The Rask Rebellion

Ben proceeded along the walkway between the trolleys, the side skirts of the tanks rising up to either side of him like walls of composite armor. He dodged around an engineer who was inspecting the tracks of the vehicle to his right, a tablet computer held in his hand, his fingers tapping frantically at the touch screen. The crews were already beginning to line up beside their respective vehicles, standing in rows as they prepared to follow them to the dropships when their number was up. Vehicle crews wearing their pressure suits and helmets stood idle, chatting with one another as they adjusted their seals, and slotted on their helmets. There were Marines gearing up beside their troop transports, their signature black body armor reflecting the glow from the halogen lights above as they checked their weapons and loaded their rigs with fresh magazines.

They were almost all human, there were very few aliens in sight. Most of the vehicles hadn't been designed with Borealans or Krell in mind, they were too tall to fit inside them, but the IFVs were an exception. Ben could make out a few of the eight-foot felines a row over, their Shock Trooper gear similar to that of the Marines in color and design, the ceramic plating of their battlesuits the same shade of onyx. They sported wicked XMRs that were as long as a human was tall, the barrels lined with tightly-packed rows of magnetic rings, the bayonets making them look as much like spears as rifles.

Vehicle crews didn't wear the same armor as the Marines. Their gear consisted of a pressure suit that would keep them from decompressing in the event that their hull was breached on a planet with an atmosphere that didn't support human life, and a flak jacket to provide them some protection from spalling. It was little more than a black jumpsuit that was connected to the boots, gloves, and helmet via pressure seals. His visor was currently open, and his gloves were in his pocket, as there was still a little time before the drop.

He brought up the wrist guard on his forearm, tapping at the holographic display as he checked which vehicle he had been assigned to. Golf-six, a Timberwolf. He walked along the rows of trolleys, weaving past groups of Marines and engineers until he came across the right one.

The Timberwolf was a six-wheeled scout truck designed for a crew of three. It operated ahead of the main formation, scanning for hostiles and obstacles with the help of a small drone fleet and a suite of sensors. It had a sloping, angular hull designed to help deflect enemy fire, the composite plates currently sporting a desert camo paint job. At around twenty-five tons and seven meters long, it was on the smaller side, but that made it fast and maneuverable. There was no visible canopy or windshield, that would only serve to create a weak point. The crew were expected to use the arrays of cameras that were spaced out around the chassis instead, but Ben knew from experience that the armor plating above the bullbar could be raised to expose the viewport in an emergency.

The six wheels had a diameter of about five feet, and the tires were made from a honeycomb structure that eliminated the possibility of flats, the deep treads providing excellent traction even on soft surfaces. The vehicle had smoke launchers and an active protection system that would help to supplement its armor, as well as a remote-controlled thirty-millimeter railgun turret mounted on the top.

What he wasn't expecting to see, however, was a little Valbaran standing on the roof beside the hatch. It was perched on the edge of the vehicle like a bird, peering down at him with a pair of striking, violet eyes. It had a basically humanoid body plan, its digitigrade legs ending in two-toed feet, its long tail held out straight behind it for balance. It was maybe four and a half feet tall, and it couldn't have weighed more than about sixty pounds. The pressure suit that it was wearing was similar to his own, black in color, electrical cables visible just beneath the lining as they wound their way across its surface like blood vessels. The form-fitting material gave him a good view of its figure. The alien had a feminine shape, with wide hips, powerful thighs for its stature, and a relatively short torso.

Its helmet seemed to open up like a clamshell, leaving most of its face exposed, a pair of twin tubes dangling from the back of its head. Ben assumed that they were connected to an oxygen supply of some kind, but upon closer inspection, they were hanging free.

Its face immediately made him think of a lizard. It had a long snout, and its glassy, olive-green skin was made up of a mosaic of fine scales. When it opened its mouth to speak, he saw that it was lined with rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

"You must be my commander," it said. Its voice was tinny, high-pitched, and it had a strange flanging quality that made it sound like two different people were speaking in harmony. "My name's Mizi'pal'otl, equivalent rank of Private, First Class. Pleased to meet you, Sir. Female, by the way," she added. "I know that humans have a hard time telling our genders apart."

"Hi," he replied sheepishly, giving the alien a wave. She returned it, mimicking the gesture with her three-fingered hand. "Yeah, I'm Sergeant Rhodes. I've been assigned as Golf-six's commander."

"I'm the driver," she continued, Ben taking a step back as she leapt from the roof. She landed beside him effortlessly, she was so light on her feet, cocking her head curiously as she peered up at him. He noticed that there were light panels on her forearms, and on the two tubes that extended from her helmet, their colors shifting between green and yellow. "Also a qualified engineer, if need be."

"You're a Valbaran, right?" he asked. "I've seen you guys around the mess. Don't you usually work in groups?"

"Yup," she replied, reaching up and giving the vehicle's tire a tap with her fist. "But a Timberwolf doesn't need six crew."

"I guess not," he chuckled. "Sorry, Private...what was the name again?"

"Just call me Mizi," she replied.

"Alright, Mizi. You prepped for the drop? Where's our third?"

"Dunno," she replied with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. "They'd better get here pretty soon, or we'll be short a gunner."

She spoke good English, though her accent was hard to place. It almost sounded like she was speaking with several accents, as if she was mimicking multiple different people as a parrot would.

A klaxon rang out through the garage as red warning lights began to flash, a voice alerting them that they had five minutes until drop. Ben and Mizi began to secure their suits and close their helmets, as did all of the personnel around them. By the time the next klaxon sounded, they were ready, the stern gate beginning to open.

In front of the forward row of vehicles, a large shutter that spanned the length of the garage began to rise from the deck. As it receded into the ceiling, it revealed a row of vaguely square docking ports, each one covered by a shimmering, blue force field.

Their purpose was to allow the heavy dropships that were already docked to the exterior of the garages to load up their vehicles as quickly as possible using the rail system. Twenty-five of them could connect to the stern gate at once, meaning that in only six trips, the entire contents of the five garages could be unloaded onto the surface of a planet. Ben could see five of them right now, the rails on the floors of their cargo bays lining up perfectly with those on the assault carrier's deck. Each one was spacious enough to accommodate a vehicle up to the size of an MBT, and as many crew as could fit in an armored personnel carrier.

Although he couldn't see it right now, he knew that the hull of the assault carrier beyond was starting to open like a giant maw. The entire aft section of the vessel could split apart like the jaws of a trap, exposing the tiered garages to space when open, and protecting the dropships from enemy fire when closed. Unlike most UNN vessels, the main engines were mounted in nacelles to the port and starboard, rather than directly at the stern.

Golf-six was second in line, Ben watching as the IFV in front of them began to slide forward on its yellow trolley. It made its way through the flickering energy barrier and into the waiting bay of the dropship, slamming to a stop inside, and locking into place. Its crew jogged in after it, strapping into the crash couches that lined the walls, securing their harnesses tightly.

The same procedure was happening with the four other dropships that he could see, as well at the twenty that he couldn't. When they were all loaded up, the landers began to separate from the assault carrier, their ramps closing as they used their thrusters to get clear. They were bulky vessels, able to lift as much as a hundred tons under their own power, their hulls painted in the traditional ocean-grey of the Navy. They had upward-swept noses due to their tendency to enter the atmosphere belly-first, giving them the profile of an archaic landing craft from the twentieth century, the cockpit raised high on the chassis. Plumes of blue hydrogen flame spewed from their rear engines as they began to pull away, shrinking from the size of a building to the size of his fist in a few scant seconds. As they angled towards the planet below, he got a better look at their stubby wings and the four downward-facing boosters that helped them to land and take off with a full payload.

Golf-six slid forwards on its trolley, locking into position in front of the docking port. Ben and Mizi jogged along after it, stopping just short of the translucent force field. It would keep in the atmosphere, but allow solid objects to pass through it, meaning that one could potentially trip and fall through the insubstantial barrier into the vacuum of space.

His heart raced as he waited for the dropships to return, and after maybe fifteen minutes, he was rewarded with the sight of one of the bulky vessels lining up to dock. The thrusters flared as the pilot carefully lined up his cargo bay, mating it to the assault carrier and blocking out the twinkling stars beyond. Their vehicle rolled forward on its rail, slipping past the force field and into the bay, slamming into place. He and Mizi followed after it, Ben feeling the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end as he transitioned through the barrier of energy. All sound was silenced, his own muffled breathing all that he could hear inside his helmet as he stepped into the depressurized lander.

The cargo bay looked so large with just the Timberwolf inside it, it was so much smaller and lighter than the tanks. The two crewmen sat side by side as they fastened their harnesses, Ben realizing that his hands were trembling as he secured the buckle about his chest. The drop was his least favorite part of the process.

He glanced to his left to check that Mizi was strapped in, noting that she had slipped her long tail through the hole that was present in all of the seats. They allowed species with tails to sit more comfortably, and it was no inconvenience to a human. She was so short that her feet were dangling off the floor like a child sitting in a highchair. How was she even going to reach the pedals once they were on the ground?

A rumble passed through the deck as the dropship uncoupled from the garage, the Timberwolf rocking on its trolley. Ben looked over Mizi's head as he watched the cargo bay door begin to close, catching a glance at the five rows of five docking ports as they shrank down to the size of pennies. Once it was sealed, there was a hiss as the bay was pressurized, the clanking and rumbling sounds of the lander slowly returning as though someone was pulling wads of cotton from his ears.

His stomach lurched as he felt the ship began to fall, his fingers digging into the padded armrests of his crash couch as he was buffeted and shaken. They had hit the planet's atmosphere, he could feel the turbulence, he could see the bright flames erupting beneath the vessel's belly in his mind's eye. These landers were not graceful, they were plummeting towards the ground like a brick, the stresses making the structure of the thing creak worryingly. Ben kept reminding himself that this was what it was designed for, that it had performed this same maneuver a thousand times, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was going to crater into the ground like an asteroid.

G-forces tore at him as the downward-facing engines belched plumes of fire, slowing their descent as they cleared the upper atmosphere. It felt like there was an elephant standing on his head, like he was being pressed into the deck by a giant rolling pin. He focused on breathing, feeling his pressure suit constrict around his limbs in an attempt to keep his blood where it was supposed to be.

Finally, the feeling of being crushed was alleviated, the dropship emitting a few more jarring bursts from its engines before he felt it bounce on its landing gear. He allowed himself a sigh of relief, glancing over at Mizi to see that she was already raising the visor on her helmet. Ben did the same, the two sharing a knowing glance for a moment.

"First time?" he panted.

"First time in one of these," she replied, pausing to swallow. "It's a little less...graceful than a troop transport."

"Stay seated while the vehicle deploys," he warned, "you don't want it clipping you on its way out."

Bright sunlight flooded into the bay as the ramp began to lower, a cloud of dust kicking into the air as it hit the ground. The scene beyond was that of a desert, a flat plain of sand with what looked like a wall of greenery rising up in the distance, a forest that must be miles away. He could make out a few more vehicles, their crews milling about nearby.

The locks on the Timberwolf's trolley released, sending it sliding down the rails and onto the planet's surface, skidding for a couple of feet before coming to a stop. Now that the vehicle was clear, Ben and Mizi unfastened their harnesses, following it out of the bay. As soon as Ben's boot touched the sand, he buckled, grunting in alarm as the planet's gravity gripped him. The dropship had an AG field set to Earth-standard, but Borealan gravity was thirty-percent higher. It felt like someone had just dropped a barbell across his shoulders. Mizi had a similar reaction as she stepped down from the ramp, her bobbing gait slowing, her tail drooping.

They stumbled over to their vehicle, Ben leaning against its chassis as though that might somehow alleviate his discomfort. The heat was incredible, weighing down on him almost as much as the gravity. He shielded his eyes as he peered up at the twin suns. The primary was a huge, white sphere of bright light, while the yellow secondary was more akin to Earth's sun.

The staging point seemed to be in the middle of a desert. The immediate area was sandy scrubland, completely flat save for a few clumps of alien plants that were clinging to life here and there. To his right was the wall of forest, it looked like a tropical jungle, extending from horizon to horizon. To his left, the desert dunes rose up like mountains in the distance, contrasting sharply with the azure sky. All around him, the first two waves of vehicles were gearing up, the roar of their engines carrying across the flatland.

"Where is our third?" Mizi asked anxiously, crawling her way up onto the roof of the Timberwolf with some difficulty. She certainly seemed to like being in high places. The Valbaran peered about frantically, searching for their missing gunner, the sun reflecting off her smooth scales as her head swiveled on her flexible neck.

"Maybe they're supposed to meet us down here?" Ben suggested with a shrug.

"But the mission briefing said that we would have three crew, and the manual lists three crew as being necessary for the Timberwolf's operation," Mizi insisted as she wrung her gloved hands. "A commander, a driver, and a gunner. Where is our gunner? This was not what was planned."

"Don't worry about it, Private," he replied in an attempt to calm the agitated creature. He noted that the light panels on her forearms had turned purple, did they indicate her emotional state? "If one doesn't turn up, I'll go find someone to complain to. It's not your responsibility. Now, let's get this Wolf running."

"System check!" she declared, opening the hatch on the roof and dropping down inside. After a moment, the headlights lit up, the vehicle rumbling to life. Ben followed behind as she drove it down off the trolley and clear of the dropship, its large tires leaving furrows in the sand. It rolled to a stop, the top hatch opening again, her little head popping out. "All systems green, Commander!"

"That was quick," he replied skeptically.

"I have memorized the pre-operation checklist," she replied, "all systems are within tolerances."

"Do you have a lot of hands-on experience with Timberwolfs?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "But I read the manual."

"Alright," he muttered. At least she was qualified.

Behind them, the dropship began to lift off the ground, its four ventral engines sending a cloud of sand swirling as they fired. Ben hastily closed his visor as the air was filled with dust, looking up to watch it accelerate into the blue sky once it was clear, several other landers following behind it. There was pretty much constant traffic, a couple more dropships descending on plumes of bright flame as they decelerated, their bellies charred black by the heat of reentry.

He pulled up the display on his wrist computer, checking the local ad-hoc network. Mizi wasn't entirely overreacting. Where the hell was their gunner? He put a call through to his Lieutenant, keeping his visor closed so that he could hear himself think over the din of two dozen Kodiaks revving their engines. After being put on hold for a minute, he was put through to the platoon commander.

"Lieutenant? This is Sergeant Rhodes, commanding Golf-six. We're short a gunner getting off the boat. Any idea where they're at?"

"Hang tight, Sergeant," the Lieutenant replied. "They're en route."

"Hang tight?" Ben muttered to himself after closing the line, gazing around at his barren surroundings. "Where the hell would I go?"

He rapped his knuckles on the Timberwolf's hull, the little Valbaran popping out again like a scaly gopher.

"Gunner's on the way," he said, which seemed to put her more at ease. "Let's sit tight until then."

He tried to climb up onto the hull of the scout vehicle, but the sun had already heated it to the point that it was hot to the touch, so he decided to sit in the shade that it created instead. So, this was Borealis? It was hot, desolate, the gravity already making the muscles in his legs burn like he had just run a two-K. He was starting to get a better understanding of why the Borealans were all so ripped. They didn't need to be gym rats, just existing here was workout enough to make most Marines look scrawny by comparison.

There was a banging sound as the hatch swung open, then the Valbaran dropped down beside him, stumbling as she landed in the sand. She was decidedly less graceful under these conditions, and he couldn't blame her. She didn't sit, seeming to lock the joints in her digitigrade legs to take a load off instead, letting her arms hang at her sides.

"I think this planet has one too many suns," she grumbled.

"I hear that," Ben chuckled, wiping his brow beneath his helmet. Mizi watched him curiously, and he gave her a sideways glance. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just...Valbarans don't sweat. It's strange to see."

"How the hell are you going to last down here if you don't sweat?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.

"My suit keeps me moist," she explained. "As long as the battery bank has a charge, the condensers will stop me from drying out. It can't keep me cool in this heat, unfortunately, but the Timberwolf has climate control. We like it a little hotter than your kind do, but also a lot more humid than this. I bet those jungles are lovely," she sighed as she peered at the wall of greenery on the horizon.