Nebulae and Cosmic Filaments - A Second Anthology of SF SD Shorts

The Shifter War

A/N: SFSD 7, Final Round, military sf/sf-fantasy fusion round, using pictures 7, 12, 11, 10, 5, and 4, quotes in bold.

Captain Benton glanced at the chrono built into his heads up display.

"Five minutes to drop, ladies, so look alive," he growled into his helmet mike.  And he watched as several battle-suited figures in the dancing lights of the drop ship's passenger deck began to move with purpose.

It was the dawn of the Third Counteroffensive, an attempt to stem the flood of transdimensional invaders pouring through one of a dozen fissures in space-time.  Benton grimaced as he thought about it.  Maybe they'd get lucky this time.  Maybe they'd actually win a battle or two.

Without warning there was a hard jolt and the lights flickered and went out before distant sirens could be heard.  Benton grimaced in the dark.  Then again, maybe they wouldn't even get the chance to fight.

"Go to suit power," he tautly ordered.  "You are authorized to go weapons hot and free.  Stand by to engage hostiles."  The darkness was quickly broken by ready lights dancing over his soldiers' armor as they powered up, their weapons coming alive with energy.

"Sound off, ladies.  I want to know that you're awake and functional, despite having hangovers and shit."

A chorus of mutters came over his com system and his grimace became a frown of displeasure.

"Not awake, I see.  Sarge, if you'll do the honors?"

One of the armored figures standing close by, straightened slightly.

"You heard the captain, girls.  Sound off!" the sergeant, a crusty twenty year vet in the corps, barked over the com system.

"We did, sarge," one of the soldiers muttered.

"Bullshit," the sergeant instantly replied.  "I can't hear you.  Sound off like you got a pair!"

Before the soldiers could comply, another hard jolt rocked the drop ship.  It was quickly followed by the sound of shredding metal.

"Pilot!" Benton snarled over the com to the cockpit.  "Get us the hell out of here!"

"Trying to, sir," the pilot quickly replied.  "But the launch mechanism is jammed.  Without power, it's not responding to the remote trigger."

"Then blow the bay door hinges, man!  We're about to receive heavy enemy fire and I do not want to be trapped inside a tin can and roasted alive without being able to do anything about."

"No can do, sir.  Not without sending somebody outside," was the pilot's terse response.

Benton's expression tightened.  But before he could order the pilot to send his co-pilot out, one of his soldiers spoke up.

"I should be able to unlock the doors from here, sir," a quiet woman's voice confidently stated.

Benton quickly looked at the woman, standing at the far end of the line of soldiers.

"Are we that close to a fissure that you feel your powers coming online?" he asked and she quickly nodded.

"Enough that I can use a spell to open the door, at least," she amended after a slight hesitation.

"Good enough for me.  Fire it up, deSilva."

The woman quickly nodded and, after securing her weapon, spread her hands and began to chant in a low, sing-song voice.  Benton couldn't quite make out the words, which sounded rhythmic and repetitive.  Just as well; it was a common notion that hearing a magic user casting a spell in the powerful spell-casting language they had was to invite madness.