by Easton Royce
Space: Above and Beyond™ © 1996 by Twentieth Century Fox Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information please address HarperCollins Children's Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022
Chapter 1
In war, the difference between life and death can be as simple as looking the wrong way at the wrong time—jinking your Hammerhead left when you should have jinked right. It can be as simple as squeezing the trigger a moment too late—or reaching out your finger and pressing the wrong button.
Few knew this as well as the 58th Squadron of the United States Marine Corps Space Cavalry.
The "Wildcards," as they were called, had been the heroes of the now-famous Battle of the Belt—our first victory against the Aliens. They had earned their nickname with a cat-and-mouse defense plan. A plan they'd brilliantly executed, dodging lethal asteroids while luring the enemy's massive attack force into the greatest ambush humanity had ever seen.
Amazingly, most of them had escaped with their lives. But in war, heroes don't stay on a pedestal for very long. Duty calls.
In just a few short months, the Wildcards accomplished many more missions. But there was still no end to the war in sight.
Their next mission was simple—a routine visit to a secure planet, Groombridge 34, in the Ursa Majoris star system. So, as the members of the 58th rode toward Langston Forward Firebase, they had little worry of another attack. No doubt the vicious Alien Chigs were somewhere far away, plotting some major offensive.
What worried the 58th now was the fact that they were late. Really late.
"We're cutting it pretty close," Colonel McQueen announced as their tightly packed transport Jeep bounced over the rocky terrain.
Groombridge 34 was only a pit stop on their way to the starcraft carrier Saratoga. They were supposed to catch a ride there on a freighter. The only problem was, John Glenn Spaceport, where they had arrived, was miles away from the Langston Forward Firebase where they had to catch their ride. So much for military planning.
"The MacArthur will wait for us," said Nathan West.
Shane Vansen shook her head. "Don't count on it."
Vanessa Damphousse held her duffel closer to keep warm. She looked off to the side of the road, but there wasn't much out there. What wasn't lit by the lights of the Jeep was a deep, inky black. This planet had no moon.
"I sure wouldn't want to get stranded on this rock," said Damphousse.
Wang shrugged. "I don't mind any planet, as long as the Chigs don't own it," he said.
If Cooper Hawkes had any thoughts on the subject, he kept them to himself.
"The MacArthur had better wait," their driver said. "I've been stationed here on Groombridge since April. If I don't get home soon I'm gonna go star-crazy. "
"Right." Shane snickered. "And who says you're gonna get duty Earth-side, Monk?"
Monk grinned as he turned the wheel to avoid a pothole. "Let's just say I've got a good feeling about it. Y'see, I haven't seen my wife since before the war." He chuckled. "She's probably forgotten what I look like—which in my case is probably a good thing, but still..."
They crested a hill, and almost out of nowhere the gate of Langston Base appeared on the road in front of them. The gate swung open and the Jeep pulled inside.
Monk's remark got the others thinking of their own families. With so many communication blackouts, it was hard to get any messages through these days.
"I know how you feel," said Damphousse. "We've all got families we left behind." Then, realizing her slip, she turned to Cooper. "Sorry, Coop."
Cooper shifted his pack and shrugged. Being born full-grown at eighteen didn't leave him with much by way of relatives. Not unless you counted the glass gestation tank that gave birth to him. Or the scientists who spliced his genes.
"The good thing about being an In-Vitro," he said, "is that I've got no one to miss."
Nathan decided it was time to change the subject. "I'll bet your wife's a great cook," he told Monk with a pointed grin.
Monk patted his hefty stomach and laughed. "Best there is."
"Man," said Shane, "I'd love to have a meal that wasn't freeze-dried."
Still speeding over the gravelly path, Monk took their Jeep past a row of launchpads. He pulled to a halt at an age-worn rusted shuttle. Through its window they could see the pilot making final preparations.
"We're here," he said, "and not a second too soon."
McQueen, who had brooded quietly for most of the ride, now took command.
"Vansen," he said, "contact the control tower. Make sure they know we're here." He turned to everyone else. "There's a gangway on the port side. Grab your gear and move out."
The 58th fell out in regular military style and took off toward the MacArthur shuttle, just a hundred yards away.
But once they were out in the open, someone in the darkness opened fire.
Cooper was the first to realize it was the Chigs. A sniper—maybe a team of them—hiding somewhere in the graphite girders of the control tower.
"Up there!" he screamed.
CHOOM! CHOOM! Fiery yellow blasts burned telltale holes in the gravel beneath them. Instantly, the Marines turned their weapons in the direction of the Chig assault and returned fire.
"Cooper! Monk! Cover the left flank!" ordered McQueen. "Vansen! West! Take the right. Go!"
CHOOM! Blaster fire shredded the air around them. McQueen, Damphousse, and Wang dropped to the ground, continuing to fire at the unseen enemy. The others raced around either side of them, trying to box in the Aliens.
Cooper flanked left with Monk close behind. He dove behind a storage container, feeling the heat of a Chig sniper's blast as it shot past his back. It just missed him.
But Monk wasn't so lucky. He was still running out in the open, trying frantically to make it to the container. Monk's wife's meals might have been a blessing back home, but out here in the trenches, all that weight just made him a bigger, slower target.
CHOOM! A blast caught Monk right in the gut. He went down.
"Monk!" Cooper screamed. Without thinking, he dashed through the sniper fire toward his fallen comrade.
The other Marines were working their way in from around the base, trying to corner the Chigs in the tower. One Alien fell from the darkness above. But there were many others who continued to fire.
Cooper dragged Monk to the safety of the steel shadows and tore open his blood-soaked shirt. The big man's chest had been ripped apart. "Medic up!" Cooper screamed. "Medic up!" But in the confusion of the battle his voice was lost.
"I'm not gonna die," Monk gurgled. "I'm not gonna die." He seemed so certain of it, Cooper almost believed him.
Around them, the gunfire died as the final Chig was blown out of the tower. But a new sort of commotion took over. There were wounded Marines everywhere, and their cries echoed in the frigid night. Medics came rushing to help.
Cooper picked Monk up and carried him toward the center of activity. Already the number of wounded waiting for assistance made a long line.
"Over here," shouted Cooper, as he gently laid Monk on the ground. He felt Monk grip his arm.
"Cooper, don't leave me," he said. "Don't let me die alone." His eyes held Cooper's in a desperate gaze.
Cooper couldn't leave Monk now, even if he wanted to.
A triage nurse knelt beside them and took a quick look at Monk's wound.
"His name's Solomon Monk," Cooper said. "You gotta help him."
<
br /> The nurse let out a sigh and shook her head. "He doesn't need a doctor, Lieutenant. He needs a rabbi."
"No!" Cooper shouted. "There's gotta be a chance." He looked at Monk's pleading face. Monk still gripped Cooper's arm. This couldn't be the grip of a dying man. It was too strong.
Cooper looked at the nurse. She pointed to the soldiers around her on stretchers. "These other men have a chance..."
"Look, he has a family," Cooper insisted.
"Don't we all?" The nurse sighed again and turned to tend to another wounded man.
No, Cooper wanted to tell her, no, we don't. But instead he kept his attention focused on Monk.
Monk's grip was getting weaker now. But the desperation in his voice was overpowering. "Tell my wife that I don't mind going, except for her."
Cooper could feel his hands, sticky from Monk's blood. He knew that the nurse was right. All he could do was sit there and watch while his friend died.
To die quickly and cleanly is one thing. To lie on the ground and know you won't last out the minute is something else entirely. Cooper hoped that when he went, it would be so fast he wouldn't know what happened.
"Thanks, Coop," Monk said with his last breath.
The shadows around them were deep. Cooper couldn't see Monk's eyes, and he didn't even know the exact moment that he died.
"We're out of here in five," said a familiar voice behind him. It was Shane.
Cooper looked at her, then back at Monk. After all he had seen and been through, he'd never been this close to someone when they died. Not his buddy Pags. Not anybody. Suddenly Cooper Hawkes didn't feel like a hard-nosed Marine.
"He's dead," he told Shane.
Shane grabbed Cooper by the arm, gently pulling him away. Coolly, she ripped the dog tags from Monk's neck and handed them to Cooper.
"His family will want these," she said quietly. Then she turned and headed for the planetary shuttle.
Maybe Shane could put Monk's death out of her mind. But for a Tank like Cooper Hawkes it wasn't that easy. How could he come to terms with death when he still couldn't come to terms with his strange and unnatural life?
Chapter 2
The deep-space freighter MacArthur was not a thing of beauty. Battered and rusted, it was amazing the ship was functional. Still, it was impressive.
From stem to stern the MacArthur was half a mile long, and its immense girdered frame was densely packed with modular cargo holds used for hauling freight. The square holds could be plucked off and crammed in at space dock like pegs in a hole. With its powerful engines, the ship could easily haul a king's ransom of cargo across the galaxy.
The shuttle docked and left the 58th Squadron in the MacArthur's massive corridor. Two stories high and thirty feet wide, the access corridor ran the length of the ship like a spine. Row upon row of closed steel container doors lined both sides of the passage, giving the MacArthur all the charm of a maximum-security prison.
The 58th's footsteps echoed in the wide steel hall. Out of the shadows, Captain Llewellyn stepped to meet them.
McQueen extended his hand. "Colonel McQueen, 58th Air Commando Group. En route from Langston Forward Firebase to the starship carrier Saratoga."
"I waited for you," the captain said easily. He seemed more at home than anyone should in a place like this. "I didn't want you to miss your ride. How bad is it down below?"
McQueen shook his head. "Langston is still hot. We lost a good man to a sniper." He handed Llewellyn a computer printout. "We have new orders," McQueen said. "You're going to have to take us through Blood Alley."
Llewellyn seemed to pause at the suggestion.
"It's dangerous," McQueen acknowledged, "but it's the only way. Otherwise we'll never catch up with the Saratoga."
"I don't suppose there's a chance of a fighter escort?" Llewellyn asked.
McQueen grinned. "Not in this lifetime."
A crewman passed them, carrying a crate with great care, as if it were full of gold.
"Sixteen pounds of prime rib," Captain Llewellyn explained. "Got it on the black market."
McQueen laughed. "I hope it's good."
Cooper lagged behind the rest. As usual, he was quietly taking everything in, from the suspicious eyes of the crewman carrying the prime rib, to the thin layer of mist covering the circular porthole on the steel cargo doors. Whatever was being hauled on this ship was being kept in temperature controlled storage.
Cooper felt an unnatural curiosity gnaw at him. In-Vitros weren't supposed to be curious. Or was that just another myth no one had bothered to dispel?
As the others continued farther down the cargo access into the next compartment, Cooper approached one of the portholes. He wiped away the moisture and peered inside. And was struck with a sudden flash of memory.
Cold pain.
Fear and shock.
Hands—human hands—touching him for the first time. They yanked him, wailing, out of the glass cylindrical tank that had held him unborn for eighteen years. He remembered the pain as they severed the umbilical cord that grew from the nape of his neck.
He had not seen a gestation chamber since the moment of his birth six years ago. He hadn't wanted to.
But now in the cargo hold before him were row after row of them. Row after row of In-Vitros, all fully grown in their tanks—waiting to be born.
Cooper gasped and backed up. All around him—even on the levels above—as far as he could see—were row after row of the same misty glass portholes.
This ship was hauling a cargo of In-Vitro souls lying in darkness.
A cargo of the unborn.
The lonely hull of a deep-space freighter was a fine place if a man wanted to be alone with his thoughts. And if he didn't want to think, there was plenty of room to run.
Leaving the rest of the 58th Squadron in the crew's lounge, Cooper Hawkes took off down the main cargo access corridor. He jogged up and down gangways, from section to section, running deeper into the ship. It had been weeks since he had had a good run, and today he needed it more than usual.
The Marine Corps had been good to him. The constant action had filled his weeks with excitement, his body with adrenaline. There was something about his missions that was more fulfilling than his old life had been. And no matter how dangerous it was, fighting the Chigs was better than fighting for survival on hostile city streets.
Still, there were a lot of things that chewed him up inside.
Monk's death, for instance. How could a good man like Monk die? How could a man like himself stay unharmed? Luck must be blind if it bothered to spare someone like him.
Cooper's footsteps echoed wildly up and down the ship's great spine as he ran on the metal floors. As he neared the back of the ship, the sound of his footsteps and his own breathing was overcome by a powerful rumble. It was the sound of the massive engines propelling the ship out of the Ursa Majoris star system.
The access corridor around him narrowed to a slim transit tunnel. It widened again into a propulsion bay that seemed large enough to send a planet out of orbit.
This engine room revealed the ship's true age. An ancient nuclear reactor, its coolant pipes leaking water, was surrounded by containment vessels for steam. In the corner sat two even more ancient diesel auxiliary power engines. And in the center of the room, a single proton engine was doing all the hard work. The place looked dangerous and dirty, as well as old-fashioned.
Cooper turned to continue his run back to the front of the ship. A voice came from behind him.
"You've come to the right place," the voice said. "Every man down here is a Tank."
Cooper looked back. The entire engine crew was coming out of the darkness. The man who spoke approached him. "Forgive me for being forward—but I saw your gestation navel when you turned." He held out his hand to Cooper.
"A. J. Keats," he said. "Chief petty officer."
"Cooper Hawkes." He shook Keats's hand.
Keats seemed about forty. He had a commanding presence, one t
hat was even more commanding than the captain's. Cooper imagined Keats might have been a captain himself if he hadn't been born a Tank.
Keats introduced the others. Chief Engineer Sorrell was a gruff giant of a man, and Engine Room Foreman Ashby was quite the opposite, small and bespectacled.
"Is everyone on the crew a Tank?" asked Cooper. Who else but a Tank could end up stuck on a rig like this?
"Six of us are," Keats answered. "And then there's seven humans, including the captain. Computers do all the rest of the work."
"Ten-year round trip," Ashby added. "The humans get paid well... and us Tanks, well... at least we get paid."
Sorrell grinned. "Ever notice how Tanks always get the dirty jobs?"
Cooper chuckled. "Isn't that why we were made?" He wiped his forehead. With his run and the heat from the engine room, he was pouring sweat.
Keats noticed. "Quite a sauna in here, isn't it? C'mon—you can cool off in the cargo hold."
Keats walked him out to the cargo hold and opened one of the container doors just a crack. Frigid air spilled out, immediately cooling the corridor.
"You did good for yourself," Cooper remarked. "You don't see many Tanks in positions like yours."
Keats brushed off the compliment. "There's no trick to becoming the chief petty officer on a tramp steamer. Keep your mouth shut, do the dirty jobs, get along..."
Then he seemed to soften just a bit. "Captain Llewellyn's a good man, better than most." He smiled. "As a matter of fact, I've got a standing invitation to take meals in the captain's mess."
Cooper laughed. "Imagine that." He looked around, noticing the frosted-over portholes. "So tell me about your cargo."
Keats nodded. "Most of the cargo is human—they're all suspended in cryogenic sleep," Keats explained as they strolled into another section of the hold. "They put you under and five years later"—he snapped his fingers—"you wake up and it's like the next day of your life."
"And what about... the rest of the cargo?" Cooper wasn't going to let Keats slip out of the question that easily.
The two men had come to a section marked with the number "46."
