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The New Era 8
🕑 Added 2024-09-27 10:09:05 +0000 UTCChapter 8
Subject: Staff Sergeant Power
Species: Human
Species Description: Mammalian humanoid, no tail. 6'2" (1.87 m) avg height. 185 lbs (84 kg) avg weight. 170 year life expectancy.
Ship: N/A
Location: Classified
"But they just fuckin' moved us," Simmons complained.
"It's not a big deal," Johnson said. "It's just a layover type of thing. Probably just to sort everyone out. Or maybe it's a security thing."
"I don't really get why they would add that many layers of security," Hanson added.
"Right? It's not like the OU are spying on us," Smith laughed. "Otherwise they'd already be here and we wouldn't have to go looking for them."
Hanson and Smith had arrived to the room shortly after Simmons and I did. Johnson had joined us about thirty minutes later. My assumption that they had been on different shuttles had turned out to be spot on.
"The Omni-Union is not our only enemy," Omega said condescendingly. "The USSS Strandhogg is constructed with state-of-the-art stealth and reconnaissance technology. The more people know of its existence, the more likely our enemies are to find out what it can do and figure out countermeasures."
After Johnson arrived, we waited for someone to show up with a dossier for us, as instructed. Instead, after an hour, Omega showed up in the middle of the room, claiming to be our handler. Apparently, it never relieved itself of duty and was still technically in charge of us.
The first thing it did was inform us that we shouldn't be getting comfortable, as we would be transferring to the USSS Strandhogg. This caused a bit of friction within our little group. Some marines love to travel, some don't. Simmons and Hanson obviously don't.
"If it's as good at recon as you make it out to be, what possible countermeasures would they be able to come up with?" Hanson asked stubbornly.
"People have been asking that very same question since the dawn of warfare," I said. "Turns out, it's not a question that you really want the answer to."
A sullen silence fell over the room as my senior non-commissioned officer brand of bullshit wisdom took effect. The trick to it is to be just cagey enough with your answer to get them thinking about it. Younger marines sometimes have trouble talking and thinking simultaneously.
"Go on, Omega," I nodded to the grim reaper avatar.
"Once you are aboard the USSS Strandhogg, you will be on action-ready standby. You'll be sleeping in shifts, and I'll let you figure those out, staff-sergeant," Omega nodded back to me. "We do not know what to expect, so it is entirely possible that you will see no action at all."
The room grew tense. I don't count myself as a superstitious type, but I definitely believe in jinxes. In my experience, when a commander says that a mission probably won't have any action, it practically guarantees that there will be. Maybe it won't count because Omega is an AI. Or maybe it'll count double.
"Not gonna bet on that," Simmons muttered.
"Regardless, the purpose of this recon is to find a place to strike at the enemy that will hinder their ability to strike at us. If they have boots on the ground somewhere, we're going to need boots in the bushes nearby."
Omega's last sentence sliced through all of the tension that had been building in the room and hit us all like a freight train. We sat, stunned, for a few moments, then all simultaneously burst into laughter.
"Gonna need to workshop that phrase," Smith laughed.
"Yes," Omega agreed. "My apologies. I did not account for the slang definitions of boot and bush."
Our laughter died down as one by one we realized that Omega's slip-up was likely just another manipulation tactic. An attempt at building comradery via self-deprecation. Or, easing the tension so that we would be more compliant.
"What about equipment?" I asked, moving the brief along.
"You'll be wearing the R8-B Advanced Guardian Armor, and fielding the C21B Assault Rifle with suppressor and shell-catcher."
"Shit," Johnson swore under his breath.
Simmons and I had similar reactions. Hanson and Smith looked confused, though.
"The R8-B?" Smith asked.
"It's the stealth variant of the AGA," I explained. "Means we're expected to keep quiet."
"Not only that, the bravo suit's a fucking death trap," Johnson grumbled. "Hundreds of pounds of moving metal is hard as hell to make silent, so they skimped on the armor and power-pack. Which means you get a weak shield and nothing that'll stop a bullet or laser underneath it. The boots also have 'stealth soles' which make the mag-locks malfunction, so they're goddamned useless in zero-gee and we happen to be in fucking space."
"I can tell it's been a while since any of you have worn the R8-B," Omega chuckled. "There have been improvements."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Simmons said. "You know what I've already seen, though? Good men die because of that shit-suit."
"That's enough," I intervened. "Tell us about these improvements."
"Gladly. First, the mag-locks in the boots have been integrated into the soles to counteract the effect of the sole's stealth materials. Second, the power-pack has been modernized which has allowed for the installation of a shield system comparable to the R8-A."
"So we'll have shields. What about armor?"
"Vital areas have been reinforced, but non-vital extremities have been downgraded as a result."
"Ah, so we'll be able to keep our lives at the cost of our limbs. How generous," Johnson said sarcastically, then turned to me. "Uh... No offense staffsarnt."
My eyes fell upon my mechanical limbs. My wife had been a little upset that I put off the surgery to replace them with cloned ones. However, the surgery has a downtime of at least a month, assuming everything goes well. My current arm and leg work well enough for me to stay with my team until this conflict is resolved. I'll get the surgery if... When I get back.
"None taken," I replied. "So stealth gear and weapons. It's prudent, at least."
"Indeed," Omega said. "Bad news is that you're going to have to be suited up the entire trip, unless you're on down time."
"Why are we taking shifts in-squad? Why not just have one squad switch with another?" Simmons asked.
"We need to be ready for full deployment at a moment's notice, and we'd rather have only half of a squad be tired if that happens at an inopportune time."
"Adrenaline can wake people up pretty damn quick."
"Then what's the issue?" Omega's skull seemed to grin.
"So we're gonna transfer over to the Strandhogg, get geared up, and start patrolling the ship?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Who's commanding it?"
"Captain Harold Schmidt."
"Never heard of him."
"Good," Omega chuckled. "His service record is quite classified. He's a good captain, though. We were originally going to have him give a speech welcoming you aboard, but apparently it's bad luck for a ship captain to give speeches to Marines."
"It is?" Hanson asked. "I haven't heard that one."
"Neither have I, but come to think of it I also haven't heard a speech from a ship's captain before," Smith laughed.
"I've never heard a speech from a ship's captain either, but I heard one from an admiral," I said, rubbing my mechanical arm. "Maybe there's something to it. When are we moving?"
"Now. The Strandhogg just finished docking," Omega replied. "Grab your stuff and make your way to hanger bay three."
"Don't even get a nap," Simmons muttered incredulously.
"When do we ever get naps?" Johnson asked.
"That's what I'm sayin'! The recruiter lied to me."
I stood and grabbed my bag, and everyone else followed suit. We made our way out of the room and down the hallway, following the signs. There were plenty of other marines who were also trying to find their way to various locations.
Eventually, we found a shuttle-bus and boarded it. It was packed with MARSOC marines, except for three fleet-regulars who stood out like a sore thumb. Two lance-corporals accompanying a corporal. I shared a knowing glance with the other NCOs aboard the bus and sighed.
"The hell are you boys up to?" I asked the trio.
"Rah, staffsarnt," the corporal said. "We're supposed to be heading to the hanger. Uh... The USSS Liberty is where we're assigned."
The sudden mention of the ship I was assigned to when I lost my arm and leg stunned me for a moment.
"Oh, damn it," a lieutenant chimed in. "Boys, you need to be heading to hanger one, where they're launching the shuttles from. You're gonna be going to the USSS Kali, then from there you're gonna want to figure out which hanger the Liberty is in."
"Does this shuttle-"
"No, you need to be on a different shuttle. 'Course, you're gonna have to wait until we've stopped, first."
"Hey, Tim?" Simmons asked the air. "You there?"
"Hello Corporal Simmons of the United Systems Marine Corps," a voice said over the shuttle's intercom. "Tim is busy at the moment. I'm Dave. How can I help?"
"We got a group of marines who need guidance getting to the USSS Liberty. Think you can help them?"
"The Liberty's aboard the Kali," Dave chuckled. "How'd they end up on THIS shuttle?"
Everyone turned to look at the odd ones out.
"I... uh... I thought all the hangers were connected," the corporal said.
"Well they are, but not by walkway. Don't worry, I'll get you where you need to go. Just follow the lights once you get off."
"Yes, sir."
The rest of our journey was uneventful, and once the shuttle stopped everyone got off. Most of us watched the corporal and his two lances follow Dave's guide-lights before we continued toward our respective destinations. A bit of a walk later, we finally arrived in hanger three.
"Woah," Smith said, looking up.
The rest of us followed his gaze and began to stare in wonderment. Most spaceships will have that effect due to their tremendous size, but the USSS Strandhogg was something else entirely. It was the darkest shade of black I'd ever seen, with sharp geometric shapes that kind of looked like dragon scales covering it.
There was a cartoon that I loved as a kid where robots would turn into spaceships. The designer of the Strandhogg must have loved that cartoon, too, because they ended up designing a ship that mixed the ships in the cartoon cartoon with the stealth fighter jets that you see on the ancient-Earth history documentaries. I couldn't help but let out a low whistle in appreciation.
"Well... That's our ride," I said. "Let's get aboard."
Comments
David Liao
Now we gotta add a tier to hire a concept artist on fiverr to model these new beasts.
Michael Halpern
speed
