by Jake Bible
She hesitated, catching the half-quad as it passed, instead of meeting it head on, in order to avoid changing the thing’s trajectory. Everything in the vacuum was about the laws of motion. Equal and opposite reaction. Inertia and momentum. Garcia wanted to break as little of those laws as possible.
Her gloves clamped onto the half-quad’s hull, dragging her with it as it sped by. But even that small impact caused the half-quad to veer slightly off course. Its trajectory took it directly towards the sparking tail section of an Estelian cruiser. Garcia considered jumping to the tail section and finding a new route, but as she got closer she saw that the hunk of warship was spinning too fast, with too many jagged pieces of metal sticking out that would just love to slice right through her flight suit. Her suit’s material could handle the vacuum, but not the damage the tail section could cause.
Garcia had to think fast since the half-quad was almost to the tail section. She looked about, desperate for a new route, then saw the spiraling wreckage of a destroyer’s thruster. It was large, hollow, and smooth, with nothing sticking out that could impale her. But it was moving very fast, almost faster than Garcia thought she could move.
The shadow of the tail section loomed over her and she pushed fear and uncertainty from her mind. She disengaged from the half-quad and leapt back into the vacuum. She stretched her arms out, knowing she would need every inch of her body to catch the mangled thruster shell. It was a risk, one that almost took her left arm as she pulled it quickly away from a twirling cockpit hatch, but risk was all she had.
The thruster got closer and closer and Garcia smiled as she realized she’d be able to slide right inside without an issue. The shell would give her some protection from the debris that threatened to cut her apart. It would also allow her to survey the area for her next move in relative safety. Not that she had much time to survey, as her suit reminded her with a series of shrill beeps.
She looked at her wrist and blanched as she saw she only had fifteen minutes of oxygen left. Fifteen minutes. She was so busy studying her air levels that she didn’t see what was flying at her until it was too late.
Her body doubled over as the corpse of one of her fellow pilots slammed into her midsection. She tried to get herself free and push off, hoping she could still keep moving towards the thruster, but the corpse had too much junk wrapped around it, catching her in a net of snapped cables and broken wires.
Garcia wanted to scream. She wanted to yell and pound her fists on the corpse, but she kept her calm, knowing that panic would just lead to using up her oxygen that much faster. She carefully extricated herself from the tangle of wires and cables and then shoved away, watching as the corpse floated off into the vacuum to join the rest of her dead comrades.
Then she was bouncing off something big. She tried to turn herself around, but she was spinning wildly in the vacuum, her body flying end over end around the deadly debris that seemed to envelope her. Then the panic did come and she yelled as her view was up and down, up and down, up and down, over and over and over.
She passed more corpses, more mangled quads, more parts and pieces of warships. With every second, she expected to be sliced and diced by the multitude of deadly hunks and chunks that surrounded her. Then it ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Her body became still and her gloves and boots clamped onto the solid metal she found herself on. As her suit beeped, Garcia looked around and saw she was up against the hull of a fairly intact Estelian cruiser. In fact, it looked almost unharmed, except for a few choice plasma blast scorch marks and the fact that it only had one of its three thrusters intact.
Which made Garcia wonder when the Estelian attack would come. She was close to an external airlock hatch and she crept towards it, her eyes locked on the entrance, waiting for it to open and an Estelian scorcher to be pointed out at her.
But the scorcher never appeared.
She got to the airlock hatch and looked in through the small porthole. The airlock itself looked undamaged, although there were no lights on inside. Garcia studied the manual opening mechanism next to the hatch and was surprised that it looked like it worked exactly like the CSC mechanisms. She grabbed the handle, turned it 180 degrees then slammed it back down.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
That meant there was no power to the hatch. She would have to open it the hard way. Garcia grabbed the airlock handle again and yanked it upright. Then pushed it back down. Back up and then back down. Over and over she repeated the motion until the hatch began to move, slowly being opened by her constant pumping of the handle.
Her suit let out a long beep that refused to stop. She glanced down at her wrist and saw she had one minute left. She took a deep breath and kept pumping until the hatch was open enough she could wedge her fingers in between it and the ship’s hull. She braced her feet and pulled, forcing the hatch open enough that she could slip inside.
The long beep ended abruptly and Garcia knew she was out of time and out of air. All she had was the air in her lungs. She tried to get the airlock closed, but her arms began to feel heavy and she couldn’t get the thing to move. She clamped her boots to the airlock’s floor and looked about the tight space, desperate for something that would let her live, if only for a few minutes more.
She saw it instantly.
Bolted to the wall was a med kit. She knew inside the med kit, if it was anything like a CSC med kit, would be a small canister of pure oxygen. She unbolted the kit and tore it open, almost crying with relief when she saw the canister.
But that didn’t mean she was out of the woods. The canister of oxygen had a small face mask on it, designed to go over a person’s head that didn’t have a flight helmet on. Or that was stuck in the vacuum. In order to get the oxygen from the canister to her lungs, she would have to get the canister into her suit somehow.
Garcia’s vision started to dim and she decided to try the first idea that came to mind. She pulled out a utility knife from a pouch on her belt and made a tiny slit in her flight suit. The pressure change gave her a blinding headache and she almost passed out, but she hung on long enough to work the face mask of the canister in through the slit. She cranked the knob on the canister and her suit started to fill with sweet, precious oxygen.
As it was designed, the flight suit automatically sealed itself around the slit, trapping the face mask inside, making an airtight seal between Garcia’s suit and the canister. She took a few deep breaths, which made her head swim from the pure oxygen, and looked about the airlock.
Right in front of her was a porthole that looked into the Estelian warship. She glanced through and saw a small control station and a hatch she assumed led to a hallway. She knew if she was going to get inside, and if the warship was still pressurized, she’d have to close the hatch behind her. She had no idea how much oxygen was in the canister, but she hoped it was enough to get the job done.
She found the internal handle that would act the same way as the one on the hull of the ship. She repeated the up and down pumping until the hatch was almost closed then she grabbed the wheel in the middle and yanked as hard as she could. It took all of her strength, but she managed to get it shut and spun the wheel, locking the airlock tight against the vacuum.
Garcia spun about and hoped that the rest of the ship was locked tight against the vacuum.
She walked to the internal airlock hatch and grabbed its handle. She pulled out, spun it 180 degrees and slammed it back down. Completely expecting the same results as before, she was shocked to see the hatch open on its own. That meant there was still some power somewhere, but just not going to the outer hatches. Or just not going to the one hatch.
Cautiously, very aware she was in enemy territory and unarmed except for her utility knife, Garcia opened the hatch and stepped into the control station. She closed the hatch behind her, spun the wheel to lock it and then waited.
She waited and waited until her suit began to beep again. Its sensors must have notice
d the supply coming from the oxygen canister was dwindling. Garcia had no choice but to move from the control room and into the rest of the ship if she wanted to live.
She said a quick prayer and went to the hatch into the main part of the ship. She pressed the control panel next to the hatch and it popped open at her, although haltingly and not as fast as she was used to a hatch opening. She stuck her head out into the corridor beyond and waited again.
Nothing.
No sound, no sign of any Estelians.
She stepped into the corridor. The hatch closed behind her with a loud thud and she jumped then spun about in a circle, waiting for the Estelian guards to come for her.
No guards.
Her suit beeped one last time then Garcia began to feel lightheaded. Whether there were Estelians on the way to kill or capture her no longer mattered. She would be dead in seconds without air.
More prayers, although very quick ones, and she unclasped her helmet and lifted it off her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth, letting out the stale breath she held. Then she took a deep breath and waited to die.
She did not die.
Air had never tasted so good.
Garcia opened her eyes, expecting a firing squad of Estelians to be standing in front of her, but the corridor was still empty. She stood there, listening, waiting, fearing.
“Can’t just stand here forever,” she said, her voice echoing down the corridor. “Gonna have to say hi to the DGs at some point.”
She started to walk down the corridor then realized she still had an oxygen canister sticking out of her suit. Garcia set her helmet down then wiggled out of her flight suit. She kicked her suit to the side of the corridor then spotted something she knew would come in handy.
Picking up her helmet, she smashed it into the glass case holding a fire axe. She pulled out the bright red weapon and hefted it by the handle, feeling its weight, studying its sharp edge that could easily slice through metal.
“Okay. I can do this,” she said as she walked down the corridor. “Bring it, you doubleganger fucks.”
Forty-Five
“What are we waiting for, Captain?” Richtoff asked as the squadron of fighter skiffs waited in the vacuum just above one of Mars’s two moons. “I see nothing but a stupid rock down there.”
“There’s more than that,” Valencio said. “Trust me. But we can’t get to it until London gets here.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Zenobia asked. “Is there a backup plan?”
“I’m working on one,” Valencio said. “But it won’t be fun.”
“How long do you think until the Estelians punch in?” Zenobia asked. “If they’ve already taken down the Asteroid Belt stations then they should be here any second.”
“You just answered your own question, Demon,” Valencio replied. “If you already know the answer then don’t bug me. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Just talking out loud, Captain,” Zenobia said. “Helps me ignore the pure horror of this bullshit.”
“We’ll make it,” Richtoff stated. “We’re damn good pilots.”
“But what about the cadet pilots?” Zenobia asked. “You think they have a shot?”
“They have a shot,” Valencio said. “Just not a good one.”
Proximity alarms rang out in Valencio’s cockpit and she looked down at her scanners then out the hatch at the red planet before her. A small dot came zipping from orbit, aimed right at the training squadron. Valencio really wished she had an armed weapons system instead of a mock one. The dot was too far away to tell if it was London or not.
“Defensive positions,” Valencio ordered over the open channel. “Group your sixteens in a tight V.”
“I think the defensive positions these cadets take should be to tuck their heads between their knees and kiss their asses goodbye,” Zenobia laughed.
“Channel is still open,” Richtoff snapped.
“I know,” Zenobia replied.
“London? Come in. Is that you?” Valencio asked, switching her comm back to private. “London, fucking answer me!”
“It’s me, boss,” London replied, his cargo skiff getting closer and closer. There was some obvious damage, but the craft looked like it would hold together. “Remind me that being a hero sucks Gropp balls.”
“You ever seen a Gropp?” Valencio asked.
“Yeah, I have,” London replied. “Those balls are the scaliest things I’ve ever had the misfortune of viewing. And huge! How do those buggers walk?”
“Shut up about Gropp balls,” Valencio said. “I need you to land on Phobos with me. We’re going to load up on fuel cells and arm these skiffs.”
“Whoa, what?” London asked as his cargo skiff came to halt alongside Valencio’s fighter. “Arm the training skiffs? With what?”
“Plasma and missiles,” Valencio said. “I told you there was something on Phobos. Well, more like something in Phobos. Just land with me and you’ll see.”
Valencio banked her skiff and aimed directly for the surface of the small moon. London brought his cargo skiff around and followed right behind.
“Demon? Line up the sixteens,” Valencio ordered. “Then pick the most capable cadet pilots we have and get them ready for vacuum duty. We’ll need as many hands as possible to load up the skiffs.”
“You want these bumbling dorks to get out of their skiffs and into the vacuum?” Zenobia laughed. “We’ll probably end up watching half of them float away to die from their own stupidity.”
“A risk we’ll have to take,” Valencio said. “Just make it happen. London will be back with supplies shortly.”
Valencio aimed the nose of her skiff directly at a large crater on the surface of Phobos. She counted off the distance until she knew she was close enough to make the maneuver required.
“Depot override protocol scepter one niner eight four,” Valencio said. “I repeat, depot override protocol scepter one niner eight four.”
“Depot override protocol scepter one niner eight four acknowledged,” a computerized voice replied over the comm. “Please identify yourself.”
“This is Captain Deena Valencio of the Training Station Perpetuity,” Valencio replied. “Enemy warships are en route and munitions are needed.”
“Thank you for identifying yourself, Captain Deena Valencio of the Training Station Perpetuity,” the computerized voice responded. “Enemy warships are not detected. Verifying voice patterns for deception. Deception not noted. Override granted. Welcome to Phobos, Captain Valencio.”
The crater before Valencio’s skiff began to split in half, with the bottom retracting into the sides, revealing a wide open landing bay. Valencio cut her thrusters and coasted towards the landing dock then pulled up on her flight stick at the last second, gave her thrusters a slight bump, and brought the skiff in for a landing on the far side of the bay.
“You get the middle, London,” Valencio said. “Put your skiff down and make sure you are suited up. This has to be done in zero G without atmosphere.”
“There’s no life support?” London asked.
“There is if we shut and lock down the landing bay,” Valencio said. “But we don’t have time to do that. We’ll be working in flight suits.”
“Son of a bitch,” London said. “I didn’t know manual labor would be involved. I’d have just let that platform blast me out of the vacuum. I hate manual labor.”
“Shut up and land,” Valencio said.
London landed his cargo skiff as Valencio opened her hatch and pulled herself out of her skiff. She jumped down to the cargo bay floor and activated her magnetic boots, securing her feet to the metal deck so she wouldn’t drift off into space.
The cargo skiff’s main hatch opened, revealing an empty space with only London standing in it. He walked down the ramp that automatically extended to the landing bay’s deck, his own boots magnetized to the surface.
“Where’s the gear?” London asked.
“Bolted to the walls,” Val
encio said. “I’m going to undo each package and toss them to you. Get ready to catch.”
London stopped at the bottom of the ramp and held up his hands. “Whoa, boss, I suck at catch. I’m a flyer, not an athlete. There’s a reason I sit on my ass and fly glorified boxes for a living.”
“You can catch,” Valencio said, making her way to the group of long crates bolted securely to the landing bay’s wall. “You’re going to have to. Otherwise I have to close the bay and get out the forklifts. I do not want to do that, London, are we clear?”
“Catching it is,” London said as he clapped his hands together. “Bring it on.”
Valencio grabbed a drive wrench from the wall then undid the bolts holding the crates. Normally she would have secured the bolts, but she just let them float off away from her, the shiny metal fasteners spinning end over end. With the bolts off, Valencio pulled the braces from the crates and let those drift away as well. She grabbed the first crate, gripped it tight, turned, and shoved it towards London.
The warrant officer crouched at the bottom of the ramp and waited for the crate to get to him as it floated in the zero gravity environment. The impact knocked him back a step, but he stayed upright. He turned and walked the crate up into the cargo skiff, set it down quickly, laughing as it bounced and tried to float up against the ceiling. He stomped it in place with a boot then turned and clapped his hands again.
“This ain’t so bad,” London said. “Keep them coming.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Valencio said. “Those are the missile crates. You may want to be a bit more careful when setting them down.”
London looked at the crate he’d just handled roughly and nodded. “Message received loud and clear.”
“Good,” Valencio said. “Here comes the next one. We fill up your skiff and then you get up to the squadron. Demon and her cadet pilots can load the fighters. We repeat until we are full. Got it?”
“Then what, boss?” London asked. “We fight an Estelian armada with training skiffs? Even at full capacity, and piloted by veterans, these skiffs won’t last long. But they aren’t piloted by veterans. It’s going to be chaos. They’ll more than likely shoot each other. Or us.”
