Outcasts of Earth (Outcast Marines Book 1)

by James David Victor

  “Oh, she will be expecting us.” Matty nodded, still with half of his face a mess of viscera and gore.

  The warden turned and exited through the glass doors, closing them with a soft thump to leave Matty and Solomon alone in the lobby for a moment.

  “The situation is getting tense. We need to deploy now,” Matty said in a voice that was not quite like his own.

  “Huh?” Solomon asked.

  “I can get them biologically ready. A few more applications of the PEP Serum, in combination with their chips, and they should be ready,” Matty said, and Solomon felt a sharp jab of pain in his neck…

  7

  Delivery Systems

  Once again, Solomon awoke to another carefully-calibrated, metabolic ‘day-shift’ on the military base of Ganymede feeling groggy and in pain.

  This was becoming a habit. He coughed and sat up, massaging his limbs to life as around him the other recruits and regulars were also groaning and moaning to life.

  Someone sneezed, and Solomon hoped that he didn’t catch whatever cold was going around.

  “Attention, Schlubs!”

  I really need to book myself into the medical lounge, Solomon thought as stumbled to attention at the end of his mattress along with everyone else at the end of their bunks. He was tired of feeling, well, tired all the time. He knew that his body was a mess of bruises and scrapes, but this was starting to get to him. His brain burbled and thought in a vaguely sleepy manner, How long have I been here now? He wondered if it had been as long as it seemed. Two months? Three?

  He waited for the green light to flash, which was their signal for them to start the day, and when it did, the thought struck him.

  How can anyone on Ganymede get a cold?

  “It probably came in the food shipments. You know that we don’t grow our own food, right?” Jezzie Wen was saying as they stood in line to get their protein slab.

  “Clearly.” Solomon looked at his with apparent disgust. This time, it was a greenish sort of color, which meant that it would taste of vegetables and some kind of broth, somehow.

  “Microbes have been found to survive in space. And the common influenza virus is the most adaptable type of viral agent known to exist,” Malady stated. “They even use it now for biological delivery of drug treatments.”

  “Do they?” Jezzie asked as they shuffled down the line. The food hall was one of their few ‘recreation’ times, and it had fast become the place where the Outcasts could chat and bemoan their day’s training. It was to here that they returned at lunchtimes and evenings, for approximately half an hour.

  “PEP Serum.” Solomon suddenly remembered the words from his dream. His nightmares, actually. He had been having them every sleep shift, and although they were always a different episode from his previous life, they were always heavy with one thing: guilt.

  “What?” Jezzie frowned, as nearby one of the other regulars sneezed and groaned.

  In fact, a lot of the others look under the weather. Solomon stopped in his tracks and looked around at the assembled. Not Arlo, of course, loudly cursing the food and claiming back when he had worked as a master chef at the Hilton, New York, he could have turned out better slop for half what it must be costing the Department of Defense and Justice.

  “Not everyone is infected, but the majority of us are,” Solomon said. Not Jezzie apparently, or himself. He wondered if that meant that they were naturally immune. And not Malady. He figured that the full tactical suit must have its own air filters.

  “Fzt-eww!” Malady suddenly made a strange, echoing electronic noise from inside the suit.

  “Oh dear. It seems that I, too, must have caught this cold,” the mechanical golem said.

  “Impossible!” Solomon stated. “You’ve got full chemical and bio filters on that thing, right?” He looked up at Malady’s pale and shadowed face inside the faceplate, perennially looking as though he was almost asleep.

  “I do,” Malady said.

  “Then how could you get sick?” Jezzie pointed out.

  The nightmares, Solomon was thinking. Ever since what had happened to bring him there, he’d had disturbed sleep. He knew enough pop psychology to know that was all probably guilt. He wondered if his guilt was overworking his brain when he was asleep. Or maybe it was keeping a part of his brain awake while the rest of him slept.

  “The chip and the PEP Serum…” He tried to remember the odd words that he had heard in his nightmares, always coming from his dead friend’s mouth. “Deployment. Initiate Phase 2…” he was murmuring to himself, under Jezzie’s confused looks.

  “What if…” Solomon thought. “Now this is going to sound crazy, but bear with me. Do either of you remember being asleep last night? Or any night while we’ve been here?”

  “I don’t sleep. I power down,” Malady said.

  “Okay, not you then, Malady,” Solomon said exasperatedly as someone else further down the line coughed.

  “I know they think your brain is commander material, Sol, but I think you’re common sense is fracked.” Jezzie flickered her sideways grin once again. “You don’t remember being asleep. That’s kind of the point of it, right?”

  “I do. I think,” Solomon said, before shaking his head. Everything is a puzzle. You just have to figure out the pieces. “But anyway, that’s not important. What’s important is that no one talks about their dreams that I’ve heard. And we all sleep pretty soundly, I think, regular as clockwork…”

  “You do know that most of the others don’t particularly like us, right?” Jezzie said. “No wonder they’re not sharing their bedtime stories with us.”

  “Ha. Thanks for that reminder.” Solomon rolled his eyes. “But I mean it. We know that they regulate everything about us—how long each day is, what we eat, they give us person-specific mental tests via Oracle,” he continued. “What if that is not all that they’re doing to us? Experimenting on us while we’re asleep…”

  “That’s crazy,” Jezzie laughed.

  “Why did everyone wake up feeling so groggy and ill this morning?”

  “It’s called an incubation period, genius.” Jezzie was now frowning a lot deeper.

  “How did Malady here get sick, then!” Solomon burst out, his voice rising so that a few of the other bleary-eyed regulars around them turned to see if there was about to be another scuffle.

  Just as the station-wide klaxon went off.

  EEWAOOW-EWAAOW!

  8

  Deployment

  “ATTENTION!” The bark of Warden Coates was even more abrasive than normal, even though it wasn’t amplified at all. Their trainer and superior officer stood overlooking them on the metal balcony of the launch bay, and all of the Outcasts—regulars and recruits alike—stood in rows below him, wearing their normal gray or black and red encounter suits.

  Solomon looked around and saw the slightly nervous, excited, and concerned expressions on the faces of his fellow Outcasts. He knew that he must be wearing the same.

  “No time for niceties, Outcasts, as today we have a very special training exercise for you,” Warden Coates said. Even from this distance, Solomon could see the veins standing out on the man’s forehead.

  He must be extra stressed right now, Solomon guessed.

  “Live-fire,” Warden Coates said, which was ‘special’ enough, until the warden told them precisely what he wanted them to do.

  “You’re going to Mars, ladies and gentlemen, to participate in a search-and-rescue mission on the Hellas Chasma.”

  Hellas Chasma… Where have I heard that before? Solomon wondered. He hadn’t heard it, he’d read it. It was one of the larger skirmishes that the Rapid Response Fleet-their parent fleet—had been involved in a few years back. They had cleared out a nest of Mars seditionists, or those colonists who wanted an independent, self-governing Mars, free from Confederate influence.

  Solomon almost approved of them, to be honest, which he knew was not an opinion that he could announce to anyone in this crowd. The
Confederacy was corrupt, everyone knew that, and it tried to rule every aspect of its citizens’ lives, unless you managed to break out to one of the smaller pockets of miscreant freedom like one of the colonies, or New Kowloon.

  “As such, you will be dispatching as soon as you’ve suited up, and the department is even putting up a jump-ship for you,” the warden stated, and Solomon heard gasps. Jump-ships were the primary means of faster-than-light travel in the Confederacy. Specially designed ships that were created to generate a Barr-Hawking collapsible field—more commonly known as a wormhole.

  “Your mission parameters will be dispatched to your suits as soon as you go live….” Coates stated through clenched teeth. Solomon got the impression that Coates didn’t want them to go on this mission at all.

  “Live-fire? That means we’ve got an enemy, right?” Solomon overheard one of the other trainees whisper.

  Yeah, Solomon thought. You don’t order live-fire for a search and rescue, do you? Solomon frowned. There was something mighty suspicious about this.

  “No talking in the ranks!” Warden Coates glared at them below. “Now, the final thing is, no trainee is allowed to be killed in the field of battle, according to department guidelines.”

  Ha! Solomon quirked a smile. Are we under orders not to die? They would, for once, be orders that Solomon was more than happy to follow.

  “So that is why, ladies and gentlemen, you are all receiving a class-1 upgrade in your status,” Warden Coates said with apparent difficulty. “From this moment onward, you will be fully classed as adjunct-Marines, and, if you do well today, then that status might be upgraded to full Outcast Marine status.” No sooner had he finished speaking, than a jubilant eruption came from the crowd.

  Regulars and recruits whooped with joy and cheered themselves and each other. Everyone had trained so hard and given so much of their sweat and blood over the last few months to get to this point.

  “We’re passing out of basic training. We’ve done it…” Solomon heard one of his fellow recruits say beside him. He caught Jezzie’s eye and was glad to see that she was frowning as deeply as he was.

  I don’t trust this either. He nodded slowly at his newfound friend. First we got trained, then we get ‘treated’ with some special drug, delivered in our sleep…and now?

  “That’s right, soldiers, but you are all still schlubs!” Warden Coates was not going to allow them to enjoy their sense of achievement for long, however. “You may indeed have passed out of basic training, but you will return to Ganymede—or those of you that don’t get yourselves killed, anyway—when you are done and we will continue your training, where I expect you all to be striving toward your specialisms! You’ve got a long way to go yet before you are worthy to wear the full Marine power armor!” He was almost spitting with outrage by the end. The warden wobbled on his heels, taking a deep breath and straightening his jacket as he calmed himself. “Now. Repeat with me the Marine Oath, and then you will be split into your active squads and be loaded onto the transporter.

  “Through blood and fire, I will still stand strong.

  “I will stand at the borders and the crossroads, I will stand strong.

  “Even with the eternal night before me, I will be the flame!”

  Undermesh suit. Combat boots. Jacket harness. Solomon clipped and buckled the equipment next to his squad, who he was pleased to see included Jezzie and Malady, and three other recruits—or adjunct-Marines, now. The light tactical suits were getting easier to wear and quicker to put on, he was pleased to notice. Almost like it was second nature after three months of training. Solomon flexed his shoulders and twisted on his hips a little, feeling the give and tension of the suit before nodding. Good.

  Gold Squad 1, his suit internal helmet read, and next to his own identification number, Sp. Cmdr Cready. Specialist Commander Cready.

  “Holy frack.” He paused for a moment as the realization that this was actually happening sunk in. He was to be the Specialist Commander for Gold Squad 1. His squad. My squad, he thought.

  “Congratulations,” Jezzie’s voice greeted him as they waited for the transporter to dock at the launch bay doors. Other squads—all color-coded as they had been before—were forming up in front of the equipment pods around them, but all that Solomon cared about were the five people in front of him.

  Combat Specialist Wen. He looked at the slightly smaller form of Jezebel Wen.

  Tactical Specialist Malady. One half of their huddle was dominated by the large form of Malady, as impassive and as dominating as ever. Then came the three new recruits that he knew a little but had never fought alongside before. That was something that he would have to factor in. Were they easily spooked? How did they take orders?

  Adjunct-Marine Petchel was a smaller soldier who appeared to already be taking direction. Adjunct-Marine Karamov. Adjunct-Marine Kol. It was hard to tell these two apart, other than their suit identifiers flaring into holographic view on his own visor whenever they were in his field of vision.

  Solomon looked at Gold Squad 1, feeling nervous. This is just like a job back home, he told himself. You assemble your team, and you get to work.

  “Right, listen up.” He cleared his throat, imagining how he would approach a complicated heist with a bunch of operatives that he had never worked with before. Get them on your side.

  “This is new territory for all of us, both the mission and the squad, so I expect all of us—me included—to pay attention to what the rest of the squad is doing, above all things, okay?” he said, earning a nod from Petchel, Jezzie, and even Malady.

  Solomon tried to remember the command classes that he had been taking every couple of days for the last twelve weeks. Clear chain of authority. Lead by example.

  “We’re going to get our mission parameters soon, and whatever they say, I expect all of you to look after your squad members first, because that is what I am going to be doing,” he insisted. “This is a live-fire exercise, so we don’t know what sort of targets or dangers we might be facing, but it might mean we have to put a bullet in someone.”

  Another round of nods, and this time, Karamov and Kol joined in, too. Good. You can listen to me, at least.

  “We’re going to be running a straight-up combat routine, as far as I’m concerned. Which means I am going to trust each of you with your roles, and I want to hear from you if you have problems. If you spot something, then tell me, and tell the rest of the squad. If you think you know better, then I want to know why. I will listen to you,” Solomon said, wondering if that was too weak. Maybe he should bark at them like Warden Coates did, call them schlubs and tell them to obey him…

  Nah. Solomon couldn’t do it. Not my style. He knew that you got more out of people who respected you than those who resented you.

  “Specialist Wen? You’re our lead combat operative. Close and personal, hand-to-hand, and I want you liaising with the rest of us on combat operations, got it?”

  “Aye, Commander,” he heard her say, and the words made him feel strangely embarrassed for a moment.

  “Malady, you’re our tactical specialist, so I want you looking at infrastructure, demolitions, transport, buildings. Wen can mess the enemy up one-on-one, but I want you thinking about how we might have to stop anything larger than an enemy soldier.”

  “Yes, Commander,” his metal voice said.

  “Petchel, Karamov, and Kol, you’re with me. I want supporting and covering fire, and I want us four to watch each other’s backs and clear routes for Wen and Malady if they have to get their jobs done. I’ll be on point, and I want Petchel on my left, Karamov and Kol on my right. Got that?”

  Standard formation, his specialism classes had told him. Being righthanded meant that his left was his possible blindspot, and Petchel seemed at least eager to listen.

  The three new squad members nodded, and Solomon felt a temporary surge of relief. I can do this. We can do this.

  “Just so long as everyone keeps their eyes peeled and keeps suit c
ontact open, there’s no reason we can’t all get out of this happy and with all our limbs in place,” he said, meaning the last as a joke…but no one laughed.

  Okay. Humor is out, then…

  Each squad filed in line as the lights of one of the large archway docking doors flickered green. No hissing gases of decompression this time, which must mean that the transporter had docked with the station itself, its own bulkhead doors forming a tight air-seal lock with the bay. With a whine of hidden servos, the launch bay doors rolled back to reveal the large cargo belly of a ship, with rough seats and webbing along the walls.

  “Here we go,” Solomon breathed.

  “Gold Squad!” When it came time for them to enter, Solomon was surprised to see that the ramp up to the doors was flanked by other Ganymede station staff. Solomon hadn’t seen many of the other staff here, but he saw a line of grim-faced men and women in service black and gray encounter suits, each one handing out their final pieces of equipment to the adjunct-Marines as they boarded the ship.

  “Jackhammer rifle, ammo clips, combat knife,” the staffer in line said as he passed the equipment into Solomon’s power gauntlets and showed him how to clip them onto his jacket harness belt.

  “Thank you,” Solomon said, but the staffer had already turned to pick up the next set for Jezzie, behind him, forcing him to walk up the ramp to the next staffer.

  It was Doctor Palinov and her white-suited crew. “Medical kit, including battle-field surgery,” the white-suited woman said, handing him the compact unit that locked into place on his belt, as Doctor Palinov beside her was apparently taking readings from each and every one of them with a data-pad.

  What is she measuring? he wondered, but before he could ask, Palinov nodded and gestured for him to continue to the last two people in the line.

  “Commander,” said the man on the right. Actually, the Marine. Solomon realized that he was looking at Colonel Madavi, the dark-skinned man in his full power armor who had vouched for him after their first disastrous training exercise.