That’s not to say that every flight was successful nor were the ships foolproof. There always existed the possibility that something could go terribly wrong. If something did, there wasn’t much of a chance for a neighboring ship to hear a distress call and make it in time to help.
Most companies opted to carry dedicated repair crews on all flights, devoted enough to make back to back flights through the void and wise enough on their platform’s inner workings to deal with any life-threatening scenario. Through a convoluted selection process, Scott Ryan found himself at home on a shuttle, broken down and 200 million kilometers from home.
Flight MC-121 was delivering supplies and a relief crew to one of the Martian colonies. Or it would have been if it had not suffered a grazing impact with an asteroid several hours earlier which left them floating without power. It had taken Scott half of his normal shift to even isolate the problem and he now had half the service floor torn apart to fix it.
His radio came to life for what must have been the tenth time. The static hadn’t even broken before Scott knew who it was.
“Flight Deck to Ryan, come in, over.”
Scott shook his head and dropped his handful of tools beside him. With care for his work but lacking finesse, he pulled himself out of the subfloor up to the deck. Taking a seat on the edge of the service passage, he picked up and keyed the radio. “Ryan here.”
“Ryan, what’s taking so long? We’re already five hours behind schedule, and if we don’t hurry things up, we’ll blow our landing.”
Scott sighed before replying. “Major, I already told you, we’ll get going when I’m finished.” He looked around at the sea of parts he had pulled out in his pursuit. “I’ve found the problem but it was buried pretty deep. I’ll need at least another hour or two to complete the repairs and get things together again.”
“Two hours?” the pilot shot back. “We don’t have that kind of time. You need to get it done faster!”
Scott nearly had enough of his pilot over their past few flights together. “Sir, I don’t think you appreciate what all this involves,” he replied, trying to maintain his composure. “The problem was buried in here real deep and it took some skill to even reach it. If I don’t fix it right, we’ll be floating again before you know it. Remember, it was your flying that got us here to begin with. Ryan out.”
He clambered back into position below the floor and got back to work removing the damaged board. He opened the shielding and smiled. The card inside was burned to a crisp from the overload on impact. The pilot hadn’t calibrated the shields correctly upon reentry; otherwise, they would have absorbed the impact without issue. While it wasn’t a good time to hang it over the major’s head, it’d be useful information to have in his back pocket.
It was an easy enough fix. He could either bypass the controls or replace the whole thing. Finally, things are going to be easier, or so Scott briefly thought. His hand was a centimeter from the board release key when the whole ship lurched violently to the side. An unseen impact echoed through the narrow passage.
The radio lit up again; this time the pilot shouting from the outset. “Ryan, you need to get us moving! We’re under attack!” Scott braced himself in place as he felt another blast echo outside, throwing the ship again. He hit the floor above his head hard and felt himself falling.
Artificial gravity was down. That’s strange, he thought. Gravity was always supposed to be the last system to fail. Each cell stood alone and was self-powered. Chatter continued on the radio but Scott couldn’t reach it, much less add anything to the calamity above. He felt more explosions and the lights began to flicker. Pushing down his service helmet as tight as he could make it, Scott tried to hang on to a crossbeam.
The copilot’s head appeared through the opening in the floor. Scott froze in place. “Mr. Ryan! Are you alright? Come on, we’ve got to get this ship fixed and get out of he-” He didn’t even get the words out before the next explosion threw them into the ceiling.
Scott crashed through the floor and was conscious enough to see the copilot crumple into a mess just as he impacted himself. He remembered nothing more.
9
Far in the distance, Grant could just make out the dim outline of B-3’s control tower jutting above the mountain range ahead. In perfect conditions, he could have seen it farther away, but due to the recent attacks its operators had dropped it closer to the mountainside. The tower contained an elaborate system of hydraulic linear actuators that could both raise the command deck over one hundred meters above the ground or completely hide it below to evade detection and destruction during an assault.
As he got closer, Grant radioed ahead for his clearance to land. He didn’t particularly want to keep dropping the ship in the corner of the warehouse and a spot on the ramp would be far more convenient. The response he elicited was not what he expected.
“Grant! Where have you been? Everyone’s been looking for you since you left?” the controller demanded.
“Getting my ship back to fully-mission-capable. I didn’t know I needed a secretary.” Grant shot back sarcastically.
The operator brushed off the comment and continued, “That’s all well and good but you’re needed here. Bring your ship down on the ramp beside the rest of the squadron. I’m sending you the coordinates.” The man on the other end of the radio didn’t elaborate on who was searching for him and Grant didn’t ask for any more details. He dropped his fighter on the runway’s first pad and returned to the hangar to catch up with the other personnel.
He didn’t have to do much searching. Before Grant even got near the entrance, one of the intelligence analysts caught sight of him. “Mr. Grant!” he exclaimed from across the floor. “Over here!” he said and waved his arms.
Grant jogged over to the analyst. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m here. What do you need?”
“Mr. Grant, we’ve been getting a lot more data in about the attacks. We have a new probable target and all the sites confirmed it. We’ve gotta get this figured out,” he added, continuing to speak ever faster as the pair marched back to the intel cell.
“Wait a second. Slow down,” Grant said, shaking his head. “What do you mean ‘other attacks’?”
The analyst picked up a report and shoved into Grant’s hands. “The ship or thing you saw come down and hit us? We got a very quick track on its entry. Earlier today we saw something very similar in the vicinity of Mars. Space Corps lost communication with nearly every ship in orbit out there. They might have all been taken out or might just be jammed; we don’t know yet. But we saw the same signal moving to reenter the atmosphere on Mars. It’s on a course of approach to Colony Alpha!”
“Do you have a map of the station?” Grant asked. “Can you bring one up?”
“Of course,” the analyst replied before turning to his computer. A map quickly appeared on the large monitor beside them. The photograph had been taken from low orbit and showed a sprawling conglomeration of pods and components. At the center, the fuselage of a massive ship could be made out. Networks of smaller units spread out in all directions like appendages on a massive insect.
“What is that? It looks like a complete mess,” Grant stated bluntly.
“You’ve never seen it?” the analyst asked with a slight tone of disbelief. “Colony Alpha is the first fully sustainable settlement built on Mars. The ship in the middle,” he said, tapping the screen, “was the S.C. Berlin, the last of the first generation cargo ships. When it was down to its last voyage from Earth, they packed enough materials in it to build the entire base. The ship itself became the concourse. The branch to the northeast is the power station. They still use the ship’s engines to power the entire settlement.”
He continued: “The pods to the north and south are dorms. They can house over ten thousand residents each but aren’t even close to being full. To the west of each of them are the research labs, and on the western end is the landing pad and ship maintenance bay.”
“What are these
?” Grant asked while gesturing at a set of four domes set like a cross to the east of the base, overlooked by the bridge of the Berlin.
“Those are excavation sites. They’re mining basic materials to expand the base and to hopefully move more functions underground.” The analyst turned back to Grant. “And that’s pretty much the base. There are roads outside that provide access for the excavation machinery and three research substations a few klicks away but that’s it.”
“What sort of a security presence is there?”
“One company of Space Corps soldiers maintains security checkpoints around the base but it’s far from defensible as a military target.”
“This isn’t good,” Grant mumbled as he scanned the report the analyst passed over. “What’s Space Corps’ move?”
“We don’t have any final orders so far, but they have issued standby-to-mobilize orders for a few battalions of soldiers plus the ships to deploy them.”
“I hope they know what they’re in for.”
“Why’s that?” the engineer inquired.
“The guys out in the desert earlier this week; they didn’t stand a freaking chance. In the one hundred percent casualty, zero enemy KIA kind of way. Have you mentioned any of this to Colonel Reese?”
The stunned man took a moment to shake off Grant’s interpretation of the battle but quickly regained his composure. “Of-Of course. He’s been in the loop on everything we’ve found.”
“If we’re done here, I’ll catch up with him myself,” Grant replied. “He didn’t have any orders for me before but maybe he’ll let me help out.” He took another look over the intelligence report and left to meet up with the colonel.
* * *
For the first time during a power outage, Othello felt truly afraid. It wasn’t the darkness, the flickering emergency lights, or even the churning life support motors rumbling through the ducts from deep within the station. It was something else. Call it a sixth sense but something felt genuinely wrong to him. Like darkness itself was approaching, he felt the presence of evil.
He hadn’t seen any other colonists since leaving his room. The halls were as silent as a grave. Minutes earlier Othello had absentmindedly trailed his hand down the wall and traced his fingers through a thick, extensive collage of sprayed blood. Othello had dealt with blood before, even his own, but to be surprised like this still messed with his head. After the encounter, his hand shook involuntarily nearly nonstop.
Now Othello stayed near the wall, walked as quietly as he could, and double-checked every intersection before committing. The blood was the worst. Three of his fingers were still stained and try as he might, there was no way for him to smear it away onto his jacket. Shaking it off, he forced himself to not look, to drop his hand again, and to silently peer around the next corner.
Again, there was nothing but darkness. Darkness, silence, and nothing to be seen. Othello made the turn and kept moving. A few meters more and he could make out a dim outline in the shadows. A man was kneeling by the wall, apparently in a daze as he didn’t even notice Othello’s approach.
Othello could just make out his colonial uniform. “Hey,” he whispered as quietly as he could. “Are you alright?”
The other man instantly turned and stood, his ears registering what he had just heard. “Who’s there?” he asked back.
“I’m Othello Harris. I’m a miner in the Southeast Extension. I’m on my way to Services to see about getting the power back. How about you?”
As he got closer, Othello realized he was more than a head taller than the other man. Even being towered over, he spoke with an unwavering voice. “I’m a mechanic. I was trying to find my way to the concourse when the lights went out. I got all turned around and I’ve been lost as hell.”
Othello shook his head ever so slightly. It was common for the new arrivals to lose their way in the kilos of identical halls. “I’m going that way; you can follow me but keep your voice down. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”
“Sure will. Thank you. Do you mean this is some something you haven’t seen before?”
“Sort of. Power outages are nothing special but someone got turned inside out about half a klick south,” he said, holding up his hand, which was still stained with blood. The other man’s only response was a widening of his eyes. “Try not to think about it. Just stay close to me and don’t make any noise.”
The mechanic did as he was told and fell in behind the veteran miner as he moved up slowly, carefully checking his corners.
10
Above the central screen on the battleship S. C. Flagstaff’s bridge a series of digital clocks were mounted, displaying the relative times around the planet. At the center was the clock for the meridian, the standard time used for space operations. The seconds ticked by and the hour advanced to 18:00:01. Halfway through the day’s fourteen hour shift, mused Lieutenant Commander Gordon Fox.
This was not what the commander had in mind when he had taken the position a few months earlier upon returning from the Sol Charlie campaign. He had served on multiple vessels, cross-trained to be a fighter pilot, and won multiple engagements before moving back to heavies. He spent a season getting warmed up as an operations manager and executive officer. His own command would be next in the nominal progression; that he would now go forth and control the destiny of an entire crew would have been expected. Instead, here he was, months later, still sitting on the ground, waiting for his leadership to sound the call.
Everything had been checked, re-checked, and checked again. Full diagnostics were run once a day. After that, power was dropped to the minimum and the rest of his crew rotated on and off the ship. With all the spare time, Fox ran drills and inspections. But by this point, he knew the systems as well as the technicians who briefed him.
On top of that, it felt like he had finished off half the base library. No, not at all what I expected, Gordon mused as he turned another page in another book. Another hour alone on the bridge was starting when the communication channel beside him came to life.
* * *
The commander’s briefing was nearly complete as the final speaker signed off from the conference and left the few remaining members alone in the meeting room looking at each other around an oval table.
“That was insightful,” Colonel Reese remarked. He turned to Grant, who was standing at the back of the room. “Mr. Grant, do you have anything you’d like to add?”
Grant leaned back against the wall with arms crossed. He had arrived in the middle of the meeting and didn’t dare disturb the multiple high ranking personalities present. “Negative, sir,” he answered simply.
Reese kept his eye on the soldier, sensing a hint of unease. “You sure?”
The force commanders had finally acknowledged the attacks on the convoy and Martian colonies. Not only that but they were sending ground forces to assist the base’s recovery effort. It wasn’t much but it was better than the few dozen indigenous personnel that the base currently had deployed to pull the remains out of the desert.
The more important news was their move on Mars. A potentially hostile force was detected, the intelligence officer reported, and was making its move on the colonies. It wasn’t much more data than what Grant had already gathered earlier but it was enough for the leadership to make a move.
Already they had mobilized one of the Ground Assault forces back east, over eight hundred strong, and were considering adding several more to them before long. Even a fighter squadron from B-3 was being called up for escort duty. If they faced what had hit the convoy in the desert, they’d need all the help they could get, Grant was sure.
“I think we’re flying pretty blind here,” Grant added. “Whatever hit us back here was something new but with the numbers you’re talking about, you shouldn’t have much to worry about.”
“That’s all?” the colonel said, checking again.
“Pretty much. It’s a standard ground invasion profile. If the colony is built as well as they’
re saying, they should be able to breach and secure it without a disaster. I think it’s a solid plan.”
“I’m glad you concur.”
“I’m going with them,” Grant stated matter-of-factly.
The announcement caught Reese off-guard. “You think so?”
“You were about to tell me to go anyway, right?” Grant answered. “I’ve got the equipment and experience; it makes sense.”
“Well, you’ve had a rough couple days here. I wasn’t going to send you into any more shit against your will.”
Grant smiled ever so slightly. “You heard the commander. Even he said it: cakewalk. Besides if I don’t get back to work soon, I’m liable to get rusty. I’ve got my own ship. I’ll go wherever you need me,” he said, checking his audience for a response.
“If that’s what you want, I’m not about to hold you back,” Reese replied. “You know when the squadron is launching. Go get ready and meet them in orbit.”
Grant thanked the officers and left to prepare for launch. He put together a mental checklist as he went along. The load out for his ship was in the forefront but was also of least concern. Everything was powered by the main reactors and those were still above ninety-eight percent capacity. It was plenty enough for a few circuits around the solar system.
In addition to the ship Grant would need to collect his personal arms. He’d have to draw whatever he could from the armory and hope that they had enough for him. With so much activity, they’d undoubtedly be low on stock, or so he thought.
Grant rounded the corner and entered the warehouse back where he had landed his ship and saw something amiss. Someone had dropped a large equipment case at the base of the fighter’s access ladder. He approached the container cautiously and saw a crude note scrawled in black pen on a sheet of paper attached to the top with duct tape.
MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace Page 6