On Site
The nightmares had receded. Time had helped to dim some of the memories. As soon as he had used the remote to deactivate the protective system and stepped into the camp, they flooded back full force. He was taken to another time, another world. He almost expected GMG1 Yoshita's voice over his shoulder saying, "Holy shit, Lieutenant." Yoshita was dead now, fused with the rusted vehicles and the other colonists that had manned a barricade, thinking themselves protected by the steel barrier.
He and Yoshita had been the only survivors of the Special Reconnaissance Team on That Night. They had returned to the base camp from a patrol, to find a scene similar to what lay before him now.
Walter Crane was no stranger to war. He'd seen his share of death. Bodies of women and children burned by indiscriminate weapons fire from outer space, bodies of soldiers and civilians, slashed, punctured, blown apart in actions on this planet and many others. That was the mechanics of war. This was different. This was rage. This was primal force unleashed.
A cloud of flies rose from the site as they entered. The smell told Walter what to expect. From somewhere, music from some Southern Hemisphere radio station tried to enliven the atmosphere. His Yanomamo guide looked around, open mouthed, at the destruction. The four inflatable two-person tents, fragile, since they were protected by the dome, were torn to ribbons. They could see, even from where they stood, the remnants were spattered with blood. Bodies, and pieces of bodies, were strewn about the camp, wrenched into grotesque, almost comical, postures. In the center, appearing inviolate, sat the hover, door sealed and silent. Walking to one of the tents, Walter found the remains of a blond couple, both nude, both literally ripped apart. A quick inspection accounted for all the members of the team, except one. He carefully recorded their identification codes with his scanner, as this particular team had been clouded in bureaucratic secrecy and its members might provide some motive. Finished with this grisly business, Walter focused on the hover. Still no evidence of life from behind the closed door and tinted windshields. The flies returned to their work.
Again using the remote, he accessed the hover's computer and opened the main door. He removed some latex surgical gloves from his pocket and put them on. Pistol at the ready, he moved slowly up the ramp, stopping to listen at the door. All was quiet. He moved warily into the cabin, sweeping his weapon over its contents. The last man sat at the console. The computer provided him data he was oblivious to, warning him that his protective shield was down. His throat gaped open from an extremely clean wound, soaking the front of his coveralls. Walter noted the erection, still rampant in death, coated with dried secretions, projecting incongruously from the open fly. He went to the keyboard. Accessing the security log, the computer calmly said, "NO DATA AVAILABLE, CHECK DRIVE." Looking for expedition data he got the same response. Same with the communications log. Checking the drive for the data disc he found it to be empty. From there, he moved to a sweep of the cabin. Everything seemed to be in its place. In this small place they had to be organized. Equipment was stowed in its racks, the sampling table was bare. That was odd. They'd been here for three days and should have had some samples. He checked the sample bins but they too were empty.
He sat on the table to puzzle this out. Someone had gotten inside the force field, torn apart five people outside, and yet cleanly killed this one man and carefully covered their trail. There had to be something here out of place, something left behind. Inside the closed hover, the smell of the carnage outside was shut out. Walter detected a faint smell of something else. Antiseptic and…perfume! Taking the medical bag from the rack, he took out the small plastic bottle of antiseptic. The seal was broken. Checking the trash receptacle he found only an empty trash bag. Looking back at the table, he noticed something hanging from the corner. On closer inspection, he found a single, meter long, black hair wedged in the crack in the corner. He pulled a zip-lock bag from his pocket and carefully sealed the hair inside.
