Cold Planet: A Gateway Universe Story

by Brian Dorsey

  “It’s okay. We got it,” she said as she held his hand in hers.

  Frederick tried to speak but coughed a spray of thick, red blood. Looking into his eyes, Martin knew he thought he was dying.

  “You’re gonna make it Frederick. I’ve seen people in worse shape after having the meatloaf on Draxius,” she joked. “Just let me get some meds into you.”

  Martin dug into Frederick’s vest, torn halfway from his chest by the beast’s powerful claws, for his medical kit. Grasping a neruo-med, she flipped open the cap and injected a dose of powerful pain killer into his thigh. Next, she grabbed the coagulant and sprayed the sticky substance on Frederick’s injured arm and other wounds.

  Daemon let out a low growl. The crack of a branch echoed across the frozen landscape and Martin spun to her left, her rifle at the ready.

  ‘We’re coming in,’ came Jackson’s voice over the comms circuit.

  “Roger,” replied Martin as she exhaled heavily and lowered her rifle.

  Martin stood as Jackson, Yates, and two other Guardsmen stepped into view.

  “What happened?” asked Jackson.

  “Lancecat,” replied Martin. “Frederick’s wounded and I don’t know where Rogers is.”

  “Sergeant Boles, you and Young make a sweep for Rogers,” ordered Sergeant Yates as he walked past Martin to examine the dead beast. “I hate those things,” added Sergeant Yates, turning toward Martin. “Where’s the other one?”

  “Other one?” asked Martin. “There wasn’t another one.”

  “There is,” he replied as he readied his weapon. “They always hunt in pairs.”

  “What?” asked Jackson.

  “Two. They hunt in pairs. There’s another one—”

  Daemon let out a guttural bark and Martin spun to her rear to see another massive lancecat rushing the group. Her rifle instantly went to her shoulder and she felt the recoil as she fired and heard the barrage of gunfire from the others as the animal fell to the ground a meter from her.

  “Shit!” she declared as she caught her breath. She turned toward Jackson and Yates. “So pairs,” she said in confirmation of Yates warning. “I guess—”

  “Lookout!” shouted Jackson as Daemon growled and leapt toward the beast behind her.

  Martin felt Jackson’s arms grab her and she turned to see his face contort with pain as the dying lancecat had used its last breath to launch a wall of thick quills, meant for Martin, into his back.

  Yate’s rifle boomed again and Martin tensed her body to support Jackson as he went limp in her arms.

  “No!” she shouted as she lowered him onto his side. “Jackson,” she huffed. “Why did you do that?”

  “Are you okay?” he grunted.

  “Yes,” replied Martin.

  Jackson’s complexion grew pale and sweat started to form on his forehead almost instantly. Looking at his back, Martin saw dozens of large quills protruding from his environmental suit.

  “Let me get these out of you,” said Martin.

  “No!” shouted Yates. “Don’t pull them out.”

  “What are you talking about?” replied Martin as Yates knelt beside Jackson and inspected his back.

  “Damn it,” cursed Yates. “This is bad.”

  “I—I’m okay,” grunted Jackson. “I can take it.”

  “Yes, Sir,” replied Martin as she pulled a knife from her vest.

  “I said no, damn it,” interjected Yates. “If you pull them out here, you’ll kill him.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “These fucking quills are not only pumping neurotoxins into his blood stream but have anchored themselves into his flesh. We don’t have enough coagulate to take them out here. If we do, he’ll bleed to death in seconds.”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do?” asked Martin nervously.

  “We need to get him back to the camp where Daniels and Cazmier can work on him.”

  ‘Yates, this is Boles,’ came over the comms circuit. ‘We found Rogers, what’s left of him…he’s dead.’

  “Roger,” replied Yates. “Get back here. The captain’s injured and we need to get him and Frederick back to camp.”

  “Take command,” mouthed Jackson.

  “You’ll be fine, Sir,” replied Martin as she subconsciously placed her hand on his cheek. “Besides you don’t think I’m ready.”

  Jackson let out a cough as Martin felt him grasp her forearm. “I need you to do this,” he replied, his voice growing weaker. “And you were born for this. Just trust yourself and your men.”

  “Ma’am,” interjected Yates. “We need to move.”

  “Yes,” she replied as she pushed herself to her feet using her rifle. “Outpost, this is Martin. Coming in with two wounded. Alert medics,” she ordered into the comms circuit. “Have Morgan assign two more men to patrol one.”

  ‘Roger. Copy all,’ came the reply.

  “Yates, you and Boles take Jackson. Young, help me with Frederick,” she ordered as she walked over to the Frederick and knelt beside the severely wounded Guardsman. “You ready,” she asked Corporal Young as he knelt by Frederick’s opposite side.

  Martin let out a slight grunt as her and Young lifted Frederick off the frozen ground and headed toward camp. As she made her way back to the others, Martin felt the weight of command overshadow the weight of Frederick’s body.

  ***

  Martin stood with her arms crossed as the medics worked on Frederick and Jackson. Sergeant Morgan was there as well, explaining the situation to a clearly agitated Flight Lieutenant Varus.

  “Give me some more coagulant,” Corporal Cazmier asked Corporal Daniel as he expended a canister of the clotting agent on Frederick’s leg. “If we can get that chest wound stable and increase his oxygen intake, I think we can stabilize him,” he said to Martin.

  “And Jackson?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Ma’am,” replied Daniel. “Neither of us have dealt with this before. The medical data link says we need to inject 100 ccs of charcoal-infused nanocells and erythrocyte regenerator mixture and then pump him full of neuromeds and coagulant before we remove the quills. If he doesn’t bleed out, we just hydrate him and watch for five or six standard days. If he doesn’t improve, we give another treatment. That’s all we can do in the field.”

  “Well get to it,” said Martin anxiously.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” replied Daniel as he injected Jackson. “But we don’t have enough supplies for a second dose.”

  “Well let’s hope the first one does the trick,” she replied with as much confidence as she could muster.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Sergeant Morgan.

  “We stick with the original plan,” replied Martin. “We still need to get as much recon as possible while we try to get comms up and wait for support.”

  “I don’t think so,” interjected Varus.

  Martin furrowed her brow and slowly turned her head toward Varus. “What?”

  “With Captain Jackson incapacitated, I am now the senior officer and I think we need to stay here and focus on securing our position.”

  Martin stared into Varus’ eyes, forcing him to look away. Before she could respond, Sergeant Yates stepped into the shelter. “Sergeant,” she said, choosing to ignore Varus all together. “What’s our status?”

  “We’ve covered the patrol,” replied Yates as he rested his rifle against a small table, “and I made sure everyone was briefed on lancecats hunting in pairs.” Yates paused to look around the tent. “How are they?”

  “They are trying to stabilize Frederick and apparently its wait and see with the captain.”

  “Shitty deal,” replied Yates. “The lancecats are no joke. Luckily they’re pretty rare.”

  “Lieutenant Martin,” interjected Varus. “We need to discuss our situation.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” she replied without looking toward him. “Sergeant Yates, have you and Morgan came up with team for the recon.”

 
; “Yes, Ma’am—”

  “I said there is to be no recon,” declared Varus. “I have taken tactical command—”

  “Tactical command?” erupted Martin. “Do you want to talk tactics? What is the range of the rifle beside you?” She could tell he had no idea. “What is the effective range of the 15mm guns protecting our perimeter right now? Better yet, how would you position them for most effective fire if we fall back to our secondary positions? What are our secondary positions?” She had more but she could see Varus was already fuming with anger and embarrassment. “Before you take ‘tactical’ command, you might want to know what the fucking tactics are.”

  “How dare you—”

  “How dare I?” spat Martin, gripping her sword. “You spoiled little asshole. I will not place the lives of my men in your incompetent hands. They’re Guardsmen and Guardsmen deserve a leader, not—what did you call yourself?—a manager. I don’t care if you were a fucking admiral, these are my men until I die and then another Guardsmen will lead them, even it is a private.”

  “I will have you courts-martialed for this insubordination!” shouted Varus.

  “I doubt it,” smiled Martin as she gripped her sword and yanked it from its sheath.

  “Wait!” shouted Yates as he stepped between the two. “Would anyone be interested in the regulations regarding this situation?” he asked forcefully.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said Varus, “please inform the lieutenant of the regulations.”

  Martin’s blood boiled. Every muscle in her body tightened in anticipation at the thought of tearing Varus apart. And Yates had taken that away; he had to have a reason.

  Yes, Sir,” replied Yates. “You are correct that as the senior officer present you are required by Humani Military Regulation 807-70 to assume a command role.”

  “No fucking way,” interjected Martin. She couldn’t believe Yates wanted to take orders from Varus. They may have had their differences and while she was sure Yates thought she was a bitch, Varus was an idiot.

  “Let me finish,” continued Yates. “Morgan, can you pull that up on the data pad?”

  Martin stared coldly at Varus, her eyes piercing him, wishing she could do the same with her sword.

  “Got it,” said Morgan.

  “Read it please,” directed Yates.

  “In the case of joint operations between fleet and infantry forces where all flag and field grade officers are incapacitated or otherwise unavailable, the senior-most officer or non-commissioned officer or chief petty officer shall take administrative command—”

  “See, you animal,” replied Varus.

  A smile began to form on Martin’s face. “You said administrative command? Is that correct sergeant? Is there more?”

  “Why yes, Lieutenant, there is,” replied Morgan. “Beyond administrative duties, however, the senior-most officer, noncommissioned officer, or chief petty officer with tactical training and warfare qualifications pertaining to the tactical situation will take tactical command.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Varus. “What does that mean?”

  That means, Sir,” said Martin with a smile, “that you’re in charge of any paperwork we generate and that I make the tactical decisions. So why don’t you have a seat and fill out some reports…or just draw some fucking pictures for all I care.”

  She stepped in close to Varus. He leaned away from her but she stepped closer and placed her mouth to his ear. “Just stay the fuck out of my way or the first piece of paper we’ll need is your death notice,” she whispered. “Now that we have that all cleared up,” she said as she turned back toward Yates as if her threat to Varus had never happened. “Who’s going on the recon with me?”

  “Corporal Shara will go with you and Grenadier Jolly and Private Blake will make up the other team,” reported Sergeant Yates.

  Martin’s first thought was to question their decision; she would have rather had Sergeant Boles and Private Incerna in place of Jolly and Shara but she had to let the sergeants be sergeants. “Sounds good,” she replied as she looked at the time. 0200. “We’ll head out as scheduled. And Sergeant Yates,” she added with a glance toward Varus. “You’ll have tactical command in my absence.”

  Chapter 8

  Martin placed her environmental gear into a large bag and attached a location beacon to the outside before stuffing it into the hollow, rotted-out trunk of a tree. As she placed an uprooted fern over the small hole, she looked down toward Daemon and ran her hand over his thick fur.

  “Gear’s stowed, LT,” reported Corporal Shara.

  Martin’s stomach tightened with the first pangs of hunger. With all of the excitement from the night before and her concern over Jackson, she hadn’t eaten prior to leaving camp several hours earlier. And they would need the energy for the rest of the trip. “Let’s grab some food before we head out,” she said to Shara.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” replied hungry Shara as he pulled a small package from a pouch in his trousers.

  Martin watched as the corporal, probably the same age as her but sporting the beginnings of a thick, dark beard that made him look older, slowly unwrapped the tightly packed and machine-pressed mixture of proteins, fats, carbohydrates, fiber, and vitamins the Humani military supply commission pawned off as food. Holding the brownish-grey stick up to his face, Shara inhaled deeply through his nose.

  “Ah,” he said with a smile. “Roast beef with a side of potatoes and mixed fruits from the ocean side of Mount Selara.”

  “You have quite the imagination, Corporal,” replied Martin as she took a bite of the tough, sticky bar in her hand. “Mine tastes like a mixture of dirt, hair, and medicine,” she added as she mechanically chewed the food.

  “It’s all up here, LT,” replied Shara as he pointed to his head before taking another whiff. “And for dessert, mixed berries and cream custard.” He bit into the stick again and gave Martin a huge closed-mouth smile as he worked at the tough glob of food in his mouth.

  “You sure you didn’t hit your head in the landing. I think the docs might need to check you out when we get back,” joked Martin.

  “It’s all good, LT,” replied Shara. “They already know I’m crazy.” Martin saw a contemplative look forming on the corporal’s face. “Hell, we’re all crazy,” he laughed. “Why would anyone in their right mind volunteer to travel the stars and trudge around these desolate planets for crap pay and shit food.”

  “For the Republic and the honor of our civilization,” replied Martin, only half-joking.

  “To the Senate!” mocked Shara as he stood erect and put himself at attention before returning to his seat on a fallen evergreen. “Frankly, LT, I could give a shit about the First Family assholes and the glory of the Humani race. I just don’t want to be some poor sap working in an agro field or factory coming home every day to a wife complaining about what I did or didn’t do to improve our family’s standing.”

  Martin saw Shara’s complexion shift again to one of contentment.

  “That first time you see the Red Moss Fields on Sierra 7,” he continued, “or the ruins of the Great City on Kilo 3. Hell, that’s worth the price of admission right there.” He paused to look around the landscape where the water, ground, and plants—covered in frost only moments earlier—were rapidly warming. “Better to spend a few years hunting with the wolves than a lifetime hiding among the sheep,” said Shara. “And you can bet those jerkoffs on one of the thousands of assembly lines or manufacturing yards couldn’t even imagine this place…or how fucking good this government issue food-stick tastes,” he added as he tossed the last bite into his mouth.

  “So you’re no patriot?” asked Martin, enthralled with Shara’s perspective on the world.

  “Patriot?” laughed Shara. “I don’t even know what that shit means…I mean with all—”

  “Don’t give me that ‘with all due respect’ crap,” warned Martin. “That’s just a roundabout way of telling me to fuck off…just say what’s on your mind.”

&nb
sp; “Well, Ma’am,” continued Shara. “It ain’t about the fucking ProConsul or the fucking Senate. Don’t get me wrong, I want my family to be proud and my name to be remembered when I’m gone like any good Humani, but I ain’t out here for some fancy Senator or even the mass delusion we call the ‘Humani people.’ I’m here for us—for the Guard—and because there isn’t anything else I want to do.” A determined look came over him as he continued. “I’d rather put a bullet in my brain right now than spend a day as an hour-by-hour minion of the Humani machine. And as for ‘our’ civilization, the Guard is my civilization, my people…my family.”

  Martin struggled to find a response. In a moment of clarity, she realized she had spent so much of her energy trying to deal with her own demons that she had never stopped to think about what motivated her men. She always thought Shara was a misogynist loud-mouth—and he was—but he also loved what he did and was devoted to his fellow Guardsmen.

  “What about you, LT?” asked Shara, bringing her out of her silent contemplation. “Why do you do it?”

  “Oh me?” She paused. She couldn’t tell the corporal about her father’s expectations and her need to redeem what she had thought the First Families had taken away from her family. She couldn’t tell him why she did the things she did…she didn’t even know half the time. “I just like to shoot guns and blow shit up,” she smiled. ‘Not too bad,’ she thought to herself. It was true but not too revealing.

  “You’re definitely hardcore, Ma’am,” said Shara.

  “Well, I think we’ve talked about our feelings enough today, Corporal. You ready?” asked Martin silently soaking in the complement. “We have a lot of ground to cover still.”

  ***

  Daemon stopped dead in his tracks, his fur bristling.

  Martin quickly dropped to one knee and brought her rifle to her shoulder. She raised her hand to signal Shara that Daemon had sensed something and then for the corporal to move to a flanking position.

  After Shara disappeared into the swamp to Martin’s left, she motioned for Daemon to move forward. She placed herself into a crouched position and slowly moved toward the direction of the war dog as it crept forward like a lion stalking its prey. She let her boot gently sink mid-calf into the swampy mud until her footing was sound then she slowly pulled her other from the suction of the muck and took another methodical step, all the while scanning the landscape for threats.