by Tori Harris
“Thank you. Okay, Schmidt, please continue. What’s the status of our Marine rescue mission?”
“They were forced to take the two Sherpas because of the situation in the hangar bay, but everything seems to be going fine so far. They appear to be getting pretty close to trying the first access point. Otherwise, no changes in the past couple of hours. All systems in the green. The ship remains at General Quarters, but we have set Condition 2 due to the various EVA ops currently underway. The individual departments are in the process of rotating in fresh crewmembers to relieve those who have been on duty the longest. Both the C-Drive as well as our sublight engines are temporarily offline while Commander Logan’s team completes their repairs.”
“Very good, thank you. We should probably work on getting ourselves fed and rested as well,” Prescott said, raising his voice to address the entire bridge crew, “but I would prefer to wait until all of these pending operations are wrapped up first. For now, I’d like us to — one at a time — call in a replacement from the standby crew, stretch our legs, grab something to eat for a few minutes, and then head back up here. I’ll do my best to get us all some rack time as soon as possible. Can everyone hang in there a little longer?”
In spite of enduring several days of heavy stress, including extended combat operations with very little time for rest from one crisis to the next, Theseus’ first watch bridge crew replied with the usual chorus of “yes, sirs” in response to their captain’s largely rhetorical question.
Commander Reynolds had yet to take her seat at the rear of the bridge, and had been looking over Lieutenant Lau’s shoulder at the Tactical console during the status update. Now, she placed a hand on Lau’s shoulder and silently gestured for him to be the first to take a break. Within seconds, his replacement emerged from the portside standby lounge and took his place at Tactical 2.
“Lieutenant Lee, without the Marines’ assault shuttles I know we have a somewhat diminished view of the rescue mission, but please see if you can call up some additional video feeds for the view screen,” Prescott said. “Give us their tactical comm audio as well if you would.”
“Aye, sir. We’re mostly limited to the feeds from their individual EVA suits, but we do have a pretty good view of the first external access point from the nearest Sherpa,” Lee replied, opening two windows in the center of the bridge view screen. “The window on the right is the feed from Jackson’s … sorry, First Lieutenant Jacks’ suit. The audio is live as well, but these guys tend to say very little during an op. There actually is a display I can show you that will give us a representation of what they’re communicating to each other with their neural interfaces, but unless you’re familiar with the symbology they use —”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it and you’re right. It’s like watching a group of twelve-year-olds playing a video game. They know exactly what they’re doing, but it’s largely incomprehensible to anyone else.”
As they watched, Lieutenant Jacks and two other Marines approached what looked like a fairly standard external hatch measuring approximately three and a half meters on each side. Although there was a keypad of some sort visible to their right, Jacks halted their approach just short of the door, raising his right hand in a fist out of sheer force of habit.
On Fleet vessels, cargo doors of this type were spaced fairly evenly around the hull to facilitate the loading of cargo and provide points of access for equipment and personnel when the ship was moored. The doors always included an airlock of some sort and could be opened from the outside during an emergency.
Reading quickly through a transcript of the briefing Lieutenant Jacks had delivered to his squad before their EVA, Prescott made a mental note to discuss external access procedures with Commander Reynolds and eventually Admiral Patterson. Clearly, Wek warship designers considered access from the outside by hostile forces a serious enough threat to build in some fairly sophisticated security measures. In a situation where TFC ships were either unable to move due to battle damage or because they were conducting some sort of operation that prevented them from moving — very much like Theseus was at the moment — an enemy boarding action might become a very real possibility.
As Prescott continued to watch the Marines conducting their relief operation, he couldn’t help but picture a similar group of heavily armed Wek troops easily gaining access to critical, yet largely undefended areas of his ship. Such troublesome thoughts, coupled with fatigue, left him feeling uncharacteristically impatient to conclude all three of the missions taking place outside and get Theseus back into a state where she could fight or flee, if necessary. After what seemed like a long delay, Prescott was more than happy when a call from Lieutenant Jacks refocused his mind on the Marines’ rescue mission.
“Bridge, Rescue 11,” Lieutenant Jacks called over the tactical comm channel.
“I got it,” Prescott responded immediately, preempting Lieutenant Dubashi’s response. “Rescue 11, Theseus-Actual. Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, we’re using the codes provided by Commander Takkar, so as far as the Keturah’s AI is concerned, we’re friendlies and have the same access from out here as their troops would.”
“Understood. Are you having a problem getting their system to respond?”
“Negative, it’s not that, sir. It’s just that … according to their AI, there are only seven survivors aboard.”
Prescott paused for a moment, the terrifying image of a nuclear weapon detonating near the center of her hull quickly forming in his mind.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Rescue 11. Do you have a route that will allow you to reach them quickly?”
“Affirmative, Captain. They’re in two separate groups, not far from the second and third external access points. With your permission, we’ll plan to go ahead and recover them all, if possible. With such a small group, we can split into two sections and access both areas simultaneously.”
“Be quick about it, Lieutenant. We have two other EVA ops concluding here within one zero minutes. As soon as that happens, we’ll try to get a little closer. Either way, I want you headed back to the ship within half an hour max. Understood?”
“We’ll make it happen, sir. Rescue 11 out.”
Marine Section “Rescue 11,” Location Dagger
(Near SCS Keturah External Access Point Two)
When he had told Captain Prescott that the Wek survivors were located “not far” from the external access points, he might have been just a little optimistic, Lieutenant Jacks admitted to himself. That was particularly true for the members of the Keturah’s crew currently represented in his field of view by four red pulsating ovals accompanied by a single text block indicating that they were still over forty-five meters from his current position. In the lower right corner of his helmet display, a timer relentlessly counted down from the original thirty minutes Captain Prescott had given him to recover the enemy warship’s survivors and have his squad on its way back to the Theseus.
“You do see how much time we have remaining, right?” his EVA suit’s AI asked aloud. It was both an odd and irritating question, given that the AI knew precisely where he was looking at all times.
I see it. Surely you have something more useful to contribute to this effort, Jacks thought, communicating his response via the suit’s neural interface without the need to even fully form the words in his mind. If that’s the best you’ve got, do us both a favor and bugger off.
“Oh, nice talk, mate. Kiss our mum with that mouth, do you?” the suit asked indignantly using a perfect facsimile of his own voice.
Jacks rarely verbalized his conversations with his suit’s AI, and chose not to allow it to synthesize the voice of some famous actor, athlete, or military leader. Since first beginning the complex training required to interact with TFC’s military-grade version of the standard neural interface, his preference had always been to use the suit’s default internal communications setting — typically referred to by the manufacturer as “conscience mode.”
“I’m just
trying to keep us out of trouble, that’s all,” the AI continued. “We’ve already been in here for nearly twenty minutes. That leaves us only ten to reach our group of survivors, provide whatever first aid is required, then get them back to the access point and prepped for the trip over to the shuttle. At the moment, it seems unlikely that we’ll be able to meet such an aggressive timetable.”
When first introduced to their EVA suit’s many capabilities, Marines were shown an orientation video provided by the multinational defense contractor that handled most of the AI’s Pelaran tech integration. In what seemed like a ridiculous insult to their intelligence, “conscience mode” was depicted by an eight-centimeter, miniaturized version of the Marine wearing the suit. During various combat operations, the mini-Marine doppelgänger stood steadfastly on the EVA suit’s shoulder and provided the user with sage advice (its traditional angel’s wings were omitted to avoid any appearance of religious affiliation, of course). Jacks had always found the comparison to a “shoulder angel” particularly fitting, since Marines tended to ignore their suit’s advice nearly as much as Humans in general ignored the urgings of their own conscience. In reality, however, the data overwhelmingly showed that an ever-present AI not only improved the user’s ability to cope with stressful situations, but also increased the likelihood that they would make better choices when faced with morally ambiguous situations.
It’s important that we save these people if we can … and you know very well that Mum swears much more often than I do. Besides, swearing in my head doesn’t count anyway, does it? Jacks thought distractedly as he continued his slow progress down the rubble-strewn corridor leading to his objective.
“It is important, Jackson, but so is following orders,” the AI replied earnestly. “Captain Prescott is concerned about what might happen when the Zhelov and the Serapion arrive. That could happen at any moment. If we’re still out here, we’ve compromised our own safety and quite possibly that of the Theseus as well. If we don’t have time right now, we can come back and complete our rescue mission after those two battleships leave the area.”
I understand all of that, but it might be too late for the survivors if we wait. Now do your job and help me complete this mission successfully. The corridor up ahead is a mess. We can probably get through it just fine, but I’m not sure about coming back through here with wounded. Is there an alternate route?
“Yes, there is,” the AI sighed. “Stand by while I check the environmental systems in the adjoining spaces.”
You do that, Jacks thought, gratified that he had once again managed to temporarily distract the AI. “Rescue 12, Jacks,” he called over the tactical comm.
“Rescue 12 here. Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“It looks like your section is back at access point three already, Sergeant. What’s your status?”
“We got ‘em, sir. Most of the area surrounding this access point is unpressurized, but we managed to close off a section of corridor adjacent to where our three Wek personnel were located and then repressurize it before entering their room. The room itself looked like it was used for food storage. It was right next to their galley.”
“What’s the status of the survivors?”
“There were no life-threatening injuries, but all three do need medical attention. They also weren’t very happy to see us at first. Fortunately, they were all mess staff of some sort — not the kind of folks who were likely to put up much in the way of resistance. We just kept talking to them and trying to convince them that we were here to help. We also told them what we knew about Admiral Naftur. I’m not sure they entirely believed us, but they did finally allow us to zip them up in their triple EPs for evac.”
Expandable Emergency Evacuation Pods, or “triple EPs,” as they were commonly called, were two-and-a-half-meter-long cylindrical capsules that were just over one meter in diameter. When originally developed in the late twenty-first century, the inflatable pods were primarily intended to provide a simple (and, therefore, inexpensive) lightweight means of escaping a damaged spacecraft. Each was equipped with its own power supply as well as enough water and emergency rations to keep a single occupant alive for up to a week, if necessary. Even though early versions were derided as little more than a “one-person space tent,” crewmembers who found themselves in a situation where they were forced to choose between using one of the pods or subjecting their bodies to a hard vacuum universally selected the EEEP as the better of the two options.
TFC’s latest version of the triple EP, while similar to the original in some respects, had a number of enhancements intended to facilitate the evacuation of injured military personnel. The pod’s onboard computer now included a specialized AI capable of performing a surprising number of medical procedures, from administering antibiotics and pain medication to laser suturing wounds. Each pod also included a small gravitic field generator, allowing the entire device to “hover” in the same manner as the ubiquitous “grav chair” now used in hospitals worldwide. This feature alone had revolutionized the concept of medical evacuation — allowing a single, uninjured person to both treat and transport a much larger colleague, if necessary. In addition, although they could still be used by an individual to escape a damaged ship, the pods were much more commonly used by military personnel during rescue operations — often to stabilize their injured occupants and transport them from one spacecraft to another. The addition of a small, three-axis Cannae thruster allowed the pods to accomplish short journeys of this type entirely on their own once outside the damaged vessel.
“Good work, Sergeant,” Jacks replied. “Now here’s what I need you to do next. Rescue 11 has run into some difficulty reaching our survivors. We can get there, but it’s going to take us a little longer than expected. The captain wants us back aboard Theseus ASAP, and there’s no reason for you to delay out here waiting on us.”
“Sir,” the Marine sergeant replied, “how about I send three or four guys in there to help clear the way? That should speed things up quite a bit.”
“Negative, Sergeant. Now listen up. We don’t need that SLR team outside. Dismount the railgun, load up your section and your three survivors, and head back to the ship immediately. I’ve got six of my section’s seven guys with me. That will be more than enough to handle getting these four survivors out. Any questions for me?”
“No, sir, but I don’t like it … and Top’s not gonna like it either.”
“I’d say you’re right about that, but you’ll notice that he isn’t commenting over the radio. That’s because he knows it’s the right call. He also knows that you two work for me,” Jacks replied in a joking tone that still left little room for additional debate. “Now get moving, Marine.”
“Yes, sir. See you back onboard.”
“No worries, Sergeant. We’ll be along shortly.”
Jacks paused momentarily, knowing full well that the bridge might also be listening in on their tactical comm channel. Given how much time they had already burned, he half-expected to receive orders to abort the remainder of the mission at any moment. In his short time working for Captain Prescott, however, Jacks had seen no evidence that he was the kind of commander who was inclined to “micromanage” his people. So far at least, he seemed to trust their judgment and expect them to make the right call without his constantly needing to look over their shoulders or second-guess their decisions. Jacks appreciated this kind of leadership style, but understood that it implied a greater burden of responsibility on his part. In his mind, that really left him with only two choices at the moment. He could either abort the mission and return to the ship, or, within the next few minutes, contact the bridge and make the case for taking a bit more time. Disregarding the captain’s instructions and pressing on without reporting in was just not an option under the circumstances. Living up to professional obligations really is a pain in the arse sometimes, he reflected.
“Okay, I’ve got an alternate route for us,” his AI reported. “Unfortunately, with the Keturah r
unning on spotty emergency power, there’s no way I can confirm whether it’s any better than our current route. We’ll just have to check it out and see. One thing I can say for sure, however, is that we’ll have to put our survivors inside their triple EPs for the trip back to the access point. No matter which way we go, we’ll have to cross though at least one unpressurized section.”
Humph, Jacks grumbled inwardly, I don’t see us getting past the end of this corridor humping four of those pods unless we take the time to cut our way through some of the debris, so let’s take a look at your alternate. Is it something we can check quickly?
“Actually, yes. Take the next right. There should be a short, ten-meter corridor that ends in an entrance to another that runs parallel to the one we’re in now for another fifty meters.”
Great, that should be long enough to reach our survivors, he thought, fully aware that this was mostly likely their last shot at completing the rescue successfully.
It took Lieutenant Jacks only a moment to update his section on the change in plans, after which they quickly cleared the intersecting corridor and moved up to the bulkhead door leading to their alternate route. Jacks then paused to once again allow his AI to access the Keturah’s security system. With so much of the ship open to the vacuum of space, it was necessary to override safety protocols, gaining access one section at a time. Not surprisingly, the overall result was painfully slow progress.
“Significantly reduced pressure in this area — most likely due to a small leak somewhere between here and one of the major hull breaches just aft,” Jacks’ AI reported. As the door slid open, water vapor in the surrounding air instantly condensed into a cloud of fog with a disconcerting WHOOSH as air rushed past the Marines and into the adjacent hallway to equalize the pressure. “The environmental system is attempting to compensate, but it’s fighting a losing battle at this point. Gravity is still steady at their standard .8 G.”
Glancing furtively around the corner, Jacks was gratified to see that the corridor was largely free of debris. At the same time, it struck him how similar the view was to a scene from any one of a hundred sci-fi movies he had watched over the years. Although his suit obviated the need for ambient lighting, several light panels dangled from the ceiling, flashing randomly. To complete the effect, a myriad of cables hung loosely from several locations — all of which he was sure would be arcing wildly if the ship’s reactors were still online. The only things strangely missing were bodies. Upon their arrival, Keturah’s AI had indicated that over three-fourths of her crew had been killed within moments of the nuclear detonation. Most of the rest had suffocated shortly thereafter due to the innumerable breaches that had occurred along the entire length of her hull. Ironically, as some of the last members of her crew had attempted to make their way to areas they believed might offer them the best chance of survival, they had found their way blocked by doors sealed in an effort to preserve the few remaining pressurized areas of the ship.
