by Nick Webb
Jake believed his co-pilot but looked for himself anyway and swore. Nothing but flat desert. He took another quick peek around their cover and saw the Imperials were closer now, maybe thirty meters away.
“Son of a bitch,” said Jake. He pulled his sidearm and looked at Kit and saw his friend had already drawn his. “How long until a rescue bird will get here?”
“Who knows if one is even coming,” said Kit. “There IS a space battle going on, remember.”
“Yeah,” said Mercer. He took a deep breath. “Ready?”
“Ready,” said Kit. They nodded at each other and leaned out on either side of their cover and returned fire.
The oncoming soldiers paused out of human reflex of being shot at, but their ASA armor was almost impregnable. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the outer shell and they seemed to remember their near invulnerability at once and began trudging forward again. That is until two of them went down, blood spraying from their necks. That caused the soldiers to halt again and crouch, ducking their heads to cover as much of their lone vulnerability—the neck joint—as they could.
Jake looked at Kit in amazement.
“Marksmanship team at the academy, old boy,” said Kit. Jake momentarily found himself annoyed at the almost pompous British tone of voice.
“You son of a bitch,” said Jake, smiling, and fired off two more rounds at the crouching Imperials.
“Don’t waste your ammunition,” said Kit. “Crouched how they are you’ll never be able to hit the joint.”
“And you can?” asked Mercer, perturbed. Kit looked at him calmly.
“No, which is why I’m not firing,” the co-pilot said and then they were both forced back behind their boulder as a fresh hail of gunfire slammed into it.
And then there was silence. Jake, confused, took a peek around the boulder. The four remaining Imperials were crouched around their two dead comrades instead of advancing.
“What are they waiting for?” asked Jake after ducking back behind cover. “They have to know they have us completely outgunned and outmanned.”
“They don’t want to die,” said Kit.
“Yeah, but for all they know we just got in two lucky shots,” said Jake.
“Perhaps,” said Kit. Jake looked around the boulder again.
“Perhaps nothing…oh crap.”
“What?” asked Kit as he, too, glanced toward the enemy. “Bugger.”
An Imperial transport was swiftly approaching from the south.
“Well this just keeps getting better and better,” snapped Jake.
“Indeed,” said Kit. He suddenly sounded exhausted.
“Curse all the gods, I do not want to die on this desolate planet!”
“We don’t have to die,” said Kit in a small voice.
“What do you mean?” Jake looked at Kit and hated what he saw there. Defeat. “Wait, are you talking surrender?”
“You said it yourself, Jake. We’re outgunned and outmanned.”
“Surrender?” Jake was practically screaming now. “To THEM? Do you know what it’s like on their prison colonies? How they treat prisoners? It’s literal hell.”
“You said you didn’t want to die here. I was merely offering an alternative.”
“A total bullshit alternative.” Jake slammed his fist against the covering boulder and swore.
“Jake, careful of the suit,” said Kit.
“To hell with the suit. And to hell with them!”
“So, no surrender.”
Jake turned to his friend. “You’re goddamned right no surrender.”
“You want us to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“As opposed to surrender? Hell yes.”
“Our two pistols against a fully armored Imperial troop transport.”
“Butch and Sundance.” Jake smiled a grim smile.
Kit sighed and said, “Americans.”
Jake glanced once more around the boulder and saw the last of the Imperial troops climbing aboard, the ramp closing behind them.
“You ready?” asked Jake.
“As I’ll ever be,” replied the dejected Kit.
“It’s been an honor and a pleasure, Rooster.”
“Likewise, Shotgun.”
Their eyes locked, Jake’s ablaze with anger and excitement, Kit’s calm and a little scared. Beyond their cover they heard the whine of the Imperial transport carry over the thin Martian atmosphere. It ratcheted up in volume, letting them know it was lifting off the ground. The two Resistance pilots nodded gravely at one another and stepped around the boulder, arms outstretched, their guns aimed at the oncoming space craft.
Two things happened at once. A gruff, oddly-accented voice blasted through their helmet speakers, “Hit the deck, you idjits!”, and not even a second later two missiles shot by overhead toward the Imperial craft. One of the missiles bounced off the rounded hull and slammed into the ground a few meters beyond, but the other struck true, straight into the windshield and exploded with a deafening high-pitched roar. The Imperial transport heeled to one side and gouts of fire erupted from the cabin as the escaping oxygen burned off. The transport hovered for a moment and then a fighter screamed by and finished it off with a blast from an ion-canon. The Imperial craft capsized in midair and slammed upside down into the ground. Moments later it exploded in a quick burst of flame and then the thin atmosphere extinguished the blaze.
Jake and Kit watched this from their bellies. The second the voice told them to get down, Kit, his nerves on the razor’s edge already, grabbed Jake and tackled him to the ground.
“What the hell just happened?” asked Jake, confused.
“It appears we’ve been rescued,” Kit replied.
“By who? Did you see that fighter?” Jake pointed at the retreating bird. “It wasn’t one of ours. It was old—hell it was ancient.”
“Watch what you say about our toys, kid,” the same gruff voice said from their speakers.
“Who is this?” demanded Jake.
“Just a sec,” the voice said. “Might I suggest you stand up and turn around and holster your weapons?”
Kit looked over his shoulder and tapped Jake, who was about to mouth off, into silence. They both stood and turned. Kit did as he was told and replaced his sidearm in his holster, but Jake held onto his in a death grip.
They watched as a large, armored, tracked vehicle pulled to a stop ten yards away. A hatch opened under the front window and two figures wearing ASA armor stepped out and walked across the dusty ground to stand in front of the two dazed men.
“Who might I have the privilege of addressing?” the larger of the two armored men asked.
“He’s Butch and I’m Sundance,” said Jake. “Now who the hell are you?”
“Hrmph. I’m Governor Malachai O’Connor,” the larger man said. “I saved your misbegotten lives so show a little courtesy, yeah?”
“Sorry, sir,” said Mercer and he holstered his weapon. “I’m Jake and this is Kit, my co-pilot.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you lads are Resistance.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you boys aren’t fond of the Imperials,” said Jake, a smile in his voice.
“You can say that again, sonny,” said Governor O’Connor, and he erupted in a boisterous laugh.
“Well, sir, thanks for the save, but—”
“Jake, do you mind if we nix the questions?” asked Kit. Jake looked at his friend and saw the pain on his face and then remembered his shoulder.
“Right, sorry,” said Jake. “Governor my friend here is injured. Any way we can—”
“Say no more.” The Governor and turned back to the tank. “Come aboard, boyos.”
Later, in the habitat’s medical facility Kit sat shirtless on an examination table while a doctor prodded and poked his shoulder.
“Nothing’s broken,” the doctor pronounced finally. “Not even a fracture.”
“Are you sure? Because it hurts lik
e hell.”
“Yeah, bone bruises tend to do that. Rest it, take some pain meds as needed, and you’ll be fine in a couple weeks.” The doctor smiled broadly and clapped Kit on the bad shoulder.
“Ow! You bloody son-of-a-whore!” screamed Kit. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
The burly old doctor left the exam room, laughing.
“Where’s my sidearm? I’m going to shoot that sadistic bastard!”
“Easy, boyo,” said the Governor, placing a large calming hand on Kit’s other shoulder. “He’s been on this world for forty years. He’s a tough old bird, used to dealing with roughnecks, and has an odd sense of humor.”
“Odd sense of humor?” Kit was practically apoplectic as he stammered the words out.
“Relax, Rooster,” said Jake. “The meds should kick in any second now and you’ll feel right as rain.”
“You just made the list, Shotgun,” spat Kit.
“Governor, does this mean Mars is joining the fight?” asked Jake, turning his attention to their rescuer.
“Woah, slow down, lad,” the gruff older man said. “We just heard your beacon and—”
“Is this where I can find my two little lost lambs?” a voice with a heavy British accent asked from the door. Jake turned and saw Admiral Pritchard and two armed escorts standing there. Jake started to snap to attention but Pritchard waved him back with a hand. “No need, my boy.”
“Admiral,” said the governor.
“Governor,” said the admiral. They met half way across the room and shook hands in a friendly manner. Jake had a sense that they knew each other somehow. “Thank you once again for pulling them out of the fire.”
“Think nothing of it, glad to help,” said the governor.
“Now, I hate to impose and run but there is a war to get back to,” Pritchard said.
“But of course,” the governor said. “Think nothing of it. It’s been awhile and it was quite enjoyable to be shooting shit again. Especially Imperial shit.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon,” Pritchard said, his voice warm.
“Good hunting, Admiral,” the governor said and popped off a sardonic salute. Pritchard laughed, returned the salute, and left the exam room, motioning for Jake and Kit to follow.
Once they boarded they Fury’s shuttle Jake made sure Kit was securely strapped in and then went off in search of Admiral Pritchard. For the first time in hours he remembered the Admiral’s secret and he just had to get it out of the old man.
He found Pritchard sitting in the aft section, huddled with his XO over a data pad. Jake cleared his throat and the Admiral looked up.
“Ah, Mercer,” said Pritchard. “Sit.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jake and sat on a bench across from Pritchard. “I have a question for you, sir.”
“Yes, yes, the big secret,” Pritchard said and waved a hand. “Later. Tell me what happened out there.”
“Um, okay, sir,” said Jake and then he launched into the events starting with their wing getting blown off in low orbit and ending with being rescued by Governor O’Connor. “And, well, you know the rest.”
“Yes, I guess I do.” The Admiral smiled. “A rousing story, Mercer. Bracing stuff. I’m sure you’ll drink for free off this one for quite some time.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jake. “Now about—”
He was interrupted by a comm hail for Pritchard.
“Admiral, we’re docking with Fury now,” said a voice from a speaker near Pritchard’s head. The Admiral tapped a button under the speaker.
“Very good,” said Pritchard. “Smooth flight, well done.”
“Thank you, sir.” The speaker clicked off.
“You were saying, Mercer?” Pritchard raised his eyebrows.
“The secret,” said Jake. “You said—”
“I said ‘just wait until we get to Mars’, or something to that effect,” said Pritchard. “Not to worry, my boy, mission accomplished.”
“Okay, sir,” said Jake. “But…well, what was it?”
“What was what?”
Was he serious? Jake wondered but didn’t say.
“The secret. What was the big secret?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Need to know and all that,” the Admiral said. “You understand.”
“Need to know?” Jake’s heart sank.
“Yes, chain-of-command and what have you.” Prichard smiled under his mustache. “I was a bit, shall we say, in my cups when I mentioned it. Truth is, I shouldn’t have said a word. But you know how men can get in that state, right? Even admirals. I shouldn’t even have half a glass with a war on.”
Jake stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Is that all then, Mercer?” The admiral got no reply and nodded. “Very good, carry on.”
“But…”
“Dismissed, Lieutenant.” The friendly tone was gone from Pritchard’s voice now, replaced by the full weight and power of his rank. Jake sighed and rose to his feet.
“Yes, sir.” Mercer turned on his heel, neglecting courtesy, and started to leave, but the Admiral stopped him.
“Jake?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mercer, turning back to the older man.
“Damned fine job down there,” said Pritchard, his voice softer once more. “Capital stuff, really.” Jake inhaled deeply, his back stiffening with pride.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jake, a slight quaver in his voice.
“Go on, now, get some rest.” Pritchard looked back at the data pad in his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Jake left the aft section and went back to Kit. The hatch door was open and men and women were bustling in and out of the shuttle. Jake unfastened his friend’s harness and helped him to his feet.
“Blaze of glory, eh, ol’ Shotgun?” asked Kit, his words slurred from the pain meds.
“You got it, Rooster,” Jake said. “Come on.”
Jake guided his friend to his quarters, got him settled in, and then left. In the hallway outside he caught a whiff of something not particularly pleasant. It took a moment, but he finally realized that it was him.
“Ugh, I need a shower,” he muttered to himself. But showering alone isn’t very efficient, what with getting the hard-to-reach spots and water conservation and all that. He should probably do his part for the cause.
With a smile he headed for Ensign Kelley’s quarters.
“Do you think he bought it?” the XO asked Admiral Pritchard.
“Hmm? Oh, I’m sure he did. It was the truth after all. There was a secret mission and it was accomplished.”
“Yes, I know that, but why mention it all? Were you really that drunk?”
Pritchard looked up from the data pad and raised an eyebrow at his XO. “When was the last time you saw me drunk, XO?”
“Um, never, sir.”
“Exactly.”
“So, the drunk act was just an … act? Why?” The XO looked confused and Pritchard smiled at him.
“I wanted them to know that there was something important afoot, even more important than the battle. So, I went down and got ‘drunk’ with the men and let slip that I had a secret. That way, they think The Old Man is just one of the guys, as they say, and that they are in on something top level and they will go to the end of the world for you.”
“You played them...” The XO was nodding appreciatively.
“Not in any malicious way, I assure you. It was just a way to let them know that I trust them, that I believe in them. And when they think that? Why, they’ll perform miracles for you.”
“Yes, I get it. Brilliant, sir.”
Pritchard saw by the look in his XO’s eye that he didn’t get it, not really, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the plan was successful.
“And the mission?” asked the XO.
“A rousing success.” He looked down at his data pad and watched once again as a large steel crate was loaded onto the second shuttle, the one that only Pritchard and a few others kn
ew about.
“Might I ask what it was?”
“I’d tell you, XO,” said Pritchard and he smiled a cunning smile and his British accent became even more British. “But it’s a secret.”
The Pax Humana Saga is a military space opera sci-fi series that takes place in the distant-ish future where “Old” Earth is just one of a thousand worlds in the wider empire. The Corsican Empire, modeled after imperial Rome, rules with an iron fist, but freedom loving people on Earth and other worlds begin to rebel. The Pax Humana saga tells the story of a young fighter pilot-turned captain who has command unexpectedly thrust upon him. We follow his and his crew’s part in the war for independence, set against the backdrop of an unthinkably evil conspiracy planned by the emperor and his inner circle.
The Terran Gambit
Episode 2 of the Pax Humana Saga
By Nick Webb
“Ten seconds to impact!” yelled the balding gunner, but the pilot maintained his steely grip on the controls. There was only one fighter flying away intact from this little game of chicken, and Jacob Mercer would be damned if it were the enemy Corsican’s bird.
“Jake, buddy, they’re not pulling away! If we hit them, we’re all goners!”
“Explain it to them.” Jacob held the enemy fighter in his sights. The ship still only appeared as a tiny dot nearly washed out by the shimmering blue atmosphere far below, but it quickly grew larger, and streaks of ion beams erupted from it straight at their own fighter. He gripped the controls and veered side to side to avoid the fire, but held his course straight at the enemy ship, unshaken by the deadly onslaught. At the edge of his awareness he heard klaxons indicating several hits by the ion beams, and answering gunfire erupted from his own ship’s guns, but he hardly heeded them.
The guns didn’t matter. The alarms didn’t matter. All that mattered was winning this showdown. He would not blink. He would not yield to the empire.
He would not lose this fight, dammit.
“Three seconds,” yelled Kit, Jake’s frazzled gunner.
