Jean Preston: Sledgehammer

“ Self-Destruct Protocol Initiated ” announced the gentle voice of the computer

Loma’s neck ached, her head was on her shoulder. She undid her straps and fell to the ground. The cockpit was in disarray, the room pulsated with soft red light.

The countdown began, giant black letters stretched awkwardly on the main screen. Starting at 2 minutes. With eyes full of loathing, and dried blood in one nostril, she slumped to a keyboard and input a long code, one so deeply burned into her memory that even in her current fugue state, it came to her as easily as the date of her birth.

“ Self-Destruct Protocol Belayed ,” it announced, the main screen switched off.

“Ship status,” she croaked

There was no reply. She moaned and flicked a switch. When this had no effect she slammed the console with the flesh of her fist and the screen flickered into life.

CATASTROPHIC POWER FAILURE: ENTERING HIBERNATION MODE

The screen turned off.

“ Goddamnit!” she spat. She pried open the cockpit doors and stumbled into the empty cargo bay. She picked up a spare helmet and wore it, it sealed up with a hiss.

“Current location. Full screen,” She demanded. The cargo bay dissolved away, a 3D map of the island appeared through clouds. It zoomed into the Citadel’s location, then drifted northwards erratically. The image faded to blackness.

SATTELITE LINK TERMINATED: UNABLE TO DETERMINE CURRENT LOCATION

“God! Damnit!” she shouted and a kicked metal bar. How? Was the satellite damaged? Did Avalon cut her off? Afraid that somebody might have requisitioned the ship? Did the hostiles compromise the software somehow?

She took her helmet off, grabbed a rifle off the rack and manually unscrewed the cargo bay hatch valve. As soon as it fell open she fired at the earth. A beam of brilliant blue light burst forth and blackened the ground. The rifles still worked at least. She stepped over the smoking hole into the daylight.

The ship was lop-sided. A great chunk of its wing had been seared off. The Chrysanthemum lay tilted on a mountainside, partially embedded into the ground. It was a sorry sight. She took in the lay of the land. It was barren country, grassy mountains that stretched off into the horizon. There were forests and lakes in the distance. She did not see a single animal, human or machine, nor any sign that any had ever existed, save for her ship. She looked around hopelessly, then returned to the ship which she sealed shut. She remembered the radiation leak. She hurriedly put her helmet back on.

The generator was dead. To get back to Avalon would require auxiliary power; solar. She slid the overhead compartment aside and pulled out a roll of thick rubbery material. She unfurled this outside the ship like a black glossy carpet, fully extended it was about 20 metres long. She did this with 5 more solar panels, all side by side, forming a great square. She connected the circuitry together, and plugged the tangled mess directly into the Chrysanthemum. She sat down a safe distance from the radiation-leaking mess and looked into the sun. Her helmet’s screen applied a grey filter, hardly necessary, the sun was weak, obscured by heavy cloud. It could take weeks to generate enough power to make it back to Avalon. Assuming the ship’s structural integrity could withstand the long flight. It had some self-repair capability, small wear and tear would automatically seal up given enough time. But she had no food, was utterly alone in hostile territory, all she could do was wait.

She took her helmet off and massaged her temples with the rubber soles of her armoured hands. The mountain wind whipped her hair into her face. She closed her eyes. Although she had risked her life to save the soldiers under her command, she felt no real mourning for them at this time. She felt empty. This turned to anger when she thought her superiors. Leading her into a warzone and then cutting her off when things got hairy. It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission. There were supposed to be a dozen soldiers at most, and they were supposed to be bumpkin nobodies, lightly armed. How the hell did they manage to shoot her out of the sky?

She should have called the mission off when the drones started malfunctioning. Whether they had been tampered with or just failed on their own – she should have called everyone back. She would have gotten in trouble, maybe received a court martial, but she would be back home right now. And her crew would still be alive. She sighed angrily and ripped up grass in frustration.

She looked at the wreck of the Chrysanthemum and grimaced. It was an eyesore. This high up it could be seen from miles around. She felt the grass in her hand, let it fall between her fingers.

She put on her helmet again and stepped inside the ship. She pulled out a compartment and rummaged inside, finding a liquid applicator and a plastic waste bag.

Outside she found an area of long grass, she placed her tools down, then unstrapped her rifle and adjusted the beam to its lowest intensity. She aimed low and scythed the grass in an arc, leaving a heap of grass which she stuffed into the refuse bag.

On top of the ship she poured globules of industrial adhesive, spreading it as best she could. She then poured the grass detritus onto the sticky hull, which held it in place, creating a rudimentary camouflage. She repeated this process several times till the smooth white egg of a ship was covered completely in grass. She did not know how long the paste would hold the camouflage in place, but it was better than nothing. The disguise would not hold up to close scrutiny, but the ship was no longer a peculiarity that could be seen by naked eye from miles around.

Wiping the grass from her hands she stepped into the ship again, monitoring the progress of the solar panels. It was disappointing. She walked out, looking for her adhesive gun, she picked it up and looked for her rifle. It was missing. She had placed it down a few metres away – while working on the hull. She walked around with narrowed eyes, trying to remember if she had left it in some other place. It was not a great loss – the ship had another spare. Still. It was bad form to leave tech in enemy territory.

“Hullo there,” said a man in white rags. He held her rifle in one hand, pointed lazily in her general direction.

Loma froze. She looked to her ship, it was too far away to safely run to.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he began.

“Watch yourself with that thing,” she said, her voice filtered and robotic through the helmet “You might end up hurting yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, looking to the distance, agitated.

“It’s connected to my suit. Only I can use it, it’ll blow up in your hands if you try to fire.”

The man looked concerned for a moment. “There’s – a sniper watching us,” he said quietly, then gave a thumbs-up to the world. A hole was torn into the earth at Loma’s feet, followed by a distant gunshot. She flinched slightly. The man looked at Loma’s rifle suspiciously, feeling it in his hands “So don’t try any funny business,” he mumbled. She punched him in the face with a metallic fist, he careened backwards.

A shot was fired, but it missed, zipping past Loma’s head. She ducked down and ran in a zig-zag pattern to the cargo bay entrance, another shot was fired into the hull. She tip tapped up the platform but was grabbed on both shoulders and pulled back into the daylight. She punched the man again in the head, but he bear-hugged her and forced her to the ground, holding her wrists in place.

“Stop – punching me!” he said hoarsely. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

She replied by pushing against him, trying to knee him in the back and wriggle away. He squeezed her wrists and lent in closer.