by Allen Ivers
Locklear nodded back at Amelia. She tensed up, a horse in her pen. Itching for the race, the field. A gladiator that was getting thirsty.
And with that, Locklear swung one of Garner’s legs up high --
The red beam sheared it off at the knee. There was no more blood in Garner’s system, nothing liquid anyway. This was like someone came by with hedge clippers to stave off an offensive branch on a tree.
There was no push or pull, no force imparted. Garner’s foot simply fell off its perch, clicking off Locklear’s mask on its trip down.
“Guns up!” Amelia popped over the tiny ridge and squeezed the trigger. The remaining four followed suit, bracing on the dune, and dumping their magazines at the supposed target. Dirt and smoke filled the air.
The shots were muted by the thin air, as though from great distance. There were no grunts of exertion to match the display or battle cries to stir the spirit. It was a hollow depiction of a battle, everyone going through the motions, but no report of their activity. A moving portrait too grotesque to be beautiful.
And no return fire.
Locklear dared to raise his head, joining his crew in exposure. A cloud of red dirt filled the air around the target sight. He glimpsed something twisting inside that crimson fog, flailing. Searching.
And the dust was settling.
“Let’s get the bastard!” Locklear didn’t even know who said it. Maybe he did. But he found himself hoisting his body up, and launching into as much of a sprint as his bulky suit would allow.
He found himself in front, pistol up high, popping off the casual shot. Whether he was trying to kill his target or simply kick up more cloud cover, even he didn’t know.
The others followed suit, resuming their fusillade as soon as they reloaded, somewhere behind him, lobbing a stream of lead over Locklear’s shoulders.
More dirt and dust kicked up with every missed shot, sparks flying with the occasional-- sparks?
He saw it now, having closed the distance. There was no colonist behind that fixed gun. It was about the size of a small car, with three legs bolted into the ground. The axial turret head spun on a ball bearing, with a long tapered barrel stretching forward, an arm feeling out for a friend.
An innocent hand extended, hoping for one in kind. It pivoted in the cloud with surreal speed, as though its size had no relation with its movement.
How fast could a smaller one move if this was how fast the big one was?
Fixed under the barrel -- the faint flicker of a lens. The glass flexed taut, stretching and shrinking. Focusing. Like an eye. It tightened up, looking right at him. Studying for a moment, maybe even surprised.
It saw him, alright. It was just considering what to do.
Another spray of sparks, as a well-placed slug from Amelia’s shotgun ripped through one of the legs. The severed foot skipped a few feet, and the turret teetered for a moment on its floundering foundation.
It wavered, shifting its weight, like a man hopping on one foot after he stubbed his toe. But fruitless, as it dropped onto its side in a cloud of dust. The titan felled.
Locklear slowed to a stop, watching the eye dart back and forth through the smoke screen, as the damaged frame laid prone on the ground -- the long barrel pinned into the dirt. Almost like it was feeling embarrassed or conscientious, it snapped over to him, its red iris tracing a small circle around his chest, focusing and tweaking, flexing to get a better look.
Like it was squinting to peer through the cloud.
Something about how the eye was sunk deep behind the barrel, cloistered in panels and protection, made it look lost. Childish. Even scared.
It wasn’t scared when it killed Garner.
Locklear aimed for the lens.
Everyone had an opinion they wanted to shriek. Nobody was listening. Just shouting.
As Amelia bellowed at the frantic Jazmin, Romanov openly wept on the channel. Messy, phlegm-filled gasps, coupled with the occasional sniffle. It was like listening to a divorce in real time, as two parents bickered and the children screamed.
They’d been on Mars all of ten minutes.
Locklear stared at the darkened, cracked glass of the turret’s eye. Garner would know what it was, even Leo. Some kind of targeting camera, a computer that could read out threats? Maybe just a motion sensor or something more? It had to be remotely controlled, that was the only conclusion that made sense.
But the materials of the legs of the barrel: some kind of alloy, more flexible than strong. But nothing he’d ever seen before. And the leg of the tripod, where it snapped, looked more ripped than anything else. It reminded Locklear of a rose stem, how he would cut it with his K-BAR only to shear it halfway and finish with a twist and a tear.
This was no metal he’d ever seen.
And that laser beam? That kind of power had to draw directly from a fission reactor. The colony’s power was half a kilometer away, and this thing had no visible hard-wire connection.
What the fuck was this thing?
The first words in over a minute that Locklear could pick out from the noise, “He could’ve done something!”
Jazmin wasn’t being shrill or tearful. She was homicidal. She was thirsty. Driven. Adamant. Amelia stood right in Jazmin’s face, shouting back a response, but she was so furious, she forgot to tab her transmitter. There she was, screaming epithets at the glass of her own helmet.
All for the better, these were words they’d all want to take back by nightfall.
But Jazmin wasn’t wrong. Locklear did nothing to stop the slaughter. He was so busy decrypting what happened to Garner, he’d let his men do the same thing. They’d panicked, started following their own instincts. They’d stood up, grabbed friends, run for their lives; and were cut down like so much wheat.
If he had kept his wits, they might still be alive. He had half a mind to let Jazmin sate her bloodlust right there, right then, and let the team move on. Words licked into his ear by a distant voice.
But he kept staring at that turret. It shouldn’t be there. It couldn’t be there. That thing defied all possible explanations.
Jericho stood over him. He didn’t need to turn to feel those silent cool eyes judging him, boring into the back of his helmet.
Do something.
Locklear planted his feet under him, like moving bricks, turning to face his team, “You want to kick the shit out of me, you can do that inside. Right now, we’re exposed.”
“You promise?” Jazmin leaned forward, eager, a vein pulsing on her forehead. Eyes red. She’d been crying.
“I didn’t bring gloves. You’re just going have to hit me in the teeth,” Locklear holstered his pistol, strapping it in. “But who’s to say there isn’t another one of these things out here?”
Jericho finally pulled his Grim Reaper eyes off of Locklear, and started scanning the desert horizon. It felt like a razor was lifted off of his neck.
They stuck to the colony wall, kicking up the foot and a half of dirt deposited by that week’s wind. The team marched in silence for a bit.
But this was a pregnant silence, one full of daggers. Locklear’s ex-wife used to clamp up like this. She had before she’d pulled a kitchen cleaver on him too. Wonder if the restraining order against her applied on a foreign planet?
Locklear never thought he’d miss Isen’s stupid jokes. They could all get together on how stupid those jokes were. There was unity in their hatred of repetition. Now, they all hated him.
It wasn’t long before they came up to the colony gate -- a ten foot steel bulkhead on wheels, designed to stop debris from filtering into the colony. A good third of it was slag, a cold puddle clogging the guide-rail and locking it open.
They had seen this from the air. He should have known something was wrong, called off the mission, or something. This was the only warning he needed, and he had shrugged it off. That laser had cut into the colony, done who knows what damage. Maybe that one stayed behind to ambush a rescue team like his own, while a dozen othe
r tripod nightmares awaited them inside. They walked into the teeth of a predator now.
Take the step, a little voice in his head hissed into his ear.
It’s no more than you deserve.
As though commanded, Locklear stepped in first, presenting himself to any threat. Amelia tensed, like she might reach out to pull him back, but stopped herself. Even she knew this was what he had earned.
Locklear scanned the colony before him. A set of prefabricated structures, nothing more than giant steel crates. They’d seen wear and tear aplenty, with modifications and decals laid out by the families and workers. Fading paint jobs and even a few directional signs, but the place was barren of aesthetic design.
These were tinted with life, but not built for it. Each structure would have plastic tunnels connecting the modular structures to one another, reinforced with steel plating after their construction and cementing them in place. This was the most advanced trailer park Locklear had ever seen.
Central before him, a three-story structure standing tall over everything else. Dust painted that shallow spire, giving it a more pastoral red than the rest of the black-blue steel below. Wouldn’t want it too tall, he supposed, with the strong winds. A glass cage wrapped the tallest point, like a crow’s nest, allowing any inside to have a view in every direction.
One glass panel shattered.
Locklear remembered to breathe.
He wasn’t certain they’d follow him inside, but he crept over to the nearest airlock door.
“Alright, stack up.” Locklear heard himself say the words, reflexive instruction coming to him as though they were still on the practice floor back at Gateway.
The team -- what was left of them -- took their positions on either side of the pressure door. Jazmin was a bit behind Jericho, unconsciously having left room for Cally. Amelia nudged her to step up, and it was only then Jazmin realized what she’d done. A shaky sigh escaped her lips, as she worked her jaw. Grinding her teeth, milling her sadness into anger and baking it into focus.
Romanov settled at the control panel. His helmet had fogged up a bit, despite the chemical treatment to the glass. All the better, as Garner’s blood still caked its surface. The pattern was strange until Locklear realized the blood must’ve boiled for a moment in the low pressure, before it thinned out enough to dry.
Romanov was still crying, right through up to now. Hell, Locklear might too, if his heart ever slowed down long enough. The raw, uncut, pure Columbian adrenaline was the only thing keeping him going at this point. Romanov had come down from that fifteen minutes ago, allowing grief and regret to drop on him in full force.
Poor kid. He was a preview of what emotional chaos Locklear would get to wrestle with in short order.
The green light of the airlock flashed. No idea what they would find when that door opened. More bodies? A hostile force? Another death machine?
Locklear nodded to Romanov. Sniffling, Romanov toggled the big mechanical switch.
The door cracked with a hush, as the hydraulic seal gave way. Whatever power was supposed to crank the doors open had long since given up. Amelia wrapped her bulky suit fingers along the door’s edges, and after Locklear’s nod, she pulled.
The door groaned against its gears, but despite its protest, slid out of the way. With a wave of his hand, the team shuffled in through the crack, weapons up. Jericho cleared his corner. Jazmin entered blind on her right, too focused on what was ahead of her. Tunnel vision. Stupid mistake could’ve gotten her killed.
“Check your corners,” Locklear scolded to no one in particular. Didn’t matter, they knew who they were.
Amelia slid the door shut behind them, sliding the manual lock back in place. The hydraulic lock engaged, sealing them in the airlock. Romanov worked at the console. A flashing light later, and angry thuds overhead announced the proper seal.
“Well,” Jazmin growled, “anybody out there, knows we’re here now.”
The air compressors snored like an old man after too many beers, pissing tinted gas into the room -- a comforting visual to let folks know that the room was in fact being pumped with air.
Humans trusted their eyes, and if a computer told them there was air without a visual cue, they would always doubt it. But an evil AI could’ve pumped this room full of mustard gas and the average dipshit would’ve trusted the lie.
A bit of color and motion goes a long way. It was a simple but comforting addition for a nerve-wracking process. But it was also yet another loud pronouncement of visitors on the porch.
“Guns up, fingers light,” Locklear instructed. “Remember, we’ve got civilians in here.”
Nobody said a thing. Nobody believed him either.
Amelia stepped over to the building-side of the airlock, and grabbed the handle, prepared. Jericho grabbed the other. Romanov on the panel, ready to disengage the lock. Jazmin placed a hand on Locklear’s back, equal parts to feel his movement forward and gripping his collar in threat. They were ready.
Locklear nodded, and Romanov threw the switch.
The doors parted, revealing the darkened hallways. Locklear had worked his way around the Murcielago’s various compartments over the three-month journey, rooms destined to expand man’s foothold in space. But nothing quite prepared him for that strange deja vu. This place seemed so familiar, like creeping along late at night as a child, observant of every creak and groan underfoot. He felt heavier than he remembered when he was here last, and why did someone turn off the lights?
It was a simple hallway, with a steel grate on the floor -- rated at 1200 pounds. Underneath, everything from water, electric, to oxygen was passed in thick cables from compartment to compartment.
The walls bent outward, to create the illusion of space -- in reality, the hallway was only six feet across, making standing side-by-side a more intimate interaction than Locklear would usually desire from people he worked with. Lights hung at regular intervals along the roof, making the short hallway look endless.
These tunnels were laid out to connect buildings to each other, just canvas and piping, before being reinforced with the steel and concrete. Lighting was to be strung through afterwards.
What little remained there hung on improvised hooks shot in at irregular, convenient posts. Their lamps hung low, loose and dark, like heads bowed out of deference to an unseen hand.
Someone had scratched designs into the bulkhead. They took their time, no errant strokes. Maybe a pin or screw head? With a hammer and chisel approach, they had drawn vines that wound down the length and into shadow out of sight. Paint was a luxury.
It may have been an archaeological dig and science outpost, mankind’s first residence on another world -- but it was also somebody’s home, and they decorated how they were allowed.
“Knock, knock?” Jazmin whispered, to no one in particular. Finally, her focus was on something other than Locklear’s blood.
Nobody was coming to greet them, even with a measure of hostility. The place was quiet, hollow. Deserted.
Locklear led the team forward. Their progress slow, twitchy. He marked the roof and floor more, curious to see some new horror hiding in the cables below or perched in the rafters. Some new trap or devious device awaiting the slightest trigger to unleash devastation on the unwary. Maybe that’s what they wanted, for him to creep forward, inching along slow enough for the jaws to close around his legs.
Well, moving fast had punished them before.
They finally reached the end of the hall, and another familiar hatch. Where would this lead them? Memory said Receiving -- a hub of sorts, full of storage lockers, that allowed the injured to find a doctor, workers to stow or retrieve gear, and quick paths for scientists to reach their stations.
This was the rather unceremonious home plate. All roads lead to Rome.
They popped the seal, light glancing off Locklear’s bulbous helmet. A few steps inside revealed four racks of double-high lockers stretching back. A few cots to one side. A single space suit hung up
next to a half dozen empty slots. It looked like a cheap gymnasium would be off to one side somewhere out of view.
The team spread out, inspecting the space, digging under tables and around corners. Locklear half expected some friendly fire with how jumpy everyone was.
“There’s nobody here,” Romanov marveled, a small man made into an echo of his already faint self.
A grunt from Amelia, as she stared at the lone space suit hanging off a cot. “Somebody got the suits and haven’t put ‘em back.”
“There was an expedition in progress.” Locklear remembered a team out at the site. “Safe bet, they haven’t got back.”
Metal warping, close. Maybe a locker door. Everyone snapped their weapons up, fingers wrapped around triggers.
Locklear waved their guns down, trying to silently push hearts back down throats, like it might somehow tend to his own jackhammer pulse. He stepped forward, the heavy suit and boots announcing his presence like distant thunder. Why take this level of care when he approached with all the grace of a back hoe?
The sound again. Just around the side of the last rack of lockers. He tucked himself tight against the edge, ready to lunge. With one stiff breath, he turned--
-- and fell flat on his back, as a shape slammed him to the ground. Limbs pawing at his chest and head, trying to crawl up and away. Not an attack, an escape.
Jericho stepped forward -- maybe only one or two actual steps -- and snagged the offending shape by the nape of its neck. It thrashed, helpless in his grip, like a fish on a line.
Locklear rolled over to see a small man in Jericho’s hands, hair straggled and long. His jumpsuit, a sun-bleached blue, was Manifest standard-issue, and little had been done to change it. A thin beard creeped across ashy black skin.
The man’s wiry frame wriggled and squirmed, panicked and scared, like a feral cat on its way to the pound. Jericho gave many a man pause, so this thrashing seemed a perfectly rational response.