Space: Above and Beyond 1 - Space: Above and Beyond

by Peter Telep

  And, indeed, once he was inside the box, his knee was flirting with his ear. He nearly screamed as he leaned forward, seized the panel and slammed it shut. The lock beeped twice: an arming signal. Now, one thing stood between leaving the crate or dying in it. Nathan set the tiny acid bomb's magnetic base onto the rear casing of the crate's lock. He slid his finger over the destruct button, getting a feel for it. That done, he fell back into the darkness and breathed deeply.

  After a moment, already bored and his pulse still on the rapid side, Nathan fingered the light on his watch. He had synchronized it with the launch clock, and now saw that there were two hours and forty-one minutes remaining until liftoff. He guessed he would have to stay in the crate for at least another two hours, and that prospect made the walls seem to move in a little tighter, the weather station and balloon assembly press on him a little harder.

  Nathan swam nude at the foot of a great waterfall. He went under the water, and when he came up, Kylen stood before him in the thigh-high water. She was pure, unencumbered by a bathing suit, her golden locks wet and glistening in the alien sun. He went to her, and her skin was soft and warm and her head fit perfectly on his shoulder.

  "Don't leave me, " she said.

  "Never."

  "This one's a bitch. Get Mike over here and we'll triple-team 'er."

  Nathan snapped awake, tried to move, then remembered where he was.

  "All right, here we go."

  Suddenly, Nathan felt he was in the air, but only for a moment. The techs set the crate gently onto the flatbed. Nathan was jerked forward as he heard the muted sound of the cargo vehicle's engine race, and then the motor fell back into a steady whine.

  I'm on my way. I'm on my way. System bypassed.

  He forgot all about his confined space and reveled in what he had done and was doing.

  The techs brought his crate to the launch tower, placed it on the elevator, then rolled it into the access arm toward the hatch of the launch vehicle's supply deck on level eight. He wasn't sure when they actually moved the crate into the vehicle, but the sound of the techs locking it into position on the floor confirmed that he had arrived.

  How long do I wait? Will I be able to hear them seal the supply deck hatch? Listen....

  Sure enough, he heard the muted slam of a hatch.

  One... two... three.

  He hit the acid bomb's destruct button, then closed his eyes and tucked his head into his chest. There was a hissing sound, a terrible acrid odor, and then a POP! Sensing that the lock had been disengaged, the seal broken, Nathan placed his palm on the crate's panel and pushed. The panel dropped outward.

  His leg came out. Then an arm. His head, shoulder, another arm, and, finally, his other leg. Though he stood, he still felt like the pretzel he had become. He tried to shake off the stiffness, but it would linger at least as long as the time he had spent in the crate. He looked around the circular room. A sole work light illuminated a wall marked: THIS AREA NOT PRESSURIZED. He shifted back to the crates locked onto the floor, then began checking I.D. plates. One, two, three ... eight... ten... fourteen...

  Come on! Come on! Where are you?

  He glanced at his watch. 01:53:36.

  The crate he wanted was, of course, last in the first row. But at least it wasn't the last one in the last row. Were that the case, he would have had to examine nearly sixty crates in the subdivision of gear. Nathan opened his journal, found the correct code, plugged it in, then unlocked the rectangular crate, a box approximately three meters wide, three high, and five long. The interior was divided by shelving, the top shelf containing twenty or thirty flight helmets. Nathan went through them, pulling out and trying on several before finding one that fit. Below the helmets were the oversized silver suitcases that contained the flight suits. Above the handle of each case was an I.D. plate that supplied the model number and dimensions. Again, in this department, Nathan could not fudge. The suit had to fit him snugly. He wouldn't even entertain the idea of a pressure leak. Foster had asked why he didn't want to simply bring along his own suit; but wearing it or carrying the suit and helmet, concealed or not, would have brought questions from the warehouse sentries. The idea had been to make it as easy as possible to get on board. He had planned to worry about the problem of the flight suit later.

  Later sucks, Nathan thought.

  Then an idea struck him. Instead of going through row after row of the suitcases, checking I.D. plates, he went directly to the bottom right case, the last one.

  "Son of a bitch."

  The dimensions of the suit within were not just close to Nathan's requirements, they were exact.

  A noise came from the other end of the supply deck: someone was opening a hatch.

  Nathan snatched up the suitcase, tucked his helmet into the crook of his arm, slammed the crate shut, then scrambled toward a ladder. He mounted it, skipping every other rung as he climbed. Emerging into level nine, another supply deck, Nathan shot toward the nearest row of crates and took cover behind it. The crates on this level were much larger than those below, forming rows that rose nearly three meters.

  "This is the third check, sir."

  "If we forgot anything, we're fired."

  "Yeah, it's not like they can come back for it."

  "All right. I've got one thirty-seven."

  "Check's good. We're set."

  The hatch slammed shut.

  Nathan threw the latches on the suitcase, pulled out the flight suit and stepped into it. He removed his watch, dug his fingers into the attached gloves, then buckled the watch over his protected wrist. He zipped up the suit's two inner linings, then the outer. To start the pressurization system's warm-up sequence required him to press a trio of buttons located at his left breast. A soft whirring told him the sequence had been initiated. He grabbed his helmet and headed up the supply deck to the next ladder. Once he reached the top of the ladder, he found the expected pressure hatch. The code to these hatches was known by every colonist, and in a moment he was on the next deck, sealing the hatch behind him. He straightened and stepped into the garden, glancing briefly at the wall marker:

  LEVEL TEN: PRESSURIZED: HYDROPONICS

  Plants, vegetables, and fruit trees, all weaving vine-like through growth racks, encircled the room. Tubes of water led in and out of the holding area. Thin bands of fluorescent grow lights formed concentric circles on the ceiling and ringed the walls. The juxtaposition between every other level and the garden had always struck Nathan. There was something telling about slapping the natural against the synthetic. It made the natural look that much better and the synthetic look that much worse. It was the natural that would buy him a flight to Tellus now. His suit's pressurization unit would run only eight hours before requiring a recharge. The garden was pressurized. However, he would, as always, follow safety precautions and pressurize his suit for liftoff.

  He searched the garden for something he could use to restrain himself for the launch. Coming up empty, he went to the perimeter and dug his gloved hand into the crack where one of the flexible water tubes met the wall. He found another tube to his right and did the same. After rocking himself forward and back several times, he decided that, with a little luck, he would make it through the liftoff. He withdrew his hands, fetched his helmet, put it on and sealed it to his flight suit; then he engaged his pressurization unit, the helmet's comlink, and the 02 knob. Air flowed. He resumed his position on the wall.

  By now he hoped Kylen was boarding the rocket. Her presence would be all Governor Overmeyer needed to know the decision had been made. A horrible thought occurred to him, but he dismissed it. No, she was on board. He was not stowing away only to discover that she had opted to stay on Earth. She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't.

  He rolled his wrist, checked his watch. Fifty-five minutes to go.

  In the time that followed, the various communications from Mission Command were a symphony building toward a final crescendo. And, when there were forty-five minutes left in the cou
ntdown, the words Nathan wanted desperately to hear, the words he had sweated over, now buzzed in his ears.

  "Tellus, you are a GO. Initiate primary launch sequence...."

  "Sequence engaged."

  Then something odd happened. Mission Command went dead. No signals. Nothing. Twice the vehicle's pilot tried in vain to contact the center.

  Nathan waited. And waited. His jumpsuit was soaked, his mouth dry, and his trembling grew.

  A sound. A hatch blowing. He looked at the ladder, then let his gaze sweep up to the ceiling. Xenon beams poured down through the circular hole and into the garden.

  No! They can't know! Foster didn't double-cross me, did he? He fixed the weight. I saw him. And he gave me the codes. No, it wasn't him. Then...

  He was breathing hard enough to take notice of it, and a dark awareness crawled over him. His hand went to a pack mounted at his hip. The pack, labeled OUTFLOW, the one containing three slits for the release of CO2, had betrayed him. Or, rather, he had failed to consider the extra CO2 he would release into the garden. That was it. That was how they got him.

  Tearing his wrists free from the water tubes, he looked left, then right, for a place to hide. Boots hammered on ladder rungs. Lights flashed. He unfastened his helmet, removed it, then unzipped his suit down to his navel. He dug out his journal, flipped through the pages and tore free the entry he had been writing on the complex's roof. He put the free page and the journal back in his pocket.

  A xenon beam hit him square in the eyes.

  Blinded, he tried to move back, but the muzzle of a sentry's stunner jabbed his shoulder blade. His heart felt as if it were dropping to his ankles as he raised his hands.

  They said nothing as they escorted him up the ladder, one in front, one behind, and led him onto the next deck, the colonist compartment.

  He spotted Kylen up ahead among the rows of people to his left. She unsnapped her flight restraints and began to get up.

  "No! Kylen! It has to be you!"

  Nathan sprang past the sentry in front of him, pulling out the page he had torn from his journal.

  Kylen's visor was up, and her eyes brimmed with tears. He embraced her, then pulled back and handed her the paper. "I wrote this for you. Read it when you land."

  Hands came down hard on Nathan's arms, and the sentries began to drag him away.

  "I... I... can't leave..."

  "I'll find you." He wrenched an arm free, an arm that was immediately reseized. "I will find you."

  The sentries jammed him into the tunnel of the hatch that led out to the white room. On the other side, Nathan shot a look back into the hatch and saw Kylen; she was holding her photo I.D. tags. She thumbed the corner on her picture, activating the voice recorder, and said, "I believe in you." Then she threw the tags to him. They landed at his feet. Once again, Nathan broke free from the sentries, scooped up the tags and held them in his fist.

  "No more from you," a sentry said tersely.

  The man shoved him to his knees and slapped magnetic cuffs around Nathan's wrists. Nathan looked to the hatch. Kylen's tears ran freely, and then a tech blocked his view of her and proceeded to seal the vehicle's hatch. The sentries pulled him to his feet.

  "Give me what you got in your hand," one said.

  "Better kill me first. Only way."

  The access arm began to pull away from the launch vehicle. Nathan closed his eyes and tightened every muscle in his body.

  They shoved him in a PRT 2000 escort van, made him remove the flight suit, which was colonial property, then drove him toward the seashore road that paralleled the launch center. The hard-faced security chief, who sat on the passenger's side, spoke with Governor Overmeyer on the hands-free link. Nathan could hear the governor's voice:

  "Let him go. All charges dropped. And Nathan, if you're listening. What you did was stupid. But, yes, I know why. And I might've done the same myself. I'm sorry."

  "Sir. You're going to have to put this on the director's voice mail before launch," the chief said.

  "I'll do that now."

  "Thank you. And good luck."

  The complex blurred by. Nathan felt nothing. They let him out at the gate, and he barely heard the vehicle leave. He dragged himself away, pebbles rolling under his feet. There was no sky, no earth, no love, life, or dreams. Just a road leading nowhere. He passed in front of a sign.

  TELLUS-VESTA

  FRANCIS R. SCOBBE COLONIAL LAUNCH CENTER

  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS

  Suddenly, to his right, far, far in the distance, out over the dark horizon, a brilliant white light rose swiftly, illuminating a trailing plume of smoke. He froze, and after a moment, the sound of the launch reached him, a deep thunder that rumbled across the desert.

  His gaze burned as he tracked the rocket's path, higher, higher, higher... then it disappeared.

  six

  "Why'd you enlist?" she asked, sounding like a convict asking him what he was in for.

  Nathan touched the photo tags hanging from his neck, then shrugged. "Just did."

  The bus lurched. All the young recruits were thrown forward.

  A lean, dark-haired young man seated two up from Nathan shouted, "Jesus, driver, this damned humidity is gonna kill us. We don't need any help from you."

  Nathan gazed out the window, then once more regarded the young woman seated next to him. She had a kind of sandy look to her, hair that had many shades of brown, and brown eyes to match. She appeared about to say something, then pursed her lips.

  Not exactly in the mood to be friendly, but not wanting to put her off, Nathan extended his hand. "My name's Nathan."

  "Hi. Shane Vansen."

  They exchanged a polite grin, shook hands, then she wiped perspiration from her forehead.

  "Hot."

  "Yeah."

  The guy who had shouted to the bus driver took Nathan's and Shane's cue and reached across the aisle to a young African-American woman. "Mike Pagodin."

  Taking his hand, she replied, "Vanessa Damphousse. See, there's a P-H in there you say like an F."

  "Damp-fooz. Damp-fooz. 'Sthat French or somethin'?"

  She lifted her shoulders. "Doesn't matter. My friends call me 'damn fool'."

  Pagodin chuckled over that. "It's gotta tough ring to it. My friends call me 'Pags'—like I'm a dog or somethin'."

  She grinned. "Nice to meet you, Pags."

  "Hey, I know it's only the first day," Pags began, raising his voice for all to hear, "but any guess as to when we get our planes?"

  A few of the recruits murmured their guesses, but no one spoke up with certainty.

  Nathan resumed staling through the window. They were approaching the base, and set into the lawn to the right of the main gates was a steel sign that boldly proclaimed in large, white letters:

  UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS AVIATOR CAVALRY

  LOXLEY, ALABAMA

  The gates opened automatically, and the bus driver saluted the two MPs posted before the sentry gate inside the fenced perimeter.

  From his present angle, Nathan could see what appeared to be a main complex surrounded by several support structures. Off to the far left was a group of long, rectangular buildings that were presumably barracks. To the immediate right was a string of more than twenty small aircraft hangars. Behind them were many more rows of hangars, some so large that Nathan thought they could house a Tellus launch vehicle.

  The driver turned down a road that gave them a clear view of the tarmac before the smaller hangers.

  Abruptly, Shane leaned over Nathan and pointed to something outside. "That's why I joined."

  A group of soldiers marched in formation. Nathan had seen formations around the colonial complex while he was in training, but this group was not like any of those. Even with a quick glance, it was clear to him that they were elite. They sported tight, high-tech flight suits of a design Nathan had never seen before. Black boots and matching berets completed the indomitable look. On their backs were two lines that suggested angel w
ings.

  "Very cool," Nathan found himself saying.

  "That's the 127th Attack Wing," Shane said. "The Angry Angels. The best there is... or ever will be." "They lack one thing," Nathan said.

  Shane looked at him and frowned. "What?"

  He grinned. "Us."

  She returned a grin and nodded, then focused her attention back on the Angels. "Someday that'll be me." Nathan wondered if he or Shane ever would become part of the Angels, then considered whether they'd ever achieve the more immediate and realistic goal of just becoming flyers. Looking at the 127th made it all seem parsecs away. However, some of the men and women did not look that old or that experienced. They only marginally intimidated him.

  But there was one who stood out among the Angels, a man built as sleek and rugged as a Marine Corps Condor or Hammerhead fighter. Nathan guessed him to be in his late thirties. There was a mix to the man, a blend of wisdom, toughness, and mystery. Nathan read somewhere that for centuries, soldiers with battle experience wore a gaze known as the "thousand yard stare." It was a look that this guy seemed to have, but Nathan would never know for sure until he himself had battle experience. It was safe to say that the pilot had been there. Probably had seen a lot of action in the A.I. War. "You looking at him, too?" Shane asked.

  "Yeah," he replied softly. "Looks like he's been around."

  "My parents were Marines."

  "Career officers?"

  She nodded.

  "They retired?"

  "Dead."

  Nathan swallowed. "Sorry."

  The bus's brakes squeaked as it came to a stop. The young Asian man seated across from Nathan and Shane stood up and squinted at the windshield. "They're gonna yell a lot, aren't they? I hope they don't yell as much as I've heard they do."