Proelium Veritas: Black Saber Novels, #2

By John Murphy

Even when you're isolated and adrift in space, remember your vow. Resist to the Death.

Since the Carthenogens arrived from another planet nearly fifty years ago, the world has had no wars—or so everyone thinks. But the Global Alliance, doing the bidding of Earth’s almond-eyed “saviors,” has been scooping up humans by the interstellar boatload. Only a handful of people know the truth: the elite resistance fighters of Black Saber.

Vaughn Killian saw it all firsthand while surviving two years of hell in the brutal purge of Bangkok. Now a fully trained Black Saber operative, he’s anxious to get back into the fight to save humanity from the deceptive peace-preaching aliens. Disaster strikes their remote space outpost and Killian winds up stranded and adrift a half a galaxy away from the planet that needs him most.

Killian took a vow: “Resist to the death.”

He’s not dead yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Murphy
• Release date: Jul 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386889588

John Murphy

John Murphy was a Corporal in the US Marine Corps. He went to college, succeeded in the software industry, then wrote Success Without a College Degree. He’s traveled the world and been to all seven continents. His wife is a Blackjack ninja; he has three sons: a Marine Corps officer, a video game producer, and a travel blogger. While he enjoys writing about career success, he smokes cigars, shoots guns, rides Harleys, skis fast, drinks tequila straight, and thinks about alien invasion, combat, and sex, so he wrote Mission Veritas.

Book preview

Prologue

Monday, July 15, 2075 – 7:35 a.m.

The Saxon lit a Cuban cigar, one of his most precious commodities in greasing the wheels of illicit ventures. The flame from a single wooden match kissed the cigar’s tip. He puffed carefully, and the flame, kindled by the finely cured tobacco, leapt like a flare. Satisfied that the cigar was glowing evenly, he blew out the match and took a long draw, letting it linger in his mouth as a cloud of satisfying smoke engulfed him.

He took a final look at the virtual screen hovering over his desk. The cloud of smoke drifted right through the image. He pushed a button, and the display vanished. He took another draw.

The Saxon surveyed the subterranean bunker turned opulent office. He had designed it with one side as a library of thousands of books—classics, the sciences, even an antique set of encyclopedias from the twentieth century. He wanted a reminder of a bygone era when people felt like humans controlled their future. He firmly believed it was still true.

On the opposing wall was a thirty-foot-wide-by-ten-foot-high screen, curved so he could sit at a center point with each portion of the screen equidistant from him. It displayed eighteen different images, six across by three high. The top row showed newsfeeds the general public saw. The second had market feeds from around the world. Across the bottom were live feeds of control centers from more than two dozen of his operations in major cities. They scrolled to the left in batches of six every few seconds. Should anything go awry, he would see the activity and be able to focus on it instantly, with all screens capable of displaying vital statistics from that operation with the touch of a button on the pointing device in his hand.

He took another draw and let it linger again. He set the cigar down on his ashtray to let it rest. He pressed a button for the ventilation system. The cloud of smoke whisked up to the ceiling and disappeared. He pressed another button.

Mr. Horton. I’m ready.

The Saxon got up and approached the screens, staring at them absently. A moment later, the office door slid open, and Mr. Horton appeared, silhouetted by the bright offices outside. Horton joined the Saxon in front of the screens. He was dressed, as was his boss, in an expensive suit.

Enjoying your breakfast cigar, sir?

Yes. I’ve got to make it last all day though. I’m running low.

Shall I find some more?

If you can find any, keep them for our friends.

Very well, sir. Operations are going as well as can be expected.

Horton brought up a tablet in a leather folder he carried and touched the screen. As he did, the screen before them changed. The rows of displays compressed to occupy the left-most portion of each row. The remainder of the screen became a mammoth display that showed violent clashes on a city street.

Taipei is experiencing a crackdown by the Global Alliance. There are numerous casualties.

That’s unfortunate. Any leaks?

No, sir. No seizures or damages to the operations there either. We should see a substantial spike in revenues from that region.

Horton touched his tablet again, and the screen changed to show an internment camp with thousands of tents and people milling about nearly shoulder to shoulder.

Chile has declared a state of emergency in Santiago over an outbreak of H45N3. The Global Alliance is rounding up people and putting them in isolation camps.

Any leaks on that?

No, sir.

Good. Any opportunities there?

The usual, but nothing unique.

Any actuals?

None that our people have been able to detect.

You know, you’ve got a lot of gray in your beard, Mr. Horton. Gives away your age.

I know. But who am I out to impress?

Good point. Don’t get me wrong; it looks good. But I don’t even think about growing mine anymore. It would be completely gray.

It’s good to know you’re still susceptible to vanity, sir.

The Saxon grinned and looked down. He and Horton had been through extreme circumstances together and had built a worldwide operation from nothing. They routinely gave each other a ribbing, comfortable in their relationship.

With things humming along, I think it’s time. Is Mr. West available?

He’s waiting for us, sir.

Good. Bring him up.

Horton touched the tablet, and the large screen changed again. Mr. West, you’re on.

West became alert. Good afternoon, sir—or rather, good morning where you are.

Yes, good morning, the Saxon said. How are things going on Black Saber?

Well, sir, seventeen of the twenty field teams have been exterminated. No prisoners.

Good. Any casualties on our side?

The usual, sir. Everything has gone without a hitch.

Good. The plans for the final teams are still ready?

Yes, sir.

"Mr. West, I have one addition to the plan. We’re going to destroy the Blue Orchid."

Both Mr. West and Horton looked somber.

Sir, that’s a considerably larger operation than a mere ‘addition’ to the plan.’

The Saxon raised an eyebrow. I trust you can handle that with no problems?

Yes, sir. But you do understand the considerable . . . risks.

Yes, I do. But, it is, I believe . . . key. The Saxon’s face betrayed no emotion.

Very well, sir. I’ll get right on it.

The screen went blank and then displayed the street violence in Taipei again.

Neither the Saxon nor Horton said anything, just stared at the chaos.

Finally, the Saxon spoke. Barrett Kerrington still on track?

Horton nodded. Yes, sir.

Who do we have in Santiago?

The Minister of Justice, Franco Pino.

Reliable?

Pliable. A considerable down payment ought to seal the deal.

"Good. Do it. And send him a box of Cubans, con cumplidos."

1

Monday, July 15, 2075 – 19:15 Hours

Planet Veritas

The plan was imbecilic, like neighborhood kids playing cops and robbers with sticks for guns. Pathetic. But Vaughn Killian swore to God—and on his dead parents’ souls—that he would follow it, as much as it made his mind vomit.

Crewman Nolte came in front of Killian to check his restraints. Tight as hell. Rib-crushingly tight. The seats on the surface shuttle, Valley Forge, were designed for passengers wearing armor. Killian and his senior class of Black Saber trainees—tyros, as they were officially called—were clad in only their base layer supraskins and footies, underwear for their armor. Crewman Nolte yanked down on a strap to make certain there was no wiggle room in the restraints for their brutal descent to Veritas.

Wearing a flight suit and crew helmet, the training NCO, Gunnery Sergeant Gunny Moore, stood in the center aisle to address the eight seniors and deliver the final pre-op instructions. She had to stretch her arm taut to reach the overhead handrails. She was short but tough—hell-hath-no-greater-fury tough. Even her stare could cause bodily injury.

Listen up. This is your final surface-based operation and assessment. All senior tyros will perform said operation without the aid of equipment, weapons, armor, or electronic communication of any kind. Your success depends on your resourcefulness and your wits to overtake or evade the defending force of thirty-two freshmen, sophomores, and juniors. Your objective is to penetrate and secure the defenders’ command post, which, for this exercise, is Alpha Base.

Valley Forge began kissing the atmosphere, announced by a subtly dizzying sway. Killian recognized it when he felt his empty stomach spiraling into his chest.

Moore had to finish and get strapped in before the big turbulence. She stepped up her pace. You will drop two miles east of Alpha Base, then proceed to execute the secret plan devised by your team leader, Corporal Sowell, and approved by the training company commander, Captain Alan. Failure to achieve the objective will result in repeating a portion or your entire senior phase of training. You will have twelve hours to complete your mission. The clock starts when your feet hit dirt. Any questions?

All eight seniors shook their heads. Killian’s swam a little at the movement, as did everyone else’s, he was sure, when Valley Forge slithered into the gravitational pull of Veritas. It was nothing compared to breathing the nitrous-oxide-heavy air on the planet.

We’ll be on the ground shortly, at which point you will be under the direct charge of Corporal Sowell, and your team will be on its own.

With that, Moore released her grip on the overhead bar, wobbled to her seat by the crewmen, and strapped in.

Corporal Tom Sowell sat kitty-corner from Killian, next to Tyla Mitchell. They almost cooed with each other in private chatter. Sowell’s confident smile irritated the shit out of Killian. They would be an item if Tyla were not always behaving possessively toward Killian, as if the two of them were in a relationship. Sure, there was that one time where he broke his personal vow to stay out of romantic entanglements. He focused his entire being on training, even beyond the curricula, with unsanctioned sparring with underclass tyros who had shown interest and potential. The only upside to his moment of weakness with Tyla was that she perpetually rebuffed Sowell’s advances. Sowell did everything in his power to stay close to her. Killian knew of Sowell’s frustration and kept up the ruse with her just to annoy him.

Tyla stole a glance at Killian and smiled. He gave her a curt thumbs-up and looked away.

The shuttle jolted, crashing through air currents and air pockets in the atmosphere, the first of many. Anyone not strapped in would have slammed against the craft’s ceiling. As it was, the straps bit into his collarbones. Killian wedged his fingers under the straps to cushion further jolts. He had a newfound appreciation for the training armor they usually wore.

Killian examined the other senior tyros, most of whom had their eyes closed, almost prayerful, and fingers similarly gripped around their restraints.

The plan, if that’s what it could be called, was feeble at best. Overly simplistic. Distraction here, mad dash there. He was shocked as shit that Captain Alan had signed off on it. However, Sowell was authoritative as hell when it came to writing, a master at wordsmithing military planning speak.

Sowell didn’t even consult Killian, the only tyro with any combat experience—690 days, no less, of ruthless, savage hell in Bangkok.

Sowell had dismissed his input. We’re not in real combat, Killian. The things you’re suggesting are too dangerous. This is an exercise. No one is supposed to get hurt.

Killian’s ideas, Sowell asserted, were overkill and chaotic.

Killian decided then and there to shut up and go with it. He was committed to stick with the plan. The trouble was, it was doomed to fail. And with that, they’d have to recycle weeks, possibly a month, before they’d get another chance. Deploying with an actual Black Saber unit would be that much further away. That much longer until he could be part of a serious force against the tyranny of the Global Alliance and the Carthenogens. He had had enough play acting. He needed to deploy.

Killian winced as he slammed into his restraints again.

The plan was childish. Everything since he had been pulled out of Bangkok was childish. Basic training on Earth, the qualifying mission on Veritas, the Black Saber training—that was actually some seriously good shit. The endless regimentation and overemphasis on safety at every turn would not prepare the tyros for when bullets started to fly, troops started to die, and everyone shit their pants. He found some solace that he was able to discreetly give worthy tyros a dose of reality. Nothing like a punch to the helmet to make a tyro appreciate the grueling business of combat. There was no training like the havoc of actual combat. Killian was the only tyro who could grasp the distinction.

***

Gunny Moore tossed a box onto the ground. Last chance for food and water. The clock is running.

With that, the ramp raised, and the Valley Forge lifted off, a swirl of dust and sand in its wake.

They formed up, crouching in a circle, rubbing their collarbones. The anesthetic effects of the nitrous oxide would help alleviate the pain soon.

Alright, listen up. We no longer have a map, so you have to rely on your memory. Let’s do a quick review. Sowell drew a map in the sand, with Alpha Base as a square in the middle. Then he drew zigzag lines to represent the treacherously sharp, rock-festooned mountains all around. Squad Two—Avery, Bubbleton, Gomez, and Lawrence—you’re to head north and individually take up positions near the landing pad and supply depot. Sowell drew squares representing the external facilities. Stay low, do recon, and get there as quickly as you can undetected.

The four of them nodded.

Squad One will rally by the south access point to Alpha Base, a hundred yards away. He drew a wide circle farther out from the base. Vasquez and I will circle around the north and west, while Killian and Corporal Mitchell swing from the east and head south.

What? Killian thought for sure that Sowell would team with Tyla. Hell, they’d miss their chance to rub noses and frolic. That was bizarre. Not as strange as Sowell addressing her as Corporal, as if that sufficiently cloaked his affection for her.

Timing is important, Sowell continued. Without comms, we will use environmental factors as our guide. When Juno crests the mountain ridge, Squad Two, you will apprehend any accessible defenders, seize their weapons, then capture or mock-kill any other defenders you find. While Squad Two creates a commotion, Squad One will assault the south door, overtake any tyros stationed there, and slip inside the building. Once inside, we’ll have a straight shot to the command center and win the exercise.

Killian resisted the urge to slap his forehead in exasperation. He grimaced rather than nod along with the others.

Remember, don’t make any aggressive moves until Juno actually clears the ridge.

Tyla raised her hand. Sowell pointed to her.

It will still be pretty dark until Juno rises. You’ll be dizzy from the atmosphere. Best to move slowly.

Good point. Thank you, Corporal. Vasquez, you’re with me. Corporal Mitchell, you’re with Killian. Move in twos, leapfrogging each other. One moves while the other keeps watch. We’ve got about two hours to get into position.

Easy, cheesy, Vasquez said.

Let’s take five to fuel up. Last chance, Sowell said.

They unwrapped food bars and tore open pouches of water as Sowell continued. Prior operations always waited until the last hour before beginning their assaults. We’ll be on the early side, catch them with their pants down. With this plan, we’ll be done in a few hours.

Some strategy.

Killian chewed his food bar but had trouble swallowing it, just like the plan. He forced himself to do both. The pretend wars were driving him nuts. He had to get back to the real war, on a real team engaged in real combat. None of the other tyros seemed to comprehend that do-overs in the field did not exist. Real combat was full of fear and deadly surprises.

Everyone ready? Sowell asked.

Ooh-rah! Avery said.

Remember your disarming moves, Vasquez said. Take their shit, and make ‘em eat it.

Disarm them and make them stand down. Announce that they’re dead. That’s the rules, Sowell said. No violence, and no injuries.

Shit! How about disarm and disembowel? Rules subordinated effectiveness.

Killian took no comfort in the idea that, someday, in the thick of a firefight, these tyros might say to themselves, Hey, that Killian dude was right. This is no game! By then they’d be dead.

Killian emptied his water packet. They didn’t have any gear to saddle up. They just stood and put their trash back in the box. Tidy fighters, no less.

Killian felt the swimmy effects of the nitrous oxide. The time for persuasion had long passed.

Keep your game face on, get with the team, and get on with it, he resolved.

This team was the only one he had had since Bangkok. They took classes together and did ops like this together, but they had three hots and a cot and played ping-pong in the rec room. The team was assembled but not forged by blood and suffering. That kind of bond was the real strength of a lethal team.

A memory flashed in his mind from his time as a rebel fighter in Bangkok. He had been with a fire team getting in position for an ambush when the target Global Alliance platoon spotted them. An enemy soldier launched a grenade, and it landed right in their midst. Tran, one of his fellow rebels, picked it up and hurled it back, but it exploded ten feet from his grip. The rebels scattered, but Tran died from the shrapnel. The ultimate sacrifice for his fellow rebels.

Squad Two went north, their feet whisper quiet in the sand.

Sowell led the way, followed by Vasquez, Tyla, and Killian.

The high probability for failure on this op throbbed like a migraine. They’d all flunk and recycle. Killian couldn’t let them fail.

Hey, Tyla, Vasquez said in a playful tone. Let’s hold hands!

Vasquez . . . really?

Can the chatter, Sowell said in his best command voice. Quit playing around.

That’s right, Sowell, Killian thought. Time to stop playing around.

2

Monday, July 15, 2075

Black Saber Field Operative Team

Sector 27

Aboard the Diridian Merchant Ship, Loonca

The Black Saber assault team commander, op handle Jokester, tried to quell the gnawing feeling that this op would go south like the others.

He floated amongst the refuse and salvage discards in the trash evacuation chamber. He and three of his team would be discharged into space to create a field of chaff around the Diridian merchant vessel, Loonca.

The team selected scrap with no sharp edges that might pierce the soft joints of their tactical, armored pressure suits. The armor changed colors to match their surroundings and made it difficult for them to see each other amongst the junk.

After two hours of loading the large, weightless debris into the chamber, the team was running low on air. With their own Helix fighter craft, the Apogee, nearly a thousand miles away to their port side, hidden behind an asteroid on a parallel trajectory, they had no ability to recharge their oxygen, as Diridian equipment was incompatible with theirs.

We’re in position, Squeegee, Jokester said over comms.

Roger that, Jokester. A Carthenogen craft has departed formation and is bound for us, about one hundred thousand miles out.

They’ll be here shortly, Solid Blue said.

Solid Blue and Squeegee were aboard the bridge of the Loonca cooperating with the Diridians, who had experienced a multitude of seizures by the Carthenogens. A transport tax, they were told. However, it often meant the loss of their entire payload of Ilium, an industrial-quality metal the Diridians mined and exported. On more than a few occasions, the entire vessel had been seized and the crew tossed into space. The Diridians were more than happy to participate in an ambush proposed by the Black Saber team, especially if it meant the acquisition of Carthenogen weapons and sundry supplies they could sell on the black market.

Good, Jokester said. We’re low on air, so they’ll have to be here in ten, or we’ll have to scrub.

Discharge anyway, sir? Or should we wait until they’re closer?

Discharge now, Squeeg. But give us a countdown so we’re ready for the release.

Roger that, Solid Blue said. Ten, nine, eight . . ..

Jokester bore an undue amount of anxiety over this op. He’d lost three men in the past three months, and the burden of their deaths was ever present and growing. The men had died because of bad luck rather than operational failure, but that didn’t help his sense of responsibility—and guilt.

As the countdown continued, Jokester looked at his three other assault team members. You guys good?

Money Man, Dutch, and O’Knight each gave him a thumbs-up.

This kind of op was nothing unusual. Hide amongst a field of debris as a Carthenogen patrol approached to seize a merchant vessel. It typically went down without a hitch, and they’d been very successful at destroying more than a dozen Carthenogen patrol craft. This time, getting the necessary scrap into the evac chamber had taken a bit longer than usual. Diridian merchant ships had no gravity in their payload areas and no air. As a result, they had to do the entire job in their tactical pressure suits. They no longer had the luxury of time. They had to board quickly and destroy the patrol craft in under twenty minutes.

Entirely achievable, Jokester assured himself. But he couldn’t shake the nagging what ifs that could go wrong and cost more lives. Was proceeding with oxygen indicators in the orange zone asking for disaster, or was he letting recent casualties shake his confidence? He reasoned that if his team hadn’t suffered losses, they would have proceeded with confidence. Then again, had their team culture of taking risks resulted in the losses? The choice was always risk and effectiveness versus safety and ineffectiveness. Maintaining the offensive was critical to seizing the initiative. Jokester concluded that changing now would shake everyone up and render the team useless.

. . . two, one, Solid Blue’s voice said the instant before the evac chamber’s doors popped outward.

Rather than burst into space, the away team pushed the contents out carefully. The normal burst method would have sent the junk spreading out into space indefinitely. They wanted to keep it close to the Diridian craft.

The assault team pushed chunks of debris to spread them out, then clung to pieces to ride and hide, their pressure armor changing color, chameleon-like, to match their respective debris. They glided alongside the Diridian craft at half-light speed but drifted away ever so slowly. The assault team used the directional jets of their tac suits to steer their chosen hunks of scrap back toward the merchant vessel. Despite their mass, it was as easy as guiding balloons back on Earth.

The interior of each helmet’s opaque face shield displayed a holographic image of everything before them, with near objects highlighted in blue, distant objects in amber, and approaching objects in red, flashing if they were approaching quickly. They saw each other highlighted in green. Each time they hit a nav jet, a purple blinker displayed on the holograms to warn the others, followed by thin purple lines and diminishing arrows indicating the change in direction and the new trajectory. The holograms provided the depth perception they needed, especially in space, where the environmental void made distance imperceptible.

Squeegee broke the silence from the Diridian bridge. Jokester, we have a problem.

Go ahead, Squeeg.

We’ve lost signal on the crunk ship.

Have they rejoined the convoy?

No, sir. They just disappeared. We were tracking them and their deceleration, but then the signal winked out.

What was their last trajectory?

It was on course for us, but now I have nothing.

Could they have collided with anything?

No asteroids between us, no indication of explosions, no interference, just gone.

Should we scrub, sir? Money Man asked.

Patience, Money, Jokester said. We can hang for ten. If they’re truly gone, we’ll scrub and get back on board. Comm check.

Rather than dwell on what might be wrong, he got the team to focus on operational necessities and made sure each team member’s gear was performing correctly.

Dutch, check.

Money Man, check.

O’Knight, check.

Still got the albatross? Jokester asked. In addition to the normal assault gear, a neoprene satchel containing a Carthenogen video camera and crunk scimitar was tethered to O’Knight. It was a burden they’d rather not take, but it was essential to the mission.

Right here, O’Knight replied.

Don’t let it tangle on anything, Solid Blue said from the Diridian bridge.

Roger that. Away team is five by five, Jokester said. Ambush team?

Chef, Taco, Mudpie, and Paki checked in from the Loonca’s vast payload area, where they waited for the crunk thugs to board.

How’s the ‘nest’ Gonzo? Jokester inquired of their Black Saber tactical fighter craft, the Apogee. His signal had to be relayed and boosted, as his tactical comms couldn’t reach the thousand miles.

Gonzo and Curry are five by five, Squeegee replied.

Good. We’ll give it a few and see what shows up. Keep an eye on the clock, Squeeg.

Their specialized tactical assault team defied ordinary platoon structure, a collection of NCOs and officers hand selected for their skills rather than a rigid pecking order. Their junior-most ranks were corporals, as all those who finished the intense Black Saber training were meritoriously promoted. The team had been together for over a year, with Solid Blue and Jokester having been together for nearly five years.

Jokester suspected the team was secretly looking for an opportunity to scrub, as this mission had a greater purpose than the usual breach and destroy. None of them liked the mission objective, as the appearances were intentionally embarrassing. But it was a necessary evil for the sake of the larger plan. It was a virtual suicide mission, but then, any rational person would consider each of their missions suicidal. Such high risk was crucial to their success. More than anything, Jokester wanted his team intact at the other end of it. The team’s confidence was already shaken. Any more deaths, and he feared confidence in his leadership would be shattered.

Still no sign of them, Squeegee said.

It’s getting close to scrub time, Solid Blue replied.

Don’t be such a mother hen, Jokester said. We’re not scrubbing until we absolutely have to.

Seconds ticked by like minutes. The away team floated, periodically correcting their drift to keep within a hundred yards of the Diridian vessel.

Anything, Squeeg?

Not a thing, sir.

Alright, air’s low, so let’s wrap it up.

One sec, sir, Money Man said. I got a visual.

You sure about that?

Each member of the away team concentrated their attention directly behind. Sure enough, a speck appeared at their six o’clock in a circle of blinking amber. Their face shields were adept at picking out specks of light that hadn’t been there before.

Helmet’s visual sensor estimates them at five miles out, sir, Money Man said.

I’ve still got nothing, Squeegee replied.

This doesn’t feel right, sir, Solid Blue said. Maybe we should go to plan B.

They had enough air to safely re-board the merchant ship and regroup, but they’d still be too short to wage an assault under an alternate plan. Jokester suspected that both the away team and the ambush team wanted to get to the safety of the bridge sooner rather than later to regroup. But with an imminent boarding, they couldn’t change plans.

Let’s cool our jets and wait it out, Jokester said. We’re going to have to thread the needle on this one, gents.

They watched and waited. The Carthenogen craft seemed to be taking much longer than expected. Without any visual reference, they could only approximate the distance by the size of the craft. Normally, once they spotted one on their tail, it was only a matter of minutes before contact. This one appeared to be approaching slower than normal.

Maybe this one’s bigger, Money Man said.

Jokester was certain the chill he felt also ran through each of his team members. They were able to deal with a patrol-sized craft, but a full-on battle cruiser would be an extraordinary challenge. It meant more hostile forces to defeat, and that would consume precious air. They might all suffocate in the midst of the assault.

Breathe slowly, everybody, was all Jokester could suggest.

***

This is no ordinary patrol vessel, sir, O’Knight said.

No . . . it’s not, Jokester agreed.

I’ve still got nothing, sir. I’m blind to whatever it is, Squeegee said.

Should we pull back, sir? Solid Blue asked. It’s not worth the risk if it ain’t crunk.

It looks like a cargo vessel. Definitely crunk, sir, Money Man said. That thing is huge!

Jokester weighed their options. The pursuing Carthenogen craft was, according to their helmets’ visual sensors, several times the size of the Diridian vessel. A cargo vessel meant fewer hostiles, which meant it would be easier to take. However, it altered the mission’s objective substantially. News of Black Saber destroying a non-military vessel would be bad all around.

My helmet’s getting a read, sir, O’Knight said. It’s a Carthenogen Pan-Ultima-class cargo vessel.

That meant it was roughly six thousand feet long, as long as the Burj Khalifa tower in Dubai was tall, times two. It was three times as long as the biggest colonization ships Earth had. Such ships were common in Earth orbit, but what was it doing there trying to seize the Loonca?

That’s pretty ballsy, merchants raiding merchants, Dutch said.

If it’s truly a cargo vessel, they’ll have a skeleton crew, Jokester replied. Resistance will be low, so, I say we follow through. They’re going to board us regardless. His intuition was screaming that the mission was going sideways. Squeeg, how can you not have a read on this thing?

Don’t know, sir. I can still see the convoy out there, but not this thing.

It’s a monster, sir, Money Man said. I don’t think our explosives will be enough to take it out.

We’ve got enough to blow the bridge, Jokester said. That’ll disable it. That’s all we need.

A bolt of energy emitted from the front end of the approaching vessel and flashed past the Diridian craft with barely enough angle to miss.

I got that warning blast, sir. Sensors are lighting up now, Squeegee said. It’s a Carthenogen interplanetary cargo vessel. Bigger than a Pan Ultima, according to the profile, eight thousand feet long, five hundred by five hundred feet high and wide.

Jokester couldn’t scrub the mission now. They had boarded under worse circumstances with more hostiles. Oxygen would be the issue, and it would only be found at the bridge of the crunk vessel. With a ship a mile and a half in length, reaching the front end would take a lot of time.

It’s slowing to match our speed, Squeegee said. It’s coming in hot, sir. Too hot.

"Goose the Loonca if you have to, to avoid collision, Squeeg," Jokester said. A collision could kill the team hiding in the payload. Altering speeds would leave the away team behind. They had to grab on or be lost adrift.

Goosing now, sir.

Three short bursts from the Diridian craft sent it moving forward. The assault team was suddenly a thousand feet behind it, the distance growing greater every second. Their tac suits’ navigational jets could never catch up.

Dive, dive, dive! Jokester called out.

The team abandoned the hunks of metal behind which they were hiding and made a mad dash to collide with the Carthenogen craft. Their tac suits changed to matte black as their nav jets propelled them.

Although the vessel slowed to rendezvous with the Diridian craft, it was still approaching dangerously fast. They risked bouncing off and away with no hope of jetting back. The Apogee would have to come and find their suffocated carcasses, provided exploded bits of ship weren’t floating around.

The size of the Carthenogen craft became more intimidating the closer it got. They could easily wind up like bugs splattered on its bumper. The front end of the Pan Ultima opened geometrically shaped panels, the orifice as wide as the ship itself, so big it could swallow the Diridian craft whole.

I’ve got three minutes of air, sir, Money Man said.

Me, too, O’Knight added.

Thread the needle, boys, Jokester said. We’ve done it before.

The cargo vessel sped by like a shark in pursuit of a smaller fish. They fired their nav jets to slow their approach and skim along the port side, their holograms exploding with flashes of purple.

The cargo vessel’s surface raced past, casting them in black shadow. They applied more jets, zooming closer. The differential in speed was as if they had leapt from an eight-thousand-foot tower and were plummeting to the ground. Too fast to reach out and grab it. The holograms lit up with proximity readings. They hit their reverse thrusters. It would be a bad thing to smack into the side of the speeding ship and bounce away.

Dutch, watch out! Money Man called.

A mast protruding from the side of the Carthenogen vessel approached Dutch like a speeding baseball bat, flashing bright red inside their face shields. Dutch hit his jets to avoid it, but it clipped his foot. He spun away. Without a solid bearing, his jets would only spin him in random directions.

O’Knight came up behind Dutch and grabbed his pack. He hit his jet on the opposing side to reverse Dutch’s spin, a frequently practiced maneuver called an eagle fuck. They both slowed but still spun. O’Knight timed his jet spurts and brought them under control. When they oriented themselves, they both hit their jets and resumed their progress toward the craft.

The end of this tank is in sight, sir, Money Man warned.

Ram and grab! Ram and grab! Jokester said.

They goosed their jets again and approached the speeding hulk.

It’s too fast, sir, O’Knight said. It’s like trying to grab a freight train.

Position yourself so you’re facing aft, then brace your weapons against your center of mass and fire.

It was a supremely risky move but the only chance they had at matching speed. The least bit off center, and they would spin out of control again. The least bit of crossfire could disintegrate another teammate.

They watched as the rear end of the craft approached. A side stabilizer wing was heading toward them, strobing fast in bright red. They were spread out with fifty feet between them in every direction.

Fire when ready, Jokester said.

They began firing, and the powerful blasts propelled them forward, their speed approaching that of the vessel so they could grab something. With no need for aerodynamics, the hull was covered with bulging seams and reinforced welds.

Keep firing! Jokester said.

After a dozen more blasts, they matched the speed and were able to use their jets to snag a seam a few yards shy of the stabilizer wing. Everything appeared motionless, and the red flashing in their hologram displays ceased.

We’ve got contact, Jokester said.

We’re kissing distance from the bow, sir, Squeegee reported from the Diridian bridge.

I’m running out of air! Dutch said. His voice wheezed, hyperventilating as he sucked every atom of oxygen inside his suit.

Grab onto the albatross, O’Knight said.

Dutch snagged the neoprene-clad sword, and O’Knight pulled them both along a protruding seam.

Where to, now, sir? Money Man asked.

There’s likely a service hatch by the stabilizer. Find it.

They moved along parallel seams toward the aft end. The stabilizer wing was connected to the hull by way of an axle, ten feet in diameter. The axle penetrated the hull through a well with just enough room to squeeze in. Money Man did so to inspect. Despite the blackness, their face shield holograms made the interior of the axle well appear as clear as daylight.

We’ve got a hatch, sir. With no need for security, opening it was a matter of pulling a lever on the hatch surface. It released, but the hatch was designed to swing inward, and interior pressure kept the hatch from opening on its own. Money Man braced his feet on the axle and pushed with his shoulder. It’s got air inside! he groaned, his feet slipping on the greasy axle.

That was unusual. Most cargo vessels had no air except for the bridge and crew quarters.

I can’t do it, sir. Pressure inside is keeping the hatch shut. I can move it an inch or so, but it’s pretty strong.

Dutch, Jokester said, You still with us?

Barely, sir, O’Knight answered for him. He’s convulsing, fighting for air.

Hand him off to me, and use that scimitar to help Money pry that hatch open.

O’Knight complied. Jokester grabbed Dutch and pulled their helmets together. With helmets in contact, he could see Dutch’s face, which was contorting, his eyes wide and rolling about, his chest heaving for air. He was in the beginning stages of hypoxia. Much longer and he’d be comatose and likely suffer irrevocable brain damage.

In the sliver of time they had, Jokester pulled the emergency oxygen cartridge from his tac suit and inserted the nozzle into a valve on Dutch’s helmet. He only had time for two quick blasts. He hoped this wasn’t the first casualty of a doomed mission. He struggled to banish the negative thoughts.

O’Knight joined Money Man in the axle well. He unsheathed the five-foot-long scimitar, a crunk sword of considerable weight and strength.

Pry it open and hope they have segmented passages, Jokester said. Otherwise, we’ll be waiting forever for millions of cubic feet of air to escape.

O’Knight wedged the tip of the blade while Money Man pushed. He wrestled it deeper along the bottom of the hatch to create a larger gap for the air to escape. He braced his feet on the sides of the hatch and pried with all his strength. He, too, was nearly out of air. All that precious air escaping was ironic, like dying of thirst while adrift in the ocean. Within moments, the rush of air emanating from the hatch slowed, and Money Man was able to push it open and relieve O’Knight’s prying effort.

We’re in, sir.

Money Man pushed in, followed by O’Knight. Jokester guided Dutch’s limp body into the axle well and then through the hatch. As soon as he got through, he felt gravity pull him to the floor of a passageway. Dutch’s body thumped softly to the deck.

Money Man closed the hatch. Whatever air might have saved them was gone. All they had left was their emergency oxygen cartridges.

O’Knight was already bounding toward another hatch, a small amount of gravity drawing him to the deck, frustrating his progress. Every step he took, he exerted too much force for the gravity, and he bounced off the walls.

Jokester gave Dutch what remained of his oxygen. He snapped the empty canister back to his suit, then used Dutch’s. Come on, man! Keep with us! Breathe! He gave another blast and shook him some more. Finally, Dutch’s chest heaved to suck in the dose of oxygen. Jokester gave him another shot.

Looks like he’s coming around, boss, Money Man said. He retrieved his own air canister and did the same for himself. Ah, I so needed that. I was getting tunnel vision.

Squeegee, we’re in, Jokester said over comms.

No response.

Squeegee, do you copy?

Still no response.

Could be the hull’s radiation shielding is blocking our signal, Money Man said.

Let’s hope it’s going well up there. O’Knight, what do you got? Jokester asked as he watched Dutch’s face come back to life.

Another hatch, sir. Same, same. Air on the other side causing pressure, but not so much differential that I can’t push it open.

He did so, and the pressure equalized with a gust, then eased off as the passageway they were in was contained. O’Knight tugged at the release on his helmet and removed it. He gasped for air.

It’s good, sir! he shouted, detached from comms.

Jokester popped off his helmet and sucked in air. Money Man kept his helmet on for another moment, savoring the comparative density of oxygen it offered.

You good, Dutch? Jokester asked.

Dutch nodded inside his helmet. Feeling better, sir. Kind of like recovering from a chokehold. I’ll be good in a sec. He moved his limbs to get his blood pumping and supply his extremities with oxygen-saturated blood.

Jokester continued breathing heavily, as if he’d just finished a sprint at high altitude. The air was light on oxygen, but it was there.

Money Man looked around. Why do you suppose there’s any air at all in this tank, sir?

Jokester shook his head. Don’t know, but it just saved our asses. Any headaches? He was looking for signs of edema, fluid buildup in the brain from lack of oxygen.

Money Man rubbed the back of his head with his gloved hand. Slight.

A bit, sir, O’Knight called out.

I’m good, sir, Dutch said, sitting up.

They were all lying, Jokester figured. Their heads were probably pounding like his, but they weren’t about to lounge around sucking on their air canisters and let the mission go south. Let’s get moving then. Face shields up.

It took a few moments to unlock the face shields and slide them back. Moments later, they were on the move. Dutch had a slight limp from getting his foot whacked.

Why the air, sir? Dutch asked. Why the gravity?

Must be something about the cargo. Maybe something alive. Usually, interplanetary cargo was inert, requiring neither air nor gravity.

They made their way toward the front of the vessel, over a mile forward. They passed through multiple hatches meant to stave off air escape in case of a hull breach or the opening of external service hatches like the one they’d entered. Money Man took care to close each hatch behind them.

We’ve got an interior hatch, sir, O’Knight said. Probably goes to the payload.

Check it out, Jokester said, catching up.

O’Knight yanked the lever down. The door pushed inward, a standard design for keeping pressure on the other side from escaping. He had to use less force.

Oh, God! Must be something dead in there! O’Knight covered his mouth and nose with his hand as air escaped into the passageway.

Dutch sniffed cautiously. "Smells like a sewer. Maybe the crunks store their