Old Glory Chapter 1

The inside of the Pandion transport was blocky, military, and stripped bare of comfort, a machine built with no thought for anything but function. Based loosely on the old Osprey designs, its tilt-rotors had long since been replaced by advanced thrusters mounted on swept wings, giving it the ability to hover and lurch through hostile skies. The cabin was narrow and close, lined with exposed struts and steel benches that rattled as the craft shifted. None of the six soldiers aboard, nor their ground combat drone, had much space to move, knees and shoulders pressed together in the tight confines. The portholes were little more than slits, showing glimpses of cold mist and swamp beneath them, a landscape of endless grey clouds and choked foliage. The engines rumbled with a steady, weary hum, vibration running through the deck plates as the Pandion flew low over the trees.

At the front sat Sergeant Jacob Albrect, known to the others as Valkyrie-5. He was tall and broad, built like a tank, with close-cropped hair and stern, chiselled features that lent him the look of carved stone. Heavy burn scars coiled around his neck and crawled up one cheek, a gristly mark that made his already severe face more intimidating still. His uniform and armor fit his frame like a second skin, the carapace plating giving him a hulking presence. Years as an NCO had left him seasoned and unyielding, the only veteran of the old world in the squad, and the one chosen to lead them. His tactical mind was sharp, second to none, honed by countless deployments both before and after the Collapse. His Mark 9 carbine was locked into its holder at his side, his carapace armor wrapped around him, every system green. He studied the mission orders on his wrist computer, his expression fixed in practiced calm. He had been assigned as the commander of Valkyrie-5, one of a dozen units under the callsign, tasked with long-distance scouting and support.

To his left sat Corporal Hanna Silph, her dark blonde hair cut into a rough pageboy trim. In another world she might have been a surfer girl, her Hawaiian features and lithe figure suggesting a life very different from this. But her eyes told another story, one written in loss and struggle. She had been conscripted after the fall of the Pacific theater, the only one of her family to make it to the mainland before her home state vanished under the storm. Her short hair framed her face, giving her a severe look, her elfin features carved into a perpetual glare. On her best days she was cold, on her worst she was cutting, and she took no nonsense from anyone, as more than one person had learned. Her helmet rested in her lap, arms folded across it, her gaze fixed on nothing.

Beside her was Private First Class Arjun Doggit, the squad’s medic. Despite his Indian heritage, he had chosen to take his mother’s maiden name, a quiet rebellion that had stirred discontent in his father’s family, though it never deterred him from pursuing medicine. He had been a nurse before the world ended, and now he carried the team’s uploaded medical skillset through his Skillwire implant. His demeanor was friendly, a flicker of warmth that never seemed to fade in a sea of grimness. He carried his Mark 9 configured as a shotgun, and strapped to his exoskeleton was a titanium battle-shield, one of the few to do so.

Private Bert Powell sat opposite him, wiry and nervous, with thinning hair and sharp features that would have looked more at home behind a desk with an accounting book and a calculator. He had always been a nervous man, and no amount of Skillwire augmentation could fully smother that anxiety. Oddly, it made him even more dangerous, because when fear gripped him he tended to overkill whatever set him off, and usually by a lot. His Mark 9 was configured for squad support, the weapon almost too large for him, yet always clutched with tense familiarity, as though it was both lifeline and outlet.

Next to him was Private David Hotchkiss, a man with the genial swagger of a slick conman and a mind like a steel trap. Once a lawyer, he carried himself with practiced charm and calm ease, but found his calling during the Collapse. Combat, it seemed, agreed with him. When his blood was up, he thrived, every grin carrying the challenge of someone determined to come out ahead. Beneath the surface, he relished the rush of the fight and the clarity it brought him. His calm voice and practiced ease put others at rest, but it was in the roar of battle that his focus cut razor-sharp. His Mark 9 carried a compact grenade launcher, his role in the squad clear: he was their grenadier.

The last two were the Jaynes, twin siblings who seemed to take joy in appearing identical in every possible way, mirroring each other in dress, mannerism, and movement. Both had volunteered together and seemed to work best when side by side, their coordination uncanny.

Mitch Jayne liked to stir the pot. He kept a grin ready and his platinum hair tied in a bun under his helmet, always looking for a chance to needle Powell or tweak Doggit's nose. He was the twin who ended up on Corporal Silph's shitlist more than once, and had the blisters to prove it, holding the current record for most laps around the Ark because of it. Still, the man was confident, cocky even, and had earned every bit of that swagger.

Marie Jayne was the counterweight, the order to Mitch's chaos, though she had her own brand of humor all the same. She mirrored his look and dress but as soon as she opened her mouth it wasn't hard to tell which twin she was, almost awkwardly shy in her own. She let Mitch take the lead more often than not, while she was the steady backup for when he got in over his head.. Together the two were a force to be reckoned with, and could coordinate with an almost preternatural grace.

At the center of the transport crouched their four-legged Doberman combat drone. Medium-light in frame, it ran on four gyroscopically coordinated legs that kept it balanced across any terrain. It carried extra supplies and spare power packs, with a heavy suppression variant of the Mark 9 mounted firmly across its back. Its combat AI was among the most advanced available, capable of semi-independent thought and nuanced enough to follow orders or act on its own. For now the machine sat idle, posture mimicking a dog at rest, but its sensors glowed in quiet readiness.

Albrect lifted his head from the wrist computer and cleared his throat. The steady drone of the Pandion’s engines filled the pause, rattling the benches and vibrating through the deck plates. Conversation bled away into silence as helmets shifted and eyes turned toward him.

“Heimdall-9 went dark,” he said evenly, his voice carrying over the hum. “Odin Command wants to know why. We’re the only recon squad available. Our job is to find them and report back. Radio comms have been failing all over, and the last four incidents came down to broken network links. Command thinks this might be the same, but they still want eyes on it. Magni-14's scouts reported unusually aggressive animals in the area. Big wolves. So we go careful.”

Mitch gave a low whistle, the sound sharp in the cramped cabin. “Great. Lost squad, busted radios, and big bad wolves. Sounds like a bad fairy tale.”

“Shut it, Jayne,” Silph snapped, her voice cutting through the hum of the engines. “Save the comedy for after we’re wheels up and home again.”

Hotchkiss chuckled, leaning back against the trembling bench as the Pandion dipped slightly. “Easy, Corporal. Kid’s just blowing steam. No harm in a little noise before the busy work starts.”

Marie smacked her brother on the helmet with a gloved hand, the tap audible even over the drone of the engines. “Behave, Mitch.”

Powell shifted uneasily, the vibration of the deck making his words sound even tighter. “What if it’s not just wolves? What if Heimdall-9 ran into something worse?”

Mitch grinned, jabbing a thumb at him. “And here comes the sunshine. Relax, Bert. If it’s worse, we’ll just shoot more of it.”

The cabin answered with a mix of laughter and groans, the sound rolling with the thrum of the engines. Outside, the mist pressed against the portholes while the Doberman drone shifted, its limbs scraping faintly against the deck as it adjusted its stance.

Albrect let the noise settle, then raised his voice over the engines. “Five minutes to drop. Get your shit wired and stay sharp. This goes by the numbers.” Helmets shifted, straps tightened, and carbines came free of their mounts as the squad set about checking gear with practiced efficiency.