Zentadon?”
I snapped to attention, arms folded respectfully across my chest. “It was a dark time in Zentadon history, sir … and a dark place.”
I thought to leave it at that.
“There is nothing inherently evil about Aldenia,” the General persisted, scowling.
Blade rose to his feet. “General, sir. I have been to Aldenia. I came back.”
“Not all return,” I countered.
“Not all return from the toilet.”
C·H·A·P·T·E·R
NINE
T he dreadnought
Admiral Tsutsumi
was a powerful ship and looked it. Its hull was nearly five kilometers long and covered by a maze of heat exchangers, tractor beam projectors, com pods, heavy-duty weapons blisters and other installations common to Starship class warships. In contrast, the Stealth attached piggyback to it was a stubby, black, windowless lump, like a malignant mole on a giant’s backside.
I was primarily an academic, having taught at the Interstellar School for much of my productive adult life, so could not help but be astonished at my first close-up experience with the reality of space warfare. Humans were amazing creatures, I had to hand them that. Although the Proton-Nuclear Wars wiped out three-quarters of Earth’s population and made at least that same proportion of the planet uninhabitable, there were survivors whose restless energies and nimble minds continued to long for adventure and knowledge and, perhaps, even a kind of salvation. It was they who developed eph-proton fuel and cultivated the Mini-Magnetic Plasma Propulsion (M2P2) System, an “energy wind sail” capable of inconceivable light speeds. Humankind was on its way to colonizing the universe, and no other civilization would be safe again. Beings in the galaxies were soon wearing Wrangler jeans, even those individuals with three or four or five legs, shouting, “Hey, Dude!” to each other, and forming sex clubs.
Because we were piggybacking on the
Tsutsumi
, it would not be necessary to crew the Stealth until we arrived within Aldenia’s gravity field. Captain Amalfi chose hibernation for the crew in the time couches. These were molded individual recliners with glass-sealed hoods. They were tiered one above the other in an available space on the Stealth, with a ladder leading to each.
“I had rather us hibernate and come out peaked fresh than to get fat and flabby for six weeks on a damned cruise ship,” Captain Amalfi explained.
Due to the threat of sabotage and internal subversion surrounding the launching of the mission, HazMat teams swept both the mother ship and the Stealth for unauthorized explosives before crews were allowed aboard.
We entered the Stealth in the reduced gravity by merely stepping out of the lock and drifting down one by one, getting out of each other’s way in the confined areas. As all this was new to me, having only traveled as a passenger in space liners, I paid particular attention to everything. The interior of the ship was a bit disconcerting in its clutter and chaos of arrangement and utility; hydraulics and valves, instrument panels and pipes and hoses and knobs and other gear, the function of which left me guessing. It was like an old Human submarine I had once seen in a museum. It smelled musty and oily.
“Your first time aboard a Stealth?” Gun Maid guessed. She was the only one of the team who deigned to speak to me, if you discounted Captain Amalfi and Sergeant Shiva issuing orders and Blade muttering Fu-uck every time he looked my way.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I have had nightmares.”
She laughed. “It isn’t really as threatening as it appears. It’s crowded, but entirely functional and actually quite simple in its structure. We’re in the crew compartment. Aft is the M2 reactor. Forward is the control deck. The landing pod is in the nose. That’s all there is to it.”
“Maybe I’ll take it for a test drive.”
She looked at me and, after a moment, chided in that voice of hers that was both pleasing and pleasant,
I snapped to attention, arms folded respectfully across my chest. “It was a dark time in Zentadon history, sir … and a dark place.”
I thought to leave it at that.
“There is nothing inherently evil about Aldenia,” the General persisted, scowling.
Blade rose to his feet. “General, sir. I have been to Aldenia. I came back.”
“Not all return,” I countered.
“Not all return from the toilet.”
C·H·A·P·T·E·R
NINE
T he dreadnought
Admiral Tsutsumi
was a powerful ship and looked it. Its hull was nearly five kilometers long and covered by a maze of heat exchangers, tractor beam projectors, com pods, heavy-duty weapons blisters and other installations common to Starship class warships. In contrast, the Stealth attached piggyback to it was a stubby, black, windowless lump, like a malignant mole on a giant’s backside.
I was primarily an academic, having taught at the Interstellar School for much of my productive adult life, so could not help but be astonished at my first close-up experience with the reality of space warfare. Humans were amazing creatures, I had to hand them that. Although the Proton-Nuclear Wars wiped out three-quarters of Earth’s population and made at least that same proportion of the planet uninhabitable, there were survivors whose restless energies and nimble minds continued to long for adventure and knowledge and, perhaps, even a kind of salvation. It was they who developed eph-proton fuel and cultivated the Mini-Magnetic Plasma Propulsion (M2P2) System, an “energy wind sail” capable of inconceivable light speeds. Humankind was on its way to colonizing the universe, and no other civilization would be safe again. Beings in the galaxies were soon wearing Wrangler jeans, even those individuals with three or four or five legs, shouting, “Hey, Dude!” to each other, and forming sex clubs.
Because we were piggybacking on the
Tsutsumi
, it would not be necessary to crew the Stealth until we arrived within Aldenia’s gravity field. Captain Amalfi chose hibernation for the crew in the time couches. These were molded individual recliners with glass-sealed hoods. They were tiered one above the other in an available space on the Stealth, with a ladder leading to each.
“I had rather us hibernate and come out peaked fresh than to get fat and flabby for six weeks on a damned cruise ship,” Captain Amalfi explained.
Due to the threat of sabotage and internal subversion surrounding the launching of the mission, HazMat teams swept both the mother ship and the Stealth for unauthorized explosives before crews were allowed aboard.
We entered the Stealth in the reduced gravity by merely stepping out of the lock and drifting down one by one, getting out of each other’s way in the confined areas. As all this was new to me, having only traveled as a passenger in space liners, I paid particular attention to everything. The interior of the ship was a bit disconcerting in its clutter and chaos of arrangement and utility; hydraulics and valves, instrument panels and pipes and hoses and knobs and other gear, the function of which left me guessing. It was like an old Human submarine I had once seen in a museum. It smelled musty and oily.
“Your first time aboard a Stealth?” Gun Maid guessed. She was the only one of the team who deigned to speak to me, if you discounted Captain Amalfi and Sergeant Shiva issuing orders and Blade muttering Fu-uck every time he looked my way.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I have had nightmares.”
She laughed. “It isn’t really as threatening as it appears. It’s crowded, but entirely functional and actually quite simple in its structure. We’re in the crew compartment. Aft is the M2 reactor. Forward is the control deck. The landing pod is in the nose. That’s all there is to it.”
“Maybe I’ll take it for a test drive.”
She looked at me and, after a moment, chided in that voice of hers that was both pleasing and pleasant,
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