Prologue:
The enormous metal cylinder silently rocketed through the void. A small blinking LED pulsed rhythmically under its thin aluminum skin. The LED bathed the internal compartment with a flashing red. A timer slowly climbed to a predetermined plateau. A small electronic ink display clicked to life and changed the background screen from Herfstoff 3 to 1.145552*10^9 SEC.
A two volt signal left a capacitor near the timer and ran along shielded copper wires to a control unit near the back of the cylinder. The polarity shifted from positive to negative at what would be an astonishing rate for a human, but was pokey for this machine. The control unit, pulled power from the battery and charged its capacitors. Imperceptibly it ran a test on all of it’s daughter units. From the aperture control system on the camera at the front of the probe to the sophisticated ion engine spewing charged particles out the back, the ECU poked and prodded each device until it received a signal stating all was well.
After completing the power on self-test, the two sides of the cylinder stretched out from the center like a man waking in the morning. Under each wing hung twelve small basketball size objects. These small offspring of the big probe would soon find themselves dropped over a large celestial object, so they could send back vital data.
Herfstoff 3 sent a signal back to the Sol system. A simple x ray pulse telling whoever was still listening that it had made the arduous ten plus lightyear journey, and it was now awake. By the time anything would reach back to a listening station on Luna, ten or so years would have passed.
Herfstoff 3 opened a series of large ports on its nose. The inertial control module shut down the ion engine and began to calculate its location based on several pulsars rotating in the celestial sky. It was exactly where it was supposed to be. Just as expected it was traveling much too fast to do a proper survey of the system it was headed to.
The large probe used a very precise atomic clock to determine its speed. While it couldn’t determine, with the clock, the speed at an accuracy of meters per second, it could determine if it was still going at fractional light speed. The large cylinder was clipping along at a nice pace of .6 C. At such a speed it would not be able to release its children without damaging them. The planetary probes would be fine launching at that speed, but they would almost instantaneously burn up once they hit the atmosphere.
Using the large amount of fuel it stored for just this instance, Herfstoff 3 dumped a little bit of Nitrogen Tetra Oxide and Hydrazine in all four combustion chambers at once. The chemicals instantly interacted and produced a beautiful bright white ball of super-heated gas, which exploded out the front of the probe after being shaped by a nozzle. Herfstoff 3 continued to drop the bits of rocket fuel into the four combustion chambers as it waited the next few weeks before entering the system.
Greg Wonotz didn’t even bother to wear a tie to work anymore. His department had been de-funded and the last of the grant money was slowly transferring from escrow to his account as it paid him his monthly salary. It didn’t take a scientist to realize that he only had three months left on the job. Greg was a scientist though. He held a PHD in interstellar communication with a masters in electrical engineering. He had worked long hard nights to earn those titles, and now they seemed less than worthless. He was already over qualified for even this job. Cataloging all space probe telemetry. He was essentially a librarian.
The large picture of a parabolic antenna on the screen of his workstation blinked on and off. It went from white to green and back, indicating a new message was being received.
“Ahh number three, I see you have finally made it.” He said to no one in particular. He knew the probe had sent this message while he was still in high school, but it was hard for even him to fathom the time difference. In his mind, the probe was just now entering the system, while in reality the vehicle was drifting dead in space far far away.
“What have you got for me?” He asked, as he reached over and hit the enter key on the workstation. Greg was an engineer and a scientist. And no self-respecting scientist wasted valuable, albeit insignificant resources on an AI. Besides all of the AIs these days sounded like women, which reminded him of what he missed out on in college. He didn’t need that distraction in his life.
The telemetry began to pour neatly into the database on his computer. A model of a solar system popped up on the screen with twenty-four little circles highlighted with a purple halo. Each circle represented a celestial body worth exploring. As the data began to pool, the computer began analyzing each body. Six hundred different variables were recorded at each site. From gravity to oxygen levels, the computer would determine if each body was an ideal candidate for terraforming or mining.
The computer calculated each set of data and placed a ring around each point on the solar map. Red indicated no use, amber indicated mining, blue indicated terraforming, and purple indicated insufficient data, but most likely useless. The fourth celestial body in the solar system closest to the binary star at the center radiated a bright lime green.
Greg rubbed his eyes and touched the screen in disbelief. He had never seen a green one before. He knew what green meant, but his brain wasn’t quite making the synaptic connection. Over the past one hundred years, thousands of probes and telescopes had been trying to find a second habitable planet. One where a human could simply step out of a space ship and live. A second Earth. Something had always prevented it. Usually it was radiation. Earth had a stronger than normal magnetic field which stopped solar radiation. That coupled with a white dwarf star and you didn’t get gamma radiation tearing apart your DNA.
Greg quickly touched the green circle and brought up all of the variables. Radiation was well under 1 RAD. Gravity a nice 0.96. O2 levels 24%. Temperature 42 C at the equator. He began to sweat and breathe rapidly. Greg was the only member left on the Herfstoff project. As the only member, he would get full credit for the discovery, after of course the long deceased Doctor Herfstoff.
His excitement turned to anguish for a moment, as he reached over and hit the telemetry re-spool button. The raw signal would stay in the antenna’s memory for about three months before being erased, and he needed to know if the telemetry was faulty. He had heard of false positives, never with telemetry, but one mustn’t race to failure.
The digital solar system on his screen went to black as all dots reset. One by one they began to be encircled with chromatic light. His eyes stayed fixed on the fourth body from the binary star. It only took the computer about ten seconds to analyze the data, but it felt an eternity. He didn’t blink. The planet emblazoned with a gorgeous lime green halo.
He playfully tapped the little green circle with the tip of his pointer finger, as one might see a mother tap a baby on the nose. A menu with twelve different variables spilled onto the screen and began scrolling and counting off, from one to six hundred. At the top of the menu a name stood out. P-2020819. A simple name, the 819th planet found in the year 2020.
Greg went to his phone and punched in the name in a search engine. The results came back shortly thereafter. A simple side note stating the planet was too close to a binary star and life would not be sustainable due to radiation. Greg frowned.
Telemetry from the probe was still pouring in, but it would be weeks before all of the video would arrive. While Greg was no astrophysicist, he did know that binary star systems had a habit of irradiating planets.
Greg double checked the variable report. The offspring probes had a lifespan of about 72 hours, a mere moment in celestial time. It was possible the probe simply didn’t stay on the planet long enough for the radiation to hit it. He tapped the planet variable and manually changed the radiation level to a question mark. The glorious green halo around the planet changed to an ugly purple.
Greg pulled a data stick from his pocket and placed it on the universal pad or u-pad near the keyboard. He then tapped the screen and ordered the workstation to transfer all telemetry to the data stick. An audible ding indicated the transfer was complete a few moments later.
Greg wasn’t technically supposed to take raw telemetry home, but he wasn’t exactly concerned about losing his job. Even though he didn’t really have a supervisor, he was supposed to follow all governmental guidelines regarding data protection. Posting the data to his p-storage was out of the question, so he just walked the files home on a data stick. While this was against government guidelines, he figured if he encrypted them, then it wasn’t a big deal. He selected a screen and opened the data stick. He then selected a couple of command boxes and encrypted the data. Once complete he grabbed the data stick off the u-pad and placed it in his pocket.
Greg was in unusually high spirits as he made his was to his one bedroom apartment in Tycho City. The transparent dome sparked visibly as a few waves of solar radiation were met by counter waves. He never saw the man with the illegal zap behind him.
It wasn’t the 500,000 volts coursing through him that dropped him. It was the homemade electrical knockout gun’s uncontrolled .2 amps which put him in a coma.
Donovan Locke stood, arms crossed, staring out the only transparent surface on his ship. The titanium window allowed 90% of the visual spectrum to illuminate the bridge of the Implacability. The Imp was a sturdy, rugged ship of much function but little form. She didn’t have any of the luxuries associated with modern space travel. No computer AI to interface with, no holo walls to give the feeling of being planet side, and only a small compartment which maintained a steady 1G of force.
Like many ships, she was mostly modules and compartments held together by reinforced struts. The struts stayed stationary while the center tube, containing the bridge and crew quarters, rotated to give that Earth like feeling of weight.
The Imp was coated in a black carbon sheath which was a poor man’s method of absorbing light, and effectively creating stealth. It wasn’t nearly as good as the police or corporate military vessels, but it worked just fine for sneaking up on unmanned vessels containing expensive bounty.
The bounty they were currently stalking was an H2O shipment out of Mars on a trajectory for the Belt. These big tubes were rudimentary vessels consisting of nothing more than two large metal cylinders filled with ultra-pressurized hydrogen and oxygen. This particular vessel contained enough water to fill a small lake. The object measured 100 meters long and about 3 meters wide. The tanks it carried would be extremely heavy and extremely dangerous.
“Distance to target?” Donovan asked, unfolding his arms and placing them behind his back.
“Two MK,” replied David. He was a short, young man of Chinese descent, but with a strong Lunar accent. Something that many had described as a cross between a Texan of America and an Australian.
David was the resident mechanic and grease monkey. He didn’t know exactly how things on the ship worked, but he knew how to take them apart and put them back together. Even better he knew how to man the weapons and sensor console. To his left sat Matt Kuttare or, as he constantly asked to be called, White Fury. Matt was a genius. He knew more about computer theory, programming, and telemetry than anyone Donovan had ever met. He was, however, one of the most socially awkward individuals to walk. He literally giggled every time anyone made any type of reference to sex. When he was planet side, he never really left the ship. Instead he logged onto the nearest Internet port, and either played a game or surfed the web.
Donovan and David had learned to live with his different choice of lifestyle. They accommodated him in most ways, but they absolutely never referred to him as White Fury.
“Matt, have you gotten a read on the target?” Donovan asked the tall lanky analyst.
“It’s going too fast,” Matt said without explanation.
Donovan frowned slightly. What the hell does that even mean? It’s going too fast? Too fast for what? Too fast for the ship to catch up? Too fast for an analysis? Too fast for a transprobe?
“Ok. What do you mean too fast?” Donovan asked patiently. He heard a slight snicker from David.
“I mean, if it’s water. Then it’s gotta have, like, a lot of mass,” Matt replied. “There’s a redonk amount of Hydrogen and Oxygen pressurized to over a gigapascal, right?” Matt said, rhetorically. “That’s, like, stupid amounts of mass. That little thruster on the back can’t push it to that speed.”
The target object was traveling at about .0002C, which was more than ten times the speed it should be going. It was still well under what the Imp could intercept.
Donovan thought for a moment. “Could they sling shot it, or use a new catapult to push it?” he asked Matt.
“Yeah, I guess,” Matt replied, snidely.
“But?” Donovan replied, once again, patiently
“But, why would you?” Matt said. “I mean, why would you throw water through a new elevator or waste attitude thrusters on a slingshot. What’s the big rush?”
Donovan crossed his arms and leaned against the bulk head. His military training was starting to kick in. In a previous life he had been a security forces breacher. A name for a guy who assaulted hijacked ships at their air locks and established entry points. Not a particularly glamorous line of work, but it paid the bills. His training had taught him to analyze traps. The first law of the universe was causality. Every action was preceded by a cause. Don’t take anything for granted.
Several scenarios started working through his mind. What was the likelihood of an H2O transprobe being flung from an unknown catapult? If not an unknown catapult, what was the likelihood it was sling shot around Mars?
“What time difference does a slingshot make compared to a standard water throw?” Donovan asked Matt. Matt began punching numbers into his console. Matt had a keyboard installed on his console. As far as Donovan knew, he was the only pirate in the system with a keyboard. It had taken a long time in Luna to fabricate one, not because it was difficult, but because it was such a weird request. Apparently, keyboards were coming back into fashion with the tech elite, and Matt needed to keep up appearances
“After attitude thrusters and orbit are established it would reduce a water shipment to the belt by about four days.” Matt replied.
Donovan didn’t like that answer. If this water shipment was badly needed then he would be pirating resources from a needy colony. He might be thief and a scoundrel, but he didn’t hurt innocent people.
“Can you project the destination?” Donovan asked.
“Duh,” Matt replied. Apparently, it was the first thing he had done. “Europa.”
“What?” Donovan asked in disbelief.
“Europa, it’s a satellite around Jupiter,” Matt said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, I know,” Donovan quipped exasperated.
“Well, why did you ask?” Matt asked. David looked over at Matt with a look that said, “Seriously?”
Donovan ignored him. Why would anyone ship water to Europa? The moon was covered in water. The answer was simple. No one shipped water to Europa. While Europa didn’t have the infrastructure to ship water to the belt yet, it wasn’t very difficult to obtain it there.
“Is this target transmitting anything?” Donovan asked.
“No, Captain,” David replied. “It hasn’t detected us yet.”
“Let’s take it from the stern. Try to pop up behind it. When we get in range do a full surface scan. Make sure there’s nothing attached to the body.”
“Aye, sir,” David replied.
David had worked with Donovan in the security forces. He had been the pilot of an assault corvette and a damn fine man. When Donovan told him of his plan to get out and start taking water shipments, David had instantly agreed. While Donovan was technically enlisted in the force and David was an officer, David had let Donovan run the show. David’s job had always been more of a talent position and less of a leadership position. He never really understood why all pilots were officers. David was good at his job, but not amazing. Like Donovan, David had become disillusioned with the force. He found it upsetting that they only ever assisted corporate or government entities. They never helped the little guy. It wasn’t as if they ignored the miners and settlers, they just only patrolled the lanes where the corporations and government officials traveled.
Donovan stayed on the bridge as the Imp began maneuvering into position behind the target. He really didn’t have anywhere else to go. The whole G-Capsule of the Imp was only fifteen meters long and eight meters wide. It held six small sleeping quarters, a latrine with a shower, a small multi-room, and the bridge. Each bunk area was about three meters by three meters, making living a cramped affair. The multi-room and latrine weren’t much bigger. The multi-room converted into a dining room, kitchen, and gym with the flip of switch. It was a small luxury aboard the cramped Imp.
David cocked his head slightly and let out an audible, “Hmm.”
“David?” Donovan inquired.
“I think we just got pinged,” David said, hesitantly. Being pinged was what a ship did to confirm its vector. It only did that if it was docking or about to shoot. David’s eyes focused on his multi-display. The display was the older type, which was embedded into the console. It wasn’t one of the fancy new holo displays, but it worked.
“How sure are you?” Donovan asked.
“Umm, about 25%,” David said. He still had hesitation in his voice.
“Are we still sure it’s not communicating?” Donovan said to everyone.
“Nothing on my screen, Captain,” David replied.
“Nothing,” Matt said.
“Matt, how long until we are zero by zero with the target?” Donovan asked. Zero by zero was the term used to denote a zero vector at a zero attitude. Essentially the same speed and position as the ship, but right behind it.
“31.86 hours,” Matt said after checking his screen.
“Ok, let’s meet back on the bridge in 30 hours,” Donovan said. The ship would automate the vector change and alert them of any signal contact. David spent most of his time on the bridge anyway, and would check on the target from time to time. Donovan wanted some rest before capturing this prey. Something was weird, and he intended to find out what.
A pleasant flute played from the time display embedded in the wall next to Donovan’s bunk. It was time to wake up. He had set his alarm for N+29. That time had come. His sleep had been fitful and light, the same as it always was when he was about to capture a target. Security psychologists had told him that he had mild post-traumatic stress disorder. He had wondered if there were any breachers out there who didn’t. When his contract with SF was up, he had chosen to get out. SF gave him a severance package - twice his base pay times the number of kinetic engagements, a pretty little certificate of service, and an exit award. He couldn’t complain; until he saw David’s severance as a pilot.
Donovan walked to the latrine and emptied himself into the recirculator. Finding how ironic it was that he was about to bathe in the same liquid he just dropped down a drain, he undressed and stepped into a shower stall. He rinsed for about thirty seconds and turned the water off. He then lathered up with a generic brand soap that smelled surprisingly good, and rinsed off again. All in all he used about twelve liters of water and a little soap. He sighed a little. The recirculator was good for the price, but it was only about ninety percent effective. He was really looking forward to a long hot shower when they snagged this water transprobe.
That thought led him to another which had kept him up for a good portion of the rest cycle. If it wasn’t water, what was it? His first thought was that maybe the tube leaked. He immediately dismissed that. First, the possibility of both tubes leaking was slim. Second, if it was pierced by debris, it would have exploded, or at the very least, sent it spinning. The object was on a standard water trajectory with no hull damage visible.
Another problem was the object still hadn’t sent a communication. They had been jamming since they found it, but the damn thing hadn’t even tried to send a distress signal. This all added up to one of two things: something illegal or a test transprobe. If it was a test, then they would be out about forty hours of work. Nothing too detrimental, they would simply move on to the next water shipment. If it was illegal, then it could be very lucrative.
Donovan vacuumed off and walked to one of two sinks and mirrors. He put his teeth cleaner in and bit down. The device fired mini ultra-violet lasers, which destroyed the bacteria and plaque building up on his enamel. He then put an auto razer on his face, pressed the button to calibrate the frequency of laser based on his hair color, and proceeded to shave his face.
Once complete with hygiene, he made his way to the bridge.
“Status?” he inquired, grabbing his mug from the hook on the wall.
“It still hasn’t responded, moved, or communicated,” David replied.
Donovan walked up beside David’s seat and placed his mug under the decanter to his right. David had a few quirks, and one of them was real, fresh brewed coffee. It was about three times the price of the instant stuff, and took a lot longer to make, but any connoisseur could tell the difference. Besides, the fresh stuff filled the G-cap with a wonderful aroma. Donovan filled his mug and took a sip.
“This is good,” Donovan noted. “What are we brewing today?”
“Sumatra Blend,” David said with a smile on his face. Apparently he found it just as pleasing to the palate.
“Fresh coffee again?” Matt said, walking up to his position on the bridge. He had just awoken and hadn’t bothered to shave, or shower for that matter. His t-shirt was the same he had worn to bed and a distinct, yet not overpowering odor arose from his chair.
Matt hated coffee. He wasn’t fat. He wasn’t athletic either. He had a slight paunch on a tall, thin frame, with pasty skin. His blond hair fell disheveled around his ears, but didn’t surpass the base of his skull. No woman would call him attractive, but as far as Donovan knew he wasn’t interested in women. He wasn’t interested in men either. He was simply, well, he was Matt.
“Sumatra,” Donovan said raising the mug to his lips and taking a sip.
Matt curled his upper lip showing slight disgust. He pulled a small pastry from the personal pantry under his console and began to munch on it.
“Where is it?” Donovan asked placing his left hand above window and focusing ahead of the ship.
“Hold on,” David said looking down as he began inputting information into his console. A bright, white ring appeared around a tiny dot, which looked like a distant star. The dot was dead center in the window. Various data appeared next to the ring. Donovan noted the distance. Six thousand kilometers, a stone throw in astronomic terms, still existed between them and target. Another number was the relative velocity, or closure rate. 4,250 Kph. The Imp had sped up to a very fast closure rate, then had spent the last few hours slowing down so it could link up with the target. In the next couple hours they would attain a zero by zero vector and only be about two hundred meters from the target.
“Matt, is the surface scan complete?” Donovan asked, dropping his hand and walking behind Matt’s chair. Crumbs had fallen on Matt’s t-shirt and pants.
Matt swallowed his last bite and replied, “Yup, finished a few hours ago. Here you go.” He punched up some commands on his keyboard and the screen on the front of the ship blinked and was replaced by four pictures separated by a white line. The quad chart showed different sides of the probe. The Imp had accomplished this by deploying a single, powerful, telescopic camera a few thousand meters away from the hull. It then simply rotated the hull and the camera to get different views of the object. The difference between the pictures was barely visible. When the camera snapped each photo, it was still well over a hundred thousand kilometers from the target, however, since they were directly in line with it, it did show differences in the shape and surface.
“What are those bumps along the axis?” Donovan asked no one in particular.
Matt replied, “No idea. Hoped you guys would know.”
David cocked his head to the side, “No way.” He whispered to himself in slight disbelief. It had been a long time since he had seen weaponized satellites. As a pilot in the academy; he had gone through many courses on how not to get your ship blown up. Avoiding booby traps was one of them.
“David?” Donovan asked, prodding him to continue.
“They’re claymores,” David answered while magnifying one of the objects. “Look here,” he said while bringing a dot around one of the bumps and circling it with the digital marker. “That’s a dumb radar. Impossible to jam. Range of about one hundred meters. Something gets in that thing’s envelope and boom.” He continued circling more parts of the claymore. “There’s the tell-tale explosive ring. It’s shaped so it doesn’t spin the transprobe uncontrollably. I guess there’s probably about five hundred metal balls the size of a fist in each one ’em.”
“Well that’s no bueno,” Donovan noted.
“Damn good thing we didn’t approach from the side,” David stated.
“Any chance there’s one on the rear?” Donovan asked squinting at one of the pictures.
“Probably not, but I wouldn’t chance it,” David replied while zooming in the rear of one of the pics.
“Matt, given the fastest explosive plus ten percent, how far would we need to be to react to one of those things going off?” Donovan inquired. Matt loved challenges like this and would probably come up with an answer in a few minutes. Donovan emptied his coffee and went for a refill. Even though Matt hadn’t acknowledged his question - something that used to infuriate him - he knew he was working on it this very instant.
A few minutes passed by and Matt began briefing his analysis, “Twelve hundred kilometers would give us enough time to either burn the balls, based on fist size titanium, or dodge ’em.”
Donovan looked up at the screen; they were still over five thousand kilometers away.
“David, spin up the laser and lets start cutting,” Donovan said.
“Aye, Captain,” David replied.
Matt brought up a crude 3D outline of the transprobe and labeled the usual system components. Thrusters, communications, electronic control module, etc.
The laser David began charging was a modified communications laser. Communications lasers were very common in the belt. They were designed to fire a pulsating beam across several million kilometers of empty space. In normal use, they could barely burn a hole through paper, however, they were designed to be always on, and possibly operate near heat sources, such as reactors or large celestial objects.
The three pirates had simply taken one of the communications lasers from a derelict colony, removed the resistors and capacitors, opened up the lasing chamber to the vacuum of space, and tied the ships batteries directly to the photon emitters. Lasers weren’t particularly complicated devices. They consisted of a lasing chamber with a 100% silvered mirror on one side and a 99% silvered mirrored on the other. The lasing chamber was then surrounded by a photon emitter. It fired the photons into the lasing chamber which interacted with the medium, bounced around a bit, and fired off a lot of energy in the form of light through the 99% silvered side. Light amplification through stimulated emissions of radiation.
This particular laser, was not designed for this much energy, however, as long as they kept it to short bursts, it would be fine. Essentially, they could fire it for about two seconds, then have to let it cool for about ten seconds.
Those two seconds could melt almost any metal at an approximate distance of one hundred thousand kilometers.
“Ok, Matt, passing front radar to you. If this thing explodes let me know, and we’ll target the balls,” David said, looking at Matt.
“Okey dokey,” Matt said grabbing a can of soda from under his console and opening it. He took a long, annoyingly loud chug and let out a small, but audible, belch.
“Firing,” David said pushing a big red button on his console. The button flashed amber, and then dimmed to a dull grey.
The screen on the window instantly went transparent and transprobe with the white HUD ring appeared like before. The tiny pinpoint of light flashed brightly.
“Hit,” David said.
“Really?” Matt said, sarcastically.
Matt is a genius, Donovan thought to himself. He’s a valued member of the team. I just gotta keep David from kicking the crap out of him.
David remained stoic and ignored the immature response.
“No explosion,” Matt said. “I’ve got some debris. Radar reports it’s a cone.”
David and Donovan both let out an audible sigh of relief.
The button on David’s console returned to its original red.
“Firing,” David said, again.
Another brilliant flash, followed by small orange ball appeared on the screen.
“What was that?” Donovan asked Matt.
“Looks like we hit a claymore,” Matt responded. “Yup, claymore. That thing exploded and set off a chain reaction. Can’t see the target due to debris, but I think those things don’t respond well to getting shot instead of just popping.”
“Hold on, I’ll clean up a little,” David said, looking out the window. He began pressing the button intermittently. Little flashes of light produced almost immediately after each button press. The infrared laser was super heating the debris and atomizing it.
The next hour went by uneventfully as the Imp closed the distance to the now defunct transprobe. Donovan was certain this wasn’t an experimental transprobe.
As they approached the probe and were close enough to see it through the haze of exploded gas and micro debris, they noticed the bulk of the tube was intact.
“Any bumps left on the hull?” Donovan asked Matt.
“Nope, it’s clean. Nice and smooth,” Matt replied.
“Alright, Matt, you got the remote. Let’s open her up.”
Matt clapped his hands together and rubbed them. This was like Christmas, and Matt was a little kid opening up his first present. They didn’t know what to expect.
The remote flew forward from the Imp and magnetically touched down on the transprobe. It began using its circular saw to cut into the probe. They had learned a long time ago it was not smart to cut into hulls with a laser, especially if that hull had a gigapascal of hydrogen on the other side. They had lost a very expensive remote that way.
The remote finished its cutting routine and placed a camera in the tube. Thirty robotic looking men stood motionless lined up in two rows of fifteen. They were attached at the head, hips, and feet by long rods.
“What the hell is that?” Matt asked.
Donovan’s and David’s jaws dropped. This was far more expensive than mere hydrogen. More expensive, and infinitely more dangerous. Somebody would come looking for these. One of those things was worth more than the Imp and everything on board.
“Are those robots or people?” Matt asked, again.
“Power armor,” David said.
“Very, very, very expensive and powerful power armor,” Donovan added. Excitement and dread filled him. He had hit the mother lode. He had just made a very powerful enemy. Fuuuuuuuu, he thought. We are either royally fucked or retiring. Either way he didn’t have to be a pirate any more.