Claws That Catch votsb-4

by John Ringo

  There was a roar from down the corridor and deep in Gants’ primate bones he knew what it was.

  “I should go determine Tiny’s condition,” Red said, straightening up with a whir and a click and marching down the corridor.

  “Be careful!” Gants squealed. “I didn’t like the sounds of that! If this is happening all over the ship…”

  “Lieutenant Bergstresser, what happened to your hair?” Morris asked.

  Berg looked in the compartment’s small mirror and blanched. His formerly buzz-cut haircut was now long, black hair that stuck out on either side like uneven wings. The hilt of what looked very much like a claymore jutted over one shoulder. Looking downward he also determined that he was now unquestionably armed, in violation of regulations, the weapons being dual glittering pistols with mother-of-pearl hand-grips. He had never seen them before in his life but somehow knew that they were “laser” pistols that shot a green beam that would disintegrate any sufficiently small enemy. Given that lasers didn’t do that, his mind was having a hard time with the image.

  “I have no idea!” Eric replied, spinning in place and gesturing with one hand held upwards, his fingers in a weird pointing position. “But My Great Enemy And His Army of Darkness Approaches! Call out! The Space Marines!”

  “What Is! Going On!” the CO shouted, waving his arms in the air dramatically. He was wearing a purple and orange jumpsuit that was skin tight and revealed that he’d apparently gained about thirty percent in body mass, was now about seven feet tall and looked like the Terminator, complete with one eye that had been replaced by a red-glowing laser emitter. “This is! Unacceptable! Completely unacceptable! This cannot be accepted!”

  The wardroom now had orange walls and a screen on the back bulkhead that showed a mass of trajectories that appeared to have nothing to do with anything.

  “As I was (puff, puff) saying,” Weaver replied, calmly, leaning one patch-covered elbow on the edge of the table. “The first theory (puff, puff) that must be entertained (puff, pause, ponder, puff) is that we are experiencing a mass hallucination…”

  “All I want to know!” the CO barked, his laser emitter shining in Weaver’s eyes, “Is How! We Are Going! To Stop this!”

  “I would recommend,” (puff, puff… pause… ruminate… puff…) “that we extract the ship from the field (puff, puff) and investigate the results… (puff.)”

  “Well, do it fast!” Miriam snapped from the hatch. “I can’t find anything to wear but these stupid school-girl outfits!”

  The linguist was astride what looked like a white saber-toothed tiger. She was wearing a complete school-girl outfit from the saddle-loafer flats to the plain blue tie. If anything, compared to most of her wardrobe it was muted. The worst part, though, were her…

  “What has occurred to your eyes, Miss Moon?” Bill asked, puffing politely.

  “I don’t know!” Miriam shrilled, rolling eyes that took up most of her face around the room. “The weird part is, I can’t get contacts in them but I still can see normally! I should be blind as a bat. Tee-hee!” she added, clapping her hands over her mouth. “Oh, God, did I just giggle?”

  “And now the effect is explained…” Weaver said, leaning one elbow on his station chair and taking a puff off his pipe while rotating his whole body to look at the overhead. “We have entered… the anime zone!”

  “Okay, now that we’re back to normal,” Captain Prael said. “Can anyone explain what just happened?”

  “Hang on a second, sir,” Bill said, making a face and sticking his tongue out. “I need some coffee or something to get the taste of this damned pipe smoke out of my mouth!” He spat without actually ejecting matter and winced. “God, that’s nasty!”

  “Captain Weaver,” the CO replied, sighing. “If you could focus for just a moment?”

  “I think it was some sort of effect from the interaction of the drive and the protection field,” Miriam said, stroking Tiny’s belly. If the cat was affected by the recent experience, it was not apparent. Of course, his anime image was probably what he thought he was anyway. “It has to be the drive, given that neither the Marines nor the dragonflies had a similar experience when they approached the station. Hallucination? Change in reality? Who knows?”

  “How?” the CO asked. “That doesn’t seem physically possible!”

  “Well…” Bill said, still working his mouth. “Remember that discussion of chaos as related to the effect of the ball generators on molycirc and other materials, sir?”

  “Vaguely,” the CO said.

  “The drive generates a thin field of absolute chaotic unreality at the edge of the drive field,” Bill said. “Essentially it’s an event horizon generated by the micro black hole the drive generates then somehow expanded to enclose the ship. Stephen Hawking postulated that at the event horizon of a black hole, anything was possible. Even the impossible. It is likely that the generation system of the Tree is interacting with the warp field in chaotic terms and creating unreality from reality.”

  “That tells me so much,” Prael growled.

  “And it’s just a WAG,” Bill added. “God, that’s a nasty habit. If it’s not a hallucination, and again an experiment to determine reality doesn’t come to mind, then it had to be perfect quantum chaos somehow adjusted to a functional reality. Interesting effect, I’ll add. If we could induce it to occur by command, we might get some enhanced effects from the weapons, given the sort of things you find in anime. Or not…” he added, looking at the CO’s expression.

  “But why… the specific changes?” the CO asked, frowning. “I hope that it’s not some sort of wish-fulfillment thing. And why anime?”

  “Well, this is just another WAG,” Bill said. “More like a GWAG. But the reality of what we do is closest in… Miriam?”

  “The nature of the Blade missions is closest to the archetype of anime in people’s minds,” Miriam said. “I think that’s where you’re going.”

  “That would be it,” Bill said, nodding. “If the field picks up on general thoughts, underlying beliefs if you will, then the closest to the reality of what we do that most people are familiar with is the archetypes you find in anime. I feel like babbling about Jungian archetypes, but when you hear that phrase you know someone’s completely lost it. Skinner will eventually be mentioned and then you know someone’s really off their meds.”

  “So why were we… What we were?” the CO asked. “I hope that deep down inside I don’t really think I look like I looked. I’m fairly certain Miss Moon doesn’t.”

  “God knows I hate pipes,” Bill said, spitting again. “Yuck. How can anyone smoke that foul stuff?”

  “Anime has a set number of standard tropes,” Miriam responded. “Captains of ships are always big, fierce looking men, often bullying. Scientists wear tweed or oddly patterned jumpsuits. Enlisted sailors are generally either monkeys or dwarfs. All women have huge eyes and only three or four acceptable ‘looks.’ I could have wished for the laser-cut-leather free-wheeling mercenary type but I got Suzie Schoolgirl instead. I wonder what the Wyverns looked like under the effect. Oh, and when you find the guy with the winged haircut and the sword, you know who the main character is.”

  “Well, it wasn’t anyone in Conn…”

  “I’m glad you’ve got your haircut back under control, Lieutenant Bergstresser,” Captain Zanella said. “But what was all that about the approach of your ‘Great Enemy!’?”

  “Sir, I have no idea, sir,” Berg replied, staring at a point six inches over his CO’s head and locked at attention. “I am unable to fully recall the events that occurred while we were under the effect of the shield, sir. All I can recall is that it had something to do with someone betraying and murdering my father, sir. And something about once being his best friend and for some strange reason finding ‘the umbrella of light.’ Given that my father is still alive, sir…”

  “Well, it was terribly dramatic,” Zanella said dryly. “There I was, preparing to fight a great battle to the d
eath against an overwelming enemy force and then… Zap, we were out. Stand easy, Lieutenant. I don’t think any of us can be held responsible for what went on in the field. Otherwise the first sergeant will never live it down.”

  “I was just a spider, sir,” Powell growled. “A big purple spider.”

  “Yes, First Sergeant,” the CO said, still dryly. “But it was that strange silver web you were sitting in that somehow seemed to be connected to all of us and how you lightly tugged on the strings, sending us hither and yon against our will, that still bothers me…”

  “…it still bothers me, but the bottomline is that we’re going to have to go back,” Captain Prael said. “We’ve got to drop off the away team. Since the effect stopped as soon as we’d cleared the field, hopefully the away team will not be…”

  “Stuck in the condition the whole time we’re there?” Bill finished. “Yes, sir, agreed. I have to state that if the effect continues, I’m going to have to temporarily turn over command to Captain Zanella, sir. My… alter-self is not functional as a commander. He’s pure advisor. I don’t think I could even engage in combat much less direct it. I’d be all ‘this is fascinating, I must figure out the equations…’ ”

  “Well, we’re still going to have to go back in,” the CO said. “I’m going to order a stand-down for long enough for you to try to adjust the unloading plan based on the effects. Try to figure out how it will reduce the efficiency of unloading.”

  “I actually saw no true reduction in efficiency, sir,” Bill pointed out. “Everything continued to work more or less as it normally would. If anything, there were some enhancements. But I’ll try to plug the effect into the plan. I’d better get to work.”

  “One thing to keep in mind is that I may not have coveralls,” Miriam pointed out.

  “At least you kept more-or-less the same body shape,” Bill replied. “Did you hear about Sub Dude?”

  “Three meters…” the pilot squeaked. Under the effect of the anime field, the petty officer had shrunk to the size of a large child and had a vaguely monkeylike appearance and long, pointed ears. He also tended to hoot when excited. “Whoot! Whoot! Two meters… one… Touchdown. Wheeeee!”

  “Landing jacks deployed and locked,” the COB said. He was wearing an outlandish Naval uniform that would have looked well in a Gilbert and Sullivan play, had an eye-patch and was adjusting one of the landing jack controls with a hook. “Leveled on platform, shiver me bones!”

  “Reduce counter gravity to fifty percent!” the CO barked against his will, watching the monitors. The landing platform was about six inches thick, nearly a hundred meters across and appeared to have no structural supports. Under the artificial gravity of the docking bay, there was no way it should have been able to support the weight of the Blade. “Mr. Weaver, effects?”

  “The platform… (puff, puff) appears to be holding. (Puff) Remarkable stuff.”

  “Begin! Away Team! Deployment!”

  “Nice thing about this shape, wawk wawk wawk waaaah,” Gants said, dragging a huge pile of bundled rations behind him as he knuckle-walked down the ramp — despite the changes in form, his space suit still fit — “We’re strong! Strong! STRONG!” He paused and began beating his chest with flapping arms, hooting “WHOO! WHOO! WHOO! WHOOT!”

  “I concur,” Red responded in a monotone. He had three similar bundles, one in either hand and one held by a head-strap. He’d put on his space suit and it had immediately disappeared. A short experiment, though, determined that he was able to survive the mildly toxic atmosphere of the space station. What was going to happen when the effect changed was uncertain. “But we mechano-humans are stronger.”

  “Cyborgs,” Gants muttered, continuing in his knuckle-drag. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t trade ’em in for parts.”

  “Wyverns,” the cyborg responded. “Clear the Way for our Betters.”

  The Wyverns had increased in height, being now over fourteen feet tall instead of nine. They also had more angularity to them, looking something like glittering silver medieval Japanese warriors. Where the black sensor pod had once rested was now a demon face with red-glowing eyes. Besides their standard weapons, which were now “blasters” instead of heavy machine guns, all of them were wearing dual swords on leather belts.

  The last two Wyverns, though, were different. The second to the last was a gigantic mechanical spider. Thin trails of webbing could be seen connecting its feet to all the other Wyverns and when it stopped and jerked on one, a Wyvern broke away from the pack to take up a stationary guard position.

  The last Wyvern was shorter than even a standard one, small enough it was a wonder anyone could fit in it, had no face but did have a round “helmet” with multiple horns coming out of it and for some reason a long beard jutting out from under it. On its back was a leather rucksack that was nearly the size of the whole Wyvern. It was armed with two large axes and a massive hammer with a head half the size of the entire suit.

  “Arrh!” the Wyvern growled. “When I find out who’s done this to me, I’m going to pound them into a red gooey pulp, by Moradin’s Beard!”

  “Portana?” Red asked, suddenly dwindling to Tonka-Toy size, his voice coming out in a squeak. “Is that you?”

  “Aye, by Gigli’s Silver Pick!” Portana growled. “What’s it to yah, Tin-Man?”

  “I was simply inquiring,” Red replied, back to normal size.

  “Even my space suit is a school-girl outfit,” Miriam said, giggling again. “Oh, God.”

  The space suit was skin-tight but had a modest skirt, a button-down shirt and tie and the boots were saddle-loafers. Through the clear visor it was apparent that her eyes were back to filling most of her head.

  “It’ll be fine when the ship leaves,” Gants said, knuckle-walking over to her and patting her on the fanny. “Whoot! I touched her butt! I touched her butt!”

  “Hands off!” Miriam snapped, backhanding the orang.

  The strike should have barely been a love-tap. Instead, the machinist was knocked head-over-heels and rolled at least ten feet. At the end of the roll, he sat up and shook his head comically.

  “Whoa! She’s got a slap like being kicked by a Wyvern!”

  “Get back to work,” Chief Gestner snarled. The chief had transformed into a lumpy troglodytic humanoid with three eyes and a mouth full of sharp triangular teeth. He also was carrying a whip but had so far refrained from using it. He snapped the bullwhip through the air, though, making a nasty swish-crack! “Back to work, monkey!”

  “I’m an ape,” Gants protested, scurrying to his pile of rations and knuckle-dragging them off the ship. “Not a monkey.”

  “If I want to hear any lip from you, monkey, I’ll squeeze your head until it pops,” the chief snapped. “Move it! Move it! Schnell!”

  “Oh, thank God,” Weaver muttered, looking around at the assembled away team. It was apparent when the ship cleared the field; everyone was back to normal instantaneously. “Condition of the people whose suits modified?”

  A temporary shelter had been erected and the four sailors, including Red, who had suits that were either nonexistent or sufficiently modified as to be dangerous had been sealed inside.

  “All back to normal, sir,” Captain Zanella said via the external speaker on his suit.

  “Okay,” Weaver boomed, turning up the gain on his suit. “In that case, I’m leaning in the direction of induced hallucination. I’ve got a question for everyone. When we were in the effect, did anyone change to a guy with winged hair, a chin you could use as a metal punch and probably wearing a sword?”

  Virtually every Wyvern sensor-pod tracked around until they were looking at Lieutenant Bergstresser.

  “What?” Berg asked. “So I was in a race against time to find the Great Umbrella of Light with which to defeat my Great Enemy who had killed my father, married my mother against her will and was bent on universal domination? Sue me. You guys all were with me then!”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” B
ill muttered. “Damn, I hate being a secondary character…”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Away Station Anime, so named by universal acclaim, had been set up on the edge of the landing platform between two of the entrances to the interior of the station. It was as good a place as any, given that the entrances had no more protection against potential depressurization than the space dock. As far as anyone had detemined, there were no interior air-tight hatches. Of course, with the way that the thing was constructed they might be everywhere.

  The station was fourteen sealed bubble tents, each with its own airlock and internal “safe pods,” essentially air-tight bags that could be used in an emergency. The bags partially inflated so that they were personal tents inside the bubble tents and were standard sleeping quarters.

  The Wyverns, however, could not enter the tents, so the Marines were forced to don respirators for the short walk to their Wyverns. O2 toxicity was variable and based on genetics and body chemistry. Some people could handle O2 at very high partial pressures, the equivalent of sixty feet underwater or three times Earth’s atmosphere. Most people, however, reacted negatively at just double pressure or the equivalent of thirty feet. The station’s atmosphere was at the equivalent of forty feet, so in an emergency some of the station personnel might find it survivable.

  So far, nobody had tested it out.

  “Captain Zanella, we’re established,” Bill said. “What is your plan on surveying?”

  “I’m going to start slow, sir,” the Marine replied. “I’m going to put the platoons on shift. One platoon exploring, one platoon on standby in case of emergency and one platoon down. The exploring platoon will break up into teams and be given quadrants of the station to explore. We have no real feel for how the interior is set up, so I’m going to have them start with short penetrations and then return to report. If we find that going is easy, we’ll expand.”