Suicide Mission: Unity War Book 2

by C. G. Michaels

  Hesitantly, Garner touched his fighter. Even through his flight gloves he could feel an almost liquid silkiness to the texture of the metal.

  “They’re so . . . alien,” said Lanei.

  “I think that’s the point,” An said. But he, too, wore an expression of doubt and anxiety.

  “What are you waiting for?” Jaden asked. “We’ve got a mission to run. Let’s get moving!” She jumped into her Copperhead, shoved on her helmet, and punched the button to close her canopy. She glared at everyone else, daring them to follow her lead.

  Garner put his helmet on. He loathed the idea of putting his body inside something so inhuman, but he knew he had to do it.

  He had to do it for Ilana.

  They moved in formation out far enough from the Takarabune that the warship would suffer no damage from the wormhole’s radiation. Team B—Temple and the other three Banshee pilots—followed at a careful distance, also safe from the radiation. Garner got to the spot where he was supposed to activate the orb, so he cut his thrusters and touched its glossy surface, feeling it roll in its holder, like a ball in a cup.

  He waited for what seemed forever. He knew he should use this time to reconsider what he planned to do, but he had made up his mind and didn’t intend to try talking himself out of it.

  The green light blinked on. Garner punched in the code to open the wormhole and waited again.

  Not too far away, a pinpoint of light emerged from the darkness, a light that was not a star. It grew into a brilliant white circle, and there came another circle next to it, purple and other colors; and in the center of all that, measuring about a mile in diameter, blackness.

  And on the other side of that blackness?

  Ilana, he hoped. He hoped. Garner had flown close enough to easily read the radiation levels, which were off the charts. He hoped the casing on the mock Copperheads would do what it was supposed to.

  Garner cut on his thrusters and headed straight for the wormhole.

  “Garner,” Jaden said over the comlink, “what the hell are you doing?”

  “Vasilescu.” Lange’s stern voice; the colonel must be observing from the bridge. “Get your ass back where it belongs. Now!”

  “Don’t do it, Garner,” An said. But Garner ignored even An, because on the other side of that wormhole, Ilana waited.

  “Vasilescu, dammit, you’re risking insubordination.”

  “Lieutenant,” said Captain Stephenson, “what are you doing?” Her voice was calm, but Garner detected an undertone of—what? Irritation? Worry?

  He dove into the wormhole.

  “Garner!” Jaden. “Dammit!”

  Garner saw on his radar that she was following him into the wormhole. “Jaden, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Like hell I don’t. You can’t find her by yourself.”

  After a moment he saw Fault and An following, too.

  And then he fell deep into the wormhole, and he lost all contact with the Takarabune.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Inside the wormhole

  Psychedelic lights strobed and flowed all around Fault, breaking up the black and messing with his vision—scarlet, violet, yellow, green, silver, flashing separately and blending together, jumping at his fighter and running away again, vanishing in the black. He couldn’t get his bearings; his Banshee flew erratically, as if choosing its own path without any help from him, and the controls spun and blinked, giving false information or none at all.

  He struggled to get something—anything—working. He tapped the comlink, swivelled the dial up and down for better reception. “Jaden! Jaden, come in! An! Somebody!”

  He concentrated on the yoke for a bit, using it to try to straighten the Banshee out and gain some sort of control over where he was going, but then he decided maybe that wasn’t the best idea, after all; he couldn’t see either the beginning or the end of the wormhole, so if he straightened out, he might not go where he was supposed to. Maybe the wormhole was pulling him through to the end by itself.

  Then again, maybe that was bullshit. Maybe, instead of pulling him towards the exit, it was pulling him down another “corridor.” In any case, he didn’t like not being in control of his fighter, so he kept jabbing at the console, hoping against hope that eventually something would surprise him and at least give him some information about what direction he was headed in.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. Vidie had coated the Banshees just to prevent this kind of thing—well, that, and preventing the pilots from turning into so much smoked meat. Must be that whatever he coated them with wasn’t blocking the wormhole’s radiation as well as he’d expected it to. Either that, or there was something else about the inside of a wormhole that fucked with electronic equipment. He really hoped it was the latter, or he was bound to get cooked good.

  Something came hurtling towards him of a sudden, and he grappled with the yoke, trying to bank out of the way. But the fighter still refused to cooperate, and the something bashed against the canopy, causing a superficial crack that spiderwebbed several inches. A meteoroid. Where the hell had that come from? And were there others?

  He worried for a minute that the rock had broken through the glass, but he could still breathe, so he guessed it must be okay. As okay as anything was right now, anyway.

  Then light burst to life in front of him, surrounding his fighter and forcing him to shield his eyes against the power of it. When it dimmed and he could open his eyes again, he discovered he was in atmosphere, and he was plummeting towards the earth below. “Fuck!” He grabbed the yoke with both fists and pulled up, trying to level out while powering down the thrusters. Now that he’d exited the wormhole, he had some control over his ship—even so, he came in hot and had to fight for every bit of that control.

  He saw plenty of open space below, and the terrain was sandy, so at least it would be soft, but he still came down faster than he should, and when the Banshee hit the ground, it plowed through the sand for several meters; Fault was slammed against his harness so hard that his breath went out in a huff and a couple of ribs were severely bruised. He sat for a second, relieved to have survived not only the wormhole but his landing.

  He removed his helmet and pushed up the canopy, forgetting the automatic function out of habit. He stood up in the cockpit and gazed out at his surroundings, trying to find any signs of life—especially if that life came in a Copperhead replica—but he saw only sand and rock.

  He hopped out onto the ground, his boots sinking under his weight. He grabbed the radio and began adjusting and readjusting, trying to find a signal; all he got was static for a while, and then: “ . . . Hear me? Repeat: Fault, can you hear me?”

  “Jaden! Yeah, I hear you!”

  “ . . . Breaking up. What’s your position?”

  “Hang on.” He got his compass out, but the needle fidgeted, jumped. “Dammit! I don’t know my position. The damn compass is screwin’ up.”

  “Say again?”

  “I said the compass is screwin’ up.”

  Static.

  “Jaden? Jaden! Aw, come on!” He twisted the antenna around—just a little at first, because he’d just had her—then moved the dial, and he was rewarded with partial words, broken syllables, and more static. Frustrated, he hit the radio with the heel of his hand, then messed around with the dial and antenna some more, but he’d lost her. He was on his own.

  He leaned back against his fake Copperhead, deciding his next move. Damn Garner. This was all his fault. With any luck, he, Jaden, and An had landed near one another, and Fault was the only one out in the middle of nowhere without a working compass. But if Jaden and An weren’t with Garner, Fault knew they’d try to locate him and go to wherever he was so they could keep him out of trouble.

  Or let him drag them down with him. Hell, he hoped this Ilana girl was worth it.

  He was just about to take another look around, see if he could make an educated guess where the others might be headed, when he heard the unmistakable s
ound of a large truck speeding towards him. He glanced quickly around, but the only cover he could see were smallish rocks standing far enough away that he wouldn’t make it there before the truck cut him off. It was already circling around to do just that, kicking up great plumes of sand in its wake.

  Having no better option, Fault ducked underneath his fighter and drew his pistol, hiding as best he could behind the landing gear. The truck had an alien appearance: cold and smooth, with a more streamlined form than any human-produced vehicle of its type would own, and wings over the tires—a feature Fault decided must be purely aesthetic, as he could discern no practical use for it. The truck drove to within a few meters of the Copperhead mock-up and stopped, sending more sand flying through the air, and a pair of Snappers came out of the vehicle, wicked-looking weapons in hand.

  Fault didn’t wait for them to fire; he shot first, making them dive behind the open doors of the truck for cover. Answering lasers flew past him so that he had to duck behind the landing gear; it wouldn’t cover him entirely, but it did enough that the aliens had a much smaller target to aim at, and it protected his head and most of his torso.

  He kept low, darted out just enough to fire off a couple more shots, counting on his cybernetic enhancements to help him aim. One bolt zipped above the driver’s door, where the top of a Snapper’s head could be seen. The laser struck home, burning the top of the alien’s head off and leaving a smoldering body on the sand. The second bolt missed its target, and Fault was forced to take cover again as two more Snappers emerged from the back of the truck to take the place of the one he’d killed.

  Lasers sped past Fault on either side, hot bolts that felt way too close for comfort. One struck the landing gear right in front of his face, bright enough to blind him momentarily, near enough to send a shiver of fear racing down his back.

  He darted out again, shot through the glass on the passenger side door, and took down the Turtle on that side, a smoking hole in its gut. But more Snappers were exiting the truck and taking aim.

  Deadly, colored light seared the air all around him, making it impossible for him to come out from behind the landing gear, even for a second. He held his breath and crouched down, waiting it out. Laser bolts flew past his back, his leg, his head, missing him only by the sheerest margin. He couldn’t take on this many Snappers, he realized; not by himself.

  Hating himself, he tossed his gun out onto the sand. “Okay! I give up! I surrender!”

  The shooting stopped—or paused, more like; he had no doubt the aliens would fire again if he made the wrong move. He stepped out from behind the Copperhead’s landing gear with his hands up, walking slowly so the Snappers wouldn’t mistake his movements for aggression.

  He squinted in the sunlight, wary of the Turtles despite the fact they’d stopped shooting. They still had their rifles raised as they came a step or two closer, and then one of them drew a pistol and shot him. A blast of energy hit him in the center of his chest with what felt like the force of a stone fist, and he went down.

  He blinked, unable to see straight, and two of the aliens came and gathered him up, one taking his legs and the other grasping him beneath his arms. His head lolled on his chest, and he tried to move, to struggle, but everything felt numb. They carried him low, either because their arms were so long that they had to, or because they didn’t care, and his butt dragged across the sand, further indignity.

  Everything was blurry—his vision, his hearing, his sense of touch—and he couldn’t think straight. The Snappers mumbled to each other, but he couldn’t make out what any of them said. Then they tossed him into what he thought was the back of the truck, and he landed hard, skidding across the bed and into the heavy plastic crates they had packed inside.

  The truck started, drove off at speed. Fault slid into things on the sharper turns, and it occurred to him faintly that the Snappers had failed to bind him in any way, but it didn’t seem to matter; he wasn’t moving any time soon. He wondered vaguely how the Snappers had found him . . . Probably they’d seen the Copperhead replicas come into the atmosphere, he thought, although he could scarcely figure, in his currently addled state, how they’d noticed the difference between the human-made ships and their own. Maybe they’d tried to contact them, and the humans hadn’t answered. Or maybe no fighters had been scheduled to be in that area at that particular time.

  Or maybe real Copperheads never came screaming into atmo like they were on fire.

  The truck stopped. Fault willed his body to move, to put up some sort of fight, but it was no use. The back door opened, and an alien dragged Fault by the ankles to the opening, where it bent him over its shoulder and carried him to a cell of sorts. It dropped him on the dirty, rocky floor—none too gently—and slammed the door behind it. Darkness filled the cell except for a circle of light falling down from a hole in the ceiling. He couldn’t tell much else about the room, groggy as he was. His chest hurt, and his limbs felt heavy and kind of tingly.

  He wondered what the hell Garner had gotten them into, and how he was going to get out of this.

  But mostly he wondered what had happened to Garner, An, and especially Jaden.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On the alien planet

  Garner stirred, groaned. His fighter had crash-landed—how long ago, he didn’t know—and that landing had stunned him. He came to slowly, painfully. He blinked; he couldn’t see anything at first, and then his vision began to clear. He saw his ship’s controls, still lit up, had at least survived the crash, or appeared to have. He’d have to run a diagnostic on them when he got the chance.

  His right arm hurt. Carefully, he lifted it as far as he could within the confines of the mock Copperhead, and rotated it; nothing seemed to be broken, at least. His chest hurt, too, and when he disengaged his harness to feel his torso with his fingers, he detected bruises where his harness had slapped up against him. His neck and shoulders ached, but he thought he had escaped whiplash.

  Then he realized he hadn’t heard anything, not even static, since he’d landed. He tapped his mouthpiece, tried to speak, and found his throat too dry to voice anything. He swallowed, tried again. “Jaden, An, Fault. Do you read?”

  Nothing. No static, nothing. The comlink had died.

  Worried, he ran a quick systems diagnostic, and while that was going on, he pushed the canopy release button. He couldn’t see anything outside, not from the front, and only a piece of sky and the blaze of the sun on the left.

  Nothing happened. The diagnostic was running—he could see it on one of the small screens that reported ship’s functions—but the canopy was a no-go. He pushed up against the canopy, trying to open it manually, but found the mechanism frozen. He tried not to panic, but his heart started beating more quickly, and his breath caught in his throat at the thought of being trapped in there, with no contact with anyone who could help him.

  He strained again against the canopy; this time it moved, only slightly but it did move, with a grating, grinding sound. Sand poured into the cockpit. So that was what was fucking with his canopy: sand had gotten into the crevasses. Vaguely, he recalled his craft screaming towards a golden mound, something that could have been a sand dune. Apparently, he’d gotten half-buried in it.

  Garner pushed again, ignoring the protests his neck and shoulders made. He pushed and kept pushing until he made some headway and the canopy creaked open, sand falling in along with glaring sunlight. He squinted in the brilliance, already feeling the difference in temperature as the hot desert air replaced the cool canned air in the Copperhead. He was already sweating from exertion, and now he was coated in sand and wished desperately for some shade.

  Awkwardly, he climbed out of the fake Copperhead, stumbling in the soft, giving sand. The fighter had dived nose first into a dune, burying itself halfway in the sandy hill, which was what had blocked his view of the landing zone before. He looked around now: pale sand, a lot of it dunes, that reflected the sun’s brilliance; sparse, weedy-looking, dark vegetat
ion; and dark grey rocks, some of them poking up like little islands, far away from each other, and there, off to the east, a great section of them that went on for miles, also spotted here and there with greenery and little patches of sand.

  Garner reached behind the pilot’s seat of his fake Copperhead and withdrew his emergency pack, which every pilot had in his or her fighter in case they had to land in a hostile situation. The pack contained emergency gear like night vision goggles, a week’s worth of Meals Ready to Eat, and water purification pills.

  It also held a small First Aid Kit, and this he opened, and took out some ibuprofen, which he swallowed dry. His neck and shoulders were killing him. He tried to conceal the Copperhead, but the tarp he had for the purpose had been made for a leafy area, not a sandy one; it still stood out.

  After covering the mock-up, which aggravated the pain in his shoulders, he paused to check his bearings. His compass told him essentially where he had landed, direction-wise; but of course he had no idea what desert this was, or even what planet he was on. The Turtles’ homeworld? Or just a planet they had conquered? Would Ilana be on this continent, or even on this world? He had no way of knowing, and it only then occurred to him just how flimsy a plan he had.

  He had a pocket radio and tried that next, searching all the channels for friendly chatter. If Fault, Jaden, or An wanted to reach him, this would be their first method of doing so, albeit a risky one: the aliens, they knew, could understand the human Common Tongue, and the pilots would have to talk in code in order for the Snappers not to understand what they told each other.

  Of course, the aliens could always have learned some codes from one of the Galapagos survivors. No one withstood torture forever.

  He got nothing on the radio but static, but that could mean the others just didn’t want to alert the Snappers to their presence by littering the airwaves with human voices.

  Then again, it could mean the others hadn’t made it through the wormhole with him. He had thought they had; he had seen their ships on his radar as he had come through, and he had closed the wormhole once he was sure they had made it. But this technology was new to him; it could have messed up his readings. Or maybe the wormhole had pushed them back out into human space or deposited them somewhere else entirely; or maybe they had gotten lost in the wormhole, if that was possible.