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Chapter 613   Who Let the Dogs Out?

“Once we’re positive that the surface is safe for extended stays, then you can come down and establish a more permanent camp,” he continued. “Before that, I can only allow brief expeditions, since we just don’t know how the locals will react to long-term residences.”

“Locals, Major?” Ayaka faintly smiled at the marine.

“Aye, Ma’am. Locals. In marine country, we’re split about sixty-forty for the root network being sapient. But you know leathernecks, we’ll gamble on anything.”

(Ed note: “Marine country” is the dedicated area on naval vessels that the marine contingents stay in. They like to keep a separation between the services aboard ship to prevent friction and conflict between marines and sailors, and it developed into A Tradition™ over the centuries.)

“I see....” Another thought occurred to Ayaka and her brow knit in a frown. “I’m sure we’ll have at least a few that’ll refuse to return to the surface. What’ll happen to them?”

“Well, Ma’am, while I’d like to send them to the ocean surface in a rowboat without oars, the likeliest outcome is that they’ll be reassigned to the Proxima and replaced with someone from there who IS willing to go. Not like we have any shortage of eggheads willing to risk their biscuits for a chance at immortality in textbooks.

“After all, while we technically can force them to go back down, you can’t force good work out of scientists. So we’ll just dock their pay, replace them, and when it’s convenient, the brass will load up a ship and send them home.”

“I’ll let the team know, and put together a list of people that request reassignment, Major. You’ll have it before we’re cleared to depart for the surface. Thank you,” Ayaka said. n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

“Understood, Ma’am. We’ll have you dirtside in no time.”

Ayaka nodded and swiped her AR display closed. She sent a request to the research team leads for them to put together a list of their team members requesting reassignment and a second list of who their preferred replacements would be, then discarded her perfect posture and leaned back in her chair with a sigh.

......

“Keep your eyes and ears open and your trigger fingers loose, marines. No respawns anymore, so no dumbfuckery will be allowed. Looking at you, Chang,” Lieutenant Jason Morris said to the company of marines in the lander with him. A wave of chuckles followed his words, along with the soft metallic sound of soldiers in full battle rattle performing final checks on their gear.

A comms request popped up on his HUD. He blinked to answer it and the pilot appeared in his field of view.

“We’ve been cleared to fly. Your boys strapped in back there? Things might get rough,” the pilot said.

“We’re always ready. Let’s get this show on the road, there’s dumbfuckery to be had.”

“Copy that,” the pilot said and Lieutenant Morris was immediately slammed into his crash harness by the hammer of god.

“Coulda warned me, asshat. Beer’s on you when we get back,” the marine company commander grunted, but the pilot only laughed and cut the comm channel as he performed completely unnecessary evasive maneuvers. Jason spat a stream of cursing that would make any NCO proud for the full minute it took to reach their destination.

“Archangel to jarheads, you are clear to unass my ride,” the pilot announced over the speakers in the lander’s passenger cabin. “In case you didn’t understand me the first time, that means get the fuck off my lander, marines.” As he said that, the aft bulkhead fell open and slammed to the ground.

The marines’ crash harnesses released them and they sprinted down the ramp, setting up a perimeter around the landing zone in a focused silence that spoke of long hours, months, or even years of training in the time-dilated simulation. Every marine in the Bravo Company “Bulldogs” had a place, and each of them knew exactly, to the millimeter, where that place was.

The lifter rose back into the air to provide fire support, should it be needed, and the marines waited in place, eerily silent, for five full minutes as their HUDs generated a threat map.

“Time to get to work, marines. We need a functioning camp in twenty hours, clear?”

“Clear as crystal, Sir!” came the enthusiastic chorus of replies.

Jason racked his plasma caster in its place on the back of his armor. He wasn’t necessarily the type to enjoy getting up close and personal with his targets, but a plasma caster just seemed like the better weapon choice for use on a planet populated entirely by possibly sapient plant life. It wasn’t like a pulse carbine would do much to a tree, after all. Or a root, for that matter.

He looked up and watched as container after container came screaming down from orbit and slammed into the ground after a brief flare of thrusters to make the end of the trip as survivable as the beginning for anything inside the containers. Then he saw that some joker had managed to somehow find spray paint and tag each container with elaborate graffiti that spelled out the chorus of the old song by Baha Men, “Who let the dogs out?”