They rolled about in a circle surrounding the commander. No one gave a hand sign or attempted to communicate, even as he waved his hands above his head. Six men disembarked and stood in a semicircle around him.
“Commander Prime Jefferson Grant?” The leading officer inquired. He nodded. “That’s me,” he said, wincing at the pain in his chest. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” he answered while every single other member of the squad drew stun guns and opened fire. Commander Prime Jefferson David Grant was unconscious before he even hit the ground.
* * *
Some weeks later Commander Grant was seated in a dull, concrete cell. He was dressed in a one piece, blaze orange jumpsuit with shackles clamped around both his hands and feet. He heard the pop of the door lock which immediately swung open.
“Mr. Grant, it’s time. Step forward,” a voice said, echoing from the hall outside.
Grant looked up through burning red eyes which were far deprived of sleep. He stood and strode out, following the order. Even with exchanging his uniform in favor of prison garb, he exuded a feeling of power that penetrated deep into everyone around him. The eight soldiers waiting to escort him felt it and stepped back as he approached. Likewise, he could feel their fear.
The cadre of men led him along the branching corridors of the prison. They stopped before an armored door and waited for clearance to pass. Grant turned and looked at the younger man leading the others. “Sergeant, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Since we left my cell, you’ve given me six perfect chances to escape,” he said. “Guess how many of those involve you surviving?”
The soldier turned visibly green and instantly seemed to shrink down. Grant continued to glare.
“Make that seven.”
The man took a half step back, raising his weapon to Grant’s chest. It shook.
“Turn around and face the door!” he stammered.
“Tell you what,” Grant said, sneering like a pure sadist, “just take off the shackles, open all the doors, and ask me politely not to leave. It’d save everyone a ton of trouble mailing flags and letters to your families.” Grant shook his head and turned back towards the wall.
The doors swung open and they stepped into the prison’s built-in courtroom. It was surprisingly simple; as if it had been a conference room the week before.
* * *
What seemed like an eternity later, a nameless judge sighed as he reviewed the evidence in front of him. This was the hardest decision he had ever made in his life. With his mind made up after more than five hours of meditation, he stood and walked through the door into the courtroom. The courtroom was now teeming with people from civilians to pilots to soldiers, much to the distain of the justice as he stood at his podium. He looked at the man below him wearing a prisoner’s suit and bound at the wrists. They both knew he should have been wearing the Service Dress uniform of the United Space Corps. Silver rank should have adorned his shoulders and a blue and gold medallion should have encircled his neck. After all, the man before him had been awarded the Medal of Honor.
“Mr. Grant,” the judge said, clearly in pain from the stress.
The man answered, “Yes, sir?”
“You do realize the magnitude of the crimes you have committed, do you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As you know, under the Uniform Code of Military Justice such an infraction is punishable by death.” The judge strained out the last few words. “However, since you have proven yourself beyond anyone else during the war, and because the ranks of the Corps have been indeed strained over the past few years, I cannot allow such a punishment to be enacted upon you. Additionally, there is no way the public would accept the execution of a Medal of Honor recipient. Rather, I have decided to have your rank pulled, and your title demoted to Private First Class, assigned to Earth Corps for the remainder of your term of service. I believe your outstanding contract is for the remainder of your life.”
The judge paused and said, “Do you have any remarks, Mr. Grant?”
The man looked up, seeming very small. “Your honor, I ask you to reconsider the options, for I have led more soldiers to victory than most men my age have even met in their lives. My actions were terrible, I understand that, but also unavoidable. They ended the war, saved more lives from destruction, and gave us a tremendous technological advantage. If you shall not be swayed, let it be recorded that my devotion has been proven in life and will be in death, when the time comes.”
“I’m sorry,” the judge said. “I have made my decision, like you made yours, and this is the penalty for what you have done. Dismissed.”
1
It is the near future. A faster than light engine has recently been developed, and humankind has begun to explore the galaxy. Within that short expanse of time, the race of humans had been successful in finding a small, excluded race of aliens that seemed to have been all but ignored by the universe at large. The first few meetings were exceptional, to say the least, and the world was unified in finding out more about this civilization; this alien species that proved, once and for all, that we were no longer alone.
Their initial docile, peaceful nature caught many scientists off guard but not nearly as much as when they attacked and obliterated a convoy of supply ships when seemingly unprovoked. Humanity’s First Interstellar War spanned a quarter of the galaxy and three populated star systems. The alien’s civilization was left in shambles, having been beaten back over and over to nearly oblivion by the men and women of the United Space Corps fleet.
A final move on their part might have almost left humanity in ruin as well, if not for the heroic actions of the Crimson Elite fighter squadron. The alien technology, which in many cases was far superior to Earth’s own, was returned to Earth, and their planets brought under control of the human race.
Unknown to the victors, their last surviving ship was not built for battle but to serve as a beacon. It sent out a signal across the stars, begging any nation that could to offer assistance in humanity’s annihilation. It was only a matter of time until they got a reply.
2
The sun rose above the dusty, desolate landscape, staving off the darkness and bringing a new dawn. Even though it was still early, with shadows long behind the distant mountains, the temperature began to creep higher. Few creatures and even fewer people willingly called the place home.
Although this patch of nothing in the middle of the southwest United States offered very little, its location and desolation were of strategic importance. It lay between the largest spaceport in the world and the largest research facility in the country. More than sixty percent of the active duty soldiers who came home were given immediate leave back at the city. The lucky ones were chosen to drive more than a hundred rigs loaded with recovered alien technology the four hundred klicks through the desert and deliver them to the isolated installation for future study.
An expanding cloud of dust billowed forth from the distance, announcing the convoy’s approach. More than three kilometers before them a single Humvee growled across the landscape bearing two soldiers. Both wore deeply tinted sunglasses to dim the blinding light before them. The passenger held a radio in one hand, a rifle in the other, and kept a constant vigil on every bearing.
The driver’s face was steel. He stared straight ahead with both hands firmly planted on the steering wheel. His foot had kept the gas pedal mashed to the floor for the last two hours and he showed no signs of letting up.
“Grant, let up,” the captain seated to his right ordered.
The driver pulled his foot off and let the truck roll to a stop. “What?” he asked, with the tone of a statement loaded with contempt.
“Bear to the right up ahead,” he said, pointing with a hand still grasping the radio. “We’re going to take the low road through a shallow depression. It’ll be a clear shot all the way to B-3. Only another one hundred and eighty klicks to go.”
Private Jeff Grant looked back at t
he captain. “Rog,” he answered and again jammed the gas pedal to the floor, briefly spinning out all four wheels before taking off.
The recent conversation along with a half dozen others dug at the captain’s mind as they drove along. The tension rose in the ten minutes of silence until he couldn’t hold it back. “Stop the truck,” he ordered sternly.
Grant switched pedals and slammed the brake to the ground instead. The five-ton vehicle skidded to a halt, grinding in the dirt and kicking up a cloud of dust and sand. “Yes?”
“This shit has got to stop,” the captain said. “Yes, I know you were some big shot back in Sol Charlie. Guess what? That’s long gone, and you’re a long way from there.”
Grant looked over. “You don’t know a gaddamn thing,” he snarled.
“Maybe I don’t but guess what? That doesn’t matter. You got the raw deal for sure, but it’s over now. Play your role, be a good soldier, and show me a little respect.”
“Why are we even out here? They could have just dropped all their little toys right on the front lawn of Space Corps Headquarters.”
“It’s not always about you. The PR was better, and it will distract everyone from the mountain of caskets that are going to be pouring in. There were forty thousand soldiers on the same ship. It wouldn’t have gone well to drop them in the middle of nowhere. Most soldiers enjoy their leave. If you tried being someone else, you might even have some enjoyment of your own someday.”
Grant looked at the captain with enough scorn to ignite him on fire. “Yes, SIR.”
The exchange was moments from disaster before the radio lit up, taking the attention of both men. “Captain Martin, come in!” The urgency was easy to pick up on, but it caused Martin to recoil slightly and lean back in the seat before answering. He still stared back at Grant as he spoke.
“Martin here.”
“Sir, Space Corps is tracking a rogue object estimated to shortly impact the ground about forty klicks north of your position. They want eyes on the ground to give a threat assessment.”
“Copy that. I’ve got estimated coordinates on my map. We’ll keep you updated.”
They signed off, and Martin looked back over at Grant. “Well, Private Hot Shit, you heard him. Get us out of the depression and go north.”
Grant shook his head but complied without another word. “And put your seatbelt on,” Martin added.
* * *
The pair had been driving through the desert for at least forty minutes and had yet to see anything out of the ordinary. Even beneath the facade of Grant’s melancholy, he too was scouring everything in his view. It was debatable if it was intentional, but his bearing as a soldier never really turned off.
The sun was rising higher, and the heat could nearly be seen rising from the occasional outcropping of rock or even the ground itself. Beads of sweat began to form on Martin’s face, and he motioned Grant to stop. The aging brakes squealed in protest but brought the vehicle to a standstill. Grant leaned back, still looking straight ahead as the captain stood up and surveyed the entire landscape through his rifle’s scope.
“I think we’re going over that next rise,” Martin stated, pointing out beyond the horizon. “The map hasn’t been updated yet. Let’s keep moving, we have about five minutes until projected impact,” he said and took his seat. Grant hammered the gas one more time.
Less than a minute later the frantic voice came in over the radio once more, “Captain Martin, Captain Martin! The object has begun to modify its trajectory. It’s coming right over you! Look sharp!”
The other man kept shouting warnings, updates, and orders. Martin was still processing it all when they saw a tiny bright flash of light flicker into existence in the distance before them as if they watched a nuclear bomb detonate from a hundred klicks away.
Grant leaned forward, peering through his aviators into the blast, trying to identify anything he could. There were several distinct parts falling from the air blast.
“It broke apart-” he stated and stopped. Something else was there, almost like a black shadow hanging in the air.
A moment later it was on the move, shooting across the sky like a slim black specter. Grant felt danger approach and instinctively relaxed his foot. Turning decisively in the sky it was on a path to cross right above them.
Anyone who had seen combat knew what was coming; it was an attack run. A flicker of light dropped from under the form and Grant’s eyes locked on to its approach.
“Get out. SHIT!” he yelled and dove out through the side of the truck milliseconds before the projectile impacted right on the hood, engulfing the entire vehicle in an unquenchable ball of fire.
Grant tucked himself into a ball and kept rolling away from the blast, finally coming to rest a few meters away. He raised his head from the ground to survey the damage and saw that the truck was nothing but a twisted metal frame with thick flames lapping every surface. It was instantly clear the captain never had a chance to get out. The black form had already nearly disappeared into the distance and he took stock of what he still had left.
He had a sidearm, ammunition, and some water. No radio, no commanding officer, no orders, and no other options. He took a deep breath and started running back towards the convoy’s path, blind to the distance. The sky darkened far ahead of him and all Grant knew was that they’d need all the help they could get.
The minutes ticked by into hours as Grant jogged along. He had already polished off his two canteens and was beginning to feel the effects of the strain and heat. The beating sun above didn’t help matters in the least. The desert might have been great for preserving equipment, but he didn’t want to become another statistic.
Soon Grant could tell that he was no longer sweating. He grumbled while brushing his arms with his fingertips, both sides coming back dry. He couldn’t keep going like this much longer without risking a serious medical emergency but there weren’t any other options. He focused on keeping his wits about him and conserved whatever water he had left.
As he rounded a small hill, Grant could see multiple plumes of black smoke far away on the south side of the plain. Reminiscent of oil fires in the gulf, the thick dark clouds cast an eerie shadow on the desert floor ahead. The sight gave him one last burst of energy and Grant picked it up again, killing off the last few kilometers even faster than the first.
Grant was coughing up specks of blood by the time he reached the last rise. Spread out before him was the remains of the convoy, completely destroyed. Every cab, engine, and standalone truck was engulfed in flames, contributing to the choking cloud of smoke. Several trucks were jackknifed; others were on their sides. But every one of them had their loads pilfered.
The equipment recovered from the aliens was utterly obliterated. Some of the truck beds were obviously empty, their cargo stolen, but most were reduced to smoldering wreckage. Grant continued to survey the damage and caught sight of the ground.
Scattered all over were the remains of the security detail that had been guarding the shipment. Most had their weapons drawn and had gone down fighting but as he approached, Grant couldn’t identify the cause of their wounds. Deep lacerations were evident but without obvious tearing or burning. It was as if they had been torn apart by surgical knives or cutting lasers.
Grant looked about, for the first time unsure about his next course of action, when he happened to see a few mission capable vehicles and soldiers near the front of the group; most likely B-3’s recovery team. He made his way over to meet them and was greeted at gunpoint by the men on guard.
“Are you a survivor?” one asked with his weapon at the ready.
Grant nodded slightly with all the energy he could muster. “I guess so. Sort of.”
Two others grabbed him by his shoulders before he fell and sat him in the shade of a waiting medical vehicle. They dropped three fresh canteens in his lap, and the sergeant leading the group kneeled before him. “Don’t die on us. We need all the help we can get out here.”
&nb
sp; “Do you know what it was?” Grant asked, killing the first canteen and pouring the second over his head. Another soldier untied and pulled his boots from his feet to ward off heat exhaustion.
“Not a damn clue. We’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, shaking his head. “We had the convoy incoming with regular contact. Flight control reported tracking some incoming object which hit the northern desert. Later we get a barrage of distress calls. Whatever fighting they did barely lasted four minutes, and then everything went dead.
Grant shook his head, flinging drops of water around, trying to interpret what he was hearing. “Yeah, I was halfway between here and the impact. Whatever it was, it tried to take me out on the way here.”
“What company are you with?”
“None. What do you need me to do?”
“First, cool off. You’re knocking right on the door of heat stroke.” The sergeant looked him over. “If you think you need the medic, we’ll get you one. Otherwise you can help look for survivors until we run a truck back to base.”
“Copy that.” Grant confirmed, shaking his head about and getting to his feet. The sergeant was speechless but didn’t otherwise object.
Grant made his way past the other soldiers who were working on nearby vehicles and ventured farther down the line. He spotted the remains of a large ten-ton army truck left over from another century and nearly burned through. Earth Corps sure knew how to roll in style. It was about twenty feet off from the line and he approached it carefully. The cover for the bed was reduced to a few metal strands and the contents, a few dozen wooden and fabricated crates, were spread about and still burning.
Grant covered his hand with his sleeve and attempted to pull the cabin door open. It didn’t budge. He strained for a second before pulling a heavy field knife from the sheath beside his pistol.
MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace Page 2
