Civilians, militants, and reptiles alike boarded the craft, and under the gentle radiation shielding it provided, the dosage rates dropped. A reading inside the shuttle said 20 mSv/hr.
It was a far cry from the external source, but still too much for any comfort. It was better than the station, which was nearing 40+.
Oh, but that was better than outside, which, as predicted, had breached 400 mSv/hr.
It was predicted that Jason would have the highest exposure rate. However, Oscar was the only armored man there to have a true, old-fashioned radiation tag to measure his complete exposure. The mission was not over, so they could not pull it to examine it. However, if they were going to be exposed to even higher radiation levels, there's a good chance they could just throw away the tag and assume the worst.
The knights' minds had wandered to the charts that the Grand Magus had sent them to review before deployment. Specifically the one written centuries ago. The one that spoke of horrors they could not know. At the very bottom of the chart, for the fear of legal repercussion, the author had warned…
"Beware my hearsay. Those who trust in a man's faulty words must blame themselves."
It was an infographic about radiation doses, something the knights had become familiar with. "Remember, the charts are simple rules of thumb. Do not let guidelines and law fill you with fear; trust the divine limit to be beyond what man imagines."
The Magus had left a simple comment for the knights. "You can double those numbers, and men of the past lacked the boldness to see through what really needed to be done."
Perhaps safe to say of most numbers, but the bottom of the chart reminded them of mortality. The warning hid just below the Sv chart. While the mSv charts indeed gave a little risk aside from the long-term risk of cancer, the greater ones multiplied the humble mSv by 1000 and painted a grim picture. To reach 1000 or more mSv was to die.
The mummy—that unfortunate club bouncer who wanted to further their career, that one who survived the monster's attack—that victim likely would've received a dose nearing those levels.
It made one wonder about that old chart by the old philosopher Randall Munroe. Those old disasters of his era. Would he have estimated or presumed? Guessed or deliberated deeply on the dosage of this commercial security member? Would they have counted as one of the emergency responders? Or would only the engineers, who had perfect equipment, have been counted?
Eagerly, knights and Marines alike desired to escape their iron prisons. To sleep in a bed, to take a shower.
The shuttle would not accommodate these things. The Marines at least could sleep in their armor.
And they theoretically could, though they would have found it more difficult.
Either way, the armor did not fit in the seats. They were forced to stand. To crowd into a little room as best they could like so many clowns. The room had four chairs, intended for the dead station captain and perhaps two or three of his officials. It was claimed by Captain Owningsburg.
Nine suits of armor found that only five could fit. The other three stood awkwardly outside—one in the doorway, the others blocking the aperture between the door and the cockpit.
If everyone was quiet—and nobody was—you would've been able to hear the awkward murmurs of the armored voices escaping their helmets as they talked among each other.
"I'm glad you guys got that little cage; that is where we believe our enemy was living before this whole event began."
It was Captain Owningsburg; he was thanking Charles and Gabriel for acquiring as evidence the home of their assailant.
"And if we ever return to peacetime, I'd like you to know that in a normal scenario we would've evacuated all of those reptiles before the humans. We're going to be leaving a few PV on the station; it's a big deal and I'd like to thank these knights for knowing what it's all about.
I'd like to thank them for getting their boots on the ground first and immediately responding when we requested help."
Every other armored man was wishing they could sleep through the moralism.
They only needed to try.
"I'll try to make this debrief quick. The knights successfully evacuated the civilians with a syndicate assist. The monster was driven away, though at unacceptable cost. Much of this data has been broadcast to anyone listening."
The awkward silence had a silver lining, and it was that no clichéd phrasing such as "moment of silence" or "heroes" followed it.
"So let us review what we did, what went wrong, and how to do better next time."
Almost no clichés.
The next hour passed in space; radioactivity rapidly decreased. Every shred of data they had was broadcast as best they could through the shuttle's limited communications. Turlington station officials prioritized what was important and what was unimportant.
The Saboteur and the reactor meltdown were important.
Casualties and the alien nature of the sanatorium were unimportant.
"Our destination is the planet?"
"Looks like it."
"Is it bad I've been hoping we visit?"
"Yeah, dying early was a huge mistake."
"Retiring here is a mistake I heard; timeshares will put you in slavery."
"But being homeless there is fun."
"You know?"
Laughter.
"But seriously, you guys heard there is a revolt going on?"
"Crap baskets… which side are we on?"
"The Church's side; you met those knights."
"That's no fun."
There were only three Marines, not counting the captain.
But naming them wasn't important; speech was technically not free under syndicate rules, but never enforced.
It only took one day of travel to end up in orbit of the planet. But trying to contact the Red Solstice? No results.
"Left out to dry?"
"No, the Magus is already here on the planet; must be a plan."
"Call him! Do we have a number for him?"
And it was so.
"My young brothers, this planet is a beautiful disaster." It was the Magus.
Captain Owningsburg spoke: "This is Captain Owningsburg representing syndicate interests; how may I contact my superior?"
"I am afraid I don't think they want to be contacted, my comrade. I believe you are intended to be stuck with me."
"Then do you give me command of your knights?"
"Conditionally." The Magus was coy, as always.
There was an awkward silence as the two cultures clashed. Though it seemed an intentional clashing.
"What is the condition?"
"Your briefing! You are unaware of the mission as of this hour. You have completed your Turlington mission, but the conflict may just be beginning!"
"Affirmative; are you to give the information?"
"Yes. Do not worry; I can share the documents and verify it is syndicate information when you meet me in person. See you soon! Planetary communications should guide you to my location!"
The Grand Magus was a naturally happy person. Perhaps because of the status they enjoyed.
Planetary traffic directed the escape shuttle to a remote location in the planet's arctic circle.
Soon they were landing.
It was a small military base, syndicate commission, locally operated. There were obvious signs it was crowded already.
The Grand Magus stood in front of a few officials and welcomed everybody off of the ship.
It was a little surreal. It probably wasn't what anyone was expecting. A smiling, jovial old man shaking everybody's hands as they got off the ship, blessing them in the name of Ludd.
Especially in a military base.
Ground crews and more of the nondescript but further-looking individuals rushed to unload the shuttle of all of its cargo. The knights and Marines half expected a second monster to burst from the bowels of the ship and cut four or five down before the base spontaneously combusted into radioactive hell.
But that did not happen.
The Marines angrily muttered to each other while the knights patiently waited their turn to greet the Magus who, as always, was determined to attend to their more official, and less civilian, duties last.
Eventually, after witnessing the Magus shake every single station dweller's hand, everyone present was witness to a mistake.
Two of the younger, nondescript workers—probably syndicate intelligence interns—had dropped and then fled the rattlesnake terrarium as it shattered.
One of the station crewmembers, presumably a lab tech, began to curse the students and ran after the snake. Not all could see the happening, but those who could watched as the crewmember deftly picked up and throttled the snake. It did not appear that they were bitten, and the snake in their hands calmed down. Only a few seconds passed before the beast coiled contentedly around their arm.
The Grand Magus, uninterrupted, continued to shake hands.
As the lab technician had already shaken his hand, there was no further rattlesnake episode.
Finally, he turned to the knights and the Marines still in their armor.
"We are missing one of you… and my Lord! Charles, what has happened to your helmet?"
Captain Owningsburg responded, "Missing two. You didn't greet one of the station members—a squire."
And he pointed at the squire. It was difficult to tell men in armor apart.
Or at least Marines, whose armor the squire was wearing. Knights were a bit easier.
The Magus made a pained face. "You bring me back a stolen suit of armor? Shame be upon you."
"Great Magus, that man has already aided you. Your knights only aimed to preserve his life and avoid the loss of a valuable piece of machinery." Captain Ownsigsburg defended the knights who had stolen his armor.
"Tell me everything; the briefing should start immediately."
The knights had known the best possible thing to do in that moment was nothing.