The Dig

[VaevictisAsmadi]

2-6-834
Outcast

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The Doldrums were buzzing. Ever since the Milita came, everybody was checked, vetoed, and searched. Every precaution was taken, and multiple failsafes were implemented. Chillworth had the experience, the men, and the nerves to lead the extraction. With the artifact in the hands of the Administration and their partners at the NCC, multiple independent Zoner groups joined the fray with credits, scientists, and security. Teams of scientists, charlatans, and alchemists, like a multicolored horde, sieged the object with tests and examinations. With every explanation, further strangeness and oddities engulfed the object.

While the "eggheads do their magic" the military seached and seized every corner of the compound and surrounding locations. Agents of multiple organizations were caught, interviewed extensively, and disposed of. No information was allowed to surface, yet leaks couldn't be stopped. The streets were cleaned, buildings cleared, and patrols were formed. Every exit was monitored; even the "Hell Gate" to the planet's surface had been barred. But just above it, a few dozen meters above it, the agent stayed. Santiago watched and waited. His fate was forfeit to Malta's destiny, and he would guard this exit with his life. Other spies guarded the other major exists, yet he hoped glory would lead the Zoners to him.
 
Santiago was latched with carabiners and ropes to the stone. A thin holographic-camouflage tent separated him from prying eyes. There he lay, observing and listening to the tapped communications, which, one by one, vanished. He could see them forming their lines and putting up their colours. He felt them like ants; he wasn't hateful or vicious about these thoughts. In his mind, they were just lesser. Like toddlers, who didn't know better. He watched them fumble, trying to act like men and do their "science" using their dousing rods and odd charms. If he felt anything, it was rage. "The artifact should have been in Ibiza already," he thought, "so many Maltese lives would have been saved.". But most importantly, he felt thirst.

He had been hiding here for several days now. First came the hunger, then his water ran out, but now his limited cardamine supply was starting to diminish. The breather mask usage was rationed to once every few hours. Dried and cracked lips mumbled in his comm. "In bocca al lupo. Over.". He waited, he watched. He waited, he watched. Minutes, hours—it all blended with the storm on the outside. Equipment and containers started to gather, and dust went to the ceiling. Through the brown haze of dirt, he saw orange. He daydreamed about orange grass fields and a small village nearby. The rumbling turned into once-familiar music. The mist cleared, and a convoy was gathering. He shook himself awake, put on the breather mask, and readied himself. "Crepi il lupo. Over.".

He listened to the comms carefully. Through the heavily encrypted waves, he could only piece together certain words. "Coyote...over...artifact...surface...over...minimal". The "Hell Gate" bellow him started to open. Sand, rage, and fury poured over him. The agent gripped the rock, and he started coughing as the dust blinded him. As things cleared, he smiled, glad he would soon be free from the stone. Yet his grin faded instantly. Red spots coloured the cave wall. He didn't have much time. The convoy bellow him moved in order. In the center, he found his mark. A large "Dromedary" ship had been remade into a land vehicle with heavy tracked treads to traverse the desert.

One cut. He started falling through the sand, blasting the cave. Bracing himself for the pain of the whiplash. Through the haze, he finds himself just above one of the land trucks. Almost in an instant, he cuts again. The thud was hidden by the beating of the storm on the metal. His scream of agony was lost in the rage of the tempest. He covered himself in a tent, trying to shield himself from the outside. Hell was around him; his only salvation was the breather mask.

Time passed—maybe an instant, maybe an eternity. He felt weak, his stomach empty; he didn't know if he could will himself to move, but all that gave way to the fire. His tent cracked and blistered; the reinforced textures that could slow down a bullet gave way. First a minor tear here, then a cut there. The holes ushered in more suffering. As the tent was torn away, bit by bit, he shriveled. Deep, slow breaths from the breather mask reminded him of Malta. Reminded him of that night in the fields by the village. He knew he would not return there. 

"-o not return there. I repeat, do not return there! Over". They were in one of the caves, and his comm link was still active. "This is Camel. Sir, we've lost some of the patrols with us in the storm. Securit is low-". The scream turned the voice into a crackle. "This is Coyote. If anyone goes back outside, I will personally make sure he dies there. There is no time to regroup.". The voice calmed down. "We need to get the cargo back to base ASAP. We have one hour in this cave system, then we're back in Hell, men. ETA: 5 hours. Over". The outcast came back to his senses. As he laid; his hand slowly moved to check his equipment. Transponder. Knife. Blaster. Two grenades. Lastly, he checked the status of the canister - depleted. Small shakes and tremors went through his body, but he laid still.

As the convoy continued between the rocks, injuries started calling to him. Iron taste bled into his mouth, and his left hand was crimson-red. Aches around his body soon turned into daggers lodged in his flesh. He tried to control his breathing and let his mind wander to lush gardens, good wine, and young love on Malta. He felt he could lay there forever, but the sun started to seep through the tunnel in front, and the calm march of the convoy was soon swallowed by the cacaphony on the surface. He started the transponder, but terror seeped into his heart as it beeped erratically. The small display blinking a deadly "ERR."."Non mollare.".

When the Dromedary passed the cave arch and went outside, fate smiled at him. The weather was as clear as it could be on Pygar. The Outcast stood up; he didn't know if he was going to make it, but Malta deserved its prize. Calmness washed over him. He threw one grenade at the cave entrance to block the convoy's retreat and sent the other, with a lower charge, to the cockpit. The screams and orders from the comms overtook the sandstorm for a moment, and all the sound culminated in the explosions. The cave wall crumbled and blocked the rest of the convoy. He dove through the edged hole of the cockpit into the control room. Blaster and knife in his hands.

One of the two drivers was dead from the explosion. The other was trying to remove the glass shrapnel from his face. The two guards by the entrance door were shocked but unharmed. The Outcast shot twice at the man on the left, blasting two gaping holes in his chest. The other guard shouldered the rifle and started blasting. The Agent reached for the driver and pulled him in front. The man couldn't fight the shock, and as the bullets pierced his body, he let out his last breath. Santiago felt the bullets fly beside him. A few scarred his shoulders. The guard, bewildered, hesitated for a moment, just enough for the flying knife to puncture his throat.

The Outcast shot at the door panel and stacked the bodies against it. As he started working the dashboard, specifying the frequencies from the broken transponder, someone started banging on the door. Sand started flying through the broken glass of the cockpit before he finished entering the various values it had piled up on the floor in small dunes. Quiet, regular beeps started coming from the speaker. This is all that mattered to him. He readied his blaster and knife, turned to the door, and waited. On the other side, down the corridor, the Artifact changed its vibration to a slow hum. Agent Garcia noticed, and he stopped looking at the men down the corridor with the blowtorches and crowbars trying to get into the cockpit. He turned to the Artifact, was the unholy object mocking him?