Gardenia heard the Sergeant's door hiss shut behind her and felt like running. If she didn’t consciously control her limbs she would be jittering from the overwhelming anxiety she was feeling at the moment.
She was certain her heart rate was well in the triple digits, and that was not because of the lingering fear of the sample collection she had just been through. Her getting bioaddons? It made her knees weak just thinking about it.
But as it turned out that was the simplest of things, really. She had imagined the whole process to include a fair amount of pain and discomfort, yet the sergeant had been professional to a fault–everything she would have wanted in a field medic and much more.
No, it had nothing to do with the procedures and a lot to do with the actual person. Her instincts were screaming at her that something was off about him.
It might have been the proximity to a first-generation Genome, the first she had met up close, but he also seemed less…less human? She couldn’t quite place the feeling she got into coherent thoughts.
It was as if the stories she read as a child about those pre-war Genomes thousands of years ago who had given up on their humanity were suddenly flesh and blood and talking to her.
She considered him. It wasn’t his features, the strong jawline, the thick brows that made him look quite angry, or his short blond curls, no, those just made him look intimidating.
Maybe it was the aura around the man, his piercing gaze, and how he held himself that made her neck hair stand tall. She shook her head to get the image of Sergeant Amon out of her mind.
It was not her only pressing concern. On top of everything, boiling all together in a mix of horror and appreciation, her mind replayed the recent memories of battle. Her first spacediving battle.
Memories of her going through the motions, mechanically, since even a stray thought might spiral into a full-blown panic attack. She was spacediving while a heatlazer melted right through other poor souls flying in space alongside her, their comms muffed so no one could hear their last moments, and that feeling even juiced up in mood stabilizers…it was pure terror.
Yet as her nightmare played along at one point the universe sent her a gift. Her muffled prayers had not been said in vain after all. When she landed on the enemy battleship after going through the shields and surviving, a towering Sergeant awaited–a firm presence to ward off the chaos assaulting her being.
From then on, it was as if there was a direction to follow. A feeling that things would work out eventually if only she followed along with his commands. Apart from his size, there wasn’t anything extraordinary to note, at least that was what she thought at first. He was wearing a standard SFC biosuit with a few custom alterations--some additional pockets and pouches and a non-standard rifle hanging from his backcompartment. But the presence he had on the battlefield made all the difference.
When the ambush took place he hadn’t even needed their help. A group of trained enemy soldiers had been all but an annoyance to him. He toyed with their lives so easily that it seemed to her as if at any moment he could kill them all. So ruthless he had been, and it made her fear him.
But, despite the savage one-sided battle, he had protected her and the other Marine, Igor. Confused, she had followed along trying to clear up her head and forget the carnage she had just witnessed.
When they made it out alive from that hellish battle, and before she could break down crying in frustration, the sergeant disregarded their uselessness and made them an extraordinary offer.
It was unreal. Upgrading from Lowtech? Getting bioaddons? Her?! It was something solely retained for the rich and fortunate. Especially considering they were off-planet and resources were limited during a space voyage.
So instead of resting the first thing she did after changing back to her SFC uniform was to inquire about that Genome Sergeant. Learn who he was, and why he was interested in helping. There should be a catch somewhere, shouldn’t it?
The first questions she asked the older cohorts brought out hard stares and thin lips from the older higher-ranked marines. She had been treated as a spy of the higher-ranked officers. Until she had explained how the Sergeant saved her life, and she only wanted to thank him for it. Then, weirdly, they all seemed eager to chip in and talk about that towering Sergeant Amon.
He had a reputation for being capable and trustworthy, but even when she learned more she wondered why so many different people sang him high praises. The whole situation had cult vibes going. It was creeping her out.
But it was a small thing compared to the benefits she would receive. All that mattered was if he could deliver on his offer, and from what Gardenia heard, he would. So she made a point to visit him early before he changed his mind about the bioupgrades.
After all, her confidence had taken a serious hit through that first battle. While she had been aware of the danger, it was another thing to experience how utterly unable to act she had been. She always thought that there would be something, anything, she could do to protect herself. Now she knew how wrong she was.
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When she was forced to join the SFC a mere eight months before this very day, she felt she could survive her mandatory years of service before buying out her freedom. Gardenia was not so certain anymore.
And all her misfortune? It came down to credits.
She closed her eyes and cursed the moon lord of C2XA1 who raised the subscription costs throughout his territory. She cursed the planetary council of C2XA for raising the moon lord’s taxes, thus by proxy making it unaffordable for her family to maintain 3 children on their yearly credits.
She didn’t curse her little brother for being born, nor her older sister for simply wishing to better herself in her studies.
To any beings that may be listening to my prayers, send forth swarms of alien Zith to the space cruisers of any nobility from C2XA.
Be they damned, and eaten. Be they vanished, for all eternity.
—-
Training in a battleship was more for the Marines to vent pent-up energy than for actual combat improvement. For many, it was not the combat that wore them down; it was the wait, the endless days of anticipation in a closed-off metallic cage.
Even with the mood stabilizers they ingested daily, strong emotions simmered underneath, and this downtime could be especially volatile for so many people crammed together.
Given the grief, anger, and anxiety filling their days, it was a wonder how they traveled among the star systems without the ship descending into chaos.
The training was carved into rotations, shifting between strategy, operations, and strength training, for 6 hours daily. They often passed in the blink of an eye, during which Amon’s mind usually wandered as his body worked on autopilot.
But today was not just another day, today was different–the first day after a spacedive battle.
In the later part of the day, after all the training was finished, instead of joining in the commons the Marines congregated elsewhere. A ceremony would have been arranged in the ship’s main hold. It was a day to remember the fallen. Those unfortunate enough to have met an earlier end.
As Amon walked into the hold with Tommy by his side he saw them gathered there, standing tall. There was a quietness; a stillness settled over the crowd appropriate for the occasion.
Today they honored the fallen, but as they did, they also remembered themselves and the grim future ahead. Not all Marines joined the SFC by force, some psychos chose this life for the credits, but at this moment, never mind their reasons, all present standing in this place of mourning felt death chillingly close.
The crowd noticed him looming over them and instinctively opened a path forward. It was as if they were afraid to stand in his shadow. The open space pulled at him a step at a time ever forward, and yet without due reason, in the end, Amon ended up finding himself standing at the forefront.
Before him stood a monument of steel almost as tall as him carved with the names of the fallen. The crowd around him was still, it was silent as they waited for something to break the spell. An anticipation Amon shared, yet they looked at him, the tallest among them as if he was better qualified for what was to come.
Amon’s mouth was dry, he involuntarily gulped down the dry air of the hold. He had no intention of voicing his internal struggles for all to hear.
He remained as lively as the dead.
It didn't take long for the Major General to appear. Amon knew of him well enough, but he wouldn’t stain the dead's memories with thoughts of him, so in a similar fashion to everyone around him he saluted.
The MG was standing apart, on a parapet, shadowed by a couple of the bred brutes in their red uniforms with blasters clutched in their grasps. He, the MG, was dressed to impress only to imply that there was a difference in their stations. Amon never doubted it for a second.
It was hard to leave the distaste out of his features yet still taste the bitterness on his tongue.
“MARINES OF THE SFC!” The MG shouted in a magnified voice that echoed around the hold. “WE STAND HERE TODAY TO WITNESS BRAVERY AND TO REMEMBER…”
The monologue was long and arduous to Amon’s ears but no amount of suffering could stop him from paying respects to the lost souls, curved on the cold piece of metal that would shortly be sent out for eternal rest among the stars.
Amon saved the file the optics recorded without any sensory block. When he relived it, alone in his cabin, he wanted to feel exactly how he felt this very moment--every beat of his heart being loud and ominous and the bitter spit caught in his throat so hard to swallow.
It was a catharsis that washed away any doubts and fears he might have had.
—-
The long hall of the commons was packed to the brim. Every off-duty member of the SFC, be it Marine or crew was here, except, of course, the top brass and their ilk.
Amon sat on a long oval table with Tommy and a few others, Nik, Ginny, and Ella, all as dear to him as he was to them. Few others hovered around their table toasting drinks, and between the bustle, Amon noticed Gardenia was one of them. Despite her fidgety nature, she was making an effort to approach their little group. It seemed her instincts were good.
Tommy filled his cup with a cloudy cocktail that foamed blue bubbles. For once Amon wished for real alcohol, but there wasn't even a drop of the substance in the common’s area. Probably only the higher ranks enjoyed the comforts denied to the rest of them.
The cocktail they drank tasted like empty sweetness and elicited a light drunkenness that normally wouldn't last more than an hour. In his case, it would be closer to 10 minutes as his nanos attacked and absorbed its dampening effect from the inside.
Yet for 10 minutes, Amon could let his mind drift without the usual heavy thoughts burdening him.
Around him, the Marines let go of their emotions. Grief was evident, but laughter could be heard too. Different people had different coping mechanisms and who was Amon to say which was more suitable for the occasion?
A fight broke out somewhere in the hall but he was uninterested. He coped better with silence, and his comrades knew it so they let him nurse his drink as they talked around him.
His mind went through past events and plans, steps for increasing his arsenal, and completing research on the various projects he worked on during the downtime. There was so much requiring his attention that days usually flew by without him noticing. It was not hard for the days to blend, either way, the monotony of the voyage took away most of the excitement anyway.
Amon had 24, no, 25 people who relied on him. He counted the names in his mind one by one. It was a burden he carried freely but he worried if he was overdoing it. What started simply as him trying to keep his friend Tommy and their small group alive had evolved into something else.
He realized late that the cocktail’s effect had worn off even faster than last time. The nanomites were building natural resistance to the drug.
It was time for him to leave.
Amon stood and waved the others down as they tried to follow along. They should enjoy each other’s company for longer.
Once he reached his cabin, he threw himself to work. He pulled the box where he kept his miniscout drone stock from under the bed. It was a good time for Amon to repair the damage on the existing miniscouts and replenish their numbers with the upgraded cloaking tech.
The desk chair being small for his size, was mighty uncomfortable on his rear and legs, yet he barely felt the discomfort while he lost himself to the workings of machinery.
Connecting the Type 3 sensors was a simple but delicate process. His hands were stable, trained for precision, and wrapped up each drone swiftly.
The cloaking tech he installed on the drones was a phantom cloaking variation–a light/heat molecule redirection forcefield powered by the internal drone battery. They were small enough to make this choice viable, each the size of his palm, and shaped like a shell.
It was different from the cloaking he used on himself. The phantom-coating cloak did not require a sizable battery, something he didn't have the extra space for or the willingness to carry around in combat.
The con of the phantom-coating tech was obvious, oftentimes it could be spotted by Type 2 sensors from the leaking heat particles. A problem he considered how to fix with the new materials he got from the Helion Syndicate vessel but even that would require experimentation to get it right.
The Dreadnought, accompanied by the second one close behind, was speeding ahead of the spacefreighter, and the heavily damaged Helion Syndicate battleship. The acceleration's tug gave Amon a stiffness to the neck when he didn't move his body for long periods.
Even then he regularly checked the mapping route in the spaceship’s mainframe, bringing it on his HUD and looking over the path just in case it diverged. He wanted to know in advance if any changes to their destination occurred. It never hurt to be well-prepared.
As it stood, Amon had roughly a month until they returned to the SFC main hub, where they would get the details of the next mission. It was barely enough time to do what he must.
But not enough, never enough for what he planned.
