Into the Light by Jane Wallace

The disembarkation from CSS Victory, CSS Valiant and CSS Vehement commenced at 02:00 GST exactly. On Vehement, eight hundred regular troops filed down to Level 2 and into both port and starboard wings to the shuttle bays where the eight skydrives were waiting to fly them to Gridon. When they got on the ground, the skydrives would convert to their alternative transport mode – wheels.

The tramp of departing boots formed the sound track to the Special Ops briefing in the Officers’ Common Room. Special Ops were due to leave later by hopper, a smaller, more nimble craft than the skydrive, although without its ambimotion capability. Like the regulars, the twenty-four Special Ops agents were kitted out in combat dress, a simple bodysuit currently coloured in drab greens by the chameloflage which had been turned to temperate to suit Gridon’s lush vegetation. All apart from Sevin and Cantor, who stood in front of the hastily arranged rows of seats, wore the Coalition’s black combat helmet with eyeshields that winged out from the templeguards towards the nose. On the inside surface of the eyeshields was a screen which showed a map of the Actiran production facility.

The three cuboid buildings of the plant were set in a diagonal line running northwest to southeast. It was located some nine kilometres southeast of the space port and overshadowed by the gargantuan cylinder of a torus stanchion, some five kilometres in diameter. Around its base, buildings which serviced the onward transit of the antimatter had mushroomed. Between the stanchion and the refinery, there was an abandoned business park. At its centre was an unremarkable L-shaped low-rise which allegedly housed the control system for the nine hundred securimorphs active on Gridon. Sevin had chosen to codename it Valentine.

‘We’ll be dropped off by the hopper to the north of the site and we’ll approach Valentine from there,’ Cantor told the agents who had been split into six four-person groups. ‘There isn’t much cover because the surrounding area is flat and barren, but it will be night-time so we’ll have the advantage of darkness. Anyway, security doesn’t seem to be that tight.’ On the screen of his digi, he marked a small building on the access road. The point was relayed to the agents’ eyescreens. ‘There’s a guardhouse here manned by morphs and there are hourly patrols, that’s about the extent of it,’ he added.

‘What’s around it?’ asked Lauden. Apart from the guardhouse, there were five other structures around the objective.

‘A disused factory, garages and storage, we think,’ said Cantor. ‘Right, this is what’s going to happen. Bravo Group will storm the guardhouse and neutralise any hostiles inside. Papa will search and secure the factory, the warehouse and the garages on the western side. Quebec will take the eastern set, some sort of workshop and a shed-store. Alpha, the command group, will support them. The remaining units will make the primary assault on Valentine.’

He brought up a picture of a neglected cement block construction on their eyescreens. ‘Here it is. Echo, you will take the main entrance on the ground floor. Foxtrot will enter via the skylights on the roof, accessible by the service ladder by the fire exit at the back.’

‘We think the morph masterboard is on the fifth floor,’ said Sevin. ‘Whoever gets there first should pull the plug on the morphs. Then we can get the hell out.’ He made a sign to Cantor to close down the presentation and there was a whirring as the agents opened their visors.

‘This is an important job for Special Operations,’ said Sevin, looking at each agent directly. ‘It’s a relatively simple mission but crucial to the main effort. Coalition forces are outnumbered even with help from the Corazon rebels. We have to break the line of communication between the morphs and their control centre to have any chance of success. You know what you have to do. Good luck.’

There was a protracted boom of spacecraft launching. The wide, shallow bodies of the first four skydrives came into view through the portholes behind Sevin. Dirty beige, they drifted with the insouciance of marine predators before disappearing in a burst of powder-blue light.

‘There’s the first set. We’re after the next lot. Everyone to Bay Five,’ Sevin ordered. ‘Let’s go!’

All the skydrives had left by the time they reached the shuttle bay. The barely lit hangars were empty except for a single hopper jacked up on a launch pad, engines humming and operatives in orange high-vis carrying out the final checks before take-off. They were given the nod to board. Sevin watched each agent clank into the body of the transporter. Webbed up with climbing equipment and the gas canisters necessary to refuel the laser rifle each carried, the process was slow. Sevin took the time to check his own weapon, a standard issue Single Wave no 9 he had customised with a left-hand grip. Satisfied it was in full working order, Sevin slung it over his shoulder and scaled the ladder into the hopper.

The two benches which lined the bulwarks inside the main cabin were crammed full so he took the co-pilot seat. The pilot was clicking switches on the ceiling and looked round as Sevin belted himself in. Sevin frowned when he saw how young the pilot was. He couldn’t be more than mid-twenties, still with the gangling limbs of a teenager and way too young to be wearing the prestigious Air Captain flashes he sported on his epaulettes. His grey eyes regarded Sevin playfully from under a mop of chestnut hair.

‘Major Sevin?’ he asked.

Sevin nodded. ‘Second SO, Star Troop,’ he introduced himself.

’Air Captain Pol Marik, 8th Squadron,’ replied the pilot, rolling his Rs with the unmistakable burr of an Escovar accent. ‘Everybody onboard?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time do you make it?’ They synchronised their timepieces. Sevin passed over the code he had been given for the secure channel, his only way of contacting HQ or anybody else. No other communications would be allowed on the ground in case they were detected.

‘We’ll be going then.’ Marik flipped a lever and the main cabin door closed. He unclipped a headset from the back of his seat, put it on and spoke quickly, the mike in the chinstrap relaying the exit request to Traffic Control. Sevin noticed the co-pilot’s headset and, removing his own helmet, put it on. Above them, the plates of the hangar portal grated open revealing the blackness beyond, the atmosphere inside the shuttle bay preserved only by a mild electric field which spacecraft could easily pierce.

‘Nebula 7, you are cleared for lift-off,’ a voice crackled through the earphones.

‘Ready?’

Sevin confirmed that he was.

‘I love this bit.’ Marik grinned then hit the release button then slammed the accelerator forward so fast that the hopper catapulted off the launch pad and into open space. The G-force whacked Sevin back into his seat, squeezing the breath out of him. Cries of protest came from the rear cabin. Marik ignored them and increased their speed.

‘What are you playing at? Slow down!’ Sevin said. ‘You want to kill us before we get there?’

‘Too fast for you, sir?’ Marik leant back in his chair, arms stretched out to the steerstick. ‘This is half-throttle, you want to see what this baby really can do!’

‘This isn’t a game!’ Sevin leant across the accelerator to grab Marik’s shoulder. ‘Just get us to the ground safely. You’ve got the course programmed in. Use it.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Marik said, looking disappointed. ‘I have to warn you, it’s the slow road.’ He released the steerstick, switching to automatic.

Sevin glared at him and he sat contritely through the rest of the voyage watching the instruments. They did take the long way down, following an intricate pattern of twists and double-backs to stay in the gaps between the beacons of the extronet detectors. As they neared the great torus, shining argent in Riddan’s moonlight, a couple of the sunshine-painted antimatter scoops were docking at a collection point. Sevin estimated they were a least a kilometre in length and maybe half of that in width and depth. In the square nose of the bow were four ducts like giant nostrils through which the particles were sucked up. There were no portholes anywhere, the body of the scoop wrapped in some kind of radiation-proof skin. Perched on top was a tiny cab house, made redundant now by full automation. They passed so close that Sevin could see there was no-one at the bridge. And then the hopper was falling, hugging the stanchion for cover as they descended to the surface.

The drop-off was five minutes march from the stanchion and about two kilometres to the north of Valentine. Marik kept the hopper hovering above ground in a dip between two hills which formed a natural gully. The agents slid the last hundred metres via inflatable slides from both front and rear hatches, minimising the time and noise required to disembark. Sevin checked his timepiece. It was 03:11. The hopper would return in exactly one hour, and then at 11 minutes past the hour, every hour, at a prearranged rendezvous just to the southeast of the target complex. Sevin watched the hopper pause then jerk upwards like a yoyo on an invisible thread, hoping that its jokester pilot could be trusted to come back and pick them up.