This was apparently a Fleet action - someone had managed to herd enough Boskonians together in one place to make it worthwhile. I wasn't sure if the constant sniping and ambushing was going in our favor, but I was pretty confident that we'd come out clearly on top in any actual engagement.
It still puzzled me. I ate up space war novels - Honorverse, March, Council Wars, Barryar, etc, etc. I loved military scifi, and I had no real clue when it came to the real thing.
I'd gotten the hang of this part, though. V was in full stealth mode and sloping towards a misshapen vessel that appeared to be five greyhound busses grafted, tires down, to a massively oversized fuel tank. I put eyes on the ship and snapped a picture, the optical sensors slaved to my viewpoint collecting a few handy megapixels of data and storing it locally. We cruised nearer, doing our best to imitate a hole in space.
I reached into the passenger seat and lifted the helm to my space suit. Snapping it into place, I keyed a test into my vambrace computer. It immediately failed, and I groped at the front of my helmet, the rough fabric of my glove catching on my beard. Cursing, I unlatched the helmet and stuffed the errant facial hair back into my suit. This time, the test passed, and I punched the go-button on V's console. She whirred as she pumped the air out, and I felt the suit stiffening and expanding as vacuum reigned.
The canned air of the suit was cold and crisp, and Hermes had finally isolated the scent-cues from the samples at my parent's place, and the clean fresh Alaskan air rolled into my helm, with the faintest hint of woodsmoke..
I could feel my blood pressure and heartrate drop. Let noone underestimate the importance of scent cues to Homo Sapiens. I flipped open the panel on the vambrace computer, and tapped a quick message to V.
remind me, when we get home, to figure out a ranged delivery method for these damn things.
LOL will do, Boss. We're almost there, you ready to dance?
Yes, you have some points picked out for me?
Yessir. Go smooth, we'll be home for dinner.
Ready!
I flipped the vambrace computer closed and V doused the cabin lights, and popped the door. I released the harness and pushed myself out into the black, with a stout satchel clipped to my belt.
I had managed to keep the spin down to manageable levels on this launch, and I slid silently across the void to the Boskonian carrier. As I neared, I bent my feet around underneath me, and the magsoles on my boots landed onto the hull of one of the greyhounds, and slipped out from under me.
My butt hit the bus, jarring me hard enough to 'tok!' my jaws together, and I was barely able to rip a particular ring out of my wrist, and slap the freshly exposed adhesive palm of my glove to the aluminum surface. I hung silently for a few seconds, the rebound momentum from my impact soaked in the emergency adhesive, wavering between cursing the reavers, and blessing The Jason, who had been part of the late-night nacho-fuelled brainstorming session that had included that little feature.
As I stabilized on my one gripping point, I checked my surroundings, and noted a housing of some sort protruding from the hull, fore of my current position and slightly to the left. I slowly pushed myself away from it and closer to the hull, then pulled as hard as I could, and ripped the adhesive off with the non-stickied hand.
My vector was good enough that I could grab onto the protrusion, which I couldn't tell the function of, without using any suitjets. I wasn't sure what the Reavers inside this could see, but there was no sense making more visibility than I could.
The protrusion was far enough fore that I could stretch out from it and peer over the front of the bus, which I did. I was glad my radios were off, then, because the sound of a dwarf cackling gleefully isn't something that should be shared..
I rummaged in the myriad pockets of the suit, and came up with the 'emergency nonferrous surface manuevering assistant', a five dollar title that had gotten shortened to 'gecko feet'. Unlike the actual gecko feet, this wasn't a nanotechnological fibrous pad that relied on atomic adhesion to provide grip. Instead, it was a simple device that squirted water onto the surface in question, forming an ice lump, around a threaded shaft. This provided grip, as the water immediately froze _to_ most surfaces. The shaft then could back out, quite quickly, to allow replacement.
The water came from my suit supplies, so I didn't have _that_ much available, but I had enough to position myself at the foremost edge of the bus, and enough grip to leverage another tool from the suit's million pockets. I gripped the spring-punch firmly in one fist, then punched my arm straight sideways, and slammed it into the massive windshield at the front of the bus.
The explosion of atmosphere and debris almost ripped me off my perch. I waited until the chaos had stopped, stowed my gecko feet, and clung to the edge of the bus for a moment, then pulled myself over and into the bus.
I was attempting to curvette into the bus and end up standing, in the very front, facing backwards and ready to rock. I ended up bouncing off the dashboard, catching myself on the steering wheel, and slamming face first into the divider behind it.
Not one of my better moments.
The bus, fortunately, had no-one spaceworthy in it, and I hadn't seen anyone wearing a suit get blown out. Unfortunately, there was a largish hatch, about 3 feet square, in the floor, and it was sealed and locked. Locked from the other side.
I reached up absently, to scratch my head in thought, and thunked myself on the helm of my suit. I grinned at that, then took a closer look at the interior of the bus.
A long central aisle stretched in front of me, with a door in the rear, and a hatch on the floor at the approximate midpoint. There were some electronics, displays and controls, kludged into the dashboard area, and about half of the seats were missing. The remaining seats had been made into dens, apparently. The cheap vinyl used by the grayhound bus line was holding up surprisingly well in vacuum.
I floated down the center of the bus, towards the back door - I thought it was a restroom, originally, but wasn't sure. I pulled the door open, with my sidearm in the other hand, and it was a restroom, and empty. I pulled myself back to the front of the Greyhound, and floated my way over to the next bus.
The central core of this thing was a featureless, dark red floor as I clung to the front wheel well of the next bus in line. I tried to figure out what it was, as I readied my spring punch and popped the windshield. The expected torrent of bodies and debris came boiling out, and I shook my head at the stupidity of the builders of this vessel.
The next two busses were more of the same, pop the windshield, vent the atmo and the Reavers, and clear the interior. I slammed down the punch on the windshield of the last bus, and it blew out.. and no atmo pushed its way into vacuum.
Uh oh.
I groped in my satchel hurriedly and pulled out a fragmentation grenade, which went into the gaping maw where the window was. Two Reavers in pressure suits boiled out of the windshield, some sort of rifle in their hands sweeping agressively around the front of the ship.
They never saw it coming. I wedged my left arm in the wheel well and drew, aiming one-handed. The tiny, almost unnoticeable recoil I experienced on the shooting range or dirtside was magnified by the environment, and the .22 Ruger shoved me against my bracing arm as I put a Battle Steel jacketted round on target.
The target, in this case, was a Reaver wearing a pressure suit. The round passed in a perfect linear trajectory, given the microgravity environment, past the Reaver's shoulder without touching him.
Cursing inside my helm, I aimed again, and the bus vibrated gently, a flash of light drawing the Reaver's attention behind them. I put the bead on one head, pulled the trigger, and the body spasmed, blood and air fountaining out of a hole in his helm. The other Reaver spun himself around on a burst of jets and pushed off of the front of the bus, heading towards the front of the central core. He got several bullets in the butt and legs, and started spasming as well.
I pulled myself up to the front of the last bus, and looked inside. Bits of Reaver and chunks of frozen biologicals floated in a disgusting mess inside, and I was hard-pressed to keep my gorge down.
I made my way back to the previous bus, and dug into my satchel once again. A block of grey plastic explosive came to hand, and I began working it, rolling it against the stiff resistance of the cold explosive material. I laid thick lines of the stuff around the hatch in the floor, and made an X between the corners of the lines. Pushing a pair of electrodes into the goo, I unrolled the spool of wire attached to them, working slowly out of the front of the bus and down underneath the bumper.
I snipped the wire off the spool with cutters from another suit pocket, and clipped them into the spring terminals of a detonator.
I took a deep breath of simulated home, and pushed the button.
Wire Geek - Burning the weak and trampling the dead since 1979Wire Geek - Burning the weak and trampling the dead since 1979
It still puzzled me. I ate up space war novels - Honorverse, March, Council Wars, Barryar, etc, etc. I loved military scifi, and I had no real clue when it came to the real thing.
I'd gotten the hang of this part, though. V was in full stealth mode and sloping towards a misshapen vessel that appeared to be five greyhound busses grafted, tires down, to a massively oversized fuel tank. I put eyes on the ship and snapped a picture, the optical sensors slaved to my viewpoint collecting a few handy megapixels of data and storing it locally. We cruised nearer, doing our best to imitate a hole in space.
I reached into the passenger seat and lifted the helm to my space suit. Snapping it into place, I keyed a test into my vambrace computer. It immediately failed, and I groped at the front of my helmet, the rough fabric of my glove catching on my beard. Cursing, I unlatched the helmet and stuffed the errant facial hair back into my suit. This time, the test passed, and I punched the go-button on V's console. She whirred as she pumped the air out, and I felt the suit stiffening and expanding as vacuum reigned.
The canned air of the suit was cold and crisp, and Hermes had finally isolated the scent-cues from the samples at my parent's place, and the clean fresh Alaskan air rolled into my helm, with the faintest hint of woodsmoke..
I could feel my blood pressure and heartrate drop. Let noone underestimate the importance of scent cues to Homo Sapiens. I flipped open the panel on the vambrace computer, and tapped a quick message to V.
remind me, when we get home, to figure out a ranged delivery method for these damn things.
LOL will do, Boss. We're almost there, you ready to dance?
Yes, you have some points picked out for me?
Yessir. Go smooth, we'll be home for dinner.
Ready!
I flipped the vambrace computer closed and V doused the cabin lights, and popped the door. I released the harness and pushed myself out into the black, with a stout satchel clipped to my belt.
I had managed to keep the spin down to manageable levels on this launch, and I slid silently across the void to the Boskonian carrier. As I neared, I bent my feet around underneath me, and the magsoles on my boots landed onto the hull of one of the greyhounds, and slipped out from under me.
My butt hit the bus, jarring me hard enough to 'tok!' my jaws together, and I was barely able to rip a particular ring out of my wrist, and slap the freshly exposed adhesive palm of my glove to the aluminum surface. I hung silently for a few seconds, the rebound momentum from my impact soaked in the emergency adhesive, wavering between cursing the reavers, and blessing The Jason, who had been part of the late-night nacho-fuelled brainstorming session that had included that little feature.
As I stabilized on my one gripping point, I checked my surroundings, and noted a housing of some sort protruding from the hull, fore of my current position and slightly to the left. I slowly pushed myself away from it and closer to the hull, then pulled as hard as I could, and ripped the adhesive off with the non-stickied hand.
My vector was good enough that I could grab onto the protrusion, which I couldn't tell the function of, without using any suitjets. I wasn't sure what the Reavers inside this could see, but there was no sense making more visibility than I could.
The protrusion was far enough fore that I could stretch out from it and peer over the front of the bus, which I did. I was glad my radios were off, then, because the sound of a dwarf cackling gleefully isn't something that should be shared..
I rummaged in the myriad pockets of the suit, and came up with the 'emergency nonferrous surface manuevering assistant', a five dollar title that had gotten shortened to 'gecko feet'. Unlike the actual gecko feet, this wasn't a nanotechnological fibrous pad that relied on atomic adhesion to provide grip. Instead, it was a simple device that squirted water onto the surface in question, forming an ice lump, around a threaded shaft. This provided grip, as the water immediately froze _to_ most surfaces. The shaft then could back out, quite quickly, to allow replacement.
The water came from my suit supplies, so I didn't have _that_ much available, but I had enough to position myself at the foremost edge of the bus, and enough grip to leverage another tool from the suit's million pockets. I gripped the spring-punch firmly in one fist, then punched my arm straight sideways, and slammed it into the massive windshield at the front of the bus.
The explosion of atmosphere and debris almost ripped me off my perch. I waited until the chaos had stopped, stowed my gecko feet, and clung to the edge of the bus for a moment, then pulled myself over and into the bus.
I was attempting to curvette into the bus and end up standing, in the very front, facing backwards and ready to rock. I ended up bouncing off the dashboard, catching myself on the steering wheel, and slamming face first into the divider behind it.
Not one of my better moments.
The bus, fortunately, had no-one spaceworthy in it, and I hadn't seen anyone wearing a suit get blown out. Unfortunately, there was a largish hatch, about 3 feet square, in the floor, and it was sealed and locked. Locked from the other side.
I reached up absently, to scratch my head in thought, and thunked myself on the helm of my suit. I grinned at that, then took a closer look at the interior of the bus.
A long central aisle stretched in front of me, with a door in the rear, and a hatch on the floor at the approximate midpoint. There were some electronics, displays and controls, kludged into the dashboard area, and about half of the seats were missing. The remaining seats had been made into dens, apparently. The cheap vinyl used by the grayhound bus line was holding up surprisingly well in vacuum.
I floated down the center of the bus, towards the back door - I thought it was a restroom, originally, but wasn't sure. I pulled the door open, with my sidearm in the other hand, and it was a restroom, and empty. I pulled myself back to the front of the Greyhound, and floated my way over to the next bus.
The central core of this thing was a featureless, dark red floor as I clung to the front wheel well of the next bus in line. I tried to figure out what it was, as I readied my spring punch and popped the windshield. The expected torrent of bodies and debris came boiling out, and I shook my head at the stupidity of the builders of this vessel.
The next two busses were more of the same, pop the windshield, vent the atmo and the Reavers, and clear the interior. I slammed down the punch on the windshield of the last bus, and it blew out.. and no atmo pushed its way into vacuum.
Uh oh.
I groped in my satchel hurriedly and pulled out a fragmentation grenade, which went into the gaping maw where the window was. Two Reavers in pressure suits boiled out of the windshield, some sort of rifle in their hands sweeping agressively around the front of the ship.
They never saw it coming. I wedged my left arm in the wheel well and drew, aiming one-handed. The tiny, almost unnoticeable recoil I experienced on the shooting range or dirtside was magnified by the environment, and the .22 Ruger shoved me against my bracing arm as I put a Battle Steel jacketted round on target.
The target, in this case, was a Reaver wearing a pressure suit. The round passed in a perfect linear trajectory, given the microgravity environment, past the Reaver's shoulder without touching him.
Cursing inside my helm, I aimed again, and the bus vibrated gently, a flash of light drawing the Reaver's attention behind them. I put the bead on one head, pulled the trigger, and the body spasmed, blood and air fountaining out of a hole in his helm. The other Reaver spun himself around on a burst of jets and pushed off of the front of the bus, heading towards the front of the central core. He got several bullets in the butt and legs, and started spasming as well.
I pulled myself up to the front of the last bus, and looked inside. Bits of Reaver and chunks of frozen biologicals floated in a disgusting mess inside, and I was hard-pressed to keep my gorge down.
I made my way back to the previous bus, and dug into my satchel once again. A block of grey plastic explosive came to hand, and I began working it, rolling it against the stiff resistance of the cold explosive material. I laid thick lines of the stuff around the hatch in the floor, and made an X between the corners of the lines. Pushing a pair of electrodes into the goo, I unrolled the spool of wire attached to them, working slowly out of the front of the bus and down underneath the bumper.
I snipped the wire off the spool with cutters from another suit pocket, and clipped them into the spring terminals of a detonator.
I took a deep breath of simulated home, and pushed the button.
Wire Geek - Burning the weak and trampling the dead since 1979Wire Geek - Burning the weak and trampling the dead since 1979