Lunar Hustle: a Dipole Shield mini-adventure (The Dipole Shield Book 0)

by Chris Lowry

  He didn't know much about the Licks.

  Nine feet tall, most of them, if the holographs had been correct. They came from Planet Nine or the Dark Planet that scientists discovered orbiting beyond Pluto once it was relegated out of planethood.

  That was how the world learned about the Space Defense Corp and the imminent threat of alien invasion. He had been a kid then when a shuttle crashed into Central Park and told the whole world about a Universe beyond their tiny cities and towns.

  It was the end of war on the planet and the beginning of a global effort to save the earth.

  That didn't make much difference to Renard.

  War on Mars was like war planet side. The poor were drafted or conscripted, the rich stayed in the safety of their homes and worked on building protective barriers around the cities.

  Defense contractors got rich while providing substandard weapons, shelter and food for the poor idiots who were blasted to the Red Planet to fight for a way of life they never enjoyed.

  Renard did think it was funny how the government took over Space X and Boeing under a wartime eminent domain clause and then rewarded the owners and shareholders with contracts worth trillions of dollars.

  Fat lot of good it did him now as he stared down at the one dollar MRE pouch in his hand.

  He couldn't create a vacuum seal in his post, and couldn't move the food from his hand to his helmet in the Mars atmosphere.

  All that money to all those companies, all the brains behind the fight to hold off the invasion and keep it off planet, and none of them could help him eat his first night in.

  He studied the desert in front of him, memorizing the contours of the rocks, the shapes the sand made. He really tried to keep his eyes roving, just like he'd been taught, but the darkness and the numbing pain in his stomach kept him preoccupied.

  He thought about home, and his first day.

  He thought about how many ridges they'd covered to reach this position. He thought about meditating, a tool they taught in training to keep his mind focused and relaxed. He practiced breathing in and out, in and out until his eyes slipped closed in his propped up helmet.

  He couldn't move his legs.

  The blowing wind had created a sand drift across his body, hiding all but his helmet and upper body under a makeshift dune that grew on top of him.

  Renard watched the landscape. He knew he'd drifted off because the shadows were different. He just couldn't place what woke him.

  His eyes tracked the rocks, the horizon as he searched. Ten yards ahead of him a shadow blocked out the starlight. It moved toward him in slow measured steps, a giant humanoid shape in a spacesuit and helmet shaped like a huge snout.

  Renard looked at the com link embedded in his helmet. Would they hear him if he called out a warning?

  Should he chance it?

  The figure shifted closer one slow step at a time. A second coalesced out of the darkness and then a third and fourth, all moving in on his position.

  He wanted to move his blaster, to squeeze off a shot before they got him. Maybe it would warn the others, maybe he could take one with him before they cracked open his visor and killed him.

  The first one was almost on him and then it was stepping past him. The giant almost crushed his leg. He could feel the weight of it on the sand as it came down next to him.

  The second Lick stopped in front of him, it's eyes glued to the back of the leader. A red light on its helmet blinked on and off, bouncing a reflection off of Renard's visor.

  The Lick swung its blaster down and skipped back.

  Renard aimed and fired.

  His laser slammed into the Lick with a puff of smoke and it careened into the third.

  The leader swung around and fired at the depression.

  Renard rolled out of the way, screaming into the headset as he shot back. The blast caught the Lick in the shoulder, spun it around.

  Gear drilled a blast through its chest plate.

  A blaster bolt slammed into the back of Renard and ripped open his air tank. An explosive mix of air erupted into the atmosphere and hurled him back toward Gear and the camp, the propulsion carrying him inside the perimeter.

  He gasped for air as bodies boiled out of the foxholes, the shimmering force fields collapsing in a shower of dust.

  The Marines fired into the darkness around the perimeter creating a web of laser blasts that were answered from the shadows beyond.

  Renard watched the blue stars popping in front of his eyes as he struggled for air.

  The pressure in his head mounted, his eyes bugging out, blood vessels popping in his nose sprayed the inside of his visor with red mist.

  Weber grabbed him and rolled him over.

  He slapped a patch onto his back and worked with a laser knife to slice the damaged tube and bypass the damaged regulator to a second air tank.

  Renard sucked in a lungful of air as the tank filled his suit and the patch held.

  Weber held up a thumb and Renard answered albeit not as fast as the second in command.

  Weber slapped him on the back and jumped up with his rifle.

  He ran toward the perimeter with his blaster blazing.

  Renard watched him go. After a moment, when he felt like he could breath, he rolled over to his knees and shoved himself up on shaky legs.

  By then it was too late. The Licks lost the element of surprise and disappeared back into the stygian darkness of the Martian desert.

  Renard watched the aftermath.

  Desmond held a blaster askew on his hip as he marched among the dead. There were no wounded Marines. He reached Gear and rolled him over.

  "Strip his supplies," his tired voice echoed over the radio comlink.

  He glanced around as the Marines retreated for the safety of their foxholes.

  He spied Burly who held up a finger and made another hand signal that drew his attention to Weber and Bellhop.

  Commander Cree slipped up beside Desmond.

  "How bad?"

  "Two down. One wounded."

  "Call for medvac. Let's go see what they have."

  Cree and Desmond moved over to the foxhole as Weber and Bellhop reached it.

  They dropped a long lean Lick body down in the hole and hopped in beside it.

  Renard didn't know what to do and no one gave him any orders, so he slid over the edge of the foxhole and settled in a corner.

  The Lick was just over nine feet tall in a form fitting spacesuit with no discernable air pack.

  They couldn't make out its features behind the snout shaped visor.

  "Alive?" Desmond asked.

  "Don't know how long," said Weber and lifted one of its arms.

  A nasty looking blaster wound cracked open and spilled blood and ichor onto the plastic covered floor.

  "Blood and burn kept the atmosphere out."

  "Til you moved it," said Desmond.

  He bent to examine the prisoner.

  "Do you want to interrogate it Sir?" he asked Cree.

  "Couldn't we just kill it?"

  "It might have information."

  "Do you want the honor?"

  Desmond smiled.

  Bellhop moved to the wall and squatted down next to Renard.

  "You alive?"

  Renard struggled to sit up. Bellhop reached over and lifted him off the wall to a more comfortable position.

  "Shit, you barely made it. How much you got left?"

  Renard dragged the second pack by the tube and studied the read out.

  "A minute."

  Bellhop shook his head and laughed.

  "You either crazy or brave to cut it that close."

  He unclipped an air canister off his pack and passed it over.

  "I owe you," said Renard.

  "You damn right you owe men. Just remember. I know where you sleep."

  Desmond finished interrogating the prisoner.

  “Take him to command,” he ordered.

  Two of the Marines, Tay and Stoker jumpe
d to comply. They each hooked an arm under the Lick and dragged him out of the hole.

  Desmond glared at Renard and Bellhop.

  "If you ladies are through trading recipes, get some rest."

  He hopped out of the hole, followed by Cree.

  6

  Weber waited for the two other Marines to jump back down after they dropped the Lick at the perimeter. He engaged the forcefield and made a circling motion with his hand.

  The quick hiss release of helmets filled the tiny bubble.

  Bellhop leaned over and rapped on Renard's faceplate.

  "Take it off baby, take it all off."

  Renard popped his top and set it down. Weber crawled over and plopped it back into his lap.

  "Keep it close," he advised. "If we lose integrity you have about five seconds to lock it."

  "Right."

  The mood in the foxhole was jovial as the survivors of the attack relaxed a level, just happy to be alive.

  Renard glanced around the names on the sleeves and tried to match them with faces so he could remember.

  Weber and Bellhop leaned against the wall on one side of him.

  Tay, a buck toothed redneck from the wilds of the South sat across from him with an absent-minded grin.

  Leroy sat on the left of him, Stoker on the right, both with coal black skin that stood out in stark contrast to the red dirt under the plastic wall.

  Wang sat by himself in a corner, huddled and hunched over.

  "What were you doing out there?" Wang called to Renard after a moment.

  "I'd be sleeping," Tay piped up.

  "You was sleeping the last time we got attacked," Stoker jostled him with his elbow.

  "What can I say," his freckles bounced around as he talked past his impossibly large white teeth. "I need my beauty rest."

  "Sleep longer," Wang called out.

  "Where you from new meat?" Bellhop asked.

  "Arkansas."

  "What the Hell is Arkansas?" Weber said.

  "It's in the middle."

  "Only two things come from Arkansas," Tay chortled. "And you ain't got no horns."

  "Dumb ass that's Texas."

  "Same thing," said Stoker.

  "It's a whole other state."

  "Where are you from?" Renard asked Leroy.

  "Detroit."

  "Detroit ain't a state," said Bellhop.

  "It's a state of mind," Leroy said in a smooth voice.

  "Keep it down," Weber warned. "We don't want to bring the man in on us.

  Renard opened up an MRE and set it on his leg. His first pouch was probably still out there drifting in the wind.

  He would have to grab some more to resupply.

  He picked at the hardtack like bread as he worked to repair the regulator on his pack.

  "You need any help?" Weber asked.

  "I did okay-"

  He stopped.

  The schematic on the inside flap of his suit didn't match the reality of the regulator he was working with. The contractors who supplied them had mixed up the orders, matching the wrong suits with a different, less expensive and less reliable regulator.

  "At training," Weber said with a tiny laugh. "Here, let me."

  He dragged the regulator off his lap and began working on it in quick precise movements that were way too practiced.

  "Why are you helping me so much?" Renard asked.

  Where he was from, no one helped much, at least not without a price attached.

  And he didn't have anything to trade up here, so he was afraid of what the older man might ask of him.

  "He don't want you dead," said Bellhop.

  "What are you? Nineteen?"

  "Yeah," Renard said in a sullen voice.

  "They ship you kids up here and you don't know shit. I want you to live two weeks so you can start learning something."

  "Like what we're fighting for?"

  "You figure that out and they'll make you a General. Then we can all go home. Tops on," said Weber.

  He passed the repaired regulator back to Renard who donned his air pack and locked his helmet back on.

  He barely got it sealed when the forcefield collapsed and showered them with red dust.

  Desmond dropped into the hole.

  "Renard, you let the Lick get in the perimeter, you babysit him."

  "Is that such a good idea?" said Weber.

  "You got rank on me Sargent?"

  "No sir."

  "Well when you do, you can second guess my orders. Until then you keep your fucking mouth shut."

  Weber saluted as his faceplate shifted to reflector mode. One by one the men in the hole did the same, the jovial mood eclipsed by something else.

  Renard watched them for a moment then scrambled out of the hole.

  7

  Renard listened to the sound of his own breath as it reverbrated inside his helmet.

  The harsh sand covered landscape was still bathed in the soft glowing shadows but instead of being peaceful it was scary.

  Spooky.

  Like a ghost world where each dark spot was a potential enemy.

  He ran for the command hub in the hole in the center of their circle and couldn't help but think about the westerns he watched when he was a small child. He couldn't remember much about them, images really, and the whooping of the Indians as they surrounded a circled wagon train.

  Bad guys wore black, the good guys had white hats.

  That was before.

  In the after there was no television and bad guys wore everything. After, it seemed like there were no white hats left in the world.

  He reached the open command hole and slipped over the edge in a scree of dirt and sand. Burly and Cree stood over a holographic map on the far side of the small enclosure with four other Captains.

  Burly turned at his entrance and pointed to a figure bundled in a shadowed corner.

  Renard tossed off a quick salute as the forcefield powered up to create a small dome over the hole.

  He felt the air fill the room but didn't hear it. It was a change in pressure against the outside of his suit. Cree slid his helmet off with a sigh of relief and the others followed his lead.

  "Five years ago the Licks showed up on Mars and built an FOB to launch an attack against the earth," his gnarled hands moved across the holographic landscape.

  "We call it Beachhead. Right here. Our first airborne forays were shot down by their weapon emplacements, here and here. Our attempts to reach the colony have been met with extreme resistance. Our mission is to eliminate their defensive capabilities so we can send in bombers."

  Burly leaned over and keyed the holograph.

  The map shifted to show a different view, a topographical map of the terrain between their location and Beachead.

  "We think two Squads working in tandem can reach the colony without detection and open a hole in their defense grid."

  Renard watched the briefing and ignored the Lick. He wondered why they were spelling out the plan in front of the enemy.

  What if he was transmitting? Surely they searched him for a radio before dropping him in the command tent. Or what if it was telepathic?

  He didn't know anything about Licks, at least beyond how to kill them which was the sum of what was taught in training.

  Maybe they knew more than he did.

  "What is it Marine?" Cree barked. "You can't concentrate on your prisoner?"

  Renard jumped.

  "Yes Sir."

  Burly leaned up and whispered in Cree's ear.

  "You think that Lick's a security risk?"

  "Sir?"

  "My Second here says your poker face ain't working son. You think we're giving the enemy our mission details."

  Renard gulped. Maybe the Lick wasn't telepathic. Maybe Burly was. He glanced over the Commander's shoulder and the Second grinned at him.

  "You've been down here how long?"

  "First day sir."

  "New meat. You think you know more about how to run t
his show than me?"

  "No sir."

  "You think I haven't considered all of the options?"

  "Sir," Renard stuttered.

  The look in Cree's eyes made it hard for him to meet them. It was more than fire.

  A manaical glee that turned his pupils into giant black holes that filled the whole iris.

  There were galaxies in those eyes and more. Madness maybe.

  Renard could see the reflection of the glowlamps in them, like twin beacons bearing down on him.