"What good is spontaneity if I have to warn you?"
"Hello!" Jennifer said. "I asked you a question. What's this about Mars?"
Stephanie turned to Jennifer and dropped her accent. "TNT Research has been investigating Uta'la'tek'li technology in the launch tubes of this facility. Recently they've been able to establish a connection with a portal generator on Mars. A small team is going to be sent through to secure the other endpoint. They will be borrowing the command center of Gruefield Eighteen to coordinate since the TNT building was destroyed. Once they set up operation, strict codename and costume only protocols will be in effect for the base."
"Why do I keep hearing Shadowdemon mentioned in connection with it?" Jennifer asked.
"I've been asked to be the liaison with the member of the Scyan delegation who's going along," I said. "It's the only active duty thing I get to do while on suspension."
"They're sending you to Mars?" Jennifer asked.
"Why does everyone sound so surprised?" I asked.
"Because you're a dumbass," Nora said. I hadn't seen her arrive. I wasn't surprised, she'd once broken the sound barrier on foot, so arriving quickly wasn't abnormal. She was built like a pencil, tall and rail-thin, with black hair currently in a ponytail. She was dressed in a light purple pantsuit. "Who'd send you to another planet?"
"The opinions of an older sister don't count."
"Actually, it's more along the lines of you being suspended," Jennifer said. "Suspension is supposed to mean you get blocked out of hero work, not get blocked from everything except a spot on a mission some people would kill to get."
"You've been talking to Donny, haven't you?" I asked. "Or do you want to go to Mars?"
"Of course I want to go to Mars," Jennifer said. "Who wouldn't want the chance to visit another planet?"
"How about a consolation prize?" Stephanie asked.
"Like what?"
"You were never very happy with the facilities here," Stephanie said, "And with the damage to the surface facilities, the Fund is giving us the chance to request revisions to the previous design. You can come up with the design."
"What's the catch?" Jennifer asked.
"You'll have to convince the board to pay for it, so you can't go overboard."
"And I'll have to do the paperwork," Jennifer said.
"If I give the task to Shadowdemon, you know he'll go with the absurdly practical," Stephanie said. She gave me a slight smirk. "That's how we got this place, remember?"
"I suppose he can't get in the way while he's suspended," Jennifer said, an evil grin crossing her features.
"Have fun pitching to the board," I said. I wandered back into the kitchen and collected the remaining plates. The whole process would be easier if they came and picked up their food, but I figured I'd wait until the whole shadow business was less recent before making the case for it.
"Not my plate, dude," Nick said, moving his tall glass of sludge away from the plate. He was wearing street clothes instead of a hero suit today, but his arm was still in a sling.
"I knew that," I mumbled as I took the plate back. I looked over the table and counted plates. There were eight of them, and eight plates. But Nick didn't get a plate, his medical condition had him on a specialized diet indefinitely. "So who's plate is this?"
Nora flicked the center of my forehead with her middle finger. "Think. There are nine team members, one of which can't eat that. You gave seven of us our food, who's left?"
"I..."
"Sit down and eat your breakfast, dumbass."
I may have turned a bit red at the chuckles that came from the rest of the group. I sat down sheepishly with my plate
"You're not supposed to live up to Nora's insults," Donny said.
"I've been distracted," I said.
"No kidding," Donny said. "How much crap is going on right now?"
"I lost track."
"That's just great. Who am I supposed to ask to find out then?"
"I dunno, maybe Shiva."
"That computer would just start mocking me the way it mocks you."
"I'm not your personal assistant, Donny, you can keep track of this stuff yourself."
"You always find out before I do. Why is that?"
"Beats me."
Part 5
Omegaburn's new haircut got a raised eyebrow from me. Previously, her fiery red hair had been allowed to freely cascade past her shoulders. Now, it was almost mannishly short. She had also gone to the trouble to get the curls taken out of it. It did not suit her. The longest limp strands reached from her part to just below her ears. She still had an impish grin below her orange mask. Her hero suit was yellow and orange in a flame pattern. It hid about as much of her figure as it did her powers. Her accent had a marvelous twang. I'm not sure what part of the southeast she normally operated out of, but she'd been hanging around New Port Arthur of late.
I managed to keep silent about it, but Wolfjack spoke up. "What happened to your hair?" he asked. Wolfjack was somewhere around my age. From time to time, we'd trained together as sidekicks, usually when my dad was out of town on business. He dressed in yellow, rust brown, and gray. He had a cape that barely reached the middle of his back. It bore his sigil of a solid square inside a hollow diamond. I'm not sure it even means anything, but the whole getup was ugly as sin. The only part of the person inside the costume that was visible were his eyes, and even then only though the yellow triangular lenses of his mask. He was both taller and thinner than I was, with a build not quite as narrow as Nick or Nora.
"Oh, this?" Omegaburn asked, wrapped a limp lock about her fingers. "Turns out long hair gets caught in the gas return vent for the rebreather, and that doesn't end well. A bad haircut is a small price to pay though."
"If it's not untoward," Wolfjack said, "I liked your previous style."
"That's sweet, but flattery won't get you anything," Omegaburn said. "If I were that shallow, I wouldn't be leading a mission with three teenage boys."
"I-" Wolfjack visibly bristled at the mention of his age. We were in the crescent-shaped control room, a series of folding tables had been set up below the displays. They were stacked with gear that I should probably have taken more of an interest in. Instead, I was watching in case any of our visitors wandered towards areas of the base they shouldn't. Technically, the blast door into the residential dome was secure, but getting in to places where we weren't welcome was a specialty of the Community Fund. I didn't really think any of them were going to try to get at the personal effects littering the residential area, but paranoia was no small part of my personality.
The fact that the latest arrival had once been a criminal didn't help much. The new Ranger Roy outfit differed from the original, but was built around the same thematic elements. The bronze helmet looked like it had been carved off of an Art Deco building. Big brass buttons ran up to the shoulders on the dark red, double breasted coat. Black trousers with a red stripe up the outseam were tucked into knee-high, laceless riding boots. Small outrigger rockets were clamped to the ankles of the boots. A broad, bronze belt was cinched about his middle. The black gloves were actually part of the underlying hero suit covered by the accoutrements.
The first thing Ranger Roy did upon entering the command center was to pull off his helmet. The diaphragm providing an atmosphere seal about his neck nearly ripped off the black domino mask he wore underneath. He simply gave a slight chuckle and tucked the helmet under his arm. His skin was almost paper white and his hair was blood red. If I hadn't seen stranger, it'd look terribly unnatural. His green eyes went straight to Omegaburn as a grin crossed his lips.
"How's it going?" he asked. Ranger Roy was as tall as Wolfjack, but broad-shouldered and possibly the youngest of the lot of us. I was starting to feel short. The feeling wasn't helped when a six-and
-a-half-foot tall alien was added to the mix. Jace sedately, almost timidly, entered the room, his translator drone hovering behind him.
"Oh, wow, they really meant it when they said a Scya was coming along," Ranger Roy said. He stuck out a hand. "I'm Kevan."
I moved between the two of them. "What are you doing?"
"Oh, come on, like this face doesn't stand out all on its own. And I can't wear the retro helmet to Mars." He casually threw the domino mask aside, somehow managing to bounce it off Wolfjack's face. To Kevan's credit, he winced at the unintentional insult. Wolfjack just sighed.
"Technically, since Kevan hasn't left the Junior Redemptioners, his identity is still a matter of public record," Wolfjack said.
That hadn't been what I'd meant, but perhaps it should have been. I took a step back. Jace brought his hands together and bowed slightly. "Greetings, I am the Junior Adjunct Clerk for the Earth Embassy. Your associate has taken to calling me... I'm afraid I can't vocalize the sound and there's no real translation to get my drone to do so."
"Jace," I said.
"That was it. As I understand my title is a bit long, you may use the shorter version for simplicity."
"Thanks, Jace, as I said I'm Kevan. They might also call me Ranger Roy, as that's the codename I've taken over."
"I see. Are you wearing a counterpressure layer under those protective garments?"
"What?" Kevan asked.
"Your hero suit," I said.
"Yeah, sure," Kevan tugged down the collar of his jacket to show the collar of the hero suit about his throat. "Why?"
"It's part of our safety gear," I said.
"I understand the atmospheric pressure is quite low on your fourth planet," Jace said.
"Err, right," Kevan said.
Jace's gaze went to Wolfjack. "If you are going with us, you will have to change."
"What?" Wolfjack asked.
"The environmental seal requires the edge of the counterpressure suit to be at neck level with the interface tab at the back," Jace said.
"We already ran you up a suit that fits the parameters," Omegaburn said, pointing at one of the folding tables. Wolfjack picked up the folded suit and the associated mask. Shrunk down to its smallest size, it resembled a jumper for a small child.
"I'm not changing here," Wolfjack sighed.
"I'll show you to the locker room and make sure no one barges in," I said.
"Thanks."
The only one in the base was in the residential dome. I led him through the tunnels and opened the blast door at the entryway. We got a few annoyed looks from those members of my team who were there. They didn't like being required to be in full costume inside our own base. I opened the door to the training area and gestured towards the locker rooms. He entered the one with the little stick figure man on it, and I waited outside. Getting into and out of a hero suit was a skill that took a lot of practice to do quickly, or even without embarrassingly long delays. Those of us who started at a young age, like Wolfjack and I, had done it enough times that it was no more onerous than changing regular clothes. New sidekicks tended to embarrass themselves a lot.
As Wolfjack stepped out, I realized that it was the first time I'd even seen his hair, or jaw, or any of the facial features not covered by the smaller mask. His hair was rust brown, and was neatly combed into one of those traditional, preppy styles that may or may not contain forty pounds of cement to hold it in place. Even with the new mask, his face was as narrow as his build. The acne along the right side of his chin reminded me of how fortunate I'd been in that area. Though acne was one of the few things I had been fortunate with. Wolfjack still had both his original eyes, and they were a pale blue, almost gunmetal in hue.
"Lets go, before I get pissed off," he said. This hero suit did not have a cape, and had transferred his sigil to the middle of his chest. It felt like a capricious change, until we returned to the command center and found Kevan tightening the straps on a life support pack on his back. The bright white bands contrasted with the rest of his color scheme, but the rebreather assembly and reserve oxygen was life itself. It's not as if there was any press on Mars to critique our fashion sense. I found the section of the table with my name on it and picked up the life support pack. It was heavy, as in ninety pounds or more.
"Oof," Omegaburn said, hoisting her pack onto her shoulders. "There should be a warning label on these things."
"There is," Wolfjack said. "Contents under pressure." He had no trouble lifting the pack off the table one-handed. Though it was more from the fact that he'd simply reduced the effect gravity had on it than his strength. The biggest thing I'd ever seen him toss around through gravity manipulation was a mid-size sedan. He was cautious about slipping into the straps, so that he didn't slam the full mass against his spine. Gravity might not care as much about the pack, but it was still forty kilos of metal, filters and compressed gasses. Slinging it like a bookbag was only something you did if you had Kevan's strength and durability.
Jace had a different rig, taller, thinner, and with more lateral straps. All of his gear appeared to be Scyan issue, instead of the distinct human aesthetic of the equipment we were putting on. The tank looked like some sort of metal cuttlefish that had attached itself to his back. Two tentacles still hovered behind his head, waiting to attach the air hoses to his helmet. He dropped another device onto his left arm. Its pewter-colored tendrils wriggled and wrapped his forearm in a tight embrace. A crystal on the back lit up a pale blue and ran through a series of glyphs before fading again. With that in place, Jace picked up his helmet and set it on his head. The helmet looked like a fishbowl, but it was not glass. It reshaped itself to expand the aperture over his head and then constrict to meet the edge of his suit along his throat. The tentacles from the pack gripped it from behind, taking up the load.
"Initiating seal check," Jace said. "Environment is good, I'm switching my drone to the agreed-upon protocols for your helmets' vox channels."
Our helmets looked more like helmets. The transparent face plates gave one hundred and eighty degree lateral visibility, and ninety degree vertical visibility without having to turn or tilt. The rest of the helmet was the same opaque white as the life support packs. The diaphragm was made from the same material as the hero suits, or something very close. It was elastic, but pulling the helmet on still felt like pushing my head through a sheet of rubber. Luckily, it didn't rip my mask off. Wolfjack helped connect the air hoses to the back of the helmet as I powered it on. A moment later, I returned the favor.
The connector was simple: insert, quarter-turn until it clicks, then affix a locking ring to make sure it doesn't come out. Even so, we double-checked everyone's work. My wrist computer and my personal area network happily detected the life support system, and I gave it permission to link up. A moment later, a mess of available metrics popped up. I added the power bar to the string of other battery indicators on my eye along with time remaining and emergency reserve time. These joined the rest of the indicator bars hanging in front of my vision. Initially, these had been distracting, but now I counted on the information. I was the only human without a glowing heads-up display on the inside of their helmet.
"Did yours not boot properly?" Wolfjack asked.
"I diverted the information to my eye," I said. "It's working fine."
"Vox check," Omegaburn said. A chorus of 'check' came back from the rest of us.
"We appear to be online," Jace said.
"Okay, first excursion is reconnaissance," Omegaburn said. "There may be active security systems over there, and we're definitely not Uta- Ut-"
"Uta'la'tek'li," I said.
"Right, can we find a different name for them?" Omegaburn asked.
"Diplomatic convention permits species to use a local name for other peoples, especially when their communicative anatomy is incomp
atible. For instance, I am physically incapable of vocalizing the words 'Human,' or 'Scya,' nor are you able to speak our words for either. So there is no affront when each of us uses our own terms for ourselves and the other. My observations so far have shown that most humans are incapable of speaking the phrase Uta|la||tek|li, so it would actually be a useful idea to come up with a more pronounceable term."
"Wait, phrase?" I asked.
"Uta|la||tek|li translates as 'We who craft the stars and the stones', it is the term they use to describe themselves."
"Can we call them Builders for now?" Kevan asked. "Because I'm never going to be able to say that Uta word."
Gruefield 18 (Tarnished Sterling Omnibus) Page 100
