Portal Wars: The Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  There was a brief pause. It was eerily quiet, not a sound but the wind whipping through the valley. The breeze was a welcome relief from the oppressive heat, but the air felt like it was coming off a blast furnace. It helped, but not much.

  Tony Black had been looking at Taylor, but now he turned back toward the massed troops behind him. “You heard the sergeant.” His voice was higher pitched than Jake’s but his volume was a match any day. “Get your asses moving. I want you reset for the exercise in five minutes or I’ll beat the sergeant to it and rip off your heads and crap down your fucking necks. I shit you not.” Black had the foulest mouth in the section. Where he’d come from, that little speech would have been a sloppy wet kiss.

  The troops moved quickly, scrambling across the sand, taking positions facing each other. The section was split into two forces, and they were fighting a simulated meeting engagement. They were a little over ten klicks from base, and they’d marched the whole way in the blazing sun. They’d be marching back too, but at least it would be closer to twilight then. Erastus was never comfortable, but it was marginally less unbearable when only one sun was in the sky.

  Jake stood and looked out at the troops getting ready to run the maneuver again. Black’s team, and most of Bear’s too, were already in place. They were the veterans, the guys who’d been on-planet awhile and learned to survive. But 3rd and 4th teams were mostly rookies, and they moved slower. If they’d been under fire, he thought, half of them would be dead already.

  It wasn’t by design that Taylor’s veterans and recruits were so segregated. The Machines had accomplished that a month earlier…just before the entire 2nd Battalion was transferred north, out of the steaming equatorial jungle. Denny Parker had been part of Taylor’s inner circle and the section’s exec before Blackie took his place. A corporal on the cusp of becoming a sergeant, he and almost half the section were cut off by a sudden enemy attack. By the time Taylor and the rest of the men broke through, there were only 2 survivors. Parker wasn’t one of them.

  Taylor’s first thought was to reorganize the section, balancing out the experienced troops. But he didn’t do it. The 8-man teams were extremely close knit units. The men of a team fought together, bled together. They shared out their rations, listened to each other’s stories. They were families, the only families any of these men would ever have again. When Taylor first arrived on Erastus, scared, angry, and desperately lonely, it was the men of his team that pulled him through it. Some section commanders would have moved names around a roster sheet, but not Jake Taylor. He bumped Karl Young up to team leader and moved him from the 1st Team to the newly reconstituted 3rd, but otherwise he left his guys where they were. He owed them that much.

  Young was screaming at his team now, berating them for their sluggish efforts. “What part of move your asses don’t you people understand?”

  Taylor was too far away to get a good look, but he knew Frantic well, and he could practically see the vein bulging on his neck as he urged his men on. The corporal sounded a little like a martinet, shouting at his soldiers, asking them to do the impossible. Taylor knew better. Young acted like he was crazy, but there was no one you wanted at your side more in a desperate fight. Jake had found that out a few months earlier, when he went down during a routine patrol. Young killed two Machines about to finish him off, and he carried the wounded Taylor 7 klicks in the midday sun. It wasn’t until they got back to basecamp that Taylor realized Young had also been hit – twice – and he’d carried his stricken CO all the way back, wounded and bleeding himself.

  “Alright, Blackie…” Taylor spoke softly into the tiny mic on his helmet. “…let’s do this again.”

  “I’m going to hear from Battalion again, Blackie.” They’d been back a few hours, and most of the section was sacked. Taylor had authorized a double water ration for his troops…in addition to burning through 85,000 practice rounds during his exercise. Water was scarce in the desert zones of Erastus, and even in the jungle belt where it was plentiful, it was so infested with aggressive pathogens it cost a fortune to purify. And ammunition was worse…it had to come through the Portal. Some of the other worlds had onsite production facilities, or at least that was the rumor. But Erastus didn’t…not yet. And bringing crates of ammunition through the Portal was expensive.

  Taylor took good care of his men, excellent care. That usually translated into issuing them more rations and burning through ammunition on unscheduled training exercises. There had been two formal inquiries about excessive use of supplies, but Lieutenant Cadogan had appropriately “filed” them. One of these days, he figured, UN Command Erastus would get tired of being ignored, and pursue things more aggressively. But it hadn’t happened yet. And his boys had earned that extra ration.

  “Tell them to suck my dick.” Blackie didn’t pull verbal punches, especially not when sitting in base shooting the shit with Taylor. “How the fuck do they expect us to keep these little baby cherries alive? Half of ’em don’t have hair one on their balls.” Black had less respect for rules than anyone Jake had ever met, a vestige of the Philly free zone streets, he supposed. Still, he couldn’t understand how someone with no respect for authority could make such a good soldier. And Black was one of the best.

  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 f
rom 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 on-planet 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 mistake.

  “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 hat
ed 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 Free zone.” 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.”