CHAPTER 38

“Welcome to Dobrinya mining colony,” the computer tells us, as the door seals. “Please do not remove your gear until decontamination and pressurization has completed. This process will take approximately four minutes.”

That leaves us standing while yellow rays beam out all around us. I don’t think we came across anything radioactive in our trek, but I understand their caution. Radiation sickness, or Bluerot, as miners fondly call it, isn’t anything to trifle with, particularly so far from real medical care.

The interior is almost anticlimactic.

It’s a locker room in dingy gray-green, that industrial shade you find all over places like this. The floors have been tracked with dust and dried Morgut blood. So they came bearing injured. That’ll help.

Mary, I wish we had Vel with us. He’s poisonous to them, whereas we’re a sought-after delicacy. I didn’t really expect Morgut to be lying in wait just inside the door, but once your muscles coil, nothing but a battle will do to ease your nerves. Still, it’s a relief that we have a place to put our suits.

“No contaminants found,” the computer announces. “Atmosphere now habitable for most humanoid species. Unlocking inner doors. Please enjoy your visit.”

Following March’s lead, I begin stripping out of the environmental gear. Nobody would choose to fight in these; they limit mobility and peripheral vision. Not to mention, if we need to retreat and run for the ship, we can lock these doors behind us, but we can’t repair a suit if it tears on the fly. Better to secure our safety net.

I choose a locker at random and stow my suit. It has a thumb lock, which means only I can retrieve my suit when I’m finished here. The device codes itself to the last user in a onetime pattern, so that once unlocked, it becomes cleared for use. Very convenient for a mining colony where freighters are always passing in and out.

The commander lets our scout take point, which surprises me faintly. I know how tough it is for him to hang back. Overhead, the lights gutter in staccato fashion, indicating some fault in the electrical system.

Weapon at the ready, Dina tips her head back. “That’s going to get old. If I could find the maintenance area, I could fix that.”

March agrees, “It’s annoying, but not a high priority. We’re here to exterminate some pests and rescue civilians.”

For my part, I’m just glad the lights aren’t out and the place isn’t dripping with human blood. That would offer echoes of Emry Station, where we failed to save anyone but that little girl. Here, I have some hope that we’re not too late.

The first body scares the shit out of me.

I barely manage to stop myself from recoiling in terror, shaming myself in front of the men. Too late, I notice that it’s not moving. This is proof that not all the Morgut made it. Its blood stinks like hell, and it’s smeared all over the floor.

Drake, our medic, kneels to investigate. He’s not much older than Argus, and I think they might be related because they share bone structure and the line of the jaw. However, he has deep brown eyes, marking him as unsuitable for a jumper. Half the ship bears the last name of Dahlgren, so March has instigated a policy of differentiating them via rank and first name.

“Not combat wounds,” he determines, after scanning the body. “Cause of death appears to be the result of impalement here—” He gestures. “And here.”

Dina nods. “During the crash. The skull’s damaged, too.”

Despite myself, I lean in, fascinated by this close look at our dire foe. In death it looks no less monstrous, that paralyzing saliva crusted like brown rot on its fangs. The triangular head looks even more arachnid in the pulsing light. Its forelimbs still look like spears, and the hairy, segmented body makes bile rise in my throat, so I take a step back.

“Interesting they didn’t leave it on the ship to die,” the medic says. “They tried to save their comrade.”

But that makes them less horrible. Less loathsome. Even monsters love their own.

“Search it for any tech that might help us.” March toes the corpse.

Drake checks it over and comes up with a device that slightly resembles Vel’s handheld, but when we touch it, the thing begins to emit blue sparks. The medic drops it on the body and scrambles backward. The glow intensifies, filling the hallway with a searing electrical field.

“Shit. Fall back. Fall back!”

As one, the squadron retreats at a run. I’m near the back, but I don’t look behind me. I have to keep up. If that light touches us—

Someone moans behind me, and the world narrows to the stink of cooking meat. Despite my terror, I keep moving. Eventually, the light dims, giving us one smoking, dead soldier to abandon like that Morgut corpse.

“They trap their dead,” March says grimly. “Even if they have no reason to suspect pursuit. Noted.”

A costly mistake. So maybe it wasn’t that they wanted to save him. Instead, they use his meat. Staring down at the first casualty, I feel sick to my stomach. His face is burned almost beyond recognition, and the smell leaves me reeling. I fight not to remember what it was like trapped in the wreckage of the Sargasso. Damn. I thought I’d conquered this.

Drake squats and pulls the name patch off the shirt. “His mother will want it, back on Lachion.”

March nods. “I’ll see that she receives his death benefits.”

Everyone knows we can’t take the body with us, so we spend a moment in silence. Then there’s nothing left but to move on. But I must wonder: How many good soldiers will die, saving these civilians? And how many people will shrug later and say: That’s their job.

Our scout goes out into the dark alone to check the facility ahead of us. He’s quick and quiet, the best hope we have of staying unnoticed, assuming they didn’t have sensors on that dead one. I’m none too sure they aren’t watching us already. Then again, they may have left the trap to slow down pursuit while they patch up their wounded. It’s just impossible to guess why Morgut do anything. They’re simply not like us.

Eventually, the scout—I believe his name is Torrance—loops back to us silently. “There are five heat signatures up ahead, Commander.”

“Moving away from us, toward the storage areas?”

Torrance shakes his head. “No, sir. Stationary. Vitals indicate nonhuman.”

“Look before you kill, men, but we’re going in san-bot, got me?” March glances at all our faces, making sure we understand.

Though the slang is foreign to me, I get the gist. He means we’re cleaning this place out; no Morgut gets away, no quarter granted. I have no problem with that. It’s not like they’ve ever shown our people mercy. Hatred is new to me, but a surge of it spikes through me, considering the monsters who don’t even respect us enough to consider us a worthy foe. We’re not an enemy to them; we’re food.

“They’re clustered fairly close,” Torrance says. “I think I can get near enough to soften them up with a grenade if you lot can cover my return.”

We don’t know much about the exact speed of incapacitation. They’ll most likely be weakened, but they’ll give chase. It’s a risk.

March considers the question for a moment. “Are you fast?”

“I can go a kilometer in two minutes, forty seconds.”

Damn. His record speed aside, one man can move quicker through these halls than the whole team. It’s a baiting maneuver, drawing the enemy into your terrain to close the trap. That sounds like a good idea to me because once the laser fire commences, there will be no hiding our location from the rest of the monsters.

Apparently March has the same thought because he says, “Then we need to pick our spot, somewhere we can readily defend.”

That’s when I realize this won’t be hide-and-seek like Emry. It’s going to be a great big bloody free-for-all, and most likely we won’t all walk away.

Another soldier says, “There’s a dead end around the corner. Looks like it leads to a small storage area, no life signs.”

“Then that’s where we’re headed.” March leads the way while Torrance heads off to bring us some Morgut to play with.

On their own, the men draw their weapons. The quiet click announces they’re powering up. I fall in and do the same. Since I’m small, I assume a position near the front. Others will be able to shoot over me. On either side of me stand burly clansmen, shorter than the rest. They’ll go hand-to-hand to protect me, if necessary.

The boom tells us that Torrance has delivered his invitation. Impossibly quick footfalls pound down the hall toward us. The scout shouts, “Two died instantly, three on me, and I’m coming in hot!”

As he bursts around the corner, I raise my weapon. Red targeting dots skim along the dark wall, making patterns that almost form into lines. Around me, nobody speaks. Total focus now, total concentration. This is a different kind of combat, something I’ve never experienced before—skilled, planned, professional.

Today, I learn what it means to be a soldier.