“Something else wrong ma’am?” Zoro asked.
“The Tiger,” Bartonova said, tears in her eyes. “We left behind the Tiger, now they’ll be able to look under the hood.” As they cleared the edge of the city. Bartonova rested her head on the nearest panel and closed her eyes.
22
I have to be dreaming. This is all some absurd dream. Mo ran down a long hall parallel to a large hanger area. He was one of a growing rag-tag group of people, including, but not limited to: An enemy executive officer, a psychic teenager who couldn’t walk, a First Nation hostage, the base security, as well as his own drop platoon and panzerter platoon. This is surreal.
Then a massive white-gray fist crashed through the hallway behind them, easily crushing steel and concrete along with a few unlucky guards and drop troopers. Oh yeah, those are a thing.
“Hurry,” Guard-Major Irving cried. “Through the next door!”
“No shit!” Holtslander replied, wheezing as he carried Hans on his back. A guard up ahead was already feeling off the adjoining hanger area, so the panzerter couldn’t pursue. Temporarily, of course. They streamed out of the next door and crossed multiple cat walks to get to an observation deck at the top of the next hanger area.
“Why the hell are there so many areas they can fit in?” One of the guards asked. “Who the hell builds a place like this?” Wesser held up a finger as she caught her breath.
“It was in case you assholes nuked us or dropped a colony on us,” she finally said. “They wanted to store panzerters here as hidden reserves. Of course, your mad scientist had to make those things!” Something massive began hankering on the blast doors to the current hanger area.
“That won’t hold forever,” Webb said, suddenly serious. He looked at Irving. “Did you manage to get a message out to your people?”
She nodded. “Comrade Kennedy should arrive here with the rest of battalion,” she said. Mo rolled his eyes.
“Great, that guy,” he said. “I guess I’m dead, anyway.”
Wesser shook her head. “I’m sure regiment heard us. Captain Reiter should be here with whatever they have to rescue us,” she said. Winona held up her hands.
“Wait, a second. You guys are at war with each other. You both called your people, and told them to come here?” she asked. “We’re doomed.”
“Ok,” Holtslander said. “So our worst-case scenario is both groups show up, shoot each other, no one gets rescued, and in fact they break down this door, and kill all of us, because that damn Doctor set them to rampage.” He looked around the room and held up a hand. “Worst case.”
“Or one group gets here first, recovers us, and hopefully isn’t dismantled by whatever the hell those are,” Rosetti said. Winona stood a little closer to the young pilot, likely due to being the closest to her own age.
“What are those?” Wesser asked. “They move like animals, and aren’t affected by motion sickness at all.” She looked directly at Irving. “There aren’t people in those, are there?”
Irving shook her head. “No, they’re…” She shook her head. “It’s horrible.” With a deep breath, she took a seat in one of the chairs. “I assume you lot are at least somewhat familiar with tubers?”
She received a mix of answers. Mostly yes, with Rosetti incredulously asking if they were real and Winona saying, “No.” Irving sighed.
“So just so we’re all clear,” she said. “Tubers are artificially created people. They are drawn up from a series of genetic templates from a greater pool, and grown to the infant stage from stem cells.”
“So you just grow people?” Winona asked, but Holtslander held up a hand to silence her.
“That much we knew,” Webb said. “We’re also aware that your ‘fair and equal’ society doesn’t always treat them as such.” Irving nodded.
“Ultimately they can only gain autonomy if they serve a certain time in the MAGs,” she said. “But every battle costs us veteran pilots, so Doctor Weathers decided he’d skirt some legal lines.” The pounding on the blast doors intensified.
“What did he do?” Mo finally asked. Irving sighed again, a look of disgust creeping over her frail features.
“He argued they effectively give up their autonomy by dying,” she said. “And their organs go into the donor pool anyway, so he held onto their brains, and-“
“I see where this is going,” Webb said, stepping closer to the MAG officer. “And that is some fucked up shit!”
“Hey, if it weren’t for us, they wouldn’t exist,” one of the guards cried.
“For what?” Mo said, his blood boiling. Imagining a cruel fate as that befalling a man as kind as Ballard or as fair as Fletcher infuriated him. “So you can put their brain in a jar and force them to fight forever?” He pointed at Hans. “Not to mention whatever you were doing to the kid!”
Before any of the unis present could protest, the banging on the door changed pitch. The metal began to dent and give. As they looked on, Webb grabbed him and Wesser.
“Forget all that for a second,” he said over the noise. “We all need to put our heads together right the fuck now, because our time is running out.”
Chaney sipped on his eighth cup of coffee, this one whiskey free. Notes surrounded him as he worked on one of the few clean computers in the country. Whatever the Tharcians had done, it seemed to have repercussions throughout Union society.
Armed with combat data from Avalonian, Vinnish, Tharcian, Olympian, and Union panzerters, he worked tirelessly on the next generation of Union panzerters, as well as a number of Modernization and refit packages for their current lines. He checked his notes and returned to his work.
First in need of some help: the humble Terran III. Chaney envisaged a total overhaul of all its software to at least Martian standard. A governor slapped onto the new engine allowed the modern Terran to use laser weapons in a limited capacity, although the main benefit was use of newer kinetic weapons and the head being replaced by one modeled after the Jupiter. Not much could be done for protection, however, so he just slapped a coat of new reactive armor tiles on the torso and upper limbs. It’ll be enough for the orbital auxiliaries, anyway.
Then came the Martian and Martian Troopers. Most of them would be gradually converted to support roles such as the new Martian Sniper. He had other units planned: a recon type, an air defense type, and an electronic warfare platform. Eventually the Martians would be converted as well, but first he had to introduce the newest front-line panzerter.
Utilizing a new composite armor, The Martian II would boast superior protection to any Union panzerter. It would utilize a semi-automatic Impulse rifle as well as magnetic weapons based on the current machine gun, sub-machine gun, and shotgun. An impulse sword would round out the new Martians armaments, while all new sensors and electronics would ensure the use of networked systems to a degree never before seen in an army on Mars. Truly, a cutting edge machine. But not enough for the first minister.
So he’d developed plans for a successor to the Jupiter as well. The current models would be converted to heavy fire support platforms, multiple launch rockets, railgun artillery, even a few cruise missile carriers and mortar launchers. The Jupiter’s impressive frame allowed for the inclusion of such heavy systems, especially when its engine was upgraded with technologies from the Phobian and the Martian Sniper.
This paved the way for its successor. A “shock” panzerter that could break lines and take on any panzerter it encountered. Using data from the Olympian Centurion, the Tharcian Lowe, and the Avalonian Galahad, he’d come up with the “breakthrough” panzerter the minster and Guards-Marshall Ballard desired. Even Masterson expressed interest in adapting the design he currently tinkered with for space.
The Sensor ring was partially concealed by an armored visor. Layers and layers of composite and reactive tiles gave the impression of a man wearing an ancient suit of armor accented by a spiked antenna on the head.
The only thing he struggled with was the load out. He was
running sims with a new set of armaments when someone knocked at his door. Sighing, he rose from his chair, his hands shaking from caffeine and hunger.
“Enter,” he said. A young engineer manning the front desk over the weekend entered his room. He saluted before nervously looking at Chaney.
“Comrade Brigadier, I have some bad news regarding Doctor Weathers’ facility,” he said. “The Doctor is uploading all of his research to back up as we speak, we’ll be able to pull it if necessary.”
Chaney moaned. “If he’s uploading raw data, it’s as good as useless,” he said. “What’s the damage?” The young man shifted uncomfortably and began talking with his hands.
“Well, the research is all being uploaded in document form,” he said. “It’s safe from the virus, we’re just making sure we get all the files, which is a pain. The issue is Doctor Weathers doesn’t believe he can be recovered.”
“That bad?” Chaney asked. The engineer nodded.
“His facility has been irreversibly compromised,” he said. “And he’s set panzerters to actively destroy it.” Chaney raised an eyebrow.
“Panzerters?” he asked. “His main task was the super crops, as well as assisting with the mapping of the added Olympian genome.” He slammed his fists into his desks. “He worked on the pilot recycling program, didn’t he?”
The engineer flashed a disgusted look, but regained his composure. “That’s a sanitized way to frame what he was doing,” he said. “But yes he-” Chaney hurled his heap mug across his office. The shattering ceramic scuffed the wooden paneling of his office. He cast a longing look at his liquor cabinet. Maybe just one.
“I’m going to need a line to the Presidential Guard,” Starnes said. “She can’t give her speech today, not with the threat of assassins.” All the non-security personal stationed at the Citadel had been barred from leaving pending the massive audit currently underway. Starnes ran frantically around making calls and trying to establish some traffic controls into and out of the city.
Jon found him on the fourth floor of the main atrium, on the phone with Markos about the President and the nature of the signal. “You need to sit down,” the older man said.
“I have work to do,” Starnes said, hanging up on Markos and hoping his message would be relayed. “There’s too much for me to simply sit down.”
“But you need to,” Jon said. “You need control of yourself before you can control the situation.” Starnes sighed and laid his head in his hands.
“We’ve got a shattered panzerter regiment coming back from the front,” he said. “The chaos of their arrival combined with the President’s Federation day address will make actually finding the physical union agent next to impossible.” He sighed. “I just don’t think he can be found now.”
The other intelligence agent took a seat next to him and folded his hands. “That man constantly moves,” he said. “I actually doubt he received the signal. It was more likely he had some contact in place to receive the signal.”
“So who would that leave,” Starnes said. “We don’t have anything concrete and we’ve eliminated most of the surface level big suspects.” Jon patted his back.
“Then we need to think of what’s best for them,” he said. “What would we do to hurt Tharsis, long term?” Starnes mulled over the question and already hated the results. Because of Haussner’s policies, operations and plans had diminished roles in the day-to-day operation of front-line units. They could set front level objectives in conjunction with the Marshall, but do little else other than influence doctrine. Doctrine, which certain commanders felt optional at times.
On the other end of the spectrum, the logistics, as well as finance and contracting departments, held far more weight over the long run in terms of their impact. Armies marched on their stomach, and without beans, bullets, and boots, quickly became ineffective. And if they didn’t get paid on time, or at all, they might as well have been starved.
But then he stopped as an idea spread its wings across the gulf of his mind. “Wouldn’t the finance office have access to troop numbers and movements?” he asked. Jon nodded.
“I believe so. Got to know where people are to pay them,” he said.
“And wouldn’t the finance and contracting office have access to technical data?” Starnes asked.
“In a limited sense, I believe so,” Jon replied. “I believe we have our new number one suspect.” Starnes nodded and stood.
“I need to speak with General Tamm immediately,” he said. “I believe their department has been compromised even if they’re not the traitor.” As they walked down the hall, Starnes’s phone rang again. Hoping for Markos, he instead found a number he didn’t recognize. “Hello?” He cautiously answered.
“Oh, good, I got ahold of you Major Starnes,” Rebekah Reinhardt said. “Sissy wants to know why you recommended canceling her address.” Starnes looked about before cupping his hand over the phone as he spoke.
“We needn’t cause a panic,” he said. “But I believe your sister is at risk. There are potential assassins out there and we’re trying to find out who, where, and why.” The other end of the line went quiet for a moment. Starnes heard voices, but couldn’t make out who they were or what they were saying. How’d she get my number any way?
“Why do you think she’s at risk?” She asked when he came back. “Her security detail is top notch.”
“Because the man who’d be after her managed to walk into the basement of the citadel and sabotage the Marshall’s regeneration treatment,” Starnes hissed. “And how did you get my number in the first place?”
“Oh dear, that’s a pretty good reason I don’t think sissy knew that yet,” she said. “And as for oh, one moment.” Rebekah left the phone again, and Starnes held his breath. He was ready to double down on his question when a voice that certainly didn’t belong to Rebekah came back.
“Why wasn’t I updated as to the Marshall’s status?” President Reinhardt said. “And more importantly, why hasn’t his assassin been caught?”
23
“I can’t believe this, ” Bartonova said. She sat in the open back of an old command truck with one of the infantry squad leaders. The driver and passenger seat sat empty as the angular low vehicle rested all splayed out for use as a mobile mission control. In modern combat, a panzerter company would have been run from her cockpit, but as things were, she didn’t have a command unit ready at the moment. “We’re barely platoon strength, and our machines are still in rough shape. Why the hell would they put us on a security detail for the president.” Her “company” sat in a loosely circular formation in a plaza just north of the main street. Only a few blocks away, the president planned to address the nation.
For the most part, the sergeant running the mobile mission control had been patient. Now, however, he turned to her and lowered his headset.
“With all due respect, ma’am, could you please stop whining?” he asked. He looked back at the monsters. “I get it, our gear looks like shit for Federation day, but rumor on the net is they’re extra worried about assassins right now, so we’re out here as a deterrent as much as anything else.” He keyed up his mic. “Which reminds me, look casual ladies, we’re here on business, but try not to freak anybody out.”
“How am I supposed to look casual in a panzerter?” Zoro asked, while Fletcher gave a far more professional reply.
“Roger that,” she said. Bartonova leaned back in her seat, missing the compact space of the Tiger. If it’d been kitted out for parade duty, it’d look damn impressive. She imagined the hulking machine in a National Black, Blue, and White color scheme, bearing a massive flag in its right hand at the head of a formation of smaller machines.
She sighed. Even if the Tiger were here, she didn’t have a great skill set for this kind of duty. She’d always excelled at killing simulated panzerters or fighting in pitched battles, but security duty had its own very specific skills. Skills she sorely lacked in favor of the more romanticized elements of he
r role.
Then an idea occurred to her. She didn’t need the skills to locate a Union agent in the crowd. She had a Union native with her. “Fletcher,” she said. “What might make a Union soldier or agent uncomfortable here, where would the cultures clash?”
The former soldier remained silent for a moment before replying. “If they’re women, they won’t wear jewelry. Men are unlikely to be wearing watches or even a suit,” she said. “Jewelry, especially made of gold or silver, is considered a symbol of the elites, wealthy people, and it’s taboo to show off accumulated wealth, they’ll dress like the working class or at least what they believe your working class looks like.”
“On a day like today, everyone’s rocking jewelry, or at least their best clothes,” Zorro replied. “My mom was a teacher and my dad’s a mechanic, not exactly upper class, but they have things for special occasions like this.” Zorro’s machine whirred as it looked around. “That being said, the Average Tharcian is hosting or going to a cookout right now. Most people who care probably have it on their TV.”
Bartonova held her head in her hands. “If we’re talking a Union secret agent, they probably have the emotional maturity to hold their nose and wear more expensive clothes or accessories, but they may not look completely at home here.”
“Maybe not,” Fletcher said. “It depends on how long they’ve been here, I’ve only been here for half a year, but I’m reasonably comfortable around Tharcians, if they’ve been here for longer, its not unreasonable that they’d blend right in.” Bartonova sighed and leaned back.
“Anything else to add?” she asked. To her surprise, Fletcher laughed.
“No ma’am, I don’t have in-depth knowledge of Union spy networks,” she said. “If you recall, I was bred specifically to do what I’m doing right now.” Her machine whirred outside as she looked around.
Enemy Front Page 21
