by Jay Allan
They came in fast, and it was hard to follow them visually. Carlson watched on his display as the small triangles moved across the tactical map. One by one, a line of tiny dots appeared on the display just behind each plane. FAE canisters.
“Everybody grab some dirt.” Carlson shouted into the com as he dove forward, sliding himself down as far as he could behind the small berm his people were using as cover. “Now!”
The FAEs came down all along the disordered enemy line, exploding in a series of massive fireballs. Anything unarmored out on that plain, any enemy soldiers whose suits had been holed or compromised, died instantly from the pressure wave and subsequent vacuum.
The powered infantry, sealed up in their suits, had some chance to survive the attack. Those caught in the center of the firestorms literally roasted in their armor, as the intense heat overloaded their suits’ capacity to compensate or the temperatures exceeded the melting points of their osmium-iridium alloys. The ones on the fringes of the primary impact area survived, their blackened and pitted suits enduring the ferocity of the onslaught. The survivors ran toward Astria, leaving half their force behind, dead on the scorched plain. Carlson was impressed as he watched the withdrawal. They were running toward the cover of the city, but there was no panic, no crazed stampede. They were not routing, despite an air assault that would have sent most formations into panicked flight.
He saw something that looked like a streak of fire rising up from the enemy position and the last of the bombers pitched to the side and tumbled end over end, slamming hard into the ground in a massive explosion. Neither side had much anti-air capability, but the enemy had managed to draw blood with one of their small handheld launchers. It was a lucky shot, and it cost the Marines and Janissaries one of their precious aircraft.
“Major Carlson, this is Commander Farooq.” The Janissary commander’s voice blared out of Carlson’s helmet speaker. “My forces are ready to advance.”
“Very well, Commander.” Carlson turned and looked out over his line. He flipped his com to the unitwide frequency. “Cease all fire.” He paused, listening to the sound of the shooting subside before he flipped back to Farooq’s channel. “You’re clear to go, Commander. And good luck to you.”
Anderson-112 ducked behind a section of shattered building, looking out at the strange green clouds floating across the field. He knew it was Smoke, and he had shadowy memories of facing it before, though the fighting on Armstrong was his first campaign. They weren’t his own recollections, not really, but they were real nonetheless. It was confusing, unsettling. But still, somehow he couldn’t quite explain, he understood how to deal with the situation.
“Concentrate fire on the clouds.” He snapped out the orders, almost by reflex. The army was retreating south, but his regiment had been ordered to hold the northern perimeter of Astria while the rest of the units made it through the city. “They’re inside those clouds. Keep firing.”
He looked out over the blasted plain. The Janissaries were advancing across the blackened ground where he’d lost two-thirds of his strength to the enemy’s devastating air attack and murderous autocannon fire. He felt strange about losing over 1,200 of his soldiers in matter of minutes. There was the usual detachment, the normal cold analysis. But there was something else too. Not in the forefront of his mind, but deeper, where the other memories resided. It was unsettling, an unfamiliar feeling, unpleasant and distracting. A horror at watching so many of his troops die in such a terrible way. Anderson-112 tried to push it aside. But it was still there, just on the periphery of his consciousness.
He’d been on the edge of the FAE bombing run. His armor was blackened and scarred, but he’d been outside of the primary kill zone when the bombers struck. Unlike most of his men. He tried to focus on his training, his conditioning. But the sight of so many of his soldiers writhing in the flames as they roasted inside their armor was still there.
The Janissaries started to emerge from the Smoke clouds, rushing his positions. They were shooting as they advanced, raking his shallow foxholes with deadly-accurate fire. But his people were firing back, and the Janissaries were out in the open. They started falling in clumps as the Shadow troopers savaged their lines with autocannon fire.
Explosions erupted all along the Shadow line…incoming grenades from the attacking Caliphate troopers. The Janissaries were well-trained in the use of grenades, a weapon the Marines regarded as a secondary system. They didn’t inflict heavy casualties on powered infantry – it pretty much took a direct hit to take out an armored combatant with a grenade. But it made lots of noise and churned things up. The Janissary way of war was a highly theatrical one, designed to instill terror in the hearts of the defenders. It was highly effective against colonial units and second line troops, but less so when they had fought the Marines. The Shadow troops were conditioned to feel no fear, nevertheless, they found it distracting.
Anderson-112 could see immediately his lines weren’t going to hold. The grenades were more effective than expected against his unit’s shallow foxholes and the wrecked buildings they were using as cover. They were taking casualties they couldn’t afford…not after the devastating losses inflicted by the air strike and Carlson’s autocannons.
The Janissaries were assaulting in considerable strength. Fresh units were advancing behind the battered first line, and it looked like a second full orta was emerging from the Smoke clouds behind the vanguard. They swept forward, quickly closing the distance between the bilious green clouds and Anderson-112’s thin line.
The defenders maintained their discipline, firing at the advancing Caliphate forces. They were making the Janissaries pay, but they weren’t going to stop them. They might have driven back a militia unit or a force of colonial regulars, but the Janissaries were every bit as elite as the Marines…and their Shadow Legion imitations. They took their losses and grimly advanced, firing point blank into the foxholes and storming the small defensive clusters around each building.
Anderson-112’s orders were clear. Under no circumstances was he to retreat. He knew his unit was to be sacrificed, that he was expected to fight until his regiment had been completely wiped out. He understood, and the conditioning worked at his mind, demanding compliance. But there was something else there, something deeper…from the other thoughts. Anger, outrage at seeing his men wasted so callously. He was sweating, despite the perfect climate control of his suit, and his hands were balled into armored fists. NO, screamed something inside him, something he couldn’t fully understand. But he realized he couldn’t just watch his men die, sacrificed to a lost cause.
He looked up at the tactical display. The Janissaries were slicing through his lines in half a dozen places. Soon it would be too late to pull back. His thoughts waged a war in his head, pulling him back and forth, between his conditioning and the borrowed memories of a Marine long dead. Slowly, despite his efforts to hold back, his hand activated the unit-wide com. “All forces, retreat at once. Pull back through the city immediately.” The words felt almost involuntary as they came out of his mouth, but he still repeated them. “All forces, retreat to the south of the city and regroup.”
All along the line, the Shadow troopers climbed up out of their foxholes and ran to the rear. The advancing Janissaries gunned them down as they fled, but the survivors kept going, ducking behind the cover of the buildings as they entered the city.
“Anderson-112, this is Command Central.” The voice was as monotone and without character as those of the rest of the Shadow troopers, but there was a sternness to it as well. “Your forces are conducting an unauthorized withdrawal. You are instructed to rally and advance back to your previous line.”
“No.” Anderson-112’s reply was soft but firm. He didn’t elaborate.
There was silence on the line. Then the same voice repeated the command. “Anderson-112, you are ordered to rally. Cease your retreat and hold your assigned defensive position.”
“I said no.” Anderson-112’s head had b
ecome a warzone, old memories rising out of the darkness…recollections that were somehow a part of him, though they weren’t his. They struggled with his conditioning, taking control. Whatever happened, he couldn’t see his men thrown away, their lives wasted for nothing. It was somehow…unthinkable, something he just couldn’t live with, whatever the consequences.
There was a long pause on the line. Then a gruff voice replaced the monotone droning. “Anderson-112, this is General Rafael Samuels. You are ordered to maintain your position.”
“No, General. I will not. My unit will be destroyed to no effect if I do.” His tone was respectful, but firm. He didn’t understand why, but he was resolved to see his men escape from this trap.
“Anderson-112, this is your last chance. Obey your orders now!” The anger of Samuel’s voice blasted out of the com.
“I’m sorry sir.”
There was a pause, ten seconds, perhaps 20. Anderson-112 was watching his forces run past him, fleeing into the cover of the city. He felt a pinprick on his neck, and his vision blurred almost immediately. His breathing became heavy, and in few seconds, he sank to his knees…then fell on his back. He didn’t understand how, but he knew he was dying. His heavy eyes panned over to the tactical display. He could see the blurry icons, his troopers. They were too far back now…there was no way to get them back on the line. They had taken heavy losses, but some of them would escape the deathtrap. He smiled. Some of them will survive, he thought.
He felt the other thoughts bursting out of their place in his mind. He imagined himself other places, fighting on steaming jungle worlds and on the glaciers of a frozen ice planet. There were other forces all around him, similar to his own men, but different too. And there was a flag…the banner his enemies carried. The standard of the Alliance Marine Corps. He slipped away, floating in a sea of a dead Marine’s dreams.
Cain walked down Astria’s main street toward the looming hulk of the Marine hospital, a pack of officers and guards following behind. The city was cluttered with the detritus of war, but the buildings themselves were mostly intact. The Marines had retreated right through the city, and now the Shadow forces had done the same.
He was glad as he gazed at some of the familiar sights. Bricks and mortar would never matter as much as the vast amount of blood that had been spilled, but it was somehow reassuring to see something recognizable survive. It was nice to believe you were fighting to preserve something, Cain thought darkly, even when you know it’s mostly bullshit.
The tide had definitely turned. Farooq’s Janissaries went into action immediately, and their savage attacks shattered the Shadow force’s lines, sending the invaders streaming back south toward the Sentinel. The lightning attacks were reinforced by the additional Janissary forces Ali Khaled brought down after Farooq’s vanguard.
The Shadow troopers were attempting to reform in the cover of the Sentinel. The wondrous forest had already been a battlefield, and thousands of its priceless, millennia-old trees had been battered into matchsticks. Now it looked like the scourge of war had made its way back to the vast natural wonder.
Cain was wondering how to finish the battle. Was he going to have to kill every last enemy soldier on the planet? They didn’t seem to react like normal human beings, subject to fear, to the realization of hopelessness. Would they rout if pressed hard enough? Would they surrender if certain death was their only other option? Or would they fight on mindlessly to the last man?
Their leadership didn’t seem to countenance surrender. Farooq’s and Carlson’s advancing forces had found thousands of wounded who’d been poisoned by their own AI’s when they were too badly hurt to retreat out of the path of the enemy. Would any force that murdered its own wounded accept that a battle was lost and surrender to prevent useless bloodshed? Cain doubted it profoundly.
Cain had fought many enemies, and he’d never been troubled by dispatching them in any way he could. He’d always considered each adversary slain one fewer left to kill his own people. But there was something about the Shadow forces, about his talks with Anderson-45, that made him queasy. The single enemy captive was so reasonable, so rational. He didn’t seem like an enemy. Cain knew it wouldn’t feel right to kill Anderson-45, even in the heat of battle. Were all the Shadow forces like him?
Sarah was back working with the prisoner, trying to unlock his conditioning. If she could find a way to truly understand Anderson-45, perhaps she could develop a method to reach the thousands like him…soldiers that were still fighting the Marines and Janissaries tooth and nail. It wasn’t just about the Shadow forces. It was going to cost thousands of lives to finish this battle, especially if they had to wipe out all the enemy soldiers on Armstrong. And Cain had seen enough of his people die.
Ali Khaled walked briskly toward the communications tent, clad in armor, his helmet fully retracted. He reached out his arm and pulled the flap open. “You have a communication for me from the orbital force?”
The com tech rose abruptly and bowed before the Janissary lord. “Yes, my Lord Khaled.”
Khaled was already waving off the formal greeting. “Yes, yes, there is no time for that.” He reached out and grabbed the headset, wrapping it over his ears and nodding to the nervous tech. “Put it through,” he snapped.
Khaled watched as the technician pressed a few buttons on his panel. “You are connected with Fleet Captain Yusef, sir.”
“Captain Yusef, this is Ali Khaled. What’s going on up there?” He paused, waiting out the brief delay that was an unavoidable part of ground-to-orbit communications.
“Greetings to you, Lord Khaled, and fortune to you and those who follow you.”
The captain responded with the formal greeting, but there was something wrong…Khaled sensed it immediately. He could hear it in the captain’s voice. “Yes, and good fortune to you as well.” Khaled stopped midway through the prescribed response. “We have no time to waste, Captain. What is happening up there?”
“Sir, we have a large fleet inbound from the warp gate. We have identified fourteen capital ships…over 100 hulls in all so far.” There was fear in the captain’s voice, though he masked it well. But Khaled was a master at reading such things.
“Have you been able to identify them, Captain?” Maybe it was Garret, Khaled thought fleetingly. If he hadn’t gotten any of the communiques Khaled and Abbas had sent, the Alliance admiral wouldn’t expect to find a Caliphate naval force in Armstrong’s system. He would likely consider them hostiles.
“Negative, sir. We’ve identified some of the vessels, however. Many are Alliance ships, but there are CAC, Caliphate, and PRC hulls as well.” There was a short pause then, “All vessels that were undergoing repairs at the Alliance’s Wolf-359 facility, my lord.”
Khaled’s heart sank. Stark, he thought grimly. Enemy reinforcements. “You must retreat at once, Captain. Your force will not have a chance against an enemy fleet of that size.”
“Negative, Lord Khaled. Admiral Abbas was clear that I am to remain here and provide orbital support to your forces.” Abbas had departed with most of the fleet after the Janissaries landed, searching for Admiral Garret and his forces.
Khaled sighed hard. Pointless gestures, he thought angrily…why is war so full of them? “Captain, listen to me. You will serve no purpose throwing away your command and the lives of your crew here.” Yusef had four cruisers and a dozen destroyer-equivalents. It wasn’t a time to be throwing away irreplaceable hulls and crews for no gain. “Get your ships out of here immediately. I will accept all responsibility with Admiral Abbas.” Khaled and Abbas were of approximately equal rank, though the Janissary lord had no official authority over fleet operations.
There was a long silence. “Sir, I don’t know if…”
“Now, Captain,” Khaled snapped, interrupting the stammering naval officer. He knew he was going to have to intimidate Yusef if he was going to save the 5,000 naval crew manning those ships. If they stayed, they would die for nothing. “I told you, I will accept al
l responsibility with Admiral Abbas.” He paused then added, “Do you really want to explain to the admiral why you refused my order?” A pointless argument…Khaled had no right to issue orders to Yusef. Besides, if the captain and his people stayed in the system, they’d never live to see Abbas again anyway. But Khaled was desperate.
“Uh…very well Lord Khaled.” Yusef sounded uncomfortable, but he was giving in.
“Transmit your full scanner data on the incoming fleet, and then get the hell out of here.” He paused for a few seconds. “Now!”
“Yes, sir.”
Khaled turned toward the com tech. “I want that data transmitted to me the instant you have it.” He stared at the sweating technician. “Understood?”
“Yes, Lord Khaled.”
“Very well.” He turned and walked out into the hastily cleared mud streets of the camp. Now I have to go find Erik Cain, he thought…and try to figure out what we’ve got coming at us.
He flipped on his com. “General Cain…Commander Khaled here.” He stifled a sigh. “We need to talk. Right now.”
Chapter 23
Red Hills
South of Arcadia City
Arcadia – Wolf 359 III
“The enemy is abandoning their position and pulling back in disarray, General.” Colonel Heath was staring out over the broken plain watching his Marines move forward. The fighting had been intense, the enemy forces continuing to resist, even after Heath’s Marines had outflanked their position.
“Well done, Colonel.” General Gilson’s voice was tired, strained. Her forces had been in action non-stop since they’d landed 3 weeks before, and everyone was exhausted. She had no idea where these enemy soldiers had come from, but they seemed almost without fear. Her forces repeatedly outmaneuvered them, but still they held, regardless of losses. They fell back from compromised positions, but only far enough to regroup. Then they kept on fighting, seemingly ignoring even crippling casualties. Only in the last day’s combat had their morale begun to fail, and savaged units started falling back in disarray. “Pursue them, Rod. Keep on their tail or they’ll just pull back and reorganize.”
