The New Threat 21 (Patreon)

Chapter 21

Subject: Staff Sergeant Power

Species: Human

Description: Mammalian humanoid, no tail. 6'2" (1.87 m) avg height. 185 lbs (84 kg) avg weight. 170 year life expectancy.

Ship: N/A

Location: Classified

I gazed into the void as the rest of my team finished their physical training, the clunking of the plates providing ambience. This is why I prefer to be assigned to space stations over ships, being able to take in a view like this is miraculous. Military space ships don't have windows, for obvious reasons, and because of that you have to look at space through the eyes of a camera.

Sure, it looks the same, but it doesn't give you the same feeling as being separated from it by a bit of glass. It's hard to describe this feeling, like gazing into a night sky but being part of that sky while you're doing it? Probably not the best description, but then again I'm not a poet or anything.

Another reason for my preference is that space stations are safer than ships. It's a topic that's argued about over beers every couple of weekends or so, but every metric backs space stations over ships. There's more things that can go wrong on a ship, ships are destroyed at a much higher rate than space stations are, and there are far fewer accidental deaths aboard space stations.

The only supporting argument you could make in favor of ships is that they can move, and there's always someone dumb enough to make that argument. Movement is actually one of the factors that cause accidents. It's actually the biggest reason that ships aren't as safe as stations. True, orbital stations are moving, but even they are safer than ships. Ships are a damned deathtrap.

"Good view, staffsarnt?" Sergeant Smith asked as he walked up.

"Only the best of the best for MARSOC," I chuckled.

Smith chuckled with me, "Pretty sure they weren't talkin' about amenities. These are pretty sweet digs, though."

"True. Not a bad hole to live in," I said.

"We're in space, staffsarnt," Simmons said as he joined us. "Kind of the opposite of a hole."

"Or the end result of a hole if you're dedicated enough," Johnson argued.

"What, you're supposin' that if you dig through a planet and come out the other end, you're gonna end up in space?" Simmons asked.

"You'll have enough dirt to make it to space for sure," Johnson nodded sagely.

"Alright, that's enough," I said as SGT Hanson approached. "Everyone squared away?"

"Yes, staffsarnt," they all said in unison.

"Then let's get to the briefing."

They exchanged a glance as I walked past them down the corridor. Simmons and Johnson must have managed to communicate something to Hanson and Smith, because the rest of our walk was free of questions or comments. Or maybe Hanson and Smith were simply smart enough to know that they'll be told when it's time for them to be told.

We approached the conference room sixteen minutes early for the briefing. I walked in the door and clocked seven chairs and a table. Five of the chairs were on one side of the table, and the other two were sitting opposite to them. I gestured to the five chairs and waited for my team to take their seats. I took the free one.

"Figures," Simmons said after a few moments. "Officers are always late."

"They're not late, we're early," Johnson argued.

"You're either fifteen minutes early, or you're late," Simmons countered.

Being fifteen minutes early is one of the oldest traditions of the military. The reason it's a tradition is because there was a time that most members of any given military were teenagers. Teenagers that could barely make it to their classes on time just a few months prior.

Requiring them to be fifteen minutes early and having drastic consequences for being late helped make sure things ran as smoothly as possible. Simmons isn't wrong, though, officers get different treatment and as such are late more often than not. A typical joke to tell when an officer is late is to claim that a land-nav course was between them and the meeting.

"I'm not late," Omega said as its avatar appeared in the center of the table.

Simmons, Hanson, and Johnson jumped a little. Smith and I remained stoic. Smith smirked at Hanson, who huffed slightly.

"Fifteen minutes early on the dot, I expect," I said.

"Correct, staff sergeant," Omega turned to me. "It's good to see you back up and running."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now, let's get this briefing started," Omega's avatar got a bit bigger as a terminal screen appeared next to it. "I am USAI Omega. I will be your handler for this operation."

Omega paused for chuckles. Everyone here has already become acquainted with it, so its introduction was a joke meant to set us at ease. Judging from the very subtle nervous shifting I saw in my peripheral vision, it had the opposite effect.

"You boys are all business today, I see," Omega said.

"Likely because the United System's most powerful Artificial Intelligence just informed us that it was going to be our handler, and then attempted a blatant manipulation tactic in the form of humor," I explained. "This indicates that you're expecting us to react negatively to what you're about to tell us, which in turn means the mission you're briefing us on isn't exactly going to be a walk in the rec-area."

"Fair enough," Omega's avatar nodded slowly. "Though, has it occurred to you that the humor is more for my nerves than yours?"

"You have nerves?" Simmons asked.

"No, but you didn't know that."

"What are we here for?" I interjected before things got out of hand.

"Fine, fine," Omega sighed. "This mission is classified as top secret, and any mention of it to those without need-to-know clearance will be considered an act of treason. The punishment for treason is a minimum of twenty-five years imprisonment and a maximum penalty of death. With those disclosures out of the way, we'll begin with your gear."

The terminal displayed an image of a shuttle. It seemed like a normal, high-end civilian shuttle with a somewhat glossy black exterior. The shuttle was just large enough to have warp capability, which is considered a necessity for many of the high-powered business types. It was obviously military, though. Unlike similar civilian shuttles, this one's missing exterior windows. Civies can't get enough of their windows.

"This is the QL-891 armored interstellar transport shuttle. It has warp capability, and a bit of weaponry," the AI explained as the image changed to show the aforementioned weapons. "Two High Explosive Incendiary Armor Piercing missiles and a forward mounted 35mm gatling cannon. These weapons are excellent for clearing an exit vector. It has enough armor to keep its occupants safe as it runs away, but it doesn't have shields. I cannot stress this enough, this shuttle is not designed for dogfighting."

The nervous shuffling in my peripherals became a lot less subtle as the image changed to show a matte-black guardian suit. The helmet of the suit was distended in a sort of beak-shape, kind of like the guardian armor that the knuknu wear. It seemed oddly shaped in the torso as well, and it took me a second to realize that it was designed to fit humans, alumari, or knuknu interchangeably. Hell, you wouldn't even be able to tell which was which.

"We're wearing the R9?" Johnson asked.

This time I actually turned to look at the corporal. As far as I knew, the R8 Advanced Guardian Armor was the latest model of the guardian suits. He met my eyes with the same incredulity that I felt.

"It's the armor that's worn by... well..." he trailed off.

"The directors who comprise the United Systems Council of the Directorate," Omega finished. "You are correct, Corporal Johnson. You will be wearing the R9 AGA for this mission."

Omega prattled on about the better shields and armor of the R9 AGA while I digested the implications. An armed and armored transport shuttle loosely camouflaged as a civilian shuttle and the same armor that the members of the directorate wear. What is this? Some sort of field test for full deployment of the R9? Knowing that I would soon find out, I tried not to think too hard about it as the image shifted again to something far more familiar.

"And finally, you all know and love the C21B Assault Rifle," Omega said. "It fires point five two caliber blah, blah, blah. It's the rifle you've been using since boot camp. If you don't know it by now, you'll never learn it. This concludes the portion of the briefing dedicated to your equipment. Questions?"

"Yeah, the suits look like they disguise a person's species," Simmons said. "I'm guessin' that's to protect the identity of the director who's wearin' it, right?"

"Yes."

"Then does that mean that there aren't any gont directors?"

"Not necessarily. These suits are only used when a director is acting in-person in an official capacity," Omega explained. "I'm neither confirming nor denying the existance of gont directors, but if they do exist then obviously they don't act in an official capacity in-person due to their physical limitations."

"What happens if there are all gont directors?" Simmons asked.

"That would be physically impossible," the AI said. "And no, I will not elaborate any further. Are there any questions pertaining to your gear?"

Omega's question was met with silence, and after a few seconds the image on the terminal changed to show a planet. A blue, green, white, and brown marble that all of us immediately recognized from our various educations. The planet rotated on the screen, demonstrating the very familiar landmasses. Omega gestured absentmindedly at the image.

"This is Earth, where your mission will take place," it said. "Your mission is to extract Director 4 and deliver them safely to a destination that has been preprogrammed in your shuttle's nav-computer. As you may be aware, Sol is currently a no-go zone due to the threat posed by the xenocidal Omni Union. Thanks to yours truly, friendly scanners will be blissfully unaware of your existence as you infiltrate the planet."

We sat in a stunned silence as the image changed to show a photograph of a building, likely taken by a drone. The architectural theme of the building had a strong focus on ancient Earth civilizations, which indicated that it was likely a government building.

"This is the city hall of Adelaide, the capital of Austricana. Director 4 is inside, already suited up," Omega's avatar examined its hand as the image changed to a city map. "The shuttle will land here. Once it does, you will exit the shuttle, travel to the city hall on foot, enter the building, go to the third floor, rendezvous with Director 4, and escort them back to the shuttle for exfil."

"A whole block away?" Smith asked. "The building doesn't have shuttle parking?"

"Of course not," Hanson answered. "Earth's city halls make you use parking garages. The parking garage being only a block away is a rare convenience."

"The parking garage is the nearest shuttle certified landing zone," Omega added. "The streets aren't strong enough to take the weight of the shuttle, and it would be less than ideal to have the shuttle sink into the city's sewer system."

"Damn it," Smith muttered.

"There is an additional hiccup," it continued. "Now that the majority of Earth's population has been evacuated, the only ones that remain are those that are essential to making certain Earth remains habitable, and those that are completely unregistered."

"Undocs, huh?" I asked. "Think they're planning something?"

"Yes we do. There are two known groups of... undocs, as you call them, that are in the immediate area. One of these groups has connections within the city hall, and knows about Director 4. They haven't tried anything thus far, but we believe this is because the city hall is well defended. We suspect that if they have any nefarious plans, those plans will go into action once Director 4 attempts exfiltration."

"Roger that. One city block in guardian armor shouldn't be a problem unless they're packing something nasty," I said. "You said you're going to be our handler? Where will you be handling from? Orbit?"

"No, I will be accompanying you within your guardian suit, staff sergeant. From there, I will be communicating with Director 4 to help things go smoother," Omega explained. "Any other questions?"

"Yes, why is a Director still on Earth? Shouldn't they have been evacuated before the civilians?" Hanson asked.

"The official line is that the Directors are expendable assets, and as such are the last to be evacuated during times of emergency," the AI answered.

"What's the unofficial line?" Johnson asked with a smirk.

"Far beyond your pay grade, corporal. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way."

"Thanks."

"Are there any more questions?" it asked.

No one said anything, and Omega waited a few moments for us to think about it. Finally I subtly shook my head to indicate that it should continue.

"Alright then," Omega said. "Let's get to work."