by S. A. Lusher
“Eric, you there?” It was Hawkins.
He reached over and hit the call-back button. “I'm here, boss,” he replied.
“Perfect. I've got a mission for you. A big one.”
“I'm on my way,” Eric replied, stubbing out his cigarette.
He stood and began to dress.
* * * * *
“So like, actual, real zombies?” Mertz asked.
“Yes. Actual, real zombies. But not those slow-ass, groaning, two mile an hour things. I mean, the real deal, they run and shriek. And not just zombies, either. There were huge ones and fast ones and invisible ones. Greg said he ran into ones that flew the first time,” Drake replied.
“That's nuts,” Laura Porter, a combat engineer he'd been hanging out with recently, said.
“I saw shadow people,” Parker said.
“Shadow people?” Mertz replied.
Drake had heard Allan's account of the derelict alien ship, even more ancient than the enigmatic Cyr, and the wretched, whispering shadow things that killed on contact.
He listened as Parker began recounting the experience. In a way, he was glad. She was normally so quiet and reserved, he'd been trying to sort of draw her out recently. Though he knew, in a way, he was projecting, and maybe he was trying to draw himself out as well, or let himself believe that if he could draw her out of her shell, he could do the same for himself. It was new personal project he was working on: make new friends.
He'd ultimately come back after his personal journey, after he'd helped get Mosley settled into a new job and a new life, one he deserved. At Hawkins' request, he'd gone into therapy. He thought he'd have to take some pills, too, but the therapist told him that he just needed to work through some things, there were no large chemical imbalances. It was going slowly, he thought, as he was going three times a week, but...
Something was different.
It was as if his simple willingness to change was enough to get something going, to effect some deep, fundamental shift. He was still depressed a lot, still furious at Enzo, still abjectly miserable over Trent's death...but now it felt like there was hope for happiness. It was distant and dim, not even a light at the end of the tunnel, more of a vague horizon.
But it was there now.
Since coming back, Drake tried to keep busy, tried to keep his head clear. He worked out, he trained on the shooting range, sparred with the others, ran drills. He shaved, brushed his teeth and showered regularly. He made himself eat, even when he didn't have much appetite, because he'd lost noticeable weight during those six months when he was hunting for Enzo. He made himself sleep on a regular schedule, and get enough sleep to remain healthy. It had been hard, and some of it still was, (he had a recurring nightmare where he was back on that crashing ship, trying to save Trent), but it still felt like he was moving forward, towards something good.
It had occurred to him just a few weeks ago, when they'd all started running those missions, looking for the rogue paramilitary group, that he wasn't really being social anymore. He didn't really have any friends among the crew, not in the sense of actual friendship. He'd slept with a few of them, but that wasn't the same. And part of the reason, he realized, was that he'd stopped trying to make friends decades ago.
Part of it was that keeping everyone at a distance was necessary as a mercenary, that's just the way it worked out. The less you trusted people, the less likely you wound up with a knife in your back. He'd trusted Trent and Trent alone, trusted him with absolutely everything. There was nothing he wouldn't tell Trent. And when his brother had left his life, had been stolen from it, that left absolutely no one he felt he could trust.
So he'd been actually trying to be social again.
It started with simple things: conversations during workouts, eating together in the mess, chatting in the observation deck or the recreational room. He'd even gone as far as to start going through some first person shooter games with one of the techs he'd slept with, actually trying to be the man's friend now. (And, okay, still trying to sleep with him. Sex had never stopped feeling good.) And now, here he was, eating breakfast with some of the crew, feeling a bit like a veteran among them and telling his stories to them.
“Well...I should go,” Parker said after finishing her story. They'd all since eaten their meals. “I've got to do some inventory in the medbay, we just got a new shipment.”
Mertz sighed. “Guess I'll help out.”
“I'd appreciate it.”
“I need to go, too. Got a list of little glitches to iron out,” Porter said.
“See you around,” Drake said.
They all gathered up the remnants of their meal and left the table. Drake sat in silence and solitude for the next several moments, gathering his thoughts. Part of him was worried that he would be stuck miserable, that he would never fully get over what had happened. Probably because of so many stories he'd heard about tragedy. Ultimately, it seemed that you never really got over bad things that happened in your life, you just readjusted, just learned how to deal with it after a given amount of time. He was handling Trent's death better now than before, he thought so at least, but he still had to fight back tears at least two or three times a week.
Sometimes, if there was no one else around, he didn't fight them.
Drake hadn't ever really bought into the idea that 'men didn't cry'. Everybody cried. It was normal. It was human. The reason he fought the tears was generally for the sake of whoever else was around. It wasn't the idea of looking weak in front of him that bothered him, it was more that it was just really socially awkward to be around someone that had started crying for no obvious reason. And, well, if he was being totally honest with himself, he prided himself on his self control, and crying seemed to be a break in that.
“Drake?”
He glanced over. Hawkins stood at the end of his table.
“Yeah?” he replied.
“You were kind of zoned out there, you okay?”
“Fine,” he replied. “Just...pondering. You look like you need something?”
Hawkins snorted. “Am I that transparent?” He nodded. “You're needed for a mission. Something's come up, something that might be big. Briefing Room Two in fifteen minutes.”
“Got it.”
Drake stood and began gathering up what was left of his meal.
It seemed that the time to act was once more upon him.
CHAPTER 03
–Mission Briefing–
Jennifer led the way through the airlock.
She was surprised by how good it felt to be docked with the Dauntless again. It felt like coming home. She'd always been good at settling into new places, since the way she lived her life meant that she was never in one place for more than a year or so, usually less. But her job with Anomalous Ops made her feel...like she belonged.
She hadn't felt that in a long time.
The airlock finished hissing its way through its cycle and the outer doors opened. She and Allan were given a view of the hangar beyond. The Dauntless came with four small hangars, each one serving as a nest that catered to each of their brand new, top-of-the-line speedships that the crew had started referring to as Raptors. One of the hangars housed a pair of simpler jump ships. As she and Allan descended the stairs that snapped into place below the airlock, a pair of technicians made their way to the vessel to perform some basic after-mission maintenance. She left them to it, heading out of the hangar and into the corridor beyond.
Hawkins was waiting for them.
“Allan, Jennifer, I'm glad you're back,” he said.
“We didn't really find anything,” Jennifer replied.
“I've looked over your after-action report. Jennifer, you've got a mission,” he said. “What you might call a 'real' mission.”
Instantly, the lingering lethargy from the long haul she was feeling seemed to evaporate. “What is it?” she asked immediately.
“You'll know within the hour.”
“What about me?” All
an asked.
“You and Callie can take a break, but we've got another hit on these crazies. Spec Ops has a team there already and once the others depart, we're headed that way.”
“You aren't coming to support the larger mission?” Jennifer asked.
Hawkins sighed and shook his head. “No. It's a political mess. Your mission involves a science project that very few people think is actually going anywhere, the other one involves a lot of dead civilians and soldiers. So the men who control our funding have requested the presence of the Dauntless personally.”
“All right, I've got to go take a shower,” Allan said.
“Okay. And, Allan...” Hawkins hesitated. “I can't seem to get hold of Greg. I've been led to believe he might be in your and Callie's quarters?”
Allan nodded. “Yeah, probably.”
“Would you mind sending him my way?”
“Not at all.” Allan turned and left.
Jennifer and Hawkins watched him go.
“Don't you how you guys do it. I had a hard enough time figuring out one girlfriend, let alone two or three.”
“I know what you mean,” Jennifer replied.
“Well, I've got to go finish prepping the briefing. Be in Briefing Room Two in half an hour,” he said.
“I'll be there,” she promised, then watched him go.
Feeling her excitement welling, Jennifer turned and hurried off towards her own quarters. It was time for a real mission.
* * * * *
Greg began to towel himself off.
He was at least feeling awake, invigorated and distracted. Sex in the shower with a woman who wasn't actually his girlfriend was apparently good for that. Callie was still in the shower. He'd learned that she had a particular love for them, and often stayed in them for quite a while if she could. Right now, he was trying to organize his thoughts and the day ahead of him. He figured a fifty-fifty chance of Hawkins throwing another mission at him that would probably amount to nothing. He had to admit, he was intrigued by these mystery men sporting tech mods, but he knew they needed to get ahead of the game if they were ever going to crack the case and right now no one seemed to have any real ideas on how to do that.
He definitely needed to work out and get some training in.
Greg finished drying off and hung the towel up, then grabbed his boxers and pulled them on. He'd ended up swinging by his dorm and grabbing a change of clothes before coming over for the night. Intent on dressing, he opened the door and stepped out into the room...then stopped as he saw Allan coming into the room as well.
“Uh...hey,” Greg said, feeling at once immediately awkward.
“Hey, how's everything going?” Allan asked.
“Good,” Greg replied. He could see his clothing, both the clothes he'd shed the night before as he and Callie had been getting undressed as quickly as possible, and his new clothes. He quickly began dressing.
“She's still in the shower?” Allan asked, taking a seat on his bed and kicking off his boots.
“Yeah,” Greg replied. He got into his jumpsuit and zipped it up, then pulled on his own boots and quickly gathered up the rest of his belongings.
“You okay?” Allan asked.
“Yeah, just...I'm okay,” Greg replied.
Allan laughed. “You don't need to be weird about it or anything. I told you, it's fine,” he said.
“Yeah...okay, sorry. Still new to this.”
“I understand. I was new to it too once.”
“Did you find anything this time? On your mission?”
Allan shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. He looked really tired. “No, nothing, just like all the other times.”
“That sucks,” Greg replied.
“Tell me about it...Hawkins wants to see you. A big mission has come up. I'm guessing something not related to the guys we've been searching for. You should get ahold of him.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
Allan stood and began unzipping his jumpsuit.
“See you later,” Greg said, trying not to hurry out of the room too quickly.
“Later,” Allan replied.
Once he was out in the hallway and the door was closed behind him, he let out his breath in a long sigh. Allan might really be completely cool with it, he didn't seem like a man who lied readily or who hid his feelings very well, so Greg was inclined to believe him, but it really was still weird for him. He turned and headed over to his own dorm room, trying to make himself get over the feelings of awkwardness.
He stepped into his room, dropped his old clothes in the dirty laundry pile and then thumbed the intercom, having it hunt for Hawkins. A moment later, the intercom chirped and the man's gravelly voice came out. “This is Hawkins.”
“Greg here. What's up?”
“Big mission. Briefing Room Two. Fifteen minutes,” Hawkins replied.
“Got it.”
No time for breakfast then, which sucked because he was hungry. With a sigh, Greg looked around his room, trying to think of anything he might've forgotten. As he stood there in that empty room, he was suddenly hit again with a brief but vivid vision of Campbell's death. Of the floor bursting open beneath him, the huge thing with the chainsaw mouth grabbing and eating him...and the wretched guilt that burned like acid in his brain.
He turned and quickly left his room.
* * * * *
Eric stepped into the briefing room, feeling about as good about this as he was going to. He'd been worried on the way there, walking stiffly through the well-lit corridors of the Dauntless, preparing himself for what may lay ahead. There was a part of him that was at least somewhat eager to head once more into the fire. When you survived a crazy-ass situation where you almost died multiple times, one of two things tended to happen. Either you bought yourself some extra security and then hid behind a closed door for as long as possible, wanting nothing to do with danger ever again...or you developed a taste for danger.
He'd kind of developed a taste for it.
But there was another part of him that clearly recalled the horror, the blind terror, the pain, the misery, the suffering, the loss.
What if something like this happened again?
But no, he was with professionals, men and women who had survived worse than he had and made a habit of enduring the impossible. It was literally their job, and his now, too. So, he'd tried to calm himself, tell himself that it would be okay, that they would handle it. But ultimately he knew it didn't matter.
He had to do this.
He stepped into the room, seeing that he was the last one there. Well, Hawkins wasn't present, at least. He recognized almost everyone sitting around the table: Jennifer, Greg and Drake were all there. He'd spoken a bit to Lin Parker, one of the main medics onboard. She was polite but he got the feeling she kept to herself. The final man he hardly recognized. To Eric, he was known only by his last name, (or maybe it was his first name?): Keron. He was an immense, bulky Japanese man. On top of his large stature, his flat, gray eyes and tightly maintained black crewcut combined to make him a very intimidating man.
Eric was sure he'd never actually spoken with Keron, and, thinking back on it, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen anyone speaking with the man.
And now they were on a mission together.
He at least seemed like a very solid person to have your back in a fight.
Eric entered the room, nodding to the group, and sat down in one of the available chairs, in between Drake and Jennifer.
“Any idea what's up?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Drake replied. “Hawkins hasn't let anything slip beyond the fact that this might be big,” he added.
“I hope it's big,” Jennifer said.
“You might regret that hope,” Greg murmured.
“What do you mean?”
“One of those careful what you wish for things. I've found that this job regularly hands out more than we can comfortably, or even uncomfortably, handle.”
“Sometimes it gives out duds,”
Drake pointed out. “Like all these missions we've been running.”
“I don't think this one will be a dud, it feels...big,” Parker murmured.
The far door opened, cutting off all conversation. Hawkins entered the room. He looked like he sometimes did when things were rough: grim, harried, hassled. He had several days' worth of white stubble and bags under his eyes.
“Fucking politics,” he muttered as he took his seat at the head of the table. “Okay, people, sorry I'm late. I'll make this as clear as I can, but we're operating on a tight schedule.” He reached out and tapped something on his personal computer. The lights dimmed and the center of the table lit up. A holo projection sprang into view.
“This is Ash.”
It looked like a grim, miserable desert planet, just a dry, starched, faded yellow ball.
“It's pretty far out there, just a little ways inside the Far Reach. It's a desert planet, no moons, no native life. They almost gave the system a pass since there's just two other planets and they're in roughly the same condition. Although the planet does have a life-bearing atmosphere, there's no natural life on the planet at all, not even plants. It's just a giant desert. But a scan picked something up: a low-level power signature.
“It was, luckily, a government drone. They sent in a team to investigate and discovered an alien artifact buried in some caves beneath the surface.”
“Cyr?” Greg asked.
Hawkins shook his head. “No, not Cyr. Older. In fact, with perhaps the exception of what was discovered and moved to Lindholm, where Allan dealt with his own problems that got him this job, it's the oldest known artificial device. I have very, very little information on the actual artifact, it's top secret and you know how reluctant they are to pass information about alien stuff off, even to us, but I think the reality of it is that they just don't know much. The initial dating tests put it at at least a hundred million years, probably even older than that.”
“Jesus,” Jennifer whispered.
“Yeah. So, naturally, they got a team out there, set up a colony...” He typed some more commands in on his laptop. The holo projection shifted, changed, zoomed in on the planet. The view zipped through the atmosphere and focused in on a plot of land, probably several miles wide. There were three collections of structures, forming a rough triangle.