The two Marines move through a vast, dark cryopod compartment, drifting soundlessly in their heavy power armor. The only illumination comes from the pinpoint streaks of blue light zipping through the space, marking the paths of micro-drones as they tirelessly map and scan the area. 

Rows of cryopods fill the large, exceptionally low-oxygen compartment, their surfaces coated with a thin layer of frost, giving the room an eerie atmosphere. Considering its apparent age, Gunny finds it surprising that this room still holds oxygen. The soft hum of the drones' tiny xenon plasma drives breaks the silence, adding to the sense of isolation in the derelict ship.

All the cryopod storage rooms straddled the now stationary spin section in the forward third of the ship. Passing row after row of dead cryostasis pods, they finally came to the one that the drone had found of significant interest. In the pitch dark, the gleaming lights of an active cryopod shine like a beacon for the Marines.

Once beside the cryopod, she settled onto the deck, her magnetic soles reengaged. Now that all the AIs are familiar with the languages used on the ancient wreck, it takes mere microseconds to translate. 

She takes a moment, notes several error warnings and indications of partial failures on the cryopod, and ensures that she sends the information to the SAR teams. Leaning over the cryopod with Jep, she scraped away some of the fine layer of frost. The Marines observe the face of a sleeping young, pretty woman with shoulder-length dark brunette hair.

Well, shit, she thinks to herself. Sister, I am not sure if waking you up is the right thing to do or not. I wonder if we have the right to haul you out of your cryopod. You expected to wake up in a new colony on a new world, not on some worn-out Mars Navy ship. 

“Would it be kinder to unplug her?” Gunny wondered aloud, but not enough to trigger her microphone.

“Gunny, is she still alive?” Jep asked from the other side of the pod, breaking into her musing.

“In a manner, yes. She is still frozen in cryosleep, Jep, but her cryopod is malfunctioning. We might not be able to safely wake her up. It is on the squid doctors to make that call. We just report what we find.”

“Gunny, the drones report that only a few of these ancient cryopods are still working.” She watched as Jep scanned the drone information stream. “Malfunctions and failures have been noticed on all of the working cryopods. Gunny, these pods, they fuckin’ belong in a museum.”

She lightly touches the malfunctioning cryopod with the sleeping woman in it. Sister, she thought, you are in for a fucking shock. If I were religious, I would pray for you.

“Jep, are you religious?”

“Yeah, Gunny I am. Why?”

“You might offer prayers or whatever you do for the survivors. They have been asleep for nearly 500 years.”

“Oh fuck!”

“Well said Jep.”

“Jep, did you notice the name and builder ID plates on her cryopod?”

“No. Gunny, I couldn't read it.”

“Have your armor’s AI translate it for you Jep. You should have had your armor’s AI slaved to your neural net.”

“I did that when I put my armor on, Gunny.”

“Have you named or started developing your armor’s AI?”

“Not yet, Gunny. They taught us that in boot camp. Not counting sims, I only have a few hours in armor. This is the longest I've worn my armor.”

“The more you wear your armor the more you and the AI will become partners. Try addressing the AI as a person, it helps with the development and integration."

"Ok, Gunny."

"Be patient, it takes time for a new armor AI to develop."

"How long?"

"Everybody is different. Some may take up to a year to fully develop and integrate."

"That's a long time."

"The AI will follow you to any suit of armor you wear.”

“Ok. Thanks for the tips, Gunny.”

“Part of my job. Jep, did you at least engage auto-translate?”

“I did Gunny.”

Her green laser pointer highlighted the cryopod builder’s tag. “All of the cryopods were made in ancient Russia,” she explained. “The AIs have identified numerous writings in several languages, including ancient Armenian, English, Estonian, Latvian, Lithuanian, Russian, and a bit of Polish. It appears that ancient English was their common language.” 

“They didn’t have neural nets, right Gunny? They had to do it the hard way by memorization.”

“Correct, Jep.” With her laser pointer, she highlights text on a different plate on the malfunctioning pod. “According to the AIs, her pod’s ID plate is written in ancient Latvian. She is a space merchant mariner Lieutenant, Jep. Her first name is Leva.”

“What’s a space-fuckin’ merchie looie doing on an ark ship?”

“Probably ship’s crew.”

A beeping noise alerted her to the fact that the drones had located several other malfunctioning but active cryopods with survivors.

“Hang tight, Jep. I need to call this in."

"Ok, Gunny."

"Take a knee, Jep, this might take a while."

She watched as Jep kneeled on the deck. Peering through his faceplate, she witnessed his suit administering an Apex Burn-Brite Energy Chew. The small, bright blue, rubbery, caffeine-free, energy-packed cubes taste like gritty battery acid.

"The ships should receive all our data. I want to make sure they know we discovered multiple survivors inside malfunctioning cryopods."

The squids need to send techs over quickly to retrieve these poor fucks. This is going to be like throwing an armed nuke grenade into a packed zero-g alt-rave concert, she thought. After a brief and nearly uncontrolled rapid-fire discussion with both of the ship’s commanding officers, with medical and civilian “experts” often cutting in, Gunny Habich turned to Jep.

“Jep, mark her pod with an IR beacon. Like I thought the space squids are in a real fucking hurry to get her back to the Nyasaland. The SAR teams are in EVA. They are just a few minutes behind the R&A teams.”

She notes that in her HUD, SSgt Metz and the Marines with him are about a third of the way towards the aft end of the wreck.

"Sergeant Metz, the R&A teams are holding about five minutes away. The SAR teams are a few minutes behind them."

"Great. All we need is a bunch of rookie space squids drifting in space. The Nyasaland's special engineering R&A team landed a few minutes ago. I'm talkin' to the team lead so we can coordinate."

"Good. Metz keep me appraised."

"Copy, Gunny. Once the engineers take care of those fucked up reactors, they will connect a series of power relays from the Nyasaland to this wreck."

"The squids will need steady and reliable power clearing this wreck."

“Correct, Gunny,” SSgt. Metz replied, trying not to roll his eyes. “I’ve been talking to the squid engineering R&A team’s Senior Chief Fedelmid, one of the finest nuclear power techs I’ve ever met. We served together many years ago on the heavy cruiser Shiloh. Nyasaland's MPA, Lieutenant Commander MacOghain is also here. I remember him from his rather eventful middie cruise.”

“How many nuclear power techs have you known, Metz?”

“Just the senior chief. He helped save what was left of the old Shiloh after a collision with a cloaked pirate ship. The collision obliterated the forward third of our ship, killing and injuring the senior officers leaving then Ensign, provisional, Mac in command as the senior surviving officer fit for command.”

"What happened to the pirates?"

"Don't know Gunny. We searched, but could only find scattered fragments. We were fortunate to survive."

“I hope that the chief's good fortune continues.”

“Me too, Gunny, me too. Commander Mac and Chief Fed are a hard team to beat. We’re waiting on the squids to finish cutting holes in the hull for us to sweep the engineering spaces.”

“Copy, Metz. Keep yourselves safe.”

“Will do, Gunny. You keep safe as well.”

“But, Gunny,” Pfc. Jep whined after her conversation with SSgt. Metz ended. “We haven't swept the whole wreck yet. Won’t the SAR teams bitch about us failing to clear the wreck before they get in here?”

"Both skippers know that the few Marines I have could not have swept a wreck this size so quickly."

Pfc. Jep points at the sleeping woman with his laser pointer. “Are the squids certain they can pop and thaw a fuckin’ meat popsicle this old and have her survive?”

“They are certainly going to fucking try," she snapped. Jep's whining grated on her nerves. She takes a deep calming breath.

 "We continue our sweep."

"Ok, Gunny."

"Who knows, Jep, we might stumble upon a xenomorph for you to shoot with that grenade launcher you are so fond of. Hard to believe you still scored expert after shooting one of your drills in the ass.”

“It was an accident, Gunny.”

“Sure it was? Were you not trying to get back at SSgt. Metz for riding your ass so hard in boot camp? I understand he continued pushing you and did not think you were fit to join my Marine Corps.”

“Gunny,” SSgt. Metz cut in on their private channel. “Once we drove the Martian slum shithead ganger out of Jep, he really turned around. One of my best boots in my final boot camp platoon. I was proud to graduate Jep, despite him shooting me in the ass. Fuckin’ sim rounds hurt.”

“No, Gunny,” Pfc. Jep said, bringing her attention back to the very eager, young, and inexperienced Marine. 

SSgt. Metz’s comments prompted her to delve into Pfc. Jep’s background quickly. After leaving Chendiuria, but before entering cryo herself, she had briefly scanned the service jackets of her Marines. She had forgotten the profound impact of Jep’s past on his present. 

Jep, a narod, a somewhat derogatory term for a general non-citizen, dole-receiving, non-working Mars slum populace member, hails from the deeply subterranean Orcus Patera City. OPC is home to one of the most extensive, most notorious, and meanest Martian slums, full of the destitute, poor, and disenfranchised. 

Commonly known as 'the dole,' the Mars Basic Living Allowance is a monthly stipend that everyone 'not gainfully employed' receives. Those who receive BLA are commonly called doles or dolists, a somewhat derogatory term. 

Most Martian doles and the proles, the citizen or non-citizen under-employed working poor, appear content with mediocrity. The BLA provides shelter and a modest income. According to its detractors, the BLA's very existence discourages work and any ambition or personal drive for improvement. 

The corporations running Mars know that fear and poverty crept in through every pore, twisted in your gut, and darkened the core of your soul. These individuals insist that the working class should remain obedient, echo approved sentiments, and kiss corporate ass. Jobs were scarce, even the shitty ones.

Those were the same corporations that indirectly controlled the justice system. They avoided activities that could be seen as actual law enforcement because they feared it would disrupt their financial gains. Above all else, they maintained the status quo.

At 15, a judge gave Jep, a mediocre at best slum gangster and habitual petty criminal with more brawn than brains with a long list of minor criminal offenses, a life-changing ultimatum: either join the Mars military or face a minimum of 20 standard years of hard labor in the Martian Penal System. 

For reasons unknown, even knowing that he would have to serve at least 10 standard years, Jep chose the Fleet Marine Corps. The Mars Marine Corps only takes volunteers, and only if they pass the standard physical and psychological tests.

The Mars Marine Corps tolerates most petty crime and recreational drug use prior to enlisting. The Marines often select the universally desperate bottom-feeders, the lowest-ranking participants in a lengthy and arduous food chain. Those who did what it took to survive, their bodies lean and strong from their struggles. Most of them made excellent Marines.

At barely 16 years old, Pfc. Jep is her second youngest Marine. Only Private Yoloxochitl is younger, but only by a few months. Her entire platoon is shockingly young; she reminds herself that almost all of them are fresh out of boot camp. Thankfully, none of them looked as if they were heading for disaster, with "casualty" written all over them.

She knows she is horribly short of platoon leadership. She looked at her platoon's status HUD. Besides herself and Staff Sergeant Metz, the only non-commissioned officers with combat experience are Corporals Anangikwe, Pitsiulaaq, and Řehová. The NCOs are the only ones with practical experience in combat situations; everybody else is a cherry. 

“Sarge Metz,” Jep said, breaking into her musing, “was the best DI in boot that I had. I just fucked up, Gunny.”

“Yes you did, Private. Do not repeat that fuck up.”

“Copy loud and clear, Gunny.”

“Good. Stay on my six, Jep, we still have a lot of wreck to clear.”

"Right behind you Gunny."

As she turns to lead them from the compartment, she feels the near-instant effects as AI Krista through her armor injects her with Artearotalind, a nanite-delivered strong vascular and nervous system stimulant. She questions whether she required a dose of redline, as people call it on the street, but she trusts Krista, her armor's AI, to do her best maintaining her body. 

She glances at the status of her armor’s pharma pack, ensuring she has enough emergency performance-enhancing ‘combat drugs’ if needed. Her med pack also holds a full supply. Once, she went on a mission and realized she had failed to ensure that her armor’s pharma-pack was completely full. Thankfully, that time, she did not need the heavier drugs or the emergency drugs in her med-pack.

“Hildie, I understand your concerns about the use of drugs,” AI Krista said. “I ensured that our med and pharma packs are filled according to FltMarCom directives and procedures.”

“Thank you, Krista.”

“I know you are still troubled by what happened during the opposed Vestige Oracle starliner boarding. We’ve discussed how your survivor’s guilt over those fallen Marines taints by associative guilt, your Mars Cross of Valor. We both agreed the use of the emergency and combat drugs was warranted.”

“We have had this discussion before.” She knew what it was like to kill people no worse than herself.

“I am fully aware of that, Hildie. If you hadn’t used the emergency combat drugs, as injured as you were, you wouldn’t have been able to save the passengers that you managed to save.”

She loathes the use of emergency medical and combat drugs. The blend of these drugs can prolong her stamina, enabling her to endure injury and pain and concentrate more effectively on the task at hand without the interference of pain, thus making better tactical decisions.

However, the crash that follows when the effects of those drugs dissipate is a terrifying ordeal, and often poses a life-threatening situation.