Messenger

by James Walker

  3

  A few dozen kilometers away from Port Osgow, a warship floated in silent watchfulness, invisible except for occasional flickers of a faint shimmering: the T.U.S.S. Onyx Down, Spacy assault carrier.

  Commander Ryu Koga stood on the ship's bridge. He was clean-cut, in good shape, eyes always attentive, his white officer's uniform immaculate; the epitome of a proper Spacy officer. Before him were arrayed the ship's main viewscreen and a cluster of control panels, along with the junior officers needed to monitor and supervise the ship's functions.

  Koga glanced to his left, where the true power on the Onyx Down was concentrated. There, in the comfort of the captain's chair sat Commodore Bertrand Falsrain, supreme commander of the task force sent to retrieve Target Charlie. Falsrain was tall and slender, boasting a finely chiseled face that could have been lifted from the statue of an ancient god. His cold eyes looked on everything with pitiless rancor, and a cascade of shimmering silver hair fell down his back in defiance of military austerity.

  “Incoming transmission from Port Osgow,” Ensign Taggart, the communications officer barked. “Report as follows. Lockdown of the port and elevator complete. Eight security teams on standby. Awaiting fur­ther instructions.”

  “Tell them to wait for our detachment to arrive before they take any action,” Falsrain said. His voice had the texture of glass; flat and smooth, but sounding as though the slightest impact would shatter it into dozens of cutting shards.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Falsrain's predatory gaze drifted up to Koga. “Contact the ready room.”

  “Sir.”

  Koga pressed some keys on the central console, then stepped back as a screen flickered to life in front of Falsrain. The screen displayed two youths wearing field uniforms. On the left stood Omicron, a tall, wiry man with spiky hair and the face of a hyena. As usual, his expression was twisted in a smirk of barely-suppressed sadism.

  Across from him stood his counterpart, Lambda, with long blonde hair tied up in a tight ponytail. She was Omicron's opposite in nearly every respect: small in stature, composed, her expressionless face devoid of emotion. She had the flawless features of a porcelain doll save for a burn scar that discolored the left half of her face, her left iris stained white in contrast to the blue of the right. Despite, or perhaps because of their differences, the pair were strangely complementary—one a beast, the other a machine.

  “The station has been sealed off,” Falsrain said. “The enemy is trapped inside. They won't be able to hide for long. Lieutenant Omicron, take First Platoon and enter the facility. You are to locate and se­cure Charlie. Start by inspecting the cargo waiting to be loaded onto the port and the orbital elevator.”

  Omicron's hyena smile widened. “Just what I've been waiting to hear.”

  “Don't forget,” Falsrain said sharply, “the target is to be recovered intact. I won't accept any excuses about collateral damage.”

  Omicron's smile fell. “What about the civilians?”

  “Don't let them interfere with your mission.”

  Lambda stepped forward. “What of my orders, sir?” she asked, her quiet voice devoid of inflection.

  “You are to remain on standby.”

  “Understood.”

  Falsrain deactivated the screen and turned his attention to the front of the bridge. The rotating form of Port Osgow filled the center of the viewscreen, tethered to the golden-haloed moon below by the orbital elevator.

  “They're very compliant,” Koga observed. “It appears that SAL has gotten most of the bugs out of the Chi strain.”

  “As long as they kept the ferocity,” Falsrain replied. He narrowed his eyes into angry slits. “I don't appreciate the lab using a mission of this importance to field-test experimental specimens.”

  Koga's gaze fell on the image of the station. He considered the myriad ways the mission could unfold. There were so many ways a delicate operation like this could go wrong.

  “I wonder what Command would think if Omicron starts a firefight inside the station,” he mused.

  “As long as the target is recovered,” Falsrain said, “Command would regard it as a good trade even if the whole station is destroyed.”

  As soon as the connection to the bridge went silent, Omicron headed for the nearest locker. Lambda returned to the bench, one of the few furnishings in the spartan ready room, and sat down with her hands folded in her lap. She did not bother to watch as Omicron yanked the locker open, extracted heavy battle armor from inside, and began strapping it on.

  “Finally, we get some action,” he said. “I thought the training would never end. Day after day of beating down other candidates in mock battles, proving we're the best—and now finally, we get to fight for real.”

  He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Lambda. She met his lopsided smile with an impassive look.

  “Oops,” he said. “Guess I should say 'I,' not 'we.' Nothing for you to get excited about, eh? Seems obvious which one of us they think is more useful.”

  Lambda said nothing.

  Omicron laughed. “Lighten up, babe. It's a joke.”

  He donned his helmet, then fitted several grenades and spare magazines to his armor. He loaded a pistol, jammed it into the holster at his hip, then grabbed an assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Have fun twiddling your thumbs, top gun,” he called. “Don't worry. If the subbies get uppity, I'll kill enough of 'em for both of us.”

  A slight frown creased Lambda's brow. Omicron waved at her in mock farewell, opened the hatch, and stepped out into the adjoining passageway.

  “Boring chick,” he muttered. “They could've at least given me a partner with a personality.”

  Omicron entered the elevator positioned opposite the ready room and punched the button for the hangar compartment. As the elevator rose, the effect of the artificial gravity diminished. By the time it reached the center of the vessel, Omicron was floating in midair.

  The doors hissed open to reveal a sprawling hangar. The Onyx Down's full complement of aerospace craft filled the cavernous space, several secured to the floor and an equal number hanging from the ceiling. Mechanics, technicians, and various support personnel buzzed around, some floating through the air and others secured to various surfaces by magnetic appendages. Shouted orders and the various hums, roars, and hisses of machinery combined to fill the hangar with an ubiquitous din. The chemical odor of fuel and lubricants hung thick in the air.

  The nearest craft was a Nimbus-class dropship, little more than a flying warehouse with an array of aerofoils and maneuvering thrusters attached to the back. Several Watchdog battle drones, bear-sized metallic quadrupeds with combat-grade lasers attached to their chassis, were being loaded into the back of the dropship. A platoon of marines was lined up in front of the craft, decked out in full combat gear.

  Omicron pushed off the back of the elevator and propelled himself into the hangar. As he neared the marines, he flipped over and activated his magnetic boots, hitting the floor with a clang. He drew him­self up to his full, towering height and glared down the bridge of his nose at the marines.

  The Union's regular forces were of diverse character—volunteers and conscripts, loyalists and criminals, greenhorns and veterans. But no matter what their background and experience, they were all just normals. In the eyes of an augment like Omicron, they were hardly good for anything but cannon fodder.

  “Status report,” Omicron demanded.

  The gunnery sergeant stepped forward and barked, “Sir, all troops accounted for and ready for deployment.”

  “Good.” The hyena smile crept onto Omicron's face again. “You've all been briefed. You know the mission. If you have to blast your way through a few subbies to get the target... no worries.” He nodded to the sergeant. “Load 'em up, Gunnie.”

  “Sir.”

  The marines jogged up the ramp into the bowels of the dropship—a feat in itself with magnetic boots. Once the platoon was aboard, Omicron fo
llowed them inside. The dropship's interior consisted of a long, narrow aisle between two rows of seats. Under the sergeant's direction, the marines were stowing their weapons and strapping them­selves in.

  “Get the ramp,” Omicron ordered as he took the closest seat.

  The sergeant slapped the button for the ramp, which began retracting with a metallic groan, plunging the already dim interior into deeper darkness. Omicron extracted his comm and signaled the control room.

  “This is Lieutenant Omicron, First Platoon. What's our launch status?”

  “Your flight path has been programmed into the nav computer,” the controller replied. “We're ready to go. How about your end?”

  The ramp finished closing with a reverberating clang. The sergeant strapped himself into his seat and gave the thumbs-up sign.

  Omicron's gaze flicked to the cargo status light on the wall. Still red. He tapped his boot impatiently against the floor. After a few moments, the light flipped to green, indicating that they had finished loading the battle drones.

  “The drones are loaded and my men are strapped in,” Omicron reported. “We're ready.”

  “Roger, Lieutenant. Launch sequence set to start in 30 seconds.”

  Omicron returned the comm to his belt, cracked his knuckles, and crossed his arms. A siren blared outside the dropship, warning the support personnel to stand clear. All eyes drifted to the monitor connected to the exterior feed. There was a brief flurry of activity as the flight crews scrambled to safety, then the only movement was the red flash­ing of the warning lights.

  Finally, the dropship shuddered as the launch clamps conveyed the craft to the end of the hangar. The bay doors roared open and a long tunnel appeared in the monitor. The clamps conveyed the dropship into the tunnel and gate closed behind it. Then the second gate at the end of the tunnel slid open, revealing a sea of stars and the golden glow of Chalice.

  “Course clear,” the controller's voice announced. “All systems green. Dropship OD-1, launch.”

  A deafening roar signaled the ignition of the ship's main engine. The acceleration crushed the marines into the backs of their seats, which softened in response to the pressure, while the anti-g component of their combat armor applied pressure to their lower bodies and lungs to reduce the effects of the extreme acceleration. The walls of the launch tunnel vanished instantly, replaced by the dusty marble of Chalice. After a moment, the marines felt themselves pulled toward the ceiling, stopped by their restraints as the dropship changed course. Chalice dropped out of view and the ocean of stars in the monitor undulated until the rotating cylinder of Port Osgow drifted into view, already growing larger with their approach.

  The dropship swung wide to approach the spaceport. The station swelled in size, growing from a speck until it filled the entire monitor, a child's toy enlarged to a structure the size of a sprawling mountain. Guided by the navigation computer, the dropship flew through the gaping hole that marked the port's main entrance, decelerating with its retro thrusters so that the marines' restraints dug into their chests and shoulders, struggling to prevent them from being plastered into the seats in front of them.

  Several cargo vessels and transports were docked inside the port, but they could not begin to fill its cavernous interior, which sprawled in all directions like an inverted valley. The view in the monitor, previously blurred from the dropship's blazing speed, slowed to a crawl as the craft entered a careful, laser-guided docking procedure. After sev­eral minutes, a clang signaled the successful clamping of the dropship to one of the port's walls.

  “Let's roll.”

  Omicron unfastened his restraints, grabbed his rifle, and slapped the button to open the ramp. He started down while it was still lowering, his magnetic boots clanging against the metal surface. As he reached the bottom, the bestial battle drones that had been loaded in the ship leapt out of the back of the vessel, spread their legs, and scuttled forward, multi-directional sensors sweeping back and forth in search of hostiles.

  Omicron glanced around the receiving station. While the rest of the platoon stomped down the ramp, several Osgow security personnel came forward, eyeing apprehensively the heavily-armed marines and their battle drones. Omicron met their nervous gazes with a sneer.

  The lead security guard noticed the chevron on Omicron's shoulder. “Ah, Lieutenant,” he stammered. “We were informed of your arrival. How can we be of assis—”

  “Shut up.” Omicron glanced over his shoulder at the gunnery sergeant. “We'll split into two teams. I'll take squads one and two and inspect the cargo being loaded onto the beanstalk. You take squads three and four and check out the port. Get the security wipes to help you, but keep an eye on 'em.”

  “Understood, sir.” The sergeant shouted orders at his assigned squads, then turned to the security guards and requested their cooperation, his tone more subdued than that of his superior.

  Omicron gestured to the remaining squads. “OK, girls, get the lead out.” He started for the exit, pushing one of the security guards out of the way in the process. “Let's see if we can't find this precious little package Command so carelessly dropped in the rebels' hands.”

  4

  Vic trudged through the dark, narrow streets of the lower residential block, swept along with the crowd of low-income citizens getting off work. The lower residential block was so called by virtue of the fact that it housed the cheapest residences in Port Osgow. Vic's apartment was located at its heart, several blocks from the train station.

  A musical trill signaled the start of another announcement. Vic turned off his headset and glanced at the nearest monitor looming over the apartments in front of him, wondering if the station authorities were going to provide an update on the security lockdown.

  A sphere surrounded by stylized stars appeared on the screen—the emblem of the Theran Union. The emblem faded, replaced by images of the planet Thera and the establishment of the space colonies. A voiceover accompanied the dramatic cinematography.

  “The Theran Union. Finally, after millennia of conflict, a single institution to unite humanity under the banner of peace and progress. In response to mounting concerns over the exhaustion of natural resources and environmental strain, humanity has at last pushed back the final frontier of exploration, space itself, under the wisdom of the Union's guidance. Using advanced technology only possible through the unity of the brightest minds from all corners of Thera, even the harshest and most alien environments are made habitable, all for the sake of ensuring humanity's continued survival and making life better for those on the frontier, pioneering colonists like yourselves...”

  Vic cast his gaze down in disappointment. Just another propaganda broadcast. He was about to turn his headset back on when a change in tone made him glance up again.

  “...And now, a special announcement from the governor of Chalice, Liumei Song.”

  As the voiceover ended, the familiar face of Chalice's governor appeared on the screen. Sharply angled brown eyes peered out from be­neath a curtain of jet black hair, held up in a cascading braid with two long, golden needles. This, combined with her traditional Eastern-style dress embellished with elaborate floral patterns lent her an air of au­thority like an empress of forgotten times, while her inviting smile turned every utterance into an intimate promise.

  Liumei Song had only been governor for about two years. The official explanation for the previous governor's resignation was sickness, but Vic had pieced together rumors and fragments of information sug­gesting that he had been sacked for draconian enforcement poli­cies that had elicited unrest from the colonists. In his place, the Senate had appointed a popular celebrity, the heiress to a powerful Eastern house and a nabob whose family had made a fortune investing in the interplanetary Voc Company. Taxes hadn't dropped a single guilder un­der her rule, but Vic's impression was that her natural charisma and re­laxation of some settlement restrictions had made her popular with the colonists.

  “Beloved subjects of the Theran Uni
on,” she said in mildly accented Forth, “I bear good news for you all. Through your admirable efforts and the continued advancement of biofarming techniques granted to us by the light of Theran research, food production has increased by 17% since last quarter. In celebration of this joyous news, I have decided to raise the population limit in the following provinces...”

  *

  Omicron watched the announcement playing on the station's monitors with a sardonic grin. “What a farce,” he snorted. “I don't envy that chick, having to spout that crap every day to keep the stupid subbies in line. Hey,” he called over his shoulder, “you guys finished yet?”

  “Done with this car, sir,” a corporal reported. “It's clean.”

  Omicron clicked his tongue. “This is getting tiresome. If we don't find that damn box soon, we might have to start a little ruckus and see if we can flush out some roaches.”

  The marines started for the next car, drawing fearful glances from the passengers. A multitude of containers hung suspended from a web of cables that extended from the port, through the warehouse district, all the way to the elevator on the opposite side of the station. Wide catwalks on either side of the cables provided foot access to the cargo containers. Omicron had split his group into two, one squad on each side of the cable, each led by a Watchdog battle drone. He paid no mind to the precipitous drop separating his feet from the streets below.

  He pulled out his comm and fidgeted with it. Finding that he had received no transmissions, he jammed the comm back on his belt. He had conscripted several of the station's security teams to assist with the search, with explicit orders not to act if they found any contraband, but to contact him and wait for his arrival instead. They better not have disobeyed his orders.

  The next car turned up nothing. Textiles. Exactly what it said on the registration.