Jupiter's Halo: Unbroken

by A P Heath

  “The intruders have been neutralised, but separation has been aborted.”

  He could see the last databank, its control panel spitting sparks and the indicator lights flashing wildly.

  It must have been damaged when the doors blew in.

  He cursed to himself.

  “Continue evacuation.”

  A soft noise behind him drew Hornwood’s attention. One of the men on the floor was moving. It was the third he’d killed, or believed he’d killed.

  The man’s torso was open to the air, yet his arm was moving, slowly pulling his bulky weapon closer to his shattered arm.

  Hornwood clenched his jaw and stepped across to the body. His sword was still gripped in his right hand.

  “Don’t even fucking think about it!” He growled.

  His blade flashed down, severing head from neck. The arm fell lifeless to the deck, the lifted weapon clattering down with it.

  “Get the science staff and techs aboard the drop ship,” He sent

  to his unit, grim determination flashing in his eyes.

  “We’ll lift off and detonate the station from space.”

  He slashed his sword again, lazily parting the legs from the ruined, headless torso.

  “If these fuckers want this place so badly let’s give it to them. In pieces.” He cut the comm link.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Aitkin’s comm link was awash with conflicting messages.

  Captain Lanad and his first and second squads were fighting a hard retreat on the sixth level, while the marines of 2C1 had been caught in cross fire by the tertiary loading bay while on route to support Sergeant Augustine Johs in the substation.

  Johs herself was struggling to clear the fusion core reactor and Timonny appeared to have dropped from the comms grid altogether.

  In a matter of minutes the seemingly empty station had become filled with enemy targets. From what he could make out they’d risen up in the midst of the investigating squads in a surprise attack.

  At first the numbers were few, but once the fighting started they seemed to be pouring into every level of the station from an unknown source.

  Their coordination was silent, from the reports he was hearing they moved without verbal or visual signals, yet they were baffling in their unity. The Peregrines scanners had ruled out the use of internal comms similar to those of the marines, so he had no idea how the enemy were communicating.

  Marines fighting to clear internal corridors found themselves flanked by forces moving through the main body of the station and appearing at junctions, creating choke points in perfect and devastating harmony.

  The losses he was hearing were staggering.

  1C2 was down to half strength and only then if the number included the injured who were still able to fight despite their wounds.

  Captain Lanad was fairing little better; Lieutenant Mentrim filling the comms with an ever increasing list of the names of wounded and killed marines.

  The First Company of the Deorum Marines was unused to casualties on a scale anywhere close to this. At least, when applicable to their own casualties that is.

  Aitkin couldn’t recall a mission report from his time on active

  duty or his study of the operations prior, where the death toll had been so extreme.

  There was something wrong about this enemy.

  Every other voice in the morass of the mission comms was reporting an enemy impervious to all but the most complete bodily destruction visited upon them by concerted combined fire.

  He had switched his officer level comms from the ship broadcast to internal only, moments after Sergeant Deneminjic had first called enemy contact.

  Something inside him, something he couldn’t focus on had delivered the knowledge into his mind that this was no ordinary engagement.

  Since that moment his head had filled with the strained, panicked or simply confused and astonished voices of his comrades. The men and women of the reserve sat restless in the dark troop compartment of their drop ship.

  They’d heard the surprise, the total shock of Deneminjic and caught the beginnings of Mentrim’s concurring report. They knew something was awry.

  The voice of Captain Lanad cut through the others, his command level comms overshadowing and drowning the voices of those under his command.

  “This is Captain Titus Lanad to all Peregrine drop ships – strafing runs authorised.”

  Aitkin took a breath in surprise. Across the compartment Johs raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Drop ships One, Two and Three, you will complete strafing runs of the station on my mark. Concentrate fire on the evac pod bay of level six. Assault cannons only, no warheads.” Aitkin could hear the stress in his Captain’s voice.

  “I repeat; hard shells only.”

  It was a daring and dangerous gambit.

  The Captain of the First Company must have been desperate to order such a strike.

  If the enemy was concentrated in the specified area the assault cannons of the circling Peregrines would saturate the space

  with deadly volumes of fire, allowing a respite for the retreating and injured marines.

  The station was old though, Aitkin had studied the schematics thoroughly before they departed the Pride. The circular outer corridors were little more than tubes around the central rooms.

  Their only bulkheads with full pressure seals were on the internal doors leading into the centre of the station and those allowing access to the trans-shaft or link stair.

  The fusillade from the drop ships would open the whole evac pod bay to the void of space, as well as most of the adjoining corridor.

  If Lanad or any of the marines were still within the main corridor when that happened they’d be sucked out into the darkness. Timing was crucial.

  “Drop ships Four and Five; enemy targets concentrated in the tertiary loading bay.” Lanad continued.

  Now Aitkin could hear the strain in his voice was more than just the exertion of battle. Was the First Captain injured as well?

  “Engage full assault mode to clear and deploy the reserve force.”

  Aitkin felt the change in the comm link as Lanad narrowed the link to converse with him directly.

  “Lieutenant Cassini,”

  “Yes Captain.”

  “It is imperative the enemy do not breach the fusion reactor core.” Lanad’s voice was pure steel.

  “You will link up with Sergeant Johs and assist her in blowing every one of these bastards down there straight to hell!”

  “Yes sir!” Aitkin made his reply out loud, letting his marines hear the fervor in his tone.

  Lanad’s comm was silent for a moment.

  Aitkin guessed he was coordinating the movements of his squads to coincide with the Peregrines’ strafing runs.

  He could feel the tilt of their drop ship as it moved to position,

  the thrum of the engines increasing the vibration of the walls.

  “Two minutes to boarding!” He called out, repeating the pilot’s words as they entered his head.

  “We’re landing under fire so I want weapons up!”

  He looked to Johs, “Sergeant, we are tasked with assisting 1C3 in clearing the engineering decks and securing the reactor.”

  Johs nodded, his eyes dark.

  Aitkin stood and faced the marines lining the long compartment.

  “This fight is going to be a hard one. We’re fighting an enemy that can take more punishment than you’ve ever seen.”

  He paused, letting the voices of the comms link update his brief of the situation.

  “They’ll take head shots, body shots, even lose limbs and still get up to keep fighting, so I want firing teams of two. Combine fire on every target and shred those bastards until there isn’t enough of them left to hold a weapon!”

  His words were greeted with shouts and whooping. His marines had their blood up, but he needed them frothing.

  “Understand this marines; this is an enemy unlike any you’ve fa
ced before.”

  He let his gaze sweep the faces before him, “We’ve taken serious casualties already, so don’t expect to come out of this unscathed.”

  His eyes rested on the closest marine, a heavy set man by the name of Cooper.

  “We go in hard. We put them down and we damn well make sure they stay that way. Don’t take any chances.”

  Cooper nodded at his words.

  “Sergeant Johs,” Aitkin called out, “Lead the Oath.”

  More voices were raised as the big sergeant got to his feet, lifting his arms to rest his palms flat against the roof of the compartment.

  “The Oath begins.” He boomed.

  The marines of 1CR stood to join him.

  “I will bear my allegiance to the Deorum and none other,” they chorused.

  Inside Aitkin’s head he head the words of his captain, “Ready…mark!”

  Aitkin felt the deck lurch under his feet as the engines fired, plunging their Peregrine into a rushing dive towards the station.

  “I will protect her people, her faith and her honour with my words, my deeds and my life!”

  The compartment filled with the roar of the thrusters and the marines upped their volume to override the noise.

  Sergeant Johs swayed as the Peregrine adjusted its angle steeply. Another moment and they would be through the integrity field and into the bay.

  “I will question no order and forsake no duty!”

  The lights of the compartment flashed red, indicating a combat landing.

  “I am her sword, her shield, her son and her protector!”

  The ship lurched, almost throwing the shouting marines from their feet. Aitkin could hear the fierce chatter of the assault cannon; feel the dizzying spin as the Peregrine swung around inside the wide bay, spraying the enemy with high velocity shells.

  “I swear my allegiance from this breath to my last breath!”

  The deck shook with the impact of the landing gear hitting hard floor.

  Aitkin screamed the words along with his marines.

  “Luna endures! Luna endures! Luna endures!”

  The aft ramp of the Peregrine dropped, bathing the compartment in the bright, flickering lights of the loading bay.

  Aitkin followed his marines as they ran out, weapons raised and eyes searching for targets, each one ready to bring death to an uncertain but formidable enemy.

  The loading bay was a wreck.

  The shells of two Peregrines’ assault cannons had wreaked a terrible devastation on the walls, floors, crates and containers of the bay.

  Everything was holed, ripped open, smashed.

  The light strips running the length of the walls and ceiling

  were damaged. In places they were black, their casing cracked open, in others they sparked and flickered strobing the bay.

  The enemy had fared no better. Aitkin counted at least twelve bodies at first glance.

  It was hard to be exact; barely one among them was recognisable as whole. Limbs and heads had been severed. Torso’s blown apart or opened to the air. He could see the familiar grey of Deorum military uniforms within the grisly mess of parts and could only hope those marines had fallen before the blitz of explosive rounds had dissected them.

  Only around these sad morsels could he see any blood. For all the gruesome nature of the scene before him, the absence of red made the whole thing appear eldritch, strange.

  As if they’d been called in to storm a base held by mannequins, somehow animated to deadly effect. He could hear the ‘plink plink’ of cooling metal from the assault cannons’ barrels.

  Sergeant Johs was issuing orders to the marines; his voice echoing loudly as he commanded the bodies of the enemies be inspected and additional damage visited on any that looked in tact enough to return to the fight.

  The flash of muzzles and bark of single round discharges quickly followed his words as his marines took Aitkin’s warning to heart. They were taking no chances.

  The bulkhead of the loading bay was torn to pieces. Unlike the primary and secondary loading bays, the tertiary had only one entrance into the station proper.

  It was at the centre of the rear wall and Aitkin could see the concentration of the enemy must have been there, from the sheer volume of fire the area had attracted.

  “Sergeant Johs,” He called across the ruined space of the bay.

  “Form up on me,” Aitkin looked at the bulkhead, its doors hanging in tatters from their frame.

  From beyond he could hear the echo of gun fire as his fellow marines traded shots with the enemy.

  “We have a mission to finish.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Cammie thumbed lazily through the Ambassador’s missives; there were invitations to balls, dinners and private audiences with the high and possibly mighty of Jupiter’s Halo.

  There was even an invitation to tea from Arstin Simler, the Martian Ambassador to the God’s Belt station.

  She looked over their gilt edges, ran her fingers across the textured surfaces. They were so wasteful, so gaudy in their bright printed colours.

  In this age the message they bore could be sent and received almost instantaneously over thousands of kilometres for almost nothing, yet here they were, spending what many would consider a small fortune to deliver a proposition that would more than likely be ignored and dumped directly into the recyc draw.

  It made Cammie want to laugh and scream at the same time.

  None of these fools, not one of these simpering morons knew the real meaning of the word important.

  They thought they did; to them it was important to have wealth, it was important to be seen by others as influential, it was important not to be left out.

  On the last note she could at least offer certainty that their wish would be granted. No one would be left out of what was coming.

  She span in her chair, allowing her momentum to move her hand from above the desk to hover over the open recyc draw.

  She smiled to herself as she let the pile of thick papers fall.

  Her Excellency wouldn’t wish to be bothered with such menial matters, she knew. Her Excellency had other, more pressing issues to tackle.

  Cammie span her chair again. The Ambassador’s office was slow today. In fairness, it was always quiet around Cammie.

  She had started her role here with an eagerness to please and an earnest attitude to working hard. It had lasted just as long as it took to get the measure of her colleagues.

  Ron and Go’jun had been easy, they were men and such

  creatures were as simple to manipulate as a slow child. She’d let Go’jun into her bed after the second day, mildly enjoying his fumbling efforts to please her, before dismissing him from her meagre chambers. He had sought a repeat performance ever since and she had allowed him to believe it would happen just so long as he was as eager to handle her share of the office workload.

  With Ron she’d flirted, smiled, licked her lips suggestively and spent more time than necessary bending down to reach low files in his presence.

  It had taken the older man a full week to pluck up the courage to proposition her. At which point she’d promptly changed tack and lodged a complaint for harassment with Velicity, the chief of the Ambassador’s staff.

  Ron had barely looked at her since, let alone question her as to her work output. As her direct supervisor it was the perfect situation.

  Samantha had been a slightly harder task. The woman was cold; professional to a ridiculous extent and had shown no interest in the wiles Cammie had found sufficient in most cases.

  A friendship approach was out of the question. Samantha hardly said a word that was not directly related to whatever task she was charged with and Go’jun had been happy to tell her he knew almost nothing of Samantha’s personal life, despite the two of them working in the Ambassador’s offices for more than three years.

  For Samantha’s sake Cammie would do a modicum of labour. She would file, send missives on the Ambassador’s behalf, relay
messages and even distribute hot drinks amongst the staff on occasion. Before long she would always become bored though and the work would cease.

  She had begun to believe she would need to deal with Samantha in a far more permanent manner, when the answer had presented itself.

  Reginald Semeon. The Ambassador’s husband.

  She had seen him around the suite and considered him a possible route to her larger purpose. Then one day she’d seen

  how he liked to pass the time by berating the office staff and, despite him having no real power, the meek little worms accepted it.

  She had seen too much of humanity to be astonished by such things, but did see how the situation could be leveraged to help her reach her goal.

  She had set herself firmly in Reginald’s sights.

  A shy smile here, a coy blush there.

  He’d taken so long to actually speak to her she was beginning to imagine she’d have to disrobe and climb onto him right there in the office to make it happen.

  Sure enough he did seek her out though. She played the innocent little maid perfectly. Giggling at things he said that usually would not bring as much as a smile to her lips. Placing a hand on his arm, letting it stay there a fraction longer than would be proper.

  She spoke with him every day. Engineering ways for them to be alone for a moment or two.

  She laced her words with subtle innuendo, provocative glances, adjusted her clothing to let him see more of her each time. It was painfully slow.

  After four weeks she’d done all but scream ‘fuck me!’ into his doddering old face and finally he took a chance.

  She’d known his intent the moment he’d spoken to her. She was walking from the office, down the short corridor at the centre of the suite to leave for the day.

  She’d made sure to be the last of the office staff to go. A habit she’d adopted six days earlier in a bid to encourage him to make a move.

  His voice had trembled as he spoke, talking small about her day and his boredom.

  It grated on her, he grated on her, but her objective was bigger than them both, worth a little grating to achieve.