by Jay Allan
“It’s that or pull back.” Bash didn’t sound like he felt much better about his plan. “But those guns are opposite us…and we can’t stay here and let them blast us to atoms. We’ve got to take them out.”
Slannen just nodded. “Yes, sir.” He turned and raced over toward his troops.
“All company commanders, this is Captain Bash.” Another volley of the enemy weapons crashed along the line, including one uncomfortably close to Bash. He hunched forward, down below the lip of the shallow trench, belatedly taking cover. “We are going to charge that ridgeline and silence those weapons,” he continued a few seconds later. “Whatever it takes.”
He reached around and pulled the assault rifle from his back. “In twenty seconds…”
Bash stared down the weapon, double-checking that he’d put a fresh clip in.
“Ten seconds.”
He took a deep breath. His mind was trying to be rational, logical, calculating the chances of his battalion getting across the open ground and taking out the enemy weapons before they were wiped out…but he stopped himself. The chances were shitty, and he knew it. But retreat wasn’t an option, and standing along the ridge while those deadly arcs of light—he was fairly certain they were some kind of particle accelerators—ripped apart his trenches wasn’t an option either. So whatever chance an attack gave his people…it was better than nothing.
“Battalion…” He screamed into his com unit. “Charge!”
He threw himself over the edge of the trench, what was left of it at least, and he ran across the field.
* * *
“We’re getting reports all along the left flank, General…units under heavy bombardment. Strange weapons, nothing we’ve ever seen before.” A pause. Then: “Sir, Captain Bash ordered an assault along his sector of the line.”
“What?” Lucerne spun around. Eli Bash was one of his most reliable officers, not one he’d expected to run off on some reckless attack without even asking for approval. “Call him back, Captain. Immediately.”
“They’re already there, General. It appears some elements have reached the enemy position. Estimates are in excess of fifty percent casualties in the assault, sir. And the survivors are engaged with the enemy forces right now.”
Lucerne felt his stomach tighten. He could picture the scene. Bash’s battalion was shattered, half its soldiers lying dead or wounded in the field between the ridges. Most of the rest were fleeing back, broken, running for the perceived safety of their own lines. But Bash himself, and a few clusters of veterans would have reached the enemy position. They would have ignored fire, losses, pain. They would have run across the burning sands and scaled the low rocky heights to get to the enemy. And when they finally reached their objective they would fight like hell…but they would be outnumbered, surrounded. Most of them would be killed or captured. A few might escape back the way they had come, pushing with all the strength they had left to get back to their own ridge before the enemy fire resumed and cut them all down.
Lucerne had seen it before, in other battles. But no matter how many times he witnessed the tragedy, it hurt the same every time.
“Sir, Captain Javers and Major Vhasa request permission to advance in support of Bash’s troops.” There was a hint of hope in the aide’s voice. The two officers commanded the units flanking Bash’s battalion. “Shall I advise them they may…”
“No.”
“General, Captain Bash and his…”
“No, Captain. We have no idea what is positioned behind that ridge, no understanding of how many of these weapons they have, or what else they might possess.” Lucerne’s voice was firm, resolute. He understood his aide’s point of view, he even shared it. But he knew better. An attacking force would suffer more troopers lost than Bash had left…and, by the time the relieving force got there, most of Bash’s men would be casualties anyway. Sending more troops would be a ‘feel good’ exercise, but not one that benefitted the army.
Lucerne knew there were times it made sense to ignore the raw mathematics. A dangerous rescue operation, for example. But his left flank was already in trouble…and getting two more battalions shot to pieces would only further jeopardize the army.
And we’re already in plenty of jeopardy.
His mind was working rapidly, and it was coming to a single dark conclusion.
Carteria is making a full scale move on the Northern Continent. There is more at stake than the Badlands, more than defeating Ghana…
That had to be it. There was no one else on Celtiboria with the wealth and offworld connections to secure imperial weapons…and Marshal Carteria was too capable a strategist to carelessly deploy the limited quantity of advanced tech he did have. If he had put his priceless weapons into the field, it was part of something big. Carteria might send Ghana money to manipulate events in the Badlands, but imperial weapons were expensive, even for Celtiboria’s most powerful Warlord. Lucerne knew it could only mean one thing.
He’s planning a move on the Northern Continent. It has to be. Controlling Badlands trade is a valuable prize, but not worth this kind of commitment. It has to be more. And if he can take advantage of the disorder on the continent now, he just might bag the whole thing. And if he does that, nothing will stop him from conquering the entire planet…
His mind reeled. What was Ghana thinking? Lucerne had been Ghana’s enemy for two years now, but he’d always maintained a level of respect for his adversary. How could he have been so foolish to seek Carterian troops, to expose the Northern Continent to domination by an outside power?
We shouldn’t be fighting each other. We should be uniting to drive Carteria’s forces into the sea. But we’re not…and if Carteria’s forces destroy my army there will be no one near the coast to resist them. He’ll have hundreds of thousands of troops here before anyone is ready to fight him.
Suddenly, Lucerne knew what he had to do. He had to keep his army together at all costs…to survive. Somehow.
“Captain, all units are to execute an immediate withdrawal from the combat zone.”
“Sir?” There was shock in the captain’s voice. Lucerne’s army was used to victory…and they had seemed so close to a complete triumph in the Badlands.
“I said we’re retreating, by Chrono. Now!” Lucerne glared at the officer. He didn’t like it any more than his aide. But he knew, deep inside, the game had changed dramatically. He wasn’t trying to win the battle now, nor even to fight for control of the Badlands. No, he realized he was in a different struggle now, one for nothing less than the survival of his army.
* * *
“General, we have reports coming in from all over the field. Lucerne’s forces are retreating, sir. All of them.”
Ghana nodded. “Thank you, Captain.” Then, a moment later. “That will be all.”
Ghana sat at his desk, staring down at his hands as the officer turned and walked out of the room.
The implements of your own destruction, he thought grimly, turning them over and looking at his palms. You brought this about, through your own failings, your foolishness. You could have shared the Badlands with Lucerne, but greed drove you, pride did. You could have negotiated a peace while you still had bargaining power, a disadvantageous one perhaps, but not disastrous. But instead you doubled down for victory…extended a hand to the devil to make it possible…
Ghana knew he was confined to his headquarters. He’d never received any notice of that, of course, nor any explicit order directing him to stay. No, Eleher was too diplomatic for that, far too smooth to allow a scene. The Carterian troops had come bearing the message that they’d been sent to secure his headquarters, to protect him against any breakthrough by Lucerne’s troops. It was like any good lie, just plausible enough to be true. But Ghana knew it wasn’t.
His mind had been wandering as he sat, drifting back to the past. To his family, to those lost long ago…friends, his parents. He thought about his wife, the brilliant marriage that had launched his career, the foundation
upon which he had built his realm. The great General Ghana, who would likely as not have spent his life shucking cane in the sugar fields had he not married a Warlord’s daughter.
Sinase. She’d been so beautiful…with dozens of courtiers seeking her hand. Most of her suitors had far more to offer than Bako Ghana…wealth, lands, rank. But Sinase had been taken with the brash young warrior, and her words had softened her father’s will. He’d resisted the marriage at first, but in the end Sinase wore him down…and she and Bako were married. Thus, a soldier with no coin, no lands, became the heir to a Warlord.
Old Rajdan would have been proud to see how the lands he left me have grown, how his old army was now twentyfold its size at his death.
Ghana sighed softly.
I wonder if he would have approved as well of his daughters life, of his heir’s performance as a husband and not a general.
Ghana could see Sinase’s image in front of him, still beautiful after so many years…as least when he’d last seen her.
When I last saw her. Two years ago? Almost three?
He had married her for gain, to sate his ambition. To claim a beautiful and noble bride, another brick in the wall of power and grandeur he built around him. But he’d come to love her too, after his own fashion and now, sitting in his headquarters, he truly realized what she meant to him. He thought grimly of what would become of her and his children if Carteria succeeded in destroying Lucerne…and then him as well. If the greatest—and most coldly savage—Warlord on the planet marched across the Northern Continent, destroying all in his path.
Sinase will die. My sons will die. And none of them easily.
He felt a wave of sadness, of fear. And then something else. Resolve.
No, I will not allow this to happen.
He knew what he had to do. He felt a pit in his stomach, heard the beat of his heart pounding in his ears. Fear, uncertainty. This would be his greatest test…and he steeled himself to meet it.
He sighed softly. He couldn’t do what he had to alone. He would need help.
He thought for a moment, wishing he knew where Jinn Barkus was…and wondering who he could trust with a mission this important. Finally, he turned and leaned over his com unit, punching in a direct access code.
“Jangus, I need to see you in my quarters. Now.”
* * *
Massen Roan walked silently, the strange Carterian following right behind. Lucerne’s forces were in wholesale retreat all across the line…and the word had come from Eleher. The battle was as good as won. It was time to deal with Ghana.
Roan had been dreading this moment. He’d taken the Carterian coin, sold his allegiance, his pride…but he’d never really considered the true consequences of his actions. He’d agreed to help a stronger power bring the army more victories…and to gain his own advancement in that new order. But he’d never imagined selling the lives of his comrades. Of his friends. Of the general.
It had been Jinn Barkus’ dead eyes staring back at him that had shaken his resolve, made him realize what a fool he’d been. But it was too late…there was no escape for him. He had to see the whole thing through, whatever that meant.
And now he was leading a killer to Bako Ghana, the man to whom he’d sworn allegiance so many years before. Eleher had maintained that Zoln Darvon would merely escort Ghana to a plush exile, but Roan couldn’t fool himself into believing that. Not anymore.
The two men walked into the portable shelter that housed Ghana’s battlefield command post. Roan stared down at the officer at the front station. “I need to see the general at once, Captain,” he said, trying to sound business-as-usual despite the fact that he felt as if he might vomit at any moment.
“I’m sorry, sir. General Ghana said he is not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”
Roan turned back toward Darvon. “Perhaps we should come back…”
His words were clipped off as Darvon leapt forward, jumping behind the desk, and wrapping his arms around the officer’s neck, twisting hard in one quick motion.
Roan stared in shocked, cringing at the sickening sound of the aide’s neck snapping.
“Stay here. I will handle this.” Darvon’s voice was cold, brutal. Roan froze.
This is what you signed up for…this is the cost of your treachery…
He watched as Darvon pulled a pistol from under his jacket and moved toward the door, shoving it open and stepping inside.
Roan retched, feeling the burn on the back of his throat, the foul taste of bile rising up in his throat…
* * *
“We’ve got to find a strong position, someplace we can hold while we figure out exactly what we’re facing.” Augustin Lucerne had never known defeat in battle. Until now. His army was reeling from an enemy that outmatched it in ordnance, one that had struck his own victorious but exhausted troops in the flank with thousands of fresh soldiers.
Blackhawk stood behind Lucerne, looking at the map on the table. He’d burst through the door a few moments earlier, his fatigues soaked through with sweat, his long brown hair a stringy, dripping mess. He’d somehow managed to elude his pursuers and make it back.
“They hit us just in the right place…and their timing was perfect.” Blackhawk took a step forward, turning toward Lucerne. “And those are Mark VI particle accelerators…one generation behind currently-deployed front line imperial support weapons. They pack a hell of a punch, General. You’re going to need a very strong ridgeline if you want effective cover. Those guns will obliterate most of the little rocky spurs that snake their way across this desert.”
Lucerne’s eyes fixed on Blackhawk’s. “You seem to be more familiar with this ordnance than any of my people.” Blackhawk knew Lucerne had questions about his knowledge, about how the visitor knew so much about imperial weaponry. But the general didn’t ask, he respected Blackhawk’s privacy. “We need to come up with our best counter,” he said, “and we need to do it now.” A pause. “Can you offer any advice?”
Blackhawk’s eyes flashed back to the map, though he’d already memorized the terrain. There was a ridgeline that looked like a promising position, but it was at least two day’s march to the rear, and he just wasn’t sure Lucerne’s people could get there before the enemy caught up with them…and cut them to ribbons in the open ground.
“Make for here.” Blackhawk pointed to the ridge.
“What about the fortress?” Lucerne looked down at the small star representing the castle he’d procured as his main headquarters.
“Abandon it.” Blackhawk knew his advice would be difficult for Lucerne to follow. But he also knew what the general was facing. “Those Mark VIs will tear the fortress to rubble in half a day, General. And there’s no solid cover near there…” Blackhawk almost stopped, but then he continued, “You can’t let yourself get caught in the open. Your army will be wiped out before it can get to another position it can hold.”
Lucerne was still staring at the map, but his head began moving slowly, nodding. Finally, he said, “You’re right, Blackhawk. We’ll make for the ridge.” He turned toward the small cluster of aides who had been watching the exchange. “All units are to retreat to this location.” He pointed down at the map. “Forced march, no stopping. And send orders to the fortress…the garrison is to abandon it immediately and link up with the main army.”
He took a deep breath. “We need to get there in thirty hours, to concentrate all our forces on that ridge.” He glanced at Blackhawk and then back to the map, muttering to himself, “Or we’ll never get there at all…”
* * *
“It is time Bako Ghana.”
Ghana looked up from his desk toward the man who had just walked into his office. He was dark, clad in a deep charcoal gray, in sharp contrast to the light desert gear soldiers typically wore in the Badlands. And he held a pistol, calmly, expertly, as thought it was part of his hand. Ghana knew immediately. An assassin.
It wasn’t his own death he feared, at least not mostly. He’d
known Carteria would send his killers, but he’d hoped to have more time. Time to complete his plan. But he was too late. He felt a wave of despair, of hopelessness. All was lost. The army would fall to Carteria…his lands too. And Sinase…his sons…
He sat opposite from Jangus Sand. He could see his officer’s eyes, glancing off to the side, to the hook on the wall where he’d hung his own weapon. Ghana knew Sand was considering a leap for his pistol…but he also knew the officer didn’t have a chance.
Ghana could see the assassin’s weapon, pointed right at him. There would be no ceremony with this man. Bako Ghana knew his life was over. He swallowed hard, painfully, struggling to maintain his calm, to die with dignity as least. With defiance.
Then he heard the shot, a single crack, loud, echoing through the room. There was blood on his desk…but he was still sitting there, unharmed. Then he heard the crash, looked forward as the assassin fell to the ground. Massen Roan was standing in the doorway, his own pistol in his hand.
Roan’s face was a mask of shock of fear. He dropped the pistol and walked into the room, falling to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “I am so sorry, my General,” he said miserably. “I was weak, driven by greed, by ambition. I allowed myself to be fooled, to believe you would be retired, not murdered.” He paused, sucking in a deep breath through the tears. “Jinn Barkus…he is dead. We killed him.” He fell to the floor in a broken heap, sobbing piteously.
