Dire Contingency
Copyright© 2025 by Snekguy
Chapter 37
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 37 - 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 56 – HADES ORBIT – ORTEGA
“We can’t risk it,” Ortega replied. He was speaking to a holograph portrayal of Brenner’s face captured from inside his helmet, the Commander appearing to duck down as something loud fired at him. The display floated alongside many others on the bridge, surrounding the captain’s chair, the main viewports showing a blend of the planet’s surface and telescope views of the action below. They had managed to free enough crew members to populate the bridge, and they were at work behind their consoles, frantically collecting and relaying battlefield data.
“This thing is going to keep rampaging until it runs out of ammo,” Brenner insisted. “We just hit it with a det charge and it barely scratched the paint. Our SCPEL is out of juice, and Lily’s thirty-mill isn’t cutting it. We need something heavier!”
“We only just got fire control back online,” Ortega said. “The only orbit-to-surface weapons I can offer you are a kiloton sabot or a cruise missile. The sabot would take out a city block, and the cruise missile isn’t exactly low-yield, even with someone laser designating its target.”
“What do you propose?” Brenner demanded, his face illuminating as something exploded nearby. “We can’t just leave this thing running!”
“I’ll take care of it personally,” Ortega replied, rising from his seat. He turned and began to walk off the bridge at a quick march, a few of the crew in their recessed workstations glancing up at him in confusion. “Mister Baccay, you have the bridge.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” the officer replied with a nod. He quickly climbed a short ladder that led up to the elevated platform, sliding into the captain’s chair.
“Captain?” Brenner asked, waiting for him to elaborate.
“What do you think I did before I was promoted to captain?” Ortega asked as he passed through a sliding door and out into the corridor beyond. “Who do we have left from the flight crew?” he continued. “I want a Beewolf fueled and ready for launch by the time I arrive at the hangar, and get me a boom suit.”
“What are you going to do?” Brenner prompted.
“I’m going to drop a kinetic bomb on that thing,” Ortega replied. “I’ll need you to guide me in. It has an inert tungsten payload, so there’s no danger of collateral damage. A direct hit should take the Ursa out.”
“Captain, are you sure you want to put yourself in the line of fire?” Brenner asked. “We don’t know if the enemy is operating any AA assets in the area, and that’s to say nothing of the Ursa itself.”
“We have no qualified pilots aboard,” he replied. “They were all interned on the ground. Unless you want to give Chief Abel a crash course on how to fly an FS-26, I’m your safest bet.”
“Understood, Captain. We’ll paint the target for you.”
Ortega made his way to the hangar, passing down flights of creaking steps and through eerily empty hallways. The unnatural quiet still unnerved him – it was like making his way through the body of some great dead thing.
When he arrived, he found the scene of chaos that he had last glimpsed during Barbosa’s retreat. To his left was a row of a dozen Beewolves, half of them damaged or destroyed during the PCE’s rampage. Another had been crushed by a cargo container, the grain within spilling out to partially bury the crumpled aircraft. The deck beneath his feet was scored with plasma burns and slug holes, and there was fire-retardant foam everywhere.
“What have they done to you, old girl?” he muttered to himself.
Ahead of him, one of the intact planes had been wheeled out and was undergoing launch prep, an engineer in yellow coveralls disconnecting a snaking fuel line from beneath its wing. Another man was loading the bombs from a wheeled caddy, the machine lifting them up and locking them into place on hardpoints within the internal weapons bay. Visually, the bombs were no different from any others fielded by the Navy, with the same stabilizing fins and optics package. Each one was a little under five meters long, with a built-in guidance system and a weight of about a ton. The difference was their payload. Instead of an explosive charge, these were fitted with dense tungsten warheads, relying on kinetic energy to penetrate bunkers and destroy precision targets. With no explosives, they were very safe to use in dense urban environments.
Another engineer hurried over to intercept him, holding a pile of dark fabric in her hands, a helmet perched atop it.
“Captain!” she began, sounding out of breath. “This was the best we could do. I think it’s your size.”
Ortega was already shedding his white uniform, tossing his dress coat and ornate cap to the deck. The shoes and pants followed, leaving him wearing only his shorts and socks, the engineer handing him the garment. He quickly began to don the flight suit, pulling it on by the boots and zipping it up, securing the gloves. The fire-retardant fabric was a deep blue that bordered on black, covered in vein-like traces of cables and tubes that were just visible beneath its lining. The flight helmet had a wide visor that covered most of the face, the mouth and nose area concealed behind a jutting rebreather that was connected to two thick cables that hooked into the craft’s oxygen supply.
Once everything was sealed, Ortega felt the suit constrict around his limbs, shifting and moving like a living thing as it adhered to his body tightly. The flight suit would tighten or loosen during combat, preventing blood from pooling in his extremities and keeping him conscious during high-G maneuvers.
“It’s a little tighter around the middle than I remember,” he muttered, running a gloved hand across his stomach. “Has the flight check been completed?”
“Just loading the last bomb, Captain,” one of the engineers replied. “All systems are green, and she has a full tank of gas.”
Ortega walked down the fifteen-meter length of the craft, examining the sweeping wings and conical nose, its onyx stealth coating seeming to absorb the glow from the hangar lights above. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to flying something smaller than a skyscraper again – just a little.
A small ladder was extended from the cockpit, and he climbed inside, settling into the plush padding of the pilot’s seat.
“Just like riding a bike,” he muttered as he reached out and began to switch on the various systems, the array of displays arranged before him coming online one by one. He waited until the flight crew had finished their work, and the nearest engineer gave him a thumbs-up, Ortega closing his canopy as they began to hurry clear. Behind the jet, a slab rose up from the deck to block the backwash from the engine, his HUD flaring to life inside his helmet. The hull seemed to melt away all around him, the plane’s array of external cameras feeding data to his visor.
“You’re cleared for takeoff, Captain,” the flight controller announced. “It’s not like there’s much else out there at the moment.”
“Roger that,” Ortega replied, increasing the throttle and feeling the engines roar beneath him.
“Good hunting, Captain.”
He sped out of the hangar bay, the acceleration squashing him into the gel-like padding of his seat as he flashed through the force field, stowing the landing gear when he felt the tug of artificial gravity leave him. Ortega checked that his harness was secure, then glanced back over his shoulder, seeing the Tirad already receding into the distance.
His gloved fingers danced over a nearby display, and he keyed in the coordinates, the Beewolf’s thrusters flaring as he angled its nose to follow the reentry path laid out on his HUD.
“Hold on, Brenner,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
DAY 56 – HADES – RUZA
“Ortega says fifteen mikes!” Brenner announced.
“And what the hell are we supposed to do until then!?” Reed demanded, flinching as a mortar landed amidst the prefabs behind him.
“We have to keep it focused on us,” Petrova replied. “The last thing we want is it locking onto some random civilian.”
“Easy for you to say – you’re the one with a shielded suit!”
“Did you see what that thing did to Song?” Petrova scoffed. “I’m about as vulnerable as you are.”
“It can’t get very far, so just keep up the fire,” Brenner ordered.
The Ursa was trying to reverse now, perhaps realizing that it was stuck. Like an injured animal, it still had enough strength to drag its lame leg behind it, the tattered track and broken sprockets digging a furrow into the sand as it inched along.
Its three red eyes turned the sky suddenly, Ruza ducking as it raised its main gun. It was pointing at something above the rooftops, Ruza lifting his gaze to see a dropship flying low across the city. The Ursa fired, the blast shaking the Rask’s bones, and the target was hit a moment later. It appeared to have loaded a canister shell – usually reserved for infantry targets – a shotgun blast of hypervelocity tungsten balls impacting the craft’s near side. They tore through its armor and shredded its engines, its airframe already disintegrating as it was knocked from the sky like an insect, burning wreckage raining down behind it.
“What if it does that to Ortega!?” Reed demanded.
“It’s our job to make sure it has more appealing targets,” Silverback replied.
“I signed up for a quick revolution followed by some well-earned praise and maybe a celebratory dinner with the Governor,” Reed complained as he clutched his rifle to his chest and pressed back against the metal wall of a building. “I didn’t sign up to play bullfighter with a demon tank!”
“Aren’t you ready to die for the cause, Glorious Leader?” Wasp chuckled.
“I’d rather survive and have some steak,” he complained. “Maybe get some head?”
“You are unbelievable,” Wasp snickered, unable to maintain her facade any longer.
The Ursa had made it most of the way back out into the street again, limping along with its thrown track, attempting to push through the dragon’s teeth backwards now. It forced everyone to retreat a little further with its intermittent gunfire. It was a tough balancing act, trying to stay in cover so as not to be targeted, but keeping the mechanical beast distracted. Brenner had ordered many of the Marines to retreat deeper into cover, while Petrova and Lily took turns firing on it, being the most able to withstand its weaponry. Ruza didn’t know what Reggie’s condition might be, only that he had remained on the far side of the street with Brenner. As the resident expert on xenobiology, Ruza wasn’t sure what he could do to treat the Broker if the alien had sustained injuries. They were a secretive people, and little was known about their anatomy. They were aquatic creatures, however, and Hades would not be a suitable environment if Reggie was forced to abandon his suit.
As he watched another salvo of mortars pass overhead, he noticed a change in the Ursa. Where before, it had been dragging its thrown track through the loose sand like a lame leg, it was now driving straighter and with more purpose. It seemed to be compensating for the damage – adjusting its proverbial gait.
A handful of Marines fired on it from the opposite side of the street, causing its shields to flicker with the same urgency that someone might swat a fly, and it abruptly stopped its directionless push through the broken dragon’s teeth. Instead of their erratic swiveling, the many disparate guns and cannons atop its turrets turned in tandem, those three burning eyes facing in the direction of the shooter.
“I think you pissed it off!” Reed warned.
A series of loud cracks echoed across the city as its twin chainguns spun up, spewing a hail of tungsten at the prefab the Marines were firing from. The building shuddered as its street-facing wall was pocked with molten holes, the shells tearing through the flimsy metal like paper, the tank’s high angle causing them to dig craters in the alley behind it and kick up clouds of dirt. Its outriggers buckled, and its roof began to cave in, the structure almost seeming to deflate like a balloon under the relentless assault. Ruza caught brief glimpses of the interior, seeing decorations and furniture that must have belonged to some long-evacuated family, before the prefab all but collapsed into its own footprint.
There was method to the Ursa’s madness now – purpose to its violence, and it fired off a salvo of mortars as the Marines struggled to drag away their injured comrades. Lily was there to intercept them, stepping into view and holding her shield up as the shells whistled down towards the humans. Her Warrior sagged under the force of the impacts, plasma flashing as her shield was pocked with burning shrapnel, the Marines retreating beneath her shadow.
The Jarilan had only a moment to duck back behind the nearest building as the Ursa targeted her with those twin cannons, tracking her for a few moments more as she moved out of view, Lily keeping low so as not to expose herself above the rooftops.
“That’s new,” Wasp said, her concern palpable as she watched the exchange from the shadows.
“Reggie said that it learns from experience,” Reed added, ducking reflexively as the tank fired off another burst.
“He also said that its capacity would be limited,” Wasp insisted.
“Yeah, limited in comparison to a swarm of a thousand of the things!” Reed shot back. “It’s already shooting straighter and firing at things it can’t see!”
“Commander, how long until our air support is in range?” Silverback demanded.
“Ten mikes!” Brenner replied, his voice strained. “Just keep the thing distracted a little longer!”
The Ursa was moving past the dragon’s teeth now, nudging a toppled PDF truck out of its path, its one good track churning up the sand. The going was still slow, but it was making progress, like a newborn animal taking its first faltering steps. Catching a glimpse of another resistance fighter stalking from the shadow of an alley to toss a grenade, it swept him with its blister gun, the twenty-mill turning him to vapor where he stood and detonating his grenade. The blast was contained between the two buildings, a wave of dust washing out into the road beyond, the hulking vehicle scanning for more targets.
“We need to pull back!” Rivera announced over the radio. “It’s getting more accurate – we can’t hold this position!”
It was turning its massive hull in the direction of the alley now, bathing the swirling dust with its headlights, its blister swinging around to cover its flank. Its two chainguns aimed ahead, its trio of red eyes staring from beyond its armored canopy, its turbine engine roaring like a beast as it staggered forwards. It wasn’t merely reacting now – it was hunting. Whatever alien circuitry made up its electronic brain was adapting to its new situation, grappling with its unfamiliar weapons, and learning about its environment. It must have puzzled that where there had been one target, there may be more.
Its intact track found purchase, and it began to crush another prefab, dragging the metal structure beneath its wheels and raising itself off the ground in the process. As the structure crumpled beneath it, the mortar atop its turret loosed more shells, these ones landing deeper inside the maze of alleys and side streets. The blasts sent some of the nearby fighters scattering, flushing them out of cover. With the speed and precision of a machine, the Ursa gunned down two of them, switching from one target of opportunity to the other in a moment.
“Blyat, we have to do something!” Petrova snarled.
“I’m open to suggestions!” Reed replied.
“We make ourselves the more attractive target!” she replied, her suit breaking into a lumbering run.
Ruza’s impulse was to reach out a hand and stop her, but he could not hold back a PCE. He had little choice but to let out a frustrated growl and give chase as she thundered down a back alley, keeping out of view.
There was a pang of fear as he heard the resonating thrum of that engine again, growing nearer now, its vibrations shaking the ground beneath his pads. The memory of Kodiak tanks silhouetted against the horizon had never left him, and even years later, it was just as fresh – lodged deep in his amygdala. He recalled gently lowering a sheet of camouflaged netting over the scope of his AMR, knowing that the slightest glint could give him away to their cameras – that a swift and certain death would reward his smallest mistake. There would be no body for his pack to return to the sands, only a cloud of superheated carbon molecules. Now, his enemy was almost close enough to touch, imbued with a clinical and uncaring intelligence far more threatening than any UNN tank commander.
Whether Petrova felt any such misgivings, she forged ahead all the same, soon closing the distance. The rampaging Ursa was on their side of the street, still pushing its way through the prefabs, trying to flush out more targets with its mortar. She had no weapons that could harm it, and her armor would not protect her from its weaponry, but her enemy was likely not cognizant enough to recognize that. Would it even associate size with threat level, or was its simulated mind too simple?
Her PCE emerged from cover and opened fire, dumping a dozen XMR rounds into the machine’s onyx-black flank. She followed up with a few blasts from the underslung plasma weapon, causing the colorful shields to flicker, and it seemed to be enough to distract the beast from its hunt. It turned its furious red eyes on her, swiveling its blister gun down to aim at this new curiosity.
It was too high – the tank’s tall stack of turrets prevented the defensive weapon from getting an angle on her while she was so close. The Ursa spun its secondary turret, bringing those two chainguns to bear, but the delay gave her the time she needed to retreat back into cover behind an intact prefab. It fired on her all the same, estimating her position, her shield flickering as it intercepted fragments of torn metal from the slugs that whizzed past her. They came Ruza’s way, forcing him to throw himself to the ground, but the high angle of attack sent most of them digging into the sand.
“Move, Rivera!” she bellowed as she hunkered down. “Get your men clear!”
The nearby fighters wasted no time, taking advantage of the momentary lull to retreat deeper into the alleys, the Ursa’s three eyes still focused on the last place it had seen Petrova. Its great hull turned in her direction, its engine thundering as it struggled to drag its thrown track, lurching towards the prefab. One of the molten rounds must have kindled a fire inside it, the flames starting to lick at its windows, choking smoke finding its way out through the dozens of round holes left by the slugs.
In his prone position, Ruza could see beneath the outriggers of the scant few buildings that separated him from the tank, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a plan. Not since the bombing of the resistance base had he felt so powerless, his Borealan strength and his prized AMR rendered impotent. His friends weren’t far behind him, but they were no more equipped for the situation than he was, Reed and a handful of SWAR agents taking cover nearby.
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