MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace

by Matthew D. White

  ***

  Farther south, Allen relayed the major’s order. “Time to pack it in! Pull back to the shuttle and get on board!” He scanned the ground and helped the remaining member of Kael’s force down off the roof. The sergeant’s eyes landed on Scott’s limp body, still crumpled in the dirt. “Grab him!” he added, pointing.

  “Already there.” The fire team leader, along with two soldiers, pulled Scott up by the rescue tab on the back of his armor, recovered his rifle, and started to drag him back toward their pickup. “Come on,” the soldier encouraged, “before we get left the hell behind!”

  Major Kael watched as his soldiers gathered by the airlock with the last few civilians and waited for it to cycle. “Last group at the door!” he reported, then dropped another burst at the alien rushing from the door and jumped off the stack of crates. He hit the ground hard and scrambled among the broken magazines, bits of frag and equipment to reach the exit.

  “I’m the last one here!” he shouted again as they cycled through ahead of him. Kael turned and fired from a knee back at the wall of approaching aliens. “Anybody still on the ground? Ten seconds to liftoff!” He looked around the room in case there was anyone left. He saw no movement, heard no life, save the shrieking from the attackers swarming into the room.

  With a sideways glance, Kael spied a broken crate of mines against the wall as he slammed the button to cycle the lock one more time. They weren’t going anywhere, so he pulled the case into the lock behind him, ducking below the constant snapping of aimed shots. As the inner door shut, he dug an antipersonnel mine from its packaging, set its proximity sensor, and dropped it back into the mix. “Surprise, surprise,” he grinned as the next seal opened.

  “Last call!” he shouted once more as the ramp of the middle shuttle lifted slowly from the ground. The major heard no responses, so he jumped to the metal surface and held on to the textured floor. “All aboard! Haul your asses!”

  ***

  Commander Fox ground his teeth and held onto the center platform of the Flagstaff’s bridge. “Five seconds to pick up. Fire at will! Fire at will! Engage everything! Get their attention!”

  The room shook with the combined firing of every deck gun mounted to the battleship’s frame. Flashes of light streaked by outside every window and slammed harmlessly into the alien destroyer’s thick shields. Another flash of brilliant light engulfed one in a nuclear fire. Apparently the commander prime couldn’t leave well enough alone.

  They closed in quickly on the outpost. “Pull up! Get us altitude!” Fox ordered. “Give the shuttles an angle to match!”

  As he spoke, the shuttles roared straight up through the atmosphere, rolling back hard to follow the Flagstaff’s path.

  ***

  Grant matched his speed and trajectory with the Flagstaff’s bulk as it rocketed skyward, riding high on a massive column of fire. He watched as the squadron of shuttles swerved in and out alongside, lining up with the seemingly miniscule landing bays dotting its length. While most redeployments were performed in space with little movement, this would certainly be among the most harrowing flights of their crews’ careers.

  The pilots knew the regulations and deftly tossed them to the wind, earning themselves entire chapters in the expanding book of hazard-of-flight violations. Sliding in beside a million tons of steel reaching for escape velocity, they crashed hard into the landing bays one at a time. The fighters followed suit on the upper deck as Grant watched, waiting for his turn.

  ***

  Inside, the shuttle passengers fared little better. Kael hardly got off the ramp before they lifted off, and between the ground and local gravity, all he could do was continue holding onto the ground. Looking up, he saw the rest of his team members strapped to their jump seats with the wounded tied down to the floor. Time slowed, and he concentrated on the plate under his fingers as every bit of loose equipment went flying. It couldn’t possibly take much longer.

  ***

  The SR-X slipped though the building envelope of plasma surrounding the battleship and Grant took another chance, swerving hard to seat the fighter in the bay. His multiple reference frames collided with each other as he aimed for the ‘stationary’ deck of the ship, dropped the landing gear, and landed hard. His spine compacted hard enough to rupture a disc, but all the commander could sense was the instant change in velocity.

  The roaring noise of the air was gone and the fighter was at idle, leaving him an instant of peace before he killed the engines and reached up with a shaking hand to flip the canopy open.

  “Commander Grant! We’re clear of the planet! What’s the order!” the request filtered through his system.

  “Anywhere! Randomize it! Just get us gone!” Grant’s hoarse voice echoed through the radio. It had been too long, and he was far from having any patience left. All he knew was that if they stayed in place, they’d be lost.

  Pulling himself free, Grant climbed out of the ship and slid down to the ground below to make his way back to the bridge. He watched as maintenance crews swarmed the other fighters from their staging areas. He’d have to move his ship to the chief’s equipment once the shuttles were parked safely.

  45

  Commander Fox let out a long exhale and relaxed his grip as the ship slipped out of real space for a destination none of them knew. There’d be little consolation nor comfort in the jump; at most, it bought them time. He left the bridge with his second in command and walked back to the landing bay.

  From the overlook at the top of the stairwell, Fox spied the results of the mission. The shuttles were there, but looked to have been tossed into the bay by a five-year-old. They were covered in red dust, dents, and burns while smoke poured out from every crevice.

  On the floor far below, medical and maintenance crews swarmed the deck, moving equipment, supplies, and casualties to their collection points. He knew the staff was exceptional by any measure, but the effort would be taxing without a doubt. Among the commotion, he saw a flicker of deep black against the field of shiny grays. “What the hell . . .” he mumbled, and bounded down the stairwell.

  Othello saw the commander approach with a mixed look of anger and bewilderment on his face. “What the hell is that?” the officer asked, pointing at the section of decking beside him.

  There, ratchet-strapped to a two meter square panel of shuttle flooring, was the last alien Othello had disabled during the battle. He looked back at Fox. “Prisoner, sir. The only one we’ve got.”

  The commander shook his head. While lashed in place, the creature resembled a body upon a crucifix, still unconscious or dead from its beating. “Dammit all! Why is that thing on my ship?”

  “Better to have it and not need it,” Othello replied with a hint of sarcasm. “Can you ask Commander Grant if he can get anything useful out of it?”

  Fox felt himself losing control of the situation again, but he had bigger problems to deal with. “Fine. Take it to security at the end of the ramp and check it in. Make sure it’s disarmed. If it gets loose, I will hold you personally accountable.”

  Othello nodded and smiled. “Roger that, boss,” he added, and snapped an awkward salute.

  The commander kept moving before he did something he’d regret and focused on the rest of the situation. As much as he hated to admit it, Grant had apparently made a halfway decent call on this one. It nearly made up for them leaving the major’s battalion for dead in the first place. He checked his watch: the ship still had an hour left in the jump before it would reenter space at their random destination. It was by far the most foolish thing he had ever done.

  ***

  Before he opened his eyes, Scott felt the soft white light shining on his face. It was his first indication that he was no longer on the Martian surface. His armor was gone and he was lying . . . in a hospital bed? It seemed out of place, but not unheard of.

  Looking out for the first time, the engineer’s eyes spied the sensors clipped to his fingers, as well as a series of needles drilled in
to his lower arms. Around the room were seated the eight soldiers he had rescued from the damaged transport. Most were asleep while the team leader kept watch with his hands and head perched on the muzzle of his rifle. He quickly noticed Scott was awake.

  “Room attention!” he called, and the others instantly jumped to their feet. They stood straight, and the room went silent except for the meter reading Scott’s heart. There wasn’t even a sound from the rest of the infirmary. The team’s lieutenant approached Scott’s bedside. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The engineer knew he had been asked a question, but it took a few seconds for the message to find the right part of his brain to respond. He sucked in a breath across his raw throat. “Scott Ryan.”

  The man looked down and nodded with a thin smile of approval, and offered his hand. “Lieutenant Steven Carter of First Ground Assault Battalion. I am honored to meet you.” He continued, “Mister Ryan, I owe you a great debt. Had you not come for me and my men, we would have perished in a very terrible way. What is your job here?”

  Scott began to put the pieces together. That’s right, he had run out to their dropship and mechanically bypassed their system failure. “I’m a civil transport engineer,” he managed.

  “Well you could have fooled me! I dare say I’ve never met a trio of soldiers who would risk their life like you did for us, charging out alone with your escape right behind. Bravery and selflessness like I’ve never seen!” the soldier beamed.

  The engineer still felt out of it but was able to discern the lieutenant calling for a doctor before turning back. “I’ll let you rest, but never forget: you’re among the elite! You’re one of us!” Without another word, Carter removed a black and slightly singed patch from his arm which bore the insignia of the First Ground Assault Battalion’s Special Operations Company and attached it to the board above Scott’s head.

  Scott felt himself blink, and in what felt like a second, all eight had disappeared.

  ***

  By the time Grant had reached the bridge, Commander Fox was already back. The time was growing late, and they were scheduled to end their jump in minutes. Their gazes met, equally containing grief and exhaustion, but they each carried themselves high.

  “We’re entering real space in three minutes. It’s about time you got here; I was beginning to wonder if you got lost.”

  “Funny,” Grant responded with a sneer, “what are you thinking?”

  “Once the jump ends, we’ll randomize the coordinates one more time and jump again. With more time to calculate, we should be able to sustain it for more than an hour at a time.”

  Grant nodded. “Yes, we have to keep moving. We’ve got evidence that they can trace us and influence our landings.”

  “This keeps getting worse. I saw a report about that capability months ago, but there have been no signs of the Aquillians using—”

  “We’re not talking about Aquillians anymore!” the commander prime thundered. “There’s more to this than Aquillians! Those things are in the dustbin of history! What we’re facing is far effing worse!”

  A cold silence filled the room as he finished. “So now what?” Fox asked.

  Grant let out a labored sigh. “Get your gunners loaded up. If those things are still chasing us when we drop, engage every single one of them and leap again. Keep them following us—better that than have them go back for Earth.”

  The crew nodded in near unison and went to work at their respective stations. Fox didn’t have another word to add, so Grant left the room in silence for the hallway. Once outside, he leaned against the wall, knocked his head back, and tried to make sense of the swirling confusion in his head. A telltale vibration went through his feet, and he knew they were leaving the jump.

  Holding his head in his hands, feeling his hair soaked in sweat and blood and caked with dirt run through his fingers, he waited. The relative quiet gave way to a flurry of shouts next door, and he heard the cannons firing from every deck. He was right; they had followed.

  The lights above flickered as an alien round hit its mark and drained the Flagstaff’s shield batteries. Another volley quickly followed and shook the deck below his feet. The cannons returned fire in quick succession, and Grant counted the seconds. The shields were fully recharged, by his count, before the next round hit.

  Fox’s voice rose above the others next door, yelling for them to make the calculation and get them moving. It got more heated, building with the continual blasts from outside, before he felt the gravity field shift and the engines send them on their way.

  “Commander Fox,” Grant spoke into the radio at his neckline, “is it true we took one alive?”

  Fox sighed, trying to switch between directing the battle and the administration of his ship. “Yes. Mister Harris beat the tar out of one and brought it in and tied to a floor grate. It’s in the forward security station.”

  Grant swung back to his feet. “Have him meet me there in five minutes.”

  Fox wasn’t about to argue.

  ***

  As he walked into the checkpoint, Grant immediately caught the gaze of the creature, hung as if on a diamond plate crucifix. It snarled and strained at its bonds to no avail as he approached. The freak had already gathered a crowd of onlookers.

  Othello faced it down, cracking his knuckles. “Try it,” he growled. “Bring it on.”

  Grant pulled him aside. “Do you still have your little lumberjack souvenir?”

  The miner smiled. “Of course, do you need it?”

  “Yes, get it and meet us on the flight deck. Don’t let him see it.” He turned to Chief Robins. “Chief, can you find us a torch?”

  The personnel split and Grant faced the soldiers who were left. “Get that thing outside on the flight ramp. Move!”

  As they went to work, the commander studied the creature’s armor, an activity made more difficult from its constant struggling and the relocation. Together, the security officers sat the metal panel on a fighter slingshot at the end of the deck. Othello reappeared behind the alien, holding a black section of fabric concealing his prize.

  Grant stared the creature down once more. “I want to know what to call you,” he stated, and went for a panel on the alien’s upper arm. It struggled again, but he tore the plate of fibrous metal away. On it was inscribed a circular insignia which resembled a small black sphere within a circular sea of fire upon a field of stars. Rows of symbols graced it top and bottom. The commander pointed at the symbol and shoved it in the captive’s face.

  It spit, gurgled and snarled. “WHAT ARE YOU?” Grant roared, and pointed at the symbol again. The alien continued to resist, and he delivered a backhand with his armored fist and shouted again.

  The alien relented, and softened its voice, letting lose a slurry of guttural tones. “Did you catch any of that?” Grant asked the crowd around him.

  “Sounded like ‘Veer Phesrix,’” the chief offered.

  Grant tilted his head. “Phesrix, huh?” he questioned. The alien repeated the word through more raspy tones. “Well, Mister Phesrix, when you get to hell, tell them to make some gaddamn room, ‘cause I’m coming for you and all your little friends!”

  He nodded to Othello. The miner stepped forward and unsheathed the gleaming blade, nearly as big as he was. The sight caused their prisoner to go into a fit of convulsions. Othello grinned wider.

  “Take his arms,” Grant ordered and turned to the chief. “When he’s done, sear them shut and shoot him out of the catapult.”

  Harris approached and drew the blade slowly across the alien’s shoulder. It shrieked again as the edge pierced its armor and cut skin. A dark liquid poured out of the wound, “Whaaa, little baby! Don’t give it if you can’t take it!” Othello sneered, and struck the creature hard in the abdomen.

  He and Robins made the carving of each side last minutes, but before long, both arms hung limp and the smell of burning flesh emanated from the chief’s torch. What was left of the creature still struggled but w
as obviously approaching its version of shock.

  “Commander Fox, please open the port landing bay. We have to jettison some cargo,” Grant radioed up to the bridge.

  “We’re in hyperspace, you can’t . . .” The commander’s voice trailed off before rolling back, “You’ve got five seconds. Don’t make my ship implode.”

  The massive blast shield protecting the landing bay from the nothingness beyond rolled back, revealing a swirling void of black. Grant stood two meters in front of the alien, held the deck control in one hand, and flipped the creature off with the other. “Say goodnight.” He caged his eyes and hit the button.

  With one last screech, the alien rocketed by with the force of the catapult behind its tiny mass. It exited the ship like a sheet of paper in a tornado, producing nothing more than a dim flash before the doors slammed shut once again. Mission complete, Grant thought

  At the top of the stairs, Fox watched in distain at the events below. He shook his head once more but was at a loss for words.

  ***

  Although it was only minutes, it felt like hours before Grant dragged himself to the small cabin the superintendent had prepared on his behalf. In the master sergeant’s own words, “There’s no way a Commander Prime will be in general temporary lodging on my ship!” The gesture was greatly appreciated, but Grant was remiss to let it show.

  He had to endure another talking-to with Fox before he earned his reprieve, but it was not undeserved. His conduct with their captive was unbefitting his position and needed to be addressed. He closed the door and made it barely two steps before tumbling to the ground in anguish and exhaustion.

  Dry tears fell from his eyes, reminding him of the humanity he had left so far behind. Earth was a memory. The sun was a memory. Hell, starlight wasn’t even in the near future. There was nothing left.

  Grant slammed his fist against the floor, cursing the deity who gave him his lot and kept him alive. Why couldn’t it just be over with?