Chapter Two.
350 years prior
Landing Craft 2a from the Space Exploratory Ship (SES 23d) Ibn Batuta descended through the pallid air of the planet while the Delta Troop of the 15th Strike Force prepared for their landing along side the 7th Insertion Unit of the 1st Division of the 26th Combined Planetary Marine Corps. The Strike Force Marines (who called themselves “Strikers”) nudged each other, pointed and murmured between themselves as the Science Operations Troopers (SOs) checked their equipment and ran the final tests on their ancient and fragile tube-electronic equipment.
Sergeant First Class, William “Willy’ Harris shouted over the din, “Shut the fuck up Marines! Do what you have to do with a minimum of Ox deuce!’
“Ox deuce” was jargon every military member used for oxygen. Nothing was more important to a soldier than Ox deuce.
“Careful with the equipment you ‘double digit’ peons…’ He continued with his practiced tirade.
A “triple digit” was a broad title for any creature with a triple digit IQ: a misnomer regarding the break point for intelligence at least equal to a human being. Anything “double digit” was considered inferior and subject to scorn and derision by the elite protection troops: the Strikers.
“We don’t give you permission to break anything.” The sergeant was pacing in front his soldiers as he berated. “You break it, you buy it and you can’t stay in this man’s Corps long enough to pay it back. Do you hear me Meyer, this ain’t your momma’s hair dryer, damn it!” he barked moving face to face with Meyer.
Meyer held the equipment high and shouted back, “Nobody told me I was going in with antique electronics, Sarge. If I’d known that I would’ve joined the Strikers, at least they can’t break their gear.”
The combat trained Marines laughed at this comment as they banged and clanked through their final combat check items with extra noise and effort as they prepared for the mission.
“See the system, boys and girls… hang on to your dicks and tits with both hands while the STRIKE FORCE leads the way…” one soldier yelled. This comment was answered with barks and hoots from the Marines.
The Strikers smiled at one another, they looked down on the SO soldiers. Both knew without the other they would be useless but the underlying currents of rivalry persisted. Strikers hit the site to ensure security while the SOs took the readings, measured livability readings, set up equipment, and retrieved the technology that was the objective of their missions.
At the completion of any mission no two dissimilar groups were tighter than Strikers and SOs. The sooner SOs secured a site and setup an atmosphere the sooner the Strikers could strip breathers and radiation suits (collectively called B-gear). SOs needed the Strikers to cover their backs while they set up Atmosphere Stations (ATS).
An ATS was an impervious bubble that could keep everyone within it breathing as long as the shell was unbroken. Plus, the ATS kept out all but the strongest radiation bursts, “If an SO can’t make it cozy, don’t go” was the unofficial motto of the Science Operation Marines.
Duties outside the ATS were considered hard ones and the sooner the bulbble was operational the easier a Striker’s life became. A Striker would defend an SO to the death because Ox deuce was a limited commodity until the ATS was functioning.
An ATS separated oxygen from ferrous oxide or aluminum oxide in the ground to produce breathable oxygen. Both were a common elements in the universe and could be easily separated to create an earth-like atmosphere inside the bubble. The probes from the ATS was buried into the soil and as the oxygen was extracted metals replaces the soils underfoot, eventually creating a solid metallic floor within and nearby.
The greatest obstacle to planetary exploration was water consumption. Water recycling in the Marines’ suits still involved some loss. When possible, any trip longer than the self contained water storage could be conducted within the vicinity of comets, another common system commodity, in order to extract the water they contained.
The last, and most dangerous, option was hydrogen and oxygen combination. A few infamous missions had ended badly as an Ox deuce generator had “eaten the dirt” as the Marines referred to it. Pilots of a landing craft would gather hydrogen from outside a planet’s atmosphere. The hydrogen was then cooled to a liquid state and stored in a holding container near the ground-based Ox deuce generator until a geosynchronous satellite called a “hy-sat” could be set up for the slower but continuous hydrogen collection.
To minimize the number of trips a landing craft had to make, always a high fuel consumption operation, a hydrogen container had to hold enough a week’s issue of water. Hydrogen and oxygen have an explosive reaction and gathering oxygen from the ground underneath a full hydrogen container could lead to a calamitous event.
Any time an SO was de Ox-ing the soil the possibility of catastrophic reaction was a remote possibility, but when containerized liquid hydrogen was nearby everyone’s pulse quickened and their palms became sweaty. When soldiers spoke of an Ox deuce generator “eating he dirt” they meant that the soil underfoot became explosive and a stray spark could make the ground actually dissolve in a ball of flame.
Everyone knew this was going to be a mission where the needed water would come from a combination operation. Additionally, no one had ever attempted a mission on a site where the atmosphere was made up entirely of noble gases. It seemed safe enough on the face of it but Marines were trained to take nothing for granted.
Neon was the most common element in the air on this planet and the free ranging electrical activity recorded by the drones were decidedly non-natural. These electrical disturbances were the reason the SOs were ordered to carry antique tube electronics. Unshielded flux and solid state equipment might be affected by the uncontrolled electrical energy. Other planets with non-natural electrical occurrences had been encountered but these particular circumstances were unique.
*****
Something about this mission made Harris uneasy. His people had been issued tube equipment that must have been 300 years old or copied from technology older.
The primary mission of the Planetary Marines was to retrieve technology wherever it could be found. The race that created this technology had never been encountered or even identified. Bits and pieces of a civilization that had colonized throughout our celestial neighborhood no later than 50,000 years ago was all that was left. The technology left in the wake of the missing civilization could be adapted, utilized, and sold to the highest bidder on earth. Some of the technology found in several nearby systems, or orbiting around or in them, provided breakthrough innovations that produced historic profits for both the buyers and the planetary government that brought them back.
But sending Marines out to a site with outdated, delicate equipment did not make sense. When Harris asked more specific questions about the mission his concerns were dismissed. “Someone up the food chain wants to try something new,” was all Harris could get in response to his questions.
Stanley “Auger” Band, a “Specter” halfway to retirement, stepped through the air lock portal into the Marine prep dock and all the soldiers fell silent. The Marines looked away busying themselves with the pre-landing preparations to avoid the “evil eye” all Specters where thought to possess. The marine belief was: to look at a Spector before landing was an ill omen and to be avoided.
Landing craft pilots were called Specters by everyone, including other pilots. No one talked to them for fear of putting a jinx on a mission. They were the unseen and unheralded members of every mission. If a Specter screwed up everyone on the mission could die. The landing craft were piloted with a minimum of computer controls because the number of unknowns in an atmospheric descent were overwhelming. Veteran Specters were either good or dead. With five missions, and hundreds of hours of “real” flight time to his credit Auger had more experience than most Specters, living or dead.
Specters would also give last minute instructions, those received in transit (while the crew was in stasis or deep sleep), and final landing orders to a Marine commander and because of this were always seen as harbingers of bad news.
“Harris,” Band motioned the sergeant forward.
By military protocol Band should have called him “Sergeant Harris,” but once a mission left the dock, mission controllers and Spectors ran the show until touchdown. They regained control again after departure from the planet’s suface, until re-dock with the mission control vessel. More than protocol, superstition took over outside earth’s gravity well.
“What’ve you got, Auger?” Harris asked.
Band had earned the nickname Auger with his pinpoint but hard landings: “go ahead, just auger that thing in.”
“I don’t know, Willy. It looks weird.” Pilot First Class Band saw the sergeant’s anger flash brightly before Harris yanked the pilot into the adjacent emergency air lock.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Pilot First Class?”
“Sorry, Sergeant Harris.”
“No, you ignorant double digit! You know better than to talk like that in front of…” he growled glancing over his shoulder. Slowly, Harris continued. “You tell me what’s going on first, Marine, or I will piss in your Ox deuce!”
Band was genuinely sorry for his act of indiscretion. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Willy.”
The pair moved so that none of the other Marines could overhear their conversation. “Okay, now tell me ‘what’s weird,”’ Willy continued.
Band looked at the briefing screen he held in his hands. “They didn’t tell us about the purple hazy things.”
Harris tried to remain calm as he asked, “What ‘purple hazy things?’ There was nothing in the brief about that. We don’t like surprises, do we, Marine?”
“No, Sergeant,” Band replied in a practiced manner. “Tipton spotted ‘em as we were coming in. They look like glowing… clouds, like that old time kid’s story ‘Will o’ the Wisp.’ You know that story?”
Willy narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “No. And I don’t care.”
“Well these things’re about a meter across and purple colored with sparkles inside. They’re low power electrical impulses, in the…” Band glanced at his briefing screen, “______ angstrom range. That’s all I know.”
“Does an ATS bubble repel at that _______ angs?’
Band smiled and with a shrug replied, “Not my area of expertise, Sergeant.”
“Get the fuck outta here, Auger.” Harris scowled flicking his head towards the pilots’ cabin.
Band turned on his heel and started away. He was staring at his briefing screen when he came to an abrupt halt. Turning around, he took several step back towards Sergeant Harris.
“One more thing,” Band said in a half whisper. “We spotted a lot of those ‘will o’ the wisp’ things, near the target.”
“The towers?” Willy asked. Band nodded. The sergeant twisted the Spector’s wrist to stare at the screen, bathing his face in the green glow of it. “Shit! Okay, drop us about a 2500 meters short of the target.”
“It’ll take a couple of minutes to reprogram, but you got it, Willy.”
“Carry on, Marine.”
Band snapped to attention and barked, “Who-rah.”
*****
A sergeant’s job on a landing mission was to keep the troops in his unit moving expeditiously to secure the technology at the identified target. In 150 years of Marine landings in neighboring sytems all that had ever been encountered was “double digit” sentient life forms, archeological sites, and abandoned technology. But even some “double digits” could pose a real threat. The most notable was over 100 years ago.
Larger teams were used back then because ATS were much cruder, requiring much larger SO squads. 132 Marines landed on the site to secure and return an antenna left behind by the unknown creators.
The planet was full of sentient life but none was what Marines called a “triple digit.” At some point on the second day the top predators on this planet decided the Marines might be an easy meal. These creatures were more than three meters tall and seemed to have few weak spots. Concentrated and prolonged fire power was the best way to kill these voracious animals. The Marines allowed the creatures to maneuver themselves between the landing craft and the troops: a deadly mistake. After an intense 36 hour battle, in which the remaining troops were reduced to fighting with sharpened sticks and jagged metal after expending all their ammunition, 42 marines returned to the orbiter craft. Every member of the returning Marines was wounded, yet they brought back the technology intact. The device they brought back was nothing important but the legend of those intrepid Marines persisted. That mission was remembered by its target designation “Alpha two-three.”
****
Willy Harris stood in the egress chamber with his hands on his hips facing his troops.
“Listen up you ‘double digits!’” he barked. “A little change in plans…” This brought a chorus of groans. “Shut up! Nobody forced you to join the Corps, but I can and will end your life here and now if you piss me off, do I make myself clear, Marines?!” There was a smattering of half-hearted responses.
Pacing now, Harris continued. “What was that? You are Marines! The baddest mother-fuckers in the valley and WE have just come to town! Nothing can stand up to a Marine, not the Alpha two-three bogeyman… or anything else! We are the bogeyman! Who-rah?” Harris was in a fevered pitch and the troops were catching fire as they began to shout who-rahs and squad cheers.
“We will set down 2500 meters short of the primary target to bag a second.” This brought cheers and celebration. Marines were paid extra for each target they brought back, I second target meant a large bonus to the Marines. Harris knew there wasn’t a second target but he could not let his troops see any trace of his misgivings.
Harris snapped to attention and shouted at the walls, “Lance Corporal Pheno, front and center!”
Corporal Pheno was by far the biggest soldier in the unit. He bulled his way through the other troops, knocking some to the deck, before he stopped directly in front of Harris at attention.
“Corporal Pheno, by order of the Planetary Marine Corps you are hereby promoted to the rank of Sergeant Third Class.” Once the rank was attached to Pheno’s collar, Harris stepped back smartly and saluted. Then Willy stepped forward, and in the tradition of the Corps, punched the new sergeant in the arm in honor of the promotion. A chorus of yells broke out as the troops jumped on the delighted Pheno to deliver their own blows.
“All right, you monkeys, let’s get busy! We debark in,” glancing at his watch, “…6 mikes. Let’s move, Marines!”
Grabbing the still smiling Pheno by his arm, Harris pulled him aside and spoke quietly.
“You’re the Lead Striker, Pheno. Now listen, we’re going to set down short of the target because something ain’t right. I need your team sharp, got it?”
“‘Semper Fidilus’ Sergeant Harris.” Harris nodded once at the rookie sergeant and stepped back into the center of the aisle.
“All right everybody, strap in!”
The craft bumped to rough landing as expected from Auger. Pilot Band stuck his head through the rear portal and shouted a message everyone aboard had drilled a thousand times before, “Sergeant Harris, contact at,” he looked at watch, as did every other member of the force, “one four one seven… mark!”
Every member of the team set their watch to the same time at that moment.
“Helmuts on! Rear egress bolts are clear! Doors will open in 120 seconds! Welcome to M-10/18 of Pollux the beta star of the Constellation Gemini. Good hunting, Sergeant!” Band finished with a flourish as he slammed the hatch between the pilot’s compartment and the egress ramp area.
Lights began to flash and audible warning horns blared. If a rear egress door opening in zero pressure a catastrophic failure of some compartments could occur so extra precautions were taken to prevent accidental decompression. All of the egress compartment was stressed for zero or foreign atmospheres, while other compartments were not.
Raising his weapon above his head Harris popped in a magazine and slammed it home. This was the signal for the rest of the unit to do the same. Any verbal orders would be lost in the din of the alarms even with the squad mikes which also carried the alarms. The security force leapt through the partially open hatch and, in well-rehearsed covering bounds, sprinted towards the graceful twin 150-meter-tall metal spires.
The leader of the SO team was Sergeant Second Class Candide Rivera, but everyone called her Candy. Her great-great-great grandfather had been an SO on the Alpha two-three mission and one of only six SOs to return. Candy had a hard lean physique due to her brutal training regimen. From her natural birth she was expected to follow in her great-great-great grandfather’s footsteps.
*****
Most parents found the natural childbirth method both messy and unnecessarily dangerous but Candy’s parents were followers of a movement called the Great Spirit. Since almost everyone in North America at this time had some American Indian blood, anyone who chose, could live on the old reservations. On the reservations things were done in the same manner that they had before the European Age of Exploration giving rise to the Great Spirit following. The movement hit its peak as Candy was growing up. She had no engineering in her DNA but was as tough and as strong as those who carried multiple “dopers” in their genes. “Dopers” was the common term for genetic corrections and string enhancement. More than a dozen “dopers” in a fetus could have disastrous results and the practice became illegal for a time.
Decades prior to Candy’s birth physicians had tried to engineer hundreds of lines of code to build a “perfect specimen” of humanity. The subjects progressed at unprecedented rates until the changes associated with the end of puberty began to manifest. The subjects at this point were as big as adults and as smart but anomalies began to crop up with the onset of natural bodily changes in the codes, causing various organs to literally implode, as chaos theory set in. It was discovered that DNA strings had simply “too many moving parts” to guard against aberrations once the human blueprint brought about internal alterations triggered by the teen year’s transition. If any one portion of the string reverted it accelerated other reversions elsewhere leading to massive cell failures and a painful death.
*****
Rivera threw the ATS sling over her shoulder and struggled to her feet under its weight. This signaled the rest of SO squad to switch on all their equipment and ready themselves for their mission: half of the SO unit would make for the target while the rest would set up the ATS as quickly as possible in case they had to stay longer than 12 hours (the normal operating window of the Marine’s b-gear). SO squads never knew how much time would be needed to secure the technology from a target so the ATS operation was a priority.
With the ramp fully open the SO’s sprinted out.
“Harris, where’s the secondary,” Candy yelled into her squad mike as she cleared the ramp .
“We got bad intel, Rivera. Just move on to the primary,” Harris barked.
“First squad, you copy that?” Candy yelled just as Sergeant Harris switched the discriminator on his receiver to the Strike force.
Strikers where already fanning out, moving with very little noise except for the sound of panting troops running across open terrain.
“Pheno, have those purple clouds moved at all?” Harris barked.
“No, Sergeant. What are they?”
“Not my area of expertise, Pheno,” Harris responded. This brought a clutter of verbal traffic.
“At ease, Strikers!” Pheno snapped. “One is moving this way, Sergeant Harris.”
Harris turned to watch the purple cloud as it wandered slowly towards the point Striker.
Suddenly, the cloud sped up and took a direct line at the lead element.
“Pheno, I’ve been targeted,” screamed one the Strikers into his mike. Several more clouds began to follow the first.
“That was a deliberate move, Strike team!” screamed Harris. “You are in a free fire zone, I repeat, free fire! Pheno, pull your people back!”
The first cloud was accelerating towards the lead striker, now. Over the headset Harris heard the striker scream, “Heat or E-X?” referring to his ammo load.
Pheno shouted, “Fire your chambered load and continue at will! Strike team one lay down suppressive fire over the point’s head! Fire! Fire, at will!”
As the the Heat (high explosive) rounds left the barrel of the weapons in an oxygen atmosphere it left behind a thin trail of black smoke. Any triple digit could follow this line of smoke back to the source and target the firing soldier. In this alien atmosphere the round left an even greater trail: a bright line like those resembling the flame throwers used in the second world war.
“Switch to E-X” Harris yelled into his mike as he pressed the “over-ride all” button (E-X rounds were pulse electronic generation of x-rays). “Fire and move, every triple digit in the sector will see that trail!’
“…geant Harris, do you copy? I repeat, get them to stop shooting over our heads, God damn it, Willie!” Rivera was frantically screaming into her microphone.
“Candy, back to the ship, out! Pheno, this is definitely triple digit behavior can you stop them?” Harris barked without taking a breath.
“Unknown Sergeant, the E-X has some effect but Heat was ineffective, repeat ineffective!”
Harris turned towards the landing craft only to see hundreds of purple clouds coming over the horizon directly behind them.
“Alpha two-three! Alpha two-three!’ Harris screamed into his mike. The code words “Alpha two-three” was written every unit’s operation procedures as “the last resort” of command and control. It meant everyone was supposed to get back to ship as quickly as possible with their battle partner. A Marine never leaves a battle partner behind.
“I say again, Alpha two-three, this is not a drill! Landing craft, we are Alpha two-three at this time, begin preflight! Auger, do you copy?”
In Harris’s headset was a jumble of voices. Everyone was talking at once as Sergeant Harris sprinted back towards the egress platform firing his weapon at the closing clouds. Through the confusion Harris heard a “Roger preflight” and saw the outer ballast tanks of the landing craft release air in a swirling cloud of red dust. Then Group Sergeant First Class William Harris, Planetary Marine Corps heard the most dreaded words a commander could hear, “Man down! Candy, give me a hand!” Then a different voice screamed, “Man down, man down!”
Harris had just reached the ramp door when he heard several more “man down” messages. These were his soldiers, and they were going down quickly. He threw down his issue weapon and reached inside a compartment labeled “T-E-X 1201, Extreme Caution” (below that in crudely lettered printing was “Pretty Hate Machine”). Harris yanked out a large cruel looking weapon. He began yelling like a man possessed by demons and fired the weapon into the air above him.
Those soldiers nearby were knocked to the ground by the air blast from the weapon. The blast expanded slowly with smaller bursts spiraled outward from the center, picking up speed before spreading a sickly red sparkle in their wake. The purple clouds within range of this burst dissipated into nothingness.
Radio traffic was mayhem by this time: filled with screams and requests for help. Through all this Sergeant Harris heard Pilot First Class Band say clearly “Roger, base understand ‘clear for departure!’ But I’ve got soldiers on the ground, negative liftoff! I repeat negative liftoff!”
The purple clouds had engulfed the ship and most of the soldiers wrapped in the cloak of hues were writhing on the ground by this time. The downed soldiers were jerking involuntarily and rolling in the red dirt. Pheno grabbed Harris’s shoulder and spun him around as he shouted at his face mask, “Give ‘em one more blast.”
Harris knew there were only five rounds in this weapon but at this point they were completely surrounded and the clouds were closing in. Willie was desperate.
Harris yelled back, “Pheno, release pioneer-kits!’” The new sergeant sprinted up the egress ramp and grabbed an lever inside an the overhead compartment and jumped off as the landing craft began to rise. A half dozen metal boxes containing emergency rations, tools, the hy-sat, and ammunition tumbled onto the red dust as the landing craft slowly lifted off from the planet’s surface.
“Abort liftoff! Abort! Auger!” Harris’s voice was cracking by now.
Pilot Band screamed back, “Preflight completed! Unable override, base has control! Base, do you copy? Abort liftoff!”
Landing craft were designed to automatically return to the base ship if the preflight had been completed by the pilot and base took control. This was to assure a safe return to the base ship if the pilots had been injured or disabled in an encounter with some unknown situation.
Harris reasoned that someone in orbit with the main ship must have panicked and recalled the ship before the ground crew could get back aboard. A swirl of red dust engulfed the landing craft as the nose dipped and the silver machine began to scurry back to the parent ship like a bear cub to its mother.
Pheno leaped off the landing ramp to fire several rounds over Sergeant Harris’ head. Harris snapped his head back towards the lead Striker.
“Why didn’t you stay on board, you double digit?” Harris screamed over the din that filled the consumed the radio traffic in their headsets.
“These are my soldiers now, Willie!” Pheno yelled as he sprinted towards the melee firing his weapon blindly.
When Pilot Band peered out the window he saw dust intermingling with the purple clouds as they swirled together. The landing craft turned and he saw Harris point the T-E-X 1201 into the air. At this close range the blast could have taken down the landing craft.
Harris was disappeared in the dust and purple clouds. The nose of the landing craft pointed at the red soil as the craft pulled away from the landing party. An explosion rocked the landing craft as red sparkles danced off the front ports and made the machine shudder from its depths.
Band was still trying to override the automatic return program and raise base simultaneously. His voice was an octave higher than normal amidst the radio traffic. Every time he released the transmit button he heard the screams and confusion on the ground. As the craft passed low over the battlefield he could see the soldiers writhing on the ground.
Band reached for the handle that opened the hatch between himself and his copilot. Right above the red handle in big letters was the warning “Caution: Do Not Open In Flight.” The difference in pressure between the two compartments created a slight whoosh when the hatch released. Alarms went off as the metal door swung open triggering flashing lights and audible alarms adding to the din of the emergency on the ground. Both pilots were supposed to avoid exposure to any alien atmosphere. To be doubly safe pilots were not allowed to be exposed to each other after liftoff in case one became contaminated to some alien organism.
Seated to his right in an identical cockpit sat Pilot Third Class Sheila Tipton a rookie fresh out of flight school, so new she didn’t even have a nickname yet.
“Close that hatch, damn it!” She set her shoulder against the hatch as she began shrieking into her microphone, “Base, we have a possible contamination, breach of pilot hatch, starting decontamination procedure, now! Base do you copy?”
Band reached over and switched her microphone to the “internal” position. The landing craft was beginning to buck, without humans to guide it, as they approached zero atmosphere.
“Listen to me, God damn it! We have to go back!” Band shouted above the commotion.
“Damn it! I don’t have an override, Stan!”
Stanley pointed to a small hole where the old system manual override switch used to be.
“Stick your finger in it!”
Her head cocked slightly as her finger came against something solid.
“Press it!” he shouted over the alarms. The craft shuddered as it returned to manual.
“Okay, now what?” Tipton fell back against her seat as Band wrested the landing craft back towards the battlefield.
“Drop hy-sat drone!”
“They may not be connected!” she yelled back.
“Just drop it!”
Now, new horns began to blat out new warnings
While the landing craft’s nose swung slowly towards the horizon the alarms stopped and the flashing lights in the cockpit went out. Band quickly scanned the cockpit and knew something was wrong. The lights and alarms were not supposed to stop. He turned his head towards his co-pilot slowly and stated, “Oh my God… we have a breach. Something’s in the electronics.”
“What ’something’ damn it?” Screaming Sheila was on the verge of tears.
“Purge and reload system!” Stanley shouted as his hands darted out at buttons and controls.
“I don’t remember the procedure, damn it. Stop yelling!”
Band took a deep breath and fell into his years of training and experience.
“Tipton. Go through the emergency purge list,” Stanley spoke in a deadly calm voice. This was the time for him to take charge of this situation without emotions.
Sheila closed her eyes to settle herself. Her fingers darted up to the “First Release” button. She snapped it and announced confidently, “First Release, off.”
“Check. First off,” he snapped his own switch. “Go Second Release, neutral.” He continued.
“Roger. Second, neutral.” The rookie fell into the drill.
Stanley Band heard the Mission Commander’s voice in his headset, “Stand by, base,” was his terse reply.
“What the hell happened, Auger? We didn’t issue the recall!” The voice from the base ship commander Captain Tyrone “Tug” Blest growled. The man was called Tug because of broad build. He wasn’t overweight: instead he was a six feet tall and appeared three feet wide. He was built like a tug vehicle.
“Answer me, damn it! What’s going on?”
“We have a breach in the electrical system. Um.. something has taken over the system. We’re gonna try a system purge. Command, do you copy landing craft, over?”
“What do you mean taken over?’ Tug snapped.
“System unresponsive! Something has taken over!” Band shouted to be heard over the voice traffic of the landing party. “We’ll, purge and reload.”
“Stand by. on that purge. Give me a minute… Lea, give me a containment procedure.” Tug’s voice betrayed his anxiety.
“Base, the breach in the electronics may have triggered the recall,” Band continued. After the first flush of combat and the automatic recall Band had no idea what was running the system. He only knew it wasn’t the standard operation Marine Operations Online Zed 00 program “MOOZOO” in charge.
“MOOZOO is not in command, I repeat, MOOZOO off line! We are attempting manual override… um, for the record… Pilot First Class Stanley Band has called it… and Sheila… Tipton… um Pilot Third Class Sheila Tipton is assisting, on my authority… this is my call, I repeat it is my call, I will answer, in full, for override. Um,Tug… what do I do now?”
“Get off the ground channel!” The Mission Commander shouted over the screams and confusion from the Marines left behind. “Go, discreet number one!”
The pilots from both ships switched to the predetermined channel away from the noisy traffic from the landing party on the planet’s surface.
Turning away from his screen Tug covered his microphone with his index finger and shouted to his second-in-command.
“Ribbons, I need a threat assessment, now!” Pilots in the command craft could not see one another because of the wall of computers between the positions but they could shout to communicate between stations. All efforts had been made in designing ships to reduce the amount of unneccessary space filled with OX-duece but the command cell where these two sat was more spacious than most areas in order to keep internal computers cool.
Most ship computers were vented to the outside space (at near absolute zero) but for life support redundancy the internal computers (most of which monitored life support et cetera) were kept at the same temperature as the crew.
“Standby!” She screamed back.
First Lieutenant Lea “Ribbons” Rybinski was on her second mission as an assistant mission commander. She knew the standard operating procedures concerning contamination and the consequences as well as Tug but it was her responsibility to give the “book answer” while he had the final say. Skipping through several screens of information she finally began to quote from the regulations.
“Okay. ‘Containment of alien entities shall be accomplished by isolation in static state…’ shit. Um ‘… secondary containment shall be determined…’ Stand by ‘…procedures mandated by the…”’ Lea flashed through several more screens of regulations by the time she had found the exact quotation she hoped would determine the proper actions for the present circumstances.
Sheila Tipton broke in, “We don’t even know what happened on the planet. All we know for sure, is the landing craft launched before we recovered the ground crew. I could have accidentally hit the ‘Launch’ button…’
“Auger, I need…” Tug hesitated.
“Already running the ‘Actions Replay’” program Band broke in, “I’ve got a replay, coming in a second…”
Tug came back on the microphone, “Ribbons, ‘by the’ what?’
“… over,” Band finished.
Slowly, Lea relayed the regulations to the mission commander, “‘… by the manner to be determined at first contact.”’
“What the hell does that mean?” the mission commander barked.
“Don’t yell at me, Tug! I don’t know.” Ribbons directed her anger and confusion at the landing craft now. “Auger, you said ‘we have a breach in the electronics.’ Do you have a confirmation on that, over?” The mission’s second-in-command had an edge to her voice.
After a long pause Band spoke, “Tipton did not issue the recall but something sent the command. And it didn’t come from command… Tug, it’s your call… What do we do?”
