The Dinaric Alps, Croatia - 2053 AD
Sergeant First Class Matt Bainbridge peers through his binoculars at the ragtag enemy unit below. Higher up the ridge, Matt wonders if the Croat guerrillas are warmer than he is. Laughing to himself, he realizes that they must be, since the Croats have several small fires going.
"Mostly asleep," he whispers to the man next to him, Master Sergeant Chris McAllister, who is lying on his back, eyes to the stars.
"Figures. You see the weapon?" Outwardly, Chris is confident in his men - and rightly so - and knows that his lackadaisical demeanor keeps his team calm and in good spirits. There is, however, little that escapes his notice and he knows that it is not yet time to worry.
"Nope," Matt replies as he continues his scan. "Wait. There it is."
Chris rolls over into the prone position and Matt hands the binoculars to him.
"Wood crate near the middle of the camp." Matt points in the general direction.
"Got it." Chris looks again to the stars. "How long until daylight?"
Matt checks his watch. "Hour-fifteen to BMNT."
"Plenty of time. Call it in."
Matt's fingers press a transmitter on his neck. "Marauder Flight, Wolf Romeo. Hotel Gulf, over."
His receiver crackles to life. "This is Marauder 6. Roger, Hotel Gulf. Fireworks inbound. Watch your heads."
***
The explosions barely have time to subside before Chris and his men rush the camp. The smart bombs landed precisely where they were supposed to - on the edges of the camp - and the fires that remain silhouette most of the guerrillas that survived the blasts. Night vision goggles would not be needed.
Higher up on the ridge, Edward Mulcahy begins tracking moving targets and firing them up. Mulcahy acquires and fires on his targets so rapidly, his spotter, Tyler Hassinger - the team's medic - doesn't even have time to relay the enemy ranges.
Moving in on Chris and Matt's flank is the fire team responsible for ensuring the objective is disarmed and secured, or so the theory goes. Bryant Eick, Chris' demolitions sergeant, is accompanied by his assistant, Peter Nimac, and the team's warrant officer, Nathaniel Dawson. Nathaniel should be in charge of the assault, but he joined the team mid-mission and wisely allowed Chris and Matt to assume leads. For now, he's just another gun on a team desperately in need of guns.
Guerrilla resistance takes some form of organization and Bryant and his crew's progress stops in the face of an enemy firing line. Chris and Matt silently curse their luck and fire into the rear of the enemy line, creating enough of a distraction that Bryant and the others clear their obstacle in seconds. As their support elements line the perimeter and begin mopping up the guerrillas, the group of five American operators reach the wood crate.
"It's empty," Bryant relays as he inspects it, a dour tone to his voice.
"Empty?" Chris asks, not believing it and believing it all at once.
"That's not good," adds Matt.
Chris keys his transmitter. "All stations this net, weapon in the open." He motions for the others to spread out in a search pattern.
Matt taps Chris' shoulder and points to the wood line.
The two soldiers follow what Chris thinks is a trail and, coming over a small hill, wind up face to face with three guerrillas. One of whom is bent over the nuclear warhead, furiously connecting a computerized detonator. Chris and Matt each fire a single round, each killing one of the standing guerrillas. The third stands, holding the detonator.
"Spusti." Drop it. Matt has never sounded so commanding in his life.
The guerrilla hesitates and Chris fires twice into his chest. The detonator falls to the ground. Matt rushes to it and begins to disconnect it from the warhead.
"Eick," Chris calls into the radio. "Get the fuck over here."
"No need," Matt says, holding up the wires. He wears a grin that suggests one part stupidity and one part insanity. "It's done."
"How long?"
Matt glances at the counter. "Twelve seconds."
Chris laughs, from both relief and anxiety. "I need a new job."
***
American special operations men scour the camp, searching for more usable intelligence. Peter Nimac, a second-generation Croat, helps prepare three captured guerrillas for transfer. Four utility helicopters rest on the ground in formation a few hundred yards away, engines alive and protected by circling attack bird and, the men know, an AC-24 gunship somewhere over the horizon.
The sounds of more approaching helicopters force the men to scan the skies. In the distance, a black executive helicopter approaches, escorted by over a half-dozen attack helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft.
"Who the fuck is this?" Chris asks, aware that no combatant would fly around so conspicuously. Must be VIPs.
The executive bird lands, a crew chief disembarks and heads toward Chris and Matt. "Sergeants McAllister and Bainbridge?"
"Yeah? Who's asking?" His tone is sarcastic and disrespectful, but Chris knows whoever is in that bird outranks him to high heaven.
"Assemble your tactical element and come with me, please."
Chris laughs. The crew chief is merely a sergeant and, in spite of Chris' revelation, he has no plans on making this comfortable for a subordinate. "We've already got a ride."
"We're taking you to the Abe."
Chris pauses and glances at Matt, who shrugs. Fort Abraham Lincoln is a top-secret facility in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada. Rumors abound concerning the type of projects and experiments that go on there. "What for?"
"We were told to," replies the crew chief.
***
Colonel Richards sits in his office, anxiously awaiting the report on today's test-run. Almost on cue, Dr. Abram Altshuler, a brilliant man in his late 70s, waddles in.
"Well?" Richards asks, glancing up at the physicist while sipping a cup of coffee.
"We need to carbon date to be sure, but preliminary data suggest an aging of approximately 30 years." Altshuler barely conceals his excitement. "Greenlight the operation, Colonel."
Richards leans back in his chair and returns the smile. "Already have."
*To be continued...
Showing posts with label prose:scifi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose:scifi. Show all posts
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Through Limbo
"What's the plan?"
"Get to the West Coast, find a boat, and get my wife."
"You're fucking crazy. We've got to get somewhere we can hold."
"I'm going to California."
"California's going to be gone when you get there, brother. She's dead, anyway."
Keith Durant, despite nine years in the US Army - the last two attached to non-Department of Defense task forces - had never killed anybody before that moment.
***
The decision to travel more northern routes seems a bad one. Durant cannot afford to sleep so heavily. Traveling by night, struggling to stay warm, and killing his own food exhausted him far more than estimated. The two German Shepherds he rescued from the Blight occasionally bring him food, but much too infrequently. And he still had to skin and cook their kills himself. It is no surprise that, lately, he's been eating kills raw, hoping that his constitution adjusts quickly enough to keep him from falling too ill to travel. So far, so good. Regardless, he continues to cook most of his meals when fire can be readily concealed.
He often considers dumping some weapons. The consideration never lasts long. They are, to put it bluntly, more important than food or water. Without them he'd have been dead weeks and miles ago. It was sheer luck that his escape from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, had taken him through the post's ammo holding area. He'd have probably stayed there were it not for wanting to find his wife. But the AHA had no food stores to speak of. Which meant foraging parties. Which meant purposeful contact with the Blight. Which probably meant everyone at the AHA was dead by now. At least the man in charge was nice enough to let Keith leave with a few thousand rounds of ammunition. Carrying it had been a hassle, but in the first days following the invasion - or the revelation, depending on what one believes - he went through bullets like piss. He still has his Army-issue M4 carbine. The shotgun he found on a dead man. The pistol on a dead cop. Dead cops were gold mines for equipment these days.
According to some Canadians Keith briefly traveled with through West Virginia, the United States was holding out against the Blight better than every other nation. Everyone agreed that it was due to the high percentage of guns among the civilian populace, and that was the reason why the Canadians came south across the border. That boded well for Keith. It gives him a decent chance of making the Pacific Ocean. He has no idea how many guns are in Australia. He hopes his wife managed to find one. Or, at least, find people with guns. No one knows if the Blight are alien or demon - or, he'd heard one posit, man-made - but they can be killed. Keith killed one with his Bowie knife not long after leaving Fort Bragg. It was already wounded, but the brawl exhausted Keith. Far easier to shoot them.
He doesn't think about it much. There's too much guilt to deal with. If he lives through this, he'll spend more time trying to figure out what the Blight are. Though they seem more like rabid animals to him than intelligent life, he doesn't really care. Right now, he only knows one thing: westward. His only reason for living. And he'll have to kill a Hell of a lot of things to make it there. People included.
It is Lavinia - the female German Shepherd - who wakes Keith. A cold nose creeps its way around the holes of his ski mask. It is an effective alarm clock. Aeneas - the male - is usually responsible for the act. Today, something has Aeneas' attention. Keith's transition from drowsy to alert is nearly instantaneous.
The dogs never make a sound. During their struggle with the Blight their growls and whines were loud, rapid, and clear in meaning. Since then Keith hasn't heard either of them so much as bark. Perhaps survival instinct was gracious enough to teach the dogs that noises allow the Blight to locate them. Or perhaps they were just quiet dogs to begin with. Keith did find the matter curious. But the begging question will have to wait.
Aeneas locks his body in a stiff pose. It reminds Keith of a Pointer-mix he had when he was a boy. Lining himself up behind his companion, Keith gazes down Aeneas' sight line.
A Blight is searching the woods. There's no indication that it knows human and canine are nearby. Keith has come to call this version of the Blight "scouts." He's never obtained a good look at one, but Scouts appear to Keith as colored wind. From what he's heard, Scouts are notoriously hard to kill.
He hopes the shotgun will wound it enough for Lavinia and Aeneas to bring it down.
*To be continued...
"Get to the West Coast, find a boat, and get my wife."
"You're fucking crazy. We've got to get somewhere we can hold."
"I'm going to California."
"California's going to be gone when you get there, brother. She's dead, anyway."
Keith Durant, despite nine years in the US Army - the last two attached to non-Department of Defense task forces - had never killed anybody before that moment.
***
The decision to travel more northern routes seems a bad one. Durant cannot afford to sleep so heavily. Traveling by night, struggling to stay warm, and killing his own food exhausted him far more than estimated. The two German Shepherds he rescued from the Blight occasionally bring him food, but much too infrequently. And he still had to skin and cook their kills himself. It is no surprise that, lately, he's been eating kills raw, hoping that his constitution adjusts quickly enough to keep him from falling too ill to travel. So far, so good. Regardless, he continues to cook most of his meals when fire can be readily concealed.
He often considers dumping some weapons. The consideration never lasts long. They are, to put it bluntly, more important than food or water. Without them he'd have been dead weeks and miles ago. It was sheer luck that his escape from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, had taken him through the post's ammo holding area. He'd have probably stayed there were it not for wanting to find his wife. But the AHA had no food stores to speak of. Which meant foraging parties. Which meant purposeful contact with the Blight. Which probably meant everyone at the AHA was dead by now. At least the man in charge was nice enough to let Keith leave with a few thousand rounds of ammunition. Carrying it had been a hassle, but in the first days following the invasion - or the revelation, depending on what one believes - he went through bullets like piss. He still has his Army-issue M4 carbine. The shotgun he found on a dead man. The pistol on a dead cop. Dead cops were gold mines for equipment these days.
According to some Canadians Keith briefly traveled with through West Virginia, the United States was holding out against the Blight better than every other nation. Everyone agreed that it was due to the high percentage of guns among the civilian populace, and that was the reason why the Canadians came south across the border. That boded well for Keith. It gives him a decent chance of making the Pacific Ocean. He has no idea how many guns are in Australia. He hopes his wife managed to find one. Or, at least, find people with guns. No one knows if the Blight are alien or demon - or, he'd heard one posit, man-made - but they can be killed. Keith killed one with his Bowie knife not long after leaving Fort Bragg. It was already wounded, but the brawl exhausted Keith. Far easier to shoot them.
He doesn't think about it much. There's too much guilt to deal with. If he lives through this, he'll spend more time trying to figure out what the Blight are. Though they seem more like rabid animals to him than intelligent life, he doesn't really care. Right now, he only knows one thing: westward. His only reason for living. And he'll have to kill a Hell of a lot of things to make it there. People included.
It is Lavinia - the female German Shepherd - who wakes Keith. A cold nose creeps its way around the holes of his ski mask. It is an effective alarm clock. Aeneas - the male - is usually responsible for the act. Today, something has Aeneas' attention. Keith's transition from drowsy to alert is nearly instantaneous.
The dogs never make a sound. During their struggle with the Blight their growls and whines were loud, rapid, and clear in meaning. Since then Keith hasn't heard either of them so much as bark. Perhaps survival instinct was gracious enough to teach the dogs that noises allow the Blight to locate them. Or perhaps they were just quiet dogs to begin with. Keith did find the matter curious. But the begging question will have to wait.
Aeneas locks his body in a stiff pose. It reminds Keith of a Pointer-mix he had when he was a boy. Lining himself up behind his companion, Keith gazes down Aeneas' sight line.
A Blight is searching the woods. There's no indication that it knows human and canine are nearby. Keith has come to call this version of the Blight "scouts." He's never obtained a good look at one, but Scouts appear to Keith as colored wind. From what he's heard, Scouts are notoriously hard to kill.
He hopes the shotgun will wound it enough for Lavinia and Aeneas to bring it down.
*To be continued...
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Star Fall
There is a certain hardy professionalism involved with soldiers who volunteer for atmospheric assault units. Most military movies these days concern themselves with AAUs, despite the fact they make up less than five per cent of combat rolls. For decades, AAUs have had a reputation - earned or not - for being the best of the best. One thing's for sure, Humphries muses, they're the craziest of the crazy.
The fact that he's smiling as he plummets at terminal velocity towards the surface of an alien planet is more than enough proof of that.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
For some reason, the ballistic personnel carrier fired his unit's pods at too shallow an angle and Humphries quickly recognized that he was in danger of taking a one-way trip into deep space. There was no time to determine what happened - the BPC probably came under orbital flak, panicking the pilot into firing his payload too early - so Humphries ejected from his pod, hoping his suit's jets were enough to carry him close enough to the planet's gravity well to bring him in. Once he got situated, a sensor check assured him that most of his unit made it into the atmosphere. Only a handful of transponders were silent, but those could have simply been out of range or already well into the ionization blackout.
At any rate, he has more pressing matters to worry about. Without the drag chutes on the pod, he might not be able to slow down enough for his suit's drag chutes to deploy successfully. Not to mention he's already burned some of his jet fuel.
Forget the peace inside
You’ve given way to the gods of destruction
Full of desire
You feel afraid that there’s nothing left
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over." The radio call is probably futile, since there has never been a recorded incident of an AA trooper in uncontrolled descent - oddly referred to as a cigarette burn in some strange homage to the ancient days of paratroopers - being successfully saved from the inevitable splat. But, Humphries is a hopeless optimist, and futility has never been reason enough not to try. Besides, the thought of his drinking buddies haunted by being the last to hear Humphries' voice is strangely appealing. Selfish, he knows, but who's going to hold that against him in this moment?
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over."
The ocean is dry
Do you feel hollow?
Nowhere to hide
And nothing to swallow
The wind pummels his suit and maintaining form during descent slowly becomes an exhaustive exercise. A man who once completed a military 30-kilometer march in just over three hours suddenly finds himself angry at the thought of lacking the endurance to fall properly. The irony only makes matters worse and Humphries' open net calls are soon laced with expletives.
And when you can’t recognize
Anything solid
Where do you turn?
When you can’t buy it?
Managing to calm himself down, Humphries tumbles into a fetal position then gradually extends limbs, gaining control of his spin. His suit has control surfaces, but he fears that deploying them will only result in them breaking off at these speeds. Entering the upper level of a thundercloud, he inhales deeply and slowly exhales. Zipping by multi-colored bolts of lightning, he notices how beautiful storms can be.
As a child who once spent countless hours finding shapes in masses of water vapor, he withdraws into his past and begins to create shapes in his mind. Though he is far too close - within, really - and moving far too fast, it is almost immediately that he begins to see her. His visor now riddled with drops of water, even an onlooker directly in front of him would not be able to tell that Humphries has started to cry.
What can you believe in now
With no love to follow?
Now that you have lost yourself
Oh, can anything help you now?
He fell in love with her upon first glance. Though she was dressed in a silly getup supposedly resembling a Middle Eastern princess, he recognized the subtle smile of one whose love of life was only matched by an unspoken loneliness. She learned to enjoy the small things as much as possible, for the large things seemed elusive. Having endured similar heartbreak, he knew that someone must have recently hurt her. At the time, she should've been far too young to be familiar with such pain. But the universe doesn't care to wait when teaching such lessons. Nor, it seemed, did it care to wait when alleviating them.
It would be months before he could get her to talk to him. An emotional eternity, entirely subjective to itself. A free fall into her embrace that seemed to last forever.
What did you learn?
What was it worth?
What did you yearn for?
Everything’s lost now
... and not alone
She finally agreed to spend significant time with him after, he lamented, he received his orders to deploy. It was a repetitive story, and sad, that everyone seemed to wait until he was leaving. But in her case, it was enough. Her initial resistance to him was due to nothing more than she knew he was a soldier and would often be absent from her life. She never told him that she loved him, even as he boarded the shuttle for orbit, but her kiss spoke more to him than anything he could remember. In spite of her pragmatic hesitance, her lips made no secret that they were aware she is loved in return. It was an impact upon both their psyches unlike any other.
Including, he's confident, the impact that will momentarily end his life. His smile returns as he imagines her hair violently whipping in the free fall. Though his desire is to spend the rest of her life at her side, he's content with having been a part of her journey. Perhaps that is the only reason he was born in the first place.
A foolish thought, he knows, as he lets his smile evolve into laughter. He hopes that she will remember a falling star that once wished upon her. And that the universe gets the joke.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
*Lyrics from Sunlounger's "Lost"
The fact that he's smiling as he plummets at terminal velocity towards the surface of an alien planet is more than enough proof of that.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
For some reason, the ballistic personnel carrier fired his unit's pods at too shallow an angle and Humphries quickly recognized that he was in danger of taking a one-way trip into deep space. There was no time to determine what happened - the BPC probably came under orbital flak, panicking the pilot into firing his payload too early - so Humphries ejected from his pod, hoping his suit's jets were enough to carry him close enough to the planet's gravity well to bring him in. Once he got situated, a sensor check assured him that most of his unit made it into the atmosphere. Only a handful of transponders were silent, but those could have simply been out of range or already well into the ionization blackout.
At any rate, he has more pressing matters to worry about. Without the drag chutes on the pod, he might not be able to slow down enough for his suit's drag chutes to deploy successfully. Not to mention he's already burned some of his jet fuel.
Forget the peace inside
You’ve given way to the gods of destruction
Full of desire
You feel afraid that there’s nothing left
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over." The radio call is probably futile, since there has never been a recorded incident of an AA trooper in uncontrolled descent - oddly referred to as a cigarette burn in some strange homage to the ancient days of paratroopers - being successfully saved from the inevitable splat. But, Humphries is a hopeless optimist, and futility has never been reason enough not to try. Besides, the thought of his drinking buddies haunted by being the last to hear Humphries' voice is strangely appealing. Selfish, he knows, but who's going to hold that against him in this moment?
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over."
The ocean is dry
Do you feel hollow?
Nowhere to hide
And nothing to swallow
The wind pummels his suit and maintaining form during descent slowly becomes an exhaustive exercise. A man who once completed a military 30-kilometer march in just over three hours suddenly finds himself angry at the thought of lacking the endurance to fall properly. The irony only makes matters worse and Humphries' open net calls are soon laced with expletives.
And when you can’t recognize
Anything solid
Where do you turn?
When you can’t buy it?
Managing to calm himself down, Humphries tumbles into a fetal position then gradually extends limbs, gaining control of his spin. His suit has control surfaces, but he fears that deploying them will only result in them breaking off at these speeds. Entering the upper level of a thundercloud, he inhales deeply and slowly exhales. Zipping by multi-colored bolts of lightning, he notices how beautiful storms can be.
As a child who once spent countless hours finding shapes in masses of water vapor, he withdraws into his past and begins to create shapes in his mind. Though he is far too close - within, really - and moving far too fast, it is almost immediately that he begins to see her. His visor now riddled with drops of water, even an onlooker directly in front of him would not be able to tell that Humphries has started to cry.
What can you believe in now
With no love to follow?
Now that you have lost yourself
Oh, can anything help you now?
He fell in love with her upon first glance. Though she was dressed in a silly getup supposedly resembling a Middle Eastern princess, he recognized the subtle smile of one whose love of life was only matched by an unspoken loneliness. She learned to enjoy the small things as much as possible, for the large things seemed elusive. Having endured similar heartbreak, he knew that someone must have recently hurt her. At the time, she should've been far too young to be familiar with such pain. But the universe doesn't care to wait when teaching such lessons. Nor, it seemed, did it care to wait when alleviating them.
It would be months before he could get her to talk to him. An emotional eternity, entirely subjective to itself. A free fall into her embrace that seemed to last forever.
What did you learn?
What was it worth?
What did you yearn for?
Everything’s lost now
... and not alone
She finally agreed to spend significant time with him after, he lamented, he received his orders to deploy. It was a repetitive story, and sad, that everyone seemed to wait until he was leaving. But in her case, it was enough. Her initial resistance to him was due to nothing more than she knew he was a soldier and would often be absent from her life. She never told him that she loved him, even as he boarded the shuttle for orbit, but her kiss spoke more to him than anything he could remember. In spite of her pragmatic hesitance, her lips made no secret that they were aware she is loved in return. It was an impact upon both their psyches unlike any other.
Including, he's confident, the impact that will momentarily end his life. His smile returns as he imagines her hair violently whipping in the free fall. Though his desire is to spend the rest of her life at her side, he's content with having been a part of her journey. Perhaps that is the only reason he was born in the first place.
A foolish thought, he knows, as he lets his smile evolve into laughter. He hopes that she will remember a falling star that once wished upon her. And that the universe gets the joke.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
*Lyrics from Sunlounger's "Lost"
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
After Paris
He's from too young a generation to know who Bogart or Bergman are, but he knows the saying. It was, after all, once spoken to him. It is with this memory that he foolishly leads his squad into the ruins of the former capital of France. Paris fell nearly three months ago and, by all accounts, was annihilated. The intelligence reports - human, signal, and image - all agree that La Ville-Lumière is permanently and completely dark.
One light, however, does remain. And the image of a pendant and chain hanging from the neck of a woman lustfully and lovingly hovering above proves far too resilient to extinguish without irrefutable proof.
Master Sergeant Ocean is not a stupid man and his mission has been carefully planned and disguised as a legitimate reconnaissance op. Some of his promotions have been attributed to being the last man standing, so to speak, but an equal number have been granted due to competence and candor. Outside of this one indiscretion, he maintains a reputation for bluntness that those in offices far outranking his - indeed, offices of men and women he's likely to never meet - often give him extra rope with which to tie loose ends... or hang himself. There is a pang of guilt in taking advantage of this reputation for such a personal matter, but ever since the Coalition tore through the coastal European plains - stopped only by a desperate Alliance defense of the Pyrenees - he's been unable to sleep.
She is the last woman he's loved. His favorite. Given his hopeful hopeless romanticism, without her - or the idea of her - he fears his uselessness to the world at large. It is an arrogance to think the universe cares about one small heart wanting another, but such is the nature of men whose pulls of triggers have altered political landscapes.
"Two klick spread. Everything might look dead, chaps, but that doesn't make it so."
Three green lights appear on his VISOR display, signifying acknowledgment from elements Charlie Echo 2, 3, and 4.
"Verify active camo batteries above point-seven-five. We're going to need them," Ocean relays to the response of three more greens.
"Dissipators at full." And still three more. Parts of Paris are still burning, even after this much time, but Ocean is unsure if the fires are hot enough to cover his team's heat signatures. Bad enough that he could only acquire Talos suits for this recon - the Achilles were far more efficient at moving undetected - but many of their vents had been battle-damaged during whatever previous engagements they were a part of.
"Flares at ready." Only two green lights this time. Ocean is a millisecond away from inquiring of the third when a vocal response is received.
"We've done this before, Captain Obvious."
Ordinarily Ocean would berate such a blatant disregard for transmission protocol, but the response comes from Ioannis, his best soldier and one whose tactical reputation is Ocean's equal. Not only that, but the other two members of the recon come from Ioannis' unit, and their loyalty is clearly to Ioannis and not Ocean. As if driving the point home, the third green appears on Ocean's display.
Its proves too much.
Ocean deactivates his disippators and drops his active camo, utilizing all-too-hot and all-too-bright jump jets to close the distance between himself and Ioannis. He imagines three masked "uh ohs" as the two kilometer separation disappears in a matter of seconds.
Not wanting to exacerbate things, Ioannis' Talos maintains its position and he waits for Ocean to jack-in the direct line.
"This is not the time, Ioannis."
"You're not yourself," Ioannis replies, tone respectful of rank, if not of man. "We're heading to Aulnay-sous-Bois, which has no reconnaissance value whatsoever. Care to let me in on what the fuck we're really doing out here?"
Ocean sighs. His irritation subsides, giving way to a crescendo of guilt. There's no point in keeping it a secret at this point.
***
To Ioannis' credit, he says nothing to the other Talos-operators. Even when Ocean disengages from his Talos' cockpit with a DNA scanner and enters the ruins of what was once an upper-middle-class residence. Instead, Ioannis issues a simple order: "Triangle out, center-point here. Max limit."
The three other Talos' jump away, giving Ocean much-desired privacy under the auspices of a defensive formation. He waits until the others disappear from view, staring through a foyer window that somehow remained intact. When he's finally alone with his ghost, he begins the search.
Finding her body doesn't take as long as Ocean feared. Burnt and rotting, the smell is almost too much to bear. She is unrecognizable in her current state and Ocean cuts off a tissue sample, placing it into the scanner. Holding his breath for the few seconds it takes to analyze, the news is bad... and entirely expected.
What is unexpected is the second body. A man's. Possibly a brother, he hopes, but just as practicality dictates that Ocean returns to his Talos, curiosity results in another analyzed tissue sample. And another.
***
Ioannis catches up to Ocean back at FOB Azores and notes Ocean's dour expression.
"You find what you were looking for, Master Sergeant?"
"I did," Ocean mutters behind a slow nod.
Something's wrong, and Ioannis knows it. "I'll handle the debrief."
"Thank you."
***
Ocean stands on the banks of Lagoa das Sete Cidades, the charred necklace he found in the rubble of Paris in his hand. He's crying, an activity rare in his lifetime, and falls to his knees.
"We'll always have Paris." A whisper in memory; a scream in imagination.
Fear of being seen forces Ocean back to his feet. He takes a longing glance at the necklace before throwing it into the volcanic lake.
Conscience resolved, Ocean gives thanks that Paris is gone and heads back to the base.
In the months ahead, Ocean formally takes command of Ioannis' unit. It is the beginning of a beautiful friendship and what is recorded in combat reviews as the most effective fighting unit of the war.
One light, however, does remain. And the image of a pendant and chain hanging from the neck of a woman lustfully and lovingly hovering above proves far too resilient to extinguish without irrefutable proof.
Master Sergeant Ocean is not a stupid man and his mission has been carefully planned and disguised as a legitimate reconnaissance op. Some of his promotions have been attributed to being the last man standing, so to speak, but an equal number have been granted due to competence and candor. Outside of this one indiscretion, he maintains a reputation for bluntness that those in offices far outranking his - indeed, offices of men and women he's likely to never meet - often give him extra rope with which to tie loose ends... or hang himself. There is a pang of guilt in taking advantage of this reputation for such a personal matter, but ever since the Coalition tore through the coastal European plains - stopped only by a desperate Alliance defense of the Pyrenees - he's been unable to sleep.
She is the last woman he's loved. His favorite. Given his hopeful hopeless romanticism, without her - or the idea of her - he fears his uselessness to the world at large. It is an arrogance to think the universe cares about one small heart wanting another, but such is the nature of men whose pulls of triggers have altered political landscapes.
"Two klick spread. Everything might look dead, chaps, but that doesn't make it so."
Three green lights appear on his VISOR display, signifying acknowledgment from elements Charlie Echo 2, 3, and 4.
"Verify active camo batteries above point-seven-five. We're going to need them," Ocean relays to the response of three more greens.
"Dissipators at full." And still three more. Parts of Paris are still burning, even after this much time, but Ocean is unsure if the fires are hot enough to cover his team's heat signatures. Bad enough that he could only acquire Talos suits for this recon - the Achilles were far more efficient at moving undetected - but many of their vents had been battle-damaged during whatever previous engagements they were a part of.
"Flares at ready." Only two green lights this time. Ocean is a millisecond away from inquiring of the third when a vocal response is received.
"We've done this before, Captain Obvious."
Ordinarily Ocean would berate such a blatant disregard for transmission protocol, but the response comes from Ioannis, his best soldier and one whose tactical reputation is Ocean's equal. Not only that, but the other two members of the recon come from Ioannis' unit, and their loyalty is clearly to Ioannis and not Ocean. As if driving the point home, the third green appears on Ocean's display.
Its proves too much.
Ocean deactivates his disippators and drops his active camo, utilizing all-too-hot and all-too-bright jump jets to close the distance between himself and Ioannis. He imagines three masked "uh ohs" as the two kilometer separation disappears in a matter of seconds.
Not wanting to exacerbate things, Ioannis' Talos maintains its position and he waits for Ocean to jack-in the direct line.
"This is not the time, Ioannis."
"You're not yourself," Ioannis replies, tone respectful of rank, if not of man. "We're heading to Aulnay-sous-Bois, which has no reconnaissance value whatsoever. Care to let me in on what the fuck we're really doing out here?"
Ocean sighs. His irritation subsides, giving way to a crescendo of guilt. There's no point in keeping it a secret at this point.
***
To Ioannis' credit, he says nothing to the other Talos-operators. Even when Ocean disengages from his Talos' cockpit with a DNA scanner and enters the ruins of what was once an upper-middle-class residence. Instead, Ioannis issues a simple order: "Triangle out, center-point here. Max limit."
The three other Talos' jump away, giving Ocean much-desired privacy under the auspices of a defensive formation. He waits until the others disappear from view, staring through a foyer window that somehow remained intact. When he's finally alone with his ghost, he begins the search.
Finding her body doesn't take as long as Ocean feared. Burnt and rotting, the smell is almost too much to bear. She is unrecognizable in her current state and Ocean cuts off a tissue sample, placing it into the scanner. Holding his breath for the few seconds it takes to analyze, the news is bad... and entirely expected.
What is unexpected is the second body. A man's. Possibly a brother, he hopes, but just as practicality dictates that Ocean returns to his Talos, curiosity results in another analyzed tissue sample. And another.
***
Ioannis catches up to Ocean back at FOB Azores and notes Ocean's dour expression.
"You find what you were looking for, Master Sergeant?"
"I did," Ocean mutters behind a slow nod.
Something's wrong, and Ioannis knows it. "I'll handle the debrief."
"Thank you."
***
Ocean stands on the banks of Lagoa das Sete Cidades, the charred necklace he found in the rubble of Paris in his hand. He's crying, an activity rare in his lifetime, and falls to his knees.
"We'll always have Paris." A whisper in memory; a scream in imagination.
Fear of being seen forces Ocean back to his feet. He takes a longing glance at the necklace before throwing it into the volcanic lake.
Conscience resolved, Ocean gives thanks that Paris is gone and heads back to the base.
In the months ahead, Ocean formally takes command of Ioannis' unit. It is the beginning of a beautiful friendship and what is recorded in combat reviews as the most effective fighting unit of the war.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Scheherazadi, Part II
*Continued from The Scheherazadi, Part I
I'm dreaming of a green world. A wonderful world full of life and lots of naked women. I know, I know... I can be a tad perverted. But, hey, it's my fucking dream.
Of course, it's all a crock of shit. These types of dreams are common when unplugging from a golem. The last thing I remember is getting hit by some sort of missile. I guess my tech-djinn deactivated my brain in time. I owe it my life, sure. But I'm still gonna smack it in the face.
Or I would, if I didn't just wake up surrounded by a group of strangers. My eyes are blurry, but I don't recognize any of the voices and I'm tied to a metal pallet. I'm guessing these guys don't like me.
Don't worry. I don't know what's going on, either. Better get some sleep.
***
They're talking like I'm not in the room. Which is a little rude since, you know, I'm tied to a metal pallet. They don't realize I speak French, so their attempt at keeping me ignorant is falling short a bit.
"I think we should kill this one and find another," one says. I think his name is Rashid.
"Why do you say that, Rashid?" a woman asks him. So, yep, his name is Rashid. These people are ridiculously tall. I clock in at 73 inches, but everyone else in the room - the women included - have me beat by at least four more. They're also rather dark... every hue of skin from heavy bronze to deep brown. No pale bodies in the group.
"He's an irreverent asshole."
Seriously, what did they expect? I wake up tied to a metal pallet and then they interrogate me? And I'm supposed to be polite? Fuck 'em.
"No," the woman replies - for a tall chick, she's gorgeous... Hell, for any type of chick, she's gorgeous. "There's a chance his djinn transmitted a signal, so our tactic will likely be recognized the next time."
Rashid frowns and almost pouts. This guy called me an asshole?
"Besides," the woman continues, "this one didn't even shoot at us. I doubt we'd be so lucky again."
"Perhaps he's incompetent." Fuck you, Rashid. Really.
"No. I believe quite the opposite. The shock of seeing humans on the surface must have registered quickly."
Yeah, that. I'm really starting to like this broad. Of course, I'll probably be ordered to kill her at some point.
"Where am I?" I ask, tiring of their exchange. I speak in English, not wanting to give away that I speak their little fruity tongue.
She looks at me, her eyes - not naturally piercing - manage to stab at me. "Somewhere under the Russian Ocean," she answers, absent any discernible emotion.
Well, that's a long way from home. Fucking wonderful. She nods at who I'm guessing is a medical technician and the jerk sticks something in my arm. I'm passing out... again.
***
It's the green world. What it looked like centuries ago. It wasn't all green, of course - desert was still around and there was plenty of blue - but it looks like a chia pet in my dream. I can hear voices, so I'm probably not completely asleep. French voices, too. Sound like scientists, because they're explaining how the nuclear fallout over the Arctic isn't what fucked Mama Earth... it was the Antarctic melt that really caused problems. Oh, and some massive secret project to create more water using nuclear fusion that didn't quite pan out. Some angel in my dream who's a drop-dead gorgeous brunette with an accent - British, maybe... can't really tell - talks about how the coolers failed at the worst possible moment, exacerbated by a terrorist attack on the secondary coolers. Kaboom went the man-made glacier machines and splash went the planet.
The desire to survive instituted a global feudal system and that's pretty much been the preferred form of government since the flood. Only no Noah's Ark this time. Yeah, some animals survived - dogs and cats, mostly... people and their pets, let me tell ya - but this extinction event took care of most our four-legged, eight-legged, no-legged, and winged friends. Humanity's stubbornness and a brief (as existence goes) adoption of cannibalism saved what was left.
The voices are disappearing and my angel fades. Damn, she's beautiful. I hope she revisits me again some night. Her voice does me in. The last thing I hear her say throws me for a bit of a loop.
"Save the planet."
Me? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I'm just a dumb grunt who lost his golem.
***
And I'm waking up... again. I'm getting real sick of these hangovers. At least this time only the woman is in the room with me.
"My name is Morgiana and you're probably wondering why you're here."
I didn't notice it before - strange, I know - but she's not wearing very much clothing. Topless, in fact. Then again, I'm drowzy... maybe seducing me is the next stage of the interrogation. And, trust me, I'd let this one seduce me. It's at this point during my morning arousal - if it's even morning - I realize how hot it is here. I should say something snarky, but I keep my mouth shut and nod.
"We need you."
Nice and vague. And probably a lie. "How'd you get my body?"
"We assaulted your home dune the same time we attacked your golem. Your tech-djinn is dead, along with all of the other inhabitants of your dune. For that, I apologize. We could take no chances at being discovered or reported."
Djinn's dead? And all of my friends, even the ones I didn't really like. Yeah, this upsets me a little. And pisses me off a lot.
"So why not kill me?"
"I told you. We need you. We're not interested in your wars over land. We have a much larger goal."
She's starting to sound like one of those over-the-top villains from an old spy movie.
"And what's that?"
"Saving the planet."
For some reason - no doubt an imaginary brunette - I believe her. Now I'm intrigued. Whether by the concept, by the dream, or by Morgiana's beautifully smooth and supple nipples, I've no idea. But I'm intrigued.
"Yeah, fine. When are you going to untie me?" Perhaps I should've toned down the defiance in my voice a little bit.
"When I decide to trust you."
Great. I might be here a while. Judging from the syringe she's holding, I'm gonna have a lot of headaches, too.
*Continued in The Scheherazadi, Part III
I'm dreaming of a green world. A wonderful world full of life and lots of naked women. I know, I know... I can be a tad perverted. But, hey, it's my fucking dream.
Of course, it's all a crock of shit. These types of dreams are common when unplugging from a golem. The last thing I remember is getting hit by some sort of missile. I guess my tech-djinn deactivated my brain in time. I owe it my life, sure. But I'm still gonna smack it in the face.
Or I would, if I didn't just wake up surrounded by a group of strangers. My eyes are blurry, but I don't recognize any of the voices and I'm tied to a metal pallet. I'm guessing these guys don't like me.
Don't worry. I don't know what's going on, either. Better get some sleep.
***
They're talking like I'm not in the room. Which is a little rude since, you know, I'm tied to a metal pallet. They don't realize I speak French, so their attempt at keeping me ignorant is falling short a bit.
"I think we should kill this one and find another," one says. I think his name is Rashid.
"Why do you say that, Rashid?" a woman asks him. So, yep, his name is Rashid. These people are ridiculously tall. I clock in at 73 inches, but everyone else in the room - the women included - have me beat by at least four more. They're also rather dark... every hue of skin from heavy bronze to deep brown. No pale bodies in the group.
"He's an irreverent asshole."
Seriously, what did they expect? I wake up tied to a metal pallet and then they interrogate me? And I'm supposed to be polite? Fuck 'em.
"No," the woman replies - for a tall chick, she's gorgeous... Hell, for any type of chick, she's gorgeous. "There's a chance his djinn transmitted a signal, so our tactic will likely be recognized the next time."
Rashid frowns and almost pouts. This guy called me an asshole?
"Besides," the woman continues, "this one didn't even shoot at us. I doubt we'd be so lucky again."
"Perhaps he's incompetent." Fuck you, Rashid. Really.
"No. I believe quite the opposite. The shock of seeing humans on the surface must have registered quickly."
Yeah, that. I'm really starting to like this broad. Of course, I'll probably be ordered to kill her at some point.
"Where am I?" I ask, tiring of their exchange. I speak in English, not wanting to give away that I speak their little fruity tongue.
She looks at me, her eyes - not naturally piercing - manage to stab at me. "Somewhere under the Russian Ocean," she answers, absent any discernible emotion.
Well, that's a long way from home. Fucking wonderful. She nods at who I'm guessing is a medical technician and the jerk sticks something in my arm. I'm passing out... again.
***
It's the green world. What it looked like centuries ago. It wasn't all green, of course - desert was still around and there was plenty of blue - but it looks like a chia pet in my dream. I can hear voices, so I'm probably not completely asleep. French voices, too. Sound like scientists, because they're explaining how the nuclear fallout over the Arctic isn't what fucked Mama Earth... it was the Antarctic melt that really caused problems. Oh, and some massive secret project to create more water using nuclear fusion that didn't quite pan out. Some angel in my dream who's a drop-dead gorgeous brunette with an accent - British, maybe... can't really tell - talks about how the coolers failed at the worst possible moment, exacerbated by a terrorist attack on the secondary coolers. Kaboom went the man-made glacier machines and splash went the planet.
The desire to survive instituted a global feudal system and that's pretty much been the preferred form of government since the flood. Only no Noah's Ark this time. Yeah, some animals survived - dogs and cats, mostly... people and their pets, let me tell ya - but this extinction event took care of most our four-legged, eight-legged, no-legged, and winged friends. Humanity's stubbornness and a brief (as existence goes) adoption of cannibalism saved what was left.
The voices are disappearing and my angel fades. Damn, she's beautiful. I hope she revisits me again some night. Her voice does me in. The last thing I hear her say throws me for a bit of a loop.
"Save the planet."
Me? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I'm just a dumb grunt who lost his golem.
***
And I'm waking up... again. I'm getting real sick of these hangovers. At least this time only the woman is in the room with me.
"My name is Morgiana and you're probably wondering why you're here."
I didn't notice it before - strange, I know - but she's not wearing very much clothing. Topless, in fact. Then again, I'm drowzy... maybe seducing me is the next stage of the interrogation. And, trust me, I'd let this one seduce me. It's at this point during my morning arousal - if it's even morning - I realize how hot it is here. I should say something snarky, but I keep my mouth shut and nod.
"We need you."
Nice and vague. And probably a lie. "How'd you get my body?"
"We assaulted your home dune the same time we attacked your golem. Your tech-djinn is dead, along with all of the other inhabitants of your dune. For that, I apologize. We could take no chances at being discovered or reported."
Djinn's dead? And all of my friends, even the ones I didn't really like. Yeah, this upsets me a little. And pisses me off a lot.
"So why not kill me?"
"I told you. We need you. We're not interested in your wars over land. We have a much larger goal."
She's starting to sound like one of those over-the-top villains from an old spy movie.
"And what's that?"
"Saving the planet."
For some reason - no doubt an imaginary brunette - I believe her. Now I'm intrigued. Whether by the concept, by the dream, or by Morgiana's beautifully smooth and supple nipples, I've no idea. But I'm intrigued.
"Yeah, fine. When are you going to untie me?" Perhaps I should've toned down the defiance in my voice a little bit.
"When I decide to trust you."
Great. I might be here a while. Judging from the syringe she's holding, I'm gonna have a lot of headaches, too.
*Continued in The Scheherazadi, Part III
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Equation
*Follows Gateway and Surface
Falling from an aircraft and experiencing flight the way only a liar can feels nothing like falling from a planet. Or in this case a moon, Samuel reminds himself. The landscape here doesn't vary and the dark skies make it hard to gauge how high up he actually is. His head hurts, an infection-inspired vertigo, and that his eyes constantly readjust from his inclination to stare up at Saturn and down at Iapetus make the very act of focus - visual or mental - almost impossible. But he can't help it. This facade of flying is too addicting.
***
"Jesus fuck," Vasquez mutters as he loses his balance. The impact doesn't hurt much - the gravity here is roughly two or three percent of Earth's - but the complicated act of landing properly makes him feel like an albatross.
"Ah, shit," Estevez screams in frustration as he undertakes the same clumsy action.
Roarke can't help but smile, knowing that Estevez and Vasquez are from the same part of the United States and react similarly to almost every situation. The group - five survivors from an initial squad of 13 - has been walking/flying for about 70 miles. It was determined a short time ago that whatever is jamming their transmissions to the orbiter is not coming from Gateway. Instead, it seems to be coming from the moon. Though Roarke swears she can occasionally see the Capricorn orbiter in the sky - a perception shared by none of the others - she knows that the odds of the crew spotting five lonely spots on the surface of Iapetus are slim to none... and closer to none.
"Sipalia," Roarke calls out over the comm-set, "the men are tired."
Sipalia responds with a grunt. The labored breathing Roarke hears lets her know that Sipalia is well-aware of the team's exhaustion. They've been fighting all day - perhaps more than a day - and though the light gravity allows the team to move quite rapidly, the frustration of not being able to move efficiently is taking its fair toll.
"Oxygen check," Sipalia orders. Though Roarke had led the team for much of the operation, Sipalia re-assumed his proper authority upon leaving the station. They hadn't been accosted by the Things since abandoning McDaniels in the airlock and the thought of sleeping is quite attractive.
Everyone reports in at least 60%. Good news, thinks Sipalia, and he begins mentally to put a sleep schedule together. Then he realizes only three reports came in.
"Nduom?"
Silence.
"Nduom?" Sipalia repeats in that command voice that leaders who prefer subtle approaches hate to use.
***
The zenith of the flight arc provides a wonderful view of the equatorial ridge. It is a strange natural formation that spans nearly the entire waistline of the moon. The skyline screams of being man-made - or intelligently-designed, as it were - but he knows that's impossible. The entire moon would have to be an artifact, were that the case. Thoughts struggle to form pedestrian theories as a pressure suit slams into the ground. The memory of a paratrooper's poeticism from the early 21st century begins to sing in imaginative choir.
"Give us wings... and we'll still fall."
***
"Nduom!" Sipalia's yell fails to snap Nduom out of whatever trance he's in and Sipalia watches as the pressure suit smacks a rock, then rolls over limp. "Estevez." It is a simple order and even without being able to see Sipalia's command expression, Estevez reacts immediately and bounds over to Nduom's unmoving suit.
"Hang on, brother," Estevez radios out, "I'm coming." The anxiety in the medic's voice betrays his knowledge that if, in fact, Nduom needs medical attention, he's not getting any out here.
"Anybody see what happened?" Sipalia asks the others. Some shake their heads, then respond "no" once they remember that the pressure helmet hides any such body language. "Well, that's just fucking great."
"How far do you think we are from the ridge?"
Sipalia turns to Roarke instinctively. Even without being able to discern a woman's voice, he knows that she's the only one who would ask such a pragmatic question in such a dicked-up circumstance. He holds his thumb toward Gateway, estimating their distance traveled, then turns around and compares it to the base of the ridge. "We're over half-way," he answers.
Roarke fails to transmit it, but Sipalia imagines a small sigh of relief. The ridge is their last hope of making contact with the orbiter - or so they think - and the orbiter is their only chance of survival.
***
Samuel can tell his body is being rolled over into a supine position, but he can't tell by whom... or by what. His thoughts continue to enjoy the meanderings of flight, finding an imaginary permanence over a random peak of a random mountain. Iapetus, he muses, is only about one-tenth as beautiful as Earth's own moon. Somewhere in the back of his mind there's a laugh at such an arbitrary and subjective conclusion.
His eyes finally recognize Estevez' face through the half-reflection of a gold-lined faceplate. The medic is talking to him and though the receivers are inches from his ears, Samuel has no idea what is being said. Instead, his thoughts begin to accelerate, concocting mathematical formulas that have no basis in logic.
65 miles to the ridge. Just over 100 klicks. 15 klicks up the designated peak. Just over 9 miles. 189 total integers that don't create a sum but add together anyway. The acceleration of gravity here is .223 meters per second squared and indefinite flight can be achieved with a jump creating just over a half-kilometer per second force. The orbiter should still be tending to Gateway's satellites, which are geo-synchronous, which technically allows a rendezvous with a well-aimed push. 60% oxygen is an ample supply. 40% carbon dioxide might be enough to plant a tree. Landing in a tree should be easier than landing on a rock one can barely see. I just want to fly.
Samuel knows he was scratched by one of the Things. He couldn't figure out if it were a claw or a tail that got him... maybe even a tooth or a fang... but it didn't draw a lot of blood so he had kept his mouth shut. He watches Estevez stand and can tell the medic's posture is dour. The Things are poisonous.
100% fatal.
***
Estevez double-checks the vital read on the suit before he calls Sipalia. "He's dying."
Sipalia is confused, but doesn't harp on it. "From what?" There's nothing out here.
"I don't know."
"Can we carry him?"
"Sure, but without opening the suit there's not a damned thing I can do."
Roarke's radio keys and Sipalia prepares himself to counteract her typical "no man left behind" argument. Instead, she merely offers a suggestion. "Transfer his oxygen to the others."
Each man can hear her tears. The Icy Bitch finally melts under Saturn's rings of ice.
***
Nduom lies still on the moon's landscape. Left with ten per cent oxygen - the others hoping that his wound will kill him before the asphyxiation - his mind once again returns to flight. He briefly considers this to be an out-of-body experience, but discounts the consideration when he fails to see his body. Only stars in one direction and a large, ringed planet in the other. There is no wind, no gale to ride, but the flight is as spectacular as any he's ever taken.
He smiles as another pressure suit approaches. Perhaps one of his friends - probably Roarke - is refusing to let him die alone. It towers above him, though Nduom knows that he is flying above it. How odd that ground and sky can each be touched but out of reach at the same time. There is cheerful laughter as he sees that there are wings on his new companion. An angel to take him home.
200 billion stars means 200 billion chances for life. There is alien life here, of which I am one. One killed me. And one returns me to zero.
It is a horrible mathematical interpretation, but as he is carried away from the surface, he knows that the formula is sound. Breaking free of atmosphere, he spies the peaks that his friends head toward. Somehow, they will survive.
Falling from an aircraft and experiencing flight the way only a liar can feels nothing like falling from a planet. Or in this case a moon, Samuel reminds himself. The landscape here doesn't vary and the dark skies make it hard to gauge how high up he actually is. His head hurts, an infection-inspired vertigo, and that his eyes constantly readjust from his inclination to stare up at Saturn and down at Iapetus make the very act of focus - visual or mental - almost impossible. But he can't help it. This facade of flying is too addicting.
***
"Jesus fuck," Vasquez mutters as he loses his balance. The impact doesn't hurt much - the gravity here is roughly two or three percent of Earth's - but the complicated act of landing properly makes him feel like an albatross.
"Ah, shit," Estevez screams in frustration as he undertakes the same clumsy action.
Roarke can't help but smile, knowing that Estevez and Vasquez are from the same part of the United States and react similarly to almost every situation. The group - five survivors from an initial squad of 13 - has been walking/flying for about 70 miles. It was determined a short time ago that whatever is jamming their transmissions to the orbiter is not coming from Gateway. Instead, it seems to be coming from the moon. Though Roarke swears she can occasionally see the Capricorn orbiter in the sky - a perception shared by none of the others - she knows that the odds of the crew spotting five lonely spots on the surface of Iapetus are slim to none... and closer to none.
"Sipalia," Roarke calls out over the comm-set, "the men are tired."
Sipalia responds with a grunt. The labored breathing Roarke hears lets her know that Sipalia is well-aware of the team's exhaustion. They've been fighting all day - perhaps more than a day - and though the light gravity allows the team to move quite rapidly, the frustration of not being able to move efficiently is taking its fair toll.
"Oxygen check," Sipalia orders. Though Roarke had led the team for much of the operation, Sipalia re-assumed his proper authority upon leaving the station. They hadn't been accosted by the Things since abandoning McDaniels in the airlock and the thought of sleeping is quite attractive.
Everyone reports in at least 60%. Good news, thinks Sipalia, and he begins mentally to put a sleep schedule together. Then he realizes only three reports came in.
"Nduom?"
Silence.
"Nduom?" Sipalia repeats in that command voice that leaders who prefer subtle approaches hate to use.
***
The zenith of the flight arc provides a wonderful view of the equatorial ridge. It is a strange natural formation that spans nearly the entire waistline of the moon. The skyline screams of being man-made - or intelligently-designed, as it were - but he knows that's impossible. The entire moon would have to be an artifact, were that the case. Thoughts struggle to form pedestrian theories as a pressure suit slams into the ground. The memory of a paratrooper's poeticism from the early 21st century begins to sing in imaginative choir.
"Give us wings... and we'll still fall."
***
"Nduom!" Sipalia's yell fails to snap Nduom out of whatever trance he's in and Sipalia watches as the pressure suit smacks a rock, then rolls over limp. "Estevez." It is a simple order and even without being able to see Sipalia's command expression, Estevez reacts immediately and bounds over to Nduom's unmoving suit.
"Hang on, brother," Estevez radios out, "I'm coming." The anxiety in the medic's voice betrays his knowledge that if, in fact, Nduom needs medical attention, he's not getting any out here.
"Anybody see what happened?" Sipalia asks the others. Some shake their heads, then respond "no" once they remember that the pressure helmet hides any such body language. "Well, that's just fucking great."
"How far do you think we are from the ridge?"
Sipalia turns to Roarke instinctively. Even without being able to discern a woman's voice, he knows that she's the only one who would ask such a pragmatic question in such a dicked-up circumstance. He holds his thumb toward Gateway, estimating their distance traveled, then turns around and compares it to the base of the ridge. "We're over half-way," he answers.
Roarke fails to transmit it, but Sipalia imagines a small sigh of relief. The ridge is their last hope of making contact with the orbiter - or so they think - and the orbiter is their only chance of survival.
***
Samuel can tell his body is being rolled over into a supine position, but he can't tell by whom... or by what. His thoughts continue to enjoy the meanderings of flight, finding an imaginary permanence over a random peak of a random mountain. Iapetus, he muses, is only about one-tenth as beautiful as Earth's own moon. Somewhere in the back of his mind there's a laugh at such an arbitrary and subjective conclusion.
His eyes finally recognize Estevez' face through the half-reflection of a gold-lined faceplate. The medic is talking to him and though the receivers are inches from his ears, Samuel has no idea what is being said. Instead, his thoughts begin to accelerate, concocting mathematical formulas that have no basis in logic.
65 miles to the ridge. Just over 100 klicks. 15 klicks up the designated peak. Just over 9 miles. 189 total integers that don't create a sum but add together anyway. The acceleration of gravity here is .223 meters per second squared and indefinite flight can be achieved with a jump creating just over a half-kilometer per second force. The orbiter should still be tending to Gateway's satellites, which are geo-synchronous, which technically allows a rendezvous with a well-aimed push. 60% oxygen is an ample supply. 40% carbon dioxide might be enough to plant a tree. Landing in a tree should be easier than landing on a rock one can barely see. I just want to fly.
Samuel knows he was scratched by one of the Things. He couldn't figure out if it were a claw or a tail that got him... maybe even a tooth or a fang... but it didn't draw a lot of blood so he had kept his mouth shut. He watches Estevez stand and can tell the medic's posture is dour. The Things are poisonous.
100% fatal.
***
Estevez double-checks the vital read on the suit before he calls Sipalia. "He's dying."
Sipalia is confused, but doesn't harp on it. "From what?" There's nothing out here.
"I don't know."
"Can we carry him?"
"Sure, but without opening the suit there's not a damned thing I can do."
Roarke's radio keys and Sipalia prepares himself to counteract her typical "no man left behind" argument. Instead, she merely offers a suggestion. "Transfer his oxygen to the others."
Each man can hear her tears. The Icy Bitch finally melts under Saturn's rings of ice.
***
Nduom lies still on the moon's landscape. Left with ten per cent oxygen - the others hoping that his wound will kill him before the asphyxiation - his mind once again returns to flight. He briefly considers this to be an out-of-body experience, but discounts the consideration when he fails to see his body. Only stars in one direction and a large, ringed planet in the other. There is no wind, no gale to ride, but the flight is as spectacular as any he's ever taken.
He smiles as another pressure suit approaches. Perhaps one of his friends - probably Roarke - is refusing to let him die alone. It towers above him, though Nduom knows that he is flying above it. How odd that ground and sky can each be touched but out of reach at the same time. There is cheerful laughter as he sees that there are wings on his new companion. An angel to take him home.
200 billion stars means 200 billion chances for life. There is alien life here, of which I am one. One killed me. And one returns me to zero.
It is a horrible mathematical interpretation, but as he is carried away from the surface, he knows that the formula is sound. Breaking free of atmosphere, he spies the peaks that his friends head toward. Somehow, they will survive.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Scheherazadi, Part I
"A malicious pill for a malicious thrill, eh?"
"I hate it when you talk like that." I really do. There's something about tech-djinn that irritates me. It's either the ridiculous tattoos they sport or the alarming amount of cybernetic implants that stick out of their bodies. But I take the pill anyway.
"How? Maliciously?"
I really want to smack that grin off its face.
The pill works quickly and I can feel the djinn plugging me into the golem, barely. It's been a while since I've gone for a ride and I guess I forgot about the numbness. But, desperate measures for desperate times, right?
***
Forgive me. You probably have no idea what's going on. Earth is a desert wasteland in my time and there aren't very many people left. A few dozen-million, if that. Yeah, the polar icecaps melted - well, one of them - but not for reasons you're thinking. Some assholes started a nuclear shootout. With all the interceptor defense systems, most of those bad boys got knocked down over the North Pole, it being under the flight path of those damned things. It's amazing what fallout can do to ice.
Long-story short: the Arctic disappeared, water went everywhere, and everything heated up. Literally and figuratively. Oh, the Antarctic is still around, but it's mostly exposed rock now. Who knew?
***
"Golem 2-7, up." My voice sounds funny when it's mechanized. I burst through the sand trap and check the heat shields. Five by five. Weapons-check follows. I'm good there, too. Most golem-drivers check their guns first, but I've seen what a fucked up heat shield can do, and I'm not into that.
"2-7, 2-6. TRP alpha. Your discretion."
2-6 is my squad leader. I've never actually met her in person - Hell, I don't even know what dune she lives under - but her robot voice sure does turn me on. Then again, being given a "your discretion" order always turns me on.
***
Sorry, again. You probably still don't have a clue what's happening. Screwing up Mama Earth didn't unite humanity in a Utopian movement to save her. Instead, it just made land more valuable, as arid and useless as it is. Valuable land tends to start wars. Ah, humanity. How blessed are we?
Anyway...
The golem is a third-generation mech-suit and currently the pinnacle of battlefield technology. And I fucking love 'em. First-gen golems were garbage. Conventional tanks and aircraft typically made being a golem-driver the most dangerous job a soldier could have. Second-gen golems were better, but only marginally. They were more mobile, sure, but much harder to learn how to drive. Golem-drivers were their own worst enemies in 2G systems. Then some yahoo figured out how to transfer human consciousness into machines. Even with the 3G interface system in tanks and aircraft, the golems became the kings of war. And everyone wanted to drive one. They afford one of the few available methods of actually walking on the surface of the planet. Still, if we die in one, our bodies go brain-dead. There's a catch to everything, no?
***
I see the target and I light it up with incendiaries. Some weapons cache or something. At least, that's what I was told. I'll never know, of course, me being a dumb grunt and all. I've been offered promotions to operations, but what sane person would give up driving one of these things? And besides, I happen to like seeing the sun.
"2-7, this is Djinn. Your FLUV is picking up something strange."
I need to quit soliloquizing. I didn't even notice it. But, yep, it's strange. It's a group of signatures, packed closely together to look like a larger signature. And it looks...
"This is Djinn. Are those animals?"
What the fuck? No, they're not animals. I switch from incendiaries to guns, more from reflex than any desire to kill. I think I'm seeing something I shouldn't be seeing, and because I think I'm seeing it... I can't pull the fucking trigger.
"Djinn, this is 2-7. Not animals." Fuck me. "They're people."
One points a large tube my direction. I'm still in shock, though every sinew of tissue in my fingers is screaming to open fire. There's a flash. I'm currently staring at them through visual specs, and I mistake the flash for a reflective glint of the sun. There's no mistaking that impact, though. I don't feel the golem falling because I'm passing out. This feels strangely like I've taken another pill.
*To be continued... maybe... in The Scheherazadi, Part II
"I hate it when you talk like that." I really do. There's something about tech-djinn that irritates me. It's either the ridiculous tattoos they sport or the alarming amount of cybernetic implants that stick out of their bodies. But I take the pill anyway.
"How? Maliciously?"
I really want to smack that grin off its face.
The pill works quickly and I can feel the djinn plugging me into the golem, barely. It's been a while since I've gone for a ride and I guess I forgot about the numbness. But, desperate measures for desperate times, right?
***
Forgive me. You probably have no idea what's going on. Earth is a desert wasteland in my time and there aren't very many people left. A few dozen-million, if that. Yeah, the polar icecaps melted - well, one of them - but not for reasons you're thinking. Some assholes started a nuclear shootout. With all the interceptor defense systems, most of those bad boys got knocked down over the North Pole, it being under the flight path of those damned things. It's amazing what fallout can do to ice.
Long-story short: the Arctic disappeared, water went everywhere, and everything heated up. Literally and figuratively. Oh, the Antarctic is still around, but it's mostly exposed rock now. Who knew?
***
"Golem 2-7, up." My voice sounds funny when it's mechanized. I burst through the sand trap and check the heat shields. Five by five. Weapons-check follows. I'm good there, too. Most golem-drivers check their guns first, but I've seen what a fucked up heat shield can do, and I'm not into that.
"2-7, 2-6. TRP alpha. Your discretion."
2-6 is my squad leader. I've never actually met her in person - Hell, I don't even know what dune she lives under - but her robot voice sure does turn me on. Then again, being given a "your discretion" order always turns me on.
***
Sorry, again. You probably still don't have a clue what's happening. Screwing up Mama Earth didn't unite humanity in a Utopian movement to save her. Instead, it just made land more valuable, as arid and useless as it is. Valuable land tends to start wars. Ah, humanity. How blessed are we?
Anyway...
The golem is a third-generation mech-suit and currently the pinnacle of battlefield technology. And I fucking love 'em. First-gen golems were garbage. Conventional tanks and aircraft typically made being a golem-driver the most dangerous job a soldier could have. Second-gen golems were better, but only marginally. They were more mobile, sure, but much harder to learn how to drive. Golem-drivers were their own worst enemies in 2G systems. Then some yahoo figured out how to transfer human consciousness into machines. Even with the 3G interface system in tanks and aircraft, the golems became the kings of war. And everyone wanted to drive one. They afford one of the few available methods of actually walking on the surface of the planet. Still, if we die in one, our bodies go brain-dead. There's a catch to everything, no?
***
I see the target and I light it up with incendiaries. Some weapons cache or something. At least, that's what I was told. I'll never know, of course, me being a dumb grunt and all. I've been offered promotions to operations, but what sane person would give up driving one of these things? And besides, I happen to like seeing the sun.
"2-7, this is Djinn. Your FLUV is picking up something strange."
I need to quit soliloquizing. I didn't even notice it. But, yep, it's strange. It's a group of signatures, packed closely together to look like a larger signature. And it looks...
"This is Djinn. Are those animals?"
What the fuck? No, they're not animals. I switch from incendiaries to guns, more from reflex than any desire to kill. I think I'm seeing something I shouldn't be seeing, and because I think I'm seeing it... I can't pull the fucking trigger.
"Djinn, this is 2-7. Not animals." Fuck me. "They're people."
One points a large tube my direction. I'm still in shock, though every sinew of tissue in my fingers is screaming to open fire. There's a flash. I'm currently staring at them through visual specs, and I mistake the flash for a reflective glint of the sun. There's no mistaking that impact, though. I don't feel the golem falling because I'm passing out. This feels strangely like I've taken another pill.
*To be continued... maybe... in The Scheherazadi, Part II
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Surface
*Follows Gateway
Matt feels like he's swimming, though he knows that's impossible. He's unsure why it's impossible, but he knows it is. He almost drowned once, a long time ago, but never developed the fear of water that his parents thought he would. They even went around for a time telling friends that little Matt was afraid of water because of the incident, and though Matt knew he wasn't, he played along. He was a good little boy, after all. But he never stopped swimming.
Eventually, Matt confronted his mother about the absence of such a fear, but neither of them ever built up the courage to do the same with his father. The befuddled and embarrassed look on his father's face after "little Matt" won his first 50 meter freestyle remains one of Matt's fondest memories. Still, as his swimming career progressed through high school, culminating in a scholarship at Stanford, Matt's father never admitted that he'd made a mistake. Instead, his father told stories about how Matt, instilled by his parents with a sense of resiliency, overcame the fear through dedication and hard work.
Because his girlfriend was going to the University of Texas, Matt didn't want to go to Stanford. But his father, too interested in the prestige involved in having a child at Stanford, pressed the issue. Inadvertently, a comment from Matt's father a few weeks later ended the argument. Watching the news about a low-intensity conflict happening somewhere in an unfortunate corner of the world, he heard his father utter, "Stupid-ass soldiers. Gotta be an idiot to join the Army."
Within 48 hours, Matt enlisted.
That was a lifetime ago, and Matt knew that he wasn't anywhere near water, but he still feels like he's swimming.
***
"Move! Move!" Roarke screams at the top of her lungs, fairly certain that nobody can hear her over the gunfire and even more certain that the other soldiers are already running. Corridor by corridor, Roarke and the remnants of her squad fight their way toward the docking platform. Pausing in a somewhat defensible hallway, Roarke does a quick headcount, counting five others, including an unconscious McDaniels carried by Estevez.
Estevez sets McDaniels down and breaks out a medical kit, quickly dressing McDaniels' sucking chest wound with a flutter valve. Though not a formal medic, Estevez worked as an EMT prior to enlisting, and he knows he's McDaniels' only hope for survival.
In a normal situation - or as normal as these situations tend to get - Rourke would be assisting Estevez in caring for the downed soldier, but something else was bothering her.
"Did you see what I did?" Sipalia asks. Surprising herself, Roarke feels relief that Sipalia is among the survivors. Though she is "Icy Bitch," Roarke knows she's a mere jolt or two away from losing it completely. There is a tinge of guilt as she quietly gives thanks that Sipalia is still alive and that Campbell is dead. Or, at least, missing. Nobody actually saw Campbell go down.
Roarke shakes her thoughts loose and returns to Sipalia's inquiry. "I don't know for sure, but I think that was our SOS guy."
"Same here," acknowledges Sipalia. "He had an issue weapon."
"Greene's?"
Sipalia shrugs and nods. They both have the same thought: Greene's definitely dead. Even if he were still alive, there's no way he's staying that way much longer without his carbine. How the astronaut wound up with it is another story. Sipalia catches Roarke's eyes and shakes his head in silent recognition.
Before either of them have time to digest the fact they might be abandoning the very person they came to rescue, Estevez slides up to them.
"How is he?" Roarke asks, referring to McDaniels.
"Not good. Pulmonary aspiration and pneumothorax," Estevez starts. He continues before Roarke can ask for clarification. "Blood's filling up his lungs. The shit's oozing out of every hole he's got."
"Will he make it?" Sipalia asks.
"I fucking doubt it."
"Leave him, then," Sipalia orders, in a cold and calculating manner that only the desire to live can contrive.
"No," Roarke interrupts. "We're almost to the docking ring. No man behind." Her glare is adamant.
As with Campbell, Sipalia is technically Roarke's superior, but Roarke has been the de facto in charge since Greene's disappearance. And Sipalia doesn't want to waste time arguing.
"Fine," concedes Sipalia. "Grab McDaniels," he says to Estevez, "We're leaving." Sipalia runs over to Vasquez and Nduom, tapping them to signal that it's time to move. It's an unnecessary gesture, but Sipalia feels the need to try to establish command.
The six survivors, with McDaniels on Estevez' back in a fireman's carry, bolt through the next corridor, shooting judiciously at anything that moves or they think might be moving. Ammunition is precariously low, and any desire to spray an avenue of approach with lead is overcome by discipline.
***
They make it to the docking ring after what seems like hours, and Sipalia hops into the dropship to check it out. There's an overwhelming deflation of hope as Sipalia calls out that the flight crew is dead. The pilot ripped to shreds like Hashimoto and some of the others, and the crew chief missing.
Roarke inhales slowly, trying to remain calm. Estevez places McDaniels on the floor and whips out a respiratory bag to keep McDaniels breathing. As Estevez squeezes the bag with his hands, blood foams from McDaniels' nose, mouth, and the puncture wound in his torso. Estevez knows he's wasting his efforts, but he keeps at it anyway.
Nduom fires down the corridor at approaching Things while Vasquez slides the pressure door shut. "Are we fucked now?" Nduom asks sarcastically as the door closes and seals. The Things begin pounding on it as if to answer, "yes." It's clear from the impacts that the door won't hold long.
Sipalia reenters the airlock from the dropship and looks like he's about to agree with the sentiment when something catches his eye. He whistles at Roarke and points behind her.
Roarke turns, then turns back and smiles. "Pressure suits."
Sipalia nods and orders, "Count 'em."
Roarke runs to the suit locker and stops counting at six. There are over a dozen suits, but they don't need that many. She gives Sipalia a thumbs up.
"We can go outside to the surface, get far enough away from the jamming source and call the orbiter," Sipalia says, to no one in particular.
"What about McDaniels?" Estevez asks, wiping sweat from his brow.
"What about him?" retorts Roarke, almost offended at the tone of Estevez' question.
Estevez holds out his hands in a defeated gesture. "We have to manually breathe him or he's a goner. We can't do that in the suits. I don't even know if we'll be able to carry him."
Roarke frowns, upset at the prospect of losing another comrade. But she knows that there's no arguing this time; they have no choice but to leave McDaniels behind. Sipalia, sensing Roarke's mood, kneels beside her and places a hand on her shoulder. Fighting back tears that almost escape, Roarke nods rapidly, trying to get her reluctant agreement out of the way as quickly as possible.
"There's another problem," Sipalia starts, leery of adding pressure to the situation. "These aren't tactical suits. Our fingers won't fit in the trigger wells."
Roarke shakes her head. "Will the guns even fire out there?" There's a hint of desperation in her voice.
"Hope we won't need to find out."
It's too much. The ice finally melts. Without thinking, she grabs Sipalia and kisses him on the mouth - an inexplicable attempt at feeling something human for perhaps the last time. There is no passion, but numb from an extended battle with an enemy they know nothing about, she is willing to try. In that futile moment, she attempts to recall every sexual encounter she's ever had, beginning with the loss of her virginity the night before her high school prom and ending with the oral sex she exchanged with a potential boyfriend the morning before the unit left Earth.
There's no arousal. And the only emotion inspired is disgust at Sipalia's confused smile.
"Mount up," she orders the others, motioning to the pressure suits. As she dons her own suit, she can't bring herself to look at McDaniels.
***
Matt's still swimming, but in rough waters now. It seems as though the entire ocean is trying to drown him, as if he mistakenly insulted it somehow. He's aware he's dreaming, but the fear he experiences when he's unable to break the surface of the water is very real. His mind blocked out what it feels like to drown, but his body very much remembers. He can't breathe, and his lungs are filling with fluid.
The dream morphs into nightmare and there's a recollection of combat. Accentuating the memory, bullets begin to zip through the water. He smiles for a moment, knowing for certain that none of this is happening, for the belief that bullets can zip through open water is only perpetuated by the movies. In reality - he knows from experience - bullets only penetrate water a few inches before they cease to be any danger.
But then the bullets stop and Matt suddenly wakes. Eyes open, Matthew McDaniels spits out blood in another attempt to breathe, but can't. The last image he sees is one of the Things rearing back, preparing to tear him apart.
And the last thing he feels is a rush of air.
*Followed by Equation
Matt feels like he's swimming, though he knows that's impossible. He's unsure why it's impossible, but he knows it is. He almost drowned once, a long time ago, but never developed the fear of water that his parents thought he would. They even went around for a time telling friends that little Matt was afraid of water because of the incident, and though Matt knew he wasn't, he played along. He was a good little boy, after all. But he never stopped swimming.
Eventually, Matt confronted his mother about the absence of such a fear, but neither of them ever built up the courage to do the same with his father. The befuddled and embarrassed look on his father's face after "little Matt" won his first 50 meter freestyle remains one of Matt's fondest memories. Still, as his swimming career progressed through high school, culminating in a scholarship at Stanford, Matt's father never admitted that he'd made a mistake. Instead, his father told stories about how Matt, instilled by his parents with a sense of resiliency, overcame the fear through dedication and hard work.
Because his girlfriend was going to the University of Texas, Matt didn't want to go to Stanford. But his father, too interested in the prestige involved in having a child at Stanford, pressed the issue. Inadvertently, a comment from Matt's father a few weeks later ended the argument. Watching the news about a low-intensity conflict happening somewhere in an unfortunate corner of the world, he heard his father utter, "Stupid-ass soldiers. Gotta be an idiot to join the Army."
Within 48 hours, Matt enlisted.
That was a lifetime ago, and Matt knew that he wasn't anywhere near water, but he still feels like he's swimming.
***
"Move! Move!" Roarke screams at the top of her lungs, fairly certain that nobody can hear her over the gunfire and even more certain that the other soldiers are already running. Corridor by corridor, Roarke and the remnants of her squad fight their way toward the docking platform. Pausing in a somewhat defensible hallway, Roarke does a quick headcount, counting five others, including an unconscious McDaniels carried by Estevez.
Estevez sets McDaniels down and breaks out a medical kit, quickly dressing McDaniels' sucking chest wound with a flutter valve. Though not a formal medic, Estevez worked as an EMT prior to enlisting, and he knows he's McDaniels' only hope for survival.
In a normal situation - or as normal as these situations tend to get - Rourke would be assisting Estevez in caring for the downed soldier, but something else was bothering her.
"Did you see what I did?" Sipalia asks. Surprising herself, Roarke feels relief that Sipalia is among the survivors. Though she is "Icy Bitch," Roarke knows she's a mere jolt or two away from losing it completely. There is a tinge of guilt as she quietly gives thanks that Sipalia is still alive and that Campbell is dead. Or, at least, missing. Nobody actually saw Campbell go down.
Roarke shakes her thoughts loose and returns to Sipalia's inquiry. "I don't know for sure, but I think that was our SOS guy."
"Same here," acknowledges Sipalia. "He had an issue weapon."
"Greene's?"
Sipalia shrugs and nods. They both have the same thought: Greene's definitely dead. Even if he were still alive, there's no way he's staying that way much longer without his carbine. How the astronaut wound up with it is another story. Sipalia catches Roarke's eyes and shakes his head in silent recognition.
Before either of them have time to digest the fact they might be abandoning the very person they came to rescue, Estevez slides up to them.
"How is he?" Roarke asks, referring to McDaniels.
"Not good. Pulmonary aspiration and pneumothorax," Estevez starts. He continues before Roarke can ask for clarification. "Blood's filling up his lungs. The shit's oozing out of every hole he's got."
"Will he make it?" Sipalia asks.
"I fucking doubt it."
"Leave him, then," Sipalia orders, in a cold and calculating manner that only the desire to live can contrive.
"No," Roarke interrupts. "We're almost to the docking ring. No man behind." Her glare is adamant.
As with Campbell, Sipalia is technically Roarke's superior, but Roarke has been the de facto in charge since Greene's disappearance. And Sipalia doesn't want to waste time arguing.
"Fine," concedes Sipalia. "Grab McDaniels," he says to Estevez, "We're leaving." Sipalia runs over to Vasquez and Nduom, tapping them to signal that it's time to move. It's an unnecessary gesture, but Sipalia feels the need to try to establish command.
The six survivors, with McDaniels on Estevez' back in a fireman's carry, bolt through the next corridor, shooting judiciously at anything that moves or they think might be moving. Ammunition is precariously low, and any desire to spray an avenue of approach with lead is overcome by discipline.
***
They make it to the docking ring after what seems like hours, and Sipalia hops into the dropship to check it out. There's an overwhelming deflation of hope as Sipalia calls out that the flight crew is dead. The pilot ripped to shreds like Hashimoto and some of the others, and the crew chief missing.
Roarke inhales slowly, trying to remain calm. Estevez places McDaniels on the floor and whips out a respiratory bag to keep McDaniels breathing. As Estevez squeezes the bag with his hands, blood foams from McDaniels' nose, mouth, and the puncture wound in his torso. Estevez knows he's wasting his efforts, but he keeps at it anyway.
Nduom fires down the corridor at approaching Things while Vasquez slides the pressure door shut. "Are we fucked now?" Nduom asks sarcastically as the door closes and seals. The Things begin pounding on it as if to answer, "yes." It's clear from the impacts that the door won't hold long.
Sipalia reenters the airlock from the dropship and looks like he's about to agree with the sentiment when something catches his eye. He whistles at Roarke and points behind her.
Roarke turns, then turns back and smiles. "Pressure suits."
Sipalia nods and orders, "Count 'em."
Roarke runs to the suit locker and stops counting at six. There are over a dozen suits, but they don't need that many. She gives Sipalia a thumbs up.
"We can go outside to the surface, get far enough away from the jamming source and call the orbiter," Sipalia says, to no one in particular.
"What about McDaniels?" Estevez asks, wiping sweat from his brow.
"What about him?" retorts Roarke, almost offended at the tone of Estevez' question.
Estevez holds out his hands in a defeated gesture. "We have to manually breathe him or he's a goner. We can't do that in the suits. I don't even know if we'll be able to carry him."
Roarke frowns, upset at the prospect of losing another comrade. But she knows that there's no arguing this time; they have no choice but to leave McDaniels behind. Sipalia, sensing Roarke's mood, kneels beside her and places a hand on her shoulder. Fighting back tears that almost escape, Roarke nods rapidly, trying to get her reluctant agreement out of the way as quickly as possible.
"There's another problem," Sipalia starts, leery of adding pressure to the situation. "These aren't tactical suits. Our fingers won't fit in the trigger wells."
Roarke shakes her head. "Will the guns even fire out there?" There's a hint of desperation in her voice.
"Hope we won't need to find out."
It's too much. The ice finally melts. Without thinking, she grabs Sipalia and kisses him on the mouth - an inexplicable attempt at feeling something human for perhaps the last time. There is no passion, but numb from an extended battle with an enemy they know nothing about, she is willing to try. In that futile moment, she attempts to recall every sexual encounter she's ever had, beginning with the loss of her virginity the night before her high school prom and ending with the oral sex she exchanged with a potential boyfriend the morning before the unit left Earth.
There's no arousal. And the only emotion inspired is disgust at Sipalia's confused smile.
"Mount up," she orders the others, motioning to the pressure suits. As she dons her own suit, she can't bring herself to look at McDaniels.
***
Matt's still swimming, but in rough waters now. It seems as though the entire ocean is trying to drown him, as if he mistakenly insulted it somehow. He's aware he's dreaming, but the fear he experiences when he's unable to break the surface of the water is very real. His mind blocked out what it feels like to drown, but his body very much remembers. He can't breathe, and his lungs are filling with fluid.
The dream morphs into nightmare and there's a recollection of combat. Accentuating the memory, bullets begin to zip through the water. He smiles for a moment, knowing for certain that none of this is happening, for the belief that bullets can zip through open water is only perpetuated by the movies. In reality - he knows from experience - bullets only penetrate water a few inches before they cease to be any danger.
But then the bullets stop and Matt suddenly wakes. Eyes open, Matthew McDaniels spits out blood in another attempt to breathe, but can't. The last image he sees is one of the Things rearing back, preparing to tear him apart.
And the last thing he feels is a rush of air.
*Followed by Equation
Friday, December 4, 2009
Gateway
The smell of cedar is out of place. Israel is not to the south and there are no trees. He doesn't know what death smells like - perhaps it does smell like wood - but he is resolutely certain that fear should smell like something else. The nitrocellulose in the air does little to staunch the odor. Cedar among blood. It's an interesting scent and its strange pleasantness makes it nearly intolerable. He's not sure how much more of it he can stand, for it reminds him of a Lebanese woman he was once in love with. She's a wonderful image that he would welcome under normal circumstances, but he needs to control his fear; not fight it. There is already an enemy here and memory need not join the fray. He heard, years ago, that scent triggers memory better than any of the other senses, but he only now believes it. The last thoughts he has before he shakes the distraction is that he's thankful he's not a bloodhound. And that he's afraid.
***
"What the fuck are those things?" Campbell screams, less a question and more an excuse to vent frustration.Whatever those Things were, they just kept coming. Campbell, a soldier who tends to think in ratios and statistics, is all too aware that each rifleman in his unit was only issued 300 rounds of ammunition each. He is also all too aware that he has less than 50 rounds remaining... barely a magazine-and-a-half.
"Calm the fuck down," Corporal Roarke orders, even though she is the same rank as Campbell. Technically, Campbell is her superior since he's the Bravo-Team leader and she leads Charlie-Team, but she has a reputation for being extremely calm under pressure and had fast become her squad leader's favorite. Still, she wonders the same thing as Campbell. The Things seem endless in number and ammunition reserves are, without doubt, on everyone's mind. Unlike Gerstmann, the other woman in the squad, Roarke keeps her hair long - she prefers femininity when not on duty - and notices dried blood obscuring her brunette locks. She had been standing next to Hashimoto when the Things appeared out of nowhere and practically decapitated him. Anyone else might have frozen in shock at the sight, but Roarke didn't earn her "Icy Bitch" moniker for no reason. Regardless, she remains terrified, just like everyone else. The rescue team, after all, is in dire need of rescue.
***
Project Gateway was in its sixth year when the distress signal reached Earth. It was short and consisted of a simple message: "Help me." Controversy immediately spread across the various space agencies involved in the project. The foremost issue was with the message itself. Help "me." Project Gateway involved 37 deployed astronauts and those in the psychoanalytical industries felt it rather strange that the pronoun hadn't been "us." The base conclusion was reached that the message meant the other 36 people on Iapetus were already dead when the message was sent, but the bureaucrats running the project ignored that interpretation and chalked the message up to panic and the sender being in an otherwise irrational state of mind.
The second controversy was a rehash of one of the original debates surrounding Gateway. A few legislators, upon the recommendation of high-ranking military personnel, tried to insert law enforcement and combat personnel into the mission, but their concerns went unheeded. Despite the general history involving space exploration, in which a majority of the astronauts and cosmonauts were of military background, the space agencies felt that since no one had ever knowingly went into space armed for combat, there was no reason to start now. Critics of this pointed out that no one had ever knowingly ventured so far away from their homeworld, and every possibility - including alien encounter - should be considered. The recommendation went unheeded, and the 37 astronauts eventually selected for the project were all from science, medical, engineering, and construction backgrounds.
For the rescue mission, dubbed Operation Gatekeeper, the military perspective won out, and a 13-man squad of infantry - hastily trained for space service - was launched from Vostochny on a course for Saturn's moon. A second ship, one loaded with more scientists, doctors, engineers, and builders, would launch from Cape Canaveral a few days afterward.
That was seven months ago.
***
The sensation of fireworks fades into reality, revealing themselves to be ballistic flashes from the end of a gun barrel. There's little opportunity for the eye to interpret the color on the walls. It is not a rainbow if no one is around to see it, and here there is no rain. Darkness engulfed the corridors to begin with, and the spitting light ruins his ability to devolve into the nocturnal creature he desperately needs to become. He secretly wishes his fingers were made of eyes so he could touch what little light there is, but his hands tightly grasp his weapon and he would've remained blind regardless. Shadow does not seem to work here and only creates more shadow. He tries to ignore the false realization that there is something tactile in the instants between the bursts of gunpowder and the abysmal void, but he is unable to. He is fighting through a black hole whose gravity is not only robbing him of his ability to see, but his ability to comprehend. The absence of light is a wall his fear cannot break through. This rabbit hole provides no looking glass.
***
"ACE in," Roarke shouts as she hurries to apply a pressure dressing to Sipalia's - the Alpha-Team leader - bleeding forearm. Campbell is far too unstable at the moment and nobody has seen Sergeant Greene since the first wave of the Things appeared, so Roarke was ostensibly in command. She already knows everyone is dangerously low on ammunition and that the only casualties are Hashimoto and Sipalia - and perhaps Greene - but reverting to a standing operating procedure helps her control her growing fear. If she loses it, there is a strong possibility that the rest of the squad will, too. The unintentional arrogance behind the thought makes her crack a smile, but she knows it's true. She can't help who she is. Never could; never will. All she can do is her job and hope they can shoot their way to the light at the end of the tunnel... if there is one.
Eight ammunition, casualty, and equipment reports yell in from the rest of the squad. At first Roarke is alarmed at so few a number, but quickly realizes that eight is the number she should've expected. The total ammunition count is less than ten percent of their issue. Defending their position against another onslaught is going to be next to impossible. The dropship is on the other side of Gateway and contact with the Capricorn orbiter was lost during the second assault, so there is no way to coordinate any feasible extraction with the ship's crew, if they are even still in orbit. Last Rourke knew, the Capricorn had docked with one of three Iapetus survey and communication satellites in order to run diagnostics.
The squad is holed up in one of the prefabricated corridors that the original Project Gateway team had brought with them, so there is a bright side - as bright as irony will allow - to things. Behind them is the incomplete science lab, which is habitable and whose only current access is through the prefabbed corridor. The only other way out of the corridor is into Gateway Station itself, which means that Roarke only has to conduct a defense in one direction. Unless, the thought fearfully creeps its way into Roarke's mind, the Things can live in space. No, no... Vasquez had blown one out of an airlock and the Thing had seemed to die. They should be all right, in that sense.
Sipalia winces as Roarke finishes patching him up. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here, you know," he says, as plainly and unemotionally as possible. Through the doorway into the rest of the station and back to the docking ring where the dropship awaits. Neither Sipalia nor Roarke has any idea if the pilot and crew chief are still alive to fly them out of there.
Roarke nods. "Once more into the breach, my friends. Once more," she mutters, barely audibly. She's never sounded so unconvincing in her life.
***
The breeze doesn't betray its source. Movement or pressure, the wind keeps its lips sealed. Could it speak, it might not say what he wants to hear. His attempt to stay as quiet as possible reminds him of how crickets compose their songs, with toothed wings vibrating against each other. He's had this thought before, the very first time he made love to a woman. Penetration creates an interesting sonata of bodily fluid and function, and obsession with noise turns into lustful symphony visualized. No matter how silent, it is deafening. Here, his weapon is his percussion; his screams of fear his brass; his breath his woodwind. The disturbing humor that listens in the back of his mind now plays for him a requiem of violin, viola, and cello.
Ahead of him light slithers its way through cracks in a door like the serpent in the garden. Let there be should be an invitation as warm as the bosom of an eager harlot, but he knows it is merely a harbinger of danger. The doorway warns him that the apple should not be taken while it taunts him that there is no other option. It is no matter, for he has long passed the point at which a physiological or psychological effect begins to be produced.
As he walks through the threshold, into the company of the Things, his mind returns from its sojourn to the unknown. He finally remembers what happened to the others and how he's survived for seven months, but not, it seems, how he obtained a military-issue carbine. Overwhelming are the sensations of color and poetry, flesh tearing from bone, the scent of a Lebanese woman's skin and the taste of her nipples, the inhalation of blood, memories of earning diplomas and doctorates, the impact of hitting water, the glowing smile of his first girlfriend...
... and a vague recollection of being born.
*Followed by Surface
***
"What the fuck are those things?" Campbell screams, less a question and more an excuse to vent frustration.Whatever those Things were, they just kept coming. Campbell, a soldier who tends to think in ratios and statistics, is all too aware that each rifleman in his unit was only issued 300 rounds of ammunition each. He is also all too aware that he has less than 50 rounds remaining... barely a magazine-and-a-half.
"Calm the fuck down," Corporal Roarke orders, even though she is the same rank as Campbell. Technically, Campbell is her superior since he's the Bravo-Team leader and she leads Charlie-Team, but she has a reputation for being extremely calm under pressure and had fast become her squad leader's favorite. Still, she wonders the same thing as Campbell. The Things seem endless in number and ammunition reserves are, without doubt, on everyone's mind. Unlike Gerstmann, the other woman in the squad, Roarke keeps her hair long - she prefers femininity when not on duty - and notices dried blood obscuring her brunette locks. She had been standing next to Hashimoto when the Things appeared out of nowhere and practically decapitated him. Anyone else might have frozen in shock at the sight, but Roarke didn't earn her "Icy Bitch" moniker for no reason. Regardless, she remains terrified, just like everyone else. The rescue team, after all, is in dire need of rescue.
***
Project Gateway was in its sixth year when the distress signal reached Earth. It was short and consisted of a simple message: "Help me." Controversy immediately spread across the various space agencies involved in the project. The foremost issue was with the message itself. Help "me." Project Gateway involved 37 deployed astronauts and those in the psychoanalytical industries felt it rather strange that the pronoun hadn't been "us." The base conclusion was reached that the message meant the other 36 people on Iapetus were already dead when the message was sent, but the bureaucrats running the project ignored that interpretation and chalked the message up to panic and the sender being in an otherwise irrational state of mind.
The second controversy was a rehash of one of the original debates surrounding Gateway. A few legislators, upon the recommendation of high-ranking military personnel, tried to insert law enforcement and combat personnel into the mission, but their concerns went unheeded. Despite the general history involving space exploration, in which a majority of the astronauts and cosmonauts were of military background, the space agencies felt that since no one had ever knowingly went into space armed for combat, there was no reason to start now. Critics of this pointed out that no one had ever knowingly ventured so far away from their homeworld, and every possibility - including alien encounter - should be considered. The recommendation went unheeded, and the 37 astronauts eventually selected for the project were all from science, medical, engineering, and construction backgrounds.
For the rescue mission, dubbed Operation Gatekeeper, the military perspective won out, and a 13-man squad of infantry - hastily trained for space service - was launched from Vostochny on a course for Saturn's moon. A second ship, one loaded with more scientists, doctors, engineers, and builders, would launch from Cape Canaveral a few days afterward.
That was seven months ago.
***
The sensation of fireworks fades into reality, revealing themselves to be ballistic flashes from the end of a gun barrel. There's little opportunity for the eye to interpret the color on the walls. It is not a rainbow if no one is around to see it, and here there is no rain. Darkness engulfed the corridors to begin with, and the spitting light ruins his ability to devolve into the nocturnal creature he desperately needs to become. He secretly wishes his fingers were made of eyes so he could touch what little light there is, but his hands tightly grasp his weapon and he would've remained blind regardless. Shadow does not seem to work here and only creates more shadow. He tries to ignore the false realization that there is something tactile in the instants between the bursts of gunpowder and the abysmal void, but he is unable to. He is fighting through a black hole whose gravity is not only robbing him of his ability to see, but his ability to comprehend. The absence of light is a wall his fear cannot break through. This rabbit hole provides no looking glass.
***
"ACE in," Roarke shouts as she hurries to apply a pressure dressing to Sipalia's - the Alpha-Team leader - bleeding forearm. Campbell is far too unstable at the moment and nobody has seen Sergeant Greene since the first wave of the Things appeared, so Roarke was ostensibly in command. She already knows everyone is dangerously low on ammunition and that the only casualties are Hashimoto and Sipalia - and perhaps Greene - but reverting to a standing operating procedure helps her control her growing fear. If she loses it, there is a strong possibility that the rest of the squad will, too. The unintentional arrogance behind the thought makes her crack a smile, but she knows it's true. She can't help who she is. Never could; never will. All she can do is her job and hope they can shoot their way to the light at the end of the tunnel... if there is one.
Eight ammunition, casualty, and equipment reports yell in from the rest of the squad. At first Roarke is alarmed at so few a number, but quickly realizes that eight is the number she should've expected. The total ammunition count is less than ten percent of their issue. Defending their position against another onslaught is going to be next to impossible. The dropship is on the other side of Gateway and contact with the Capricorn orbiter was lost during the second assault, so there is no way to coordinate any feasible extraction with the ship's crew, if they are even still in orbit. Last Rourke knew, the Capricorn had docked with one of three Iapetus survey and communication satellites in order to run diagnostics.
The squad is holed up in one of the prefabricated corridors that the original Project Gateway team had brought with them, so there is a bright side - as bright as irony will allow - to things. Behind them is the incomplete science lab, which is habitable and whose only current access is through the prefabbed corridor. The only other way out of the corridor is into Gateway Station itself, which means that Roarke only has to conduct a defense in one direction. Unless, the thought fearfully creeps its way into Roarke's mind, the Things can live in space. No, no... Vasquez had blown one out of an airlock and the Thing had seemed to die. They should be all right, in that sense.
Sipalia winces as Roarke finishes patching him up. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here, you know," he says, as plainly and unemotionally as possible. Through the doorway into the rest of the station and back to the docking ring where the dropship awaits. Neither Sipalia nor Roarke has any idea if the pilot and crew chief are still alive to fly them out of there.
Roarke nods. "Once more into the breach, my friends. Once more," she mutters, barely audibly. She's never sounded so unconvincing in her life.
***
The breeze doesn't betray its source. Movement or pressure, the wind keeps its lips sealed. Could it speak, it might not say what he wants to hear. His attempt to stay as quiet as possible reminds him of how crickets compose their songs, with toothed wings vibrating against each other. He's had this thought before, the very first time he made love to a woman. Penetration creates an interesting sonata of bodily fluid and function, and obsession with noise turns into lustful symphony visualized. No matter how silent, it is deafening. Here, his weapon is his percussion; his screams of fear his brass; his breath his woodwind. The disturbing humor that listens in the back of his mind now plays for him a requiem of violin, viola, and cello.
Ahead of him light slithers its way through cracks in a door like the serpent in the garden. Let there be should be an invitation as warm as the bosom of an eager harlot, but he knows it is merely a harbinger of danger. The doorway warns him that the apple should not be taken while it taunts him that there is no other option. It is no matter, for he has long passed the point at which a physiological or psychological effect begins to be produced.
As he walks through the threshold, into the company of the Things, his mind returns from its sojourn to the unknown. He finally remembers what happened to the others and how he's survived for seven months, but not, it seems, how he obtained a military-issue carbine. Overwhelming are the sensations of color and poetry, flesh tearing from bone, the scent of a Lebanese woman's skin and the taste of her nipples, the inhalation of blood, memories of earning diplomas and doctorates, the impact of hitting water, the glowing smile of his first girlfriend...
... and a vague recollection of being born.
*Followed by Surface
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