The Fleet

by John M. Davis

  Lucky though, seeing the husk around him laying dead. Injuries sustained in the shuttle's quick and ridiculous attempt at a crash landing. Orc-like warriors who aren't flight trained don't mix well with, well, flight. So it seemed.

  Injuries aside, the co-pilot had bigger problems. Several figures stumbling through the dark around the wreckage. Each of them infected and making way to the shuttle which was partially intact but heavily damaged.

  Its compression door had been ripped from the frame of the shuttle upon impact, leaving a six-foot wide doorway to the rear of the craft. Wide open and, unfortunately, a welcome sight for the infected dead.

  Still strapped in, the co-pilot's harness would not give an inch. Even with panicked hands pressing against the release lever. Strapped in and left for dead, nothing more than a combat pistol within his reach.

  Pulling it, the man understood that shaking hands led to missed shots. So he waited for them. And as the first infected entered into the shuttle with a taste for flesh on its lips, the co-pilot blistered a shot from his pistol. Hitting the trunk of the bastard's body and dropping it quickly.

  A standard combat pistol held eight rounds before a reload – the co-pilot still counted nine infected. Based on what he could immediately see.

  Shot after shot he dropped them. One at a time. While, in the back of his mind, the co-pilot wondered how he could possibly survive the final two and remain a prisoner to harness straps that nearly bit into his shoulders.

  Why should he be any different than the crew of the Lucky Lady? They had all died, so why not him? Perhaps it was his destiny to join them in the land of the afterlife.

  As the sliding mechanism of the pistol popped empty, the man let loose his grip. Preparing for the inevitable death which stood before him. Limping closer by the second.

  He'd go down swinging, even if that meant swinging an emptied pistol at the approaching infected.

  Boom.

  A shot so loud that the co-pilot's ears rang hard. The splatter of infected offering a stucco of gore onto his clothes as he fought to understand the terms of the moment. Had he already passed on?

  “I hate the fucking undead,” Dalton said. “Aggravating bastards.”

  Was he to be judged in the afterlife by a bearded man who swore like a sailor?

  “On your feet dipshit. More of them will be here in no time.” Dalton said.

  “I...I can't. My harness is broken.”

  It had finally occurred to the co-pilot that he'd indeed cheated death. Only to fall into the loving arms of a man who also reeked of death, albeit death by cheap cigar smoke.”

  “Damn,” Dalton replied, unsheathing his combat blade and slicing the harness straps in a single motion. “All these muscled up husk laying dead and we get the chicken with a broken wing.” he added. Watching the fragile man try to stand.

  “Paul.”

  Had he not been in charge and on the run, Dalton would have backhanded the puny mongrel for making him walk such a distance for nothing. But he understood. He'd been in two such crashes himself.

  “Say, Paul,” Dalton asked with a studying look. “Did anyone alert the fleet as to what the fuck was going on up there before she went up in flames?”

  “Yes,” Paul replied. “The pilot stayed behind to send a final distress call.”

  “Good,” Dalton said. “Now grab one of those real guns laying and carry your ass.”

  “But I've,” the shaky man replied. “I have never shot a combat rifle before.”

  You got to be kidding me.

  “Look here,” Dalton said, shouldering the rifle and pointing it to the wall, which stood only inches away. “You look between these two pieces of metal standing up. If it ain't wearing a fleet badge, you throw the fucking pain to it. You hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright. So let's boot heel to coat tail it on out before it looks like a Glimmerian parade up in here.” Dalton said.

  Johnny and his outlaws had been firing off several shots during the conversation. The sound of exploding powder and curse words mixed together like a margarita of white noise.

  *

  “My lord. Their vessel is destroyed and we await your orders.” one of the Viscion offers said.

  “”My orders?” Ryalk replied. “Harvest the planet. Every last breathing piece of meat.” he added with a grin.

  “At once.”

  Ryalk would turn to look across the large room which served as his personal quarters. A hazy crystal covering most of the walls, though a long stretch of it remained clear. Giving him a view of the stars.

  Looking down onto the planet below as powdery white clouds drifted across the pale brown landscape, Ryalk welcomed it. He knew there would be plenty of meat for the harvesting. In the back of his mind, he also knew the human fleet would eventually launch an attack on the Viscion. In fact, he had counted on it.

  Ryalk understood they were the most dominant race in the Skyla System now. As hundreds of small ships burst from the shuttle bay within his ship, they added to Rylak’s feeling of dominance. Each craft loaded with two-dozen highly trained Viscion soldiers. Nearly a thousand of his military about to set boots onto the planet's surface, to be followed in by large refrigerated cargo ships.

  The soldiers would eliminate any threats on the ground, then passing the harvestable meat onto the large cargo ships to be frozen. Their destroyer class ship watching over from the heavens above.

  It was the Viscion way, as it had been for hundreds of years now. Planet after planet, each trying their best to fight back and all of them eventually hanging from the large hooks on board the resource ship which accompanied their destroyer. Frozen until needed.

  Ryalk expected the usual swift victory. His record of leadership in battle unrivaled. His confidence, possibly, his Achilles heel. For he'd battled many of soldiers throughout a lifetime, but none like he was about to face. Ever.

  *

  “I hate the fucking undead.” Dalton said as hundreds of Viscion shuttles began falling from the sky. Each of them piercing the atmosphere like crystal shards plunging to the crust of planet below his feet.

  “Yea, you said that already,” Cambria replied. “Besides, I don't think they're dead. Technically.”

  “Oh they will be.” the wily man in charge replied. Standing in place and lighting a well-deserved cigar as he continued to stare into the sky, as if to dare them.

  “We need to get back to the cliffs. We can dig in until they pass through.” Johnny said.

  “Oh, they ain't passing through.” Dalton commented.

  “What are you talking about?” Johnny asked.

  “He means they're here for us,” Cambria replied. “You, Dalton and the rest of us. We're a food source to them. Nothing more.”

  “Yea, fuck that noise.” Johnny replied.

  “Our people will come.” May'yok declared.

  “Yea, but when?” Johnny asked. “We hid out in the rocks for nearly a year before we saw anything but infected.”

  “Damn good question young man,” Dalton replied. “But they will come. And if the Viscion think it's going to be an easy fight,” he added. “They are gonna go home crying with a few teeth missing.”

  “Until then?” Cambria asked.

  “Until then we do what the man said,” Dalton replied. “We nestle down in the cliffs and do what we can to survive. Pop a cap in anything that comes sniffing.”

  “Good plan. I like it.” Zilne replied.

  I'm glad you approve. You muscle-bound cocksucker.

  Dalton simply nodded as a gesture of thank you. Thinking back to a time when he and the husk weren't on such good terms. Missing his good friend Roman Raines, though he planned to make the master of blades proud. Dalton would have to do it with a shotgun, a bottle of whiskey and a suspecting eye on Johnny. Not trusting Cambria's ex-lover as far as he could throw him.

  Chapter 3

  *The Blood War*

  “Sir, we'll be arriving momentarily.” the dec
k officer said.

  Commander Regent thought about that very statement for a moment. Letting it soak into his very being. The beginning of a war they knew would last for a very, very long time, and his ship would throw the first punch.

  He'd taken over command of the God of War, leaving Doctor Arness to his research back on the weapons platform, which continued construction.

  A smaller battleship, the Swift Justice, had also been left behind as a safety net of protection as the construction unfolded. Though it dwarfed in comparison to the God of War. The massive ship accompanied by a second, though it had very little power to fight. Its cargo, however, had plenty of potential to kick ass.

  Eight hundred fleet marines ready to kick the shit out of anything that moved – armed to the teeth. The plan was a very simple one, put together by Craig and Adam.

  The God of War was to arrive and immediately launch dozens of swordfish fighters, capable of ship to ship combat. They had anticipated the Viscion having their own ship to ship fighters, but it was a smokescreen, nothing more. Overwhelming the Viscion for a few moments as the Fleet Foundation dropped its payload of marines ready for a fight, and hauled ass back to the safety of the weapons platform. Quite a long flight, though it would be moving away from the fight which brought great odds of success.

  As marines landed on the surface and prepared to give the Viscion ground units something to lose sleep over, the God of War would go head to head with the mighty Viscion warship.

  They had both been designed for such a task and each had a commander worthy of accolades. Commander Regent had served in both the first and second Glimmerian wars, and he knew a little something about fighting against those who would take freedom away.

  “Good,” Commander Regent said after several long moments of silence. “Make sure our nuclear warhead is in place and tell the pilots to be seated and waiting.”

  “Will do sir.”

  As Commander Regent stood on the God of War's bridge area, he thought of a fight to come. Soon enough, the Viscion would know that they were on top of their location. The Viscion were sure to be waiting, and the commander hoped for nothing less.

  For him, this was never about rescuing a small crew of soldiers. This was about fast-tracking a war that everyone knew in their hearts was coming. Sooner or later.

  Any race which feasted on another in such a primal way could only think of themselves as a dominant race. The alpha male. The humans among the fleet would never allow themselves to be second on the food chain. Nor would the Husk, Benzans or any other race within the Skyla System.

  For so many generations, unique races within the Skyla System had hated one another. Doing anything they could to be superior. Now they found themselves fighting shoulder to shoulder for the same cause. Freedom. One thing that is worth dying for, no matter the odds of success.

  This was their home and they'd fight for it. Even die for it, if need be, though they planned on taking a hell of a lot of Viscion with them.

  “Now, now, now!” a voice cried out over the fleet's com system. Seconds later, choppers began to fall from the belly of the Fleet Foundation. It's large interior being used as a staging area.

  Hundreds of marines, each of them packed inside of falling shuttles and clinching their rifles with silence. Some of them praying for victory and safe return. Others just succumbing to the intense adrenaline rush which accompanied the fall.

  The same fall that Dalton and his crew had ventured through only a short time before. Every soldier knew it and respected it. The free fall into orbit.

  Some loved it and others hated it. The fall had become something to talk about while drinking with military friends. The backbone of many stories passed down through generations, and this drop would be no different.

  Every soldier falling into battle had his or her own process during the fall. For many, closed eyes and a focused mind helped ease the effects. Other cursed aloud and wondered if their military had not designed the fall on purpose – to test the will of those about to enter battle.

  Others prayed.

  A few of the shuttles were larger, and would land together to form a forward operating center. Providing troops with a mobile home away from home. Containing the needed supplies and weaponry refills. They had also brought much of the armed equipment within the fleet. Goliath units, surface tanks and mack towers, which served as smaller variations of the infamous mack cannons. Normally, they were mounted underground and punched lead into the sky to battle would be invaders.

  Such was the case on Second Glimmeria as technicians worked to install mack cannons throughout the city. The mack towers were much smaller, making them portable. Smaller scale, though packing one hell of a punch, they could fire into the sky or become pivoted to fire at approaching ground units.

  It was essential that humanity's survivors didn't half-ass this battle. They could ill afford to be crushed by a race of beings that they knew was more advanced.

  Craig flew quickly, leading his squadron of swordfish fighters toward the shard-like frame of the Viscion warship, which looked similar to a gigantic chandelier.

  His squadron had two distinct missions. One was to deliver a nuke strike, the other was to cover the Fleet Foundation's ass as it tried to escape from the theater of battle.

  They had used a tow ship, just like the one that had towed Craig and Anna to safety. The crude looking ship buried within the squadron and towing an empty swordfish which carried a proximity armed nuke. And their plan seemed to be working.

  As the other two squadrons of swordfish broke free and began to scatter toward the Viscion warship, the Viscion gave chase in their own ship to ship fighters. Each of them very reflective and glass-like, though a bit smaller than the swordfish.

  It was Craig's group, however, that remained on course. Speeding to the foreign ship as would a spear thrown by a warrior with intention.

  “My lord. A group remains directly on course with our ship.” one of the officers on board the Viscion warship warned. Closely watching a crystal display that illuminated red.

  “Well direct our fire to them.” Ryalk replied.

  “They are too deep inside of our radius of fire, my lord.”

  “Recall our fighters and have them...” Ryalk began to reply. His words screeching to a halt as the most powerful of human weapons slammed into the side of their mighty ship. Setting off an explosion very comparable to a massive sunset. Waves rippling throughout the area and causing extensive damage to that portion of the Viscion's ship.

  “Report!” Ryalk demanded. Holding firmly to the podium style combat map station in front of him.

  “They hit us directly with something, my lord. Structural damage on the starboard side is widespread. We are venting atmosphere.”

  “Will we survive it?” Ryalk asked.

  “We are still in the fight, sir, but I'm hearing mass-casualties on the starboard side, decks four through seventeen.”

  Ryalk thought about that statement for a moment. Nearly a fourth of his entire crew killed, badly wounded or missing following the explosion.

  He had certainly underestimated the humans and their ability to build war technology. His arrogance the cause of death for so many among his race. It angered him, though he would need to hold onto that anger. Fearing another misstep because of arrogance.

  “Face our port side to them and instruct our cannons to begin firing at will.”

  “Yes my lord.”

  “Alamious,” Ryalk said. “Do not hold back.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  The nuke strike had angered Ryalk to the point of no longer wanting the humans among the fleet as a food source. At least not the ones who fought against him this very moment. He wanted them dead. Painfully.

  “They're coming around!”

  “As expected,” Commander Regent replied. “Fire at will. Instruct our fighters to remain in flight and have them concentrate on the Viscion's starboard side. The planet's surface is their fallback poin
t should they be hit. Have them fallback to our forward operating base.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The scene was one of storybook legend. Two galleons of the sea turning to line their cannons directly onto the other, though these galleons floated in an ocean of deep black lifelessness.

  Each would have their chance to bring total annihilation to the other.

  *

  “What the hell?” Cambria asked, walking to the entrance of their cavern and looking to the sky above.

  “What is it?” Johnny added.

  “That's the cavalry.” Dalton replied with pride.

  “Lots of explosions up there.” Cambria said.

  “That's war dear,” Dalton said. “The price for freedom.”

  They nearly hit the hard soil at the cave's entrance as a loud popping sound began to string off.

  Choppers incoming and doing anything but easing their way down. After the first handful, enemy fire began to stream up from the surface. Large blue tunnels of light, presumably lasers, which serrated several of the choppers filled with hopeful marines. The alien fire returned by painful human lead zinging to the surface at alarming rates. Compliments of the chain guns mounted to the fleet's choppers.

  “It's about to be on.” Dalton said.

  “From the sounds of it, both sides are sparing no expense.” May'yok replied.

  “Gear up. We got to get to it.” Dalton said.

  “Bad idea.” Johnny said.

  “I agree.” Cambria added.

  “Ain't nobody taking votes,” Dalton said. “This is combat. Our only goal is to get down there and help any fleet marines we can. Period.”

  “Dalton, it sounds like the end of the world down there,” Cambria pleaded. “You can't seriously think that our going down there could be anything other than bad?”

  “It doesn't matter what I think. It's what soldiers do. They fight. I have to get down there and protect my brothers in arms because that's the code.” Dalton said.

  His comments met with universal agreement by the husk.

  They had long been proud warriors. Knowing nothing but the code of gallant.

  “I'm not a soldier,” Johnny said. “And if you care anything about Cambria, you'd want her to stay put. Out of harm's way.” he added in a questioning manner.