Tag: SciFi (military)

Flash: Cleansing Team (Part 2) – Target Up

Erin Penn

Picture from freedigitalphotos.net

A light glow emanated from a twitching hand. A hand that was never supposed to move again.

Unnaturals did not heal when unconscious. Knocked down, all they needed was a final bullet through the brain to put them out of mankind’s misery. … A big bullet.

If they woke up again, Unnaturals were cranky.

Andros tore his fingers loose from the hot metal, leaving being permanent fingerprints, and tried to realign the ammo without taking his eyes off the freak. When she pushed up, the broken bones on her shoulder pushed out even further until she found her balance and stood on the rubble. Ice black eyes holding the heat of stars met his plain brown; both his eyes and hers had tears flowing freely from them. Dust and panic drove his body to produce the salty fluid; Andros could not guess what the Unnatural felt, but her face emotion mimicked compassion.

Rapid fire needles tore up the floor until finding target. Parker must have thrown the now useless rail-gun aside and gone for his secondary weapon. None penetrated the woman.

Her right hand had closed in a fist and the light was growing brighter. Fire started licking up her arm, baking off the blood pattern and scorched her flesh black. The Unnatural took steps, each terrible and graceful, until she was off the bricks, stones, and metal pile which had been formed when she had been blasted through the building mere seconds ago.

Green breams burned through the dust. Dreanna’s laser had a new power pack. A stream of poison, a quarter the volume previously used, joined the dismal response against the Unnatural’s forward movement as Maron brought his reserves online. Andros did not know what the other three were doing, hopefully running for their lives while the rest of the team laid down theirs. Someone had to get the word out.

Andros raised his overheated gun, mirroring the young woman raising her right arm.

Her shoulder was nearly healed. Charred flesh flaked off her arm with baby pink skin showing for a second before burning too.

Too bright to look at, Andros forced his eyes back to her hand again and again trying to make out the stone she had picked up. It was black winking through her fingers … no, not black, but lack of light. A black hole in the middle of fire.

Ignoring his tears, the whimpering voice his mind refused to process, the trembling of every portion of his body but his independent hands, Andros clicked full release and pulled the trigger. The explosion left his gun, condensed amadium, the heaviest alloy known to man, pushed out at Mach four. Time slowed as he watched his barrel shatter and the projectile race sound toward the target.

The fire streamed down her arm back to her hand, brightening the impossible light another magnitude, searing Andros’ eyes open. He saw his fatal projectile nearly reach her.

Then the Unnatural opened her hand.

(Words 496; first published 4/2/2014; republished new blog format 8/4/2019)

Flash: Cleansing Team (Part 1) – Target Down

Erin Penn

Photo from freedigitalphotos.net

Silence reverberated in Andros’ abused ears. He blinked rapidly to clear the spots from his vision. His team had thrown everything short of a nuclear bomb at the Unnatural, and if one included the rail-gun Parker carried which required the two-day output of a plant to charge, a fission bomb just might count. Maker bless the Taurusian energy technology.

Mortar and structural building pieces dropped with dull thuds onto the rubble from the destroyed walls and floors that used to make up the 33rd to 38th floors, churning dust clouds that tried to force their way past his lips. Andros refused to breathe, because the plaster bits would set him coughing. His broken ribs couldn’t take much more. He wanted to reach for the emergency oxy mask in his backpack, but that would require taking a hand off his projectile gun and neither hand would leave the overheated weapon. His lizard brain was not yet assured of the Unnatural’s death.

He cautiously sidestepped through the debris, keeping his team and the broken body of the young woman in sight. She was the youngest Unnatural they had ever fought, and, strangely, the most experienced. The cleansing team had been on her as soon as she was sighted emerging–less than six hours from alarm to annulation. They chased her from a sprawling boarding school where the wealthy and powerful trusted their children to the soaring ‘scrapers of Trade Landing nearly three hundred miles from the point of origin, leaving four team members behind, dying or disabled. They never let her heal, never let her think. They knew what was needed to get it done. She was their fourteenth kill in three years. Not the most heavily active cleansing team, but not an inactive agricultural planet team either. They were sharp without burnout.

The clatter of the ejected cartridge sounded tinny, but clearer. He could need to retrieve the mildly radioactive container later; heavy metal from expended uranium was not easy to come by and their accountant would have his hide. He snapped the replacement into his right hand, the independent-minded extremity willing to move for a reload. It had its priorities in order, breathing second, killing first.

Andros’ eyes were drawn to the blood running down her arm. The bright red artery and nearly blue vein liquids traced rivulets from a shattered shoulder, where brilliant white bones poked out through torn skin and muscle, pooling at the indents along her knuckles, creating an interwoven tribal tattoo like Dreanna wore. Still more than fifty feet away, the swirling dust eddies fooled his eyes into thinking her hand twitched. Once down, Unnaturals never got up again.

The fingers stretched and gripped a stone on the rubble pile she had landed on, a light glow emanating from the hand. Andros heard a whine start. His mind knew he was too far from his teammates for his damaged ears to hear, but refused to acknowledge the whimpering was coming from him. Cooking flesh battered his nose as he started shoving the ammo into the still too hot gun.

(words 513; first published 4/1/2014; republished new blog format 7/7/2019)

Flash: Roulette Leadership

Erin Penn

freedigitalphotos.net

 

Five, only five soldiers of the Imperial’s Two-Thousand and Thirty-Fifth Company was left. The group could only speculate on how the rest of the Fourth Army sent to conquer the upstart planet Minerva fared. Three hundred souls down to five. Doing the math, if everyone else ran into the extreme defensive capability of the Minervites and suffered the same loss ratio, the Glorious Fourth Army now constituted a little under 500 shell-shocked veterans nursing wounds in muddy holes.

 

“We should have bombed them from orbit.” Cecil cursed, trying to clear the slime from his rifle’s sight.

 

Virgil, always seeing things from more angles than a grub should, pointed out. “Couldn’t. Too good a force field around the major cities, and a nasty-as-pie orbital defense prevented navy from stayin’ close.”

 

“Yeah, talked to one of the engineer types as they loaded us in the cans.” Janus added. “Minotaur manufacture on the stations and mine fields, modified. For once, the back-water fuckers actually reset the defaults. Then they added their own twist. Minerva knows security. ”

 

“Should we surrender?” Maurice finished wrapping Emil’s wound. The two of them were the only ones with matching squad tags. Shit, they were the only ones with matching platoon patches. After everything they had been through, they refused to be separated.

 

“What is this, a democracy like Minerva?” Cecil sneered. “We need to get an officer. We can’t do anything without an officer.”

 

“They’re dead. They are all dead.” Panic laced Maurice’s voice.

 

“Battle-field promotion is required by the code. Which is the longest here?” Virgil’s left hand wave included the other buck privates.

 

“Don’t let the grays fool you.” Janus spat out as the rest looked at him.

 

Cecil shook his head. “Just how many times have you been busted back to nothing?”

 

“How much are you ledger red?” Janus countered.

 

Virgil interrupted the budding argument. “You be the oldest man Janus Culd-son. None of us top fifty.”

 

Janus wanted to shake his head violently in negation, but a concussion-powered migraine exploded at the first nascence movement. “May push seventy years in service and a whole cent outside of it, but not taking any Laurel.”

 

“How about you Cecil? You have the drive and come from the Capital. You got the best connections.” Virgil pointed out.

 

“Fuctuo, mingo, irrumatio. Fuctuo no! Not even if you shoot me in the head.”

 

Virgil looked over at Maurice and Emil and the two shrunk into the mud.

 

“How about you Virgil?” Janus asked.

 

“Not for all the cows on Bubona.” Virgil’s broken right arm was wrapped against his snapped ribs, restricting his back-planet gestures, but the motions of his good hand were as obscene and violently negative as Cecil’s curses to those that knew how to read them. “Don’t want the meetings. Don’t want the blame-beats. Like my entrails in me just fine.“

 

“So if can’t vote a leader. And nobody stupid enough to volunteer, …” Janus pulled out a rare trank pistol he had been assigned as Military Prodder. He emptied the six chambers. He picked up one of the tranks and they watched him load the round back into the unfamiliar MP weapon. “Russian Roulette.” He rotated the chamber and then passed the weapon to Cecil. “Rather get shot in the head. Prove it.”

 

Cecil handled the normally non-lethal weapon like he had just been passed a leaking nuke-head. He swallowed, then put the gun to his fragile temple and pulled the trigger. His head rocked from a light blast of air. Describing acts that would make Bacchus blush, he passed the weapon back to Janus.

 

“Five chances left. Don’t want to die, don’t pull and take instead Captain. Get hung either way; this one’s less pain.” Janus put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. He dropped the weapon, screaming. Panting, he eventually was able to pick up weapon when his body stopped shaking from the pain racing through his head. He passed it to the next closest person.

 

That was Maurice since Virgil was at the edge of the ravine seeing if anyone heard the scream. “I’m no Captain. I don’t want to be responsible for others. I already am bathed in blood.” Maurice with a fatality put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

 

Sighing relief, he passed it to Emil. “Your turn.” Emil shook his head and whispered something only Maurice could hear. 


“Only for you.” Maurice responded. Helping his friend hold the pistol, Maurice brought the gun to Emil’s forehead; wrapping his finger around his friend’s, they pulled the trigger together.

 

The pistol was returned to Janus. “Only two shots chances left, one will kill. Fifty-fifty odds. How lucky are you Virgil?”

 

“I played bones with you. You know my luck.” Virgil sighed. “Guess you should be callin’ me sir.”

 

(words 803; Originally published 10/23/2013; republished new blog format 9/2/2018)

Flash: Bowman

Erin Penn

Rating: Mature

Bowman reviewed the duty assignment screen wistfully. His unit-individual number was followed by a blinking active, in-port code, and after that was a duty code he was beginning to know far too well. No change from yesterday. Meaning he got to mop floors in the Mess … again. He grabbed his undress yellow blouse and made his way to the Port Kitchen, arranging the securing sashes before stepping out of the empty barracks.

His severed hand, a minor injury by modern standards, had held him up just long enough to miss the 94th Infantry Division’s deployment. The tattooed private inhaled as he walked into the cooking area. He had to admit after all the times he had been on brick rations, being around live food was nearly worth the monotony.

It did not make up for the loneliness.

He wondered who was left to cook for. The last remaining divisions using Squamata Port mustered out yesterday for the Orion Theatre. All the support staff except for a few old-timers went with them. He never did get to adequately thank the doctor who screwed up his nerve reattachment badly enough that even after the second and more successful surgery was completed, he had to go through physical therapy.

Stripping out of as much of his uniform as one could tweak regulations, Bowman tied an apron over his already kitchen stained trousers and made his way to the ticking sounds of rapidly moving knives. “So Fatso, what are we mutilating today?”

Rounding the corner, Bowman saw a perfect heart-shaped butt snugged in mustard yellow weave. His eyes made their way up a back bare of everything but two apron loops. His fingers twitched for a second as he contemplated untying the loops. A blond by the military fuzz adorning her scalp. Damn, he loved blonds.

“That would be Colonel Fatso.” Replied a heavenly contralto, with an unmistakable undertone of command. “And breakfast will be vegetable omelet.”

Served him right for forgetting Faraday had been on one of the outgoing ships yesterday. “I am so sorry, Sir. What do you want me to do, Sir?”

“Apology accepted; been in kitchens before.” Watching her julienne the potatoes, Bowman had no doubt about that claim. “Second, it’s Dame. Air Force not Army – civilized people have genders. Third get the food. Net closest to the entrance. Put all three meals there when got vegetables last night.”

Bowman looked at the officer’s profile out of the corner of his eye while pulling on the environmental suit. Her small breasts popped over the top of the apron, tangerine nipples puckered tight. Her face was young; she could pass for his age. Her golden-hued eyes gave away her home sector of Orion, pushing up Bowman’s age estimate from nineteen to twice that. His eyes dropped to verify her origin, sure enough, a Rigelian parasite had replaced the pinky and ring fingers on her left hand.

After a second staring at the red veins pulsing with human blood visible through the translucent green skin, Bowman discovered he was caught staring. Cold gold chips met his blue eyes, “Do you have a problem, Private?”

“No, Sir … Dame.” Normally he wouldn’t add more, the Army did not like explanations – either getting them or giving them, but he had heard Air Force was a little different. “I just haven’t seen one before. Not in person, Dame.”

She sighed, “Get the food and we will let you closer look. Can’t have you making an accident staring.”

Wanting to break the tension and trying to gauge the officer. “Does that count for the boobs too, Dame?”

A laugh escaped her. A surprised look crossed her face like she didn’t laugh much. “Get in the airlock Private. … And no. Men having accidents over knockers is inevitable. Nothing can be done to help there.”

“Getting in the airlock, Dame.” He sealed the door and starting doing what his superiors constantly grumbled was his defining characteristic. He started thinking.

While moving the food to from the cold storage nets located on the skin of the port habitat, he went over the puzzle represented by the new person in charge of the Mess. An Orion in a Sol uniform, Air Force in an Army Port, Colonel cooking in a kitchen where the highest officer since before today was a lost second lieutenant, a new person after the base has been emptied, – and most importantly – the sexiest woman he had ever seen. Whatever was about to happen in the Snake Rut was big and very, very secret.

The big question: Could he avoid the shit fan about to hit, while also getting a chance to hit on her? Rhetorical really, he admitted as he started the airlock cycle to return inside. No way would a mud pounder be able to avoid any shit fan, let alone the size that this one seemed to be. And no way would he be able to jump that high of a grade let alone fuck another military branch.

(words 837 – originally appearing at Sunday Fun on Breathless Press 3/25/2013 – See the picture that inspired the story! – As I do not know the copyright permissions, I have not copied it here; republished new blog format 8/12/2018)

Book Review: Terms of Enlistment

Erin Penn

Book Cover from Amazon

Terms of Enlistment by Marko Kloos

BOOK BLURB ON AMAZON

The year is 2108, and the North American Commonwealth is bursting at the seams. For welfare rats like Andrew Grayson, there are only two ways out of the crime-ridden and filthy welfare tenements, where you’re restricted to two thousand calories of badly flavored soy every day:

You can hope to win the lottery and draw a ticket on a colony ship settling off-world, or you can join the service.

With the colony lottery a pipe dream, Andrew chooses to enlist in the armed forces for a shot at real food, a retirement bonus, and maybe a ticket off Earth. But as he starts a career of supposed privilege, he soon learns that the good food and decent health care come at a steep price…and that the settled galaxy holds far greater dangers than military bureaucrats or the gangs that rule the slums.

 

MY REVIEW

A solid military sci-fi read with good worldbuilding. Didn’t quite hit the “best of the genre” – which I reserve 5 stars for. Better than most and, dang, when is he going to write the next so I can see where the story goes? – is my reaction.

Not a happy world. And for the grunt on the front lines that can make for some unhappy times. Andrew (the main character) entered the military for one of the two reasons most people do (1) it is more relaxing and less work than home (people coming from a farming or boondocks background) or (2) it is safer than remaining at home (Andrew’s reason). Andrew is moving up in the world to safety and better food – even with the being shot at and blown up thing happening.