Dire Contingency
Copyright© 2025 by Snekguy
Chapter 19
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 19 - 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
DAY 37 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA
Barbosa watched the little group of insurgents walk away, still chuckling to himself as he cut the feed. Dozer was a loss, as was the suit, but the latter could soon be replaced by the production model PCEs. There were PDF teams on their way to recover the downed Bullshark, and they wouldn’t catch up with Rivera and his pet, but no matter. They were doomed now, regardless.
He turned his attention back to the other displays, watching the battle to retake the city play out from within the safety of his canopy. It was a relief to be in the suit again, and it had been some years since he had felt so sharp – so clear of mind. The PDF had been diverted to clear up problem areas and kettle civilians who were still rioting, while SWAR strike teams had successfully engaged pockets of insurgent resistance and driven the enemy from the garrisons. Casualties were a little higher than he would like thanks to the damned Rask and his AMR – three dropships down with no survivors – but the rest of the losses had been confined largely to the PDF. The anchor and the square were secure, and thousands of arrests had been made. The retreating insurgents had largely withdrawn below ground, but there would be no safe haven for them in their warrens.
By the end of the day, all of his enemies would either be imprisoned or dead, and the colony would finally be under control once again. It was too early to break out the champagne just yet, but there was still a show to enjoy.
“Crow – report,” he said, patching into the operative’s suit cameras. It was almost like being inside his PCE, Barbosa seeing the shadowy interior of a tunnel, a couple of SWAR fireteams flanking him. It was a nostalgic sight, reminding him of the good old days when everything was so much simpler, and his only responsibility was killing bad guys.
“We’ve infiltrated their base, Commander,” Crow replied as he swept the dark tunnel with his oversized rifle. “We encountered light resistance at the entrance, but our guys took out the sentries quietly. Our group went in through the main entrance, and we have several other teams infiltrating through side tunnels to prevent anyone from getting in or out. They still don’t know we’re coming.”
“Good,” Barbosa replied, turning his head to see Roach stalking behind him through Crow’s rear cameras. “Stick together and watch each other’s backs. They just took out Dozer with an AMR, and we don’t know how many are in play. Watch for traps, too. These bastards have had a lot of time to prepare the terrain. Pitfalls, IEDs, ambushes – use your radars and cycle your view modes.”
“Sapper teams are moving ahead,” Crow confirmed.
Barbosa could see them advancing a little further along the tunnel, outlined in blue.
“Looks like all the power is coming through this one line,” one of them mused, raising a hand to the wall. “It’s probably hooked up to the generator they were running on the surface.”
“Let’s follow it,” Roach replied. “We’ll cut it just before we engage. Don’t want to alert them too early.”
“The connection is getting spotty,” Barbosa said, watching the feed start to pixellate and crackle. “You’ll be too far below ground for me to keep tabs on you soon. Remember – nobody is ever going to find out what happened in those tunnels. Do whatever is necessary to solve our problem.”
“Roger that, Commander,” Crow replied.
DAY 37 – RESISTANCE BASE – CROW
“Go dark,” Crow ordered.
The two dozen SWAR operatives that flanked the PCEs in the wide tunnel switched off their flashlights and indicators – even the holographic sights and battery readouts on their XMRs turning off to avoid giving away their positions. The information would be fed to their HUDs instead. They switched from ad-hoc to laser comms, eliminating any radio emissions that could be picked up by the enemy. The jamming from the EWAR ship wouldn’t work down here – the meters of rock and dirt above their heads acted as a natural shield. They wouldn’t be able to communicate with the other teams until they came into line of sight, but they wouldn’t need to. Everyone knew the plan.
One of the sappers at the front of the pack paused by the thick, insulated power and data cables that ran along the dirt wall of the old mine, pulling a pair of clippers from his belt. The cables were sturdy, but his grip was as strong as any power tool, the dusty old lights that were mounted on the support beams along the ceiling fizzling out.
“You see a threat – you take it down,” Crow added. “There are no non-combatants down here. The Commander wants the place cleared out.”
“Doesn’t this remind you of the tunnel fighting back on Kerguela?” he heard Roach ask over a private channel. “Operation Ant Hill was a hell of a battle. I wish there’d been a Trog team stationed on the carrier – I’ve always wanted to see what those microwave guns would do to a person.”
“They think they’re safe underground,” Crow chuckled in reply. “Fuck the Trogs – this is what we trained for. We were doing tunnel work and busting hives before that program even existed.”
“Hit your radar,” Roach added. “These tunnels aren’t on any of the maps, and we don’t want any nasty surprises.”
Crow activated his onboard GPR, the device sending a pulse down the tunnel, mapping out the passageway in fine enough detail that he could pick out the individual support braces. If the enemy had dug any hidden side passages or pitfalls, they would know about it in advance. He didn’t fancy the idea of his eighteen-hundred-pound suit plummeting into some long-abandoned borehole.
One of the sappers raised a fist as a signal for them to stop, kneeling down beside the wall.
“Motion sensors,” he whispered. “They’re probably using them as an early warning system. They’re on a battery – give me a moment.”
His precise hands made short work of the devices, and they continued on, the agents sweeping the side tunnels with their weapons. Crow could see the targeting lasers that projected from the barrels of their rifles – the beams tuned to only be visible in specific wavelengths. These men were accustomed to clearing tunnels, and they had brought short-barreled PDWs and bullpup rifles for close-quarters fighting.
“Got a void ahead, just like the Commander warned,” Crow announced. His GPR had picked up a deep hole that had been excavated in one of the branching tunnels, probably to conceal some kind of spike pit.
“A lot of these tunnels are probably decoys,” Roach mused. “They’d expect intruders to take the wrong passages. There must be detailed maps on their servers. I’ll bet Song would like to see them.”
As they explored the mines, they encountered more traps and further evidence of human activity. It appeared that grenades hooked up to tripwires were the preferred deterrent, the sappers stopping every now and then to diffuse them. There were more pitfalls, and even a mining charge that had been rigged to collapse the ceiling if anyone tripped it. The operatives were accustomed to moving cautiously. The Bugs employed many similar tactics, including flooding areas of the hive, and sometimes entombing living Drones behind walls ready to ambush an unsuspecting intruder. Crow wondered whether these insurgents were capable of the same.
Finally, the sappers stopped, giving hand signals to indicate that they’d heard something up ahead. They waved one of the other teams forward, and six of the men advanced past the PCEs with their weapons at the ready, stacking up as they reached a corner. Crow tapped into the squad leader’s channel as the man slid the scope from its rail, holding it in his hand and slowly inching it around the bend in the tunnel. Ahead was a larger chamber – probably used to store equipment at one point, judging by a few empty crates that still remained. It had been made into a rudimentary checkpoint, a few sandbags arranged to form a little fort in the middle of the room. The lights were all off, but there was an orange glow that emanated from within the circle of sandbags – likely some kind of camping stove. There were several chairs arranged around it, and five of them were occupied by armed insurgents. A sixth was pacing around the fire, seeming agitated. Crow turned up the gain on his microphones, the system’s algorithms picking out their voices.
“Why the hell are the lights off?”
“I don’t know – I can’t get through to anyone.”
“You think it’s just the shitty wiring?”
“We should probably send someone up to check.”
“I say give it another ten minutes. The techs are probably already on it.”
Their bodies were outlined in red as the team leader marked them as targets, then he slid his scope back onto his weapon, locking it into place.
“Choose your targets and set minimum voltage,” he whispered as he began to creep forward. “They’re not wearing helmets. On my mark.”
Beyond the fire’s glow, the SWAR team lined up in the tunnel mouth, holding their weapons steady. They waited for their leader to fire, then a series of muffled cracks followed – the action of the weapons discharging the only sound that emanated from them. The insurgents dropped almost in tandem, a couple of them slumping in their chairs as the rest fell to the floor.
“Push up and clear the room,” Crow ordered.
The team slunk deeper, sweeping the edges of the chamber and leaning into the adjoining passageways.
“Clear.”
“Keep moving,” Roach said as he marched his PCE past the bodies. “We have a whole nest to clear out.”
DAY 37 – RESISTANCE BASE – NICK
“What the hell happened to the lights?” Nick asked as he jogged into the armory. He was using the night vision mode on his PDF surplus helmet, the camera casting the racks of weapons and rows of workbenches in ghostly shades of green.
There were a couple of people still working there, one of them aiming a flashlight in his direction. Its bright beam blew out the sensor – Nick cursing into the helmet as he tried in vain to cover his eyes. He fumbled with the touch panel on its temple – the controls still unfamiliar to him – and managed to raise his visor.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on watch?” one of the men asked. Most of the Marines and experienced PDF were out fighting, so it was probably a volunteer.
“I was, but the lights cut out. Anyone know what’s going on?”
“Network seems to be down too,” the other man added, his frowning face illuminated by the glow of a tablet computer. “Could just be a power outage. The wiring in this place is a mishmash of new stuff and thirty-year-old junk.”
“You guys mind watching the armory for a bit while I go check in with my CO?” Nick asked, gesturing to one of the exits behind him.
“I promise we won’t steal three hundred partially disassembled weapons while you’re gone,” he replied with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.
“I’ll be back,” Nick said, giving him a nod. He turned and began to jog down the tunnel, flipping his visor closed and relying on the flashlight mounted on his weapon this time. He checked that the safety was on, wanting to make sure that he wasn’t aiming a loaded gun at people.
He made his way through the tunnels, passing a few people who were moving crates and pausing to tell them that he didn’t know what was going on any more than they did. As he rounded a bend, expecting to find his commanding officer and a few other sentries waiting for him, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The sentries were lying on the ground, and standing over them was a shadowy figure, Nick’s flashlight beam illuminating a wolf’s snarling face. The SWAR operative withdrew a serrated blade from his victim’s back, the droplets of crimson blood catching the light, turning his helmet towards the newcomer.
Terror paralyzed Nick for a moment, his limbic system spinning its wheels, the scant second allowing several more of the operatives to round the bend ahead with their weapons drawn. Flight won out over fight, and he spun around, sprinting back down the tunnel faster than he’d ever sprinted in his life. He’d only left his post for five minutes – how could it have happened so quickly? His heart hammering in his chest and cold sweat dampening his brow, he skidded around the corner and raced back into the tunnel that led to the armory, seeing the two men still carrying their crate ahead.
“Run!” he yelled, waving his rifle at them. “Run – they’re coming!”
The two workers seemed more confused than spurred to action by his strange behavior, pausing what they were doing to watch him pass by. Only a moment later, Nick heard the echoing sounds of gunfire and screaming as the operatives happened upon them. As he ran, he fumbled with his helmet, trying to patch into the local comms. The base’s wireless network seemed to be down, and the thick walls of rock and dirt prevented ad-hoc signals from reaching very far, but he had to raise the alarm somehow.
“Anyone on this channel!” he panted as he rounded another bend. “The Borgs are inside! Repeat – the Borgs are inside the base! Is anyone receiving me!?”
There was no answer, which could mean that nobody with a helmet was close enough, or that they were already dead...
When he made it back to the armory, he doubled over, breathing hard as he tried to suppress the nausea that was rising in his belly. It was like being transported back to his first ill-fated mission. The two men were still in the armory, glancing over at his strange appearance in confusion.
“What’s wrong?” one of them asked. “Did you find out why the lights are off?”
“Borgs!” he blurted between gulps of air. “The Borgs are here! Get guns!”
The two fighters shared a glance, then rushed over to the back of the room, pulling XMRs from the racks on the wall.
“What did you see?” one of them demanded as he slammed a magazine into his rifle.
“Four ... maybe more,” Nick replied as he stood up straight. “Borgs ... killing people in the tunnels.”
“We have to get the hell out of here!” one of the men insisted, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. “All of the Marines and PDF are out fighting in the city – we can’t hold off a fucking Borg attack! I used to work as a fucking foreman!”
“We should talk to whoever’s in charge,” the other added.
“I can’t get through to anyone on the radio,” Nick explained. “We’re on our own right now. We gotta move – they were right behind me.”
The two fighters followed him out of the armory through an adjacent tunnel, continuing their conversation as they ran.
“We should go to the conference room – that’s where all the decision-makers will be,” one of them suggested.
“If we can even get there without running into the Borgs, don’t you think that’s the first place they’d attack?” Nick protested. “Our job is to protect people, right? Ruza told me to look out for everyone, so that’s what I’m gonna do.”
“And how the hell are you gonna do that? You want the three of us to fight off who knows how many Borgs?”
“We have to get the civilians out,” Nick insisted. “We’ll hit up the mess hall, the storage area, and the infirmary – they’re all East of us. If we can get there before the Borgs do, maybe we can evacuate everyone to the surface.”
“We need to link up with more people first,” one of the fighters added. “There’s no way we can do this alone.”
“If the Borgs are already inside the base, we’re fucked,” the other added hastily. “We should get the hell out of here before they catch up with us!”
“Being scared is natural,” Nick shot back. “Letting fear rule you is cowardice. We have to keep it together. People are depending on us.”
They jogged through the winding network of tunnels, using their flashlights to navigate. Nick had no idea how many Borgs had made it past their defenses or which tunnels they might be using, and balancing caution with haste was a nerve-wracking experience. If they wasted time checking every corner, the enemy might catch up, but being too brazen could result in them running blindly into another kill team.
As they rounded a corner, they came upon a wandering civilian, the man covering his eyes as they aimed their flashlights at him in a panic.
“Who are you!?” Nick demanded. “Why are you walking around in the dark?”
“I’m Whitfield,” the stranger replied, blinking his eyes at them as they lowered their rifle. “Who the hell are you guys?”
“Nick,” he replied. “I’m a sentry.”
“I’m Cowan, and he’s Farrar,” one of his companions added with a gesture to his friend. “We were assigned to the armory.”
“Do any of you know why the lights are out?” Whitfield asked. “I just dropped off a shipment of canned food at the kitchen, then everything went dark. I don’t have my phone on me.”
“Have you just come from the mess?” Nick pressed. “Were there people in there?”
“Yeah, a few.”
“Follow us,” Nick added. “The base is under attack.”
“Oh, shit,” Whitfield muttered as he joined them.
They continued on to the mess hall, emerging into the large chamber to find a dozen people milling about. Many were sitting around the metal tables, chatting idly as they used their phones to illuminate the area, a few of them finishing off meals they must have only recently ordered. A couple of kitchen workers were standing behind the counter, likely having nothing to do with all of their appliances powered off.
“Good, they haven’t reached here yet,” Nick said. “Everyone!” he yelled, getting their attention. “The base is under attack, and we need to evacuate! Please follow us!”
“Under attack?” one of them asked.
“Is that why the power is out?” another added.
“Let’s get a move on!” Cowan shouted.
Everyone began to rise from their tables, but as they left their seats, a dull crack echoed down the tunnel behind Nick. Whitfield dropped as though his legs had been cut out from under him, dead before he could even change his expression, revealing a perfectly round hole in the back of his head as he toppled forward.
“Behind us!” Nick warned, leaping into cover. Cowan and Farrar did the same, the civilians in the mess hall scattering, their exclamations of fear and alarm filling the air. It was infectious, Nick putting his back to the dirt wall as he tried to fight back the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. He swallowed it down, then leaned his weapon around the corner, fumbling with the safety switch. The weapon bounced in his hands as he blind-fired into the tunnel, hoping that it would be enough to keep the enemy at bay for a time.
His companions realized what he was doing and followed suit, dumping slugs into the darkness. One of the men in the mess hall was a fighter, and he joined them, drawing a handgun and rushing to Nick’s side.
“Head through the storage areas!” Nick yelled over the gunfire. “Go go! Get the hell out of here!”
Everyone began to run in the direction of a tunnel that led out of the chamber, one of them knocking over a chair in his haste. Nick and his companions started to draw back, keeping their weapons trained on the entrance and letting off a few rounds every few steps as a deterrent. As they neared the exit, Cowan and Farrar flipped over one of the tables, taking a knee behind it. Nick had no idea if it would even stop an XMR slug.
There was a sudden blinding flash chased by a loud pop, Nick’s helmet darkening his visor and muffling his audio to protect him. Some kind of grenade had exploded at the mouth of the tunnel. His companions didn’t have helmets, and they ducked behind the table, closing their eyes and clutching their ears. If they’d still been firing from the other side of the room, a blast like that might have left them blinded and deafened.
A second grenade rolled into the chamber, gushing pale smoke that quickly filled the confined space, and through it came marching a trio of agents. Their arms were made from skeletal, black polymer that matched their dark armor, their helmets adorned with intimidating decals.
Farrar began to fire, the sound jolting Nick, and he followed suit. A hail of slugs dropped one of the Borgs, chewing through his chest piece and knocking him back onto the ground. The response was swift and accurate. Cowan lost most of his head to a well-placed shot, and the fighter with the handgun took a slug to the chest, the projectile tearing a hole in his back. Too shocked to process what was happening, Nick and Farrar fled down the tunnel, stumbling in their haste as whizzing rounds chased after them. It wasn’t until they were a hundred feet away that Nick even realized there was blood and brain matter splattered on his visor.
“This way,” Nick panted, taking a right at a junction. He’d learned the layout of the base quite well during his time stacking crates, and he knew his way around this area. As they came to another two-way junction, he skidded to a stop.
“What is it?” Farrar asked.
“Radio,” Nick replied, waving for him to be quiet. He was getting a signal over ad-hoc, so there must be more fighters nearby, but it was distorted and hard to make out. It sounded like someone was giving panicked orders in a raised voice.
As he continued on, the overlapping sounds became more distinct, and he could eventually hear the voices clearly.
“ ... repeat – the base is compromised. Evacuate, evacuate...”
“ ... flanking us from the right side! The right tunnel! They’re everywhere! We have to...”
“ ... holding them back! Don’t let them reach the infirmary! All units, all units – defend the...”
Nick led Farrar on, and they soon caught up with the group of civilians from the mess. They were huddled near one of the storage rooms, seemingly waiting for someone to come find them.
“Keep moving,” Nick said, waving them on. “We need to head to the infirmary – I think there are still people defending it.”
He had an ulterior motive for going through the storage area. This was where Amy, Bill, and Ricky should be working. The Doc would never forgive him if he didn’t get them out alive. Their small group rushed along the tunnel, Nick briefly ducking into the side rooms, scanning the rows of shelves and piles of crates for survivors. His flashlight beam swept across two women who were crouched behind a stack of boxes, lifting their heads cautiously when they realized they’d been spotted.
“Come on!” Nick said, gesturing for them to follow. “We’re evacuating!”
Three more workers joined them as they made their way along, and they eventually reached the junction that led to the infirmary, clearly marked by a sign that was mounted on one of the old support beams.
“The infirmary is this way,” Farrar said as Nick paused, glancing down the opposite passage.
“See that they get there,” Nick replied. “There’s someone I have to find.”
Farrar nodded, hefting his rifle as he guided the group down the tunnel and into the darkness. Nick gripped his XMR, trying to slow his racing heart. There was another place where his friends could be holed up, but he’d have to head in the direction of the fight to get there.
“Be brave,” he muttered under his breath as he set off at a run.
Further along the maze of passages, the sound of gunfire began to grow louder, echoing through the mine in a way that made its direction hard to pin down. The fighting was getting heavier.
He came to a corner, pausing and putting his back to the wall, hearing muffled shouting and gunfire. Slowly, he inched his head around the bend, peering into the passage beyond. He had already turned off his flashlight for fear of it giving away his position, his helmet showing him a grainy view of the tunnel, the support struts that held up the ceiling extending into the distance. Maybe a hundred feet away was a T-junction, the tunnel splitting into left and right forks.
From the left emerged a small group of four or five armed fighters, their lack of helmets suggesting that they weren’t Marines or PDF. They were retreating down the tunnel, backing away as they fired their XMRs at something out of view, Nick’s helmet deadening the loud cracks. One of them fell as a molten trail passed straight through him, a second dropping soon after, slumping against the wall as he clutched his belly. The third man made it down the right corridor and out of view, while the fourth fired from the hip, dumping the rest of his magazine at their pursuers. Nick saw a series of colorful flashes from the left tunnel, then something lumbered into view.
It was huge – easily seven feet tall, and wide enough to almost fill a tunnel that could fit two or three people standing shoulder to shoulder. It was a goddamned PCE. The fighter stood his ground and bellowed a challenge, some kind of shield flashing as the slugs hit the suit, splashing harmlessly against the thick panels of interlocking armor beneath. The giant figure reached out with a long arm, its thick, mechanical fingers closing around the fighter’s head. The man dropped his gun and reached up reflexively, clawing at the bulky forearm and letting out a scream, his boots kicking impotently as they left the tunnel floor.
The PCE allowed him to hang there for a moment, then it squeezed, crushing his skull with the same ease that a person might squash an orange. Blood and brain matter spilled between the robotic digits like pulp, and when it opened its fist, the lifeless body dropped to the ground limply. In an oddly human gesture, the giant suit tried to shake the residue from its hand, then returned it to an oversized rifle that looked like it weighed as much as a man.
It began to stalk away down the right tunnel, but its heavy footfalls were joined by more – a second PCE striding into view. One would be impossible for Nick to deal with, let alone two. It paused to glance down at the injured fighter who was clutching the wound in his stomach, the man glancing up at the barrel of its heavy XMR before it painted him all over the tunnel wall with a single trigger pull. It began to walk away, following its counterpart, but it seemed to hesitate for a moment.
It turned in Nick’s direction, giving him a brief flash of the painted shark teeth that adorned its angular canopy, the ball-shaped camera dome beneath its chin swiveling to look down the passage.
Nick snapped back into cover, closing his eyes and praying that it hadn’t seen him, beads of cold sweat dripping down his brow inside his helmet. His heart skipped a beat with each thudding footstep, its massive boots shaking the ground. Only when he heard the sound diminishing did he dare to exhale a breath, slowly leaning out again to check that the coast was clear. A couple of Borgs were stalking behind the thing – probably the last stragglers of its entourage – but they were heading away from him.
He slowly crept down the corridor, trying not to focus on the bodies, checking that the coast was clear before taking the left fork. As he hurried along, he came across another grisly sight. The tunnel led into a chamber, and both its mouth and the room beyond were littered with more victims. A dozen fighters must have tried to hold this junction against the assault, and it wasn’t hard to guess who had come out on top. Sandbags and crates had been hastily stacked to plug one of the entrances, and judging by the way they had been strewn across the floor, a PCE must have bulldozed its way through.
What had ensued must have been quick and brutal. Many of the bodies had taken multiple slugs, leaving massive wounds and severing limbs in a couple of cases. One of them had been crushed against the tunnel wall, while another had been badly burned – the leather jacket that he was wearing melted away to reveal a circular patch of scorched flesh that occupied most of his torso. What the hell had done that – some kind of plasma or incendiary weapon?
The Borgs weren’t taking prisoners – they were sweeping through the base and killing anyone they came across. Fighting back the urge to vomit, he pushed on, hoping against hope that he was now behind the bulk of the enemy forces. His destination wasn’t far away now, and the curves of the tunnels were growing more familiar, even painted in shades of night-vision green.
He had already steeled himself by the time he arrived at the barracks. The wide, hollowed-out tunnel was lined with rows and rows of metal cots, a few lockers and containers strewn around for storing personal belongings. The Borgs had been there first. There were more bodies lying on the floor, a few of them still in their beds, having likely been killed before they’d even had time to wake up.
Nick walked through the tunnel, feeling the chill air bite at him, the temperature dropping quickly with the ventilation and air conditioning systems offline. It was like walking through an open grave, the deathly silence amplifying the sound of his footsteps and his heavy breathing, his eyes wandering from one contorted figure to another. How many people had already died? Dozens? Hundreds?
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