MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace

by Matthew D. White

  “I think there’s an entrance down at the corner,” Mason announced to his squad. “I can see an indention in the wall. Follow me. Delta, check your side too.” The sergeant stood and moved down the wall, alert for any movement. Multiple soldiers behind him followed suit, keeping their weapons alternating between the streets ahead, the building across, the road behind, and the structure above.

  He reached the target and saw the door was already kicked in. “They’re here,” Mason whispered, and peered inside. The building was still under construction, with only a few walls close to completion. Drop cloths hung from open metal rafters around pallets of cinder blocks and drywall, while only a few sections of the outer shell were completed, causing long, cold shadows to be cast from one end of the room to the other.

  “We’ve got a wide spiral staircase leading up from the lobby over here. There are at least two enclosed shafts that I can see – probably service elevators,” the sergeant announced. “No targets. Moving to second level.”

  ***

  “Where’s Mr. Grant?” Othello asked over the radio.

  “Presumed K.I.A.” Sergeant Allen responded. “You saw him take a dozen rockets along with him.”

  The veteran soldier a platform away drove the hardened stainless steel protrusion on the back of his hatchet into the side of the final alien scout. It grasped involuntarily at the wound as it fell to its knees. While it could still sense feelings, Grant planted a firm kick to its back and ripped the weapon free, opening the channel wider. He flicked blood from the blade as he responded to his forces. “I’m still here. Had a few visitors I needed to take care of.”

  “Jeff! Thank God! Are you alright?” one of the others replied in disbelief.

  “I’ll be fine. The suit took most of the fall. “I’ve got clear lines of fire to the center courtyard and the bridge to South. How’s the landing?”

  “Could have been better. We’re down maybe four soldiers, plus one bird. First row is secure and Mason is leading a charge up the building to the east,” Othello answered. “Good to hear you made it.”

  “Well, I might be in trouble here before too long. There are at least a hundred of the black-armored aliens in the buildings facing mine. I’ll engage if I can, but if they decide to pour over the bridge, I’ll only be able to take so many.”

  Seconds later he heard Mason as well. “Allen, get Alpha and Bravo to secure our side of the bridge. If they get off the bridge we’ll be done. Can you see our building to the east?”

  “Yes, but I’ve got supports directly in my field of view. I can’t tell where you are.”

  “Roger. Sit tight; once we clean up here we’ll get over to you.”

  Grant nodded to himself and slid to the side while still prone and looked down at the central rig’s inner courtyard, a thin strip of grass and rock surrounding a tall, completed building. Aliens swarmed in every direction beneath him, but he didn’t hear any more try to take the stairs to his position.

  ***

  Scott rested the barrel of his rifle on the makeshift barricade before him on the edge of the roof. He had a fairly clear shot halfway down the bridge and kept one eye on it non-stop. Bravo squad moved in from the left on the street below and likewise took up a defensive stance. Allen and half of Alpha were on the right, guiding the Space Corps troops up the construction site on the corner.

  He heard shouts and sporadic gunfire erupt without warning. His squadmates sounded more reactionary than they should have been. Maybe they couldn’t see as well as they had hoped. It was possible, Scott mused, that they were ill-equipped for the battle.

  The engineer cursed at himself, thinking there should have been something he could have done. He had the map in front of him on the ship. It was in three-effing-dimensions and he still couldn’t tell they should have brought some long-range equipment. Anything for surveillance, a sniper rifle – hell, even some decent binoculars could have helped out.

  That’s it! Scott thought. “Sergeant Allen, what did the aliens use to spot the helicopters?”

  “Radar, probably. Maybe optics for the SAMs.”

  “Did the aliens downstairs have anything we could use to spot for Mason?”

  Allen looked back at Scott. “Go check.”

  He elbowed the security officer beside him. “Cover for me. I’ll be right back,” Scott added, and ran back to the stairs. Taking four at a time, he hit the next landing hard, turned, and bounded down the few remaining metal steps.

  The bodies were still lying in twisted piles as the team had left them. Scott swallowed whatever fear was still within him and flipped the nearest onto its back and started checking pouches. The sight of the alien’s head beside his own was jarring, but he blocked it out. Whatever these things were, they looked far more . . . ferocious came to mind, than the Aquillians he had fought on Mars.

  Its suit was made of a material that felt like a stiff fabric, as if halfway between neoprene and Kevlar plates, which afforded light protection but at the same time provided unhindered movement. Each pocket came up empty, holding only ammunition and lord-knew-what-else. Scott tossed any unknown objects aside, finished with the first body, and moved to the next.

  The second had fallen on a dry missile launcher that he hadn’t seen from farther away. The engineer picked up the long tube and tried to deduce its function. Okay, reverse-engineering this should be easy. That’s all they do, Scott thought, and hit a sequence of buttons on the trigger.

  A small scope extended from the side. He looked through it and blindly felt for more controls. He found an indented hat that seemed to adjust zoom and light compensation. Like a four-way directional pad, Scott found the interface strangely intuitive.

  “I think I’ve got something. Hold on!” Scott shouted, and sprinted back up the stairs. Once up top, he rejoined Allen and passed the weapon over. “Check out the scope.”

  Allen checked it for himself and handed it back. “Perfect. You know how to use it; you’re up. They’re on the fourth floor.”

  Another day, he would have objected, but Scott took a knee and scanned over the construction site. On both sides through the open walls he could see the soldiers moving up their respective stairwells. In the center of the fourth floor, he spied a small group of aliens blockaded behind the internal scaffolds.

  “Mason, you’ve got about five aliens behind some construction debris, maybe ten meters in.”

  “Roger. What angle?”

  “Straight out, a little deeper inside the building.”

  “Got it. Alpha, take one volley to cover us on three.”

  Mason gave a short countdown and the men standing around Scott each gave a quick burst of fire. The engineer blinked, looked back, and saw that the soldiers had already broken through. A few flashes of gunfire later and his voice came through again. “Floor’s clear. What’s upstairs?”

  Scott quickly scanned from one side to the other. “I’ve got no movement on the fifth floor. Same on the sixth. Seventh has about a dozen at the ready.”

  ***

  Sergeant Mason gritted his teeth and led his team back to the atrium. “Delta, we’re going to need to take this one together,” he ordered while beginning the ascent. “Can you breach first, open fire, and drop at two seconds? Once you have their attention, we’ll hit ‘em from our side as well.”

  “Can do. We’re at the entrance; just say when.”

  “Five seconds,” Mason updated as his team ran to their target. “Hit it!”

  ***

  Othello heard another exchange of shots echo off the buildings around him. The street was calm to either side and the bridge was still dead. Together, his team pulled out a few concrete barricades, sat them in the intersection, and had each taken a corner. Lying prone, he stared down his weapon, looking for any sign of movement on the far end.

  The position only offered so much, as a gentle rise in the structure obscured the ground and a general haze flowed non-stop around the central rig.

  “Clear on the
roof. Found that bitch with the SAM.”

  33

  The SAM operator took one shot to the leg and was knocked flat on his face. Mason walked up to it, kicked the weapon away, and dragged the creature by the collar to the edge of the building. “Take its hands,” he ordered the soldiers beside him.

  Each grabbed an arm and put a bullet through at the wrist. The alien struggled and roared from behind its mask, but it couldn’t object with Mason’s foot on its chest. The two soldiers then drew knives and sawed the arms off the rest of the way.

  “Dice his face,” Mason ordered, and ripped the helmet away. The creature continued to struggle while two blades filleted and peeled half the leather from around its eyes. Meanwhile, the sergeant consulted his medical bag and poured a ration of clotting agent into the helmet’s recess.

  Mason looked back down at the decrepit alien. “This is for our ride. Surprise!” he shouted, and slammed the helmet back in place, trapping the searing agent against its face.

  It screeched and thrashed from the pain, but Mason ignored the pitiful struggle, lifted the enemy to its feet, and tossed it to the middle of the roof.

  “That’s enough to make it bleed out, right?” he asked the soldier beside him. The other man raised his weapon and put another bullet through the alien’s opposite leg.

  “That should do it,” he replied.

  ***

  Scott watched the scene unfold as much as he could from his lower position and was more than glad he was no closer. The capabilities of the soldiers around him had never been in question, but the current display removed the last of military romanticism.

  “South is clear,” he reported. “No movement from the tower.”

  ***

  “Good. It’s about time.” Grant breathed a sigh of relief. While he was still utterly exposed and alone on the central rig, no one had yet come looking for his victims. “Scott, can you see the west rig with the SAM? Is there any sign of activity?”

  The engineer spun around and checked from the opposite side of the roof. “I can’t see too much from this angle, but I don’t see anything moving.”

  “I’ve got another launcher up here,” Mason added, “and a clear view of West. How’d you turn this thing on?”

  “There’s a red button on the left side that extends the scope. Once it’s open, there’s a cross-shaped key that adjusts magnification.”

  “Got it.” The sergeant paused. “If there are any over there, they’re not moving.”

  “Still no movement by the bridge,” Grant announced. “If you want to regroup, it might be time to get over here.”

  “Can do. Do you have an objective for us?” Mason asked.

  “If you can get over the bridge in one piece, I think you should be able to take the building to the right. I haven’t seen any movement toward it, and I’ll be able to give you cover from here.”

  “Copy that,” Mason responded. “We’ll get back down to the street. I’ll lead Charlie Squad across, then we’ll provide cover for the two civilian squads and have Delta bring up the rear.”

  “Clear to proceed,” Grant affirmed, and scanned his surroundings one more time. “The aliens over here have pulled back farther north, so I think you’ll have an easy time of it.”

  ***

  “Ready to cross. Delta’s here and ready to provide security. Sergeant Allen, get Alpha down here and take Bravo’s place.” Mason paused to look over his team. “Alright. Forward! Double time!”

  With the order, Charlie moved at a medium jog across the bridge. Running for a longer distance was awkward with the restricting armor, but they maintained their pace the entire way. At three meter spacing between each soldier, they ran a little close for mine protection, but for the short duration, it was a risk they were willing to take.

  Grant watched the group approach all the way from the far side, waved when they got close, and pointed them to the first finished building to their right. The first six stacked up on the nearest door, blasted their way in, and called it clear. With no danger or alien presence to be felt, the remaining sixteen followed in.

  They rushed through the next two floors, and Grant heard their sergeant stage fire teams at each of the perimeter windows. “Building secure,” Mason announced. “We’ve got clear fields of fire down all the streets. No sign of movement. Grant, Where’s the force you saw?”

  “I told you, they pulled back north around the central tower,” Grant said, and switched channels. “Commander Fox, are you seeing any major movement?”

  ***

  A hundred and fifty klicks to the southwest, the Flagstaff hung at the edge of low Earth orbit. Fox was seated at his command station with a far lower level of stress than the soldiers on the ground. He almost concerned himself with Grant’s potential usurpation but was determined to not let himself go down the road of the petty and insignificant.

  “I’ve got nothing for you,” the commander stated, looking at the main display before him. “More signals - probably rocket teams - on the top floors of a few northern buildings, but nothing major. Are they digging in to hold the civilians?”

  “Unknown.”

  “In that case, I can only wish you luck. I’ll pull an orbit and see if we pick up anything at a different angle.”

  “Copy that.”

  Fox looked across the rest of the flight deck. “What’s the status on our resupply?”

  “About an hour out, sir,”

  “Good, we’ll probably here at least that long. Update the cargo crew with our flight path.”

  ***

  “Bravo, ready to cross?” Grant’s voice came through the radio after a minute of silence.

  Othello looked back at Allen. “Think we’re ready? Are you?”

  “We are if you are, Mr. Harris. Make it quick so we can get over there with you.”

  “Alright, we’re going,” Othello answered, and he took the lead as the team began its slow jog across behind Charlie Squad.

  ***

  “Mason, do you hear that?” Grant asked as he tilted his head.

  “Hear what?” The sergeant leaned his head out of the facing building.

  He strained against the blowing ocean breeze. “I just heard a turbine kick off.” Grant paused and searched for it again. “I think I hear a jet engine.”

  “I don’t hear anything. Did someone call our shuttles back?”

  Grant opened his mouth to speak, but the noise grew steadily. He looked back over his shoulder in time to see two alien dropships scream past no more than ten meters outside the blown-out wall. “Incoming! Take cover!” he shouted to the soldiers below.

  The two ships slowed and came to a hover aside the bridge. Turning to face the scurrying fighters below, each opened fire with a slow but powerful machinegun.

  Most likely an Aquillian knockoff and no more than a poor self-protection system, the guns punched watermelon-sized chunks out of the asphalt at three shots per second and scattered the running soldiers. The first blast landed a meter before Harris, who automatically ducked, then chose to ignore the fire and sprint through.

  Scanning behind his back, he saw they weren’t keeping up. “Come on! We’ve got to get out of here!” the miner heaved, and dove for the low metal guardrail on the side of the walkway. On his knees, it provided minimal protection, but was better than nothing.

  His rifle went first over the edge and he opened fire on the nearest shuttle, firing a concentrated burst on what he assumed was the pilot’s compartment. He ducked again a second later and rolled to the side as a dozen massive bullets tore the thin metal covering to shreds. The nearest suspension cable took a hit, frayed, and snapped with the report of an artillery cannon.

  The second shuttle pivoted and opened on Othello’s position as well. He rolled again, returned fire, and moved again. More cables snapped above his head. Looking to the far side, he saw most of the rest of Bravo squad had spread out thin and was away from his distraction. At least they have a chance to make it, he thought.<
br />
  A stripe of shots tore through the guard beside him and the whole side of the platform fell away, leaving Othello bare to the dropships’ next attack. He cursed, slid to his feet, and dropped five twenty-millimeter heavy rounds through his rifle one-handed. Once up, he sprinted at the far wall, again firing blindly to his side. The miner made it three steps before a shot exploded beneath his feet, sending him flying into the wall of severed, twisted suspension cables.

  Othello felt something hit his face, and he grabbed ahold of it before he opened his eyes. When he did, he found himself sliding down the cable below the surface of the bridge and out of the shuttles’ line of sight. He held on tighter as his brain reset and tried to remember how he got into the current mess.

  ***

  Grant lay on his machinegun, frozen in time and unable to move. He targeted the nearest dropship, currently pounding the hell out of the bridge, but couldn’t pull the trigger. If he took a shot, there was no way he’d escape retaliation. He was in the open and had no place to hide.

  His radio crackled and he heard a familiar voice come through. “Do the bridges have a second level?”

  “Harris! Is that you? You’re alive?”

  “I think so –for the moment. Does the bridge have a second level?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because I’m looking at one. There’s a service passage down here surrounded by pipes with at least two hundred of those freaks running full speed for the south rig.”

  “What?”

  “They’re coming up behind us!” Othello struggled to talk while he climbed back up the cable. He reached the edge of the blown-apart guard and saw the two shuttles still waiting for him. Most of his squad had made it, given up, or was already dead. The aliens evidently didn’t see him as he wasn’t dodging fire.

  From his left, a line of fire roared down the bridge and hit the left dropship dead center. It exploded in a massive, deep fireball and tumbled from the sky.

  “How’s that taste, shitbag?!” Scott shouted from the edge of the south platform, smoking SAM launcher still on his shoulder at the ready. He watched as his target spilled fire and splashed down into the blue Pacific water far below. He turned to the soldier beside him. “Where’s the next shot?”