REV- Renegades

by T. R. Harris

  4

  Captain Winston Howell heard the fighting taking place down the winding truck ramp long before he encountered it. There weren’t a lot of places to hide along the road, except for the occasional hallway intersection cut into the side of the tunnel. The enemy had his men pinned down in one of these corridors, while dual forces covered both higher and lower positions along the ramp. There was a third element within the corridor keeping Staff Sergeant Charlie Fox from leading his men farther into the complex.

  The alien fortress had been on alert for the impending escape of the Human shuttles, but that only affected a small number of the aliens in the mountain. The Antaere also knew the rate of approach of the Human battle cruisers. Their arrival was still an hour away when Arturo began his Run. Now the shuttles were launching, two at a time, and at intervals of three minutes apart. It was an excruciatingly long delay between sorties, as exhaust gases had to be accounted for and the next two shuttles moved up to the single launch bay opening. There were twenty-five shuttles to be launched, with the last one—the odd numbered one—being held in reserve for Howell and his men.

  “I see the fighters higher up the ramp,” Capt. Howell reported. “There are nine of them. They haven’t seen me. I’ll take them out as you concentrate on the ones below.”

  “Roger that, sir,” said SSgt. Fox. “We’ll toss a few grenades and smoke behind us to cover our movement.”

  “Go when you hear my gunfire.”

  Howell had his M-101 assault rifle pointed down the ramp. The backs of the nine crouching aliens were easy targets. He sent a spread of hot lead across the span of the truck ramp. Seven aliens died instantly, while two reacted before he could cut them down. They rolled to the side and opened up. They were firing the ubiquitous flash weapons, which used concentrated balls of plasma energy as bullets. The bolts streaked out of the barrels at around nine hundred miles per hour, leaving bright trails of light behind them. If Howell didn’t know better he would think the weapons fired laser beams, since the flash seemed to be continuous from barrel to impact. But the streaks made tracking the weapons easy. Winston dove for cover while laying two quick bursts at the origins of the light beams. A moment later, all was quiet, at least on his front.

  The rest of his squad had burst out from their hiding place, running into the tunnel while raining ballistic rounds into the twenty or so attackers down the ramp. The alien troops had moved up the road, using their superior numbers and the curve of the ramp for cover. Now they were fully exposed and surprised by the Human’s seemingly reckless assault.

  Capt. Howell joined the others as they sliced into the line of alien fighters. When the last of the Qwin within their ranks fell, the native fighters turned and ran. The Humans pursued them, running at breakneck speed down the steep decline. Some of the men lost their balance and fell, before being helped to their feet to continue the headlong rush down the road.

  Howell made a quick head count. There were only six of the nine left, with one of the survivors—Lance Corporal Nance—being helped by the others with a wound to his right leg. The other three were nowhere to be seen. Although Marines vowed to never leave a fallen comrade behind, in some cases carrying out the dead was an impossible and dangerous task.

  The team burst into the cool night air at the main entrance, having fought off the few native entry guards who’d stuck around. With the REV attack taking place far above, and the crazy firefight at the lower elevations, the complex was in full panic mode. No one had been expecting the Humans to attack, and it was taking the more experienced—yet low in numbers—Antaere officers time to organize the native troops into any kind of defensive force. By that time, the battle was over.

  A quarter mile down the road, the Humans came to the place where they hid their jet packs. Across the valley, Capt. Howell could see the flares from the escaping shuttles as they streaked into the dark sky. He had no idea how many had launched already; he just hoped they still had one left for him and his men.

  The jet packs used compressed air to lift the Marines into the sky. Most of the trip would be downhill, toward the wide valley below, which helped extend their range. The shimmering waters of the river reflected the dim starlight, while somewhere on the other side an armored personnel carrier waited. Howell had already issued orders for the men to launch as soon as they were strapped up, and already four had shot off into the air before it was Howell’s turn.

  He’d only had one training session with the jet pack, and that was the day before in the launch bay of Site A. It wasn’t a very long test flight, just enough to lift off the deck and hover while getting a feel for the controls. Now he shot away from the side of the towering mountain, gaining more altitude than he expected a second after launch.

  The ground fell away, made even more terrifying by the dark shadows of night far below. The cool night air turned frigid from the wind chill, whipping across his body and penetrating through his fatigues. No one had brought coats—that would have only added weight and bulk to the load they had to carry. The flight would take less than three minutes before the compressed air ran out. By then Capt. Howell had to be on the other side of the river and safely on the ground. If not, then he’d fall like a rock. The packs didn’t carry emergency parachutes.

  A flare erupted from the dark forest ahead and below him. That would be the landing zone. Howell twisted the control in his right hand and leaned to his left. He changed direction—too much in fact. He corrected his flight angle by leaning in the other direction, again a little too much. Soon the Marine officer was rocking back and forth, turning parallel to the ground before overcompensating the other way, with each swing throwing him more off balance. He was about to flip over and rocket directly into the ground when his jet pack sputtered, signaling the end of the ride.

  Howell could barely see the ground below, hidden as it was in the dark of the forest. He hit the top of a tall tree and tumbled to the right, before plowing butt first into a muddy field covered in four-foot tall reeds. Cold water splashed on his face as he spun out of control into the shallow marsh. The ground was forgiving here, and he came to rest in a puddle of cold, smelly muck.

  He coughed while slapping at the release buckle for the jet pack. It fell away and he struggled to gain his footing in the knee-high water and mud. A red light reached his eyes and he squinted through the mud and water covering his face toward the source. Two men were splashing through the water, coming towards him. They took his arms and helped him gain his balance.

  “Are you okay, sir?” asked SSgt. Fox.

  “Yeah, I think so. Lucky this marsh was here.”

  “The driver picked this spot for that very reason. He thought it might help cushion our landings.”

  “I’m putting him in for a medal.”

  “Right after the rest of us, sir.” Fox’s face was covered in mud, which made the white of his smile stand out even more in the thin light of night. “The laser array is down, and the shuttles are getting away. Looks like the mission was a success.”

  The trio took off across the marsh towards the dark shadow of the APC.

  “Casualties?” Howell asked.

  “Three in the complex, one on the way here…and of course Arturo.”

  Howell acknowledged the report with a curt nod. They were in the back of the personnel carrier five seconds later and bounding across the dark landscape. It was a six-minute ride to an entry door into Site A, and then another four harrowing minutes to reach the launch bay. There was only one shuttle left, its civilian pilot standing at the rear cargo door waving them in. They were a full half hour behind schedule, yet the pilot had waited. Captain Howell would have to thank the man when the opportunity presented itself.

  General Larson was in the second shuttle to leave the complex; he had to get into orbit as soon as possible to coordinate the recovery efforts. The battle cruisers were still an hour away, so his ships would have to bolt out from the planet and meet them along the way.

  The spac
e around the planet was relatively clear of Antaere ships, at least for now. Once the main base had been overrun and the bulk of General Larson’s troops evacuated, the alien fleet moved on, knowing that Borin-Noc was safe; however, they did leave a few land-based flash cannon batteries to fend off any Human warships that might attempt a rescue of those remaining on the planet. Once in space, Larson’s shuttles were clear of the land-based weapons. Eventually the natives would send their small fleet up after them. Even the lightly armored destroyers of the Noc could take out the shuttles, so Larson had to move his ships away from the planet and into the protective range of the battle-cruisers as soon as possible.

  He sent all but two of the shuttles ahead, while he and another ship waited to see if Captain Howell and his men would make it off the surface. Through the REV’s collar cameras, Larson and his command team had watched as Gunnery Sergeant Arturo Garcia fell to the floor and died. His mission was a success, and the general would make sure his selfless act was remembered and honored. At this point in the war, the Humans were in desperate need of heroes.

  “Sir, Garcia is moving,” said a Navy chief off to the general’s right.

  Larson shook his head. “No, that’s just the Qwin moving the body.”

  “I don’t think so, sir. He’s standing up and looking around.”

  The shuttle was already two hundred miles above the surface of Borin-Noc, leaving only micro-gravity in the vessel. Larson floated over to the station, followed by two of his senior officers. They grabbed onto whatever handholds they could and scanned the screen. The chief was right. The camera view was shaky but taken from a standing position, and the perspective was changing, sweeping the room, with no living aliens in sight.

  “This can’t be,” said Major Brighton. He looked at his watch. “It’s been twenty minutes. He should have cascaded over the edge long before this.”

  Within the small pilothouse, the men were in shock at what they saw. Garcia was indeed alive and limping toward the row of blown apart command stations and the narrow openings around the turrets leading outside the mountain. The camera angle would turn down at times, revealing a mangled leg and prodigious amounts of bright red blood on the floor. Garcia had to work his way around dozens of shattered bodies, using the C-18 grenade launcher attached to his left arm as a crutch. The going was slow, but it appeared Garcia was determined to make it outside and onto one of the laser barrels.

  Larson triggered the ship-to-ship comm.

  “Captain Howell,” he shouted. “Garcia is alive.”

  The civilian pilot had just launched the last shuttle, shooting out from the side of the mountain and fighting for altitude. When Captain Howell received the link from General Larson, he opened the channel with his superior.

  “Sir, could you repeat that?”

  “Garcia’s alive. I’m feeding you the video.”

  Captain Howell, Staff Sergeant Fox and the pilot were the only ones in the pilothouse; the other four men from the team, along with the APC driver, were strapped down in the rear compartment while doing their best to tend to Nance’s leg injury. They were trained medical personnel, so the lance corporal’s prospects were pretty good.

  In the pilothouse, the relayed image was impossible to believe. It was approaching twenty-two minutes since Arturo had been activated. There should be no way he could be alive. Yet here he was, struggling to make it outside the mountain.

  “Change course!” Howell ordered the pilot.

  “You’re not thinking about bringing him aboard, are you?” asked the dark-skinned man with a full beard.

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “Might I remind you that it’s a terrible idea to bring an activated REV onto a ship—any ship.”

  “He’s one of our own, and we’re going to get him.”

  The pilot stared into Howell’s eyes and saw the fiery determination within. The man shrugged and pulled the control stick hard to the right. “Whatever you say. Just keep him locked in the back, and at the first sign of trouble I’m dumping the atmosphere.”

  “Fair enough, now hurry.”

  The shuttle had to drop back toward the surface to reach the alien mountain. Light from inside the laser command center sliced into the darkness like beacons, making the target easy to find. The pilot was skillful and pulled back on the controls like a rider atop a racing stallion, with the nose rearing up before the ship leveled out only a hundred feet from the turret array.

  Arturo had made it outside and was halfway along the center barrel. Through the viewport, Howell and Fox could see their REV struggling to make it to the end. He was shot to pieces, with barely any of the titanium armor surviving the battle. Blood coated the smooth metal of the turret, creating treacherous conditions for Arturo’s footing. The grenade launcher he used as a crutch kept slipping out from under him, and twice he fell to the slick surface, barely able to keep from tumbling over the side each time. He made it to the end and stood up, wobbling on his injured legs. Along the way, he’d discarded the M-93, and now he reached up with his right arm, signaling for help.

  The shuttle moved in a little closer, close enough from those aboard to see the anguished look on Arturo’s face—and then his eyes exploded, followed by a heaving of his chest and an even greater spray of blood from his various chest wounds. Garcia collapsed to the metal surface of the turret, before slipping over the side in a pool of boiling blood.

  The lights from the shuttle illuminated the falling body for only a few feet, before Arturo disappeared into the murky blackness below.

  The shuttle pilot already had the tiny ship turned and screaming for space before the others could react. Both Howell and Fox continued to stare out the viewport for several seconds, their reverie broken only by the words of General Larson coming through the speakers.

  “Captain, we knew this was inevitable. He should have cascaded long before this. Let’s move on. Get up here as soon as you can.”

  Howell heard the words, yet the impossibility of what he just saw cast them in a surreal context. He pulled from the window and spun around until he saw the pilot. The man’s dark face was grim with determination and concern.

  “The general’s right, my friend. Time to move on,” said the pilot.

  Howell nodded. “You’re right, and thanks for sticking around. But what’s a civilian doing piloting a military shuttle in the first place?”

  “I was just passing through when all hell broke loose,” said the pilot. “I hitched a ride with the evacuation. I figured helping you guys out was a good way to earn my keep.”

  The men shook hands. “I’m Winston Howell.”

  The Marine officer was nearly blinded by the brilliance of the pilot’s smile, displaying a set of unbelievably white teeth. “The name’s Tarazi. Riyad Tarazi. Like I said, I was just passing through. Glad I could help.”

  5

  Dr. David Cross scanned the report again. Although General Larson was confused by the events surrounding the death of Arturo Garcia, Cross wasn’t. Garcia was the last 0351-C to test positive for natural NT-4. He had been pulled from the fleet and was on his way back to Earth—and Cross’s secret research facility—when he got stranded on ES-6. David attributed the young REV’s miraculous resurrection to his unique physiology, even though he didn’t understand it fully. Garcia had been activated at the time—but never Twilighted—and somehow the natural NT-4 in his system extended his life beyond the point of terminal cascading, even managing to revive him, if only briefly. This was a twist Cross hadn’t expected. What other secrets did the ‘naturals’ hold in store for him? The sooner the full-panel studies got underway, the sooner he would have his answers.

  That was if he could fight off the wolves long enough to complete his research.

  Cross closed the file in his datapad as the two men entered the conference room for the scheduled meeting. One was a plump, older man with a full crop of silver-gray hair and dressed in an exquisitely-tailored grey silk suit. The other
man was a tall, lean Army general in full dress attire, service ribbons and all. Cross thought it a little over the top that General George Randolph would come to the clandestine meeting dressed-to-impress. He and Cross were joined at the hip in the project and knew each other intimately. And although Cross was only a full-bird colonel, in the context of the REV program he was only one step below god. The late Clifford Slater was the God of the REVs. Now Cross was in control, and everyone associated with the REVs knew it.

  The presence of the civilian was the reason the general showed up in full regalia. He was Reece Hamilton—Senator Reece Hamilton from the Western District of the United States, and co-chairman of the Military Appropriations Committee in the New Congress. While Cross and Randolph were true believers and compatriots with regards to the REV program, the senator was one of those politicians whose loyalties bent with the wind. He’d arrived at David’s new research facility to deliver a report on the future of the program’s funding, and not because he cared, but because Cross’s civilian benefactor had recently placed a substantial contribution into the politician’s reelection fund. Otherwise Senator Hamilton would have been like all the others, ready to pull the plug on the most important scientific program in the history of mankind. At least that was how Dr. David Cross viewed the project.

  Before the senator took a seat at the large conference table, he looked around the room and waved his hand. “Very impressive, Dr. Cross. I wonder how much all this cost the taxpayers?”

  “It didn’t cost them anything,” David snapped.

  “Ah, yes, your anonymous money-man. I congratulate you on your ability to land such a big fish. In my line of work, that’s a fine art taking years to perfect. I imagine it would be more difficult for a humble scientist such as yourself.”