Cold Planet: A Gateway Universe Story Read online

  Martin checked each door as she slowly traversed the hallway. Midway through the galley of rooms, she saw a door with flashes of flickering light visible underneath the gap with the floor. She closed her eyes and breathed a breath of relief as she read the sign—medicine and treatment storage. A blow from the butt of her rifle broke the lock free and she opened the door.

  “Yes,” she declared as she saw shelves stacked with medical supplies.

  She grabbed one box and read the Terillian: Injectors—Pain Reducing. “Must be neuro-meds.” Shoving the box into a pocket on her trousers, she searched for her real goal, the filtered nanocells and erythrocyte regeneration meds needed for Jackson. She cursed as she shuffled through the boxes, dropping the ones she didn’t need onto the ground. Her heart began to beat quicker and she felt her stomach clench. “It has to be here.”

  She held another box up to her face: 1-4-ETHOXY-3-6-7-DIHYDRO—“What is this shit?” she said aloud, having no idea what the medicine she was holding was. She tossed the box to the ground with a grunt. “Something’s gotta go—Yes!” she declared as her eyes locked on three small boxes marked Lancecat Antidote. She shoved the boxes into her vest and pockets. Finally, she opened a box labeled Clotting Gel and coated the wound on her upper back. Despite the exhaustion and emotion of the last twenty-four hours, a burst of energy rushed over Martin. “Time to get the hell out of here,” she said out loud as she turned and rushed out of the medical bay.

  She sprinted down the corridor, slowing as she passed the room where she had killed the young Phelians. She looked toward the source of her future nightmares. She had done her duty, but she would never feel proud about had happened in that room—never. With a grunt, she turned away and moved toward the stairway to the upper level.

  After leaving the lower level, Martin was able to focus more clearly; the thought of getting the meds to her men now consumed her thoughts. As the she opened the door to the main floor she turned left toward the exit.

  Then she stopped.

  Slowly turning back to her right, she saw a room marked Aux Comms. In her rush to get to the medical area, she’d missed the room adjacent to the stairway. Maybe there was some comms gear Sellers could use.

  Martin opened the door to a cramped, dark room. The tiny compartment was dank and dusty; she could taste the bitter metallic particles of rust in the air. Crammed into the room on the wall opposite of the door was a communications panel and three monitors. “Son of a bitch,” declared Martin when she saw what could only be an encryption box for electron spin communications. And its power available light was illuminated behind a dirty cover.

  Slinging her rifle over her shoulder, Martin brushed two empty plastic containers and a food pack from the controls. Then, after taking in a deep breath, she exhaled heavily, blowing decades of dust from the panel. “There’s no way this thing still work,” she said as she rubbed more grime from the central monitor. “But here goes nothing.” She pressed the master power button. The monitor illuminated with a light yellow hue.

  Select communications mode flashed at the top of the screen with open, encryp, and ES encryp below.

  “No shit,” said Martin as she selected ES encryp.

  Still shocked at finding an electron spin communications panel in working order, she scanned the touchscreen for the right controls. If this worked she could send a direct, almost instantaneous, message to Mt. Castra—that is, if she could figure out the panel, if the Terillian gear could be configured to Humani encryption and unit codes, and if there was enough power in the old generator powering the outpost. Martin pressed the comms menu and the following displayed:

  ORIGINATOR: BADGER 27

  ADDRESSEE:

  STATUS:

  MESSAGE:

  To her left she saw a scroll down titled Reconfig.

  After a glance over her shoulder to make sure it was still clear, Martin hit the application and the words new originator, reset, change valance pattern appeared.

  She selected the last option and then punched in the Humani sequence of electron shells used to change the spin of certain electrons in which the message would be encrypted. Next, she selected new originator and BADGER 27 to read BADGER 27-GOLF 2. Martin began typing the details of her situation. Then she stopped.

  ‘What if I screw this up and it’s intercepted?’

  Deleting her message, she started over. First she typed the code for a Humani vessel lost in action. Then she needed a way to let her commander, Major Stone, know she was in command, meaning Jackson was either dead or wounded. Finally, she wanted to warn them of both the Terillians and the Phel. “Got it,” she said aloud as she punched in the final portion of the message and then read it back to herself.

  FALLEN EAGLE FALLEN EAGLE DRAXIUS*** GYM CHAMP OIC***CHARLIE MERCS***

  After reading it again, Martin nodded. “This probably won’t work anyway.”

  Pressing the Accept msg content application, her heart jumped when a large green Press to send light illuminated through a dusty cover on the panel.

  “Let this work,” said Martin as she pressed the button.

  The monitor flashed:

  Preparing to send…Reconfiguring valance Sequence…Encrypting message…Preparing burst package…Powering up pulse signal…Send in 3…2…1…Send.

  The room went dark.

  “Shit,” cursed Martin. The panel was dead, as was the lighting for the entire outpost. Apparently the power required to send the message had driven the generator off line. “Shit!” repeated Martin as she realized the complete loss of lighting would draw any other warriors to the maintenance area.

  “Stupid, stupid,” she berated herself as she sprinted down the passageway to the maintenance area. She’d bumbled her way through the entire outpost, and for good measure she had made sure every single Phel in the place knew something was wrong by trying to send a message she was pretty sure wouldn’t get out anyway.

  She blasted through the maintenance area, sure Phelian warriors were right behind her. Reaching the vestibule leading to the outside, she paused at the pile of furs she had left when she entered the outpost. She wouldn’t need those, not at her pace. Now that she had the meds, and probably Phel warriors in pursuit, it would be a dead run for the fifteen kilometers to the camp—

  The door behind her swung open, and a Phel warrior burst through with his sword in hand.

  Martin shifted her torso as the warrior drove his sword toward her chest. Grabbing the back of the Phelian’s hair and shirt, Martin slammed her opponent’s head into the opposite wall and drove him to his knees with a boot to the back of his leg. She reached over her shoulder, snatching her sword from its sheath. In one powerful motion, she withdrew the sword and brought it down against Phelian’s back.

  The motion of her body spun her into a second Phelian entering the door. Her focus centered on the muzzle of his rifle, only centimeters from her face. Raising her sword to redirect the muzzle just as the warrior pulled the trigger, pain blasted through her ear from the explosion of noise. She let out a grunt and drove a boot into his midsection. As the Phelian stumbled backwards, she stepped forward and laid her opponent’s chest open with her sword. The Phelian fell to the ground as Martin pulled the door to the maintenance area shut. “Damn it,” she cursed. More would be coming; it was time to go.

  Martin sheathed her sword and pulled a grenade from her vest. She deselected NORMAL MODE on the small touchscreen and pressed MOTION ACTIVED. She then selected 5 SEC to delay the motion sensor long enough for her to get clear before arming. Pulling the pin, she placed the grenade on the floor, released the arming lever, and rushed out of the vestibule.

  The cold air stung her lungs instantly. Pushing on, she cleared the tundra and rushed into the swampy forest as the muffled sound of an explosion from the Phel outpost caught her ears.

  Chapter 11

  Martin stopped to quickly check her position on the navigation pad attached to her vest. “Five klicks left,” she said with a slight p
ant.

  Then the cold hit her. Her muscles tightened and she could feel an icy burn over her body as the sweat on her skin began to freeze. “Shit,” she cursed, taking in a cold, painful breath. She needed to move.

  But she paused. Something was wrong.

  Martin slid her rifle off her shoulder and turned toward the direction from which she had been running. She dropped to one knee, peering into the darkness of the swamp. As the mist rose from her breathing and her muscles began to shiver from the cold, she slid her finger inside the guard of her rifle.

  A flash of metal sparkled in the moonlight and she fired. Her rifle recoiled as the onrushing Phelian toppled to the icy ground. Muzzle flashes erupted from the frigid darkness as bullets flew all around her. Through the wave of gunfire, Martin shifted her aim to the location of one of the flashes and fired again, then at another.

  Her body jerked and twisted to the left as a round tore into the flesh of her left shoulder. Losing her grip on her rifle, she grabbed her pistol and spun onto her back and fired, forcing a Phelian a few meters away to dive behind a felled tree. Grunting from the pain in her shoulder she shifted her field of fire to her right to—

  Martin spun back to her left just as a Phelian warrior crashed into her. Her head bounced off the frozen ground, dazing her. Feeling the weight of the enemy on her torso, Martin looked up to see the Phelian warrior raise his sword above his head.

  A massive flash of brown and black filled her view as the weight disappeared from her chest.

  Martin rolled onto her side to see the war dog Daemon sink its powerful teeth into the Phelian’s neck. Rising to one knee, she quickly scanned for more targets. The crack of a frozen branch drew her attention and she turned toward the noise.

  “Hold fire!” came a familiar voice from the darkness.

  “Shara?” replied Martin.

  “LT?”

  Martin’s body relaxed as she let hours of tension flow out of her in a long exhale. “Yes. Who’s with you?”

  “Just me…and Daemon,” he added as Martin felt the weight of the war dog rub against her body. “And I’m glad I found you.”

  “So am I,” replied Martin, looking over the bodies littering the moonlit swamp. “I’ve got the meds for the captain…we should get back.”

  “They’re gone, LT.”

  “Gone? What are you talking about?”

  “Ters, Ma’am. They must have hit the camp while we were out. The place was a wreck.”

  The weight of the emotion that had just left her body again landed on her shoulders like a boulder. “No survivors?” she asked, her heart sinking. But she knew the answer—Guardsmen did not surrender. But maybe some had escaped.

  “Maybe,” replied Shara. “Our dead were left on the field, but I couldn’t account for everyone.”

  “Who?” asked Martin, her emotions almost boiling over.

  “I didn’t see Sergeant Yates and Boles or Young, Rose, Daniel, or Sellers.”

  “The captain?” she asked, her heart frozen.

  “I don’t know, Ma’am. The tent he was in was burning. I couldn’t tell. I don’t know about him or Lieutenant Varus.”

  ‘Fucking Varus,’ she thought. She knew he would have been useless in the fight for the camp.

  “Daemon picked up a scent so maybe some were taken prisoner,” added Shara. “But I thought I should try to find you before going after them.”

  ‘Maybe a few more are still alive. Maybe Jackson is still alive,’ she thought. “Then w-we sh-should—” She was having trouble forming her sentences as the shivering and spasming of her muscles from the cold became more intense. “W-we—” She felt her knees buckle and collapsed to the frozen ground.

  “Are you okay, LT?” asked Shara as he supported her

  “I-I’m f-fine,” she said, her teeth chattering. “J-just—”

  “Shut up, LT,” interrupted Shara as he applied coagulate to her shoulder. “You’re freezing.” He stood and removed his combat vest. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

  “I-I’m good, Corporal,” said Martin, forcing herself to her feet again. “I’m not gonna leave you without any gear, it wouldn’t be—”

  “You can court-martial me if we live through this,” interjected Shara as he unzipped his environmental gear. “But you’re gonna fucking die if you don’t get warmed up. And I’d rather not be the only Guardsman left on this piece of shit planet.”

  She knew Shara was right. The sweat from her run had begun to harden to ice on her skin and her lungs burned from the cold air. But she couldn’t take the protective gear from one of her men and leave him without.

  “Don’t worry about me, LT,” said Shara, almost as if he had read her mind. “I’ll just pull some furs off these Phel.”

  “I can just—”

  “Damn it, LT. I’ll be fine until we make it back to the camp and I’ll take a suit off one of... one of the others.” He paused, giving her a look of frustration. “So just stop being such an officer and take this suit so you’ll be ready to fight when you need to.”

  He was right. She hated it, but he was right.

  “Fine, Corporal,” she huffed.

  “Thanks,” said Shara as he tossed the suit toward Martin. “I half thought you were gonna be stubborn and freeze to death in front me.”

  “At least you wouldn’t have to deal with an officer,” said Martin, shoving her arms through the environmental suit. Her skin burned from the warmth enveloping her, but she welcomed it.

  “Officer or not,” said Shara, “I’ll be able to kill more Ters with you than without you. And I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to kill some fucking Ters.”

  “Then let’s get back to the camp, see what gear we can salvage, and go hunt some Ters,” replied Martin.

  The acrid smell of smoke filled Martin’s senses as they approached the camp. Hopefully there would be some sign that someone other than her and Shara survived. Her rifle at the ready, she carefully checked her footing with each slippery step as the temperature again began to turn warm. Her head filled with a flood of thoughts. Could she have prevented this from happening? Did some decision she made result in this? If Jackson or others were alive, did they escape or were they prisoners? Did the lancecat poison kill Jackson before the attack occurred?

  “You good, LT?” asked Shara over the short-range comms.

  “Fine,” answered Martin, shaking her head. Now, more than ever, doubt clouded her once unflappable resolve. ‘Get it together!’ echoed inside her head. “You come in from the left. I’ll go straight in.” Even if she doubted herself, she knew she couldn’t let Shara see it.

  “Moving in,” replied Shara.

  Breaking into the clearing, Martin saw Daemon circling the camp, looking for danger. Moving forward, she made her way to where the tents had been located. The warmth of the smoldering remnants of the tent where the wounded Jackson had been hours ago and the drip-drip-drip of the melting ice all around her reminded Martin it was time to remove the environmental gear. Removing her vest, Martin sensed movement behind her and spun around.

  It was the body of Private Mal. Frozen in the last contorted spasm of death, his lifeless body began to shift as the warm air unfroze the bodies around her. Turning in a slow circle, she saw the swamp vegetation began to sprout again as the bodies of other dead Guardsmen were released from their frozen deaths in a gruesome dance of flora and flesh. ‘They will pay, she thought to herself, the grotesque scene fueling the already hot fires of hatred for the Terillians.

  “It looks like the Ters hit from over there and from both flanks,” said Shara. “And then headed back the same way.”

  “I’m guessing at least a company.”

  “We should see if Daemon can pick up the scent again,” said Shara as he shoved an environmental suit into his pack. “The sooner we can get after them, the sooner we can—”

  “Make them pay,” finished Martin.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Rolling her suit onto th
e damp ground, Martin turned toward the Humani war dog sitting a few meters away from her. “Daemon, find scent. Jackson, Captain,” she ordered.

  The dog leapt forward and quickly began sniffing the ground around Martin. Moving toward the black, smoldering section of the ground where Jackson’s tent had once been, it began sniffing the air. After a powerful shake of its head, it returned to Martin and sat at her feet.

  “It’s not picking anything up,” said Shara.

  “I know,” said Martin quietly.

  “Maybe there’s too much smoke for him to pick up the captain’s scent,” added Shara.

  “Maybe.” Martin sighed, looking down toward the war dog. “Daemon, find scent. Yates, Sergeant.”

  The war dog ran to edge of the camp, walked in a small circle, and looked back toward Martin.

  “He’s got something,” said Shara.

  “Daemon, track scent—patrol mode,” ordered Martin, hopeful that Yates had survived and escaped.

  The massive dog bounded into the muddy swamp with Martin and Shara close behind.

  Daemon stayed on scent and the two Guardsmen trudged through the muck of the swampy forest in search of their comrades. After two hours of tracking, the two came across a raised road in the swamp.

  “Daemon, stop,” said Martin into her short-range comms and the war dog, linked to the comms with his embedded AI interface, turned to face her. Martin turned toward Shara and signaled for him to cover her. “Daemon, come,” she said as she began to move toward the road.

  With the war dog by her side, Martin soon climbed up the small embankment supporting the road. The road, rising about a meter above the swamp, cut a swath through the tall evergreens dotting the swamp. The ferns and grass that had grown tall on the road were laid flat in circular patterns as far as she could see. “Hover craft,” she said aloud.

  Daemon began to whimper slightly, its ears tight and alert but its tail wagging.