A few aliens took shots at their incoming wave of soldiers from behind a stack of crates. One of the men was knocked off his feet but only dropped to his knees. Mason was proud of their resolve. Any commander would have been.
Observing from the rear, they hardly missed a step. The ones to the right dove for the ground and provided covering fire. The rest followed Kael as he circled to the left with weapons leveled and flanked their position.
The aliens had obviously not had time to concoct a better position and had no protection from the side. Mason watched as his men opened fire from the left. Sparks, debris, and bit of organic matter blew out from the right.
With the threat neutralized, Kael drove his company forward, and they converged on the airlock which led to the station’s concourse. Mason helped the injured soldier to his feet as he half-watched the others set up for the next move. There was no blood and no sign of a suit rupture. “You alright?” he asked.
The soldier nodded. “Never better,” he wheezed from the hit to the chest. “Those freaks can’t shoot for shit.”
Two ground transports rolled into the hangar from the nearest shuttle carrying supplies and heavier weapons. Each took a position by the other companies out of the line of fire from the airlock while the waiting troops stood guard inside the main doors. Mason turned back just as the major approached.
“First room down. I think we caught them off guard!” he exclaimed with a hint of exuberance. “The breach won’t be as easy.”
Mason nodded. Major Kael was right. They could only get a few men through the airlock at a time if they didn’t want to blow the seal for the entire structure. Any modern force would use it as an advantage. Then again, lord only knew what the Aquillians would pull out. He looked about. “We could push crates through for cover.”
“Better than nothing,” Kael replied. “Wait. Are there assault shields in the trucks?”
15
The last alien transport took a mortal hit, split its hull, and blew thick flames into the thin atmosphere. Grant followed through the stream of smoke and watched as it smashed into the rocky ground below. The fire intensified and explosions erupted from within, scattering bits in all directions. He circled about to be sure it was down, and then returned to the outpost.
“Last transport is down,” he relayed to the fleet. A crackle of static filled the radio before he heard the voice on the other side respond.
“Copy that. Well done,” the operator started.
“Where do you need me next?”
“There are no open taskings and things in orbit are under control. Your function remains to provide escort to the ground forces. Continue to provide overwatch or support from the ground at your discretion. Landing’s been made at west platform.”
“Roger. I’ll be down there,” Grant relayed and brought his ship in closer to the base. On the south side, a huge structure had been added to the base to serve as an additional dormitory for the colonists. It looked to be another repurposed section of starship, but he didn’t know the entire story.
Branching out to the southeast was an extensive array of machinery and construction equipment supporting the mining beneath the station. The scale of the operation must have been massive, given the artificial mountain of rubble near the base perimeter.
Circling about to the north, Grant eyed up two more bivouacs constructed from modular colony pods. One had been listed in his briefing as the research facility while the other was the power plant. The power station was an easy kill; the four engines from the main ship had been simply disconnected, hauled over, and perched upright like wide cooling towers. Given their inherent efficiency, it was probably the most economical solution.
“I’m landing to the north of the lab. I’m not seeing any movement on the ground.”
“Good luck. Keep us updated.”
* * *
A shot snapped through the air beside Othello’s head. It was a moment late as he was already on the move. He sprinted the last few meters and dove at the last defending alien crouched behind an overturned storage locker. Landing on top, Othello held the creature’s weapon down and brought a clenched fist down through its face.
He swung away until blood flew and it stopped resisting. The other colonists were at the barrier behind him providing cover but as he looked around, he saw they were at the end of the hallway. They had made it to the last security station on the level. All they had to do was get down the stairs and they should have a straight shot to the concourse.
Othello spared none of the invaders their lives. It had been hard fighting every step of the way, and it wasn’t made easier by the hundreds of dead colonists they had to wade through towards each strongpoint.
A surviving security officer checked the small observation window in the stairwell door. “Clear,” he shouted as he unlocked it. With a click, the light grey metal panel slid aside. The officer checked the corner, rifle muzzle first, and stepped across the threshold. Othello picked up his rifle and got back to his feet, following the rest of the group.
The security office at the top of the stairs was little more than a reception window revealing a few menial desks. Looking through, Othello only saw blood and twisted equipment. He shook his head and kept moving.
* * *
“Is it always this dusty out here?” Scott asked his passenger.
“Are you kidding? This is as good as it gets,” the other man answered as they rolled along the wasteland towards the massive ship ahead.
The rover handled surprisingly well for the rough terrain, or so Scott thought. The windshield was mounted at a steep angle, coated with a number of dry lubricants and incorporated a series of fans and vents to keep the iron dust from collecting too thick. Elsewhere were mounted hyperspectral sensors that enhanced the terrain ahead. In practice it picked up edges of rocks and tire tracks and illuminated them a pale green.
All at once the ground smoothed out and the grinding of the wheels ceased. “This is the perimeter road. Turn left and take the next right. That’ll take us to the lab.”
“Why do you want to go there?” Scott asked, prying.
“It’s closest,” the scientist replied. “And it’s where I normally report to work. My door codes should all still work.”
16
“Ready.” The sergeant stated, his followers nodding in agreement. Mason leaned into his crate and pushed it into the airlock. They were able to fit three abreast through the narrow doors along with eight soldiers. Major Kael braced himself to his left, holding an assault shield and pistol. He looked back as the next wave lined up outside the lock. “Don’t take too long,” he ordered. “Cycle it.”
Instantly, the doors slammed shut and vents replaced all the air in the room. Mason couldn’t see past the box; he just listened for the door ahead. The blowers died down as the pressure equalized. It felt like a century. Then a click and a rush of air. Followed by gunfire.
“GO!” Kael shouted, as Mason and his fellow soldiers pushed their crates into position. “Contact ahead, twelve o’clock, first level,” he relayed while peering out between the shield and cover. “Ten o’clock, second level. Make that nine,” he pointed at the last man through. “Close it. Squad Two, get in here. Squad Three, bring two more crates along the left side.”
Mason put his back against the box and slid around the side raking across the expansive concourse with automatic fire. Between bursts he saw more of the aliens moving to cover. “More moving in!” he exclaimed and opened up again on the ones one the move. Some were torn apart, others scrambled on their hands and knees to their defensive positions.
The sergeant switched to grenades and shot two of the heavier rounds into the barricade on the second level. They tore at the edges but it still held.
For the first time in the campaign, the aliens thought as the humans did. Mason watched as a single propelled grenade streaked back and exploded only a meter in front of the major. The concussive explosion knocked them both off their feet. Mas
on’s ears were ringing but he could still hear Kael cursing as he struggled to get his shield back up.
More shots ripped in, and he couldn’t get a firm grip. Mason dove for the floor and heaved the shield up over their heads as he felt shots ricochet off the other side.
“Sonofabitch,” Kael grumbled as he gripped the metal disc tight and pulled himself up.
Mason ducked the shots as the doors opened and a dozen more soldiers stormed through.
* * *
Jefferson Grant slowly climbed up the side of the power plant’s shell on a minimalist service ladder. Every entrance on the ground floor was sealed, so he took the only way in he could find.
With him he carried three rifles, slung off his back, along with his hatchets and reserve ammunition. The medium armor took most of the weight and the Martian gravity negated the rest but the downside was the bulk of equipment hanging off. As he ascended, Grant quietly hoped that the aliens didn’t think to post sentries.
The wind picked up, and he kept his body close to the metallic skin of the structure. He reached the top, slid his way over the edge, caught his breath for a moment, and pulled his weapons up behind him.
His objective, a small airlock, was only a few meters away. Grant didn’t see any signs of handling or tampering, so he cycled the air, cracked the seal, and peered over the edge, sidearm first. He saw no movement; no life. Dropping down, he slid his gear along, hoisted onto his back, and processed into the facility.
He switched to his battle rifle for the shock value and kicked the inner door aside. It hit the wall with a deep thud which echoed around the room. Grant’s internal processor instantly sorted through the sounds, cataloging anything that might have signaled danger. There was a minor hum from the generators but no defenders shuffling about and no accompanying gunfire.
The rifle led the way around the corner. Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Grant’s instructor’s voices played in his head as he searched his surroundings. Dim emergency lights basked the room in a pale yellow glow. He was at the end of a long catwalk that overlooked the ground floor to the left a dozen meters below. Whatever fighting that was taking place in the colony, it wasn’t happening here. Grant saw no movement and hardly heard a sound.
He checked the corner and slid silently along the walkway, keeping an equal eye on the floor below and the ramp ahead. There were stacks of cases and equipment everywhere but none of it looked used. The lab looked to have been used more for storage than anything else.
The catwalk gave way to stairs that wrapped around the north side of the room. Grant took only a step before he heard the hiss of an airlock. He looked towards the sound, deafening in the silence. It was the entrance to the concourse. He bolted down the stairs and leapt over the edge half a story high, rolling to a stop behind a rack of equipment.
Gunfire echoed in the distance but was cut by the lock closing. Silence again enveloped Grant ‘surroundings. Kneeling motionless, he heard five distinct sets of footsteps spreading out from the door. They weren’t human.
Grant peered out slowly to be sure. He spotted a large alien, taller than an Aquillian, dressed in black and seemingly emanating black smoke that hung low in the air. He didn’t know what they were, but that could be sorted out afterwards.
The human soldier slid back behind the rack, shouldered his rifle, and pitched a flash grenade to the left. The clang as it hit the wall caught the alien’s attention, and he took his first shot as it exploded in a burst of light.
From his position, the equipment protected Grant from the blast but gave him a clear line of fire. The rightmost alien took a clean shot right to the head and Grant pivoted towards the second. He raked a line of shots across its chest as it staggered back from the blast.
He didn’t make it to the third before it returned fire. High caliber rounds from an unknown weapon slammed into the rack covering him. Grant let himself drop to his back as shards of the projectiles tore through the thin metal above. Rolling right, he clenched the trigger of his rifle and traced the line of fire a good thirty degrees around the edge, cutting up two more of the aliens. His weapon’s primary magazine ran dry.
There were still rounds in the reservoir, so Grant kicked himself to his feet and turned back to the left. He pulled another magazine out to reload as he looked about for the last target.
For once, the alien thought faster. Before he even made it to the edge, a massive armored fist reached around the corner and tore the rifle from Grant’s grip. Another struck him across the visor, instantly blurring his vision from the concussion. He stumbled back but stayed on his feet.
Others might have given up, but Grant’s mind still maintained control. Something powerful grasped his head and wrenched it about, trying to remove his armored helmet. Through the darkness, he saw the flash of a blade. It ground against his armor. The alien roared as it sawed away, trying to split the seal around his neck.
The rifle hadn’t even hit the floor a few meters away before Grant retaliated. He drew his sidearm, kept it along his side, and hammered on the trigger. He felt the alien flinch with the first five shots. By the twelfth, it was on the ground.
Heart racing, Grant followed it down and dropped the rest of the mag into the corpse’s head to make sure. He coughed hard and turned his head side to side, checking the gasket for tears. Despite the trauma it held up. The suit still held air and his throat remained intact. Grant looked back at the body.
Smoke wafted from the dozen holes in its body. A dark, blood-like liquid seeped from the wounds but didn’t pulse. Grant cursed at the fallen corpse as he reloaded his pistol, letting anger take the place of fear.
“Nice try, but you’re obviously new here. You really think the Earth is that weak?” he said, shaking his head. “So sad. Now let’s take care of your friends.”
Grant retrieved his rifle, reloaded it, and checked the other bodies. They were torn up from the gunfire; their brushed, flat black armor obviously more for speed and environmental protection than for stand-up fighting. Not that it would have helped Grant’s first target. He had put the first round straight into the creature’s visor and had blown its skull apart.
Their weapons were similar to what he had seen the Aquillians use before: powder-based projectile weapons fashioned after human rifles maybe a hundred years late. It was nothing terribly exotic but Grant didn’t put it past them to pull out something unique, especially after the wounds he saw at B-3.
As Grant finished surveying the scene, he heard the hiss of another airlock cycle. His heart jumped and he zeroed in on the source: a secondary entrance only a few meters away. He couldn’t risk getting pinned again and sprinted straight towards the sound.
Grant reached the door just as it opened and planted a kick straight to the midsection of the first shadow that came through. He didn’t give it a second glance and snapped his rifle around the corner into the lock beyond.
17
From Scott’s perspective, it was over before it began. His companion had taken a step forward, took an impact and was gone. Scott blinked and was instantly greeted with the wide muzzle of a massive weapon barrel only centimeters from his face.
“IDENTIFY!” said a voice thundering from the heavily armored soldier before him.
Scott froze.
Grant let the edges of his vision fill in the details. Two men, smaller in stature, and, from what he could see, unarmed. The one still standing was dressed as a ship’s mechanic. There was no one else in the airlock and no sign of the aliens. He lowered his rifle before he gave the civilians PTSD.
Scott didn’t recognize the all black and red. It was built for combat, but he could also make out the ports of a flight suit. The wide visor upon his head was polished like a mirror, giving no hint as to the nature of the person behind. He saw the soldier relax and concentrated on making himself speak.
“I’-m Scott-t R-Ryan,” he stammered, sounding like a stuttering android about to lose power. His hands involuntarily raised in surrender. �
��M-my ship crashed out at the ridge. I’m trying to get out of here.”
“And him?” the soldier asked, gesturing with his weapon towards the man wheezing on the ground in the fetal position.
“He works here. He drove me back.”
The man on the ground would probably be fine; Grant didn’t hit him that hard. He might have knocked the wind out of him but not much more. You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought. Five minutes into a mission and I’m babysitting gaddamn civilians! He looked back up at Scott. “Why the hell did you come here? It’s the middle of an invasion!”
Scott knew he’d need a better reason, but at the moment he couldn’t think of anything better. “I just thought I could help.”
Grant brushed the cop-out of an answer away but felt something more. The engineer had a better purpose; he knew that much but maybe the truth eluded both of them. They wouldn’t be a threat. At least he didn’t have to kill them.
“This isn’t some kind of game.” Grant said in a growl. “I’ve got a job to do. Stay here and keep your heads down ‘til it’s over.” He turned and left the two men to their devices.
Scott put a hand out and pulled the groaning researcher to his feet. “You okay?” he asked.
The other man nodded, wincing. “This was a bad idea.”
They watched the soldier exit with a steady jog. As he left, Scott’s eyes finally adjusted to the light in the room. There was equipment everywhere. It looked brand new, except for the rack of dented scopes in the middle. He paused, hearing noise echo in the background. They were gunshots.
There were alien bodies strewn across the floor. Most looked torn up bad and were leaking dark bile onto the floor. He stepped towards the closest one to inspect it and felt a crunch beneath his feet. Looking down, Scott saw at least twenty spent rifle cartridges. It was obviously the work of the soldier.
MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace Page 9