by Jamie Sawyer
Elena didn’t even move. Her jaw muscles tightened. Not nervously, but in determination.
“I don’t want to talk about my father,” I said, as firmly as I could.
“Then just sit. We can discuss other things.”
And like an obedient dog, I did sit. I sat and regained my composure: looked into the sympathetic eyes of a creature so different to me that she might as well have been a different species. There was me: filthy, armoured, recovering from a chemical hangover, war the only reality I knew. There was her: small, manicured, beautiful, caring.
“Let’s move on then,” she said. “You’re thirty years old. Both parents deceased. No marriage contract. Ten years of excellent military service. Born in Detroit Metro, United Americas. Why did you join the military?”
No one had ever asked me that question before. I rubbed my chin in thought. This woman had a way of stirring something up inside me: talking about family and where I had come from wasn’t an easy thing for me to do. Part of me wanted to get through this assessment – whatever it was – as quickly as possible, and get back to Seigel IV. But another part actually wanted to engage with her, to open up. Right now, both were in competition and it was unclear which would win.
I answered truthfully. “A long time ago I lost someone. They showed me that there was more to life than just the Metro. Where I grew up, you had two choices: die on the streets, or leave the Metro. Sixteen million people living in the ruins of the old world. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? I don’t know that place any more. I chose to live, and joining up let me do that for at least another tour.”
“And you’ve signed up for several additional tours. As a Special Forces trooper, you could have declined those.”
“It’s called re-upping.”
“Of course. You’ve travelled widely in the defence of your government. You have an extensive record of military achievements.” She looked up from the slate again. “Whatever you think of me, I value what you do. I want to assure you of that.”
I sighed. “Sure. Whatever.”
“You’ve been noted as having a remarkably stable psychological profile. Calm under fire. Good judgement. Sound tactical mind. Completely abstinent of alcoholic beverages and narcotics – legal and otherwise.”
“It clouds the mind. I prefer to stay sharp.”
“I can see that this assessment frustrates you, Conrad. I apologise for that, but my role here is an important one. We would not have recalled you unless we felt that there was some potential benefit. I’m going to call this session to an end.”
I noticed a small spy-eye – a security camera – in one corner of the room. A blinking red light appeared inside the plastic cowling, following me as I bobbed my head.
“You got subsonics on that thing?” I asked.
Elena laughed. The sound was pleasing, genuine.
“No, Conrad. We don’t use those. Maybe it just feels better to speak with someone about your experiences.”
Perhaps, I realised, she’s right. Subsonics would’ve been the easy way out: sound pacification. Drench the room with the right frequencies, placate the subject. Those were used by law-enforcement agencies across Alliance space. But this was something different. For just an instant, it felt like a weight had been lifted from me.
“And in any case, we need veteran soldiers for this programme,” Elena went on. “We need something unique. Someone who isn’t afraid of death, of dying.”
“Those are two different things,” I said, without thinking. “I know death, but dying isn’t as easy.”
“Again, well put. I can see there is more to you that the uniform and the gun. I’m attached to a new initiative. It is currently in the trial phase, and access to the Programme is highly restricted. I think that you might be interested. My superiors have selected you as an appropriate candidate. How would you like to take the fight to the Krell?”
“I’m already doing that.”
She laughed again, crossing her legs under the table. “This will be completely different. This will be something so much better.”
What did I have to lose? “I’m listening.”
“There will be additional training, of course, but it will be worth it. It is called the Simulant Operations Programme, and I will be responsible for your induction.”
CHAPTER SIX
NOT A DRILL
“Time to wake up.”
The prickle of processed air hit my skin, and with blurry vision I made out the hypersleep chamber onboard the Oregon. There was my squad, and the other team-members assembled for the mission. Medics were awakening us. I shook with the bone-numbing cold of hypersleep.
I dragged myself upright, and then with monumental effort got out of my capsule. The metal floor beneath me was cold against my wet feet. Better to get it over with: I yanked at the feeder cables and IV drip attached to my forearms, felt the brief lance of pain as the needles came free. Bright droplets of red blood welled from the puncture wounds.
“Morning everyone,” I managed.
My team variously groaned and grunted in response.
Another birthday lost to the freezers.
A medical drone flitted in front of me; as small as my hand, with a medi-sensor mounted on the nose. It shone a light into my face, making me wince. I had neither the energy nor the inclination to swat the thing away.
“Identity verified,” it chirped in an electronic voice. “Vitals good. Drink plenty of fluids to remain hydrated. Consume nutrient shakes to ensure swift recovery from hypersleep medication …”
The drone hovered away to inspect other sleepers.
“I hate the freezers,” Kaminski said, towelling himself dry. “Always give me the aches.”
“Quit complaining,” Jenkins called from across the chamber. Her voice was hoarse – she hadn’t spoken in six months. She stood naked, drying her bobbed black hair. “We’ve done this a hundred times already. You should be used to it by now.”
Kaminski shrugged. “Whatever, Jenkins. Just remember how far we are from the Quarantine Zone.” He scratched his head, as though thinking about that for a moment. Then, when he couldn’t come up with a compelling answer to his own question: “Light-years. You get lost out here, no one is going to come help you but the ’Ski. There won’t be any letters from home out here.”
Blake emerged from his capsule, still dripping in preservative fluid. His blond hair was longer than the standard military cut, but on a Sim Ops unit protocol wasn’t strictly enforced.
“Like Kaminski can read anyway,” he said, and the rest of the squad laughed.
Blake locked eyes with a ship technician – a young woman, pretty in a demure kind of way – who smiled, then averted her eyes. She offered him a towel to cover his muscled body, and he deliberately hesitated before taking it.
“Well, thank you very much, little lady,” he said.
“I guess the hard work starts now,” said Jenkins, brusquely. “We’ve slept for long enough.”
“Damn straight,” I said. A medic handed me a nutrient drink, and I swilled it down. It tasted like thick, warm piss. “Let’s not forget that we were being paid for that sleep.”
The group grumbled in unison. We accrued combat-pay during hypersleep, for what it was worth.
Atkins was already up and dressed, his Naval uniform dazzlingly blue to my colour-drained eyes. Martinez was next to me, flexing his arms to rid himself of the freezer aches.
“How did you get up so quickly?” he asked the captain.
“I like to set my capsule to thaw a day early,” he said, grinning. “Gets me functional before the rest of you wake up. Hypersleep isn’t so bad when you get used to it.”
He enthusiastically clapped his hands. His handsome looks and bright-eyed nature were vaguely nauseating. Martinez rolled his eyes, said nothing: he’d probably spent more time in hypersleep than the rest of us combined, but that didn’t mean that he boasted about it.
“All right people. The Q-space drive disengaged
three days ago. Ship’s clock indicates we have been out of real-space for six months, exactly as planned. We’re inside the Maelstrom. There have been no reported enemy contacts.”
“Would we know about it if there had been?” Jenkins croaked. “I take it that the Krell would have just blown us out of space without giving a warning.”
Kaminski laughed at that. “Right on, sister.”
“Simmer down, people,” I said. “As mission commander, I want to brief you all on the operation before we reach Helios. Assemble in the briefing room in one hour.”
Briefing was tucked behind the bridge, an auditorium-style chamber that could accommodate four times the Oregon’s current occupants. There was my squad, the ship’s officers under Atkins, and Olsen’s science staff. Barely twenty personnel, all told. I had set up a tri-D viewer at the head of the room, with mission papers spread across a table in front of me.
The team gathered around and I briefed them on what I already knew about the Artefact – little as it was. Olsen must have previously prepped his people, because they showed little surprise at the revelation. They were all eager young faces, following us out into the dark in pursuit of knowledge. I’d seen their type too many times before, and the story never ended well. The Navy officers, on the other hand, were positively alarmed by the information. Save for Atkins and his closest personnel, the intelligence had been kept from the rest of the crew. This was a strictly need to know operation.
I moved on to the meat of the brief.
“The mission is codenamed Keystone, and it’s an insertion operation. We’ll deploy on Helios via APS. Straight down the pipe, landing virtually on top of the station. From there, we will conduct preliminary recon of the facility. Scanners are our friends, as always. We will attempt to recover any surviving station staff. We will not be attracting attention to ourselves. We will not stay and fight.”
“What are the chances of finding anyone alive, Captain?” Martinez asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“The station has failed to report for twelve months objective,” Atkins added. He was making allowance for our journey from the Point. “There haven’t been any fresh broadcasts while we were en route. Read into that what you will.”
Jenkins took the opportunity to question the captain further. “What about engine signatures from other ships entering or leaving Helios’ space? Do we know whether anyone else has been here in recent history?”
Atkins shrugged. “That’s a loaded question, Corporal. If a human ship had dropped out of Q-space in the last few days, it would likely leave a tachyon spill – their trail back into real-space, as it were. But nothing. No one has been here.”
“What about Krell ships?” Jenkins pushed.
“That’s the complication,” Atkins explained. “They rarely leave an engine signature.”
“That’s helpful nonetheless,” I muttered, thumbing through the mission papers. “Makes it more likely that the station was overrun by a Krell Collective on the ground.”
“Which is where we come in,” Kaminski said, shooting an imaginary target with a pistol made from his fingers. “At least we can rule out the Directorate.”
The news did little to lighten the mood though. We all knew that we were operating out here, in distant alien space, without back-up or support. The sense of anticipation was readable; an aura emanating from the gathered group. I took in their concerned faces – knew that I would have to keep morale up if this was going to work.
“Once we’ve established whether the station is operational,” I said, “we move to stage two of the mission. If there is some genuine reason for the station failing to report – which seems less likely, based on what we’ve just been told – then we offer any assistance necessary. If the facility is no longer viable, then we demolish it. It runs on a standard-pattern power generator, the same as a civilian starship. A well-placed demolition charge will send the entire place into meltdown.”
I activated the tri-D viewer and called up a map of Helios Station. A wireframe hologram appeared in front of me. I pointed out key locations.
“The plans show multiple hangar bays and some storage silos. A power station – which houses the generator and main power supply – sits in the middle of the outpost, alongside the Operations centre.”
The power station was the lifeblood of the station, but Operations was the beating heart – a tower housing what little capacity the staff had to contact the rest of the human race.
“There are habitation modules on the perimeter of the outpost. A laboratory complex sits here.”
Even in tri-D, the buildings and base looked bland. No doubt the station had been set up from orbit, and it was likely that each building had once been a module from a settler-class starship – disassembled, then dropped to Helios’ surface. Given the adverse conditions in which the station was established, an orbital drop was the only safe option.
“Looks like a hundred other bases we’ve fought over,” Blake said. “Move along. Nothing to see here.”
I nodded. “Let’s not get complacent. I want the ground team to study the schematics before we make transition. They will also be loaded onto the suit-computers.”
“How far is Helios Station from the, uh, Artefact?” Blake asked.
“Several kilometres.” I brought up another holo-map of the wider desert region, and I pointed out the locations. “But the Artefact doesn’t form part of our tactical plan. If Command wants someone to babysit, then they can send the regular Army.”
“What about atmospheric conditions down there?” Martinez said. “Are they human-standard? Or are we going to be buttoned up the whole time?”
“It’s breathable, but not quite California,” Olsen pitched in.
“Hey, since the Directorate launched that attack on San Angeles, California isn’t such a picture any more,” said Kaminski.
“Thanks for that, ’Ski,” Jenkins said.
Jenkins’ family was out of San Angeles. The city-state took over most of the western seaboard – or at least it had, until it had been nuked by the Directorate back in seventy-one. The loss of life had been immense; it was too recent an atrocity to joke about.
Olsen continued: “Meteorological data from the station satellite suggests extensive storms batter much of the planet’s main continent, often appearing with little or no warning. Limited surface water, huge areas of desert. The latest weather report indicates that a storm is moving in from the west.”
“The place looks like prime real estate,” Kaminski said. “Maybe one of us could buy the farm down there.”
Martinez and Blake sniggered, but Jenkins didn’t. The California jibe had pissed her off.
“Quit screwing around, assholes,” she said. “We’ve got a job to do.”
“I know you’re all running on a lot of stress right now,” I said, “but there won’t be room for slip-ups on this op. Olsen, you were saying?”
Olsen gave a dim smile and went on: “There is a storm moving in from the west. That will limit the window of opportunity.”
“How long have we got?”
“Two days before it hits.”
I indicated some printed images scattered across the viewer table. Pictures of the Artefact, angular and foreign – alien even to the Krell. I couldn’t look at the warped architecture for too long without beginning to feel ill.
“Are we still picking up the Artefact?” I asked. “Is it still broadcasting?”
Atkins nodded. “The Oregon’s AI has been monitoring the Artefact throughout our journey to Helios. It consistently broadcasts the same signal.”
“No surprises there. Have we tried hailing Helios Station?”
“Since we arrived in orbit, communications have been erratic. The signal broadcast by the Artefact is intense. It blots out most planetary comms, we think. But we have directed two short data-bursts at the station, and there has been no response.”
“What technology does the station have?” Kam
inski said.
“Basic survival facilities,” Olsen said. “They were – are – a scientific mission. They have no extra-solar-capable transport.”
“So they have no way off Helios?” Jenkins responded.
“That’s right. The base has an appropriately armed security force,” Olsen said. “They also have a communication and metrological satellite in orbit around Helios. No air-defence that we are aware of.”
“Is their satellite still operational?” I asked.
“Appears to be,” Atkins said.
That was interesting information. It seemed unlikely that a comms fault had caused the break in transmission. I rubbed my chin, considering that.
“So that’s it, people,” I said. “A simple job, but in difficult circumstances. Once we’ve investigated the station, we move back to the Wildcat APS and we evacuate off-world.”
Atkins took over. “Helios has an asteroid field in close orbit. It’ll take some manoeuvring to get us into a good orbital position, but the Oregon will remain on standby. We’ll be monitoring your progress.”
“Olsen will take command in the medical bay,” I said. “Captain Atkins, you have your orders on the bridge. Sixteen hours for prep and final checks, then we go into the simulators. Unless there are any questions, this briefing is over.”
“There is one more thing,” Olsen said, holding his hand up to halt my breaking of the meeting. “Before we left Liberty Point, I copied Dr Kellerman’s personnel record. It includes his transmissions back to Alliance Command.”
I remembered that the corporate man back at the Point mentioned them. His dismissive tone had made me immediately interested in them. If things on Helios did turn nasty, there might be something in them that I could use. Olsen removed a data-chip from his smock pocket, and passed it to me.
