The Drop

by Aaron Beatty

 

 

 

Trevor looked out the spacious window of the forward observation deck, watching stars flicker by. His mind was heavy with the news he had been given, and the cross on his uniform did not seem to shine as bright today as usual.

 

Across the deck walked a youthful Lance Corporal, seeming not to have a care in the world. Resplendent in his black-and-red uniform, he eased his way toward the table where his commanding officer sat looking out into space.

 

As he moved, he cast a reflection in the permaglass window that made up the barrier between the observation area and the cold void beyond. He was tall and rather thin for a marine, and his brown hair and facial features reminded one of a hawk; the cross on his uniform luminous as the sun.

 

With his easy manner assuming military stiffness he crisply announced,

 

“Sir! Lance Corporal Vonts requesting an audience with the Major, sir!”

 

“Granted Vonts. Sit down, and speak your mind.”

 

Trevor was amused at being referred to by his Marine title. He knew he had one by virtue of his flight status, but seldom thought of it; no pilot did. Usually, it was only used to make unruly marines listen to the drop ship and close support pilots.

 

Instantly, however, his amusement was chiselled away by the reality the title had lately assumed. At least for now, he was more than a Squadron Leader, he commanded an entire Strike Force.

 

He didn’t understand quite why that had such significance to him, for he had commanded men as much as machines in orbit round countless planets during as many engagements. Often he had come to the rescue of a strike force like the one for which he was now responsible.

 

“Sir,” started Vonts, “I hear we may get a chance to fry some slags. It is true?”

 

Slags, the common epithet used for anyone who did not submit to the Morality Laws. Trevor wasn’t sure if he fully agreed with the term or not. During the years of the Arachnid War places like Jameson IX in the Deatrick system, where they were heading now, sprang up. Pleasure planets they were commonly called.  You could find anything you wanted there, especially contraband material, and they tended to attract people who would not accept the State religion; therefore, fertility and nature cults flourished.

 

“Well Vonts, I’ve been speaking to the Wing Commander, and as soon as we come out of Null Space we’re to dispatch fighters to patrol and scout out the area ahead of us. There will probably be resistance. We’ll save the rest for the briefing room,” Bedwell said, giving the last sentence special stress.

 

Vonts seemed a bit disappointed at the lack of a definite answer. 

 

“Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

 

“Granted.”

 

“Why are we out here if we aren’t going to be used, Sir? The men are uncertain and morale is dropping rapidly.”

 

“Why not ask the Sergeant?”

 

“He won’t tell us anything, Sir. I volunteered to be a sort of unofficial go-between for you and the men.”

 

“You know that violates the chain of command Vonts.”

 

“I also know that when there’s a lack of focus and low morale... men die in the field, Sir. I went to the Sergeant first but he was unapproachable, and declined to respond to our inquiries.”

 

The kid was out of order, but Bedwell admired his attitude.

 

“Is this how it’s done now? If you don’t get a response from your superior, jump the chain of command?”

 

“It’s our way, Sir,” replied Vonts with no hint of an apology in his voice. “We at the bottom, the ones who do the dying. We want to know what’s really going on out here,” finished Vonts with a slight smile.

 

Bedwell found himself sympathising with Vonts despite himself. But he felt he had to remain stern. “Something is happening. As I said you will all be briefed soon. Dismissed.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” said Vonts with resignation. And with that, he saluted. Bedwell returned the salute, and Vonts began to walk away toward the large lift at the back of the deck. When he was about a quarter of the way there Bedwell turned round.

 

“Vonts!”

 

“Sir?” Vonts responded, turning round to face his commander.

 

“Tell them not to let the guns rust, they’ll be useful,” Bedwell said with a wink.

 

“Yes, Sir!” said Vonts, before turning round again and all but running to enter the lift.

 

Bedwell smiled as he looked out of the window again. He saw his reflection smiling back at him and that reassured him. But this was not going to be an easy mission. Jameson IX was bad news.

 

As pleasure worlds went, it was one of the worst, having gained a reputation for the cause of many a good soldier’s demise during the Engagement at Thermopyle.

 

Thermopyle Station was a key scientific facility, attempting to extract something useful from captured Arachnid equipment bought with Marine blood. The attack centred round the Government’s attempt to protect the station from being captured by radical eco-terrorist groups, usually referred to collectively as green terrorists.   

 

The green terrorists had built up a significant force in the area, some speculated with help from Jameson IX itself. The fight lasted longer than both sides had prepared for, and in the end it was a fierce battle of attrition.

 

The terrorists had fought like caged beasts, knowing they had no reserve but what a few rogue planets could offer, and this far out from New Jerusalem, Imperial reinforcements would never have arrived quickly enough to affect the outcome of the battle.

 

In fact the station, and the fledgling Null Space technology with it, would have fallen into enemy hands had it not been for then Flight Lieutenant Trevor Bedwell, one of the best the Holy Royal Fleet had, ramming the bomber carrying torpedoes meant for the station with his already damaged fighter.

 

He had ejected, but not without receiving a punctured lung that, though repaired once search and rescue retrieved him, rendered him unfit for further duty as a fighter pilot. Afterward, he could only fly drop ships to insert and extract ground troops, on the rare occasions they were used.

 

Trevor’s flying now consisted mostly of training missions and supply runs, with the occasional joyride in a Null Space equipped shuttle to send sensitive data to command posts closer to civilisation.  For his service and sacrifice, he was given the Jerusalem Star medal and a promotion to Squadron Leader. That was two years ago. Trevor looked down at that ribbon now. On it was inscribed in Hebrew, “Sacrifice, A Sweet Savour Unto the Lord”. On the back was his name, and a truncated version of the situation that had brought about its being awarded, also in stately Hebraic script.

 

There had been a general war on when Thermopyle went down with a race of spider-like beings that had suddenly appeared in many of the key systems of the Empire of Yeshua, the Arachnids. It had taken seven years to finally rid the Empire of them, but there had been gains from the hardship. Null Space technology, which was a direct result of the successful defence of the station, was one of them. With it, in the proper conditions, one could cross a quarter of the Empire in a single jump.

 

One of the negative aspects of the war however, was that there had been a number of planets like Jameson IX that had sort of “fallen away” from the Empire and become a haven for Imperial undesirables of all kinds.          

 

Trevor’s ship, the light carrier HMS Paradigm, had been stationed at Thermopyle for the past two years, their sole purpose being to defend the station from any further attack. In the six months since the war ended, repairs had been made and the ship re-outfitted with the new drives and fresh, experimental weaponry.

 

Lately, Trevor had been issued transport missions more and more frequently, bringing in troops from the Gilead system, which was only a day’s flying now. He wondered why he was bringing back troops when they were so seldom used. Now of course, as Strike Force Commander, Trevor knew full well why. 

           

 

Briefing Room- 0700 hours.

           

Everyone sat assembled in a stony silence that made the room feel empty.  In the Officer’s Section, Bedwell looked a sight, his typical flight kit flowing over with Marine style combat gear. The Wing Commander, who was second in command only to the Captain herself, walked into the room from the doorway that connected the Briefing Room to Tactical.

           

And thus the ritual began as the Wing Commander walked crisply into the room, as if having all knowledge of the situation athand. His entrance from Tactical was symbolic too, as if he had just been brought up to speed on what was going on.

When it was over, men would be assigned life or death based on what seemed to them the carefully thought out motives of the Powers-That-Be, Fate, and their Wing Commander’s caring watchful intervention maximising their odds of coming back in one piece. Effective psychology, but Bedwell knew better. He had been on the inside at those meetings too often to allow it to affect him, but it was good for morale.

 

It was true the Wing Commander cared about the men in his charge, but many times Tactical had to use information months out of date; or none at all, so that a guess had to suffice. Trevor knew it was anyone’s guess what would really happen out there. But the Wing Commander did a remarkable job of instilling confidence.

           

Strolling up to the large holographic display terminal, he sorted his notes out and called the briefing to order.

           

“In two hours, we will be leaving Thermopyle and jumping into the Deatrick system.”

           

There was a general shuffling of papers and hushed mutters at the mention of Deatrick. The Wing Commander cleared his throat to attain silence before he continued.

           

“I am certain many of you are familiar with its major inhabited world, Jameson nine.”

           

At that point, a holographic representation of the system jumped up on the large display console to his side.

           

“We have been troubled by the rebellious nature of this system long enough. After receiving evidence that it assisted the Greens at Thermopyle, it has been decided we can no longer tolerate it to exist with the lax stance toward New Jerusalem it has taken for the past several years during the Arachnid War.”

           

“Even before Thermopyle, we lost several troops due to piracy in the area or the occasional desertion,” he spat the word desertion like it was a curse of the highest order.

           

“It is a pit of sin and debauchery of the worst kind, and it is our moral duty as members of the Holy Fleet of the Empire of Yeshua to bring it into submission before ourselves and God.”

           

The Wing Commander then paused in order to allow the room to fill with cheers, which it did forthwith. After the shouting subsided, proving to him that the men were motivated, he resumed the briefing.

           

“Since we now have Null Space technology, it is not only convenient to bring non-aligned systems into submission but imperative, since we have a limited time until, by way of spies and…,” again the word, “desertion, they too shall possess it. We must strike whilst we have the advantage. To those of you who are veterans of Thermopyle, this should have special significance to you.”

           

As if on queue, some of the men took on a stern look.

           

“Elsewhere at this time, light specialised carrier groups like the Paradigm are crossing similar borders carrying crack troops to other rebellious worlds. We are making the first move.”

           

The briefing was broken by more applause.

           

“Our part of the offensive will go like this.”

           

The holo image of the Deatrick system stopped rotating and zoomed in on Jameson IX’s local space.

           

“We will penetrate the Deatrick system here,” the Wing Commander said, pointing to a new bright point on the map, “on the far side of where we suspect Jameson nine’s border forces will be patrolling.”

           

A line on the map appeared on the borderward side of Jameson IX and the letters “Blockade” flashed across it.

           

“Due to the close proximity of the system’s secondary star, Deatrick Beta, to Jameson IX, we will be able to use the radiation interference from it to sneak in as close to Jameson nine as possible before striking.”

           

The holo map to his side parroted his words with images.

           

“Unfortunately, that means we will be blinded as well. To see what is in front of us, and to warn us of any trouble in case we encounter naval vessels, we will be dispatching fighters in patrol and defensive diamond formations as follows.”

           

The map displayed the types of fighters and routes to be taken by certain wings. Bedwell remembered when he would have been among those wings. Some of his old wingmen gave him a stray look or two.

           

“The rest of you will be held on board the Paradigm as a reserve except for six of you, who in pairs will be baby-sitting three drop ships as they perform the main objectives of our mission in Deatrick.”

           

Eyebrows raised across the room.

           

“At this point for the next phase of the briefing, I’ll be turning things over to Squadron Leader Trevor Bedwell.”

           

The Wing Commander took his seat and Trevor got up and dragged himself and all his kit up to the map area. Haltingly, he began.

           

“All right. What we have here are the three major cities of the planet.”

           

The map changed scale and a flat grid projection came up. On top it read “Jameson IX - Orbital Target List.” Spread out among the different continents of Jameson IX were cities marked Tyr, Sinner’s Paradise, and Krueger.

           

“Due to the clandestine nature of our mission we did not take an actual marine officer with us to command you marines from Gilead. Therefore, it was decided that I would command the marine compliment for this mission. This was to minimise any advance warnings Jameson might receive of an invasion. I know many of you thought that perhaps this was only going to be a minor mission or routine training, perhaps light peacekeeping or recovery duty. But you are seasoned troops for the most part, and we all know that Gilead prides itself on crack marines.”

           

The marines in the room from Gilead swelled with pride. Many eyes lit with a new found excitement at the thought of actually getting deployed.

           

“We will be using our new “city killer” torpedoes for the first time here, in order to bring Jameson nine to her knees with minimal effort. This will require the placement in each city of a Resonance Enhancer Beacon, or “REBel” in the exact centre of the town in relation to Jameson nine’s polar axis. Each team will receive two for the sake of redundancy in the event of losses in the field. They are precision programmed for each city so that none of the sets are interchangeable.”

           

Trevor then set about tasking the three teams.

           

“Team Sinner’s Paradise, you will circle round Deatrick Beta where your escorts will leave you. You will proceed to Jameson nine and request landing at Sinner’s Paradise. It’s their largest spaceport, and it handles most system traffic. You will pose as defectors that travelled normally from the border. Your craft has already been properly aged in order to make this more believable. Once able to land, you will take what actions you deem necessary to place your REBel and get out.”

           

The map followed along with him.

           

“Team Tyr, you will make a standard insertion along with us once Team Sinner’s Paradise makes contact with the enemy.”

           

He then outlined the particulars of Team Tyr’s mission.

           

“Team Krueger, I’ll be along with you for this one.”

           

The map shifted to a tactical view of Krueger.

           

“Krueger is the capitol of Jameson IX. If we can eliminate the government seat, we can significantly reduce the fighting ability of the Jameson In-System Forces in the event J-nine doesn’t surrender after being hit by the three STG-990s. At least enough so that the Paradigm can escape out of the system at any rate.”

           

“Escape, Sir?” asked a burley marine in the back.

           

“Save your questions for the end.”

           

“If everything seems to be going our way, we’ll land approximately a half kilometre from our objective area in the heart of Krueger in order to try to minimise the drop ship’s exposure to enemy fire. I’ll drop the team, and they will double time it from there to the objective, using the dark as cover, since we have this planned for early morning, Krueger local time. After setting the REBel, they will return via the infiltration route and evac from the insertion point, eliminating possible threats along the way.”

           

“After all Teams are clear of the planet, the Paradigm will launch three STG-990 torpedoes toward our targets. We expect the cities and surrounding countryside to be totally destroyed.”

           

Trevor felt ambivalent about the idea of all the mass destruction about to take place. On one hand he wanted revenge for his losing the ability to fly fighters, and like everyone, he had lost a fellow soldier or two to the appeal of the pleasure worlds. He wanted payback for that too. Yet he found it hard to see God in what they were doing, attacking without giving a chance to surrender.

           

It was never the Empire’s style before to attack without a warning. Even covert missions were only done after a vague warning that “some” action would be taken in the event of a non-compliant act. In short, the enemy was always warned, and given a chance to avoid slaughter. But this was fighting like the enemy, or so Trevor felt. He had noticed things weren’t like they were before the Arachnid War. It had taken being totally ruthless to beat them back.  Perhaps that experience had tainted the minds of those higher up than he.

           

But he shrugged it off. He had his orders and this was his job.

           

“Any questions?”

           

The marine from the back again, “Yes sir. What do you mean escape the system?”

           

“We are but one ship Marine, and Jameson has a decent force in-system. If the Paradigm comes under heavy, sustained contact, she could be destroyed. This is all the more reason why we must succeed in our objectives.

 

Our strategy is mostly based on illusion. We assume they’ll think we can do globally what we’re about to do to their major cities and surrender before they lose anything else; but in truth, this is our only shot. If they manage to continue to resist, we will have to pull out. They will be devastated, but our mission will still have failed. We’re here to force Jameson nine back into the Empire, not eradicate her. Any others?”

           

“Yes, Sir,” spoke the drop ship pilot from Team Sinner’s Paradise.

           

“What happens in the event our fake is called and they attack or we’re not believed at all? What happens if we are forced into contact with the enemy?”

           

“Retask for a standard insertion and try to hold back and wait for us and Tyr, so they’ll have to spread out their attention. Your escorts will still be close for a time and can protect you. Stay sharp though, your team has the most dangerous task.”

           

“Anything else?”

           

“Yes, Sir,” a timid Corporal spoke up.

           

“Go on.”

           

“What happens if one of us miss the evac?”

           

“Kiss yourself goodbye and get your heart and soul right with God. Your family will receive your Jerusalem Star in the post. If we have time, you may even receive a ceremony on board to honour you.”

           

The room filled with a nervous laugh.

           

“Anything else?”

           

Silence greeted him.

           

“Good.  Back to you, Commander.”

           

The Wing Commander acknowledged Bedwell and strode back to the dais.

           

“Well, that about wraps it up. Don’t screw up out there. The standing order is still in effect; you may not die without permission. Let us pray.”

           

The room bowed its head.

           

“O Mighty God, protect us this day from the Evil One and his wiles. Sanctify us, O Lord, for your work and for the increase of your glory. O Holy Saviour, bless our weapons and our shields as we go to make battle for you against the reprobate. May your Empire endure forever, Amen.”

           

“Amen,” the room said in unison.

           

“Amen,” said Trevor, still troubled.

           

“We jump in about an hour. Get ready. Dismissed.”

           

The Wing Commander strode off back to Tactical. Everyone remained at attention until the door closed, but eased afterward. After the room had mostly cleared, Trevor headed for his quarters to prepare for the mission.

 

Officers Quarters--HMS Paradigm: 0815 Hours

           

The beeping brought him from his reminiscing with a start. He stumbled across the room, finally answering the comm unit in the opposite wall. A young, fresh-faced communications Lieutenant flashed up on the screen. Trevor took notice of how pretty she was, but was too disconnected to care much.

           

“This is your fifteen minute reminder, Sir. Your presence is required on the Flight Deck in fifteen minutes,” she said with a light Spanish accent. 

           

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said with a weary, distant tone.

           

The Lieutenant smiled and the screen went blank.

           

He had been in deep thought.

           

Flying Officer Maria Teresa Alverez, thought Trevor with a slight sadness falling over him.

           

The comms officer had reminded him of his old wingman, Alverez. She was only a little shorter than his six feet, lithe, with beautiful long raven black hair and emerald eyes that held your soul in a death-grip.  He felt a bit silly that he had loved her so much, but it was true just the same. Perhaps she never knew, all those times that he watched her.  Loving her from a distance, too timid to speak to her about more than flying and fighting.

           

“She knew,” he admonished himself as he checked himself out in the mirror, brushing his thick black hair, noticing the small scar that ran across the bridge of his nose between his green eyes. He was still young, but life was working on that.

           

“She knew and didn’t care.”

           

He insisted on bringing himself back up from his pain, and was annoyed by the fact that he never listened to the painfully practical voice inside him, which he felt must surely be his true self.

           

After all it had always been known, buried deep down. In fact, he himself had helped bury it so deep he couldn’t really hear it for all the rubbish he had filled his head with. He had paid for it dearly.

           

Still it made him feel soft.

           

She had been so beautiful, and flew as wonderfully as she looked. He had always felt she was better than him, even in the cockpit, where he allowed no one save himself. Their conversation was good enough. No one could have said anything was amiss from it. They were considered very good friends. And they were. But in the end, she always had her evening tea with some other man; some athletic hotshot younger than him with a mouth that spoke of more kills than it made.

           

Trevor never boasted about kills. To him that was sacred, and his record spoke for itself. He disapproved of the way most of the pilots, especially the ones fresh from flight school spoke up. He felt it very disrespectful to the dead.

           

“Derrick was nothing. I was twice the flyer,” he mused to himself.

           

He had loved her so much.

           

Did she ever love him? He didn’t know.

           

Satisfied with his appearance, he turned out the lights and left the room, the door rushing shut behind him. Walking crisply down the corridor, he stepped into the lift.

           

The computerised lift voice queried, “Destination?”

           

“Flight Deck.”

           

The lift began its trip down the ship to the flight area. His mind was still not clear of the minefield of memories.

           

At last the lift told him, “Flight Deck.” The doors opened and he stepped off.

           

Momentarily, his mind’s over-extension eased as he processed the bustle and activity surrounding him on every side. It always gave him a bit of a giddy thrill from the very first day he had set foot on a flight deck as a recruit. He was glad then for small pleasures, and for good things that didn’t fail to please, and silently thanked God in his heart.     

           

Walking across, he exchanged waves and smiles with most of the chief techs and their crews, enjoying the informal air that existed around hangar bays. This was their world of machines and grease, his, the great void.

           

Finally, he made his way to his destination. She loomed above him for two stories, waiting for him like a faithful lover. Its cargo bay airlock was open, and he could see the marines being packed in by the Sergeant.

           

The Sergeant stopped his experiment in spatial economy in order to yell the men to attention for Trevor to pass between them on his way up the ramp to enter the small lift that took him to the cockpit of the craft.

           

Once the silence of the cockpit overtook him, his mind refused to remain quiet. Memories crept up again, painful ones.

           

“Yes Teresa, you hated me for that didn’t you,” thought Bedwell.

           

“I only meant for him to learn a lesson,” he continued, as he reflected on the past that wouldn’t die this morning.  He began to strap in and power up the craft.

           

They had been on a strike mission that morning. She was on his wing and they were en route to target. Derrick was part of a diversionary wing to their left. He wasn’t pleased with the assignment and had spoken up about it on the flight deck prior to launch.

           

“You did this, didn’t you Bedwell!”

           

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

           

He remembered Maria off centre to his left in the middle, helmet in hand.

           

“You bloody well know what I’m talking about Trevor! You always get the fat targets!”

           

“Jealous are we Derrick? What a sad little display we’re being shown.  All targets are crucial, you know that.”

           

“No, not jealous like you. Not jealous of her. I see how you look at her.”

           

That had stung. The whelp had brought out into the open what the whole ship knew but didn’t say.

           

“Madness. I’m her wingman, and we depend on each other. It’s called ‘How-to-Stay-Alive’. I’m surprised you never learned it in flight school.”

           

“Well then explain this,” Derrick had said with a tone of finality that Trevor hadn’t cared for.

           

He had proceeded to read several excerpts from his personal diary some friend of Derrick’s in Technical must have hacked for him. None of them were lewd, but they were heartfelt and passionate. Trevor had felt naked to the soul.

           

“Pretty mushy stuff to be saying about an engaged woman.”

           

Just then, two Enforcers, special troops that dealt with moral crimes had stepped up, as if on a timer.

           

Trevor was getting desperate as this was quickly becoming a summary court-martial.

           

“I never knew she was claimed to such an extent, and I never acted on my feelings.”

           

Trevor had given a beseeching look to Alvarez. He had just known she would help.

           

“Maria, you didn’t tell me. Tell them, I didn’t know!”

           

She looked embarrassed and just turned the other way. That had hurt worse than anything else could have, even his punishment for such a crime that he committed only in his mind.

           

The Enforcer turned to him.

           

“Sir, you know the Government disapproves of illicit relationships. Flight Lieutenant Beck insists we look into this.”

           

Trevor hung his head, seeing his career and all that he had, foreseeably going to dust.

           

“I’m still the better pilot, Derrick,” he had said trembling, giving the only defence he had left.

           

“Your just the Wing Commander’s favourite. Get a hold on yourself. How can you call yourself a pilot acting like this. Not really holding up under stress...”

           

That had done it for Bedwell. He raised his head and looked Derrick in the eye. Between clenched teeth he spoke his mind.

           

“You cocky ones are all the same. Nobody is any good but you or your kind. Others are somehow lesser and exist only to be stepped on. You try to make us feel like slime and degrade us the most at the one thing we may be good at. You boast, but that’s all you are, a boast with no talent. You think you are something here, with all your mates and the beautiful girl at your side!  Out there you are nothing, because you are all talk behind the stick, and talk doesn’t dodge blasts! We may be of the same rank... but I HAVE BEEN HERE LONGER THAN YOU AND A LOT OF OTHER PEOPLE HAVE TOO!   YOU WILL SHOW US THE RESPECT  WE DESERVE!”

           

The entire deck had fallen quiet. Trevor had just noticed he was shouting. He could feel how much a mess he looked. He had spoken out. He had told the truth, but everyone just looked at him. Stared at him, as if by telling the truth he had broken some unspoken law. 

           

The Wing Commander came running up by this time.

           

“Bedwell are you okay?”

           

“I am now sir,” Trevor had said, winded.

           

“Are you sure? Take this mission off, I’ll have Beck take the objective.”

           

“No, Sir,” said Bedwell defiantly looking at Derrick. “I’ll fly and do my job.”

           

“Well, no more of this Beck,” said the Wing Commander giving him a stern glance. “Shaking up the wing leader is really bad form. Trevor, I’ll sort this mess out with the Enforcers, but I want to see you in my office after the mission.”

           

To everyone there he shouted; “All of you to your ships, now!”

           

In space, Trevor was all business. A preliminary wave of fighters had approached them and Trevor noticed Derrick taking a few hits. Despite his feelings he had commed him.

           

“Need assistance Derrick?”

           

“I’m fine limp stick, if you wouldn’t distract me. Go cry to the Wing Commander.”  Alverez spoke up; “I’m going to help him.”

           

Not this time, thought Bedwell.  “Negative Alverez. He said he could handle it.  Proceed to target.”

           

“He’s in trouble!”

           

“Are you contradicting a direct order Alverez? I said proceed to target.”

           

He received a resentful “Yes, Sir.” Their friendship was over; he could feel it in the tone of her voice, as cold as the void between their ships.

           

Soon afterwards, Trevor had ordered Alverez to switch comms frequency to a tight band channel, which could only be received by their two ships. He didn’t want her getting panicky over Derrick’s self-induced situation and botching up the mission.

           

Ten minutes later, after the both of them dusted their main objective, a small enemy corvette, Trevor began to get distress messages from Derrick.

           

“Trev, I’ll take that help now.”

           

Trevor flew along, and did not answer.

           

“Trev, for God’s Sake!”

           

Trevor decided to answer only after a few very special words. Derrick needed a lesson, and he was going to learn it.

           

“Taking heavy damage! I’m sorry, ok?”

           

Trevor merely smiled. “Say again Beck, I cannot hear you, you’re breaking up.”

           

“Were you talking to Derrick?” Alverez’s question was riddled with fear.

           

“I think he’s in a bit of a drama. Fancy that. Thought he could outfly anything.”

           

“Are you going to let him die Trevor?”

           

Trevor answered with silence, and then engaged his afterburners, forcing Alverez to play catch up.

           

Manoeuvring into the combat area, Trevor cut in behind the enemy ship on Derrick’s rear and launched an image tracking missile dead centre of his target. Leaving off its attack on Derrick, the enemy fighter broke left, but the missile anticipated the move and connected, making a clean kill.

           

Trevor noticed Derrick’s ship was pretty heavily damaged, but did not notice what was about to take place.

           

The last enemy ship in the area had Alverez on its tail, and it was coming in for a frontal attack on Bedwell, when he opened up with full guns. At the last second, the Arachnid fighter had swooped down, directly into Derrick’s craft, which was too damaged to evade.      

           

It was more than either ship could withstand, and they both shattered into a white-hot ball of plasma as the drives were breached. Trevor heard Derrick’s death scream over the comms. Alverez then screamed so loud over the channel Bedwell had to adjust the volume.

           

The barrage of fire Trevor had sent after the alien fighter hit Maria instead, nearly crippling her craft. She was lucky to have made it back to the carrier. Only Trevor returned without serious damage.  His peace of mind, however, was permanently scarred.

           

She never spoke to him again. An inquiry into the matter cleared Trevor of all charges associated with the event, letting him off with a warning to pay closer attention to his comms and a month long grounding for psychiatric exams.

           

But others aboard thought he had taken things too far. It had only helped further alienate him from the rest of the crew. Alverez was found to be pregnant shortly afterward and was stripped of her honours and thrown out of the flight corps, only being allowed off with her life only on account of the unborn child in her womb. 

 

He never saw her since, but he sometimes wondered what became of her. He thought about her life, how different it must be from his now.

           

He found himself strapped in the pilot’s seat, the panels and navigation displays powered up. The past retreated behind him, whilst the present loomed ahead of him. This was his world; here he was master. Cold confidence began to flow through him like a drink of water on a hot day, bringing him to his senses.

           

Having put on his helmet and adjusted the mike, he began to address the soldiers in the back. They were his soldiers now, not just cargo to be dropped and forgotten.

           

“I’d better be sharp on this one,” he muttered to himself before keying up.

           

“All right everyone, time to suit up and strap in. We’ll be dropping in the next ten minutes or so, when our window of opportunity opens. Before we go, I’d like us to have a prayer.”

           

Without a break he began, almost mechanically; “Holy God, who in Thy mercy doth keep us, I pray Thee that Thou wouldst protect us as we go forth to battle against the lawless in Thy name. Let us show them the folly of spitting upon Thy Holy Law, as interpreted by the High Council and His Majesty the Emperor. May we be blessed of Thee for all time. Amen.”

           

In the cargo area, the troops aped “Amen” in agreement. No one was thinking now, it was time. In pre-assigned seats they sat, light gleaming off their black battle armour. The crosses emblazoned above their hearts burned bright gold.

           

Most sat with resignation on their face, some with serene smiles. Each was strapping on an extra grenade or two, or loading their weapons, in this case P-23 plasma rifles. A few of the more massive men carried the P-25 heavy plasma. No man aboard carried less than the P-12 pistol that was required to be worn by all personnel during general alarm.

           

Eleven marines in all, twelve counting their commander in the cockpit, sat ready to dispense death without a second thought. The entire flight deck seemed caught up with the pageantry of it all.  Beautiful death bedecked with splendour awaited its call to glory below.

           

“Bedwell, this is Tactical,” came the voice crackling across his headset.

           

“Bedwell here.”

           

“You’ll proceed to target with Delta wing for protection. The latest we have says that Team Sinner’s Paradise is on the ground and has made a successful infiltration.”

           

Trevor was pleased to know that.

           

“But there’s a downside, they’ve been engaged by ground forces, so they know we’re here. Team Tyr has encountered severe resistance and is currently unable to land, they’re swarming her.”

           

That news wiped the grin off his face.

           

“There’s a fifty-fifty chance of what will happen when you go. Either they will continue attacking Team Tyr and ignore you, or they’ll divert forces to intercept you. We’ve mostly gone for the latter, so expect a rough ride and an even rougher landing.”

           

“I’ve been through worse.”

           

“We know.”

           

There was a brief silence. Something had distracted Tactical. Then they came back on with a rushed quality to their voice they had lacked before.

           

“Your window’s open, drop at will. God bless you.”

           

“Thank you, Tactical. May God grant the Victory.”

           

Trevor brought the engines to life and pressed the button to close the cargo airlock. As soon as he saw the pressure differential light go green, he wound up the drives slowly and hovered just off the surface of the flight deck. The men in the back felt a slight disorientation from the lift-off.

           

In front of Trevor, the large hangar door slid open, revealing space to him. Taking up nearly a quarter of his view was Jameson IX.

           

Characteristic of his style, Trevor hit the afterburners and shot out of the bay like a poison dart for Krueger. He wondered if anyone would vomit from the force. Then he wondered at his wondering.

 

Space- 0905 Hours

 

Dodging the volley of fire that almost blew his left stabilising wing off, Trevor nearly swore. They had been trying to penetrate the fighter screen for fifteen minutes with no success. One of the fighters from delta wing was badly damaged, yet despite being told to return to base several times, Johnson stayed on.  He boldly risked his life for the twelve he had sworn to protect.

           

It wasn’t that they hadn’t made any kills, they had already made three, but the enemy kept coming. Trevor thought he had heard that Team Tyr had finally made it to the planetary surface. If they had that was good, but it also meant that his drop ship was the last one still in space.  Planetary defences would throw everything airborne at him now.

           

The red missile lock light came on, forcing Trevor to swerve violently to the left and right. The lock indicator showed it to be a heat seeker, which was an older technology, one more easily fooled. Swinging to and fro the entire way, Trevor aimed his ship toward a heavily damaged enemy fighter. It had lost almost all its guns, leaving only one fully functional laser with which to defend itself. 

 

As Trevor barrelled toward its bow the enemy ship fired, cutting a small but growing chasm into the skin of the cargo area. He would have to hurry before the metal skin ripped and killed the marines inside due to depressurisation. If that laser managed to breech the hull it was over for them, and possibly the entire mission as well.

 

When the collision alarm sounded, Bedwell broke away sharply. The missile that had been feeding on his engine heat immediately sought the much more intense heat of the laser. Both missile and ship expanded into glowing pieces of metal fragments, quickly fizzling out in the cold emptiness of space.

 

“That’s a nice one, Sir,” sounded Delta’s wing leader, Flying Officer Ketter.

 

Trevor enjoyed hearing that, because it made him feel like he was back in fighters again. Suddenly he got a comm from down below. It was the Sergeant.

 

“Sir, with all due respect, knock it off, and get us down there.”

           

“Well, I’m a bit busy here.”

           

“Just saying, were getting thrown round down here right hard and it’s getting old. Try not to hotdog it, Sir. Just land this thing!”

           

“I’ll try.”

           

Trevor not waiting for a reply, cut off the comm link.

           

“Some people just have no appreciation for style,” he thought as he laughed inside.

 

 

Jameson IX Local Space- 0930 Hours

 

 

The fighting continued over the next few minutes, but the advantage was beginning to be seen for Team Krueger. Delta, along with some reserve fighters dispatched from the Paradigm, had beaten back Jameson’s defenders. Had it been an equal fight, they doubtless would have lost due to sheer numbers, but rogue planets tended to have outdated technologies.

 

Trevor flew along, dodging here and there, sometimes managing to get off a volley or two of his own. A few hit their target but most merely shook the attacker. Their fighters were flimsy, but fast. Holy Fleet fighters tended to be slower and more heavily armed.

           

The craft shook as Trevor had a near miss with a proximity missile.

           

“Bloody slags!” shouted Bedwell, not noticing his use of the derogatory term.

           

He checked his nav panel. It looked as if there were a break in the fighter screen just big enough to punch through, if he was careful. Jameson’s rotation had put it in position for his landing, albeit, they were a bit late.

           

Trevor addressed the marines in the cargo hold.

           

“You lads hold tight down there. I’m taking us in, sharp and hot.”

           

Giving all she had, the drop ship lurched forward under full afterburner.

           

“Ketter, watch us, we’re running for it.”

           

“Trev stop this madness! You’ll not make it!”

           

“I’ll make it.  Trust me.”

           

The ship was screaming along now.      

           

“Follow the man,” said Ketter to the expanded wing of fighters

           

The four fighters formed an arrow formation behind Bedwell and flew into the heart of the swarm.

           

None of the enemy fighters wanted to mess around with a drop ship going that fast and flew out of the way as quickly as possible as Trevor tore through. One straggler wasn’t as lucky, for Trevor got a shot in on him as he attempted to cross in front. Tumbling away out of control, it ignited into a mass of fire and roasted metal.

           

The SF-763 fighters that the Fleet pilots flew then broke formation behind Trevor and began a series of swarming manoeuvres. From the aft camera, Trevor saw the carnage unfolding.

           

But ahead lay Jameson, now undefended from orbit. Picking a spot off the coast two hundred kilometres from Krueger, Trevor pointed the drop ship at it and began the decent. There was loads of turbulence and the ship was getting shaken about badly.

           

He overheard bits and pieces about the progress of the battle over the comms.

           

“Team Sinner’s Paradise is space borne, reporting mission accomplished with minimal casualties.”

           

“Team Tyr is in the objective area, meeting heavy ground resistance.”

           

At least they’re on the ground, thought Trevor. Meanwhile the ship continued to scream toward the surface. Trevor thought he heard someone tell him to slow his approach, but he didn’t have time to think on it, he was busy. Applying maximum braking thrust at the last minute, the drop ship finally came to a hovering halt a scant hundred meters from the ocean surface.

           

It was time to update the plans. There would be too much fire to just drop the troops and pull back like he had hoped. Tyr was already suffering the ill effects of a ‘standard insertion.’ It wasn’t going to happen to him. Trevor needed advice, and he knew just whom he was going to ask.

 

 

 

Jameson IX Airspace- 0938 Hours (0238 Planetary)

 

Trevor adjusted his nav map for planetary mode and the grid rushed down 2D style over the continents of Jameson IX. There was Krueger, a scant two hundred kilometres away. He knew they couldn’t stay here long, they would probably have atmospheric fighters about that could destroy something as big as his drop ship in seconds.

           

He used the intercom to reach the Sergeant.

           

“Yes, Sir.”

           

“Sergeant, I need your opinion.”

           

“That’s what I’m here for, Sir.”  He seemed to relax and sounded pleased to be included on a decision.

           

“I don’t think we can safely land a half kilo from our objective anymore.”          

           

“I thought it was a bad idea in the first place, Sir. I suppose Tyr’s getting ripped apart,” said the Sergeant apologetically.

           

“So you suggest a closer approach.”

           

“I suggest we blast our way into downtown Krueger, knock a hole in that building, place that bloody REBel, and get out,” said the Sergeant sounding like the plan would satisfy him deeply.

           

“We can’t do that. If we hit the building, it stands a chance of collapse. Then no REBel placement, and this leg of the mission failed. Plus I’m not so certain we don’t need repairs where that laser hit us,” explained Trevor.

           

Trevor took a moment to check his nav display. They were still clear for now.

           

“We’ve got a good technician. He can repair her. But we have to be closer to the objective to ensure our survival, Sir. That’s all I’m saying.”

           

“Right.  Have your men ready to open fire as soon as the ramp falls.”

           

“Right, Sir.”

           

Trevor deactivated the intercom. Activating the air to ground weapons systems, he singled out a spot near the IXL building, the centre of Krueger. Suddenly the warning bleep on his nav map sounded. Two red dots flashed onto the screen.

           

“Time to get going,” he thought.

 

Hitting the afterburners, the ship bounded away.  Trevor was taking them on a low, fast approach to Krueger. It was exceedingly dangerous, but any slower and they could be targets for the anti-matter SAM emplacements dotted across the Jameson countryside.

           

About a minute or so of avoiding hills and trees brought them to the edge of town. He only had about ten seconds to decelerate and fire. Utilising all his reflexes, he allowed the auto-target programme to settle on the IXL building. Eight seconds left. Selecting a medium plasma pulse cannon from the available weapons on the ship, it locked target almost immediately. Five seconds. Trevor fired at the instant of tone, and began applying braking thrust at once. Two seconds.

           

Bedwell held his breath as he awaited the results of the shot. By this time they were taking enemy small arms fire from below. As he began to take the ship down, the plasma connected, causing a massive blue electrical arc to jump across the roofs of adjoining buildings. Melted brick and rubble rained down on the troops below causing them to scatter momentarily.

           

There was a relatively perfect circular hole blown into the side of the building. It would have to do. He raised the Sergeant on the intercom again.

           

“Sergeant, the REBel team is cleared for deployment. Mind the gap.”

           

 There was a hiss in the back compartment as the cargo bay depressurised and the ramp slid down. The troops, who weren’t used to deploying from a floating platform had trouble getting across into the building. Some nearly slid off, to say nothing of the renewed fire they were taking from below. A few of the Marines held in reserve went to the edge of the airlock and returned fire in order to cover their companion’s entry.

           

The REBel team, consisting of the Sergeant and four men finally penetrated the structure. They soon disappeared from sight. Trevor was a bit shaky at all the action going on, but was trying to stay cool. He didn’t really care for all the improvisation, but there wasn’t any other way left at this point in the mission. Pleased that the team were inside, he spoke to the Sergeant.

           

“I intend to take the ship outside the city and try to find a safe place for repairs. I really don’t feel good about trusting the hull where that fighter scorched it in space.”

           

“Well, ok Sir. It’s your call. But those troops down there aren’t just going to wait in the street for us.”

           

“Yeah, no problem. We’ll....” Just then the ship rocked as if there had been an earthquake on board. One of the marines defending the ramp lost his balance and tumbled out, falling fifteen stories to the ground below. Trevor hoped the impact killed him, for if it didn’t, he knew he would surely suffer horrible abuse from the Jameson Militia.

           

Noticing the nose of the ship dip forward, he realised one of the enemy below had managed to take out an engine. Having no choice but to land, he decided to land where it would do the most good. He got back on the intercom to the cargo bay. To his surprise, it was the young Lance Corporal he had spoken to on the observation deck earlier.

           

“Vonts, tell the men to prepare for an emergency landing.”

           

No sooner had he said this than he shut off all engines. The effect was one he had hoped for, as many of the troops below were caught off guard. The ship dropped like a rock and landed with a thud, mingled with the crunching sound of the human bodies caught underneath. Blood and viscera splattered on those nearby the ship when it crushed their comrades.

           

 Trevor reckoned they were at least blessed to have landed with the damaged side toward the building at an angle so as to make a wall for the repair techs to work behind on one side. On the other, they would have to trust their fellow Marines.

           

Instantly there was fire from all sides being thrown, red laser beams contrasting against blue plasma bolts. Hurriedly, the two man repair team jumped out, arms full of equipment, their two guards firing constantly, pausing for an instant to hurl a grenade. It hit its target, the blue white arc killing several in its range. The enemy, however, were not without their sharpshooters. One of the guards, distracted by a fake grenade, was hit in the shoulder by heavy laser fire, knocking him to the ground. Unable to use his arm, he continued fighting using the P-12 pistol at his side.

           

Carnage ruled on all sides. The other guard soon spotted the location of the heavy laser nest and directed fire from his P-25 toward it, shattering the emplacement.  Back in the cockpit Trevor’s thoughts were a blur. Realising they would not have the ship ready in time, he radioed the Sergeant.

           

“Sergeant, I’ve some bad news.”

           

“Nothing new, Sir. What is it now?”

           

“We’ve been forced to land outside, we were hit in the engine.”

           

“I see.  That is bad.”

           

“Yes, it rather is.”

           

“How long till you can get it running?”

           

“Well, assuming our technicians don’t get killed, probably twenty minutes.”

           

“What?  That’s pushing our luck, Sir, especially the type we’ve been having so far.”

           

“I am well aware of that, Sergeant.”

           

“I suppose me and whoever’s left will come out and try to make a safe passage down for you and your team. Any losses so far?”

           

“Just one wounded with us. He’ll have to be carried.”

           

“All right, we’re going to move, blessings be with you.”

           

“Thank you, Sir.”

           

At that, Trevor grabbed his P-23 and headed down to the cargo area.

 

 

The Ground- 0945 Hours (0245 Planetary)

 

There were few more fitting visions of Hell than the one that greeted Trevor as he joined Vonts in the cargo bay. A lucky Jamesonite Militiaman, aflame and missing an arm, had rushed inside carrying what appeared to be a satchel charge. Both Trevor and Vonts opened fire on him before he could arm it, splattering him across half the cargo bay. Their black battle armour became covered in fine red dots from the blood mist inside as Trevor walked toward Vonts.

           

“Vonts, we’re going inside to make a safe way for the REBel team coming out.”

           

Vonts nodded in understanding. They cleared the airlock, firing as they went.  Trevor triggered the ramp from the control on his wrist and it began to close off the airlock to the drop ship. He felt a profound sense of vulnerability as he shut himself off from the safety of the ship. He was not accustomed to the feeling of being outside during a firefight.  He was designed to fly, not run and duck for cover.

           

Round about him Hell continued on infinitely in all directions. Fire and rubble were everywhere. A little girl, not much over four, bounded out into the street from somewhere, a stray bolt taking off half her head. Her little legs still continued to run a few steps, even as her arms went limp; the upper body tilting back under the force of the hit.

           

It was all bewildering to Trevor, who nearly vomited at the sight.  He felt disoriented and dizzy. This wasn’t what he saw from the air, that was certain. A flash of fire, then return home and job well done. He realised he had helped create the smoking inferno he was now in. Seemingly from a great distance he heard a voice calling him back. It was Vonts.

           

“Come on for God’s Sake,” screamed Vonts as he grabbed Trevor and shoved him toward the entrance. Trevor shambled forward, with Vonts bringing up the rear, spraying fire back in the direction it came. They finally made it into the foyer of the IXL building.

           

The receptionist at the large desk in the middle of the room was still a bit addled at all the sudden excitement. When she saw the crosses on their battle armour she immediately reached under the desk.

           

“Put your hands up now,” demanded Vonts, but to no avail. The woman persisted. Without a second thought Vonts shouldered his rifle and fired. The bolt hit her head square centre, shattering it, killing her instantly. The report of the rifle drew attention to the fact that there were intruders about, and promptly both what appeared to be security guards and interested civilians with firearms began raining laser fire down upon them.

           

Vonts continued to lead Bedwell, this time steering him toward the now vacant desk that would afford them some protection from the laser fire. As he was being shoved along, Trevor began to marginally recover from his shock. He realised that regardless of how he felt about all this, those people were trying to kill him, and he had a command for which he was responsible.

           

Five seconds and twenty or so pot-shots later they were behind the relative safety of the desk that Trevor had managed to push over, whilst Vonts had scorched one or two nearby snipers off the stairwell directly to their front-right. Ducking down, he looked at Bedwell.

           

“You’re going to have to get it together, Sir,” he said, shaking Bedwell’s shoulders a bit. He was taking quite a risk, a spineless commander not wanting his cowardice to be known could have shot him dead and later claimed he was insubordinate. Vonts did it anyway.  Trevor at this moment appreciated him for the man he was, and was disappointed in his self.

           

“I know Vonts, I know. I’m...sorry. I just...It overwhelmed me.” Trevor felt broken to hear those words spill from his lips.

           

“Well Sir, if I may speak freely, you weren’t fit for this assignment. You must have really pissed someone off or they were just totally unconcerned about the outcome of this mission.”

           

Trevor was amazed at his candour. He thought about calling him down but appreciated his honesty too much. Just then, he saw out of the corner of his eye a woman on the stairway. Ignoring Vonts for a second, he spun round. She left just as quickly, making it impossible to make out all her features. But somehow, Trevor knew.

           

“Alverez,” whispered Trevor harshly.

           

“Who, Sir?” asked Vonts, worried that perhaps Trevor was losing it again.

           

“An old acquaintance.”

           

“Defector?”

           

“You could say that.”

           

 Vonts’ lucky guesses were hitting too close to home. Trevor looked directly into the other man’s eyes. 

           

“Come on, I’m ok now. Thank you.” He said the ‘Thank you’ with sincerity.

           

Vonts understood and they immediately rose up firing. Bedwell, getting used to the conditions of battle, fumbled with a grenade. Finally arming it he looked at Vonts.

           

“Throw it, Sir!”

           

Bedwell smiled and did exactly that, his pilot’s dexterity and marksmanship coming into play. Instinctively knowing the proper angle, Trevor threw. The grenade, set to detonate at impact, landed amidst the largest throng of attackers on the main stairwell. The blue burning death arcing out of it consumed most of the mass of men and women shooting at them.

           

They made a break for the stairs. Trevor felt searing heat as his armour absorbed and dissipated a couple of laser shots to his back. Trevor turned round and shot back, his plasma rifle blowing open the chest of the man pursuing him.

           

“You’ll want to mind that, Sir,” said Vonts a bit winded as they continued to run amidst fire. “Too many hits at once an’ you’ll roast in your suit.”

           

They made their way up the staircase and over the hole made by Trevor’s grenade, giving sporadic fire as necessity dictated. As they reached the top of the stairs a civilian man walked out of his room. He had a bottle of some sort of liquor in one hand and laser pistol in the other, which he then raised and fired at Trevor. It was not military strength however, and Trevor’s armour easily dissipated the heat. The man was obviously inebriated, as he then took to calling Trevor names. Putting his rifle on his back by its sling, Trevor grabbed him with his bare hands.

           

“Go on you Christian dog! Slay the slag. I know you want to,” he snarled.

           

“You have a choice!” said Bedwell.

           

“Kill him, Sir!” said Vonts

           

Trevor became distracted and looked toward Vonts.

           

“He’s just drunk; he’s no danger.”

           

 Just then the drunk man’s bottle connected with Trevor’s helmet, knocking him severely off balance and making him loose his grip on the man. Vonts went to shoot him but Bedwell motioned to stop.

           

“He’s mine.”

           

 Drawing a finely crafted hunting knife, a family heirloom, he confronted the man.

           

The drunk man again lunged but this time he lunged his last. Trevor side-stepped him and thrust the blade into the man’s side to the hilt. Almost instantly he pulled it out and quickly shuffled behind the man as he fell to his knees. His martial training coming to good use, Trevor swiftly slit his throat. It was as if someone else, a being of pure reflex, controlled Trevor. He was fulfilling his training.

           

Sheathing the knife he bounded into the room followed by Vonts as the struggle had attracted the attention of a number of guards. Trevor and Vonts waited on each side of the door, and as the guards rushed in, they fired, slaying as many as entered the door. Some saw the nasty surprise awaiting them but could not turn back due to the others behind them forcing them forward.

           

Turning round Trevor saw what he could not believe.

           

“Bloody slag,” shouted Vonts at the woman, and raised his rifle to fire.

           

“No!” shouted Bedwell, perhaps with too much force.

           

“Sir, are you ok?”

           

“Urr, yeah, I’m fine. Go on ahead. I’m taking her prisoner.”

           

Vonts shrugged and went on, but not without telling him that he would be back shortly with the REBel team.

           

Trevor assumed Vonts knew what that meant. Imperial Forces only took prisoners in two instances. He had found a defector, or a kidnapped citizen, taken by Flesh Pirates. Staring at him with a mixture of shock and horror was Alverez.

           

“I never thought you would see me again.”

           

“Neither did I,” said Trevor bitterly, still training his pistol on her for safety’s sake.

           

“Well,” said Alverez as she slowly walked over the night-stand by the large bed that dominated the room. Picking up a small pipe, she lit it and drew deeply. Trevor decided it could have been marijuana or opium, he couldn’t tell. After another long pull she finished her sentence.

           

“...you might as well put that thing away. We both know there’s no escape for me.”

           

She walked a few steps to the foot of the bed and sat upon it. She was clad rather scantily, her breasts being barely covered. The cut of the garment left almost nothing to the imagination. She sat in front of Trevor, legs slightly ajar.

           

Trevor was both attracted and repelled by the creature in front of him. She was everything he had been taught to hate, yet she had some sort of allure. As far as he could see, she remained as supple and attractive as the day he last saw her at her court-martial.

           

Trevor did as bade, slowly lowering the weapon, and placing it in its holster. He finally was able to speak.

           

“I noticed you’ve picked up some nasty habits since you left the Empire,” he said, trying to sound tough, but it was illusory and hollow. He was a man at war with himself, flesh raging against his logic and years of drilled ethical teachings.

           

“Oh, this,” she said, waving the pipe gently “well that just sort of happened. I picked it up from some of my new friends. It seemed to calm them down when they were nervous or uptight, and it worked for me too.”

           

Trevor couldn’t understand how she could be so nonchalant.

           

“We all have worries Maria, but our solace isn’t supposed to be in the crutches of the weak,” he said quoting his primary school Morality instructor.

           

He acted disgusted, which indeed he was; at least, his logical self was. His emotive side was turned on. Trevor shivered inside himself.

           

“Great God, how can I be feeling such things? This is terribly wrong. She should be shot, not reasoned with,” he thought. “You can’t reason with slags,” he thought, quoting some other Morality text.

           

His logic remembered all the training he received, to hate the vices so long held by men. It had been instilled into him since he was a child. He never questioned it. Slags for the most part were addicts driven by sin; killing them was doing them a favour. “Yes,” he thought, “I must shoot her now.”

           

His rationale was well planned out, yet he did not take his own advice. They continued to talk about things, such as how she found her way to Jameson, and how she stole the ship to make the trip, how long it took, and the dangers she faced in bringing an Imperial craft into Jameson’s space.

           

It mattered not in the least. He could feel sweat trickle down his uniform as the battle inside himself waged on. He knew he should shoot her, but could not.

           

She was stained, that was fact. The wall next to her showed her in a dozen ways with as many men, like little trophies of her abominations. The pipe, the clothes, the wall, it was obvious to him how she made her living. What bothered him was why. Even now, she seemed to retain a sweetness he cherished. She had sacrificed everything, for this? Try as he might, he could not fathom a reason why. She was so beautiful, yet wretched. He began to form a plan.

           

“That drunk man, the one I killed, was he your boyfriend?”

           

“Why?  Would you be jealous?” she asked with a coy smile. Trevor didn’t find it funny.

           

“Why should I be? You’re a slag now,” he said. “Of course I would,” he thought.

           

“You don’t say that like you mean it.”

           

“Answer the question Maria.” He wasn’t used to this sort of insolence.

           

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes, “he was a friend. He came round sometimes,” she said with no real feeling.

 

“And the others?” Trevor asked gruffly, pointing to the wall.

           

“It pains you, doesn’t it? I loved it all.”

           

She was lying. Yet she was not going to tell Trevor the humiliating truth, about how she had joined Jameson’s In-System forces as a pilot, how her filthy commanding officer tried to get her into bed, how she had finally humiliated him by refusing outright. He had said she would pay for it, but she never dreamed he had contacts in so many places. In the end the only work she could find was as a licensed prostitute. She hated it, but her and more importantly her child had to eat, and there was no going back to the Empire.

           

 Trevor thought it must be a lie. She didn’t seem sincere.

           

“Maria,” said Trevor, his hand now on his pistol grip.

           

“Fine,” she said with a mock frown. “They’re my customers. I service them. I’m a whore, ok?”  There seemed a bit of a tone of victory in her voice.

           

The confession only hit Trevor harder.

           

“For God’s sake Maria! Why? Why have you done this? You turned your back on God, you turned your back on the Navy, everything! For what? Just because you couldn’t keep your hands off that bloody Derrick! You were the most beautiful woman in the Empire,” Trevor paused a moment. “You still are! Why?” He pulled his pistol and shot the wall with the pictures on, obliterating them all.

           

She had cringed back, having feared the bolt was for her. She looked up and found herself still alive. Suddenly she struck back.

           

“Why? You want to know why? I’ll tell you why! You Trevor!”

           

“Me?”

           

“Yes! You and everyone like you who let you get away with killing Derrick!”     “I didn’t kill him,” he protested.

           

“You let him die!”

           

“Derrick was out of order. He was cocky and disrespectful.”

           

“Not everyone can be the Wing Commander’s pet.”

           

“That had nothing to do with it!”

           

“Your memory seems selective.”

           

“We’re off the subject Maria.”

           

“Yes! See! That’s what I mean. You Imperials are all the same that way. You ‘worship’ a God of Truth by forcing lies down everyone’s throat! I have read the Word, and it never mentioned anywhere that Yeshua put anyone to death for their wrongs! He was a man of mercy!”

           

“He is God of the Universe! And if you had ever bothered to read your Torah, you would see how slags are to be dealt with!”

           

“That was the Old Law!”

           

“He is the same yesterday, today, and forever more! You’re using me as an excuse to sin! Maybe it was wrong of me to allow Derrick to take those hits, but it was wrong to punish me for loving you. I would have never said anything. If this is how you’ve chosen to hurt me, then well done, OK! I’m bleeding inside for you. Look at what you’ve become. I’ll never be able to have you like this.”

           

He had come clean.

 

He was a Royal Naval Officer. He had never tasted of any of the things that slags revelled in. And yet, he loved a slag with all his heart, for he loved Maria, in spite of all her wrongs. Enough to be taking the silly risk he was now taking.

           

But he had to break her Will, he was right, not her. He knew what was best for her. At least so he thought.

           

“I’m not your possession! I never was.”

           

“You should have been. I would have given myself to you just as much.” Trevor paused; then added, “I’m so disgusting,” launching his Plan.

           

“Why?”

           

“Because I still would.”

           

“And how is that?”

           

“Because I still love you Maria. Come back to the Empire with me.”

           

“Are you mad? They’ll have me killed and you court-martialled for that! Wake up! I can’t go back! Nobody can ever go back! Forgiveness there is a lie! If you ever step out of place, you are branded forever! Why would I want that kind of life again? Why would I want that kind of fear, hanging over me constantly? Enforcers shadowing me wherever I went? What kind of Christianity is that? Our whole society is a lie! A whitened sepulchre full of dead men’s bones!”

           

“You’re mad. You’ve been out of touch a long time Maria. Go back with me. I forgive you even if they do not.”

           

“I..., I can’t. It’s too late after all I am, all I’ve done.”

           

“It’s never too late to recommit,” said Trevor with zeal, his prize almost in his grasp.

           

“They’ll kill me,” she weakly argued.

           

“No, I’ll make something up. You were merely in transit near the border, and you were kidnapped by slag Flesh Pirates, made to perform unspeakable acts.”

           

“Yes, that keeps me alive but what about all the Nonconformists? It will only serve to intensify Imperial hatred towards them and increase the scale of conflicts like this! These people don’t even know why you’re here!”

           

“We are here to end the Victimisation. We are here to bring these bloody “pleasure worlds” back under the rule of Law. To stop what they do.” He felt they were off the subject again.

           

“How can you say that? They are worthy of being able to live the way they want!”

           

“Stop daydreaming! No man has a free choice of how to live. God has chosen how man is to live his life.  Man lives either for good or evil. The evil try to destroy the good, the good must destroy the evil. There is no middle ground. They’ve made their choice and that choice is against the Will of God. Let them die with it!”

           

“Then mine has been made as well.”

           

“What are you talking about?”

           

“If they deserve no pity, neither do I.”

           

“Stop being a fool Maria. You’ll die if you stay here. Repent secretly, and I’ll cover your re-entrance into society.”

           

“The very act will force you to sin by lying. How is it that is acceptable? What makes you better than me,” asked Maria, attempting to pierce Trevor’s deep-seated Imperial logic.

           

“Because I am clean, by God! Enough of this! We are out of time! In minutes this place will be no more!”

           

“I will not let a false story about me be a reason to slaughter billions. Tell the truth when you bring me back and I’ll go,” she said brokenly, almost wanting to believe him.

           

“I can’t!”

           

“Then I won’t.”

           

“For God’s sake Maria!”

           

“Enough of the lies!”

           

By this time Trevor noticed a small boy, not older than five or six, emerge from an adjoining room.

           

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to the child.

           

“Elijah. My son,” she said nervously.

           

“Son. By Derrick.”

           

“I think so.”

           

“Hebrew name. Part of you still cares.”

           

Trevor’s logic was again disgusted but his heart felt for her lack of understanding. He modified his plan.

           

“Well, I know he’s yours. Therefore, he is a citizen of the Empire. He is coming with me.”

           

“No! You’ll not take him without me,” she screamed, her voice infused with motherly protectiveness.

           

“Then you’ll come too.”

           

“I won’t. We will stay here and meet our fate.”

           

Enough is enough, thought Trevor.

           

 “You are both coming with me!”

           

“I will not be your slave with you holding the truth over my head to force my obedience!”

           

“You will come!”

           

Just then as if on cue, Vonts burst into the room. Trevor could see a few men behind him, what was left of the REBel team.

           

“REBel’s in place, Sir. We’re ready to evac. Kill your prisoner and let’s go.”

           

“It’s not that simple Vonts. Seems she was captured by Flesh Pirates. She didn’t willingly defect,” he calmly lied.

           

“Yes I did! He’s lying! He’s lying to you,” she shouted, already knowing it wouldn’t change anything.

           

Vonts appeared confused.

           

“See Vonts, even now she’s mentally tormented. The quicker we get her and her child out of here the better.”

           

“Child, Sir?”

           

“Yes. She was convicted of fornication, I used to fly with her. But she did not defect; she was taken. The child is an Imperial Citizen. We’ll give it a proper upbringing.” Trevor felt his story growing ever more tenuous.

           

“He’s lying again,” she said, smiling.

           

“Enough of this. We’re leaving.”

           

Trevor started for the child.

           

“No!” Maria screamed and from some hidden part on her nearly naked body she produced a small laser pistol. Trevor didn’t notice, but Vonts did.

           

“Sir!” screamed Vonts, but she had already pulled the trigger.

           

Trevor spun round, only to see the beam travelling at him in what seemed to be slow motion. He drew his pistol on instinct, but he knew he was not fast enough. He still couldn’t believe she had shot him, but what hurt him most was that he knew she was as good as dead, the others would shatter her beautiful form with vengeful plasma for her crime.

           

He also knew that he was afraid to die, and didn’t understand why, since he felt he should find himself in the benevolent presence of God. Then Vonts appeared suddenly in the way.

           

Trevor saw him absorb the beam’s impact in the head. His expression went blank and Trevor could almost hear the sizzle as his brain was frying in his skull. Nearly instantly Trevor heard a ‘pop’ sound, and saw that Vonts’ skull had split, a line of steaming grey matter protruding from the rift.

           

He saw the rest of the men pouring in and raising their rifles.

           

Now in a clear moment, his conscience was unimpeded by any weaknesses. Swifter than his team could be, he fell to one knee, raised the pistol, and trained it on Maria’s head, the loveliest he had ever known.  His finger pulled the trigger, signing her death warrant. Even then she seemed defiant, victorious, as if she had accomplished her aims. He didn’t believe in telepathy, but her eyes told him one thing: “You cannot have me. Ever.” They only told him for a second, for with the next, her face became a melted mass of dripping flesh.    

           

The body immediately went limp as the head continued its transmutation from beautiful face to fine pink mist. A second later nothing remained save the steaming remains of her jaw bone, which even then were soon obliterated by the massed fire that the other troops pumped into her. Her supple womanly frame was reduced to little more than red slime on the carpet in less than three seconds altogether. Yet to Trevor, centuries had passed.

           

His moment of clarity had passed as soon as he pulled the trigger, and he had regretted it instantly, but it was done now. She was no more. He quickly reasoned to himself that even if he had not dealt the fatal blow, the others would have shattered her anyway. But the truth was he had fired the fatal shot. He alone had killed the woman he had loved and wished to possess for so many years.

           

To make matters worse, his logical side was already berating himself over young Vonts’ sacrifice. Had he simply shot her and moved on, Vonts might have still been alive, and Trevor knew of no Marine he had ever met who had deserved to live more, though he had not been aquatinted with Vonts for long.

           

“Today, Sir. This place is gonna go any minute. We’d like to not be here when it does.”

           

It was the Sergeant. And Trevor knew he was right.

           

“Yes. Of course Sergeant, you’re right. Haskell, take Vonts’ body. Weatherall, take the child. We’re leaving.”

           

Finally fighting his way down the stairs, Trevor noticed the ship was still there. He felt relieved. As he approached the door, he noticed the repair teams had huddled in the corner, using the ship for as much cover as they could. Trevor instantly keyed the door open from his wrist. As the airlock hissed open, the repair team made a break for it. Trevor noticed they were dragging one man behind them. He hoped he wasn’t dead.

           

When he had seen that all the men outside were in the ship, Trevor took another grenade off his combat armour, armed it, and then threw it full force at the Ivan Xander Landemere building’s main doors. There was a resounding explosion, leaving bits of door and men scattered about; the remaining frame consumed by flame. Running full force, the line of men still inside filed into the back of the ship during the short lull in the crossfire that the blast afforded.

           

The enemy were already running toward the airlock and firing again as it sealed shut with a hiss, which dulled the roar of battle outside to a hush.

           

“How are repairs, Marine?”

           

“We’ve got her fixed Sir, but Davidson’s been badly wounded. We need to get back to the Paradigm as fast as possible.”

           

“No argument with that.”

           

“Sergeant, take care of the men, I’m going to go get us out of this place,” said Trevor filled with resolve. He had no love of the place.

           

“Hurry Sir, my watch says we’ve got two minutes to get clear.”

           

“Right.”

           

And with that, Trevor jumped into the lift to flight control.

           

Once there he sprang out of the lift into his seat. Ignoring the usual pre-flight checks, he slammed the engines into life. With a shudder and a heavy, strained whine, the ship managed to clear the charnel house beneath them and lumber into the sky. His radar picked up three atmospheric fighters on intercept, but Trevor wasn’t concerned. Just as they flew into weapons range, he engaged the afterburners full tilt. The ship lurched forward, throwing everyone round, bounding up and away from Krueger.

           

It wasn’t ten seconds later until behind him he felt the impact of a shock wave and the temperature inside the drop ship rose five degrees. He could see debris rocket past them. The explosion burned out his rear camera, but he had an idea of how it must have looked. Communications were knocked out for some minutes. When they finally came back online, he heard the carrier calling.

           

“Team Kruger... Krueger, this is Paradigm... please respond.”

           

“Paradigm, this is Team Krueger.”

           

“What is your status, Krueger?” Behind her voice Trevor thought he could make out cheers.

           

“We are clear with a highly unstable engine and hull damage. We’ve lost a few men, recovered one body.  Have rescued a hostage, and have a man badly wounded. Requesting permission for an immediate emergency landing.”

           

“Permission granted, Trevor.”

           

It was the Wing Commander himself.

           

“Sir?”

           

“Come on home Trev, I knew you’d pull it off.”

           

“Yes, Sir! Making final approach,” said Trevor, more animated than before.

           

Other ships in the area quickly moved aside in reverence as Trevor brought the drop ship in for a touchy but acceptable landing on the flight deck. A large crowd awaited them at the ship’s airlock, including several medical personnel. Trevor spotted the Wing Commander straightaway, coming out of the lift from flight control.

           

“Bloody good show Trevor!”

           

“Thank you, Sir. But why all the fuss?”

           

“It worked! Jameson is transmitting its total and unconditional surrender at this moment! You’ve helped the Empire win again! Blessed by God, I swear it. There’ll be another Medal in this for you,” he said brimming with pride in his star pilot.

           

“But I was just part of a joint effort.”

           

“Everyone on this ship sees you as the one that pulled it all off!”

           

As the two were walking off the flight deck, Trevor felt hands patting his back and hearing different people say nice things to him. He had mixed feelings about the reception.

 

 

Epilogue

           

The Wing Commander had spoken truly about medals, for two months later he privately received a Cross of Purity. It was of pure gold with a silver inlay. Inscribed upon the back in Hebrew was: “Touch Not the Unclean Thing”. Below that in a smaller font it read: “For meritorious service in vanquishing the Enemies of God on Jameson IX, Deatrick System, In the One-Hundred and Fifty-third year of the Empire.”

           

He held the Cross in his hand and reflected upon how close he had come to failing in that aspect of his life. Suddenly there was a noise from across his cabin. He looked up to see his newly adopted nephew.

           

“Gotta go Uncle. Time for school.” The child made a face.

           

“Ok. I may be flying when you get home. Pray for me,” said Trevor in a warm tone.

“Ok Uncle Trevor,” said the boy. Suddenly he stiffened to attention and gave salute. “Praise the Lord, Uncle Trevor.”

Trevor stood and returned the salute, going along with the child’s game. Elijah often enjoyed pretending he was a Naval pilot and would give Trevor the formal salute every morning as he left to “fly.”

 

“Praise the Lord, Elijah.”

 

With that the boy left. Trevor sat back down and exhaled a long breath. How the boy had hated him early on. The memory treatments had been effective, however. The boy thought he had been orphaned at birth. Pictures and keepsakes were engineered and everyone aboard ship was commanded to be silent of the truth.

           

Trevor felt a pang of guilt for Vonts.

           

“Maybe it wasn’t right to manipulate the boy’s mind,     but perhaps it was for the best. Now he doesn’t remember being raised on that horrible planet, having God knows what done to him,” Trevor thought.    

           

What Trevor knew but didn’t dwell on was that the boy was also now unaware that it was his beloved “Uncle” who had made him orphan, or that his “Uncle” had a hand in both his parents deaths.

           

Trevor easily pushed those thoughts aside; in his heart of hearts he felt it was better this way. He knew the greater good had been served even though it employed methods not totally honest.

           

Trevor sipped at his tea, and kept thinking. Thinking about how he was uncertain of the campaign against the rebellious pleasure worlds before he had found Maria again. But now he understood why they had to be subjugated, punished. His superiors were right in coming to the prayerful decision that the nonconformists had to bow to their rightful moral betters, or die.

           

“I was a right fool for ever loving that wretch, and it cost poor Vonts his life; but I suppose it was God’s Will, because poor Elijah would have died had it not been so. Now he has a chance to grow up in a decent society,” thought Trevor as he finished his tea.

           

Yes, Trevor was pleased at the end results, although getting there had been painful.

           

Suddenly the comm panel flashed in the wall. Even as he walked over to it, he knew what it would be about. They had jumped into a system notorious for its promiscuity and pornography just hours ago.

           

“Sir, your presence is requested in Tactical.”

           

“Be right there,” answered Trevor in a joyful tone.

           

Trevor’s spirits lifted with anticipation as he looked in the mirror a final time to make sure everything about him was correct, and started whistling a march from his academy days as he briskly walked out of his cabin and headed toward the lift. Yet another mission to be fulfilled for the glory and betterment of the Empire.           

 

THE END

 

 

 

© 2001 by Aaron Beatty.  Aaron Beatty is a junior at Brescia University in Owensboro, Kentucky studying for a major in Integrated Studies with emphases in English and Computer Science. This is his first serious work of short fiction. He enjoys travel, and when time permits, he stays in Peterborough, England, where many friends reside.