MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace

by Matthew D. White

  Radio transmissions flew back in acknowledgement. Grant armed his weapons and charged ahead. The targets grew fast.

  The closest ship, obviously, had spotted them and maneuvered to defend. Under a hundred klicks away, Grant’s fighter spotted a flight of alien ships launching from their deck. They wouldn’t even know what hit them.

  Before the rival fighters got up to speed, Grant spun up his two main cannon batteries and raked a line of uranium shells across their flight path. The massive bullets sliced through the light ships without even slowing down and drove onward into the surface of the larger ship, punching into the hull with plumes of fire. The smaller fighters disintegrated to nothing but fire and dust as Grant plowed through their wake.

  The other human fighters followed suit and finished off the attack run; the pilots towards the end opted for heavier weapons to further damage the alien destroyer.

  Grant circled back for a second strike just as the frigate and transports arrived. His radio came alive with voices from the multitude of stations on the larger ships. They didn’t ask for an evaluation, so Grant didn’t give one and put another line of explosive rounds through a few surface protrusions of his target.

  “They aren’t putting up much of a fight,” one of the pilots remarked.

  “Don’t say it,” Grant shot back. “Leave this one for the heavies. Let’s move on and keep their fighters wrapped up.”

  13

  Scott floated up the staircase to the bridge for what he hoped would be the last time. It was still dark, the temperature had dropped to near freezing, and visible condensation was forming on the walls. One way or another, he didn't have much time left. The repairs were not as difficult as he had expected: Something had hit the control box for the main engines. The strike had knocked out all power and had conveniently left them drifting. Probably an oversight by some civilian designer but Scott assumed, or quietly hoped, that the military's ships weren't quite so fragile.

  His fix involved what felt like a klick of ribbon cable soldered around the lower deck to slave the remaining backup system's controls to the main line. He had to adjust a number of parameters for the system to accept the new commands but from everything he saw, there was no reason it wouldn't work.

  The moment of truth had arrived. Scott maneuvered himself above the pilot's seat and hit the Emergency Reignite button. Instantly, the engines roared to life. The lights, panels, screens, and keys flickered on all around him. It took a few more seconds for the gravity cells to recharge, but Scott felt the blood flow in his head adjust as he drifted downwards onto the seat.

  Well, maybe I won't die here after all, Scott thought as he reached forward to retract the blast shield covering the main viewing screen. "Let's see where we are," he said rhetorically as he flipped the switch. It was easier than waiting for the computer systems to finish booting.

  The shields slid aside, bathing the cabin with sunlight reflected from Mars' gleaming surface. The red ball filled half the screen. The rest was littered with debris, burned out ships, and at least a dozen alien and Space Corps vessels pounding each other in dead silence with massive heavy weapons. Scott sat immobilized, trying to interpret the scene before him.

  His radio finished powering up and, as was standard, tuned to the emergency channel. Static blasted in loud before tuning in to the din of a hundred shouting voices that immediately filled the room. Scott winced and turned down the volume. A thousand thoughts tumbled through his head at once. What the hell had happened? The war was over, right? How long had he been out? How did all this happen in such a short lapse of time?

  Ok, Scott, think, he told himself. Did the ship have an emergency beacon? And a radio channel to hail the military? His brief training felt like it had been eons ago. Scott pushed the questions aside. Radio first. He navigated through the menus on the radio’s display until he found a way to switch from emergency to hailing. It had a soft key to activate the identification beacon. Scott pressed that and spoke into the microphone.

  He didn’t get a word out before a transmission came in. “Civilian Shuttle, Identify!”

  Scott froze, stuttered, and got through the call sign and flight number.

  The voice paused. “That ship was listed destroyed yesterday. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Scott Ryan. I’m the ship’s technician. Everyone else evacuated. What happened out here?”

  “Mars Alpha is under attack. We’re here to defend it. You’re there alone?”

  That didn’t seem right. Mars had been hit? Was it the Aquillians? Scott decided not to press the hurried voice on the other side of the radio any further. “That’s right. The ship got hit and lost power. I patched it up but it’s not going to last long. Can you help me out?”

  “I wish we could but all of our assets are deployed. With the battle ongoing it could be twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

  “I don’t think the ship will last that long.” Scott looked over at another display. The engine was running hot, even at idle. So it wasn’t a perfect repair after all. “What if I can get on the ground?”

  Silence. “If you think that’s your best option, go for it. Keep the IFF tag on so our escorts don’t target you on the way down,” he said, pausing. “Can you fly?”

  “We’ll see. Where are the forces landing?”

  “Outpost One,” the voice replied. “Sixty degrees west, thirty north. If you make it, sit tight; the Corps is just now landing. Good luck.

  Scott took a deep breath and looked over at the flight controls. Sure, he could fly it. It was a small ship. He knew it inside and out. He took the class; read the manual. A flash of light outside caught his eye. A gunboat took a direct hit from the nearest alien vessel. Fire erupted from every port and engulfed its surface as it began to burn up and fall into the Martian gravity well. Who was he kidding? This wasn’t about to end in his favor. Scott pulled his concentration back and fired up the navigation system. No, you’re not dying yet, he told himself.

  He punched in the coordinates on the map. It pulled up an image of the colony on his map and superimposed a waypoint on the view screen. From his perspective, it looked like a tack stuck right into the surface of Mars itself. Here goes nothing, Scott thought and eased the ship forward. The momentum changed, but there was no real sensation of speed. It didn’t seem too difficult.

  Scott adjusted his heading and lined up on the point below, shifting from the view of the battle. He increased the speed and the planet began to grow ever so slightly. Bits of dust and debris began to pepper the body of the ship as if he were speeding on a gravel road. Soon after, the shuttle began to shake as Scott guided it down to the edge of the thin atmosphere. Scott checked the map again. The target was dead ahead. His hands were white from his death grip on the controls. His heart was racing.

  The seconds slipped by. The dust gave way to wispy clouds high in the thin atmosphere, which gave way to the ground, a brutal rusty wasteland spanning to every horizon. Far ahead Scott saw a few black dots among the hills. The colony.

  Scott had been there before. His company ran flights to the planet nearly every week and Mars Alpha was a common stop. The main feature of the base was the concourse that had been constructed from the hull of a barely modified first generation freighter. Someone, years ago, made the calculation that since the ship was already pressurized, could already power itself, and could sustain a crew, it would be a better use than recycle it at a bone yard.

  Since then, the ship had been permanently mounted, attached to a number of expanding structures, labs, and dormitories, and had become a surprisingly successful enterprise. The Corps had even received funding for a massive excavation to the east, which now employed over half of the colonists. If the aliens wanted to slaughter civilians, it was probably an easy target.

  Flying to Mars in his normal capacity was simple. Landing there himself under current conditions was another matter altogether. The shuttle was shaking hard as he descended into the thicker-by-Mars-standard atmo
sphere. Scott tried to pull back on his speed. The outpost came up fast.

  The fuselage of the Berlin, the aging ship that made up the bulk of the concourse was unmistakable. Surrounding it were the burning husks of alien landing ships, along with multiple transports already on the ground. Scott even caught a few glimmers of light in the sky. Fighter support.

  He soared closer and crossed above the landing platforms. If he could drop down at the edge, he’d be set. Scott cursed under his breath. “Drag, that’s why,” he muttered and engaged the drag surfaces. They opened, and he felt the force pulling on the ship as he slowed but it still wasn’t enough. He cleared the platform and streaked across the plain beyond.

  Warnings spiked all over the screen. “Yes, I know.” Scott grumbled. “Land first, and then I’ll worry about that.” He struggled to keep the shuttle level and tried to estimate where he’d hit. The left engine died, kicking the ship sideways and nearly pushing it into a flat spin. Scott was out of tricks. His only instinct was to hold on tight. There were only a few more meters left to-

  The first impact jolted through the ship as it hit a low rise in the dusty field. Scott’s spine compressed under protest. He clenched his teeth and pressed himself hard against the seat, waiting for the next bounce. It hit again, slid, and ground to a halt.

  * * *

  Othello led his group of able-bodied colonists along the darkened hallway towards the security checkpoint. After their brief detour which had taken them all the way to the top floor, the post was all that stood between them and the main concourse of the station. It was only a short distance but Othello refused to underestimate the alien presence.

  From what Othello gathered on the hike, the aliens weren’t set on exterminating all the colonists. They had killed off everyone in the hallways, security personnel, and the likes of who got in their way, but they hadn’t gone out hunting with a purpose.

  That didn’t make it much easier. As the group moved along the secondary passage, Othello stopped them and they froze along the wall. Just ahead was the intersection that ran the fifty meters to the security post. Sprawled about the floor were the bodies of thirty or forty colonists who had been cut apart from indiscriminate automatic gunfire. That told Othello all he needed to know: that the aliens were in the security post, and that they were prepared to defend it.

  “Stay here,” he whispered to the others. “I’m gonna take a look.”

  With that, Othello stepped to the edge of the wall, leaned in and quickly took a glance before he snapped his head back. No one opened fire. He processed the image in his mind. There were three shadows behind the glass, obviously not human; their necks and heads were out of proportion.

  “Can we take them?” one of the colonists asked quietly.

  “No. The glass is reinforced. There’s no way we could take a position like that with these,” he said, rotating the rifle in his hand, thinking. The annual defensive training for the staff didn’t exactly cover assaulting their own positions. He looked over at the dents in the wall, the blood on the ceiling, and the blood pooling on the floor. Without a plan, they were looking at a suicide run.

  “Did anyone pull anything heavier off the security guards?”

  “Yeah, they had some grenades.” Two of the colonists stepped forward and emptied their pockets. “Each of them had a couple frags with them,” the one stated, holding several out in his hands.

  It still isn’t enough, Othello thought. It might have been sufficient for trained soldiers but not for his current crew. Then something caught his eye: between the grenades were two black metal cylinders, which he dug out.

  “These aren’t grenades; they’re smoke,” he said, considering his options. “If we toss these first, they might mask our approach. Do you guys have any more?”

  The group produced two more. Othello lined the trio up in the shadow of the hallway. “Throw them together as hard as you can. I’ll run down and stick a real one in their firing port…Ready?” They nodded. “Now!”

  They leaned out and pitched their grenades down the corridor, bouncing them off the walls with two hitting the far wall of the checkpoint. They fell back as the aliens reacted, blindly shooting anywhere they could. Their weapons filled the hall with a thunderous roar, tearing into the walls and prior casualties once more.

  Othello waited as the initial reaction waned. The shots ceased. “They’re reloading. I’m going,” he announced, turning and sprinting off into the kill zone. He couldn’t see more than a meter ahead, but let only five seconds pass before he dove to the ground and low-crawled the last bit to the wall. From his position, he saw three ports an arm’s length above his head. He could hear one of the offending aliens fumble with its rifle on the other side. With a deep growl, it jammed the primitive weapon through the slot to begin firing again.

  The former miner didn’t give it a chance. He pulled the pin from his grenade, let it cook for a moment, leaned up, and slammed it into the center port before dropping back and covering his face in a fetal position.

  The aliens had no time to react. The blast shredded their bodies and blew apart the reinforced glass structure from the inside. With ears still ringing and glass bits still falling, Othello peeked over the barrier with his rifle leading the way. Small chunks of Aquillian, lacerated and smoking, clung to every surface. Nothing was left moving.

  “We’re clear!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  14

  Scott checked his equipment one last time at the outer airlock of the shuttle. The other passengers had raided most of the supplies, suits, weapons, and food before they left, so Scott had to scrounge before he found anything useful at all. Thankfully, his atmospheric suit was still locked away with his affects. He also pulled the sidearm from the copilot’s corpse; however, he regretted the operation once he went about putting on his suit. Blood had proven itself difficult to remove from his hands.

  He sprung the mechanical latch, unlocked the shell, and slid it aside. Scott was instantly greeted with blowing dust and grit. The mess was far from unexpected, and he got the door open enough to reach the emergency ladder, sliding down to the ground below.

  Hitting the ground hard, Scott realized how much lighter he felt in the reduced gravity field of the planet. As he looked about, he could just spot the tiny outline of the outpost a few klicks away. Much closer and to the north side was a small research pod that he had spotted from the cabin.

  The immediate area was covered with antennae and instruments but Scott didn’t have time to ward it further consideration. A small rover was also parked beside the structure which could give him a much quicker trip back to the base and to the fleet.

  Off in the distance an alien dropship rose from the ground. It was little more than a spot against the sky but it turned and grew larger, setting to fly nearly overhead. Scott stood in place, transfixed by the massive form. Something inside told him to run, to hide, but he couldn’t. Before he could mount a response, the aft section of the ship exploded with a massive shockwave that echoed across the ground, blowing out the engines and engulfing the form in billowing black smoke.

  It nosed downward and slammed into the surface, still a few hundred meters away from Scott’s position, but close enough to shake the ground. Five Space Corps fighters followed close behind, pounding rounds into the ship even as it hit the dirt before arcing away and heading back to the base. Scott stared for a few more seconds and cautiously continued on his way.

  The research station was unlocked, so Scott passed through the airlock without incident. The first room was dark, illuminated only by natural light from reinforced windows along the walls. Although hidden in shadow, he could make out the form of another man seated on the threshold between the first and second pod.

  The other man looked back. “Who are you?” he asked, sounding beyond frightened.

  “I’m Scott Ryan,” the engineer said. “I just landed. What are you doing here?”

  “Keeping low,” he answered. “Aliens took th
e base last night and the Corps showed up an hour ago. I didn’t want to risk drawing them out here.”

  Scott brushed off the comment. “Can we get back to the base before they leave? I got left out here and don’t want to get stranded.”

  “Hell with that. Too dangerous,” the figure stated, shaking his head. “No sense getting in the middle of that mess.”

  Although he had heard every opinion stated every imaginable way, Scott still turned visibly annoyed. “Really? That’s your excuse? Every day is dangerous out here! You don’t think they’ll need everyone out here to help fix the station?”

  The pair exchanged glances. “Look, the fleet told me to get to the base. Help me out or I’ll start walking.”

  * * *

  “Everybody off!” Major Kael shouted and bounded down the landing plank of the battalion’s shuttle. Soldiers poured out behind him, instantly kicking dirt up off the surface of the main landing platform. The massive doors of the maintenance hangar were open only a hundred meters away and Kael ran straight towards them.

  Over a hundred ranks back, Sergeant Mason picked up the rear of the infantry column. With the first step outside, he was immediately awed by the scale of the outpost ahead. The old capital ship stretched far above the shuttle and dwarfed all the stations he had grown accustomed to seeing. It must have been the landscape, giving it the sense of scale, since he had flown on larger ships before but had never encountered one on the ground.

  To the right, in a pile of smoldering wreckage, was one of the alien landing ships. Mason didn’t look hard, but he didn’t see any moving remains amongst the rest of the debris. The escorts had hammered them hard. That or they were already offloaded and were waiting inside the base. He brought his gaze ahead and steadied his nerves.

  The first company broke off and secured the structure’s threshold. The other four filtered inside and ran for the meager cover provided by the parked shuttles awaiting repair. Mason sped up to close the distance to the major. The first gunshots rang out.