“As usual, I’m amazed.” Grant responded.
“Don’t be. We’re all just people. There’s nothing special about me, I just chose a certain path. Get some rest, I’ll call the staff in and get you fixed up.” With that, Jacobs was on the move again. “If I need anything I’ll let you know,” he shouted over his shoulder.
Grant raided Jacobs’ mini-fridge and perused the papers spread out on his desk. Most of them were over his head but he recognized schematics of several of the SR-X’s systems. One stack to the side was full of patent awards. Another had dozens of reports from the lab’s various experiments. Most of the textbooks listed Jacobs as at least a co-author and ranged from topics of physics to electronics and even space travel.
One of the books stood out from the rest. Its deep blue cover was unworn and was placed on the rear edge of the desk. It was titled “Command of the Galaxy” and written by Admiral Heddings himself; it remained the definitive work on interstellar combat by none other than the man who had blazed the trail.
Grant began paging through and started to get a better sense of the admiral’s mindset in the field. Although he hadn’t realized it, they had needed to redefine warfare almost overnight, and Heddings had the influence to shape the battlespace however he wanted. Although there had been impossible decisions to be made, he never faulted, and Grant still held a deep respect for the senior officer.
As had always been the case, Grant burned through the book in short order, retaining nearly every sentence word for word. Once he was completed, he started on the others. It didn’t take long and soon another completed stack was behind him.
After finishing off a few more books, and without any other instructions from Jacobs, Grant set out from the office and began exploring the rest of the building. Nearly every room that he entered was some type of lab space, most in various stages of being assembled. There was a double vehicle bay that looked like any mechanic’s garage at first glance but had more technical equipment mounted to the walls than a hospital.
Closer to the bay where Grant figured they had his ship, he found a room simply marked “Armory” which immediately caught his attention. Right behind the door Jacobs had mounted a dozen massive gun safes each labeled with a code and series number. Grant tried the latch on each one only to find them all locked.
Beyond the safes there was a large gunsmith’s bench on the right wall with a stripped ZiG battle rifle mounted in a vice. The internal components were laid out on the table with several iterations of modified parts beside them. The main control board was clamped in a smaller vice with several leads coming off that were attached to a spectrum analyzer.
Grant looked over the various pieces, turning them about in his hands and trying to spot what Jacobs’ engineers had been playing with. Although he wasn’t too familiar with the weapon past its four-component field-stripped state, he was able to see a few small changes. He didn’t even hear the doctor approach.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Jacobs asked rhetorically.
Grant spun around in surprise, dropping the metal bar in his hand on the ground. “Sorry, I didn’t see you. Yeah, it’s impressive.” Grant looked back to the weapon. “What did you do to it? I can’t even see a difference.”
Jacobs smiled again. “Made it better, of course,” he laughed. “Two of my engineers have been playing with it. I’ve given them a little guidance but mostly have been hands off. We got twenty of them from the factory and have been doing some fine tuning before they make another production run.”
“How did you find weapon engineers?”
“I offer a better environment for them to play mad scientist. They came to me. Also, when I left I took most of my old projects with me. It gave me a second chance to work through some outstanding problems.”
“I see,” Grant replied, picking up and replacing the part he dropped before.
“But I do have a question for you. How did you even get back to your ship as a civilian?” Jacobs inquired.
“I’m still in, just as Private Grant; I didn’t get demoted to civilian yet but it’s a long story.”
“Let’s hear it,” he responded and pulled up a chair. “I’ve got some time while the guys are busy.”
Grant relayed his story again, beginning with the landing by the coast, his reintegration as a soldier, the attack the previous day, and his intelligence-gathering adventure.
Jacobs didn’t say anything but simply shook his head when he had finished. “This is gonna be bad. We really can’t handle this right now.”
“Come again?”
The doctor looked more forlorn than he had been in a while. “This is something new. I don’t know where it will lead,” he said, pausing. “If it escalates, will you be fighting again?”
Grant looked him in the eye. “What all have you told me since I’ve known you? How could I tell you I’d do anything less?”
“In that case,” Jacobs answered. “I’m not going to set you up for failure.” He punched a code on the closest safe and swung the door open. From the darkness, he pulled an object wrapped in a silk bag.
“What’s this?” Grant asked, pulling the case away, revealing a heavily etched, black and gray camouflaged weapon.
“That’s my personal rifle. In about five to ten years, it will probably become the ZiG2. It uses the same magazines but destroys the ZiG1 on everything else. I hope you don’t have to use it in anger, but now you have the option.”
“Thank you. This is awesome.” Grant looked down the crystal clear sights. “Perfect.”
“You’re very welcome…” Jacobs said, trailing off again. “Speaking of which, why are you wearing that rag?”
“What?” Grant replied, still admiring the rifle.
Jacobs perked up again. “Follow me,” he said and led Grant into the next room over. Standing center stage was an armored suit which strangely resembled the flight suit Grant was wearing. There were only a few splashes of the red on the otherwise jet black surface in contrast with the current model but they obviously both served the same purpose.
“Is this mine too?” Grant asked bluntly, trying to hide a smirk.
“Of course, but only if you want it,” Jacobs replied. “It sticks nearly all of the abilities of Medium Armor and then some into a standard flight suit form factor. Less weight, smaller profile, and more power.” Grant could tell the doctor was getting wound up again. “Hurry up and get changed. Your ship is likely nearly done!”
“You’re kidding.” Grant was nearly speechless. “How did you pull all this off so soon?”
“You didn’t think you caught me off guard, did you? Before I left the lab I saw the maintenance log for the SR-X and the de-mil order. I had replacement parts ordered and ready before it even went into its box. After the battle for Earth there was some concern that more aliens would be coming, so I made sure to have my projects in order in case they were needed. Now it appears they are,” he said. “As for you, you don’t have much of a family left and even fewer friends. It would make sense that you’d look for me if you were in a bind.”
“And from that you just figured I’d just show up in my ship?”
Jacobs’ smile grew larger. “Maybe you just lucked out,” he responded with a wink. “Get suited up and we’ll get you out of here.”
The armor fit better than Grant could have dreamed. Every movement felt like he was walking on air and it didn’t add any weight to his frame. When he walked back into the hangar bay with the doctor, the rest of his staff was already standing by and waiting for him.
“You’re ready for action, sir,” one of the engineers spoke as he approached.
Grant grinned. “Excellent. All the weapons are repaired?”
Jacobs nodded. “Yup. Repaired and then some. We switched out all the mini-guns with fresh ones and replaced the barrels of the cannons.”
Another spoke: “You did an amazing job with the repairs. There wasn’t much of anything structural that we needed to touch up.”
&nb
sp; “Thanks. Seriously though, this is outstanding, thank you very much.” Grant replied, full of admiration.
“You’re welcome as always, just make humanity proud.” Jacobs added.
With a minimal number of words between them, Grant said his final goodbyes and was soon on his way. The city faded away behind him and a vast desert spread out to the front. The day was waning, and he felt a pang of peace and relaxation wash over him. It wouldn’t last long.
7
Othello pulled himself out of his room’s tiny shower stall and replaced his clean set of legs. Every time he watched the black water run down the drain, Othello remembered something his father told him once: “Have a career where you need to take a shower before you go to work, not after you come home.” It was sad he couldn’t have done it differently but it was as it should be, Othello told himself. He could have lived with his career back on Earth, but then where would he be?
It was not like he regretted the decision. Few people got to shape a world like he was now doing and the impact would be evident for a very long time. He was among friends and had all the support he needed. It wasn’t a great life but it wasn’t going to be a wasted one.
The lights flickered again for at least the fourth time in the past hour and Othello began to get concerned. It wasn’t uncommon for power fluctuations but they usually preceded other issues. Seconds later, the familiar hum of the air circulators died along with the lights, leaving the colony in total darkness.
It wasn’t just the lights and HVAC, Othello realized. He scanned the various devices scattered around his room. Everything was off. This was a complete power failure. Instinctively, he was already reaching for the oxygen mask by the door when the backup generators came online bearing enough energy to keep everyone alive and bathe the facility in just enough light to incite a nasty case of the creeps.
“Huh,” Othello mumbled to himself as his eyes darted about, thinking through protocol and his options. In theory it was simple and straightforward; service providers and laborers were required to respond to all installation emergencies. Depending on the problem, they’d parse out the work and get the station running again. He gave the locks on his legs an extra tug to make sure they were tightened and donned another reinforced orange jumpsuit.
After his uniform was situated, Othello added a tool belt, his oxygen system, and a few odds and ends he felt his should bring. It’s funny, he thought as he opened the door and took one last look inside to jog his memory for anything missing. He had responded to three other events similar to this one and all had been relatively uneventful. But this time and odd sense of foreboding gripped him as if he was never going to see his miniscule dwelling which he called home ever again.
* * *
The night wore on for members of the Space Corps’ First Ground Assault Battalion. It had been a tense few days since follow up contact was reported and the commanders went overboard with the preparedness drills. Their concern was in stark contrast to the relaxed atmosphere they had cultivated over the past few months since they returned to garrison on Earth and the official end of the First Interstellar War.
Their barracks contained space for thousands of soldiers spread throughout four wings and connected by a central common core. Armories, vehicle bays, assembly areas, and launch pads for each brigade were located at the end of each wing. In training, they had been ready to fight in twenty minutes and ready for lift off in ninety. The battalion was not quite that ready when the banks of air horns blasted at 0240.
Sergeant First Class John Mason subconsciously heard the mechanical switches connect before they sounded off and was on his feet seconds after. Up and down the expansive hallway, hundreds of his fellow soldiers followed. The emergency lights were ungodly bright but Mason could have found his way while blindfolded, gassed, and wearing mittens. At the foot of his bed sat his locker with a short clothing bar above it.
He pulled the pieces of his combat armor off their hangers and assembled them around his shoulders. As he worked, he checked left and right at the other members of his company. Most were behind him, so he offered them some choice words of encouragement.
“Hurry the hell up!” he shouted, his voice overpowering the blasting sirens. “Don’t even think about falling behind me!” He could have kept going, but the loudspeakers cut him off.
“FIRST GROUND ASSAULT!” The booming voice coming over the system belonged to their commanding officer. “REAL WORLD! THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALL MEN ARE TO DRESS FOR CONTACT. DRAW FULL BATTLE LOADS FROM THE ARMORY. AND BE READY FOR LAUNCH IN ONE HOUR! I SAY AGAIN, REAL WORLD! THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”
The last part caught them off guard. Many of the soldiers paused for a moment while they considered the message. A real threat response hadn’t occurred in some time and never before on Earth.
Mason shook them out of it. “Hey, snap out of it. You heard the commander! Get your shit together and get on line! NOW!”
Mason’s hands flew about as he pulled out his various pieces of equipment and attached them to his rig. He had spent years fighting the aliens in Sol Bravo and his experience was instantly evident by the precision of his actions. It had taken him barely thirty seconds to pull on his armor and only several more to assemble the rest. When he was satisfied with the assembly of equipment, Mason ran a damp towel over his face, tucked his helmet under his arm and walked out to line up with the rest of his soldiers.
No emotion showed on his face but secretly he was wondering what they were being called up for. The leadership hadn’t alluded to anything in the days prior. The company formed up and marched down to the armory.
The armorers were obviously as stressed as the rest of them. Sweat poured from their faces as they moved weapons about, and Mason’s company lined up at their respective service windows. Their voices were more like robots as they produced arms for the soldiers, saying simply, “Weapon Clear, Sidearm Clear,” and then “Load up,” while handing over a prepared satchel containing boxes of ammunition to each rifleman.
Once their hands were full, the company stepped off to the side near some other soldiers, took a seat on the floor, and filled their magazines. Each case was full of speed loaders which simplified the ordeal considerably. Mason finished his off in less than three minutes before tearing into the box of pistol rounds.
The cases of pistol rounds contained full magazines of several different ammunition types. Unlike the rifle ammo, which the commanders chose for the troops, those who carried side arms made their own decisions. Mason had strictly run high mass lead hollow points during his last campaign. They had never failed him and he felt no urge to change things up now.
The first soldier in the company to finish collected the mutilated cardboard sleeves from the others and deposited them for recycling. The rest double-checked their equipment and fell into formation. Mason looked each one over in turn, making sure they hadn’t made any mistakes. They were immaculate, as he expected; their company wouldn’t have survived if they couldn’t even make it out of their barracks intact.
Together they marched from the staging area onto the tarmac outside. Their ground and air support was already there and warming up. A massive dropship lit by surrounding lights blocked out the pitch black sky while the battalion’s vehicle team loaded personnel carriers and support equipment into the hold.
Mason took the whole scene in as they approached their position. Very few drills had involved actually firing up the ships. Either the commander was intent on an accurate portrayal or this was the real deal. He didn’t let his men see it on his face but he was nowhere near prepared for trekking across the galaxy for another battle. The losses he had sustained in the First War still weighed heavy on him.
He shook off the shred of fear and brought the team to a halt, immediately feeling better. With what they had already been through, there was little they hadn’t seen and less that they couldn’t handle. There were no other men Mason would have trusted with his life more.
The battalion s
tood in position for less than a minute before their commander made his announcement. “Men of the First Ground Assault Battalion, this is Major Kael. As you are aware, two days ago members of the United Space Corps were attacked while en route to Installation B-3. While the enemy is still unknown, their presence has been traced to Mars. The latest report indicates an alien force moving on the colony Mars Alpha,” Kael said, and then paused. “Due to our exceptional performance, First Ground Assault has been selected to deploy to and defend Mars Alpha and the surrounding facilities. Soldiers, my friends, I have absolute faith that we will again be victorious. Load up and stand by for final attack plans to be delivered after launch.”
Mars, now that’s an interesting destination, Mason thought to himself as he led the battalion up the ramp and into their waiting personnel carrier. It was a regulation that all soldiers travelling via dropships needed to launch while strapped into APCs in the cargo bay. While it was true they provided extra protection and stability during rough maneuvers, it also kept them in the dark of everything that was going on around them.
They’d have the run of the ship in an hour for the rest of the flight. Mason kept that in mind as he locked his weapon into its rack and took a seat facing the rest of his soldiers. They looked back at him for a cue. “We ready to go do some damage?!” he asked. Their response was as positive as it could have been. Everyone shouted and threw a fist in the air.
The pilot came in over the radio. “Standby to launch. We’ll be meeting our escort in orbit; afterwards we’ll have a half-day’s trip to Martian orbit. Hold on,” he ordered and fired up the engines, scorching the ground below and blasting them into the night. The low rumble shook the craft and John held his armrests tighter.
8
Since the commercialization of space travel years before, flights to orbit as well as to neighboring planets had been growing steadily with each passing season. The continual development of newer and more comfortable vehicles helped bring the experience to the masses and with relative speed and safety from the alien threat. Even over the past few months the industry had been undergoing another boost.
MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace Page 5