by S. A. Tholin
Once properly labelled, he called the information up to the heads-up-display on his visor. While impure, the navigator's choice of language hadn't been inaccurate. The planet was a dustbowl, ravaged by electrical storms. The fact that colonists still remained on XR-755 - or Cato, as it was known locally - was incomprehensible. It was hard to imagine a more bleak existence.
"We're one point five hours out, Commander," said the navigator.
"Sure, if your pilot was some chump fresh out of the academy." A smile tugged at Albany's lips, and she finally brushed her hair behind her ear.
The shuttle changed course, and the alien stars gave way to a view of the Cascade that had just processed their fold from Primaterre space. The massive structure looked desolate. Plates had fallen from its metal hull like scales, airlocks gaping open where scavengers had broken in.
The early days must have been glorious. Tens of thousands of settlers, working together to disassemble their architect ship, turning its bones into the Cascade that would reconnect them to civilisation. Cassimer had seen old footage of connection celebrations. How much happier people had seemed back then. How much more light in the eyes of those who didn't yet fear the dark. Still, those were the same people who'd eventually brought humanity to the brink of destruction.
"One borrowed burst of energy, and I can ride the brane waves all the way down to XR-755. We'll be there in thirty, max." Albany's fingers darted across her comms panel as she attempted to establish contact with the Cascade. Inside the abandoned structure, lights flickered on, and silver flame licked arcing pylons.
"We're not in Protectorate space, Captain," Cassimer said. "There's been no maintenance of this Cascade for the past century. I'd advise using it as little as possible."
"Pirates zip in and out of this system all the time. If the Cascade's good enough for them, it'll be good enough for us. Besides, the longer we stay out here, the greater the chances we're detected. A Primaterre shuttle arriving unannounced in unclaimed space? We'd soon find ourselves in the middle of a firefight - political and actual. Space is big, Cassimer, but full of watchful eyes."
True enough, and he nodded his permission.
"Great," Albany said, one eyebrow still cocked. "And do you mind not hovering over my shoulder? It's like sitting in the shadow of death."
◆◆◆
The shuttle shuddered as Albany managed to coax a flare out of the old Cascade. Cassimer left the cockpit to join his team. Lieutenants Florey and Hopewell stood by a porthole, watching the view. They braced against the wall to let their commander through.
"Strap in," he told them. "Albany's about to show us what she can do."
The rest of his team were already seated. Bastion had allowed him only a small strike team, and so - excluding him - they numbered only seven.
Florey and Hopewell had been the easy picks. Florey, like Cassimer, had transferred to the banneretcy after several years of service in a different branch of the Primaterre military. Cassimer had been in the heavy cataphract division, and Florey in the infantry, but they'd both fought on Hypatia during the purge. The shared experience felt like kinship, a hard-won understanding of the universe.
Hopewell was Florey's partner, the two gunners working as a unit to provide fire support and artillery as required. Though she was Florey's opposite in many ways - ten years younger, impatient, and liked to stretch the definition of purity a little too much - the match was good, the two of them in perfect sync.
Cassimer's next few choices had been determined by necessity. They needed a comms specialist, and Copenhagen was as good as any other. Judging by the info he now had on their destination, she would have her work cut out for her. A medic and a chaplain were also required, and he had chosen two veterans. Rhys had been in the banneretcy longer than most, and Exeter, the chaplain, had views on purity which aligned with Cassimer's own. He didn't mind if his soldiers took a less strict view, but when it came to chaplains, he preferred hardliners.
That had left him with two spots to fill, and very little flexibility. For banneret commanders, it wasn't unusual to set out on a mission without advance knowledge of destination or objective, but lack of intel did present difficulties. Would he need more techs? Demolitions experts? Snipers? Albany and her crew could fill some of those roles in a pinch, but he would rather not use them, and it seemed the feeling was mutual.
In the end, he'd picked polar opposites. Abergavenny was an all-rounder and a committed lifer. The augmentation that made him so useful had mired the man in debt so deep that he'd never earn out. A soldier until death; such was Abergavenny's self-inflicted fate.
Cassimer had his own share of augments beyond the standard package. Increased muscle mass and bone density enabled his use of high-powered anti-material rifles and heavy armour, and by necessity of proportion also added to his height, edging his natural six-foot-four frame closer to seven. His immune system had been boosted to cope with a variety of environments, and he'd had other procedures too, little touches here and there. It was difficult to resist - many soldiers only stopped when their merits were running dangerously low. Cassimer had merits to spare, but on principle, didn't care for augmentation. The augments sat in bone and muscle, intertwined with his very DNA as deep-run veins of impurity. Doctrine didn't deem their use impure, but how could it not be? In the quiet moments, he sometimes thought he could feel nanites and implants crawling under his skin. A corruption of the body, slowly spreading to the mind. It was hard to fathom how Abergavenny could stand to live as he was.
The shuttle shook wildly as Albany's voice came over the speaker system, smugly informing them that they would reach their destination in approximately thirty minutes.
"Did she say minutes?" Hopewell discreetly unclenched her death-grip around her seat's armrests. "I was afraid we'd be stuck in this thing for hours. Days, even."
"So what?" Rhys asked. "You got somewhere better to be?"
"I can't spend days in space. Makes me feel claustrophobic. Itchy all over."
"Hate to break it to you, Hopewell, but we live on a space station, you know."
"That's different. It's much bigger, for starters. Plus, I've got my quarters' walls set to display a beach. All day long, white sand, blue sea - feels just like home. This shuttle? More like a damn tin can hurtling through space."
Cassimer had seen a beach once. Its sand had been red and its waters a rusty brown, but it had been vast and its rolling waves soothing. He would've liked to have opened his visor a crack to feel the breeze, but as the drop ship had opened its doors and he was falling a hundred feet into thorn-scrubbed headland, the firebombing had started. The rest of his tour on Iduna had been spent in a haze of smoke where rockets, not seagulls, screamed over the waters. In his quarters, the walls were default grey.
"Albany's getting a boost from the Cascade. That's illegal," said Lucklaw, the last and youngest member of the team. He had applied to join intelligence, but had spectacularly failed out of training. That should have been the end of it; any other lad would have ended up a lowly sentinel in the Protectorate defence forces, or given up on military life altogether, but Aubrey Lucklaw was the son of Admiral Lucklaw, who in turn was the daughter of Senator Lucklaw. Favours had been called, strings had been pulled, and a wealth of merits put to use.
Corporal Lucklaw was a jackpot of incompetence and nepotism, and Scathach Banneret Company the lucky winner. Other commanders grumbled at the perceived insult of the banneretcy being second choice, but Cassimer saw no reason to. Better to test the boy and let him rise to the challenge. A covert mission to an exo-world would be the perfect trial by fire to reveal the man, or reduce him to ash.
"We're outside the Protectorate now, kid. The normal rules don't apply." Rhys glanced at Cassimer. "From now on, the commander's will is the only law."
Indeed.
"Listen up," Cassimer said, and his team fell silent. Muffled chatter still came from the cockpit, where Albany and her crewmen seemed in high spirits. "Fifty-six
hours ago, Bastion lost contact with a ship. The ship's last known location was the Cascade in this system. Albany's crew have established that shortly after arriving in Rossetti, the ship landed on XR-755, also known as Cato."
As he spoke, his primer shared the available intel on Cato with the team.
"Our objective is to find and recover the ship."
"Any more info on this ship? A name?" Florey had a sceptical look on his face, and Cassimer understood the question that was really being asked. Banneret men were many things, but they were not ship mechanics.
"The Andromache." He hesitated before continuing. The information was meant to be shared, but it was sensitive, and there was no telling how the team would react. They'd do their jobs, of course, but it was always harder when you found yourself disagreeing with the bigger picture. "It carries a skeleton crew of twelve, as well as a cargo of thirty thousand individuals in stasis."
Hopewell was the one to say what they were all thinking. "That sounds an awful lot like an arc ship, Commander."
"Its purpose is classified," he said, but of course it was an architect ship. It had been over a century since the last such ship had been constructed, and still every child knew what they had looked like. The mighty architect ships had once gone forth in swarms to explore new worlds, carrying in their bellies thousands of sleeping pioneers, hopeful and eager.
There were still arc ships that had yet to reach their intended destinations. Possibly, they had been destroyed or stranded in space - or perhaps one day those settlers would build their Cascade, reconnecting with a much changed galaxy. Centuries ago, the Atlantic Star had set off on its 290 year mission. A couple of years back, people had watched the news and waited with bated breath to see if a new node would glimmer to life in the Cascade network. From the trenches of Galatea, Cassimer, too, had followed the newsfeed. As weeks had turned to months had turned to years, and it'd become less and less likely that the Atlantic Star would complete its mission, he'd felt foolish. Swept up in the sense of hope, yearning for contact with a golden past - he should have known better.
The past was gone, and so was the Atlantic Star, and the construction of new arc ships long since outlawed. The exploration of space had been humanity's dream until, in the yellow mines of Xanthe, it had become their nightmare. The void held corruption - they knew that now.
"Blasphemy," said Exeter.
"Treason." Lucklaw pulled at his harness with agitation. "My grandfather helped pass the ban. If he knew -"
"If he found out, you'd be executed for opening your big rookie mouth," warned Copenhagen.
"Personal opinions are irrelevant." Cassimer spoke, and the team fell silent yet again. "What matters is this: if the ship has been compromised and cannot be recovered, our objective is to destroy it. Clear your minds to that purpose and set all else aside."
◆◆◆
The transport ship juddered wildly as it entered Cato's atmosphere. Overhead lights flickered, and sounds of grinding metal came from the vehicle bay below. Albany made no announcement over the speakers, but Cassimer could hear her swearing and shouting orders at her crew.
"Is this normal?" A pale Hopewell double-checked the straps on her safety harness.
"Clear your mind, soldier." Exeter raised his voice over the din. "Consider neither future nor past. Perceive the moment."
"Helmets on." Cassimer's visor adjusted to the light conditions, and he watched the team follow his orders, their helmets interlocking seamlessly to their reactive-plated suits of armour. The banneretcy's armour sealed around its wearer, encasing them in a flexible shell of metal, polymers and ballistic fibre; protecting their body, if not their mind.
His own suit had that uncomfortable new feel to it, as though it had not yet quite adjusted to his body. He rolled his shoulder, hoping to rid himself of the perceived discomfort, but to no avail. He'd taken a rocket to the chest the month before, and while he'd only required two days in hospital, the suit had taken much longer to repair. Tech had recommended buying a brand new one; it'd be easier and cheaper, they'd said, but he'd declined. The banneretcy had access to a wide range of weapons and armour, and with the merits to spend, there was plenty of potential customisation available, but he'd spent years fine-tuning this one. It seemed wrong to throw it away when it could be repaired. Wasteful.
Besides, Tech had done a good job. As his fractured sternum had been knit back together, so had the reactive plates of his cuirass. As muscle and tissue had been woven and made whole, so had the polymer insulation. The suit and he were both factory-pristine.
"I'm seeing a lot of interference," said Copenhagen. Many merits had gone into customising her suit with pointless cosmetics, going so far as to emblazon her helmet with a pink, winking mermaid brandishing an assault rifle. Cassimer hated everything about it.
Nevertheless, the banneretcy allowed greater autonomy than most branches of the Primaterre military. It was not his place to overrule those allowances, much as he wanted to.
Copenhagen, blissfully unaware of her commander's disapproval, continued: "Some kind of electrical storm. Once we land, we should expect to be out of contact with Bastion. We'll need to -"
Cassimer's first instinct was that a flash grenade had gone off. The overhead lights glowed incandescent, increasing to blinding white, until they blew. Shards of hard plastic showered the room with enough force to set off his armour's reactive plates. Smoke filled the air as shrapnel turned to plasma and evaporated from the surface of his suit.
The shuttle went dark. The team's faces were lit ghostly pale by visor lights.
"Oxygen on. Brace for impact." A faint ozone smell grew stronger as his suit sealed and began to feed him its onboard supply of oxygen. He leaned forward, planting his boots on the floor. The armour flexed and hardened, cradling him tight, for all the good it would do. He'd seen unarmoured men pulled from wreckage, unharmed thanks to nothing but luck, while heavily-armoured soldiers lay in pieces, tossed across the crash site. Once - and he didn't want to think about this, not while the ship was plummeting, but how could he not - he'd pulled a fellow soldier from wreckage, only to find that, inside the armour, there had been nothing but wet tissue and jellified bone.
"Clear your minds. Perceive the moment." Exeter's voice was as firm as granite over the team channel.
The moment. Darkness in the absence of light. Falling at the mercy of gravity. His own breath, hot against the inside of the helmet. Laws of physics and biological processes, all working as intended. That was rational, that was pure, and if he held on to the light of the real and the true, it would be his shield and his sword.
As he found his balance, his breath slowed, his heart rate steadied, and he could perceive his surroundings with clarity.
Hopewell's right leg shook uncontrollably, the tapping of her boot on the ground a distinct note in the cacophony. A panel sprung from the wall and wires spat bright-green electricity that leapt to arc across Lucklaw's visor. Behind it, the young corporal's eyes were wide.
Then secondary systems kicked in, and light flooded the shuttle. It shuddered once, violently, then the ride smoothed out.
"Everyone all right?" Rhys asked, straightening in his seat. The medic hadn't even closed his visor, and the smile on his lined face was calm and wry.
Hopewell wrenched her helmet off, leaned sharply to the right and retched.
Noises of disgust turned to suppressed laughter as Hopewell wiped her mouth and gave the rest of the team - Cassimer excluded - sullen glares. "Excuse me for being the only one with the courage to express my feelings."
"Wouldn't be complaining if you hadn't expressed them all over my boots," Florey said. The gunner activated his armour's electrical defences, and vomit sizzled as it evaporated.
The door to the cockpit hissed open. Albany stepped through, wreathed in smoke. She'd neglected to put on her helmet and was coughing between curses. Still, the pilot's eyes sparkled as she regarded the banneret team.
"I thought you guys w
ere supposed to be tough. Look at you all, shaking like baby birds."
The team knew better than to respond. Their silence was rewarded with a slight frown from Albany. A capable pilot, perhaps - although Cassimer had his misgivings about that too, now - but she had an air of insubordination about her, and worse yet, a tendency to peck.
"ETA on landing?" he asked.
"Landing procedures have begun. Expect to touch ground in five."
Five minutes sharp or approximate? Cassimer set the countdown on his HUD. Precision was everything in the field, yet he had a sneaking suspicion that Albany was the kind of person for whom five minutes could mean anything between three and fifteen.
"We had a little trouble with an electrical storm. The shuttle took more of a battering than it's comfortable with, but sustained no major damage. However, it does mean we couldn't be too choosy about where to set down."
"Captain, this is meant to be a clandestine operation." Cassimer had an inkling where this was going, and didn't care for it.
"Yes, thank you, Commander, but unfortunately, situations do change. There are no significant settlements nearby, but it's safe to assume our arrival won't have gone unnoticed. But then, that's what you boys are for, isn't it? Looks like you brought enough of an arsenal to take out this whole miserable planet. In any case, we are reasonably certain we have landed on the correct hemisphere."
"Hemisphere?" Hopewell frowned. "And here I was hoping to be back home before the Protectorate Championships. The Kepler Blackbirds are in with a good chance this year."
"Don't worry, Hopey. Soon as I get my equipment up and running, we'll find the ship in no time. We might even be able to watch the Championships - all it takes is someone who know what they're doing." The sharpness in Copenhagen's words was unmistakable and aimed pointedly at Albany.
But this was no time for chatter. The team needed focus and purpose.
"This is an unsupported colony outside of claimed space," Cassimer said. "So you know what to expect."
