USS Jefferson: Charge of the Symbios Read online

  USS Jefferson

  Charge of the Symbios

  Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Prologue

  Stoiling Build Base

  Pleidian Weonan Territory

  Captain Galvin Quintos

  I awoke with a start. To say I was irritated would be a gross understatement. There was a call coming in on my TAC-Band. Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, I glanced at the time before answering; it was 0300. At first, I couldn’t discern who the hell was yammering at me. As it turns out, the call had originated close to a hundred light-years across the galaxy—had bounced its way from one micro wormhole laser communications hub to another. Clicks and static made the voice on the other end nearly undecipherable.

  “Come again…who is this?” I said, sitting up on my bunk. “Um…maybe you can call back…try for a better connection—”

  “No! Fuck, it took me nearly an hour to get this connection! They’re sure to take our TAC-Bands away from us.”

  My head started to clear. “Max? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, Cap…listen. I…we need your help.”

  Sergeant Max was the leader of a small team of highly effective marines. When a special ops squad was required, let’s say for a clandestine mission somewhere within the quadrant, it was usually Max and his four cohorts that I called on for help. Since they were marines, and I was a US Space-Navy captain, there was no clear command structure between our service branches—with that said, we made things work. How Max and his crew seemed to operate with such a level of autonomy, I had no idea, and didn’t actually want to know.

  “Where are you, Max?”

  “That’s the thing, Cap…we’re in jail.”

  “Well, have you talked to a marine judge advocate? There’s not much I can do for you on Earth. I’m still on Stoiling Build Base.”

  “We’re not on Earth, and we’re not in any position to call an advocate.”

  I needed a cup of coffee. “Where are you specifically?”

  “Auriga Star System. On Bon-Corfue.”

  Boy, did that star system bring back memories.

  “We’d finished up a simple on-world mission. Everything hush-hush. A quick get-in-and-get-right-back-out job here. Afterward, we stopped in for a celebratory drink at a popular establishment…Hobo-Thom’s. Heard of it?”

  “Um, yeah, actually I have. So, what happened?”

  “Grip is what happened.”

  “Oh God,” I moaned, picturing the gargantuan marine. The muscular, chiseled, black marine was not someone you fucked with.

  “All I can say is, it wasn’t his fault. Drunk or not, you don’t whack a Blankie Stick across Grip’s back without there being repercussions.”

  I tried to recall what the hell Blankie was and remembered it was a game similar to pool, only the table was octagon shaped and the sticks were energized—you moved the balls around by zapping them in one direction or another.

  “Anyway, Wanda, of course, had to come to Grip’s rescue…as if he needed any help, and soon a frickin’ all-out saloon brawl had broken out.”

  “You couldn’t get out of there? Like before the local constable arrived?”

  “That’s the thing…the local constable and eight of his pussy-ass underlings were there in a back room, playing cards. Look, I’m not making excuses, but if we hadn’t had a little too much to drink, we’d have fled, no problem.”

  “But instead, you got yourself arrested.”

  “Tasered and then arrested.”

  * * *

  Getting from Stoiling Build Base within Pleidian Weonan Territory out to Bon-Corfue within the Auriga Star System would not be an easy task. For one thing, the journey would require at least three substantial jumps—that meant I’d need to catch a ride on an actual starship capable of manufacturing multiple light-years distance wormholes. The USS Jefferson, where for several months now I’d been personally involved with her refurbishment, was still in no condition to leave space port. So, currently, I was sitting at the controls of the one and only Hub Gunther—a decades-old mining vessel—a kind of space dump truck that had proven over the years to be nearly indestructible.

  I’d retrieved the Gunther from the nearly destroyed flight bay of the USS Hamilton, which was my previous command. The old dreadnought was also parked at Stoiling Build Base—not far from the Jefferson. I’d been ransacking the Jefferson’s sister ship for parts for nearly three months now. The Hamilton was soon destined for the scrapyard, not something I was looking forward to. She and I had a history together. I owed that grand old vessel my life, and each time I ravaged one more part from her nearly destroyed hulk, I felt guilty as hell.

  Anyway, the Hub Gunther had been granted a ride within the overcrowded bay of a Pleidian terraforming cruiser, the Goss-Platt, after three wormhole jumps and no less than four stops to replenish the vessel’s enormous onboard atmosphere tanks—those used for terraforming a world’s atmosphere with gases such as oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon dioxide, which would be conducive for aerobic life to survive and thrive within typical inhabitable carbon and nitrogen cycles.

  Reaching the Auriga Star System on the eighth day, I piloted the Gunther out of the Goss-Platt’s flight bay. It took over an hour to get clearance to land on Bon-Corfue, but once I had that, I followed my directed flight plan down to the city of Bon-Fallow, where a small spaceport facility allowed me temporary landing rights. I maneuvered the Hub Gunther down onto a semicircular landing port, one which was little more than a walled-off, ramshackle erection of stacked block walls and a dirt pad.

  The Gunther’s powerful landing thrusters stirred up so much dirt and debris I could just barely make out the port’s overseer, who had come out, making wild hand gestures at me. I didn’t recognize any of his gesticulations but could imagine what they conveyed. Well, screw you, too, buddy; maybe you should invest in a cement landing pad…ever consider that?

  I shut down the Gunther, slung a utility pack over one shoulder, and exited through the opened hatch.

  I paid the short Bon-Corfue man, who walked with a limp and had purple scarring around his neck. I gave him a healthy tip, got directions to the local constabulary, and headed off.

  Bon-Fallow was not much of a metropolis, more like a once large city that had lost its mojo—a seedy city on a slow and inevitable decline along with a growing older population—the young having moved off to other up-and-coming cities like Creelie and Blint-Onconn or even Priocore.

  I typically had a good sense of direction, but each of the narrow, cobbled streets looked identical to one another, and there weren’t the typical street signs like you’d find on Earth. I waved down a passing local, an ancient-looking female riding a powered hover-trike. “Excuse me. Can you direct me to the constabulary?”

  She didn’t even look at me before speeding off. Her departing words were translated for me by my internal auricular implants—something to do with me fucking a crawpoogle…which I knew was the local version of a dairy cow. A space battle here not so long ago between the US Space-Navy’s 2nd Fleet and an awaiting Grish armada had ravaged this star system of future, much-needed commerce. The locals knew the humans weren’t at fault—we’d been ruthlessly attacked here—but that didn’t seem to make any difference; they despised us.

  I did find the constabulary twenty minutes later. Entering the facility, my nostrils filled with a kind of briny ocean smell. Dual weapons detector poles standing sentry on either side of the door beeped once—an all-clear indication. I was surprised to find the place was bustling. Lots of elderly males milling about, and there was
a long line of locals waiting to talk to what was the equivalent of a desk sergeant. Heads turned in my direction, and conversations halted. Bon-Corfueions were not all that dissimilar to humans, which made their facial expressions easy to read. Clearly, I, or more precisely, my kind, was not wanted here. I didn’t need to read their collective minds to know they, too, wanted me to go fuck a crawpoogle.

  Reaching the counter, the desk sergeant actually took a step backward while grimacing—as if I’d stepped in something foul.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to pay bail. Five humans…um, involved in a brawl last week?”

  “No bail. Next!” He waved me off and looked to the old geezer behind me.

  I stayed put. “Hey…I have the money. Just tell me what the bail is…any damages that need reimbursement and—”

  “Those five have been convicted…will be transported tomorrow. Come back in a year after their sentences have been completed.”

  “That’s ridiculous! For a bar brawl? Seriously?!”

  “I said, move aside! I won’t warn you again, human!”

  “I demand to talk to your supervisor…the head honcho here.”

  “I don’t know what a honcho is, but I do know you’ve just earned yourself an overnight stay here at the shithole motel.” He raised a hand and gestured to someone.

  Two stocky and muscular goons, one on either side of me, took an elbow. I was relieved of my small backpack, which held nothing of use. Then, before I knew it, I was being dragged out of the line. One of them was carrying a large metal bucket—the kind of bucket that one would use to mop floors or maybe wash windows. Again came the briny ocean smell. The guard on my right plopped his hand down into the bucket’s murky liquid. He pulled it back out holding something that was a dark reddish color. Something that was alive and had multiple tentacles. Tentacles that immediately wrapped themselves around the guard’s hand and wrist. The thing looked to be a cross between a small octopus and something else—maybe a bat or a small-headed rodent.

  What made me most nervous about the creature was the metallic box adhered to the thing’s head. Little blue and yellow lights blinked on and off, and there was an exposed readout of numbers. The guard tapped at the little box and the coiled tentacles went slack, releasing the guy’s wrist. Without missing a beat, he then flung the octopus-bat thing right at me—toward my neck, to be precise. The speed of the transaction took place so quickly, I wasn’t able to jerk away in time. The tightening of tentacles around my neck was so abrupt, so startling, I froze. Within seconds my airway was constricted, and breathing was nearly impossible. Added to that, both carotid arteries in my neck were compressed to the point I felt lightheaded and dizzy.

  Both guards chuckled. “Don’t fight it, human. Stay still for a few moments and the Wrapper will relax…let you breathe again.”

  I did as told and, in what seemed like minutes but was probably just seconds, the creature did indeed relax. There was a burning sensation where the Wrapper had secreted something—my flesh felt as if it was on fire.

  “I know…burns a bit, huh? You’ll get used to it.”

  They kept me moving. I was hustled down a dark hallway where weathered paint was peeling off the walls. The stone floor was wet—and somewhere I could just make out the sounds of water splashing. I imagined a large cauldron of slithering, tentacled Wrappers not far away.

  We came to the jail cells, which were at the rear of the facility. Several were occupied, but for the most part, it didn’t seem as if crime was a big issue here in Bon-Fallow. Each prisoner wore a Wrapper around his or her respective neck. Eventually, we came to an abrupt stop in front of the largest of the cells, this one being three times the size of all the others. Beyond the metal bars and sitting upon the wet floor, five familiar faces stared up at me. Each of the marines was out of uniform, wearing local civvies’ attire. Then again, I, too, was out of uniform—the last thing I wanted to do was bring attention to the fact that I was military. And like me, each of the marines wore a Wrapper around his or her neck.

  Keys jangled, a metal latch clanged, and the gate rolled open. With a not-so-gentle shove, I was propelled inside. Immediately, I was choking and gasping again from a restricted airway. The guard snorted a laugh, and I felt the Wrapper’s grip somewhat release. The door rolled shut, and the metal latch clanged home. One of the guards spat into what was now also my jail cell.

  “You were supposed to spring us…not get your scrawny ass thrown in here with us,” Wanda said.

  “Hello to you, too, Wanda,” I said with a crooked smile.

  Max, getting to his feet, looked happy to see me, as did the twin giants, Ham and Hock.

  “Seriously, Cap,” Max said, placing a hand on my shoulder, “This isn’t good. You don’t want to be in here with us. We appreciate you coming for us, but we’re in real trouble here. Apparently, there won’t be a trial. We’re to be transported to an adjacent township. Some kind of mountain labor camp there.”

  “Yeah, we’ll be breaking rocks with hammers or some shit,” Wanda said.

  “Of course, we won’t let that happen,” Grip added.

  “Look, I downloaded much of that information on my TAC-Band once we arrived here in system. And yeah, I suspected you wouldn’t be allowed to leave with a simple bail or by reconciling with the proprietor of Hobo-Thom’s. This is a mining world. One that is in dire need of able workers to do the kind of manual work that the aging and mechanically temperamental bots are no longer well suited for.”

  “So again, why get yourself thrown in here with us?” Wanda said, making an are you stupid expression and tilting her head to one side. She looked at my neck. “Your Wrapper readout is set for twenty-two hours…that’s a full day here on Bon-Corfue.” She pointed to the small digital display on her own Wrapper, “One full year, if we stay out of trouble. That’s how long we’re expected to wear these things.”

  I nodded, now seeing the numbers counting down. “Have to admit, it’s a clever way to keep prisoners in check. Try to escape or even move too rapidly and you’re on the ground, out like a light.”

  She asked the question again, “Why get yourself thrown in here with us?”

  I slowly moved over to one wall and stepped up onto the built-in bench, or maybe it was a bunk. I stood up on my tiptoes and looked out through the bars. Good. This was an outfacing wall, one that looked out to an alleyway.

  “Don’t bother; these walls are two feet thick, Cap,” Max said, sounding resigned to our predicament.

  Ham said, “I tried to pull one of those bars free. Didn’t budge…not a smidge.”

  Hock glared at his brother. “I told you they were too secure. That you wouldn’t be nearly strong enough.”

  “I’m stronger than you are! At least I tried!” Ham barked.

  I raised my hands. “Let’s not quibble, boys. I’ve come prepared.” I reached back over one shoulder and felt around within my garment’s oversized hood. Finding it, I withdrew an item. The small gizmo fit within the palm of my right hand. I held it up for the others to see; they leaned forward, craning their necks and narrowing their eyes. Tentacles moved but didn’t constrict.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Wanda asked.

  “Looks like a tool of some sort,” Grip said in his low baritone.

  “Good guess. And yes, it is a tool…called a verislice, it’s designed to cut through a starship’s tyrillian conduit pipes. Been a handy device while refurbing the Jefferson.”

  “Tyrillian…that green metal from the Wo-5 sector? Nah, that shit’s like totally impregnable,” Max said, eyeing the device. “You’re not going to cut through tyrillian pipes with that dinky thing.”

  I looked out into the corridor and listened for any activity. All was quiet. “No time like the present…you ready to bust out of here, or you want to hang around breaking rocks for the next year?”


  The five of them exchanged an unconvinced look.

  I had been using this same verislice for weeks now. It always worked well. Was amazing, actually. But I’d never recharged it. I’d never put it back into its little recharging base station back in the ship-wide maintenance area of the Jefferson. I tightened my grip on the thing, which constricted a protruding rubberized band that ran around the device’s circumference. Immediately, a four-foot-long beam of turquoise-colored plasma radiated out from my raised palm. Good; the device still has some power left in it.

  “Let’s deal with these creatures first,” I said. “Who’s first?”

  Nobody volunteered, their eyes locked on the bright plasma beam. Eventually, Wanda raised a tentative hand. “Don’t cut my head off.”

  “I’ll try not to. Just stand still.” I took a closer look at the Wrapper creature and thought I saw its head buried within the coils. As I brought the beam closer to Wanda, the Wrapper began constricting its coils.

  “Hurry!” she croaked out, looking woozy.

  A small beady eye looked back at me. “There you are, you little fucker.” I tapped the plasma beam on its small head, and poof, in a puff of smoke, the creature slackened its coils and dropped to the floor. Wanda gasped in fresh air, staggered, and then did something unexpected. She hugged me.

  “Thank you, Cap…you have no idea how that thing creeped me out.”

  Over the next few minutes, I repeated the procedure for Max, Grip, Ham, and then Hock. Wanda took the verislice and killed the Wrapper secured around my neck.

  After taking a moment to assess the size of the barred window—clearly too small for Ham and Hock’s girth, I said, “Stand back. I’m not sure what this beam will do to rock. Cutting through two-and-a-half-foot diameter tyrillian conduit pipes can take up to ten minutes.”

  The verislice beam cut through the rock wall as if it was made of cheap cardboard. Making four individual cuts, I outlined what looked to be a three-foot-wide and six-foot-tall doorway. Only the interior rock of the doorway had yet to be dislodged. I looked over my shoulder at one of the twins. “You want to do the honors, Ham?”