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Tyrell Station was stacked along the slope of a sharp rise approximately a kilometer north of a deep canyon that sliced through Keros’ surface for over a thousand kilometers from east to west. Mighty mountain ranges marched both north and south of the canyon for hundreds of kilometers before petering out.
The outpost was an extraordinary collection of large, standardized, rectangular modules supported and joined by fragile-looking, spidery struts and tubes. It seemed to sit so precariously on the rugged surface that an observer might think it could slide into the canyon at a moment’s notice.
The top level of the installation rose a few stories above the crest and was home to hydroponics modules which ensured a constant supply of fresh air and food. Administrative offices and recreational facilities sat immediately below them. Those modules and the hydroponics were the only part of the installation that received a full twelve hours of sunlight.
Two modules, arranged alongside a flat space of slagged rock, were more prominent than the rest and held the hangar and smelter. A long, spindly, symmetrical construct emerged from the latter at an angle, facing northward — the railgun which sent refined product into orbit for harvesting by the regular supply ship.
As mentioned in the briefing package, four three-hundred millimeter plasma guns, powerful enough to make anything in orbit think twice — the sum total of Tyrell’s outer defenses — sat on the heights surrounding the base. Remotely controlled by the operations center, they weren’t part of the station proper and could only be accessed by personnel wearing pressure suits.
“You know, Skipper,” Sergeant Testo said, staring at the passenger mess primary display along with every other Erinye, “the only sort of attack we can stop with those oversized peashooters is a head-on assault from space. Anyone planning an attack won’t be stupid enough to do so, at least not without inside help.”
“It’ll be a bitch if we end up fighting.” First Sergeant Hak grimaced. “Those structures look like they couldn’t absorb even the lightest broadside from a sloop.”
“Hence the big guns, Top.”
Before Hak replied, the public address system came to life.
“Marines, prepare for departure. I say again, Marines, prepare for departure.”
As one, Erinye Company’s troopers stood and filed out of the mess, headed for their quarters where pressure suits and packed luggage waited.
“And so our pleasure cruise is over,” Hak muttered as he followed hard on Delgado’s heels. “Oo-rah!”
By the time Delgado entered the hangar, his company was formed in three ranks, suits buttoned up while the troop leaders checked their Marines to ensure those suits were pressurized and the rebreathers working correctly. Luggage and supply containers were already loaded, and as Delgado appeared, Sergeant Kuzek grabbed his bag and marched off toward one of the shuttles.
Delgado watched as, one by one, the troop leaders reported to First Sergeant Hak, confirming everyone was good to go. When all four, plus the company HQ section — first sergeant included — were ready, Delgado shut his visor and put his suit under pressure so Kuzek could run the usual buddy check.
Once the latter slapped his armored shoulder, Delgado raised his hand and made the mount-up signal. The hangar’s inner airlocks swung shut at that moment while a red warning light began to strobe.
The last to board, Delgado climbed aboard his assigned shuttle and headed straight for the flight deck, where Hak was already settling into one of the spare jump seats. He felt the vibration of the aft ramp closing through the soles of his armored boots and took the other jump seat.
The pilot, also in a pressure suit, received terse commands over the ship’s network from the hangar deck controller as the main space doors opened, leaving a shimmering force field curtain behind to keep the deck’s air from escaping. One by one, the shuttles nosed through that curtain and out into space, initiating a lazy spiral downward.
As they lost altitude, Tyrell Station turned into a dazzling array of light, its metallic and transparent surfaces gleaming under the rays of a setting sun. It looked pretty, a bright jewel nestled in the dark, brooding, airless landscape. But that beauty was cold, uninviting, menacing, even, and Delgado felt a faint shiver go up his spine.
He was used to missions on habitable worlds, where he and his Marines need not worry about their air supply and a habitat’s pressure integrity. Where they could battle the elements if need be. But a world without an atmosphere was one of the deadliest environments for humans. The slightest mistake might kill, never mind enemy fire.
**
Heavy space doors closed as the last of Carentan’s shuttles settled down on the painted landing spot. On one side, a dozen ground vehicles with oversized wheels sat idle under the bright, industrial lighting, along with four tired, old administrative shuttles.
Pressure-suited figures equipped with backpacks, duffel bags, and small arms waited near the inner airlock beside a stack of collective equipment containers. One of them, a man with the three diamonds of a captain on his armored chest, stepped forward, helmet visor raised, and waited patiently for the new arrivals to disembark.
Delgado climbed out of his craft and headed for the man while lifting his own visor. The other officer noticed the oak leaf wreath around his single diamond and sketched a salute as he came near.
“Welcome to the hind-end of the universe, sir. I’m Dave Jerrold, Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 18th Marines, formerly the CO of the Tyrell Station garrison. You can’t imagine how glad I am you showed up before our time here was over. The hardship bonus we receive isn’t worth it, as you’ll find out in the next forty-eight hours or so.”
“Curtis Delgado, H Company, 3rd of the 42nd.”
“Caledonia, eh?” A knowing smile crossed Jerrold’s tired features. “Can I assume we’re handing this place over to you early and unexpectedly because something’s afoot? I’ve heard rumors one of the recon droids found something classified. And if that’s the case, might I venture you’re not from the 42nd, but another, more secretive unit stationed on Caledonia?”
“You may well think so, but I certainly couldn’t comment.”
Jerrold winked at Delgado.
“Seen, sir. Mum’s the word. Anyway, we’ve cleared out the barracks, and as you can see, my people are ready to load up the moment yours disembark. You’ll find one of Tyrell’s admin types standing by that door over there to guide you to your new digs.” He offered Delgado a small plastic box. “These are our logs and all the info you’ll need. You’ll find time crawls by around here, and nothing ever happens.”
“If nothing happens during our tour, then I’ll be happy.”
“Understood, sir. I’m sure the station commander will fill you in on anything you need to know. A final word of caution. As the saying goes, keep your hand on your wallet, your back against a wall, and don’t trust the locals. You’ll understand soon enough. Goodbye.”
“Enjoy the trip home.”
Jerrold saluted, closed his helmet visor, turned on his heels, and headed for Carentan’s shuttles where his Marines were loading while Hak formed the Erinyes in three ranks by the inner airlock.
Delgado, who also buttoned his suit up again, watched him go. A few minutes later, a klaxon sounded, the space doors opened, and the shuttles filed out. Once they vanished from sight, Delgado walked over to where a slight, pressure-suited figure stood apart from his Marines, waiting patiently.