Travesty (SolarSide Book 1)

by Austin Aragon

  “This is your Marshall Hannibal speaking.” Everyone hushes as the speaker system projecting his voice continues. “Today marks the making of history. I do not need to remind you of the devastation and loss of life in the Dolus System that is occurring as I speak. Already one planet, Gemina, has been completely destroyed, a total of twenty million people are dead on that lost planet to the Herculeans. And on Nova Terra, the relentless invasion has just begun where the Herculeans have laid siege to a new city, Jericho, the same time we depart to save them. This is the history of mankind coming together as one force…”

  “Except China,” whispers Isaac.

  “…as one race and species to fight the invading Herculeans. This is our great crusade across the galaxy like knights of old, where we will relieve the desperate people of Nova Terra from the enemy species, the alien Herculeans. This is the survival of humanity, the battle of the fittest. Let us pray that God wishes us on top. You are my brave warriors who have joined me on this journey…”

  “Like I had a fucking choice,” says Isaac. I tell him to shut it.

  “…Let our valor, our strength as mankind unite us. From the shores of California to the steppes of the Urals, we will prevail against a common enemy. The next five days of our hyperspace journey will be a time of anticipation, and a time that all of you will need to mentally prepare yourselves for what is to come. Earth, all of humanity from this star system to the next is immensely proud of you. They, and our future generations will view us as their heroes, their saviors. God bless America and the Party.”

  The radiocast ends, and our necks slam against the seat cushions as the carrier takes off. My port window fills with white smoke, next blue. I lean over to try and see Earth. But already all of Parris Island is undistinguishable and quickly covered by clouds.

  We break through the atmosphere, and marines desperately grab any loose equipment as we enter zero gravity. Next is a slight panic as our seats rotate to align with the shuttle, till we realize we were warned. Our shuttle shrinks as the launch rockets are released and we use thrusters alongside Earth’s gravity to reach our next destination. Out in the blackness away from Earth lies the mystic sight of the Arc station. A gigantic ring shaped platform that will launch the International Fleet into hyperspace. For a few moments I get the experience of seeing it through the port window of the carrier: a massive metal portal that will teleport me to my new life once we pass through its interior wrap slip.

  I hear Julian talk about it across aisle. “The Arc station was created around five decades ago. It mimics a wormhole found at the end of a black hole, but instead of it being completely unpredictable where one would end up in the galaxy if traveling through one, this Arc will launch us on a faster than light course to a similar space portal in the Dolus system called Hope. The fastest way of traveling yet created.”

  A yellow light beams on and off above us alongside a siren. “Docking. Docking,” says the Captain.

  Our carrier comes upon a huge wire in space between two squares. As we get closer I realize the wire is a structure, the two squares independent space stations, the whole thing rotating slowly. The thin structure between the stations is a hallway with hundreds of docking bays along it, where the gigantic battleships of the Fleet reside. Our carrier nears one battleship, the Star Crusader, with the white bold abbreviations of United Nations International Military on the star side. Its massive shape looms over our carrier as we close in till we are side by side to it, where arms with claws reach out from the battleship to magnetically attach us for the loading sequence. Along the side of the battleship is a hanger that the arms bring us into. Once our hanger is stuffed with carriers, the outside space doors slide shut as oxygen is pumped into the hanger.

  “Up and ready!” says Tarnus. We follow him into the hanger and through large traffic corridors to our new seating sections: crammed rows just like the carriers, but now by the dozens in order to fit the thousands of marines and soldiers the battleships will ferry.

  “What does your helmet say?” says Vance to Isaac, as we sit down in our row.

  “Fool’s Gold,” says Isaac.

  “Why?” says Alex.

  Isaac takes out his marker. “Do you wanna join or what?”

  “Join?” says Vance.

  “Yeah, Peter over here already has.” Isaac hands the marker to Vance and he adds it. Next it goes to Alex, Tommy does it too.

  “So what does it mean?” says Ray, adding it as well his after watching us.

  “Will we used to be the Golden Youth,” says Isaac.

  “There it is,” says Vance.

  “There it is,” we all mutter.

  “Detaching” alerts the ship intercom. “Preparing for jump.” Our battleship tumbles about as the rotating wire shaped structure it is attached to spins quickly. Marines slam their faces into bags and puke as the rotations become faster, and then we are jerked about as we detach on a timed rotation into free space, and drift towards the Arc gate. The battleship rotates slowly as it repositions itself to be topside up with the others. I look out the side window panels at Earth as it swirls behind us while we reposition.

  I am really leaving Earth.

  It glistens behind as a giant marble of light blue colors and white pearly clouds that swathe the surface. This is what I am fighting for? It’s beautiful. But if the Herculeans can wipe out one planet so quickly, can we really stop them from reaching here?

  Five days later, I still ask that question.

  The Fleet has arrived in orbit of Nova Terra, and we waddle with our equipment through the hallways to board the Osprey carriers that will take us through the atmosphere, and onto the outskirts of the sieged city Jericho. We have rehearsed the invasion strategy multiple times on digital war game simulations during the journey.

  Each landing Osprey carries two units, twenty four men in total. Blake halts us at the ramp to a half filled Osprey. “Take the left and fill to the end.”

  “Welcome to Foxtrot,” says the Sergeant of his unit already positioned inside.

  “Hey,” grunts Blake, “we’re Easy.” We sit down, and buckle up as the landing ramp behind us clamps shut sealing us into our metal box. The hull lights switch from red to green indicating that our independent life support system is online.

  “Mind if I smoke in here?” says Isaac. No one replies. “Cool.” He lights an ancient, Rommel and Ray follow suit, but with their vapsticks. Isaac offers me one and I say no—even though the military shoots me up with their drugs at ease now. Soon we’re coughing from the cloudy hull.

  “For fuck sakes, no more after that,” says Blake, red eyed and waving a hand to clear the smoke. “Why are you smoking ancients anyway?” Mutters of agreement echo throughout the hull.

  “Air is stale enough asshole,” says Vick.

  “Jesus, alright, alright,” says Isaac, putting his tin box away. “Take it all out on me, won’t ya?”

  Blake places a metal oval holotablet that’s magnetic on the floor in the center of the hull where a person’s face projects. “I am Major General Jack, your regiment’s commander for the landing assault on Jericho. As your transports break away from the carriers and prepare to enter the atmosphere, the planet crackers will land forming a semi-circle around the outskirts of the city. You will land around a thousand or so meters behind the crackers and will advance immediately to man and defend them. After that, the Goliaths will land and form the spearhead of the assault into the city, where you will advance inside or behind them for cover to combat any Herculean remnants. Remember, there are still human civilians inside the city, practice restraint once you enter. There is also, surprisingly, some surviving local militia pockets still fighting inside, it would be generous of you to find and aid them. Good luck boys, God bless America and the Party.” The transmission ends and Blake retrieves the holotablet.

  “The time has come,” Hannibal’s voice projects into our hull. Apparently our Marshall has something to say
too before we go. “The enemy is at the gates of Jericho, and the planetary defense force, the Carthaginians, have tried their best to withstand them, but lie close on the verge of defeat. Now it is our turn to show the alien menace what humanity is capable of. We are the liberators of this oppressed planet. We march towards the sound of chaos. May God guide and be with us. God bless America and the Party.”

  “Battle stations,” says the intercom after Hannibal’s speech. “Prepare for impact. Fleet fully engaged with enemy force.”

  A new siren sounds for emergency action with the declaration that we are fully submersed into the warzone over the atmosphere. The ship tumbles about and the hull becomes dark.

  “What’s going on!” says Vance.

  A greenish iridescent light brightens the hull again. “Power has been relocated to charge the batteries and thrusters,” says the Osprey Pilot in the cockpit. “We have fully detached from the ship’s power source and are using our own. We will be ejecting momentarily into space.”

  Fear covers me in its cloak. My hands grip the seatbelt straps firmly till the knuckles turn white. It’s hard to breathe. None of us here knows what war is like, or can even imagine the idea of what this war will be like. We’re almost all drafts, never intending to service the military in any way. Now we’re part of the biggest human endeavor ever created, to liberate Nova Terra from the Herculeans.

  We partake in a symphony of heavy breathing to fight the lumps in our throats. Sweat collects on our foreheads and palms. Each of us—we’re scared shitless. It’s a new type of fear. One I have never encountered before. The only way to explain it, is that it feels like the monsters I feared under my bed at night were actually real. Instead of my dad coming in and playing along with my nightmare and fantastically defeating the monsters with a flashlight so I can sleep again, they crawl out from beneath my bed before I can call out for him. Their claws grasp at me till I am tangled in their limbs, and they drag me away to the abyss of their cave to never escape. I am at the cusp of this bed, a brave new world, and the monsters are real, I am about to fight them.

  A marine—chaplain—from Foxtrot with a large gold cross necklace speaks, “Let us shield ourselves in the anointing of oil before fighting.” What? “To acknowledge God as our ultimate commander and to protect us through the battle we are about to fight.” He reveals a flask of olive green oil. He begins by dipping his fingers against the top of the flask, then taking his pointer and middle finger and combining them into one, draws a streak across his forehead with the oil. He passes it to the next marine. “Everyone, please,” he looks at us with sincerity. “For God, for salvation.”

  The flask moves around the hull as each marine dips his fingers, and marks a line on their forehead. Soon it will be my turn. Is he fucking serious? That oil would actually do anything. That it somehow carries the word or protection of god himself. Why doesn’t god just give me a ship to go home, or strike all the aliens down with some magical plague of his?

  Alex, sitting beside me, hands the flask out for me to grab. I take it and continue the ceremony that finishes its course back to the chaplain. The chaplain returns the flask to his chest pocket. “Thank you. Let its holy oil and our sign of obedience and trust in our heavenly Lord carry us through the coming trials. Amen.”

  The ship shakes. “Hanger doors opening,” says the Pilot. “Hold on to your asses.”

  The hanger doors slide apart revealing space and the battling fleets—our long rectangular clunky battleships verses their slim wide ones—over the bright expansive atmosphere of Nova Terra. The planets blue and green swirling oceans and pink tainted clouds blanketing the surface hug me with terror and awe.

  The Osprey’s thrusters propel our craft into space as thousands of other transport craft depart from carrier ships, and into liaison for the planetary invasion. Frigates not engaged with the Herculean fleet begin their descent into the atmosphere firing their massive side batteries towards the planet surface. The planet crackers jet out of the bottom sides of battleships, leaving a zig-zag stream of exhaust as they tear through the atmosphere and clouds. Coalition and Herculean battleships slam each other with warheads and missiles blowing apart cavities in hulls, and shooting condensed atmosphere trails of debris across the dark of space.

  The planet, with its oblique white aura that trims the outline of its shape, is indifferent to our struggle above it. Blast shields close over our windows making it dark. Its surface formed millions of years ago absorb our tiny metal aircraft as we descend into the atmosphere.

  Into a war I can’t imagine surviving.

  SUMMER

  We are only equal in our abilities to kill each other.

  -Thomas Hobbs

  IX

  “Blast shields opening,” says the Pilot. We have broken through the atmosphere and are reaching our deployment zone near the city outskirts.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh my God,” rambles a marine from Foxtrot, “We’re going to die. Shit, Jesus, God oh my God.” Another marine dry heaves, gagging horribly from having nothing in his stomach to vomit, and a few others are crying. Julian, buckled across from me, tightly holds a picture to his chest occasionally kissing it. I turn my head to view the rest of the hull. Almost everyone is looking down at their thighs, hands griping their asses. I see Tommy at the end, he retrieve something—a scarf—from his vest and stuffs it down his collar, letting part of it dangle out where he sucks on it.

  The whole aircraft shakes viciously, and the sound of flak exploding around us is deafening. The blast shields open in preparation for landing and the side windows fully reveal the outside. Hundreds of aircraft fly around. One transport craft is hit by Herculean fire and following a burst of flame, breaks into two burning parts and falls downwards. The marines inside the destroyed hull fumble out of the disintegrating chunks engulfed in fire. Their bodies become tiny burning embers that are eaten up by the white clouds below us. The madding sound of flak continues exploding outside; our metal cage bustling and shaking in the air. At any moment we would be hit next, ripped away from our hull and freefalling through the air to our death. It numbs me dumb. I’m suddenly terrified of heights.

  Please let this fucking thing land!

  My hands tap my thighs rapidly. I try yawning away the lump in my throat but instead dry heave and choke. I continue to stare through the dirty side window at the exploding sky and burning pieces of more hit aircraft. Holy shit that can be us! How is that not us? We really are going to die. Close the blast shield, show me no more! But I can’t look away. Looking out that small side window at the chaos gives me an insight to what we are enduring. As if my lifeline, my hope of making it to the ground, relies on the visuals my eyes show me from within this hull to the outside world. This hull—the metallic flooring below me only a meter thick, if that—is what protects my life from out there.

  “Jesus who art in heaven!” the chaplain begins, “Forgive us for our sins! We ask that you give us safe passage…” the Osprey shakes and he is broken off from the growing loudness of flak.

  The ship takes another heavy jolt. Vick stumbles out of his buckles, hitting others and rolling down the hull to the back. “Help!” he says as he bangs around, “Help! Fuck!”

  “Grab him!” says Blake. He and Ray take hold of his limbs.

  “Oh god,” Vick throws up.

  “Goddamn it! Not my boots!” says Blake. They push Vick back to his own seat. Vomit slides around on the floor. The stench and odor of adrenaline is met with an additional smell. The man next to me from Foxtrot has pissed himself. The liquid travels down his legs and discolors his boots. I look away as to try and not embarrass him, then look back to see his petrified face, out of curiosity I guess. His body is so still, it’s as if death has already grabbed him. He’s probably from my college as well, now we’re in the same subject. His eyes meet my gaze and he ducks his head crying. I made matters worse, but it doesn’t matter, we’re all dead men anyway.

  The chaplai
n continues, “Give us safe passage to our destination and strength in fighting these aliens…” The Osprey rocks violently again. The side windows crack and shards of glass and the shrieking wind blast inside the hull.

  “I CAN’T SEE!” says Jonathon. Glass has hit his face. The marine next to him cowers behind with raised arms covered in lacerations of impaled shards. We all quickly lower our helmet visors to escape his fate.

  “Gauze!” says Vance from further down the seats. “Pass a dress kit!”

  The shouting is hard to hear as the louder screeching of wind passes through the cracked window, and showers us in Jonathon’s blood as the wind attacks his face. I cover my ears—god the noise!

  The blast shields slide shut to stop the wind. The medic pouch is ripped off the wall near the rear ramp and handed from marine to marine towards Jonathon. “Oh god!” he blubbers, “I think I’m blind!” Blood leaks out from his eyes onto his groping hands and down his arms. The marine sitting next to him begins placing gauze strips around his face.

  Again, the chaplain goes on as if he can save us from it all. “Also heal this man Lord! And let us all return ho—” a fiery bolt of light tears through the flooring and strikes out through the roof, blinding us temporarily. The laser burst has left burns on a few marines from Foxtrot and ripped apart the chaplain’s torso. Scorched pages from his bible stick amongst us. Blood and gore spills out onto the floor from the dead chaplain, and his leaking guts that look like drenched party streamers are sucked out by the wind vacuum through the hole. The burned men wail and one is on fire.

  Fucking god! This is insane. What do I do? What do I do? The pissed man next to me has gotten his arm on fire from trying to help another, and panics unbuckling himself.