Galactic Frontiers: A Collection of Space Opera and Military Science Fiction Stories

by Jay Allan

  My AI started projecting figures in front of me, the shimmering blue images displaying percentages projecting the location of enemy troops. We didn’t have enough data to get any solid leads yet, but there were a couple spots north of 40% probability. I started firing some bursts at these locations, and I could tell that a few others were doing the same. I didn’t know if I hit anything – probably not – but it was worth expending a little ammo in the effort.

  The auto-cannon didn’t open up yet, though. It was an extremely effective weapon on defense, and the lieutenant didn’t want to give its position away too soon. With any luck, the enemy would blunder right into the center of the field of fire. Their own scanners were compromised by the smoke too, so they couldn’t really attack with any precision.

  I’d been scared to death before the attack started, as I always was, but now I wasn’t really thinking about that anymore. I was so focused and so pumped up by the captain and the lieutenant, the fear morphed into a nervous energy, an edginess that made it hard to stand still. I could hear my heart beating in my ears like a drum.

  “Enemy troop concentrations.” The lieutenant, still totally calm. My God, doesn’t anything rattle him? “Transmitting coordinates. Open fire.”

  The enemy troops were off to my left, but I had a clear line of fire, so I switched to full auto and sprayed the area. The mag-rifle had enough kick to knock a man over, and probably break his arm as well, but in armor you just felt a small vibration. I emptied an entire clip into the smoke, and the autoloader slammed another one in place with a loud click.

  A few seconds after we started shooting, the enemy opened up. Their position given away, the advancing troops had no reason to continue to hold their fire. They couldn’t aim any better out of the clouds than we could into them, but our entire front was saturated with fire. It was clear there were a lot of troops coming at us.

  I crouched lower as the rock wall in front of me was blasted with enemy fire. Shards of shattered stone bounced all around, but the outcropping was thick enough to provide cover, and other than some rocks bouncing loudly off my armor, I was fine. I could tell from the chatter on the com that 1st Platoon on our left had some casualties…they probably got careless when they were firing and didn’t get down quickly enough.

  We got locations on two more enemy troop concentrations, and when they all opened up we were well into a serious firefight. Even with our cover, we were taking losses. I assumed we were inflicting them too, but it was hard to tell. All of this seemed like an eternity, but only a few minutes had passed since the enemy launched the smoke and started their attack.

  They started to emerge from the smoke. It was surreal watching them move forward, zigzagging as they jogged toward our trenches. Their armor was similar to ours, a little bulkier, maybe, and the alloy they used was a little different, giving the suits a darker look. They didn’t have the camo system we did, and their suits were dark silhouettes against the glowing clouds as they came forward.

  Their formations were scattered, with significant gaps. I could see they’d taken considerable losses from our fire. Their assault doctrine was well thought out, and they executed it flawlessly. One group would find the best cover they could – low ground, rocks, gullies – and open up on our position with everything they had. A second line would advance, supported by this covering fire, and find their own protected areas. They would then start shooting while the first group advanced. It was a standard leapfrog tactic, but they were so well drilled they could maintain enormously heavy fire while leaving precise lanes open for their advancing troops. I couldn’t help but admire the discipline and skill, even if they were trying to kill me.

  But we knew our stuff too, and we targeted the units moving ahead, ignoring the covering fire. We were taking heavier losses, but it was still the best exchange rate we’d get; if they got to our lines and broke in we’d lose our positional advantage…and there were more of them than us.

  There was a crack in the rock wall next to me, and I was able to lie down and shoot through a very small opening. It was great cover, and gave me a wide coverage area. They were getting close, so I switched to semi-automatic and started targeting individual troops with 10-shot bursts. I didn’t have a sniper’s rifle, but I managed to take down a target just about every time I shot. I must have dropped 7 or 8 when I realized we weren’t going to turn them back.

  The auto-cannon was firing full bore, but the enemy troops were very good at using any bit of cover as they advanced. We’d taken out a lot of them, probably enough to send lower-quality troops fleeing for their lives, but we wouldn’t have broken, and the Janissaries weren’t going to either. They were weakened and disordered, but we were still going to have a close range fight.

  If we’d had a secondary position we could have fallen back, keeping them under heavy fire as they came over the rocky spur and eventually wearing their attack down. But there was nothing but open plateau behind us – we’d be the ones caught in the clear and cut to pieces. No…it was win or die right along this ridge line.

  I have always found that my memories of combat are blurry, surreal. It’s hard to recall the time passing. I remember this charge of the Janissaries as something that went on forever, but it wasn’t more than ten minutes from when they dropped the smoke until they started climbing up over the rock wall.

  I saw them coming, at least six of them heading toward my spot. The whole thing happened in slow motion. I took one last shot through the crack on the rock, hitting one of the attackers in the leg. At least four or five projectiles hit the leg, tearing it off completely. He dropped hard to the ground and writhed for a couple seconds before Tombstone finished the job.

  I paused an instant watching him fall, and then I realized with a start that there were no more targets…I had waited too long. Something took over, instincts, maybe or, more likely training. I rolled over on my back, whipping my rifle around, and I blasted at full auto, taking out two more as they climbed over the rocks.

  The next two seconds lasted a lifetime. I’d emptied my clip, and I could hear the autoloader moving a new one into position. The entire process had always seemed nearly instantaneous to me, but now it felt as though it was taking forever. I looked up, and I could see the enemy troops coming over, and one of them was turning to me. I could hear each heartbeat pounding in my head as I brought my mag-rifle up to target him. He was doing the same, but his was loaded and mine was empty. I’d have a new clip in place in less than a second, but in that instant I knew it was going to be too late. I stared up into the barrel of his gun, and I knew I was dead.

  And then I wasn’t. Just before he fired, his body lurched backwards, his arm flying upward, spraying the air with fire. The top half of his body twisted to the right, the bottom to the left. He wasn’t cut in half, not quite, but he fell in a gruesome heap, half a meter from where I was laying. Standing there, silhouetted against the reddish light, was the lieutenant, his arm raised, bloodied blade extended. He sliced its edge, a single molecule thick, into my would-be killer’s side, driven with all the enhanced power his suit’s servo-mechanicals could deliver.

  I was laying there in shock, thinking I should thank the lieutenant when his voice boomed into my headset. “Get the hell up, Jax!” His voice was still calm, but even his even tone was affected by the stress of battle. “This isn’t time for a nap.”

  He jogged past me without another word, leveling his mag-rifle and shooting down half a dozen Janissaries who were coming over the rock wall and taking aim at the auto-cannon. Glenn was firing that alone, targeting the second wave of enemy troops still emerging from the smoke and advancing on our position. Langon was down. I didn’t know then, but he taken a hit early. His suit’s auto-repair managed to close the breach, saving his life for all of ten minutes. He took a second hit, this time in the neck, and he fell to the ground, dead.

  I climbed up to my feet, watching the lieutenant for a second. I glanced over the rock wall – there were no troops approa
ching my position, so I spun to the left. All along the line there were Janissaries pouring up and over the broken ridge. It was a confused melee, with point blank fire and blade fights. The Caliphate troops had their own version of the molecular blade, and it was longer and more effective than ours. They trained with it more than we did too, and they thought they could beat us in a hand to hand fight. But our close range fire drill was very effective, and not many of them got close enough to one of our troops to force a knife fight.

  The snipers played a key role too, picking off enemy officers and non-coms, targeting them even when they stood centimeters away from our own troops. Our sniper tactics and training were light-years ahead of theirs, and it showed. This range was child’s play to the sharpshooters, and they scored hit after hit. The company’s three snipers went a long way toward helping us cope with the enemy numbers.

  Still, we were gradually being pushed back from the ridgeline. The enemy’s third wave came pouring over the rocks, and we had nothing left to face them. I was standing against the outcropping, with enemy troops climbing over to my right and left. I crouched down and fired as they came over, facing left for a second than switching to the right. I heard the autoloader slamming my last clip into place, and I knew things would be over soon. We were being overrun at every point, and enemy troops were racing to the rear. The snipers’ positions were compromised, and one by one they were taken out.

  I was determined to go down fighting and not panic, but it’s hard to stay cool when you know you’re likely to die any instant. I just kept firing, bursts now to conserve my last ammo, and somehow I didn’t get hit. My heart was pounding and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. I just kept fighting, waiting for the inevitable end. My resolve was strong, but my mind wandered. I wondered if it would hurt. Would I die in an instant, never knowing what hit me? Or in agony, bleeding into my armor, choking on the toxic Tombstone atmosphere?

  I was so focused I wasn’t even watching the scanner. If I had been I would have seen them. Reinforcements, a whole company, running forward with blades out, into the melee. The enemy, weakened by the staggering losses they had already taken, turned to face the new threat. But now they were on the defensive, their momentum lost. They fought bitterly, but in the end our fresh reserves were too much for them. The troops who’d made it over the ridge were almost entirely wiped out and their reserve waves, seeing that the attack had failed, retreated.

  It was the first significant battle I’d been in, and we’d won. I was glad, but I didn’t feel the elation I’d expected, just crushing fatigue, and the somber realization of the losses we’d suffered. As the adrenalin and anger subsided, the pain and sadness took its place. It had been a hard several days, but we’d proven our worth. And we’d met the Janissaries head on and bested them.

  It had been a difficult and costly day, but it wasn’t over yet. The enemy had spent their strength on that last attack and, while we were just as battered, we’d managed to stabilize our greatly thinned line. A counterattack was out of the question, but we were in good shape to repel anything they had left to throw at us. Nevertheless, both sides remained on their respective ridges, trading sporadic long-range fire.

  The lieutenant walked over to me, crouched low behind the ridge. He was working his way down the reduced frontage of the vastly shrunken platoon, checking on each of us. There were only fifteen of us left in the line, though of the 35 casualties, about 20 were wounded or suffering from suit malfunctions. Maybe ten were wounded lightly enough that they’d be treated right here on Tombstone and return to duty fairly quickly. The rest would be shipped off to one of the Marine hospitals, probably Armstrong, and likely be reassigned elsewhere when they recovered.

  A unit is an odd thing; it has a life of its own. The traditions, history, and achievements create a culture that survives, even as the soldiers themselves come and go. The men and women die or get reassigned, but the unit goes on, remaining much the same as it was as long as it doesn’t lose too many people too quickly. With about half of the personnel still standing or likely to return soon, I was confident the platoon would remain the place I’d come to think of as home. Especially with the lieutenant. I knew he’d make sure it stayed the same place.

  He was about ten meters from me when it happened. He was facing in my direction, walking right toward me. He was very hands on, and he wanted to see firsthand that each of us was OK. He was just passing a section of the rocky wall that dipped low, forcing him to crouch further down to stay in cover. I saw it all, and to this day I remember it as it were in slow motion.

  He turned suddenly. I don’t know if someone from behind commed him and he instinctively turned or he saw something on his scanner, but he spun around, and when he did he came up out of his crouch. It was careless, a small slip made by the most careful and consistent man I’d ever met. That one time he lost his focus, let his guard slip. One small mistake that 99 times out of 100 would have been harmless. But that day it was tragic.

  I saw his head snap back hard. His body seemed suspended in the air, though I know that is just my memory of it. He crumpled and fell, sliding down the slight embankment and landing on his back.

  I rushed over, screaming into the com for a medic as I did. I can’t remember if I kept my own head down in my panic, but if I was careless, my fortune was stronger that day than the lieutenant’s. He was lying with his head on the low side of the slope. I reached over and cradled his upper body, lifting his head as I did.

  The sniper’s shot had struck him in the neck, tearing a huge gash in his armor. The suit’s repair circuits had managed to patch the breach with self-expanding polymer, and while it didn’t look too secure, it was keeping out Tombstone’s heat and toxins for the moment.

  But the wound itself was mortal. In a hospital he could have been easily saved. If I could have opened his armor, a medic could probably have kept him alive until he was evac’d…even I might have managed it. But opening the suit would kill him on the spot, and the wound was just too much for the suit’s trauma control system, which was damaged by the shot and only partially functional.

  He turned his head slightly to look up at me. “Darius…” His voice was throaty, labored. His lungs were filling with his own blood.

  “Yes, sir? I’m here.” My heart was pounding and I was in shock, but I was determined to be strong for him, as I knew we would be for me. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Tell the men and women.” He was rasping, coughing up blood, trying to get the words out. “Tell them I am proud…” He coughed again, trying to continue speaking through the gurgling sounds. “…proud of them. Tell them I was honored to lead them, and…” More coughing. “…and, tell them I know they will always make me proud.”

  “Yes, sir.” I was fighting back a sea of tears, but there was nothing more important to me than to be there for this man in that place.

  “Darius?” He turned his head. “Darius?” He was slipping away, not sure where he was.

  “I’m here, sir. It’s Darius.”

  His voice was weak, almost inaudible. My AI automatically cranked up the volume so I could hear. “Tell them I’m proud to die here with so many of our brothers and sisters.” He went into another coughing spasm and he started speaking incomprehensibly, hallucinating about something, though what I couldn’t tell. I had lots of chatter on my com, from others in the platoon, from the medic I could see trotting over…but I shut it all down except for the lieutenant’s line.

  Finally, he stopped the random talking and his coughing subsided. He turned his head slightly, further in my direction, and he said, “The Corps forever.” He was silent after that, and I knew he was gone. The medic knelt down, but I told him it was too late. A great Marine was dead.

  His last thoughts, dying painfully on a hellish world far from home, were for us, for the platoon he’d loved and protected and led with such dedication. People speak of duty and devotion, but the lieutenant had lived it to his last breath. He was
a good man sent to an impossible place, and I can’t even count how many of his soldiers he pulled through that nightmarish campaign. We lived, many of us, to leave Tombstone, but we left him behind, having given his last full measure to the Corps.

  Chapter 10

  2253 AD

  Armstrong Medical Center

  Armstrong Colony

  Gamma Pavonis III

  I’d like to say I left Tombstone triumphantly, amid victory parades and celebrations, but that’s not how it happened. I didn’t march out at all; I left as a casualty, unconscious and kept alive by machines. I’d come through the battle of McCraw’s Ridge, fighting non-stop for three days without a scratch, but it was a tiny skirmish three weeks later that took me down. My squad was on a routine sweep of the perimeter when my luck ran out. We encountered an enemy patrol and exchanged a few shots before both sides broke off. Nobody had a stomach for a serious fight, not so soon after the Cauldron.

  But those few shots were enough. One of the rounds caught me in the shoulder, and as far as I know, I was the only one hit. It wasn’t a bad wound, but it impacted at a strange angle, tearing a large chunk off my armor. On a more hospitable world it would have been minor, but we were on Tombstone. The repair system in my suit tried to restore atmospheric integrity, but the hole was just too big. The corporal managed to get a manual patch over it, but not before I’d breathed a half a lungful of Tombstone’s noxious atmosphere. It was as if I’d inhaled fire; the pain was unbearable. It was like suffocating and burning to death both. I could feel the blood pouring out of my nose and welling up in my throat. It was only a second or two before the suit’s trauma control kicked in and flooded my system with painkillers and tranqs, but that instant stretched out like an eternity, and it was nothing but relief when the darkness finally took me.