Terra Nova (The Terra Nova Chronicles Book 1)

by Richard Fox

  “Understood. Let’s get them spun up and get moving en masse,” Hale said. “Now is not the time to spread out.”

  He paused as another thought struck him and beat a fist against a workstation. He needed reconnaissance, intelligence, and boots on Terra Nova to tell him what had happened down there before he sent his fleet of unarmed ships into orbit. He needed Pathfinders.

  “Get me Carson.”

  Chapter 3

  With a little help from Nunez and Moretti, Carson limped toward the Pathfinders’ locker. The meds had kept the pain down to a dull throbbing, but every time she stepped on the deck with her good leg, she felt a sting of pain through her broken bone and a new ache from the bruises up and down her back.

  The hatch opened just as Nunez reached forward to tap the door controls.

  A tall, well-built man in his late forties stepped out into the corridor, then stopped, obviously surprised at their arrival. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut into a severe high and tight and his angular jaw was clean-shaven, an oddity for most experienced Pathfinders. His uniform appeared freshly pressed and the master sergeant chevrons on his collar seemed to glisten in the bay’s light.

  “Well,” he said, stepping back out of the way, “this explains why Nunez and Moretti weren’t at their assigned stations after the jump. Welcome to the Enduring Spirit, Chief Carson. I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  “That seems to be the common thread around here today,” Carson said as the two men helped her through the hatch. Inside, wire-mesh cages lined the walls, all filled with equipment. Six lockers were open, each containing a suit of void/terrestrial environmental armor and a weapon rack. Carson smiled; she hadn’t been in proper Pathfinder country for a long time.

  Moretti guided her to a long table in the middle of the room and helped her up. She winced as her broken leg dangled off the edge.

  “Master Sergeant Jason West,” the older man said, extending a hand. “Team sergeant. Good to have you aboard. Losing Byers right at the end surprised us all. Looks like you got a little banged up on arrival.”

  “Good to meet you, Sergeant. Nothing like showing up last to the party. And this,” she waved a hand at her leg, “is nothing.”

  “If she’d hit any harder, it would have ruptured the artery.” Moretti grabbed a small case from an open locker and set it down next to her. He removed a gleaming set of surgical probes and snapped them onto his gauntlet. Tiny scopes peeked out of the attachment and light glinted off laser scalpels.

  “You can treat her here?” West asked.

  “Simple fracture.” Instruments whirred along his gauntlet. “I could treat this in the dark, up to my knees in mud while getting shot at.”

  “He’s the modest one on the team,” Nunez said.

  Carson looked away from her leg as Moretti put on a visor from the case. A HUD popped onto the glass, detailing the physiology of her broken bone and surrounding tissue. She felt him grab her by the ankle and then pressure against her calf as the probes cut their way through the vac suit. A wave of cold spread across her leg, then she felt nothing at all from her injury.

  “Sergeant West,” Carson said, “I see six lockers but only four of us. Are we the entire team?”

  “Negative, ma’am,” West said. “Birch and Popov are working on an equipment inventory on deck seven. Speaking of…” He looked at Nunez. The junior Pathfinder grumbled and hurried out a back door.

  Carson ignored the smell of cauterized flesh as Moretti continued his field surgery.

  “Our gear is squared away,” West said. “As such, the chief petty officer of the ship recognized that we’d have a few warm bodies standing around after the jump and isn’t a fan of idleness.” He looked up at a blinking amber light over the back doorway.

  “We’re still on alert after the jump,” West said. “Odd.”

  A wave of sensation came back to Carson’s leg as the medic pulled his gauntlet away. He sprayed disinfectant over the probe ends and retracted them back into their housing. Carson bumped her bad leg against her good one and felt only a pinch of discomfort.

  The medic kept his eyes on the data scrolling across the small screen on the gauntlet. “Nano-polymer bio-adhesion element. Set the break easily enough. You’ll feel some soreness for the first six hours. Light duty recommended for the first day.”

  “I thought it took almost two days for the polymers to fully kick in,” Carson said.

  “Last generation’s, that’s correct,” Moretti said. “You haven’t been in the field for a while.”

  The medic’s last statement had a tinge of accusation to it. The Pathfinders Corps prided itself on being at the fore of any military operation and lighting the way for science and exploration. To be behind the lines earned a number of nicknames: pogue, slacker, REMF.

  “I was riding a desk at Camelback HQ,” she said. “Not by choice. Any other new gear I should be aware of?”

  Moretti took a small pill bottle out of his case and handed it to her.

  “Motrin and water,” he said.

  “Some things never change,” Carson said. She slid off the table and took a few steps. There was a twinge in her now repaired leg, but she could walk normally.

  “We’ll get you fit in Byers’ gear,” West said. “I’ve got you berthed in his—”

  An alert tone chimed and a voice came through the speakers in the ceiling. “Chief Carson, contact the bridge,” Director Hale said. “Repeat, Chief Carson, contact the bridge.”

  Carson looked down at the screen on her forearm and saw that it was badly cracked. She tapped it twice and it gave off a dying buzz.

  “Figures,” Carson said. “West, do you have—”

  The sergeant handed her a data slate already keyed into the ship’s commo network.

  “Thanks.” The disheveled appearance Carson saw in the screen’s reflection wasn’t going to make the best impression on the director. She hadn’t spoken to him face-to-face for years, but this was not how she wanted to get reacquainted. Even so, she couldn’t help the anticipation welling inside her. Serving with the colonel—his rank in the Pathfinder Corps before he retired for this mission—had been one of her lifelong ambitions, despite their rocky past.

  She swiped a finger down the screen and established a link to Spirit’s bridge.

  The screen changed. Carson recognized Marie Hale as she spoke to one of the bridge crew. Ken Hale appeared a second later.

  “Chief Carson,” said the war hero, shaking his head slowly like a disappointed parent, “it appears as though you’re in one piece.”

  She felt her cheeks flush slightly. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And I’d just like to say that I’m excited to be a part of this—”

  “Later. At the moment, however, we have a situation developing that requires the onboard Pathfinders’ specific skills, and as you’re the only commissioned Pathfinder on board, the mission falls to the team.”

  He said the team, Carson thought. Not my team. “Yes, sir. We’re ready.”

  “We’ve arrived in the Terra Nova system. However, we’ve not raised anyone from the colony and it appears that most, if not all, of the orbital stations are off-line. Dark protocol is in effect.”

  Carson felt a chill in her heart. Dark protocols were only used when a colony was suspected of being under attack. The last time Pathfinders had gone on that kind of a mission was after the Caledonia Massacre.

  Carson exchanged a confused look with West. The Terra Nova system had been settled for over fifteen years; surely there was someone on the planet that would be trying to communicate with them. The arrival of the fleet should have been a momentous occasion for everyone in system, not just for the newly arrived colonists.

  Hale continued, seemingly oblivious to Carson’s confusion. “It’s going to take several hours for the fleet to spin up and move into orbit, but we need to get some eyes on the ground and make contact with the colony. We’ve got forty thousand colonists waiting to make landfall. I’ve got
a Mule crew prepping a bird on the deck where you landed. It’s a slick, no turrets, so don’t count on any air support. They’re wheels-up in twenty minutes. Head down to the surface and find out why no one is answering the phone.”

  “Yes, sir, but how—”

  “I don’t have any answers for you, Chief. You have your marching orders. Contact me as soon as you have made contact with the colony. Maintain comms security. Hale out.”

  The slate’s screen went blank, leaving Carson staring back at her reflection again. She set the slate aside.

  “Sergeant West,” Carson said, stepping around the man and going to an open locker, “I want the team kitted out for recon. Can we make that in wheels-up time?”

  West spoke into a microphone on the back of his gauntlet hand.

  “We’re Pathfinders, ma’am. No one waits on us,” he said. “Byers’ armor is set to factory standards. We can get it dialed in to your frame on the way down.”

  Carson pulled a gauss carbine out of the weapon rack and slapped in a full magazine.

  “I like the way you think, Sergeant. Pathfinders light the way,” she said.

  “That we do, ma’am.”

  ****

  Carson felt the deck of the Mule’s cargo bay sway beneath her feet as the shuttle banked in the void. She’d barely gotten to know the Enduring Spirit before hopping on another Mule and leaving almost as fast as she’d arrived.

  In the center of the cargo bay, four Pathfinders crowded around a case bolted to the deck, picking out bits of equipment and attaching it to their armor or stuffing it into small sacks attached to their lower backs. She recognized two, Moretti and Nunez. One of the others was a young woman with red hair and Slavic features, mumbling to herself as she completed her kit. The other was a tall, powerfully built man with a slight bulge on his back from a drone carrier.

  West stood near Carson, his eyes locked on the holo projection of a person with their arms held perpendicular to their body. He rolled one hand forward.

  Carson shrugged her shoulders forward. The armor plates of her Pathfinder armor slowed the motion, then she felt the pseudo-muscle layer beneath the composite plates squeeze against her chest and arms. The layer just over her skin was proof against vacuum and most extreme climes, and could triple her strength when needed.

  Her armor wasn’t designed for sustained punishment, but for long-duration missions in austere environments. The Strike Marines wore larger, up-armored suits into battle and carried more powerful rifles. That was what Strike Marines did: kill people and break things. Pathfinder missions varied from search and rescue, to reconnaissance, to more mundane things like escorting scientists with the field acumen of potatoes through alien ruins. Her armor could get her through a fight, but if she wanted to go charging through a hail of enemy bullets like the Spirit’s commander was famous for, she wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.

  “Upper-body synch check.” West pointed to the deck and Carson squatted down.

  The armor plates on her chest and back swayed as she felt the pseudo-muscle layer tighten against her thighs and midriff. The plates snapped against her body and she stood up, barely feeling the weight as her armor took the stress off her body.

  “Lower synch check. Give it another thirty minutes to work itself out. Might pinch a little until then,” West said.

  Carson worked her shoulder blades. For as much as the Pathfinders took pride in their armor, the engineers had yet to devise a suit that didn’t itch right where she couldn’t scratch it.

  West slapped his gauntlet screen twice and held his arm out to her. She twisted the wrist of her gauntlet to activate the data ports and tapped her arm against his. Data flowed into her onboard computers.

  “We’ve got a good team,” West said. “Moretti you’ve met. He was on track for a commission and med school when his enlistment was up. Colonel—excuse me, Director—Hale handpicked him for the team and the colony. He’s one of the better field medics I’ve come across.”

  “Wonder if he’d learn some more bedside manners at the university,” Carson said.

  “Yeah, he’s got a chip on his shoulder about something. There’s nothing in his personnel file to explain it,” West said. “Nunez was top of his class during selection. High marks in geology and planetary science. Would have won honor graduate, but he did something to piss off the cadre and they almost didn’t let him earn his wings.”

  “Any idea what?” she asked.

  “Something involving a stolen air car and the Dotari ambassador’s liquor stash. At least, that’s the best I can put together. I asked five different contacts at the selection course about him and got five different stories. He’s rather tight-lipped about the incident but does well in the field. He and Moretti were on the same team during their probationary period. Their team chief was a bit salty when she lost them to the mission.”

  “I take it the redhead is our communications specialist?” Carson asked.

  “Correct. Popov. Her parents are in the colony, higher-ups in the construction division. Since there’s no going back to Earth, Hale gave preferential treatment to whole families that wanted to join. She’s fresh out of selection—so fresh they rushed her through the last two months to get her onto the team.”

  “She did the land nav star course, Australian survival, and rated master in her specialty in two months?” Carson asked.

  “Motivation,” West said. “She’s dropped a few hints that her parents might have come on the mission without her. If this were a normal team, she’d be on probationary status and I wouldn’t have suggested she make this drop. But we’re not in the Milky Way anymore. Needs must.” He shrugged.

  The tall Pathfinder with the drone pack moved away from the equipment crate and went to one knee near the bulkhead. He planted his gauss carbine in front of him and bowed his head in prayer.

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” Carson asked.

  “Yes, ma’am; Sergeant Carl Birch. Our drone wrangler and the only Pathfinder ever awarded the Medal of Honor. He’s not one for fame, which is one of the reasons he volunteered for Terra Nova—no one here’s trying to make him a poster boy for anything,” West said.

  The most famous Pathfinder in the Corps…and me, Carson thought, the most infamous. What a match.

  “I read his citation,” she said. “Still hard to believe what happened to him. Lost his team on a rescue mission to recover a downed suit of armor, then dragged that soldier’s metal womb through enemy lines. Jesus…”

  “He keeps to St. Kallen, armor’s patron saint,” West said. “The chief Templar, Colonel Martel, even brought him to Mars after his award ceremony, let him visit St. Kallen’s shrine. He’s the only non-armor soldier that’s ever been given that honor. He prays before every mission.”

  “Is it true the armor call him ‘iron heart’?’

  “Ma’am, it’s better to assume everything you’ve ever heard about Birch is true. He’s modified his drones beyond standard specs, which is against regs, but they work so well that no one’s ever told him to stop.”

  “We’ve got a solid team. What about you, Master Sergeant? Why Terra Nova?”

  West’s cheeks flushed.

  “I have a wife and three little ones,” he said. “I’m a plank holder. Left the Rangers to join the Pathfinders soon as Director Hale started the program after the Ember War. I was one of the first on Caledonia after the massacre…” West’s jaw worked from side to side as he fought back emotion.

  “Saw enough death and destruction,” he said. “Terra Nova was away from all that. Supposed to be away from all that. I missed enough of them growing up while on missions. Wanted my kids to grow up worrying about school and anything else other than an alien fleet showing up in the skies.”

  “Worthy goal,” Carson said. “We’ll find out what’s happened to the colonists. Maybe they’re not expecting us and forgot to leave the light on.”

  “Hope you’re right, Chief.” West took his helmet off his belt and t
wisted it on, then slapped a magazine into his carbine.

  Carson checked her armor, feeling a slight pinch at her joints as she moved around the cargo bay. It had been over two years since she’d gone on a drop. The sheer volume of preparation involved made it a good deal more difficult than riding a bike again. She looked over at Nunez and saw a knife strapped to his chest.

  How can I forget that? she thought. Pathfinder knives—reinforced graphenium with a blade sharpened down almost to the molecular level—were a signature part of their gear.

  “West,” she said, “we got another Pathfinder special in that case? Mine was in my gear, which I left in another galaxy.”

  The team sergeant reached into the case and tossed her a knife in a molded scabbard. She caught it and examined the Pathfinder crest embossed on the butt of the hilt. She drew the blade and tested the balance in her hand. She spun it around, reversing the grip with quick fingers. The blade was modeled on the Strike Marine Ka-Bar, a nod to Hale’s background when he began the Pathfinders.

  This knife was factory fresh, and not the same she’d received the day she earned her wings.

  New start, she thought. New life.

  She mag-locked the hilt to her chest and sheathed the weapon. For the first time in years, she felt whole.

  ****

  Nunez slapped the side of his helmet and the blurry lines of his heads-up display cleared. “That the only thing I hate about new gear is working out all the bugs.”

  Across the Mule’s bay, Popov removed a magazine from her gauss carbine, then immediately slapped it back in. A green icon appeared next to her name on Nunez’s HUD and her voice came through his suit’s IR.

  “Bugs, hell—they didn’t even give us the chance to range-test these things,” she said, the words carrying through to Nunez’s helmet speakers. “I haven’t had a factory-fresh weapon yet that didn’t jam. You always have to give them about five hundred rounds to break in. I don’t understand why the brass doesn’t get that.”