Beyond the Rubicon

by John Peaseland

  “Good. I’m happy to report we made it through with no casualties, personnel or physical. The ship is in perfect condition and Doc Strauss tells me that, but for a few weak muscles, so are all the crew.”

  He then stopped again, like he was manfully trying to find the right words, setting us up for some real shitty news. He leaned over and whispered something to the brass next to him - one of them Marines maybe - also in full rig. The bloke shook his head as if in reply. “I have some bad news.”

  Told you!

  “Okay, there is some good news first,” he smiled through a clenched jaw. “Our readings indicate that we have arrived in the orbit of Burgesses and are bang on schedule.” The Cap took a slight pause for breath. “The bad news is that Burgesses is six feet under water at the lowest point.”

  There was a communal gasp. Everybody knew instantly, what this meant. No landing, no new life, the possibility of a long journey home. Concerns were raised for loved ones on Burgesses, Blue Base in particular. Questions sprang instantly to my mind too, the most obvious one being; “What the fuck?”

  “Is there any communication from Blue,” asked a young man with no chin and nasal whine. I saw him twisting a wedding ring.

  “No, not as yet, but the ships computer has evaluated the situation and she tells me that there is a heavy attendance of deuterium in the surface water; maybe it is this heavy chemical that is supressing all radio and microwave signals.” A woman began to sniff loudly. The Captain, trying to keep his cool, rolled his eyes. “Listen,” he said as handkerchiefs were appearing for the distressed lady, “I said listen to me.” The Captain had put aside the microphone and was shouting. “There is no reason to believe that Blue Base has been destroyed. The installation is proof up to eighty atmospheres, which underwater equates to a depth rating, and more importantly a crush depth rating, of more than 100 bar, I’ve checked. The base is depth rated to eighty atmospheres, that’s 8000 metres and it is only submerged six feet below the water line and comms tower.” The Cap had been doing his homework alright.

  “So, what do you intend to do Captain, we gotta do something… and soon,” said the whiner with the wedding ring.

  “Don’t worry,” the Captain gestured, “we have a team ready to investigate.”

  Guess what! Team Nope collectively searched the sky for an escape. David, probably thinking about his son Nathaniel was first out of the blocks. He stood up. “No way, no fucking way. This isn’t what we were told to expect. No way mate… go find someone else. We ain’t your slaves no more. Find some other fools.”

  The Captain for the first time since he began speaking remained unfazed. Wearing a vacuous smile, he said with the icy sharpness of a guillotine blade, “I’m afraid it is yes mate. Here let me demonstrate.” Something happened, and David, from standing with a defiant expression on his face, gagged and gripped at the torque around his neck. His eyes enlarged to the size of peeled eggs and his tongue rolled out of his stricken mouth a bulbous purple. He began to dance around in an old-fashioned jig, desperately searching for air. Close to collapse, I stood up and bawled; “Enough, he was only joking, of course we’ll be happy to investigate!”

  Chapter Eleven. Soldier Blue.

  Over the next day and a half Bram taught us Scrits, a.k.a., ‘Team No Hope,’ a crash course in tactical search and rescue, with a bit of basic defensive formation chucked in. It became apparent from the bare bones of information thrown in our direction that the liberation of planetary water on Burgesses had been rather more successful that had been planned for. “They flooded the planet,” was Bram’s educated observation. Our lot, in this new, off-world, watery realm, wasn’t to learn how to fish and swim, it was more to do with ‘doing and dying, or finding.’

  “Now, we’re not expecting any trouble, not with all this water,” announced Bram with gravel tones and straight face, as he showed us the essential workings of seven, nine-millimetre, conventional carbines. His eyes still refused to blink, or water; I smiled at the irony.

  “What you got to grin about 303, ya fuckwit?” He didn’t let me think of a reply but went on with his lesson. “Now these here carbines have been chosen over more sophisticated weaponry because they are small, can easily turn corners, without you having to stick your noses around at the same time; they are time proven to be effective at close quarters. They are good all-rounders and a squeeze of the trigger and BLAT, no more bad guys.”

  We were in a makeshift firing range that was essentially a small room with bullet traps at the far end and air conditioning turned up full blast to cut down on lead and cordite pollution. The gun bucked in Bram’s hands and after it had finished banging, a thin reed of smoke lazily meandered from the muzzle. “Thirty odd bullets safely directed at the enemy.”

  With my ears ringing I asked, “Seriously Bram, we really not expecting trouble?”

  “No son, absolutely not, but it doesn’t hurt to be prudent.” He turned his gaze upon my wide-eyed colleagues. “Which of you’s would rather go down Burgesses unarmed? Show of hands.” Nobody lifted a finger - nor hand.

  “Now these inhibitors around our necks will not work on Burgesses - if reports are to be believed about lack of contact with Blue Base. So, I don’t think the Vans are lying to us, about what to expect. No nasty surprises, but maybe some dead colonists.” Bram had a point and though he was being monitored and that everything he said was overheard, I, for one, sensed the Vans didn’t know more about what was going down on Burgesses than we did. In any case, they would lose their control over us once we were seaward-side, and it was in their (and our) best interest to protect us as best they could.

  I let off my growing tension with my one go at firing off the carbine designated mine. In two seconds it was done and dusted, and that was that. My first and last schooling in the use of a light automatic. Bram showed us some rudimentary but brutally effective techniques in unarmed combat. “We ain’t got time for refined moves,” Bram harrumphed, while in the process of nearly twisting Henry’s arm off his shoulder.

  I have been blessed with fast reflexes, and good muscle memory. When I concentrate I can anticipate the moves of an opponent. Our sparring was good natured and only a couple of minor injuries resulted, easily dealt with by a panacea of medi-spray and ice; excepting Jenna of course, who took things to extremes. The padded combat she undertook with Patrick resulted in his nose being split wide open. She’s one seriously fucked up individual.

  Eating, sleeping, albeit fitfully with occasional monsters thrown in, was all that amounted to the down time we had as a team. The landing was set for 0700 local time. That didn’t mean shit to us. Blue Base loomed ever larger in our collective imaginings and Bram had to shut down many a conversation that veered toward sudden, violent and ghastly death. We didn’t feel prepared. We weren’t! A day and a half training with only minimum sleep isn’t enough to know half of what a soldier has forgotten. For example, I would have liked to know more about how my breathing apparatus and gas tank worked. We were to take them down to Burgesses and use them should we find that the air in Blue Base contaminated. I knew how to turn the blasted thing on, but how to check the settings to make sure I was breathing good air, or even how much air was left in the tanks was beyond me. I could easily die from ignorance and probably would. Happy days.

  The plan to search Blue Base was drummed into us, and in a strange sort of way, we were all looking forward to getting off the ship and hitting the ground running; it was kind of long overdue freedom, even if it turned out to be a short lived one.

  We didn’t have long to wait. Team Nope was gathered early next morning in what felt (and was) like the cold wastes of space. We were paired off to one side of a Landing Bay, too huge to contemplate. The Cap and a couple of Vans walked to the right, as they led the way through a world of gantry cranes, huge black containers and cylinder heads. Each man/woman about to disembark from the comfort of Rubicon was wondering if they were about to take their last trip. Henry, who’d taped the arms o
f his glasses to the back of his head to keep them from falling off, asked the back of Bram’s head a question. From what I could hear it was about who piloted the lander. He might have wished he hadn’t. “Fucked if I know, might be on auto.”

  “Pernio.” I sideways hissed.

  “What!?”

  “Pernio’s the pilot, you thick dick.”

  We were to be accompanied by two Marines, one was a black fellow called Neil. He’d briefly introduced himself at a seminar yesterday, as being from one of the provinces of South Africa. He was rippling with muscle, which was somewhat incongruous with his small head that sat like a pea on a drum. He constantly chewed and occasionally spat a cud of brown baccy. The second Marine, with the unlikely name of Clematis, was a female with short cropped blond hair. She wore a khaki bandanna around her temples and a prominent Christian crucifix round her neck. It was unusual that people of faith still existed after the purges of ’06. She was well toned and at the end of her lean arms, stark, bony fingers emerged, clothed in skin-tight black leather gloves. They limbered and caressed what I presumed was her own personal weapon of choice. It was a heavy-duty piece of kit that was attached to her shoulder harness and rotated in symbiosis with her natural movements. I thought it a bit ostentatious and pondered on its close quarter effectiveness. We’d been told to expect straight corridors, tight turns, small rooms and even smaller sleeping quarters. We’d also been told that the lander could work as well underwater as it could in any atmosphere providing certain precautions were taken. We were to lock on to the station finder using what weak signals the ship perceived once submerged - if any at all. It was the job of Pernio the pilot, (the aforementioned, alliterative name, Henry should have been aware of) a wiry, beaky girl, tending toward a nervous tick, to get us to the station by means of the calling beacon, or by good old-fashioned fly-by and search skills.

  “Find out what happened,” we were told, “and bring back survivors,” added as an afterthought. The Vans needed information as to what had gone wrong because finding remedial ways to put things right was paramount. This was the only option they had for a full landing at Blue Base and so preventing a long, fruitless journey home. As a special incentive, Team Nope had been told that should we book a successful mission, then we could expect remission from our sentences, if of course we didn’t die.

  Following Clematis and Neil, we lumbered up a spiral stair, pushed our shoulders against bay hanger-doors that opened onto one of the most curious looking craft I’d ever seen. If it had been a person, then the sorry individual would have had one hell of a bloated and misshaped nose. There were bulges, warts and pointy attachments all over its grey bulk, which after consideration, I thought might be the rangefinders, atmospheric analysis probes, weapon targeting and a host of other telemetry that we’d heard a bit about - All the important stuff remotely relayed to the on-board computer for our personal comfort and safety. Ha! Massive spotlights were gunned to the front and what must have been state of the art weaponry was sticking out of every jack-port. Black chasms yawned wide; intake valves the size of a factory doors. These were the lungs of the vehicle and they presumably used whatever coolant might be to hand in the aerosphere the craft found itself in. I looked at Pernio who was with the Cap and doubted the wisdom of the Vans’ choice. I’m not against women, I like them in fact, but I’d still rather a man had been allocated up front, while the rest of us sat in the hold.

  At least we were able to track the ship’s progress, and could see exactly what the pilot could, courtesy of a bank of monitors that flickered and became flush with the ceiling when we sat down. Pernio explained on the intercom that she wanted as many eyes as was possible checking for what was down there.

  Neil and Clem, (I refuse to call her Clematis, it sounds too much like an STD,) our Marines, appeared reasonably collected, their demeanour slow and steady as they buckled in. The rest of us squirmed in the shackles. After the Captain’s show of unnecessary force on David’s neck in the galley, this mission really felt like it was a neck or nothing stuff; for us Scrits at least. We heard the clump of extra supplies being loaded. I tried to get comfy in my last minute, ill-fitting body armour, as it settled around my shoulders like a tortoise shell. At least it was somewhat reassuring to know that porcelain plates that covered my torso, the armalite guards that protected my limbs, and stab-proof gloves that protected my hands, meant we weren’t quite as expendable as I’d first thought. It gave me a small sense of security.

  My attention was drawn to some jabber over the radio mikes the Marines had hardwired into their helmets. I listened a while then watched Henry, dripping nervous perspiration over his oversize glasses as he said a silent prayer.

  The strip lighting overhead dimmed, leaving only the fire extinguishers in a half visible glow of green. I felt pins and needles begin to prickle my skin as more oxygen was pumped into our already rich environment. Blue screens flickered above the eye line with static as Pernio connected the feed from the side mounted cameras outside the cab. The business was about to begin. I thought about the how and whys of my sorry mess and tried not to puke. I concentrated real hard on staring out some stowed black boxes to one side of me. They might have been batteries, ammunition, or dolls houses for all I cared, but their steady gleam was slightly mesmeric, and the effect slowed my dark musings and more importantly quelled my gag-reflex.

  ‘T’ bars descended from the ceiling as an extra precaution against heavy turbulence and locked us all in place. There never was any going back, but this final act nailed the fact. Neil the black fella was trying to help, geeing everyone up with foolhardy bravado. He kept slapping his thigh and yelling “Come on,” and “Yes baby,” just like a fucking idiot. He even had an ace of spades playing card stencilled on his helmet, overlaid with skull and crossbones in white. Clem was more subdued. She watched her colleague with a disconnected amusement, nodded to the rest of us and then closed her eyes.

  “Standby, cross locking now detached,” Pernio’s distant, tinny voice said over Clem’s mike that nestled against my left ear. “Prelaunch auto cycle engaged, primary couples released at the internals.” The lander jerked and then with a whine and a grating noise, slid downwards, ready for launch. I watched Neil to make sure he wasn’t disturbed by the grinding. There was another clunk and a grating of gears. Neil saw me watching him, smiled and gave me a wink.

  My frightened stare was interrupted by Pernio’s voice: “Confirm cross lock has detached and JL is in drop station?”

  “Mission control; Confirmed, you are systems go, drop station affirmative.”

  A red flickering light pulsed through our small ship adding to my distress.

  “On my mark of ten!”

  “Confirmed, on your mark of ten!”

  I heard heavy metal doors open with a servo wail. “Standby for initially release sequence.” There was a pause and then… “10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1, mark!”

  The belly of the craft dropped with the same speed my guts reached for the ceiling. There was a deafening roar as the craft moved from artificial atmosphere to the vacuum of space and then silence. Jesus what a ride and it had only just begun.

  After the initial freefall the engines kicking in, with only the slightest of rush. I was pressed back into my seat. “Ionisation ahead, prepare for a few bumps.” The craft began to rock and roll, like a car with one square wheel.

  Pernio’s voice came over. “I’m switching to DCS range finder. We’re riding 40 to nominal profile, clearing the pipe... can’t see shit.” The red flashing light stopped. The noise and buffeting could be heard louder as the lander met with thicker atmosphere. “Range, zero one four, nothing yet?”

  Neil could see my discomfort, well everybody’s discomfort really and he tried something that he thought would make us feel better. “Them chickens better be ready, I’m the supreme warrior,” says he, lifting the T bar and unbuckling the harness. He stood, thumping his chest in a parody of a gorilla. “Don’t worry boys and girls, nothings’ gon
na fuck with us, lookie here.” He strode over to a plate grey, gun rack and picked off an array of sophisticated weaponry, one at a time according to its size and his fancy. All shone black with reflected red pinstripes of light along the pencil straight edges. “This here is an independently targeting particle beam phalanx.” Neil shoved it under our noses. “You know what that means?” Nobody answered. “Neither do I, but one push of this here trigger and anything that moves in that there killing zone,” he motioned the weapon broadly in an arc before him, “gets fried.” He put the weapon back and picked out another. “This here puppy is a phase plasma… know what that is.” Nobody answered. “That my friends, is a shot of ionised gas that turns the life of anything organic, that I don’t like, into soup… like it?” We all nodded in turn, as he passed it before us like a pet snake. “We got pulse rifles, GPG’s, sonic sound poppers, nukes, sharp knives and I bet if I looked hard enough, I could find a pointy stick.”

  The air intakes suddenly quietened, a prelude to the craft hitting the heavy water seconds later. Neil staggered back to his seat. Pernio’s disembodied voice switched to Tannoy. “Coming closer for a glide-past. We’re in the water.” A pause. “I want everyone to watch out for the atmospheric processor. It’s big, like an old church spire, can’t miss it. It’s got a two second red pulsars off the top.” On the screens, great cones of grey light picked out the debris that you might find swirling around a murky pond. It churned in chaotic patterns that my eyes couldn’t focus upon. My brain tried to assimilate the million motes into definite objects, all of which resolved into nightmarish apparitions. I thought I saw a large blob pass the screen and momentarily obscure everything else; then it was gone. “That’s strange,” Pernio said but didn’t elaborate. My balls tightened. Then a hard, silver-graphite outline hove into view. It was so sudden I expected the lander to crash into the structure. The image zoomed out and Pernio said with dispassionate observation; “Hurricane seals appear intact, power still evident in the far quadrants.” I think I could see what she meant. We were passing a slow cycle over a complex of square, utilitarian structures. There were a few domes scattered here and there, as if two peoples of very different religions, each thought the better how to build the place. They were diametric opposites of one another. Then I saw the high pointing beacon strobing red bursts of blurry light from off the top of the mast. There was no mistaking it, it was huge. “OK folks, I can see snorkel lines, there must be survivors.” The lander turned 180 and the cameras pointing below, picked out a series of what looked like black ragged and bloated saddleback worms. As we got closer I saw the worms had feathered edges that billowed in the eddies from the first square structure. Fish Gills! I wasn’t sure how snorkel lines worked. Maybe they collected oxygen in the same way fish could.