Mike cast a worried glance at the lone T80 they had just rescued. He’d never seen one so badly damaged and the pilot survive. One knee joint was seized and the right arm swung uselessly as they’d carried him on board. Nearly the entire surface was pitted and scarred from who only knew how many engagements; some of them so deep to have nearly breached the inner, more sensitive layers. The entire unit was going to be a total loss.
Scans had shown the pilot was alive, but he had yet to make any attempt at communication on either secure or non-secure channels. He was most likely unconscious considering the circumstances. A medic and technician worked over the still figure, attempting to connect data and support feeds into the damaged suit’s connectors. They’d had to cut the access door off using a plasma torch because of the extensive damage. Once connected, they were able to start downloading data and give the pilot much needed fluids and nutrients. While the T80 had been able to feed and water its pilot during combat, he was still going to be very much in need of both. Extended combat sucked a lot out of guy.
“Not good.” Said the med tech as he scanned the suit’s data stream.
“What?” Mike moved closer to get a better look. “What’s the matter?”
The med tech turned the portable screen for him to see. “This guy’s been operational for three years without stop.” A look of incredulity crossed his face.
“I didn’t know that was even possible.” Mike replied. He knew the T80 was designed for combat operations for up to one month and he’d heard of soldiers going for as long as three, but three years seemed impossible.
“It’s definitely outside the manufacturer warranty.” The med tech joked. “I’m not sure what kind of consequences that will have for the pilot. We’re going to have to cut him out of the suit, but the bio foam may have fused with the skin. I’m just not sure how we’ll deal with that. Hopefully the brainiacs upstairs have something for this.”
A low whistle came from the other med tech. “No way. Check this out.”
“What?” Mike asked. He stepped over to where the other tech was standing and looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened. “Are you sure that’s correct?”
“Look at the suit, Sarge. What do you think?”
Mike had rarely seen kill totals that high. It took most pilots multiple deployments in large engagements to post those kinds of numbers. They were easily four times higher than anyone on his squad. Mike, who already had a great deal of respect for the guy that’d gone to the aid of his downed marines, felt that respect grow to something akin to hero worship. “This guy is a god among men for sure.” The med techs laughed. Mike laughed with them, but wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t mean it.
***
Mike supervised the unloading of his injured marines and lone T80 to the medical bay. He’d already stepped from his own unit and was still wearing his under suit; a black form fitting and fire resistant material that accentuated his cut figure. It also made him feel naked, but seeing to his marines was more important than his own personal comfort.
A swarm of med techs and doctors pushed him aside and began working. Two and Three, aka. Jackson and Lena were carefully extracted from their suits and placed on gurneys. Broken bones were set and additional meds administered through I.V.’s.
The lone T80 was a different story. A group of doctors and med techs stood around the still figure consulting. The data and bio feeds had been hooked to the ship’s main systems and everyone was going over the data streams. Each combat vessel had a full medic bay. Like most medical facilities, everything was white and sterile. Unlike most medical facilities, it had as much in common with a mechanic shop as it did with an operating room. Anti-gravity lifts and tool boxes were necessary implements when it came to extracting the red creamy center of a T80 battle suit damaged in combat.
Mike walked over to the lead doctor as the group began to disperse to their various assigned tasks; the consultation apparently over. Mike was a little confused they weren’t making any attempts to free the pilot currently trapped inside. “What gives, Doc? You gonna leave him in there?”
Doctor Little looked up from his data pad. “Hey, Mike.”
The doctor was in his late thirties. He had a lean build and Irish red hair, but none of the accent. He wore wire rimmed glasses and generally had a very personable approach to his doctoring. The glasses were an odd touch. Most people preferred the retinal lenses. Regardless, they were packed with the latest tech; allowing the doctor to make quick medical assessments at a glance. Mike had been to the med bay many times over the years to get sown up. Most doctors were arrogant pricks, but Doctor Little treated people as if they mattered.
“I’m afraid so. At least until we can get to a bigger facility with more equipment than what we have available here. Proycon probably. That will be the nearest naval facility with the kind of equipment we’re going to need. In the mean time we’ll monitor vitals and keep her sedated.”
“I thought you were a full service, one stop shop, Doc?” With the lifts, plasma torches and other assorted tools and specialized equipment the medic bay was equipped to do everything up to and including emergency extractions.
“This is going to involve a little more than just cutting her from the suit, I’m afraid.” Doctor Little set his data pad down and cleaned his glasses. Setting them back on his face, he continued. “Our unknown pilot here has been operational for three continuous years. The scans show no physical damage, but we’re getting some weird readings at the cellular level. We’re also worried the bio gel has fused with the skin and we’ll need to work some specialized treatment or procedure to separate her from the suit’s gel lining.”
Mike’s head cocked to the side curiously. “Did you say ‘her’?”
“Yeah, Mike, her. You need me to draw you a picture?” The doc smiled at Mike and the goofy expression on his face. “Something the matter?”
“Well…no, Doc. It’s just…you know. I figured with those kind of kill totals I’d be seeing some hulking God of Thunder step from the suit or something.” Mike scratched the back of his stubbled head. “I’m not gonna lie, Doc. I think my ego just shrunk a couple of sizes.” He’d known plenty of female combat pilots. Good ones too, but even over the course of five hundred years of human evolution the male ego had a hard time accepting the fact that a female could outdo man in combat.
“I’m sure we’ll all be better off because of it,” said the doctor as he patted Mike’s shoulder and walked away.
***
Captain Gault sat at his desk scanning through Sgt. Weber’s combat report. All things considered, they had come out pretty well. The sergeant’s creative thinking had definitely saved the day, allowing for the rescue of the lone T80. The two marines injured by the dare devil stunt had survived and would be back to full duty in a matter of weeks, if not sooner. That was fortunate for everyone involved. The clear deviation from procedure and safety protocols resulting in the death of marines would likely have meant court martial and demotion for the sergeant and him both. Risks were sometimes necessary in battle, but those sitting on the side lines with months to scrutinize your split second decisions didn’t always agree. As it was, he would probably take some heat for it, but ultimately come out on top and commended for a successful operation.
The hostiles had been identified as raiders from Tau Ceti, who were using the system as a base of operations. Ross 614’s close proximity to shipping lanes, combined with its lack of resources to attract potential corporations looking for profit, made it the prime location. The raiders had a mishmash collection of ships stolen and modified for combat. Using these modern day pirate ships, they’d sneak into the shipping lanes, hit an unprotected freighter and then run back to their hole. Any ships who strayed too close to their hiding place, found themselves floating in space with the wreckage of their ship. A survey of the area had located the wreckage of a number of vessels, includ
ing the pioneer ship they’d originally been searching for.
One of the crash sites had been located on Ross 614’s fourth planet where the T80 had been located. The crashed vessel had been identified as a cargo vessel delivering military hardware to the Procyon naval test facility three years ago. That explained the presence of the T80.
As for the remaining raiders, it appeared most of them had been wiped out. A few had made a hasty exit from the dark side of the planet as they’d made orbit, but the others had been so intent on tracking the T80 they hadn’t noticed their arrival.
Yes. He’d definitely get a pat on the back for this one. The recovered T80 pilot was a concern, however. Med tech had been unable to extract the pilot with the current resources at their disposal. As a result, “she” remained sedated in the med bay, trapped in a ton of steel armored plating, tubes and wires.
Captain Gault wasn’t the least bit surprised by the woman’s kill rating. He’d known and worked with many women during his career. Most all were competent professionals he’d stack up against any male counterpart. But some of them stood head and shoulders above everyone. One such woman happened to be his ex-wife. She was currently one of the top doctors in her field and fortunately for him, on the far side of human populated space. If he could get any further away he would. She had a razor sharp intellect that would cut through any argument, no matter how thick, and managed to get her way almost without exception. There was no battle she couldn’t win and no goal she couldn’t achieve once she set her mind to it. He pitied anyone fool enough to go up against her. For his part, he’d chosen tactical retreat.
They were now en route to the Procyon Naval Station for repairs and refueling. It was a large station serving fleet operations for all systems in the area. There were no habitable planets in the system because of the less than ideal gravitational forces at play between the Procyon sun and its little dwarf brother. What it did provide, however, was a centralized location for operations and an abundance of resources for refueling and refitting.
His ship’s complement of T80s could be repaired on board, but their rescued pilot was going to need some specialized attention they couldn’t provide. The ship had been on this tour of duty for six months and were due for refueling and refit anyway. The crew could use the break. Months on the same ship tended to do funny things to people and even if they were trading time in one floating space rock for another, it was still a nice change of scenery.
***
Mike’s squad was taking down time in the rec room. Jackson and Lena had been released from medical a short time earlier and they were swapping stories along with the others to see what they had missed. The rec room was a shared space with the rest of the ship’s crew, so personnel from other ship sections were also sitting around. Some listened to the marines tell their tall tales while others distracted themselves with games, video feeds, or whatever struck their fancy.
Jackson and Lena displayed their casts proudly for everyone’s inspection. The rigid latticed structures kept the broken bones immobile while still allowing air to circulate through. They’d been given bone growth injections that would speed the heeling process, but it would still be some time before they were back to full duty. In the meantime, they enjoyed their popularity and regaled the younger crew members with their stories. Some of it was actually true.
Mike walked in as they were finishing their most recent tale to a small group of young cadets on their first tour. Somehow, the story of their heroic fall had evolved to include rabid monkeys and pretty girls. He wouldn’t have minded the latter of the two. It had been a while since he’d been around a pretty girl. Lena didn’t count, nor did the other two women in his squad who were completely off limits as soldiers under his command. Most of the other women on the ship didn’t seem interested in hanging with the marine sergeant and instead found other less worthy male (or female) specimens to spend their time with.
He took a side chair as the group of young cadets burst out laughing and began walking away in search of other entertainment.
“You guys are so full of shit.” He said, taking one of the recently vacated seats.
They both smiled back.
“What’s a good story if you can’t add a little color, Sarge?” replied Jackson.
“Besides, we were out of most of it. Had to fill in the blanks with somethin’,” Lena added.
Mike kicked his feet up on the low table.
“The pretty girls were a nice addition, but I’m not so sure about the rabid monkeys. What were you going for on that one? Cute and scary rolled into one?” The rest of the squad circled up, eager for some additional info on their rescued pilot.
“We heard our pilot is a chika. That true?” Lena asked.
Jackson spoke before Mike could reply.
“Jensen said you wanted to touch her balls after you found out what her kill totals were. I guess you’re going to have to re-think that request now.” He laughed and the rest of the squad joined in; adding their own more colorful suggestions.
“Shut up, ass wipes. In my defense, I wanted to touch her balls before I heard her kill totals. Was even planning to say please.” Everyone laughed. Jensen would be paying for that later. Until he hatched a suitable plot, he shared with the team what he knew about the rescued pilot.
“What we’ve been able to piece together so far is that three years ago a military freighter crash landed on the system. The T80 was a prototype and one of the items being shipped. We’re guessing one of the techs or crew members jumped inside before or after the crash to survive. There weren’t any military people on the freighter, so that’s our best guess, but based on the kill totals she racked up over those three years, we’re guessing ex-military, Special Forces. As far as the hostiles we encountered, they were raiders from Tau Ceti using Ross 614 as a base of operations. We wiped out what was left planet side and the rest ran like a bunch of raped apes out the back door.”
“So what’s next, Sarge? We gonna go find someone else to rescue? How about a pretty damsel in distress this time?” Taft was a twenty-five year old marine that had been in the squad for a year. At number Nine, he was the junior member of the team and a little awkward with the ladies. That didn’t stop him from trying though. Mike was pretty sure he’d made a pass at every female on the ship, including Lena. She had laughed at him and told him if he could do more pull ups than her, she’d do him right on the weapons bay floor. He’d fallen exhausted to the floor after fifteen, while Lena kept going, finally stopping at thirty out of boredom. Taft never made another pass.
“Next is a little R&R at Procyon Naval Station while they figure out how to get our rescued pilot out of her T80.” Everyone cheered. They’d been cooped up in ship for too long and were ready for a break. They were also eager to meet the woman they’d just rescued. Kill totals were a T80 pilot’s status in the military world. The more kills the more status. The unknown woman’s kill totals put her in the “Legendary” category and they all wanted to meet her. Even touch her balls if she had any.
CHAPTER 3
Rayne floated without thought. Occasional memories flitted past her unseeing eyes. She grabbed for them, but they eluded her grasp. Like butterflies. Rayne liked butterflies. The thought caught in her mind and she stopped drifting. She remembered blue butterflies. She chased a single blue butterfly across the inky expanse of space. She chased it past spinning stars and pulsing supernovas. She chased it through brightly painted nebulas. She jumped from planet to planet like crossing a stream over rocks, following the butterfly as it danced through her fingers. She chased it through white billowing clouds, across a blue sparkling ocean and onto an endless plain.
The white dress she wore billowed around her knees. The long grass moved with a gentle wind and tickled her legs. She stopped and let the butterfly go. Twin suns dipped toward the horizon, turning the passing clouds a pretty orange. She closed her eyes an
d tilted her head toward the suns. She swayed with the moving grass and smiled as the suns warmed her face and felt the wind’s gentle touch on her skin.
She stood enjoying the life flowing around her until she felt a sense of foreboding and a shadow fell across her face. Rayne turned and faced a towering jungle. The tops of the trees stretched to staggering heights looming forward in the gathering shadows as first one and then the other sun sank out of sight. She backed slowly away keeping a close eye on the shadows, not willing to simply turn and run and expose her back to the enemies within. Eyes flashed from the darkness. First one set and then another. Hundreds of yellow slit pupils stared from the darkness. Rayne continued to back away as fear gripped her chest and threatened to send her screaming across the plain. A clawed foot stepped from the jungle, followed by a sleek four legged predator’s body. Heavy muscles rippled under smooth black skin and its heavy tailed whipped from side to side. It lowered a black skeletal head and locked yellow eyes on Rayne’s. She stopped. Ninety-nine other sleek black predators with blazing yellow eyes stepped from the jungle.
Rayne pushed the fear down, anger clawing its way the surface. She would not die afraid and hunted like prey. She took deep heavy breaths, her hands clenched into fists. Rayne screamed her rage and defiance and charged to meet her nightmare.
Rayne floated without thought. Occasional memories flitted past her unseeing eyes. She grabbed for them, but they eluded her grasp. Like butterflies. Rayne liked butterflies…
***
A small female figure lay on the Procyon Naval Station’s med tech table. Her head was bald and the remaining parts of her body that were visible were devoid of hair as well. The white hospital gown stretched to her knees leaving her forearms and legs bare. Her skin was a startling ebony and shined like obsidian under the harsh glare of the room’s lights, while the muscles underneath were lean and toned like a dancer’s. She was young. Sixteen to eighteen according to the medical chart. Whether she was pretty or not was hard to tell in her current condition. An oxygen mask gripped her nose, mouth and chin. Electrodes snaked from her head at several points sending a continuous stream of data to the nearby bank of monitors. I.V.s and feeding tubes latched onto her arms and dangled like hanging vines to a jungle tree.