Assimilated

by Nick Webb

  And then he slipped into his battle calm, became one with his bird, and his fevered mind slowed. Okay, he thought, what do I know about Mars? His thoughts flew through the knowledge that they taught him in school. It wasn’t much and he didn’t pay a lot of attention. He just wanted to be a pilot, Mars was for miners, so what did he care?

  “Jake?” asked Kit, a tremor in his voice.

  “Working on it,” answered Jake.

  Mars’ gravity was only about thirty-eight percent that of Earth. There was no real magnetosphere around Mars and the atmosphere consists mostly of carbon dioxide, which made it around one-hundred times thinner than that of Earth. Because of this parachutes wouldn’t do much in the way of slowing down falling objects bigger than a shoe box. But there was just enough atmospheric resistance that the lone wing of their fighter was going to keep it in a spin.

  “I really hate Mars,” spat Jake.

  And then he had an idea. Not a good idea, not by a long shot, but one that may just save them.

  “You want to what?” cried Kit, staring in disbelief at his friend.

  “You heard me,” said Jake, fighting the controls, just trying to slow the craft down the littlest bit so his plan would have any chance of success.

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Kit. Each word came in harsh gasps as the g’s took their toll. “Gravitics aren’t reliable, going in and out.”

  “We won’t need them much longer,” said Jake. His hands felt like they were going to explode due to the force he exerted on the stick. “Besides, who wants to live forever?”

  “I do, Shotgun!” snapped Kit, his near-panic causing his British accent to come out more clipped than normal.

  Jake laughed a crazy laugh and scanned his instruments. Only about thirty-two kilometers until they slammed into the surface. Two minutes, at best. Mercer had done a decent job of slowing their spin by using bursts from the malfunctioning gravitic drives, port then starboard then port again, but their downward speed remained a constant.

  “Powering up the ion-beam,” said Jake.

  “Dammit, gravitics are down,” said Kit through tight lips. “This is never going to work.”

  “Then we’ll be dead and I won’t have to hear you tell me you told me so,” said Kit.

  He watched the ion-beam’s power levels rise and checked the altimeter. Twenty-two klicks.

  “Come on, come on,” begged Jake to his board. “Safety disabled?”

  “Yes,” said Kit, clearly not pleased.

  “Good, any second now,” said Mercer.

  He watched as the ion-beam levels crept up and then, finally, the red light warning of an overload began to flash.

  “Deploy gear,” snapped Jake.

  “Roger,” said Kit as he tapped his board. “Deployed.”

  “Any second—” Jake was interrupted by a flash and an explosion from the starboard ion beam cannon, followed by a tremendous shrieking of metal.

  “Oh god,” mumbled Kit.

  Jake glanced past the co-pilot in time to see the right wing flying free from their bird. The horizontal spin slowed and just before Jake could let out a whoop of triumph the now cylindrical craft began an ass-over-tea kettle tumble.

  “Oh god,” screamed Kit.

  “Hang on!” yelled Mercer, everything slowing down for him as the battle fugue enveloped him once again. He glanced at his board, warnings lit it up like Old Vegas, and saw the only important reading: Twelve klicks. Less than a minute from the surface. He shot a quick look at his co-pilot and saw Kit’s terrified-yet-determined expression as he worked his control board.

  “We have gravitics, but I don’t know how long,” said Kit, his lips pulled back in a rictus grin.

  “Copy,” said Jake. He had to get this tumble under control. He goosed the gravitic drives, one and then the other, as they fell through the thin atmosphere towards the mining colonies below.

  “Okay, here we go, Rooster,” said Jake. As the nose of the wounded craft began to pull perpendicular to the horizon Mercer fired the emergency thrusters built into the underside of the fighter. An old technology Jake never thought he would ever have to use and now he was praying that they had enough thrust. The nose dipped and he cut the rear thrusters until the nose rose again and then re-engaged the aft rockets.

  “No way,” said a near breathless Kit.

  Mercer felt a surge of hot adrenaline shoot into his belly. This is going to work, hot damn, this is going to work.

  I hope, he added silently.

  The gravitic drives suddenly went silent.

  “Kit!”

  “Working on it.” Kit’s fingers flew in a blur over his board.

  A quick scan of his instrument panel showed they were only five klicks from the surface but still going too fast. He worked the thrusters like a concert pianist, trying desperately to slow their fall. The fighter—what was left of it—bucked and lurched like a drunk giraffe and Jake wished he had a mere three feet of wing left on both sides, just to give some kind of glide control. If wishes were motorcycles we’d all get laid, he thought.

  Three klicks. The surface was rushing up at them, the craft continued to buck, wind screamed through the holes in the fuselage. A fast glance out the windshield showed one of the bubbles of a miner colony, the sun reflecting bright—almost blindingly so—off the protective surface.

  Two klicks. He decreased their speed of decent a few percentage points and fought to keep the craft horizontal to the surface.

  “Are they gonna work?” asked Jake.

  “We can hope,” answered Kit, sweat causing the inside of his helmet to fog up.

  One klick. Now or never, Jake thought.

  “Fire them up,” he bellowed.

  “Copy,” replied Kit, and tapped a few buttons. Nothing. Jake’s heart dropped.

  And then they were greeted with the whining sound of the gravitics coming on line.

  “Yes!” Kit roared, so loud his voice broke up in the speakers in Mercer’s helmet.

  “Here we go,” said Jake and engaged the gravitics, creating an upward gravity well. This in conjunction with the emergency thrusters slowed their decent considerably but the ground still rushed up at them too damned fast.

  “This is going to be rough,” said Jake through gritted teeth. “Brace yours—“

  The fighter slammed to the surface with a teeth rattling impact. The landing gear suspension absorbed a great deal of the energy but in the end failed, the struts snapping under the tremendous force of the landing. The craft bounced forward once, twice, a third time. Kit screamed as his safety harness bit into his shoulder and collar bone. Jake bit his tongue and his mouth filled with a metallic taste as blood flew. The fighter lurched forward, screeched across the sandy floor of Mars. The gravitic drive went down again and Jake killed the thrusters. A pop and hiss inside the cabin and all the instruments went cold. The wingless bird finally slid to a stop.

  Jake looked at his co-pilot, who grimaced in pain, his breathing heavy and ragged.

  “Well,” said Jake. He coughed and blood splattered the face shield of his helmet. “Any landing you can walk away from, right?”

  “Oh, go fu—g”

  With a final screech of metal the fighter rolled onto its side, dead.

  “Are you okay, Kit?” asked Jake, looking up at his friend.

  “I don’t know,” the other man said with a groan. Mercer thought once again that Kit, while a good co-pilot, might not have what it takes. War was hell, and it ate men like Kit alive.

  “Give me a minute and I’ll help you down.” Jake looked around, double-checking to make sure the power was out. The instrument panel and nav-board were both dark. “Shit.”

  “What?” asked Kit.

  “This bird is dead,” answered Jake. He did another quick scan and saw that the windshield was spider-webbed and the cockpit was slowly filling up with smoke. Just wonderful. “We have to get out of here. Something’s on fire.”

  “I’m surprised the whol
e ship isn’t one roaring bonfire,” said Kit through a wince of pain.

  “Yeah.”

  Mercer braced an arm on the side of the cockpit—which was now the floor—and unbuckled his flight harness. He dropped onto his side, took a breath, and then rolled to his feet. He stood so he was face-to-face with Kit.

  “Holy shit,” gasped Kit,

  “What?” Jake said, alarm rushing through him.

  “There’s blood all over your helmet.”

  “Oh, that.” Jake grinned. “I bit my tongue.”

  “Damn, did you bite it off?”

  “Maybe just the tip,” said Jake after running it painfully across his teeth.

  “That’s what she said,” said Kit. He coughed and that was followed by a gasp of pain.

  “All right, funny-man, let’s get you out of that seat,” said Jake.

  “I think my shoulder’s broken,” said Kit, wincing again.

  Jake noticed it was harder to see his friend through the thickening smoke. “Damn. Well, we don’t have time to do this nice.”

  “That’s what she—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jake interrupted. “Brace your feet against the floor. I’ll hold onto you and then unfasten the harness. Got it?”

  “My shoulder…”

  “Will have to wait until we get out of here,” snapped Jake. He reached up and grasped Rooster’s flight suit. “Ready?”

  “I guess.” Kit shoved his feet forward, gasped as pain ripped through his upper chest, and released the harness. He fell sideways into Jake’s arms and let out a scream as they both tumbled to the floor. Jake helped Kit into a sitting position and crouched next to him.

  “How’s your air?” asked Jake. Kit checked the in-helmet monitor and shrugged one shoulder.

  “Enough to get to one of the habitats,” said Kit. “As long as we don’t run into any trouble.”

  “Yeah, about the same here,” said Jake. He climbed over his seat and reached under it, pulling out an oxygen tank. He stretched up and grabbed the one from under Kit’s seat and then dropped back to the floor.

  “Here ya go,” said Jake, handing a cylinder to his wounded friend.

  “Thanks,” said Kit. “Now I guess we have enough to get into a little trouble, which, with you around…”

  “Nice,” said Jake with a chuckle. “All right, let’s get the hell out of this thing before it blows us back to Earth in pieces.”

  Mercer reached past Kit and grasped the emergency exit handle for the canopy and pulled it. Nothing happened. He put one foot against the wall and pulled with both hands, cords standing out in his neck, but still nothing. He dropped to his knees, panting.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Kit.

  “Stuck,” said Jake. “Or just broken.”

  “I said not to tell me.”

  “I’m gonna have to force it,” said Jake.

  “Force it how?”

  “The old fashioned way,” said Jake. “Move away from the glass.” Kit crouched and crab-walked a few steps away, careful not to bash his wounded shoulder on anything.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Kit.

  “I guess I could try to shoot it out,” said Jake.

  “Are you joking? It’s bullet resistant, you’ll just kill us both with a ricochet.”

  “Good point,” said Jake. He looked around the smokey cockpit for something to use as a lever or, better yet, as a club. But the only thing they had was the butt of their service pistols and the oxygen tanks. Then he snapped his fingers and nodded. “Got it.”

  He climbed onto his seat, rested his back against it, and pressed his legs against the shattered canopy. He was relieved that there was some give.

  “Good thing I never skipped leg days,” he said with a lopsided grin. He grasped the bottom of the seat with one hand and the back with the other and lashed out with three sharp kicks. The glass crackled but remained in place. He cursed and kicked out again, harder this time, and was met with more crackling noises, but that was it. “Damn you!” He braced himself with his arms and instead of kicking out he pressed the soles of his boots against the glass and slowly started to straighten his body out. Sweat ran down his face and his whole body began to shake with the effort. He felt the window give a bit and then sucked in a harsh gasp of air. He let it out with a primal scream and pushed with all his might.

  Jake lost his balance and hit the floor as the windshield popped out from its moorings and landed with a crunch in the dry sand of Mars.

  He laid there crumpled in a heap for a moment, panting and gasping for air, his helmet fogging up.

  “Good show,” said Kit as he stepped over Jake and left the dead fighter in a crouch. “Come on.”

  “Coming…mom…” gasped Jake. He grabbed his oxygen tank and crawled through the open window into the cold of an alien world. He knew the feeling was an illusion—his flight suit was well insulated, but all the same he shivered. He looked around and shook his head. “I really do hate Mars.”

  Jake got to his feet and helped Kit to a nearby rock formation, holding his uninjured arm as the co-pilot slid to a sitting position. Sweat pored off Jake’s body inside his flight suit and he wished he could wipe it from his eyes. He blinked it away as best he could.

  “Dear god,” said Kit in a low voice. Mercer looked down at him and saw a look of fearful wonder on his face. Jake turned in the direction the co-pilot was staring and gaped. His beautiful, sleek, deadly fighter had definitely seen better days. The canopy was half gone, the nose was smashed in, the fuselage was riddled with charred holes—the biggest where the wing should have been—and smoke billowed from the cockpit.

  All Jake could say was, “Wow.”

  He looked at Kit and Kit looked back, twin looks of wonder and horror on their faces. And then they burst into manic laughter that went on for several minutes, tears streaming down their faces. Jake clapped Kit on the shoulder—the wrong shoulder—and Kit yelled in pain but continued to laugh.

  Finally, their laughter diminished to coughs and a few chuckles as they got themselves under control.

  “That…whew…that wasted too much….of our air…” said Kit between breaths.

  “There’s worse ways to go,” said Jake and that almost sent them off again but Kit stopped it.

  “What about the beacon?” he asked.

  “The beacon?” asked Jake. He had no idea what his friend was talking about. And then he did and his heart leapt. “The beacon, yes! Be right back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Kit but he was talking to Jake’s back.

  Mercer climbed back into the wreckage of his bird and snatched the emergency beacon from the pilot’s console. He turned to leave and then stopped, remembering something else. He checked on the med kit but it was smashed to ruin. Sighing, he climbed up between the two seats and placed his hand on a small locker behind the pilot chair. His memory of the layout did him well since he could hardly see anything through the silver-blue smoke. He opened the locker, grabbed two items, and then bolted from the cockpit back out onto the reddish, dusty ground.

  He walked back to Kit and said, “Here ya go.”

  Kit reached up and took hold of his service pistol. Jake looked his over, checked the action, and then slid it into a holster on his hip. Kit did the same, but slower, favoring his wounded arm.

  “Hope this survived the landing,” said Jake, tossing the beacon from one hand to the other.

  “Landing—is that what we’re calling that?” said Kit with a chuff of laughter.

  “Shut it,” said Jake, but he had a grin on his face. He tapped a few buttons on the square-shaped beacon and their helmet speakers suddenly emitted a small beep-beep sound.

  “Looks like it works,” said Kit.

  “Looks like it,” said Jake. He looked around, checking their surroundings. To the south, beyond their fighter, was a vast featureless desert. To the north was the domed structure that housed the mining colony, rock formations sparsely decorating the landscape
. “All right, enough lollygagging around. We need to move out.”

  “I suppose so,” said Kit as he pulled himself to his feet. “I really need to get this shoulder checked out.”

  “I need to get out of this damned flight suit,” said Jake. “I feel mucky.”

  “About two klicks away?”

  “That sounds about right.” Jake took one last look at their fighter, silently thanked it for getting them to the ground, and turned north. “Let’s hit it.”

  A two kilometer walk should only take about thirty minutes in optimal conditions. Trudging through the Martian desert, not used to maneuvering in less-than-Earth gravity, overly careful not to tear their flight suits—that does not make conditions optimal.

  Jake felt as though he were baking inside his flight suit and he was lightheaded and a little bit nauseous from the heat. He had to reach out and keep Kit from falling twice and at about the one kilometer mark they stopped for a break. While resting against a rock they plugged their oxygen tanks into their suits and the fresh air cleared Jake’s head a bit. He was just about to ask Kit if he was ready to continue when something slammed into the large rock he was leaning against. Several somethings, in fact.

  “Bullets,” Kit gasped. Jake whirled his head around and saw a half-dozen Imperial troops decked out in ASA armor pointing rifles at them.

  “Oh shit,” cried Jake. “Cover!”

  They scampered around the rock formation and ducked down behind it. Chips of stone tumbled onto them from each impact of the Imperials’ fire.

  “This is just great,” said Kit.

  “No kidding,” said Jake, but there was a steely tone to his voice. He poked his head carefully around the boulder and jerked it back as he was met with gunfire.

  Kit looked around and shook his head. “We’re completely pinned down. This is the last of the cover from here to the habitat.”