Staff Sergeant John Carson’s father always said that you could tell everything you wanted to know about a man just by looking him in the eyes. You could see the weight of his past, get a glimpse of his dreams, and tell where he was going. In the four years Carson had spent in the Militia, the recruits kept getting younger and the eyes of the one strapped in across from him said he was just out of diapers. Shaking his head absently, he wondered if it was true or he was just getting old.

"Relax, Private," he said and the boy looked back at him with bright blue eyes. It wasn’t that the kid was scared, he was just too damn enthusiastic. If Carson remembered correctly, this was the soldier’s second sortie and his name was Jackson. "This isn’t a combat drop so save your energy."

"Yes sir!" the young man barked back. With the chin up and sparkle in his eye, he looked he just walked off of one of those damn recruiting posters. Carson met the dead eyes of the other men and thought about what it might be like to be that young again.

The dropship trembled as it sliced downward through the atmosphere and Carson bumped around inside his light armor. After being posted to a rear vanguard on Dante for the past seven months, he had come to miss real combat and had pushed for something more. Now he and his unit were assigned a recon mission and had been stripped down to light armor and FEN Assault weapons. He was thinking about how he missed the heft of his Warmonger and Belial-class Dogeybone when one of the men spoke up.

"Hey Top?" a voice said from his right. He looked over and saw it was Takura, one of the support grunts leaning forward in his harness. "Why couldn’t we bring our regular kit? Don’t they want us to hurt nobody?"

There was a chorus of agreements from the line and Carson smiled. He felt exactly the same way but couldn’t find the right word to describe it. Vulnerability maybe?

"Hey Tak, it don’t matter much," Foss the point man/scout said. "You can’t hit a damn thing anyway!"

"Nailed your momma the other night," Takura returned with a gesture, followed by quiet laughter from the line.

"Yeah, but how many tries did it take?"

Carson smiled, glad that his men were relatively happy. They weren’t a particularly jovial group, but the shiny new toys and armor along with a non-combat mission had left them as relaxed as he had ever seen. They were out of the war zone on what was about to be a regular vacation by comparison and everyone was looking forward to it.

"This is just recon on a Resource World, not combat so they didn’t think we’d need it," he answered. "Besides Tak, you can’t hit a damn thing and they didn’t want you chopping up the landscape by accident."

More laughter down the line and Takura looked at him with surprise before he spoke.

"Respectively sir, " Tak said. "Fuck you sir and this chickenshit outfit too, sir!"

The edges of Carson’s eyes folded into creases as he laughed out loud and leaned back to rest his head on the cracked foam headrest. How long had it been since he had been able to laugh? He couldn’t remember and thought about the good feeling this one had. He was anxious to see what an intact Resource World actually looked like. The only other one he had been to on a search and rescue didn’t have much to offer, at least not after the heavy ordinance hit and turned everything into smoking glass and cinders.

"We’re on final approach to the beacon," a voice said across the intercom as the ride leveled out. It was Corro’s voice, the same flight officer that had been the bus driver for the past three ops. Even though he was in the aerospace wing, the soldiers considered him good enough to let him drink with them so he was ok by Carson’s standards.

"ETA seventeen minutes."

Seventeen minutes. That was a long time on Dante and he couldn’t remember the last time he had a chance to actually measure that amount of peace. In seventeen minutes, a battalion is ground into hamburger, a city is burned into vapor, and all of the newbies in your command become statistics.

These seventeen minutes were a reprieve and he closed his eyes, relaxing for the first time in over two years as the echoes of war played in the background of his mind.

When Carson dropped into the smoking stumps of foliage, the heavy air was almost too much for him and he gagged. He had never breathed anything that humid and the rich scent of plant life was so strong that it overwhelmed the stench of the crater. Looking out from the LZ the dropship had created, luscious green trees, taller than buildings, surrounded him on all sides and he stared in amazement. This had to be what heaven looked like.

"This air better not be toxic," Larue growled over the mike. Of all his men, Larue was the one that Carson expected to have gotten fragged first. The man was an ex-operative who had screwed up (probably because he was a complete asshole) and got shipped off to duty on Dante. What Carson and the rest of the squad thought of as an honorable career, the bastard thought of as punishment and made no bones about it. Maybe they’d all get lucky and this could be Larue’s last trip out. For a few seconds, the Sergeant considered arranging it, but then thought it was best if his men took the initiative. That way he would have deniability, not that anyone above him cared enough to ask.

"If it were, you’d be dead by now and saving us the headache."

That came from Maxwell, the squad medic, and the only member of the group that everyone liked. "Mad Max" like they called him, was blessed when it came to avoiding harm and was always there when someone went down. Granted he usually couldn’t do much about it considering the weaponry, but he was still there for support and it mattered. He was the group’s good luck charm and had been with Carson for over a year.

"Alright squad, formation," Carson said as the Dropship roared off and vanished over the canopy. He extended his arm to give the order and the group spread out into a line with Foss in front. "Foss, lead us to the beacon and Jackson, stick with me."

Coddling the new kid wasn’t a good idea, but Carson figured that he deserved a chance and wanted to give him one. Maybe he was just tired of seeing recruits die, or maybe the kid reminded of the son he had left back on Mort five or so years ago. Shrugging it off, he concentrated on the mission. There wasn’t any time for sentimentality and the rule was simple: new meat isn’t worth a damn until they’ve been around a while.

As the soldiers left the clearing, the light dimmed into dusk and the ground became soft under their boots. Instead of the tranquil silence he expected, the forest was loud with the sounds of life around them. Insects of all types and colors crawled across the ground and up trees and Carson involuntarily itched under his armor. The hot, humid air only made it worse and breathing was more difficult here than when they had landed. It looked like the men were all having the same thoughts and someone broke the radio silence.

"If anybody has asthma, you’re shit out of luck," someone said with a cough.

"Can the chatter," came the reply and the group continued moving.

It was truly an alien world with overwhelming beauty. For a kid that had grown up in lower downtown, seeing the sky for the first time when he first shipped out was what Carson had considered his greatest thrill. Now the living landscape around him eclipsed it and he pulled out a camera to click off a few shots as he walked. No one would ever believe him without them and he’d never forget it.

The hike through the trees took about ten minutes before the tree cover began to thin and the light returned. As he was enjoying the return of the sky, a crackle came across the mike.

"Uh, Sarge," Foss’s voice said. "I think you better see this."

Carson worked his way down the line, stomping through mounds of compost and bugs until he found Foss. What he saw took his breath away and he wiped at his mouth.

"What do you think it is?" Foss asked.

In the distance, a massive stone pyramid rose upward from the ground, pushing back the forest to punch a hole through the canopy. Standing taller than a six-story building, Carson thought of the one in Mort central and pulled his binoculars to get a better look. Beyond the swaying foliage, nothing moved in front of them and he saw a huge opening on one side.

"I don’t have a clue," he answered. "But maybe the civies we’re expecting will tell us something."

"They’re sending civies out here?" someone asked and Carson patted Foss on the shoulder to send the man on.

"Yeah, some sort of survey team," he answered, regaining his focus. "Maybe they’re here to make sure Tak doesn’t accidentally blast something."

"Sir, Fuck you Sir," came the reply and he smiled as he started forward. He had known over half of these men for over six months and it was sheer luck that any of them had lived that long. That and the fact that they had only seen light combat and had never been on the front line. They found the beacon quickly and it was planted firmly in the ground in front of the structure.

"Looks like this is it. Team one flank right and Team left with me. Advance and cover on my mark."

The troopers divided and Carson guided his through the trees, quickly finding himself in a field of wide-leafed plants. They slapped at him as he went past and water – clear water, poured off of them onto his shoulders. Stopping, he carefully cupped a leaf to his mouth and drank, surprised at the taste. It was the first water he had ever seen or tasted that he couldn’t smell and he smiled. Yes, this definitely had to be heaven and he wondered again why they were here.

The structure loomed above him as they advanced and Carson caught the movement of birds or something else near its peak. Whatever it was, it vanished into the harsh glare of the sun and he blinked away to clear his vision. If it were hostile, they’d know soon enough and he concentrated on his footing instead. The terrain changed and what had been high foliage soon became rocky and harsh, with sharp rocks jutting up from a bed of moss like teeth. He winced when he scraped his hand, but thanked his luck because he didn’t find anything worse. This would have been a great area to place a booby trap and he made a mental note to have Larue go looking for more by himself.

The scent of the tiny white flowers was stronger as they mounted the slope and the Sergeant found himself in a field of them. Fighting the urge to sneeze, he squatted and took in the scenery. Before him was a tall rectangular opening like the one he had seen on the other side, but he had to be close to appreciate it’s size. The door (if it was a door) stood at least eighteen feet high and was wide enough to drive a tank through. Cautiously, he gave the signal to enter and led the way in from his side.

"This thing has to be from the Conflict Wars, "he thought to himself. "I’ve never seen anything like it."

"What in hell is this place?" someone asked but no one answered.

The pyramid was much larger on the inside than it appeared to be and the closest comparison Carson could come up with was a gymnasium. Every surface was made of smooth seamless brown stone that slanted upward into high perfect peaks. Low angular alcoves broke up the walls and he expected that they probably lead to other sections. What caught his attention were a series of markings along one of the wall and he moved in for a closer look as the men covered him.

When he got close, he saw that the markings were actually carvings on in the stone. They were as deep as his hand and appeared to be symbols, perhaps even an alien language. As he stared and ran his hand across them, Carson felt something twist in his gut and climb up his spine. Something was watching him and he turned in a full circle, suddenly feeling exposed. "Vulnerable" came to mind again and he spat.

"It’s deserted, sir," a voice said from his elbow and he turned with a jerk. It was Jackson speaking and the motion tracker the newbie carried was only showing the soldiers.

"Don’t trust gadgets too much, kid. I want a team-by-team sweep through the side rooms but don’t touch anything. This might be a ruin from the Conflict Wars and there’s no telling what could happen. Leave it for the civies to find the booby traps."

A half hour later, the sweep was finished and Carson’s men hadn’t found anything but more empty rooms and more carvings on the walls. What really unnerved him was that there was absolutely no debris, furniture, or even moss inside the structure even though it was a jungle on all sides. That goosed the hair on the back of his neck and he paced before gathering his men along the slope. Having lived through everything he had, he never questioned his instincts and that meant that this place had to be both unnatural and dangerous.

At his order, Phillips placed the "all clear" code and ten minutes later, a sonic boom and explosions rumbled through the trees in the distance. A black pall of smoke rose over the canopy and a flock of what might have been birds lifted into the weird blue sky. Carson had never seen a blue sky before today and the wisps of white made him think of a cake’s icing.

"Sir, LZ Bravo is two thousand meters bearing two-one-zero-seven," Phillips reported. "They’ve just landed."

"Alright then, Gibson, Parker, Jackson, Martin. You’re with me. The rest of you, take up a position and shoot anything that moves if it ain’t us. Phillips, tell Corro to stay on station in case we need a quick extraction. Something just doesn’t feel right."

"Sir, what do you think is going on?" Jackson asked as he stumbled after him.

"I don’t know Private, but let’s go ask our guests."

Carson watched as the group of newcomers carefully worked their way through the forest, struggling to carry bulky crates and packs. It was comforting to see that he and his men weren’t the only ones having problems with the humidity and the sweat on his brow reminded him of how much he missed the environmental control on his dogeybone. This place might look like heaven, but it certainly was as hot as hell.

He and his four men had spread out between the landing zone and the beacon because he anticipated that they’d follow the signal straight in just like Foss had. When the group got close, Carson gave the signal to cover and stood up from the foliage. They saw him immediately and halted, but the man in front waved and came forward. The others were unarmed and wearing light company jumpsuits, but this one wore fatigues and a raincoat. Stepping clear of the moss, the Sergeant met him half way.

"Staff Sergeant Carson I presume?" the man asked. "How do you do? I’m John Roman."

Carson shook his hand, carefully weighing the strong handshake and the man’s smile as he met his eyes. They were the palest blue he had ever seen and they unnerved him, bringing his Father’s advice back to mind. The way this "John Roman" had moved through the forest proved he wasn’t a corporate pencil pusher on a holiday, so he had to either be a soldier or an operative with off-world experience. The eyes told him that there was something else there, but he couldn’t read it and that made him uneasy.

"Care to tell us why we’re here, Mr. Roman?" he asked, taking his hand back and returning it to his weapon.

"Of course," Roman answered. "You’re here to secure a site for company purposes."

"Secure it against whom?" Carson asked. "We haven’t found any sign of hostile forces."

The man smiled politely and shook his head. He certainly wasn’t bothered by the heat.

"You’re only here as a precaution," he answered as he started to walk. "Now, which way is it?"

Carson motioned and took point as they worked their way back towards the ruins and the rest of his men. The pyramid and the wall carvings had left him unsettled and kept playing in his head. Pacing his breathing with walking, he decided to press for as much info as he could get.

"You want to tell us where we are? Or what this place is?"

"No," came the answer as the man followed him. Carson paid attention to the way he navigated and nodded. "This boy has certainly been in a jungle before," he thought to himself.

"Look, Mr. Operative," Carson said as he stopped and turned to face the new comer. "-You’re an operative aren’t you?"

"Yes Sergeant," Roman answered, smiling politely. Carson knew every company man held a lot back and was determined to get it out of him, even if that meant shooting off one of his legs to persuade him.

"Well, these are my men and I’m responsible for them," he answered. "I need a threat assessment if it might keep them alive."

"I understand," the operative responded. "But I’ve told you what I can."

"What you can? That’s not good enough," the Sergeant answered and stepped back to face him as he flipped the safety off his weapon. The click of the action carried and the soldiers followed his lead to pull back and cover the group. Maybe this wasn’t the way that info traded hands back on Mort, but then they were the ones with the weapons out here.

Roman raised his palms and smiled again before speaking. "All right, just relax. You’re on HM-160-Charlie-3 and it’s a Resource World slated for stripping. Its common name is Morloss and we’re here to evaluate its potential. You’re providing security as per standard company operating procedures."

He had said "standard company operating procedures" like someone who was bored with the typical company sound bytes. The man also wasn’t rattled by having weapons pointed at him at point blank by what the media would label a nut and that surprised Carson a bit. All of it was just more info for Carson to file away as he tried to add things up, knowing that thinking helped keep his mind off the heat.

"Morloss? Weird name," he said, accepting what he had been given.

Roman laughed. "Yes it is and before you ask, I’m afraid that I don’t know its origin."

"What about the ruins? Is that why you’re here? To ‘evaluate’ their potential too?

The smile on the man’s face flattened slightly and something shifted behind the eyes. Carson knew he was being sized up and wondered if he and his squad were actually the subjects of this so-called evaluation. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to deal with a corporate troubleshooter and this world had a lot of places to bury one if the need came.

"They are of some interest and we’ll examine them. Several members of this team including myself are with the Department of Archeology."

"The Department of Archeology has operatives?" Jackson asked, still sounding like a little boy playing war. Roman turned to him and nodded.

"I’m on contract," he added and turned back to Carson. "If you don’t mind Sergeant, we’d really like to get started. We only have about seven hours of daylight left."

"Sure. It’s this way," Carson said as put the safety back on and began to lead the way back. He had gotten enough to go on for the time being, but had every intention of keeping an eye on them once they got started.

As he led the way back towards the pyramid, something clawed at the back of his mind, just out of reach. The weight of someone watching had returned and he looked around, only seeing his group and an endless wall of trees. His gut told him that something was out there waiting and he ground his teeth.

Weighing his priorities, Carson made a decision. If this Mr. Roman wasn’t finished before the sun went down, this survey team was going to be alone and on their own.

While the Archeology crew entered the structure and began to unpack their equipment, Carson kept watch over them as covertly as possible. They worked as quickly and efficiently as roaches, assembling various gizmos and devices and stringing cables across the floor and it wasn’t long before he lost interest and walked outside. Judging from Maxwell's expression, the frustration must have been showing on his face. The medic caught up with him just as he cleared the structure and fell in at his elbow.

"What’s wrong, Sarge?" he asked as he tried to keep pace, but Carson barely acknowledged him. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason for it, but he was still uneasy and his instincts told him to dig in.

"Phillips," he called out to the RTO, who stood up. "Contact the Honos. I want extra ordinance and supplies dropped to our position ASAP."

"Yes sir," he answered as he knelt and began to set up the dish. "What do I tell them we need?"

His mind made up a quick list and he rattled it off as quickly as Phillips could copy. Heavy weapons, Reapers, grenades, mines, medic packs - all of it went into the request because he was going to be prepared. Foss, who had been standing nearby, added a few more items that would make life a little easier.

"Uh, Sir?" Maxwell asked as he motioned to look behind him. Carson turned to see that Roman had come out of the structure and was standing behind him. He wondered how long he had been listening, but wasn’t overly concerned about what a suit thought.

"Why are you requesting extra equipment Sergeant? Is there a problem?" Roman asked.

"Not yet," he answered. "Just making sure we have the tools to do the job. Standard operating procedure, isn’t it?"

Roman nodded, accepting the answer and walked back inside while the troopers watched.

"You don’t trust him, do you Top?" Foss asked. He was one of the ones that Carson had known from the beginning and was second in command.

"When could you ever trust the company anyway?" he answered as he looked out at the tree line again.

It was around an hour later when a low rumble carried over the canopy and the dropship appeared overhead. With a whine, five green armored crates popped out of the cargo bay and floated downward in the low breeze, their parachutes blocking out the light as they dropped on the slope leading to the pyramid. The pilot had been remarkably accurate and made the job easier, but the Sergeant knew that was what he was trained to do.

"Hey Sarge," one of the men called out as they heaved the crates up the slope. "Why didn’t you just have Corro drop them through the damn door. Woulda saved us the trouble."

"Quit your bitchin and put your back into it," he answered. "You’re sounding like Larue."

It took several hours to set up the perimeter to the Sergeant’s tastes and he walked around the structure one last time to make sure everything was in place. Mines and tripwires covered the slopes and two pairs of Reapers were dug into the high ground to cover the jungle path in. As he circled back, he saw that the heat had left the men exhausted and they were resting in a half circle just outside one of the entrances. Taking a drink from his canteen, he squatted down to join them.

"It ain’t much, but it’s all we got time for," Carson thought to himself. "Hope it’s enough for whatever they dropped us into."

Steps echoed from the nearby entrance behind him and several of the men stood and took positions. They were as uneasy as he was and it was beginning to show. When Roman appeared, they relaxed but it was Carson’s turn to became tense. The man’s eyes were positively eerie and they were on him.

‘Sergeant, may I have a word with you?" he asked and Carson slowly rose and followed him. They walked in silence for several minutes, going further into the structure and he felt the nerves coming back.

"What do you want?" he asked as he carefully slung his rifle. The survey team had already unpacked most of the equipment and lights and devices were scattered around the room on flimsy looking tripods. Somehow, the structure didn’t look nearly as large as it had before and he decided it was because of the lights. Within a few hours, the room had been transformed from an ancient ruin to a museum.

"You’re uncomfortable in here," Roman asked. "Why is that?"

Carson looked at him and then around the room. "Not sure. Just a feeling I get sometimes. Shrink said that I might have a few screws loose."

Roman smiled and kept walking, encouraging him to continue. "I doubt that you have many screws loose, but you’ve got strong instincts. Not everything a man can sense can be measured."

"I’m not sure I get you," the Sergeant said, not sure where this was going. "Is there a point to this?"

"Yes, of course there is," Roman answered as he stopped. "There are a lot of unusual features about this site, but the survey team isn’t interested in what they can’t see.

Carson shrugged, feeling the hot breeze blowing in one door and turning cooler as it rushed out the other. He wasn’t into metaphysical bullshit and dealt with hard facts and visible threats. "What’s that got to do with me and my men?"

"A lot," Roman answered. "I want you to keep your eyes and your mind open."

Carson turned it over in his head and watched one of the survey team working around one of the wall carvings. "This place is pretty old isn’t it?" the Sergeant asked. "Any idea how old?"

"All I know is that it’s pre-Conflict War era," came the answer. "The scientists in the group should be able to nail it down a bit closer than that if they're given enough time."

"So Mr. Roman, why are we here?" Carson asked. "You never answered me so I’m asking again."

"Of course," the man smiled. "We’re here to determine the potential for excavating Conflict Era technology. We don’t know if any is here or not, but we’d need protection if it were. Since a large military presence would draw attention, we got a small experienced squad."

"You could have said that when I asked the first time."

"No, I couldn’t. Not everyone here is cleared for this information."

"And you trust me to keep this to myself?" Carson asked. So far he hadn’t been able to figure out this operative and if the man didn’t come to a point soon, he knew he’d lose interest.

"I expect you’ll do what your instincts tell you," came the answer.

Despite the open space and high ceiling, Carson began to feel stifled almost like the damp air had triggered claustrophobia. Measuring his breath, he turned his back on the weird carvings and unslung his rifle.

"That it?" he asked, wanting to get back out in the sun as quickly as possible.

"That’s it," Roman answered and watched as the Sergeant left for the outside. So far this operative hadn't done anything to allay his fears and he ground his lower lip as he stepped back out into the heat.

"Find anything out Sarge?" Phillips asked when Carson appeared back in the light.

Even with the oppressive heat, Carson found that he had broken out into a cold sweat and his hands shook as he opened his canteen again. This place just wasn’t natural and it worried him. Beyond the slope, the forest was primeval and intimidating but it was the pyramid that really scared him.

"Nah. Just more of the same old ess-ell-ay bullshit."

The sunlight had gradually shifted to red tint, making the jungle around the pyramid glow like packed embers. Around its base, the shadows had stretched out like a blanket and Carson felt the same stiffness that he had felt while within the structure pressing against his chest. He never thought it was possible to feel claustrophobia while outside, but this trip had brought a lot of new experiences.

"Sarge," Larue’s voice came across the mike. "You better get over here."

The soldier’s voice shook him out of the daze the heat had put him in and he walked around the perimeter towards where the man was stationed. While it might have been quicker to go through the pyramid, it felt safer outside in the open air.

"On my way," he answered, picking up his pace as he heard the sound of a commotion starting. The good thing, he told himself, was that there hadn’t been any shooting yet. When he came around the side of the structure and over one of the low moss-covered walls, he saw that the survey team was packing equipment away through the jungle. Roman was outside talking with Larue and Fost while the others stared on. As the Sergeant trotted up, he felt the inside of his armor sticking to his legs and regretted that he hadn’t stripped it off like the smarter half of his men.

"What in hell are they going?" Carson demanded when he was close enough to speak, feeling the strain of the heat weighing down his temper. The three men turned towards him and he saw the line of people in company coveralls vanishing into the trees.

"WHERE IN HELL IS YOUR TEAM GOING?"

Roman seemed so nonplussed about the Sergeant’s tone of voice, that Carson wondered what had shone through in his tone. He felt indignant, a little irritated, and a bit worried.

"Relax, Sergeant," the operative said. "The non-essential members of the survey team are simply taking samples back."

"Only four of you assholes are ‘essential’?" Larue asked and then turned to the Sergeant. "That’s all that's left Carson!"

On a good day, Carson could barely tolerate insubordination, especially from someone like Larue but today was a little different. It could wait because he was focused on the real problem and stared at Roman. Even though the man’s face was friendly, the eyes were cold and seemed to be mocking him.

"You’ll forgive me if I say your lying," Carson said as he glanced in at the remaining members of the survey team.

"Of course."

"What is really going on here?" he asked with a harsher tone. The Sergeant could feel his ire creeping into his voice, but the growing fear that something wasn’t right was pushing down any reservations.

"I’ve already told you more than I should," Roman answered, still not volunteering anything. "You shouldn’t waste effort on paranoia."

"Bullshit," Carson snapped. The urge to pull his rifle and shoot off one of the operative’s legs had returned, but he decided to give him one more chance. "I may not be an operative, but I’m not stupid."

"I know that," Roman said, still keeping a friendly demeanor. "But I haven’t lied to you. You’re here to do a job and protect this team."

"From whom?" Carson pressed. "Who are we here to protect you from?"

"From whomever," Roman said as he turned and walked back towards the pyramid. Carson followed him and in his anger, spun the man around by his arm.

"Dark Night? Thresher? WHO?" Carson growled. His voice had gradually gotten louder with a mix of anger and fear. "If it’s Thresher, we aren’t equipped for that kind of-."

One of the survey team appeared in front of them and cut him off in mid sentence.

"John! You need to see this!" the woman chirped happily. Roman nodded and turned back to the Sergeant, shrugging his arm free.

"Sergeant, you are here to defend this facility and the survey team. That’s all."

Roman turned on his heel to follow the woman, but stopped when Carson called out to him.

"The facility and the team," Carson repeated. "Not you?"

"Don’t worry about me, Sergeant," he said as he resumed walking. "Just do your job."

Roman’s voice faded into echoes as he walked into the pyramid and Carson waved his men back to their posts. If this place were so damn important, they wouldn’t have sent just a bunch of grunts to guard it. He had lived long enough to know the difference between instinct and paranoia and any time the company didn't tell you everything, what you felt wasn't paranoia. The sounds of the jungle were a dull roar as he paced to look out and then back up at the pyramid again.

Testing the weight of his rifle, he decided to be patient for the time being. If this Mister hotshot operative wasn’t forthcoming soon, he’d just have to start asking questions a little less politely.

Carson's patience was fading in the dying light and pushed to his feet. "To hell with the company, "he thought to himself. " Dead men don't get court-martialed."

"Squad, " he called into his mike. "Assemble at the south corner. Phillips, radio for immediate evac."

Even if the brass might call this dereliction of duty and hit him with a reprimand, Carson's gut told him that the best way to see tomorrow was to bug out now. Besides, they’d only be abandoning the operative and the civvies if they weren’t smart enough to go with them.

By the time Carson had made it around to the south corner, the troopers were already there and waiting for him. Roman and two of the survey team were there also and didn’t look happy.

"Sergeant, what do you think you’re doing?" Roman asked as the Sergeant walked up.

"What I have to do," he said as he looked over to Phillips. "Get that call in now soldier!"

Private Phillips had been kneeling next to the radio but managed a muffled "yes sir" as he kept working. Beyond him, the jungle had gotten louder and Carson knew it wouldn’t be long before anything that crawled, slithered, or walked would be out in force.

"I can’t let you do that," Roman persisted and the Sergeant smiled at him. "You are under orders to-"

"You can’t let me do what?" Carson asked. "Call for an evac? So Mr. Roman, how are you and your 'team' going to stop me?"

The troopers had been watching the exchange and several moved around to cover the civvies as it became more heated. Carson took pride in the fact that he didn’t have to tell them to do it and stepped closer to stare into the man’s face. Behind him, he heard the sound of safeties go off and saw the fear in the scientists' eyes behind Roman.

"I didn’t hear an answer," he said, but Roman still didn’t speak. The man’s eyes weren’t afraid and he seemed to be more amused than annoyed by what was happening. It irritated Carson and he had to ask. "Something funny?"

Roman hadn’t said anything further, but his face broke into a faint smirk as Phillips spoke up. Something began to creep up his spine and he knew that this wasn’t going to be good.

"Sir, I can’t raise the Honos," the man said and Carson spoke without looking at him.

"Check your equipment, soldier," he answered, but knew Phillips would have already. The problem wouldn’t be their equipment and he was sure Roman had something to do with it.

"I did Sir and it’s in the green," Phillips answered. "The signal is strong locally but I don’t think they’re answering."

"Or they ain’t there," Larue added, spitting a chew of something onto a vine.

Carson looked around at his men and read what was going through their minds. Like he had told them and like they already knew, the company was screwing with them.

"Alright Roman," he said to the operative. "I’m going to ask you once and only once. What in hell is going on?"

The Sergeant calmly flipped the safety off on his rifle and took aim. Meanwhile, the scientists looked like they were about to shit bricks.

"Why isn’t the Honos answering?" Carson added. "They were supposed to stay on station until the operation was finished."

"There’s probably a good explanation for it," Roman answered with a straight face. Even though Carson didn’t pride himself on being a human lie detector, he couldn’t read if the man was lying or not.

"Not an hour ago, your team got an evac and now we can’t even raise the ship," the Sergeant continued. "How can you get them and we can’t?"

"The pickup was scheduled," the scientist answered. "We’re working on a tight timetable and-"

"Shut up," Foss said and the civie nodded his head as he went quiet. "The Sarge didn’t ask you."

"Sergeant, I truly don’t know but it means that we have a serious problem," Roman answered. "You're right about the Honos. It is under orders to remain on station and it would take a significant threat to forcer her away from orbit."

"What do you mean?" Jackson asked. Carson chewed on his lip and looked around at the men. Things are never simple in the militia, no matter how much the mission looks like a cakewalk.

"It means that we have company."

Carson ordered the men back into their positions and walked the perimeter himself to check the defenses. Jackson followed after him like a well-trained DAC and the only reason the Sergeant didn’t snap him in half was because he remembered telling him to stick close. At least the boy seemed to follow orders well.

"Sir?" he asked as Carson reset a Claymore’s arc. "Is it Dark Night or Thresher?"

"Don’t know kid and don’t really care," he answered as he stood up. With the sun having dropped behind the treeline, the only thing marking what would have been the horizon now looked like burning embers. "We gotta stay here no matter what."

"If it’s Thresher, can we fight ‘em off?" the kid asked. He was scared and Carson could hear it in his voice. Not being one to lie, he decided to give him a straight answer.

"Well son, if it’s Thresher it's pretty simple," he answered. "We're dead. If it’s Dark Night, then they are."

"Sir, that’s not very reassuring," the kid said and Carson found himself laughing in spite of himself.

"No Jackson, it isn’t but then I'm not your momma."

Carson imagined a time when he was that young and wide-eyed, but it was more imagination than memory and had to be before he had been big enough to leave his parent’s apartment. How someone could end up in the militia with that amount of naiveté was beyond him. Maybe the kid thought that joining up would be more exciting than becoming company sanitation workers like his folks.

"Let’s finish the sweep."

"Yes sir," the kid said as he followed behind him.

As Carson came back, he saw that Roman was also checking the defenses. So far the operative had kept out of the way, but his constant watching was unnerving. If the heat hadn't eased off a bit with the coming night, one of the men would have shot him out of frustration.

"Is there something you need, Roman?" he asked as he walked up.

"No, not really," he answered as he stood up. "I'd like to help if I can and have gone over your roster. It looks like you've got good people."

"My roster? Oh, yeah," Carson started and then remembered that Roman had probably been briefed on even his shoe size. "So?"

"How well do you know them?"

The Sergeant shook his head and smiled. The paper might show how long they had served together but wouldn't tell this operative much more than that. He was too curious, which only made Carson more anxious. He waved Jackson on and cradled his rifle.

"I'd say most of 'em are like brothers to me," he answered. "I've known Foss, Maxwell, Tak, and Phillips for about a year. The others - Parker, Cole, and Silvers are just kids. They haven't seen a whole lot yet, but they're steady. That what you're asking?"

"Yes," Roman answered. "What about Larue?"

"Larue?" Carson laughed. "He's a jackass. I don't expect him to last through the first serious dustup."

Roman smiled, seeming satisfied by the answer. "Thank you for being honest."

"So what about you?" The Sergeant asked. If the operative wanted to play twenty questions, that was fine with him but it was his turn now. "Do you know your team well?"

The blue eyes turned into slits as Roman smiled and the Sergeant felt something stir in his gut. The expression seemed too practiced, almost like he was feigning emotion and Carson wondered if the man was a sociopath. It wouldn't surprise him since that was what all operatives were anyway.

"No," he answered. "I met the day we shipped out and only know their names."

"You trust them?" Carson continued and the expression on the operative's face slipped for a moment and reminded him of a mask. He wasn't sure what he saw and it unnerved him.

"I don't have to," came the answer and Roman continued walking around the perimeter. The Sergeant stood there for a few moments looking after him and then turned back to stare into the dark wall of trees. As he started walking the other direction, he made his decision and keyed his mike.

"Foss," he said and a crackle came back as the trooper seated his mike.

"Yes Sir?"

"If the shit hits the fan," he said in a low tone. "Kack Roman."

It was twenty hundred hours on the dot when Carson knew the party was getting started. The sharp crackle of gunfire in the darkness pulled him back out of his daydream and back into what was beginning to feet like a drawn-out nightmare.

"WHO'S FIRING? WHO'S FIRING?" he yelled as he ran along the side of the pyramid. The fire was definitely one of the Reapers, but the foliage had grown up over the path they had cut and muffled the echoes so much that he couldn't tell which position was hot. "DAMMIT! WHO'S FIRING?"

BRRRRAAAPP-BRAP-BRAP

Running from the rear post with Jackson on his heels, he cleared the south corner of the pyramid to see the muzzle flashes turning the far position into nearly daylight. Hopping through the vegetation, he ran past the men holding the second position and snapped down his visor to get a read on low light. The other fire position flickered with movement, but he couldn't make anything out besides shadows and flying brass.

'FOSS! WHAT'S YOUR STATUS?" he yelled.

Pop-pop-pop-whoosh.

The tree line was bathed in white light as the flares from the traps triggered and sizzled upward into the air. Instinctively, he reached back and grabbed Jackson by the harness to keep them moving for cover. While the light made it easier to see the hostiles, it also made the area between the fortifications a killing field and anyone out there was an easy target.

With a heave, Carson pulled Jackson down behind a low wall and felt the side of his helmet smack against the moss-covered rock. Stone and mortar popped and cracked around them as someone took their shots and he took a moment to listen. He was familiar with the distinctive sounds of a lot of firearms, but the weapons being fired were something completely different. A round ricocheted off a stone near his head and squealed away like an angry rat.

"Sarge!" Jackson yelled and Carson looked over, seeing the younger man clutching his abdomen. His face was pale and the Sergeant cursed because they hadn't been under fire for ten seconds and already the kid had caught lead. As he crawled over, foliage spit and turned into confetti beyond them and he heard the second Reaper team open up. A faint voice crackled over the mike, but couldn't make it out with the commotion.

Carson was relieved that the kid's wound wasn't that bad. Whatever had hit had split the ceramic plate but hadn't penetrated far enough to be serious. Quickly snapping open the soldier's med kit, he gave him a shot of kick start and patted him on the shoulder.

"It ain't bad kid but you'll get a scar," he said. "That's about it."

The jungle suddenly became quiet and Carson carefully peeked over the wall without seeing anything moving in the trees or foliage. Ducking down, he changed his visor to thermal and leaned around again. The space to the trees was solid green without any of the hot signatures he'd have expected. Somehow, there were no cooling bodies anywhere in the killing field.

"Okay, sound off," he ordered as he sat up and looked curiously at the foliage around where they had taken cover. It was shorn off like someone had taken a knife to it and he touched one of the thicker stalks, surprised to find that it was hot to the touch.

"What in the hell-" he started but his men counting off over the mike caught his attention. As he matched the responses to his mental list, he felt a knot start in his gut and cursed when he came up one short.

"Phillips," he said, not really expecting an answer. The radio operator was one of his best men and a friend. "Foss, where's Phillips?"

He heard voices in the distance and started walking to the far post as he surveyed the damage. There was no sign of any heavy ordinance from the other side, which was a good sign but the look on Foss's face as he got closer wasn't reassuring. If Phillips was dead, he could accept that but this was something worse.

"He's gone sir," the scout said when he got close enough to speak.

"He's gone? KIA?" he asked.

"No Sir. One moment he was there and the next he wasn't. We can't find any trace of him," Foss answered as he pulled off his helmet and the mike, wiping at his face. "But it's worse than that."

"Worse?" Carson asked, not really wanting to hear how things could get worse.

"Yes sir. They got the radio too."

It took only thirty seconds to take a head count and no one else was missing. Several men were wounded, but no serious than the cut Jackson had taken but everyone was a little shaken. Somehow, the opposition had managed to get in past the defenses and pull Phillips and his full kit out of a trench without anyone seeing them do it. That begged the question that if they could get in that close, why didn't they just kill everyone when they had the chance? What were they waiting for?

"Silvers," he asked for the second time. "You didn't see or hear ANYTHING?"

"No sir," the trooper answered. Even though none of the newer men held to the same clipped diction as Jackson, Silver's response was still unusually quiet. The look on his face showed a mix of fear and guilt but Carson didn't blame him for what happened. No one else saw anything either and he patted the man on the shoulder as he moved back to look out over the perimeter.

Pointing at Takura and two others, he signaled them towards the field in front of the Reapers and the three quickly climbed over a rotted wall to vanish into the sea of leaves. Still using thermal, Carson watched as the break of heavy foliage turned the men into glowing puzzles that winked and ebbed. After five minutes of silence, he saw them coming back and breathed quiet a sigh of relief.

"Sir, we got nuthin," came Tak's report and Carson let out his breath in frustration. "No blood, no parts. Just a lot of dead salad. Nuthin."

Foss, Jackson, and the others watched him as the Sergeant turned it over in his mind.

"If it had been Thresher, we would have seen them," he said under his breath but left out the part about "and we'd be dead now" as he paced. The men watched him, waiting for orders and he looked up at them.

"That means we're up against Dark Night," he said aloud and saw an immediate change in their expressions. The greener men were still scared, but the vets had their confidence back now that the enemy had been defined. Behind his men, the remaining science team members and the operative had filtered out and were carefully listening.

"Tak, Sikes. Replace the trip mines and run the wire. Madison, Jackson, Williams –run a sweep of the perimeter and find out where they came in. Max, circulate and take care of anyone who needs it. Everyone else, stay put and stay sharp."

The men moved at once to their duties and Carson looked out into the darkness. Deciding that thermal and low light had been useless to him so far, he raised his visor and peered into the absolute darkness with normal eyes. Even though they were far away from the War World that haunted his nightmares, he had managed to find an ugly little war right here in paradise.

"So much for a shore leave," he said to himself as he looked at the civies. "You people might want to get back inside. It's dangerous out here."

The three technicians or whatever in the hell they were carefully filed back into the pyramid, but the operative stayed outside and watched the proceedings.

"That goes for you too Roman," he said without looking. He was sure that the operative was laughing at him, but when he turned to look at him, the man's face was morose. "Is there something you need?"

"No," he answered before following the team back into the structure. The man seemed to just be watching what was happening and that didn't make him happy. A moment later Foss was at his elbow and pulled his mike off.

"Sir?" the scout asked.

"Not yet," Carson said as he looked around. "Not unless things get bad."

Carson walked the line again, checking the mines and making sure that each one of his men was fine, suddenly aware of the sheer volume of the background noise. With the sky having shifted completely to black, the jungle around them was even louder than before and he was surprised to find it somehow tranquil. The advantage of fighting in a jungle was that if something big started to come their way, the life out there in the tree line should give them plenty of warning.

The relative peace was a welcome change from the earlier tension and Carson took the opportunity to turn over what he had seen in his head. At the very least, it took his mind of Phillips and the missing radio. The jungle, with the high green trees and the big pyramid were all it took to get the wheels turning and his imagination was off running like a child on a sugar high before he knew it.

"So this is pre-Conflict Wars, huh?" he asked himself as he looked upwards where the peak of the pyramid would have been.

He had always been fascinated with the history of the "World of Progress" and teethed on stories about the Conflict Wars and Intruder's crew. What had begun as little more than fairy tales of good versus evil became an early teen obsession and he had dug up every fact he could as he grew up. The one thing for certain was that the "good versus evil" angle in the history books was far to simplistic when viewed from an adult perspective and he had known that before he hit fifteen.

The story was pretty simple really. Nine hundred years ago, a mob of the inferior races ganged up on Slayer and the galaxy was suddenly in an all out war. The carnage razed countless worlds and wiped out every species that had chosen the wrong side, but somehow, SLA had managed to survive and even thrived on the ashes. The old line about "mess with the best" came back to him and he took a drink from his canteen to wash down a bug. The worst thing about this world had to be the damn bugs…

Maybe it wasn't a miracle that SLA had survived after all, he thought. Slayer certainly wasn't anything near human- hell he was godlike, and there was no telling what he was truly capable of. What if he was God? Carson chuckled to himself when that thought occurred. If that was the case, they had to be dead already.

No, Slayer survived because he was smart enough to have played all the little groups off against each other and happily turned the galaxy into a collection of war worlds just like Dante nearly over night. The mere thought of it was beyond his ability to grasp and he walked on. Knowing the past sometimes helped him keep things in perspective and it amazed him that more soldiers weren't aware of what had happened.

He admitted that despite all his reading, the reality of the Conflict Wars had only been as real as anything else in his imagination until they actually hit dirt. Standing on a world that had belonged to one of those traitor races brought the whole thing fully into his reality and he shuddered with a mix of awe and foreboding. Actually, it scared the hell out of him for more reasons than he cared to admit, which was something he could never explain to any of his men. Most of them could barely read "this side towards enemy" and probably had never heard of the Conflict Wars anyway.

Of course, the fact that none of them had ever seen a world like this or even a structure this old and- this -he struggled for the correct word – alien didn't make anyone happy. Having grown up on Mort, the innate weirdness of this place was more than he could take and he didn't blame them for being nervous too. The only ones not showing fear were the civies that were here to study it. That brought an unpleasant question to mind and the cold chills came back.

What would happen if the science team actually found something?

What if something found them?

A cold chill crawled across his shoulders, bringing a shudder and dragging his mind back to the present. The concept of something finding them didn't sit well with him, but there had to be a reason that this site had remained deserted for nine hundred years. With a shrug, he tried to push off the growing feeling of doom and remembered how the operative had said that he shouldn't waste effort on paranoia. That was probably the only useful thing the bastard had said to him yet and he headed back to a trench.

It was an hour later when the trip flares hissed into the sky again and let everyone know that the enemy had come back. Somewhere out there under the twinkling artificial light, Carson knew that there were squads of Dark Night troopers moving in and he pulled his helmet back on with a curse. Everyone was ready and anxious to kill a few of the bad guys, maybe getting a little payback for Phillips in the process.

Takura and Parker probably didn't have any visible target, but the aiming stakes they had placed to mark the perimeter let them open up the moment the fireworks started. As the chatter of weapon fire begun in earnest, Carson prayed that they got one of the bad guys this time. He needed to find a body just to make sure they weren't shooting at ghosts.

Suddenly, the air snapped around him and he forced Jackson to duck down again. The ricochets had the weird squealing noise again as they cracked the stone and split the soil around him. Through the din, he caught the crackle of traffic over his radio and winced when he picked up the tone of the words. He had no doubt that they were being overrun.

"AAA-GUHHHH-"

"MEDIC! MEDIC!"

The other position was taking a beating and he fought the urge to get up and run to them because the enemy had his position pegged and the ground jumped every time he started to come out of the trench. Shoving Jackson down further, he motioned for the trooper to start firing and readied his own rifle.

"WANT SOME? C'MON! C'MON! RIGHT HERE!" Takura yelled as he fired into the darkness. One of the new grunts named Cole was loading for him to keep him firing and Carson fired a burst in the same direction.

"Where are they?" he asked over his mike. "Can anyone see the hostiles? Can anyone see them?"

There had been no muzzle flashes from the darkness, making him loath to fire blindly but the sudden silence from the second Reaper made him change his mind. Peering over, he saw Parker leaning over the weapon alternately trying to clear a bad jam and trying to pull the newbie next to him down. He couldn't do both and the man was just standing there staring out into the blackness as the rounds clicked around them.

"GET DOWN SOLDIER!" Carson yelled, but the young trooper was in shock and out of arm's reach. "PARKER! GET HIM DOWN N-!"

The young trooper's body bucked as the dirt wall spattered and popped apart, the loud click of the cracking armor meshing with the squeal of the incoming fire. Horrified, Carson stared helplessly as the young man just stood there like a statue, taking the hits like they were falling rain. Unable to help him, the other men in the trench crouched down and waited for a chance to fire back. After several seconds, the barrage ended and the jungle was deathly silent again. When Carson rose up, he was amazed to see that the trooper was still standing.

"Son?" he asked, not remembering the boy's name. "Son? Can you hear me?"

There was no reaction so he carefully crawled out of the trench and reached for the man's shoulder. With a grunt, the trooper trembled and tried to turn to face him and Carson felt the vomit rising in his throat. With a sickening slosh, the trooper's torso, face, and arms slid apart like the parts of a butchered pig, spraying the trench and weapons with gore as he splashed apart into a pile.

"AAAHHHHH!!!" Jackson screamed and fell backwards, gagging and dropping his rifle as he vanished. Carson gasped in terror as he backpedaled for cover and tried to keep from losing his lunch also. He had seen men blown apart by mines and shredded by gunfire, but never anything like this and he coughed back the bile. Out of reflex, he raised his rifle and fired into the darkness in front of them.

"PARKER!" he yelled, his voice terrified. "GET THAT REAPER FIRING, NOW!"

Parker dropped the jammed Reaper and fired a rifle over the top of the trench blindly, hosing wildly into the ground and plants. Takura kept on his Reaper, lighting up the side of the pyramid and the jungle in front of him as he fired at the dancing shadows.

Suddenly the squealing sound returned and someone yelled "INCOMING." Ducking down instinctively, the sound of gunfire was replaced by dirt popping around them and something hot bit into Carson's left collarbone. He cried out in pain as he hunched down further, feeling the incoming rounds chop deep into the trench. In the darkness, he caught the sight of spraying blood and dirt from the other trench and clenched at his own wound. The barrage lasted for at least another thirty seconds and the heavy silence that came afterwards made his breathing sound like thunder in his ears.

Looking around, he saw that Jackson was alive and whimpering at his feet and tried to reload his rifle but found that he couldn't lift his left arm. Frustrated, he somehow managed to shove a clip in and clumsily heaved it onto the edge of the trench. With the jungle silent again, he wondered if he and the kid were the only ones left alive.

"Tak, Parker, Cole?" he asked. "You okay?"

There was noise from the other trench and Takura's head popped up and looked out. The grim look on his face told Carson that they were the only ones left on this side of the pyramid and the big man back ducked down and started stripping equipment. Disgusted and shaken, the Sergeant pulled Jackson up by his harness and pushed him out of the trench as they started to move.

"Team one," he asked over his mike. "What's your status?"

When there was no answer, he felt his stomach turn and yelled into the mike again. In the distance, the jungle got loud again and he breathed easier in spite of his rising fear.

"Team one, come in," he repeated, feeling the fear building. "What's your-"

He whispered a "Thank God" when a voice cut in on him.

"Top, this is Foss," the voice said. "We just got spammed. I don't know what in hell we're up against but-"

"Strip weapons, ammo, and tags and fall back to the East entrance ASAP," Carson cut in, regretting what he was about to say already. "We'll setup a defensive perimeter and try to hold from there."

As the three men maneuvered through the landscape to meet the others, Carson felt his original impression of vulnerability returning like a heavy weight to his shoulders. Who in hell were they fighting? He hadn't seen a single target on either thermal or low light, while they had been picked off like sitting ducks. He really wanted to believe that it was some new type of DN technology that made them invisible, but a darker thought crept in and left his mouth dry.

What if it wasn't Dark Night at all?

Carson was numb when he found that he could do a head count of his remaining men on one hand. Only Takura, Jackson, Foss, Maxwell and Larue were left, with everyone else having been chopped into pieces like Parker's loader or having vanished without anyone seeing what had happened. Nearly his entire squad was gone within a period of about two minutes and the basic reasoning of being outnumbered and outgunned seemed hollow even to him. Despite all the preparation, gunfire and mines, there wasn't a single hostile's body to show for it.

While the men packed the surviving two Reapers and ordinance into the pyramid, Maxwell stripped off his torso armor to look at the wound. Whatever had struck had cut cleanly through his armor like a knife, leaving a laceration that was so deep and clean that it took two shots of kickstart and a stapler to close completely. Gradually, the meds pushed back the pain and he was able to get back into his armor. The snapped collarbone, however, made his left arm completely useless and the medic had to tie it up with a sling made from the rifle's strap.

"So much for the new rifle," he said to himself as he sat the weapon down and checked his pistol. With only one arm, he helped out most by simply staying out of the way.

Meanwhile. Foss had been directing the squad in building up the site's defenses. Considering that it was completely open on the inside, Carson approved of how they used what they had on hand while still keeping a watch over the entrances. Claymore mines soon covered the majority of the open floor and the two large entrances and the crates that had housed the science team's equipment were moved to provide cover and create blocks for a kill zone. Fortunately, nothing happened during the work and by the end of it and the Sergeant was feeling good enough to walk around. His instincts told him that they were going to need everyone's help to make it to the next sunrise, so he decided to get a few new recruits.

"Takura, Maxwell. Grab a few extra weapons and come with me," he said and the troopers complied.

So far, the operative and the civvies had mostly stayed out of the way with the exception of helping move crates but Roman was watching as the soldiers approached.

"What is it Sergeant?" he asked when they got close.

"Welcome to the militia," Carson said as the Takura picked up his meaning and passed out the unloaded weapons to the science techs. "I know you can use a weapon, but what about these three?"

"I don't know," the operative answered and looked back at the techs. Of the three, Carson saw that one of them seemed comfortable with a rifle, but that was better than he had expected.

"Takura will give them the basics on how to use a rifle in a few minutes," he said to the trooper and then turned back to Roman. "We're all going to have to pull together if we're intend to survive this."

"Agreed," came the answer and the three techs nodded in agreement.

"Right now, we don't have any radio equipment so we can't contact the Honos even if she is in orbit so it's a worst case scenario and we're on our own. We've got enough ammo and weapons to go around, but this position isn't very defensible and it's only a matter of time before they hit again."

Dropping his voice, the Sergeant stared at Roman when he continued. "The thing I can't understand is why are any of us still alive? They've got a major technological advantage over us and could have–hell, SHOULD have- wiped us out. We never even saw any of them, dead or alive."

The operative's eyes had been staring the whole time, but he didn't seem anxious to comment. Undaunted, the Sergeant continued, becoming aware that both the techs and troopers were staring.

"They could have overrun us if they had wanted to but they didn't. I only see one reason for that."

"Which is?" Roman asked, but the eyes were so neutral that they didn't give anything away.

"Whomever or whatever is out there didn’t want to," the Sergeant added.

"Sir?" Takura asked. "What do you mean they didn't want to?"

Carson ignored him and stayed focus on the operative when he spoke. "Now look. I've fought in two theaters on twelve different planets but this is the first scrap I've been in where we couldn't at least catch a glimpse of the other side."

"If I recall correctly Sergeant," Roman interjected. "You've been stationed on twelve different worlds, but only saw combat on three of them. Two of those were rear guard security positions with very little action and that hardly makes you-"

"The point is, Roman-" Carson continued. He could feel the blood rushing to his face and neck in synch with his rising temper. "I've never SEEN or HEARD of ANYTHING like what happened out there! ANYWHERE!"

"Sergeant, "the operative said as he took a breath. " There are probably a lot of technologies in play that neither of us has seen. It's highly likely that this is a new development by the enemy and-"

"Or this is some sort of SLA test of some type of stealth system and new weapon systems and we're the guinea pigs," Carson interrupted.

"Sergeant Carson, that's paranoid."

"No, I don't think so. This is big world but they knew exactly where to find us and from what direction to hit. Hell, they might have even come with us aboard the Honos and we never would have known."

"I think you're letting your imagination run away with you," Roman said calmly. "I'm sure that the company isn't behind this. It would be a waste of resources."

"I thought you'd say that," Carson said. "That's why we're going to search your equipment for a transmitter. They had to get their info from somewhere and one of your team would be the best source."

Roman's eyes turned into slits again and he broke out into what looked like genuine laughter. The tone of it was cold and mocking, reminding the Sergeant of his orders to Foss to take him out.

"We're under attack and you want to scrutinize the noncombatants?" he asked, still laughing. "Be my guest, but please don't damage anything."

The operative and techs watched while the troopers searched through the science equipment for a transponder or radio, but after ten minutes of searching, it was apparent why Roman had been laughing. They had gone through everything in the work area and came up empty handed. Carson still felt the warmth of blood in his face, but this time it was from a mix of irritation and embarrassment. He didn't like being made into a fool and he half-heartedly replaced some of the dislodged equipment before getting out of the way.

"Tak, show them what you can," he said as he waved the trooper forward, and then motioned to Roman. "Meanwhile, you're on the line."

Carson looked out into the darkness and listened as the sounds of the jungle blended with the buzz of the lamps and hum of the generators into a low din. It was strong enough to blot out conversations, allowing his mind to run again.

"Is something wrong sir?" Foss asked but the Sergeant ignored him and returned to his thoughts.

There was a lot wrong, but Carson didn't feel like stating the obvious.

When it began again, there was no warning from the jungle or the trip flares, but Carson was sure that he felt them coming. It started with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach that shot up his spine but it came over him too quickly to warn anyone. Suddenly, all of the lights died and all hell broke loose.

Muzzle flashes lit up the barricades as hot brass rattled past, heating the humid night air around him and shaking him out of what felt like a feverish dream. Startled and panicked, he pulled his pistol and fired blindly into the darkness, praying that he hit something this time. Almost in response, the crates splintered and cracked around him and he shuffled to better cover. There was no doubt that the bad guys were back and he saw that they were hitting both entrances at the same time. There was a boom and a bright flash of light as someone manually triggered a Claymore filling the heavy air with dust. Over the chaos, he thought he could make out Tak yelling "Get Some," but wasn't sure.

A scream near his left ear made him snap around and someone slammed into him in the dark, sending him stumbling sideways to fall over an invisible crate. Carson hit hard enough to see stars and the pistol bounced away into the darkness, sending him flailing after it in vain. That was when his training reined in his fear and he tried to change his visor to thermal, but a splash of liquid caught him in the face and made him gag and spit. Before he could get it out of his eyes, there was a gurgling sound above him and an armored body came crashing down across his legs. Carson didn't have time to even yelp from the impact because a heartbeat later, it was jerked off him with enough force that he was almost dragged after it.

"SON OF A-BAAAAGGHHH!" someone yelled and he thought it sounded like Foss. Other curses and yells came from around him and he scrambled in the darkness to find a weapon. When his fingers brushed the grip of a rifle, he grabbed it and heaved it up, surprised at its low weight but determined to pull the trigger anyway. The weapon must have been jammed because there was no recoil.

Suddenly the lights were back on and Carson found himself staring down what had used to be a new FEN AR. The weapon had been cleanly sliced in half like a hot knife through butter and he numbly dropped it at his feet. Around him, the crates were smashed and riddled with bullets and the floor was liberally covered with shell casings and blood. Across from him, Jackson was hunched near what was left of the barricade and was staring at him in horror. Giving the trooper a puzzled look, he got to his feet and traced the man's stare to back to himself. He was drenched in gore and red poured off the breastplate and arms like rain. Absently touching it with his good hand, he looked around for the source.

"What in the hell-" he asked no one in particular as he turned around to and took in the carnage. "Where is -" he tried again, but the words died in his throat.

There were no bodies anywhere -just his men staring back at him with the same stunned faces. Carson turned in a full circle and walked between the barricades, but there was no sign beyond the blood of anyone having been killed. Swallowing hard, he tried again to wipe his eyes clear and called out.

"Who's down?" he asked, but only got a stark silence in response. "I ASKED WHO'S DOWN! NOW SOUND OFF!"

He felt sick in the stomach as he counted the responses and looked around. Foss, Maxwell, and Takura were gone along with all of their equipment. The pools of blood were the only sign that they had ever been here and Carson was suddenly unable to speak. Everyone he cared about, all of the men he considered friends, were gone and there he hadn't been able to do anything about it. Turning in place, he looked at Jackson, then Larue, and then finally the operative who eventually broke the silence.

"Sergeant," Roman said. "We should pull back to the antechamber where the team was working. It's more defensible."

Carson nodded, knowing he was in shock but unable to bring himself out of it. Jackson and Larue collected what weapons were left and carried them into the side room while he walked around numb from the feet up.

"Sergeant?" someone asked. He was only aware of them because they were shaking his arm and he wondered how long they had been there. It was one of the science team members and he stared at her like she wasn't speaking Killian. "They're ready to close up the room. You should come with me."

The Sergeant went with her and watched as Jackson and Roman worked on blocking the entrance. Larue had stayed out of their way, checking weapons and trying to unjam the remaining Reaper. As Carson gradually came out of his shock, he looked at what they had done and half-heartedly approved. There was no way that anyone could come through that doorway without giving them a clear shot and with the close quarters, there was no way they could miss. Still in shock, he numbly picked up a pistol and put it in his holster.

"Mr. Roman?" Jackson asked. "Who do you think is out there? Why are they here?"

The operative stepped back to study the barricade and shrugged. "Someone who obviously wants us dead," he answered. "The 'Whom' and 'Why' aren't important."

The sharp cl-clack of a weapon being cocked and the safety snapped off jerked Carson back to the present and he looked over at Larue. The trooper had finished loading the Reaper and had leveled it at the operative.

"Bullcrap," Larue sneered. "My Reaper and I think it is important and it's about time you started talking."

No one moved for the longest time, including Jackson who looked like he was trying to become part of the carvings. The three science team members had also gone flush against the wall and Larue now had a completely clear shot if he chose to take it. With the Reaper braced comfortable across his lap, he could hold the position for hours unlike Carson who was frozen in a half-squat and afraid of making any sudden moves.

"Larue," Carson said in a calm voice. "Ease back on that trigger. We need everyone we've got."

The trooper's laughter came out as a harsh bark and he shook his head. "Sir, Screw you, sir!" he said and laughed again. The ex-operative had never been a team player and the Sergeant found himself wishing again that someone had taken the initiative to frag the bastard this morning.

"There's something you wanted to ask?" Roman said, seeming remarkable calm in the current situation.

"Yeah," Larue answered. "You know what the hell is out there and how they're picking us off. Either you start talking, or I start shooting. Your choice."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," Roman said with a polite smile, but the trooper just laughed again.

"Everything you know about what's going on."

"I'm afraid that I really don't know anything more than you do," Roman said. Although he didn't appear nervous, Carson was sure that he had to be. On a good day, Larue wasn't entirely stable and it looked like he may have completely lost it. Cautiously, the Sergeant sat down and slowly moved his good hand near his holster.

"Oh right!" the trooper snapped. "You want me to believe that an operative is going to get assigned to a science team and isn't told ANYTHING? That's a lie! I wasn't born yesterday."

"No, you were born the ninth of May in 882 SD. You're nineteen now."

Larue's brow furrowed in surprise and he started to mouth a response. Carson was a little taken aback also and Roman continued.

"You're right, I know a lot of things. For instance, you entered Meny for the Death Squad program in the first semester of 881 SD. You graduated in the middle of you class, were average on the best of days, and joined up with a few friends to form a squad two days after graduation."

"How-how do you-" Larue started, but the operative continued.

"Four and a half months later, the same personality traits that nearly got you tossed out of Meny finally got you into hot water in the real world."

"I, huh?…"

"The incident was so bad enough that not even your Father's clout could bail you out," Roman said before a pause where he looked at both Jackson and Carson before turning back to the trooper. "I take it that none of your squad mates have heard this yet? They don't know why you're here?"

"You- how do you…"

"The official report stated that your 'liberal' use of firepower combined with the inherent structural weaknesses of the lower downtown region triggered a massive collapse that killed forty-one civilians, one Third Eye camera crew, and inflicted serious injuries upon most of your squad."

"You have no right-" Larue objected, then shook his head like an insect had gotten into his ear. His face was flushed and anger was showing in his voice. "We got ambushed by an Interceptor team. I was the only one with real firepower – a Reaper -and if it hadn't been for me, my entire squad would have-"

"So you're saying that you're a hero?" Roman said, smiling now and Larue nodded back.

"Yeah," the trooper said with a hurt tone. "I am a hero. They owe me for-"

"It's interesting that you mentioned your squad's debt to you," the operative answered. "Especially since the testimony of the three surviving members taken by Cloak named you as the sole cause of the collateral damage. They also referred to you as spoiled, stupid, unstable, and excessive."

"They'd never say that, they were my friends," the trooper snapped, coming to his feet. Carson watched as the operative goaded Larue on and carefully took the opportunity to unsnap his holster. He saw that Jackson was still a statue out of the line of fire and the science team hadn't moved, but something didn't look right in that part of the room. It took him a moment to realize that one of the techs was missing, but he wasn't going to give him away by looking around.

"I was doing my job and doing it well!" Larue growled. "You can't say that it was my fault that we got hit!"

"Of course it wasn't," Roman agreed. "I do agree with your friends though when they said it was your fault that the street and tenement collapsed. What kind of moron brings a Power Reaper on a White BPN anyway?"

Carson could see that the Reaper was on its last long belt and that meant it had over a hundred rounds to use on the operative and anyone else. Figuring it wasn't a little late to get religion, he cursed instead of prayed and tried to decide how to get out of this alive.

Larue didn't like being reminded of his past and had started to look more and more like the spoiled brat from the record that Roman was quoting. His voice had taken on alternating hurt and angry tones, but at least he hadn't started shooting.

"Where do you get off blaming that on me?" the trooper spat as he came to his feet.

"You fired nearly three hundred rounds of ammunition during the exchange and only five Interceptors were killed. That means one of two things in my opinion," Roman said as he stepped forward slightly and towards potential cover. Larue braced the Reaper and tracked him but hadn't fired yet.

"You're either an exceedingly poor shot," Roman laughed. "Or you're stupid, unstable, and excessive. So Lance Corporal James Thomas Larue the Third, which one is it?"

A sudden movement on the edge of Carson's periphery told him where the other tech had gone and Larue must have picked it up at the same time. The missing tech popped up with one of the FEN rifles and Carson grabbed for his pistol, yelling at Jackson to hit the dirt. Unsure whom he was actually intending to shoot, the Sergeant just knew that he didn’t want to be the only person without a firearm when a maniac had the machine gun.

The tech got off the first shot, but the burst went wide and high to sputter a pattern across the stone carvings to the trooper's right. Larue squinted and squeezed the trigger on the Reaper, its heavy muzzle flash nearly reaching the tech he was aiming at. Equipment, crates, and the packing materials on both sides of the man exploded into confetti and sparks as he tracked his fire across the armed target and onto the other techs. The side of the room was instantly splattered in red and body parts and the room was suddenly silent.

By the time that the gunfire stopped, Carson had his pistol aimed at Larue's head and had let out half of his breath slowly like he had been trained. It took the trooper a moment to realize it and when he did, he looked puzzled for a moment and then cursed under his breath. With a hard pivot, the Reaper came around towards him and Carson saw the weapon began to cycle. With a careful squeeze of the trigger, his first round went wide but the second hit the helmet without stopping him. He could feel the heat and force from the muzzle as the Reaper's bullets tracked across the room towards him, chewing up the floor. Roman and Jackson both took firing stances, but much too slowly to help.

"Great," he thought to himself. "This punk is going to kill me."

Carson fired again, hitting Larue solidly in the breastplate and making him stumble, but the armor took it without snapping. Heat and pain suddenly blotted his vision as the rounds tore into his legs, sending him falling sideways into the floor. Jackson opened fire a moment later and the rifle's heavier slugs were enough to blast apart the side of the Larue's breastplate and helmet. With a spasm, Larue squeezed off another burst from the Reaper and slumped into the floor.

Carson blinked up at the ceiling and then slowly looked down at his body since he couldn't feel his legs. He knew that this was the bad type of shock coming over him and eased his head back to rest on the floor, giving up. On a world with a medical facility, he might have stood a chance but here, they didn't even have a medic…

Somehow, he managed to get a handful of Kickstart fired off into his leg and the wounds began to throb and pulse as they tried to close. Once the pain had ebbed back enough for him to think, Carson calmly picked up his pistol and aimed it at the operative. Roman aimed back without firing, but then slowly lowered the rifle.

"I'm putting the rifle down, all right?" he said as he put the rifle at his feet. Jackson scurried forward to snatch it up and ran over to where Carson was lying where he tore open his field kit and dropped beside him. The boy was so shaken that the Sergeant had to keep pushing him out of his line of fire. He would have told him to forget about it, but the young man wasn't listening to reason.

"I'm sorry about the Lance Corporal," Roman said. "But he made his choice."

"Yes he did," Carson answered without lowering the pistol. It was only a matter of time before he passed out from blood loss and dropped it, but he had the advantage for the time being.

"And I'm making mine. Now talk."

Carson stared back at Roman as the operative calmly sat on one of the crates and watched him back. There was no way that he was leaving this place alive and both of them knew it. Meanwhile, the terrified Private continue to try to staunch the Carson's wounds but all the bandages in the world wouldn't make a difference now. The cold was setting into his limbs and he felt the end coming. Even still, he did his best to keep the pistol aimed between those ungodly ice-cold eyes because somehow, the man was tied into this and he wanted answers. Everyone else was either dead or wounded and the man hadn't even gotten dirt on him yet.

"We both know I'm finished," Carson said slowly. The heavy shots of Kickstart had left his body numb and his tongue moved like it was wrapped in a blanket but at least he wasn't in pain. "You're not an ordinary Slop, are you?"

Roman sat with his hands clasped and watched quietly without speaking. The face was a mask again and Carson still couldn't read him when he finally spoke.

"No. Technically I'm not," the operative replied.

Jackson scrambled away to grab another kit and threw himself down again to try to stop the bleeding. The front of his armor was splattered with gore and the Sergeant winced because he knew it all belonged to him.

"Then what are you?" Carson continued.

"I'm what you could call a troubleshooter," Roman answered. "It's my job to assess problems and fix them."

That was good enough for now and Carson tried to straighten his back, not that it mattered because he couldn't feel it.

"So is this temple, this place-" he started.

"The Morloss Fortress is its name."

"There's a problem for ole ess-ell-ay here?" Carson finished, realizing how stupid a question that was. His squad had been massacred and he was bleeding out proved there was a problem.

"Of sorts," Roman answered as he stood up and walked around. Unable to track him with the pistol, Carson decided it wouldn't have been difficult for him to take it away and let it drop. Meanwhile, Jackson was fighting to tighten a tourniquet around one of the stumps that used to be a leg, but he could only feel the movement not the pain. Meanwhile, the edge of his vision was darkening into a tunnel and a deep cold was settling in.

"What I told you about this place is true. It's pre-Conflict era and of significant interest to the Company for a number of reasons. I don't know all of them, but then I'm not cleared to know everything."

"Who-who's out there?" Carson asked. "Not Dark Night, is it?"

"No," Roman answered as he looked down at him. "No, it isn't."

"THEN WHO?" Jackson yelled up at him, frustrated and well beyond his limits. Roman ignored him and crouched down to look Carson in the eyes.

"The original owners are still here and in greater numbers than we could have expected," he said quietly, but his voice carried well enough that even Jackson could hear. "And they don't like visitors much, especially those that are prone to violent tendencies."

"B-bait," Carson said as the light in the room gradually died out. Before it faded to black, he could see the movement of alien shapes flowing within the shadows and realized that the hostiles had been with them all along. They were everywhere, all around them the whole time in the darkness. "W-we w-were b-bait."

Roman nodded and stood slowly as the breath left Carson's body in a death rattle. Ignoring the remaining trooper, he quickly rose and walked to the barricade where he began casually shoving the crates aside. Jackson heard a sound like metal sliding across metal coming from the growing darkness in the corners of the room and snatched a rifle off the floor.

"Y-you son-nnn of a b-bitch!" Jackson yelled as he cocked the weapon and flipped the safety off. "I-I'm g-gonna kill you! You set us up! YOU SET US UP!"

The operative continued to ignore him, carefully moving each of the crates aside as he went.

"YOU B-BASTARD!" Jackson screeched. "YOU F-F-F-FRICKIN-NN BASS-TARD!"

Roman slowly turned around and looked at the trembling boy and the weapon. Even in a rage, Jackson couldn't fire and the rifle floated in front of him as his resolve wavered. A smirk appeared on the operative's face and he laughed as he spoke.

"Aren't you a little old to have trouble with curse words?" he asked mockingly and the young man's face twisted in rage.

With a yell, the trooper brought the rifle up again and Roman began to move, ducking outside the entrance. Bullets punched holes along the wall and ceiling as the young man screamed and opened fire, but suddenly the scream stretched into a long wail. The weapon fire abruptly ended in a flurry of wet ripping sounds and popping plastic.

Roman took a few moments to dust himself off and looked back through the doorway at what was left. Almost all of the corpses were gone now, with the only evidence of violence being the bloodstains that were quickly vanishing into the stone. Broken equipment and weapons were strewn everywhere, but previous reports indicated that they would vanish before long also.

As he made his way out of the pyramid, he took one more look back and at the window in the trees above it and smiled in spite of himself. It was truly an incredibly beautiful world and he couldn’t begrudge the race that owned it for not wanting SLA here – after all, look what SLA had done to Mort. Unfortunately, this race had been lucky enough to survive the Conflict Wars and still held onto a valuable piece of real estate. It was irrelevant what SLA wanted to do with it and not something he was paid to be concerned with, so he turned his back and made his way down the path into the jungle. He thought briefly about how Staff Sergeant John Carson's instincts had warned him about the nature of the area, but the man had somehow managed to miss his squad's purpose here as a reconnaissance tool. It was a disappointing turn in the least because the man had been flagged for potential recruitment.

The second landing party met him a hundred meters beyond the tree line and he let out his breath when he saw how well-armed they were. There were over thirty soldiers plus support personnel, which was just enough to start a combat with the locals but not nearly enough to finish the job. As typical, SLA had decided to fix the problem with brute force instead of waiting for the correct intel, but that wasn't his problem either. The troopers stood up in anticipation as he went past the sentries and one of the Company personnel, a woman named Silva, fell in happily beside him as he passed.

"How did it go John?" she asked in her normal quizzical tone and he smiled when he glanced at her blank eyes. For a Brain Waster, she was so surprisingly tranquil and polite that she could even be considered mildly pleasant to be around as long as you didn't show weakness. He decided that it was mostly the blank eyes that bothered him because he couldn't bring himself to trust anyone whose eyes he couldn't read. The fact that she was both mercenary and highly ambitious didn't help, either. With a start, it occurred to him that a lot of people had said exactly the same things about him at one time and he smiled wider.

"Poorly I'm afraid," he answered, navigating the trampled vegetation. "There are far more natives here than estimated."

"Any pointers?" she asked as she stopped and gave him her best-practiced corporate smile. She always turned on the charm when she was about to try something underhanded and even if he couldn't read her eyes, he knew her mannerisms well enough to tell what she was thinking. The horizon behind her flashed orange as the incoming dropship rumbled in to land and the flickering light died over the jungle.

Roman saw that she was as well equipped as any of the other personnel including the soldiers, which meant two things. First, Silva had volunteered to be the lead observer and was going in with the troops instead of later on. Always looking to advance, a success where he had failed would probably give her the career boost over him that she had been angling for. Secondly, she had chosen to ignore the reports about the native's response to violence on "sacred ground" and was going in armed. Considering her tendencies, that would just invite problems.

As he looked at her, his smile flattened into a smirk. Tthe biggest difference between them was that he chose to follow experience and instinct while she relied upon ambition. This time, that choice was going to cost her.

"It will be in my report," he said as he turned and walked into the darkness of jungle, leaving her and the others behind.

End

John Carson, Staff Sgt.

Paul Jackson, PFC

Foss – scout

Phillips - Radio

Maxwell/Mad Max - medic

Corro, Dropship Pilot

Takura - support

Sikes – trooper

Madison

Williams

Larue

John Roman

Parker

Silvers

De’Loren

Cole

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