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OBJECT TY392
OUTER SHELL, EPSILON ERIDANI, CORE WORLDS
0015 UTC, FEBRUARY 3, 0006AE
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Comms are still laced with static. It's probably all the plasma the damn rock is venting. Honestly, how did they not anticipate being found? How amateur. A voice crackles in “Affirmative, charges in place, stand clear.”
Chemical propellant driven weapons were always a favorite of mine. No e-clips, no plasma injection fuel, no mag-slugs, just a magazine full of a hundred rounds of rock and roll. All you needed was air, and with modern rounds, not even that anymore. Not that there was much choice after the Scourge, but at least it had left humanity with some dependable technology. Stuff tends to work pretty good after a thousand years of trial and error. A personal defense weapon was just as good at putting holes in somebody as a plasma rifle was at turning them to vapor, and it didn’t have a chance of melting your arm off if something went off. Not a bad trade-off. Then again these were science guys; they might have some armor and they’ve had at least an hour to get ready. Another voice came through, this time “Everybody check your gear, we’re going in hot.”
A glance down reveales LEDs shining “100” in blood red. Magazine check: ten ready to go. A slap on the back of my helmet from some other nobody and one to whoever’s in front; air integrity good. Even if they equalize the pressure you don’t just waltz in. HUD showing all systems green. Give the thumbs-up along with everyone else. “Alright you apes,” said LT, “get ready to move; detonation in 5, 4, 3, 2…”
I don’t like this damn “Personal Armor” crap. They didn’t train me for this. Half the grunts on this stint were new. I survived that damn techno-virus and when I entered this service, they had me in Full Powered Armor. Not the ground-pounder kind they give Security either, but full Heinleinian functionality; hermetically sealed nanoceramic and duralloy plate armor, orbital insertion capability, jump-jets, autocannon, flamer, plasma and bomblet dispenser, grenade and rocket launchers (with all kinds of rounds; sometimes they even issued us elerium fusion warheads), and of course your fireteam specific weapon. And here I am in a damn armor-mesh suit and helmet like freaking
Neil Armstrong or some crap like that. And to think I saw drops on Ross 3B, Tsze Tseang 7E, Battle of Jupiter L5…
“… 1,” finished LT, and right as he did the shaped charges blew. Simple technology again: take a man-sized water jacket, put an explosive ring on one side, use it to blow a hole through several meters of just about anything. No muss, no fuss. Wasn’t so bad, that Scourge. I still miss that armor though, even if it did try to kill me…
“Breach, go, go, go,” shouted LT, pointing a finger at me “Damnit Liana, wake up and
move, I expect better!”
Nod, run, and off we go. Down the hole and into Wonderland. Some kind of klaxon going, hard to hear over battle-chatter. Flashing yellow lights. Not as much smoke as usual. Follow the sonar map, limited synesthesia makes it so damn difficult to pay attention. Smell the route. What had York said? “Smells like victory,” he said, quoting some ancient visual archive.
Flashes of motion. People fleeing, mostly in jumpsuits—Shuurai jumpsuits. So they hadn’t even bothered to get rid of the very emblems they claimed to hate. I guess that’s scientists for you. Standard warning, I don’t even have to think about it anymore “Cease and desist or you will be fired upon; any attempt to resist will designate you as a combatant!”
One drops, the other two keep going. Aim for the legs of the one on the right, some guy, short, shaped like a barrel. Squeeze the trigger twice. Blood red glow of “100” ticks to “98” as a blood red spray erupts. He goes down. Other one freezes, turns, throws her hands up, can barely hear the “Don’t shoot, for God’s sake don’t shoot!”
Level the gun at her. Not bad for a nerd girl; light platinum hair, blue eyes, tan complexion. Strange that scientists get time for some sun. Shout “On the ground,
now!”
She drops like the first one did, keep moving. Half-turn, shout “Hands on your heads and
don’t move!”
Spot Matsuyama and Chang coming down the hall, visual sensors golden. Two pairs of golden circles drifting through the smoke, dragons in the mist. Turn back, move forward. Can hear their intercom now, it just drones on and on “Warning: Farpoint Laboratory is experiencing extreme structural disturbance, all personnel please report to evacuation points for immediate departure.”
Not that they have anywhere to go. Smell of victory getting stronger and stronger. Waving a gun at these people is enough to make them drop. All of a sudden the whole world shakes violently. Fall over, things come tumbling all around. Ankle hurts like hell before the sting of the needle and by the time I get to my feet it’s all gone. Hope that was just a sprain. The drone’s different now “Warning: Farpoint Laboratory has sustained pressure loss on levels A, sections 1, 2, 6; B, sections 2, 3, 5; C, sections 8, 9; sealing bulkheads of all affected areas to preserve atmospheric integrity. Please evacuate these areas if you are still ambulatory.”
And what if you’re not? Sucks to be you, you’re dead? Probably dead anyway. There weren’t any explosives issued. Booby-trap, or some experiment? Can’t stop now. Follow the smell. Round the corner. Another guy, standing in the middle. Something in his hand; wires—detonator. He’s staring at me, visibly hesitating. I’m not going to die, not here, not on this rock. Aim for the right arm, squeeze the trigger.
He goes down in a red spray, right arm tumbles off the other way as he screams in agony. Walk right by him. Sonar synesthesia’s really strong now, must be getting near the center. See a sign: “Amadeus Khan.”
Turn, kick the door open, sweep the room with the gun. Man sitting at a desk, reclined in his chair. There’s a plasmacaster on the desk. They weren’t kidding when they said he was some kind of thief. Level the gun at him. “Are you A. Khan,” I demand.
He just sort of grimly smiles. “Answer me
now,” I say.
He shakes his head a little, says “Doesn’t matter, you’ll kill me anyway,” and goes for the caster. No choice, armor can’t take it. Hold down the trigger. The chair topples back in another cloud of red mist. Slowly advance toward the desk and around it, check him. He’s gone. Check the gun: down to “72”.
Glance across the desk; display gives a manual option to override alert status. Initiate, tell the computer to issue an order to stand down. Its drone changes again. Reach up and undo the helmet seals pull it off and slick back my hair. It’s damp with sweat, hadn’t noticed that before. Hit the comm button with my chin and state “This is Staff Sergeant Liana Rheims, objectives complete; target is neutralized.”
LT radioes back, full of static again, “Damnit Liana, we wanted him alive!”
I glance down at the dead man and at the caster, before responding “No choice, sir, he was hot.”
LT swears but gives a muttered “affirmative” and clicks off.
I glance back at the caster before picking it up, setting its safety, and set it in my helmet, carried under an arm. Golden-eyed dragons in the red mist…
Figuring that Corran had probably begun spreading the news by now, Jonathan leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms out, and yawned before calling the next Representative. It was going to be another long day...
