SOMEWHERE, ORBIT OF NINKILIM [SIC. MARS], MC 2032
A rocket pod silently sliced through spacetime toward the looming red surface of the planet he knew as Ninkilim, named after the old god of war. As it was about to pierce the planet's scarce atmosphere, the pod made an about-face so that its rear engines were pointed toward the ground rapidly approaching below. It landed gently, with small but sturdy legs detaching from the body to support the upright vessel. Steam poured out from all seams as the door opened upwards. A metal staircase extended out from inside.
For some time nothing happened until, after a minute, from the capsule emerged a man wearing a mil-spec spacesuit, with a large handgun hanging from his hip, rifle slung across his back atop a heavy backpack.
"Doesn't get easier the second time," he muttered, coughing as the metallic tang of filtered air filled his helmet. Taking a few steps down, he paused to scan the lifeless expanse. "Now, where the hell is it?"
He looked up toward the endless expanse of space. Another pod descended from the sky, sparking in the sky for only a short moment before landing about one thousand meters away. Although you couldn't see his face through the tinted glass of his helmet, he was scowling. Grumbling, he started making the trek toward the second capsule. Couldn't they have dropped it closer? Or him second? Company things. Putting that out of his mind, he traversed the cold desert landscape.
Ochre-red dust blew around him in wisps. As predicted, the weather was decent. Aside from the steep slope of the crater wall, all he could see for miles was the salmon-colored sky of Ninkilim.
This vessel was much larger, especially as he got closer, and looked more like a shipping container. Approaching the drop pod, the man pressed his right glove up to the sleek, silver metallic door. It opened in a similar fashion to his, letting out steam and then quietly shifting upwards to reveal the crate's interior. Instead of another man, or more people, inside there was a sleek, all-black four-wheeled vehicle. Beautiful, the man thought, whistling. He had to hand it to them, this time the company was not skimping—stealth features, armor protection, and all. Like the pod door, his glove unlocked the vehicle's door easily. Throwing his pack in the back seat, he stepped in. In the center console, the tall and wide LCD screen was already on when he was fully comfortable in the driver's seat.
"Welcome Captain Ben Andrever," said a computer voice, "my name is Rosalin. I will be your guide through this mission. Surely, you are expecting a debrief. Your orders from Valadar HQ are as follows. You are to infiltrate and destroy Sarzynski Corp Waystation One, a surface installation complex belonging to the Sarzynski Corporation for Martian Resource Extraction. Beyond destroying the installations, your mission is to assassinate the entire executive party currently visiting their Martian grounds on tour. It is important to ensure that all targets are neutralized and that the complex is rendered non-functional, as these were the terms of the contract with our client. The journey to our operational target will take approximately twelve hours. Please try to relax and do not avoid sleeping, as I shall wake you upon reaching our destination or otherwise necessary. By the way, I hear this will be your last mission."
"Yep," Ben nodded. "After this one, I'm retiring. You know, I thought I'd get bored of the peaceful life after I retired from the army. So I became a mercenary. But, you know, more and more, retirement seems like it could really be the good life." He didn't tell the voice that all of the war-making, the killing, and the sheer exhaustion of near-constant missions were finally catching up to him.
"I'm glad that you are excited about the future, captain," said Rosalin, her voice sweet like honey. "Let’s make sure your final mission is one to remember."
On cue, the driver's seat electrically shifted rearwards, while his backrest came down. Something like smoke lazily curled out from the vents. What is that? wondered Ben. His eyelids began feeling quite heavy. Then they closed.
___
His eyes hazily opened to the vehicle cabin. It took him a bit of time to come to and take in the new surroundings. "You could have asked," he muttered. "I see we've left the crater."
"Indeed. And, apologies, Captain Andrever," replied Rosalin. "But there was no purpose in having you waste away your minutes on the twelve-hour drive. Instead, I put you to sleep and uploaded mission data to your brain."
"How convenient," he replied.
There it was. All of the project details returned to him as if he knew the information all along and simply had forgotten it. Sarzynski Corp Waystation One was the new boy in town looking to get in on the metals trade forming around imperial asteroid mining. Opportunities for profit were high as the infrastructure around the burgeoning space trade was still developing to service an ever-increasing volume of resource extraction. Someone wanted it gone. Plus, they wanted a swath of Sarzynski executives wiped out along with it. Who? That was apparently 'need to know' only, and Ben did know so he obviously did not need to know—he was just the hitman, after all. But he could take a few guesses. There must be countless other executives, owners, and founders among the titans who were conquering 'the stars' and would be delighted to have a major new competitor removed from the map. He could take his pick of possible buyers. Another thing he didn't know was what explosive device exactly the vehicle was carrying, although he had orders to guarantee its arrival to the target location.
Ben perused photographs of the sites. There was satellite evidence and also images taken from the ground, some of them from marketing materials and others sourced from most likely another operative. It was big. There were warehouses, offices, company housing and stores, as well as a launch and landing pad. A significant area was reserved for a processing center, where truckloads of metals brought from other landing pads could be unloaded, repackaged, and shot back into space for the final sale in Nammu [sic. Earth].
"We are arriving, captain," said Rosalin. Outside the landscape was featureless except for a broad range of tall, rocky mountains in the near distance. "Please, stand by the ready."
"Copy that," he replied, grabbing his pack from the backseat and putting it in the seat next to his. He also checked his rifle, and sidearm, and audited that he had everything he needed.
A cluster of low-rising buildings became came into view. Approaching the perimeter, just outside the complex's housing area, they reached a checkpoint. A guard was standing outside a squat booth, with three other guards inside visible through a wide transparent glass window.
Inside the vehicle, Rosaline said, "Captain, your orders are to eliminate the three guards before they raise a warning. Take the memory stick I am now ejecting from the center console and insert it into the appropriate slot inside the booth. It will open the gate for us without alerting central security. But none of the guards must have the time to set off the alarm. Otherwise your mission will be compromised."
"Roger that." He calmly readied his weapon.
___
Fortune rolls a 14, defeating the guard's passive perception.
___
"Sir, papers please," said the checkpoint guard, his voice barely audible through the driver's window.
Rosalin abruptly lowered the driver's side window. Ben already had the muzzle of his assault rifle pointed between the guard's eyes. He squeezed the trigger. The guard dropped.
The vehicle door opened for him as if integrated with his mind and intent. Ben seamlessly flowed out of the car, looking the trained and experienced killer that he was. Entering the building with such velocity that the two other guards hardly had time to understand what was happening, they were both dead before they knew better, their red blood splattered across a console of buttons, screens, and levers like paint on a canvas.
Ben looked at the diminutive USB, and muttered, "How the hell am I supposed to which one?"
Rosalin, through a radio in his suit, answered, "It will be the only one to fit the same connector."
"Roger that," he replied. After investigating the end of the memory stick, he carefully swept his gaze over the various ports on the security console. Finally, he found the matching port and he plugged it in. All of the screens suddenly shifted but returned to their previous state quickly.
Outside, the metal gate was opening. He was about to head back to the truck, but Rosalin's voice popped back up. "Inside your pack there is a square black device. Remove, open, and arm it."
He did as ordered. The device was a box, which he opened to reveal a bomb. He had some knowledge about the bomb—it had a proximity sensor and enough explosive to blow the building to smithereens, although little else. It was a little welcome gift for any unfortunate person who came to the checkpoint, saw the idea guards, and decided to investigate. Ben armed it, grabbed the pack, and returned to the vehicle.
They continued into Waystation One rapidly, as there wouldn't be much time now to set up the bigger bomb and extract. The vehicle drove him further in, taking a rather roundabout route toward the corporate offices that made up the center of the complex.
___
Fortune rolls a 15, defeating passerbies' passive perception.
___
Ben barely noticed another black box fall from the truck's carriage, landing on the street behind him. One device for the housing, his 'memory' told him. They turned onto another street. Another device was left behind. From there, they made their way to the processing area, taking small roads where possible to avoid observation. Another device was left by the processing area, stealthily dropped, and left behind on the side of the street where few people would care to notice.
One last black box was left near the launching pad control center, to which they drove to after leaving the processing zone. The tour of the facilities now over, the car headed to its final target location: the waystation HQ.
It was a large building complex, he realized. They had already spent about fifteen minutes making the drops, it was another six before they reached the headquarters structure. As they got closer, the buildings started getting taller and denser, with grey-white walkways from second-story-to-second-story allowing easy access between them. Other vehicles, most of them small and all enclosed, sped by them or went the other way. Trucks were hauling in their wares to the processing centers. Waystation One was bustling.
A lot of people are going to die today, thought Ben, as he observed the hustle outside. It struck him then that he had seen a lot of death in his life. Theohuanacu. Zarbia. Holy Panooly. Drana. Death seemed to follow wherever he went.
Rosalin finally parked in front of what looked like a grand entrance to the principal structure, nearly in the middle of the zone.
"I'm guessing the device has to be planted inside the building?" he asked, as they came to a stop.
"I am the device," said Rosalin, emotionless and without pause.
Ben was silent at first.
He should have seen that coming. "You’ve got to be kidding me! What’s my exit plan?"
___
Fortune rolls a 6, failing to defeat observers' passive perception.
___
A stumpy toad of a man wearing a security surface suit that was just a bit too small for his well-fed body saw them then and started to approach. "Hey, you," the man shouted, voice augmented through what was likely a speaker in his suit. "You there, in the black pick-up truck. Who are you and what is your business here?"
"Captain," Rosalin's voice interrupted, calm but urgent, "your orders are now to proceed to the launching pad. Our detection accelerates the timeline—extraction in five minutes. Weapons free." Without waiting for a response, the driver’s side door swung open with mechanical precision, cold Martian air flooding the cabin.
Ben exhaled sharply, muttering, "No choice—time to move!"
He slid a fresh round into the chamber, the click echoing in the cabin.
His muzzle flashed as another round exited and struck the approaching person in the chest. He shot the man two more times, firing while moving. Then Ben bolted toward the launching pad. Originally, he would have enough time to almost leisurely make his way there. Even so, 10 minutes was cutting it oftly close. Five was nearly impossible. But he persevered. Rifle in hand and pack on his back, he trotted away.
Suddenly, the ground shook as if struck by an earthquake and a muffled explosion erupted about a click away. The bomb in the guardhouse, Ben realized. Looking in that direction, he could see the debris cloud expanding every which way in the thin Ninkilimi atmosphere. A shrill, ear-piercing claxon began to ring throughout. Rosalin's voice, in his helmet, now said, "Your extraction time has been lowered from five minutes to three."
Shit. Looking around, he saw a little enclosed white buggy meant to take workers around the facilities. Fortune rolls a 19, passing a dexterity check. It did not take long for Ben to hotwire it. Rifle in hand, he now made his escape on wheels. Some people looked at him but did nothing as they watched him pass by. But there were more armed guards on the streets now. Ben started firing at them as soon as they came into view, killing them off one-by-one. Firing back, some of the guards had taken up position behind buildings and other cover along the street in front of him. The returning fire started getting real heavy, so Ben twisted the wheel and turned into a small side street he hoped would help put him behind the blockades they were setting up for him. I'm not going to make it.
He had half a thought of just stopping there and fighting to the death. Two minutes? That wasn't long. The bombs would take him. It would be painless. Besides, Ben should have died dozens of times before, it was pure luck he had made it this far.
Pumping the brake, he brought the buggy to a halt. Security forces were now out in force and closing in on his position. Some were appearing just behind the corner ahead, poking out their guns and heads at him. Finger clamping down on the trigger, Ben sent a few shots downrange to scare them back into cover. The bullets ricocheted off the building walls, letting bits and pieces of polymer and concrete fly.
More security forces were showing up in front of him. He looked behind, there were more coming from where he had come.
There's too many, he realized. This is it. I'm done for. One last job. I had to take this one last fucking job.
Eyeing a door leading into what looked like some sort of warehouse building, he was about to make a run for it before. One last stand. If they're not going to let me retire in peace, I'll bring them to hell with me!
Just then, his eyes caught something cut through the sky above, racing down and striking the landing pad with a thud. Wincing, Ben half-expected an ICBM or something like that. He figured he was too late and the whole place was about to blow. Maybe the truck was just a geolocation device for a missile to finish the work off.
But there was no huge boom. No big explosion. All of his body parts, including the robotic ones, were still attached.
An escape pod, he figured.
The ping of rifle rounds clipping the walls around him and striking the vehicle brought him back to reality. I need to get out of here. Firing off a few more rounds at the gathering forces against him, he sat back down in the driver's seat, pushed pedal to the metal, and accelerated forward right into a group of enemy security personnel who were established a road block up ahead. Their bodies were no match for his car.
___
Fortune rolls a 4. The security around the pad is too strong.
___
Escape seemed just another block away. Almost there, almost out of here, almost home. Ben steeled himself for the final gauntlet. One last run, one last escape, and I'm a retired man. Visions of his nice cabin sitting amidst fields of vineyards, olive trees, and sun-bathed golden grainds filled his head. He had a wife. Two children ran and played along a dirt track, a chocolate dog barking behind them. It was so close he could almost feel it.
Crack.
The bullet entered the left side of his skull and exited the right. For, Ben the world went cold, then black. He hadn't noticed that he had crumpled atop the buggy's steering wheel, the little car veering off to the left and slamming through the outer wall of a building.
He hadn't seen the guy perched upon a low roof, right eye glued to the scope of a long-barreled rifle just 500 meters away.
Alas, retirement comes early for mercenaries often.
___
From Ninkilim orbit one could see a sudden flash, then debris rapidly spreading along the planet's surface like a plague of locusts.
___
Multiple dozens dead after nuclear blasts destroy Sarzynski Corp Waystation One on Ninkilim surface. Sarzynski Corp has yet to issue a release on the situation but is believed that multiple nuclear devices were set off from inside the facilities. Sources from within the company confirm the suspect was located during the attempted escape, but that the person was killed by security just before the blasts.
Watching the news, a large-framed man with white hair, light blue eyes, and big hands smiled while swirling an old fashioned in his right hand. He loved it when the competition took a hit.
From the kitchen came the clink and clack of dishes being washed. He rubbed his belly. The wife was making short-ribs and the gravy he liked. Without taking his eyes off the screen, across the room he shouted, "Margareta, open up that bottle of Perle de Blanc for dinner!"
"A good day at work, honey?" she asked from the other room.
Still smiling, the man said, "I just earned myself a very big bonus."
