by S. A. Tholin
"Any RebEarth activity, Commander?" At least Lucklaw seemed focused and alert.
"None reported, but intel on this system is limited." Which made it exactly the sort of system where RebEarth liked to hide out in between attacks on Primaterre targets - civilian and military. They were ruthless, cruel and slippery, nothing but murderers with an impure cause. "Be prepared for anything. And remember, it might be an unsupported colony now, but in the future, the Protectorate may wish to extend an invitation to Cato."
Or purge it. Perhaps Cassimer and his banneret men would return one day with a far less friendly objective.
◆◆◆
Albany had set the shuttle down in the middle of a dust storm. Zero visibility, hazardous wind speed, and so much electrical interference in the air that not even Copenhagen's scanners could get anything useful. No choice but to ride the storm out in the shuttle. No choice but to sit blind and ignorant on potential enemy terrain.
An inauspicious start, and the dust storm bothered Cassimer. Albany shouldn't have been caught out like that - even accounting for human error, the shuttle's sensors should have predicted the weather patterns. Neither pilot nor computers had stood a chance, blindsided by a capricious storm. Such volatile weather was a serious danger, and one that couldn't be overcome with force or firepower.
Yet Cato did somehow support a population, however minuscule. Less than three thousand if the intel was correct, living amidst these storms, in external temperatures which Cassimer's suit warned were too cold to support life.
The system's Cascade had been constructed little over three hundred years ago. Neither of the two habitable planets - Cato and Beatrix - were comfortable, but both were mineral-rich, making them worth colonising despite the risks.
Cobalt, gold, zinc or beryllium; whatever the precious resource, mining colonies tended towards an itinerant air. Instead of homes and communities, temporary hovels and seedy bars sprung up inside habitats or on rocky plains. High security and bone-wearying labour ensured low crime rates, but there was always an undercurrent of impurity. Why care for a planet you'd never see again once you got a better job? Why care for your colleagues when they'd either transfer off as soon as possible, or die in the course of their dangerous work?
A soldier's life was equally transient, but at least the military offered a sense of purpose and kinship. Cassimer had private quarters on Scathach Station, but home was his suit, his gun, his comrades and his mission. Home was the Primaterre Protectorate, and the Primaterre Protectorate was wherever he went.
"You doing all right, Commander?" Rhys was kneeling on the floor, sorting medical equipment. "The new shoulder giving you trouble?"
"Feels the same as the old one." Cassimer rolled his shoulder, testing the new bones and tendons. They'd been as finely repaired as his suit. "It largely is the old one. I'm told they managed to save most of it."
"Yeah, I observed the procedure. I noticed you declined the new anti-recoil augments even though Evans was pushing them hard."
"The man should be in advertising. His sales patter is better than his bedside manner."
"He'll be getting a kickback from the manufacturer. Plenty of med-techs are, they just know to be subtle about it. The way Evans is going on, he's going to get reported and dragged in front of a tribunal one of these days." Rhys shrugged. "To be fair, though, he's right about the anti-recoils. They're a huge improvement on the old tech you've got installed."
"I know. I've seen them in action on the range. A few of the other commanders, showing off by hip-firing anti-tank rifles without so much as a twitch. It looked..." He frowned, searching for the right word. "Unnatural. When you fire a gun like that, you should feel it. Consequence. Repercussion."
"Well, Commander." Rhys smiled under the shadow of his visor. "How very philosophical."
Cassimer shrugged. His own visor was still down, and he was glad. The conversation had strayed into uncomfortable territory. Too personal. Life had been easier as a cataphract, when as one of many, he'd travelled from warzone to warzone in ships of shadows and death. It was easy to meld into those shadows, easy to be one of the silent hundreds.
Transferring to the banneretcy had been a culture shock. Each company consisted of no more than six-hundred personnel, divided between twelve commanders. They operated in smaller units, though not necessarily so small as the team he had brought to Cato, and nobody - not even commanders - could avoid sharing of themselves. He hated it. Every little detail slipped felt like a breach of privacy. His accent, his choice of diet, his suit customisation, the decor of his quarters - all of these things, he'd come to realise, told tales. Told more than he was comfortable with.
He took a deep breath to clear his head of scratching thoughts. The file on Cato was still open in his primer database, offering escape from himself.
Cato was different from most mining colonies in that an attempt had been made to civilise it. The CEO of the biggest mining company had made the planet his own little pet project. Trillions of his personal funds had been ploughed into building a city - Stairhaven, named for its founder - large enough to rival the ancient cities of Earth.
Archived photographs scrolled on Cassimer's HUD, showing gleaming domes and spires that perfectly represented the optimism of an expansive and golden era. A shimmering force field separated the city from the desolate dunes, and within the field, great buildings towered over surrounding acres of Earth crops. In hi-def photographs, so clear they could've been a view from a window, children played in parks where their bare feet touched real grass, and black songbirds made their homes in mighty oaks.
Beautiful, but scratch the surface and find vanity. Its founder's motives were evident in the city's name, in the statues that bore his face and on the vivid neon billboards that promoted his company's brand and slogan. Elevation of self over community. Profit over purity.
Patrick Stairhaven might not have known these things to be impure, but his city had suffered nonetheless. After the Epoch War, during those chaotic times of disarray, the Rossetti system had been all but abandoned. Humanity's dreams had died, and so had Cato.
In the hundred years since, the force field had broken down, and dust storms reclaimed the land, burying verdant fields and brazen buildings. And so, the colonisation of Cato had officially come to an end.
Unofficially, some colonists had remained. Refusing to accept the inevitable, perhaps, or maybe a home was a difficult thing to abandon. Grainy satellite footage showed ramshackle hovels and tents nestled in protected regions, either high in the mountains or deep within valleys protected by hills and peaks.
"Copenhagen."
The comms specialist blinked silver from her eyes as she refocused from her mindspace to the outside world.
"Go through the topographical data and look for shelter. The weather conditions are too unpredictable to stay mobile; we're going to need to set up a base camp."
Copenhagen's response was interrupted by Albany's voice, crackling through the speakers.
"Strap in for takeoff."
"Takeoff?" Hopewell did a fair job of looking unbothered, but her fingers trembled as she snapped her harness in place. "Am I crazy or did we not just crash land?"
"Somebody's crazy, but it's not you," Florey said.
Cassimer unclipped his harness. "I'll find out what's going on."
The cockpit's viewports were covered with dust. Against the grey backdrop, lit by stark spotlights, Albany looked drained of colour. Her messy hair clung in wisps to her sweat-slicked neck.
"What are you doing in here?" she barked at Cassimer. "Did you not hear me? Oh shit, the comms system isn't down, is it?"
"No ma'am," the navigator replied. "Comms system is online."
"Then shut it down and reroute the power to the engines. It'll be put to better use there anyway, since apparently nobody listens to me."
"The storm is burying the ship." Cassimer made his way to the front of the cockpit.
"Yeah, thanks for the update, Commander. Whatever
clued you in - the three fucking tonnes of dust spoiling the view?"
Flashing displays showed that the dust storm had reached a crescendo. Lightning struck at regular and rapid intervals. The air crackled with electricity, so hot that through the dust, the ship and his suit, static prickled his skin.
"You can't take off in this, Captain. The risk to the shuttle is too great. Ride it out on the ground."
She shook her head, her mouth a thin pale line. "And be buried alive? No. Engage secondary engines."
"Don't."
The navigator shrank under Cassimer's gaze; his fingers hovering above the controls.
"Engage, damn it!"
The engineer's face contorted, as though disobeying his captain's orders caused him physical pain. His fingers neared the controls - but didn't touch them. His eyes were firmly locked on Cassimer's sidearm.
The semi-automatic Morrigan remained in its holster. Cassimer made no move towards it, and when he addressed the flight crew, he did so calmly.
"Leave your stations and go to the stern."
A simple command, yet the crew reacted as though it were a threat. Nervously, they left their stations and slunk towards the back of the ship.
"This is my ship, you bastard. You have no authority - "
"Your crew seems to think I do."
"You mistake intimidation for authority. Well, I'm not afraid of you." She reached over and tapped the controls. The ship hummed as the secondary engines sparked to life.
For all her flaws, Cassimer didn't think Albany was a stupid woman. Her record spoke of skill, but also of cunning and fearlessness. The woman who sat at the controls was not Captain Albany of the 51st Scathach Squadron, but someone sweaty and trembling, who refused to look at the dust-covered screens.
She was afraid of being buried alive. She, who had snatched a burst of energy from an unstable Cascade not five hours ago without a care; she, who had flown countless combat missions and skim-raced across the frozen oceans of Lysander. Fear would be as familiar to her as her own shadow - but this fear was of a deeper nature. This was the kind of fear one learned as a child, and in whose presence one was forever reduced to a child.
Cassimer wasn't afraid of being buried alive - no more so than anyone - but he knew that kind of terror very well. And so it was not without a degree of understanding that he slid into the seat next to Albany.
"Shut it down, Captain."
She shook her head.
"We are far from the Primaterre, Albany, but I am your reminder. I am your clarity." He opened his visor and waited for her to look at him. "And I am your truth."
Albany understood. Didn't like it, but understood and remembered her purpose. As the engines sputtered and died, he thought that perhaps she had found purity as well - but then she crossed her arms stiffly and gave him a glare that told him otherwise.
No matter.
Cassimer leaned back in the navigator's seat and watched dust make patterns on the windows.
◆◆◆
The storm passed, leaving the nose and starboard side covered in thick drifts of dust. The rest lay clear, but the exhaust ports were clogged. Hopewell and Florey had just finished digging the vehicle ramp free, and the team's two Eponas came roaring out of the shuttle. The heavy terrain vehicles tore through the dust, their wheels cracking the underlying crust of impact glass. Abergavenny was at the controls of one; Lucklaw the other. One a veteran and the other as fresh as they came, yet neither man proved capable of resisting the urge to race.
Copenhagen sat at the highest point of the dune, where smouldering fulgurite twisted from charred dust in tree-like shapes. She had removed her gauntlets and helmet, and her fingers, busily working the scanning equipment, looked red with cold. She claimed it was easier to work unencumbered by the suit, but that wasn't true. Both her gauntlets and helmet had been specifically designed to work with her comms equipment. Still, Cassimer hadn't objected - he understood the desire for tactile contact with the real and the true.
She did look miserable though, especially when the wind sprayed her with sand and fine glass.
"Still struggling with interference, but I've got two options lined up for you, Commander. Ten klicks east, we've got what looks to be a plateau protected by a mountain ridge. Tricky terrain for the Poneys, but once up there, we should be sheltered from future storms. Option number two is a compound of some sort, seventeen klicks to the north at the base of another ridge."
"Inhabited?"
"Can't tell. Storm's passed enough that I could send a drone out to check."
"Send the drone and keep me apprised."
A man-made structure would mean not having to set up a camp, less chance of detection and possible access to pre-existing amenities. The tactical choice, even if it meant having to clear out potential inhabitants.
Albany stood at the ship, arms on her hips, watching her crew dig out the exhaust ports. Her jaw was set in a sharp manner.
"Do you require assistance?" he asked.
Albany pulled a red elastic band from her hair and shook her blonde waves loose. "We have it covered. Another hour and we can start on repairs." Thin fingers combed nervously through blonde hair as she pulled it back into a bun - less sloppy this time, Cassimer noted, almost regulation. "Lightning got us pretty bad. Electrical failures cascaded into the reactor and nav systems."
"Can it fly?"
"A short distance, but for the time, we're planet-bound. Best not to push our luck; instability can quickly become catastrophe." She turned her head and spat; when she turned back, her lips glistened dark with moist dust. "I got coordinates from your comms specialist. We'll rendezvous with your team once we can take off."
"More hands might speed things along."
"I can take care of my own ship." There was an acidity to her tone and a look in her eye that told him she had neither forgotten nor forgiven. Her opinion of him was of little consequence, but he had to be sure their only way off the planet was in safe hands. Fear had unbalanced her rational mind, and here, so far from the Protectorate, that made her vulnerable. A perfect target for demons.
His gun could be in his hand in less than a second. It would have to be, because when a person turned, they turned without warning. By the time the bleeding and the screaming started, the corruption would already be seeking new vessels, snaking tendrils into the minds of the other soldiers. And then -
- no. He couldn't think about that. Not here, among the endless dust and groves of dark glass. This was the sort of world he imagined the demons had sprung from; the sort of earth that could only bear poisonous fruit.
He took a deep breath to centre himself. With truth and clarity, his mind was a fortress.
"Remain with Albany and her crew," he told Exeter. "Her balance is compromised."
The chaplain nodded and strode off with purpose in his step. Doctrine glowed on his cuirass, ornate lettering reminding all observers to be aware and to perceive. Neither the crash landing nor Cato had shaken his resolve. Exactly the sort of chaplain such a dismal world required.
4. Cassimer
Sandblasted steel littered hills where broken glass creaked in rusted frames. What Copenhagen's scanners had detected was not a compound, but the ruins of a city.
Cassimer had never seen a graveyard outside of old horror movies, but he knew at once what it must have felt like to stand within the walls of one. There were no headstones here, but the groaning carcasses of buildings marked tombs nonetheless.
A copper cupola, turned green with age, marked the centre of the ruins. Much of it had been stripped, revealing its steel beam skeleton.
According to the database, this was Smithdown Square, the once-beating heart of Cato's commerce. Miners had laboured in the high-altitude ridges, but in this square, lined by banks and trading companies, their hard graft had been turned into profit.
The coordinates on his HUD informed him that he stood on densely packed dust forty-one metres above the diamond-shaped green of Smithdown Pa
rk. Forty-one metres over fountains that had once gushed glittering water; where Stairhaven's people had picnicked on trimmed lawns.
He knelt to touch the dust, seeking contact with the past. A foolish notion, but when the last grain of dust slipped from his fingers, he couldn't help but feel disappointed.
"No signs of life," Florey reported when he and Hopewell returned from their sweep. "The buildings have been stripped clean, even though you'd have to be mad to enter some of these derelicts."
"That's scavengers for you," Hopewell said. "About as much sense as starved dogs. Still, it's a good thing they've been so thorough. With the place cleaned out, there's little reason for anyone to come here."
"Any of the buildings suitable as a base?" Judging by the state of the place, it seemed unlikely. A sense that he'd made the wrong call had nagged at the back of his mind since the ruined city had first come into view.
"Yes, Commander," Hopewell said to his surprise, sharing coordinates along with a dust-blurred drone photo. A redbrick rectangle rose obtrusively between dunes. Ornate cornices and gilded architectural flourishes didn't change the fact that this building would once have been a carbuncle on the elegant Smithdown Road. Its architect had strived for function over form and had in the end, Cassimer supposed, been proven correct. Its walls stood straight and defiant, long after the other buildings had succumbed to weather and time.
◆◆◆
The wind whined through shattered windows, piling dust against overturned desks and office furniture. The electrical equipment was beyond repair, but the far wall still proclaimed in large brass letters the name of a bank that had once been housed on the 15th floor of the redbrick building.
"This floor was mostly cubicle farms; plenty of open space to set up base if we shift the furniture. There's two stairwells - one is collapsed, but the other one can still be used to access the upper floors," Hopewell said, showing him around the building. "The lower floors are only accessible through the elevator shafts."
A row of elevators ran along the west side of the office. One set of doors was open an inch. Cassimer stuck his gauntleted fingers in the gap and pried the doors open to the sound of shifting rusted metal.
