by John Ringo
"You should have seen it from my perspective, Chief Warrant," the CO said bitterly. "There we were, dead in space. All of a sudden, the flies stopped firing. Great. Then they grab onto the ship and start towing it back to the planet. Ever seen a wasp pick up a spider it's taking home to feed to its young?"
"Hmmm . . ." Bill said. "Lady Che-chee?"
"Commander Beeel?"
"Is there a way you could get one of those guys to fly over to your estate? While the ship's being worked on I think we need to take a look at it."
"Ahem," the CO said. "Might I point out to you, XO, that the duty of getting this ship functional is yours?"
"Understood, sir," Bill replied, straightening up. "There are others that can take a look at it. Permission to have a brief discussion with First Sergeant Powell and Chief Miller before I get into reconstructing a half-destroyed ship sufficiently to make it spaceworthy back to earth?"
"Permission granted," the CO said. "But make it short."
"It actually does look like a dragonfly, doesn't it?" First Sergeant Powell said, walking around the grounded . . . thing.
The "dragonfly" was about twelve meters long from what looked like a feeding tube to the end of its abdomen. However, it had no segmentation and no antennae, its legs were extremely stubby and instead of having a head, thorax and abdomen it had three sections not nearly as well delineated. The junctures were thick, unlike an insect. The two sets of wings were also separated by a short, indented, section where the thorax would be.
"More like a solfugid that's evolved to fly," Dr. Robertson said, circling in the other direction. "But the similarity is interesting."
Three of the beasts had been directed to Lady Che-Chee's estate and now rested on the front lawn. In deference to the Mother, who had done the directing, the group had waited until she returned to begin their examination. But she had just arrived and now stepped off her gravboard.
"Solfugid?" Berg asked.
"About the only kind you might know about is a camel spider," Dr. Robertson replied. "But they're found in various places."
Lady Che-chee looked at it and flipped her hands a few times, chittering something.
"She thinks it's pretty but she's not sure of its use," Miriam said. "Neither am I."
"Well, for them, ground support," Powell replied. "Fire those lasers down on enemy troops and you're going to win about any battle."
When that was translated Cha-chai spat out a sentence and wrinkled his nose, at which point his mother apparently dressed him down with a few pungent squeals.
"Cha-chai thinks that's an unsporting way to fight," Miriam said unhappily. "Lady Che-chee pointed out that all war is unsporting or it's not war. But she's still unhappy about the idea."
"The system was created to defend your planet," First Sergeant Powell said, nodding. "Apparently by long gone Cheerick. Using it against other Cheerick would be . . . unethical. However, there's another reason we're finding out what we can do with it." He walked over to the thorax area and laid his hand on the indented part.
"I was looking at that," Dr. Robertson said. "That looks very much like . . ."
"A saddle," Powell replied. "I think this probably won't work, but . . . Berg."
"Top?"
"Up on the saddle, Two-Gun."
"Thought you were about to volunteer me," Berg said, but he strode over and hopped up on the dragonfly. "Gee-yap," he said, kicking his feet. "Nada, Top."
"Think up or fly or something, like a board."
Berg got a look of concentration on his face, then shook his head.
"Nada."
"Okay, Miss Moon, could you ask Lady Che-chee if she would be willing to volunteer her son for the same exercise?"
"Okay," Miriam said, then started talking. It took a bit to get across but finally Cha-chai walked over and climbed on the seat. Almost immediately, the dragonfly took off.
"How high did you tell him to go?" Powell asked as the dragonfly climbed upwards.
"I just asked if he could try to fly it," Miriam said desperately. She chittered at Lady Che-chee for a moment, then shrugged. "Lady Che-chee says that when you go high on the boards, it is noticeable that you get thinner air. He should stop then . . ."
"Let's hope," Powell said, picking up the mike of the long-range radio. "Blade, Blade, Marine Seven."
"Go, Marine Seven."
"Do we have any radars left?"
"Hold one." There was a pause. "Tactical is maintaining a watch using the weather set. They've blaged it up for tactical but it's not great. They said a bogey just went up from your location."
"Roger. Can we get a read on its altitude, please?"
"Stand by."
"Marine Seven, Tactical. Bogey is at angels thirty and ascending. What is the situation, over?"
"Shit," Powell muttered, then keyed the mike. "Tac, be aware that a local is riding the bogey. Apparently it is now an out of control fly since he's got to be out of air."
"Roger, will advise. Bogey is maintaining rate of climb and attitude. Passing angels forty. Velocity is Mach One Dot Three and increasing. Passing Fifty. Passing Sixty. Marine Seven, be advised this looks a lot like an extra-atmospheric mission, over."
"Roger."
"Passing ninety. Bogey One is now officially extra-atmospheric at Angels One Zero Five. Speed decreasing. Leveling off at Angels One One Six or close. This is the wrong radar for this, Marine Seven, but that looks to be it. Bogey sure appears to be under positive control. Bogey is beginning reentry. Looks to be headed to your location."
"Thank you, Tac," Powell said. "If there's any major change, let me know."
"Glad to help. You said somebody was riding this thing?"
"Roger."
"Then they just took a ride into space."
Cha-chai was hooting fit to die as he landed the dragonfly and hopped off. He ran around squeaking for quite some time before his mother could get him calmed down.
"What's he saying?" Powell asked.
"Most of it's incoherent," Miriam replied, smiling. "The one part I'm getting is 'The World Is Round!' "
* * *
"We're sure about this?" the CO asked.
"The dragonflies are controllable by a pilot, much like the boards," Bill replied tiredly. He'd been working nonstop trying to get the ship spaceworthy. Having this on his plate as well was a bit much. But he knew it was, arguably, as important. "They maintain not only a defensive screen but one that traps a bubble of air. And, somehow, they process it as well. At least as long as they'll fly. Lady Che-chee sent one out as far as she could. It eventually died. We're not sure how far out that was since we couldn't track it. But they do eventually give up. But the good news is, this trip, all the casualties, they just got worth it."
"You've lost me," Spectre said. "I like the Cheerick and all, but I'm still dreading the board of inquiry on this one."
"Don't, sir," Bill said. "I'm surprised that you, of all people on this boat, can't see the implications, sir. A vehicle with an onboard weapons system controllable by a pilot that has extra-atmospheric capability and a range of at least two super-Jovian diameters, probably farther. Think about it, sir!"
"Can you say 'space fighter?' " the CO said, finally grinning. "Holy maulk, Astro!"
"Exactly, sir," Bill replied. "My first thought was about the future. A space navy with dragonflies for fighters flying off of carriers. But they're even useful for us. Think about a group of flies, if we can figure out how to 'feed' them, attached to the Blade. We can use them to recon planets, sure. But even more important, if we get into a fight we can use their shields. Just have them fly between us and fire."
Spectre suddenly snorted and shook his head.
"Oh, I'm in agreement, Commander Weaver," the CO said, still shaking his head. "But have you thought about the picture?"
"Excuse me, sir?" Bill said, a bit befuddled.
"Giant, laser-beam-shooting-out-of-their-eyes dragonflies flown by space hamsters," the CO pointed out. "Ca
n you imagine the manual on that one?"
"Chinchillas, sir," Bill said with a sigh. He could, indeed, imagine the manuals, and the meetings and the reports and the meetings, and oh, my, GOD the meetings on that one. "Space chinchillas."
"Well, I'm sure the chief of boat's seen something weirder," the CO said with a grin. "But not much."
EPILOGUE
Heart of a Dragon
"Sergeant Bergstresser, by order of the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces of the United States, I hereby award you the Navy Cross for valor above and beyond the call of duty during classified missions of the highest importance . . ."
Berg kept his eyes on the flag as the secretary of the Navy pinned the cross to the front of his dress blues. A cold front had swept through the Norfolk area, bringing slashing rains followed by cold, clear skies and winds that rippled the stars and stripes like a whip. The secretary had already read off a list of posthumous awards that had taken nearly an hour, one by one handing them out to grieving women who, for now, could not be told how their sons, brothers, spouses had died. All Berg could do was flex his jaw as the list went on and on.
Less than a mile away in a covered dry dock a shattered submarine was being crawled over by technicians. The Blade was damaged but not done. Already the planning was in the works for the next mission. To go where no sub had gone before, into wonders and terrors untold.
Finally, the interminable ceremony was over. The group broke up and Berg wandered towards where he'd parked his Jeep.
"Hey, Two-Gun," Gants said. "Where to?"
"Leave," Berg said. "Headed home. How's Red?"
"They're fitting a prosthetic today," Gants said, dropping in to step beside the much taller Marine. "He's talking about trying to get back on duty."
"Hell, with as much damage as the sub took, he could be ready for duty before we go back out," Berg said.
"You're going?" Gants asked, sucking his teeth.
Berg stopped and looked up at the sky. It was midday so not a star could be seen, not even the "evening star" of Venus. He hadn't even thought about his response. He had been asked to "volunteer" again and had given an equivocating reply. But looking up at the cold blue skies of Virginia, he had no question in his mind.
"I'm a Marine," Berg answered. "I go wherever the Corps sends me."
"Hey, Two-Gun!" Miriam said, walking up and putting her arm through his.
"Hello, Miss Moon," Berg said, looking down at the slight linguist. She'd changed again, back to the whimsical creature they'd all come to know and love. "How are you doing?"
"Cold," Miriam said, despite being bundled up in a heavy jacket. "Where you going?"
"On leave," Berg repeated. "Home, I guess."
"Right now?" Miriam asked.
"Doesn't have to be," Berg said.
"Shiny. You. Me. Dance club. Now."
"Works," Berg said, grinning. "See ya, Sub Dude."
"Take care," Gants said, walking over to a busty redhead and a couple of kids. "See ya when I see ya."
"Where is home, by the way?" Miriam asked as they walked off.
"West Virginia. Hey, you were talking about a country and western club, right?"
"Do I look like I was talking about a country and western club . . . ?"
Too Hot. Always too Hot now. But surely, someday, it would be Cold again. And then it could Be.
"Okay," Bill said. "Good news."
He hung up the secure phone and looked over at Miller.
"The shipwrights are done with their survey," he said as the SEAL, very much against regulations, sipped a beer. "Six months to repair all the damage. On the other hand, we're going to get various upgrades."
"Glad to hear that," Miller said, setting his beer down. "What about you?"
"What about me?" Weaver asked.
"You going?"
"Oh, hell, yeah," Weaver said. "They're not sure if I'll keep the XO slot or not. But, yeah. You?"
"You ever think about fate?" Miller asked rhetorically. "Mimi told me that Tuffy couldn't explain exactly why I had to be along. Was it my pointing out that there was an anomaly in the room? Was it the couple of times I kept Miriam alive? She figured it out when nobody else did. What? That mission? The next? Mimi won't say. So do I have to go on, theoretically, saving the universe every time?"
"Do I?" Bill said. "Every day we wake up and we get faced with all these choices. Sometimes they're clearly big, yeah. But there are always choices. And every day we have to figure out which one is going to save our personal universe. So which one you gonna choose, Big Boy?"
"Face it," Miller said. "You just want to find out what we run into next."
"Well, that too," Bill said, chuckling. "It's a big old universe and we've hardly scratched the surface. Don't you?"
"Oh, hell yeah," Miller admitted. "Wouldn't miss it for the w . . . universe. But this time, I'm taking some more flowers. And a bigger grapping gun . . ."
Proud and so glorious
Stand here the four of us.
Our souls will shine bright in the sky.
When united we come
to the realm of the sun
With the heart of a dragon we ride!
"Heart of a Dragon"
DragonForce
Afterword
On Writing Science Fiction
I rarely, these days, look at reviews on Amazon. As a fellow author puts it, "they are the slush (the unsolicited and mostly unreadable manuscripts) of reviews." There are rare, very rare, nuggets of brilliance in them and the "Top Reviewers" are generally very good. The rest, however . . . Sigh. One must shovel a great deal of muck to find a diamond. I have no patience for reading slush and less for Amazon reviews.
I did, nonetheless, read some of the reviews of Into the Looking Glass, the prequel to this novel. And I, as usual, had to shake my head. Especially at one reviewer (now made semi-famous and immortal) who thought it was a good book but "there was too much science in it."
Two words: Science Fiction.
Looking Glass was a very strange book that came from nowhere. It had no precedents in my thought processes. But as I wrote it I became very happy. Because strange as that novel was, it had some serious science in it. I am not a scientist but I grew up with science fiction. Indeed, much of what I know about physics and astronomy comes not from classes (of which I've had few of the former and none of the latter) but from reading the "greats" of science fiction.
When pressed by my publisher to create a series from Looking Glass (which I'd intended to be a stand-alone), I realized that I had a golden opportunity to write some serious SF. Not aliens creating a pretext for a world war. Not a science fictionalized "boat book" (a term of art about a young man exploring a world new to him). A real, old-fashioned, can-you-handle-your-astronomy-straight-up? science fiction series. Nobody but nobody has said it better than Gene Rodenberry. "To boldly go where no man has gone before." And, along the way, impart a modicum of science to the uninitiated. (While avoiding as much balonium and make-maulk-uppium as possible.)
I knew that much of that was beyond me. I am neither an astronomer nor a physicist (as noted). I'm a former grunt with some background in biology and geology who likes SF. To do it, I needed a scientist, specifically an astronomer and physicist, to do the "fiddly bits."
Thus I enlisted Doctor Travis Taylor, Ph.D. For those who find "Dr. William Weaver" unlikely, a snippet from Dr. Taylor's bio:
Travis Shane Taylor is a born and bred southerner and resides just outside Huntsville, Alabama. He has a Doctorate in Optical Science and Engineering, a Master's degree in Physics, a Master's degree in Aerospace Engineering, all from the University of Alabama in Huntsville; a Master's degree in Astronomy from the Univ. of Western Sydney, and a Bachelor's degree in Electrical Engineering from Auburn University. He is a licensed Professional Engineer in the state of Alabama.
Dr. Taylor has worked on various programs for the Department of Defense and NASA for the past sixteen years. He has been a guitarist
with several hard rock bands, the 2000 Alabama State Champion in Karate, is a nationally recognized mountain biker, SCUBA diver, private pilot and is worshipped and adored by legions of female fans since he looks like a cross between Tom Cruise and a young Richard Dean Anderson.
(Okay, I added that last bit. )
So much for "Yeah, like there's really a redneck physicist who mountain bikes for fun . . ."
