Outcast Marines Boxed Set

by James David Victor

  Solomon’s temper broke. “And what would have me do, Imprimatur? What can I do, apart from my duty?” He dropped his voice into a low hiss. “All three of us know what’s coming for us.”

  “All I am suggesting, Lieutenant Cready, is that you would be better served by heading out there, back to General Asquew and fighting the Ru’at,” Rhossily stated in her infuriatingly calm Proximian way.

  “What are you talking about?! My home just got nuked!” Ochrie whispered back just as fiercely.

  “So did Mars,” the imprimatur said. “Look, what I am saying is this. We Proximians have a way of looking at things that tries to teach simplicity, and forthrightness,” she said. “To me, and to my Proximian upbringing, then, any more time that we spend here in Luna 1 or near Earth will be a waste of our energies from the real challenge that we have to face. There is too much confusion here, and too many vested interests.”

  Solomon had to hand it to the woman, even after seeing her home world get invaded by an unknown alien force, and all of her people become refugees, she remained levelheaded and even wise in this most dangerous of times.

  “We’re not leaving!” Ambassador Ochrie hissed, as they came up to a set of double-doors bearing the stencil ‘Inner Hub’ over the frame. Solomon realized that the main bubble habitat of Luna 1 was made out of concentric smaller ‘bubbles,’ with each presenting a different zone.

  The green light hissed open, revealing a white avenue, at the end of which looked to be the central plaza of Luna 1, with terraced levels spreading up the walls.

  But the corridor wasn’t empty. There, standing at the doors, were two pairs of Marine guards in power armor.

  “Gentlemen.” Lieutenant Cready nodded at them from inside his own power armor suit, stepping forward with the ambassador and the imprimatur behind him.

  But something wasn’t right. Solomon saw a minute gesture from one of the Marines on the right, a hand moving a fraction of an inch to their utility belt harness.

  System Alert! Suit Telemetries Inactive…

  An orange holographic warning scrolled across the inner space of Solomon’s helmet. That was odd, he thought. His suit telemetries—the short-range radio frequencies that every Marine suit used to connect to the rest of their squad and to the current battle mainframe—was blocked.

  Not that there is anyone to talk to, the thought flashed through Solomon’s mind. His suit was probably keyed to the Gold Channel of the Outcasts, who were literally at the other end of the solar system right now, or else trying to link up to the main battlefield mainframe of the Rapid Response Fleet, currently invading Mars.

  But doesn’t the suit automatically upgrade to the local Marine mainframe? Solomon frowned, just as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a guard on left give a small, almost imperceptible nod to the guards on their right.

  “Marine,” Solomon turned to greet him, pausing for a second. “Is there a problem?”

  Lieutenant Cready could see through the man’s faceplate, and he could see the man’s eyes widening for a moment in shock, concern.

  This isn’t right, Solomon thought, just as the guard on the right started reaching for the butt of his Jackhammer rifle.

  “Back!” Solomon shouted, stepping in front of the two women and pushing them back as the first Marine swung up their Jackhammer.

  Solomon swerved to one side as the muzzle went off.

  BOOOM!

  The flash was incredible, just a foot in front of his face as Solomon turned under the arc of fire, his suit’s noise cancellation suddenly cutting the boom of the weapon.

  Solomon bounced up on the balls of his feet, one power gauntlet pushing the man’s Jackhammer aside as his other hand struck out in an upward blow to where the Marine’s neck would have been, were it not for the metal cowl that locked into the helmet.

  CLANG! Fighting in power armor was an art, and one that Solomon had to learn quickly. Unlike the light tacticals, where you could feasibly cause damage through the plate and the battle harness, power armor was like an all-enclosing shell of interlocked plates. Although Solomon hit the man as hard as he could, all he left was a scratch on the metal, but the Marine was pushed back, spinning.

  “Lieutenant!” he heard the ambassador shout as there was another muted BOOM from behind him. Who had been hit? he thought, spinning around to see that one of the other guards was pointing his Jackhammer at the two women and was taking aim.

  Solomon lunged, seizing the man’s gun and forcing it up so that it fired into the ceiling.

  Solomon Cready had a fraction of the service time that these Marines did, but he also had an advantage: his blood and his body, his very substance, was full of Serum 21. Deep inside his cells, the serum activated, alerted by the sudden flush of neurotransmitters and cortisol.

  The serum activated RNA strands that had been dormant, it rewrote his biological command code, forcing his nervous system to respond more efficiently, and his muscles to take up more protein, more adrenaline.

  Solomon kept on moving through his lunge, snatching the Jackhammer from the man in a sudden move, reversing his grip and firing it point-blank into the Marine’s chest.

  There was a huge blast of sparks and smoke, and the Marine flew backward to land with a thump against the wall. The front shield plates of his power armor were horribly mangled, blackened and dented, with a tiny wisp of smoke rising from the center. Solomon didn’t think that he had managed to burst a hole through the man’s suit, but he could easily have broken ribs. Either way, this Marine was out, slumping to the floor.

  “Solomon!”

  Another shout and Solomon turned to see that the ambassador had dragged the imprimatur back, and they were stumbling, falling over themselves through the airlock and into the outer hub. There were still three Marines, one of which was getting back to his feet where Solomon had punched him, the other two raising their Jackhammers to take aim at his two charges.

  “No!”

  Flak System. Activate.

  Solomon snapped his hand to one side as the controls glowed green inside his helmet. He felt a thunk and a vibrational judder as, from the ports on his shoulders, his suit spewed out the pre-loaded flak system designed to disorient attackers, provide cover, and disrupt a weapon’s targeting systems. Smoke burst into the tunnel around him, as well as loud bangs, and tiny missile tubes fired coils of aluminum foil.

  “Agh!” He heard a gunshot and a woman scream as the smoke and the flashing foil obliterated his view.

  Thermal Imaging. Activated.

  Working automatically, his faceplate flushed a neon green and suddenly Solomon could see the hazy, ghostly images of red and white shapes. The two Marines were now pushed to the sides of the tunnel, and two smaller, glowing white heat signatures were on the floor further ahead.

  Mariad and Ochrie, Solomon thought, hoping that he hadn’t been too late.

  Ker-THUNK!

  Warning! Suit Impact Detected: Helmet Rear.

  Armor Plating Efficiency: -20%

  The Marine he had hit had hit him with something over the back of the head, and strong enough to damage his helmet, but not enough to stop him.

  Solomon spun, raising his leg as he did so to roundhouse kick the Marine behind him. The combined strength of the blow and his heavy metal boots was enough to send the man flying.

  BOOM!

  Someone was firing at him, but because of the smoke, they missed. Solomon still had the other Marine’s Jackhammer in hand and discharged it, from only a few meters away, into the Marine who had fired it at him. Now there was only one left.

  “FREEZE!” Solomon demanded, striding forward to clank the muzzle of his stolen firearm against the man’s helmet. “Now, I don’t know if these fancy helmets of ours can withstand a point-blank shot, but I’m willing to bet that whatever the outcome, you’re going to be in a lot of pain!” Solomon hissed at the remaining Marine, as he heard a groan from behind him.

  “Nobody move!” Solomon called out before t
he other Marine he had kicked could decide to try and help his friend. The smoke from the personal flak system was starting to lower to the floor, revealing the shapes of two dead or unconscious Marines and Solomon with his stolen weapon against the head of another.

  “Easy there, Lieutenant…” the second Marine standing on the other side of him was saying, taking a slow step forward. The soldier did not have any guns in his hands—he must have dropped it when Solomon kicked him—but that didn’t mean he was harmless, Solomon knew.

  “I said nobody move!” Solomon pulled the trigger back a fraction.

  “Okay, okay. You’re the boss…” the Marine standing a little way from him muttered.

  “Ambassador? Imprimatur? Are you okay?” Solomon called, not taking his eyes from both Marines.

  “Ugh. Yes, I think so…” Ochrie’s voice groaned, as Mariad coughed from the smoke.

  “You won’t get far, Cready…” the standing Marine said. Already, alarms were bursting into existence around them.

  WAO! WAO! WAAOOO!

  “Who are you working for!?” Solomon hissed. “Who put you up to this? Hausman? NeuroTech?”

  The Marine sneered at him. “You’re on our territory now, Outcast. We own the Moon. We own Earth, now! You and your traitor Asquew are going to pay!”

  “Who do you mean ‘we’!?” The ambassador was striding forward, looking about ready to slap the man, even if he was wearing a full power armor helmet. Before she could, however, there was the sound of shouting from the outer concourse, where Solomon and the others had entered Luna 1. It was more Marines. And when they got there, Solomon knew they wouldn’t like what they saw at all.

  My traitor Asquew? Solomon wondered, It didn’t make sense, but there was no time for that now, anyway.

  “Ladies, please…” Solomon was stepping back, his Jackhammer still raised as Mariad grabbed one of the fallen Marine’s guns and the sound of pounding feet grew louder.

  “We’ll see you next time, Outcast,” the standing Marine was laughing at them, as Solomon and the others turned and fled.

  10

  Commander-in-Chief

  “Why did they call the general a traitor!?” Solomon was panting inside his power armor. Although it was designed to be servo-assisted and as light as just a heavy set of clothes, sprinting through a moon-base habitat, up flights of stairs, and across balconies was still an effort.

  Currently, Solomon and his two companions were flattened against the wall of a stairwell, looking out across the adjoining balcony terrace and down to the central plaza of Luna 1 below as it slowly started to fill up with Hausman’s Marines.

  And they were all searching for them.

  “Never mind that, Lieutenant. Just why on Proxima did they start shooting at us!?” Imprimatur Rhossily was similarly gasping for air.

  They had lost their pursuers with the back and forth terrace balcony-hopping that they had done, but it was only a matter of time before they were spotted.

  We’re not exactly inconspicuous, are we? Solomon could have groaned when he saw his reflection in the silvered floor of the adjacent lift. He was a Marine wearing full power armor. He might be able to pass as one of Hausman’s Marines, but only to the civilians. The other Marines would see his call-sign on their own suit telemetries the moment he stepped into view.

  For the first time since he had been awarded the privilege of wearing the expensive Marine Corps power armor suit, Solomon cursed the fact that he had it on.

  “General Asquew said…” Solomon breathed, keeping his eye on a trio of Marines moving across the plaza floor. The main and central atrium of Luna 1 would have been a marvel, Solomon realized, were it not for the imminent threat of getting shot. It had as its centerpiece a tall fountain throwing glittering water some twenty feet into the air, which Solomon was grateful for at least, as it meant the noise of the spraying water hid their whispers and movements somewhat.

  The different terraces of Luna 1 spread around the fountain in a circle, with their balcony levels displaying offices and restaurants, embassy buildings and more. It was a pleasing, bright, and airy sort of a place, and the sort that Solomon might have liked to spend time in…again, if he wasn’t being shot at.

  But he had other things to think about. The conspiracy.

  “Asquew said that there had to be a conspiracy at the heart of the Confederacy. Someone who helped NeuroTech and Taranis to supply Mars with weapons. To start the war by attacking both of you, Ambassador and Imprimatur, on Titan.” Solomon filled them in.

  “Taranis? Aren’t they a biotech firm?” The ambassador frowned. The imprimatur had never heard of them.

  “Yeah, Asquew thinks that Taranis was working with NeuroTech. That they might have some of the Ru’at’s message,” Solomon confirmed, holding up a warning hand as the trio of Hausman’s guards looked in their direction as Solomon and the others ducked back.

  Solomon breathed. He counted to three, and then he counted to ten. No shouts and no blaze of gunfire, so they might be alright.

  Might be.

  “Someone tried to start a war between the colonies and the Confederacy, and two mega-corporations have been using alien technology for years,” the imprimatur whispered. “Got it. Now I’m on the same page…”

  But why did that guard call Asquew a traitor!? Solomon couldn’t get the question out of his head. It didn’t make any sense. A traitor to what? The Confederacy? But Asquew was out there fighting for it! And she was doing everything she could to unmask a conspiracy, not start one!

  “Psst…” Solomon startled as his suit picked up a whisper. It was coming from neither of the two women with him, but the stairwell above them—

  —where there was a young boy’s face looking between the stairwell bannisters at them. He was pale, the sort of pale that you get from living most of your life without Earth-filtered sunlight. The boy couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen, with short black hair and wide, almost ghoulish eyes.

  “Go away, kid” Solomon whispered back as the trio of Marines started to walk slowly towards their stairwell.

  “Pssst!” the boy said again, this time reaching one moonlit-pale hand through the gaps between the bannisters to beckoning them up.

  “He wants us to follow him,” the imprimatur said.

  “It could be a trap!” Ambassador Ochrie warned.

  “Children might play tricks, but they do not lay ambushes,” the imprimatur said, already moving up the stairwell to the next landing and the young man above.

  “Rhossily! Come back!” Solomon was hissing at her, but she was already gone. “Dammit!” Solomon nodded for the ambassador to follow him as they moved as silently as they could up the stairwell.

  “What does he want?” Solomon whispered as they got to the next landing, to see that the boy had once again run on ahead of them to the landing above, again beckoning them through the railings.

  “He wants us to follow him,” the Imprimatur of Proxima said, eagerly taking the challenge as she jogged up the stairs after the boy.

  “You don’t say.” Solomon kept his grip on his Jackhammer loose and casual, ready to use on the guards beneath them at the first sign of trouble.

  The boy paused at the next landing, and when Solomon and the ambassador joined Rhossily there, they saw the boy look warily though the plate glass, and then hit the release button for the door to open with a near-silent hum, revealing a narrow avenue.

  Still not speaking, the boy waved them on behind him as he passed a set of double garage doors on one side, and then a smaller metal door with a tiny awning over the other, and a small brass plaque bearing the legend, Poulanous Bistro! Everyone Welcome!

  The boy knocked on the door several times, and it was opened by a large man wearing a cook’s apron, with thick waves of wiry black hair held back in a bun. The scent of cooking meat, coffee, cloves, and cinnamon washed out of the bistro to greet them.

  “Alexis! What are you doing? You know it’s curfew!” the man
who was clearly the boy’s father was saying, grasping the small boy towards him in a fierce bearhug, before he spotted the three strays that his boy had brought home with him.

  One of them wore full power armor, and the other two were clearly women of some standing.

  WAO! WAO! WAAOO! The stations alarms were still going off, and distantly, they could hear thumps and bangs as doors were knocked.

  “Please, sir…” Mariad Rhossily whispered to the man, as Solomon kept on casting worried looks back the way that they had come.

  “You guys had better come in,” the father said in a low, urgent tone, holding the door open for them until all three had vanished inside.

  The Poulanous Bistro was a small but welcoming restaurant furnished in a Mediterranean style, even with real wood tables and countertops, Solomon saw. Small curtains hung over porthole windows into the corridor beyond, and vining plants had been encouraged to grow up frames by the side of the empty tables.

  “I am sorry, my son is always making friends,” the boy’s father said, having picked up Alexis and depositing him on the side of the counter, from where he looked at the newcomers with his large, rounded eyes.

  “Thank you.” The imprimatur crossed the space between them, taking the man’s hand with both of her own and holding it earnestly. “You may have saved our lives.”

  “Mariad,” the ambassador said in a shocked undertone, and from the look on her face, Solomon could see that she was still unsure over whether to trust this man.

  “Oh, it’s alright,” the man surprised them by saying, shaking the imprimatur’s hand and then turning to offer his hand to the other two. “I am Max Poulanous, and this is my café, and you are all very welcome indeed.” Max paused. “I came to settle on Luna some years ago, and I came here for a better life. But what I have seen out of my door today, it makes me wonder,” he said heavily, before shaking his head and his face cracking into a large grin. “But anyway, enough talk of dark tidings. Coffee?”