A large body slid into the seat to Nadja's immediate right, pulling her from her thoughts. It was a marine. The EV-suited gate crew was redistributing the load on the half-empty drop-ship in anticipation of departure. The whirring of the autopilot said drop was imminent.

"Where are you in from, sergeant?" Nadja asked over the autopilot and other noises that had erupted in the cabin.

"Ma'am ...? Oh, Clem's World. We're part of the 1107th Force Recon stationed there." The voice was the same that had scolded Pvt. Christian previously. "You're the new civil affairs officer from State Department?"

"Yes, sorry." Nadja extended her hand. The young marine's grip was hard and firm. "I was still under when you folks came onboard. I'm Nadja ... Nadja Bikram."

"Mandy Lyn, sergeant type," the lean woman smiled back. The youngish marine hesitated. "We weren't supposed to bother you ... orders."

Nadja laughed. "Don't worry. I won't break."

"I didn't think so. Did you say earlier you've dropped before?"

"A number of times. It's usually not as bad as they say."

The young marine bit her lip. It was a trick to avoid smiling that Nadja had often seen among military types. It only partly worked now. "The platoon planet-side lost a troop transport in the Central Desert almost five months ago." The marine glanced to Nadja's two assistants. "We don't suspect hostile fire, but you might have your team buckle up tight."

Nadja glanced over just to make sure the newlyweds were properly harnessed and felt the sudden queasiness that meant the gravity plating and inertial negators were adjusting to the drop-ship having disengaged. A quick glance aft showed the hatch was sealed. The load crew had departed the fully-automated drop-ship without a word.

The intermittent flight instructions and safety briefing the AI had been broadcasting for the past five minutes had offered no warning of any potential danger, but a combat drop was mandatory if even the slightest possibility of shooting trouble arose along the frontier. Real hazards were quite rare, and the precautions largely were once-size-fits-all and of doubtful efficacy, but it was what it was. The drop-ship would race for the surface and once in the atmosphere turn, pitch, and roll before shooting at near ground level to the general vicinity of their destination. A sudden ascent then would take them to the sub-orbital platform that was the planetary survey team HQ for Skiathos.

The gravity/inertia systems for the vessel could only do so much, so it would be an unpleasant experience, and it crossed her mind to warn her acolytes-she previously had assured them the drop would be uneventful. But it was a little late now. The whole mess would all be over in ten minutes or less.

As a second thought, she reached over and snatched two sickness-bags from the seatbacks in front of her and handed one to each.

***

The disagreeable odor in the passenger compartment as they began to disembark said at least one of the marines had not taken the drop well—it had been like a sled-ride to Hell—and Nadja hoarded a secret delight that Ken and Janet both had left their bags unused on their seats. In fact, Ken had the wherewithal, albeit on somewhat rubbery legs, to ask what all the fuss was about. Apparently, despite Nadja's initial reassurances to the contrary, the drop had been much as he and his bride had anticipated.

Ten minutes later, Nadja emerged with her bags, the last off the transport, into the warm sun of Skiathos.

Her first view of the sun-drenched world below took her breath away. The platform on which they were perched hovered nearly ten kilometers above the alien land. And from where she stood, that world seemed to go on forever in subtle shades of tan, grey, and brown intermixed with occasional patches of green and sparse but vivid swirls of color. Skiathos, for all its brutal heat, deadly fauna, and wild unpredictability was a thing of beauty, pure and unrepentant.

Placing down her bags and stepping to the platform rail, she realized she could smell it. Even here, at ten-thousand meters, masked in the platform's electronic camouflage shroud, the planet reeked of spice and perfume, flower and flora, death and decay, and raw and unyielding life. It was her first desert, her first truly wild planet. She'd never imagined a place so arid could be such an assault upon the senses. But with all that, the place smelled so ... clean, the air so fresh.

"I need your hand, ma'am."

She glanced over and saw a medical corps technician and lazily reached out with her right hand for stamping. The incoming passengers would need to stay 'top-side' on the platform for thirty days until the medical officer ensured that their CAP treatment had indeed acclimated them and that no debilitating side effects of the highly invasive treatments afflicted them. She crossed her heart inwardly—six months in an isolation chamber (or, worse, a trauma pod) until she could be evacuated was not something she hoped to experience, not after all this. But she couldn't take her eyes from the planet and scolded herself for having placed her field optics in her hold baggage.

"It's not going anywhere, ma'am," said the technician, a smile in her voice. "I was the same way when I first got here. The beauty of the whole thing makes up for not getting to go planet-side."

Of course. Only a small number of personnel were permitted to descend and risk interacting with the locals. Encounters with the lacertians during the last seven years had been perplexing. The natives showed no outward signs of hostility, were actually quite friendly, but the socio-cultural teams that had ventured down to meet with the humanoids had been sorely disappointed. Their hosts mostly had restricted their movements to the lesser of the race's two caste strata, the study of which had been fruitless.

"It's just a joy to watch." Nadja couldn't contain herself.

"Part of that's the gravity," the medic corrected. "Everyone feels it when they get here."

"Oh, right." The gravity on space-liners customarily was set at twenty-percent above old Earth normal to compensate for heavier planets, of which there were many, and Skiathos was fifteen percent below normal. The sudden release of gravity stepping from the drop-ship had left Nadja feeling slightly buoyant, both physically and otherwise. On Skiathos, she weighed barely fifty kilos.

The medic appeared to have completed her bio-stamping, and from the sound of it, the young woman was putting away her gear. "Ma'am, keep hydrated. It's cool this high up, but the sun is still powerful. Eat. Most important, sleep. CAP won't reset your body clock, so get to bed early tonight and force yourself to get up in the morning. Don't worry about the sticker on your hand; we'll let you know if there are any problems. Oh ... and, don't step over the rails. The gravity eddies holding this place up are fun to bounce on, but they fluctuate. That first step is a doozy."

Before Nadja could reply, a male voice came from farther down the platform.

"Dr. Bikram?"

Nadja turned to see the other passengers had gone, probably below for in-processing, and a young man was approaching with his hand extended. She took the proffered hand with a squeeze. "Sergeant Matthews," she said after glancing at the etching on his uniform. "Is Captain Carruthers available?"

"Dead, ma'am," said the NCO as he might comment on the weather.

"Sorry to hear that. Report." It was many decades since Nadja's naval service, but she'd worked occasionally with the military since. If the sergeant was surprised by the brusqueness, he made no sign. Soldiers and marines responded best to direct language.

"Marine 3-1 dropped from six-hundred meters at grid 2663-442-10 on 4-4-28. The time was about 1100 hours local time, and the transport was returning from a survey of a potential engagement site for the linguistic team. There were eleven PAX aboard, but we only recovered four bodies."

"The rest?" she asked.

"Dunno, ma'am. No survivors, and those power cells burn hot when they've been damaged."

"Who'd you lose beside Carruthers?"

"Gunny ... Gunnery Sergeant Nice, Dr. Downey and both of her assistants, and six marines from first squad."

"Well, piss," Nadja muttered. She and Melissa Downey hadn't been friends, but she'd known the woman for close to twenty years and was supposed to be her replacement. "What happened?"

"Unclear, ma'am. Maintenance says they likely had engine trouble—there's a silicate in the sand here that plays hell with the power units and converters, and the electromagnetics of this rock are fucking bizarre. But Chief Eddy couldn't be certain the victor didn't take particle weapons fire, so we've been on alert since."

"Where's Dr. Wray?"

The young marine cleared his voice. "He went planet-side two months ago ... alone ... and we haven't seen him since."

"Oh, for chrissake," she whispered. Gunter Wray was a bio-anthropologist and ostensibly the civilian project manager. "Who's in command now?"

"That'd be you, ma'am." The young marine caught the glare Nadja shot him. "Chief isn't an unrestricted line officer, and Dr. Sokay is a contract employee. I've been running things since Dr. Wray skipped off ... well, even before that."

Nadja felt her temper rise but suppressed it. Her assignment had been to work a single problem, one that haunted her. She had no intention of getting bogged down with a mountain of extra duties, but she was a State Department officer. And though this was a military-led mission, she was obliged to iron things out and, if necessary, to take charge. Piss, she thought to herself. Piss.

"Okay," she sighed. "Point me toward the CP and have the squad leaders join me there in twenty."