by Richard Fox
“I swear we were more preoccupied with bringing everything on the enormous packing list than making sure any of our gear worked,” Nunez said. “Sure, when the supply chain is thousands of light-years long—and with no Crucible to link to it—it makes sense to bring it all with you, but even given all the years this mission was brewing, it still felt rushed in the last couple months. That’s just the truth.” His eyes moved to the icons representing Carson and West. They were in a private channel, both standing near the cockpit hatch at the front of the bay. He turned back to Popov and motioned to the squad’s leadership with a thump. “Just look at who they decided to send on this mission. Out of every candidate who applied for this job, why’d it have to be her?”
“The court-martial cleared her of any wrongdoing,” Birch said as he ran his blade down a whetstone.
Moretti huffed. “Hard to convict anyone when all the witnesses are dead.”
“Hard to convict anyone if they didn’t do anything wrong,” Birch said.
“If that’s the case, then why’s she been riding a desk ever since the Belisarius? If Hale thought she was clear to return to duty after all those deaths, he would have let her back into the field,” Nunez said.
“First contacts are no joke,” Popov said as she extended her carbine out with one hand, testing the optics through her HUD. “You really expect someone to just shrug something like the Belisarius disaster off? It’s only been two years.”
“Some people take longer than others to process that kind of thing,” Birch said. “I saw how she arrived. Do a maneuver like that and you’re either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.”
Moretti grunted. “Or incredibly stupid.”
“Or some combination,” Nunez said.
“She thinks she can jump on this boat at the last second and it’ll wipe away what she did?” Moretti asked. “That sort of thing stays with you. Doesn’t matter that the courts couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. They should’ve stripped her wings. The whole Corps knows she’s responsible for what happened. Cleared by a court-martial or not, I’m not going to forget about it.”
“If you’re that pissy, why’d you patch her up so quick, then?” Nunez asked. “Could have left her ass sitting in medical for a week while we do this drop with West in charge.”
Moretti held up his medi-gauntlet. “I took an oath to do no harm. I treat everyone equally. My emotions and personal beliefs will never interfere with someone getting the best treatment I can give them.”
“Something we should all keep in mind,” Birch said, his tone carrying an emphasis of command—and a hint of threat.
Nunez coughed and sat back.
“So,” Popov said, “you guys ever done this sort of thing before? Dropping in on a dark colony in the middle of an unexplored dwarf galaxy that’s supposed to be the second home to humanity?”
“Don’t think anyone’s ever done what you described. How many operational drops have you done, Popov?” Birch asked.
“One escort mission to Barada…which wasn’t a drop.” She squirmed in her seat.
“No combat? At all?”
Popov shook her head.
Nunez clapped his hands. “Wait, Popov. Isn’t your first name ‘Cherry’?”
“My name is Vishnya,” she said firmly.
“Which is Russian for—”
“I said my name is Vishnya!” She grabbed the edge of her seat and leaned toward Nunez.
Stifling a chuckle, Nunez said, “Well, I guess this mission we’re going to Popov your—”
She lurched out of her seat, but Birch grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back down.
Carson and West looked over their shoulders, then turned their attention back to the cockpit.
Popov shot Nunez the finger. “You think you’re real original, don’t you?”
“Tough crowd,” Nunez said. “Man, I thought I’d won the lottery getting a slot on the Spirit. I’m starting to feel like I drew the short straw instead. At least we’ve got an iron heart to balance the scales, eh, Birch? I can call you that, right?”
“Are you armor?” Birch asked.
Nunez patted himself—his chest, arms, and legs. “I don’t seem to be inside a fifteen-foot killing machine.”
Birch’s silent stare was all the answer Nunez needed, so he turned his attention to his gear, suddenly deciding to rearrange the grenades on his harness.
“He’s always like this,” Moretti said. “But you get used to him.”
The shuttle jostled around them, shaking the Pathfinders in their seats. An orange light came on and a female voice came through the Mule’s internal speakers. “Hang on, back there. We’re entering the atmosphere. Might be a little choppy.”
Nunez grabbed the sides of his seat as they bounced again. “Little choppy, my ass. Hate pilots that understate things. Going to suck, say it’ll suck. Going down in flames? Just start screaming.”
Chapter 4
Carson stood just behind the pilot as the Mule broke through the clouds over Terra Nova. Bright flashes illuminated the dark storm clouds as rain pounded against the Mule’s windshield.
“That’s not ominous or anything,” the pilot said. The name GREER was stenciled on the back of her helmet.
“Could be worse,” Carson said. “We could be getting shot at.”
Greer looked over her shoulder. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Carson looked past the pilot, trying to see the surface through the rain. “You sure the colony is down there?”
“X marks the spot.” Greer tapped her navigation display.
“Colony’s power grid must be down,” West said just as they broke through the cloud layer and got their first view of the colony.
Rows of multilevel, prefab buildings were arranged in a grid, spreading out from the coast. A spaceport was situated at the southern edge of the colony next to several blocks of industrial buildings. There was no sign of any people anywhere. Several ground cars littered the streets—not parked, looking almost as if they’d been abandoned in place.
“It’s a ghost town,” Greer said.
Carson couldn’t help but agree. “Let’s do another pass, then take us to the spaceport. Clear that and at least Hale can send down more resources.”
“I don’t understand where everyone is,” West said. “And those ground transports look like they’ve been sitting there a while.”
Carson caught a glimpse of one of the vehicles just as they flew past and saw grass growing around it, reaching almost halfway up the sides. In fact, it didn’t look like anyone had trimmed any of the vegetation anywhere in the city for months, maybe even years.
“What the hell happened?” Greer asked.
Carson slapped West on the shoulder. “Let’s go find out.”
She made her way back through the Mule’s cargo bay and punched the ramp control. An alarm sounded as the ramp opened. She grabbed the handrail above as wind and rain rushed in, buffeting against her.
“Birch, let’s get some eyes down there,” Carson said, watching the buildings slide past.
The drone wrangler appeared beside her and knelt on the deck. A hatch on his armored back slid open and a rack of Gremlin drones folded out of the recess. One by one, he tossed three of the saucer-sized drones, quadrotors popping out of each as they disappeared into the downpour.
Three image panels appeared on Carson’s HUD a few seconds later, live feeds from the Gremlin’s sensors. She watched as they zipped down into the city, heading out in different directions, automatically mapping and cataloging everything in their path.
There was no motion at all. No sign of life.
As the spaceport’s runway appeared, Carson switched off her Gremlin feed, not wanting to be distracted by the footage. Looking over her shoulder, she found her team standing behind her, waiting. Carson keyed her IR link to Greer. “Once we’re clear, drop back into a holding pattern and stand by for further instructions.”
The Mule slowed as
it swooped toward a rain-swept landing pad. Puddles rippled as the shuttle stopped in a hover.
Without another word, Katherine Carson took a step and jumped from the Mule.
She landed hard, water splashing around her from cracks in the tarmac. She rolled forward, coming up on her knee. The suit’s reactive system reduced the impact to little more than a jolt, as if she’d only fallen a few feet. She pushed herself to her feet, bringing her carbine up and sweeping for threats as the thuds from her team landing sounded behind her. The status alerts she’d expected to appear on her HUD were notably silent.
Too quiet, Carson thought.
The control tower stood at the edge of the tarmac, fifty meters away. The large, prefabricated building was an older design, out-of-date by almost ten years. Lightning flashed above, illuminating the structure, revealing signs of wear and tear from years of exposure. The carcass of what looked like an old TA-67 transport sat to one side of the tower, its metal skeleton illuminated by flashes of lightning.
“Birch, anything?”
“Rain’s cutting down on the IR range. I could switch the frequencies, but it’ll spotlight us if anyone’s monitoring.”
Carson considered that for a moment. “No, hold off. If we’re having IR issues in this weather, chances are if anyone else is out there, they’re having similar problems. No need to give our position away just yet. Let’s see if the tower’s got enough juice to patch a link to Spirit.”
“Scope’s dead,” Popov said. “No activity on any channel.”
Carson’s leg ached as the team jogged across the tarmac. She allowed herself a grimace behind her helmet, but fought, unsuccessfully, to hide her limp. As they reached the control tower’s entry hatch, she let out a pained breath. Popov and Nunez took up positions on either side of the door.
West slapped Popov on the shoulder. “Go ahead and knock.”
“Roger that.” Popov pulled her knife from its scabbard on her thigh, then used the hilt to knock off the data port’s faceplate next to the door. She took a moment to inspect the components, then said, “Internal batteries are dead.”
Nunez took a step toward the door. “I can kick it.”
“That door’s solid steel,” West said. “You looking to break your foot?”
Popov pulled a small block from a pouch on her chest and began connecting leads to the panel’s circuitry.
“Explosives?” Nunez said, looking back at the Master Sergeant. “I’ve got just the right—”
“No.”
Carson looked up at the roof, partially silhouetted by the intermittent flashing in the storm clouds above. “How long would it take those cells to lose their charge?”
“They shouldn’t have,” Popov said without looking up. “They’re self-sustaining, so long as the panels get enough sunlight. Someone must’ve disabled them.”
“Why would they disable the power?” Carson asked.
A red light came to life on the panel.
“There we go,” Popov said, tapping commands into her small terminal. “Huh, the security cypher’s probably ten years out-of-date.”
The panel’s red light flashed to green and the door opened with an audible click. Nunez pushed the door open with a foot, sweeping his carbine’s barrel light through the darkness inside.
“Stack up,” Carson said, moving behind Nunez.
Popov closed her terminal as Moretti and West stepped into formation behind Carson with Birch and Popov bringing up the back.
From the very first week of training, every Pathfinder had basic tactical entry engrained in them. Residential tenements, starships, space stations…the PF teams approached them all the same way. Unlike their brother-and-sister combat units, PFs approached every situation with a slow, methodical tact. Armor used sheer brawn. Marines overwhelmed with shock and awe. Pathfinders outsmarted.
“Rear guard, up,” Birch said.
Moretti slapped Carson on the shoulder, who then slapped Nunez. “Go.”
Without hesitation, Nunez led their line into the dark interior of the building. As soon as Nunez broke the threshold, he turned left. Carson turned right, bringing her carbine up, its light cutting a wide beam through the darkness. Shadows danced around the room as the rest of the team filed in behind her.
Several rows of cubicles filled the space, stretching back almost thirty feet to the rear wall. Carson moved to the right wall, then turned and started making her way down the row, clearing each cubicle as she went.
“Does it look like someone forgot to pay the janitor bill, or is it just me?” Nunez said, moving down the far-left row.
Carson stepped over a chair lying on its side in the middle of the walkway. “Looks like someone had a pretty good fight in here.”
A few of the cubicle walls were bent, some completely out of their steel brackets. Several chairs lay overturned, and some looked as if they’d been thrown across the room. Carson panned her light across a widescreen terminal; something had smashed into the display on one side, sending a spider web of cracks across the screen.
“Hey, Birch, look at this,” Nunez called. “Does this look like an energy burn to you?”
Carson slowed, mind racing with all the potential possibilities. There had definitely been some kind of a battle here. The question was who had been fighting and why? She looked over the middle cubicles to where Nunez stood, pointing at a place on the far wall.
Stepping past Nunez, West bent over to examine the spot and then straightened. “Definitely an energy blast. No way of telling what made it, though.”
“Oh God,” Popov said, stepping back down the row, her light fixed on something on the floor. “Chief…”
“What do you got?” Carson said, cutting down one of the side aisles. She turned into Popov’s row and stopped short when she saw what Popov’s light was illuminating.
A human skeleton, dressed in dark-blue pants and shirt, lay on the floor. As she stepped closer, Carson saw that the skull had been crushed, bone fragments scattered around the shoulders. Bony fingers still gripped a metal pipe, bent slightly near the end.
“I… I…” Popov put a hand to her stomach and used the other to brace herself against the nearest cubicle. Moretti stepped up beside her and pressed the release for her helmet just as she doubled over. Her face mask flipped up just as she vomited onto the floor.
Nunez and Birch appeared in the adjacent aisle as West stepped up to help Moretti steady Popov.
“You okay?” West asked.
“I’m okay,” Popov said, shaking them off. She pulled off one of her armored gauntlets and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“What the hell happened here?” Nunez asked.
“Someone really did a number on this guy,” Moretti said, kneeling down beside the corpse. “If it was a guy. Severe blunt-force trauma, probably died instantly.”
“What, like someone hit him with a hammer or something?” Popov asked.
The medic shrugged. “Could’ve been anything. Power armor can manage that much strength.”
“Yeah, but the first colonists didn’t come over ready for a fight, did they?” Nunez said. “And besides, why would they be fighting each other?”
“Sometimes colonists turn on each other,” West said. “Sometimes the isolation gets to people. I’ve seen it before on some of the outer colonies.”
Nunez pointed at the corpse with his carbine. “That’s awfully harsh. Besides, if they were fighting each other, where are the other bodies? And what could they possibly be fighting about out here?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Carson said. Her team turned to her, expectant. “Our job is to figure out why the colony is out of contact. Let’s finish securing the tower and see if we can get power back up. If there truly was a civil war here, we can figure that out later once the director and the rest of the command crew is down here.
“Birch, let’s get some more Gremlins up. I want our perimeter locked down tight. Nunez, Moretti, secure this level. West, Popov, w
ith me. We need to find the main control room.”
Carson took point, leading them through a door at the back of the room and into a dark hallway. They passed by two sets of elevator doors, one stuck partially open. Another hall branched off to their left, leading to more offices and, past that, a pair of bathroom doors. Energy blasts scarred the walls in several places, but thankfully, there weren’t any more bodies.
“Main control should be in the tower,” Carson said, stopping at a door at the end of the hallway marked STAIR ACCESS – RESTRICTED. The door hung open a few inches. When Carson nudged it with her boot, it swung back without resistance. “I’ll take point. West, you secure the stairwell.”
The Master Sergeant nodded and Carson started up.
At the top of the stairwell, they reached a locked door marked LEVEL 4 – FLIGHT OPS.
“Popov, work your magic,” Carson said, stepping out of the way.
A second later, the door clicked open and Carson pushed through, sweeping left as Popov moved right. West followed on their heels, holding the center of the room. Rain pounded against large bay windows at the far end of the room some fifty feet away. Two rows of terminals formed identical horseshoes facing the windows, where the air traffic controllers would track incoming aircraft visually and on their computers. Occasional flashes of lightning outside lit the room.
“Still no bodies,” West said.
Carson moved across the room to look down over the airfield. The dark shadows of buildings loomed in the distance. Whatever had happened here, she was sure it hadn’t been good.
“I think I may be able to shunt some auxiliary power from my suit into one of these terminals,” Popov said, setting her carbine down next to one of the computers. “Might be able to troubleshoot the system’s power outage that way.”
Popov popped a panel off the underside of the terminal and fished around for the correct cable. She found it a second later, then spliced in a temporary bus connection and tapped a few commands into her forearm screen. Carson had a basic knowledge of computer systems but didn’t claim to be an expert. Popov might have shown some weakness at the sight of the mangled skeleton, but she was definitely comfortable with electrical systems and that kind of technical knowledge was often more valuable than any level of combat prowess.