasing its four foot-holds on Ginty the worm raised up and shrieked again, bits and pieces of the marine slopping out of its angry maw.

  Young fired again. By now three other members of her detail were standing close to her and raising their weapons. She put a five-amp spurt right in the worm’s center of mass and took two rows of its vestigial legs along with a huge pulpy mass of hideous flesh and silver fabric out the backside. The thing finally closed all four of its eyes and toppled to the side.

  Cott rushed over and looked at the mess at his feet. The worm was gone for sure. He put his hand over his nose, the odor of ammonia was overwhelming. He noticed the thing had some kind of device in one of the upper hands, a small cylinder of metal glinting wanly in four stubby little claws. He kicked it away. Then he turned to Ginty.

  The corporal was done. The upper half of his left chest was missing. The worm had cut through him like a runaway torch. The bite marks were almost circular and gouts of bright red blood splashed the inner door of the cupboard. His face was missing below his right ear along with half of his neck, his shoulder, and most of of his right arm. Pale white bone fragments, the ends of his humerus, his clavicle, and the thin flat plate of his scapula poked through the pulpy gore.

  The whole thing had only taken fifteen seconds. A quarter of a minute to end a life.

  “I need a corpsman down here,” Val Young shouted into her suit mike. “I need him now!”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Mols gathered her gear and prepared for the trek to the bridge. The BOQ (Bachelor Officer’s Quarters) on the Corpus Christi had been nothing to write home about but she didn’t let that bother her. Her main complaint was the shower head that was depositing its tepid stream of water chest high. Being tall had its disadvantages. She wondered why that should be. Since most of the colonists, especially the ones in military service, were many centimeters taller than their high-gravity counterparts on Earth, it seemed illogical for them to make the shower heads so short that people her height had to duck low just to rinse their heads. Maybe she should send a note to Uncle Vinny when she got back to Elber. Let him talk to the designers of ship systems over at NAVSEC.

  Not being overly concerned as to her appearance, she raked one of her long hands through her dirty-blonde hair and adjusted her tunic before stepping out into the passageway. She thought for a moment and oriented herself before turning right and shifting her bag of tricks from her right to her left shoulder. The carry-all contained her portable computer, data storage spheres, alien recording devices and several metallic cylinders of downloaded worm history. At the bottom of the bag was her rat’s nest of optical cables, jumper wires, a small soldering pen with its own power supply and four or five interface nodes.

  Mols stopped on deck three and got directions from the sentry posted there. The seaman apprentice did his job and braced her for her ID card and swiped it through his reader. He pointed to a ladder-well ten meters aft and let her proceed. Boy, she thought, these guys take their security seriously. Considering all that had happened, she didn’t fault them.

  Four minutes later she repeated the ID presentation at the main bridge hatchway and was instructed to wear her card on her uniform front. She took a minute to see to that detail and finally the sentry opened the hatch. The bridge of the patrol boat was pretty much as she imagined it would be. There were about twenty people scattered around the deck, many in small alcoves full of assorted electronics gear, some roaming free-range style with portables cradled in their arms. The captain was in the command chair at his console and he barely looked up when she approached.

  “Ah, excuse me, sir, I’m Lieutenant Mols,” she said smartly, not knowing what to expect from this storied warship captain. She fought back the urge to salute him or go through that “reporting as ordered” routine. After all, she had been invited to the bridge. Still, she stood semi-rigid until she was acknowledged. Her uncle had schooled her in proper etiquette and she tried to remember all of the important points from their talks. She knew that her destiny would take her far beyond the rituals observed by these old tars.

  “Yes, yes. At ease, lieutenant, give me a minute. Why don’t you drop your gear over there, at the comm station,” he instructed with a pointed finger. He seemed very informal and she liked that. Her eyes lingered on the three dark scars on the left side of his face. Her uncle had told her the story of how he’d been injured in the Varson conflict and despite the availability of modern micro-laser surgery he had elected to keep them. In fact, she had been told, most of the Colonial Navy’s battle-hardened men and women wore their scars proudly, almost like medals awarded physically for all to see and envy.

  A slim woman was sitting at the controls of the bridge’s comm stack center when she walked in the indicated direction. The officer turned and her face brightened slightly. “There you are, lieutenant. Max Hansen? We met onboard the worm? I know it’s not easy to remember faces you’ve only seen through filtered faceplates.”

  “Yes, I remember you. You’re the one that had the worm talking by the time I showed up. Good job, by the way,” Mols said and extended her hand.

  They shook briefly and Max told her where to stash her gear. Mols put her bag down but did not put it in the cabinet as suggested. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep that bag in plain sight. I almost got my ass fried getting that stuff off the worm. Man, that was a wild trip, I mean, the lifeboat and all?”

  Max offered her a smile. She was very young and it was evident that this was perhaps all new to her. The only thing that made Mols very unique on the Christi was the CT insignia on her collar: a quill pen overlaid with a magnifying glass. As a matter of fact, this was her first encounter with a cryptologic technician in her a
lmost ten-year career. These were the guys from the secret CTI schools and she had read of some of their exploits, especially the CTTs (Technical Cryptologic Technicians) who ultimately played a big role in defeating the Varson Empire by cracking their battle codes. Even though the ship had a IS department somewhere down on deck six, she didn’t remember ever meeting any of the three people from that shop. Hidden crewmen doing hidden things.

  “Well, glad you made it out okay. I understand you have some very interesting data to share?”

  “Indeed I do. I’m a little nervous about showing this stuff to the captain. What’s he like to work for?”

  Max had to stop and think. Haad was a very serious officer with strong roots and unquestioned dedication. She’d seen him interact with some of the senior staff and found him to be friendly enough though he was not given to useless talk or inane humor. He had surprised her earlier with his concern about her son.

  “The captain’s fine provided you know your stuff. He’s not one to sit around and listen to idle chatter. Keep your message simple and to the point and you’ll do just fine.”

  “I hope so. I have a lot riding on this. Uncle Vinny says that I could get my own shop if this trip to the Belt comes off without too many problems. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I know that I have to have some spacefaring under my belt to bolster my creds and get advanced, but, really? Put me down in a basement somewhere with my code books and I’m a happy camper. I’d do this job even if I was just a seaman recruit.”

  “Uncle Vinny?” Max asked.

  “Oops. I wasn’t supposed to say much about that. My uncle is Admiral Paine.”

  “Mister Mols. You can start getting set up,” Commander Yorn said. “Tell me what you need.”

  Davi Yorn had made his way around the bridge to the comm console. He had a rather large surgical patch covering the back of his head. He didn’t seem any worse for wear Max noted.

  “Aye, sir, I think I just need to get to a junction box, the one that feeds the main viewscreen. Your blister up there.”

  He nodded and waved her over to one of the walkways behind the captain’s chair. Haad turned around and looked at the young lieutenant.

  “What you’re looking for should be under this deck plate.” Yorn bent at the waist and reached for one of the hand holes on the open-mesh plate. Max grabbed the other end and helped him slide it away. “That all?”

  “Yeah. I mean, aye, sir, thanks.”

  He nodded and turned away before the lieutenant could see his big smile.

  “What can I do to help you?” Max wanted to know.

  “Slide my bag over, Lieutenant Hansen. That’s all I need for now,” Mols said.

  Max complied and for the next twenty minutes she watched the young officer work her magic.

  Chapter 32

  “If they so much as blink an eye, fry them, corporal,” Anson Isaacs said to a tall thin marine. His name tag identified him as B. Ordway.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” he replied. Ordway was one of six marines stationed in the makeshift triage compound that had been set up on the recreation center’s floor. In their care were the five capsules containing the alien birds. As far as anyone could tell, they were still sleeping, the strange blinking lights on the bases confirmed that the machinery was still functioning. Isaacs had lectured the soldiers for ten minutes about safety issues and reminded them these alien creatures had already caused way too many casualties. Keeping them alive was not one of his new priorities. He had moved them up here from the brig area so he could better monitor them.

  He nodded to a chief machinist’s mate ten meters away and the man reached down and slapped at the controls on a small field generator. The containment field sputtered and flashed off and Isaacs walked across the huge room to the seven beds that were arranged ward-style against the far bulkhead. As soon as he had cleared the designated area the chief re-energized the field. Isaacs looked back over his shoulder and saw the random electrons dancing in the containment plane and waved at the rating next to the generator.

  All was well and good his gesture said.

  That gesture did not include one of his human patients. Milli Gertz was sitting on the side of a portable hospital bed swinging both her legs in an impatient rhythm and looking skyward, a scene reminiscent of a small child waiting for the promised trip to the ice cream parlor. She had both her arms crossed over her torso and bunched the flimsy hospital garb tightly beneath her elbows. As soon as Isaacs got into range she started in on him again.

  “So, how long are you going to keep me cooped up down here? Did I just hear you tell those jugheads to shoot me if I moved?”

  “Jarheads,” he corrected her.

  “Some kinda heads. I’m going to move anyway, and if they fucking shoot —”

  He put up both hands and waved her off. “Just ship your oars, Milli. Until I can find out what that thing did to your arm, you sit right here. What? You’re not liking my five-star accommodations?”

  She rolled her eyes and hugged herself tighter. Her temperature was back to normal, her vitals were all in the green. Overlooking the missing arm business, she didn’t see why he wouldn’t certify her as fit to return to duty. She had watched as he stepped aside and let Commander Yorn walk out of here still holding onto the back of his head. If he could do it, she should be able to as well. She put those thoughts into words and spiced them up with a few choice curses she had learned the last time she was in The Haven’s Heaven bar on Elber knocking back shots of raspberry gin with her friends.

  “Whoa! Yorn got his head sewed up and I gave him the TPK booster. Known treatment for a known problem and a known outcome. What you’ve got is an unknown problem with an unknown cause and a still unknown prognosis. Three unknowns and you keep your smart mouth right here. It’s in the regs,” he said sharply even though he was not trying to offend. Milli Gertz was one of his favorites on the ship and they usually participated in spirited debates and banter about all things medical or anthropological. She loved to argue and he loved to give it right back.

  “You know where you can put your regulations, Anson, but I’d suggest you use rubber gloves when you do.”

  He curled his top lip and gave her a quick smile. He was just about to say something equally profound and profane when she reached out with her good arm and swatted him on the arm. “Hey, that’s the answer. Give me one of those big-assed latex gloves! I’ll slip it over my ‘missing’ limb and no one will be the wiser. If the brass asks me, I’ll just say I accidently got some liquid nitrogen splashed on it, or something like that. Come on, Anson, get me back in the game. This is the most important find since the Varsons. And you’re keeping me out of it for no reason. I could see it if I was foaming at the mouth or growing tentacles or claws. As far as I can tell, the hand and the arm work just fine. You just can’t see it too good. . . .” She finished her little speech by letting her voice trail off, as if she was admitting to herself the absurdity of her request.

  Isaacs spread his legs a few centimeters wider, grabbed his right side with his left arm and crooked his right index finger over his mouth. If he had bent at the waist it would have reminded Gertz of Rodin’s The Thinker.

  “Give a gal a break, doc. I’ll sign myself out with prejudice if you want. I want back in,” she cajoled.

  He reached out and took her transparent arm in his hands and palpated the flesh. The long striated muscles contracted under his thumbs and he thought he could even see the filament-thin nerve endings brighten a shade when he moved her fingers. All the while the slow soothing pulsing of her blood maintained its steady rhythm easily detected now in her translucent arteries and veins. The whole lower arm was just south of visible and even the knobs of her wrist were outlined in a tracery of ivory. Isaacs produced a small penlight and looked into each one of her eyes. Normal. Next he scanned her with his portable. Normal. Maybe she had a point.

  “Okay, Milli, but if this comes back to bite me in the ass, I’ll make sure I return the favor to you on
both cheeks.”

  “You’re saying that you want me to get in trouble? Anson, you dirty old man!”

  He laughed for the first time in quite a while. “Well, you got half of that last part right.”

  She slapped him on the arm again and reached for her uniform.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Val Young did her best to follow the trail of the worms. The creatures were honey-combing the interior of the ship leaving mucus-coated tunnels and debris trails in their wake. It seemed the aliens were not trying to hide their slow destruction and Cott had discovered that the small cylinder the dead worm clutched in its stubby hand was capable of melting through two-centimeter-thick bulkheads with ease.

  She was on deck six and the thing that made her quest difficult was the twisting and turning tunnels. They would start off at one angle and then abruptly veer off in another direction making illumination of the entire path almost impossible. The small openings were not quite large enough for a man to crawl through.

  Nevertheless she pursued her prey relentlessly. She cleared compartments as necessary, alerted upper decks to be on the look-out for the worms, and generally felt she was doing her job in an orderly and professional manner. She’d communicated with the bridge, the hull techs, the rest of the masters-at-arms, the members of her team. The one thing clearly evident to all involved was the worms were heading upwards. Why that pattern was being followed, only the worms knew.

  Young and five of her detail started to scour the enlisted crew deck and gathered in the communal shower just aft of the main sleeping compartments. She’d figured that the general trajectory of the alien infestation was pointing to somewhere in that general area. Maybe they were attracted to the moisture or the smell.

  “Spread out,” she told her troops. “I’m thinking they’ll be coming right through the forward bulkhead or the plumbing locker over there,” she indicated with a wave of her non-gun hand. Cott and Gibbs flanked her to the right and Rankin and Duff were spread out to the left. Tank, otherwise known as Petty Officer Tucker Thoms, cautiously guarded the rear. A thin mist gathered at the edge of the shower stalls ahead of them, leftover condensation from the group washings they had interrupted just minutes ago. Recirculating pumps and heavy duty air exchangers worked to get the humid air back into the appropriate reservoirs below decks where the water would be siphoned off for a later run through the clarifying and distilling machinery. Thin beads of water drained from a dozen shower heads and peppered the deck. Multiple small rivers worked their way to the indented drains and occasional gurgling sounds bounced from the metal walls.