Baxter, edge of the Far Side
Winter 4135
Jack Scorde walked through the snowy plain, boots crunching in the heavy snow. A blizzard had ended recently. The withered husks of some shrubs and a wolf carcass lay nearby. The wide-open landscape stretched on, and so did the snow. The clouds overhead had begun to clear; the orange star of Baxter weakly glowed down upon its child world. The moon of Sable was visible. And in between all of it, the vessels of the ICA military expedition.
They had come during late Fall. Hostile humans, from the core planets of humanity's interstellar empire, had descended upon Baxter. What passed for a capitol, the city of Calathan, had fallen in five days. Two other major cities fell in short order. Planetary transit routes were gone or occupied by these newcomers, checkpoints and weapon emplacements dotting the landscape. Already these dark-armored enemies had begun recruiting men clad in light orange armor. Baxter Planetary Defense Militia, they were called. Traitors was what they were.
As he walked in the snow, he fingered his auto-volver's trigger, grimacing and chewing his lip. His Daredevils had chased an ICA spy here. Now where was that little bastard?
He sniffed the air. Cold, clear. He adjusted his hat, shaking off some of the snow. As he looked around, he marked the location of his militia's transports, covered in earth, waiting to burst out at the first sign of enemy activity. Scorde himself was the bait for this spy. If the poor fool caught it, he'd try and kill Scorde while he was out in the open. Probably snipe him. Not in the head- then he couldn't take a face-mesh. No, he'd shoot somewhere vital. The heart. Such was why, under his coat, he had stuffed himself with armor padding.
He felt an impact, then a few moments later a sharp crack. The spy had taken it. Damn fool actually thought someone looking for him would just waltz out- inexperience. That was likely it. Probably his first real war.
He dropped, clutching at a slight tear in his clothing, then slackened to fake bleeding out and dying. He let his head rest to the left, towards the hill. Sure enough, his eyes half-open, he could see the spy approaching, swathed in a cloak that blended into the snow. As the spy approached, started patting Scorde's vest to look for traps, he lurched up and grabbed the offworlder rat by the throat. Wrestling him to the ground, he knocked him out with a sharp kick. Grabbing him by the neck of his cloak, Scorde dragged him to a transport as it lumbered out of the snow.
"Let's get this to my pal Reynolds. He's better at interrogatin' folk than I am."
