Cold Fusion - A Sci-fi, Fantasy, and Fusion Short Story Anthology

Company D3

Chanse swam in unconsciousness' dark embrace for what felt like an eternity. Then, with a jolt hard enough to rattle his teeth, the Intrepid Shadow dropped out of jump space and back into Reality. Coming around, he shook his head to clear it as the all-clear klaxon sounded. A quick, cleansing breath then he was hitting the releases on his restraint harness and the tube door.

He found the general already waiting for him, hands clasped behind his back as crew members on their way back to their duty stations streamed around him.

"Sir," he said in the way of greeting as he climbed out of his tube.

"Captain," the general replied. "Now that we're in range of our objective, it's time to gear up and prep for the insertion!"

It was a short trip from the tube room to the lower front section of the ship where the mass drivers were stationed. Chanse found himself giving the massive, cannon-like structures a good look over as they passed through their midst, the general intent on some point further into the emplacement.

"Impressive, aren't they?" the general said over his shoulder. "We're going to use them to create an artificial meteor shower that will both soften up the target and hide your insertion."

"Hide our insertion, sir?

The general nodded as they stepped around a corner to come to a halt in front of a heavily armored drop pod. A drop pod that a crew of engineers were working on turning into a large chunk of rock.

The general indicated the pod with a gesture.

"Your team will go in a trio of pods disguised as meteors, fired at the same time as our artificial storm. Hopefully it'll fool the enemy's defensive network long enough for you to get to the ground. It'll also put the team close to the target, which will be in the middle of being pounded by the shower." He turned back to Chanse.

"Now, let's get you geared up and introduced to the team."

It had been a while since he had been in the heavy armor of a ground-pounding grunt, but extensive training made it feel almost like an old suit of clothes that still fit and were comfortable even though he hadn't worn them in years. So, after a slight hesitation, he was climbing into the armor with increasing confidence.

It was as he was closing the last seals that the general returned, eleven more soldiers in tow. Each was suited up like Chanse was, carrying supply packs and serviceable blast rifles.

"Here is your team, captain," the general said, indicating the others with a gesture. "I'd introduce you, but frankly I don't think any of you will live long enough to truly get to know each other so it'd be a waste of time." He folded his arms. "For the sake of convenience, mostly mine, you have all been given letters of the alphabet as your designations." He looked at Chance.

"Starting with you, captain. You are 'A'." He then went down the line, giving each man a letter on his armor with a can of spray paint and a stencil set. When he was done, he turned back to a bemused Chanse.

"Together, you and your team comprise Company D."

"D for dangerous?" one of the others asked, eliciting that slight smile from the general.

"D for Dead," he said. Then he was looking at a chronometer strapped to his wrist.

"Saddle up. We go in five. A, B, C and D in the first pod, the next four in the second, and last four in the last." He looked up from the chronometer to frown when he found the team still standing there. "I'm pretty sure being terminally ill didn't make you all deaf. I said saddle up."

"Yes, sir. We just need to know which pods are which," another soldier hesitantly said. His frown deepening, the general pointed to the nearest one.