Coming Undone

Chapter 3: Obsidian

Oct. 23, 2334, Pathmos, Obsidian Corp. outpost 17.

Radiation-soaked ground shook as massive thrusters belched out their last ounces of thrust, touching down on a recently-carved landing pad made of crushed concrete and rebar. The smell of burning ozone and hot concrete assaulted Carl Osterman's nose as he watched from a safe distance. In the grey, cloud shrouded landscape, the cargo hauler's blackened, plasma-blistered hull seemed to fit right in. With morning light in the clouds and the scent of war on the air, Osterman knew a long day was coming.

Stiff, hot wind raked dust and grit over a clean-shaven face, and tried to pull the hardhat off a short-cut head of bristly, silver hair. Osterman narrowed his sharp eyes against the howling wind with a glimmer of impatience. Anger burned under his narrow brows, and a face wrinkled with smile lines pulled into a deadly frown. Carl Osterman, the face of industry in the Socotra system, was anything but a businessman. Ire radiated off his heavy twill jacket from squared shoulders, and khaki work denim replaced an entrepreneur's flimsy slacks. He'd spent his life building Obsidian with his own callused, work-worn hands. He'd watched his empire grow under his guiding eye, and while other executives grew fat, he grew deadly.

Tough-made, work-worn, and much-blessed, Osterman stood at the edge of the blast zone and watched as his handiwork descended from space, wounded and limping. He clenched a sharp jaw, and felt his heart wrench.

The MLA had hit his ships again.

Struck his men.

A bolt of ice-cold anger shivered down his spine, forcing him to clench his hands tight around the roll-cage.

"Ok, jets are spooling down, emergency teams move in!" Osterman shouted, raising a hand to keep his hardhat on in the stiff wind. He braced himself, gripping the roll-bar of a rugged transport vehicle. He pounded on the windshield of the vehicle, and nodded to his driver. "Get me down there."

The huge thrusters on the sides of the boxy space craft turned off with a clunk and a shuddering growl. The scream of emergency klaxons instantly replaced the engine moan. The vehicle under Osterman stuttered to life, and started rolling down the steep, crushed concrete path towards the landing pad.

Osterman's stomach was in his throat as he looked over his ship.

Hull's not breached... Comms antenna's gone. Thruster needs replaced.

A lot of good money blown into space by hot plasma.

Much worse, a lot of time had been lost.

Time his contact on New Medina didn't have.

Before the dust could settle, teams of maintenance and repair workers were already starting to swarm the vessel. A pair of huge, six wheeled fire containment trucks whizzed past Osterman as he sped down the path past cargo containers. Men in vests and hard hats were bolting down the same path, tools or medical gear in hand.

"Antenna's gone." His driver and personal aid Cameron said. "No wonder they didn't radio us."

Osterman nodded, and took a second glance at the missing radio mast. The hull wasn't blistered by plasma there. It was dented in, cracked.

"Looks like they took a missile hit." Osterman bit his tongue, "Don't we equip these freighters with flares or chaff?"

Osterman's chest continued to tighten as his transport growled onto the pad and sped under one of the huge thrusters, the steel edges still glowing red hot.

Cameron nodded. "They should have point defense too."

Osterman rode in silence for a few seconds.