Shadow Play

by P. R. Adams

  “And had that overturned for the good of the Navy. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not trying to bust your chops, Commander. It’s just, well, what you just went through, being resuscitated and all.”

  Benson gritted her teeth. It was becoming an annoying topic but one that fascinated everyone. Parkinson had been right about the odds meaning something. There was an unwanted celebrity to being a survivor, something she’d never thought about after years of saving civilians aboard the Pandora. It had always been a given that the military folk killed in the line of duty would be resuscitated if at all possible, but the reality was that the government didn’t hold military lives in the same regard as civilian.

  Service was only appreciated while service members were capable.

  What must it feel like to have family waiting for you and have the military refuse separation after you’d served your agreed-to term? “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Lieutenant Durall.”

  “I hope we’ll all be fine. These people are my friends. It’s just…my kids.”

  “Other people have family.”

  “But they chose to stay on.”

  “You signed a contract, Lieutenant.” She glanced at Halliwell and a part of her withered. Durall had signed a contract and fulfilled his part of it. What was being done to him and Halliwell and who knew how many others…it was wrong. The military screamed bloody murder about service members doing anything at all to violate the sacred contracts but had no compunction whatsoever about doing exactly that. “But if anything did happen to you, I guarantee you that I’ll do everything in my power to see you make it home to your family.”

  “Thanks, Commander. That’s all I ask—fair treatment.” The relief was palpable in his voice.

  She exhaled and sealed her helmet. Once they landed, it was going to be crazy; preparedness was critical. Six hours of recirculated oxygen from the rebreather mask and associated tanks—that was going to have to be enough. It was already adding nearly four kilograms to each person’s load.

  The satellites were pale specks ahead of them, barely catching a hint of sunlight now. They could have rushed and tried to get down to the moon before the next rotation into sunlight, but with the heavy cloud cover, that didn’t seem to be worth giving up some of their preparation time. If the Azoren knew they had company, they weren’t doing anything about it yet.

  “Clarion S2, you need to tighten up on Pulsar S2.”

  “Copy, Clarion S3. I thought I saw someone adjusting. Gunship-028, is that you moving below the formation?”

  “Negative, Clarion S2. I’m still in position. Let’s get a check on—”

  Fire erupted toward the front of the wedge.

  “Bogeys! Bogeys! Two bogeys!” It was Durall. As he sounded the alarm, he sent the shuttle forward and down.

  The rest of the wedge broke up, some ships peeling up, some down, some right, some left. It was what the pilots trained for.

  What they couldn’t train for was having two enemy aircraft sneak in on them undetected.

  Flying blind. Right into waiting enemy spacecraft.

  And those spacecraft seemed to be small, dark, and fast. They swooped around with a lot more maneuvering capabilities than the shuttles, and their guns were just as quick.

  Interceptors!

  Rounds rattled off the shuttle’s hull, then two of the people toward the rear shivered in their harnesses, and a bloody mist floated out of their suits before becoming a stream that was sucked out through holes as big around as three fingers bunched together.

  Benson’s world became a crazy chaos of spinning and twisting, chatter and shouts, gunfire captured through open mics, and the terrible bloom of flame.

  She was vaguely aware of Parkinson flailing as the blood mist shifted toward him. They’d taken another hit, and now they were heading into atmosphere.

  Durall’s voice shook as the shuttle darted into wispy clouds that flashed silvery in the shuttle’s forward lights. “I’ve got one on my tail. Hull integrity’s shot. I could use a little help.”

  “Copy, Clarion S4. Pulsar S2, closing.”

  Pulsar S2. Major Fero. Marines. Ammunition. Explosives. Lots of explosives.

  The console in front of Durall lit up. “Bogey down! Bogey down!”

  “Marie Belle S1 in pursuit of second bogey.”

  “Gunship-133 on your five, Marie Belle S1.”

  “Copy, Gunship-133. Do you have a shot?”

  Silence.

  Then another voice. Reyes in Clarion S2. “Break off, Marie Belle S1. Clean shot.”

  A tone sounded in Benson’s ear, a sound she realized had been there since the first explosion, then it was drowned out by whoops and cheers.

  “Bogey down! Sky is clear!”

  “Copy, Clarion S2. Clarion S4 heading down. Flight controls are heavy.”

  Benson swallowed. “Lieutenant Durall, I saw explosions.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Who’d we lose?”

  “Gunship-133, Istanbul S1, and Clarion S5. Marie Belle S2 and Pulsar S1 suffered damage.”

  And so had they.

  The shuttle rattled and bounced. Something glowed in front of them, like a fireball tumbling toward the moon’s surface. As they drew closer, details popped out: a rectangular shape, a wing, a second wing, a tail.

  Flipping. Twisting.

  Benson licked her lips. “Lieutenant—?”

  “What’s left of Clarion S5, ma’am. Heading straight into the crater.”

  The Badger. The Marines.

  “Should we adjust course?”

  “I’d love to, Commander. Not really a lot of options right now. Damaged control systems, fuel loss. If I pull off, I don’t know that I can get back onto the same flight path.”

  Would they hit the debris before they reached the crater? It seemed unlikely, because the fireball was giving off enough light now to reveal what lay below them: the black depths of the crater.

  Benson needed to know who she still had supporting her. She texted Stiles: You okay?

  The response came back almost instantly: Still alive.

  That was a relief. Heading in pretty hard. If I don’t make it, see this through.

  A few seconds passed, with the fireball of the cargo container like a star entering the pit, then erupting.

  The huge fire became dozens of tiny pinpricks that quickly grew brighter.

  Stiles finally responded back: You’ll be fine, Commander. The mission’s still on.

  It felt like a ridiculously naive statement as much as an encouraging one. The mission was still on, and maybe their shuttle would be able to put down without being blown into a million pieces like the remnants of Clarion S5 and the cargo container, but the shuttle was plunging like a chunk of rock. A safe landing was probably the very last thing it would be able to pull off.

  Maybe.

  Meaning they had almost nothing—maybe three shuttles—to get back off Jotun if even one more shuttle was damaged.

  She reconnected to the private channel with Durall. “How are we doing?”

  “Great. Just great. I mean, it’s not a gas giant with triple normal gravity, right?”

  “Can we slow our descent?”

  “That’s the plan. One big thrust to burn the last of the fuel.”

  “Will that work?”

  “Sure. If she holds together. And nothing else goes wrong.”

  “Do what you can, Lieutenant.”

  “For Monica and Tonya. Those are my kids.”

  Monica and Tonya. They had names now, names that carried weight and guilt. “Pretty names.”

  “Thanks. They’re what we’re fighting for, right? Everything we’re risking—it’s for those we love, right?”

  Benson wished she had an answer for that.

  The shaking became more violent, and Benson caught a strange, surprised sound from Durall, something like a “whoa.”

  “Lieutenant Durall, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing you want to
know about, ma’am.”

  “Are we going to make it?”

  “You know what they say about the odds of resuscitation? It’s about like that.”

  Lights flickered, and the shuttle’s forward floodlights went out.

  “That’s not good.” Durall’s voice was soft, whispery. “Clarion S4, going down.”

  Details popped from the black crater below, some from the glow of embers, some from the floodlights that kicked back on.

  Retro and maneuvering rockets roared, shoving Benson hard against her harness and seat.

  She almost blacked out. She almost vomited.

  The black bottom of the crater rushed toward the cockpit.

  An alarm whined, deafening, proving there was atmosphere if the fire hadn’t already.

  Then Durall’s voice was even louder than the alarm. “Brace for impact!”

  Benson laughed to herself. She wasn’t sure what that was supposed to accomplish.

  She flinched, wrapped her arms tight around the harness.

  Just before the shuttle lurched, and the belly crashed against the crater floor.

  13

  O’Bannon was in the garage with Private Andressen when the alarms erupted. The sound was like angels singing in the tumult of a thunderstorm, something that was almost deafening in the frigid concrete space that held only the four Night Leopards. The young private slid out from under the chassis of the one they had taken out to the crater, eyes squinted, gray coveralls dark with oil stains. He smelled like diesel and sweat, but he’d been smiling despite the early hour and cold.

  Until now. “Major?” The young man’s bellow was almost lost in the din.

  “Seal everything up.” The major blew into his hands and squatted to look at the passenger door. The worst of the damage had been hammered out. It was a testament to Andressen’s work ethic that he had turned so much around so quickly. “The door looks good. Is the light working?”

  “The light? Yes, sir.”

  The private climbed behind the wheel and powered the vehicle up; there was no squeal. After a second, he turned the lights on. He had completely replaced the damaged stalk and light, and now he twisted the assembly around to test the level of articulation and sensitivity.

  It was as good as new, much as the engine seemed to be.

  “Good.” O’Bannon patted the hood. “The others, they are serviceable?”

  Andressen hopped out. “Maintenance has been completed, Major. We are missing parts—”

  “The sacrifice expected of us, Private Andressen: Do more with less.”

  That brought a wry smile to the young man’s lips. He seemed embarrassed or possibly excited by being drawn in to what must be the shared secret of officers, the knowledge that what the lower ranks whispered about was true: The Azoren Federation was run by incompetents.

  One vehicle after another, the young man hurriedly got in behind the wheel and started the engines up and tested the lights.

  O’Bannon’s head throbbed from the alarm. As it had before, the idea of strangling the Commando captain came to the front of the major’s thoughts. Obviously, they weren’t under attack, yet the alarm continued to blare.

  Andressen powered the last Night Leopard down and glanced up at the speakers. “What now, Major? Prepare for attack?”

  “Clean up and get into uniform. Come to the assembly area.”

  “There will be more information there?”

  “Unlikely.” O’Bannon brushed dust from his hands. “I have a feeling we shall be using these machines soon, though.”

  “They will serve us well, Major!”

  O’Bannon left Andressen peeling off his coveralls and putting the tools away. The young man’s ability to handle the cold was no doubt the result of his upbringing, a hard life on the world most knew as Nótt, a world where most cities were happy to see sunlight for less than half the days of a year.

  Cities. The idea was laughable. On most worlds, people lived in what was little more than crude settlements. Himmel had cities. Grand cities. With towering buildings and great structures raised to the splendor and glory of all the Azoren accomplishments in their short history.

  It seemed so ridiculous to fight for planets when the ones that were currently claimed were hardly even settled.

  The major gripped the cold rail and stopped.

  Already, the stairs were full of a different sort of thunder: booted feet stomping as people reported to stations. His men would be gathering in the assembly area not too far from the barracks. Knoel’s Black Lightning Commandos would be coming together at the other end of the main underground structure, just outside their own smaller garage.

  Smaller, but full of newer equipment. Better equipment. Panthers.

  It was always like that, with Supreme Leader Graf blessing his favorites with all the latest gear while those dying on the front went weeks without basic deliveries—food, ammunition, fuel, replacement parts.

  At least those who died because of the lack of deliveries were buried in pretty, new uniforms and caskets.

  If anything even remained of those dead.

  When O’Bannon reached the assembly area, Franke was at the head of the formation, inspecting and gathering updates from the few squad leaders. They had once been one hundred strong, a company that had survived the decimation of two different battalions. Now they weren’t even at half strength.

  “Major, have you seen Private Andressen?” The lieutenant’s back was stiff; his chin was raised. He took his job seriously.

  “He changes into uniform even as we speak. The Night Leopard is repaired.”

  That brought a smile to the lanky fellow’s hollow-cheeked face. “He will do whatever is necessary to keep those vehicles running.”

  “And they all checked out.”

  “He has a knack for machines.”

  “Yes. His promotion package will reflect this as well as his professionalism.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “It will also reflect the strong leadership he receives. From you.”

  Color flooded the younger man’s face. “Thank you, Major.”

  “What is all this about?”

  “The alarm? It must be something the interceptors found. No one else is out.”

  “Working on the satellites again?”

  “They will fix them one day.”

  It had to be the interceptors. They couldn’t be under attack, not unless the enemy used weapons that were quieter than the alarms. It certainly was possible.

  O’Bannon winced and pressed the palm of a hand against his ear, then pulled out his communication device. There were no messages queued for him, and there was nothing to indicate the source of the alarm. That could only mean it was something Captain Knoel wasn’t sharing.

  With a sigh, O’Bannon connected to the Commando. “Captain Knoel?”

  The soft-featured young man stared back from the communicator’s small video screen. He was pulling on a thermal cowl, upon which he would place the jet-black Black Lightning helmet. “Major. Good of you to check in. Your men are assembled?”

  “They are. What—?”

  “Our interceptors have gone silent. The last transmission would appear to be emergency transponders.”

  “They have gone down?”

  “They worked among the satellites. Going down is unlikely.”

  “Assembling is pointless, if they were working on satellites.”

  “Assembly is called for with any potential threat, Major.”

  O’Bannon thrust his chin out and stretched his neck. Readiness and awareness were desirable, obviously, but to have everyone on alert over spacecraft going silent? A chunk of debris could have destroyed the two interceptors. They could have bumped into each other, or they could have accidentally activated a satellite system that wreaked havoc on their electronics with all of its advanced systems.

  He felt so old at that moment—so old and tired of the military nonsense. “Can we see anything from those satellites?
”

  “The ones they were working on were obviously offline.”

  For repairs or modifications. It wasn’t ideal. Then again, using spacecraft designed to respond rapidly to threats coming into their airspace for satellite work was hardly ideal. Uploading the software remotely was much more sensible. “Are any satellites in the area operational?”

  “We have a few being brought online again now, after remote reboots.”

  “Perhaps we could silence the alarm until we know what it is we face.”

  The thermal material bunched the younger man’s soft cheeks out, making him look even more boyish and pampered. His lips twisted in a disdainful pout, then he shrugged. “You have your vehicles ready?”

  “Operational, yes. Capable of heading into orbit? No.”

  “Threat determination shouldn’t take long. Keep your men in formation.”

  “We remain ready.” O’Bannon disconnected and turned to Franke, sneering. “The little fool sounded the alarm without knowing if we even have a threat.”

  Franke glanced at the soldiers shivering in ranks. “Release the men?”

  “No. He assures—”

  The alarm died abruptly, leaving in its absence a dull ringing in the ears and the sense of a pain now missing.

  O’Bannon took his lieutenant by the arm and guided him away from the curious soldiers. “Captain Knoel assures me that the threat will be determined quickly. They have just now brought some of the satellites back online.”

  The younger officer sniffled. “This was his idea, taking them offline.”

  “For an upgrade of questionable worth. His obsession with the crater is unhealthy and dangerous.”

  “I thought the command instructed that the crater itself is dangerous.”

  “For once, I tend to believe our leadership. Something about that darkness…it could hide so much in the depths. The ruins concern me even more. Nothing but mystery, and what I heard from some I know—something terrible happened in there. Something terrible lives in there.”

  Franke bared his yellow teeth in a mocking grin. “Like this thing Andressen saw?”

  “We both saw it.”

  “Nothing lives on this waste of a moon, Major.”