The Arcadia Legacy (MOSAR Book 2)

by C. R. Turner

  Emerson interrupts in his usual deafening voice, “Sir, we need to get the Firestorm out.”

  Bradley glares at Emerson. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but his stare renders Emerson silent – no mean feat. Bradley flicks his head in a gesture for me to follow. We walk up the ramp into the back of our Kyt and up to the cockpit. Bradley takes a seat next to Teenan and picks up the radio headset.

  “Bradley, Makri starship, contact.”

  “Go ahead, Prime Bradley.”

  “How long till the RASB is operational?”

  “Hold a minute.”

  Teenan looks up at me nervously, then back at Bradley. Bradley’s his usual calm self, unflappable.

  “Approximately thirty minutes, sir.”

  Bradley replies, “Make it happen. Final,” before handing the headset back to Teenan.

  Twenty minutes later, most of the team gather around Sam and Max.

  Standing at the edge of the group, Bradley faces me. “Stinson, when we move out, you’ll be taking point.”

  “What?” Is he serious?

  “This is a MOSAR mission, you’ve got point. Max needs to be up front where he can see and hear ahead. The last thing he needs is half-a-dozen heavy-footed soldiers in front of him, especially in this gravity. Max’s tread is quieter, which will give us a greater chance of detecting any threats before we’re spotted. I’ll be directly behind you the whole time.” Bradley pauses and then adds in a commanding voice, “No heroics, okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  “You’ll have an advantage over the rest of us, being high up on Max’s back, so keep your eyes peeled. And remember to keep an eye on Max for any cues. If you suspect there’s a threat ahead, don’t be afraid to stop so we can assess the situation.”

  My heart’s already racing. “Yes, sir.”

  Bradley calls out, “Taylor.”

  When Taylor joins us, Bradley asks, “Have you uploaded the MRP return to our Core-links?”

  “Pos, sir.” Taylor holds her wrist device up so I can see, and starts going through its functions. “I’ve charted a path based on the topography scan, but don’t feel like you have to follow it exactly, Stinson. If you suspect there’s an easier route, take it. I’ll correct you if I think you’re going the wrong way. The two Kyts and the RASB are also marked. North is the sub-stellar point.”

  “That’s the point closest to Daisuke?” I ask, trying to remember our briefing.

  “Positive,” Taylor replies. “It’s really just a reference point in case we have to divert substantially from the planned route and it clouds over.”

  After my quick lesson on the Core-link, we join the rest of the group and Bradley addresses us. “Dropa, Teenan you’re to stay behind and guard SF Raptor’s Kyt. Teenan, I want the Kyt ready for lift-off at a moment’s notice. You so much as smell danger, you get the Kyt in the air. The rest of you be ready to move out in five, and remember, keep the noise to a minimum. Max is here for a reason. Let him do his job.”

  At the edge of the pebbly shore, I put my foot in the stirrup but only make it halfway up before being pulled back by the higher gravity. Bloody hell! This is crazy. I try again, grunting as I throw my leg over and drop into the saddle. Max lets out a little grunt of his own and looks over his shoulder. I pat him on the neck and chuckle.

  I’m so ecstatic to be taking point, I can hardly wipe the smile from my face. I glance down at Sam, who has a tiny smirk, before giving Max a gentle nudge. The first hundred or so feet are steep, and Max runs up to get to the top. We stop and turn, waiting for the rest of the team to catch up. Dropa is standing on the ramp with his Ashra in hand. He looks glad he’s not going on the sixty-mile hike through jungle. I don’t blame him. This is going to be gruelling.

  By the narrowness and muddiness of the trail, I’m guessing it’s a game trail used by animals to access the lagoon. I read my Core-link to get my bearings. This trail is as good a place as any to start from.

  Bradley’s roughly thirty feet behind me, followed by Sam and the rest of the team all spaced out in column formation. A small flock of birds perched high in the canopy are squawking at each other. Their brilliant colours stand out against the thick dark-green foliage. For reasons that escape me, the trees are larger than I’ve ever seen before. I would have thought the crippling gravity would have the opposite effect. I pull my square black scarf out of my pocket and unfold it, revealing the word MOSAR in grey stitching in the corner. I grab it by the corners and tie it around my neck, although I don’t imagine I’ll need it any time soon. I think Marc would be proud that it’s being used on a MOSAR mission once again.

  I wait a second to let the team catch up. Hawkins is carrying his rifle on his back. I haven’t seen it fired yet, but by the sheer size of it, I can see why Bradley hassled him about it. It’s complete overkill.

  With the roar of the waterfall fading in the distance, and only the occasional animal call, the trail is fairly quiet until a small explosion stops the team dead in their tracks. We look back from where we’ve just come. An almighty blast jars us, frightening all the birds into flight and startling Max. A huge fireball shoots up through the jungle, expanding skyward.

  Bradley spins around and our eyes lock. I squeeze Max in the ribs. He runs to Bradley’s position, and I command him to lie down. Bradley dumps his backpack on the ground and climbs on. The rest of the team jump out of the way as Max takes off, flat out back down the game trail. By the time we reach the edge of the clearing, the huge expanding black and orange fireball has left an enormous smoke ring. SF Mustang’s Kyt is in flames. I can’t see our Kyt through the thick smoke, and I wonder if it, too, has been lost. As we reach the edge of the steep hill that runs back down to the pebbly shore, I pull on Max’s reins to stop him from launching over the edge. To my relief, Teenan has our Kyt in the air and is circling back around the smoke and flames. The landing gear is down, the ramp hanging open. As the Kyt flies toward us there’s an Ashra blast from within, blasting a big hole in one of the windshields. The Kyt yaws hard to the right before banking to its port side and making a left turn as it flies over our heads. The rotor blades chop the air with hefty thuds as if they’re about to snap off. It banks harder and harder until it’s on its side. We watch, stunned, as it falls from the sky, crashing into a clearing up the hill from us. I rib Max, and by the time we reach the wreckage, it’s already settled in the long grass.

  Bradley leaps off Max and heads for the Kyt while transmitting over the Core-link. “Emerson, Taylor, cover us.”

  I hit the ground and run to catch up. I don’t think Dropa or Teenan could have survived, but I’m determined to try to save them if they’ve been fortunate. The Kyt is now upside down. Its port side wings have been ripped off, and the fuselage is all battered, having left a huge gouge in the ground and the smell of freshly turned soil in the air.

  Bradley steps into the rear of the Kyt first. His Ashra shouldered, set to blast as he scans the wreckage. Seatbelts dangle from above, and the roof, now the floor, is littered with gear that wasn’t securely fastened, including Alderson’s body bag. There are three bodies in the cockpit: Teenan’s, Dropa’s and a third. Where the hell did he come from? Teenan’s right arm has been blown clean off – the cauterised flesh a tell-tale sign of an Ashra blast. I already know he’s dead; Ashras are so powerful that any hit from one set to blast will kill. I feel for a pulse anyway, then bend to try Dropa. His face is covered in blood, and his nose and jaw have been smashed. His eyes stare into nothing. Bradley looks at me. I shake my head. He’s gone.

  The third person is wearing a striker force uniform. I grab his shoulder and turn him over, revealing the sewn patch on his shoulder. He’s a member of SF Mustang. I feel for a pulse. Nothing. His neck is broken, and the nearest computer screen is caved-in, as if he face planted the instrument panel when the Kyt made contact with the ground. I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies before, but there’s something heartbreaking about seeing their faces so still when only a mo
ment ago they were so full of life.

  I start to hyperventilate. “I don’t understand. Why … why would a member of SF Mustang attack his own rescuers?”

  Bradley can’t or won’t answer.

  The rest of the team catches up, and Hawkins enters. “What the hell? It’s Houseman.”

  “What the hell happened?” Emerson blasts, anger flushing his face.

  Bradley narrows his eyes as he raises his voice. “What part of ‘cover us’ don’t you understand, Emerson? Get outside and backup Taylor.”

  Emerson storms out, looking as if he’s about to lose it. Sam’s at the rear of the Kyt, not game to come any closer, her face twisted in terror. Hawkins sees the blast in the windshield, Teenan’s injuries and the extra Ashra lying on the floor, but still can’t piece it together. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it either. Grief overwhelms me. And guilt – I know I should feel for all of them equally, but I feel especially for Teenan. He was such a nice guy and has now paid the ultimate price for trying to help others. No one deserves to die like this.

  Bradley bends and grabs Dropa by the shirt. “Hawkins, grab his ankles.”

  As they struggle with Dropa’s weight, Bradley calls out over his shoulder, “Pisano, extract the Kyt’s radio.”

  Pisano enters the Kyt, his face white. Sam then joins me as we watch Pisano going to work.

  When Bradley and Hawkins return, Bradley orders, “Stinson, give Pisano a hand while we clear out the bodies. Miller, remove the radio aerial from the side of the fuselage. It’s the long thin black one.”

  I’m helping Pisano remove the thumb screws holding the radio in the instrument panel, when a huge short circuit sends blinding white sparks flying.

  Pisano raises his voice. “Make it snappy, Stinson.”

  “Aren’t Kyts electric?” I ask, wondering why he’s so concerned.

  “Yeah, but the electricity used to run them is generated from hydrogen.”

  Oh crap! Another short circuit sprays the whole cockpit in scorching sparks, and we have to shield ourselves. When we remove the last of the thumb screws, Pisano pulls on the radio’s handles, but it won’t budge. I put my foot on the glass instrument panel and yank with all my might. The radio shunts forward a few inches. Pisano grabs the handle on one side, I grab the other, and we pull together. This time it slides clean out.

  We finish unplugging the wiring looms just as Bradley returns from removing the last of the bodies.

  “Everyone out,” he orders, and we run for the exit just as there’s another bright flash of sparks. There must be a small leak in one of the hydrogen fuel tanks under the seats, as a fire suddenly blooms and burns ferociously like a flame thrower.

  Sam joins our sprint, but halfway back to the group with the sound of flames roaring behind us, she turns back.

  I catch her wrist. “What are you doing?”

  “My backpack’s still in the—”

  Boom.

  The Kyt explodes, knocking Bradley, Pisano, Sam and me off our feet. The heat from the expanding fireball is unbearable and I shield my face with my arm. I grab the radio as Sam helps me to my feet and all four of us run for it. When we join the rest of the team, the Kyt is engulfed in flames. SF Mustang’s Kyt is still burning behind us, and there are now two thick columns of smoke rising into the sky.

  I reach out to Sam, but she pulls away scowling.

  I step back. “What’s wrong?”

  She glances at Bradley before returning her glare to me. “Half our rations are in my backpack.”

  My heart sinks. Bradley doesn’t even react. I guess living off the land would be second nature to a striker force team. Emerson paces back and forth, a vein in his neck looking like it’s about to burst. Taylor’s a rock, on her knee with her Ashra shouldered still covering us. Max stands staring into the flames with his ears pricked. I walk over, grab his reins and pat him on the neck – he doesn’t even break his stare.

  The flames are extinguished, and what’s left of the fuselage creaks and ticks as it cools. The columns of black smoke rising high into the sky thin. On the surface, Hawkins is calm, but a small tic – his left eyebrow flicking – tells me he’s furious.

  It feels like an eternity before anyone speaks.

  “Now what?” Emerson asks Bradley, his bellowing voice laced with panic. “It’ll take us months to walk to the RASB from here.”

  Bradley stands silently, face deadpan. He won’t be baited into panicking.

  As the rest of the team place the bodies into body bags, I approach Sam. Her eyes are welling up. “I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong here.” I’ve never seen her doubt herself so much before.

  “We’ll be alright. We can live off the land,” I say softly.

  I reach out, but Sam pulls away again. My heart breaks seeing her so upset; she’s never pulled away from me before.

  Bradley sees the radio aerial in the long grass. “Miller, did you get the aerial?”

  Sam snaps out of it. “Yes, sir.” She picks it up and hands it to him.

  “Nice work, Miller.”

  Sam manages a faint smile.

  Bradley hands the aerial to Taylor, who sets to work getting the radio operational. Eventually, she’s able to make contact with the Makri starship.

  “Am I connected?” Bradley asks.

  “Pos, sir.”

  After a brief conversation with the starship, Bradley gathers the team around.

  “The Remote Air Support Base is operational.” Bradley’s calm demeanour stuns me. It’s almost like he’s deliberately trying to slow the situation down. “The Makri starship is going to leave and try to secure another Kyt, but they say it could take a week before they return. We’ll continue with our primary and secondary objectives. It’ll take us ten days to get to the crash site and return, anyway. Understood?”

  “What about their bodies, sir?” Taylor asks.

  “We’ll leave Dropa, Teenan, Alderson and Houseman’s bodies behind in our Kyt, they’ll be safe in there. We’ll collect them once our primary and secondary objectives are accomplished.”

  Taylor nods and the team breaks. Seeing the body bags lying in the grass and the smouldering ruins of the two Kyts makes me wonder what I’ve got us into.

  A couple of hours on and the game trail all but disappears into jungle. Every mile is tough work. We’re supposed to be averaging three miles an hour, but it feels more like one. The higher gravity is taking its toll, and I suspect the never-setting Daisuke, low on the horizon, will eventually be a thorn in my side. I don’t imagine we’ll get any sleep when we stop at the end of the first stage.

  My mind wanders from the job at hand, and I’m startled when I spot movement up ahead. An animal’s body is partially obscured by broad dark leaves. I stop Max. The rest of the team catch up. The animal takes a few steps. It’s a big cat, like a Bellona except with much smaller teeth and a jet-black coat similar to Max’s. Still as a statue, it returns our stare, a small animal dangling between its teeth. Max lets out a deep growl, and the cat takes off into the jungle under the cover of stealthy silence. I twist my head back toward the team. Sam’s smiling, but the rest of the team have their Ashras shouldered. I give Max a nudge and we continue on. I mustn’t let my guard down like that again.

  I’m searching for any sign of the striker scout or SF Mustang – a broken branch, a boot print in the mud – when a huge snake up in the tree catches my eye. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It’s mainly brown with several bright-yellow patches on it. I point it out to Bradley, who’s still behind me. Sam sees it and gulps in fright. I chuckle.

  Max stops dead in his tracks, piquing my attention. He sniffs at the breeze, raising his head. I guess by the silence, the rest of the team have stopped. Max just stands there as if his paws are stuck in the mud. I peer deep into the jungle but can’t see or hear anything other than bird calls. Remembering Bradley’s instructions, I cast a querying frown back in his direction.

  “What is it?�
�� Bradley asks as he reaches my side.

  “I don’t know. Max is spooked.”

  “Stay put,” Bradley says, then walks ahead, surveying the surrounding jungle.

  After a minute or so, Bradley signals for me to move forward. “Nothing this time, but good work, Stinson. Keep it up. That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  Several hours later, we reach a clearing alongside a river. Fifteen miles down. Not bad, all things considered.

  As the team catch up, I ask Bradley, “Is that enough ground covered for stage one?”

  “Yeah, mate. That’ll do.” He drops all his gear.

  A couple of small animals with big feet and black-striped orange-brown fur sit in the clearing up on their hind legs as they munch away on fallen leaves. They probably only weigh twenty or thirty pounds each. Framing two long, thin horns that curve up and backwards, their long, thin, furry ears twitch with every sound the team makes. By far the most bizarre animal I’ve seen.

  “I think they’re called Amanos,” Bradley says. “Short for Amanojaku.”

  “Have you seen them before?” I ask.

  “No. I’ve heard tales about them being considered sacred animals on other planets.”

  Emerson calls out. “Dinner.”

  I’m surprised when Emerson’s loud remark doesn’t even frighten them. After a minute, they casually hop off into the surrounding jungle.

  “I could go a roast,” Pisano says with a cheeky smile, obviously trying to lighten the mood. He adds, “You up for some roast critter, Hawkins?”

  Hawkins doesn’t look impressed as he places his massive rifle on the ground. I wonder what Pisano is stirring Hawkins about.

  “Hawkins is a vegetarian,” Taylor says, eyeing her Core-link.

  Bradley leans over Taylor’s shoulder. “How far have we travelled?”

  “We’ve done twenty miles of walking, but it’s only fifteen true. That’s not bad for stage one,” Taylor replies.