by James Evans
So that’s what Ten did.
The first alien, shocked by the flash-bangs and the shots ringing from its armour, was hunching back as if it were seriously threatened. Maybe it was hurt. More likely, it was just disoriented, stunned by the grenades and surprised by the pistol rounds striking its armour.
Ten dropped his pistol, drew both knives and thumbed the mechanisms. They purred to life, and he slashed them at the alien’s chest, left then right. The blades skittered across the armour, shrieking and jumping as the client tried to stumble clear of its attacker. Ten struck again, closer now, inside the alien’s reach. A blade bit home, driving through a weak point in the armpit, and the monster board in pain. Ten twisted the handle; hands suddenly wet with blood.
The other knife slammed into the alien’s hip joint, an instinctive strike that would have been fatal on a human. Ten pushed hard, both knives twisting as he drove the alien back. It fell, screaming behind its mask, and Ten let it go taking the blades with it. He caught the alien’s rifle as it fell and spot it round, shouldering it smoothly as he dropped to one knee. The aliens were recovering, the effects of the grenades fading, but they were slow, far too slow.
Ten’s grin was manic as the rifle bucked against his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, muscles straining to keep the muzzle climb under control. He forced the gun down, fighting for control, envious of the aliens in their servo-assisted powered-armour. And then the second alien’s faceplate collapsed, and the head disappeared, blown away by the relentless attack.
But it had taken too long. The two aliens on the other side of the bay turned toward him, and all he could do was move. He grabbed the collar of the alien who was busy dying from knife wounds and dragged it upright. Crouched behind the power armour as bullets began to slam into the back of the suit, Ten snatched something from the alien’s belt with a feral grin.
A second later, the alien grenade exploded, and he was punched backwards, the power armour collapsing on top of him. He ripped the shattered HUD from his eyes, rolled the alien off him and grabbed the rifle. Lying on his back, he fired bursts into the heads of the remaining aliens as they tried to regain their feet.
The rifle clicked, magazine exhausted, and suddenly the only sound was a sort of wordless scream. Ten drew breath and realised it was him screaming. The aliens were gone, their shattered bodies sprawled across the walkways, and he was alone in a room full of corpses.
For a moment he just lay there, breathing heavily, the rifle’s smoking barrel resting on his boots. Then he kicked himself to his feet and grabbed a knife. Powered armour didn’t always need a living host, and Ten didn’t fancy being killed by some keyboard jockey with a fetish for remote murder. The blade made short work of the suits’ controls, sparks flying as he jammed it home.
Ten slumped down on the nearest armour corpse as the adrenaline drained away. What he really wanted was a good cuppa. Small chance of that here. He found a bottle of water on the floor, but it wasn‘t really the same.
Chapter Ten
Warden’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the carnage, a sure sign that he wanted to swear. Five marines dead, three wounded so severely that they’d be little use for days or even weeks, others carrying minor injuries. They’d captured the solar farm and the ship, it was true, but the cost had been high.
His HUD flashed a clear signal. The overwatch team hadn’t seen any more movement and were heading over in the rovers. He acknowledged it with a glance, confirming their update was read and understood
Warden turned his attention to the damage that Ten had caused with grenades and heavy fire. No hull ruptures, it seemed, but one end of the balcony had been destroyed, and twisted metal blocked the port door. Other than that, the damage appeared to be cosmetic, and there was no reason to think the ship wasn’t spaceworthy. He sent Patel to the other side to check the blocked door still worked.
Then he turned to the elephant in the room, namely the pods that had surprised the boarding party. He walked over to one and peered through the glass cover. Inside, a winged alien floated in a thick, translucent gel. There were sixteen pods in total, all occupied. Two held enormous hulking brutes like the one they’d killed in the base.
He turned to Milton, “They’re clones. The bloody aliens are using our own cloning tech against us. There must have captured military files on the Ark ship; these are definitely mil-tech clones.”
“Yes, Sir. Not the same as ours, though. Look at all the scales and the strange eyes. Our geneticists don’t do things like that; they keep even the mil-tech clones as close to human as possible. Wings notwithstanding, of course,” said Milton.
Warden closes his eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths and contemplating their next steps. Then he snapped back, alert and confident.
“Right, I want the casualties off the ship, and the rovers stowed somewhere safe. If we make it back, we’ll land here and drive back to Ashton. Make sure the drivers have weapons, plenty of munitions and that they stay out of sight until we return. Get the techs working on the ship. If they can’t get it flying, everything else we do here is a waste of time.”
“Ten, get your arse down here,” he bellowed, “Sergeant Milton, take a team through the ship again and make sure every compartment is checked again. I don’t want to be surprised by these things,” he said, pointing at a pod that contained an alien clone which appeared to be the pilot or officer class.
“Then a weapons check. Reload magazines, search the ship for anything we can add to our armoury,” he said, turning to Ten who had dropped down from the balcony.
“Prep for low-pressure boarding. Take half a squad and ransack the stores. Find any breathing apparatus or environment suits and bring them here,” he turned again as Ten peeled off, “Someone get this ramp down, and the rest of you bring the armoury aboard.” He paused to look at his team then he clapped his hands. “Hop to it people.”
He paced around the room, looking at the controls and checking the systems. It was pretty familiar stuff, but it seemed strange, outdated even. Tech from an ancient Ark, he thought, centuries old. He flipped up a cover and pressed the button it concealed. Warning beeps sounded, and lights appeared on the floors of the loading bays. Launch chairs rose from the floor space on both sides of the cloning bay. There were enough for more troops than would be deployed in one round of cloning. It made it easy to retrieve any troops from planetside, even if more than one round of clones had been decanted during a mission.
Warden looked around as everyone got on with their assigned tasks. He assumed the dropship would navigate itself to the alien vessel and land in an enclosed bay. Low-pressure boardings were dangerous, but he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
Even if they didn’t need to breach the outer hull of the ship, there was still a question over the alien’s air. Just because they could breathe the air on New Bristol didn’t mean the Marines would be able to breathe on the ship. Any difference in the gas mixture could cause problems, so he wanted to be sure that everyone had a reliable air supply for their breathing masks.
And he needed an option of last resort. That the aliens had clones altered everything. Every soldier they’d killed on New Bristol would be backed-up to the vessel in orbit. How long till they were decanted into new bodies? Even if they didn’t have cloning bays as part of the vessel, they might have more dropships. How many, he wondered, and how fast would they move?
He scratched his head and sighed as he walked into the cockpit. If his tech specialists couldn’t get this thing in the air, they’d need a new plan and fast.
Richardson looked up as he entered the cockpit, “Good news, Sir. The ship’s systems are intact. The aliens have things pretty similar to our own ships, good job they stole our technology I suppose. It looks like they haven’t really changed everything. I reckon if we pulled the panels off, some of the circuits would be exactly as they were when they were designed.”
“Great. Can you pilot it without knowing their language?”
“D
on’t need to, Sir. Just need to identify the auto-pilot. The dropship will get us back to their ship on its own. I think we can work out the necessary basics in maybe ten more minutes? Just don’t ask us to get into a dogfight, not that I imagine this crate has much more than drop zone weaponry. If they haven’t changed basic cockpit layout, they won’t have changed that either.”
“Is there any way to tell how many dropships they have on their ship?” asked Warden hopefully.
“Not really, Sir. If we spoke their language we could probably bring up an inventory, but that’s about it,” Richardson said apologetically.
“It’ll be at least three,” murmured Barlow. He cautiously pressed a button, then quickly pressed it again when the lighting panel above his head went out.
Warden and Richardson looked at him. He didn’t seem to notice their stares. Warden coughed, “Would you care to explain, Corporal?”
Barlow looked up, “Hmm? Oh well, it’s elementary really. This ship is the Something In Alien Three. So there must be at least two more dropships aboard the vessel unless they have really odd naming schemes.”
“How do you know it’s three?” asked Warden.
“It’s written on the side of the ship. Also, on this panel here,” Barlow said, pointing to a plaque with a series of symbols on the overhead bank of panels in front of the pilot’s chairs.
“Right,” said Warden slowly, as he contemplated the squiggles and dots which could have been an ancient Earth language for all the good it did him, “but how do you know that says that this is ship number three though?”
“This bit,” said Barlow pointing, “is the same as the bit on the third pod from the left on the fore and aft side of the clone bay. So my conclusion is it’s their glyph for ‘three’. Look, it’s here on this button too,” he said pointing to a button on the console, “so these buttons are probably two and four.”
Warden looked as directed. Barlow had a gift for noticing these things, and Warden couldn’t fault his logic.
“Right, so at the very least they have two more dropships, with thirty-two clones available to them, plus any whatever crew or active troops are left on the mothership. If they have four drop ships for a nice even number, they have forty-eight clones, ready to be deployed,” said Warden. He slumped a little in his chair, thinking.
“How long would it take to decant an alien clone?”
Both techs shrugged, “No idea, Sir. Probably about the same as ours, although they don’t have to inject brain patterns via wormhole here. Corporal Wilson might know more.”
“Right,” said Warden, standing up decisively, “get this thing ready to fly as quickly as possible. If there’s even a slim chance we can dock with the ship in orbit and complete the assault before they decant more clones, we need to take it. Every minute we waste here could make our task up there much more difficult.”
“Yes, Sir. One working dropship, coming right up.”
Chapter Eleven
Warden gritted his teeth as the acceleration of the dropship pushed him into the seat. The flight had started easily, like an ordinary aeroplane, but the ship had climbed quickly before standing on its tail to point straight up. And then the main engines had fired, rocketing the vessel towards escape velocity.
It took only twenty seconds or so to leave behind the atmosphere of the planet and reach the edge of space but the g-force was extraordinary and, to Warden, it felt like it went on for hours.
Then it was over and, just like that, they were free of the planet’s grip and on their way to orbit. The transition from the daylight of the atmosphere to the night-time environment of planetary orbit was stark and sudden, like turning off a light.
Warden’s had clipped his HUD to his belt for the launch. Richardson’s jury-rigged countdown played through the ship’s speakers so the Commandos would know when main acceleration was coming and when they’d get the relief of it ending. Ten minutes was a good rule of thumb for this type of flight.
It was a desperate mission. Even at full strength, the risks would have been high but with A Troop depleted, no Command team and large parts of Section 3 currently dead, the attack was truly a forlorn hope. What they really needed was time. And B Troop, thought Warden, denied action by the destruction of the second cloning bay, to say nothing of C Troop, safely at home enjoying the luck of the draw.
Warden grinned grimly. C Troop would be doing more than the normal amount of cleanup and physical training at the moment. They’d ‘won’ the deployment lottery and been left back at base, but they were working just as hard as A Troop, albeit with less risk of a gruesome death under an alien sky.
The pre-launch briefing had been short and the questions few. Now they flew in silence, HUDs off, weapons locked down, everyone focusing on what was to come.
Why were HUDs off for launch? Warden couldn’t remember, but maybe it was something to do with safety. Black eyes, maybe? He shook his head; it didn’t matter, the standing order was to launch with HUDs stowed.
In free fall, though, HUDs were safe, and Warden slipped his back on. The command panel he would have had on an RMSC dropship was absent, so he patched through to the pilot’s view.
There was a moment of disorientation as he tried to work out what he was seeing. Then the grey, almost featureless, slab of the ship in front of them slid open to expose a docking bay.
“It’s big,” muttered Warden, surprised despite his long-nurtured cynicism, “very big.” Around him, he could see that the Marines were similarly awed, all watching the pilot’s feed.
“How does it look?” Warden asked.
“Coming on nice, sir,” said Richardson, “thrusters firing, nothing to do up here but watch. Very dull.”
“Good, let’s hope it stays that way.”
In the last five decades, there had never been a need to breach an enemy ship, certainly not while under fire. The Marines were trained for it, of course, but they didn’t have the kit. Their only option was to dock, and if the alien ship took action against them, their assault would be over before it had started.
Warden looked around at the Marines of A Troop.
“Thirty seconds,” said Richardson, “matching velocities.”
The thrusters fired again, more violently this time as the ship moved in towards its hanger.
“Weapons ready,” ordered Warden as they passed into the shadow of the great ship and the thrusters fired again, slowly them still further. There was a ripple of movement amongst the Marines as they checked their weapons and kit one last time.
Then the view changed as they passed into the hanger. A clang reverberated through the hull, and everyone jumped.
“Docking complete,” reported Richardson, “outer door closed, atmosphere coming in.” And gravity, which returned with a welcome thump when the ship stopped moving, pushing everyone firmly into their seats.
Warden sent a command via the HUD for everyone to don their breathers until they could check the atmosphere against human tolerances. Pre-launch, he and Milton had made sure everyone understood to keep their breathers on until they were out of the hangar, as that would be the most easily vented compartment should any of the crew realise what was going on.
“Almost there,” said Richardson, voice tense, “ten seconds till doors open.”
The Commandos unstrapped and stood, checking weapons and lining up on the exit ramps.
“Doors open in three, two, one,” said Richardson, punching the door control.
The Marines pounded down the ramps and sprinted for the exits, gathering in teams around each doorway. With the access cards retrieved from the dropship troops, they opened three doors simultaneously. Marine X and Warden’s best-trained stealth troops slipped through the doors and moved into the giant ship to begin clearing the area.
Micro-drones followed, tracking each team so the rest of the Marines could follow closely behind without giving away their presence. Richardson stayed in the dropship, locking herself in and prepping for launch in case t
hey had to evacuate early, although nobody really expected that to be a survivable exercise.
Warden looked around before he left the room, found a storage locker that Richardson could see from the cockpit and dumped a bag in it. He saw Richardson hold up a small object in her hand and nod at him through the cockpit window. Warden nodded to her. If it all went to hell, Richardson had orders to launch the dropship and press the detonator before returning planetside.
Warden went through the door, following Marine X’s team and waiting for something to give them away and sound the alarm.
Chapter Twelve
Marine X had killed two aliens so far, taking them down before they knew he was there. Now he moved, unseen and silent, checking for movement as his team tidied up behind him and checked the rooms he’d skipped.
At the end of the corridor, his way was blocked by a bulkhead door. A quick glance through the porthole revealed an engineering bay. No sign of movement.
He opened the door and stepped inside. The room was long and closed off at the other end; this was the only entrance he could see. There was nobody around. He paced down the room slowly. He was on the port side of the vessel, and there was heavy equipment against the exterior bulkhead. Guns. These were gun emplacements, and this was the servicing bay.
The huge room was open, but there were bulkheads between each gun that could be sealed if there was a breach. Damaged cannons could be easily accessed for repair or isolation and containment. There wasn’t likely to be anyone in here, so he picked up his pace and jogged to the other end of the bay. Better to move quickly than risk getting sealed behind bulkheads and exposed to vacuum.
But the room was clear, and he walked back down the bay, reloading his weapon updating the map for the rest of the troop as he went.
So far the ship was symmetrical, which was hardly surprising. Most starships layouts were designed to be easily understood, even in pitch blackness. Areas were repeated and identical apart from markings to show where you were in the ship. The weapons bay had glyphs near the doors and on each cannon and though he couldn’t read them he knew they would tell the crew where they were on the ship. He marked the room clear, glanced to the right where his team were catching up and moved to the next door.
