CHAPTER 1: AGGRO-CULTURE
"You ever been to Borealis before?" the pilot asked, his voice coming through the open door to the cockpit.
The craft shook as turbulence rocked it, Ramos reaching for a nearby handhold to steady himself, securing his harness more tightly about his chest. He was the only passenger in the dropship - the other seats that lined the cramped bay were empty.
"No," he replied curtly, trying to suppress the nausea that was starting to gnaw at him. The craft banked, shedding speed as it coasted through the upper atmosphere, the bright glow of flames bleeding in through the canopy.
"I hope they briefed you on the natives, at least. Did you read the pamphlet?"
"Yeah, I read it," Ramos replied as he wondered how the pilot could remain so nonchalant. He might have run this route dozens of times. "I know about the heat and the gravity, and I got a briefing from an Elysian officer about etiquette back on the carrier."
"Well, the Rask are a little different from the Elysians," the man continued, raising his voice over the sound of the rattling. "They're a little more aggressive, and they just got their asses kicked by the UNN, so they might not all be happy to see you. Just keep your wits about you, and don't go wandering around the city on your own."
"Thanks for the encouragement..."
"Why are you here, anyway?" the pilot pressed. "Forgive me, but you look a little too green to be a Marine. Are you a civilian contractor? They've been flying in all kinds of people to help with the reconstruction effort. I even brought in a flock of Valbarans a couple of days ago - those little guys didn't shut up for the entire flight."
"I'm an ecological engineer," Ramos confirmed. "I do ecoscaping, desert greening, forestry."
"So, you're like a tree doctor?"
"Something like that. I was working on sustainable agriculture projects and reforestation in the Amazon before the UN pulled me out and sent me here."
"That makes sense," the pilot replied, seeming satisfied. "The Rask territory is fucked, for lack of a better word. Farming used to be practically impossible there, and the jungle band that usually protects Borealan territories is chock full of holes that let the desert creep in. Take a look out the window - should be pretty smooth sailing from here."
Ramos did as the pilot suggested, unfastening his belt with a click and rising from his seat. He gripped a handhold on the bulkhead and leaned in to get a look through the nearest porthole, seeing a vast desert scrolling past beneath him.
Borealis was an arid planet that baked in the heat of its twin suns. At some point in its history, it must have been entirely carpeted in dense rainforests, but a changing climate had caused them to recede until only small pockets of greenery remained. Based on the extensive research that Ramos had done during the six-month trip from Earth, he knew that each of the territories - the planet's nation-states - bordered a lake. These massive bodies of water were surrounded by a dense band of jungle that served both to create a micro-climate within their bounds and to shield them from the encroaching desert sands. They were like giant oases in a sea of dunes.
In the distance, he spotted the verdant canopy of the Rask jungle band rushing towards him. As the dropship passed over it, he saw the damage with his own eyes. Simply reading about it and seeing satellite images didn't do it justice. The band literally looked broken, as though a giant had taken kilometer-wide bites out of it, the breaches letting sand spill through like water from a broken dam. The azure lake reflected the glow of the suns - large enough to rival Earth's great lakes - but he didn't need to be a surface hydrologist to see that it was drying out. Without the protection of the jungles and a reliable water cycle, everything was slowly being eroded, like air leaking from a hull breach.
It wasn't all bad, though. As the dropship began to descend, he noticed that the desert between the bounds of the jungle and the shores of the lake was being developed. There were long, orderly rows of greenhouses whose glass glinted in the sunlight, and he could make out the telltale green circles of center-pivot irrigation farms breaking up the landscape.
There were a few small settlements dotted around between the farms, others hugging the near shore of the lake. The older ones were made up of stone buildings, but there were newer structures, too - prefabs in shades of white and metallic silver standing out against the yellow sands.
The dropship coasted over the lake, and as they neared the far shore, the territory's city began to rise up. The squat buildings were constructed from blocks of beige sandstone, overlaid with protective mortar that gave them a hand-sculpted appearance, the wooden support beams that helped to reinforce the structures protruding from their facades in places. They had no windows, probably to keep the interiors cool and to prevent the sand from finding its way inside. Few were more than one or two stories tall, as the punishing gravity probably made that a challenge without advanced building techniques. The larger and more decorative buildings sported self-supporting stone arches, domed roofs, and load-bearing pillars. Between them were cobblestone streets reminiscent of the Victorian era.
What people Ramos could make out from this altitude were wrapped in protective shawls and cloaks, and there seemed to be few vehicles on the narrow streets. He could see a handful of trucks and buggies, but by far the most prevalent were the desert-camouflaged hulls of UNN military vehicles. Puma IFVs flanked by troops were patrolling the streets, and Timberwolf scout trucks surveyed the area with their drone swarms. These were probably peacekeeping forces left over from the recent conflict.
Ramos didn't have very in-depth knowledge about the war that had ravaged the territory, but he knew that the ecological damage wasn't a result of the fighting. It was an entirely natural process that had been happening for millions of years. The former Rask Matriarch - their equivalent of a president - had launched a rebellion against her allies and had subsequently been deposed. There were still Coalition peacekeeping forces made up of humans, aliens, and Borealans from neighboring territories policing the area. Now, the UN and its alien allies were helping to rebuild the territory and repair its declining ecology.
Not all of the buildings were squat and flat. Sitting in the center of the city was a massive compound surrounded by tall walls, a needle-like spire with a cap of white marble rising from each corner, shining like beacons.
Within their bounds was a sprawling cluster of large domed buildings, each one tipped with another towering spire, the embroidered flags that hung from them waving in the wind. The courtyard was paved with a covering of red marble, veins of lighter yellows and oranges winding their way through the massive blocks of stone, gradually giving way to an oasis at its center. The pool of shimmering water was surrounded by colorful desert flowers and spindly trees that reminded Ramos of desert palms - a little pocket of nature in the heart of the urban sprawl. That must be the Matriarch's palace. It had to be fifteen thousand square feet at least.
"You'll probably want to strap back in," the pilot warned. "We'll be landing soon."
Ramos sat back down in his chair and fastened his harness, feeling the dropship shake as it transitioned into VTOL mode, maneuvering on its thrusters. It bounced as its landing gear absorbed the impact, rocking him in his seat, the roar of the engines winding down.
"Watch that first step - it's a bitch," the pilot warned, turning to glance over his shoulder from the cockpit. "You think you're ready for the gravity, but you're not. Just take it easy. Falls in one-point-three can be nasty."
"Thanks," Ramos replied, giving the pilot a grateful nod as he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. He turned to the rear of the bay, a crack of sunlight forming as the troop ramp began to descend. Almost immediately, a flood of hot, dry air rushed inside to hit him like a fist. Already starting to sweat, he marched out of the bay and out of range of the craft's AG field. His knees almost buckled as he walked out onto the landing pad, the tarmac so hot that it was practically melting, the harsh sunlight making him squint.
"
Fuck me
," he grumbled to himself, readjusting a pack that had abruptly grown thirty percent heavier as it dug into his shoulder. It even felt like his hair was now lying flatter against his head.
As his vision began to adjust, he found himself standing in the middle of a makeshift spaceport. There were maybe two dozen identical landing pads, many of them occupied by other dropships and blocky
Wombats
- heavy lift vehicles used by the Navy to deliver cargo and armor to the surface of planets. They were enormous up close, like flying houses, eight meters tall and more than twice that long. Each of them had a row of cockpit windows raised high above the slanted nose, along with a set of four swiveling engines, each one about the size of a car in its own right. He watched as a cargo container slid out of the cavernous cargo bay of one of the craft on a set of rails, a nearby truck waiting to load it onto a trailer. Rising above the bulky craft were prefab structures and hastily erected warehouses, along with a control tower that seemed to be the tallest building in the vicinity. Everything was so bright, the pale sunlight bleaching away the color to give his surroundings a sepia tone.
There were people everywhere. He could see humans wearing Marine pressure armor with desert camouflage, engineers in yellow coveralls, and even some who were wearing casual clothes. Eight-foot Borealans towered head and shoulders above them, some clad in Coalition armor matching that of the Marines, while others were shrouded in shawls to protect them from the sand. There was even a pair of Krell helping to unload cargo, the sixteen-foot-long, alligator-like aliens handling crates that would have given a forklift pause.
Ramos walked over to a flight of stairs and made his way down from the elevated pad, each step weighing him down as though he was carrying an anvil on his shoulders. The pilot had been right - there was a big difference between
reading
about high gravity and actually
experiencing
it. From what he had read, spending more than six months on the surface without taking medication and breaks could do permanent damage to a human's joints. Then there was the heat. As if the gravity wasn't punishing enough, the place was a goddamned oven.
Wishing that he had a suit with a cooling element like the Marines who were milling about nearby, he made his way along the sandy road, searching for whatever passed for a terminal in this backwater. He paused to fish his phone from his pocket as a truck laden with a flat-packed prefab trundled past him, kicking up a cloud of dust. His instructions said that he was supposed to meet some kind of foreman.
After glancing around for a moment, he heard a voice rise above the clamor of engines and machinery.
