Wasp Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Through here,” said Warner, pointing at a narrow door. “That will take us to the operations center. I’ll need to see if I can unlock the door. My maintenance credentials should let us through, but if not…”

  “If not,” said Stormreel, “Ensign Jordan has a plasma torch.”

  Warner winced as he crossed to the door. “The head of environmental control would kill me for cutting a hole in the wall.” He shook his head as he tapped a code into the lock. “Suppose he’s dead now, though, and the station’s a wreck…”

  “The Royal Navy will return,” said Stormreel. “We will rebuild the station, and we will repulse the Eumenidae incursion.”

  Warner blinked. “Ah…yes, sir.” The lock clicked. “Door’s unlocked. We…”

  “Open it from the side,” said March, leveling his rifle at the door. “If there are any Wasps on the other side, I don’t want them to take a shot at you.”

  Warner swallowed. “Good thinking, sir.” He stepped to the side and hit the door release. It hissed open, and beyond March saw a large room filled with computer consoles, the walls covered with screens and a massive holographic image of the station systems hovering overhead.

  There was no sign of the Wasps. Or of any panicking crew members.

  March stepped through the door, sweeping his rifle left and right. The operations center looked like a less advanced version of a capital starship’s combat information center. A raised dais in the center of the room held the commander’s chair, along with the consoles for the executive officer and the senior tactical officer. Dozens of consoles ringed the dais, each one dedicated to the many tasks required to keep a space station running on an average day – life support, cargo handling, docking, communications, and so forth. Screens on the walls showed status reports from other parts of the station, and the overhead hologram displayed an overview of all systems on the station.

  There was a lot of flashing red on that hologram.

  For that matter, there were obvious signs of battle damage to the operations center. Several of the consoles had been smashed, and some of the screens had been shot out. Burns from plasma bolts spotted the walls, and in places, March saw both dried bloodstains and the spatters of greenish-gray foam-like material that served the Wasps as blood.

  But there was not a living soul, human or alien, in the operations center.

  “Clear,” said March.

  The others filed inside.

  “Jesus,” said Warner. “I mean…just…”

  “Looks like they put up a hell of a fight,” said Donaghy.

  “Yeah,” said Warner. “I…I never came up here, except on special occasions. I…” He pulled himself together. “Admiral, should I get a distress call going?”

  “Negative,” said Stormreel, looking around the cavernous room. “There are no Calaskaran starships within radio range, and the signal might draw the attention of the Eumenidae.” He pointed at a pair of double doors on the far side of the operations room. “The commander’s office is there. Captain March, please accompany me. Captain Donaghy, Ensign Jordan, Technician Warner, remain here. Donaghy, you’re in charge until we get back. Keep watch for anything unusual.”

  “Sir,” said Donaghy.

  “Dr. Taren?” said Stormreel.

  “Admiral?” came Adelaide’s voice over the earpieces.

  “Who’s Dr. Taren?” said Warner, looking around. “You have a doctor with you?”

  “She’s on the ship, and she’s Captain March’s girlfriend,” said Jordan. March gave him a look, and the ensign fell silent.

  “Has there been any change in the activity of the Eumenidae starships?” said Stormreel.

  “Negative,” said Adelaide. “The nestship is still on its vector toward Vesper’s World. The scoutships are circling around it at a distance of one million kilometers to about five hundred million kilometers. It looks like a bunch of bees circling around their hive.”

  “A not inaccurate metaphor, Dr. Taren,” said Stormreel. “Please alert us immediately if any of the Wasp starships head towards the station.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Adelaide.

  “Ensign,” said Stormreel. “Give Captain March the plasma torch. We may need it.”

  March hung his rifle from its strap and took the plasma torch from the nervous ensign.

  “Captain March, take out your earpiece until we return from the commander’s office,” said Stormreel, removing his own earpiece. “We may have to discuss some highly classified matters. That said, Captain Donaghy, if there is a problem come get us at once.”

  March frowned, but followed suit.

  Stormreel nodded, and the Lord Admiral set off across the operations room. March followed him, bracing the plasma torch in his left arm. As much as March hated what had been done to him on Calixtus, he did concede that his cybernetic left arm made it easier to move heavy equipment.

  The doors to the commander’s office hissed open as they approached. The room was spacious, with a massive computer desk paneled either in real wood or a reasonable approximation of it. A soft blue carpet covered the floor, and the walls had been painted a stark, gleaming white. Pictures and medals hung on the walls, the largest showing a man in a commander’s uniform posing with an attractive middle-aged woman and four smiling children of various ages.

  The commander’s family, no doubt. In another few weeks, his wife and children would receive a letter stating that he had died in the line of duty. Or since Vesper Station was partly a civilian installation, perhaps the commander’s family had lived here and died with him.

  March pushed away the grim thoughts and followed Stormreel to a narrow door on the far wall. The admiral tapped a few commands into the lock panel, and the lock made an angry buzzing noise.

  “As I feared,” said Stormreel. “The portion of the computer that controls administrative access is either offline or damaged. We’ll need to cut through the lock.”

  “Right,” said March, stepping closer. He powered on the plasma torch, the tool making a whining noise. “Make sure that you set your goggles to darken, or else you’ll have scorched corneas if you look at the cutting blade.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” said Stormreel.

  March adjusted his own goggles as he waited for the plasma torch to warm up. “Any particular reason Jordan can’t do this?”

  “Ensign Jordan is a promising young officer, assuming he overcomes his social awkwardness,” said Stormreel, “but I’m afraid his practical skills are lacking. If he tried to use a plasma torch, he would cut off his own foot.”

  “And you don’t want him to see what the weapon is,” said March.

  Stormreel said nothing.

  The lights on the torch’s controls flashed green, and March flipped it on. A foot-long blade of snarling plasma burst from the emitter, and March set to work. The strong room door and lock had been made of reinforced alloy, but they hadn’t been built with a plasma torch in mind. Granted, given how bright, loud, and hot a plasma torch was, it was impossible to use it in the operations center of a space station without drawing the attention of an army of security officers.

  Unless, of course, the station’s crew was already dead.

  It took March about five minutes to cut a half-circle through the door around the locking mechanism. He gave the cuts in the metal a critical look, nodded to himself, and powered down the torch. It had gotten about fifteen degrees hotter in the office, and the air smelled of ozone and superheated metal.

  “Your turn, Admiral,” said March. “Hold this, please.” Stormreel took the torch, and March stepped forward, braced his left hand against the door, and heaved. The cybernetic power of his left arm strained, the rest of his body tensing to maintain his balance, and then the door wrenched down its track.

  The door to the strong room was open.

  The room wasn’t large, little more than a closet, and the shelves lining the walls were empty. The floor was empty, save for a single metal box about the size of a b
eer cooler.

  That held a weapon capable of stopping a Eumenidae nestship?

  “Good work,” said Stormreel, passing the torch back to March. “I’ll need to take a look.”

  March nodded and moved out of the way, and Stormreel stepped into the strong room, took the box, and carried it to the commander’s desk.

  “Ensign Jordan is a junior officer of the Royal Calaskaran Navy,” said March.

  “That is correct,” said Stormreel, opening the box. It was full of foam packing peanuts. He began sifting through them, then nodded and pushed both his hands into the material.

  “He’s an officer of the Navy, but you aren’t willing to let him or Donaghy see the weapon,” said March. “I’m not an officer of the Navy, but you’re about to show me the weapon. Why?”

  “Because your reaction will confirm whether this is really the weapon I require or not,” said Stormreel. “I believe you’ve seen it before, Captain March.”

  He lifted something from the box with both hands, the foam peanuts sliding off its smooth bluish-green surface, and March took an involuntary step back, his hands seizing his plasma rifle.

  The object looked like a stylized scarab about the size of both of March’s fists put together. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said it was some kind of artwork, perhaps a statue of an insect created by an alien culture with no interest in or even comprehension of human aesthetic preferences.

  But March did know better.

  The last time he had seen that device had been on Constantinople Station, just before he had handed it and Dr. Cassandra Yerzhov over to the waiting team from the Ministry of Defense. Before that, March had found that device in Rykov City on Rustaril, where the Machinist agent Simon Lorre had used it to convert people into Machinist drones without their knowledge.

  Lorre was dead, and his plan to create ghost drones had died on Rustaril…but now the device he had used to create the ghost drones rested in Theodoric Stormreel’s hands.

  “You do recognize it, then,” said Stormreel.

  “That is a device of the Great Elder Ones,” said March.

  “Correct,” said Stormreel.

  “It is incredibly dangerous,” said March.

  “Also correct,” said Stormreel. He concealed the device beneath the packing peanuts once more.

  “And you’re going to use that thing as a weapon,” said March.

  “In a certain sense,” said Stormreel, closing the box.

  “That’s insane,” said March. “If that thing is misused, it might open a gateway to another universe, and the Great Elder Ones will come through. They’ll make the Wasps look like gnats by comparison.”

  “I am aware of the risks, Captain March,” said Stormreel. “So are the scientists of Project Exorcism.”

  “Project Exorcism?” said March.

  “It is highly classified,” said Stormreel, “but you ought to know about it. You are, in a sense, its founder. You were the one who brought back the knowledge of the Machinists’ Wraith Project from Rustbelt Station, and you are the one who captured samples of the Great Elder Ones’ technology for our scientists to study. You also rescued one of the Project’s chief scientists.”

  “Dr. Yerzhov,” said March.

  “Yes,” said Stormreel.

  “Using that thing as a weapon is insane,” said March. “We don’t know what it can do, or what the effects might be…”

  “In point of fact,” said Stormreel, “Project Exorcism knows exactly what this device is and what it can do. It is a component of a damaged communication device employed by the Great Elder Ones, and its nearest equivalent in human technology would be a…signal beacon, I suppose.”

  “A signal beacon,” said March. “Like if the Great Elder Ones wanted to use it to find our universe again.”

  “That would be one possible application,” said Stormreel. “However, the device is incomplete and damaged. Its signal can enter hyperspace, but it cannot leave our universe entirely.”

  “So how can a communication device be used as a weapon?” said March.

  Stormreel raised an eyebrow. “A message sent at the right time and the right place can be a devastating weapon, Captain March.”

  “Yes, for humans,” said March. “But somehow I doubt we can send falsified messages to the Wasps.”

  “Indeed not,” said Stormreel. “But, as I said, the device is both damaged and incomplete, and it should be safe enough for our purposes…”

  “Yeah, well, that could be a problem,” said March. “Because as you worked out, I’ve got a strong room full of devices of the Great Elder Ones that Dr. Taren found. And maybe one of the damned things are the missing components to make this device into a gateway for the Great Elder Ones to invade again.”

  “What manner of components?” said Stormreel.

  “Twenty quantum inducers,” said March.

  “Those are dangerous since they serve as the core of the Machinists’ Wraith devices,” said Stormreel, “but on their own, they are harmless. The scientists think the quantum inducers are the equivalent of resistors or diodes in human electronics, common components that the Great Elder Ones used for a variety of applications.”

  “There’s one other device,” said March.

  “What is it?” said Stormreel.

  “Damned if I know,” said March. “Dr. Taren’s team called it the Firestone. Big chunk of crystal about the size of my fist, looks like a carved ruby. It’s some sort of energy amplifier. Expose it to sunlight, and after five minutes it will generate an explosion. Shoot a few plasma bolts into it, and it will go off like a bag of grenades.” He pointed at the box on the desk. “And I don’t know what the hell will happen if the Firestone comes into contact with that thing…”

  “The scientists have been calling this device a quantum beacon,” said Stormreel. “And we’ll make sure the beacon and the Firestone do not come into physical contact with each other.”

  “What if they can network with each other?” said March. “Like some quantum equivalent of personal area networking technology?”

  “That is a possibility, but unlikely,” said Stormreel. “Most probably the quantum beacon and the Firestone come from different systems.” He tapped his fingers against the lid of the box. “You’re concerned about the Pulse, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said March. For a while now, March had been hearing rumors about the Pulse, a powerful weapon the Machinists were attempting to construct using the technology of the Great Elder Ones. He didn’t know what the Pulse was, but he did know that the Machinists were certain that it could destroy the Kingdom of Calaskar, which had resisted their attempts to conquer or suborn it for over two centuries.

  Were the quantum beacon and the Firestone together components of the Pulse?

  “A reasonable fear,” said Stormreel, “but we must address ourselves to the matter at hand. The Wasps will conquer Vesper’s World and kill the colonists unless we stop them. There isn’t time to gather sufficient naval forces to destroy the nestship in a conventional space battle. Consequently, we must act with the available tools,” he tapped the box again, “and we must act now. Will I have your cooperation?”

  “Yes,” said March. “It seems you and Censor have left me with little choice.”

  “Like you,” said Stormreel, “Censor and I must act in accordance with events on the ground. The Wasps have left us with little choice but to move in haste.”

  “Agreed,” said March.

  “Also,” said Stormreel, “I believe you have the right to know about Project Exorcism because it would not exist without your actions. But you must tell no one of this conversation without the express permission of Censor or myself. Not even Dr. Taren.”

  “Fine,” said March. “The secret is safe with me. I suppose you won’t tell me what your plan is for that thing?”

  “I will not,” said Stormreel, picking up the box. It even had a metal handle like a beer cooler. “What you don’t know…”
>
  “Can’t be scooped out of my skull by a Wasp,” said March.

  “I am pleased you understand,” said Stormreel. He returned his earpiece to his ear, and March did the same. “Let’s get back to the Seventh Fleet.”

  March slung the plasma torch over his shoulder and took his rifle in both hands. He walked back to the operations center, Stormreel following him with the box. Donaghy, Jordan, and Warner stood where they had been, watching the doors.

  “Found it, sir?” said Donaghy.

  “I have, Captain,” said Stormreel. Donaghy blinked in surprise at the box. “Let’s rejoin Dr. Taren aboard the Tiger and depart at once. The sooner we reach the Seventh Fleet, the sooner we can…”

  The earpiece crackled in March’s ear. “Jack?”

  “What is it?” said March.

  “We might have a problem,” said Adelaide.

  “Elaborate, please,” said Stormreel.

  “Four Wasp scoutships just changed vector,” said Adelaide. “They’re heading for the station.”

  “How far off are they?” said March.

  “Four hundred million kilometers,” said Adelaide. “But the dark energy sensors say they’re heading right for the station. And their dark energy radiation profiles are changing. Best guess, I think they’re getting ready to make a hyperspace jump. If they make a short hyperspace jump, Vigil thinks they could be here in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.”

  “Then we had better hurry,” said Donaghy.

  “Dr. Taren,” said Stormreel. “I left a thumb drive plugged into the data port in the Tiger’s galley. It contains coordinates for the current location of the Roncesvalles and its escorts. I suggest you start calculating a hyperspace jump to that location immediately.”

  “On it,” said Adelaide. “The calculation should be done by the time you get back. But we’ll need to do some minor recalculations to account for the relativistic drift in our position by the time you get here.”

  “Half a minute of calculations is better than five,” said Stormreel. “We’re…”