Milno idly wonders whether the mission - or at least its first part - will be as calm as the simulation was. With some luck, shit would only hit the fan after they had already disabled the junction.
Advance to the base, show work papers if asked to.
Milno leads, Simus and Faith in lock step behind him. The sim was structurally accurate, but it could capture the feeling of walking across that bridge. The fear of being out of an armored cocoon, a youthful swell of pride, an unshakeable feeling of being a badass, walking down the center of this bridge with a nuclear weapon tucked under his arm. It didn't capture the massive, martian red desert that was Hephaestus, surface still not recovered from when all those communes launched over a millennial ago and scorched dozens of square miles at a time. Or the cold winds carrying the methane and ozone smell of a planet encompassing industrial complex. It didn't capture the hundreds of people walking that bridge or the sheer size and sphincter tightening heights of the landing center. And it certainly didn't capture how the sods looked.
Several of them are guarding the doorway at the end of the gangway, seven foot tall gray skinned, hairless gorillas in body armor with a generically handsome face that stretched too far in every direction. They all look almost identical. The ones nearest the doors are eying the people walking in and out with a strange sort of look; dull eyes like a ruminant, but packed with a predatory cunning, a bestial hunter's instinct sharpened to a fine point through VR training and psychohypnotic conditioning. They couldn't write a sentence or put together a 10 piece jigsaw puzzle, but they can remember 10,000 faces, shoot the wings off a fly at 100 meters and, thanks to genehacked pleasure centers, feel nothing but joy as long as they're following orders.
They're flagging down unfamiliar faces one by one, stopping every one of the Sword's crew that exited with you. They show their papers-usually on a datapad- and the Sods slide to the side. No words spoken. Milno and his synthflesh entourage file into the back of the line thats formed outside the doors and wait. When their turn comes, they hand their papers to the guards, who take the documents with a ridiculous degree of care, holding them very lightly in their enormous, calloused fingers.
"What in Box?" The one holding the papers asks, pointing at the tool boxes the team is carrying. "Others not carry box. What in box?"
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Topic: Einsteinian Roulette (Missions 9a, 10, 11, and Heph post war survey team) (Read 434271 times)