Speed of Darkness

by Tracy Hickman

  Ardo was feeling better now. He had been disoriented when he first came out of the resocialization tanks, but he was clear-headed now.

  He always felt better wearing his combat suit. It was an older CMC-300 model, but he didn’t mind. He had been using a 300 for years now, and it fit him just fine.

  Ardo stood packed shoulder to shoulder with other Marines. There were some Firebats as well as regulars in the Ready Room. In the little space he had, he checked the power connection between his gauss rifle and the combat suit. He loved that rifle; it was his weapon of choice. He had been firing a gauss rifle for nearly as many years as he had been working with the combat suit.

  Ardo looked up. The “go” lamp over the exit hatch had just turned from red to green. A roar went up from the Marines as the door slid open in an instant.

  He hated to leave, though.

  He sure loved the barracks.

  CHAPTER 3

  OUT COUNTRY

  ARDO WAS ONE OF A TIDE OF MARINES POURING uniformly from the barracks and into a world of chaos. A company of Marines in power armor had formed a perimeter around the Confederacy section of the starport, cordoning off the military units. Beyond them, Ardo could see as he quick-marched across the tarmac, literally thousands of colonists pressed against the Marine line. Men, women, and children—a screaming mass of humanity—struggled desperately for a way off the planet.

  Beyond them, the civilian side of the starport was in anarchy. All down the flight line, perhaps as many as a hundred orbital spacecraft were either clawing their way up from the surface or hovering in anticipation of launch. At least twice that number moved listlessly beyond the outer markers, the daylight glinting off their polished hulls. There was a sense of desperation in their movements. Control seemed to have been abandoned. Ships attempted to take off and land at will. Several transports hovered near the terminal building, searching for a place to put down, but the panicked mob would not, or could not, move out of the way. The still-burning wreckage of at least half a dozen ships lay strewn about the port complex. Those pilots still flying apparently paid them little heed. Like moths to a flame, they were drawn by the exorbitant ransoms they could charge anyone who managed to board. Fearful for the safety of themselves and their ships, they wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible.

  If everyone is trying so hard to get out of here, why did the Confederacy work so hard to get me in here? Ardo wondered. The terribly uncomfortable, gnawing cold below his stomach reasserted itself. I don’t know these people. I don’t even really know what world I’m on! What am I doing here?

  He knew his assigned transport—yet another Dropship—and found himself dashing toward it with two squads of Marines. Each individual knew where he or she was supposed to report. So it was that their squad formed up almost as if by some magnetic magic. Ardo found himself jogging behind that female lieutenant he had seen the day before. Next to him was the huge, dark islander in perhaps the largest powered armor suit Ardo had ever seen. He recognized it as a CMC-660 Heavy Combat Suit, complete with plasma generator tanks on the back. So the large islander was a Firebat, Ardo thought: one of those plasma flame-throwing units that were occasionally as dangerous to their operators as they were to the enemy. Several others followed as well, including a single technician in a set of light fatigues. Where was he going, Ardo thought. On vacation?

  The roar of the Orbitals constantly lifting from the surrounding pads did not deter the enthusiasm of the Dropship pilot, nor did it entirely drown out his shrill words.

  “Step right up, boys and girls, young and old!” he screeched, punching out the words in carnival-huckster style. “Come see the greatest show in the universe! See the local colonists run for their lives! See the government collapse before your very eyes! Witness feats of panic never before attempted by civilized man! Right this way!”

  Ardo made his way toward the Dropship. The crackle of automatic gauss fire ripped through the air near the Marine cordon. Ardo winced, trying not to think of what it meant.

  “Cutter!” the lieutenant barked when they arrived at the ramp leading into the ship.

  “Ma’am!” the hulking islander piped up.

  “Get these drip-dry recruits loaded in five minutes.” Her command voice carried even over the din of the riot that was taking place all around them. “We’ve got a job to do. I’ll sort them out once we get on station.”

  “Yes, ma’am! You heard the lady! Make a line!”

  The small group fell in. Cutter begin making his way down the line, making sure everyone had their gear set for transport.

  The pilot leaned against the landing strut of the Dropship, and grinned.

  “Okay, ladies!” Cutter was enjoying himself. “Take your places inside. Let’s go!”

  Ardo pulled up his kit and moved forward, suspiciously eyeing the nose art painted on the side of the ship. “Valkyrie Vixen?”

  “That’s right, friend,” the pilot answered smugly. “They say once you’ve had a Valkyrie, you’ll never ride another! You’ve come to the right place . . . or the wrong place, if you take my drift.” The slim pilot had the most outrageous hair that Ardo had ever seen. Brilliant blue spikes radiated away from his head in sharp cones, the areas between them shaved bald with precision care. His gaunt frame seemed to radiate all arms and legs, a scarecrow in a flight suit with a mischievous smile that seemed to wind halfway around his head. “Tegis Marz is the name. I’m the Angel of Death for you boys out on the periphery. Happy to serve you. You need anything—including a proper butt-saving—and I’m the man to call.”

  “It’s a death trap, and I’m not getting on it.”

  Tegis turned toward the voice coming from just down the line behind Ardo. It was the technician. Ardo could not remember seeing him on the transport down to the surface; the guy must have been here longer than that.

  “I can’t even look at it!” said the man in fatigues. He had a slender build but was smooth-faced and sported his hair close-cropped. The guy was so clean he probably squeaked when he walked. “This piece of abandoned trash isn’t even up to being called abandoned trash!”

  Tegis stood away from the landing strut and growled menacingly. “You piece of dog puke! This ship is a thing of beauty! There’s not another one like her in the entire fleet!”

  “That’s because the rest of the fleet is at least in some state of reasonable repair!”

  “You take that back, Marcus!”

  “In your dreams, Tegis!”

  “You’re getting on this ship right now!”

  “Not if it was the last ship off this rock! I’d stand a better chance flapping my arms off a cliff than in that hurtling death trap. When you gonna grow up and get yourself a real ship?”

  With an outraged cry, Tegis lunged at the technician. They tumbled to the ground, rolling as each pounded the other. Red dust kicked into the air around them as they fought; a blur of arms and legs. A pair of alley cats would have been hard-pressed to put up a more vicious fight.

  Ardo stood there, dumbfounded. It was almost laughable.

  Cutter waded into the fight and pulled the two combatants apart. “Mister Jans, I believe the lieutenant told you to get your gear on board. I think now would be a good time to do it.”

  The red-faced technician continued to claw the air in the direction of the Dropship pilot. Cutter gave him a strong shake that should have loosened the man’s teeth.

  “Wouldn’t it?” Cutter reiterated.

  Marcus Jans quit struggling. “Yes. I believe it would.”

  Cutter turned toward Tegis Marz. The tips of the pilot’s hair spikes were still quivering with rage. “And don’t you have a ship to fly?”

  “Yeah,” Tegis replied, still seething. “And a damn fine ship, too!”

  “Then, respectfully, sir, maybe you had better go fly it,” Cutter’s smile was so full of teeth that it looked like he might eat the next person who disagreed with him. “I’ve got a reason to be here and I don’t want anyone b
etween me and where I’m going. And right now, you are standing in my way . . . sir.”

  Tegis went slack. “I . . . I’ll just get this fine piece of machine off the ground for you, then.”

  “You do that, sir. Thank you, sir,” Cutter said, pushing each of them apart as he let them go. Staggering slightly, each of the former combatants found a great deal of interest in the ground at his feet as they moved off to take care of business elsewhere.

  Ardo let out his breath in a sigh.

  “What about you, soldier,” Cutter said, turning his dark eyes toward Ardo for the first time. “You gonna get in my way?”

  “No, sir,” Ardo replied, regretting that he had not managed to avoid the large islander’s attention longer. “I’m definitely staying out of your way, sir.”

  The big man grinned again. There was something both devilishly playful and at the same time dangerous in that smile. “No, friend, I’m not a ‘sir.’ ” The gloved hand he extended was enormous. “PFC Fetu Koura-Abi, but everyone just calls me Cutter.”

  “PFC Ardo Melnikov,” he responded, grateful that the active feedback in his glove managed to dampen what might have otherwise been a crippling handshake. “Pleased to know you.”

  “You’re lying,” Cutter grinned malevolently.

  “Almost,” Ardo replied.

  The big man threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Fair enough! Grab your kit. I want to get out to where I can burn something! Did you enjoy the show?”

  Ardo picked up his kit and began making his way up the Dropship’s ramp. “What? Oh, you mean the pilot and that tech?”

  “Sure!” Cutter replied, carrying his own duffel bag easily over his shoulder with one hand. “It’s always fun to watch brothers go at it. The best times I had were with my own brothers . . .”

  Ardo turned. “You mean . . . those two are . . .”

  “It’s obvious.” Cutter smiled, giving Ardo a playful shove back into the jump harness that nearly knocked the wind out of him. “You can’t hide the blood between brothers.”

  Suddenly Cutter shuddered. Ardo could see some dark thought pass over the big man’s face. With a sudden cry, Cutter reached out and grabbed the sealing ring for Ardo’s helmet, pulling the man’s face near his own. “That’s why I’m here, Melnikov. My own brothers are out there on this ball of red dust working the waterfarms in the Out Country. I will find them, Melnikov, or I will avenge them with hell’s own fire! You understand me, Melnikov? You going to get in my way, Melnikov?”

  Ardo calmly returned Cutter’s twitching stare.

  Eye for an eye, Ardo thought. Then, Love them that hate you.

  “Ardo,” he replied quietly. “You can call me Ardo, if you like.”

  Cutter’s cheek muscles twitched. “What?”

  “My name is Ardo. I hope you’ll let me call you Cutter, because I don’t think I caught your full name the first time.”

  Cutter relaxed his grip. A smile played on his lips. “Sure, Ardo. I like you. You can call me Cutter, friend. So, I guess you are behind me, eh?”

  As far behind you as possible, Ardo thought, but aloud he said, “All the way, Cutter.”

  The hydraulics suddenly whined. The aft ramp was closing quickly. Cutter loosed his grip, regained his huge Cheshire Cat grin, and stepped back against the opposite wall. He was just struggling into his own drop harness when the lieutenant stepped back into their personnel bay.

  “All right, listen up,” she said in a solid alto voice. “I am Lieutenant L. Z. Breanne. I’m your commanding officer for this mission.”

  “Ooh! How about that, boys, we got a mission!”

  Lieutenant Breanne continued, her voice level and authoritative: “We don’t have a lot of time, people. I’ve given our drop coordinates to the pilot and we should be on station at the LZ in about thirty minutes.

  “Fifteen days ago, outland colonist stations began going silent. Initial investigations resulted in lost recon squads. A subsequent reconnaissance-in-force ten days ago confirmed that this planet has been infested with what we now call the Zerg . . .”

  “Zergs, boys!” Alley smiled.

  “Pardon, ma’am, but what’s a Zerg?” Mellish sniffed.

  “A new species of alien life-form. We don’t know too much about them at this point . . .”

  “Bring on the barbecue!” Cutter chattered.

  Breanne ignored them for the time being. “Given the planetwide saturation of these Zerg—whatever they are—the Confederacy has determined to withdraw its assets from Mar Sara—”

  “Hey, the Confederacy is hauling its ‘assets’ out!” Marcus snorted.

  Laughter rolled around the cabin.

  “Stow it, Jans, or I’ll put you in a bag myself.” Lieutenant Breanne meant it, and there was not a person in the compartment who thought otherwise. “Our mission is threefold: first, hold the forward bunker position at three-nine-two-seven in support of the Confederacy evacuation; second, recon enemy activity forward of that position, and, finally, pick up a little bauble that command lost along the way. That’s all.”

  “Uh, Lieutenant,” Cutter asked. “What kind of . . . bauble?”

  “You’ll know when I see it, Cutter,” Breanne said. “On board you’ll find a scanner plug-in for your armor. It has been precalibrated to acquire the target. I don’t know what the target is, and you don’t really care. But if we do find it, it’s our ticket off this rock. I’ll give you more once we’ve got the position secure. That’s all.”

  Lieutenant Breanne turned and took her place in her own jump harness. Once again, Ardo found himself opposite the woman, now his commander.

  “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant,” Ardo asked. The engines of the Dropship were spinning up.

  “What is it, soldier?” Breanne looked at him with those steel-cold eyes.

  “You said we were here to cover the evac of the Confederacy personnel and equipment?”

  “Yes, that’s part of the mission,” she replied over the increasing noise.

  “What about the colonists?” Ardo called out over the roar. “Are we here to cover the evacuation of the colonists, too?”

  If Breanne had a response, she did not bother to give it. Perhaps the engine noise was now just too great. Perhaps she simply had no answer to give him.

  Ardo settled back once more into the jump harness and dreaded the next thirty minutes. He closed his eyes for a moment and could see in his mind the ruins of Mar Sara’s starport receding below. Through the roar shaking the hull he could have sworn he heard the cries of the thousands below him desperate to escape.

  He thought he saw Melani’s face among them.

  CHAPTER 4

  LITTLEFIELD

  ARDO FLEW OVER A WORLD OF RUST. THE SHEER faces of the distant mountains were rust. The crags that cut into the earth were rust. Even the outskirts of the settlement city were coated with a layer of rust. Only days ago, those buildings were occupied, and the fine dust that blew across the arid world was diligently kept at bay. Now the world itself was taking no time in reclaiming the surface as its own. All of this, Ardo experienced vicariously through his combat suit. He was plugged into the Dropship’s main power bus, which also transmitted to him a continuous stream of data that Ardo could configure in any way that he liked. He had switched the sensor system over to external, and instantly the ship had vanished around him. He soared above the landscape alone, the internal display system automatically masking out the Dropship around him and everyone inside it. He was a bird sailing the hot plasma fire that trailed behind him.

  The outskirts of the central city fell quickly behind. Below was a wasteland, cratered and scarred black from the battles that had preceded him here. The scattered carnage of desperate struggles dotted the shattered land. The occasional hulks of Vulture hover-cycles and hundreds of civilian transports formed twisted, black-metal flower petals here and there.

  Ardo sailed through the sky above it all and wondered at it. Where were the siege tanks, the mobile a
rtillery, the Goliath assault walkers? Everything he could see below him was strictly light armaments and local militia trash.

  More important, where were they deploying if the battle below had already been lost? Ardo looked ahead. His flight was slowing as he descended toward an outpost bunker complex and the landing zone just inside its perimeter.

  “Get your head out, Marine,” the sharp voice of Lieutenant Breanne sounded through his com-system. “It’s time to disembark.”

  The Dropship materialized around him almost at once as his attention shifted. The lieutenant was staring coolly into his faceplate.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ardo responded sharply. “Ready, ma’am!”

  Lieutenant Breanne gave no more acknowledgment than a moment’s look into Ardo’s eyes and then turned to address the squad. Her voice cut across the whine of the engines. “We’re here for a reason, boys and girls! Let’s get the job done and get out. Is that clear?”

  “Ma’am! Yes, ma’am!” they all barked as one.

  “You have ten minutes from touchdown to find your bunk and stow your gear. You will then report to me outside the command bunker for immediate deployment.” Lieutenant Breanne extended two fingers together as she indicated the Marines around her. “Cutter, Wabowski, both of you will prep Firebat cat-five. The rest of you prep for recon-in-force, cat-three configuration.”

  Ardo ran through the category-3 checklist in a moment: power armor, Impaler gauss rifle with infantry loads, no field pack . . . fast on their feet and ready for anything. It also meant they would not be going too far from the encampment. Sounded like a pleasant afternoon after all.

  Lieutenant Breanne paused a moment as she looked down the bay, filled with the members of her squad. Ardo wondered what the lieutenant was thinking.

  “Be a minute late, you won’t be breathing after two. Clear?”

  “Ma’am! Yes, ma’am!”

  The Dropship lurched suddenly, landing hard. The lieutenant snatched a handhold instantly, then snapped shut her suit visor.