Cold War 2395, page 12
“Why’d you go for it, man?”
“Go for what?”
“His arm. I’ve never seen you just do something like that—so decisively, I mean. You didn’t wait for orders or anything, you just did it.”
He takes a few seconds to craft his response.
“It’s like you said yesterday. It’s about doing what you gotta do, not doing what you’re told to do.”
I gulp down a breath’s worth of air, taking a moment to refocus my attention on the conflict immediately ahead of us. We reach the deployment area and prepare to re-don the ACAs, the bulletproof super suits we’ve been sorely missing for the better part of the past day. They’re taxpayer money well spent, even if there’s only enough to fund a few of them per year. It still hurts to think about the ungodly sum of money my squad dumped into space back on that shuttle when we ditched our last suits; what a waste of armor.
We step inside the Advanced Combat Armor fitting modules, relieved that we’ve been privileged with the last two suits the cruiser has on board. Through the modules’ glass panels, I see Gourd is as pumped as I am when the metallic arms start to unfold from the ceiling hatches, each carrying bits and pieces of our exoskeletons. Limb by limb they’re fitted and fastened over our dragon skin, snugging us into the aluminum-titanium interior frames. Then larger sets of robotic arms bring down the armor’s plating to further bulk us up, and once that’s all fitted, a thick spray of catalyst is applied, activating the suits’ projectile-spitting nanogel layer. From there, the last bit of our exposed flesh is covered as our helmets’ faceplates slide down, preparing us for the penultimate suit-up procedure. Here’s where the fun really begins.
My suit’s HUD boots to life and I hear the familiar buzz of my comms line activating, which lets me know Gourd and I are officially connected via radio and almost ready to rumble.
The fitting module has one more attachment to install. Two small compartments open behind my feet, revealing microthruster-concealing shin greaves. They latch onto my armor’s calf plating and are bolted down until I can feel the small thruster engines whizzing and whirring against my titanium heels.
With our fancy rocket boots saddled up, the only thing left is weapons assignment. The overhead menus in our fitting booths display the gear we’ve been authorized to use for the upcoming mission, and it’s a hell of a step up from the tracker pistols and two-foot laser sabers from yesterday. We’re each getting two forearm-mounted buzz saws for cutting shit up close and a heavy pulse rifle for anything that can’t be sliced. Something tells me Cap got a word in when it came to picking out these bad boys.
“Least we can’t run out of ammo now,” Gourd says with relief.
It’s true, the pulse rifle generates its own ammo in the form of laser shots, so we’re not going to run into that situation again. As long as there are visible wavelengths in the electromagnetic radiation around us, the rifle will absorb and congeal the resulting photon energy into segmented beam bursts and pump out all the firepower we’ll ever need. In short, screw physical bullets. One less thing to worry about on an otherwise lengthy list of concerns.
One by one, our modules’ thin metallic claws come down again, clutching the weaponry. I stick my arms out and wait for the first clamps to latch on. Their strong grips wrap around my wrists as the braces for the buzz saws are fitted, alongside the activation switches placed on my palms. Then the blades themselves lower and carefully lock into my forearm mounts. At the end of the process, half of each jagged death wheel is visible and the rest is sheathed. But even when partially concealed, these deadly discs still add an extra twelve inches of bulk to either side of my figure. As a result, I feel bigger, more dangerous, and for the first time in a long time . . . good. Good to not be reliant on some guerilla-style terrorist garb but instead be back inside the United States’ bleeding-edge military equipment.
Below our modules’ overhead menus, the firearm deployment cases unlock, and there they are—the cherries to top off our weaponized cake. I swipe my heavy pulse rifle off its tray and look to see if Gourd’s ready.
“Good to go?”
“Never better.” His voice echoes through his helmet’s voice modulation filter.
We get a move on to the hangar. Time for a Grimm speech.
“Feels good to be back, you know?” I say, drawing attention to the sick blades on my arms. These things are going to dominate.
“Damn right. We better not have to bail on them like last time.”
The heavy stomp of my feet on the metal floor boarding reminds me just how attached I am to these suits. The armor doesn’t make the man, but it sure makes it easier to be one, especially after the day I’ve had. The more barriers between me and the outside world, the better, even if it’s something as simple as a few inches of armor covering me and my exhausted face.
“Wait, man, what good are these blades?” Gourd says, interrupting my train of thought.
“They’re gonna cut up bots like a chef salad. What’s the issue?”
“Yeah, but, I mean, won’t that splat the fuel all over us?”
That’s a good point . . . but no, these suits probably have that stuff in mind. Right? The ACA’s development came after most of the Earth-068 research was done, from what I’m to understand. Based on what Faust revealed, why wouldn’t our military secretly slip some next-gen acidic immunity into the nanogel on these things?
“Faust said the lab rats back home figured out the counter-solvent a while ago, so maybe the gel is packing some form of it. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Maybe,” he says, not entirely convinced.
He shouldn’t be, honestly, since I’m just talking out of my ass. Still, we have rifles to make sure enemies don’t get that up close and personal in the first place.
“Pack the ranged heat and we won’t have to worry about disintegrating, yeah?” I bounce my gun in my hand.
“Good plan,” he responds, ending the conversation as we enter the hangar.
R Company’s quartet of sergeants are suited up in ACAs alongside our captain, the five of them standing on the briefing stage, looking eager to bark some orders at the dozens of Marines below. Gourd and I slip into the back row, trying to play it cool as we awkwardly clomp behind rows of standard-armor troops. Subtlety never was our specialty.
As we stand at attention, waiting for Captain to give us the word, my long-range ACA audio receiver crackles to life, and before I realize what it’s doing, the thing auto-tunes itself to the frequency Grimm is transmitting on. Did he forget to set his broadcast to private? I don’t say anything, but it sounds like I’m about to get a sneak preview of the game plan.
“Sitrep, Colonel,” he asks Colonel Bertram Artemis, the man in charge of Virginia’s 2nd Battalion. I saw him on the news once; seemed like a dick. Hell of a mustache, though.
“Not pretty up here, Cap,” he responds with his trademark southern accent. “That tower town ain’t a sand castle; anti-air defenses are way too strong for a frontal assault. Our transports can’t fly near without getting shot down.”
“Then we go to the Spire on foot. Status of the Russian trams?”
“The enemy’s shut them down across the colony—wait, wait, the techies are telling me there’s a chance they can get the woodland habitat’s rails back up and running in under an hour.”
“Affirmative. Keep me posted.”
The comms chatter goes dark as Artemis disconnects without a goodbye, leaving Captain to address the men and women in front of him.
“At ease, Marines,” he says.
Thank God; I didn’t realize how locked up my knees were until now.
“You’re here today because you’ve been assigned the most important mission of your lives,” he starts.
Way to ease us into it, Cap.
“Today is a day of great sorrow but also great triumph. Our president is gone, but we have an opportunity to fulfill her dying wish and make America the strongest superpower on the map once again. Our mission is simple: reach the Spire, retrieve the data, and cap the station, terminating every Red aboard with extreme prejudice. And make no mistake, they are Reds. Each and every one of them. NURS is just one head of a Russian hydra, one that we’ll burn at the stake when the time comes. For now, we deal with the biggest threat to liberty and freedom in our nation’s history.
“You came here because of the president’s sacrifice, and you will stay here to avenge her. The colony we’re inside houses the most dangerous piece of military hardware known to man, and we cannot let the Russians maintain their grasp on it. They’ve set off a timer to destroy every last kilobyte of data on board, each of which contains vital intel. We’re in a race against the clock, Marines.
“Here’s the plan. We filter out of here via the security hatch that’s lined up with the other side of the tube we’re lodged in. Then we move up to the forge zone and fly transports into the woodland habitat. From there, it’s back on foot toward the Spire.”
Sounds simple enough.
“Make no mistake, we will face firm resistance, the likes of which you’ve never seen before. Next-generation mechs, fighters, and enemy AI populate the station, varieties of which we are not prepared to engage. However, we have no choice. Some foes may be faster or stronger than us,” he says, really hammering it into the minds of these poor troops without ACA suits that they’re completely fucked.
Not that the few of us equipped with the aforementioned suits are much better off, but at least we have a bit of extra defense. Thankfully, Grimm course-corrects the speech with his next sentence, refocusing on optimism instead of the fact that we’re all cannon fodder.
“But there’s not a chance in hell any are better than us. When we join forces with our stateside brethren up top, we’ll be among the best minds in the free world. And it’s time to put each and every one of them to use.”
Wow, he really turned that around.
“You all have the plan. Now, time is of the essence. Romeo Company, move out!” he commands.
As everyone swarms to their respective commanding officers, Grimm reverses the status quo and takes the initiative to seek us out. Through the blur of gray and beige uniforms whizzing past, I see the unmistakable navy blue and gold plating of our captain approaching.
“Anything you two want to ask before we mobilize?” His voice is calm and considerate. He even tries to make a crack at me. “What, no bullshit one-liner, Lieutenant?”
Lucky for him, I’m all out of questions and quips.
“No sir,” I respond firmly. Let’s just get to the shooting part.
“All right, then form up on me. We’ll lead the spear tip and set the pace for R Company. Remember, we can’t move too fast. The black boots are gonna have to jog it out.” He nods toward the rows of regular Marines.
One drawback of the ACA suits’ expensive nature is that those who do get to wear them feel like complete assholes at moments like the current one.
All of R Company filters through the cruiser until we arrive at the blast door on the other end of the tram tube that’s perfectly positioned to spit us into the main body of the space station. Jostling and bouncing each other forward, one by one we exit our home away from home and dive back into the colony.
The glow of the green tube is a lot more vibrant when I enter into it for the second time today. Glancing to my right, I see why. The massive black pipes that were previously obstructing our view of the starlight are completely shredded thanks to the cruiser’s perfect entry. And even if they were in one piece, the lack of an active cooling system would still mean no cannon. The station feels a smidgen less menacing now that I know instant vaporization isn’t on the menu.
“Man, not to be weird or anything, but I need you still while I get these things on, just to help balance. It’s been a while . . .” Gourd trails off, bracing his hand against my shoulder as he prepares to activate the microthrusters in his boots. Jesus, if it weren’t for my armor’s exoskeleton, just the weight of him pressing down on me would be enough to dislocate my damn shoulder. Even now, it’s not the most comfortable thing in the world and—fuck!
“Gourd!” I shout, recoiling from the sudden push downward as his hand digs into me the moment his boots light up. Now that he’s a couple inches off the ground, I work on fixing the feeling that my left deltoid’s a couple inches out of place.
“Sorry, bro, it’s tricky.”
I rotate my arm until I hear a nice little crack and know everything’s back where it should be. I guess I can’t be mad at him; the guy’s never been too good with these things, especially when it comes to the boots. Time to show him how it’s done.
I press two fingers down on the armor plate of my left thigh, instantly launching myself a good foot into the air before I level out at a steady hover. The pressure sensors kick in and drop me back to the ground, though they’re now primed to engage my thrusters whenever I need them.
“That’s how it’s done, buddy.”
“Show off,” he mutters as we walk toward Grimm, who has situated himself at the very head of the pack.
“Everything in order?” Captain asks.
“Sir, yes, sir,” we respond.
“All right.” He turns from us to face the whole of R Company. “Squads, are we ready to move?”
“Roger,” the four sergeants respond in unison.
As quickly as that final confirmation is spoken, we’re off. Drenched in glorious emerald light and separated from the cold emptiness of space by nothing more than a shattered shuttle tube, we march forward. Grimm slides into his slow, rhythmic rocket-skate pattern, leading our charge without a foot on the floor. After the first couple yards I find my groove as well, and slowly but surely Gourd manages to get his own flow going, rendering all of Sierra Squad airborne. The sergeants behind us kick on their thrusters, and soon enough the head of our spear is entirely off the ground, consisting of seven ACA-clad warfighters jetting toward the station’s belly with dozens of jogging Marines in tow. My rifle weaves left and right as I skate forward, armed to the teeth and equipped with the finest armor in the galaxy. Deep in enemy territory, surrounded by unknowns, I know one thing for certain: no matter what happens next, I have the tools to make a stand.
CHAPTER 13
Beecher
“Jesus, I thought these were bad with four people,” Gourd says, hustling alongside me and the rest of R Company up the network of steps leading to the forge platform.
“No one ever said our job was easy!” I reply.
“No one ever said it’d be so hard, either,” Gourd complains, clearly upset that we don’t have enough space to kick on the rocket boots and skip leg day.
Even with our metal exoskeletons bouncing us up the steps, our quads still get one hell of a workout. And that’s not including the extra effort needed thanks to the serious overcrowding and bumping going on among the troops. Whatever happened to column right and march, people?
To distract myself from the clomping boots and Captain’s bulky blue-and-gold-armored ass, I glance at the scene above us. Well over our heads, hundreds of feet in the air, a fellow company’s fighters dash around, locked in a colony-spanning dogfight with a swarm of hornet drones. Trams offline, anti-aircraft defenses live, hornets out in full force . . . something tells me I was right to warn Gourd that our mission won’t be a cakewalk.
“Move!” Captain yells as one of our fighters takes a full load from a hornet, its thrusters ripping off as it nosedives into a stack of generators about a mile away from us.
The torn-up ally ship, the guy inside it, and the machinery he just made contact with all burst into flames, sending a small shockwave through our stairwell as the crash’s splash damage spreads. At the rate lasers keep firing overhead, that definitely won’t be the last ship we see go down. Much like the captain, I have no plans to wind up as collateral damage, nor does the rest of our group. In response to the new danger, we up the pace and before I know it, Grimm’s stepping onto the forge zone’s entry platform, his armor reflecting the bright red hues of the nearby lava.
“Move! Move! Move!” he barks, waving each one of us aboard until we’re all off the stairs.
Six transport jets are waiting, hovering idly on the opposite side of the platform.
“Sergeant Marx, Yankee Squad stays here and guards the entry. Anything comes from those catwalks,” he says, pointing to the sizzling platforms only a machine could traverse, “you shoot it. Those trams come back online and anything comes your way without prior notice, you shoot it. Anything comes from above or below, you shoot it. Got it?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Sergeant Marx shouts back, fighting for her helmet-augmented voice to be heard over the hissing lava and droning transport engines. She posts her Marines at various spots along the tram platform’s perimeter while the remaining fifty-something of us keep our eyes and ears glued to Grimm for further instructions.
“Sergeant Barton, your squad’s taking the transport on the far left.”
“Roger that.”
“Sergeant Toufexis, the one next to that.”
“Roger, Captain.”
“McGregor, take the third in sequence. We’re bunking with you,” he tells Delta Squad’s leader. It makes sense, since Delta has a few less Marines than the other squads and we only have three men total in ours.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” the boisterous Scotsman replies.
“Marx!” The captain redirects his attention to the sergeant tasked with defending the platform. “Just got word the other three shuttles are reserved for Kilo Company, so keep your eyes open for part of Utah Battalion. They should be trickling in soon.”
Trying to shout over the sudden burst of laser fire that erupts overhead would be useless, so Marx gives Grimm the okay with a hand signal. It gets the job done, and Captain moves on with the mission.
“All right, let’s go!”
At his command, Gourd and I scurry toward our transport, climbing aboard the doorless minijet as fast as humanly possible. After finding spots to stand in the troop hold, we grab the overhead railing on our side of the craft and prepare for liftoff.
