RELAY TOWER #19

Private Jan Phillips yawned lazily, inhaling the crisp autumn air as she leaned against the observation platform's railing atop Communications Relay Tower #19. She looked out at the expanse of rolling hills and deciduous trees between her and the cold granite mountains to the north, and wished for all the world that something would happen. It was the third day of the fourth month of her current tour of duty, only two months remaining until her next heartily anticipated two-week leave of absence. Only two more months; she could hardly wait. Two more months, and then it was off to who-knows-where with her new paycheck. Maybe head to Firewater on Grendel, get loaded on Kamarian ale and do something fun for the duration, or head back to visit family in the Hub systems and wait for the next TOD. She even looked forward to the next tour of duty; anything was better than being marooned on this rock. She, along with the rest of her squad, had been assigned to guard duty on Cerberus.
The entire planet had been designated a prison ages ago, the first inmates unlucky enough to receive a life sentence merely dumped off on the then-uninhabited world to fend for themselves. Multiple murderers, war criminals, and genocidal dictators all constituted such a harsh punishment as complete and permanent removal from civilized society, and to deal with the issue of possible escapees from conventional prisons, Cerberus was formed. All communications to the planet had been cut off, thanks to a magnetic field created by a ring of satellites. Any deep space traffic, apart from prisoner transports and Universal Marine Corps vessels, was rerouted around the planet. The first inmates were not monitored; however, due to continued admission to the planet over a period spanning hundreds of years, as well as breeding within the population, Cerberus now boasted nearly half-a-million inhabitants, and thereby required guards.
That was where Phillips came in, and how she loathed her position. The UMC was called in to man the Relay Towers and Warden Ships, apparently because the powers-that-be were under the impression that a population this size could develop some form of spacecraft, and thereby escape. Phillips snorted at the thought as she watched the cluster of huts in the distance through the telescopic sight of her WASP sniper rifle. True, the planet had everything to facilitate civilization. Geographic diversity: the planet included everything from frozen tundra near the poles to arid deserts near the equator, as well as huge oceans dominating the planet's surface. A functional ecosystem: the abundant plants and wildlife allowed for readily available food and materials. Natural resources: the planet was rich with fossil fuels and precious metals. But the human race took nearly 10,000 years to develop space-going vehicles, let alone the additional 800 years to create the Focus Charge, necessary to reach another star system. The first inmates sent to Cerberus were essentially thrust back into the dark ages; the planet was hardly space-going yet. Phillips was paid to make sure that the Neanderthals didn't build any rocket ships.
Phillips walked around the observation platform, circumnavigating the tower. Normally, Private Townsend watched the southern range, but he won the coin toss to take a scout lift out to patrol their ten-by-ten kilometer "cell block". The lift's rider would report anything unusual into the low-power handset, which would be radioed to the relay tower, which would then beam the signal long-distance to the officers on the Warden Ship, who would take any necessary action. That's assuming that anything unusual ever happened. Riding the lifts was fun, however; she would have taken one of the other units out at the same time as Townsend if not for the consequences her superiors would no doubt impose on her for leaving her post. Phillips checked her watch: still another hour-and-a-half until her shift was up.
She had joined the Universal Marine Corps with the wrong idea in mind. She had expected a life of action and excitement, of visiting a thousand diverse and exotic worlds. Even in basic training, she'd had the opportunity to travel. Many of her squad's training exercises had involved various terrains not found on other planets, as well as several bizarre combat environments. She'd been to Masamunei, where gravity hardly existed; Erios, where the ground heaved up and down as the living soil breathed; even the Overlord, a derelict spacecraft in which the hull could burst at any given second. Although none of the training exercises used live coils in the rifles, they were infinitely more stimulating than Cerberus, her first real assignment. She slid the cover back on her WASP rifle's coil reader. Blue. She had a fully charged clip, but nothing to shoot.
The sky was growing darker, however slowly, and Phillips looked up to the planet's two moons, Elysium and Tartarus. In two months, her squad would ship out to the barracks on the larger moon. From there, they would be taken to the flight center on Zebannon and each catch a transport away from here for two solid weeks. After that, the squad would regroup and be assigned somewhere else in the galaxy. The thought made Phillips smile. She lowered her gaze to the horizon and spotted Townsend headed toward her on the scout lift, its lightweight ion drive leaving waves of heat behind the craft. He lowered to the landing pad two levels below her, where Corporal Simms met him. She couldn't hear their exchange as she watched over the railing, but she could guess what Townsend was saying: situation normal. She watched as Simms acknowledged his report, then the two men exited her line of vision into the building. As always, it would take Townsend exactly 28 seconds to ascend the stairs, like clockwork. She started counting. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three,...
A high-pressure swooshing noise caught Phillips's attention. She whipped her head around to face it, her eyes following a trail of smoke upward. The warhead hit the main relay dish with a deafening roar, engulfing the top of the tower in a bloom of orange flame. Phillips stood, frozen, as the giant metal dish toppled over toward her, the charred metal folded outward from the blast. The dish fell, rapidly approaching, as instinct suddenly kicked in. She dove and rolled along the deck as the chunk of metal tore through the platform. The deck twisted and tore apart as she grabbed frantically at the railing, saving herself from falling with it.
She pulled herself to her feet and scanned the ground in the direction of the missile's source. Advancing over a rise, she spotted a swarm of people charging toward the tower like a screaming barbaric army. The inmates were carrying a massive load of firepower: rifles, pistols, and several rocket launchers. The guns spit yellow fire at the tower, creating a cacophony of noise; noise Phillips had never heard, but recognized instantly. Oh my God,.. they've developed combustion-based ammunition! She had seen combustion-based weapons as museum pieces as a kid, but had never expected to ever hear them fired. Looking through her scope, she saw that the guns were crude and handmade, but the rocket launchers were state-of-the-art military issue. How the hell did they get those?
Townsend rushed onto the observation deck, shouting something Phillips couldn't hear over the din as he brought his own rifle up and fired. Bullets whizzed past her as she lowered into a crouch behind the railing, the first hints of a combat high beginning to take effect. With two months left on her tour of duty, she found a target and fired, hearing the high-pitched whine of the plasma, confident that the remainder of her stay would be anything but routine.