by Brian Dorsey
“Make it happen,” directed Jackson. “Martin, you and Lieutenant Varus see what comms gear is salvageable from the transport.”
Martin thought Varus would jump out of his shoes when he saw Jackson mention his name. His days of hiding among a group of other fleet officers was over, he would actually have to prove himself.
“Yes, Captain Jackson,” he stammered. “I—”
“We got it,” interrupted Martin. “I’d like to have Corporal Sellers go through the engineering space and see if he can use anything.
“Sellers!” shouted Yates. “Get your ass over here!”
“Send him over,” said Martin as she grabbed Varus’ arm. “Let’s go.”
“What are we looking for?” asked Varus as the two sloshed their way toward the transport.
“What do you mean?” asked Martin, her brow furrowed in frustration. “You’re the damn communications expert, why the fuck are you asking me?”
“I’m the manager of the high-priority electron spin pulse comms for Draxius. I just make sure the techs do their job.”
Martin stopped in her tracks and grabbed Varus shirt. “Manager? You’re shitting me, right? The only reason you’re with us it that you’re supposed to know something about comms systems. Oh…and your fucking last name,” she added in case she hadn’t shown her hatred for First Families enough. “And you’re telling me you’re a damn manager…what does that even mean, you’re an officer, officers don’t manage—they lead.”
“I don’t know what you were told, Lieutenant,” replied Varus coldly. “And frankly it’s not my problem. Commander Renux ordered me on this mission. I didn’t ask—”
“Seriously?” interrupted Martin, her frustration boiling over. She gave Varus a shove and watched him fall into the muddy water.
“I’ll have you brought up on charges for assaulting a senior officer!” shouted Varus as he pulled himself erect and attempted to shake the muck off his uniform.
“Is everything okay?” Martin heard Jackson shout from a distance.
“Good!” she replied to Jackson. “Just getting acquainted,” she added more quietly as smiled down toward Varus.
“When we’re back on Draxius—”
“Do you even know what’s going on?” asked a stunned Martin. “Draxius is gone, you moron. Renux is dead. The rest of the crew is dead. Your daddy, Magistrate Varus, and your senator uncle aren’t here either so the only thing preventing me from leaving your worthless ass out here in this wilderness is Captain Jackson. So I suggest you either show me you know something—anything— about comms systems or keep your mouth shut and stay close to him.”
“They’re dead?” asked Varus.
Martin could see the shock on his face. “Yeah. And you’d be up there with them if it wasn’t for your name.”
“I had no control over that,” answered Varus.
Martin could tell Varus was beginning to understand his situation. And she didn’t have time to waste. “Fine, just follow me.”
Reaching the transport, Martin ordered Daemon to stay at the entrance as she climbed into the troop compartment.
She let out a heavy sigh as she looked over the wrecked space. Electrical wires hung from the overhead, sparking and crackling. Blood splotches dotted the deck and bulkheads. And the bodies of five Guardsmen were strewn amongst the wreckage. Looking at the torn body of Lieutenant Cresius, her anger for Varus again started to boil over. Shaking her head, she refocused on the goal. “Get in here and follow me!” she shouted to Varus, who was still standing outside the access.
Martin’s nose stung from the acrid smell of burning electronics as she kicked open the jammed door to the transport’s cockpit. “Damn it,” she grunted. The communications panel was a snarled, smoking mess.
“It looks like there’s nothing here,” she heard Varus state as he entered the compartment.
“Maybe,” grunted Martin as she kicked the cover below the panel open.
A puff of trapped smoke escaped from the cabinet.
“Let’s see if anything is salvageable?” said Martin, kneeling by the communications panel and pulling a light from her vest. Leaning forward, she looked into the cabinet. The outboard side of the cabinet had significant charring and several wires melted together. “We might be able to get some cards from the inboard—” A noise behind her caused her to turn. It was Corporal Sellers.
“What do you need, LT?” he asked.
“Run back to engineering and see if you can find any power sources or electronics we can use for comms. The panel up here is shot but I’m gonna see what we can use.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” replied Sellers.
As Sellers disappeared to carry out his orders, Martin heard Varus’ voice.
“It looks like this card is still good,” he declared.
“No!” she shouted as she saw him reach into the panel.
Varus’ body tensed and began to seize as electricity flowed through his body.
“Shit!” blurted Martin as she slammed the sole of her boot into Varus’ shoulder to knock him free.
Varus fell against the navigator’s chair and onto the deck with a moan. His face was pale and his body shook, but he slowly regained his senses.
“You okay?” exhaled Martin, her frustration evident.
“I…I think so,” he replied, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.
“Idiot,” replied Martin. “How ‘bout we turn off the power first.” Martin turned to the outboard bulkhead and removed a cover from a breaker panel. “There we go,” she added as she flipped two switches to the OFF position and looked back toward Varus, who was slowly pulling himself to his feet. “Should’ve just let you fry,” she mumbled under her breath as she again knelt by the communications cabinet, pulled three cards from the panel, and wrapped them in a plastic bag. “Sellers, meet me at the access in two minutes,” she ordered into her tactical circuit. “You too,” she added, casting a cold stare to Varus.
Sellers was waiting for Martin at the access. His arms were full of large solid state batteries and he had a pack full of gear, not to mention the parts protruding from every pouch and pocket.
“I found some cards I can modify for a short range signal, some spare parts I can use for our tactical comms, and these batteries,” reported Sellers.
“Nice,” acknowledged Martin as she picked up a blood-stained pack from the deck and tossed it toward Varus. “Dump everything out of here and put the batteries and these cards in it. At least you might be useful as a pack animal.”
She could see Varus start to protest but then pause.
“Is that a problem?” asked Martin, resting her hand on her sword.
“No,” grumbled Varus. “It is not.”
“Good,” she said. “Sellers, get Lieutenant Varus to the others. I’ll be right behind you as soon as I set charges.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With Sellers and Varus on their way to the rest of the Guardsmen, Martin moved quickly through the wrecked transport as she placed explosive charges on the reactor controls database, NAVSYS computer, fire control chassis, and the remains of the communications cabinet. Her task complete, she turned briefly at the door to acknowledge the dead Guardsmen still onboard before she leapt from the access into the swamp below and plodded through the water to get clear of the ship.
As Martin pushed her body through the thick mud and knee-high water, she heard the muffled sound of the charges detonating inside the damaged transport.
***
Martin soon caught up with Lieutenant Varus and Corporal Sellers and the group quickly covered the five kilometers to meet the others.
While the men set up defensive positions, Jackson called the officers, along with Sergeants Yates and Morgan, together to discuss their situation.
“What’s our strength?” asked Jackson.
“Including everyone here,” answered Yates, “twenty-six.”
“Shit,” mumbled Martin. “How many wounded?”
&nb
sp; “Privates Lin and Mal from 1st Platoon have minor injuries. Corporal Rose has a bad stomach wound but can still pull a trigger and Grenadier Avia took a round in his leg but can still move, just not very fast,” reported Yates.
“And 2nd Platoon?” asked Jackson.
Sergeant Morgan from 2nd Platoon stepped forward. “Private Coughy is pretty bad, sir. He lost an arm but Doc Cazmier stabilized it. He’s also hit in the chest and stomach. Doc pumped a shitload of meds into him but he’s out of the fight…he probably won’t make it.”
“And yourself?” asked Martin, noticing Sergeant Morgan’s blood-soaked left sleeve.
“I’m good, LT,” he replied. “All patched up.”
“Priorities?” Jackson asked the group.
“Defensive positions,” stated Morgan.
“How are we doing?” asked Jackson.
“We have a good perimeter set up with remote sensors being placed as we speak,” answered Yates.
“We’ll have four guys on perimeter and two forward scouts about a kilometer out,” added Sergeant Morgan. “Which brings us to our next topic…reorganization.”
“Yes,” replied Martin. “I want Corporal—”
“I think we should let the sergeants handle that,” interrupted Jackson.
Martin sucked in a deep breath to control the embarrassment and frustration. She wanted to control who was being assigned and felt a sense of helplessness having been ordered to let the sergeants do it. She figured it was part of what Jackson and Yates had been talking to her about but it still pissed her off. “Yes, Sir,” she grunted.
“Yes, Sir,” acknowledged Yates. “We’ll set up five teams. Corporal Sellers on comms and the Docs Daniel and Cazmier will make up the support team. Private Marley will stay with the docs. Sergeant Morgan will head up Alpha team with Corporal Shara and Privates Lin, Blake, and Mal. Sergeant Boles will lead Bravo with Corporal Young and Privates Frederick and Rogers. Sergeant Baker will take Charlie with Grenadier Jolly, and Privates Case and Incerna. Delta will be our heavy weapons team under Grenadier Markum with Grenadier Avia and Corporal Rose. They’ll man our 15mm guns, which we’ll set up over there and there.”
“Good,” replied Jackson. “Martin, you’ll have Alpha and Bravo teams.”
“Then I will command Charlie and Delta,” said Varus, joining the conversation.
“The fuck you will,” snapped Martin. “You’re supposed to know about comms systems and still almost got yourself killed. You’re not giving a single order to one of these men.”
“How dare you—”
“Enough!” shouted Jackson, interrupting Varus’ response. “Lieutenant Varus, I would rather you focus your time on working with Corporal Sellers to get our comms up.”
“Good luck with that,” mumbled Martin.
“And you,” said Jackson as Martin felt his eyes burning through her. “Drop the chip off your shoulder and focus on the mission. We don’t have time for this shit.”
Martin thought her teeth would break as she pressed them together inside her mouth. All she could think of was the brave Tactical Officer onboard Draxius. She had died for her people bravely. Why couldn’t she have lived instead of the First Family specimen in front of her?
“Yates will command Charlie and Delta. Next priority,” continued Jackson to shift the tension.
“Comms,” answered Martin as she returned Jackson’s glare.
“And the status?” he asked.
“Short range tactical comms are good. Sellers says we should get good comms up to 1500 meters. Long range is down but I’ll work with Sellers to see if we can built a stronger transmitter/receiver from the gear we took from the transport.”
“Lieutenant Varus can assist,” added Jackson.
“Sure,” laughed Martin. “He can manage us.”
“Supplies?” asked Jackson, without acknowledging Martin’s comment.
“Supply situation is okay,” answered Sergeant Morgan. “We have enough food for two weeks—three on rationing—and we should be able to live off the land if we need to.”
“Good,” replied Jackson. “We’ll live off the land primarily and save the meal packs for when we’re short.”
“Yes, Sir,” continued Morgan. “We’re obviously set for water since we’re literally knee-deep in it; we have enough purification kits for months.”
“Ammo?” asked Martin.
“If we get in a fight, we’ll run out of people before we run out of bullets,” replied Yates.
“And the environmental gear?” asked Jackson.
“We have four shelters so we can fit everyone not on sentry,” answered Morgan. “And we have twenty suits.”
“Twenty-six would be better,” added Yates. “But we can work with twenty.”
“What suits are you talking about?” asked Varus.
Martin shook her head. “Are you kidding—”
“Golf 2,” interrupted Jackson, “has some drastic climate changes. Every fourteen standard hours the temperature shifts from an average of 16C to -27C.”
“And it does it in the span of about five minutes,” added Martin. “Something to do with cold fronts, all the water, and the winds.”
“When is the next change?” asked Varus.
Martin looked down to the digital pad on her wrist. “We’ve got about two hours,” she stated.
“Plenty of time,” replied Jackson.
“I’ll have the recon patrols swing by and pick up their suits. We’ll get the shelters up and suites for the rest,” said Yates.
Chapter 6
Martin looked at the time on the digital pad attached to vest before checking her environmental gear. The extra layer of clothing was restrictive but the small warming sensors throughout the suit would make up for it when the temperature plummeted in a few minutes. After checking her suit, she looked down toward Daemon. Unlike humans, there was no Senatorial ban on genetic alteration when it came to Humani war dogs. In fact, it was the norm and Daemon was a prime example of advanced selective breeding, genetic alterations, and computer-brain interfacing. His thick brown and black fur provided more than adequate protection against the coming cold.
Running her hand over Daemon’s head and through the thick coat covering his powerful neck she thought of the complications of her position. “Sometimes I’d like to switch places with you,” she confessed to the dog. “No worries about how you need to act. You just focus on the mission.” She paused to laugh. “I’m sure there’s a few people who wish I had a chip in my head to control me too…but there’s not—I’m not—that lucky.”
Daemon’s ears perked.
Martin gripped her rifle and turned to investigate the rustling of vegetation behind her.
“You don’t want to be a war dog, LT,” came a voice from the fading light.
“Yates?” asked Martin.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he answered as he stepped forward from the foliage. “Just checking the lines.”
“Me too,” replied Martin.
“You can head back to camp ma’am. I got this. It’s a sergeant’s job.”
“It’s no problem—”
“I understand LT, but like I said, you don’t want to be a war dog. They’re brave and loyal and fierce in a fight, but they don’t think for themselves; they’ll never lead.”
“We’re not going to have this discussion again are we?” sighed Martin. “Because it’s already been a long day.”
“No, Ma’am,” replied Yates. “Just came to tell you to stop doing my job,” he added with what Martin thought was a smile but couldn’t tell for sure with the protective mask covering everything except Yates’ eyes.
“Fine. You win,” she conceded.
Her attention was again drawn to Daemon; something had him on alert. In a few seconds she heard it too; a high-pitched tone, almost like crystal vibrating, emanated from the distant darkness of the swamp.
“You hear it?” asked Yates.
“Yeah,” replied Martin. “What is it?�
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“It’s the change. Watch,” answered Yates as he pointed toward a group of evergreens and tall, dark-green swamp ferns a few meters ahead.
The ferns begin to curl in on themselves, forming tight balls just above the ground. Next, Martin noticed the green began to fade from the needles of the evergreens, turning dark brown.
“This planet has evolved to survive the rapid temperature change,” continued Yates. “The plants either form cocoons to protect themselves from the cold, or in the case of the trees, they shut down their normal metabolism during the cold period…pretty amazing actually.”
Although she’d read the files, this was Martin’s first time on Golf 2. Yates, on the other hand, had been there several times in his 22 years in the Guard. ‘Chalk up one for experience,’ she thought to herself.
“And here comes the breeze,” he added as the gentle wind brushed across her body.
The high-pitched tone increases and a white mist began to form around the plants and trees.
“Frost?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Yates. “And now you’ll feel it for a minute before the suit heats up.”
The cold breeze turned to a piercing, bitter cold that chilled her to the bone. Her muscles instantly began to shiver and shake but after a moment, the warming sensors began to counter the freezing air, providing relief.
Martin turned in a slow circle to see the entire environment coated in a thick frost. She checked her digital pad. It read -10C. “That was fast,” she declared.
“It’ll drop another 15 or 16C in the next few minutes,” added Yates. “You best get out of the cold and let me finish checking the lines.”
“You’re the boss, Yates,” said Martin.
“Glad you figured it out, Ma’am,” replied Yates.
“Don’t push your luck,” retorted Martin, only half joking, as she looked back toward Daemon, who seemed impervious to the frigid air.
***
Stopping at the entrance to the shelter, Martin looked toward Daemon. “Daemon, free,” she ordered and the dog plopped down by the entrance of the shelter and curled into a comfortable-looking ball.