I leaned out of the short balcony into a sea of streaks and darkness and take a breath of crisp air. The air doesn't get much more refreshing on such a polluted planet than at night, so I savored it, then walked back into my relatively small apartment furnished with what would almost be considered a characteristically Spartan lack of décor.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, slap myself hard across the face, and prep to take my shift. I hope all this conditioning will pay off for the new duty I've been assigned. I got the night watch. It's supposed to be the most dangerous time of the cycle on this rock, or, more accurately, floating hunk of metal. Ckhalava-Yaal goes by many names. Most commonly Scinea, by the rich uppity aristocrats who hold a slice of the corpworld cake. And then names like shithole, by the majority that actually live here. I'd say I sit somewhere in between, but really, what are the chances of me actually getting an exciting post over at Gemini eh? It's just not their MO.
Rapidly approaching the age of 23, I was lucky enough to be accepted into D'Argentan Military Academy on Luna at the age of 19, and endured two and a half years of intensive training. After that, I drifted for a while, stuck in the nether of choice presented to me with seemingly unlimited possibilities. I had never wanted to be metaphysics major or anything like that. That's not to say that I'm not smart of course. I had always preferred a line in a branch of the military, my father having served in many of the borderworld peacekeeping conflicts that surround the outer systems these days.
…I'd better give my official credentials. Matthias Raymond Vojel, Serial Number MV-2214637218-21. Vojel is pronounced "Royihael" by the way. My friends call me Matt.
Then one day when I was taking the all too familiar ad-ridden walk down to the magrail system, a slogan struck me: "Yaal, the world of opportunity." Oh well. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, what with me having nowhere else to go. I boarded the next shuttle to Scinea in high spirits. When I got there, I scanned through a list of possible contracting PMCs (That is to say, for people who are not familiar with the mercenary Lingo, Paramilitary Corporation) and Gemini Fusions seemed to fit the bill quite nicely. One of the top six corps on the list needing able soldiers. The rate of fatality for the upper ranks rated as an Extremely High and that was pretty much the clincher. Among the others competing against Gemini were Walker, Armacham, Jericho, Phoenitek and InterCorp.
From what I find out now, Gemini is developing new high tech weapons technology and forms of element manipulation, aswell as from what I've heard, a secret project codenamed 'CryShield'.
Walker is focused on projectile weapons aswell as stealth coating for aircraft and the like, and is the main weapons distributor to Terran Military.
Jericho specializes in heavy mining equipment, engineering and heavy weapons and has large assets across many worlds. Phoenitek is mostly into new shielding systems, light distortion and medical applicants. I admire them. Someone has to step up to the not entirely violence oriented plate.
InterCorp is the most suspicious of them so far, and as far as corporations go, that can be a long way. The first thing is the rather nondescript and boring-sounding name. The second is the fact that the company itself is so huge, in comparison to what they do. Which is allegedly manufacturing domestic products like appliances, piping, retlinks and the such. They don't even have any large, off-world contractor like a military or colonization expedition or anything. And the description of what they do is about as thought-provoking as the name. I passed it up in an instant. It looked like a desk job. Kazuho over from counter-intrusion is a code monkey, I'm not. Funny, the age that we live in where electronic intrusion is more of a risk than physical intrusion.
I'd been hoping for some action with the general guard duty, but I soon realized that no one would be stupid enough to come up to the offices of a megacorporation in the middle of the day with armed guards posted at virtually every corner. That's why I filed in a request and the boys over at Human Resources (which had been replaced by Being Resources quite a while ago, seeing as the front sign was far too biased) relegated me to the night watch, this particular night of which was to be my first one on shift.
That is why I felt perky and energized instead of drop-dead lethargic as I pull on my matte-white bodysuit and carefully fit the individual sections of equally bleached and shiny segments of the standard issue Gemini Fusions Light Armor together. Designed to provide mobility while still being able to defend against energy and projectiles to an equal extent.
I had been on a strict sleeping regimen for about a week, taking regular doses from the coffee machine to get my biological clock as best tuned for the life of an insomniac as it is physically possible.
I polish off the reflective chest piece of my armor, the insignia of the Gemini Fusions corp gleaming on the righthand side of the breastplate. Emblazoned with gold, two serpents coiled around a globe, with a dragon taking flight in between them. I don't know what this is supposed to symbolize, nor do I care. I next walk calmly over to my bed and extract my rifle from under a pillow, a habit I had picked up during some of the more realistic field exercises the instructors threw at us during training.
I rub my sleeve against its sleek and glossy surface, take a firm grasp on the rubber fore grip and glanced down the laser sight. Apparently, still in full working order. I check the clip, and pull back the bolt with a satisfying click. Yeah. That's the sound every soldier likes to hear, a battle-ready weapon. Especially a weapon such as the shark-looking AU36-C 7.82mm semi-automatic battle carbine.
Last, I don the light, rounded plastoid-alloy helmet, fixing the one-way visor directly in front of my face. The visor stopped just above the mouth, allowing some breathing space. I stabbed my helmet's jaw piece with two fingers and a mic popped out of a compartment which I curled around to my mouth and clicked once. I heard two successive chimes. Kak Chk. Good. It was working. I then powered up my suit's systems by accessing the touch-sensitive panel on my left gauntlet and run a diagnostics. Standard procedure.
The founder of Gemini Fusions has something for head-mounted mics. Everyone wears them, even Frost himself. It's like the new Gemini Fusions fashion statement or something. Then again, it is imperative for personnel to be able to communicate with each other in the heat of a crisis.
I slung the assault weapon over my shoulder, grabbed my sidearm and slotted it in the armored compartment that had just opened along the length of the side of my right leg. It was a good idea to have a concealed holster within easy reach, especially one that could eject the sidearm on command into your waiting hand. This is called Quickdrawing, and was one of the basic skills I was expected to master during the brief training period in which I was to familiarize myself with the standard issue GF equipment and techniques.
With the rest of my gear securely stowed in my pack, I head for the door and take one last look around the square room. Like so many others, a prefabricated block of steel and concrete, stacked like bricks on top of each other. The majority of the space was occupied by a bed, small metal table and dining area. The kitchen was a strip of porcelain across one wall perpendicular to the floor. It had a small bathroom off to the left, but otherwise, the apartment was a large concrete cube. The most expensive thing in the room was a thin liquid screen and entertainment system mounted below the picture of an Earthian landscape on the far wall. My eyes linger on it for a second, the image darkened through my reflective visor, then access the panel on the door and step outside.
The luminous strip-light paneling inlaid to the ceiling bathes the scene in a stark, harshly bleak light. I turn right and continue along the veranda, down a short flight of stairs and onto a deserted and haunting-looking street. I lean against a lamp post. Odd shapes hidden in the gloom and dust particles floating, cast visible by the piercing rays if light float effortlessly as if submerged. The silence was deafening, almost suffocating, frozen in time. The darkened surroundings seemed to exude a slow, morbid beauty. I tapped a command onto my gauntlet pad which alerted the nearest transport. Almost immediately I flagged up as green, and a sleek grey-streaked magride came swooping down on whisper-quiet levitation engines and alighted three feet in front of me.
A door slid upwards on pneumatic hinges and I settled myself on the upholstery. I took a linkchip from my gauntlet and slotted it into the receiving slit on the panel in front of me. Seconds later, it popped out, the door re-sealed and I felt a lurch upwards. I viewed everything calmly through the tinted glasteel of my visor as the familiar explosion took place around the vehicle. Gone was the lonely and desolate block street, replaced by a whirl of orange colors, light reflected back off magride windscreens, flashing pornographic ads and the cacophony of the vast, urban sprawl that was the Neonopolis Airways.
I smile and lean back in my seat and cross my legs out in front of me. I would enjoy the ride while I could.
I heave a heavy, contented sigh.
Ah, yes. The night was young.