Greyloch.

Location: Unknown. Beneath unknown construct or inside planet's surface.

Mission: Unchanged. Exception: attempt to locate other units, attempt to vacate construct of unknown origin/function.

Alert: Evidence of Holcroid presence documented. Objective 'Low sentiment' confirmed.

Mission Time: 13th July 2217, 1541 Hours.

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Tyrone raised his left fist in a 'halt' motion to signal Ordlo. The pair had tramped through captured drifts of snow in the dark, often slipping on the strange rock-like surface of the floor.
The trench had come to an end where the Sergeant Major found the way ahead blocked by snow piled from floor, to encapsulating ceiling. Ordlo wheeled around from a last minute check of their six-o'clock position and dimmed the lamp on his pistol.
“Blocked.” he muttered. He checked himself for ordnance or a tool to help them somehow.

Tyrone raised his R-6 rifle scanning left and right of the obstructing collection of frozen gas. No clear path existed. He spun around to speak to the Major, but -
What the – Where? The long trench-corridor stretched back far the way they came. It lay in total darkness. No movement, no wind, and nothing to suggest how Ordlo could go missing.
It took the soldier a moment to register the mission clock in the lower left corner of his visor-frame display. Three hours?! We've been trapped in here, for three hours?! Tyrone's thought processes rapidly deteriorated into frustration. Cursing loudly and exhausted from the strain of being on alert for more Slashers while keeping what little cohesion a two-man unit can have.
He began to wonder if the Major had backtracked for a rest or stopped to admire the anterior visage of alien surroundings. The trench-tunnel didn't have the capacity to enable someone to become lost or separated. Though they were in all respects. Lost in someone's shady domain.

Tyrone leapt up in fear as a burst of static erupted in his ears followed by Ordlo's crackling voice:
“Sergeant? Sergeant did you copy my last?” Tyrone took a moment to collect his wits after being rudely snapped back to reality.
“Say again Sir, I did not copy your last.” The static noise and electrical sparkles quivered unhelpfully for a second before Tyrone reviewed the Major's instructions.
“Backtrack fourty metres Sergeant, on your three o'clock you will find an opening, we missed it behind a pile of snow.”
Tyrone rose slowly, sweeping his firearm across his bracing arm and thudding along the route counting his steps. The walls seemed to be crafted from a synthetic rock mineral or artificial obsidian. The reflective quality it had made the wet icy surface glitter in passing lamp-light.
Tyrone hadn't paid it much mind, but the inside of the structure seemed to be hacked out in a general shape, rather than carefully masoned. At thirty five steps, he saw the opening on his right. It was surrounded by disturbed snow and heavy boot imprints where Ordlo has clambered through.

The hole was an ovoid cutting, edged with jagged broken points of the same obsidian substance the rest of the place appeared to be made from. Tyrone passed through it to find Ordlo sweeping his pistol lamp around a large cavern, oddly Tyrone noted the cavern spread out at the same height as their previous tunnel-trench, but sprawled outward for many metres. At the opposite end to the hole in the wall, a pile of rubble sat climbing from the floor to the ceiling in great clustered clumps of reflective rock.

“How'd you find this?” Tyrone enquired. Ordlo shook his head and kept glancing around slowly.
“I kicked a drift, some of it moved, dug it open.” Ordlo was intrigued it seemed by the circular or ovoid shape of the chamber they found themselves in. The dark and frozen interior was barren save for the rubble at the the far end. Nothing to suggest what the function of such a space would be. Or who may have made an open space like it. No machinery, no technology, no signs of life. They hadn't found the handgun wielding Holcroid assassin yet either. Nor any more Slashers. For which Ordlo thanked the powers that be.

“What do you suppose it is Sir?” Came Tyrone, quizzically turning his head at all angles to see the dark convex room in panoramic slow movements.
“My theory is its a Holcroid base. But where have they gone to?” The Major holstered his sidearm and turned to walk toward the large pile of rumble to the far end. Flipping up the helm-lamp on his head's right side.
“Sir Slashers have specific location and tracking systems, they may return here for whatever reason, if they are supposed to be here.”
Ordlo examined the busted rock-like boulders mounted on one another in an ascending half-pyramid.
“If they're supposed to be here, wouldn't they be? Leapers and Slashers won't leave a key installation unguarded. Even a small sentry group should be here. So maybe this isn't a base but something else.”

Tyrone watched Ordlo press the side of his headgear against the rock formation. He was disinteresed in debating the possibility of their locality. But wondered what Ordlo was doing.
“I hear something...” Ordlo said. He rounded on Tyrone and gestured for him to come and listen. The two men laid their heads against the cold rocks and waited.
“You hear that?” Ordlo asked. Tyrone nodded, the men listened to the unmistakeable howl of wind. The eerie shrill whine of a storm-swept exterior. Beyond this pile of rubble lay an exit.
The officers each took turns trying to pry away the boulders like pieces but not one would budge.

Tyrone found the smallest chunk, no bigger than a fist, and even it may as well have weighed as much as a neutron star for all the moving it did. Both their individual and combined strength could not make the boulders even jiggle slightly, Ordlo stated it was like the rock was fused together somehow. Their straining and useless attempts to get free only continued so long. Ordlo gave up first. Tyrone slumbed down beside him, one of the boulders acting as a partition.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Ordlo roared loudly while violently punching the rock in utter defeat. Here, the strangest event yet witnessed in human history began in earnest, Ordlo's pounding of the boulder had set off some type of chain reaction, and deep in the soul of this exotic place energy twitched and fidgeted slowly rejuvenating the life within. The breathless soldiers at first were unattentive, busy surrendering to their rage. Until the first stone lifted itself free from the pile and floated past them to the centre of the room and drifted gently to the floor once more. Landing with a soft gink.

Dumbstruck and awed, Ordlo stood slowly and Tyrone backed away in dismay, more of the rocks began to lift up out of the pile, of their own accord and as if under there own power, floated through mid-air coming to rest in a collective heap in the room's centre. The two men could only stand in shock, watching as the first boulder to allow the outside world to stream in, floated away. A snowy and frost-bitten blast of wind leapt into the space, filling the entirety with its fury and debris. More of the rocks came away, until all were sat in much the same particular arrangement the had before they moved, a polygonal pyramid.

The blizzard of SX-02 invaded the chamber in a shrieking cacophany. Each of the two men, speechless and unable to fathom what they just saw, let the storm wash over them. Ordlo finally turned to Tyrone asking him: “Did you record that?!”
Tyrone shuddered in the chilling haze of frozen gases, wrapping the snow cape back over himself and turning his suits enviro-control up several notches.
“I got it Sir! But what the hell?! Now What?!”
He stood rooted in place fighting off the perpetual winter clawing at him.

“Look! There!” Ordlo stooping in the extreme weather pointed out through the gap made by the floating stones. In the distance Tyrone could make out the destinctive outline of a Hydra drop-craft. Semi-obscured by tons of flying snow.
“We make for that!” Ordlo had to shout to be heard, even over their shortwaves.
Tyrone nodded before he stepped to the edge of the new opening and peered out. The same white hell moved off in all directions, high mounds of frozen hydrogen and carbon dioxide, he scanned the terrain with the barrel of his rifle, peering downrange for movement and irregularities.

He informed Ordlo the coast looked clear, both men charged out into the alien frost once again.
Crushing knee-deep snow beneath their feet, whilst trying to maintain weapon discipline proved somewhat difficult, but the Hydra drew closer with their laboured steps.

Ordlo extracted his holstered weapon, and pointed it at the ship. The large craft looked like an angular bird of prey with digital pattern camouflage and a wounded carapace. The interior he couldn't see yet but there was no sound coming from the thing. He noticed a sparking, damaged starboard engine cowling, beneath which sat a body propped up against the hull, snow building up around their legs and slackened wrists. The poor soul had a large piece of metal protruding from their chest armour.
“Casualty Tyrone. “ Ordlo muttered into the microphone bead at his chin. The Sergeant and Officer closed in on the Hydra, carefully avoiding the sparks spilling from the exposed wiring in the engine cowling, Tyrone sampled the snow beneath it for leaking fuel and determined no presence.

Ordlo approached the slumped body of the lone crewman. He began to police the body for useful items. Ordlo noticed immediately a box drive on a chain hanging from his neck, and all of his ammunition was gone from his pouches and webbing rig. The metal beam had probably punctured him from behind as the armour around the hole it extended from was torn and bent outward. The man's blood had flash-frozen in the planets atmosphere. With nothing else to be taken from the dead crewman, he collected the box drive. From his tac-pad, Ordlo perused a connector cable, plugging it into the drive's socket. A few seconds passed before an audio recording fizzled to life:
“Hey! Sergeant! Listen to this...” Ordlo switched the recording to transmit over narrow beam to Tyrone's gear.

Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Fleet Flight Lieutenant Ashley Desoto transmitting wide beam distress. My ship is out of control we are crash landing on the planet, repeat we are crash landing, I have non-resonsive equipment and flight navigation, Raven Six going down, repeat Raven Six is going down.
The recording skipped forward to another segment.
To whoever finds this box drive, my name is Ashley Desoto, Lieutenant. My Hydra: callsign Raven Six is here with Serviceman Roger Weer, KIA at approximately 1200 hours, July nineth 2217. I am the sole survivor of the crew aboard. We were ferrying a team to the planet to perform a recon mission, the drop was successful I... I have no idea what happened next... We flew into a dense cloud formation when the controls went haywire and failed to respond. The storm hit us and we landed hard in the snow. Serviceman Weer died instantly. I have policed his body of ammo and survival gear. I have no positional data, nothing works. No comms, no radar, nothing. There's what appears to be something like a cave near the crash at nine o'clock, I'm making for that to get out of the storm. I have been unable to communicate across any frequency to anyone planetside or in orbit. My transponder is active. Lieutenant Desoto out.

Ordlo disengaged his tac pad and strapped the box drive to his utility belt. Tyrone spoke up:
“I guess we know where the pilot is. Maybe she shot that Slasher back there.”
Ordlo took a minute to answer, he was trying not to stare at Weer's body. Feeling as if he disrespected the dead by doing so.
“If she did go into where we have just come from that means those floating rocks we saw were out of her way at that time. She may have been able to get out of the trench long before we showed up. Hey! What's that?” Ordlo pointed to Tyrone's right, Tyrone swung around and tracked where Ordlo was pointing. Behind the crash, a tall mound of snow had been pulled away some of the peculiar artificial obsidian now rose up like a pillar. Though roughly hewn, the piece that sat exposed drew the soldiers interest more than the crashed dropship.

Ordlo suggested Tyrone search the crash and he would check out the strange edifice. Tyrone agreed and boarded the ship through an open side hatch, turning his lamp back on and slinging his weapon across his chest to free his hands. Ordlo meanwhile slid down the embanked snow at the rear of the spacecraft. He noted how hard it was to discern the dragging or indentures left behind the ship as it crashed through the snow, now almost completely filled in by the storm.
Desoto had done well to keep the ship belly-down. Ordlo silently commended her for hauling Weer out too, probably to try and resuscitate him. The Major crept through the snow toward the pillar peaking through the top of a quickly fading mound. The wind blowing thin whisps of ice away revealing more of the object.

Inside the Hydra, Tyrone clanked and grunted whilst moving along the awkward angle the deck plates now sat at. The crash had left the ship at an oblique lean. Some of the electronics were strewn about the hold, some broken restraints, clasps and structural metal jutted out from the inside hull. However the external atmosphere only entered from the hatch. The hull remained mostly intact. If somewhat possibly compromised due to microfractures. “She's in bad shape.” He said to himself. He rummaged in the overhead lockers for gear and rations. He was disappointed to find nothing. Tyrone panned his lamplight to the half-open hatch to the cockpit.
Gently setting his foot on the hinged stairs he climbed the downward opening hatch up into what used to be Desoto's domain.

Ordlo sniffed, the sound reverberated inside his respirator. Having scaled the mound to inspect the pillar he had developed a shock-cold. Running nose usually brought on after being thawed from cryogenic stasis. He thought after being on SX-02 for this long it was little wonder his body might protest. Despite temperature control from his power suit. To Ordlo's surprise the pillar was perforated with three large holes. The holes were bored through from the sides facing parallel to the crash explaining why they weren't visible until he had stepped around it to see what it was. He began to think. Wondering what strange purpose this rectangular, nine-foot tall obsidian obelisk might have if the floating rocks he and Tyrone witnessed earlier were anything to go by...

Using a scan function on his tac-pad, Ordlo held his wrist up infront of him to allow the invisible beam emitter to peruse the pillar's surface. The tac-pad spat. Cursing Ordlo with a sharp series of beeps and flashing the word ERROR insistently. Ordlo reset the tac pad and its diagnostic software, but kept his sidearm's barrel pointed skyward. He glanced upward in apprehension. Watching the clouds flash and flicker with sheet lightning. The whole sky was white. At times, it had been hard to tell where the snow ended and the sky began until they occasionally spotted large heaps of blanketing grey cloud.

Tyrone tapped buttons and flicked a switch or two at many of the cockpits panels. Dead.
He got no response from anything. Behind him, Tyrone found the power cycling switch. It was framed by yellow and black angled stripes, and indented into the portion of the wall. Three buttons were in it, the top rectangular button , coloured green, read: Power Primary in white stenciling, the lower button dressed in black read: Power Secondary and the third in crimson simply read: Backup. Tyrone tried all three. Nothing. As he turned to climb down out of the pilot bay his foot nudged something beneath the pilot's chair. A carbon fibre case. Approximately the size of a backpack. Tyrone picked it up and carried it back into the hold.
The padlock on the case wouldn't budge. For a while Tyrone considered shooting the lock off, but decided the ammo might be needed later on. He stashed it on his back. At the hatch opposite the one he'd entered from, he found a manual release. Pulling and locking it down, Tyrone heaved on one handle of the door to pry it open. Snow and miscellaneous debris blew up into the hold. The Sergeant tentatively slipped his head out to see if anything could be made use of. Always checking for leaking fuel and stray sparks. There, half-buried in the snow and loomed over by the Hydra's port wing assembly and engine cowling, sat something which the two man team could finally make use of. A T-81C Sprint Suit. A fully armoured, performance enhancing agility system and payload, affectionately dubbed the 'Preyhound' by TASTRAS operators. It looked intact and undamaged. For a second, Tyrone wondered if the Major had gone over to the pillar to distance himself from Tyrone. Maybe to document on him. He hesitated. But soon realised his error. If either of them had a hope of making it, he had to at least fein some trust in the Major. Anyway, the Preyhound offered Tyrone a powerful means with which to confront Ordlo and his obsequious mission...

Tyrone radioed the Major with the news. Ordlo piped up to the discovery.
“A Chaser? Well ain't that something. So who gets to wear it?” The Major, pleased to hear something could be found that gives them an edge when trouble showed up. And that, could be lurking anywhere.
“Draw straws Sir?” Tyrone challenged, grinning to himself.
Ordlo simply dismissed the jibe and said: “Finders keepers Sergeant. There's something interesting happening over here, you may want to join me in the Sprint Suit when you're ready. Out.”
“Copy that Major, I'll dig it out, test it and see that it runs, and will come to you. Five to ten minutes tops.” Tyrone's communication beeped and clicked off. Ending the short exchange.
Some of Tyrone's message became fragmented and broken up by the planet's atmosphere.
Ordlo got the jist of it however.

Ordlo began to see the pillar and its mound had three other mounds positioned around it forming a square with each mound being a corner of the square. Ordlo suspected the other hills of snow and ice harboured other pillars similar, if not identical to the one he now stood near.
He wondered how the cave-room, rocky trench system, the strange lense-like nodes built into the wall of the trench and now the ominous pillars were all connected. And what, if anything, each piece of chilling technology could be used for. Ordlo peered back through the glare, the dropship had passed between the mounds and settled on its current bed of snow and debris. Seemingly, the mounds hadn't been disturbed by the wash of backdraft from the accelerating craft. Alternatively, enough time had possibly elapsed to render any would-be disturbance invisible.
He wanted a report from Desoto. Their mission remained. Regroup, and find some way to contact the Orbiter sattelites.

Tyrone heaved the Sprint Suit's superstructure out of its icy cradle, panting and grunting under his mask. Snow cascaded from the armour of the Preyhound. A Sprint Suit is approximately twelve feet tall, with segmented carbonic steel and depleted uranium armour plates, conjoined to its carbon nanotube and cyberalloy frame. Reactive enhancement circuits criss-crossed underneath its imposing body, and most Sprint Suits are often fitted with similar equipment to a soldier in a tactical power suit.
Overall, the basic frame of a Preyhound resembles a large steel bear if it stood on its hind legs.
Some obvious deviations include, mechanically motivated, articulating armoured legs, a single occupant form-fitting control housing within its bulky torso, and the lack of any sort of head structure. Instead, the suit locks around the pilot using external sensor suites and camera tech to allow the pilot to perceive the environment. The sensor suite is protected by super-dense transparent synthetic crystal armour. Each of the hydraulically assisted arms or legs is controlled by haptic feedback from movements the pilot makes. Outfitted with two, 20mm R-700 chainguns on each arm and 9000 rounds of reserve ammunition. A single coaxial R-14A6 30mm gun mounted to its right arm, (used in a role combining the strategic sniper and infantry-grade artillery) the Preyhound provides firepower, mobility and an array of other tactical systems to assist a deployed fireteam on operation.

Tyrone recalled more of the functionality and operation from memorising the technical manual on the T-81C. Though relatively lightweight, the Preyhound can crush a man when powered and in use. Because the unit was powered down, all the locking points and hydraulics were mobile enough to allow the Sergeant to single handedly raise the Sprint Suit to a slouched standing position. At the rear of the unit, Tyrone operated the power cell cycling apparatus, resetting from standby to active, and replacing the shielding armour over it. He was rewarded with the familiar whine of built-up power coursing through the unit. The onboard miniframe ran a rapid series of diagnostics before raising the torso and arms up to standby height and opening the pilot's control suite at its front. Tyrone tapped his tac pad and synced an uplink to the piloting miniframe software and haptic input units. He proceeded to unsling his rifle and clamped it to the storage rigging on the Preyhound's back. Closing a boxy hinged protective panel over the rifle before climbing into the suit. The control studs accepted his feedback and moved as he moved, he strapped his legs down and drew each out and around, all systems go.

Before closing the armoured fore-hatch, Tyrone cycled the weapons, the rotating breech of each R-700 worked smoothly and well. The ammunition magazines locked in and at fire-ready status.
Two lots of spare magazines clung to each leg on the external armour of the suit, giving the Sergeant a reserve and approximately eight seconds of tactical reload time between each magazine. Having trained to use one gun to cover the other while reloading, Tyrone and the Preyhound could keep up sustained fire for roughly sixty two minutes. Tyrone sealed the Preyhound. Before moving off however, he extracted the black carbon fibre case he had policed from the Hydra's cockpit, stowing it down in between his left leg and the suit's interior.

“Major, Sprint Suit is operational. I'm making my way to you now.” Tyrone hefted the haptic studs in his fists and walked the machine out from beneath the wing of the dead Hydra. The low thudding steps fell deep into the frosty landscape, but such terrain a Preyhound is built to traverse. While moving toward Ordlo's position, Tyrone began to have in depth thoughts and fiscal ideas formulating in his head. Having suppressed enough emotion to think clearer, something struck him as odd. He decided he might discuss the matter with Ordlo.
Ordlo haphazardly caressed the pillar, remarking to himself about it being chiselled viciously into its almost primitive shape with little care for geometry or symmetrical alignment. Though one detail stood out to him, the three holes, each a perfectly cut cylindrical tunnel through the material from one side to another. The holes were arranged vertically, one above the other, all identical in size, approximately large enough to fit a mans head in, all of them had an inside surface as smooth as glass. Nothing like the rest of the black reflective shape.
Ordlo suddenly heard the creaking stomping frame of Tyrone approaching in the Preyhound. His holster clip had slipped free, he safetied his sidearm and replaced it in the holster, forgoing the clip. Condemning it as an access liability.

“Enjoying your new outfit darling?” Ordlo joked. He indicated the pillar to Tyrone.
Tyrone halted at the foot of the mound bending the torso of the suit at its waist to acknowledge Ordlo. “It fits me perfectly honey.. However did you afford it?” Tyrone shot back. Their short amusement charade cut short by the vibrations caused in the snow as Tyrone moved off again. Ordlo chuckled and turned to climb down from his ministrations. However as he did so, he froze. Tyrone's footfalls in the Sprint Suit had loosened the snow built up around not one, but all the other mounds he suspected of covering other pillars. Sure enough, the snow began to fall away and sift into flat plateau's at their bases, revealing the same features from each one.

Like sand cascades off a dune, the snow shaken loose by Tyrone's lumbering motion was picked up and carried off by the shrieking gale. Being far enough apart to permit an A-13 Hydra dropship to pass between them in a hell of a hurry with room to spare, the pilot may never have given the pillars a second thought had she even noticed them to begin with. Priorities being to try and land the ship safely. And the pillars then, probably buried beneath the snow.
Now however both men stopped to admire the complex geometric arrangement. To Ordlo it reminded him of history classes, learning about humanity in its technological infancy. The building of stone circles and their lost purposes on ancient Earth. Thousands of years bygone. Here, on the blizzard-strafed alien planet, he found himself unable to revert to focus for several minutes.

It took Tyrone by surprise, one minute he stood near his compatriot master of shady deeds, now he watched three mini-avalanches and a hefty breeze sweep up swathes of snow leaving the other three holed obelisks naked in the storm.
Tyrone had an urge to playback his video recording of the stones in the chamber rising from their
anchored perch to settle in the room's middle, defying gravity in the utmost, and expecting something just as wonderous to occur here.
“Tyrone, there's no knowing what we've discovered here, we can document it, but we shouldn't fuck with it. Copy?” A strict tone and cautious vibe emitted from Ordlo in Tyrone's ears.

The armoured Sergeant pondered the world now.
“Sir, don't you find it strange how close this rock is to its parent star, and yet its a deepfreeze?”
Ordlo looked up, half confused, he replied with: “Son, you and I don't get paid to work the math out on these ops. We're here to do our jobs, right now, that's trying to get our teams together and get off this shithole deepfreeze as you've aptly put it.”

Tyrone rolled his eyes in contempt. The Major wasn't seeing the picture he saw. What they found defied all explanation. It made no sense to Tyrone, how could this planet, in being only sixty lightyears from its local star, a blue giant at that, be entirely blanketed in the thick ice and snow of its current landscape? In his short walk from the dropship to the pillars, Tyrone had prepared these questions and recorded them along with others concerning the rest of the architecture found on their travels. He saved a ready file of private voice recordings to his personal box drive. Who he would ask about the matter he didn't know. But it became apparent he would certainly like an answer for each...

“Sergeant!” Ordlo snapped into his microphone, a protest to the silent, immobile figure of Tyrone's Preyhound. He needed Tyrone's focus. As far as his own clandestine mission went, it is as good as suspended until they got offworld and into a new theatre. None of that mattered now, Major Ordlo had offered the sight of his mission's D-30 outline as a gesture of good faith, a gratuitous ammendment for having Tyrone stick a knife near his jugular. Suddenly the Sergeant-Major has a laxity of commitment to the cause to tread through his philosophical library? He needed to snap out of it. Quick.
“Sergeant! We've got to go! There's no time! Ask your questions once we're shipboard.”

“No. There is time. I know there's something you're not telling me Major. The whole mess just shits of fucking wrong...” Tyrone turned the Preyhound around to face the dazzled officer. Training the guns on him.
“Stand down! Stand down Sergeant! That's an order!”
Unable to believe what was happening, Ordlo pulled his holstered R-11 from its sheath and flexed his aim low in a non-threatening, but fire-ready position. Not knowing how anything could stop a man in a Preyhound, but damned if he wouldn't die trying.
“Orders? From you? Not till I know who the fuck you really are...” Tyrone glared out from his perch within the Sprint Suit, peeling away the authorative layers of the Officer, attempting to open the truth from him like beans spilling from a can.
“I want the truth Major, everything, what you're here for, your real name, and what you know about all this! Why are we here?! Why is this happening?! Fuck you!” Tyrone raised the 20mm assault gun in his right arm chassis. The targetting reticle displayed on his HUD flashed and a round loaded into the gun's breech.

Ordlo, visibly shaking in the blizzard didn't want to believe it had come to this, the Sergeant was paranoid. Ordlo was not the enemy. The Holcroids were, he had to do something to convince the man to trust him, fast. Before he was gifted with a large hole somewhere in his person.
“What?!” Ordlo exclaimed. “I'm Major Meclas Ordlo, serial number six-two-five-four-seven-one, Colonial Military. I'm an attache to the Proprietary Enforcement Office. Intelligence task force.
My mission...” He sighed heavily. He raised his hands in surrender before submitting.

“My mission, is to document the psychological impact of combat with the enemy on field operatives, before, during and after deployments. In 2194 the Piscean Cemetary was destroyed. You know that story. It's what started this war Tyrone. Our task force interviewed the survivors of the first contact event, each was traumatised by the experience of Holcroid hostility. Some were permanently scarred. Others, catatonic. Our goal is to collect data on the impact of fighting them and how to reduce its effects on morale. While also administering preventative counselling.”
“All I know about this world is that it is unique for its environment in proximity to its parent star. You've already observed that. But I swear, the moment I became attached to the 2nd Regiment, all higher echelon information became redacted. The mission protocol on my sanctioned dee thirty is redacted off it. Secrecy is paramount Sergeant. If the enemy learn what we're trying to accomplish, it may shift its tactics.” Ordlo stammered slightly, confronted in this fashion by a non-commissioned officer in field, is grounds for Court Marshal. Ordlo would later preserve a statement to remind him to process Sergeant-Major Janul Tyrone for recreancy.

Hearing the full story from Ordlo, and being puzzled by how quickly the officer had backed down and released his information, Tyrone relented. He sat motionless for a time. Still not wanting to trust him completely yet. The idea of a lone officer on an inconspicuous mission within the TASTRAS division itself set his bullshit detection suite into a frenzy. But he boiled down slowly. Finally relinquishing his weapons and backing away to a stand-by pose.
“Alright. I'll accept your design... I know if we make it off this rock, you'll send me to the brig. But I needed to know who's lives and what was at stake here Sir.”
Ordlo shook his head. Relieved to be alive, furious to be doubted and questioned.

“Son, it isn't your right to know, the objectives are top secret for the reasons I just fucking explained... If the mission is compromised, you could be done for treason.”
From inside the Sprint Suit, but impersceptible to Ordlo, Tyrone shrugged in an unconcerned manner and stated: “Understood. I'm willing to accept that responsibility Sir. Knowing what my fate is at home is important to me.”
Ordlo rebuked; “Your fate here and now, on this planet is what's immediately fucking important Sergeant! We have to work together! Now are we going to keep having this discussion? Am I able to assume command again? Or are we going to argue the toss all fucking winter?” Ordlo seethed, if he made it out of the frozen-over hell they had been dumped in, he vowed to ensure Tyrone received adequate punishment.
Tyrone's lamenting answer came as: “No sir. No further discussion. Orders Sir?”

It was then, as Ordlo prepared to get them moving again in search of Lieutenant Desoto, the ground beneath them began to vibrate and rumble. The snow moved and drifted away from the centre amongst the four pillars they stood in the midst of. The pillars, slid downward into the ice slowly. Like ships sinking below the waves of a choppy sea. Both men drew the same thought:
It's happening again... The pillars creaked and moaned in the harsh timbre of rock grinding past rock. And then stopped. To the soldiers astonishment, they now stood on a raised dais. Around them, in cradling stone burrows in the dais' floor were spaced twelve cylindrical rods constructed of a deep red, semi-transparent glass.
Ordlo instantly knew where they belonged. They were the correct size and shape to be fitted into each pillar. Now that the holes were at shoulder height, the idea to slot each one into its rightful place seemed overwhelming. Tyrone began to see the same efficiency lines forming a pattern in his mind also.

Astounded, Ordlo crept over to the nearest cradle. His hand hovered over the artifact. Neither man uttered a word. Ordlo hesitantly groped the shimmering solid tube of crimson glass-like material. He was struck by its ability to move, he hefted and examined it.
Tyrone watched with focussed interest. He had half a mind to remind the Major to be careful, only he had recently threatened the man with death and dishonour, he kept quiet.
Ordlo, not sure what to do other than take the thing over to the nearest pillar and slot in into the first loop carved in it. He gave the cylinder a curious tap with his finger, a small chime sounded from the gentle impact despite the psychotic tempest in the background.

“Let's see what these do Sergeant, fit one into each loop on every pillar. There are exactly enough for three each.” Ordlo, not quite sure why he wanted to experiment with alien technology in the middle of hostile territory, in a blizzard, with a Sergeant who had questioned himself and his priorities, marched over to the top right pillar and carefully slid it into place.
“Are you sure that's a good idea Sir?” Tyrone urged. He shifted in the Preyhound and turned it on its footing to face Ordlo.
Ordlo, still angry, chastised the Sergeant: “As sure as you were to question my loyalties Sergeant. We do this, find out what it does, if its dangerous you can have dibs on my retirement fund, if it does nothing, well we had to try didn't we? Once we know, we move out and chase down our Hydra pilot got it?”
“Got it.” Tyrone said no more. Crushed by his own insolence. He ejected himself from the Sprint Suit to assist the Major. Collecting a pair of the glassy rods to insert in the other pillars.

Right before Ordlo slid the last rod home in the final pillar he glanced upward. Just by chance something managed to catch his eye in the cloud cover above. A long beam cut through the clouds in a straight line, any soldier would recognise a vapour trail left behind an accelerating aviator.
“Tyrone! Ten o'clock high!” He shouted. He put a hand over his mask's brow line, and stared at the sky.
Tyrone spinning around and holding a button to zoom in with his goggle display, looked upward to follow the trail. He managed to track the end of the trail and saw a craft forcing its way through the dense atmosphere, pushing gas and the sound barrier aside at high speed.
The craft was elongated at its main fuselage, with two sets of fixed wings, shaped like a rhombus assembled perpendicular to the fuselage. At the rear of the craft, the thruster nozzle of its primary engine burned bright blue.
“It's a spydrone Sir. A-40.” Tyrone informed the Major. Ordlo quickly slid the last rod in place before hurrying over to the Sergeant clasping the triocular scanner assembly of his respirator helmet.

“We need to attract its attention! What have we got?” Ordlo demanded. Tyrone relaxed his posture, he was somewhat relieved he and the Major were co-operating again, though he felt pangs of guilt for having forced him to give up his cover.
“Ah, the Chaser has a flare launcher, it can be set for a one click climb.”
“Do it!” Screamed Ordlo. Tyrone hurriedly assessed the inventory of the Preyhound on his tac pad, and set the flares for maximum altitude. The next events all happened in a flurry... The dais they were standing on sharply drooped out from beneath them about three feet, causing both men to lose their footing and collapse onto its surface. The Sprint Suit lurched awkwardly but stayed upright. The pillars, slowly began to retract beneath the surface of the planet, the rods glowing brighter every second with eldritch energy, sank into the ground.
The sounds of grinding granite, and hissing sparks began to permeate the air. Ordlo and
Tyrone faltered. Dazed and confused, Ordlo, on his hands and knees watched in horror as the platform began to crack. The jagged, criss-crossing patterns of the rapidly splitting black rock, extended quickly at all angles outward toward the edges of the dais.

“Tyrone! Get the Chaser! Now! Move!” Ordlo quickly gathered himself up and rushed past the Sergeant to collect up his weapon. It had passed from his grip and skidded a dozen metres away toward the bottom left pillar of the 'square' orientation the pillars had formed.
Tyrone broke into a sprint, while nearing the Preyhound, the fracturing platform began to split and warp beneath the machine. Tyrone had seconds to climb inside it and having no time to close the armour, leaned the machine over and forced it to sprint at high speed off the dais into the snow around it. Crushing and breaking the obsidian beneath it.

The rumbling churning noise emanating from the dais, roared with the intensity of an avalanche.
Ordlo dived onto his chest and seized the pistol. Rolling onto his back, he secured it in its holster.
Approximately three metres from safety at the edge of the failing dais, Ordlo tried to leap up and run for it. He was too slow. The entire dais crumbled completely beneath him all at once, he was plunged down inside the huge square abyss into freak darkness.
Tyrone managed to get the Preyhound turned around in time to see the dais explode downward with the gravity of the planet, swallowing a desperate, faltering Ordlo into the depths of a massive yawning hole.

Tyrone, alone and panting at the edge of the pit, leaned out from the open pilot space in the Sprint Suit and saw only black. The deep void below had to be several metres down.
Some tiny drivets of snow fell from the edge of the pit into the dark below.
Tyrone swore. Unable to process what had happened. He hated the planet and its bizarre architecture. The Sergeant tried to connect his shortwave to Ordlo.
“Major! Are you alright? Major Ordlo do you copy?! Are you receiving me? ...Fuck!”

Ordlo's sight blurred and out of focus faded in and out. He blinked insistently, trying to focus. He'd been out cold for serveral minutes. Something chirped incessantly in his ears. As his eyes focussed, Ordlo could distinguish the detail of his display. A red panel flashed on and off in his periphery with a message reading; Warning: Multiple impacts detected, commence power suit intregrity scan.
The Major checked himself, his limbs for damage, and fumbled for some light in the dark surrounding him.

The lamp light poured on, Ordlo quickly patted himself down and moved as best he could. He found himself atop the rubble created from the dais that collapsed, at the bottom of a sheer pit.
He was intact, he stood up, the dust and debris from the fall sloughed off his armour and fatigues. He glanced at his wristpad. The screen was chipped and cracked, obscuring the touch tone icons. He grabbed his helmet's earpiece with a hand and flicked his comm unit to whole range frequency acceptance. He could hear a frantic, broken transmission coming from Tyrone, but it was filled with noise.
Ordlo made no attempt to reply to Tyrone. He panned his lamp around the space he found himself in. Standing on the dais rubble in near pitch black, the pit seemed to be a shaft leading into a large antechamber. Like the earlier one which used gravity-defying stones for a door. And again at one end of the ovoid room, sat a similar collection of rocks. Ordlo turned slowly, flicking his capture-frame unit on to document the find. As he turned to face a hundred and eighty degrees from where he had got up, he glimpsed another tall pyramidal rock form blocking a potential exit. Seeking to continue his investigation, Ordlo inched his way down from the crushed mess beneath him.

To his immediate front, the ceiling flattened out and spanned away from the huge square hole in the middle of the room. The room was quiet save for one sound: a steady clink clink coming from somewhere nearby. Everywhere Ordlo and Tyrone had been, they encountered the same granite-obsidian structural material, pockmarked every so often with the unknowable lenses that were always present. This room was no different. But Ordlo soon noticed what exactly made this chamber different. On the front curving wall, and spaced the same distance apart as when they were above ground, Ordlo found the pillars. He whirled around to see if the other two had also somehow become present. Sure enough he spotted them.

Ordlo slinked closer to one of the pillars. The glowing red glass cylinders were still present, but all light and colour had disappeared from them. Ordlo swept his light beam up at the ceiling directly above the pillar. It was solid granite. No holes or shafts visible. Ordlo was baffled. Nothing made sense with this mystifying technology. Its builders, either dead or had abandoned it were nowhere to be found. Ordlo slumped to a low crouch. He spent a minute trying to process the events. As he scanned the chamber, he became aware of the clinking sound again.

There, in the middle of the wall, Ordlo watched a single black cylinder, like the smooth glowing objects he had encountered earlier, floating ominously up and down over a raised podium. As it reached the podium, it struck the surface, making the distinctive clinking chime he had been hearing. Ordlo, drawn to it once more, and ever the risk taker, carefully approached it. He stepped closer and closer, caught in the hypnotic dance the cylinder performed.

“Ordlo!” Tyrone cried. He released the descender and slid down the rope.
The Major jumped and twisted around in fright. Placing the lamp beam square in Tyrone's armoured face. Tyrone's lamp light flurried around as he cursed, trying to block the light in his eyes.
“Jesus Christ Sergeant! For fuck's sake, throw a flare next time!” Ordlo hissed angrily.
Tyrone, suddenly guilty for surprising him calmy sighed and apologised. He explained that he had anchored the Preyhound above the shaft and had rappelling gear onboard. The unit's arm winches could lift them out when ready.

“Take a minute Sergeant. I'm going to see what this does.” Ordlo declared. He resumed his approach of the cylinder and its podium.
“Sir! With all due respect, we've meddled enough haven't we? You fell in here, and now you're going to do it again? What if this time the whole planet explodes?!”

The Sergeant, livid after going through all the effort to rescue the Major, a Major destined to discharge him and make him prison-bait, is now going to keep playing with some extraterrestrial fire... Are you mad?! He thought internally.

Ordlo couldn't help himself, he had to argue.
“Sergeant, these series of events have lead us here and now. Nothing like this has ever been found before on any of the worlds humanity now owns. I believe that these structures are telling us something. We've been inadvertently responding to the thing. I think it needs to be activated...”
Ordlo continued, glaring over his shoulder speaking to Tyrone with his hand outstretched in the floating cylinder's direction.
“I'm documenting these findings, humanity deserves to know what we've got here. We don't know what it does or is for. How can we know if we don't try to work it?”

Tyrone, began to fume, his rage barely in check, he lauched into a barrage of accusations:
“Twenty minutes ago, you lectured me on our objective being to survive and get off this fucking thing! Then you were ordering me to pop flares in hopes we might actually get a fucking ride out of here, NOW you want to sit here and tinker with alien toys like they're some novelty?!
Which is it sir? Huh?! Get home to our ship, or stay here and play scientist?”
Tyrone unclipped the descender from the rope and placed his hands on his hips in skeptical impatience.

Ordlo, wheeled on the Sergeant, his face hot and his choler rising... He roared a rebuke:
“Don't you get it at all?! We're fucking stuck here Tyrone! We're trapped on this icecube, just like your unit is, mine is, maybe they're dead, I don't know, but we ain't going anywhere now!
We can't talk to anyone, we can't find anyone. You know everything I know, you breached Military Law by training a weapon system in a threatening manner on a superior officer to get all my secrets outta me! What is there left to fucking do?! Huh?!”

Ordlo kept going, venting everything.
“We can't find high ground in the storm, we can't track one another or other units in it, we have to lay low, keep out of the enemy's sight and try anything that resembles a way to un-fuck this situation, this might be our key to surviving this fuck-stream of a mission!”
“And if you don't approve of my actions from now on soldier, beat it! Piss off back up that rope and find a taxi to ferry your arse back to Aeneas, otherwise, you follow my lead, and shut your mouth! Copy?!”

Tyrone was shocked. Speechless after being drilled out. None of the points Ordlo had made were lost on him. Indeed, he knew them as intimately as Ordlo did, he wasn't blind or stupid. He just couldn't bring himself to agree with the Major's plan to survive the mess they were in.
Until Ordlo showed him the futility of trying to do anything else about it. Tyrone knew where he was headed, and began to understand his resigned fate. He'd gone the full march to get Ordlo to spill his guts for him, and now all he was trying to do was keep them alive and find a solution to the problem. He snorted at the prospect of being remembered as the NCO with the worst working relationship with a ranking officer in the TASTRAS. He finally came to his senses.
“I'm very sorry Sir.” He admitted. Tyrone slouched and resigned to authority. Despite the bickering and disagreements, the two soldiers were professionally trained to adapt their tactics, orders and objectives in field. The mission perogative at the beginning of the campaign was classified Recon and Determinal Strategising. Being a low-key, or conceivably a low aggression operation based on unknown variables at play, any unit assigned to this type of op is given full jurisdiction to interdict the primary objectives if the ability to achieve these objectives is compromised. SX-02, had certainly compromised the deployed teams abilities to achieve their objectives. “Low sentiment,” stood as the only mission objective that either of the two men knew currently accomplished. “Arcsine,” without cohesion from the task force deployed on SX-02 would likely not be achieved.

Ordlo sighed, letting himself breathe, and counting down from ten. He turned to face Tyrone and with an easier, almost saddened tone said:
“Sergeant, because I've been despatched from Strategic Command to six-one-six with an agenda doesn't mean I am representative of their orders and hierarchy. I was an operator too.
I understand that my mission is hazy and devious at best, but in these conditions I can't accomplish those objectives. My only objective now, is to find out what this shit does, and if it's useful. So far, I admit it hasn't been. But if we are to co-operate as a unit I need your trust in my command. We stand a better chance if we fight through it as a unit.”

Ordlo heaved a relieved breath. Some of it misted upward to the ceiling, his lamp light caught it and cast flickering, dancing shadows on the ceiling and wall of the chamber.
“I'm grateful you came down here Sergeant. Thanks. You're an honourable soldier. I might have thought you'd leave me down here considering how pissed off you were.”
Ordlo pulled his box-drive, containing Tyrone's confrontation recording and criminal evidence, from his utility belt. He dropped it on the floor of the chamber and stomped on it, destroying his prosecution against him in a Marshalled Court.
“That drive contained the shit I needed to Court Marshal you. I don't need it anymore. Consider yourself redeemed Sergeant. Carry on!”

Tyrone was humbled by the Major's speech and change of heart. He felt he could trust the man for once. He dutifully responded:
“Yes Sir! Thank you Sir!”
Tyrone unhitched himself from the rappelling line and pressed a key on his wristpad. A second line appeared and flopped into the beam of light radiating from his helmet lamp. Down the rope came the locked case containing the rifle Tyrone had stowed on the Preyhound.
He disconnected it from the rope, popped the case open and retrieved the weapon. Slinging it across himself and wrenching the charging handle, Tyrone stood up to ask:
“What's the mission Major?”

Ordlo smiled. This was the attitude he sought from Tyrone.
“Have a look at this Sergeant.” Ordlo highlighted the floating cylinder above the podium in his lamp glow.
It continued its feeble rise and fall, all the while tapping the surface of the podium.
Tyrone gingerly navigated the marginal hill of crushed rubble down to Ordlo in a half-trance.
The two men, closed in around the podium. It was about the length and width of a bunk aboard the Aeneas. But was it was solid and immobile. Under close inspection and their combined light, the surface of the podium was carved with glyphs of weird, angular designs and half-loops. The first instance of such perceivable intelligence being rendered on the technology. Ordlo was careful to snap many images for later debriefing and reporting.
Toward the front of the podium, a smooth, rounded aperture like those of the four pillars was etched into it. The cylinder, would float down and bump the edge of the vertical groove, as if it were trying to insert itself into it, but could not. Instead, it would float back upward and continue to incline and decline.

“Could this thing be dangerous Sir?” Tyrone solicited. Now truly absorbed in the remarkable system of anti-gravitic force suspending the rod. He began to wonder if he'd worded that question correctly.
Ordlo shook his head in puzzlement.
“Nothing risked, nothing learned Sergeant. Looks like it was knocked out of alignment.” Ordlo extended his hand to clench the cylinder. It floated freely in his grasp, the anti-gravity field suspending it did not protest or immobilise the cylinder.
Tyrone could only observe in cautious anticipation.

Ordlo took the black and lifeless rod and slotted it into its one and only true home. Almost immediately, the glyphs on the podium began to glow, shifting from a dark maroon to bright scarlet. The glow emphasised their cryptic nature, each symbol radiating in unison, but lit from beneath the carved, or etched indents made in the podium's stone. The cylinder in its stone housing, also began to light up internally and pulsed with microsurges of conducted energy. Around them, the pillars began to rotate. Rising off the floor to float in mid-air while spinning faster and more rapidly with passing seconds. They stayed in their positions however, never moving around the antechamber, just hovering, rotating and reverberating energy. In each pillar the rods glowed once more, radiating light and arcing violently with golden lightning.

The build up of light and gusting ambience had the two soldiers shielding their goggles in reflexivity to the awesome spectacle. After a short time, the arcing lightning began to coalesce, each pillar firing off a fork into the centre of the chamber in bursts, until a continuous stream of sparking, sizzling light surged upward through the shaft in the chamber's ceiling. The lightning fork ascended through the lower and upper atmosphere of the planet. Collecting with the storms own electrical bombardment. The exchange of interlocking power combined, then detonated... From the single focus-point from above the energy chamber on the planet, the blast-wave radiated outward across the planet's atmosphere stripping the storm down particle by particle. All over SX-02, the change in weather conditions was instantaneous. The blizzard died, with the wind surging toward the polar regions.

From beneath the winter-hewn frost-scape above them, Ordlo and Sergeant Tyrone stared up through the shaft to the sky. It was changing colour. The clouds remained, and were as dense as earlier. But their constitution had shifted from pure white to grizzled grey and in places, some gentler snowfall had begun. The sky itself became a deep blue after seeming to be an acerbic white. Lastly, in the periphery of the world viewed from its surface, the blazing brilliance of SX-02's local sun. Blue and shining magnificent, the star dominated the horizon.

Within seconds of the storm abating, and the atmosphere of the planet normalising, huge volumes of transmission traffic flooded the Major's and Sergeant's communication suites.
Radar and motion tracking equipment functioned correctly, and an uplink re-established with the satellites in orbit, enabling the using of the positioning system.
The voices heard by Tyrone and the Major were mostly ecstatic, relieved individual units finally able to liaise and co-ordinate effectively.

Almost without thinking, Ordlo rambled off his Callsign, name and rank on a direct channel to the TASTRAS command group, he swore as he got a garbled response, tapping at his damaged wrist-computer's screen. He instructed the Sergeant-Major to get topside and find a clear signal.
Tyrone promptly climbed back up the rubble and clipped himself onto the rappelling rope.
With a curt press of a button, the Sergeant disappeared up the shaft to the surface.

“Repeat? Does anyone copy? This is Ordlo, six-one-six group, we have restored communications planetside over!” Ordlo switched off. Lingering in the chamber. He turned around to admire what the chamber had done. The pillars were still rotating. Floating above the floor. However, their radiating energy and lightning production capability had ceased. Ordlo then became aware of a peculiar phenomenon occuring, the temperature had dropped considerably in the chamber, in contrast to a slight increase during the chambers powerful operation. Ice and a layer of frost began to form over every surface of the chamber. It spread rapidly, solidifying and cooling the chamber. Ordlo felt the icy ambience plummet sharply before his armour adjusted itself.

It struck Ordlo then in a moment of pure realisation, the chamber was a cryogenic stasis enclosure. For however long the primitive-looking, but incredibly advanced and powerful machinery had laid there in the planet's surface, it had caused the change of SX-02's atmosphere. The whole planet had been plunged into a perpetual snowstorm for an unknown duration, until the malfunctioning generator discovered by himself and Tyrone had been rectified. Ordlo mused at how such a comparatively small system could effect the atmosphere of a planet. He was also certain to have restored some trust from Tyrone now they had solved the comms issue. At least for a while.

Above ground, Tyrone boosted his outgoing transmissions with a signal amplifier in the Preyhound:
-Regal Cell, Regal Cell, this is Ultra One One Actual radio check in the blind over.-
“Ultra One One Actual, Regal Cell, radio uplink confirmed, solid copy. Good to finally hear some voices down there.”
-Affirmative Cell, it's good to be squawking. Unit requests a secondary tactical scan of terrain planetside, geography and positional telemetry to upload on squad over.-
“Ultra One One Actual, request granted. Tactical overlay in fourty-one mikes break. Cell orders and reassignment to follow. Standby.”

“Ultra One One Actual, all fireteams are entrained on global rendezvous: grid reference is seven-two-nine and twelve minutes by three-three-seven and thirty one minutes. All units are to converge on this position and await further orders. Copy?”
-Affirmative Regal Cell, Ultra One One Actual out.-
Tyrone switched back to squad and section comm frequency to call the Major.
“Major? Control has our comms, clean signal and data-stream broadcasting. All traffic sent. We've got our exit strategy.”
Tyrone waited anxiously for Ordlo to respond. He was taking longer than expected.
“Sergeant it's freezing down here.” Came Ordlo's reply. Not what Tyrone expected.
What?! He thought to himself. Not sure if the Major had understood him clearly or if he had gone mad in the last few minutes.
“Er, yes sir, its still cold up here too...”
Ordlo realised abruptly, that Tyrone wasn't seeing what he was.
“Negative Sergeant. The chamber is freezing over, ice is forming on all surfaces. Temperature is falling below minus thirty.”
Tyrone was perplexed. He suggested Ordlo document it and haul himself topside with it for debriefing later.

“Did you copy my last Major?” The Sprint Suit eased back and steadied. Tyrone stood by. The pilot's canopy and control suite had partially filled with snow in the preceding storm. Tyrone scooped lumps of it out and let it fall down into the shaft.
“I copy Sergeant. Ascending now.”
Ordlo attached himself to the rappelling rope and signalled the Sergeant to extract him.
Upon mounting the edge of the shaft, Ordlo hauled himself to his feet, disconnecting from the rope line - he stared upward at the sky in amazement.
On a spare memory module from Desoto's box drive, Ordlo entered a recording of his theory on what the structure was, and could be used for, he outlined the steps and events taken place to include in his report.

Ordlo depressurised his headgear, unfastening the seal around his throat and pulling the respirator-helmet off his head. He breathed the stilling air. Vastly different now it had calmed to little more than a mild breeze. Ordlo felt gleeful at being able to think clearly without the endless roar of a snow storm to contend with.
He had pasty white features, gaunt from having spent three days inside a powersuit with little nutrition. Ordlo fished into a pouch to retrieve a cloth. He wiped his slowly weeping nostrils. A side effect of Shock Cold.

Tyrone, inspired by the Major, removed his headgear in earnest also. Savouring the cold, crisp taste of a fresh world, harshly beaten by its own weather system, now given pause to recover.
Tyrone ran a hand through his buzzcut. He sank into the Preyhound's clutches. A short interval here would be beneficial. Tyrone blinked his eyelids fluttering over green irises, adjusting to the normal, though harshly edged light of SX-02. Lacking electronic light filtering, Tyrone surmised it may take time for his eyes to cope unassisted.
Somewhere behind them, Tyrone and Ordlo heard the unmistakeable pop and hiss of a flare being fired up into the atmosphere. Both turned to locate the direction it was launched from.
It was relatively close, less than seven hundred metres away.
In Ordlo's headset unit, he received a tone indicating an outside hail, a request to communicate.
No radio frequency was banded with the beamed message. Ordlo switched to etherphotonic triangulation, but his tac pad could not locate the source of the signal blip without the topography data Tyrone requested.

“Someone's out there. We had best link up and make for the rendezvous. I'm getting a message blip on tight-beam Sergeant, it could be a transponder. Lets move out.”
Tyrone sealed the Sprint Suit. He clanked, wheezed and thumped along the terrain alongside Ordlo.
Ordlo hung his respirator from his rig. From his sidearm he relinquished the magazine to count ammunition. He'd have an adequate supply for a short standoff but not a prolonged firefight.
The flare over the high dunes of snow was friendly. And Tyrone had enough firepower to level a camp, but no plan survives first contact.

“Switch to Motion Tracking and Radar/Lidar Sergeant, see if you get the same blip I do.”
Ordlo extended both hands forward, firmly gripping the laser-assisted pistol as he marched through the deep powder.
Tyrone pressed a tab on a panel infront of him and a hovering blue dome appeared to dominated a position of his display which did not obstruct his view, but let him track the system for anomalies, signals and movement from up to one hundred metres in a three-hundred-sixty degree arc. Only Ordlo's blip chimed in his ears and flashed on the grid-dome.

Ordlo, without the assistance of his heads-up display and tactical computer, ensured he watched left, right, and behind their advance. Aways recalling the position they had seen the flare and continued to press on.
As they reached the four hundred metre mark from the position the flare was fired, Ordlo broke radio silence in an attempt to contact the operator who sent up the flare. No response.
Tyrone in the Preyhound reported nothing new developing yet from his scanning.
Ordlo kept broadcasting, mentioning callsign, unit and position.

The two men were interrupted by the overhead whoosh of a flyer. They looked to the skies to get eyes on the thing. The drone was back. Possibly drawn to the fired flare aswell.
Ordlo synced up to the datastream from the drone via his damaged tac pad. He replaced his respirator on his head to make use of the audio-visual suite.
The drone flew a low pass beneath the cloud blanket. Ordlo knelt in the snow to view the camera angles seen by the drone. An aerial view of the terrain infront of himself and Tyrone proved to be an infinitely better navigation system than previously available sources. He overlayed a grid pattern onto the flight path the drone was taking, he could see a top-down perspective of the flare's trail lingering in the atmosphere.

Below that, Ordlo spied a pair of arms waving at the drone from the ground.
Ordlo zoomed in on the distressed silhouette. The gear worn by the individual was dark grey, black strapping and an aviation helmet and mask. They also had an orange reflective survival blanket draped across their shoulders. Some strewn debris and clutter lay near to their position.
Ordlo figured it must be Lieutenant Desoto.

“What's the drone got to say Major?” Tyrone enquired. He kept moving the Preyhound on through the snow. Large heavy prints lay behind him and stretched back to the Hydra's crash site.
“It looks like our wayward Lieutenant from the angle we got Sergeant. She's trying to get the drone's attention, her gear must be dead.” Ordlo answered. He rose up from his crouch in the snow and severed the uplink with the drone. He ordered Tyrone to light up his IFF beacon and transponder, the drone's program should adjust its patrol route to keep tabs on them and to allow them to use it.

They marched onward over small hillocks of snow, and gulleys filled with deep silt.
Ordlo had more difficulty negotiating the terrain than Tyrone.
The Sprint Suit able to overstep the boundaries inherent in the human body.
Despite being in a powersuit, and it handling most of the exertions, Ordlo felt exhaustion settling on him. However they had rounded the last mound to see a friendly pair of hands signalling them a greeting.