Two AH-404U helicopter gunships cruised just a few hundred metres above the bleak surface of the planetoid. The three gunners in each helo peered out through their hatches, binoculars pressed to their faces, searching among the melting snow. Spring had sprung and there were only small drifts of snow left in the dips and folds of the land. There was no sign of their objective, a lone Marine on foot. Once every minute, the co-pilot of the lead gunship would key his radio, holding his helmet mike close to his lips.
“Charlie Seven Niner, Charlie Seven Niner, this is Star Four One. Charlie Seven Niner, Charlie Seven Niner, this is Star Four One. Over.”
The gunships continued to cruise onward. The lead pilot keyed his own radio, on a different channel, to speak to the other gunship and to their home base.
“Star Eight Eight, Star Four One, we’re reaching the edge of the search zone. In sixty seconds, come right to heading Zero Four Zero, over.”
“Four One, roger, in sixty come right to Zero Four Zero, over.”
Onboard Star 88, two combat medics sat cross-legged in the passenger bay with the gunner crew. The lead medic checked his watch; they’d been on the search for about a half hour. The Marine had been in the field for a few minutes shy of 131 hours—five and a half days—without back-up, carrying only a cube ration kit to supplement the standard PCH and battle backpack full of equipment and rations. The lead medic had a radio earpiece in, tuned to the same frequency as the Star 41 co-pilot.
“Charlie Seven Niner, Charlie Seven Niner, this is Star Four One. Charlie Seven Niner, Charlie Seven Niner, this is Star Four One, over.”
As usual, there was nothing but static for an answer.
“Star Four One, this is Charlie Seven Niner,” came a female voice. “I am a ground callsign. I have visual on two aircraft north of my position tracking east to west at long range, over.”
The medic jumped and signalled to his partner. “She’s on comms,” he shouted over the howling of the turbines. His partner gave two thumbs up and a grin. For a patient to be able to answer a radio call is a good sign, in search-and-rescue terms.
“Charlie Seven Niner, Star Four One, that’s us. Signal your location, over.”
“Four One, standby, over.”
“Seven Niner roger, standing by, over.”
The medics started preparing their equipment as the gunships slowed into barely more than a hover. The portside gunner pointed with an open hand, talking into his intercom set. Sure enough, there was an intermittent flash of light a few kilometres away, with a weaker but more rhythmical flash almost on top of it. The two gunships banked around and flew toward the flashing lights, visible even in daylight. As they drew closer, Star 41 worked its way higher and higher to provide security, while Star 88 glided down smoothly until the landing gear were in danger of clipping the ground. The starboard sliding door was hauled open, and the lead medic leaned a little way out into the blasting wind, pulling a pair of goggles down over his eyes. As they closed in on the flash, they made out a figure in alpine white Marine Corps cold-weather gear, standing on a low hump of muddy ground beside a stream. The Marine lowered her hands, sure that they could see her. She had been using the signal mirror from her ration cube, bouncing the sun’s rays at the aircraft. The weaker flash had been an emergency strobe she wore clipped to the shoulder strap of her PCH. At her feet sat the ration cube and her battle pack. Star 88 touched down fifty metres away from the Marine as the two medics slid out onto their feet and ran forward, rifles ready and aimed low. As per standard procedure, the Marine sank to her knees and folded her hands on top of her helmet: even since way back in the days of Earth, too many rescue crews had been lost to enemy soldiers wearing stolen uniforms for them to take chances. In a ‘hot’ extraction, rescue teams would often cuff and carry downed pilots and stranded soldiers to the helicopter, checking their identity only once the bird was airborne and well away from danger. The medics circled around, one watching with rifle at the ready while the other approached the Marine, who simply watched them through the eyeslit of her white ski mask. Her eyes were dark pools in a green-skinned face. She looked alert and intelligent, but the set of her expression—what little could be seen through the mask, at any rate—was hardened and battle-weary.
The medic slung his rifle and knelt in front of the Marine. “Identify.”
“Recruit Veraa Kul’hura, First Recruit Training Battalion,” she replied calmly.
The medic checked the patches on her left sleeve, noting the white rank tab and the surname and blood type patches. “Are you wounded at all?”
“No, Corporal.”
“Okay, let’s get rid of that mask.”
She tugged the front of the ski mask down under her chin. He checked her face against an index sheet of photos and nodded to his partner, who immediately slung his rifle and came over to help. They helped her to shrug into her pack, and the three of them hustled to the waiting gunship. As soon as the door was closed and the helo had sprung lightly away from the ground, the medic checked his watch again. “Recruit Kul’hura,” he shouted, “you lasted a hundred and thirty-one hours and four minutes. You were the last pick-up.”
She unbuckled her helmet with one hand while the other kept her rifle secure in her lap, peeled back the top of the mask, and freed a mop of shaggy red hair that was looking a little dishevelled after three months of endless drill, drill, drill. “Last pick-up?” she asked hoarsely. “So I won it?”
“You did indeed. Well done.”
Recruit Kul’hura grinned. “Thank you, Corporal.”
Life on the Fringes 