MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace

by Matthew D. White

  The group exchanged a series of glances. “Depending on what just cooked off on Mars, this might have been a good call,” Fox said to the gathering and Grant in particular, who nodded in receipt.

  A hushed silence fell over the room as the team decompressed from the battle. The communications officer broke it a second later. “Sir, we’ve got a directive from General Raley. We’re to immediately dock with the Lexington’s command center.”

  Commander Fox watched the message scroll in. “Set our course.”

  “Should we get the refugees ready to move?”

  “Not yet,” Fox clarified. “We’re not clear until he says we are.”

  Grant approached the superintendent who had been standing silently to the side. “I need my ship reloaded. Can you dispatch a crew to see it gets done?” he asked, half rhetorically.

  “It’ll be done,” the master sergeant replied tersely, and excused himself from the room.

  Fox looked over each of the critical systems onboard before stopping at Mason. “How are your men downstairs?”

  “We had a few wounded, most minimal or terminal, but they’re stable.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. The deck trauma team should be on its way. I sent the call as soon as you cleared the door.”

  “Thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back down to them.”

  “Of course.” Fox pointed at Grant. “You’re the one who has an appointment.”

  “Just me?”

  “I’ll go too. Maybe we can bring some of the civilians to give their side of the story.”

  ***

  Scott had been pacing the hallway for twenty minutes, trying to wipe the memory of the battle from his memory as well as the blood from his hands. They still shook from the adrenaline surge, and a thousand thoughts poured through his head. Is this what every one of those bullet magnets dealt with every day?

  Three soldiers and two civilians had been killed in the exchange. Five others had breached suits and were being worked on by the medics. Somehow he had survived. It didn’t seem right.

  During the final volley, a soldier behind him took the last round before the human fighter rolled into the bay. He had heard the cry for help and crawled back under the hail of bullets and kept pressure on a massive laceration on the man’s side. He remained there until his patient finally bled out, with a look of fear through his clear visor that still hung in Scott’s mind.

  Why did I leave the transport? Why didn’t I just stay behind?

  He looked back down to the hangar as the ground crew arrived from their bunker elsewhere in the ship. It was comprised of an older sergeant followed by about a dozen younger maintainers. Scott decided to follow them over to Private Grant’s fighter.

  “Sergeant Miller, I don’t know what you expect us to do with this thing,” one of them voiced his concern to their supervisor. “It’s not even registered in our system.”

  “I’m not going to see us give up that easily. Scan it again,” the master sergeant replied.

  The facing soldier shrugged his shoulders and checked the device he had plugged into the data port near the landing gear. “Actually . . . never mind. It just loaded itself into the system,” he said, and read off the standard headings and armaments.

  The superintendent nodded in approval. “Standard fuel and ammunition,” he pointed at two of the others, “get the armory and fuel depot out of lockdown.” To the rest he continued, “We’ve got SR-1 support rigs on this level. Bring a set up here and we’ll make them work.”

  He looked up at the ship that only hours before had been strapped down to his deck, strapped down precisely where there were now four torn-up chunks of metal. The red skin was covered with soot and dirt but otherwise looked no worse for the wear. He still caught the faint wafting of smoke from the three leading cannons that had saved the rest of their defenders. Truth be told, he had never worked on a similar ship before.

  The engineer kept himself at a distance as the maintenance team scattered to gather equipment from the vaults set into the walls to his left. He watched as one of the junior sergeants opened the armory’s blast doors next to him and revealed a dizzying array of heavy weapons.

  Everything from extra rounds for the Flagstaff’s main guns to hundreds of missiles for the fighters were housed in shelves that extended up three levels. On both sides were several modular pods lined up on the ground floor, already resting on wheeled trailers. More interestingly, an inner vault was walled off about halfway back with a massive radioactive symbol painted on the wall.

  Apparently they’re cleared to carry nukes, Scott thought while he absorbed his surroundings. I wonder why they didn’t use them in the engagement.

  He switched his focus when a series of ground support vehicles covered with yellow caution tape drove out of their storage bay to meet the fighter on the line. Some looked like simple raised platforms while others carried loading systems to cycle the ship’s ammunition from the mini-guns and cannons.

  By the time he looked back at the fighter, the crew already had a dozen panels and hatches open and were hard at work. He would have investigated it farther, but he noticed the owner approach.

  “Are you busy right now?” Grant asked the observing engineer.

  “No, why? Are we getting kicked off?”

  “Not quite yet, but we need to see the general. Commander Fox is taking me to defend my position. Mr. Harris is coming to represent the colonists, so there’s room for you too.”

  30

  Commander Fox left the bridge to Clark and met his three companions at the airlock leading to the station. A small round window was built into the center of the lock and showed the growing target on the far side.

  “Have you been here before?” Fox asked the soldier.

  “Nope.” Grant shook his head. “I visited the capital ship during my time in Sol Charlie, but never the Lexington. I met Raley a few times, but he never said much to me. I took my orders from Admiral Heddings more often than not.”

  “You know he retired?”

  “Yes, I heard that mentioned the other day.” Grant shifted his weight uneasily and let the subject drop. Their ship hit home on the lock and hissed as the pressure equalized. One of the executive officers was waiting for the group on the far side and quickly whisked them to the general’s command center.

  A few turns and the visitors walked into the primary war room, a sprawling auditorium that contained a sizeable portion of the station’s volume. Rows of workstations filled the floor and spread along every wall. Front and center, a massive two dimensional projection of Earth illuminated the wall. The map was marked with the traces of applicable satellites, a number of ground targets, and the position of the station itself.

  General Raley was leaning over the table in the center studying a holograph of similar construction to the one that had been on the Flagstaff and looked up as the door opened. Deep lines crossed the older man’s face, displaying a mixture of stress and fear, but they lightened as soon as he saw Grant walk through the door.

  “Commander—Private Grant!” he exclaimed, and offered his hand. “It’s good to see you. I don’t know how you made it back, but they showed up right as you left. We’re looking at a total comm blackout to our other stations, as well as the fleets in Sol Bravo and Charlie.”

  “Same here. I thought I’d never see you again,” Grant replied, looking back at the closest thing he had to a leader anymore.

  “I thought the Aquillians didn’t have knowledge of jamming technology,” Fox commented.

  “Well, they’re nothing if they’re not resourceful, not to mention cunning,” Raley summarized. “We’ve sunk enough of those freaks by feeding them bad ideas, but maybe they’re finally getting wise to us. I just can’t believe they’ve got enough left to mount an attack like this.”

  “Sir, they’re not Aquillians, at least not all of them,” Grant admitted. “There were a few on Mars, but they were assisted by some different ones.”


  A new look of fear washed over the general’s face before he collected his emotions and reassumed his command presence. “What are you thinking?”

  “If I had to guess, they were testing our defenses and responses. I don’t know what was collecting the data, but I think I got them before they could get a message out.”

  Raley nodded. “That’s something, but we’ve still got a mess on our hands. I’ve already dispatched units to the other systems to pull back while we evaluate their intentions. Plus, we still have to mop up their surface teams.”

  “They got some to the surface?” Fox asked.

  “Yes, to a few dozen locations, best we can tell. Earth Corps has the stick on them, but they’re slow to mobilize responders.” He glanced around the gathered audience, then back at Grant again. “Have you gotten your refugees looked at yet?”

  “Not yet, sir, but I have another favor to ask.”

  “It seems to me that happens a lot with you.” Raley crossed his arms. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I need the Flagstaff, and I need to leave the system.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” the general began. “And judging by the look on the commander’s face, you haven’t told him about this either.”

  “Sorry, Gordon,” Grant apologized, “but I had to get us back here. It’s crazy, I know, but the same thing that told me to get back here told me that I need to leave Sol.”

  General Raley sighed and shook his head. “Why does it have to be this? You want to pull a sizeable asset from the defense of Earth on a hunch? On a bit of introspection?”

  “It’s not that; it’s something more. I can’t explain it any better than that. All I can say is that it’ll be the best way to give us a chance to survive.”

  “He’s been talking about running to Earth ever since we pulled him out of the mine, sir,” Othello added. “Private Grant was solid through the entire battle, but I’ve never seen someone that afraid. I’m here and alive only because I gave him that chance.”

  “Mister Grant’s capability has never been a question for me, even if he has been more or less suicidal for most of our engagements,” the general continued, “but the stakes keep getting higher with every passing day, and I’m making it up as I go along.”

  “Well, what does Admiral Heddings recommend?” Grant asked, spying a telltale copy of the thick textbook with a blue binding on the table beside them. Command of The Galaxy: Strategic Operations in the First Generation of Interstellar Warfare by the master himself remained the definitive text of all students of the day, and though it had been around more than twenty years, it was still the best reference available, even to a general.

  Raley chuckled and wrapped his hand on the top cover. “I wish I knew. He always trusted your judgment, if not your methods, but regardless, he was willing to step on a mine for you.” Considering the tags indicating enemy activity on the map of the planet below, he continued, “Heddings would give you the benefit of the doubt, but not without something in return. Have you ever been to Extortion?”

  “The oil derrick? No, why? Did they get hit?” Grant replied.

  “Yes, the aliens got multiple drops completed and took the entire station. They took out a few of Earth Corps’ aircraft and now they’re scrambling to find another way to get it back. You can imagine the political pressure to get it secured as well.”

  Scott shook his head. “I’m sorry, what’s Extortion?”

  “It’s the biggest oil rig on the planet. Actually, it’s a network of five. It provides more than half of the world’s crude, which is needed for cheap fuels and lubricating oils,” Grant explained.

  “Remember, it’s still a very dense source of energy and more obtainable for numerous countries with Gross Domestic Products that can’t cover the purchase or maintenance of one warp engine. Extortion was a huge investment, with each derrick hitting a different field. They’ve damn near built a city on the top of the rigs.”

  “They built multiple platforms side by side? Modern drilling can’t overcome that with one by itself?” Scott questioned.

  “You can talk engineering and logic all day long, but political motives need to be factored in as well. With so many countries and interests vying for control, it was the easiest way to keep all the major players happy, or at least minimally pissed-off.” General Raley answered the question with a level of tact only a flag officer could get away with; anyone else would have instantly been dropped paperwork.

  “Okay, got it,” Scott concluded. It must have been a side-effect of living in space so long; he hadn’t even considered the possibility that not every town had access to a modern energy grid. Plus, it wasn’t like petroleum ever made its way into space with them.

  “Anyway, the aliens are entrenched on every platform with a few thousand civilians held hostage, right on top of the planet’s largest energy reserve,” General Raley continued. “Earth Corps can’t even get close enough to drop troops or weapons. They’re screaming at me for help, and they’re the ones who are supposed to be equipped for the job.”

  He switched the holographic display on the central table from the orbital view to one of the Extortion rig network. At an angle, it took up the entire surface but showed detail down to individual buildings on the top, as well as systems of pipes and scaffolds below. Red spots dotted the model.

  “And what do you expect me to do?” Grant asked.

  General Raley smiled. “You want a ship? Clean them out. Priorities are saving the civilians and the structure, so no ballistic strikes. I won’t give you anymore guidance than that.”

  “Can you rearm us?” Othello inquired.

  “Not from here. I can’t afford to deplete our stocks when we don’t know what’s coming. If you need it, I’ll give you access to any Earth Corps armory you need. The inventories plus current intel are already on their way to your ship,” he added and gestured to the map.

  “Thank you, sir. It will be done.”

  “I have no doubt. Good hunting.”

  The group dispersed and started back to the Flagstaff. They made it two meters into the first hallway before Fox exploded.

  “I cannot effing believe you!” he shouted at Grant. “You seriously brought every member of my crew here under a false pretense in order to goad the Fleet Commander into accepting a gaddamn mutiny?”

  “Very wrong, I agree, but this was the only way. I know you don’t believe me, but trust that this is necessary.”

  “Trust?” the commander’s jaw dropped. “After this, there won’t be one person in the service that trusts you! How do you expect to have any credibility at all? And stop talking like you’re a machine!”

  “Deeds, not words, Commander,” Grant curtly replied. “We’ve got a job to do, and I’d like your assistance with it.”

  “Unbelievable.” Fox shook his head as they hit the final airlock back to the ship. “Take the conference room. I’ll meet you there,” he added, and was gone.

  Grant sighed and stared out the window into space beyond. “For the record, I really wish there would have been another way, but I didn’t see it.”

  Scott filled the cold silence. “For what it’s worth, I still trust you,” he offered.

  “Thanks,” the soldier responded, “but don’t speak too soon. Speaking of necessity, can you find Sergeant Mason and have him meet us upstairs by the bridge?”

  ***

  Fox slammed the door to his quarters behind him. The wooden panels and bolted-down furniture deadened the noise to a dull thud, and he was left in an isolated stillness. He withdrew the pistol from the drop-holster on his waist, placed it on his desk, and stared at it for longer than was healthy.

  It was a bad idea; he knew it from the start. He remembered Commander Grant so clearly as a suicidal maniac, and although things had clearly changed, he didn’t dare let his guard down for a second. The soldier either had to be the world’s biggest narcissist to think he could get away with such an operation, or – Fox paused to consider the alternati
ve – he fully and completely believed in what he was doing. Genius was far more frightening than madness.

  Insult and anger aside, he had to respect Grant’s cunning. So far, his calls had been correct, and they’d been moderately successful. Fox tried to calm his nerves back down and let the frustration subside.

  Maybe there was more to the story that he just didn’t know. Fox spun the weapon once upon the desk. Regardless, he needed to get back to the meeting before the private badgered his executive officer into some other crazy experiment.

  He retrieved the simple black-oxide-coated steel and rosewood weapon, instinctively checked the chamber, and replaced it in his holster. Let’s hope that’s the last time, he thought, half ashamed for drawing it in the first place.

  ***

  By the time Fox got back to the briefing room, the rest of the group had already assembled and was studying the Extortion floor plan. “What do you have so far?” he asked, trying to regain control of his own ship.

  “They’re dug in on the North and Central rigs. Most of the civilians are wrapped up on North, but Central is key to the system. They had guided weapons that dropped two SR-1’s and one of Earth Corps’ high-speed shuttles. We’re trying to figure out a way to land.”

  Fox thought for a minute before the engineer spoke up from the back of the room. “Do we know how their weapons tracked the ships?” Scott instantly caught the attention of the team, so he elaborated. “They’re obviously breaking out prototypes, so they probably aren’t that robust. If we can change our flight profile, keep radio silence or something like that, maybe it would be enough for us to get in.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Grant answered. “Any likely candidates? What could they be looking for?”

  “I’d guess the sub-light engines,” Fox stated. “They’re the thermally hottest and electrically loudest systems we have. Plus, they have very unique radio signatures. Their tracking system would be all-weather and wouldn’t be dependent on an atmosphere. Do you have a plan for once you land?”