“This is a shit mission,” Vergado says as we dock, her severe face momentarily glowing blue in the light of the security console. “You’ll be lucky to get out alive.” It’s the kind of confidence I like in a commanding officer.
Since the secession, Europa had been transformed into a fortress, building more and more sophisticated orbital stations, about which we knew less and less. Hence this “fact-finding” mission.
I persuade the security system to surrender. The hatch slides open, our ears popping. I pull up the station schematic on my HUD, mash the safety off, and step out into a bright, empty corridor.
My torso explodes in pain before I even hear the turret firing. I scream and collapse, but Vergado expertly catches me and pulls me back into the shuttle, slamming the hatch closed. Tiny chemical grenades are going off in every cell of my body.
“They are using a new kind of ammunition,” she says. “Transdimensional nano-missiles. Most of their mass is side-loaded into a miniature black hole. We have nothing like it on Earth.”
“Wait, you knew about this?” I say, puzzled and bleeding.
“Why do you think we’re here?” she says, and shoves me into the autodoc, which astutely administers its full supply of pain meds. The agony becomes slightly surreal, supplanted by a mild euphoria.
“We’re here…” I say through a choking breath. “We’re here to find…”
“Bullet samples,” she says. “You did good.”