The Thorne Legacy

This is an excerpt from J. D. Brink’s novelette The Thorne Legacy, a Writers of the Future contest finalist. 

chapter three

Giger’s Eye burned.  Corporal Cranston Thorne could see the light of the plasma fire like a rogue star, even through the haze that filled the sky.  The space station was burning in orbit. 

He was inside a toppled armored personnel carrier, standing on the passenger side door—which in this position was the floor—and leaning against the steering wheel.  He could see the hazy sky through the armored shutters of the driver’s side window above him.  The sun was still low, not yet noon, and its light was discolored a moody red.  Thorne would probably have been on his way to the brig by now, beginning a sentence of months, maybe even years.  Instead, Hell itself had broken loose across IthacaIsland.  Now he wondered if he’d still be alive in a few hours.

“Are the screens working up there?” a young voice asked.

“No,” Thorne replied. 

What is that crap in the sky? he wondered.  He’d still been passed out on the couch this morning when the first sonic boom shook him into consciousness.  By the time he’d gone to the window there’d been second one, and two filthy brown clouds were growing across the early morning blue.  Now they were no longer two separate clouds but one continuous blanket of particles that floated between the surface and the sky.  He wondered if it’d smother them.

One of the boys coughed.  Private Knightlinger stuck his head into the APC’s cab, his freckled face redder than it was only ten minutes ago.  “What do you think, sir?”

“I told you not to call me ‘sir,’” Thorne said, easing back onto his haunches.  “And I think we can’t stay here too long.  I don’t like being in the middle of the street like this, even if it is quiet out there.”

“Well then help me get this photon battery unhooked, Kip.”  Private Malcolm was out of sight in the troop compartment.  Private Knightlinger went back to help him. 

The pair had been on duty guarding the corporal’s door when it all started, charged with making sure he stayed put before his trial.  Then the space station exploded and the sky was seeded with filth.  When the spider craft landed and gave birth to a horde of monsters everything mundane was forgotten, along with two green privates and one insubordinate corporal.  Thorne had taken command of the fresh young soldiers, who had rightly been too afraid to shit their pants without direct orders, and Thorne quickly came to think of them as the little angel and devil that sat on his shoulders.  Knightlinger was the voice of the angel, wanting to rush out and help the first unit of troops they came across.  Malcolm was the devil sitting opposite, arguing against any heroics.  And Thorne had always listened to his own little devil’s advice. 

They’d gone to the roof to assess the situation and from there had watched the enormous spider-like dropship knocking aircraft from the sky and setting most of the base to blazing before touching down.  The huge mother arachnid then opened her belly and gave birth to a swarm of monsters.  The trio had watched from the safety of the roof as giant crab-like invaders tore the Guard to pieces; they had watched and done nothing.

Thorne ducked through the port back into the troop hold.  The privates were struggling with the bolts that held the laser turret to the top of the APC.  “Forget it,” he told them.  “It’d take both of you to carry it and you’d get killed before you could steady it enough to fire.”  

The boys stopped and stared at him.  You’d get killed...  The fear of death was plain on their faces.  They were both only eighteen, probably never left the comfort of their mother’s tit before heading off to boot camp.  They were just kids.