29THE PLATFORM APPEARS upon the viewscreen before me, flat gray against the brilliant ripple of star-studded space above and the glowing white aura of the planet below. Skysa OP SE-3. From a distance, it looks like any other OP I might see out in orbit. It’s only as we draw nearer—near enough to see the scorch marks scoring the thick tritanium, the hatches that have been welded shut, the portals that have been rendered inaccessible—that it starts to sink in. This isn’t an orbital platform anymore.

This is an enemy stronghold.

I stare grimly ahead, heart thumping as the shuttle dances closer to the target, its course carefully calculated to avoid any sensor sweeps. Melted stumps and burned metal dot the platform at various intervals—vestiges of the platform’s weapons system, destroyed by the navy during the original evacuation—while entire docking arms have been sheared off completely. Most have long since floated away, but a few remain, caged by the wreckage still partially attached along the scored metal.

“Infinity, this is StarRunner. Approach vector is set and confirmed. I repeat, approach vector is confirmed.”

“Acknowledged,” comes Major Estes’ voice through the com. “You’re cleared to engage. Happy hunting, StarRunner.”

“Understood. StarRunner out.”

Our pilot cuts the com, and a moment later the ship noticeably picks up speed. It’s our first mission since leaving R&D, and adrenaline runs through the shuttle like rain. Silver stealth lights drench the cabin in a cold sweat, bathing everyone inside in a sickly aura that only enhances the climate of dread. I set my jaw, unwilling to give in to the fear. This mission is too important to frag up through overeager nerves and rookie mistakes.

The OP’s port deck looms up on the viewscreen, blistered and black, before sliding away beneath us as we pull up over the platform to skim along its top. The glow of the planet disappears, blocked by the platform’s heavy hull, and darkness falls across the lower viewscreen. I shiver at the sudden blackness, face turned to the target just below. Can they sense us down there, through the meters of tritanium and the cold of the vacuum? Do they know we’re here, or for once have we managed to turn the tables on our enemy, becoming the silent specter coming invisibly in the night for them?

We coast lengthwise down the platform, gliding past fried docking ports and seared hatches until we reach the halfway point. With a slight shiver, the ship perches delicately on the OP’s hull, its magnetic landers touching down against the metal as softly as a butterfly’s feet alighting on a flower. My muscles tense, every sense on high alert as I wait for the pilot to complete the landing process and give us the go-ahead to move. It’s not long in coming.

“Delta Team,” comes the pilot’s voice a minute later, “landers have been extended and locked into place. You’re clear for debarkation at your convenience.”

“Acknowledged, StarRunner,” Archer responds. He signals us to seal our helmets, switching over to the team channel as he says, “All right, Delta, we’re up. Let’s go.”

He issues a few commands with his chit hand, and a circular hatch set into the floor begins to open. I climb down first, along with three specialists, to form a human assembly line along the ladder and into the airlock below. Under Archer’s supervision, the others pass down several large canisters to us. As soon as they’re in the airlock, Archer and the remaining specialists climb down, hatch closing behind them.

“Helmets secure?” comes Archer’s query.

I check my seals, adding my own affirmative to everyone else’s. Shortly after, I hear the soft hiss of the air being vented from the airlock. The process seems to take forever, but eventually the indicator light on the control panel turns red, and I know we’re ready to go. Archer glances at me.

“You want to do the honors, Sorenson?”

With a curt nod, I hit the large round button on the control panel. The circular hatch set into the floor opens, and we’re looking down into space.

Sheer awe has me surreptitiously grabbing a handgrip to steady myself. This is no digitized vista projected across a perfectly solid wall, no view through a pane of glass or chunk of crystal. Just the deep, yawning black of the void, nothing between us and its endless chasm but the platform below.

“Raisman,” Archer calls, “you’re up.”

“Yes, sir.” Lifting a dual-gauge magnetic grappler to her shoulder, Raisman crouches by the hatch, takes careful aim, and fires.

The heavy cord shoots from the grappler in a perfect arc, the magnetic end attaching to the platform three meters below. Raisman gives the line several hard pulls to ensure it’s secure, then ties off the other end inside the shuttle. After another couple of tugs, she nods at Archer. “Safety line secure, sir.”

Archer nods. “Acknowledged. All right, team, it’s go time. Just like we practiced. Keep your clip secured to the safety line until you’re magged onto the platform, and don’t forget to keep an eye on the fences.”

I glance at the force fence grid on my face shield. With our noses rendered ineffective in the vacuum, the fences surrounding the OP will be our only warning if the ghouls decide to come out and play. A nerve-wracking proposition, though we’ve all pre-dosed with Psi-Lac just in case. They may be able to possess us, but at least they won’t be able to control us. Not at first, anyway. The last thing we want is one infected team member to take down the rest before they even know what they’re doing.

Archer takes his place by the hatch and gives me a single nod. I spring into action, running to the hatch where I immediately clip onto the safety line. Adrenaline is pumping in my veins, but I don’t feel scared anymore, only confident and strong. This is what I’ve been training for all these months, through simulation after simulation and test after test. The enemy has hit me hard, robbed me of the people and things I love the most. Now it’s my turn to fight back.

I don’t hesitate, but jump feet-first through the hatch toward the platform, pushing off from the shuttle and allowing the safety line to guide me down. I spot the hull coming up and activate my boots, letting the sharp tug of the magnets pull me the rest of the way to the duro-steel hull. The shock of the landing reverberates through my legs, but I’m on, safe and sound. I unhook from the railing, letting the cord recoil into my belt with a quick snap. Taking a few steps across the hull to clear the way, I signal to the rest.

“Sorenson reporting. I’m safely on and secure.”

“Acknowledged. Kagawa, go!”

Within a minute, Kagawa, Jethro, and Raisman have joined me below. The canisters are sent down next, clipped to the security line and pushed into our waiting arms. The rest of the team follows them down, brought up by Archer in the rear who promptly releases the security line the moment he’s magged to the platform.

“StarRunner, this is Delta. All equipment and personnel have completed debarkation. You’re good to go any time.”

“Roger that, Delta.” Up above, the airlock hatch closes, sliding firmly shut with a finality that only serves to emphasize just how exposed we are. “Departure in thirty. StarRunner out.”

The landers retract, and the shuttle lifts off, its stealth-draped carapace a transparent ripple barely visible against the deep black sky before it disappears altogether. A wave of vertigo hits me as I stand there, only a pair of mag boots between me and the endless vacuum. For the first time, I realize just how insignificant I am, one small life form within a vast universe that neither knows nor cares if I live or die. It’s the single most exhilarating—and terrifying—thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

Archer’s voice snaps me back to reality. “Sorenson, Kagawa—take your triads and execute the first stage. Triad One, follow me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Affirmative, TL.”

At my nod, Raisman and Jethro each grab a canister while I activate the tracker that will allow me to pinpoint our assigned location. Splitting apart from the others, we head north along the platform’s outer ridge. I walk in ponderous strides, unaccustomed to the constant tug of the mag boots as they continually seek to pull my feet back to the platform. Not that I’m complaining. I’ll take sore calves over a one-way trip into the vacuum any day.

We stop at a cluster of exhaust vents at the far end. It’s one of the few places where the ventilation system comes up to the platform’s surface, allowing it to vent excess waste gases or heat into the vacuum where they can harmlessly disperse. It’s a key part of any orbital habitat’s self-sustainability, and they’re the only outside portals not sealed up upon evacuation. Now the very ventilation system that makes life possible will become our greatest weapon.

Taking off my pack, I start pulling out charges, all specially made for use in the vacuum. Briefly forgetting where we are, I lob one to Jethro. Instead of arcing neatly into his hands, it sails up and over his shoulder. He twists in a last-minute grab for it, but just misses. As one, we all watch it soar into space and out of sight.

“Retrieving that’s going to be a bitch,” Raisman observes dryly. “Talk about a long walk off a short pier.”

Jethro snickers. I just shake my head.

Luckily we have extra charges, though I settle for handing them to the others this time instead of tossing them. We set our charges in an equilateral triangle to the right of the vents, each charge roughly a meter apart. Backing well away, I take cover behind the charred remains of a weapons mount with the others. Once we’re all secure, I detonate the charges with a twist of my hand.

The outer plating blows off the hull in a flurry of tiles. Shrapnel flies in every direction, soundlessly winging its way into space, the silence of the explosion at odds with the violent vibrations rippling through the hull beneath my boots. I keep low and tight, making myself as small a target as possible, though the weapons mount should be enough to shield us from any debris. We wait until well after the area has cleared, then go back to survey our work. A gaping hole perhaps two meters in diameter waits for us. The outer hull has blown cleanly off, leaving only a layer of silvery insulation between us and the guts of the platform.

“Nice,” Jethro comments.

“Sure, if you like wanton destruction,” replies Raisman.

The two look at each other, then burst out laughing at the same time. I grin ruefully. Yeah, that’s a no-brainer. I give them their moment, then wave my hand for silence.

“All right, enough. We’ve still got a job to do. Jethro, you got the cutter?”

“Affirmative, ATL,” he says, all business as he wrestles the large, two-handed laser cutter from his pack.

I run the tracker over the hole, looking for the right spot. The monitor stops me a meter from the far edge. Pulling a marking tool from my belt, I sketch out the area in bold white lines. Stepping back, I make sure to give Jethro plenty of room as he fires up the huge cutter.

“Sorenson, status report.”

I flip to the command channel in answer to Archer’s summons and say, “TL, we’ve blown the outer hull and are about to cut through the insulation. I estimate breakthrough in approximately thirty minutes.”

“Understood. Keep me posted.”

We take turns with the cutter over the next thirty minutes, swapping it between us as the precision beam work and exacting muscle control required for the job take their toll on us. At least the lack of gravity means we don’t have to support the cutter’s weight, which is considerable. Despite the hard work, the time flies, and before I know it, we’re pushing through the last of the barrier. The insulation peels away, and suddenly we’re in. Below are the emergency O2 tanks that feed directly into the main ventilation system in case of system failure. Now it’s just a matter of unhooking the oxygen tanks and connecting our own gaseous brew.

“Jethro, schematics.”

He digitizes the system plan over his suit arm, reading out the instructions while Raisman and I each take a canister and begin the complex process of bypassing the security and switching out canisters. Hoses, nozzles, and control keys fly across my vision in a kaleidoscope of colors and lights as I work steadily to get the job done as fast as I can without making any mistakes. Finally finished, I check and double check the work until I’m satisfied everything is correct.

I link Archer. “Team Leader, we’ve attached the canisters and are ready to dispense on your command.”

“Acknowledged, Sorenson,” Archer’s voice comes back a moment later. “Kagawa, sitrep.”

“We’re just hooking up the final hoses now.” She pauses. “Checking the connections . . . and we’re a go.”

“Good. Sorenson, Kagawa—go ahead and dispense the gas.”

Excitement bubbles up in me at the command, though I keep my reaction to a hard grin. Reaching down, I twist the nozzles on both canisters until the indicator lights go from red to blue. Though I can’t hear it, I can imagine the gas hissing through the nozzle and into the ventilation shafts. Sitting back on my haunches, I wait as the gas goes to work.

While we can’t gas squatters—the safety protocols programmed into the platform would trip if we pumped in anything harmful to humans—that same limitation doesn’t apply to ghouls. Just like our launchers, these canisters hold a concentrated mix of gases repulsive to our incorporeal enemy. By dispensing the gases into specific parts of the OP, we can essentially clear out those areas for Gamma Team, giving them precious time to get in and upload the software before the ghouls come flying back for them. It’s similar to something we did on New Sol Station the day Lia died, gassing the habitat rings in order to push the Spectres away from the people and into the comparatively empty Central Hub.

I smile slightly at the memory. Here we are, a professional military strike team in the midst of the most important offensive of the war, and we’re using a strategy originally pioneered by my fifteen-year-old sister—who, in point of fact, was only thirteen at the time. Brotherly pride washes over me at having such a brilliant little sister, and I grin with pride . . . until I remember I’m supposed to be pissed at her, not proud.

The canisters finish dispensing their gaseous cargo within a matter of minutes, blue indicator lights flicking off to show they’re empty. I link Archer with the news, then direct my team in reversing the process: switching the empty canisters out for the original O2 containers, repacking the insulation, then securing it all down with flexible sheets of plastoid from our packs, which we bolt over the hole to replace the blown plating. As we work, I can hear Archer linking the others to let them know we’ve finished this portion of the job.

“Infinity, Gamma, this is Delta. We’ve finished dispensing the gas. I repeat, we have finished dispensing the gas.”

“Understood, Delta,” comes Songbird’s reply. “We’ll time our breach accordingly. Gamma out.”

We’ve just finished bolting down the last piece of plastoid when a flicker of red dances in the corner of my eye. My heart jumps, eyes flicking to the force fence grid on my face shield, but it’s just one of the fences inside the OP tripping as our gas begins to do its work. The ghouls aren’t coming through the hull of the platform to get us.

At least, not yet.

First part of the mission finished, it’s time to turn our attention to the second part of the job: modifying the shield generators. All of which are located on the opposite side of the platform, of course. After a brief check-in with Archer, I turn to my triad.

“Let’s take a walk.”

We set off across the hull, width-wise toward the nearest edge, detouring around crumbling weapons mounts and an interstellar antenna that’s so charred as to be practically unrecognizable. Our boots play along the smooth hull with soundless clanks, nothing but the in-and-out of my breaths echoing through my helmet and whispering in my ears. Now that I’ve gotten used to being in the open vacuum, there’s something almost peaceful about being here, enveloped within the heart of the starry night. The silence, the stillness; the strange feeling that I’m part of something so much larger than myself and completely alone at the same time.

We reach the edge of the platform, and I lean my head out over the side. Though I know that there is no real up or down in zero-g, that it’s solely my mag boots keeping my feet on the hull, the drop is still dizzying. Just a yawning chasm of black hovering over the distant glow of the planet below.

My stomach kicks as I take my first step over the edge, making sure my boot’s magged tight to the side before following with the other. I take a couple of steps down, and just like that my world reorients, the platform’s wall now becoming my new floor. Jethro and Raisman join me, flanking me on either side as we make our way down toward the bottom—side?—of the platform. Along the way, we pass a bank of viewports—real viewports, not simply digitized wall screens.

I peer inside, unable to make out much more than a host of shadowy shapes, half lit by the dim emergency lights still powered after all this time by solar fumes shunted from the collectors lining the platform. This particular OP is a Derelict—no squatters, only ghouls—so there’s no one inside to impede our progress, at least not physically. However, as I look inside that shadowy den, I can’t help wondering if there’s a shiver of ghouls on the other side of that viewport, looking back at me with a million ghostly eyes and a hunger that can never be satisfied.

Once on the planetward side of the platform, we meet up with Archer’s and Kagawa’s triads at the Central Shield Generator. It’s here where the Archangel’s power will be born, concentrated within the massive dish array before being transmitted to the planet below. Eight additional generators located in a giant ring around the central generator will help bolster and focus the power even further, enabling the generator to sweep the entire target area down below before rotating back up to sweep the OP itself. However, in order for it all to work, we have to make some serious modifications to the hardware along the planetside of the platform, starting with the Central Shield Generator.

“StarRunner, this is Delta requesting first CSG equipment drop. Please respond.”

“Acknowledged, Delta,” comes the pilot’s voice a second later. “Mobilizing now, with ETA in one minute. StarRunner out.”

Hours pass as we labor on the generators, enlarging the Central Dish Array with huge extender panels, adding additional power relays, and changing the energy converters. Everything required to turn a defensive energy shield generator into an offensive weapon capable of wiping out an entire alien species. After everything is installed, we have to recalibrate and sync it all with the original hardware before we can reactivate the system. Once we finish with the central dish, we split into triads to work the remaining eight generators which, to everyone’s relief, are significantly smaller and only require minor modifications.

While we attack the platform’s exterior, Songbird’s team goes to work inside.

“Infinity, this is Gamma. Fences show the enemy has relocated in an optimal spread. Requesting permission to breach the target.”

“Gamma, this is the Infinity. Permission granted. Stars be with you. Infinity out.”

Perched on the rim of a shield generator, scanner in hand, I listen in on Songbird’s team as they breach Starboard Hatch 3 and enter the platform. In some ways, their job is the easiest. Get in, upload and initialize the software, then get out again. However, with ghouls potentially lurking around every corner, it’s also the most dangerous job. If the ghouls don’t all evacuate the gassed areas as planned, or if they return earlier than expected, Gamma could get caught in an ambush impossible to escape.

Not that we’re entirely safe out here, but at least we could push away from the platform if the outside fences start to trip, use our jets to get as far away as possible, and call for a pickup. That’s assuming the ghouls even realize we’re here to begin with. According to the theorists, the ghouls are blind in the vacuum, unable to sense potential hosts through the airless void. I have no idea if that’s really true, but there would be a certain equilibrium in that, if so. We can’t smell them through the vacuum, but nor can they sense us with their ghoul-dar. It’s a fair exchange. Fairer than most match-ups between us.

“Sorenson, where is your triad on the modifications?”

I activate my com. “Our first generator is complete, and our second is nearly done. We’re just finishing up the last few modifications now.”

“Good. Choose one person to finish the mods with you, and send the other on to the last generator. Someone from Kagawa’s team and I will meet up with them there.”

“Understood. Sorenson out.”

Keeping Raisman at my side, I send Jethro on to help Archer with the remaining shield generator while we finish up on this one. Meanwhile, Songbird’s team seems to be moving along quickly. They’ve reached the Control Room and are three-quarters of the way through the upload. So far the gases seem to be working, keeping the ghouls well out of the way on one end while Gamma works on the other. Nor have any of the fences surrounding the platform tripped, though I’ve kept a constant eye on them. When we finally jump ship an hour later, piling into our shuttles and heading back to the main carrier, not only is everything installed and uploaded, but everyone is alive and uninfected. In other words, a textbook mission.

Sitting in the back of the shuttle, I exchange backslaps and fist bumps with the rest of the team. Though I’m drenched with sweat and my heart has yet to relax its guarded beat, I feel pumped. More than pumped, but victorious, like we just came up against our first real trial only to crush the opposition with ease.

However, as I watch the platform fall away through the aft viewport, its dark visage gleaming dully in the night, I somehow doubt the subsequent ops will be so easy.