Other soldiers were breaching more rooms, so Scott approached the next one that was still closed. He kicked the door in, bracing for the fatal shot he knew was coming, but felt nothing. His heart bursting from his chest, he again surveyed the scene. It was identical to the last, so he released the survivors like before and continued onward.
Who—strike that—what could possibly conduct itself like this? There were no words to describe the inhumanity.
38
Farther south, Othello rested the barrel of his rifle on the ledge of the third story window, behind which he was stationed. Seated upon a metal stool, he surveyed the rig and the prior day’s battlefield.
As the sun cleared the horizon, a distantly familiar yellow glow danced across the ocean’s foam below and the free-floating fragments of the bridge rotated slowly in the breeze. For the first time, he had enough light to make out the structures on the far side.
Part of him wished he could leave the fight behind and enjoy the color and depth of his home planet. Working for years inside, often in the dark, had left him suited for work underground, but still he retained a memory of life on Earth.
It could be so simple, he thought, to leave it behind. After all, billions of others lived this life. Why did he need to live in a tin can on that cold ball of dust? It wasn’t as if he had anything to run away from. Othello reconsidered his actions. No, he couldn’t return. This was no more home than the derelict freighter and his sandbox.
The miner peered through his weapon’s scope and saw movement, ceasing his abstract pontifications. He edged in on the transmissions of the mess unraveling up north.
“Mason, Grant, Bravo is still standing on Central. I’ve got movement on South.”
A few uncomfortable seconds passed before he got a response. “This is Mason. What are they doing?”
Othello looked again. “I can see a number of black shapes moving about. It looks like they’re lining up on the perimeter road facing us.”
“Are they mobilizing for an attack?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. I don’t know how they’d get across.”
“We’re dealing with a cluster mess of our own up here. Keep eyes on them; if they maneuver to attack, let me know, but otherwise standby.”
“Understood,” the miner replied, and continued to watch the aliens as they lined up in what appeared to be some form of military formation. From his angle, Othello could make out about forty five remaining.
A single creature walked down the line—an officer, he mused. It stood still, gave an inaudible command, and the group in unison removed their helmets. Unflinching, the leader approached the first one in line and placed an unseen handheld object against its forehead. Without retort, flash, or audible noise the alien dropped like a stone.
Othello immediately drew the connection to an execution by gunshot, although he hadn’t seen their adversaries armed with pistols before, only unwieldy rifles. The officer immediately stepped to the side and dropped the next alien in like fashion. “What the hell . . .” Othello mumbled aloud.
“What do you have?” Grant’s voice came through the speakers clamped against his scalp.
“I think they’re killing themselves. Their leader just lined the group up and is dropping them with shots to the face,” Othello reported as the fourth one fell.
“What? Are you sure?”
“That’s what it looks like from here,” he added. “He’s got some kind of pistol, he places it against their heads, they drop, and it sure keeps them from moving.”
“How many are left?”
“They started with mid-forties. Right now there are maybe ten left.”
“Makes no sense at all,” Sergeant Mason cut in.
“That’s still a sizeable force. It could have cost us half the day to clear them out,” Grant continued.
“True. These things don’t strike me as the type to give up so easily.”
Othello kept watching through the scope. “Maybe they knew it was inevitable. Or maybe their mission was complete, or a failure.”
The radio went silent for nearly an eternity before Grant cut back in. “That I’d believe. Maybe we played right into their hands.”
“That’s got its share of horrifying ramifications,” Mason responded again.
“It just shot the last one in the row,” Othello continued, “and it just turned back toward me.” He adjusted the zoom on his rifle and saw the creature’s lifeless eyes glaring straight back. “Jesus! It’s staring right at me!”
He fought the sudden overwhelming fear, but without delay the alien placed the device against the side of its throat and activated it. Like the others before, it crumpled lifelessly to the deck. Mason and Grant blustered over the radio before Othello cut them off. “It’s dead. It just shot itself.”
“Defiant to the end?” Mason surmised.
“Hopefully that’s all. I can live with a loser’s defiance,” Grant replied.
As a stillness fell on the scene, Othello looked across the crumpled mass for the device the officer had used to execute its forces. “I need to get over there.”
“If it can’t wait, find some volunteers from Bravo and figure out a way across,” Mason half-ordered the impromptu squad leader.
“Othello, I think one of the suspension cables is still intact. The top should have a small service walkway that leads to the far side.”
Grant’s suggestion sounded as good as any other.
***
“You want us where?” Commander Fox responded to the ground team’s request.
“Sir, we’re going to need the Flagstaff here on station for medical support and extraction.” Mason’s request was without ambiguity.
“Sergeant, that’s not going to happen. We’re still seeing seeker waveforms from the SAMs. I’m not about to lose a battleship to one dammed alien on Earth’s surface!”
He had a point, of course. The heavy shields used on larger ships, including the Flagstaff, were inherently unstable against some types of weapons within the atmosphere. Mason shook his head, surveying the extraction point on North from the roof. A row of burning alien shuttles of similar design to what attacked them before was lined up behind him. No missile teams were anywhere to be seen.
Hundreds of civilians littered the ground outside. “I understand the risk, but we’ve got the rig clear. We’re in control of the north, and the alien presence has been removed. We need to get these people out before they lose their gaddamn minds any more than they already have!”
Fox ground his teeth. Heavy weighed the crown. He addressed the bridge, “Bring us in to launch shuttles at the north rig. I want all sensors up. Tag every position for possible danger. If confirmed, we break without hesitation.”
“Thank you, out,” Mason radioed back, and closed the channel. He looked around the ground far beneath and back toward the line of shuttles.
He still thought it strange that the invaders would bring so many with them but only deploy two of them to assault the bridge. Lightly smoking remnants of fires still burned within their engines, with carbon soot collecting halfway up each side. It seemed unlikely that the ships would have taken so much damage simply flying in. It was more likely they were disabled when escape became impossible.
Maybe that was it: they took them out too early, having never expected to need them, Sergeant Mason considered, and spied a rustling bit of tattered fabric crushed under a shuttle’s landing skid.
Pushing against the metal bar, he freed the sorry flag, still attached to the pole that was knocked over in the landing. He studied it briefly before balling it up and heading back to the edge.
“Hey!” he shouted down to the soldiers on the ground, “find another pole for this!” Mason continued and dropped the mass of cloth.
Scott looked up just as it fell into his arms. Although startled, he had slightly backed away from full-blown-combat-rush. The engineer recognized it and looked back at the others. Grant, a few meters away
, nodded in approval.
“Go ahead; can you get it up the scaffolding on the corner?” he asked, gesturing to the metal construct across the rig from them. “We’ve got things covered here.”
The structure towered dangerously high above the scene, but it was a welcome break from trying and failing to console the suffering citizens, “I’ll take care of it,” Scott confirmed and made his exodus, jogging straight to the nearest service ladder and starting to climb.
***
Grant turned back to the masses of victims all around. Most were still shaking, coated in dried blood from the days of captivity. A few of Mason’s soldiers were still helping the last few out the door. Through the midst of the battle, the vision from Mars had been easy to ignore, but again it had returned. He knew that even though the battle might be waning, the war would still come whether Raley, his officers, and the politicians wanted to believe it or not.
Removing his helmet, Grant felt the morning breeze drift slowly by and rubbed the stinging layers of dirt and sweat from his eyes. Only a few of the survivors reciprocated, but those who caught his eye bore not only expressions of sorrow and terror, but on a deeper level, expressions of gratitude. They knew they had not been forgotten.
Grant shook the hand of one man against the building’s wall. “Thank you,” the man offered in little more than a hoarse whisper.
At least they had been given a chance to survive; it was more than some had received. Grant felt the harsh memories overwhelm his mind once again. Was there no greater hell than being so helpless and so useless? He snapped back and glanced among the crowded faces again. Maybe it was worth it for them.
With the yard secured, Grant returned to the dorm lobby. As he entered, he heard a volley of shouts and gunfire from above, echoing down the stairwell. His rifle was up before the radio lit up again.
“Fourth floor clear. Two more enemies K.I.A. Three more civilian survivors and no casualties.”
The words were a welcome relief, and the soldier stood down once more. Sunlight now refracted through the glass windows, illuminating the bloody massacre. Grant rounded the corner to the first room and without noticing, tried the light switch. Of course, no power, he thought.
At least he wouldn’t be around for the crime scene cleanup. Grant had cleaned up worse things, but it wasn’t a job he particularly wanted. He retrieved the metal hand saw from atop the mountain of corpses and looked over the blade.
He would have guessed it to be made of polished stainless steel, but obviously an alien civilization would have developed it differently. The weapon’s handle was formed by rolling additional material at the end and covering it with a softer fabric. In form, it was a partial juxtaposition of human equivalents and designed to fit alien hands. The teeth on the thick, curving blade were long, hooked, and ground like razor blades. They could have inspired fear even without the caked-on layer of blood.
Looking about, Grant saw no other alien devices or weapons, so he sat the blade beside the entrance and moved on. Each room was the same story: murdered workers, tied survivors, the single blade to do the work.
“Were there security feeds on the rig?” he asked at last, taking in the final, identical room on the right.
“Unknown,” Mason responded. “I’ll have some of our guys check around. If Mister Harris is still going all the way to South, he might be able to check the admin buildings.”
“Copy. I’ll check the dorms for a server room if nothing else. I’d be surprised if they didn’t have anything.”
The sergeant acknowledged the move and sent for a team of soldiers to check North and for Bravo Squad to push east to the final station.
39
Farther away and a few hundred meters higher, Othello carefully climbed up the final span of cable toward the south derrick. From the height, he could see the entire deck, all the buildings, and the fallen alien soldiers lined up in front. His scrapes from the assault were catching up as his medication was wearing off, and he again regretted climbing the tower to begin with.
“This was not the smartest idea I’ve ever had,” he admitted to the two soldiers behind him as he steadied himself on the thin guardrail. The entire structure listed multiple meters to the side in the wind, owing to two of the three support cables on their side being severed. Maybe this was the reason the aliens didn’t try to attack.
Still, Othello’s eyes turned to the small device in the alien officer’s grasp. Reaching the top of the support cable, he paused briefly to scan the rest of the landscape.
“Sir, we just got a call from Sergeant Mason. He wants us to check the administration buildings for any security drives or records of the attack.”
“Well then, it’s good you came along,” Othello replied as he swung around to the partially-enclosed service ladder and slid down to the ground. The thin layer of coarse gravel gave way to the concrete with a solid crunch and he stepped back from the tower to survey the prior day’s battlefield one more time.
The two security officers that had accompanied the miner across reached the ground and moved carefully back to the building they had fought so hard to control. Othello scanned over the hundreds of bullet holes that riddled the metal buildings from end to end and destroyed every bit of formed concrete on the street. The previous day had him fighting for his life behind the stamped steel wall; now it felt like it was all happening at once, but at the same time very far away.
To the left, the last of the aliens remained where they had fallen on the cleanest section of the street. Clean was a relative term: the entire area was now coated with a layer of pooled blood and bile. Othello kept his weapon up in case one of the deceased returned to the land of the living, but dropped it as he stood over the first one. It was obvious they wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.
Their helmets were off and heads were visible, but everything organic—skin, muscles, tendons—had been eaten away, leaving nothing more than their deep gray skulls to provide testament to their existence. He kicked the closest one and sent its head sliding away without protest.
“This keeps getting better,” Othello mumbled to himself, and lifted the armor from the waist. Instantly, another liter of trapped blood surged out of the head hole. “Gaddammit!” he exclaimed, reactively dropping the payload with a splash.
“Are you having a problem?” Grant inquired.
“No,” Othello shook it off, “just these things keep getting more screwed up by the minute. They effing liquefied everything down to their bones.”
“Liquefied?”
“Yes. As in, all that’s left is bone and armor in a bloody stew half the length of the street!”
“Maybe that was from the device they used? I haven’t seen any corpses decay, so far.”
“Maybe,” Othello replied, and reached for the small object held in the officer’s hand. He easily pulled it free of the limp grip and held it in the light. “It looks like a remote detonator,” he reported.
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s got a pistol grip, a small box with some controls on top, and a couple little needle-probes on the front.”
“Well, get it back here if you can. Our guys might find it useful. Don’t stick yourself with it,” Grant added with a hint of sarcasm.
Othello smiled thinly and shook his head. “Roger. I’ll help the guys here look for the drives and we’ll be back.”
***
Nearing the top of the industrial tower, Scott looked back over his shoulder at the other buildings and the ground far below. Earlier in his life, it would have given him vertigo, but after years in space plus this week’s adventure, it almost felt calming.
Reaching the top of the ladder, he pulled the flag from the case on his armor and shook it to release the built-up dirt. The whole activity felt like such a simple gesture, but he supposed the soldiers would appreciate it.
Scott attached the clasps to the tallest point he could reach and turned back again to take in the view. He was so high he could see a
ll five platforms while barely moving his head. Scanning the horizon far into the distance, he could see the shimmering outline of the Flagstaff slowly float into view as it began a long arching approach to Extortion. From what he overheard on the radio, they were still apparently concerned about missile teams on the surface.
In the midfield, the remains of the tower on the central platform were still smoldering. Small to midsize craters, the scars of the battle, littered the ground and covered the bridge along with the bodies of dozens of fallen soldiers and deceased aliens. From his vantage point, they weren’t much bigger than ants, but he still felt chills from running through the fight firsthand.
The bridges farther away were all but destroyed, but the southwest and northeast rigs looked surprisingly peaceful. Since they were spared most of the battle, save for lights and any sign of movement, they looked ready for operations. He only caught the scene below with a fleeting glance as he turned to begin the long trek back down.
On the grounds of the north rig the assembly of soldiers and civilians had congregated around the base of Scott’s tower. While some of the civilians waivered, they clutched their hands to their chests and resisted the urge to fall. In like form, the soldiers stood with their weapons presented vertically in their outstretched arms.
While he quickly realized the show was for the flag he had raised, Scott found it odd to take the time out from their operation, especially with many injuries still untreated. It was a show of respect to a piece of cloth. Maybe one of them could clear it up for him sometime when lives weren’t in jeopardy, Scott thought to himself as he dropped down the first few meters of stamped metal rungs.
The wind picked up one more time, pushing the structure to the side, creaking and groaning in protest. The tower held together and the engineer focused again and took his time. It’d be an awful waste if he made it this far to die falling off a ladder.
MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace Page 25