Alien War Trilogy 3: Titan

by Isaac Hooke

  “Nothing in the medkit will help him,” Moccasin said. “He will be dead in five minutes.”

  “How long until we reach the first booster?” Rade asked no one in particular. “Best speed?”

  “Best speed?” Snakeoil responded. “If we use our jumpjets liberally, and sprint as fast as we can, we should get there in ten minutes. Discounting any trips and falls in the snow along the way. But it’ll take at least another hour before we dock with a ship in orbit.”

  “There must be something we can do,” Rade said.

  “As I said, nothing in the medkit will help him,” Moccasin replied.

  Rade hesitated. He knew radiation poisoning was fatal without complete bone marrow and microvilli transplants. Even then, the victims didn’t always pull through. Facehopper was as good as dead.

  Unless...

  “You’re wrong,” Rade said. “There is something that will help.”

  He snatched the medkit and jetted to Facehopper’s cockpit. He held onto the climbing rungs beside the hatch.

  “Open up.” Facehopper’s AI didn’t respond. “I’m in command now. You’re under my authority. Open up.”

  Finally Moccasin’s cockpit hatch fell open. Without the inner cocoon supporting him, Facehopper collapsed, lying half inside the cockpit and half on the bottom of the open hatch.

  Rade set the medkit down on the hatch. From it he removed a small pair of forceps, two retractors, a sonic injector containing a coagulant, a skin patch, and a SealWrap. He double-checked that he had everything he needed—forgetting something in the middle of what he planned would be very bad. A vascular occluder would have been nice to stop any bleeding, but unfortunately the kit didn’t contain one.

  When he was satisfied, he placed the smaller end of the funnel-shaped, translucent SealWrap around his wrist, grabbed the forceps, retractors, injector, and skin patch in the same gloved hand, and affixed the wider portion to the inside of his opposite forearm assembly, joining his two arms. Rade waited a few seconds for the atmosphere to evacuate and the seal to form: the translucent material deflated, trapping the medical equipment inside with his glove.

  “Boss, what are you doing?” Tahoe said, the concern evident in his voice.

  “Operating on myself.” Rade pulled at his wrist to ensure the seal had taken. Then he flipped open the cap on his index finger with the thumb of his glove and used the surgical laser to open an incision in his forearm assembly. The SealWrap puffed out as the inner atmosphere filled it.

  An alert sounded on his HUD.

  Warning, suit penetrated. Warning.

  “Rade?” Tahoe said more urgently.

  “I know what I’m doing, Cyclone.” Rade emphasized the callsign to show Tahoe he was functioning in the capacity of LPO at the moment, not the friend. It was Rade’s duty to save the chief, no matter the cost.

  Rade dismissed the puncture warning. He applied the bigger retractor to hold the suit puncture open, adjusted the depth of the laser, took a deep breath, and then shoved his finger inside the gap and fired again, cutting into his own flesh. He flinched at the pain, but he knew it was nothing compared to what was coming.

  When he had judged the incision long enough, he removed his finger. Blood smeared the tip.

  He gritted his teeth as he clamped the smaller retractor in situ. The enlarged wound sent throbs of pain up his arm. He scooped up the forceps and slid them between the suit puncture. He hesitated above the wound.

  Not going to enjoy this.

  He couldn’t apply a sedative. He needed to remain focused for what was coming. Besides, if he numbed the area, he might have difficulty finding what he needed, as everything would be done by touch: the forceps didn’t have any of the high-tech features of the operating room.

  No microcameras or surgical nano drones here.

  He took several deeps inhales, then dug the forceps inside the wound.

  The pain was nearly unbearable. He bit down so hard that the agony in his arm was almost equaled by the throbbing of his jaw. It was a good thing his dentistry was up to date, because any rotten teeth would have fractured under that pressure, tearing into his cheeks from the inside.

  He missed the embedded object at first, and only realized after several seconds that he was trying to remove a piece of his own muscle tissue. Phosphenes filled his vision, and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out. He paused, breathing hard, letting go of the forceps but leaving them embedded in his wound. The stars slowly cleared from his eyesight.

  “Boss, you going to be all right?” Mauler asked.

  “Good,” Rade panted. Not the most grammatically correct response, but he didn’t exactly care at the moment.

  Rade carefully inserted his fingers into the handles of the forceps, ignored the pain as he straightened the instrument, and took several deeps breaths. Then he dug around again. Stars spattered his vision anew as the agony came.

  “Man, glad I’m not a corpsman,” Bomb said. “I feel the pain just looking at him work.”

  “Quiet!” Tahoe said. “Don’t distract him!”

  Rade kept trying until he hit something solid. That had to be it.

  He positioned the tips of the forceps around the object and then pulled. It gave easily, unlike the aforementioned muscle tissue he had grasped, and in moments he had the thin, blood-covered thing removed.

  He exhaled, taking a moment to catch his breath. Then he set down the forceps and the precious object they held, injected the coagulant, removed the retractor, and applied the skin patch. By then his fingers were dipped to the knuckles in his own blood.

  “I think I’m going to sick up,” Fret said.

  “Quiet...” Tahoe said with a growl.

  Rade scooped up the bloody object, and the medical instruments, and formed a fist around them. Then he slid his gloved hand from the SealWrap. It tightened as the glove emerged, sealing the suit puncture he left behind. He was left with a dull, throbbing pain in his forearm.

  He grabbed a water bottle from the medkit and dialed its temperature up. He squeezed the resultant hot water onto the object and washed away the partially frozen blood. He retrieved another skin patch, replaced the sonic injector, then applied another SealWrap around his wrist. He grabbed the instruments and attached the SealWrap to the chief’s forearm, choosing a position slightly higher up than where he had placed it on his own arm.

  When the seal was complete, he punctured the suit with his surgical laser, then applied the larger retractor to hold the tear open. He made an incision in the skin of the chief’s forearm underneath, and as he clamped the smaller retractor in place, he was just glad it wasn’t his flesh anymore. The chief remained unconscious and mercifully oblivious to it all.

  With the forceps, Rade gripped the anti-rad subdermal he had surgically removed from his own forearm; he slid the medical instrument into the suit opening.

  After two failed attempts, Rade took a moment to steady himself.

  You can do this.

  Cognizant of the fact the chief was slowly bleeding away, he tried again. Finally he slid the object underneath the skin.

  He injected the coagulant, removed the skin retractor, applied the skin patch, and then removed the final retractor from the suit. Grabbing the medical instruments, he slid his glove from the SealWrap entirely and it closed the suit puncture.

  “He’s stabilizing,” Moccasin said. “Well done, LPO, you’ve brought him back from the edge.”

  eighteen

  Rade slumped. “How much time does he have?”

  “Current estimates give him another twenty-four hours,” Moccasin said. “If he has not returned to a ship with proper medical facilities by then, he will die.”

  “What if another one of us gives him a subdermal?” Trace asked.

  “It won’t matter,” Moccasin said. “The existing subdermal is only half saturated. Additional anti-rads won’t make a difference. He needs tissue transplants.”

  “Why did you have to do this to yours
elf?” Rade asked the unconscious Facehopper.

  “He cannot answer...” Moccasin said.

  “Thanks. I couldn’t figure that out on my own.” Rade collected his gear and gently shoved the chief back inside the cockpit. As the hatch sealed, Rade said: “We’re going to get you home, chief.”

  “Warning,” the local AI of his jumpsuit said. “Radiation saturation levels becoming critical...”

  Rade jetted back to his mech. Now that he had one less subdermal, even the lesser radiation out there would be dangerous to him. It wouldn’t do for him to succumb to the same fate as the chief.

  He shoved the medkit into the storage compartment and quickly clambered into the cockpit. When the hatch sealed behind him and the inner actuators took hold of him, the warning indicators vanished.

  He sighed in relief.

  “Well done, boss,” TJ said.

  “Thank you,” Rade said.

  “Looks like you’re leading us, now,” Manic said.

  “Looks that way,” Rade said. “We continue toward the boosters. And I’ll need a volunteer to give up their passenger seat when we launch. I want the chief headed back into orbit ASAP.”

  “I’ll give up my seat,” Luxe said quietly.

  “Thank you,” Rade told her.

  “Naw,” she said on a private line. “I wasn’t planning on going back anyway. Your chief rigged the draw back there, hoping to get rid of me. Just as he ensured that both you and he remained behind. I decided to play along with his game, for a little while in any case. Just as I will play along with your game, while you pretend to be our commander.”

  “I am your commander,” Rade said.

  “We’ll see.”

  Moccasin assumed control of the mech and carried Facehopper during the march, just as Keelhaul’s Titan did for him. Rade had an image in his mind of two babes gestating in the womb.

  That’s what they are, essentially, at this point. Completely vulnerable and at the mercy of their Titans.

  Rade’s forearm continued to throb; it would probably hurt for the rest of the day, if not the week. He considered injecting an analgesic but thought better of it: he didn’t want to do anything to influence his clearheadedness, not when he was in direct command of the platoon. When he saw the six booster rockets safely launched, he might consider it.

  Ah, pain. An old friend. Rade had trained himself to ignore it. He knew it for the mind illusion it was: if he could focus his attention elsewhere, say on the same region of the opposite arm, the pain would diminish slightly. And if he didn’t move the affected area at all, the throbbing might vanish from conscious notice entirely. From time to time.

  He glanced at the mechs who marched in single file in front of him, and the Marine stowaways strapped to their passenger seats or clinging to their shoulders. He had spent so much time alone with half of Alpha Platoon, leading them across that frigid alien homeworld, stranded and cut off from friendly support troops. He had only just returned to Facehopper, only just finished passing the burden of command back to the chief, when he was thrust back into a full leadership role once more.

  At least with Facehopper around he could relax into his old role a bit, knowing that the major life and death decisions were no longer his. But his personal identity had once more receded into the background. Rade was, for all intents and purposes, chief in everything but name.

  He felt strangely powerful. These men piloting the Titans before him were ready to obey him, like living and breathing pieces on a chess board. Yet they were so much more than that. In his mind, he and his men formed a living entity; he was the brain, and they were the body. Every single one of them was an essential part of himself, and to lose any one of them would literally be like cutting off a limb. It would hurt just as bad. More.

  He thought of Luxe sitting in the passenger seat behind him. Luxe and her Storming Amazons. They were the wild-cards. She had already questioned his authority as commander, though on a private line at least. It was too bad she was staying behind. He understood completely why Facehopper wanted to get rid of her. After the others departed, if she didn’t fall into line when the time came, the remaining Storming Amazons and the MOTHs would have to part ways. Rade hoped it didn’t come to that.

  The group finally reached the first booster rocket, at least according to the map.

  “Do you see anything?” Rade asked the point man of squad one, Bomb.

  “Nope.”

  Rade switched to Bomb’s point of view. There was nothing visible but the empty snowdrifts on the thermal band. He cut back to his own viewpoint.

  “Defensive formation Cigar, Squad One,” Rade said. “Centered on the waypoint. Clearance fifteen meters. Squad two, Half Curve overwatch.”

  The first squad formed a cigar shape around the flashing beacon indicated on the map, leaving a clearance of fifteen meters at the closest point. The second squad, containing Rade, spread out into a half curve and crouched in the snow to overwatch the first from their farther position away. Two of the Titans in squad two guarded the rear.

  “Snakeoil?” Rade said. “Care to do a quick search?”

  “Got it,” Snakeoil replied.

  Rade zoomed in and watched Snakeoil’s Titan leave its place in the cigar formation. Snakeoil marched to the spot indicated on the map and began shuffling and stamping his large metallic feet through the snow.

  After a few moments Snakeoil said: “Strange...”

  “What is it?” Rade said.

  “There doesn’t seem—”

  A soft clang drifted through the air.

  “Here we go.” Snakeoil momentarily set aside his cobra weapon and knelt; with his Titan’s large hands he readily uncovered an object—it proved to be the booster. “Let me run a quick diagnostics check... seems to be in working order. Who’s riding up first?”

  Another squad one mech abruptly left formation. Rade’s Implant identified it as Tarantula, the Titan that carried the sedated Keelhaul.

  “Tarantula, what are you doing?” Rade sent. “Keelhaul wasn’t chosen to return. The two of you are staying here with me.”

  The AI didn’t answer, instead taking another step toward the booster.

  “Jerry,” Rade said. “Transmit my command codes to Tarantula. Give control of the mech to me.”

  After a moment Jerry said: “Unable to comply... I appear to be locked out.”

  The mech advanced another pace. It started lifting the cobra it had taken from the drop site.

  “It’s raising its weapon...” Snakeoil said.

  “Get back!” Rade said.

  The members of squad two swiveled about in unison, inverting the cigar from a defensive formation to an offensive one, with all weapons brought to bear on Tarantula.

  Snakeoil retrieved his cobra and cleared well away, joining the cigar. The Marines hitching a ride on Tarantula similarly vacated, jetting instead to other mechs nearby.

  Ignoring the dull throbbing in his arm, Rade aimed the targeting reticle of his cobra at Tarantula: the mech was in full view. “Squad two, target the legs. Squad one, target the weapon. Fire.”

  In moments the Titan was disarmed and immobile. Rade had struck a servomotor in the left knee. Someone else had shot out the right knee.

  Keelhaul’s voice abruptly came over the line. “It’s booby-trapped!”

  “He’s awake!” Manic said.

  “Keelhaul?” Rade transmitted in disbelief.

  Tarantula’s cockpit hatch fell open, and a smaller thermal signature emerged.

  Keelhaul.

  He jetted toward the booster rocket. “They’re rigged I’m telling you!”

  “They’re not rigged!” Rade said. “Those nano-machines in your head are making you hallucinate. Get back inside your mech, now!”

  Keelhaul landed on the booster rocket. Rade saw a thermal flash from the soldier’s glove area, and realized Keelhaul had fired his blaster into the device.

  “Snakeoil, grab him,” Rade said.

  Sn
akeoil ran forward and attempted to grab him with his Titan, but Keelhaul jetted away. Keelhaul continued firing, judging from the thermal flashes. Rade couldn’t tell if the target was Snakeoil, the booster rocket, or something else.

  “Keelhaul, stand down,” Rade said. He tracked the man with the targeting reticle of his cobra. “I repeat, stand down!”

  “The nano-machines have taken over his brain,” Manic said. “It’s not him anymore. We have to stop him.”

  “Damn it!” Luxe said. “Paxon, Gibbs, grab that idiot!”

  The two designated Marines jetted forward from their passenger seat perches.

  Keelhaul landed again on the booster rocket.

  “He’s firing at us!” Paxon said. “I’m hit!”

  Rade still had Keelhaul’s center of mass in his targeting reticle.

  Hearing those words decided it for him. No one else could do what needed to be done. It had to be him.

  Rade squeezed the trigger.

  Keelhaul dropped from the rocket, vanishing in the snow beside it. On the HUD, his vitals turned black.

  “Keelhaul’s down!” Mauler said from squad one. He ejected from his Titan and jetted toward where Keelhaul had fallen.

  “Gibbs, how’s Paxon?” Luxe said.

  “She’ll live,” Gibbs said. “Hit in the right calf. Her skin ballooned to seal the entry and exit wounds of the suit. I applied seals to the laser punctures, and to be on the safe side, had her recycle her atmosphere. She’ll have a bit of a limp for the rest of the trip, but otherwise she’s fine.”

  Hearing those words, Rade wondered if he had killed Keelhaul for nothing.

  “He’s gone,” Mauler said. “Who shot him?”

  “I did,” Rade said.

  Silence.

  Then Tahoe said: “You did the right thing. It wasn’t Keelhaul, not anymore.”

  “It’s true,” Skullcracker said. “For me, Keelhaul died the moment we sedated him. I made my farewells to him then.”

  “I think we all did,” Snakeoil said.

  “Well I didn’t,” Mauler said.

  The platoon members remained very quiet. Then: