The First Exoplanet

by T. J. Sedgwick

  Pragmatism had to win the day though, in situations like this, and Motor overruled his sergeant. “Objections noted, Chip, but our orders are clear: we need to make every reasonable effort to locate the FTL drive and destroy it. We’ll re-assess once I’m satisfied we’ve done that. Now let’s move, guys,” Motor said firmly, already leading the way.

  The wide corridor continued straight for another ten metres before turning right ninety degrees. Motor and Fuzzy were on the left-hand wall, Chip and Crier on the right. There were signs on the walls as well as above the doors of each room, but they might as well not have been there as the alien script was unreadable. Motor and Fuzzy turned the corner first, Chip and Crier seconds later on the inside, battle rifles raised.

  “Hold fire!” shouted Motor as the distant armoured fighting vehicle turned onto the corridor and headed their way. It was still more than two-hundred metres distant but closing. The corridor continued for a very long way behind where the AFV entered—perhaps across the entire width of the base. Another AFV, then another and finally a fourth joined the procession towards the four hidden humans.

  “They’re the same type of AFV that found us outside. Orders, Motor?” requested Crier hurriedly.

  One-fifty metres—ten seconds and closing fast.

  Motor’s mind was racing … fight or flight? Can we make it back into one of the rooms to hide? Do we want to hide in the lab with guards there and the twenty-plus giants? We took out the AFVs before; we can do it again.

  One-hundred metres—seven seconds and closing.

  “Motor?” implored Chip.

  “Patrol, retreat back to the store room. We’re gonna have to—”

  The lead AFV opened up with a furious barrage of plasma fire, searing Fuzzy’s left arm and backpack as he turned to retreat.

  “I’m hit!” he screamed. “Argh, Jesus, I’m hit!”

  Chip didn’t wait for orders. He let rip with his shoulder pod rockets, releasing three of the deadly missiles in rapid succession. They powered to full speed and slammed into the turret, body and front right wheel of the lead AFV, creating a flash and a fireball, which engulfed the corridor in front of them. The four men squinted and covered their eyes at the sudden release of fiery light. Fire and smouldering wreck replaced what had been an alien vehicle, the three vehicles behind grinding to a halt with no way to pass.

  “It’s alright, Fuzz, I’ve got you,” called Motor as he dragged his wounded man, still in shock, back along the corridor, passing the lab on the way towards the storeroom. “Chip, Crier—cover us!” Motor ordered desperately.

  The lab had come to life like a fallen beehive, with aliens moving surprisingly quickly towards a point in the far corner of the lab. As Chip took position next to the lab entrance, with Crier covering the corridor and his back, he didn’t twig as to what they were doing at first. Then he realised that the unarmed ‘scientist’ aliens were pulling out small handguns from a cabinet and were turning to hone in on the source of noise they’d just heard. The two exoskeleton guards had sprung to life too and were already halfway across the expansive lab, having to navigate around the many workstations and the probe itself. The sight of their advance was nothing short of menacing.

  “Shit, I need your help here, Crier!” called Chip.

  “Yeah and I need yours too, mate! Got two more exos about to join the party,” shouted Crier as the blast doors they’d bypassed on their way in began opening, revealing two more exoskeleton-clad aliens bearing down on the other side, waiting to enter the fray.

  Chip knew the exos were the primary targets; they carried fierce looking weapons and he didn't want to see what they were capable of. He had to get out of their line of fire. Sliding to the left of the entrance, he retrieved two frag grenades from his belt, armed them and lobbed them towards the exos in the lab. Viewing the result through his HK750 sight, which he held around the corner, the left-hand exoskeleton had been knocked off its feet and was struggling on the floor. The blast had also taken out several handgun-armed aliens. The second exo kept coming and moments later suppressed Chip behind the door with a vicious burst of heavy-calibre automatic gunfire, which ripped out part of the wall surrounding the doorway and left the floor pock-marked.

  “We can’t stay here, Crier,” shouted Chip, as he could see Fuzzy making his way into the storage room on his right. Fuzzy’s battlesuit had been ripped apart as had the surface layers of his left tricep, leaving him with a visible upper arm and a visible trail of blood betraying his location. At least he was on his feet now, thought Chip. His injury was not life-threatening, but now his arm and part of his backpack were visible – the stealth coverings shredded – their one major advantage was partially gone. He’d also lost the use of that arm, for the rest of the mission at least.

  Chip took out a demo charge, set the timer for five seconds and dropped it where he stood, dashing towards the storage room. Crier was running ahead of Chip the same way, taking a few seconds to reach the storage room entrance just as the blast doors completed their opening sequence. The alien exoskeletons advanced, still unable to detect the men; they were clearly not equipped with the same sensors as the AFVs. Crier lined up his shoulder pod, first targeting the left then the right exo. With targets locked, he released two missiles and dived into the room.

  Chip’s demo charge burst instantly into light milliseconds after he’d cleared the corridor, jumping into the storage room. Half a second later twin blasts emanated from the other direction, creating pulses of strobe shadows amongst the racks of supplies and illuminating the visible parts of Fuzzy. Immediately after the blasts came a deafening silence only broken by the heavy breathing of the men, their exertions in higher gravity testing their bodies.

  “We can’t stay here,” gasped Motor. “Guys, get those big crates over there in the corner. We need to get back into the vent and split before reinforcements come.”

  Chip and Crier took a crate each and laid one on top of the other to make a step up to the air vent.

  “Chip, cover the entrance. Crier get up top and help Fuzzy in,” ordered Motor urgently.

  Chip darted to the doorless entrance and looked both ways down the corridor. It looked clear and the blast doors were now closed. He thought about proposing they escape that way, but with Fuzzy now visible it would have been suicide even if they could work out how to unlock the damned blast doors.

  As Crier started hauling Fuzzy up into the ceiling vent pipe, Motor opened fire on one, then a second alien, through the storeroom entrance.

  “Chip, buy us some time—use grenades,” said Motor, as he pumped free a grenade himself from his HK750 grenade launcher attachment, reaching for another to reload. A deep percussive explosion came from the left where Motor’s grenade had detonated, sending chunks of wall and alien in all directions. Chip lobbed a hand grenade farther down to suppress the enemy movement as Motor took up position to fire down the corridor towards the lab.

  “I’m giving base-of-fire. Set at least four demo charges around this doorway. I want the room collapsed after we get out through the vent,” shouted Motor to Chip.

  “Aye Captain,” he confirmed as he took out the first of the demo charges, setting its timer and placing it on the wall next to the entrance. He went on to set the second, Motor taking aim and dropping a pistol-armed alien with two short bursts from his weapon. The aliens, although unarmoured, seemed to take a lot of hits to put down due to their sheer size and momentum as they bounded forward apace.

  With the last of four charges set, Chip bade a final farewell to the corridor in the form of another frag grenade. He dashed towards Crier’s outstretched hand and climbed quickly up into the vent pipe; Motor was seconds behind after firing a grenade of his own, this time towards the exoskeleton from the lab as it came into view.

  The four Special Forces soldiers crawled as quickly as they could back along the pipe and towards the grill in the tunnel they’d entered from. After thirty metres, they heard the deep, muffled blasts of the
demo charges as they collapsed the entire storeroom and blocked off part of the corridor outside.

  “Chip,” called Motor, “get the nuke out your pack. The time’s come. We’ve got no choice.”

  .

  Chapter Seventeen

  October 15, 2061 Alien Base, Planet Gaia, Avendano Star System

  The velocity of the airflow down the dark vent pipe had increased since it had been partially restricted by the explosion in the storeroom. The sooner they got out of the pipe the better. If the aliens worked out where they were Motor and his men were dead.

  “Sooner or later they’ll work out we’re not dead, so let’s get to it,” said Motor, retrieving the authorisation code from his inside pocket. He ripped open the packet containing a credit card-sized piece of plastic with a ten-digit numeric code printed on it. Chip removed the nuclear device from his backpack. He slid the control panel cover aside, revealing a number pad and a simple digital display. The device was built with reliable, robust technology from the last century and was, within reason, shielded from the heat and pressure of fires or explosions.

  “Chip, prepare to enter the code,” said Motor grimly. “Twenty minute delay to give us enough time to get away from the blast.”

  “Device ready, go ahead,” he replied.

  He carefully entered the code, followed by the twenty-minute time delay, feeling a sense of relief when the indicator light switched to ‘armed’. He initiated the countdown. “Device set. Twenty minutes and counting. Let’s go,” said Chip.

  Crier led the way, with Fuzzy and Motor behind, Chip bringing up the rear. Crawling up the vent pipe, no one spoke. For the first time in what seemed like hours, Chip had time to think. What he’d done started to sink in and he shuddered at the thought of the aliens doing the same on Earth. This was not how it was meant to have turned out, but Motor was right, they had no feasible options left. Half the alien military was breathing down their necks and the FTL drive could be anywhere. Part of him hoped that the aliens would blame the more familiar enemies they’d been fighting on the distant moon of Exelon. Who knew whether they had nuclear bombs or not? Chip assumed they did, as this was old technology for humans, having been discovered over a hundred years ago during World War II. But he knew that technological development followed a complex web of prerequisites and there was no guarantee they had discovered nukes. The FTL drive proved that point. The aliens clearly had more advanced weaponry yet lacked the FTL drive technology humanity had developed.

  Chip thought of his wife’s long, blonde hair – the feel and smell of it – and her beaming face; his boys hugging him as he said goodbye on the doorstep. That was just days ago but it felt like months. He made a secret pledge to his distant family that he’d make this mission his last if he managed to get out in one piece. Perhaps he’d take a training role and leave operations for younger, fresher recruits with fire in their bellies.

  Fuzzy’s arm was throbbing despite the painkiller that had been fed into his cannula via the battlesuit. He’d need to administer something stronger when he got time to sit still for more than a few seconds. The more pressing desire to outrun the nuclear blast pushed him on through the pain barrier. He’d never had a serious injury like this before and he was a long way from the advanced medical care he needed to save permanent loss of muscle function in his left tricep. He felt vulnerable too—not just because of the injury, but due to the loss of full invisibility. Again, once he had time he’d need to rig up one of the spare invisibility cover sheets over his arm and pack to restore full stealth. Every metre up the vent pipe was an effort. He felt like a three-legged dog as he tried not to put weight on his damaged arm. He was slowing the group but doing his best not to be a burden on his mates. He started thinking of home—tea in his mum’s front room, watching TV, chatting about the neighbours and the comforting trivialities of everyday life on Civvy Street. He thought of his girlfriend, Amala, wondering if she was still thinking of him at that moment on his distant home world. He promised himself he’d make a go of it when he returned and convalesced. What he’d give to be able to call his old workmates in their ambulance right now. Ten minute wait; they’d turn up, patch up his arm and take him to Bradford Royal Infirmary. Pushing the fantasy out of his mind, he saw the light of the grill they’d entered though on the left up ahead. Crier was several metres ahead and nearly there.

  Crier wondered how long they had left until the nuclear device let forth its fury. He also wondered to himself exactly how far the effects would be felt. He had a duty not only to his three close mates behind him but his family too. He was a mentor and hero to his two boys. They gave meaning to his life and drove his will to survive. When his mind was at its most unregulated, he still had some affection for his ex-wife; after all, she was the mother of his boys and he had to admit did a good job of bringing them up. When he got home, he’d make more of an effort to be friendly to her. It would be better for the boys and less stressful for all of them. Time to bury the last vestiges of bitterness and be philosophical about it. He’d be due some long leave when he got back and he’d take the chance to go to a big football match with his lads. Maybe a little weekend away too. Maybe take a trip into London and see the sights. The boys would love the London Eye and Natural History Museum. What was it about little boys and dinosaurs? That brought his mind back to his current situation and he thought of the scarily intelligent monsters that were gunning for him and his mates.

  Crier neared the grill and took a moment to get his breath. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the heavy gravity. He felt like his overweight, pre-military self, with aching joints thrown into the mix.

  “I’ve reached the grill, Motor. I’ll check the main tunnel with the fibre optic,” said Crier.

  “Copy that, Crier. Proceed,” said Motor.

  After a minute or so, Crier reported what he saw with the fibre optic probe in the tunnel. “All clear. Blast doors to the left still closed. No enemy activity. We must’ve collapsed the corridor inside the blast doors with your charges, Chip. Nice work.”

  He removed the grill and stepped out of the opening, taking a brief moment to scan with his HK750 ready to shoot. With nothing there, he turned to help the injured Fuzzy out of the opening. He felt for, then grabbed on to, the wrist of his good arm, getting ready to haul him out. He could only see Fuzzy’s left upper arm and left side of his backpack. The arm was a mess, but had, in part at least, been cauterised by the hot plasma that had caused the damage in the first place. He was distracted looking at Fuzzy’s arm and that’s when it happened in an instant. White light filled the tunnel, converging on Crier and Fuzzy, burning them beyond recognition. For Corporal Simon Whitman – father, son, brother and friend – the flash of light soon turned to eternal blackness. The images of his two little boys were the last thing that his mind would ever see. Moments later, his friend Fuzzy, son to his dear, old mum and lover to a young woman who would never see a future with him, faded away into nothingness.

  Motor shielded his eyes as the alien fighting vehicle relentlessly rained plasma fire towards the vent opening where his brothers had just stood. “Arghhhhh!” he shouted. “Fucking bastards!!!”

  Part of him felt like going out there like some sort of Rambo figure to avenge his dead friends. But the wiser part of his brain restrained his fury.

  “Crier and Fuzzy down, Chip,” he whispered sadly, as the plasma fire finally relented. “They’re gone, mate.”

  “No! Damn it!” shouted Chip. “What the fuck happened? I thought it was clear.”

  “No time to talk now. We need a way out of this. There’s no way we can get out here. We need to push on up this pipe. It has to come out at the surface somewhere, where it draws the air from. Come on, let’s go; we can't help Crier and Fuzzy now,” said Motor, the true implications of his personal and operational loss yet to sink in fully. It was not lost on Motor and Chip that Crier had been carrying the portable FTL gate—their way back home. There was simply no way and no time to e
ngineer a way to retrieve Crier’s backpack containing the gate, assuming it had even survived the attack.

  The two remaining soldiers passed the opening where their friends had perished, not wanting to see their remains, but catching the peripheral view of the scorch marks on the tunnel floor. They had to dash past as quickly as they could, even though the desire to look for Crier’s backpack and the FTL gate was strong. Life sign monitoring told the pair that their friends were not coming back, so there was no immediate reason to risk their lives by going up against the enemy in the tunnel. Motor led the way with Chip following closely behind.

  The vent pipe was climbing now, parallel with the main tunnel to the left. A small, round spot of light on the night vision was up ahead. It was still dark outside, but the enhanced optics amplified the more abundant ambient lighting outside so that it looked more like daylight. It was physically demanding work and a constant battle to maintain a good grip on the slippery pipe surface while going uphill. Motor checked the time: sixteen minutes until detonation. He wanted them to get a good kilometre away and further if possible. The device had a twenty-kiloton yield—equivalent to twenty-thousand tonnes of TNT packed into a small case. The bomb had the same explosive power as Fat Man, which had devastated Nagasaki one-hundred and sixteen years earlier. The difference was that the World War Two bomb, which, arguably, persuaded imperial Japan to surrender, was the size of a pickup truck. That war had been a war of annihilation; a total war against an enemy that had committed horrific crimes against humanity and had a strong cultural taboo against surrender. And the aliens? They knew so little about them; had had so little contact, and yet were already in a war of sorts. They’d already got to the stage of using what was still the ultimate weapon after only weeks of contact, not years of war. Motor had a habit of thinking too deeply when on autopilot. He just needed to follow orders and control what he could control. He was not a policy-maker or general. He was carrying out lawful orders. But they were human laws... He stopped himself going down that avenue of thought and focussed as he realised that the circle of light had grown exponentially without him really noticing.