Chapter 211: Capture (1/2)
The ship was heavily stealthed. Emissions were tightly controlled, the profile was designed to minimize its exposure to common scanner wavelengths, the reactor was heavily shielded, and it was even designed with photoadaptive skin to allow light to pass through. It was designed to enter and leave jumpspace without a ripple, travel in the higher bands undetected and much faster than any other ship, and was even more sensitive to gravitational shadows, allowing the pilot to negotiate around the gravity shadow or drop far in advance of it.
The ship slipped from jumpspace and into the Oort Cloud of the planet it had spent months searching out. It 'tumbled' in space relative to the star, spinning on three axis, as the ship's systems absorbed as much data as possible in order to determine location of the vessel, system properties, and look for any emissions.
The crew consisted of forty-two Lanaktallan crew members, who were unimportant, and six Lanaktallan Executor Covert Action Specialists who were the important part of the crew. All experienced operatives with the Lanaktallan Executor Special Services Division. Each with their own specialty, each experienced at working with one another for dozens of missions over nearly six centuries, their lives extended through esoteric and arcane means beyond the life expectancy for the vast majority of Lanaktallans.
All of them were experienced at combat, hard covert actions, soft infiltration, and all manor of espionage dirty tricks. They had worked together on everything from damaging the Leebawian resistance to sabotaging the Tnvaru economic cartel's powers to selectively degrading the power of the Plekna packguru matrons in their culture.
The Terran Confederacy promised to be a little more difficult. For one, the unsuccessful biowarfare attack by several of the Scientific Warfare Council (against the advice of the Executor Council) and then the attack upon Terran space by the Military Council (again, against the advice of the Executor Council), ensured that the Terran Confederacy would be at a heightened state of alertness. Second, and worst, was that there were no Lanaktallan wandering around to provide cover and the options to disguise themselves were nothing short of useless. The only eight limbed species in the Confederacy was the Mantid and the Treana'ad, both of those insects. That meant that there was no chance for covert insertion in the traditional manner.
Still, the six man team had worked with more difficult.
They all stretched, working their limbs to ease out the stiffness from sleeping in 1.5 gravity for the entire trip to acclimate to Terran preferred world's punishing gravity. The ship's crew had been unhappy about it, but the strike team were Executors and the crew knew better than to actually complain about any hardship.
The ship's lights were red, the computers humming as they took in the raw data. The pilot was sitting in his couch, staring at his instruments when Do'ormo'ot entered the bridge. The pilot, a low level Lanaktallan who was skilled enough to fly the ship but isolated enough that nobody would miss him if the mission went sideways and he had to be liquidated.
”Where are we?” Do'ormo'ot asked. ”Have we reached Terran Space?”
”Unsure, Most High,” the pilot answered. ”According to stellar navigation we're near someplace called 'Rigel' by the Terrans and Plenok-1163A by our own system.”
”The beings of Rigel are allies of the Terrans. We are indeed in Terran space, excellent work, lowly one,” Do'ormo'ot said. He trotted over and sat down in one of the cradle. ”Once you have identified the Terran home system star, move to jumpspace and...”
The red lights blinked three times and Do'ormo'ot looked around. ”What is happening.”
”Unsure, Most High,” the pilot said. ”Someone hailed us, a short code burst, but when the computer tried to decipher it the whole system crashed and rebooted.”
”Hmm,” Do'ormo'ot looked around the bridge again. He reached out and touched a stud on his console. ”All strike team members, report to the bridge.”
Several of the consoles came up, flickered through data, then shut down.
”Explain that,” Do'ormo'ot ordered the pilot.
”Most High, I am not sure. The ship's AI is apparently fully engaged in trying to decipher the message that was sent,” the pilot said.
”Where exactly did the message come from? How would anyone know we are here?” Wa'amo'ol asked, strapping himself into his crash couch.
”Unknown at this time where the message came from, Most High,” the pilot said. He spit his cud into the waste recycler and grabbed another handful. ”Perhaps an automated system that detected us when we came in?”
”That is not good,” Shu'umo'o, the team bio and nanite weaponry officer said. ”We may want to enter jumpspace, leave this system a half light year or so, then get our bearings.”
The other members of the strike team slowly nodded.
”Charging jumpcore,” the pilot said. After a moment he looked down at his board then pressed a button.
”Ca'alma'a, Engineering,” came the reply.
”The jumpcore is not responding to my orders. What is going on down there?” the pilot asked.
”Let me check,” the Chief Engineer said. After a moment he came back. ”There appears to be no problem. Do you want us to run diagnostics while we order the jumpcore to charge from here?”
The pilot looked at Do'ormo'ot who nodded slowly, turning back to his own console.
”Affirmative. Charge the core there. I am sending you navigation coordinates so you can move us if my console is still not working,” the pilot said. He changed channels.
”Computer Engineering here,” came back the quiet but tired voice.
”What is happening with the computer system?” the pilot asked.
”The AI is apparently working overtime. It rotated up four more lobes from storage and the supercoolant is running dangerously hot,” the chief computer engineer answered. ”It's running full out at a 100% across twelve lobes.”
”Tell him to run an analysis on what is causing such a heavy load. An AI shouldn't use more than five lobes even for full stealth and analysis,” Do'ormo'ot said.
The Pilot repeated it and the engineer replied that he'd look into it with the patience of an expert being lectured by a dabbler with just enough skill and knowledge to be a danger.
Long minutes went by in silent. Twice more the red lights flickered on and off.
”What is the status of the jump core?” Do'ormo'ot asked.
The pilot checked then looked at Do'ormo'ot. ”It has stopped responding. The Chief Jumproom Engineer believes that an older interface component may have failed.”
”Tell him to expedite the repair procedure,” Shu'umo'o ordered, looking at his own control board.
The Pilot relayed the order.
”Some of the ship components are older than the Terrans themselves, Most Highs. At times old hardware has a tendency to fail even if it was only stored and never used,” one of the maintenance crew stated when the Pilot asked what was taking so long.
There was the faint feeling of vibration in the ship and everyone on the bridge looked around.
”What was that?” Kla'agmo'o asked. He queried his controls. ”I am getting blank readings across my board. Have all the internal sensors gone down?”
”I believe so,” Wa'almo'o stated. He checked his board. ”My controls are all dead.”
The door to the bridge opened and a massive form in an armored vacuum suit stepped in.
”Welcome to Terran Space, gentlebeings,” the beings voice had the harsh buzz of a translator. ”I am your host, Space Force Marine Gunnery Sergeant Skalka.”
Do'ormo'ot's reflexes kicked in. He drew, turned, and fired his neural pistol.
All three bolts shattered into sparks on the beings armor.
The beings shook its head. ”That was foolish. Your weapons are ineffective. Raise your hands and stand up.”
Wa'almo'o, who was responsible for technical analysis and sabotage, lunged forward, thrusting with a vibroknife in each of his four hands.
The Terran moved, smoothly but quickly, its hands almost blurring, as it slapped aside each blade, took away the knives, turned them off, and dropped them on the floor.
Wa'almo'o went down on his knees, screaming in a high, thing, breathless voice. All four of his wrists were bent at an unnatural angle and many of his fingers were twisted and bloody.
”That was ill advised and poorly executed,” the Terran said. ”My ducks could do better than that.”
Do'ormo'ot slowly stood up, raising his hands. He had never seen a being move like that.
”You are prisoners of the Terran Confederate Space Force,” the being said. ”We will determine your status after we search your ship.”
Do'ormo'ot used his implant to send the code to cause the ship to self-destruct.
--really? you're going to try that lame ass shit?-- came across his implant. --I've had control of this ship for half an hour. do you think you're going to get away with destroying the evidence?--
Do'ormo'ot sagged slightly.
A Terran VI, one of their aggressive electronic warfare systems, had gotten on board.
The battle was lost before he had even known the enemy was engaging.
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Do'ormo'ot was escorted aboard a new ship. Wide, high halls with signs in Terran all over the place, with white, yellow, blue, red, orange, pink, and green lines on the walls to denote directions. The ship trembled and hummed, the walls were brightly lit.
There were two of the armored figures, nearly ten feet tall, on either side of him. He had a bit in his mouth, all four of his hands were cuffed together, and he was forced to shuffle by chain hobbles attached to his ankles.
They silently escorted him to a lift, which seemed to take a long time, then into a single room with a thick hatch. There was nothing but a flimsy looking desk and four Terrans. Two females and a pair of males, all of them in the armored vacuum suits and carrying odd looking weapons. There were four others in the Terran adaptive camouflage uniforms that made Do'ormo'ot's eyes water when he tried to hold onto them visually.
”Prisoner for you. We've got thirty-five more on the way,” the big Terran said.
”Cell nine,” one of the females said. She cocked her wrist and a holographic keyboard popped up. ”They are used to point seven five to point eight two gravity.”
She looked up. ”You aren't going to like your cell, prisoner.”
One of the other ones turned from the dispenser, a big male, and moved forward with a bright orange suit in his hands.
”Get undressed. Put this on,” the Terran said.
”And if I refuse?” Do'ormo'ot said, taking a page from the 'passive resistance' section of the manual.
”Then I'll TASER you, strip you, and redress your unconscious body myself while you lay there wondering why you had to be an asshole,” the Terran said. ”You ain't slick, Chief.”
Do'ormo'ot trembled in rage as he undressed, submitted to invasive checks, including one of the females putting on a glove and shoving her hand into his rectum.
”Basic cybernetics. Some Secret Squirrel stuff, but it's disabled now,” one of the males said after passing a wand over Do'ormo'ot's body.
”You are now Prisoner 4582143, do you understand?” one of the males asked.
Do'ormo'ot replied in Lanaktallan. ”I do not understand your...”
The baton just lightly touched him and the electrical current slammed through his body. He squealed and fell to the ground, where the Terran tapped him twice more.
”You are now Prisoner 4582143, do you understand?” the Terran asked.
”I am Do'ormo'ot of the...” the Lanaktallan started.
Again with the electricity. The Terran repeated himself. He finished up with ”You will answer with Yes, sir or no, sir.”