Only we don’t have enough air for that, Solomon realized as the tanks blipped red. The evacuation tent was standing, but it was decidedly saggy in places, indicating that all the available air was not enough to generate regular earth pressures.
“Sol?” said one of the Green Squad Outcasts worriedly, and Solomon knew what must be on the woman’s mind. The idea of the evacuation tent was to create an emergency environment that you could seal, blow one of the inner doors, and move the to-be-rescued people into the tent, and then into the more secure area at the other end, which in their case was the buggy.
But we can’t do that here, Solomon saw. They had to use all of the buggy’s internal air tanks just to half-fill the tent, meaning that the buggy interior was now without oxygen.
“So, what we’ll do is get the warden and the others into the tent and dress them in emergency evac suits, which will keep them alive on the surface or in the buggy until…” Solomon said.
Until when, though? he thought. The emergency suits were little more than amorphous, flappy bodysuits with bubble helmets. They had no dedicated air processor units, just filters. They would be able to recycle and extract the person’s available oxygen for a short while only—an hour? Forty-five minutes?
“It’s the best we can do.” Jezzy had joined Solomon as they considered the operation. “Let’s just get them suited up at least…” She was looking speculatively at the half-filled tent. That was the next problem, Solomon knew. The pressure inside the facility was bound to be higher than the one in the tent now, and that meant that the door would be pressurized. Removing it would rip it off its hinges, and the resulting blow-out could easily rip the tent from its position or send the bulkhead door searing through the mesh material, defeating the whole object.
“I can do it,” Malady said, climbing—barely—through the buggy to crawl into the evacuation tent and disappear from view.
“I’m in front of the door…” Solomon heard over his suit communicator.
“Can you open it?” the specialist commander asked. “There should be a manual hand-crank…”
“There is. But it’s quicker to…”
Solomon heard a grind of metal and a torturous screeching noise on the other end of the communicator. Is he just ripping the door from its hinges!? Solomon was once again astonished at the man’s brute strength.
“It’ll blow, Malady!” Solomon said urgently.
“I know. I can take the blast,” Malady assured him. “I’ll hold the door until it’s safe—”
KABOOOOM!
Before the man-golem could finish speaking, the entire evacuation tent shook and filled in an instant, and the attached Ganymede buggy at the far end shook and rocked on its bubble wheels as the full tactical man must have no doubt managed to break the door seals.
There was silence for a moment, before everyone realized the same thing. The tent had held.
“Yeaaaah!” a cry went up over Solomon’s suit communicator from the other rescuers, and Solomon found himself grinning. This was working. It was actually going to work.
“Get the warden and the others into a suit!” he called to Malady, who answered in the affirmative as he turned his attention to where Jezzy was already climbing some of the ruined building, looking for either more survivors—or more attackers.
“No sign of trouble, Wen?” he called to her on their private squad frequency.
“Not yet, sir,” she returned, “but there is something you should see up here…” She was crouched by the edge of the transporter wreckage, kicking over bits of concrete and metal.
“What is it?” He bounded over to the edge of the rubble and scrambled easily up to where his combat specialist stood, Jackhammer pointing out over the destruction.
There, on the other side of the pile of rubble, was the center of the crash site, Solomon saw immediately. The center of the facility had turned into a crater with rings of shattered concrete around the twisted shell of the Marine transporter. Here and there in the rubble, Solomon could make out images of curious commonplace items—a few intact floor tiles still in place that had once led the way to the mess hall; a Marine Corps tee-shirt still hanging on the edge of a bunkbed, as if the Marine had left it there just a few moments ago, while the rest of the bunkbed was covered in soot, rocks, and dust.
“It’ll take months to rebuild,” Solomon agreed with Jezzy’s dismay—only that wasn’t what Jezzy had called him to look at.
“Not that, idiot,” she said distractedly, nodding to the walls of the transporter that still stood.
“What am I looking for?” Solomon saw the thickened external plates of metal, the blackened scorch marks from the insanely hot fire, the torn socket where a thruster rocket must have been…
“No. That.” She pointed to a part of the transporter that was marginally less damaged than the others—a piece of the wall plate about double the size of the Ganymede buggy that was depressed into the rest of the craft, and one that was surprisingly clean.
Oh frack. Solomon realized what it must be. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, which was a stupid question, because of course it was. Solomon had spent over a year getting on and off those enough to recognize an external module placement when he saw one.
“Landing module.” Jezzy nodded, indicating the pristine bulkhead door slap-bang in the middle of the clean wall of metal. It was through that that the Marines or passengers would be able to access the small landing unit mounted externally to one side of the transporter craft—hence the clean metal underneath it, where it had avoided the burn of re-entry—and then detach. The landing module only had space for a couple of squads of Marines at most, but it had its own landing gear, parachutes, and even positional boosters.
“Maybe it was full of loyal Marine Corps staff, who ejected from the transporter before it hit?” Solomon said hopefully.
“Or it could have been full of more murderous cyborgs,” Jezzy drawled.
Solomon growled in frustration. That was all they needed. An unknown complement of NeuroTech cyborgs who had landed at an undisclosed location on their moon, with apparently only one intention in mind—to kill them.
“Specialist Commander Cready!” his suit communicator burst into life with the angered voice of Warden Coates, making Solomon flinch. “We have no time to admire the scenery. You and Specialist Wen are to get back here and lead on point!” The warden had clearly taken over, directing the remaining Outcast Marines to fan out in a wide skirmish formation around the Ganymede buggy as they departed for the hulk.
The only consolation, Solomon thought as both he and Wen shouted, ‘Aye, sir’ and ran back to the buggy, was seeing the warden try to maintain an air of superiority whilst wearing his flappy, day-glow, emergency evac bubble-suit.
8
Not Like Humans at All
“But who was it?” Solomon murmured over his narrow-band Gold Squad channel as he led the survivors out of the wreckage and up onto the ice plains. The rills of pink and gray over white where deposits of minerals had been scoured into the ice were a normal sight, but Solomon couldn’t shake the feeling of dread.
Probably because half of these people could die if we don’t find an oxygen supply, he thought. But it was more than that. The dark ridge of rock that formed a natural enclosure wall for the facility—or had, the man was forced to remind himself—was too good a place for an ambush.
The sensible thing would be to lead the men and the buggy along the side, Solomon knew. That way was smoother and probably quicker, even though it would add almost eight hundred meters or more to their two-klick journey.
Which was nothing, right? A simple spacewalk, he told himself.
But Solomon didn’t want to take any chances. What was it that the general had said? That the cyborgs and all of the Ru’at technology retro-engineered by NeuroTech had machine learning algorithms that they wouldn’t even believe. That meant that any cyborgs that had escaped the destruction of the facility would probably choose to b
e up there and ambush them.
And any cyborgs that made moonfall in that landing module would have learned from watching our defense...
“Straight up. That gully.” He held up his hand and led the way straight up the ridge. Better to face any potential enemy now than to be picked off and sniper-shot at their enemy’s leisure.
“Commander!? What are you doing?” the warden demanded on the general channel.
“Sir, it’s a shorter journey, and I don’t want our position to be too exposed…” Solomon said, weariness heavy in his voice. All we need right now is some stupid order from the warden.
“Very good, Commander,” he heard the warden murmur, and the surprise that Solomon felt almost stopped him in his tracks. He would have expected the warden to argue with him, his least favorite adjunct-Marine in the Outcasts, at the very least. What was up? Maybe Warden Coates is a nicer guy when facing the very possible prospect of asphyxiation, he considered.
“Good call, Sol,” Jezzy whispered over their Gold channel. One of the benefits of this mess, Solomon realized, was that there was no central transmitter server monitoring all their squad frequencies. The warden had just the same short-wave communicator as they did and not the override-all-channels that he would have enjoyed back in the facility.
“Thanks. But I still have no idea who it was who brought them here…” Solomon said, breathing hard as he was the first to climb the ridge. The questions bothered him. They had come in a Marine transporter. That meant at the very least a hijack of Marine Corps equipment, overpowering trained Marines, and having the resources and skills to be able to do that.
Or it could mean a traitor in the Corps. Like Kol.
“Wait a minute,” Jezzy cautioned him, bounding to his right side as Malady joined his left, with Karamov behind them, holding the rest of the convoy back until his commander gave them the all-clear. Together, Gold Squad were the first to take the ridge of the hill in a triangle formation, fanning out quickly to the jagged spikes of rocks for cover.
“Anyone got anything?” Solomon peered down the sight of his Jackhammer along the ridge to see nothing out of the ordinary. More rocks. More ice. Nothing that glinted like chrome, or looked like pale, dead flesh.
“All clear at your east,” Malady intoned. The big man didn’t crouch, as his armor would probably be protection enough against most enemy attacks. So far, it hadn’t been tested against the particle beams of the cyborgs, however.
“All clear on your west,” Jezzy echoed, sighting along the spur of the ridge that led back towards the ruined facility.
Which just left the south. Solomon adjusted the range finder on the top of his Jackhammer and scanned down the lowering edge of the ridge to where it dropped into another plateau of ice, and then the crater where the practice hulk was stationary.
It looked like the skeleton of some ancient sea creature, Solomon had always thought, if that sea creature had metal bones. The hulk sat where it had been hauled sometime in the distant past, and still even had old stencil markings of arcane military numbers and designations. Solomon knew it well. He had been sent into its empty holds and bare corridors a few times on training exercises, where he would usually be expected to dummy-shoot a rival squad.
And then there was movement. A shape emerging along the top ridge of metal plates and girders, raising an arm!
“Commander Solomon sir!” an enthusiastic voice said over their general communicator. “Distress beacon working. We managed to fire it up not five minutes ago—”
There was a flash in the dark, and that was the last anyone heard from that particular Green Squad Marine.
“Contact!” Solomon was yelling, turning to trace the line of purple-white light that had speared from the darkness of rock and ice to their west.
“I thought you said the west was clear!?” Solomon growled at Jezzy, looking for the source of the attack. A glint of chrome or silver, a shape that was too regular for the organic shapes of the moon’s surface… Anything.
“It is, stars damn-it!” his combat specialist spat back, doing the same as her commander from her own position. “That’s out on the plateau. Not up here on the ridge.”
Frack it. “Sorry, you’re right.” He scanned the lay of the land quickly. The ridge ran east to west between the facility and the crater that held the practice hulk and the hacked distress beacon. On the other side of the ridge, between their position and the crater, was the ice plateau.
“With any luck, they’re still a ways out,” he announced. He was guessing that the cyborgs—please only be one, please only be one out there… he thought—were at the extreme western edge of the ice plateau, where the ridge started. Maybe they had been about to climb up onto the ridge and take position up here to ambush them, Solomon thought, but the convoy’s quick ascent meant that the cyborgs had to move to the plateau instead.
“Dammit!” He realized the situation at once. Both the Outcasts and the cyborgs’ positions were in a case of stalemate—or at least, that was what his strategic training taught him. The Outcasts had the higher ground, which was good, but Solomon also knew that if he tried to bring the convoy and the buggy over the ridge, they would be silhouetted against the ochre glare of Jupiter.
It would be like a day at a shooting range for the cyborgs.
But similarly, if the cyborgs wanted to avoid getting shot then they would have to remain where they were, too. Hence, stalemate.
“And we can’t afford to wait around here, exposed…” Solomon was growling to himself as he searched the dark for the enemy.
It was at that moment that Solomon realized his total error, as the first cyborg stood up from the ice plateau and casually started walking up hill toward them.
Solomon fired.
Jezzy fired.
Malady fired.
All three shots hit the singular chrome and flesh creature, making it judder and spin on its heels, but it slowly turned and kept marching.
This situation would have been a stalemate if they were facing any other normal human enemy. One that was afraid to get shot and die. And one who, once they had gotten shot, usually did die.
But the cyborgs weren’t like humans at all.
9
Strange Allies
“Multiple contacts. West by southwest…” Solomon heard Jezzy say over the general channel. Not that he didn’t already know that, of course. He was crouching just a little way away from her, after all, and facing the same rising line of cyborgs as they started to climb the ridge. But Jezzy was following procedure, calling out the situation report to any other Marines that might be listening on the general channel, and of course Warden Coates behind.
“Eliminate them!” Coates was hissing in Solomon’s ear.
I wish it were that easy, the Gold Squad Commander was thinking as he ejected the previous ammo mag from his Jackhammer and jammed in another, selecting burst fire from the available settings on the side.
“Fire at will!” Solomon called, leaning out and targeting the nearest cyborg he could see.
It was a heavy-set one, its human body a slightly bigger build than the others, although that was where any trace of individuality ended, as the thing had the same silvered arm, shoulder, part-face and legs as its colleagues.
Colleagues, Solomon scoffed. As if creatures like this know anything about solidarity.
He pulled the trigger, feeling the reassuring kick of the firearm against his shoulder as he gripped hard on the stock to stop it from jumping too much. BADA-BRAP-BRAP-BRAP! He was rewarded by the flash and flare of muzzle fire, almost simultaneously causing a shower of sparks and ricochets from the rising man-machine.
The cyborg staggered under the onslaught, the commander’s bullets forcing it back down the incline to the west of their position. Through the sights of his gun, Solomon saw the grisly image of the creature’s bullet-pocked body, freeing droplets of black machine oil into the Ganymede air.
The creature toppled back, hitting the frozen rocks h
ard and skidding back down to the edge of the plateau.
Yes! It felt like a victory, but the commander knew it was a limited one. He might have pushed it back, but with ceaseless determination, he saw the thing push itself back up on silvered metal arms and start to climb the incline once more—albeit slightly wobblier than before.
“This is insane!” he cursed, firing another barrage of Jackhammer shots at the thing, this time aiming for its belt and the legs. The cyborg didn’t make any pretense of dodging or ducking. It just took the bullets as stoically as it had every other time that Solomon had fired.
Suddenly, a shower of sparks hissed into the air from one of the thing’s knee-joints, and it was done, sliding back to the edge of the plateau, clearly with some kind of injury to its right leg.
“Well done, Commander,” Jezzy breathed tensely over the channel.
“Not good enough, though…” Solomon saw that the cyborg was once again moving. This time, it was hauling itself over the rocks by its arms since it could no longer stand up, but it was still coming for them.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Solomon breathed over the channel communicator as other Outcast Marines took up positions beside him and began firing—other survivors of the facility crash who had been guarding the buggy. They had a total of nine Outcasts up here now, all armed with Jackhammers, and they were facing a similar number of cyborgs.
Six… Seven… Solomon ducked a purple-white particle beam that seared overhead as he counted the approaching enemy. Enough to fill a small landing module, easily, and they had approached from the western ice shelf that lay beyond the facility, meaning that they hadn’t come from the crash site itself.
A scream burst over the shared channel as suddenly one of the rock formations on the brow of the ridge burst apart in a flare of burning light, and the particle beam from below that had super-heated the rocky elements and melted the gluing ice punched its way through to find the adjunct-Marine who had taken up position on the near side.
Outcast Marines series Boxed Set 2 Page 17
