Alien War Trilogy 2: Zeus

by Isaac Hooke

  When he opened his eyes, he still lay on that final bed, surrounded by the glass walls. An IV connected him to a saline drip. A heart rate monitor beeped beside him. A Weaver resided inactive at his side. Beyond the translucent tank, he saw other glass containers holding soldiers he didn’t recognize. A decontamination ward. A large one.

  Facehopper must have instructed the monitoring AI to ping him when Rade had awakened, because the tiny incoming call light on the aReal goggles at his bedside began flashing. The drawn out period of the flash, along with the dark green color, indicated an incoming call from the chief.

  Rade donned the goggles and accepted the call.

  The chief’s hologram appeared outside the tank, just as if he was standing there in the ward with Rade.

  “Welcome back to the living,” the chief said.

  “I didn’t know I was dead,” Rade said.

  “Actually, we thought we lost you twice,” the chief said. “But you fought your way back every time. No thanks to TJ. He had a helluva time repairing your suit out there, by the way. His mech kept rocking back and forth as part of its evasive maneuvers, and nearly tore him away every few seconds. He somehow managed to retrieve his own suitrep kit, since you lost your own, and patched your suit near the upper limits of the atmospheric death zone. Once the two of you entered orbit, he called in the rest of us to help. We got you to the Weavers just in time. A hair later, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Your suit was filled with so much blood that you were choking on mouthfuls with every breath.”

  “Nice,” Rade said. “Guess I owe TJ a beer.”

  “You owe him far more than that,” Facehopper said. “Though I’m sure the most he’d ever accept from you is a beer.”

  “I’m sure, too,” Rade said. “Which is why I suggested it. Hell, that’s all I’d ever accept.”

  Facehopper nodded sagely. “We all would.”

  “How are Snakeoil and Mauler?”

  “Snakeoil wasn’t injured. Mauler on the other hand had to spend a good amount of time in intensive care, but he’s recovering in sick bay proper now. He should be back on his feet before you get out of decon. As for everyone else, we were treated for minor cuts and bruises and promptly released. The Weavers couldn’t get us out of there fast enough.”

  “Sounds like they’re a bit overloaded,” Rade said.

  “Sick bay is a bloody mess,” the chief agreed. “Literally. They’ve had to set up makeshift treatment areas in hangar bays two and three, as well as cargo bay five.”

  Rade regarded Facehopper grimly. “So what actually happened in orbit to spark this whole shitstorm in the first place?”

  “You remember how the lieutenant commander told us the enemy fleet looped back to attack the colony world, and the UC repelled them, reducing their number to only three?”

  “I remember,” Rade said. “His words were something to the effect of, ‘victory is assured.’“

  “Yes. Well two more of the enemy emerged from behind a nearby moon during the ensuing chase, and in a pincer maneuver that I’m sure will be talked about in tactical history classes for the next hundred years, completely obliterated the UC pursuers. The surviving enemy ships returned to attack that portion of our fleet remaining in orbit above the colony world. We prevailed, but just barely. Other than the four ships guarding the Gate to the system, we only have one badly damaged cruiser and a frigate left in orbit.”

  “Two ships?” Rade said. “What happened to all those fancy supercarriers we had with us?”

  “Gone.”

  Rade shook his head. “We really pulled through by a gnat’s ass, didn’t we?”

  “Or a red cunt hair,” Facehopper said. “Depending on how you look at it. In any case, relief battle groups are on the way. They can’t get here soon enough if you ask me. Meanwhile, the telemetry drones have completed their scan of the system. It looks like there are no more enemy ships hiding out there. That’s the rumor, anyway. The lieutenant commander has refused to confirm or deny it at the moment. Given the current morale, if there were other enemies out there, I wouldn’t blame him and the senior command for smothering the news.”

  “What about Radiance?” Rade asked.

  “The relief convoy is bringing a few troop carriers,” Facehopper said. “Four divisions worth of Marines, to be exact.”

  “Four divisions. If they can’t liberate the city, no one will.”

  “Oh they’ll liberate the city all right,” Facehopper said. “But it’s not going to be pretty. The majority of the enemy reinforcements have holed up in the downtown core, according to the latest intel. The Marines will probably have to raze the remaining skyscrapers. Franco-Italians won’t be very happy.”

  “They never are.” Rade paused. “So what else is new?”

  “Not much,” the chief replied. “We’ve been getting software updates for our Implants daily. Probably has something to do with the group of alien infiltrators that tried to take control of the ship during the fifth watch...”

  Rade sat up. “What?”

  “Six of them closed off engineering, pretending to be masters-at-arms. An astute chief MA saved the day, with the help of the ship’s AI. Alpha Platoon was brought in to clean up.”

  “You saying I missed some action?”

  Facehopper frowned. “Only if you call retrieving six incapacitated bodies ‘action.’ Anyway, the developers have assured us that the latest round of patches will prevent infiltrators from penetrating our ranks again.”

  “Didn’t they say that with the last patch?”

  “Pretty much,” Facehopper agreed. “Which is why the doctor has been scheduling mandatory examinations for every crew member.”

  “Probably a waste of time,” Rade said. “A smart infiltrator wouldn’t appear on the ship’s manifest in the first place.”

  “But he would have to,” Facehopper replied. “Because the ship’s AI marks anyone not on the manifest as an intruder. The eyes and ears of the AI are pervasive.”

  Rade tapped his lips. “There are ways around that.”

  “You’re talking about the agreement the navy has with certain intelligence services? The pact that ordinary soldiers aren’t supposed to know about?”

  “Whoever said we were ordinary soldiers?” Rade said. “Anyway, I’m sure that agreement is only a rumor, or a myth.”

  “Tell me your version of it.”

  “All right,” Rade said. “I’ve heard that certain operatives from certain agencies can pass unnoticed aboard ships, ghosts granted temporary entries in the manifest. Apparently the AI is required to collude with them, and keep their presence a secret.”

  “I’ve heard the same,” Facehopper said. “Though in my version, such agents are usually assigned and confirmed by direct order of the commander in chief. The enemy hasn’t infiltrated that high up yet. I hope.”

  “I hope so, too,” Rade said. “Because if they have, we’re probably all doomed.”

  RADE WAS MOVED from the decontamination ward to the crowded sick bay a few days later, and then cleared to return to duty soon thereafter. His hair had grown back nicely by then, so that it looked like he had a buzz cut on top, with longer hair on the sides and back paired to a thick beard. He was tempted to shave everything down to the same size, but the length of the beard was a matter of pride among the platoon, so he cropped his hair only.

  Working out in the gym of the cruiser Steadfast was a stressful affair—the vessel was crammed to the brim not only with the survivors of the destroyed ships, but with displaced Marines who wanted to work out as badly as Rade and the others. As such, the weight room was packed 24/7. The members of Alpha Platoon did their calisthenics in the cramped berthing area they shared with Bravo, and then made their visits to the gym in groups of four. Some of the others found creative ways to turn the berthing areas and nearby passageways into gyms—using an exposed overhead pipe for pull-ups, pressing discarded torpedo caps while lying down, and so forth, but Rade preferred the re
al deal.

  The first morning back, he and Tahoe secured a bench press in the weight room, and took turns spotting each other.

  “So how are you adapting to life as an ordinary recruit?” Tahoe said during their rest interval.

  “It’s not so bad,” Rade said. He was seated on the bench, while Tahoe waited to spot him behind the bar. “I can’t say I really missed being LPO down there. And it was great to be on point again.”

  “Did you notice how the chief did the brunt of the work?” Tahoe said. “It was almost like TJ was afraid to step up and take control of the platoon.”

  “Oh, he stepped up,” Rade said. “Near the end, anyway.”

  “That was because he had to,” Tahoe said. “He was the one who split the platoon into two squads. He chose the placements, and when people started dropping in S2—the squad he directly managed—of course he had to act. If he hadn’t stepped the hell up at that point, I would have kicked his ass.”

  “Cut him some slack.” Rade lay back and did his set, then swapped positions with Tahoe.

  “You should apply for LPO sometime,” Rade said. “If you get it, you’ll soon learn the job isn’t quite as easy as you think.”

  “Me?” Tahoe said. “Right. You see how much trouble with authority I have as it is. I don’t think I could lead.”

  “You used to have trouble with authority, that’s true,” Rade said. “But not anymore. I haven’t seen you fight Facehopper in what, a year? And our last real scuffle was six months ago. You’re growing mellow. Getting old, Tahoe.”

  “Ha!”

  “Besides, an LPO gets paid more,” Rade said. “That’d make the wife happy.”

  Tahoe raised an eyebrow. “I did not know that. I thought the pay was the same.”

  “It varies, depending on the duty cycle when you check, and who’s in charge at the top. Sometimes the navy pays LPO more, sometimes it’s the same.”

  Tahoe did his set, then swapped positions with Rade.

  “More money wouldn’t make Tepin happy anyway,” Tahoe said.

  “She’s not happy with anything, is she?” Rade said.

  “No.” Tahoe lowered his voice. “She’ll only be happy when I quit the navy.”

  Rade swiveled on the bench to face him directly. “Is that what she told you?”

  “Yeah,” Tahoe said. “She wants me to quit.”

  “But you’re not going to,” Rade said.

  Tahoe laughed heartily. “Of course not. If I start giving in to her demands, I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll emasculate me so badly, you’ll swear I don’t have a dick. And get this, she wants me to stop working out, too. ‘I like you the way you are, Tahoe,’ she says. Right. She just wants to make sure I lose all my sex appeal, and become completely unattractive to other women.”

  “You’re assuming that women find your muscles attractive,” Rade said.

  “With my ugly face, muscles are all I’ve got,” Tahoe replied.

  Rade did his set, then swapped with Tahoe.

  “Still, I have to say, the appeal of the navy, and the Teams, has kind of lost its luster,” Tahoe said.

  Rade pursed his lips, then sighed. “I hear you. I’m feeling pretty low about our jobs right now, too. It’s only natural, I think, when you’ve failed a mission miserably, and run away with your tail between your legs.”

  “We did run, yes,” Tahoe said. “That’s definitely not going to help morale, especially with men like us, men who rarely flee. But for me, I think what it boils down to is: I’m getting sick of fighting.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rade said. “We’re warriors. We live to fight.”

  “This is true. But even warriors can grow weary of war.”

  Tahoe performed his set, and when he was done Rade took the bench.

  “You really believe we failed the mission?” Tahoe said.

  Rade nodded. “I’d say so. We didn’t liberate the city. We didn’t secure that ship.”

  “Liberating the city was never our lone responsibility, and as for the ship, if we had stayed aboard we would have been killed when it self-destructed in orbit.”

  “Good point,” Rade said. “Still, a part of me can’t help but feel that if we had remained aboard, we could have made a difference. It’s just too bad my clone had to come along and spoil everything.”

  “I for one am very happy that clone forced us to depart,” Tahoe said. “By the way, you think they’ve cloned all of us?”

  “No,” Rade said. “They need your blood, bro.”

  Rade lay back and wrapped his arms around the bar, but before he could lift it off the rack, Tahoe spoke.

  “If it was time to renew your commission tomorrow, rather than years from now, would you?”

  Rade didn’t answer right away. He sat up and studied Tahoe. “You know what? Disillusioned as I am, I probably would. What else is there, for people like us? You said your wife would emasculate you? I don’t need a wife for that... civilian life would do that to me. My whole image is formed around this job. Without it, I’m nothing. I might not be LPO anymore, I might not have any real power, but I’m still a MOTH. And that means something to me. That gives me power in and of itself.”

  “Yo, how many more sets you got?” a buff Marine asked.

  “Two more, brother,” Rade said. “But these two are already waiting in line.” Rade pointed a thumb to other Marines loitering nearby.

  “Damn it,” the Marine said. “Your navy needs to invest in bigger gyms.”

  Rade shrugged. “Not my navy.” He lay back and did another set.

  THE LIEUTENANT COMMANDER summoned Rade to his temporary office aboard the Steadfast a few days later. Lieutenant Commander Braggs shared the compartment with three other officers who worked different watch shifts. Though space was at a premium, the navy always found room for its officers to conduct their business in private: if the office was taken, Braggs would have simply used his quarters.

  When Rade got there, he discovered the chief waiting for him as well. Facehopper leaned against the desk, his arms crossed in front of him. Seeing them both there like that in their grim attitudes, Rade was reminded of his epic chewing out on the planet, and he wondered what he had done wrong now.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Galaal,” Braggs said.

  Rade took his seat.

  “You know I’m not a big fan of preamble,” the lieutenant commander said. “So I’ll dive right in. TJ is no longer LPO.”

  Rade found himself at a loss for words. When he recovered from the shock, he said: “But he performed so admirably.”

  “We agree,” Braggs said. “But some people can’t take the stress for more than a few missions. Or a single mission, in this case. TJ came to us a few days ago and asked us to relieve him of the position. We tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant.”

  Rade nodded slowly. After everything that had happened out there, it was no surprise TJ’s nerves were shattered.

  “And you’re telling me because you want to offer me the position again...” Rade said.

  The LC nodded. “It’s yours if you want it.”

  Rade sighed. “Who are you going to offer next, if I refuse?”

  Braggs smiled momentarily. Smirked, really. “That information is classified.”

  Rade looked at his hands. He clenched his fingers, then opened them.

  Remember who you are.

  “I’ll do it,” Rade said.

  “Very good,” the lieutenant commander said. “We’ll start on the digital paperwork immediately. You may go.”

  Rade went to the airlock; before the inner hatch opened, Lieutenant Commander Braggs spoke again.

  “One second,” Braggs said.

  Rade paused.

  “There’s one thing I’d like to know,” the lieutenant commander continued. “Did you plan that whole damsel-in-distress incident at the end?”

  Rade studied the LC in disbelief. “Do you mean, did I get hit on purpose?”

  Braggs
exchanged a knowing glance with Facehopper. “MOTHs have done similar things in the past to get what they want.” From the way he said that, it almost sounded like he actually approved of such behavior.

  Rade considered a moment, and then said: “I would never put my personal advancement above the well-being of my platoon mates. If I purposely allowed myself to get hit, either in an attempt to stress out TJ, or to garner your sympathy—I’m sure you’re implying one or the other—then that means I put not only my life at risk, but TJ’s as well. The chief tells me TJ climbed out of the mech and patched me up during the ascent, at great risk to himself. We both could have died up there. So to answer your question, no, sir, I did not get hit on purpose.”

  The lieutenant commander pursed his lips as if he didn’t entirely believe Rade. Then he shrugged and said: “Dismissed, LPO Galaal.”

  thirty-six

  The relief convoy arrived and Alpha Platoon transferred by shuttle to a Kissinger class destroyer, the Goliath. Funny how the smaller ships often had the grandest names, as if to compensate for their diminutive size and armament.

  As promised, the beer day was epic. Only two cans were supposed to be allocated per person, but somehow Manic and Fret managed to secure two complete six-packs for everyone. The next morning, Facehopper made the whole platoon clean up the vomit and spilled beer in the berthing area while hungover, and then he personally led them through a PT session. It was a light session compared to their usual standards, but that morning, the calisthenics seemed to go on forever.