The lighting was deceptive. Indirect, it was neither incandescent nor fluorescent and seemed poorly designed for human eyes. There was a subtle hint that it was not dim, but that most of the light was in a spectrum invisible to them. Objects and markings wavered on the edge of vision, seen and yet unseen. The team’s woodland camouflage turned to odd flares of blackness and shimmering green under the strange illumination.
The colors of the decks and bulkheads were wrong, mostly muddy blues and browns. Again there was a hint that there were bright colors, simply not those that could be viewed by humans.
There were faint acrid odors, odd and having that same sense of alienness, neither discernibly organic nor mechanical, just other. Occasional chittering sounds echoed at the edge of hearing, nagging at their subconscious, possibly shipwide announcements, maybe subsystems kicking in, maybe ghosts of dead Himmit. Adding to the discomfort, the furniture was all wrong. The table was too high, the benches too low, the seats too short. The furniture was obviously made for humans, but not by anything that had to use it.
Everything around them screamed “alien” and they packed together all the tighter in the uncomfortable environment, shoveling down their food and, secretly, each to themselves, wishing just once more for honest greens and yellows.
Himmit Rigas was in attendance, but if there were other Himmit crewmembers present they were not making themselves visible. To the Himmit a predator was a predator was a predator, and Rigas had to be crazy to interact with them.
“The planet doesn’t have continents or oceans to speak of, just one continuous blend of jungle and swamp. We’ll be coming in through a region that is more swamp and less jungle, since the acoustic and thermal signature of a decelerating spacecraft are impossible to mask. Then we’ll swing over into this region.” Mosovich pointed at a spot on the view-screen for a change, just to drive the point home that, yes, it was almost show time! “This is the region the Posleen first invaded and where the assimilation should be well in hand. We will initially perform a simple sweep of the area, trying to get a feel for what the general activities of the threat are. If all goes well, and it seldom does, we will bounce to other sectors to check on different periods after conquest.”
As he talked, Ellsworthy carefully picked out all the meat in her stew and pushed it to one side, then separated out the potatoes, then the vegetables. The vegetables were further subdivided into green, yellow and orange colors. With a childlike grimace, she then separated out anything that was not clearly one of the major food groups. By the time she was done, everyone on the team had finished eating and sat back to watch the usual ritual. For nearly a month before lifting off in the stealth ship the team had trained together. They had time to discover each other’s strengths and weaknesses, pet peeves and idiosyncrasies. They had gone from being a superb collection of individual warriors into a well-coordinated team. Along the way they had become accustomed to each member’s little habits.
Now, bets were whispered on whether she would determine one or another bit as being real food or, in her terms, “icky stuff.” When she was done, she carefully scraped as much of the sauce off the meat as possible and ate it. She examined the other piles minutely, turning her head from side to side and lowering to sniff at them before finally pushing the rest of the plate aside. To Sandra Ellsworthy there were carnivores and herbivores and she knew which one she was.
At a waggling of his bushy blond eyebrows, she silently slid the remains of the meal across the table to Mueller. The huge NCO picked up the plate and shoveled into his open mouth all the leftover piles of individual components, including, and here she had to close her eyes, the “icky stuff.” When he was done his cheeks were stuffed like a chipmunk. He wiped a bit of sauce off his chin and waggled his eyebrows again.
“If you’re quite done.” Mosovich chuckled. The little ritual always served as an icebreaker when the tension got too high and in the alien environment of the Himmit ship it was more welcome than ever. He never worried about Ellsworthy knowing her part of the mission. If he asked she could have spit back the entire spiel word for word.
“Contingency extraction is by a second Himmit ship due in four months. Martine has the long-range communications equipment; if need be he can reach the courier standing by the jump-point. We have five months of supplies in mobile form and the ship stores when we’re in contact with the ship. Are there any questions?”
There were none; they had heard the same briefing at least a million times before.
“Okay, insertion is in one hour. Let’s get suited up, people.”
They shoved back from the table and started down the narrow hall to the Number One pressure hold as Rigas headed to control. Mueller picked up the last three slices of fresh bread and stuffed them into his mouth, bulging out his cheeks even further.
“I can’t believe how you eat,” said Trapp, the gold of a SEAL badge glinting from his beret.
“I goff a lotta maff. Nah lak you runfy guyf!” the huge NCO muttered around the mass of protein and starches.
In the cramped pressure hold of the diminutive ship the lockers of equipment and weapons were being opened by Sergeant Martine, whose stutter did not slow his actions at all. He began assembling his commo kit as Ellsworthy slipped past him to lay out the weapons. Mueller packed himself into the space, not much bigger than a closet, to open up his cases of survey equipment and explosives as Ersin and Richards began a final check of medical stores. In some cases the equipment was enhanced by Galactic technologies. The communications equipment used a subspace field that was supposedly detectable but untraceable. About the only major Federation technology that was not represented was AIDs, to the chagrin of the Darhel. They had been apologetic, but there were simply none available that had not already been bonded to another user.
As the rest of the team made some last adjustments to their rucksacks and combat harnesses, Mosovich slipped in the earpiece of the communications system and gestured for everyone else to slip theirs on. When everyone had complied he applied the throat mike to his Adam’s apple.
“Testing, commo check,” he subvocalized without opening his mouth or making more than a softly inaudible hum.
“Operations.” “Intel.” “Sniper.” “Point.” “Medical.” “Commo.” “Demo.” Mueller pulled out a couple of bricks of C-9 blasting explosive and did a quick juggle. Mosovich quelled him with a look.
“Command, good check. From here on out you only open your mouth to eat.” The system transmitted microbursts at low radiation levels that would be far less detectable than voices. If the Posleen were using detection equipment at all, the encrypted microbursts would appear as nothing more than the sort of subspace anomalies usually found on planetary surfaces.
Packs were rechecked, equipment reshuffled and finally everything was settled. Moments later, Himmit Rigas’ voice came over the system.