by JR Handley
Moments after Nhlappo spoke, the pilots received an incoming transmission from Lieutenant General Spartika in New Detroit. Nhlappo’s hands tightened into fists as Spartika spoke.
“Attention, Imposter Nhlappo sycophants, this is Field Marshal Spartika speaking. Your beloved commander is dead, and you will be too if you return to New Detroit City. I have formally disavowed the harebrained notion of the Human Legion and re-affirmed our allegiance to our benevolent White Knight Overlords. Once we have re-conquered this solar system from McEwan’s rebellious scum, we will return to the way things were. The way they were meant to be. Enjoy what’s left of your lives, short though they may be. Field Marshal Spartika, out.”
The Marines inside the two remaining Storks hurled every insult and curse word they knew as Spartika spoke. Some continued their tirade of obscenity after she had finished, and others just sat silently staring. There was a single unifying thought between the surviving Marines: there was no going back to New Detroit and only an uncertain future in Beta City.
One of Nhlappo’s biggest bargaining chips was gone, and her leadership would be called into question by this Jotun Field Marshal Marchewka. How could she propose an alliance when she no longer had control of her own forces? She refocused, linked into the two Storks' LBNet, and addressed the remaining 106 infantry Marines and 8 Marine pilots.
“Listen well, the deaths of our brothers and sisters will be avenged. Pilots, find and lock onto the position where those missiles were fired from and blanket the entire area with smart fire missiles. Everyone else, we must live to fight another day. We have potential allies in Beta City. Let us press on and seize the initiative, so we might seek justice for our brethren. Radio silence from here on. Field Marshal Nhlappo – out.”
Nhlappo watched the bodies of those in her shuttle shift and compose themselves. Her words had at least given comfort to those in her Stork. Thinking about the mutiny and the traitorous bitch Spartika, Anderson popped into her head. Looking over to him and waving to get his attention, she shouted over the roar of the Stork’s struggling engines.
“So much as an, ‘I told you so,’ and I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to your mates.”
“Roger that, Field Marshal,” the sergeant replied.
— Chapter 35 —
Early Morning, Post-Revival Day 3
Front Lines, New Detroit City, Baylshore
1st Section, 3rd SQD, Recon Co., 1st Spec Ops BN, 3rd Independent Spec Ops RGT
Lance Sergeant Baird Pond and Major Jennifer Boon held each other as they watched the wreckage of Field Marshal Nhlappo’s Stork smoke. Meandering wisps of black trailed from the jutting peeks of the Gjende Mountains. Jennifer had provided the intelligence on which shuttle to target, and Baird’s team had accomplished the mission. Looking from the destruction back over at Jennifer, he pulled her naked body close and kissed her.
Baird was worried when Jennifer didn’t show up on time for their rendezvous. He was more concerned about her busted lip and blackened eye. His squad’s failure to kill Nhlappo before had resulted in her being harshly disciplined. She didn’t speak of it, and he didn’t push for information. Instead, they focused on each other.
He had promised her that he wouldn’t fail this time, and with his team a couple hundred yards behind them in the trees manning a rocket launcher and missile batteries, they hadn’t. Normally, he would have supervised the mission, but using tracking missiles to target Storks as they took off wasn’t exactly complex.
As smoke continued to climb into the sky, he felt Jennifer’s naked body relax. While not the romantic type, Baird felt the closest thing he’d ever experienced to love with Jennifer and would do anything she asked of him. With a smile, she moved closer and kissed him deeply.
Despite the cool mist of the drizzling rain, their bodies radiated heat as they pressed into each other. His tongue began delving into the softness of her mouth while his hands caressed the contrasting hardness of her muscled, yet lithe curves.
She’s my willow tree, hard and soft in all the right places, he thought as he rolled her onto her back.
Something about their wild, passionate coupling, under an equally chaotic storm, felt right to Baird. He pounded away into Jennifer, in tempo to the thunder from above. She forcibly rolled on top of him and began riding him hard. His breath caught as felt something prick his neck and hiss mechanically. In a few moments, his body grew numb, and he was unable to move.
“You made the right choice, lover,” said Jennifer as she sat up on top of him. “Serving me and the cause was the smart move, but past failures can’t be rewarded. Don’t worry, the paralytic I injected you with will mask the pain.”
Baird tried to scream, to move, to do anything. Instead, he laid there with wide eyes. His love, Jennifer, removed a combat knife from her discarded uniform and plunged it into his chest. Ripping it free and plunging it in again, blood splattering all over her breasts and chest.
She rested one hand on the hilt of the knife embedded in his chest and used the other to smear his blood across her breasts. The rain intensified and mixed with the blood as she smiled down at him like an animal ready to feast.
“It’s not anything personal, love. Sex never is,” said Jennifer.
Baird’s vision began to blur as he felt his life slipping from him. The ground rumbled around him as he began to drift away. Looking from the angel of death up to the sky, he accepted he would die. When he saw the shower of incoming missiles streaking toward them, he wished he could smile.
— Chapter 36 —
Late Morning, Post-Revival Day 3
Main Hanger Bay, Beta City, Serendine
3rd Section, Charlie Flight, 126th NACS
This was the worst morning in the lives of most pilots and ground crew assigned to the 126th Naval Auxiliary Craft Squadron. Personnel assigned to NACS units were accustomed to a relaxed pace, filled with virtual training and predictably comfortable schedules. However, upon waking up in a city no longer submerged in water, they were faced with the daunting task of repairing the eight remaining Storks, which had been scuttled during the mutiny. When those Storks had been made void-ready, the Spacers would likely end up moving over to assist their brethren in the 215th Naval Atmospheric Fighter Squadron to repair their thirty-six Drakos.
First Grade Petty Officer Chase Arbor was among the many gear heads – a term for Spacer Mechanics – tasked with bringing these ghost ships back into the naval fold. At five foot nine, he was small against the Marine backdrop of Beta City, but what he lacked in height he made up for in lean muscle mass. Like most Spacers, his skin looked pallid and ghost like, but he was fully alive and vested in his love of the mammoth machines he served. Chase’s small frame allowed him to go where other larger technicians couldn’t, and it wasn’t unusual to see him crawling into air intake manifolds or engine compartments to check seals.
After a hard morning sanitizing their City Phase Unit, they then began to clean up the mess the mutiny had left behind. While to them it had been mere days ago, the ravages of thirty-five years submerged in the waters of Lake Sarpedona had taken its toll on their equipment.
Fixing this is gonna blow cholba chunks, thought Chase as he mourned the loss of his orderly hanger bay, and by extension, his world.
Chase conducted a hasty survey for Commander Ljot Vald-Hagen, the Jotun Hanger Boss. The brown-furred Jotun had only recently woken up after the city was declared plague free. Using a grease-coated Digi-Sheet to enter information, Chase saw that only seven of their Storks were capable of resuming flight, and another one was good only for spare parts.
He felt like a piece of him was missing as he typed the information into the Digi-Sheet. Before the mutiny, he had thirty-two of his treasured Stork shuttles to baby. His wayward Storks had clearly been taken by one faction or another as they abandoned the city or died in the voids above.
The only good news he could think of was that they would have an abundance of manpower to strip and restore th
e remaining Storks. Pinging the ground crew mechanics with his Aimee, he watched as they swarmed the Storks like ants. Tucking his Digi-Sheet into a cargo pocket on his leg, he joined in.
Chiefs held their coffee in one hand and pointed out directions with their other as the gear heads applied their mechanical skills to fixing the shuttles. While it seemed like these old chiefs were slackers, Chase knew their years of wisdom expedited the process and allowed the ground crew to find creative solutions to equipment issues. Despite that, he wished they would pitch in physically every now and then. At least this time, there were far more hands than work needing to be done.
When the ground crew finished repairs, Chase pulled his Digi-Sheet out and looked it over. All the Storks were listed as battle-ready. The gear heads gathered their treasured tools to stow away while the chiefs wandered off to refill their mugs. When they were finished stowing equipment, Chase released his crew to relax and get some food. Busy with the digital paperwork that accompanied life as a senior gear head, Chase followed behind them with his Digi-Sheet.
While the Spacers under his command were chowing down in their recently sanitized mess deck, Chase split his time filling out the digital repair forms that would trickle up the chain of command to Commander Ljot Vald-Hagen and getting his morning meal. Once the forms were approved, the master repair system would update and tell the warfighters what resources were available to rain death upon their foes. The thought of knowing what his birds could do simultaneously chilled and thrilled Chase, who lived and breathed by the health of his babies.
Almost immediately after his reports went live, the Hangar Boss sent an order to his Aimee to have all the Stork ground crews move over to the 215th NAFS to assist getting their thirty-six Drako fighters airborne. Grimacing as he shoved food into his mouth, Chase stopped chewing to smile when he read the ground crews would receive extra grok rations, if they got all birds into the air before their evening meal.
Chase knew this was a close to impossible timeline so he immediately pinged his junior gear heads with the updated orders and potential reward. A few moments after he sent the update, there was a metallic clatter to his right. Trays began hitting the cleaning conveyor and greasy boots pounded the ground as his crew ran toward the promise of grok. With so few luxuries available, the offer of anything alcoholic could motivate a Spacer to do crazy things. Chase had even picked a fist fight with a Marine once.
As expected, the work was completed before supper, with all the Drakos in better condition than when they flew off the factory floor. Chase wiped sweat from his forehead with a greasy rag and smiled as his personnel joked about getting completely hammered.
Frakk me, but I’m glad that those buggers in the 215th have to file their own paperwork, and I can beat them to the grok line, Chase thought.
A three-fingered hand grabbing his arm jerked him from his thoughts. The giant, brown-furred Jotun, Commander Ljot, looked down at him before speaking through his voice box.
“We need you to grab two teams and ensure that all of the Storks are prepped for Marine Combat Drops. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours to switch them all over. In return for your hard work, we’ll smuggle better booze over to our squadron’s operation center. Now, turn and burn – dismissed!”
Chase returned Commander Ljot’s salute, while silently wishing death upon him. His muttering could be heard all the way to the hangar bay where he set his crew to work converting the Storks to MCD mode.
— Chapter 37 —
Late Morning, Post-Revival Day 3
Beta City Inspection Tour, Beta City, Serendine
Beta City Integrated Command
The exhausting morning securing and sanitizing the base had taken its toll on everyone, but Lance didn’t have time to relax. He had received new orders from Field Marshal Marchewka to mitigate the food, water, and other supply issues. Orders in hand, Lance pushed forward and organized Beta City’s systematic search for supplies.
After assigning the tasks, which Xena coordinated among the various companies left, he ordered that everything found be secured in the empty hangar bay. Lance knew if things got desperate, Marines might try to “commandeer” supplies, so he assigned permanent guards in the hanger bay. It wasn’t an easy decision, but Lance gave his Marines shoot to kill orders and posted signs indicating this. It was harsh, but the supplies had to be protected.
Lance’s Aimee pinged non-stop as the Marines reported back that they had armed everyone, though replacement parts and extra sabots would be an issue. Given they didn’t stumble into any prolonged firefights, they would be okay for the moment. Water was also in short supply, but there were working water filtration systems.
Food, however, was a serious issue. Beta City only had enough viable food left to feed the current Marines and Spacers for a month, and there was little chance of resupply. The fighting troops of the Human Marine Corps were truly on their own.
Lance fidgeted with his collar devices as he spoke to Marchewka over the open command network in his quarters. Ensuring his field marshal was abreast of all the happenings within the command was his top priority.
“Sir, currently we have enough food for the month, but it’s going to be lean. Unless we find some secret cache of food, we’re going to have turn our search outward. Given our limited ammunition, this is a dangerous prospect.”
Lance paused a moment to continue speaking. It was enough time for Basil to unexpectedly jump into the conversation. Lance had forgotten they were on an open command line.
“Sirs, respectfully, we have the solution to the food issue locked up. There is a Hardit scientist in our custody who was working on self-regulating autonomous ecosystems. His theory, if successful, utilized a habdisk to grow enough food for a regiment,” Basil continued. “It hasn’t been tested to scale, but with all our engineering minds and enhanced AIs, I have confidence that we can make it happen. With this Hardit’s methods, we could expeditiously solve our food problem once and for all. Further, we could target foods specific to each race and avoid the synthetic garbage we’ve been eating.”
Lance took the pause in Basil’s momentum to speak up.
“Field Marshal, this also gives us some logistical advantages over the starving Marines this Nhlappo can’t feed. Not to mention it would give us a better negotiation platform.”
Marchewka grunted and ordered Basil and Lance to make things happen with the Hardit, by any means necessary. They affirmed their understanding of the order in unison, and Xena and Dante sent their respective Marines instructions to link up in Lance’s quarters.
Breaking comms, Lance grabbed the web vest he’d rigged up to hook his Flenser pistol and sword onto, before inquiring where the Hardit Ledatic was being held. With directions on his Aimee, he was ready to go when Basil breathlessly arrived. Lance’s skinny friend dropped his hands to his knees as he sucked in air.
He needs to get into shape if he’s gonna be taken seriously by my Marines, thought Lance.
“Basil, your former boss, Ledatic, is in the holding cells on Level 9 of our City Phase Unit. When we get there, I can give you a few moments alone with him if you want. You can seek your justice.”
Basil jumped, as if he’d been slapped in the face. Lance assumed Basil likely hadn’t thought of seeking physical vengeance. No doubt, Basil had suffered many beatings at the hands of his old Hardit master, Senior Lab Technician Ledatic Sayansi-Hisabati.
“That won’t be necessary, Captain,” Basil replied as he gathered himself up and caught his breath. “My personal desires can’t outweigh the needs of our Marines. Let’s have a fire team come with us though. Just in case we have to ‘soften’ up my old boss.”
“Let’s see if Corporal Trevino, over in Echo-4, has learned her lesson,” Lance replied as he pinged his first sergeant to make it happen. A reply came back almost immediately that the requested personnel would be waiting for him at the brig. With that, the two officers set off for Level 9.
As they rounded the la
st corner to the regimental brig, Lance and Basil stopped short at the unexpected presence of his security fire team. Despite his rapid movement, the fire team had beaten him there. Lance caught his breath, disappointed that he was physically slipping. A look over at Basil’s sweat covered face made him feel better.
“Whatever happens during this interrogation, the Hardit can’t die. Understood?” said Lance.
The fire team, led by Trevino, answered affirmatively.
Once the ground rules were established, Lance straightened his posture and marched into the brig, heading straight through to the interrogation room. Lance was shocked at the beaten creature before them. This scarred and bloody Hardit was a shadow of the presence that ran the cryo labs two years before. Ledatic’s formerly arrogant bearing had crumbled under the harsh realities of the previous Marine interrogation techniques, leaving behind a hollow shell in its wake.
“Stand up, Hardit!” said Lance. “Major Basil Terloar has some questions for you!”
The confused look on his furry face made the moment ever so sweet for Lance. After taking a few seconds to gloat, he nodded to Basil to begin.
“Rest easy, Ledatic,” said Basil. “If I came for vengeance your entrails would be staining my boots already. Today, I give you the chance to live. I know your research into taking habdisks and turning them into autonomous farming greenhouses was a success. You can live and oversee your project, providing food for the Human Marine Corps, or you can die. We have your notes. Truly, we don’t need you. This is a one-time offer, take it or leave it.”
Ledatic’s three eyes stared at the two human officers. His ears flattened as a low growl began to creep up in his throat. Just before the interrogation Marines were about to turn on the strobe lights to blind his sensitive eyes, he straightened his body and spoke.
“I serve the White Knights and the Hardit race. This Human Marine Corps is an abomination if it allows for human officers. You unworthy nefnasts don’t rate consideration. You couldn’t even defend yourselves against the mutinous New Order! You are not the soldiers the White Knights would expect.”