Vengeful Dawn

by Richard Patton

  Bob O’Rourke, Data Analyst and Conspiracy Theorist

  “So,” Sloane said, loudly enough to overshadow the clap of his binder as he slammed it into the table. His gaze turned slowly to Rebecca, seated across the conference table from him. “Overdrive.”

  “It was mission critical,” Rebecca insisted. She felt particularly defensive – she had never seen Sloane this angry.

  “Evidently not, given you made it anyway.”

  “The casualties-”

  “Were going to be high. You knew that.”

  Rebecca shifted uncomfortably. This conversation felt all too familiar. “I wasn’t going to let them die.”

  Sloane sighed. “I appreciate that. I really do. But the fact remains you were ready to use Overdrive to save the marines, not complete the mission. That’s not what it’s for.”

  “Six marines died because I didn’t use it,” Rebecca protested. “All of them would have made it if I had.”

  “Look, Rebecca,” Sloane said. He slumped against the table, running a hand through his hair. “Believe me when I say I get it. I don’t want anyone to die. But you need to look at the big picture. Six marines don’t make a difference. One Wraith does. How many lives do you think you’ve saved? How many do you think would’ve been lost if you weren’t around?”

  “You sound like you’d rather I didn’t care about them.”

  Sloane looked her dead in the eye. “Wraiths aren’t supposed to care. I wish they did,” he added quickly. “I wish I could like this change in your attitude, but it’s my job to make sure you’re on point, and you’re not.”

  The comment hit Rebecca like a kick to the gut. “My kill count…”

  “Your kill count doesn’t matter,” Sloane said, exasperated. He held up the binder, the mission report contained within. “This. This is what matters.”

  “Fine,” Rebecca said, her temper flaring. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “You’re grounded,” Sloane answered. “No missions until you have a full psych eval. Eve’s taking over for you.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Rebecca,” Sloane said, drawing out the name like a father scolding his child. “I’ve been working with you since you were sixteen. I know you better than anyone in the galaxy, so believe me when I say this is for the best. There’s something wrong here, and we need to figure out what it is before it gets you killed.” His hand passed over the report, drawing Rebecca’s attention. “It almost has already.”

  She did not reply. There was nothing more to be said. They sat in silence for a moment, Rebecca brooding, Sloane studying her, before she spoke, her voice the slightest whisper. “Permission to be excused.” Sloane nodded in reply, his mouth stretched out in a sad grimace, and Rebecca slipped noiselessly out of the room.

  The guns had redoubled their pace, booming like rolling thunder through the poorly dampened walls of the command carrier. There were other noises accompanying them now, barely audible even to Rebecca, creating a feeling rather than a sound that lingered in the air. She could not put her finger on what the feeling was, however.

  Only after several minutes of wandering did Rebecca realize she was completely without a goal in mind. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and deeply disturbing. She made a quick stop at her bunk, grabbing a tablet to search the carrier for Eve. The young Wraith was in the cab, her marker placing her alongside Clay and a contingent of officers. Judging by the amount of movement around them, Rebecca guessed there was something more going on than the routine bombardment of the Naldím position. She changed her course, headed for the cab to find what could have so drastically disrupted the operation.

  The first word she heard upon entering the cab told her all she needed to know: “nexacors”. Clay turned when he heard the elevator door hiss open – a remarkable feat given the level of chaos around him. His look of confusion indicated he was aware of Rebecca’s grounded status, but he was a smart enough not to defy a Wraith. Rebecca joined the circle of officers without opposition.

  “The Naldím were supposed to occupy the nexacors,” she said, sliding into a space between two lieutenants.

  “They were,” Clay said. His tone was ponderous yet chipper; this was once again a game to him, a mystery to be solved. “It didn’t take long for the nexacors to start targeting us instead. We sent a few drones over the ridge. Didn’t last long, but they saw enough.”

  The officer to Rebecca’s left – Garret, by his nametag – handed her a tablet, a few seconds of footage of the Naldím encampment looping on it. The place was swarming with nexacors but was still fraught with Naldím as well. The two factions were completely indifferent towards each other, the nexacors nimbly skittering through the Naldím ranks, bound for the ridge and the Imperial line.

  “Can’t tell if they’re neutral or allied,” Clay lamented, “but either way it’s created a whole realm of problems for us.” Rebecca nodded absently, still stymied by the behavior. It occurred to her that even in the Naldím and nexacors’ opening clash, she had never seen the latter attack the former. The Naldím had attacked reflexively, their only casualties inflicted by the surging horde. Not a single nexacor had actively engaged the Naldím.

  “I was saying they can’t be allied,” Garret said, taking his tablet back from Rebecca, “because nexacors are animals.”

  An image of the ferals on Dawn-Six flashed through Rebecca’s mind. “You’d be surprised.”

  “There are plenty of ways to trick a nexacor,” Eve put in, “The J-thirty-six is a perfect example.”

  “So, who’s to say the Naldím aren’t doing the same thing,” Clay finished. He looked between the two Wraiths. “There a way to reverse it?”

  Rebecca glanced at Eve, allowing her to answer. “You kill them,” Eve said matter-of-factly. “All of them.”

  Clay tilted his head toward the window. “Hawking knows that’s what we’re trying to do.”

  Rebecca turned her attention to where Clay indicated, only now registering the horror beyond the canopy. Thousands of nexacors were pouring over the ridge, falling into the line of fire of a contingent of dug-in marines. The cannons had redirected their fire at the horde, and the soldiers on the ground were unloading every round from every gun at the enemy. From the forward-most vehicles to the foot of the cliff was a bloody mess of flesh and bone. Suddenly, Rebecca recognized the feeling that had permeated the carrier – a putrid mixture of fear and desperation.

  “How long until we run dry?” she asked, dragging herself away from the carnage.

  “A day or two at most. We’ve exhausted most of our supplies getting to this point.” Clay straightened up, adjusting his shirt. “I’m not turning around now.” Just as Rebecca was about to respond, the comms officer appeared behind Clay, tapping him timidly on the shoulder. Clay turned around. “What?”

  “Message from Admiral Shane, sir. She wants you, Xeno, and Blizzard in the briefing room asap.”

  “Then we’ll be in the briefing room asap,” Clay replied. He dismissed the officer with a quick salute. Facing his aides de camp again, he dished out orders, assigning most of them to reinforce the line. Every pair of boots would have to be on the ground soon enough.

  With matters momentarily handled, Clay led the way into the briefing room, where Shane was already waiting for them on the video feed.

  “Agents,” she said, nodding to each of them in turn. “Captain.”

  “Admiral, sir,” Clay returned. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I thought it prudent to let you know we have a new asset inbound to your location,” Shane answered. An image sprang up on the screen, spinning in a lazy circle next to Shane’s head. It looked like a fighter craft of some sort, though there was no visible canopy or entryway. The gargantuan thrusters embedded within the wings and the guns strapped to its hull clearly indicated it was a ship, however.

  “Meet the Phantom,” Shane said. “Commissioned by SWORD for front line spec ops. Blizzard, Xeno – i
t’s yours.”

  Rebecca and Eve exchanged looks. Neither could think of a reason to be given a ship, unless…

  Clay beat them to it. “Are they leaving?” he asked incredulously.

  Shane shook her head. “Not yet. Consider it a field test. We want all Wraiths operating out of these ships inside a year, and I can’t think of a better way to put it through its paces than send it to the battlefront with Blizzard at the helm.”

  “Blizzard’s been grounded. Sir,” Eve blurted out.

  Shane cocked an eyebrow, her mouth hanging slightly open. “Well,” she said. There was a split second of awkward silence. “This is a matter to take up with Mister Sloane, of course,” Shane continued, regaining her composure and facing Rebecca, “but consider your grounding rescinded until further notice.”

  Rebecca nodded slowly, avoiding both Clay and Eve’s gazes.

  “It should arrive tomorrow, barring delays. Test is at your discretion,” Shane said, wrapping up her briefing. The trio saluted, and Clay shut off the comm.

  “Well, then,” he huffed amiably, “looks like you two are caged birds no more.”

  *

  Raptirs were provided to Eve and Rebecca as transport back to the surface, their metal bodies charred, scuffed, and worn, making them look more skeletal than ever. It was difficult to believe they had arrived fresh from the factory only two weeks prior.

  The mechanical beasts raced out of the cave network the morning of the Phantom’s arrival, bypassing the collapsed bridge on a narrow ledge that their steel talons handled with ease. They brought the Wraiths to a wide-open field of snow a klik away from the entrance. Carmine’s surface had changed drastically in their absence. Several Imperial outposts had been erected, dotting the horizon in every direction. The Naldím had put up similar structures, defining their territory a little way off, and every few minutes one faction or the other’s craft would dart into enemy territory, tease the anti-aircraft guns, and retreat. Compared to the constant rumble of cannon fire in the caves below, Rebecca mused, the sight was absolutely serene.

  Rebecca and Eve waited, their mounts swaying gently under them as the frigid morning breeze pressed into them from every angle. The Wraiths watched the sky intently, focusing on a towering cloud near the Phantom’s projected entry point. For an hour, they waited in silence. Eve broke it.

  “I never asked you about Voyager Dawn,” she observed mildly, her eyes still glued to the cloud. Rebecca hesitated, trying to foresee where the conversation might be headed. Eve took her silence as permission to continue. “That has to change a person. Even a Wraith.”

  Again, Rebecca did not reply. It was true, the experience changed her. Not in a way she could identify. She only knew that she was different now, and the storm of emotions brewing within her had everything to do with it. She dared not confess as much to Eve; she was barely willing to confess what she was feeling to herself. It wasn’t proper.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said finally, telling herself as much as Eve. “You bury what gets in your way and move on.”

  Eve glanced sideways at her and rolled her neck as if shaking off the weight of the answer and turned again to wait for their ride. It did not take much longer.

  The Phantom descended through the stormy cloud layer minutes later, the most graceful and sleek ship Rebecca had ever seen. The charcoal black hull with twenty-five-meter wings swept low over the pair, washing them with the wake of its nearly silent thrusters. Only the lowest hum kicked in as the retro thrusters fired, bringing the ship to rest in the dead center of its predicted landing zone. Rebecca was not one for aesthetics, nor was she a connoisseur of spacecraft, but even she could appreciate the presence and beauty the ship carried with it.

  The Phantom’s ramp slid open, gently settling on the snow without even the slightest noise. An officer appeared at its peak, throwing a salute down to the Wraiths.

  “Blizzard, Xeno,” he called through a thick Centaurian accent. “Say hello to the ship that’ll end the war.”

  The Warship

  SWORD Internal Request 541083

  CC: Robert Hannan

  Subject: Rebecca Winters / Blizzard (Wraith ID 00087)

  Priority: High

  Action: Psychological Evaluation / Reconditioning

  Submitted: Thomas Sloane, 2345.209

  Briggs insisted on personally escorting Ethan to the hangar where his hijacked fighter was waiting for him. He seemed terribly excited about the whole situation, most likely, Ethan supposed, because he had been put in charge of the gargantuan Vengeance. Ethan, on the other hand, was simply content to feel once again the vibrations of the grav drives under his feet.

  But given the significant changes Voyager Dawn had undergone, it didn’t feel like home until he reached the hangar and saw Rick and Jess bickering, coming close to a shoving match over the correct application of impact gel in a Sparrowhawk’s missile chamber.

  The argument dissolved the instant they spotted Ethan and Briggs, and the twins rushed over to greet them. “Ethan!” Rick exclaimed, neatly cutting in front of Jess to clap Ethan on the shoulder. “Been too long, man!”

  “Way too long,” Ethan agreed. He met Jess in turn, then directed himself at the Naldím fighter. “How’s she doing?”

  “That’s no she,” Jess said, holding up a burned hand. “More like an it. Thing’s a beast. But we’ve made it work.”

  “They had the most experience with it,” Briggs explained, “so I set them to making it more user-friendly.”

  “For humans,” Rick clarified. “Hasn’t been easy, but I think you’ll like it.”

  “Let’s have the tour, then,” Ethan said. The Scott twins nodded enthusiastically, plainly proud of their work.

  “Most important thing, I think, is that we gave you a booster seat,” Jess chuckled. “You sort of looked like a suv in that massive chair.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not two and a half meters tall.”

  “Hey, not judging. Anyway, here you go.” They arrived at the fighter, and the canopy rolled open at Ethan’s presence. He scanned the interior for changes before climbing in. The seat was certainly in a better position now.

  “How’d you two get in here to work?” he wondered aloud.

  “High-powered lasers and a shitload of elbow grease,” Jess said proudly. “The whole canopy had to be replaced. Top of the line trans-optic weave now.”

  “That thing,” Rick said, leaning in and pointing out a pneumatic structure pinned to the control sphere, “relocates the pressure points so the left buttons are easier to reach. Shouldn’t disrupt movement, though.”

  “And there’s this,” Jess added, extracting a heavily modified helmet from under the chair. A transparent, neon green band was wrapped around it, covering the visor. “You know how the HUD works on this ship?”

  Ethan shook his head. “I just left it as is.”

  “You were missing out. There’s a ton of features.” Jess handed him the helmet. He slipped it on and locked his brace into the control sphere, bringing the HUD to life.

  “The Naldím can make their eyes sort of… flash,” Jess explained. “Sops thinks it’s some sort of pulse of blood or something. Anyway, the HUD reads the flash and interacts with whatever they’re looking at when they do it.”

  “Obviously, you can’t do that,” Rick butted in, “so this helmet does it for you when you blink. And it translates the display so you actually know what you’re doing.”

  Ethan took their explanation as an invitation, directing his attention to the altimeter and blinking. Instantly, a list of options sprang up. “Cool. How’d you figure this out?”

  “By watching about a hundred hours of combat footage,” Rick said dryly. “We sacrificed our corneas for you. But hey, now you’ve got a ship that works, and a snazzy visor to boot.”

  Removing the helmet, Ethan clambered back out of the cockpit. Jess and Rick stood at the foot of the ladder, eagerly awaiting the verdict. “I noticed you got rid of my paintjob,
” he remarked, waving a hand at the matte black that now covered the once silver-plated hull. Only a few token blue stripes remained from his custom work.

  “That’s not our fault,” Jess assured him. “Sops was in charge of making a synthetic fuel for the ship. It works, but it burns way hotter than the Naldím stuff. Given your wings are pure energy, we had to shield the hull from the blast.”

  “Also, it’s blue instead of green,” Rick added, “which is cool.”

  “An important detail,” Ethan agreed.

  Briggs, who had voluntarily taken a back seat to the conversation, finally stepped forward, grabbing their attention with a single, thunderous clap. “Alrighty,” he said, ignoring the expletive-laced responses Rick and Jess offered to his interruption. “I’m off to the bridge. Ethan, officer’s club, twenty-two hundred.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan acknowledged. “I’ll see you there.”

  They exchanged casual salutes, and Briggs exited, leaving Rick and Jess to show Ethan the improvements the Sparrowhawks had received in his absence.

  *

  Ethan had taken part in a fair share of officers’ meetings, though never in his career had he seen so many officers at one table. It was understandable, given that the civilian sector of the ship had been taken over by additional barracks to house nearly two thousand more marines and pilots; Ethan simply had not grasped the scale of the Vengeance’s crew until now.

  More odd than the small army of officers in the conference room, however, was watching Briggs take a seat at the head of the table. Ethan had not known him very long, but he seemed very much like a soldier – toned, worn, and scarred – and not at all like a captain. Nevertheless, he filled the chair well, instantly bringing a hush over the congregation.

  “You all know our late entry,” he began, his voice echoing across the room, “Lieutenant Ethan Walker.”

  Most of the officers turned to acknowledge Ethan. They certainly knew him, either personally from his time aboard Voyager Dawn, or his celebrity on Mars.

  “Lieutenant Mayers has taken position at the helm,” Briggs continued, “and Walker will be taking over flight operations.” Leaving the matter at that, the captain activated the screen behind him, displaying a celestial map, a jagged line splitting the Frontier Sectors in half.