The Last Hero

by Nathaniel Danes

The massive creatures fired in both directions, in some cases at pointblank range.

  Helmets exploded, chests disintegrated, and Legion soldiers fell, cut in half by the brutal assault. Red blood mixed with blue.

  The enemy projectiles appeared to be the same highly effective large caliber rounds encountered so many other times. This time, they came as an increased rate of fire.

  By the time Trent and Amanda dove further down the corridor, seeking safety in the corridor’s curves, fourteen soldiers had died in the chaos.

  More would have surely perished but for the counter-fire emanating from the holes in the connecting tube doors.

  Grenades detonated in midair all around the Bearcat team. Shrapnel tour through leather, fur, and the silver plate fixed to their chests.

  Springing to his feet, Trent sprinted for the elevator doors. They started to close. Using a dead Bearcat as a springboard, he lunged, catching it centimeters from closing.

  Sliding a severed human leg in the door’s path assured no additional reinforcements would arrive in the same fashion.

  Trent stood tall amid the garden of the dead.

  “I want a squad per tube to defend this area. If we have to bug out in a hurry, I don’t want to have to worry about getting out this way. Where’s Simms?”

  A kneeling private attending to a wounded soldier answered, “He’s down, sir. Have him right here.”

  Trent made the mistake of walking over to his wounded friend. He wasn’t prepared to see him in such a terrible state. Nothing below the waist existed, along with his right arm to the shoulder and most of the left.

  “He’ll live,” the private announced. “Recovery will take a while, but the docs will get him back together.”

  Acting as if Simms’ condition warranted no more emotion than any other soldier, Trent pushed forward.

  “Move out! Stick to our part of the plan. We need to secure the other tubes to head off any reinforcements before locating the bridge.”

  ***

  With a violent vibration that shook Earth’s Fist, the smoke lingering in the bridge air grew thicker. Dim emergency lighting flickered. Buzzing alarms signaled every one of the numerous system failures or inner hull breeches. Medical personnel attended to crewmembers suffering injuries ranging from electrical burns to lacerations.

  Captain DeWalt hunched next to the sensor panel. The shattered holo display table behind him threw sparks into the air.

  “How many left?” he asked.

  “Three.”

  “That’s bad enough,” complained Pate. Blood ran down his arm from an untreated gash in the right shoulder. “Most of my guns aren’t responding.”

  “Make do, Lieutenant. We can’t take much more of this pounding.”

  “Here they come!”

  ***

  The three Bearcat pilots understood the desperation of their charge.

  They didn’t know why their pleas for reinforcements only received promises of aid from Supreme Command. Promises in word only, as the tone of the replies clearly spoke to their true meaning – they were on their own.

  Abandonment from their leaders didn’t matter. Decades of training and social conditioning had forged their will and resolve to be unbreakable. If their last act in this life was to demonstrate this fact to the enemy by virtue of their deaths, then that’s what they would do.

  Flying side by side, they bravely closed on the monolithic vessel, determined to end the battle once and for all.

  None wept, for a glorious death awaited them.

  ***

  DeWalt changed stations to stand with Commander Sanchez, who diligently worked to coordinate the extensive damage control operations. By his estimation, Earth’s Fist should have been a floating mass of space junk. Their survival was a testament to the excellent performance of the XO, who seemed unbothered by a painful looking electrical burn over half his face.

  This position gave the captain a good view of Lieutenant Pate, whom he wished to watch without hovering for fear of distracting him.

  The three attacking craft aggressively maneuvered, frustrating numerous shots that harmlessly headed off into distance space. Then on the panel, DeWalt saw a kill just as the enemy reached their weapons range.

  Not long ago, he would have ordered the helm to initiate a roll, to bring a section still protected by the outer hull to bear. Now, such impotent tactics only wasted fuel as the outer hull hardly existed.

  Dual beams of powerful light plowed into Earth’s Fist’s metal skin. The dark alloy dissolved before the intense heat.

  The shots bored deep into a point already struck. Reaching the core, the strike knocked out the battle computer, rendering the bleeding Lieutenant’s weapons panel dark and useless.

  Fate took pity on the human ship.

  Microseconds before the weapons went dark; two shots with true aim struck the enemy craft. One landed directly on a dart’s nose, destroying it on impact. The other grazed across the side, inflicting a mortal wound.

  The sensor officer relayed the hits to the crew, causing an energetic cheer to ring out, followed by a chorus of coughs. The young officer’s victorious demeanor quickly changed when she realized one of the enemies was still capable of fighting. Her frightful expression grabbed DeWalt’s attention, wiping the smile from his face.

  “What is it?” he walked up behind her.

  “One...one is still heading for us.” Fear dominated her voice.

  “Weapons?” DeWalt shouted, praying for a positive reply.

  The lieutenant, on his knees with the weapon station’s maintenance port open, fiddled with wires and computer boards in a desperate attempt to restore weapons by tapping into the ship’s primary supercomputer, a failsafe that should have occurred automatically.

  “I...I don’t have…” Defeated, he lowered his head. “Sorry, sir.”

  “It’s alright, son. You did everything you could.”

  DeWalt returned his attention to the sensor. He helplessly watched the dying enemy fighter haphazardly steer itself on a collision course.

  “Hold on!” the sensor officer yelled.

  The impact of a solid object at high speed against the hull sent a tremendous wave throughout the battered ship.

  The concussion threw DeWalt to the floor, along with several others. On his back, he looked up to see the beam over him crack and buckle. It squealed as it gave way. Rolling, he managed to escape as it fell, slamming onto the deck with tremendous force.

  Staggering to his feet, DeWalt examined the tangled wreckage. Blood oozed out from beneath the mess of metal and wires. Looking in, he saw a crushed body, unrecognizable expect for the visible rank insignia. He briefly mourned Commander Sanchez’s death, but a secondary explosion deep within the ship focused his attention to the critical task at hand.

  “Somebody get me a Goddamn damage report!”

  ***

  Fortunately for Trent, the majority of the base’s defenders planned to meet the invaders in the outer ring. With control of all four access points to the center structure, he felt confident enough to begin a search for the command and control center.

  He could feel time running short. Captain Thomas and Major Jones’ teams continued to fight off constant Bearcat counterattacks aimed at retaking the outer ring and with it their avenue of escape. Grenade ammo started to run low, whatever he wanted to accomplish, he needed to do it fast.

  A hurried search determined the target wasn’t on their current level.

  Blasting open the stairwell, they gained access to the rest of the center structure. After the alien air finished draining, four squads filed in. Two headed down, two up.

  Trent climbed the large steps as fast as he could. He ordered one of the two squads under his direct command to enter the first level they reached. The other one followed him to the next level.

  Amanda placed the last of her demo tape on the door when they reached the landing. Holding tight onto the railings, the squad endured the windstorm through the nar
row chasm.

  Pouring through the gap, Trent found what he sought.

  Instead of discovering a smooth silvery corridor, a dizzying array of screens and control panels, flashing lights and data illegible to his alien mind confronted him.

  The distracted invaders paid a grim price for their rushed incursion.

  Two enemy soldiers rose from behind a desk on his left and opened fire with their large pistols. The small caliber rounds claimed four of the team by the time everyone reached cover.

  Several legionnaires returned fire, but forgetting the warnings, did so with standard MRG BBs. From his vantage point, Trent witnessed what Thomas and Jones already knew.

  The supersonic projectiles simply bounced harmlessly off some type of invisible barrier centimeters from the Bearcats’ bodies.

  By the time the mistake was realized, the ambushers had retreated further left. The center shaft that carried the attackers now hid the enemy’s movements.

  Amanda grabbed the nearest soldier by an arm and shouted, “We’ll head them off in the other direction. You follow them.”

  Trent responded as if the orders came from a General. “Let’s move,” he shouted to the two idle warriors.

  Staying low, with weapons at the ready, he and his companions sprinted from cover to cover as they made their way around the command ring. They didn’t move fast enough to catch the enemy before Amanda made contact.

  Bright flashes signified they’d remembered to use grenades.

  “Awwww!”

  Trent knew the painful cry was Amanda’s.

  His heart jumped into his throat before pounding into the pit of his stomach. Abandoning all rational tactical thought, adrenaline propelled him forward.

  Accelerating to full speed in just a few strides, he came face to face with his worst nightmare. Processing everything in a fraction of a second, he didn’t break stride as he rushed to his lover’s aid.

  One soldier was dead, having been riddled with shots. Not Amanda, thank God. She dangled from the clenched claw of an enraged Bearcat. The creature held her high by her shattered left arm. It took hold of her other arm and pulled them in opposite directions. His dead comrade lay spread across a tabletop, guts blown out.

  Not wanting to risk Amanda’s life with a grenade and not having even a microsecond to take hold of his Bowie knife before contact, he did the only thing he could. He trusted in the MRG.

  Taking flight, Trent flew the last several meters and took hold of the mighty fur covered arm. His weight failed to register. The muscular appendage didn’t budge.

  Jamming the barrel up into the creature’s armpit, he hoped to circumvent the enemy’s modern defenses.

  One pull of the trigger told Trent that what he’d hoped for had happened.

  The beast roared as its arm detached at the shoulder, dropping him to the floor. It let go of Amanda with the other. As it flared in agony, Trent sat up and stuck the barrel into its crotch. Pulling the trigger turned the once terrifying warrior into a fountain. Blue blood carried by the MRG rounds blasted out the top of its head.

  A death rain fell all around him. The three-meter tall tower collapsed to its knees and slumped to the side.

  Amanda cradled her broken arm. Trent, in a panic, asked, “Amanda...I mean Sergeant Roth. Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live,” she said, pain evident in her voice.

  He stood and helped her to her feet. The other two in their party finished clearing the rest of the area.

  “Colonel?”

  “Yes, Corporal?”

  He attended to Amanda, even though there wasn’t anything he could really do for her.

  “You should see this.”

  Walking to the corporal’s position, Trent found the young man staring at a large screen. On it, a series of symbols constantly changed.

  “Sweetie,” he said to his CAL. “Do you know what these symbols are?”

  The pause stretched forever, along with his nerves.

  “Yes. They are numbers counting down.”

  Counting down? Holy shit!

  “All units!” he yelled through a broadcast link. “Evacuate the station! I repeat evacuate the station. A self-destruct has been activated. Shuttles, we are going to need extraction from the drop off point. All units converge there.”

  Before leaving, the four soldiers hammered anything important looking with grenades and then ran to the stairs, down the way they came. In the stairwell, they met up with the other squad, who fired grenades behind them to cover their retreat. Each step on the way out, the group of legionnaires grew thicker. A temporary log jammed formed at the tubes, but the delay was short lived.

  I hope we all aren’t as short-lived.

  Captain Thomas and Major Jones held fast their respective flanks. Short on grenades, the newcomers eagerly refreshed their supply.

  “The shuttles are here.” Jones hurled fire at the enemy through one of the original demo tape holes. “Start boarding, we’ll hold them off!”

  One after another of the legionnaires leapt into the round holes to one of the surviving twelve shuttles, but not Trent. He collected a fresh roll of demo tape and proceeded to slap several strips to each broken door, guarding their retreat. Before long, he, Jones, and Thomas would jump up as the last to leave the station.

  “Let’s go!”

  Thomas and Jones fired a final barrage before running and leaping into the last shuttle behind Trent. As the craft closed its hatch, the enemy, seizing the opportunity to spoil the escape, rushed forward. Just as the shuttle began to lift off the hull, and the enemy took aim with heavy munitions, the tape exploded.

  The pilot hit the booster, pushing the shuttle to its maximum speed.

  Trent buckled himself in and braced for the inevitable.

  He didn’t have long to wait.

  In a brilliant flash, the station vaporized into a ball of expanding plasma that kissed the tail of the craft, shaking it violently but rendering no real damage.

  The shuttle sped beyond the danger, settling into an uneventful ride.

  Outside the pilot’s view, Trent caught a glimpse of Earth’s Fist.

  The damage took his breath away.

  Chapter 30: Almost Home

  Aloud bang greeted Trent as he exited the shuttle. Jerking to see what caused the sound, he was shocked to see half the shuttle bay had collapsed in onto itself.

  Walking closer to the pile of debris, he gazed up into the hole created by the cave-in. At least two decks could be seen. Material that had once made up those levels was now twisted and distorted into a smoldering heap.

  “What in God’s name happened?” Amanda asked, humbled by the damage.

  “War, Sergeant. War happened here.”

  A feminine shriek and tears pulled his attention back to the shuttles.

  Captain Thomas dropped her weapon and helmet and rushed to her lover’s side. The dismembered and unconscious Captain Simms was on a stretcher after being unloaded and set down on the floor to await transport to the med bay.

  Tears rolled down the usually stalwart captain’s cheeks. Cradling his face in her trembling hands, she placed a gentle kiss upon his lips.

  Trent squatted next to her. Wrapping an arm across her shoulders, he offered what weak comfort he could.

  “He’s going to be all right. They’ll have him good as new in a few months.”

  War happened here as well.

  ***

  Still suited with his helmet in hand, Trent made his way to the bridge. An untold number of obstacles lengthened the journey.

  Fractured beams and blown out sections of metal paneling littered the corridors. Dim emergency lighting flickered on and off in some places. A near constant trickle of wounded, some walking, others carried, made their own way to the sick bay.

  A visible layer of smoke lingered near the ceiling. Where there still was a ceiling. The level of devastation seemed unreal to Trent. He barely recognized the ship that served as home for so many months. He
began to doubt its ability to ferry them through the gate.

  Reaching the bridge, he entered in his access code on the keypad. The doors slid open a few centimeters before grinding to a halt. Pressing the open button again and again failed to achieve any result. Gripping the two sections of the door with a hand, Trent used all of his strength to pry open the jammed entryway. It gave way, but slowly and with a fight.

  Fireworks of random sparks launched from anywhere electrical wiring ran and rained down flecks of hot light. Trent entered cautiously. The eerie quiet, collapsed ceiling, and dead bodies caused him to imagine the worst.

  “Welcome, Colonel.” Captain DeWalt typed into a station data port.

  Trent breathed a sigh of relief. Not for the captain’s survival, but for the fact his survival increased the likelihood of getting home. The selfish involuntary response made him feel guilty.

  “Was starting to think no one made it out of here alive, glad to see you’re okay, relatively speaking.”

  “The bridge took a lot of damage. I’ve transferred most control functions to engineering. I’m about finished here and will head there soon.”

  “Causalities?” Trent asked.

  DeWalt lowered his head to say, “Lots, several hundred dead and wounded…including Commander Sanchez.”

  “I’m sorry. He was a good officer.”

  “That he was. Your men performed admirably as part of our damage control efforts. Not sure we could have saved her without them.”

  “Glad to hear they were of use to you. How...how is she? Do you think we’ll be able to make the jump?”

  The captain stopped typing. He turned to face Trent, leaning backward against the data port with his arms crossed.

  “Honestly, Colonel...I don’t know yet. We have hull breeches all over the ship. Numerous areas are simply not accessible. Crew and Legion personnel are trapped all over. Many won’t survive if we don’t reach them soon. And...and the particle beam isn’t responding. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. We’ll have to get someone out there to do a visual inspection.”

  The news hit Trent hard. Feeling dizzy, he reached out to grab hold of an intact bulkhead.

  “We’ve come too far for this...for this to be the end.”