Green Zulu Five One: And Other Stories From the Vyptellian War

by Scott Whitmore

  She snorted. “Your co-pilot? Try the other way around.”

  He laughed and she joined in, breaking the tension. She squeezed his hand again. “So, what do we do about this? You haven’t said what you think of the idea. Don’t just agree with me, I’ll know if you do.”

  “I like the idea of spending more time with you. Of not having to wait a week to see you for a few minutes.”

  “I’d like that, too. You have to know I would.”

  “I do. Look, he said there’s a way to get out of it. An opt-out. Nothing is final.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to be stuck with me, in other words.”

  Caviness picked up a fork and dragged it through the congealing mush on her tray. After a few moments she looked up with a grin. “I had an instructor at the Academy who told us good deals are few and far between in the Fleet. When you get one, grab it.”

  “I heard that, too. Probably from the same guy.”

  “If there really is a way out, maybe we tell them yes and then see what happens. With us, I mean.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. No promises, though. Okay?”

  “Sure. No promises.”

  The fork stopped moving as she suddenly grew serious. “Hey! You’ll change squadrons. And wings. Are you going to be okay with that?”

  “I will.” Tyko nodded to reassure her. He reached out for the glass on his tray. Lifting it to his mouth he casually added, “I’d rather kiss you than Henrik.”

  She laughed so loud pilots at nearby tables stopped eating to look over at them.

  That had been two weeks ago. He made the move to Third Wing four days later and quickly realized how much he had taken for granted being in the same squadron, same wing, for more than three years.

  In theory Fleet procedures were the same everywhere but in reality there were subtle differences, and it was made clear that any adjustments were his to make. He was told to forget the ways things were done ‘downstairs’ and warned against suggesting any changes to conform to how his previous unit operated.

  He also had to learn the strengths and weaknesses of his new squadron mates so he’d know who he could rely on in a fight.

  Of course there were the questions from pilots and support officers about the reason for his transfer and his connection with Caviness. Even his new squadron commander gave the impression she thought Tyko’s transfer was more due to the Wing’s concerns about her leadership abilities than an obscure Fleet regulation.

  Their schedules didn’t exactly line up as the colonel had suggested, but he was still getting to spend a lot of time with Caviness and both were happy about that. Other than being with her, next best for him was climbing into a control unit for patrol duty. That there were no Vyps to fight mattered less to him than a temporary escape from stumbling around like a fresh-from-the-Academy newcomer.

  “White Oscar Four Zero this is Control. You are bingo plus ten minutes but relieving squadron is on station at this time. You can bring them home a little early.”

  “This is Four Zero. If it’s all the same we’ll finish what we started.”

  “Roger that, Four Zero.”

  Tyko grinned behind his faceshield. The other pilots on patrol with him were no doubt grumbling but he didn’t care. Ten minutes? He’d fly the next patrol cycle if they let him.

  Shipping Over

  Lieutenant Bokamu saw the flashing icon as soon as he pulled the datapad from its place on his belt.

  He already knew it would be there. Two weeks earlier the icon first appeared in green, a visual cue telling him there was an action item from the Group in his admin queue. A few days later the icon turned to yellow, as if to say: Not sure how, but maybe you didn’t see this yet, eh Lieutenant?

  A few more days passed and the color changed again, to red, and the icon began flashing.

  Floating behind the on-watch team, securely strapped in and intently focused on their readouts, datascreens, and displays, he stared at the red flash and inwardly sighed. Grabbing a handhold he twisted around and pulled himself forward, easily floating toward the opposite end of the pod that was one of New Earth’s most secret military projects and his home for the past eighty-three days, nine hours and thirty-three minutes.

  Bokamu was technically the officer in charge of the pod, designated Heimdallr Eight, but his position seemed more like that of a school teacher or — worse — parent. He far out-ranked the pod’s six other occupants, two men and four women, but it was their skill and knowledge that was crucial to the mission, not his. They had been hand-picked for the task, plucked from what he assumed were the deep ranks of Military Command’s intelligence community.

  He was told his selection was just as carefully made, but Bokamu quickly realized it wasn’t for his martial qualities. One of the few to remain on flight status after attaining the age of majority, Bokamu was an instructor at the Academy when the two colonels from the Active Intelligence Group came to see him. Yes, he was a good pilot and they played up the need for those skills in their new project. But, more important to them (he later learned) was his demonstrated ability to lead and guide cadets, who as newly-turned adolescents were frequently truculent, moody, and unfocused.

  Truculent and moody certainly characterized the team of specialists with him on Heimdallr Eight, but if anything they were too focused. This was especially true of Pemberton, the reason for the flashing icon and the man Bokamu headed aft to find.

  Of the six specialists, Pemberton was undoubtedly the best. He was the most proficient in the basics of Vyptellian language and could also draw inferences and conclusions from the communication intercepts, often with a startling degree of specificity. The slight, undernourished-looking man examined not only what the Vyps were saying and how, but also what was not being said.

  Bokamu found him in the training room, deeply in thought while methodically placing one magnetic-booted foot in front of the other on the treadmill. He cleared his throat to get Pemberton’s attention.

  Pemberton glanced at him and said, “I miss having a choice.”

  Bokamu nodded. “We all do. But there’s no getting around this. Just put your thumb on the screen and we can talk about anything else you want to.”

  “I just don’t understand why it’s necessary.”

  The lieutenant took a deep, calming breath. They’d had this same conversation so many times already. “You know I don’t either. It just is. Next time the Supreme Commander or the Deputy or one of the Vice Commanders asks, I’ll let them know we think it should be changed.”

  “You do that and they’re likely to send you off to some far-off, isolated post.” Pemberton smirked. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Once you’re inducted, they do whatever they want. Having us voluntarily re-enlist every few years, that’s just part of the plan to make sure we know who’s running our lives. As if we didn’t already.”

  Secretly, Bokamu thought there might be something to what Pemberton was saying. Volunteer or drafted, once in the military there was a clause in the paperwork that said you were in for the duration of the war and whatever additional time Command felt necessary after hostilities ended. Even with that, every four years each of them was required to bio-metrically sign a document formally extending their service another four years.

  The lieutenant tamped down his rising anger. The close quarters of the pod and somewhat boring routine (after the initial surge of adrenaline wore off) combined with Pemberton’s natural smugness was a recipe for a confrontation that he, as the officer in charge, needed to avoid. He took another deep breath before continuing.

  “Look, all I’m saying … all I’ve been saying, is even if you don’t sign it nothing changes. You’re not going anywhere. You know this, Pemberton.”

  “I know it.”

  “So … sign already. Do it for me. I need it off my action list.”

  The slight man stared at the bulkhead for a few moments, his legs and arms silently moving back and forth. He turned back to the lieutenant wit
h a crooked smile. “I’ve got a few more days until it has to be signed, right?” Without wanting to, Bokamu nodded. “I’ll do it on the day then. No sense in giving them anything extra, am I right?”

  “You wouldn’t be giving anyone anything extra doing it now.”

  “No, but doing it when I decide makes me feel like I have a little control over my life again. What’s the harm in that?”

  “Well, I could report you for conduct detrimental to the war effort. The penalty for that would eat up your next two enlistments.”

  Pemberton’s smile disappeared and he stopped in place, one arm swung out in front, the other back. “Aw, you’re a good officer, lieutenant. You’ve been good to us out here and all. You wouldn’t do that.”

  “It may not matter. Some bright mind at Group will notice how long this sat on my action list.” Bokamu lifted an eyebrow. “Then they’ll ask me about it and you know I’m not going to admit it was my fault it didn’t get done right away.”

  The specialist’s arms and legs began to slowly move again as the ends of his lips curved upwards. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t, would you? Well, in that case the cards are dealt and I’m already in trouble, right? So, I’m going to just play it out and hope for the best. There’s a good chance none of us are getting back, anyway. Given where we are and all.”

  Heimdallr Eight was positioned just inside a large system with four planets inhabited by Vyptellians, hiding in a small field of asteroids. The pod and its tow ship traveled deep into Vyp-controlled space, approaching its destination from what the Group colonels confidently called ‘the back door’ — a sector that had seen little activity from either side. At a designated point the pod was released and it continued gliding forward for another ten days until Bokamu used maneuvering jets to slow and then stop it among the asteroids.

  The Group colonels said the system where Heimdallr Eight was stationed, designated Victor Charlie-3, was one of the alien race’s core locations in the galaxy — perhaps even the Vyptellian home system (how they knew this — well, he knew better than to ask). They told Bokamu the Heimdallr project was of vital importance to the survival of humanity, and that he believed. He wasn’t sure how many listening stations there were (he assumed at least eight, but who knew with intel types?) or how many were inside Victor Charlie-3, but he knew putting a surveillance post on the enemy’s doorstep was worth the danger involved.

  And Heimdallr Eight was a very sophisticated surveillance post, passively intercepting all manner of Vyptellian communications from the moment they activated the collection sensors attached to the pod’s hull. Some intercepts were encrypted and obviously military in origin, but much of what they collected was not; after just a few days, Pemberton — who Bokamu learned was not one for hyperbole — opined the collected data amounted to a tripling of humanity’s knowledge of Vyptellian society.

  The movement of Vyp ships throughout the system was also captured and cataloged by optical sensors, with the vid feeds viewed on the main display on the command deck. Bokamu was told privately having such a ‘window’ on the outside would be important to the pod crew’s mental stability, but it also provided the tensest moments of his life when a large Vyptellian ship came to a stop just a few thousand kilometers from their position. He shut down most systems and ordered everyone into their self-contained environmental suits (which was more for their mental state than a practical alternative). For several hours the seven of them floated in a group watching the display until the Vyp vessel suddenly began to move away from them.

  Command wasn’t exactly sure what sensor capabilities the Vyps possessed, so the pod was designed to look on visual, passive, and active scans like one of the asteroids it was hiding amidst. Solar panels captured enough energy from the system’s star to provide for the sensor equipment and some housekeeping, but there was no artificial gravity and the temperature inside the pod was quite cold. Crew amenities were limited to lights, a small galley to warm food packets and drinks, the workout area, and heated bunks. Most of the pod was storage and equipment.

  Pemberton and the other specialists stood eight-hour watches in pairs while Bokamu monitored them. Once a day, he downloaded the collected data onto a probe half the size of his datapad. After the probe was launched it was programmed to change course several times over a two-day period to foil any attempt to locate its point of origin (assuming the Vyps detected the launch) before transmitting the data on an encrypted frequency.

  Bokamu studied the face of the man on the treadmill. He realized Pemberton was changing the subject and decided to indulge him for the moment. “You’re still convinced something’s going on with the Vyps?”

  “Yes. As I’ve told you, it isn’t the quantity of their broadcasts, that’s only changed a bit in two-plus months. It’s the what, not the how much they’re saying, if you get me.”

  The lieutenant sighed. “We’re capturing more data now than when we got here.”

  “True. But less of the encrypted stuff and more and more of the same civvie junk. Product ads, comms between family members …”

  “I suppose that could indicate they suspect we’re listening.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe their communications run in cycles. Ours do. Maybe it’s a Vyp holiday, or the schools are on hiatus.”

  “Sure. Or maybe they’re planning something and don’t want us to know.” Pemberton passed his hand over the treadmill’s control pad, stopping the machine. “Visual is also capturing a lot more ship traffic between the planets and through the system, and fighter patrols.”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  “Did you notice they haven’t come out this way again? Not since that one time.”

  “Well, this position was carefully chosen.” Pemberton smirked and Bokamu fought back the urge to snap something back about respecting the competency of senior officers. “If they thought we were out here and wanted to feed us disinformation don’t you think the amount of encrypted data would go up, not down?”

  Pemberton’s smirk faded and he bent over to unstrap the mag boots. “Maybe. Yes. No. Maybe,” he mumbled. Straightening up, he pushed off the bulkhead and floated in Bokamu’s direction. “The fact is we still don’t know very much about them. How they think, what they’re likely to do.”

  He grabbed a bar to stop himself short of bumping into the lieutenant. Pemberton’s crooked smile returned. “And by ‘we’ I mean us, out here. I’m sure somewhere in the bureaucracy there’s a lab, with some captured Vyps and scientists who—”

  Bokamu opened his mouth to cut Pemberton off but suddenly the lights in the training room switched to red and two low chimes sounded. The lieutenant grabbed a handrail and twisted his body around to face the command deck as Pemberton pulled himself past. In seconds both arrived at the same point behind the watch team.

  “What do you have?” Bokamu scanned the main display.

  The watch supervisor, a woman a few years older than him, pointed. “Three ships from the leftmost planet, heading directly towards us. CBDR.”

  Before the lieutenant could reply, the other watchstander muttered, “What the —” Her hands began to move across the controls of the console as she stared at the data readouts. Her eyes went wide. “I can’t … I don’t believe this!”

  “What is it?”

  “Ships. Hundreds … no, thousands of ships. Long range visual sensors have them … they’re … they’re —” The specialist gulped and her eyes darted to the main display. “They’re coming from all four planets, and … and from outside the system… more and more of them. It’s not stopping!”

  Bokamu looked up but didn’t see anything other than three bright dots in the middle of the screen. Then the tech cycled the vid feed to long range and he saw a shining mass stretching like a ribbon through the system.

  The lieutenant turned to the watch supervisor. “How soon until the initial three contacts arrive?” He was surprised at how calm he sounded; his stomach felt hollow. There is no way ou
t of this.

  “Approximately ten minutes. Sir?” The look on her face was grim. “What do we do? What can we do?”

  He thought for a moment, remembered the worst-case scenarios they trained for. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other three off-watch specialists gathered at the command deck entrance. “Let’s get everyone into full enviro suits. We’ll power down, play dead. We’re close to the natural exit point for this end of the system. Maybe these three are the vanguard and they’ll just go past.”

  Pemberton put a hand on Bokamu’s arm. “We should warn them. Command. Tell them about this huge fleet.”

  The watch supervisor looked up, her eyes flashing. “If we launch a probe they’ll know exactly where we are.”

  The specialist next to her switched the main display back to standard mode. The three bright spots had grown appreciably larger. “They already know where we are,” she flatly stated.

  “The Vyps travel faster than a probe,” the watch supervisor continued, her tone sharp. “The data won’t be sent for two days, it won’t get there in time. Or they’ll just blast the probe to dust.”

  “We can set the probe to begin transmitting as soon as it launches.” Pemberton leaned over and began cycling through menus on the console, occasionally using one hand to keep himself from floating away. “I’m prepping the file for download, lieutenant. Get the launch menu up on your pad.”

  Bokamu stared at the three people clustered around the console, studying their faces: the watch supervisor and specialist looked very scared while Pemberton seemed totally calm. “Immediate broadcast means the Vyps will absolutely know where we are. You know that, right? There’s a chance they don’t —”

  Pemberton shook his head. “They know we’re here. I bet my life on it.”

  “You’re betting all our lives,” the watch supervisor hissed.

  “Its like I was telling the lieutenant before. The cards are dealt. Let’s make the best play we can.” Pemberton shrugged. “Ready to launch.”