The Evolution of F.O.R.C.E.

The Porcupine shuddered to a stop, and Becky flipped on the outside lights to check their position. Other than a few crushed shipping containers, their arrival near the center of the Gadwall was uneventful.

“I expect we’ll have visitors any time. We better get going,” Doug muttered.

A black nylon tool bag in one corner of the control room floated off the deck and hovered to Doug’s side.

Grabbing its handles, Doug said, “Stop showing off, Boottall. Ordinary tool kits don’t fly. It has got to seem normal until we need you to activate it.”

“Don’t take all the fun out of life, old man,” the teenager replied from his control station. “I need the practice. I’ll play nice when it counts.”

Becky agreed, “He’ll do fine. He had an hour of practice with Janniss, and Thurrggood is in autopilot mode.”

Thurrggood was the Bowler MerrCrr had spotted. It had suffered only superficial damage when it was sucked out of Destinnee, and the natural gravity generated by the mass of the huge ship had kept it in close proximity. Getting it aboard the Porcupine had been simple. They’d commandeered Boottall to fly it on Janniss’ recommendation.

“Just remember you’re a tool bag until I give the signal,” Doug said.

MerrCrr handed the PDSI locator to Becky, and she transformed into the illusion of Wendron Piper.

“How do I look?

“Like a tall Big Bird dipped in black paint.”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you,” she smiled as they stepped off the exit ramp onto the Gadwall deck.

The exterior saucer lights winked out, and they paused to let their eyes adjust to the dimness. An idea popped into Becky’s mind when she spotted a forklift-type vehicle nearby.

Upending a nearby box filled with odd metal hoops, she said, “Jump in and I’ll give you a ride.”

Doug climbed inside with the tool bag, and she covered him with packing material. A nearby rack filled with 5-gallon pails gave her an idea. The pails were labeled with stickers emblazoned with a red and black flaming skull and the words ‘Radioactive - Exposure Fatal’. Peeling off the labels on several pails, she applied them to the sides of the box.

Spotting a yellow plastic bodysuit and hood on the rack near the pails, she dropped her illusion and pulled on the outfit. The hood eye-holes were designed for a broader Asiddian head, but Becky could see if she concentrated on looking through just one of them. Satisfied with her disguise, she climbed into the forklift, threaded its tines through the pallet holding the box and drove out of the hold.

She hadn’t gone far when her ruse was tested. A squad of Asiddian commandos blocked the corridor.

The master sergeant leading them knocked on the cab door and demanded, “Where are you going? This area’s under lockdown.”

Without opening the cab door, Becky peered from the window and replied, “I’m transporting radioactive dye to the Med Bay. They’re going to use it on some alien they captured. Stuff’s nasty, but I don’t think they’re worried about killing the creature. You can check it out if you want, but I’m not removing my protective gear or getting anywhere near it.”

Noticing the warning labels plastered to the box, the sergeant backed away and said, “Did anything strange happen in the storage hold?”

“There was an odd vibration when I was loading this box, and one of the pails of radioactive goo fell out of its rack and spilled all over the deck. It’ll take me an hour to clear the mess up when I get back. I have a couple of spare radiation suits. Want to help?”

Backing further away from the transport, the sergeant waved her to proceed, “It’s no wonder you warehouse goons get hazard pay. Get back here and clean up your mess as soon as possible.”

Gunning the engine and popping the clutch, the forklift jerked, and the box rocked. The commandos nervously backed away from it, and Becky drove by them. Under the hood, her smile widened to a full grin.

***

Becky parked the forklift near the door of the Med Bay where the PDSI locator indicated Longarrow was being held. Still hidden within the radiation bodysuit, she maneuvered the box onto a hand truck and wheeled it into the room.

Dr. Corvus decided to punish the Human for struggling by shutting off his sedation. He inserted an intravenous needle into Longarrow’s arm in preparation for the truth serum. He cackled with delight when Becky pushed the large box near the bed. Recognizing the skinny scientist from the torture chamber, her eyes narrowed with hate.

“Why are you wearing the bodysuit?” Corvus asked.

Then he noticed the ‘Radioactive - Exposure Fatal’ stickers on the box and said, “Idiot, you brought the wrong serum. I specifically ordered RU363. Who’s your supervisor?”

Doug rose from the box without warning. Packing material fell off him as he pointed his MA pistol in Corvus’ direction. The scientist recognized him, and color drained from his face.

“Are you sure you want to register a complaint? Her union might object to your attitude,” Doug said with a cold smile.

Becky pulled off her hood, walked to the gurney where Ernest was strapped down and wrapped a PDS pendant around his neck.

Kissing him on the cheek, she explained, “We don’t have a way to turn on your implant. You’ll have to wear this until we’re back on the Destinnee.”

Ernest smiled as he fingered the familiar swirling blue stone, “About time the posse got here. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see another sunset.”

Corvus screamed. He didn’t know what else to do. The two Humans he’d tried to kill, who’d kidnapped the Princess and wiped his memory were less than 6-feet from him. He backed away until he bumped into the wall.

There was a flurry of activity in the corridor, and many booted feet tramped around the doorway. Doug jumped out of the box, but there was no place to hide. Hannah Wren burst into the room, gun in hand. Armed commandos crowded in behind her along with a cart mounted with a 2-foot cylinder on a gimbal. Wrist-thick electric cables trailed from the cylinder end to a humming generator bolted to the cart’s lower shelf. A black crystal fixed to the end of the device pointed at Becky and Ernest. Doug knew if he twitched the wrong way, Becky would be rayed. He didn’t know if her PDS would block the kill shot, but he couldn’t take the chance.

“Drop your weapons, and you won’t be harmed,” Wren threatened.

“Kill them now,” Corvus yelled. “They’re too dangerous.”

At that moment, there was a rustling movement in the box, and an object covered in packing material floated out of it. The guard controlling the cart-mounted tube weapon swept its black crystalline end at the floating object, a sparkling white ray lancing from its tip. A 4-foot diameter hole dissolved in the wall near the bowler and tracked toward it.

In answer to the attack, a white ray filled with winking, swirling sparkles shot from the mouth of the ball. Just as the cart-mounted ray neared the bowler, most of the cart, its weapon and the Assid operating it disappeared in a puff of smoke. The parts not dissolved bounced to the floor.

Instead of lingering in the air above the box, the ball swept to within inches of Wren’s face, hovering like a brooding vulture perching over its next meal. Boottall’s computer generated voice asked in Asiddian, “Do you want me to kill her? I need the practice.”

Hannah Wren’s gut tightened, and she cringed away from the floating menace. She’d seen many fire-blackened Chrysallaman skulls in her time as a warrior, and the shape of the ball with its eye and mouth holes brought back memories she’d long ago pushed into the farthest corners of her mind. She wondered how much time it would take for death’s oblivion to engulf her once the white beam shot from the thing’s mouth. Would it hurt?

“Not yet,” Doug said. “I have an idea she’s more valuable alive than dead.”

Angling the Bowler’s eye holes downward as if he was disappointed, Boottall flew the ball around Wren’s head and out into the corridor. A trigger-happy soldier shot it with a disintegrator, but the PDS bubble protected it. Boottall whipped the Bowler towards the commando, and a MA ray left only a thin wisp of smoke where she crouched. One of her arms untouched by the ray flopped to the floor.

“Anyone else?” Boottall asked as he surveyed the remaining Asiddian troops. No one dared shoot again.

Freeing Ernest from the restraints, Doug helped him into the box and crawled in beside him. Pulling the hood over her head to hide her Human features, Becky ordered Wren and Corvus to load the box back on the forklift. With the same technique he’d used in the torture chamber, Doug wiped the last 15 minutes of memory from the soldiers and medical staff. One by one, they collapsed into unconsciousness. Motioning for Wren and Corvus to climb into the cab, Becky squeezed in beside them and motioned with the end of her MA pistol for Wren to drive toward the storage hold.

***

“I can’t drive this thing in the dark,” Wren muttered as she turned into the unlit hold where the Porcupine was hidden. They’d passed several search parties in the corridors, but Colonel Wren driving the forklift with Dr. Corvus seated next to her was a guarantee there’d be no inspection. Becky had kept her pistol pushed hard against Wren’s back to make sure she cooperated.

“Just keep driving straight,” Becky replied. “You’ll know when to stop.”

“I detect worry in your voice,” Wren lied. “Surrender to me now, and I guarantee your safety.”

“She’s General Harrier’s top commander. Her word means something,” Corvus said. Nervous sweat beaded his forehead, and his eyes twitched back and forth.

“Stop. We’re here,” Becky ordered.

“Here where?” Corvus wailed.

As if in answer to his question, the Porcupine’s exterior lights flicked into operation. In the shadowy hold, the ship dwarfed everything around it. Corvus and Wren were struck speechless, and Becky had to nudge them with her pistol to exit the cab. The saucer’s outer hatch swung down, and MerrCrr JnnWall tramped out to greet them. His body was backlit by the interior lights of the saucer which made him look sinister.

Corvus gasped and tried to run, but Becky grabbed his arm.

“General Blunt wants us back aboard Destinnee. He has a plan, and we’re part of it,” MerrCrr said. “Who are your guests?”

“Meet the officer in charge of the Asiddian fleet and one of their top scientists,” Becky replied. “Help Doug with Ernest. As soon as I make these Assids comfortable, we’ll be on our way.”

“My people will never let you leave this ship alive,” Wren warned as they walked up the ramp.

“Who said anything about leaving it?” Becky asked with the hint of a smile. As a dedicated travel agent, I take great pride in selecting the best places in the galaxy for communication-free relaxation. I’m sure your crew has accrued quite a bit of unused vacation time.”

The puzzled look on Wren’s face was priceless.

***

“How many Chrysallaman soldiers agreed to join us?” Tom asked.

“All the males and most of the females. I had to set a minimum age of 15 because the children wanted to fight as well,” Whatsit replied as he entered the control room with Chellsee and Hisspat Zeck.

“Whatsit is their new Leader,” Chellsee said as she hugged Whatsit’s arm. The blush on Whatsit’s face was more than enough proof her words embarrassed him.

“General Zeck is their Commandant. They’ve all been fitted with Finger guns and hybrid PDS necklaces. The word excited isn’t adequate to describe their spirit,” she added.

Zeck grumbled, “Despite my objection, both the males and females have adopted new combat uniforms. The males dress like Whatsit, and the females’ attire looks suspiciously like Miss Brookkss’. It’s most disconcerting.

“Oh, poor baby,” Tom said with dripping sarcasm.

Turning to McPherson, he asked, “Are our party favors ready? I think it’s time we cleared the sky over Chrysalis.”

“Heiny and Gooey have finished their modifications. Awaiting your orders,” McPherson responded.

“Excellent. Lloyd, please give us the VIEW,” Tom said.

In an instant, Destinnee disappeared. Zeck was so startled, he grabbed Whatsit for support. Asiddian battleships surrounded them. Every so often, a round of disintegrator fire brightened space with a reddish-yellow haze as the Destinnee’s shield fought off the attack.

His eyes glowing with anticipation, Tom said, “Lloyd, initiate Operation Candlestick.”

***

Bowler Central was a beehive of activity. Josh King, Jesús Martínez and Janniss Whirrnigg were some of the original flyers, but many of the Bowler operators had been killed during the takeover of the ship by the Asiddians.

Training replacements had been rushed, but some of the new recruits like Mayybell and Boottall were proving to be cunning provocateurs with the capabilities of Bowlers. Mayybell and Boottall had started a new method of naming their Bowlers. They engraved the hulls and filled the engravings with a glowing phosphorescent paint. Mayybell named her Bowler ‘Ouch’, and Boottall named his ‘Gotcha’.

The new line of Bowlers featured Porcupine characteristics. Heinbaum and GooYee had equipped each with fifteen telescoping antennas tipped with MA emitters and boosted the power of the FLIT drives.

When fully extended, the antennas created a spherical shaped FLIT field six feet in diameter. Everything within the field was transported at faster than lightspeed to the destination coordinates chosen by the operators. When functioning with optimal effect, the mini-Porcupines made Swiss cheese out of any structure.

“Remember to target the engines first,” Janniss said. “We don’t want them trying to leave the party.”

Glancing at Mayybell, Boottall shifted his grip on his joystick and smiled. He liked the way her eyes sparkled, and she did kind of smell nice. He decided to ask her to share a meal with him some time after all this Asiddian business was finished.

Mayybell seemed to sense his gaze and shifted her attention from her monitor to him. Trying to act nonchalant, Boottall did his best to avoid her eyes.

Lloyd’s calm computer voice interrupted his act and forced his concentration back to his monitor, “I will guide you to your targets and calculate the initial coordinates for entry. Once inside the hull, you will be on your own. Each of you is assigned to one of the remaining battleships. Have fun and good luck.”

Thirty Bowlers shot from Hangar Bay 60 and arrowed to within fifty feet of their chosen targets. There was a brief pause for calculation, and the Bowlers disappeared.

***

Rachael Plover moved the red queen of hearts over the black king of spades and wondered for the hundredth time why her shift seemed to last forever. The boredom of keeping watch over computerized sensors monitoring the stability of fusion reactors was mind-numbing. If she didn’t have video card games to pass the time, she was sure she’d go crazy from inactivity.

It had been hours since her ship had joined the armada encircling the alien vessel, and the only change in routine had been the downgrade from Battlestations to Alert One status. Clicking the ‘new game’ icon, she watched a fresh set of cards arrange themselves across her screen.

Plover was an Asiddian engineering technician nearing retirement, and her years of experience with the power systems of battleships had taught her to rely on the computers to keep the reactors running without a hitch. She could remember only one time when her training was needed to replace and tune a failing magnetron coupler in the fusion initiator coil. It took her a moment to notice the blinking warning light on her console.

Fusion reactor three was spiking a temperature increase of 2,000 degrees, and Plover’s eyes widened as she switched her monitor input to the Engineering dashboard. The readings were unmistakable. The coolant recirculator wasn’t functioning, and the only protocol, if she couldn’t rectify the situation, was to take the reactor off-line.

Tapping instructions into her keyboard, Plover was dumbfounded when the computer response was the blue screen of death. Pushing the Escape Key several times failed to accomplish anything but raise her blood pressure as the reactor temperature continued to climb. It now stood at 2,500 degrees.

With frantic haste, Plover jogged to the manual coolant valve located in the control panel on the starboard side of the compartment and twisted the metal wheel clockwise until it was fully open. Returning to her station, she watched in horror as the temperature climbed to 3,000 degrees. The emergency klaxon began its earsplitting screech.

Out of nowhere, a black ball appeared above her work station. It had depressions in its surface making it look like a face staring at her. Plover was so startled; she forgot the crisis building in the reactor. The ball floated near the coolant valve and shiny metal antennas extruded from its body. Plover counted fifteen of the spikes spread evenly over its surface, each about twenty inches long.

Her hand was moving toward the intercom button when the ball disappeared. Plover’s eyes almost bulged out of her head. The ball was gone and with it the coolant valve, the network of connecting pipes, the deck, the bulkhead, part of her computer console - everything within six feet of the ball dematerialized. An instant later, coolant water began spraying into the compartment from the severed pipes. The liquid was no longer pressurized and so hot it sprayed like a geyser.

Plover glanced at the temperature dial and watched it climb to 3,500 degrees. The thickening cloud of steam made visibility almost impossible, and she dashed out of her compartment toward the nearest lifeboat station. There was going to be a catastrophic reactor explosion in about two minutes, and she wanted to be as far away from the ship as possible.

***

Harrier stood on his office balcony staring into the night sky. Computer calculations had mapped the path the Chrysallaman warship would take after the bomb destroyed its propulsion system, and he had a front row seat for the show.

Checking the time on his communicator screen, Harrier noted there were less than two minutes remaining until the explosives detonated and sent the Destinnee plunging into Chrysalis’ atmosphere. Grinning with delight as he anticipated the meteoric dive of the huge ship, Harrier glanced at his video camera crew to make sure their attention was riveted to the sky.

Two camera operators, an audio specialist holding a pole mounted microphone and a director all showed the proper level of concentration. Harrier planned to use the footage as propaganda to encourage his troops and destroy any vestige of hope in the surviving Chrysallamans.

Right on time, a bright yellowish flare brightened the night sky. The brilliance lasted a moment and then became a flaming object arrowing downward through the atmosphere trailing burning debris. A delayed sonic boom reverberated from the direction of the flaming trail, and a constant noise like a giant jet aircraft vibrated the bones in Harrier’s body.

Glancing at his production crew, he smiled with satisfaction as the video cameras tracked the falling ship. The fireball fell beneath the treetops and a few moments later, a tremendous explosion blasted a cloud of dirt mixed with steam into the air. A reddish-orange fire glow lit the horizon at the point of impact.

“What a show,” Harrier said. “Did you get it all?”

“Yes, sir,” the director smiled. “I think I’ll slow down the fall so it lasts about 30 seconds of airtime. Once I enhance the audio and add a background soundtrack, the vid will be awesome. I doubt there’s anyone on this side of the planet who could have missed . . ”

“We have another one,” a camera operator said. “Coming down at 80 degrees northwest. Spectacular!”

“I see it,” the second camera man said and pointed.

“What?” Harrier exclaimed.

Another sonic boom vibrated the night air as a flaming meteor streaked across the horizon on a course different from the first. Harrier’s eyes narrowed as he wondered what was happening. Another brilliant explosion burst in a different part of the sky, and a third meteor began trailing fire as it plunged at a new angle towards the planet’s surface.

“Cut those cameras,” Harrier ordered as he whipped back into his office and grabbed his communicator.

“Colonel Wren, report fleet status. What’s going on up there?” Harrier screamed. He didn’t want to yell, but the constant jet engine noise was so loud he had to cover his right ear and hold the speaker tight against his left to hear even with the volume turned to maximum.

He could just make out the response, “Colonel Wren has disappeared. Multiple casualties. All battleships are compromised. Fusion reactors . . unstable. Cannot maintain orbit . . ”

The radio voice cut off.

“Gadwall command. Do you read me? Gadwall command!” Harrier yelled.

Harrier noticed his shadow on the floor and realized it was as bright as day outside. Hastily returning to the balcony, he counted twenty-five meteors plummeting from the sky. Thunderous ground impacts shook the building.

An incoming message tone warbled from his communicator. Harrier looked at the display and saw the call was from Hannah Wren.

Stabbing the call answer button, he said, “Wren, you better have a good explanation for . . .”

His words were interrupted, “Harrier, we just annihilated your sorry fleet, and now we’re coming for you. General Blunt out.”

With the communicator gripped tight in his hand, Harrier looked up and noticed the video cameras trained on him. All his conversations and emotional reactions had been recorded.

The Director strutted past the camera operators and declared, “General, your performance tonight was awe inspiring. Coupled with the destruction of the alien warships, I’m confident any remaining Chrysallaman spirit will be crushed. I am sure my work will receive the highest honors available at the annual awards banquet.”

Angered beyond reason, Harrier pulled his disintegrator pistol and vaporized the film crew and equipment.