Chapter 5

DAY 4 – HADES – RUZA

“A minor fracture,” Ruza said as he ran a medical scanner over the human’s forearm. There was an ugly, purple bruise on his pale skin – the result of a strike from a PDF baton. There had been many such protesters visiting his office today, all victims of violence from the riot that had ensued in the square.

“Thanks, Doc,” the man said as Ruza gently slid a mesh sleeve over the problem area. He touched an electrical contact to the material, and it tightened, forming a rigid cast to protect the mending bone. “Glad you’re around, and I don’t have to go down to the hospital. They’re still at capacity treating the guys who got hurt during the attacks on the garrisons.”

“Yes, I have been doing what I can to help,” Ruza replied as he stowed his tools on a nearby shelf. “The sudden influx of critical patients overwhelmed them, and they have been running short on qualified doctors and medical supplies. I have treated many injured protesters today.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Ruza replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Much of my equipment is provided by UN relief organizations, but with the tether being blockaded, I fear that the shipments may soon dry up.”

“Let us know if you need anything,” the man added as he rose from his seat at Ruza’s desk. “You’ve done a lot of good for this community, and chances are we can track down some odds and ends for you. Off the books,” he added with a wink – a gesture that humans used to signify solidarity or secrecy.

“Applying a heating pad will increase circulation and help heal that bruise,” Ruza advised, responding to his gesture with a grateful nod.

“You got it, Doc,” the patient replied as he headed for the door.

Once he was gone, Ruza stepped out into the newly emptied waiting room, his eyes wandering across the row of vacant seats. He always felt a sense of satisfaction once his practice was silent at the end of the day.

“That was the last appointment for today, Doc,” Amy announced from behind the front desk. “You go ahead and go home – I’ll close up.”

“Thank you, Amy,” he replied as he reached for his jacket. “I will see you tomorrow.”

He stepped out onto the street and began to walk home, wrapping his face with his shawl and covering his eyes with his tinted goggles. The city was still eerily quiet after the riot, with most of its denizens staying home and avoiding public places. Amy had relayed intranet rumors that the PDF had been sighted patrolling areas of the city alongside SWAR teams, likely as a means of keeping order and dissuading further unrest. In a way, it reminded him of what had happened after the rebellion, with Coalition forces patrolling the territory’s cobbled streets and setting up checkpoints.

After passing through the all-but-deserted market, he felt his phone vibrate, and he reached into the pocket of his jacket. The device was far too small for him, and he always fumbled trying to use his thick pads on its touch panel. It was an audio message from Amy. He hit play, holding it up to his round ear so that he could hear her voice over the wind.

“Ruza?” she began. She sounded perturbed – as though something had happened in his absence. “I just wanted to warn you that some men came looking for you at the practice while I was closing up. They only missed you by ten minutes. They looked like those special forces guys you’ve been warning us about. Just be careful out there, alright?”

Ruza felt his heart quicken. He had anticipated that his actions at the protest would have consequences, but not so soon. He was visible to the occupiers now – they were aware of him, and seemingly searching for his whereabouts. If they had visited the practice, they must know his name and his profession, and they would likely know where he lived. Perhaps they only wished to question him, but if he allowed himself to be captured, he might never see the light of day again.

His pace quickening, he began to jog, and he was out of breath by the time he reached his prefab. Ruza hurried inside, tearing the sheet from his rifle and switching it on. Holding it in one hand, he began to rummage through his kitchen drawers, finding his stock of magazines and filling his pockets. The large-frame XMR used the same ammunition as the smaller variants, and the magazines were rather compact and light for someone of his stature. He wasted no time slamming one into the receiver, feeling a tactile thunk as the magnetic loading system pulled a slug into the chamber. He strapped a self-filling canteen to his belt – though it might have trouble siphoning humidity from this kind of environment, then began to fill a nearby rucksack with MREs.

Ruza hesitated, then opened his cutlery drawer, sifting through the metal implements until he felt the familiar touch of wrapped leather against his pads. He drew a wicked combat knife with a fifteen-inch blade, its serrated edge glinting in the light, its sharp tip adorned with a gut hook. Beneath the muzzle device of his rifle was a slot for a bayonet, and he slammed it into place, turning the six-foot weapon into a cruel spear – a fighting style favored by his people.

He had sought to leave war behind him when he had left Kerguela. The fighting on the moon had been intense, and they had left it in a state of relative peace, its people rebuilding their cities and their lives. Many of his closest friends had ended their military careers living simple, peaceful lives on that world, dedicating themselves to the humble pursuits of family and happiness. Ruza had sought to find that same peace here, contenting himself with small acts of charity, hoping in some way to make amends for his checkered past. Now, it seemed that war had found him again. Like a loyal Razorback lost in the sands, it kept returning, whether he wanted it or not.

He retrieved a medkit and stowed it in his pack, then turned to the door, but his escape was interrupted by the sound of a fist rapping against it. Ruza pressed up against the wall beside the frame, lifting his head just high enough to peek out through one of the narrow windows, the sand that caked it obscuring his view. He could just about see two men standing at the foot of his steps. They were SWAR, both operatives holding XMRs, and in the road behind them was an old APC that was presumably intended to transport him to the garrison. As he watched, a third man hopped out of the troop bay, landing on prosthetic skids. Three of them – half a fireteam. Three more men piled out of the APC, their equipment far less impressive, their camouflage identifying them as PDF.

One of the agents mounted the steps and knocked on the door again with a polymer fist, his voice audible through his helmet speakers.

“Doctor Ruza? You in there? Why don’t you come out and talk to us?”

They knew him by name – perhaps they had consulted the colony’s records. He watched as the man retreated back down the steps to a safer position, his weapon not aimed at the door, but held at the ready. After what Ruza had seen at the protest, he had no doubt that these men would kill him if he resisted. That might be their goal regardless of whether he cooperated or not.

He felt that familiar Rask anger flare, his heart racing – demanding that he burst through the door and confront them. His every instinct told him that intimidation and domination were the solutions, but he willed those impulses to recede, calming his boiling blood. He remembered his training and the skills that he had honed through his decades of fighting, finding a place of quiet – of cold calculation.

Six targets. Two of the operatives were at the foot of the steps, and the third was standing in front of the APC a few feet behind them. The three troopers had taken up position behind the vehicle, peeking around its armored hull. Ruza was in an enclosed space – a prefab no larger than a shipping container, and he had only a single exit. His opponents were augmented, making them stronger and more resilient than normal humans, though their strength was limited by the connections between their prosthetics and their bones. He had seen such injuries firsthand – Fletcher had saved Ruza from falling into a sinkhole on Kerguela, all but tearing his arms away at the shoulders in the process. Ruza had weight and size on his side, and he was faster than they were in the low gravity.

His evaluation had concluded in the time it took for the man to call out again.

“Come on out, Ruza! You’re wanted for questioning! Don’t make us come in there and get you!”

They were preparing to breach, but the narrow steps made it hard for them to stack up beside a door as they would have been trained to do. Ruza watched through the window as one of them drew a grenade from his belt – likely a stun intended to incapacitate.

Ruza turned up the voltage on his XMR, using his thumb to hit the touch panel beside the safety, then exhaled a calming breath. As he heard the operative begin to enter an override code on the outer door panel, he took a step back and leveled his XMR.

Before the operative could complete his task, Ruza unloaded his magazine into the door, the tungsten slugs cutting through the thin metal like a hot knife. The padded stock rocked into his shoulder with each shot, and through fist-sized holes ringed with glowing metal, he watched the two agents topple back down the steps. He kept firing as he advanced, the rounds passing through the lead operative and hitting the man behind him, the molten trails lingering in the air for brief moments. They didn’t have time to hit the dirt before he barged through the door, his six-hundred-pound mass tearing it from its frame and sending it flying after them.

Leaping from the top step, Ruza left his home’s AG field, sailing through the air in the lower Hadean gravity. The operative standing in front of the APC didn’t even have time to raise his weapon before Ruza landed on top of him, driving the bayonet that tipped his long rifle through the man’s chest like a javelin. There was enough weight behind the blow to shatter his chest piece and drive the fifteen-inch blade through his sternum, a spray of dark blood painting the vehicle’s desert camouflage as it burst from his back. It dug into the armor plating behind him, pinning the human there like meat on a skewer. He let out a pained gurgle through his helmet, more blood seeping from beneath it, one mechanical hand reaching up to grip the rifle’s barrel in disbelief.

Ruza was out of view of the PDF in this position, but they were already moving, shouting to one another as they rushed to the front and back of the APC. These troopers were weaker and less disciplined – easier targets.

Ducking low, Ruza rushed to the rear of the vehicle, his burst of speed surprising one of the troopers. Ruza greeted him with a swift right hook that lifted the human off his feet, slamming his head into the troop bay door hard enough to dent it, the visor of his helmet cracking. As his listless body slumped to the ground, Ruza darted around to the far side of the APC, finding the barrel of an XMR pointed at him. His reactions were far faster than those of an unaugmented human, and he batted the weapon aside with a swift swipe, a follow-up cutting across the trooper’s belly beneath his chest armor. Those inch-long, curved claws sliced through his uniform, biting deep into flesh and creating another spray of blood that splashed against the vehicle.

Clutching his torn belly and wailing in a blend of shock and pain, the trooper took a faltering step back, but Ruza was already barging past him. He lifted the trooper like a doll, crushing him between his shoulder and the APC on his way past, feeling bone crunch beneath his weight as the truck rocked on its suspension.

His final target was near the cab, Ruza skidding around the corner, the claws on his paws digging into the ground for purchase. The trooper was panicked – confused, aiming his weapon in the wrong direction. At the sound of his companion’s wailing, he had begun to turn, but too late. Ruza charged into him, throwing all of his weight into the blow, hitting the human like a furry truck. With muscles adapted for far higher gravity, he tossed the flailing man, sending him sailing ten feet through the air before crumpling against the wall of Ruza’s prefab.

Still conscious, he began to pick himself up, but Ruza was already closing the distance. The disoriented trooper let out a muffled scream through his helmet as the Borealan kicked his fallen XMR aside, then set upon him, harrying him with strikes. The human raised his hands in a futile bid to protect himself, Ruza’s claws cutting through flesh and shattering bone, his cries soon turning to wet gurgles as he stopped struggling.

The sandy fur on his hands now matted with congealing blood, Ruza rose off his victim, his feline eyes scanning his surroundings frantically. His assailants were all dead or dying, the previously empty street now littered with their bodies. More would come – drawn by the gunfire and shouting. He hurried over to the APC and placed a foot against its hull, tugging his bayonet loose with some difficulty, the dead operative sliding off its barrel. After retrieving the rucksack from his prefab, he tore the chest rigs from the bodies and tossed them inside it. He’d sort through any ammunition and equipment later. Right now, he had to get as far away as possible.

Already evaluating places he might hide, he set off, ducking between the prefabs and vanishing into the windblown sand.

DAY 5 – HADES – HOFF

A PDF trooper raised a hand to stop Hoff as he approached the police tape that sectioned off the street, taking a few steps back, intimidated by the hulking battlesuit. The agent lumbered to a halt and flipped open his canopy, glancing out at the carnage before him.

“Sir, I can’t allow you to take the suit into the crime scene,” the trooper began hesitantly. “It might damage evidence.”

“What, are you hoping to find a murder weapon?” Hoff scoffed as he walked past the man and through the tape. “I’ll save you the trouble – it was a Rask.”

Several more PDF troopers were examining the scene, kneeling beside bodies and taking photos with their phones. To his right was a prefab, its door tossed into the street, two bodies lying in a pool of dried blood beside it. Across from them was an APC, another dead operative slumped against its hull, its desert camouflage splattered with gore. There was another mangled body lying beside the outriggers of the prefab, and it had been torn to shreds, its arms and torso covered in deep lacerations like something from an animal attack. There was a SWAR agent supervising the scene, standing with his prosthetic arms crossed as he watched the men work, turning as Hoff’s mechanical footsteps announced his arrival.

“LC,” he began with a nod, craning his neck to meet his superior’s gaze.