by Tim Lebbon
“The Ochse is venting radiation from the reactor breach,” the computer said. “Bulkhead three is shielding the reactor from the rest of the ship, but the repaired hull breaches in the engine room are not shielded.”
“So to them it looks like we’re dead.”
“That’s possible, Johnny,” Frodo replied.
Cotronis was at the flight-deck door, sealing her collar and enabling all her suit systems.
“Sara,” Mains said. “Be careful in there. One nick in that suit and you’re dead.”
“No problem,” she said, as if it didn’t really matter—and perhaps it didn’t. They were contemplating crash-landing their stricken ship on a Yautja habitat.
Hell of a way to go.
Cotronis left the flight deck, and Faulkner caught their attention.
“Bastards Five, Six, and Seven are closing, distance less than twenty miles.”
“PBM ready?” Mains asked.
“Affirmative. If we fire in… seventeen seconds, field of fire will avoid the habitat.”
“Initiate,” he said. “Keep ready with a cancel command.”
“Got it.”
A countdown appeared on all their main screens, also reflected on their suit systems. They went quiet, checking statuses, monitoring their drift and spin. Lieder gave Mains the thumbs up, confirming that she’d calculated a successful approach.
Mains could only wonder about a landing. It was highly probable that the habitat had defensive systems that would blast them into a cloud of particles before they even knew what was coming. That, or more Yautja ships would swing out to finish them off. With the drive reactor damaged, any quick maneuvers might cause a catastrophic overload.
They didn’t have much fight left in them, but they might have one last surprise.
Three… two… one…
The ship hummed.
“PMB fired,” Faulkner said. “Bastards Five and Six are down. Seven has swung around and is heading back toward the habitat. Slowly. It’s venting atmosphere and radiation, and all ship’s systems appear to be offline.”
“Finish the fucker off,” Lieder said.
“No,” Mains said. “Let it go. It’s not a danger to us right now.”
“The reactor leak is worsening,” Frodo cut in. “It’s very uncertain, but we could experience full breach within fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s ram them,” Lieder said. “Full engine burn and we’ll hit…” She checked her instruments. “…point-oh-oh-three light speed. Five hundred miles per second, break their habitat in two. Burn them.”
“Cotronis?” Mains asked.
“I’m close to the engine-room bulkhead,” she said through their suit comms.
“You heard what Frodo said. Get out of there.”
A hiss, a clanking noise as something damaged struggled to work. Then Cotronis spoke again.
“I’ve accessed the engine room. It’s fucked, but I’ll do what I can, Johnny. You do what you have to. Get us down onto that thing.”
Mains frowned and looked at Faulkner, Lieder, and Snowdon. They all understood the risk Cotronis was taking.
“With the radiation levels present I don’t think—” Frodo began, but Mains cut the computer off.
“We know!” he shouted. “Faulkner, all weapons systems offline, but don’t move your hand an inch from the ready button. Lieder, you had an approach?”
“Affirmative.”
“Program it. Let me know.”
Mains closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. He assessed the situation, analyzed their decisions, looking forward not back. The Ochse vibrated around them, and warning lights flickered on screens across his captain’s display. Their trusty ship was in its death throes, and that did not bode well for them. Nevertheless, he was happy with what they had done, and their future course. The most vital aspect was that they had sent a warning to Tyszka’s Star.
Whatever came next was about survival.
“Johnny?” It was Cotronis. She’d been his corporal for six years, a strong and capable second in command. He couldn’t say that he really knew her—wasn’t sure anyone did—but she was a good soldier, and a good person.
“Sara?”
“Manual repair is screwed, it’s really smashed up in here and all circuits are fried, but I think I can wind down the emergency containment by hand.”
“What are the levels?” he asked.
“I’m getting a pretty good suntan.”
Lieder switched to a private channel. “Johnny, her combat suit isn’t graded much higher than level three.”
“I know,” he said. He switched back to all channels. “Sara, you know the risks. Get the hell out of there the second you can. If you can give us ten minutes’ grace, we can land.”
“Right,” she said. “Better weapon up.” She cut comms, and Mains imagined her in the damaged, steaming, smoke-filled engine room, standing six feet from a leaking reactor that would be cooking her slowly from the inside out, even with her combat suit.
“You heard the Corporal,” he said. “Weapon up. Lieder, initiate our approach. And give us a full-screen view.”
He plucked his own weapons from their clasps around his seat and packed them on and in his combat suit. The laser sidearm clipped to his right thigh, plasma grenades hung around his belt, and his com-rifle slipped into a holster across his shoulders.
The compact rifle had been developed especially for Excursionists. It carried a charge pack and magazine, and was programmable to fire plasma bursts, laser sprays, micro-dot solid munitions, and nano-ordinance that exploded, shredded, or expanded according to programming. It could lay down a withering field of fire, or act as a sniping weapon over a distance of two miles. Its on-board systems were linked to the combat-suit computer, and in the hands of an experienced user the com-rifle was a formidable weapon.
The micron-thin suits themselves were at the cutting edge of military tech. Fireproof, self-sustaining, fully loaded with med-packs, resistant to Xenomorph blood (to a degree), fully flexing yet acting as armor when required, and incorporating the latest in retro-engineered Yautja invisibility technology, they were designed and fitted to individual wearers. They acted as exoskeletons, life support, and strength enhancement according to the situation.
Mains also packed a mini-drone in each shoulder pad, each one capable of acting independently and traveling up to fifteen miles from his suit. They could relay back information, build a three-dimensional map of a battlefield, and launch remote attacks. The fine, clear helmet layer hugged his facial contours and fed information directly to his eye, forming a virtual display that overlaid any information he required across whatever his surroundings might be.
Securing his suit and weaponry, he sent a thought prompt to his suit’s onboard computer and it fired up all systems, running diagnostics and reporting full function.
If the time came, he was ready for a fight.
On each of their console screens, a three-dimensional image appeared of their local region of space. UMF 12 was in the bottom right of the image, and in the top left was the green arrow indicating their own ship. Their approach began. Mains looked for the red squares of Yautja ships, but although several more had launched from the habitat, they were heading away. Into the Human Sphere.
Could this be a war? he wondered. Perhaps Lieder was right in her suicide scenario. Maybe they really should launch everything they had at the habitat, then ram it with their last dregs of energy and life. Yet nothing was certain. Finding out more should be his priority, but he’d never believed that the surveilling of the habitat would actually include landing on it.
“Lieder, you got a place to land?”
“I’ve chosen a spot on the outer surface, close to the heavy central third.”
“Faulkner, eyes on their weapons. If something activates, see if you can take it out before it fires.”
“Way ahead of you, L-T.”
“Sara?”
“We’re good,” she said, voice strained, “but
it won’t last. Frodo?”
“Core is already in overload,” the computer said. “Full containment breach any time after approximately twelve minutes from now.”
“Hit it, Lieder.”
Lieder touched her panel and the Ochse shook, as if shivering at the fate toward which its crew was directing it. On Mains’s console screen, the little green arrow approached the white mass of the habitat.
“We’re about to make history,” he said. “First humans to land on a Yautja habitat.”
“And live to tell the tale,” Faulkner said.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Faulkner,” Lieder said.
In all his time as a Colonial Marine and then an Excursionist, Johnny had never been so close to death.
He was pleased that he felt afraid.
* * *
They had been tracking the habitat for a long time, but in reality they knew very little about it. They’d discovered more in the past hour—seeing at least a score of Yautja ships launched, destroying several, and now drifting in toward the habitat surface for a landing—than in the past twelve months combined.
“Landing in three minutes,” Lieder said. Her voice was tense. They all were. Frodo was poised to initiate countermeasures the instant any surface weapons fired at them, but so far their approach seemed to have been ignored.
Mains was under no illusion that they were going unnoticed.
“Two more ships launched,” Faulkner said. “As it stands, no threat to us.”
“Track them.” Mains was worried. And confused. They’d fought a space battle and now, fatally damaged, they were attempting to land on an enemy vessel, yet the enemy seemed unconcerned. If the situation was reversed, he would have destroyed their ship the moment it was disabled, negating any further potential for aggression. He knew the Yautja were different, and perhaps that was it. Maybe they didn’t want to blast a ship that was adrift. Perhaps that went against whatever weird code of honor they had.
“Approaching selected landing zone,” Lieder said, then she added, “Shit me, will you look at that.”
They were all looking. They each had the same view on their main console screen, captured by cameras at the Ochse’s nose. Even Cotronis, now isolated in the ship’s weapons hold, could view it on her combat-suit display.
“I’ve been to some pretty fucking desolate places in my time,” Faulkner said, “but this beats them all.”
The surface of the habitat resembled the sand-packed expanse of a wide, pale beach. Even though it was vast, because of its cylindrical nature the horizon was close. It was scattered with low-level mounds, and here and there were dark lines that might have been deep crevasses. There were also the tall protuberances, sprouting from the habitat like giant tusks and pushing far out into space. Instruments showed that the largest of them was almost three miles high, and as Mains watched, the ship dipped down beneath its furthest reach.
“Launch dock for ships,” Lieder said. “Look, see that one ahead?”
As the Ochse slowed to match the habitat’s speed, ahead of them they saw one of the spine-like structures heavy with several sleek, silvery fruits of diverse shape and size. Yautja ships.
“Get us down quick,” Mains said. “Sara, you okay?”
“Fucking dandy.” She didn’t sound dandy. Frodo had already told Mains how much radiation Cotronis had been exposed to, and even with the combat suit it would be the end of her. The only uncertainty was how long it would take her to die. If they could get some anti-radiation shots into her, perhaps she could live for another few weeks.
Perhaps, but they were hardly in the best of scenarios for treating someone so critically ill.
“L-T, something weird on long-range scanners,” Faulkner said. “A ship cycling out of FTL.”
“Distance?”
“Uncertain.”
“Why?”
“It’s a weird signal, Johnny. Sensors and scanners are confused, but it’s closing quickly.”
“Yautja ship?” Snowdon asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Lieder said. “We’re landing in fifteen seconds. Surface gravity is point eight standard. No atmosphere to speak of.”
“No sign of aggression from the habitat,” Faulkner said.
“They’re waiting,” Snowdon said. “Let us land, then they’ll hunt us.”
“Delightful,” Mains said. “Snowdon, send a message to Tyszka’s Star, tell them our status and position, report the launch of seven more Yautja ships.”
“Ready to go.”
“Frodo?”
“You’ll have time to get clear and find cover before the reactor goes critical. There’s an entry to the interior half a mile across the surface. I’ll send coordinates to your suits, and I’ll drift the ship off to reduce the chances of the blast catching you.”
“Thanks. Give us as much time as you can.” He frowned. The ship’s computer would be dead within a few minutes, and he felt like he should say something else, but it wasn’t like a synthetic mind. Not AI. He’d never perceived any sense of personality from the machine.
Lieder glanced across at him, as did Snowdon. Perhaps they were thinking the same thing.
“It’s really all right,” Frodo said, surprising them all. Mains held his breath, expecting it to continue, but there was no more.
“That other ship?”
“It’s gone,” Faulkner said. “Cloaked, maybe, but vanished.”
“Okay, guys, let’s get to the ramp.” They left their stations for the last time, Lieder remaining behind longer than the others to confirm that the landing sequence was continuing according to plan. Moments later she was with them at the entrance to the flight deck.
“Snowdon, come with me to grab Sara. You two, lower the ramp. One minute.”
Mains and Snowdon diverted to the weapons hold. Cotronis was leaning against the wall, a defender cradled in her arms. A heavy weapon, it was hardly the sort of gun to take with them on the run, but its firepower might be useful.
“Sara, we’ll—”
“Let’s just go,” she said. She led the way through the hold and down to the docking ramp. Lieder and Faulkner were already there.
Mains knew that there was no need to tell his VoidLarks to activate their suits.
Instead, he said, “Let’s make history.”
* * *
With no time to vent the ship comfortably, the ramp dropped and a storm of air burst out around him. Standing solid, braced against the pressure at his back, Mains winced, then started down the still-lowering ramp. In a moment he was closed in a world of complete silence, and staggering scope.
The suit’s clear-skin helmet was held half an inch from his skin around his mouth and nose. It closely followed his head’s contour, so there was nothing to obscure his view of the amazing, daunting new world onto which they had stepped.
“Let’s hustle,” he said, voice muffled and dead. The location of the closest entry down into the habitat was projected onto his view. As they ran, Snowdon taking lead, Lieder bringing up their rear, Mains tried to take everything in.
The endless span of space enveloped them. Even though there was a comfortable gravity, he felt as if with every step he’d lift from the ground and be drawn into the darkness. It was cold, and vast, and it bled his heat and hope and his sense of self. He couldn’t help glancing up, training be damned. He was only human, and humans really shouldn’t be exposed like this, he mused, touching the ground with their feet and open space with their heads. No atmosphere meant utter silence, and every breath, every creak of his aging joints, felt like something only he could hear.
“I think I just shit myself,” Faulkner said.
“Keep it down,” Mains said, but not too harshly. “And stay sharp. Check your suit status.” He sent an order to his own computer, and the suit flashed a rapid series of green lights into his view.
“Frodo, how long do we have?” he asked.
“Five minutes, maybe less,” the ship’s computer said. “I’m
trying to lift off again, but the ship’s not behaving. I’d run quickly, if I were you.”
Mains pulled to one side and glanced back. The Ochse looked so out of place clinging to this vast vessel, a sleek and beautiful craft now marred by the scars of battle. It had made a perfect landing, but this might be the ship’s final moments.
Lieder slowed, but he waved her on.
“I’ve got the rear,” he said.
“Yeah, I remember.” She tried to smile as she ran past, but there was a tension to her features that distorted her smile.
He followed, checked movement sensors, saw nothing. Way ahead of them was one of the docking arms, rising high from the habitat’s surface and reflecting weak starlight from several ships hanging toward its summit. The sight was quite beautiful, but if the craft were manned, the Yautja on board might be watching them even now, running like ants across the surface of their home. They might be preparing weapons, and in a flash barely perceived, the VoidLarks might end.
“Ten o’clock,” Snowdon said, just as a red light flashed in Mains’s view.
“Two of them,” Lieder confirmed.
Two Yautja were standing watching them. A hundred yards apart, they were both wearing their battle helmets and holding long-bladed weapons. They were too far away to make out in detail.
“Split up, but keep running,” Mains said. “We haven’t got time for this.”
The Yautja to the left broke into a run, heading opposite in an effort to flank them. Mains sent an order to his suit, drew his com-rifle, and fired a nano-bot charge. The bots arrowed toward the Yautja, and as it cloaked and flickered from view they dispersed into a wide cloud and ignited. The Yautja appeared again, cloak malfunctioning, going to its knees in a fading bloom of a thousand small explosions. Mains’s suit told him that it was still alive, but wounded.
That would do for now. They had to keep running.
Snowdon had engaged the other Yautja and winged it with a laser blast. It cloaked and dodged, then several blazing shots arced in at them from its shoulder blaster. Snowdon’s suit hardened and deflected one impact, but it sent her sprawling across the gray ground.
Faulkner launched one of his mini-drones. The fist-sized black object darted high and then dived at the Yautja, firing its laser and scoring several lines across the ground.
