by Doug Hoffman
“Will you look at that,” said JT from the copilot's seat, impressed in spite of himself. From a distance, the rim of the station looked thin compared with its width. Up close things looked different. “I suppose we are headed for that small rectangle?”
A third of the way up from its rounded bottom edge the mostly featureless expanse of wall contained an opening. As the shuttle drew nearer it became clear that the opening was not small, merely dwarfed by the scale of the station. A hundred meters wide by eighty tall, the entrance was uncovered and open to space.
“Right you are, Lt. Taylor.” Sandy's voice remained chipper and upbeat. Only her eyes, constantly darting from the instrument display to the scene out the windscreen, gave any indication of the pilot's heightened level of concentration. Despite appearances, the shuttle was not simply approaching a stationary wall in space. It was moving sideways on a curving course at 12 kilometers a second.
“OK, the not so small opening,” JT corrected himself. “The scale of this place takes some getting used to.”
Within, the landing bay narrowed by steps, creating the look of a stairwell ascending into the distance. As the shuttle entered, alarm indicators lit up on the instrument panel.
“Captain, Flight Deck. We seem have passed through a force-field of some kind.”
“Is it strong enough to threaten the shuttle?”
“No Sir. Wouldn't have know it was there without the instruments... stone the bloody crows, there's another one.”
“Look, Sandy, there's air pressure outside the ship.”
Glancing down at the instruments Sandy concurred. “Right you are, Lieutenant. There's a third force-field and look, the pressure jumped slightly.”
“Yeah, this must be how they keep their atmo from leaking out the open landing bay. Not as neat as the M'tak's selectively permeable hull, but still pretty cool.” The more barriers they passed the higher the air pressure rose outside the shuttle.
“Captain, looks like we are all right. Just the station's version of an airlock.”
A kilometer and a half inside the rim they pierced the airlock's final force-field. Ahead lay a large landing area, at the edge of which stood a crowd of Kieshnar-rak-kat-tra—the station Trader and his retinue. Viewing the scene on their helmet displays the members of the expedition got their first look at their new clients. Perhaps forty cinnamon furred creatures were present, resplendent in silken sashes and jeweled belts.
Standing half a hand taller than those around him, the Trader was the largest Kieshnar-rak-kat-tra the Earthlings had seen, a somewhat portly example of his race. Indeed, compared with the traders who accompanied them, all of the locals had a distinctly well fed appearance.
“And don't they look particularly toothsome?” Bear asked innocently.
Shaking his head, the Captain briefed the landing party. “We need to make a show of force, which is why we've brought almost everyone to the station. When the rear ramp lowers Hitch and Jacobs will assume guard positions to either side. Then I want the Marines to come thundering down the ramp and form an honor guard next to the starboard side personnel ramp.”
The Marines and crew were all in heavy space armor. The rest, including the Captain, wore standard armor. Jack continued. “The SEALs will disembark via the side personnel ramp, followed by myself, the three traders, and finally Dr. Ogawa and Corpsman White. Understood?”
“Aye aye, Sir!”
The shuttle rotated, landing with its starboard side to the crowd of natives. As it did, JT climbed into his armor and went aft to take his place next to Bear at the head of the Marines.
“Ready to go, brother Bear?”
“I was born ready, JT,” Bear replied with a toothy grin. “It's hard to believe we are about to do this.”
“As H. L. Mencken, the Sage of Baltimore, once said: 'Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.'”
“Now yer talking, brother,” said Bear with a gleam in his eye.
The rear ramp lowered and the two crewmen, Hitch and Jacobs, descended to the deck. The Marines, led by Bear and JT, trotted down the ramp, around the side of the shuttle and formed up between it and the watching locals.
With an electric motor whine the side personnel ramp extended and lowered to the deck. Down it ran the three SEALS, followed by the Captain at a more dignified pace. Behind Jack, came the three traders, blinking and looking about nervously. Bringing up the rear came Betty White and Mizuki Ogawa, both holding their weapons across their chests, ready for instant use.
“Try to look fierce, Dr. Ogawa, we are all supposed to be warriors,” Corpsman White said to her partner on suit-to-suit.
“I've always wanted to be a fighting astrophysicist,” Mizuki answered with a shy grin, invisible inside her armored suit.
“Yeah. I guess I get to shoot 'em first and then patch 'em back up,” the Navy medic chuckled.
Flanked by the SEALs and trailed by the three merchants, Jack strode to within five meters of the station Trader and stopped. Earlier Jack had noticed that Ooshnar-tar-rak-ra wore three gold rings in his left ear, while Poonta-ta-ka wore only one and lowly Feeshkar's ears were unadorned. The plump trader before him had no less than seven golden rings dangling from his left ear, evidently symbols of status or rank. Raising his right hand, palm outward like John Wayne greeting a tribe of Indians in an old Hollywood movie, he spoke.
“Greetings Trader, I understand you are interested in exchanging antimatter for some help with your neighbors.”
The station Trader's large fluffy tail described a series of small circles in the air above his head as the merchant made a slight bow in the Captain's direction. “Welcome most fearsome of warrior captains, I do believe we have matters of trade to discuss...”
Cuyo, Argentina
The shuttle came in over the snow capped peaks of the Andes, dropping down into the Cuyo region of what was once Argentina. Cuyo is the name of the wine-producing, mountainous area of west-central Argentina. Historically it comprised the provinces of San Juan, San Luis and Mendoza. Mendoza, located in the eastern foothills of the Andes, has some of the highest altitude vineyards in the world with an average elevation of 600 to 1,100 meters above sea level.
Unlike the low flat pampas and littoral regions of Argentina, Cuyo was mostly untouched by the tsunami created by the alien bombardment. Ash and falling ejectamenta did wreak havoc on the area, however, and of the region's nearly three million inhabitants fewer than a quarter million survived. It was in a valley well outside of Mendoza city that the members of Occupy Moon Base were deposited.
“All right, this is your stop,” the pilot announced from the flight deck. “All ashore.”
Each of the convicts was dressed in a tan jumpsuit, made from significantly heavier material than the daily wear provided on the Moon base. Each was also shod in durable boots and given a knife, a canteen full of water and a small backpack containing a silver space blanket and a week's worth of ration bars.
It had been almost three weeks since the riot in the Atrium. Ludmilla was first and foremost a medical doctor and would not agree to the deportation until she was sure that those injured during the insurrection were healed enough to face nature unaided.
“You can't just dump us here,” pleaded the woman named Silvia.
“You should have thought about that before you started chucking firebombs around the Atrium,” replied one of the unsympathetic Marine guards. “Now move yer ass.”
The convicts were lucky it was not raining outside—summer was the local rainy season and the messed up weather patterns had made this year wetter than most.
“At least tell us where we are,” another convict pleaded.
“You are in the Argentinian wine country, a region known as the Cuyo,” said the pilot, taking pity on the convicts. “It's a hilly, mountainous region in the foot hills of the Andes. Summer temperatures can reach 32ºC, with overnight lows around 18ºC, though it might g
et a bit cooler than that since the bombardment. I would suggest you try to make some friends among the surviving locals before winter, because the weather drops below freezing then.”
“I'll give you some free advice,” added the Marine, “don't try that 99% crap on the locals, they might just shoot you where you stand.”
“I'm not leaving,” cried the hysterical Silvia, echoed by several others. This prompted the flight engineer to alter the gradient of the deck gravity, in effect tilting the cargo deck until the whole of Occupy Moon Base slid out the rear and landed on Argentinian soil in an unkempt heap. The shuttle lifted off, its rear ramp closing as it rose into the gray leaden sky. A number of the former prisoners could be seen waiving their arms or on their knees pleading as the shuttle headed back into space.
Emergence, Gliese 581
An alter-space transit from Sol to Gliese 581 takes 22.69 days even though it is only 6.3 parsecs away. This is because of the relatively small mass of Gliese 581 itself, a diminutive M5 red dwarf only one third the Sun's mass. Taking a page from his former mentor's book, Billy Ray drilled his crew continually during the three week voyage.
Now I know why Jack used to drill our asses off, Captain Vincent mused, It was to keep us out of trouble and from going crazy in alter-space.
At the helm was Lt. JG Pauline Palmer, who had been a midshipman on Peggy Sue's last voyage. Though it was not his watch, Lt. Wim Vandersluys, the executive officer, was also on the bridge. In fact, anyone with a semi-plausible reason to be on the bridge was wedged in somewhere. Given the spectacular view through the ship's transparent nose, the capacity crowd was understandable.
I remember the first time I saw an emergence, normal space suddenly reappearing with the ship in a new star system. Of course, the first time we weren't sure we would emerge anywhere. Billy Ray smiled to himself. Well, let them enjoy it—hopefully they'll live to tell their grand kids about it.
“How are we looking, XO?” he asked Vandersluys, formerly a lieutenant in the Dutch navy.
“We are at action stations and rigged for emergence, Sir.”
“Very good.” Noticing Chief Zackly out of the corner of his eye, Billy Ray addressed the old salt. “And how's the crew doing, Chief?”
“A bunch of snot nosed excuses for real sailors, but they'll do, Captain, they'll do.” From the grizzled old chief that was high praise.
“Ten seconds to emergence, Captain,” Pauline called from the helm.
The bridge crew waited the last few seconds in silence and then, with the slightest of shudders the Peggy Sue reentered 3-space.
“Viewports transparent. I want a full sensor report Mr. Tanaka,” Billy Ray ordered his navigator. “Locate Gliese 581d and lay in a course to match orbits with it.”
The crew jumped to obey.
In all, a pretty good crew. I could have done worse for my first real command. Of course, we ain't done anything but fall through alter-space so far. A call from the Ambassador interrupted his thoughts.
“We have emerged from the lesser dimensions without incident; With your permission, Captain, we would contact our Conclave on the planet ahead; Our preparations with JeanJaquesDebelcour have gone well and we feel confident that our negotiations will yield a positive result.”
“Yes, Ambassador, the trip so far has been uneventful as expected; Please make contact with your home planet using the computer's facilities; I'm glad that Jean-Jacques has been of assistance.”
Jean-Jacques was on the mission by happenstance. Had Billy Ray not taken Beth to the Frenchman's restaurant for dinner the night before departure the former UN diplomat would not have learned of the mission until after the Peggy Sue sailed. As things transpired, De Belcour overheard Billy Ray explaining to Beth that he had been handed a secret mission, which was about to take him away for the better part of two months.
Once Jean-Jacques learned of the mission he would not be denied. He implored Billy Ray to take him along, proclaiming that he must repay his debts and redeem his honor. Billy Ray kicked the decision upstairs, telling the insistent former diplomat that he would have to clear his participation with Col. Tropsha. The new Captain hoped that Jean-Jacques would balk at facing the formidable Russian woman he had so antagonized in the past, but the Frenchman was made of sterner stuff.
To Billy Ray's surprise, Jean-Jacques presented himself at the foot of the gangway the next morning with permission granted by Col. Tropsha and endorsed by Captain Curtis.
“If that frog bastard gives you any trouble, Captain, you just give the word and I'll march his garlic eatin' ass out an airlock,” the Chief offered, unconsciously rubbing the shoulder where he had been shot during the incident in Vienna. But De Belcour caused no problems on the voyage out, spending most of his time in consultations with the Triad Ambassador. Billy Ray suspected that the Chief was slightly disappointed.
“We have received a message of welcome from the Triads, Captain,” the ship's computer announced. “They congratulate us on our species' continued existence and for bringing NatHanGon back unharmed.”
“Send them an appropriately diplomatic reply and let the Ambassador get on with it,” Billy Ray responded. Damn sarcastic plants, just because their species is four or five billion years older than us humans.
“The Ambassador is exchanging information as we speak, Captain. For a biological entity, their bandwidth is most impressive.”
CO's Office, Farside Base
Since Melissa's departure, Clem and Lem had been spending their time making minor changes to the fly farm. With their boss gone they were wondering what they should work on next. Then they got a summons from Col. Tropsha's office.
“I hope we don't get put back on vent cleaning duty,” Clem said as they entered the outer office.
“Me either, buddy,” answered Lem, “maybe the CO will ship us off to Mars like Melissa hinted before she left.”
The door to Ludmilla's office slid aside and the commanding officer's voice called from within, “Gentlemen, please come in and take a seat.”
There were two other people present in the office that the pair of engineers did not know, at least not personally. Both were familiar to anyone on the Moon base.
“Clement Mathews, Lemuel Souther, meet TK Parker and our Chief Engineer, Cdr. Jo Jo Medina.”
The men shook hands all around while mumbling meaningless pleasantries. Ludmilla waited impatiently as the ritual of male greeting was observed.
“Please, everyone have a seat.”
As TK's wheelchair lowered itself back to four-wheel mode Lem could not help but crane his neck to get a better look at the mechanism. This caused TK to chuckle.
“She's a beauty, ain't she,” the old oilman said.
Lem blushed, embarrassed being caught staring at the man's wheelchair. “Uh, yes sir, Mr. Parker. That's quite a piece of equipment.”
“Call me TK, son. Yeah I had this little number built special out of a couple of old iBOTs a few years back. Had her hopped up a bit too, but I don't get much chance to race around up here.”
“I keep offering to build him a floating, gravitonic driven one for use here on the Moon,” threw in Jo Jo with a crooked smile.
“Including the stand-up mechanism? That would be an interesting problem, keeping it stable during the transition,” added Clem, drawn into the discussion.
Ludmilla harrumphed and rolled her eyes. “Well, if there was any question that you two are engineers this answers it. Now if you all do not mind I would like to get down to business.”
“Aw Ludmilla,” TK said with a Texas twang, “if we were talkin' about transplanting a liver or bisectin' someone's bowel you'd have been right there with us.”
“Yes, TK, you are right. Still, we need to get to the matters at hand.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, waiving one had in the air as a sign of surrender. “You see, boys, after the latest little alien incursion we've realized that Farside is defenseless, totally dependent on the Navy to keep the bad guys away from
our door.”
“We also realized that, while we are building new ships as fast as we can,” added Jo Jo, “some parts of the process take longer than others. Specifically, nanite fusing the hull sections together once the engines and reactors are installed, followed by building out the interior spaces takes a lot longer than fabricating some of the other components.”
“Like deflector shield generators, X-ray laser units, and railguns,” TK interjected.
“Precisely,” said Ludmilla. “So we are in the process of installing shields and laser batteries to protect the base.”
“Since we only have to defend from one direction, we will have stronger shielding than a frigate and more than a dozen semi-autonomous X-ray units installed in the next couple of weeks,” Jo Jo concluded.
“How can we help with that?” asked Clem, puzzled why they were being briefed by the top brass about this.
“Yeah, seems like you have everything well in hand,” added Lem, “except you didn't mention any railguns.”
“I told you they were perceptive,” Ludmilla said to her two male companions.
“If they were dumber than two sacks of hammers you wouldn't have recommended 'em.”
Clem and Lem looked at each other, thinking the same thing. The CO really enjoys needling TK. Not mean spirited, more like a sister and an older brother. Jo Jo picked up the slack in the conversation.
“You see, gentlemen, the railguns are different from the other equipment. The shield generators and laser batteries are simple to install—all they need is a stable mounting platform and power. Since the base is carved out of solid rock, and we now have four operational fusion reactors, neither requirement is a problem. The railguns are not so simple.”
“I'd imagine they have quite a recoil,” Lem commented.
“They kick like a damn mule,” TK answered.
“On a warship we simply build the railguns into the ship's structure and let the mass of the vessel absorb the recoil.”
“But that won't work on a shore emplacement,” said Clem, thinking out loud. “You need to be able to aim them.”
