Fate of Terra

Chapter 11.5 - Adaptation

This is a short story for your enjoyment. I felt it was better suited to be on its own, rather than tagged into any other chapter.

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~~~Lieutenant James "Reaper" Merrick~~~ 

The battered X-20 Valkyrie shuddered to the flight deck of the TDF Dragon-class assault carrier. Its underside so pock-marked that any hopes of a 'smooth landing' had ended when the landing gear fell out the hole in the underside. Added to the difficulties were the electronics being, as they'd come to be known, sparky, due to the amount of energy surplus coursing into and around the tiny one seater.  

That wasn't to say it was a flying heap. Far from it in fact. Engine components manufactured in Germany; systems coded in Japan; space frame constructed in China; twin reactors that controlled the weapons and shields developed in the United States, assembled in Mexico. The best the TDF could create, and some speculated as good as if not better than the AI-Nation in certain hands. Reaper wasn't sure about that. 

The Valkyrie project was part of an international effort to churn out as many frontline fighters as possible. They would act as the main support for the destroyers, battlecruisers, and dreadnoughts keeping the thousands of B'Amuf shuttlecraft at bay while the capital ships fought. The Council of Terra was playing catch-up and they were running out of time.

Still, while most efforts were directed at preparing for the major battle everyone knew was coming, life on Earth went on. Nations all over the world were feeling growing pains as they tried to raise themselves to the Council's standards. Pilots and soldiers alike were getting some much needed experience responding to global threats. Unfortunately, new commanders who hadn't earned their positions were also learning, and their mistakes cost a great many lives.

Lt. Merrick slammed his fist down on the emergency catch that stopped the deck engineers from opening his cockpit, needing more time to collect himself. Tears trailed down his face as he relived the memory of his flight mates being blown apart. The four of them had been inseparable for six years, ever since they first entered flight school.

Captain "Skulldog" Jenkins, the flight leader, had been the first to be killed not far above the Central African jungle. Guerilla troops had taken the ray guns off the dead B'Amuf warriors and had been causing havoc for the local governments. Technically, the rays weren't supposed to be able to penetrate the Valkyrie's screens, but they'd chosen a lethal choke point for their ambush and the fighters could do nothing when hundreds of invisible beams rained down on them.

'Six years...' He lamented. 'Gone in an instant.' He'd only barely made it out, having been last in line with just enough time to pull up. His craft had been hit multiple times and the only thing that had saved him was directing all the power from the weapons to the shields. It was against the regs to tamper with the craft in any way, but he didn't care much for rules that got good men killed.

Afterwards, flying in the clouds, his radio buzzing for him to return to the carrier, he recalled how his shock and grief had turned to anger and hatred towards those who'd taken his friends. Didn't those goat eating wastes of human potential realise they were trying to help them? How could they even 'think' of causing trouble when an entire alien mother-fucking 'Species' was coming to annihilate them with another invasion?

He jerked the craft around and pointed it towards the two mountain ranges that surrounded the village they were supposed to be checking. Returning power to his weapons, he magnified his display and saw dark-clad figures scurrying down the mountainside. He clicked off the safety and pulled back on the trigger, sending out an unending stream of green plasma, melting the area down to the bedrock.

He ignored his blaring comm and swooped in for another pass, not wanting a single murderer to get away. Back on the runway, he shook his head and groaned as he remembered actually considering going to the village and bombing it, so sure was he that the guerillas had come from there. Luckily, reality had set in before he could carry out that action.

Giving himself a final shake and taking a deep breath, he released the emergency catch and stepped out of his craft. He didn't care what happened any more. He'd been the best of them: tutoring baby-faced Tommy so he could pass his exams; coming up with maneuvers that had saved them time and time again during their time in the Persian Gulf; taking extra engineering courses so he could make sure their fighters performed as well as possible.

He let out a strangled sob as he remembered ol' Skulldog holding his baby girl at their last barbeque and telling his wife with the utmost conviction that there was no way the enemy could take him with Reaper watching his back. He almost buckled under that memory, staggering as the crew all gave him pitying looks.

In a sorrowful haze, he barely registered an enraged Major Rogers stalking towards him, his face red with anger. He didn't even wait for James to make it to the hanger before tearing into him like his Drill Sergeant back in basic.

"What the hell did you think you were doing Merrick!" He roared, and one crewman swore on a stack of bibles afterwards that he could see steam rising from the man's ears. "You had strict orders not to fire your weapons! Did you even read the Mission-Op? I knew you had an attitude problem when I first saw your smug face. You think you can just spit in the face of authority all you want? Well not this time..."

James drowned out his rant, not even bothering to mention that he'd been well within his right to return fire having been shot at. His mind kept returning to the ambush, what he could have done differently, how he should have been more alert. The attackers hadn't shown up on their sensors, but it was an obvious choke point. Even if command had said the area was clear he should have... he should have...

Suddenly, the Major's words broke through the fog. "You think just because you aced the exams and got a few shiny medals you can just ignore the rules? Well, I got news for you, golden boy. All your talent didn't help your buddies out there, did it? It's 'your' fault they died and your little escapade afterwards doesn't make you some kind of god damned hero. You-"

Rogers was cut off as the Lieutenant's fist smashed his face in, collapsing bone and cartilage, breaking the man's nose and god-knows what else. A wet slab of something sloughed off his fist to plop on the tarmac. James was livid as he unleashed all of his pent-up rage and anguish on the Major's face.

"My fault?!" James's voice hurt he screamed so loud. "You were the one who ignored the army's warnings and shrugged off their offer of ground support. You were the one who said one flight would be enough! You were the one who told us it was clear! SKULLDOG TOLD YOU TO SEND IN A SENSOR DRONE- BUT NO! You had to have one more notch on your fucking belt!" He emphasized each declaration with another punch, easily dragging the flight crew along with him as his blows struck again and again.

Finally, a beefy Chief Engineer tackled him to the deck, shouting, "Easy L.T. He deserves it, but you don't want another death on your conscience. Even if it's his..."

James collapsed limp and let out a long keening wail of hopless despair that emptied his chest of heat, replaced with only a coldness that pulled him into nothingness. What did it matter? He was just as guilty as Rogers. He didn't care about anything anymore. He just had to do one more thing and then... and then they could lock him up and throw away the key for all he cared. Something registered him being brought to his feet and almost slipping on something. He looked down and a haunted, crazed, smile touched his eyes. A hunk of tongue meat lay on the floor, bitten off along with a few teeth. His hand told him he'd broken something, probably, but he ignored it and the split knuckles. Allowing himself to be enveloped by the flight crews and swept to medical. 

* * * * *

Dazedly trudging into the shared barracks, reserved for those who were put on 'ready status,' he began stripping off his flight suit. People stayed out of his way, but he noticed the looks. Opening his locker, he stared at the picture taped to the inside of him and his friends celebrating, just having graduated flight school.

James had just pulled on his jacket when a messenger came for him. He was surprised they hadn't sent the SEAL's. Following the young enlisted to Colonel Gray's office, he sighed, disappointed that his actions would reflect badly on his mentor. He took a seat in the lobby, waiting to face the music.

A couple of pilots from another squadron were in the corridor by the water dispenser talking loudly, and with the utmost authority, about things they weren't qualified to judge. 

"I'm telling you," One said in a squeaky voice, "the X-20's are garbage. They go through five factories before we get them. That's five places where the workers try to shortchange the military!"

The other man scoffed. "The parts are all sent to Mexico and the birds are assembled in one factory, moron. Then they're sent to the United States for testing, you don't know shit."

"How come the damn robot models are so much faster?" The first retorted, not about to be dissuaded by logic. "You don't hear any problems coming from the AI-Nation-"

"Yeah, well they don't have to pay or train workers," The other butt in grumpily. "The only humans they employ are the brains who come up with the stuff. They also have factories all over the god damn place, with like, an unlimited supply of resources so they don't have to worry about someone trying to save money on screws or some shit."

"Yeah! So," The first drew out, exasperated. "Why don't we do the same? Just come up with an artificia-"

"Shut the fuck up!" The second whispered urgently, making hushing motions with his hands. "You don't think all those underground facilities blew themselves up, do you? Don't even mention it." The two walked off and James could only shake his head.

Entering the office, James saluted and was about to sound off when the Colonel waved his hand, cutting him off. "Sit down, son," the older man behind the desk said. He sighed and folded his hands. "I'm sorry about your boys. It was damn criminal what Rogers did, but what's done is done. Unfortunately, your idea of justice has ruffled some feathers. I've done what I could, but I'm afraid they're still going to bust you down to 2nd Lt."

He leaned back and took out a crystal bottle of some amber liquid and two glasses before continuing, "I'll see Major Rogers brought up on charges, but with the way his face looks now, I doubt much will be done about him. Though, I can assure you he won't ever be in 'command' again."

"Your trial date is set for two weeks from now," The salt-and-pepper haired officer said as he handed James a glass. "Just keep your trap shut and look remorseful. Remember, we need all the pilots we can get. They won't toss you out for this. It'll probably set you back a year or two for Captain, but we can work around that. Now, you've got leave until your trial. I'm sure you have something you want to do."

Colonel Gray gave a meaningful raise of the eyebrows until James sighed and nodded. "Good," The veteran said gruffly. Stillness was shifting as each avoided the others gaze. Only when the Colonel sighed and gulped his own glass down did he speak. "Off the record son," That caught James's attention. "A lot of lives were lost in that first fight. We're better prepared but it'll be people like you that make the difference. What you did was right, and I'll not change on that."