Spectra Arise Trilogy

by Tammy Salyer

  “I don’t know what with. Most of our assets have been seized.”

  “So we go back to the Beach and wipe out the security squad guarding it. We have to get supplies and weapons, anyway.”

  “What about Cross? Would he help us?” Desto asks.

  “No way, he’s Admin, and he’s not part of this crew,” Karl responds, animosity curdling his voice.

  “He’s still a friend,” David says, defensively.

  “He has nothing to gain. Why would he put himself at risk? He already knows enough to—to have us arrested,” Karl says.

  Startled by what he’s implying, I say, “It’s thanks to Rob that the three of us got out before the Corps could catch us. What more reason do you need to trust him?”

  “Why do you feel like you have to defend him?” he spits back.

  “Both of you drop it,” Brady orders, his impatience sparking like a loose wire. “We can’t ask Cross to help us. We’re in this on our own. But we do have to get him out of here. We’re a liability for him, and the longer he sticks around, the more of a liability he becomes to us.”

  David and I exchange a dark look. “It may not be that easy.”

  Everyone turns to my brother. “He knows about Rajcik and…shit, he may want to turn him in.”

  “Well he can’t do that,” Venus says, distress making her voice flat and winded, like she’s been running.

  Brady slowly straightens, his accusatory stare igniting the air between him and I. “How the fuck does he know about Rajcik?”

  I feel hot blood rushing through my veins, threatening to bubble over. “Don’t kid yourself. I’m not the problem. You’re the ones who involved that sonofabitch in the first place.”

  He speaks slowly at first, but his words gain momentum as his anger starts to get loose. “Your goddamn vendetta is going to get people killed. Damn you, Erikson, is that what you want?”

  “Stop.” Vitruzzi steps up next to Brady and slaps her palm loudly against a table. She turns to me, her eyes strangely kind. “We have enough problems to deal with right now. Rajcik isn’t anyone’s favorite option, and if we had any choice, he’d never factor into this. But that’s not reality.” She scans the room with a commanding gaze. “We’re going to get our friends off that prison rock, whether that means taking T’Kai down or not. But the first thing we have to do is get our assets in order, and Aly’s right, that means a trip to the Beach.”

  SIXTEEN

  A set of military-issue leg sheaths with built-in kneepads fits perfectly over my pants and zips around the lip of my combat boots. Their lightweight plating is almost as adept at repelling low-caliber bullets as the body armor I wear over my torso, but more importantly, they provide stellar soft-tissue protection in high-impact activities—perfect for an assault on the Beach. I finish gearing up inside the cramped passenger cabin of the Sphynx’s shuttle while Doug Mason and Desto do the same beside me.

  Almost four days have passed since Bodie’s death. After our conversation aboard the Sphynx, the crew roughed together a sketchy plan for gathering the supplies we’ll need from the Beach, and now Karl lowers the shuttle into the labyrinthine canyons of Mecca Flats, carefully picking his way through sharply twisting spires and gullies. We do a final gear and weapons check before we land, the three of us preparing to jump out and sneak quietly into the settlement on foot in order to recon the security squad’s position and find their vulnerabilities.

  “Karl, we’re in position. What’s your status?” Vitruzzi checks in from a low-orbit holding pattern. The Sphynx did a sweep for other Corps ships in the area and is ready to back us up if we need it.

  “We’re almost at the drop point.” Karl turns around from the pilot’s seat and draws a circle in the air with his index finger pointing toward the ceiling, our signal to get ready to land.

  Desto stands by the shuttle hatch, ready to slide it open. Karl eases us down while I watch the rusty sand walls, no more than a couple meters distant, rising up through the porthole window. The canyon is deep enough that we descend beyond where the suns’ rays are able to penetrate and the walls are cast in deep shadows that serve to conceal points where the large, ratlike rodents living in Mecca Flats hide. Even though they are mammals, they’re covered in scales, and they brandish retractable claws like a cat’s, only several centimeters longer and as hard as petrified wood. When walking on all fours, their bullet-shaped heads, with jaws containing rows of long, sharp teeth, reach about midthigh on a person my height, slightly more than one and a half meters. Instead of ears, they have highly perceptive auditory organs that form ridges of concentric circles of flesh that taper toward the base of their skulls, an occasional wiry hair sprouting here and there. Like radars, they can pick up sounds several kilometers distant. The noise made by a ship is usually loud enough to scatter them and send them hiding in their caves, but the shuttle is much quieter. We’ll have to be extremely cautious as we pick our way over the last couple kilometers to the Beach. These ugly beasts are meat eaters, and they’ll be eager for an easy lunch.

  The shuttle rises a few centimeters as the reverse thrusters activate and then drops to the ground with a thud. We waste no time getting outside and I take point. Mason and Desto fan out behind me, the three of us moving rapidly as a single unit through the canyon that eventually feeds out into a half-kilometer flat plain south of the Beach. That will be our longest sprint with no cover, but we timed our landing so the noon sunlight will be beating directly down and heat shimmers will help camouflage us from naked eyes. At least, that’s the plan.

  My breathing and footsteps beat a dull and persistent pattern in my ears as we run, and my eyes move ceaselessly over the top of my raised carbine, picking out shadows ahead of me that mean a blind corner or crack in the walls. The air is cool this far below the tops of the canyon walls, and the run would be pleasant if circumstances were different.

  A sound catches my attention, and I pivot my eyes to the right where small pebbles tumble down the sloping wall. Jerking my head up, I catch just a glimpse of a Flat Rat’s tail as it runs along a horizontal off-width a few meters up and disappears from sight. With a quick hand gesture, I make Desto and Mason aware of it.

  Two kilometers later, we’re almost to the edge of the canyon. I round the final bend, feeling the heat from the plains already beginning to push into the shadows. There’s a clicking noise that my body reacts to before I realize I’d heard anything. A remote sentry, either motion or noise activated. But we’ve been so quiet! I fling myself back behind the edge of the wall and the others respond immediately by finding cover of their own. It’s a flying mechanical device about the size and shape of a human head; its job is to provide surveillance in areas that aren’t patrolled by ground troops and deliver our coordinates, capabilities, and numbers to a response squad. If it sees us, our cover and surprise advantage are blown.

  It buzzes just barely within auditory range, moving slowly around the corner of the wall, seeking us. Even if we destroy the unit, any malfunction will alert responders. We need a diversion so we can pass by unnoticed. As I contemplate options, pellets of dirt rain down on me, and I feel a warm droplet of something land on my cheek. My head tips back in time to see two Flat Rats descending in leaps down the nearly vertical wall, their black lips drawn back and yellowed monster teeth revealed in ferocious grimaces. The closest is already in midair, its thirty kilos of predatory malevolence moments from crashing into me as I drop to a crouch and pull my knife free from my utility vest. Swinging almost wildly, I stab the blade into its side as it hits me, its weight flattening me to the ground. Wounded, it shrieks madly in my ear as its head lunges for my vulnerable neck.

  Before it can clamp down, the other rat smashes down on top of us both, the smell of its wounded compatriot’s blood already driving it into a voracious frenzy. Their combined weight and chaotic scrabbling is impossible to fight, and I know that I am seconds from being shredded to pieces. My arm is pinned to my chest; I can’t get it free to st
ab again. Screaming for help will bring the sentry on us in seconds, but panic is beginning to replace my reason. Before I start shrieking, I draw my knees into my chest, hoping to protect my vital organs, and also hoping Desto or Mason gets to me before it’s too late.

  Suddenly one of the rats quits squirming and rises up on its haunches, hissing and baring its teeth. Mason runs toward me and kicks the rodent squarely in the ribs, sending it flying into the opening in the canyon wall. The wounded one is still on top of me but its strength is quickly ebbing. Deep lacerations caused by the other rat and a severed artery from my knife have mortally wounded it, and its life is leaking out all over me. The smell of its blood is a sickly sweet combination of rotten meat and carnivore viscera, making me gag. Mason grabs one of my arms and pulls me to my feet, letting the wounded rat fall. At the same time, we hear the remote sentry buzzing around the corner and we both freeze, pressed against the wall. The rat he kicked also sees it and picks itself up, limping off in a furious trot back toward the darkness and safety of the inner canyon. The sentry locks onto its movement and follows, unable to tell an actual threat from a random animal.

  Mason steps back and looks me over with raised eyebrows. A quick mental self-scan reveals that I’m not badly hurt; my body armor and the durable material of my long-sleeved jacket protected me from any deep gouges, and a small scratch on the left side of my head has already stopped bleeding. I give him a thumbs-up, wishing I could take a few extra seconds to catch my breath, but this is the chance we need to get out of the canyon without being detected, and we move out at top speed. We reach the plains in a couple of minutes—our timing perfect. The only signs of Agate Beach through the shimmering haze are darker spots that might be the shadows of the settlement’s squat buildings. Half a kilometer to the north stands the hillside outcropping that houses the mine. More remote sentries will be emplaced amid the dwellings, but the security force is probably inside the mine itself. If there’s anything we haven’t thought of, we’ll know in less than four minutes.

  We move in fast, low lunges and Desto reaches the settlement first. Despite the weight of his Thresher M-2209, his long, pistonlike legs never seem to get tired. Heaving himself onto the flat roof of Venus’s outlying dwelling and dropping into a prone position, he provides perimeter coverage from the west while Mason takes the same position on another dwelling a hundred meters to the east. My job is to be the bait. Slinging my carbine onto my back and slowing to a walk, I head straight into the settlement’s center.

  Three sentries are on me within seconds, hovering at head level with their glistening camera lenses protruding in a ring around their centers like insectile eyestalks. A message from their internal transmitters plays in sync.

  “You are under arrest. Stop immediately and place your hands on top of your head. You are under arrest. Shoot authority is granted if you attempt to run. You are under arrest…” Repeat.

  The metallic taste of adrenalin coats the inside of my mouth as I comply. Five, four, three, two…the security force personnel don’t disappoint. A heavily armored vehicle rolls nimbly across the packed earth and comes to a stop five meters in front of me. The base of its troop hold sits waist high above the ground, balanced over all-terrain tires covered by armor-plate shields. It takes a few seconds before the doors open. They’re probably analyzing the sentries’ video feeds, making sure I’m not hiding any surprises. Finally, the door opens and three soldiers jump down and surround me, weapons aimed at my chest.

  “You are in a quarantined area. Let’s see some ID and your authorization to be armed,” the corporal in charge says, his voice resonating with a metal tininess through his helmet and breathing apparatus. I still wear the nostril filter Venus had given me the first day I’d set foot on Spectra 6, having grown enough used to it that I no longer even notice the soft pressure inside my alar sidewall.

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Ansen, relieve her of those guns.”

  The soldier to my right approaches me, his steps light and quick and his posture betraying a nonchalant casualness that will be his downfall. “Turn around and keep your hands on your head.”

  I do as he says and feel him grab the buckle of my carbine strap, preparing to remove it. Big mistake. He should have taken my Sinbad first. As I feel the carbine come loose, I drop to a crouch and draw the pistol from my left hip holster. Five shots split the air above me, dropping the other two soldiers and the sentries, and I spin around and press the pistol into the man’s chin and pull the trigger. The inside of his helmet explodes in a red gush, but the bullet doesn’t exit. Corps armor is tough, the best.

  Before his body hits the ground, I sprint into the troop carrier hold. Thankfully, it’s empty. The driver engages the partition that divides the cab from the hold but it’s too slow. I’m able to fire through three times before it shuts, and his body folds forward over the steering wheel. Within seconds, Desto and Mason have joined me and Desto frantically works at the keypad that will reopen the partition, hoping to short it. We need the vehicle; it’s our best way inside the mine.

  “Should we call in the Sphynx?” I ask.

  “No, not yet,” Mason says. “If they’re detected, the security force will call for backup and we’ll have more than we can deal with.”

  Which means it’s three of us against approximately seven. The inside of the mine serves as an excellent stronghold to counter a siege by three people or thirty. The settlers engineered it that way, which had been a smart decision when they were the mine’s occupiers. Now that we’re the ones laying siege, I can only wish it weren’t so damn secure.

  Still fighting the hatch mechanism, Desto finally gives up on shorting it when we hear the voice of their squad leader calling for a SITREP. Desto jumps out and runs to the passenger side of the cab, which is, except for the doors, a seamless bubble of bulletproof resin. After sticking a ball of E-10 wax about the size of a rifle scope lens on the bubble, he lets it cook for a few seconds, then fires a shot from the 2209 into the middle of the wax. The entire shell fractures instantly, crashing inside the cabin and leaving a jagged ring around the rim.

  “Aly, put on that uniform and be our driver.”

  Desto and I yank the body from the cab. Fortunately, my point-blank shots had been enough to pierce his uniform and body armor, but didn’t penetrate all the way through. Only the back of his jacket shows obvious damage. I strip off my own, bloody and shredded from the rats, and put his on, followed by the helmet, first smashing one side of it against a rock to damage the com system, making it appear as if the driver couldn’t hear the SITREP request. As I dress, the other two haul the dead soldiers into the troop van. The light-colored uniform for soldiers in this quadrant of the system are close enough to the color of my own aged and faded pants that I don’t bother trading up. Finally, I belt on the dead man’s sidearm holster but sheathe my own ’Bad. His assault rifle is still locked in its cradle, and I place mine out of sight but within quick reach next to me. “Let’s go!”

  We’ve lost a precious five minutes but no one’s emerged to check on the doomed group. Our plan is developing as we go along, and Mason fills me in on why they loaded the bodies. I need to draw as many of their remaining security squad to the vehicle as I can once we get inside by signaling that the dead soldiers need urgent medical aid. They’ll be using a portable transceiver to communicate with their airborne commander and we’ll have to take that out ASAP. Once Corps command realizes there’s a problem it will be an estimated fifteen hours maximum before help will arrive, if their nearest battle cruiser is within the quadrant. However, if they have a shorter range QRF ship on standby, like the one that had boarded Rob’s ship on the way to R’Kadia, our time will be considerably compressed. We’ll have no more than four or five hours to get the Sphynx in, loaded, and back out. But first, we have to settle the immediate problem.

  I drive through the lead-in tunnel faster than safety dictates, but I have to make the situation appear life or death. Of
course, the risk is that they’ll shoot me as soon as I clear the tunnel. The thought makes sweat drip from my brow line, stinging my eyes. Why can’t the Admin develop helmets with better ventilation?

  Hardly slowing as I exit the tunnel mouth into the vast inner chamber, a quick look around confirms what I’d expected—the Corps has been busy organizing and separating all the settlement’s equipment and belongings into easily wrapped, transport-ready piles. Even as I notice this, I spot two rifle barrels trained toward us from behind a section of earthmoving equipment and another pointing out from behind the tunnel branch leading to the infirmary rooms. I hit the brakes a little too hard and hear a loud thump as someone is thrown against the inside of the transport’s hold. Immediately, I raise my arms to where the soldiers can see my empty hands, and then start waving frantically toward the back of the transport.

  “McMillan, what is your situation? Why aren’t you responding to your coms?” someone yells, presumably at me. I can’t answer verbally without giving away that I’m not McMillan, so I do as I’d planned and point exaggeratedly at my helmet, then back toward the rear.

  No one moves. Shit!

  There’s a scrape as Desto or Mason pulls open the transport door, and I prepare to take cover underneath the steering column inside the cab, then Mason shouts, “Riordan and Chin are down! We need a medic back here!”

  Somehow the authority in his voice, with the help of catching sight of the dead men’s bodies, galvanizes the other soldiers. Four of them break cover—the three I’d already spotted and another from inside the tunnel mouth—and run toward the vehicle. As they approach, I jump from the cab, AK-80 in tow. They converge as a group on the transport’s hatch and the first one begins climbing the ladder welded to the side.

  “Hey!” he has enough time to yell before Mason shoots him dead in the chest. His body whips around backward before he falls from the ladder, and I see the shock that will forever be stamped on his face. The other three respond immediately, diving beneath the vehicle before Mason can fire again. Sprinting in the opposite direction, I’m able to reach the cover of the earthmoving equipment that they’d recently vacated. The firing stops, but my nerves don’t cease dancing like an electrocution victim. The others could be calling for backup at this moment.