They’d already been out of dock for a few weeks when they got the call—a mining outpost, three days away. Thirty-one technicians trapped in the infested area, completely out of contact for over eighty hours. Deep 4 was populated by a few hundred machine techs and some low-level management, a Company outpost like a hundred others; this one melted dirt to get to silurium, whatever the hell that was.
Martin Jess didn’t particularly give a shit, truth be known. He and his boys weren’t called in to give a rat’s ass about minerals… or miners, for that matter. What mattered was that they were now twenty minutes out, probably no more than an hour till party time. Which meant that it was time to suit up.
Jess took a final swig of coffee and tossed the cup into the recycler on his way out of mess, gritting his teeth slightly as he walked beneath the cheaply framed doorway. Although he couldn’t hear it, he knew that a soft mechanical beep went off in ops as he passed beneath the frame, recording codes from his surgical implant. He sighed inwardly as he headed down the dim and sweaty B corridor, toward lockers; it still bothered him, even after all this time. One of the many annoying consequences of a felony conviction, he supposed. Even the Corps wouldn’t take chances on their leased “volunteer” ships. If any of their little birdies wanted to fly away, (or, say, slit the captain’s throat during a psychotic episode), these ships were set up to know all the gory details. Expensive in terms of equipment, but not as bad as trying to hire civilians for this sort of work…
The open ’com interrupted his wanderings. “Jess, this is Pop. Tell the boys that we’re looking at fifteen minutes till break; I wouldn’t want Pulaski to choke to death on his sugar rush or anything.”
Jess spoke as he walked, grinning. “It’s gonna take more than a candy bar to kill the Man.”
Commander “Pop” Izzard chuckled gruffly, sounding muffled through the ship’s aging communications system. “I hear that. Keep an ear up for the count; I’ll leave shipwide on.”
Standard procedure. Jess didn’t bother answering as he hung a left toward the unloading ramp, down a much shorter hallway—but as poorly lit and ventilated as the last. Even with Max aboard, H/K teams didn’t warrant the best of ships—although the Nemesis wasn’t the worst he’d experienced. Not a luxury liner, but one of his first stints had been on a real shithole, a poured-plastic job, the Exeter (this was before some genius got the idea to capitalize on “team spirit” by naming the newer breed of H/K “cruisers” shit like Enmity and Wrath). Hell, compared to the Exeter, the Nemesis was a wet dream; at least there was room to stretch here without putting your fist in somebody’s face.
He stopped in front of the suit-up area, took a deep breath. When this one was finished, they’d be headed for a full week of R and R, their first real break in months. Most stops were overnighters, supply pickups or transfers; they could all use the rest.
In spite of himself, he could already feel the adrenaline starting to tingle through his veins, singing to the glories of the hunt; apparently, his body wasn’t hip to how crazy-stupid all of this was. Not that it ever had been; a couple of years ago, he couldn’t wait for the feel of a hot pulse rifle in his hands, set against the hissing shrieks of the enemy. A few years before that, smuggling and gangbanging were his drugs of choice, anything that spelled trouble and a chance to fuck with death; oh, yeah, he’d been a hardass once. Now? Now he watched the time, marking out the months he had left until parole. The skin over his implant was itching lately, and he wanted it gone. Eight more after this and time served.
Starting now, numbnuts; you have a crew to lead and they’re both looking to you to help keep them alive. You gonna do that, or are you gonna stand here trippin’ all day in the fucking hall?
“Hail Mary,” he mumbled, and tapped the entry keypad.
* * *
Second Lieutenant Katherine Lara ran her hands across the keys and sent the first in a series of hailers to Traon, Deep 4 specifically. She barely had to think about it anymore, practically muscle memory: Weyland/Yutani cruiser Nemesis H/K Berserker team inbound, ETA blah blah blah… frequencies and code and stats, data entry at its most basic. She was suffused with a bizarre combination of emotional tension and physical lethargy; her shoulders ached. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind throughout her long, often psychotically paced training—the joy of punching code and running communications for a corporate lease ship. The cause was valid, sure, but lately she was hard-pressed to rationalize the methods. Teape, for example…
“I’m late, I’m late, for a most important date,” Teape sang softly, his low voice broadcasting clearly through the small cockpit; speak of the devil! Lara smiled vaguely but could hear the strain in his voice, the carefully checked fear. Behind her, Pop laughed.
Lara glanced up at a one-way monitor and quickly looked back at her computer screen; Teape and Jess were tightening their armor already, but Pulaski was still padding around in his jock, simultaneously chewing on a Mars bar and unselfconsciously scratching one huge and tightly muscled buttock. The Candyman was a testosterone-dork, almost a giant even without the obvious years of bodybuilding and steroids. Big-time macho right down to the buzzed white mohawk and a tattoo of a snake on his arm. Not someone she particularly wanted to watch scratching his butt; let Pop keep an eye on things for a while.
“You wanna light a fire down there, Pulaski?” Pop had apparently been doing just that. Lara glanced over her shoulder; he was already focused back on the controls, piloting easily toward Traon.
“Light this,” said Pulaski, and laughed loudly. Lara didn’t bother to look up this time; she could guess what he was holding besides the perpetual candy bar.
A list of stats and a form-letter acknowledgment scrolled up in front of her as Deep 4 picked up its channel of choice; she punched in the return formalities and logged a few numbers, trying to tune out some of the tense laughter that pulsed over the intercom as the boys got themselves geared. This was her seventh run on the Nemesis with Pop, their fifth with this particular threesome—well, except for Teape’s predecessor, Mannings; that weasely little creep had finally burned out four missions back. None of the volunteers were in for sex crimes, Company precautions and morale and all that—but she’d suspected that Mannings had slipped through anyway. The way he’d watched her every time she moved—Lara shuddered slightly. Even now, she couldn’t muster any pity for him, although he’d psyched out hard, maybe one mission away from a full psychotic break…
A solemn male voice interrupted her thoughts. “…this is Traon Weyland/Yutani Deep 4, hailing Nemesis, over.”
Lara tapped her mike. “Traon, Deep 4, you got Hunter/Killer Nemesis on an inward bounder, requesting landing coordinates. We are at”—she glanced down at her monitor—“101-37, headed 100-26. Over.”
A string of numbers flitted across the screen, and when the communications tech spoke again, she could hear exhaustion and relief in his voice.
“Can’t tell you how glad we are to see a Berserker team, Nemesis. Coordinates sent and LZ is clear. Supervisor Sturges will come across, over.”
“Received, over and out.” Lara punched a few more buttons and then stretched her arms back, duties performed for the moment. Jess and Pulaski were laughing over something, and she warily looked up at the locker vid; Pulaski had pants on, at least. They were a pretty good group, all in all, a cut above what she’d come to expect. Martin Jess was straddling one end of the locker-room bench, grinning easily. Tall, brown-skinned with a winning laugh and some military experience, he was a solid ground leader—one of those calm-in-crisis types who excelled in keeping up team spirit. Although not particularly well educated, he was sharp and alert in his work, high intelligence marks from his parole distributor.
Jess looked up at the cam, still grinning. “Hey, Pop, you hear that? Teape wants to know how come they can’t train a dog to do his job—”
Pulaski cut in, “—and he tole him ’cause they can’t find a dog dumb enough to volunteer!”
Teape smiled tightly, his thin, pale face outlined by a dark scruff of beard. The cuff of his right ear was pierced with thick steel hoops, his spiky hair pushed back over shaved sides. Teape was the youngest member of the team.
“Yeah, you’re a real funny guy, Jess. I’ll lie awake nights and laugh about that one. My life has meaning now.” Lara could tell that he was sweating in spite of the cool temperature in the locker room.
Pulaski was finally struggling into his armor, the legend eat me scrawled across one massive shoulder guard. “Well, I ain’t dumb, an’ I volunteered.”
Teape and Jess exchanged a smirking glance and Teape sighed. “Borderline psychotics don’t count, Candyman, since their intelligence isn’t called into play over decisions like H/K sign-up; it’d be reflexive.”
Jess cracked up, Teape played it straight, as usual. He was probably the wittiest of the three, which was good; Lara had theorized that the baiters with decent senses of humor did better than those without. Hell, look at Mannings; hysterics, shakes, the whole read of symptoms—and his taste had run toward frighteningly malicious “pussy” jokes. Teape held it together pretty well, all things considered.
“I don’t remember no mention of the word ‘borderline,’” Pulaski said, then laughed bawdily. He picked up an M41 and pumped the action on the grenade launcher, the well-oiled metal snapping sharply.
Pop spoke up behind her, sounding amused. “That’s what I like, a happy crew! I’m going to miss you little rays of sunshine when I’m gone.”
Pop couldn’t see her expression; Lara smiled slightly. She couldn’t speak for the team, but she didn’t expect to miss Eric “Pop” Izzard very much at all. In spite of whatever he thought…
“And speaking of, how’s Max, Ellis?”
Lara tuned back in. Max was fine or they’d have heard about it, but she wondered how their newest addition was holding up. Ellis seemed like a nice kid, shy, straggling with some of the same career choices as her. They’d talked a few times over coffee about assignments and she’d filled him in on a few tidbits of H/K etiquette while they swapped info on Max; he was as interested in the SOP as she was the robotics.
Ellis’s soft, clear voice filled the cool room. “Still in deep sedation, sir. Respiratory and cardio rate even, no REMs— you want me to run a full systems check, Commander?”
Lara winced slightly, and Pop’s icily bland reply spoke volumes.
“That would be helpful, son. We may be needing him soon.”
He ’commed off sharply and scoffed. “Twenty-six missions and they saddle me with Ellis. What does the guy do all day?”
Lara shrugged but didn’t turn around. “He’s green, but he’s got the training. Give him a chance.”
Pop laughed softly, and she could tell that he was shaking his head gently. As if to say, “Yeah, whatever, babe.” He raised his voice suddenly, his standard go-get-’em tone at full volume as he addressed the team.
“We’re there in five! Belt up, boot up, and get ready to roll, people!”
God, he was starting to annoy her. Sleeping with him had been a serious mistake.