Wasp Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  Something clanged.

  As one, they whirled towards the corridor doors.

  “Something’s coming,” said March.

  “Do you have access to the internal sensors?” said Stormreel to Warner.

  Warner blinked at him. “I…I might. I’m not sure. I would need a console…”

  Before he could move, the doors to the corridor hissed open, and three men in the uniforms of the Royal Calaskaran Navy stepped into the operations center.

  March’s first reaction was relief. Someone else had survived the attack, and he started to lower his rifle.

  Then suspicion took over again, and he kept his rifle pointed at the men.

  There was something wrong with them.

  All three men had the rank insignia of crewers. Their faces were pale, their eyes glittering and feverish, and sweat glistened on their faces. The man on the left was breathing hard, his mouth hanging open. March would have assumed they were ill, but that didn’t seem right. Something else was wrong with them.

  The three men looked back and forth. None of them blinked.

  “Hello,” said Stormreel. “I assume you survived the attack on the station.”

  “The attack,” said the man in the center. He looked at Stormreel. “Yes. We have survived the attack.”

  “I am Theodoric Stormreel, Lord Admiral of the Seventh Fleet,” said Stormreel. He shifted the box to his left hand and moved his right hand towards the butt of his pistol. “Might I know your names and ranks?”

  “We are crew members on this station,” said the crewer.

  “Adelaide,” murmured March. “Are you seeing this?”

  “Yeah,” said Adelaide. “There’s something wrong with those guys.”

  “Can you get a sensor focus on the operations center?” said March.

  “Working on it,” said Adelaide.

  “I observe that you are crew members on this station,” said Stormreel. “That was not, however, what I asked. Please tell me your names and ranks.”

  “We are crewers working on this installation, Lord Admiral Theodoric Stormreel,” said the crewer. His expression twisted oddly, almost as if the muscles behind his face had gone slack. It reminded March of watching someone have a stroke, or maybe a bad reaction to medication. “We are under your command.”

  “Yes, that is correct, I am your commanding officer at the moment,” said Stormreel. His hand dropped to the grip of his pistol. The crewers showed no reaction. “Please tell me your names and ranks.”

  “We are under your command, Lord Admiral Theodoric Stormreel,” said the crewer. “Please tell us your orders, so that we might carry them out, as we are under your command.”

  “I see,” said Stormreel. “Perhaps…”

  March didn’t hear the rest of that sentence because Adelaide’s voice crackled in his ear again.

  “Guys!” she said. He felt a brief flicker of completely inappropriate amusement that her normal middle-class Calaskaran accent became far more rural when she was alarmed, and then his combat reflexes took over. “I’m detecting five human life signs in the operations center. But the ship’s picking up unknown life signatures right in front of you. Whoever those men are, they aren’t human.”

  March shifted his aim and fired.

  His rifle spat a plasma bolt, and it vaporized the top half of the central crewer’s head. The man rocked back, his expression distorting into something inhuman as the muscles of his face unanchored from his skull. The man stumbled again, and March expected him to collapse in a limp heap to the deck.

  Instead, he remained standing.

  “Oh, shit,” said Donaghy.

  The three crewers bulged and twisted, and they ripped apart in sprays of gore and torn flesh. There was much less blood than March would have thought, and he realized the reason why.

  The men had been dead. They had been dead for some time. They had been hollowed out, their organs removed, and the things that had killed them had been wearing their emptied bodies like ghastly suits.

  The three Wasps that had been inside the dead men unfolded with inhuman speed.

  The creatures stood nine feet tall, their gray-green bodies long and thin and spindly. They looked like a mutated cross between a mantis and a hornet. They each had six limbs, four of the limbs supporting their bodies, two of the limbs resembling massive, serrated scythe-like blades. Their abdomens ended in massive black stingers, and two multifaceted eyes dominated their wedge-shaped heads. Lines of eerie red light illuminated their carapaces and limbs, and something about that light made March’s head hurt. If the Wasps had a direct link to hyperspace and given the effect that viewing hyperspace had on human minds, it was possible the pain was entirely psychological.

  The Wasps lifted their forelimbs, and the bladed edges started to glow with harsh light. March had seen that effect before. The Wasp starfighters had done something similar before they had started firing plasma bolts.

  That meant the Wasps had plasma weapons integrated into their limbs.

  “Take cover!” he shouted.

  The others obeyed, and the Wasps started shooting.

  Plasma bolts lashed out, blasting chunks from the consoles and the deck. Warner yanked his gun out and managed to get off three wild shots, but none of them came anywhere near hitting the Wasps. The aliens stalked forward, still firing, and March leaned around his console, raised his rifle, and started shooting. The first two bolts struck the nearest Wasp and dissipated into nothingness. The Wasp had some sort of personal shield, likely a variation of the gravitic shield the starfighters employed. But the shield had limited power, and March’s third shot punched through it and struck the Wasp in the head. The plasma bolt turned the alien’s head to smoking char, and the creature staggered and collapsed in a heap to the deck, the red glow fading from its limbs.

  The other two Wasps decided that March was the most dangerous threat, and came at him in a rush.

  He snapped off three shots in rapid succession, and his third shot drilled through the head of the Wasp on his left. The alien went down, but the final Wasp leaped atop the console, scythed forelimbs raised to slice March in half. There wasn’t enough time to get off more shots, so he raised his left arm to block. He was about to find out if the alloy the Machinists used for their cybernetics was stronger than the armored carapace of a Wasp.

  The forelimbs hammered down, and March just had time to realize that Adelaide was likely watching through the camera in his earpiece, that she might be about to see him die a grisly death.

  The blades struck his arm, slicing through his sleeve, but rebounded off his metal arm without leaving a scratch. The Wasp recoiled, and March’s left hand darted out and seized the creature’s nearest leg. He heaved with all his cybernetic strength, and the Wasp lost its balance and hit the deck in the aisle between two rows of consoles. The alien started to recover at once, and March raised his rifle to shoot.

  But by then, Stormreel and the other men had come out from cover. All four of them started shooting at once. The plasma bolts punched through the gravitic shield and turned the Wasp’s head and the top of its thorax to smoking char.

  The alien twitched a few times and went still. Whatever organic substance made up its carapace smelled vile when charred.

  “Oh my God,” said Warner, looking at the scattered heaps of bloody meat that had once been the crewers. “The aliens…they were inside…”

  “We can discuss the matter later,” said Stormreel. “Captain March, let’s move.” March nodded and headed for the door, plasma rifle raised. “Dr. Taren, status update.”

  “Those Wasp scoutships are still heading for the station,” said Adelaide. “I think they’re going to go to hyperspace any minute.”

  “Then let’s move,” said Stormreel. “We…”

  March stepped before the door leading back to the corridor.

  It hissed open, and instead of simply walking through it, he took a quick glance around the corner. The reflex had been drill
ed into him during his training as an Iron Hand, and it had saved his life countless times since then, both during his time as an Iron Hand and as an Alpha Operative of the Silent Order.

  It saved his life now because the corridor leading to the access door was filled with Wasps.

  There were dozens of them, and they were packed tight. Some of them hurried along the floor. Others clung to the walls and the ceiling, skittering along with smooth motions. As one, dozens of wedge-shaped heads rotated to face him, dozens of glittering, faceted black eyes regarded him, and dozens of serrated forelimbs came up, glowing with plasma.

  March jerked back a half-second before dozens of plasma bolts would have reduced him to smoking char. The door clanged shut before him.

  “Shit!” he said.

  “Captain March?” said Stormreel.

  “Lot of Wasps out there,” said March, letting his rifle dangle from its strap as he reached for his bandoleer.

  “Lock the door!” said Warner, running for the panel.

  “Not yet,” said March, grabbing a pair of grenades from his bandoleer. He set the fuses for two seconds, armed the weapons, and stepped forward. The door hissed open, and March flung the grenades down the corridor, jerking back as another volley of plasma bolts ripped through the space his head had occupied a half-second earlier. The door clanged shut, and March heard the detonation of the grenades, followed by a metallic shriek that he suspected was the Wasps shouting in anger.

  “Now lock it,” said March.

  Warner all but fell over in his haste to comply.

  “How many are there?” said Stormreel.

  “Dozens,” said March. “No way we can fight through them.”

  “Then we need an alternative route to reach the Tiger,” said Stormreel. “Technician Warner, is there another path to the hangar at the base of the central core?”

  The door shuddered, and March heard the howl of plasma fire as the Wasps started shooting. The alloy could take a pounding, but the Wasps would blast through it sooner rather than later.

  “I…I, oh God, no,” said Warner. “There isn’t. With the lift system damaged and the hull breaches…we’d need to suit up, because the corridors are exposed to vacuum.”

  “What about the shuttle bay?” said Jordan.

  “What?” said Warner.

  “The commander’s shuttle bay?” said Jordan, staring at the door with wide eyes. “I did my cadet tour on a station of this design. The commander’s shuttle bay has two shuttles for executive use.”

  “The route to the shuttle bay should be open!” said Warner. “But the shuttles would have been used when the commander gave the order for the evacuation. We’ll be trapped there.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Adelaide. “I’ll take the Tiger out of the hangar and bring her up to the shuttle bay.”

  “A shuttle bay of that size won’t hold the Tiger,” said Stormreel.

  “Doesn’t have to,” said Adelaide. “I’ll just poke the stern through the atmosphere barrier, you’ll come in through the cargo airlock, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  “Our ship will meet us at the shuttle bay,” said March to Warner. “Let’s move. Which way?”

  Warner pointed at an access door on the far side of the operations center and then ran in that direction. March moved towards the door to the main corridor and pulled another grenade from his bandoleer. He set the timer to motion-detection – when he pulled the arming pin, the grenade would wait five seconds and then explode when anything triggered the motion detector built into the detonator.

  After a second’s consideration, he pulled another grenade free. With both weapons lying before the corridor door set to motion-detection, he yanked the arming pins and ran across the operations center to join the others. Warner got to the door to another access corridor open, and the others scrambled through it.

  “Down the corridor for a hundred meters!” he shouted. “Then we’ll get to another junction box, and take the ladder down! Run!”

  March reached Warner just as the Wasps blasted through the door.

  A volley of plasma bolts punched through the door, tearing it to molten wreckage. The flying pieces of shrapnel triggered the grenades’ motion sensors, and the weapons went off with a roar and a fireball, the noise deafening in the enclosed space, the deck vibrating beneath March’s boots. Another chorus of furious metallic screams came from the Eumenidae, and March shoved Warner through the door.

  “I have to close it behind us!” shouted Warner.

  “Won’t slow them down! Move!” said March.

  They sprinted after the others. Just as Warner said, the utility corridor ended after a hundred meters in another junction box. A hatch opened in the center of the floor, connected to a metal ladder.

  “Down the ladder, take a left, and head to the access door at the end of the corridor,” said Warner. “That will take us to the shuttle bay! Go!”

  March heard the clatter as the Wasps raced across the operations center. He did not know how fast the Wasps could run in a straight line, but he wagered that it was a lot faster than a human. He dropped his rifle, letting it hang from its strap, and yanked the grenade launcher from over his shoulder.

  “Sir?” said Warner.

  “Keep moving,” said March, aiming at the entrance to the operations center.

  Warner nodded and scrambled for the ladder.

  The first of the Wasps appeared a second later.

  March squeezed the launcher’s trigger.

  The grenade launcher didn’t have good range, only about a hundred meters or so on a windless day, but since the utility corridor back to the operations center was about that long, it worked out well. The Wasps squeezed their way into the corridor, and the first grenade landed in their midst and exploded. The blast ripped apart three of the Eumenidae, gray-green slime spattering across the walls, and March fired twice more. The explosions cleared away the Wasps from the front of the corridor, and his next grenade sailed through the door and into the operations center. That made a much larger explosion, probably due to the shrapnel from the consoles, and March heard the furious screams from the Wasps.

  It was time to go.

  He jumped through the hatch, grenade launcher in his right hand, his cybernetic left arm seizing the side of the ladder to slow his descent. March’s boots clanged against the deck, and he turned his head and saw the others running down yet another utility corridor.

  Above him, he heard the clangs as the Wasps raced for the ladder. He had slowed them down, but not by very much. March slung the grenade launcher over his shoulder as he sprinted down the utility corridor. He reached the others just as Warner got the door open, and they hurried into the shuttle bay.

  The bay was far smaller than the fighter hangar, too small to accomodate the Tiger, and would be just large enough to hold and service two light shuttles. Maintenance equipment hung from the ceiling, the distorted reflection visible on the polished metal deck. The bay doors were open, the air held inside by a static barrier, and beyond the ring of the station, March saw the blaze of a hundred billion stars. It was a beautiful sight, but this wasn’t the time to appreciate it.

  “They’re right behind us,” said March, switching his rifle to full auto.

  “Dr. Taren?” said Stormreel.

  “On my way,” said Adelaide. “ETA in…”

  March didn’t hear the end of that sentence. A pair of double doors sealed off a corridor that led into the station proper, and those doors slid open with a hiss and a clang.

  A mob of Wasps charged into the shuttle bay.

  March snapped his rifle up and started shooting, the emitter spitting plasma bolt after plasma bolt. The others fired with their pistols, and the tide of Wasps slowed as the plasma blasts punched through their gravitic shields and tore into their carapaces.

  But there were too damned many of the things. Hundreds of the Eumenidae swarmed through the corridor. March realized the Wasps must have left the inhabited cor
pses in the operations center to watch for any survivors or rescuers, while the rest of the Wasps lay in wait to attack any would-be rescuers.

  Something metallic flashed behind him, and March risked a look over his shoulder.

  The Tiger hovered just outside the shuttle bay, the ion thrusters flashing as Adelaide spun the ship to point the stern at the bay. There was a gust of wind as the stern pushed through the static barrier and into the bay, and March heard a sudden mechanical whir from the ship.

  The dorsal laser turret was rotating.

  “Get to the left side of the bay!” said Adelaide. “Your left! Move, move, move!”

  “Go!” roared March.

  The others rushed to the left side of the bay, and Adelaide fired the dorsal laser turret.

  The beam was invisible, but its effects were not. It sliced through the rear wall of the bay with a spray of sparks, carving a molten gash through the metal. It also cut through the horde of Wasps like butter. The personal gravitic shields of the Eumenidae might have been enough to deflect small-arms fire, but they couldn’t handle a ship-mounted weapon with the wattage of the Tiger’s laser. Dozens of Eumenidae died in a single second, sliced neatly in half, their bodies smoking and sizzling.

  The Tiger’s stern jutted into the bay by a few meters, enough to bring the cargo airlock into the atmosphere. Even as he looked, the outer door slid open.

  “Move!” said March. “Airlock! Run!”

  The others needed no prompting and ran for the airlock as the stench of burned Wasps filled the air. March was the last one in, and the outer door hissed closed behind him. The inner door slid open, and March ran into the cargo hold.

  “Everyone aboard?” said Adelaide.

  “Yeah,” said March. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  He sprinted across the cargo hold, scrambled up the ladder, and down the dorsal corridor. March stepped into the flight cabin. Adelaide sat at the co-pilot’s station, gripping the flight yoke as she sent the Tiger plunging away from Vesper Station.

  “Jack?” she said. “Oh, thank God you’re back. You can take over. I was afraid I would scratch your ship.”

  March laughed, incredulous. “You’re brilliant.” He dropped into the pilot’s acceleration chair, and she grinned at him in surprise. “And your timing with the turret was excellent.”