I stow my space bag in my locker. That bag has everything I’m allowed to carry up from planet-side. Anything else I’ll need has to be supplied by the Navy. Theoretically, I could have some things shipped up from the planet on the next CAST, but there’s no guarantee it wouldn’t get mixed up or lost, so with the few personal mementos of home we’re allowed, the only safe way is to carry them yourself.
My desk has already rotated into the proper position, and I strap into my chair to do my data-work. There’s always data-work…the Navy seems to run on it as much as hydrogen fuel and coffee. Once I’m done with that, I send out messages to my family and to my girl. They’re probably wondering what’s going on. So am I, but I try to sound confidant as I record my transmission. It’ll go out with all the others in the next comms burst to Jupiter.
Next, I set up the order of my day for tomorrow. Simulator time—lots of it. I encourage everyone to think of as many devious scenarios as they can. I certainly will. We’re down one and used to training together as a unit. We need to be ready for that gaping hole in our formation when it’s time for action. I also tell them to get some sleep. They’ll need it.
Now it’s time to follow my own advice, and I undress, open my sleep coffin, and get in. The coffin is named for its shape, but it also seals to form an armored, independently-powered life-support unit in case there’s an atmosphere breach. That way, if something goes wrong while we’re asleep, we might survive. The hammock holding it is slung in such a way as to deal with a ship that might be under any direction of acceleration, and the smart-web fibers adjust to be perfectly comfortable.
I close my eyes, and I should be asleep right away, after the day I’ve had. But I can’t take my own advice. I’m worried about this mission—a lot. It’s not the risk to me or my men—dangerous things are part of our routine—we regularly do carrier landings while everything is under full acceleration. No, it’s the danger back home that this represents that’s worrying me.
Saturn usually pulls a bunch of nasty surprises—ambushes, raids, and black ops stuff are part of their routine. But this, sending everything out…this is something new. It’s got me really, really worried for the first time.
When sleep won’t come, I force the issue and begin a sleep program to my cyber-augments. Sleep comes, deep, black, and total.
* * *
Tentacled monstrosities assault my frame from every direction. Glaring red camera eyes stare at me with inhuman malice. Space-black armored carapaces scuttle across my frame, enveloping me. Lashing tentacles wield beam cutters, laser drills, and saw-edged claws. I try to move, I try to struggle, but it’s no use; hundreds of powerful tentacles restrain me. I try to send commands to my Guardian’s systems—they’re dead. I couldn’t even open a ventilation flap if I tried. Powerful intrusion programs are taking over my frame, one computer firewall at a time. Damage alarms are going off all around me as they begin cutting through my frame’s armor and into the systems within, extending fiber cables to take over even more systems. My cockpit shakes as the lights flicker, and a cutting laser burns through, filling the chamber with smoke.
They’re coming…it won’t be long now.
The remaining atmosphere shrieks out as cutting blades peel away the cockpit in front of me. Now I can see it with my own eyes, and nine crimson sensor eyes glare back. I reach for my sidearm as a tentacular claw reaches for my throat.
Everything goes black.
A nightmare?
No. Just the latest simulation from Lt. Shane “Sparky” Greensport. Well, maybe it was a nightmare, too. His simulations often are.
The room appears again around me, as my augments stop running his fiendishly difficult simulation. Everyone else on my flight blinks, and we sit up.
I pause to drink a bulb of water and electrolytes, then I clear my throat and take a deep breath.
“Nice one, Sparky, you did well,” I opine. “I wish I could say the same thing for the rest of us. So. What did we do wrong?”
“What we did wrong was we let Sparky torture us with another of his simulations,” Lt. Takashi “Joker” Ford offers.
“That was fun! Let’s run another!” Lt. Jack “Mad Dog” Martin grins and claps his hands together. He’d survived the longest and inflicted the most damage on the enemy. This time, his tendency to attack first had almost worked. I just need to find a way to focus his chaos and aggression on the enemy effectively.
“So what went wrong? I’ll start.” I bring up a hologram of the actual simulated battle glowing over the table between us. “Once we entered the cargo bay of the freighter, it was too late. By that time, we were well in range, and they were able to rush us and launch out into space to cut us off.”
“We should’ve gone in fighting once we got that false signal from it,” Martin says. “A ship like that out there—it had to be up to no good.”
“I agree with Martin, we should have been more suspicious. It was clearly a trap,” Ford says.
“Actually, it wasn’t a trap.” Greensport brings up the flight path of the freighter we’d intercepted. “It was on the way to infiltrate an asteroid habitat with Saturnine mechs. By intercepting it and then disappearing, you would have alerted the fleet and the habitat. Still…it got you all killed.”
We discuss the various things we can try to do better next time.
