Chapter 12

DAY 23 – STEEL PLANT – THE GOVERNOR

“There’s nothing left of the Lieutenant Commander, nor his suit,” the SWAR agent announced. “All we could find were some fragments of ceramic plating in the slag and some chemical contamination in the steel further down the production line. The arc furnace basically obliterated everything.”

“How did they manage this?” the Governor asked, pausing to daub the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

He was standing in the sweltering furnace section of the steel plant, and even with production shut down and the massive furnaces turned off, it was still like being inside an oven. The factory floor was crawling with PDF troopers and SWAR operatives, the soldiers milling about like ants. Several of them were standing up on the gantry atop the arc furnace where Hoff had been killed, peering down into the drained bowl, its sides coated with still-glowing molten slag.

“They appear to have lured him into the loading area and picked him up with a giant magnet,” the agent replied. “We’re not completely sure what happened, as the Lieutenant Commander’s feed was shut off after the hit from the dump truck. We can’t be certain if he turned off the recording himself or if his transmitter was damaged, and we’ll never know now.”

“This operation was an absolute shitshow,” the Governor sighed. “I warned him – I told him that the FMU rep was acting strangely and that the strike was probably a setup.”

He would be lying if he said that he regretted Hoff’s death, especially after all his threats, and he wasn’t sorry that the man had met an end worthy of a cartoon character. Still, the future was growing less certain now – for both him and the colony. The insurgents – or the resistance – had struck a serious blow against Barbosa’s occupation. The Bullsharks were not quite so invincible after all...

Another of the SWAR operatives made his way over, setting down a small device on the floor in front of the Governor before stepping back. It was a projector – the fuzzy holographic image of Barbosa appearing to stand before him.

“Governor,” he began, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual manner. “I’m hearing reports from my teams on the ground that Lieutenant Commander Hoff has been lost along with his Bullshark.”

“I’ve just confirmed it myself, Commander,” he replied. “I’d like it to go on record that I warned him against tackling this problem head-on, and he ignored my advice.”

“What happened?” Barbosa demanded. “This was clearly a coordinated attempt to draw out and assassinate one of our officers, and the insurgency couldn’t have pulled it off without the close cooperation of the Factory and Metalworkers Union. They run this plant, and they have the final say over what goes on here. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Indeed,” the Governor replied, trying to remain non-committal. “I attempted to negotiate with the FMU prior to Hoff deploying his security forces, and they rejected my concessions. I believe that they never intended to accept any deals, no matter how generous, and that it was all just a ploy to lure Hoff into the open.”

“Clearly, Hoff was not thorough enough in his purge of union leadership following the riot,” Barbosa continued with a sneer. “If the unions are working with the insurgents, then they’ve become the enemy. This attack changes things, Governor. Your policy of appeasement has not achieved the desired results.”

“My policy?” the Governor scoffed, indignation emboldening him in spite of the Commander’s intimidating countenance. “If anyone had been following my policies, we would never have found ourselves in this situation to begin with! Your people have ignored my advice and my protests at every turn!”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Barbosa replied, his icy tone quickly cooling the Governor’s temper. “My hand has been forced, and I see no option at this point but to bring Hades under control by any means necessary.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Governor asked warily.

“No more pretenses,” Barbosa replied. “I’ve tried to show respect to the people of this colony, I’ve tried to cooperate with the civilian government, and I’ve done my utmost to minimize the impact that our operations have had on the population. No longer. The insurgency – and all those who have abetted them – will be rooted out and systematically destroyed. Now that they have experienced Marines on their side, we can’t take any more chances. I am running out of time, and I have lost too many good men already. If they will not accept the carrot, then they shall have the stick.”

The Governor looked past the flickering hologram, seeing two large shapes come lumbering towards him through the factory. As they passed by the glow of one of the furnaces, he saw that it was not one Bullshark, but two of the giant suits marching side by side. They stopped just behind the holographic representation of their Commander, seeming to flank him like honor guards. Though their suits were identical, they were easy to differentiate owing to the decals that had been painted on their angular canopies. One was a black bird, and the other was a brown insect.

“Allow me to introduce you to Roach and Crow,” Barbosa continued. “They will be taking over Hoff’s security duties and assuming command of the PDF garrisons. You answer to them now. I must warn you that you may find them less ... approachable than Hoff was. I still have use of you, but I suggest that you make yourself indispensable if you wish to stay in our good graces. Do not disappoint me again.”

The hologram fizzled out, and as quickly as he had come, one of the agents ducked in to pluck the projector from the floor.

“Governor,” one of the two giants began, his voice echoing through the suit’s speakers. It was Crow, judging by his decal. Even in such a secure setting, surrounded by troops, they weren’t removing their canopies to speak face-to-face anymore. “We’ll need you to provide us with a list of all FMU members and known associates.”

“What are you going to do?” the Governor asked warily.

“Not important right now,” Roach replied evasively. “Our surveillance drones and dropships didn’t spot any insurgents leaving the plant, and we’ve identified a large smuggling tunnel under one of the warehouses that seems to have been deliberately caved in using explosives – likely mining charges. We believe that’s how they got in and out while avoiding detection. Assemble a work team and have them begin excavation.”

“I can ask one of the mining corporations if they can spare some workers, but-”

“We’re not asking anymore,” Crow said, cutting him off. “See that it’s done.”

“You have your orders,” Roach added, the pair walking past him. He was cast into shadow as they trudged by to his left and right, the footfalls of their massive boots making the ground shake, the two PCEs heading deeper into the factory.

DAY 23 – HADES ORBIT – PETROVA

“Hoff is dead,” Barbosa announced.

“Dead?” Petrova repeated, spreading her arms in disbelief. “How? How is that possible?”

“Near as we can tell, the enemy lured him into a well-prepared ambush by staging a worker’s strike. He rolled in to break it up, and they were ready for him. They hit him with IEDs – even drove a truck into him, but it appears that his PCE was ultimately destroyed in an arc furnace.”

“With him still inside it?” Petrova grimaced.

“There was no body or wreckage to recover,” Barbosa confirmed, his solemn face lit by the glow of the observation deck’s holographic table.

“Commander, I may have had my issues with Hoff’s conduct recently,” Petrova continued as she struggled to process what she was hearing. “But I served with him for years – on multiple deployments. I can’t believe he’d walk into an ambush like that.”

“I don’t imagine that he expected to be cooked in a furnace,” Barbosa muttered.

“Commander, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Petrova began. “It concerns the Bullsharks. Hoff’s behavior during the time we spent together on the surface was becoming increasingly ... erratic. I broached the topic a few times – that I thought he was acting too rashly and overextending himself. I think the PCE was impairing his judgment.”

“How so?” Barbosa prompted, raising an eyebrow above a prosthetic lens.

“The suits make us stronger, faster, more resilient,” Petrova explained as she began to pace back and forth on the walkway. “More than that, they make us feel powerful – invincible, even. You’ve said it yourself – when we’re connected through our shunts, all of the little reminders of our mortality are washed away. We’re not even really connected with our bodies anymore – we become the PCE. I think it had an effect on his mind.”

“Are you suggesting that the PCE somehow interfered with his brain?” Barbosa asked with a frown. “No such problems cropped up during trials. I suppose it could have had something to do with the nature of his shunt surgery...”

“Not a physical effect, no,” Petrova clarified with a shake of her head. “But like any pleasurable experience, I believe that there’s an element of dependency. He never left that damned suit if he could avoid it, and the longer he spent hooked up to it, the more he drifted out of touch with his sense of self. He was always bullheaded and brash, sure, but he was becoming someone I no longer recognized.”

“Even if that were true, I don’t think it’s unfair to say that Hoff wasn’t the most disciplined of our inner circle,” Barbosa said as he turned to peer out at the stars. “Perhaps I was wrong to entrust him with a PCE. He was loyal to the cause, and he could be brutally effective under the right conditions, but he may have been too unstable to handle such a powerful weapon and the responsibilities that came with it.”

“Commander,” Petrova began, but her voice petered out. She wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t be speaking ill of Hoff so soon after his death – that her concerns about the effect the PCEs were having on their behavior was very real, but he wasn’t really listening. Maybe he couldn’t listen. To admit that Hoff could have been influenced would mean that Barbosa might be at risk of the same.

“I’ve put Roach and Crow in charge of security now,” the Commander continued. “They will prosecute a swift and final campaign to rid us of these terrorists. I have new orders for you, Petrova.”

“Commander,” she replied, standing up a little straighter.

“The Rask was there at the steel plant. He’s the one who killed Hoff – I can feel it in my bones,” Barbosa said with a snarl that sounded raspy in his synthetic throat. “I tasked Hoff with bringing the alien in, but with his death, that duty falls to you. You are unique among my Lieutenants in that you can pass unseen among the civilian population, and you’ve always excelled at assassination and infiltration. That’s one of the reasons I chose you,” he added with an appreciative glance. “Roach and Crow will be putting the screws to the insurgency in a very overt and visible way, but for this mission, we require stealth. Leave the Bullshark – it’s too conspicuous. No more arrests and interrogations. Travel light, walk softly, and bring me the Rask’s head.”

DAY 23 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“Pass me the cauterizer,” Ruza said, extending a hand. The nurse standing beside him placed the tool in his palm, and he brought it down to the Marine’s arm, sliding the slim tip of the long device into an open wound in the man’s bicep. As a Rask, he knew blades, and this injury had been caused by a fighting knife designed to pierce. Its edge had nicked the brachial artery, missing the median nerve by a hair, causing severe bleeding that would have been fatal without the rapid use of a tourniquet.

Ruza was working in one of the inflatable medical tents that served as their makeshift operating theaters in the mine, positive pressure from the air filter keeping it aloft and ensuring that no dust found its way inside. His patient was lying on a wheeled operating table barely large enough to accommodate him, his mostly nude body hooked up to monitoring devices via trailing wires, his face covered by a mask that was pumping anesthetic into his lungs. They were lucky to have an anesthesiologist from the hospital who was watching over him.

The half dozen nurses and specialists who were assisting him were dressed in blue scrubs, their faces covered with surgical masks. Ruza was wearing the same mask and hair net, his gloves extending to his elbows to cover up his furry forearms, the claw tips covered with small silicone balls that gave him more dexterity and prevented him from piercing the material. He still had several hundred of the disposable gloves in his pack. Before germ theory, Borealan doctors had often used their bare claws to perform surgeries, with predictable results.

Humans were small, making them more difficult to work on, but Ruza seldom had his hands inside a patient. The aliens were as industrious as ever, and their medical implements put those of his homeworld to shame, their tools and machines able to repair damage on a microscopic scale.

Ruza lifted his eyes to a display that was suspended from a flexible arm, mounted on a wheeled machine on the far side of the operating table. It showed a magnified view of the wound, taken from a tiny laparoscopic camera that had been inserted into the site, the silver metal of his tools visible amidst the blood and glistening flesh. With his left hand, he gently maneuvered a suction tool, drawing away some of the blood that was obscuring the vein. With his right, he brought the cauterizer closer, the electrode at its tip emitting flashes of blue light as it burned the wall of the vein closed. Ruza went slow, keeping his hands steady, each pump of the patient’s heart creating another obscuring rush of fluid that had to be siphoned away.

After a minute more, he was done, gently placing his bloody tools on a tray offered by one of his assistants.

“Please close the wound,” he said, stepping back as one of them took his place. “His life is secure, but he needs blood. We must find more donors.”

He left through the small airlock, taking off his mask only when he was standing in the tunnel, the plastic bags that had been crudely taped around his paws rustling beneath his feet. They had no scrubs in his size, and he had brought none with him, so the nurses had taped him up as though they intended to ship him back to Borealis in a parcel. It had been a great effort, but they had few qualified doctors at hand.

He glanced around the tunnel, examining the rows of hospital beds. The battle at the steel plant had been costly, and the scents of blood and antiseptic were heavy on the air. Most of the cots and gurneys were occupied by men injured during the fighting. Many of his fellow medical personnel had been shocked by the severity of railgun wounds, but Ruza had seen such injuries many times before. This was not his first time fighting against UNN troops. The slugs passed through flesh with ease, the heavy rounds carving massive wound channels, shattering even Borealan bone like glass. A good shot, even with a relatively low-voltage rifle, could very easily sever a limb.