Vanguard Galaxy

by Mars Dorian

  “Maybe you’re right, Doctor. In case you’re not, we have our version of symbols.”

  Rosco patted the round grip of his LZR rifle which didn’t end the conversation on a peaceful note. Doctor Brakemoto rolled her eyes and swapped her attention between the symbol collection on her datapad and the foreign view outside. Frankly, there wasn’t much to see. A rocky surrounding bleached in a creamy, bluish tint, interrupted by the occasional canyon formation, like a stylish version of Mars. Even space offered more variety, according to Rosco. But maybe he was just biased.

  “Mmmm,” Ekström said.

  Rosco was partly annoyed and yet excited to hear from him again. A rare combo that only the engineer could pull off.

  “What is it?”

  “Sweet Lily found a lil’ something. Pretty little treasure.”

  He even tilted his screen so Rosco could look. The captain saw a Tri-D map of the surrounding, as recorded by the drone from above—a panoramic shot of a vast landscape, broken up by a cube shaped objects that looked like a skewed skyscraper.

  “What’s that?”

  Ekström looked at him and shook his head. Invisible question marks appeared on his forehead. “Doesn’t belong here.”

  Whatever that meant. Yeltzin, still busy navigating the LRV over the exotic lands, chimed in. “Captain?”

  Rosco pondered. Their primary goal was to initiate contact, but he knew next to nothing about this world. Every unique structure along the way would help him learn more about Grisaille and its inhabitants. His oxygen supply was still going strong at over 98.5%, and they had backups in the cargo section of the LRV.

  Besides, didn’t M always say, “when opportunity knocks, you should open the hatch?”

  It was more than a simplified saying; Rosco realized the potential of this new situation. To Yeltzin, he said, “Abort the route. We’ll check it out the structure.”

  Something wasn’t right, and it deserved Rosco’s full attention. “And activate the auto-turret on the roof.”

  Better armed than harmed.

  Rosco wanted to make sure this surprise wasn’t his last. His finger snaked around the touch-sensitive trigger of the LZR Coil rifle. He couldn’t help it; basic training and battle experience taught him well.

  40

  Yeltzin drove the armored vehicle toward the structure protruding from the rugged ground like a metallic thorn. The object sat about five and a half kilometers away which meant the structure had to be the size of a thirty-story scraper at least. Rosco knew the LRV was a mobile powerhouse, but he still didn’t feel safe inside. If even one rocket bypassed the vessel’s laser defense, boom went the crew. Vehicles always felt like poor people’s ships.

  “Lieutenant, park this baby anywhere nearby. We’re approaching that thing on foot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He picked a canyon spot in the vicinity that shielded the LRV from the flat surface leading up to the unknown object. Ming Brakemoto, still immersed into her research, objected.

  “Do we really have to leave, sir? I feel pretty safe inside.”

  “Don’t worry. You and Ekström will guard the vehicle while Yeltzin and I check out the structure.”

  Her elegant right eyebrow cocked inside the face shield of her atmogear’s helmet. She probably realized that Rosco didn’t want her on the recon unit and he wasn’t going to claim otherwise. Yeltzin was the only crew member with a full soldier background, Rosco followed with a distant second.

  “Our time is precious, Doctor. My particular skill set isn’t in need right now, but your ongoing description process is,” the captain said.

  That didn’t seem to sway her, so he ended on a lighter note. “Update me as soon as you notice something unusual.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your body blazing up like a flare signal and levitating toward the planet’s core. Stuff like that.”

  “Very funny.”

  Rosco’s eyeballs already belonged to the soldier gearing up for potential conflict. He had foolishly hoped it wouldn’t come to a ground escalation, but out here, one had to expect anything. Behind every boulder lurked a potential blaster.

  “You ready?” he said to Yeltzin.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The gentle giant stepped out the LRV and touched ground. He quickly readied the LZR Coil and marched next to the captain who charged ahead. High in the sky, Ekström’s Lily circled the concrete-colored clouds like a robot bird. Rosco hoped the drone would record footage in high-resolution to help with the reconnaissance. At least the engineer seemed proficient with the drone control. Maybe he wasn’t that useless after all, but Rosco needed more proof to change his mind. Yeltzin marched next to him with his fingers nudging the trigger of his LZR rifle.

  “Let’s choose a defensive protocol over a preemptive. If Doctor Brakemoto is right, the alien prefers passive-aggressive measures over purely offensive ones,” he said over the comlink.

  “I’m not yet convinced. Maybe the life form is just using military tactics we can’t understand yet. Either way, we’ll stand on guard.”

  The two men stomped over the rugged surface; thin layers cracked like ice under Rosco’s boots. He hoped he wouldn’t fall into a hole anytime soon. Man, how he hated the ground. His body, even with the atmogear on, was too frail for heavy hostile contact. And this wasn’t a VR simulation where he carried limitless lives.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  Yeltzin sounded genuinely worried, but Rosco wouldn’t admit feeling uncomfortable. It was going to sound pathetic.

  “Let’s keep up the pace.”

  Rosco found an elevated rock spot and hunkered down with Yeltzin. The captain used the surface as a support to stabilize his LZR Coil. With his left finger free, he glanced through the rifle’s scope and magnified the far away sight by a factor of five. Target pointers encircled different components of the mysterious structure. To his surprise, Rosco recognized the layout.

  41

  It looked like a man-made spaceship that crash-landed on the surface. Yes, there was no doubt—Rosco recognized the four thrusters on the back as they pointed toward the sky like the butt of a steel giant. No name or serial number covered the rear of the wreckage, but the components showcased a familiar design. Armor plating, turret mounts, and the industrial pattern embedded into the hull revealed a human origin. It seemed improbable, but this was the rim.

  Every kind of phenomena was possible.

  Rosco adjusted his scope and focused on specific armor parts of the structure. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating here, Lieutenant.”

  “One could claim that life itself is a hallucination, sir, but in this case, you’re right. This is a man-made ship.”

  If humans had crashed here, it meant Rosco wouldn’t be the first captain to touch alien ground. Claim to fame—stolen. It sounded trivial, but it dented his ego. Either Daystellar’s intel was false, or the ship had crashed recently. Rosco checked the entire structure through his digital scope and looked for anything suspicious. Nothing showed up. And yet, his senses sizzled; the scenario reminded him of an early VR desert mission in Basic which started with a snooze and ended in crossfire.

  “Follow me, Lieutenant. We’re going in.”

  He updated the two back in the LRV. “Doctor, we’re boarding the vessel.”

  “Do you need help, sir?”

  “Remain inside and stay vigilant.”

  He spoke to the engineer and hoped he would understood his words. “Keep Lily in range and tell me if she detects a weapon or hostile.”

  ”Mmm,” the red-haired man mumbled through the comm.

  Rosco turned all of his attention to the colossal structure. The wreckage seemed alien in the foreign environment; a million tons of dark alloys amidst a bright canyon. Rosco pointed his LZR at the steel monstrosity while continuing his march. “Lieutenant, feel free to share your thoughts.”

  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe the ship got off course and was shot down by the aliens.”
/>   “But what’s a human vessel doing all the way out here?”

  “Only the universe knows.”

  Not for long. Rosco decreased the distance to a hundred meters. The wreckage towered like a dark monument and drowned its surrounding into shadows. A crisp shiver tore through Rosco’s limbs and his eyes rolled around his sockets as they inspected the wreckage’s origin. The ship looked like a military grade, D-class freighter. And since the ID and ship’s name were missing from the rear, it seemed to be a black-market bargain. Whoever owned this vessel wasn’t too keen on interstellar flight laws.

  Distance to the wreckage: 53 meters.

  Rosco became one with his LZR rifle.

  Yeltzin’s deep but gentle voice sounded from behind. “Energy signature detected.”

  One turret mount near one of the main hatches sparked to life and adjusted its two barrels. They pointed at Rosco’s direction and opened fire.

  42

  With the added exoskeleton power from the atmogear, Rosco rolled sideways and pushed his legs. The incoming shells shattered the rocky ground and spat up sharp pieces. Thankfully the turret was created to take down orbital ships and not humans, or otherwise he’d be smoking meat. The targeting system had trouble homing in on him and thus delayed its fire response by half a second.

  Rosco dashed sideways and tried to escape the turret’s rotating range while aiming his LZR Coil. When the digiscope menu showed him an accurate lock-on, a rocket ripped through the air and blasted the far away turret into electronic confetti and metal junk. Rosco craned his neck to the right and saw Yeltzin in kneeling position, holding a mobile rocket launcher over his armored shoulder. The peaceful monk had spoken, and Rosco liked his prayers. He couldn’t help but whistle. It was good to see the man was easy on the trigger. “And for a second I thought you were going to bolt.”

  “Turrets are inorganic material and thus have no rights. There’s no conflict of emotions.”

  The danger still lurked. Rosco scanned the area and checked his motion scanner. No other turret activated on this side of the freighter’s rear but that didn’t mean anything. “Any energy signature?”

  “No, sir. Looks like that was the last one.”

  Yeltzin folded the mobile rocket launcher and attached it to his gear pack. He chose the LZR as the main weapon and followed the captain closer to the wreckage. Ming’s frantic voice squeaked over the captain’s comlink. “Sir, what happened?”

  “Looks like the derelict freighter suffers from turret syndrome.”

  Ming’s groan was audible through the connection. “That’s no laughing matter.”

  True, but if Ming had known Rosco better, she would have realized that misfired humor was one of his unconscious maneuvers to deal with threats. A habit he had cultivated when the VR simulations didn’t go his way—which happened more often than he’d admit.

  Distance to wreckage: 15 meters.

  The two men reached the rear of the ship and looked up. The hatch entrance was at least twenty meters above them, but with all the hull’s components and crevices protruding, they could mount the side and reach the space.

  “We’ll climb up there,” Rosco said, “I’ll go first while you watch my back.”

  Yeltzin nodded and stayed put. Rosco slung the LZR rifle to his back and squirreled up the massive rear that had seen better days. A few breaths later, Rosco reached the hatch. It was closed but offered a little slit probably due to a failure in the closing mechanism. The junked giant was an oversized trash site. Rosco stared down and motioned Yeltzin to climb up while he took charge of the overwatch. Given his weight, it took the ground-pounder twice as long to reach the elevated ledge. But Yeltzin was in stellar shape. “Do you really want to go inside, sir?”

  It wasn’t a matter of want, it was necessity. The appearance of the wrecked freighter changed the approach of the mission. No part of Daystellar’s intel mentioned human engagement on Grisaille.

  “I want to know what happened here. Maybe there are still survivors.”

  After all, someone had to have activated the turret that fired on them. No defense system went online for the hex of it.

  Someone was still in charge of it.

  The soldier waited, “It’s your call, sir.”

  Of course it was.

  Yeltzin used his pillar-thick arms and pushed the two hatch door parts farther apart. With the power of servo-mechanics in his atmogear, he opened a new crevice wide enough for both men to enter. Yeltzin stepped back and offered his hand palm side up. “After you, sir.”

  Rosco and the soldier cautiously tread into the skewed entrance corridor of the derelict freighter.

  43

  Rosco dove into the darkness. He was tempted to switch on the lights on his helmet, but that could trigger whoever may still be inside the freighter. Thank tech the Daystellar atmogear was military-grade; he could simply switch on the built-in night vision and magically turn the darkness into a bright green. Yeltzin followed up and covered the captain’s back with a finger on his LZR Coil trigger. Both switched to the comlink to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Someone, or something, had to be listening in the metal scrap yard.

  Rosco said, “What do you think?”

  “This is confusing, sir. I’m almost tempted to say this is an illegal freighter.”

  “Merc?”

  “Maybe.”

  They walked up the steep path of the tight corridor and watched out for anything suspicious. Apart from some misplaced cargo crates and some electronics lying around, they couldn’t detect anything unusual.

  “Let’s aim for the quarters and see what’s up.”

  “Good idea, sir.”

  The quarters’ section was normally reserved for the crew during off-duty. It also harbored drink dispensers and food printers, with a medical bay nearby. Although it was a customized freighter, Rosco believed the changes were mostly reflected in the military aspects, such as the hull plating and armament, rather than the interior design. He hoped he was right.

  Rosco and Yeltzin made their way through the twisted corridors of the wreckage, which was harder than it sounded. With the interior design all tilted, one wrong step could mean falling down and hitting a helmet on one of the many broken walls that cluttered the corridors. Whoever had piloted the ship tried to avoid a crash-landing at all costs but failed miserably.

  The silence was eerie.

  “Anything on the motion sensor?”

  “No, sir.”

  The two reached the quarters and noticed objects on the ground. Skeletons lay scattered around the metallic floor, most still inside their gear. Holes ate through their face shields, rendering their oxygen supply useless. Rosco recognized bullet holes from kinetic impactors, sharp cuts—maybe from tactical knifes, and nugget-sized holes that looked like corrosive wounds. Either way, one critical hit penetrating one’s armor meant instant death. The planet’s atmosphere was hostile to all human beings, and with the ship’s life support system either switched off or damaged beyond repair, there was no way for the crew to survive. Even though Rosco didn’t know any of the victims, he felt empathy washing over him.

  Choking was one of the worst ways to die.

  With the helmet on, Rosco couldn’t smell anything but the artificial oxygen from this backpack recycler. But if this room was breathable, it would reek of decay and death. A strange foam covered some of the crates and the metallic cube beds embedded into the walls.

  Rosco swapped his night vision for his micro-helmet lights to inspect the gear up close. He noticed make-shift armor with customized gear and thigh-plates, as well as modular mag pouches. These people were not civilians; that was for sure.

  Whoever wore these armored suits were expecting conflict in the form of armor-piercing projectiles. Average freighter personnel never dressed up for war, not even the paranoid ones who had been way too long in the void.

  Rosco swallowed when the outlines and colors of their gear’s symbols rang familiar. A far away memor
y crept back into his consciousness. His mind couldn’t believe it, but his mouth had already shaped into an ‘O’.

  “This has gotta be a glitch.”

  He waved Yeltzin over and pointed at the skeleton’s armor crest. Rosco couldn’t see the lieutenant’s expression because of the darkness, but it spoke volumes when the big man stepped back. “Twisted destiny.”

  Of the sickest kind, Rosco added in his mind. To be sure, he checked the gear of the other corpses but found each of them defiled with the same symbol.

  A spiky sun colored with blood.

  44

  Sunblood.

  Talk about the unfathomable. Ride the most modern science ship to the butt of a backwater planet and you still couldn’t escape the syndicate scum. Those bleeders truly were cockroaches with FTL drive.

  To hex with them.

  Rosco kneeled and tried peace the holo-puzzle together. He established a connection with doctor Brakemoto back in the LRV but a fizzled noise rustled through the comm channel. “Can’t get a signal, you?”

  Yeltzin shook his helmet. “Must be the interference from all the electronics inside the ship. If the turret worked, something else will as well.”

  That was bad.

  The last thing Rosco wanted to see on an alien planet was a bunch of Burrned mercs with nothing to lose. Scratch that empathy remark from before—he hoped every one of those Sunbloods choked until their lungs shat blood. But given his lack of luck, he knew destiny was going to rip him a new one.

  Yeltzin stretched his legs for maximum balance. “What now, Captain?”

  They could have checked every ship chamber for more clues to what had happened there, but—given their limited resources—it was a waste of oxygen. At least now they knew who they dealt with. Mercs, for some reason beyond his knowledge, had trespassed on an exoplanet with sentient life forms and crashed their freighter. Or maybe, just maybe, the aliens had shot them down. They certainly possessed the technology. Rosco realized his mission just reached a new level of mystery, and it toughened his approach. A simple, stupid plan worked best on the battlefield, however, every new, unknown variable would dwindle the chances of the mission’s success. Being in space, everything that could go wrong, would go wrong. Remember Murphy’s Law.