Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (35 page)

“. . . it still bothers me, but the bottomline is that we're going to have to go back,” Captain Prael said. “We've got to drop off the away team. Since the effect stopped as soon as we'd cleared the field, hopefully the away team will not be . . .”

“Stuck in the condition the whole time we're there?” Bill finished. “Yes, sir, agreed. I have to state that if the effect continues, I'm going to have to temporarily turn over command to Captain Zanella, sir. My . . . alter-self is not functional as a commander. He's pure advisor. I don't think I could even engage in combat much less direct it. I'd be all 'this is fascinating, I must figure out the equations . . .' ”

“Well, we're still going to have to go back in,” the CO said. “I'm going to order a stand-down for long enough for you to try to adjust the unloading plan based on the effects. Try to figure out how it will reduce the efficiency of unloading.”

“I actually saw no true reduction in efficiency, sir,” Bill pointed out. “Everything continued to work more or less as it normally would. If anything, there were some enhancements. But I'll try to plug the effect into the plan. I'd better get to work.”

“One thing to keep in mind is that I may not have coveralls,” Miriam pointed out.

“At least you kept more-or-less the same body shape,” Bill replied. “Did you hear about Sub Dude?”

“Three meters . . .” the pilot squeaked. Under the effect of the anime field, the petty officer had shrunk to the size of a large child and had a vaguely monkeylike appearance and long, pointed ears. He also tended to hoot when excited. “Whoot! Whoot! Two meters . . . one . . .  Touchdown. Wheeeee!”

“Landing jacks deployed and locked,” the COB said. He was wearing an outlandish Naval uniform that would have looked well in a Gilbert and Sullivan play, had an eye-patch and was adjusting one of the landing jack controls with a hook. “Leveled on platform, shiver me bones!”

“Reduce counter gravity to fifty percent!” the CO barked against his will, watching the monitors. The landing platform was about six inches thick, nearly a hundred meters across and appeared to have no structural supports. Under the artificial gravity of the docking bay, there was no way it should have been able to support the weight of the Blade. “Mr. Weaver, effects?”

“The platform . . . (puff, puff) appears to be holding. (Puff) Remarkable stuff.”

“Begin! Away Team! Deployment!”

“Nice thing about this shape, wawk wawk wawk waaaah,” Gants said, dragging a huge pile of bundled rations behind him as he knuckle-walked down the ramp—despite the changes in form, his space suit still fit—“We're strong! Strong! STRONG!” He paused and began beating his chest with flapping arms, hooting “WHOO! WHOO! WHOO! WHOOT!”

“I concur,” Red responded in a monotone. He had three similar bundles, one in either hand and one held by a head-strap. He'd put on his space suit and it had immediately disappeared. A short experiment, though, determined that he was able to survive the mildly toxic atmosphere of the space station. What was going to happen when the effect changed was uncertain. “But we mechano-humans are stronger.”

“Cyborgs,” Gants muttered, continuing in his knuckle-drag. “Can't live with 'em, can't trade 'em in for parts.”

“Wyverns,” the cyborg responded. “Clear the Way for our Betters.”

The Wyverns had increased in height, being now over fourteen feet tall instead of nine. They also had more angularity to them, looking something like glittering silver medieval Japanese warriors. Where the black sensor pod had once rested was now a demon face with red-glowing eyes. Besides their standard weapons, which were now “blasters” instead of heavy machine guns, all of them were wearing dual swords on leather belts.

The last two Wyverns, though, were different. The second to the last was a gigantic mechanical spider. Thin trails of webbing could be seen connecting its feet to all the other Wyverns and when it stopped and jerked on one, a Wyvern broke away from the pack to take up a stationary guard position.

The last Wyvern was shorter than even a standard one, small enough it was a wonder anyone could fit in it, had no face but did have a round “helmet” with multiple horns coming out of it and for some reason a long beard jutting out from under it. On its back was a leather rucksack that was nearly the size of the whole Wyvern. It was armed with two large axes and a massive hammer with a head half the size of the entire suit.

“Arrh!” the Wyvern growled. “When I find out who's done this to me, I'm going to pound them into a red gooey pulp, by Moradin's Beard!”

“Portana?” Red asked, suddenly dwindling to Tonka-Toy size, his voice coming out in a squeak. “Is that you?”

“Aye, by Gigli's Silver Pick!” Portana growled. “What's it to yah, Tin-Man?”

“I was simply inquiring,” Red replied, back to normal size.

“Even my space suit is a school-girl outfit,” Miriam said, giggling again. “Oh, God.”

The space suit was skin-tight but had a modest skirt, a button-down shirt and tie and the boots were saddle-loafers. Through the clear visor it was apparent that her eyes were back to filling most of her head.

“It'll be fine when the ship leaves,” Gants said, knuckle-walking over to her and patting her on the fanny. “Whoot! I touched her butt! I touched her butt!”

“Hands off!” Miriam snapped, backhanding the orang.

The strike should have barely been a love-tap. Instead, the machinist was knocked head-over-heels and rolled at least ten feet. At the end of the roll, he sat up and shook his head comically.

“Whoa! She's got a slap like being kicked by a Wyvern!”

“Get back to work,” Chief Gestner snarled. The chief had transformed into a lumpy troglodytic humanoid with three eyes and a mouth full of sharp triangular teeth. He also was carrying a whip but had so far refrained from using it. He snapped the bullwhip through the air, though, making a nasty swish-crack! “Back to work, monkey!”

“I'm an ape,” Gants protested, scurrying to his pile of rations and knuckle-dragging them off the ship. “Not a monkey.”

“If I want to hear any lip from you, monkey, I'll squeeze your head until it pops,” the chief snapped. “Move it! Move it! Schnell!”

“Oh, thank God,” Weaver muttered, looking around at the assembled away team. It was apparent when the ship cleared the field; everyone was back to normal instantaneously. “Condition of the people whose suits modified?”

A temporary shelter had been erected and the four sailors, including Red, who had suits that were either nonexistent or sufficiently modified as to be dangerous had been sealed inside.

“All back to normal, sir,” Captain Zanella said via the external speaker on his suit.

“Okay,” Weaver boomed, turning up the gain on his suit. “In that case, I'm leaning in the direction of induced hallucination. I've got a question for everyone. When we were in the effect, did anyone change to a guy with winged hair, a chin you could use as a metal punch and probably wearing a sword?”

Virtually every Wyvern sensor-pod tracked around until they were looking at Lieutenant Bergstresser.

“What?” Berg asked. “So I was in a race against time to find the Great Umbrella of Light with which to defeat my Great Enemy who had killed my father, married my mother against her will and was bent on universal domination? Sue me. You guys all were with me then!”

“That's what I was afraid of,” Bill muttered. “Damn, I hate being a secondary character . . .”

Away Station Anime, so named by universal acclaim, had been set up on the edge of the landing platform between two of the entrances to the interior of the station. It was as good a place as any, given that the entrances had no more protection against potential depressurization than the space dock. As far as anyone had detemined, there were no interior air-tight hatches. Of course, with the way that the thing was constructed they might be everywhere.

The station was fourteen sealed bubble tents, each with its own airlock and internal “safe pods,” essentially air-tight bags that could be used in an emergency. The bags partially inflated so that they were personal tents inside the bubble tents and were standard sleeping quarters.

The Wyverns, however, could not enter the tents, so the Marines were forced to don respirators for the short walk to their Wyverns. O2 toxicity was variable and based on genetics and body chemistry. Some people could handle O2 at very high partial pressures, the equivalent of sixty feet underwater or three times Earth's atmosphere. Most people, however, reacted negatively at just double pressure or the equivalent of thirty feet. The station's atmosphere was at the equivalent of forty feet, so in an emergency some of the station personnel might find it survivable.

So far, nobody had tested it out.

“Captain Zanella, we're established,” Bill said. “What is your plan on surveying?”

“I'm going to start slow, sir,” the Marine replied. “I'm going to put the platoons on shift. One platoon exploring, one platoon on standby in case of emergency and one platoon down. The exploring platoon will break up into teams and be given quadrants of the station to explore. We have no real feel for how the interior is set up, so I'm going to have them start with short penetrations and then return to report. If we find that going is easy, we'll expand.”

“Works for me,” Bill said. “Tell them to keep an eye out for anything odd . . . well, odder than normal for here, and if they find anything report back. I'll be down the platform a ways.”

Bill opened up the camp-chair, then laid his guitar case across his knees. Given the immensity of the cavernous space dock, he was far enough away to mute the effects of his playing while still being close enough that he was available in an emergency.

With the CO gone there was nobody who could tell him to stop playing! Ah, the heady air of independent command . . . 

Opening up the case he removed the guitar and the four speakers, then set everything down and laid the speakers out for maximum spread.

Last he sat down in the camp-chair, again, slung the guitar strap around his neck and turned on the instrument. There was a faint “thump” as the speakers came on-line.

He twanged the E string and then slid his finger down the string, listening to the effect. Damn, for all its immensity, the place had AWESOME acoustics. Even this muted, he could hear a perfect echo of the sound.

He ran through a short riff, noodling along and tuning, getting the feedback just right. He tested the mike system . . .“Mee, mee, mee, mee, meeeeee . . .” then removed a set of receiver plugs, put them in his ears, set the volume to “Ridiculous” and let 'er rip . . . 

“Holy grapp!” Red shouted. “All that's coming out of those little speakers? I've been in heavy metal concerts that weren't this loud!”

“We gotta do something!” Gants shouted back.

“You're darned right we do!” Miriam said, holding her own ears. “If I have to listen to this Seventies chither much longer I'm going to jump off the edge of the platform!”

“I wouldn't mind it so much if he just wouldn't sing!” Red screamed.

“ANNA GADDA DA VIDA,” Weaver screamed, his eyes closed and grooving to the music. “ANNA GADDA DA VIDA. ANNA GADDA DAVIDA! ANNA GADDA DAVIDA—”

He started at a tap on his shoulder and clamped one hand over the guitar strings, pulling out an earplug.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Sir,” Gants said diffidently. “I'm not sure you're aware of how loud that is at the base, sir. With all due respect . . .”

It was one of those command moments, a moment when an officer has to decide what sort of leader they are. Do they take into account the needs of their people? And if so, to what extent? Do they choose to be loved or hated and feared? An officer on independent command has God-like powers of life and death. Are they to be Patton or Bradley? Spruance or Nimitz? Nelson or . . . 

“Message received,” Bill replied, putting the earplug back in. “Call me if there's an emergency. There's a lady who's sure, all that glitters is gold . . .”

“Oh, thank God we're away from that,” Lance Corporal Ken Smith said. The moment the Marine team stepped into the corridor, the sound of the continuing concert cut out.

“I don't mind being in rock concerts,” Sergeant Tye Day admitted. “But the XO's just about good enough for a warm-up band, not the main show.”

“Playing's not so bad,” Lance Corporal Ruoff, looking at the deck of the cylindrical corridor. “I just wish he wouldn't sing. So how do these things work? Floor looks solid to me.”

“They said you just walk,” Day replied, taking a tentative step. “That didn't take me far,” he added, beginning to walk.

“Uh, Sergeant?” Ruoff said. “Wait for us.”

Day rotated his sensor pod and saw that he'd already advanced thirty meters.

“Cool. Okay, we're supposed to go in for fifteen minutes or until we see something odd,” the sergeant said, looking at the luminescent walls and flexible flooring. “Whatever 'odd' means around here. Keep your eyes open for threats. Let's go.”

“Sir,” Captain Zanella said over Weaver's implant. “The first entry team is overdue.”

“Damn,” Weaver said, setting the guitar on the deck and standing up. “How long?”

“Only five minutes, sir,” Zanella replied. “But it was to be a fifteen minute penetration.”

“I'll be right there.”

“If they're not back in another fifteen minutes we'll have to find out why,” Bill said. “We'll take the rest of the platoon and set in a retrans system. Drop Wyverns along the way to maintain commo. One team in the lead.”

“Permission to lead that, sir,” the first sergeant said.

“Granted, Top,” Zanella replied. “I'm wondering what got them?”

“They could have poked the wrong button for all we know,” Bill said.

“Captain Zanella,” Gunnery Sergeant Vankleuren said over the company frequency. “I'm picking up scattered transmissions from the team.”

“Retrans,” the CO snapped.

“. . . it's to the left!”

“Right!”

“Damnit, Sergeant, I've seen this same intersection four times now!”