by Mark Wandrey
Pip shrugged his shoulders. “Once we get through the pass, the mountains could sap the storm’s strength.”
“What does that mean?” Minu asked.
“It means the mountains push the clouds up and force them to dump their moisture. On the other side, there’s often calm, or a smaller storm.”
“That’d be good,” Minu said. “Let’s press on.”
As they continued, the weather deteriorated further. The hail turned into driving sleet, back into hail, and back into sleet again. No one talked; they were too busy trying not to slip on the icy ground. They climbed higher and higher, and even Minu began to feel the effects of the increased altitude. Her strong lungs, used to pumping massive amounts of air, sounded thin and wheezy. Pip stumbled along with the aid of one or two of his friends. Their fates were intertwined; there was no thought of leaving him behind.
An hour later, the weather finally made up its mind. The snow started; hard, driving snow froze on any exposed, wet surface it landed on. Soon, the five friends looked like two-legged ice monsters trudging and stumbling through the woods.
Just as they reached the limit of their endurance, the land leveled out, and the sparse vegetation fell away to reveal the stark, rocky pass. Great rock monoliths towered on either side of them, creating swirling dynamos of snow and ice. Despite their fatigue, they cheered as they passed over the summit and began descending the other side. The wind disappeared as if someone had shut a door. Then the bottom fell out of the thermometer.
“Oh, my God,” Cherise cried, “It f-feels l-like d-daggers!” The cold made her teeth chatter so loudly, they could all hear them.
“We need shelter, right now!” Pip said, fear in his voice. They spread out and looked for anything that would give them shelter. Minu tried not to despair. Her clothes started to freeze, and she was losing feeling in her hands. Aaron yelled, and the others raced toward him, slipping and sliding on the frozen rocks. He stood in front of a small cave.
“It’s not much,” Minu said. Pip was already on his hands and knees, crawling inside. The others quickly followed. Minu was last in; she hoped they would survive the night.
The interior of the cave widened out slightly to make a space five meters across and two meters tall. Minu knew the space was too small for a fire, and there were only wet bushes and fern leaves for fuel, anyway.
“We need body heat,” Pip told them as they stood in the center of the cave, shivering. Minu dropped her pack and took out four dry tarps. They hooked them together to make a huge blanket. “Strip!” Minu ordered, taking off her clothes. The others didn’t hesitate. They were all friends, and the humiliation at Steven’s Pass was still fresh in their minds. Suddenly, that humiliation didn’t seem like a random act of vindictive torture. Once they were naked, they laid down back to back, and the last person pulled the tarp over them to catch their warmth and hold it in.
“I t-think I h-had a d-dream about t-this,” Gregg chattered behind Cherise.
“K-keep d-d-d-dreaming,” Cherise answered, and they all chuckled. The flesh pressed against her front and back began to warm her ever so slightly. Her teeth stopped chattering, but her hands were still freezing, and she tried sticking them under her arms.
Now that warmth was returning, fatigue was setting in. “Is it safe to sleep now, Pip?” Minu asked. The only reply she got was a snore. Within a few minutes, sleep overcame them, filling the tiny cave with sighs and snores.
* * *
After bundling up, they began working their way carefully down the hill. Minu walked close to Cherise, and they chatted quietly. The boys looked at them nervously, as it was common knowledge that girls who talked quietly and giggled were talking about boys. Gregg looked more nervous than the others, until Cherise caught his eye, smiled, and winked. After that, he seemed much more at ease.
The land gradually leveled out, and the small stream they were following became a river. They stopped at midday and cooked their first real meal. They each ate a full serving of rations and drank ice-cold river water flavored with the contents of the drink packets. The little fire Cherise whipped up gave them some warmth while they ate. The food wasn’t enough to fill them up, but it was hot. While she’d trained, Minu had eaten a lot of camp food, and this tasted better than any she’d ever eaten. While they rested, she went to talk to Cherise again.
“Remember the other day when we confronted Ivan and his boys with our knives?”
“Sure! I wish they’d started something, I wouldn’t have minded letting some hot air out of that Rusk punk.”
“I would have minded. I don’t know how to fight with a knife, or with my hands and feet, like you.”
“I’m not surprised.” Minu looked embarrassed again. “Don’t be self-conscious. You don’t have to defend yourself from wild animals in Plateau; you have a wonderfully safe place to live.”
“We know we’re lucky, but we fought hard to secure it.”
“Don’t I know?” The Desert Tribe and the Plateau Tribe had been allies for many hundreds of years. “Grab your knife, and I’ll teach you some things.”
* * * * *
Chapter 10
Julast 14th, 514 AE
Frontier Space, Unknown Star System
Ten kilometers sounds like a short distance. Jump in a ground car or a flier, and you’re there in minutes. Zoom. But try walking that ten kilometers through an ancient alien world full of murderous snakes who are trying to find you. And what if night was approaching?
“How much farther?” Chriso asked the man next to him, who was looking at his computer.
“Less than a kilometer; however, there is a broad avenue we must cross before entering the industrial complex housing the energy signal.”
“Almost there, boys,” Chriso said. “One more open dash, then maybe we can find some cover.” He still hadn’t told anyone about his plan, not that he’d fully developed it, yet. It all depended on what they found a kilometer ahead. They didn’t need to know there was no real plan; they trusted him completely. Some small part of him burned with shame at keeping them in the dark.
A minute later they spread out along the shattered facade of a building and looked across the hundred meters of conspicuous openness.
“Damn,” one of his men said.
“Ugly,” another agreed.
“Scouts across,” Chriso ordered. Two blurs, fifty meters away, one on either side of him, shot out from cover and raced across. They wore the only sneakfields, and they used them to best effect. The devices blurred their outlines, as well as any thermal images of them. Even on a targeting scanner, their signatures were indistinct and confusing. The tactical decision to send scouts across was a difficult one. You either sent a couple of men, hoping to minimize casualties and warn you it was an ambush, or you sent everyone, hoping your force was too large for the enemy to kill at one time. Chosen tactics were always small unit tactics, so Chriso preferred to minimize his casualties, and the chances of the enemy observing them, by sending the scouts.
Once the scouts had crossed without incident, he gave them five minutes to find high spots and set up their spotter gear before sending the rest across, two at a time. Chriso and Eric went last and were soon on the other side, safe and sound.
“Bring us in, Eric,” he told the young man. Eric’s equipment was good, and he knew how to use it. Chriso took them on a meandering route through the dilapidated industrial complex, moving around collapsed structures and piles of debris. This area, unlike where they first arrived, showed hard wear and tear from harsh environmental effects, or perhaps a battle; it’d happened far too long ago to know for sure.
As darkness fell, they relied on image-enhancing goggles. Eventually, they came across the first sign that Eric was right. It was a nondescript door-control panel, identical to millions of others scattered across the empire. A little red light glowed dutifully, informing them it was locked. The lock was the only sign of power they’d seen on this world, other than the pile of mostly
dead EPCs.
“Damn good job, kid,” Chriso said and slapped the beaming boy on the back. A second later, a blinding bolt of pure energy slammed into Eric’s chest, sending him flying backward into the wall. Tiny bolts of electrical discharge flew off him, causing the nearby Chosen to jerk and dive for cover.
“Scouts’ report!” Chriso screamed over the radio as more particle beams splashed against the ceramic concrete walls, sending razor sharp chunks flying.
“Two snake fliers. They came in with the setting sun, which masked their thermal signature,” was the instant reply, accented by the distant roar of one of the scout’s rifles. Two more booms echoed in quick succession, and the particle fire stopped.
“They’re retreating for the moment,” the other scout reported. “Their shields were fading.”
“What about Abel?” Chriso asked about the first scout, his chest numb with suspicion.
“He’s down, I’m maneuvering to check his status.” Chriso accessed the privileged feed though his computer. It showed Abel lying face down on a roof, head turned to one side, eyes wide in death.
“Negative, he’s dead. Hold cover and watch for another probe. I’m sending someone to see if Abel’s weapons are recoverable.” Abel’s loss was bad, but the loss of the weapons, as well, would be tragic. The scout guns were twice as powerful as the ones the rest of his squad carried; the weapons were essential if they were going to survive.
Those by the door were up and listening to their own radios, so when Chriso turned to one man and pointed, he instantly ran in the direction of the dead scout. With the situation stabilized, he knelt next to Eric, who was being tended to by their only qualified medic. To Chriso’s relief, the boy was still alive.
“His shield took the hit,” the medic said. The small EPC that absorbed energy weapons fire smoked ominously as another Chosen gingerly carried it away. The medic opened Eric’s jumpsuit to reveal a nasty series of burns caused by tendrils of plasma from the weapon hit. It looked painful, and, judging by the ashen color of Eric’s face, it was.
“You gonna make it, son?” Chriso asked. Eric nodded confidently. “Give him some pain killers,” Chriso instructed the medic.
“Not too much,” Eric said through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to be incapacitated.”
Good kid, Chriso thought, leaning over and patting him on the shoulder. He made a mental note to commend the science team for adapting the microshields. If not for them, that shot would have killed Eric. At first, Chriso had been skeptical of the tiny shields, originally designed to protect aliens working around high power systems. They’d purchased them as junk, and he’d wondered if they were worth the additional kilo of weight they added to their basic kits. He now had his answer.
“Work the door,” he instructed one of his other men, “we need cover.” He prayed he’d find what he thought he would. It might still be worth the cost they’d paid—another dead Chosen. How many did that make on his watch? He knew the answer, of course. Chriso committed the name of every deceased to memory. There had been sixty-two dead Chosen, more than had died under the previous three Firsts combined. Of course, those Firsts had never done what his Chosen were now doing. The humans were moving out of the nest, taking their first tentative steps into a dangerous galaxy. It was unavoidable that the predators in the woods would eat some of the chicks.
“I’ve reached Abel,” a new report came in. “His weapon is wasted.”
“Understood. Assume a new lookout position. Do not engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary. Be prepared to withdraw at a moment’s notice.” Behind him, the door beeped and hesitantly grinded open. “We’ll know if there’s anything worthwhile in a minute.”
The door made it halfway open and screeched to a stop. The interior was dark. Chriso took out his flashlight and moved toward the door, one member of his squad in front of him and one behind.
The structure was dualloy and ceramic concrete, a common combination everywhere in the empire. A complicated series of hatches fitted in the floor left them all scratching their heads. They looked like cargo-handling shafts found in warehouses, with some slight differences. They also had hatch covers Chriso and his men weren’t sure how to open.
“Boss, look at this!” Chriso said as he walked over to a functioning computer terminal, its display glowing dimly in the darkness of the room.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, looking at the glowing Concordian script. He knew it was in Script One, because he could barely read it. Script One, found mostly in tech files, was seldom used. It had fallen out of use in the empire so long ago, there was little record of it. “Any of our squad know Script One?”
“Only Eric.” Damn, Chriso cursed silently, the poor kid deserved better than to be depended on so much, so soon.
“How’re you doing, kid?” he asked Eric.
“Ready to help,” Eric answered, holding on to the doorway with one hand for support. He wore his jumpsuit, though it was badly scorched.
“Excellent. Get to it.” Chriso squatted on the filthy floor near one of the mysterious hatches and watched Eric work with the foreign script. So much about the numerous Concordian languages was a mystery, even after a century trying to decipher them. The lights in the room suddenly popped to life and a fan disturbed the air, interrupting his thoughts. “Wait!” Chriso warned, getting to his feet. “Don’t power anything up.”
“I can’t stop it,” Eric said, grimacing. Chriso thought he was still in pain until he realized Eric was fighting with the computer. Commands flashed across the screen at a blinding speed, so quickly that Chriso doubted he could have read them, even if they were in English. As each command appeared, Eric replied almost as quickly; Chriso could see he got most, but not all, of them.
“What’s it doing?” Chriso hissed as he felt the floor vibrate. “Did you trigger some sort of trap?”
“No, I just queried the terminal’s status, and it started going ape shit!”
“Can you shut it down?” asked another Chosen.
Eric typed furiously for a moment before replying. “I’m afraid if I do, it might not go too well.”
“Huh?”
“Some Concordian operating systems use a ‘passive’ security protocol. Instead of passwords, you start to use the computer and it lets you in. But if you fail to give a correct command or try to shut it down…”
“Boom?” asked Chriso. Eric nodded in reply. The room was becoming quite comfortable, and the air was crisp. Even so, perspiration beaded on Eric’s forehead. Chriso knew the boy’s knowledge of Script One couldn’t be as detailed as he needed. Suddenly he cursed and jumped back, shaking his hand. A few drops of blood landed on the dusty floor.
“Shit!”
“What happened?” the medic asked as he grabbed Eric’s hand and examined it.
“Damn thing got personal,” Eric said, casting a murderous glance at the terminal, which had frozen on the last display. The medic cleared away the blood from a millimeter-wide circular puncture wound in his palm using a sterile wipe. Blood continued to flow freely, so the medic sprayed it with a topical sealant.
“Looked like a biopsy sample,” the medic said as he finished cleaning the wound.
“Why would it biopsy you?” Chriso asked.
“It asked for identification, and I hesitated.”
“He who hesitates is lost…”
“I’m sorry sir, what was that?” Eric asked.
“Nothing, just old wisdom from an old man.” The Chosen smiled at the confused look on Eric’s face. “Any sign it injected him with something?” Chriso asked the medic who was consulting his kit.
“No sir, clean scan.”
“Looks like a dead end,” Chriso said after a last glance at the frozen computer. “Good try though.” Eric looked dejected. “You gave it your best. We’d better get out of here before we’re—” He stopped in mid-sentence as they heard the sound of motors coming to life. “The doors!” he yelled. Doors moved, but not the ones they’d
entered. On the floor, one of the huge hatches rotated open, displacing a small avalanche of dust.
Every Chosen in the room pointed his weapon at the opening as the door swung to a stop and a spidery lift, a kind rarely seen in use, began to emerge. Chriso knew what it was as he’d studied the lifts on long dead worlds, and he’d wondered what they’d look like in operation.
“Well I’ll be,” Chriso laughed. “Your work?” he asked Eric.
“No sir, I never got past ‘hello’ and ‘please don’t kill us.’” He looked back at the terminal and saw it was no longer frozen. It displayed a familiar unlocked control interface screen.
“Incoming snakes,” a scout announced. “At least five killer squads following our path. If we don’t move now, we’re going to be boxed in.”
Chriso looked from the door to the lift and decided. “Scouts in, we’re going to throw the snakes a curve.” The opening and lift seemed to be calling to him. This was it, it had to be. He’d finally found the end of his long quest. Now the real work began. Inside the lift, Chriso and his eight Chosen could hear the drumming of powerful machinery somewhere below. As they slowly descended, the hatch closed behind them.
* * * * *
Chapter 11
Julast 8th, 514 AE
Cascade Mountains, Desert Slopes
Cherise complained quite a bit about the mountain cold and wished for warmer temperatures. She got her wish over the next two days. The bitter cold of the mountains turned into a raging inferno as they descended toward the desert. Cherise made them top off their canteens every time they passed a stream that looked pure.
“Soon, you’ll be happy to get a sip of Kloth piss,” she warned them. The others were skeptical, but Gregg took her seriously.
In the late afternoon of the second day, they emerged from the trees and stepped into sand for the first time. “Such a quick transition,” Minu said, looking at the unfamiliar ground.
