Revolt on Vesta : the prologue
Carter Saldana floated against the restraint straps, mentally counting down the seconds until thrust resumed.
His personal yacht, Ulysses Paxton, was executing turnover midway through the voyage to Ceres. Carter’s stateroom was at the center of the ship, the sweet spot, in true null-g for the duration of the maneuver.
He squeezed his eyes shut but could not ignore the disorienting sense of weightlessness. Carter hated space travel, and he especially hated this part.
Turnover on the Ulysses Paxton required ninety-seven seconds, but it always felt like a nauseous eternity to Carter Saldana.
The impact came just as his mental countdown reached its end. Carter opened his eyes, anticipating a half gee deceleration to restore weight and sanity. He’d be a bit heavier than back home in Bradbury, but at least his stomach wouldn’t float. That half gee never came. Instead, the yacht lurched violently and Carter was thrown sideways against the straps securing him to the gimbaled acceleration couch.
The flat panel of the com terminal by the door flashed red. Collision alarms blared throughout the ship, shrieking in his ears. Fighting his queasy stomach, Carter fumbled at the straps to release himself from the couch. An impossibly calm, synthesized voice advised him to seal his helmet.
Carter wasn’t wearing his helmet. He wasn’t even wearing his shipsuit. He hated space travel, but he had never been afraid of depressurization. It was not as if he were on a military ship, after all. It was only a quick jaunt to Ceres, the asteroid nearing its closest approach to Mars orbit. Inconvenient and uncomfortable, but certainly not dangerous.
The suit was in its locker, set into one of the bulkheads. Carter kicked off from the acceleration couch, trying to reach the locker. He drifted off in the wrong direction, the stateroom corkscrewing around him. Unaccustomed as he was to free fall, he knew that was wrong.
The collision alarm was still blaring. Something had hit the ship. Fear seized Carter in its cold grip as he understood. He bounced against the ceiling, scrabbling for purchase to claw his way to the bulkhead. His suit in its locker was forgotten. He had to reach the com panel.
Carter managed to reach the bulkhead and seized hold of a U-shaped grab bar to pull himself down within reach of the panel. He saw himself reflected in the dull black of the empty terminal screen just before it came online. Sweat plastering his hair, eyes bulged, and jaw clenched, he was the image of panic.
It took several interminable seconds for his call to the flight deck to connect. The image that at last resolved was not that of Captain Leong, but a junior officer Carter did not know by name. The young woman’s uniform tunic was smeared with blood and her eyes were harried. Thick smoke drifted behind her like a storm cloud, flashing as if with hidden lightnings.
“What is it?” Carter demanded, not waiting for the woman to speak. “Are we under attack?”
“You should be in your shipsuit, sir,” she said, frowning.
“Damn the suit! What’s happening?”
The ship rocked again, and Carter lost his grip on the grab bar. He tumbled from the panel, which had dissolved into a spray of static. Careening across the room, he struck the bulkhead and sprawled against the deck. Carter grabbed at the gimbaled acceleration couch, desperate for a handhold.
The suit. He had to get into his suit. A single collision might have been space debris, a micro-meteor or something. With the second impact there could no longer be any doubt. Ulysses Paxton was under attack.
No matter how he struggled, Carter could not seem to reach the locker in the bulkhead. The yacht’s asymmetric tumble foiled his every effort. Painful collisions with the deck left him bruised and disoriented. When had the collision alarm stopped blaring? How long since the first missile struck?
The hatch swung open. A figure stepped into the stateroom, accompanied by a billow of acrid smoke from the passageway outside. The intruder was garbed in an armored vacsuit of dull gray. There were no insignia or other markings to identify the suited figure. The intruder carried an electrolaser rifle.
Carter Saldana activated the panic-beacon implant in his second molar with pressure from his tongue. The intruder lifted his rifle and fired.
Revolt on Vesta, volume one of the Voidstrider Saga, will be available soon. Check this site for updates!
Excerpt copyright 2016 by John A. Underwood. All Rights Reserved.
