MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace

by Matthew D. White

  “Yes. Mr. Harris. When we’re done here, please retrieve your device and help them out in any way they need.”

  They discussed a number of other topics before Grant brought the conversation back around. “I think we also need to consider what initiative we lost during this fight. The Aquillians learned our techniques and adapted. I think it’s safe to say that the Phesrix will do the same.”

  “They’ll know our response times depending on where they attack,” Sergeant Mason replied. “Since we were there to save Extortion, they didn’t get to judge a response by Earth Corps, but that might be a blessing. Also, I think it’s safe to say other colonies might face different types of attacks than Mars.”

  “True, but I don’t think they picked the Mars colony to attack or enslave anyone,” Grant added. “Their focus was on the dig, and the citizens just got in the way. Whatever I found down there was what they were looking for.”

  “Any idea what it was?” Fox replied, looking between Othello and Grant. Both shook their heads.

  “If the site belonged to them, maybe they were looking for some ancient artifact. Our excavation might have given them the opportunity to search for it,” Othello offered, “but that’s still a stretch.”

  “Not to change the subject too much,” Scott interjected, “but you mentioned them learning our strategies and capabilities. They’ve been using unencrypted communications systems over narrow bands, which have been easy to intercept and deny. They had a few other systems employed on Mars to cut them off from Earth. I think we’ll see them use more sophisticated networks and denial strategies in the future.”

  Grant nodded, connecting the dots. “Do you know what they used to cut the planet off?”

  “It wouldn’t have been a jammer or traditional denial device. There would have been no way to cut off transmissions back to Earth. From the scans I took early on, I think they might have employed systems like that to keep Earth transmissions from making it, but that alone wouldn’t do it. I’m thinking they used some sort of munition to home in on the transmitters and silently disable them.”

  The engineer is clearly in his element now, Grant thought. He grew more animated and went into detail about how such a device could have been fielded.

  “ . . . If one became attached to the antenna itself, it could easily cause massive disruption,” he continued, but Commander Fox cut him off.

  “If used as you suggest, they could be on this ship right now, yes?” he questioned, and Scott nodded in response. “In that case, I’ll have the maintenance crews check the shuttles and fighters ASAP. Once we’re in real space for more than five minutes, we can inspect the Flagstaff’s transmitters too.”

  “Speaking of which, we’re going to need to get a plan together if we are engaged again.”

  ***

  Scott found himself in a quandary as he walked through the door of the armory. On the one hand, Commander Grant’s words still echoed in his head: their team would be facing a very terrible foe, and their safety was far from secure. On the other, he was filled with hope and pride that he was part of something that could be so important to their survival.

  The armorer waved him through the last door to the secure storage area. “What can I do for ya?” the junior sergeant asked informally.

  “I need four ZiG magazines,” Scott requested. The rifle Grant had given him still fired like a dream, but he was starting to run low.

  “Easy stuff, I like that!” the armorer exclaimed, pulled a satchel and dropped in the magazines from a massive crate along the floor. “What else?”

  “I think that’s it,” Scott considered. “Actually, do you have any forty-five caliber pistols and M14s?”

  “Taking the advice of the commander, huh?” the sergeant asked with a laugh. “I can hook you up with that too, for a price.”

  Scott stopped and the sergeant laughed again. “Sarcasm!” he added, and retrieved a small plastic case from a cabinet. “Open that pack again.”

  The engineer stepped up, relieved, and held the satchel open for the armorer, who proceeded to dump a selection of equipment and accessories on him.

  “ . . . Holster, magazines, ammunition, here we go: .308 rounds for the M14! I hadn’t touched this stuff since it arrived. It’s still good though.” He held up one of the sizeable bullets. “That’ll stop one of those little freaks in a heartbeat!”

  From there, he pulled a long wooden crate from beneath the racks. He undid the clasps and raised the lid. Scott instantly smelled the scent of old oil gunpowder residue. “Holy hell, is that it?” he asked, pointing at the row of weapons wrapped in paper.

  “Damn straight,” the armorer replied, holding up the first one he grabbed. “Don’t let them fool you. You know these’ll put a hurt on a fool! Come on, I’ll show you how to strip it.”

  ***

  Only a short time later, the Flagstaff’s personnel were ready at their stations in preparation for the worst the Phesrix could offer. Grant was on the bridge, loaded with his usual complement of weaponry. Commander Fox stood beside him, still not fully understanding why Grant insisted on carrying everything down to two tomahawks on his waist. If it came down to the edged weapons being needed, they’d probably have much bigger problems. Fox bit his tongue and kept his comments to himself.

  The civilians recovered from Mars again volunteered to take up arms as well. They stood at the ready in the central hallway as they had before, alongside Major Kael’s forces. On each end of the ship, crisis teams were also in place in heavy armor in case the situation required their use. It went without saying that the pilots and maintainers stood by in like manner to defend their ship.

  The main clock on the bridge ticked down below five minutes remaining in the jump. They were almost out. Grant adjusted his stance, hoping for the best. “The order stands: whatever follows us, engage them. Every last one of them. Keep ‘em following us,” he ordered.

  As he finished the statement, the engines cut out without warning. The entire room felt the massive inertial shift, and every person on the bridge went flying forward off his feet.

  Grant’s skull nailed the divider behind the command crew. Fox landed beside him. Silence ruled in the aftermath of the crash for a fraction of a second before every warning siren in the room went off simultaneously.

  “Gaddammit, not again! What the hell was that?” Grant demanded, struggling to his feet.

  “I don’t know sir,” the pilot answered, blood pouring from his face as his fingers moved over the controls, “we just lost our path in hyperspace.”

  “Well start knowing real quick! We’re sitting gaddamn ducks out here!” Grant roared, helping Fox to his feet in turn. A flurry of shouts erupted among the crew members and commanders before one broke out above the rest.

  “Sir, the sub-light processor just lost its coordinates and zeroed out. We have to re-map the course and jump again!”

  “We’ve got incoming fire!” the defensive systems officer called out before the other man could finish.

  “Shields up!” Fox shouted, and looked at the map on the table. Only seconds behind them, the other alien ships snapped into view.

  “Dammit, did they knock us out of the jump?” Grant questioned the operators. “Is this the same thing they did when we got to Earth?”

  “It’s unlikely, but they might have been able to influence the exit point. Nothing malicious is on our system.”

  The first of the shots struck the Flagstaff’s outer shields, causing the telltale flickering of the overhead lights. “Bring up auxiliary power!” Commander Fox ordered, “We can’t risk losing coordinates again. Evasive maneuvers!”

  “Why aren’t we firing back?!” Grant shouted as they were struck by another blast.

  “The targeting systems went down with the rest of the ship. The gunners are resetting them—estimate five to ten seconds!”

  Grant cursed the dramatic change in events as his eyes darted between the monitors surrounding the bridge. This shift was
not unexpected, but he was at a loss as to how their path could have been forcefully modified. “Keep us moving! Get them firing!” he commanded. “Tell the crew to brace for impact. Stand fast to defend the ship!”

  ***

  Sergeant Allen’s head was still spinning as he struggled from the ground after sailing into the wall aside fifty other soldiers. “Hold on!” he shouted above the concurrent, growing streams of expletives. “Awaiting orders! Nothing’s on us yet!” Shots from the deck guns erupted out in quick succession, unseen by the soldiers hidden inside. He impatiently waited, hoping to soon feel the gravitational shift that signified their next jump was imminent.

  “Ain’t this effing perfect?” Othello muttered to the rest of the security team around him. “It’s not enough to keep us on edge about an attack; now I’m gonna be waiting to get thrown out of every sub-light jump!”

  Scott could only nod from his position a few meters away, braced against the forward wall. He heard another group of shots from the gun as the gravity shifted and threw them back into hyperspace.

  “All crew, we’re underway!” Commander Fox announced over the intercom. “Time to reentry: one hour, subject to change.”

  48

  The escape went flawlessly—until fifteen seconds passed and the ship again dove out of hyperspace in another violent deceleration, throwing the passengers from their feet once again. Through another hail of cries and curses, Grant got to his feet. After the first drop, he had expected them to fail again and was able to protect his face from the wall with an arm.

  “This is absolute bullshit!” he growled. “Figure out a work-around, or we’re going to tear the ship apart doing this a third time!”

  “We’re fighting?”

  “Yes! Engage everything in range. Get the shields up!” Grant directed. “We can handle our own for a while, but the engines need to get fixed quick!”

  In perfect synchronization, the trio of alien ships shot into view behind the Flagstaff once again. “They’ve locked on!” one of the officers reported.

  “Shields up!” Fox ordered, but felt no shudder from the generators. “Are they firing?”

  “No, but they’re closing in fast!”

  Grant watched the movement of the alien vessels on the map. “They’re positioning to launch boarding teams. Keep the ship moving! Don’t let them catch us!”

  “Too late! We’ve got multiple targets incoming!”

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit . . .” Grant mumbled under his breath. “Alert defensive forces. Secure all external airlocks.”

  “Five targets are heading for the upper aft flight deck.”

  “That’s sealed, but they might try to breach it from the surface,” Fox relayed to the others on the bridge.

  “Tell the closest response team to secure the area and keep them outside,” Grant announced, turning from the map. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  Fox considered protesting but instead stayed quiet. Nothing he said would have made a difference.

  Grant bounded up the winding stairs near the bridge to the upper deck and made for the center hallway that ran along the battleship’s spine. The fighter bays were to either side for a few hundred meters, but after that he’d hit the support armory. He made it to the sealed vault and pounded hard on the frame. “Open up! It’s Grant! I need some help!”

  The locks released and the door swung aside on a hydraulic ram. Behind it, the armory’s staff was blockaded behind a few built-in barricades, as was standard procedure when under attack. Their leader recognized Grant instantly.

  “Stand down! Officer on deck!” he shouted, and jumped to his feet. “What can we do for you, sir?” he asked while the commander approached.

  “I’m heading outside. I need heavy armor and I need it now!” Grant announced, and pulled the emergency release on his suit, immediately dropping the black and red interlocking plates of hardened ceramic and metal.

  The armorers looked at each other for a second before gesturing to a side room. “Right this way sir! We’ve got plenty of them.”

  Grant followed the team of soldiers around to the first massive black suit. It stood half a meter taller than any of the others and was more of a walking tank than a flak vest. With barely a word, he hopped up inside and felt the plates close in around him as the systems powered up. The first few steps felt slow and awkward, but he quickly regained his sense of balance.

  Retrieving his weapons and reattaching the ammunition harnesses, Grant looked around at the small team of soldiers. “Where’s the nearest airlock through the skin?”

  “Another fifty meters away!” one offered, and pointed farther down the hallway. “It’s locked, but the suit will let you pass automatically.”

  “Good, thank you,” Grant replied. “Once I leave, stay here and lock the door. I don’t know what they’ve got coming for us,” he added, and lumbered his way down the rest of the hallway toward the last airlock before the aft landing bay.

  “Mic check. What’s the status?” he asked through his radio while cycling through.

  “Commander Grant, the rear crisis team found two transports on the starboard skin below the landing bay. About twelve alien contacts total.”

  “That’s not bad. I’m on my way,” he reported as the outer door slid silently aside to reveal an infinite field of strange stars. The only sound left was his breathing and individual footsteps. Outside the protective shell of the Flagstaff, its gravity generators were of minimal use, and Grant relied on sensors built into the suit’s feet to maneuver around, albeit in an even more ungainly fashion than inside.

  Moving as quickly as he could, Grant rounded the fuselage of the ship and hooked left to where he estimated the alien landing site would have been located. Dim flickers of light danced across the metallic landscape, evidence of the skirmish ahead, and he knew he was getting close. Clearing the last sharp turn, he saw the two groups of soldiers firing into one another.

  Grant shouldered his rifle and checked the range. “Kael, Fox, I’m about a hundred meters off to the right side.” The message took a few seconds to be routed before Sergeant Mason’s voice came back.

  “Engage! Engage!” he shouted breathlessly, the silence of the void misrepresenting the urgency of the situation.

  “Copy that,” Grant replied, and lined up behind a low undulation in the ship’s surface for cover. Even the aliens had more impressive armor on this time, so he switched his ZiG to fire a twenty millimeter slug. The first shot recoiled against his shoulder with hardly a tap and the sound of a punch to a feather pillow. Its recipient never saw it coming.

  The impact ripped the creature from the ship’s surface and sent it sailing into the darkness, flailing in pain and shock. Another noticed the assault and looked up in time to catch a similar round to the shoulder. “Two down,” Grant reported, and switched targets.

  He moved up, quickly switching between the ZiG’s lighter bullets and the slugs depending on his victims. Grant felt only minimal concern for his safety: the attackers didn’t have much of an act together outside the ship, and their weapons didn’t have much hope of puncturing his suit. Far above his head, the deck guns silently lit up the landscape as they engaged the Phesrix destroyers once again.

  ***

  “Wait, say that again,” Commander Fox said, rubbing a hand against his temple.

  “The navigation processor’s been compromised!” the technician relayed back. “It’s getting fed a random seed that causes it to drop us out of our jumps. The aliens must know the string, so they’re able to follow us perfectly.”

  “Effing great,” Fox mumbled. “That’s fixable, right?”

  “Yes, but if we jump without knowing the source of the virus, it might just happen again,” the technician replied.

  The navigation processor was located in a closely-guarded vault above the generator substation of the engines. It consisted of a dozen racks of individual components that handled specific portions of the jump calculations.

/>   “We don’t have the time to do an interference assessment now. Get it reloaded and get us moving again. Shield it with whatever you can find. We’ll worry about the rest later.”

  “Commander Grant, how’re things?” Fox asked, growing exasperated.

  “They’re under control. I don’t think they expected to get pounded out before they even got inside,” Grant answered as he raked another burst of fire across the last few cowering aliens. “Any luck with fixing the ship?”

  “Yes, they’re reloading firmware on the nav processor. They think those bastards stuck a virus in it that randomly inserts drop commands.”

  Grant thought for a moment, ducking back to let Mason and the other soldiers draw fire. “It’s probably a probe on the surface. We’d have to inspect every square centimeter to find it.”

  “We really don’t have the manpower to do that. I told them to patch it up and keep us moving.”

  “Good call,” he replied, taking another shot, “it’s not like they’ve never tried some shit like this before.” Grant looked up into the night as another transport sailed into view far above. Almost on cue, a round from a Flagstaff deck gun shredded through the tiny vessel, which erupted into a burst of light. “Nice shot,” the officer commended, and glanced back at the battle before him.

  As he watched, the rest of the human force stormed the remnants of the alien band and sent them flying into the dark abyss. “It looks like we’re done out here,” he reported back.

  “About time. Get back in here so we can get moving,” Fox commanded his equal, ready to put the fight behind them.

  The service technicians called in first to say the processor was reloaded. “We did what we could, but it still might become corrupted again,” their leader added.

  “Add any extra shielding?”

  “Yes. We closed off the vault and wrapped the entire system in chaff blankets.”

  It was good thinking on their part, Fox mused. Electromagnetic interference shielding fabrics, unofficially referred to as chaff blankets, were normally used to confuse enemy scanners or calibrate their own systems, but they could be used in a pinch to electromagnetically shield an object.