Cold Planet: A Gateway Universe Story Page 11

  She activated the door and the same clanking rattle echoed off the walls. Martin let out a low grumble and cursed as she shook the look from her face. She wasn’t going to surprise anyone. Martin gripped her rifle and swung her body into the next room.

  Her gaze locked onto a young Phelian not two meters from her. His rifle was still slung over his shoulder—he had clearly thought another Phel was entering the room. He reached for his rifle, but Martin lunged forward, knocking the weapon from his hands. As she did, she let her own rifle fall to her side, yanking her sword from its sheath. She swung downward with her sword, but the Phel arched his body away from her attack, kicking toward Martin’s legs. Martin shifted her stance in time to block his kick with her right boot. As she did, she brought her sword upward again. This time she found her mark and the young Phelian tumbled backwards, his chest laid wide open.

  Martin quickly scanned the area for other threats then looked down toward the dying Phelian. For an instant her eyes met his. He was younger than her—he couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17 Humani years at most. For a few long seconds, she watched him gasp heavily as the last breaths of life left his body.

  Her first thought was of regret. Then she remembered Private Blake’s torn body.

  Letting her anger push any thoughts of compassion from her conscious, she looked around the room. Two large fossil fuel generators sat idle to her left. In the center of the room was a small, long-abandoned control panel, and to the right was a solid-state power station. The station was connected to a set of transformers that gave off a low hum. Walking over to the station, she looked over the control panel. The faded Terillian labels identified the start, stop, and self-check switches. A red light flashed on and off by the self-check. Martin then looked toward a small digital readout: Partial SCR failure blinked in yellow. ‘No wonder the voltage is jacked up,’ she thought as she glanced up at the dim, flickering lights in the room.

  Then an idea flashed through her head. She quickly recalled checking the Phel bodies back in the swamp. None of them had night-vision gear. Maybe they hadn’t planned on being out that long, but if the condition of the maintenance room was any indication, they probably didn’t have the tech. If she couldn’t sneak up on them, maybe she could at least have the advantage of fighting them in the dark.

  Martin pulled the night vision glasses from her vest and slid the thin glasses over her face. Once she killed the lights, the glasses would concentrate the infrared light and also use low-level reflective radar to give a near-daylight picture. She took another moment to familiarize herself with the room and then flipped the stop switch on power station.

  The room went dark and her glasses illuminated, but the roar and rattle of one of the fossil fuel generators coughing and then thundering to life with a deafening metallic rumble filled her senses. “Shit!” she cursed, throwing her glasses to the ground as the lights flashed and then shined bright again. So much for stealth or the cover of darkness. Martin let out a grunt and knelt behind a metal support beam. As the generator rumbled, she peered down her sights at the entrance on the opposite end.

  It didn’t take long.

  The form of a body stepped into the entrance. Martin’s rifle cracked and the body fell to the ground.

  The room then erupted with gunfire as another Phelian rushed through the entrance, his weapon firing.

  Martin kept her focus and fired, knocking the warrior backwards, but as he fell three more rushed into the room. She adjusted her fire and saw the last Phelian recoil as a round impacted his chest. But the other two had disappeared into the maze of equipment.

  The vibrations from the roaring generator shook the floor and echoed through her head as Martin moved to her left, scanning her field of fire.

  A flash of movement caught her attention and she swung her rifle toward the edge of a large storage tank and fired. Sparks flew from the tank and she saw a rifle drop to the ground. Martin shifted slightly to see if the warrior had been hit when the whizz and metallic clang of bullets ricocheting against the nearby generator drove her to one knee as she swung toward the threat. Her sights centered on the torso of another Phelian and she fired.

  As the Phelian dropped to the ground, Martin saw movement in her periphery and rolled backwards as the sword from a third Phelian flashed past her head. Rising back to her feet, she quickly sidestepped and grasped the warrior’s wrist as the Phelian thrust once again. Holding her opponent’s arm extended, Martin swung her elbow backwards, slamming into the warrior’s temple. She then grabbed her pistol as she wrapped her right leg behind the stunned opponent, sweeping his legs and sending him crashing to the floor. As the warrior’s back impacted the ground, Martin fired two rounds into his chest.

  Breathing heavily, Martin scanned the room again as the rumbling generator sent vibrations through the floor and into her body. Holstering her pistol and again bringing her rifle to the ready, she began moving toward the tank used by the previous Phelian for cover. Jutting her torso around the tank, she saw the warrior lying on the ground. The young Phelian was writhing in pain, but his expression shifted from agony to hatred when he noticed Martin.

  Some of her rounds had found their target. Blood seeped from a mortal wound to warrior’s chest and his right arm was bleeding profusely. With his mangled, bloody arm, the Phelian reached for a pistol shoved into his waistband. Martin was too close, however, and the warrior was too injured so she quickly knelt and pulled the pistol from the Phel’s body before he could reach it.

  The man, if he could be called that, was about the same age as than the other. He returned her gaze, hatred barely winning out over pain for control of his expression. As she watched, his breathing grew more labored and he began to mumble in Phelian.

  “Sorry,” she said to the dying Phelian. She meant it, but only for not killing him instantly. Letting out a huff to clear her mind, Martin pushed the thought of the dying teenager from her mind and moved toward the exit of the maintenance area.

  Martin stepped into the corridor.

  Although the lighting was dim, she could make out several doors adjacent to the long passageway. Trying to get her bearings, she searched for a floor map or room listing on the wall, finally finding a floor map on the wall to her left. Pulling a light from her vest for a better view, she began running her finger over the map. “Medical…medical….medical,” she murmured as she read the faded Terillian script. “Gotcha,” she declared as her finger landed on the Terillian words for health and healing. The medical facility appeared to be down one level, almost directly underneath her current position. She moved her fingers up to the portion of the map for the floor she was on. Scanning to her left, she saw a stairway. “There we go,” she said as she turned off her light and began moving toward the direction of the stairs according to the map.

  Cautiously making her way down the corridor, questions filled Martin’s mind. Had the sound of the generator muted the gunshots? Would there be more warriors waiting for her? There had been a clear difference in the skill and age of the warriors she faced in the maintenance area compared to those outside. Were all of the senior warriors dead? Or were they out on patrol and just coming back to find someone in their home? Or was there a veteran Phelian waiting behind any one of these doors?

  ‘Focus, Emily,’ she thought to herself as she reached a door with a sign reading Passage to lower levels. “Screw it.”

  She threw the door open.

  Martin kept her rifle trained downward and to the right as she descended the stairs. Methodically moving down the steps, she realized her heart was pounding. She focused on her breathing to lower her respirations. “What the fuck?” she whispered to herself. She had been in combat before, so fear wasn’t getting to her. She’d known the first time a bullet whizzed past her head as a cadet on her first mission that combat was her calling.

  This was different. Stopping at the vestibule at the bottom of the stairway, she exhaled heavily. She racked her brain to figure out what was making
her so uneasy. Then it hit her like a boulder. She had always had a team with her in combat before. There had been someone to cover her back and provide support if needed. Now she was alone.

  “Damn you, Yates,” she cursed quietly, realizing the old bastard had been right the whole time. All those times she’d bitched about her men and wished that they wouldn’t hold her back…they sure would be useful right now.

  But that was for another day. Right now she was on her own and the meds that could save Jackson and others might just be a few meters away. Martin instinctively checked her ammo status on her rifle before she placed her hand on the latch for the door. She closed her eyes, inhaled and exhaled forcefully, and pushed the door open.

  ***

  A hail of gunfire forced Martin back into the vestibule.

  “Shit!” She pressed her hand against a grazing wound to her right arm. She tried to recall an image of the room, but it had happened to too fast. “Screw it,” she said aloud as she pulled a grenade from her vest and tossed it into passageway.

  The blast shook Martin to the bone, but she recovered and burst into the passageway, her rifle at the ready.

  She didn’t need her rifle; the grenade had done its job.

  The passageway had clearly been converted into makeshift living space. Clothing and other items hung from ropes running high on the walls. Martin saw several blankets and furs laid out along the walls, which were lined with barrels and container boxes. It might be warmer than the deadly cold outside, but the Phel were still living on the edge inside the abandoned outpost.

  In the center of the passageway lay another young Phelian, a rifle next to his mangled body. And he wasn’t alone. “Damn it,” cursed Martin as she looked at the body of an adolescent male and a young woman. She had seen bodies wrecked by explosions, bullets, and blades many times over, but most had been combatants. As she looked over the dead civilians, she felt an unnerving, unfamiliar growl in her stomach. She knew she was fighting for her life and the lives of her men, but now she was fighting teenagers and killing women and children. She looked away and closed her eyes, pushing away the sight of the dead in front of her with the images of her dead men in the shuttle, the deaths of Jolly and Blake, and finally that of Jackson possibly dying without enough medicine. “Focus,” she said, reopening her eyes and moving quickly past the deadly scene.

  Martin moved toward the medical facility. With each step she shifted her rifle from right to center and then left as she scanned behind each bin and container stacked between the makeshifts beds, that uneasy feeling still tying her stomach in knots.

  There were more beds than the number Phel she had seen so far. Were the others children, teenagers, or veteran warriors? No option made her stomach churn less than the other.

  Almost to the end of the corridor, she caught a flash of a shadow in the light underneath a door to her right. Martin positioned herself on the wall next to the door and pulled another grenade from her vest. She placed her right hand on the handle of the door, her opposite thumb rested under the arming lever of the grenade. Her grip tightened as she prepared to open the door.

  She paused.

  The thought of the dead civilians rushed into her consciousness again. With a frustrated grunt she released the door and reattached the grenade to her vest. ‘You’re an idiot,’ she thought to herself as she leaned back against the wall and squeezed her rifle tightly. After an anxious breath and a frustrated glance to the ceiling, she flung the door open and spun into the room.

  Peering down the barrel of her rifle, she saw a girl—no more than twelve—standing in the center of a small supply room with three smaller children huddled around her. Her finger still on the trigger, Martin’s gaze locked onto the girl. The young Phelian’s eyes were defiant, almost glowing with a bright yellow hue common to the Phel. Her long golden hair was oiled to a sheen and disappeared behind her back. Although the girl’s eyes screamed defiance, Martin could see the proud Phelian’s arms tremble as she pulled the smaller children closer.

  “Shit!” cursed Martin. What was she going to do with this?

  A flash of motion to her right caught Martin’s attention as a young male clumsily swung a sword toward her. Easily stepping out of the way of the attack, Martin knocked the boy to the ground with a kick to his side. “Don’t move!” she ordered as she pointed her rifle at the youth.

  Martin sensed more movement and turned to see the older girl had pulled a knife from her dress and was about to pounce.

  “Stop!” she yelled, swinging her rifle from toward the girl. The girl stopped but still gripped the knife.

  “Drop it!” ordered Martin as she motioned for the girl and those with her to move toward the boy on the ground. “Move!”

  The girl slowly began to move and Martin quickly positioned herself to cover both the girl and the boy while keeping the entrance in view. “Drop the knife!”

  Still holding the knife, the girl spoke. Martin could not understand her.

  “I guess it’s too much to ask that you would actually speak Humani,” grumbled Martin.

  “Uuu-man-ee,” mumbled the girl with a snarl before dropping the knife. As the sound of the blade hitting the ground echoed through the room, the girl punctuated her disdain by spitting at the ground in Martin’s direction.

  “You’re a feisty one,” replied Martin with a hint of respect. “If you—”

  Martin swung her rifle toward the door and fired as two warriors rushed through the door. The first warrior tumbled forward and fell but provided enough cover for the second to reach Martin. Martin toppled backwards as the warrior crashed into her. As she slid across the floor with the warrior on top of her, Martin pulled a knife from her vest and drove it toward the Phelian’s back. The warrior rolled quickly onto his side and blocked Martin’s attack. Her opponent shifted his weight before delivering a powerful blow to her jaw.

  Shaken but still in the fight, she wrapped her left arm behind the Phelian’s shoulder and then forced it under his chin. With her right hand she grasped her opponent’s outstretched arm as she pushed her body outward. Once she was out from under the Phelian, she pulled upward on her opponent’s arm until the resistance gave way with the sound of ligaments snapping.

  Now on top of the Phelian’s back, Martin pulled her pistol from her vest and pressed against the back of her opponent’s head. Her finger slid into the trigger guard and—

  Martin let out a groan as pain exploded through her back.

  Instinctively, she turned and fired her weapon at her attacker before shifting back to the warrior underneath her, placing the barrel against the back of his head and firing.

  As the shot echoed through the room, Martin rolled off the warrior’s body and looked back across the room. The three youngest Phel were huddled in the far corner of the room. In front of them stood the boy, looking down on the lifeless body of the oldest girl.

  “Fuck!” grunted Martin as the pain in her back and the frustration of killing the young girl washed over her. Martin’s stomach tightened as she looked at vacant stare of the girl’s now-faded yellow eyes.

  Then her attention shifted back to the boy.

  “No!” she shouted as he reached for one of dead Phelian’s rifles.

  The boy ignored her and grabbed the rifle, raising it toward her.

  Another shot rang out from Martin’s pistol.

  As the boy fell to the ground, Martin let out a howl and threw her pistol across the room. Rolling onto her hands and knees, her stomach contracted and her body spasmed as what little food was in her stomach exited forcefully onto the floor.

  This wasn’t what warfare was supposed to be.

  Panting, Martin wiped her mouth and stood. Her stomach still clenched like a fist, she took in a deep breath. The pain in her back from the knife wound paled in comparison to the aching of her chest as she looked on the dead boy and girl.

  “The mission,” she said aloud to refocus as she picked up her rifle. The mission drove everything, a
nd the Phel, even the boy and girl, were not only in the way of that mission but would have killed her if she hadn’t stopped them. She looked down at the girl, blood pooling from the hole in her neck. Her mind told her she had done what was necessary, but that didn’t relieve the pain in her gut.

  Martin shook her head, realizing she had been staring at the girl. “Move,” she said to herself, reluctantly stepping over the girl’s body toward the door. In the few steps between the dead youth and the exit, the disgust that hung over her suddenly transitioned to a spark and then an inferno of rage. She had to complete the mission—and the mission was just. If the Phel hadn’t turned on the Humani in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. And she wouldn’t be on this damn planet if it wasn’t for the Terillians. She knew it was her mind finding a way to justify what she had just done, but she welcomed the rage; she was used to that emotion.

  Martin jutted her head into the passageway to ensure it was clear before stepping into the corridor and closing the door she wished she’d never opened.

  Staying on the alert, Martin quickly made her way to the doors leading to the medical bay. She felt her stomach tighten. ‘You have to do this,’ she thought to herself as a rush of doubt hit her. Taking another breath, she let two verses of the Elite Guard Oath echo in her head: ‘I will go close against the enemy, for my will is stronger than his. I will show courage, for it is the one possession that cannot be taken.’’

  The knot in her stomach began to loosen as the words of the Oath reinvigorated her. Martin gave the door a shove and stepped into darkness.

  Martin flipped the switch on her rifle and the attached light illuminated her line of fire as she scanned what looked like a sick call waiting room. Long neglected, her light shown on a light cloud of dust hanging in the musty air.

  In the far left corner she saw another door and moved toward it.

  Reaching the door, she ran her hand over a dust-covered sign. “Treatment,” she whispered as she translated the Terillian script. Opening the door, the light from her rifle shined down another hallway. ‘More fucking doors,’ she thought, shaking her head.