The transmission was brief.
Static-riddled, distorted, and crackly as it was, that the message even reached them at all was a miracle, passed as it was through a hidden network of patchworked transmission towers, held together by prayer as much as engineering ingenuity and duct tape. A crowd surrounded the radio, dressed in the manner of the day: fabric wraps, rugged survivalist gear, scraps of clothing where nothing else suited.
"They're coming. The Angels from heaven."
The message ended as soon as it started. Nobody knew if they were capable of intercepting radio transmissions and tracking them to the source, but no one wanted to risk finding out. They were just too few of them to risk it.
Murmurs broke out.
Six times before, they had detected and been alerted to the incoming arrival of the Angels.
Six times before, the crowds had their spirits raised, that salvation may be on the horizon.
Six times before, that hope had been brutally crushed.
They would not make that same mistake again. The crowd melted away, heads shaking, individuals dispersing back into their daily, miserable lives.
Except for one.
"Adam? Where are you going?"
"My bike."
"Approaching the designated atmospheric entry point. All systems nominal."
The fleet glided through the void. Five massive troop carriers, pristine and white, more organic sea-faring mammal than man-made starship, made up the core of the fleet. Rotating stellar drives propelled the titanic vessels forward, while a picket of smaller escorts flitted between them, prowling for danger as the fleet pressed onto Earth – humanity's home, and as of late, home to the infestation that had forced the majority of humanity to abandon it for the stars.
But humanity was not content to leave its birthright for an alien infestation to seize. They were returning, bringing with them the very best soldiers they had to offer. Soldiers that were preparing for the upcoming assault.
The auditorium of the Providence was packed; every available seat occupied by a stunning, breathtaking woman dressed in a skin-tone, skin-tight suit sealed at their necks. A civilian looking on gathering would be forgiven for thinking that they had walked into the dressing rooms of a 21st century beauty pageant, instead of a gathering of some of the most formidable soldiers created by mankind. The perfection in face and form was no accident: each and every single one of the girls had been gene-engineered to be the absolute best of humanity, and then cybernetically enhanced to reach beyond the limitations of their flesh.
"Our mission is the elimination of the alpha Naytibas occupying district 3. The disruption of the Naytiba's command chain should provide the squadron with the opportunity to locate and terminate the elder Naytiba, which will then allow us to begin a full reclamation campaign to retake our home."
That was Tachy: squad leader of seventh squad, 7th Airborne Squadron. As driven and dedicated to the mission as she was beautiful. A rare veteran of the war.
She briefed them: intelligence on expected enemy presence, terrain, and weather conditions for the drop. The women – girls in some cases – clung to her every word. That was to be expected: in spite of everything, they were but rookies; untested, unblooded. They scored highly in the simulations – one had to, to be assigned to an airborne squadron – but this operation was to be their trial by fire, and the reactions were mixed. Some were impassive. Others, anxious. Tachy took them all in, meeting as many gazes as she could.
She'd be lucky to see half of them again.
"I won't lie to you: this isn't going to be easy. But if you remember your training, support each other, and focus on the mission, we'll make it back in one piece."
All at once, alarms started blaring. The lighting went into emergency mode, bathing everyone in a harsh, reddish hue as the captain's voice reverberated throughout the ship.
"General quarters, I repeat, general quarters. Airborne squadron units, report to your pods. Threshold is approaching. Ten minutes to contact."
Tachy turned back. Expectant, nervous faces met her own.
"Everyone to your pods. I'll see you on the ground," Tachy spoke with absolute certainty, as if by will alone she would make that happen. She took one last look around, before finishing. "Good hunting."
They streamed out.
The last one to leave was Eve. She too was beautiful, in a youthful and angelic sense as compared to Tachy's own harsher beauty. Large, doe-like eyes, and the gentle curves of her face spoke of vulnerability, but iron lay beneath that fragile exterior. Eve tested as well as any of them – better, even – and Tachy had rarely seen such promise from an individual. She had all the makings of something great, and Tachy's gut feel told her that Eve was going to be the herald of a new era – if she survived.
The Providence's dropbays were cavernous. Or at least, they would have been, if all available space hadn't been taken up by endless lines of drop pods and their supporting mechanisms. The pods were painted red and white, shaped like the torpedoes of old. The sheer number of them crowded out any concept of free space, creating a suffocating, nightmarish squeeze of metal, spindly claws, and tubing. Catwalks, precariously thin, ran across the bay from end to end, hanging above the launch tubes; the tube's mouths grouped together in such a way to present the appearance of a strange, metallic honeycomb. Hundreds of women filed along the catwalks, their footsteps ringing against the metal. Pods – with open hatches like yawning mouths – lined the catwalks, suspended from the ceiling by grasping mechanical claws. To the more grim-minded, the scene was eerily similar to a procession of women willingly entering metallic coffins. The atmosphere was tense, with but a few words being spoken.
Eve stopped in front of her pod. The pod's computer took a microsecond to sync with her exospine, flashing up a confirmation that the pod was hers. She took a second to glance to her right, and then to her left, observing. A fellow squad member stood on either side, going through the same verification process. And behind her, yet another girl did the same.
That second delayed her: the others were already entering their pods. Grasping the handle, she took one last look around, spotting Tachy, ever-dutiful Tachy, waiting at the end of the bay until all her girls were ready. It wouldn't do to keep her waiting. Eve stepped past the threshold, turning about to face the hatch as she stepped onto the foot clamps, locking her feet into place. She settled back into the crash harness, magnetic clamps coming to life and adhering to equivalent points on her exospine. The pod's hatch lowered and hissed, sealing her in. For a brief moment, Eve existed in total darkness.
Then the pod's internal lighting switched on, the holographic screens winking into existence in front of her. She took in the information with a practiced eye.
Pod status, nominal.
Squad, online.
Mission parameters, uploaded.
Green across the board. The captain spoke again, this time coming through her pod.
"Five minutes to threshold. All airborne squadron units, prepare for immersion."
Liquid bubbled up from her feet. Eve felt a sudden, icy shock as it reached her ankles, rising quickly until she was completely submerged in shock-absorbing, breathable liquid. A necessity; atmospheric re-entry is rough. Doubly so when the enemy was expected to shoot back. So the unpleasantness had to be borne out; but it was nothing that Eve and the others in the 7th Airborne Squadron hadn't simulated hundreds of times over.
Eve took a breath, liquid filling her lungs, and waited.
"One minute to threshold."
The bridge of the Providence was well-rehearsed chaos. Reports, rapid-fire, streamed from the officers manning the various stations as they prepared the ship for imminent contact.
Threshold. The point of no return.
It was a lesson, paid for by metal and blood: there was a certain point beyond which, the Naytiba's ground-based orbital defences outstripped any capability for the fleet to meaningfully disengage without incident. The threshold. They had to either commit, or flee before reaching that point.
The Providence had no intention of fleeing. But they didn't have to make it easy for their foes.
"Threshold has been passed!"
"Divert all power to frontal shields," the captain ordered.
Ahead of them, the Deliverance , Salvation , Redemption , and Revelation all did the same, powering up a frontal barrier as they began their treacherous descent into the atmosphere. Titanic airbrakes, like the fins of an enormous whale, swung out in preparation for pod launch.
"Status?"
"One minute to optimal drop point."
"Energy spike detected! Incoming fire!"
The alarm was prophetic. From the screens, everyone on the bridge could just make intensely bright sparks, originating over the landmass. It was easy to dismiss those as artifacting of the displays. Those same sparks soon became very real, very quickly, as they resolved into terrifying golden beams that lanced up at the fleet. An escort was caught in the path of one such beam, and simply evaporated. The captain was the first to react.
"Order the fleet to take evasive action! We're sitting ducks if we remain in formation! Helm and navigation, make sure we get to the target area after any course corrections!"
A second volley of orbital defence fire was already reaching up at them; for the Deliverance , the orders came as too little, too late. The ship was pierced through, bow to stern, by one such beam, the frontal shield presenting little resistance against such awe-inspiring power. For a few moments, the ship began to list to one side and drift from its own momentum. The captain still held out hope that the ship may be able to launch its pods from emergency reserve power – and then it promptly detonated in a spectacular fireball visible from the ground.
The remaining carriers began to spread out, diverting even more power into their frontal screens, in hope of avoiding the same fate as the Deliverance - but it was for nought. The next volley of lasers seared through the heavens again, this time aimed towards the Revelation as its shield solidified. Moments before impact, the beam impossibly split into a series of smaller beams that curved around the frontal shield.
Explosions dotted the flank of the Revelation, cratering and scoring the tough armour plating. For the most part, the carrier shrugged off the initial volley, as it ploughed onward into the storm. Then the next spiralling shot struck home, and the Revelation's luck ran out. Multiple impacts struck areas of weakened armour and punched through, tearing apart the superstructure and critical systems. Then another shot blew past the Revelation, narrowly missing the main body, but instead shearing off an airbrake and part of its engines. The Revelation began to drift, the uneven engine distribution pushing the carrier sideways as its crew fought desperately to regain control of the massive ship, broadcasting in the open for all to hear.
"Code red, code red! Revelation has sustained heavy damage, losing control!"
A third shot sealed its fate.
Fires blossomed along the centre of the ship, cracking through the scorched armour. The stresses of the impacts and re-entry, along with the loss of control, became too much for the ship's superstructure to bear – it cracked in half, sucking materials and personnel out into space, leaving a trail of debris and bodies in its wake as it fell to Earth.
Then the Providence careened right through it, frontal shields flaring as it shoved past the two halves of the dying vessel. Throughout the Providence , a terrible, metallic screech echoed through the halls, as the broken halves of the Revelation scored a deep gouge along the Providence's armoured flank. But the gambit paid off: indifferent about a dying ship, the orbital defences had shifted their attention to the remaining carriers, giving the Providence a clear run at the drop point.
"All hands, prepare for drop! Protocol B32 is in effect!"
Protocol B32 – military shorthand for getting drop pods on the ground, no matter the cost. Armoured flaps opened up, exposing the Providence's soft underbelly – and more importantly, the honeycombed launch tubes.
Secured and immersed within her pod, Eve barely felt the jolt as spindly mechanical hands lowered and locked her pod within its launch tube, catapults on either side grasping the pod as the metallic lid slid over and sealed the tube. The same scene was repeated hundreds of times over, as every single tube was prepared for launch. But Eve didn't see any of that: the pod only gave her the information she needed to know, so she was barely aware of the pod next to her, let alone how close they were to dying: immense beams of energy were ripping past the Providence , dangerously vulnerable as it prepared to launch its cargo. The heavens became thick and cloying with lethal energy, beams seemingly blotting out space itself as the enemy identified the Providence as a priority target.
But the captain's voice betrayed none of the danger.
"Airborne Squadron units, may your sword be swift and true. Launch!"
Eve involuntarily squeezed her hands together, waiting. There was a heartstopping second where nothing happened, and she instinctively began to search for warnings when –
Acceleration slammed into her, even immersed within shock-absorbing fluids as she was. The catapults rocketed forward on guide rails, ejecting the pod into space. Rockets fired moments later, as the pod's navigation computer took control and began directing her descent. One pod became two, and all of a sudden Eve's pod was joined by a veritable swarm of drop pods, as the rest of her squad, and a fifth of the entire squadron, launched after her. And with barely a moment to spare: no sooner had the last pod launched, did a beam spear through the Providence's exposed underbelly, and rendered the ship asunder.
Against the backdrop of the fleet being torn apart; bearing the hopes of humanity and the weight of the fleet's sacrifice on their shoulders, the 7th Airborne Squadron screamed towards the surface upon wings of flame.