by J G Cressey
Moments later, Cal heard the engines power down, and the ship became still. “Sinclair?”
“Okay, we’re stable.”
Sinclair’s words had barely finished sounding before Cal pushed himself up onto unsteady feet. He could feel blood trickling down the back of his neck, but his vision had mostly cleared. “Anyone injured?” he asked the team in general. He knew it was likely they’d all have sustained injuries, but he also knew that inconsequential bumps and scrapes would be brushed aside.
“Looks like Forester’s out cold,” Poots said as she leaned over the injured man to examine a wound on his head.
Cal silently cursed. None had had their head protectors activated during the flight. The hard, overlapping layers ejected from the neck of their armor with the touch of a button. Although impeccably designed to fit the user’s head and obey every movement, it was still uncomfortable and was never generally used unless necessary. On this occasion, it hadn’t been necessary because ships like this never simply fell out of the sky; it just didn’t happen. And any possible hostiles would have been picked up on the scanners long before an attack was launched.
Opening a nearby locker, Cal pulled out a med kit. “Here, see what you can do,” he said after removing a small healing pad for himself and passing the kit to Poots. Forester was their one and only medic, but all of them were trained in trauma basics. The team quickly got to work checking the onboard stores for damage. There was no need to dish out orders in situations like this; they were all well-trained, and even the fresh-faced Couter was efficiently filling his role.
Satisfied that Poots had her new medic role in hand, Cal exited the cabin and, pressing the pad to the back of his head, made his way down the corridor to the cockpit. He wasn’t surprised to find both Sinclair and Malloy unhurt—both would have been strapped in while piloting. Malloy was already out of his seat and was running diagnostics on the rear console. He paused briefly to nod as Cal entered the cockpit, but he didn’t look his way. Cal accepted it; a nod was about all one could ever expect from Malloy unless you directly asked him a question. He suspected it had more to do with the T-tech implant than any real lack of social skills. Behind the golden sheen of the science officer’s eyes, there was a vast ocean of information and enough augmented processing power to help him dive to its deepest depths. A person could be forgiven for getting lost in such an ocean from time to time.
Cal headed straight for the flight console. “What happened, Sinclair?”
“One of the rear thrusters cut out,” Sinclair replied with a brief glance in his direction. “It took a couple of seconds for the others to compensate. Then, the main stabilizer failed.”
Cal shook his head in confusion. “That seems—”
“Impossible.”
“What the hell caused it?”
“I wish I could tell you. This ship was thoroughly checked before we left the starship. It shouldn’t happen. Even for one of these to fail without pre-warning is incredibly rare, but both in succession…”
Cal looked to the rear of the cockpit. “Malloy?”
“Right now, I have nothing for you,” Malloy replied, his golden eyes remaining locked on his screen. “I’ve just started running a more thorough diagnostic.”
“How long?”
“Eighteen minutes. While it’s running, I’ll begin a visual checkover of the ship,” Malloy said as he finally broke his gaze from the screen and turned to face them.
“Let me know how my thruster’s looking,” Sinclair said.
Malloy gave another small nod. “Anything else?”
“Not right now,” Cal replied. Before the science officer left the cockpit, Cal gave him an appreciative smile. Despite his social shortcomings, Malloy had an incredible ability to instill confidence when it came to solving problems and fixing malfunctions.
“At least the terrain still looks friendly,” Sinclair pointed out.
Turning back to the flight console, Cal peered out of the window. Despite having traveled a good distance, the scenery hadn’t changed a great deal. They’d landed on relatively high ground, and the rolling hills before them still appeared serene with a patchwork of thick, flowery shrubland. A wide, slow-running river divided the landscape a few clicks to the east.
“How far to the research base?” Cal asked, well aware that a malfunction this severe would likely result in them having to finish the journey on foot.
Sinclair took a few moments studying her readouts before answering. “You could walk it in a day and a half, maybe two.”
“A day being?”
“About the same as Earth.”
Cal grimaced. That was a good deal further than he’d hoped. Unfortunately, the look on Sinclair’s face suggested there’d be little choice in the matter.
“Everything okay back there?” she asked.
Cal nodded. He knew the question was asked more in concern for her friends than the mission. “Forester took a knock to the head. Poots is seeing to him. Everyone else is fine.”
Cal could see the relief in her eyes. When they were in the air, they were her responsibility.
“Looks like you took a battering yourself.” She indicated the bloody healing patch in his hand. “Using your head to break your fall again?”
Cal shrugged. “You know how I like to tinker with the shape of my skull. So how’s the rest of our paradise looking?” He leaned forward and tapped on the window, manipulating the smart-glass to zoom further into the distance. “Did you scan the landscape ahead when we were airborne?”
“Of course,” Sinclair said, shooting him a look. “If you’ll remember, it was me that taught you that.”
Cal smiled. “You sure that was you?”
“Quite certain.”
Shifting the view with a splayed hand, Cal focused in on a dense patch of distant forest. The trees were evergreens, similar to some of those seen in the conservation sectors of Earth but a good deal larger. The trees were dense enough that very little light penetrated them. “I’d appreciate it if you could chart me a route to the research base. Perhaps one that avoids those forests.”
“You think there’s something unpleasant in there?”
Cal shrugged. “There’s a lot of prey out there; I’m assuming there must be something that likes to snack on it. Otherwise, the balance seems off. Perhaps I’m just being paranoid.”
“No point going into the big bad woods if you don’t have to. I’ll plot you the nervous tourist route.”
“Appreciate that,” Cal said as he straightened up and headed to the exit. Before he reached it, he stopped and glanced back. “Oh, and, Laura, thanks for getting us on the ground in one piece.”
CHAPTER FOUR
With time of the essence, Cal had kept the farewell with Sinclair and Malloy brief. The diagnosis of the ship’s malfunctions had not gone well, and for the first time, Cal had seen Malloy at a total loss to explain it. As always, Sinclair had insisted on staying with the ship and Cal had ordered Malloy to remain with her in the hope that time might afford the two of them more success. Unwilling to wait for a repair that might never be achieved, Cal had set off on foot with the rest of the team on a near enough direct route to the research base. They’d already made good time, which was not surprising seeing as the toughest terrain they’d encountered so far was a slight incline covered with patches of low-lying shrubland. Assuming they didn’t encounter any problems, he was confident they’d reach the base well before the second night.
As he walked at the head of the group, Cal found himself doing his best not to like this planet—not an easy thing to achieve when the air was fresh, the suns were warm, and the grassy ridge that he was walking along offered a spectacular view of a wide, lazy river, the pristine water of which beautifully reflected the myriad of vibrant flowers lining its banks. The ground seemed impossibly soft beneath his heavy boots, and in the far distance, tall pillars of intertwining, richly colored vines spiraled up from the ground toward the azure blue sky like t
he fingers of an alien mother earth. He couldn’t deny Capsun 23’s beauty. Unfortunately, he also couldn’t shake the feeling that if he started to like it, it would inevitably turn and bite him on the ass.
“Is it me, or is Max suffering a slight limp?”
The question had come from Sergeant Becker, who’d been walking by his side since leaving the ship. Cal glanced at her and then looked back at the rest of the team. All of them were well-armed with either a ten or a five-click pulse rifle and sidearm of choice. As always, Wilson and Orisho walked close together at the rear of the group. Corporal Franco was deep in conversation with Couter, no doubt teaching the young recruit bad habits. Poots walked on her own, looking as glum as ever. And Forester, despite his recent head injury, had recovered well and was looking strong on his feet. Then there was Max. The battle robot carried no obvious weapons—his strength alone would have been enough—but there were a few deadly surprises concealed within that metallic chassis. Despite being such a large brute, the robot somehow managed to negotiate the terrain as easily as the others. After a few moments of study, however, Cal saw that Becker was right; his big, mechanized left foot seemed a little off-kilter. It was barely noticeable, but the sergeant had an eye for that sort of thing. She was almost as good at identifying damage as she was at causing it.
“Okay,” Cal called out. “Time for a quick break.”
As the rest of them settled on the river bank, Cal made his way over to Max, who’d remained standing on the ridge, diligently surveying the area for potential threats. “How’s it going, Max?” he asked as he approached.
“No threats detected.” Max’s voice sounded as mechanized as his appearance—something that had always puzzled Cal as the tech was there to make the voice as smooth as silk.
Cal smiled. “I was actually wondering how you were doing?”
“I am functioning within normal parameters.”
“You’re sure?”
Max paused, his round eyes softly glowing. “Yes.”
“Your leg’s okay?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?”
Max paused again, this time tilting his domed head slightly like a dog listening intently. Cal couldn’t help feeling that the designer responsible for this particular AI system was a touch eccentric.
“Yes.”
Cal nodded and decided to leave the interrogation for now. “Do me a favor, will you, Max?”
“Yes.”
Cal turned and stared into the distance, toward the direction they were headed. “Keep a close eye on those forests, will you?”
Max swiveled his head to match Cal’s line of sight then turned it back to look down at him.
“Yes.”
Giving his legs a quick rest, Cal took a seat next to Becker.
“Max okay, boss?”
“According to him…yes.”
“Uh huh. So what d’you think’s wrong with him?”
Cal leaned back on his elbows and gazed up to the vibrant blue sky. “What’s wrong with the drones? What’s wrong with the communications? …Our ship? The real question is, what’s wrong with this ridiculously pleasant planet?”
“It doesn’t seem overly tech friendly,” Becker replied, digging her fingers under the joints of her armor and massaging her thighs as best she could through her smart-webbing.
“Must be something in the atmosphere,” Cal suggested. “Remember that moon off Kathlom, how that black swamp screwed with our electrics?”
“How could I forget? I was a dark-skinned brunette for months after that sludgy rock.” Becker gripped her rifle and laid it across her lap. “There’s nothing even close to a swamp here though,” she said, angling her face toward the warm rays. “And if there was, it would probably be the cleanest, sweetest looking little swamp you could imagine.”
“Probably,” Cal agreed. “But there’s something off about this planet, and it’s not just the malfunctions.”
“Sure you’re not just having an attack of the heebie geebies? Happens to the best of them from time to time.”
Cal raised an eyebrow at her.
Becker smiled. “I’m serious. There’s probably just a bunch of idiot scavengers out there screwing things up. Or at worst pirates.” She picked up her rifle and checked its readouts. “Nothing we can’t handle.”
“I’m not denying that there could be a human threat involved,” Cal said. “But there’s something else.”
“We talking monsters here?”
Cal shrugged and let his expression do all the talking.
Becker chuckled, but it lacked gusto—perhaps he’d got her thinking.
Becker shook her head. “How is it that someone who spent a whole year of his teenage life in the Big Game Sector of Mars can be so paranoid about dangerous beasts?”
“That’s exactly why I’m paranoid.”
The sergeant climbed to her feet. Raising her rifle, she peered through its sights and scanned the horizon. “You’re probably right. You usually are…well, a good forty percent of the time.” She lowered her rifle, a slight curl at the corner of her lips. “I guess we’ll find out for sure when we reach the base?” Reaching down, she offered Cal a hand up.
Feeling a little unsatisfied by the lack of insights, Cal reluctantly nodded and let her pull him to his feet. “I guess so. Let’s hope for a warm welcome with hugs and happy news.”
“Yes, and a drink with a nice kick to it.”
Cal bent down and snatched up his rifle. “It’s only a gut feeling,” he said, straightening up and shooting Becker a serious look. “But I’d appreciate it if you stayed your usual, vigilant self.”
Becker’s expression became earnest, all signs of sarcasm vanishing as she looked back at him and nodded. It was the very look that always reminded him how lucky he was to have her watching his back. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
They had managed two more hours of walking before the larger of the suns sank below the horizon. With the weaker sun soon to follow, Cal had instructed Franco to set up their shield for the night. Shaped like a dome, the energy shield gave them a thirty-meter bubble of adjustable warmth and light while simultaneously preventing anyone or anything of the wrong dimensions, heat signature, or retina code to enter. Despite this protection, Cal had made sure to set up camp as far from any forested areas as possible. He’d also moved a good distance from the river, reasoning that potential threats could just as likely be aquatic. The shield beamed up and over them from a small, central device that also emanated heat. It was around this device that the eight of them now sat like scouts huddled around a campfire. Max stood apart, near the shield’s perimeter, his round eyes glowing a little brighter in the increasing dark.
Cal looked at Wilson, who was sitting opposite him, busily cleaning his sword. Even in the dim light, he could see that the veteran’s ancient weapon was already spotless—and he suspected it had been in that state even before cleaning had commenced. The sword’s immaculate condition made it appear new, but this was far from accurate; it was an original samurai’s weapon, and Cal couldn’t even begin to guess how old it was. The sight of it always amazed him how something so ancient could remain so well-preserved.
As he looked around at the rest of his team, Cal noticed that he wasn’t the only one admiring the lethal relic. Sitting at Wilson’s side, Private Couter stared at it, seeming almost mesmerized.
“Is that your sword, Orisho?” Couter asked.
Orisho, who was sitting on the other side of Wilson, leaned forward, the deep lines on his chiseled face full of contrast in the glow of the shield. “And what makes you say that?”
“Because…well it’s…you’re Japanese, right?”
“I am. So because I’m Japanese, that means that I should own a sword, does it?” Just like the relic, Orisho’s voice had an edge to it.
“No, I…I just assumed—”
“You assumed?” Orisho leaned further forward to get a better look at the young man. “You think I’m some sort of sw
ord freak just because I’m Japanese?”
“Freak…what? No…what?” Couter frowned, a mask of awkwardness and confusion. “That’s not what I—”
Pausing in the cleaning of his sword, Wilson also turned his gaze on the new recruit. “That’s a rather stereotypical viewpoint.”
Couter shifted uncomfortably. Cal suspected that if it wasn’t for the monochrome glow of the shield, the young man’s face would show red. “I didn’t mean—”
“I was under the impression that you were more sensitive than that,” Wilson continued with a small shake of the head.
“I am, it’s just that Orisho looks like—”
Before Couter could get his words out, Orisho got to his feet. Cal was always impressed how fast the older man could move.
“I look like what?” Orisho’s deep voice rumbled as if it came up from the earth itself. “Are you suggesting that all Japanese look like sword-wielding assassins?”
Couter understandably flinched and held up his hands placatingly. “Please, you’re hearing me all wrong. I—”
“What, so I’m deaf now too?” the big man took a step forward, his rising temper mapping new lines on his face. “I’m starting to get the feeling that a lesson needs to be taught.”
“Hey, what the…” Couter sprang to his feet. “Look, I didn’t mean any offense. And the last thing I want is to fight.” His tone was apologetic, but his jaw was set, and there was a hint of anger. “I won’t fight a teammate.”
Orisho stood stock still. The low light from the shield didn’t reach his deep set eyes, and the dark shadows only served to enhance his threatening countenance. “And why would I want a racist kid as a teammate? Go learn some manners, and come back in ten years. I might consider you a man by then. Right now, you’re a boy, a soft-skinned whelp who needs to be disciplined.” Although they were of the same height, Orisho seemed to tower.
“What the hell is your problem?” Couter asked, his anger finally emerging.