by P. R. Adams
“And yet we both saw something.”
“From the ruins? You believe this, then?”
“Something built those ruins, and something destroyed them. Maybe our presence has awakened something that survived. The forerunners must have had extraordinary technology, yet something destroyed them.”
The younger man’s broad shoulders bowed in, and he shook. “Fairy tales.”
“Better we should have struck the thing to put an end to your skepticism.”
“Better you hadn’t seen it at all, Major. Some things are best left unknown.”
O’Bannon waved the younger man back toward the soldiers who had started whispering among themselves. “Keep them in the area, but put them at rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shortly after the soldiers had broken into small groups, Andressen rushed in, face freshly scrubbed and uniform coat still being buttoned. “Major, do we know what the alarm was for?”
“Not yet.” He waved the young man over and helped with the final, troublesome button. “Report to your lieutenant. Once I know—”
A vibration drew the major’s attention back to the communicator. He barely noticed Andressen’s bow before the young man was gone.
O’Bannon accepted the call from Knoel. “Yes, Captain?”
“I am sending you video from the satellites. Review it.”
The dismissive tone was grating. It gnawed at the major’s patience and scraped a jagged nail along his spine. Even a creation favored by the supreme leader should adhere to the existing expectations of rank and protocol. Without that, discipline would always be at risk.
A soft vibration notified him that the video had been received. He tapped the screen to open the file, and the video played.
Ships descended into the cloud cover high above Jotun’s rocky surface.
Shuttles. And there had been something larger. With visible weapons.
They were all old, as if someone had raided a war museum back on the Azoren home world of Himmel.
But the markings, there was no mistaking what he saw.
Yet O’Bannon squinted in disbelief. “Kedraalian ships?”
“Yes. Kedraalian. An attack against Azoren Federation space! And so soon after the Gulmar incident in the DMZ!”
“Contain your excitement, Captain.”
Yet O’Bannon’s heart raced. If it was an attack, then the young captain’s claim about the battle front shifting wasn’t some deluded, war-loving fever dream but a terrible prediction.
“Why?” The major replayed the video until he caught the first sign of Kedraalian markings. “What is to be gained from an attack against Jotun?”
“Their destination, you old fool. Look at where they descend to!”
The crater? The ruins? The Black Lightning commander’s nonsensical claim about a signal coming from the area! “You lured them here?”
“I have done no such thing. They have come for whatever is in the crater.”
It seemed unlikely the Kedraalians would enter Azoren space for any reason, but a lure, a false signal… What signal could draw them in? Why?
“Nothing is down there but death.”
“Then they have come for death. And it is your fault they have made it to the surface of this moon undetected.”
O’Bannon shook the communicator. “They have been detected!”
“Because my men bravely sacrificed themselves to ready the satellites!”
“This argument is pointless. What do we do now?”
“You and your men will head to the crater. Take up a position two hundred meters south. I will take my men wide, around to the west and circle to the north side. A small team will head to the ruins to ensure no one enters.”
“You know the orders: No one enters the ruins.”
The captain snorted. “They will stay on the outskirts.”
Orders didn’t concern the young fool, but did he at least have the sense to fear what might cause such orders to exist? “You would be wise to honor the commands of our superiors in this case, Captain.”
“The team will watch the ravine from above, then. No one will get past.”
“And what of us at the crater?”
“When I signal, we will descend and destroy whatever forces they have sent.”
Of course he would assign O’Bannon’s forces the south side. There was so little cover there. “And your men will wear their specialized gear?”
“Yes. We will descend unseen.” Knoel’s smugness was nauseating.
“We should reach out to the Azoren Border Command for approval. This could be something they have anticipated—”
“Of course it is anticipated. And we are expected to strike!”
“We have no idea of their numbers.”
“You have your orders, you ridiculous dinosaur. Follow them.” Knoel closed the connection.
O’Bannon shoved the communicator into his coat pocket. “Lieutenant Franke.” He waved the slender man over and tried not to look into the eyes of the curious soldiers watching.
Franke hurried over, a plume of steam trailing behind. “We know something, Major?”
“An attack. Kedraalian Republic ships.”
“On the home world?”
“Here. At the crater. Satellites caught the image. They descended just now.”
“Attacking Jotun, sir? Why?”
“Knoel seems to have knowledge that they were coming or at least a suspicion.”
“And he shared this?”
“Hardly. Have the men get into their thermal gear. Combat load out—three magazines each, flares and grenades, if we have any. Bayonets for everyone. We take the Leopards out in twenty minutes.”
“To where, sir?”
“The crater.”
14
A ringing noise filled Benson’s darkness. She couldn’t remember why it was dark, and she definitely couldn’t recall what had caused the ringing deep in her head. But the sensations were real. They were in the core of her being, along with a dull ache that ran the length of her back, and a sharper pain in her right leg. All of it seemed to contribute to the ringing.
The taste of blood on her lips. Ring-ring-ring!
The smell of vomit. Ring-ring-ring!
Something like the sound of tearing metal made the ringing worse, turning it into an agonizing pounding.
Then someone shook her, which was exactly the worst thing that could be done.
“This one’s alive, too!” The voice was familiar. Manly. Deep. “Get some light in here!”
Far, far away, someone else whispered, “Pilot’s alive, too. For now.”
Durall. Alive. He’d beaten the odds, hadn’t he?
Light—maybe a sun from the other end of the system—touched her eyelids, and the darkness faded slightly.
But the pounding? The ringing? So much worse.
“Ah, hell. It’s the commander!” The familiar voice. “Corpsman!”
Then there were hands on her, rubbing and probing. She couldn’t believe how invasive whoever was touching her was.
“She’s better off than Durall.” An unfamiliar female voice.
Then the hands reached Benson’s right knee, and all concern about privacy went away.
She groaned and slammed against the harness.
Her eyes opened. Vomit stained her rebreather. And blood.
“We’ve got a dislocated bone here!” It was the female voice. A corpsman?
“Get her out of this.” The familiar, manly voice.
Who? She couldn’t put a name to it.
Then the fire in her knee finally brought enough clarity of thought to realize who it was: Gadreau.
Other hands were on her, pushing and pulling. There was grunting. It was all slightly muffled to her, then it dawned on her that she was hearing through rebreather masks and communication device relays. And the hands weren’t on her but on her harness—trying to lift it free. And in the light that had been on her eyes, she could see why: the harness an
d most of the interior of the shuttle were warped, twisted.
They’d hit hard.
Really hard.
The bottom of the shuttle must have ruptured. And by the look of things, there must have been fire. An instant, perhaps. Everything had a sooty patina to it. Someone must have wiped her mask clear, but a blur remained.
Finally, the harness gave, and the people all around her grabbed her and carried her out.
Radiant pinpricks shone like stars in the heavens, a firmament of absolute black that sucked up the illumination until only the tiniest elements remained to tell anyone lucky enough to see the glow just how far they were from life-giving heat and light.
“Commander Benson, can you understand me?” It was the female voice again.
“Yes.” Benson’s voice sounded so weak, but it still made her head hurt.
“I’m going to need you to close your eyes and hold your breath. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Not yet, ma’am. We need to get your mask off and check your head for injuries, okay?”
Benson tried to nod, felt the twinge of pain in her neck, then settled on another “Yes.”
Then fingers fumbled around for the helmet and mask straps, and she remembered at the last moment to close her eyes and hold her breath.
Just before cold rushed in and blasted her skin.
Something warm and wet brushed against her cheeks, followed almost instantly by more probing fingers. The probing was about as gentle as what had happened in the shuttle, and when the fingers reached the back of her jaw, Benson nearly screamed again.
“That’s good, Commander. Hold on for just a second more.”
The fingers worked around the underside of the jaw and to the base of her skull, and this time there was no holding back a gasp.
“Okay. Hold your breath, ma’am. Here comes your helmet again.”
And Benson had to bite back another scream as her head was pulled forward and the helmet was slipped on, straining the neck and jaw that were obviously not in the least bit right.
Then came the mask.
She sucked in air and was relieved to find that someone had cleaned the interior out. It smelled like alcohol and some sort of citrus soap. The fluid that had been wiped across her face had a less sharp scent to it, also pleasant. But that fluid had frozen in the short period of exposure, and now it was melting.
Benson could see. The person working on her looked to be in her early thirties. She had a vaguely olive skin tone, a large nose, and the most comforting smile ever.
And she had an injector. “Commander? Okay, you with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good news. Okay? You’re going to be fine.”
Going to be. How far out was that supposed to be? Benson felt like she’d come out of a rock tumbler set on high. “Bad news?”
“There’s some of that, too. But that’s where this comes in.”
“Anesthetic?”
“And a painkiller.”
“I need to be awake and aware.”
“We can get you something to keep you sharp, but you don’t want to be awake for this, okay? You’ve got a dislocated fibula, right up on the side of the femur joint.”
“That’s bad, right?”
“It’s going to hurt a lot, yes. But it could’ve been worse. You must’ve hit just right. Normally, it’s the tibia that gets popped out from something like this.”
“So, what’s next?”
“Numb you up, get you put back together and wrapped, shoot a little anti-inflammatory goodness into you, and let you go.”
Benson looked around. The pinprick lights were moving: people with flashlights, not stars. And there were some lights that weren’t moving. Other shuttles, maybe? “How many survived?”
The medic looked away. “We’re at about half strength, ma’am. Almost.”
Half. “Lieutenant Stiles? Major Fero? Staff Sergeant Halliwell?”
“You lost four Marines in your shuttle, but the others are going to be okay. Was Staff Sergeant Halliwell the big guy?”
Was? Why did she say “was”? “Yes.”
“I thought so. He’s helping get the other survivors out of the wreckage.”
Benson relaxed. “I can’t wait for an anesthetic.”
“Ma’am, you don’t want—”
Someone was there beside the medic, a man. Dietrich’s face—pockmarked cheeks and thinning, curly brown hair—filled Benson’s vision. His fingers ran along her leg smoothly while his sad, brown eyes locked on hers. “I’ll take this one now, Petty Officer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need to listen to me, Commander.” A quick press of his fingertips sent blinding pain through Benson’s leg. “You feel that?”
“Yes.” Benson swallowed.
“Resetting your bone will be worse. You understand?”
“I understand.”
He took the injector from the medic. “Last chance.”
“No. Just get it over with. Quickly. Please.”
“It would help if you look away.”
Benson did. She focused on the black floor of the crater, on the way it looked like molten glass and reflected all the little lights so beautifully. She could almost imagine a dark pool mirroring the stars—
Fingers dug into Benson’s calf and thigh. Strong fingers. Agile fingers. They dug in deep.
And someone hooked fingers around Benson’s hips. And they yanked.
There wasn’t really a good description for the pain. It was—for an instant—excruciating. Tear-inducing. Teeth-shattering.
But there was also a sudden relief from the dislocation pain going away.
Nausea hit—a punch to the gut that seemed ready to force another spray of vomit.
Then that passed.
She shivered, gasped, then breathed normally.
The leg didn’t feel quite right, but it felt so much better.
The corpsman was doing something—rubbing, pressing, twisting the leg.
Dietrich’s mouth compressed into a disapproving frown. “That was masochistic.”
“Isn’t all military service?” Benson managed a quivering smile.
The doctor walked away. “Please finish her up, Petty Officer.”
“Okay, ma’am.” The medic was patting the leg that felt just fine. “You’re going to need someone to look at your jaw at some point. I think you cracked some teeth. And you’ve probably done some fine work to your spine.”
“It hurts. My neck, too.”
“The anti-inflammatory will help some. A lot, actually.”
Benson nodded. “Do it.”
The petty officer probed around for an injection site—this one under a flap where the shoulder muscle came down over the upper arm. It was a sharp sting that didn’t compare at all to the rest of the pain still hammering Benson.
“Thank you.” Benson took the medic’s hand. “I didn’t catch your name?”
“Petty Officer Magdy.”
“Thank you, Petty Officer Magdy. Do you know where the other officers are?”
“Other than Commander Dietrich? Just Captain Gadreau.” The petty officer pointed toward another shuttle, this one in much better condition, at least based on what was revealed by the flares and lights surrounding it.
“Can I walk?”
“Sort of. Keep your weight off of that leg as much as you can, ma’am. I’ve wrapped it to the point you won’t be able to bend it much. And you’ll need to be careful on this rock. It can be slick. Extend your boot crampons.”
The young woman offered Benson help getting to her feet, then wandered off.
There were people in much worse condition. That didn’t need to be said.
When Gadreau saw Benson approaching, he waved a couple other people over to her: Marines. They helped her to his position, where Benson found Stiles.
The GSA officer smiled. “Good to have you with us, Commander.”
Gadreau didn’t seem as happy. “I can upd
ate you on our status when you’re ready, Commander.”
Benson glanced around. From their position, she could only make out two other shuttles that looked functional. “Ready as I’ll ever be, Captain.”
“We’ve got thirty-two able-bodied Marines, depending on how you define able-bodied.”
“How many are your Marines?”
“Nine. Counting me.”
“Anti-aircraft weapons? Mines? Sensors? Explosives? Drones?”
“Sensors made it down here. That big fireball when the Azoren ships hit? That was most of our mines and the big anti-aircraft weapon.”
“Drones?”
“One survived. Mostly.”
“I’ll get one of my people on it. Explosives?”
“Useless. Most of the detonators were destroyed.”
“Most. We have some?”
“A few.”
“Rig the explosives.”
“For what?”
“To be sure anyone overrunning our position pays the price.”
The Marine captain grunted. “Won’t be anything left of us.”
“That’s a positive.”
“I think maybe my Marines should—”
“They should make sure they’re not overrun, if they don’t want to be blown up.”
“My Marines don’t need that sort of incentive to perform.”
“We’re not discussing this, Captain. Rig the explosives. Send me the ability to detonate them remotely.” Benson pulled out her command tablet.
Gadreau bowed his shoulders. “There are better options.”
“Do it, Captain.”
“Your orders.”
“They are. Where’s this surviving drone?”
He shrugged. “Not really on my radar.”
Pressure squeezed Benson’s chest. One broken drone wasn’t going to change anything. “What about the vehicles?”
“Toast, ma’am.”
“Both?”
“Well—” He twisted to glance at the wall of the crater behind him.
The wall with cooling chunks of twisted metal.
Losing both vehicles hurt almost as much as losing so many people. Human lives being expended on a cause was terrible. Human lives being expended on a cause that seemed doomed to fail?
“What happened to the other Badger? Did it crash, too?”
“Landed okay, but it won’t start.”
