Archeology

“Norm, please. You aren't seeing the upsides, the possibilities. We've been handed a lifetime opportunity here-”

Dr. Normand Higgins, dual doctorates in heliophysics and atmospheric physics, warily straightened up from the map table, looked to the ceiling, and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“No, Dee, I don't see an upside. There isn't one, besides laying hands on that data,” he fixed his younger colleague with an acidic scowl, half annoyance, half fatigue, and jabbed a finger at her. “You are compromised. Your sentimentality for these people has you snatching at any justification for us to just give up-”

Dupre and Ramirez, the senior security operators sharing the cramped mission planning space in the expedition van with the two doctors, both wished they were anywhere else.

“Sentimentality!? That's what you think this is!? You really are a bastard, Norm-” Seethed Dr. Deirdre Leah Culbertson, P.hD., biostatistics, like a rattlesnake with a toothache.

“I do. We aren't here to study the lives and times of some brain-addled, sun-worshiping hicks that went crazy in the pines. We are only after that atmospherics log. Dee, you're smarter than this.”

She was furious now, hissing. “You dragged us out here for yourself, for your own ends!” She swept an arm theatrically, indicating the staff in the van and outside in the camp. “The company sent us here to find-”

“Oh, cut the crap, lady! We all took the ride for our own reasons, you included!” Higgins was shouting now, and she flinched from his dart.

Because it was true: The two scientists, their many other colleagues and the security detachment besides, were originally detailed to Earth by the Selegin Cooperative in search of pre-Rift data and technology. But the Fargo Scientific Collective, as the group had dubbed themselves, went rogue years back. Independent. Off the preserve, as Dupre liked to say. Now they set their own agenda, far from the oversight committees and ethics boards back on Luna, still seeking long-buried secrets and insights that would bring fame and fortune, but for their own ends. For some in the group, the adventure was reward enough; freedom at last from labs, cleanrooms, and boardrooms.

Dupre took a measured step closer to the table and the raging scientists on either side, raising his scarred, bear paw hands in a placating manner. Scott Dupre was a battle-tested lifer with Selegin. He had led many expeditions with the Collective on Earth and, it felt like, endured many thousands of arguments between the scientoids just like this one.

Experience and knowing when to act counted for a lot in a gunfight and also when emotions ran high: Culbertson was going volcanic, her fumarole smoking and cracking. Another exchange and Higgins would lose his wits and become singularly focused on winning, actual objectives be damned. That outcome would cost them all time.

Dupre spoke quietly, soothingly, to Culbertson. “It's alright, Doctor C. We're not going in there to clean house. A little sneaky snatch-and-grab and we’ll have the data. Minimal casualties.”

She fixed him with a hard stare, glaring up at the tall, muscular trooper with the boldness of an angry child. “Minimal! Psh!”

Dupre’s manner and pitch didn’t waver. “We're good. You know that. If we're lucky we won't have to fire a shot for keeps. The lightest touch, doctor, I promise.”

Dr. Higgins spoke up, milder now, imploring gently. “Deirdre. If there was any other way, we would do it. We tried to negotiate, we tried to pay them off. You talked to them yourself! And who better than you?” He said the last with sudden, jarring sincerity. She wilted a little and he pressed. “And if not you, then who could get them to hand it over?”

Now it was Dr. Culbertson's turn to raise her hands, looking each man in the eyes in turn. Dupre knew this part of the song: her last-ditch try. “Please, gentlemen, just hear me out.” She was emphatic now, pleading, certain. “The Hand of Ra is a religion, a microculture, that has developed in-total, under extremis, and in isolation within just a couple of generations! Practically within living memory! This is the kind of thing that can make us in anthropology-”

Dupre indulged her with a gentle smile. Ramirez was stoic, eyes straight ahead on the compartment wall. Dr. Higgins sighed, exhausted. “Dee…”

She held up one hand, four fingers, started ticking through them. “Ever heard of Malinowski? Evans-Pritchard?”

“No one gives a shit about any of that anymore, Dee! Even if they did, and we put in the work, peerless work, we'd all end up dying broke. See reason! We can't set the terms off of something like that. You know that.”

Dupre watched the air go out of her, then. Her sad eyes, welling with tears, boring a hole in her colleague. She looked from Higgins to Dupre and back, searching for something to assuage her conscience. “I want your word, both of you. Your word! No killing! These aren't bad people.”

“I promise, doc.” Dupre lied, still smiling.

Higgins stuck his hands in the pockets of his cargo vest. His tone was chilly with implicit doubt. “Are they good people, Deirdre? They've dropped a few KKVs on folks because they didn't want to share. And you didn't feel quite so charitable about preserving that lot squatting in Boston U…” He glanced tellingly at Dupre.

“That was different. They were murderers. Rapists! Evil people that got what was coming to them.”

“Indeed. And fine,” Higgins turned to address his security operatives. “Boys, let's keep the body count as low as practical, eh? We don't want a hissy fit. Now,” His tone conciliatory. “Can we figure out how we're going to do this?”

—

The team had gathered plenty of intelligence on the Hand of Ra prior to approaching them, and in the days following the conclusion of negotiations. Despite access to a dreadfully powerful kinetic mass driver satellite, the balance of their technology was mercifully limited. A few armed industrial HE-Vs, basic firearms, technicals, and that was all.

They lacked any sort of drone support or even sophisticated sensors, as best as the Collective’s operatives and technical staff could tell. The borders of their domain were watched by single- or two-man units in the bush with binoculars and rifles, and one HE-V or another was operated around the clock on patrol. A week of long distance observation revealed coverage gaps during shift change that could be exploited, particularly at the northern fringe of the basin.

Higgins, Dupre and Ramirez went on for hours, pouring over the digital map table’s 3D topographics, along with an old, ivory-toned paper map illustrating the nickel irruptive, igneous and sedimentary formations in the region. Dr. Culbertson sulked in the background, listening, occasionally chiming in helpfully with her insights on the Hand’s psychology.

The plan resolved into a lightning asset raid. Two commando teams would go in on foot: one three-man team to neutralize the sentries, one five-man team to breach the old smelter complex, what the hand called the Temple of the Seeing Sun. The entry team would locate the control room and its data drive that served the attached weather station. It was suspected the detailed logs encoded on the drive, ones regarding coronal emissions prior to the Rift, would be most illuminating, or so Dr. Higgins believed.

In support of the commando teams, three HE-Vs: Dupree in the Aegis, Ramirez in a Buckler, and another pilot in an ultralight Kite. The heavier HE-Vs would move in to intercept any patrolling Hand forces as needed. The ultralight would accompany the entry team for close support and to ensure the Hand’s ace, their kinetic mass driver satellite, was taken off the table.

Eliminating that trump card was critical to the success of the operation and survival. This necessitated the jamming of the Hand’s communications apparatus, particularly the uplink that communicated with the satellite above, and their radios. This would be accomplished in tandem via a cutting edge ECM system installed on the Aegis, and by the sophisticated scrambler array backpacked in by the Kite. The two remaining Kites, another Buckler and a few squads of operatives on foot would remain behind at base camp for security.

As a contingency against a pitched battle or an unexpectedly large patrol, mine drones would be infiltrated overnight in the wee hours of the morning and left in ambush, if needed. The expedition had a whole rack of them slumbering in the belly of their LAS transport.

The Collective owned and traded on a vast stockpile of these deadly, modified “spiders”; sacrificial munitions able to position and conceal themselves, and even pursue targets. Each possessed a ferociously potent two-stage, armor-piercing charge and a rudimentary AI brain that was, basically, a simpler version of an HE-V’s combat controller.

The three men went over the rough details and timing of the plan several times. Careful consideration was paid to the numerous, round depressions, old and recent, dotting the Hand’s domain; certainly mass rod impacts, Ramirez noted grimly. Higgins would leave the intricacies of the tactical briefing to his men-at-arms. He would, though, personally brief the entry team regarding what they were looking for and how to extract it. If the data were to become damaged or corrupted by careless handling after so much work and risk, emotions would indeed run hot, then.

The days leading up to a discovery were always frantic, exciting and exhausting for Dr. Higgins in equal measure. His career had taught him nothing if not that meticulous, grueling preparation was the foundation on which success was built. Soon the mission preparations would be complete, and not long after his prize would be in hand.

—

The infiltration of the perimeter and entry teams took the better part of 16 hours. Good fieldcraft, optical camouflage systems and constant coordination with observer drones overhead allowed both teams to avoid detection and hide, waiting for the command to execute. Dupre ably directed it all from the cockpit of the monumental Aegis while he and Ramirez crept into their staging position deep in the forest beyond the northern rim of the great crater forming the basin. Doctors Higgins and Culbertson nervously watched the icons representing their team crawl over the illuminated map. Culbertson habitually chewed on her knuckle.

All the elements were set. Dupre left the timing of initiation to the perimeter team. The silent wait in the planning compartment of the expedition van was intolerable. Only the humming air conditioner was audible.

Suddenly, a gruff voice over the channel. “Sentries at point alpha subdued, no call, no casualties.” Culbertson shivered in gratitude, or relief.

Dupre, then. “All units, this is Lead. Green light, green light, green light.”

The jammers would be activating at that moment. The Aegis and Buckler would scramble up the Northern rim of the basin, descend, and hold position in cover a few miles north of the settlement where they should encounter a Hand HE-V on its usual patrol. At the same time, the entry team would break from cover and sprint to a building in the Temple complex to gain access. There was no way to know ahead of time how extensively the interior of the complex had been modified; they'd have to find and perhaps fight their way through. Tailing behind the entry team, the Kite, with scrambler active, would move to secure the Hand’s HE-V sheds, preventing any serious reinforcements from standing up.

After a few more minutes of silence, things happened fast.

The Kite’s pilot spoke, her machine’s rapid footfalls audible in the background. “We're spotted! Yeah, civilians are running around in town, now. En route to HE-V hangar, containment proceeding!”

“Entry team has breached structure, beginning search n- You! Don't move, don't move!” Then silence.

Dupre, again. “I’m set, Ramirez. One, count one, HE-V coming our way. It’s a big one, packing for CQC. Watch the distance, wait for my cue. Steady, bro…”

“Roger, lead, I’ve got him on scopes. I’m behind the spoil, ready to rabbit.”

Higgins watched the map and saw a large orange triangle closing on two, friendly green ones. The smaller green one dead ahead of the hostile contact, Ramirez’s Buckler, was concealed between mountainous piles of rocky refuse, leftover waste from decades of mining. Dupre’s Aegis was tucked in a scrubby woodline, perpendicular to the approaching HE-V’s path, hidden and ready for a flank shot. Higgins looked up to a monitor relaying a hovering recon drone’s camera: the fuzzy feed showed a huge, patchworked mining rig. It was an old ultraheavy Klondike, packing a barbaric, flanged club the size of a tree in one hand. Whatever heavy tools it once carried had been pulled from the voluminous torso bay; only a pair of short, thick cannon barrels protruded from within.

“He’s still coming, Rammy. Get set, I’ve got you covered.” Dupre whispered over the comm.

“Turn off, turn back, turn somewhere, you motherf-” Remirez growled under his breath.

“He’s getting too close. Get his attention, now!” Dupre snapped.

Higgins was sweating despite the AC. Culbertson was as pale as flour. Ramirez hopped the Buckler sideways from cover, directly in front of the Klondike approaching some 200 yards away on the northbound road. It jerked to a quick halt, pilot no doubt surprised at the sudden appearance of the birdlike, stone gray Buckler. The machine’s great club came up defensively, cocked to strike. Most fights began as a conversation, Dupre knew, but the aggressive jamming his ECM system was pumping out precluded a simple radio call.

In the Klondike’s cockpit, one of the Hand’s protectors, shocked, was indeed trying to hail and raise home at that moment. Shrill, warbling noise and static was all that greeted him on the headset. He abandoned his attempt, quickly aimed, and fired two short bursts from his autocannons. Luckily for Ramirez, the industrial HE-V’s retrofitted targeting system was shoddy and both went wide into the mountains of spoil, sending little avalanches tumbling down. The Hand pilot pushed forward, full throttle, and the Klondike hurtled toward the smaller Buckler like a juggernaut.

“Light him up and git, Rammy.” Dupre moved one hand to a subdisplay’s controls as he spoke, clicking a succession of four keys. He returned his hand to the stick and advanced himself, the powerful Aegis pushing aside and felling mature trees with ease. The Buckler’s right arm laser snapped up and a brilliant beam of light appeared between it and the Klondike, a spray of slag pattering to the dirt around it, smoking. This had no other effect than scarring the industrial rig’s torso. Having bloodied the rushing bull, Ramirez spun the Buckler nimbly, hard, on one foot and dashed behind the spoil before the Klondike’s autocannons spoke again.

Around the Hand HE-V, on either side, from four patches of oddly disturbed soil sprang four robotic terrors, each the size of a compact car. The Collective’s mine drones pivoted and homed on their target using four, pointed, stilt-like legs. Together with the legs, optical sensor clusters at the front of their squat, rounded casings leant the weapons an appearance that earned them their nickname. They closed in quickly, too quickly, and the Klondike struggled to cancel its momentum and react.

The first mine neared, crouched and lunged for the right leg a moment before the club flattened it, explosives detonating harmlessly into the ground and against the club’s raw bulk. Before another could be intercepted, they converged. One reached the left knee, latched on, and detonated. A jet of molten copper from the mine’s belly lanced through the joint, mangling actuators and motor bundles within. The Klondike staggered, but its pilot expertly shifted the weight to its good leg as tip-over alarms howled in the cockpit.

Another targeted the already-savaged knee, nearly severing the lower left leg assembly entirely. The last agilely scaled the tall HE-V, summiting the weapons bay before exploding and wrecking both autocannons inside. Inside the stricken machine, the Hand’s devout pilot prayed that Ra might save him as he had done before. His prayer was cut short as he was whiplashed forward twice: failing to arrest the fall, the Klondike dropped first to its knees, then fell forward to its hands, its balancer unable to cope with the sudden, catastrophic damage.

Inside the FSC expedition van, safely removed from the violence unfolding some miles away, this drama played out on the map in only a few seconds. For the Hand of Ra’s most faithful and capable protector, the fight was over before it started. Riveted, the scientists watched and listened in silence, barely breathing.

“Good takedown.” Ramirez remarked coolly.

“Circle back, I’m about to pin him. I’ve almost got the shot.” Dupre had reached the edge of the woods. He had a clear line of fire on the damaged Klondike. Not one to take any chances with a wounded predator, the Collective’s security chief aimed carefully and fired one of his primary weapons, a Tri-Tac Sapphire Series laser. A beam of searing violet, so bright it turned the light of midday sun into stark photonegative, cleaved through the left forearm of the huge rig in a blink. The metal of the limb glowed and it buckled at the cut, and the Hand’s huge HE-V crashed hard into the dirt.

The Aegis emerged from the woods, articulated shoulder mount holding the deadly laser absolutely steady. Again Dupre fired, this time at his target’s remaining arm to take away the Klondike’s only remaining weapon. Now his enemy was crippled, defenseless and utterly helpless, but probably alive. Promise made, promise kept. He turned his focus back to the mission and asked his team for a sitrep.

No word from the entry team. The Kite’s pilot, Jankowski, reported she’d had to back off a few bold souls trying to slip past and get to their HE-Vs, and others had taken potshots at her bulbous ultralight with rifles. So far, no casualties, though she anticipated a warning shot from her handheld would soon be needed. Situ under control, then, but maybe not much longer. Dupre decided to escalate and close in on the little village. If any significant reinforcements were to appear, they would come from there. The Klondike was certainly out of action for good.

“Ramirez, hustle up there and give Jankowski some back up. It’s getting hairy. I’m right behind you. Weapons tight, but sing out if the locals act up. Stay ready for the handoff.”

“You got it, sir.” Ramirez emerged from the hills of crushed rock, Buckler sprinting flat-out down the road toward the village.

Dupre glanced again at the smoking Klondike, face down in the dust, and the laser followed his gaze. No movement, though its reactor was still hot. He turned to follow Ramirez. “Base, this is Lead. Operation still underway, no problems. Standby for updates.”

It was another 20 minutes before the entry team emerged from the winding innards of the old smelter complex, objective in hand: A bulky, crystalline data drive, about the size of a small suitcase, tucked safely into a protective bag as Dr. Higgins had instructed. This was promptly handed off to Ramirez who then raced back to basecamp. The rest of the security operatives took pains to cover their withdrawal by collapsing the flimsy building around the HE-Vs inside. None of the Hand’s protectors felt brave with the lethal Aegis standing watch. The aerial drones monitored the security team’s backtrail for any pursuers. None followed. Regrettably, one robed fanatic, a woman, encountered inside the Temple had been armed, and was shot and killed by the entry team in self-defense.

All in all, the operation was textbook. A great success for the Collective. Dr. Higgins waited anxiously in the side door of the van for Ramirez to arrive. He did, and his spindly HE-V was scuffed and sticky with sap from collisions with innumerable tree branches during the sprint home. The sleek corporate HE-V squatted as Higgins jogged over eagerly. The hatch over the pilot’s compartment opened and Ramirez, still hooked up, stood and set the precious cargo into the palm of his machine’s giant, waiting hand. The Buckler reached down smoothly and delivered the drive to Higgins, beaming, who picked it up like his own precious, baby boy.

Illustration by Florian Mellies