Travesty (SolarSide Book 1)

by Austin Aragon

  “Blanket!” says Blake. The hull becomes blurry. The shouting and screaming become distorted noises. I retreat within myself. Is this shock? The hull feels like the memory of a nightmare one has when they awake from a bad dream. There is a great pain upon my nose that breaks the trance and I see spots. Blake is unbuckled and smothering the man on fire with a large retardant blanket. The other burnt man has paste being rubbed on him by Julian. Blake grabs me by the thigh as he positions himself back to his seat. He leans into my face, sweat and blood dripping down his own, “Private! You obey an order when I command it next time.”

  “We have taken hull fire. Repeat, hull fire,” says the Pilot.

  No shit.

  Red lights flash. The floor swashes back and forth with blood and vomit and broken glass, staining our boots and cuffs.

  I close my eyes. My breathing is sporadic and, my heart—it feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest! This is madness. If the Herculeans can kill off so many of us already, what is it going to be like once we are finally on the ground?

  What the fuck do I do?

  Jesus please, please forgive me. Don’t let me die. I don’t want to die! I’ll change and follow you.

  Isaac grabs my wrist. I look over to see his eyes closed tightly, he’s biting his bottom lip hard. His teeth puncture it, and blood runs down his chin.

  The Osprey goes through a succession of jolts and tumbles. Marines scream louder.

  Please God! I will honestly tell everyone about you when we land, that you are the true God. You are the one and only. Please let me live! Let me live! I am sorry!

  Peter, that holy man has died, and in the middle of a prayer, too. What the fuck makes you think god will save you? Get yourself together, there is no god, or that pious chaplain would have lived.

  No, no! It doesn’t matter I have to try! I don’t want to die. Maybe he was a fake. Please God, I’ll do anything. Don’t let me die!

  “Approaching landing zone,” says the Pilot.

  “All right!” says Blake, “Guns to the ready. Prepare for drop off!”

  The stench of the hull is nauseating from the sloshing blood and vomit. After a bit there is less rattling. The Osprey is low enough to the ground that Herculean anti-air fire can no longer target us.

  “Landing,” says the Pilot. The Osprey pauses and hovers, making a one hundred eighty degree turn. The blast shields opens again. The broken window shows other Osprey’s and aircraft also turning around backwards before landing, so that their loading ramps face the city. Some larger carriers deploy the massive Goliath crawlers as well. An Osprey descending next to us is hit and the wing catches on fire. It twirls and crashes to the ground before finishing its rotation. The marines roll out dazed and confused as others scream aflame.

  The hatch door opens, and beams of sunlight shower us from outside. Destroyed aircraft have already littered the field in front of us. Blake leaves first, “Move! Move! Move!” Buckles come off and weapons are pulled from the spaces in between the seats. We jump to attention, our boots splashing about in the gore and other liquids on the hull floor. Blake runs out a few meters, crouches, and moves his arm in an arching motion to summon us forward. We pile out into a loose circle around him, some of us additionally carrying tool kits for the planet crackers. The sky is a mess of black flak mixing with the white clouds, and descending outlines of the next waves and hundreds of aircraft in motion.

  Planet crackers rip through the clouds and explode against the earth ahead of us, kicking up meter high dirt clouds as they land. The entire landscape before me has turned into a wasteland of upturned earth and craters from the shelling, and farther out all around as the eye can see, only the endless veil of black rising smoke from the belly of war greets me. We have landed in what was an agricultural field bordering the city outskirts. But the entire crop has been burnt and only untilled earth remains. A pounding pulse takes over my ears as I kneel near Blake. My throat is dry, and the lump resonates bigger at the bottom of it making it impossible to swallow my spit that instead gushes from one side of my mouth to the other.

  The scene of the crashed Osprey next to us grabs our attention. We move to it as the first landing waves of marines pass us by to the planet crackers. The hull hatch has already opened, and its insides are scorched black with smoke fuming out. The shattered cockpit glass is bloody and licking out flames. All around the loading ramp lay seared and mangled bodies with the smell of their burning flesh in the air. One marine rolls out of the ramp onto the ground, his legs gored and burnt to stumps. He grabs the black dirt around him wailing and speaking hysterically. Our company forms around him. The dying man rolls over and stares at me. His two large pupils horribly strained, black veins popping out on his neck and pale dirty face. I hold back the vile at the bottom of my throat. “We need a medic!”

  “He’s beyond our care,” says Corporal Kaiden.

  “We need a medevac on my location!” says Blake into his radio.

  I stare at the dying man. It consumes me. All around us, endless formations and lines of men and vehicles march onwards to the city. We are ants piling out of our hole into a stream of blue helmets, having no idea of where we are going besides that the men in front leads the way, creating a pheromone trail, and we’re supposed to follow.

  Herculean artillery fire lands wherever it desires, bashing out groups of marines and sending earth flying. Aircraft and gunships hover and fly towards the outskirts. Injured men, covered in their gore and dirt, bandaged quickly with some missing limbs, are carried on stretchers past us to multi-colored clouds of signal smoke where landing helicopters come to pick them up. Support crews, with their artillerymen lugging their mortars and howitzers move into locations to deploy and aid to the concentrated fire against the city. The shouting of orders and screams, the sound of guns and cannons, whistling shells that make everyone duck and beg the earth for safety break us down and reduce us to feeling very small. Tiny in our heavy armor.

  Insignificant.

  Vulnerable. My life could conclude to a horrible and forgotten end. Killed by an enemy I have yet to even see. Before I even fire my gun.

  A Humvee with banners of the Coalition countries and UN flag passes by and stops at our location. The convoy following it continues onward to the front line after the gunner waves them on. The gunner on the top turret then shouts, “Officer on deck!” Blake rises to attention. The others are too engrossed with the dying man to stand at order. I look over at the Humvee and the scene is engrained inside my mind like a photograph. The door opens and a large shouldered man steps out, his eyes hidden behind dark aviators. He tosses a used cigar out before him. He wears a green military style cowboy hat and his chest insignia rank declares him a Major General, which is also surrounded by numerous badges, and his sleeves are covered in multiple chevrons referencing his veterancy. But he’s smiling.

  The General rests his boot on the cigar bud twisting it underneath. “What’s the holdup boys? We got a city to liberate!”

  “Sir, we are moving as ordered,” says Blake. “We stopped to assist this injured man.”

  “Pity, looks damn lost to me,” says Jack. He waves his hand into the air making a twirling motion with his pointer finger, and one of his officers run forward dragging the man away. Shell fire hits near us sending earth flying. We duck into a prone hugging the dirt and covering our faces. I look up after a moment, Jack remains standing, readjusting his hat and wiping the dust from his aviators. “Have your men Buzzed yet?”

  “No, sir!” says Blake, “I was waiting to gather my forces completely before ordering administration.”

  “Well that’s why they look like a bunch of fucking pussies.” Jack’s aviators stare at me, lifeless like the dead man being dragged away. “There is a whole of a lot worse shit you’re going to see. Get them battle ready Sergeant and up to the bunkers!” Jack reenters the Humvee and it drives off tailing the armored convoy.

  Blake grabs our atten
tion pissed. “Alright, time to Buzz. You all made me look like a jackass,” he trails off muttering for a moment, “Then we move again.”

  Sergeant Blake and Corporal Kaiden key a control on their forearm pads. The distributor on my lower neck tingles for a moment as the Buzz enters through my spine. I feel, hear, and watch the buzz as the world becomes blurry by zooming towards me, then back out. But now, I am part of it: the buzz of machinery moving towards victory, the buzz of the whistling rounds flying forward against the Herculeans, the buzz of a hundred thousand human hearts beating at once, in tandem with each other in this Cause. The buzz of war that has become a proving ground for our race and theirs—and we didn’t come to submit.

  They finish receiving their dose and a wave of clairvoyance takes over. It’s simple now, just kill the Herculeans. In seconds, the fear of battle subsides as the confidence Peter feels rises. The legless man that troubled him moments earlier becomes an accepted part of their occupation. Peter and his unit pick themselves off from the ground and rise around Blake, eager and ready to be commanded. They fidget and toy with their weapons anxiously. When will they get to use them on a Herculean?

  Images of horrendous atrocities committed by the Herculeans take over Peter’s conciseness. Him and his unit are floating around space in the atmosphere of Gemina as it is bombed to obliteration by the Herculean fleet. Thousands of innocents are slaughtered before their eyes by strange armored looking creatures. Next, a young naked bony girl is being groped by a group of them and screaming for help at Peter. It infuriates him. To think they laid a hand on innocent humans makes him senseless with rage. The entire unit shouts out in anger. Peter joins in. All of them must die.

  Peter’s earlier thoughts of vulnerability disappear, and are replaced with a splendid community mentality of rage and bloodlust. They are one cause and force with one clear objective. Defeat the Herculeans.

  By killing them. All of them.

  “Alright boys, you feel like you have a pair now?” says Blake. “You feeling’ juiced?”

  They all release a war cry. “Let’s fucking kill them already!” says Ray.

  Blake smiles with satisfaction, “We’re moving forward to catch up with the rest of the platoon.”

  Newfound energy courses through Peter’s body. Easy traverses one boot after the other with determination. They advance through the scorched farmlands that were once wild alien forests and grasslands cleared away with pesticides, now cleared away for war. They near the forward line of battle forming only a hundred meters or so ahead of them. Herculean shelling concentrates on the landing planet crackers, while Coalition air support replies by bombing alien positions in the outskirts of the city.

  “See that men!” says Blake, directing their attention at a blue translucent shield dome, that arcs over the city and shrugs off all directed munitions. “We are to take that bitch down, so Air can kill those fuckers inside!”

  The prospect of watching Herculeans getting obliterated by jets brings excitement to Peter’s step. Soon they see Captain Tarnus, and some of the other squads from Love platoon up ahead behind a planet cracker. “This is Platoon Commander. What took you so long? Move up!” blurts the radio on Blake’s side, and also through the marine’s earpieces.

  Easy sprints in a loose single file line to the bunker, lugging ammo boxes and engineering tools for the firebase. The sky above forms into a veil of black smoke and burning atmospheric debris from the space battle and flak. Herculean artillery shells land near and behind the advancing army knocking out lines of advancing marines. “This is baptism by fire!” says Blake.

  “No better way to do it!” cheers Easy back in agreement.

  They reach Captain Tarnus and the remnants of Love platoon. The forward line is meters ahead of them now, and Herculean plasma and laser fire fills the air with bright colors and exploding shells. The planet cracker they are tasked with maintaining has received a direct hit by a Herculean shell disabling the sentry turret operating inside of it, and the shield tower above it. Easy squats against the rear of the bunker, and Peter watches as marines dig feverously around the ring of planet crackers with equipment to create trenches for cover on the frontline.

  “We only have a few minutes before GI Joe comes in to assault that city,” says Tarnus from an overhanging on the side of the planet cracker, “and this isn’t even ready to be staffed by a crew!”

  The planet cracker is an oval shaped bunker about two stories tall and around three hundred square meters in diameter—a humble temple to war. The rear side not facing the city however, has been ruined by a shell destroying the shield antennae. A marine up on the scaffolding reports the severity of the damage before being struck down by zipping Herculean fire. Love platoon ducks to cover behind the bunker as a brutal wave of shells smack the trenches in front of them.

  Tarnus peeks out at the frontline, “Alright I’ll call in a new tower for the bunker, the rest of you, wield a metal slab over the hole ASAP.”

  Commissar Herus arrives to the scene as well. “You heard the order! Up and at it my brave warriors!”

  They get to work. One of the supply canisters nearby that departed from the planet cracker before impact is retrieved, this one being spare metal skirts. Inside the bunker is a folding ladder and rope that Peter places at the base rear near the hole, where they secure the rope through it.

  “Get ready!” says Blake, “This next part is a bitch!”

  Love tightens the metal slab to the rope while Alex and another marine rest on the top scaffolding exposed, hoping Herculean fire won’t pick off them as they wait. Love forms into a pulley system to heave the metal slab up to them by the hole.

  Herculean plasma streaks pass them taking down advancing marines to the frontline trenches as they pull on the tight nylon rope. The stressed rope and friction cuts their fingertips and soon everyone is bleeding and cussing. Herus continues to chant and roar the Creed.

  “Pull you fucking worthless dogs!” says Tarnus in between stanzas, sitting smug from his second floor overhanging. A shell lands nearby taking out a few men in the line. The rope loosens sliding fast through the hands of the marines in the front. One man drops the rope in agony and falls to his knees, his fingertips ripped off by the rope.

  “Pick up the slack!” says Tarnus. “Get that roofing up there before I start wasting you lazy bastards!”

  They pick up the rope again and continue. Their injured comrades grabbing onto their shins screaming for help. Medics dart in to retrieve the casualties, while Love’s hatred towards the Herculeans for disabling the tower grows in size with every pull. In between heaves they shout “Fuck you!” at Tarnus too. He finds it amusing and edges them on with any obscenity he can think of. After a few more tugs the metal slab is in position. A oval machine is placed over the parameter of the slab by the marines on the top bolting it into place. More clamps are added to reinforce the piece, and the base of the antenna is stabilized onto the newly made roof. Next, a Chinook defies the danger of the battlefield, and swoops in only a few meters above the bunker dropping down the new shield tower antenna into position where it is welded into place.

  The planet cracker crew arrives right on time of their completion. “We got it from here jarheads!” says one of the engineer as they enter.

  The antenna hums to life as the sentry turret is set back up too. A light blue shimmering glow appears in the air, as the antenna tower creates a shield wall that connects with other towers in intervals of about thirty meters away in both directions. The engineers lay out power lines to field generators to maintain the energy consumption of the shield. Soon, the shield wall is repelling all Herculean plasma and missile fire protecting the landing army, while the sentry turret shoots a constant line of rounds at the distant Herculeans.

  “Well done comrades!” says Herus.

  “Into the front trenches as we wait for the Goliaths!” says Tarnus. They double time outside the safety of the shield into the fray of the
created earthworks. Makeshift sandbags and turret positions are hastily placed by marines as they find a chunk of earth not yet occupied. The trenches are a mess of brave dead warriors and spent ammunition. Shells land everywhere and smoke congests the visibility of the enemy frontline. Easy positions themselves near a stretch of trench that is trying to support a salient pushing the lines forward.

  Ray sets up his XM-12 LMG and fires away on the distant Herculean positions. Tracers zip out every few rounds showing how accurate he is. Peter and the rest pop out bipods and brace their XM rifles on the sandbags and adjust scopes. It doesn’t do much to help. The Herculean frontlines are at least three kilometers away, the scopes barely zoom into two. From here, they can only lay down as much suppressive fire as possible on nonvisible enemy targets. “When are we getting close so we can waste those bastards!” says Isaac in frustration. The agreement is echoed down the line.

  Despite the gap in distance between the two forces, this does not reduce the Herculean’s effectiveness at killing them. The salient trench being formed is a scene of courage and human determination, but ghastly nevertheless. Hundreds of sappers lurch forward digging away hellishly at the earth while others toss satchel charges to help speed up the process. Smoke is dropped to create a screen but is too little avail. Almost every man that crawls out of cover to help make the new salient is hit by zoned in Herculean fire and collapse lifeless back into the trenches—only their valor to be remembered, satisfying war’s satiety. Commissar Herus comes to the fringe of the scene wielding a UN banner with the circle of a white world and olive branches in one hand, and screams the Pledge at the top of his lounges to encourage the push. But access to the salient is eventually blocked off with a large pile of the dead, and more marines leap over the pile to only get hit and join it.

  “Fight harder brothers!” says Herus, “Don’t give up an inch!”