Syarrhe [SPECTRA - BOOK ONE]

Chapter Eight

It was a quick matter of bandaging her leg and injecting a pain-relieving serum to get Syarrhe moving again. Ascunians had the fortunate disadvantage of a very poor sense of smell, and Syarrhe was counting on that if her wound opened again.

The sergeant left her troops in the trees, taking care of her first aid as she watched them get to a position of relative safety. Twel'Kijo was in bad shape, growing paler; it seemed she had been shot just below the collarbone and again between her hip and her naval. She needed a doctor and soon, but she had given her agreement that the mission came first, and that she would wait it out- even at the risk of her life. That was call for a medal, but now wasn't the time.

Syarrhe crept down the hillside, staying in the tree-cover. An idea had formed of how to get onto the base, but it was risky, and relied far too much on luck for her liking. She picked her way through the trees and dense foliage, odd Ascunian plants she didn't recognize making her skin itch and catching at the fabric of her uniform.

She reached the bottom of the hill and dove into the water, starting to swim. Her handcannon was back in its sheathe, a large cylinder hung by straps around her shoulders, so the water wouldn't damage it. She swam with powerful strokes, pulling herself through the water as quickly as possible and gasping for air as she did. Even all the exercise she did wasn't enough to make this an easy swim with all the armor and equipment attached to her. By the time she reached the closest dock, she felt entirely bogged down. She pulled herself up onto the dock and heard gasps.

In a heartbeat, she'd withdrawn her blaster, and dispatched the two Ascunian dock-guards. There was something familiar in the motion, but now wasn't the time to consider that. Syarrhe made her way down the dock, keeping her blaster in hand; the volts were quieter and the weapon easier to fire than her handcannon, and, as much as she loved explosions, this was the time for a blaster.

A door to the base was open. Syarrhe crouched behind a shabby metal crate at the end of the dock, peeking in through the door. A figure strode by and she waited a few heartbeats before following. She crossed the last bit of path and entered through the door, finding herself in a narrow hallway. There was no one on either side, and she began to jog in the direction the figure had come from. She stepped as lightly as she could in clunky black combat boots, her footsteps surprisingly quiet on the hard floor, some form of pavement other than nguya.

She came to an opening. To the right, one wall of the hallway stopped, an opening leading to an unknown room. To the left was an elevator. Her heart pounded; she had no idea what could be waiting at either venture, and time was of the essence. At any second, a rebel could show and blow her cover. Or worse, blow her head off.

Chest thumping beneath her uniform, Syarrhe pinned herself against the wall to her right, and poked her head around the corner. A wide room with a few different tables and several weapons out. A few Ascunian rebels cleaning their weapons. A couple eating. Two on guard at the opposite end. Too many for her to take on alone with five volts left in her blaster.

She would have to try her luck. A large square button was on the wall next to the elevator and she mashed it with her thumb. The trellis-like door to the elevator opened and she stepped in, fumbling to pull a knob on the inside the elevator started going down. Syarrhe had never been claustrophobic, but right now might be the exception. Being trapped in a tiny box with potential death waiting at any second was of no relief to her.

The elevator inched down, rumbling and jaunty; the crude technology wasn't even that of the Ascunian poor. These people must have been truly desperate- but now so she was she, and desperation was dangerous. She breathed slowly while the elevator moved downward, her mind on her stranded troops in the trees.