The Noise Revealed

by Ian Whates

  The mission briefing had been thorough, if a little hurried. There was a sense of urgency about the whole business. ULAW were hell bent on striking back swiftly and effectively, which suited Boulton fine. She was itching to get going. The habitat's carefully constructed isolation was about to be shattered once and for all.

  "All units have confirmed they're in position," the marine sergeant beside her reported.

  She nodded acknowledgement.

  "No alarms have sounded," the measured voice of her gun spoke inside her head. "No one in the habitat is yet aware of our presence."

  Perfect. "Engage," she ordered.

  "Go," the marine sergeant said immediately. "All units go."

  The airlock door in front of them sprung open and they poured through. Behind them, their own craft remained attached to the airlock, creating a seal against decompression now that both the lock's doors were open, their safety restrictions having been overridden. At all of the habitat's six main access points she knew the scene was being repeated. Heavily armed and armoured marines would be sweeping through the installation. No shimmer suits; the idea wasn't to sneak in this time around, but to intimidate, to overwhelm, to cow the population into submission.

  Somebody screamed - a woman - clearly shocked by the sudden appearance of invaders. A young boy cried, clinging to his mother's legs. The screaming woman was useless, likewise the elderly man busy trying to comfort her. The mother of the small boy was too preoccupied and would only slow them down. Boulton ignored them and trotted past, into the habitat, a phalanx of marines surrounding her. Ahead of her, two dark figures crouched by the next corner, weapons levelled, ensuring the way was clear, although the gun would have warned her of anything threatening. Her visor remained blank, presumably an indication that the gun hadn't yet managed to fully penetrate the habitat's systems. Alarms were sounding now. Boulton would have been worried if they hadn't been at this point. Two more marines hurried past to secure the next junction.

  "Turn right at the next corridor," the gun advised. "One lone male ten metres along; unarmed."

  "Heading away or towards us?"

  "Neither. He was coming this way but has stopped at the sound of our approach."

  An orange dot appeared in her visor. At last. Boulton sprinted, reaching the corner at almost the same time as the two marines, much to their alarm.

  "You!" She turned the corner and entered the next corridor with gun drawn, levelled at the young man, who was in the process of turning to run away. "Stop if you want to live." He froze in mid-step, adopting an almost comical pose.

  She hadn't known what to expect from the habitat. Knowledge of its interior was almost non-existent, no schematics or plans had been uncovered and they hadn't wanted to probe too deeply during approach for fear of giving themselves away. So, initially at least, this would have to be played by ear.

  "Sensible lad. What's your name?"

  "Jason, ma'am."

  Ma'am? So polite, even to an invader. "Now, Jason, I need to talk to whoever runs your community so that everything can be sorted out quickly. Would you mind leading us to your command centre?"

  He looked to be no more than twenty, possibly less. The people here were so pale skinned, like ghouls, it made them seem younger somehow.

  "Of course," she continued, "if you don't help us, I'll have no choice but to shoot you. Understood?"

  His eyes widened and he nodded repeatedly.

  "Good, and no heroics. I'll know if you mislead us."

  He led them off at a brisk walk.

  "Can you manage a jog, Jason? We're in a bit of a hurry."

  He picked up the pace accordingly.

  Whatever Boulton might have anticipated - perhaps dark corridors bored into bare rock, a community of mine shafts - the reality came as a surprise. The habitat was an enclosed environment. Too distant from their system's sun to reap any great benefit from its radiation, they had burrowed downward into the rock of the worldlet they claimed as home. Yet the corridors were wide, bright and clean, gravity was consistent and roughly Earth-normal - perhaps a smidgeon less but close enough. The whole place felt... pleasant.

  One thing she had expected was a little more resistance. They'd ghosted into the system with their ships cloaked, slipping past a sophisticated network of sensors and automated defence platforms. ULAW had apparently stolen a march on both the Byrzaens and the habitat when it came to cloaking technology. After seeing such an obvious willingness to defend their home, she was vaguely disappointed not to have met with a little more spirit here. True, they'd taken the habitat by surprise, but you'd have thought somebody, somewhere might have grabbed a gun and at least attempted to fight back. Perhaps the populace were simply bowing to the inevitable and didn't want to throw away their lives in futile defiance.

  Now that Boulton's task force had declared itself, they didn't need to be so coy about probing and systems hi-jacking.

  "The command centre has been located," the gun reported.

  "And you can lead us there?"

  "Yes."

  "Excellent." Without breaking stride she raised the weapon and shot their co-opted guide in the back of the head. Jason's head jerked forward, gouting blood and brains, and the rest of his body followed, collapsing to the floor. The sound of the gunshot echoed around the corridors. Good. Let people hear that and panic. It was all too quiet and orderly around here. She hurdled the body and continued, two marines coming forward to trot ahead once more, now that she'd lost her human shield.

  "Door to the left, three people: man, woman and young female. No weapons," the gun told her, keeping up a constant stream of information as she jogged down another long, straight corridor. Orange dots appeared and slid past on her visor as they progressed.

  "We've seized control of the habitat's operating systems. Doors to all residential units have been sealed shut."

  Better and better. This should ensure there were even fewer people to get in the way.

  Four staccato bangs sounded from somewhere over to their left, like a hammer repeatedly striking a nail. Gunshots. At last, somebody was showing a bit of spirit.

  "Report," she intoned.

  "A lone male with antiquated projectile handgun," the gun's calm voice responded. "One marine slightly injured. The gunman fled before the marines could return substantial fire."

  Again, no bad thing. It would remind the troops not to take anything for granted.

  "Turn left at the next corridor."

  Boulton noticed that as well as boasting 'street names' - she was currently in Chandler's Walk and about to turn into Barrington Boulevard - the corridors were all colour coded. Narrow strips ran along the length of one wall close to the ceiling, on her right in this direction. Yellow marked their course through the last two turns. Whatever these habitat folk might be, they seemed well organised. One thing struck her; so far all they'd seen were uniformly bright, antiseptic thoroughfares like this. No sign of industry or manufacture. Was the whole habitat the same? "What do these people eat?" she wondered.

  "Food," the gun supplied, helpfully. "Second level down is agricultural: hydroponics, high-protein fungus, arable crops and also some livestock. They appear to be self-sufficient."

  She'd intended the question to be rhetorical, but it was interesting information anyway.

  "Next right, then it's straight ahead, all the way to the hub."

  "That's what they call their command centre?"

  "The seat of government, yes."

  She stopped at the next junction. This corridor seemed marginally wider than most and stretched to a distant wall on her left and an even more distant one to the right. The street name read: 'Spoke 1: Anderson's Way.' The whole place was laid out as a wheel, she realised, with central spokes leading to the hub.

  "Schematic." The gun ought to be in a position to produce one now that it had infiltrated the local systems and established sufficient control to seal living quarters' doors.

  An image duly appeared in the l
eft upper side of her visor, showing a ragged ovoid, with six straight paths converging on a central hub with a jumbled network of interlinking corridors in between. Why the whole place hadn't been laid out more formally, in radiating rings or some such, was beyond her. Presumably it said something about these people.

  "Direct all units to the spokes," she intoned.

  "Done," the gun confirmed.

  They hadn't encountered anyone in a while but Boulton could see a few figures running away from them in the distance, straight along the 'spoke' and towards the centre. Doubtless they were following standing instructions in the event of attack - make for the hub. Sensible, and it also made her job a good deal easier if everybody not already sealed in their quarters gathered in one place.

  Boulton strode down the corridor in the wake of those fleeing - no point in running now that they could see their goal - her phalanx of marines keeping pace. They were sitting targets if the hub had anything worthwhile to throw at them, but she was counting on the gun to provide warning. In the meantime, their approach, their very attitude, was a blatant challenge, inviting attack, daring the habitat to unleash their worst. Boulton had complete confidence in her position and would actually welcome some genuine resistance.

  The corridor echoed to the relentless tramp of booted feet. The scampering civilians had disappeared, having presumably arrived at wherever they were going, which left their party the spoke's only occupants. The end of the long stretch of bare passageway drew rapidly nearer.

  "ULAW forces stand down." The voice, a woman's, seemed to come from nowhere and emanate from everywhere. "Your aggressive incursion is illegal."

  At last, an official response. Boulton didn't deign to answer. She didn't see any point in doing so. She hadn't come here to debate the rights and wrongs of the situation.

  "Concealed automatic weapon placements either side of the corridor," the gun informed her. Two wall panels, not directly opposite each other but diagonally staggered, lit up in red on her visor.

  "Are they active?"

  "Negative. I'm blocking their operation."

  No point in worrying about them then. She strode past.

  Seconds later the gun spoke again. "Automatic weapons placements have become active."

  "What?"

  The wall panels sprung open and energy cannons began firing immediately, tearing into the startled marines. Boulton threw herself to the floor, landing on her right shoulder, the gun already trained on the placement in the opposite wall behind her. A single cannon swivelled in its mounting, spitting death as it sought fresh targets. All was chaos: shouting, screaming, the rattle of gunfire. Several soldiers were down. Others were kneeling or prone, attempting to return fire. Bullets ricocheted off the cowlings protecting the weapons and she saw at least one man go down under what was referred to with such misleading coziness as 'friendly fire.' Boulton squeezed off a couple of rounds, realising belatedly that the gun was still set to projectile. "Energy!" She fired again, seeing her beam absorbed by the placement's armour, a broad patch of which bubbled and melted and dribbled down the plating like tears of liquid metal, but she wasn't penetrating as far as the weapon itself.

  She rolled over and sat up, her back against the wall. This gave her a much clearer view of the cannon; it also put her directly in the weapon's line of fire should it turn her way, but no helping that. She took careful aim and squeezed, this time striking the barrel of the gun itself. It exploded. Her visor darkened instantly, protecting her eyes from the glare. The marines had succeeded in taking out the other placement, which led to an abrupt silence. After the violent cacophony, it seemed almost unnatural. The rattle of gunfire in the near distance brought the world back into focus and also told her that they weren't the only group subject to an ambush.

  "I thought you'd taken control of their systems."

  "I have," the gun replied. "Clearly there are overrides or perhaps even surrogate systems I've yet to identify."

  "Clearly. Give me a status report."

  "Simultaneous ambushes in three of the other spokes. Our forces in the remaining two are lagging slightly behind and haven't reached the corresponding positions yet, otherwise it seems likely the pattern would have repeated there as well. The two section leaders have been advised and are in the process of neutralising the placements in their respective corridors."

  Judging by the cessation of gunfire, Boulton assumed the nearby skirmish had ended. She looked around at the order emerging from carnage as the marines regrouped. Four dead, three others too badly injured to continue, leaving her with the sergeant and a dozen men. There was still a fair length of corridor to go.

  "Gun, I don't want any more surprises."

  "There won't be. I'm consolidating my control all the time."

  "Total number of casualties?" The other sections didn't have an eyegee with them.

  "Including this platoon, twenty-four dead, thirteen incapacitated."

  Which accounted for thirty-seven from her original force of a hundred and twenty - thirty per cent casualties after just one phase of skirmishes. There'd better not be any more like this.

  "Patch me through to Case." The background noise told her that the gun had complied. "Case, what's your situation?"

  "We're coming under sustained heavy fire," her fellow eyegee replied in his nasal, high-pitched voice "Nothing we can't handle. You?"

  "We've just had our noses blooded. I'm about to begin final assault on their command centre."

  "Happy hunting."

  If the habitat had any further ambushes planned the gun's control forestalled them. Boulton and her party arrived at the end of the spoke without further incident. Ahead of them a curved passageway branched to the right and left, forming a circular corridor around the hub itself, which Boulton's visor showed to contain a sizeable group of people.

  She didn't hesitate, but led the marines to the left, towards the nearest of the two opposing doorways opening into the hub. The door itself faced another of the six spokes, and as they approached they were met by a squad of around ten marines coming up that corridor.

  The doors - larger if no more ornate than any others she'd seen here - were shut but proved not to be locked. At her signal, a pair of marines flung them open and the armoured troops poured in, guns at the ready and shouting orders, demanding that weapons be dropped and arms raised. A few disgruntled complaints greeted them but no resistance. Some of those in the vast auditorium - a good hundred or more - were armed, but all dropped their guns as instructed. A bit of an anti-climax, all in all, but at least it meant that they wouldn't be losing any more troops.

  Boulton assessed the throng. The majority were standing, although a few had taken advantage of the seats ringing the auditorium. Most present were elderly, certainly more than she would expect if this were a cross-section of any sustainable society.

  "Gun, excluding our own personnel, how many people are inside the habitat at present?"

  "Four hundred and eighty seven."

  "Would you say this place was designed for a larger populace?"

  "Most certainly. Indications are that there were well in excess of two thousand here in the recent past."

  "Where are they now?"

  "Uncertain. Records have been doctored, information erased."

  All well and good, but someone here would know. Boulton strode forward, onto a floor bearing an emblem she'd never expected to see outside of historical records - the sunburst and twinned planets of the Allied Worlds. Was that what the habitat were - a lingering afterthought of a war long settled? Surely there must be more to them than that.

  As she stepped forward, Boulton kept an eye on her visor display. It showed a single smudge of red.

  "Narrow focus," she intoned. The section of the throng she was gazing at jumped into higher definition, becoming individual dots, one of which shone red. Boulton snapped the gun up and found herself staring at a tall, elderly man standing towards the front of the gathering.

  "You," s
he barked, "drop the weapon. I won't ask a second time."

  "Do as she says, Art," a woman's voice said, managing to sound both reproachful and indulgent at the same time.

  The man looked sideways towards the speaker, shrugged and pulled out a surprisingly pristine looking gun, which he tossed onto the floor between the marines and Boulton.

  Only then did she switch her attention to the woman who had spoken. Tall, middle-aged, hair swept back from a face that glowed with an inherent beauty Boulton could only envy. "Are you in charge? Do you speak for these people?"

  "We all speak for ourselves in the habitat, but yes, you might as well address me. Perhaps you could start by explaining the reason for this unlawful invasion of our home."

  A number of responses flashed through Boulton's mind. She wanted to remember this woman, remember the tone that fell just short of patronising and a long way short of deferential. She would compare it to the tone the woman adopted after she had suffered Boulton's response.

  "And your name would be?"

  She smiled. "Kethi."

  Kethi? That wasn't a name... unless...

  Boulton stared at the woman, concluding that an example needed to be set. After all, that smile was just begging to be wiped away.

  If anything was likely to provoke a reaction from this docile populace, this ought to. She took a step towards Kethi, who stared back at her, unflinching and apparently unconcerned, though she must have had at least an inkling of what was to come.

  As Boulton adjusted her grip on the gun, the floor beneath her feet shuddered. This was no gentle vibration, such as you might feel when an engine started up, but something far more profound.

  "Gun?"

  "Checking."

  People were restless; murmurs spread through the gathered locals. Clearly they were as surprised by this as she was. Well, she'd wanted to provoke a reaction.... There came a distant boom, a deep, sonorous sound that surely couldn't herald anything good.

  "Gun?" Clearly something was up and the situation called for a reaction, but first she needed to know what to react to.