Dire Contingency
Copyright© 2025 by Snekguy
Chapter 1
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A disillusioned special forces group stages a violent insurrection, stealing experimental weapons from a Navy black site and using them to take over a remote colony. With help months away, the only person who is in a position to oppose them is Ruza – an old veteran of the Kerguela war. The planet is plunged into a brutal conflict, with local resistance groups hellbent on breaking the occupation.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Military War Science Fiction Aliens Space Oral Sex Petting Size Politics Slow Violence
2628 – MU ARAE BLACK SITE 2 – BARBOSA
Barbosa walked down the winding corridor of the station, his prosthetic feet clunking through his boots against the blue carpet that covered the deck. The walls were a sterile white, with circuit boxes and exposed pipes visible here and there, though it was a little more lavish than what one might expect to see on the average spacecraft. The station was built into an asteroid that orbited on the outskirts of the Mu Arae system, practically invisible to those who weren’t already looking for it.
There were two such sites, along with a small Naval base that orbited a gas giant a little further sunward. Black Site One and Two served as black budget research facilities, funded in large part by the credits that Admiral Vos obtained from the Covert Appropriations Committee. They examined captured tech and samples obtained surreptitiously from Coalition allies and performed research and development on technologies that weren’t necessarily sanctioned by the UN. The Admiral shared Barbosa’s opinion that preening politicians shouldn’t let petty morality get in the way of breakthroughs that could empower the Navy. At least, he had.
“I wasn’t expecting the project to be canceled so soon,” Barbosa said, his synthetic timbre echoing down the hallways. “It feels like only yesterday that we got those C-3 shunts implanted. Are you sure there’s no chance that I can still change your mind?”
“I realize that Bullshark was your pet project,” Vos replied as he strode along beside the towering agent. Vos was a few years older than Barbosa, his features weathered by time and stress alike, his pristine Admiral’s uniform shining white beneath the harsh overhead lights. He wore a cap with a golden UNN wreath emblazoned just above the dark brim, his chest adorned with a long career’s worth of colorful ribbons. “You’ve been to bat for Dire Contingency numerous times – I know how much you believed in the initiative. Doctor Nilsson tells me that you and your team have been invaluable during the R&D process, and I certainly want to acknowledge that contribution.”
“Sounds like the kind of speech you’d give when you fire someone,” Barbosa replied with a humorless chuckle.
They stopped beside a window that overlooked one of the labs. Within, Barbosa could see a clean room filled with people wearing sealed suits, flexible hoses connecting them to oxygen lines on the ceiling. Spread about on their workstations were Broker drones in varying stages of deconstruction, their colorful housings split open to expose machinery and electronics that made no visual sense to him. They were larger than one might expect – about the size of an engine block, their plasma weapons and arrays of sensors carefully separated from the chassis like organs during a dissection.
“Rest assured that nobody is being fired,” Vos replied as he watched the scientists dig around inside one of the alien robots. “Dire Contingency, and the various projects under its umbrella, have simply ceased to make financial sense. We’re funneling an absurd amount of cash into these stations, and it can’t pass under the radar forever. Eventually, people with more authority than me are going to start asking questions about where all that money is flowing, and someone will be compelled to give them answers. Besides, I’ve become less confident in the necessity of the initiative as time has passed.”
“Don’t tell me that this is all because of Kerguela?” Barbosa asked, giving his old friend a sideways glance.
“Kerguela was merely the cherry on top of the cake,” Vos replied. “Believe me – I had plenty of misgivings when the Jarilans were admitted into the Coalition. I had to be convinced to vote in their favor. For years, we kept a fleet in orbit around Jarilo that was prepared to level the entire continent if they so much as looked at us funny. The investment has paid off, however. The Jarilans have proven their worth and their loyalty. We couldn’t have taken Kerguela without them, and the medical and technological breakthroughs they’ve provided have surpassed decades of research into Betelgeusian tech. They’re building shipyards and infrastructure projects for us, they’re helping to fast-track the development of new colonies, and they’re fighting on the front lines. Even your friend Brenner changed his tune after serving with them during the campaign.”
“Brenner has always been a little less... critical than I am,” Barbosa muttered as the pair continued on. “Ever the optimist.”
“Perhaps I’m also feeling a little more optimistic these days,” Vos chimed as they turned a corner. They passed a scientist in a lab coat who was clutching a tablet computer in his hands, the man doing a double-take when he saw Barbosa and the arrays of lenses that filled his eye sockets, hurrying on his way.
“How so?” Barbosa asked, watching the staff member scurry past.
“You’re an old war dog – same as me,” Vos continued. “You remember when this all started.”
“Hard to believe it’s been almost thirty years.”
“We woke up one day, and the universe was changed,” the Admiral mused. He paused to scan his fingerprint on a touch panel beside a door, and it slid open to let them pass. “Enemies that had seemed so threatening only hours prior suddenly became inconsequential. Separatists, rogue Corps, rival nations – it was all washed away. Suddenly, we were faced with an existential threat – one set on wiping out the human race. The Betelgeusians were more technologically advanced, more numerous, and driven by a kind of genocidal hatred that transcended our petty territorial squabbles.”
“It was quite the shock to the system,” Barbosa added. “I remember – I was deployed on an op when it happened. We’d just busted some separatists who had been bombing train stations, and we got the Skyfall order. They called everyone home and reassigned us.”
“Aliens exist, and some of them are Hell-bent on killing you,” Vos chuckled. “Hell of a headline. A lot of our assumptions about them proved to be unfounded, however. We assumed that they were an organized force sharing intelligence and conducting invasions based on some grand strategy. They aren’t. Each hive is independent, and they’re just as likely to fight each other as they are to target us. We’ve been dealing with Nuptial Fleets for a long time, and we’ve now proven that we can take out older, more established hives. The Betelgeusians are becoming less of an existential threat and more like ... inclement weather – something inevitable that you combat through careful preparation. Regular fleet patrols for rapid response, a properly trained and outfitted PDF, civilian bunker systems – we’re a lot less vulnerable than we once were.”
“It’s easy to minimize the damage they’ve caused in hindsight,” Barbosa muttered as they passed another window. Beyond the glass was another lab, this one occupied by rows of tanks filled with suspension fluid, samples and whole carcasses of Betelgeusians of all shapes and sizes floating within them. “They didn’t become less dangerous, just less organized.”
“My intention isn’t to minimize anything,” Vos chided. “I’m merely stating that we’ve grown in both our knowledge and our capabilities. The situation is no longer as dire as it once seemed, and our allies are stepping up their game. The Valbarans are developing their own capable fleet, the Jarilans are expanding their forces, and the Brokers have pledged to take a more active role in defense. Dire Contingency was put in place to prepare for a possible future where we could no longer rely on our allies, and that has grown less likely with each passing year.”
“I never thought I’d see you throwing your support behind the aliens with such fervor,” Barbosa said as he watched one of the lab technicians slice open an alien organ that bled green ichor. “You were always skeptical – always realistic. You were always someone who imagined the worst-case scenario and planned for that outcome, regardless of what everyone else was doing.”
“We’re supposed to change, Barbosa,” Vos replied as he reached out to place a friendly hand on the agent’s prosthetic arm. “We reevaluate – we evolve. The incident on the Pinwheel showed me that some of my trust in my own people was misplaced.”
“Fort Hamilton,” Barbosa grumbled.
“Fort Hamilton,” Vos conceded, withdrawing his hand. “Kerguela proved to me that our allies aren’t just fair-weather friends relying on our industrial base for protection – they’re in it for the long haul. Everyone pulled their weight.”
“The timing of all this is what confuses me,” Barbosa began, zooming in on the dissection to watch the scientist work. “It was only two years ago that we had to put down the Rask Rebellion. It was only last year that the truth about what the Brokers did came out. Those fuckers let the Betelgeuse Incident happen, Vos. They knew that colony ship was doomed, and they let them enter the system anyway, all to rile us up and drag us into a war that they were losing.”
“The Brokers have been shockingly transparent,” Vos replied. “Their Regulators have cooperated fully with UNNI investigations into the Board and its actions.”
“I’m sure the battleships we sent to their doorstep helped them make the right decision...”
“It seems that a small number of high-level Brokers were involved in the plot, and they’d done their best to keep a lid on it,” Vos explained. “Their society seems almost as outraged by the revelation as ours. The Board of Directors – their top government – has been shaken up pretty severely. Lots of votes of no confidence, lots of hearings, lots of people being stripped of their property and holdings. Big deal in their society, I hear.”
“Doesn’t change what they did.”
“No, but they’re very eager to make amends. Reparations, trade contracts, technology sharing programs – it all benefits us more than starting some ill-conceived revanchist war. Of course, I would have liked to keep that information under wraps,” he added with a scowl. “Fucking Lena Webber and David O’Shea. I hate them so much. I could have blackmailed the Brokers into doing anything I wanted with that information, but those two assholes decided to blow it all up in my face.”
“You want me to pay them a visit?” Barbosa asked with a grin.
“You have no idea how sorely tempted I am to say yes,” Vos sighed. “I understand where you’re coming from, Commander – I really do – but we’ve never been in a stronger position. For the first time in a very, very long while, I feel like the sword of Damocles isn’t hanging over our heads.”
“That doesn’t mean things can’t go South,” Barbosa warned, his tone dour.
“No, but it means that I can’t really justify funneling billions of credits into an initiative that’s less likely to see the light of day than ever,” Vos scoffed. “Come on – let’s go see Nilsson. I’ll give you one last look at the Bullsharks for old times’ sake.”
“You’re not destroying them, are you?” Barbosa asked as he raised an eyebrow.
“No – just mothballing them,” Vos replied as he continued on down the corridor. “R&D is ending, but it still produced some valuable technology. Honestly, even if we managed to reach mass production, the economics just don’t make sense anymore. One Bullshark would cost as much to build as an Assault Carrier. Why pay for a Bullshark when you can just have the Jarilans pump out Warriors practically for free?”
“Because we would be self-sufficient,” Barbosa insisted. “We wouldn’t be beholden to a bunch of Bugs who could pull the plug any time they wanted.”
“I wish you’d see things the way I do, old friend,” Vos said with a hint of sadness in his voice. “We can’t keep fighting forever. Eventually, you and I both are going to have to open our fists and loosen our grip. We have to build a future that will be safe once we’re too old and too tired to micromanage the Galaxy.”
They descended a flight of steps, passing a few more employees who all gave Barbosa the same wary look. He was used to it by now – it had stopped bothering him years ago. In many ways, civilians reacted to him the same way that they reacted to aliens due to his strange appearance.
They arrived at a more expansive laboratory, this one having more in common with a garage than a clean room. There was heavy machinery everywhere he looked, mobile crane arms attached to rails that ran along the ceiling letting the workers lift large payloads. There were lengths of thick chain hanging from some of them, stringing up partially-assembled robotic limbs and armored plates too heavy for a man to lift. Bullshark chassis in various stages of construction were suspended off the ground to allow the scientists to work on them more easily, their vaguely humanoid shape making the place look like some kind of robotic abattoir.
There was medical equipment, too. He could see artificial limbs and organs floating in vats of suspension fluid, along with advanced surgical bots attached to gurneys, their chrome tool arms curled in on themselves like dead spiders. Those were the same machines that had installed the C-3 shunt that was now grafted to his cervical spine.
Most of the work on the project seemed to have already wound down. There were few technicians and engineers still milling about, leaving the large shop floor feeling eerily empty. Vos led him over to a bank of holographic monitors at the far end of the room, weaving between partially constructed robots and work surfaces strewn with parts and tools, their footsteps echoing.
Nilsson looked up from his work as they approached, pushing his office chair out from a long desk and turning to greet them. The doctor was a middle-aged man with messy, straw-blonde hair, his civilian clothing covered by a white lab coat. He already seemed agitated, but there was a glint of hope in his eyes when he saw Barbosa.
“Commander!” Nilsson exclaimed, hurrying over to clasp Barbosa’s prosthetic hand. He gave it an enthusiastic shake, the agent’s massive limb dwarfing his own. “I’m so glad to see you here! Tell me that you’ve been able to convince our Admiral of the project’s value!”
“I’m afraid not,” Barbosa replied, giving Vos a glance. “The Admiral’s mind seems to be made up on this matter.”
Nilsson visibly deflated like someone was letting all of the air out of a human-shaped balloon, his expression darkening.
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Rest assured that I’ve done my best to make him see reason. It was my sincere hope that the memo I sent over would help him recognize the progress that we’ve made and the necessity of the project. We’re so close to ending the prototyping phase.”
“How’s the decommissioning process coming along?” Vos asked pointedly.
“Most of the staff have already been moved off the project,” the doctor sighed. “Construction on more prototype units has ceased, and the completed suits are being prepped for transport and storage,” he added with a gesture to the leftmost wall. “We’ll be using any leftover parts and materials as spares. They’ll go into storage alongside them.”
Barbosa walked over to the row of cradles, admiring the Bullsharks that hung from them.
The Bullshark was more a humanoid vehicle than a suit of armor. Its thick ceramic plates were layered on top of a heavy-duty, industrial exoskeleton powered by giant pistons and motors, the shining metal contrasting with the charcoal and Navy blue of the chassis. It was at once inelegant and bulky, yet sleek and powerful, everything about it scaled up and oversized. At a little over seven feet tall and with shoulders half that in width, it was a veritable juggernaut of steel and ceramics, its sharp lines and onyx coloration mirroring the design language of UNN vehicles and spacecraft. Each limb was as thick as a man’s torso, both because of all of the machinery and armor that was packed into them, and because a pilot was expected to fit inside of it.
His eyes wandered from its head to its feet, taking it all in. Between the heavy, angular pauldrons was an empty cavity where the pilot’s head would sit, the armored canopy that closed over it like a clam shell currently resting in its stowed position. It would lift away and rest upright behind the pilot’s head, the little camera dome mounted beneath its sloping chin peeking out, the shining lenses still able to track threats and trigger the active protection systems. The cavity was lined with soft padding in a shade of dark blue, the armored collars that locked to the canopy to create a seal rising up to protect the wearer’s head like those of a bomb disposal suit or Trog armor.
Below it was the torso, a streak of UNN blue with stenciled letters that spelled SWAR emblazoned across the chest piece. Just like Marine armor, the body was protected by segmented plates, three of them running down the torso with a fourth plate covering the crotch, joined together by silver hinges to allow some range of motion.
Unlike the lightweight ceramic plates that formed body armor, these were several inches thick – heavy enough that an unaugmented person would struggle to even lift one unaided. Along with tough ceramics that helped dissipate heat and an ablative coating, there was a layer of artificial diamond sandwiched in there that added the necessary hardness to help stop XMR slugs. Until now, the idea of a wearable system that could even come close to stopping a railgun had been a pipe dream. The suit’s plates were also modular – able to be replaced easily after being subjected to damage.
His eyes moved down its arms, almost gorilla-like in their exaggerated proportions, pistons as thick as soda cans attached to hinges that pulled and pushed to move the heavy limbs. At the end of each arm was a giant mechanical hand, human in shape, but scaled up to be able to hold heavy weapons and large XMR frames intended for alien auxiliaries. The suit could wield an anti-materiel railgun – and handle its recoil – with the same ease that a human might fire a marksman rifle.
It wasn’t visible from this angle, but behind the suit was a bulky backpack that housed the lion’s share of the electronics and computer systems, along with a micro-reactor that provided fusion power for long-duration deployments. Unlike a system that relied solely on batteries, it didn’t need to be constantly recharged, and it could operate almost indefinitely.
Lower still were more shining pistons joining the legs to the torso, thick plates enclosing the limbs, the external framework that allowed it to move around under its own power even more pronounced here. There were backward-facing heat vents on the calves, making them appear a little bulkier than the thighs, along with some heavy-duty knee pads.
The feet were surprisingly complex, the legs ending in massive boots equipped with a system of claws that could clamp themselves into the ground to provide more traction. There were two jutting out of the front of the boot, along with a larger band-shaped claw at the heel, able to close almost like the grasping talon of a bird. It also had a system of outriggers that could be driven into a surface to provide a more stable firing platform – two on each foot – as well as electromagnets for adhering to hulls and decks.
Due to the proportions of the suit, the pilot’s hands and feet didn’t actually reach their mechanical equivalents, stopping short. Rather than being controlled by a physical interface, there was a rather intimidating plug sitting just behind the pilot’s head that would socket to an implant in the C-3 cervical vertebra, inspired by those used in Jarilan Warriors. The suit read electrical impulses from the pilot’s nervous system and translated them into movement and sensation in much the same way that prosthetic limbs did, bypassing the body from the neck down. It had been designed solely for use by SWAR operatives who received said implant, and Barbosa had been one of the test pilots.
Perhaps its most important feature was its APS system. Contained within that backpack was a shield generator that could form a powerful magnetic field around the suit, dumping plasma from the reactor into it to create a kind of energy barrier. It was directional and reactive, able to disrupt and redirect a plasma bolt, heat and soften a slug or a bullet, and prematurely detonate the payload of a missile. It was intended to provide an extra layer of defense that reduced the effectiveness of threats before they contacted the armor. It was still a work in progress, but larger versions of the same system had been successfully field-tested on Yagda superheavy tanks.
The purpose of Project Bullshark had been to create a powered combat exosuit – or PCE – that would be able to fill gaps left by auxiliaries and wield equipment left behind in the event of a Dire Contingency scenario.
In an event where the UNN left the Coalition, much of the weaponry and equipment intended for auxiliaries like Borealans and Krell would be rendered unusable, as those species were physically larger and stronger than humans. Large-frame XMRs or Krell ballistic shields were simply too big and too heavy to make use of, and would be left collecting dust in stockpiles and armories. There was also the matter of their strength and survivability, which significantly outstripped that of humans. Borealans were eight feet tall and weighed six hundred pounds, while Krell could get even larger and heavier. At just shy of eighteen hundred pounds in its base configuration, the suit had been specifically designed to be carried by vehicles that were rated to transport Krell, avoiding any need for modifications or retrofits.
In Barbosa’s opinion, the Bullshark PCE was the future of warfare and the logical endpoint of all their research into prosthetics. It functionally replaced an operative’s body with an incredibly durable and powerful exoskeleton, making it nigh impervious to small arms fire, able to wield weapons that weighed more than its pilot. It was sealed against radiological, chemical, and biological threats, it could operate in a vacuum, it could go toe to toe with a Betelgeusian Warrior, and it could allow its pilot to march for days without rest.
To Vos, it was an unjustifiable expense – a relic of an outdated way of thinking. In the Admiral’s mind, humans and aliens would walk off into the sunset hand-in-hand, but that was a naive fantasy. Three decades of constant war, the Jarilans, the Rask, the Brokers – it didn’t just go away.
“You’re staring at those things the same way my wife stares at a new dress,” Vos chuckled as he sidled up beside Barbosa.
“Does a new dress make your wife the most dangerous thing in the Galaxy?”
“She doesn’t need a dress for that,” Vos muttered.
Barbosa heard a chatter in his earpiece, and he replied silently, his implants reading subtle movements of the muscles in his jaw. There was no turning back now – his teams were in position.
“I’ve always had a great deal of respect for you,” Barbosa began, the Admiral raising an eyebrow at him. “In this matter, however, I believe that you’re making a deadly error in judgment. I can’t allow you to cancel Dire Contingency.”
“What you can allow is irrelevant,” Vos replied, his brow furrowing. “The decision has been made, and you have no choice but to abide by it, Commander. I’ve heard you out, but the decision is mine and mine alone.”
“The UNN has lost its way,” Barbosa continued, his artificial eyes still fixed on the nearest Bullshark. “It was my hope that you’d be the one to take the reins and lead it back on course.”
“Take the reins?” Vos demanded. “My rank gives me certain privileges, but I’m still beholden to the Admiralty, the General Assembly, and the Security Council. The UNN is controlled by civilians – I don’t have the ability to make unilateral decisions, no matter how much dirt I have on the other Admirals. I can stack the deck, but only so high, and the house always comes to collect.”
“With the technology that you’re developing here, and the connections you’ve cultivated, you could lead a force made up of the most dangerous and intelligent men and women in the colonies. You have friends in the Admiralty, and you’re the de facto leader of SWAR and UNNI at this point. You could remake the UNN into whatever you wanted it to be.”
“I’m going to give you one last chance to forget that we had this conversation,” Vos snarled. “Consider it a favor from an old friend.”
“We all took an oath,” Barbosa continued, ignoring his warning. “To defend humanity from threats foreign and domestic – enemies from without and from within. We’re beset from without by genocidal aliens and allies that undermine us at every turn, and we’re beset from within by weak leaders who won’t do what’s necessary to secure our future.”
Vos lifted a finger to activate an earpiece, then paused, giving Barbosa another wary glance.
“We have an EWAR Courser jamming the site’s comms,” Barbosa explained. “We know all of the encryption keys, and we can access all of your channels, so there’s no chance of you getting a warning out. We’ve shut down all communication within the base – nobody is coming to help.”
“Think very carefully about what you’re about to do,” Vos warned, glaring out from beneath the rim of his cap. “If you choose to go through with whatever this is, there will be no coming back. I won’t cover for you this time.”
“I was kind of hoping you’d join me,” Barbosa replied. “There’s a place for you if you want it. We need leaders with your skills.”
“And here I was thinking I could just shut this place down and not draw attention to myself,” Vos grumbled. “How did you have time to set this up?”
“I have a few sympathetic contacts on-site,” Barbosa explained. “One of them intercepted a memo about the program being canned and forwarded it to my people. You have a disgruntled employee being careless with classified information, I expect.”
“Nilsson,” Vos snarled, turning to glare at the doctor.
“I-I just thought that Barbosa might be able to convince you of the project’s value!” Nilsson protested, raising his hands as though someone was pointing a gun at him. “I’m not involved in this!”
“That gave me a little time to plan,” Barbosa continued. “Truth be told, I’ve been sitting on a dire contingency of my own for quite some time. You shuttering the program merely accelerated my timetable.”
The unmistakable sound of automatic railgun fire echoed from somewhere else in the base, Vos snapping his head around, a few of the lab techs who were watching the exchange with wide eyes flinching.
“What the hell have you done, Barbosa?” Vos demanded.
“I’ve taken the first step towards an independent future,” he replied, drawing his sidearm from its holster with inhuman speed. He pointed it at the Admiral’s chest, forcing him to take a few steps back. “If you’re not going to join me, then stay out of my way.”
He waved the gun, its copper coils shining beneath the harsh light strips, gesturing for Vos to join Nilsson and the handful of assistants who were huddled next to the desk.
More gunfire echoed through the building – closer now – then the door at the far end of the room slid open. A group of heavily armed agents filed through, their XMRs still shouldered, the whir of their prosthetics joining the sound of their heavy footsteps. They were clad in black combat armor and their signature helmets, their chest rigs loaded with gear. They fanned out into the lab, clearing every corner and blind spot with mechanical efficiency, making their way over to Vos. One of the agents – his opaque visor adorned with a stylized playing card – leveled his weapon at the hostages.
“The hangar decks have been secured,” Petrova said as she stepped forward, her voice filtering through the tinny speakers embedded in her helmet. “Nobody is getting in or out. The other teams are still neutralizing the site’s security forces, such as they are. The mothballed equipment that’s been packed up for shipment is under our control.”
“Excellent,” Barbosa replied with a curt nod. “You’ve done well.”
“Hell of a smash and grab,” Hoff chuckled, identifiable by his stature alone. “So, these are the Bullsharks? How are we getting them out of here?”
“We’re wearing them,” Barbosa replied, aiming his handgun at Nilsson. “There are five people present who were part of the test program, including me, and we have six operational suits. Hoff – you need a shunt.”
“I can’t perform that kind of surgery under these conditions!” Nilsson stammered, glancing between the agents. “Implanting a shunt into the cervical vertebra is a delicate procedure – he needs to be immobilized! I don’t even have an anesthesiologist on hand! One wrong move, and-”
“It’s entirely automated, and it can be done in minutes,” Barbosa insisted. “I underwent the procedure myself, in case you forgot. Prepare one of the surgical bots. The rest of you – get us into these suits.”
“I ... I won’t,” Nilsson replied, standing up a little straighter with a look of defiance etched onto his face. “I’m not letting you hijack my project.”
“I’m sorry, Nilsson,” Barbosa began. “But time isn’t on my side today.”
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