NationStates Jolt Archive

Shields was getting his usual bit of nervousnes as HAWK-1 swooped low over the Mallbertan landscape. The terrain was rugged and harsh, but held a sort of primal beauty which escaped a man like Shields. His squad was detailed to find the last sane remnants of MALLNET control, and to assist in its reasserting control over the system. Whatever that meant. The other eleven men, his squad mates, were thinking similar thoughts as the speedy VTOL screamed along at a brisk 600 KPH. The thirteenth member of the party, Amanda Harding, sat at the front, secured in the extra seat attached to the bulkhead. She was a Sanctioned Telepath, one of the Navis Ghosts, and was rated at P2. She was attached to the squad just for this mission, and Shields, like most of his mates, didn't like it.

The whole team wore suits of Arcadia pattern Type3 integrated carapace armour, the best available. The backpack housed a pair of fusion batteries, which provided the power for everything they needed. Their helmets incorperated both a spotting light and targeting sensor, as well as Mk. IX rebreathers and microbead comm system. The pack also powered their Kantrael Amp7 Hellguns and gun lamps, eliminating the need for extra ammunition and batteries. They all carried an extra battery though, as each pack only lasted for 48 hours. Sometime, missions just lasted longer then that.

Their belts and assorted pouches carried other things as well; signal flares, meal and medi packs, spare lamp bulbs, grendades, tape, rope, combat knives, and magnetic clips for their boots. Everything they needed.

Not to mention the thirty pounds of plasteel and kevlar they had on to stop bullets.

Not long after they did a final equipment check, did the air brakes slam on, and the team was thrown about against their harnesses. They spun around, and as they touched down, the pilot spoke to the Leuitenant on the intercom.

"Sir! We're landing at the crash site of a Santa Barbera aircraft. Command has told me you're to look for survivors and go on to the main hive on foot. It can't be more then ten kilometers, including vertical distance."

"Copy that. All right squad, lets MOVE!"

The thirteen had all their gear out and ready as the plane slammed down, and the rear doors dropped. From under the wings, the two side gunners swung their weapons about to give cover to the disembarking squad, but everything seemed quiet. Once the area was secure, the Leuitenant had Pvt. Johnson grab the promethieum tank and the flamer, while Hawkins got the satchel of spares and the grenade launcher. They were followed by Amanda, who had an interesting looking combination version of the standard Hellgun. Her's had a pump-action shotgun mounted underneigth, and she carried a box of spare shells.

They were ready for just about anything

The Santa Barbran vessel lay in charred peices, still smoking, at the base of a slightly peaked tower which rose up from the iron plating to a pinnacle hundreds of feet above. This lofty pinnacle was the geometric center of a metal disk, perhaps 3 or 4 miles across, which capped the arcology below. The steel was nearly a meter thick, designed as a blast hull against the nuclear weaponry which had once fallen here, and may one day fall again. On top of this disk, bristling the spikes of some robotic porcupine were thousands of buildings, all concrete or metal, brutally utilitarian and largely windowless. Narrow streets ran out from this tower, and at period intervals there were other avenues tangent to these, making the aerial view resemble a huge black and grey bullseye.

Once this city would have glowed, chains of light and gouts of fire visible from miles away, but since the collapse of MALLNET, it had been utterly dark, utterly motionless.

As HAWK-1 descended from the dusk sky, landing heavily near the remains of the Santa Barbran craft, kicking up fine dust blown in from nearby hills, nothing moved; and for this, Shields was thankful. He hadn't liked this mission from the start, and he'd be damned if he'd die out in this strange foreign city.

<another tag, I can RP any survivors if/when appropriate.... and also, this is a good story so far. yay!>

Shields didn't like the mission, he didn't like the environment, and he didn't like the teep that they brought along. In fact, he didn't like a whole lot that was going on at the moments. But, as the Valkyrie lifted off and streaked away into the distance, he reminded himself he wasn't here because he liked the pay. The crash site was secured quickly, but it didn't look like there could possibly be any survivors. They reminded themselves that stranger thing has happened, however, and moved to secure and investigate the wreck carefully, while their corperal set up his vox-caster. The utter silence around them came creeping back as the roar of their transport's jet engines faded of into memory.

It wasn't going to be a good day, Shields though. No good at all....

Shields overlooked the base camp. Everything seemed in order; prefab shelters erect in strategic locations, sensor permitters fully functional, a guards duties set and ready. The corporal still struggled with the vox caster; the damn thing was completely jammed. Shields suspected the massive plate covering the area was somehow interfering with the broadcast, but there wasn't a thing he could do about it now. He certainly didn't like the feeling though; they were totally disconnected from home now, totally alone. He repressed a shudder, focusing his mind on the task at hand.

The wreck was certainly puzzling. He'd spend nearly an hour going over it with various bits of equipment, and he couldn't even begin to understand what had happened. It seemed largely intact, despite large holes that seemed... melted into it. The bodies inside were equally strange, though far more disturbing. They too seemed corroded, as if sprayed by powerful chemicals, though fire had wiped out the most obvious signs of damage. Shields wasn't sure, but he thought some of them had be bitten. Truly strange.

There wasn't much more to be done. The mysterious person who'd sent them the initial broadcast wasn't responding, and they couldn't contact home. They were here for at least another 48 hours.

He rose with a start, hands fumbling towards his rifle, as the perimeter lights switched on, basking the dim clear area in harsh halogen lights. The area they'd set up in was a clearing bordered on one side by the huge central tower, the other side by rows of irregular geometrically shaped buildings, windowless and hulking. The shadows cast were long and forboding as the sun slipped behind a western ridge.

The shattered skeleton of the KPKR-10 lay passive, mute, while its bones were picked over by the inspection. Metal plates had come loose and formed slanted shards, like a tin can with its lid half off. Where the cockpit had been, the Arcology roof now protruded. The controls had been smashed and burned black; the entire left side of the board was melted and fuzed, even the hardwired read-outs beyond all recognition. It was clearly evident that the Cutlass would never, ever, fly again.

The inhabitants were even worse off. What little remained of them were half-burned skeletons, often missing entire limbs or heads or torsos. The orbital marines, just along for the ride, had never stood a chance.

But all wasn't entirely dead in the wreck.

Beep.

It was a faint sound, muffled, electronic.

Beep.

Insistent.

Beep.

Where was it?

Beep.

A closer investigation revealed a semi-intact black metal box dangling in a net of wires and cables hanging from underneath the cockpit control board. The cables were attached to a small transmitter with an even smaller number pad and digital read-out. This was, amazingly, still active, and it read:

[code:1:57f34ecaa4]
D 10310
[/code:1:57f34ecaa4]

'Well Mary Mother of Jesus, what do we have here..?'

Johnson stared incredulously at the battered device.

'Hey Shields, found us something! Come take a look at this!'

Shields examined the box, brushing ash and charred ruber of the digital readout.

'Looks like some kind of emergency readout... but I'll be damned if I know what it means...'

The numbers glowed vibrant green in the fading light, lit ittermitantly by the floodlights erected around the base campe. With a puzzled expression, Shields carried the box back to the camp, muttering to himself all the way.

Shields took the 'black box' back to the Leuitenant, as he figured he'd know what to do with it. After it had been disconnected from the wreck, it has stopped audibly beeping, however a light still blinked on it.

The Leuitenant had figured something like this might happen, so had packed a small logister engine. It was a handheld computer, with a universal lead-out wire that would jack in to just about any terminal. The computer was a powerfull translator and decoding engine, among other things. When Shields returned with the box, he plugged it in and set it to work.

It took a while, but eventurally it figured it out...

[code:1:2a41e56b84]VLE report received - VSDC sequence initiated[/code:1:2a41e56b84]

With some tinkering, the display is coaxed gently into offering its message. It was almost like a clock, but it did not change. Perhaps it had been disconnected in extracting the box?

[code:1:2a41e56b84]7:32:45.7[/code:1:2a41e56b84]

OOC: Did I kill this with my curse of death? That code thing is a countdown, by the way, ah but to what......

OOC: Did I kill this with my curse of death? That code thing is a countdown, by the way, ah but to what......

ooc- fantastic... I was waiting to ask you where that has going... I'll post tonight.

Neither Sheilds nor the Leuitenant could make anything out of it. It looked to be counting down, but they couldn't tell what to or why. Nothing else could be coaxed out of the box or the rest of the wreck, so the Leuitenant decided that they'd go up towards the top of that spire in order to get a clear vox-signal. They'd leave at first light. A guard was set, while the rest slept uncomfortably in the alien land.

'This shit is disgusting. Absolutely disgusting'

Thurmond spat words of derision and bits of prepak ration across the small space heater.

'Why can't they send us some really food instead of this dehydated pig shit? Christ...'

He was always slightly abrasive, a bit of a loud-mouth but a steady eye and a good aim. His assignment as first guard hadn't helped his demaenour any either. No one rose to the bait tonight though; between the uncomfortable silence of the strange city and the forboding precense of the telepath, Harding, no one much felt like conversation. Still snarling, Thurmond rose, grabbing his Hellgun.

'If I'm guard, I guess I better be guarding. See you launchies later.'

Shields watched him go. He didn't expect trouble tonite, but it was nice to know someone was watching their backs. He likely wouldn't sleep well anyway; the thin issues blankets did little to soften or warm the cool steel surface, and the bright glare of the permiter lighting made it shone far brighter than was comfortable. Even without trouble, it was going to be a long, long night.

edit- sorry, got some names mixed up.

(where does Krowmag come into this? There's no one here by that name... And Harding is the teep, not the Leuitenant. He dosen't have a name :p )