by Isaac Hooke
He resisted the urge to send Shaw a message, as that would have been his third unanswered communication in a row. He had learned that sending too many unanswered messages only made him look desperate and needy. So instead he closed the inbox, shutting down the interface with a few eye navigations.
His Implant was responsible for overlaying the necessary computer-generated imagery onto his vision. Everyone with a MOTH rating had one. Others in Big Navy had the option of wearing aReal goggles or contact lenses instead. aReal stood for augmented reality, and that was exactly what it did. With an aReal or Implant, one could access the InterGalNet anywhere, anytime. Aboard starships, that connection was facilitated by the Li-Fi v312 protocol of the overhead lights, which flickered imperceptibly fast, constantly transferring data at terabit per second speeds. A comm node aboard the vessel transmitted that data at much slower rates to ‘node probes’—specialized drones that orbited near Gates and constantly passed in and out of them, transferring packets between solar systems. Delay-tolerant networking at its finest, as Tahoe once said.
A few days later the ship approached the Gate to 11-Aquarii. The lieutenant commander shared the external forward-facing video feed with Chief Facehopper, who in turn authorized the rest of the platoon to view it.
Rade stared at the broad, circular metal frame, twelve kilometers in diameter. Beyond it, space seemed completely normal, without the distortions one might expect from a wormhole.
Ordinarily there would have been a line up of merchant ships in front of a Gate, waiting to pass through. However, the only ships queued that day belonged to Task Group 68.2. No one else wanted to go to 11-Aquarii. Why would they? There was nothing there. No trade outposts. No luxury worlds. Only uncharted space. Not that the two destroyers perched on either side would allow any unauthorized vessels past the military embargo anyway.
“There she is, people,” Rade said. “Our one way ticket to 11-Aquarii.”
“Eleventh star in the constellation of the Water-carrier,” Tahoe said. “Detected only in the last five hundred years, when telescopes became powerful enough to peer through the dense cloud of planetary nebulae surrounding the region.”
“The Age of Aquarius,” Manic mused.
“What’s that?” Rade asked.
“Nothing,” Manic replied. “Just an old saying from the 21st century. Humankind was apparently on the brink of entering a grand age of enlightenment. We’re still waiting for it.”
“Enlightenment,” TJ said. “I think we’ve achieved it.”
“Have we?” Tahoe said. “Then why do we still have wars?”
The lead ship in the queue passed into the ring and vanished.
“Never ceases to amaze me,” Mauler said. “Slipstreams. A network of wormholes we can use for travel throughout our small region of the galaxy. Conveniently stable wormholes. But doesn’t it ever bother anyone that these Slipstreams weren’t made by us?”
Mauler was officially a heavy gunner, and he had joined the platoon to replace Big Dog. Rade hadn’t trusted him at first, but he had proven himself many times over. He had lost both arms, but instead of choosing bioprinted replacements, he had elected for robotic limbs. They looked indistinguishable from ordinary arms, though when touched the texture wasn’t quite right. Mauler had chosen to keep the aesthetics rather modest, aiming for a moderate muscular appearance. It was an illusion, of course, because those arms made him the strongest present—without a MOTH exoskeleton anyway. Definitely wasn’t a man anyone would want to arm-wrestle with.
“Well whoever made them certainly isn’t using them anymore,” Bender said. “We might as well take advantage of the fact.” He paused. “Did you know, the Slipstreams are slowly evolving over time? Getting larger. We have to keep resizing our Gates. And it takes longer to build new ones, because we have to make them bigger. At this rate, in seventy years, it’s going to take six months to build a Gate, rather than the two it takes now.”
“None of us will be around in seventy years time,” Fret said.
“Don’t be so dour,” Manic said. “Of course we will.”
“Not in the military, I mean,” Fret clarified.
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Rade said.
“What, you plan to remain enlisted into your nineties?” Manic asked.
“Not necessarily,” Rade said. “All I’m saying is, we don’t know what the future holds.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad,” Bender said. “We have free rejuvenation treatments, after all. The military will keep us young until we decide we’ve had enough.”
“Those treatments don’t work forever you know,” Mauler countered.
“True,” Bender agreed. He stared off into space. “I don’t think I’m ever going to leave, to be honest. This shit is too addicting. And it’s all I’ve ever known.”
“You’re crazy, Bender,” Manic said.
“At least I’m not a pussy, like you.”
“Bender...” Rade warned him.
“Just saying,” Bender mumbled. He eyed Manic with disgust. “Skinny little runt.”
“I’m just as skinny as Skullcracker,” Manic said. “And you’d never tell that to him, would you?”
Bender glanced at Skullcracker, but didn’t answer. The latter MOTH seemed disinterested in the conversation. Even when he was relaxed like that, his skull tattoo seemed menacing.
“That’s what I thought,” Manic said. “And how exactly am I a pussy? I’ve proven myself in every single battle we’ve ever fought. Hell, I saved your life on more than a few occasions, if I recall.”
“That’s why you’re a pussy.” Bender seemed like he was trying to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t. He burst out laughing.
Manic, seeming angry at first, laughed along with him.
“Peace,” Bender said, extending a hand.
Manic reached out to shake it.
At the last moment Bender formed a fist and punched Manic in the palm.
“Hey! You’ll break my hand!” Manic grabbed Bender’s fist and stepped forward, shoving the arm tight behind Bender’s back.
Bender struggled against the painful grip, but couldn’t break free. Rade was worried that his arm was about to snap, and he stepped forward to intervene.
Bender abruptly lifted his legs and pushed off from the bulkhead, forcing Manic backward. The two tumbled to the deck. Manic, apparently stunned, released his hold.
The instant he was free, Bender spun around; the black man was on top of him momentarily and assumed the mount position, wrapping his legs around Manic’s chest. He squeezed tightly, robbing Manic of precious oxygen.
Manic tried to grab Bender’s biceps to initiate an escape, but Bender was already attempting a collar chokehold with his hands, forcing Manic to repeatedly swat at his arms. Manic finally grabbed the biceps, and was about to break free when Bender slid to one side and used his sheer weight to turn Manic over. He resumed the mount position, this time on Manic’s back, and bent one of his arms dangerously upward.
“Don’t you try that crap on me,” Bender said, panting.
“That’s enough, Bender,” Rade told him.
“Let them fight,” TJ countered.
Rade glanced at TJ and narrowed his eyes. Not looking from TJ, Rade spoke again: “I said, that’s enough.”
Bender sighed, then released Manic and got up. “Sorry boss. Bitch pissed me off.”
Manic stood, and dusted off his clothes. “I would have won,” he said defiantly.
“I want a hundred push-ups from the both of you, right now,” Rade said. “Drop.”
The two dropped.
“TJ,” Rade said. “Join them.”
TJ flashed him a look of sheer scorn, and for a moment Rade thought he was going to disobey, but then he dropped and began pumping them out.
“Though I’ve studied you all my life,” Harlequin said. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you humans.”
“Remember what I said about keeping mute?” Rade told the A
rtificial.
Harlequin looked like he was about to respond, then apparently thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.
General quarters sounded and everyone stopped what they were doing.
“Remember, it’s just a precaution, people,” Rade said. “Just in case there’s a little surprise waiting for us on the other side. You three, continue pumping out the push-ups.”
The Rhodes’ turn at the Gate came and the destroyer passed through into 11-Aquarii.
six
The next several hours proved uneventful. The Rhodes remained under general quarters lockdown, and the MOTHs were confined to the berthing area waiting for news. They passed the time playing competitive war games on their Implants, and performing PT.
Finally the voice of the Rhodes’ AI came over the main circuit and announced that general quarters had ended.
Rade unconsciously pulled up his inbox to check for new messages. There were none, of course. He reminded himself that he would only receive transmissions from local members of the task group going forward, because without a return Gate the fleet was cut off from the rest of the InterGalNet.
Rade was used to operating under similar scenarios, of course. Radio silence came with MOTH territory.
Facehopper arrived at the berthing area shortly thereafter.
“So, here’s the deal,” the chief said. “We’ve detected debris above the third planet in the system, a terrestrial with an unbreathable atmosphere. The fleet believes it’s the wreckage of the John A. McDonald. Automated distress signals, of the kind present in lifepods, have been detected in profusion on the surface. So far we haven’t received any other communications. Two destroyers are remaining behind to guard the Builder while it assembles our return Gate; the rest of the fleet is moving inward to investigate. Five days from now, when we reach the orbit of the third planet, Alpha Platoon will be making a drop. Our destination will be the largest cluster of distress signals detected on the surface. The first officer of the Rhodes, and her chief science officer, will be joining us. A platoon of Centurions will provide additional ground support. Two Raptors will give air support.”
“So we see action after all,” Bender said.
“We see action,” Facehopper agreed.
“What about mechs?” Bomb said. “Will we be getting any?”
“You will,” Facehopper answered. There was a strange twinkle in his eye. “I’ll let you know more closer to the launch date. In the meantime, I’ve loaded a new program into the simulators for you. I recommend you and the others get in as much practice as you can until then.”
THOSE FIVE DAYS passed extremely slowly. The anticipation was killing them. Rade called on his sniper training to help temper his own restlessness. The other snipers on the platoon, Trace and Keelhaul, exhibited similar detachment: if there was one thing to be said about snipers, it was that they were patient. The only distraction they had came from the war games of the simulator, where they spent four hours a day training with the new mech program that Facehopper had installed. It involved an unnamed class of mech they had never seen before: a smaller, nimbler class than the ATLAS.
Rade had to enact disciplinary action against Bomb and TJ, who had caused Harlequin to lose an arm in their latest hazing episode. Apparently the pair had hacked the hatch to the berthing area, and made it close on the unsuspecting Artificial after he had gone on an errand to fetch a nonexistent item for them. The arm was easy enough to replace, but Rade had the cost to repair the hatch and appendage docked from the pay of both individuals. Rade also limited their access to entertainment programs on their aReals. He considered halving their rations as he had done to Tahoe and Bender, but he didn’t think that was a good idea after the resultant fiasco—Tahoe and Bender had proven extremely combative by the second day of their reduced food intake, and Rade had had to breakup three fights instigated by them over the following forty-eight hours, including the Manic/Bender incident.
Facehopper wore a knowing look when Rade reported the fights.
“I expected that would happen,” the chief said. “Reducing rations is fine in bootcamp, when you got yourself a plump trainee who needs to shed some weight. But cutting the rations of seasoned MOTHs? Not something I’d recommend. Despite what the LPO guide might tell you.”
“Then why didn’t you warn me?” Rade asked.
Facehopper shrugged. “I told you to take the advice from the guide with a grain of salt.”
“Yes,” Rade said slowly. “But when I mentioned I planned to reduce their rations, you didn’t say anything.”
“Have you learned from your mistake?” Facehopper asked.
“I’ve certainly learned,” Rade said. “Starvation and testosterone-fueled MOTHs do not good bedfellows make. I won’t ever use rations to discipline someone again.”
“There you go.”
The fifth day proved the longest. The Rhodes and other members of the planetary task unit had achieved orbit above the third planet, and Rade was waiting for the order to report for deployment.
It didn’t come.
One hour passed. Two. They distracted themselves by immersing themselves in the simulator. Rade performed poorly in the war games: his mind was distant, and he constantly found himself wondering about the mission that lay before them. He simply couldn’t concentrate on the simulation objectives. Finally Rade excused himself and returned to the berthing area.
He was beginning to think their mission had been canceled when finally an incoming call came from Chief Facehopper.
Rade tapped in and Facehopper’s hologram appeared before him.
“Hello Chief,” Rade said. “What can I do for you?”
“Bring the boys to hangar bay three,” Facehopper returned. “We got a mission to perform.”
Rade gathered up the members of Alpha and led them through the tight corridors of the Rhodes. He was relatively unfamiliar with the layout of the destroyer, which was of the Nautilus class—heavy on armaments and hangar bays, light on crew space—so he had to use the blueprint overlay provided by his Implant.
Rade was the first to enter the airlock of the hangar bay, and when the inner hatch opened, he strode between two parabolic-winged MDVs—MOTH delivery vehicles—toward the Chief. Those MDVs blocked the remainder of the bay from view.
Facehopper was grinning widely; as Rade approached, the two drop ships fell away behind him, revealing the remainder of the bay.
His gaze was immediately drawn to the shiny black objects to his right.
“Tell me those are ours,” Bomb said from behind him.
Facehopper’s smile deepened. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Meet your new toys.”
Arrayed there in the hangar bay resided sixteen mechs, appearing nearly identical to the units the platoon had practiced with in the simulator. The units were nearly pure black, their camouflage features obviously inactive at the moment. Smaller than the ATLAS class, they had the usual two arms and legs. The head seemed integrated with the upper chest, with only a slight bulge emerging from the top of the torso. A red visor dominated the eye area, but the face was otherwise featureless. He could see the outline of the cockpit hatch against the bulky chest.
Though the armor was currently black, it was polished to a luster so that Rade could see the reflection of the other MOTHs, who gazed at the mechs with glee.
“Welcome to the Hoplite class,” Facehopper said. “Smaller and more agile than an ATLAS, but packing a meaner punch. Let’s see if you’ve done your homework. Bender, would you mind telling us all about them?”
“These fine bitches are the same class you programmed into the simulator?” Bender asked.
“They are,” Facehopper said. “Don’t you recognize them?”
“They seem bigger somehow, in the flesh.” Bender stepped forward and ran his hand along the large leg of one of the units. “The jumpjets have twice the range of the ATLAS, and last three times as long. We have the usual Trench Coat anti-missile countermeasures. A retractable bal
listic/laser shield in the left arm. The swivel mounts in each hand alternate between cobras”—infrared lasers—”and grenade launchers. There are four grenade types—frag, electromagnetic, smoke, and flashbang. Since these babies are designed to be fast and light, there are no incendiaries, or serpents, and we’ve done away with Gats. Why would you need Gats or missiles when you’ve got lasers, after all? The weight savings in ammunition alone are responsible for a fifty percent improvement in speed and agility over an ATLAS.”
“Well done,” Facehopper said.
Mauler stepped forward eagerly. “I count sixteen. We all get one for the planet-side operation?”
Facehopper nodded. “The mission parameters advocate a mech for each and every one of you, yes. Except for Harlequin, who’ll be hitching a ride aboard Bender’s mech. In the passenger section, of course.”
“The passenger section?” Harlequin said. “On the outside?”
Bender flashed those golden teeth malevolently at Harlequin.
The Artificial took a step back.
“As usual,” Harlequin said. “AIs and Artificials are treated like second class citizens.”
“You’ll be fully armed, Harlequin,” Facehopper said. “With an exoskeleton specifically designed for your body, amplifying your already enhanced strength. You’ll be like a mini mech out there. So I’ll fully expect you to participant in any engagements.”
“What about the other officers joining us?” Rade asked.
“I’ll be carrying the first officer of the Rhodes, Commander Blaine Parnell, in my passenger section. And you, Rage, will transport Lieutenant Rebecca Vicks, the chief science officer. While they’re going to be armed, both officers will be only wearing standard-issue jumpsuits, so it’ll be our job to protect them.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re in hangar bay five,” Facehopper said. “They’ll be taking one of the Dragonfly shuttles to the surface, joined by a platoon of Centurion class combat robots. Let’s get suited up.”
From a storage closet the platoon members retrieved cooling undergarments. After changing into those outfits, they attached the MOTH-grade exoskeletons, which they often referred to as jumpsuits. The suits fit to mount points embedded in their arms and legs, providing a seamless interface to the strength-enhancing electronics. When Rade put on the final component—the helmet—the suit injected an accelerant into the dorsal venous system of his right hand, vastly reducing the amount of time his body needed to acclimate to the inner environment.
