by Will Crudge
Marbles drops his gear and lifts the heavy lid. Unless you knew what to look for, then you would never know it was there. The lid was form fitted and matched to blend in seamlessly with the surface. I snatch up the gear he dropped, slide it inside, and then hop down into the flat stone floor.
He steps in and lowers the lid. It almost gets completely dark as the lid closes back, but there were pressure sensors we installed detect us, and they instantly activate the dull LED lighting within. Lid closed. Safe.
Marbles’ chest retracts a single rectangular slit, and then a flat sheet of Plexiglas slides out. It’s held on the inner edge by thin metallic apertures that originate from his body. The glass rotates up on the apertures, and a screen pops into view.
He doesn’t need the screen to see what Trixie’s sensors do, but I do. This is strictly for my own situational awareness. The entire surface of the screen depicts everything within Trixie’s sensor range. The icon in the lower corner indicates that she’s wisely switched to passive scanning. This will reduce our electromagnetic signature drastically, but not entirely. But we’ve previously agreed that it’s better to give off a tiny signature than to be completely blind.
The sensor tracks are little triangles, and they’re colored amber. That’s the color code of any track that hasn’t been clearly identified as a friend, foe, or neutral. Friend would be green or blue, depending on their combatant status. The foe is red. Grey is for neutral or verified non-threats.
The tracks have entered the atmosphere along the meridian of the planet and likely began their decent above the polar region. This is very odd, and definitely a concern. Most commercial or private vessels would take a more equatorial entry angle. It’s safer to do so. But a meridian entry is unorthodox, and usually requires mil-spec energy shielding or hull plates.
So, for now, all we know is that these tracks may have the capacity to do us harm. As if my butthole wasn’t puckering enough!
“How long do you think we have until we can get a hull type or IDENT code?” I ask.
“Hull type determination is tricky to pull off with a passive scan in an atmospheric environment. Reading an IDENT code is too risky.” He says.
“How so?”
“In order to read the IDENT code definitively, we’d need to have our transponder initialized. Only our transponder would be able to verify the IDENT tokens. We can do it by other means, of course, but they would have to be closer in, and if their IDENT codes have mil-spec tokens, then they’d just be a line of gibberish.”
“Can’t Trixie decode them?” I ask.
“Yes, but it would require more processing power than she can afford to run right now.” He says.
“Well, shit!” I scoff. It’s all I can do. I’m sitting in a three by five meter stone box, and all I have to keep me calm is some nice mood lighting and a small arsenal.
“If I had to guess, these folks are up to no good.” He says.
“Well, we’ve established that I think.” I say with no shortage of sarcasm.
“No. I mean, they’re not even broadcasting their IDENTs. If they were search and rescue, or even civilian surveyors, then there would be no point in hiding their codes.” He says. He’s right.
“Pirates?” I ask.
“Pirates, Crimson, tooth fairy… No telling, really.”
I watch the screen for what seems like hours, but it’s really more like thirty minutes. I begin the breathing exercises that I developed for situations like this. I don’t have another of my gene-pool to prevent my Primal Rage from being triggered, so I’ve developed my own method. I have no idea if it actually works, but I haven’t Raged in the twenty years since we’ve been here, so I have no reason to think it doesn’t.
“That’s it, Kat. Breathe easy… Nice!” He says with a calm and supportive tone. He’s never seen me when I Rage, but he’s heard the stories. Trixie has likely shown him the footage, but he’s never mentioned it, so I never bring it up.
I inhale, then exhale. I let my mind meld down into my center, and allow myself to feel everything around me. As thoughts enter my mind, I passively dismiss them and keep focusing on my inner peace. It’s pretty standard meditation, but I add a twist when I get into the zone.
I offer intentions of tranquility to the part of my being that I feel is the conduit for my Rage. My energetic root at the base of my spine is its path into the material world. Instead of passing fearful thoughts and doubts, as one may do if they’re afraid of what may emerge from it, I send it thoughts of gratitude and peace.
I’ve also become adept at controlling my endocrine system. I’ve developed a deep awareness of my adrenal gland’s functions, and in so, I’ve managed to fully comprehend the link it has with my reptilian brain. By increasing my inner awareness of this link, I can actively control my fight-or-flight response. This is the main trigger for Primal Rage.
I often debated trying to bring the Rage to the surface and trying to learn how to harness it without becoming lost in its primordial power, but I decided against it. It’s too risky.
“Kat, we have a problem.” Marbles breaks my serenity.
“What is it?” I respond.
“Two of the tracks are maintaining course, and heading into the southern hemisphere, but one has abruptly changed course. It’s heading to our quadrant.”
“Can you tell Trixie to power down more?” I ask.
“She already knows about the course change. She’s generating this feed, remember?”
“Right, but is there anything she can do?”
“No.” He shakes his big metallic head. “Even if she retreated into her core, and powered down the reactor, it would still have too much residual heat and energy to remain fully hidden. Once this track gets within a few hundred clicks, then the natural magnetic field from a giant metal frigate wreck is going to light up their scanners.”
I gasp. I didn’t mean to. All this effort into staying calm may have kept my fears at bay for the last two decades, but I have yet to put it to the test. “Course of Action?” I ask.
“Trixie has given us our instructions.” He says solemnly. He turns to look at me with his large glowing eyes. “We’re to remain in here at all costs.”
My heart sinks. Trixie knows she’s vulnerable. We’ve been over this a million times. I’ve begged and pleaded with her to let me remove her portable node, and bring her into hiding with us. But she insisted she be left on the ship.
Her argument was too solid for me to counter. If anyone arrived and found evidence of ship’s systems being online, even recently, then they would likely search the area for a node. That would just make me and Marbles even more vulnerable. She always insisted that if she were left as some kind of grand prize, then any threats would be happy to take their priceless Mil-Spec AI and run. She even ran simulations millions of times, and her plan had the highest likelihood of success by over ninety-three percent.
Now the entire plan hinges on her being the most valuable item left onboard. Generally speaking, she would be. However, humans are notoriously unpredictable, and their motivations differ wildly. It’s a roll of the dice.
“Shit!” Marbles says with a whisper. It’s not like he has to, though. We made sure to sound-proof the bunker. “It’s a Crimson Alliance pocket-frigate!”
That is bad news. The Crimson doesn’t waste their time with fielding Sloops, Cutters, or any warship smaller than a standard frigate. But for the occasional need for smaller interstellar ships, they’ve developed the pocket-frigate. It’s less than half the size of the Nova, but it still boasts an FTL drive and a decent compliment of weapons. Nasty little fuckers!
“It’s reverse thrusting to cut velocity, and it’s dropped just below the stratosphere.” He says.
“ETA on detecting the Nova?” I ask.
“Less than ten mikes.” He replies. For those of you that don’t know, the term ‘mike’ is standard radio brevity for ‘minute.’
“I should have brought my dildo.” I say flatly.
“Dude! Why?!”
“Because if I’m going to be fucked, then I want it to be by my own hand!”
“Don’t ask to borrow my electron probe again!” He says as he shakes his head. I turn beet red. I was praying he never remembered that. I forget that he does retain images of memory prior to achieving sentience.
I was bored. Randy. His probe was conveniently proportioned the way I like it. Don’t judge me!
SCOUTING TIME
It’s been an hour since we’ve determined the hull type of the incoming track. Its most certainly found the Nova and is coming in for landing. The two other tracks are unaccounted for still. Even with an active scan, we can’t see over the horizon. Once the dipped into the stratosphere and descended below the equator, we lost their trail.
No matter. We have a pocket-frigate coming into land, and I’m splitting my focus between prepping my rifle and wiping down the electron probe. Yes. That really happened.
“Now that you’ve defiled me, I might as well loadout myself.” Marbles scoffs. He has every right to. It’s not like his probe is detachable. I did kind of make things a little weird between us.
I say nothing. I just let the final kea gal spasms trickle off, and then watch him play with his toys. Not the naughty kind, mind you. Get your mind out of the gutter!
His infantry drone heritage is impressive to watch. He can fully inspect any weapon, do a functions check, and connect the targeting sensors to his HUD in a matter of seconds. It’s a blinding flurry of metal in motion. Then he reaches for the anonymous carrying case.
“What is that thing, anyway?” I ask. He grabs the case’s hand, slides it closer towards him, and then turn to look at me. The screen that’s protruding from his chest changes from a sensor feed to a giant shit-eating grin. With no manipulative facial features, he has to make due.
“It’s an ancient firearm. Pre-space-age, in fact.” He says with glee.
“Do I even want to ask?” I say sarcastically.
“I don’t know, do you want to fuck my electron probe instead?” He retorts with an epic burn. I asked about that.
“Whatever.” I say as I shake my head dismissively. He opens the case, and I see some kind of retro-style rifle. The damn thing even has a wooden stock!
“It’s called an AK-47. It fires 7.62mmX39 rifle rounds. Gnarly, huh?” he says.
“Sure, I guess.” I say. I was only half-way paying any attention. When he stated the caliber, I quickly lost interest. Even our modern sub-sonic ballistic rounds are around 12.7mm. 7.62 will do little but scratch the paint on a modern battle suit.
“This is what Trixie wrote the new targeting algorithm for! This thing is totally gas operated. No electronics at all! So, she had to write me something so I could tie it into my own internal targeting HUD.”
“Groovy.” I spit. “Stay frosty. We have dismounts.” I say. I watched the pocket-frigate land about five hundred meters across the open field from the stern of the Nova. The main ramp comes down, and bright red suits of armor come out. Four in total. Six more suits of armor come out, but they are of a lesser spec. The six other suits weren’t bright red, but rather charcoal grey and matte black, with red markings on their helmets, forearms, and leggings. Those are standard infantry suits. A slight step up from Crimson conscripts, but still nowhere near as advanced as the bright red spec ops armor.
They all take a knee as they scan the perimeter for threats. Nothing I wasn’t expecting. It’s a universal procedure that any modern military would employ. The Crimson Alliance may not necessarily be the best of the best, but they’re no pushovers either. Certainly, a big enough threat for me to stay hidden.
Two new suits of armor emerge. One is wearing a bright silver suit of armor that resembles more of a standard contract security type. Yet it’s still somewhere between law enforcement, and military spec. Still formidable, in any case. The second suit is another bright red spec ops suit, but this one has some kind of rank insignia. The insignia isn’t standard Crimson military. Their conventional rank insignias are parallel to even the UAHC’s in style, but this one is different.
I zoom in as best I can, but the sensor suite that I’m using is designed for use in open space. Not so much for reading the rank insignias on a ground troop barley half a click off your stern. My best guess is that it’s a paramilitary agent’s insignia, and it’s roughly equivalent to the military grade of lieutenant colonel. Aha! A name tag!
[Peterson]
Well now, Colonel Peterson, it’s your ass that needs kicking today! I tell myself as I grin.
“Why are you smiling?” Marbles asks. Sometimes his situational awareness is annoying. Granted, he’s designed to identify patterns and threats on a battlefield, so it’s not like he isn’t constantly paying attention to absolutely everything. All day. All the time. That’s why I’ve given up trying to hide masturbation from him. He only sleeps for twenty-three minutes per day, so I can’t just wait him out. It’s also probably why he achieved sentience so quickly. Absorbing constant input will do that to you, I guess.
“I’m trying to choose who dies first!” I say with a crooked grin.
“You know full well, that a War Master would slap you silly for saying that!” Marbles chastises. He’s not entirely wrong.
“I wouldn’t be slapped. Violence is always a War Master’s last option… Oh! I see what you mean!” I basically acknowledged his point with my counterpoint. He knows me too well… not just in a carnal sense, either.
I take a deep breath and try to keep my blood-lust at bay. Wait? Shit! Why am I even having those thoughts?
Hello, Primal Rage! It’s been so long! How’ve you been?
“What’s wrong with your eye, Kat?” Marbles asks. I don’t see the tell-tale bluish glow in my surroundings, so perhaps some kind of light frequency that I can’t detect is tripping his visual sensors. He can see spectrums of light that I can only dream of, so there must be some kind of ‘Primal Rage precursor glow’ that I don’t sense. I can feel something stirring inside me, but I’m still in denial.
“Nothing, buddy. It’s fine.” I say. I slip up, is more like it. I don’t use the term ‘buddy’ unless I’m subconsciously trying to conceal something. He knows this.
“You’re not Raging yet. But your endocrine system is beginning to act erratically. You need to keep that shit together, dear!” He says with a loving, but lecturing tone. He means the best, but perhaps not triggering a defensive emotional response is constructive. Or maybe it is. We’ll find out if I end up turning this valley into a massive fucking crater, huh?
I close my eyes. I calm my breathing. I focus on my center. I begin offering gratitude and peace towards my adrenal glands, the reptilian brain, and most importantly, my root chakra. If I haven’t experienced the raw interdimensional power of Primal Rage, then I would have dismissed this as hocus pocus. At least now I know why there aren’t any atheist War Masters. It’s kind of hard to be when you’ve experienced the ethereal realm.
Of course, I just used my robot brother to have an orgasm. So, don’t think I’m some kind of religious hypocrite or something. My faith doesn’t say you can’t have sex… with your robot brother… in a cave… when you’re about to engage in combat. If it did, then it would be a very strange sin to preach against when you have families and young children listening. Damn, this is weird!
“Drones.” He says. I look at him, but he’s a motionless as the rock-hewn wall he’s leaning against. I can’t imagine what’s going through his mind.
“How many?” I ask.
“A full squad. Three light fire teams, and a squad leader.” He replies with no voice inflexion. I’m guessing he’s trying to reconcile something in his mind. He’s never seen any operational drones since he’s been sentient, so there’s no telling how he’ll respond. I don’t let it get me nervous, though. There’s no sense in being worried. One of the less official War Master mantras states, ‘worry is interest paid on trouble before it comes due.’
I look at the screen. I see the drones he’s troubled about. But now I see the real reason. He’s not so concerned with the potential of facing one of his own, but rather where they are heading. The three fire teams have broken off into a scouting screen. Without having to worry about getting out of breath, they begin to engage in a full trot towards the ridge. Our ridge.
The human troops remain in a kneeling position with their weapons raised and heads on a swivel. It doesn’t take seventy years of War Master training to tell me what’s happening.
The pocket frigate had to land on the relatively flat area below us and the wreckage. Before the human troops are willing to enter a potential kill-zone, they’re sending the drones in to clear the elevated terrain first. It’s what any military leader with half a brain would do. I know I would.
This changes things. The lid to our bunker would fool a human easily. Even a human using advanced visor filters, or augmented optics would still be fooled by the masterfully crafted bunker lid. Unfortunately, drones are not hampered by biological brains. They interoperate visual inputs with greater scrutiny, and at a higher spectrum. We’re as good as exposed once they include our position in their clearing procedure. Wonderful.
“I’m going out there.” Marbles says. It sends chills up my spine.
“No! There must be another way!” I beg desperately. It’s no use. I know he won’t listen, and I know he’s right. Only he can see things through their eyes, and only he’ll know how to draw them away from the bunker effectively. Even with all my genetic gifts, I still have a human brain, after all.
He doesn’t respond. He ignores my pleas, and slowly opens the bunker lid. He retracts his screen within himself. I only wish I still had means by which to see, but there’s no way around it. With a few more smooth motions, he’s out of the bunker, and the lid is sealed once more.
God’s speed, brother!