Chapter 1: EE-4

The carrier left superlight, spraying a technicolor cloud of gas and dust in its wake as it punched a hole back into reality. Its massive, blocky bulk drifted idly as the residue slowly dissipated, a smear of brilliant color against the blackness of space.

Before it a lush, green world hung in space, snaking rivers and verdant jungles visible even at such great distances. The mixed crew of humans and aliens were strapped into crash couches, their landing craft nestled in recesses along its hull. They clenched their teeth around plastic bits, lest they bite off their own tongues as the dimensional transition wracked their bodies, their muscles twitching and convulsing under the stress.

The autopilot maneuvered the one hundred and twenty thousand ton ship, taking an evasive route while the pilot came to his senses, his addled brain struggling to reboot. Superlight travel wreaked havoc with the nervous system. Some people were more susceptible than others, the symptoms ranging from temporary madness and nausea, to unconsciousness or blindness. Pilots were chosen partly for their resistance to the effects, but even they would take a minute or two to regain enough sanity to steer a vessel. In that period of time the autopilot would take control, performing evasive maneuvers to minimize the risk of taking incoming fire, as exiting superlight was when a ship and her crew were at their most vulnerable.

As predicted by naval intelligence, orbital defensive structures began to fire on the carrier at extreme range, unguided tungsten rods thrown by magnetic accelerators blew past the space where the carrier had been only moments ago. The ship’s computer tracked the trajectories of the projectiles and compensated, chemical engines along the hull of the vessel flaring. Orange plasma streamed into space as it heaved out of their path, single-minded in its mission to protect the crew.

The pilot came to, like crawling through wet concrete his mind dragged itself back to awareness. He shook his head vigorously and examined the HUD display on his helmet.

Good, the reentry point was only a few thousand miles off course, they were almost exactly on target. The UNN Shiroyama was on a mission to deliver a contingent of human and Borealan commandos to the surface of Epsilon Eridani IV, it was the only habitable planet in the disputed Epsilon Eridani system and had been heavily fortified by Betelgeusian forces. The Bugs had stormed the planet in a surprise attack and had erected formidable defense systems in order to dissuade a counter invasion. Any battle group that got too close would be shredded by concentrated fire, the only option was to send in small landing craft that the anti-ship weaponry mounted to the orbital stations could not track, and disable their ground-based control systems. EE-4 was a jungle planet, lush with exotic flora that would be dense enough to conceal the commandos as they made their way to their targets.

The pilot took the helm, allowing the auto-pilot to make minor corrections as he steered the mammoth vessel towards the planet. More crew were coming to now, and winding trails of point defense fire snaked from the ship, destroying torpedoes that were only now coming into range. Bright flashes of orange illuminating the darkness, reflecting on the ocean-grey hull of the carrier as it pointed towards its target.

They had to do this quickly. The closer the carrier got to the planet, the more accurate the enemy fire would become. Beyond a certain range the Shiroyama would not have time to dodge those ship-killer magnetic accelerator rounds.

“All hands, all hands, prepare for drive-by insertion. Repeat; prepare for drive-by insertion.”

The four main engines in the ship’s stern flared to life, acceleration pinning the occupants to their seats as the carrier barreled towards the planet, covering the distance at an alarming rate. The green sphere grew rapidly, filling the pilot’s field of view. The orbital stations that ringed it became visible, fat, grey rods with a central torus, suspended above the atmosphere. Pinpoints of light flashed around their central hubs as they fired on the speeding target, but it was going too fast for their weapons to track it.

Collision warnings blared on the HUD, and the pilot engaged the superlight drive countdown. A colorful aura grew around the ship as its power plants were drained in order to charge the jump drive, the vast energies preparing to tear a breach in the fabric of space itself. As the jump countdown reached four seconds, he hit the emergency release on the docking clamps. A cloud of tiny landing craft broke away from the carrier, propelled forward by inertia as the giant vessel warped, then blinked out of reality. A cloud of red, blue and green dust expanded in its wake like a tiny nebula, the colorful smear of a celestial paintbrush.

The landing craft were small, agile shuttles with short, stubby wings for atmospheric flight. They fired their retro thrusters as they sped towards the planet, attempting to slow their descent. They weaved and banked, dodging fire that was still directed at the expanding gas cloud where the carrier had been only seconds ago, punctured by torpedo trails.

They approached the line of defensive installations, blowing past them as AA fire tried in vain to track them. They broke formation, each arching towards a predetermined landing site on the planet’s surface. They glowed orange as they hit the atmosphere, air resistance turning their hulls into bright beacons as they trailed fire.

Shuttle eight banked towards its landing site, the jungle canopy racing below its wings, a green blur as the craft circled in an attempt to shed speed as it descended. The pilot craned his neck to look back into the troop bay. His charges, half a dozen human marines and three towering Borealans, checked their gear and loaded their XMRs. They carried modular rifles that could be customized to suit the physiology of any humanoid species, one needed only to choose a suitable frame for their stature, and then the weapon could be modified to suit their needs.

The three gigantic Borealans glared around the bay, their piercing, amber eyes intense and alert. They were descended from a feline ancestor, and they shared a few similar features, most notably the round ears that protruded from the tops of their heads amongst a mane of orange hair. They had a flat nose and a long, furry tail, their three fingers and their paw-like toes tipped with wicked claws. They were clad in the ceramic armor that was customary to soldiers of the UNN, their sleeves rolled up to expose their furred forearms, marked with faded tiger stripes. They were perfectly suited to guerrilla warfare, and that was why high command had assigned them to this mission. They were ambush predators, perfectly suited to a jungle environment.

Their human counterparts wore full-faced helmets and camouflaged body armor, with green netting disguising their rifle barrels. While not as naturally endowed as the alien auxiliaries, they were Marine scouts, and no less dangerous.

The pilot examined the readout on the dark visor that obscured his face, and noted that their air speed and hull temperature were now at an acceptable level to attempt a landing. His computers scanned the dense jungle below, and identified the heat signature of the control station they had been ordered to capture. The Betelgeusian installation was driving one of the massive weapons platforms orbiting above them. He steered the ship towards it, they would land a small distance away and attempt to infiltrate, intelligence had reported that the small buildings were not heavily defended.

As they glided towards their target, a sudden tremor passed through the vessel. Warning signals flared on the pilot’s HUD, and he glanced to the left to see that his wing was gone. Fuel leaked from the jagged tear, igniting in a trail of fire behind them as the dropship bled like a wounded animal. A second AA shell rose from the jungle below, exploding beneath them and tearing out the belly of the craft. Wind rushed past his ears as his stomach lurched, suddenly weightless. The smell of smoke and blood flooded his senses as he tumbled end over end, the canopy rushing towards him like a green fist, and then his world went dark.

The pilot awoke with a gasp, he tried to breathe, but his lungs wouldn’t suck air. He coughed and gagged, then vomited water, his cleared lungs heaving as he struggled to sit up.

Where was he? He was sitting waist-deep in shallow water. His fingers sifted through mud and weeds as he looked up, trying to take in his surroundings. Gnarled, twisted trees covered in moss and vines, the sky obscured by a forest canopy, bright shafts of sunlight penetrating the leaves. He gave himself a brief look over, he seemed to be in one piece. He was dazed, and his head was ringing like a bell, but besides that he didn’t seem to be in immediate danger.

He pulled off his helmet, its visor shattered like broken glass, and he ran his fingers over his face. Cuts and some tender bruises, but nothing life threatening. He stood on shaky legs, his boots sinking in the silt. He scanned the area, realizing that he was in a clearing, dense forest encircled him on all sides. He was standing on the shore of a shallow lake. The shuttle had plowed through the trees, snapping them like toothpicks, leaving a trail of destruction that must be miles long. It had cratered and eventually come to a stop in the deeper water. It protruded from the surface, its still smoking engines angled into the air.

He must have been thrown from the cockpit, it was a miracle he was still alive, never mind unhurt.

Shit, the crew.

He waded deeper, marching through the lake, struggling through weeds and aquatic plants as he went. Fortunately the area where the shuttle was sitting was not so deep that he had to swim, and the troop bay door was jammed open. He hooked his hands over the lip and pulled himself up, straining with the effort. The bay was partially submerged, the forward section and cockpit were obscured beneath the muddy water. He could see the helmets of two Marines under the surface, still strapped to their seats. If they hadn’t died in the impact, they would have drowned shortly after.

Most of the occupants were dismembered, their bodies torn apart by twisted metal and shrapnel, but one Borealan was intact. Her leg was twisted badly and she seemed to be unconscious, but her chest rose and fell, and he could hear shallow breathing.

He climbed down into the bay gingerly, finding footholds between the seats, reaching the alien and unfastening her seat belt. He fumbled with the clasp, eventually succeeding in freeing her. The alien’s limp body slumped sideways, but she did not fall out of her chair. He pulled at her arm but she was far too heavy for him to lift. He tried shaking her awake, but there was no response. Frustrated, he slapped her face, nothing. He slapped again, harder, and this time she sputtered to life. Her eyes were wide and frightened, darting about as she tried to get her beatings. She grasped her twisted leg, a low growl of pain escaping her lips.

“What ... what happened?” She gasped, looking around the troop bay in confusion. She spoke with an odd, rolling accent, it almost sounded Russian.

“We were shot down over the jungle. My name is McGregor, I’m ... I was, the pilot.”