by Tripp Ellis
Horton stopped about ten yards from the body of a hideous creature. It lay motionless on the floor in a pool of crusted blood. It had been there for several days and was starting to desiccate. Small insects buzzed around the corpse. The stench was horrendous. The exoskeleton had taken on the color of its surroundings—down to the details of the grated floor.
“You tell me what the hell that is?” Horton said.
“Ramirez. O’Malley,” Grimsby said as he motioned toward the remains.
The two Reapers advanced toward the corpse. Their eyes were wide, and their skin was slick with sweat. They poked at the monstrosity with their rifles, then flipped the carcass over on its back. The creature’s dried exoskeleton crackled. Even in death, it was terrifying. Its razor-sharp mandibles still looked ready to devour flesh.
Tyler felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He hated bugs, as did most. Tyler had never been on a bug hunt before, but he had heard the horror stories.
The battle hardened Reapers all looked upon the rotting corpse with trepidation. Bugs were tenacious, methodical, and above all selfless. Dedicated drones that worked for the good of the community as a whole. Singular of purpose. They didn’t care about career advancement. They weren’t fighting for a paycheck. They were born into their hierarchy. They would fight relentlessly until they achieved victory. Of all things in the galaxy, bugs were to be feared the most.
“Still want to stick around this place?” Horton asked. He looked at Petrov and mocked him. “Still eat fear for breakfast?”
15
Slade
“Sir, I'm picking up long-range quantum distortions," the tactical officer said.
Slade stood over his shoulder and looked at the display. "What do you make of it?"
The tactical officer shrugged. “Could be anything. Or nothing,” he stammered. It had him concerned whatever it was. Slade too.
“It's either a very large object moving through slide-space, or a lot of objects," Slade said.
“Like a fleet,” the tactical officer said, gravely.
“Can you tell their trajectory?”
“No. I’m surprised we were able to detect anything at all.” He hesitated. “It could just be an anomaly.”
Slade knew in her gut it wasn't an anomaly. Something was out there. "Keep an eye on this. Notify the rest of the fleet. Tell them we may have a possible incoming threat."
“Aye, sir." The tactical officer stared at his screen. "It's gone, sir.”
“Zoey, keep the ship on alert status. It's probably nothing, but stay sharp.”
“Aye, sir.”
Zoey paused, then stammered. "Are you really going to do this?”
“What choice do I have?"
Zoey’s eyes got misty. "The fleet's not going to be the same without you."
“Thank you, Captain. I'm leaving her in good hands." Slade had a bittersweet smile.
She left the CIC and headed back to her quarters, where she changed into her full dress blues. Someone knocked on the hatch as she stood in front of the mirror, rehearsing her speech.
“Come in."
The hatch slid open and Commander Walker stepped into the compartment. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the admiral. She looked stunning. “You clean up well, sir."
“Why, thank you, Commander.” She spun around to face him and modeled the attire. “Take it all in, Commander, you're not going to see it much longer.”
“So, it’s true?”
“I am afraid so.”
Walker exhaled. "We’re all going to end up in the brig.”
“Amado gave me his word."
Walker scoffed. “That, and 35 credits, will get you a cup of coffee. Kilgore gave me orders to kill you, remember.”
Slade smiled. "And you did. You stole my heart."
“Now don't go getting all mushy on me."
“Never, Commander. I don’t like mushy. I like hard,” she said, leering at him.
“Now that's just not fair. We don't have time for a conversation like that."
“I'll have plenty of time once I'm retired." She had a deliciously naughty glint in her eye.
Walker felt his heart beat rise. There was something about this woman that just did it for him.
Slade stalked him like an animal. She pulled him close and planted a firm kiss on his lips. They melted into one another. Then she pushed him away and laughed. “Now look at what you've done. You've gone and messed up my lipstick.”
“Tease.”
She spun around and strolled back to the mirror. Walker watched her strut—it was a nice view.
Slade reapplied her lipstick.
“I guess I'm going to have to find another girlfriend aboard the ship." He was trying to elicit a reaction.
Slade glared at him through the mirror. "I'm not your girlfriend.”
Walker smiled. "No. You're not. Maybe we should do something about that?”
“What? Like make it official?"
Walker shrugged, feigning indifference.
“You couldn't handle me full time."
Walker took it as a challenge. It was one of the reasons he was drawn to her. “I can handle anything.”
“Can you?” She turned around.
“I'm a Navy reaper. We’re trained to deal with all kinds of hostile situations."
“You forget, I went through Reaper training as well."
“See, we’re made for each other.”
Slade pretended to ponder his argument for a moment. "Supposing I agreed to this preposterous notion to be your girlfriend, what's in it for me?"
“Girlfriend sounds so… Juvenile. We’re not in high school. I was thinking something that had a little more… weight to it."
Slade stared at him, slack-jawed. "You're not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?"
Walker shrugged, feigning indifference again. "Maybe."
Slade laughed. “You definitely couldn't handle me."
“I’m serious.”
“Are you high?"
“I am of sound mind, I can assure you."
“I’m not so sure about that."
Walker scowled at her, playfully.
“How about we continue this conversation once I get back from New Earth. If you still want to sign on the dotted line then, we'll talk about it.”
“Fair enough,” Walker said. “Bailey approves of you, though.”
“You’re going to make life decisions based on the opinion of your dog.”
“He’s got better instincts than I do.”
Slade laughed. “He does have good taste. I'll give him that."
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“I’m a big girl. I can handle myself. Besides, I know you have even more disdain for politics than I do."
Walker leaned in to kiss her.
Slade pulled away. “Uh, uh… you’re not going to mess this up again.” She motioned to the artistic masterpiece of makeup on her face.
Walker chuckled. “Give ‘em hell down there.”
“Oh, I will.”
16
Tyler
Grimsby pulled up a schematic of the complex on his PDU. “Finn, take Mosley, Faulkner, Petrov, and Horton.”
“Aye, sir.”
“I’ll, take Ramirez, Jung, and O'Malley. Sweep and clear the facility from the south. Keep an eye out for survivors. Try not to shoot them."
“Aye, sir.”
“Donovan, keep Finn out of trouble.”
“Aye, sir.”
"We'll meet at the storage unit here, on the east side." Grimsby pointed to his PDU. “Elliott, you’re with me.”
Elliott nodded.
“I'm telling you, this is a bad idea,” Horton said. “If you were smart, you’d get back on the dropship ASAP."
Grimsby ignored him. “Let's move out."
The two teams split up. Tyler moved south down the corridor. Horton reluctantly followed Tyler's squad.
“Hey, anybody got extra ammo
?" Horton said. "I've got about seven rounds left in this magazine. And that's not going to do any good."
Tyler looked irritated, but he reached into a pouch and pulled out two magazines. He tossed them to Horton.
Horton pressed the mag release button and dropped the half-empty magazine into his palm. He replaced it with a full magazine, and stuffed the extra mags in his pockets.
Tyler pulled his tactical goggles down from his helmet. It had an array of viewing options—night vision, thermal, etc. The passageway lit up with detail. The entire platoon was networked together, and Tyler could scroll through the feeds of the other team members. A heads-up display gave him targeting information, which was useful in determining friend from foe in chaotic combat situations. Contact points within the goggles monitored brain waves and allowed him to control the features by thought.
Most insects were ectothermic life forms and wouldn’t produce much of a heat signature. They would be relatively close to the ambient temperature. With as hot as the planet was, the thermal imaging was awash with red. It was practically useless.
Tyler's squad navigated through the maze of dim passageways. It was eerie. Even at 120 degrees, the thought of those creatures running around sent a chill down his spine. The team swept through the living quarters, clearing each compartment. They did the same for office areas, the cafeteria, storage compartments, utility rooms, and shopping facilities.
They were about half way through the complex when shots rang out. The staccato report of gunfire echoed through the corridors and permeated the walls.
Tyler switched to Grimsby’s feed. It was pure chaos. Blinding muzzle flash and gun smoke filled the screen. The shaky camera made it difficult to see amid the turmoil. But Tyler caught a glimpse of several of the creatures. They streaked through the corridor, overwhelming the squad.
Tyler switched back to his view. “Lets move!”
He led the squad through the labyrinth of passageways. By the time they caught up with Grimsby’s squad, the fighting was over. A slew of bug parts lay scattered about the corridor. Blood painted the walls. Ramirez, Jung, and Grimsby were dead.
Elliott stood there trembling. His face was pale, and sweat was dripping from his skin. He could barely utter a sound. It was a miracle he was still alive. He was the least experienced of anyone, yet he was still on his feet. Just dumb luck.
O'Malley had a chunk of flesh taken from his arm. The bug had bitten clean through his forearm shield. Its sharp teeth had pierced clear down to his white bone. Bright red blood was oozing from the wound.
Donovan pulled out a med kit and administered first aid. She filled the gaping wound with GS gel, a biopolymer foam that patched the area.
O’Malley clenched his jaw. One look at his tortured face, and you knew just how much agony he was in. But he didn't say a word. He just took the pain and stayed calm.
“You’re going to be just fine, son.” Donovan tried to assure O'Malley. She gave him an injection for the pain. Within moments, a wave of relief washed over O’Malley’s face.
Horton's eyes looked at the wounded Reaper with grave concern. Not so much that he was worried about O'Malley's well-being—he didn’t even know the guy. But he had seen what happened to people who had been bitten, and it wasn’t pretty.
Weston was a wreck. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets and he was trembling. His body was covered with nervous sweat. He looked down at the bodies of Ramirez and Jung in horror. "I don't know what happened. They just came out of nowhere.” His voice was dry and shaky.
There had only been three bugs. That's all it took to take out half the squad. All of this destruction had happened in a matter of moments.
"Those damn things are hard to put down," O’Malley stammered. His slurred words were thick with an opiate haze. “I must have emptied a full magazine on just one of them.”
Tyler looked dumbstruck. His commanding officer was down. He didn't know what the hell to do next. Everyone was looking to him for answers, but he didn't have any.
Donovan stood up and pulled Tyler aside. "You're in command now, sir. What are your orders?”
It was a lot easier in the movies—the script was written for you. All you had to do was repeat the lines. But this wasn't the movies. And Tyler was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that half the platoon had been taken out.
“I don’t know,” Tyler stammered.
Donovan grabbed him by the collar. She gritted her teeth and whispered, "I don't know is not an acceptable answer, sir. Make a goddamn command decision."
Tyler pulled out his PDU and studied the floor plan of the complex. “We’re going to fall back to the med center.”
Tyler had always wanted his own command, but now that he had it, he wasn't so sure what to do with it.
17
Slade
When New Earth was first colonized, then President Thomas Reed built an exact replica of the White House to honor the centuries of freedom and democracy. He felt he would also add legitimacy to the newly formed government. WH2, as it was called among the staff, had survived several wars, and was still standing after the Decluvian invasion.
Cameras flashed. Microphones cluttered the podium. The East Room of the White House was deluged with reporters. President Amado took to the podium. It was adorned with the Presidential seal. Behind him were the flags of the Federation, and the familiar gold curtains.
“We are here today to see Admiral Slade receive the Federation's highest honor,” Amado said. “I offer my thanks for her integrity, dedication, and valor, and her unwavering commitment to the protection of the colonies.”
Amado surveyed the crowd of reporters. “The creed of every Navy reaper says this: I do not advertise the nature of my work, nor seek recognition for my actions. Which pretty much means that Admirl Slade would rather not be here at such a stuffy formal event. She would rather be out there, among the stars.”
There were obligatory chuckles all around from the press pool.
“Like so many, Admiral Slade does not seek attention, but rather shuns it. Today's event is a special opportunity for the people of the Federation to get a glimpse of a bona fide hero, that so often serves in the shadows. Due to the classified nature of Admiral Slade's service, there is much that cannot be said about her heroic actions. But it is this very secrecy that saves lives.”
Amado was reading from a prepared speech. He would have said anything that was put before him.
“As William Faulkner said, I believe that man will not only endure, but he will prevail. And with men and women serving in our military, such as Admiral Slade, I have no doubt. It is with great honor and humility, that I present Admiral Slade with the Medal of Honor.”
The crowd erupted with cheers.
The President stepped to Admiral Slade.
An announcer spoke, “The President of the Federation, in the name of the Congress, takes pleasure in presenting the Medal of Honor to Admiral Aria Slade, UPDF Navy, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of her life, above and beyond the call of duty."
Amado placed the medal around Slade’s neck.
The East Room filled with applause. Camera shutters clattered.
Amado leaned in and whispered something into Slade’s ear. They both chuckled. He motioned for her to take the podium.
"Thank you. It is with the greatest humility that I accept this honor. I am able to stand here before you today, but many are not. May the Federation always remember and honor the sacrifices of those who have fallen in defense of our freedom. Due credit must be given to President Amado for his wise leadership during the darkest of times.” She almost choked on the words, but she was there to make him look good. It was part of the deal.
Amado smiled.
Slade looked out over the crowd. She took a deep breath. "It is with great sadness, that I take this opportunity to announce my retirement from the Navy. For the last 25 years, the defense of this Federation has been my steadfast mission.”
“But my commitment to public service does not end here. That's why I am pleased to announce my candidacy for the Presidency of the Federation.”
Amado's face dropped. All traces of his previous smile vanished.
There were audible gasps from the press corps, followed by cheers and applause.
Amado had planned to use this event to reestablish his legitimacy—instead, he created a competitor.
Slade glanced at him from the podium and gave him a wry smile. Amado's face was turning red, and the veins in his neck were becoming more prominent. He did his best to put on a pleasant face, but sweat was beating on his forehead.
Amado looked like he wanted to slit Slade's throat as he passed by her to retake the podium. “Well, that concludes today's ceremony. Please join us for the reception. Admiral Slade and I will join you shortly. We have to stick around for some pictures. Thank you all again."
Nobody was adjourning to the reception. It was chaos as reporters swamped Slade. They hurled questions across the room, wanting to know why she decided to run, and what her policy positions were going to be on key issues. Dozens of microphones were shoved into her face. Camera lights blinded her eyes. She blinked, unused to the media circus.
“What is your stance on the refugee crisis? There are over 30,000 Decluvian POWs on Zeta 9 Centauri,” a reporter from the Colonial News Network asked.
“As President, I will try to negotiate an exchange of prisoners, and a peaceful resolution to the conflict with the Decluvians.”
Amado glared at her. He was seething.
“What do you say to the reports of human rights violations at the POW camp?” Another reporter asked.
Slade scoffed. “The Decluvians are not human.”
There were chuckles from some of the press pool.
Slade saw an aid whisper in Amado’s ear. The speed at which the President was ushered out of the East Room was indicative of a crisis.