Origins (29 page)

I nodded. “This is where you come in, Lieutenant James.”

Being skinned, and dressed in his flight-suit, James was coping with the cold better than most of the crew. He stepped up to the display. “The Dragonfly gunships will handle atmospheric flight just fine, and we have two of them in the hold.” He indicated an approach vector through the high clouds. “Best window of opportunity will be in about an hour. With a low angle of descent, we can break the ionosphere there. We'll follow the coordinates given by Dr Marceau, and that should put us down in a little place I like to call the Maze.”

Devonia was unexplored territory, but James had taken the liberty of labelling some of the visible land features down on the surface. “The Maze” was a series of ravines and gullies, cast from black rock, scything Devonia's equator.

“What about the Krell?” Mason asked.

James whistled. “I'm pretty sure that we can evade the war-fleet in orbit. It's at low anchor, but a single ship straight down the pipe will be a hard target to spot.”

“All right,” I said, “this is it, people.”

I looked at the faces of the Legion. They knew what was required, knew that this wasn't just another mission.

“The
Colossus
will retreat to a safe orbit,” Loeb said. “We'll remain on-site, and try to fix the life-support module.” The tactical display pulled back, to three small moons spinning around the blue and green marble of Devonia. “We'll be anchored in orbit around Devonia III; the largest moon. It should give us some decent cover from that war-fleet.”

“For a while, at least,” Kaminski said. “But once those fish heads come knocking…”

“We'll pull out,” Loeb said. “In her current state, this ship won't be any good in a fight. If the mission on the surface goes wrong, there's every chance that the Krell will retaliate. We'll be going dark, and run a tight orbit around the dark side of the third moon. What with the interference caused by local debris, I'm confident that we can remain hidden until you need us. While you're on the surface, we won't be able to risk any communications. I doubt that surface to sky would work anyway – given all that cloud – but we cannot risk attracting the Collective.”

“Understood.”

“You want to speak to us,” Loeb said, “your options will be limited.”

“The Ares suits are equipped with ground-to-orbit flares,” Martinez said, “but using those is going to attract a lot of attention.”

“If you set off a flare, don't expect a response any time soon,” Loeb said. “And don't forget that we only have those two Dragonflies.”

“The fastest way to travel,” I said, “will be by extracting.”

Except
, I thought,
if we do that, Elena and whoever else is left down there won't have a way off-world.

“Gaia's luck be on you all,” Professor Saul said.

Loeb clambered down from his command throne. He awkwardly thrust out a hand, in my direction.

“Pleasure serving with you,” he said. “Just in case we don't meet again.”

I shook his hand. “And you, Admiral.” To the Legion: “Saddle up. I want us sim-capable in an hour.”

“Affirmative,” the CIC rumbled.

An hour later, in the increasing cold of the SOC, the Legion stripped and began to mount the tanks. Such a familiar process, but rendered new by the circumstances. The tanks were covered in condensation, their innards warm, blue, inviting.

I glanced around at the Legion. Strange: each of my squad had retained their extraction-stigmata. Not real injuries, but rather physical reminders of the wounds we'd suffered during the
Endeavour
operation. Jenkins was the worst, a heavy red welt across her midriff. Potent imagery rose in my memory –
Jenkins screaming as the door came down to cut her in two
– and I struggled to contain it. My own skin was lacerated with similar red marks, and I could still feel the tang of bio-toxins at the back of my throat – persisting in the fibres of my real body in a way that should not have been possible.

Dr Serova frowned at each of us as we went through the connection procedure, inspecting our bodies.

“Is that normal?” she enquired.

“Nothing is normal where the Lazarus Legion are concerned,” Kaminski said. “Don't worry about a thing, Doc. We'll be back before the day's out, and maybe this whole war will be over.”

“Right on,” Martinez said, bumping fists with 'Ski.

“Still got your sword, eh, Mason?” Jenkins asked, as she hooked herself up. “That come all the way from Calico with you?”

Mason had hooked her sheathed mono-sword, her trophy from Damascus, beside her tank. “Never know when it might come in handy,” she said.

“Things'd have to be pretty desperate before I'd trust you with a Directorate-issue mono-sword…” Kaminski joked.

“Desperate times,” Mason said, “desperate measures. I'd rather have a sword than nothing.”

I clambered into my tank. The amniotic was a grateful source of heat, and the interior of the simulator felt comforting and mundane. The various data-jacks connected to my hungry ports, and with each barb of sensation I felt closer to making transition. Finally, the respirator mask slipped over my face.

“See you on the other side,” I said.

“This life or the next,” Mason added.

“The simulants are loaded into the Dragonfly,” Dr Serova said, her voice projected into the comms-bead in my ear. “Are the operators ready for transition?”

Kaminski banged his head against the inside of the tank. “Get us out there!”

“Transition commencing in three… two… one…”

In the split second it took to make transition – to establish the neural-link between the simulator-tank and my simulant – I travelled the length of the
Colossus
.

I opened my eyes in the primary hangar bay, and I was a new man. Every ache and pain in my real body was gone, replaced by the needle-sharp senses of a simulated body.
Jesus, this feel good.
The Lazarus Legion were in the passenger cabin of the Dragonfly gunship, like me all wearing Ares battle-suits and strapped in for the drop.

“Transition confirmed,” I said into the communicator.

There were clipped responses from the
Colossus
' medical team, and from the CIC, but I largely filtered those out. It was difficult to focus on much more than the visuals projected onto the inside of my tactical helmet. Accompanied by a countdown from the Navy crew, the
Colossus
' hangar door yawned open, exposing the bay to hard vacuum and by degrees also revealing a first-hand visual of Devonian space. Despite being skinned, despite whatever we were about to face down there, it was still a breathtaking sight. The vibrant greens and blues swirled across the surface, almost appearing to move as I watched them. The thick jungles were so very like those I'd seen on tri-D programmes of Old Earth – back before the war, before we had turned it to shit. The impact of the visuals wasn't lost on the Legion, either. Even Kaminski was quiet, absorbing the sight.

“
You are cleared for take-off, Dragonfly One
,” declared the CIC.

Lieutenant James sat up-front in the cockpit, banks of glowing controls in front of him. He turned to us and grinned through his aviator-helmet, the visor turning transparent. Mason sat beside him, acting as co-pilot in the absence of any other flight crew.

“Let's go kill some shit,” James said. “Permission to launch, Colonel?”

I slapped a hand against his flight-suit. “Affirmative.”

The Dragonfly engines ignited immediately, and I was slammed back into my seat, body vibrating with the thrum of the gunship's thrusters. The world around me became a blur of light, the interior of the hangar bay replaced by the silky blackness of Devonian space.

“
Launch confirmed
,” the
Colossus
' CIC declared. “
Gaia's speed be on you. Commencing retreat pattern…
”

Behind us, the
Colossus
began to ponderously pull back, thrusters firing on low emission.

“Commencing atmospheric breach…” James said. “Here goes nothing.”

The Dragonfly clipped a brace of clouds, the engine pitch shifting in response to turbulence. The gunship was designed for lifting and light combat; equipped with chemical thrusters, ideal for trans-atmospheric flight.

“Apologies for the bumpy ride,” James said, from the cockpit. “All this cloud cover is playing havoc with the pitch controls.”

“Just keep us out of sensor range, and get us some eyes on the planet,” I said.

“I'll settle for just staying in one piece,” Jenkins said.

With the whole crew made up of sims, James could afford to focus on speed over comfort. We were flying fast and my medi-suite was administering a regulated cocktail of anti-sickness drugs.

The flightpath stabilised a little, and our velocity reduced.

“Should be getting some visuals any minute now,” Mason said over the comm-network. “We're coming up fast on Dr Marceau's coordinates…”

I tapped into the exterior cameras; switched from tactical to optical display, and watched the Dragonfly's descent. Thick cloud, rapidly clearing into wisps of mist, streaked past the cams. We emerged from the cloud bank a moment later, and the descent pattern levelled out.

“Welcome to Devonia,” Mason declared.

The landscape was black and ragged, composed of what I guessed was volcanic rock. A series of tight ravines and canyons – James' Maze – etched the surface. Criss-crossing the planet in bizarre geometric shapes, they looked almost planned: swathed in a thick mist that provided perfect cover for whatever lurked inside. Where it broke, I could see alien impressions of trees – growing denser now, carpeting the ground in a thick jungle. The flora and fauna were bizarrely coloured – mostly distinct green, but also bright reds and nausea-inducing yellows.

The sky overhead was even worse. Devonia Star had burnt through the cloud cover, but some trick of the atmospherics diffused its light and gave the entire vista an unpleasant haze. The perpetual twilight was strangely disorienting. Above all of that, bright enough that it shone like a second star, was the Arkonus Abyss: a rent in space-time that seemed to hover on the horizon.

At this altitude, we were an easy target for any orbital eyes the Krell might have. It was making me nervous. I tagged one of the trenches below.

“Take us in that direction, James,” I ordered. Elena's coordinates had been broad and imprecise; we had a lot of ground to cover.

“Anything you say, Lazarus.”

The gunship dipped into one of the canyons, cutting the mist like a knife. The walls on either side were precariously close but James was an expert pilot, weaving among the twisting network.

“Maze is right,” James said, his voice vibrating gently in time with the gunship engine. “Local conditions are a refreshing thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Gravity is slightly less than Earth-standard; you'll probably barely notice the difference.”

“What about the atmospherics?” Jenkins asked.

“You want to show your pretty face to the locals?”

“Something like that.”

“Then you'll be glad to know that it's breathable.”

I wasn't surprised by that. The Krell had resistance to certain atmospheric vulnerabilities beyond those of a human – being able to survive in vacuum for longer, for instance, that indirectly impacted their ability to resist airborne poisons and contaminants. But the Krell were, broadly speaking, oxygen breathers like us. That was one of the many reasons, commentators liked to speculate, for the First Krell War: two species squabbling over the same real estate.

“If it comes to it,” I said, “better you extract than be taken prisoner by the Krell. This is their world, and they'll be playing by their rules—”

“Hold on!” Mason interrupted.

I expected to feel the sudden impact of Krell ordnance; perhaps the chime of the Dragonfly's auto-defensive systems as we were fixed with hostile fire. The rest of the Legion braced, immediately dropped into combat mode in the same expectation.

“What have you got, Mason?” James asked.

“There's an emergency beacon down there,” she said. “It's an Alliance-pattern broadcast.”

Now I saw it too. Something far beneath us, deep within the Maze. The signal flickered, shifted.

“I can't get a fix,” Mason said. “All this rock is making it hard to lock on…”

“Someone had a death wish,” Martinez said. “Who'd want to set off a beacon on a Krell reef world?”

“Someone desperate to be found,” I said. “Is it a signal from one of the
Endeavour
's transports, or her fleet?”

“I don't know,” Mason answered. “The pattern is definite but the signal is really weak.”

My throat tightened. This was it.

“Lazarus Legion, get ready—”

A red warning – an emergency warning – flashed across my HUD.

Simultaneously, the Dragonfly pulled up sharply. James was suddenly and precisely focused on the ship controls.

“Bearing at oh-five-nine…” Mason said, head bobbing as she read from one station then another. “That's a confirm. That's a definite read!”

“You sure?” James yelled. “I'm not seeing anything—”

A shadow fell across us.

An enormous black structure, draining all light from the world around it, loomed through the mist.

An Artefact…?

James snapped in reaction. “
Applying airbrake!
”

“Pull up! You're losing roll control!” Mason shouted back over the comm-net. “We'll lose G-stabilisation on the left wing…”

The structure came up fast, so fast, to meet us, revealed by the shifting mists in the blink of an eye. I was powerless, completely hypnotised by the formation as it expanded to fill my field of vision…

Not an Artefact. Something else. Something almost as bad.

“Bio-structure!” I yelled.

It was an immense coral edifice, erupting from the side of the canyon: jutting skyward. This close – virtually bearing down on the structure – it was obvious that it was no Artefact. The surface was porous and honeycombed, unmistakably Krell. It had appeared black at a distance – because of the mist – but on closer inspection was a spattering of greens and yellows, a reflection of the jungle below.

The Dragonfly's scanners began an insistent warning, red lights across the board. The gunship banked sharply, throwing us around inside the cabin, and I grappled with an overhead safety rail to stay standing.

“We're going to hit it!” Mason declared. “Hold tight!”

The Dragonfly's wing clipped the Krell bio-structure.

It was only a glancing impact – grazing the outer shell – but the bio-tech was much stronger than it looked. From bitter experience, I knew the stuff to be about as resilient as reinforced plasteel.

“Fuck!” Jenkins screamed. “What the hell are you doing, James? You're bringing us down on a Krell nest!”

More of the Krell structures appeared around us. Some grew from the canyon sides, others from the jungle-choked trenches below, peppering the landscape. All different colours, alien and incomprehensible.

“I got signals!” Mason said. “On our six!”

The Dragonfly carried several weapons systems: a nose-mounted laser cannon, two heavy gun drones under the wings, six smart-guided Banshee warheads – capable of firing ground-to-air or air-to-air, in a pinch – and two heavy assault cannons on the door mounts.

I thought-activated my mag-locks and kicked them to the Dragonfly's cabin deck, then I rolled open one of the side-doors. The heavy cannon slaved to my suit AI – perfectly linking, as though it was one of my own weapons. The cannon was mounted on an articulated arm, braced in the open door, and I panned it back and forth, testing the targeting AI. It had a good weight to it, significantly off-set by the battle-suit's strength-aug. The ammo counter indicated a full drum. AP rounds, depleted plutonium core: about as anti-Krell as old-fashioned kinetics could get.

The jungle was moving so fast it was impossible to make out any detail. I squinted in the diffuse sunlight, which was still managing to create a baking warmth inside the Dragonfly.

“Jenkins, on the other cannon!” I ordered.

“Copy that,” Jenkins said.

I heard her sliding the opposite door open; felt the buff of wind as it ran through the open cabin.

The automated tracking software painted potential targets across my face-plate, and in anticipation of a firefight I spun up the multi-barrelled cannon: felt the gratifying chug of the weapon as it readied. Kaminski fell into a crouch beside me, his plasma rifle aimed at the jungle. Martinez did the same at the other door, supporting Jenkins.

“You getting anything on your side?” I asked of Jenkins.

“Lot of shadows, lot of movement, but no confirmed targets.”

“Maybe New Girl was wrong…” Kaminski offered.

No. She isn't.

I saw them first. Just blurs of light, now becoming more distinct. Three shadows skated over the green canopy, moving faster and faster. Reciprocal shapes appeared above each shadow: smears of light shaped like long, thin needles. The shadows gained speed, kept pace with the Dragonfly—

“Weapons hot!” I yelled.

I fired the assault cannon. The gun controls jumped in my hands – bounced around – but it was spray-and-pray, and a burst caught the enemy ship. Rounds sparked against the invisible armour plating, temporarily interfering with the camouflage-field.

“I see them on the feeds now!” James yelled.

“Told you!” Mason said, almost triumphantly. “Three Needlers!”

“One hella welcome party…” Jenkins muttered.

The Needlers, sometimes called needle-ships, were long, thin vessels, made for extreme manoeuvrability. They were usually manned by a single Krell pilot, literally grafted into the cockpit, as close to symbiosis with the living craft as you could get.

“What's our distance to the signal?” I yelled to James.

“Ten kilometres?” James shouted back. “You want me to set you down somewhere?”

“Too risky,” I said. “Lose the bogeys first.”

“Easier said than done,” James said. Abruptly derailing any wider tactical discussion, he added: “Taking evasive manoeuvre.”

Back on the door-gun, I fired again, this time a longer burst. The enemy ship veered slightly away from the Dragonfly; flickered in and out of sight as though dipping into some other dimension. The ship had an almost aquatic body and stubby protrusion along the aft that more resembled fins than wings. A circular portal opened on the flank of the craft. Krell wearing heavy armour hung inside, and in a dark mirror of the Dragonfly one of them aimed a mounted bio-cannon towards the Dragonfly's flank. A much bigger version of the stinger: a projectile-thrower.

I ducked back into the cabin, yelled “Down!”

The Krell gunner pulled the trigger.

Flechettes – fizzling with bio-electricity, probably loaded with toxins – punched through the armour plating of the Dragonfly's hull, right beside me. I fired back, without looking: kept my finger down on the firing stud of my own cannon and hoped that something would hit the attacker.

“Defensive suite online,” James said. “Deploying chaffe, deploying doppler.” There were thuds through the hull as the systems activated, and I saw smoke billowing from probes which launched from the rear of the Dragonfly. “Drones away!”

Two ultra-fast gun drones deployed from somewhere above the passenger cab. Equipped with low-wattage plasma carbines, they were meant to harry enemy ships that had already suffered damage. The small robots spiralled around us, keeping pace with the gunship. One of them instantly exploded, caught by bio-plasma from a pursuing Needler—

The sky overhead darkened.

“What the fuck is that?” Mason yelled.

“Stingray incoming!” I shouted. Turned my cannon on its mount to strafe the underside of the approaching ship, knowing that it would do no good.

The enormous bio-ship blotted out the light. It was moving faster and faster so that it matched us for pace. The underside of the Stingray was suddenly over us, and its belly was lined with pulsing egg-sacs, throbbing with angry, virulent life. This was the Stingray's gift. It wasn't a fighter: it was a troop-ship. There were sacs – now opening like sphincters – for a hundred passengers on the ship's belly.

A Krell suddenly leapt from the open guts of the Stingray, its talons outstretched to reach us.

“Fuck me!” Kaminski shouted, recoiling from the Dragonfly's door.

I pulled off a protracted burst from the cannon.

The Krell exploded in a green mist, falling well short of the attempted boarding. But more were launching themselves out of the Stingray – kamikaze-like, sailing to the jungle below.

The remaining gun-drone registered the threat, moved to intercept, pummelling the underside of the Stingray with rounds. Krell body-parts literally rained from above.

I turned my attention to the Needler, swinging the unruly assault cannon back and forth, sweeping the Needler's flank. The xeno ship banked, too late, the volley hitting an exposed crew compartment. The gunner sprawled backwards, streaming blood from its chest, explosive rounds slashing through body armour and flesh without distinction.

“Lazarus got one!” Kaminski shouted, rallying alongside me.

“Just keep fucking firing!”

The barrel of my assault cannon spun—

“It's falling back! Left flank is breaking off!” Mason yelled.

I didn't stop firing until the gun bucked and rebelled in my hands – the red AMMO OUT warning flashing on the weapon display.

“Reload!” I shouted at Kaminski—

More bio-plasma exploded around us. Heat washed over me.

“Deploying missiles,” James declared.

A missile pod on one wing flared to life, and there was a loud scream as the artificially intelligent Banshee missiles flew free. They dropped back behind the Dragonfly, searching for the damaged Needler.