One day later, most of it spent reviewing intelligence briefings or sleeping, we were in position for our jump. During the long flight, we took the time to put on our CEVA suits. The Combat Extra-Vehicular Activity suits were the latest and greatest kit around. They weren't the bulky beasts that Fleet used to issue. Those things always reminded me of the sort of winter clothing you wrapped a little kid in; bulky and hard to move in. The CEVAs were different. They were form-fitting, made of interlocking plates of a metallic material I couldn't spell, let alone pronounce. They allowed for almost as much range of motion as the thin sensor weave we wore underneath. They could take a relatively powerful blast without breaching, and they had hours of air built into the backpack. Best of all, they didn't have a separate helmet. Instead, with the press of a button, it emerged from the back of the neck and swept over the head like a hood, closing a transparent plate over the face.
As the first jump ended, the rattling in the deck plates and in my teeth finally subsided, and our mother-ship, the Nautilus, came through the wormhole. The lights around us flickered back to life, slowly, unevenly. The deep hum subsided, and I loosened my grip on the straps holding me into my cushioned seat. Kyle, sitting to my left, was still gripping his straps fiercely, with his eyes shut tight. He was probably focusing on not puking, something he often did after jumps.
I closed my eyes until the lights in the cabin were all fully lit. The flashing sometimes nauseated me, especially after a jump. The scene around me seemed to shift slightly, left then right, before setting itself straight and steady. I popped my helmet, and as it retracted behind my head I took in a slow, deep breath. The air was very cool, pumped into the cabin that way purposely to help keep passengers clear-headed. My hands stung from the straps, their marks dug deep into my palms. If not for the tough skin of the CEVA's gloves, I might have been cut. I flexed my fingers, working out the soreness in the muscles.
The jumps only took a few seconds, but the buildup took several minutes of ever-increasing rumbling. A hundred different noises rattled the ship, and being in a needle-jumper, docked but not part of its mother-ship, we felt it all the more. It was like being a bull rider, with all of the bull's energy focused on that single-handed grip.
"Launch in three minutes," the voice from the Nautilus control center echoed in the cabin.
"Okay everyone, check your gear," I growled through the fading nausea.
Regulations included a long list of checks that were supposed to be made before a needle-jumper was launched from its mother-ship. There were strict sets of confirmations to be made, dictated by a list handed to each passenger before launch, all intended to ensure a safe deployment. I don't think we ever used it. By the time a marine took up a slot in a recon squad, they had better know the routine without a list to read from. My squad had done this more than a few times, and we knew what needed to happen.
I unbuckled myself from my seat and checked over the straps holding down my duffel bag. The others did the same. Kyle practically fell out of his seat, landing with his knees on the deck. His face was six shades of green. He tried to steady himself, planting his palms on the deck. His lips were quivering, and his eyes drooped, the sort of look a person gets when the room is spinning round and round, and they're trying not to vomit. It's a horrible feeling, one I rarely encountered as severely as that. My own nausea was generally brief, in and out in a moment. Kyle, sadly, was not so lucky.
"He's gonna blow!" Raj called out, moving away from our sick man with an instinctual jump that spoke of past horrors. The last time Kyle threw up after a jump, Raj had been in the way. That went badly for everyone.
"Fuckin' shut up," Kyle slurred and mumbled as he tried to take in deep gulps of the cool air.
Normally with someone as sick Kyle was, we'd shoot him up with some nice, quick-acting drugs. There were plenty of meds out there for nausea, but he was allergic to all of them. He learned that the hard way back in basic training, and his reaction to those meds almost cost him his career. One of the drugs almost killed him. Thankfully, his instructors had an alternate means of sorting out their puking recruit.
"Here she comes!" David called out, as he up-ended the small cooler over Kyle's head, splashing him with ice and water.
Kyle cried out in shock, even though he expected it. He arched his back, taking in a loud, deep breath as if he had just come up for air from a long dive. He pushed himself off his hands, falling back onto his ass, and throwing his head back. His eyes were wide, his mouth open in a gasp. The cooler of ice water was just what the doctor ordered, or in this case, the technician. In an instant, Kyle's nausea was gone, the shock of the cold water shaking him out of it.
"Holy fuck," he said, spitting out the words with a cry.
Everybody laughed, including Kyle. He lay there for a moment, leaning up against the seats. He wiped the water from his face, his eyes still wide from the surprise. He took in deep breaths, slowly calming himself, screwing his head back on straight. He dried himself with the towel David threw at him. After a moment, I helped him to his feet.
"Better?" I asked with a grin, wiping my soaked hand against my pants.
"Yeah, no worries," he replied with a laugh. "Good as new."
"Great," I said, kicking him gently. "Get up and help."
I offered him my hand, and hauled him to his feet. He was still a bit unsteady, but I could see from his eyes that his head was clearing. He gave himself a shake, and went about checking his gear. I could hear him going through his breathing exercises, just the way his instructors had taught him. After a few minutes, his skin had lost its greenish tinge and he was good to go. It was usually just the first jump that hit him. Hopefully, when our needle-jumper made the combat jump in a few minutes, he would weather it better. We didn't have a second cooler.
I picked up the headset at the front of the troop hold. A voice responded instantly.
"CIC, go," the female voice intoned.
The Command Information Center was the nerve center of the Nautilus. They were responsible for our launch. I had not heard from them during our entire voyage, but that wasn't entirely out of the ordinary, especially during something as secret as this mission. Still, I needed to hear from the ship's captain. It was a habit of mine. I didn't actually need to speak to the captain, but if I and my men were going to be shot like a bullet, thrown through a wormhole, and jabbed into the side of a ship which may or may not be wreaking havoc with space itself, I wanted to hear the 'all clear' from the guy in charge.
"Zulu-two-three Actual requesting to speak to Nautilus Actual, over," I said. Zulu-two-three was my squad's call-sign for this mission, and I was its commander, its 'Actual.' I wanted to speak to the Captain, their 'Actual.'
After a moment, an older male voice came in over the headset. "This is Nautilus Actual, go ahead."
"This is Zulu-two-three Actual, checkin' in. Are we good to go?" I asked.
"Affirmative, Zulu-two-three." There was a pause. "Actual, please go to headset."
"Already on," I replied.
"Captain Mallory," the captain said in a low voice, "I am not permitted to ask you for the details of your mission. Still, I am launching your squad, and I have some concerns." His voice trailed off.
"I'll give you what I can, sir," I replied. I appreciated any captain who took his ship's safety seriously. For the moment, that included my men and me.
"My people are having some trouble opening a wormhole to the assigned coordinates." There was more than a little concern in his tone. "In ten years as a captain, I have never seen the kind of readings we're getting. Would you care to explain that?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't do that." I hated having to say that. I knew how much I hated not knowing things I needed to know, but I was already up to my eyeballs in trouble over that business on Alpha Centauri, and breaching secrecy protocols wouldn't help.
"I see," he muttered, then paused. "Captain, I want to make sure you understand what it is I am sending you into. I know, I know, you obviously have more information than I do, but here is what I am seeing. I am about to launch your needle-jumper through a wormhole which is only nominally stable, into an area of space I cannot properly scan. I am not permitted to communicate with you after launch, and I am not permitted to hold position and wait for your retrieval. If something goes wrong on your end, I am not permitted to render you assistance under any circumstances."
I cleared my throat. "Yes sir, I understand. I appreciate your concern, but that's the way the orders are written."
"Very well, Captain. The best sailor's luck to you. Nautilus Actual out."
The headset went dead, and I replaced it on its mount.
I looked to my guys. They were already strapped back in, their weapons ready to go, and helmets back on. I joined them, as the voice from CIC warned us of the imminent launch.
"What did the captain have to say?" David asked.
I repeated our conversation. I suppose other commanders might not do that, but on my team nothing was a secret. Not knowing something could get you killed. Worse still, it might get your buddy killed. Before David could comment, CIC interrupted.
"Launch in five, four, three, two, one," the voice barked at us.
"I hate this shit," Kyle muttered, preparing for the jump. We were all out of ice water.
The words were barely out of Kyle's mouth when we felt the jolt. Jolt is a word, but it really doesn't do the launch of a needle-jumper much justice. I once got to fire off an old bullet-shooting sniper rifle. The kick was wicked hard. This was worse. Here, we were the bullet.
The launch was deafening, even through our CEVA helmets. The speakers in our ears cut out as we were fired, saving us the brunt of the sound of our ship being launched, but the horrendous boom still rattled me. My ears rang, and my brain sloshed in my head from the sudden launch. If not for the restraints, I would have ended up pressed against the rear bulkhead, no doubt a little bit thinner and a lot less functional. As it was, it felt like all of my organs were pressed against my right side, and that my lungs were about to squeeze out through my ear.
"Fuck me!" Kyle howled, loud enough to be heard despite the fact that our headset hadn't kicked back in, yet.
The pressure on our bodies was painful, something like eight gees. Eight times normal Earth gravity, pressing down on us. The CEVA suits were designed to protect us from vacuum, and would even stand up to small bullets and energy blasts. They were not intended to save us the shock of a needle-jumper launch. These ships had been in use for thirty years, and nobody had found a way to save their passengers from the launch itself. Sure, we could probably suit up in something more secure, but we had to be ready to fight when we got to our destination. Needle-jumpers were not used for pleasure cruises or surprise birthday parties, after all.
I watched the small status display across from me. It counted down our distance to the wormhole's event horizon. The distance was shrinking quickly, as our ship fled the Nautilus. In the few seconds since our launch, the Nautilus would undoubtedly be out of sight, if we had had a rear port to look out of. As it was, my eyes were fixed on the distance counter. We traveled dozens of kilometers in a matter of seconds, something only the best technology out there could accomplish without killing us.
I heard my headset beep back to life. "Here it comes!" I yelled.
A moment later, we crossed the event horizon.
A wormhole jump is a bizarre thing. People did it every day. It was a very safe way to travel, all things considered. Humans had been using the technology for way over a century, closer to two, after all. Other races had been using it for far longer. I had long since lost track of how many jumps I'd done. Jumping was to us what hopping on a jet aircraft would have been to my great great grandfather. Still, it rattled me every time.
The first thing I felt was the splash. There wasn't any water, but still, my whole body felt as though someone had throw a bucket of thick goo on me. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My lungs refused to work, and I just sat there, frozen. My eyes seemed locked open, and my muscles stopped responding. It was less like being held down than it was having your strings cut, like a puppet. That lasted a few terrifying seconds.
That was the Splash. Next came the Dash.
A second wave washed over me, electric, like a million needles digging into my at once, each attached to a live wire. I felt every muscle in my body spasm. I felt the desperate need to move, like a kid with ants in his pants. I shook from the feeling of it, flexed every muscle, wiggled my fingers, crunched my toes, and threw my head from side to side. This was the second jump in just over ten minutes, and despite being used to it, my body was not completely recovered from the first one. This just added to the Dash. I twitched as though I was having a seizure.
Then the wave of nausea hit me. Again, I didn't suffer the way Kyle did, but that didn't mean it was fun. The entire world seemed to shift left and right in front of me. I gripped my restraining straps tightly, despite knowing that it was all in my head. I clenched my eyes shut, and took in a deep breath. The suit detected my condition, and lowered the suit's air temperature until I recovered.
When it was all over, we were on the other side of the wormhole. We were still traveling at extreme speeds, but the first of the rough part was over. It would be fifteen minutes before we got to the really bad part, the insertion. That would be enough time to screw our heads back on, and assess the situation.
"Talk to me," I called out as my helmet retracted.
"Raj good," came the first reply.
"David good," followed right away.
Kyle didn't answer.
"Kyle?" I called out. "You gonna live?"
"Uh huh," he said with that slur. I heard him gulp loudly. "Please don't make me talk right now."
Good enough for the moment, I thought. I looked at the display across from me. It was picking up the Saturnus, but there was a great deal of interference. The long range sensors couldn't see anything beyond the ship's silhouette. No readings, no transmissions. It was like the ship was a dead hulk. We would be close enough to see the ship in about ten minutes, and I hoped that we would have something by then.
"Fire 'em up, guys," I ordered.
I felt my rifle start to hum as it switched on. The lights glowed green and I saw that it was ready to go. I got thumbs up from everyone, even Kyle, who was still slumped in his seat. At least he was functioning. He'd be fine by the time we reached the Saturnus.
The next ten minutes were tedious, quiet. Our ship's sensors still couldn't get any reading from the Saturnus. We were sending out the usual hailing signals, transmitting on the emergency frequencies that had been preset for the Saturnus' mission. Nothing, not even static came back at us.
"There we go!" Kyle said, pointing toward the display.
"She's bigger than I thought," David said with amazement.
Even from our great distance, the ship was obviously huge. Cruisers like the Saturnus were usually far smaller than a battleship. We all knew the basic dimensions of the ship, but the Saturnus somehow seemed bigger, to look at her. Maybe it was the forward pylons, or the odd shape. Or maybe it was that we were coming at her like a bullet.
She loomed there, quiet, unmoving.
"Her running lights are on," David noted.
The lights covered the hull, illuminating its length. The lights only covered some of it, mostly docking ports, engines and so forth. It created the same effect as a flashlight shone into someone's face from below. Just like that old campfire classic, it created menacing shadows, a glowering vessel which only half-revealed itself to us as we approached.
"Running lights don't mean much," Raj added. "They would run on battery power if the engines were down."
David nodded, scowling at the screen. "Yeah, but if there were problems on board, the computer would trip the emergency lights. I don't see any red flashers. They would kick in even if nobody switched them on. The ship's computer would have done it the moment it registered damage to its systems."
"Considering what the Saturnus is doing out here," I mused, "they may have that sort of thing turned off."
"Then why have running lights at all?" David asked.
"Why don't we just knock on the hatch, and ask?" Kyle said, shaking his head.
As our ship got ever closer, the Saturnus began to loom large on the screen. The monitor told us that we were only three kilometers away, but the way the Saturnus filled the screen, it felt like we were close enough to reach out and touch her.
Maybe it was time to do just that, if in a less physical way. I reached for the headset of our ship's communication console. I tapped in the proper frequency.
"UES Saturnus," I started. "United Earth Ship Saturnus, this is marine call-sign Zulu-two-three, come in."
The headset was silent. I repeated the hail. Nothing.
I tried a third time. "UES Saturnus, this is Zulu-two-three on approach. I come with priority orders from Echo-two." I hoped using Admiral Bishop's call-sign would get their attention. It didn't.
I turned to the guys, and shook my head. They frowned, all except for Raj. I could see that cruel grin of his start to curl up the left side of his face.
I gave one more hail, with David watching the monitor for any sign that they heard us. Maybe their comm gear was down, or the antenna itself was damaged. If so, they should have been blinking their running lights as a signal. Nothing.
I sighed. "Alright, I guess we do this the hard way." I looked to David. "Are we getting automated approach signals?"
David worked the monitor controls. "No," he said, annoyed. "Their docking ports are disabled. I can't tell if that's on purpose or not."
"Hey!" Kyle pointed at the monitor. "Zoom in."
"Where?" David asked.
"There," Kyle said. "Just below the engines."
As David zoomed in the camera, we all leaned in for a better look. The camera shifted focus, zooming in and moving along the hull. The light gray-brown hull, metal plating designed to shield the ship from the forces inside a wormhole, seemed undamaged. A large blue stripe ran from top to bottom, just behind the bulge where the experiment equipment was housed. The camera passed over it. The paint was still fresh, lacking the pitting and scrapes that space debris would leave over time. It reminded us how very new this ship was.
"There!" Kyle said, prompting David to stop moving the camera. "There is it."
"Great," Raj muttered. "Squid ship."
A squid ship. The Edra, hundreds if not thousands of years ahead of us technologically, used the small ships to move their commandos. I'm sure they had their own name for the little spacecraft, but we just called the squid ships, for their shape. I had seen a squid ship only in pictures, and it was unmistakable. About eleven meters long, the small troops carriers had a small troop cabin, with a powerful engine attached to it. Extending out from the hull was a set of arms that looked and moved just like tentacles. When the ship was ready to attach itself to a target vessel, the ship flipped over and the tentacles took hold of the hull. Then the troop cabin extended a small docking ring, and cut through the hull. According to our best intelligence, they could cut through the thickest armor and board a ship in under a minute.
"They're already aboard," Kyle grumbled. "That explains why we aren't getting any response from the crew."
"I guess this means we're not going to saunter up and knock, huh?" David commented.
The Saturnus wasn't a warship, but it still had a nice laser point defense system to knock out incoming missiles. Those same lasers could be turned on us, if the Edra controlled them. Our needle-jumper had a reinforced hull, designed to withstand the shock of a forced insertion through armor plating, but those lasers would still slice us up if we gave them half the chance.
"We're going in hot," I declared. "Let's get ready."
I moved to the navigation controls, and entered in the appropriate instructions for the needle-entry. These ships were mostly pre-programmed, usually en route. This ship had been prepared even before we docked with the Nautilus, so it was just a matter of telling the nav computer to make a forced entry. Our entry location had been selected for us, and though we would normally have input into that, here we had none. The needle-jumper was set to insert us near the forward edge of the ship, three decks above the keel. The area was mostly storage and non-essential systems. More importantly, the area was usually free of crew, so we wouldn't have to worry about killing anyone just by inserting.
By the time I had the nav computer ready to go, the guys had set our seats for entry. The chairs rotated in place, facing forward. Chairs not being used were locked down, their seats folded up. Raj checked the gear strapped to the deck. If we struck the Saturnus and the straps snapped, all of that gear would be thrown forward and crushed against against the forward bulkhead of the cabin.
I sat in my seat, and strapped in. My helmet swung up and over my head, sealing in place. I felt the recycled air wash over me.
"Ready?" I asked.
Everyone replied in the affirmative. I reached over from my seat, and flipped up the yellow-black hazard cover to the launch initiator. I turned the key clockwise, and tapped the button below it. Instantly, the air in the cabin was evacuated. If our hull breached and we had atmosphere in the cabin, the sudden rush of air through a small hole would make it bigger or worse yet, it might send us careening out of control.
The automated voice of the nav computer counted down from five, and then kicked in our boosters. I felt it before I heard it, the eight gees of pressure forcing me so far into my seat that I thought I might actually start to feel bones snap. Thankfully, between the gravity plating and the seat design, I was alright, even if I couldn't breathe for the moment.
The monitor to my right was out of sight, but I wasn't sure I'd want to see it anyway. The needle-jumper was hurtling toward the Saturnus faster than the fastest space fighter could manage. Imagine ramming a needle into armor plating, in the hopes of breaching that plating. We were the needle.
This was going to hurt.