by S. A. Lusher
Trent tried hitting on her, but he found conversation with her difficult. He spent most of the first day bouncing back and forth between trying to extract information from Trevor and trying to see if Tristan would give him the time of day. His time with Marie had been really nice, but he'd only had a single night with her and he'd expected more.
He had blue balls.
But Tristan was being difficult. She muttered the occasional noncommittal grunt while he prattled on about bullshit. Finally, she got up and left, leaving him alone with the chess masters. Trent sighed, strolled over and collapsed in a chair beside them, watching them both.
“Strike out, huh?” Drake asked.
“Yeah, she's a tough nut to crack,” Trent replied.
“And if she's not interested?” Gideon asked. He reached out and moved a piece. Drake cursed softly and delved deep into thought.
“Then whatever. I'm done. I'm not that dumb, I can take a hint,” Trent said.
“Took you an hour,” Drake muttered without looking over.
“I said I wasn't that dumb,” Trent muttered.
“Does anyone ever give you shit for being gay?” Gideon asked suddenly.
Drake blinked, startled out of his thought, then gazed up at Gideon. “You asshole, you only asked that because it'd distract me. And no, not really. For the most part. Of course, running in a mercenary crowd, you always get ignorant morons who seem to still equate it with weakness. Not sure how it makes sense, but they're so damned persistent. I've broken a couple noses in my time when they didn't get the hint. Anyone give you shit for being black?”
“Not really, no. I am six eight and three sixty of muscle. But, every now and then, when you get out into the really backwater colonies-”
Drake suddenly smiled, reached forward and moved a piece. “Check.”
Gideon looked down, blinked in surprise. “You motherfucker.”
* * * * *
Trent made it a point to get to know his squad. He already had a good grip of what Gideon was like: big, strong, good in a fight. Though there was a sharp intellect swimming just below the surface. Trent made a mental note not to insult the man's intelligence, not that he made a habit of insulting people in general.
Tristan obviously didn't want to talk to him, so he let her be. Sergio and Sharpe weren't going to say shit and Trevor was a lot more clever than he let on. He was nice enough, and obviously pretty smart, but he carefully guided the conversation away from their mission and any of the specifics. Trent found himself talking about past jobs, the specifics of maintaining your arsenal, the best booze, great pleasure spots.
Anything but the mission.
So that just left Stephen. He tracked the technician to his room and hit the buzzer. A moment later the door opened, bass-heavy techno music poured out. The bug-eyed tech was actually smiling. He invited Trent in.
“What is this?” Trent asked, taking a seat on the bed.
Stephen collapsed back into his chair. “It's called Hypno-Tech. I've got nine terabytes of the stuff. I can't get enough of it.”
Trent listened to it for a moment. “Killer, man. Very killer. What you got going on in here?”
Stephen did something at his console, then turned around in his chair and fixed Trent with his sharp gaze. “Trying to hack into the ship's database, find out what they're not telling us.”
Trent leaned forward. “Seriously? Did you find anything?"
Stephen sighed heavily. “No, nothing. Normally I'm good at this, but whoever these guys are, they're good. I can't even find out what corporation they work for. It's weird. This isn't the usual MO of the mining corps, and they're some pretty big players. It could be anything, a medical research company, tech company, colonization corporation even. Whoever they are, they're well-funded and well-prepared.”
“Shit,” Trent muttered. “I don't like this.”
“I don't either. I hate flying blind. But I recently got caught hacking into the Deep Nova corporate archives. They didn't like that. I've been on the run ever since and then Sergio shows up and offers me a way out. Protection if I do this job, and a lotta credits...what'd he get you for?”
Trent shrugged. “Nothing, really. Credits.”
“Dead men don't spend credits,” Stephen murmured. A mercenary saying as old as time.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But if they won't tell us anything about the job, then that means it's likely extremely illegal and dangerous. Which is fine by me.”
Trent wondered if he was lying, to Stephen, or to himself. He decided he must be. That last job had shaken him up, and here he was flying blind into danger again. Did he have a death wish? Or maybe he was just trying to prove that he wasn't going soft.
“Either way, here's hoping we come out it alive,” Stephen said.
Trent nodded. “Yeah.”
* * * * *
The first day died as the hours wound on. Trent talked with Stephen for a while longer, then went to his room and worked out until he was too tired to continue. Then he showered, climbed into bed and drifted off while he pondered what might be waiting for them, out there in the darkness. He slept through the night, though concepts like 'night' and 'day' were tricky at best when you were traveling through the dead of space in a tin can.
When he woke on the second day, Trent was positive that he'd been having some kind of nightmare. His eyes snapped open and for a second, he sensed some kind of malignant presence in his quarters, watching him, waiting.
He called hoarsely for lights. They snapped to life and banished the darkness. He was alone in his quarters with his sleek, stylish furniture, built into the walls and floor. Trent groaned and rubbed his eyes. After a moment, he went through his morning ritual. As he pissed and showered and dressed, Trent contemplated the fact that roughly twenty four hours ago, he'd been awakening in a woman's room on a space station light-years away.
For the most part, he'd gotten used to the constantly changing scenery of the galaxy. He went where the money or the women were. From the inner colonies to the outer rim, he'd seen a whole lot of shit and places in his two decades as a mercenary. Sometimes it still struck him as to how fast it could all change.
One day he could be pulling guard duty on a desert planet where the temperatures were at the absolute limit of human tolerance. The next he could be on a space station, laughing it up with Drake at the bar. The next, ankle-deep in a swamp, hunting something.
It was crazy.
Trent finished up and decided to head out into the ship and see what he could see.
* * * * *
The second day went by largely like the first.
Trent spoke with the other mercenaries, except for Tristan, who continued to read whatever it was she was reading. Drake split his time between playing chess with Gideon and talking with Trevor. By the time it was 'nightfall' once again, Trent found himself getting antsy. He wanted the mission to begin, wanted to have a big gun in his hand, something to shoot in front of him. He began to look forward to the mission more and more.
He was just finishing drying off when he heard a buzzing at his door. Trent pulled on his boxers, crossed the room and opened it.
Tristan stood in the doorway.
She shoved past him. “So, we gonna do it or what?”
Trent closed the door.
* * * * *
The shipwide intercom clicked on.
“Gentlemen, and lady, please report to the bridge. I'm prepared to tell you a little bit more about your mission. That is all.”
Trent glanced up as he finished pulling his shirt on. “Huh,” he muttered.
Tristan was already gone when he woke up. He supposed it was best that way. After tugging his shirt into place, he laced up his boots and left his quarters. As he stepped out into the bright light of the corridor, he nearly bumped into Drake and Stephen, who were emerging out of their own respective quarters.
“Finally,” Stephen muttered. “It's about time they told us something.”
T
he trio came into the lounge, where they met Gideon and Tristan. The group moved towards the bridge. The door opened and Sergio met them. He led them down a short corridor into a decently sized bridge, the walls of which were packed with all manner of equipment and technology. Sharpe and Trevor stood over to the right, on either side of a broad screen that touched the ceiling and floor. Sergio guided them over there.
“Say hello to Arctica,” he murmured.
The lights dimmed slightly and a holographic display of a frozen white planet appeared. It gently rotated. Trent studied it closely, trying to pick up details they might not want him to. He was sure the others were doing the same.
“Arctica is a recently discovered planet that sits on the edge of the outer rim. I'm afraid I still can't tell you very much except that it has temperatures that plummet down to negative one hundred, if you factor in the wind chill. It's a pretty inhospitable planet where everything freezes if you give it half a second. You'll be going in with the best cold weather gear, but we shouldn't have to be spending too much time outside, hopefully.
“As for why we are going here and what we're doing...well, we have a research station on the planet. Something's gone wrong. We're not sure what, and we need to go down, get inside and retrieve some important data. Essentially, all I need the five of you to do is make sure that nothing happens to us while we're there, collecting the data,” Sergio explained.
“What kind of resistance are we expecting?” Trent asked.
“There's a decent chance that the cause of the problems is a rival corporation,” Sergio replied.
Trent was immediately suspicious of the man's answer, almost certain that it was a lie. The others seemed to sense it as well.
Sergio pressed on. “But, we should know for sure pretty soon.”
He turned suddenly and walked over to the front of the bridge. Everyone followed him. An uncomfortable moment passed, then something chimed. Trent tried to look out the windows, but realized they'd been sealed off. It also occurred to him that no one was piloting the ship. Everything was being run automatically, or by an Artificial Intelligence. That made him nervous. AIs never seemed to be good news, even the legal ones.
Sergio made an unhappy noise and straightened up from reading the screen he'd been studying.
“What is it?” Trevor asked.
“The scans are basically inconclusive, except that they aren't showing anywhere near the proper level of life signs. But the real problem is that the exterior defenses are armed and they aren't responding to our codes. They'll shoot at anything that moves,” Sergio replied.
Trevor frowned deeply. “That's not normal. Let me see what I can do from here.”
He settled into a chair and set to work.
Sergio turned to the others. “Well, Sharpe will take you to the armory. I've had cold weather suits of combat armor tailored for you, as well as a nice arsenal selected for you. Feel free to take whatever you think you'll need to keep the three of us safe.”
Sharpe moved ahead of them, leading them out of the bridge. The half-dozen people moved in silence through the soft, carpeted interior of the ship. Through the lounge, past the twin rows of living quarters, through a door at the back.
They came to the armory.
It was a sight to behold.
Trent looked around. There were eight separate stations spread out along the walls. Each held a locker, a table, and a glass case. Each one was named. Trent found his and stared into the glass case. It was large, the interior some soft black material. Guns of black and silver metal had been fitted into the material.
There were a lot of guns.
Trent opened up the locker, which was tall and broad. Inside was what appeared to be a thin suit of combat armor, complete with a helmet, as well as some more guns, hung on the walls. Trent pulled out the suit. It was black and red, no emblems, no insignias. He began to pull it on. It was some kind of metal, but it had decent give and didn't weigh very much. He recognized the material as TechMesh. It was a hell of a kind of armor.
He wasn't exactly sure how it worked, only that it was lightweight and absurdly durable. It protected against melee, blades, small-arms fire, flames, acids and some explosions. He laughed as he finished pulling it on, then pulled out the helmet and set it on the table. He moved around in the suit, feeling it conform to his every movement.
“Nice,” he murmured.
The next few minutes were spent sorting through the guns and ammo. He strapped a pair of powerful pistols with extended magazines in holsters to his hips. He grabbed a very nasty snub-nosed shotgun that would put a hole the size of a dinner plate through a man's chest. He let that hang over his back, then grabbed a compact sub-machine gun that could spit out single bullets, a trio of them or go full auto.
It came with a digital sight, optional silencer, retractable bayonet. Trent stuffed his spare pockets with magazines and spare shells. Finally, he grabbed a quartet of fragmentation grenades and attached them to a bandolier across his chest.
After a moment's consideration, he grabbed a nasty looking combat knife and attached it to a sheath on his inner thigh.
“I am decked the fuck out,” he said, mostly to himself.
Trent grabbed the helmet and sealed it into place.
Whatever was waiting for them down on Arctica, he knew he could deal with it.
Well...hopefully.
Chapter 04
–The Ingress–
They gathered in an airlock, sitting on the benches or leaning against the lockers, listening to as much as enduring the steady rumble of the ship as it passed through the atmosphere of Arctica. Trent and Drake sat beside each other on a bench, smoking a pair of cigarettes. Trent looked around. Everyone was there now.
“I'm sorry I couldn't get through the security,” Trevor said.
“Not a problem. Now we just have to walk through half a mile of negative sixty snow,” Stephen muttered.
“The suits will protect you, no problem,” Sergio replied.
“What kind of defenses can we expect?” Trent asked.
“Drone guns,” Trevor said. “There's a pair of them mounted outside the main entrance of the primary building. They're supposed to track only intruders, but they're in full-fire mode and are completely unresponsive. They pack a pretty heavy caliber. Even these suits won't be enough to fully stop a bullet.”
“Fantastic,” Drake muttered. “What about wildlife? Anything out there that's lethal besides the weather?”
“No, nothing,” Sergio answered.
Trent noticed a note of tension in his voice. He was lying...but what about? Was there wildlife? Only that didn't seem to be right. Maybe he was lying about additional dangers. Maybe something that might have come from the research outpost itself.
Suddenly, the rumbling subsided. Trent stubbed out his cigarette on his armor, dropped the remains in one of the pockets and grabbed his helmet. After sealing it in place, he ran a thorough suit diagnostics check.
By the time the ship fully ceased its turbulent rattling, the check came back positive. Everything was go. Full power, full air, seals intact. Trent wondered how long he would have to stay in this, how many hours...or days.
There was a final, solid thump from below as the ship settled itself on the frozen plains. Everyone stood up and secured their helmets, running their own diagnostics. When they finished up, there was a general shuffle towards the airlock. It was large enough for everyone to fit, even in their suits, although it was a little cramped.
Trent waited for the airlock to cycle and thought about last night. Tristan had been very good, very enthusiastic, even very vocal. He'd worked hard to please her, because, well, it just seemed the decent thing to do. Being a lazy partner in bed was like being a lazy mercenary. Although rarely did it get you killed.
The exterior door of the airlock opened and immediately the bay filled with freezing winds and fat snowflakes. Trent and Drake were at the front of the crowd and it seemed decided that there they
would remain, pulling point duty.
The pair moved down a cargo ramp and stepped into the snow. Their boots disappeared up to their ankles. They began walking, using a holographic compass on the head's up display shown over the inside of their visors to keep on point. They were just under a half-mile away from where the display said the entrance to the compound was.
Several minutes were consumed by the shrieking winds. The speakers in their helmets automatically cut down on loud sounds, but Trent turned his down to almost zero, unwilling to fully cut himself off from the outside world. Everyone communicated via radio at the moment, anyway. The group made it a little over half their journey without anyone uttering a word. Finally, Stephen broke the silence.
“How big is this place?” he asked, his voice thin and tinny over the radio.
“That's none of your concern. We'll act as your guide once we get inside,” Sergio replied.
“And if we get separated? Lost?” Drake asked.
“Make sure that doesn't happen. God, I thought mercenaries, of all people, would understand the need for secrecy,” Sergio replied.
“We don't like secrets that are tied to our well-being. I thought a corporate dog, of all people, would understand that,” Trent said.
“Fair enough, but I can't tell you anything. Just get us inside, follow my instructions, keep us safe and you'll all come out of this a lot richer and happier.”
Silence fell again, broken only by the winds. Trent looked around, but he could see nothing, save for the eternally shifting snow and ice. The sun was out, but it had been reduced to a thin gray light. Visibility only extended to perhaps ten feet. Was this bad, he wondered, or was this just an average day on Arctica?
Trent sighed and pressed on through the shifting snow.
* * * * *
“I see it!” Trent called.
