by Paul Barrett
“Thank you, Captain.” Thomas stood, hesitated, and then said, “Is everything going to be all right?”
Hawk couldn’t outright lie. “I don’t know. We’ll do everything we can.”
A worried frown creased Thomas’s face. He nodded, turned, and headed for the door.
“Thomas,” Hawk called.
Thomas stopped at the door and turned back.
“I want to be clear, so you know what you’re getting in to.” Hawk leaned forward in his chair. “We’re bringing them all back, or none of us are returning. Our job is to save that family or die trying. And that includes you. You’ve been dealt a tough hand on your first assignment, and I intend to have a vigorous discussion with Stearns when we return. Until then, you are a part of this team. I want you to act like it.”
Hawk pointed to the door. “Now go and learn the action plan. Anything you have questions or concerns about, bring to Gerard’s attention. I want your input. Dismissed.”
When the door closed, Hawk leaned back, rubbed at his mustache, and said, “Okay, Ship, let’s hear his record.”
“Wilcox, Thomas H. Employed PC 26. Performed exemplary work as a clerk. Applied four times for agent training and was denied due to personality mistyping.”
Hawk nodded. That fit. It was not uncommon for people to apply several times before being accepted. Most couldn’t pass the rigorous physical fitness test the first time. Those who did and thought they were past the tough part found themselves running headfirst into the intense psychological testing. If running the obstacle course didn’t get them, dodging the mental traps set by Force 13’s head doctors often did.
“However,” Ship continued, “he was accepted the fifth time.”
“I wonder why.”
“Maybe they admired his tenacity,” Ship offered. “In any case, it appears to have been a mistake, since he has been at the bottom of his class in practically everything. During their last PT, the class had to carry him the last eight hundred meters.”
“Was he hurt?”
“No, just tired.”
It was worse than Hawk suspected. Someone at Force 13 wanted Thomas out of the way. Hawk needed a decoy courier, so Stearns had found an easily expendable asset: Thomas, a candidate they expected to drill out anyway. If Thomas managed to survive, his comrades would hold him in respect and every effort would be made to help him through training. Problem solved.
If he didn’t, the problem was still solved. He would be out of the way, and his parents would get a small pension and a sorrowful letter about his heroic effort for the cause.
Whatever the hell that was. Hawk poured another measure of Scotch. Rubbing his face in his hands, he said, “Damn, I hate this job sometimes.”
“What are you going to do?” Ship asked.
“What can I do? The mission’s too important to put one of the crew in as the courier. But if I put this guy out there, he’s meat within ten seconds after the shooting starts.” He sighed. “I guess all I can do is slap some Chem Armor on him, hand him a pistol, and hope for the best.”
“You can also warn him what to expect.”
Hawk didn’t say anything for a moment. “Yeah, but I doubt it will do any good.”
Sitting in the galley, Ashron caught Thomas shuffling past the doorway with his head low and deep in thought.
That looks like it went well, Ashron thought. “Thomas.”
After a few seconds, Thomas poked his head around the corner. “Yes?”
“Care to join me for a Scaly Mudball?” Ashron held up a frothing red concoction.
“Uh, I don’t drink.”
“Don’t fret. It’s non-alcoholic.”
“However, it is toxic,” Laura cut in, walking into the room from the other hallway. Ashron glanced at her and cut his eyes at Thomas, hoping she caught his attempt to cheer up their downtrodden guest. She apparently gleaned his intent. “Come on in anyway, and I’ll fix you something good.”
“Well…”
“I insist,” Laura walked over and took him by the arm.
“Okay,” he said, still dejected.
“I can sense right away that you’ve recently come from one of our captain’s little pep talks,” Ashron said as Laura sat Thomas down at the table and then walked over to the drink processor. “Let me guess. We’re all going to die.”
“Well, he didn’t say that, really.”
“He doesn’t have to. He radiates doom. We’re going to be chopped up into little pieces and fed to the Anaril.”
“The what?” Laura asked, returning to the table carrying two drinks.
“Small flesh-eating fish. All teeth. Very nasty,” Ashron took a pull from his drink, tilted his head back and let out a long belch. “That’s a good mudball.” His forked tongue flicked against his nose, catching errant patches of foaming liquid.
“Pig,” Laura said as she handed a glass of bright green fluid to Thomas. “Here, this will make you feel better.” She sat beside Ashron. “So, why the gloomy face?”
“I don’t think Captain Grey is thrilled with having me on this mission.”
“That’s just the way he is,” Ashron said. “Don’t let it bother you.”
“He didn’t seem real excited about my lack of experience.”
“Do you blame him?” Laura asked softly.
Thomas bowed his head. “No.”
“Now you know where he’s coming from,” she continued. “If you were the captain and had the responsibility of this mission over you, you’d feel the same way. Would you blame the recruit?”
He looked up. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Hawk doesn’t either; he just has too much on his mind to explain it tactfully.”
“What’s his excuse the other times?” Ashron asked into his drink.
Laura shot him a sideways glance as Thomas chuckled.
“So you can laugh,” Laura said. “Put yourself in Hawk’s shoes. It’s nothing personal. He has a ship to run and a mission to worry about. A mission that involves very close friends. The last thing you need to worry about is what our captain thinks of the new addition to the crew.”
“I guess.”
Ashron downed the last of his drink. “Come on; let me take your mind off it.” He stood and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Laura asked.
“I’m going to give Thomas a crash course in weapons handling and firearms skill.”
Thomas stopped half in and half out of his chair, “You are? Where?”
“We have a top-notch FATS deck. Boosted by Ship. Most excellent training and guaranteed to make you feel better.”
Thomas finished standing and gave Laura a quizzical stare.
“It’s a firearms training simulator,” she told him. “It’s very realistic and a whole lot of fun. You’ll see.”
Thomas shrugged and followed Ashron out the door.
Trey stopped outside Gerard’s door and hesitated before knocking. Even though he liked the pale engineer as much as he liked any of the crew, the small man also intimidated him the most, even more than the massive Wolf. Gerard could call what he did a type of science, but it looked to Trey like magic. He had seen firsthand the devastating effects of such “science” gone rampant.
That was in a past life; a life these people had rescued him from, that he now wanted desperately to leave behind. Just like he wanted to escape the dreams ripsleep brought to him. He knocked.
“Come in.”
The door slid open, and Trey stepped inside. Gerard sat at a small workbench, surrounded by an assortment of computer parts, machinery, and tools. The tangy smell of well-used metal filled the room. Every space except the bed seemed taken up by some strange device. Gerard’s shiny black, oblong guard robot, which he called ROMANCE, sat on the bed.
Although Trey almost giggled at the thought of a sleeping robot, he found the room’s chaos appalling.
“How can you live in here?” Trey asked.
“I don’t usually,”
Gerard said, setting down the sheet of electronic paper he had been reading. “I come here to sleep and that’s about it, and I have to do that only four hours at a time. It’s also seldom this cluttered, but I’m working on a side project and didn’t want to take up space in the workshop. Pick your way over to the bed and have a seat.”
Trey took careful steps, doing his best to avoid treading on anything other than floor. Memories of another boy picking his way through a forest of debris tried to intrude. Trey pushed them away. That boy had died on Kel.
He reached the bed and sat down. ROMANCE gave him a friendly beep; Trey petted the robot’s rounded metallic side.
“You want to talk?” Gerard asked.
Trey tugged at the front of his shirt. “You said you could help make the dreams go away. You have to help me. I really can’t do another jump if I have to see them again.”
Gerard frowned. “Did the multiplication tables not help?”
“Sort of.” He shrugged. “Not really.”
The frown deepened. “What do you mean?”
Trey clenched his hands between his knees. How could he possibly tell Gerard just how bad the dreams were? Giant worms with jaws full of flashing teeth. Red creatures with wings and horns dripping green venom, and so much worse. All of them circling Ship, seeking a way to destroy and get at the precious meat within. The monsters wanted to tear the ship apart and devour them all. Thinking about them made him want to scream. “It’s like watching a trideo,” Trey began. “The multiplication tables make it fade, but it doesn’t go away completely.”
Gerard nodded. “That’s because my explanation was inferior. We were under stress.”
“Hawk was a jerk,” Trey muttered.
“No insubordination,” Gerard said, his sternness betrayed by a smile. “Hawk is the captain and sometimes has to make calls that aren’t agreeable. He does it in the best interests of the mission. I can perhaps offer a better explanation now. I said multiplication tables because I’m aware you know those. The trick is to occupy your mind with whatever repetitive thought works for you. Multiplication tables, a short poem. Algebraic equations. The point is to keep your thoughts occupied. It needs to be short and repeatable, but complicated enough to force you to concentrate.”
“Why?”
“Putting your mind in a rhythmic pattern allows it no time to formulate its own thoughts. No thoughts, no dreams. No dreams, no fear. It may take some testing to find what works for you. At the least, you will make the dreams fade. And that’s better than having them full force, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t better. Trey didn’t want to have them at all. He couldn’t tell Gerard that. “It really works?”
“It will. It has ever since Berolians discovered ripspace.”
Trey stared in surprise. “Berolians discovered ripspace?”
“I see someone has been remiss in doing their studies of Galactic history,” Gerard said, frowning. “I’ll have Ship set up a school course to rectify that. When we go into rip next time, find a pattern that works for you and you’ll be fine. Okay?”
Trey nodded, unsatisfied but knowing he wasn’t going to get much else. “I’ll try. Thank you.”
Trey picked his way back to the door. As it opened, he turned and asked one other question that had been bothering him. “Why am I the only one on Ship who has these dreams?”
Gerard hesitated as if he was about to say one thing and then changed his mind. “It sometimes happens to children your age, those on the cusp of puberty. It occurred to me when I was eleven, so be assured that I know what you’re experiencing. Does that help?
Trey nodded. It helped, but why did Gerard hesitate? “Thanks,” he said again and walked away. He headed for his cabin, where he could make use of Ship’s library. He had the feeling there was more to these dreams than Gerard was telling him.
Gerard let out a sigh as the door closed. He had come close to offering Trey the truth before he decided the boy didn’t need that burden right now. Trey had done remarkably well since they rescued him from Kel, but his turbulent emotions shone to Gerard, even though Trey tried to hide them. A terrified little boy still formed a large part of Trey. Until he could speak openly about what happened on his homeworld, he would not completely heal. Gerard refused to compound Trey’s fear by telling him his dreams weren’t dreams at all. They were visions. Scattered glimpses into the true nature of ripspace.
“You want me to lock down any searches on ripspace?” Ship asked. “In case he goes looking?”
“No,” Gerard said, much as he might like to do that. “Hiding information would show a lack of trust, and that could hurt him as much as what he might learn. If he has the initiative to search, he deserves the truth. I’ll deal with the consequences when that happens.”
“Have you ever used one of these?” Ashron asked, holding a pistol up and showing it to Thomas. They were in the large room that did double duty as a weapons training center and racquetball court.
“No.” Thomas still sounded miserable. “We hadn’t gotten that far in my training.”
Ashron flicked his tongue to keep from saying something disparaging. “Okay, let me show you. This is a Colt-Maqasauri LX Series Blaster Pistol. Very easy to operate. You pull the trigger, a charge fires, the capacitor is kicked out, and the next one locks into place. All you have to worry about is pointing at the target and hitting him, her, or it. The clip holds charges for twenty shots, and this model is an autoloader with two spare clips, so you effectively have sixty shots before you have to worry about replacing the mags. This is how you do that.” Ashron pointed to a small button near the top of the weapon. “Push that button, and all three clips fall out. Don’t worry about picking them up; they’re cheap. Besides, you’ll be too busy to care.” Ashron demonstrated, letting the clips drop to the floor, where they bounced with a plastic clatter.
“Once those are out, simply grab your spares and push them in here.” He showed Thomas the empty bottom. “They lock in, and the gun does the rest.” He picked the clips up, shoved them back into the pistol, and handed it to Thomas. “Okay, let’s see what you can do.”
Thomas turned and fired. The man ducked behind the window. The supercharged plasma bolt passed harmlessly by. Thomas dropped into the stance Ashron had taught him. He aimed and waited for the man to poke his head back up.
“Pause,” Ashron said. The scene stopped.
Thomas turned and looked at him, concerned.
“You’re doing great,” Ashron said to allay his fears. “I want you to remember two things. Cover and concealment. You currently have neither, and he has one.”
To make his point, Ashron drew his weapon. “Play.”
He fired through the wall where the man had ducked. They heard a scream and thump from the other side of the window. “Pause.” He turned to Thomas.
“These blast charges travel through most interior walls,” Ashron said. “That’s concealment.”
Pointing across the street to a man hiding behind the corner of a building, he said, “That’s cover. You can’t shoot him through the building. Play.” Ashron fired a few blasts in that direction, chipping masonry off the wall and making the man duck back. “Pause. You make him keep his head down, and you move. Moving targets are hard to hit, and cover is hard to shoot through.” Ashron stepped back and re-holstered his weapon.
Thomas gritted his teeth and nodded. When he had watched Ashron go through the scenario it had seemed straightforward; he was discovering looks were deceiving.
“Play,” Ashron said.
The man behind the building popped out and started shooting. Thomas ducked and fired. The man ran from behind the building to a vehicle. Thomas also moved, running behind a luminary pole and dropping to one knee. The man stood and fired some more. Shots rang out around the pole.
“Damn,” Thomas crouched lower and fired. The man ducked back down behind the car. Thomas shot low through the side of the vehicle. He heard a yell.
“All subjects de
ad,” Ship said over the com.
“Good!” Ashron beamed. “You learn quickly.” He walked over and swatted Thomas soundly on the back, almost knocking him to his knees. “Let’s grab some lunch. We’ll come back and work on this some more.”
“Great,” Thomas said, “and thank you.”
As they left the room, Ashron began going into greater depth concerning the differences between cover and concealment.
“Not bad,” Hawk said to Wolf. They watched Thomas and Ashron on a monitor from the bridge.
“Do you feel better now?” Wolf asked.
“Some. If he can be trained, Ashron can train him.”
Wolf gave a slight, deep-throated chuckle. “Ashron could teach my grandmother to shoot well, and she’s blind in one eye. Thomas will do fine.”
Hawk watched the monitor as the human and Lorothian left the room. “I hope so. We don't have the manpower to watch him. He’ll be on his own out there.”
“Yeah,” Wolf said. “Won’t we all?”
10
Preparations
Ashron flew fast and low, the Little Star’s magnetic engine a bare whisper in the craft. They had blacked the shuttle for maximum stealth. Passersby might hear a slight whoosh sound and feel a breeze, but by the time they looked for the source, the craft would be around the next turn.
Ashron glanced at the monitor displaying the crew hold. Laura stood at the ready, dressed in a tight black unitard covered in static pockets that held her equipment. A sniper rifle stuck diagonally to her back, held by electromagnetic tape. She wore her work face: grim, determined, and covered in dark patterned camouflage.
She fidgeted, fingers flexing as she waited for Ashron to reach the landing zone. Two days of training and planning could not erase the crew’s anxiousness about the Maratais. They were all keyed up and ready for action.
