Location: Unknown, A-class planet, Cave system
Date: March 23 2728 — Standard Earth Calendar (SEC)
The good news always comes with bad, I had learned that a long time ago. There was always bad news, always. And if you weren't seeing it, then you weren't looking close enough.
My tentative hope of being not that far from civilisation, from a possible safe harbour, died in agony, once more proving that hope was not something I could count on.
Being almost killed by my own ARC (it was military issue, for god's sake) was just icing on the cake.
But I had survived worse odds before, and I would survive now.
One step at a time, one step at a time, Kat.
Sure, a shower as a first step was as good as any, but it was just an excuse to move, to have a simple goal to follow, while keeping myself from being paralysed with what-ifs.
And having a shower was something I wasn't about to say no to, especially after wearing the same scaf for a few days straight, no matter how well-made it was, or could handle even longer deployments.
Hell, I once already survived in a less advanced version for three whole weeks, with no shower, no changes of clothes or even a simple toilet anywhere around me.
Putting my right-hand glove back on—absently noting the fading traces of intravenous injections on it—I picked up a helmet from the cockpit floor and prepared to put it on, only to remember—again—that ARC was not available.
Shit.
Lowering it, I unclipped a service panel under the left breast and punched a three-digit code, switching the scaf into manual mode.
Gosh, how I hate it, and all the training that comes with it.
This time, when I put the helmet on, I was greeted with rudimentary readings and feeds that were poorly mirroring all the ARC abilities.
Annoyed with a slight but quite noticeable lag in reaction, I went over all the data available to me again.
As Lola had reported before, the atmosphere outside the Ateeve was breathable, A-class planet-grade, with all the markers of well-done terraforming and none of the dense population planets.
The navigation feed was already focused on the cave system, with AR-tags on everything, letting me locate the mentioned water source—an underground lake?—a potential exit on the surface, and the boundaries of the safe zone, free from Anomaly influence.
It didn't take long to learn the layout and key landmarks—just enough to find my way back to Ateeve if the scaf fails, leaving me blind.
But before coming out, I double-checked Ateeve's status and all the drones we had on board. Ateeve surprisingly survived the short subspace trip that it was not prepared for, and was almost intact, if not for a few scratches here and there due to landing on the left side while still in flight mode.
Thankfully, from inside the pilot capsule, it didn't matter and wasn't a problem I had to deal with, leaving it to the inertia-compensation system to level the horizon and match it to the planet's gravity pull.
Drones, on the other hand, were a problem without a solution. Ateeve was not a recon ship. Hell, even Aper-101, the SAT's dropship, had more general-purpose droids than Ateeve had, which was fair. Nevertheless, that was leaving me with one recon droid down (out of five I had at all), two service droids—SD-N56, or Esdie in short—and… one warhead. Technically, it wasn't a droid, sure, but it had the potential to be.
Oh, right, and the DOC, with the primary function to be a Lola's hands.
And that was it.
Glancing over the cave system layout once more, especially all the inner dimensions, I got an idea.
"Lola, what do you think about moving Ateeve into spot D-1-7?" I asked.
"Positive. The cave with water supplies behind D-1-7 is a dead end, and the Ateeve railgun system should be enough to stop any possible mutated wildlife that could find a way inside," she agreed.
Not wasting any time, I moved aside all the stuff on the cradle before dropping into it myself, and engaged the manoeuvre engines to glide the bird into the new spot.
Sure, manual mode wasn't ARC, but I could fly Ateeve not only without ARC compensation programs but with half the scanners down—I was top of my year at the Navy Academy, not for nothing.
Nice and easy, nice and easy… and done.
Landing this time properly, I rose up from the cradle again and picked up the bag with pre-packed items I would need soon.
Double-checking my Sixer—and the ammo—once more, I held my breath for a second, collecting myself, and activated the unsealing protocol on Ateeve.
It was time to leave my footprint on this unknown planet, if only underground.
—
With a pneumatic sound, the cabin unsealed, and I went down the ladder, exiting the Ateeve under its belly with a bag in one hand and the Sixer in the other.
Subconsciously, I had expected more—just more, not every day I step onto an unknown planet—but perhaps it was for the better. Just a rocky, uneven floor, stone-grey walls and a high enough ceiling above, with the dark mouths of passages leading behind and ahead.
Mundane, boring and with no visible danger, at least yet.
So far, so good…
Realising that I was delaying the inevitable, I disabled the internal breathing system and took my first breath of local air.
It was damp, heavy with the scent of earth and water, and fresh like untouched wilderness, with no trace of the big city air I was so used to.
In a way, it was nice, calming.
Activating my own source of light on the shoulder, I took my first step on the way into the cave with water. As per the plan that Lola had already made, the best location for the shower was right behind the corner, in a natural alcove.
A few recon drones passed me as I walked, adding their own beams to light up the area.
If ARC was still present, I would have connected to their feeds, extending the controlled area. Still, even consciously knowing that it wasn't there anymore, I tried to do just that.
I needed to train myself out of these habits, or one day I would die trying to access data instead of acting with what I had.
Perhaps, disabling the helmet's AR and doing everything by hand would be a smart choice now.
"Lola, disable the AR system, please," I said, not giving myself time to change my mind.
"I will leave voice-based guidance. It should help you to adopt faster," replied Lola, and all the AR-tags vanished from view, forcing me to finish the last steps by memory.
That's gonna hurt.
—
Making holes in the alcove's wall with the multitool—a makeshift replacement for the ladder I didn't have—I couldn't help but think about Lola's actions. Or what she said.
On one hand, the planet was clearly terraformed, but on the other hand, it had at least one Anomaly zone.
An Anomaly zone so important that someone deemed it worthy of a high-priority directive in ARC, and something like that just couldn't happen on someone's whim.
Which meant it had been approved by higher-ups, passed multiple verification processes, coded and, god help me, tested before being uploaded to each and every ARC.
Pretending to be a monkey—almost hanging parallel to the ground—and drilling a hole for a hook in the ceiling, I tried to put myself in their shoes.
What kind of information, or possible advantage, could justify such severe measures? Hell, most—if not all—classified data required just a simple electronic signature… or so I thought.
"Lola," I asked, "when the directive triggered… did it request a CI signature?"
"Yes, CI-f00, to be precise," she replied.
So, top-level classified information, then.
Let's bottle this for a moment.
Setting the bolt and looping the rope through its eye, I jumped down and stepped out of the alcove.
"Seems done," I said, dusting myself off, especially the helmet.
"You forgot to make a door," replied Lola.
"What for?" I said, rolling my eyes. "It's not like someone's going to see me here."
"It has nothing to do with your exhibitionist tendencies, Lt. Commander Ladova," she began, and from her tone, I knew I was in trouble. "The door—even if made as inefficiently as outlined in the plan—is projected to retain up to seventy per cent—"
"Fine, fine!" I exclaimed, throwing up my arms in a universal gesture. "I'll do it, will do it. Jesus, girl."
"See to that, Lt. Commander," Lola more commanded than said.
Lola and her plans.
Climbing the wall again, I started to drill a new hole, as per the plan, while casting my mind back to what I had been thinking about.
So, the Anomaly could only be a highly valuable resource, and judging by their readiness to fuck around with ARC AI, forcing it to perform illegal tests on unwilling subjects, to create… create what?
Knowing higher-ups, it could only be a weapon, perhaps even some super-soldier or something.
Weird? Sure. Improbable? Hell no.
Looping the rope between the newly mounted bolts, I threw the mimic-fabric over it—a cheap replacement for the stealth generator I did not have.
It flickered with colours for a bit, until finally settling on the rocky pattern, merging with the wall around it. Neat.
"Now water," Lola chimed in, and with a sigh, I picked up a twenty-litre flexible bag from the survival kit. Like everything in it, it was multipurpose and, when connected with the shower-like dispenser, was part of the shower set.
"Slave driver," I muttered under my breath.
"I heard that," Lola replied, and rolling my eyes, I followed the marker to the lake.
I was never interested in biology, not really.
Well, except for that one time when I tried to figure out why I had silver features, but even for that, I only remember something about a unique interaction between Ladoga's star and Ladogan. Oh, and that it was a stable mutation that was safely affecting all native-borns.
So, the Anomaly and its mutation factors were way above my expertise level, but I couldn't believe that its presence on this planet was enough to wipe out all signs of those who had terraformed it.
At the very least, even if in ruins now, there should have been an initial outpost or settlement left behind. And that, perhaps, should be my goal.
If I find it…
With a sigh, I stopped and looked over the water deposit—a small underground lake—that was flickering and reflecting my shoulder light, sending sun bunnies dancing around.
Swimming was what I wanted more than a shower. It had been ages since I had last swum. Was it on New Orleans? A year ago?
With another sigh, I lowered the bag into the lake, and as soon as it filled to the brim, lifted it out with one hand.
It had to be heavy, at least a third of my weight, and if not for the scaf's amplifiers, I would have had to drag it or settle for less water.
Instead, I was walking back with only louder crunches under my feet. And having only slight lag as a trade-off was as good as any. It could be worse. Way worse.
The scaf was a lifesaver in my situation, especially with my diminutive complexion.
Not a petite, never petite.
By the time I got back, whatever Lola planned to do with the shower was already done, and Esdie was awkwardly walking out on its paws, locked in a vertical position. Right, not terrain-friendly, they were.
Behind him, the shower floor was slightly glowing green, covered in what seemed to be a hull breach sealing compound.
"Show tags," I commanded, and yep, it was the ST-100, dispersed all over the floor.
"Hold a minute," I said, getting an idea.
Lowering the water bag, I picked up the droid and went inside. Carefully stepping at the shower edge, even if I knew the compound had already solidified and nothing short of a railgun tap would break it, I went to the holes I made in the walls to reach the ceiling.
"Do the thing," I said, holding Esdie before the first one, and it (or more likely Lola) did not fail me.
In a short burst, the inner part of the hole was coated in a polymer-like substance that was nice to the touch, and now it wasn't a hole anymore, but a fancy niche for bathing supplies, with a backlight in green colour.
Satisfied with the result, I repeated the same with the others, except for the last one, on the side.
"Stay here for a bit," I said, lowering Esdie and grabbing the multitool again.
A bit more drilling, this time angling toward the ground, and after another dose of sealant, I got a nice holder for the Sixer built right into the shower.
Letting the droid go, I turned to the bag of water I had just brought with me and, dropping in a single-use heat source, sealed it again.
Catching the rope hanging from the ceiling, and fumbling with it for a bit to secure the bag, I pulled it up to the proper height… just enough for me to stand under, and a bit more.
That should be it.
Stepping out, I critically looked over the well-done work, feeling satisfied and even somewhat happy with the way it looked.
Not a space-grade cabin, sure, but for what I had in my hands, it was not bad. Not bad at all.
Turning my lights off and shooing the recon droids away, I tilted my head, trying to decide if I liked it all glowing green now, as if some mystical place, or not.
It was… something.
"I think water is at an optimal temperature," said Lola.
"Yeah, it should be," I agreed and looked around.
Spotting a big enough flat space nearby, I moved there in a few quick steps, with my mind already in the shower.
Lying down on my back, I pulled Sixer out and placed it on the ground first, before taking the helmet off next and initiating the manual scaf-disengaging protocol.
Back on Mastodon, we had dock stations that were simplifying this process, letting us just walk out of the scaf, but here and now, I had only one option—improvisation.
With audible clicks and clacks, the front part of the scaf unfolded, followed by the lock-release sounds in the limbs, creating extra space to let me pull them out. With a few yanks here and there, I sat up, freeing my arms first, and then focused on pulling my legs out.
Placing my hands on the ground to steady myself, and picking up Sixer again, I finally crawled out of the scaf and, fighting the disorientation, slowly stood up.
Looking down at the opened-up scaf—now looking like a gutted animal with its head cut off—I realised that there was no way I would put it on again without Lola's help.
Something for future-me to care about.
Turning around, I carefully made my first step, adjusting to the absence of the scaf's amplifiers—fucking manual-mode and delays it has—and caught myself trying to send an ARC command to unseal the underlayer.
Annoying.
It took me a moment, and a few careful steps, to remember the right gesture (slide a hand down from the neck to the pubic zone) to unseal it, and I started to peel myself out, becoming steadier with each step.
After being in a sterile environment for so long, and then being exposed only to damp, earthy air, my own body scent was… overwhelming, to say the least.
Yeah, it was two days, alright.
Wrinkling my nose and feeling the chill air on my already exposed skin, I stepped into the shower and put Sixer in the newly minted holster on the wall. With a few extra tugs and pulls, I finally got the underlayer off and, dropping it on the ground, turned on the water.
The contrast between the cold air and almost too hot to handle water was a nice, welcome change, even though it wasn't my favourite setting I was so used to.
Hell, it was pure, liquid pleasure I knew I needed.
Tilting my head up and squinting, letting the water run down my body, I felt as if I were caught between the rushing droplets and the rising steam glowing green, forgetting about all the troubles I was in.
It was like watching some holo from a foreign planet, perhaps even from the ocean bottom, and all that was missing here were creatures, obviously bright in colour, to fly around.
Breathing in damp heat, melting into water, into air, enjoying it to the brim, I felt… alive.
No surprise, the shower was my favourite feature on Mastodon.
As if the dam was broken, all that had happened, all that I was trying to distance myself from, caught up with me…
Captain Naome, James, Simpson…
Face after face of people who were left behind were passing in my eyes, bringing the pain of the loss, and I allowed myself to mourn, to say goodbye.
Not all of them died—not all of their fates I knew of—nor my fate was known, missing in action, with no body, no trail, nothing. Nothing to send home, even if no one was going to shed a single honest tear there. Nothing to send to the nearest star as a funeral ritual, as I had asked in my will.
Nothing.
For all intents and purposes, they all died to me, and I died to them.
At least there were going to be no more angry holocalls, with demands to stop my foolishness, to come "home" and take my rightful place as an heir, to marry, to pop out a kid or two—as only proper.
And perhaps, that was for the better.