Wasp Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Hell if I know,” said March. “Some kind of weapon system, probably. Something classified. Else he would have been willing to talk about it in front of Donaghy and Jordan.” He blew out a long breath. “Probably something we’re not supposed to know about. But we already know about the Great Elder Ones and the Wraith project. Guess we’re going to find out about a classified weapons system.”

  “That’s because Stormreel doesn’t have any other choice,” said Adelaide. “Those Wasps would have destroyed his shuttle and killed him if we hadn’t come along. And the admiral knows he needs our help to do this. Else he wouldn’t have made such an effort to get you on his side voluntarily.”

  “Wondered why he bothered,” said March. “He could have just ordered us.”

  “Yeah, but you’re stubborn,” said Adelaide. March blinked at her. “You are! That’s not a bad thing. Stormreel’s not stupid. He knows you’ll be more useful to him if you cooperate willingly rather than if he orders you to do it.”

  “I hope that device of his is worth it,” said March.

  “Speaking of that,” said Adelaide. “Maybe you should call him up here. We’re almost to Vesper Station, and if they’re locked down because of the Wasps, we might need his authority before they let us dock.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said March, hitting the intercom switch. “Admiral?”

  “Captain March?” came Stormreel’s cold voice.

  “We’re approaching Vesper Station in a few minutes,” said March. “We might need your rank to allow us to land.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Stormreel. March unlocked the door to the flight cabin, and a moment later it hissed open. Stormreel, Donaghy, and Jordan came inside. The Lord Admiral seated himself at the tactical station, Donaghy at the engineer’s, and Jordan hovered nervously near the door. He was good at hovering nervously, but March supposed this was the kid’s first assignment. New-made ensigns were rarely good for anything other than hovering nervously.

  “ETA?” said Donaghy, frowning at his locked displays.

  “Three minutes, nineteen seconds,” said March.

  “Do you have your dark energy filter ready?” said Stormreel. “It will be useful to have an immediate tactical update of the situation in the system.”

  “It’s ready,” said March. “You can make yourself useful and monitor the tactical display.” He tapped some commands into the console and unlocked Stormreel’s displays. “Central monitor, standard software.”

  Belatedly March realized that giving orders to a Lord Admiral might not have been the smartest thing to do.

  “Very well,” said Stormreel, and the central monitor on his display lit up. “I see we’re going in ready for a fight.”

  “Seems smart,” said March, watching the navigational readouts. “As soon as we hit our terminus point, we’ll raise the shields, and we’ll have the weapons up a few seconds after that.”

  “This ship has an impressive armaments loadout for its size and class,” said Donaghy. “Out of curiosity, how did you get a railgun rated for small capital ships installed on the Tiger?”

  “Someone at Mercator Foundry Yards owed me a favor a couple of years ago,” said March. “Maybe if I ask nicely he’ll install one for you.”

  Donaghy snorted. “Once we’re back aboard the Roncesvalles, we’ll have all the firepower we need.”

  March didn’t argue. He hoped that firepower would be enough to deal with the Eumenidae nestship.

  They sat in silence as the timer counted down. The screens flashed as the Tiger reached its terminus point, and March pulled the levers and cut the power to the hyperdrive. The Tiger shot back into normal space, and March looked at the sensors. Vigil had calculated the jump perfectly, depositing the Tiger exactly where they had planned. They were about a quarter of a million kilometers from Vesper’s World itself and ten thousand kilometers from Vesper Station. The visual display showed March the distant brown-blue marble of Vesper’s World itself, and the spheres of two of the planet’s three moons. The visuals zoomed in on Vesper Station, and…

  “Oh my God,” said Jordan.

  “Steady, Ensign,” murmured Donaghy, but his eyes were fixed on the visual image.

  Vesper Station had been attacked, and recently.

  Habitable planets were rare enough that governments often forbade starships from landing on them. Instead, starships docked at orbital stations, and then cargo shuttles ferried goods and passengers down to the planet’s surface. With fifteen million colonists, Vesper’s World was large enough to demand similar treatment, and the colonial administration had built a space station in outer orbit around the planet. It was a common enough station design, a massive metal ring about four kilometers in diameter, lined with docking ports of varying sizes for cargo ships and starliners. Six bridges connected the outer ring to the spherical inner core, which housed the station’s administration, reactors, shield generators, and hangar facilities for starfighters.

  Even without using any of the Tiger’s more advanced sensors, the zoomed visual image showed the signs of battle damage. Half the station’s running lights were out, and March saw the craters carved into the armored hull from missile impacts and plasma. Several sections looked like they were venting atmosphere, and March saw the flickering glint of battle debris scattered around the station.

  “Admiral,” said March. “The dark energy sensors. Are there any Wasp starships nearby?”

  Stormreel tapped some commands into his console. “None. We’re still detecting sixty-eight Eumenidae starships of corvette size and above, and the nestship is still on its vector for Vesper’s World. But the nearest Eumenidae scoutship is…thirty-three million kilometers away. A group of five of them. Likely the ones that attacked the station, and to judge from their dark energy radiation, they’re getting ready to do a hyperjump back to the nestship.”

  “Then we shouldn’t have any company for a few minutes,” said March. “I’m going to do a sensor focus on the station, maximum power.”

  “Already on it,” said Adelaide.

  March nodded, and Adelaide flipped some switches. Her displays and March’s lit up with information, and the three naval officers behind them leaned closer.

  “The station’s kinetic and radiation shields are gone,” said March. “All the weapon emplacements have been disabled and destroyed. Looks like the fusion reactor is offline, and the station’s running on reserve power. Massive hull breaches across the outer ring, and some on the central core. A lot of battle debris. Looks like they took out a bunch of Wasp starfighters…some of the debris is reading as organic. Some of it isn’t. How many fighters did the station have?”

  “Two squadrons of Hawk-class heavy fighters, one of Quarrel-class interceptors,” said Stormreel, his voice grim. “It looks like they went down fighting.”

  “The hangar bay is reading as empty,” said Adelaide, her voice solemn. “I don’t think anyone survived. I’m not reading any distress beacons from ejector seats or escape pods.”

  “Dr. Taren,” said Donaghy. “Can you zoom in on the outer ring there?” He pointed. “The quadrant facing away from the planet.”

  Adelaide tapped some keys, and a close-up image appeared of the station’s outer ring, the hull armor scarred with plasma fire and shrapnel.

  “They were boarded,” said Donaghy. “It looks like someone took plasma torches to those airlocks. The Wasps might not have the same technology, but I bet they have something similar.”

  “Beyond all doubt, Captain,” said Stormreel. “There are reports of the Eumenidae behaving this way during their war with the Fourth Empire. They have no use for anything technological, but human beings, I am afraid, provide them with valuable biomass.”

  “Then the crew was harvested,” said Adelaide.

  “In all likelihood,” said Stormreel.

  “God,” said Donaghy. “There were five thousand people on that station.”

  “Try calling them,” said Adelaide. “It looks like the
ir communication array is still up. Maybe someone survived.”

  “Right,” said March, tapping the communications controls. He opened a tight-beam connection with the station’s communications array. “This is Captain Jack March of the Calaskaran privateer Tiger, calling anyone still aboard Vesper Station. Repeat, this is Captain Jack March of the Tiger, calling any survivors aboard Vesper Station. Please respond.”

  No one answered.

  “I’m not picking up any transmissions,” said Adelaide.

  “This weapon of yours,” said March. “Could the Wasps have realized that it was on the station?”

  “It is possible,” said Stormreel, still glacially calm. “As I mentioned earlier, the Wasps can dissect a human brain and absorb all the information it contains. That said, even with that method, I cannot see how they would have learned of the existence of the weapon. Only myself, the King, Censor, and a few other high-ranking flag officers knew of our plan to use the weapon. It was taken by secure courier to Vesper Station, and the courier didn’t know his cargo. No one on Vesper Station knew what the cargo actually is, and it was secured in the station commander’s strong room. It is possible the Wasps realized the weapon was here, but I think it more likely that the enemy simply decided to neutralize the station as a threat and harvest fresh biomass for their nestship.”

  “Then the weapon is still there,” said March.

  “Most probably,” said Stormreel. “Captain March, without that weapon, Vesper’s World will fall to the Wasps. If the Eumenidae take Vesper’s World, they will immediately start growing nestships to attack the nearby inhabited systems. It will take the entire Royal Navy to stop them, and the Machinists would almost certainly take advantage of the situation, assuming the Wasps do not attack them first.”

  To say nothing, of course, of the fifteen million people who would die on Vesper’s World.

  “Which means,” said March, reaching for the flight yoke, “we’re going to have to dock with the station and get our hands on that weapon.”

  “Yes,” said Stormreel.

  “You said the weapon is in the commander’s personal strong room,” said March. “Where on the station is that?”

  “Near the top of the central core,” said Stormreel. “Not far from the station’s operations center.”

  “All right,” said March, thinking. “Life signs?”

  Adelaide tapped the commands into her console, the Tiger’s sensors sweeping the damaged station.

  “Inconclusive,” she said when the scan finished. “There’s too much battle debris and radiation.”

  “It is also possible,” said Stormreel, “that there are Wasps aboard the station, and the Tiger’s computer doesn’t know how to interpret the data of their life signs.”

  March nodded. “All right. This is what we’re going to do.”

  Donaghy frowned. “Pardon, Captain March, but Admiral Stormreel is in command here.”

  “He is,” said March. “But do any of you have experience storming a hostile ship? Because that is how we have to treat this situation. There might be Wasps on that station, and we’ll have to fight our way through them to get to the operations center. Do any of you have personal experience with that kind of combat? Not commanding the Marines who did it, or ordering men to do it, but actually doing it yourself?” He wanted to ask if Donaghy had ever shot a man, or if he had ever killed a man with his own hands. March had done both, but that seemed to be taking the argument too far.

  That, and Stormreel was not inclined to argue the point.

  “Captain March has abundant experience in this particular field,” said Stormreel. “I am willing to trust his judgment. There is no point in commanding experts if one does not on occasion listen to their advice.”

  “Sir, with respect, I have to disagree,” said Donaghy. “Captain March is a good pilot, and we owe him our lives, yes. But is he qualified to lead a boarding party?”

  Stormreel sighed. “Consider his left hand, Captain.”

  Donaghy looked at March’s gloved left hand, then back at the admiral. “So? It’s obviously cybernetic.”

  “And what military force has cybernetic left arms?” said Stormreel.

  Donaghy frowned, and then March saw the staff officer get it.

  “Dear God,” said Donaghy. “You were an Iron Hand?” Jordan went white.

  “Emphasis on the past tense,” said Adelaide. She sounded annoyed. She knew March did not like talking about his past, for much the same reason he didn’t like anyone to see his many scars.

  “Yes,” said March. “It’s not boasting to say that I have a lot of experience at this kind of thing.”

  Donaghy didn’t say anything, but he nodded at last. Ensign Jordan’s eyes had gone wide, and he looked as if he wanted to flee down the dorsal corridor.

  “Let us turn to the matters at hand. Captain March, what do you propose?” said Stormreel.

  March pointed at the sensor readout. “With all the starfighters destroyed, the hangar at the base of the central core is empty. We can land the Tiger there, and then you, me, Captain Donaghy, and Ensign Jordan will proceed to the operations center and the strong room. We’ll take the weapon, get it back to the Tiger, and fly to the Seventh Fleet.” He frowned. “How big is the weapon?”

  “About this large,” said Stormreel, cupping his hands together.

  March frowned. That was about the size of two fists, or maybe a junior soccer ball. Something that small could take down the nestship’s defenses?

  “What should I do?” said Adelaide.

  “You’re going to stay here with the ship,” said March. He did not want to take her into danger, but he also had a practical reason for it. “I have the most experience with this kind of action, and the three officers have all had training with shipboard combat. You haven’t.” Adelaide nodded. “Also, you know how to fly the Tiger. If we get pinned down, you can leave the hangar bay and dock at another airlock.” March looked at the three men. “You’ll need weapons.”

  “We have our sidearms,” said Donaghy.

  “You’ll need better weapons than standard-issue Navy sidearms,” said March. “The armory is the first door on the left down the dorsal corridor. Get whatever guns you’re comfortable with. As soon as we land, we’ll head into the station and find the weapon.”

  “Come along, gentlemen,” said Stormreel, getting to his feet. March reached for the control panel and unlocked the armory door, and Stormreel, Donaghy, and Jordan filed into the dorsal corridor.

  “Are you sure about this?” said Adelaide as March gripped the flight yoke, turning the Tiger towards the station.

  “No,” said March. “But I can’t think of anything better, and we need that weapon.”

  “Stormreel and Donaghy look like they could handle themselves in a firefight,” said Adelaide, “but Jordan’s jumpy. He might panic and shoot himself in the foot. Or you in the back.”

  March shook his head, his attention on the flight displays. “I’m just bringing him so he can carry the plasma torch.”

  “Plasma torch?” said Adelaide.

  “Depending on the state of the station’s systems, we might need to cut a hole through the strong room door,” said March, “and I don’t want to carry the plasma torch. It’s heavy. That’s what ensigns are for.”

  Adelaide laughed. “Good thinking.” She hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “Entirely,” said March. “I want someone competent here to fly the Tiger in case things go bad.”

  Adelaide nodded. “I would have gone with you…but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved.”

  March looked at the image of the damaged station. “Can’t blame you for that. Keep an eye on the tactical display. If any of the station’s turrets are still functional and set to auto-fire, the point defenses might lock onto us.”

  “On it,” said Adelaide.

  March fed power to the fusion drive, and then slowed and took the ship on io
n thrusters for the final approach. The station gave no response. March eased the Tiger through the debris field around the outer ring, flew beneath the connective bridges, and aimed for the cavernous hangar at the base of the central core. The running lights around the hangar were still lit.

  “Atmosphere?” said March.

  “Yeah,” said Adelaide, scrolling through sensor data. “Looks like the static atmosphere barrier around the hangar entrance is intact. Better take breath masks, though.”

  March nodded, guided the ship through the hangar entrance, and landed. The Tiger rocked once and then settled. March brought up the exterior camera views. The hangar was a cavernous rectangular space, the ceiling lined with equipment to repair and rearm starfighters. Various utility carts stood abandoned on the polished metal deck, and March saw the signs of violence – blast marks on the walls and deck, and small craters from explosions.

  “No bodies,” said Adelaide.

  “There wouldn’t be,” said March, “if the Wasps came here to harvest biomass.”

  Adelaide shivered. “I suppose not.”

  “We’d better get moving,” said March. He switched full control of the ship over to Adelaide’s station and stood. “We’ll keep an open communications channel back to the Tiger at all time. My earpiece will have a camera, so you’ll be able to see what’s happening.”

  “Good,” said Adelaide. “Hey, Jack?”

  “Yeah?” said March, pausing as he turned toward the door.

  She reached up, caught his collar, pulled him down, and kissed him hard. When she pulled back her gray eyes were enormous in her face. Enormous, and frightened. She was afraid of losing him, afraid that he would be killed.

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  “I will,” said March. He hesitated. “If we don’t make it back, take the Tiger to the Antioch system. Tell Censor about the relics, and the Admiralty…”

  “No,” said Adelaide. “You’ll be careful, and you’re coming back. That’s all there is to it. Don’t argue.”