Crossing the Void (Conclusion)

Crossing the Void

Part VI - Revenge

Gods below. Grace Anders didn’t invoke those above or beyond, because they had no place on this battlefield. What she saw before her was pure hell.

The Theracites had turned every open area in the urban sprawl into a kill box. The Gaian invaders' forces may have started as the aggressors, but their harried force was being forced through the narrow warrens of the city like mice in some twisted maze. As soon as they’d regain their footing, they were forced into another retreat by some new ambush. Every twist and turn depleted soldiers and resources from the Gaians, and the attrition was taking its toll.

Then there was the creatures themselves. Grace had only spoken with the parasitic lifeforms through holos and low-bandwidth transmissions. Seeing them in the flesh, their stolen flesh, was enough to make the most hardened soldier’s stomach turn.

The alien life form that distinguished them as an off-shoot of humanity wriggled irregularly about the skin and musculature of the host body, occasionally even slithering out of clothing or battle armor. Those irregular curves of silver and amethyst clashed violently with the sickly jaundiced color of their uniforms.

Worst of all was where the three-quarter length visors or their helmets ended, a rancid bouquet of gray-purple tendrils spilled out from where the mouth and chin should be. If there was anything about the Theracites’ humanoid form that smacked of a kinship with the earth-born stock they were derived from, it was vanquished on seeing that wriggling mass of alien tissue.

Perhaps the Solarian Monarchy was more desperate than it let on, having allowed these once-human monstrosities into the fold.

“Anders,” came the voice of her unit commander, Sergeant Pennyworth, over her mech-suite’s internal comms. “Enemy reinforcements, five o’clock. Stop their advance.”

Grace rounded on the identified location. Her mech’s AI targeting software immediately zeroed in on the incoming enemy troops. She leveled her twin arm-mounted chain guns at inbound targets and opened fire. A torrent of metal alloy tore through the enemy combatants like they were paper.

It was strange; the bend the enemy had chosen to reinforce from was a wide avenue, but the angle was all wrong. There wasn’t a way to fan out across the opening without exposing the entire infantry line to exactly the kind of onslaught Grace had just provided. What were they thinking? It’s not like their soldiers needed the space. No one was piloting a—

Aw, fuck.

Pavement crumpled as a heavy metal leg slammed down from around the corner of the plaza. A second was quick to follow, moving faster than a metallic hulk of that size should have been able to move. The twin reverse-jointed legs supported an oblong pod that, while ostensibly housing a pilot and crew, seemed outfitted purely as an exercise in how many weapons they could cram onto its mechanical housing.

A Theracite Dreadwolf.

Grace patched into the comms as her hands moved automatically across the controls of her cockpit. “Ordinance! Heavy ordinance on my position. Scatter. Everyone scatter.”

She wasn’t authorized to give the order, but the dead didn’t concern themselves with the chain of command. That was what they were all about to be soon. Grace called herself just giving her unit one last chance.

As if that fixes this grand fuck up at all.

The Theracites may have been unprepared in orbit, but the Gaian offensive had been crippled far before that. That move had been conducted, at least in part, on Grace’s intelligence. This was her fault.

Concussive waves of force sent her mech flying backward, but not before her shoulder-launched rockets unleashed their payload. As Grace was tossed around, the cockpit spinning and bouncing as the mech tumbled across the plaza, she prayed to the gods above that she might fix her mistake.

The mech encasing her made one final crash. She felt her metal housing vibrate as she skidded across the pavement before coming to a shuddering stop against some vertical obstruction. Her sensors went dark. She was left alone inside her metal prison.

At least she wasn’t dead.

Come on, come on…

She initiated a manual reboot, pulling the lever underneath the console and forcing it back into place. A rush of breath escaped her lips when the console lit up. She quickly toggled the reboot settings, prioritizing shields above all else.

If she hadn’t done that, she would have been dead, for that was when the missiles struck.

Grace felt the sudden change of inertia as her mech was sent spinning away from the impact. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Ordinance? With their own fucking Dreadwolf in the impact zone? Something was wrong with the Theracites’ command and control. There was no way they’d willing to sacrifice such a valuable asset.

Unless…

The mech slammed into something with such force that it slammed Grace’s head into the console. Her vision, and her thoughts, went black.

Twice Grace should have been dead. Twice she was still alive. And that was only counting her time on the surface.

It took a moment to register where she was and remember what was going on. She blinked rapidly, forcing the glowing holodisplay in front of her into focus. The mech seemed to have faired better than she had after the missile strike. Its central processor was fully online and waiting for permission to power the rest of the rig.

She hesitated, her hand shaking above the holographic panel. She’d had a thought just before she was struck. What had it…?

That’s it. The reason why she’d reassigned herself to this group. The primary command and control tower had been in the heart of this city. The Theracites must have been afraid the squadron was getting too close. That’s the only way they’d launch ordinance while their own assets were danger close.

But how to find it?

She needed to be smart about this. Given the crimson splatters on the console, the wet feeling on her skin, and the ache in her head, Grace wasn’t so sure she was in the best position to be making smart choices. Yet, there were no other options available to her.

Focus.

The unit. She needed to ping the rest of her unit. She toggled the sensors to do that exact thing, and her heart sank. Only four transponders were operational out of the whole company. Four mechs. Could she take the C-and-C tower with just four mechs? Surely not.

But, if she doesn’t make it there, she’s as good as dead—either by the hands of the Solarians and Theracites or by the Gaians whom she was spying against.

Grace enabled her comms and selected the first icon, labeled FE-42d. “Forty-two D, do you read?” No response. She checked the signal to make sure it wasn’t a transmission error. The readout indicated the message was received and played.

Shit. The mech may have been operational, but the pilot was dead. Was that true of the others as well?

She toggled to the next icon and said, breathlessly, “Forty-two M, do you read?” A long pause. Grace’s heart sank into her stomach.

“M here,” came the croaked reply. “I read you loud and clear H. Are you in command?”

A private first-class in command? Gods Below, it seemed that way. As FE-42h, she was the highest ranked among the operational units. “That seems to be the case, M. Is your mech operational?”

“Seems so. Don’t know how, though. Saw that blast right in front of me. Lucky landing, I guess. Other survivors?”

Apparently, M hadn’t scanned the vicinity like Grace had. “Potentially, M. Stand by.”

Grace proceeded to ping the other two. Thank the Gods Above that both of them responded. Still, they were going to need help if they were to hit their target.

Now came the hard part. Grace pulled up her long-range sensors and scanned for the Resolve. Doing so painted a huge target on her for the duration of the scan, but that didn’t matter. If she didn’t get in touch with the command ship, she was fucked anyway.

Her speakers beeped, and a red dot appeared on her holodisplay. She couldn’t help but grin. She initiated a private transmission. When her computer indicated she was finally patched through, she said, “This is Private Anders. Do you read me, Resolve?”

The response came quickly, “Jax here. Report, Anders.”

“Forty-two M, R, and S: this is Private Grace Anders piloting Mech forty-two H. By permission of General Garret Jax, I’ve been authorized to command the assault on target now designated Delta-6. You are receiving the mapping data as I transmit this message. Hate to say it, boys and girls, but we’re running in blind. The mission is to take down the target. Reinforcements are inbound, but we are uncertain as to the time of their arrival. Regardless, we cannot wait. We’re conducting a full sprint into ordinance range and unloading every bit of artillery we have. We must bring this tower down. Do not engage enemy combatants unless they have to potential to render you combat ineffective. Do you understand?”

The three other privates on the channel acknowledged the order, and the attack commenced. Grace’s mech forced itself from the rubble and issued a passive pulse across the wasteland that lay between her and the objective. Not a damn thing worth a blip showed up. That just left the fifteen clicks between the edge of her scanners and the target.

No sense in dawdling. Grace forced the mech into a run. She rampaged through the missile strike zone without incident, barely needing to dodge any obstacles. The open warfare had torn down any sizable structure impeding her view of the tower, and that silver and white spire became the focus of her entire existence.

Her three companions fell in loose formation around her. They were twelve clicks from the target and five clicks from weapons effective range. Where were those reinforcements?

Another click in and the Theracite defenses came alive. Suddenly there were a dozen active targets on Grace’s holodisplay. Two dozen. Four…

It’s almost like they don’t want to us take this place out or something. Grace risked an active scan. If the enemy hadn’t detected them yet, they would in mere moments. The ping came back. Most of the deployed forces were infantry, supported by a handful of snipers. However, her computer tagged three targets, right on the surface of the tower, with a maximum threat rating.

Graced toggled her channel. “Overwatch,” she called out the designation Jax had given to the cobbled-together fighter group reassigned for areal support. “I got three Alpha-class targets on the tower. I’m going to need your help in taking them down. Sending you the coordinates.”

“Copy 42-M. Scanning now.” A pause. “42, those are Ravager turrets. They’ve been tearing our squadrons apart all across the planet. Target’s threat range exceeds our own. I’m not sure how much help we’re going to be here.”

Grace was confused. The fighter’s threat range was over three thousand clicks. “Then how in the hell did we manage to get so close?”

“They must not have registered you as a threat just yet.”

Well, if Grace and her mechs were going to be successful, that meant they were going to pop as a threat at some point. How could she…

Something caught her attention and she ordered her company to halt. Peaking out from the rubble of a toppled building, she could just make out a very familiar shape: an oblong pod, now half-crushed, but still supported by a couple of spider-like legs.

“Overwatch, we’re going to light that thing up. As soon as we do, you take out those turrets. Copy?”

To herself, she added: If you don’t, then I certainly won’t have to worry about being tried before my execution.

Jax waited nervously on the bridge of the Resolve. His forces were holding, but their numbers were steadily declining in a slow bleed of attrition. “Any word from the Capitol?” he asked Ensign Nema.

“Negative, sir,” Nema replied. “Overwatch reported that they’ve established contact with FE-42 twenty minutes ago. No significant ordinance or communication has been detected in the area since then.”

So, they aren’t talking, and they aren’t fighting. What in Sol’s name were they doing down—?

“General!” Nema shouted. “Massive explosions at the center of the city. It kind of looks like…” A hesitation.

Jax had no patience left. “What, man? Is it us or them?”

“Them,” the Ensign managed. “A downed Dreadwolf just came back online and unleashed everything it had on the central spire. I… I’m getting a transmission from Overwatch squadron leader, sir.”

“Patch him through.”

“Overwatch-1 to Resolve. Do you read me, General?”

“Loud and clear, Overwatch,” Jax replied. “Report. Please tell me all that racket down there’s a good thing.”

“A great thing, sir. The survivors from Foxtrot Echo abandoned their mechs and took over a Dreadwolf. They lit the C&C Tower up like a solar flare. The ruckus got the Ravagers in the vicinity off our back, and we flattened the tower. Reports from the ground indicate the enemy is scattering.”

Jax exhaled sharply. “Excellent news, Overwatch. How are our assets on the ground?”

“No further casualties reported, sir. Enemy resistance is minimal. Your orders, sir?”

“Keep control of the airspace. We’ll send word to the Solarians that we have the ground and negotiate a time for them to pick up their survivors.”

“If they even want to, Sir. I don’t reckon they’ll give much to round up a bunch of Theracites.”

Such was one of the many hazards of being a mercenary force. “Just keep out people down there save, Overwatch. Over and out.”

“You wanted to see me, General?”

Grace stood in full parade dress inside the General’s office aboard the Resolve. It was her first day rotating back aboard the vessel. A little over two weeks after the battle—what the locals were calling The Reclamation of Ourea—the surviving elements of the Gaian government and Planetary Defense Corps finally managed to reinstate the security grid around the planet. With the PDC back in charge of the surface, most of the surviving crew of the Resolve had been shipped back to the vessel for reassignment.

There was no word as to where they would be stationed next, though a few of them undoubtedly would be left to bolster the planet’s defenses. General speculation held that most of those staying behind would be from the Mercy, though a significant part of that crew would be left to salvage and repair that vessel. There was also the cleanup of what was left of the Victory to consider.

General Jax gestured to the seat across his desk from him. “Have a seat, Anders. I want to talk to you about what happened out there.”

A chill slithered between Grace’s vertebrae, but she forced a stoic mask into place as she took the proffered chair. “Anything in particular, sir?”

“Yes, a few things.” He slid a tablet in front of him and loaded the screen. The interface remained flat, rather than popping up into a holodisplay, preventing Grace from seeing what he was looking at. “Firstly, your personnel records seem to be somewhat spotty. Your enlistment date is unavailable, and though it says you attended the Benedictine Academy on Prospero, there’s nothing on your time there. Only that you graduated three years ago with honors.”

Grace didn’t like her total lack of control of the narrative. “High honors, sir,” she said, forcing a playful grin on her face.

Jax arched an eyebrow, the a slight smile twisted his lips. “Of course. High honors. Is this also where you received your combat mech certification?”

“And my shuttle pilot’s license, sir.”

“Strange. I can’t seem to find that in here either.”

Careful not to overdo it, Grace narrowed her brow and assumed a more neutral expression. “Someone must have had access to it, given I was assigned to Foxtrot Echo.”

“You’re right there, Anders. Except, that’s another thing that’s missing. I don’t have any record of you being assigned to the mech squadron. In fact, I don’t have any record—other than this fragmented personnel file and your cryo-chamber assignment—that indicates you’re supposed to be here at all.”

Jax’s eyes stared into hers as if they might bore the truth right out of her skull.

Stay calm. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“It sounds like someone from records needs to have their ass kicked.”

The general’s brows rose. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. If they were going to make me look like a stowaway, they could at least give me the heads up before I jumped onto the ship to Hell. As you might imagine, I would have rather gone my entire gone my entire career without waking up in warp space.”

There was a tense pause, and then Jax snorted a half-laugh. “You and me both, Anders. You and me both.” He eased back in his chair and the tension in the room dropped markedly. Still, Grace remained upright and alert. She wasn’t out of this yet.

“Any other questions for me, General?”

Jax seemed to give the question a moment of thought. “No, I suppose not. Not about your records, at least. I did wish to ask you a question regarding your preference for deployment. Given that you seemingly don’t belong here, I have a bit more flexibility in how I place you.”

Grace lifted her chin, slightly. “I’ll go where I’m needed, General.”

“No preference? Perhaps I should put you with one of the garrisons remaining here on Gaia. They could likely use a few more soldiers with the ability to operate Theracite equipment.” A short pause and an arched eyebrow. “Is that something else that was left out of your personnel file?”

Grace knew better than to stretch the bounds of credulity with her story. “Negative, sir. The little bit I know there I picked up from field experience.”

“I see.” Jax let another silence fall over them, but his questioning expression relaxed. “Then again,” he said at length. “I could use someone with your talents right here with me on the Resolve. As we take the war effort back into Solarian space, I’m going to need operatives that can think on their feet and take initiative.”

Now the General’s true intentions became clear. He must have gathered that, given their mutual experience crossing the void, Grace might be hesitant to serve on a starship appointment, even though that was clearly his preference. He was offering her an out with a planetary appointment, but the choice was apparently hers.

“I would rather like to remain on the Resolve, sir. That is, of course, if you would have me.”

“Consider it done.” The general rose and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Gunnery Sergeant Grace Anders.”

On instinct, Grace started to correct him. Then realization dawned on her, and she found her words less composed. “G… gunnery…?”

“A field promotion well deserved in light of recent events, yes? I know with your record being in the shape that it is, we aren’t exactly able to confirm the promotion through the traditional pathway. That said, I doubt the bureaucratic machine will question my decision. If your handling of the situation on the ground is any indication, I suspect this be the first of many promotions I’ll have the pleasure of issuing to you.”

So, that was while he was reviewing her file. It wasn’t because he had grown suspect of her treachery. Gods below, the whole ship database was likely in shambles. He had no idea.

And, if Grace had it her way, he never would. “Thank you, sir,” she said accepting his offered hand.

The End

Crossing the Void (Conclusion)

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