Oh God, no.
She’d left both of her empty firearms back in the truck.
The roach let out a screech and leapt.
Somebody beside Ginger fired a controlled burst of battle rifle rounds at the bug, knocking it off-target so that it sprawled through the mud instead. Ginger spun around in surprise.
It was Sergeant Parkins. Her face was waxy and pale, but her eyes were sharp. Luckily, so was her aim.
Parkins continued to march forwards, eerily calm and emotionless, firing burst after burst at the thrashing insect. When she got within striking distance, she unloaded the rest of her clip into its head until the bug stopped twitching.
Everyone watched her walk slowly back to camp in awed silence. Ginger finally spoke up.
“Thanks, Parkins.”
“Don’t mention it,” she replied blankly, thrusting the rifle into Ginger’s hands. “We’ve lost enough friends already.”
The guards busied themselves around the med-transport, searching for more bugs. Ginger doubted they’d find any. Duke and Ghost carried Bradley over and together they sauntered back into camp.
“I need a drink,” said Ghost. “Beers, anyone?”
“Sod the beers,” said Ginger. “I think today calls for something a bit stronger… don’t you agree, Ice?”
Bradley smiled and mumbled something incoherent.
“Something stronger, huh?” Duke beamed that warm grin of his. “I think I’ve got just the thing.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ginger sat on the steps of Rhinegarde’s public square with her journal spread open on her lap. The echoes of last night’s whiskey were making it hard to think.
Engineers and reserve marines were already laying the groundwork for Rhinegarde’s reconstruction following a night of heavy bombardment. Command had oh-so-graciously given everyone (well, almost everyone) who served in the battle the day off to recuperate. In all honesty, Ginger’s cuts and bruises weren’t giving her nearly as much grief as her hangover, but she was grateful for the downtime nonetheless.
Not that she was using it to get much writing done. She forced her gaze away from the bulldozers and hastily-erected tents and scratched her pen across the open page.
Things feel different, like we’ve overcome the first hurdle of a hundred-metre race. Yesterday, each jump looked nigh-impossible. Now we know we can do it, and we’ll keep doing it until we win this war.
And you know what? Today, for the first time since we dropped onto this godforsaken planet, I actually think we might do it.
Ginger looked up and smiled at a pair of marines climbing the steps beside her, then returned to her journal.
According to Staff Sergeant Baker, Command is fast-tracking technology to map the bugs’ subterranean networks and identify nests BEFORE they send troops into future places of strategic interest. Shocker, right? They’re reverse-engineering old mining tech or something, by the sounds of it. I hope that doesn’t mean they’re planning on dropping nukes everywhere, though. One good fireteam with a bag of C-4 will do.
Ghost and Duke are fine. The doctors want to keep an eye on our lungs given the amount of alien mould and spores they found floating about in the bug tunnels, but otherwise our checkups don’t have them worried. And Bradley’s okay, too. Or he has been since the shock wore off, at least. He’s still stuck with Sigma for the time being, but it’s looking like we’ll be on guard duty for the next couple of months anyway. By the time we ship out again, hopefully his room on the Final Dawn will be ready. If not, I’ll speak with Major Liu and get him transferred over to canteen duty or something equally harmless.
Either way, I’ll miss the idiot. He’s a good kid. A terrible soldier, but a good kid.
Speaking of shipping out… Rumour has it Command wants our company to push north once Rhinegarde is secure. Like, really north. Note to self: request some thermals.
Ginger paused as she wondered whether she could make a joke about Bradley and the great white tundra. Something to do with Ice, maybe? No, she was reaching. And her head ached. She put down her pen and went back to watching the engineers work.
One day, actual people would live where she sat. In houses, just like back on Earth. Better than on Earth, in fact, because they could sit outdoors with their faces warmed by the sun, just as she did now. Hopefully, when the UEC’s job was done, humanity could feel safe somewhere again.
Ginger smiled.
New Terra was starting to feel like home.
All they had to do now was fight for it.
The WAR FOR NEW TERRA series will continue!
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About the Author
T.W.M. Ashford is a British novelist living in London. You can call him Tom.
He's written hundreds of scripts and copy for some of the biggest companies in the world, and provides a variety of creative content for Mark Dawson’s Self Publishing Formula. He’s even been known to play a bass guitar on occasion.
But, of course, his main passion is writing fiction. He’s currently setting up an interconnected space opera universe called the Dark Star Panorama, of which Final Dawn is the first series.
Send him an email at [email protected]. He'll enjoy the attention.
Books By T.W.M. Ashford
Books in the Dark Star Panorama Universe
Final Dawn Series
The Final Dawn
Thief of Stars
A Dark Horizon
The New World
War for New Terra Series
Sigma
Sigma (War for New Terra, Book 1) Page 17
