A small, yellow light appeared in the clearing, around it in a semi-circle stood seven Pilot Fish, their eyes glowed the same vibrant yellow as the orb that hovered between them and cast sparking tendrils upon the ground. The orb shuddered and spread evenly and rapidly until it created a large, shimmering square that rested several feet above the ground. The square rippled like the surface of a pond, and slowly a vague image of a grey-clad man formed within. The image grew larger and larger until it broke the surface of the square and emerged from the other side. The man dropped to the ground, the thick rubber treads of his weather-worn boots leaving heavy impressions in the dry forest floor. He tapped a finger to the side of his helmet and spoke. “Minus four on the Y,” he said. “Copy,” crackled the voice in his earpiece. The square shimmered out of existence behind him, then reappeared four-feet lower. Three more men stepped from the gateway, each attired in the same dark grey environment suit as the first, an impressive array of equipment between them. The first man unclasped his helmet and tucked it under one arm.
The early afternoon sun blazed over head; his eyes watered as they adjusted to the light outside of the tinted lenses of his helmet, the scent of pine wafted gently on the warm breeze and, though pleasant, he had idea what it was. The wind continued past him, the crispy top layer of leaves being shovelled along the forest floor and out of sight. He closed his eyes and ran his hand through his grey-flecked hair. Colonel Edevane stood and let the world wash by for several long moments, then put his helmet back on and locked it into place. “Anchor it,” he ordered, his voice without tone or any particular interest. Two men broke from the line and unpacked a small device from each of their backpacks. Each device was an intricate metal pole with a series of buttons that ran along the length, affixed with a glass orb at one end and a spike at the other. The men spiked their respective devices into the soft ground at either side of the gateway and made doubly sure they were both straight and correctly aligned with one another. “3, 2, 1, ignite,” they said in tandem, then pressed the same button on each device in unison.
The gateway shimmered and twisted in place. Gone was the ethereal yellow glow, replaced by the crystalline image of a stark metal-lined room. Cold, sterile, and lined wall-to-wall with the cabinet-sized computers required to make sure everything functioned. The fourth man opened the large, metal flight case they’d brought with them and produced a small drone that looked like a hastily assembled collection of cogs and gears that had been duct-taped together, and it mostly was. The majority of the case was taken up by a screen and, for such a small device, a complex set of controls that featured an assortment of dials and levers and a frightening amount of identical, unlabelled buttons and gauges; it was the sort of control panel that was invented by someone that knew they would never have to use it. “Oh, there's a spare button from that other thing,” they'd said, chastising themselves for having a spare button in the first place. “Let's just add it to this other thing.”
Scientists could, for a time, often be identified by the extra buttons on their trousers. Enemy assassins found this so useful that High Command ordered the use of elastic waistbands as a counter-measure. The problem with such a design strategy is two-fold: firstly, the training time for drone operators vastly exceeded their estimated life-expectancy, on or off the battlefield and, secondly, even if they did pass the course with flying colours, the controls were still damn near impossible to use, though assuredly very good and cutting edge. Colonel Edevane had insisted that he be supplied with the most state of the art drone that money could buy, specifically money before the turn of the last century.
It lacked many essential features, like a colour screen, thermal camera (which it actually had, but you couldn't tell without the colour screen) or a long-life power cell, but it also lacked the best part of one-hundred extra buttons and a control unit the size of an obese eight-year old. Even with the increased ease-of-use, Lieutenant Martin, the drone operator, still struggled to keep the drone in an extended state of not being on the ground in pieces. As it pirouetted through the air, its internal gyroscope insisted vehemently that it fly in every position and direction except the correct one. After five minutes and a very stern talking to, Martin managed to right the drone and send it above the dense forest canopy. The drone's antiquated cameras took a few seconds to calibrate to the brightness of the midday sun, bright spots still dotted the display monitor even after it had.
“Small settlement one klick south, sir. Seems unguarded,” he said. Martin saluted the back of his Colonel's head just long enough for the drone to helplessly helix down into the canopy and become snagged irretrievably in a bird's nest. “Lost contact with the drone, sir. Atmospheric interference, sir. Very sorry, sir.”
“That's quite alright, Lieutenant,” Edevane said. “Expendable assets.” A low chuckle swept through the men behind him. Edevane adjusted the nylon strap hanging around his neck, the practically antique rifle that hung from it was the best he was able to requisition at very long notice and blackmail. He couldn't remember which war it came from, because he found they all tended to run into one another after a while, like Sunday afternoons. Aesthetically, the gun looked like someone sneezed on a blueprint and called it a day. The barrel was made from unnecessarily polished copper that had a tendency to gleam in the sun and give away your position, though this was easily rectified with a piece of sandpaper or, failing that, a nice, technically uncomplicated rock. The guns were supplied in museum condition, because that was probably where they came from, so Edevane had Martin roll them in the mud and tarnish the metal a little before allowing the safeties off.
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“Lieutenant Martin, Private Brandon, with me. Lieutenant Bracknell, guard the extraction point. Pilot Fish are yours to command,” he ordered. Lieutenant Bracknell wasn't just a large man, he was a very large man. If you were to trace his lineage and look up his family tree, you would find that he came from a long line of sheds, maybe even houses. Bracknell stood with his back to the Gate and looked much like an adult stood in front of a child's football goal; he almost completely obscured the view of the scientists that had now gathered back in the control room and were loudly tutting and passive-aggressively stirring their coffee. “Private Brandon, take point.”
“Me, sir? Not to question you, sir, but wouldn't Lieutenant Martin do a better job, sir?” Brandon squeaked. He almost choked on his tongue from not just the very thought of insubordination but the very thought of the very thought of it. Like all good utilitarian sociopaths, Edevane had quickly come to the conclusion that the solution to his problem hinged upon yet another sacrifice to the greater good by somebody that very definitely wasn't him.
“Landmines, Private,” he replied coldly. “Now walk, please.” Edevane had developed the knack of saying 'please' in such a way that it came out as 'or else.' In fact, he had developed a knack of saying most things and having them come out as 'or else.' Brandon moved cautiously and low to the ground, studiously observing his surroundings and avoiding any dry twigs or patches of leaves along the route. Edevane and Martin moved quickly along the weather-worn path and followed in single-file a dozen or so paces behind Brandon, not deviating from his exact route by a single hair. Edevane tapped the side of his helmet and spoke into the transmitter.
“Lieutenant Bracknell, report. Over.”
“All quiet, sir. Nothing to report. Over.”
“ETA three minutes. Commence radio silence. Over and out.”
Private Brandon crested a small hill. He struggled to regain his footing after a cascade of rotten leaves and loose mud slid out from beneath him, but managed to steady himself against the hill with his free hand. He proceeded ape-like the rest of the way up and took a crouched stance at the top. Edevane and Martin waited at the foot of the hill and kept themselves low and obscured while Brandon reached into a pouch on his belt and produced a small pair of binoculars.
“Creatures, sir,” he said quietly. “Village ahead. No sign of sentries or emplacements. Just as Lieutenant Martin said. Not even a watch tower, sir.” Edevane scrambled up the hill in more or less the same fashion Brandon had and took position next to him. Brandon offered Edevane his binoculars without needing to be asked and scooted over slightly so that he could observe from the same position he had. Edevane surveyed the village, then directed his attention to the path that led up to it.
The village at this point was within one-hundred yards of them. The path was, for the most part, dotted with footprints – at least three different sets, some kind of light vehicle tracks led their way, too, then veered off into the leaf-strewn undergrowth. He turned his attention to the creatures. In the middle of the village were two bipedal, he supposed, well, dogs. The largest of the two was only a slight bit smaller than Lieutenant Bracknell and was attired in civilian clothing. The smaller of the two, a child, clearly; it clumsily frolicked and danced around the other one without any particular concern for its own safety, as evidenced by its frequent trips to the ground. He signalled with a wave for Martin to join them.
“Non-combatants, spread out within line-of-sight, maintain radio silence. Hostages only, secure the perimeter – those are our orders.” This world was unlike anything he'd seen before and, if he still had a sentimental bone left in his body, he might have called it beautiful. He remembered dogs, though not any like that, but he remembered them. They went extinct when he was still a child, along with the cats and the birds and the fish. He was always told that at the end of the world, there would only be cockroaches left, but even they had gone extinct. He approached the creatures cautiously and kept in the deep shadows thrown by nearby buildings, while Lieutenant Martin and Private Brandon kept just in the periphery.
Brandon broke from formation and pressed forward. He pushed towards the larger of the two creatures with his gun raised in his trembling hands. “Stop right there!” he growled. His voice broke mid-sentence and escaped his mouth like helium from a balloon. Bosco turned towards the source of the barely-coherent shout. The muzzle of the rifle ignited in a sulphurous burst and filled the air with a thick, foul-smelling smoke as Brandon pulled the trigger. He could feel the immense heat of the barrel even through his gloves, the damp protective layer of mud dryed instantly and flaked to the ground. A fraction of a second later, the bullet left the barrel, followed presently by the throaty roar of the sound barrier.