by Jamie Sawyer
Each suit carried a personal oxygen tank and breathing kit, enough for hours of extra-vehicular activity in the event that the atmosphere turned hostile. Kaminski, Blake and I were equipped with backpack-mounted kits, very large and bulky. The weight of the pack was immediately demanding; I didn’t relish the idea of carrying it on a protracted op.
“You okay with that?” Blake asked me. “Do you want some help?”
I wriggled into the harness, drawing the straps tight over my chest and shoulders. I made an effort to avoid pulling my ribs. I didn’t want help, didn’t want to admit that I was struggling. Just like Kellerman, I thought with annoyance.
“I’ll manage.”
“Watch the packs,” Deacon warned. “These are strictly civilian models. The oxygen tanks are not shielded. You breach the tank – it goes up.”
He tapped the exposed oxygen tank on my pack – chipped and battered, a hazardous materials warning sticker so faded that it was barely visible.
“We’re military. We’ve done this before.”
Deacon gave a dour nod.
“You have communicators,” Kellerman added, pointing to wrist-mounted computer devices, “but the range is very limited. They are isolated to reduce the danger of Krell interception, and they are strictly suit-to-suit. Keep communications to a minimum. Although it is highly unlikely that we will encounter the Krell, use caution.”
“Do we have weapons?” Blake asked.
“There will be no need for heavy weaponry on this expedition,” Kellerman said, frowning. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “It is no more than an exploratory survey. I assure you, we will be quite safe. Deacon and Ray are carrying enough firepower to protect us all.”
“More important than guns,” Farrell said, “is water. Outside, you’ll need to keep hydrated. The suits carry enough water for several hours, but watch your supply.”
Farrell was an older man; hunched over, with burst blood vessels across his big nose. I made a mental note: perhaps alcohol wasn’t banned on the station. Maybe I should see whether Farrell could get me some.
“Where exactly are we going?” I asked.
“We will be examining an archaeological site of great interest,” Kellerman said. “There is virtually no possibility of encountering a Krell patrol when the weather is this clear.”
“Doc is right,” Farrell chipped in. “Clear weather allows the Artefact to broadcast over most of this continent. With the signal obtaining such clarity, the xenos will be congregating around the Artefact.”
“And I have weapons,” Deacon said, flashing a rare smile. “We won’t be going anywhere near the Artefact.”
“I don’t trust this at all,” Blake murmured softly.
“We don’t have much of a choice,” I said. “Any sign of trouble, and we’ll bail out to the crawler. Simple as that.”
Eventually, all safety protocols recognised, we mounted the sand-crawler. Kellerman and Deacon sat in the passenger cabin with my men and me. Ray drove, and Farrell acted as navigator.
With an ominous engine rumble, the crawler rolled out of Helios Station and into the darkness of Helios’ dawn. Helios Primary provided a guiding light, just breaking the cloud cover. With practised ease, Ray drove the vehicle out into the desert. We went through the same procedure to sign out as we had on our arrival, with Tyler approving our departure. The ancient laser batteries traced our progress.
Kellerman stood and peered into the driver cabin, his legs whirring and clicking as he went. He was unsteady on his feet.
“Is the radio mast muted?” he asked.
“All radio contact is suspended per protocol, Doctor,” Farrell said, absently.
“Have you checked for any signal leakage? Please do so. We can’t afford to be traced out here.”
“All checked, no bleed,” Farrell said.
Obviously happy with that response, Kellerman sat down and buckled himself into the crawler safety harness.
We travelled for hours.
Through ravines and gullies, brutal architecture created by a world of endless dry seasons and baked by two alien suns. We were well out of the reach of Helios Station, which was a psychological burden as much as a geographical one. There would be no help for us out here. Thankfully, the route was largely deserted: the world outside still and quiet.
“I’ve done this run lots of times,” Ray bragged from the driver section. “Too many to count.”
I wasn’t sure whether Ray was a researcher or a station maintenance tech. He was swarthy, with mousy-coloured and unkempt hair. A sagging paunch of a belly stretched at his jumpsuit, but he didn’t seem mean or vindictive like most of Deacon’s people. If anything, he appeared eager to impress us with his knowledge of Helios’ topography.
“Watch him,” I quietly said to Kaminski, indicating to the driver cab. I was wary of his apparent self-assurance.
Both Kaminski and Blake nodded.
I sat back in the passenger cabin, and took the opportunity to question Deacon and Kellerman.
“So where exactly is this site?” I asked Kellerman.
“It isn’t far from the station. You will find it most interesting.”
“We’ve been driving for hours.”
“The terrain is not conducive to land travel.”
“Is the site linked to the Artefact?”
“Just be patient,” Kellerman said. Then, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, “I am most intrigued by your simulant technology. I have inspected the simulant bodies that we recovered from your landing craft. The technology was developed, as I understand it, to specifically counter the Krell threat. Let me make sure I have this right: you are able to enter a state of suspended … ah, consciousness … in the simulators, and thereby interface with the simbodies?”
“That’s about the size of it,” I said – again, keen not to give away too much.
“The goal being that the operator is exposed to limited risk. The sim-body dies, but the operator is unharmed. These simulants, what mental capacity do they have?”
“None. They are grown for the job. They have an adapted neural interface that allows us to inhabit the body. No higher brain function.”
“Advanced bio-technology and gene-engineering, coupled with mechanics. So you intended to remain on your starship, and conduct the rescue operation remotely?”
“That’s right. It didn’t work out.”
“Where the Krell are involved, it rarely does. Could you make transition to another simulant body – perhaps one of those grown for use by another squad-member?”
I shook my head. “The bodies are individually encoded for use by a specific trooper. I couldn’t make transition to a sim grown for use by Kaminski or Blake, or any of the others.”
Kellerman frowned. “It appears that some of the simulants were damaged, Captain.”
“That’s right. My sims were destroyed during the landing.”
“The simulator-tanks were also damaged. While we are away, I have asked my researchers to attempt to repair them. Your Mr Olsen is assisting.”
“We don’t need the tanks. My squad and I – we’re still soldiers, even without the simulators.”
“Of course. I simply felt that it might be prudent to repair them as a contingency.” Kellerman shrugged. The exo-suit shoulders buzzed when he moved. “It may be some time before the Alliance sends assistance. We have such limited security personnel on-station; the extra manpower of an operational simulant would be much appreciated.”
“I don’t think that even Olsen can repair those tanks,” I said, lying as best I could. “The technology is very advanced, very specialised.”
I didn’t want Kellerman to have use of the simulators. Hunched in the safety harness as he was, wrapped in the exo-suit, he appeared to be a spent force – old, weak, harmless. And his words were always sensible, reasoned. But his eyes revealed the real spirit of the man: and when he caught me in his glare, I knew the truth. Here was a man capable of potential depravity for
his cause. Two thousand staff disappeared, with no explanation.
Then there was the fact that my simulants were all dead. Even with the tanks fixed, I couldn’t make transition. I suddenly felt the nagging ache in my injured leg. I felt vulnerable. I had not been to war in my own body for many years and right now it felt incredibly fallible. Physically, I was about as much use as Kellerman.
“Anyone who fights the Krell is okay by me,” Deacon interjected. “Y’all just don’t do it the old-fashioned way. Up close and personal, that’s what I’m all about. Fucking hate those fish heads.”
“I hear that, brother,” Kaminski chanted, knocking fists with Blake.
“I apologise for Mr Deacon’s crudity,” Kellerman said. “Mr Deacon, please check on our progress.”
Deacon reluctantly unbuckled and stalked into the driver cabin, using overhead handholds to steady himself as he went. He had stripped to the waist, out of his H-suit, and had a series of messy scars over his shoulder blades and neck. He had a tattoo on his back: “Death from the stars – XXth Division.”
“He is a Rim War veteran,” Kellerman said, looking after Deacon as he went. “He fought the Asiatic Directorate on Epsilon Ultris. Honourably discharged. This placement was a reward, if you will, and he acts in a civilian capacity. Difficult to believe that such resources were consumed by a war between two human factions. But then these are harder times.”
“Weren’t you on Ultris?” I asked. The personnel records, I remembered, stated that he received the spinal injury on Epsilon Ultris.
Kellerman paused and frowned. “Why yes, I think that I was. So many planets, so many postings – difficult to remember them all.”
Is he seriously having trouble remembering? I wondered. I didn’t believe that someone like Kellerman would forget the location of such a pivotal event. He gave no other reaction to my question, and I decided not to press it any further, but his response struck me as strange.
Deacon clambered back into the passenger cabin. He must have heard us talking, because he pointed to a hideous scar on his chest. I winced even as he showed me; the result of a Krell boomer, I guessed.
“I made sergeant in the Alliance Army,” he said, with something approaching self-satisfaction in his voice. “Did two tours on Ultris. Eleven confirmed Korean kills. Three years, objective, of military service. And I never got a scratch on me, not a single one. Then I was stationed on Helios – four weeks in, I got this. There was a really bad storm, and a leader-form got into the station. Took out sixteen of my men, before we could bring it down.”
“You were lucky to get away with only the scar,” I said. “I’ve seen what that stuff can do. Strip a man of muscle in under an hour.”
“You’ve seen what it can do to a sim,” Deacon scoffed. He had no way of knowing of my background in the Alliance Special Forces, and I wasn’t about to correct him. “You can’t imagine the pain when it happens to your own body. The bastard wasn’t particularly big, just a mean son of a bitch. Carried one of those cannons. Fired at me as it was dying. Churned right through my H-suit.”
Deacon’s smile became fixed, his eyes glassy as he recalled the memory.
“If there is one thing that I hate more than the Directorate, it’s the damned Krell,” he said.
We reached the site somewhere approaching late morning, local time.
“Stop over there,” Kellerman directed. “By the crater. Not too close to the edge.”
Ray obeyed and manoeuvred the crawler. Then the vehicle stopped, and Kellerman’s people began to unpack a gun-bot. It was a small quadruped model – multi-legged to traverse broken terrain. About as intelligent as a dog, armoured with metal-plating and equipped with a heavy-calibre solid-shot assault cannon. The main body was taken up by a variety of sensory apparatus, used to scan for viable targets. Simple security issue, although similar units were deployed by the Army. Someone had scrawled SCRAPPY on the bot’s body.
“Mr Deacon – get outside and scout the immediate vicinity,” Kellerman barked. “I don’t want to take any risks.”
Deacon cracked the hatch to the crawler. Immediately, a wall of hot, still air hit me. He jumped down from the cabin and disappeared for a few moments. The crew continued prepping the gun-bot.
“Best to be safe,” Kellerman said to me, without explaining himself.
“Of course.”
Deacon reappeared at the hatch, his carbine cocked on his hip.
“Safe,” he announced.
Kellerman nodded sagely. “Your efforts are appreciated, Mr Deacon. Everyone can disembark now.”
His people deployed the bot – carrying it outside, then placing it on the ground. The bot activated and began to ponderously patrol the sand-crawler. Its metal legs whined and pumped as it went, multi-coloured eye lenses scanning the desert.
The rest of us cautiously dismounted the crawler. Before I had even got out of the vehicle, I felt the prickle of sweat breaking on my brow. The H-suit didn’t have an atmosphere control unit, and moving about was hard work.
“As I explained, personal communication outside of the crawler is permissible,” Kellerman said. “But try to stay together so far as possible. The Artefact is approximately twenty kilometres west of here. And so, as you can see, the Krell leave this region well alone.”
“Let’s hope,” I said.
I took in the detail of the location. A crater, maybe a kilometre across, set between two enormous mountains. The area was pocked with rock structures, twisted into bizarre shapes by the elements. The two suns threw out long shadows, providing precious shade. Here and there, bloated insect-things flitted in the cool. Stunted and warped coral-like formations – barely recognisable as some sort of plant-life – ringed the basin but did not invade it. The horizon was heat-blurred, and the whole place – protected from the worst of the wind by the mountain range – was blisteringly hot.
The away team spread out from the crawler. I paced – stretching my legs and testing the capabilities of my H-suit. It was equipped with a basic respirator mask. The churning of my individual oxygen-processing tank was a constant companion. I remembered my last sim op – clutching the cold hide of the Oregon in orbit around Helios. Then I had been in a sim, able to withstand the extremes of war. Not now.
Kaminski and Blake stood with me, scanning the horizon.
“So why exactly are we out here?” Blake muttered, his voice hazed by the hum of his own oxygen supply. “All I see is sand.”
Kaminski nodded. “I hear that.”
Kellerman clumsily came down the slope, the crawler behind him. Walking through sand was even more difficult for him; his exo-suit leg motors protested noisily.
“Beautiful site, isn’t it?” he said, indicating to the desert basin.
“What’s to see?” I asked.
Kellerman pointed with a gloved hand towards the bottom of the basin. “There.”
From a distance, it looked like just another rock-structure – a series of serrated spires, erupting from the crater floor. Caked in sand and stained the same colour as the surrounding desert, they looked innocuous enough. But Kellerman thrust a pair of battered electronic binoculars into my hands. In reconstructed monochrome I realised that this was an artificial edifice – reaching thirty or forty metres out of the ground.
I started off down the basin slope and the rest of the group followed. I broke into a jog, despite my leg. Kellerman fell back behind me, doing his best on his new legs. Deacon ran ahead, two rifles strapped across his back. As I got nearer, I saw that a small tent had been set up alongside the structure. The entrance door flapped lazily in the wind, slapping against the sagging fabric walls.
A half-buried construction rose out of the sand. Like the ribcage of some titanic alien creature, the skeletal structure had been pierced in places. The spars were of some metallic substance, unmistakably. Most of the thing appeared to be submerged.
“What is it?” I managed. I even felt a spark of excitement at the discovery.
Kellerman wandered towards the entrance to the tent. It covered the largest opening. The interior was dark, shadowy; leading directly into the alien derelict.
“We believe that it is a starship,” he proclaimed.
The spires were covered in intricate, swirling hieroglyphics. I stood back, to better take in the big structure. Every exposed surface was covered in the markings. I couldn’t focus on the language; it made my head spin. But the architecture was inimitable: this was surely made by the same engineers as the Artefact.
“So they didn’t just leave the Artefact behind …” I muttered.
“Fucking A,” Kaminski replied. “This is some serious shit.”
“They left so much more,” Kellerman said. “But the trajectory of the ship suggests that it was heading for the Artefact. Perhaps as a result of enemy fire, it crashed here. Please, do come inside. Mr Farrell, Mr Ray – you will stand guard duty. I want you to watch for intruders and monitor security of the sand-crawler.”
Ray and Farrell peeled off from the group. The rest of the team carefully picked their way into the craft.
Inside, the ship was labyrinthine. The corridors were wide and empty; the walls cast of some iridescent black material – cold to the touch, even through gloves.
“We still don’t know what the structure is made of,” Kellerman said. “Certainly not an alloy known to the Alliance.”
The going was slow and sporadic, with Deacon leading the way and Kellerman giving directions. The tunnels were ovular, making them difficult to walk through, and mostly indistinguishable from one another. Some ended abruptly in walls of sand or stone. There were very few chambers or control rooms, but we passed through several spaces full of long-dead computer banks. Cuneiform patterns had been etched onto every possible surface – walls, floors, ceilings. Intricate, tight script: pressed as though it had been stamped by a machine, like ancient circuitry. Occasionally, when I touched a wall with my hand, the scripture seemed to illuminate – but I dismissed that as a trick of the light.
