Hellmarine

Davidson never dreamed when he was in hypersleep. Other people did, in fact almost all other people had the most lucid and tangible dreams while they lay dormant in suspended animation. But not Davidson, he spent his time in the abyss of nothing, no memory of time inching by at an agonizing pace. He didn’t particularly mind this, believing that it only made his trips through hyperspace “faster” for him than for others. While his fellows spent that time experiencing whatever nonsense, or horrors, their minds came up with while in the depths of hyperspace, Davidson simply slept. However, it only made his waking up that much more jarring, as he went from nothing at all, to the cold and unforgiving depths of the universe that held no love of humanity or their transgressions across the stars.

With a loud hiss, Davidson’s sleep pod released its atmosphere and its hold on its sleeping occupant. The opaque glass lid ponderously slid open, the cold air rushing in to claw at his bare skin. Davidson squinted, his eyes struggling to focus on the sterile ceiling above his head. He was immediately assaulted by the onrush of cold, stale air and the fluorescent lighting of the ship’s hypersleep bay. The sudden rush always made his head to throb painfully, but he had no time to sit and hope to stop hurting. With a forced grunt, he swung his legs out of the pod. He recoiled when the bottoms of his feet touched the icy steel floor. He bit his lip, forcing them down onto the freezing metal to acclimate himself. Davidson fought the urge to throw up, tasting bile in his mouth. He breathed slowly through his nose, swallowing to keep himself from puking.

Davidson groggily looked around the room at the other hypersleep pods. They too were sliding open, waking their occupants and returning them from their dreams to the real world. The hypersleep bay was a dull, grey room of corrugated steel walls and sanitized white tile ceiling. The tangy, sharp scent of ozone stung at his nose and he squeezed his eyes shut until the foul smell passed. A chorus of grunts, coughs, wheezes, and the occasional sound of someone dry heaving filled the bay. It had been six months since they left Earth for the frontier of human space, where a group of insurrectionists were causing problems in one of the newly established colonies. These "terrorists" had stopped the flow of the valuable mineral known as diasteel, which was used in the construction of UE starships.

“Wake up marines! We ain’t paid by the hour, so let's get a move on!” The booming, thickly accented voice of Staff Sergeant Espinoza echoed off of the walls and in Davidson’s ears, sending another stabbing lance of pain through his skull. He pushed himself up in response to the NCO, shooting a hand out onto the pod to steady himself. At 5’9”, Davidson was taller than the sergeant, but was considerably leaner. Espinoza was stocky, with thick arms and large hands that could easily knock a belligerent marine on their ass. He had olive skin, almond shaped eyes of dark brown, and thick black hair that he cropped short to his skull. An old injury caused by an incendiary grenade crawled up the side of his face, leaving it a pink mass of scar tissue. He rarely smiled, and even when he did it was only a cruel imitation thanks to this wound. He wore it proudly, stating that battle scars qualified a marine more than any meritorious award ever could.

Davidson and the others were herded from the hypersleep bay into the nearby locker room, some of the marines requiring some physical guidance in the form of a light shove from Espinoza while they struggled to recover. Davidson pressed his thumb into the keypad of his locker after tapping in the simple three-digit code. It unlocked with an audible click and the aluminum door swung open. Hanging in the locker was an olive green set of fatigues, a pair of black shirts and socks, and some boxers. He quickly set to work dressing himself, forgoing a shower first. Most people liked to shower after hypersleep, though it was more out of a habit of waking up than necessity. Hypersleep slowed all of the body’s functions to a crawl, including sweating, so someone came out smelling exactly how they went in.

“Let's get moving! We have a briefing in twenty! Be dressed and in muster! Hurry up! Gonzalez, I better see a beautifully shaved face this time!” Espinoza barked, somehow already back in a crisp, pressed uniform before anyone else. His service cap was pulled low over his eyes and they glinted like flint in the light of the locker room. It wasn’t long until he shoved a wad of thick chewing tobacco into his lower lip, spitting into a small plastic cup he had stored in his locker. Davidson ran a hand across his chin, thankful that he wouldn’t have to shave thanks to not growing any stubble during his long sleep. He pulled his shirt on and started to tug his duty trousers up, but paused. Across the locker room he was greeted by a black and red tattoo of a flying eagle etched into the lean but muscular back of a brown haired woman. He felt his skin flush, eyes tracing a path down her form.

“Checking out the new team lead?” a voice next to Davidson whispered. He looked up to see the smirking face of Archer Catlow. He was Red Team’s automatic rifleman, standing at an imposing 6’2” and rippling with corded muscle. His cinnamon skin sheened from the shower he had just taken and his amber eyes sparkled with mischief. Davidson sputtered and finished dressing, staring intently at the back of his locker to avoid looking at Archer’s shit-eating grin.

“I hear she came over from the 132nd, something real bad happened and she was rapidly transferred, dunno what though,” Catlow continued, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the woman. She had a full figure, fit and lean with gentle curves. Her brown hair was cut short to male hair regulations. Her face was stoic and her lips pursed as though lost in thought while she zipped her duty jacket up and pinned two silver corporal ranks to her collar. Her cerulean eyes stared straight ahead at the opposite wall into nothing. Davidson couldn’t help but think that she looked melancholy, but that thought was quickly banished when her eyes locked with his suddenly. Her face etched with annoyance and her lip curled up.

“You need something?” Her words came out as more of a growl. Her gaze held him for what felt like an hour. Davidson felt embarrassment stir in his chest and his mouth became dry. He tried to stammer out a response, but she had already crossed the short space between them in a few speedy steps. Despite the height difference between them, he felt as though he were staring up at an angry giant. Anxiety knotted in his stomach as the woman pinned him with her eyes, looking him up and down.

“I asked you if you needed something, Private First Class Davidson,” she hissed like a coiled cobra about to strike. Davidson’s training kicked in and he stood up straight, eyes locked forward, staring at the wall behind her.

“No, Corporal, I just didn’t recognise you at first!” He answered, feeling his face flush deeper with humiliation as a dozen pairs of eyes turned in their direction. At that moment he just wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear into nothing. The woman stared at him for a long moment, her hands slowly unclenching at her sides. She then spun on her heel and marched out of the locker room faster than Davidson could even react. In less than a minute she was out of sight. He slowly let out the breath he didn’t even realize he had been holding. Catlow sniggered, zipping up his own jacket and placing his cap on his head. Davidson glowered at him.

“Holy shit, she is certainly intense,” Catlow mused, offering a lopsided grin, “I thought she was about to tear your head off.”

“Me too, I wonder what happened to make her like that,” Davidson wondered aloud, shaping the bill of his service cap before placing it on his head.

The marines of 1st Platoon were assembled in a large square room lined with enough chairs to seat twice their number. Fifty-two seats were filled with marines bantering back and forth, sitting with their arms folded across their chest and drooping their eyes, or eyes closed and mouths agape. Davidson and the rest of 1st Squad were seated in the front. Next to him sat the boisterous Catlow, who was deep into a debate about the finer points of strip clubs with the third member of Davidson’s fireteam, Bryan Gonzalez. He was of hispanic descent with bronze skin and neatly combed brown hair and bright, whiskey colored eyes. He served as the squad’s combat technician, trained to bypass security systems and computers when the situation called for it. Gonzalez was always smiling and had some inappropriate joke in his back pocket, ready to tell at the worst of times, much to the chagrin of their squad leader.

Alpha Team had also been joined by a new face, one that Davidson tried his best to not look at since she had sat down. The brown haired corporal from the locker room had sat herself in the chair next to Gonzalez and was staring at a small regulation handbook, idly flipping the pages as she read. Davidson had feared this happening after the encounter in the locker room. Their original team leader, Corporal Starling, was on medical leave after breaking his leg during a training exercise. So now they had this angry woman in his place. Starling had been a great team lead, approachable and happy to help out his marines no matter what time of day it was. Davidson missed him and his quirky half smile that creased his face whenever they talked. Now, he was unsure if he would be able to talk to this new junior NCO beyond whatever mission they were about to take on.

“Platoon! Ten-hut!” The thunderous voice of Staff Sergeant Espinoza echoed off of the walls and fifty-two marines jolted to their feet, eyes staring at the wall in front of them. The stout NCO strode in like a predator, his eyes searching the assembled marines for any signs of ill-discipline. Behind him walked in a man who was considerably taller and leaner than he was. He had a face like a hawk, his thin lips held tight against his teeth. He wore the silver bars of a lieutenant on his collar and Davidson raised an eyebrow. 1st Platoon had been due for a new platoon commander eventually, but this was not typically done right before an op.

“As you were, good morning marines! Have a seat.” The officer said in a clipped voice. A chorus of chairs scooting and a few hushed voices could be heard for a few moments as the platoon returned comfortably to where they were before. Espinoza stood like a silent golem next to the new lieutenant, who cleared his throat before speaking.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all, I’m Lieutenant Royle, and I will be taking over as your platoon commander as of today. Now, I understand you were all expecting to wake up on the Frontier to deal with an insurrectionist holdout. Well, orders have changed and the Navita changed course during our hypersleep.” He began in the same quick tone. There was a ripple of groans and confused “what”s from the assembled marines.

“We are now holding station over the planet E-667, or Achlys as it is named. On the planet is a large colony and research station home to about 6,000 personnel and scientists.” Royle picked up a small remote from a side table and clicked it. A grainy, greyed out top-down view of the colony appeared on the wall behind him from a ceiling mounted projector. Davidson squinted to try and pick out the details of the map.

“This is Facility 208, the primary research facility on Achlys. We have tried to raise them on comms but there has been no response. 208 is involved in highly important research, so we were rerouted to ensure that everything is okay down there. If their communications are just down, then we are to assist in repairs before continuing our original mission to E-1313, any questions?” Royle cast his eyes about the room, then locked on a single hand that raised up into the air. He nodded to them, while Staff Sergeant Espinoza's face darkened.

“Are we expecting any actual trouble, sir?” Private Viktor Mattix, a rifleman from Bravo Team, asked. He was of average height and kept his long, butterscotch colored hair combed back against his head to keep it within the boundaries of regulation. His blue eyes often gleamed with good humor, but everyone who knew him was aware that Mattix was a hard-bitten veteran. He had been denied promotion many times for bouts of insubordination in the field, but his guts and determination had proven the difference between marines dying and living in the face of terrorists and alien beasts alike.

“We aren’t expecting anything, while we don’t know how far the insurrectionist movement has reached, we are deep in United Earth space,” Royle responded quickly. Davidson felt a familiar pit of doubt form in his stomach and grimaced. Another hand was raised at the end of the row he sat at. Royle noticed it and paused before nodding to the owner of the hand.

“Sir, are we expecting any reinforcements if it goes badly?” Lance Corporal Roy Bancroft asked. He was the squad’s corpsman and served in Bravo Team. He had a rather fatalist attitude and expected that everyone would die whenever they went groundside. The lieutenant shook his head like he was shivering from the cold.

“We are the reinforcements, Lance Corporal,” Royle sniffed. Bancroft let out a long sigh and returned to his chair, resting his face in his hand as he began to imagine all of the horrible ways they were all going to die.

“We have no real reason to believe that we are going to be met with any resistance, we are far from any of the frontier hotspots, and this is a well protected facility with their own garrison of marines. However, protocol dictates that facilities of this level require immediate investigation upon failure to respond in a timely manner or miss a report.” Royle said. Davidson noticed that the officer’s thumbs were fiddling in front of him and that pit in his stomach only deepened.

“Right! Well, that concludes questions, see to your team leaders for specific instructions. You’re all dismissed!” Lieutenant Royle stuttered before rapidly leaving the briefing room, barely leaving Espinoza time to call attention as he left. Almost immediately the room exploded into conversation as the marines began to chatter amongst themselves. It took a couple of minutes for the NCOs to get them all to calm down and be quiet, ending with Staff Sergeant Espinoza barking for everyone to shut up. The conversations fizzled out quickly and the assembled marines stared silently at the platoon NCO.

“Okay, well you heard the man. NCOs, come here! The rest of you go and get some chow and then get your asses to the ready room. Move it!” Espinoza boomed. The marines didn’t need telling twice and the sound of chairs scooting across the tile filled the air.

“Man, that LT seems a bit off to me,” Catlow mused as they exited into the hall, prompting a nod of agreement from Davidson. The new officer had seemed a little odd, nervous and alert even in the safety of the briefing room. Maybe he was worried about taking his first command, especially one full of marines who had all been there and done that. Davidson himself was on his second year of enlistment and had already seen two combat tours, although one was more of a large scale hunt of vicious alien fauna than a tour. He still remembered the horrible creatures they had hunted on that dark planet, and how many good marines had been torn apart by claws and projectile spikes all because some careless miner had dug into some deep underground nest looking for riches.

“Yeah, I hope he isn’t leading us into some absolute fuckup,” Davidson said back, glancing over his shoulder while they walked down the narrow steel corridor toward the chow hall. The sky-blue uniforms of the Navita's crew gave them acknowledging nods, but said nothing as they went about their duties bringing the warship back to full operation after the journey through hyperspace. The marines were just fine with this, as they didn’t mesh well with the “softer” Navy personnel.

When they entered the chow hall, they were greeted by the smell of eggs, overcooked bacon, and freshly brewed and very strong coffee. Davidson also caught a whiff of freshly baked cornbread and toast. His mouth began to water and they quickly joined the serving line, eagerly grasping their metal trays. There were three platoons of marines and an assortment of Navy, or “spacers”, in the chow hall. Six long metal tables with benches for sitting lined the middle of the large room. The different platoons tended to eat on their own and very rarely mixed, save for the few circles of friends who had been split up due to reassignments. 1st Platoon was closest to the door and were already taking their seats.

Davidson and Catlow piled their trays with jiggling scrambled eggs, avoided the burnt bacon, and grabbed as many squares of the warm cornbread as the cooks would allow. Each filled a mug with steaming, black coffee and even found real sugar packets waiting for them at the end of the line. Packets of dehydrated fruit remained relatively untouched, as they had a tendency of tasting like plastic after so long in storage. Davidson bit into the soft cornbread and relished in the gentle sweetness and ease of chewing.

“Shit, with chow this good, you know we are about to get royally screwed!” Gonzalez said with a wide grin on his face. This prompted a wave of chuckles from the rest of the platoon sitting at the table.

“Maybe, but at least we ate well first,” a marine named Borushay, who was sitting across from Davidson, added through a spoonful of eggs. He was a lean, almost skinny man with chalky skin and mocha eyes. His Russian accent was barely noticeable unless you paid close attention to him when he spoke, and even then he spoke in barely a whisper. He kept to himself and spent most of his free time either reading or playing exotic and strange video games and was rumored to be a competitive professional player during his leave. Catlow raised his coffee to that and took a long sip of the steaming liquid, his face scrunching at the bitterness.

It wasn’t long until the NCOs filed into the chow hall, most of them with thoughtful looks on their faces. Corporals Riako and Punova, of Japanese and Russian descent respectively, looked the most pensive. The female corporal from the locker room remained as stoic as before, her face unreadable. Their squad leader, Sergeant Durand, looked more than mildly irritated. Davidson swallowed the mouthful of eggs he had just spooned into his mouth and gave Catlow a nudge. The larger man noticed and sighed heavily.

“Well, that can’t be good.” The large marine mused, just before sticking an entire square of cornbread into his mouth.