Slate

Disaster.

In the burning shame of retreat, Slate could only reflect on the ruinous hours prior.

He had watched from the navigation bay window as the transport craft had traversed the short distance between The Sentinel and the abandoned planet. The small ship housed a top-tier squadron, led by Slate’s second-in-command: Ellie. Capable, confident, concise. All he could hope for as a leader of his troops in this mission.

And now, from the little he had heard so far, he was to understand that every human that had been a part of that troupe was dead.

The stranded soldiers they had been ordered to rescue had been dead upon arrival. Slate was already certain they weren’t the ones who had even sent the distress signal. He would not be surprised if they had been killed before they could even reach into their packs. Of course, he would need a full report from any survivors before he could put his conclusions into an official document to send to the Alliance. For now, all he had was the little audio he had received before the chaos began.

The communication system was linked between himself and Ellie, but he could only hear when she chose to send a message to him and vice versa. It was old but reliable technology. Which Slate appreciated. Until now.

Upon arrival on the planet’s surface, Ellie had given him a report of a safe landing and status of the terrain and atmosphere. They had located the bodies of the Ailu’t officers beside the device they had used to send the distress signal to the Ailu’t Alliance. Ellie had been in the process of commenting that it was strange for these soldiers to have sent their distress signal to the Alliance, rather than their own base, when gunshots and yelling overtook the transmission. The message cut suddenly and Slate all but leapt over his desk to order a support ship of reinforcements.

They were not fast enough. Slate knew now that his officers had become complacent; they were not prepared for emergency deployment.

By the time the second ship reached the planet’s surface, the attackers had slipped into a series of tunnels that swirled deep under the ground. The support troupe let them escape as they chose to prioritise the wounded soldiers and getting them back to The Sentinel.

Of course, the wounded were top priority to Slate as well. If he had been there, though, he would have split the group. Half to retrieve the wounded and half to give chase. They couldn’t know how many more criminals could be lurking in the tunnels, or how well armed they were. But Slate would have at least attempted some reconnaissance.

All of the staff assigned to the medical unit from assistants to surgeons had been working tirelessly on the soldiers brought back. Many were still being operated on, their lives balanced on the edge of a scalpel.

Shot. Stabbed. Scalded. Even from the little information that had reached him he was fully aware that those that survived would need long-term rehabilitation and intensive care.

He felt useless. Sat in his office, waiting to write a report. While the doctors and nurses on the level below were fighting for his officer’s lives.

The Sentinel had pulled back, giving the dusty planet a wide berth, but not leaving completely. Slate had unfinished business with the cretins inside. He had missiles aimed, ship artillery locked onto target, all healthy officers briefed and prepared for battle should the attackers attempt to chase them out. Now, all he could do was wait.

Since they had retreated, he needed any information the survivors could give him before he could launch his own attack. With Alliance permission, of course. He would need to write a report for that, too.