by K. J. Coble
Zarven figured the fighting along Cedar and Granite Creeks had consumed the equivalent of a worm battalion. These losses, added on top of B Company’s appearance in their rear, contributed to a predictable result as the full might of the 18th Special Commando Battalion came to bear; the worm right flank collapsed.
“We’re driving them, Rovan,” Zarven reported to the task force commander. No acknowledgement came, but judging from the racket to the south, both physical and across the Awareness, Zarven figured Rovan was quite busy.
Zarven rode head and shoulders out of the turret of his battle-car, trailing behind the main body of A Company as they moved across a narrow hollow, their scouts out and scampering up the next wooded rise. He had left most of his headquarters company behind in the rush, only Churvak and the bodyguard detail with him now, riding in and on the back of the hovervehicle.
The late afternoon sky was going red with the approach of dusk, smudges of black marring the horizon, the smoke of dozens of fires. Pops and crackles to the south as C Company came up on the right of A and pushed through worm holdouts. A building snarl ahead, almost due east, where B Company had pushed so far south as to be nearly in A’s path, now seemed to be running into a bit of more determined defense.
It had been like that all day, surges forward, then sudden halts to deal with pockets of resistance. At least one more worm company had been annihilated and two more scattered before them since dawn.
The going had not been especially difficult. In fact, it had been too easy. A nagging part of Zarven that had had enough time to ponder the data of the past couple days’ fighting was beginning to suspect why.
A flurry of fire tore the hilltop ahead and Ozer’s scouts fell back from the crest. Zarven’s AI collected the data coming in from the brief encounter and painted a picture across his vision. Coming over the heights they had become exposed to fire from worm repeat blastcannon positions dug in on the next, slightly lower rise.
The scouts passed through A Company, re-forming at its rear as a reserve while the main body of two platoons pressed uphill at a steady but cautious pace. Zarven stopped his battle-car in the hollow at the base of the hill, allowing Churvak’s detail to dismount. Beside him, the automortar pods of Ozer’s heavy weapons section deployed. Rocket teams fell in with the reserves, waiting to ascend to the top where they could bring the worms under direct fire.
Zarven piggy-backed on Ozer’s harmonic, observing the advance through his subordinate’s eyes. The ridge was thinly wooded and strewn with packs, tatters of clothes, personal belongings abandoned by fleeing worms. Above, Ozer spied scattered bodies and the smoldering remains of a worm heavy weapons position taken out earlier by Korvan automortars.
“Watch the wreckage,” Ozer implored his command as he crept up on the blasted revetment. A pile of worm dead lay stinking in a chewed mess of dirt and sandbags, freshly enough killed that a faint red glow of warmth showed on infrared.
Ozer put a casual blast into them, stirring bloody rags into fire.
A cadaverous-looking worm burst from the pile with a wail, scurrying for the hilltop. In his surprise, Ozer simply gawked. One of his Commandos fired, the bolt punching the worm between the shoulder blades and bouncing him off a tree.
The hilltop exploded in flashes and the insect drone of shrapnel. The Awareness filled with pain and surprise as Korvans dove for cover. Ozer dropped down behind the wrecked position as he fired off warnings to his subordinates.
Grenades arched towards the Korvans, inexpertly thrown and exploding shy of them. Light mortar rounds whistled, ripping the upper hillside and filling the air with burning debris but doing little damage to Ozer’s company.
“They’re short! They’re falling short!” Ozer barked. “Worms expected us to be farther up, near the top!”
“Pull your people in, Ozer,” Zarven said, feeling his guts tighten. “The worms will follow in right on the heels of their—”
The hillside seethed as worms erupted from holes in the ground, from unseen folds in the terrain, from the crest of the hill. Ozer’s company found itself alone in a hostile sea.
The Commandos poured fire, killing every time the touched their trigger pads. But the surprise and numbers started to tell. A grenade rolled through to explode here, a worm bullet found the weak point between body armor plates there.
Ozer blasted three worms as they came down on him, the last landing dead on the other side of the sandbag barrier. A pair of worms slid downhill past him. He fingered his trigger pad and swore went it did not respond, gave him only the warning signal of overheat from rapid firing.
“Ozer, get out of there!” Zarven barked, climbing from his battle-car’s turret.
Ozer dropped the plasma rifle and tore his flechette pistol free. The worms who’d rushed by turned to face him. Ozer’s first burst caught one in the belly, dropping the worm with a butchered animal squeal. His second blast stitched a line across the other’s neck, spinning the worm away in a fountain of blood.
The pistol clicked empty and Ozer fumbled to reload.
“Ozer!” Zarven barked.
A worm vaulted the sandbag barrier, over Ozer’s head. The feral-looking female landed and spun to face him, narrow black eyes widening as she met the enemy toe-to-toe. Her assault rifle came blurring up. Ozer slapped a fresh clip into his pistol.
The worm’s rifle roared, orange-red flame swallowing the world.
Ozer!
Something exploded beside Zarven, slamming him back into his own mind and body. Sparks flew and the whine of bullets and blaster fire chopped the air around him. He dropped down into his turret, hearing the tinny rattle of fire glancing off the battle-car’s armor. Churvak and the bodyguard detachment hit cover and began firing as a wave of worms swept up from a spinebush-infested gully to the right.
Zarven shook himself and snarled as he reached for the plasma rifle slung beside his seat. Fury carried him leaping from the turret and to the ground with a bellow. The worms, perhaps realizing they hadn’t the numbers to have infiltrated this far, were already recoiling. Churvak and his detachment pressed after them, driving them back to the gully.
Zarven followed, ignoring cover or pleas for him to halt. A Commando fell in front of him, a gouge across her thigh. He stopped to take a belt of grenades from her. Someone tackled him from behind. Worm fire slashed the air where he had been.
“By the Imperative, HaustColonel!” Churvak said as he pulled himself off Zarven. “You must take care! We can finish this. Get back to the battle-car! Please!”
Churvak sprinted on. The bodyguards pressed to the edge of the gully and poured plasma bolts into it. Smoke and screams rose over them.
Zarven pulled himself from the ground, feeling suddenly wobbly and aching. Dimly he was aware of the automortars firing, of the fight raging around him. He trudged back to the battle-car, touching a long cut left by shrapnel on his now blood-slick cheek. He shook himself, his AI pumping stimulants into his system, and the battle snapped back into focus.
A Company was recovering as the worms fell apart and ran, the Korvans butchering them as they did. The company senior HaustLieutenant had taken charge. Heavy firing to the south. C Company had run into ambushes and a nasty fight like the one in front of Zarven. Tetzrak and B Company were similarly held up.
Zarven understood as he came to lean against the battle-car. The worms hadn’t collapsed. They had used the artillery barrage to pull their main body back, just as Zarven would have done himself, were the roles reversed. The Special Commandos had spent the day merrily smashing up stragglers and the worm rearguards. Now they had butted up against the worms’ next line of defense.
Very well, Zarven snarled to himself as he climbed back into the turret. Rovan and the others want a decisive push and that’s what we’ll give them. The Special Commandos are here to win!
“All company commands,” Zarven snarled across the Awareness, though Ozer’s death scream reverberated in his skull, “your orders are to attack. We will press th
e attack now. We will attack all night. We will fight it out all the damned fall and all winter, if that’s what it takes!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Crozier slapped another stimulant patch against his wrist and took a long, rattling breath as the drugs took effect. Sleep felt like a habit kicked, his body now suffering withdrawal. How long had it been? Days...
“What time is it?” he asked, used to the croak of his overused voice now.
“0612,” Janotski answered from his console. The older man had hardly slept, too. “Just about dawn.”
“Shit.” Crozier rubbed his neck, tried to massage the knots of pain. The holograms seemed to swim before him. He blinked and they settled back into their depressing patterns.
The partisan line had bent back almost into a semicircle during yesterday’s redeployment. They had pulled it off, but there were a lot of unit symbols on the board with faint outlines where Group Leaders had yet to confirm they were in position. Companies had become intermingled, confused. And, of course, there was the growing stream of deserters.
The computer chimed with an incoming message. Hrangar, this time. Crozier read the terse script. The Grak Group Leader reported pressure mounting to his front again. The Korvans had been trying to slip small units by to the south, around his left flank. He’d been forced to shift his last reserves to contain the infiltration. Now the Korvans looked to be building up against his center.
Then came the request Crozier had been dreading; Hrangar wanted to fall back again, across Cedar Creek to a new line where he could tighten up his units.
Crozier swore to himself. Impossible. The ridge Hrangar proposed a retreat to was less than five kilometers from the Station and one of the highest in the area. If the Korvans got that close and slipped just one rocket team onto the heights, they’d have the Station under direct fire and could fling nukes at it. At that close a range, the Station fusion battery—designed primarily for orbital defense—could not depress low enough to respond.
To make matters worse, little artillery remained to support such a move—and if they expended what was left, they’d have nothing to mask the Movement’s final withdrawal.
Crozier winced as he thought about the retreat, the biggest gamble. Most of the refugees and supply columns were clear now. But the thought of actually scuttling the Station, the place that had been the Movement’s heart, its haven, made him shake. And retreat meant leaving rearguards behind, units chosen to blunt Korvan pursuit. And die.
I should be out there, in the fight, Crozier thought. No Movement to worry about, no refugees, nobody to save or sacrifice. Just him, his weapon, and maybe a company with limited goals or a position to hold, a simple objective he could understand. Standing here in this stinking command chamber, he had reached a place beyond fear, beyond weariness, where his body sought to overpower his mind.
Fingers rubbed furiously at his wedding ring. “Send to Hrangar, ‘Hold current position at all hazards. Positively confirm and report back positions of all units.’” He paused, eyes worrying over the phantom blocks of companies. “Send same to Choson.”
“ANDERS AND ROHROS ARE fucking dead!” hollered the runner from company headquarters, a girl so thin that a strong wind might knock her over. “You’re senior, Schweppenberg! The Screwheads are coming over the top, over the fucking rocks! Your platoon has to push ‘em off!”
Sandy looked at Sten and her squad, five mud-spattered scarecrows now. They’d been shifted into reserve on the reverse slope of the ridgeline with another whittled down squad while Anders’ healthiest three teams held the front. Now he and the Grak NCO who had been next in the chain of command were gone and the weight was on her.
“They’re coming, Schweppenberg!” The runner scampered off. On the other side of the ridge, the firefight rose in intensity.
Sandy nodded and fidgeted with her helmet. For what felt like minutes, but was assuredly only a handful of seconds, her brain locked. The battle, the people staring at her with scared eyes, and her exhaustion, all felt like part of another reality.
“Cally.” Sandy pointed at the girl. She had been forced to abandon the repeat blastcannon that morning, but had found a NA-17 to replace it. “Cally, go up to the squads in front and tell them we’re coming up behind. When we pass through their line, they will advance with us. Do you understand?”
The teenager nodded, wide eyes shining through a blood-streaked visage. Sandy gestured her on her way.
“Sten, go take charge of the other reserve squad.” Sandy felt her voice grow stronger with the words. “We advance when you’re ready. We’ll keep driving until we reach the entrenchments just below the crest and clean them out.” Sandy wondered if she shouldn’t order them to fix bayonets or some other silliness like that.
“We’re running low on ammo,” Sten said in a tight voice into her ear.
“I know,” Sandy replied. “How about grenades?”
Sten gave a birdlike shrug. “A few.”
“All right.” She raised her voice. “Remember, aimed fire. Pick your targets. Those of you with grenades left, save them until we’ve reached the entrenchments. And nobody pause at the top; you’ll only silhouette yourselves for their marksmen. Keep pushing until we’re on them, in those fighting holes.” Sandy turned to Sten. “Go.”
As Sten sprinted off, Sandy turned and ordered her squad into a line on either side of her. Cally reappeared, shouting that the word was out. Sandy nodded and gestured for the girl to fall in beside her. Suddenly, words wouldn’t come from her ashy mouth. Her tooth ached, a ringing, pounding pain. Around her tiny details sprang into focus, leaves shaken from their branches and spiraling to the ground, fine beads of sleet in the air, Cally’s lips quivering as she waited.
The other reserve squad spread out beside Sandy’s. She waited for a signal, then saw Sten waving a bony arm.
“Let’s go!”
The squads started uphill at a fast walk. Their spacing broke up as they made their way through the trees and rocks. Plasma bolts began to clip branches overhead, keening through the air between the guerillas. Ahead, the front-line squads clung to the boulders just behind the crest, trading jolts of fire and lightning with the dark shapes of Invaders.
Sandy’s pace sped up. A roar began to build in her lungs, rising on a primal fury as the partisans around her joined it. Hearing the battle cries, the front-line squads rose and poured a reckless cover fire into the rocks. Sandy’s cry grew shrill, became a scream. She found herself sprinting past the front line into the boulders.
Grenades exploded, jarring, deafening. Sandy flinched as rock chips drew cuts across her face. She tripped and hit cold stone. Something black-clad and solid landed beside her. She rolled away and came up with her blastrifle at her shoulder.
The Invader was on all fours, its facemask smashed to smoking tatters. Clear, blue eyes blinked in surprise at the way its jaw dangled from its face by a flap of cheek.
Sandy put a blast into its chest and struggled on throbbing knees to her feet. Partisans streamed by around her. The air shuddered with grenade blasts. Clumsy with weariness she hadn’t felt moments ago, Sandy pulled herself over the rocks to the crest of the ridgeline.
Much of the hillside had been blasted into charred ruin and the hollow was shrouded in smoke. Craters glowed where heavy weapons positions had been, trees had been chewed to stumps, and bodies lay everywhere, some still writhing and wailing.
Down by Ora Creek, partisans hurt beyond the point of reason clawed their way past oblivious Invaders to the water’s edge only to be picked off when they were finally noticed. The heights on the opposite side of the hollow glittered with tiny flames as Invaders still coming up fired on the counterattacking guerrillas.
Plasma bolts glanced off rock in white explosions and Sandy dropped from the exposed crest. She landed on uneven ground and began to tumble. A jarring impact halted her descent, knocking the wind out of her. She lay on her back and wheezed for breath as energy beams and tracers crisscr
ossed the air above her.
She’d landed in one of the fighting holes, a large position, the lip reinforced with rocks, logs, and dirt. The blasted remains of two partisans lay to one side, tangled together. An Invader was draped headfirst over the edge, smoking holes chewed across its back.
Sandy found her blastrifle and nudged at the helmeted head with the muzzle. The body didn’t budge. Swearing, she jabbed at it again to knock it away.
The tinted visor snapped up to face her. The Invader had the barrel of her blastrifle in its fist and almost tore it rom her grip. Snarling, Sandy put her finger to the trigger pad. White fire ripped the side off the Invader’s facemask. It released her weapon but clung to the edge of the hole.
Her second shot took off much of what remained of the head. Still the hands gripped. Sandy lunged forward, smashing and hacking at the fingers with the butt plate of her rifle until they fell away.
Sten landed in the hole behind her. He fired a burst over the lip of the hole and hunched down. “Shit...shit...you all right?”
Sandy nodded, could not yet find the means to speak. Partisans were sliding into the entrenchments around them.
Sten risked a look over the edge of the fighting hole. “Shit...they’re still down there. What do we do now? We chased them back a little but...shit, what do we do now?”
Sandy coughed and answered, “We hold on.”
“Hold on? With what? We’re just about out of everything!”
“We...hold...on,” Sandy grated, meeting his eyes. “They’ll send us help.”
“We were the fucking help!”
“Sten!” Sandy’s voice was a hoarse bark.
The gaunt corporal flinched away from her. “Fine...shit...fine, we hold on. But the people in charge better figure something out...something fast!”
“They will. The company command or Hrangar or Crozier...Crozier will figure something out!”
“Fine...just wish it was them down here and not us!”
Sandy let out a papery thin chuckle that teetered on the edge of a sob. “You and me both, Sten...”
