Ceaseless Read online

  Allan had come to rely on Carpenter. Trust him. As he would with any commanding officer worth their salt. But that relationship had been going south recently. He had the distinct impression that Carpenter had been looking for some excuse to hand him an extended leave, or, if need be, suspension. The only problem with that notion was that Allan was good at his job. As he retreated further into himself, shedding his emotions and concerns, he became that much better at completing his tasks with military precision.

  Only now Carpenter might have found his excuse.

  They turned another corner, passing a pair of technicians who fell silent as they spied both the base commander and local pariah, and came to Carpenter's office. Carpenter moved into the office, around his desk, and took a seat. Allan looked around as he moved towards one of two chairs positioned in front of the desks.

  Carpenter's office spoke of a man who knew that offices were supposed to have something called 'personality' to them and thought that he might try and find some. There were exactly two holographic 'paintings' on the wall that cycled through absolutely meaningless abstracts and second-rate landscape holos. His desk was large and flat. A built-in terminal occupied the center and a small orbit of infopads and Styrofoam cups cluttered the rest of it up. Besides holos, the desk and the chairs, there was literally nothing else in the office.

  Behind Carpenter, a broad, single pane of glass offered a view on the facility grounds where something that might resemble a park with handfuls of trees creating small copses around a man-made pond of crystal clear blue water resided. Allan tried to enjoy the scenery for just a short moment before giving up and taking a seat.

  For a long while, Carpenter simply fixed Allan with his patented stare. Allan allowed himself a small smile when he realized that it wasn't working because his face was hidden entirely behind his visor.

  “Allan,” he said, finally, “I want to slot you into another team.”

  Allan blinked in surprise. He remained silent. This was probably about as far away from what he expected as possible. He'd been readying himself for some mandatory vacation time or leave without pay or even suspension.

  What the hell was this?

  “I'm sorry?” he managed.

  “I know. My superiors want me to at least put you on medical leave or mandatory vacation, but...well, things have been busy lately. Something's been happening...out there in the wastelands. That's why the base is so depleted. But that's not relevant to this conversation. We received a distress call from an isolated communications relay pretty far out in the middle of nowhere. It's gone down and subsequently comms are down in the region at large. All I've really got at hand is a team that just lost their Sergeant and you've just lost your team so...” He shrugged. “I guess it's going to have to do...let me see your face.”

  The sudden request caught Allan off guard. He considered refusing the request, although it wasn't really a request, but instead abandoned the idea and opted to silently flick his transition switch, rendering his faceplate transparent. Carpenter stared directly at him, frowning, seemingly studying his haggard features.

  Allan remained silent.

  “All right,” Carpenter said finally, almost reluctantly. “I'd like to be clear though,” he added, standing up. Allan stood up as well, but hesitated. “Once you get back from this mission, I'm going to at least put you on mandatory vacation. And I'm going to strongly recommend that you go see the base psychiatrist. Even if you think you don't need it, which, knowing your stubbornness and past, that is what you think, I want you at least have a clean bill of health.”

  Allan considered the man's words, weighed his own options. Finally, he settled for silence, nodding once and then returning the opaque function to his visor. Carpenter led him out of the office and down the corridor to the briefing rooms. These rooms were where Investigation Squads met and went over all the relevant data on whatever the upcoming mission was. Time in these rooms usually ranged from half an hour to up to two hours, depending on the complexity and urgency of the mission at hand.

  Carpenter led Allan into one of the briefing rooms. Four people were seated around a table that dominated the area, ringed with chairs. Carpenter moved up to the head of the table. Allan took a seat in one of the few remaining unoccupied chairs and heard it groan under his weight. He looked around at the others, who were all staring at him, and felt varying waves of unease and hostility coming from them, ranging from subtle to outright.

  Carpenter cleared his throat. “Let's get introductions out of the way. This is Squad Lansing Eight. Everyone, this is Sergeant Allan Gray. He recently lost his team and will be filling in as your boss for this assignment. He's been with SI for over a decade now and came from a very...busy planet that frequently called on SI's services. He knows what he's doing.”

  “I'm sure,” one of them muttered.

  Carpenter cleared his throat. “Corporal Anna Mitchell, if you have something to say, please speak up...no? Fine then. This is your XO, Allan. She excels at firefights.”

  Allan sized her up. Her blonde hair was bright and cropped short, not even making it past her neckline. Her eyes were cold and sharp and angry, set into a narrow face. She was tall and lithe, built more for speed than strength. He tried to ascertain why she was so openly hostile to him and after a moment, it suddenly dawned on him.

  She was fishing for a promotion. Everything from her cold glare to her rigid stance spoke of it. He was positive.

  No matter, she'd probably get it after this mission.

  “This is PFC Ron Carter. He's the team's technician,” Carpenter continued dryly.

  Allan stared at him, feeling familiar sensations of training taking over as he was in the familiar environs of a chilled briefing room. Carter was older, seemingly more mature. From beneath a bald head he stared right back at Allan. Any resentment that came from him struck Allan as involuntary. The pain of his commander's death was likely still fresh, and someone else filling the boots so soon was typically unheard of. Allan didn't blame the man. He seemed built like a tech, if they had a typical build: tall, thin, wiry.

  Carter offered him a thin smile and nodded at his name.

  “Last man on the team is Private Juan Bell, your medic,” Carpenter continued.

  “Sergeant,” the young man said tightly, looking at Allan.

  Allan frowned as his gaze cut to the youngest person in the room. The Private was young and fresh-faced, clearly just out of training. While Allan felt he could reasonably rely on Carter and Mitchell, he wasn't so sure about Bell. No one who passed training was truly incompetent...well, with a few exceptions. Allan was sure he could trust Bell to take orders and shoot a gun if need be, but if things went to shit, would he panic? Bell was the bulkiest of the group, clearly into lifting weights, but that was no guarantee of bravery.

  Allan finally decided that the kid wouldn't be here in this room if he wasn't at least mostly sure about himself.

  “Finally, this is Lucy Banks. She's a communications specialist that's going to be attached to the team for this mission.”

  “Which I resent,” Lucy growled.

  She looked the angriest of all, but her ire didn't seem to be pointed at Allan, rather everyone in the room equally.

  “Your complaints have been duly noted, Lucy. You are being compensated for this and-”

  “Yeah, lemme tell you about all the things I want to spend hazard pay on after I'm dead,” the comms specialist snapped, cutting him off.

  An uncomfortable silence descended and Allan suppressed a heavy sigh. Despite everything, he found himself thinking with a suddenly calm and cold clarity. This mission, if it was anything more than a milk run, would be a disaster. He knew that the brass up top liked to think that they developed the Investigation Squads in such a way that they were all interchangeable, and maybe that was mostly true, but it wasn't always true.

  Technically speaking, they could likely function as a team. But that didn't mean they would. For a moment, Allan considered
calling the whole thing off. But part of him wanted to just run with it, see what would happen.

  Plus, he couldn't really leave whoever it was out there hanging.

  “I'm so glad we could all come together like this,” he said finally.

  Carpenter cleared his throat, returning attention to him. “Yes, well, let's get started.” He reached out and tapped a button on the keyboard of the terminal built into the table in front of him. Immediately, a holographic, 3D projection sprang to life in the center of the table. Everyone turned their attention to it.

  “This is Communications Relay 37-D. It's isolated, meant to hold up the comms net for a pretty sparsely populated region. It's wasteland territory. Nothing but a lot of dirt and a few mountains. Some mining colonies and storage facilities. There's only four people at the outpost. You can review personnel files and structural layout on the way over. It's a half-hour flight via jump ship. I want to keep this short. Honestly, there's not much I can tell you. We've attempted communications but there's been nothing because right after the distress call was sent out, all comms in the area went totally dead. So, obviously, there's been some damage to the relay.

  “Your mission is simple. Get out there, secure the area and assess the situation. If necessary evac survivors and get that comms relay up and running again. Are there any questions?” Carpenter swept the table with his gaze.

  Allan thought there were probably more than a few, but none actually relating to the mission. No one spoke up.

  Carpenter nodded. “Good. Suit up, grab your gear and report to Hangar Three. Your jump ship is waiting for you.”

  Allan stood up. “Got it.”

  He turned and headed out of the briefing room. The others followed, filing out after him. The group moved briskly down the corridor, towards the armory. No one spoke as they stepped into the sprawling collection of rooms that was collectively referred to as the armory. It was more than that, really. The newly formed team stepped into the central room where gear, guns and ammo was stored and could be checked out.

  Several doors lined the walls, in between shelves and cases of guns and suits of armor. Each door lead to a small room personalized to each Investigation Squad. There were close to a dozen Squads stationed in Lansing. Allan cast a brief glance towards the room that used to belong to him and his squad. The door was closed and no doubt locked by now. How long would it remain as such? Would they let him build a new squad?

  He doubted it.

  Allan led the misfit bunch into their own room and looked around. It was roughly identical to his own room. They all looked pretty similar, he supposed. The only difference was that there were four areas instead of five. Squads ranged from four to six members, no more, no less, depending on their functionality and the preference of the Sergeant in charge. The three actual members of L Eight moved to their designated spots, each of which contained a locker, workbench and weapons case. Allan almost began moving to the final one, just out of sheer habit, but stopped himself. He would have gone to his old room, but that would be too painful.

  Allan looked at the others three, who had busied themselves with the task of suiting up in their own armor and gear, and wanted to say something before leaving. But there was nothing to be said. At least nothing diplomatic. He turned and left, nearly bumping into Lucy the communications expert who was hovering uncertainty in the doorway.

  “Come on,” Allan said, leading her out into the main room.

  There was no one there but the quartermaster, who sat behind his desk, making sure nothing was stolen and everyone checked everything out appropriately. Allan came to stand before a weapons case and stared at it for a moment. He didn't want to go back to his own gear station and he supposed helping Lucy gear up was a good enough excuse.

  “You should grab at least some body armor and a pistol,” Allan said.

  “Fine,” Lucy replied glumly.

  Allan stared over the weapons. After a long moment's contemplation, he selected a wide-bore shotgun with a long barrel and fitted a shoulder strap onto it. He grabbed a box of fat, red shells and fed them one by one into the shotgun. Once fully loaded, he let it hang across his back and grabbed a tactical rifle. Allan loved the rifle they provided the Squads. It was military-issue and came with a variety of shot-settings and attachments. He loaded it, let it hang from his right shoulder and filled his pockets with shells and spare magazines.

  “Well?” he asked to Lucy, who was still standing there, staring at the selection. Allan grabbed a pistol, loaded it, hit the safety and slipped it into the holster attached to his suit. “Grab your gear. We don't have long.”

  Lucy heaved a sigh and yanked open one of the lockers marked 'Armor'. She poked around inside before grabbing a bulletproof vest and awkwardly pulling it on. Allan sighed and helped her get it down over her head, then get it properly into place.

  “Which pistol sucks the least?” she asked once that was done, disdainfully eying a case of pistols. Allan chuckled.

  “Here,” he said, opening the case and selecting a basic model with a low-caliber, fifteen round magazine. He passed it to her, then helped her fit the holster to her hip and retrieved three magazines. She took them from him and loaded the pistol, hit the safety and holstered it.

  “So...you do know how to shoot, right?” he asked, wondering if it might just be better to leave her unarmed.

  “Yes, I do. I'm not an idiot. I've had the training. I've just never had any reason. I've never gone out into the field before. It's not my job,” she replied.

  “How the hell did you get roped into this?” Allan asked as they crossed the room to the quartermaster and began signing everything out.

  “I'm one of the comms techs for the actual base. Apparently all the others are busy and it was down to me and another guy. We, and I'm not kidding, thought of a number between one and ten to see who got sent out, since we're both technically qualified and capable. I'm pretty sure he didn't want to go and they let him off easy because he was hung over. So now I have to head out into the field with a gun and a bulletproof vest and hope for the best.”

  Allan laughed. “Don't worry, you'll be fine. We'll make sure of it.”

  “Yeah, I'm sure. Worked out great for your team and their Sergeant,” Lucy muttered.

  Allan signed out and turned to regard her with his polarized faceplate. She looked into the blank, black pane of silent glass for a moment, then turned away. Allan spied the rest of the team emerging from their equipment room.

  “Time to go,” he said, his voice flat.

  They all began to head towards the hangar.

  Chapter 03

  –Into the Wastes–

  The walk to Hangar Three was awkward, lengthy and silent.

  Allan led the way. He contemplated his immediate future. He was willing to bet that the mission was going to be a milk run. Probably someone went nuts or maybe some idiot had spilled beer on the comms equipment and then tripped drunkenly onto the distress beacon. It was possible, he'd been on missions that basically amounted to that. It would probably take a few hours to fly out there, fix the gear and fly back.

  Then what?

  He'd be put on leave and he'd already decided that he'd go to the base psychiatrist and run the sessions. He'd done it before and he could probably bullshit his way through it. Unless he was more fucked than he thought he was. Which was a possibility. But if he made it through psych-eval...then what? Come back after a short medical leave? Get a new team, start over again? Transfer? He'd probably transfer.

  Things here at Lansing were too fucked up. Everyone had a very clear view of Sergeant Allan Gray's mental status, and some report in a file saying he'd passed psych-eval wouldn't change their mind in the slightest. No one would want to work with him. There was always mercenary work, and the megacorps were notoriously easy to get into. He supposed he could go there, but to what end? What would be the point besides his own continued existence? Not for the first time, Allan felt the thought of suicide pass through h
is mind.

  They reached Hangar Two. The immense room was mostly empty, just a few tech crews working on the array of vehicles that SI retained for use. The group moved across vast expanse of floor, navigating between the maze of tables, crates and workstations. They found their jump ship waiting for them in the early morning sunshine on a landing pad just beyond the massive open doors on the far side of the bay.

  Allan led the team out into the sunshine. He squinted reflexively, even though his visor automatically filtered the light and protected his eyes. The jump ship almost appear impatient, engines powered up, back ramp down. The team moved up it and took a seat in the back bay, strapping into the seats. Allan linked his radio with the jump ship's and informed the pilot they were all onboard and accounted for. The back ramp began to close.

  As soon as it was secure, the ship ascended into the sky and they began making their long journey into the wastelands.

  * * * * *

  Most of the journey was made in silence.

  Allan didn't mind. He'd been reviewing the information on the outpost, displaying the data over the interior of his visor. There really wasn't much. The outpost was a handful of structures inside of a chainlink fence. The communications relay itself was a tower in the exact center and the rest of the buildings occupied the perimeter just inside the fence, leaving a small circle of open space in between them all.

  There were just four personnel manning the outpost. A base commander that also doubled as a security officer, a comms specialist, a medic and a backup mechanic. A brief glimpse of their files suggested that they were all rejects in one way or another. Their problems ranged from laziness to insubordination to drug use. A lot of drugs were legalized now, but there were still more than weren't, and even so, you weren't supposed to use them on duty.

  “So, what happened to your team?”

  Allan came back to the present, sitting inside of a softly thrumming jump ship, flying a few dozen meters above a mostly flat, packed dirt ground. He looked around and realized that everyone was looking at him now.