End Age: Resources

by

Jon M Lee

Year 5692--Cygnus Phi Sector--Research Planet Oliss III

Drowsy with eyes wide, Biba rested on a steel cot--the sole person aboard a five-man escape pod drifting through space. Her slender body found comfort on the confined bedding, but her thoughts offered no peace for rest. She wore a soiled flight-style jumpsuit, platinum wings on the shoulder indicated active service as a fighter pilot. A plastic sack across the room crammed full with a month’s worth of crumbled wrappers; emergency rations consumed in her forced solidarity.

Severe external damage bled into the confined space, marked by a series of scarred wall plates and a half melted window casing. A sole display screen mounted on a central column flashed the word error. Across from the scorch, another portal window cast a view along the escape vessel’s destined path. Biba stared with bloodshot eyes at the rim of a crag brown planet, unable to sleep since she noticed the hunk of rock closing in. The novelty of a collision course no longer applied; the planet’s gravity grappled like an enveloping gi-hand.

Chills shot down her spine when the pod jolted. Biba rose to her feet on a silky cloud of smooth verve. Her eyes darted around the walls, looking for impact signage; did the pod take a hit from a micro-meteor? Her chest bounced under peaking exhalation. The pod began to shimmer, a warm realization flooded through her blood. The impact came from hitting the upper atmosphere. The digital display indicated an automated procedure, emergency landing.

Biba brushed away straight black hair, and clung to the window. Her face pressed against the glass; her vision scoured the rising brown tide. The planet emitted no shade of pearly blue, and no hope of green sustenance. The dirty rim swelled like a rubberized object inflated on the brink of explosion. The clat treble of every loose object inside the pod conducted a rumbling symphony of descent.

Mechanical sensors on the exterior triggered landing protocols. Biba heard the springing waffle of released parachutes overhead. A volume of the thick atmosphere slugged upward and snagged the pod from freefall. Her socked feet gripped with no traction on the metal floor and she quickly received a close encounter with the underside of her cot. The wracking turbulence kept her pinned to the floor. She forced away a loss of body control-- she knew wily screams would accomplish nothing.

Biba pushed one foot against a wall and held tight to a support beam. The combined will of terror and analysis coincided for a moment, propelling her to stare out the porthole at a changing sky. Crossover gradients faded together, a brown-red slush gradually replaced the blackness of space. Her ears perked at the sound of pod exterior pieces blasting out with symmetry; compressors beneath the flooring filled the newly exposed dampening bags. She begged the pod to function, forgiving all the curses she left imprinted in the skin behest of previous system failures.

Without warning, the violent elevator slammed to a stop. Biba stuck motionless, soaking in the solemnity of her situation. The doldrums of a month long isolation put her sanity to the test; crashing gave her mental clarity with a continuing goal, survival. She looked up to read the display panel; two simple words flashed in bold not breathable. Her emotional dam overflowed, flooding across the top like waves of pure rainwater. Biba burst into laughter.

#

Seventy Hours Later

Filthy with layers of dust, Biba sprawled unconscious on the floor of a small cargo bay; a lifeless brown planet hung outside one porthole. A rugged hand slapped her cheek; the single clap reverberated into obscurity. Her head popped up, she propped on elbows. Intense pain coursed through her senses, breathing instantly intensified; she suffered from a bullet wound in the calf. Her expression wowed when she saw the remains of a human arm stuck between the flesh of her body and the straps of a parachute pack. Tim’s arm… he got what he deserved.

Marcus knelt overhead; his face framed around a kempt haircut and trimmed beard. He reached out and slipped a comfort pillow behind Biba’s head. She exhaled and soaked into the featherbed. Her arms slipped down and unsnapped the parachute straps; Marcus placed the dismembered limb out of vision, dead filament wires dangled from the ripped flesh. She started to speak, but a quick explanation did not surface; she could not remember a good reason for deceiving her savior.

Marcus said, “Just rest for a minute, I am going to dress this wound.” He cut through her pants with a laser sheer. “Do you have any other injuries?”

“No.”

“No excessive bleeding. The bullet just passed through a muscle, missing the bone and arteries.” He smeared some green paste from a small tube across her wound and asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Duty rotations. A bunch of us from the carrier Venus took leave for a vacation planet in this sector.”

“So your transport took an attack?”

“I’m not sure what happened, maybe sabotage. My escape pod barely released before the… The blast damaged my distress beacon and I didn’t have a pressure suit or the tools to go outside and make repairs. Hope left me praying someone would catch a blip on radar, but I used up all my luck just surviving the explosion.”

Marcus offered a hand. He pulled Biba to her feet; slouched against some supply crates she nursed a pulsing leg. Her conscience cast uncertainty about the rate of revealed revelations, how to unpeel all the layers of deceit and leave a comprehensible fruit of enlightenment. I preparation to recount her timely thoughts with scalpel precision, Biba’s mind raced to order information. She fell back on the entertainment experiences garnered while living with her uncle Horvan Gann--a marquee name among people in the living stories industry.

“After the crash, my feelings swelled: fear, anger, and frustration all jostled for prominence. Days earlier, I felt lucky just to have survived. Now, I lamented over the ones left behind, dying in the blast let them off easy. Sorrow and envy framed every mental picture of the face’s I passed getting to the escape pod.”

Marcus’s face lit up, entranced by the quality of her pseudo-real spoken prose--the top form of entertainment and mental accomplishment.

“Through the whipping turbulence outside the window, the planet exuded a spectacle of pain with no end. The atmosphere sloshed by as some kind of brown sludge. Waves of black particles streaked through the air in glob planes. Swirling like interconnected fog-rolls--A unique sight among all my explorations. The colors mingled as flowing tendrils on what I loosely called the wind.

“Back before the sirens blasted, I busied myself by riffling through and double-checking the supplies in my luggage: artifact scanner, bag-n-tag system, pistols and ammo. Dumb luck left me holding some swimming goggles when the warnings flared. I held onto them as a reflex action, all the way to the pod. Wading through the sea-of-soup outside the crashed pod without eye protection might have blinded me, or even killed me. The emergency O2 masks on those pods only covered my mouth and nose.

“The piece-of-scrap life-pod stored a mishmash of junk posing as survival gear, which did help me survive. At the time, I did not understand where things would find function. Why did a life-pod have emergency parachute packs and shoe polish? I remember reading the maintenance log, the last kit inspection happened about a year earlier, serviced by some private worm named Juan Legas. If I ever cut loose, I swore my first priority would be to find Juan and shoot him.

“The only good news about the survival kits came in the form of some personal O2-cans. Their rating warned of a 12-hour limit, but the ancient labels gave me pause. At least they did work, and I would be able to refill them a couple of times from the pod’s mix-tank. However, I concentrated on other concerns. I knew I would not live long on what little survived the storage term. I prayed another life form out there breathed oxygen and drank water. I found myself in a survival situation, ready to do anything necessary to get out alive.”

#

Biba stuffed all the remaining food-packs into an old backpack, each stroke compacting contents. She laced up a pair of high boots while glaring through the porthole. Her goggles and oxygen mask sealed against the skin. The five O2-cans snapped to her belt along one side and the back, the mask formed into a small tube and connected to one can. She covered the exposed parts of her face with a stopgap hood made from stripped out sections of a seat; her goggles poked through rough holes and a knot at the base of her skull held everything snug.

Ready to take on the violence of the planet’s surface, Biba stepped to the door and put a hand on the release mechanic. She stood frozen for a minute, silent. She prayed for a god, any god-like entity to hold her hand. A single image fixated to her minds eye, the blue and orange mélange of an ocean sunset, the image she wanted to die watching. Her wishes faded into obscurity as a bumbling muffle from the surface weather invaded introspection. She reached down, turned up the pressure on the O2-can and then pulled the door release.

The aged air spraying through the tiny tubing forced her to push down a gag reflex; the taste combined stale oxygen with metallic toxicity. The pod did not include such luxuries as airlocks or pressure equalizers. The slush atmosphere instantly flooded in and covered everything in sandy silt. Biba’s clothes sucked to her skin, something in the air saturated like water without being wet. Every bit of her skin tingled; she brushed down her body to satiate the crawling burn. After a minute to acclimate, she stumbled out and surveyed the area.

Strings of tar-black vines webbed across the ground. The sky appeared red as fusion engine trails. A white ridgeline back-dropped with blue haze cut across the sky with striking disjunction. Biba focused on an enormous hill jutting up and dominating the immediate area. She looked skyward to the mingling slush and then back to hillside. Under the slipshod protection, she carried a sarcastic sneer and started hiking skyward; her hand outstretched, pushing into the soupy blizzard.

The weather phenomena gradually faded to a slight swirl. Hours elapsed with every step more labored than the last. Near the top, Biba stopped to look back at her escape pod. A vague shape lined in metal visibly fluctuated behind layers of dirty slush. She took a deep breath and glanced up at the hike’s last jaunt. Her next breath pulled in nothing. She started to panic, grabbing at her mask to check for a leak. Her fingers felt the tube, no seeping pressure. She followed down to the O2-can; an inline sensor flashed red--indicating expenditure.

Her fingers pinched hard on the clear tubing. She pulled out and quickly transferred the line over to another can. Her tension skyrocketed at the sight of red particles floating through the tube. Holding reservations, she turned up pressure on the new can. She took in a short breath, the same stale air from the last can mixed with an intense taste of ammonia. With one can consumed inside a few hours, her exploration window took a nosedive in distance.

Biba glanced up to the hill’s crest. A wall of black particles rolled down the slope. A second wave of panic shot though her, danger approached in the form of a black fog. She snapped around, looking for a place to hide, but time elapsed and the cloud flooded over. A shuriken-like rock nicked her arm; blood seeped out beneath her flight suit. She dropped down to a crash position, both hands over her head. Another rock nipped at her back, and seconds later a series of three ping sounds spiked through the roar of the storm.

In less than a minute, the black cloud passed over and fled to a distant wash. Biba rose to her knees and twisted to inspect the O2-cans. A black line etched across three, each sprayed a jet of breathable air into the brown slush. Her body deflated with a profound amplification of exhalation; she allowed her spirit to drift away, the piece of her soul waiting for rescue. Robbed of labeled duration and exploration area, she pulled the last usable O2-can from her belt and held a tight grip with both hands.

Ten minutes later, Biba stood atop an overlooking plateau; the landscape appeared utterly bleak. Boulders, cliffs and valleys all flooded over with slush; layers of the plagued black fog rippled across everything with violent erosion. A shiver accompanied her realization; no advanced life existed naturally on the planet. She shuffled a round at the top, scrutinizing all degrees. Her vision endeared no water, only rock and death.

Biba dropped to her knees, tired of the struggle--the ideological isolation tearing at her sanity. She scoured her soul for any hopeful urge and found no reason to continue. This planet won the test of will, delivering her end time. Her grip on the last working O2-can shifted and she started to turn the off the pressure knob. Her eyes, glistening with suicidal tears, searched the butchered landscape one final time; she prayed for a gift-wrapped package of sustentation.

A series of black spots wavered behind layers of brown. Biba strained to focus, leaning forward. She dropped the O2-can and crawled a few steps toward activity. She squinted behind the makeshift mask until the formless blobs came into focus, vehicles. She could clearly make out a dozen tanks on approach; some of them rolled forward with treads or wheels, while others employed a set of pendulum-looking spider legs. The lead craft gradually revealed details of design, recognition jarred Biba; the shell screamed of human heritage.

The mechanized column moved closer, keeping tight formation. A noise gradually built around Biba. She tried to focus all her perceptions, but could not lock to a single source. She spun around on all fours; her neck careened and she saw a second set of vehicles moving in. The two groups followed a path of interception, a course to conflict.

#

An aircraft based on ancient designs topped over a crest near Biba; the helicopter hovered in place for a moment. The craft used three main rotors spinning the same direction at different speeds. The blades sent out a chopping whizz. Tail rotors extended from the front and rear. Two modular pods, equal in size to the engine compartment, hung from support beams on each side; one pod served as a cockpit while the other mounted weapons.

Biba watched in awe as the tri-hulled craft flew overhead and fired a volley of ammunition at one of the vehicle groups. She perceived no sound from the weaponry. Projectiles akin to bullets flew through the slush atmosphere; their trails appeared to crystallize in midair, but could not hold under self-weight. The attack path turned into a field of glitter, the thundering noise of smashed glass slapped every pore in her face.

Biba ducked down and watched closely, the heavy weapons easily punched holes in armor on both sides. Some of the vehicles broke down with the loss of internal systems. Every shot left behind a short-lived and perfectly crystallized tunnel. Without deviation, the glit structures burst apart on impact with the ground.

The assaulted battle group retaliated with similar weaponry. Every vehicle opened fire; crystallized trail-tubes spiked inward like interlaced fingers. The two columns moved closer to a centralized vortex of smashing glitter. After a few hits on both sides, the helicopter broke away and flew right for the second group. As the helicopter passed over, the war machines paused for a moment and then started unleashing synchronized volleys on single targets--the helicopter appeared to have a command link to one group of tanks.

Biba called on her years of experience rebuilding heavy weapons under the distributed armament framework of the United Military. She subconsciously noted every nuance of their unusual armaments. Using the sensory clues of no muzzle flash and no sound, she deduced the weapon as having a grossly underpowered yet magnetic heritage. The crystalline trails reminded her of a mineral depositing phenomenon experienced during an emergency landing three years ago--heat reactions in a particle-similar atmosphere caked a shell over her entire ship during entry.

The helicopter turned to Biba and moved in; she tried to secure a hiding spot among some large rocks. After a few passes, the helicopter stopped and hovered directly over her head. The slush blasted away and created a tornado beneath the craft. Biba clung to a nearby rock and watched. Her wet-to-skin clothed rippled and felt like leather snakes crossing her flesh. Four legs unfolded from the bottom of the engine compartment.

Her eyes bulged, understanding the intention to land. She lost focus on physical surroundings, intensely fixated on the gears fast approaching a touchdown. Biba’s mind circled around possibilities. All the vehicles certainly showed signs of human engineering, not meaning humans controlled anything. Considering the racial hatred bred against humans during their multi-millennium long power struggle to dominate the galaxy, she prayed humanity skipped over contact with the species of her fated deliverers.

A massive explosion rang from the nearby battle; the shockwave blasted the helicopter back several meters and covered Biba in a layer of black sand. She looked back to the fight, but none of the vehicles remained. The landing gears hit turf, and a door on the back of the cockpit module slid open. She glanced again to the helicopter and back to the black crusted crater. The open door seemed more inviting by the second. For a fleeting moment, she passed an enlightened rationalization through her consciousness; her rescue and the conflict’s objective exactly coincided.

#

Marcus held Biba straight, one of her arms over his shoulder. They limped through the silent halls of his transport ship to a central room. Biba recognized the design, trays and plugs half-hidden with everything else under a retracting and streamlined surface. The swing-room functioned as a dining hall, maintenance bay and social chamber all meshed in one. Marcus tapped a screen near the door, in moments a rectangular section of floor slid away and a long table unfolded. Six chairs slid out from underneath, and a vase full of synthesized flowers picked in this system rose in the center. Biba found a seat under the cold metal stretch and brushed away clouds of brown dust with every hand swipe.

After activating the food-prep console, Marcus asked, “What made you think they were after you? Seems like a big leap.”

“I just trusted my intuition. At the time, I could not fathom the complexity of the situation. Exhausted, soaked by the atmospheric gasses, I would have done just about anything to get dry. My mental state deteriorated, and I succumb to the flow. Faith left me believing I would step into something better than what I left behind.

“I remember climbing into the helicopter bay. A perfectly placed step and handhold built anticipation of finding a human at the controls. Gold markings decorated a dozen different surfaces inside the craft; each slap of paint delivered a complete sense of salvation. I immersed my soul in wholesome reprieve, for the paint spelled out words, in Neo-English.”

Marcus said, “Just because you saw words written in a common language, didn’t mean a human helmed the helo.”

“True, but in my alleviation I didn’t think things through. I wanted a simple rescue, to get back into the mainstream without hassle.”

#

Biba rode in the back of the helicopter; a series of foldout seats lined the walls of the compartment. Every naked feeling of worry evaporated with the sign of human salvation. Minimalist light strips cast a soft white glow. A dozen different pieces of equipment strapped tight to the walls, cords and wires dangled across every surface, a chain-clattering sound layered beneath the pounding of the helicopter blades. Pressure pumps engaged seconds after the door closed.

The reddish air and wetness of Biba’s clothes quickly dissipated. Her vision drifted down to a small gauge hooked to her belt, the device’s face printed out safe to breathe. She could feel momentum shift as they pulled into the air, the helicopter soared away from conflict and danger. Slowly, she pulled off the rigged face protector, dropped her oxygen mask and shut off the O2-can.

Biba started with a couple shallow breaths, and then took a deep one. She melted into the seat with a long exhale. A simplistic fantasy pushed away all doubt, filled with unrealistic rationalizations and hopes allowing her to forget the cold mechanical surroundings, reality. She chose to forget the time spent alone and found peace in her final moments of seclusion, knowing opinioned company would fill her future. For minutes, she relaxed motionless.

With the battle-zone far behind, Biba took a closer look at her surroundings. A small glass window on the cockpit door drew intense attention. She slid from her seat and slunk to the portal. The cabin’s configuration appeared standard, two pilot seats overlooking endless control gauges. Back as an active pilot, she consumed hundreds of hours putting together instrument panels under the distributed armaments policy of the United Military. She noted the slipshod work and half-hacked modular packs, a rookie job under all standards.

Biba’s attention gravitated to the pilot, the only occupant of the command cab. He appeared human, male with a strong muscular build. The light from outside dropped a reddish glow behind his profile. Deep age lines creased into his face. A flash of metal left Biba with an insecure gleam; the back of his head reflected light. A piece of steel imbedded through the man’s skin, wrapping the back of his skull with a weight to thicken his natural bodyline.

Biba remembered seeing Special Strike grunts getting limb and organ replacements, always subcutaneous. She caught a full glimpse of her savior’s grimace when he glanced to one of mid-console controls. Mechanical trappings covered the previously obscured side of his face. A robotic eye extended from the cavernous surface with a green light at the helm. The visage forever burned into Biba.

Stunned, she continued to look through the portal. The man’s flesh discolored around his wrist, a robotic hand built with centuries-old technology attached to the nub. Biba recoiled from the door with fear. Her stomach acids boiled up and her skin ran cold. She turned to the doorway, ready to leap out in fear of the unknown. She looked through the tiny porthole offering a view of the outer world.

The slush cleared at this height, Biba’s heart fluttered when her eyes opened to the art-inspiring view. The surface looked like an endless field of interconnected sinkholes covered by woven layers of animate fogbanks. Flattop plateaus formed a smooth horizon cut through by the cliff tubes. She searched for things not apparent: cities, constructions, any sign of a native civilization. The helicopter shifted course and slowed. Her vision shifted down. Through the poor window angle, she identified a small landing pad extended from the cliff wall.

#

Marcus leaned with his back to a wall, waiting for the cooking module to finish a burn cycle. Biba propped her leg in a neighbor chair and rubbed away her wound’s throbbing pain. Taking advantage of the therapeutic-induced pause, Marcus questioned her lack of inquisition in the story, why she didn’t try and talk to this human before landing. She looped the question a couple times, silently building and testing an explanation to suit the previously played emotional notes she hoped still lingered in his mind.

“I’m a pilot, and flying a top of the line fighter can sometimes take every bit of concentration. I can only imagine the difficulty in chugging a homemade helicopter through such an unusual atmosphere. I gave him peace behind the controls.

“Approaching the base, I felt a keen sense of trepidation. I wanted to get away, but did not have any place to go. My stomach wrenched with stress; I pushed down and prepared for whatever came next.

“In my mind, I believed everything would work out. My clothing quickly saturated with sweat; I should have taken my body reaction as a warning. My subconscious seemed better in-tune with my surroundings than my active perceptions.”

#

The helicopter’s engine powered down. Biba sat silently on one of the fold-down seats. Her hands shook, clamped together, fingers interlaced. She stared at the cabin door, skin tight with tension, arms torqued, stress building under the wait for activity. Suddenly, a mechanical jitter shot through the structure of the helicopter. Biba jumped to the exterior aimed porthole. The entire platform lowered on a set of interlocking rails and wheels, retracting into the main structure.

After a minute of interlinking thumps and jitters, the helicopter entered an enclosed bay. The reddish air outside the porthole filtered away. Biba ran to the back exit. Nothing happened when she pressed the button. A steady light beside the panel appeared so indicate a lock. The reactions of a caged animal spurred her mind like a bareback rider. Biba punched the button a couple more times; panic eschewed rage, she began to beat on the door with her fist.

“Let me out of here.”

Silence stretched out without a response.

“Did you hear me? I want out of this can.”

A static voice broke into her frenzy. “Are you armed?”

Biba froze her over-agitated motions, analyzing the question like a stripped away fruit pit. She picked up an intonation of concern in the classification of worry; she perceived his fear of the unknown and delivered preemptive action. Biba stopped her panic and stood straight. Her back arched and every hint of mistrust evaporated. She held out a clenched fist; her pointing finger unfolded and took aim at the cockpit door. She spoke in a commanding tone.

“You let me out of this trap.”

“Are you armed?”

The repeated question launched warning signals, turning Biba’s thoughts on an inward inspection. No longer sensing fear, she felt the tremors of demand in his static laced voice. Not wanting to reveal vulnerability by admitting to a lack of armaments, she continued to deflect and demand.

“Open the door.” She banged a fist against the outer hatch. “Let me out of this can.”

“Listen to me and we will both get out in a moment. If you don’t calm down I will have to use force.”

“I am listening.”

“You will never get off this planet. You will die here.”

Biba pushed against the urge to collapse in frustration. She held silent and waited for the man to continue.

“I have survived on this planet for thirty years. Nobody willingly comes, and nobody leaves. You need to understand these things from the beginning. I have a facility to recycle air and water, enough to share with you, but you have to work for the food. We have limited resources, everything is precious, even you.”

“What exactly is going on out here?”

“Essentially, we are stranded. A few others live here with me. We have survived for a long time, endured many fights, and kept each other alive.”

“What about the ones piloting those vehicles I saw explode?” Biba almost bit her tongue, but pressed harder. “Did they endure many fights too?”

“Our war vehicles are controlled by remote consoles and simple computer programs. Living people are the chief resource in our struggle; we must have your cooperation to keep going.”

“What about the other side?”

“The other side is… not human.”

Biba knew the system well, deep inside the border; she researched all the planets years ago while planning for her vacation. No hostile races linger in the entire sector, at least not with enough hatred to drive open conflict.

She questioned, “What are they?”

“The aliens are the same species responsible for Earth’s devastation.” The mention of Earth loaded Biba with a decayed-planet-sized piece of emotional baggage, buried deep within every human. The horror stories of mankind’s survival in the starvation enclaves continue to endure. Her eyes, neck and fingers all spasmed, barely under conscious control. An open canister of anger flowed behind her eyes. He continued, “Some of them survived the crusade, hidden on this planet. They want revenge for the near-complete genocide we committed against them.”

“Why don’t you just let me out of here…”

The static dropped off and a loud ping echoed from the door. The cockpit opened and the pilot stepped out. He hunched to fit through the door. Mechanical limbs replaced both his legs, and his right arm. He wore an ancient looking brown leather jacket; the cover revealed enough flesh to show most of his torso, his complete left arm remained intact.

Biba’s aura flooded over with fright. The burned-in green-eyed grimace sneered at her. Her involuntary reaction questioned if enough of him remained human to prop up his humanity. A bony, robotic finger pointed forward. Biba backed against the outer door. The pilot’s words came through with rugged calculation; his voice thickened with every dip, and peaked with a synthesized twinge.

“Listen to me little girl. Those things are out there, and they want to kill us. We have to fight them, and we have to win. Do your part, and the rest of us will keep you alive.”

#

Marcus slid a plate of steaming hot food down in front of Biba. Her story paused in respect for honored human tradition of silent meals. For minutes, only the hum of the engines and the gnashing of teeth filled an otherwise silent void. Marcus finished first and looked up to watch Biba scoop down the last few bites. She noticed his demeanor push forward, prepared to ask another question, but she picked up the story before he could launch an inquest.

“I will never forget the visage. The image of an outstretched mechanical finger will always linger in my memory. The pilot later introduced himself as Dirge and told me he used to captain a canister transport. When he crashed, they carried transport-containers of biomechanics and robotics. All thirty of the crew apparently survived, but their numbers dwindled with the years. Only four remained when I arrived.

“Their luck traveled hand in hand with their torture. They explained to me the peculiar phenomena of the planet’s atmosphere, and even proved things with an experiment to make me believe. Any open flame, or even a high heat source would react with the open air and cause massive devastation; the friction created by their projectiles flirted on the same temp-line.

“They crashed because a fuel leak emptied the main tank, engine shutdown granted a survivable landing. The planet pulled them in before the comm-lanes recycled, and the aliens started attacking shortly after their rescue beacon powered up. They paid for survival in blood, loosing two lives and the only communication system in the first fight. No rescue would ever come, because they simply could not get a message off-planet.”

#

Biba stepped down from the helicopter. The enclosed bay filled with hand-made heavy equipment, leaving narrow walkways around each machine. The collection of tools allowed for repairs, fabrication, and even the rebuilding of ammunition. Dirge stepped down behind Biba. The metal on metal scraping of his feet sent a shiver down her spine. Her eyes closed for a moment, an image of herself sitting in a chair nursing two mechanical legs flashed--a destiny for which she considered death as a mere method of avoidance. Human pride to maintain an un-tooled human form disintegrated long ago.

Biba followed Dirge into the bowels of the cliff-side complex. The first door opened to a planning center with three other exits. A large round table with a recessed miniature of the planet surface dominated the room. A number of workbenches and computer consoles lined the walls. Some harnessed handheld weapons in various states of disassembly.

A young, busty woman with golden hair sat behind a computer console watching a radar screen. She looked up, her mouth opened, but no sounds formed. Biba looked her over for any bio-mods; she wore tidy clothing covering every bit of skin apart from her neck and face. The picturesque blonde stood and introduced herself in a subtle voice. “Hi there, I am Solko.”

Biba stepped over and shook her hand. The rubbery grip of her leather gloves gave pause; Biba felt the strength in Solko’s grip, an unnatural strength. Two more of the survivors stepped in. The larger of the two, a dark skinned man with towering stature, drew Biba’s attention. He did not wear a shirt; everything below his sternum gleamed with metal. His prosthesis included, at the very least, half a spinal cord and a great deal of organ replacements.

His muscled chest moved with each breath, the jagged scars of battle disrupted a skin-oil glaze extending from baldness. Biba keyed on the purple discoloration where his skin met the bio-mod, the same as on Dirge’s arm; she considered a type of electrical decay or maybe just a simple infection--the possibility of an invasive presence never entered her thought flow. He tipped his head forward a bit and spoke in a deep, deliberate voice; his rounded nostrils flared with every verb.

“I am Tim.” He motioned to his companion and said, “This man is Dovarian, he keeps all the mechanicals working.”

Biba barely noticed Dovarian at first glimpse. His facial features suggested an Oriental ancestry, and his small size precluded attention. He did not appear to have any bio-mods.

Solko said, “So, I did detect a ship crash earlier.”

Biba responded, “An escape pod actually.”

Tim thundered in with a brutish voice, “Honey, can you handle a weapon? We need all the hands we can get in this war.”

Biba barely noticed what he asked after hearing the word honey. She hoped he would find another appellation without confrontation.

Dovarian interjected, “I don’t want the new flesh anywhere near a hand weapon. We should leave her to work one of the remote consoles; she is a pilot after-all.”

Solko said, “Resources are in short supply Tim, we cannot squander them when we find fortune.”

Biba’s mind resonated with the words new flesh and resources. Confusion clouded details until she connected the descriptors to herself. They held her in the same light as some precious mineral, raw materials. None of the residents seemed to notice anything unusual in the synonyms for a new arrival; she logged the issue under thirty-year-seclusion syndrome.

Dirge interrupted, “Slow down everyone. Let’s start by putting Biba in a cabin. Solko, show her around.”

Solko grabbed Biba’s hand. She pulled and Biba followed. The hall through the far right exit lined with symmetrically spaced doors. Functional names covered the first few doors. The tags oxygen recycler and atmospheric breakdown answered a few unasked questions. A dozen or more doors marked by simple numbers indicated personal cabins. Solko’s fragrance reminisced of a summer day on earth; she began to speak in a kittenish tone, downplaying seriousness and injecting dry sarcasm.

“Listen to me girl. This place is like one of those upscale hotels. You have a room to yourself. We do the food service. There is a laundry machine, and we have the best balcony in the valley. You are going to learn to love your life here. I do, sort of.”

#

Marcus sat silently in the central chamber of his ship, the auto-décor revamped to a simplistic social chamber. A circle of six chairs dominated the room--each looked carved from the floor in a single block. Biba stepped in, dripping and refreshed from the time spent in a shower. She dressed in a simplistic grey jumpsuit, pieces of laminate film woven into the top half carried printings of her military insignia: rank, battle group, and platoon--the common film-cloth served as standardized replacement for anyone detached from their groups.

“My first impression of Solko left me thinking one word, psychotic. She soon turned into a useful source of information. Solko told me about the base, Dirge converted his old canister transport to comprise the majority of the superstructure. The layout of things seemed somewhat large for a typical Starcarrier transport, but the explanation fit. They seemed to have an explanation for everything.

“Solko said her ship intentionally landed about five years before I dropped in. Their autopilot crashed into a meteor and they needed a hard dock to perform repairs to the Near-Light-Speed engines. This planet seemed serviceable, and they spent a month getting here with backup thrusters. When they fired up the engines to leave, the ship exploded. Dirge and the others managed to save her, but nobody else.

“I needed some downtime to wrap my head around everything and finally get some sleep. When she showed me to a vacant room, I requested seclusion. I dropped my bag emergency supplies beside the bed and collapsed. In my naiveté, I thought things would slow down so I could at least catch my breath. Everything I experienced terrified me, even my first dream.”

#

Biba slept on the rough bed, her limbs occasionally flinched, accompanied by minor groans. The meager room contained few possessions, and nothing personal. A small table, two chairs and a chest-of-drawers completed the simplistic furnishing. A loud beep interrupted her light slumber; an insignia on the door’s control panel flashed. Biba pulled up and tapped the panel. Solko stood waiting; she held an assortment of clothing.

“I rummaged through storage to find some clothes in your size. We have a good bit to choose from considering the situation. Let me just put them down here.”

Solko placed the stack of clothes atop the empty table. Biba glommed at the folded orange and blue, seeing insignificance behind changed draping. She felt a new set of clothes resigned her to an extended stay; back in the helicopter, she envisioned a newly pressed uniform waiting on the ship taking her back to the carrier. She wanted to step off the recovery ship and be ready for another mission.

Solko broke down her daydream, “I know exactly how you are feeling. Cut off, with nothing but escaping the planet on your mind. I wish we could, but we never will. You just have to accept…”

Suddenly, a massive explosion caused the entire base to lurch. Bits of dust rained from cracks in the ceiling. Panic flooded over Biba, Solko’s face flushed red. The two girls left the room in a sprint. Sounds of gunfire echoed from the planning center. Everything moved in slow motion. A rim of light peeking around the door flashed with every deafening weapon blast. The doorway opened.

Muzzle flashes drew attention to the hangar door. A soldier with ragged black hair held an assault rifle in his right hand. He braced against the doorway, weight on his back foot. The bullets sailed down another corridor, out of Biba’s vision. He held out a book-sized device parallel to the weapon. The blaze continued as he turned the tool and looked through at Biba and Solko. The device scanned a video feed for heat signatures; Biba remembered mounting the same model on her fighter a few months ago.

Every shot splashed a wave of light across his camouflage uniform. A bag of steel webbing captured all the spent cartridges. Biba and Solko stood frozen in the surreal splendor of the ancient weapon’s gunpowder blasts. Biba read the soldier’s nametag, glowing like campfire logs under the muzzle-fire, Derrick Frost. He left an impression in the stillness, taking Biba back to the time she spent watching the grunts in Special Strike train, she envied their strength of body.

In one instant, time jumped and seemed to run forward on triple speed. Derrick spun and pointed the assault rifle at Biba and Solko. Solko’s eyes bulged with fear. He pulled the trigger. Every bullet blasted through her. She flew backward to the deck with a dozen holes in her midsection. Sparks shot out from the wounds. Her pierced clothing began to catch fire.

Derrick screamed across the room at Biba, “Did they touch you? Inject you with anything?”

Biba shook her head and quirked out a response, “No!”

He pulled away and slipped the scanner into a thigh holster. “Then let’s get out of here before they get up.”

Derrick spun to the blind hall and fired a dozen more rounds. Biba balked at the notion of spontaneous resuscitation; her thoughts twisted bits of information like a puzzle cube until the pieces perfectly fit. She took a couple steps toward Derrick, and glanced to the side hall. Three smoking bodies piled motionless: Tim, Dirge and Dovarian. Every bullet wound sparked. She connected the facts with real-world semblance, concluding Dirge and the others heritage to a non-human origin.

“How are we going to get out of here?”

“Check behind the door. I brought an extra oxygen mask and parachute. There is a truck waiting in the valley.”

Biba grabbed up the gear, the mask smelled sterile, fresh.

“A parachute will work in the sludge outside?”

“Yeah, not a problem.”

The pack slid on easily; she snapped connectors across her waist and chest. Derrick matched Biba and donned a full head oxygen mask; a set of small pressure cans hung from the bottom. The masks evoked a likeness to the ancient walrus of Earth, replacing ivory with pressurized air. Derrick and Biba headed through the hangar bay side-by-side. A smoldering entrance, blasted open minutes earlier, led to a cliff-side outcropping.

From the edge, Biba could see the vehicle waiting about one hundred meters below. She offered a thumbs-up and jumped. Her hand jerked out the ripcord a split second after she sailed. Terror flowed through her bones. The chute did not deploy. The ground closed faster and faster. She jerked the cord hard, nothing. Three, four times, but nothing happened. Dust discharged in an out-flowing cloud from her point of impact.

#

Biba’s eyes opened; her breaths labored and shallow. She awoke on her back, red sky overhead. Her head rolled to the side. She could see the escape pod behind layers of blasting sludge. Her mind snapped on orientation, she hid behind the nearby rocks while watching the vehicle column move in.

A series of images flipped through her third eye, the ground closed in, and the truck sitting far below on the valley floor. She remembered the dancing spirals around Solko’s bullet wounds, and the soldier’s name, Derrick Frost. All the way back to this hill, she remembered her hand on the control of the O2-can, turning the valve off. She jerked up to a seat and rushed to turn back on the O2-can, the smell of fresh flowers and early morning dew gushed into her senses.

An intense pain shot through one of Biba’s fingers. She pulled her hand up, gripping her own wrist. A black spot festered at the tip of her ring finger. Biba watched in horror as the tiny hole spread and consumed her entire finger. The scorched flesh flaked away like ashes to reveal a robotic replacement. Biba’s eyes widened. The black plague began to course through her entire body.

A wave of black slush blew away all her flaked flesh, only her skeleton remained, mechanically mutated. The robotic limbs slowly maneuvered. She looked down at her chest; a glowing steel orb replaced her ribcage. Pulses of light radiated from the center, flowing down her limbs. She uncorked a blood-splitting synthetic scream and her vision spiraled into blackness.

#

Biba awoke back in the base, still in the room Solko showed her. She jumped out of bed, back to a wall. She panted with fervor, her clothes soaked through with sweat. The same beep from her dream sounded. Every detail from both vision-trips lingered, not fading into the opaque like other dreams. She reached up with a hand and pinched the flesh under her nose, the scent of fresh morning dew lingered in her nostrils.

The same control panel light from her dream flashed. Biba looked at the door. An image of Solko standing on the other side with an armful of clothes flashed in her head. Her fingers tapped the controller. Tim waited on the other side. She sighed in relief. His head cocked to the side when he saw her exhalation. He forced out some words in a solemn tone.

“Dirge wants you to come for a briefing in a few minutes.”

“About what?”

“He thinks you should get up to speed on the remote systems, just incase something happens. You have to earn your way around here. Also, Solko said she stopped by earlier and left some clothes, she didn’t want to wake you.”

Left some clothes… Biba ran the line through her head several times. Tim motioned to the table in her room. She nodded and her breathing accelerated with eyes locked forward.

“I suggest you find something comfortable and follow me.”

“Just a minute please.”

Biba tapped the control panel again and the door closed. Her eyes shut; she took several deep breaths and turned to look at the table. The same stack of orange and blue clothing from her dream rested atop the small round pedestal. Her body shook while fighting the urge to break down in tears. Her will to continue hung perilously on the last thread of hope, the rope sliced down by a serrated blade of broken inner-whispers.

Out of frustration, Biba belted a thick scream at the top of her lungs. The door opened, Tim gawked in with a questioning expression. Biba tapped the controller again and the door closed. She shook her head with violence, trying to make everything settle. She stepped over, grabbed a couple pieces of clothing in a fist and pushed the rest to the floor. She spoke aloud, to noone.

“No, I’m fine, nothing unusual going on here. This is just like a vacation, dancing ballerina and all.”

Biba kicked her month-old jumpsuit to the corner.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to figure things out, and I’m getting off this rock.”

Her new clothing fit, a bit tight, but better than expected considering Solko visual sizing methodology. Biba wondered how much practice fitting clothes she garnered on this rusted rock of a planet.

The two layer pants pulled from the pile consisted of a brown skintight inner layer, and a stiff black outer layer with open vertical stripes. She pulled on a new top, but the brilliant orange mini-shirt barely reached below her breasts. Looking to the pile of clothes beneath the table, she pulled out a deep brown leather jacket. The stylized wrap fit well enough on the arms, but the smaller vest didn’t quite reach her waist and would not snap in the front.

The new garb left her midriff uncovered. Biba shook her body, too frustrated to dig for a coordinated outfit. She took a few deep breaths to calm down and tapped the door controller.

She spoke to Tim in a down-to-business tone, “Lets go.”

Dovarian and Dirge waited at the centralized planning table, Biba nodded to each in turn. The four gathered around. A miniature of the local surface area spread across the flat top, every feature recessed beneath a vertical lip. The impressive model detailed individual rocks in the valley. The cliff-side base appeared at the map center.

Dirge pointed to a rectangular structure at the edge of the map. “This is one of the mobile bases the aliens use.”

Tim pressed some buttons on a tier mounted control panel. The entire model dropped flat, an effect of melting away. In seconds, tiny rods emerged from the center of the table and reformed the mobile base. Flushing out as a ripple, rods across the entire surface rose and stopped to form the land contour. In moments, spaces between individual rods lost focus and the entire model appeared to recast with a smooth crust.

Tim’s joy-word enthusiasm chanted the theme of bloodlust, “This is the base of our enemy. These creatures tried to wipe out humanity, and we owe them. We need to launch a strike and destroy their base.”

Dirge commanded the reigns of the operation, “Just because we have a new body, does not mean we can launch a full scale assault. We will act with care and not squander the new flesh.”

Biba hung on the new flesh reference, wondering how long they would persist with the derogatory references. She opened with a ground level question to deflect in the incoming barrage.

“Are you sure these are the same aliens? We’re talking about thousands of years since the last contact. Most people believe we executed a complete genocide of their race. My commander would never believe we found surv--”

From out of nowhere, a loud bang sent Biba spiraling for a dream-memory of the explosion. She jerked back from the table; tension filled her skin. Her heart rate doubled in seconds. Questioning glances crossed the table.

Dirge looked through to the hangar, “Ahh, that’s nothing. One of the brakes on the helicopter slipped a bit.”

Biba realized she marketed her reaction on a giant advertising screen. Her embarrassment compounded stress and frustration; she fought back tears for a second time in the past few minutes. A single sniffle escaped her perimeter defenses. Knowing she needed to exude strength among these hardened survivors, she let out a short cackle and repositioned her stature behind the map. Her eyes darted around, looking for anything she could use to redirect attention.

Biba noticed another artificial object on the map and pointed to the spot. “I am wondering what this is?”

Dirge and the others shared concerned glances.

She continued, “To me, this looks like a good sized structure, manmade even.”

Tim said in his familiar war-bred tone, “Just an old ruin. One of the alien bases we destroyed years ago.”

Dovarian added with a bit of stammer, “Yeah, an old ruin, nothing to worry about.”

Biba tightened up and focused on Dirge. His stare pierced to her pounding heart as Dovarian’s words echoed in the distance. Her senses, keen to capture her own miscues, lingered on the overcorrected speech.

She said, “Listen, I need some more time to adjust before you throw all this at me. Can we pick up here later?”

Tim let out a scrimp growl. Dovarian raised a hand to calm him. Dirge leered across the table, locking eyes with Biba. After a moment of masked tension, his neck twitched.

He said, “I think this can wait.”

Tim started to append something, but he played off the motion and gave Dirge a concerned glance. Dovarian sent a glare of disdain across the table; his teeth gleamed with a hint of metal. Dirge’s green-eyed grimace animated with slow calculation as he took in the language behind every face.

Biba captured every peccadillo as mannerisms exceeded the ordinary. She sensed a covered and calculated guise with intentionally leading inflections. She wanted to deflect, to take a step back and take time to diagnose interactions. Dirge saved her the heartache of a repeated plea for release with a simple nod and some words.

“I will send Solko to check in and bring you some food.”

#

Marcus leaned forward in his seat, pulling in every word of Biba’s story. Palms sweaty with intrigue, he started to ask a question, but the half-wall-sized display screen popped on. A dainty newscaster in pure white garb reported on a story.

“The blockade of Tardis Four is now over, their government conceded to the United Military demands, they will stop manufacturing all heavy weapons. Schedules are set for the solar-veil to start packing this hour. We will be return with updates as this story continues.”

The screen shut off.

“I’m glad the Tardis mess is about over, I hate when these things drag on. We’ll probably send in some covert teams inside a week to sabotage the stuff they have.”

Biba fell back into typical jock-room banter with ease. “Ten to one Special Strike will set up a live feed so everyone can watch the mission go down.”

“There’s a good chance you’re right.”

After a short pause and exhale, Biba returned to her story.

“At the mention of food, my thoughts inexplicability turned to my dream, and the first thing the soldier asked. “Did they touch you? Inject you with anything?” The words echoed through my mind, nothing I did freed my consciousness to concentrate on more important things. I really didn’t know anything about Dirge and the others; I could not confirm the things they told me, given the situation. I felt like everything tried to pound a theme of acceptance into my subconscious.

“The thought of eating something prepared out of my sight, wrecked my certitude. I could not find enough will to fight my reactions while such strong misgivings flowed through my head. I decided not to eat whatever they put in front of me, even if the ordeal came to force. I would be fine for a few more days on the leftovers from the escape pod. Crossing to such a level of trust stretched my emotions too thin.

“Contemplating in my quarters, my thoughts began to revolve around the nuances I observed earlier. I replayed the events from my memory over and over, concentrating on the series of looks Dirge and the others shared. My wad of theories grew and none of them gave me comfort. At some unrecorded point of consolidation, my thoughts evolved. My bones tingled with an essential course of action, to go check out the so-called “ruin”. I just needed a ride.”

#

Biba slipped on her backpack filled with the escape pod supplies. She tipped over, pressed an ear to the door, and glanced to a clock on the wall. The time ticked away with over an hour since the last hint of activity. She considered the facilities layout, the remote vehicles required some kind of indoor service, and she just needed to find the garage. A bead of sweat rolled down her face as she opened the door.

Biba poked out and looked both directions, everything appeared clear, all the doors shut. She crept silently to the planning center, snapping a few glances to her back along the way. She pushed an ear against the doorway; the hum of electronics overpowered every other flaccid sound. Biba stood tall, prepared for a confrontation. She tapped a tiny display panel to the side and the door slid open. Only empty chairs and unmanned control consoles occupied the room.

Two doors led to unexplored sections of the base. Biba passed the first door and visually searched for any type of insignia. A small rusted plate directly over the arch center caught attention. Engineering… She stopped in her tracks and looked over the other door for a matching plate. Cargo Access… Her reason operated like a system of balanced weights, every thought wrapping one of the two choices in a layer of leaded counterbalance.

Biba slipped around a few chairs and pressed against the Cargo Access door. Footsteps thudded behind the natural emanations of the room; straining for intonation, she finally marked the footfalls as incoming. Her heart double-pounded, she silently slid backward and spun in place, scouring every shadow for a secluded hiding spot. Her eyes locked to a corner workbench and she gumshoed under the lip. The door opened. Tim stepped in, passing through to the passenger hall.

Biba watched, petrified. The sponge between her ears churned with the possibility of discovery, but no drips from her scrunched grey-matter connected a comfortable rationalization to her actions. Suddenly, Tim stopped in place. His head slowly started turning. Biba held her breath. Her crouch tightened, knuckles white from interlaced pressure. Tim took a deep breath and listened. The shallow hum of scanners overshadowed her breathing and the mechanics grease wafting in from the open hangar overpowered her scent. A few seconds later, he stepped away. Biba skulked from under the counter and took off down the Cargo Access passage.

The hallway broke clean after a few dozen steps and gave way to a natural cavern tube. Steel floor planks maintained the level walking surface. Biba endeavored to move silently, but every step produced a metal groan from the dilapidated patch. The natural walls expanded after a sharp turn and opened to a room slightly larger than the planning center. About twenty long silver containers stacked single deep in a pseudo-pyramid against one wall, dim blue lights flashed from the end of each.

The lifeless smell of sterilized air circulated through the conditioned chamber. Biba started to slip through without pause, but her wavering trust instigated a search. She inspected the storage modules and recognized the end-mounted controllers as stasis modules used for long-term biological storage. The curved steel surfaces offered neither sign nor label to the contents; dominate theories circulated around preserved foodstuff. She stepped to a container free from any stacked weight and pushed a few buttons on the control panel.

The sound of a clicking gear indicated activity. Biba took a step back and looked around as a seam slowly formed along the top edge. She considered her wisdom-muscle might be in defect given current vulnerability. Under the power of a slow grind, the prodigious lid inched away on a long-side hinge. She gazed through the open crack; a musty stench filled her nostrils. Thin layers of fog swirled, intermingled with the sterile air, volume-lit by the creeping light.

As the volume of grey air equalized, a solid form materialized in the containers bottom. A line of sheen glinted in form-familiar profile. Biba released an audible gasp; she watched the fog roll away to reveal a preserved human body. She crouched in the floor middle and whipped around to looking for activity. With noone else in sight, she slunk back to the stasis controller and set the lid to re-seal. She stepped back and looked over the twenty coffining containers; an undeniable thought sprang to her lips, carried on muffled breath.

“I hope it’s a morgue.”

#

Biba rode an elevator heading deep into the cliff-side complex. The path dove along a rail system built through naturally formed pockets and laser-cut tunnels. Her hand gripped a rusted rail, every vibration transmitted to her skin with a sandpaper grade. She gripped tighter as her thoughts sank deeper, rusted chips gouging the smooth skin of her hand. With the coffining containers failing a perspicuous test, ideas floated to the forefront of her consciousness like bits of flotsam in a ships wake.

Biba’s stomach turned with tear-sweat horror. At first notion, based on preamble instincts, she considered the containers could indeed be for food storage; meaning Dirge and the others braved this survival gauntlet at the cost of cannibalism. She also considered a likely explanation, where they needed the bodies for all the advanced bio-mod research used to keep digitized life flowing in the last few survivors. Her mind did not make room for the simple possibility of a meat-locker morgue--humans did outlaw burial on uninhabited planets thousands of years ago.

Whatever the circumstance, Biba pushed away the dwell-thoughts and turned her attention to immediate circumstances. Her focus transcended to another plane, locked onto a fundamental goal--getting out of the base. Pressure pumps gassed out with a hiss; the transport pod slowed to a crawl and stopped level with a walk-off platform. She stepped to a wall in the short access tunnel. Her fingers rubbed the metal surface, every scarred pit amplified her assessment. She followed intuition, believing this section arrived independent of the upper level--a much older crash site.

After a few twists, the passage cut open to an elephantine cavity. Fifty or more ground vehicles filled the garage. A row of classically designed tanks parked along one wall. The thick industrial aroma of tread-machines assaulted her senses. Biba recognized the pendulum-like spider walkers stacked three deep at the back. A dozen craft of varying designs interspersed across the remaining floor area. Her eyes locked onto the closest one, a four-wheeled buggy with glass cockpit and human controls. She smirked behind the exactly fulfilled search.

Biba ran to the rattletrap and pulled open a bug-eyed access panel. A wave of dust splashed across her face, a shaved steel taste. Hopping inside and strapping in, her shoulders sucked snug against the seat. A softly marked path trimmed in busted glow-strips led between the elevator passage and another door at the back. A vehicle-sized pressure lock dead ahead allowed access to the valley floor. She looked over the instrumentation panel for anything marked ignition.

Biba reached forward and rested a finger on the button. A quick glance to make sure things remained clear sent chills down her spine. Dirge walked along the lit path right outside. Her body froze, her breathing stopped dead. She gazed on with an unblinking, bulging stare. He strolled by, unaware. His vision locked on his own outstretched hand; the mechanical replacement actuated in a test pattern.

Biba allowed a few minutes of silence to pass before powering up the buggy. The automatic pressure locks gave her easy access out of the cavern. She turned left and drove through the reddish soup of the valley floor. The cliff-side landing platform slowly faded from her rear view monitor. Her finger tapped a metal-buttoned control panel and an instrument screen lit bright green. She hoped for luck to continue through this next stage of her search.

#

Marcus helped slide Biba into the copilot’s seat. Bright words flashed across the navigation screen, ready to enter transit lane. Marcus plopped into the pilot seat and started working the controls with wrought discipline. The fully powered Lane Engine sent whiplash pulses of intensity through frame-links and into the cockpit seats. Marcus turned up the palm of his hand, offering the final initiation button to Biba. She reached to the nav-console and pushed the flashing light. Instantly, every hint of twinkling starlight disappeared, leaving a black void outside the ship.

Marcus slouched back and said, “We should be in Beta-Stru in about six hours. I can drop you at the transport hub and you should be back on duty in a few days.”

After a few moments of consensual silence, Biba continued her story.

“I spent hours riding through the crags trying to get a hint of something manmade on the buggy’s scanner. When I finally found the base, one absent feature took me back. For a battle fought with tanks and other military machines, the structure did not support any kind of vehicular entrance. Assuming they would have emergency supplies ready, I searched the cockpit of the buggy for some kind of pressure mask but found nothing usable. Luckily, my bag still packed full with the stuff used after the escape pod purge.”

#

Biba stood meters from the rectangular outline of a door. Her boots trod ankle-deep in the red sand. The solid block structure appeared vaguely angular, an outer shell plated smooth with layers of indigenous rock. Biba walked to the door and wiped a layer of obfuscation from the flat panel positioned at the side as a control device. The flat metal plaque linked with no manipulators, only carrying a single word in Neo-English, alive.

Biba jerked away and turned her back on the door. Her panic-filled hands shook as she tried to decipher the clue. She thought about Dirge, Tim, Solko and Dovarian: all human. She glanced back to the carved metal plate, thinking the roughly concealed base must have once sheltered humans. Her memory ran in reverse, back to the battle right after her crash, she considered human infighting as a possible explanation for everything.

Without intentional trigger, the steel door slid away to reveal a short dead-end hallway with no other door. A set of three glowing light-strips etched seamless horizontal lines across the walls. Biba cautiously stepped into the airlock. A thick door dropped down in her wake. The red slush vanished in a few moments. The hallway throbbed with a mechanical drive, rattling her stance. She pulled off the O2-mask and swimming goggles; decaying flesh flavored the stale air. She fluffed out her matted hair, launching red puffs into the air, while waiting on the next door to slide open.

Suddenly, everything stopped and the door at her back slapped up. A dimly lit interior replaced the previous beatings of red slush--the filtration chamber spun on a screw axis, lowering to the first sub-level of the complex. Biba stepped down into the industrial space. A metal grated floor stretched out beneath her feat, pressurized support pistons spread the walls at regular intervals. The dust-covered nature of every surface precluded any kind of recent activity.

Biba moved through to find a long hall lined with a dozen doors and capped at the end by two sets of stairs, one up and one down. She bent down and touched the dusty floor. The fine grains reminded her of pleasure time spent on a powder-beach in the Melax system. A series of discernable footprints embedded mid-deep into the age layer.

Biba followed down the hall and read nametags from every plaque: maintenance, generators, armory, and then just names… She paused when the imprints turned in on the sixth door. Her blood ran ice cold. Nightmare imagery bubbled to the surface; she imagined a clear image of the gunpowder blasts, burning like campfire embers, and highlighting the fantasy soldier’s nametag. The undeniable engraving on the imprint-aimed door carried the same name from her dream, Derrick Frost.

Biba pushed on the free-swing door to reveal a dark, private chamber. Recessed light-blocks in the ceiling flashed a few times before staying on. A gaping hole in one wall marked the location of a long stripped-out video screen. Piles of trash littered the floor. The same layer of red powder covering the hall drenched every object in the room; the footprints trailed to one of three doors on the back wall.

Biba followed the footprints to an anticipated conclusion--her mind just needed psyche-stabilizing reassurance. She pushed the door open and immediately locked onto a spread of bleach-white human bones lying in the bathtub, brittle scraps of camouflage collaged with the white chips. The perception-amplified odor of rotted flesh and molded material assaulted her sensibilities--her churning mind boiled over, creating a non-existent stench to fit the visual. A tiny orange pulse amid the bones attracted attention.

Biba plowed her hand down through the porcelain tub’s contents and retrieved two devices. She instantly recognized one as an old data-pad, the other looked like a piece of alien gibberish.