The patients eyes were locked on the rifle, while the barrel danced nerveously. "Please, s-stop." Arthur begged, as his feet shuffled backwards. Medical machine beeps went silent, the agonizing screams of the nurse subsided. A loud clang was heard as his back hit the wall. One of the patients had sneaked to the lights controller, her hand moved slowly to the switched. "God, no..." sanity gave way to darkness. Only flashes of violence dripped into view.
For Arthur reality dripped in flashes. First being dragged to the citadel. The profane nausea of the Holy Room. Chants within the Citadel, glorifying their defeat of evil, each cultists honoured in his capture. Arthur was thrown into a common cage deep down. His body being searched for valuables, first from the guards, then from the prisoners with a kick and a fist to the gut and head for good measure. Moments of groans and hurt started to form into godless minutes, only for Arthur to be hurled back into the void. The world turned and disapeared. He tried to stand up in a haze, only to fall and start again, all while a chorus of cheers and jeers came from the other prisoners.
Then hope came. He shuddered in fear, and cowered as the door was burst open. The prisoners hurled to the cell bars begging to be freed, as militia screamed for attention. Before chaos escalated into a slaughter, a cool collected shout put everyone at attention. "Attention, Commander Blaine!" a seargent near the door called, as Chillworth walked with sure steps as the soldiers stood at attention "Prisoners, you are to be escorted and debriefed by the Pygar Militia!". The prisoners shouts stopped as his cold glare turned to them. "Militiamen are authorized to enforce order as needed. This is by _any_ means necessary. Give them your full support and attention!". A calm silence spread across the room. Situation under control. "Sergeant Samuel?". "Sir! Yes sir!" saluted a man by the entrance. "You are in control. Help these people and report back to me.". As Arthur's mind faded a smile cracked and peace took him.
He awoke to a soft bed. Cold patches like felt like cool ocean breeze on his bruises. His torso was hugged thigtly with bandages. His sanity and mind finaly in his own grip, for a moment he was back on Erie, awake in the sweet morning dew near the lumbering pine forests. As he looked around, he was greeted by a scene of white cloth and the sleepy beeping of the medical machines around him. On his right a cold steel wall, which continued for a few meters. In the middle of it, the door guarded by two young men. On his left a white sheet with a show of shadows behind it. A patient in bed, while someone attended to him.
Arthur stood up and tried to speak with a feeble voice. "Are you with the NCC?" he muttered "Please, are you with the Church?" When he tried to stood up, a slight sharp clinch found him, as if he overslept. "Settle down mister!" a light pout from an angels face. "I will be with you in a moment." the nurse promised with a smile. Arthur could only mutter a shy "Yes ma'am". She turned back to one of the guards "Notify the agent, we have one of his men.". The guards at the door infront smirked, and shared a mocking look. The riffles looked silly on the boys, as if they couldn't fill out their shoes. One of them turned to the comm by the door and started speaking to the operator, while looking at Arthur.
"Finally!" Arthur thought, "Maybe things will work out for the best.". If the Administration was here, then the NCC took care of the artifact. He had only seen good things from both organizations. As he laid down in bed, he couldn't help the crack a grin. The medical facility was a retrofitted cargo container. Although the medical machinery was connected to the various jacks and cables, it could easily be changed when needed. The patients were laid out in beds, seperated by rows of thin white sheet. A comforting murmur ruled the room, as two nurses were checking vitals and getting basic information.
The sweet face peeked behind the curtain at Arthur. "Knock knock, sleepy head!" she said, as she approached him warmly. "You were out for a long time. Poor guy, what did they do to you?". He wracked his brain, about how and where to start, words started and ended while thoughts raced. She gave him mercy by shushing him "Hush now. Let me check your vitals, before we continue.". With her eyes glued to the pad, Arthur stole a look at his salvation. She had dark brown hair and warm hazel eyes. Shallow laugh lines embelisshed her lips, and she couldn't keep one shaggy lock of hair behind her ears.
She poked, jabbed and pinched. As she mumbled to herself, she scratched her pad, pausing only when waiting asking a question. Arthur managed only a series of "yes", "no" and "maybe", always ending on a pollite "ma'am". She pulled up a chair next to him, and a peaceful silence was shared between them.
She sent riffled the pages looking for something and readied her pen "Okay soldier, time for your interview.". Arthur stood up a little "I'm no soldier, ma'am. Just a drifter.". "Oh? And what name does this drifter have?" she put on a sly smile "And drop the ma'am." He introduced himself "Gaehan, Arthur Gaehan, ma'am."
An warm friendly hand leapt at Arthur. "I'm Lucy. And I said drop the madam! Or I will hurt you.". He had forgotten the last time he held a friendly arm. Since Canaria he shared fleeting passions and desperate nights with stranges as himself, always as distant as they were close. "Thank you, ma... Lucy. What happened?". She looked at their silent neighbor and leaned in, with a conspiring whisper "The NCC sent a team to neutralize the artifact. Then they called us. Are you working for them? Are you one of them agents?". Arthurs tongue stumbled "Oh, t-there must be a mist-ake. I'm a nobody".
"You are important!" a choir of voices responded. Shadows moved behind white curtains, the other patients stood up in unison. The other nurse screamed, as Lucy moved to the center to see what was happening. "You are important!". The guards jaws dropped, as the patients moved against them. As the first shouldered his riffle a slammed with him into the wall. "You are important!" the scream continued, as some of the singers gurgled with blood. The other guard started shooting, as one of the patients fell, two bodies slammed into the guard.
Arthur tried to stand, as his feet went numb he crashed to the floor. His bed fell beside him, saving him from the horrific view. Lucy screamed, the other nurse was dead silent. "You are important, Arthur!" he saw the barrel of a gun a few meters. He started crawling, Lucy was laying on the floor her hands clutching her neck. The patients were split, each one biting and scratching it's victim, one of the patients was bleeding out on the floor. Everyhing stopped, as their eyes looked at Arthur. "You are important, Arthur!". In a flash they continued their unholy work.
Slowly, as he crawled, realization came to him. They were the healed, the saved, the blessed. All people who were in the Holy Room, all people who the Reverend chose. He took the gun, their eyes locked on him. Lucy was begging, while the guards laid motionless on the floor. Their heads shot up at him "Take us back to The Holy, Arthur!", the patients moved simultaneously like fingers of an alien hand. Even the one bleeding on the floor, mouthed the words, with a bloody dry gargle.
He pushed himself off the floor, one hand supported on the gun, the other gripping at the wall. All the patients stood up, turning to him. Cuts and bleeding, the white aprons defiled in dark crimson. "H-help." Lucy barely muttered with white lips. Arthur rifled the gun and slowly started to shuffle into his corner. Screams for help were in vain.
The patients eyes were locked on the rifle, while the barrel danced nerveously. "Please, s-stop." Arthur begged, as his feet shuffled backwards. Medical machine beeps went silent, the agonizing screams of the nurse subsided. A loud clang was heard as his back hit the wall. One of the patients had sneaked to the lights controller, her hand moved slowly to the switched. "God, no..." sanity gave way to darkness. Only flashes of violence dripped into view.
"You are all important to me!"
Garcia and Mackintosh moved through the field hospitals. Large cargo containers were delivered and turned into medical rooms, supply storages or simple interview stations to debrief the locals. Each cargo container was marked on the side with it's numerical designation. All of the prisoners, casualties or civilians which were found in the Amber Citadel, went to the "GOL" section. Mackintosh turned to him "Boss, who is this Arthur guy, again?"
That was the same question on Garcias mind. "I know as much as you, agent. Agent Schroeder and him scoped the compound before our operation. As far as I know he is a free agent.". Mackintosh looked confused, while Garcia maintained a stone face. "Sir, if I may ask? Why?". Garcia replied softly "Deux's plan is beyound human understanding.".
As they approached their destination "GOL-13", shots and screams were heard. Both of the agents jumped into a sprint. Both Garcia and Mackintosh were at the door, before the milita could arrive. They positioned themselves at sides of the door, each ready with a handgun and flashlight. Screams and shots echoed from the container. An unholy screech was thrown in unison by several voices. "Agent, use extreme prejudice!" Garcia commanded.
Mackintosh punched the prompt and the door flung open. Garcia turned to face the darkness inside. The flashlight showed six bed, two on each side seperated by sheets. The bright flashlight accented the dark red spots on them. In the middle one nurse and one patient both had lost too much blood to be alive. Mackintosh turned to the right, discharging his gun at a hostile. The patient was biting down the guards neck. Unlike a wild animal the bites were precise.
Garcia turned left. A patient with a riffle was fighting off one of the raving lunatics. In front of them a nurse was bleeding profusly, another puncture wound on the neck. Both of ther hands tried to stop the bleeding, her feet were fighting off another patient. "Femoral artery" Garcia thought, as both foes turned to him. "We know you, Garcia!" both patients took up in a single voice.
Mackintosh started firing at a second hostile, as Garcia send the one by the nurse to hell. Before he could turn, a body slammed into him and pushed him to the ground, sending his gun away. A woman wearing a crimson-stained white apron stood over him. "We know you, Garcia!" she smiled "You've seen it!"
Blood splattered over his face, as a riffle shot burst her chest. The nasty confident look on her face lingered for a moment. Then her eyes changed - confusion and panic took over, as she slumped to the ground. An evil spirit leaving her body to die.
Arthur dropped the gun and crawled towards the nurse. Garcia picked his gun as he stood up. His eyes scanning the room for more combatants. "Macintosh, status!". The operative was checking the corners as he shouted"All clear. All hostiles have been dispatched". Garcia went to the nurse and tried to stop the bleeding, he looked at the poor young man crawling to them, desperate to help. Militia men flooded the room. "Are you Arthur?". Without leaving his eyes off girl, the man noded "H-Help her. Please.". Agent Garcia whispered "Only Deux can help us now.".
Slight movement. There is a faint rumbling out across the darkness, courtesy of the dig site. A weathered, grim face appears over a sand dune, his hair tossing from the strong winds that ravage Pygar.
This man was Santiago Fernandez.
A noble Outcast from birth, hailing from a proud legacy of the Fernandez clan. Now he was seeking out his own fortune on Pygar, one day to return to the family. He was young, at least for an Outcast. 34 years in age, to be exact. Brown hair and less extreme features than most other Maltese made him blend in better to the locals in Sirian colonies. This he used to his advantage, making him a more amicable sight than some of his other bretheren.
Yet now he is a wanderer through the desert.
Santiago kicked at the sand, launching gusts of the grains into the air, to be stolen by the fierce winds. He shielded his eyes and marched on. His goal was one of little importance - to find and moniter the locals. Yet he made himself a fortune in the desert. He struck a deal with a local cult - Cardamine in exchange for a valuable artifact.
It was something that would make him renowned in his family.
Fernandez glanced up out from his hand to scan the horizon. He could barely make out a sparsely populated village in the distance. It was run down but he saw star satellites. He could send a message from there.
...
"A drink if you will. Sidewinder fang."
Doors swung closed behind the Outcast as he entered a bar, from which he could telegraph a transmission to Malta. He leaned on the counter and stared at the bartender. Something about locking eyes with the Maltese brought fear to the bartender, and he quickly looked away.
"Right. I'll have it right to you."
As the bartender resumed his duties, Fernandez sat at a table. He began preparing a transmission to send to Malta, detailing the deal struck. Several days had passed since then. Before the Outcast hit 'send transmission'
another man entered the bar. He was far more beaten up than even Fernandez. Bloody and bruised, he was out of breath and collapsed at the table next to the Outcast. Turning up to face the Maltese, he spoke in a dry, cracked voice.
"They found us."
Instinctively, Santiago's eyes glanced quickly around. Once he was sure there was no one watching, he turned back and spoke.
"Who."
"The Church."
Fernandez's lips pursed.
"The Infidels! Th-th-those heretics! Help us, help us! You must help us!"
By now the man was begging at the Outcast's feet, pulling on his tattered clothes. Santiago jerked away. His cloak waved behind his back, revealing a pocket cannon which he withdrew.
"Tell me everything. Everything that happened. Don't leave out a single thing."
...
After the man finished telling his story, he looked up to Santiago with pleading eyes.
But you, oh blessed one, will surely... h-help us purge the infidels... r-right..?
He was helpless. Pathetic, Fernandez thought.
The Maltese aimed his blaster and fired. The man exploded into dust and ash before him. The bartender - the now only other inhabitant of the bar - screamed. The Outcast glanced at him with cold, emotionless eyes. The bartender fled and didn't look back. Now that he had the bar all to himself, Fernandez typed a secure transmission to his superiors on Ibiza base.
Now he just had to find those Zoner traitors, who possessed the artifact.
The Doldrums were buzzing. Ever since the Milita came, everybody was checked, vetoed, and searched. Every precaution was taken, and multiple failsafes were implemented. Chillworth had the experience, the men, and the nerves to lead the extraction. With the artifact in the hands of the Administration and their partners at the NCC, multiple independent Zoner groups joined the fray with credits, scientists, and security. Teams of scientists, charlatans, and alchemists, like a multicolored horde, sieged the object with tests and examinations. With every explanation, further strangeness and oddities engulfed the object.
While the "eggheads do their magic" the military seached and seized every corner of the compound and surrounding locations. Agents of multiple organizations were caught, interviewed extensively, and disposed of. No information was allowed to surface, yet leaks couldn't be stopped. The streets were cleaned, buildings cleared, and patrols were formed. Every exit was monitored; even the "Hell Gate" to the planet's surface had been barred. But just above it, a few dozen meters above it, the agent stayed. Santiago watched and waited. His fate was forfeit to Malta's destiny, and he would guard this exit with his life. Other spies guarded the other major exists, yet he hoped glory would lead the Zoners to him.
Santiago was latched with carabiners and ropes to the stone. A thin holographic-camouflage tent separated him from prying eyes. There he lay, observing and listening to the tapped communications, which, one by one, vanished. He could see them forming their lines and putting up their colours. He felt them like ants; he wasn't hateful or vicious about these thoughts. In his mind, they were just lesser. Like toddlers, who didn't know better. He watched them fumble, trying to act like men and do their "science" using their dousing rods and odd charms. If he felt anything, it was rage. "The artifact should have been in Ibiza already," he thought, "so many Maltese lives would have been saved.". But most importantly, he felt thirst.
He had been hiding here for several days now. First came the hunger, then his water ran out, but now his limited cardamine supply was starting to diminish. The breather mask usage was rationed to once every few hours. Dried and cracked lips mumbled in his comm. "In bocca al lupo. Over.". He waited, he watched. He waited, he watched. Minutes, hours—it all blended with the storm on the outside. Equipment and containers started to gather, and dust went to the ceiling. Through the brown haze of dirt, he saw orange. He daydreamed about orange grass fields and a small village nearby. The rumbling turned into once-familiar music. The mist cleared, and a convoy was gathering. He shook himself awake, put on the breather mask, and readied himself. "Crepi il lupo. Over.".
He listened to the comms carefully. Through the heavily encrypted waves, he could only piece together certain words. "Coyote...over...artifact...surface...over...minimal". The "Hell Gate" bellow him started to open. Sand, rage, and fury poured over him. The agent gripped the rock, and he started coughing as the dust blinded him. As things cleared, he smiled, glad he would soon be free from the stone. Yet his grin faded instantly. Red spots coloured the cave wall. He didn't have much time. The convoy bellow him moved in order. In the center, he found his mark. A large "Dromedary" ship had been remade into a land vehicle with heavy tracked treads to traverse the desert.
One cut. He started falling through the sand, blasting the cave. Bracing himself for the pain of the whiplash. Through the haze, he finds himself just above one of the land trucks. Almost in an instant, he cuts again. The thud was hidden by the beating of the storm on the metal. His scream of agony was lost in the rage of the tempest. He covered himself in a tent, trying to shield himself from the outside. Hell was around him; his only salvation was the breather mask.
Time passed—maybe an instant, maybe an eternity. He felt weak, his stomach empty; he didn't know if he could will himself to move, but all that gave way to the fire. His tent cracked and blistered; the reinforced textures that could slow down a bullet gave way. First a minor tear here, then a cut there. The holes ushered in more suffering. As the tent was torn away, bit by bit, he shriveled. Deep, slow breaths from the breather mask reminded him of Malta. Reminded him of that night in the fields by the village. He knew he would not return there.
"-o not return there. I repeat, do not return there! Over". They were in one of the caves, and his comm link was still active. "This is Camel. Sir, we've lost some of the patrols with us in the storm. Securit is low-". The scream turned the voice into a crackle. "This is Coyote. If anyone goes back outside, I will personally make sure he dies there. There is no time to regroup.". The voice calmed down. "We need to get the cargo back to base ASAP. We have one hour in this cave system, then we're back in Hell, men. ETA: 5 hours. Over". The outcast came back to his senses. As he laid; his hand slowly moved to check his equipment. Transponder. Knife. Blaster. Two grenades. Lastly, he checked the status of the canister - depleted. Small shakes and tremors went through his body, but he laid still.
As the convoy continued between the rocks, injuries started calling to him. Iron taste bled into his mouth, and his left hand was crimson-red. Aches around his body soon turned into daggers lodged in his flesh. He tried to control his breathing and let his mind wander to lush gardens, good wine, and young love on Malta. He felt he could lay there forever, but the sun started to seep through the tunnel in front, and the calm march of the convoy was soon swallowed by the cacaphony on the surface. He started the transponder, but terror seeped into his heart as it beeped erratically. The small display blinking a deadly "ERR."."Non mollare.".
When the Dromedary passed the cave arch and went outside, fate smiled at him. The weather was as clear as it could be on Pygar. The Outcast stood up; he didn't know if he was going to make it, but Malta deserved its prize. Calmness washed over him. He threw one grenade at the cave entrance to block the convoy's retreat and sent the other, with a lower charge, to the cockpit. The screams and orders from the comms overtook the sandstorm for a moment, and all the sound culminated in the explosions. The cave wall crumbled and blocked the rest of the convoy. He dove through the edged hole of the cockpit into the control room. Blaster and knife in his hands.
One of the two drivers was dead from the explosion. The other was trying to remove the glass shrapnel from his face. The two guards by the entrance door were shocked but unharmed. The Outcast shot twice at the man on the left, blasting two gaping holes in his chest. The other guard shouldered the rifle and started blasting. The Agent reached for the driver and pulled him in front. The man couldn't fight the shock, and as the bullets pierced his body, he let out his last breath. Santiago felt the bullets fly beside him. A few scarred his shoulders. The guard, bewildered, hesitated for a moment, just enough for the flying knife to puncture his throat.
The Outcast shot at the door panel and stacked the bodies against it. As he started working the dashboard, specifying the frequencies from the broken transponder, someone started banging on the door. Sand started flying through the broken glass of the cockpit before he finished entering the various values it had piled up on the floor in small dunes. Quiet, regular beeps started coming from the speaker. This is all that mattered to him. He readied his blaster and knife, turned to the door, and waited. On the other side, down the corridor, the Artifact changed its vibration to a slow hum. Agent Garcia noticed, and he stopped looking at the men down the corridor with the blowtorches and crowbars trying to get into the cockpit. He turned to the Artifact, was the unholy object mocking him?
García heard the explosion and jumped like a spring from the bench where he was sitting in the back of the transport, next to the artifact. The PSI agent heard a noise like rocks falling outside and felt pieces of something hitting the roof of the transport. Right after, a second explosion sounded from the front area of the vehicle. As gunshots and screams rang out, the team grabbed their rifles and moved toward the front of the vehicle along the connecting corridor as fast as they could, only to see the cockpit metal door slam shut. Two of the militiamen hiding behind corners opened automatic fire on it, causing several of their bullets to ricochet in all directions.
Luke quickly moved to the side and took cover as best he could behind the corner. "Cease fire!!" He screamed above the noise. "Cease the damn fire!!" The militiamen stopped shooting and looked at him, hesitant. "The door and compartment are made of metal! The bullets bounce, they don't go through them!"
After a few seconds of uncertainty, the Militia young sergeant in command began to shout orders to his men, urging them to bring tools to open the door, while some of them ran to look for them towards the loading area. At that moment everyone noticed how the transport suddenly slowed down and finally stopped. The attackers must have taken over the controls, and had stopped it. Garcia didn't know what was happening, but he had enough information to know that it wasn't a coincidence. Someone was attacking them, and he was sure that he had to do with the artifact. It had to be assumed that the transport's pilots were dead or disabled, and that the attackers controlled the vehicle's driving capacity. Now, they were stranded in the middle of the desert.
Luke left his men covering the position, and back out to the loading area again with the militiamen, to check the relic status. He didn't even have to get there to start hearing that buzz. He approached the relic, and he could hear it better. Something had changed. Until then it had been a slow, almost inaudible vibration, although it could be felt in the body in an unpleasant way. Now, however, it had raised his frequency, and he could be heard clearly. The agent looked at that blasphemous object with hatred. He could almost hear an echo of cruel laughter in the background of that buzz, and he felt as if the artifact was mocking him. Garcia grimaced, and headed decisively towards the front of the transport.
"Mackintosh, Wells, Yang, with me!" He barked, gesturing to his subordinates, who abandoned their cover positions. The four of them returned to the loading area dodging several militiamen who were heading towards the cockpit door with blowtorches and crowbars, and Luke pointed to the relic. "This thing is doing something it didn't do before. Do you hear that noise?" The agents nodded. "I don't know what it is, but it can't be anything good. I want you to put the explosive charges back in."
Mackintosh looked at him with some doubt. "Boss... Orders are to take it to Central."
Luke looked at him with an exasperated expression. "I know the orders, I myself transmitted them to you. But the artifact may be activating, and you already know what it's capable of doing. Do you want to end up like one of those poor bastards in the field hospital? No? Well, then start now!"
The relic continued to buzz strangely, while Garcia's men worked to place the explosive charges on it. It was a rather annoying sound, which could be heard clearly despite the noise of the transport's engines idling, and the knocks of the militiamen who continued trying to access the cockpit. García kept an impassive face, enduring the disgusting sensations that the waves of the artifact produced in him, while the latest events were passing through his head at full speed.
------
Luke had been worried about safety during the trip shortly since after the incident at the hospital, when they found Arthur. When leaving there and returning to the Citadel he had been informed that the artifact wouldn't be able to transport as immediately as he would have liked. From the first moment he had realized that the relic was pretty heavy, but it turned out to be much heavier than expected. The Administrator's men needed two whole days to extract it from its pedestal and lift it to the settlement. They burned up to four gravitatory forklifts in the process, and one of the workers was nearly crushed to death. According to what Garcia had known from one of the technicians that Voncloud had taken to the Doldrums, that inexplicable weight must have been related to the material it was made of. It was something unknown, obviously alien, and the measuring instruments gave readings of a level of density that was scientifically impossible, according to the current knowledge.
Luke had seen Voncloud's troops try to contain the civilians inside the limits of the settlement, but he knew it was impossible. Sooner or later someone would get out of there through one of the many minor galleries in the cave system and start talking outside. And so it had been, given that on the second day of their stay, more people had begun to arrive from other parts of the planet, attracted by the news of the discovery. The agent was desperate, since he was aware that speed in transporting the artifact was essential to preserving the secret. The longer the relic stood there, with so many people swarming around, there would be numerous information leaks. No one really knew how many ramifications the heretical cult could have in Pygar, and wouldn't be very complicated for potential attackers to imagine the possible routes that the convoy would follow, when it departed. However, since he couldn't do anything about it, so he focused on preparing to do his job.
Garcia had consulted with Voncloud and Blaine and then had studied carefully the route on his holographic map. Soon he realized that the convoy would have to surface at some points, because the Doldrums were remote caves that did not connect to Pygar's main cave systems. Therefore, they would enter and exit the underground up to three times before they could reach the path that would take them directly to Central below the surface. It was a danger, but there was no choice if the relic was to be carried by land means. The possibility of transporting it by air had been considered, but the onset of storms and their strenght couldn't be predicted, at least not precisely, making too risky any long subatmospheric flight. It was one of Pygar's main problems. At any instant the weather could change from only difficult to completely lethal, and piloting a ship through a storm of grade 6 or higher was simply suicide.
Once the artifact was finally extracted from the Citadel, it had been loaded onto the gigantic tracked ground transport that Voncloud had brought for this purpose, through its roof using a crane. It was an hybrid monster built using the hull of an old Dromedary-class freighter as a base, and expanding the rest of the vehicle by welding sheet metal around it. Its twelve engines had the necessary power as to move its enormous mass with the heavy relic in the cargo hold, but however, this time they hadn't departed immediately either. Radars reported the formation of a powerful grade 7 electromagnetic storm over Doldrums, and that level of meteorological violence had caused the departure to be delayed even further. It was true that the large transport, the three off-road trucks, and the four escort APCs that formed the convoy were armored and prepared to survive even grade 9 storms on the surface, but it would have been useless to leave in those conditions. They wouldn't have advanced even one kilometer per hour, with the serious risk of suffering a mechanical breakdown, and in a situation of zero visibility. Additionally, the electronic devices of the vehicles tended to malfunctioning or simply not work under these conditions, so they wouldn't even have been able to guide themselves correctly. Thus, another day of waiting had passed, until the epicenter of the storm had moved and they had been able to leave the settlement.
The first two surfacings had been quite chaotic due to the electromagnetic storm that, although it had decreased, had continued hitting during the first hours of the trip. The convoy had trudged across the wasteland for several kilometers, wrapped in sand and buffeted by gusts of wind. The geolocation instruments were suffering from interference, visibility was difficult and communications had been almost interrupted until they reached the entrance to the next section of underground caves. In both cases, the eight vehicles that made up the convoy scattered during their journey acros the surface. The first time, when they went back underground, the pilots realized that they had lost visual contact with two of the escort APCs. The second time, one of the trucks wasn't able to gather with them.
However the orders were to continue forward at all costs, and Militia High Command refused to allow the transport to stop and wait. Therefore they had continued their journey through the caves, until they had begun to ascend to emerge outside for the last time. A pleasant surprise showed up on the radars, when they realized that the storm had finally subsided almost completely. As the convoy approached the exit to the outside, García heard the pilots on the radio reporting that the area was in relative calm, and visibility was almost total. Only a few less than 60 kilometers per hour gusts of sandy wind were crossing the wasteland, clouding the landscape. The comments in the communications were optimistic, since they could now advance with much greater speed, without having to face the fury of the weather. The enormous transport was already approaching the end of the cave and then... Then the explosions were heard.
------
"The explosive charges are mounted and armed, boss." Luke snapped out of his thoughts and looked at Yang, who was waiting with his hand outstretched, offering him the detonator. "What are we going to do now?"
Garcia took the detonator and secured it inside his vest, while he hesitated. "Nothing at the moment... let's wait for events to unfold. But I swear to Deux that I'll blow up this aberration before it transforms us all into murderous zombies." He gestured with his hand to indicate to follow him. "Now let's see what's happening."
They advanced again to the front of the transport, where two of the militiamen were trying to open the door with a crowbar, after having softened some parts with a blowtorch. The other ten were stationed, with weapons ready. The four agents joined them.
The commanding sergeant was talking into his transmitter, presumably to one of the remaining escort APCs. "Fennec, this is Camel-1, what the hell is happening out there?"
A nervous voice was heard with a creak on the speaker. "Fennec-2 here, Camel-1, we're under attack! There have been two explosions, and part of the cave entrance has collapsed right behind you! We've lost contact with the rest of the convoy! Access to the cave system has been completely blocked. We're about 700 meters from the entrance, and I can't see anyone else. They don't respond to the radio either." There was a moment of doubt in the voice. "They were probably trapped inside, or... buried under rocks."
The young Militia sergeant seemed to be going through the worst moment of his life. He ran his hand across the forehead to wipe away the cold sweat. "Fennec-2, we're detained against our will, a hostile force has taken the cockpit and we don't have access to the vehicle controls. Can you see anything from your position?"
"Negative, Camel-1. We're positioned in front of you. I see the cockpit... the windshield is broken in several places. But I can't see the inside, is too high."
A sharp knock from the cockpit door indicated that the militiamen had been successful in their efforts. The sliding leaf opened about twenty centimeters and the two soldiers that were there tried to move to the sides as quickly as they could. Several blaster fire came out from the other side, hitting one of the men in the chest. The militiaman was protected with a ballistic plate vest, but the shots went through him cleanly leaving two huge burning holes, and collapsed without uttering a single moan. The other soldier threw himself to the ground to save the life.
"Take cover!" The sergeant crouched down, aiming his pistol, and shoot several times on the door's gap, until empty his magazine.
The other soldier who had been trying to access the cockpit took advantage of the moment when the sergeant fired to crawl closer, hook his crowbar on the leaf, and pull it open completely. The cockpit was completely exposed, and the ten militiamen that were ready opened automatic fire with their carbines, ravaging the interior of the room. Garcia took advantage of the hurricane of bullets to advance with Wells and Ellis to the side of the door.
As Ellis dragged the fallen militiaman out of the fire zone, Luke pulled out a flash grenade and tossed it inside. The blinding blast illuminated the hallway briefly, and Garcia and Wells stormed the cockpit, one on each side. Luke stepped over the corpses of two militiamen lying in the doorway and saw a fleeting movement behind one of the driver chairs. He fired against it and the hostile took cover behind as much as he could, trying to crawl away, shooting without aiming from under the seats and behind the bodies of the dead drivers. Garcia had to move out of the shooting angle to avoid being hit and Wells used that moment to flank the enemy by the other side of drivers' chairs.
"Don't move you bastard!" Wells shouted as he aimed at the crouching man's head.
The guy stood still for a moment, as if weighing his options. He seemed to be breathing hard and smiled defiantly behind the glass of his mask. He uttered a broken whisper. "For... Malta." Then he turned like a flash and raised his blaster pistol. Both men fired at the same time. The shot grazed Wells' shoulder, causing a burn, and two bullets from the agent's rifle hit the hostile's head. The man fell backwards, limp.
García approached the corpse and kicked the fallen weapon away, while he looked around, searching more threats, but the cockpit was clear. He screamed loudly towards the door so that it could be heard from the hallway. "Clear!"
Wells examined his wound with a gesture of pain. Fortunately it was a very shallow wound, and practically had cauterized itself. Then turned to his commander. "For Malta, boss?" Wells crouched down to look at the deceased man closely. "Does this guy work for Outcasts?" He made a gesture of admiration. "Had a lot of balls, attacking the convoy alone."
The hostile was a guy dressed in a ragged, sand-colored tunic, like the one they had seen many of the settlers in the Doldrums settlement wear. His hands and what was left of his face were eroded and burned by the sun and sand. He must have spent a long time on the surface, without protection, and García wondered how the hell had managed to climb into the transport cockpit. He opened the dead man's tunic to see what he was wearing underneath, revealing an advanced black ultralight combat suit with iridium alloy plates incorporated. Wells whistled, with surprise. This was cutting-edge equipment, well out of reach of most people. It wasn't sold on the common market, you only found it if you knew exactly where to look... or if you worked in the faction that made it.
Luke's face paled when recognizing the respiratory mask and type of clothing. Looked at his subordinate. "This guy doesn't work for the Outcasts, Wells, he's an Outcast. An elite operative, I think, given what he's wearing."
Wells stood up and waved through the broken windshield at the Militia APC placed in front and below of them. Then checked the control panel, that was full of the sand that was entering through the holes in the glass. The screens were out or broken, and appeared burned, probably damaged by the blaster hits that were visible. He tried to type something on the console, and received a spark. The agent cursed. "Motherf...! Well, he will be an Outcast, but he's also a damn bastard. The panel is completly destroyed, he probably shot it several times before we entered." He shook his head. "I'm afraid we're pinned here, boss. This thing isn't going anywhere."
The rest of the PSI team and some militiamen entered the cockpit. Garcia turned to the sergeant, pointing the corpse. "Listen to me, you've to radio to Marshall Blaine immediately. Tell him that we've been attacked by an Outcast operative and we're immobilized. We need reinforcements immediately."
The sergeant raised his hands, shaking his head with a nervous smile. "Wow, wow, calm down, tough guy, you are not in charge. You're here as additional protection, and only because Administrator Voncloud has allowed it. But I give the orders here." He shrugged, agitated. "We still don't know what happened and why we were attacked, and I'm not going to make hasty decisions."
Luke huffed in exasperation. That man was overwhelmed by the situation and still in denial. Undoubtedly he was afraid to inform his superiors that a single attacker had killed several of his men, disabled the transport vehicle and isolated it from the rest of the convoy. The agent tapped his forehead with a finger several times and drilled the NCO with his gaze. "Oh come on, sergeant, think with your head a little! The cult consumed Cardamine, and we found quite a few supplies of that orange shit in the Citadel. We've no idea how they got it, but... Don't you really think it's a tremendous coincidence that we found Cardamine and now we're attacked by an Outcast operative? Don't you think it's likely that the Outcast knew about the existence of the relic and now are trying to recover it?"
The NCO looked at the fallen hostile for a few seconds, tightening his lips. "Well, he's pretty dead, the threat has been neutralized. The cave entrance has collapsed and isolated us from the rest of the convoy, yes, but they're just some stones, it's a problem that we can solve. In fact, they're probably already working on the other side to remove the rockfall." He waved an arm in the direction of the cave system they had emerged from. "There are technicians in the other trucks, with spare parts for this vehicle. When they meet with us will fix the control panel. There is no need to alarm the Marshall, our current forces can protect the transport until it can get underway again."
Luke showed a scornful expression. "For Deux's sake, do you really think that man acted alone? The Outcasts love their own life more than anything in this universe, and do you think this one came here alone to commit suicide attacking a transport with about twenty armed men inside, and escorted by APCs? No sergeant, there's something else here. We're not safe."
The sergeant seemed to struggle with himself, but finally gave up and clicked his tongue angrily. "Damn it!" He sighed. "Okay, okay, I'll try to inform the Marshall right now, and ask that send us more men. The weather is quite calm, there should be no problems with the comms." He looked at the ground, shaking his head. "Damn... I can't believe this has to happen just the first time I..." The man stopped talking and stayed still while a distant rumor began to be heard.
Everyone present remained silent. Indeed, a constant, growing noise, like an oscillating roar, was beginning to be heard. Garcia saw how the militiamen began to look at each other, with worried expressions, while some approached the windshield to look outside. Luke do the same, trying to see something among the thin clouds of sand that fluttered in suspension, although deep down he already suspected where the sound was coming from. That was sounding like the nozzles of a ship roaring at full power, in subatmospheric flight, trying to slow down. And it was getting louder and louder.
The sergeant's transmitter crackled again and the voice of the APC commander was heard. "Fennec-2 here! We detect a ship in the scanner approaching from the northwest at full speed! It doesn't have an activated transponder! From the size I would say it's a frigate!"
Wells pointed to an area of the almost clear sky in front of them. "Over there! Here they come!"
Garcia looked towards the place and saw a black dot, which was getting bigger by the second. If it was a frigate, it was clear that they were coming for the artifact, and he could bet his right hand that an Outcast assault team would be inside. He turned to the sergeant, who seemed in shock and indecisive. "We're going to be assaulted within a few minutes. Try to inform the Marshall, but we're alone, no reinforcement will arrive in time. I recommend that you take defensive positions in the transport with your men, and entrench yourself. My team and I will go down to fight the hostiles on the ground."
The NCO looked at him for a second or two, and then nodded, regaining his composure. "Okay, but take under your command the militiamen who are in the APC to support you." Luke gave a slight nod of thanks, and left the cockpit.
------
The tactical team went to the cargo elevator and opened it, putting on their helmets and checking weapons for the last time. They descended on the lifting platform through the belly of the vehicle to the sandy ground, between the tracked wheels. Luke didn't like having to face these unknown troops in the open field, but he knew had no choice. The sergeant and the rest of militiamen would defend themselves better by shooting from the elevated and somewhat covered area of the cockpit, but the transport couldn't be protected at all angles from the inside. If they only defended the Dromedary from there, assailants would take advantage of the dead angles and wolud surround it. They would attack from several sides at the same time using explosives and that would be the end. It was absolutely necessary for someone to be on the ground, to keep the attackers at a distance.
The PSI agents emerged from beneath the transport, as the sound of the ship's engines increased, and advanced towards the APC, whose rear ramp was already opening. Eight militiamen ran towards the tactical team, meeting them halfway.
Garcia addressed them. "Hi, boys." He pointed towards the ship, which was already beginning to be seen with some clarity. "We're going to deal with a frigate that is coming for the artifact that we've orders to guard. The frigate can wipe out all of us easily with its cannons, so we'll have to bet our lives that they won't want to take the risk of destroying the relic." He pointed his thumb back. "Therefore, we'll take positions among the tracks of the transport, and we'll pray very hard that we haven't made a complete mistake." Luke took another look at the ship that continued to approach, and started toward the transport, gesturing to follow him. "If Deux is with us and they simply don't ravage us with cannon fire, they will have to deploy the assault team that I imagine they have inside the ship. We'll wait for them covered, and we'll not let them surround us. I warn you, those bastards are Outcasts, and they will be wearing some of the best military equipment that exists on Sirius. If you can, shoot them in the head, it will probably the most vulnerable part of them."
The eight militiamen and the six agents positioned themselves at different angles, scattered between the tracked wheels of the large transport, and then ordered the APC to position itself in the same way as close as possible. Luke took aim with his rifle's holographic scope and widened the magnification to observe the approaching ship. They were a few kilometers away and flying very low, and he could finally make out what it was about. It was a ZC-410 Peregrine-class frigate. Garcia knew that model, the Pontifical Guard had one that was used as an armored transport. It was armed with six standard gunboat cannons and two heavy ones, so it sure enough had capacity to kill them all.
The frigate was already very close, and in some seconds they would be within gun range. Luke glanced over the soldiers under his command that he could see, and used the communicator on his helmet. "Everybody ready?" He received thirteen affirmative responses. He then moved from his position to take a look towards the APC. It had gone backwards to place itself closer to the transport, but not close enough. Garcia cursed, and called them. "Fennec-2, this is Camel-20! You're too far from the transport, you've to get closer! In your current position you...!"
The frigate opened fire with two of its standard cannons and the noise drowned out the rest of Luke's words. The ship had fired from the limit of its effective range, and the first impacts of the plasma projectiles hit just a few meters from the APC. Garcia saw how the armored vehicle accelerated at full speed, but to the right, away from the transport, and in turn opened fire on the ship with its mounted gatling gun. Luke watched as the Peregrine made an evasive maneuver to dodge the burst, and returned fire this time with all its standard cannons. The APC was hit three times on the side and exploded violently, sending pieces of burning metal in all directions. Some of them beat the large transport, ricocheting, and reached the tracks, causing the soldiers to have to hide.
The frigate passed at full speed above them, thundering at them with the roar of its engines, and Garcia could see how the trail of two missiles left the top of the transport and pursued the ship. Some of the militiamen sheltered in the cockpit had fired portable surface-to-air missile launchers in the hope of shooting it down, although it soon became clear that it would not work. One of the cannons fired and destroyed one of the two projectiles, and the other hit the frigate, activating its shields. The ship shook sharply due to the shock wave, but didn't fall, and curved in its flight to face the transport again, this time from the side.
The cannons opened fire briefly again, this time aimed at the cockpit. It was hit squarely by three precise shots that caused some explosions, while the frigate flew over the transport at full speed again. The soldiers covered behind the tracked wheels could hear a long, terrible crunch, like the cry of a large wounded animal, and saw how the entire cockpit fell from above to the sandy ground, completely detached from the body of the enormous vehicle. The sand raised by the impact showered them all.
Garcia heard Ellis' concerned voice through the helmet's earpiece. "Shit boss! They're going to massacre us from the air! This is not working!"
"Damn, Ellis!" Luke responded desperately. "Hold your positions and don't let anyone leave the coverage!"
Garcia was beginning to doubt the success of his plan, but he also knew that there was nothing more to do. They couldn't compete in firepower with the frigate, and they had nowhere to run either. His hope lay in that it seemed that the ship's attacks had been intended to be precise, so he expected that they would still want to recover the artifact intact. He watched as the ship made another turn to face the transport again and headed towards it at full speed. However, it slowed down until it was standing on top of the remains of the APC, and descended to a height of about nine meters, remaining motionless. The cargo hatch on its belly opened and ten dark figures fell out.
The Outcast assault operatives used the flaming remains of the armored vehicle as cover, and opened fire on them with blaster rifles. Luke inmediatly ordered his men and militiamen to regroup in the tracks poiting that direction and defend. He saw how two of the militiamen were hit almost instantly as they moved to change position, and fell dead, their ballistic vests completely ignored by the plasma projectiles.
"Choose the targets carefully, boys! Don't make burst fire, conserve ammunition!"
Garcia was firing, trying to reach the attackers taking cover, but they were at a distance of about 400 meters, which made it very difficult to have a clear target, and the smoke and flames of the destroyed APC obscured vision. However, the Outcast did not seem to be affected by that smoke, because their projectiles hit very close and forced the soldiers to hide from time to time to avoid being hit. However, Garcia knew that if they could hold the position and not let the Outcasts get closer, they would be in a stalemate, which would benefit them. If the Militia sergeant had managed to contact Marshal Blaine, it was very possible that he would try to send reinforcements by air, which would arrive at some point. The problem was not to run out of ammunition before that happened.
The frigate was still suspended in the air doing nothing, right above the assault team it had deployed. Suddenly its cannons moved and opened fire again, launching a wave of projectiles towards the space of ground that separated both groups of contenders, impacting only a few meters of the transport. The successive plasma blasts raised a large cloud of sand and dust that completely obscured the vision of the defenders, who stopped shooting and took cover to protect themselves. Garcia felt several blaster rifle shots impact the area of the track where he had been a few seconds ago. He couldn't see anything through the cloud of sand, he didn't even see his own men, and yet the Outcasts' shots were almost as accurate as they had been before. His helmet had a thermal vision mode, although in broad daylight it was useless, but it was likely that the Outcasts had a more advanced model that could be used in all types of lighting conditions. The shooting intensified and Luke replaced his magazine again as he thought that the frigate hadn't tried to hit them with its cannons, but had deliberately fired at the ground. Therefore, those shots were only intended to do what they had done: blind them while the assault team advanced in the open field.
A blurred figure emerged from the dust cloud about 4 meters away just as he moved to look outside, and shot him. He threw himself on the ground, returning the fire in a burst towards his opponent's head, and felt an intense burning pain in his side. The Outcast fell limp onto the sand, with the visor of his helmet destroyed.
Garcia screamed into his transmitter. "They're here, fall back behind the tracks...!!"
Several shots, screams and bursts of gunfire were heard around them. Gritting his teeth to overcome the terrible pain of his wound, Luke staggered off the ground and moved out of the tracks, trying to locate and flank the attackers, but he was unable to see anything half a meter away. He tripped over the corpse of a militiaman and fell to the ground again, which saved his life because a blaster burst came out of the dust cloud in front of him and pierced the air right where he had been. Garcia rolled over and emptied his magazine at the approximate origin of the shots. He then pulled out his pistol, while on the other side of the tracks someone could be heard screaming in panic. He saw nothing, but the enemy didn't respond, so he assumed that he had caught up with him. He got up again and advanced, until he found the body of his attacker. Next to him was Dominguez, dead, with a large burned hole in his chest, along with other three fallen militiamen.
Luke leaned against the right track of the transport, dizzy with pain, while the noise of fighting was decreasing around him. He looked at his wound, realizing that it was very serious. It had been a graze, otherwise he would have been dead by now, but the plasma had completely dissolved the section of the vest where it had hit, and had disintegrated flesh, skin and bone. He wouldn't bleed to death, since everything was cauterized, but he had no idea what internal damage he might have. He had to sit down, leaning on the track, because his legs couldn't support him. Yes, without a doubt he had internal damage, and he was dying, because it was going very fast. He took the last syringe of painkiller from the first aid kit in his vest, and injected it into his leg. That wouldn't save him at all, but at least it would make the pain decrease for a while.
"Garcia here..." He tried to weakly talk into the transmitter "Situation.. what is... the situation...."
He received no response. Garcia knew that everything was lost. He sighed and took off his helmet, which rolled on the sand. He had done everything he could, and it still hadn't been enough, but he knew that no one could ask him for more. He knew that he had followed the orders and had done his duty to the end. If today he had to die, could do peacefully, because Deux would receive him with open arms. There was only one thing left to do. He wouldn't allow that blasphemous aberration to fall into the hands of the Outcasts.
Luke took out the detonator of the explosive charges from his vest and began to crawl along the ground, using the last strength he had left, moving as far away from the transport as he could. He knew that he had very little chance of surviving, and death didn't scare him, but he preferred to be as far as possible when everything exploded. After all, as His Holiness often used to say, Deux helps those who help themselves. When he felt that he couldn't advance even one more meter, he simply rolled over, lying on his back on the sand.
The agent raised the detonator, and whispered. "Deux Vult."" Then he pressed the button and passed out.
------
Garcia opened his eyes when a boot shook him violently. The pain in his wounded side hit hard again, making him grit his teeth as uttered a muffled moan. The light from the white dwarf was blinding him, and he had to squint to regain some vision. Standing in front of him were two silhouettes, which he could recognize as two of the Outcast operatives. One was pointing his rifle at him.
"This bastard is still alive." He said, behind the tinted visor of his helmet. "May I kill him?"
The other looked at the wounded agent for a few seconds, as considering it, and then made a gesture of disinterest. "Leave him, they're all dead except this one. He's a soldier of that church, let his god decide whether to save him or not." He tapped his partner on the shoulder and pointed behind him. "We're leaving now, we've nothing else to do here."
The two Outcasts walked away while Garcia looked at them with a glazed look. The pain of his wound intensified, and he was so weak that he almost couldn't move. He cursed the Outcasts for waking him up. All dead... that's what that guy had said. Ellis, Yang, Mackintosh, Wells and Dominguez. Good agents, good believers. No doubt by now they would be with Deux, and they must be looking at him now from the Lord's Own Eyes. He would soon join them, probably... He blinked several times to try to stop seeing blurry and then saw the destroyed transport.
The large vehicle was open like a gigantic flower. The explosion of the charges had burst it from the inside out, sending pieces everywhere, and it had been so violent that even one of the immense tracks had come loose. There were still some fires and a lot of smoke coming out of it. Garcia smiled. He had achieved it, he had blown up that impious thing, that disgusting alien device that corrupted people's souls. He hadn't been able to fulfill his mission, but at least... the artifact couldn't do any more damage.
Luke noticed that the Outcast frigate was positioned right above the remains of the large transport. Its cargo hold was open, and it looked like a clamp attached to a thick chain was being lowered into the transport from there. The agent paled as the chain came back up, holding the relic. It was... intact... pristine. It didn't even have signs of having received an explosion or fire, and still reflected that violet luminescence that caused him so much concern. He could hear it buzzing over the noise of the ship's engines, that sound that made him nauseous, and that was always heard above any other, despite how loud it was. Luke felt again as if the relic was looking down on him and laughing at his helplessness. Finally, the artifact stepped into it and the hatch closed, and the feeling dissipated.
The frigate began to move to the side and then descended to land. Luke leaned over his side so he could continue watching, and he could see the members of the Outcast team approaching the frigate. He counted six, accompanied by five repulsor stretchers, each containing a body bag. Everyone boarded the ship, and it immediately took off, moving away into the sky.
Luke stayed lying there, in shock, watching as the frigate became smaller and smaller. When he couldn't see it anymore, he blinked rapidly, and felt through his vest, until found his portable communication device. He managed to focus his gaze enough to find a contact.
"Your... Eminence..." He said with a thin voice when the line opened to the other side. "We've... a serious... problem."