this was an exciting time to be alive.
The Thirteen wanted him close to Bassett. In all the military, the General was the man they trusted most. Yet complete trust wasn’t something that the Thirteen allowed, and so Marshall was here to observe, oversee, and if it became necessary, to intervene.
Bassett’s rooms were at the center of the command pod, one of the smaller sections of Charon Station, yet also the most heavily defended. A Sleek-class destroyer was docked permanently against the pod, crewed around the clock and ready to launch within thirty seconds, if the need arose. The pod itself was triple-constructed, possessed cloaking technology the equal to the Arrow-class ships used by Excursionists, and if the need arose it could break away and become its own individual spacecraft.
The first time Marshall had crossed one of the 450-yard-long connecting bridges to the command pod, Bassett had taken pleasure in telling him that each bridge was equipped with a series of explosive rings that could split it in half in milliseconds. Bad enough that the bridges were completely transparent.
Yes, Basset really was a prize prick.
“Who goes there?” The big Marine standing at the end of the bridge brought his nano-rifle to bear.
“Really?” Marshall asked.
“Second warning, Mr. Marshall.”
“You just told me my name.”
The Marine took a step back into a shooting stance, the nano-rifle’s control panel casting a faint blue glow onto his faceplate. Marshall could only make out his eyes behind the visor, all other facial features hidden. He never liked the threatening impersonality of combat suits, but supposed that was one of their more subtle weapons.
“Third warning.”
Marshall sighed. “Gerard Marshall, seventh chair of the Weyland-Yutani Thirteen, ID code seven-one-gamma-three-november.”
The marine stood to attention again, and Marshall heard the distant whisper of his combat computer confirming the identity of the man standing before him.
“Thank you, Sir. General Bassett is expecting you. You can find him in the VR suite of his control room.”
“Right.” Marshall walked past the marine toward the doorway, which faded open, then he paused. “Don’t you ever…?” The marine turned to look down at Marshall, faceplate giving nothing away. The combat suit was silent. The rifle still glowed, and Marshall wondered what setting it was kept on. He’d seen such rifles fired before in demonstrations, had witnessed their firepower. Immense, and horrific.
“Never mind,” he said. “Carry on.”
The door grew dark and solid again behind him, a containment field more impregnable than three-inch steel, and he was in the command pod.
As he moved through the command pod, several other marines watched him pass them by, then a female marine minus her combat helmet nodded and accompanied him along an elevated walkway that skirted the main control globe. The room was huge, fifty yards across, bustling, filled with holo frames, computer terminal points, and people drifting back and forth on air chairs. It never failed to send a shiver down his spine. This was the beating heart of the Company’s military machine, and an uncomfortable truth beat through this place with every pulse.
The Marines were the only reason that W-Y had once again become the power it was today.
No organization could reach such a wide-ranging ubiquitousness without a powerful force behind them.
“You’ll know where to find him,” the marine said, and she handed Marshall a pair of swimming briefs.
“Really?” he asked.
The woman smiled. He was glad. Any sign of humanity among these people comforted him.
Maybe she was an android.
Marshall took the briefs and stepped through into the VR control room staging area. It was empty, apart from a small pile of neatly folded military clothing, a pair of boots, and a set of glasses. Bassett was one of the few people Marshall knew who eschewed corrective surgery for his defective
The Thirteen wanted him close to Bassett. In all the military, the General was the man they trusted most. Yet complete trust wasn’t something that the Thirteen allowed, and so Marshall was here to observe, oversee, and if it became necessary, to intervene.
Bassett’s rooms were at the center of the command pod, one of the smaller sections of Charon Station, yet also the most heavily defended. A Sleek-class destroyer was docked permanently against the pod, crewed around the clock and ready to launch within thirty seconds, if the need arose. The pod itself was triple-constructed, possessed cloaking technology the equal to the Arrow-class ships used by Excursionists, and if the need arose it could break away and become its own individual spacecraft.
The first time Marshall had crossed one of the 450-yard-long connecting bridges to the command pod, Bassett had taken pleasure in telling him that each bridge was equipped with a series of explosive rings that could split it in half in milliseconds. Bad enough that the bridges were completely transparent.
Yes, Basset really was a prize prick.
“Who goes there?” The big Marine standing at the end of the bridge brought his nano-rifle to bear.
“Really?” Marshall asked.
“Second warning, Mr. Marshall.”
“You just told me my name.”
The Marine took a step back into a shooting stance, the nano-rifle’s control panel casting a faint blue glow onto his faceplate. Marshall could only make out his eyes behind the visor, all other facial features hidden. He never liked the threatening impersonality of combat suits, but supposed that was one of their more subtle weapons.
“Third warning.”
Marshall sighed. “Gerard Marshall, seventh chair of the Weyland-Yutani Thirteen, ID code seven-one-gamma-three-november.”
The marine stood to attention again, and Marshall heard the distant whisper of his combat computer confirming the identity of the man standing before him.
“Thank you, Sir. General Bassett is expecting you. You can find him in the VR suite of his control room.”
“Right.” Marshall walked past the marine toward the doorway, which faded open, then he paused. “Don’t you ever…?” The marine turned to look down at Marshall, faceplate giving nothing away. The combat suit was silent. The rifle still glowed, and Marshall wondered what setting it was kept on. He’d seen such rifles fired before in demonstrations, had witnessed their firepower. Immense, and horrific.
“Never mind,” he said. “Carry on.”
The door grew dark and solid again behind him, a containment field more impregnable than three-inch steel, and he was in the command pod.
As he moved through the command pod, several other marines watched him pass them by, then a female marine minus her combat helmet nodded and accompanied him along an elevated walkway that skirted the main control globe. The room was huge, fifty yards across, bustling, filled with holo frames, computer terminal points, and people drifting back and forth on air chairs. It never failed to send a shiver down his spine. This was the beating heart of the Company’s military machine, and an uncomfortable truth beat through this place with every pulse.
The Marines were the only reason that W-Y had once again become the power it was today.
No organization could reach such a wide-ranging ubiquitousness without a powerful force behind them.
“You’ll know where to find him,” the marine said, and she handed Marshall a pair of swimming briefs.
“Really?” he asked.
The woman smiled. He was glad. Any sign of humanity among these people comforted him.
Maybe she was an android.
Marshall took the briefs and stepped through into the VR control room staging area. It was empty, apart from a small pile of neatly folded military clothing, a pair of boots, and a set of glasses. Bassett was one of the few people Marshall knew who eschewed corrective surgery for his defective
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