The Methuselan Circuit (21 page)

“What’s that all about?” was the often asked question. They stepped into the zero-G of the Tube but there they stopped. Everyone looked at the security screen. They couldn’t help it. Try as they might there was nothing to be seen. Then, much to their astonishment, three figures zooted out of the screen and headed their way. They weren’t Fleet or Legion though; two wore dark suits like the two strangers and one was a Seer’koh. The Ambassador carried a small silver brief case in one hand. It was chained to his wrist.

“No, it’s way too small,” Alexander said. “The Methuselan Circuit was a meter square; it has to be something else—I wouldn’t be surprised if it related though.”

The three passed them, but one of them, the woman stopped and looked in their direction. Alexander thought she was staring at him but then she lifted her glasses as if to get a better look at him. She wasn’t staring at him; she was staring at James. The boy stiffened, and Alexander heard the sharp intake of his breath. Then, just as quickly and unexpectedly as it all happened, she lowered her glasses and was gone.

“Do you know her James?”

He seemed flustered, and said, “I don’t think so, but there’s something very familiar about her. Maybe she’s a relative, but Dad never said we had any government relatives.”

“Well whoever she is, she knows something about the Circuit.”

“Well we know they’re not carrying it.”

“The Circuit may be a meter square, but the control box could fit in a briefcase,” Treya said, but then she shrugged. “That’s assuming the Methuselans did things the same way Galactics do. If it were a Galactic unit the control box and the power box would simply plug in and plug out of the Circuit—you could disable it relatively easy.”

“In Galactic technology that wouldn’t matter,” Lisa replied. “All control boxes operate on the same principals. You’d simply replace it with another.”

Treya nodded, but James said, “Who knows what they have in there. They’re government agents and it’s none of our business.”

They watched the three agents enter a small vehicle. The vehicle was shiny white with only a serial number on the side and like most vehicles it was a refurbished twentieth century machine. Alexander tried to remember what it was once called. He knew it was an air vehicle, but not a plane, this was one of the transport vehicles designed to hover—a helicopter, that was it. It could hold perhaps six or eight people, but it was strictly and inter-system shuttle. Small twin impulse engines replaced the rotating rotor.

“I wonder where they’re going,” Alexander asked out loud.

As if to answer his question, the vehicle jumped forward, weaving through the docked ships and transports in the Tube and disappeared out of the forward end, heading for the silver-gray crescent of the Moon.

“I’d give a lot to know what they’re up to,” Alexander said, shaking his head, “but there’s no way to know what’s going on behind that screen.”

“Just stick to our classes Alexander,” James chided him. “We’re supposed to be curious, but not that curious.”

Treya wasn’t so sure, and she crossed her long arms with a scowl. “James this doesn’t bode well for any of us. When the Terran government messes around with the Fleet and the Legions we’re all in trouble. They’re the only thing standing between the re-growth of civilization and chaos. We on Chem remember our Civil War; we don’t want times like that again!”

“Either do I, but we’re cadets; what are we supposed to do about it?” James was adamant, and he gave Alexander a dig in the ribs. “If there’s something strange going on let the Spooks take care of it—that’s what they’re there for!”

“Very funny James.”

“I’m not so sure that James isn’t right—look!” Lisa pointed to someone coming through the security screen on a zike. He wore a spacesuit with a helmet, like someone would wear who intended on re-entering the atmosphere and ziking down to Terra, but he had the electronic visor turned on. That effectively rendered to the helmet opaque to an outside observer. The zike rider glanced their way as he passed, and as if he recognized them, he gunned the zike. That almost caused him to crash into one of the waiting transports. He recovered control of the zike and zoomed out of the Tube, following the government agents toward the Moon.

“That was weird,” they said together with a laugh. “If Spooks ride that badly we’re really in trouble!”

Other flights began arriving at the Tube, all of them with the same idea of heading toward the Terminal. The strangeness of the security screen and the mystery behind it had everyone jamming up in the space just outside the entrance. No one seemed willing to move until Centurion Fjallheim took charge. He barked at them to get going, and after a few demerits and the threat of extra time spent on breathing exercises—an especially boring drill necessary for basic sniper training—the cadets actually moved away from the security screen. When they finally got to the terminal they saw that the
Enterprise
wasn’t the only ship standing guard over the Academy. The full strength of the dreadnought squadron hovered in space around the station. Alexander and the cadets gasped at other famous ships from the Galactic Wars and the Methuselan War: the battleship
Bismarck
, the destroyer
John Paul Jones
and Captain Konstantinov’s famous alpha class sub the
Gagarin
.

“What in the world is going on?”

“Into the transports, come on look alive there cadets, we haven’t got all day!” The sudden turn of events hadn’t affected Centurion Fjallheim’s humor any. In short order, they were filing down the gangways to the transports. Once inside the transports the next surprise of the day hit them. The only transports they’d seen as cadets were the spare but relatively comfortable passenger transports. These were legionary transports, and they were a completely different animal. Built from the massive hulls of twentieth century atmospheric military transports, airplanes to use the archaic term, these machines were not engineered for comfort. The first thing that struck the cadets was the smell: oil, grease, blaster residue and legionaries. Even the decontamination scans couldn’t get rid of it. The girls held their noses.

“Terrans, oh my God, sweaty Terrans!” the Chem girl exclaimed. Her civilized sensory system recoiled in shock. “No offense Alexander but you Terrans smell like a zoo!”

They shuffled into the fetid atmosphere, but curiosity overcame their initial reaction. This wasn’t the Academy. This was a ship of the line; this was the real world. It was fascinating and sobering. The interior of the transport was strictly functional. It was a hollow cylinder divided by Plasteel grates into a central core where on an operational mission two to ten zanks berthed depending on their size. Around the zanks were long canvas covered benches running the entire length of the ship on three levels. For a strike mission or forward area deployment the transport could carry ten centuries, a full battalion or 1000 legionaries in relative discomfort with their full complement of zanks.

Centurion Fjallheim directed the flight leaders to get their flights to their designated jumpseats and get them ready for departure—that meant everyone had to don their suit. Alexander was the designated flight leader for the day. A momentary thrill of panic coursed through his breast.
Where are we supposed to go?
He had to figure it out and fast. Fortunately the Fleet and Legions had no time for anything but simple logic. The benches were arranged clockwise and the designations for Flights/Platoons began at the top or twelve O’clock position. Alpha sat on the first row with Bravo on the port side back-to-back with Charlie and Delta sitting on the starboard side bench. At the one O’clock position Echo and Foxtrot sat back-to-back Golf and Kilo, and so on.

“This way Kilo flight!” he said, leading the way up the metal stairs to the one O’clock rows designated Golf and Kilo. The racket inside the transport was deafening. Between the general hubbub, the tramping of boots on metal grates and the shouted orders it seemed like mass confusion, but somehow, in remarkably short order everyone got to their stations. Waiting for them was a white survival suit with bright red arm and leg bands. Above it was a helmet. Alexander and the other cadets all looked around at each other. As soon as one cadet took the plunge and started to put the suit on they all did it. Alexander had never worn a suit like this before, and he guessed that few if any of the cadets had either. He discovered that everything was fairly self explanatory. There was a zipper in the front. He unzipped the suit and stepped in. His zoots fit through the legs without difficulty and to his surprise as soon as he pulled the cuff of the leg over his calf it sealed on the top of the zoot. The same was true when he pulled his gloves over the cuff of the sleeves; the material on the outside of the cuff formed a seal with the inside of his glove. This made perfect sense. His gloves and zoots were still functional. He took down the helmet.

“Well should we put it on,” Lisa asked.

“We’re heading to Luna, I suppose we better; we’re going to need to eventually,” Alexander replied. Though he hadn’t seen anyone else put their helmet on, he boldly stuck it on his head. The helmet was a simple design. It had a hard upper shell and transparent aluminum faceplate. The neck was in two layers: an outer synthetic leather layer which was very tough and an inner lair that sealed to his uniform. That allowed Alexander to look either way as the helmet turned with his head instead of his head turning inside the helmet.

As soon as he put it on a red light came on inside the visor. After a moment, a voice said, “Retinal scans complete, welcome aboard Cadet Wolfe. All systems check out. You have seventy-two hours worth of Oxygen available. Your atomic battery power is at seventy-nine percent, giving you up to one hundred and ninety-seven hours of energy.”

“I hope I don’t need that much power,” he said jokingly. “I’ll have to go to the bathroom long before that.”

“I can brief you on the waste management protocol if you like,” the suit replied matter-of-factly.

“No that’s O.k.,” he said quickly. He strapped into his seat like the rest of the cadets and waited. It suddenly occurred to him, “How do we communicate?” Looking over to Treya, he asked, “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said, and other members of the flight began talking, testing their suits out, until Centurion Fjallheim interrupted them.

“Pipe down!” There was instantaneous silence. The Centurion was in his suit. It was white like theirs, but the entire left arm down to the glove was red and he had a red stripe down the crest of his helmet. “Welcome to the operational world! You will have already discovered that you can speak to each other in a normal manner. That will work in a vacuum as well. The helmets microphone picks up your voice and converts it into radio waves, transmitting it toward other suits along a narrow beam. Signal strength is based on voice level; that is, a whisper is still a whisper. Now strap in!”

The door to the transport closed with a loud hydraulic whirring and a final comforting clank as the latches locked. A low hum built up inside the ship followed by a sense of movement. The sensation recalled Alexander’s first zero-G experience and he immediately felt queasy.

Centurion Fjallheim laughed and announced, “There are no windows in the transports so your equilibrium will be out of balance initially. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Now don’t take off your helmets! Would you do that if you were in a vacuum? No, your head would pop like a pimple!”

“But I’m going to throw up!” announced dozens of miserable voices.

“It’s gross, but it’s a learning experience,” the centurion said. “Trust me, trust your equipment, it will save your life.”

Alexander somehow held his lunch back, but then the cadet across from him threw up. A sticky mass of green and brown chunky, slime splashed across the inside of her faceplate, but strangely enough the effect on Alexander and those who saw it was completely opposite what he expected. That was because the mess almost instantly disappeared. An automatic suction pump beneath the faceplate of the girl’s helmet drew the mess into the suits waste disposal system. Cleaning fluid sprayed the shield clean, disappearing in the same manner.

“These suits are completely self contained survival suits,” Centurion Fjallheim explained. “They will not only take care of and discharge waste but provide sustenance and basic emergency medical aid. The suit is self-sealing; it will act as a pressure bandage or tourniquet for wounds, and it will even shock your heart back into beating if you suffer cardiac arrest.” There was more, and Alexander tried hard to take it all in, Centurion Fjallheim rarely said anything that wasn’t going to be on a quiz. Before he knew it the transport’s engines throttled back to a low hum. There was a slight bump and the inertial dampeners wound down. They landed.