by Kyle Aho
Chapter I
The cabin of the transport vessel smelled like old grease and burnt oil, probably because it hadn’t been serviced in too long and was designed for light vehicle transport instead of troop sorties like this one. Auxiliary lighting cast a dark red shade over everything and killed most of the shadows making the already cramped space feel claustrophobic. The straps and crash webbing hanging from the ceiling didn’t help either.
“So, Up-eight, what brings you to a backwater like this?” Bren asked with his most charming smile. They could all hear his voice clearly through the team’s comm pieces.
“It’s pronounced Ah-pah-tay, and you can mind your own business,” Apate replied.
“Armed with a sniper rifle and sass, I like it.”
“Interesin’ piece you’ve got there. Is that Merder hardware?” Alistair asked, pointing to Dante’s shotgun.
“Yes sir, designed by Ares Merder himself,” Dante replied as he turned over his weapon with pride. It was a custom job with shells like soda cans and shot like marbles.
Bren scoffed next to him.
“That old coot is dead,” he said.
“His body is, yeah,” Dante replied.
“When I was in th’marines they sometimes gave us those for small ship-to-ship skirmishes. Not as big and fancy as that one, but similar. They were less likely t’pierce th’hull and suck everyone out into space,” Alistair said as he made small talk.
“Semper vigilo, brother,” Dante said with a respectful nod. Alistair nodded back.
“Are you some kind of fisherman?” Apate asked as she gestured to the harpoons on Bren’s forearms.
“Nah, my old man was though. Till he became a felon anyways,” Bren replied.
“How does a fisherman become a felon?” Dante asked.
“By hunting endangered kraken and killing the coast guard,” Bren said.
“How do you hunt a kraken? Do those little batteries actually do anything?” Apate asked, eyeing the shocking mechanism bolted next to the winches on his forearms.
“You latch on with the harpoons and pull yourself onto the big ugly buttheads and stick explosives into their brains,” Bren said, “I added the shock batteries for funsies.”
“Watch your language mate, there are ladies aboard,” Alistair said with a smirk.
“I’m on probation, no potty talk for me,” Bren said as he pointed to the cranial bomb grafted to the back of his skull.
“It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Apate said.
The four of them sat in silence as they neared their destination. There were no windows to look out and certainly no in-flight catalogue for them to peruse. They hit a pocket of turbulence and everyone double-checked their restraints. Low thumps came from outside and hundreds of tiny objects plinked against the hull as the vessel shuddered once more.
“Why d’we do this crazy shite?” Alistair asked, more to himself than anyone in particular.
“Don’t know why you’re here, but I’m here for the check,” Dante responded before he put a pen light in his teeth to look down the ejection port of his massive shotgun. The weapon looked more like a tool for large mining operations than personal protection.
“Ok moneybags, I’m sure between your sponsorships, the box office, and your old man you need the cash,” Bren said.
“A guy’s gotta put food on the table,” Dante shrugged.
“Yeah, but these high pay and no say missions are always more dangerous than they advertise, hence the ‘no say’ part. I mean, if I die then the money doesn’t mean much,” Bren said.
“Depends if you have somethin’ worth livin’ for I suppose,” Alistair muttered.
“If one or more contractors are killed in action then the money is distributed among the remaining contractors,” Apate said into her headset. Her voice stood out amongst the small, stuffy cargo space like a subtle perfume.
“Well I’m glad somebody read the fine print,” Bren said.
“You knew the risks when you accepted the contract. At least I hope you did,” Apate replied as she pulled her hair back and tied it at the base of her skull so her helmet would fit comfortably.
“Like I had much choice,” Bren muttered.
“It’s just supposed t’be a bunch of militia down there, right?” Alistair asked to change the subject and get everyone focused.
“According to this we need to get into a research facility being attacked by local militia. Something inside is ticking them off. They probably won’t take kindly to our being there, so we’ll have to fight through them. Once we’re in, we need to find the main server room and snag some data, then get outta dodge.” Bren said as he glanced over his holo-pad to make sure they weren’t forgetting anything.
“Sounds right, I was just makin’ sure,” Alistair said. Dante didn’t want to admit he hadn’t read the latest mission brief.
“Red light’s flashin’, we go green in ten,” Dante said with an edge of anticipation in his abnormally deep voice. He thumbed the dial on his comm-piece to his personal library of music. Most people, professionals especially, would want clear radio interaction with their teammates going into a hot drop zone. Dante was always a fashion over function kind of guy. Bren cocked his head back and forth to stretch it a little as he got ready for his favorite part of any drop mission.
The four made sure their equipment was secure. Dante rolled his massive shoulders back and forth, relaxing them for the drop. Due to his size it was difficult for him to find armor that fit properly and the circulation to his limbs was often lacking. He had spent a considerable amount of money on custom equipment for himself but limbering up had become a ritual from his days in the Human Liberation Army.
Seven seconds left. Apate slapped down her visor to shield her from the wind of the drop. She stood up and stretched her legs while running a quick diagnostic check on her visor to make sure the aim-assist and map display were working properly. A series of glyphs and characters organized into view and gave her their current altitude, oxygen levels and other pertinent information as the helmet calibrated. With her last few seconds before battle she tried to digest as much of the incoming information as possible.
Five seconds. “May th’flames of my wrath baptize my enemies so they suffer not in death what they are about t’suffer in life,” Alistair muttered before blowing a kiss to the pantheon above. He then opened his jaw wide to stretch his face out so his dry skin wouldn’t peel on the way down. Alistair thought about the children back home that were awaiting his return. If he didn’t make it back they would be lost without him and he simply couldn’t allow that to happen. Thinking of their smiling faces steeled him for the impending chaos.
Three seconds. Bren admired the forearm-mounted harpoons and wondered if this mission would be his ticket out of the prison cell awaiting him. With any luck he’d be absolved of his crimes and have an opportunity to confront his father about their last encounter. Then he’d have a chance to impale the bastard on his own harpoons and get some much-needed answers out of him. Bren was never much of a cook but revenge was a dish he’d perfected over the years.
A cargo light went green and a warning buzzer went off. The floor of the cargo ship swallowed them whole. A torrent of wind and shrapnel flew past them as they careened to the surface of the planet. Apart from the roaring sound of air rushing past their heads it was fairly peaceful. Bren relished the feeling of the drop and watched as plumes of smoke floated quickly toward him and filled his lungs with their sweet, sooty blackness.
They plummeted through the smoke and an all-out war revealed itself on the grey, rocky surface of the planet. The roof of a large building dominated the area and appeared to be the center of all the chaos. Civilian militia scurried around the smaller vehicles and buildings surrounding the larger complex that looked almost like an abandoned college campus. They were struggling to gain ground against the automated defenses. Armed drones and sentry turrets mowed down the disorganized forces that tried
to penetrate the defenses of the complex. Piles of corpses stacked at natural choke points around the warzone. The unorganized and poorly armed militia’s only tactic appeared to be drowning the automated defenses with bodies in hopes of smothering the facility with their numbers. Although their efforts destroyed some of the surrounding turrets each victory came at great cost.
“Did somebody order a keg of kick-ass?” Dante said to catch the attention of anyone below who would notice him. He took a few useless potshots at the poor militia below and laughed at the tiny craters his gun left in the ground despite the fact they weren’t causing any real damage. He was channeling one of the testosterone-fueled meatheads he so often played in holo-films.
Alistair closed his eyes and focused. He was confident the ‘auto’ setting on his drop pack would do its job. Apate’s eyes darted around for a good vantage point. Her visor’s display was a mess of symbols, glyphs, and data as her helmet analyzed the battlefield and provided her with tactical information.
“I’m going southeast, to that garage with the red loading bays. Everyone copy?”
The three men grunted.
“We’ll keep ‘em busy!” Dante said as he activated his drop pack with a smack.
He flew past Bren and gave a timid almost sheepish wave accompanied by a big wolfish grin. The dichotomy was strangely terrifying. Bren dipped his shoulder, which enabled him to spin as he plummeted toward the earth. Alistair’s ‘auto’ setting on his pack kicked in and thrust him toward the battle below.
Bren waited.
Apate held the switch of her drop pack, ready to activate it. One of the men below in a furious firefight with a defensive drone looked up. The man did a double take and then frantically warned his comrades of the drop team’s presence.
“Oh shit, shoot ‘em!” Dante said as he spoke for the man on the ground. Dante’s drop pack reached its stopping point as it got too close to the earth and repelled with great force as if he had hit a giant invisible spring. Dante waited for the rebound and discharged the device just before it shot back into the atmosphere. He fell the short distance left and landed with one knee on the ground and one knee up. He revved the bayonet-mounted chainsaw on his shotgun for effect.
Alistair landed on his feet in the middle of a small melee between the local militia and a defensive drone. He dodged a homemade grenade and rolled behind a pile of rubble. A nearby drone exploded and sent parts and shrapnel flying everywhere. The man who threw the grenade fired a single round in Alistair’s direction before Alistair covered him in flaming gel from one of his inferno pistols.
Apate timed her discharge perfectly and she seemed to float to the ground. Red warning symbols in her visor warned her that tracking sensors were attempting to lock onto her. The flowing data directed her attention to an automated turret several burned out vehicles away that swiveled in her direction. With practiced precision she lifted her rifle and sighted up a shot before blasting the top of the turret clean off. She glanced around the area for any other immediate threats before clinging to a nearby wall as she made her way to the garage she had picked only seconds earlier.
Bren peered through his goggles as wind roared past his face. He wanted to make eye contact with the first man he’d take out. Bullets flew past and ricocheted off his armor as the men on the ground turned their weapons to the new aerial threat while still attempting to defend themselves from the automated defenses around them. Bren waited until he could see the white of his first victim’s eyes. Bren’s grin was so big it almost looked unnatural.
“Hot darn I love this part,” he said to himself, waiting a moment longer. Once he could see the man’s pupils he slapped his drop pack to turn it on. The pack rocketed him toward the man for only a fraction of a second before he discharged it. He jerked his chest back at the last moment to land on his feet and smashed into the ground like a comet, surrounded by a mushroom cloud of dust and blood. “Crap,” he said as he lifted a foot to examine the mush that was left of the terrified militiaman.
“Heads down!” Alistair yelled.
Dante and Bren ducked. Alistair lifted his inferno pistols and pulled both triggers. He pivoted as huge gouts of flame sprayed over everyone who ignored his command. Many of the surrounding force became a screaming pyre as burning gel covered them.
“Catch!” Dante plugged the closest man in the chest with his shotgun. The man practically exploded. A drone flew off the edge of a nearby rooftop firing energy bolts at a group of militiamen across the rubble-strewn path Dante walked down. “Pull!” he shouted as he shot the drone out of the air. “Damn I’m good.” Dante fired from the hip into the group the drone was after, pumping between shots to eject the shells from his weapon. His shouted taunts mixed with the bark of his gun shook the very earth and loosened the bowels of any enemy that still had them.
Bren armed the firing mechanism of his gauntlets and charged the aftermarket shocking battery, ready to skewer a nearby enemy. He planted his feet, engaged his boot hooks to secure himself firmly in the ground and shot a harpoon at the nearest non-crispy enemy. A harpoon soared through the air and bit into the shoulder meat of his target. The man was busy shooting through broken car windows at a turret ahead of him before his attention was interrupted by pain. One hundred milliamps of electricity arced through the length of chain a microsecond after it made contact. The man’s grip on his cheap assault rifle tightened as his body went rigid from the jolt of electricity and bullets spewed out of his weapon uncontrollably. As far as Bren could tell, his aim hadn’t gotten any worse. Bren jerked him off his feet with a brutal tug and activated the winch on his forearm to drag his paralyzed opponent in and finish the job. He staggered forward as several shots hit him between the shoulders but failed to penetrate his armor. He turned his head and launched his free harpoon at the new assailant. It latched into the man’s gut with a meaty thump. Bren cracked the length of the chain like a whip and ripped the man’s innards from his body.
He felt a tug and then no tension at all on his first harpoon. He looked back over his shoulder to see Dante blasting anything that moved to a pulp, and that included the writhing man impaled on Bren’s first harpoon. Dante shot from the hip and shouted at the top of his lungs like a hero in a bad war movie. Bren was glad this hulking psycho was on his side. He engaged the small winches in the arms of his armor and the harpoons slid back into their housings. Bits of meat sprinkled the area as he shook his harpoons clean like a wet dog drying itself.
Alistair was busy torching people who thought in blissful ignorance that he didn’t know where they were. Dante hid behind a smoldering car and slid a fresh magazine into his weapon. He stood up and then jerked his head toward Alistair, gesturing for Bren to follow. All three of them trudged through the smoke, picking off each poorly armed enemy they confronted while Apate sniped threats around them.
“Don’t you think they’re a little outmatched?” Bren asked over the comm.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell I always say,” Dante shouted unnecessarily, probably trying to be heard over the sound of the hardcore music in his ears.
“No y’have a point. Apart from th’fact that we’re outnumbered a hundred t’one they have no real advantage. These guys look like regular civilians with sporting weapons… look, that guy has a frakkin’ bow. Think there’s somethin’ the contract holders didn’t tell us?” Alistair asked.
A nearby chest exploded as Apate picked off militiamen attempting to flank her comrades. “No, you think?”
“I’m just saying,” Bren continued, launching his deadly harpoons around with effortless precision or simply punching people that got too close, “we’re here to stop an attack on this area and retrieve information from a lab but these men aren’t properly armed to be even amateur mercenaries let alone professionals.”
“Maybe they’re terrorists,” Apate suggested.
“What’re you getting at?” Alistair asked as he tossed a grenade into a nearby building as though he were disposing of an apple c
ore.
“He thinks there’s a catch, it’s too easy,” Apate said.
“We should be thankful this is turning out to be easy,” Dante said before hacking a defensive drone into several messy parts with his chainsaw.
“I dunno maybe I’m paranoid,” Bren conceded.
The three men walked through a smoke cloud into the middle of a vicious firefight between some poorly armed civilians and a pair of automated turrets outside the large complex. The machines were tearing them apart. Bren, Alistair, and Dante ran to a crumbled wall and avoided the jutting rebar as best they could.
“Let the turrets do the work on the civvies and then bomb them?” Bren asked.
“Hold on. Lass, what can y’see?” Alistair asked.
“Bunches of people getting mauled by sentry turrets. Why, what do you see?”
“Not helpful,” Bren replied as turret rounds tore apart the already damaged concrete wall they hid behind in pursuit of a civilian that ran past them.
“You expect me to see anything else? I see three idiots hiding behind a wall if that helps.”
“I say we blow them to hell and back,” Dante suggested, still channeling his macho movie persona.
Two men ran out of the complex, directly into the middle of the firefight. Their hands and faces were covered in blood, as if they had been eating raw meat. Both men were quickly torn apart as sentry gunfire deemed them a greater threat than the armed men in the area.
“Sucks to be them,” Bren said.
“I’m guessin’ that’s the building we need t’get in to?” Alistair asked.
“Looks about right,” Dante said before poking his head out of cover and tossing a frag grenade at the attacking force.
“Apate, we’re going in, we’ll wait for you,” Alistair said.
“Roger, on my w… oh no.”
On a hill overlooking the complex Apate laid prone next to a line of empty barrels beside a small garage. A large rusty door squealed open next to her and smoke poured out as if the whole building were on fire. Until now she had simply ignored the flashing lights and shrill cry of alarms but they grew significantly louder as the door opened and beams of light pierced through the smoke. Whirring servos and the deafening roar of a chain gun polluted the air as a hail of bullets sprayed out from inside the smoky garage and tore into the attacking forces like a sledgehammer to gelatin.
