Wings of the Magpie: Space Operettas

by Loch Erinheart

  Around me, my comrades were climbing from their suspension chambers. Maybe it was just the lingering effect of morphinic hypersleep, but at that moment I had an epiphany. As I glanced around at the naked bodies of my companions (bodies, I might add, that I'd seen in a thousand different circumstances, at work and at play, in war and in respite), I realized that we were all more similar than different. Sure, there were minor things that set us apart, marked us as individuals: Gunny's flat, broad nose and metal-covered teeth; Poynter's pale, freckled face; Emerald's deep ebony skin; Pax, olive-toned and golden-eyed; Mills, with her heavily tattooed flesh; Lawrence's cherubic grin; even me, with my Comms augmentation and battle scars; these minor physical differences meant nothing. Instead, we were unified, all of us, by virtue of being female, Terran, and Marines. Each of us wore the long cesarean scar of our first breeding cycle; each of us bore the ceramic implants necessary for hypersleep and long-distance interstellar travel; each of us had the Terran Fleet Marine Corps crest electronically emblazoned on our shoulders, through it constantly receiving signals from the Tiptree, reminding us of our charge, our mission, our oath: Semper Fideles. It was in that moment that it became clear to me that the Pride of the 419th was more than a shallow title, it was a calling. We were, all of us, the best humanity had to offer, and its greatest hope for the future.

  We dressed in our coveralls without speaking, understanding that the ship’s emergency klaxons would drown out all but the most primitive of non-verbal communication, aware that we were going to be stepping out into a life-or-death firefight. We filed from the safe crèche of our ready room into the hangar where our fighting suits awaited, primed and ready for martial action.

  ***

  It was quieter in the hangar; the constant thrum and clang of machinery felt almost serene in contrast with the warnings blaring throughout the rest of the ship. Lee, the Tiptree’s XO, met us by the fighting suits, along with a quartet of heavily armed Grummands. Lee was a Vat-Brain-controlled simulacrum, a hologram, who affected the look of a Marine officer of a few hundred years earlier: pressed dress uniform, ceremonial saber, and, strangely enough, gendered male. The Corps has been a female-only organization for generations, an evolution made necessary by the physical demands of fighting suits and the stresses of hypersleep and FTL travel on the human body. Some months ago, Poynter sliced into Lee's graphics program, hoping to update his appearance to something a bit more modern. Unfortunately, all she managed to do was modify his uniform into an equally-archaic gingham skirt and blouse combo. We snickered for about a week, then Gunny insisted that Poynter change Lee back because the new look “lacked dignity.”

  Lee briefed us, feeding us the latest information on Badger infantry tactics, weaponry, and support, as we suited up and prepared for boarding. First, we pulled the sleek, dark, airtight pressure suits that would protect us from vacuum, radiation, and most small arms and zapgun fire over our coveralls. Next came our helmets, which, when coupled to our neckports, formed the essential electronic link between Marines and machines, between tenuous flesh and the brawny armored fighting suit frames which were the final accoutrement in the process. A Marine in a fighting suit frame towered over civilians at two and a half meters tall, bristled with weaponry, and could stand up to anything short of a direct hit from a plasma rifle.

  As an unarmored human is to a Marine in a fighting suit, so are fighting suits to Grummands. A Grummand’s bulk and power made you feel as if you were a mere adolescent, even while wearing a fighting suit. Standing just over three meters tall, a Grummand was the war machine perfected in matte black Titanoplast, a massive upside-down triangle with powerfully-clawed legs and arms. On either side of their tiny heads sat interchangeable weapons platforms: rocket launchers, plasma cannons, zapguns, whatever armament was deemed necessary for the mission at hand. Originally designed as EVAC infantry support and private army grunts, all Grummands held within their chests an emergency transport cavity, a space intended to suspend the vital signs of a wounded Marine long enough to convey her back to safety, even under the extreme conditions of vacuum, radiation, or hostile fire. Some Marines nicknamed Grummands “Big Brothers.” The rest called them “Big Mothers.”

  ***

  Once we were suited up and Lee had finished his briefing, we climbed into a Vat-Brain controlled Roundabout for the short hop over to the Badger worldship. Little more than a tin can with a propulsion system, a Roundabout has neither atmosphere nor artificial gravity, leaving a traveling Marine alone with her thoughts, the sounds of her breath and body within the fighting suit, and, if she’s lucky, a bit of back-and-forth radio communication with her comrades. There are no portholes on a Roundabout, there is nothing to see. Roundabout time is long; minutes feel like hours; hours, like days. Fortunately, Gunny had developed a ritual to help the 419th pass the eternity as we were ferried across the Stygian void: she sang. Gunny’s low and mournful voice provided us with aid and comfort as we crossed the battlefield, steeling us for combat, focusing us on our mission as she earnestly intoned the ancient Marine hymn:

  From the cluster Al’Hourazi

  To the Syrens of Palai

  For the glories of the Core Worlds

  We will fight, though we may die

  Towards the Echelons unnumbered

  Out to verdant planets green

  Honor, glory are the charges

  Of a Terran Fleet Marine

  Though the rockets burst around us

  Though the air is tinged with fear

  Our hallowed charge supports us

  Towards the breach, our aim is clear

  We the armor, we are metal,

  Weapons in this sacred war

  We the women proud to be called

  To serve Terra’s Marine Corps

  As Gunny’s hymn concluded, we sat in silence. It was Pax that spoke first. “Amen,” she said, her voice clipped by the helmet radio.

  “Amen,” we echoed.

  Suddenly, red lights flooded the Roundabout, letting us know that it was nearly time to disembark. “All right, ladies,” barked Gunny through our radios, “let’s do our jobs and do them well. Semper Fi.”

  “Semper Fi,” we echoed, and the Roundabout’s door opened.

  ***

  Within moments, we were clustered around the Badger worldship’s forward airlock. While Poynter and Gunny worked at cracking the airlock’s computer, I tuned my Comms unit to the Tiptree’s Vat-Brains in order to let them know that we’d arrived. Emerald, Pax, Mills, Lawrence, and the four Grummands stood guard, scanning the hull of the worldship for any signs of life. As my Comms unit made contact, I glanced back through the void towards the Tiptree, noticing at first how beautiful she looked as starlight gleamed off her silver hull. Then I noticed the damage, the massive rend near her stern. The Russ looked equally damaged, a stream of atmosphere pouring from her starboard side. The Butler floundered, a darkened derelict, dead in space. She had been cleaved in two and her cracked halves spun in opposite directions. So many lives, I thought, snuffed out like candle flames. How easily it could have been the Tiptree torn apart by Badger plasma cannon fire. In that moment, I truly hated the Badgers, vicious and inhuman creatures. For each of them I killed, I would avenge the loss of one of my battle-sisters.

  The airlock irised open, expectorating its contents, trash and other unidentifiable debris, into the void. Gunny entered first, then Poynter, then the others, including the Grummands. I crossed the threshold last, affording myself one final glance back at the Tiptree. “Take care of her,” I murmured, to nobody in particular, “or it’s going to be a long walk home.” I stepped into the airlock, closing it behind me, feeling as if I had shut myself off from everything I’d ever known. Finally I turned, watching as my companions opened the second hatch, and, as we had done a thousand times before, stepped into the breach, weapons ready, and prepared for battle.

  ***

  We marched single-file towards the worldship’s bridge, a pair of Grummands taking po
int, then Gunny, followed by Mills and Lawrence. Emerald came next, then Poynter, me, and Pax. The two remaining Grummands took the rear. Our footsteps resounded through the worldship’s thin atmosphere, metallic and imposing, but surprisingly, we neither met with resistance nor saw a single Badger. Instead, we pointed our weapons at every bulkhead’s creak, every rattle, every drip. “It’s like a Flying Dutchman,” said Poynter, but the significance of her commentary was lost on us.

  Finally, we arrived at the sliding PolyPlast doors that separated the bridge from the adjoining corridor. Poynter stepped up to the door controls, planning to open the portal, but realized quickly that the controls had been fused shut. “You’re going to have to blow it,” she stated, pointing to Mills and Lawrence as she did so.

  Mills carefully set charges around the doorjamb, pressing them into the cracks like so much dough or children’s clay. Lawrence set wired timers into the elastic surfaces of the charges, synchronizing each to a one-minute countdown. We all stepped back down the corridor and took positions kneeling or crouching with the Grummands standing behind us, our weapons trained on the doorway. Lawrence triggered the timers… sixty… fifty-nine… fifty-eight… the fleeting numerals forming a serene mantra, working their way down towards an inevitable breakthrough, to one, to zero, to unavoidable transformation.

  And then, like thunder, lightning, and the voice of a god, the explosives detonated, tearing the doors apart, sending smoke and burning bits of PolyPlast shrapnel flying. There was no calm that followed the explosion, no time of respite in which to contemplate the conflagration, as a salvo of small-arms fire, zapgun blasts, and careless rockets erupted through the damaged opening, ricocheting off the bulkheads, glancing off our armor, and exploding down the length of the corridor. We answered, of course, with plasma rifles, grenades, and Pax’s chaingun tearing blindly into the room. Soon, the chaos of conflict gave way to the inhuman moans and cries of injury, and we pressed forward, stepping through the debris-strewn doorway onto the ship’s bridge.

  The bridge was in ruins, smoke poured from devastated computer equipment and from the dead and dying hairy little bodies of the Badger crew. I was thankful that my fighting suit, with its enclosed environment, shielded me from the acrid and overwhelming smell of blistered flesh and burning fur. Weapons lay about, often clutched tightly in dead hands, some no longer attached to their owners. A pair of severed legs stood in front of a shattered viewscreen, its spiderweb glass painted red by Badger blood. We walked about the room, zapguns drawn, snuffing out the lives of those few remaining Badgers that groaned in pain, knowing it was mercy, of a sort, to end the suffering of beings too stupid to know that they were already past the point of repair. One Badger, an officer, seated at a static-covered Comms console and clutching at his waist, snickered at me as I pressed the barrel of my zapgun to his head and pulled the trigger. As his body fell limp, his grip relaxed, and his distended guts tumbled, almost endlessly, out of his torn abdomen. I felt like retching.

  Poynter set to work, trying to tap into the ship’s computers through one of the less-damaged terminals, as the rest of us took stock of the Badger casualties, dragging their bodies to the center of the bridge and stacking them near the command chair. The Grummands stood guard by the doors. In all, there were forty-three and a half Badger carcasses, more or less, ranging in rank from leather-uniformed officers down to naked infantry grunts. It was a satisfying kill, and we basked in glory for almost half a minute until Gunny spoke. “Wait… where’s the captain?”

  “What?” yelled Emerald, then added a gratuitous “Aw, crap,” as she looked around at the carnage.

  “Badger captains are massive,” explained Gunny. These are all little guys. None of these punks could have commanded a worldship.”

  ***

  It was Poynter who found our answer, which she shouted back to us from the corner where she stood connected to the ship’s computer. “Systems show that the captain’s barricaded himself in on the forward observation deck. It looks like he's got a dozen or so key officers with him, along with five, no, six Bruiser-bots."

  "How do we get up there?" queried Gunny.

  "Hold on," answered Poynter as she accessed the ship's computer. "Back the way we came, past the airlock about half a klik, there's a liftshaft. It goes straight up to the observation deck, and then we can take it back down, cut through the warrens, and hit the reactors. Kaboom. Piece of cake." She smiled, adding, "And then we can call it a day and make it home in time for dessert."

  "All right, ladies," barked Gunny, "you heard the geek. Let's hit it. Two Grummands take point, two take rear. Stay frosty, and watch for traps."

  ***

  We took Gunny's caution to heart, but surprisingly met with no resistance as we crept towards the liftshaft. Something about the silent, empty corridor made my hair stand on end, sent migrating chills rambling up and down my spine. It reminded me of the long hours spent playing 3-D sim-combat games in basic, only with the AI enemies turned off. By the time we reached the liftshaft, my skin was practically crawling, and I was sweating in anticipation of the firefight to come.

  The liftshaft was a heavy industrial model, designed to move massive amounts of equipment, but even so, carrying seven Marines in fighting suits and four Grummands at once was beyond its platform's capabilities, so we split up. Gunny selected Pax, Mills, and Emerald, along with two of the Grummands to be the first wave, and she, along with the rest of them, ascended. Meanwhile, Lawrence, Poynter, the two remaining Grummands, and I were left to wait for the platform to return and carry us up for backup.

  By the time the platform came back, we had already been listening to the chaotic sounds of battle for several minutes: the belch of plasma rifles, the staccato roar of Pax's chaingun, the whoosh and impact of rockets, the vulgar screams of Badgers. Looking upwards through the shaft as we ascended, zapgun beams danced overhead, like festive, deadly fireworks amid the stars that shined through the Transplast dome. The bursts of static laced with panicked profanities that echoed through our helmet radios confirmed nothing. Lawrence, Poynter, and I crouched, sandwiched between the Grummands with our weapons ready as the platform rose, and hoped, even prayed, for the safety and preservation of our compatriots.

  Fifteen meters from the top, however, our hopes were dashed, as a glassgreen ball of energy sailed overhead and burst, sending jagged bolts of lightning in every direction. This wasn't something produced by any handheld weapon, but a ship-mounted plasma cannon reapportioned for use inside the Transplast dome of the observation lounge. This was Badger desperation at its most ingenious – and most dangerous – even to the crew that fired the colossal gun.

  The last few meters of our ascent seemed to take forever, and when we finally reached the apex of our climb, the scene that unfolded was as tragic as we’d imagined. Only a few meters from the liftshaft, Gunny crouched behind an impromptu bunker formed from the fallen metal bodies of the two Grummands and the remains of three fighting suit frames. She held Pax’s chaingun, and fired it indiscriminately towards the Badger’s own barricade. Gunny’s fighting suit creaked with her every movement, as it had been damaged from a dozen impacts. Nearby, Emerald, her frame abandoned and helmet off, held Mills in her arms, clutching a torn rag of coverall against her compatriot’s sucking chest wound. Dark red blood covered them both. Pax was nowhere to be seen.

  We stepped off the platform, our Grummands firing rockets towards the Badger encampment, and ran to our battle sisters’ aid. Lawrence dropped out of her suit and took Emerald’s place in attempting to staunch the torrent of blood spilling from her companion’s gaping injury. “Where’s Pax?” I shouted over the noise of Gunny’s chaingun retort.

  “She took the full charge of that plasma cannon,” Gunny shouted, nearly hysterical. “One minute she was there, the next, poof! Just an empty, smoking frame.” Through the transparent mask of Gunny’s helmet, I could see tears choking her eyes, streaming down her face.

  I readied my plasma rifle aga
inst the barricade, carefully picking my targets among the glimpses of fur and eyes behind the Badger encampment, and began firing. Emerald did likewise, taking time to lock her sniper’s scope into place atop her rifle, proceeding to clear a handful of Badger riflemen from the line. Poynter helped Lawrence pull Mills into one of the Grummands’ emergency cavities, then tended Emerald’s shrapnel injuries as our remaining Grummand fired rockets towards the plasma cannon.

  The Badgers had circumvented the dangers of using the plasma cannon within the confined space of the observation lounge by manning it with a crew of Bruiser-bots. Bruiser-bots were cheap Sini-made AIs with the brawn, but not the brain-power of lowland gorillas. Only one more plasma blast exploded harmlessly overhead before our Grummand’s rockets hit home, blasting the plasma cannon to shrapnel and sending bits of Bruiser-bot flying. As we exchanged round after round with the Badgers, a smoking Bruiser head wearing a shocked expression on its metal face impacted near my position and rolled benignly past. Soon, it seemed as if we were the only ones left firing, so we stopped to catch our collective breath and reload, waiting to see whether the Badgers were all dead, or if they had a final assault left in them.

  “Gunny,” panted Lawrence, interrupting the silence. Her eyes were streaming tears. “Mills is hurt bad, real bad. Even inside the Grummand, she ain’t got long. We’ve got to EVAC, abort. We’ve got to get her back to the Tiptree. I can take her myself in the Roundabout.”