The New Threat 20 (Patreon)

Chapter 20

Subject: Staff Sergeant Power

Species: Human

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

"All units to exfil asap," Omega said.

"Omega? What the hell is going on?" I ask.

"We're leaving. Grab the box and go, double time it," it says as an objective marker pops up on my visor. "GO! NOW!"

"Let's go, marines!" I shout as I jump out of the foxhole, pulling Lance Corporal Hart up after me. "Chang, Boyle, grab the fucking box. Double time it!"

Running again. As fast as we can. Don't seem to be getting anywhere, though. The ground is moving faster than we are. Shooting at the damned robots, who are shooting their lasers back at us. Suddenly we're at the Landing Zone, but the ground is still bucking beneath my feet. The air around the LZ is thick with lasers and dust. Why won't the damned robots just die?

The shuttle! It's here! We climb aboard. I pull up the box and Corporal Chang. Sergeant Gruff pulls up Private First Class Boyle. Everyone's in. I start to trigger the hatch, but can't. The ground is tearing, and the ravines grow at the same pace as my sense of dread. I need to trigger the hatch. What the hell's the matter with me? Why can't I trigger the hatch?

The tower rises out of the ground. No, it's not a tower. It's a MAC. The biggest MAC I've ever seen. I try to trigger the hatch again, but my hand won't move. I have to trigger the hatch, but I'm frozen in place. I know what's coming. I know what happens, but I can't stop it. No, please. Please let me close the hatch this time. Everything seems still and silent. It's just me and the MAC, and I can't close the hatch.

And then it fired.

"Brace!" I hear myself yell as the shockwave begins travelling toward us, kicking up massive chunks of rock hidden within an all encompassing cloud of dust. I grip the grab handle with my left hand and trigger the hatch with my right, but I'm too late. I'm always too late. Something hits me very hard. My vision clouds.

"Breach detected. Sealing," the suit tells me as it hugs my neck.

I shake my head and manage to snap in just as PFC Boyle and LCPL Higgs fly past me out the now destroyed hatch. Everyone else is holding on. Please hold on. Chang loses his grip. I reach out to catch him, but I can't. My hand isn't there. Where's my hand? Why does my arm hurt so much?

I see a reflection in Chang's visor as he falls to his death. There's someone in guardian armor looking the worse for wear. Their arm is missing just above the elbow, and their leg is severed just below the hip. The poor bastard's stump is reaching out. Hold on, that's me. That can't be me. I scream at the realization and look down at my missing limbs.

"FUCK!" I shout myself awake.

It takes a moment for the familiarity of my barracks room to settle in, and a bit longer to get my breathing under control. My throat is hoarse, and I use my left hand to rub it, easing the discomfort. I look at my bedside display and breathe a sigh of relief. It's 04:28, only two minutes before my alarm's set to go off.

I reach over, disable the alarm, and swing my legs out of the bed. One of my feet make a soft plop as it meets the floor, and the other makes a metallic clank. I sighed, but then chuckled. At least it's not wood.

Any additional jokes about morning wood left my mind as I picked up my prosthetic arm. A top-of-the-line EveningStar Robotics custom fit bionic replacement. Just like the leg, every single part of the arm is able to be customized, right down to the finger length and thickness. Each customizable piece comes with a massive array of coloration options, but I went with tactical black for obvious reasons. Not a bad stand-in, but I'm still counting the days until my cloned limbs will be ready.

They'd made sure to have me fitted before they let my family see me. Max and Moore, my son and daughter, had been excited by the new robotic limbs. But I'll never forget the look on Sarah's face. When she first entered the room, her expression went from worry to relief when she saw that I was still alive. Then, it turned into shock and dread as she realized how close she came to losing me.

My wife's a strong woman. You have to be, to be faithful to a marine. A part of her must have believed me to be infallible, and that part had taken quite the sucker punch by the sight of me. She'd been able to quickly mask her expression, but the shock had cut deep.

Keeping the robotic limbs isn't an option I'm willing to entertain. They can make the job easier, but they'll always serve as a reminder of how I got them. I'll never be able to forget the look on my wife's face if I keep them, and she'll never be able to forget how close she came to being a widow.

I winced as I attached the arm to the connector that had been installed on my stump. It gets cold when it's not connected, and being made to suddenly feel that cold is not a pleasant sensation. Still, it's better than inadvertently shattering one of my bones when I have a nightmare. The doctors didn't even have to warn me about it, I'd figured it out on my own when they explained how strong it was.

"Do NOT sleep with your prosthetic arm still attached. Keep it at your bedside, but do not leave it connected to you. The leg is fine to sleep with if you're sleeping alone," they had explained.

As a gen-alt, I'd gotten used to having to be careful with my strength. But this arm was made for military purposes, and could output at least one and a half times the pounds-force that my previous limb could. I'm sure that when ESR designed it they'd been hoping that people would be voluntarily amputating their own limbs for these things, and they'd be swimming in profit as a result. The first time an amputee had shattered their own face in their sleep had destroyed those hopes, though.

I went through my calibration exercises as I pulled on my trousers with my real arm. Wiggling fingers, rotating the wrist, and bending the elbow. The whole thing felt silly, but it's necessary to make sure that the arm will do what I want it to do. I finished the exercises with a swimming fish motion, and finished getting dressed. A quick laser-shave later, and I was ready to get chow and start my day.

Recovery had gone faster than anyone had expected. The doctors said it was because I gave it my all, but I believe it has more to do with the tech than with me. I'd been able to spend the rest of my allotted recovery time plus one week with my family on Elaris Station. It was great to spend time with my wife and kids, but I should have been suspicious of the sudden generosity by the Marine Corps.

When my leave was up, I'd been met by Major General Holt. When Holt had still been a one-star, he'd been my commanding officer in the Marine Special Operations Command. I had been quietly ushered out of MARSOC when I'd discovered the Dreadnought Reserve. As such, Holt had been a very unwelcome sight.

His ambush indicated that he suspected that I would go AWOL if I'd been given orders to meet with him. I know better than that, but it would have been really damned tempting. There was only one thing Holt could want from me, so it wasn't a shock when he produced orders to return to MARSOC. The only surprise was that they wanted me to join the raider regiment.

He'd also given me the bad news about my men. Private First Class Boyle, Lance Corporal Higgs, and Corporal Chang were KIA. Sergeant Gruff and Lance Corporal Livingstone might not make it, and almost everyone else was still in traction. Corpsman Yunk hadn't been injured, thankfully, but my squad definitely wasn't fit for duty. Holt explained in no uncertain terms that my talents were needed elsewhere, and impressed upon me that he wasn't asking.

I entered the chow hall and didn't bother to look at who was present. It wouldn't be anyone important, the officers have their own mess. There wasn't a line, so I took my time choosing what I wanted for breakfast. Oatmeal with bacon chunks for energy, a banana to prevent cramping, two slices of toast to pair with the oatmeal, and a glass of raspberry tea. Breakfast of champions.

I gathered up my tray and finally looked at the rest of the marines. Once upon a time, MARSOC operatives either ran in fourteen person squads or solo. Someone up top thought it would be better for the raiders to operate in groups of five, so now the squads were more like fireteams and there aren't any MARSOC spooks running around on their own. There were only two members of my squad present, so I opted to sit with them.

"Oorah staffsarnt," Corporal Simmons greeted me as I sat with my chow.

"Oorah corporal," I grunted. "How's the grub today?"

"Better than the crayons, staffsarnt," Corporal Johnson grunted between bites.

The newly minted corporal was referring to the nutrition sticks on offer by the guardian suits. It was a generous comparison. The waxy texture and disgusting taste of the nutrition sticks made crayons seem pleasant in comparison. I took a bite of my chow and found that he was right, but it's a really damned low bar to hurdle.

"So what are we doin' today staffsarnt?" Simmons asked.

"We're doing PT while you finish your sensitivity training," I answered.

"Shit," Simmons muttered. "At this rate, I'm gonna get fat."

"That's your own damn fault for calling an Urakari a 'lizard lady' during a first contact," Johnson pointed a spoon at him for emphasis. "You're lucky they didn't take your rank and shove you back in with the rank and file."

"Oh, I got something you can take and shove," Simmons growled.

I cleared my throat pointedly.

"Sorry, staffsarnt," both corporals said in unison.

"After PT and sensitivity training, we're getting a briefing," I continued. "And no, I don't know what it's about."

They didn't bother asking for further clarification. They'd both been in MARSOC long enough to know that when your team lead hasn't been informed on what a briefing is about, it means it's about a mission. Ironically, scuttlebutt in MARSOC is more rampant than in the rest of the fleet, so you usually have some sort of indication of what the mission could be about. This time, there wasn't a damned clue to be found.

"Where's Hanson?" I asked.

"I dunno," Simmons answered.

"He said he's skipping chow today," Johnson shrugged. "Says he's trying to trim, but I doubt it's a coincidence that his favorite game just launched a new event."

"Aw fuck, that's today?" Simmons asked. "I wanted that unicorn hat, dammit."

"Whatever, just make sure that he and Smith make it to PT," I said as I tossed my spoon onto my tray.

The two corporals looked at me as if I'd grown two heads. I couldn't tell if it was because I had given them the task of wrangling a pair of sergeants, or because I'd already finished my food. Probably the latter. Though Hanson and Smith may be sergeants, Simmons and Johnson have seniority over them within MARSOC. The sergeants are aware that it's never wise to ignore someone that's been in longer than you, so they wouldn't have any problems wrangling them.

I gathered up my tray once again and carried it over to the waste receptacle. I briefly listened to the soft hum of the machinery sorting the various dishes, then turned to go about my business. I opted to get a head-start on PT because I wanted to get rid of the few remaining cobwebs left over by the nightmare.

Need a clear head for the briefing.