COUNTERPOINT
Chapter I: The Soldier
Part I
By Mya Thevendra
30/10/99
"Bang.
It doesn't sound quite like that.
It's hard to accurately describe the exact noise that's made as an 8mm C-14 spike leaves the barrel of a Confederacy issue gauss rifle at a velocity of more than five times the speed of sound, then penetrates organically reinforced bone, before passing through layer after layer of muscle and soft tissue...
But then, it's not the noise that grabs your attention."
The dropship thundered into the atmosphere, the blackness of space falling away behind a blistering, roaring curtain of fire. As freezing air was heated to a temperature that would incinerate a living human, the transport shuddered, the vibration of the hull turning every visible thing inside into a sickening blur. Every joint and fixture rattled and shook as though the ship itself would fly apart from the strain. The normally pitch-black interior was ablaze with an orange flare as the firestorm outside shone in through reinforced viewports, and as power throughout the ship was shunted to manoeuvring control, the small green and red diode lights that were scattered about the cabin dimmed and flickered. Inside, nineteen passengers sat waiting. Ian Latimer stared blankly at the opposite side of the compartment, idly following the trembling contours of the wall with vacant eyes. The exercise had become routine long ago, focusing on a single point or object, and singling it out from the rest of the visual commotion. It was an effective method of combating nausea, and after having endured the ordeal of atmospheric entry so many times he did it almost automatically. He sat fastened to the bulkhead behind him, security straps and bracing bars bundling him and each of the others to the sides of the cabin. As the world around him shook itself to pieces, Ian leant back and closed his eyes.
Just short of twelve hours earlier, the 141st "Spider Monkey" Confederate Marine brigade under his command had begun its transfer to the newly established Fort Sunderland military installation on the bleak desert planet of Widow XII. An environment desolate beyond comparison, the planet was endowed with its fair share of sandy dunes, and sweeping, dolomite mountain ranges formed long ago when much of the planet's surface was still covered by water. The vast majority of the landscape, however, was blanketed in a wide expanse of empty, cracked earth. This thick, desiccated mantle extended in every direction, its monotony broken only occasionally by shallow rocky gorges, and itinerant ranges of swirling dust and sand.
Although outwardly barren, Widow XII harboured small pockets of natural resources, accessible via several networks of subterranean caverns, which had unfolded over a period of millennia beneath the seams of torrid earth. These caverns, and the resources therein, had previously remained undetected by the long-range sensor scans performed by confederate planetary survey teams. An intensive short range scan later conducted from the planet's orbit, however, revealed these hidden economic assets and thus unlocked Widow XII's inherent tactical value, being situated within striking distance of enemy territory. Nine weeks ago, construction began on a permanent confederate military outpost from which to launch strategic attacks across the border. Transfer of the "Spider Monkey" marine brigade to the new installation was authorised on the Confederate Standard Date 7/10/2589.
He remembered it.
He remembered complaining that he had only been informed of the transfer two days prior to its taking effect. He remembered pointing out that the brigade had not yet finished their station on Choman V, and that if transferred immediately, as ordered, would have to be pulled out in mid-assignment, and he remembered voicing his utmost concern to his commanding officer, Brigadier Phillip Watkins, as the two of them walked side by side along the gleaming metal corridors of Anglian Confederate command, that there was still no orbital fleet in position above the planet to guard against possible enemy landing attempts or counter attacks. And then the Brigadier, even while he continued walking and nodding to passing officers, glanced at him obliquely, and answered in a low voice,
"Don't worry about it Ian. It's not your problem..."
He remembered that part most of all.
The uproar intensified, reaching its violent crescendo, deafening and furious, before the dropship at last pierced the planet's ozone layer and soared through into the ionosphere. Ian craned his neck and peered through the viewport behind him. The nose of the dropship was pointed almost vertically downwards, and as he looked out, the land far below was a sea of sandy brown mottled with yellow and red. As the ground crept slowly closer, swaying and rolling inside the viewport, details upon the landscape edged into focus. Ranges of sunset red mountains arced across broad flatlands like welts of scar tissue; writhing valleys and fissures appeared as hairline cracks.
Ian's preparation for this assignment, though hurriedly performed during the two days since he was informed of it, was meticulous and accurate: tactical analysis of the planet, it's location and orbit, geological and atmospheric evaluations, amended personnel rosters and equipment checklists, he had reviewed them all several times over, and he had scanned over remote camera footage and sensor sweep logs of the planet's surface until they had been burned into his memory. His revision had been absolutely thorough. His own eyes, however, told him a different story. His perspective was brought sharply into focus, and as he watched the ground tumble towards him, all thoughts of petulance and dissatisfaction with command procedure dissolved, as the soldier within took hold and readied himself, focusing solely upon the task ahead.
The dropship dive-bombed for another twenty thousand feet before the pilot, pulling the hull's stress tolerance to its limit, yanked the ship level. The nose of the craft bobbed upwards, pointing into the sky, and once again the transport began to shudder and groan as its underside faced the shearing descent into the lower atmosphere. After jarring, shattering seconds passed, belly thrusters screamed into life, the afterburners bellowing in unison. The dropship, now tilted backwards, inched forward as its descent slowed, and dropped to within five hundred feet of the swirling shelf of sand below, before the pilot threw a full rear burn, rapidly accelerating up to a hundred and fifty knots, and sending the craft skimming over the terrain like a meteor. The ship rolled to port, following the ridge of a rocky slope below, then as the ridge curved and cut across its path, the dropship descended into a wide basin, hugging the earth as it glided noisily overhead. As it slipped over the rim on the opposite side, the ground fell away underneath, and stretched clearly for some two kilometres ahead, bringing Fort Sunderland sharply into view.
The base had been positioned with defence in mind, lying close to the centre of a wide, circular plain, some four kilometres in width, which was surrounded by a nearly continuous shelf of sandy rock, as if some giant coin had been pressed into the planet's crust. The plain itself was naked and barren, save for three tall rocky spires, which jutted from the earth like gigantic splinters. Although Fort Sunderland was one of the most recently developed confederate bases, construction had been swift. As the dropship began its approach, the outpost's several small grade barracks, as well as the vehicle plant and land based starport could be singled out from the rest of the structure. A standard defensive perimeter around the base had already been established, and Ian spotted several small groups of marines making patrol runs as the transport drew closer to the ground, each team circling the plain in a wide loop, keeping about a mile from the Command Centre. Half a dozen S.C.V.'s were visible weaving in and out of the base structure, performing construction, maintenance and repair functions but as yet, they had not engaged in resource gathering, which couldn't begin until a scouting unit had explored the nearby caverns and located at least one viable supply reservoir.
The raw materials for the preliminary stages of the outpost's construction had been ferried in by military freighters and modified transports, and two brigades of around thirty men each had already been transferred to Fort Sunderland, as well as one half of the Spider Monkey brigade. This transport carrying the remainder of the Spider Monkeys, as well as a cache of medical equipment and two additional S.C.V.'s, represented what would be the last influx of troops for at least a week. Towards the centre of the base lay a cluster of eight supply depots, their enormous ventilator blades stirring the surrounding patches of light sand into soft, rolling clouds. These eight depots would have to sustain more than two hundred men and women until reinforcements arrived with fresh supplies, or until the underground resource fields had been discovered and tapped, whichever came first.
The dropship rolled and banked to the left, and some fifty feet below, and around a hundred metres ahead, the starport's landing beacons flashed amber and crimson. The sound of whining hydraulics and clanking metal reverberated through the cabin as the dropship's landing struts extended, and locked into position. Crosswinds carrying burning sand and grit drove into the side of the ship, and the guttural hum of the engines rose in pitch and volume as it dragged downwards toward the circular pad. Docking thrusters murmured, then flared into furious life, cushioning the dropship's descent. Below, the starport's ground crew could be seen waiting patiently, gathering together inside the wide entrances of the pad-side hangars as they claimed a moment's reprieve from the dusty, scraping winds. The pilot slowed the flying hulk's approach, easing it into position and for a brief moment, it hung suspended above the landing circle, as if weightless, its belly thrusters carving an ear splitting, white hot insignia into the pad's surface, then with a ringing metallic crunch, the dropship touched down. The craft's massive frame lolled forward drunkenly as the gear suspension gave under it's colossal weight, and then settled back into position. After a few seconds the engines powered down, sighing as the stalwart craft drifted into a gentle slumber of fuel transfer pipes and post flight checks. Ian stared out of the viewport in the opposite side. It was early afternoon on the planet of Widow XII, nightfall wouldn't arrive for another eight hours, and even when it did, would only last for three. Outside, the Widow sun razed the landscape, the strong winds that were searing across the plains doing little to obstruct it. As fallow sand stirred and flew, scorching heat radiated from every inch of earth and rock, casting a translucent golden shimmer across the horizon.
The vacuum seal around the door hatch sucked thirstily as it filled with arid, dusty air, a round red bulb blinking intermittently on the cabin ceiling above it. With a soft whirr the motorised passenger bracing bars unlocked, and retracted into the walls. Metal latches clicked open as security belts were unfastened and cast aside. Ian rose quickly to his feet and paced down the aisle to the door hatch, at the other end of the cabin. There he waited to the side, leaning against the bulkhead with one arm, eyes tilted up towards the flashing light. The eighteen marines sat silently and still. After a few seconds the light shone a constant green, and was accompanied by a loud beeping tone. While the hatch was still opening, and even before the muffling wave of heat had blasted in from outside, Ian Latimer spoke.
"Squad! Disembark!"