Chapter 613 Who Let the Dogs Out?

Chapter 613 Who Let the Dogs Out?

“What’re the odds of being attacked by ocean roots if we’re on land?” Ayaka asked. She had already been briefed about the assumed safety of the plants on land, but was still wary of the root network at the bottom of the New Australian Sea.

“We estimate it at less than one in fifty, Commander. We stopped getting reactions from the roots at about a kilometer from the shore when we sent down the mana batteries as bait, but we’ll be testing it with a few landers full of marines before we greenlight any researchers or explorers landing. Begging your pardon, you just aren’t as trained as we are when it comes to havoc and mayhem, Ma’am,” Major Kelly O’Shanrahan answered. He was the commanding officer of the Farsight’s marines, and it was his job to ensure the safety of the exploration teams on the ground.

“Once we’re positive that the surface is safe for extended stays, then you can come down and establish a more permanent camp,” he continued. “Before that, I can only allow brief expeditions, since we just don’t know how the locals will react to long-term residences.”

“Locals, Major?” Ayaka faintly smiled at the marine.

“Aye, Ma’am. Locals. In marine country, we’re split about sixty-forty for the root network being sapient. But you know leathernecks, we’ll gamble on anything.”

(Ed note: “Marine country” is the dedicated area on naval vessels that the marine contingents stay in. They like to keep a separation between the services aboard ship to prevent friction and conflict between marines and sailors, and it developed into A TraditionTM over the centuries.)

“I see....” Another thought occurred to Ayaka and her brow knit in a frown. “I’m sure we’ll have at least a few that’ll refuse to return to the surface. What’ll happen to them?”

“Well, Ma’am, while I’d like to send them to the ocean surface in a rowboat without oars, the likeliest outcome is that they’ll be reassigned to the Proxima and replaced with someone from there who IS willing to go. Not like we have any shortage of eggheads willing to risk their biscuits for a chance at immortality in textbooks.

“Copy that,” the pilot said and Lieutenant Morris was immediately slammed into his crash harness by the hammer of god.

“Coulda warned me, asshat. Beer’s on you when we get back,” the marine company commander grunted, but the pilot only laughed and cut the comm channel as he performed completely unnecessary evasive maneuvers. Jason spat a stream of cursing that would make any NCO proud for the full minute it took to reach their destination.

“Archangel to jarheads, you are clear to unass my ride,” the pilot announced over the speakers in the lander’s passenger cabin. “In case you didn’t understand me the first time, that means get the fuck off my lander, marines.” As he said that, the aft bulkhead fell open and slammed to the ground.

The marines’ crash harnesses released them and they sprinted down the ramp, setting up a perimeter around the landing zone in a focused silence that spoke of long hours, months, or even years of training in the time-dilated simulation. Every marine in the Bravo Company “Bulldogs” had a place, and each of them knew exactly, to the millimeter, where that place was.

The lifter rose back into the air to provide fire support, should it be needed, and the marines waited in place, eerily silent, for five full minutes as their HUDs generated a threat map.

“Time to get to work, marines. We need a functioning camp in twenty hours, clear?”

“Clear as crystal, Sir!” came the enthusiastic chorus of replies.

Jason racked his plasma caster in its place on the back of his armor. He wasn’t necessarily the type to enjoy getting up close and personal with his targets, but a plasma caster just seemed like the better weapon choice for use on a planet populated entirely by possibly sapient plant life. It wasn’t like a pulse carbine would do much to a tree, after all. Or a root, for that matter.

He looked up and watched as container after container came screaming down from orbit and slammed into the ground after a brief flare of thrusters to make the end of the trip as survivable as the beginning for anything inside the containers. Then he saw that some joker had managed to somehow find spray paint and tag each container with elaborate graffiti that spelled out the chorus of the old song by Baha Men, “Who let the dogs out?”