by Jay Allan
Cain flipped on his com. “Colonel Clarkson, you may commence your operation whenever you are ready.” The words came slowly, sticking in his throat as he forced them out. Clarkson’s attack was the right tactical move…Cain was sure of that. The enemy was inexperienced with the giant Obliterators, uncertain how to counter their attacks. Clarkson’s people had a good chance of disordering the enemy force and stalling their advance. And if they could do that, the rest of Cain’s retreating Marines would have time to march farther south and set up a strong defense. But it was also a suicide mission, and Cain knew he’d be stunned if any of the colonel’s people survived.
“Yes sir.” Clarkson’s voice was sharp, crisp, his enthusiasm cutting through Cain like a knife. “We’re moving out now.”
The veteran colonel knew what his people were about to do; he understood the odds. But he also knew there was no other choice. The Marines on Armstrong were hopelessly outnumbered…low on supplies and near defeat. His Obliterators might just buy the time they needed to pull back and set up a last ditch defense north of the capital. It probably wouldn’t make any difference in the end, but there wasn’t anything a doomed force could do except play for time.
Cain sighed. Sending people to their deaths…it was something he’d done before, far too many times. It never got easier. Clarkson and his people would join the legions of lost Marines Cain knew waited for him. They used to haunt his sleep, their cold dead faces staring back at him in the dark of night, but somewhere along the way he’d made a peace of sorts with them. Most of them, at least. He knew he would join them one day, that one of his many battlefields would be his last. Cain was a cold-blooded butcher, but when he sent his Marines into the meatgrinder he shared the danger with them. They’d seen him in the front lines time and time again, assault rifle in hand, fighting alongside the rank and file. When he ordered them forward into the fires of hell, they knew, all of them, that Erik Cain had been there himself…and would be again. He was reckless for a general, too ready to charge into the thick of the fighting. Earlier in his career he’d been repeatedly ordered to take fewer chances…commands he’d unilaterally ignored. His loss would be a disaster for the Corps, and a crushing blow to the morale of his Marines, but none of that mattered. Cain did what he had to do. He knew it was the only way he could live with himself.
“Good luck, Colonel.” Cain’s voice was somber, grim. He flipped off the com, closing his watery eyes tightly for a few seconds, indulging his grief. Then he forced Clarkson’s people out of his mind and turned back toward the retreating columns moving past him on their way north.
“Cooper, let’s speed things up here.” He was staring at the retreating Marines as he commed Brown. He could see they were beaten. They walked past him slowly, hunched over, dragging their feet through the muddy grasslands. Their armor was black and pitted, showing the signs of weeks of hard fighting. He’d been in dozens of desperate battles, but this was the first time he looked out over his men and women and realized they were broken. He couldn’t fault them. They didn’t lack for courage or dedication. But they’d gone right from the brutality of the war against the First Imperium into the hopeless battle for Armstrong. There was a limit to what men and women could endure, even Marines. And Cain knew his people had reached it.
“Yes sir.” Cooper Brown was exhausted too, but there was something keeping him going, helping him deal with the desperation and defeat hanging thick in the air. Brown had fought one of the first battles against the First Imperium. He’d been a retired Marine living on the planet Adelaide when the robotic legions invaded. He led the planetary militia through one of the worst holocausts imaginable. His soldiers – and the surviving citizens – were trapped for months in underground shelters, short on supplies and facing terrible deprivation. He’d been forced to impose strict discipline and rationing on the miserable, suffering civilians, driving them almost to starvation.
Intellectually, he knew he’d saved their lives, but he found it impossible to deal with the hatred they directed at him. He knew it was driven by the suffering they had endured…by the grief and despair over those they’d lost. But it tore at his insides, and came close to costing him his sanity. Adelaide had been his adopted home, and he’d given all he had to pull its people through the horror of the invasion. And now he was the most hated man in the colony’s history.
Part of Cooper Brown died in those tunnels. He left Adelaide forever and returned to the Corps, fighting alongside Cain ever since. He found a new purpose, and he was grateful he’d been allowed to serve again with his brothers and sisters. The Corps was the only real home he had, one he wished he’d never left. But he had. Adelaide was part of his life too, and he’d carry the psychic wounds he’d taken there until the day he died. He had originally excused the way the civilians there treated him, but as time passed, he became angry and resentful too. Some days he was proud of the work the Marines did defending the civilians of the Alliance. Others, he was bitter, wondering if they were worth the sacrifices his brethren made every time they went into battle. He found a kindred spirit in Erik Cain, another Marine who gave everything he had to defend a humanity he didn’t really believe in. Cain knew there were some people worth saving, but not most of them. Still, when the bugle called, he was there, rifle in hand.
Whatever his feelings and motivations, however, Brown had served well as a returned Marine and contributed his share to the constant fighting. But he felt like he was living on borrowed time. He’d been ready to meet his death since the day he walked out of the shelter and into the light of Adelaide’s sun. It hadn’t caught up to him yet, but he knew one day it would.
Cain took a deep breath. “Cooper, I need your help.” His voice sounded weak, uncertain. Cain was near the end of his endurance. More than anything he wanted to take his rifle in hand and march south toward the enemy. Dying in action would be quick and merciful…a fate vastly preferable to watching the last of his beloved Marines broken and killed.
“I’m with you, Erik.” Brown could see Cain’s agony. He understood it in a way few others could. “Whatever you need me to do.”
“I want you to go north and start setting up a defensive line.” Cain’s voice was dead, monotone. “They’ve had it…” – he gestured toward the column of battered Marines marching north – “…and I don’t want them to die running.” His tone changed, still grim, but with some of his old fire returning. “If this is the end of the Corps, then we’re going to make it a fitting one. We’re going to make a last stand to be proud of.” He turned and stared into Brown’s eyes. “You understand?”
Brown nodded. “Yes, General.” In that instant he understood the raw determination that drove Erik Cain. He knew Cain had lost all hope of winning the fight on Armstrong. But he still wouldn’t give up, not while there was still a breath in his body or blood pumping through his arteries. Brown felt his face tighten, and his hands balled into fists. Erik Cain would never give up…and neither would Cooper Brown. “I understand, sir.”
“These three are critical cases. They need to stay in their life support units. We have to find room for them on one of the transports.” Sarah Linden stood in the muddy clearing, her head snapping around from one direction to the other. Her hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, but a few dozen hairs had worked their way free, and they blew wildly in the breeze. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, the result of fatigue and way too many stims, and her light blue overalls were covered with dried blood.
Supervising the bug out of the field hospital was enough of a job, but she was in charge of the civilian withdrawal as well. Erik had ordered everyone to evacuate and move north, and he’d put her in overall command of the operation. The Marines were falling back, planning a last ditch defense just north of Astria. That meant giving up the capital, but there wasn’t a choice. There was no defensible terrain between the Sentinel and Astria.
“Yes, Colonel.” Sergeant Carlyle stood rigidly, his voice firm and confident. “I’ve got anoth
er 5 light transports on the way. They should be here in…” – he glanced at his chronometer – “five minutes. We should be able to get those wounded on them…and another 20 of our staff as well.”
“Excellent, Sergeant.” Sarah was impressed. She couldn’t even imagine where the resourceful non-com had found another 5 trucks, but she was grateful he had. Carlyle had been a workhorse, performing wonders arranging transport for the wounded and her staff alike. He was tireless, and he drove the small force under him mercilessly. He reminded her in many ways of a young Erik Cain. He had the same coldblooded determination, the single-minded obsession with getting the job done…and the same ability to inspire those he was pushing to the limits of their endurance. He wasn’t a Marine…not yet at least. But Sarah promised herself if they made it through this battle she’d see him admitted to the Corps and sent to the Academy. Ian Carlyle was just the kind of warrior the Marines needed to fill the depleted officer ranks. If the Corps was going to survive, she thought, they’d have to find a lot of Carlyles.
“What else do you need done, Sarah?”
She spun around, glaring at the hunched-over figure standing before her. “What the hell are you doing out of bed, Isaac?” General Isaac Merrick had led a forlorn hope against the newly-landed enemy forces, buying time for Brown’s people to form a defensive line. He was wounded badly in the fighting, but his survivors dragged him back and Sarah patched him up. “I told you to stay in bed, didn’t I?” She shook her head. “You’re just as bad as Erik,” she added, fighting to keep a smile off her face.
Merrick stood in front of her, leaning on a pair of crutches, obviously in considerable pain. “I’m fine, Sarah. At least I can stop being totally useless and help with the withdrawal.” He still faced a significant recovery time, but he knew Cain needed every man. He might not be able to take his place in the battle lines yet, but he’d be damned if he was going to lay around in a hospital bed while Marines were fighting for their lives.
She sighed. The doctor in her wanted to send him back to his bed, even if it took half a dozen guards to get him there. But the Sarah Linden who had spent most of her adult life as Erik Cain’s companion knew when to compromise. Some brick walls were just too thick to break through.
“OK, Isaac, but only what I tell you to do.” She looked right at Merrick, the intensity of her stare leaving no room for discussion. “Because if you tear open those wounds, I swear to God, you can patch them up yourself next time.”
He forced a smile. “Got it, Sarah.” He tried to straighten up, wincing as he did. “You’re the boss.”
She grinned, not believing his humble acquiescence for a second. “But first, go see Samitch. She’ll give you an extra dose for the pain.”
He shook his head. “I’m OK. It’s not too bad.” Merrick knew they were running low on medical supplies. “Save it. We both know there’ll be more wounded before this is done.”
She nodded. “OK, tough guy. But promise me if it gets too bad you’ll take something.”
“Who could say no to you?” He grinned. “If Erik hadn’t gotten to you first…”
She smiled. “That’ll be enough out of you, General Merrick.”
“Very well, Doctor Colonel Sarah. Now, how can I help?”
“Actually, there is something you can do.” She paused. “I think I’ve made a few breakthroughs with our prisoner.” Sarah had been working on breaking down Anderson-45’s conditioning. She knew the Marines’ sole prisoner was the key to understanding their clone enemies. Progress had been slow, but she felt she was starting to get somewhere. “You can keep an eye on our prisoner. Talk to him…about anything. I think the more interactions he has, the easier it will be to get through his conditioning.”
Merrick smiled again, amused at Sarah’s cleverness. She’d managed to come up with a task requiring no physical activity at all, but one that was too important for him to refuse. “Of course, Sarah.” He winked at her. “And congrats, Doc. I doubt I’ll work up much of a sweat chatting with our guest. Or tear open any newly fused wounds.”
She smiled and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Well, you looked like shit when they carried you back here. I have to protect my handiwork, don’t I?”
“Let’s go, people.” Clarkson spoke on the unitwide com, his voice raw, angry. “These bastards killed General McDaniels…now let’s show them what that’s gonna cost. The rest of the Marines on Armstrong are counting on us…General Cain is counting on us.” His fingers were curled up into fists, and the servo-mechanicals transmitted the movements to the suit’s massive hands. He raised an arm in the air, shaking the huge fist as he shouted into the com. “General McDaniels is watching us, people…she is with us as she has been since the start. Are we going to let her down?”
The com line erupted, the raw screams of hundreds of Marines all saying one thing. “No! Never!”
McDaniels had organized the Obliterator corps from its inception, and she’d been its only commander until she fell in the fighting along the Graywater. Her Marines had fought savagely that day, destroying the bridges the invaders had erected across the river then turning north and tearing through the enemy forces until none were left on the northern side. They’d run out of enemies before anger, and they still lusted for vengeance. Clarkson was as bitter and angry as any of his Marines, but he knew he was also using their emotions to manipulate them, to work them into a battle frenzy. There was no finesse in the plan, no elaborate tactics. They would achieve their goals with aggression, courage, raw savagery. They were death incarnate, and they would kill until the last of them fell.
“Obliterators…attack!” Clarkson surged forward, shifting the bulk of his huge suit to avoid the trees. His people were on the very edge of the Sentinel, about to burst out into the open. The trees were smaller than the ones in the deep forest, but they were still at least 100 meters tall. In a few seconds his people would leave them behind, and plunge into a death struggle with the enemy.
The Obliterators were fearsome killing machines, four meters tall and bristling with weaponry. They burst out of the woods into the open fields, smashing into the enemy’s flank like a scythe. They pushed forward, stopping for nothing, firing away with all their weapons, leaving hundreds of enemy casualties behind them as they did.
Clarkson was in the van, blazing away with his dual autocannons. The massive hyper-velocity rounds tore apart even powered armor, firing a thousand rounds a minute, wiping out entire squads in seconds.
They’d caught the enemy by surprise. The rest of the Marines had been retreating north, abandoning all their positions south of the capital, and the battle had entered a brief lull. The sheer audacity of Clarkson’s attack shocked their adversaries, and they caught hundreds of them strung out, advancing to the north. In the first ten minutes, the Obliterators took down thousands and sliced deep into the enemy formations.
For a few minutes it seemed as though Clarkson’s people might win the battle by themselves. But the enemy was trained to Marine standards, and they outnumbered the Obliterators 100-1. They suffered heavily, but they kept their discipline and followed their training. They began to form lines facing Clarkson’s people from all sides. Slowly, steadily, the Obliterators were flanked, then surrounded.
The Marines kept moving, driving deeper into the enemy’s position. They knew what they had to do. If they didn’t disorder the invaders enough to slow their pursuit, the rest of the Marines wouldn’t have enough time to build a defensive position. They’d be hit, outnumbered and in the open…and the last of the Corps would be destroyed.
“Keep moving!” Clarkson’s voice was strained. He’d been hit twice, and he was trying to hide the pain. “To the south! Take out their supply dumps!” He angled his hulking suit, jogging south, favoring his injured leg. His people were almost through…it wouldn’t be long before they were wiped out. Hitting the enemy’s logistics would slow them down more than a few extra casualties. If his people could get to the LZ they could make a real dif
ference. It was the best chance to buy Cain and the rest of the Marines the time they needed.
Clarkson was down to one autogun; the other had taken a hit. It was just as well. He was running low on ammunition, and what he had left would last longer with a single gun firing. He glanced at his display. Less than half his people were still in the fight. Some of them were scattered around, isolated and pinned down in firefights with clusters of enemy soldiers. They were going down quickly as the Shadow forces got themselves organized and brought enough force to bear on each of them.
It looked like maybe 80 were still with him, moving toward the LZ. They were being pursued, but they’d broken through the heaviest resistance to their front. “Arm your grenades.” Clarkson couldn’t hide the weakness in his voice anymore. He’d be on the ground already if his AI hadn’t given him a near-lethal dose of stimulants. “All of them.” The grenades were a marginal weapon against powered infantry, but ideal for taking out crates of supplies and ammunition.
He heard a smattering of acknowledgements and glanced again at the display. The Marines at the back were taking heavy losses from the pursuing enemy. He was down to 50 effectives. But the supply depot was just ahead…almost in range. Only a few more seconds…
He lurched forward even before he felt it. He stumbled two or three steps and fell, his massive suit slamming face first into the ground. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and when he tried to inhale he felt a shooting pain, like a blade piercing his chest. The wound was mortal…he didn’t have to check his med scanner to know that. His vision was failing, and every shallow breath was agony.
He flipped on the com. “Keep…moving…all…” He coughed, spraying blood all over the inside of his helmet. His voice was weak, throaty, every word a struggle. “Take…out…those…suppl…” His chest spasmed, and blood poured out of his mouth.” The pain wasn’t bad, but he knew that was only because his AI had flooded his system with painkillers. His eyes caught a glimpse of the tactical display. His Marines were running forward, launching their grenades. He didn’t think they would last much longer, but maybe, just maybe, they’d do enough damage.
