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Late March, 2979. On the surface of 5500 Brahe I, an isolated little frozen planet somewhere in the Frontier’s reaches. Drearily re-named Yuki Onna in recent months, by those among its sudden new population.
Near the planet’s northern pole, half a dozen outpost hab-domes spread themselves in a generous perimeter around the only thing protruding from the planet’s flat surface for thousands of kilometers in any direction. Out of the wastes jutted an impossibly-colossal bloom of ice, about 9 km across and 5 km high, its shape resembling a mountain-sized explosion, frozen metaphorically and physically alike in time. From orbit, it looked like the still frame of a video feed– a split-second moment of some ancient catastrophe, captured in the ice. A bewildering temporal sculpture.
Decades if not centuries of snowfall and exposure have left the object nearly as opaque as a glacier, save for small scattered patches along its countless grooves and crags where the ice was slightly more clear. Whatever said ice contained, if that was anything at all, couldn’t be discerned… but the structure emitted enough unusual radiation to pique the interest of countless Frontier research groups, corporate and otherwise. The ring of outposts encircling the mountainous blast belonged to the survivor of that vicious bidding war: a civilian operation by the name of the Shirase Expeditionary Research Institution. Only a modestly-sized player in the great game, their moves made during the scramble to secure the so-called “Yuki Object” propelled them into the limelight. It wasn’t often that smaller corporations were able to secure these sorts of rights ahead of any of the major players, the IMC in particular– all eyes were now on them, particularly in the Frontier’s scientific community.
Those who didn’t know were particularly eager with their offers of investment, coverage, and donations… while those who did simply congratulated SERI politely.
SERI themselves didn’t waste any time. They’d been admitted the rights to all in-system operations; effectively the golden ticket. While it gave them the operational freedom to establish to (or skirt) as many regulations as the company saw fit, it also meant they were on their own in terms of transportation, infrastructure, equipment, and security. Of the four, security was the only factor that was truly pressing; being a civilian corporation from a more populated sector, SERI had a company policy that was staunchly against the idea of an in-house paramilitary division. Only the option of a PMC remained for them, something they were all but forced to consider.
The Polaris Group had only touched down planetside about a week prior, but they moved at a pace to match their client. A small squad of operators and a team of engineers were assigned to each of the six outposts, permitted to fortify them/establish a perimeter as necessary. Autonomy within autonomy, which suited most of the Polaris operators just fine. Making a good impression in the grand game was still towards the top of the PMC’s priority list, and as far as most of the Frontier was concerned, this was a pretty high-profile job. They were in the spotlight now just as much as SERI, and as such the team deployed consisted almost exclusively of veterans… all of them, save for one.
The orders came as a genuine surprise, to Tycho Kalhalati. Obviously it was just his adaptations to the climate that made him an ideal choice for this operation, but “ideal choice” were the only two words he needed to hear- he was still riding the high of it, as of one week in. This would be as good an opportunity as any to try and score a positive adjustment to his position in the company, which was good enough news on its own… but frankly, it just felt nice to be told he was an asset to his team, implicatively or not. It was something he didn’t hear enough.
- - -
Waking up was usually an instant process. Eyes shooting open with a quiet huff, blinking vision back into focus. An attempt to sit up, immediately stopped by a padded palm instinctively shooting up to press against the bottom of the overhead bunk. The Vlaka blinked for a moment or two and let out a breath, happy enough already today for the prevented headache.
A joint-aching roll out of a human-sized bed, a yawn and a stretch, and a look out his bunkroom’s one singular window into an endless sea of white.
Morning. Day 8.
Somehow, Tycho managed to be the first one up. Being of the type, his team’s leader would make some manner of joke about it, never resisting an opportunity to get on a non-human’s case… but the weathered mug he was normally used to seeing first-thing was nowhere in sight. His bunk by the bulkhead was empty, but made.
“... Where’s Lobarev?” Came a voice from above, followed by the padding of bare feet against the metal floor. Walsh. A shorter fellow, with an accent Tycho didn’t recognize. Eyes a little too green, but they had an earnestness to them that he could respect. One of the only folks here who didn’t constantly eyeball him.
“Two stations up, he said. Left an hour ago.” Came a reply from above the made bunk, as a lanky arm covered in elaborate geometric tattoos draped lazily over the side. Hutch. A kissass and a flake, somehow both at once. How he outranked any of them was a mystery nobody wanted to think about. “Talk’s briefing all the element leads about the landing ops later today. He’ll be gone ‘till about… nine, ersomeshitmn…”
The merc’s speech slowly slurred back down into sleep, until a frustrated sigh punctuated the loud slam of a pair of combat boots hitting the floor. Hutch scrambled himself awake like a weasel being tazed, nearly falling out of bed and coming face-to-face with their owner, as they stood to their feet from the bunk across. Malosi, the one everyone universally believed should have Hutch’s position. Imposing in size for a human, their Maori facial tattoos framed a pair of eyes seeming forever locked in a disappointed squint, particularly when said eyes were pointed Hutch’s way. In traditional Malosi fashion, they said absolutely nothing, and Hutch quietly got his shit together.
There were eight of them in total: Walsh, Hutch, Malosi, Mel, Trae, Kim, and Tycho himself, with Lobarev being the highest link in their little chain. Neither Mel nor Kim were particularly remarkable as humans go, and Trae preferred tending to his gear over talking. Slowly they all shifted awake, one by one, getting their gear in order and kitting up for the day. Usually there’d be Lobarev’s incessant barking to brief them on a “game plan” for the day, but in absence, all was pleasantly quiet.
“Fuckin- look, just.” Hutch stood to his feet and rested the sling of a PDW on his shoulders, letting the weapon hang as he lifted a hand and simply let it flop back down to his side. Even his exasperated gestures were half-assed. “We’re sittin’ on our asses until he gets back anyway, so just keep yourselves busy ‘till then? See if the labcoats need any help… it’s their big day, so I’m sure they have plenty of shit to prep-”
Malosi was already headed out the bulkhead before the mercenary was even finished, off to do whatever the human did in their “free” time. Mel and Kim followed close behind, seemingly seizing the immediate opportunity to leave. Hutch simply sighed and rubbed his temples for a moment or two, before batting an invisible thought away and stepping out after them… leaving Trae and Walsh to exchange a look, Walsh and Tycho to exchange a shrug, and the three of them together to share a quiet little laugh. Eventually they too filed out into the halls of the outpost and went their separate ways, joining the rest of their team in the thing they all hated the most: wasting time.
Things were only going to get more interesting in their little corner of nowhere, or so they had been briefed… and the outpost’s personnel here certainly seemed to be acting the part. Provided their carrier arrived on schedule, SERI was supposed to begin landing a number of mining crawlers planetside starting today, kicking off the next phase of their excavation project. Considering the sheer size and shape of the Object, whatever they were planning to do with those crawlers was beyond Tycho, but watching those touch down on the surface was bound to be quite the sight. Given he suddenly had some time on his hands, the Vlaka knew just how he was going to spend it… but food was on his mind, first and foremost.
He stepped out into the outpost’s winding hallways and immediately had to duck out of the way of a pair of engineers rushing by, exchanging apologies with them in Japanese as they passed. The place seemed to be the busiest he had ever seen it– the normally passably-spacious corridors were now packed with crates of supplies and equipment, in various stages of preparation. Panels were open along the walls, all over. Lights flickered occasionally, and even the air felt a little colder than normal. Generator strain, Tycho assumed, not that he put too much thought into it– SERI teams in heavy environmental gear rushed this way and that like the flow of a crowded tide, and he had put every ounce of effort into trying not to constantly slap people with his tail. In corridors already tighter than normal, a quick duck into the mess hall now felt like a dance routine. Tycho couldn’t exactly offer any of them friendly smiles, but he did his best at least to be polite.
Most of the research personnel were indifferent at worst towards the Polaris teams; general sentiment seemed to be that while they didn’t entirely feel comfortable having them around, the necessity of security with a project this big outweighed the risks of having none at all. Officially, Tycho and the rest were listed on the expedition’s reports as “Wildlife Deterrence Specialists,” despite the planet possessing almost exclusively aquatic fauna. The irony wasn’t lost on the people here, who’d taken to calling the mercenaries “Tsuri'' in jest, ahead of any official addresses. Sport fishermen. The irony of the distinction wasn’t lost on Tycho in turn, much as it hurt him on the inside. Most of the people here were a little more “worldly” than most humans he knew, and only seemed to treat him with apprehension because of his profession… not his race. Frankly this was more than good enough for him, but it felt all the more bittersweet. The Vlaka had gotten to know enough of the people here to feel bad for where this operation was likely to go, and the eventuality weighed heavy on his conscience. The SERI teams were good folks, and they were set up for quite the burn.
While the research teams were aware the “Tsuri” position was completely fake, they assumed the Polaris mercs were just here to conduct security procedures against corporate espionage– the thing the company told them they were hired for, naturally...
In reality, this job had quite a few lines of fine print. Rumor persisted that SERI had exhausted far more of their capital than any corporate entity should have “securing” their rights to this dig site, and that it could only be a matter of time until the plug was pulled on the project, due to money running out… something projected in advance by Talk, Polaris's command network, with far too strong a confidence. It wouldn’t affect Tycho at all, but it disappointed him regardless. The surface of the Yuki Object’s mystery was, literally, barely scratched… and he had a feeling a smaller corp with even a single shred of passion for science would handle it with more responsibility and caution than the IMC's ARES Division, who he knew were waiting just beyond the system’s heliopause for the call to come in. Suffice it to say, the Vlaka was still quietly rooting for the “little guy,” just as much as everyone else.
In truth, Polaris was to run security for SERI only until they bled themselves dry financially, as the higher-ups had come to predict… at which point the ARES Division would immediately swoop in and secure the site, using Polaris to “ensure a smooth transition of assets.” Hardly an unusual practice for the IMC, as Tycho had come to understand. For those rare times even they couldn't secure operation rights from the get-go, they certainly had the money and power to strong-arm whoever did. Other companies were aware enough that the IMC loved to move its subsidiaries as pawns in the great game, but the Polaris Group was only single-digit years old… and tended to keep its ties on the hush-hush. SERI didn’t suspect a thing, signing them on. So perfect a con that it made even an edegrunner’s heart hurt- most of these people seemed to genuinely care about their work, which made them all the more undeserving.
Still mostly of a mind to keep out of people’s way, Tycho stepped into the mess hall, grabbed a ration pack, and left just as quickly. The room seemed ironically the emptiest in the building– most people here had probably started the day a little earlier, he supposed, but even that wasn’t saying much. He didn’t bother to look at what the pack contained before it was stuffed in his day bag, and just like that, it was back to doing the samba in the hallways.
A quick stop back at his bunk to retrieve his weapons and kit, before the Vlaka was bound for the outside. There seemed to be an actual queue for the airlock today; rounding a corner, he stepped up to a small gathering of personnel hanging around the bulkhead, waiting impatiently for the group ahead of them to cycle out.
He quietly enjoyed their confused looks. While most of them were dressed in full environmental suits specced for sub-zero conditions, Tycho only wore his kit, a sleeveless hoodie, work pants, and a respirator. Yuki Onna sat just barely outside the habitable range for a habitable planet– the atmosphere was mostly agreeable, biologically-speaking, but this little iceball didn’t have the gravity to hold onto anything that wasn’t far too thin to breathe. That was just about the only thing inhospitable about this place to him, however… it was only a balmy 15 below today, after all. T-Shirt weather.
< “That
thing is going to freeze to death!” > One of the researchers said to another, assuming he wouldn’t understand her, pretending she hadn’t gawked at him not but a moment before. Her Japanese was dulled by the muffle of her helmet. < “So grossly incompetent. Is this the kind of security we paid for?” >
< “... Good luck out there today, ma’am.” > He answered her, before the man she spoke to in a hiss could respond. Whatever face she made was obscured by the lens of a helmet, but whatever he imagined it to be made the Vlaka wish he could wear a shit-eating grin. An unreasonable amount of effort was put in to keep his diction polite. < “I understand it’s a big day for you and your team.” >
Tycho immediately proceeded to seat a magazine into his rifle and cycle the feed mechanism, punctuating his words with a sharp metallic ring. Melodramatic? Maybe, but more than enough to make them nervous enough to drop the conversation. It only felt a
little evil– enough people he’d met in the Frontier assumed he couldn’t even speak
English, let alone any other human dialect, and he was running out of patience for the same interaction happening so many times over. As much as he enjoyed seeing the look on people’s faces when he spoke back with perfect clarity, there were plenty of things in his life already that made him feel like an outcast. One more reason to miss Night City, he would always suppose… at least there, most folks assumed he was just some Exotic mod-job.
Ultimately it came time for their turn to be cycled out, and once he found himself stepping out into the snow, the Vlaka let out a small vindicated laugh the second he was out of earshot. It would fade as quickly as it came as it came, feeling the comfortably cold air fall over his body, and letting the anxiety of such catch up to him. Too distracted by the previous exchange for his mild phobia to kick in, it seemed. Not until he was alone.
With the object at his back, the rest of the terrain here was an endless expanse of pure white. The horizon was a flat straight line, separating the blank canvas of the frozen ground from the thin haze of blue above, and the black beyond it. The Vlaka centered his vision on the horizon line and closed his eyes for a moment or two, taking a deep breath in and letting out, pouring steam from the vents in his mask like the long draw of a cigarette. A hand lifted to key the radio on his rig, his other arm hugging the rifle close to the chest.
The air here was completely still.
// “Walsh?” //// “... Mac Tíre,” // the little radio crackled back. Something the man had called Tycho since they’d met. A mythological beast from his home’s folklore, or so he was told.
// “Another group of suits just left. Six engineers and two geologists. Survey team, I think… took off in a vic somewhere northwest.” // Tycho’s eyes slowly opened again, as his nerves leveled out. He took a few steps forward into the sun and turned to look up at the comms tower situated atop the outpost, eyes following a ladder that climbed to a small platform near the top. He reached up to adjust his ear implants to a combat zone setting, most of the white noise around him fading into nothing. He took in the rush of the more subtle things becoming audible– the crackling radio feed, the distant growl of a transport rolling away, the faint hum of the relay overhead. The agitated brushing of his tail, against the material of his clothing.
// “Another squad’s problem, sounds like.” // Came a reply, after a small pause. Walsh’s voice was all the more clear, now.
// “Station four’s been needin’ help stayin’ on schedule all mornin’. Bunch of em’ came down with somethin’ just last night, apparently.” //One last look towards the horizon line, before the Vlaka fully turned and started to climb. He waited until he reached the top of the outpost’s domed roof before sending a reply, taking in the view of the Object in the distance… quite the sight, even from this far away.
// “Sucks to be them, I guess. Poor gonks probably couldn’t handle the food.” // He looked up the length of the tower’s ladder again, slinging the battle rifle over his shoulder with his free hand.
// “Gonna be up on the perch ‘till Lobarev’s back.” //// “Aye. Gonna have quite the view from up there, sounds like– do me a favor and let me know when the Russki’s headed our way, yeah? Think I’m just gonna try to sleep a little more.” //A faint huff of a laugh, a step to the ladder, and a gloved hand resting on the first rung.
// “Same as last time?” //// “Fuck no. Almost had a bloody heart attack, hearing that pissin’ bark of yours over the feed. Just… key it a bunch, yeah? That’ll do just fine.” //// “Ah, you’re no fun…” //There came an earnest laugh from the radio as the Vlaka started the climb up, before the line keyed out.
Just like that he was alone in his own thoughts again, with nothing but the slow rhythm of a climb to keep him busy. His chest slowly began to tighten once more, feeling the searingly-cold metal brushing up against his bare forearms– easier to ignore now that he wasn’t standing entirely still, at the very least. He quickened his pace a little, for no other reason than to warm his body up just a little more… and put his mind at ease, in turn.
Tycho felt the atmospheric entry before he saw it. About a quarter of the way to the top, he could feel the fur on his neck and arms slowly start to stand on end, with a low, droning feedback starting to build from the implants in his ears. It shifted and rushed to a peak of dull static and leveled for a moment or two, before a brilliant flash of light caught his attention in the skies over the Object.
A sizable industrial freighter rushed itself into reality in the skies above the perimeter, its jump-illusion immediately followed by a sky-shattering sonic boom. The terrain below was undisturbed enough here that the Vlaka could literally see the approaching shockwave, kicking up an ever-expanding ring of snow whole kilometers wide. Despite having the time to brace for it, the force of the wave nearly broke his grip on the ladder. He let out a yelp and a sharp grunt, both his legs and one of his arms coming loose, dooming his other to bear the whole weight of his heavy body crashing against the ladder’s frozen steel. It took him a second to find his grip again, trying his best to bare fangs through the pain, finding a silver lining only in the fact that it wasn’t his dominant arm that damn near ejected itself from its socket. His implants let him hear just how much the metal strained against his weight, which certainly didn’t help him stomach the moment of panic.
The rest of the climb up was far too slow.
His radio would crackle to life again as he reached the top, pulling himself up onto a small metal platform that extended only about a handful of meters or so out from the comms array. With no wind to speak of, the air up here was as just as still as it was on the ground… letting the Vlaka rest his hands on the bars of the edge of the platform and steady himself, burning yellow eyes staring into the middle distance of the settling snow, hearing his own breathing more than the words coming over the feed.
// “All teams, this is Talk. SERI’s carrier just breached atmosphere– first lander will be coming down by 09:30. Look alive, gear up, and be ready to move where directed; your element leads will brief you.” //Standard alert, by the sounds of things. The Vlaka took a moment or two more to let his breathing level out, watching the immense plume of a contrail billow off the ship’s hull as it lowered itself deeper into the atmosphere. Slowly he unslung the rifle from his back and popped open the lens caps on the sight, putting the stock to his shoulder and raising the muzzle to the sky, getting a better look at the ship as it descended. It remained motionless for the time being while the contrail slowly dissipated, looming ominously out of place in an otherwise clear sky, like a glob of whitish-green paint spilled onto a landscape painting where no such color belonged. Astrid would probably make some comment about “symbolism” or something of the sort– the sudden spike of homesickness that followed keeping him from rolling his eyes at the supposition. She’d probably just entertain the same intrusive thoughts Tycho currently did, quietly wondering how big of a gun he’d need to put a hole through the massive “I” of the SERI logo on the side of the carrier’s hull.
He slowly lowered the rifle after a moment or two and let out a muffled sigh, resting the weapon’s handguard against the railing. These were simply the things you did in the military, as he’d come to learn– “eternities of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror,” or so the saying went. There were only so many ways to stay entertained, as far as the former is concerned… but at least it was peaceful, up here, and this whole affair was quite the sight indeed.
As time would pass, Tycho would be able to make out the shapes of the giant mining crawlers slowly starting to make their descent. Bulky trapezoidal hulks held aloft by enormous atmospheric balloons, as he could see– they appeared as delicate little things from this distance, but he could only imagine how nerve-wracking the process must be for the crews. One snapped cable or ruptured balloon, instantly dozens of lives and millions of credits down the drain. No wonder there seemed to be so much on the line.
A faint humming would pull the Vlaka’s attention away from the procession of flittering hulks– ears twitching the moment something could be made out above the dull thrum of the relay overhead. A plume of kicked-up snow approached from the northeast at decently high speed, certainly enough so to make Tycho narrow his eyes and aim its direction.
The sight of one of SERI’s transport vehicles prompted a mildly irritated sigh. Lobarev, probably. So much for a moment of peace.
The Vlaka reached to the radio on his chest rig with a dejected haste, keying it about 10 times or so in quick succession.
// “Rise and shine, Walsh,”// he grumbled, lifting his head from the sight picture and resting the rifle’s handguard back on the railing.
// “E.L. is ba-” //
// “СЛУШАЙТЕ, УБОЙНИКИ! Good MORNING, my little sled dogs.~” //His shoulders rocked with another, heavier, sigh.
// “... G'mornin,’ chief.” // Walsh’s voice came through the line after a belated pause, sounding about as weary as Tycho did.
// “You have somethin’ for us? Getting a bit tired a’ sittin here on my hands.” //// “Job has changed,” // came Lobarev’s reply, ever-difficult for Tycho to parse on behalf of the man’s thick accent. He didn’t know much Russian beyond his beloved handcannon’s brief and terse user manual, and it was often hard to tell where the man’s English ended and where that language began. It didn’t help that the man seemed to mix the two, often and loudly.
// “Orders come down chain from suits in IMC– analysis on the Object’s readings were relayed from Demeter just this morning; ARES has decided it wants to secure dig site ahead of schedule.” //Slowly the rifle was lifted and slung over Tycho’s shoulders, on the sudden assumption that he wouldn’t be up here much longer. He turned his head to look north towards the Object in the distance, sharpened eyes just barely able to make out the last of the crawlers coming down. “Ahead of schedule” didn’t exactly leave much to the imagination for him, he knew this was coming… but there was the disappointment, yet again, woven intertwined with the knot slowly forming in his gut. They couldn’t at least wait for SERI execs to pull the plug, if they knew that was all but certain? What was the rush?
// “Okay, nova... but what’s their excuse, exactly?” // Tycho cast one look back towards the approaching plume of kicked-up snow, now only just barely able to make out the glint of the sun reflected off the vehicle’s windshield.
// “Feel like they gotta have one, or Confed might get testy.” //// “Tch- no faith, rug. Suits think of everything. Most of SERI’s money burned up in bribes for Object contract, and rest went to equipment costs. Little in way of replacement, assets tied up elsewhere… corpo-talk shit. Point is this: SERI seriously in the red. Something goes wrong? Shareholders lose faith, plug is pulled, ARES ships here by end of week to “appropriate operation rights.” Legal as divorce. We hand site off, get pay, and redeploy somewhere warm. Легкая работа.” //The knot tightened a little, the notion of “something going wrong” being intercepted by thinking back to watching the mining crawlers come down. That same tightening anxiety spread out across his whole chest as he stepped over to the end of the platform that faced the distant cruiser, which still loomed ominously in the blank blue sky above the Object’s countless reaching fingers.
// “... What exactly are we waiting for, then?” // To that end, why was his heart suddenly pounding? It didn’t exactly feel like
fear, at least for his own life… and it’s not like he didn’t know this was coming! Why then, thinking about the lives of those crews and now everyone aboard that ship, did he only
now think that something was truly wrong?
// “Our cue, rookie.” // The vehicle’s approaching hum slowly escalated into a growl, all-terrain tires tearing across the permafrost.
// “SERI’s beloved little cruiser is about to suffer, ah… eh, how you say… “catastrophic engine failure.” Talk wants us to keep the peace, help survivors, play dumb while engineers scrub cameras and data feeds. Дава́й, пошли́! We regroup at outpost airlock– going to be BUSY DAY, HAHAHA-” // Grating laughter followed, cut short by a pop of feedback as the man’s feed keyed out.
Tycho could only stand there while his thoughts unspooled, the paw that gripped his radio so anxiously before now falling dejectedly to his side. He could only stand there and suddenly feel unexpectedly helpless, turning his eyes skyward to watch and wait for the inevitable, his heart in his throat. Not but five minutes would pass before a blinding flash and a blue-white fireball would erupt from the side of the distant ship, and it would slowly start to lurch to one side in its fall from the sky. Seemingly so gentle, from such a distance, morbid in every sense for the countless fates aboard that were now all but sealed. A deafening blast would ring out across the stillness of their empty little planet, a grieving leviathan lamenting its betrayal. Another ground-visible shockwave followed closely behind.
As the Vlaka braced for the force of the impact, the railing would creak in protest of his grip.