“I can see you would like to try, Jake Sorensen,” said Rafai, perceptively. “Please, go ahead. As you can see it has a trigger – just squeeze for automatic fire or tap for single shots.”
Sorensen picked up the handgun, sized for aliens, with two hands and took aim. He fired off single shots at first with woeful, but rapidly improving, precision. He noticed that the weapon had no recoil and did not seem to slow in its rate-of-fire when sustained. Aiming, he found, was not helped by the brightness of the light it emitted. The weapon also grew hotter the longer he sustained auto-fire until Rafai intervened, shouting over the racket of the plasma rounds. His mother tongue caused Sorensen to halt even though the translator had only just kicked in. “Hold fire! The engineer tells me the temperature regulator is not yet active!”
“He could have said,” replied Sorensen, handing back the gun, now glowing orange at the tip of the barrel. “Very cool weapon though.”
“Indeed. We could do with some of those,” remarked Romero with Powell and McIver, nodding in agreement.
“Yes, we will discuss technology sharing during your time here,” confirmed General Rafai. “Next, we will show you the latest exoskeleton design.”
They proceeded to the testing bay for the exoskeleton. The difference after the soldier had donned the exoskeleton, compared to his natural gait, was remarkable. Beforehand, the soldier waddled along like all of the other unclothed Outcasts they had seen. With the powered suit his stride was efficient, purposeful, and far closer to a human’s gait.
“We are not confident walkers, but as you have seen, we can swim well. To stand any chance in battle against our Korgax foe we needed to develop these for our soldiers. They also offer protection and additional carrying capacity, of course,” explained Rafai. “We have thinner more flexible bones than the Korgax and other land-dwelling creatures. However, once our strong muscles are supported by an exoskeleton, our soldiers are fast and strong, helped by our efficient pulmonary system.”
Wilke looked at Christina, confused. “Pulmonary means, their lungs and respiratory system,” she explained.
“I knew that,” joked the imposing Secret Service guy.
“We still use exoskeletons in some applications, but have switched to battledroids where we can. It saves lives and, to be honest, they’re better than human soldiers in certain applications,” replied Romero.
“Even with exoskeletons, we Outcasts are incapable of beating the Korgax too far away from the seas of Gaia. Dominance of the seas are not enough to dislodge the regime and retake the planet.”
Rafai led them to a smaller lab through a short, wide passage in the far-left corner of the hangar-sized lab. A sign over the passageway entrance said something in a strange alien script. Powell looked up at it, pausing for a second. “It reads, ‘Particle Shielding Lab’,” translated Rafai.
The smaller lab – the Particle Shielding Lab – was a quarter of the size of the hangar-sized lab they’d just walked in from, but with similar walls and lighting. In the far-right corner was a long metallic tube covered in a network of small-bore piping and colourful, thin cables of some kind. The tube was mounted on a waist-high stand with an attached bench. Atop the bench sat some unfamiliar electrical equipment, some of which had small displays embedded in their box-like forms. Sitting opposite the tube, ten metres away, was a vertical pole with a black hemisphere atop; in shape and dimensions, it looked like half of a soccer ball that had been cut down the middle. The curved side faced the tube and the flat side faced the test target.
“The engineer will now explain this to you,” said Rafai, matter-of-factly. He passed the engineer the hand-held translator as the six humans gathered around the alien tech.
He spoke for some time then released the English version from his translator machine. “The long tube is stripped-down particle beam weapon that we scavenged from a downed Korgax drone. We have rigged it up to hit the target over there,” he explained, his large black eyes averted towards the hanging target. “In between, on the pole, is an experimental particle beam deflector. It would be more accurate if I called it an absorber and deflector because of the way it works. The most basic types of deflectors work by diverting the path of the incoming particles around themselves and the asset they are protecting. However, there are limits to this technique, and if the particle beam is powerful enough, it will get through. This new type of deflector creates a cloud of anti-particles, which absorbs a significant proportion of particles. I will demonstrate now.”
Before he did, the main lab outside erupted into plasma fire interspersed by the frantic noises of Outcast screams, the likes of which the humans had never heard before. They all sensed the danger before Rafai snatched the translator from the engineer and confirmed, “Those are not test weapons – the lab is under attack!”
Instinct took over for Sorensen, as he bundled President Powell towards the corner to the right of the entrance behind a large, mostly solid cube of equipment. Wilke followed suit with Romero. Christina and McIver scrambled to the same cover close behind them. The six humans crouched, huddled in the dark corner, unarmed and confused as to what could be happening in this Outcast stronghold. They thought of survival and loved-ones and Earth, realising, to their surprise, the level of risk they were exposed to. The engineer cowered behind the particle gun rig, alone. There’d been no warning and no Korgax raid from orbit. The gun battle outside continued as Rafai bravely peeked around the corner of the entrance to see for himself what the hell was happening. With his side-arm drawn he scurried erratically to join the humans, crouching when he got there. He pivoted one-eighty and covered the entrance with his gun.
He drew the translator to his mouth and spoke quietly and fearfully. “I counted four attackers, but I am confused because they are not Korgax – they are our own Outcast soldiers!”
***
April 11, 2063: USS Esperanza, Somewhere in the North Atlantic Ocean
Captain Nathaniel L. Carter finished washing the shaving foam from his dark skin and assisted the last of the black stubble in finding its way to the plughole. He reached for the moisturizing balm that his wife, Sherrie had bought him to help with dry skin. Only the balm’s dark blue tube and the fact it was called a ‘balm’ and not a ‘moisturizer’ had convinced the Navy-lifer to use what he considered a feminine product. He knew some of his views were traditionalist and had become more so with age, but he was in no way a misogynist. He’d left port a month ago, which was nice timing really. The Navy had scheduled the sailing two days after his forty-fifth birthday, allowing a family barbecue with their three kids, family, and friends. He stopped and thought again about the prayer he’d said minutes ago while sitting on his bed. It was the same one he’d repeated before and after sleep for the past three days – ever since they’d seen the AEGIS destroyer, USS Brooklyn, scythed to pieces by the rays from above.
They’d been submerged for four weeks in the North Atlantic and on that fateful day – April 8, three moons ago – they’d been doing a lone wolf drill. He’d gotten them to within two nautical miles of the Brooklyn. He had then turned, giving her a chance to spot Esperanza on sonar, tracking Brooklyn parallel to her port-side. Esperanza had ascended to flexible periscope depth of 100m. Carter still found the way the long cable managed to keep station above the waves and, at the same time, send its video feed down to the bridge, quite astounding. The Navy had had nothing like this when he’d walked into the recruiting station on South Sage Avenue, Mobile in 2033 at the tender age of eighteen. He’d never noticed the low-rise brick building in all the years of growing up in the Gulf Coast city; it had never been that relevant until he’d read his great grandpa’s war diary. Battle of Guadalcanal, Battle of Leyte Gulf and the rest – the lowly seaman had seen it all and it had inspired Carter to change his life. The diary had persuaded him that there was more out there than hanging out with his homies, playing hoop and working futureless zero-hour contracts at the local eateries. His life was going nowhere, in desper
ate need of purpose. Then he’d taken that walk – two miles from his Dear Ol’ Mama’s house – and joined up. He loved the life, the camaraderie, and the sense of purpose. Now Carter commanded the most advanced and most powerful sub in history and he was damn good at his job. He’d never seen a weapon like the one that destroyed – no, not destroyed, more like shredded – the USS Brooklyn. Obviously, the alien bastards had carried out their threats. He’d known many of the officers and some of the crew on board and mourned their loss in his prayers. Despite fearing for his own sub’s safety, he ordered that they close in at periscope depth with a view to surface, in aid of survivors. But there were none, and what remained of the USS Brooklyn quickly sunk into the 3,500m water column below. So they’d stayed submerged and evaded the Alien murderers spying down from orbit for their next victim. His last order received was clear: stay undetected and await further orders in the North Atlantic.
Command obviously didn’t know what to expect, and neither did Carter or any of his crew of fifty-two men and women. He thought back to the first sub he’d served on in the Silent Service, the USS Louisiana. Even though far less capable than the Esperanza, the Ohio Class SSBN still had a larger crew. Its complement of one-hundred-forty enlisted and fifteen officers were due to less advanced automation than his current command. The result was a lot more firepower in the same one-hundred and seventy metre-long package. The crowning glory of her offensive weaponry was the one-hundred and twenty-eight stealth cruise missiles – the state-of-the-art Scimitars. Powered by the latest scramjet engine, they were capable of Mach-nine, each carrying eight warheads. Each thermonuclear warhead yielded half a megaton and could reach targets up to ten kilometres from the cruise missile once it had released them. That added up to over a thousand warheads from one sub. The USS Esperanza truly was a super-weapon – a name that Captain Carter knew she richly deserved.
Carter finished up in his private cabin and made his way down the narrow gangway to the bridge. They’d already missed their date at Kings Bay yesterday after the ELF antenna had failed to produce a response of any kind from any US or allied station. He knew the Aliens must have hit them hard. As he strolled along, saluting to the submariners that stood aside for their captain, he thought of Sherrie and their kids once again. It was unprecedented to have no response whatsoever. He feared the worst. It was confirmed when they’d come within visual range of Kings Bay and seen the plumes of smoke and wrecked vessels and buildings. They had a decision to make if the overnight ELF had not yielded a reply. He assumed that was the case as no one had come to wake him from his six-and-a-half hours of slumber.
Lieutenant Jane Mitchell came dashing out of the bridge as if her hair was on fire. She almost collided with the large calm man, striding to the helm of his command – Captain Carter.
“Whoa! Slow down Lieutenant!” he exclaimed, scowling at the thirtysomething high-flyer.
“Sorry sir, but we’ve just heard back from Kings Bay Naval Base.”
“And?”
“Our orders are to stay at sea, stay submerged, and await further orders.”
Chapter Seven
April 11, 2063: Weapons Lab & Testing Facility, Outcast Underground Base, Exelon
Only General Rafai and his service pistol stood between President Powell and the four-strong squad of commandos. Powell and his five human colleagues had thankfully found some measure of cover behind the large cube of mainly metallic equipment that sat in the corner. Rafai kept his gun raised, the sight trained on the entrance to the main lab. Whoever came through there would get a hot plasma surprise from their left hand side. The hapless engineer, still next to the deflector shield, might not be as lucky as he cowered behind the ineffective cover of the particle weapon stand. Whoever they were outside had line of sight to him from the main lab. He laid prone, eyes fixed on the entrance, too scared to move.
Rafai raised the translator with his free hand and spoke to the humans shielding behind him. “I have summoned a security team to help us, but there are attacks happening all over the base, so they’ll be a while.” No one had seen or heard him call for help, but with the Outcasts’ magnetic field telepathy, he must have done it somehow.
“Who are they?” asked a frantic Powell.
“They’re in the armour of our crack commando brigade – the Guardians of Peace. But it cannot be them as they are the most loyal troops we have. They must be some kind of android disguised as Guardians and sent by the Korgax.”
As Powell crouched behind the cover-of-sorts, he considered himself and his companions and saw just how vulnerable they’d be if the ruthless killers got past Rafai’s pistol. Wearing only underwear and a lightweight respirator, he sweated far more than even the humidity and thirty-plus degrees of heat were responsible for. The plasma battle next door seemed to have ceased and a tense silence had descended over the lab. There! The shuffle of movement next door. Faint, but definitely audible. No speech, just movement and the evasive whir of a powered exoskeleton’s servos. Closer to the entrance now. The cowering engineer, still prone, tried to back away from the direction of the entrance then stopped abruptly and got slowly to his knees, hands aloft. Meanwhile Secret Service agent, Bill Wilke, had crouch-walked around the back of the equipment cube they were all hiding behind. He now held a half-metre-long piece of metallic pipe. Solid looking, the pipe was the only weapon-like object he could get his hands on. He covered the gap between the wall and the equipment should the attackers go around the back rather than full frontal towards the defending Rafai. Wilke held the pipe – which he knew to be grossly inadequate, but better than nothing – and lay in wait with adrenalin pumping.
From nowhere came the multiple slugs of hot plasma that burnt right through the kneeling engineer’s body. What was left of it slumped forwards. A harmless unarmed Outcast callously executed by the murderous impostors. Powell feared they would be next and willed forwards the security detail Rafai had promised. What is the invaders’ mission exactly? thought Powell. Are they an assassination squad? They had all the hallmarks of such in the US President’s mind. As he crouched silently, all he could hear was the quiet flow of air through his mouthpiece and the thumping beat of his heart. Could this be the way I go? To die 15 light-years away from my Alyssa and Saskia? The first of the black-armoured killers emerged from the entrance way.
***
Leader Adai had never seen anything like it as he sat in the locked-down secondary control centre monitoring the attack. Such an audacious move by their enemy underlined just how devious and dangerous they’d become. He still didn’t know who they were, but they sure as anything looked like his own crack troops – the Guardians of Peace. And the latest security camera images had revealed something more. He and his military had traced one of the designation numbers on the back of one of their armoured suits. They’d counted twenty-four impostors so far and they’d done some real damage, taking out the primary control hub, dozens of fighter drones and more than two-hundred personnel. Resources would be even thinner now than ever. But that was not his immediate concern, as he looked over the shoulder of Major Gatai who was coordinating the security details. They’d got the call from General Rafai more than six minutes ago. Securing Rafai and the human VIPs was priority number one, but so far, events and the enemy had conspired against them. There were four intruders in the lab and Adai could see they’d slaughtered everyone in the main lab and were on the threshold of the smaller one. He was saddened to admit that it would probably take more than four of the eight-strong security team’s lives to neutralize the threat. Eight regulars against four Guardians might not leave any of his detail standing, but they had to try, and further teams were on the way. But was it too late? They’d been frantically working on overriding the blast doors to the lab chamber for the past ninety seconds with no luck. Until they did, the security troops were stuck on the outside, the VIPs at the mercy of the intruders on the inside.
***
Rafai took a chance and turned around to hold the
translator to Sorensen’s ear. The Secret Serviceman was crouching behind the alien, between harm and the President behind him. Powell was in the absolute corner of the lab – the safest place in a not very safe room. Rafai had evidently turned down the volume on his translator machine because the whisper that came out was almost inaudible. He’d clearly done this so as to not give away their position to the impending Guardian-impostors’ assault. The advice that came warned that the may use stun-grenades in situations like this and to get ready. Sorensen gave the thumbs up, nodding to Rafai, hoping he understood those common Western signals. Ultimately, even though it may be of only marginal benefit, he knew from his experience that every little edge you could gain on the enemy might save lives. So he turned and passed the message along to the others to shield their senses as best they could, and be ready once the flash-bangs ceased. He knew as well as anyone, that if these Guardians were anything like as good as the SEAL team he’d been in, then they’d all be dead within the next few minutes.
He looked around for the umpteenth time hoping he’d missed something that could serve as a weapon, but there was nothing. He’d seen Wilke edge around to the other side of the equipment cube they were behind and felt pride in his buddy’s bravery and initiative. He had to do something too. At the moment he was nothing more than a human shield between the approaching killers and his charge, President Powell. If he needed to put his body in the line of fire he would without hesitation, but he had a better idea. The equipment cube was a composition of smaller metal boxes, pipework and controls. He had no idea what it did, but could see that the roof of it was made of some kind of shiny plate alloy with further metal complexity above it. He scanned the side he could see from his position in the narrow gap between the equipment and the rock wall. There were sufficient foot and handholds to get up there to hide – but only if they acted quickly. On second thought, he decided it’d be better if they climbed up the rear of the equipment block, obscuring them from the imminently arriving Guardian-impostors. He crouch-walked around the corner to the gap between the wall and the equipment, telling the eagerly listening, frightened faces of his plan. He would go up first to have a look. He rose to his feet and nimbly scaled the pipes and framework, ascending the three metres to the top. Once there, he expertly hauled himself over the half-metre-high vertical lip of plate metal.
The Vassal World (The First Exoplanet Book 2) Page 7
