Outcast Marines Boxed Set

by James David Victor

  “Hgnagh? Wha-what is going on?”

  She heard Joe cough and splutter as they were thrown through the field of scrap metal, and then he was moving and squirming underneath her.

  “Hey! What’s happening?!”

  “Don’t move, Joe!” she hissed, just before there was another resounding thump as they rebounded off yet another piece of debris. Jezzy cursed, but she could see that their erratic, out-of-control spin had at least taken them nearer the edge of the debris field.

  “Just listen to me! On my command, we jump, got that?” Jezzy said through her clenched jaw.

  “What? Are you crazy!? There’s aliens and space and junk out there—” Joe was saying.

  Jezzy didn’t have time for the fainthearted. “Jump!” She killed her positioning rockets and kicked out with her boots. Joe reacted a fraction of a moment too late, but he did jump, and then the line that was connecting them yanked him forward and they were both spinning through space as the sheet of scrap crashed into another piece of metal several times its size, buckling and rolling.

  That could have been us, Jezzy thought. It could still be us. She hazarded a look over their shoulder as their spiraling flight started to lose momentum. They had cleared the debris field, and the entire battle for Pluto was laid out underneath them like a panorama from a history still.

  The field of scrap metal was a slowly expanding bubble between the Oregon, standing alone against the Ru’at jump-ships. Behind the Oregon was the Last Call station, and beyond that the distant glimmers of fleeing civilian vessels.

  The Ru’at could easily fly around the debris field of course, but to do that would leave them open to being shot at multiple times by the Oregon as they took the long route. Jezzy didn’t know if that was why the Ru’at jump-ships were still unmoving and passive, but it was the one tiny tactical advantage they had right now.

  Moving through the large bubble of dangerous metal leap-frogged the miniscule forms, picked out in brilliance every now and again when distant starlight caught the metal parts of their bodies. The Ru’at cyborgs—that must have, surely, come from Proxima and NeuroTech originally—had made it over halfway across the debris field and were approaching the final hurdle. After that, Jezzy saw, they would simply launch across the gulf between them and the Oregon, and, like locusts, they would cover the large battleship with their bodies, eventually finding a way in.

  “Fire, Colonel! Fire!” Jezzy screamed into her communicator.

  There were bursts of light from the large, vaguely triangular wedge of a ship with a distended belly that was the Oregon. Gases escaped from weapons ports as lines of fire like comets screamed across the gulf of space between the Oregon and the debris field.

  Some of the torpedoes made it quite a way in before hitting a piece of wreckage large enough to detonate it, but many of the torpedoes exploded in the first third of the scatter-salvage field.

  It was like watching a battle in slow motion, as she saw bubbles of instantaneous flame and light explode outwards, rending and burning, splintering, fracturing, and sending molten hot shards of salvage spinning off in all directions.

  But despite the impressive theater of destruction that the acting field commander could see below her, Jezzy still wondered if it would be enough to even slow down the cyborgs and the Ru’at that still waited for them.

  14

  Payments

  “What did you say your business was here, Lieutenant?” said one of the central figures off the gang that blocked Solomon, Max, the ambassador, and the imprimatur’s escape.

  Solomon’s eyes flickered over the group, before settling once again on the man who had spoken. He was larger, burlier than the others, with short brown hair and small eyes. He’s the ringleader…

  “Tomas. Tomas, it’s okay. It’s me.” Max stepped forward, holding up his ‘bound’ hands before pulling them apart in a showman’s gesture. “Voila!” He grinned, causing a chuckle of amusement through the gang.

  “Max,” the smuggler ‘Tomas’ nodded. “This is no time for business, Max. You should get back to that kid of yours. Keep your head down and your nose clean for a bit!”

  “This is precisely the time for business, Tomas,” Max stepped forward to say urgently. “Important business. Business that could mean whether there is hope for any of us left or not!”

  “Hope?” Tomas laughed, shaking his head. “There’s a very high price on that these days, my friend.”

  But for all his swagger, Tomas gave his team the nod and turned to limp back into the small habitat bubble of Port 13, and Max, Solomon, Ochrie, and Rhossily followed him.

  Schnikt! The door locked behind them, and Solomon saw that at least half of the smugglers were staying by the door, manning the small video station to watch who or what might be coming their way, and the rest shuffled behind them, still looking as though they would be ready to shoot them at the first opportunity.

  “Max, you’re a good man. You’re loyal,” Solomon overheard the smuggler captain saying to the Luna restauranteur. “But this?” He nodded to the people that Max Poulanous had brought with him. “This is reckless, my friend,” he said as they left the small hallway and into the Port 13 proper.

  It was a haze of activity, Solomon saw. There were three super-large airlock double-doors that dominated the warehouse-like bubble. In front of each door were metal ramps where carts full of crates were being wheeled, either left in wait on the ramp to be picked up or moved to garage-style pits in the floor, where they were carefully stowed away.

  “A crisis is always good for business?” Solomon muttered, from past experience. He got a dark look from Tomas in front of him.

  “People are going to need food. Medicines. Little treats and things.” He nodded to the crates. “Curfews are always good for business.”

  “What if people need a way to get off the Moon?” Solomon kept his voice low, but Tomas clearly heard him, because he frowned even deeper. He said nothing until he had led them to the side of the warehouse, where the noise of grinding and chugging air-processing units surrounded their conversation.

  “That depends, Marine,” he finally turned and said.

  Solomon studied the man. The Gold Squad Commander had met many such operators in his time in New Kowloon. Whereas the criminal underworld always had a shifting sea of faces at the lowest level, like goons and thugs and petty criminals, Solomon knew that it was the mid-level operators like Tomas here and the higher-up syndicate bosses and gang-lords who always stayed the same.

  They had to be smart, tough, and uncompromising to get where they were, and to stay alive doing so.

  They were also smart enough to know which way a deal would go before they entered into it.

  “If it’s credits you want, I can get you money,” Solomon said, knowing that, given the situation, that Asquew would agree to any price. “But more important than that, Tomas, I’m giving you an opportunity.”

  “Oh, you are, are ya, Marine boy?” Tomas even dared to grin sarcastically. “As far as I know, you might be one of Hausman’s agents, and you’re just here to try and pick up information.”

  “I’m not. I’m with Asquew,” Solomon said.

  “Sheesh…” Tomas whistled low and turned back to Max. “Look, I really don’t have the time for politics, Max. You’re a good guy, but whatever you’ve got yourself mixed up in here, take my advice and get out of it now. Politics is never good for business,” Tomas said, looking ready to turn and leave them there.

  “Look, Tomas.” Solomon stepped across the smuggler’s path. “I just want you to hear me out, please? You know as well as I do that as soon as Hausman secures his footing here on Luna and on Earth, then he’s going to be the one controlling all trade in and out of Earth space.” Solomon remembered what Max had told him earlier. “He’s already charging extra for Luna imports and exports, right? Backhand money that goes straight to him and his Marines?”

  Tomas’s eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to tell me, Marine?�
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  “That Hausman will crush your business. Or, if he lets you live, then it will only be if he can seize most of your profits. He’s not the guy that you want in power.”

  Tomas shook his head. “And just what do you expect me to do about that? Do you see a fleet of Marines here, waiting to fight for me?”

  “No,” Solomon said. “Because they’re out on Mars right now. With the Rapid Response Fleet.”

  Tomas was quiet as he stared hard at Lieutenant Cready, before making a disparaging noise. “Almost, Marine. But what good will it do me if they’re all the way out there?”

  “Get us out there, and there is a lot more chance that when Asquew deals with Hausman, she’ll look favorably on all those who helped her,” Solomon promised.

  “Promises. Lies.” Tomas shrugged. But Solomon knew that the smuggler could see the truth: that under Hausman, his operation had no chance of surviving intact, but under Asquew he might do. “I’m going to need some assurances before I decide to help you. And a whole heap of credits.”

  Dammit! Solomon thought. It was going to take hours to get a message to Asquew, and more hours to get the response. He couldn’t wait that long. “Look, you’ll just have to take my word that I’m good for the credits. I am First Lieutenant Solomon Cready of the Outcast Company of the Rapid Response Fleet, personally reporting to the General Asquew…”

  “Your suit,” Tomas said.

  “What?”

  “You give me that fancy power armor suit of yours, First Lieutenant Solomon Cready, and I’ll count that as a down payment.”

  “But…” Solomon blinked in confusion. But the suit is mine, he thought. But it wasn’t just his, was it? It was a sign of his journey, of who he had fought to become. He hadn’t realized just how attached he was to the power armor—far more so than the light tactical suit he used to wear as a lowly adjunct-Marine.

  I wonder if Malady feels the same way about his full tactical suit? Solomon thought. If Corporal Malady is alive at all, that is…

  “The power armor for three tickets off the Moon, that’s my price.” Tomas was grinning much more broadly now, knowing that his deal was making Solomon uncomfortable. “I can get a lot of credits for a suit like that on the black market,” he murmured. “Or maybe I’ll just keep it around here, because you never know what sort of places that a Marine can go that a lowly tradesperson can’t…”

  But it’s my suit! Solomon thought in alarm.

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. We got trade suits for you. I won’t leave you naked!” Tomas roared with laughter.

  “Lieutenant, I think this might be the best option we have,” Ambassador Ochrie whispered to him.

  “Fine,” Solomon grumbled and released the latch on the metal cowl around his neck that would start the unlocking process of the font and back plates. “But I’m telling you, Tomas—I’m going to want to buy it back one day.”

  “Oh, I count on it, Lieutenant Cready.” The smuggler grinned.

  15

  Decompression Event

  “They’re clearly insane,” suggested Administrator Fatima Ahmadi from the cockpit of her tug as she powered the vessel towards the rear of the Oregon.

  Lines of burning white light shot out from the Oregon, and the torpedoes exploded in sudden flashes of light and escaping gases against the face of the wreckage field. From their distance, Jezzy couldn’t see what was happening to the cyborgs that the Ru’at ships had dispatched against them, but she hoped that they were all blown to smithereens.

  The Ru’at jump-ships still hadn’t moved from their original positions, and as soon as Ahmadi had rescued Joe and Jezzy from the cold mercy of space, she had driven her tug in a wide arc around the battlefield before heading back to the rear of the mighty battleship to deliver the Acting First Lieutenant Jezebel Wen to her post.

  “I mean, sending troops against a battleship? I don’t think we have much to worry about from these would-be alien overlords,” Ahmadi cackled, clearly getting a thrill from all of the action that had infected her small corner of space.

  “You didn’t see them, Fatima…” Joe said from where he was slumped against the side of the cockpit wall. “Their skin looked dead, frozen or baked or something. And half of their bodies were made of metal. They don’t need to breathe air, Administrator.” The tug driver looked haunted.

  As well he might be, Jezzy thought. She remembered when she had first fought just one of the cyborgs. It had taken their entire squad to even put a dent in it.

  “Well, still…” Fatima grumbled as the Oregon accepted their docking request, and the Gingko joined the other stationary Marine vessels hanging like limpets to the underside of the battleship.

  “Thank you, Administrator, for everything.” Jezzy paused before entering the airlock. “Just…get you and as many of your people out of here as you can…” She tried to impress the seriousness of the situation.

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, lady. Most of us people left out here, us Plutonians, we haven’t got anywhere else to go.” Fatima shrugged. “The Last Call is all we got, so I figure that me and most of the other staffers here will be staying, if you don’t mind.”

  Jezzy wondered whether she should try to convince the administrator of the foolishness of her actions. But Ahmadi doesn’t look to be the woman who would bend. Fatima was tough, and Jezzy admired that.

  “The Ru’at seem eager to make displays of power. They might destroy the Last Call as they did the city of Proxa, but after that, I don’t think they will be eager to chase survivors. If we lose, you might be able to move your people to Pluto itself. You have emergency bunkers down there?”

  “Of course.” Ahmadi rolled her eyes. “I’ll start organizing the evacuation as soon as I get back to the station, but you Marines should know a good captain always goes down with her ship, right? I’m sure the same goes for administrators and stations.” Fatima threw Jezzy a carefree, courageous wink. “Now get the frack off my ship and go kill some aliens for me, will you?”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.” Jezzy threw the woman a formal salute and did as she was told.

  “Colonel, I’m on my way up,” Jezzy said as soon she set foot through the Oregon’s airlock and into a bustling launch hall, where Marines and gray-suited staffers were running back and forth, loading the small Marine Corps fighters with armaments and performing the final security checks.

  Ready to Launch in 1 minute. Repeat: All Forward Crews to Launch in 1 minute.

  The overhead speaker systems announced this as Jezzy dodged carts of missiles and racks of ammunition.

  “Glad to have you safe, Lieutenant Wen,” Faraday’s voice was clearly audible over her suit. “I’m preparing to dispatch Forward Crews 1 through 4, who will launch against the Ru’at jump-ships.”

  Already? Jezzy thought. She knew that the forward crews were really a catch-all designation, hastily applied to any marine squad to indicate their first-in, invasive roles. She’d never seen any of the Outcast units called ‘forward crews’ before—probably because their whole reason was to act as a first-in expeditionary force.

  For the Marine company of the Oregon, however, who worked alongside the Outcasts, their forward crews were all fighter pilot teams, as they were based on a battleship.

  “Sir… Shouldn’t we deal with the cyborg problem first?” Jezzy was saying as she made it to the service elevators leading up through the center of the boat. It was busy with staffers hauling equipment, so she had to wait.

  “I hardly see them as a problem…” Farday said. “They charged straight into my field of fire. I doubt that any could have survived!”

  “You haven’t seen them in battle, sir,” Jezzy said. Her words were chillingly accurate a second later when the Oregon’s alarms suddenly blared.

  All Personnel Evacuate Floor 3! Repeat: All Personnel Evacuate Floor 3!

  “Faraday? What’s happening?” Jezzy froze.

  “I don’t know, some kind of decompression event…!” Faraday was s
aying as, over his own suit transmission, Jezzy could hear the frantic alarms and urgent calls of the bridge officers while they tried to get a handle on the problem.

  “It’s the cyborgs, Colonel.” Jezzy knew it in her gut. “This is what they were sent to do. They’re too small for your scanners to pick up, too small for the Oregon’s defenses to target them.”

  “That is why we shot a boat-load of torpedoes at them!” Faraday roared.

  “Sir, this is what they do. They overwhelm you, taking all the flak you can send their way.” Jezzy cursed. “I’m going.” Jezzy abandoned the elevator and instead slammed through the doors to the stairs, already resounding with red light and alarms.

  “We’re locking down Floor 3. It’s almost entirely depressurized, Lieutenant!” Faraday informed her, and the Oregon as a whole juddered and shuddered as its internal pressures fluctuated.

  “I’m still in my suit,” Jezzy said.

  Open Channel: Outcast Group ID

  Jezzy paused only to toggle the controls on her suit telemetries so she could broadcast to every member of the Outcast Company on board the Oregon.

  “Outcasts, to arms! Full suit operation on Floor 3. Prepare to repel all boarders!” she said, making it to the first landing where an airlock blocked her way. Jezzy hit the door-release button repeatedly, already slinging her Jackhammer in front of her, impatient to get to the action.

  Floor 2; Weapons Locker, Medical Bays, Holds 3-5, the stenciled sign read. There were voices coming from the stairwell above her, coughing and gasping.

  “Marine Corps!” Jezzy shouted as she ran up the stairs to find the airlock to level three closed and blocking her path, while on this side of the door was a team of three staffers, coughing and shivering as they slumped against the walls and the floor.

  “What happened? How bad is it in there?” Jezzy said.