Tales from the Service: Prey on Lux Paradiso

2953-08-27 – Tales from the Service: Prey on Lux Paradiso 

Utter bedlam reigned in Jorgen Goddard’s senses for several seconds. There was the hissing roar and loamy reek of displaced soil, the red and yellow lights and screeching klaxons of suit alarms, the squishy grinding sensation of flabby circular jaws and hooked teeth against armor-plate shell, and the unholy stench of the creature’s digestive juices. 

Fortunately for him, the suit’s helmet deployed a few moments into the attack, just before the creature’s mouth closed over his head. The armor-glass panels clicked into place, muffling sound and banishing stink. Jorgen had a moment to consider his situation as the creature’s teeth clicked against his faceplate, and its gullet started trying to pull his legs off. 

Fortunately, as a loosely invertebrate creature, the burrowing slug – which, he made a note to complain about, was not among the hazards he’d been briefed about – probably relied on envelopment and suffocation to subdue its prey, and lacked the strength and stamina to actually tear him limb from limb until he was dead. In his suit, he had plenty of air, and its armored exterior would render him at least mostly resistant to whatever was in its digestive juices. 

The problem of course was that the creature was burrowing down into the loam. How far it could go, he could only speculate, but if he got free or killed it, he would have to burrow his way back up with his bare hands. That would definitely damage the suit and tax both his energy and his suit’s atmo reserves, making it rather unlikely he’d finish his mission before his ride arrived. 

The alternative, of course, was waiting to see what part of his suit failed first from being digested, in the hopes it would crawl back up to the surface soon, which wasn’t better. 

Jorgen turned his helmet and wrist lights up to maximum, then twisted around as much as he was able. The slug’s flesh was slightly translucent, and the beams highlighted pulsing organs just outside the fleshy, juice-excreting sac of its gullet. He was past the last row of teeth now, and no doubt that was where the beast would keep him, as long as it remained alive. Fortunately, he could perforate a few of those organs with his side-arm, a hardy Vasilev flechette gun, and solve that problem in a few seconds, when it was time. 

Switching off the lights again, Jorgen tried to think. There was a possibility the creature had a burrow somewhere below the surface which, even if little more than a pathway of loose soil, would provide him a low effort pathway back to the surface. Obviously it didn’t need pre-dug burrows to move through the spongy, root-laced upper soil, but if the dirt were denser lower down it could never move through that without proper digging. Perhaps if he waited until the creature came to a stop, he could make his explosive escape and work his way out from this burrow. 

Unfortunately, though, it was nearly impossible to tell which way his captor was going, and even whether it was moving at all. The creature’s stomach twisted and churned, likely trying to evenly marinate him with its digestive juices, and Jorgen had no definite purchase with which to feel whether he was moving in any clear direction. He counted to thirty, trying to gauge motion, but he was turned over, squeezed, and stretched so regularly that he made no headway. 

With a sigh, Jorgen worked his hand to the protective holster where his side-arm waited. There was no sense waiting for anything when he couldn’t detect when it arrived. He doubted he’d even know when the slug went back above ground, unless it did so in full direct sunlight. 

It took Jorgen almost a minute to snake the gun out of its holster and work it as far from his body as he could. The suit would prevent the blast from hurting him, but it still wouldn’t be precisely fun. It hardly mattered where he aimed it, but he used his wrist light to line it up on a cluster of important looking organs before pulling the trigger. 

The blast of the explosive discharge briefly inflated the creature’s stomach like a balloon and lit up its insides like a lightning bolt. Everything around him spasmed and thrashed violently, so he turned his wrist and fired twice more. The thrashing immediately started to grow feeble. 

After jamming the gun back into its holster, Jorgen searched with his gloved hands for one of the holes created by the flechette cluster, then, grimacing, pulled it wide with both hands and shoved his body through it. The creature’s muscles still resisted him, but he didn’t sense any concerted effort; it was dying, if not yet precisely dead. Fortunately, there was less than a meter of gelatinous, freshly shredded tissue between him and the loose, crumbly soil. As soon as his head and shoulders had reached this, he kicked the slug’s oozing side to make himself a little room to work in, and began to claw his way upward. 

The loose earth parted easily above Jorgen, but it was a challenge to make much progress without burying himself. Fortunately, he encountered thready, fungal-looking roots almost immediately. He was near the surface. Perhaps he could get out in time to still finish his mission. 

While the Lux Paradiso raid remains rather carefully shrouded in operational secrecy, the experience of Intelligence agent “Jorgen” on its surface suggests the world is not likely to become a vacation destination after this war is over. For someone prepared with multiple weapons and a state of the art military grade environment suit, he was probably in little danger, but anyone less well equipped would have certainly been killed. 

[N.T.B. - I shudder to think of what would happen if there were to be a ground campaign on this world. These creatures would circle infantry formations like dirt-swimming sharks, picking off stragglers.] 

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Tales from the Service: Alone on Lux Paradiso

2953-08-20 – Tales from the Service: Alone on Lux Paradiso 

The Navy raid on the Incarnation outpost of Lux Paradiso has met with rather tepid response on the datasphere, largely because the results of the raid seem to be minimal. Still, this represents the first Seventh Fleet attack on a world in Incarnation home space, and that should tell our readers something about the progress of the war on this front. 

In the lead up to this raid, at least one special Naval Intelligence operation was conducted to survey the defenses and targets of opportunity. Intelligence has seen fit to reveal something about one of these operations, a solitary infiltration across the open terrain which ran into a few unforeseen complications. Obviously, the name of the operative is not his actual name, and some other details have probably been altered to preserve his identity.

Jorgen Goddard slowly reached over his shoulder for the laser rifle slung there as a huge slug wormed its way down the bole of one of the nearby trees toward him. Perhaps “slug” and “trees” weren’t the right words, but Jorgen wasn’t a xenobiologist, so that didn’t bother him too much.  

Wary of the possibility that the creature didn’t need to reach him to hurt him – he'd seen the hunting method of the cone snail on his native Earth too many times to believe that – he brought the rifle to bear just as its body reached the spongy tangle of thready roots that passed for a forest floor on Lux Paradiso. He lined it up on a spot midway between the two stubby feelers protruding from the slug’s head, but held his ground – if the thing was a predator, even a primitive one, it would see his retreat as certainty of edibility. 

With a flatulent sound, the slug lowered its head toward the root-mat below its body and belched forth a rasping, conical appendage which might have been a proboscis. This sliced through the roots like a plasma torch through poly-sheeting, and the creature’s head followed it down. Within seconds, it was already disappearing below ground. 

Jorgen breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his rifle. Little was known about the ecology of this world, because it had never been surveyed or studied, at least by Confederated explorers. Lux Paradiso was at the edge of Incarnation home space, though for obvious reasons it was not one of their more populous colonies. The fast-growing jungle which covered much of its single continent reminded him quite a bit of the notorious Camp Cactus, which Jorgen had visited only once, as an invited observer of a Confederated Marine training exercise. The ecology would simply overwhelm any attempt at large scale agriculture. 

That didn’t completely stop Nate from using the place, though. Lux Paradiso sported a small civilian population mostly living in the hills far inland, supporting the supply needs of a sizable orbital infrastructure including at least two full scale military service docks. It was an unforgiving world, but as a super-habitable ecology located in a strategically located, mineral-rich a star system, neither Nate nor Seventh Fleet could simply ignore it. 

As Jorgen worked his way through dense undergrowth reminiscent of Earthly sponges and lichens grown large, his signal detector chirped. He threw himself flat, trusting the growths to hide him, just as a pair of small aircraft whistled overhead. They were going too fast to be looking for him or anything else on the ground, but Incarnation sensors were notoriously good; it paid to be careful. 

Jorgen had spent nearly a month in a tiny one-man spacecraft working his way into the system and then a week clambering through alien jungle because of rumors Naval Intelligence had gathered. If they proved true, there was more to the colony on Lux Paradiso than a mere food-mass plantation for the orbital infrastructure. 

Jorgen was of course briefed on the use of grown components in Incarnation spacecraft, of course; most probably, a few specialty components were being grown up there too, to save cargo space on haulers, but there was almost certainly not enough arable land up in the hills for more than that. 

Getting close without raising the alarm was worth taking time. Nate probably knew that their enemies had located the Lux Paradiso colony, given the orbital security Jorgen had seen on the way in. Doubtless the ground-side perimeter was stout as well, with multiple layers of defense. 

As he lay there waiting on the off chance the flyers circled back, Jorgen felt the tangled roots below his body shift, as if a wave had passed through them. He frowned, uncomprehending, and got up as far as his hands and knees to look around. Sure enough, a line of narrow waves was just bobbing the fronds of a nearby stand of plants. Nothing else moved. 

Jorgen stood up to watch the wave pattern disappear into the trees, but to his surprise he saw it curving around just beyond the underbrush and looping back on itself. He didn’t comprehend this at first, and stood still for a moment too long. 

When the realization hit him, he dove toward the bole of a mushroom-shaped tree, but it was too late. The ground at his feet erupted, and he stumbled into the fleshy maw of a giant slug-like creature. 

 

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Tales from the Service: The Fear of Rookies

2953-08-13 – Tales from the Service: The Fear of Rookies 

Isha Nagarkar spent a few pleasurable minutes reminiscing about EVA jaunts with her father and his employees. She’d helped him pull valuable parts off hulls on the scrap-line from the age of eight until the day she’d departed for the Naval Academy. Her mother had kept an eye on them and the other employees from inside a utility runabout, ready to swoop in to grab an escaping component or a tumbling salvage worker in an instant. They were probably still at it, breaking up superannuated hulks for the few worthwhile components they contained, then sending the rest off to the smelters. 

Her suit’s HUD began winking an alert – her homing beacon had woken up and begun to broadcast, receiving a broadcast from one of Trafalgar’s recovery launches. It seemed too early still to be picked up, but perhaps the carrier’s officers had sensed disaster and launched the rescue units early in the action, so they’d be on scene sooner than normal. 

A few moments later, a flat-text message appeared on her HUD: “PICKUP ETA 01:05:15:00.” This, when she compared it to the chronometer on the other side of the display, turned out to be about ten minutes in the future. Isha sighed. Break time was almost over. Next time, she didn’t intend on having her ride shot out from under her so easily. Incarnation Coronachs were more nimble than she’d expected, but next time, she’d be ready. 

Isha turned back up her radio volume, only to find her gunners already talking. “... going to get us soon, Blackwood.” Rios was saying, frustration mixed with worry in his voice. “Calm down, take a deep breath.” 

“I’ll make it. I’ll make it.” Blackwood’s voice had gone up an octave. “Just a few minutes.” 

Isha turned on her microphone. “It’s just a bit of agoraphobia, Blackwood. You’ll be fine. The suit has a sedative dispenser, if you just-” 

Blackwood wasn’t listening, though. He started to ramble off, apparently to himself, about the various safety interlocks of his pressure-sealed flight suit, as if reminding himself that he was not dying.  

Isha, checking his suit’s status panel, assured herself that Blackwood wasn’t actually trying to meddle with the seals or the air system as he rambled on, then paid him no mind. He’d be out of commission for days after this, and it would be a miracle if he passed the psych eval to be re-certified for flight duty. The squadron would have to promote one of the reserve crew into his place, at least temporarily. 

“That recovery ship can’t get here soon enough.” Rios, evidently having muted Blackwood on his end, grumbled. 

“We’re all alive and nobody’s bleeding into his suit.” Isha reminded her colleague. “As rig losses go, it could be far worse.” 

“Aye.” Rios nearly snarled the word. “But I’d prefer to have lost a leg over Blackwood losing his mind.” 

Isha winced, and switched her radio to transmit only to Rios. “He’ll be fine after the medicos are done with him. But they’ll probably send him home.” 

Rios only grunted. Most likely he’d come to the same conclusion. 

The recovery launch arrived on scene almost a full minute ahead of schedule. Because of its angle of approach, Isha was the first to receive notice of her imminent pickup. That was far from ideal, but she didn’t complain. She could help Blackwood calm down – he was still babbling to nobody on an open channel – when he was picked up a minute or so later. 

A moving star grew in Isha’s view into a slate-gray box ablaze on all sides with light. At first, it approached worryingly fast, but it slowed down until it was about to pass her at only a few meters per second. A  web of hooked cables swung outward  on both sides of its rectangular hull. Isha used most of her suit thrusters’ remaining reaction mass to orient herself for the most comfortable pickup possible, then exhaled just as she’d been trained as the net caught her. 

Already, the launch was accelerating; Isha pulled herself along the net until she reached the airlock alcove, but waited there. “Rios, Blackwood, I’ve been picked up. See you both in a few.” 

Blackwood, fortunately, got his turn next. The gunner’s voice had petered out into a wordless, high pitched whining by this point, and he made no attempt to cooperate with his own recovery. The net caught him almost head-on, and as the launch accelerated, he twisted in it until he was hopelessly stuck. Only then did he begin to flail and thrash against it. Isha, with a groan, attached herself to one of the lifelines next to the airlock, then clambered out along the net to reach her. The recovery crew would probably prefer to leave him there until they’d made all their pickups, and she simply couldn’t allow that. 

“Blackwood. Calm down.” Isha tried to sound soothing as she approached him. “We’re in the recovery net. You’re safe.” 

His thrashing slowed somewhat. “It’s a bad dream, Nagarkar.” He whimpered. "Tell me it’s a bad dream.” 

“It isn’t.” Isha inched closer to him, trying to get within his helmet’s line of sight. “But it’s almost over. Let me help you get to the airlock.” 

Blackwood twisted feebly as if to comply, but by this time he was so tangled in the lines and so disoriented that he could hardly move. Isha hesitantly got within arm’s reach and started to uncoil him. 

While it is uncommon among lifelong spacers, agoraphobia is a real threat to the safety of Navy personnel of all stations, especially those assigned to strike operations. Normally, extensive testing to detect this tendency in all enlistees prevents any serious incidents, but in rare cases, combat stress can trigger the reaction that would not be present.  

Most likely, throwing rookies into deadly combat was an extreme stress for the individual in this account, and my quick research indicates that he was withdrawn from launch duties and reassigned to shipboard duties after recovering from this episode. 

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Tales from the Service: The Bad Luck of Rookies

2953-08-06 – Tales from the Service: The Bad Luck of Rookies 

While it is only too common military suspicion that the greenest member of any unit is usually the first to get hit, it is a lesser known but also widely belived pseudo-certainty that the missions that go wrong the most often are those described as the most routine. 

These are, statistically speaking, only artifacts of human confirmation bias, but such superstitions have plagued military service across the centuries. 

One of our recent submissions is at the critical nexus of both of these beliefs – the greenest squadron in the fleet being sent to cut their teeth on the most routine live-fire mission anyone could think of. The results – abject disaster – will be predictable to every Navy officer and rating in the fleet. Statistically speaking, this sort of surprise is uncommon. Most green units are put through several low intensity live fire missions before they are trusted with properly dangerous work. 

Unfortunately, statistics only go so far. When you spin the randomizer enough times, it’s going to come up with the improbable values once in a while. This is the story of a few strike crew who happened to be there when the improbable but widely anticipated result happened. 

Isha Nagarkar’s first combat operation was supposed to be routine. It wasn’t supposed to be the sort of op likely to result in gunship losses. Unfortunately, that hadn’t proved to be the case. 

She should have been concerned when the briefing materials had stressed the simplicity and low anticipated opposition of the mission. Most of her freshly formed squadron, was totally green, except for the officers, so command had put them on low intensity in-system patrols at Sagittarius Gate to get comfortable with their brand-new off the line Magpie 2-E gunships. 

They’d been familiarizing only a couple weeks when transfer orders had their whole outfit moved off their home orbital installation and onto Trafalgar, replacing a veteran squadron that had been in the line so long they were still using Magpie 1-Bs. The carrier was a prestigious posting for a new squadron, even though its decades-old hangar was barely large enough to operate Magpies. With that ship, they were certain to meet the enemy soon. 

Soon had turned out to be a little less than a month into operating from Trafalgar. There had been several readiness alerts before that, hours and hours of nervous waiting or fitful dozing in the ready-room waiting to be scrambled. When the real thing came, though, it was a simple hit and run raid on a small listening post in a nameless, planet-less star system a few dozen ly from Sagittarius Gate. 

Such outposts, unmanned or manned by only a handful of spacers, were, at least according to the briefing, rarely well defended; there was no point in investing valuable point defense batteries, big guns, targeting systems, squadrons, and all the personnel to crew them into such posts which could never be reinforced or relieved in time. Stealth and rapidity of deployment was the main shield of the enemy’s forward listening posts; for every one Seventh Fleet detected and extirpated, two or three went undetected, quietly monitoring star drive activity in the area and even deploying star-drive equipped scout drones to monitor activity in Sagittarius Gate itself. 

Unfortunately, this one had been somewhat better defended than usual. Point defense lasers had flashed out as soon as the squadron was committed to its first strafing run, and a half-dozen Coronach interceptors had appeared out of nowhere as they circled around for another pass, two of their number already damaged. 

A full squadron of  twelve new Magpies, even with the greenest of crews, would have normally been able to fend off such a weak counterattack relatively easily, but almost the moment the turret railguns had begun buzzing, one of the damaged Magpies had exploded, when the Coronachs were still not close enough to use their plasma lances. 

Isha never heard their other attacker identified. Its second shot cripped another Magpie, and its third had torn the guts out of hers. There had been a shriek of tearing metal, then a flash, and then the gunship had ejected its three crew. Rather than exploding, it tumbled powerless, its shattered innards glowing cherry red. Isha had a good view of it for several minutes before it dwindled into the darkness. 

The battle moved past the trio rather quickly, leaving them in silence. Their flight suit radios had the range to talk to each other, and enough of both computing power and thruster reaction mass to keep them from drifting apart, but beyond that, all they could do was leave their beacons on and hope one of the rescue cutters from Trafalgar would be along to get them shortly. They’d all heard the veterans muttering about Incarnation ships also knowing how to follow these beacons to pick up stranded pilots, but hopefully there wasn’t much chance of that in a battle for such a remote outpost. 

Theoretically, every strike crewman was tested for agoraphobia. Isha, who’d spent her young adulthood before the war in and out of an EVA suit working for her father’s shipbreaking firm, was not particularly unnerved by the cold black in all directions, but Blackwood, her portside gunner, was on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and his increasingly frantic tone over the comms circuit were beginning to grate on Isha’s nerves, and on the nerves of the starboard gunner, Rios. 

“Are you sure we’ve got two days of air?” Blackwood’s voice quavered. “I've only got one spare atmo cartridge. Aren’t I supposed to have two?” 

“Blackwood, the new suits use a larger cartridge. Each one is good for 24 hours.” Rios’s low bass carried a warning tone. “So you have one in the slot, and one spare in your ejection harness.” 

“But what if one of them is bad? Sometimes they aren’t-” 

“Then you still have at least one full day. And if we’re going to be picked up, it’ll be a lot sooner than that.” Isha sighed, though after disengaging her pickup, trying to remember that not everyone had been a spacer before joining the service. “Just relax and enjoy the view. You’ll never see the stars better, unless we lose another ship.” 

 The big black was, in its own way, beautiful. Isha still remembered what it had been like to go out with her father that first time, at only six years old, to drift to the end of their tether and stargaze. The starfield had lost some of its wonder for her since then, but none of its primeval beauty. Every moment, her eyes seemed to pick out a colorful cluster or a haze of nebula she hadn’t seen before, fading in dimmer and dimmer ranks back into the vast distances of the Sagittarius Arm. 

“What if we aren’t picked up?” 

“Then all that hyperventilating you’re doing is going to ensure you’re the first one of us to suffocate.”  

Rios’s observation, though technically true, was rather unkind, and he probably knew that when he said it. Blackwood’s voice went up an octave, and he started rambling on about how unreasonable it was to expect pilots to just sit and wait to be picked up, and how the Navy really should have a better solution for the crew of destroyed strike rigs that didn’t leave so much to chance. 

What exactly the engineers could do to make someone like Blackstone comfortable with ejecting from a stricken craft, was not explained. Isha didn’t bother to speculate, since it was clear her compatriot wasn’t actually thinking, he was just whining. With a sigh, she used a puff of her suit thrusters to rotate herself a little bit to see a new swath of stars, and then turned down the radio volume. 

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