Chapter 119 – Crashing, Mark 2B

Amelia’s world exploded into chaos. A thunderous boom rocked the shuttle, throwing her against her harness. Her hands flew across the controls, fighting to stabilize their descent.

“What the hell was that?” she shouted, eyes darting between readouts.

The shuttle spun wildly, desert and sky blurring together on the viewscreen. Her stomach lurched as she wrestled with the controls, muscles straining against the g-forces. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she forced the craft level, their angle of attack now barely within survivable limits.

The shuttle’s glide body held, but just barely. Amelia’s heart pounded as she realized how close they’d come to disintegrating. The control thrusters sputtered, nearly spent from the frantic descent.

Green IFF markers multiplied across the cockpit display, a sea of friendlies spreading out below.

Maybe friendlies.

It didn’t seem like they were shooting at her, at least. Amelia’s eyes widened as she realized their trajectory.

“Too close,” she muttered, tension coiling in her gut.

A warning ping cut through the cockpit’s blaring alarms. Amelia’s gaze snapped to the alert, her breath catching as she saw the shimmer of a shield dome ahead.

“Fuck!” The expletive tore from her throat as she yanked back on the controls.

Their remaining fuel ignited in a desperate burst, lifting their nose just enough to clear the barrier. The momentary relief vanished as their new angle stole their lift and sent them plummeting.

She wrestled with the controls, trying to level out, but the vertical velocity was too high to return to the glide. Sand dunes loomed large in the viewscreen.

Amelia thumbed the comms. “Hard impact! Hard impact!”

The world tilted sickeningly as they slammed into the first dune. The viewscreen went dead, but she could feel they had cut through the dune somehow.

It wasn’t over though, gravity would have its due. She gritted her teeth, bracing for a second impact.

It came with bone-jarring force as the dropship landed belly first. The shuttle’s frame groaned in protest as they skidded upwards on the sand to a final halt.

For a moment, all Amelia could hear was the ringing in her ears and her own ragged breathing. Then, slowly, the sounds of the shuttle filtered back in—creaking metal, sparking electronics, and shouting from her passengers.

Amelia blinked, her vision swimming as she tried to focus. The cockpit’s interior was a mess of twisted metal and dangling wires. Screens were buzzing with static. Sparks rained down, sizzling against her suit. Her fingers fumbled with the harness clasp.

“Lieutenant, you alright?” Rabbit’s voice cut through the haze.

She turned, squinting at him. “You were awfully quiet during that drop, Corporal.”

He chuckled weakly. “Seemed like a bad time to distract you, ma’am.”

Amelia swallowed, her throat dry. A quick glance at her wrist display showed a suit breach. She looked down, noting a minor cut. Nothing major, but potentially deadly on an unknown world.

Reaching under her seat, she retrieved the medkit with shaky hands. The sealant patch hissed as she applied it, locking away both blood and air.

Kowalski stood first, heading aft. Amelia followed, legs unsteady. The passenger compartment was a scene of controlled chaos. Marines in various states of disarray worked to regroup.

A few lay motionless in their skinsuits, bloodied but breathing. Medics tended to them.

A hard-suited marine approached. His tag read “Griff.”

“Sergeant,” Rabbit greeted. The man grunted and nodded to the Corporal then turned to her.

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“Lieutenant, what’s our situation?” he asked.

Amelia surveyed the wreckage. “Crashed, but we’re alive. Bird’s grounded until a refit. We passed a settlement about two klicks back, broadcasting UFE IFF.”

Sergeant Griff grunted. “Bubble dome, so it’s militarized. At least they aren’t shooting at us.”

A scream pierced the air, followed almost immediately by another. The three of them turned to see two of the injured marines convulsing violently.

There was nothing anyone could do as the two marines convulsed, their bodies jerking violently before going still.

Dead in minutes on exposure.

Her stomach clenched as she glanced at her patched wrist. Had she been quick enough? The atmosphere wasn’t just potentially dangerous—it was lethal.

“Fuck,” she muttered, surveying the scene.

Over half the squad wore soft suits. The mood darkened as the grim reality sank in. Sergeant Griff moved to take charge, his voice cutting through the tension as he organized the marines into fireteams.

He turned to Amelia. “You’re the only officer, but you’re not a marine. You’ve done good getting us down, but your role is advisory now.”

Amelia stared at him flatly. “I’m well aware of how the chain of command works on groundside missions, Sergeant.”

Griff nodded. “Good. Some flyboys think that badge qualifies them for more than flying. It doesn’t.”

He looked to Kowalski. “Start cracking the signal. We need to know what we’re dealing with before we get there.”

“Yes, Sir,” Rabbit replied, pulling out a large sensor and data pad from a pack.

Amelia blinked in surprise. What the hell, he was a techie? Special recon, her ass. Then again, maybe there was overlap.

The marines forced open the rear of the shuttle, its hydraulics slagged from the outside. Bright sun, heat shimmer, and sand greeted them.

Amelia squinted against the glare, her mind racing. They were stranded on a hostile world with limited supplies and even more limited information. She’d gotten them down alive, but now what?

A whole fucking destroyer had just been slagged without so much as a warning.

Amelia watched as Griff directed another marine towards her and Rabbit. She raised an eyebrow.

The woman approached, her stance professional yet approachable. “Hello LT, I’m Corporal Torres, medic. Show me your arm?”

Amelia winced, extending her patched forearm. Torres examined it closely, her eyes narrowing.

“Get that on fast?” Torres asked, her tone neutral.

“Soon as we stopped crashing,” Amelia replied, a hint of dark humor in her voice. “Hopefully fast enough.”

Torres nodded, pulling out a wrap of cling and more sealant. “Let me work on it a bit.”

As Torres applied a generous amount of sealant and wrapped the cling around it, forming a makeshift plaster.

Amelia frowned. “Annoying.”

“Yeah, but it’s better than a breach,” Torres replied matter-of-factly.

Amelia nodded in agreement, flexing her fingers to test the range of motion. Not that bad. The seal was flexible enough. Hopefully, nothing could permeate through it.

Beside them, Rabbit cursed, sliding his tech pad closed with a frustrated snap. Both women turned to look at him.

“Problem?” Amelia asked, her brow furrowing.

Rabbit’s jaw clenched. “Signal is there, but it’s locked tight by some AI that does not like answering questions. Won’t even give an ident.”

They made their way to Sergeant Griff, Rabbit reporting his findings. The fire teams had already pushed forward, covering the horizon around the crash site.

As they crested the first dune, Amelia turned back, her eyes widening at the sight of her dropship. The vehicle was burnt to a crisp, one wing stub missing entirely. A trail of metal debris led up to the rear hatch.

How the fuck had she managed that? Her earlier assessment of ‘needing a refit’ seemed laughably optimistic now. The ship was beyond salvage, easier to build a new one from scratch.

A pang of sadness hit her as she remembered the countless hours spent maintaining the craft. But as quickly as it came, the feeling melted away. The shuttle had done its job, seeing them safely to the ground against impossible odds.

Amelia gave the wreckage a small salute. Now, their focus had to be on survival. Because they had never had time to be given an actual mission to accomplish.

Or had they?

She glanced at Griff, wondering what their next move would be.