by Bobby Adair
I zip around the curve of the glass dome, tight and fast, seeing the handful of Trogs spreading out and moving toward Silva’s position behind the shed. On full auto, I spray them from the back as I fly by, and don’t see the Trogs just exiting the airlock until I’m on them.
We collide.
Suit to suit, body to body.
Everything is spinning, and I’m rolling across the surface, being pushed by my suit’s grav fields that are compensating too late and too wrong.
I slam something hard that knocks the air out of my lungs, rattles my brain, and sends my eyes spinning in their sockets.
Chapter 58
My senses come back slowly, but when they do, I see Silva staring through my faceplate. She’s panicky, yelling. “You okay? You okay?”
Seems like the kind of question that answers itself to the negative when there’s no response.
She shakes me. “You okay?”
“Yeah?” I’m not sure. I feel like an elephant stepped on me. “Sure.”
“Can you walk?”
How the hell would I know? I’m not entirely sure I’m even breathing.
Wait. Of course I am.
I know because it hurts when my chest expands.
“The Trogs,” I remember. I turn my head to look around.
Oh, good. My neck works.
I move my fingers and toes.
Thank God. Not paralyzed.
“Can you walk?”
Silva turns her attention to my d-pad. She keys the medical alert button and my screen flashes to a diagnostic menu. I feel the suit’s inner liner contract in places, testing resistance while biosensors measure pain. I know it’s sampling my urine, checking my heart rate and blood pressure.
“You’re not bleeding,” she tells me. “The inner suit’s intact.”
“Really?”
Her expression turns to anger and she pounds the d-pad.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” She looks at me, frustration on her face. “Damn things says you’re in perfect health for a twenty-two-year-old woman on her period.”
I laugh. How could I not? Some things are just too funny. “At least I’m not pregnant.”
Silva laughs, too.
I sit up. “Where are the Trogs?”
“You may have a concussion.”
I shake my head. I don’t feel concussed.
She’s back to querying my d-pad. “The suit says you took an impact that could have caused a concussion.”
“Just rattled my brains,” I tell her, as I start to get to my feet.
“Don’t.” Her hand presses down on my shoulder to keep me in place.
“We need to get back in the fight.” It hurts to breathe, but all my body parts seem to be working, my brain seems to be coming back online.
“You need a medic.”
“I don’t.” I push past her restraint and stand up, shaky in the knees and feeling lightheaded. It’s the adrenaline I tell myself. It’s got to be just that. I reach down and take up my rifle.
“You’re wobbling.”
“Gravity.”
Silva frowns.
It sounded like bullshit to me, too. I tell her, “It’s passing. Where are the Trogs?”
Silva keys out of my medical evaluation screen. “I guess if you can stand, you’re not going to die, at least not right now. You might have internal injuries.”
“Then I’ll die in a few hours,” I tell her, looking around. “Nothing we can do about that unless we take this mining colony and they have a pressurized medical facility with a real live doctor.”
“Or you’ll injure yourself worse and bleed out through your ass.”
“I’ll just max power to my suit’s recycler and I’ll be fine.”
“I didn’t realize you were so full of shit.” Silva’s being very protective, and I can’t figure out why.
I respond by being stubborn. “Let’s get this done.”
“Yes, sir.” Full dose of sarcasm.
My kind of girl. Too bad I have a wife.
Silva turns and points to the airlock where the Trogs were coming out of the glass dome. “Mostyn tossed a grenade in. Maybe it’ll discourage them from using that exit.”
Glancing around, I see the bodies of ten Trogs scattered about. “How long was I dazed?”
“Unconscious.”
“Whatever,” I tell her. “How long?”
“A minute? Two? Three, maybe.”
“Damn, you ladies work fast.”
“Well, Mr. I’m Fine, if you had the sense to turn your comms back on, you’d know what the hell was going on.”
I accept the rebuke without protest. “That gun Brice’s team was attacking?”
“Out of action.” She shakes her head. “That’s why Mostyn was here to help with the airlock.”
I smile and nod. Good job. I toggle on the squad comm and listen.
Brice’s team has just killed another handful of Trogs outside a surface-level storage building. Looking at Silva, I say, “Lead the way.”
With a sigh, she starts.
“Faster,” I tell her. “I’m not that injured.”
She picks up the pace, bounding across the rock, not as quickly as I saw her moving when she was on the attack, but not so fast as to leave me behind.
I’m slow. My head is swimming. A handful of aspirin and a few days on my back might be what I need. That’ll only happen if we take this mining colony.
We round an outcrop of jagged rock and come upon the other three. They’re arrayed outside a warehouse airlock. Trog bodies are on the ground around them. Helmets are scattered everywhere—not the misshapen Trog ones—but high-forehead human helmets.
Worse, down one side of the building, stacked like chopped wood and frozen in their death poses, are humans in militarized versions of orange construction suits.
I decide in that moment I don’t care if the Trogs own the Grays, are their allies, or are slaves just like us. They’re murderous pigs.
Chapter 59
I notice as I hurry toward the building’s airlock, letting my anger run away with my judgment, the corpses piled against the wall are in their full suits, helmets included.
It doesn’t make sense.
Where did the scattered helmets come from, then?
When I get close to the other three, I ask, “What’s the plan?”
Brice is surprised I’m still alive. “What’s your plan?”
I glance at the helmets on the ground. I’m hoping they came from prisoners and I’m guessing bodies are all we’ll find. “We need to see what’s inside.”
Silva laughs, and so do Mostyn and Hastings. Silva says, “That’s why he’s the major.”
“Let me finish,” I tell them. “Brice, you wait out here with Mostyn and Hastings and keep guard. Me and Silva will go in.”
Silva starts in, “You’re in no shape—”
“No,” Brice tells me. “You two stay out here.” He turns to Hastings. “Stay with them. I’ll take Mostyn. “ Looking at me, he says, “If things get dicey inside, we need to be at one-hundred-percent.”
“Fine.” I turn to face the other buildings in the compound and raise my rifle as I drop to a knee among the field of helmets. More Trogs will be coming. “Make it quick.”
Brice and Mostyn hurry to the door.
Silva takes the right flank. Hastings takes up a defensive position to my left. Each of us has a wide field of fire.
Brice is already opening the outer airlock door.
I drop down to my belly. When the Trogs come, I hope I’ll look like a discarded helmet or a wayward corpse, until I surprise them with a hail of hypervelocity titanium-wrapped lead.
“I’ve got movement,” says Silva.
That was quick. But then again, we are invading their little asteroid fortress.
I look. I don’t see anything.
Silva is down on her belly as well. “Coming up past that outcrop.”
Still looking. The rocks are b
locking my view.
“We’re inside the airlock,” says Brice, “waiting for it to cycle.”
“Tell me when you have them in sight,” says Silva, talking to me. “Thirty, maybe a few more. Packed close like they do. A few are stalking along close to the rock.”
“I see one peeking this way,” I tell her. “We’ll open fire when we can both target them.”
I scan across what I can see of the compound, looking for other movement, knowing once the shooting starts, I’ll likely not think to look for flanking Trogs, I’ll be too busy trying to stay alive. “Hastings, anything?”
“Nothing on this side,” she answers.
“Airlock at pressure,” Brice tells us. “I’m ready to open the inner door. Ready, Mostyn?”
“Ready,” she answers.
“You see the Trogs, yet?” asks Silva.
“Got ‘em,” I answer, and the abstraction of the number turns concrete and deadly. Odd, how the two things can feel so different. “Brice, Mostyn, keep your ears open. We might get into trouble out here.”
Might? Inside my head, I’m laughing.
There’s no might. Things are going to become interesting.
“Full auto, pray and spray,” says Silva. “We’ll start on the right, shoot down my line.”
Good thinking.
If we double up our fire on the same targets, we can overwhelm their suits’ grav deflectors. “I’m game. On three?”
“Three,” she says, “two, one.”
A light show of glowing metal flares out from our positions, sweeping back and forth across the line of Trogs, deflecting in every direction.
The Trogs have no time to react. They’re falling and exploding—literally exploding—as suits and chests decompress through holes just torn. Arms are ripped away and more than one head spins off into space.
They’re all down in moments.
Many are squirming.
Dying or knocked over?
I don’t know.
Silva targets and fires single shots at those still moving.
I scan around for more Trogs, and catch one gawking from the edge of the rocky outcrop. I fire just a second too late. He’s back behind cover. “At least one more behind the rocks.”
“Many of these are still alive,” says Silva.
I roll to my left, three or four times to shift my position. I’m still in the garden of white helmets. “Shift,” I call to Silva as I move.
A second later, the Trog behind the outcrop pops out, aims his gun, and sends a hunk of metal right at the spot I just left. Shards of rock explode when the round hits, and the helmets tumble around.
“I thought they were all terrible shots,” I tell the others.
“Most are,” someone responds.
The Trog is working the bolt on his rifle to load another round as three more Trogs come running out from that side of the rock.
Moving targets are harder to hit, and I ignore them for a second—it’s the one with the gun I want. “I’ve got four charging me!” I call into the comm. I fire.
The Trog with the railgun takes a glancing shot on his shoulder and spins away out of sight. A wound, but only for a moment. He’ll decompress and die.
Silva is firing at the other three Trogs when I adjust my aim and help her finish them off.
Our automatic weapons make all the difference.
And just as that happy thought crosses my mind, the price for automatic fire comes due.
A beep sounds inside my helmet and a small red warning light flashes.
“What the hell?”
“What?” asks Silva, alarmed.
“Warning.” I’m looking down at my suit, feeling around for holes, taking deep breaths, thinking I might be decompressing. “A beep. A red light.”
“On the left edge of the faceplate?” asks Silva.
“Yeah.”
“Hydrogen pack,” she tells me. “You’ve burned through yours.”
“What the hell? It’s a fresh pack.” And the damn yellow warning light never came on to tell me it was low.
“Brice told me the hydro level indicators don’t work on half of them.”
No wonder we’re losing this fucking war!
I reach down for my backup pack strapped to my thigh.
Gone.
Shit!
Must have been knocked off in…
Oh hell, it doesn’t matter where I lost it.
“Here,” says Silva, “take mine.” She’s already removed it from its mount. She tosses it over.
Halfway across, it explodes as it’s hit by a red-hot railgun round.
I can’t believe it!
“That’s the luckiest shot I’ve ever seen,” says Silva.
Lucky because they were probably aiming at one of us.
Still, bad luck for me.
Chapter 60
Silva fires three more bursts. “Let me do the shooting unless there’s a Trog on you.”
That’s not a solution.
“Hastings,” she calls, “you got an extra hydro pack?”
“I only brought one with me,” she answers. “I picked up a cal pack by mistake. Brice and Mostyn will be out soon. One of them might have some H.”
Ugh.
“I can’t raise them,” says Silva.
“Me neither,” says Hastings.
“It’s probably the building that’s interfering,” I tell them, hoping they’re not both already dead inside.
“It’s okay,” says Silva. “You’ve still got a few minutes.”
The ubiquitous hum from my backpack suddenly stops. I notice it for its absence.
Now I know I have maybe five minutes.
“I’ve got Trogs!” says Silva. She fires.
“Some here, too,” says Hastings. “I’ve got ‘em!”
With no power, it’s not just air I’ll run out of. My suit will lose heat, and my weapon won’t fire. I’m useless.
I look over my shoulder at the warehouse, willing the airlock door to swing open.
Is there atmosphere inside?
Are there Trogs in there?
I spot the feet of the bodies stacked along the outer wall—dead soldiers, all in their suits.
Glowing rounds streak past us, past the warehouse, and into space. They’re not even close to hitting anything.
“I can’t see where that fire is coming from,” I say.
“Back toward the center of town,” answers Silva.
That’s too far away for most Trogs to hit a target.
I have to make a choice.
I slowly stand, careful not to push too hard. An excited jump might send me into orbit. Now, with no suit grav, I have to control my movements manually. I low-g skip to the side of the warehouse, round the corner, and I scoot back along the stacks of corpses, moving far from the line of fire. “I’m checking these bodies for a hydro cell,” I tell Silva and Hastings, so they won’t think I ran away.
Selecting one of the many suits, I stop and grab its hydro pack. I twist and tug until it’s free. Two seconds later, I’ve popped off my empty and put the new cell in its place.
I wait.
Nothing happens.
No reactor hum.
No breath of fresh air.
Damn.
I try another pack, switch it out, same result.
I try a third and realize the mistake I’m making—all of these packs would have continued to burn through hydrogen until they ran out of juice. They wouldn’t have stopped when the person in the suit died.
Two hundred bodies, and not one of them has a good hydro cell.
Think.
How many minutes before my suit’s atmosphere turns bad. Will it be suffocation or hypothermia that kills me?
The suit already feels cool on my skin.
I call to Brice and Mostyn.
Still no answer.
At some point, I need to risk the airlock.
I scan up and down the pile of bodies. They’re all Chinese SDF recruits
from those older ships shot down and dumped in the mine pit. I don’t see extra hydropacks strapped to their thighs, which means they didn’t have the automatic weapons we did.
Still, there had to be a heavy weapon of some sort in each platoon—larger caliber, higher muzzle velocity, more energy to run. All of our SDF railguns are powered off our packs, and a heavy weapon would require extra hydro cells. I drop to my knees and start sorting through the maze of frozen legs.
Searching.
Scooting.
Searching.
Success.
I see a hydro pack wedged between two frozen legs and I start prying it out. “How’s it going out there, Silva?”
No answer. Of course not, no power. Dead radio.
I seat my hydrogen pack in its cradle, and instantly feel the micro-reactor’s familiar buzz.
Air flows in my suit.
“I’m good to go,” I call over the comm.” I’m already running. “I’ve got a full cell. How’s it going out there, Silva?”
“Holding my own,” she tells me. “They’re massing back toward the town center. I’ll be in trouble in a minute.”
“How many?” I ask.
“One or two hundred?” she’s guessing. That’s the Trog’s favorite tactic. Mass their troops—everyone they’ve got—and then bonsai charge.
“Brice! Mostyn!” I call into the comm. “I need you out here.” Just in case they can hear.
No response.
Not good.
Not good at all.
“I can’t raise them, either,” says Silva, staying surprisingly calm, considering what she’s facing.
“Hastings,” I ask. “Can you help her?”
“I have a dozen at least,” she answers, “among all those pieces of equipment over there.”
She needs to protect our flank.
I try to raise the ship on the command comm. Static.
Partially exposed, I stop at the corner of the building and see the mass of Trogs back toward town.
They spot me, too.
Rounds fly in my direction.
I kneel and do a quick check for ammunition. One magazine in my rifle, nearly empty, and two more full mags to spare. One full magazine in my pistol. “How are you set for ammo?” I ask Silva.
