Chapter 3: Obsidian

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Oct. 23, 2334, Pathmos, Obsidian Corp. outpost 17.

Radiation-soaked ground shook as massive thrusters belched out their last ounces of thrust, touching down on a recently-carved landing pad made of crushed concrete and rebar. The smell of burning ozone and hot concrete assaulted Carl Osterman's nose as he watched from a safe distance. In the grey, cloud shrouded landscape, the cargo hauler's blackened, plasma-blistered hull seemed to fit right in. With morning light in the clouds and the scent of war on the air, Osterman knew a long day was coming.

Stiff, hot wind raked dust and grit over a clean-shaven face, and tried to pull the hardhat off a short-cut head of bristly, silver hair. Osterman narrowed his sharp eyes against the howling wind with a glimmer of impatience. Anger burned under his narrow brows, and a face wrinkled with smile lines pulled into a deadly frown. Carl Osterman, the face of industry in the Socotra system, was anything but a businessman. Ire radiated off his heavy twill jacket from squared shoulders, and khaki work denim replaced an entrepreneur's flimsy slacks. He'd spent his life building Obsidian with his own callused, work-worn hands. He'd watched his empire grow under his guiding eye, and while other executives grew fat, he grew deadly.

Tough-made, work-worn, and much-blessed, Osterman stood at the edge of the blast zone and watched as his handiwork descended from space, wounded and limping. He clenched a sharp jaw, and felt his heart wrench.

The MLA had hit his ships again.

Struck his men.

A bolt of ice-cold anger shivered down his spine, forcing him to clench his hands tight around the roll-cage.

"Ok, jets are spooling down, emergency teams move in!" Osterman shouted, raising a hand to keep his hardhat on in the stiff wind. He braced himself, gripping the roll-bar of a rugged transport vehicle. He pounded on the windshield of the vehicle, and nodded to his driver. "Get me down there."

The huge thrusters on the sides of the boxy space craft turned off with a clunk and a shuddering growl. The scream of emergency klaxons instantly replaced the engine moan. The vehicle under Osterman stuttered to life, and started rolling down the steep, crushed concrete path towards the landing pad.

Osterman's stomach was in his throat as he looked over his ship.

Hull's not breached... Comms antenna's gone. Thruster needs replaced.

A lot of good money blown into space by hot plasma.

Much worse, a lot of time had been lost.

Time his contact on New Medina didn't have.

Before the dust could settle, teams of maintenance and repair workers were already starting to swarm the vessel. A pair of huge, six wheeled fire containment trucks whizzed past Osterman as he sped down the path past cargo containers. Men in vests and hard hats were bolting down the same path, tools or medical gear in hand.

"Antenna's gone." His driver and personal aid Cameron said. "No wonder they didn't radio us."

Osterman nodded, and took a second glance at the missing radio mast. The hull wasn't blistered by plasma there. It was dented in, cracked.

"Looks like they took a missile hit." Osterman bit his tongue, "Don't we equip these freighters with flares or chaff?"

Osterman's chest continued to tighten as his transport growled onto the pad and sped under one of the huge thrusters, the steel edges still glowing red hot.

Cameron nodded. "They should have point defense too."

Osterman rode in silence for a few seconds.

If flares and point defense had failed, that left only one option.

"Never had a chance in ship-to-ship. The MLA's got smart missiles." Osterman said emphatically. "Smart Missiles. Where are they getting smart missiles?"

"Don't ask me." Cameron said, pressing in the brakes and shutting off the engine. "I'm not the weapons guy."

Osterman jumped out of the open cab and zipped his rainproof jacket up to his chest. His worn work boots clunked on the ground, another sound in a symphony of chaos played by the orchestra of his company.

Osterman looked at the massive blue arrowhead emblem on the loading bay hatch of the freighter. His company's logo.

Obsidian Corporation.

His heart thudded in his chest as he walked towards the back of the ship, dodging through groups of medics chomping at the bit, mechanics trying to tap into the ship's door systems, and firefighters uneasily standing guard next to the three-story thrusters.

"What's the situation so far?" Osterman asked, marching ahead with Cameron at his side.

"Ground crews are reporting no serious risk of fire, and no radiation leaks. Reactor's intact, and the fuel cell-"

Osterman nodded, and gestured.

"Yeah yeah, we can dry-dock her later. How's the crew?"

"There's wounded onboard. No word on how severe."

Osterman bit his lip.

How many men have to die before the Alliance takes us seriously?

Osterman rounded the corner of the ship, and tightened his fists.

"What should I do, sir?" Cameron asked.

"Get our air traffic control on the line, ask them if there's anything armed and fast, equipped to depart for that extraction on New Medina. That's first priority."

"Yes sir."

Osterman's stomach was boiling, as was his blood. He plowed into a crowd of engineers and mechanics frantically working around patches of hot, blistered metal that used to be a cargo hatch.

"What's the problem here?" Osterman shouted as he neared the back hatch. His voice cut through the air. It was recognizable, clear and loud. The air immediately quieted as his men turned to look at him.

"Door's stuck, Sir!" one of the lead engineers barked in a Pathmos accent. "We're waiting for the mechanics to get down here with the right tools to get it open."

Osterman glanced up at the door.

It stood in the way.

His jaw tightened, and he felt a wave of passion hit his bloodstream. His heartbeat spiked.

"Cut it open." He said.

"Sir? That's a three million dollar door!"

Osterman set his eyes on the engineer. The man's shoulders squared suddenly under Osterman's sparking gaze.

"I don't care how much it is. Get my men on this side of it."

The mechanic nodded. "Ok. Ok... Alright, lets crack this baby open!" he shouted, and motioned. "Get plasma cutters up here!"

Osterman stayed in place as dozens of men hustled by, toting massive compressors, plasma units, and torches. The sudden and airy hiss of a half dozen plasma cutters firing up and licking away molten steel and titanium filled the pad, and other than that, silence.

Osterman's jaw worked unconsciously.

If he had to make another call to a heartbroken widow, he'd retire.

He hadn't built this world only to see its residents suffer. He hadn't invested in lives, just to have them lost. He was a worker at heart, and no one destroyed his work. No one destroyed the livelihoods he'd helped build, no one took members from the families he'd sponsored into the system, and no one spilled Obsidian blood and gold without paying dearly.

Osterman shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and clenched his fists against the chilly air.

He hadn't just been playing a defensive game, though.

He looked upwards at the massive vessel that towered above. It was meant to be heading towards New Medina air space, ready to pick up Osterman's coup de grace. Now that his plans had been upset again, keeping him from seeing his men safe and his empire flourish, the gears of revenge turned in his mind once again.

The MLA had made it about so much more than protecting assets.

They'd been ripping at his heart for years.

With their latest blows, they'd made it personal.

And not a single one of the terrorists would live long enough to regret it.

"Osterman, we're almost through."

Osterman's ears perked up, and he started a steady stride towards the hole they were cutting.

The quiet erupted into shouting.

And Osterman broke into a run.

He met a wall of bodies, and cut right through it. He got close enough to smell it, and yelled for a medic. Mixing plasma bolts and flesh never made a good smell.

Osterman muscled his way forward, cutting a path behind him that a medical crew squeezed through. Osterman shivered at what, or rather, who, was being hauled out of the miniature portal cut through the door.

A human mercenary, his body armor caked with blood, face deathly white. A half dozen hands helped him out of the dark interior, and another half dozen pulled him out, hefting him towards the stretcher the medics were prepping.

Osterman kept pressing forward, his blood pressure rising.

Another mercenary came out. This one wasn't human. A Burrower, his sharp orange eyes barely able to register a tic when Osterman met his gaze. The non-human's tough hide was slaked with his own dull orange blood, the branchial arches around his neck flaring weakly as he tried to inhale.

Osterman stopped in his tracks and watched as the medics crowded him, laying him on a stretcher and starting to cut away layers of armor and clothing in search of his wounds.

Osterman looked away. The rage in his blood was well past boiling it, and was practically radiating off his skin. His jaw was locked and his fists hardened like stone.

He turned back towards the still-glowing exit hole, hoping more carnage didn't come out.

His hopes weren't in vain.

Another human came out after that. This one was very alert. His wounds weren't just stopped up with bio-foam like the others. They were stitched shut, mostly superficial.

That soldier immediately struggled once they got him out of the hull, demanding they let him walk.

They did.

Osterman stopped him, and gripped his shoulder with iron fingers.

"Hey. What happened up there?"

"Terrorists boarded us. We repelled them." He said numbly.

"Any dead?"

He shook his head. "Dunno if the other two guys are gonna make it. Everybody else'll be fine."

Osterman nodded. "Alright, get to the medical tent. Right away."

Osterman turned, his world spinning, and pushed his way out of the crowd.

No one dead. Not yet.

His eyes settled on the Burrower and the human, both being loaded onto one of the nimble emergency response vehicles. The thrum of their hover-jets didn't quite overpower the pained moan of the Burrower as they hefted him into the back.

Osterman cringed. But he started to walk towards them anyway, towards Cameron, who was standing at a distance, hands held halfcocked, like he wanted to help but knew he couldn't.

"Cameron!" Osterman shouted over the yelling.

He whipped around.

"I want full medical reports on both of them every half-hour. And I want them both alive tomorrow. I don't care how much we spend on medical supplies. Freeze em' and ship them back to their homeworlds if you have to. Just make sure I don't have to call somebodies' mother and tell them their son isn't coming home."

Cameron nodded and swallowed hard. "Yes sir."

Osterman nodded sharply. His mind was already flooding with a thousand other things he'd have to do now. Filing reports, checking insurance, calling to notify families of the incident...

Osterman brushed all that aside. It could all be handled by aids and secretaries somewhere in the corporate HQ. He had bigger fish to fry. He had calls to make.

"Cameron, come with me. We've got things to do."

"Yes sir."

Osterman broke into a stride, his heart thudding angrily in his chest. He had his eyes set on the pre-fab building next to the landing pad, a tin-coated communications center dripping with sensors, dishes, and comms arrays.

"First things first Cameron. You have my datapad?"

"Right here."

Cameron handed Osterman a thin but powerful computer, all packed in behind a crystal clear screen. He immediately opened the front page.

Osterman looked at Cameron. "What's the news on getting a new extraction flight to New Medina?"

"There's nothing in the area. We could have a frigate re-directed and fully armed within three days. Two if we push."

Osterman stopped on the path up to the communications center, his boots crunching the crushed rock and his jacket snapping lightly as raindrops began gently skipping off the waterproof surface.

They were alone, perched above a lush, fog-shrouded valley in the northern hemisphere of Pathmos. The communication center behind them was just a small part of the Obsidian complex that sprawled around the area for miles. Mines plunged deep underground, docking scaffolds towered skywards, and nuclear power plants belched out gigawatts of clean, cheap energy for a hungry and expanding planet.

He sighed, and felt a tug.

Pathmos had it all. Water. Native life. Abundant oxygen and a stable ecosystem. Limitless resources, free land, and a friendly government. The only thing it lacked...

Was Runt.

"Cameron, get me in touch with our asset."

Cameron nodded, knowing exactly what Osterman was talking about.

"Ok... We don't have satellites aligned for communication with New Medina right now though."

"Get our satellites realigned, or pay the fees to have a comms buoy emergency transferred."

"Yes sir."

Osterman took one last look across Pathmos's verdant wilderness.

It was missing one of its finest, and until that little Springer walked the surface of a colder world once again, peace was not even an option.

He set his jaw.

Osterman paused at the door to the communication center, looking back at the freighter and the swarm of people around it.

His heart tugged.

"Do you have those personnel reports ready?"

Cameron's typing on his datapad became slightly more frantic, but he retained his even-keeled expression.

"Sending them.... Now. They're preliminary."

Osterman nodded, and opened both of them, side by side.

"Thanks. Second, once you're done with those satellites, set me up with an appointment to talk to another mercenary outfit."

"As soon as I can, yes."

"Alright. And Cameron?"

He looked up from his datapad.

"You got any family?"

He shook his head.

"Just parents back home."

Osterman nodded. "Well, after you're done with all that, call em'. We've got two men on base that might not get to."

Cameron nodded solemnly.

"Ok."

Osterman pushed open the door to the comms center, his senses instantly being overpowered by the anarchy of lights, cacophony voices, and the smell of recently brewed coffee.

"Ok!" Osterman shouted, walking into the room. "Give me a report, who do we have on the lines?"

Voices from across the room reported, one after the other.

"Insurance claims"

"Outer Planets navy"

"Corporate HQ"

"Vostograd Station"

"Norther Alliance Naval Command"

Osterman's ears perked up. "You, naval command, who do you have on the line?"

A female Springer rose, and peeled off her headset. "I've got a senior officer aboard the Polaris."

Osterman started walking towards her. "Ok, take five. I'll take the communications from there."

She nodded, and set the headset on the desk.

"Osterman," Cameron started. "We've got an investor on the line, he's asking about stock prices."

"Tell him the stocks aren't important until my men are in stable condition." Osterman snapped.

Cameron stared at him for a moment, shrugged, and started talking to his datapad again.

"Sir, we just got a call from one of the news channels..."

"Tell them we're all busy." He said, gesturing off another distraction. "Or that our array is down. Tell them anything. Just keep them off us until we know what happened here." Osterman said, sitting down at the desk. He slipped his hardhat off, and the headset on.

"Hello, this is Carl Osterman. Whom am I speaking to?"

"This is Navigator Jacob Hemm. Good to hear from you Osterman. Don't worry, we've already got The Admiral coming up to the bridge. Onboard, it's two in the morning."

Osterman nodded, and looked ahead at the screen. The screen displayed the Polaris, the only Battlecruiser in the system. A warship commanded by Earth's representatives in the Socotra system.

And the only warship that could easily turn the tides in Pathmos's favor.

"Alright. Can you send us visual comms?"

"Yes. Resending communications now..."

Osterman stood up, and pulled off his headset, the drone of voices and communication lines ringing suddenly re-filling his ears.

"Someone transfer this screen to the big projector."

Osterman waited for his command to be carried out, and he paced towards the large empty pad facing a wall-sized screen.

Fuming silently, Osterman was planning how he was going to very professionally rip the Northern Alliance Navy a new one. They had a very simple agreement with Obsidian Corp, and the Outer Planets.

There was a small mountain of distasteful legal babble in the treaties, but in short, the agreement read-

Don't let Outer Planet vessels get attacked by terrorists.

And that would be all fine. Except that this was the third attack in one month.

Even if they were on good terms with the Northern Alliance, Earth wasn't exactly measuring up to its promises.

Ever since The Outer Planets and New Medina had separated peacefully from Earth a few decades ago, The Outer Planets, including Imbra and Pathmos, had been on positive terms with Earth, in particular, their sponsor nations of the United States and the East Siberian Republic.

New Medina, on the other hand, had decided to sacrifice their relationship with Earth when they'd attacked Pathmos about eleven years ago. The war, while short, had been one of the most gruesome in human history. It was only the second war to have gone nuclear. It'd ended when New Medina had dropped high yield nuclear weapons on Pathmos, and the East Siberia Republic had retaliated with the largest nuclear response ever mounted by any species.

After twenty three total nuclear detonations, New Medina had surrendered.

But the wounds had never mended.

Thus, The US and ESR kept an active military presence in the Socotra system, presenting a blockade between New Medina and the more distant worlds of Imbra, Pathmos, Rhodes, and others.

But as with anything powerful, red tape kept that blockade tied down.

And without an effective blockade, terrorism flourished.

Osterman felt his datapad vibrate. He raised it up and took a second look.

It was a medical update.

He skimmed the report, half of the medical jargon above his knowledge. But he did recognize words like collapsed lungs and paralysis.

He bit his lip. The human was stable, at least. The Burrower, they were still working on. But he wasn't going to be walking for a very long time.

Osterman opened his personnel profile, and gave it a quick once over.

He cringed at what he saw.

The big screen suddenly came to life, and the room quieted a little. Osterman cleared his throat.

A man in a crisp black and gold uniform stood wearily in front of the camera, his cap at his side and his hair matted from recent sleep.

He recognized the man on the screen. Admiral Sergio

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