Short Fiction: Blackened Skies

A Septilicult Short Story
Blackened Skies

By Alex Serea

Lightning streaked across the blackened skies, occasionally smashing against the ground - gathering dust along the way. A young soldier on the battlefield who had been huddling under a makeshift bunker had opened his hatchet, taking a peek at the phenomenon.

His curiosity served to be his downfall. A bolt of lightning made contact with the dusty ground and kicked up a ton of dust. Additional bolts travelled toward the small dust cloud, growing from it, until it smacked the soldier in his face.

The electromagnetic pulse ruined his armor's tech, frying its circuits. It soon overheated, causing a fuel cell to explode and kill him.

"Arbit, cover that hole!"

Upon hearing their commanding officer's orders, several other soldiers in similar armor configuration sprang to action. They quickly moved to cover the massive crack in the bunker wall, spraying it with quick-cement and covering it with a plastic-polymer tarp. Not the strongest materials in the galaxy, but sufficient to ride out a plasma storm.

This had been going on for a while... Plasma storms were becoming increasingly common, and it was nigh impossible to even get out of their bunkers, let alone do battle with their hated foes.

Decades of widespread ionic discharges had broken the atmospheric balance of Shebelon - their home. The constant orbital bombardments by spaceships wielding powerful lasers were merciless, opening entire sections of the planet to lethal radiation and causing abnormal weather phenomena, like this storm.

"Any updates from command? A signal of some kind?"

"Negative, the storm won't let nothing through."

"Drat." These storms also had the unique side effect of interfering with electronics, completely shutting off all radio transmissions between ground forces and their remote command centers.

"Did anyone manage to find Kren's body?" It was one of the reasons why that young soldier had opened the bunker hatch. Neither comms nor early warning systems were functional anymore. Surface cameras had been fried and even their emergency periscopes had been damaged by the electro-dust bowls.

"Here, sir." It just so happened that Kren had drawn the short straw. It was his turn.

"My God..."

His body was less so a body and more like a charred pulp. His face was barely recognizable, having been burnt black where skin had been cooked to soot. Unfortunately, that was the most intact piece of him... His lower body had been separated from him and his torso vaporized by the blast.

One of the men vomited at the sight of his scorched comrade's corpse. Another proceeded to pray. Nior just stared. Kren.

There was a deathly silence afterwards, the men waiting for Nior to give the order to bury Kren's body, or something.

"Sir," Yune, who just finished praying, spoke up. "I was closest to Kren. I can promise you that he wanted his ashes stored for his family's keeping." He brought out a ceramic jar, an oddity among the modern polymer plastic walls and cement. "Please."

Kren. He was young, younger than everyone here. He had been the sole survivor of his patrol squad. Like him, they had been burned by the storm, but he managed to find cover. Once the storm let up, he had trekked all the way to Nior's platoon’s bunker.

Nior let him in, putting a request to command that his platoon be allowed to keep Kren for future offensive pushes. They never got into any offensive pushes. The storm returned... and after months, it finally got Kren.

Sole survivor of his patrol. Kren.

"Yes, of course... Someone see to his last wishes."

This was not the first time Nior had lost men. In fact, it was his thirteenth time. He should be used to this, the loss, the death, the suddenness and the shock. But for some reason, this one felt fresh, a new experience for him.

Kren. Likely because he did not know Kren at all. All twelve others were close to him. He mourned their deaths and promised to remember and honor them.

Kren was different. He knew next to nothing about him.

Kren. And he was terrified that he was going to forget him. That his story would die, unnoticed, buried under the storm.

Kren. A fate worse than death... A fate Kren's comrades shared, now that he was no longer there to remember them.

Kren.