index


Message-ID: <49991asstr$1103796603@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Al Steiner" <do_not_resuscitate_ever@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} A Perfect World by Al Steiner, Ch 15 (orgy)
Lines: 1640
Date: Thu, 23 Dec 2004 05:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d



A Perfect World

By Al Steiner



Chapter 15



The MSS Calistoga was 51 days into its journey to Lemondrop reactor site 
A-the reactor that was to send the Martian Counterdrop team on their journey 
back in time. The ship had finished its acceleration burn 43 days before and 
was now coasting through the vacuum of space between the orbits of Neptune 
and Pluto at just below 6 million kilometers per hour. Like the Ingram and 
the Rellington, Calistoga was a stealth platform ship, its primary mission 
to remain invisible deep in enemy territory. As such it was ideally suited 
for the mission it was embarked upon. It had traveled well over 4 billion 
kilometers since leaving Triad Naval Base and, by all indications, neither 
the WestHem nor the EastHem navies-who both kept stealth ships of their own 
constantly on station just outside the 100,000 kilometer limit of Martian 
territorial space-had any idea they had even left. Calistoga and the 45 men 
and women inside it were absolutely and completely alone in this region of 
space and would remain so until they arrived at their jump off point in nine 
days.



Though a stealth ship, Calistoga did not rely on its invisibility alone for 
protection. It was quite heavily armed, particularly for this mission, where 
there was a good possibility that both defensive and offensive weapons would 
be needed. In the torpedo hold in the bow of the ship, nine torpedoes 
equipped with matter/anti-matter warheads were stored, ready to be launched 
through one of three torpedo tubes toward an enemy vessel. Six 
150-millimeter high-energy laser cannons were attached at various points on 
the outside of the ship. Each of these weapons had a charge rate of less 
than ten seconds and was capable of burning a 150-millimeter hole through 
the titanium alloy of any enemy ship and incinerating anything on the other 
side. In addition, nine 30-millimeter anti-torpedo lasers were mounted on 
each side of the ship and three on both the bow and the stern. These had a 
charge rate of less than five seconds and were capable of disabling the 
warhead of any approaching anti-ship weapon provided the active sensors 
could burn through the built-in infrared jamming device each weapon carried. 
Calistoga was far from helpless, its weapons technology nearly a generation 
more advanced than the best WestHem or EastHem had to offer.



Underscoring the importance of the mission, not a single passenger or crew 
of Calistoga had declined to participate in Counterdrop, despite the 
cultural terror Martians had about engaging in possibly life-threatening 
activities. All thought the interdiction of the WestHem special forces team 
important enough to the survival of their planet and possibly the human 
species to disregard their sacred safety and go forth into the unknown. This 
was not to say that they were reckless about their mission. Not in the 
least. Most of their idle time during the long journey was spent going every 
last detail of the coming mission, trying to anticipate anything and 
everything that could go wrong, and making contingency plans to deal with 
such situations. A good portion of each day was taken up by lectures and 
training sessions as each member of the intervention team went over his or 
her role in the mission and taught it to others in case he or she became 
disabled.



The section of the ship where this training took place was the wardroom, two 
decks below the intelligence gathering deck. This room took up nearly the 
entire deck and doubled as the dining room at mealtimes. On the fore and aft 
walls were large, interactive computer screens tied into the main computer. 
A lecturer could use them to outline details of his or her lesson for the 
benefit of those in the audience. Ken, who was considered their operational 
area map expert, was having his turn in the barrel and describing the 
geography of the target area to the special forces team to which he now 
belonged.



Ken had only been to the Sacramento area-of which Roseville was a part-a few 
times in his previous life and was completely unfamiliar with its layout 
when he agreed to participate in the mission. That had since changed. For 
the past 51 days he had been studying every available map, picture, 
satellite image, and old traffic report he could dig up on Sacramento's 
freeway and traffic system. And, though he had done precious little driving 
in the region for which he was training, it was still California, and 
California traffic was pretty much the same in any of the urban areas within 
its borders-crowded, congested, rude, frustrating, and something to be 
reckoned with in this kind of mission.



He was sitting in a chair before the lectern looking at a small screen 
before him. Velcro straps around his waist kept him from drifting off into 
the air in the zero gravity conditions the ship was currently under. 
Strapped into seats at the cafeteria tables (which themselves were bolted to 
the floor) were the five men and three women who made up Second Squad of 
Third Platoon of Charlie Company, of the 23rd Special Forces Battalion of 
the Martian Planetary Guard. The eight members of Second Squad and 
Lieutenant Spankworth himself were all that had come along for this mission. 
They had been divided further into two four-person teams-one the primary, 
one the reserve-although both Ken and Spankworth were slated to join 
whichever was the team that actually took down the WestHem team assuming, of 
course, such a thing became necessary.



"This is Roseville Community Hospital," Ken told them, moving the pointer on 
the screen before him that projected a finely detailed 2006 edition of a map 
of the City of Roseville, California. On the larger screen behind him was an 
exact duplicate of his smaller one. "As you can see, the hospital is located 
at the very north end of Sunrise Boulevard, a major traffic artery through 
the eastern Sacramento metropolitan region. This is the only vehicular 
access to the hospital north of this road here." He pointed to another part 
of the map. "This is Roseville Parkway-a major east-west thoroughfare across 
the suburb. That is the most important thing to remember. If something goes 
wrong at the hospital and the police are notified, they can easily prevent 
us from escaping by motor vehicle by stationing a single patrol unit at this 
particular intersection. Above all else, we must clear this chokepoint 
before a police response can arrive there, otherwise, we'll have to travel 
overland on foot trying to lug unconscious prisoners with us. Not an 
enviable situation, especially considering that there are no less than four 
law enforcement helicopters, all equipped with forward looking infrared 
pods, within a thirty mile radius."



The special forces team all nodded thoughtfully, obviously impressed by his 
knowledge of the target area. Ken relaxed a little as he saw the respect in 
their eyes. He had been nervous about giving his lecture today, particularly 
in light of the caliber of people in his audience. He had met other special 
forces members from time to time and they all had one characteristic in 
common-they were serious about their jobs and wanted as much knowledge as 
possible beforehand. These Martian special forces soldiers were, if 
anything, more fanatical on that subject than their twentieth century 
Earthling counterparts. The fact that he had impressed them did wonders for 
Ken's confidence and made the many hours he had spent learning what he was 
now lecturing on worthwhile.



"You've mentioned the traffic conditions in this time period," said Sergeant 
McGraw, the squad leader and leader of the primary team. She was fourteen 
years old and a five-year member of the MPG, signing up immediately after 
high school graduation. Like all special forces members, she was 
impressively fit, her body without an ounce of unnecessary fat. Her light 
blonde hair had been militarily short at the beginning of the voyage but was 
now shoulder length so she could pass as an average Earth woman on the 
mission.



"Yes," Ken said, nodding. "This is at the very end of the WestHem reliance 
on automobiles for transport. Traffic was horrible at best, gridlock at 
worst."



"How does that factor in for egress?" McGraw asked. "If our takedown isn't 
clean and they send the cops after us, how likely is it that we're going to 
get stuck in gridlock traffic?"



It was clear that the idea of heavy traffic was the single greatest worry of 
the both the special forces squad and the intelligence team. Earthling 
traffic jams were a legendary part of history and, as such things often are, 
had been exaggerated somewhat in stature over the generations. The Martians 
were under the impression that traffic was always horrible at every hour of 
the day and night. Ken, who knew this was not really the case, did his best 
to ease their minds. "I don't think traffic will be much of a concern," he 
said. "Our information is that the WestHem team is going to make their 
intervention attempt in the early morning hours-between 0100 and 
0500-correct?"



"Fuckin' aye," Spankworth said from his seat near the front. "At least 
that's what the word is."



"If they do make their attempt in the expected time period," Ken said, 
"there will be minimal traffic on the roads throughout the entire 
metropolitan area. While it's true that traffic was quite bad, that was only 
during the waking hours, particularly weekdays between the hours of 0600 and 
0900 and between 1500 and 1900. If intelligence is wrong and the WestHems 
try to make their grab during the day, then yes, traffic will definitely be 
a concern and I have mapped out what appears to be the least congested 
routes out of the area. If intelligence is correct, though, and they make 
the attempt at night, the roads will be almost empty and we'll be miles away 
from the hospital in a matter of minutes."



"Miles," McGraw said, shaking her head in frustration. "I'm having a hard 
time with that concept. What a fucked up system of measurement your people 
had, Frazier."



Ken smiled, feeling absurdly proud that he was able to grasp a concept they 
weren't. It had been decided that they would only use American standard 
measurements when planning and discussing the mission since that was how 
everything was going to be in the target area. WestHem would not go fully 
metric until after World War III so all of the street signs, all of the 
mapping references, all of the automobile speedometers and odometers would 
be in miles. "I agree completely," he told them now. "But I must admit it's 
comforting to talk in those terms again after so long on Mars. I was brought 
up with them after all."



"That's very interesting, Frazier," Spankworth said, taking a plug of 
WestHem chewing tobacco out of a can and putting it in his lip. "But let's 
get the cock back in the snatch here, shall we? Assuming intelligence is 
correct, what's our egress?"



"Right, LT," Ken said, looking down at the map. "We're fortunate that young 
Mr. Whiting is being checked into this particular hospital. It is less than 
three minutes drive-time to the freeway, assuming no traffic, which we 
should be able to assume if it takes place as scheduled. The most likely 
access point the WestHem team will use is the service entrance here on the 
east side of the main building, right next to the Emergency Room entrance. 
The recovery room, where Whiting will be staying, is three floors up and 
this is the closest access. There is also plenty of public parking and 
strange people loitering in vehicles will not necessarily cause undo 
attention because that's the sort of thing hospital security will be used to 
seeing outside the ER. This, of course, works both for us and the WestHems."



"True," Spankworth said with a nod.



"Once you make the takedown and we get the people back in the van, we head 
out this way." He began to trace their route with the cursor. "Down this 
long access road past the main building, back to Sunrise Boulevard. We 
continue south, past the chokepoint at Sunrise and Roseville Parkway, down 
to Eureka road, which is half a mile south of the chokepoint. We turn right, 
toward the west, from there. Remember, if I'm disabled and someone else has 
to drive, you can make a right turn on a red light in California. It would 
look suspicious, in fact, if traffic was clear and you didn't make the turn. 
Always remember that the early morning hours are when the drunk drivers are 
out in force. Doing something unusual, like driving with your lights out or 
not turning right at a red when it's clear, are things that will draw the 
attention of the police or the highway patrol."



"That's a Laura-damned good point," said McGraw, who was next in line to 
drive if Ken couldn't since she had spent the most time in the twenty-first 
century driving simulation program.



"In any case, we'll follow Eureka west for about a mile until we get to the 
onramps for Interstate 80, the freeway that will take us all the way back to 
San Francisco and our ride back to orbit. We will be taking westbound I-80 
and the ramp is accessed from the left-hand lane here. Remember that, 
because most freeway onramps are on the right side."



He paused while everyone made a few notes and then continued on, giving 
small details of freeway nuances like road splits, toll bridges, and which 
lane to be in at which time, all the way across the Bay Bridge to the San 
Francisco city limits 97 miles away. From there, he went through the easiest 
possible route to China Beach in the Sea Cliff section of the city. There-on 
the isolated beach, though very close to civilization-is where their 
submergible amphibious surface-to-orbit craft would be waiting for them, 
staffed by two pilots waiting patiently under sixty feet of water two 
hundred yards off shore. That was where the details Ken was responsible for 
came to an end. He then went back to Roseville hospital and started over, 
this time pointing out some alternate routes he had put together in the 
event something went wrong.



In all, he talked for more than an hour and still had much that he needed to 
tell them. He would pick up where he left off tomorrow. Now it was 
Spankworth's turn for his portion of the lecture. Ken unstrapped from the 
Velcro and allowed himself to drift into the air. After 43 days of zero-G he 
was now quite used to maneuvering in it and had learned to actually like it. 
He was a bit sad that gravity would be returning to the environment the next 
day when they started their deceleration burn.



"Thank you, Frazier," Spankworth told him as he drifted over and took his 
place at the lectern.



"No skin off my ass," Ken replied, floating across the room and setting down 
in the seat the lieutenant had just vacated.



Spankworth had given the most lectures on mission requirements and 
procedures. He had a gruff, efficient, and humorless method of imparting 
information on his team. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled 
out a small black device that resembled a PC. "I'm sure Frazier can tell me 
what this is," he said.



"Fuckin' aye," Ken said, recognizing it instantly and feeling a pang of 
nostalgia. "It's a cell phone from my day, or at least from around my day."



"This is a copy of a lower end model cellular phone from the year 2006," 
Spankworth said. "Each ground team member will be issued a model similar to, 
though not exactly like, this one. The reason they will not all be the same 
is that there were dozens of different cellular service providers and 
hundreds of different phone models on Earth during this time period. The 
likelihood that six random people-which is what we will be pretending to 
be-would all have the exact same cell phone model would be quite remote. The 
differences, however, will be more visual than anything else. Each of these 
phones will be fully functional for what they are supposed to be, and will 
even be assigned one of five different cellular providers who do business in 
the Sacramento region. To anyone examining these devices superficially, they 
will be indistinguishable from your average, everyday cell phone. They are, 
of course, a bit more than that beneath the surface.



"The most important thing they are is a fully functioning Martian PC. Each 
will be programmed to respond not only to the voice commands of the team 
member assigned to it, but to any of the other team members as well. That 
means that each of you can use the other's phone for any of the functions 
but that no one else on Earth-including the WestHem team-can. They will be 
linked to both the Earthling Internet and their communications satellite 
system. These little devices will be about ten thousand times faster and 
more capable then the best Earth computers of the day. They are programmed 
with our best hacking software so we can manipulate the Earthling databases 
in the event of an emergency.



"These phones also contain the weapons we will use to take down the WestHem 
interdiction team. Pushing 2, 3, 7, 0, on the keyboard will activate the 
tanner function of the device." He pushed the sequence and heard a small 
beep from the phone. "The button on the side-which the Earthlings of the 
time use for a linked one-way radio system with other users-will extend the 
tanner probe from the front of the phone." He did this and a hair-thin 
metallic strand, rigid, though it looked like it shouldn't be, extended 
about eight inches. "The tanner charging time is three seconds, but the 
battery is only capable of holding enough energy for four shots before the 
unit needs to be recharged. The probe itself can extend out to four 
meters-excuse me, about twelve feet-and you discharge it by hitting any 
button on the keyboard. Like a police tanner, this will work through any 
clothing or armor our WestHem friends happen to be wearing. After being hit 
with the energy our subjects will be flaccid for the better part of ten 
minutes, long enough for us to get them to our vehicle where we can handcuff 
them and restrain them chemically for the trip back to the lander.



"That's the basic plan, in a cumshot. From the moment Whiting enters that 
hospital, we'll be staking it out. The composition of the team that will 
make the attempt is unknown, but logic says it will be a small team, no more 
than three, and maybe only a single person. They will be disguising 
themselves as hospital staff-specifically, the janitorial staff, who are 
able to move unnoticed throughout all sections of the hospital. We will be 
able to distinguish them from the real janitorial staff by the genetic 
manipulator they possess. Genetic manipulators use a gamma ray generator 
powered by radioactive centuriam isotopes. This is an element that was 
developed in a Martian laboratory and would be found nowhere on Earth in the 
year 2007 except inside a genetic manipulator device from the future. We 
will be scanning the hospital area for this isotope and should pick it up 
the moment they get within a quarter mile or so. Once we've identified them, 
we immediately make our move. We, too, will be dressed as janitorial workers 
to avoid notice. We will take them down quickly and quietly-hopefully before 
they get inside the service entrance-and then move them to the van and get 
the hell out of the whorehouse."



"Do we have any idea on whether or not they'll be packing?" asked Vega 
Sanchez, a junior member of the team.



"There are no specifics from intelligence on that," Spankworth replied. 
"They will undoubtedly be armed with tanners such as ours, at the very 
least, and possibly with firearms, either modern ones or weapons they 
acquired on Earth."



"I doubt they would get weapons on Earth," Ken put in. "Unless they changed 
the laws significantly between the time I was shot and 2007, there was a 
waiting period to buy guns in California. Even if their credentials were in 
order they would still have to wait two weeks before they could pick up the 
weapons."



"No shit?" Spankworth said. "I didn't know that." Which wasn't surprising. 
The proliferation of firearms in WestHem society-while unquestionably 
bad-was another one of those things that had been wildly exaggerated in the 
minds of most Martians. It was generally believed you could walk into any 
convenience store in twenty-first century America and walk out with a 
handgun five minutes later.



"That's why we brought him along," McGraw said with a smile.



Spankworth ignored her comment. "Were there any exceptions to the waiting 
period?" he asked. "Remember, these WestHem agents, like us, can pretend to 
be just about anyone and use their computer technology to back it up."



"Peace officers are the only exception to the waiting period," Ken said. "I 
suppose they could go to the trouble of making a fake badge and programming 
the Department of Justice computer to recognize them as cops, but would they 
really go to all that trouble just to get guns?"



"A good point," Spankworth allowed. "In any case, we hope to have surprise 
on our side so the issue of whether or not they're armed is academic. We 
will be armed with nothing more than our tanners. If the WestHems have guns 
and we're not able to take them by surprise, the mission will be blown in 
any case and shooting it out with them outside a hospital will probably 
damage the time stream just as much as what they're intending to do anyway."



Spankworth's lecture went on for another two hours. He covered every aspect 
of what they planned to do in excruciating detail and then reviewed the 
entire strategy several more times, inserting contingency plans at each 
point where things could conceivably go wrong. Like Ken before him, he 
really only scratched the surface of preparation in the time period he was 
allotted. There would more lectures in the ensuing days as well as simulator 
training with VR goggles once gravity returned to the ship. Finally, he 
wrapped up and everyone took a ten-minute break-most floating off toward the 
lavatory where straining bladders were relieved into the vacuum tubes that 
served as toilets. At the end of the break everyone resumed their seats and 
Ron Sampson, head of the Intelligence aspect of the mission, took his place 
at the lectern.



"I'll be brief," Sampson told them. "I know everyone is looking forward to 
dinner and to the final zero-G party tonight after the dishes are done."



"Fuckin' aye on that shit," said McGraw, eliciting a chuckle from everyone 
else in the room, Sampson included.



"I've been listening closely to all of the planning that's been going on," 
Sampson continued, "and it sounds to me that you're all doing a typical 
bang-up Martian job of anticipating everything. My own part in this is 
rather small but let me explain what I'll be setting up for you down there 
on the surface of Dark Ages Earth.



"If Commander Huffy and her crew are unable to intercept the WestHem ship 
prior to their sending down their interdiction team, me and my people will 
hack into the Earthling Internet, much as we do when sending operatives down 
to the more modern version of Earth in our time. Accessing their secure 
databases will be quite easy for our software to accomplish. We will assign 
Earthling identities for each of you, complete with residence history, 
credit history, bank accounts, credit cards, and employment history. 
Frazier, it will be you who'll deal with the natives when such a thing 
becomes necessary, so it's your identity that needs to serve as more than 
just a shell. I will set up a bank account for you with about ten thousand 
dollars in it and give you a high credit rating. After you and the team make 
landfall it will be you who purchases the vehicle you'll use to travel from 
San Francisco to Roseville and back. Since you obviously know much more 
about vehicles of the time I will leave the actual make and model to your 
discretion. Sound like an ass-fuck?"



"Uh... sure," Ken said. "So you'll just create a bank account for me out of 
thin air, complete with credit history, credit cards, and all that?"



"I'll change your name and date of birth just a bit," Sampson said. "That 
will keep your identity from conflicting with the... uh... the other Ken 
Frazier, the one who is in a cryogenic warehouse in Los Angeles and who has 
a death certificate signed for him... but yes, that's what I'll do."



"And this identity will stand up like a real one?" he asked.



"It will be a real one," Sampson told him. "Our software will hack into 
every computer it needs to in order to establish your existence. A birth 
certificate will be recorded in the hall of records, a social security 
number and work history will be created, a driver's license record and 
driving history will be placed in the DMV, medical records will be created 
and stored in the appropriate places. The FBI itself could do a background 
check on you and would find absolutely nothing amiss."



"Wow," he said, amazed.



"We can do this same thing to modern WestHem," Sampson said. "That's how we 
developed the information that led us to this point in the first place. 
Hacking into the twenty-first century Internet will be child's play."



+++++



Dinner that night was filet mignon, artichokes, and baked potato skins with 
sour cream and cheese. It was served from special platters that kept the 
food from floating about the room. It wasn't quite up to the standards 
usually enjoyed aboard the ship since only those personnel deemed absolutely 
vital to running the Calistoga had come on the mission. The culinary 
department-which normally consisted of ten members-was one such victim of 
personnel cuts. Responsibility for the meals consumed each day was now 
rotated among one of seven teams that had been formed by Commander Huffy. No 
person on board was exempt from kitchen duty, including Huffy herself, and, 
while most of the food turned out to be quite palatable, since culinary 
skills were common and highly regarded among Martians, it would never be 
mistaken for restaurant chow either.



Also missing was the ability to use utensils in the normal fashion. It was 
extremely difficult to cut meat in zero gravity without Newton's Law of 
Motion causing it to go flying off across the room in a spray of particles 
and juice, where it would likely bounce off another person's head or get 
sucked into an air circulation vent. So instead of knives and forks, the 
members of Calistoga's crew used their bare hands, picking up slabs of meat 
and tearing into them with their teeth, like animals. It was crude but 
effective and did little to detract from the flavor of the meal.



After the last piece of meat was chewed down, after the last potato skin was 
swallowed, after the last artichoke heart was smeared with garlic mayonnaise 
and chomped to pieces, it was time for clean-up. Everyone but those who had 
actually done the cooking or who were actually engaged in some aspect of 
operating the ship was required to participate in the housekeeping chores. 
Dishes and utensils that had been used were carried through the rear door of 
the wardroom to the galley and placed in the automatic dishwashing machine. 
Damp towels were used to wipe down the walls and table surfaces. Finally, an 
automatic robotic vacuum cleaner was set loose to clean up all of the crumbs 
and liquid droplets drifting about in the air currents. This machine 
navigated freely around the interior of the room, propelling itself with 
small bursts of compressed air from a series of tiny maneuvering thrusters 
and finding its way to each individual crumb by means of an active radar 
dish installed on the top of it.



When the robot was finally done clearing the air in the wardroom, the 
recreational period for the week officially began. These periods were times 
set aside by Commander Huffy in which the wardroom became the scene of a 
Martian-style party. Alcohol and marijuana would be available for the 
enjoyment of a selected portion of the participants-the number allowed held 
at 18 since this would leave more than half of the ship's compliment sober 
in the event of an emergency requiring shipboard firefighting or general 
quarters. This particular recreational period promised to be a memorable one 
since it would be the last to take place in zero gravity until well after 
they'd passed through the Lemondrop wormhole and started heading toward 2007 
Earth-which was to say, it was possible that this might be the last 
recreational period they would ever enjoy, anywhere.



In all, about thirty people remained for the party, including Commander 
Huffy, who had forbidden herself to enter the intoxicant lottery but who did 
like a Martian-style good time as much as anyone else on board. She sat 
sipping a cup of herbal tea and smoking a tobacco pipe, blowing smoke rings 
across the room while running her hand up and down the leg of Ron Sampson, 
who had entered the intoxicant lottery and was already working on his third 
drink. Ken and Slurry had both drawn intoxicant cards for this evening and 
they happily helped themselves to the rum and fruit juice concoction that 
had been whipped up for the occasion. Any drink with carbonation in it-such 
as beer or drinks with soda in them-did not maintain proper consistency in 
zero or even reduced gravity, so fruit juice was always the stealth ship 
mixer of choice. They sipped their drinks out of sealed pressure-fed 
containers specially designed for zero-G drinking while passing a 
self-contained bong of Eden green from one person to the other. Soon the 
entire wardroom was thick with pungent smoke and the sound of modern dance 
music reverberated off the walls. Things remained fairly sedate for a while, 
with only a few couples and triples performing mild zero-G botching moves 
near the ceiling.



Ken and Slurry sat together near Lieutenant Spankworth and Sergeant McGraw, 
both of whom were in the intoxicant pool as well. As Spacer Second Class 
Stinson who worked in the Engineering Department, and Yolanda Santini, a 
member of the Intelligence Department, twisted and squirmed above them, 
their mouths occasionally making brief, wet contact, their groins grinding 
together, the four of them discussed the upcoming wormhole entry.



"The probe in the original Lemondrop reactor test showed a little over 8G's 
of acceleration," Slurry said after exhaling her latest hit. "That's some 
serious shit. Not even Mosquito pilots endure more than 4Gs."



"We all did 6Gs in the centrifuge at TNB before we left," McGraw said, 
referring to the testing all members of the crew had undergone prior to 
departure. "I'll be the first to admit it wasn't the most pleasurable thing 
I've ever done, but it wasn't lethal."



"It felt like I was being squashed in a Laura-damned hose-wringer," Slurry 
said. "And this will be another 2Gs on top of that. We won't even be able to 
breathe."



"It's less than thirty seconds though," Ken felt compelled to point out, 
even though he wasn't too keen on enduring the expected acceleration either. 
"We were in the centrifuge for almost four minutes."



"Thirty seconds too long, if you ask me," Slurry said sourly, taking a 
tremendous shot of her drink. "Isn't there a way to shorten it?"



"The amount of acceleration we endure is pretty much a constant," McGraw 
said, repeating what had been told to them in the lecture. "The duration of 
the acceleration is the variable factor. It has to do with how close to the 
wormhole we are when it opens. We'll be 800 meters from it. If we get 
closer, we'll still undergo 8Gs. It'll just be for shorter duration and the 
trade-off will be that we risk getting fried by the flash waves from the 
anti-matter reaction."



"Yeah, I guess that's not really the way to go then, is it?" Slurry said.



"Nope," McGraw agreed. "Not really the way at all."



Slurry seemed like she had something else to add but was interrupted when 
Yolanda Santini's half-shirt came spinning through the air and struck her in 
the face, wrapping neatly around her head.



"Sorry, Slur," chuckled Spacer Stinson, who had been the flinger of the 
errant garment. He was floating upside down about two meters away, his hands 
lustily palpating the bared breasts of Yolanda, who was floating at a 
ninety-degree angle to him and licking at his stomach with her long tongue. 
"I was overcome in a moment of passion."



"You could've put my eye out with this thing," Slurry said jokingly, 
flinging it back toward them. It glanced off Yolanda's thigh, continued on a 
new track across the room, and then wrapped itself around the foot of 
Lieutenant Mango Tightgash-a helm officer who was locked in her own 
passionate embrace with Spacer First Class Glory Trower. Tightgash gave it 
an irritated kick, sending it off in yet another direction.



"Laura-damn it!" barked Commander Huffy, quite clearly irritated. "We have a 
fucking rule about throwing clothing around, do we not? They clog the 
circulation vents and cover the smoke detectors. Go get that ass-tapping 
shirt and stow it somewhere, right now!"



"Sorry, Huff," Stinson said with a flush, instantly breaking his embrace 
with Yolanda and propelling himself toward the errant shirt, which had 
indeed ended up against an air circulation vent and was indeed blocking it.



"Keep yourselves under control or I swear to Laura I'll cut off intoxicant 
rations," Huffy threatened. "I want my crew to have a good time but you will 
obey the rules. No more fucking clothing fights, is that clear?"



"Yes, Huff," Stinson said, his eyes downcast.



"Sorry, Huff," Slurry said, her eyes doing the same.



It didn't take long for things to lighten back up. Within five minutes of 
Huffy's outburst, she was floating near the center of the room, her own top 
neatly stowed and her bare nipples in the suckling mouths of Tightgash and 
Trower, who seemed to be involved in some sort of contest as to whether they 
could make their captain orgasm from breast stimulation alone. Though it 
seemed doubtful this would be the case, Huffy was certainly enjoying their 
efforts. Her legs were about halfway open and a prominent wet spot was 
plainly visible in the crotch of her shorts.



Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Stinson and Yolanda had progressed 
quite a bit in their explorations as well. Both were now completely nude and 
Stinson's face was planted firmly between Yolanda's dark legs, his mouth 
fastened to her clitoris. He was still floating upside down, his feet toward 
the ceiling, while she remained horizontal about a meter above the deck. One 
of the torpedo crew, seeing this, came floating over, his body doing lazy 
somersaults as he slid his shorts down his legs and off. He stuffed the 
shorts into his shirt and, as his last somersault brought him back to 
horizontal, he angled downward so his erect cock docked gently with 
Yolanda's lips. She slurped him inside without so much as a blink of her 
eyes, her hands going to his ass to stabilize the last of his forward 
momentum.



In other parts of the room, other couples and triples-and in one case, a 
quadruple-began to join together in sexual congress of varying type and 
degree. There were women and women, men and women, men and men, all trying 
their best to utilize positions unavailable to the gravity restricted. They 
formed T's and L's and W's, they made daisy chains of mouths and genitals 
and anuses. Moans of pleasure mixed with profane encouragements to fuck 
harder, suck faster, put it in deeper were undercut by the squishing and 
slurping noises. The heavy smell of female and male pheromones grew thick in 
the air, going straight to the brains of those not yet involved, compelling 
them to cast off their clothes and make the daisy chains longer or find 
partners of their own and form new ones.



"I'm going after Huffy," Slurry told Ken, a glint of mad lust in her eyes. 
"I've wanted that cunt's cunt in my mouth this whole fucking trip. It's time 
to take it."



"It looks like she's about ready for it," Ken said, seeing that the wet spot 
in her crotch had now spread to the point that her swollen lips were plainly 
visible beneath. Tightgash and Trower were still suckling away at her 
breasts but their hands were now in on the act as well, caressing her bare 
belly and her upper thighs.



Slurry gave Ken a quick kiss on the mouth and kicked off her chair. After 
doing a quick spin and twist maneuver to orient herself in the proper 
direction, she extended her bare feet toward him and asked for a push. He 
dutifully placed his hand on the sole of her left foot and shoved, sending 
her careening across the room toward her target. Her aim was almost perfect 
and she crashed into Huffy, her face impacting directly on the wet crotch, 
her momentum forcing the entire foursome toward the wall before air friction 
caused them to come to a halt. Huffy squealed in delight as Slurry's tongue 
wormed under the crotch band of her shorts and dove between those wet lips.



Ken was now quite erect himself and ready to become an active participant in 
the escalating orgy. He slid his shorts and shirt off and placed them 
carefully under the bench he was hovering above, making sure they were 
secure so they wouldn't go drifting off. He then began to scan the room, 
searching for a place to dock his own erection. The rules of a Martian orgy 
were quite simple. One need only approach any participant, male or female, 
that one wished to have sexual contact with and touch him or her with a 
hand. If the person was down with the sexual contact he or she would give a 
nod or some other sign of acceptance. If the person was not down with 
it-usually for lack of homosexual or heterosexual inclinations but no reason 
was necessary or expected-a shake of the head was given and the wisher of 
the contact was obligated to back off. To do otherwise was to risk being 
prosecuted for rape-a precedent the Martian Supreme Court had ruled in favor 
of in the early post-revolutionary days.



Those were the rules in Martian society as a whole. Onboard Calistoga, the 
system was even more simplistic. Here, with only 28 women and 17 men, all 
living in close quarters for the past 51 days, everyone already knew who was 
strictly homosexual and who was strictly heterosexual. Everyone had already 
discovered who did not wish to have contact with whom, both inside and 
outside the bounds of an official orgy. As such, the need for the initial 
permission-enquiring hand tap was not necessary in most cases, as Slurry had 
just demonstrated by diving into Huffy's crotch, and as the torpedo crewman 
had just demonstrated with Yolanda. Everyone already knew everyone else's 
kinks and respected whatever boundaries had already been set.



With these thoughts in mind, Ken's eyes settled on Sergeant McGraw, the 
young blonde squad leader of the special forces team. She had yet to find a 
partner to couple with but was obviously reasonably aroused by the sights, 
sounds, and smells going on around her. Like most of the others in the room, 
she had already removed her clothing and stashed it in a safe place. She was 
hovering near the far wall, where the inter-deck ladder led up to the next 
level, floating horizontally, her stomach toward the floor. Her left hand 
was caressing her nipple, pulling on it, making it grow, while her right 
hand was between her legs, the fingertips sliding slowly up and down her 
vaginal lips, smearing the moisture around preparatory to an all-out 
masturbatory attack. Ken had not fucked her yet, or had any other kind of 
sexual contact with her for that matter, but he knew she was down with him 
from conversations they'd shared. The appetizing sight of her swollen lips 
told him it was time to make his move.



He pushed down on his seat, causing his body to rise into the air. With a 
quick twist he was facing her, arms outstretched. He gave a gentle kick off 
the table with his feet, propelling himself toward her. Halfway there he 
rolled over ninety degrees, with his back toward the floor, so when he 
reached her he was able to slide himself neatly beneath her body. He angled 
his head forward as he passed under her leg and stuck out his tongue, 
touching it to the skin of her shin. His momentum continued to carry him 
along toward her head, his tongue licking up her leg, across her knee and 
thigh, up to her hip before the friction brought him to a halt.



"Oooh," she squealed at the contact, looking down to see who had made it and 
smiling when she saw him. "Nice move, Frazier."



"I thought you'd appreciate that one," he said, licking at the junction of 
her thigh and hip. "You just looked so cute hovering here playing with 
yourself."



"And you thought you'd give me a hand?" she asked, spreading her legs a 
little wider.



Ken could smell her wet pussy now, the sharp tang of aroused secretions. 
"Hand, foot, tongue, whatever you're into," he said, giving a suck this 
time, moving his mouth a little closer to center.



"It would be easier to list what I'm not into," she said, reaching down and 
grabbing a handful of his hair. With a sharp, almost painful tug, she pulled 
his face forcibly to her crotch.



Ken found himself with a mouthful of wet, bald pussy, his head pushed so 
hard into it he could barely breathe. He stuck out his tongue and began to 
lick, slow up and down strokes across her wet lips, gathering her juices, 
tasting her essence. An aficionado of cunnilingus, Ken had found that 
vaginal juices were like snowflakes, every woman tasted a little different.



"Oooh, yeah, baby," McGraw encouraged. "You've learned the Martian way since 
you've been here, haven't you?"



He didn't answer, just kept eating, plunging his tongue inside her, working 
his way toward her clit, which was rigid and demanding some attention. 
McGraw enjoyed the sensation for a few minutes and then became a bit more 
proactive in the encounter. She nimbly repositioned herself, both twisting 
herself around and rolling over at the same time, all without allowing her 
pussy to break contact with Ken's mouth. At the end of the maneuver they 
were in the perfect 69 position, with McGraw on top. She lowered her head 
and swallowed Ken's cock into her mouth, deep-throating him in one smooth 
stroke.



Now it was Ken's turn to moan as he felt her expert mouth go to work on him. 
He took a few deep, pleasurable breaths and then dove back down on her 
pussy, attacking her clit with his lips. All of the moving and twisting 
imparted a slow spin to their act. As they slurped and sucked their bodies 
pitched forward, like a Ferris wheel, McGraw's feet going up toward the 
ceiling, Ken's head moving toward the floor. McGraw's foot touched the top 
of a table and she kicked off it, propelling them on a leisurely track 
across the room. By the time they reached the opposite wall, both were 
flushed from sexual excitement and starting to perspire.



"Fuck me now," McGraw told him after they'd bumped into a bulkhead and 
bounced off, disturbing the rhythm. "I want some meat in me."



Ken didn't have to be told twice. He did another spin around, so they were 
facing each other, and pulled her to him. She wrapped her legs around his 
ass and he slid his hardness into her wetness, feeling the exquisite 
tightness Martian women worked to maintain, feeling the clench of those 
internal muscles at work, feeling her bare pubis against his crotch.



"Oh yeah," she grunted, her fingers biting into his back, her mouth 
attaching itself to her neck. "Hammer me. I like it hard."



He began to rut in and out of her, his pelvis mashing up and down to meet 
hers. She kicked off the wall again, imparting yet another spin to their 
conjunction, sending them cartwheeling toward the other side of the room. 
They bumped momentarily into another couple who were cartwheeling in the 
other direction and rebounded upward. Ken's ass struck the ceiling and they 
began heading toward the floor, barely missing the foursome Slurry was a 
part of, and finally settling down just above one of the cafeteria tables. 
They bounced back into the air where their momentum finally came to a halt. 
By this point they were driving into each other with everything they had, 
barely noticing their positioning.



McGraw came hard, screaming against his neck, her teeth gnashing down on his 
sweaty flesh as her body did a reverse jackknife with nearly enough force to 
toss him off her. Somehow he hung on through the spasms and then released 
the mental block holding his own orgasm at bay. It took only seconds before 
the spasms started deep within him, driven on by her desperate pleas in his 
ear to cum in her. With a grunt and a tightening of his own body, he blasted 
her insides with his hot sperm, firing it deep inside of her hungry body.



No sooner had the last jet erupted when she broke free of him, pushing 
herself up into the center of the room. "I got a fresh load from Frazier 
here," she announced loudly. "Who wants it?"



"Me!" a voice called from the other side of the room. This was Spacer Third 
Class Jack Overhaul, an off-duty helm operator. He was primarily homosexual 
but enjoyed dallying with the fairer sex when the occasion called for it, 
particularly during orgies. He had been sliding his lubricated hard-on in 
and out of Lieutenant Spankworth's spread ass near the lower deck ladder but 
abandoned him in an instant after hearing McGraw's offer to share Ken's 
deposit. Overhaul had been trying to get in Ken's pants since the moment 
he'd come aboard and had been acutely disappointed when informed of Ken's 
dedicated heterosexual preferences.



"You gonna rim me after you eat, Jackie?" McGraw asked him. "That's the 
price."



"Whatever you want, baby," he replied hungrily. "Let me at it."



Ken watched with mixed emotions as Overhaul came floating across the room, 
weaving in an out of other participants, to bury his face between McGraw's 
widely spread legs. He started lapping at her like a hungry cat at a bowl of 
milk, driving his tongue far up inside her, gathering up every last drop 
possible and grunting happily. McGraw tightened her legs around him and 
sighed, running her fingers through his short hair.



Ken turned away and began scanning the room again, spotting the foursome 
that Slurry was a part of writhing and twisting about two meters off the 
floor. Slurry had already removed Huffy's shorts and was making an L shape 
with the captain, her legs sticking up and her face connected to Huffy's 
crotch. Tightgash had floated up and was forming another L by putting her 
face in Slurry's crotch and Trower, electing not to form a complete daisy 
chain, was still lapping away at Huffy's nipples, alternating from one to 
the other. Ken pushed himself in that direction.



"I could use a little recharge, Huff," Ken said. "You up for it?"



"Bring it here," she panted, her eyes glazed with yearning. She held out her 
arms and seized him by the hips, pulling him to her. A moment later his 
flaccid cock was in her mouth and she was licking all the excess sperm and 
vaginal secretions from it.



Her mouth was quite talented and within minutes she had him rigid and ready 
for action once more.



"Thanks, Huff," he told her, pulling free with a pop, leaving a trail of her 
saliva to go spinning off across the room.



"No, thank you," she told him. "McGraw tastes pretty fuckin' good."



He looked around for a convenient place to place his recharged member and 
quickly found one. Trower's pretty hindquarters were floating in the air 
just a meter to his right. He did a few maneuvers, twisting one way and the 
other, until he was directly behind her. He reached out and touched her wet 
pussy, sliding his fingers in and out a few times, wetting them. He then 
began to smear the juice over her puckered anus, testing the waters.



"Mmmm hmmm," she grunted enthusiastically from around Huffy's nipple as she 
felt this. "Do it."



He slid his fingers into her ass a few times, loosening it up, and then, 
satisfied it was ready for penetration, he let himself float up just a 
little higher. He spread her cheeks with his hands and then put the head 
against his target. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled her against 
him, sliding his cock inch by inch into her back door. She cooed with 
pleasure when he finally bottomed out.



Over the next ninety minutes Ken came two more times and Slurry came no less 
than six. Though the party was still in full swing, both decided they were a 
bit tired so they said their goodbyes and made their way to the bathing 
facility three decks below. Showers were impossible in zero-G so sponge 
baths were the best that could be done. They soaped and rinsed each other 
until they were clean, their actions loving but not sexual. As they toweled 
off they shared a few kisses and then left the room, floating naked through 
the corridors and ladders to the berthing area just above the engine room. 
Several sailors greeted them as they passed, paying not the least bit of 
attention to their nudity.



Since space was at a premium on a stealth ship, they shared their berthing 
room with five other people. Their bunk was a small, enclosed space near the 
back of the room. Slurry unzipped the cover and they pulled themselves 
inside. The quarters were tight, causing them to float skin to skin. Ken 
wrapped a blanket around them and held his wife tightly.



"I'm gonna miss sleeping in zero-G," Slurry said, snuggling into him and 
stifling a yawn. "It's the ultimate soft mattress."



"Me too," Ken said. "Although I won't miss having to spend an hour on the 
exercise machine every day."



"Yeah," she scoffed. "Once we go to .25G we'll only have to work out for 
half an hour every two days. That's a big relief, isn't it? I'm telling you, 
Martians aren't made to have to work out. That's what we spent all that time 
perfecting our Laura-damned medical science for. So we wouldn't have to work 
out and diet to stay healthy."



"You look cute when you're strapped into the machine, though," Ken teased. 
"Maybe we'll get one for the office when we get home, huh?"



He expected her to laugh at his joke but she didn't-quite the opposite in 
fact. She seemed to be upset by it. "Yeah," she said bitterly. "Maybe we'll 
do that."



"Slur," he said carefully. "Are you okay?"



She sniffed. "Fine," she told him. "Let's get some sleep, huh? I have 
kitchen duty tomorrow."



"Slurry," he said, trying again.



"Good night, Ken," she said firmly, closing the subject. "I had a good time 
tonight. Now let's get some sleep."



He dropped it. Soon both of them drifted off into an uncomfortable slumber.



+++++



"She's gone," Julie Dittmeyer told the hologram of Cumquat Cypress. "She 
boarded the 0819 flight to Edwards this morning. She's probably up on 
Departure by now, waiting to board the Alberta."



"Yes," Cypress said, "we have confirmation the battle group is about to 
sail, and it ain't no ordinary sailing either. They've reinforced the armada 
with five extra stealth ships, ten extra anti-stealth destroyers, two more 
battleships, an additional superdreadnought, and a grand total of sixteen 
Panama class cargo carriers."



"So the antimatter is in one of them," Julie guessed. "They really are going 
to do it."



"It would seem so," Cypress agreed. "Did you really have any doubts?"



She shook her head. "No. I always knew Amanda was telling me the truth... 
it's just that... you know... to get confirmation that they're really going 
to try to fuck with the time stream like that. They're mad. Absolutely 
fucking mad."



"No argument there," Cypress told her. "Thank Laura you were able to get the 
information from her in time for us to do something about it. Your skillful 
tongue may have saved the human race, Julie. You know that?"



Julie chuckled whimsically. "I never thought of it that way, but I guess 
you're right. It's hard to believe I'm never going to see her again. I've 
grown to kind of like her a little this last year-well as much as I could 
like any Earthling who is trying to destroy my planet."



"Maybe you'll see her again," Cypress said. "Assuming everything works out, 
we'll have one of our agents make contact with her when she returns to 
Earth. We'll offer to smuggle her off the planet and give her asylum on 
Mars. It will probably seem like an attractive option when we explain that 
she is the reason that their Lemondrop plan failed and that there will be a 
significant possibility the Earthling agents will figure that out."



"Hopefully she'll take you up on it. Even if she does, though, I hardly 
think she'll want to see me again back on Mars after she learns I've been 
using her and pretending to love her all this time. You know how Earthlings 
are about that shit?"



Cypress shrugged, obviously not terribly interested in the subject. "That's 
the way the cumshot splatters," she said, quoting an old Martian saying.



"I suppose so," she said. "So anyway, the interdiction team is almost in 
place?"



"The Calistoga is just finishing up its deceleration burn as we speak. 
They'll be activating the first reactor in about 48 hours now. The second 
reactor, which will generate the return wormhole, will be activated six 
hours after that. If they come back out of it, we'll know how things are 
going to go."



Julie shook her head in amazement. "This time travel shit is hard to grasp 
sometimes," she said. "In less than sixty hours, we'll already know whether 
or not the mission was successful, more than a month before the WestHem team 
even enters their own wormhole."



"You think that's a mind-fuck of a concept?" Cypress asked. "Have you 
considered the fact that if we're successful and our special forces team 
manages to capture that ship and bring it back, both the ship and its crew 
will exist in two different places in the same time. There will be one ship 
and crew headed for the WestHem reactor site, and there will be one ship and 
crew under guard that just emerged from our return wormhole."



Julie hadn't really thought about that. Cypress was right. It was a 
mind-fuck of a concept. "I think I need a bonghit to consider all the 
ramifications of that one," she said.



Cypress gave a dutiful chuckle and then returned back to seriousness. "In 
any case, security will be absolutely the most important thing from our end 
until the WestHems enter their wormhole. As you said, inside of sixty hours 
or so, we'll already know if we were successful or not, but the WestHems 
will not know what we've done and it is of utmost importance that they get 
no hint whatsoever. That's why we're keeping you in place until they 
activate their reactor. On the off chance that someone is keeping an eye on 
you or has some sort of suspicion about your relationship with Amanda, we 
don't want you suddenly disappearing now that she's on her way to the 
reactor site. Once they activate, it won't matter anymore and we can all go 
home. Until that time, however, you must go about your daily life, just as 
always."



"I understand," Julie said with a sigh. "At least the end is in sight."



"A-fucking-men to that," replied Cypress. "I'm getting really tired of 
zero-G sex. I can't wait to get home and tear one off on a normal bed for 
once."



+++++



"Maneuvering thrusters are idle," reported Spacer Jack Overhaul, who was 
strapped into the main helm control seat. "The bow is exactly 800 meters 
from the projected wormhole site. Lateral and forward motions are at zero 
relative to the target area. We're in position, Huff."



"Thanks, Jack," replied Huffy, who was strapped into the command chair. She 
looked around the command bridge, making sure everyone was in position. 
Every person on the bridge of Calistoga was wearing an emergency 
decompression suit and was strapped firmly into his or her chair with 
recently installed four point harnesses. The chairs themselves had undergone 
a retrofit prior to leaving Triad Naval Base in order to accommodate the 
G-forces they were about to encounter. "Looking good up here. Slurry, Ken, 
are those straps on tight enough?"



Ken and Slurry, though not part of the bridge crew, had been assigned the 
two spare seats up there for lack of anywhere else to put them. They had no 
actual function other than to sit quietly and keep their mouths shut. "I'm 
good, Huff," Ken replied. "I've got them pulled as tight as I could."



"Me too," Slurry said.



"Good enough," Huffy said. "Bridge is go for the wormhole." She pushed a 
button on her panel. "All departments, this is Huffy. Report go or no-go for 
the wormhole."



The departments began to report in one by one in a pre-determined order. 
Weapons bay, engineering, sick-bay, Intelligence, special forces berthing. 
All reported go for the wormhole, which meant all had their emergency 
decompression suits on and were strapped into their designated acceleration 
chairs. Huffy acknowledged each report by repeating their words back to the 
person reporting. Finally, satisfied that the ship was as ready as it was 
going to be, she keyed up the communications system and contacted the 
control ship, which, like all of the other ships involved in the Counterdrop 
project, had pulled back more than two million kilometers to keep clear of 
the worst of the effects of the wormhole. While the wormhole was open, its 
gravitational attraction would be greater than that of the sun.



"Control, this is Calistoga," Huffy said. "We are in position, stabilized 
800 meters away from the projected site and we are go for wormhole opening. 
All systems nominal."



"We're down with that shit, Calistoga," a male voice replied. "Telemetry 
from the reactor indicates all systems nominal there. We're gonna go ahead 
and send the pre-ignition warm-up command."



"Fuckin' aye," Huffy said. "Fire it up."



Two minutes later they received confirmation that the warm-up sequence was 
underway. At this point it was still possible to abort the mission. Once the 
reactor was started, that possibility no longer existed. Warm-up took the 
better part of fifteen minutes. During this time conversation on the bridge 
was minimal, not because of any command by Huffy, but simply because 
everyone was too frightened to speak. They were, after all, the first living 
organisms to attempt travel through a wormhole. It was entirely possible 
there was some undiscovered aspect of physics that would prevent such a 
thing, and the way it would prevent it would undoubtedly be by killing them.



"Warm-up sequence complete," the voice said at last. "Reactor is in standby 
mode. We will initiate on your mark."



"I'm down with that shit," Huffy replied. She looked around at the crew. "Is 
everyone ready?"



No one answered, which meant they were ready.



"All right then." She flipped on the intercom again. "All departments, this 
is Huffy. The reactor is warmed up and ready to fire. It's time for us to 
cram our cocks in the asshole or wipe off the lube. If any department is not 
ready, let me know right now or I'll have them give the command."



No department reported back, which meant they were all ready.



"Okay then," she said calmly. She keyed up the radio link. "Command, go with 
the reactor sequence."



The distance caused a bit of a communications lag, which seemed to stretch 
out indefinitely. Finally, the voice of the controller said, "Initiating 
reactor sequence. We are past the point of no return now. The wormhole will 
open in 38 seconds."



Huffy repeated this information to the rest of the ship and then ordered the 
computer to count down over the intercom. A pleasant female voice began the 
count. When she reached 10 seconds Huffy gave one last command. "Everyone 
brace for acceleration."



Ken, strapped to his chair, gripped the armrests tightly and made sure his 
head was firmly against the seatback. He could feel his heart hammering in 
his chest, could feel the adrenaline surging through his body. Was he really 
about to be thrown through a wormhole into the past? Had he really agreed to 
such a mad thing? Yes, he really had. As the final seconds ticked down, his 
mind insisted on replaying everything that could possibly go wrong. Death by 
an unknown aspect of physics. Death by the destruction of the ship because 
of underestimation of the gravitational forces. A slow lingering death in 
the vacuum of space because of a hull breach in the past, where rescue would 
be impossible.



"Five, four, three..." counted the computer.



"I love you, Ken," said Slurry, her voice terrified. "Always remember that."



"I love you too," he said, just as the computer reached one.



There were no windows on the bridge, just digital camera images on view 
screens. They showed nothing dramatic as the reactor fired and the wormhole 
opened. There was nothing to see. The wormhole was a singularity-its 
gravitation so powerful that no light could escape from it. All that could 
be seen was the blackness of space-the stars that made up the background 
disappearing from view. Neither was there any sound, since no sound wave 
could be transmitted in the vacuum of interstellar space. For the merest 
fraction of a second, it seemed that the reactor hadn't worked after all, 
that they had come all this way and psyched themselves up for nothing. But 
then the acceleration kicked in as the tremendous gravity grabbed the 
Calistoga and pulled it inside.



Ken felt the air driven from his lungs as he was slammed backward with 8Gs 
of force. It was like an elephant had just laid down on him, covering his 
body, smashing him. His eyeballs were pushed back in his head, blurring his 
vision. He was unable to breathe, to refill his lungs, because his diaphragm 
and chest muscles were simply not strong enough to overcome the pressure. 
Dimly, he heard alarms sounding from the computer console. He heard the 
creaking and moaning of tortured metal as the ship was jerked through space. 
It went on seemingly forever-an eternity-and he began to fear it was never 
going to end. He felt his consciousness starting to wane as the effects of 
hypoxia began to manifest themselves. Yes, it seemed he really was going to 
die. Surely more than thirty seconds had gone by.



And then, just before he lost consciousness, the weight was suddenly gone. 
He was in zero-G again, weightless, with the elephant gone from his body. He 
took in great gasping breaths of the wonderful air, filling his lungs, 
appreciating the oxygenated atmosphere of the ship like he'd never 
appreciated it before. He looked up at the view screens as his vision 
cleared, seeing nothing but stars spinning before them. Had they gone 
through? Or were they in the same place? One thing was certain. The ship was 
moving and was out of control.



This was something that Huffy realized as well. "Helm," she barked, her 
voice breaking and breathless. "Get us stabilized."



"Working on it," squeaked Overhaul, who was shaking his hands and trying to 
get some feeling back in them. Finally, he put them on the panel and began 
to manipulate the controls, enlisting the aid of the computer.



Ken heard the muted roar of the maneuvering thrusters being fired, felt the 
jerking of the ship as Overhaul worked to stabilize their spin and get them 
oriented. It took a while-for the ship was spinning both head over heels and 
laterally-but, eventually, the star field stopped moving on the screens and 
the thrusters went silent.



"We're stable, Huff," Overhaul reported, a little less breathless now. 
"Although we don't have a position fix yet. I'm not really sure where in the 
hell we are."



"Good job, Jack," she said, unstrapping her harness and pulling the hood of 
her emergency suit back. "Navigation, get us a fix as soon as you can. We 
need to know where in the hell and-when you get around to it-when in the 
hell we are.



"Working on it," replied Lieutenant Darla Ogle, the chief navigation 
officer. She unstrapped her own harness and pulled her hood down before 
going to work on her panel.



"Is everyone okay up here?" Huffy asked the bridge at large.



No one replied that they weren't, which meant they were. She nodded and then 
turned on the intercom. "All departments, report in. Damage reports if you 
got 'em."



One by one the departments checked in, all reporting everything was well. It 
seemed the ship had suffered no damage, the crew no injuries. Hearing this, 
Huffy ordered the ship to general quarters until they determined just 
exactly what conditions were like outside. Ken and Slurry remained where 
they were, since their general quarters station was nowhere specific-they 
were just supposed to be on standby to join a firefighting team in the event 
of damage.



"Navigation, how we doing?" Huffy asked, floating up above her chair now, 
rubbing at a sore spot on her shoulder.



"I'm getting no GPS data from Mars or Saturn," she said. "In fact, I'm 
getting no signals of any kind except from the vicinity of Earth-and those 
aren't modern GPS signals at all. I'm thinking we really did go back in 
time, Huff."



"I need confirmation," she said. "Our margin for error was plus or minus ten 
thousand kilometers geographically and plus or minus six hours timewise. 
Start making some star sightings and see if you can correlate our time and 
position to when and where we're supposed to be."



"Fuckin' aye, Huff," she said, turning back to her panel. It took her about 
three minutes to train her scopes on the various constellations and for the 
computers to churn out the data. Finally, she announced, "It's looking 
good."



"What do you mean?" Huffy asked.



"Well, we need confirmation from another source to be sure, but the 
constellations and the planets are lined up as they should be if we were 
2800 kilometers on bearing 68 mark 020 from our projected drop off point at 
or about June 7, 2007, approximately 0300 hours Greenwich Mean Time. Until 
we get exact time data from another source, I won't be able to correlate 
exactly however."



"So we're here?" Huffy asked. "Is that what you're saying?"



"Yes, it appears we are."



Huffy nodded, drifting back down to her chair and pulling herself inside. 
She flipped a switch on her intercom. "Intelligence," she said. "This is 
Huffy. Are your instruments up and running yet?"



"We just went on line," replied the voice of Ron Sampson. "We're starting to 
sort through the signals now. All are coming from the vicinity of Earth or 
Earth orbit."



"We need a time confirmation so we can fix our position," Huffy told him. 
"Give it to me as soon as you have it."



"Fuckin' aye, Huff," he replied. "I'm getting some television signals. Can 
you send the Fraziers down here so they can help me sort through this shit?"



She looked over at Ken and Slurry, both of whom nodded and pushed off across 
the room, heading toward the ladder. "They're on the way," Huffy told him.



They entered the Intelligence room a minute later. It was a bustle of 
activity as the six intelligence operatives that had come along for the 
journey sorted through the maze of audio and video signals they were pulling 
in from planet Earth. Sampson was in the command chair, using his controls 
to flip through several signals at one time on the large screen at the front 
of the room. Ken saw a WWF wrestling match, a soft-core pornographic movie, 
and an episode of Love Boat playing up there.



"You recognize this crap?" Sampson asked Ken as he floated in and took a 
seat.



"Yes," Ken said, naming off what he was seeing.



"Well, we're in the past, that's for sure," Sampson said. "Nothing that 
helps us establish a date, though." He continued to flip from frequency to 
frequency, pausing at each one so Ken could tell him what it was. Ken 
recognized about half of the broadcasts. He saw old reruns of sit-coms, more 
pornography, movies such as Saving Private Ryan and Airplane, a few 
infomercials. The things he didn't recognize were broadcasts in foreign 
languages, usually Spanish but also Russian, French, German, and Arabic. 
Finally there was what appeared to be the opening scene from a news 
broadcast.



"Hold there," Ken said. "They should give the date, maybe even the time."



His insight proved correct. An impossibly handsome male and a heavily 
made-up and surgically altered female, both wearing dark suits, sat before a 
desk. The graphics stated it was Channel 9 Reports from Charlotte, North 
Carolina. "Good evening," the male newscaster said. "It's five o'clock, June 
6, 2007, and we have news for you... next." The broadcast then cut to a 
commercial for McDonald's hamburgers, but everyone ignored it.



"We got it," Sampson said, consulting a computer screen. He patched his 
voice through to Huffy. "Huff, I think we can confirm here. We just got a 
time/date stamp from a news broadcast from the United States. They put it at 
1700 hours, June 6, 2007."



"Give me the calculations," Huffy's voice replied. "Let's see if they match 
what navigation came up with."



"Working it," he said. "Let's see... Charlotte, North Carolina is in the 
Eastern time zone. June 6 is within the daylight savings period. That means 
it was 2100 Greenwich Mean Time when that broadcast was sent. If we're where 
we're supposed to be that means the signal took..." He did a few 
calculations, "just over six hours to get to us. That would put us at just a 
hair past 0300 on June 7, 2003. That sound like what navigation came up 
with?"



"You've hit the pussy right on the clit," Huffy told him. "Attention all 
compartments-we have confirmation. We have successfully traversed the 
wormhole and have arrived in the past. It is currently June 7, 2003 and we 
will shortly begin accelerating toward our target area. Good job everyone."





To be continued in Chapter 16

send comments to do_not_resuscitate_ever@yahoo.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+


  index