MISSION VERITAS (Black Saber Novels Book 1)

by John Murphy

  Bears—hibernation.

  “Wake up, wake up, sleeping beauties!” a male voice bellowed from the aisle. “Time to get up and get moving!”

  The source of the voice was a heavyset man in a khaki navy uniform. He had a flattop haircut.

  “You have one hour to get dressed and be ready for arrival. Shave up, get dressed, meet in the mess hall, and be quick about it. We’ll be arriving at the Blue Orchid shortly.”

  A voice called out from another hibernation unit, “Wow! I’ve got some serious space wood.”

  Another voice groaned, “Shake it off, candidate.”

  Still another said, “Just not in my direction!”

  Several male voices chuckled.

  “Stop with your juvenile humor already!” a female voice sniped.

  Killian sat up. His head no longer swam, but he felt woozy. He wore tight-fitting shorts and a T-shirt. To his right was a gray flight suit with his name on the left breast, along with boots, socks, and a hat.

  The sorrow from his dream abated and was replaced by something he hadn’t experienced in a while: hope.

  CHAPTER 11

  “CANDIDATE TYLA MITCHELL requests permission to come on deck,” a delicate yet appropriately formal voice called from the rear of the command bridge.

  Banks and Burdette turned their attention to a young woman standing at attention with a thousand-yard stare. Her strawberry-blonde hair was parted to the right of center. It was trimmed neatly to just above the shoulders of her charcoal-gray flight suit.

  Commander Burdette smiled brightly and waved her forward. “Sure, sure! Come aboard.”

  Her pale face remained perfectly neutral, except for her eyes, which charted a careful course to the center of the command deck.

  “You can come over here and watch what’s going on, if you’d like,” Burdette said. Burdette knew Mitchell was keen on regimentation and adhering to protocols. Lest she would stop at some overly respectful distance, Burdette pointed to a spot on the deck two feet away from his side. Mitchell snapped to attention precisely where Burdette had pointed.

  “At ease, at ease. Relax, candidate. It’s been a long trip.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, hiding her excitement at the view of Veritas through the forward windows.

  “So, Candidate Mitchell,” Burdette asked casually, “have you ever been off-planet before?”

  “No, sir. But I did minor in planetary geological sciences.”

  “Minored? You graduated college already?” He knew her background but always allowed candidates to explain themselves. After two months in hibernation, candidates typically could not recall their induction processes and interviews. Simple questions helped restore their memories and demonstrate their readiness for the mission.

  “Yes, sir. I obtained my undergraduate degree in physics at sixteen and finished my master’s degree in astrophysics before recruit training.”

  “Wow!” Burdette said. “Why didn’t you get a service waiver and go directly to the Sciences Ministry?”

  Mitchell paused to consider her words. “It seems the commander has been talking with this candidate’s parents.”

  Burdette chuckled. He could see Banks was chuckling, too.

  “If I may, sir, scientists don’t get to shoot guns.”

  Banks laughed aloud and cast an approving grin at Mitchell. Smart and witty. She was ready.

  “Is it okay to come in here?” Another soft female voice came from the passageway, but this time it was informal.

  Burdette and Banks turned to look, as did Mitchell—albeit cautiously.

  A striking young woman with dark hair and piercing blue eyes posed in the doorway, one arm on the hatch frame, the other slack to her side. She shifted her weight and hips to the right. Her silky dark hair caressed her teasingly low-zipped flight suit. She was sumptuous, even in military garb.

  “Announce yourself and request permission,” Banks called.

  “Oh yeah.” Her arm came down, and she stood at loose attention. “Candidate Goreman requests permission to come aboard.”

  Banks drank in the vision of her with a large degree of skepticism. Then his eyes flicked toward Burdette.

  “Granted,” Burdette said. “Come aboard, come aboard.” He waved her in with the same casual manner he had shown Mitchell.

  “You can stand here and observe,” he said, indicating a spot next to Mitchell.

  Goreman slinked in, catlike. She casually planted a foot on the spot where Burdette had indicated, but then took another step. She struck a pose that was a hybrid of military and civilian—hands behind her back, and hips shifted to one side. She stared with pleasure at the view of Veritas.

  “Candidate Amelia Goreman, right?” Burdette asked.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Burdette could feel Banks boring his thoughts into him. In the fleet, a chief petty officer normally would have dragged anyone showing such brazen informality out of sight, poked his ironlike finger into her chest, and given her hell. Banks held fast, however. This was the sort of behavior Burdette had asked Banks to ignore.

  Banks moved next to the seated crewman to better observe whatever might unfold. Both crewmen stole numerous furtive glances over their shoulders.

  “So, Candidate Goreman, have you ever been off-planet?”

  “Oh, sure. Daddy took me all over the galaxy. But I wouldn’t exactly call ten-star resorts roughing it.”

  “Ten-star resorts! Wow!” Burdette replied, eyebrows flying up long enough to give Banks the satisfaction of a mutual impression.

  “Wow!” Banks feigned. “That’s a lot of stars.”

  * * *

  Standing before a tiny metal sink and mirror, Killian lathered up his face to carve off two months’ worth of sparse whiskers.

  He caught a familiar glance at his scars coming from the first of the other candidates to come out of the toilet closets. The candidate was African American with a medium-brown complexion and sharp features.

  “Car accident,” Killian explained, anticipating the question.

  Although only his arms showed, there were enough scars on them to incite questions. Most were minor scrapes. However, one particularly long one on his forearm, only a few months old and still bright red, drew inquisitive gazes. Among his band of rebels, everyone had had a multitude of scars, and the sharing and showing of them had bonded the group. Since basic training, he had mastered deflection.

  “Must have been bad,” the other candidate said as he grabbed a wash towel and razor from a stack. He began washing his face and readying to shave his own patchy stubble.

  Twenty candidates had met on Earth, spent several hours together, and been physically and psychologically analyzed for deep space suitability. Only twelve had made it aboard Transport Delaware. Parents were given no details, but were told of an assignment to an intelligence corps at an undisclosed location.

  Hibernation-induced amnesia had left Killian with only glimpses of the induction process. He had memories of faces but not names.

  “Parents died, don’t want to talk about it.” Killian scraped the razor down his cheek.

  “Okay, Crash, got a name?” the other candidate asked. He was taller than Killian, handsome, pleasant, and likeable. He was shirtless and rubbed a soaked towel under his arms.

  “Vaughn Killian. No stupid nicknames, okay?” Although hibernation retarded hair growth, his whiskers still tugged painfully under his razor. He winced as he attacked his neck.

  “Tom Sowell, but you can call me Sowell,” the candidate said, pumping liquid soap from a dispenser and lathering his hands. “Where’d you do basic?”

  “Modesto.”

  “Where are you from? Originally, I mean.”

  Killian had made a practice of keeping his answers short so as not to reveal too much. He used to say he came from Was
hington, DC, which was true when skipping over Bangkok. However, winding up in Modesto from the East Coast often drew more annoying questions.

  “Sacramento,” Killian lied. It was where he spent two weeks in the veterans’ hospital before being inducted.

  “I’m from the north end of Chicago—Lake Forest. You heard of it?”

  “Heard of it.”

  “I went to basic in Fort Jackson, South Carolina.”

  “Good to know,” Killian said.

  “Why is that? You know someone from there?”

  Another male candidate entered the washroom, interrupting them.

  “Hey, guys! Alex Vasquez,” he said. He, too, was shirtless. His broad shoulders and well-developed muscles made the sinks seem much smaller suddenly. Because of his bulk, he couldn’t help but force Sowell an inch or so to the side.

  “You play ball?” Sowell asked.

  “Nah. Just the biggest kid on the block,” Vasquez replied. He stroked his patchy black beard. It accentuated the strong cut of his jawline. He cocked an eyebrow, flexed his bicep, and posed, jutting his chin out. He switched arms, flexed his other bicep, and arched his other eyebrow.

  Sowell stared at his reflection. “You know, this is quite freaky. Like, I know we’ve met during induction, and I remember your faces, but I don’t remember anything about you. But as soon as you say it, it’s like I already knew it.”

  “It’ll all come back in a few hours,” Vasquez said, soaping his hands and face.

  “Ya see? I knew that, too!” Sowell raised his hands in amazement.

  Another candidate came in, grabbed a towel and razor, and wedged himself in front of the fourth sink. “Make room, ladies. Real man coming through.” He rubbed his coppery red hair.

  Sowell pointed at him. “Tucker, right?”

  “No—the very sexy Ian Tucker.” He twisted his miniscule coppery whiskers and jutted his chin out. “A regular redwood forest. Shame to chop it down.”

  “What’s that?” Vasquez asked. “Couldn’t hear you for the lint on your lips.”

  “Excuse me, Miss,” Tucker said, “but you’ve got soap dripping down your cleavage, and it’s turning me on.”

  “Is that what that is, Irish?” Vasquez asked. “I thought someone left a light switch on in your shorts.”

  Tucker squirted lather from his fist on top of Vazquez’s hair. Vasquez tweaked Tucker’s nipple in return.

  “Hey, you can’t do that on a first date!” Tucker said.

  “Technically, it’s our second, so yes I can.”

  “This is amazing!” Sowell said. “You’re exactly like I remember you guys before hibernation. Fuckin’ hilarious! Sledge me, comrades.”

  Vasquez held his left arm up at a 90-degree angle. Sowell matched the pose with his right. The two bumped fists and elbows like two sledgehammers tapping together. The “solidarity sledge” was an informal greeting or acknowledgement of a mutual joke.

  Tucker reached his sledge arm out and bumped Vasquez’s head.

  “Hey! Don’t make me squeeze your little pink titties again,” Vasquez warned.

  Killian rinsed his face, cracking a smile at their antics, and began brushing his teeth.

  “Name’s Sowell,” Tom said to the other two.

  Killian stopped brushing momentarily and, with some difficulty, announced, “Killian.”

  Sowell relayed the information: “Vaughn Killian, car accident, parents died, doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Thanks,” Killian mumbled through toothpaste foam.

  Sowell looked at Tucker. “Hey, you’re pretty big. You play ball?”

  “No,” Tucker answered. “I play a real man’s game—rugby!”

  He held up his arms and flexed his biceps, his left elbow bumping the back of Vasquez’s head.

  “Hey, watch it, ginger,” Vasquez warned.

  Tucker snickered and went back to shaving his coppery bristles.

  “Hey, where are the chicks?” Vasquez asked.

  Killian spit. “They’ve already been through. I think they were woken up earlier than us. I saw only one, and she was dressed and leaving by the time I got here.”

  “Yeah, I saw her, too,” Tucker said. “She’s a ballbuster.”

  “No showers on this tank?” Vasquez asked.

  “Only for regular crew,” Sowell replied. “We’re just cargo.”

  “Man, it’d be great to run into them in the shower,” Tucker said.

  “That’d be hot,” Vasquez replied. “You work out your space wood problem, did ya?”

  “Hey! That wasn’t me. It was that other dude. If I’d have thought of it, I’d claim it.”

  More flushing sounds came from the toilet closets, and two more male candidates stepped out, one tall and lanky, the other shorter and trim. Both had dark hair.

  “Whew! I recommend you don’t go in there! Toxic dump zone!” the lanky one said.

  “That’s the one with the space wood problem,” Tucker said.

  The candidate clutched his crotch and smiled. “Not anymore, gents.”

  Sowell pointed to each candidate at the sinks. “Killian, Vasquez, and Tucker. I’m Sowell. And you are?”

  “Kerrington,” the shorter one said, sounding sleepy and stern.

  “Hey, Space Wood. Got a name?” Sowell asked.

  “Jeff Spalding, but you can call me Gigantor.”

  “I’ll relay that to the girls,” Sowell said.

  “Any of you guys done?” Kerrington asked. With only four sinks, they had to take turns.

  Killian was the first to finish. He wiped his face and stepped back from the sink. Kerrington pushed his way in, leaving Spalding still without a sink.

  “Hey! I was here first,” Spalding said.

  “Gotta move quick, candidate,” Kerrington said. He got a shot of soap and began lathering his face.

  Killian remembered Kerrington now. His impression of the exchange was consistent with before.

  “Better watch out, little man,” Vasquez said. “Gigantor’s got a special solidarity sledge for you!”

  * * *

  A petite East Indian girl sat on a stationary stool at one of six tables in the drab gray mess hall, her tiny frame swallowed by her charcoal-gray flight suit. She stared blankly at translucent bottles of green liquid assembled on the table in neat rows, as if half-asleep.

  Another female candidate strode into the mess hall. She wore the same flight suit but filled it out with an athletic build. Despite black patches on their uniforms boldly displaying their names in yellow, she introduced herself.

  “Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “Brenda Carmen.”

  The East Indian girl’s hand nearly disappeared in Carmen’s firm grip.

  “Solandra Pima. Pleased to meet you—again.” Her voice was as demure as she looked.

  “You play sports?” Carmen asked, giving Pima the benefit of the doubt despite her small size.

  “Running is all,” Pima said. “I’m very fast.”

  “Good! Any team sports?”

  “No, just running. I can climb things, too, very high. But that is not a sport.”

  “Rock climbing is an awesome sport.”

  “Oh, I haven’t ever done that. Mostly trees when I was growing up…to get away from the boys.”

  Carmen’s face froze in a pleasant expression, but she could not hide her assessment of Pima. Were they choosing teams, Pima would most certainly wind up on the bench.

  “I play every kind of team sport you can imagine,” Carmen said, as she wound her long brown hair into a bun, the ends coming out in a spray. Her hands exhibited strength and ability even when performing such a simple task.

  “You are very athletic, then,” Pima said, her presence sinking further into the oversized flight suit.

 
“Yes, and very competitive,” Carmen stated. Sensing that she was intimidating Pima, she changed to a gentler tone. “But I’ve never played any sports with guys before.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I like guys. But their idea of teamwork is bashing each other in the head. With me, it’s about working together. Guys are so barbaric.”

  “Yes. That is my observation, too.” Pima grinned.

  “Excuse me, ladies. I beg to differ!” A male recruit came into the mess hall. “Jeremy Benson, at your service. Can I buy you lovely ladies a drink?”

  He grabbed a bottle of green liquid and held it out to Carmen.

  “No, thank you,” Carmen said with a raised eyebrow and half smirk.

  “I think they are free,” Pima said.

  “We haven’t been given instructions as to whether we’re supposed to take those or not,” Carmen cautioned.

  “Doubtless they’re for us.” Benson grinned as he cracked the seal on the bottle and drank. Bubbles oozed up slowly through the viscous liquid.

  “Aren’t you supposed to shave?” Pima asked.

  Benson brushed spindly fingers across his lightly fuzzed face. “So nice of you to notice. I didn’t think it was humane to sheer this lovely coat. Besides, I made it through ten weeks of basic without shaving. Why start now? You can touch it if you like.”

  “No, thank you,” Pima said, recoiling slightly.

  “This is different. We’re going to be constantly evaluated,” Carmen said, suggesting he’d be benched, too.

  “Ladies? Why so serious? Just a little friendly chitchat. Can’t I get a little smileage from anyone?” He shifted closer to Carmen. “What’s your sign?”

  Carmen scoffed, rolling her eyes.

  Sowell entered. “Good morning, everyone. Thomas Sowell, but you can call me Sowell. And you are?” He took a second look. “Oh, it’s on our uniforms.” He pointed at each one. “Pima, Carmen, and Benson. Very well, then.”

  The three waved slightly in return.

  Sowell grabbed one of the bottles, cracked it open, and drank. Carmen followed suit. She couldn’t be faulted if everyone else was drinking.

  Pima sat still a moment, then took a bottle. She grimaced as she struggled to twist open the top.