Portal Wars 1: Gehenna Dawn

by Jay Allan

  Taylor’s background couldn’t have been more different than Blackie’s. He was from New Hampshire, a small farming town no one had ever heard of. Compared to most of the guys, he’d had it good. Better, certainly than the city rats from the squalid urban freezones...guys like Blackie. The suburbs were pretty bad too, except for the gated sanctuaries…and you had to know somebody to get into one of those. And none of the grunts on Erastus had ever “known” anyone.

  The farms, on the other hand, were pretty much left alone. They were just too important, especially to the Admins and other privileged classes. The Blight had taken out at least half the arable land in the world. The masses might subsist on the marginally edible output of the huge sea-based algae fields, but those with some level of wealth or influence wanted real food. And the small farms were the only source of those once common but now precious foodstuffs.

  The farmers were an odd breed, and they were held on a looser leash than those in the more populated areas. There were monitors, of course, but only one or two per family. It was rumored – quietly - that a different speech code applied to the Growers, that they could get away with saying things that would get anyone else sent to a reeducation camp. Whether or not there were actually any such formal directives, there was some truth to the innuendo. You could occasionally get something like a little privacy on a farm.

  The tradeoff was hard work. Goddamned hard. Not many small farms could afford much automation, not with the heavy taxation and the need to bribe at least a dozen government officials to avoid crippling harassment. UN Central wanted the Growers producing the fresh food the privileged classes demanded…it just didn’t want them getting rich doing it. Crop prices were set by the government, and they were usually too low to allow much beyond basic sustenance for the farmers, especially with operating costs so high. It wasn’t just the equipment; it was the fuel to run it that was really expensive.

  Taylor had never particularly liked farming, though he hadn’t realized before how much he enjoyed the perk of eating real food rather than the artificially-engineered products that fed most of the population. It had been hard for him to adapt to army rations. He’d grown up on apples from the orchard, fresh bread baked from newly-milled grains, and the other bounty from the farm. Now he subsisted on things like chemically-enhanced algae protein bars. It was months before he could choke one down without retching.

  He’d been born on the farm, and he’d expected to spend the rest of his life working it. But what Jake Taylor had really wanted to do was write. He knew that opportunities to earn a living that way were scarce, but even if he had to work in the fields all day, he still felt the urge to sit at his keyboard nights and create something. Even though he knew he’d probably never earn anything from it.

  Writing was dangerous too. It was just about the most regulated trade, and it was easy to run afoul of the myriad rules and guidelines. There were more writers in the reeducation facilities than just about any other profession.

  After he got to Erastus, Jake realized how fortunate he’d been to be born on the farm…and how little he’d appreciated it at the time. Soldiers in UNFE tended to come from the lower classes, and the stories of the violent freezones and decaying suburbs made him reconsider his memories of childhood in what he now considered the idyllic countryside.

  Tony Black wasn’t the first city rat Jake had met and befriended, but he was the one who came from the worst shithole. The Central Philly Core was a decent urban sanctuary, but everything outside its guarded gates was a nightmare. The place was notorious as one of the worst freezones, a vast slum where violence and lawlessness were rampant and social services in short supply. People died every day in Philly. It was considered a good night when only a dozen or so bodies were in the streets come morning.

  Black had gotten into some kind of trouble back home, which is why he was on Erastus. He never told anybody what it was, except for once when he got really drunk. Taylor had gotten half the story that night, but he’d never shared a word of it with anybody. Black and Taylor were best friends and, despite the difference in their ranks and backgrounds, they had come to trust each other completely.

  Black…and Bear Samuels, Karl Young, Longbow…they had become a very tight group, even more than usual among the fighting men on Erastus. Taylor had been onplanet for five years, and he’d had friends before, but these guys were something different…something special. Denny Parker had been part of that group too, and they were all still mourning him. Taylor wasn’t sure it was smart to get so close to guys who were only going to die anyway. And they were going to die; he was sure of that. Everyone died on Gehenna.

  Chapter 4

  From the Journal of Jake Taylor:

  My father was a vet. It was something I never knew, a part of him he never shared with any of us…not until I was getting ready to leave for my deployment. He just sprung it on me the day before I shipped out. I was stunned at first. I almost got mad that he’d hidden it for so long, but I caught my anger. I didn’t want to spend the last few hours I’d ever see my father arguing over nonsense that didn’t matter.

  He said it was something he hated to talk about, didn’t even like to remember. There wasn’t time to get into a lot of detail, but it was obvious he still had some open wounds from his experiences. He’d served in the old U.S. Navy, before the Consolidation. He fought in the Mideast War and the Taiwan Intervention, he told me. I’d heard of both conflicts, but only vaguely. They were both quarantined topics. Talking about them wasn’t safe, and there was nowhere to get any information anyway. Nothing beyond vague rumors. Certainly nothing worth risking a trip to a reeducation facility.

  Never trust the government, he told me…the bureaucrats who moved the pieces around the board. Keep my eyes open. All the time. Think for myself, and don’t believe anything I’m told. “Medals, causes, speeches,” he said, “They are all worthless. They are as corrupt as the puppet masters who use them to control men.” Finally, he looked at me with sad watery eyes and said, “Jake…don’t you ever depend on anyone except those guys standing next to you when the shooting starts. They are your brothers…and they are the only ones you can trust.”

  I understood. Everyone chafed under the regulations, the constant monitoring. We were all a little afraid. Most people knew someone who’d been sent for reeducation. Or knew someone who knew someone. But it was normal to fear the government, just as a child fears upsetting a parent. The average person didn’t comprehend, couldn’t see the whole picture the way the Admins did. I understood better than my father. My education had been more modern than his…I’d had the chance to study how difficult it was for the common citizen to grasp the complexities of governing a chaotic world. The importance of controlling damaging speech and limiting freedoms that would only be abused to the detriment of all. My father didn’t understand any of that…he just lashed out at UN Central, blaming the government for all the world’s problems.

  UN Central was far from perfect, but they’d absorbed the failing nation-states and defended us against the Tegeri and the Machines for 30 years. In all that time there’d been no war on Earth, no nations left to wage it. All mankind’s potential, for so long squandered in internecine strife, was focused to one purpose. To my father’s thinking, we’d lost our way, our freedom. No one could convince him otherwise, and I’d long since tired of trying.

  He was emotional, struggling to get out the words he wanted to say. That was a hard day for both of us, for obvious reasons. I knew my father. I’d heard his rants before. He hated UN Central, despised what government had become. But that day was different. There was a rawness to what he said, a passionate urgency I didn’t pick up on back then. There was too much else on my mind…and so many of the things I would see and learn were still ahead of me. I listened to all he said, feeling strangely that there had been so much about my own father I’d never known. But I discounted most of his advice, wrote it off to an old man’s political rants.

  That was a mist
ake.

  “I’m afraid Sergeant Lin has been killed in action on Asgard.” Gregor Kazan sat, looking uncomfortable despite the considerable plushness of the leather chair. Kazan had an odd demeanor to him, both physically and in the way he spoke. When he was younger, it had been called many things, variations on “creepy” being the most common. As he rose through the UN bureaucracy and his power grew, those types of comments became less and less frequent. Now that he was Assistant Undersecretary for Military Affairs, all he got from most people was obsequious pandering. He enjoyed that.

  “That is unfortunate. He was our top prospect.” Undersecretary Keita leaned back, taking a long puff on the cigar he held gingerly in his massive hand. Unlike Kazan, Anan Keita looked entirely at ease, with the serene confidence of a man totally assured of his own power. “I presume you have reviewed the remaining candidates and brought me a recommendation.” It wasn’t a question. People didn’t waste Anan Keita’s time.

  The view behind Keita was extraordinary. The Undersecretary’s conference room, and the large adjoining office, had floor to ceiling windows offering a kilometer high panorama across the Arve River to the snow-covered peak of Mont Blanc in the distance. The UN headquarters in Geneva was the largest building ever built, an architectural triumph. No expense had been spared in its design or construction. It was a monument to the government of a united Earth, and it rose almost two kilometers above the mostly low-rise structures surrounding it.

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary.” The form of address wasn’t technically correct. Normally only the Secretary himself would be referred to by title, not an Undersecretary like Keita. But Secretary Patel was old and sick, and his hold on the office was largely ceremonial. Keita was effectively acting-Secretary, and he was almost certain to take over the office when Patel died or formally retired. Besides, Anan Keita was a vain man. Kazan was aware he’d see through the blatant pandering…but he knew he’d like it anyway. Any favor he could cultivate with Keita could only help his position. “I have selected the top six.” He slid a small tablet across the table. “Though I feel the first two are substantially better choices than the others.”

  Keita put the cigar in a large ashtray on the table, knocking off a clump of ash as he did. He scooped up the tablet, scanning the two names at the top. “Sergeant Jake Taylor and Sergeant Pedro Sanchez.” He was focusing on the glowing pad, reading the summaries Kazan had written about each man. He stopped after the first two. He didn’t have any interest in the secondary candidates. Filtering through the backup choices was Kazan’s job. “Do you have a preference?” His eyes were still on the tablet as he spoke. It was hard to tell from his tone if he was really interested in his subordinate’s opinion.

  “Well…” Kazan paused. He hated being put on the spot. A successful career in government usually meant avoiding as many decisions as possible, at least at his level. He didn’t yet have enough patronage or support to withstand a major mistake, but Keita certainly did. Still, he knew he’d get scapegoated for any errors, whether they were his or Keita’s. “…Sanchez has a longer service record than Taylor. He’s been on Argos for almost seven years.” There was a hesitancy in his tone.

  “I can sense a ‘but’ in this.” Keita’s impatience was clear, his tone annoyed. “Don’t waste my time, Kazan. Just make your point.”

  “I do not believe this direct comparison tells the whole story.” Argos was an ocean world dotted with small islands. It was a difficult planet on which to wage war and manage logistics, but it was nowhere near the hell that Erastus was. “Sergeant Taylor has been on Erastus for five years, which I believe indicates a higher relative degree of resiliency and toughness. The five year survival rate on Erastus is 1.2%.” That was the lowest of any world where UN forces were deployed. Casualties were high on all the Portal planet battlefields, but a posting to Erastus was generally considered a death sentence. “Additionally, Taylor came from a farm, while Sanchez grew up in the violent slums of the Mexico City Freezone.” Kazan’s point was a tricky one, but Keita understood immediately. Taylor had been almost comically ill-prepared for the violence and deprivation he faced on Erastus, yet he had adapted magnificently and survived against the odds.

  Keita leaned back in his chair, reaching out and moving the cigar back to his lips. “Yes, I tend to agree with your logic.” He glanced down at the tablet again. “Personal toughness and adaptability are primary considerations for the program.” He looked up at Kazan. “Have you reviewed the records of the troops under each man’s command? That is a perspective we should examine as well, particularly since we are looking for an entire strike force, not just one man.”

  “I have.” He really hadn’t, at least not with the thoroughness Keita would want. But he wasn’t about to admit to it. “I believe Sergeant Taylor’s section to be the better of the two.” He was bullshitting, at least in part, but he was pretty confident the troops on Erastus would prove to be tougher than those on Argos.

  He’s full of shit, Keita thought, amused…he glanced at those dossiers, nothing more. He sat quietly for a few seconds, leaning back in his chair, trying to decide if he wanted to let Kazan off the hook or press him further. “OK, I’m inclined to agree with you that Erastus is a crucible more likely to produce what we want than any other world.” He decided he wasn’t interested in discussing the trivialities any further, especially not with a brownnosing simp like Kazan. “We could talk this to death, but we need to move forward. Let’s put Sergeant Taylor and his people through one final test, and if they succeed….” By which he meant, if they survive. “…they will be our subjects for the program. And I believe I have just the thing.” He stared down at the screen, punching keys for a few seconds. “I know I saw an alert about Erastus…yes…there it is.” He read to himself for a few seconds before continuing. “We have discovered one of the Machine manufactories on Erastus…the first one, I believe, on that world.” The Tegeri defense of each Portal planet was centered around a network of large bases where they produced their biomechanical warriors. Ultimately, the UN forces on each planet were tasked with locating and destroying these facilities.

  Keita scrolled down the screen, reading the full report. “Let’s make sure that…what is the correct unit?” He looked at his screen again. “2nd Battalion…is assigned to the operation.” He hesitated as he continued reading. “It appears Taylor’s strike force commander was just seriously wounded, which is perfect for our purposes. Let’s put the good sergeant in command and see how he does.” He paused then added, “And make sure his troops are placed in the vanguard of the assault.”

  Kazan nodded. “Yes, Secretary Keita.” He slid his chair back slowly, assuming he had been dismissed. “I will send a dispatch at once.” He started to get up.

  “No.” Keita’s voice was calm and even…but firm.

  “Excuse me, Secretary?” Kazan fell back into the chair.

  “You will go to Erastus personally. You will observe the operation and prepare a full report for me.” Keita was expressionless, his voice betraying no emotion. But he was enjoying making Kazan squirm. “This is a crucial program for us. Indeed, our ultimate success in the war against the Tegeri may hinge on it. We must be thorough at every step.”

  Kazan’s mind was racing, trying to think of a way out. But there was none. Disappointing or defying Keita would end his career in its tracks. He could feel his head nodding, almost involuntarily. “Yes, Secretary.” He swallowed hard. “If that is your wish.”

  Gregor Kazan much preferred the civilized comforts of Geneva and the upper class lifestyle his political post allowed him to the harsh conditions the UN’s soldiers endured. The Portal worlds were battlefields, uncivilized frontiers. And, by all accounts, Erastus was the worst of the lot. He could feel the tension in his stomach. He was going to be sick.

  “That’s all, Kazan.” Keita’s voice was dismissive. “You may go and prepare. You leave tomorrow.”

  Kazan stood up quickly, nodding again. “Yes, Secretary Keita
.” He turned and moved toward the door as swiftly as his wobbly legs would carry him.

  Keita watched with amusement, a thin smile creeping momentarily onto his lips. He spun his chair and stared out over the magnificent vista. Despite the astonishing view, his smile quickly faded. He was privy to far more classified data than Kazan. The war wasn’t going badly, at least not to superficial analysis. UN forces were pushing the Tegeri back almost everywhere. Given limitless resources, the UN forces had a good chance to ultimately defeat the enemy and take control of the entire Portal network. But resources are never without limit, and Keita had seen the projections. The maximum productive output of Earth intersected with the anticipated men and supplies required. The lines crossed far short of the point of victory. They were going to run out of resources long before they beat the Tegeri. Unless something changed the military situation.

  “Project Zed,” Keita whispered softly.

  Chapter 5

  From the Journal of Jake Taylor:

  I’m starting to forget. I close my eyes and try to focus, but my mother’s face is fainter, harder to see. I know I’m losing what little I have left of her, of home. I try to recall the taste of apple pie or the feeling of the cool water of the swimming hole, but those things are slipping away too. I remember the words, but less and less the feelings and images that give them meaning.

  I don’t want to lose those last hazy links with home, with the family I left behind. But it’s hard. Have you ever really tried to will yourself to remember? It’s not an easy thing to do. You try to stay focused, but you get distracted…you fight, you sleep, you work…then, when you remember again, the recollection is that much weaker. No matter how hard you try, you still lose a little each day.