by Geoff Brown
“Where’d you get the toy?” Mills asked.
“The colonel gave it to me. It’s an early Christmas present,” she said.
Mills flipped down his goggles. The crew shambled along. They wouldn’t be hard to take out, and even if they reached the walls, he didn’t think they could climb.
The crew was getting the EMP gun ready to fire.
“Is that ready yet?” Murphy said. He was slinging an assault rifle of his own, and had also thrown on a pack with extra magazines.
The gunner nodded.
The crew swung the gun to the left. Mills felt a little tingle of anticipation at the thought of seeing the rail gun do its job.
Before they could fire, a buzzing sound filled the air, harsh and grating. And then Mills saw them: a mass of winged monstrosities descending from the clouds and hovering over the crewmen. “What the fuck?” he said aloud.
Whitey and the rest of the squad gathered around.
O’Brien said, “Shit. Flying uglies. Even better.”
The swarm of creatures, all of them slightly larger than an average-sized man, swooped down, each of them grasping a crewmember within those spindly forelegs. They lifted off with the reanimations and sped through the air towards the base.
Mills realized what they intended to do. “Shoot them down! Shoot the fuckers down!”
The squad spread out and took aim. Mills fired, blasting one of the flying creatures out of the air, and it spun to the ground landing with a wet splat.
Automatic weapons chattered. He glanced over and saw Murphy score a hit.
The EMP crew had raised the angle of the cannon. They fired a blast and the resulting pulse hit a dozen of the flying things and shredded them in mid air, along with their cargo.
The first wave reached the wall. One of the suckers flew over his head and dropped the reanimated crewmember behind the wall. The creature banked back around. Mills fired. Missed. It swooped and landed twenty feet from him. It had a nasty face, almost all needle-like teeth. There were no visible eyes, only a shiny, black head. It scrabbled towards him. He took aim and shot it through the mouth. It kept coming, beating its wings then launched itself at Mills.
It knocked him backward. He steadied himself as not to tumble off the wall. He grabbed the jaws that snapped at his face. The thing was slimy and nasty, leaking goop onto his hands.
Whitey came into help and grabbed the upper jaw, trying to pull back. The thing turned its head with lightning quickness. Mills’ grip slipped and Whitey’s hand disappeared into the thing’s mouth. Jaws snapped shut, crunching Whitey’s hand and the solider pulled away a bloodied stump as his hand disappeared down the creature’s gullet. Whitey screamed, the stump pumping blood. Mills managed to get his knees up to his chest and kick the thing back enough so he could scoot out from underneath.
Mills shot to his feet, pulled his sidearm and emptied the magazine into the flying ugly.
Take that, you flying fucker!
He leapt over the creature’s body in an effort to get to Whitey, who was flailing around gripping his wrist. As Mills almost reached him, Whitey seemed drunk. Wobbling around.
Shit. He’s about to pass out.
Whitey’s eyes rolled back, and he tumbled off the wall and hit the ground inside the base. A loud snap punctuated his fall, and he was still.
O’Brien looked down at their fallen squad mate. “Shit, is he?”
“Look at his neck, O’Brien. Your head’s not supposed to sit like that on your shoulders.”
“Goddammit,” O’Brien growled.
A cluster of the reanimated crewmen gathered below. Hamilton stepped up, took aim, and fired a grenade into their midst. The ground shook. An arm catapulted through the air. A parasite missing the rear half of its body and dripping thick, yellow fluid tried to crawl away. Hamilton blasted it.
Murphy came running up to him. “There’s too many. There are more of the winged ones on the way. ETA six minutes or so. We have to pull back.”
“Fall back,” Mills yelled.
As Mills and the squad headed for the metal stairway, he remembered the drone strike. It was worth a try. “Command. This is Mills. Request drone support. Copy.”
“Mills this is Airman Collins. Drone strike is hot. Awaiting your command.”
“Thank fucking God.”
He gave the coordinates to Collins.
“Copy Mills. Advise Stinger is inbound.”
Mills’ squad, Hamilton, and Murphy reached the bottom of the steps. The rest of Murphy’s people were making their way to the stairs, blasting incoming creatures as fast as they could.
A group of reanimated crewmen that had been dropped into the base noticed Mills and the others and started forward. Hamilton stepped up and blasted them with a smart grenade. Mills and the others fired, taking out six or seven more but the bastards were still coming though.
Mills popped in his last magazine. “Murphy. Low on ammo.”
“Armory’s that way. C’mon.”
They moved along the wall, Mills worried about the ammo situation. He had a spare magazine for his sidearm, but that wouldn’t get him far. The other guys had to be getting low, as well.
A reanimated crewman staggered toward Mills. He pulled the trigger. Click. Shit. Dry fire. He slung his rifle and went for his sidearm.
The crewman exploded. He heard the clatter of a cannon and the Stinger drone roared overhead. Shit that was close. Good thing the drones could target things down to the millimeter.
The drone swept over again, rained hell on the remaining crewmen and mopped up the parasites. It was over in a matter of minutes. He watched the remains of the flying creatures fall from the sky.
“Hostiles confirmed killed,” Collins said through the comms.
“Nice shooting, Airman. Thank you much,” Mills said.
Murphy said, “Her airship is inbound. Ahead of schedule. Grab an APC and get her out here.”
A chattering noise reverberated in Mills’ chest. Like cicadas on steroids. It had come from the direction of the downed ship. He felt a little sick as he realized what it was. “That big bastard’s out of the ship.”
Murphy turned to one of his soldiers standing in a pile of remains that had been one of the crewmen. “Go up top and get me a visual. Now.”
The soldier hurried up the stairs and Mills watched him flip down the visor on his helmet. “Big one coming in, sir! Two clicks. Moving fast.”
Murphy said, “Get to the airfield. Command wants Hamilton safe.”
“You heard the man. We reload first and move out,” he said to the remaining squad members.
* * *
Bronson pulled the APC out of Zulu’s gate. Mills shifted up front; took a look out at the open plain. He saw the big ugly coming at them with terrifying speed. Its huge legs ground like gears in a machine. Tentacles snaked from its belly. Its pincers opened and closed, as if practicing cutting fresh meat.
“I probably don’t have to tell you, Bronson, but put the hammer down,” Mills said.
“Flooring it, Sarge.”
They drove along the east wall of the base. The airfield was about five hundred yards away. Mills spotted the small, squat building and several concrete landing pads.
“The airship is three minutes out,” Murphy said into his earpiece. “And Mills? That big monstrosity is following you.”
This day just keeps getting better.
“Copy, Colonel. We’ll do what we can.”
“What’s wrong?” Hamilton said.
“The big one has its sights set on us.”
No sooner had Mills got the word out, something slammed into the APC and he was thrown against the wall, then the ceiling. Hamilton smashed into him. O’Brien and the rest of the squad were tossed around like confetti in a steel drum. Someone screamed. The APC ended up on its side. Mills untangled himself from Hamilton. Her head was bleeding. O’Brien was out cold. JT was holding his arm and grimacing. His wrist was bent at a horrible angle. He looked up in
to the driver’s seat and saw Bronson sitting motionless. He’d been strapped into the controls.
He was pretty sure his gun crew was dead. Not moving or breathing.
The creature bashed the APC again. The side wall – now facing up – had crumpled like paper.
“Airfield Zulu this is Warhawk Three One Niner. Approaching,” the pilot’s voice said in Mills’ ear.
“Warhawk we have a large hostile on the ground. Can you assist?”
“Roger. I see it.”
“Give him hell, will you?” Mills said into his mic.
“He’s about to have a bad day,” the pilot replied. “I need a clear target. Going to drop ordinance on him.”
“We’ll try and draw him away, Warhawk.”
He looked at Hamilton. “Can you fight?”
“I’ve had worse than this, Sergeant,” she said, wiping blood from her forehead.
“We’ll open the hatch. See if we can get that thing into the open, draw it away from the APC. Then we’ll get back and tend to the wounded.”
“Sarge, I can fight,” JT said.
“Bullshit, not with one arm. Sit tight,” Mills said.
Mills and Hamilton crawled to the rear hatch. He hit the button and the motor groaned. It opened roughly three feet then jammed. There was just enough room to squeeze out.
The two of them wriggled through and wound up ducking near the APC’s roof. They looked up to see the mottled black-grey body of the beast. They were directly underneath the torso. It hadn’t seen them yet. Two tentacles whipped blindly overhead.
“We break for the control building,” Mills whispered.
“I’ll put two grenades in his belly,” Hamilton said with a nod.
“Go,” Mills said, firing upward into the thing’s gut.
Hamilton weaved between two of its legs, paused and ripped off two grenades. They exploded, greenish fluid raining down from the creature’s gut. It let out an angry screech. One of the tentacles swiped at Hamilton. She ducked before it could wrap around her neck.
Mills grabbed her by the arm. The control building was about a hundred yards away.
Mills broke into a sprint. Body armor came in handy, but he wouldn’t set any Olympic records for speed while wearing it.
As he closed in on the control building, Hamilton at his side, something bit into his calf. He was tugged backward and hit the ground. He rolled over to see the tentacle wrapped around his calf. Hot pain shot through his legs as the barbs worked their way into the skin.
The beast was almost directly over him. He pulled his combat knife from his belt. Despite all the technological advances in warfare, a good knife could still be a grunt’s best friend.
The creature lowered its head, giant mouth open and revealing rows of six-inch spikes.
Mills sawed through the tentacle. It remained wrapped around his calf, the barbs holding tight. The pain was like hot nails being driven into his flesh; his gorge rose, bitter in his throat.
Hamilton stepped up and ripped a grenade into the thing’s maw. It reared its head back, screeching again.
She dragged Mills to his feet and he hooked an arm around her neck. She supported his weight as they moved away, Mills hopping on one good leg, the severed tentacle still digging into his calf. He felt woozy. The ground started to tilt, as if he were on an unpleasant amusement park ride. Was the tentacle pumping some sort of venom into his leg?
The airship swooped in. It looked like a big wasp. Every fucking thing out here looked like a bug, didn’t it? He heard a whoosh and then the din of an explosion.
Hamilton threw him to the ground.
Then darkness closed in.
* * *
The next thing Mills knew, he was on a stretcher on the ground, a stout female medic wrapping his leg in a bandage. His boot was off and his pant leg had been cut away. The airship loomed next to him.
“You’re going to make it, Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “The colonel sent help when he saw the ship come in.”
“Thanks. You saved my sorry ass.”
“We both helped each other,” Hamilton said. “Good luck, Sergeant Mills. My ride’s waiting. Not my style, I’d rather stay, but it is what it is.”
She reached down, held out her hand. He shook it and when they were done, she trotted over to the airship, where a ramp was lowered to the ground. A group of soldiers and airmen stood nearby.
“What the hell happened?” he said to the medic.
“That Warhawk blasted the hell out of the big ugly. The venom from the tentacle started to work on you. Lucky I got out here when I did. I gave you an antidote. You’re going to feel like crap for a few days, but you’ll live. The colonel will have my ass if I let you die.”
Mills said, “Why’s that?”
“There’s three divisions on the way here. You’re going to be part of the big offensive.”
“How’s my squad?”
“I patched some of them up. A few others didn’t make it, I’m afraid,” the medic said, continuing to wrap his leg.
“Did the colonel say when we move out?”
“As soon as you’re healed. You did a hell of a job, Sarge. At least that’s what I heard. Command has plans for Hamilton. She’s the face of the resistance. Guess she’s going to tour our remaining bases, fire up the troops and all.”
The ground shook and the airship lifted off. At least he’d earned a few days rest. Then it was back out to fight the uglies, and hopefully take back the planet for good.
Invasive Maneuvers
Tim Marquitz & J. M. Martin
I clung to my seat as we hurtled toward the Saaart Worldbreaker.
The raidcraft was dark and reeked of sweat and the woody scent of the traditional Cral whiskey we’d all downed before boarding; a toast to victory or a quick death. My fellow burrowers sat in uneasy silence, crowded against one another, armor rubbing in the cramped confines. We should have been deep within the extinction zone by then, but without instrumentation there was no way to be sure. We flew blind. No windows, no energy signature, no instrumentation, and nothing to indicate the raidcraft was anything different than the thousands of other projectiles sent streaking toward the Saaart ship.
It was better that way.
Just the other side of the flimsy hull that protected us from the ravages of cold and dismal space, a war raged. Saaart cannons would be shredding our offensive as it crept toward the planet Zeti 5, a leviathan swatting at gnats. The quiet stretched on, every tick carrying us closer. We’d know soon enough if we made it or we’d know nothing at all.
I held my breath while we waited, my hands inching toward the bolt rifle magclasped to my belt, fingers sliding along the grip. It was still there, just as it’d been the last time I’d checked. A chuckle slipped out when I realized what I’d done. It earned me a few glares, nerves on edge inside the sleek coffin ship, but I met them with a grin. As the only man aboard the raidcraft with eight spikes stitched to his skull emblem, each spike a successful burrow, these nervous twats could fuck right off. Most of them wouldn’t be coming back anyway.
Before I could get too worked up about their attitudes our raidcraft slammed into the side of the Saaart ship. The front quarters buckled on impact as designed. I covered my ears on instinct as the grapples hooked us to the hull and the laazdrill went to work. Vibrations rattled the craft, jouncing us in our seats, but it was nothing compared to what Shalarouse experienced in the Kevorkian Cradle up front; the suicide seat.
He’d drawn the short straw as we boarded and resigned himself to the glory of being first to board the enemy craft. If he was lucky, there would be no resistance. If he wasn’t, he’d have the honor of clearing our path.
As soon as the drill quieted I tapped the go light on the blast door between our two compartments. The green light blinked twice on our side and Shalarouse went into motion, the hum of the forward door opening right after. Our ship bounced as he stormed the Worldbreaker. There was silence for a moment, and I dared to hope we�
��d struck clean, then Shalarouse’s blastpack was triggered. I swallowed hard at the sound and pulled my helmet from beneath my seat, settling it into the brackets at the shoulders. Next I grabbed my pack and slung it, ready for the job ahead. The rest of the burrowers followed suit. We were going in hot.
Bolt rifle in hand, I counted ten ticks before triggering the blast door. The heat hit us the instant it creaked open, steaming my face mask with a thin coat of mist before auto-temps took over and cleared it. I ran through the cramped space of the Cradle and dropped into the massive corridor beyond. My boots landed in a clingy wetness, and I pushed aside the thought that I stood in Shalarouse’s remains; the blowback rig on his blastpack had liquefied him to minimize damage to the raidcraft. The man hadn’t made it three feet from the Cradle.
I scanned down the passageway and saw the shattered remains of Saaart defenders, their mechagel guts splattered across the walls, floor, and ceiling, oily green-black fluid dripping down over top of us and coating the deck. Spider-like limbs twitched among the wreckage, still receiving pulse commands to repel the enemy, but Shalarouse had done his job well. None of the defenders held their trans-forms enough to be a threat.
“Clear the hall and form up,” I barked through the comms. Khaladan command had designated me lead on the mission. It was a hollow promotion by dint of me being the only one with experience aboard.
To their credit though, the troopers did as ordered, spreading out across the corridor and sweeping forward with precision, guns leading the way. I joined the squad of twelve, and we stomped across the ruin left by the bomb, smashing the last of the defenders’ carcasses so they couldn’t report our actions to the hive. Seconds later, we were down the corridor and headed for the engine room, what had been dubbed the nidus – key areas where Saaart multiply. The longer we lingered the more resistance we’d come in contact with. The sooner we’d die.
Our boots clanged down the empty corridors as we marched. My knuckles ached from clasping the stock of my rifle, tendrils of throbbing pain shooting up my arms in anticipation. I’d never run across a Saaart ship with so few defenders, especially this close to a nidus. The mausoleum stillness of the craft unnerved me, but our mission was scheduled to the kron, every tick accounted for, as the Worldbreaker edged toward Zeti 5. Failure of the burrower teams meant more than death for just us; it meant the death of everyone planetside and the Saaart gaining a foothold in the Tullane system from where they’d stage a larger scale invasion. I’d seen it happen at Zanth, my first burrow — a failure, despite my survival. The planet died while I watched from space, waiting for a drone to scoop me up.