by C. Gockel
He stared off. Tears came to his eyes. He wasn’t sobbing, but it was a bitter cry. He had to face death head-on, like every other challenge. His focus narrowed. His floating tears, like slow-motion raindrops, collided against his helmet and blurred his view. He tried to wipe them off with his hands and felt foolish for the ineffectual reflex.
What did it matter now anyway? he thought. It was a curious quirk of human nature that even the most loathsome, unhappy person still took rational steps to improve his condition.
He looked at his wrist console and toggled the function to self-cleaning. He selected the helmet icon from the miniature spacesuit appearing on the screen.
There was a whoosh of air. It startled him. He knew better, but his first thought was that there was a breach in his suit. Of course, it was the first step in the cleanup process, i.e. suck out the vomit and other fluids.
Things could be worse, he thought. I could be about to die in a pool of my own barf. He chuckled at the ridiculous thought and wished he had someone there to laugh with.
After the helmet-vac quit sucking, a clear beam of light appeared at the top of his helmet. The focused stream of energy squeegeed his tears from the glass. Alvarez thought it was ironic that he was sheltered by such incredible technology, perhaps the most iconic symbol of man’s ingenuity, but was utterly helpless.
His helmet clear, he looked past the debris from the explosion. The cloudlike emerging patterns seemed almost natural. He saw the faces of his family and friends, especially Adam. He thought about their fishing trip, playing in the waves with Nadia. They were the last happy moments of his life.
An alarm sounded, and a red light flashed across his helmet. He checked his wrist console. It was a low-oxygen warning. The tank was ninety percent empty. He dismissed the alarm.
As he relaxed his eyes, the stars grew dim and the blackness behind them filled his view. A speck of light persisted. Instinctively, his eyes focused on the source. It was a white glimmer, not bright enough to be a star. It was the probe.
His exhausted mind flooded with conflicting emotions—a gasp of hope battled the shame he felt from giving up too soon.
Alvarez toggled to his propulsion stats. It said his jets were depleted, but he knew there was always a little bit left.
“I’ve got nothing to lose,” he said.
He switched on manual propulsion controls, grabbed the navigation handgrips, and aligned himself with the probe. He tapped his jets carefully. If he went too fast—even if it was a bullseye—he could smack the probe so hard that he would spin off, out of control. It was a long shot. He would probably run out of fuel before he got there or miss it entirely.
He passed the asteroid and made small adjustments to avoid debris. Then another warning bell sounded in his headset.
“That’s the last of it,” he said. “I’m out.”
He drifted toward the probe. As it grew large enough to make out details, Alvarez realized he was off course. He was going to sail right past it.
No amount of wiggling or thrusting his body changed his trajectory. There was nothing to push against.
Brennen would love to see this, he thought. Failing so close to the finish line. What would he say?
He blurted out the words, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
That was it! His only chance.
He pulled the shotgun from around his shoulder and wrapped its sling around one arm. He aimed the barrel above his head and fired. The explosion acted like a small burst from his jets, realigning him downward.
His plan was to grab onto the transmitter antenna. He hoped, if he could grab it at all, that it was strong enough to withstand the impact.
He was undershooting the antenna, and he was coming in too fast. He aimed below the probe and fired. This both slowed his approach and raised his trajectory. He shot above and then again below the probe desperately trying to slow down.
He was out of time. He let go of the Mossberg. It felt like a fatal error. He removed his bandolier and double-wrapped it around his wrist, creating a large loop extending from his right arm.
“This has to work,” he said. He just hoped it wouldn’t break his arm.
As he neared the antenna, he aimed for one of its small arms that extended perpendicular to it. It came toward him like a tree branch on a canoe ride.
It was just out of reach of his hand. He looped the bandolier over the antenna, threading the needle. He caught it.
Whatever joy he should have felt was overshadowed by pain; his shoulder felt dislocated. The blow would have been worse if the probe didn’t move too. Being of higher mass, it moved less than he did, but nevertheless began to spin.
Wincing, Alvarez pulled himself up the length of the bandolier. He grabbed the antenna with his left hand and pulled himself to it. He hugged the antenna, all four limbs wrapping around it. He couldn’t believe it had worked. He made it. He closed his eyes and just breathed. He heard his heart beating and felt his pulse in his hands. He needed to calm himself.
After a moment, he opened his eyes. There, spinning in space alongside him, were the tanks of air left by Brennen. They were tethered to the outside of the probe. They were enough, he figured—at least two weeks of water and air. It would be a miserable experience; his helmet-vac would have to suck out more than just tears. But he could do it. He could wait until Novos sent another rescue party.
And they would have to send one, he thought. If not for the crew, then for the Constance. They’ve got more certs tied up in that than…
He looked at the probe. Unlike most spacecraft, it was pure white. It had aesthetic appeal absent from most other ships. Alvarez had heard some higher-ups at Novos discuss it before. It was a marketing ploy to attract applicants to these hard to populate solo missions. Selling the sizzle and not the steak meant making these research probes sparkle inside and out.
He peered down the antenna array. It buttressed against the elongated, cylindrical section that contained the living quarters. He saw the small circular observation window. The lights were on.
Brennen left the life-support on, he thought. It was a tempting idea, to go inside where it was more comfortable. But he couldn’t take his suit off. This contagion was all over the probe, inside and out.
He could decide later. Step one was accessing the probe’s main computer and sending a mayday to Novos. Correction, he thought. Step one was securing himself to the probe with something other than a bandolier.
Near the window was a thin silver rail running the length of the probe. Carefully and methodically, he maneuvered his way down the antenna. He swallowed hard as he loosened the bandolier from around his wrist.
That’s it, he thought. I’m officially unarmed.
The only tether in sight was halfway down the probe attached to all of Brennen’s air tanks. He gripped the silver rail tightly with both hands, knowing he was only one false move from disaster.
He shimmied to the tanks and clamped himself to two of the tethering ropes. Step two – contact Novos, he thought.
Using his wrist console, he found the probe’s signal. He tried to connect to it. His console blinked the red Novos triangular icon, meaning it was still synchronizing.
His headset crackled. He sighed impatiently. He really needed this to work. If not, he would have to go onboard and make the call manually.
Suddenly, he heard his own voice over his headset. “This is Colonel John Alvarez. I’m at the research probe NC-108D. All is lost. I need an immediate extraction. Mayday. Mayday.”
Alvarez didn’t remember recording that message, and he certainly didn’t just say it. Maybe the contagion got to me. Maybe this is what it’s like, he thought.
The message continued. “I repeat; this is Colonel John Alvarez. I need a rescue party. Please respond. Alvarez out.”
Maybe I’m losing it, he thought.
If the message was really being sent, he figured it would take over an hour for Novos to send a message bac
k.
“You can’t kill us, John,” he heard over the comm. This time it wasn’t his voice, but he recognized it.
“Michael,” he whispered. “How…” he trailed off. He expected a response if this was indeed Brennen. His eyes fixed on the circular window. He moved towards it along the rail, this time tethered securely. He peered in, sweeping the inner compartment from right to left. He didn’t know what he expected to see—Brennen sitting at the communications console?
A figure darted in front of him. He jolted back, losing his grip of the rail. Flailing his limbs wildly, he tried to grab on to something, anything. The tether—he had forgotten it—yanked him hard. At rope’s length from the window, he saw the tan, expressionless face of a space-buddy staring back at him.
“I’m coming for you, John,” said Brennen’s voice. The SB moved away from the window in the direction of the decontamination bay. Alvarez knew that could mean only one thing; Brennen or this thing was trying to come outside.
He scanned his surroundings with the vain hope that his Mossberg was floating nearby. He yelled at himself, “Think!”
The shotgun was the only weapon that had been effective. He had no armaments, and he couldn’t maneuver with an empty fuel tank. The SB, as far as he knew, had no weapons. It wasn’t designed for more than rudimentary walking movements, but this substance from the bursts must have reprogrammed it somehow. Alvarez knew better than to hope it couldn’t get outside.
“That’s it,” he said. Quickly, he grabbed the tether and pulled himself back to the hull. He moved towards the main access hatch. Taking chances, he raced down the rail hand over hand. He ran out of rope, and his tether yanked him in two. He unclipped it and moved on.
Up ahead, next to the hatch, was the exposed main power-supply. He needed to pull the plug before that possessed manikin used the auto-assist to open the door. If that thing can open it manually...one problem at a time, he thought.
The rail ended at the entrance hatch. On the other side was the power-supply. Alvarez didn’t give himself time to think. He lunged forward, releasing the rail. For a moment, he was completely disconnected from the probe.
He collided into the power-supply box, its cords and cables spilling out. He grabbed big handfuls of whatever he could, trying to keep from ricocheting back into space.
Once stopped, he looked at the jumbled mess. “Which one do I pull?” he said aloud.
Although he couldn’t hear it, he felt vibrations through his hands as an internal door opened and shut. That meant the machine was in the decontamination bay.
Frantically, Alvarez pulled wires. He didn’t care what. In his haste, both hands pulled cables free from the box. Unanchored, he started to float away. He grasped at straws, anything, to hang on. He grabbed cables only to see their other ends start to come undone. A dozen wires were half-way unplugged, but he had stopped. He gingerly pulled himself back to the box.
If this strategy would work at all, he had done enough. Now it was time to create distance between him and it. He lunged to the silver rail and began following it back to the tanks. He kept one eye on the door. Nothing happened.
When he reached the tanks, he reattached himself to the tether. He saw the observation window, now dark. It must have worked, he thought. The power’s off.
He relaxed a little. Unless that thing found a way to rewire the power or manually open the entranceway, Alvarez was in the clear. Space-buddies have nubs for hands, Alvarez remembered. That improved his odds greatly.
Now it was time to wait. He had to trust that the mayday message would be received by Novos. If McKinley got it, Alvarez knew he would send help.
He looked at the ridiculous number of oxygen tanks daisy-chained together. It would be worse than Spartan, but he could survive on the air and water those tanks represented. The vacuum seal had worked with Sarge, keeping out the contagion. He would take his chances.
He stared at the probe’s dark observation window. A thin layer of frost covered it from the inside. With life-support systems down, its interior was cooling.
He felt it was over, that the threat was contained. Still, it was a chilling thought; that space-buddy and perhaps Brennen’s consciousness was awake and aware inside the probe.
It can probably see me through the window, he thought. Waiting a week for rescue while a blood-lusting machine stood watch was a raw deal. But what choice did he have?
Alvarez saw movement in the window. The SB touched the glass with its nubs-for-hands. Alvarez wondered if it was trying to break through.
Then it became clear. It wasn’t hitting the glass. It was writing. It wrote in mirror image just so Alvarez could read it.
YOU CAN’T KILL US
Continue the series …
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Allies and Enemies: Fallen
Book One
Amy J. Murphy
Fight. Survive. Repeat. The rules of a soldier are simple.
Born into service of the Regime, Commander Sela Tyron is about as subtle as a hammer. To hammers, any problem can look like a nail, but things aren't always that easy. When Sela is abandoned with her team on a planet full of insurrectionists, things get complicated.
A daredevil rescue by her commanding officer reaps deadly consequences, forcing Sela to choose between the only life she’s ever known and the fate of the man she's duty-bound to protect.
Her whole life was a lie. And that's the good news.
Shirking a life of privilege, Erelah Veradin dreamt of building spaceships to explore the stars in the service of the Regime. Yet a monstrous truth about her true heritage is revealed, placing Erelah at the center of a scheming mastermind's bid for power.
If you love gritty, epic space opera like The Expanse or Firefly , this premier title in the Allies and Enemies series launches you on the ride of a lifetime. Voted Dragon Award Finalist for Best Military Science Fiction or Fantasy Novel by Dragon Con and a Kindle Book Award Finalist.
Suit up. Time to join the fight.
Part I
Chapter One
“Clear! In here, sir!”
Commander Sela Tyron followed the voice of her sergeant through the inner shadows of the building. Strength waning, she half-carried Atilio, her team’s injured meditech, up the stairs into an oddly shaped room. Around her, the seven remaining members of her team called out as they cleared the structures beyond this one. So far, no hostiles.
Sweat stung her eyes and trickled between her shoulder blades under the restrictive harness of her field armor. The heat was palpable, collecting in the stagnant air. These things barely registered with her. For Sela, there was only the chaos of staying alive and keeping her people that way.
She tightened her grip around Atilio’s waist. The young man had lost a lot of blood. Too much. His arm, slung over her shoulders, had become a limp weight. His head rolled forward.
Her heart clenched. I cannot lose him.
“Valen!” she bellowed for her sergeant.
She spotted a long, waist-high table near the room’s center covered with tiny clay oil lamps. It looked sturdy enough a place to get a better look at Atilio’s injuries.
Wordlessly, Valen appeared at Atilio’s other side. Clay pots shattered to the stone floor as they heaved the injured man as gently as possible onto the table. She snapped open the hidden clasps to his field armor and suppressed a gasp.
“Stay with me. Stay with me, Atilio.” Her plea was a frantic rush as she peeled away his blood-soaked shirt. The bleeding seemed to be slowing. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. “What was the first damned thing I told you, sub-officer?”
“Try…try not to get killed,” Atilio wheezed.
His attempt at a chuckle turned into a wet bout of coughing. His hand, sticky with blood, weakly clasped hers. He
was fading. His eyes slid shut once more. His skin was so cold, despite the nearly killing heat.
“Stay awake. That’s an order,” Sela snapped, digging her knuckles into his sternum. To her relief, the pain roused him. His eyes opened.
Not him. Not him. Not like this. A stupid mistake, a lucky shot with bad timing.
“What is this place, boss?” Valen asked under his breath. Sela had forgotten he was there.
Planting her hands on the table, she finally looked around. Sconces lit the circular chamber in intervals, but the flickering light did nothing to dispel the shadows of the high domed ceiling. Low benches lined the walls. The floor was dotted with threadbare cushions. The cloying smell of sabet incense permeated everything. On the wall closest to them, a crude pictograph of three female figures dominated the room. Natus. Metauri. Nyxa. The mother, the maiden and the crone. A ribbon of colored paint flowed over and around the trio. It was the type of room that commanded reverence.
“A temple to the Fates.” She purposefully spoke in a normal tone. This was all rubbish. It was only a room, nothing more.
Valen blinked. “Never seen such. Is that why they’re not coming in here? Because it’s their shrine?”
He panned a torch over the image of the three women. In the cast-off light he looked just as Sela felt, shredded and raw.
“I don’t know. We’re alive. That’s what I know. Understood?”
“Understood, boss.” He still sounded spooked.
“It’s just a room, Valen.”
She turned her attention back to Atilio, trying to dismiss the hairs standing on end on the back of her neck. Considering the building’s use it would not have been her first choice for a shelter, but it was a fortified location, easily defendable, with only one point of access barred with a heavy iron-banded door. Good vantage of the town’s lower streets from a walled courtyard. Despite all that, it felt wrong to be there. The reasons slipped her scrutiny at the moment. She had more pressing issues.
