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  “Cready! On your feet! Attention!” Coates and the others came to a stop just in front of him. The man was a walking steel rod, Solomon thought grimly as he looked up at Coates’s glare of indignation.

  “You disobeying an order, Specialist Cready?” Coates said.

  “This man is dead, Warden,” Solomon heard himself say. A surge of anger ignited in his chest, making him ball his fists and want to scream. Keep it together, Solomon, he told himself, even though every fiber of his being told him not to. Told him to scream and shout at the man that he knew just what they were doing—all of these experiments with Serum 21, which were slowly killing them, one by one.

  And I’ve got the highest dose of anyone in here, Solomon thought, too, his glance moving to the glassy stare of Adjunct-Marine Joachim underneath him. It was probably even Coates’s idea, he considered. Dose me up, kill me off, then he wouldn’t have to think about how much he hated me.

  “Pfagh!” a grunt of annoyance from Coates as he must have registered all the other adjuncts’ worried and shocked looks around him. “Get him up. Take him to the medical lounge, now!” Coates snapped at the staffers, who hurriedly moved to the dead adjunct’s body and lifted him between them. Solomon slowly stood up from his crouch, but he could not find it in himself to salute.

  Coates held his eyes for a period, and Solomon saw the man’s lip twitching in a similarly barely-held-in-check rage. But whatever internal debate was going on inside the warden’s head—whether to shock Cready or just shout at him—it was overcome by what he had come here for.

  “Adjuncts!” Coates shouted, using his training voice that echoed around the gymnasium. “We’ve had an urgent call from the Rapid Response Fleet. One of our station-ships has gone missing, and command deems it high time that you are put to the test!”

  I thought our mission on Mars proved our worth, Solomon thought.

  “Get to the launch hall, now! Light tactical suits everyone. Double-time!” he shouted, and, after the surprised second of confusion that followed, Coates shouted once. “WELL!? Move it!”

  Around Solomon, all of the other adjunct-Marines broke into action, but Solomon stood still. He was scared that if he even so much as moved a muscle, it would only be to hit the warden in the face. Which would be very satisfying, of course, but it wouldn’t do him any favors…

  “What about Adjunct-Marine Joachim, sir?” Solomon said as neither man moved. What are you doing, Solomon! a small, more sane part of him argued. Staring down at the warden is sure to only get you electrocuted!

  The warden held Solomon’s glare for a moment, then shook his head in frustration. “Death happens, Specialist Cready,” Coates barked. “You’re in the Marine Corps now. You’d better get used to it.” And, much to Solomon’s surprise, the warden turned on his heel and followed the rest of the adjuncts and staffers out of the gymnasium.

  What, no insult? No punishment? Solomon was deeply confused by this outcome as he broke into a jog. Did this mean that the doctor had been right? That the fact that he, Solomon Cready, was one of the best performing of the Serum 21 experiments meant that the warden wasn’t eager to punish him anymore?

  I doubt that very much, he reflected as he skidded out of the door and turned to the lifts that went down to the launch level—large hangar bays where their suits and equipment were stored in personal identification lockers. As well as where the transporters docked, ready to take them into deep space.

  Solomon wasn’t sure what this new reaction from the warden meant, but he was sure that he wouldn’t be able to push his luck much farther, either.

  9

  Kepler

  LIGHT TACTICAL SUIT: Active.

  USER ID: Solomon CR.

  BIO-SIGNATURE: Good.

  SQUAD IDENTIFIER: Gold.

  SQUAD TELEMETRIES: Active.

  Solomon’s vision flushed with a wash of neon greens and oranges as his light tactical suit activated, and he clicked the visor of his helmet into place. He stood in front of his booth in the main launch hall, and alongside him, their forms highlighted with the fading green line of his suit identifiers, were the rest of Gold Squad. As Solomon turned to survey how they were getting on with their own suiting up, he saw their identifiers flare above them on his visor screen, fading to almost transparent wording as he turned.

  Sp. Adj. Marine MALADY

  Enhancements: Full Tactical Suit

  Sp. Adj. Marine WEN

  Combat Specialist

  Adj. Marine KARAMOV

  Adj. Marine KOL

  ALL GOLD SIGNS GOOD… SUITS ACTIVE…

  As the specialist commander of their squad, his readouts held slightly different information than the rest. An overlay of strategic and tactical options rendered into faintly glowing green lines and arrows pointing their quickest route to the launch hall doors, as well as a minimal set of information on each of his squad’s life signs.

  “All looking good,” he announced, his voice echoing slightly as it repeated across Gold Squad’s suit-to-suit channel. In front of him, his squad and the other squads of the Outcast Marines looked a little like humanoid beetles in their tactical suits. And these were even only the light versions, apart from the walking man-tank that was Malady, sealed inside his full tactical suit for crimes against the Marine Corps.

  The suits were a second skin to Solomon and the others now. A light undermesh suit with ports and connectors for the harness that attached to the leg and arm part-plate armor, as well as the heavier jacket that looked like sheaths of different sculpted metals. It was actually a poly-composite material said to be superior even to sheet steel.

  But there were still plenty of gaps between the plates and the joints of the harness, Solomon knew. Unlike the full poly-metal shell that Malady wore, the light tacticals were designed for faster movement and greater flexibility. The only overt display of power was the singular shoulder pad that each suit had over its right shoulder, emblazoned with the red ‘O’ of the Outcasts, the smaller Eagle-and-World insignia of the Confederacy, and whatever personal ranking identifiers that the adjunct-Marines might have. On Solomon’s shoulder was a small, magnetically-sealed gold star, for instance, which designated him as the specialist commander for this squad.

  And also the one any enemy would want to shoot first, Solomon thought. But there wasn’t time for misgivings, as the holographic countdown on the inside of his visor was already hitting the last minute before they had to ship out.

  “Grab your glad-rags, ladies and gents,” Solomon heard himself saying. It was weird, hearing himself slip into this role so easily. He didn’t remember when it had become so easy to pretend to know what he was doing as a commander.

  Maybe it’s the super-smarts the serum is giving me? he thought wryly as he gestured to the equipment lockers. On the racks was an assortment of weapons from flash-bang grenades to localized EMP charges, and even a few bladed weapons. Solomon stuck to the tried and true, pulling for himself the Jackhammer combat rifle that was standard issue.

  “We don’t know what we’re facing out there today,” he said. In their infinite wisdom, the Marine Corps only gave them the details of the mission when they thought there was a ‘need to know.’

  “…so I want you all to pick what you’re most comfortable with. No surprises this time, okay?” he said, seeing Karamov and Kol follow suit in picking the Jackhammer, but with Kol adding a selection of grenades to clip onto his harness.

  Specialist Malady was a unique case, however, as he picked first two small Rotary MGs—small machine guns with rotating barrels that could spit out small, but very high-density bullets at a rate of three a second—as well as one much larger, tube-like apparatus that he slung over his rounded metal plate shoulder.

  “A particle cannon? Really, Malady?” Solomon had never seen the walking metal golem use one of them before, and he wondered if Malady had been listening when he had said ‘no surprises’ just a second ago.

  “I’m the only one who can handle the recoi
l. I fired them when I was in the Marines,” Malady stated in his deadpan, slightly electronic voice.

  Specialist Wen, of course, picked a Jackhammer along with two poly-steel blades. They looked like katanas but a little smaller, and she slid them into place in her thigh holsters.

  “You ready?” Solomon asked her, still feeling a little wary around her as he hadn’t seen her since their argument in the gymnasium. Another reason I’ve got to talk to Malady and Wen, he thought. He was closer to those two than to Karamov and Kol—not that he didn’t trust anyone on his squad—and he still wanted to share his late-night findings with them about Serum 21.

  That the Marine Corps is experimenting on us. And that any one of us might drop dead at any moment, just as Joachim had, Solomon thought.

  “ATTENTION OUTCASTS! SQUADS ASSEMBLE!” the speaker system announced, and a golden-green vector line appeared over Solomon’s visor screen indicating the path that he was designated to take. As they jogged to their position, the other squads were doing the same until the sixty-odd Outcasts left were now formed into small groups of four to five adjunct-Marines. Each stood before the ramps that led up to the double-doors of the hangar bay.

  “Right!” a voice bellowed, amplified from above. Solomon looked up to see that it was, of course, Warden Coates, standing on the balcony beside two other staffers with Doctor Palinov a few steps behind him. Solomon wondered if the doctor looked a little subdued today, as her head was down, studying a data-screen.

  Probably checking our performance results, he thought with a twinge of unease.

  “Listen up, schlubs! This order comes down from Marine Command, working directly under the Fleet General!” the warden barked. “The deep-field station-ship Kepler is a generational transport ship between Earth and Proxima. You all should know what that means.”

  Solomon did. The ‘deep-field’ ships were a class of spacecraft designed to travel far into deep space, and to jump for prolonged distances on eternal round journeys that looped in and out of Earth’s system, delivering much needed materials and resources to the far-flung colonies of the Confederacy. It was a necessity that even jump travel couldn’t get around, unfortunately. While it was possible to send smaller Barr-Hawking jump-ships back and forth from the colonies in a matter of days, the smaller ships could only manage to carry so much back and forth. Since the colonies were also important for extracting gold and rare minerals to be sent back to their buyers on Earth, then a large-scale, industrial transport network was needed.

  Hence the deep-field ships, each fitted with their own Barr-Hawking particle generators, and able to perform multiple small jumps on their long journey across the hundreds of lightyears that separated the colonies.

  But the Kepler deep-field was apparently also a station-ship, which meant that it functioned pretty much as a moving space station, with habitats and dormitories and recreational facilities. The warden had said that it was a generational ship, which meant that the Kepler had been designed as a miniature traveling Earth colony all by itself, with families of settlers running the ship for years at a time, before moving out to be replaced by a new family.

  Solomon had seen the adverts back on Earth, of course. Glossy, airbrushed photographs of young moms and dads with their earnest teenaged children. ‘Are You Looking For A New Start In Life? Do You Want A Secure Future For Your Children?’ and so on. The deal was a five, ten, or fifteen-year contract that would see the families become expert station-ship operatives, and reward their children with specialist training skills such as astro-navigation, space craft maintenance, logistics, or communications.

  It sounded like a pretty good deal for a young family, if you didn’t count the fact that the deep-field ships were also the ones most likely to be targeted by raiders—rogue bands of mercenaries and criminal gangs who had managed to launch their own spacecraft to seize, kidnap, or ransom the precious materials inside.

  “We lost contact with Kepler just after the Erisian Asteroid Field, so your search will begin there. You will deploy in scout-class Marine ships, and when you have located the Kepler, you will attempt to ascertain what happened to it, and whether there are any survivors,” the warden barked. “This might be a case of emergency response, so I want every squad to be carrying a full medical kit. Or it might be a firefight against the raiders, so every squad has to be ready to respond with deadly force if threatened. Your goal is to locate the Kepler, and to return its crew and merchandise safely to Confederate hands. Got that?”

  “AYE-AYE, sir!” the congregation of Outcasts roared.

  “Then repeat after me, the Marine Oath.” Warden Coates led them in the standard litany that they recited every morning during their audience briefing.

  “Through blood and fire, I will still stand strong.

  “I will stand at the borders and the crossroads, I will stand strong.

  “Even with the eternal night before me, I will be the flame!’

  The lights over the hangar doors started to flash green, and steam hissed out from jets at their feet as the warden and the rest of the staff took their leave. It was a fairly short speech, Solomon thought, and he wondered if that counted as an inspirational ‘pep’ talk in Coates’ twisted little mind.

  With a grinding noise, the double-doors creaked open, revealing the industrial-looking insides of the Marine transport ship on the other side. The cargo hold was filled with pull-down chairs with webbing attached to the walls that they were expected to clip themselves into, in squad order.

  “GO! GO! GO!” the speakers blared at them, and Solomon was running forward, leading his Gold Squad to their second mission on behalf of the Confederate Marine Corps.

  Just as before, their Barr-Hawking jump-ship awaited them in the sweet spot where the pull of Jupiter’s massive gravity well was met by the pull of Ganymede and the outer moons. It was in this place, where the different ‘tides’ of gravitons almost balanced each other out, that was the ideal place for the Barr-Hawking ship to fold space-time.

  Pfft! Pfft! Bursts of gas-propelled wires and magnet clamps were fired back from the giant ring that completely overshadowed the small ship, surrounding it like a god’s game of hoopla. With dull metallic thumps, they slapped onto the reinforced nose of the box-like Marine transporter, and the four particle generators at each cardinal point of the ring started to fire.

  If Solomon or any of the other adjunct-Marines had cockpits to view what was happening outside, they would have seen something strange starting to happen to the light around the Barr-Hawking ship. The distant stars on the other side started to double, refract, and split apart.

  With all the balletic grace of deep space travel, the Barr-Hawking ship fired its thrusters and started to move forward. Its magnet clamps transmitted the exact overrides to its passenger’s engines and the other ship matched its forward propulsion. Behind them, Ganymede started to grow smaller and paler, and Jupiter became just one giant crimson eye.

  And then, Solomon and all the other adjunct-Marines on board felt the first wave of vertigo that heralded space sickness, the primate awareness that you were doing something that your biology should never allow.

  The particle generators of the Barr-Hawking vessel created enough turbulence at the subatomic level that it created a ripple in space-time, a ripple that folded the fabric of space, allowing normal travel to eat up lightyears even as the body of the craft moved at its regular pace.

  In his seat, Solomon felt as though he were shaking, although he and every other member of the Outcasts weren’t moving other than to shuffle uncomfortably in their seats. The webbing across their chests held them tight against the chair, and the main cargo hold was cold. No in-flight luxuries for the Outcast Marines.

  Just as Solomon’s nausea spiked, and he was sure that he was going to be sick, the ship shuddered and appeared to have reached a stop.

  Are we there yet? Solomon’s frazzled thoughts made him feel slightly hysterical, but he was answered anyway, as the holographic commands
scrolled down the inside of his visor screen.

  Mission ID: KEPLER

  Strike Group ID: Outcasts, Adj. Marine.

  Parent Fleet ID: Rapid Response 2, Confederate Marine Corps.

  Squad Commanders: Cready (Gold), Hitchin (Silver), Gorlais (Bronze), Hu (Red), Nndebi (Blue), Walters (Green), Mendez (White), Suriman (Orange), Khan (Purple), Lovelace (Gray), Molko (Fuchsia).

  GROUP-WIDE ORDERS:

  Proceed to Hangar Launch Docks.

  Receive Command of Marine Scout Vessel.

  Follow Search Protocol Pattern #3

  Well, this is new, Solomon thought as the buckled straps of his webbing automatically unlocked, allowing him to float upward a little in his chair. “Damn, this ship hasn’t got any graviton generators, has it,” he muttered to himself, earning a wry chuckle from Karamov beside him.

  On his visor, the flashing green-gold line indicated that he take his squad not to the main cargo doors that they had entered through, but instead up the metal stairs and through one of the doors in the balcony that overlooked their seating.

  “We have our orders, Gold Squad,” he said, using his hands and feet to push himself off and swim through the air.

  All of the adjuncts had been through hours and hours of zero-G and near-zero practice, but it wasn’t without a few muttered curses and collisions that Solomon managed to ‘swim’ his squad over the steps to hit the door controls.

  The Marines really aren’t offering any luxuries on this flight, are they? he thought, realizing that they hadn’t even bothered to pressurize and atmospherically control the internal corridors of the transporter this time. He wondered if that meant that Marine Command regarded this as a real emergency.