Reapers: The Shadow Soldiers

by Josh Collins

  “Yes, quite,” she answered but not wholeheartedly.

  “What is it?” Burns asked. Index seemed to think before speaking.

  “James Partinger is—” she paused.

  “What?” Burns asked.

  “An idiot,” she answered definitively.

  “Come again?” Brosi asked.

  “He’s an idiot. That’s why we trusted him with this operation. He’s not going to ask any questions because he doesn’t care. Why do you think he survived Silverset instead of pushing on like any other self-respecting navy officer?” she proposed. Rhett seemed to take an interest now.

  “Well, how did he attain the rank of Fleet Admiral?” he asked. Index rolled her eyes.

  “In this post-accord age, how do you think?” No one seemed to have an answer so she answered herself. “He’s charming.” As if on cue, the man spoke up.

  “Here she is,” he blurted, pointing to the gleaming, long-winged jet, which Burns assumed had begun life at the Syncopate facilities. Intelligence was really playing all of their cards in this game.

  “We call her the Dusk-Falcon,” Index began as they walked under the glittering black wing. “She’s only a prototype, but her capabilities in supersonic speed should allow you to avoid any entanglements with the cannon and deploy safely,” she explained, turning and facing the team. “Now, let’s load up and prepare for launch,” she ordered as the team made their way to the back of the sleek jet. The bay door had descended and they stepped on, making their way up to the compact red-lit crew quarters.

  Inside was a myriad of seats lining the walls and straps hanging from above. Burns noticed various boxes placed around the floor with weapons adorning racks at the back of the ship. It was—comfortable. He recognized this world.

  Out from the open cockpit came a pilot wearing all-black fatigues and a full-faced re-breather helmet.

  “We have the coordinates charted ma’am. The drop zone has been confirmed,” he said to Index, seemingly without noticing Burns. It appeared to be that everyone answered to Index here, despite the fact that they called Burns “Colonel.” He didn’t mind it though—at this current moment, all he wanted to do was focus on the mission. Index could handle the logistics; that was her job after all. Much like Carmen, Burns tried to stand back into the shadows and let everything figure itself out.

  Now wasn’t a good time for emotional displays though. Burns was very much in his own head.

  He looked over at Index as he made his way to his seat. She seemed confident.

  Burns wished he could say the same about himself. He was feeling restless. He could only imagine the lives lost in the time it’d taken to get situated here. Strangely enough, it was Index’s reassuring nod to him that gave him clarity. It was only a split second, but he felt momentarily connected to the woman. She may be efficient and cold, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care.

  “Strap in, team,” she called, returning to business. “We’re deploying in five.”

  The pilot got into position at the helm of the ship. He maneuvered into his tight seat and buckled all of the necessary latches. He then began confirming take off with east launch bay command. Gaining confirmation, he turned around and gave a thumbs-up to Index.

  “Good luck,” she wished at last as she turned around and exited the craft. The bay door then latched shut, and they got their last look at freedom.

  They were no longer civilians or trainees—they were soldiers. Everything from here on out was hostile. The silent, red-lit, metal world of the crew bay only furthered this point. Burns didn’t mind though. This was his world. He should have known he would never truly escape it.

  INTO THE COLD

  Ripping through the planet’s electromagnetic atmosphere, the Dusk-Falcon entered Silverset troposphere faster than the bullet of an orbital sniper. It sped only miles above mountains at ungodly speeds, heading unquestionably for the cannon.

  “Colonel, we’re closing in on the drop zone—ETA two minutes,” the pilot called back to Burns from the open back of the cockpit. Burns bowed his head in response but did not speak. He had one goal, and he wasn’t going to lose focus, even at the expense of his team who seemed unsure of the logistics of the operation.

  “H-How do we operate these thruster packs?” Brosi asked nervously as he played around with his helmet, clicking anything that looked like a button. Rhett answered him.

  “A button on the wrist. One to deploy, another to eject spent canisters,” he explained as he remained standing. Most of the time on these missions, the flack was so heavy you could walk on it. Yet, so far, the ride had been fairly smooth.

  Before it did get hectic, Burns decided to recount the mission. The Western Duchess sat in space just out of range of the cannon. Once his team landed and disabled the cannon, they were to send a flare and let the Duchess know it was safe to descend. At this very moment, the Dominion was reassigning as many troops as it could to the Duchess. An invasion force.

  Suddenly, the dropship shook, sending Brosi to the ground, and Rhett to hold on a little tighter.

  “What was that?” Rhett asked. The pilot turned around again.

  “We’ve been hit!” he shouted back.

  Brosi turned to him as well. “By what?”

  “The cannon,” Rhett answered. “But at this altitude and speed...it shouldn’t possible!” The pilot shook his head.

  “Well, whatever it was, we’re losing both of those and fast,” he barked back. Burns stood up decisively.

  “We can’t back out now! We’ll have to make the jump at this position,” he proposed. His team seemed to think this was a crazy idea.

  “What!” Brosi sputtered. “We’re flying at Mach 5 plus speeds!” he continued, his image of physical toughness slowly melting away.

  “Doesn’t matter—we don’t bail, we’re as good as dead,” Burns insisted, standing and proceeding to the back of the Dusk-Falcon. Grabbing two belts, he clipped one on his waist and another mid-torso. He then attached the thigh holsters to the waistline belt and slid two compact submachine guns into them. Grabbing a crate of small thruster fuel canisters, he ripped off the top and began loading the canisters into his torso belt. He turned to the pilot as he did.

  “Once we’re all out, you head for orbit. It’s better you run out of juice in space than on the surface,” he told him, clipping the last canister in place.

  “Agreed, Colonel. Good luck,” the man returned. Burns nodded back and then slid the box across the floor to his teammates. Rhett stopped it with his foot and began loading up as well. Burns headed for the rear of the Dusk-Falcon and punched the bay door latch switch. The door began to descend, letting in the sounds of a howling wind and the bright sights of Silverset below. Burns took a deep breath and then looked back at his team, who were in different states of preparation.

  “The disparity in our jumps means we’ll end up miles from one another. So, once you get boots on the ground, make sure you open comms or you’ll be left to fend for yourself,” he explained. Brosi looked up.

  “Sir, what about the electromagnetic disturbances from the atmosphere?” he asked, remembering that the atmosphere blocked all communications off-world.

  “They should work fine between two parties on the ground,” Burns confirmed as he unclipped one of the canisters from his torso belt and fed it into the thrusters on his back plate. This was it. Time for justice. He took a moment to nod back to his teammates before he turned and sprinted forward, leaping off the platform. Compressing his limbs together, he shot himself toward the white, icy planet below.

  The drop was quick and cold. Zipping through the dense clouds, Burns peered into the gleaming, icy vastness of Silverset. Mountain ranges stood stalwart in the distance while the ground below radiated with cold fervor. The loose bits of the gray tactical suit flapped around, but Burns himself stayed relatively warm.

  A red icon beeped in the top corner of his helmet’s heads-up display. He was
reaching proper levels to deploy the thrusters.

  Whipping around and facing his boots toward the ground, Burns clicked the small button on his wrist and soon a fiery force came jetting out his back plate. His descent was immediately slowed.

  Approaching ground level, he landed in a kneeling position, absorbing the rest of the energy from the fall. His thrusters then cut out and the scene became still. The snow muffled any sounds, and so it was eerily serene. All he could see for miles were the vast, windswept wastes. No enemy combatants seemed to be near.

  Pulling his wrist over, he pushed a button and ejected the spent thruster canister. He then reached down and flicked both his submachine guns off safety and stood. He was on-planet now, and the threat was very real.

  THROUGH THE MIST

  Wading through thick snow was more work than Burns had assumed it would be. He was really wishing Intelligence had given him those extra days to work out. He’d not realized how out of shape he really was.

  Making matters worse, the snow had a thin layer of frozen ice on top of it, which made it harder to break through. Every step was a process. Burns had to kick through the crust, get his footing, and then pull the other foot out of the rough and repeat.

  He was pleased that the suit was warmer than it appeared. Apparently, the gray fatigues were normally worn by Dominion Special Forces on deep deployment missions. It was made of a material that created heat by absorbing body moisture and capturing air, which prevented warmth from escaping the body. The gloves were the same. It was incredible, and it worked. Almost too well. It made Burns want to remove a few layers and enjoy the cool fresh air outside.

  However, he knew his body temperature was the least of his worries. He was on a planet controlled by terrorists now. He had to stay alert, because at any moment they could spot him and open fire. The suit may help with the cold, but its colors did not blend in with the white, gleaming vastness of snow. He was highly visible, and as such, should be cautious.

  The endless, snow-peaked hills made it difficult to stay focused though. Despite the fact that Silverset had no trees and was mostly just snow and rocks, it had a certain allure to it. He couldn’t describe it, but it was certainly a wonderful world. An acquired taste for sure—he couldn’t quite imagine an Altias socialite taking a liking to the barren openness—but he didn’t mind it. If it hadn’t been overrun, he might have lived here. It was quiet and free. There were no cameras hiding in the dark for Intelligence to peer through.

  Tapping on his helmet, Burns hoped to get a communication from any of his teammates. Surely they had dropped by now. Yet nothing came through. Perhaps Brosi was right. The electromagnetic atmosphere could possibly be preventing communications between them. He hoped that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t worried for himself but for the others. If Brosi ended up on his own, he was certainly doomed.

  Suddenly, his helmet comms beeped like he was getting a communication.

  Finally, he thought to himself. He clicked them on and gave a listen, but the other end was garbled.

  “Come again, I’m barely getting you,” he said into the microphone. The response was garbled as well. He needed to get lower, farther away from the atmospheric disturbances, which might increase the frequency in the waves and allow a communication through.

  Luckily, just ahead, about a mile or so, seemed to be a valley of some sort. That would work brilliantly.

  Running ahead, Burns quickly approached the valley. A dense fog spewed up. Burns did a fast scan of the area, making sure no contacts were posted below. He didn’t see any hostiles, but he did notice a large metal structure. He assumed it was some sort of building, maybe a mining rig.

  Sliding down the icy hill and into the valley, the fog started to shift and dissipate. It was only when he reached the bottom of the hill that he realized what the metal structure was. It was a ship—or part of one. This wasn’t a natural valley but rather the crash site of the Eliminator cruisers. This was a graveyard.

  Proceeding forward nonetheless, Burns got a sense of what he was going up against. The sheer size of the derelict ships protruding from the ice was alarming. They had always looked unstoppable, yet here they were, conquered by the ice and snow. This United Liberty Collective really was a threat. More so than any planetary resistance he’d ever encountered. He now had a much better grasp as to why Intelligence had fought so hard to get his team deployed. It wasn’t just Silverset at stake here—this group could easily continue onward to other worlds.

  The wind suddenly howled through a hole between two jagged pieces of seared metal. Burns instinctively focused toward it, grabbing one of his holstered submachine guns in the process. Yet it was nothing. No one was there. Taking a deep breath, he continued walking. Chills began to run up his spine, and it wasn’t from the cold. Things had begun to feel eerie—as if the ghosts of the fallen crews haunted this area.

  Another gust of wind howled up, scattering snow from its perch and landing in front of Burns. He stopped in place, just before the fallen drift. Instinctively, he checked his surroundings for potential contacts. Nothing again. Yet his hair still stood like something was out there. He grabbed his weapon tighter, looking into each and every crag intensely.

  Suddenly, the garbled comm came clearly through, causing Burns to jump a little. Coming back into his skin, he saw that the communication was from Brosi. The man sounded to be out of air.

  “Colonel, Rhett and I have landed. We’re in close proximity of the cannon. We’ll rendezvous with you there—Brosi out!” Burns stopped the message and tried to open communications with Brosi, but he noticed that the man’s comms were down. Rhett’s and Carmen’s communications were down as well. He didn’t know if this meant they were dead or if it was just the atmospheric interference. Considering Brosi had mentioned Rhett but not Carmen, Burns figured it didn’t bode well for her.

  Continuing farther into the mass wreckage, Burns passed under a large metal arch created by two conjoined pieces. Other than some slight frosting, it was mostly intact. Through the fog, he could see letters inscribed and soon realized this piece once belonged to Admiral Ritter’s ship the Surefire.

  Burns opened his eyes wide. He had a personal connection to the Surefire. She was his post back in the day. He had many good memories on that ship, many good friends too. He even remembered the time when he had been handed a commendation by Admiral Ritter himself. Ritter was a good man, and he was like a father to Burns. It was a shame that all those memories, all of those good times, were now doomed to this icy hellhole.

  Burns began to feel a little lightheaded again. He didn’t want to admit it, but the memories and the destruction were getting to him. He tried as hard as he could to stave off the panic attack, but he could feel his heart beating up again. He let go of his weapon and clenched his fist. He could feel it rising. It about overtook him when, suddenly, a piercing scream from ahead shook him out of it.

  He shifted focus once more and grabbed hold of the weapon tightly. This time it wasn’t ghosts or the wind—it was a person. Out of the valley, a quarter mile ahead, someone was in trouble. The screams sounded desolate, as if they were being tortured. That meant the ULC was present.

  Burns really needed to press forward and get to the cannon before his team did something stupid, but this debacle ahead sounded urgent. His team could wait.

  The sun had begun to lower and night was soon to fall, which meant Burns and his night vision would have the upper hand against whatever enemy waited ahead.

  TERROR OF CONQUERORS

  Reaching the top of the valley, Burns loaded another canister into his thrusters and jetted off the ground onto a rocky ledge. Continuing forward atop this ledge toward the sounds of gunfire, he began to rise. Eventually a village came into view below.

  At first, he could only see smoke rising into the night sky, but various wooden buildings soon began to appear. This village looked like it never did prosper. Homes were strapped together by shabby planks of w
ood.

  Reaching an edge of the rocky cliff, Burns came to a stop and overlooked the village.

  Scanning below, he noticed the village was indeed populated with United Liberty Collective troops. He instantly knew them by their ragged and patchy, argent-colored uniforms. There must have been at least two dozen of the militants in this village. The majority of them wore protective helmets, which had a frightening depiction of death’s head as a faceplate.

  Burns lowered to one knee as he continued to overlook the village. The militants were going house by house, removing the civilians and forcing them to line up on a derelict wooden dock at the edge of the town. A cargo truck sat backed up to this dock, and the militants were loading the people in back. No doubt these villagers were being collected for execution. This must have been a part of the planet-wide purge of anything Dominion.

  More screams filled his ears and called attention to his right. A lone woman had busted through a militant’s grasp and barreled out of her home. She looked to be free, until another militant stepped in and tripped her up. She fell to the icy ground—hard. It took a second for her to recover. By the time she did, another militant had arrived. The two pulled her up by the thick of her blonde hair and tried to gain control of her. She was spirited and fought back, but it was to no avail. At threat of his own death, one of the militants got a grip and struck her hard across the face with the butt of his rifle. She limped over as the two militants finally managed to wrangle her in.

  Just then, the militant whom she’d escaped from came out of the doorway. Unlike the others, he was not wearing a helmet. Burns figured he must have been someone important in the ranks. As he approached her, he pulled a kitchen fork out of his arm and threw it to the side. He did not seem very amused. Her attempts at escaping execution may have only expedited the process.