by Tripp Ellis
“I think if you don't, you're going to have massive riots on your hands.”
“I agree.” He forced a smile. “If there's anything you need from me to help expedite your departure, please don't hesitate to ask."
“I will certainly let you know.” Emma smiled back at him.
Emma and Chloe left the security office and went down to the MRO. Bob McKay was waiting for them. “Found your problem.”
“Is it good news or bad news?” Emma asked.
“Depends on how you look at it. Turns out there’s nothing wrong with the part. It’s working fine. But the sensor is malfunctioning, giving false readings.”
“So, we’re good to go?”
“Yeah, just keep an eye on it. You’ll have no way of knowing when its about to fail, except visual inspection.”
“Thank you. What do we owe you?”
“Nothing.”
Emma smiled. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
McKay shrugged it off. “Ah, really, it was nothing. You be safe out there.”
Emma frowned. “I don’t think anywhere is safe at the moment.”
"Vantage, I have you cleared for takeoff," the traffic control operator said.
“Copy that," Chloe said.
The bay doors opened, and the landing pad rotated until the Vantage was facing open space. Chloe's eyes scanned the glowing instrument panels—all systems green. She engaged the thrusters and the Vantage lifted from the flight deck. It slid forward and crested the edge of the bay.
“Circle the station. I want to take a look at the damage from outside."
“Aye, Agent Castle.”
Chloe banked the Vantage around, orbiting the station. The damage wasn't as extensive as Emma had anticipated. Several bays on either side of the explosion were demolished, and the immediate areas of the decks above and below. The exterior bulkhead was twisted and shredded. Support beams bent outward. Piping and conduit were frayed. The area was charred black.
Emma surveyed the damage. It made her seethe with anger. The attacks were going to spread across the colonies. There was no way to contain them.
Chloe swung the Vantage around the station and engaged the slide space drive. The bulkheads warbled, and the dropship vanished. A ripple of space distorted in its wake.
Several hours later, the Vantage arrived at Aldebaran Minor. It was a brownish red planet, devoid of lush greenery. From space, you could see patches of water here and there, but it was predominantly a desert wasteland. As they approached the planet, they were met by a small squadron of Aldebaranian fighters. The Vantage was quickly surrounded.
The squadron leader’s voice crackled over the comm line. “You have entered sovereign Aldebaranian space. Please state your purpose.”
“I’m Emma Castle with the United Federation embassy in Mosaav.”
“State your position.”
“Part of the regional security office.”
“Is there anyone else aboard?”
“Just me and my pilot.”
There was a momentary pause. The squad leader was presumably checking her credentials.
“My squadron will escort you to the spaceport in Mosaav. From there, you will be processed through customs.”
“Thank you,” Emma said.
“Do not deviate from our escort.”
“Copy that.”
Emma and Chloe exchanged a look.
“They don’t like visitors, do they?” Chloe said.
“Hell, I’m surprised they even let us have an embassy here.”
The Vantage rumbled and shook as they descended through the upper atmosphere. The turbulence finally settled as they dipped down below the clouds. The average precipitation of the planet was less than 100mm per year. Frequent high winds picked up dust and sand storms on a regular basis. And while not the hottest planet in the system, the plus 100 degree temperatures made it unpleasant. It was far from a tropical paradise.
The Vantage approached the spaceport at Mosaav. It was a sprawling city that seemed to go on endlessly, fading into the desert. The center of the city looked like any modern developed metropolis. But the farther out you went, the more primitive the structures. Slums in the outskirts of the city, with homes that were barely more than clay huts.
Chloe engaged the vertical thrusters and lowered the Vantage onto the landing pad. The exhaust kicked up a haze of dust.
“Well, I guess this is it.”
“Thanks for the lift,” Emma said with a smile.
“Do you want me to stick around until you make it through customs?”
“They’re not going to let a Federation gunship sit in the spaceport for long.”
“I can take off, hang out just outside of their sovereign space. That way I’m close by if you need me.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“What if you don’t make it through customs? What if they send you right back? If I split, you’ll be waiting a day for another ride.”
“Okay. Fine. If you don’t hear from me within an hour or two, head back to the Revenant.”
“Deal.” Chloe smiled.
The two shook hands.
“Really great to meet you. I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed you get into Advanced Fighter Weapons school.”
Chloe’s eyes lit up. “I hope so.”
Emma unbuckled her safety harness and grabbed her gear. She slung her duffel over her shoulder and marched down the back ramp. The wind was whipping dust and debris. It felt like sandpaper scratching against her face. She rushed off the tarmac, into the structure.
An armed guard pointed to the customs processing area. Emma marched down the corridor and got in line. There were at least 60 people in line ahead of her, and things were moving slow.
Emma pulled out her mobile and dialed her contact at the Federation Embassy.
“Special agent Anderson speaking."
“Mr. Anderson, it's Emma Castle. I've arrived in Mosaav. I'm about to go through customs.”
“Great. I'll send someone to pick you up. It should take you about three hours."
"Perfect." Emma frowned, then she hung up the phone.
By the time she reached the customs agent, 2.5 hours had passed. Three hours was starting to seem optimistic. Emma showed the woman her bogus embassy credentials as a security guard.
"State your business.”
"New hire with the embassy. Security detail."
"Do you have any weapons to declare?"
"Yes, I have two service pistols."
“You’ll have to register those.”
Two more customs agents appeared at the counter.
“Please go with them to a processing room.”
The two new customs agents escorted her to a small room. There was a table, two chairs, and what looked to be a two-way mirror.
"Set your weapons and gear on the table,” one of the agents said.
Emma put her service pistols and duffel on the table. One of the agents examined the weapons and logged the serial numbers, while the other agent rummaged through her bag.
“How long are you planning on staying in Mosaav?”
"Until my boss reassigns me.”
One of the agents pulled out his PDU and scanned her biometrics—fingerprints, retinal scan, breath analysis. Then he took a three dimensional photograph of her, and entered her information into the database. He glanced over at the other agent who had finished rummaging through her bag. The other agent gave a nod of approval.
"You'll have to check in with the immigration office every 90 days to renew your work permit. Wait here for final authorization."
The two agents left her in the room. She took a seat and waited. The white walls were dingy. And the overhead light cast a green hue to the room. It constantly buzzed and occasionally flickered. Spending any length of time in this room was enough to drive a person mad.
About an hour later, a supervisor entered. “Emma Castle?”
“That's me."
/> He handed back her passport and other documentation. "You've been approved for entry into the territory. I would advise you to be mindful of the local laws and regulations. We do not make exceptions for tourists, or diplomatic personnel. You will be held to the same standard as local citizens. And regional magistrates tend to sentence harsher terms on convicted foreigners."
"I'll keep that in mind." Emma grabbed her weapons and gear and left the customs area. She headed through the bustling terminal towards ground transportation. There, she saw a man holding a cardboard sign with the name Castle on it.
He was in his late twenties wearing a navy suit and a cornflower blue tie. He had short dark hair and a day or two worth of stubble on his face. Physically fit. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes.
“I'm Castle,” she said as she stepped to him. She felt a slight flutter in her stomach—he was a good-looking man. She instantly pushed the thought out of her mind. The last thing she needed was to get distracted. Especially in an environment like this.
“Kevin Anderson," he said extending his hand. "Nice to meet you. I hope you had a good flight?"
"Not bad. Technical malfunction. A terrorist attack. The usual.”
“I heard. I spoke with John Graham not long ago. Let's get you back to the embassy."
Emma followed him through the parking lot to his hover-car. She climbed into the passenger seat, and Anderson fired up the engine. They pulled out of the parking garage and into the busy streets of Mosaav. It was a chaotic mess of traffic. Anything with an engine was on the roadway, and some things without. There were old-style cars with wheels. Motorcycles, hover-bikes, hover-cars, trucks, and other commercial vehicles. No one seemed to be paying attention to street lanes or traffic signals. The air was filled with exhaust and the rumble of engines, screeching horns, and the shouts of angry drivers.
"If you're willing to drive in Mosaav, you’re either incredibly brave, stupid, or need psychiatric counseling.”
“Which one are you?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Emma buckled her safety belt and hung on for dear life as Anderson weaved through traffic, driving like a local.
The sidewalks were lined with pedestrians. There were vendors hustling merchandise here and there. The city was alive with energy.
"Watch yourself when you are outside of the embassy compound. We lost two agents last month."
"What happened?"
“Saav Krava is targeting our operatives. They were ambushed on the highway by insurgents. Two vans pulled along either side of the vehicle they were traveling in and opened fire." Anderson’s face tensed. "They were good people with lots of experience. All it takes is to get complacent for a moment. Let your guard slip up… boom… it's all over."
23
Ryan
Everything hurt. Ryan’s muscles were sore, and his joints were stiff. It was hard to even move. The last thing he wanted to do was get out of his rack and do another day of training at BSCT. But Biscuit was all about doing things you didn’t want to do.
Ryan climbed out of his rack and tried to stretch his tight muscles. His head was black and blue from where he had been clobbered with the ore. There was a lump the size of an asteroid on his noggin.
There was a line of helmets on the ground underneath the bell by the First Phase office. Each one had the class number 276 stenciled on it, along with the recruit’s name that dropped. The line of helmets was growing, and by the end of the day it would be even longer.
Day 2 of First Phase started with the famed O-course. The recruits had gotten the opportunity to familiarize themselves with it during Indoc, but they hadn’t faced a time challenge yet. Today, they would have to complete the course within 10 minutes, or suffer a severe beating and risk being performance dropped. Skilled instructors could do it in as little as 5 or 6 minutes. They made it look easy. It was anything but.
Ryan stood in line, waiting his turn. There were 62 candidates remaining in Class 276. Hollis was the first one through the course. He was a short, stocky guy. So far he had been pulling his weight, and it didn’t look like yesterday’s torture had affected him much. He was tearing up the course until he got to Hell No. His hand slipped when he grabbed the rope. He fell several hundred feet to the ground. Ryan could hear bones crunch from across the course.
At first glance, the O-course looks like an overgrown playground in a giant sandbox. It’s not a playground. It’s a punishing torture chamber designed by sadists. The only way to master it is to attack it with violent aggression. It does not favor the timid. Or the reckless. Like everything the Reapers do, it requires focus and precision, combined with explosive action.
There are multiple stations, each one presenting its own challenge. First up is Parallel Pain—a set of sloped gymnastic dip bars that must be traversed without your feet hitting the ground.
Then there are the Terrible Tires that you have to high-step through. They are excellent at tripping recruits up, and almost seem to reach out and grab you. Perfect for snapping ankles.
Two posts that act as incremental steps lead up to the Low Wall. The best way over is to attack the steps and leap using your momentum to help carry you over. The High Wall has a thick rope on either side to facilitate climbing up and lowering oneself down. It’s tough when it’s dry. It’s a nightmare in the rain.
The Crawl of Death is a shallow pit with logs and low powered lasers over the top. The depth of the pit can affect the difficulty of passage. The trick is to keep as flat as possible and burrow your way through, if need be. The lasers aren’t going to kill you, but they’re going to hurt like hell and blister your skin.
Next up is Charlotte’s Web—a cargo net stretched between two towering poles. It’s an easy up and over, just don’t look down. It’s staggeringly high, and the sandy bottom isn’t going to save you from a fall. The key is to focus on the task at hand. Don’t get distracted by the potential hazard.
There are a set of balance logs that need to be traversed. Then a transfer climb where you climb up one rope, swing and grab a gymnastic ring, then swing to another rope and climb down. A faulty grip will risk a serious case of rope burn, ripping flesh all the way to the bone.
Then there is the Mother Fucker—a set of incrementally higher vertical logs that look like a sadistic version of the uneven parallel bars in gymnastics. They’re spaced just far enough apart so you have to leap from one to the other. The key is to hit the second log around your midsection, balancing on top, then swing your leg up and over and lower yourself down. Quite often, recruits will misjudge the leap and crack several ribs against the top log. That will earn you a medical rollback, unless you keep it a secret and decide to muscle through it. The most common phrase that is uttered around the obstacle is Mother Fucker, hence the name.
The next three obstacles are classified and can’t be described in any detail.
Hell No is the final, and perhaps most difficult obstacle. This is where Hollis fell. Recruits must climb an outrageously high tower with four platforms. By this time in the course, your arms and legs are mush. If you can reach the top, there is only one way down. A long rope stretched at a 30 degree angle to the ground that terminates at a crossbar that you must touch before dismounting. The most daunting part is mounting the rope face first, resting your torso over it and hooking one foot around, leaving the other dangling for balance. It’s not for the faint of heart. Many a recruit has stood atop the tower, looked down and said, “Hell No.”
If you’ve survived thus far, there are a few balance logs, monkey bars, another set of tires, an incline wall, and a short jog to the finish.
Two corpsmen rushed across the course to attend to Hollis. They stabilized his spine, and carted him off the course with a stretcher. Ryan would later learn that Hollis cracked three vertebrae and broke his femur. He was getting a medical rollback, there was a chance his Reaper career was over.
A somber mood fell over the recruits. It was the first serious injury of BS
CT, and hammered home the point that people can, and do, die here. Gardner dropped after seeing Hollis fall. He didn’t want any part of the O-course anymore.
Ryan wasn’t going to let anything get in his head. He attacked the course. He pushed aside the pain and gave it everything he had. He made Parallel Pain look simple. He stabbed his feet through the Terrible Tires with precision. His biceps burned on the High Wall, but he didn’t slow down. He slithered through the Crawl of Death. His heart was pounding by the time he reached the top of Charlotte’s Web. He could see the entire island from up there. It was an amazing view, but the high wind made it precarious. Ryan hoisted one leg over the top, then the other, and climbed down. He was moving through the course at a methodical, yet explosive pace. He didn’t cuss on the Mother Fucker. By the time he reached Hell No, his chest was heaving, and his biceps were barking. But he didn’t slow down. Atop the tower, he climbed onto the rope without hesitation, despite the dizzying height. He slid down the rope like he’d been doing this course his entire life. He finished the last few obstacles and crossed the finish line, knowing he’d put in a good time.”
“5:59, Dingleberry,” Norfolk called out. “Unacceptable.”
Ryan’s eyes went wide. “But that’s under 10, Chief?”
“Your brother holds the course record at 4:42. You’ve got big shoes to fill. As far as I’m concerned, you won’t pass if you don’t take that record.”
Ryan hadn’t been sure if Norfolk had put the names together. He hadn’t said anything about Colton until this point. Colton went through BSCT three years prior. As competitive as the brothers had always been, there was a part of Ryan that didn’t want to beat Colton’s record. He wanted to let it stand. He wanted Colton’s legacy to live on.
24
Emma
"So, technically, I guess you're my boss," Anderson said.
Emma looked at him and raised a curious eyebrow.
"Graham is putting you in charge of the operation here.”
"I like being in charge."
