The Battle for the Solar System (Complete Trilogy)

by Sweeney, Stephen

  XXIX

  — Too Little, Too Late —

  Investigative Analysis of the Pandorans

  Compiled by Natalia Grace

  The Pandorans – also known as the Enemy or the Senate’s Mistake – are named after the Greek myth of Pandora. Pandora’s name means “all-gifted”, as each of the gods of Olympus gave her a gift. Given all that we have learned about the Enemy, the label couldn’t be more fitting.

  Physiologically, the Pandoran soldiers are nothing short of incredible. Damage to skin and tissue is repaired with amazing speed – seconds, rather than days. Broken limbs can also be mended within a matter of minutes. Even small imperfections in the skin are repaired, leaving all the soldiers with perfect features. They could almost be described as beautiful. From what we’ve learned, it seems that this miraculous healing ability does not extend to extreme conditions. Severed limbs, for example, cannot be regrown. Detached body parts such as fingers, noses, ears, etc., are repaired as well as can be, and the affected area is then smoothed over. The reason for this has not been determined, however it is the Enemy’s one Achilles’ heel. A shot to the head, through the brain, or even a well-placed shot to the heart is enough to stop them with immediate effect. It is my current belief that, whilst repairable, the accuracy of repair may be within doubt and therefore not within the scope of the Enemy’s healing abilities. Causing considerable damage to the lungs is enough to trigger brain death, due to oxygen starvation. It is worth noting that the failure rate attached to this method of permanently downing a soldier is far higher than others and is not recommended. In many cases, it can lure one into a false sense of security, the soldiers appearing to be dead. In such instances, they are usually able to revive within ten or fifteen minutes.

  They are able to adapt and survive within far harsher environments and conditions than most ordinary human beings. Bitter winters and scorching desert heats appear to have little effect on their abilities to fight, communicate and work as a unit. It is assumed that they are able to regulate their body temperatures far more effectively than was once believed, maintaining warmth within vital organs and keeping fluid loss through sweating to a minimum. There is at least one confirmed case of a soldier surviving for more than ten minutes in a vacuum and appearing to come out alive. In this instance, the soldier’s body encased itself within a shell, to lessen the effects of radiation, cold and other damaging factors of exposure. It is unknown what the observed crystalline structure was created from, and whether or not the host entered a state of suspended animation, permitting him to survive for an indefinite period of time.

  I have been able to confirm that all the soldiers benefit from physical augmentation. In hand-to-hand combat, all combatants display far greater strength than normal. Their outward appearance is deceptive of this property, with each soldier appearing no greater muscular build than an ordinary human being. Each displays increased dexterity and possesses exceptionally fast reflexes. The sex of the soldiers seems to have little to no bearing on these abilities. They are tall – six foot five inches being the approximate average. At this time, I cannot offer an explanation for this and can only assume it is a psychological attribute, aimed at intimidating the opposition. If this is the case, then I can confirm firsthand that it is truly effective. A charging, hundred-strong regiment of these fully armed soldiers would strike a degree of unease into even the most hardened of opponents.

  Psychologically, the Enemy are, once again, remarkable. Their knowledge of how to command and operate all manner of Imperial weaponry, vehicles and vessels appears to be without limit. A soldier knows all they need to about the application and usage of a weapon, without either prior experience or practice. They are more than capable of maximising the weapon’s full potential, while compensating for its limits. Unfortunately, I have not been able to clarify whether or not this knowledge extends outside the bounds of Mitikas engineering, and it could well be that a period of learning would be necessary in order to operate new or unfamiliar technology. I would hazard a guess that this period of learning would be considerably shorter than normal, and it is likely that this would become shared knowledge within their hive-mind.

  They are code talkers. This has made it near-impossible to decipher what they are saying to one another, whether it be during combat, a standard communication, or otherwise. The cipher code itself seems to shift on a regular basis. The schedule for this change has never been determined, since it itself seems to be subject to some form of encryption. It is doubtful that we will ever be able to crack their tongue, and whilst they are all able to speak English, they do so only under very rare circumstances.

  There seems to exist only two possible solutions in handling the threats posed by the Pandoran army – either engaging in a dialogue with Fleet Admiral Jason Zackaria and convincing him to order a ceasefire, or implementing the Confederacy’s proposed solution of utilizing the ATAFs. When considering these two options, it is worth noting that – to the best of my knowledge – Zackaria has not spoken with any non-Imperial for over three years, and is unlikely to do so until he has completed the Mission.

  *

  Natalia woke from a deep, relaxing sleep, appreciative of the quiet that greeted her, after so many months of travelling. It was good to once more be back in her own bed. She would get up soon, enjoy a shower and start the day with a cup of tea and some toast. Did she have jam? Hopefully. If not, she could take a quick run to the local shop and get a jar. She could almost taste the strawberry flavour already. She moved to turn on the radio by her bedside, at the same time fumbling around for where her duvet had gotten to.

  It was then that she became aware that she wasn’t lying on a mattress, but on some kind of soft, beige padding, contained within a shell-like enclosure. Another lay across from her.

  Oh hell! She was still in the escape pod, lying in the hibernation capsule! She saw that the device’s acrylic glass cover was open. There was only one reason why that might’ve happened – the escape pod had registered that it had docked with another vessel. She had been found!

  A sudden fear gripped her and she sat bolt upright.

  Looking out the front window of the escape pod, she saw that she was no longer in space, the inky-blackness now replaced by what appeared to be the interior of a starship hangar. The light level was low, seemingly intentionally so. It was barely possible to see further than a few metres ahead. Vessels, including what appeared to be transport craft and starfighters, lined bays. Various pieces of loading equipment and tools were just visible. And while everything she saw bore all the hallmarks as being of various Independent nation design, her experience told her not to trust anything. She could’ve been found by anyone.

  And at any moment now, they’d be coming to get her.

  She darted out of the hibernator and scrabbled around, searching for a place to hide. But where? The vessel she occupied was tiny! Nowhere in the escape pod could provide her with an adequate place to conceal herself. Attempting to hide in one of the hibernators would leave her with only the option of pulling a blanket over herself. Under it? No, there was barely any gap between the capsules and the floor. The storage cabinet? Far too small; only an infant could fit in there.

  The tiny cockpit area was her only option. There might be room to squeeze into the recess at the front, between the control panel and the chair. She made for it, though it became evident to her long before she’d even started crawling into the gap that she would be hiding in plain sight. But where else could she go? She really had no other choice. Her alternative would be to await whoever had found her escape pod and attempt to fight her way out; in which case she figured she would last maybe five or six seconds at most. Even less, if she’d been found by a hoard of black-suited soldiers …

  As she sat still and silent in the alcove under the control panel, her back to the seat, she found herself wishing she had some sort of weapon to hand. For a moment she considered jumping out and raiding the storage cabinet, to see if there
was anything she could use. Despite having dug through it on a number of separate occasions, it was possible there might be something she’d overlooked. Something important.

  Something important…!

  No! My reports! My jacket! she thought, remembering that she had thrown it over the back of the cockpit chair. She turned around, seeing it hanging no more than an arm’s length from where she was hidden. She leaned forward to grab it …

  Thunk!

  The sound of locks releasing made her pull her hand back quickly. No! Too late! She heard the door at the rear of the pod open, and then saw the gloominess of the interior lift as the beams from a number of searchlights were shone inside. She watched as they danced around the surfaces, holding her breath and wishing that she could somehow make herself smaller. She closed her eyes, but still imagined numerous pairs of ruby-red eyes shining in from the rear doors. She waited for the cry and the explosions of bullets …

  “Come out!” a female voice called. “You! At the front!”

  Natalia’s heart jumped at the sound, and began thumping so hard that her whole chest shuddered with every beat. Still, she remained where she was, her mind racing as she desperately tried to work out what her next move would be.

  The spokeswoman then issued a threat, “If you don’t come out, we will fire! I’m going to give you to the count of ten. Seven—”

  “No, wait!” Natalia protested, crawling out from the recess. The voice had never declared that they would start at one. “I’m coming out! I’m unarmed!”

  She walked to the rear of the pod, hands held high in surrender, at the same time shielding her eyes against the glare of the lights being shone directly into them. Ahead of her stood five people, each brandishing a rifle with a torch strapped to the underside. They were dressed in military fatigues, Natalia just able to make out the light grey and brown colour schemes of their shirts and trousers.

  One of the women lowered her rifle. “Natalia?”

  Natalia stared at the woman in surprise for a moment, before recognition kicked in. “Nel,” she said. She knew she’d recognised that voice. She was safe; she was home.

  Nel raised a hand in the air, looking all about her. “It’s okay, we’re clear. Passengers are friendly,” she called out.

  The light level began to rise, and Natalia noted gangways above her, where a great number of men and women had been marking the pod.

  Nel then indicated to her group that they no longer needed their weapons. “We thought you might be one of them,” she said.

  “You sure she’s clean?” one of the men standing next to Nel said. He appeared hesitant about lowering his weapon, keeping a close eye on the woman that had exited the escape pod.

  “No, she’s good,” Nel said. “She was one of the operatives that we dropped off several months ago. I’ve known her for years.”

  “That means nothing,” someone else added, still sounding on edge. “She could simply be a carrier.”

  “She has to go into quarantine for a month anyway, Carlson, so don’t worry about it.”

  “Could someone get my clothes?” Natalia asked, dropping her arms and wrapping them around herself. She was wearing nothing except for the underwear she’d had on when she had originally stepped into the hibernation capsule.

  “Suresh, go fetch them,” Nel instructed one of the other men, who dallied for a time, before trotting past Natalia and into the pod, giving her a wide berth as he did so.

  “You know I really would’ve shot you if you’d not come out when I told you to,” Nel said, stepping forward and tightly embracing Natalia.

  “I wouldn’t have blamed you in the slightest,” Natalia answered. The two women hugged for a while, before Natalia burst into floods of tears.

  “Alright, alright,” Nel said. “You’re safe.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “We saw your pod drifting and decided to risk a pick-up.”

  “Where are we now?”

  “Still in Iliad,” Nel said, “but we’re aboard Cratos, so it’ll take something sizeable before you need to worry again,” she added with a smile.

  Suresh returned with Natalia’s clothes and she gratefully began pulling them on, already starting to shiver in the cool of the hangar.

  “Where … where is everyone else?” Nel asked, glancing past her and into the empty pod; though from the tone of her voice, it sounded like she already knew the answer.

  “They … didn’t make it,” Natalia said, handing over a collection of ID cards.

  “I’m sorry,” Nel said, taking them from her.

  “We did manage to complete our mission, though. We hit and destroyed all the targets,” Natalia announced, handing over another set of cards, containing the critical reports that had been entrusted to her.

  “You mean you hit all the targets that hadn’t already wound down production,” Nel said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “By our latest calculations, the only targets remaining active were the ones that still had materials and resources available to them,” Nel said. “The situation is far more dire than any of us could’ve imagined. Anything you guys hit out there had long since outlived its usefulness. As of now, the Pandoran army could well be at its peak. They have almost everything they need already. We’ve essentially shut the gate after the horse has bolted.”

  “How many more—” Natalia began, before she faltered. At the news that her mission had only been a partial success, Natalia felt her world collapsing around her. She had been through so much, had lost so many of those close to her, and risked everything to accomplish her goals. And for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  “Hey, look, don’t worry,” Nel said, gesturing for Natalia to follow her. “Let’s get you cleaned up and checked out.”

  Natalia nodded, then, with one last look at the escape pod, began following Nel out the hangar.

  “So, quarantine, then?” Natalia said.

  Nel nodded. “I’m afraid so. You’re going to have to be isolated for a month, for observations. After that … I’m not sure what’ll happen next. There isn’t any call for intelligence officers to go to Mitikas any more. Not that I think you’d want to.”

  “Are they culling assets?” Natalia asked hopefully.

  Nel half smiled. “You know they never do that.”

  Natalia smiled sadly herself. It was as she’d always known – you could quit the Service any time you wanted, but you could never leave. They’d always be watching you, always be with you. You were theirs for life, to call on any time they wanted.

  “We’re going to have to stuff you in the brig until we’re back at Alba,” Nel added, “but in the meantime, we can start looking at correlating these reports. And you never know – perhaps when we’re all done, we’ll find a glimmer of hope at the bottom.”

  Natalia said nothing. If there was one, she hadn’t seen it.

  XXX

  — The Highest Accolade —

  Simon Dodds ran down the corridors of Arlos starport’s medical unit, reaching the exit, only to find the door locked. He looked out through the oval window, to see bodies of refugees lying scattered around the floor of the central hall. The hall was dark and somehow foreboding, as if the gloom itself had been responsible for the dead men, women and children that lay on the ground.

  Movement caught his eye. Out of the corner of the window, he spotted the backs of his team-mates as they darted amongst the corpses, making their way towards the airlock. Dodds opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came, no matter how hard he tried. He banged a hand fiercely against the glass, hoping to attract their attention. The glass gave only a dull thud in return. For all his efforts, his friends seemed oblivious to his presence and shortly disappeared from view.

  Dodds backed away from the door, before delivering it a hefty kick, causing it to fly open as if it had been secured by nothing more than a few lashings of string. He dashed through the opening, the door banging shut behind him as he crossed the
threshold, an echoing click telling him that it had become locked once more. He gave no further thought to it and started off in the direction of his wingmates, who seemed to have evaporated into thin air. He noticed as he ran how the dead refugees’ eyes were locked onto him, following his every move. Something then grabbed his leg. He looked down to see one of the dead holding onto him, the other arm flailing around as it tried to establish purchase.

  Dodds shook his leg frantically to break the grip. When that failed, he began trying to pry the iron-like fingers loose, though he found himself barely able to move even one of them. He then heard the echoing click of the medical wing door again, and, with a terrible sinking feeling, he turned his head in the direction of the noise as the door creaked open.

  A woman shuffled out, looking confused and rather dishevelled. She was tall, with lank, shoulder-length black hair, wearing a torn white vest that was soaked in blood around the stomach. Her face was pale, her hands dangling by her sides, her mouth hanging partway open. Her eyes wandered over the occupants of the hall.

  Dodds recognised Barber at the same time as she saw him, and the woman raised a hand and pointed a finger at him, giving a throaty, strangled howl. She then began to lurch her way over to where he remained trapped, pointing and gasping horridly as she came. She barely lifted her knees as she did so, half dragging her feet behind her.

  At the sight of the woman, Dodds struggled even harder against his captor. He tried to cry out to his friends for help, but could manage nothing more than a hoarse whisper. As Barber staggered forward, Dodds noticed that the many corpses that surrounded him had begun crawling forward, turning the floor into a sea of shifting bodies; the sound of body parts slapping on the ground all about him. A second hand closed around his leg. Another followed, as did yet another, before the owner tried to pull themselves up.

  Dodds took the only action he could, and began punching wildly at the faces of those that held him. Grips were miraculously released and he sprang free, resuming his journey towards the airlock.