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Dark Crimson By Nick P.
Chapter II

How many people had I already killed? There was the inspector who was identified to be a Strogg agent. It always mystified me how the Stroggs managed to get human agents. Nonetheless, he wasn’t spying on us anymore. In the process, I had been forced to kill five other people that had apparently been sent to protect the man or were in some way connected to him. And then there was the one security guard that was a casualty brought in by the dire circumstances. In total, seven. Lucky seven. And there were going to be more, I knew it. I felt it. It was war, the only time where massive murder was accepted by the general people. And I was heading straight for the fray. Yes, in war, murder was accepted. And yet, that’s just for what Colonel Kurt was charged: murder. I found the entire situation ironic, self-contradicting and absurd, but I took the mission. What else was I to do? I knew I had to take the assignment, but once I found him, I didn’t know what I’d do.

                I left the general’s quarters slightly dazed with numerous phrases all running through my head. Colonel Walter E. Kurt has gone insane. That, and a pack of cigarettes given to me by the general as a form of good-luck. Terminate with extreme prejudice. Terminate his command. He and his army… But it had come to me, war. I wasn’t going to dusty Karoggon as I had in my dreams, in my nightmares. But I was going to the Stroggos planet nonetheless, the heart of the war. And this journey began as I strolled away, following my guide that was to lead me to the launching bay.

            Winding through narrow and sometimes wide corridors, I fidgeted with the sealed envelope given to me. It contained useful information, what intelligence suggested we would find, a more thorough history on Kurt and his business, as well as that of some of his more loyal followers. Links with Karoggon individuals, links with human individuals, family ties, military achievements, transcripts of received messages, and so on. Printouts of information included on the disk. 

            Soon, I stood before a large metallic door that slowly winded upwards, revealing the cavernous and busy launch bay. It was a large, rectangular room and wrapped around two central runways. The sides were lined with various types of spacecrafts, sorted in groups. Overhead, behind the luminescent lamps tubes and wires and vents twisted like snakes between large tanks and cylinders. Panels ran along the walls, occasionally being broken by a door or small office of sorts. The cavern in its entirety was very busy with small vehicles with fuel tanks and hoses darting to and fro and pilots hastening about. It seemed that only the soldiers were orderly and walked precisely to where they should.

            I was led to a series of large crafts, unmistakably Coalition bombers. They were delta-shaped with the domed bubble canopy that enclosed the pilots’ cockpit while where there should’ve been the elegant, sharp nose of a fighter, it was cut off revealing a cooling intake with a turbine and various sensors that protruded from the sides around which a mouth with sharp teeth was painted. From under the nose fell a heavy chain-gun. Behind the cylindrical body that ran into the delta were the two intakes for the main engines that were mounted into the wings. They whined and glowed a bright blue as they were warmed up and put through a series of pre-flight tests. On the outer side of the engines was the row of capsules that would be released upon command. Between the two engines, dodging tubes, panels, and different mechanicals was the main bomber bay. From where the thick wings joined the equally-thick body, sprouted upward two fins, also supplemented by probes and sensors in the form of spikes and rods.

            There stood a somewhat aged man who shuffled through a series of papers strapped to his clipboard. His eyes examined them calmly. He was obviously the alpha pilot, and judging from his cool and professional manner, an experienced one. My eyes fell to his flight plans and I began to wonder what exactly they were to bomb before they dropped me off at the KCP outpost.

            “Are you the flight leader?” I asked, coming forward.

            “For bombing run C-134, yes.” He examined me and slightly glanced back at his papers. “Are you the person we’re supposed to drop off at the KCP?” He looked down at his papers again. “Captain… Uh, Captain Willard?”

            I nodded.

            “Very well. You’ll be on the deck behind us. I’ll show you where it is in a second. We’ll also be dropping off another load of Marines, they’re loading now,” he said, gesturing towards a line of disgruntled soldiers, each walking up the ram and climbing into his own personalised tiny capsule. The capsules were small and streamlined, carved around the human body, with two stubby wings that gently curved upwards in a somewhat wide-set ‘V.’

            I was glad I didn’t have to go through the drop routine, I couldn’t stand it. Actually, few could, though there was always the feisty Marine who screamed with joy like it was a damned thrill ride all the way down the planet’s surface. For me, it was a horrible experience, the gut-wrenching feeling, the blurring, the loss of consciousness, and eventual vomiting that covered the readout screen that hung inches from your face.

            “How exactly will this flight go, sir?” I asked.

            “Oh, we’ll descend through the atmosphere and drop off these guys at Sector IV at beta lock. We’ll be flying in formation, a total of six bombers, three of which house Marines that’ll be released. We have a second wave following our run, too. They aren’t carrying marines, though. We need them to lower the structure’s defences so we could bomb it some other time. We’ll have to move out quick because of fire. Then we’ll proceed to the processing facilities and to the power lines where we’ve had one Marine place a homing beacon that we can train our laser guided SKAM missiles and blow the whole damned place to the ground. Sound like a plan?”

            I nodded. “By the way, who’s the Marine weakening all these Strogg defences from the inside?”

            “We have several Marines that survived the initial attack. The one that’s penetrated the furthest is Corporal Bitterman. He’s been our saviour for the last few days. We’d be far behind if it wasn’t for his aid.”

            “Bitterman,” I could recall coming across him several times. “He’s a great Marine, I wouldn’t have anybody else down there.”

            The head pilot nodded then looked at his watch. “Ten minutes until departure time. Ready yourself Captain, it could be a rough time. Fighting enemy fire and Stroggos turbulence isn’t quite as smooth as one would think. In fact, it’s worse.”

            His voice was slowly lost in the whining engines.

            I edged back and watched, waiting to be escorted on board. In front of me, the last Marine climbed into his cocoon, which in turn was manoeuvred into the troop carrier itself. The lead pilot walked around, under, and climbed above the fighter, examining crucial parts and systems, checking each off on his digitised clipboard. He looked at the engines and the ailerons, the landing gear and its housing; he travelled across the wings examining the Marine drop capsules and the bombing bay underneath. Meanwhile, other pilots were doing the very same thing to their own crafts in preparation for takeoff.

            “Captain Willard?”

            I turned around.

            “Co-pilot and navigator Robert Filmier, second-division 540^th squadron VBC.” He stuck out his hand, grinning broadly. He was young, younger than the pilot, and yet still carried with him a flair of intelligence and ability. I shook his hand. “If you’ll follow me, sir.” He circled around the bomber and I followed.

            “You’ll be flying in alpha formation but not with the alpha leader. It’s a small change of plans to ensure you get there.” He grinned. “You’ll be flying with us. Here you are,” the Filmier said, motioning towards his bomber.

            Occasional jets of hot air blew across me as I made my way up the lowered ramp and into the central chamber. In front of it was the cockpit while behind it was the bomb bay. The navigator went to one wall and pulled down a chair that was otherwise folded against it. It lowered, straps and all. I couldn’t help but notice that two more of these chairs were unfolded.

            Indeed, two men came on board not long thereafter. They both struck me as war veterans, ones that had their share of what I had desired. One in particular stayed in my mind, a soldier that could only be a stereotypical general and gunman who had seen one too many battles. He came in, strolling alone, and yet it was as if a crowd of invisible souls surrounded him, and they all came in screaming with him. His eyes were small and black, squinting and alert. As he drew near, sparks from the readied ship and sudden fits of gas blew across his peeling armour, but he didn’t flinch. His face remained motionless, expensive Cuban cigar wedged under a curling upper lip. His hair was cut the usual military short and still held colour, though I felt that it should be white. His bare palms, the rest of him being stored away under thick armour, were weathered and rough looking.

I naturally stood at attention. He gazed at me with only the slightest interest before sitting opposite of me, not saying a word. After a minute of me standing with my hand raised and back straight, I slowly fell back to my seat, feeling that I could stand there quite a while were I to wait to be told at ease.

            “Willard?” he asked gruffly, not bothering with any formalities.

            “Yes sir.”

            That ended the conversation. The general seemed a lot more interested in examining the boxes of weapons that were carried on board the troop carrier, weapons set aside just for my use. He threw each weapon from hand to hand, his black eyes examining them while the skin around them wrinkled. Smoke from his cigar trailed across the small room and into my nostrils. I could’ve sure used a smoke then.

            He grunted and set the gun he was examining back down. It seemed that the model TE-148 rail gun did not suit him.

            Well, he was, after all, a gunner, a general. It was well-known that such men appreciated person-to-person combat, rather than stealthy sniper operations. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t seem to inclined to spare some attention for me. Either that, or he was never bothered by lower ranking men such as myself.

            The second man soon came on. He was a bit rounder than the general, though his expression was grim and harassed and implied that he had seen quite a bit of battles before. His dark black hair was giving way to his forehead revealing wrinkles that seemed to exaggerate all of his expressions. His eyes were widely set and his mouth was rather large, placed under his flat nose. His manner was a lot lighter on note and he walked up to me upon entering the craft.

            I stood at attention and he immediately dismissed me.

            “Captain Willard? Very pleased to meet you. I’m Colonel Schnazer.” He motioned towards one of the gigantic guns that were mounted on both sides of the spacecraft, towards the rear. “I’m a heavy gunner, as is General Sanders here.” He looked back at the general who was paying attention only with the mildest interest, perhaps because there was nothing else to do. “I don’t suppose you’ve met. General Sanders here is somewhat not inclined to socialise.”

            The general grunted again and shifted the cigar between his lips.

            The intercom sputtered to life. “Alright ladies, we’re taking off in approximately two minutes, depending on in what order takeoff clearances are issued. Make sure you are strapped in so we don’t have to scrape your asses off of the floor while Strogg gunners lazily fire at us…”

            Outside the engines began to whine loudly, but were soon drowned out as the heavy hydraulic pistons pulled the ramps upward until they served their purpose as a door. With a metallic ring, they snapped into place and our tiny room was pressurised. The metallic floor underneath shook as gears worked and adjusted themselves for takeoff level. I placed myself carefully in my seat as if imperfect sitting could spell disaster and pulled the harness cage hanging above me down until I was strapped into place. My eyes travelled to the tiny window opposite of me, a small rectangular thing set between the two superiors’ headrests.

            The gears underneath thumped and the craft shook as it began to move. Through the window, I saw metallic panels and tubes and things, as well as people and other such crafts begin to shift and move. My eyes fell to the general, who was staring blindly at the floor and puffing his cigar. The colonel ran his hand over his face.

            “Primary thruster locked, gear-scan shows perfect alignment, all clearances issued. Switching to auxiliary cabin power, auxiliary thrusters one and two are go and in effect. To all personnel: prepare for takeoff.” The intercom died as the pilot continued to give a detailed report of all of his required procedures.

            The floor slightly budged and then I was thrown violently against my left side, moments before gravity left me and all I felt was the acceleration pressing me to my left. Admittedly, I was never big on space travel. I shut my eyes, not paying attention to the window that had now turned an empty black, the black of space. As acceleration forces pushed against my stomach, I felt it jump. Queasiness took hold of me. I fought the vomit that slowly rose up my oesophagus. I didn’t want to vomit; it isn’t very pleasant. Especially when you’re sitting across from a high-ranking general.

            Soon, we reached a fairly steady pace and all I felt was the lack of gravity. I drifted up, an inch off of my cushion, my restrains holding me down. At least weightlessness didn’t make me sick. Many other people did have that problem. Travelling on big escorting shuttles was never fun. There were always lots of people that lost their lunches, and the feeling of suspense was horrible. Would the guy sitting next to you be the one to unwillingly regurgitate his ASFA issued meal?

            “Get in formation, damn it!” the intercom screamed. “Uh, I hate these flyboys fresh out of the Academy. Anyway, I suggest you boys back there get some sleep cause it could be the last you ever get. It’s a good five hours to the dark star in Vega B. But before you do, make sure you take a good look back at our sun. The next star you’ll be seeing is that of the Stroggos system.” His voice faded out, leaving the distant humming of electrical power.

            The general continued staring downward emptily while the colonel seemed inclined to take up on the pilot’s offer of sleep. I felt that they were both away, I felt alone. But there I was, heading for the war. Heading for its very heart. A chill ran through me. I was going to Stroggos where we were going to be outnumbered thousands to one. What fate waited there? Capture? Torture? Pry intelligence information from me before hanging me on a meat hook next to hundreds of other captured humans while my blood slowly drains in the sink below… Or maybe I would become an addition to the torso or arm of some new Strogg prodigy. It was all too ghastly to consider.

            Then again, I wasn’t going into the heart of Karoggon as most Marines were. I was going west to where Stroggos had grown a tumour. Colonel Walter E. Kurt had become a god, an idol, one who is given all the power. And perhaps too much for it, allowing him to make all of his sick ideas and plans come true. He had an army, and I didn’t know how I’d have to deal with it. I saw one way, the easiest way: take the rail gun and perch myself somewhere high, then simply wait for him to stumble between my crosshairs. I spat in my mind; it was a coward’s way, but the surest way to assassinate him. To get the job done.

            To murder a murderer. To kill someone because they killed in a war.

            I knew that the Coalition HQ didn’t give a damn about those agents Kurt had executed. In fact, they were probably pleased that he had uncovered and taken care of them. But still, they feared what he might do after the war was over. That was the only reason they were afraid of Mr. Kurt. They feared that they would be weakened after the war, and that’s when Kurt, along with his army of Strogg and human refugees would strike. But why? What could he possibly want? I doubted Kurt would do anything of such magnitude on a shapeless whim.

            Why did I complain? I wanted war. And here it was.

            Kurt was mad, and he was intelligent, and the mixture of the two was toxic.

            I wondered how much longer I’d have to sit here, thinking emptily. The droning of the power and absence of all other sounds gently eased me into a restful state. The general across from me never took his eyes away from the floor while the colonel began to snore gently, his large chin propped against the upper running edge of his wide armour.

            I couldn’t sleep.

            Time passed and it seemed that I just started to drift into sleep, when the intercom broke the silence, human vocal cords seeming harsh after the long silence that preceded. “We’re looking at twenty minutes until ETA with warped region of space, so be ready. And I hope you didn’t have too much to eat before you left cause this time I’m not scrubbing the floors.”

            My eyes travelled to the tiny window and the blackness beyond.

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