Invasion- Proxima Read online

  “This object was intercepted on Confederate Earth some ten years ago, after it crash-landed,” Asquew said. The image resolved to a massive hangar filled with Marine Corps ships, and the strange thing lying on its side in the center.

  “Samples were taken, and scans conducted, of course, but nothing we could do would open it. Shortly thereafter…””

  The image next showed a place in the desert where a few anonymous warehouse buildings sat. Suddenly, the scene exploded in a gigantic fireball, scattered through with purple sparks.

  “The craft malfunctioned, or self-destructed, we really have no way of knowing…” Asquew stated. “But ever since, the Confederacy has been avidly hunting for more evidence of whoever sent it to us.

  “Was it a probe? A spy? A challenge? A refugee? The first act of a war?” Asquew shrugged. “We have no idea, but what we later found out when we started looking into NeuroTech was that they had also been investigating these phenomena, and apparently managed to recover the exact same craft on Proxima,” Asquew stated.

  “This craft became known as Experiment X to NeuroTech, and from it, they were able to start developing a line of human-machine hybrids we saw earlier as the cyborgs, as well as the murderous robots.

  “And then, two years ago, we became aware of something called The Message.”

  The Message! Solomon sat up a little straighter in his seat. That was what he had overheard Doctor Palinov and Coates talking about before. That the Outcasts had been created specially to deal with the ‘Message,’ whatever that was.

  “Apparently, Proxima received a communication some time ago, at one of their deep-space satellites. It was from a race who called themselves the Ru’at, and they were claiming responsibility for seeding our solar systems with their craft.”

  “What did they want?” Solomon couldn’t help himself and burst out.

  “What do the Ru’at want? That, Specialist Commander, is the question of the century. Possible even of the millennium,” Asquew said. “We do not know the precise contents of this message other than a few small details: that the aliens called themselves the Ru’at, and that they had been the ones behind the vastly superior, mysterious craft…

  “And that they were willing to offer us information,” Asquew said. “Our contacts and spies on Proxima have revealed that the Message contained very little information about the Ru’at as a species, but it did indeed contain a long and detailed data-set, which apparently translated to various new types of energetic particle engines, new types of alloy, stellar mechanics, perhaps even entirely new branches of science and mathematics.”

  “And they gave all of that to the Proximians?” Solomon was surprised. He knew that maybe they should forgive their largest colony for utilizing the information, but why didn’t they share it with the Confederacy? With the rest of humanity?

  “We do not know if the Ru’at were ever aware of what creed or polity of humanity they were contacting.” Asquew shrugged. “And we do not have access to the entire message, but from the copied and transcribed pieces that we have managed to smuggle out of Proxima, we have realized that this technology presents an existential threat to the Confederacy. It is far in advance of anything that Earth science has managed to generate, and now it is in the hands of NeuroTech, and the colonies.”

  Asquew continued, “Our analysts have discovered that all of the Ru’at technology, the very same sort that has somehow found its way into NeuroTech’s experiments, operates from a base line of machine code that we have never even considered before. This technology cannot be hacked. It cannot be mimicked. It seems to operate as a self-replicating virus, one that is able to keep on generating complex algorithms to allow the machine itself to learn and adapt...”

  “Artificial intelligence?” Solomon asked.

  The general shook her head. “No. Not precisely. Or not as we understand it, anyway. These cyborgs and battle platforms that we have seen—that you have faced—do not have sentience or self-awareness as we do. They do not have feelings. Indeed, they do not appear to have any semblance of personality at all. But they have very deep machine learning. So, you managed to neutralize that cyborg threat on Mars, but the next time, that same cyborg will have memorized and analyzed your fighting styles. The same goes for the Ru’at satellite technology, apparently. Once they are launched, they will continue upgrade and update their own programming until the communication abilities of the colonies far outstrips our own.”

  “Uplift…” murmured Solomon, remembering something from a long, long time ago.

  “Excuse me, solider?” Asquew said.

  “Ah, excuse me, sir. I thought it was just a silly science fiction story…” Solomon smiled uneasily. “It’s an idea common in some stories that communities of aliens make contact with less technologically advanced species and uplift them, or they are given a new evolutionary leap by the far superior aliens.”

  “Well, an interesting idea, soldier, but the Marine Corps cannot base its battle strategy on the optimistic dreams of writers,” Asquew said.

  “Excuse me, sir, but…” Solomon said a little hesitantly. “But what makes you so sure that the Ru’at have any other intention than a peaceful uplift of the human species? Surely, if they come from an entirely alien civilization to ours, then maybe this is just how they say hello and not an act of war?”

  “Cready…” Warden Coates hissed in annoyance. Solomon could see the vein throbbing in the warden’s neck that he had come to recognize as the sign of an impending outburst that usually led to him using the control unit to send torturous electric shocks through their bodies thanks to the implanted control chips that all of the ex-convict Outcasts had as a matter of course. But he’s not going to do that here, and now, is he? Solomon thought. Not in front of the general, at any rate.

  “It’s fine, Coates. I appreciate free-thought in my Marines,”

  “Adjunct-Marines,” Coates couldn’t help himself from clarifying. Which, Solomon thought, was actually the very same crime that Solomon was supposed to have just committed—that of questioning their superior officer.

  Asquew ignored him as she continued, “I understand your hesitancy, Commander Cready. However, our best Marine Corps analysts have spent years deliberating over the exact reasons behind the Message and the motivations of the Ru’at. And the most that any of us can say with any certainty is this: that this technology is dangerous, and it is surely one of the key reasons why the seditionists thought that they could be strong enough to break away from the Confederacy. This message has already managed to do what some fifty thousand years of human history hasn’t achieved: splinter our species into different groups, with NeuroTech happily making a profit on the downfall of our entire kind.”

  “And fanning the flames of war.” Solomon nodded, enjoying the way that his casual conversation with the general was infuriating Warden Coates.

  “Precisely. So, not only does the Marine Corps have to put an end to these ridiculous attempts at sedition by Mars, Proxima, and Luna, but we also have to get to the bottom of just what the Ru’at want,” Asquew stated. “We cannot afford to let NeuroTech continue, which is why in the next few days, I will be sending Gold Squad on a mission.”

  “Aye, sir.” Solomon nodded formally. “Where to?”

  “All in good time, Commander Cready.” Asquew gave the young man a tight smile. “I still have to win the war for Mars, yet…”

  Which isn’t going to be happening any time soon, Solomon thought as he looked out the viewing port window to see the surface of the Red Planet, scarred and dotted with smoke.

  “In short, Specialist Commander Cready…” Asquew surprised him by speaking again. “None of you would be here if it wasn’t for the Message. The Outcasts are the Marine Corps’ response to the Ru’at. As soon as we realized that this alien force could be among us, we needed an answer, and we created one: a new type of Marine that does not have to rely on the technology of their equipment, but instead be biologically and chemically en
hanced,” the general said proudly.

  “You Outcasts will be our weapon against the Ru’at. You have been commissioned exclusively with that goal in mind,” she continued. “Now, I need you to make yourselves ready, for in the next few days—sooner than I wanted—I fear that you will have to begin.”

  3

  The Instincts of Solomon Cready

  3 Days Later

  Push, and…jump!

  Solomon lengthened his stride over the frozen rocks and ice plates of the Ganymedean surface. Ahead of him, Jezebel Wen was little more than a blur against the baleful eye of Jupiter, rising over the far horizon. The gas giant gave everything an almost yellow glow.

  They were returning from their exercise run, and Solomon could feel his back and brow clammy with sweat. Working out in near zero-G wasn’t as effortless as civilians thought it to be. Solomon grimaced. The problem was that there was only a fraction of the resistance available to his own limbs. When he pushed off a rock into the next leaping run, it felt like he was pushing against nothing much more than blancmange. It made his thigh and back muscles work that much harder, and Solomon’s side where he had been shot was starting to ache.

  Solomon was in a good solid position at the back of the pack of runners. Dammit, the man thought. Although it wasn’t a race, the constant evaluation and assessments that the Outcasts were subject to meant that everything was a competition—even just exercising.

  Around him loped members of the other squads of the adjunct-Marines, similarly fresh back from Mars as Cready and his Gold Squad was. Solomon recognized members of Red, Blue, and Teal Squads, but he wondered what had happened to ensure that they got an early rotation back here. Had they succeeded very well or failed on Mars? What had been their missions?

  And, slightly more despairingly: Where were the other members of their squads?

  He was pondering this mystery—anything to take his mind off the dizzying Ru’at situation—when suddenly something drew his eye and slowed down his pace.

  Ahead of them, they were approaching the home stretch of the not-race race as it approached the hangar bays of the Ganymede Training Facility, looking like large crouching turtles with metallic shells and a series of closed launch-bay doors. Behind them stretched the long collection of buildings designed into a semi-circle that was the facility, and above that was the boxy shape of a Marine transporter.

  The transporters were the standard dropship of the Confederate Marine Corps, a pregnant, bulging bug from which sprouted four booster rockets at each corner, and each with independent movement so they could swivel and turn, allowing the large logistics craft to make even the most precise of landings.

  None of which was happening right now, though.

  All four of the Marine transporter’s rocket thrusters were slanted back and up from the main body, firing the craft down towards the Ganymede surface without any attempt to slow down, re-position, or extend the landing legs.

  In fact… Solomon made a quick calculation of the trajectory of the descent. It was heading straight for the Ganymede facility.

  “Jezzy!” he screamed over his light tactical suit communicator. Normally on these sorts of simple exercise missions, the specialist commander would turn his communicator just to the emergency station band only. He wasn’t supposed to be acting as a squad leader at the moment after all, and he would still have been reachable by Ganymede if they needed to send urgent information.

  Well, what is stars-damned more urgent than a crash landing?! Solomon growled, fumbling with the catch on his harness that opened to reveal his short-range wireless controls.

  Wireless Network Communicator…On.

  Gold Channel…On.

  Broadcast All Frequencies…On.

  In response to Solomon’s hurried button pushing, his eyes filled with the green haze of the holographic lettering on the inside of his helmet.

  “She’s coming in too hot and fast. She’ll hit the main dome. Everyone find cover!” he said breathlessly, starting to run—not toward the training facility, but instead to the nearest plate of ice and rock sticking out from the Ganymede floor. Around him, the other runners had stumbled and slowed, a couple still moving forward thanks to the low gravity as they, too, comprehended was about to happen.

  “Nonsense! We need to get people out of there!” one of the other squad’s members said. Frankinson from Red, Solomon thought. At least the guy had the good sense to turn his own suit communicator on as Solomon had done, he thought for a fraction of a moment.

  “Negative on that, Frankinson.” Solomon let his momentum slide towards the plate of ice and rock, ducking as he did so. “You’ll never get there in time. Better to help the survivors…” he was saying as his back hit the wall of ice, stopping his charge and effectively providing him a shield against—

  Against the inevitable.

  Solomon managed to turn just in time to see that some of the other Outcasts were indeed doing just as he had suggested, diving for cover on the complicated ice and rock plain, striated with rills and ridges where surface water had fused with the rock.

  But some had ignored him completely, and they were closing the distance towards the launch lobby, the hangar bay doors where Solomon knew they would be activating their suit identifiers and sending messages to the airlock doors to open.

  “Station Command! Do you read me? Station!” Solomon was shouting once again. Why aren’t they doing anything? They have defensive gun placements, don’t they? Why weren’t they trying to stop the craft—

  Because it was all happening too quickly, Solomon thought. The transporter was creating a blurring red and white haze of plasma as it burst through Ganymede’s thin gassy atmosphere, shaking and shuddering with the G-force of its descent… One of the booster rockets at a corner was flaring and being torn from its socket thanks to the momentum—

  KABABOOOM!

  And then there was an almighty flash as the transporter hit the main dome of the Ganymede Training Facility.

  Seeing an explosion in near zero-G is almost as surreal an experience as seeing one in the near-vacuum of space.

  Unlike the too-quick movements of more earthly tragedies, these terrible acts happen almost in slow motion, given the different gravitational pulls and flows. The transporter buckled and tore, spilling sparkles of light like fireworks at night. The lights glowed oddly in the strange Ganymedean environment, doubling and twinkling and glowing odd colors as they interacted with Ganymede’s unique mixture of scant noble gases.

  Waves of fire spread and erupted, growing like clouds in red ink spilled in water—moving languorously and slowly, even gracefully—if it weren’t for the several Outcast Marines who had managed to get to the bay doors just as the flame-clouds enveloped them, picked them up, and consumed their suits in moments.

  The ground shook as the pressure of the impact was driven through the training facility’s foundations and into the plates of rock and ice that stood for ‘bedrock’ up here. Solomon heard grinding shrieks that he thought was metal ripping and rending, but when he looked down, he saw that fracture-cracks were racing out in crazy spider-web fashion along the alien plain where the ice—as strong as it was—was still no match for having a Marine transporter thrown at it.

  The explosion looked odd, but it was short-lived owing to the lack of available oxygen in Ganymede’s thin atmosphere. Instead, flumes of fire-ink blossomed here and there in jets as portholes inside the facility burst apart, and the heat of the crash found the center’s oxygen-processing machines.

  Then instead of fire came the tearing and crumpling of the facility itself as metal met metal and obscenely joined together. Solomon watched in horrified awe as one of the four thruster rockets of the transporter broke off and sheared through the front audience hall, where he and the others would have stood to recite the Marine Oath every day, or hear daily minutes and briefings given by Warden Coates.

  The destruction raced along the facility in odd ways—a rounded dome the color of ch
rome foil and with spiraling metal girders around it suddenly performed a reverse concertina and collapsed in on itself as correctly as if it had been designed to do that all along.

  Decompression, implosion, and explosion, a part of Solomon’s mind remembered from one of his command lessons. As a specialist commander, he was expected to take overview classes that covered all other areas of specialist training so when he gave orders to his team of specialists, he would have some idea of what he was talking about, or was even possible.

  What would not be possible, however—his training had taught him—was to be able to use the Ganymede Training Facility for a long time. The transporter had finally stopped its dreadful descent, but now most of it had disappeared, apart from one up-turned corner sticking from the center of the facility. Still, portholes burst with slow-moving fire as other areas crumpled in on themselves.

  Jezzy… Solomon’s heart froze. She had been at the front of the race. Of course, she would have been. Solomon had never met anyone as athletically accomplished as she was.

  Had she got my message to find cover? To stay away? Or, like Frankinson, had she elected stupid bravery over wisely staying alive?

  Solomon got up from the shelf of ice and rock that had sheltered him and looked into the ruin that was once his home. There were bodies. There were Outcasts struggling to repair damaged suits, or else put suits on.

  People are dying. They need my help.

  Solomon broke into a run towards the facility, now that he was sure that the transporter wouldn’t explode.

  Broadcast All Channels

  “Listen up! Everyone away from the facility! Move out over the plain!” Solomon started shouting at Outcasts as he ran forward, his eyes scanning for signs of Jezzy’s body.