Little Gold Savior

The sound of plasma bolts sizzled down the commlink, making three recipients flinch and look around furtively. Another blaster bolt, then a voice shouting, “I have three firing on my position and I’m pinned down! Someone lend a hand!”

A frustrated growl. “I got six stalking the streets around my bolt hole. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“I won’t be much help without any ammo. Approaching a cache now.”

The three waited, anxious, but there was no response from the fourth comm.

The first voice returned, sounding if possible even more desperate. “If I have to initiate a lockdown then none of us will be able to get out of here!”

More blaster bolts.

The sound of a pneumatic seal releasing, and then a blaster cartridge being slotted in.

Persistent, worrying silence.

And then a digital chime.

“Well well well,” said a new voice, drawling words like sweet honey from a spoon, “In a spot of trouble, are we?”

“Who are you?! This is a secure channel, how did you connect?!” demanded the first voice.

“Bits and bytes and a piece of string,” the new voice said, a grin in their voice, “Now, how much help did you say you need?”

“None!”

More blaster bolts sounded. A small explosion deafened the comm line for a moment even as it echoed in the distance. The comm in hiding swore suddenly, and then there was nothing but the sound of running and plasma.

“…What do you want?”

The newcomer hummed. “Well, I could use a new scope,” it mused, “And one of those cool-looking hoverbikes.”

A scandalized gasp. “Those are proprietary!” the first voice protested.

“Well I’m not asking for the plans, now am I?” the newcomer said.

There was silence for a long moment, punctuated only by heavy breathing and firing guns, until the runner suddenly shouted out in pain. Flesh sizzled over the line, and then the sound of a body hitting rubble.

The fourth comm, previously silent, roared back to life with a single word: “DEAL!”

Sarge, Booker, Lima, and Whisper watched in shock as the top tens floors of a skyscraper exploded, smoke and flame billowing into the sky as the shockwave shook the abandoned city around them. Glass shards and metal shrapnel rained down on all their positions, clattering against their helmets and driving the raiders under cover. The three raiders firing on Sarge huddled under a concrete awning in front of a firebombed shop, and the six bearing down on Booker faltered, then dashed into the ruined shell of a car that was missing all its doors. Lima stood in the door of the convenience store she’d found the ammo cache in, staring up in confusion, and Whisper was silent in their perch.

Booker and Sarge took the chance to run, both scrambling to their feet on opposite sides of the blast zone and hightailing it to where their HUDs said Lima was located. Whisper followed them through the scope they’d wrenched off the sparking ruin of their gun, but although the raiders shouted insults and trailed shots after the two marines, they dared not venture out into the storm of metal and glass. They were home free once they reached a corner.

Whisper swung down on a rappel line just as Lima finished doling out the scant ammo she’d found, Booker and Sarge slotting the cells into their guns without delay. The mechanisms whined with restrained power, and they grinned at each other as the yellow glow cut through the smog.

Then their comms crackled back to life, and the smiles dropped from their faces.

“There we are, safe at last,” their mysterious benefactor simpered, and behind the crackle of the channel, they heard his voice outside their helmets as well. They swiveled together and trained three guns on the figure that had popped up behind them inside the convenience store, picked out by their HUDs and outlined for their convenience.

He was 6’3” according to their suits, and his equipment was a lot less bulky than theirs: a form-fitting envirosuit with a headpiece that looked like a bike helmet, as opposed to their clunky and distinctive buckets. He’d apparently made his visor transparent for their benefit, because he grinned out at them from behind the plasteel, wiggling his upraised hands in a placating gesture. They were empty, save for a golden, heart-shaped locket scratched dull with age, swinging by a chain from his left index finger.

“Who are you?” Sarge questioned.

The figure considered this for a moment before answering, “Who are you?”

Booker’s grip tightened imperceptibly, but Sarge’s voice was calm. “We’re a contingent of Sol marines, sent to look for survivors. Now I’ll say again: who are you?”

The figure’s smile had faded abruptly. He stared at them, emotion unreadable in the dim light, before he reeled the locket back in and squared it away in a zippered pocket on his jacket. Then he said, “I’m Haris, and it looks like I’m you’re ticket off this rock.”

“What are you talking about?” Sarge demanded, “We’re only an hour’s ride from the dropship.”

“There’s a signal jammer about thirty klicks thataway, just close enough to block your long range comms,” Haris said, jabbing a thumb behind him, “With the q-sat blown to bits, there was no way for them to see you were still alive, let alone get a message to you.”

The four marines glanced at each other, then lowered their weapons as Sarge stepped forward. “And you say you have a way off-planet?” he asked, suddenly a lot more amicable. If he was telling the truth, then their commander had abandoned them, and the Geiger counter in the corner of their HUDs hadn’t stopped rising since they got planetside.

“As long as the q-sat didn’t fall on top of it, yes,” he confirmed. Then, quick as a whip, he drew a pistol from his belt and fired.

The four marines turned just in time to see a raider with a huge electro-knife and a sizzling hole through his skull slump to the ground. When they turned back around, Haris’s visor was an opaque black, reflecting their gray suits starkly.

“Shall we depart?”

###

Lima clung to Whisper’s back as they sped along the dusty road, glaring at Haris astride her bike some distance ahead. Newest recruit gets least privileges, sure, but she was a much better driver than Lima. Less showy, too.

They’d been riding for almost three hours now, passing into and through the signal jammer’s range on the way back to where their dropship had set down. Sarge had shot out the tall antenna as they passed, grunting something about ‘eliminating tactical disadvantages’ that hadn’t convinced anyone. He hadn’t really expected it to, but plausible deniability was important in these things.

They’d barely slowed at the landing site, just long enough to identify the fresh burns from launch. There was also a message chip buried in the ground, and once activated with their credentials, a recording of the commander appeared on their visors to express his regret.

“Sergeant Alto Reemer, Private Jess Limal, Private Adam Bookes, and Private Andrea Morag. You’ve either perished in the line of duty or have fallen somewhere our locaters cannot reach, and for that I am truly sorry. Even if you are alive and manage to get a message out, the rising radiation levels are predicted to breach your envirosuits by early tomorrow morning, far too late for us to reach you in time. The appropriate compensation will be delivered to your designated next of kin as soon as we return. Again, I am truly sorry.”

On that note, the message had ended.

It hadn’t convinced anyone either.

They’d sped on soon after that, a storm of curses and threats shouted at the sky left trailing behind them. They hadn’t quieted down for half an hour, and even then a grumble would whisper itself over the comms every so often. Needless to say, the marines were pissed off.

Two hours after that, they were just passing a large billboard completely covered with dirt, grime, and graffiti, when Haris waved his hand in the air and peeled off the road into the trees on the side of the highway. The marines followed, and the group assumed a more sedate pace as they directed their bikes through the foliage and underbrush. They seemed to be following a path only Haris was privy to, as he made several turns and swerves that seemed apparently random. Eventually, they emerged from the trees into a small clearing with a single rock in the center, and Haris spooled down his bike and hopped off.

“So what, is this your rendezvous point or something?” Lima said snappishly as she hopped off as well, stretching her arms out. Holding onto Whisper wasn’t a trial by any means, but it got tiring after three straight hours.

“Not exactly,” Haris said as he strode over to the rock. He hopped up on top of it and peeled off one of his gloves, and then from his chest pocket he pulled out the heart-shaped locket. He stared down at it for just a moment, and then he clicked it open and pressed his thumb to the inside.

A loud buzzer sounded, seemingly coming from the rock under Haris’s feet, before the ground began juddering underneath them. The edges of the clearing billowed with steam, and a loud pneumatic hiss slithered into the air around. The marines looked around in panic even as they fell over themselves on the unstable ground, but Haris looked perfectly calm and sure-footed atop the rock.

The floor of the clearing began sinking into the ground. The steam cleared quickly as they descended into the earth, and bright light periodically illuminated the sides of the shaft as the huge industrial elevator bore them ever-downward. The marines calmed as they realized the situation, and by that time they were near the bottom. The elevator touched down with a jolt, and a moment later, floodlights snapped on to illuminate a sleek ship still in its gantry.

“Here we are, marines, our ticket off this rock,” Haris proclaimed with a sweep of his hand, “Load up the bikes and let’s get out of here.”