Astral Fall

by Jessica Mae Stover

  Copyright © 2015 Jessica Mae Stover

  All Rights Reserved

  Use Without Written Consent is Expressly Prohibited

  This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  http://JessicaStover.com

  A S T R A L F A L L

  Part I

  CONTENTS

  00 two commanders

  01 roselaurels

  02 washouts

  03 space junkies

  04 astral fall

  05 visual confirmation

  RIDRAIN ONE

  UNITED NATIVITY PLANETS

  COSMIC TOP SECRET

  TERRESTRIAL RESTRICTED

  MEDIA SPECIALIST: BRIAR

  OUTSIDE DEPT CLEARED: NO

  PHYS MEDIA CLEARED: YES

  INT./EXT. SHIP - INTERCUT VARIOUS STANDARD OP CAPTURES - NIGHT 0122c

  Black water, pools dark and deep, crests of fog, velvet night—

  LIGHTS slide through the depths, transform the illusion of water to the reality of sky, illume the cloud cover from above… THE LIGHTS OF A SHIP.

  INSIDE, PARAJUMPER #45’s SOC POV

  LINES OF PARAJUMPERS in combat suits and hardhoods, finely geared and quiet with focus, sway with the movement of the ship. We reach up to adjust our grip on our static line. Ahead, the end of the craft seems to fall away as the access ramp drops open to a foggy void—

  SOUND breaks in, the ship’s descent shrieks in our ears, a mix of thunderous bass and metallic mechanics so shrill that we can almost see the sound waves slice the atmosphere, rip through the soft cirrus layer, pound the landscape of—

  Grey rock ridges in waves and waves below, endless, seemingly to the horizon, like a great, lapping lake of rock. The leeward side of the hottest ridges darkened with shadows, running soldiers… bodies…

  The capture scans, pushes in for a closer view…

  BLOOD—

  Not shadows—bodies in the blood. The leeward sides of the ridges and their trenches are bathed in blood—

  Bodies fall, thrown by concussion warfare, resting final in flowing rivulets of red a half meter deep—

  Twelve kilometers above, the ship slams on reverse thrust, levels its plunge. Higher up, the layer of cirri drifts and breaks. A patch of stars shines through a cloudhole, pinpoint and patterned, as if someone tore the night canvas, punched and splattered its glittering guts—

  The ship accelerates, shrieks upward—

  Below, human SCREAMS drowned by the sounds of machines, soldiers sobbing and splintered inside fractured combat suits, one here, headless, another there, legs mashed, a mess of red liquid and scrapped sinew. Shredded bones protrude from still-living stumps, frayed and splayed like moon-white roots, curled by fire—

  INSIDE THE SHIP, a god’s eye view, the terrestrial horrors appear small and toyish below as we run, hit the ramp’s jump line, LEAP, sail, fall gracefully, fall with style, skilled, controlled—Ping!—spun midair, WINGED BY AN ENEMY PROJECTILE, our orientation flips, we lose control, see the belly of the ship ascending away, see other parajumpers descending around us, blinding light, stars through the hole in the black cloud cover—

  Hands fly, jerk, dance—we claw at sky and air—

  FALLING—

  The battle, the ridges, the bodies, the blood, the limp and the dead—THE RED THEATER RUSHES UP TO MEET US—

  Zii winced in anticipation of the contact, but Crave pulsed the capture, paused it before impact. Black and bloody streaks of scarred, smoking soil filled the image space. Suspended in time, the moment seemed surreal; a violent abstract painting. Zii looked sideways at Crave, tried to figure his angle. What do old battle logs of the Red Theater have to do with returning to morthean space?

  They stood shoulder to shoulder, armed in their black trepid combat suits with hardhoods removed and in hand. Light spun in interactive threads from Crave’s hood, traced the capture’s replay on the floor before them, interrupting the darkness of the module and bathing them both in what looked like crimson aurorae, as they watched the trauma of the past from above with the distance and safety provided by the present. Time is power.

  Of habit, Zii glanced around their perimeter. The capture’s glow stretched shadows to the left, where it sketched the edges of a curved velvet couch at odds with the raw requirements of a covert drop. Together their two units had carved the secret space from an abandoned luxury hotel module. After the Yasslozah attack at Marscape’s low-atmo resort, it’d been trashed with the rest of the damaged infrastructure. They’d waited, stalking it until it shipped out to back space. Then, between their first few missions and without notifying their support crews, they’d used a cover of unit-only flight exercises to strip the module of its scan tech and tow it out farther so that no one but the ten of them would know of its existence, repairing and modifying it after it was in position. While aboard they went against protocol, disabling their external scans and hardhood standard operational captures. Without SOCs running they were secure here—there would be no data logged on their meeting—yet Crave stood silent, staring ahead.

  Zii returned his attention to the picture projected on the floor. P2 Command called it the Hellstory. The worst part of it was a montage of exterior ship captures mixed with the hardhood SOCs of a parajumper as she descended, was puncture-shot, lost control, and met the deck.

  Crave passed his hood from his right hand to his left, and the filaments of light twisted as the hood compensated, maintaining the image’s integrity. “Admiral Aleri had access to a memo preordering Special Forces deployment to Ridrain. She was asked to consult and wanted Skregs’ perspective on the possibilities for terrestrial ops, so we heard about it.”

  “Did Skregs kill it?”

  “Did his best to. We picked up some ISR time while you were in rehab and—”

  “Wait, you’re already into intelligence recon? I thought you were in compulsory fallout observation.”

  “Cleared early. Told you that while you were laid up. Not surprised you don’t remember.” Crave’s eyes flickered to Zii’s legs.

  Zii ignored the insinuation, ran his right hand down the left wrist of his trepid suit as though checking for flaws. While active it was smooth and edgeless, hard yet flexible.

  “I’m patchy on memory from the biomech transition, but I’ve been briefed by my unit.”

  “The medicas wouldn’t allow them access at first.”

  “I remember.” Zii turned to face Crave’s profile. “I remember you were there for that. So”—he reached out and rapped Crave twice on his suited arm with his gloved knuckles—“ISR already. Good. I hoped you were thinking about possible missions back to Transmorthea. Now we can pitch for orders immediately.”

  “I was, until that memo proved fucking immortal.” Crave turned away from the capture and looked up at Zii from under his brow, the shadows giving him the eyeless look of a skull.

  “You’re showing me Hellstory captures because of a preorder memo?”

  “It’s part of an intelligence package we developed during ISR.” Crave’s voice came out an annoyed growl. “The memo named a unit.”

  “Fuck. They named you? And Aleri informed you of it? Should I be impressed at the intel favors you’re pulling upchain, or indignant that someone expected you—or any Nova—to deploy to Ridrain and sit around watching the infantry go through this shit every day?” He gestured at the frenetic precrash image. “What’d they say when you passed?”

  “The memo listed terrestrial alien engagement as crucial to mission. So that’s already down to your unit and mine. The next line went on to require a full black-skull Nova unit. I’m down one. By elimination, that’s you.”

  The thought of terrestrial combat sent Zii�
�s right hand to his leg. He saw Crave’s attention follow, and kept his hand there, as though the placement were casual. Their hardhood innerfaces were looped in joint operation, and Zii tapped his left middle finger to the inside of his glove, using his remote access to Crave’s IF to pulse the projected capture into motion. The parajumper smashed into the deck. Impact didn’t kill the capture—just her. Her SOC continued scanning and logging and the battle played on—flashes, screams, blood spatter. Fuck that place.

  Zii raised his voice over the assault’s noise. “Hellstory was thirty years ago. If Command thinks a Nova unit should work in the Red Theater now, then something there must have shifted.”

  “From news captures and internal intel, it doesn’t look like it. And the preorder memo Aleri showed us was vague.”

  Crave twitched a finger and muted the capture. Something out of frame struck the dead paratrooper, causing the SOC to angle skyward. Eye-straining flashes bit back at the module’s darkness as the air theater of the battle lit the clouds like a thunderstorm.

  “There’s no specific mission or goal beyond the general orders to report to Ridrain—because the memo wasn’t authored by the military. It came from the civilian side.”

  Zii checked his response and observed their perimeter, then remembered the privacy of the module and spoke candidly. “If that’s accurate—”

  “It’s accurate.”

  “Then some politician is nervous about the lack of progress and wants to look like they’re doing something. It’s another Gabris Farzone. They want to be able to say they sent Novas to consult, to show that they’re trying everything. It’s bad for us. We’ll take some of the flak—maybe all of it—when we can’t solve the situation, even though it’s their policy and ops that make it insolvable.”

  He walked across the module, then back, stopping in front of the capture opposite Crave. P2’s assigning me stationary terrestrial orders: they don’t think I’m ready to return to deep-space dev.

  “Maybe Command and the Council should directly consult Novas on Ridrain,” Crave said.

  “They did. They consulted your unit. Skregs advised killing the orders. They ignored him and went on with it. So that’s what I can expect if I deploy there. It’s a waste of elite assets.” He thumped his hardhood’s skull with his open hand. “We’re Novas. We can pitch our own orders. Let them figure out what they need specifically and then call in lesser specialists to get it done. If it’s periodic high-value target elimination they want, they can keep a unit of Redstars in residence at Ridrain.”

  “Redstars aren’t as good as we are.”

  “No one is, but we can’t do everything for every department across the military. And our job is precision strikes, not open battlefield combat. It’s been a hundred years—if the security threat is escalating even further, they should wipe the planet and finally lock down that entire span of space. That’s nothing to do with us.”

  “If the mission wasn’t important, P2 would have killed the memo.”

  “Then we just eat it and waste our time? It’s a politically pressured non-mission set up to fail. That’s a chunk of my career carved out for nothing. I am deployable, and I’m fucking tired of being ground-bound.”

  Crave shifted his weight. “What if you could approach the orders from another angle, so that they weren’t set up to fail?”

  “When we were fresh out of roselaurels, first mission as full Novas on the horizon, you didn’t develop a mission and pitch for clear orders before deployment. You nearly ended up assigned to Marscape for three years. What was it you told me? ‘If they try to issue you vague orders, kill the orders, or you may as well kill yourself.’ Good advice.”

  “From a teenager.”

  “Still. I’d have to be naive to accept, thinking I’d have enough pull to retool them into something workable once I got there. And I’m not, so I won’t.” Zii switched his hardhood to his other hand and traced his finger over the flames engraved on the outside. “What Nova would want to creep around a war when instead they could be sailing into new areas of space? They’re small orders. We can have greater impact somewhere—anywhere—else. I’ll pass. I expect all units will. That will force the military to go back to the Council, and in turn force the Council to come up with specific orders. Or send a different outfit. Or it will push them to open committee to P2 to approve Nova pitches on specific orders before deployment. By then you and I will be deep into our plans for Transmorthea. We can use your ISR prep to develop a mission, using my crew for support so we don’t have to wait for—”

  “I used my ISR time to dev a mission based on the memo’s orders. I have an actionable plan for Ridrain.”

  Zii studied Crave. “Did you think I wouldn’t pass and you’d come with me to that shithole? Transmorthea, Crave. That’s the real threat. Something that no one else can tackle. Hand your plan over to a general. Let them pitch and deploy it, using their regional resources—”

  “Zii—”

  “It’s what we said we’d do. Finish it. Or am I remembering that wrong?”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Good.” Zii relaxed. “Because I fucking might have remembered that wrong, given the amount of tech and chems I’ve been high on these last months.” He balanced his hood in the crook of his right arm. “You want to see them?”

  With his left hand, he reached into his suit’s collar for the T-shaped handle that marked the end of his auttie-yank cable, and pulled it to release his suit sculpt. The suit’s hard external frame slackened, as though deflated. Stepping forward into the light from the capture, he banana-ed himself out of his gear to the waist on the left and to the knee on the right, then lowered the right-side waist of the basic greys he wore underneath. At the upper thigh on both legs his white skin seamlessly met the fine black metallic weave of his prostheses.

  Crave glanced, nodded. “They look good.”

  “ ‘They look good.’ They’re hooah as all fuck! Almost makes you want to chop off your legs just to get a pair. I’m as good as I was, Crave. I’m better. The specs on these are incredible, the—”

  Crave moved his hand, dismissing the capture and cutting off the threads of light emanating from his hood. Darkness reclaimed the module. “The plan I’ve worked on is a Nova plan. I can’t hand it off to a lesser military order. And between the two of us, my unit’s better suited for terrestrial combat orders.”

  “Between the two of us”—what does that mean? And why’s he being so goddamn stiff? Zii pulled his greys and suit back into place and pulse-sealed his suit back to active mode so that it was again seamless on the outside. “I don’t need your plan. We swore we’d collaborate to go back to Transmorthea. That’s an oath, brother. For Yviss.”

  Crave fidgeted with his suit mechs, his fingers moving in some unseen command.

  Zii watched him. I shouldn’t have brought it up that way.

  “So you will pass,” Crave said.

  “On anything that gets between me and our oath? Damn right I will—as soon as I receive the orders. Why do you doubt that I would?”

  “When you inform P2 that you’re exercising your pass, they’ll respond that the orders are bluebarred. Your unit can’t pass without an appropriate substitute. Mine’s the only other unit that could qualify. Once you pass, I’ll pitch them on the mission I dev’d during my ISR time.”

  Zii stared at Crave’s outline in the darkness. “I don’t need you to handle my orders—”

  “No matter which of us goes, Transmorthea will have to wait.”

  “I’m not going to have you—”

  “You don’t want the orders—I do. Let it go, brother, and I’ll—”

  Zii jumped the handful of paces between them, gripping the collar of Crave’s suit with one hand, and pushed him back a few steps. “You blindsided me. That’s what we do to enemies, not to each other.” Crave didn’t push back.

  “I’m not hiding it.” Crave’s face was infuriatingly passive in the shadows. “I would have
told you sooner, but I waited until we could meet here. Hard to not be observed at P2.”

  “You were in here with Hellstory capture already queued. You prepped me so I’d pass. And you knew I wouldn’t pass if I knew the mission was bluebarred, so you waited until I said I would before disclosing.”

  “Yeah, and I’m not hiding it.”

  “What? What the fuck does that matter?” Crave’s silence felt like a shrug. It’s like he doesn’t even care. “You fucking delayed giving me intel on my orders! Well?”

  Zii shoved Crave, but Crave merely absorbed the impact, giving slightly, still saying nothing to explain.

  “You don’t think I’m ready to return to duty, then make a report.”

  Crave looked at Zii, startled. The suggestion that he would report on Zii to Command landed hard, as intended.

  “Like that’s somehow worse than what you’re doing here? You don’t get to unofficially decide my status for me!” Zii shoved him again, then jerked him forward by the collar.

  Crave dropped his hood and seized Zii’s collar with both hands, ramming his weight against Zii.

  Zii’s hood clanged on the floor too as he defensively grabbed for Crave’s collar with his free hand. He dropped his shoulder, failed to get under Crave’s hold, felt knuckles dig into his neck as Crave tightened his grip.

  “You were almost ghosted—”

  “—I’m better than I was befo—”

  “—I was the operational lead!” Crave shouted. “I asked you to double up on the op, and you did, and when it got thick, you were rescuing my mission.” The look on Crave’s face was one that Zii had never seen before. His eyes were wide open and unfocused, as if mentally he was only half present. “When we got Zii back to base—the medicas—the medicas say there’s a strong chance Zii won’t be able to return to active duty. No—” Crave’s pupils eclipsed his irises. Years fled. Their history—suddenly gone. Zii was staring down a stranger. He pushed Crave backward a few steps, but Crave met his force, and Zii’s boots slid on the floor as Crave overcame him, pressing him toward the wall, escalating without restraint. The stress on Zii’s windpipe increased.