“Oxygen. I’ve got a team of people getting emergency evac suits from the bunker. That will keep people alive for a few hours, but…”
Jezzy nodded. The commander didn’t need to spell out the dangers. What if there aren’t enough suits for the survivors trapped inside the facility? Do they have enough oxygen to last the hours it will take to get help?
“We’ll find a way,” Jezzy growled in determination. They didn’t have a choice, after all. They had to, or else more people would die.
“You three—Green Squad?” Jezzy heard Solomon barking orders at their three fellow adjunct-Marines, sheltering at the edge of the crash site. “Any of you got technical specialism? Deep-space telemetries?”
One of them was a technical specialist, thankfully, and Solomon dispatched all three as fast as they could to the Break and Enter hulk to work on the beacon.
“I’ll be quicker, Commander,” intoned a loud voice looming out of the dark.
“Malady!” Jezzy found herself grinning in joy. “Am I sure glad to see you,” she said, and meant it. The man-golem had once been a full Marine and part of a heavy tactical unit, which meant that he looked less like a man and more like a walking tank, twice the size of anyone else and with no neck to speak of. The heavy tactical suits were the most aggressive of the Confederate Marine armor, a step up from the power armor of regular Marines and in another order of scale to the light tacticals that the fast-moving Outcasts wore.
But Jezzy was also pleased to see that her friend had survived, as she saw his disturbingly placid visage behind his faceplate. For his crimes—attacking a superior officer, Specialist Malady—she had no idea if that was his surname or a nickname—had been biologically sealed into his full tactical suit and busted down several ranks to be a lowly adjunct-Marine Outcast, and his pale face behind the bullet-proof glass always looked like he was half-asleep.
Only just survived, she thought as she saw the great scratches down the shoulder-pad that sheathed into the metal neck cowl and domed head, along with blackened burn marks all down one side.
“What happened to you?” Solomon asked before Jezzy had a chance to.
“Had to walk out of the facility,” he said in his usual robotic, dreary tone, devoid of emotion. “And I had to fight a cyborg.”
“There’s more of them?” Jezzy said in alarm, but Malady didn’t know the answer to that.
“No, Malady. I know that with those legs of yours, you’d move much faster than the Green Squad,” she heard Solomon reason beside her, “but I definitely want you back here with us if there’s even a chance that there are more of those things out here.”
“They came on the transporter,” Malady said, again just as blandly. “The one I fought was stepping out of the ruined holding bay when we met.”
‘Met,’ Jezzy thought. What a polite way of describing what must surely have been a titanic battle between two beings more metal than man…
“Commander Cready!” There was a shout over their suit channel, and Jezzy turned to see a small buggy bouncing over the surface of the moon at break-neck speed. The thing was in a classic suspended chassis shape, with four large ‘bubble’ wheels set out on splayed arms that could move independently, absorbing the shock of landing and bouncing over the difficult terrain.
“Thank the heavens!” Solomon said. It was the two men that he had sent to the emergency bunker, who had found this buggy stationed inside and had loaded its interior with every bit of equipment that they thought could help.
Ropes, battle harnesses, emergency evac suits… Jezzy looked through the crates that the two members of Red Squad were even now gesturing for them to investigate.
“Now that’s more like it,” she heard Solomon say as the Outcast presented them with two Jackhammer rifles, able to fire repeating shots as well as singles. “Load up,” Solomon said to Jezzy and Malady, already reaching for the extra ammunition to secure to his light tactical suit. “I want everyone armed. Expect resistance. We’ve got two objectives: search and rescue, and neutralize any cyborgs that we come across,” he said, announcing the new mission parameters in the absence of their commands being downloaded directly to the holographic displays of their visor-helmets.
Jezzy’s eyes flickered to the two Red Squad Marines. Will they even follow his orders? But she was surprised when she saw that they did, and they continued to do so as Solomon delegated tasks. One of the Red Squad members stayed inside the buggy to drive it alongside them as the other stayed in the back of the chassis, ready to dole out equipment or grab the injured they came across.
He’s a natural, Jezzy realized as she looked at Solomon giving out orders. The young man may have fought ever becoming a leader, but he was good at it, she had to admit. He was firm and abrupt when the situation needed confidence and direction, but he never barked and insulted his fellow soldiers the way Warden Coates did.
In fact, Jezzy thought, if she didn’t know better, she would say that this was exactly the sort of thing that Solomon Cready was born to do.
They set off at a bounding run toward the ruined training facility.
7
Landing Module
“Can you walk?” Solomon said to the latest survivor that they found. It was one of the staffers who worked in logistical positions throughout the facility and the Corps in general. He had managed to throw on a basic encounter suit and helmet when the facility depressurized.
“I-I think so…” The man nodded.
“Good. Start moving with the others to the practice hulk on the other side of that ridge…” Solomon was directing everyone he could into one of two unofficial groups. If they were combat-ready, then they would be given one of the spare guns and told to join their line of rescuers. If not, Solomon wanted them to get to the site of the distress beacon immediately.
The problem was, however, that they had no way of knowing how long it would take for the rescue effort to get there. And in the meantime, they might have more cyborgs to face, as well as lives to save.
In the midst of the rescue effort, surrounded by twisted and blackened metal, Solomon paused and straightened up, looking at the ruin of Ganymede. Their training facility was unusable. What remained of any of the modular buildings were mostly dented, blackened, and crumpled inwards.
The decompression forces must have been incredible… Solomon thought sadly. It was no surprise that the central hub was collapsed, charred, and broken—now just a mess of concrete blocks, wires, and sheets of chrome. It was hard to tell which part of the detritus came from the Marine transporter and which came from the facility. The two had become twisted twins of destruction.
But the forces of internal and external pressure had ripped through the wings of the facility as well, collapsing corridors and domes as the precautionary airlock system must have failed, or been compromised.
“How could anyone still be alive in there?” Solomon murmured, looking at the flattened walls. But either way, we have to find out, he thought as Malady lumbered toward the nearest partially-standing module and banged on the twisted porthole with metal fists.
“TZRK!” Solomon’s communicator glitched and buzzed in his ear, making him flinch. “Come in! This is Warden Coates. Is that you banging!?”
Solomon felt a mixture of relief and regret that his cruel and paranoid superior officer had survived. That man had showed Solomon nothing but pain and distrust so far…
But I can’t very well leave him in there to die, can I? Solomon groaned inwardly before responding.
“Warden, Sir, this is Specialist Commander Cready. I have a crew of twelve out here. Minor injuries. Combat Ready,” he replied.
“I don’t care how ready you are! Get us out of here, Cready!” the warden snapped.
“Aye, sir.” Solomon rolled his eyes. “How many of you are there?”
“Seven. Myself, Doctor Palinov, a couple of medical staff, and three more,” Warden Coates said. “Have you activated the distress beacon yet?”
“We�
�re working on it, sir,” Solomon said. “The facility’s beacon must have been destroyed in the crash, so I’ve sent a team off to the hulk practice site to—”
“Yes, yes, I don’t want to hear excuses. Don’t waste my time or yours, Cready!” the warden did not appear to be overjoyed to be rescued. Maybe I should have not answered his call, Solomon thought as he instructed the team to set up the emergency evacuation tent that they had found in the supply bunker.
It was a simple design, really—a tube of collapsible mesh material, laced with wire, and at either end a magnet clamp hoop and seal. They attached it around the twisted airlock door before attaching the other end to the Ganymede buggy airlock, using the air processors inside the buggy to inflate it with breathable oxygen, hopefully getting it as close to normal air pressures enjoyed inside the facility.
Only we don’t have enough air for that, Solomon realized as the tanks blipped red. The evacuation tent was standing, but it was decidedly saggy in places, indicating that all the available air was not enough to generate regular earth pressures.
“Sol?” said one of the Green Squad Outcasts worriedly, and Solomon knew what must be on the woman’s mind. The idea of the evacuation tent was to create an emergency environment that you could seal, blow one of the inner doors, and move the to-be-rescued people into the tent, and then into the more secure area at the other end, which in their case was the buggy.
But we can’t do that here, Solomon saw. They had to use all of the buggy’s internal air tanks just to half-fill the tent, meaning that the buggy interior was now without oxygen.
“So, what we’ll do is get the warden and the others into the tent and dress them in emergency evac suits, which will keep them alive on the surface or in the buggy until…” Solomon said.
Until when, though? he thought. The emergency suits were little more than amorphous, flappy bodysuits with bubble helmets. They had no dedicated air processor units, just filters. They would be able to recycle and extract the person’s available oxygen for a short while only—an hour? Forty-five minutes?
“It’s the best we can do.” Jezzy had joined Solomon as they considered the operation. “Let’s just get them suited up at least…” She was looking speculatively at the half-filled tent. That was the next problem, Solomon knew. The pressure inside the facility was bound to be higher than the one in the tent now, and that meant that the door would be pressurized. Removing it would rip it off its hinges, and the resulting blow-out could easily rip the tent from its position or send the bulkhead door searing through the mesh material, defeating the whole object.
“I can do it,” Malady said, climbing—barely—through the buggy to crawl into the evacuation tent and disappear from view.
“I’m in front of the door…” Solomon heard over his suit communicator.
“Can you open it?” the specialist commander asked. “There should be a manual hand-crank…”
“There is. But it’s quicker to…”
Solomon heard a grind of metal and a torturous screeching noise on the other end of the communicator. Is he just ripping the door from its hinges!? Solomon was once again astonished at the man’s brute strength.
“It’ll blow, Malady!” Solomon said urgently.
“I know. I can take the blast,” Malady assured him. “I’ll hold the door until it’s safe—”
KABOOOOM!
Before the man-golem could finish speaking, the entire evacuation tent shook and filled in an instant, and the attached Ganymede buggy at the far end shook and rocked on its bubble wheels as the full tactical man must have no doubt managed to break the door seals.
There was silence for a moment, before everyone realized the same thing. The tent had held.
“Yeaaaah!” a cry went up over Solomon’s suit communicator from the other rescuers, and Solomon found himself grinning. This was working. It was actually going to work.
“Get the warden and the others into a suit!” he called to Malady, who answered in the affirmative as he turned his attention to where Jezzy was already climbing some of the ruined building, looking for either more survivors—or more attackers.
“No sign of trouble, Wen?” he called to her on their private squad frequency.
“Not yet, sir,” she returned, “but there is something you should see up here…” She was crouched by the edge of the transporter wreckage, kicking over bits of concrete and metal.
“What is it?” He bounded over to the edge of the rubble and scrambled easily up to where his combat specialist stood, Jackhammer pointing out over the destruction.
There, on the other side of the pile of rubble, was the center of the crash site, Solomon saw immediately. The center of the facility had turned into a crater with rings of shattered concrete around the twisted shell of the Marine transporter. Here and there in the rubble, Solomon could make out images of curious commonplace items—a few intact floor tiles still in place that had once led the way to the mess hall; a Marine Corps tee-shirt still hanging on the edge of a bunkbed, as if the Marine had left it there just a few moments ago, while the rest of the bunkbed was covered in soot, rocks, and dust.
“It’ll take months to rebuild,” Solomon agreed with Jezzy’s dismay—only that wasn’t what Jezzy had called him to look at.
“Not that, idiot,” she said distractedly, nodding to the walls of the transporter that still stood.
“What am I looking for?” Solomon saw the thickened external plates of metal, the blackened scorch marks from the insanely hot fire, the torn socket where a thruster rocket must have been…
“No. That.” She pointed to a part of the transporter that was marginally less damaged than the others—a piece of the wall plate about double the size of the Ganymede buggy that was depressed into the rest of the craft, and one that was surprisingly clean.
Oh frack. Solomon realized what it must be. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, which was a stupid question, because of course it was. Solomon had spent over a year getting on and off those enough to recognize an external module placement when he saw one.
“Landing module.” Jezzy nodded, indicating the pristine bulkhead door slap-bang in the middle of the clean wall of metal. It was through that that the Marines or passengers would be able to access the small landing unit mounted externally to one side of the transporter craft—hence the clean metal underneath it, where it had avoided the burn of re-entry—and then detach. The landing module only had space for a couple of squads of Marines at most, but it had its own landing gear, parachutes, and even positional boosters.
“Maybe it was full of loyal Marine Corps staff, who ejected from the transporter before it hit?” Solomon said hopefully.
“Or it could have been full of more murderous cyborgs,” Jezzy drawled.
Solomon growled in frustration. That was all they needed. An unknown complement of NeuroTech cyborgs who had landed at an undisclosed location on their moon, with apparently only one intention in mind—to kill them.
“Specialist Commander Cready!” his suit communicator burst into life with the angered voice of Warden Coates, making Solomon flinch. “We have no time to admire the scenery. You and Specialist Wen are to get back here and lead on point!” The warden had clearly taken over, directing the remaining Outcast Marines to fan out in a wide skirmish formation around the Ganymede buggy as they departed for the hulk.
The only consolation, Solomon thought as both he and Wen shouted, ‘Aye, sir’ and ran back to the buggy, was seeing the warden try to maintain an air of superiority whilst wearing his flappy, day-glow, emergency evac bubble-suit.
8
Not Like Humans at All
“But who was it?” Solomon murmured over his narrow-band Gold Squad channel as he led the survivors out of the wreckage and up onto the ice plains. The rills of pink and gray over white where deposits of minerals had been scoured into the ice were a normal sight, but Solomon couldn’t shake the feeling of dread.
Probably because half of these people
could die if we don’t find an oxygen supply, he thought. But it was more than that. The dark ridge of rock that formed a natural enclosure wall for the facility—or had, the man was forced to remind himself—was too good a place for an ambush.
The sensible thing would be to lead the men and the buggy along the side, Solomon knew. That way was smoother and probably quicker, even though it would add almost eight hundred meters or more to their two-klick journey.
Which was nothing, right? A simple spacewalk, he told himself.
But Solomon didn’t want to take any chances. What was it that the general had said? That the cyborgs and all of the Ru’at technology retro-engineered by NeuroTech had machine learning algorithms that they wouldn’t even believe. That meant that any cyborgs that had escaped the destruction of the facility would probably choose to be up there and ambush them.
And any cyborgs that made moonfall in that landing module would have learned from watching our defense...
“Straight up. That gully.” He held up his hand and led the way straight up the ridge. Better to face any potential enemy now than to be picked off and sniper-shot at their enemy’s leisure.
“Commander!? What are you doing?” the warden demanded on the general channel.
“Sir, it’s a shorter journey, and I don’t want our position to be too exposed…” Solomon said, weariness heavy in his voice. All we need right now is some stupid order from the warden.
“Very good, Commander,” he heard the warden murmur, and the surprise that Solomon felt almost stopped him in his tracks. He would have expected the warden to argue with him, his least favorite adjunct-Marine in the Outcasts, at the very least. What was up? Maybe Warden Coates is a nicer guy when facing the very possible prospect of asphyxiation, he considered.
“Good call, Sol,” Jezzy whispered over their Gold channel. One of the benefits of this mess, Solomon realized, was that there was no central transmitter server monitoring all their squad frequencies. The warden had just the same short-wave communicator as they did and not the override-all-channels that he would have enjoyed back in the facility.
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