Chapter 4

  2 days, 17 hours before First Contact

  Lance Corporal Richards

  Richards was momentarily stunned when the massive creature lunged at Private Perez and turned the tree he’d been hiding behind into shrapnel.

  His eye was lining up with the sights when it snapped its tail down like a thunderbolt, ending the young Private forever. He didn’t need the squad interface flashing red in the corner of his vision to confirm the young man’s demise, he’d seen it.

  He’d seen his chest crushed so completely, his blood spraying the bushes in all directions.

  Then the muffled sound of his rifle on full auto.

  His finger involuntarily kept the trigger depressed for a long moment after the bolt slammed back, chamber empty, magazine spent.

  For half a second after that there was nothing but silence, then sound slowly returned as a battle roar croaked to a halt from his own throat. The platoon sergeant was yelling something in his head, on the squad net, but the emotional haze still hadn’t cleared.

  “RICHARDS!”

  The corporal blinked.

  The world snapped back into motion with the Chimera’s roar.

  It reared up on its hind legs, tail lashing once, twice, scattering splinters and dirt in a wide arc. Richards finally released the trigger and ducked behind a fallen log, fumbling for a fresh magazine with hands that suddenly didn’t feel like his own.

  Move, damn it. Move.

  Knox’s voice finally cut clean through the fog.

  “Richards! Fall back! That’s an order!”

  He slammed the new mag home and risked a glance over the log. The creature’s yellow eyes were scanning now, searching, intelligent in a way that made his stomach twist.

  Perez was gone. Nothing to retrieve. Nothing to save.

  His jaw clenched.

  “Copy,” he sent at last, voice hoarse on the squad net. “Breaking contact.”

  He began to move before the last word finished, choosing a direction and running. He let his NCP and internal navigation system, synced with the satellites far above in low orbit, guide him as he made his escape.

  He could hear Krey’s PDW chattering out short, controlled bursts, the weapon’s sharp bark swallowed almost immediately by the roar of the creature. Trees cracked and split somewhere behind him as his legs carried him at inhuman speed away from the fight, just as ordered.

  “No effect!” Krey snapped over the squad net, irritation bleeding through her discipline. “It’s not reacting— I need to get to Perez!”

  The creature answered her with another bellow, closer now, heavier — the sound of something that did not care.

  Then the forest thumped.

  Not a gunshot. A deep, concussive whumm—thrack that punched through the trees and rattled Richards’ teeth.

  Sergeant Knox had engaged.

  For the first time since they’d happened upon the abomination, it screamed in pain — a strained, warbling sound of shock and rage, hints of its mixed parentage struggling for dominance.

  “Krey! Link up with Richards! Now!” Knox barked as his rifle thundered again. “I’ll keep it busy!”

  There was a brief pause on the squad net before Krey acknowledged, already moving.

  “Richards! Gather the platoon,” Knox added. “Let me know when and where.”

  Richards nodded subconsciously as a notification flared in his HUD — operational control transferred.

  “Copy,” he said, already moving. “On it.”

  He pushed commands to his NCP, pulling up a satellite overlay of the surrounding area while simultaneously reaching out to the unit CP.

  “Lance Corporal, we’ve been monitoring on our end. Team’s already gearing up.” Sergeant Calhoun, the second squad supervisor, responded as soon as the channel opened. “Where do you want us?”

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  The plan formed in Richards’ mind, interpreted by his NCP, and transmitted on cue to the CP for the Sergeant to review. Richards adjusted his course, pinging Krey as she closed fast on his position while he ran back toward the colony.

  “Got it,” Calhoun said after a heartbeat. “You really think we need the Carl-Gs?”

  “Krey?” Richards prompted as she burst through the brush beside him.

  Slightly out of breath—and clearly having listened in—she answered without hesitation. “Absolutely. Small arms aren’t doing a damn thing. The backside’s better armored than we are.”

  “Then take ’em. How long do we have?” Calhoun asked, juggling platoon coordination and Richards’ feed in a single breath.

  Richards checked the map. “Three minutes.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, toward where he knew Knox was still engaged, buying them time. He pushed a ping to the platoon sergeant, attaching a data packet with the ambush site and estimated readiness window.

  Richards kept the network open, hoping for a response. Knox’s status glared back at him on his HUD, flashing a hostile yellow. Krey looked back as they ran, the concern on her face mirroring his own.

  “He’s chromed to the gills,” she huffed, “but—”

  “He’ll be alright,” Richards said, vaulting a fallen log and weaving between trees like an Olympic hurdler. “We’re almost there.”

  Ten seconds later they thundered into the narrow ravine he’d designated as the ambush point, skidding to a halt in front of Sergeant Calhoun. From disengagement to arrival, barely two minutes had passed.

  Officially, the locals called it Dead End Canyon. Unofficially, it was the Kissing Ravine—where colony kids came to gather and make out. Hidey-holes pocked the rock walls, which rose nearly ten meters above them. At the far end sat a murky pond fed by an underground aquifer. Beyond that, tree stumps and fallen logs ringed a small clearing centered on a blackened fire pit where bonfires burned on some nights.

  “Glad you could join us, Corporal.” Calhoun—taller by a head—grinned behind the visor of his combat helmet and clapped Richards on the shoulder. He gestured as he spoke, indicating where he’d positioned the platoon’s assets.

  “Good choice. Kids are gonna be pissed after we wreck their playground though.”

  At ground level, the heavy weapons team had hauled in a rotary .50 caliber HMG, emplacing it in the old campsite as a hasty fighting position. Off to one side, Richards spotted the unmistakable profile of a Carl-Gustaf—new barrel, smart sighting package, and guidance assist bolted onto a design that had outlived nations.

  Above them, on the rim of the ravine, the long barrel of a MARS-RAWS sniper rifle protruded from concealment. The remaining Marines were spread out along the rocks and brush, pressed tight to cover, waiting.

  “I had time to review… “ Calhoun paused, almost a wince, “Perez’s feed. I’ve got the mortar team setup in the motorpool. If it tries to run, well… we won’t give it anywhere to go.”

  Richards turned to the entrance of the narrow ravine, “Good, cuz it looks like Sarge is on the move.”

  In his HUD, Sergeant Knox’s dot was moving quickly towards them on his mental HUD. His NCP provided an estimated arrival time.

  “One minute.”

  Sergeant Knox

  It shifted its impossible bulk.

  Knox already had his rifle shouldered when it roared again.

  Internal acoustic dampeners engaged within milliseconds, flattening the sonic spike as the pressure wave hit. He drove forward through it, boots digging into the soil.

  Green plasma bursts stitched across the creature’s flank, scorching fur, blistering skin, cracking chitin.

  The Chimera pivoted with terrifying speed, its tail whipping toward him like a medieval flail.

  Knox was already moving.

  He hurled himself backward, arms spread, spine arched as the clubbed end scythed over him—close enough to stir the air against his visor. The impact that followed hit like a collapsing wall, slamming him flat and stealing what momentum he had left.

  Shadow swallowed him as the tail rose again, blotting out Caldera’s white sun.

  He rolled hard to the side, releasing his rifle an instant before the tail came down like the Sword of Damocles.

  The strike missed him—but the shockwave did not.

  The ground erupted. The concussive force lifted him outright, tossing him end over end. He crashed through a stand of thick-trunked Caldera oaks and landed in a sprawl, armor groaning under the impact.

  “Son of a…” he muttered, forcing himself onto one knee.

  The Chimera prowled forward, coiling low. Its feline face hovered near the ground, breath blasting dust outward in hot, rhythmic gusts.

  His NCP chimed—measured, level, dispassionate.

  [Severe blunt-force trauma detected.]

  [Internal hemorrhaging identified.]

  [Subdermal armor integrity compromised: 17%.]

  [Skeletal stress beyond recommended tolerance.]

  [Automatic trauma mitigation engaged.]

  “Yeah,” Knox coughed. Tiny flecks of red dotted the grass beneath him. “I know.”

  He scanned for his rifle.

  Fragments lay scattered across a three-meter crater where he had been tossed away from.

  The Chimera shifted its weight, not attacking—watching. Almost curious. It stretched slowly in the ruined clearing, tail swaying, as if savoring the moment.

  Knox needed to buy his platoon more time.

  He wasn’t going to do it like this.

  “Requesting full system limiter release,” he said evenly. “Colonial Marine Special Operations Command authorization code to follow.”

  The Chimera crouched opposite him, tail swaying, head low.

  “Alpha. Kilo. One. One. Alpha. Golf.”

  His NCP responded without inflection.

  [Authorization request received.

  Verifying command authority…]

  [Seeking higher authorization.

  No higher authority present.]

  [Critical threat condition confirmed.

  Local force survivability below threshold.]

  [Emergency limiter release authorized.

  Full-spectrum augmentation clearance granted.]

  [All activity is being recorded for post-action review.

  Stand by.]

  Knox felt it before the final line faded.

  Microcapsules ruptured beneath his skin.

  Nanites flooded his bloodstream in coordinated waves. A cold spike tore through his veins, chased instantly by a furnace heat that set his nerves alight. Muscles seized as dormant subsystems came online. His vision fractured—thermal, kinetic prediction, ballistic overlays snapping into alignment.

  Pain lanced through his skull as sealed neural pathways unlocked.

  Then—

  Silence.

  Not the absence of sound.

  The absence of restraint.