Escape Velocity (The Quantum War Book 1)

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  “Hal’s down!” someone shouted.

  Curse words and more gunshots.

  “Displace!”

  “Move—no, contact left, contact left—”

  Snap-snap-snap.

  A dull thud of boots reverberated through the ground nearby. Something hauled Wyatt upright and out of the dirt.

  He was moving again. His brain struggled to catch up. The terrain below them bounced by, brown and broken, a stark contrast to the violet of the sky.

  “Wh-What happened?”

  Laramie didn’t reply. He could hear her breathing hard. The ground was changing, the black algae slime now giving way to dark, stalk-like plant shoots that meant higher ground.

  The crisp smell of ozone signaled a laser blast. Near miss.

  “Laramie—”

  “Can you shoot?” she asked abruptly.

  His disorientation was such that he had to think for a moment. “I can shoot.”

  The little voice whispered in his ear again. You’re the one who designed the mission. This is all on you.

  Wyatt shook it away. His eyes swept across his leg. Funny, he had all but forgotten about the injury. The orange harness strap was still acting as a tourniquet, but just below it was…nothing. He didn’t feel any pain, and he didn’t feel like anything was wrong. He might as well have been looking at someone else.

  Laramie stumbled another few steps and dumped him on the ground. Wyatt felt his training take over. Without conscious direction, he had his Vector up and trained on the moving shapes that followed. The Oscars were chasing them, seeking revenge. One of them raised a weapon.

  Wyatt gave an autonomous squeeze of the trigger. Snap-snap-snap.

  How easy it was to end a life with a plastic ray gun. The shape fell. At least, Wyatt thought it did. The world was spinning and it was getting harder to focus.

  Laramie stopped firing and grabbed him by the collar. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Over the hill. Fury One won’t wait.”

  Wyatt tried to stand and fell to the side. His head spun as he looked at his legs. One of them seemed to be missing. He laughed. Where was his leg?

  Laramie hoisted him over her shoulders and let out a grunt.

  “Jesus. What do you eat, cement?”

  “I can walk,” Wyatt insisted.

  “It’s okay, LT. I got you.”

  “My chest hurts.”

  “You got shot, LT.” They were moving again. “Your vest only got part of it.”

  “Bad in-vest-ment.” Wyatt snickered, but it was harder this time, and he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open.

  “Stay with me, we’re almost there.”

  “I didn’t get shot. I shot them.”

  “Yes, you did,” Laramie panted. They were climbing higher, toward a familiar, high-pitched noise.

  “Staff Sergeant!” called a distant voice. “Over here!”

  “A little help, Carlos!” Laramie shouted back.

  “I can help,” Wyatt offered. He wanted to be helpful. His head was swimming, with funny little black spots dancing in front of him. “I can walk.”

  “Hang in there, LT.”

  The pain had gone. The high-pitched whine was closer now, and the dirt was swirling around them like rain in a hurricane. But Wyatt didn’t care. People shouted words that he should have recognized but had trouble following and couldn’t be bothered to try. More hands grabbed him. He was moving sideways.

  “Hang in there, Wyatt,” said the woman’s voice.

  You’re the one who designed the mission. This is all on you.

  A harsh shout. “Corpsman! Get over here now!” Then softer. “Wyatt, stay with me. Can you hear me?”

  He felt so tired.

  “Wyatt?”

  Maybe he would just sleep for a little bit.

  “Please stay with me.”

  Floating.

  3

  USIC Cromwell

  Tiamat Orbit, Proxima Centauri

  6 February 2272

  7 Months Later

  A hand tapped Wyatt gently on the shoulder. “Sir, wake up. We’re on final approach to Cromwell. We’ll be docking in four minutes.”

  Wyatt blinked a couple of times before he realized where he was. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Shuttle rides could have that effect, floating in the relaxation of weightlessness while the oxygen vents hissed a cocoon of white noise. It had knocked him out cold.

  Four minutes. Four minutes left in a seven-month journey back to active duty.

  Wyatt sniffed and shook his head. Despite all the preparation he had done for this moment, he still found himself queasy. He hadn’t been able to talk to his platoon at all during recovery. Mail packets between Sol and Proxima were hard to come by these days, and his one successful attempt didn’t seem to make it all the way downrange. At least, even if it had, he didn’t get a reply. A tiny fear welled up that maybe Laramie didn’t care to respond.

  No, he thought. That’s not Laramie.

  Wyatt opened a pocket on his utilities and pulled out a handful of papers. Well-worn creases divided the two hard copy reports into neat little rectangles. He unfolded them so that he could read them for the hundredth time.

  AFTER ACTION REVIEW

  OPERATION ICY NIGHT, 2271-07-18

  Background: Fitzmaurice-Ellis Nitrogen Reclamation Industries (FENRIS) nitrogen mining facility captured by Oxygen Shock Cartel (OSCAR)

  Objective: Eliminate OSCAR’s ability to manufacture breathable air for their use in terrorist operations on Tiamat

  Summary: Platoon deployed into two squads FURY ONE and FURY TWO. Squads successfully inserted undetected into enemy-held territory via Javelin. FURY ONE implemented a diversion on east side of the facility. FURY TWO entered power plant from the south and successfully destroyed all four generator units. Squads extracted via Javelin and took incoming fire causing FURY TWO to crash. Pilot, copilot, and three troopers were KIA upon impact. SSGT MCCOY took command of FURY TWO based on injury to 1LT WILLS. While under heavy fire, SSGT MCCOY scuttled Javelin and displaced to superior defensible location. Further enemy contact resulted in additional 1 KIA and 2 wounded. Squad rendezvoused with FURY ONE and extracted back to friendly territory.

  KIA

  1LT James PRUETT

  CW2 Eliza CANNON

  SGT Francois BERNARD

  SGT Adi DAFALLAH

  SGT Hap SIMPSON

  LCPL Michelle MICHELOTTI

  WIA

  1LT Wyatt WILLS

  SSGT Gavin FOWLER

  SSGT Martin HAUER

  Wyatt’s eyes lingered over the list of names. Somewhere deep inside him, an empty hole ached for the departed. He knew it was there. But he couldn’t let himself feel it right now. He had to keep it packed away in its little partition, because he had a job to do aboard Cromwell.

  Shuffling the papers, Wyatt moved on to the second report. The lines of his Discharge Summary were long committed to memory. Oxygen poisoning from Tiamat’s oppressive atmosphere. Third degree burns, courtesy of a laser blast vaporizing his ablative resin carrier, his ARC vest. Broken ribs. A concussion. A lost leg due to friendly fire.

  The road to recovery went on and covered multiple operations, agonizing therapy, an artificial limb. Then there was the behavioral health section of his discharge instructions. Wyatt tried to force the words into his brain to satisfy his cravings for legitimacy.

  FINAL EXAM, MENTAL STATUS

  Wyatt is calm, friendly, attentive, and relaxed. He exhibits speech that is normal in rate, volume, and articulation. Language skills are intact. Mood is normal, with no further signs of depression or mood elevation. Social judgment is intact. There are no signs of anxiety. There are no signs of hyperactive or attentional difficulties.

  Type of Discharge: Regular

  Condition of Discharge: Greatly improved

  Prognosis: Excellent

  Medication Instructions: Patient should continue with current medications and f
ollow up with forward medical staff as needed

  Physical Activity: No limitations on physical activity

  Dietary Instructions: Regular diet

  CLEARED TO RETURN TO ACTIVE DUTY

  Cleared. Now he just had to get to it.

  A dull thud reverberated through the hull of the shuttle. Wyatt heard the hiss of a docking ring as it equalized pressure between spacecraft temporarily joined as one.

  The crew chief helped him out of the shoulder restraints and pulled his duffel from the cargo net. The pilots were distracted by the post-docking protocol with Flight Ops, so Wyatt just banged the side of the cockpit hatch to signal a farewell. A gentle push sent his duffel through the hatch, and he quickly followed. After seven months, he once again found himself on the threshold of a ship built for fighting.

  A small ensign with the insignia of the Cromwell hung at the far end of the docking boom. Wyatt gave the pennant a salute before he faced the officer of the deck and saluted again. The officer had both feet looped into a deck strap to give the illusion of standing.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Wills requesting permission to come aboard.”

  “Permission granted. Please wait and I’ll retrieve your orders.”

  The OOD stared into nothing as his fingers scrolled across a small personal tablet. Wyatt noted the adhesive patch of a neural stub next to his eye socket, transmitting the tablet’s output directly to his optical nerve. The officer’s pupil vibrated in protest at the bypass.

  “Sir, you are to report to Major Beck in B-ring immediately upon your arrival.”

  Wyatt blinked in surprise. “Beck? He’s not onboard Vigorous?”

  “No, sir. Do you need an escort?”

  “That won’t be necessary. What berth?”

  “K-one-oh-one.”

  “Thank you,” Wyatt said, and pushed himself through the airlock.

  This was beyond peculiar. Major Beck commanded Havoc Company, one of the three RESIT units that made up Caustic Team stationed around Proxima. He was Wyatt’s boss’s boss. Why would he be here on the Cromwell instead of his own troop carrier? And why did he want to see Wyatt instead of having him just report to Captain Chappelle? Wyatt couldn’t be in trouble already. Could he?

  A step through the docking collar put Wyatt in the middle of a crowded command ship. He kept his duffel strapped to his back and pulled himself along the yellow hand bar mounted to the corridor wall. Different colors led to different places, and yellow went to the spinning artificial grav rings amidships. Unlike the troop carriers, where gravity came from the constant acceleration of patrolling their routes, Cromwell had a centrifugal force-based system to complement long periods of resting in orbit.

  Crew members floated past him as he made his way through corridors that were constricted by cargo nets and storage lockers. Occasionally one of the crew would notice his rank insignia and give him a “sir” and a nod. But most were focused on other things, and since Wyatt belonged to a direct-action team, the crew usually ignored him.

  He floated past A-ring and skipped the elevator in favor of the narrow ship’s ladder that stretched down the spoke. It wasn’t until about halfway down that he felt heavy again.

  At the bottom, his weight reminded him he had a prosthetic leg.

  A pang of self-consciousness hit him. His medical clearance was only a few weeks old. He suddenly felt very fragile. He had returned to a military vessel, headed back into harm’s way. At least, most of him had.

  Wyatt had gotten off easy.

  Half his squad had died. His Javelin, destroyed. Who would follow him as a combat leader now? Who would allow him to design his next mission? Spaceborne assets were incredibly expensive to replace. Who could possibly place their confidence in him again?

  A young trooper in brown-black fatigues walked by and saluted him.

  Wyatt took a deep breath. His heart was trying to beat out of his chest.

  Was he really ready to come back to active duty? Had he really prepared for this?

  Why was he here?

  K-berth was where the officers lived. The adjutant let him into the small office attached to Colonel Acevedo’s quarters and explained the major would be there shortly. Alone for a moment, Wyatt studied the cramped compartment. A peninsula desk extended from the wall with a lone tablet keyboard resting against the wall. A translucent locker embedded in the bulkhead contained a number of books—actual paper books—in a smart display of historic knowledge. Behind the desk a small, oblong porthole revealed the inky blackness of space.

  Wyatt wandered over to the porthole. If they had been in deep space, a star field would have whirled by in a slow, counterclockwise circle. But in orbit around Tiamat there was only room for the angry red light of Proxima Centauri.

  “What do you see when you look out there, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir.” Wyatt jumped and snapped a salute. He hadn’t heard the hatch open.

  Beck dismissed the formality with a wave. “No need of that here.” His eyes flicked at the window. “What do you see?”

  Wyatt turned back to the porthole. Tiamat dominated the view, a waxing sphere tinged with the light of the nearby red dwarf. The surface was dirty gray except for the substellar point beneath Proxima, where tidal locking caused the ice to melt into a round ocean surrounded by brown, murky swampland. Wisps of rose-colored water vapor swirled around a thin film of atmosphere, clinging desperately against the vacuum. The entire effect was that of an unblinking, bloodshot eye, doomed forever to stare at the sun.

  Somewhere down there, the remains of his friends were oxidizing into nothing.

  “What do you see?”

  “A cesspool. I hope my leg is rotting in it.”

  Beck sniffed a laugh. “I can appreciate that.” He walked up and peered out the window himself. “I see a wealth of oxygen and water ice. Extremely valuable. I want to take my vacations there.”

  “Sir,” Wyatt said, feeling the admonishment.

  “But maybe I’ll avoid drinking from the pool with your leg in it. Please, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”

  Major Gustav Beck lowered himself into the chair behind the peninsula desk. Mid-forties, gray hair in a high and tight, big forearms from a lifetime of grabbing things in zero gee. Beck was known and respected as an intelligent and practical leader. Now he commanded the troop cruiser Vigorous, currently assigned to clean up the pirate activity in the Proxima system.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, sir. Why are you aboard the Cromwell?”

  “Meeting with the colonel, along with Majors Beckham and Chang. We wrapped up this morning. The others already left. I heard you were inbound, so I decided to hang back.”

  So, Wyatt wasn’t necessarily some special snowflake that required attention. Beck was just seeing him as a courtesy. Wyatt began to relax. “I’m flattered, sir.”

  Beck smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. Wyatt started to sense that maybe the meeting wasn’t just a nicety.

  “Where did you get your medical treatment?” the major asked. “Back on Earth?”

  “Providence Station, sir. Earth would have been nice. But for just an artificial prosthetic, they decided that wasn’t necessary.”

  “Interesting choice. An artificial replacement over organic?”

  Wyatt felt the cool flush of adrenaline course through his skin. Rehab with cloned limbs took years. It would have meant a medical discharge.

  He thought of the vidcall arguments with his parents, their fear, their anger. His father demanded he leave the teams. His mom begged him to not go away again. His sister, sobbing, tried to convince him to visit Sara and repair the relationship that almost was.

  Why was he here?

  He couldn’t just turn his back on his squad. His unit needed him back. He needed to come back. If he took the easy way out, accepted a discharge, moved back to Earth, what would the team think of him? When the going got tough, Wyatt packed it in. He’s learning to use his new leg while he left our buddies downrange, dead and rotting
. It’s obvious where we stand in his priorities.

  He had designed that mission. Its failure was on him. There wasn’t any other choice. He needed to prove ... something.

  “Sir. An artificial leg was the only way I could get back to duty.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Of course, sir. The team is my family. I would do anything to get back here.”

  “What if more of them die?”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the compartment. Wyatt locked eyes with the major. It was the only thing he could think of to not go out of his mind.

  Mercifully, Beck leaned back in his chair and the mood relaxed—a little. “Look, Wyatt. I’ve read the medical and psych reports. I can tell from the way you’re acting that they’re accurate. You can’t blame yourself for what happened. That was a tough mission. This is a dangerous business.”

  “I’ve had people die under my command before, sir. I’m accountable for each one.”

  “Of course you are. I need accountable leaders. But I don’t need them to drag a bucket of guilt around with them. Guilt makes you second-guess, make bad decisions.” He sighed. “Guilt gets more people killed.”

  “It won’t be a problem, sir.”

  “Easy to say. I can’t say the choice you made about the leg gives me optimism about your present judgement.” Beck squinted in thought. “Do you know how many troopers I have in my command with a mechanical prosthetic?”