Authors: Michael E. Marks
"What the bloody hell is it?" Taz muttered, his voice low and guarded.
Stitch drawled, "You mean, aside from the obvious?"
"Stow it!" Monster's tone was rock-hard. "Merlin, biometric. Taz, high band EM. Stitch, vibro-acoustic. Sitrep in ninety, so hit it." The orders snapped out in a rapid-fire series.
Thermo-optic had been skipped, but Ridgeway knew for good reason. Darcy's sniper rifle was already crawling over the expanse of metal hull in a methodical hasty search. A sniper's first priority was always observation. More than anyone in the group, Darcy was trained in the art of visual search, dividing a threat area into smaller and smaller quadrants, noting details and moving on. The imaging power of the Leupold Mk-23 scope surpassed even the armor's optics in terms of long-range scanning. If a gnat lurked in the darkness, Darcy would spot it.
Ghost time, Ridgeway thought as he ordered the TAC to cue up a telepresence. In a burst of radiant energy the TAC reached out to Darcy's armor and absorbed a replica of her complete sensory construct; sight, sound, the works. Creating what amounted to a splitter for virtual reality, the TAC captured everything Darcy could see and hear, and pumped it into Ridgeway's brain.
For some, the perception of jumping from one body to the next was disorienting. As a telepresence veteran, Ridgeway barely noted the gaussian ripple that passed when one reality melted into the other. The muddled double-exposure just as quickly vanished and Darcy's perspective snapped into clarity.
Crosshairs suddenly quartered Ridgeway's vision, the reticle sliding along rusted hull plates with mechanical precision. At the high level of zoom, Ridgeway could see small cracks with clarity. He followed the sniper's view through the rifle scope, noting a thick layer of ice that encrusted the expansive hull. Every twisted metal edge was lined with needles of frost.
Fifteen seconds ticked by and Ridgeway's perception jumped again. The crosshairs vanished, replaced by the thick suppressor of an MP17. Stitch tracked the weapon from one irregular breach to the next, pausing to gather shreds of vibration that emanated from within. Ridgeway looked for jagged waveforms to dance across the graph, relieved to see that the flatline was broken by nothing more sinister than the occasional drip of water.
At the fringe of the medic's vision, Ridgeway could see his own figure standing motionless. As callous as Ridgeway had become with the technology, the disembodied view of his own form always proved disquieting. He reminded himself of another piece of Grissom logic; you're not in trouble until you see your own body from above and your view keeps drifting away.
Ridgeway completed his lap, ghosting each Marine in turn. The electronic clairvoyance allowed a commander to peel a little bit off the top of the data stream. Satisfied that sudden death wasn't immediately ahead, he dismissed the ethereal perspectives and returned once more to the center of his own world.
A string of icons formed along Ridgeway's vision, noteworthy items detected by each Marine as they scanned their assigned spectrum. Nothing was discounted; energy sources, vibrations, points hotter or colder than their surroundings. As each bracket appeared, Ridgeway snap-focused on it and brought his own sensor package to bear, ranking each contact in terms of perceived threat. While comparative analysis of wildly disparate facts might reveal a hidden pattern at some point down the line, right now he would be happy just to know that they were alone.
At ninety-two seconds, Ridgeway leaned shoulder-to-massive shoulder against Monster. "What do you think?"
Ridgeway knew that Monster had been voraciously chewing through his own observations, sorting hard facts for a logical conclusion. Dual-layered pressure hull, conventional deck elements. The why made no sense, but the what seemed undeniable.
"It's a starship Major, and a big one at that," Monster made the statement firmly, then added, "but I'll be damned if I know what she's doing way the hell down here. Its damn sure too deep for a shipyard, and there's no sign of a tunnel wide enough to bring that big bitch down here in the first place."
Ridgeway stood silent, Monster's assessment matching his own. But he took no comfort in the conclusion. One answer opened a hundred bigger questions.
Still, a ship was likely to have engines, APUs, batteries. A million possible sources of power and right now, power was high on their list. The broader answers would have to wait.
"Threat assessment?"
"We've got no biosigns and no lights. There's a heavy weapon turret on the port wing, but e-mag is negative-- no juice in the gun or the wing. As far as we can see, the whole ship is stone cold on every spectrum." The sergeant turned toward Ridgeway and added, "Course, you know what that's worth."
The two had seen enough combat to know that invariably, the moment a zone is declared clear, something God-awful would pop out of the sand to bite them in the ass. ‘Clear' really meant ‘I can't see what's coming'.
Ridgeway nodded silently, his helmet fixed on the hulk in the darkness. The prospect of boarding a ship of unknown origin was fraught with risk. But the threat of losing power for good was a far more pressing hazard.
"Listen up," Ridgeway barked on the team channel, "we now have one goal and that's to get out of here. The first step is finding juice." He pointed toward the ship, "whatever the hell that thing is, it's our best shot, so we're heading in."
Ridgeway turned to Monster. "Half arc, Taz on point. Give me an approach vector for max cover from the turret gun."
"Roger that." The sergeant spun quickly in spite of his injuries and set Ridgeway's orders into motion.
Silently, Ridgeway gazed at the ship. Questions burned fitfully as he sifted through woefully limited data. What the hell was a starship doing in a deep-core cavern? The contradiction chafed his mind and Ridgeway had long ago learned to distrust the incongruous.
His eyes tracked back to the island as he considered the approach vectors. A wide curve would let them use the closest group of stalagmites for cover. That would get them to within fifty meters. From there the curve of the hull would--
SCREECH!
The sound of groaning metal beat the TAC's warning tone by half a second. As Ridgeway spun toward the tortured shriek, his CAR snapped up to his shoulder. The muzzle came to rest pointed at the truck where a damaged interior door had fallen open with a crash. Like a swarm of fireflies, six targeting laser dots converged on a bright orange glove that dangled in the opening.
Taz bolted forward, side-slipping through the waist-deep pool. In a dozen strides he reached the cab and flattened against the crumpled skirt. The muzzle of his CAR remained fixed on the glove. Merlin advanced left, matching Taz's pace. Moving as one, the two figures spun to the doorway. Their assault rifles swept a rapid four-corner pattern.
Taz grabbed the limp arm and yanked hard. An orange-clad figure slid free, bounced hard off the doorframe and flopped lifelessly into the pool. With barely a glance, Taz stamped his foot atop the rubbery form, driving it beneath the surface as he swung his CAR into the darkness of the rear compartment.
"Clear," he snapped, rifle rock-steady.
"Clear," Merlin echoed as his muzzle swept low and forward.
Clutching the CAR's pistol-grip firmly in his right hand, Taz reached down with his left and fished for the submerged figure. Backpedaling quickly, he dragged the lifeless form across the pool.
Merlin leaned into the truck. "Looks like a fair amount of Hex blew through here, Major. I've got a few pieces of seat-frame and some scrapped electronics. Top of the dash and the ceiling is about all that survived."
Turning to the rear of the cab, Merlin peered into the dark compartment. "Huh. They beefed the hell out of the back." His voice held a quizzical note as he continued his examination. "There's a whole bunch of shit back here. More electronics, survival gear, couple of MREs and -- what the hell is that?"
Merlin paused, then turned and looked back at Ridgeway as he hooked a thumb toward the compartment. "Hey Major, some clever bastard stuffed an old grav-couch back here. How's that for survival planning?"
Before Ridgeway could reply, Merlin swung back to the cab and resumed his inventory. "OK, clothing, spare parts, and a stack of-- well hello."
The abrupt change in tone riveted Ridgeway's attention. "What have you got?"
The engineer spoke calmly, his voice suddenly flat. "A shitload of plastic, major. I'm guessing Thermalite." The Marine's movements slowed dramatically. His upper body eased toward the front of the cab, gaze sweeping upward.
"Bingo." Merlin extended an armored finger toward the cab's ceiling. "Here's your trigger." The illuminated button sputtered briefly as if in recognition.
"Hey guys," the engineer backed quickly away from the wreckage, his voice an icy monotone. "Just a suggestion, but I'm thinking we give this bitch some distance. She's about one short-circuit away from solving all of our heat problems."
Ridgeway pulled his Marines back to the far end of the island before he turned to the medic and motioned towards the survival suit. "Stitch, what have you got?"
The medic slid a fluorescent baton rapidly across the figure's limbs and torso. The penetrating glow revealed a number of injuries. "Got a male, early twenties. I make six broken bones at first count, probably a few more once I get down to small fractures."
The baton shifted hue and Stitch drew the device slowly across the figure's centerline. "Internal bleeding, lot of soft tissue damage, bunch of teeth knocked out. Frostbite in all the appendages. No combat gear, no guns." Stitch paused, then added, "I'm guessing driver or nav."
"Might be," Merlin chipped in, "Looks like he had the brights to climb into the grav-couch. Even without power the gelpack would have sucked up a lot of pounding. Clever little weasel."
Taz leaned over the figure and with detached efficiency raised a clenched fist above the cracked orange helmet. "Well this one is easy to solve."
"Negative." Ridgeway snapped the word with a force that froze Taz in his tracks and drew stares from the other Marines. Ridgeway understood their concern. In survival situations, prisoners were a huge liability. But this was an unusual scenario.
"If this is an Alliance dig, he may know something useful. Sweep him for weapons or wires, bundle him up and bring him along. We've got a starship to catch."
CHAPTER 9
Taz oozed forward like a snake, cursing the glowing pool with every step. His slightest movement created ripples of light and shadow. Even at a snail's pace, the fog split around him in a growing wake that looked all too much like a giant arrow pointed at his back. The only thing that struck him as missing was a huge neon sign that read ‘shoot me'.
"Aw crikey, sod the bloody fog already." The litany of muttered curses did nothing to ease the malignant tingle that slithered up his spine. His rifle swept the shadows ahead, tracking from one darkened recess to the next.
Glistening stalagmites rose from the fog in mute ranks, dark spires of obsidian flaked with iridescence. At the touch of his searchlight, the ebony columns flared with life. Waves of silver and copper spilled silently into the deep blues and greens of translucent stone. As the light swept past, the dazzling surface faded once more to black silhouette.
For the hundredth time in as many meters, Taz fought the pressing urge to fire up the chameleon. Polarized particles in the Carbonite skin could flex like microscopic lenses, channeling light rather than reflecting it. With sensors analyzing the colors that around him, the lenses produced a very effective camouflage.
Taz knew the effect was far from perfect. Moving rapidly, his armored form would appear blurred and indistinct. At a standstill, the electrochromatic skin could resolve its color-matching to near perfection. He wouldn't be invisible, but at least he'd be wrapped in the hues and textures of his surroundings. In a shithole situation like this, any edge would be welcome.
Unfortunately the chameleon was a pig for power and juice was in short supply. So was just about everything else for that matter. The Marines were damaged, low on ammo and sloshing through a puddle of glow-juice; the situation was as close to a tactical nightmare as Taz could imagine.
Still, he reminded himself, the objective lay ahead. Swallowing his concerns, Taz did what Marines had done for centuries-- he advanced. The rest of the team would be some thirty meters behind his point position, fanned out in a half-circle formation. Their weapons were doubtlessly trained beyond him, poised to erect a wall of fire should their point man come under attack.
"Approaching Papa-Six." Taz spoke softly, referencing a large hole in the ship's hull, one of many breaches that pocked the dead vessel's exterior.
In terms of easy access, Papa-Six looked like the most promising option. Its upper crest visible above the fog, the hole extended down below the surface of the lake. The Marines were in no shape to try climbing up the outer hull.
Thermal imaging had revealed a definable current in the pool. The glowing fluid moved in a slow circuit, warm at the onset, gradually cooling as it made its way along the wide, shallow basin of cold stone. If they backtracked the flow upstream, by all logic it had to lead to a source of heat. That path led into the ship's belly through Papa-Six.