General Alexander Markov stood gazing out through the wraparound windows of Alma Station's twenty metre high lookout tower. Night had fallen and strong winds howled across the lowland planes to the South. The winds were amplified by the tower's audio receivers, echoing around the small battered viewing platform like a haunted lament. Occasional dead trees disrupted the forlorn landscape. In the distance, Markov could just make out the dark pits that led to the nearest fless caves. He hoped he would never have to enter those caves again.
Glancing over his shoulder to the North, he could see little more than boulders scattered across the rising slopes of the Skybreaker Mountains. Small grey flowers poked out from tiny cracks in the exposed rock. When the sun rose, those flowers would turn yellow, providing the only touch of colour to an otherwise barren landscape.
Markov folded his arms, gazing out across the Southern Territories for the last time. He wasn't sad to be leaving, but his heart went out to the men and women who would be left behind. With the onset of darkness, the last patrols had already returned to the relative safety of the station's protective shields. But he knew that if he went to the cafeteria, he would find it almost empty. The majority of the crew preferred to spend their free time alone. Constant sickness and recurring bad dreams made them seek isolation whenever possible.
Markov walked slowly along the metal gangway inside the lookout tower's curving glass wall. He wondered if he would ever return to this place. Twenty metres below, he could see Alma Station's roof. Its only hangar was covered in dry grey vines, as usual. The vines sought the warmth and humidity of the station's external exhaust vents.
Blue lights flashed around the roof in a series of rapid pulses. A low groan of heavy machinery vibrated through the gangway beneath Markov's feet. Small discs irised open on the roof below and proton cannons rose up on tall pedestals, tilting their long barrels towards the sky. By the time the turrets had completed their automatic scans, fire was already erupting from a dozen small openings around the roof. The flames blasted the tangled vines away from the armoured doors at the southern end of the station. The vines shrivelled up under the intense heat, sending plumes of black smoke towards the lookout tower. But even under such harsh conditions, the vines' thick stems would grow back within a few hours. Markov watched with his hands behind his back as the last of as the flames went out. Smoke drifted away on the wind and silence returned.
When the roof was clear, security forces poured out through a small hatch in the middle of the roof. They spread out, forming a wide semicircle that faced out across the southern planes. Once they were in position, the soldiers donned their long range night goggles to stare out across the dark planes. Several glanced up at the sky. One bye one, they raised an arm above their heads, indicating that the planes were clear. It was a familiar routine. They trusted their own eyes more than any long range scanners. Too often the scanners had given an all clear, only for them later to discover something unpleasant lurking nearby. The southern planes were full of surprises - none of them nice.
Commander Harg stood in the centre of the circle of soldiers. A white star stood out on the upper arm of his heavy black jacket. He shouted something unintelligible before running back towards the central hatch, disappearing down a steep staircase that led to the hangar below. The security forces broke from their semicircle to form a spiral that flowed down the hatch behind him. Before long, the roof was clear and the hatch slammed shut. A short klaxon blared out across the southern planes.
'It's time,' a voice said from the back of the viewing platform.
Markov nodded, but he didn't turn to face the messenger who had been waiting for him. Instead, he headed for the metal ladder that led to the hangar below.
The ladder rungs felt cold against the palms of his hands as he descended. It was a long ladder but Markov had climbed it many times before. He moved with quick steps until he reached the bottom of the ladder. When his boot touched the platform below, he turned and headed along a metal walkway towards the rear entrance of the hangar.
Dim blue lights illuminated the walkway from above. Markov walked with short mechanical steps until he came to a thick steel door. Entering his security credentials, he waited for the door to slide sideways out of his way. When the door opened, he squinted under the bright lights of the landing bay until his eyes became accustomed to the changing light levels.
The hangar occupied a quarter of Alma Station's ground level. It had a high ceiling, and the walls were riddled with metal walkways and maintenance equipment. Markov took a deep breath. In the middle of the hangar, the massive black form of the Albatross stood waiting for him. The thin black lozenge rippled in the air, flickering in and out of view as it warmed up its matter obfuscators. Almost the entire crew of Alma Station had gathered into two straight lines, forming a path between him and the Albatross. It was time for him to leave.
He couldn't delay it any longer. He strode between the soldiers with a straight back until he reached Commander Harg at the end of the line.
'Safe flight, General,' Harg said. His face was grey, like a man who had been dead for several hours, but his heart still pumped strong in his chest. His face had looked that exact same way when Markov had first met him, four years earlier. He would never change.
'My replacement will be here within twenty-four hours,' Markov said. 'Until then, you have command.'
Harg nodded as though he expected nothing else.
Markov turned and looked at the lines of soldiers standing behind him. He wondered how many of them would survive beyond the end of the year. With nothing else to be said, he turned towards the steep metal staircase that hung down from the Albatross' mid section, and made his way inside.
Deep below the station, a low rumble of pistons vibrated through the ground. Alma Station's massive armoured blast doors slid apart with the sound of tired, tortured metal scraping across old, damaged rails. The rails were heavily oiled but the doors still left flakes of corroded metal scattered across the floor. When the doors were fully open, klaxons blared out, sending a short, sharp warning across the southern planes.
Alma station had dropped its shields. Proton cannons rose up from narrow tubes built into the hangar's floor. The turrets rotated as they searched for any signs of unusual activity. The soldiers broke from their lines as soon as the shields were down. They ran towards the sides of the hangar, holding their weapons ready, as their eyes stared into the darkness outside.
The Albatross flickered until it was barely visible. It floated across the hangar before propelling itself out through the open doors. It rose silently into the moonlit sky on long, black, rippling wings. Within a few seconds, it had become little more than a dark blur streaking across the sky. It swooped around, turning back towards the Skybreaker Mountains before vanishing in a whirl of thick contorted air. With the matter obfuscators on full power, it was almost invisible.
After four long years, the Albatross was going home.