January 14th, 2040

0946 Hours SET
A concerned face peering down at me. My eyes slowly focus again, I feel like I’ve slept for a week. The back of my head aches, and the room feels like it’s spinning gently around me.
“Rebecca?” The face speaks. A woman, with two hollow red crosses on her collar. “Can you hear me?” I open my mouth to try and speak, but the only sound is a rasp. My mouth feels as dry as a bone. “Just nod.” I do so carefully, using muscles that feel badly unused. “Ok, take it slow. You’ve been out for nearly a hundred and twenty days. You’re in free fall, so things may feel a little strange. I’m going to sit you up now ok?” I nod again and she moves out of my vision. My body shifts, and the bed moves me into a sitting position. My hands and feet are bound loosely to stop me floating. I’m wearing a light-blue sleeveless one-piece that’s in a far better condition that what I normally wear. The room is a featureless white cube. The woman moves back to where I can see her, then unbinds one of my hands. “Put your hand on the top of your head,” she commands, “then run it slowly down the back of your neck. Don’t be surprised.” I follow her instructions, running my fingers through my centimetre long hair and my fingers touch on metal, seemingly embedded into the back of my skull. I start, and only the binds prevent me from shooting upwards in surprise.
“What is it?” I ask in alarm.
“Your neural implant.” she cuts off my impeding question, “You will learn how to use it soon, but for now, how do you like your new body?” I look down.
“Looks the same as always.”
“It should. There’s a couple of differences inside. Your cardiovascular system has been replaced, you only need to breathe about once a minute normally now, although you could hold your breath for ten if you needed to. Your heart is still there, but stronger.” I tentatively place my hand against my chest, my heartbeat is slow, much slower than normal, and each beat feels like a hammer against my ribs. “Your arteries and veins are now lined with a thin musculature, which can pump blood without the aid of your heart, or seal off areas of your body. The natural layer of fat under your skin has been replaced with a polymer, which acts as both insulation and armour. Your muscles have been boosted, but you will have to exercise before you get anything out of them. The last thing we did was insert a small change into your DNA, your bones are slowly being converted to a alloy of calcium, tungsten, zinc, aluminium, and titanium, which you will need mineral supplements for.”
I don’t even understand half of what she is saying, the terms are beyond me, so I just nod.
“Ok, your new CO be here shortly.” She leaves, the metal hatch clanging behind her. I look round the room, not much here. I finger the metal strip in the back of my head. I can feel what may be connectors, but until I know how to use it, it’s worthless. My ankles and wrist are bound by simple plastic thumb locks, I unclick my other wrist and then bend over to reach my ankles. Just as I unclick them the door opens again. I look upwards, and without gravity to hold me down, slowly float upwards to touch lightly touch the ceiling. A man… floating there, upside down to my perception. My stomach rebels and threatens to let go of it’s non-existent contents. Instead, I hold it down, and manage to get control of myself by clasping ahold of one of the loops set into the (wall?) ceiling.
“Who are you?”
“I am Sergeant Darrel. I will be your training officer. Are you aware of the changes that have been made to your body?” The man is wearing a similar blue one-piece to me, with a silver metal circle on his left collar. His face is that of a hard man, with little patience.
“Yes.”
“Yes, SIR. Do you know how to use your neural implant?”
“No. Sir.”
“Ok, we will start with that.”

February 23rd, 2040
1023 Hours SET
“This is the first stage of your high gravity combat training. We start at two and a half gee, eventually moving up to five gee. High gravity combat, is vastly different from normal, light or null gee combat that you may have experienced. You no longer have the luxury of a third dimension to move in, although your attacker may…” Darrel’s training ground voice drones on in the background and my mind starts to wander, and I let my eyes rove over the other members of my squad, faceless behind their mock spacesuits and polarised faceplates. Damn this thing is heavy! “… here your implants will… CHANG! Wake up!” I stiffen up, and he continues on from where he left off. I wonder how he knows when our attention starts to wander. It’s not like the heavily armoured suits are particularly flexible. “…there are several parts to this training, the combat simulation which we will place you in is a high gravity environment…” No shit. “…where we will split you into three groups. You will be equipped with combat lasers. These are exactly the same as the real thing, except the laser has been powered down. These are real combat suits, with all the equipment, including with an optical coating to sense enemy lasers. A warning, you will be operating in a vacuum environment, watch your step. These are the teams…”

The hydraulics in my legs momentarily seize from the simulated damage where a burst of friendly caught them earlier. I can feel the thump of footsteps as a tonne of suit and human trudges towards me. I press further back into alcove, knowing that the only way to avoid the suits sensors is to have a solid block of metal between them. A map is projected over my vision with locations of my team-mates and theoretical and known positions of the enemy team. We are currently simulating combat in a storage facility, by using one of the real storage facilities set out on the edge of the spinning station. Behind the approaching footsteps, at the other end of the facility, Cammey Mandella detaches the scope from her rifle, and looks around the corner with it. He passes the feed to us, and the computer highlights three armoured figures, moving carefully down the corridor, stepping in time, and covering all angles. I drop the feed and note their position on the map. Across the corridor, Kirkpatrick indicates his setting for a sustained fire of twenty seconds. I silently affirm and set my rifle to single bursts. I have no idea what Mandella is doing. The map updates, the trio are passing our position.
~Mandella, are you in position?~ The virtual silence is deafening.
~Mandella, we need to move now!~ Nothing. I check the map for Mandella’s position – he’s dead – just as Kirkpatrick steps out to fire.
~Patrick! No!~
Too late. I thump out from the alcolve. Kirkpatrick is crouched by the opposite corner, trying to show as little target as possible. I turn all the stored energy into three shots. Training takes over, and the skeletal butt of the laser fits right into my shoulder as I crouch down, and smoothly drill the head of each of the trio with the laser for exactly 1.5 seconds. I feel four silent thumps as the suits remove power to the muscle enhancing motors and they slam into the decking with the high gravity. Kirkpatricks dot is red, and I move, without thinking, just running. There is six on each team, and three – no, five – of our – my – team down, versus three of theirs. I rechannel the energy for the laser, reducing the three shots to one, with an almost instant cutting time. The down-side is the recharge time for capacitors will be almost half a minute. Thinking quickly. I back track, and remove the heavy capacitor pack from his rifle. A quick charge, and I have two quick shots that should take down anything in less than tenth of a second each. I creep through the maze, rifle at the ready. I start to pad quietly up some stairs to the next level. About halfway up, I stop, something nagging at me. I slowly turn my head to the left, where I can just see over the floor of the next level. About seventy meters away, the remainder of the opposing team is slowly making their way down the corridor in the classic sweep pattern. Crouching, I move up several steps till I have a clear view of the trio. I take careful aim, and drop the one on the left to the floor. Predicably, the both move to the right. I flip the power pack out of the laser and in one smooth movement swap it for the one on my belt. Having had time to asses the situation, one of the enemy moves out, thinking that I have no energy left on the laser. I smile, draw a bead on his neck, and lightly touch the trigger. Nothing happens. I panic, and mash it again. Not knowing what else to do, I start to run, but a burst of laser fire across my legs makes me stumble fall. I crash to metal deck, sending reverberations that can be heard kilometres away. I try to get up, but the hydraulics give up after scant seconds, the implant quoting simulated ‘damage and fluid loss’. I hear the rapid thump of footsteps as someone runs up behind me. Damage reports run wild over my eyes, and everything goes black.
~You are dead.~
“Shit.”

February 23rd, 2040
1035 Hours SET
“That was the worst fucking exercise I have ever seen!” Sergeant Darrel stands in front of the assembled group of recruits in the training centre, hands on hips, doing an excellent impression of reactor about to go critical. A myriad of flatscreens and terminal displays on the wall chase shadows across his lean features. Behind him, an Earth of brutalised black continents fills the window. Most of us sport bruises and cuts from when we ‘died’. “Harrison, just what hell was your group doing?” Harrisons group, consisting of him, Decker, and Jacky were the surviving three I attempted to take on at the end. He had been the unlucky one to get shot.
“Sir, we were conducting a patterned patrol pattern.” Harrison’s nervousness is obvious as he stumbles over his words and repeats himself.
“Exactly. You were conducting a patterned patrol, a patrol with no rear defence, stumbling along in a big unprotected group, creating enough noise for a deaf robot on Pluto to track you, allowing to Chang to waltz up behind you and knock you off.” I grin momentarily and then regret it as Darrel starts on me.
“And just what sort of game did you think you playing at recruit?”
“Sir?”
“What the fuck did you think you were doing when you switched the powerpacks?”
“Sir, I was operating under the premise that the power packs would retain their charge, and that two charged power packs would give me twice the fire time.”
“You understand that for the purposes of this exercise, the powerpacks contain only a very small charge, to simulate, not cause, damage?”
“Yes sir, and I assumed that the charge would be held over, to simulate the normal effects of swapping a discharged power pack for a charged one.”
“You assumed wrong.”
“Sir.” I stare past him, out the window at the fire covered planet below.
“I don’t think I need to remind you about assuming.”
“No sir.” Never, ever assume, or you will make an ASS of U and ME. This has been drilled into us from day one.
“So why did you?”
“Sir, I took a chance against odds where normal tactics would have resulted in certain death with no damage or fatalities to the other side.” Darrel stares at me, daring me to go on. I don’t and bite my swollen lip. My shins hurt like hell. After a few moments he steps back and dismisses the rest of the squad. Wearily they trudge off to the showers. Cammey Mandella throws me a sympathetic half-smile and then disappears around the corner. Sergeant Darrel relaxes, his face softens and he pulls a chair off the stack.
“At ease, Chang, and sit down, you look like you could use a rest.” I do so warily, and the chair creaks under me. “That was a nice piece of work there. Quite brilliant.” He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offers me one. I accept gratefully one and light it with a quick burst from the plasma cutting tool built into my left wrist unit. I breathe the smoke into my lungs gratefully and Darrel lets me enjoy the feel of nicotine entering my system. “Do you know what we’re fighting for Chang?” He stands before the window, eyes unfocused.
“Sir?”
“What are training for Chang? We do you submit to fourteen hours a day of hard physical and mental labour, knowing that it’s not enough, and that you’re just another pawn.”
“Pawn?”
“Pawn. You know, like in… Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know.” I stay silent, reluctant to let my lack of knowledge show anymore. “You may have noticed, but Earth is a dump. Above ground, we have a higher ambient radiation level than you find in space. Resources, well, we grind away for them, at the cost of too many lives. Life is cheap, but at the same time, we struggle to clone and breed enough people, not to mention the problems of holding up a large enough gene pool. So why do we bother Chang? We do we go on fighting against all the odds?”
“Maybe…” I stop myself again.
“Go on.”
“Maybe we don’t know when we can’t go on, maybe we’re just to stupid to know when to give up.” I pause. “Sir.” He looks at me, surprised.
“You’re probably right.” He turns back to the window and flicks his hand backwards at me. “Dismissed.”

Febuary 24th, 2040
0100 Hours SET
I can’t sleep. When I first arrived, I stayed awake until sheer exhaustion drove me to unconsciousness. It’s the gravity, or rather, the lack thereof. There’s nothing to hold you down. My body may handle floating around with nothing to hold onto when I’m awake, but when sleeping my mind losses it’s grip and leaves me falling perpetually through the blackness. The net that hold you against the wall don’t help, your mind still screams for a sense of ‘down’. The medics tell me it’s nothing to worry about, that it’s perfectly normal. What do I know? The lights are dim now. They never turn them off. A light that’s off is something, and if one thing isn’t working, who knows what else might not be. I can’t even close my eyes, or I might fall asleep, and I know my bodies will react to the lack of feeling and I’ll vomit. No fun in free fall. The neural implant provides some respite from boredom. When I had the surgery, I also had the lens of my eyes replaced. These are hooked up to the neural implant on the back of my neck, and I can bring up anything I want, pictures and text overlaying the real world. Unfortunately, I can only access these when I’m connected to the network, and the access for most things is blocked for recruits when we’re supposed to be asleep. Don’t know why, most of us fall asleep instantly, trying to catch enough shut-eye between now and the next round of abuse. I did discover that I can copy files into my implant, and read them later. It helps, but doesn’t go far enough. I have many files. All kinds of junk in there, most of it unread. I have a file on file on Darrel, but it’s sparse in the extreme. Basic stats, current posting, and a photo. He is younger than me, only four years old. But he’s a clone, with an implanted memory. I was born the old way, raised the hard way. Needles pushed into my skull. This you will learn. What sort of normal child understands advanced mathematics at three weeks? What is a normal child? I don’t know. Not strong enough to build or mine, so let’s program computers and operate nuclear reactors for twelve years while we grow up. This you will learn. This is what you will do. These are your ethics. What happens to those who slip through the cracks? I don’t know. I don’t know! There are so many thing I don’t know, and the computers only tell you so much. Is that because they can’t? Or won’t? I slip out of my sleeping net and wander out into the twilight of the station.

The mess hall is empty. A huge cavern of steel and plastic devoid of life. I sit by the window, staring out at the slowly rotating starscape, mechanically eating the cold half-stale pap that passes for food. I can see the Earth down there, the yellow and grey continents and black seas. This is what I’m trying to save? This is what I’m fighting for? Of course it is. I’ve never seen anything else. The planet rotates out of view again, and I stare out at the stars. Somewhere out there, is where the Kadreli came from. Coming to destroy what remains of our civilisation, and that is what I am fighting. Eventually, knowing I can’t go back to sleep in my ‘net, I curl up in a corner for a few hours, setting my implant to wake me at half five.

September 9th, 2040
2157 Hours SET
It’s nearly a year since that fateful day when John Hayes appeared out of the blue and sent me away. I’ve forgotten what he looked like. I know that Darrel looks like him, but I haven’t seen Darrel since our squad, eventually cut down to fifteen people, left Earth orbit and the personal combat school in July to land on our squadron base in the asteroids. We are the 9th Squadron of the 7th Legion. Whatever that means. Our designation is still “In Training”, we haven’t yet been allowed to unlock any of the craft beyond the yellow JTC training scouts. Built like a brick of concrete, and with shields for the sole purpose of saving people who enjoy smashing into asteroids. I’ve mastered the JTCs, and I’m getting a serious amount of time in the simulators. Karby – the Wing Commander we picked up just before we headed here – has high hopes for us. Or at least, I think he does. It’s impossible to see behind that mask he calls a face. The only records I bring up on him indicate that he’s led four squadrons before, each on a tour of two years. Eight years of fighting. Eight years of killing and watching people die. Something to think about.

December 25th, 2040
0700 Hours SET
I wake, A message blinking in my eyes. Seconds pass as my brain moves out of sleep and focuses on the green text.
~Suit up for boarding. Now. -Karby~

I rip open the sleep-net and ricochet off the walls as I bounce towards the shuttle bay, pulling on a combat suit as I go. More green text floods across my vision, detailing the mission and checklists. Sensors have picked up the beginnings of a Kadreli base about a thousand klicks away. The only craft there is a low-tech transport that’s already being broken down for parts. We scramble into the shuttle, magnetic boots sending reverberating clangs through the ship. I slip into my pod, rechecking my gear and armour. The air is sucked out of the ship, and the pods slam shut, protecting their fragile human contents behind titanium and iridium shells. Messages flow down my eyes, endless chatter. Karby commands for silence and everything stops.

One of the most frightening things is preparing for a drop from a stealth shuttle. Every energy discharge is kept to a minimum. There is no sound and no light. If you were hit, you might never know until the pod’s armour was ripped away. In theory, The instant something goes wrong, you know. Lying here, not knowing what’s happening, feeling nothing except from the gentle pushing and pulling of the shuttle – no inertial dampening here – the fear quickly sets in. If a system malfunctions, you could drift for hours. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen. A seemingly eternity later, Karby’s voice fills my suit. I feel the pod rotate and move round for launch. Three seconds flight time. There’s a sudden pressure on my chest, and then an instant later, the pod crashes into something and locks on to it. The doors snap open and I push out into the cold void of space, weapon at the ready. Nothing. A brief command from Karby and we move, cold helium jets pushing us over the dead land-scape. Not a shred of resistance greets us as we land by the air-lock doors and attach the self-oxygenating explosive charge. We retreat, and the charge detonates. Three seconds later and I’m through, my implant cataloguing threats as they appear. Friendlies in green, threats in red. My weapon flicks out and I pull the trigger without hesitation, sending 25mm explosive shells through the light space suits of the Kadreli. A rank of them falls, bodies exploding in a cold vacuum. I push off to the opposite wall, hanging upside down from my previous position. The other do likewise, covering the two corridors that lead off.
~Activate you shoulder lasers. -Karby~
A Kadreli barrels through one of the openings, riding a pillar of fire into the massive cavern. Seven lasers reach out and turn it into a flying torch that explodes against the far wall. Peron screams as flames wash over her. Caleb thrusts towards her. Heedless of her screams, he bundles her through the ruined lock back to the shuttle. We pause for a second, then split into groups and jet down the tunnels.

Dooner holds up a hand, and we clang to a halt just before the turnoff of a T-junction. Dooner readies himself, then leaps across the gap. Something leaps out of the gap, exploding against his chest, bouncing him off walls, down the passage, coming to an untidy stop 50 meters away.
“Dooner!” No response. “Dooner, fuck it, are you ok?” I see movement, and he gives me a thumbs-up. Harrison pulls the launcher off his back, and proceeds to bounce grenades down the junction. Dooner does the same from his side. We run away, boots clanging.
~Detonate~
A series of explosions rocks the base and we crawl back to the junction. Inside the room, the walls are splattered with the thick red blood of Kadreli. A decapitated helmet floats past, it’s insides a mass of scorched flesh and bone.

December 27th, 2040
0824 Hours SET
My craft glides through the asteroids, the occasional burst of plasma guiding it out of the way of an errant rock. I have no control right now, the craft is flying itself. I sit in the middle of a cocoon of metal, shielded by a few meters of steel and titanium and magnetic fields from the plasma fire behind me. The main drive is silent, and cold, the main burst of speed provided by one of the giant magnetic catapults inside our base. It’s dark in here, the backup screens black, everything projected into my eyes by the machine on the back of my neck. I twist my neck or move my eyes, and I see the view from outside the ship, with all the spectrum. Everything from inferred to microwave. The craft is an oval cylinder. Ten meters long and three meters in diameter. This one is a medium scout craft. Two missile racks and four lasers. Scant protection against anything large. Our mission, is to hold off a Kadreli assault long enough for the rest of the squad to launch in the heavy fighters. And they are out there. Somewhere among the millions of asteroids is a squadron of Kadreli fighters, searching for us, just as we search for them. The deep space network doesn’t work too well here, the millions of tumbling rocks hiding the tiny energy flares that would make a ship in deep space. Ten kilometres away on either side are two other identical ships, piloted by Mandella and Harrison. We are silent, not for logistic reasons, the split-photon communication system is instant and undetectable. But because we have nothing to say. My hands grasp the two joysticks, unwrapping and rewrapping my fingers around them. They are the only physical controls I have – barring significant damage. Everything else is handled through the implant. Green letters roll across my eyes.
‘Anomaly found. Auto-pilot off?’
~Yes~
I take the controls and gently take the craft up and over the anomaly indicated. Mandella and Harrison split off, and we describe a circle round the anomally, our crafts directing all of its sensors towards the anomaly. Wire outlines of the enemy are projected over the starscape on my eyes. A dozen fighters surrounding four larger support craft. Half-way round the third cycle, my craft rocks gently, as if a thruster misfired. A shudder racks the craft, spinning off course. Instantly the computers respond, scanning nearby space, and running diagnostics across my eyes.
“I’m under attack!” I yell into the com.
“They’re launching.! We’ve been seen!” Harrisons voice is strangled, under pressure.
“Light main engines!” Every voice is screaming, as if the power of our voice would drive the menace away. My starboard has been raked by fire. A few thrusters gone, a senor array, and one of the lasers destroyed.
“Shields up.” Harrison is calm now. A purple glow surrounds his ship, and I watch ripples appear on it as it vaporises the smaller asteroids.
“Damage status?” requests Mandella.
“One laser, some thrusters and sensors. No Internal or structural damage.”
“We are launched.” Says Karby’s voice in my ear. “ETA one minute, twelve seconds.”
“Acknowledged.” Our voices are taking on the robotic quality that William and I used in the mine. Just before he died.
“Form on my wing. 500 meters.” I command. Mandella banks around, her main drive searing a smaller asteroid in half. I request a rear view, and half of my vision splits into a view of just above my drive. I can see tiny dots of light converging in on our tail. Four fighters. The ship informs me that they are better armed, faster, but less armoured.
~Drop all power to shields and drive.~ The display of power for my guns disappear.
“Chang? What are you doing?”
“I’m bait, when we go round that large asteroid, I want you to split off and circle behind them. Hit one each with a missile, and the other with guns.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Altitude asteroid fifty meters.”
“What?”
“Do it!” I growl, “I need to leave a package.” As we fly over, I twitch my left hand, and the craft rotates. A command to my implant, and my port sensor array detaches, dropping slowly towards the surface of the asteroid. We barrel around the side of the asteroid, the dropped sensor cluster alerting me when the enemy fighters fly over. Seven of them.
“Split!” I command, and their oval-shaped craft flip away over the barren rockscape. “We have seven bogies, hit two with missiles, and one with guns, the last ones mine.”
I power straight round the asteroid, dodging the craters and toggling open my missile racks.
‘Racks inoperative.’
Shit.
I’m almost upon them, the flares of Harrison and Mandella’s weapons sparkling in the starlight. four of the craft explode, then five. They both lock on to the sixth one, taking it up into a whirling dog fight, away from the asteroid. The fifth one is pulling into a climb, and I’m about to hit him, without weapons. In desperation I flip the ship over, dropping all power into the aft shields and main drive. The white hot lance of energy from my main drive slices through the enemy ship like a knife through hot butter, my shield awash with waves from pieces of the carved enemy fighter.
Mandella screams she has damage, just as Harrison screams he has scored the kill, their voices mingling in my ears like some primitive war cry.
“Scout group. Return to base.” Karby’s voice rings in my ears.

December 27th, 2040
2337 Hours SET
My darkened room slowly rotates around me as I float in the centre, cross-legged, a portable terminal in my lap. I could use my implant to scroll it across my eyes, but the terminal is less intrusive. I read Karby’s report on the terminal.

‘Well done. In the past three days of combat, we have destroyed the Kadreli’s attempts to establish a base here and defended against their retaliation, with minor damages and the loss of only one squad member.’

I look up for a moment, tears brimming in my eyes. Before, people meant nothing to me. One more or one less, I didn’t form the bonds necessary for a life to mean anything to me. Now… Peron is dead. I went out on my own on a shuttle to get her, engines going full blast and to hell with detection. I literally rammed a hole in side of the Kadreli ship to get to her. She had been hit by a explosive shell, which had bypassed the armour and bio-modded skin as if it wasn’t there, exploding inside her and tearing the delicate organs to pieces. I don’t remember finding her, or bringing her back to the shuttle, or setting the auto-pilot. But I must have. All I can remember is her as she lay in my arms, choking on her blood.

I didn’t know Peron that well. In a world where most friendships are measured in days, or even hours, to know someone for close to a year becomes a dangerous luxery. So I try to avoid becoming close to even one other person. And yet, Peron meant enough to me that I risked my life for her. I go back to the report.

‘I am proud to say that you have all surpassed my expectations. In particular, Rebecca Chang, for her command skills and courage, and her successful rescue of the late Peron. For her efforts, I am promoting her to Flight Lieutenant, and baring a change in circumstances, she will take over from me when I leave in late March. Congratulations.’

A personal note from Karby is at the end of the file.

‘Chang. I wished to tell you that your rescue of Peron was not in vain. The sudden appearance of your transport caught several of the Kadreli by surprise, and gave both the boarding party and the pilots of the heavy fighters a chance, that without, several almost certainly would have died. In the event of failure on our part to capture the vessel, Peron would almost certainly have been captured and tortured. Although they may not know it, the rest of the squad are twice in debt to you. I am impressed with your cool-headed thinking during the skirmish between your scout group and the seven strong Kadreli squadron. Again, congratulations. A full briefing of your duties as Lieutenant, and later as Wing Commander will shortly be available to you.’

Oh. What do I say? Thanks? Fuck you very much? Excuse me while I crawl into a hole and scream?
I can’t say anything of course. I tap out a note of acceptance to Karby, and fall asleep in the sleep-net.

May 15th, 2041
1200 Hours SET
It has been a month since Karby left. For thirty days I have commanded, cajoled, bitched, moaned, screamed, and used every other method
possible to get the others to do mine, and my superior’s, bidding. It’s not something I’ve have done before. Up till now, I haven’t
commanded, I have just done. Karby’s notes were little help, other than being a starting point for references to other resources on the
network. I now know why Karby looked so tired. It wasn’t from the stress of combat, or watching people die. It was simply from keeping tabs
on everyone and everything. Check everything. Don’t rely on the ‘bots to check the water reclycers, send some down to look at it.
Endless reports back to Earth. Check that every person is getting on ok. Organize the patrol patterns. Remake the roster. Check the ore
factories. Train.

There’s was no doubt that the ‘bots, the automated systems, and my implant helped. When something started to look like it was going
critical, I’d have an alarm bell going off in my head and system read outs through my implants in nanoseconds. But I worked hard. Like
everyone else, I had to stay at combat fitness. Which meant four hours a day in the gym, and another two in the simulator. Minimum. At one
point, I got so buried in work that had I to have my implant remind me at mealtimes. For all the work, there is a upside. The base shines.
There’s not a fleck of rust, or crashed terminal in sight. I remember the underground bunkers where I used to live, and almost shudder in
disgust. The leaking pipes, the broken terminals, the rats, the half-cleaned toilets. I shake my head and turn back to the reports. There’s
two new recruits arriving in thirty six hours, to bring our numbers back up to twelve. Four of the original fifteen dead. Peron. Then Jacky
committed suicide. Caleb died when the fusion drive of his fighter blew up. The records revealed that the craft had been serviced by Kelly
McNellen three hours before he took it out, and that a full over-haul of the drive was due. We eventually found Kelly. Lying in the bowels
of the base, the walls painted red from where she had turned a recoiless cannon against herself.

It’s strange, but when someone dies, I no longer feel the pain anymore. I know why Karby was so discompassionate about Peron’s death. He had
seen it all before. Along with rank of command came the knowledge. The statistics speak for themselves. The average death rate for a
squadron of eleven plus the commander is 1.2 deaths per month.

I pull up the stats of the new recruits. One male, one female. Both sixteen years old. Three years younger than me. And since Caleb is
dead, that makes me the youngest. And yet commander. I shake off the feeling and turn back to the files of Qweb and Perol. Perol. Sounds a
lot like Peron, and looks similar. Perol probably is a clone, built from the same, or similar stock as Peron. I turn to Qweb. There’s a
strong resemblance between them, and I fancy he’s the male version of Perol. There’s nothing exciting there, just another couple of
personal files filled with details that probably they don’t even know about. It deserves perusal – at a later date. I flick off the
terminal, and curl up into a ball inside the sleep-net, falling asleep, instantly.

May 16th, 2041
1700 Hours SET
“Biko here.”
“Biko. This is Chang. At 1800 hours, we have two new recruits arriving. Their names are Perol and Qweb. Meet them in docking bay six, and
show them to their quarters, 3-B and 7-A.”
“Will do. Perol… Any relation to Peron?”
“I think so. Similar DNA profile. Keep them separated. I don’t want any funny business.”
“Acknowledged.” he closes the connection. I could have chosen to meet them, but Biko, at twenty three looks far more imposing than I do,
despite the pips on my collar. I’ll have to talk to them eventually of course, kick them into line. I make a note through my implant to
rearrange the squadron into quarters instead of thirds, to keep Qweb and Perol separate. It’s for their own good, of course. When, and not
if, one of them dies, the last thing I need is a bawling teenager who got to close. Was I ever that weak? I think of Peron, dying in my
arms. I remember me crying. Of course I was. I push those thoughts to the back of my mind and crawl back in to the bowels of the heavy
fighter. Damn port side sensor array keeps burning out.

June 21st, 2041
0200 Hours SET
Qweb slips into the chair in front of the desk, looking suitibly downcast. I ignore him, and continue working for a few moments, before
fixing him with a stare.
“Qweb.” I say, launching straight in, “I really don’t give a shit what you do with whom when you’re off duty, but when you are on duty,
your ass belongs to your commanding officer. Be that Biko, Dooner, or me.” He starts to speak and I cut him off. “I don’t care. Four times
now you have disrupted patrol patterns and caused unnecessary stress on the rest of the squad because you have been too busy screwing
someone. As a result, in twenty-four hours, you will board the next shuttle to Earth”
“What will happen then, sir?” he asks meekly.
“I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care. Now get the hell out of my sight.” He salutes, turns, and practically runs out of the cramped
office. Randy little bastard, I think to myself. A good enough pilot, but not enough to justify his shortcomings in other areas. I slide a
hand into a drawer and pull out a packet of cigarettes, lighting one with practiced movements. The smoke drifts around the office, and a
few moments later the air conditioner clicks up a few gears. I add a report of Qweb’s dismissal to the next batch of mail to Earth. A few
minutes later, a request for a high priority call from earth appears on my console. Reluctantly, I bring it up, more bad news no doubt.

Commodore Khallas appears on the screen, in crisp uniform.
“Wing Commander Chang, I hope I find you well?” I nod in reply, stifling a yawn. She raises an eyebrow in response, but does not comment on
it. “In what state of readiness is your squadron?”
“Everything is at 100%, except for one flight officer, who I intend to ship back to Earth within twenty-four hours.”
“Who? And why?”
I sigh, already anticipating her reaction. “Second Lieutenant Qweb is causing some major disruptions to patrol patterns and the smooth
running of this outpost. In a word, he’s a fucking nuisance. Literally.”
“Well, too bad. Cancel his flight. You will need all of your squadron. You are to take your base and put it in a 15,000 kilometre polar
orbit around mars. Further orders will be transmitted to you later.” I nod in reply. “Over and out.”
Her picture disappears from the screen and I’m left staring at the half-finished report. I sigh and delete the part about Qweb, and send
him a message to return to my office ASAP.

July 1st, 2041
1800 Hours SET
A malicious red ball of dust tipped with cold ice hangs in the air above the projector. I take a breath and step up to it.
“For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of the solar system, this is Mars.” Twelve faces watch me with amused expressions, waiting for the next piece of
wisdom. I touch a control and a solid blue dot appears on the southern ice cap. “We have a major base, Mars-South-Polar-One, here, with
transport routes extending out towards the equator along three kilometre deep tunnels to various hangers and warehouses.” Blinking dotted
lines appear in a like spider legs from the main base, and a red dot shows up close to one of them, roughly half-way between the pole and
the equator. “The Kadreli have discovered a rich mineral deposit here, which we are already mining from below. Satellite scans show a open-
pit mine in progress. Sat-scan shows twenty three large tracked vehicles of unknown type. There are twelve heavy tracked vehicles with that
perform the bulk of the mining operations. We think, but are no sure, that they are controlled by telemetry or AI routines. There are six
large wheeled combat vehicles. These carry turreted laser and solid shot weapons, as well as some sort of missile armament. The final
vehicle appears to be a Command & Control vehicles, with no obvious weaponry. The high radiation signature probably indicates a nuclear
fission reactor. Little short of a tac-nuke is going to disable them, so the only option is to capture them on foot. A platoon of tanks
from MSP-1 will take on the armoured vehicles while we capture the C&C vehicles. Another squadrons, experienced in atmosphere flight will
be flying cover.” I drone on, covering points of entry and expected resistance. I noticed a couple of them stifling yawns, and quietly
slipped a command through the implant node to up the drug levels until I finish. “…that’s it. The shuttle drops in 10.5 hours, go get
some sleep.”

July 2nd, 2041
0500 Hours SET
“Pods will release. in. thirty. seconds…” Eleven lives hanging in balance under my own. Can I handle this? I shake the feeling and do a
last minute check on the flight-path, the staccato computer droning in my ear. “… five. seconds, three, two, one, mark.” I feel nothing
as the pod jacks away from the shuttle, the movement imagined rather than felt. The fourteen pods hit the thin atmosphere, and now I feel
the pod juddering under me. “Entering. Fire zone. In. Thirty. Seconds. Landing. At. L.Z. Alpha. Bravo. Five. In. Three. Minutes. twelve.
seconds.” I watch the tac-display with bated-breath as we cross the red zone that marks the likely range of the Kadreli missiles. On the
other side of the circle, the display marks six fighters in a loose arrow formation also crossing the line, their velocity less than a
quarter of the pods. To the north, the platoon of tanks is engaged in lethal high speed ground war with the enemy combat vehicles. At a
third of the expected range, a flurry of missiles appear above the dozen mining vehicles and the 175 meter long C&C vehicle. The reality
takes a few seconds to make it’s way into my consciousness, and I mash the open channel ‘coms.
“All vehicles are armed! I repeat: All vehicles are armed!” The cluster of missiles reached the pods, and exploded, destroying three of
them, and causing light damage to all the others. I feel the pod rock again, twisting as debris crashes over it. On the screen, I watch the
icons of Cammey Mandella, Harrison and one of the equipment pods wink out. A second wave of missiles launch, and I watch in horror through
the external cameras as Kirkpatrick’s pod’s fails to manuver properly and swerves into Moores, ripping them apart. A split second later
Decker is gone, a missile slashing through his pod. Seven left.
“Landing in. Twenty. Five. Seconds.” the computer chimes through the carnage.
“Buckle up! We’re going in!” I watch as the land speeds up to meet us. The manoeuvring jets fire, and the pods swing round, seemingly
bearing straight for the C&C vehicle. Another equipment pod is destroyed as the stress of rapid declaration feeds on the damage already
done and tears it into a million twisted fragments. Metal screeches under stress as I change the flight plan in it’s final moments to put
us down on the other side of the C&C vehicle, away from the armed miners. The manoeuvring jets thunder once again, and I watch the ground come up to
meet us.
“Three. Two. One. Contact.” Silence settles for a half a second as the pods steady on the broken ground.
“Contact! Lets move!” The doors crash open and I dive out, half-expecting to die as soon as I hit the ground. I roll over the red-dusted
ground, sight the C&C vehicle and dive behind a large boulder for cover. “Squad! Check in!”
“Dooner, all ok.”
“Wilson, light damage.”
“Biko, no damage.”
“Perol, a hundred percent, range, 350 meters.”
“Eton here, no problems.”
“Prayah, systems green and wrong side of the C&C.” Seconds pass as I wait for Qwebs message.
“Qweb, report in!”
“I’m fucked, explosive damage, death in roughly thirty minutes.” His voice is practically emotionless. I start pumping drugs into his system
and barking orders. “Biko, Eton. Clear one of the pods and get Qweb in it. Send it off in a low polar orbit. Wilson, check the surviving
equipment pod. Prayah, sitrep?”
The mining vehicles are closing. I’m entering the rear port side air-lock.”
“Roger that, see if you can get to the lock on the other side, we’ll meet you there.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Perol, what is your position?”
“Fine, I’m moving in to join you now.” In the distance, I see a vague figure leaping across the hills. My heart skips a beat.
“Perol, stay down.”
“I’m fine, quit worrying…” In the dust, I can see the vague outline of several lasers stroking her figure. “Burning… laser…” I
watch helplessly as her oxygen tank ruptures and her figure explodes. Through the external mikes, I hear a brief rattle of thunder behind
me. I turn and watch a pod disappear over the horizon.
“The equipment is fucked.” Wilson’s words bully their way into my head. I curse under my breath. We’re reduced to the combat lasers
and the 25mm cannons with the limited ammunition we each carry.
“Dooner, Eton, Cover us.”
“You’re fucking crazy! We should abort…”
“Shut it, we’re going in.” I silently inject more drugs into everyone bloodstream, including my own. The airlock slides open, and Wilson
and Biko creep in.
“Opening inner door…”
“I see it, so don’t fucking shoot me when you come step through.” Prayah’s voice cuts across the ‘com. “I’m on your left.”
“Acknowledged… Is that you?”
“Yes! Hold your fucking fire!”
“Shut the chatter and take covering positions.” I break in before an argument broils over. “Ok, Dooner, Eton, it’s our turn.” The lock has
simple mechanical controls, and the pressure takes but a moment to rise to normal. I check the map on my implant, and motion to the left. “That way. Eton, you have point. Then me, Wilson, Dooner, Biko, and Harrison. Preyah, bring up the rear. Four meter spacings. Move!”
“There’s something wrong here…” mutters Wilson as we slip down the wide corridor.
“Such as what?” snarls Biko, his voice advertising his unease.
“The corridors are too wide and low, and the light is the wrong spectrum.”
“Wilson, what’s your point?”
“This vehicle isn’t made for Kadreli. This thing was built for humans.”
“Our orders….” I begin.
~Motion detected at 15 meters, 180 degrees~ Reflexes take over and I roll left into an alcove, whipping my weapon
upwards to cover the next intersection. “Take cover!” Everyone has already scattered, and a trio of laser aiming dots decorate the far
wall. “Turn those fucking things off!” Seconds pass by. I feel a drip of sweat finding it’s way down my back. A black shape flits across
the intersection, and I instinctively pull the trigger, sending a rain of fire onto the far wall. The metal sags under the combined impact of six guns, panels and struts shatter, sending shrapnel flying into corridor. “Hold your fire!” Electricity sparks from a dozen bared cables. Nothing. “Dooner, Prayah and Wilson! Take left! Biko and Eton go right! I roll across the right turn spraying laser fire down the corridor. Nothing but the burnt metal of a dead end.
“So what did we see?”
“Good ques…” I spot a blur of motion in the corner of my eye and dive round the corner, rolling across the floor and come up with both guns ready. Trapped. Everyone else is dead, the remains of their heads and bodies splattered against the far wall, bar Donner, who is rolling on the ground, clutching at the remains of his legs. I trigger a command to Dooners suit, and he falls unconscious. The external mics register a tiny ‘snip’ as the his suit amputates the injured legs, and sear the wound closed. Seconds pass, then minutes. Standoff.

My eyes slam open, How long had I drifted off for? A second? An hour? I flex my fingers around the handgrips and check the ammo counts. An icy chill grip my heart as my implant pops up two big flashing zeros. What the hell?
“Hello.” I whirl round, fingers jammed against the useless trigger. A man stands there wearing a grey one-piece and unforgiving smile. In his hand is a small pistol, with a barrel that looks big enough to park a spaceship in.

“Get up, step out of the suit, and put your hands behind your head.” the man tells me.
“Like hell.” I reach for the gun, and he fires. The rounds dig sizeable craters before I crush the gun in his hand. He screams in pain, then slumps to the floor as I backhand him with a massive gauntlet, snapping his neck.
The next round to be fired comes from behind, hitting my forearm and smashing it into a bloody pulp. I stare at the smoking remains of my arm, then slowly sink to the floor, clutching the bloody stump. I hear voices and footsteps as someone rushs up behind me. I don’t care, the pain is killing me, and nothing else seems to matter anymore. Someone unclips my helmet and connects something to my implant.
“Ok, got it, someone get her hand out of the way.” My muscles have stopped obeying me, and I can’t move.
“Go.” The ‘snip’ of internal surgical units is so much louder in my own suit. The scalpels take off my arm just above the elbow, and I see a white star of pain as the stump is cauterised. Oh god the pain… the pain! I want to run, and yet the pain keeps me on the ground, trying to curl around the pain which has become my entire universe. I feel the cool nick of a hypo-spray against my neck, and I lose any thoughts of trying anything. Someone reclasps my helmet on, and I’m hoisted up on to their shoulders. My body bounces around inside my suit as they jog down a corridor, turn, stop, and move again. Stop. Move. Seconds later I’m looking upwards at the red Martian sky, but I barely notice, my nerves jangle each time as the stump thumps against the surgical units and I just want the pain to stop.

…laughing as I look out to sea. Not the black water of now, but the deep blue of before. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and somewhere off in the distance I can hear children laughing. I lie back on my towel, and let the sun stroke me with it’s soft rays until I fall asleep…

…rain lashes against my face as I sprint through the school gates and over the playground. A flash of lightning lights up the buildings, before returning them to their grey undertones. I leap up the few stairs into the classroom, and a burst of thunder rattles the windows…

…tracking Elliott through the sights, leading, judging, firing, watching the paintball explode against his side. I snicker quietly and locate my next target…

July 4th, 2041
2312 Hours SET
Dim light floods in slips in through my half-opened lids. What happened? I remember at look down at my left arm. It’s suspended in a tank of liquid, weavers spinning the beginnings of muscle and tissues over the alloy bone structure.
“She’s awake.”
“It’s far too early. Put her out again.”
Voices, and then consciousness slips away.

…watching Ryan run through the incessant downpour to me. Wrapping his arms around me, his face lowering to mine upturned…”

“…take the opportunity to welcome our newest member of the team, Dr. Rebecca L. Chang.” Applause fills the small auditorium. I take a deep breath and step onto the small stage, over to the podium. I look out over the crowd, taking a few moment to gather my breath and smooth my suit…

“…serious repercussions for the future of life on the Earth’s surface. We recommend immediate dispersal into the underground bunkers…”

…Ryan lies in the bed of the medical section, his skin a pale yellow, the wounds taking over his body. Watching his breath getting shallower and shallower…

“…missiles with various payloads of nuclear, biological, and chemical warheads have struck the five continents, killing much of the population, we now have no choice but to cut off all contact with outside for the next…”

“…initiate the program for genetic manipulation and breeding of clones. All personal are required to give blood, skin, and egg or sperm samples…”

July 16th, 2041
0100 Hours SET
I struggle into consciousness, and immediately regret it. A migraine bangs away inside my head. I pull myself up, and cradle my head on my knees, wrapping myself into a ball. After a few moments, the pain passes and I cautiously look out into the world. I’m lying on a bed, wearing a pair of cotton short and a singlet. The air is warm enough that I only have a sheet covering me. The bed is a relatively simple affair, made of tubular steel, covered by a thin mattress. My left arm is now whole, the skin bright pink and unblemished where the medi-bots rewove skin, bone and muscle. The room is small, just large enough for a couple of beds, toilet, and basin. A quick inspection reveals a vent and light set into the ceiling with solid grills covering both of them. The door is locked. I sit back down on the bed with a sigh. Nothing here is familiar, design lines are slightly more curved, and colour means something more than a contrast or warning. Despite the aesthetics, it’s obvious I’m a prisoner.

After a few hours staring at the ceiling counting the number of tiles and depressions, some exercise, and more counting, the door opens to admit a man wearing strange clothing and long black hair tied behind his head carrying a portable terminal. He wears a pair of silver rings which seems to actually go through his left ear. He doesn’t seem to be wearing any rank insignia, and I don’t know which part of him to stare at first. He’s tall. Taller and bigger than most people I’ve ever met and his face is heavily creased. He briefly gazes at me with something akin to pity, and sits down on the edge of the other bed.
“So,” he begins. “What’s your name?”
“Rebecca Chang.” he nods and writes this down on the terminal.
“When were you born?”
“Second of February, Twenty-Twenty-Two.”
“So that would make you, what? Nineteen?”
“Yes.”
“Bit young to be toting a gun isn’t it?”
“Not really.” he gives me a look that says he clearly doesn’t believe me, but lets it go.
“So. Which of those bodies was your superior then?”
“None of them.”
“Really? So you were in command then?”
“Maybe.”
“That means yes. Who was your immediate superior?”
“I don’t think you need to know that.”
“I think I do.”
“That’s nice.” I stare him down, willing my eyes not to water.
“Who gave you your orders Chang?” He says, standing up. “You sure as hell didn’t decide to attack just because you were having a bad day. We had you monitored from the moment you moved orbit. You were synchronised with too many other groups. Now. Who ordered the attack?” I keep my silence. His fist comes out of nowhere, hitting me in the jaw and bashing my head against the wall behind me. My vision blurs, and he hits me again. I fall over, face down on the bed, clutching at the pain. The bone won’t break, and the bruise will fade in a few hours, but it still hurts like hell. He flips me over easily with one hand and kneels on me, his legs pinning my arms and shoulders. He wraps his large hands around my neck, choking me. “Who?” I try to talk, and he relents, relaxing his grip slightly.
“Commodore Khallas.” I gasp, not particularly wanting to die for not speaking someone’s name. He nods, gets off me and leaves abruptly, taking the dropped terminal with him.

The next week passed without incident. I was given three meals a day, rather than the two I was used to. Every couple of days, I would be provided with a clean sheet, a towel and change of clothes. Occasionally I would go over some of the files or play one of the simple games I had stored in the implant. Sometimes, in a fit of delusional unfitness, I would madly exercise, working out till my muscles refused to move and I fell to the floor, exhausted. Mostly I slept, catching up on the lost hours.

July 24th, 2041
1430 Hours SET
“…69…70…71…72…” As I pull myself up into my seventy-third situp the door opens and I sprawl back in surprise. The man who tortured Khallas’s name out of me stands in the doorway, looking down on me with a touch of amusement.
“Hi.” he says, without a touch of friendliness.
“Thought you’d forgotten me.”
“Hardly, but we’re in transit, and we’d rather talk with you somewhere with a few more… facilities.” I shrug. Whatever.
“Ok. So why are you here?”
“To deliver a package.” He turns and calls outside. “Bring him in.” A pair of gaurds bodily carry Donner in, gently lie him on the spare bunk, and leave. “Have fun.”
“Wait!” I say, trying to think of something, anything for contact with the outside world.
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
He stares at me for a few seconds, then shrugs. “Travis Craven.” He says, and is gone.

I sit cross legged on the other bed, chin resting in my hands, watching Dooner. His legs are still pink where the fresh skin created by the replacement process has yet to age and pigment. His once muscular body has turned thin, his breath shallow. A quick search of my limited personal files brings up no record of a Travis Craven and I quickly abandon any further investigation. An hour or so later Dooner finally breaks consciousness. His pale blue eyes crack open and he stares at the ceiling for a few moments before carefully pushing himself into a sitting position to look at me.
“Hi.” I smile wryly at him.
“What happened? I remember… shooting… and my legs… then nothing.” He looks down at the pink replacements with a cross between confusion and amusement.
“We’re prisoners.” I tell him. “I don’t know where we are. Nor who is holding us.”
“The Kadreli?”
“No. Humans.” Dooner looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m serious. You know what Wilson was saying in that vehicle? How it was made for humans? He was right.”
“We’ve been captured by hostile humans?” He stresses the last two words with disbelief.
“Yes.” Again the look. The door opens without a warning, and Travis walks in carrying a chair and a terminal. A figure in familiar battle armour enters behind him, carrying a familiar large calibre weapon. I note with a sinking heart that the safety is off, the laser sight on, and the semi-transparent 30 round magazine is full of low velocity hollow points. The old MAPW-17a may lack the sophistication of later models and only sport one magazine and barrel, but 25mm hollow-points will shred human tissue just as easy, not matter what gun fires them. The guard takes up position behind me. A second battlesuited carrying an unfamiliar long weapon stands guard in the doorway. Clearly they don’t want us to leave. I note the design of the weapon away for further research and turn my attention to Travis.
“You,” he says, setting up the chair and sitting down in front of Dooner, “What’s your name?” Dooner looks at me, and I nod.
“Dooner.”
“Just Dooner?”
“Yes.” Travis looks mildly surprised and notes something down on his terminal.
“What is your rank, serial number, squadron and positioning.”
“Serial number 03-03574125. Lieutenant in the 9th Squadron, 7th Legion. We were stationed on a base somewhere in the asteroids.”
I flinch at the last part involuntarily. Clearly Dooner hasn’t quite understood that despite their human appearance, these people are just as much the enemy as the Kadreli.
“Really? So you were in command of young Rebecca here then?” Dooner looks confused and I start to protest, but the guard behind quietly silences me with a massive gauntlet.
“No, she was my Wing Commander, I served under her.”
“Of course. My mistake. Where was the location of this asteroid base?”
“I don’t know, I was not trusted with that responsibility.”
“Wing Commander Chang? What was location of the asteroid base.”
“I don’t know.” I reply as honestly as possible. From my position on the bed, I close my eyes to hid the glint of the visual implants and scroll through files for anything pertaining to capture and detection of the critical ‘roid bases. The file runs, and everything on my eyes clears away instantly. I open my eyes and look at Travis. From his face it’s clear he doesn’t believe me. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“Really?” Without warning, he grabs Dooner off the bed, slams him face first into the wall and efficiently dislocates his shoulder.
“FUCK!” Dooner screams, gritting his teeth in pain.
“I will ask you one more time Chang. Where is the base?”
“I don’t know!” I yell at him, fighting against the iron grip of the guard behind me. Travis grabs Dooners flopping arm, and pulls and twists it. Dooner screams in agony, tears running down his face.
“Tell me, Chang, or I will rip both his arms off, and he won’t have the pleasure of having new ones attached. I close my eyes in despair, and the program responds instantly.

~Are you being interrogated for base co-ordinates?~
~Yes!~
The program obliges and I relay them to Travis, trying to make it sound like I’m reading them from memory.
~Legion War Council notified. In no way should any Legion attempt to board the station without proper authentication from an Vice Marshal Officer or higher past this date.~
I look at Travis, my mouth set in a hard line.
“Thank you.” He says sardonically. He relocates Dooners shoulder with a crunch, and they leave, the door slamming shut behind them. Dooner curls into a ball on the bed, whimpering quietly.

July 25th, 2041
0330 Hours SET
In the fuzziness of sleep, I try to turn over and fail. I try again, and this time, I can feel the cold steel around my wrists and ankles.
“Good morning Chang. Welcome to your own private hell.” Travis again. I clench my eyes shut, not wanting to see where I am. “Stop pissing round Chang, and look at me.” I reluctantly open my eyes and stare up at the smooth features of Travis Craven.
“What do you want?”
“Information, as always. And if you don’t give it freely, we can extract it.” I glare up at him, wishing to wrap my hands round his thick neck. “Now,” Travis smiles, as if at some silent joke. “What does the Earth Organisation want with Sol Corp?”
“I don’t know what your talking about.” I say in confused burst of honesty.
“Liar.” He reaches for something under the bed, and pure pain bursts through my nerve endings. I scream out in pain, my body arching without control against the manacles. After a few seconds that feels like hours it stops, and I fall limp against the table. Sweat drenches my body and clothes. “What is the current status of the Legion forces in orbit around Earth.”

Hours pass. More pain. Even more questions. Travis goes over many subjects, changing tack every few minutes. Silence brings pain, Not knowing brings more, false answers and contradictions brings even more. At one point, he simply cranks he level up and leaves me there for what feels like days, but was in all probability only minutes. I lay there screaming, my muscles tearing themselves apart as they instinctively try to wrench free. When he returns, I gibber incessantly, and tell him anything and everything, nonsense spewing forth from my mouth, and sends pain shooting through me. In the end, my body gives up, and drops me into unconscious to hide.

August 23th, 2041
0300 Hours SET
~This can’t go on, that’s the fifth time in three days. We have to escape.~
~I know.~
~How then?~
~I have a plan…~

August 24th, 2041
2000 Hours SET
The door opens to admit a battle suited guard bearing our dinner on a pair of trays. He stops momentarily, trying to work out where I’ve gone. I drop on him from my position above the door and scrabble for purchase on the armour and grab at the external helmet clasps. He drops the trays and tries to reach for me, hampered by his suit. I finally get the helmet off. Wrapping my legs round his chest for support, I crash the helmet onto his head. He falters and reaches for his sidearm. I don’t even both try to get it off him, and simply bash away with the armoured headpiece. He fires wildly and Dooner takes a hit and falls. Blood spurts, and the guard crashes to the floor, nearly crushing my legs. Blood and brains oozes from where I smashed his skull in. Quickly, I strip the guard of his armour and put it on.
The jack for the implant has been removed, but the armour seems to respond anyway, albeit slower. I take Dooners tags, drop them into an external pocket and slam on the helmet, double checking the clasps. Everything seems to be voice controlled so I ask for a map and disconnect all outgoing transmissions. Evidently I’m on a large cruiser, with a very high cargo capacity. I plot a route to a cargo elevator and kick open the door with amplified muscles.

The hatch is ripped of it’s hinges and crashes into the far wall. People cry out in surprise and I sprint out and to the left. I round a corner to run straight into a battlesuited marine. He starts to raise his sidearm in reaction and I smash it out of his hand, and turn and run. The suit accelerates to it’s full 55 kilometres per hour as I pound down corridors, the floor bending under me. I belt through a mess hall and the external mics pick up the sounds of gunfire behind me. Craters appear on the walls ahead of me. Forgetting about safety, I engage the suit thrusters and start bouncing down the deck at close to eighty kilometres per hour, swerving this way and that. Chairs and tables splinter under my progress as I simply smash through them. The hatch opens to admit some luckless person who dies as I crash through it like an drunken avenging angel. I flex the blades built into the arms, and they dig into the walls as I try desperately to control my vector. Dents appear in the walls, ceilings and floor as I oscillate between them and bounce down corridors. Another battlesuit gets tackled as I roar through a junction. This one carries a loaded auto-cannon which I take from him before ditching luckless marine against the nearest wall. At some point I misjudged a corner and ended up going sideways. My armour is starting to show signs of wear and tear, and several systems have already failed, as well as most of the external sensors. The entire ship is alerted as my news of my mad flight spreads. Those in battlesuits fire at my careening figure and everyone else simply gets out of the way. The cargo lift appears ahead and I crash into it’s far wall, trailing sparks and fire. Very carefully, I tap the button for the nearest external airlock. The doors close and I slump to the ground, sporting a thousand bruises despite the internal padding.

Halfway down, the lift stops and then starts to rise. Thinking quickly, I change the magazine on my stolen auto-cannon on to an explosive magazine on my belt, and open fire on the floor. Shrapnel fills the lift, and anyone not in full armour would deafened, then shredded by the flying steel. I clip the auto-cannon to my side and start to tear away at the hole with what remains of the claws, enlarging it to allow me passage. A hundred meters below, I can see what looks like a belly air-lock. Hoping I have enough fuel to last, I jump through the hole and engage the thrusters a few seconds later.

The jets give out five meters above the bottom of the shaft, and I feel every gram of the 500 kilo battle suit as I crash to the deck. Far above, I can see the lift starting to starting to come down. The inner airlock responds to the manual override, and the outer one responds to several rounds of explosive 25mm ammunition.

Instead of the expected quiet warehouse, the airlock opens to a crowded hanger. A thousand hard-suited figures crawl along the length of the giant cruiser, parts and machinery scattered everywhere. I walk quickly, avoiding people, hoping the battle suit gives makes me inconspicuous. I duck behind a large piece of machinery just as the first of my purses venture out into the open. I engage the zoom built into the suits optical pickups – thankfully, the main ones are still operational – and run a practised eye over my pursers. A black heart adorns their shoulders and chest plates, and they appear to have individualised suits, rather than the generic one I took. All carry the triple magazine MAPW-17c with high explosive rounds. Only slightly outdated space-age weaponry that’s more than a match for my outdated 20th century weapon. I forget about fighting a battle and start off down the deck again. I know it’s only a matter of time before one of them thinks about the third dimension.

Two hundred meters down the deck I’m proved right as a laser dot swirls across the deck in front of me. I instinctively roll to the left, come up on one knee facing the other way, and search the vacuum for my airborne purser. My implant obliges, relaying everything I want to know. I run three rounds across his flight path, and he runs straight into them, either killing him, or propelling him far enough away not to matter. I run down the deck, keeping cover between them and me the whole way. I roll behind a burnt out turbine and take a peek behind me. Only a few have ventured out into the open, most are scrambling between items of cover, peeking out or using the builtin sensor packs on their auto-cannons, afraid of me as I am of them. I start running again, crouching as low as the suit permits. From the laser sight dots dancing around, it’s pretty clear that some of them are having a hard time working out where I am now. From the looks of it, the suits are modified or copied legion suits, and lack some of the extra sophistication. All the better for me, I think as I dodge my way down the deck towards the open space at the end.

Vacuum is a funny thing, you can hear people talking through concrete a hundred meters away, but utterly fail to notice a shuttle ten meters away until it enters your peripheral vision. The sight of a shuttle alongside caused me to throw myself to the ground, and dive behind cover. Judging from the manoeuvres that the shuttle pulls, the pilot is either insane, a genius, or both. She throws it over me, flips it over and slams it into the deck between me and my pursers. The side door opens, and someone in a hardsuit gestures wildly with both hands to get in. Figuring I can’t get in any more trouble than I’m already in, I scramble past the ventral laser turret and into the main cabin. The pilot doesn’t even bother closing the door, simply guns the shuttle up, out the end of the dock into open space.

The pilot was good, even with my extra 400 kgs of mass bouncing round in the back. Piloting anything in a vaccumn is harder than it looks. If you start a turn, or a slide, then the only way to stop that is a equal force thrust in the opposite direction. This plays hell with G-Forces and your sense of stablization at high speeds. On modern Legion fighters with neural implant connections and sub-linked Artificial Intelligence, this is done by sub-concious commands from the pilot through neural implants. On the large orbital and sub-orbital craft, they ussually have control systems to balence this out. Shuttles on the other hand, which aren’t even pressuresed half the time, are stricly mannual. Built to move things from point A to B as cheaply as possible, they’re little more than a steel shell with seats and thruster packs. The JTCs my squadron learned to fly in the belt on weren’t much different, except for the extra armour and shields and were pressurised.
Therefore, given all this, imagine the skill required to throw the shuttle into a vertical climb without hitting anything then roll it 180 degrees horizontally and vertically to dive towards what was the ceiling of the hanger. I feel my feet lift off the floor and yell incoherently at the voice A.I. for magnetic boots. One sole takes hold of a convnient bulkhead, the other flails around till it catchs the closing hatch, forcing it’s automatic reopening. With almost calm horror, I watch as the pilot takes the shuttle right up against the edge of cruiser, and the hatch catchs… and tears off with barely a whisper of resistance. I whip my foor inside, to avoid the same fate as the hatch. At least a quarter of the cruiser bulk sits outside the hanger, the ghost of past nuclear fires still glowing in its main thruster vents. The shuttle acclerates out past them, the reactions of hydrogen and oxygen pushing us into the realtive safety of open space. Three and half clicks later we ditch on a random rock and point the shuttle off towards the outer solar system on full throttle. In the relative communication safety of crevice ang, we break radio silence on low power.
“Any problems?” one of them asks.
“Yes. My rebreather is damaged, the fission pile is leaking radiation like hell, most of the sensors are fucked, and I’m out of fuel.” I replied. She considers this for a few seconds.
“How much time do you have left on air and power, and what sort of sensors can you manage?”
“Breathable air will give out in about three hours, power will start shutting down non-critical components in two, and life support in six.”
“Utterly No fuel?”
“Not an atom, not even for manouvering.”
“Shit.” During this exchange, not one of us moved. “Ok, Jacob?”
“Yes.” The other one spoke for the first time.
“Can you call in a zip tug? The radiation signature is going to fuck up any stealth we might have had, and we need to get out of here before her suit runs out.” One of them, I presume Jacob, moved out into the open, took a reading on the stars and pointed a high-gain directional attenna towards the heavens.
About ten minutes later he finally returned.
“Zip tug is enroute, ETA: 15 minutes. However, we’ve probably attracted some friends. How much ammo have got in that thing?” I relise with a start I’m still clutching the MAPW-17a in one hand.
“About ten rounds, plus this.” I pull the heavily dented laser from it’s place on my hip and clamp it into place at the end of my left arm.
“That laser powers off your suit right?” the girl asks, “We’ve only got hand guns, any chance of one of us using the Morepork?” I treat the girl to a silent stare of derision.
“Do you know what this is? It’s the orginal model of MAPW-17. In the unlikly even you don’t blow your arm off with the recoil, the gas venting from the rear will probably eat through your suit quicker than a plasma torch. So no.” Silence is my only reply. We hunker down further into the crevice and keep radio silence. My leaking powerunit may be be a beacon to any full-band sensors in the area, but that’s no reason to go broadcasting on com frequenecies eithier.

A few minutes later, I feel the tremors of a shuttle landing on the rock through the soles of the suit. I take a quick look over the edge of the crevice and drift back the floor.
“Well?” The other not-Jacob asks.
“We’re fucked.” I relpy. “There’s six marines on foot, plus probably another two in the shuttle.”
“How well are they armed.”
“To the teeth. If I’m not mistaken, they’re wearing second generation battlesuits and carry MAPW-17d4′s.” The MAPW-17d4, or ‘Morepork’ as it was affectionatly known by Legion marines was the pinnacle of the vacumn infantary armoumary. Nearly three-quarters of a meter long, and weighing 50 kilos unloaded, the recoiless MAPW-17d was capable of firing 180 25mm explosive self-oxygenating rounds per minute. The 17d4 attachment added an extra two barrells and clips. Sitting between the barrels was a visual/IR cam with laser sight, hooked straight back into the users suit armour. If you missed, it was because the target moved between you shooting and the round arriving. With a round velocity of over 3000 meters per second, the Morepork would eat through the armour of suits, light ships, and rock without hesitition. When I carry one, it made me feel invincible. The six carried by people intent on killing me made me feel very very small. I turned and looked at my new found friends.

We needed a plan, we clanged off through the canyons, going deeper and deeper. Finally our luck turned, the party split up and laid the trap.

“…Alpha Bravo One, this is Alpha Bravo Three, I have a positive heat signature, matching that of type four hard suit.” The channel lost it’s metallic quality as the speaker switched from encrypted to open communication. “Type three hardsuit, this is Security Officer Blair of the Nova Marine force. I have a positive fix on your location, come out with your hands up where I can see them.”
“Ok, I’m coming out… I’m not going to try anything.” At Jacobs voice, I slipped out from my hiding place, trained the red laser dot on the marines helmet and put three rounds through the back of his head in quick succession.
“Messy.” comments Jacob as he scrapes the blood and bone off his face shield. “Now what?”
“We probably have about three minutes before the others get here. ” I say, ejecting one of the dead marines magazines and switching it with the one in my 17a. “Ok, Jacob, take this.” I say, handing him the dead marines 17d4. “It’s the triple barreled semi-recoiless version of my morepork, there’s a bit of recoil, but no backwash. I’ve set it to two barrell semi-auto, burst fire. Give her your hand laser. I’ll shoot first at the first guy, followed by Jacob second, and her third.” I still didn’t know the girls name. “Oh, and aim for the head.”
Hardsuits are unpowered, so I was thankful for the non-existant gravity that allowed Jacob to lift the morepork, and as long as he didn’t let the recoil get away with him, he’d be ok.

It’s said that those in the right spot can take on many times their number and win. I hoped whoever said that, took into consideration the fact that we were not only outnumbered, but outclassed in every single way. I waited, controlling my breathing as I sighted down the barrell at where I expected the first target to appear. My position only allowed me to shoot forward, so that my leaking suit wouldn’t give away my position. I waited with the patience borne of practice, my breath slowed and even.

Six minutes later they appeared. They walk in a single file, guns losely held at the ready, obviously not expecting too much trouble. I clicked the laser sight on, took another half a second to compensate and took the head of the leader off. I shifted my attention to the left. Jacob was obviously having trouble with the morepork, a line of holes was stiched up the second marines chest, but he was gone, nasty holes torn in his neck armour bore testimony to that. The third was lying on the ground, two neat holes just touching each other burned through his helmet. Half a second after taking out the first marine I shot the fourth, laying a swash of fire across his body and onto the fifth… there was no fifth marine. I had counted six on the surface, and one was missing.
“Where’s number five!?”
“Behind you!”
I roll over as fast as my suit would admit, my gun swinging up and over. It clicks on empty. The marine has back to the sun, and his face plate is clear. Through it, I can see his face, turned both old and young by the sun and the lack of gravity. He grins, and raises his gun to my head. I try to close my eyes, but they are frozen open in fear. I watch the red of the laser of splash onto my face plate, and watch him click all three barrells on. I watch as the white blast of plasma hits him from behind and turns him to dust.

“This is evac tango-alpha-charlie-niner, we having in bound bogies and are leaving in forty seconds. Please move your collective arses to the cargo area and unload your weapons.”
“Copy that tango-alpha-charlie-niner, two to load, plus a defecting Sol Corp marine, with severe suit failure.”
“Roger that, opening cargo doors open for three passengers.” From the crisp conversation between the girl and the pilot it’s obvious she’s done this sort of thing before. The tug which turns out to be 90% powerplant, with four very large engines at the back, and two very large guns up the front. The port cargo slams open, and I stumble in. I grab a large seat against the rear wall to accomadate my suit and click the solid looking seatbelt over my hips and shoulders. Jacob thumps in a few moments later and takes the seat next to me, professionally belting himself in with one hand. We wait, and the worry starts to creep in.
“Eve? Where the hell are you? We have fifteen seconds and then we have to be gone!” The pilot is starting to panic. I resist the urge to tell him to calm down, I know from experiance it only makes it worse.
“Coming, just a sec.” comes Eve’s (?) calm reply. Seconds pass.
“Eve..!” yells the pilot again. Eve thumps in through the hatch which slams against her heels, loaded down with weaponary. “Take off in three seconds!” In response, Eve dumps the assorted firepower onto the floor and takes a seat in record time. True to his word, after three seconds, the pilot guns the engines and we blast off at five gee’s acceleration.

Two hours coasting later, after boasting for fifteen minutes, the pilot turns the tug around, and proceeds to reverse thrust at five gees for another fifteen minutes. A quick calculation reveals that we’ve travelled somewhere in the region of a third of a million kilometers – roughly the distance from Earth to Lunar. What I don’t know is what direction we travelled in. While I’m contemplating this, we land, and gravity of about two/thirds normal exerts itself. The hatch slams open, and I’m rushed out into a hanger, then through another hatch with green and yellow diagonal markings around it’s edges. Inside what is obviously a decontamination chamber, a fuel cell pack, of low power but highly reliable. I plug it into the secondary power socket, and remove the nuke pack, drop it into the radioactive marterials container and slam the lid.

In response, the second hatch opens, and I step sluggishly through, the power indicator on my HUD blinking. I wait till the hatch has closed behind me and the outside air registers as normal. Gratefully take off the helmet and breath fresh air. I lie down, and tell the voice-ac system to let me out. The chest plate creaks open in two, and the arms and legs snap open. Relieved, I get up again, shivering in my shorts and tshirt drenched with sweat. I don’t know what’s wrong with this model, but it’s AC sure could use some work. I take a look at the remains and wonder why I’m still alive. Craters line the brest plate, criss crossed by laser burns. The back wash plates on the arms are nearly scorched through and one of the shoulders has a fairly nasty chunk taken out of it. The sensor pack is not existant, blown away by… something, and the face plate is a fine network of cracks that looks like it will cave in at any second.

Sighing, I step through into the next chamber to get a decontam shower and a set of fresh clothes. The boots only cover my feet to just below the ankle though are made of grey marterial that feels a bit like vinyl. I finally step out through the final door into a room where four people are seated at a table. Another two stand at attention at the far end of the room in uniform, carrying discreetly holstered handguns. For once I’m among people who don’t seem to want to kill me outright. A short young woman in early twenties steps forward. Not know what else to do, I take a seat at the table.

A short woman in her early twenties starts off.
“Rebecca Chang? I’m Eva O’Donnell, and this is Jacob Harrison.” She points to tall black man, of perhaps eighteen. He nods at me with the professional control of man who has seen more than his fair share of violence. “These other two are Doctor Lawrence Hall, and General Pascal.
“Hi.” I manage, not sure where this is going.
The general speaks, starting the proceedings. “Miss Chang. That was some fine display shooting and tactics you displayed out there, but frankly we’re at a loss. We know about the Shanghai Pirates, the Free Miners. We have the occasional tiff with SMC and GMI, and naturally we have dealings with E3T, but you don’t seem to be related to any of them. Yet you display an incredible knowledge of weapons, and you have obviously been in combat before, yet you are not hostile to us. So Ms Chang. Who are you?”
“Until six weeks ago I was a Wing Commander in the Legion.” Doctor Pascal notes something on a terminal.
“The Legion being what exactly?” the general queries. I ponder this for a few seconds before answering.
“I guess you could call it the military arm of the Earth.” Incredulous looks pass over everyone else’s faces. There’s a lull in the conversation, like I just offered to walk naked in vacuum.
“You are aware of course that no-one has lived on earth for the last 25 years?” The Doctor asks, obviously attempting to humour me.
“Not on maybe, but certainly in. Before I joined the Legion, I spent my entire life underground.”

With the ocean surface speeding by on auto-pilot John leans back in his seat and pushes his visor up.
“If you haven’t guessed already, humanity is at a war.” he says without any warning. “For the last twelve
years, we have been fighting against something we don’t even understand. In 2023 the Deep Space Network detected an
object…” I hold up my hand, interrupting him.
“Deep Space Network?”
“The DSN is a network of monitoring drones scattered across the solar
system. The drones range in size from sentients fitted with every possible
scanner you can imagine to tiny single purpose robots smaller than your
finger. On the 23rd of September 2023, a level three drone in orbit
around Neptune picked up an distortion of the planets magnetic flux.
John loads in a datacard. The viewscreens darken and the view fades
into a slowly rotating panorama of stars. It pauses,
then zooms in. “This is where the object was first spotted.” John narrates.
“This is a visual image, overlaid with passive radar,” He unpauses it and I
watch what looks like flat star expand from a tiny white point in the middle of the screens.
It develops a hole in it’s centre which expands until there’s a only a rim of
white. Through the hole I can see stars that weren’t there before. A ship appears,
and glides out through the hole.
The star reverses through the stages, first the hole shrinking, and then the star
shrinking back to the point, which then disappears.
The camera zooms in and pans, tracking the ship. It is a long cylinder painted in fake heat
colours. “This ship is over a kilometre long, and about three hundred meters in
diameter. We now know that it is a small cruiser. This particular model was scraped,
or removed from active service in our system six years ago. Fully loaded, it is capable of
handling up to six months active duty without refuelling. However, It is incapable of anything
more than a short warp jumps without external assistance.” Neptune comes into view
on my display, and the camera follows the ship until it disappears round the
far side of the gas giant. “Since the furry bastards don’t seem to be in favour of suicide missions
we can only assume there was already an active base when it entered the system.
We don’t know how long they’ve been here, but we do know that they want our planet.”
The camera lapses forward several hours and the ship comes into view again on the
opposite side, falling in towards the atmosphere where it is eventually covered by clouds.
“Their ships use fusion for both power and drive, so gas giants make good
refuelling points.” Beneath my feet, I can feel the rumble of the fans as the
hovercraft glides over the polluted water. “The Kadreli have bases in all of the
four gas giants and are in the process of terraforming Mars and Venus. We have a
established base on Mars. Unfortunately, they have three. We are losing.”
“Kadreli?” I ask, dumbfounded. He touches another series of controls and an
image of a vaguely humanoid being with four arms appears on one of the screens.
“The Kadreli. A carbon based lifeform that appeared to have evolved on heavily forested planet,
which our scientists suggest has been heavily deforested by industrial activity.
They are carbon based, but cannot eat our foods, or vice versa. We breathe the same air,
although they appear to prefer a higher oxygen level, and their smaller internal skeleton
appears to be evolved for a lighter gravity than earth and their eyes are adapted for a much
higher light level than earth.” The creature is covered with fine mottled dark brown fur.
The legs and arms are double jointed, the thin hands have two fingers with an opposable thumb.
The large green eyes that seem to wrap halfway around the head have a horizontal slit pupil
surrounded by a thin white ring. The image rotates twice then disappears. Beneath his helmet,
John suddenly looks tired. “We don’t have enough people. Memory implanting isn’t good enough
by itself, because they still have
the minds of children, and even then the reflexes required for combat take time to learn,
and trying to get troops with learned ethics to kill on demand without attacking their own
buddies is a mission in itself. We need people who have been managed to survive in the real world for a while.”

The ride to HOIST was uneventful. As was the drink they gave in medical. The sudden swaying
of the world, and the blackening as unconsciousness wrapped its arms around me was not.
Waking up in free fall for the first time four months later gave me a hell of a fright.

September 12th, 2039
2348 Hours SET
A thin line of rock melts in front of the barrel of the mining laser.
“Firing and cutting three meters.”
“Acknowledged.”
Mine and an unknown voice on the ‘com. I glance to my right to see a figure holding a mining laser similar to my own. There is enough dust floating around to faintly discern the thin red line of photons slowly melting a cut in the rock face.
“Beginning downwards cut.”
“Acknowledged.”
Male, impossible to know who. The face behind that visor could be anyone, Maori or Pakeha, young or old, born or Growth Accelerated. The line jerked to the left, and I berated myself for letting my attention wander. Shit, get a grip on yourself girl. I pulled the laser back into line and slowly let the cut work down the face. A computer generated voice, somewhat distorted by the distance crackles over the ‘com.
“Shift over, relief en route, 15 minutes.”
“Finish this cut, and we’ll put up some props.”
“Acknowledged.”
Be precise. One slip could be fatal. The cut seems to shift again and this
time I know it’s not because of me.
“Cave in! Get out!”
I spin round, dropping the laser to let it swing from my hip and bolt
away from the face. The other figure turns his head, momentarily not quite
grasping my meaning. Too late. A section of the roofing breaks away and
crushes him.
The cry over the com is abruptly cut off.
“Medic!” Even as I scream, I know it’s too late. The medilight on the helmet glows red.
Two other figures appear around the bend, running, their suit lights casting
flickering shadows over the walls. We don’t say anything, just zip the remains
into a body bag on the carriage and wait for the relief to arrive.

I’d like to say I care, that his death meant something to me. After billions of
deaths, it’s hard to feel compassionate about one more. The tunnel lights
flicker past the bars. I lean back against the seat and tried counting the
lights to fall asleep. 1, 2, 3… ETA one hour, 37 minutes. Destination AU-NT-4.
…64, 65, 66… Base 4, Northern Territory, Australia. Better known as Aunty
Four… 101, 102, 103… My name is Rebecca Chang. Born, 2022. I’m 17 now…
171, 172, 173… Nearly three decades since the world ended… 224, 225, 226…

“ETA to AU-NT-4, ETA, 3 minutes.”
Time to get off. I’ve been sitting in the same position for the last two hours,
and as far as I could tell, the figures across the corpse hadn’t moved either.
The train slows, stopping next to a boarding station of Aunty four. We slid off,
clutching our grisly cargo. Faceless red figures, carrying the same fuel-cell
packs and mining lasers push past us, fatigue evident in every move. Somewhere
over to the left, plasma flares as a technician jury-rigs a repair to a set
of tracks.
I sling the recently deceased’s pack and laser on my back and start across the
tracks to the equipping area. The other two follow carrying the body bag
between them. Inside the de-rad chamber we unclick helmets, breathing the
recycled air of the base instead of the recycled air of our suits. I feed
the details of the other miners death into a terminal while the other
two commit his remains to the recycling bins. I strip off the suit and ease the
aches and pains out of my joints. My one-piece jump suit is sticky from sweat, more
black then grey.

In the shower room I strip off my one-piece and walk, naked except for my
dog tags, over to a spare stall. After ten minutes of just standing there,
letting the near-scalding water wash away the dirt and sooth my aches and
pains I open my eyes. He watches me from across the room, his eyes burning
with a malevolent inner fire. He saunters across the room and I back away,
smiling shyly as if urging him on. My heart bangs against my ribs, and cold
invisible sweat breaks out on my hot skin, instantly washed away. He grins
as he walks under the spray. My callused hand caress his crotch, where I
feel the heat rising in him. His hand slides down my back to squeeze my
buttocks. I squeeze back. Hard. My nails digging into his sensitive skin
and clawing backwards along his length.
He screams, curling in on his pain. My fist punches out, and already off-balance,
he slips over, grabbing at me on his way down. I slip, lunging for the handle
that controls the hot water for balance. Steam clouds around me as the shower
dumps litres of scalding hot water on to his body. A drop of boiling hot water
splashes against me and I finally think to turn the water off, revealing his
blistered body as the steam clears. I pull on a cleanish one-piece
from the dispensers, ignoring the looks from everyone else in the room as
I leave. Nobody says anything. Welcome to hell.

The terminals in the common room take an age to retrieve email, so a
cigarette helps to pass the time. One message. Encrypted for some reason.
While the terminal grinds through the decoding, I pull up the stats of the
deceased miner and light another cigarette.
Name, William. Born 9th of March 2039 from a Growth Accelerated genetic
engineering vat. Six months of life before being crushed with a thousand tonnes
of rock. The stark letters of what remains of his life stare back at me.
I don’t want to care, and I don’t. He’s one more. Just one more among
thousands of others. I close the file and pull up the movement orders. Transport
to HOIST, or Hauraki Orbital Insertion STation has been arranged. The shuttle
leaves at 3:00am SET to take me to NZ-WS-1, where one John Hayes would be waiting
for me. I glance at the clock.
2:57am SET.
Shit!

There’s only one passenger carriage attached to the ore train heading for
NZ-WS-1, and nobody else on it. So tired. I practically fall onto the bench,
stretching out at one end and letting my head rest against the wall. I close my
eyes, letting my body go limp. Consciousness fades, and blackness envelops me.

Consciousness.
My eyes crack open. Seemingly for the first time. I can’t see clearly, my
vision blurred by thick green liquid surrounding me. I stare upwards into the
light that filters down.
Who am I?
I try to move and discover the mask over my nose and mouth and the straps that
bind me. The ground beneath me moves and I rise from the depths, liquid streaming
from my body as I break the surface. A figure looms over, silver shining in it’s
hands. I try to scream, but the mask still covers my face and my muscles refuse to
respond.
Blackness.

“…to NZ-WS-1, ETA, 15 minutes.”
The same dream again. I don’t know how many times I’ve had it, but never the
same way twice. Sometimes dark, sometimes brighter than the sun, I often
dream the liquid is blood, other times clear water. The figure is often
someone I know… or knew.

If the train is on time – which it probably isn’t – then it would be 11:45am,
standard earth time. I can feel the train stopping and the doors open.
I peel myself off the hard steel bench and step onto the platform. A boy,
no older than me, is leaning against a pillar, smoking. The butts around
his feet indicate he’s been waiting a while. Hayes? I walk over to meet
him.
“John Hayes?”
“Rebecca Chang?”
“Yeah.”
He nods and grinds the remains of his cigarette under his foot. “Follow me.”
“So, where are we going?” I ask, scuttling after him as he stalks off.
“Up.” Up?

We ride the lift to the surface in silence, lost in our own thoughts.
Outside, I can hear the sound of the ocean, beating itself against the side
of the station. The doors open with a sigh
of compressed air and I walked out into the harsh sunlight. Purple spots float in front of
my eyes as they attempt to adjust to the orange glare that bullies it’s way through
the polarised windows as if they weren’t there. The sun is a harsh ball of fire
that fills the sky and turns the black water to a dark red fire. I stare at
the sea through half closed eyes. An armoured hovercraft sweeps into view,
it’s cabin set high above the dark water, it’s narrow windows like a pair
of malevolent eyes. John tugs at my arm and leads me on.

A row of hovercraft, similar to the one I saw before sits in a hanger in
front of a row of doors. John logs into terminal at one end of the hanger,
and extracts a key card from it. He leads me over to one of the hovercrafts and
climbs up the side into the cabin. The walls are at least 50 centimetres
thick and the hatch is heavy. He takes the pilot seat and starts
powering up the systems. I cautiously take the right hand seat, and belt myself
in. He nods, and points wordlessly to the helmet sitting atop the console.
Without further ado, he slides the hovercraft out the lock and onto the black sea.
“Plot in a course for TAZ-LS-1.” I quickly figure out the console and input the co-ordinates.
“Co-ordinates locked in.” Our voices have automatically taken on that mechanical quality so familiar to me.

January 8th, 2010

0249 Hours Local time

The soldiers face was caked with camouflage grease, his eyes standing out against the darkness. For the third time in as many hours, he tried to read the letter, the dull whiteness turned red in the amber light, the ink invisible. He lifted it to his face, smelling her perfume. A comrades comment made him grimace, and he carefully folded it again, pushing the envelope back into his pocket. Around him, others grinned quietly in their understanding. One flipped open a locket, gazing at the picture inside. Others had their own letters, and here and there could be seen a cross.

Four hours they had been there, waiting for the signal to come. Twenty meters above the top of their sealed armoured personal carrier waves crashed against the black surface of the platoons transceiver. The signal came; Attack at 0315 Hours. Inside the twenty-four APC’s scattered over the sea floor, soldiers checked the little equipment they carried, then their neighbours. Night vision goggles were pulled into place, and weapons readied. 288 pairs of eyes stared at chronometers.

At 0314 the first wave of missiles hit the shore. Although they could not see them, the soldiers could feel the shockwaves, dampened even as they were by the ocean. At exactly 0315 the last wave of missiles struck, and the electric engines of the carriers whined into life. Twenty seconds later the carriers surged out of the water. Low wide black leviathans flowing out of the sea.

A rocket exploded from the top of a tree towards the first of the invaders. Even before it had covered half the distance, computers had acknowledged, calculated, communicated and reacted to the threat. Twenty four sensors triangulated the heat source from where the rocket had originated and fed orders to twelve primed laser systems, which fried the defender with enough energy to cause the immediate combustion and explosion of the defender and it’s hiding place sending burning materials into the surrounding forest. The other twelve laser systems were directed towards the rocket.

Other defenders appeared, firing upon the invaders. The network of APCs responded, the air above them shimmering as heat sinks attempted to dissipate the heat generated by the constant firing of banks of lasers. Finally a defender got lucky, his missle escaping the laser systems. Half a second before the rocket would have hit, the APC fired part of it’s armour at the rocket, causing it to explode barely two meters away. Inside, the soldiers felt their vehicle rock as fragments rattled against the side. A part of the console went from green to red, indicating the side door had been disabled. Automatically, the platoon was reformed to protect the flank of the damaged vehicle.

By now the forest was alight, flames from falling trees leaping into the air. The platoon struggled to the top of a hill, half of the vehicles reversing to counter an attack from the rear. On the top, they arranged themselves into a ring and let down the ramps. Half of the soldiers ran out to secure the perimeter, weapons attempting to cover every angle. Here and there came the sounds of gunfire as they picked off the advancing defenders. Behind the perimeter came the engineers. As they dug holes and filled sand bags, the other half covered them. The vehicles, now disassembled, were reassembling like some arcane transformer.

Dawn broke. The forest still burned, but the surrounding area was clear. Only a quarter of the platoon was on duty now. Others slept. The soldier, now free, walked to the top of a rise, and sat down against a rocky outcrop. From the breast pocket next to his heart he pulled the letter, opening it, lifting it to his face, her sweet perfume overriding the smell of the burnt and burning trees. He gently unfolded it, reading her words from many miles away. He never heard the whistle of the bomb falling. Never heard the tiny explosion that smashed together a critical mass a hundred meters above his head. Seconds later, the dust rose in a mushroom cloud above what had been a hill and nearly three hundred lives. It was the first nuclear strike of what was to become the Third World War.

It would not be the last.