by Tim Lebbon
“I did. Johnny Mains is one of the best Excursionist leaders we have. Don’t write him off yet.”
“We can’t afford complacency.”
“I’m not complacent,” Marshall said. “An attack on Love Grove Base is pointless, from a military standpoint, but Isa and McIlveen were in possession of two complete Yautja specimens. That was no secret.”
“No secret to the Yautja, too, perhaps.”
“You think they’re instigating these attacks? With human collaborators?”
Barclay pressed his lips together and leaned forward, as if to bring himself closer than the several billions of miles between them.
“We’ve always underestimated them,” he said. “You know that as well as I do. They’re so… other, that we’ve never really come close to understanding them. No real societal structure we can perceive. No politics, and only hints at some form of religion. For them, everything is the hunt. They’re born hunting, live stalking, and die for the kill—but maybe there’s more to them than we believe.”
“General Bassett is on a war footing.”
“Yes, I know. Marshall, we need to move ahead of them. Being one step behind means we’ll lose in whatever is to come. Whatever Palant and McIlveen might have found out from those specimens, we need to know. Retrieve what you can of their research, but if you believe there’s even a shred missing, get some people out there.” He paused, then added, “You have assets?”
“Of course,” Marshall said, genuinely aggrieved.
“Of course.” Barclay smiled. “We have our differences, Gerard. I know you think I’m something of a freak, but believe me, my priority is yours. I want to persist and survive as long as possible. I’ve died three times, and I’ve seen nothing—nothing—beyond what I have here.”
Marshall didn’t know what to say, so he merely nodded.
“Keep me informed,” Barclay said. His image vanished abruptly, and the holo frame parted and floated back to its dock on the wall.
Marshall took in a deep breath, relaxed, closed his eyes. Then he accessed his personal quantum fold and searched for any research Palant and McIlveen had uploaded. There was plenty… but not enough. Nothing he saw surprised him, and little there was new.
It’ll be in her head, he thought. That’s where Isa keeps her most valuable ideas, and I know she’ll keep the best bits to herself. McIlveen won’t have been able to plumb that.
He checked further, in other places where Palant might have stored some of her discoveries, yet he already knew what had to be done—for his own peace of mind, and that of the Thirteen. For Palant, too, if there was even the slightest chance that she was still alive.
It was time to call Halley.
14
AKOKO HALLEY
Charon Station, Sol System
July 2692 AD
Major Akoko Halley of the 39th Spaceborne, the DevilDogs—the youngest general in the Colonial Marines at the tender age of thirty-two—was earning her nickname of “Snow Dog” more than ever today.
Deeply proud of her African heritage, she’d never taken offense, because she knew that “Snow” referred to her personality. Cool with everyone, ice-cold under pressure, but brilliant, too, hence her early command of the 39th Spaceborne, one of the oldest, most respected, and most battle-hardened units in all the Colonial Marines.
If she had taken offense, her troops would have dropped the nickname instantly. Snow Dog she might be, but they loved her.
It was the first time in seven years that she’d returned to the outer edge of the Sol System, hoping to head in-system for some R & R. She’d even considered returning to Earth, and it would have been the first time since she was eight years old, when she’d left for the Kuiper belt with her parents. They were dead now, but she had promised them both that she would return to Africa one day, make a pilgrimage to their home town and maybe even see the house where she was born. It was a promise she’d dwelled on for more than two decades, eager to keep because she prided herself on keeping her word, but not keen to carry out because…
Well, Earth. It was nothing like home.
The only place that felt like home was out here, with her troops.
“Three hours, I told you!” she shouted at Sergeant Major Mikey Huyck. “Not three days!”
“They’ll be ready, Major.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” Flight deck C of the Charon was awash with Marines and their kit. The four docked frigates were loaded with provisions, weaponed-up and ready to go, but the Marines themselves milled, too relaxed and chill to be ready to fly to war. Though there was nothing official yet, that’s what they had to assume was coming. They were heading for Addison Prime, partly to rescue survivors from the frigate damaged by an unknown saboteur, but also to stage a series of drophole jumps further out toward the Outer Rim.
There was talk of a Yautja incursion, and Halley had come up against one of those bastards before. She respected their strength, combat prowess, and skill at killing, but the idea of them launching a concerted, organized assault against the Human Sphere…
It was chilling, and didn’t feel right to her—but she was here to follow orders, and General Bassett had been very clear.
“We will be ready,” Huyck said, quieter. Halley nodded and offered him a twitch that might have been a smile. She knew they would, and he knew that she knew. Her DevilDogs had yet to let her down.
She walked among her troops, exchanging words here and there, inspecting kit and uniforms, fending off a few ribald jokes. Some of the male troops enjoyed having a good-looking female major, but they knew exactly where to draw the line. Few had ever ventured beyond it. One who had, Private Gove, carried a broken nose for his pains.
The comms strap on her wrist buzzed, and an image and name appeared. Gerard Marshall? She caught her breath, and her blood ran cold. She hadn’t spoken to him in over three years, and she’d have been happy if they never conversed again. Yet she’d always known that she would hear from him. Aware that he was now on Charon Station, it had become an inevitability. People like him put value on knowledge, the more damning the better. He could hold a sword over her neck any time he wished, and people like him always wanted something.
The injury had occurred in one of her first simulated combat drops. A pulled disc in her back, excruciating pain, and an instant prescription for phrail. Trouble was, she was one of the point-seven percent of the population that still found phrail addictive, and she’d kept her addiction quiet. By the time it had her in its grasp, to not keep it quiet—and to lose any chance she might have of acquiring the drug—was unthinkable.
Every waking moment revolved around where she could get her next fix, and her career had rapidly veered to the edge of a quick, long drop. Addicts were ejected from Colonial Marines training faster than those who were merely unfit, averse to space travel, or morally against anyone or anything that needed killing.
The man who saved her was in Gerard Marshall’s employ, and Marshall was the sort of man who kept such information tucked neatly away. Never waved around or gloated over, yet it was always there. She couldn’t even call it blackmail, because Marshall had never mentioned the addiction directly to her—but she knew. That was enough to place her permanently in his shadow. He could destroy her at any moment, and she had to assume that if a situation ever called for it, he wouldn’t hesitate.
She tapped the strap.
“Marshall,” she said. “I’m pretty busy right now.”
“Not too busy to see me, I hope?”
“See you?”
“I have something for you to do for me. A mission. I’m on Pod 7, level fourteen. Someone will meet you at the elevator.”
“But I’m getting ready for—”
“I’ll have it cleared with General Bassett before you arrive.”
“Marshall, I really can’t just drop everything.” She knew she was pushing it.
“Major, this is connected to your preparations. The bulk of your DevilDogs can carry ou
t a salvage operation without you, but there’s something more important I need you to do. Come over, and we’ll talk about it.”
Halley turned aside so that Marshall couldn’t see her face. Anger burned behind her eyes, but fear, too, at the memories his face and voice had encouraged to surface. She hated any hint of her addiction, and the path to ruin it had once promised.
Huyck caught her eye across the flight deck. What? he mouthed. She shook her head and looked down at her comms strap once more.
“I’m leaving on this mission in less than an hour,” she said. “I can spare you ten minutes.”
“I’ll have coffee ready.”
Halley signed off without replying, then strode across the flight deck. Her presence sent an invisible shockwave of activity and diligence ahead of her, and by the time she reached the bank of elevators the troops were hustling toward the boarding ramps.
Her strap chimed again. Huyck.
“Sir?”
“Carry on, Mikey. Marshall wants to see me.”
“The guy from the Thirteen? What does he want?”
“Says he’s got something for me to do. Dunno. Make sure the troops hustle, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She broke the connection and caught Huyck’s eye across the deck, nodding once before entering one of the elevators. She muttered the location, then swayed slightly as the elevator began its journey.
I don’t owe him anything, she thought. I’m the strong one here. Me.
She stood straight and tall as the elevator deposited her at the shuttle deck.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later she was standing in front of a desk in Gerard Marshall’s room, having declined the invitation to sit, struggling to find a way to refuse the mission he had laid out for her.
“I’m not Special Forces, Marshall,” she said. “Not an Excursionist, or an Injection Ops specialist. I’m a major and I have almost seven thousand troops under my command. You want me to go and rescue a scientist who’s almost certainly dead?”
“There’s no guarantee that she’s dead. And the research is the priority.”
“Oh, right, let’s not confuse the Company’s moralities here.”
Marshall raised an eyebrow.
“Everything we do is for the good of humanity.”
Halley snorted. She hated speaking to people like Marshall. A civilian, he held no authority over her—there was no need for her to stand to attention or call him “Sir.” But there was no denying the fact that he was one of the Thirteen. Whether that made him one of the thirteen most powerful people across the breadth and depth of the Human Sphere could be debated, but he was certainly up there.
“It’s important!” he said firmly, his voice rising. “If you intend to fly off to war with your troops, Isa Palant and what she’s discovered might make that war shorter and less costly.”
“But why me?” she asked.
“Because I trust you.”
“Because you can make me go.” She stared at him, not daring to break her gaze.
“I want someone I can trust,” he persisted.
“And you can trust me because?”
“What are you trying to have me say, Major?”
“We both know what you hold over me.” She murmured, chilled, angry, and scared. She hated the fact that this situation was getting out of hand. He hadn’t said or insinuated a thing—it was all in her head. Maybe that was why he was such a good politician. He could make everyone else blame themselves.
“I can’t order you to do this,” he said. “I’m not military, but I’ve already cleared it with General Bassett. He’s agreed with you taking his Bolt-class ship, and it’s being readied right now. Not as fast as the Excursionist ships, but pretty close. I’ve had someone calculate flight details, including drophole coordinates and flight times, and they’ve already been communicated to the ship’s computer. Forty-eight days to reach LV-1529, including three drops. Not an easy trip, not gentle on your body or mind. So pick a small, reliable crew. Make this mission a priority. It’s not about whether or not I can make you go, or whatever it is I might or might not have on you, Halley. This is important. Get past your own problems and think on a bigger scale.”
“Is that what you’re doing? You and the Thirteen?”
“Always,” he said. He leaned back in his chair to look up at her, in charge in every way.
There was nothing left to say. Halley nodded and turned to leave his plush cabin.
“Halley?” he said. “Check in with me every standard day.”
“No problem.” She left without looking at him again, and outside she marched along the corridor, displaying no emotion, no reaction. She knew he’d be watching.
For years, she’d known that he’d been watching.
* * *
“Special mission? Who does he think we are, Excursionists?”
Halley shrugged. “I received confirmation from General Bassett on my way back here.”
“What ship do we take?” Huyck asked.
“He’s given us the Pixie.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I look like a comedian?” Halley gave him her sternest look—it wasn’t hard—and Huyck burst out laughing.
“Find something amusing, Sergeant Major?”
He wiped his eyes, shook his head.
“Mikey, we’ll need to get a crew together. You, me, four others. Good people. I’m thinking Nassise to pilot, Bestwick for comms.”
“Sprenkel and Gove?”
She nodded and smiled. “Yeah, good. We all know Gove likes me. Gather them up, tell them to get their kit and meet us in Hangar 6 in…” She looked at her wrist strap. “One hour.”
Huyck threw a casual salute and jogged away across the flight deck. She watched him go, then scanned the area.
This was what Halley loved—here, in front of her now. The bustle of thousands of Marines preparing for departure, the sound of transports trundling the last bits of equipment toward their ships, excited banter, mutterings of Snow Dog as they saw her watching them, a sea of uniforms across the flight deck, faces she knew and many she would get to know on their forthcoming mission. This was what she had been trained for, and she could not live without it.
Young though she was, she saw every one of these Colonial Marines as her child, and cared about him or her as much as she ever would her own.
Small covert missions were the stuff of bar room whispers and mess room rumors. That wasn’t her.
It seemed her orders had changed.
She’d asked General Bassett why she had to do what Marshall asked, of course. His reply, though shocking her, had put an end to her objections.
“We’re all Company people now.”
15
JOHNNY MAINS
Yautja Habitat designated UMF 12, beyond Outer Rim
July 2692 AD
Johnny Mains was playing in a forest just down the road from their house, across a field and stream and in a place where signs of an old war were sometimes still visible. It was autumn, leaves were falling, undergrowth fading back. The fall exposed a rusted metal hulk that his father had once told him had been an attack drone.
There was little left to identify its use now, let alone which side it had been on. Paint had flaked and given way to rust. Pieces had been torn off as souvenirs, others had fallen away over time. Maybe it was a hundred years old. Johnny didn’t care, because as a kid anything like this was magical. A key to the past, a tactile thing upon which he could lay his hand and feel the echoing vibration of a battle long-since won and lost.
I’m going to be a soldier, he decided, one hand on the fallen thing, the other shading his eyes against low autumn sunlight dappling through denuded trees. Just like dad.
His father had left several years before, and Johnny hardly remembered him, just the image of a hulking shadow and the smell of sweat, alcohol, and aftershave. His mother told Johnny that he was never coming back, but he lived in hope. Even a dead thing like this old drone he
ld living echoes.
“Johnny,” someone said, a voice deep in his ear. “Come back.” Mains looked around, frowning, listening for his mother’s voice calling him in. There was no way he could hear her from here, their home was more than a mile away across fields and a road, past the stream, and—
* * *
“Johnny!” Someone slapped his face and he jerked awake. The autumn trees vanished, the pleasant coolness against his skin, and Lieder and Snowdon were staring down at him.
“L-T!” Snowdon said. “We’ve got to hustle. Three incoming.”
Mains sat up, groaning, looking around. Snowdon and Lieder squatted in front of him, Faulkner hunkered down a few steps away with the defender. Cotronis was leaning against a rough wall of the cavern-like structure, chin on her chest. She might have been dead. The cables that had arrested their falls hung like loose webbing, disconnected now from their suits.
The ground shook. Dust fell and grit pattered across his face mask. A roar rumbled around them, unending.
“Everyone okay?” Mains asked. At the same time he checked his suit’s computer to assess his own condition, anything worth noting flicking up in his view. Bruising to the left shoulder and upper arm, sprained ligaments in his left knee, an impact wound to his head that would result in bruising. His suit had taken the brunt of the impact, but there was no helping his own body taking a beating from such a fall. The cables had arrested their descent, but it seemed that the Ochse’s detonation had sent them tumbling.
“Bumps and bruises.” Lieder said. “The Corp’s not so hot.”
“I’m fine!” Cotronis snapped. “Carried the defender, didn’t I?” She lifted her head and smiled at him through pale lips.
Mains was glad to hear her sounding like her old self, even if she didn’t look it.
“Openings to outside have atmosphere shields,” Lieder said, “but the air in here’s only about fifteen percent oxygen, with some heavy trace elements. Breathable, but not for more than a few minutes.”
“Everyone’s suits functioning?”
“We’re good.”