The Madman's Clock

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

One day later, most of it spentreviewing intelligence briefings or sleeping, we were in position forour jump. During the long flight, we took the time to put on our CEVAsuits. The Combat Extra-Vehicular Activity suits were the latest andgreatest kit around. They weren't the bulky beasts that Fleet used toissue. Those things always reminded me of the sort of winter clothingyou wrapped a little kid in; bulky and hard to move in. The CEVAswere different. They were form-fitting, made of interlocking platesof a metallic material I couldn't spell, let alone pronounce. Theyallowed for almost as much range of motion as the thin sensor weavewe wore underneath. They could take a relatively powerful blastwithout breaching, and they had hours of air built into the backpack.Best of all, they didn't have a separate helmet. Instead, with thepress of a button, it emerged from the back of the neck and sweptover the head like a hood, closing a transparent plate over the face.

As the first jump ended, therattling in the deck plates and in my teeth finally subsided, and ourmother-ship, the Nautilus, came through the wormhole. The lightsaround us flickered back to life, slowly, unevenly. The deep humsubsided, and I loosened my grip on the straps holding me into mycushioned seat. Kyle, sitting to my left, was still gripping hisstraps fiercely, with his eyes shut tight. He was probably focusingon not puking, something he often did after jumps.

I closed my eyes until the lights inthe cabin were all fully lit. The flashing sometimes nauseated me,especially after a jump. The scene around me seemed to shiftslightly, left then right, before setting itself straight and steady.I popped my helmet, and as it retracted behind my head I took in aslow, deep breath. The air was very cool, pumped into the cabin thatway purposely to help keep passengers clear-headed. My hands stungfrom the straps, their marks dug deep into my palms. If not for thetough skin of the CEVA's gloves, I might have been cut. I flexed myfingers, working out the soreness in the muscles.

The jumps only took a few seconds,but the buildup took several minutes of ever-increasing rumbling. Ahundred different noises rattled the ship, and being in aneedle-jumper, docked but not part of its mother-ship, we felt it allthe more. It was like being a bull rider, with all of the bull'senergy focused on that single-handed grip.

"Launch in three minutes,"the voice from the Nautilus control center echoed in the cabin.

"Okay everyone, check yourgear," I growled through the fading nausea.

Regulations included a long list ofchecks that were supposed to be made before a needle-jumper waslaunched from its mother-ship. There were strict sets ofconfirmations to be made, dictated by a list handed to each passengerbefore launch, all intended to ensure a safe deployment. I don'tthink we ever used it. By the time a marine took up a slot in a reconsquad, they had better know the routine without a list to read from.My squad had done this more than a few times, and we knew what neededto happen.

I unbuckled myself from my seat andchecked over the straps holding down my duffel bag. The others didthe same. Kyle practically fell out of his seat, landing with hisknees on the deck. His face was six shades of green. He tried tosteady himself, planting his palms on the deck. His lips werequivering, and his eyes drooped, the sort of look a person gets whenthe room is spinning round and round, and they're trying not tovomit. It's a horrible feeling, one I rarely encountered as severelyas that. My own nausea was generally brief, in and out in a moment.Kyle, sadly, was not so lucky.