Sol Survivors: Chapter 1 – Awakening
Chapter 1: Awakening
A dull whine begins to infiltrate Randall Andersen’s cold consciousness. The noise slowly increases intensity as the lid to his cryogenic chamber prison cell hisses open until the sound becomes an insistent, piercing alarm shattering his sleeping silence and the fleeting memories of countless dreams. His eyes struggle to flutter open, and he blinks away the disorientation, his mind racing to piece together where he is and why. The last thing he remembers is arriving at the cold, sterile rings of Ares Station Prison, “Ares Alcatraz”, as it’s affectionately known, and the bitter taste of betrayal. As he struggles to sit up, a blast of hot air hits his thawing face. He swings his legs over the side of the cryo-pod, his muscles aching from the sudden movement, his ice-cold lungs breathing in the fire of ambient air.
Rand groans, his voice raspy and unused. “What the fuck did I wake up to?” He rubs the smoothness of his bald scalp, trying to ground himself. The alarm shriek slices through the haze in his mind, each pulse like a drill boring into his skull. Harsh, red emergency lights flicker overhead, painting jagged shadows across the chamber and stoking his sense of unease.
He climbs from the cryo-pod, every motion met with resistance. Rand’s limbs protest, the icy numbness seeping away and leaving behind a suffocating warmth that clings to his skin. Each breath tastes faintly metallic, scraping raw at his throat, sending a ripple of unease through his body. He flexes his fingers, half-expecting them to tremble after years in suspension, but instead finds his grip solid, the fabric of his orange uniform straining quietly against his biceps as he stretches, surprised to discover his strength untouched by stasis. This small reassurance eases the concerns of stiffness in his aging joints but does little to steady the knot of anxiety coiling in his chest.
Instinct takes over, and Randall’s ingrained training urges him to quickly survey his surroundings. He finds himself in a towering prison silo, its multiple floors stacked in concentric rings, each level lined with cold coffins, all encircling an open shaft where a disc-shaped lift ferries inmates between levels. The pods stand in silent rows, shrouded by the constant mechanical whirr of life-support systems and the relentless pulse of red emergency lights flickering overhead. Far below in the distance, bursts of gunfire and frantic shouting echo upward, each noise fueling his alertness and awakening muscle memory sharpened by years of survival. A chilling awareness settles over him: chaos has erupted, threats unknown, and he cannot be sure who is fighting or how many others might have awakened from their icy sentences for whatever reason.
A sharp curse cracks the tense air from somewhere close below in the silo, “Goddamnit!”, and Rand’s heart leaps, adrenaline spiking. He quickly takes cover behind his pod, automatically searching for cover and potential weapons, mind racing through scenarios: another prisoner, a guard, or something worse? In these moments, old instincts war with a newer, quieter dread.
He hears a now familiar hissing sound as another pod opens. He peeks around his pod and spots a wiry figure rising from another capsule. The man’s long black dreadlocks spill over his shoulders, and as the red light finds his angular features, Rand starts a study of the man to get as much information as possible to measure who he may have to deal with. He squints his aging eyes to read the name “Toku Kpaka” on the pod’s display and wonders what kind of prisoner he is, what he did to imprison him here. What kind of men does Ares Station swallow? He’s not quick to judge knowing very well that he himself was not a criminal but was only imprisoned for disagreeing with the wrong people in power. Rand tries not to dwell on the possibility that trust here might be as lethal as betrayal.
Rand remains still and silent as he watches the new figure emerge. Toku, his angular features and dark skin thrown into sharp relief by the flickering red lights. Despite his black skin, his dark, narrow eyes betray an Asian heritage reflecting both wariness and calculation. With fluid precision, Toku climbs out of his cryo-pod, his movements betraying a disciplined readiness honed by years of rigorous training. He scans the chamber in one measured sweep, assessing every detail as if memorizing an escape route. When his gaze finally lands on Rand, tension crackles in the charged air, a silent exchange of recognition between two strangers shaped by training and danger. The uncertain silence holds for a breath before the voice from below shatters it, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” as a third pod on their level begins to open.
The two men turn their heads to the opening pod as a young woman tumbles out, her movements unsteady, confusion etched across her features. Randall takes quick stock of her, large almond eyes, caramel-toned skin, jet-black hair tumbling down her back, all details noted with a soldier’s practiced detachment. She instinctively presses a hand to the back of her neck, and though Rand can’t see what she’s checking for, he notes the gesture, habitual, anxious, the sort of tell that means she’s used to hiding something. As she steadies herself, Rand wonders what skills or secrets she’s brought with her to this waking nightmare, and whether she’ll prove to be an asset or a complication in the chaos now unfolding around them.
“What’s going on?” she gasps, scrambling to her feet and backing away from the two men. Her gaze darts between them as she hugs herself protectively. “Who are you? Where am I?” she demands, her voice wavering but edged with determination.
Randall is about to respond when a sudden explosion erupts from down below shaking their footing. Rand darts to the rail to look down the silo of the cryo prison, Toku close behind. Both men peer down into the massive silo as thick smoke billows upward, its acrid tang stinging Rand’s nose. Below, chaos unfolds in flashes. Armed figures, indistinguishable as they are half-shrouded by the haze, storm into the chamber through a newly blasted-out door. The gunfire that erupts is sharp and metallic, echoing up the curved walls, but is soon joined by an unfamiliar crackle and the hiss of something burning. Green light flashes through the smoke in bursts, each flash illuminating fractured glimpses of the combatants. A mechanical ‘thunk’ reverberates underfoot, vibrating through the metal deck. Somewhere, a motor groans to life, its grinding whine rising over the noise. Something big is moving, Rand figures it’s the central lift. As the firefight rages below, a green beam lances up from the chaos, sizzles past Rand’s head, and sears a black scar across the ceiling above. The scent of ozone and scorched metal fills the air. ‘Portable laser weapons!?’ He thinks to himself as his heart pounds. ‘How long have I been out?’
Rand and Toku instinctively retreat from the edge as another powerful explosion echoes up from below, undeniably a grenade. A wild voice shouts, “Hahahah! FUCK YOU NAZI ROBOTS!”, the cry coming from someone much closer now, likely riding the ascending platform. The exchange of gunfire and crackling lasers has faded, leaving only the heavy grind of the platform’s machinery as it rises to meet their level.
Rand quickly glances around the ring of frost-lined cryo-pods, the chamber’s curved walls broken at intervals by blinking consoles and narrow railings. He catches the young woman crouched low behind her own pod, wide-eyed and tense, while Toku melts into the shadows between pods on the opposite side of the platform, his eyes never still. The two men exchange a silent nod, and they quietly agree to take separate cover as the platform carrying yet another unknown nears. Rand feels a flicker of relief at Toku’s understanding and connection, but anxiety gnaws at him, trust is a luxury he can’t afford in this place.
The platform groans up into view, shuddering as its battered piston grinds into alignment with their level. Acrid smoke curls from the gap between the lift and the floor, swirling around two young soldiers in battered fatigues and rifles at low ready. The taller one scans the chamber, boots crunching on scattered shards of debris as a bridge extends from the platform to connect with the floor on their level. “Hey!” he calls out, voice hoarse and urgent, the voice that cursed earlier, “We’re looking for a Major Randall Andersen! Is one of you Major Andersen!?”
For an instant, Rand freezes, there’s the officer’s urge to command, to step forward and show no weakness, colliding with the wary paranoia of a man who’s spent years learning that exposure can be fatal. Memories flash, the cold snap of cuffs, the sting of betrayal, the faces of comrades lost for taking one step too many into the open. He tastes the acrid air and weighs everything, the angle of attack, the cover, the uncertainty beating in his chest. But leadership, honed by war and survival, finally wins out. “I’m Andersen,” he calls, voice rough but resolute. He steps out from cover, hands casually at his side despite his inner tension, letting the red emergency lights paint him as a target. He’s betting on trust, or at least the chance of it.
In that split second of exposure, something shifts, a faint whir, almost too smooth to notice, cuts through the haze. Rand’s senses flare, a nearly silent drone rises from behind the battered soldiers, its glassy eye glinting with cold intelligence as it zeros in on the group. A bead of green light throbs at its core, and Rand’s gut twists with certainty, this isn’t a surveillance drone. It’s judgment, stealthy, and merciless.
“Down!” Rand shouts, but the warning comes a fraction too late. The small hovering drone explodes with a deafening concussive blast. Pressure slams into Rand’s chest, and he’s thrown backward, sliding across cold metal. The shock-wave tears through the platform, scattering debris, snapping a railing, and throwing one of the soldiers over the edge of the platform in a bone-jarring arc. He hits the lip of the deck with a wet thud, limbs askew, dropping down the silo, the echo of his scream swallowed by ringing silence.
The smoke hangs in the air as the ringing in Rand’s ears slowly fades. He spots the other soldier, young, pale, and injured, struggling to prop himself up near the ledge of the deck. As Rand rushes to his side, he sees the injured man trying to grasp something that’s slipping over the edge of the deck, but it falls. “Shit” the young soldier says weakly in a stammering state of shock, “that was my arm… I needed that…”. At the soldier’s side Rand tears a sleeve from his orange prison uniform to fashion a makeshift tourniquet. His hands work quickly, wrapping and twisting the cloth tight around the boy’s shredded shoulder with the soldier’s own service knife as a windlass. Rand speaks softly, his gruff voice gentler than usual. “Hold on, kid. What’s your name?”
The soldier coughs, blood flecking his lips. “Private Marcus,” he gasps. “Of Sol Libertatis. I was sent to get you out, Colonel Andersen.”
Rand’s brow furrows as he secures the tourniquet, keeping the boy talking. “Sol Libertatis? What is that?”
Marcus tries to focus, blinking as pain clouds his face. “You’ve been away for 22 years, before the war… before the wars… you knew it was coming.”
Rand glances at the boy’s fading strength. “I don’t understand, what was coming?”
Marcus’s voice is growing weaker. “You were right about them. About the corruption. About how things fell.” He pauses, fighting for breath. “Fighting the Neuro-T… the machines… the Earth’s governments…, General Haas, the Chief of Staff back then. Compromised, you were right and when the war started, everything split.” His breath rattles “infiltrated by th-those pig-faced Zuhtou pulling the strings… splitting everyone, dividing, conquering….”
At the mention of “Neuro-Ts and Zoutou,” Lila, still crouched nearby, freezes, her hand instinctively pressing harder against the back of her neck, to her own illegal black market Neuro-T. A flash of memory hits her like a gut punch: back on Earth, during the Newark riot on a Valentines day, she’d glimpsed one, not knowing what it was called, but Marcus’s description is enough to put a name to it. It had been disguised as a human agitator, stirring the crowd’s fear and anger. But in a chaotic moment, something clicked in her Neuro-T and its facade slipped in her vision, revealing a grotesque, pig-like face with snout and tusks, tendrils extending unseen to feed on the raw emotions of the frothing mob like they were psychic livestock. The soul-sucking fog of it had left her nauseous for days, her memory blurry, a forbidden secret she’d buried deep. Was that what this was all connected to? She shakes it off, forcing herself back to the present, but the chill lingers.
Marcus’s hand tightens on Rand’s wrist, his words urgent, “Your record was impeccable… And you were still alive… here.” His eyes lock tight to Rand’s as he pulls himself closer to Rand with his one good arm “You saw what was coming… now you can fight it… get to my ship before the MOSHUUS get it… take it to the Heemeyer Shipyards at Galt Station and talk to John Marvin, he’s the one that ordered the breakouts from Ares Alcatraz.”
Marcus’s eyes flutter, his pale face slick with sweat and blood. Rand grunts, his voice low and gruff. “Zuhtou? MOSHUUS? What is all this bullshit?” Rand sighs, “Never mind, save your breath, kid, we’ll get you patched up.” But even as he says it, he knows the lie. The boy’s color is draining fast, his breath a shallow rattle. Rand wants to know more, slightly overwhelmed with questions that need answers, but Marcus’s eyes lose focus, his breathing slows, and his grip loosens. The boy’s head turns to where his arm once was, voice barely above a whisper. “My arm feels cold…”
Rand holds Marcus’s hand as the last breath shakes from his chest. The old marine’s face hardens, not just at another senseless death, but at the unknown responsibilities suddenly thrust upon him. He looks down at the fallen private, anger and resolve mixing in his eyes as he sets his mind to putting this puzzle together with the few pieces he has so far. Some of the pieces will have to come together after he gets to that ship and off this prison station but at least now there is a path forward. He lowers his head and collects the young soldier’s dog-tags.
At that moment Rand’s attention returns to the two others released from their cryo-tanks and he sees the one with dreadlocks looming next to him, ‘how did he get so close to me without me noticing?’ he thinks to himself as he realizes that the one named Toku is the same distance as Rand is from the dead soldier’s rifle. Suddenly, without a word, they both scramble to reach for it at the same time, their hands locking around the weapon in a tense standoff.
Rand’s grip tightens; his eyes lock with the other man’s in a silent showdown of wills. “Let go,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
The man’s expression is impassive, but his eyes are calculating, weighing the odds and the capabilities of his newfound adversary. “And why should I?” he counters, his voice steady and measured.
Rand and the man hold their standoff for a moment longer, neither willing to back down. Rand staring into the other man’s pitch-dark eyes. Finally, Rand speaks, his voice firm and authoritative. “Listen, I get it, you don’t know me, I don’t know you, and we don’t know what’s out there. But we’re all sinking on the same shit filled ship. I’m First Lieutenant Randall Andersen, Marines. I’ve led squads through shit just like this, I’ve got all the scars to prove it. I need you to trust me and I need a gesture to trust you. You want to get the fuck out of here, you follow my lead.”
From her place of hiding behind her old cryo-pod, the young woman watches the scene unfold with her widened almond eyes, her mind processing the information at lightning speed. She looks over at Rand, logging that he is the Lieutenant Andersen the dead soldier was talking about. She thinks to herself ‘If they were here to set the big guy free, he must be some kind of war hero, soooo, why did they wake us up?’ She looks to the tall, dark and handsome, silent type with the dreads. ‘And that one’s kinda scary if he can sneak up on said war hero without the war hero noticing’. “OH, while you guys do that, um, I think I’m just going to hack into the station’s systems,” she says, darting to the side while the other two stare each other down, her fingers already dancing over a nearby control panel. “Maybe we can get some answers.”
The dark man’s expression is impassive, but his eyes are calculating, weighing the odds and the trustworthiness of his newfound rival/ally. For a moment, the tension hangs in the air, a silent battle of wills. Then, slowly, he releases his grip on the rifle, his expression unreadable as he allows Rand control of their only rifle. “Toku,” he replies simply, his voice carrying a hint of mystery and a silent acknowledgment of Rand’s authority.
Rand notices the subtle concession, filing it away in his mind. Toku could be a valuable ally or a formidable enemy, and he intends to keep a close eye on him.
The woman lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, her fingers flying over the console as she works to hack into the system. “I’m in,” she says, her voice triumphant. “but, um, I guess I can access only the station’s map. We might be able to get a lay of the land and figure out our next move.”
As she relaxes, a slight smile playing on her lips, she turns to the others. “Well hello First Lieutenant Randall Andersen and Mr. Toku… Lila Reyes from Newark… in Jersey. I don’t have a dick to swing in your little contest, but I have a knack for getting into places I’m not supposed to…” She poses like a game show model revealing the prize that is the map display of Ares Station then cringes at herself as the two men say nothing, Rand just nodding and Toku coldly staring. Less enthusiastically she continues “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, even if it is under these less-than-ideal conditions,” She ends with an awkward smile. “Please take me with you if the plan is to escape?”
Rand nods more deliberately with a small smirk, his mind already racing with strategies and plans. “Good. Lila, see if you can find out where that ship the private mentioned is docked and what our best route there is. Toku, keep an eye out for any hostiles. We need to move fast and stay alert.” The old Marine looks to the dour Toku with a crack of a smile, “And Toku, the next gun we find is yours.” The man named Toku doesn’t react in any noticeable way, his eyes still cold and unreadable.
With a tentative agreement in place, the three strangers prepare to step out into the chaos of Ares Alcatraz. Toku ties his hair up into a topknot, and Lila pulls her locks into a pair of buns as Rand just watches and rubs his bald head. Not to be outdone, he tears the remaining sleeve from his orange prison uniform shirt now freeing both of his muscular arms. Lila then takes her uniform shirt off, tying it around her waist leaving her upper torso free in just a white tank top. Toku watches the two others and rolls up his sleeves deliberately. Rand nods at his new companions as ready as they’ll ever be and says, “You ladies ready?” He checks the ammo in the AK2K rifle, finding only a dozen rounds left and sighs. “I’ll take point, Toku check our six and Lila, stay between us and tell us which way to go, I trust you can remember the path?”
Lila was about to brag about how her illegal implant stores everything she sees, and she can recall any information she’s ever seen, but she catches herself. “Yep, no worries, Boss,” she replies simply. Back in her day, there were fears about AI getting access to Neuro-T’d people, to be able to spy into their minds and memories at best, to control them like puppets at worst. Hari, her hacker boyfriend from before Ares Alcatraz, had altered the firmware on their illegal chips nullifying their networking ability, reducing their function but enhancing their storage and calculation skills. They still had the ability to think in code and hack anything the old way, but without fear of leaving a network trace, only maintaining the ability to network between the two of them over short distances, their minds connected. She reaches out with her chip reflexively but can’t feel him. He’s not close, is he even alive? How long has it even been? Twenty two years?
Lila is jolted back from her reverie as fingers snap in front of her face. She sees Rand and Toku looking at her. “You back with us, Kid?” The old Marine asks as he lowers his hand from her vision. “Time to go.”
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