by Richard Fox
Morris looked over at Yeltzin, his squad mate, a few windows over. Yeltzin mimed a yacking mouth with his hand. In the hours since the Rangers had barely made it into the city, nothing had gone right. Comms were down. The chain of command was remade and then broken again after the next Kesaht attack hit a command post and killed half the remaining officers.
Morris’s squad got separated from what remained of their platoon when Rakka overran their fighting position. A group of Ibarran defenders had pulled them into a tunnel and incorporated him and Yeltzin into their ad hoc defense team. This, he’d decided, was not in the recruitment video he’d seen back in Phoenix.
The few legionnaires had proved more than capable. The militia all seemed to have been through basic training and knew which end of the rifle to point at the enemy, but their tactical acumen fell off rapidly after that.
He heard the tank stop, then the snap and squeal of treads against pavement as it changed direction. Placing his thumb against the grenade, Morris set it to Anti-Armor Close Range. The grenade would explode into a shaped charge and send a small depleted uranium lance of metal into whatever he threw it at. Getting close enough to do the job was the hard part.
The floor bumped up, knocking debris everywhere.
Morris fumbled with his rifle and tried to scramble into the corner. A metal hatch lifted up and slammed into the floor, sending dust billowing everywhere. Glowing lights pierced through the cloud and a giant shadow rose up.
Morris thumbed his safety off, his training taking over.
“Friendly.” Gideon’s voice cut through the dust. The upper half of his armor became clear as the dust settled.
Morris glanced out a window again, the sound of the Kesaht tank lost in the noise of Gideon’s arrival.
“Tank,” Morris said.
“What did you call me?” Gideon asked.
“Kesaht tank.” Morris jammed a thumb at the wall.
Gideon crawled out of the tunnel in the floor and knelt next to the blown-out gap in the building’s wall.
“How many?” he asked.
“We see two up here,” the legionnaire said from the second floor.
Gideon’s helm and rotary cannon snapped up. The legionnaires ducked away.
“They’re friendly too,” Morris said. “Where did you come from?”
“Outlying pump station. I have civilian prisoners and their wounded,” Gideon said. Etor climbed out of the tunnel and helped more of his people out. “Etor, this is not the utility district.”
“Knew we should’ve taken that left,” Etor grumbled.
“Prisoners?” the legionnaire said from the second floor. “You’ve got the wrong idea here.”
“Tactical situation’s been in flux,” Yeltzin said to Gideon. “We’ve gone from controlled chaos to complete mess and back again more than once. Ibarras are evaccing their civilians through the spaceport. Colonel Martel’s got us holding the line while that happens.”
“And in the absence of further orders, we’ll attack,” Morris said.
“Where’s Martel?” Gideon asked.
“Sir, I don’t exactly know where the hell we are.” Morris pointed to the ceiling. “Locals don’t need maps and have yet to lead us astray.”
Gideon looked up at the legionnaire.
“Can you get these civilians to an evac point? Got one on a stretcher,” the armor said.
“I can,” the Ibarran said, pointing toward the Kesaht lines. “But we won’t get far with those tanks on us, and we’ll move slow with the wounded.”
“I’ll deal with the tank,” Gideon said. “I didn’t come here to babysit. Aignar.” The other armor’s helm popped up out of the tunnel and he lifted two civilians up. “I’ll draw their fire, you attack once I have their attention. Cha’ril will transport the wounded with the locals. Link back up with us after that.”
“Comms are out,” Cha’ril’s voice echoed out of the tunnel. “How do I find you?”
“Is the cavalry here? How many of you are down there?” Morris leaned over to peer into the tunnel.
“We’ll find Colonel Martel. He’ll be where the fighting’s the hardest. Meet us there,” Gideon said. He crawled out of the building and rose to his full height. The Ibarrans on the second floor tensed up as he looked at them.
Gideon pointed two fingers at his optics, then one finger at the Ibarrans, and took off at a trot down the street.
“Wait—how are you going to get past the tank’s shields?” Morris called out.
Gideon charged the magnetic accelerators in his twin gauss cannons as his audio receptors filtered through the noise of the city and pinpointed the Kesaht tank a block away. It was moving forward slowly. Gideon ran along the street and then went prone. He spotted the tank’s treads through the windows and aimed his gauss barrels at the center of his target.
He fired. The twin bolts blew through the walls and struck the tank’s flank. There was a flare of blue light around the treads…and it lurched forward.
Gideon popped back onto his feet just as the tank’s turret boomed. Flying bricks and glass bounced off his armor as the shell tore through the building behind him.
“Damn it!” Gideon charged through the building between him and the tank, betting his life on the tank’s reloading the turret slower than he could close the distance. The tank was squat, and the hull bore tribal markings. A tangle of still-bloody bones hung from halfway down the barrel.
Suddenly, a machine gun in the upper turret opened up. Bullets beat against Gideon’s armor as he veered to one side, keeping out of the way of the turret as it turned toward him. He felt each hit against his armor, heard the bang through his suit’s audio and through the womb as the machine gun assaulted him.
Gideon ducked underneath the turret just as it fired again. He punched the machine-gun port and crushed the red-hot muzzle into scrap. Then, grabbing the base of the turret’s tube, he swung himself onto the forward edge of the tank. Gideon lifted his right foot and his diamond-tipped anchor stabbed out of his heel. He rammed the spike into the driver’s hatch and felt it hit home—into something soft.
As Gideon slammed his fingertips into the edge of a top hatch and dug into the metal seam, he heard the squeal of treads and looked up. Another tank rolled into the next intersection and brought its turret to bear.
Gideon dropped down in front of the tank he’d been standing on and ducked.
The other tank fired on its fellow Kesaht, the shell breaking through the rear armor and hitting the ammunition stored in the back of the turret. The tank exploded, sending Gideon flying into a wall that crumbled against the impact.
His HUD went red as his armor tried to parse the damage across his front. Gideon found himself in a seat made of bricks, his arms propped up in the building’s wall. Bits of the destroyed tank were embedded across his chest and legs, still smoking.
The other tank rolled forward. Gideon tried to get up, but his servos locked up.
The tank aimed its barrel at him, and Gideon stared into the darkness of the muzzle as he fought to stand up.
Aignar landed on the tank, grabbed the tube, and pulled it up, the metal groaning. The tank fired, sending the round into the air and missing Gideon. The barrel snapped in half with a crack and smoke wafted out of the stubby section still attached to the turret. Aignar impaled his improvised stake into the top of the turret, collapsing the top hatch. He tossed the tube aside, jammed his gauss cannon arm into the opening, and fired a single bullet that ricocheted through the inside of the tank.
Aignar jumped off as smoke billowed out of the turret and flames licked the edges of the hatch.
“Sir?” Aignar grabbed Gideon’s hand and pulled him to his feet.
“The shields are the best thing on those hunks of junk.” Gideon plucked a bit of shrapnel from his chest and dropped it. He bent a knee, then locked it out with a snap. “Close-range concussion, had to restart the actuators.”
“Where to now?” Aignar asked.
&nb
sp; Gideon pointed to tracer fire and explosions to the south of the city.
“There. Martel will be there.”
Chapter 25
Admiral Lettow fought back a curse as the destroyer Dempsey exploded inside his holo tank, her death taking a number of the Kesaht fighters down with her. He rewound the last few minutes of the destroyer’s life in the tank.
“Porcupine rounds proving more effective than our simulations,” Paxton said. “Though I don’t know what will run out first—the munitions or their fighters.”
Lettow swung the holo back to the battle. His picket ships kept up a constant barrage of missiles that burst into self-guiding munitions in the middle of Kesaht fighter formations. His capital ships hung back, their batteries trained on the oncoming enemy armada, still too far away to engage with any degree of success. The enemy had fed its fighters into the meat grinder of the Terran Union’s anti-void craft munitions. They’d managed to overwhelm a few destroyers at significant losses, tactics no human commander would use.
“Thirty minutes until artillery ships have range,” Paxton said.
Lettow zoomed in on the Ibarra ships. Most of Makarov’s fleet had taken position over the main city, her fighters and landers making constant trips between the city and ships. Two carriers and escorts had joined the Terran formation, but their captains had remained tight-lipped, sending out strikes to beat back any incursions through Lettow’s screen.
A single Ibarran cargo ship remained over the northern pole, a squadron of battle cruisers guarding it.
“Ericson,” the admiral said, pulling up a screen for his fellow commander.
“—said I want flechette rounds loaded. This is combat, not a training exercise. The safety protocols are secondary to getting the goddamn munitions loaded, Gunnery.” Ericson didn’t yell, but the tone of her voice could have cut steel. She finally noticed the open channel with Lettow.
“Ardennes?”
“Normandy, what are the Ibarras doing? Why did Makarov leave so much of her line back with a cargo ship?” Lettow asked.
“Decent question. Better question is why we’re taking it on the chin while she holds back.”
“You have the fight. It’s time to see how committed the Ibarras really are to this joint defense.” Lettow muted Ericson but kept her line open so she could monitor his next hail.
Makarov appeared a few seconds later. He considered this young woman, who did bear a resemblance to the long-lost admiral and hero of Earth.
“Lettow, I’m impressed with how well your ships are—”
“What are you doing with that cargo ship?” Lettow snapped. “You’ve got a token force with me while most of your guns are parked over the city.”
“This is an evacuation.” Makarov’s eyes glittered. “The more ships I put to that effort, the sooner it will end.”
“The void is no place for ships full of civilians, Admiral,” Lettow said. “One hit to the cargo hold and they’re breathing vacuum. You’re young, but you’re not stupid.”
“Why don’t I establish void superiority before conducting the evacuation, just like the manual demands? Because the Crucible is down and will be inoperable for days, that’s why. I’ve got my own way home,” she said.
“There’s only one Crucible in this system.” Lettow shook his head. “We need a solution to the Kesaht that are here before we worry about an exit.”
“Incorrect,” Makarov said. “I told you we have our own way home.”
Lettow reached into the holo and zoomed in on the mysterious cargo ship. The bays were open and ship tenders with oversized engines brought long segments of dark stone stacked in the ship like cordwood.
“You have a modular gate…” Lettow said.
“Indeed. Your government has their R&D program in the works. The Ibarra Nation’s had a greater need for the technology and we have a number of working prototypes,” Makarov said.
“That’s how your fleet escaped Oricon,” Lettow said.
“And that’s how you’ll get your ships out,” she said. “Unless you want to slug it out with the entire Kesaht armada. You hold the line until I’ve got the civilians away, then you’ve got a one-way ticket to a nearby system with a Crucible.”
Lettow ran a quick simulation in the holo tank.
“The Kesaht armada will reach the planet in less than four hours. You’re going to get every civilian, your fleet and mine through that gate before then?”
“No.” She frowned. “As usual, the only resource we don’t have enough of is time. But we can slow the Kesaht…just need a bulldog. Which is where you come in.”
“Details. Now.”
Chapter 26
A constant whine filled Major Whitelaw’s ears as he came to. Feeling pain around his ankles, he rolled onto his side and found both his boots in a small fire. He crawled forward, the left side of his body stinging from the pain of a dozen lacerations.
As his hearing returned, the sound of gauss fire and shouting came through and he saw a gauss rifle jutting out from under a broken armor panel from the city’s wall. Whitelaw grabbed it and pulled out half a weapon, the capacitor sparking as he tossed it aside.
“Hanson!” The major crawled onto his knees and that hurt too. The walls shook as Kesaht artillery beyond the walls kept up their barrage. “Anybody?”
The bunker he’d been in had taken a direct hit. He touched a fallen Ranger and the cracked screen on his faceplate showed a flat line for the other Ranger’s heart. The snap of gauss fire came through the door that hung off the top hinge. He coughed and shouldered his way through.
Rangers and legionnaires stood on the parapet, firing over the side and ducking as Kesaht energy bolts snapped up at them.
A legionnaire grabbed Whitelaw by the shoulders. The cross on his faceplate faded away and he saw Hanson’s face.
“Status,” Whitelaw mumbled, tasting blood but choking it back.
“Wave attack,” Hanson said, pressing an Ibarra pistol into his hand. “I’ve got close air sport coming in, but it won’t help us.”
“They teach you to quit in your legion? Rangers always…accomplish…” He leaned against the wall and felt a pain deep in his stomach, though he didn’t look at the wound. Knowing how bad it was wouldn’t make any difference.
“Shut up and shoot.” Hanson turned Whitelaw toward the firing port. The Ibarran hefted a large gauss rifle and fired down the wall.
Whitelaw put his finger to the pistol’s trigger and pulled a frag grenade off his harness. Ignoring the blood on the weapon, he flicked the pin away with his thumb, looked around the firing port, and froze.
Climbing with their bare hands, thousands of Rakka soldiers swarmed up the walls and open-topped transports disgorged more of the foot soldiers behind the tide of bodies. Sanheel officers moved amongst the Rakka still clambering to get up the walls, the Sanheel beating at the Rakka, kicking some for no reason Whitelaw could tell.
A line of Kesaht tanks in the plains beyond the walls fired, pounding the defensive positions atop the walls.
Whitelaw tossed the grenade over the edge and emptied the pistol into the oncoming wave as fast as he could pull the trigger. Accuracy meant little when it was almost impossible to miss.
“We need armor support!” Hanson ducked back as Kesaht energy bolts sprang off the parapet.
“I thought you said your armor was here.” Whitelaw reached around his back and removed a thick metal rod.
“They’re to the east, dealing with a breakthrough.” The legionnaire touched the side of his helmet. “Still two minutes out on that air support.”
“At least you have comms,” Whitelaw said. “Going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.”
He pulled the cap on one end of the rod back and set the color of the star cluster to red. Then he twisted the rod, feeling it click through his gloves.
Whitelaw struck the cap against the metal floor of the parapet and a red spark the size of his fist spat out and flew down the street, ca
sting blood-colored light that shone off broken windows. Two more sparks shot off, then Whitelaw tossed it aside.
“If they saw that, my armor will come.” Whitelaw looked over and found Hanson slumped against the parapet.
“Hanson?” He gave the Ibarran a shake, and he fell back, still eyes staring up at the sky, a bloody hole in his chest. The muted sound of shouting came from the legionnaire’s helmet.
Whitelaw twisted the helmet free and gently laid the dead man to one side.
“This is Shrike Team Delta, how copy?” came from the helmet.
“Delta, this is Major Whitelaw, 85th Ranger Regiment. Hanson is down. ETA?”
Whitelaw hefted the legionnaire’s oversized rifle and was struggling to wield it with one hand when a Rakka jumped over the parapet and howled. A Ranger shot it in the head and threw the body off the side before it could hit the ground. Whitelaw heard a growl and swung the heavy rifle up just as another Rakka stuck its head through a firing port. One squeeze of the trigger blew it in half. The head and shoulder landed at Whitelaw’s feet and he kicked it away.
“Enemy is too close!” shouted the pilot on the other end of the radio. “No way we can—”
“I know how goddamn close they are! Fire on my position, you understand? Fire on my position!”
A hairy Rakka hand reached down and grabbed Whitelaw by the wrist. He pulled against the alien, his power armor proving more than a match for the Rakka’s muscles. The Rakka landed in a puddle of blood and swiped at Whitelaw.
The Ranger grabbed the alien by the throat and stared into the beady red eyes. He slammed Hanson’s helmet into the Rakka’s head, cracking the cybernetic implants on the side of its skull, and continued to beat the helmet against the Rakka’s head over and over as the sound of jet engines closed in.
****
“Are you sure?” Martel came to a stop as he looked toward the southern wall.
“Red star cluster, I’m positive,” Tongea said.
The thunderclap of bombs reverberated through the city.
