Crises and Conflicts: Celebrating the First 10 Years of NewCon Press

by Ian Whates

  Now I stare at these kids. They all need to adjust, process the experience. It’s hard for them, they’re used to being told things; data, reading, learning, not feeling, losing and working it out for themselves.

  “Krees, what happened to you?”

  She looks up at me, her face dirty and streaked with tears. “Burned my hands pretty bad on the breach, loading rounds,” she says in small voice.

  “I know, it hurts,” I say. “But I need you to get to the medikit and bring it to one of us then we can get some synth skin. When we get back –” My voice wavers. I swallow. “When we get back the ship will be able to print new hands for you.” But they’ll never feel quite right and you’ll always remember this. The advantage of the whole colony being fully gene mapped with controlled variation, but the technology came too late for people like me. Replicated transplants just ‘don’t take’ they’d said back on Earth when we left. That was more than a thousand years ago. Who knows what works now?

  But I can’t think about that. Earth’s gone, we’re here and the colony fleet needs us.

  “Will we get back?” Krees asks.

  “We must,” I reply. “If we don’t, the colonial computer can’t update its assessment and they’ll send down another party who’ll be just as surprised as we were.”

  “Only they won’t have you...” Juonal mutters.

  I try to smile. “Might be good, not having to cart around an old man.”

  Penn shakes her head. “No, we’d all be dead in the lander if you hadn’t been outside. They were waiting for us.”

  “Which suggests they’ll be at all the others too,” Krees adds. “Could be that’s why they didn’t follow us out here; they expect us to go back.”

  “What happened inside?” I ask.

  “We found the core samples and got the portable drives,” Juonal explains. “As we were packing up we heard you firing the machine gun. When we got outside some of the creatures were there. They tried to grab us. Tewan... Tewan shot one and got us out. We made it back here and you know the rest.”

  “She saved all of us, then,” I say. The smile’s easier now and the words are what we all feel. “We owe it to her to make it back.”

  They all nod and something in my chest eases. Krees manages to get the medkit and Penn treats her hands. Then she examines the cut on my side. It’s an ugly slash. “Could be some internal damage,” she says.

  “Not a lot we can do about that,” I tell her. “Just patch it and stop me leaking.”

  “That I can do, Corp,” Penn says.

  When she’s done, I move out of the seat and let Juonal in to help carry Tewan’s body to the airlock. Krees takes her place at the instrument panel. Juonal goes to the loader. Penn stays as driver. I get Juonal’s job at system control. With one hand, I can’t do any of the other jobs.

  My girl Jane has to lick her wounds too, accept her scars and play wiser next time. With foam seal jamming up the traverse, the turret’s stuck and useless. We manage to transfer weapons operation to Krees, but there’s not much we can do to adjust and the internal cameras don’t give us a great view. The old Jagdpanzers from the Second World War were fixed gun tanks. They used to hide in woodland and ambush the Shermans. They lost the advantage the minute they had to move or fire another shot.

  Of course, we have to move. We must get back to the landers or the lifeboat. In a fight, our advantage is range. Without accuracy we’ll have to throw everything at them all at once and pray.

  But first we must find out where we are.

  “So, where are we?” I ask.

  “Approximately three point two kilometres from the edge of the lander grid,” Juonal says. “I’ve programmed my best guess at our return course for Penn to follow.”

  “Well done,” I say. “Soon as we’re back on the mapped zone, we take stock and if we can’t see anything, we head straight for the lifeboat.”

  “What about the other core samples?” Penn asks.

  “We can’t take the risk. We’ve learned a lot down here and we need to report back.”

  Jounal nods and Krees looks relieved, but Penn stares at me for a second or two. I know the look; she’s come through the panic and out the other side. It’s a dangerous place to get to, where bravado starts to mask the fear, memories get are self-edited and false confidence can get a man killed. “We’re all too broken for another round,” I tell her. “Jane’s in no shape either.”

  She frowns. “Jane?”

  “Our ride,” I say. “With what she’s been through, she deserves a name.”

  “Jane,” she thinks about it then grins. “Okay, I guess that works.”

  Sharing my secret helps them. We’re forging a bond here, through words and blood. These kids are warriors now. They’re doing what needs to be done. I’m proud of them. When we get back, the whole fleet should be proud.

  Kepler Fleet AI Mission Analysis.

  Surface mission success probability without Specialist Saunders: 31%

  Surface mission success probability with Specialist Saunders: 29.5%

  Detailed evaluation:

  The majority of individuals assigned to the crew must be female. During simulation, females demonstrate a more even and calm set of responses. Males tend toward excellence or below median performance.

  Specialist Saunders is physically incapable. All scenarios that incorporate physical effort on his part reduce the team’s chances. The analysis takes into account a variety of hypothetical occurrences and models behaviour based on human herd psychology and bonding.

  However, when looking at the probability of individual situations that may arise, Saunders’ presence is a calming influence on the younger minds around him and the chance of success in each is marginally improved. As soon as circumstances change and his physical condition is tested this benefit drops into a penalty.

  Conclusion: Saunders must participate in the mission, but be briefed appropriately so he is aware of the data. Psychological evaluations suggest he will accept the conclusions of this report and will understand his role as a disposable asset.

  Jane’s chronometer says it’s taken us more than an hour to get back onto the grid, but we are back. Juonal’s found a rupture in the O² cylinders, which keeps things interesting and makes our decision for us, back to the lifeboat.

  Unfortunately it isn’t going to be a relaxing drive in the country.

  “Picking up some contacts,” Krees says.

  “They real or more ionisation glitches?”

  “Real I think, after the last time I’m pretty sure I can tell the difference.”

  “Best we don’t lead them back to where we came from then,” I say. “Penn, you think we can take them?”

  She shrugs, but I see the light in her eyes. “We can try,” she says.

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  Penn pivots us forty-five degrees so we’re facing the markers on the scanner. Juonal climbs up into Jane’s ruined turret. “Yeah, I see them,” he says. “It’s one of the slugs, might be the one from earlier, and more of their soldiers swarming round it.”

  I’m watching the pressure gauges, transmission and system temperatures. We can’t run and gun, so if we’re going to fight its power to weapons and sit still. That means tiny adjustments with the tracks, but at least after that the motivators get a chance to cool down. “Down to you, Penn,” I tell her. “You’ll need to get us dead on.”

  Penn doesn’t respond, but I can feel Jane shifting around as she lines up. Juonal gets down and goes back to the loader. “Ready?” he asks.

  “Almost,” Penn mutters. “There, yes! Armour piercing, load and fire!”

  With a grunt, Juonal bends his back to the breach and loads another road into the chamber. Krees deploys the supports and they crunch into the dirt just as Juonal raises his head once more. “Clear!” he shouts.

  “Firing,” says Krees.

  The whole tank shakes. From here, I can’t see the barrel or the hit, but Penn’s guttura
l crow of triumph tells me everything I need to know. “Get us moving!” I tell her.

  The support struts retract, the motivators whine and we’re away again. With trembling fingers I manage to key up the estimated distance to the lifeboat; two kilometres over hilly terrain. Provided nothing goes wrong, we can outpace the soldiers so we’re out of sight when we reach it.

  Juonal moves back into his chair and activates his screen, pulling up the readouts from mine and Krees’ consoles. “Motivator temperature is climbing,” he says. “At this rate they’ll exceed tolerance before we get to the boat.”

  I nod. “We won’t have time to load up. Jane knows it’s a one way trip.”

  “Oxygen supply should last, though.”

  “Something not to worry about then.”

  There’s a faint noise through the hull coming from above. It reminds me of the old days in Ukraine, when the Typhoon’s went in. “You hear that?” I ask.

  Juonal frowns. “Yeah I did.”

  “Go take a look,” I tell him. “Be careful.”

  “Will do, Corp.”

  He climbs back up to the turret. “Two jet trails,” he says. “You reckon the fleet sent down another team?”

  I shake my head. “No. I reckon our friends out there have aircraft.”

  As if to confirm this, there’s a ‘crump’ sound to our left, Jane wobbles and a shower of dirt covers cameras. “We won’t be able to outrun them!” says Krees.

  Air superiority; the way wars got won in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. I remember watching the news as a kid and seeing gutted vehicles lining desert roads of some long forgotten state. They called it shock and awe back then, the rain of fire and death from the sky pounding on people night after night. The black plumes of smoke as towns and cities burned. All the media saw was grey camera footage with heat blobs, until the ordinary folk got a chance to tell their side of the story. There were always civilians in the way, always innocent people caught up amongst those who’d chosen to fight. When you’re dead it doesn’t matter anymore, except that it does. A uniform and a gun makes you fair game for being a number. You signed up, you accept it.

  “What do we do?”

  Another ‘crump’, another shower of earth; I blink twice to banish the memories. Penn is yelling at me, they’re all looking at me, they need direction.

  “Make for the life boat,” I shout. “When we get within one hundred metres, swing around one three five and park. Juonal, get the EVA suits prepped and break out the fire axe from the panel. I want you all ready to go as soon as we stop.”

  Juonal looks at me, frowning. “We’re all going together, Corp,” he says.

  “Get me into a suit,” I reply. “Then you need to start cutting away that foam, so we can get the turret working. It’s the only chance we’ve got against jets.”

  My urgent tone banishes further questions for now.

  Just as well.

  “Do you understand these instructions, Specialist Saunders?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “To ensure our acceptance of your comprehension, we must ask that you rephrase and repeat them back to us.”

  “If the team encounter difficulties on the surface, my job is to make certain they get out. If I become a physical burden to them, I’m to be left behind.”

  “Thank you, Specialist. We hope these circumstances do not arise.”

  “Can you?”

  “Can we what?”

  “Hope.”

  “No we cannot.”

  With a shuddering heave, Jane stops, There’s another muffled explosion, another shower of mud and something large clatters off her left side, but she takes it bravely, the gun supports deploy and everyone sets to the plan.

  Hands grab me, lifting me forwards from my seat and up towards the turret. My old chair is reset. More foam and patching from the repair kits making the berth usable once more. The canopy remains cracked and, through my helmet visor, I gaze out of the shattered glass at the jet trails above. Flickers and flashes of electricity follow the alien planes. I have no idea how their technology copes with the atmospherics, they seem to have adapted.

  But then so have we.

  I settle into the seat. Penn thumps me on the back and gives me a thumb’s up. I nod and smile in return. She pulls out two wires from the driving console and attaches them both to my cybernetic arm. There’s a crackle, but then my shoulder isn’t so heavy anymore. Metal fingers move up to the replacement touchscreen, taken from the system station and rigged up here, while my trembling left hand grips the foam crusted joystick.

  I get another back slap and then there’s lots of moving around. The hiss of the pressure door and firm ‘clump’ as it closes. After that I’m stuck with the sound of my own breathing inside my suit for company. Three hours of air.

  Plenty of time.

  I thumb the joystick and elevate the turret to a sixty degree angle. The left side is completely caved in with a whole stretch of tears in the ceramics and layered metal, but with the sealing foam scraped away, the servos still work and let me stare up as high as they can. I gaze at the aircraft circling round for another pass. One drops low for the attack run, the other stays up.

  Shooting planes with tank guns isn’t easy or recommended. The odds favour the lightweight manoeuvrable, fast moving vehicle over a ground bound heavy, stationary box, but we’re out of options and I can’t let them strafe the kids as they make for the lander.

  3... 2... 1...

  I remember what they said back in Ukraine: anticipate! Juonal’s already loaded the main gun, re-routing fire control to my station and I’ve a charged laser as well as the fifty-cal. Back to where we started, only... Well, only this time I’m on my own.

  He’s coming straight at me. Atmospherics are playing around the wings and there’s a hammering against Jane’s hull, a lot louder than any time before. Everything’s shaking; it’s hard to keep my fingers on the trigger. Spider cracks are running up the canopy all over the place; smashed duraglass all that’s between me and obliteration.

  Fire!

  Jane grunts and there’s a loud bang, like someone’s punched me in the chest. Lightning and fire fills the sky and the plane breaks apart; huge pieces of debris crashing all around us. More impacts on the hull, glass shatters and there’s that stabbing pain in my side again. The canopy’s gone; my helmet visor’s taken a hit too. I can hear the high pitched whistle of air escaping. There’s nothing I can do.

  Except thumb the joystick and track the second jet.

  In a way it doesn’t seem fair. We’re the invaders here; we made the first move, sending down our probes and drills. No wonder they’re fighting back, trying to drive us off. But we’ve travelled for more than a thousand years to get here and we’ve nowhere else to go.

  Small arms fire is rattling off Jane’s skin, making pock marks in the ceramic plates. I activate the laser and the fifty-cal targeting, but there’s no screen for the digital cross hair projection. I’ll need to guess, based on where it usually hits.

  There are shapes moving towards me across the arid landscape; more of the six-limbed aliens, picking their way through debris. They won’t reach me before the aircraft, though. He’s banked around and losing altitude for a straight run, just like his wingman. Don’t they learn from mistakes? His loss...

  My gain...

  The laser’s my best bet, but it’s a whole different game; do the same kind of trajectory anticipation as I tried with the main gun and I’ll waste a lot of power. Without a targeter I’m left to watch for the ionisation effects so I can see where the beam is.

  One hundred metres; I squeeze the trigger on the fifty-cal, using it as a tracer; a moment after, his guns light up and projectiles start slapping into Jane’s hull. A flash of pain as something catches me in the hip, but I can’t let it distract me.

  Fifty metres.

  The rest of the canopy disintegrates around me. More splashes of pain, cracks in the glass of my helmet. None of it matter
s now; I just need to press a button.

  I press the button. There’s a hum and the right wing of the aircraft dissolves. I see fire then some smashes into the side of my head and –

  “Please step into the decontamination chamber.”

  Penn is naked; stripped and washed of everything from Kepler 452b. She knows he’ll never see any of it again. She gets up from the bench, glances at Krees and Juonal, sharing a last moment. The blood and dirt is gone, but the hollow expressions on their faces remain. You can’t wash away the scars inside.

  Penn walks through the open hatch. The panel closes behind her. There is a fine mist in the air, making her hair damp.

  “Subject PN14AXD, designation, Penn. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Penn, we are sorry for what you experienced.”

  Penn swallows. The words come through a speaker set in the wall. They sound concerned, empathetic and soothing, but they are spoken by a computer. “You weren’t there,” she mutters.

  “We assimilated all on board records of the mission and extrapolated your decision making based on forensic analysis of all material returned to the fleet. All that remains is to hear your version of events.”

  Penn chews his lip. “What happens after I tell you?”

  There is a pause. “You will be evaluated as a trainer for further missions. It is important our teams are prepared for what they face.”

  “What happens if I fail?”

  “You will be recycled.”

  Penn nods. She stares around the room; plain white walls and floor with no discernible features other than the door and speaker. “There are things that need to be remembered, the corporal...”

  “Elder Jeff Saunders performed his designated mission task successfully. We are pleased.”

  “He saved us, he was a hero.”

  The computer voice makes no reply.

  Between Nine and Eleven

  Adam Roberts

  :1:

  Diplomatic efforts had failed, and we were officially at war with the Trefoil alien culture. War is never pleasant, however unavoidable it sometimes becomes. But one of the things that blurs the edge of war’s unpleasantness is victory. We enjoyed victory after victory, sweet as honey. Soon enough were closing in on the Trefoil homeworld.