Anabasis
In Medias Res
Renard de Quentain
The drop ship screamed as it plunged through the upper layers of San Sayeeda’s atmosphere. It bucked and jolted like a wild thing for long seconds before steadying in the smoother air below. The twelve men packed into the troop compartment, a tight space made tighter by body armor, personal weapons and field kit, endured it as best they could.
“Don’t look so worried their Galahad,” cracked the mocking voice of Sergeant Koltz, “We will have em good and whipped by nightfall.”
A couple of the men laughed at the epithet and Rene Queintain forced himself to smile as though the insult didn’t sting. Galahad, Lancelot, Sir so and so. He wished they would let it go and, because he wished that, it never seemed to stop.
“You bet Sergeant,” Rene replied, his voice was quiet and cultured, out of place among these hard eyed killers. Well, he was a killer sure as they were. He was a fine boned young man in his mid twenties with dark hair and dark eyes and seemed ill at ease in the grey ceramic polymer armor he wore over his fatigues. A few more of the soldiers sniggered at his use of Sergeant rather than Sarge but there was no real malice in it. They were just nervous, as was he and that was the God’s Truth.
“Six Zero seconds to the Dee Zee!” announced a voice, the pilot or maybe just an AI synthesis it was hard to tell, over the staticy intercom system. It was a completely unnecessary statement as the heads up display on every Marine’s helmet gave the figure as a running countdown but basic training emphasized that you got to be an old Marine by double checking everything you didn't have time to triple.
The DZ was a point a mile and a half above the point Rene’s helmet listed as Charlie Victor Three Zero. According to the briefing information CV30 was the grid reference assigned to a fire base in the southern highlands of San Sayeeda overlooking the valley of the Pemenec River. Heavy weapons emplaced there could prevent the landings at the Persopolis, the planetary and industrial capital. Command had billed this attack as a bold stroke but Rene knew better than most that history was full of bold strokes which turned out to be complete disasters. He found it was much more difficult to view them with detachment up close. As if summoned by his misgivings the intercom crackled to life again.
“Incoming! Brace for a Sh…” All twelve men grabbed for the restraint stanchions but before their fingers touched the safety bars, the deck seemed to punch up from below with the suddenness of a closing mouse trap and a rending metallic clang like the end of the world. Rene’s stomach dropped beneath him and for a moment he hung weightless before crashing to the deck in a rib pounding clatter of armor and equipment. The platoon was sprawled in a tangle and at least one man was screaming and everyone who didn't have the wind knocked from their lungs was shouting. The air, a moment ago as clear as starship air ever got, was filling with dark smoke and slick oily stench of burning metal.
“Jump! Jump! Jump!” bellowed a commanding voice, and it took Rene’s abused sense a moment to integrate the fact that Sergeant Koltz was speaking. Amazingly the veteran was on his feet, though he had lost his helmet and blood leaked over his face from a pressure cut on his shaven head. Rene’s helmet read forty five seconds to jump but He was hardly going to argue with an order to get out of this death trap. Already the crippled craft was curving downwards like a meteorite on its ballistic course to a fiery grave. A part of his mind, the studied academic part that was currently looking for the deepest mental hole it could find in which to hide, informed him that it boded very badly that the enemy even knew they were coming, much less had had time to move anti ship assets into place but there was no time for such abstract thinking now.
With a blow that would have cracked concrete Koltz smashed the emergency door release and then nested charges built into the wall went off with a hollow boom, peeling the side of the landing craft away like foil being stripped from a ration bar. The night air was a roaring sucking void outside, counterpointed by the scream of overheating vector thrust engines. Rene stumbled forward on all fours towards the sergeant, by luck or the good gods favor the only man not too entangled in his fellows or his equipment to move. The Sergeant gripped a stanchion like a statue of Effort, feet spread and planted on the quivering deck. With his free hand he seized Rene’s equipment belt and pitched him bodily from the dying drop boat into the open sky.
In Medias Res
Renard de Quentain
The drop ship screamed as it plunged through the upper layers of San Sayeeda’s atmosphere. It bucked and jolted like a wild thing for long seconds before steadying in the smoother air below. The twelve men packed into the troop compartment, a tight space made tighter by body armor, personal weapons and field kit, endured it as best they could.
“Don’t look so worried their Galahad,” cracked the mocking voice of Sergeant Koltz, “We will have em good and whipped by nightfall.”
A couple of the men laughed at the epithet and Rene Queintain forced himself to smile as though the insult didn’t sting. Galahad, Lancelot, Sir so and so. He wished they would let it go and, because he wished that, it never seemed to stop.
“You bet Sergeant,” Rene replied, his voice was quiet and cultured, out of place among these hard eyed killers. Well, he was a killer sure as they were. He was a fine boned young man in his mid twenties with dark hair and dark eyes and seemed ill at ease in the grey ceramic polymer armor he wore over his fatigues. A few more of the soldiers sniggered at his use of Sergeant rather than Sarge but there was no real malice in it. They were just nervous, as was he and that was the God’s Truth.
“Six Zero seconds to the Dee Zee!” announced a voice, the pilot or maybe just an AI synthesis it was hard to tell, over the staticy intercom system. It was a completely unnecessary statement as the heads up display on every Marine’s helmet gave the figure as a running countdown but basic training emphasized that you got to be an old Marine by double checking everything you didn't have time to triple.
The DZ was a point a mile and a half above the point Rene’s helmet listed as Charlie Victor Three Zero. According to the briefing information CV30 was the grid reference assigned to a fire base in the southern highlands of San Sayeeda overlooking the valley of the Pemenec River. Heavy weapons emplaced there could prevent the landings at the Persopolis, the planetary and industrial capital. Command had billed this attack as a bold stroke but Rene knew better than most that history was full of bold strokes which turned out to be complete disasters. He found it was much more difficult to view them with detachment up close. As if summoned by his misgivings the intercom crackled to life again.
“Incoming! Brace for a Sh…” All twelve men grabbed for the restraint stanchions but before their fingers touched the safety bars, the deck seemed to punch up from below with the suddenness of a closing mouse trap and a rending metallic clang like the end of the world. Rene’s stomach dropped beneath him and for a moment he hung weightless before crashing to the deck in a rib pounding clatter of armor and equipment. The platoon was sprawled in a tangle and at least one man was screaming and everyone who didn't have the wind knocked from their lungs was shouting. The air, a moment ago as clear as starship air ever got, was filling with dark smoke and slick oily stench of burning metal.
“Jump! Jump! Jump!” bellowed a commanding voice, and it took Rene’s abused sense a moment to integrate the fact that Sergeant Koltz was speaking. Amazingly the veteran was on his feet, though he had lost his helmet and blood leaked over his face from a pressure cut on his shaven head. Rene’s helmet read forty five seconds to jump but He was hardly going to argue with an order to get out of this death trap. Already the crippled craft was curving downwards like a meteorite on its ballistic course to a fiery grave. A part of his mind, the studied academic part that was currently looking for the deepest mental hole it could find in which to hide, informed him that it boded very badly that the enemy even knew they were coming, much less had had time to move anti ship assets into place but there was no time for such abstract thinking now.
With a blow that would have cracked concrete Koltz smashed the emergency door release and then nested charges built into the wall went off with a hollow boom, peeling the side of the landing craft away like foil being stripped from a ration bar. The night air was a roaring sucking void outside, counterpointed by the scream of overheating vector thrust engines. Rene stumbled forward on all fours towards the sergeant, by luck or the good gods favor the only man not too entangled in his fellows or his equipment to move. The Sergeant gripped a stanchion like a statue of Effort, feet spread and planted on the quivering deck. With his free hand he seized Rene’s equipment belt and pitched him bodily from the dying drop boat into the open sky.