by TR Cameron
He tapped the side of his glasses to send a click, signaling to his team that he was in position. He received four identical responses in quick succession. All was apparently going to plan. Jax took a deep breath, pivoted as he reached the dirt path that led up to the entrance, and plastered a serious expression on his face. He pointed at the doors as he approached and growled, “Open up, soldiers.” A pause followed, during which the sentries were doubtless scanning the electronic credentials sewn into his uniform. He shook his head in faux annoyance. “Are you planning to take all day with it?”
Finally, the portal in front of him parted, and he walked through without responding to the guards’ parting, “Sorry, sir.” As the opening closed behind him, he got his first look at the inside of the structure. A steep ramp ran upward in a curve, disappearing into what was the base level’s ceiling and doubtless the next one’s floor. The planning team had predicted a spiral staircase, but otherwise, the assumptions were correct.
Except for the presence of several Lienthe on the entry level. The planners had concluded that the Confederacy would oversee the internal defenses. He nodded at the trio of aliens standing at control consoles and wondered idly why they preferred being upright to sitting behind the nearby desks. Set up for either group to operate. Makes sense, I guess. He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. The countdown in his glasses told him the ships would be jumping in at any moment. The plan was to emerge as close to the planet as gravity would allow and deploy troops immediately. That gave him about eleven minutes to reach the top of the tower and disable the defensive weapons.
His business-as-usual approach got him to the second floor without interference. He slowed his steps to look around as he emerged, and found two groups of what were obviously soldiers at opposite ends of the space. On the left of the circular room was a card table with three uniformed Confederacy troops surrounding it, a pile of poker chips in the middle and a game clearly underway. They didn’t notice him immediately. On the other side was a pair of Lienthe moving in slow motion through what looked like weapons forms with the long spears he’d seen outside the dome. He nodded and continued on, but cringed inwardly as one of the card players called, “Hey, wait.”
Options presented themselves in the moment it took Jax to turn toward the trio, but it seemed like the time for subtlety had expired. He activated his comm with a verbal command and calmly stated, “Going loud.” His grenades were disguised as normal-looking pouches on his belt, and he ripped two free. The first arced into the middle of the room, and the second bounced down the staircase he’d just ascended. He broke into a sprint to climb the stairs to the next level.
Behind and below him, a pair of heavy explosions echoed through the building, making the organic walls creak disturbingly. There wasn’t enough boom in the bags to bring down the structure or even drop one of the levels, but he was confident the tightly packed steel spheres inside them would turn whatever living beings had been at his rear into un-living ones if the initial blast hadn’t done it. With my luck, they’ll turn out to be zombies and come after me anyway. He reached over his shoulder for his rifle as he pelted onto the next level of the tower.
The timer in his glasses adjusted, switching from nine minutes and a few seconds to four. He growled, “Faster, people. They must have taken a shortcut.” Laughter from at least one of his team sounded in reply, and he smiled grimly as he selected projectiles, aimed, and cut down the Confederacy technician behind at the controls of the huge turret mounted on the outside of the tower. He announced, “One down.”
An explosion from outside rattled the building, and Lieutenant Darius Lyton reported, “Alien barracks are down. Kinda all over the place, really.”
Jax shook his head. “Move to secondary objective, Dare.” He slung his rifle and shrugged off his backpack, setting it on the ground and unlatching it to reveal a series of shaped charges. Like his grenades, they were designed for infiltration and didn’t register on any known testing equipment for explosives. Doubtless he’d already passed through multiple sensing fields on the way in. He set three on the control panel for the turret and inserted a timer linked to the countdown in his glasses, which was now at two and a half. Kyle Drent reported, “Confederacy barracks down. A bunch got out beforehand.”
Jax shook his head. “As expected. Do what you can until the two-minute mark, then move to designated safe spots.” The planning team had set certain positions as non-fire zones, and if they were in them when the real shooting started, they should be protected. Of course, the operational word there is “should.” In the end, it’s just one more roll of the dice.
Fortunately, his throws were coming up all elevens so far. He charged up to the next level, which contained another turret. This time the enemy managed a barrage from his rifle before Jax could find cover, and the bullets drilled into his protective chest plate. While the armor appeared to be nothing more than the normal gear the Confederacy wore, it was of significantly higher quality, so the rounds felt like a series of jabs from a competent boxer, but they didn’t penetrate. He flicked the switch on his rifle from projectiles to grenades and shot an incendiary canister at the Confederacy soldier. It ignited on impact, covering both the man and the control panel he hid behind in an adhesive goo that would burn until consumed. His foe lurched to his feet with a scream, and Jax dropped him with a bullet. Better not to be conscious, buddy. Sorry. He didn’t enjoy killing but recognized that it was often necessary, and he had gotten very good at it indeed.
He reached the top level as his counter in his glasses clicked down to one-forty. A distant part of his mind registered the sounds of people coming up the stairs from below, and he freed one hand from his rifle to throw a couple more grenades down the staircase without stopping his advance into the room. A Lienthe was present, fully armored and face-shielded. Worse, the turret outside the transparent panel was moving in the deliberate fashion that indicated target-seeking. Jax launched another grenade, and the alien triggered a blast from its spear-slash-rifle that knocked it out of the air back toward him.
It landed at his feet and rolled, the distance between the canister and the weapon too short for the munition to arm itself. Jax switched to fully automatic and squeezed the trigger as he charged his foe, dispatching a dozen rounds in three seconds, only to see them deflect or rebound from the irregular surface of the Lienthe’s obsidian armor. He changed to energy and tried again, but achieved the same result. His teammates reported things he cataloged as positive progress without fully processing them, all his attention on ending the threat before him.
Jax scrambled to the side to avoid another burst from the alien’s weapon, and then they were in hand-to-hand range. He didn’t go for fancy, just sidestepped a thrust from the spear and flipped his weapon around underhand like a golf swing, the stock whipping at his foe’s chin. It leaned backward to dodge the attack, and Jax continued the rotation of the rifle, slamming it down into the creature’s knee. A crack heralded both the protective armor and the joint beneath it shattering from the force of the blow, which had all the momentum his twisting torso could impart to it. He threw an elbow back into the thing’s throat, and it staggered and fell.
Jax picked up the spear as the counter in his glasses went from triple to double digits and drove it into the creature’s neck. The alien’s body seized, then slackened. Jax dropped the weapon and set his explosives around the control panel. Just enough time to dash out of here before the turrets go up, as long as the grenades cleared out the enemies. He grabbed his remaining disguised grenade as he headed for the staircase, figuring he’d throw it ahead and then run down after it.
That was the moment his mechanical leg decided to turn traitor. The ankle joint locked up as he stepped, causing his knee to hyperextend. Instead of a fast charge down the stairs, he wound up falling down them out of control. The best he could do was to curl up and protect his head as he rolled. The sound of the grenade bouncing down behind him made him wonder if he’d arme
d the thing, and then if the camouflaged versions of the munitions had the same proximity controls as the regular ones.
He slammed into the ground at the bottom, dazed, and screamed as a battered-looking Lienthe guard stabbed a spear deep into the meat of his left arm. Then the timer hit zero and the explosions went off. Jackson Reese’s mind decided, like his leg had, that it had reached the end of its participation in the battle. The last image he had as the world swirled down into darkness was his attacker getting smashed by a flying piece of whatever the tower was made of. He lost consciousness with a smile. Got what you deserved, alien bastard.
Chapter Three
Jax dreamt of a hot tub. Specifically, he pictured the hot tub at a resort he’d been to after college but before he went active military. His left leg had still been whole back then. His girlfriend at the time was in the dream, along with several others he’d had in the years since. The pleasant floating feeling lasted until he realized they were all comparing notes about him, and that the details being shared weren’t positive. He drew in a sharp breath as his left arm began to itch, then hurt, and he looked over to find that it was on fire underwater.
He woke up with a shout, and two pairs of hands immediately restrained him. His vision swam into something that was arguably focus, and he identified the dark-skinned hands on the left as belonging to Darius “Dare” Lyton and the pale ones on his right belonging to Kyra “Books” Venn. The former looked calm and the latter amused, so he figured he wasn’t in danger of imminent demise. Both of them wore fatigue trousers and gray t-shirts. Dare was the more muscular of the two, Books the stringier kind of athletic. She had the longest amount of blonde hair regulation allowed, and he was bald. They complemented one another well. His brain began adding information from his other senses, and the astringent smell that assaulted his nose told him he was in a hospital, probably a portable one dropped during the invasion. “What the hell happened?”
Lyton grinned. “Well, boss, you got yourself blown up. That’s what happened.”
Venn nodded. “I was running by and spotted you through the door at the bottom of the tower. Dragged you out to a safe spot. We evacuated as soon as there was a break in the fighting.”
He frowned. “What’s the situation? Did we all get our jobs done?”
She shrugged. “It all went according to plan, but now we’re at an impasse. They’re dug in, and the commanders don’t want to have to blow up their stuff to root them out. Reinforcements should arrive shortly, and then the jerks will win a free pass to get the hell off our planet.”
Jax noted that Lyton had been keeping his face very neutral, which suggested he was either laughing at his superior officer, which would be unheard of, or trying to keep something secret. He sighed. “Out with it, D.”
The man looked guilty for a moment before breaking into a grin and shaking his head. “Sorry, boss. Kyra’s words hit me funny. She said she dragged you out when it’s more correct to say she dragged most of you out.”
Jax frowned. “You’re not making sense.” The other man gestured with his chin, and Jax looked to his left. Where his arm should have been was a stump that ended a little below the shoulder. He sighed. “Stupid Lienthe bastard and his spear. I guess he got the last laugh after all.”
Venn coughed in a way that sounded like it might have been stifled laughter. “Well, he’s dead, and you’re alive, so I’m not sure that he’s still capable of being all that amused. Anyway, the doc is glaring at us, so we’d better shove off and let her do her thing. Enjoy the rest, boss. The cleanup will be here in no time, and we’ll definitely have a part in that.”
He sat up, and a woman in a white coat yanked up the head of the bed to allow him to remain in that position. She stepped back to where she could see him and raised a hand in greeting. “I’m Doctor Siwah. You look like a good-news-first sort of guy.” He wasn’t, but the woman’s earnestness, plus the cascade of red hair that was barely restrained by something behind her head, made him smile in what she apparently took as agreement. “You’ll be up and moving in no time. Most of your body is just fine, and the quick-heal drugs we’ve got in you are taking care of the little stuff.”
“And the bad news?” He knew what it would be before she said it.
“Arm’s a loss. You’re going to need a prosthetic. I’ll skip the normal explanations since you’ve already got implanted tech. The nerves are good, and the interface should have no issues.”
He snorted. “Tell that to my damn leg. It locked up and pitched me down the stairs.”
She grinned and pulled a tablet from her coat pocket, then unfolded it. A couple of taps later, she replied, “Diagnostics from it say that it seized unexpectedly, but clearly you already know that. I’ll have one of the bioengineering folks on the Cronus review it. Anything else you need?”
He sighed. “Beer?”
She laughed. “Never mix alcohol and healing drugs. You might wind up doing something stupid, like falling down a flight of stairs.” Her tone told him she was kidding.
“Denying me a drink has to be violating some oath you take when you become a doctor. Is coffee allowed?”
Dr. Siwah rose and patted him on his good leg. “That we can do. Give me an hour to figure out your existing prosthetic before you try to get up and about.”
He nodded. “Thanks, Doc. Maybe you can join me for that drink later?”
She laughed again. “Clearly you’re not in too bad of shape, soldier. Take care.”
As she walked away, he called, “That’s not a no.” Siwah replied with a wave, and he settled back to wait for his traitorous leg to get sorted.
Two hours later, he was in as happy a place as he was likely to be during his time on Planet Rathen. The troops had dropped with several prefabricated structures, and one of them was the dining hall. The benches and tables were attached to the metal floor, and overall it was a utilitarian expanse of dusky gray, but a tray with hot food was in front of him, and a bottle of beer rested beside it. Kyra Venn sat next to him, and the rest of his team occupied the seats across from him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was on the ship, although the sweaty scents of the soldiers around him clashed with the picture.
Beatrice “Wasp” O’Leary asked, “So what’s the deal, boss?”
Jax shrugged, which felt distinctly weird without an arm on the left side. “We’ve almost reached critical mass, is what I hear. When we do, the negotiators will go in and hopefully overcome the intellectual prowess of our foes with their powers of logic and communication. Then we’ll get our shot to find stuff that might be useful to our bosses in Special Forces before the normals get them.” His tone wasn’t derogatory since the SF troops respected the rest of their comrades, but there was an element of competition, and the truth was that only the elite made it into their organization. Highly trained soldiers were “normals,” in contrast.
He nodded. “Are you going to tell us about the arm, or should we make up stories?”
Kyle Drent interjected, “I vote for stories. I have a really good one. It involves an alien, a bikini, and a bottle of bourbon.”
Jax shook his head, unable to suppress a grin. “No stories required, thanks. I’ll get a temporary prosthetic later today. By the time we’re ready to go take a look at what the Confederacy and Lienthe troops left behind, I should be at least adequate with it.”
Venn asked, “And after that?”
He sighed. “I’ll probably be off the line for a bit while I integrate with a new one. You know how it is. A lot of it will happen on the way back to Pallas Station, but I’m sure they’ll want to do a hundred and fifty tests there, too.”
Lyton flexed his right hand, which appeared identical to his other despite being entirely mechanical. “There are benefits.” He straightened his fingers and thin blades extended from the tips, each about an inch long and doubtless quite deadly when used on an enemy’s unarmored parts. “What’s the television show? We can make you faster, better, whatever?�
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Jax laughed. Whenever prosthetics came up in conversation, you could count on someone to invoke the shows about bionic people from Earth’s past. The current-day version of the technology was quite different, involving a lot more in the way of electronics and computers and nerve connectivity and whatnot, but the gist was the same. He, like many of the other members of the UCCA military at all levels, was a cyborg. Once it might have been a big deal. Nowadays, not so much.
That didn’t mean he had to like it. Jackson Reese came from a long line of people who believed in their own abilities—leaders and survivors and caretakers of those who needed tending. Depending on anything other than himself, including technology that was now a part of him, was annoying. “Yeah, better. Tell that to my damned leg. Bloody thing locked up again.”
Drent shook his head. “Seems like you got a lemon, boss.” He stabbed a piece of something that pretended to be steak with his fork and chewed it thoughtfully. “Maybe you should get it replaced while you’re in the shop for your bodywork.”
Jax swallowed a growl. One of the best and worst qualities of his team was how well they knew one another’s touchpoints. That allowed them to say the correct thing when it was important to do so, but the rest of the time, it gave them deep insight into just the right thing to say to piss one another off. “Shut it, Kyle.” The others laughed, and finally Jax joined in, shaking his head and taking a long pull on the bottle in his right hand.