by Jay Allan
As I faded away I was sure I was done, but they got me out of there and into a med unit back at base. My lungs were a total loss; the unit would be doing my breathing until I was evac’d to a facility with regeneration capability. My suit’s trauma control had put me out on the field, and the medical AI kept me in an induced coma, so my last view of Tombstone was the one I had just after I was shot. When I finally came to it was weeks later and in a much more hospitable environment – the Marine hospital on Armstrong, surrounded by doctors and med techs. I woke up and took a painless deep breath, and it was a minute before I’d regained enough presence of mind to be surprised by that fact.
My chest was a little sore from the transplantation surgery, but my brand new lungs, exact copies of the ones I had before, worked perfectly, and my shoulder and other injuries had long since healed. I had a few weeks of observation and physical therapy ahead of me, but then I was on my way to a month’s leave and a new posting.
The Corps tried to return wounded soldiers to their original units, but with the time and distances involved it just wasn’t always feasible. Although I wouldn’t miss Tombstone, I was sorry I wasn’t going back to my old platoon. They were my brothers and sisters; I’d shared the danger and death of the front lines with them, and they had carried me back when I got hit, when even I had given myself up as lost. They’d saved my life; they were there for me when I needed them. Just like Captain Jackson had told me more than six years before.
I hated leaving for another reason. A unit is like a living organism; it can wither and die without the support it needs. When I left, the platoon was still reeling from the loss of the lieutenant. The wound was still raw, the grief palpable. They’d get a new CO – they probably had one already – but it would be a long time before anyone filled the void left behind.
The platoon is a dynamic entity. Its pride, its battle history, its traditions – they remain. But the men and women come and go. Soldiers die, they get wounded, they get promoted or transferred. Slowly but steadily, the living memory of the lieutenant would fade. He would become less the source of raw pain and loss and more the honored entry in the unit’s history.
For me, though, the memory would always be there, and it would never fade. Up to that point, no one had impacted my life as strongly as the lieutenant had, and I can’t begin to list the things he taught me. I only knew him for the six months I’d served under him, but he was the first person who truly won my unreserved respect. I can’t think of anything more meaningful to say than this – Lieutenant Brett Reynolds was a truly good man in a universe that had very few of those. I resolved that my career would be a tribute to him. I would live up to his expectations; I would become the type of Marine he had been, the kind he wanted me to be.
I wish I could say that the years long struggle on Tombstone ended in glorious victory, but I can’t. When the war became official, the Caliphate hit the planet with thousands of new troops, backed up with a naval task force. Cut off from resupply or reinforcement, our units on the ground held out the best they could. One by one the enemy captured our firebases and mining settlements, pushing our people into an ever-shrinking perimeter. As far as I know, none of the troops posted on Tombstone when war was declared ever made it out. My old unit had rotated off-planet long before then, so I didn’t know any of the men and women who were sacrificed there. But they all hurt. They were all my brothers and sisters…all Marines.
The soldiers that had been lost there over a decade were expended wastefully, sent by a government that was too greedy to share the wealth of the planet and too cowardly to fight hard enough to win. The politicians had viewed the monthly loss rates on Tombstone as a cost of doing business. That sort of calculus repulsed me, and for the first time I thought – really thought – about how the Alliance was governed. The ultimate futility of if all only made the suffering and waste that much more bitter.
Chapter 11
2257 AD
AS Guadalcanal
En route to Tau Ceti III
The wardroom of the Guadalcanal was sparse, just a few bare metal tables and about a dozen chairs. She was an older ship, a fast assault vessel of the Peleliu class, and she showed her age. My last posting had been on the Gallipoli, one of the first ships of the new Ypres class, slated to replace the old Pelelius. The newer ships were no more spacious – real estate on a spaceship was always at a premium – but the common areas were definitely nicer.
I’d bounced around to several units over the last few years, the result of my unfortunate streak of getting wounded in each of my first three assignments. After my third wound I got another transfer and my promotion to corporal. I made two drops as the junior two-striper in the squad and then I was transferred here to take over my own fire team. Just about half my military career had been spent in the hospital, and each time I got the best care possible, just as Captain Jackson said I would.
The war that everyone had been anticipating while I was on Tombstone finally became official. The Third Frontier War had begun, and we were fighting both the Caliphate and the Central Asian Combine. We had our hands full, outnumbered and facing more threats that we could effectively counter.
I was waiting in the wardroom to meet the platoon’s senior corporal, who was going to help me get acclimated and introduce me to the four other members of my fire team. I needed to get them comfortable with me quickly, because we were on the way to an assault, and it was a big one. Tau Ceti III was the Caliphate’s largest and most important colony world, and a major strategic hub. We’d been pushed back in the first two years of widespread fighting, but now we were taking the offensive; we were taking the war to the enemy. Operation Achilles would be the biggest assault in the history of warfare in space, and every reserve, every logistical asset that could be scraped up had been committed. I was anxious and hopeful, determined that my fire team would be among the best in the entire operation.
My thoughts were interrupted when the hatch slid open and a man in a slightly rumpled set of duty fatigues walked in. He was around my age, maybe a year or two younger. His brown hair was closely cut but still somehow just slightly messy. I’d become very “by the book” military, and I was always meticulous with my uniform and my appearance, a trait I obviously didn’t share with my new acquaintance.
“Corporal Jax?” I got up as he walked over. “I’m Erik Cain.” He extended his hand. “I’d like to welcome you to the platoon.”
I clasped his hand and we shook. He was fairly tall, but when I stood up I towered over him. “The pleasure is mine Corporal Cain.”
“Please, sit.” He motioned toward the chair where I’d been seated, and he dropped into the one next to it. “You are taking over a good team, one of the best. I know, because they were mine.” He was friendly, but I could also tell he was taking his measure of me. As I was doing with him.
“I can promise you I will do my best to look after them, Corporal Cain.”
He smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate that. And it’s Erik, please.”
“I’m Darius.” I relaxed a bit in my chair, though my posture was still better than his. “I want to thank you for taking the time to welcome me into the unit. I know how closeknit a group a good platoon can be. The troops can be a little apprehensive when they get a commander from outside rather than one promoted from within.”
He nodded approvingly; it was clear he had similar thoughts. “I completely agree.” He was looking right at me, his eyes boring into mine. “I’ve read your file, Darius. I’m sure you’ll be a great addition. But if I can help get you off on the right foot with the troops, it’s the least I can do.” There was a soft buzzing sound – he was getting a message on his earpiece. “Excuse me, Darius, I just have to attend to something quickly.” He was getting up as he spoke. “I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes, and then we’ll go meet your team.”
“No rush. I’ll be here when you get back.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “Help yourself.
” He pointed toward the dispensers on the far wall. “Believe it or not, the coffee’s actually pretty good.” The hatch slid open. “I’ll be right back.” He walked out into the corridor, and the door slid shut behind him.
I didn’t know it then, of course, but I had just met someone who would be very important to me, a colleague and my closest friend. I had respected the lieutenant and some of the other troops I’d fought with, but Erik was the first real friend I ever had. We would fight side by side for years, and climb the ranks together. He would save my life more than once, and I would save his, and the two of us would make face challenges neither of us could have imagined sitting in that wardroom.
But looming ahead of us before any of that was Operation Achilles. Morale was good; we were anxious to get at the enemy, to end the war in one bold stroke. Of course, that wasn’t to be. Achilles turned out to be a bloody mess, a disaster that almost lost us the war then and there. We had some dark and difficult days ahead of us.
My first few years in the Corps hadn’t been easy and, though I didn’t know it yet, the next few to come would be even more difficult. But as I sat there and took stock, I came to realize that I had indeed found a home. Yes, we fought and struggled, and some of us died, but there were things on the frontier worth fighting for. When I was discharged from the hospital on Armstrong I spent my month’s leave on the planet. I had the time to just look around, and what I saw amazed me. The people were busy, industrious…and free.
They were having local elections when I was there, and half a dozen candidates were running. I stood one day and watched a live debate in the main square. I was mesmerized – they were actually arguing issues and hurling pointed questions at each other. It was nothing like Earth, where the elections were a farce and the government controlled every aspect of its citizens’ lives. These people were building a future, for themselves and for mankind, and we were here to protect them.
It made me think about Earth and wonder why the people accepted the system that oppressed them so badly. It was a nightmare, a grotesque, a hideous perversion of the human condition. But it worked, after a fashion. The Cogs were ruled by deprivation, by the need to focus solely on the basics of survival. The middle classes were governed by the fear of losing what they had. They could see how the Cogs lived, and to them, not born to such deprivation, it was a terrifying prospect. Part of me resented that they, mostly educated and vital to the functioning of society, meekly accepted the system when they could have agitated for change. I wanted to despise them as cowards and blame them for the plight of the Cogs, for the reality that my parents were forced to live.
But it is easy to make such judgments, and far more difficult to be honest with yourself. If my father had been offered a middle class life, if we’d been able to live in an apartment in the Louisville Downtown or the Washbalt Core instead of some miserable leaky hut on the farm…I’m not so sure I wouldn’t have been ruled by the same fear of losing it. I like to think I would have fought for change, but I’m not so sure. I would now, of course, but then, never having seen what was possible? I just don’t know.
But none of that mattered anymore. By a bizarre road I had found my path. For the first time I felt my life had purpose and I knew the sacrifices were worthwhile. I was finally home.
About the Author, Jay Allan
I currently live in New York City, where I write from my apartment…and continue to fill small notebooks with ideas for future books. I’ve been reading science fiction and fantasy for just about as long as I’ve been reading, so, of course, when I started to write, that’s where I ended up. It’s been a great ride so far!
I write a lot of science fiction with military themes, but also other SF and some fantasy as well. I like complex characters and lots of backstory and action. Honestly, I think world-building is the heart of science fiction and fantasy, and since that is what I’ve always been drawn to as a reader that is what I write.
Among other things, I write the bestselling Crimson Worlds series and the Far Stars series published by Harper Voyager.
Find Jay online: Facebook | Twitter | Amazon | Website
Books by Jay Allan
Blood on the Stars Series
Crimson Worlds Refugees Series
Far Star Trilogy
Portal Wars Series
Crimson Worlds Series
LAST SURVIVORS
By Michael G. Thomas
CHAPTER ONE
Interplanetary Liner ‘Starlighter’, En route to the Agora Colony
16th July 2433AD
Kirya opened her eyes and pushed aside her hair as the wail of the emergency siren hammered into her skull. She’d been fast asleep, dreaming of past adventures when the sound had woken her with a start. It was a harsh sound, designed to blast through the innards of the ship, leaving no corner unscathed. Her instinct was to reach for a weapon, but that was all in her past now. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just another drill.
What’s happened?
The speakers in her small quarters chattered almost continuously with the sound of the crew’s voices. There was an urgency tinged with fear, and that made her chest lurch. Kirya had been a soldier, and she knew what fear sounded like. She’d heard men and women break down in abject terror, and seen the faces of those about to kill in cold blood. This time it was most definitely fear, and she knew from experience how paralysing and intoxicating it could be. In between the sound of voices was the constant wail of the klaxon emergency alarm. She’d never heard it aboard the ship before and immediately knew it meant trouble. Serious trouble.
What the hell is going on?
All it took was a tap of a button and the shutters slid open, revealing the view out into space. For a moment there was little to see, other than the blackness of deep space, and the twinkle of limitless stars far off into the distance. They moved slowly as the habitation ring rotated around the central spine of the ship until the small sphere of the planet Agora came into view.
We’re still weeks away. This isn’t good. So much for my new life.
Kirya blinked as she soaked in the details. The view was limited from the small window, but enough for her to look back at the structure of the ship. The three hundred and fifty-metre-long vessel was a Clipper Class interplanetary liner, commonly used to haul people and goods on the long trading routes between the planets of the Confederacy. Long, gradually curved sections joined the habitation compartments with the central rotating hub.
I can’t see any damage on the long beams. What about the hull?
Her hull gleamed in a bright metallic blue, each section highlighted by powerful external lights. The design always reminded her of a jellyfish, with the complex torso and long tendrils trailing behind into a tail. Pulsed ion engines released long streams of white and blue light as it neared to the agrarian colony world. Starlighter was a relatively modern vessel at just twenty-three years old, and that left Kirya even more suspicious about the warnings.
Without thinking, she rolled out of her bunk and grabbed her clothes. Force of habit meant she had gone to bed half-dressed, something she’d done ever since first joining the Army. She’d been out of the service for over a year now, but habits were hard to lose. One step was all it took to reach her clothes still hanging from the back of the chair, lashed on with elasticated straps, just in case. First on were her long, tight fitting black pants and then tall boots that ran up to the knees. She was an attractive woman, tall, with flowing black hair she’d let grow long since leaving the Army. Her combat jacket was an old, battered leather affair, and she pulled it over her pale, muscular arms.
“This is the Captain,” said the disembodied voice. Kirya twisted to the left and glanced at the unit.
“We have a major emergency.”
The man hesitated, and that worried Kirya. She’d only met the man a couple of times, but he’d appeared confident and experienced. Now it sounded as though he was having trouble deciding what to say.
“Everybody
to the lifeboats immediately. Starlighter is in serious trouble. This is not a drill. All passengers abandon ship.”
What?
Kirya swung open the door and stepped out into the corridor. The lights were on low power mode, yet there was gravity, and the air remained its normal warmth. Two passengers raced passed, almost knocking her to the ground.
“Hey!” Kirya yelled, “What’s going on?”
A third man crashed into her, sending them both to the ground. Kirya rolled expertly, avoiding anything more than a bruise. The man went down on his knee and hit the ground hard. He moaned in pain as Kirya helped him up.
“Out of my way, you idiot!”
The man pushed her aside and chased after the others along the passageway. Low-level lights flashed in sequence, marking the path to the lifeboats.
Do I stay, or do I leave?
“You have three minutes to exit the ship. Move to your designated zones…now.
Get out!
Kirya headed to the nearest lifeboat at a fast walk. It would take less than a minute, and the last thing she wanted was to make a mistake and end up trapped aboard. Several people rushed past her and turned right.
“Hey, you’re going the…”
They were gone, ignoring her as they ran for their lives. Kirya was tempted to chase after them, but deep down knew the priority was to save herself. She could look for others once she’d achieved that first objective. Another four bends and she reached the automatic doors leading to the evacuation lifeboat. People were on the other side, pulling on thick straps to hold them into their seats. The craft was big enough for twenty people, and it looked like three or four seats remained empty. Kirya reached forward but spotted movement from the array of small Plexiglas windows.
“Get inside!” yelled a man from the lifeboat. Kirya ignored him and moved closer to the windows. An object was alongside Starlighter. It looked substantially smaller than the ship, and for a second, she thought it might be a lifeboat. But then one of the lifeboats raced away, and the glow of the engine briefly lit up the craft. It was definitely small, with two engines angled downwards in the same fashion as haulage tugs used in spacedock. Her expertise was in ground combat, but even she knew that the vessel had not travelled with them. Its external lights were out, but the silhouette marked it as something close to the craft she’d seen in countless ports, and it was close enough for a boarding action. Another lifeboat launched from the inner crew deck, and this time the airlock on the ship remained open, blasting out at least three people into space.