Chapter 3

Sergeant Kal'reegar steps inside the troop transport. A quick glance around reveals the three squads of Zarra's new platoon, already seated in their flight chairs with their harnesses secured over their chests. Heads turn as the airlock opens. Kal can feel the soldiers' eyes sizing him up, trying to take the measure of the man who will be leading them into hell in a few hours. He ignores them, swinging into his own seat at the end of the third row.

Lieutenant Zarra strides to the front of the transport, dropping into the last vacant flight chair. His voice hits Kal's ears, filtered through his helmet's speakers. "Marines, I am first lieutenant Stefar'Zarra." Kal suddenly realizes that the marines don't know Zarra anymore than they know him. That's dangerous. I hope someone knows what they're doing. "You have all been briefed," continues Zarra, his voice authoritative and even. "But I will reiterate. The purpose of this mission is to investigate geth presence on the planet Catreus, in the Perseus Veil. The Admiralty Board also has cause to believe that there may be Salarians on Catreus, in less-than-warlike relations with the geth. This makes the situation highly political, and thus the need for swift, covert action has been stressed. If the geth do indeed have an operational base on Catreus, we are to remove it. Any geth presence this close to the fleet poses a high risk."

"And what if the salarians are working with 'em?" mutters a marine to Kal's right, just loud enough to be heard by everyone.

"Then," says Zarra, looking around at the platoon. "We're up to our knees in shit."

There are a few chuckles from the men, and just as Zarra begins to speak again the pilot's voice cuts through the comm channel. "We're cleared for takeoff. Gravity displacement in ten seconds." There's a dull, resounding clunk, and Kal knows the transport has detached itself from the liveship.

Small military ships like this shuttle don't generally use their mass effect generators to create a local artificial gravity field, instead economizing on energy and putting more power toward thrust. A small amount of artificial pull remains, about one fifth of a G. When the transport pulls away from the liveship's mass effect field Kal feels a disconcerting lifting sensation, his weight diminished but still extant.

Zarra continues the briefing as soon as the transport is traveling under its own power. "Elarus squad, lead by Sergeant Reegar, will be the reconnaissance team. Feraror and Retellis squads will provide backup in the case of an engagement." Zarra raises his hand, omni-tool glowing around his forearm. A translucent orange map expands in the air before him. Kal cranes his neck, trying to see the points outlined on its surface. "The approximate location of the enemy base is here," Zarra says, indicating a clump of geometric shapes in the center of the map. "From our limited intelligence, it seems that the planet is or was once populated by salarians. The nature of the settlement is unknown. It is possible that it's merely a salarian colony overrun by geth."

"Wouldn't we have heard about something like that?"

Zarra chooses to ignore the outburst, his attention remaining on the map. "In any case, any salarians we encounter are to be treated as friendlies until further notice. We don't know what's going on here, and our mission is to find out, not make it worse. Our LZ is here," he gestures to another point, to the south of the first one. "It looks to be on the outskirts of the city, although we have no knowledge of the terrain. If the transport can land, great. Otherwise we're roping in. Base camp will be set up immediately upon arrival. Remember, the exact position and number of hostiles is unknown, so we will be constantly on watch."

…

Morning comes on the Ariadne without much ado. James wakes to the hissing of the cabin's door. He sits up in his narrow cot and swings his legs over its side. The steel deck is cold under his bare feet, so pulls on socks and boots before standing up, careful not to hit his head on the bunk above him. The old man Andre, his only cabin-mate, has already left the room. James reaches for his trunk, pulls out a set of clothes, spends a few moments trying to get his pants on over his boots, then gives up and, hopping on one leg, puts them on properly. He re-laces his boots over frigid feet and steps out into the corridor. The hallway is empty, so James heads for the mess, trying to blink away his fatigue.

The crew is gathered in the mess, spread out among the tables. Keith McCormick stands behind the small counter, and as James approaches uncertainly the bearded man turns to face him. "Mornin' to ye," he says. "Wait a minute; I've got a pot o' coffee here about ready te pour." Keith turns back to his coffee pot, and James takes a moment to study the crew. Andre and another man he can't remember the name of are sitting together, silently consuming their breakfasts. The crew's only woman is sitting at the far end of their table, and the silent man from the Citadel, Anderson-something, sits alone at the other. The captain, the first mate, and the lone quarian are nowhere to be seen. Real friendly group, thinks James, trying not to feel too dejected.

McCormick leans back across the counter, thrusting a steaming mug into James's hands. "Here ye go. Didn't get much sleep last night, did ye?"

James shakes his head. He knows he must have visible shadows under his eyes; he barely slept at all the previous night.

"New to this, are ye?" asks McCormick, not unkindly. "That's alright. We'll have ye sorted out. Swallow that, get some breakfast int' ye, and I'll take you an' Anderson down to the cargo bay an' show ye how the equipment works."

…

The transport rocks from side to side, battered this way and that by the planet's atmosphere as it makes its descent. Inside the ship's belly, Kal holds tight to his harness. The transport shakes violently, throwing him up and down and back against his seat. Clouds obscure the portholes, making it impossible to see outside. He tries unsuccessfully to calm his racing heart. No matter how many times he does it, a drop into enemy territory always fills him with anxiety and anticipation, accompanied by the bitter taste of fear. He forces himself to breath deeply, loosening his death-grip on his assault rifle stock. The zone should be clear, he tells himself. Just get in there and establish a perimeter. Nothing unusual.

The pilot's voice comes over the comm line. "Ground in sixty seconds. Stand by."

Kal looks around him. All the pre-combat rituals have already been completed. The marines stare straight ahead, each finding their own way to focus on the mission and drown out their fear. Kal pulls in a deep breath.

Suddenly the ship lurches alarmingly, throwing Kal back against his seat. "Ground in twenty seconds!" calls the pilot's voice urgently. Kal twists around to get a look out the window, but all the glass shows is more billowing white. That can't be right, we're still at cloud level.

The ship lurches again, and this time there's a harsh tapping against the side of the transport, like rain on a window. Kal looks to Zarra, but the lieutenant is already calling to the pilot. "How high are we?"

The tapping comes again, rattling sharply against the ship's side. "Ground in five seconds!" yells the pilot, his voice panicked. "Taking fire!"

The transport's tailgate begins to open, blowing in a flurry of whiteness and biting cold. "Ready weapons!" orders Zarra.

Kal punches out of his harness, the rest of his squad following suit. The transport is still now, silent save for the rattling of what must be machine gun fire against its side and the howling of the wind through the now-open hatchway. "Go!" yells Zarra, waving the first squad forward.

Kal squints into the blinding, swirling white. "Are we really at-" he begins, but stops as a marine jumps down from the ramp, landing on invisible ground a few feet below.

"It's clear," he calls back to the lieutenant. "LZ-"

Kal reels backward, his eyes wide as the marine vanishes in a spray of dirty red that splashes across the transport's ramp. A severed hand hits the deck at the top of the ramp, rolling to a stop at the feet of a marine who recoils, repulsed.

It's as if the image takes a second to sink in, and then Lieutenant Zarra is screaming into the comm. "LZ is hot! Repeat, LZ is hot!"

"Disembark!" cries the pilot. "I'm pulling out, disembark now!" Another blast hits nearby the ramp, the sound echoing loudly inside the transport.

"We need to relocate!" yells Kal. "The LZ is no good, we need a different drop!"

"Negative! Shield integrity is dropping, get the fuck out before I take off!"

"You heard him!" commands Zarra. "Disembark, Feraror on Teliran, Retellis on me, Elarus on Reegar!"

Kal pushes to the front of his squad. Gotta get out of here. Can't stay, too big a target. "On me," he orders. "Form up! Once we're off that ramp you're on my ass!" Feraror squad runs down the ramp, Retellis following close behind them and disappearing into the white. As soon as the last squadman from Retellis is on the ramp Kal charges after them.

The ground gives beneath him, his boots sinking into what must be snow. He struggles to see in the haze, casting around him for his squad. Over his shoulder he sees the glow of the transport's open mouth. The ramp is empty. We all made it off. An explosion goes off nearby and someone screams. Gunfire breaks out somewhere to his left, impossible to pinpoint in the wind and whirling snow. "Elarus squad!" he calls, switching to the intra-squad channel. "On me! No lights!" He activates his own headlamp, well aware that it will attract fire but unable to think of another way to let his squad see him. "Sound off!" He listens intently as the men check in, all the time keeping an eye on the flashes of blue and orange light to the north. Satisfied that everyone is accounted for, he quickly switches to the main comm frequency. "Zarra!" he says, pushing through the snow, away from the direction of the gunshots. "Status!"

There's a moment of static, and then Zarra's voice comes back to him, tight and strained. "Multiple hostiles, unknown position. Machine gun battery somewhere out... North of the LZ. Mortar fire, but they can't get a fix through this shit, they're just shooting wild. Two fatalities confirmed, maybe more."

"Orders?"

"Get the hell out of here, Reegar! I'm taking Feraror and Retellis east. We'll meet up later."

"Affirmative." Kal turns over his shoulder. He can barely make out the silhouettes of his men through the snow. Behind them the transport is pulling away, blue tracers ricocheting off its armor plating and away into the night. At least he got out, thinks Kal. Just as he's about to turn away again, a pinpoint of orange light comes spiraling out of the darkness toward the transport. Kal opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything, but knowing it's too late. The ship explodes, blossoming into a yellow fireball even as the shockwave sends Kal tumbling forward into a snowdrift. He picks himself up, shaken, and resumes his jog away from the LZ.

…

"This here is yer pick-axe."

James catches the metal tube as it's thrown at him, nearly dropping it when he feels its weight.

"Get a feel for 'er," says McCormick, striding back to the rack and picking up another identical tube. "This's yer new favorite thing in th' whole universe."

James turns the thing over awkwardly in his hands. Various knobs and unidentifiable protrusions, well, protrude from the tube's surface. He wants to ask what the hell a "pick-axe" is, but he doesn't want to look like an idiot.

"Mechanical rotator tip," continues McCormick, sliding his hands deftly along the device and somehow coaxing it to extend. A drill-like tip pokes out of one side, two handles folding out from the other. "Laser diode," he says, pressing more buttons. The tool hums and the tip begins to glow. "Three settings, all good for different jobs. You'll see. Pass 'er to Anderson, willya James?"

James hands the thing off to Anderson, happy to see it go. The younger man takes the tool, looking at it as if it might bite. He cocks an eyebrow at James, who shrugs.

"Ah, ye'll both get a practical lesson later. I'll show ye how to get into yer suits, if ye don't already know, and all that safety-first bullocks. Fer now though, let me introduce ye t' Elmer." McCormick heads for the far corner of the hangar, covering the distance in a few long strides. He reaches for the corner of a dusty tarp, yanking it away with a flourish.

James's eyes widen. Standing slumped in the corner of the hangar is what looks like a large security mech, like the YMIR models he has seen once or twice guarding the houses of the important or wealthy. This mech's body is different though, with more emphasis around the shoulders and legs. In addition, instead of a high-caliber cannon, its left arm bears a large drill. The front of the mech's torso is made of tinted glass, like a cockpit.

"Gentlemen," says McCormick, his voice showing a bit of pride. "What we're after is Eezo, element zero, the Blue Stuff. These little rocks will give ye ten types of cancer if ye so much as look at 'em, but they're also worth a ton of credits to research labs, personal bidders, and, if all else fails, the government. Now, lucrative business that it is, ye'd wonder why everyone an' 'is brother ain't out huntin' for these things. I'll tell ye why: they're damned hard to get to. Th' little bastards like t' hide deep in th' planet's crust. That's why we got Elmer here. We blast a big fuckin' hole, and then someone climbs inside th' mech and starts excavating. As soon as the sensors pick up a little blue, the rest o' us get in there with our drills and whittle away at it until we hit cash."

James can't think of anything to say to this, so he does his best to nod appreciatively. McCormick beams, pulling the tarp back over the mech. "We're headed out into the Perseus Veil," he says, leading the way back out of the hangar. "Lots of good, untouched planets out there. Lots of money to be made. Once we get there we'll scout around a bit, take some readings and try to find a good one to land on." He looks back at the new recruits then heads off down the hall, shaking his head. "Well, I can tell Anderson is just thrilled. I don't know how 'e contains all that excitement..."

…

Captain Gale Hendrickson leans back in his chair, idly twisting the plastic cube between his fingers. The chair creaks as he leans back further, resting his boots on the brushed-steel desk. The cube clicks softly as his fingers rearrange it, but his eyes are on the magazine on the desk before him. It's a gun magazine; Gale Hendrickson is not interested in guns, but the magazine fascinates him because it makes him wonder how anything so thoroughly boring could be of interest to anyone.

Click, goes the cube.

Maybe it's not the guns, he thinks, raising a hand to flip the page. Maybe it's just the machismo of owning one and carrying it around as a testament to your own inadequacy, as if a piece of metal could make you a man. How sad. He wonders if he should tell his men to stop reading this shit, then decides against it. They are soldiers; soldiers need guns. If they really care about the color and shape of their weapons, then so be it.

Click. Click.

He shifts his feet on the desk. A glance at the clock over the door of his cabin tells him it's 1800 hours, just as it has been the last two times he's checked it in the past minute. The dry, oppressive boredom of space travel is beginning to make his skin itch. Maybe he'll go down to the drive core again. The head engineer is barely competent, but Gale likes it this way. His job requires so little work while the ship is in transit that if he didn't spend a few hours in engineering each day he would go mad from boredom. He rises, pushing back his chair and setting the plastic cube down on the desk. All the little tiles match, each side a solid color. Again. Gale sighs, turning away from the desk. He hopes his engineers have made some really interesting mistakes today.