Colony Lost

by Chris Philbrook

  “What are you seeing?” Remy’s unit commander, Theo Wendell, called from the rear of the rigid-hulled inflatable boat. Lieutenant Wendell was a mountain of a man with skin as dark as umber. Easily a head taller than Remy, the man commanded with calm confidence and competence, even inside his featureless armor. Amongst the FEM community, the giant was almost a legend. With the larger population of regular marines, he was a legend.

  Remy double-checked the info and answered his officer with an assessment. “Better views of what the satellites are showing us. Not much more. The island is pretty dark. One sentry on the pier on the other side of the island opposite our approach. One sentry on the side of the old volcano mount in that ramshackle hut, overlooking the central compound. Small arms visible. Nothing heavy. No other activity. Wait–check that–there’s a couple on the southern tip near the beach getting it on.”

  “Good for them. Keep the UAVs well above the heads of everyone. Last thing I want is for us to tip them off as we’re riding in. I’ll swing us a few degrees north to avoid causing coitus interruptus.”

  Crouched beside Remy in the small boat sat the third and final member of their fire team, Steve Ziu. Steve had his rail gun shouldered and primed to fire at anything on the island. As the boat went up and down on the motion of the water, he kept the weapon flat and ready. Beneath his faceplate, the sergeant still had a visible, strong Chinese heritage in his face and that made their whole team stand out amongst many of the other Marine units. The near millennia-long voyage on Pioneer 3 had washed their ancestor’s genetic pool to a great degree, and to have a clearly white man, a black man, and one of Asian descent on a single team made them unique.

  Remy looked up into the sky and absorbed the beauty of the fat gas giant Pacifica orbited. Not far away in the dark sky above was the very visible moon of Phoenix, the first home of the Gharian colonists. Phoenix looked like a tiny version of old Earth from space. A wispy layer of puffy white clouds hugged tightly around a world of blue water and brown soil. A world of life and opportunity.

  In that regard, all four of the Gharian moons that been colonized were worlds of life and opportunity.

  But, in a few minutes, this one would be tarnished with violence.

  The marines lifted their tiny boat off the beach and carried it away from the white sands and into the forest’s edge. Far from the equator, this temperate region of Pacifica had no jungle. Instead of palm trees and dense green overgrowth, the island had pines, oaks, mosses, lichens, and bushes covered in brightly colored berries. Dampness coated everything, making the stones and tree trunks slick.

  People would work for the Gharian government for years to earn enough land to claim a home for their own. An island like this would be claimed by an entire family that had cashed in their civic land grants together. To own such a plot of land would’ve been a crown jewel for generations. In the case of the squatting terrorists the marines stalked on this night, they had done no such work.

  The island resembled a crescent–or more accurately a banana–and at the inland center of the curve clustered several one-and two-story buildings. Whoever had built the wood, rusty tin,and recycled plastic structures had tried to keep them low profile, but to those who knew how to look, the small settlement stood out like a cluster of hives on someone’s bare back. The straight lines and industrial colors were a contrast against the soft curves and organic colors of the Pacifican forest.

  The collection of huts and makeshift factories looked alien when observed through thermal-imaging equipment. Instead of the colors of rust, iron, galvanized metal, and hewn wood, the buildings took on a life of their own as reds, greens, yellows, and bright blues coalesced and followed their inorganic lines. Where stoves burned wood, hot oranges wicked up into the air and waved like desert mirages. Where windows opened to let in breezes, the warmth of sleeping human bodies slipped out and away like ghosts from a cracked mausoleum door.

  Viewed together from the ground and above, the terrorist base couldn’t have been missed.

  The three men reached the crest of a tiny swell and went flat to the ground. Their rifles vibrating gently in their hands, they trained their scopes on the two men carrying guns. One man held a centuries-old automatic weapon with a curved magazine and the other in the hillside security hut had a bolt-action hunting rifle slung on his shoulder. Despite being ten miles offshore from civilization and on an island that had no dangerous creatures, they still expected danger.

  Lieutenant Theo Wendell spoke inside his helmet. “Remy take the man with the automatic. Steve you take the man in the hut. If anyone moves at either location after that, light them up. On three.”

  “Roger that,” they said almost simultaneously.

  Theo counted down, then both sergeants pulled the electronic triggers on their ancient rifles without hesitation.

  Theo watched Steve’s target on the elevated hill through his binoculars. The man toppled into the deep darkness of the guard hut as if he’d been yanked down from behind. The lieutenant turned to the other side where Remy’s shot had dropped the other man. His body lay in the damp dirt below, already beginning to cool. A bright puddle of heat slowly spread from his neck where the marine’s shot had lanced his head nearly off.

  All three marines paused and waited for a reaction. Several minutes passed but nothing happened. Those asleep stayed so, and those awake hadn’t heard the shots or the bodies falling.

  “Good shooting,” Theo said. “They still don’t know we’re here.” He kept watching with his night optics, and then spoke to his men. “I want you to approach the flat building with the dead dude out front. Scope it and take any intel you can find. If you make contact, suppress, exfil, and I’ll cover from here. Watch for IEDs on the way in.”

  The two sergeants got up from their crouch and moved forward, walking with care, placing each foot in front of the other as silently as possible. They weaved around trees and stones, bushes and branches until they reached the edge of the clearing where the buildings were. With a nod, they sprinted across what might’ve been described as a courtyard until they reached the side of the long and low structure.

  The building ran about thirty meters from end to end and was five meters wide. Remy had seen a similar looking building on a farm designed to hold an army of chickens. The outer wall of this chicken-less construction had poorly cut windows with lifted covers made of wood. Each window had a fine mesh screen to keep out the elements. No glass here. It spoke to the temporary nature of the place.

  Remy made his world easier to digest. “Suit, filter data out. Notify on environment changes. Human or animal movement. UAV video feed, off. Filter air for contaminants. Auto illuminate targets,” Remy said.

  His suit’s visor jumped to life, adjusting the video of the UAV away and changing how the air came in. If someone threw tear gas, shot an octopus venom round at them, or sprayed them with lit gasoline he would be safe. Safe enough to get out and get assistance at least.

  Certain his armor was ready for a breach, he turned to Steve. The other sergeant gave him a thumbs-up, and the two stacked up on the creaky screen door at the center of the short side of the building with Steve at the front. He reached for the door’s tiny loop handle and paused.

  Steve retracted his off hand, reached into a black canvas satchel that hung on the back of his belt and retrieved a tiny spray bottle. He shot a spurt of glistening fluid onto the hinges of the squeaking door, silencing any noise. He then took the door handle and pulled it open with great care.

  The two men went in with padded boots fast, moving through the place as if they knew it and belonged there. Just inside the door was a cramped room flanked with wooden tables covered in disheveled papers and thin electronic data pads. The marines paused and scooped up everything they saw into empty bags on their belts. Remy’s quick scan of the paper revealed city names, base locations, ship schematics and, worse, chemical recipes to make explosives.

  “I think this is a bomb factory,” Remy said.<
br />
  “Shit,” Steve replied as he covered his teammate.

  “Keep moving, and watch for tripwires or traps,” their team leader said from outside.

  Thirty seconds inside the room, they’d secured it and all the information it contained. Beyond was a closed wooden door that led to the next room. They stacked up beside the doorframe and, after spraying the hinges, Steve opened it. They moved through as silently as possible.

  Remy’s visor adjusted to the brighter light from a row of hanging bulbs. Ancient style light bulbs, too, the kind that had a filament inside and sparked a single white mote of illumination. Maybe homemade, they swung in the cool ocean breeze coming through the screens. He almost lost his head when his eyes registered what was happening below the lights.

  In two rows creating a central walkway were perhaps a dozen plank and sheet wooden tables. The hastily built rough surfaces were covered in varying supplies all being worked on to create some kind of explosives. Stacks of fertilizer were set off to the side, as were buckets of stones, screws, nails, and ball bearings. Plastic jugs of industrial chemicals were stacked all over the room, some open, others not. Fireworks were being disassembled on three tables into their separate components for different uses. Perhaps worst of all, his visor revealed to him three human forms sitting on chairs in the far left corner. From head to toe, they were painted a bright electric red for his eyes. Threats in his corner.

  He had his rifle up and pointed at them before he knew what was happening. His training had overruled his hesitation. In his visor, he saw his red crosshairs land on one person’s chest, and right beside that, he saw an asterisk appear on the chest of another person; his suit told him where Steve was aiming.

  “Gharian Security Forces! Face down on the floor now!” Steve yelled.

  Two men and a woman stood up and did what he had hoped they wouldn’t: they reached for something on the table.

  This was not a game of ‘wait and see,’ or a game of ‘let them shoot first so we know they are really the bad guys.’ This wasn’t a game at all. The marines had come here on actionable intelligence knowing that these men and women were making bombs for attacks intended to set back the Selvan expedition. The marine’s bags were full of proof enough to convict every person on this island. It made sense that they’d fight. No one wanted to live the rest of his or her life in an orbiting prison facility.

  Remy and Steve fired and thier crosshairs blinked, confirming that the weapons had discharged.

  His target–a man wearing an old-fashioned button-down flannel shirt–went stiff and fell backwards against the far wall of the long room as the fléchette tore through his chest and punched a large hole in the wood wall behind him. As he slid to the floor, he left a smear of blood as wide as Remy’s hand on the rough surface. The man lifted his shaking hand, holding a pistol, and Remy fired at him again, blasting another hole through the man’s face just below his eye. The hand and pistol dropped as life bolted from the man. Remy’s moved on as Steve’s gun coughed again and dropped the third perpetrator.

  In a room beyond, Remy heard a great commotion. Men yelled amid the sounds of weapons being locked and loaded. The locals had woken up.

  “Remy, Steve, get the fuck out of there,” they heard Theo say.

  “Popping CS,” Steve said. He pulled a small canister from a grenade sleeve on his left hip and swung his rifle to the side on its sling. He pulled the pin on the gas grenade and tossed it underhand directly down the center path of the room toward the door as Remy covered them.

  Somewhere, what sounded like a giant chainsaw exploded into life. The blood-smeared wall blew apart as a hailstorm of bullets tore through it. Wood chips and dust filled the air as bullets hit the tables, the walls, and eventually them.

  Their bodies were tossed about as the powerful rounds bounced off their armor plating. Each hit felt like the blow of a pickaxe or jackhammer, and as the impacts came faster, the men stumbled and fell forward, finally diving out of the doorway of the building.

  In his visor, beside a body outline telling him where rounds had struck his armor, a text notification and a string of directional information appeared. Lieutenant Wendell was firing.

  Each steel dart from the lieutenant’s gun smashed through any kind of cover the wood offered as if it weren’t there. Once through the flimsy structure, the fléchette pierced flesh and bone. Some of the officer’s rounds even penetrated two of the turncoats in one go.

  After ten rounds of Theo’s high-velocity fire, the crashing automatic gunfire died down, and it took on a different, desperate rate of fire.

  Remy and Steve sprinted across the open area next to the building as bullets buzzed by, angry as an Aresian hornet. They dove headfirst over the crest of the hill and their commanding officer as he continued to provide deadly covering fire.

  The windows in the upper level of the two-story building opened and gun barrels poked out. Muzzles flashed and more rounds spat at them, chewing leaves off branches, branches off trees, and churning the soil up until brown and black earth filled the air. The noise was tremendous; ear splitting and head throbbing. They had lost the initiative, and the enemy had fire superiority. The marines had to retreat.

  More rounds pinged painfully off their black armor and gear as they sprinted deeper into the forest toward their boat and the safety of the shore. Remy’s visor display flashed red as his armor was tested to its limit by the small arms fire striking it all over. His back plate could only sustain a few more direct hits. As they put more and more boulders and tree trunks between them and the shooters, the hits became less frequent and the running easier. When they reached their small landing craft, the lieutenant spun up wide net communications. He connected directly to the aircraft kilometers above that had been on-station waiting for his call.

  “Conan, this is Malevolent One. Over,” the lieutenant said, using the pilot’s and his call signs.

  “Malevolent One, this is Conan. Over,” the pilot returned.

  “Conan, you are cleared to drop ordnance. All marines are in the eastern forest on the beach edge. Over.”

  “Malevolent One, that’s danger-close. Please confirm. Over.”

  “Begin your run, Conan. We will be in the water by the time your bomb hits. Danger-close approved confirmation is tango whiskey. Over,” the lieutenant said, as the marines carried their boat to the water at a near sprint. For them to survive this, they had to run.

  A bullet went over their heads. The anti-expansionists were coming.

  “Malevolent One, roger tango whisky. Coming in hot. Twenty seconds to target. Out.”

  The marines hit the surf as more bullets flew past and splashed into the knee-high waves. Lieutenant Wendell got into the boat first and drew his sidearm. With both hands, he aimed into the tree line and snapped off a handful of rounds. Theo hit one person for sure, and sent others ducking behind trees and rocks.

  In their helmets, they heard the whine of the bomber approaching above. Without their suits, the plane would’ve been quieter than the gunfire and the surf, but to them the sound was unmistakable.

  “Malevolent One, this is Conan. Device deployed. Ten seconds to impact.”

  “In, in!” Wendell yelled. Steve and Remy piled into the boat. The officer hit the throttle on the rear-engine control. The tiny boat’s electric motor buzzed and surged, and they took off into the surf, going from a standstill to thirty knots per hour in a second. The men grabbed onto anything they could, stayed low, and prayed they would have enough distance from the bomb’s target.

  The colonies of Ghara had no need for bombs. War hadn’t been waged since the Americans abandoned it in the old Earth years. Sure, the military existed but up until now it was a protective, supportive force that hunted errant wildlife and helped clean up after storms. Occasional squalls of violence happened–such was the human way–but bombs? Bombs were a thing of the past. A useless thing of war.

  In fact, the very vessel Conan piloted was a repurposed landing shu
ttle. Something peaceful given a temporary warlike leave of absence from its day job.

  With no need for bombs, explosive weapons were rare. To satisfy the need for air support situations, the Colonial Marines and their Army brethren turned to the massive stores of colonization equipment aboard the generational ship Pioneer 3.

  From its home in the orbit of Ghara, Pioneer 3’s massive warehouses provided a special device called a “Lake Maker.” Designed to make terraforming easier, Lake Makers could disintegrate large swaths of earth and forest in a non-nuclear explosion of biblical proportions.

  Need a hill turned into a field? Drop a Lake Maker on it.

  Need a canal to connect two seas? Drop a Lake Maker on it.

  Need a peninsula turned into an island? Drop a Lake Maker on it.

  And when you needed an anti-expansionist base wiped off the face of Pacifica as terrorists try to kill marines, you drop a Lake Maker on it.

  The terraforming bomb hit with a blast that turned the black sky blue as midday, crowding out the moons, stars, and almost Ghara above. The island’s center exploded with an unimaginable amount of force and power, disappearing in a white-hot globe of heat and energy.

  The end of the marines’ boat rose up as the blast force surged the ocean, tipping them vertical and dumping the troops and all their gear into the deep water.

  When Remy surfaced–his buoyancy tanks automatically released to inflate portions of his armor–he spun in the water to look at the devastation.

  “Holy shit,” he said. Each of the buildings and all of their contents and residents had been incinerated by the blast as it had spread out, turning what had been one island into two. Water rushed back into the void, as fires consumed trees, bushes, and everything remaining that could burn. Rain–seawater blown high into the sky by the explosion–fell on the floating marines.