C-Surfer: Sabotage Threatens Sol System Defense’S Newest Fighter Ship

By J. M. Krause

Private Cory Reddick is haunted by his past. As a teenager, he had a different name: Geoff Anders. Back then, he testified against a vicious gang, and his family was hidden by the witness protection program. Now armed with a new name and superior reflexes, Cory starts over with Sol System Defense. Their newest ship, c-Surfer, needs his talents.

The c-Surfer test flight program is in trouble. The spaceship is beautiful, but it has its share of problems. Corys extraordinary reflexes could be the answer to saving c-Surfer, but his past may be catching up with him. The trouble he had with the gangs on Station One now threatens his friends, his family, and his crew.

Vengeful gang members will stop at nothing to get to him, including sabotaging his ship and murdering the people he loves most. It might be in his best interest to leave in order to protect his friendsbut doing so could mean the end of c-Surfer. Either way, Corys decision will have repercussions, and the consequences could be deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491716946

J. M. Krause

J. M. Krause has been writing for more than twenty years. She is an award-winning journalist who received the Canadian Community Newspaper Association Bronze Quill. c-Surfer is her second published novel.

Book preview

c-SURFER

Sabotage Threatens Sol System Defense’s Newest Fighter Ship

Copyright © 2014 J.M. Krause.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1693-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1695-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1694-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921916

iUniverse rev. date: 01/06/2014

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Appendix

c-Surfer is dedicated to everyone who is helping me along my writing journey: my family, friends, the members of the Writers’ Guild of Alberta Edmonton critique group, and the Science Fiction Writers Workshop critique group.

Chapter One

Private Cory Reddick bolted out of the elevator and down the station corridor. He stopped in front of the Security corporal guarding the door to Room 1132.

ID, she ordered.

He held out his left forearm, so her scanner could read his implant.

Retina too. She lifted her screen, silently instructing him to look into the lenses embedded in its side.

He tried to stop panting so the unit could focus.

When it beeped, the corporal said, Go in. You’re late.

Cory took a deep breath and stepped through the door into the front of an amphitheater-style lecture hall. Half its seats were occupied by junior officers and enlisted personnel, all of whom were in uniform. A female lieutenant colonel sat in front of the console at the far front of the room and a male colonel on the stool beside the lectern console, facing the crowd.

The colonel stood up and said, You must be Private Reddick.

Yes, sir. Cory froze at attention.

Take a seat. The colonel pointed to the tiered rows of chairs.

Sir? Cory looked at the diagnostic scanner clutched in his left hand and back at the senior officer. He was always a little spacey the day after he had nightmares about his lost family, but this order would have made no sense even if he had been mentally alert.

Sit, ordered the colonel impatiently. You are not here to fix anything.

Yes, sir. The tools in Cory’s belt pouch clinked as he strode up the nearest aisle, his boots silent on the rubbery black flooring that covered the metal deck. He glanced at the crowd, trying to pick out anyone who might have known him by his old name. If anyone here could recognize him as Geoff Anders, he would run out faster than he had come in.

Officers in royal-blue dress uniforms filled the chairs at the front. Behind them sat enlisted personnel, most of them also in dress uniforms but a few in the darker-blue work dress. Cory’s loose navy coveralls definitely stood out. He ascended to the empty seats halfway up the hall without spotting a familiar face. He knew there shouldn’t be, but changes in routine made him nervous.

The light-brown skin of Cory’s face reddened under the stares from the others. He blushed harder and silently cursed as he slid into a seat beside a private wearing the insignia of kitchen staff.

Okay, now for the nitty-gritty, the colonel said. Heads turned back to the front.

The private beside Cory gave him a furtive thumbs up from below the armrest of his seat. Cory nodded in acknowledgment of the friendly gesture and tried to smooth his hair. At the best of times it could be called wavy. After his frantic dash to get here, he was sure it resembled a pile of the chocolate curls cooks sprinkled on desserts.

Cory’s dark hair topped slightly arched eyebrows above wide-spaced, deep brown eyes. He had a short, straight nose, well-defined lips, and a pointed chin. Even with his prominent cheekbones and angular jawline, he was described as cute by people who did not notice the tension lines beside his mouth and the cold wariness that frequently characterized his expression.

Like I said, this whole program is an experiment, the colonel continued. Cory adjusted the tiny holoview in the arm of his chair so he could read the speaker’s name tag: Jablonski.

For the first couple of weeks, we’ll be partnering you up to see how well you work together, said Colonel Jablonski. Half of you drivers are already pilots. The rest of you are here because you’ve demonstrated the reflexes we need. In a few weeks, we’ll know if it’s possible to fly this proposed ship.

As he lectured about some ship that required a flight operations computer tech, a pilot, and a driver—not necessarily a pilot—with super reflexes and control, Cory relaxed and watched the people listening. They must have included him as a maintenance technician behind the program security wall, someone to keep things working for all these space-happy officers.

Why would they make him sit through this stupid lecture for that? he wondered. Weren’t they supposed to ask for volunteers for this stuff? How tight was security here, anyway? Would he be allowed out for his game tonight?

That about does it, Colonel Jablonski said. These are your program officers: Lieutenant Colonel Sarnelli, Major Devlin, and Captain Coombes.

Sarnelli rose from her console at the front, nodded briefly, and sat back down. Her dark eyes focused on her holoview as an air vent blew wisps of her light-brown hair back from her face.

Devlin and Coombes left their seats in the front row of the amphitheater to go and stand beside Jablonski. Major Devlin was thin and erect, his dark-brown hair cut very short above a narrow face that seemed more accustomed to frowning than smiling. Captain Coombes was a large man, with reddish-brown hair and a skiff of mustache above thick lips.

Those of you who haven’t signed into your seats do so now, Coombes boomed in a voice that any drill sergeant would envy.

Cory hesitantly rested his forearm on the little screen forming the base of the holoview. Now what? He preferred to be invisible to senior officers, and the brass down there were sure to have questions when they saw what his identification displayed—or didn’t.

Lieutenant Colonel Sarnelli inspected the images on the console before her and then looked up at Cory. He inwardly winced, knowing she was questioning why his picture did not show up with the rest of his information.

She touched something on her console, and her voice came of the armrest’s speaker: Private Reddick, there’s a—

Cory quickly switched his receiver to text-only, so the people around him would not hear her. Her words appeared on his screen beneath the little holo-cube.

—fault in your console. Transmit from the next seat.

It’s not a fault, ma’am, Cory said softly. His identification holograms in both his implant and his file of record needed authorization to be viewed and could not be copied.

Move. Her spoken word flashed silently onto the screen in front of Cory, but he still felt the force behind that order.

Yes, ma’am. Cory reached over to the next seat and set his arm on the screen. She wasn’t going to get any more information. He silently prayed she wouldn’t make an issue of it in front of all these people.

Lieutenant Colonel Sarnelli scowled at her monitor and back up at Cory. He moved his arm to watch her words form.

Your implant isn’t reading properly. Get it reissued. I’ll pull a file image.

Yes, ma’am, said Cory. What would she do when she discovered she couldn’t get a picture of him? Would she push an investigation far enough to attract the attention of the Lung families, of Chin and Lui? Geoff didn’t know how to find his lost parents and sister, but he had no doubt that if his enemies back on Station One found him, they would also locate his family. And they would blackmail him again with threats to kill them—or worse.

That is all, Captain Coombes said.

Geoff blinked and looked around; he needed to reestablish himself in the present.

Everyone whose indicator blinks yellow, go with Colonel Sarnelli. Coombes pointed to the left. Blues go that way, he said, as he pointed to Major Devlin waiting beside the door Cory had entered. The rest of you stay here. You’re the drivers.

No light showed beside Cory’s elbow. Shock blanked his mind, which did not begin to work again until almost two-thirds of the crowd had left and Captain Coombes ordered everyone to move closer to the front.

Cory went up to him, came to attention, and said, Sir, there’s been a mistake. I don’t belong here.

Coombes frowned down at Cory and said, The army believes that you can learn to do what a pilot and flight operations officer tell you fast enough to take a ship where they want to go during this experiment. Sit. He pointed at the rows of seats.

Yes, sir. Cory sat. This had to be more of that reflexes study. That would explain his not being given even a token opportunity to volunteer. He had signed all kinds of forms during the reflex tests.

Listen up, boomed Coombes. "This is part of the c-Surfer project. I am not speaking about large bodies of salt water; I refer to the lowercase c that means ‘light speed.’"

Excited murmurs from the assembled drivers filled the lecture hall. Coombes spoke over them.

A Keymer II can do more than half the speed of light on a long trip, and large ships can’t brake it off fast, so what they figure is to get you to go out in little rider ships in front of the big ship and blast any rocks or pirates or smugglers out of the way.

This time Coombes paused to allow the wave of excitement to die down before he continued. Your job in this ship is twofold, he explained. You’re to instantly do whatever your tech and pilot order; they input the information into the computer that tells you where to drive. Yes, Corporal?

Why not have the computer do the maneuvering, sir?

We tried that. Coombes paced across the front of the room as he spoke. After we lost two crews, we decided a human element is needed in the driver’s seat. Which brings us to the second part of your job. You have to follow your crew’s flight information and put it together in your own mind, so you know if the computer tells you to do something you shouldn’t.

That was impossible! A growing ball of fear embedded itself in Cory’s chest. How had he ended up here? He belonged in Maintenance, where he knew what to do.

We are lab-testing this theory, Coombes finished.

By midmorning they had signed the security affidavits and received their schedules for the next few days. Cory was transferred out of Maintenance, but he got to keep his barracks room and usual lifestyle. This was not a secure program where everyone was isolated in a special section. If it were, if there really was a new kind of ship, they would be out in Station Twelve, near Neptune, or possibly Station Nine, near Saturn.

You’ve got the rest of the morning off, Coombes said. Be back here at thirteen in work dress.

The fifty-five men and women began forming small groups, introducing themselves and talking over their new assignment. Cory left.

He impatiently drummed his fingers on the wall as he took the service elevator up to Air Systems Maintenance. Sol System Defense’s Station Four orbited with Ceres and the community of Tombstone. In addition to the asteroid, the municipality had three man-made stations. The newest one’s lower decks had opened to habitation ten Terran years ago, but the higher levels were still not finished. It was a cylindrical construction with artificial gravity. The other civilian station was forty years old and, like the military’s seventy-five-year-old Station Four, was a spinning donut. Air Maintenance, where Cory had worked for the past eight months, was on an inner, low-gravity deck.

Cory drifted into the section administration area and barely had time to get both feet on the floor when Captain Lukion came to the door of his office and ordered, In here. Lukion had no trace of his usual gingerbread-man smile. He waited until Cory had entered and come to attention, and then he asked, When was the last time you checked your messages?

Sir, Cory said to give himself a moment to think. The captain must mean the station bulletins that showed up on everyone’s military address. Yesterday at sixteen-ten, sir.

You’re supposed to check them every day, said Captain Lukion. Why didn’t you run them this morning?

Sir. I check them every day after my shift, sir.

What if your duty schedule changed?

The sergeant would beep me, sir. Everyone Cory worked with knew he never got up in time to do more than climb into coveralls and grab a bite of breakfast.

Run your messages, Private Reddick. Captain Lukion pointed to the com on his desk.

Yes, sir. Nervous tremors shivered down Cory’s legs as he called up his mail file. There, dated yesterday at 1645, was a transfer ordering him out of Maintenance and into some department with no name, just a number. It was the experimental c-Surfers’ section.

I’ll leave your inattention to orders for your new CO to deal with, Captain Lukion said as Cory blanked the holoview. Sign out of here whenever they give you time.

Yes, sir.

Good luck with your new unit. Captain Lukion stood up and offered Cory his hand.

Thank you, sir. Cory shook hands, saluted, and marched out of the office. He used the remaining time before lunch to sign out of Maintenance and clean out his locker. It was like having to leave home again.

Is this temporary? Sergeant McKenna asked. How long are you gone for?

I don’t know. They said it’s a transfer. Maybe a temporary-duty assignment would feel better, but he didn’t have that option.

"Why you? Who in hell am I going to get to do that ion-blasted tight section in the half-g vents?"

Aurellie. She was the only other tech who could work in there without developing a permanent back kink.

She’s not strong enough.

Cory grinned, a wicked spark brightening his dark eyes.

Send Omar. Cory had worked with Omar a few times. Omar was very strong, and he tried hard, but he usually created a disaster if not closely supervised.

For that cruel and uncalled-for suggestion, Reddick, I hope they’re transferring you to a blue-ioned hell.

Cory shrugged and said, They probably are. Any word on my hooks? He should be getting his promotion to corporal any day.

No. Sergeant McKenna shook his head. Sorry, kid.

Before going for lunch, Cory made a quick trip down to the barracks on deck three. He hadn’t put on a uniform in nearly four months. He usually wore coveralls and avoided places where officers would lecture him on his dress. This rock-brained project was going to cost him at least three new uniforms. At the back of his closet, he found a set of work dress he could still get into, but it fit too snugly over the well-defined muscles that hid his slender bones.

At 1300, Cory rejoined the other young men and women in his new section. Two security barriers later, they entered a large room filled with rows of strange-looking workstations.

Pilots go next door, ordered Captain Coombes. As the junior officers wearing the ringed wings of pilots filed out, Coombes said, The rest of you take your assigned places. First you’ll learn the basic instrumentation, and then you’ll be issued helmets so you can get the feel of things right from the start. We’re on a short timeline, so we’re going to push it.

Cory’s desk looked like an elaborate video game console, with two joysticks and four saucer-shaped foot controls. He quickly learned acceleration, direction changes, and deceleration, but the rest of the instruments remained a mystery.

That’s all you need for now, Coombes said. Watching his large information board, he called out instructions faster and faster.

Some of the drivers could not keep up, but even with Cory’s worry about what Colonel Sarnelli might discover about him, he easily completed all of Coombes’ directions.

Half an hour later, Coombes said, "The helmet people should be ready for you. Get fitted, have a break, and return here with your helmets. You’re going to practice this ’til you can do it blindfolded, and then we’ll make it interesting. That’s when you’ll find out which third of you are going to wash out."

The enlisted trainees walked down the wide corridor, brushing past the leafy branches of almond bushes growing from hydroponic trenches along the walls. Cory rotated his shoulders and carefully stretched. He didn’t want to rip his shirt.

Me too, said Private Bere Tunnicliffe, a stocky woman with shoulder-length black hair. She copied Cory’s upward reach and added, I’m not used to sitting all day.

Most of us aren’t, said the cook Cory had sat beside that morning. His light-blue eyes turned down at the outside corners. Pink skin stretched over his cheekbones, held down his tiny blob of nose, and shone on a round, slightly off-center chin. His name tag read Kamaludin.

I’m Kamal, the young man said. Pride of my father’s loins and fastest blade in the kitchen.

Snickers and snorts filled the hall.

You should see me decimate celery. Kamal pretended to hold a knife and mimed rapid chopping.

I’m Cory.

Ah, Private Late. I wonder what the captain’s going to do to you. Kamal pretended to rip the wide single chevron of a private off his sleeve.

Maybe he’ll forget, Cory said, although he had faint hope of that. More laughter. Cory forced a smile and tried not to think about what would happen when Colonel Sarnelli attempted to copy his file picture.

They entered a meeting room where they saw three people and thirty dark-blue helmets with clear faceplates.

These were all fitted to your file specs, the sergeant in charge said. We’ll try them on you to make sure. She called the six corporals alphabetically and then started on the privates.

While waiting, Cory linked his fingers together, rested his hands on his head, and bent sideways until his right elbow touched his right hip. Then he straightened and repeated it to the left.

Ouch! Kamal put one hand on the small of his back and hunched forward. I think you put my back out.

I got a game tonight, Cory said. If I don’t move around a little, it’ll take forever to warm up. He usually went to the gym an hour before game time, even when he’d spent a busy day in Maintenance.

Private Kamaludin!

Sergeant! Kamal went to get his helmet.

You play soccer? asked Tunnicliffe, twisting her dark hair into a tail behind her back, so it would not interfere with wearing a helmet.

Cory shook his head and replied, Batta ball. He belonged to both a recreational team and a competitive team, and he played or practiced almost every evening.

Batta ball! said Tunnicliffe. I haven’t gone free fall in months. The remainder of the short wait passed with talk of who played what sports and which they liked best.

When Cory tried his helmet on, it fit snugly, like his ball helmet, but it had a much more limited field of vision. It smelled new, too. He took it off and left through the door everyone else had taken once they had their helmets.

It led to a large conference room, with giant wall screens and a couple dozen round tables, each with ten chairs. One table held drinks and snacks. Cory took a decaf coffee, an apple, and a chunk of cheese and sat in the last empty chair at Kamal’s table.

You should try one of these. Kamal waved a half-eaten donut in front of Cory’s face.

Don’t like ’em. Cory wrinkled his nose and leaned back. He hated that sticky-sweet smell. The witness rest area behind the courtroom had always been filled with it. To him it was the odor of the fear and frustration he’d felt during his months of testifying against Chin and Lui.

Hey, Geoff!

Cory froze in panic. Had someone recognized him?

Chapter Two

Not daring to turn around, Cory stared at the tooth marks in Kamal’s donut.

Kamal stood up and caught a red plum with his free hand, his lanky height making it easy for him to reach the fruit that had been thrown from the other side of the room.

Cory squeezed the cup in his hand, so no one would see him shaking. He liked Kamal, but he was going to have to avoid him. He couldn’t risk answering next time someone called ‘Geoff.’

Thanks, Geoff Kamaludin said to the private who had thrown the plum. He sat back down and asked, So what’s your bet? Are we an experiment to make the flyers look good, he questioned, tilting his head to where the pilots sat, or do we really have a chance to drive a new ship?

They need us, said Tunnicliffe. None of them can match our speed. She waved a square hand decorated with four rings and blue and green nail polish toward the tables of officers on the other side of the room.

If the army needs a bunch of cooks, gardeners, and maint-techs to fly their new ship, we might as well all retire, Cory said. If we ever do find a planet full of little green men, we won’t have to worry about defending good old Sol System, because they’ll all die laughing. The possibility of driving a real ship was too scary to think about.

The argument went around the table, grew more heated after the pilots left the improvised coffee room, and continued in the hall leading to the training area. They passed a room where helmeted officers were working at fully lit consoles, their hands and feet busy with movements Cory could now identify as guiding pretend ships. They knew what they were doing. Why was the army bothering with enlisteds like him?

Listen up, Captain Coombes ordered. He lit one of the large wall screens. This is what you’ll see in your helmets. Green lines, and the green numbers below them, tell you where to go. Yellow is ordnance leaving your ship. Black numbers are coordinates. Starting tomorrow, you’ll learn to read them and keep a mental map of where you are. It’s not hard. Most of the time you’ll be traveling in a straight line—very, very fast, but straight. Coombes’ little mustache curled above his smile.

Cory silently groaned. That meant no time for a beer with the team tonight. He had to find out what coordinates were and how they worked. All he knew was that they somehow marked places on the system grid map.

Orange numbers tell you about upcoming obstacles: rocks, gravity wells, other ships, continued Coombes. Put your helmets on and plug in.

Cory followed the green lines, the only things he understood, and ignored all the other numbers and flashes. The lines and numbers continued to dance in front of his eyes when class was dismissed.

Private Reddick, stay here, Captain Coombes ordered before the room emptied.

Yes, sir. Here came the be-on-time lecture. Cory turned back to the front of the room.

On his way out, Kamal distorted his pale face into a grimace before he gave Cory a sympathetic twitch of a smile.

At ease, ordered Coombes. Why were you late this morning?

I didn’t receive the message to be here until just before the meeting started, sir, Cory answered in his talking-to-officers voice: clear, emotionless, and direct, as if he wouldn’t dream of making excuses for anything. It was the way he had been taught to speak in front of a judge in court.

"You