Ethan did not stop to wonder what he meant. Visibly grinning, he started for the door – there was no need to pack. “Thank you. Really, thank you, doctor.”
“Whatever it takes to help you,” Hannan said. “Now get going. Even with our government behind it, the military moves fast.”
*
Ethan intercepted the Vengeance on a corvette, Champion V, that had paused in its patrol of the system to refuel on Mars. Despite only being a colony ship, the Vengeance absolutely dwarfed Champion, boasting cannons nearly as large as the corvette itself, and its weakest points had thicker armor than Champion’s most stalwart bulkhead. Its colors were that of the navy: grey and darker grey, and the rising sun logo it had borne for years had been chipped away and painted over. It was barely Voyager Dawn as Ethan remembered it.
The airlock hissed open, and to Ethan’s surprise, he found Andre Briggs waiting within.
“Been too long, Ethan,” Briggs said, grinning as he came forward to slap Ethan on the shoulder. Ethan returned the gesture.
“What are you doing here?” he replied.
Briggs motioned for him to follow, and they stepped out of the airlock. “What, they didn’t tell you? I’m captain of this rust bucket.”
Ethan took a moment to absorb the news. “Congratulations,” he said finally, hoping he sounded genuine. Then he added, “They didn’t tell me much of anything. We were kind of in a hurry.”
“Then let’s get you caught up. And thanks.” Briggs led the way further into the ship, and with each step Ethan became more aware of how thoroughly the spirit of Voyager Dawn had been ripped out of his former home.
The navy-blue carpets had been torn up in favor of corrugated rubber flooring, and the windows were shuttered wherever they had not been simply replaced with armor. Even the lights were dimmer, as if the energy had been sucked out of them.
Briggs did not seem to notice, moving and speaking as spryly as ever. “The deadset is they were hoping you’d join on if you saw the ship,” he said.
“They?” Ethan wondered aloud.
“Bigwigs and the like. You’re a right symbol or something. Anyway, they planned for it. You’ve got your special fighter onboard, special quarters, everything.”
Ethan could not imagine he deserved such accommodations, especially if he were to return to his original rank. “What’s my position?”
Briggs looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Lieutenant,” he said incredulously. “Right where you left it.”
Ethan was taken aback. “That was a field promotion,” he argued. “I thought it was rescinded.”
“Not a chance,” Briggs laughed. “Like I said, you’re special, so you’ve got a special title. But your job’s fancier than that. You’ll do flight group command and all that, yeah, but you’re also a ‘special reconnaissance operative’. Basically, you use your fighter to scout things out. Should be a piece of piss.”
“Works for me.” Suddenly something dawned on Ethan. “Briggs – Captain, sorry – Where is everyone?” The ship, apart from the perpetual drone of its engines, was silent. The hallways were dead.
“Hiding,” Briggs said simply. It earned him a look from Ethan, prompting him to explain. “Given how special Vengeance is, some yobbo thought it’d be a good idea to stick us with a reporter.”
“Ugh,” Ethan said.
Briggs laughed. “That’s about everyone’s reaction. She’s been told off going in the bunks, so the crew spends their free time there. No doubt she’ll want a word with you, though.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
A moment later the pair were on the bridge, and Ethan was introduced to its crew. After the greetings were through, Briggs relayed his final set of instructions. “Quarters are right next to the pilots’ barracks, but the port hangars are gone, so don’t go looking for them. Everything’s up top now. We have officer’s meeting at twenty-two hundred, and an all-hands meeting after that. Got all that?”
“Yeah,” Ethan said. He grinned. “You’re really liking this captain thing, aren’t you?”
“More than I thought,” Briggs chuckled. “Now watch this. I love this part.” He turned to the bridge crew. “Helm, mark point at nine hundred.”
“Nine hundred, aye.” Through the bowels of the Vengeance, the thrusters shuddered and screamed, and the ship pulled slowly forward.
“CD contact?” Briggs said, raising his voice as the rumbling grew louder.
“Contact, sir. Positive contact.”
“Engage.”
A shimmering beam shot out of the ship’s forward dish, yanking on a gravity well lightyears away. The Vengeance fell carefully into its influence, the darkness of space replaced with a blinding white light that crawled over the hull like wildfire. It consumed the Vengeance, and the ship shot off toward distant worlds.
The Tide
I don’t think the admiral appreciates how many rounds we send down field every day. I put in an order for a million forty-fives and he looked at me like I was crazy – makes sense given he just shipped us another million yesterday. But when you’ve got a thousand angry Naldím coming at you and all these raw recruits are scared shitless, they don’t pay much attention where they’re shooting. They just hold down the trigger and hope they survive.
Excerpt, Captain Bishop (KIA 2345.182), Private Log
Even Clay, his spirits normally so resilient, seemed to be tiring of the sound of cannon fire. Three days of relentless bass roars wore nerves thin, though the marines themselves had not seen battle since the convoy had come to a halt – the guns were the drum beat of a solemn funeral dirge. When they stopped, it would be time for the marines to fight.
Rebecca was satisfied to find herself less affected by it all. The worst annoyance she suffered was from her helmet: she had worn it for nearly as long as the bombardment had gone on, to filter out the noise and increasingly smoky air, and it was beginning to chafe her scalp. She would have retreated to her bunk, or at least an interior locale, but her presence was required on the front lines to uphold the morale of the troops.
Clay pushed quickly through the hastily dug trench in front of the convoy, bound for Rebecca’s position. She saw him coming and made her way toward him, marines parting in front of her whenever they weren’t distracted by the Naldím’s retaliatory potshots.
“Blizzard,” he said in acknowledgement as they drew closer, “all quiet up here? Figuratively speaking, I mean.”
“The position’s solid,” Rebecca replied, pressing herself against the barricade to let a squad of soldiers by. Clay mimicked her, flinging a quick salute at the men as they passed. “No word on the nexacors?”
“Not as far as the boys in recon can tell.” Clay grimaced. “You’re sure they’re diverted toward the Naldím? I would’ve thought we’d hear something by now.”
“I’m sure. I only blew the tunnel leading back here.”
“In that case… Well, I hate to keep sending you off like this, but we need you up front again.”
“With Xeno?”
“We need Agent Summers here if the Naldím decide to attack. You can take a squad, though.”
Rebecca glanced at the cliff face before them. The sheer amount of Naldím technology at its summit caused a green glow to reflect across the cave’s ceiling. “Make it two squads,” she said, “and fetch me some flashbangs.”
Clay did not seem terribly pleased with taking orders, but he understood the chain of command. He threw up a salute and wormed his way back down the trench, through the sea of warm bodies.
Minutes later, sixteen heavily armed soldiers were presented to Rebecca. The sergeants introduced themselves and their men as the components of Patriot and Zulu squads.
“What’s the plan, sir?” Patriot’s sergeant, a remarkably tall man named Bristol, asked after introductions had been made.
Rebecca pointed at the cliff face. “Climb the ridge, move as far into the enemy emplacement as possible, and launch these.” She tossed a flashbang to e
ach soldier. “They’ve been modified to emit a J-thirty-six frequency on detonation.”
“You don’t mean J-thirty-two, sir?” Sergeant Yaakov of Zulu Squad said.
Rebecca turned her gaze to him. “J-thirty-six,” she confirmed. “Thirty-two confuses nexacors. Thirty-six attracts them.”
“Wasn’t told about no nexacors,” Bristol said.
“There are nexacors,” Rebecca repeated, “and we’re luring them into the Naldím camp.” She looked between the soldiers. Those whose eyes were visible through their visors were clearly uncomfortable with the plan. Others, their visors tinted, worked their jaws furiously. “It sounds like suicide,” she agreed, causing a few to shift uncomfortably, “but we can get it done.”
“Never heard of no Wraith dying,” Bristol said, moving to stand closer to Rebecca and facing his men. “If we’re working with one, we’ve got every chance in the world of making it through this.”
His impromptu speech did not appear to rouse the men. There was only one way to inspire confidence, Rebecca knew, and that was to lead by example. With that in mind, she set off toward the cliff, not waiting for them to follow, and before long she could hear the crunching of sixteen boots on the ice behind her.
The ridge looked taller than ever when viewed from the base, and the climb was not made any easier knowing what awaited the team at its peak. Rebecca’s physical prowess and the absence of a cumbersome field pack allowed her to scale the ice faster than any of the marines could hope to, though she suspected they were intentionally maintaining a sluggish pace to put off the impending conflict. None of them wanted to be the martyr that was inevitably part of such an operation.
Flying chunks of ice and debris from stray artillery strikes did not help their nerves. Despite the accuracy of the Empire’s tried-and-true ballistic batteries, the Naldím’s defenses were more than adequate to deflect the majority of inbound projectiles. What shells were not prematurely flung into the ground now seemed to be directly targeting Zulu and Patriot. One of the men, startled by a jarringly close impact, lost his grip and plummeted to the ground below. Unable to concern herself with his well-being at the moment, Rebecca pressed forward, letting Bristol look after his comrade.
“Preston here,” the marine gasped through the comm. “Got the wind knocked out of me, but I’ll be fine.” He paused, inhaling sharply. “Might’ve broken a rib.”
“Stay down, then,” Bristol ordered, “You’ll do no good banged up like that.”
“Copy, sir. Sorry.”
Bristol sighed, turning his attention to Rebecca. “We’re a man down already, Blizzard.”
“We’ll be fine,” she assured him, not quite sure she believed it herself.
They reached the top of the ridge behind Rebecca’s self-appointed schedule, but none the worse for wear. She mounted the edge first, rolling onto the surface and immediately falling prone. A passing Naldím turned at the sight, about to sound the alarm, and was silenced. Smoke pouring out of the barrel of her gun, Rebecca took a deep breath, held it in, and dispatched the remaining hostiles closest to the infiltration point. The marines clambered up behind her and secured the position. Their approach did not go unnoticed for long.
It was never going to be a stealth op. Rebecca knew that. But as the Naldím began to secure their position against the strike team, she began to wish it had been. Even in its opening seconds, it was clear the firefight was going to cost the marines.
“Move forward!” Rebecca yelled over the Naldím opening volley. The marines dropped, some on their knees, others all the way to the ground, barely avoiding the hail of shrieking energy sent out to meet them. They inched forward, bound for cover rather than the objective. They were moving all the same, and it was enough for Rebecca. She only needed the Naldím’s focus divided.
Spurred on by a deafening burst of fire from her allies, Rebecca slithered toward the Naldím entrenchment, letting off a few token shots to deter them from targeting her. Whenever one did, however, it proved ineffective. Even at range, she could see each pull of the trigger, using them as cues to sidestep the attack they heralded and further close the gap. Within seconds she was on top of the position, leaping over the entrenched Naldím and spraying bullets into their ranks.
A number of them fell, creating a bloody opening for Rebecca to push into and recommence the offensive. The marines were on her tail again, covering the advance in every direction. Another one of them had fallen, though in the chaos Rebecca could not tell which one, and she couldn’t bother herself to care at the moment – the objective was the only thing that mattered.
The grenades had to be placed deep within the camp, enough so that when the nexacors arrived, they would disperse evenly throughout the camp. Rebecca and her men had at least two hundred meters to go. Their number would no doubt be halved by the time they were in range.
Rifles flared, knives danced, and slowly, the team made progress. Rebecca felt her load lighten with each bullet fired and each magazine exchanged. It was painfully clear they were going to run dry before they reached the objective.
Her gut wrenching, Rebecca knew what she had to do. When the marines settled behind cover again, she pinged the sergeants’ comms.
“We’re not going to make it at this rate,” she said. “I’m activating Overdrive.”
“Sounds good. What is it?” Yaakov asked.
“Wraith system overload,” Rebecca explained. “It’ll get me to the waypoint while you pull back.”
“How are you getting out, then?” Bristol wondered.
“I’m not. Overdrive’s a last-ditch effort.”
There was silence on the other end of the comm. Rebecca looked back at where the two squads had taken refuge against the Naldím’s onslaught. Bristol and Yaakov were looking grimly at each other.
Finally, Yaakov sent a one-word reply. “No.”
“Not asking you, Sergeant,” Rebeca said wearily. She stood momentarily, eviscerating a Naldím that dared approach her position. “We fail here, and this battle will never end. I’m saving lives. Your lives.”
“We’re going to die anyway if you’re out of the picture,” Bristol argued.
“This isn’t a request,” Rebecca repeated. “This is an order.”
“Then you can court-martial me when we get back.” The line shut off, and Rebecca watched with horror as Bristol pulled himself to his feet, yelled for his men to follow, and charged. With no other choice, Rebecca joined him, vaulting out from behind cover and unloading her last magazine into the Naldím in front of her. She dropped her rifle, scooping up a Naldím weapon in its stead and pressing on to the sound of the marines barreling after her. The sound of staccato fire, intertwined with the soprano screech of alien guns filled the cavern, growing progressively louder as the valiant charge continued.
Quickly exhausting her Naldím rifle of its ammunition, Rebecca drew her knife and fell into a series of quick dashes, slashing throats and gouging eyes with a ferocity that barely resembled her usual grace. Blood, red and green, splattered across the ice, depriving all parties of solid footing.
She did not know how or when it happened, but Rebecca suddenly found herself at ground zero, a point between two dormant cannons that her HUD labeled as the optimum deployment point for the grenades. The marines surrounded her, laying down suppressing fire with the last of their rounds while she hastily scattered the charges across the floor.
“Clear!” she yelled, the last of the grenades tumbling out of her pack. The marines knelt, clapping hands to their helmets and dimming their lenses, ready for the blast. Rebecca slammed her thumb down on the detonator, and the world disappeared in a cloud of blinding white.
Her helmet filtered the sound and suppressed the flash but could do nothing to dampen the rippling shockwaves the blast sent through her body. Boots slick with blood and water, she stumbled against the force of it. Then, in an instant, it was over.
The marines, the only combatants ready for the explosion of light and nois
e, looked around. The Naldím were still in a daze, their senses overwhelmed by the attack, but even after they began to recover, they were the lesser threat. An unmistakable cacophony of clicking and chattering started to grow, approaching from every side. Both the Naldím and the veterans among the two squads knew the sound well.
“Hate this plan,” Yaakov breathed.
A dozen points in the cavern walls burst open, nexacors pouring out of their tunnels like so many vengeful currents. Their sheer volume – thousands of them, by Rebecca’s estimate – crushed the Naldím nearest to the breaches.
“Now we run, yes?” Yaakov shouted over the deafening clamor.
“Go. Now!” Rebecca replied, falling into formation behind the soldiers. They bolted for the cliff, completely ignored by the Naldím who were now pouring fire into the veritable tidal wave of nexacors.
None, including Rebecca, dared look back, instead sprinting for all they were worth away from the bloodbath behind them. Twenty meters from the ridge, the marines fired rappelling lines into the ground, lashing the cord around their waists and hurling themselves over the edge with abandon. Rebecca took a more direct approach, falling into a swan dive and sweeping past the marines as they slid down their ropes to safety. She landed ahead of them, cracking the ice underfoot with the impact, then moved to assure each of them escaped their harness and moved away from the cliff before the nexacors or the Naldím could realize they were gone.
The Phantom
It’s going nowhere. This war is going nowhere. And I’ve looked at the numbers. I’ve looked at them and they don’t make sense. With the amount of cash Smith is throwing at the Nellies, we should be making progress. We’re not. We’re not making progress. As a concerned citizen, I demand to know where my tax points are going, because they’re sure as hell not going toward winning this war.
Vengeful Dawn Page 5
