Descent from the Black: An Odyssey One Novella

by Hugh Taylor

  Lang then realized he was still holding the bloody knife. He dropped it on the ground and started to slowly, cautiously move toward her again, his hands out at his sides as he heard people approaching.

  “Erica?” one of them yelled, clearly searching for someone. The woman turned her head in that direction, and upon seeing the people started to sob again.

  “Erica!” several of the group yelled as they ran over to her.

  Lang was about to say something when he realized that one of them, possibly the woman’s father, had a hunting rifle pointed at him. Lang kept his hands out and didn’t move a muscle.

  “Are you a Marine, son?” the man asked as he approached, smartly not getting any closer than fifty feet.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Lang responded.

  The man looked at him, then the knife, then the dead man and the pistol next to him. “Is this what it looks like?”

  “Uh … I think so?” Lang said, as he wasn’t sure exactly what it did look like.

  “Daddy, don’t shoot!” Erica said. “It wasn’t him!”

  That was enough for the man to lower his rifle. “I think I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said as he walked over and shook Lang’s hand. He didn’t know what to say, so he numbly nodded and returned the handshake. “Looks like a decent piece,” the man said, pointing at the revolver. “You should take it.”

  Lang briefly considered it, but then rejected the thought. “No, sir. I’m a couple miles from base; I’ll be alright. I think you guys might need it more.”

  The man looked him in the eye, hesitated, but nodded. It was painfully obvious that aliens were not the only objects of fear right now. “I really have to get on base,” Lang said, gesturing toward his motorcycle.

  The man nodded and said, “Good hunting, Marine.”

  Lang returned the nod and retrieved his knife, wiping it clean on the dead man’s clothes. He then got on his bike and started it, taking one last look at Erica. She really was a beauty, now that he got a second to look. But he immediately felt guilty for the thought, turned away, and put his bike back in gear. Her life was never going to be the same again. Well, nobody’s life was, but that wasn’t the point. He made it almost a full mile before the post-adrenaline shakes started. Lang pulled the bike over onto the grass, removed his helmet, took a few deep breaths, and promptly vomited.

  He was too young to have seen action in the wars with the Block, but he had seen some skirmishes in various “police actions” since then. For one reason or another, this felt different. Granted, he’d never faced an alien death bug in combat either, but for some reason that hadn’t made him puke.

  Picturing the Drasin combat drone in his head seemed to help him focus. Even though his career was in tatters and the world was apparently ending, he still had a duty—he hadn’t forgotten his oath. So he put his helmet back on and got back on the path. It wasn’t a moment too soon when he finally found the blacktop that led to one of the gates. Once his tires hit real pavement, he twisted the throttle for all the bike was worth until he got within visual range of the entrance to Camp Pendleton. He knew that the guards would be on alert, so he made sure to slow down as he approached the gate. He stopped as ordered, took off his helmet, and presented his identification. The corporal on duty recognized him, though. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

  Chapter 3

  “You smell like sewage, Lieutenant!” Major Gutierrez said. “Have you shaved—correction—have you even bathed this week?”

  “Yes, sir!” Lang responded. It had been a while, but definitely less than a week.

  “You’re lucky we’ve got bigger problems, and you’re lucky you’ve got good timing, Lang,” the stocky officer said.

  “Sir?”

  “A Drasin dropship, or whatever the hell they are, just landed near the airfield.”

  “That’s almost thirty klicks away!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Gutierrez responded, his anger building. “The Corps, believe it or not, operates aircraft. The next bird leaves in,” he paused to look at his watch, “thirteen minutes, so you’ve got eight to get armored up, and get rid of that goddamn smell.”

  “Yes, sir!” Lang said before leaving the room as quickly as decorum allowed. He stripped off his clothes and jumped in the shower, doing his best to clean himself in a practiced, yet frantic way. He wasted no time in drying off, stashing his dirty uniform, and grabbing his combat armor from his locker.

  He put the armor on at least as quickly as he’d done in countless drills. Once he put the helmet on, he powered the system and glanced at the data being displayed in his heads-up display. System diagnostics whizzed by as they were run during the boot process, and in a very short amount of time he was connected to the network. His orders were displayed immediately, which simply instructed him to report to the landing zone for the helicopter.

  Lang’s only stop on the way there was to requisition his MX-112 infantry support rifle. Once he had his gun and ammunition, he double-timed it to the rally point, arriving slightly over the eight minutes that the major had given him, which earned him a scowl. Still, Gutierrez might not have liked him much, but he wasn’t about to discipline him in front of the enlisted men, who were also awaiting pickup. Given the situation, nobody took it as an admonishment when the major briefed them all directly, either; there simply wasn’t time to pass the orders down the chain.

  “Alright,” the major said loudly. “I know that you’ve all been briefed on the Drasin, and I definitely know that you’ve seen the news this morning. So that means you also know what happens if we don’t eradicate every, last, single, one!” Gutierrez paused for the chorus of “ooh-rahs” that followed. “And to kill these bastards, we need use of the airfield, which is right where those alien scumbags decided to crash-land their attack pod. So step one is to remove those vermin from this camp so our pilots can go back to flying sorties over L.A. Air power is one of the few advantages we have over them, and I do not want to lose it! Am I clear?”

  “Ooh-rah, sir!” Lang found himself yelling with the others. They might not have gotten along, but Lang respected the major’s ability to pump up the troops; even his adrenaline was starting to flow again.

  “I know some of you have been separated from your units. Some of them are already over at the airfield fighting! But they need the heavy weapons of Charlie Platoon to back them up, so you’ll follow Lieutenant Lang’s lead in pounding those unnatural sons of bitches back into the dirt!”

  As if on cue, the choppers arrived and made a quick descent.

  “Move out!” Lang yelled as he ran the remaining distance to the helicopters. He was the first one there, but he turned and watched his men and women load up, the software in his suit flagging each one as they climbed aboard. He could see that several of his Marines weren’t on the list, but they might’ve had more trouble than he did in getting to the base. He also saw a few names he didn’t recognize, so it appeared that Gutierrez had assigned stragglers from other units to his squads as needed. Once everyone was on their assigned aircraft, he hopped into his.

  The pilots didn’t waste a second, and the helicopters were off the ground almost instantaneously. Though Lang couldn’t hear it, he knew that they were also powering up their counter-mass fields, which “hid” most of their mass from the effects of Newtonian physics. Consequently, they were very, very fast. The thirty klicks would go by quickly, so Lang tried to collect his thoughts before the upcoming battle. He felt like he hadn’t had a chance to breathe since he awoke that morning.

  Earth’s first interstellar voyage had landed humanity in the middle of a war, or a genocide, more accurately. As they were finding out today, this planet was also on the menu. Lang could think of no better reason to go into combat than to defend his home, and it was nice to not be fighting other humans for once. That being said, defeat by this enemy meant extermination. Lang knew he was fortunate to have a good platoon, including his platoon sergeant, Gunnery Sergeant Clark. Together, they commanded
a weapons platoon, which consisted of three sections. The first was the assault section that contained three squads centered around Shoulder-launched Counter-Mass Missiles (SCMMs), commonly referred to as “scams.” The second was referred to as the mortar section, but in reality they handled anything involving indirect fire, as well as a few other things, too. These duties ranged from controlling drones to calling in close air support. Lastly, there was the newly redesigned mobile armor section, which had replaced the older machine gun section. Though Lang commanded all of them, he technically functioned as part of this last section because he was compatible with the NICS, or Neural Induction Command System, interface. Only a certain percentage of the population were suitable, so when someone’s biology was a match, that person usually ended up in one of two places.

  One of those places was in an EXO-12 Powered Armor suit.

  The regular hard armor, which Lang was wearing now, was impressive. It used nano-fiber enhancements to increase strength, including the ability to jump almost forty feet. In fact, it took a bit of training to get used to walking normally in one. The EXO-12 was another beast altogether. Unlike his current armor, which was essentially a thicker, second set of skin, the EXO-12 was a twelve-foot behemoth with a lot of other tricks up its sleeves; just thinking about it made Lang itch for his. Unfortunately, all of them were stored at the airfield. The logic behind that choice of location was that Marines and soldiers who were NICS-compatible were a small enough group that they were called upon to deploy often, anywhere around the world and beyond, so housing them at an airfield made sense. It was an unfortunate inconvenience that they would have to fight their way to the rest of their gear.

  The thought of the beyond – outer space – brought the all too familiar mix of emotions back. It was Lang who was supposed to go with the Odyssey, the first interstellar ship from Earth, not some young butter-bar. He was also supposed to be Captain Lang now, not a first lieutenant.

  It was the warnings on his HUD that tore his thoughts from his career’s recent self-destruction. They were close enough now to be tied into the command network for the battle at the airfield, and the picture wasn’t pretty.

  “They really do eat planets and shit reinforcements, don’t they?” an awed private asked.

  The question was probably rhetorical, but his sergeant quickly put him in his place. “Stay focused, Brooks. They ain’t immortal, and it’s our job to remind them of that.”

  Lang ignored the chatter, as he was very used to multitasking. Most people in this century were, but those who were trained in modern combat absolutely had to be; it was almost information overload. He could see that the rifle platoons already on the ground were doing their best to establish a perimeter, but the blazing-hot infrared signatures of the Drasin could be seen almost everywhere. Lang scrolled through the real-time ISR (or Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance) data and saw that Intel believed there was already a nest forming at the crash site. His team would have to move fast.

  “Listen up!” he bellowed over his platoon’s channel. “The first thing we need to do is secure that perimeter! We’ll worry about the nest after that. Understood?”

  After receiving their acknowledgements, he flipped to his platoon’s command channel, which was just for him and his sergeants. Though his commanding officers could listen in if they wished. “Sergeant Barnier, I want you to take your assault squads and requisition the high ground. I want scammers here, here, and here,” he added, sending the locations across the network. Each location was the roof of a building that had a commanding view of the battle, but far enough back to provide them with some stand-off distance.

  “Sir, I recommend moving Third Squad farther to the east,” Barnier suggested, sending the new location to the group. “It looks like they’re trying to get to the airfield.”

  “Then why did they land to the southwest of it?” Staff Sergeant McKenzie asked, which was exactly when Lang figured out what Barnier had already put together, simply by looking at some of the additional information about the impact site.

  “Because a SAM tagged them on the way down, throwing them off course,” Lang said with a mix of emotions. He was happy to have the younger sergeant here, but frustrated with himself for not seeing it on his own. “Good call, Barnier; deploy at your discretion.”

  “Thank you, sir. Wilco,” she replied.

  “Then I’m thinking the hills to the west, northwest of the crash site, sir,” McKenzie said, referring to where his mortar section would set up shop.

  “Make it happen,” Lang ordered, and not more than a few seconds went by before he saw the assault squad’s chopper make a course correction.

  “Sir?” Staff Sergeant Collins asked.

  “I know, we don’t have much of a mobile armor section now,” Lang acknowledged. “We’re going to help plug the hole to the east of the crash site,” he added, referring to the area where the existing lines looked the weakest. “Gunny, you’re with me.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t even think about trying to leave me with the mortar squad, sir,” Clark grumbled over the net.

  “Never entered my mind,” Lang responded with a grin. He and Clark had served together for some time, so he knew the sergeant’s tendencies well.

  With the orders finalized, the drop sites automatically went to the pilots. “ETA ninety seconds,” his pilot informed them.

  Lang’s HUD showed him that the mortar team was already dropping into place and that the assault team would hit their assigned rooftops about fifteen seconds after Lang touched down. “Form up!” he ordered, as they prepared for the drop. Each of them took their assigned positions at the doors on each side, ready to jump out at a moment’s notice. Lang watched the clock count down, but he was interrupted right as he was about to give the order.

  “Lasers, Lasers, La—!” the copilot yelled.

  Then the world started to spin.

  Chapter 4

  Lang grunted as he strained to open the side door of the helicopter. Normally it wouldn’t be a challenge, especially with his armor augmenting his strength, but the chopper was on its side, so the door he was trying to open was essentially the ceiling. Furthermore, the frame was visibly bent in the crash, and the door was jammed shut. To make matters even worse, he had to stand on Gunnery Sergeant Clark’s shoulders to reach the door, reducing his leverage.

  “You need to hit the gym more, sir,” Clark informed him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Lang said in between breaths. “What the—” he added as he saw a blur to his left and then heard, and also felt, a crash, followed shortly thereafter by a second one.

  “Private Greene!” Staff Sergeant Collins yelled as the Marine fell back to the floor.

  “I thought maybe the armor would let me jump through—” Greene attempted to explain.

  “I understand what you think you were doing,” Collins said, but she stopped when Lang managed to pop the sliding door loose.

  “I think he knocked it off of its tracks,” Lang said as he pushed the rest of it free. “Alright, move out, move out!” he ordered as he pulled himself out of the helicopter. As soon as he was clear, the rest of the Marines simply jumped up, over, and out, landing on the ground as gracefully as if this was a well-rehearsed ballet. It made Lang proud. “Head for the perimeter,” he ordered after he double-checked the situation on his HUD. He moved in the opposite direction, to the cockpit of the helicopter. He was relieved to find that both of the pilots had managed to extract themselves from the downed bird.

  “The CM field was up until the end,” the copilot said.

  “Saved our lives,” the pilot agreed. “It reduced our effective mass on impact.”

  Lang hadn’t taken the time to consider the means for their survival, but it made sense. Newton’s Second Law, and all that.

  “Keep your heads down and get to safety,” Lang said to them. “I’ll cover you.”

  The pilots nodded and quickly made their way to the closest buildings on the airfield,
as they weren’t equipped for ground combat against this enemy. Lang had been keeping tabs on his HUD, so once the pilots were clear of the area, he literally leaped into action. He didn’t have far to go before he fell in with his Marines, who had linked up with a couple of fire teams from Echo Platoon. He almost asked them who was in charge, but a query of the network showed that he was the only officer onsite who was left alive, effectively placing him in charge of Bravo Company.

  Lang quickly scanned the hot zone and started giving orders to reorganize the remaining Marines, since the lines had almost broken down into scattered pockets of human resistance. By the time he was done, Barnier’s voice came over the platoon’s command channel: “Assault has engaged.” Lang keyed his mic twice to acknowledge; he didn’t need to provide additional instructions at this point and there was no reason to add more chatter. He knew that Barnier was experienced enough to start hammering the alien drones that were the biggest threat to Lang’s formation.

  Knowing what was coming still didn’t diminish the violence of the incoming SCCMs. Since the CM field effectively hid most of their mass, they were able to accelerate very quickly, easily breaking the sound barrier early in their flight. Right before impact, the onboard sensors triggered a function in the software that killed the CM field, returning the missile to its full mass, making it an effective weapon even just as a kinetic kill vehicle. But as soon as the missile penetrated, the warhead exploded, blowing the Drasin up from the inside. It may have seemed like overkill to some, but they couldn’t afford to take any chances with this species.

  It didn’t take long for Staff Sergeant McKenzie’s Marines to add to the butchery, as Carnivore drones were visible in the air. Lang could also hear and feel the impacts of the smart mortars lobbed from their position in the hills. Based on the slow but positive effects that the bombardment was having on the battle, it was obvious to Lang that, at best, it had been a stalemate prior to Charlie Platoon’s arrival. Unfortunately, the Drasin always won stalemates. The ability to reproduce on the fly while literally eating materials of high value to human infrastructure meant that a war of attrition was a guaranteed defeat for humanity. Therefore, time was of the essence. So as soon as his firing line started to stabilize, he prepared to order an advance, right up to the moment that his HUD informed him of seismic activity. The sensors in his suit weren’t as sensitive as true, scientific seismic detectors, but if he was standing on top of some activity, they would usually pick it up.