Ben Chaney - Son of Sedonia

Vaughn watched Kabbard approach the Commander and immediately start talking. It looked serious.

“Vaughn!” Shima yelled. Vaughn jumped and turned. Realized that the squad was filing out of the rows. He scrambled to pick up his helmet and follow. Shima fell in beside him on the way to the ships.

“There he is, huh? That’s what you’re thinking? There’s the all-wise, all-knowing John Kabbard…” Shima said. Vaughn thought it best to stay quiet. Shima continued. “Forget that fucking sell-out, son, he ain’t coming with us. You got your head on straight? Or am I gonna have to worry about you…”

“Sir, no, sir!” Vaughn said what the man wanted to hear. But he wasn’t truthfully sure.

“Good. I don’t need you rookies comin’ loose after your first RaDVert…it ain’t exactly like the Neural sims.” Shima quickened pace to the front of the squad, making himself the first to enter their IG-8 dropship. Its broad, curved belly shimmered with the light-bending camo that would reflect the sky above in any weather and any time of day. ‘Rapid Descent Vertical Insertion…’ It had been a screaming Hell even when it was just a projection into Vaughn’s brain. A long ramp led up to the officer compartment, above the ‘cargo hold.’ Vaughn felt another hand on his shoulder. He turned, expecting the rookie from before.Instead, he met John Kabbard face-to-face. Rumor had it that the scar on the former Sergeant’s cheek came from a bullet graze. A T99 punk had Kabbard dead to rights with a gun barrel under his chin…but the Sergeant knocked it aside, discharging it as he ripped the punk’s throat out. Without Aug gloves.

“You got a loose seal on your anterior delt plate,” Kabbard said. Vaughn flushed pale and reached for the clasp. Kabbard got it for him, bleeding air from the seal. Pushed it closed with a click. The shoulder moved much more freely. “You’ll be fine. Just Flip-the-Switch and watch the man next to you.” With that, the man left. Walking from squad to squad, sizing things up and talking with the men. Most of the vets didn’t seem to appreciate it. Vaughn slipped his helmet on, pressed the seal, and felt it tighten around him. He started up the ramp.

“All in! Lock it down!” First Sergeant Mason said into his throat mic.

“Roger, securing rear hatch and personnel harnesses.” The voice of the pilot hummed in Vaughn’s inner ear as the rear doors of the IG-8 hissed shut. Bolted. Red light filled the cabin. Carbon-fiber harnesses dropped down, securing each officer in his seat with a click.

“EXOs, check restraints! Visors down!” Shima barked. All nine officers slid their clear visors down and tested the fit of their harnesses. They sounded off down the line, each confirming ‘Secure!’ One of the rookies added a ‘Yeah!’

“Cabin secure! Go for launch!” said Mason. The elder vet saw Vaughn staring. Gave a smile and a nod. The engines picked up, sending vibration through every surface in the cabin as the craft lifted off the deck. Vaughn felt the landing gear retract under his feet and took a deep breath as the ship bobbed, turned and hovered forward.

“Yeah, baby, here we go!” a voice barely shouted above the hum of the engines. Mason pressed and held a finger to a button on his helmet temple. Neural screens materialized in front of Vaughn and each of the other officers. Video feeds from forward, aft, starboard, and port appeared, showing the entire EXO fleet in motion. The hangar doors yawned open, exposing a vast plane of orange lights under a pitch black sky. The cabin went quiet.

One hundred and seven ships flew out of the hangar in formation. Gunships formed an expanding octagonal perimeter around the IGs as the fleet flattened into a slow-moving wave. It crept to within a mile of the Border when the whole fleet went dark.

“Exterior lights off. Beginning my ascent to 7600 meters.” the voice said in Vaughn’s ear. The ship lurched and climbed straight up. The force pressed the officers down and back into their seats. Silhouettes of the other ships disappeared on the video feed, visible now only by dots on the radar. When the screens went totally black they switched to radar-only. Seconds later, the IG-8 slowed. Stopped.

“Seventy-six hundred meters. Moving over position for RaDVert.” the voice said. The blue dots on the radar fanned out over and past the Border, each eventually stopping over a different outlined sector.

Vaughn swallowed hard. He looked across from him and saw Mason’s head bowed in the dim, red light. Praying. Wish I could do that . He thought about trying, but nothing came to mind. Side effect of being an atheist. The dot in the center of each screen, their dot, glided over a section of Southwest Rasalla and froze. As Vaughn felt the ship come to a hovering stop, everyone’s Neural flipped to Tactical Mode. Visible squad IDs, GPS minimap, ammo counters, and a myriad of other combat apps. A chorus of other mechanical buzzes, clicks, and beeps sounded throughout the cabin.

“In position. Awaiting ‘Go’ at 0400 hours,” the pilot said. Everyone took hold of their harness handles and waited in the humming silence. The seconds felt like hours. Vaughn, at the last second, remembered his mouth-guard. He lifted his visor, put the guard in, bit down, and closed the visor again. Gripped the handles.

“We have a ‘Go.’ Beginning RaDVert in 10. 9. 8. 7,” Vaughn tried to breathe evenly past the jackhammer in his chest and think of the mission. All of that disappeared at “3. 2. 1. Drop!” The engines cut and the IG-8 went into free-fall. Vaughn’s forearms bulged as he strangled the safety handles. His shoulders dug into the harness padding, pressing harder and harder toward the ceiling. He thought his teeth would bite through the mouth-guard and break his jaw. Terminal velocity gave the officers a short-lived break to look around wide eyed at one another. The roar of rushing air filled the cabin.

“AAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAAAA!” Shima screamed above the noise. Some of the rookies followed his example. Most were laughing when the engines kicked on again full blast, humming smooth and loud. The crushing force shoved them down into their seats and, in seconds, brought the IG-8 to a dead stop. The exterior camera screens appeared again and showed a 360 degree view of an empty Rasalla street in Zone Four. Vaughn shook his head. Collected himself in the moment. The harnesses clicked and lifted off the EXOs. Mason and Shima stood and secured their submachine guns. The rookies managed as the hatch doors hissed open.

“Legs off, weapons hot! On me!” said Mason.

Vaughn willed his shaky legs down the ramp with his squad. They made it about twenty paces from the ship when the sudden smell of sewage raised a lump in the back of his throat…enough to give his stomach the excuse it needed. He doubled over in the street, retracted his visor, and puked. The other officers looked at each other, then nervously at the concrete and scrap-metal buildings around them. Vaughn spat, wiped his mouth and stood. Mason came in close next to him, weapon ready.

“You good?” Mason asked.

“Yes, sir,” Vaughn answered. Mason stepped back and pressed his throat mic.

“We’re clear. Proceed to recon altitude,” said Mason. The IG-8’s four hover engines glowed a masked blue as it lifted off and up into the night sky. Mason pinch-zoomed the hovering mini-map of the area and tapped a group of buildings. It became highlighted in each officer’s display, and set a waypoint.

“Objective’s two blocks west then north through the alley. I’ll take point. Shima take the rear. The rest of you stay close and keep it tight,” Mason said. Shima dropped to the back, scowling at the stain on Vaughn’s flak vest. They stalked through the street. Vaughn felt the eyes on them, peeking down from ragged window holes cut from steel and cinder block. He swore he could see silhouettes darting away in the shadows, off to warn Rasalla.