Vengeful Dawn

by Richard Patton

  “Yes,” Holden stuttered. “Yes, of course. This way, children.”

  The marine, flanked by two others in identical grey armor, led the way through the airlock and into the cold steel belly of their transport. It was eerily quiet within, thick armor plating preventing sound from reaching the hold in any direction. Only the occasional shot of static from a nearby intercom and the nervous whispers of the children broke the silence. A few other lone civilians were scattered about the ship, desperately trying to get comm connections or simply waiting in silence.

  For a long while they waited, Holden tensing each time the ship trembled, ready for the hull to rupture or for Naldím to tear through the doors. Idly, he wondered what the Naldím looked like. The public was only fed the blurry images reporters managed to capture on the front lines. Holden realized bleakly that this was probably his only chance to get a good look at one of them.

  The marines seemed to be conversing, but no sound escaped their helmets. Finally, one of them – the others’ sergeant, Holden supposed – went to the front of the hold, while the other two retreated to the back.

  “Cattle check,” the sergeant called.

  “Check!”

  The sergeant hammered the intercom near the door. “We got VIPs onboard. Tube’s clear. Bang out.”

  The ship lurched, sliding away from the station and towards the planet below. Holden expected as much; it was standard evacuation procedure, since the days of the Nexacor Suppression, to congregate the colonists on the surface before transporting them to the evac ships. But it made him no less anxious to think they were flying away from safety at the moment, rather than towards it.

  He tried to distract himself. “Excuse me, Sergeant,” he said, approaching the marine at the front.

  “’Tenant,” the marine corrected. He pulled off his rebreather to reveal a surprisingly friendly face. “Lieutenant Steele. What can I do for you?”

  “I was just curious – who are the VIPs?”

  Steele looked at him like he was crazy. “Kids,” he said simply.

  *

  Holden had taken the ferry to and from orbit often enough to recognize the swooping sensation of the ship leveling off on final approach, but this pilot was far more aggressive than any other he had flown with. It was a good call, he reflected, to have the children sit beforehand – the sudden deceleration as the ship pulled out of its orbital dive would’ve flattened them otherwise. He himself barely managed to stay on his feet. The marines seemed unfazed.

  They landed a few minutes later and Lieutenant Steele guided Holden and his students off the ship. Holden looked around, blinking heavily as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight. The lander had deposited them in the city center among thousands of other refugees, all of whom were funneled through a processing center before being loaded onto ships and rocketed back into space.

  As the lieutenant brought them forward, Holden reviewed in his mind the evacuation briefing he and the other teachers had received at the start of the war, only a week ago. It seemed like a distant memory now.

  The whole procedure was simple enough: get the children to processing, where they would be reunited with their families. What worried him, though, was the vast array of artillery that had been set up around the effort. Missile launchers encircled the crowd, each one pointed directly upward as if challenging the Naldím to strike. Down the road, Holden could see a line of mobile cannons, their barrels slowly tracking something along the horizon.

  An announcement came over town square’s PA system, carrying the exact message Holden expected as he fixed his eyes on the guns. “Attention, attention: artillery will be firing momentarily. Do not be alarmed. Repeat, artillery will be firing momentarily.”

  Less than a second later, the cannons fired, belching gigantic plumes of smoke and fire into the air and lobbing their hefty payloads across the sky. The crowd recoiled in waves. Numerous screams broke out. Holden looked to his wards. Some of them were cowering, shielding their ears against the noise, while the others simply soaked in the sights and sounds. It was like their favorite movies were coming to life, and Holden knew better than to remind them of the danger. He gathered the more frightened children and, shouting over the roar of another cannon volley, told them, “They’re just testing them! They’ll stop soon!”

  They didn’t.

  The guns fired shot after shot, the echo of the last barely dying before the next ripped through the air. Amid the thunder, Holden started to make out the distant thuds of the shells landing. They were getting closer, which meant the Naldím were as well.

  The class was nearing the front of the line when the first flash of green flew overhead; the Naldím were in the city. Suddenly, the cannons were interrupted by the higher pitch of small arms fire – an unending staccato that sent ripples of panic through the crowd.

  Finally, as the gunfire became more erratic and explosions began to punctuate the drumrolls, Holden’s children reached the processing center. One by one they passed through a turnstile while a marine checked their ID tags and directed them to a supervisor. Holden counted them as they entered. Twenty-seven, he finished with a sickening punch to the gut. He should have had twenty-eight.

  He stood on his toes, looking back across those still waiting to be processed. Panic flooded his veins, until he saw the twenty-eighth child, alone and afraid but otherwise unharmed, lost at the back of the crowd. Holden pushed his way back through the masses, showing little regard for any of them as the singular goal filled his mind.

  One of the missile trucks fired without warning, sending a hail of rockets skyward with a deafening roar. Holden reached his student at the last second, turning his back to the truck and shielding them both from the backblast. He dared a glance upward as the smoke cleared. A trio of ships – Naldím fighters, he realized with a sinking feeling – plummeted towards the city center. The missiles rose to meet them, detonating in a calculated sequence to pummel them with as much explosive energy as possible. The fighters shattered, showering the area with debris.

  Holden ran back towards the processing area, carrying the child in his arms, hunched over to protect against the tumbling shards. He could feel hot metal ricocheting off his jacket. A twisted lump of ship slammed into the ground only a few meters to his side. Holden sprinted the last stretch, nearly diving into the safety of the shelter.

  It could not have been for long, but Holden was relatively sure he blacked out as the marines came forward to secure both him and his charge. They had to pry the child loose from his vice-like grip. When he came to his senses, a marine guided him through the turnstile, where he saw the child finally reunited with her family. He breathed a long sigh of relief, letting out the breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  A ship landed only minutes later, and Holden’s students and their families were loaded onto it. Holden waited until the last of them were aboard before boarding himself. Inside, he found an empty patch of wall and slumped against it, closing his eyes. It was over. He couldn’t help but crack a small smile – he had wanted the field trip to be a memorable one. At least, in that respect, he was sure he succeeded.

  Endurance

  “Taipei Kilo, Drake Five. Systems green, package loaded. Requesting vector to the initial.”

  “Drake Five, Taipei Kilo. Launch vector is zero-zero-five break zero-six-seven by fifty knots. Proceed to RTO channel thirty-tack-two when clear. How copy?”

  “Solid copy, Taipei. Ready for launch sequence.”

  “Drake Five, Taipei Kilo. Set thrusters to launch vector and await release.”

  “Copy. Thrusters set. Throttled up.”

  “Jetway retracted. LAS armed. Launch in three, two, one…”

  Drake One dropped away from IMS Taipei’s underbelly like a rock plummeting toward the planet below. Corporal Colter glanced back through the Brontosaur’s sparse living accommodations to the hold below, and the four hundred soldiers waiting there. He wondered if they knew their lives were in a rookie’
s hands.

  But all hands were on deck, no matter how inexperienced. So he buckled down and did his job. A quick jaunt to the planetary staging area, far outside the reach of the Naldím’s guns, and he was back in orbit, approaching the IMS Taipei.

  “Taipei Kilo, Drake Five. Entering holding pattern two klicks off your starboard bow. Requesting permission to dock.”

  “Drake Five, Taipei Kilo. Permission granted. Continue on SAP one to port three.”

  Colter guided the ship onto the approach vector, glancing overhead at the battlecruiser that had docked with the Taipei’s dorsal airlock. It was no doubt dropping off more troops for the surface battle.

  “Taipei Kilo, Drake Five. On final approach. Switching to six-tack-six for docking comms.”

  “Solid copy, Drake Five. Welcome back.”

  *

  “Taipei Kilo, Drake Five. Systems green, package loaded. Requesting vector to the initial.”

  “Drake Five, Taipei Kilo. Launch vector is zero-zero-five…”

  … break zero-six-seven by fifty knots. Proceed to RTO channel thirty-tack-two when clear, Colter recited silently as the traffic controller droned in his ear. He glanced at the mission log. Thirty-eight hours he had been ferrying troops to the planet - nearly seven thousand soldiers to hold some obscure tactical asset. Every two hours, on the hour, he heard this speech and had to regurgitate his lines back to traffic control, running on the five-minute intervals of sleep afforded to him while the hold was packed with warm bodies.

  Colter blinked the weariness out of his eyes and focused on the horizon of the storm-swept planet they were bound for. It was strangely serene, and exhausted as he was, it nearly lulled him to sleep. Only a sharp burst of static from the comm, followed by a message, kept him awake.

  “Drake Five, Taipei Kilo. New orders. Deploy package direct east of the enemy position. Combat landing. Set course on zero-six-three break zero-niner-eight to surface. How copy?”

  Colter cleared his throat. “Solid copy, Taipei Kilo. Setting course.” He reached up to adjust the heading dial. His hand felt heavier than normal. Zero-six-three… he thought. Zero-niner-three. Autopilot set, Colter leaned back into his chair and looked over at his copilot. The private was asleep. Colter allowed it. Hawking knows he needs it, he mused. And the combat landing will wake him up.

  *

  Colter wasn’t sure how long he was asleep, but ship breaking atmo jarred him enough to bring him full to his senses. He gripped the yoke and disabled the autopilot – it was intelligent enough to handle the orbital transition, but he preferred to do final approach himself. They were still on course, though Colter could barely see the landing site through the turbulent sandstorm pummeling the battlefield. Bright flashes of green light betrayed the enemy position, and Colter used them to orient himself and set down.

  Surprisingly, the Naldím did not seem to notice the ship landing on their flank. Even the thunderous roar of its engines was evidently not enough to pierce the howling wind. So Colter proceeded as planned. He flipped the cabin lights to green, indicating to the marines they were clear to disembark. Once the last of them exited the Brontosaur’s cavernous hold, Colter gunned the throttle and escaped the battle zone.

  “Taipei Kilo, Drake Five. Package deployed at grid coords four-five-niner break niner-one-one, keypad three.”

  There was a distinct pause before Taipei Kilo responded.

  “Repeat, Drake Five. Did you say ‘niner-one-one’?”

  Colter’s stomach turned to ice. “Copy, Taipei Kilo. Niner-one-one,” he stammered.

  “What was your approach vector?”

  Colter checked the autopilot settings. “Zero-six-three break zero-niner-three.”

  Another pause. “Drake Five, approach vector was zero-six-three break zero-niner-eight. You landed to the enemy’s north, not east.”

  “Oh, shit…” Colter breathed.

  Taipei Kilo left the comm running as they conferred with the Taipei’s captain. “Sir, Drake Five dropped the Twenty-second at the wrong LZ. They’re surrounded.”

  “Can we pull them out?”

  “It’s a miracle they managed to land in the first place. That LZ’s way too hot.”

  “Damn. Contact the Twenty-second and tell them to hold their ground.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colter listened to the exchange with baited breath, his heart racing at a million knots. He had served the troops to the Naldím on a silver platter. He had to fix it.

  “Taipei Kilo, Drake Five. Returning to LZ for extraction.”

  “Negative, Drake Five. LZ is hot. You have no support.”

  “Don’t really care, sir,” Colter retorted. He shut off the comm and hit his copilot in the shoulder. The private jerked awake. “Contact the Twenty-second’s platoon lead and have them ready to pull out.”

  The private set about his task, searching for the platoon’s frequency, while Colter swung the Brontosaur around and dove back into the storm.

  The Naldím’s weapons still acted like a beacon through the dust, but this time, they were accentuated by the yellow muzzle flashes of marine weaponry. The shots fired by both sides made it easy enough to gauge the situation: the Naldím had let the marines land behind their lines, only to ambush them with a reserve line even further back moments after Colter had taken off.

  That’s why they didn’t fire, he realized. It was easier to take out the marines once they were on the ground than try to bring down the gargantuan Brontosaur. And to coax out the marines, they needed to convince Colter it was safe to land.

  But now the trap was sprung, and Colter’s own safety was secondary to the marines’. He swept low over the Naldím’s forward position, kicking up sandy cyclones in his wake but doing little to deter them from their task. Checking that his copilot had completed his task, Colter switched the ship’s single fifty-caliber gun to manual control and threw its sights onto the private’s display. “Going around for another pass. Light ‘em up.”

  The private stuttered his acknowledgement and gripped the firing controls. When Colter brought the ship back over the Naldím, he squeezed the trigger, showering the enemy entrenchment with hot lead.

  Whatever effect the attack had was enough to prompt the Naldím to retaliate. Colter could feel the Brontosaur list right as the Naldím punched a hole in his wing, offsetting his center of drag. He tilted the corresponding thruster to a higher angle to compensate and pulled into a climb.

  The ship groaned under the stress of Colter’s maneuvers; it was not meant for strafing runs. But unless he could discourage the Naldím from returning fire, there was no hope of landing safely. So Colter dove again, his copilot now bombarding the rear line.

  Somewhere far behind the cockpit, the hull ruptured. Airborne sand ricocheted through the hold, pelting its delicate inner workings until the emergency sealant kicked in and closed the hole. Even over the engines and weapons, Colter could hear the reactor sputtering. He needed to finish this.

  On his fourth pass, Colter cut the throttle, letting the Brontosaur plummet to the ground. Meters off the surface, he gunned the engines again, arresting the ship’s downward momentum and bringing it in for landing. The boarding ramps were down before the ship had even settled. Through the storm, Colter could see the battered soldiers of the Twenty-second platoon charging towards their salvation.

  The private continued to suppress the enemy positions, gradually gaining confidence with his shots and finding his mark more often than not. With the Naldím held at bay, the marines were able to board without losses.

  “Bang out!” the platoon’s leader shouted up to the cockpit. Colter needed no telling twice. He leaned on the throttle and the ship shot upwards and into space.

  *

  Officially, Colter was reprimanded for disobeying a direct order and nearly destroying a multi-million-point landing craft for the sake of a few marines.

  Unofficially, both the Taipei’s captain and the soldiers of the Twenty-second platoon hailed h
im as a hero. For several weeks following the incident, Colter didn’t have to buy himself a single drink.

  Colter didn’t really understand the praise – it was his mistake that had landed the marines in their predicament in the first place. Perhaps, he supposed, they were just so grateful to be alive they had forgotten. Perhaps they simply respected him for owning up to his mistake so completely.

  Either way, he slept easier knowing what he’d done had saved those soldiers’ lives. More importantly, he slept.

  Empire News Nightly

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  “And we’re back, after a particularly relevant ad. You guessed it: we’re talking Naldím. Joining me for the hour is Senior Navy Correspondent for ENN, our very own Jenna Wong.”

  “Hi, Ken. Been a while.”

  “Yes, it has. Now, your latest project has been an interesting one, to say the least. You just spent, what was it, three months…?”

  “Four months.”

  “Four months on the front lines. And we’re talking down-and-dirty-in-the-trenches front lines.”

  “You could say that, yeah.”

  “Now, you’ve spent four months out there, covering what is, arguably, the most important war in our history. And now, you’re doing… well, can you tell us what you’re doing?”

  “I’m a consultant on Jeff Collins’ upcoming movie.”

  “Consulting on what?”

  “Making sure it’s realistic. It’s a war movie, obviously.”

  “And what’s so interesting about that, of course, is that you were offered the position by the Imperial Media Bureau. They would rather have you consulting on a movie than reporting on the war. What are your thoughts on that?”