Thirty Ks up, and still no city chatter. “Looks like they’re jamming everything,” she said, as surviving missiles detonated ahead. “I’ll bet they’ve got much better weapons than these, if we get too close to the corporate zone. We will go deployment by teams, east through north, and advance with maximum speed and cover.” She illustrated as she spoke, deployment patterns on tacnet, who went where. “It’s not a Federation city, but it is a human city. Let’s take it back.”
The shuttles began turning, spreading their formation even wider, banking into S-bends to confuse defences and lose altitude. “Expect heavy defences,” Vanessa told them, as soldiers did final check on their suits and systems. “Droze is an armament manufacturer, and the Talee can take over most oldtech human systems by remote. Expect a lot of emplacements used against us, and a lot of remotely operated systems.”
“Snowcat,” said a shuttle systems operator, “counter-bandwidth operational, we’re coming into range now.” That was jamming and coms interception. With their new software toys, and a fair idea of what to look for, they might be able to jam whatever Talee signal was used to take control of local human systems.
“Copy that,” said Sandy, and slammed her faceplate shut once more, dulling the roar of shuttle engines. Seals hissed and she was airtight. “Marks set for ten K release, all weapons arm.”
“If the corporations send remotely controlled tanks into Home Guard zones,” Singh sent on private link, “Home Guard might toast them for us.”
“It’s possible,” Sandy conceded. “Expect nothing, shoot at anything that shoots at us. That includes Home Guard.” She’d run into the Droze anticorporate militia before and wasn’t about to do them any favours if they got in her way.
Fifteen K, and the carrier rig holding her suit elevated to forty-five degrees. Suits had to come out sideways; the shuttle heat shielding wouldn’t allow it otherwise. Sandy recalled Svetlana asking her when she’d done assault ops before. Well, never in suits like these, save for Pyeongwha. But in the League, she’d done plenty, with lesser armaments. She’d meant to tell Svetlana those stories eventually. Now it occurred to her that she might never have the chance.
Eleven K, and the panels at the end of the launch tube retracted and let in light and a howling gale. The thing that separated this assault from those others, she realised, was that this was the first time she’d really had something to return home to, once it was all over. If she’d died then, she’d have been just another synthetic casualty, a person barely known and barely missed. If she died now, many would mourn, and many would celebrate, and three would mourn most of all. This time, her life mattered, well beyond what she did on the battlefield. And in the skies above a League world, fighting once again to save a League population from invaders, that revelation felt something like a journey brought full circle.
Rails whizzed, and she shot down the tube, then out. She liked this bit, the blessed relief of a view, and escape from the possibility of death while still trapped in the tubes. She liked the next wave of defensive missiles a lot less—suits in free fall lacked the shuttles’ defensive layers. But they were a lot more mobile, and she elevated her huge electro-mag rifle to track one at five-K range and put down ranging fire. The rifle plus suit armscomp was accurate out to about three K, even in free fall, and the missile lacked imagination and broke up two Ks out as she shredded its engines.
More missiles came in elsewhere, and more defensive fire, and explosions, spread across this vast stretch of pale blue sky. She ignored it all and looked down . . . and here was Droze, from twenty Ks up, and getting bigger quickly. A big circle, like a fried egg, green and brown in the center, yellow and brown in the outer, all in a sea of yellow-brown sand. About her, other suits were falling—fifty per shuttle, five hundred total, plus ten Trebuchet support launchers and operators, for the bigger stuff the suits couldn’t handle. The shuttles peeled away and climbed—further artillery if they needed it, but it took a while to arrive, as shuttles were too important and vulnerable to allow too close to the city center.
Ten K, and she could see traffic on the dusty streets below, between the jumble of boxy concrete buildings that passed for a skyline on Droze. Old factories, blocky residential complexes. Parking yards on vacant blocks. Shanties. Nothing green, nothing wealthy.
“I’m getting an active track,” said Lieutenant Terrassi, commander of Green Squad, Golf Company. “Coming from below, only light.”
“Home Guard,” answered Golf Company’s commander, Captain Ledo. “Warning shots, put them in the road.” Magfire answered, and ten Ks below, white-hot rounds blew big holes in the road beside the offending rooftop, rather than dismantling the building and all within it. No return fire followed. With any luck Droze citizens would take the hint, with all the sonic booms and shooting, and go to the most secure parts of their homes. Most Droze citizens had plenty of practise finding those, the past seven years.
Five Ks, and they came under sustained electro-magfire from the corporate zone, itself twenty Ks away plus altitude. It gathered in red clusters, then whipped past, covering the distance in barely four seconds, but only accurate out to three Ks, their odds of hitting anything stationary weren’t great, let alone falling at terminal velocity. But they were giving away their positions.
“Those are corporate emplacements,” Vanessa judged. “Probably Mark 82s.” A moment later, tacnet agreed with her and fixed those red dots on the map as M82 tanks. “So we know they’re using local Droze hardware. Stay alert for anything native and Talee.”
That was the real worry, fighting an alien species for the first time. If their weapons were as advanced as their network tech, everyone was in for a nasty surprise at some point. But human weaponry was already pushing the edges of physics, Sandy was doubtful there was very much further that physics would allow.
“Let’s hope they are actually this tactically stupid,” Jane remarked on private channel, as electro-magfire ripped past, already on its downward arc. “But it could be a trick.”
“Trick or not, they only have an edge against us while using their own weapons. We know our own weapons far better than they do.” Two Ks, and she picked a low concrete rooftop for landing, as tacnet automatically oriented itself to that location, projecting fire-shadows and lines of cover. “All units, fast advance. Stay low, that magfire will get real accurate the closer we get. Evolving situation, stay loose and bring it to the ground as we get closer.”
At under one K she decided to hell with the rooftop and kicked thrusters to slow her descent. Then kicked again and blasted forward, still dropping, hurtling over shambolic rooftops and low-tech road traffic, clouds of dust, small fires from garbage piles, small herds of various domestic animals in otherwise abandoned yards. Engine temperatures spiked, hoppers couldn’t fly long distances without overheat and burnout, but she gained another kilometre before finally grounding on a dusty road and running through the clouds from her landing. Civilians on the road scattered at the sight of this three-meter-tall armoured suit thumping along the road, cradling a two-meter rifle in its hands. When she’d left Droze a year ago, she would have been quite pleased if she’d never had to return. But if one must return, she supposed, it was far better to do so dressed like this.
Thrusters cooled and she leaped again, keeping low. There wasn’t much to hide behind in Droze, all the high-rises were in the corporate zone, and even that wasn’t taller than a hundred meters. Red dots began to proliferate on tacnet, drones and flyers mostly, but sensors were indicating emplacements on some of the higher central zone buildings, giving them a good field of fire over the outer city. But they were shooting less frequently now than during the descent. . . . Were the occupiers worried about civilian casualties? Sandy didn’t like using the civvie buildings for cover; she didn’t mean to use human shields, more that there was simply no other way to attack the city center without getting massacred. And she grounded once more, again running on the road, suit fans howling overtime to rid the exces
s heat.
The Droze neighbourhoods were getting more concentrated, buildings larger than out on the perimeter. She leapt over several confused vehicles and saw multiple missile launches on tacnet—corporate zone flyers, hovering behind building cover. Nothing was heading her way, so she kept running and saw Jane on tacnet, the next street over, slide for rapid cover behind a concrete facade as an incoming missile struck the upper wall and blew it across the road. Other suits were dodging and covering, some leaping at the last moment, missiles striking cover, others detonating short. Fourteen Ks to the wall, there was nothing for it but to keep advancing as tacnet identified a good spread of return targets.
Sandy selected five and tasked twenty missiles for them. The first twenty soldiers to find a good firing attitude took those shots, it didn’t matter which, and the missiles zigzagged away across the urban sprawl.
“Not going to hit anything,” Sandy observed, jumping again. “Just want to see the defences.” Magfire tore past her as she flew, but meters off course, and erratic. It would get more accurate as they closed, but she was surprised there was no forward-deployed defence. Nothing out here among the civvies, just dusty streets filled with civvie vehicles, alarmed pedestrians, and a few panicked animals. Had the Talee kept out of the civvie zone on purpose? Had they been relying on their network defences to maintain total superiority? Was it really going to be this easy, or were they being lured into a trap?
AMLORAs were now engaging, long-range guided artillery, rising into the sky atop ponderous trails of flame above the city center. FSA Trebuchets answered, grounded now on well-covered land about the perimeter, missiles abruptly tasked with antimissile ops, homing on those incoming AMLORAs. Sandy grounded as the fireworks began, corporate zone defences erupting about her own incoming rounds, and Trebuchets striking AMLORAs in midair over their heads, shriek!crack!wham! as rockets, sonic booms, and explosions all combined, then the ongoing, rumbling echoes off various buildings large enough to catch the sound. Tacnet showed only one of the FSA missiles had gotten through and had blasted a hole in a tower. Two out of twenty AMLORAs had survived, but they were intended for targets both larger and less mobile than hopper suits and had left craters in roads but nothing else. Ten Ks to the wall, and more time consumed. Sandy grounded and leaped again. She hadn’t lost a single soldier yet. Surely the other shoe would drop any second.
“Could task the birds to drop heavy stuff on their heads,” Vanessa suggested, panting with exertion, no doubt thinking the same thing. “Could get some of it past their defences.”
“Don’t want to play the hand too early,” Sandy replied. “Save it till we need it.” She landed again as magfire took a nearby rooftop, sending com-dishes and concrete showering away. Two more shots hit the opposite wall, clearly aimed at her, so she sheltered for a moment on the cross-street and let the thrusters cool, waiting for that mark to start shooting at something else. Glanced sideways within her helmet as movement showed her something hiding in a basement staircase . . . a young girl, perhaps eight, dirty-haired and frightened. Holding a younger boy down, protecting him . . . her brother? Dear God.
She ran for the neighbouring corner rather than hit the jets right next to them, then blasted up once more. Six Ks, and the streets here weren’t as cooperative, zigzagging and stopping short rather than continuing straight, and forcing FSA troops to jump over. More fire, as the defenders concentrated missiles and magfire on smaller numbers of soldiers to increase the chances of hitting. But so well drilled were her soldiers that those under heaviest fire simply took cover, happy to distract the shooters while the targets they could hit took the opportunity to advance at maximum speed. Sandy streaked low past an apartment building, saw a row of more, larger buildings ahead, six-storey structures in a row facing the corporate zone, and landed on a low roof behind them. Three Ks, maximum accurate magfire range. Tacnet showed fifty percent of her force within the three-K arc. Seventy percent. Ninety percent.
“Cover and secondary cover!” she directed. “Hit ’em and displace!” She hit a burst of thrusters, rocketed up to the six-storey rooftop, and grounded one foot forward for a good brace. Pumped a round at a flyer, then a building-top emplacement, then jumped back off the building again and behind a neigh-bour, without seeing her rounds hit.
But tacnet showed what she’d missed—magfire rounds striking home, flyers spinning, nacelles shattered, falling into buildings, exploding. Her own emplacement target atop the building was hit by four rounds in succession, exploding in multiple shrapnel sprays. The remaining flyers wove behind the buildings for cover, but it was too late—more than half of them were gone, and the towertop emplacements were no more.
“Missile defences,” Sandy said calmly, and tasked tacnet with those exclusively. More red dots appeared as tacnet cross-referenced multiple visual feeds to spot anything involved in missile defence. Sandy leaped to another building top, and this time remained in place to lay down multiple rounds, not seeing anything left to shoot at her from this angle. All across their front, five hundred FSA mag-rifles poured accurate fire into the outer wall and the tops of buildings behind it, disintegrating com towers, dishes, wall emplacements, and rooftop generators. As they finished, a volley of Trebuchet fire fell into the smoke from on high, and the entire defensive line disappeared in flame and airborne debris.
“All ahead!” They leaped forward toward the smoke, over the remaining rooftops and roads, and grounded just where the neutral zone began before the walls, a dead space of deserted buildings the corporations had declared uninhabitable after the Crash that laid Pantalan civilisation low. Another leap, and full speed across the neutral zone rooftops, powering the thrusters to well overheated as the predictable storm of robotic gunfire came up at them from below. A year ago, Sandy had fought her way through that zone in some of the most hellish fighting of her life. Today, she crossed it in a blur, fire nipping at her heels as robots not meant for aerial defence struggled to find them through narrow gaps, and those with good fields of fire on rooftops were destroyed by magfire, or by missiles that tacnet assigned and fired before the soldiers even thought on it.
And then the corporate zone buildings were rushing up at her, some smoking with floors ablaze, and amongst them . . . “Hoppers!” someone yelled, and there was shooting and fast manoeuvring.
Sandy nailed one that raced out well to her right, then cut thrust and fell as several more fired from within the building ahead. She hit thrust again to put her through a sixth-floor window and smashed her way through a partition wall, then down a corridor to the far side of the building. It gave her a view of the zone beyond, more buildings, neat and modern streets, green verges, wealth and technology. And several grounded hoppers by the base of a building, which she shot with her rifle, single rounds punching through that armour like paper. She leaped out and kicked as fire across the zone converged on her, shooting straight upward and spraying missiles from the back rack, as tacnet identified targets too quickly for her to shoot them all. She did her best though, zigging left and right, thrusters screaming for a rest as fire ripped past . . . and then the rest of her team were in, simply bypassing the first enemy hoppers as she had and pouring fire into the next line of defences.
Those defences were too static and poorly positioned. In several seconds, those still alive were falling back fast, pursued by FSA missiles and magfire. Sandy leaped for a new building top . . . and saw AMLORA rounds streaking low . . . “Airburst!” someone yelled, then a flurry of airborne explosions, blasting several hoppers from the sky, spinning and crashing to the ground.
But the rest leaped on, like the mating rush of strange, swarming fireflies as Sandy settled on the rooftop and picked off a retreating hopper, then another, then set her sights on the big compounds beyond. This was Chancelry Corporation’s section of the corporate zone—the second time she’d taken Chancelry; it had seemed the best bet to attack because it had been worst damaged the last time around, and corporations without as much money as t
hey’d once had might not have repaired it so well. And now, once inside, she knew the way, and where those mysterious grounded ships were located . . .
“Hold!” she commanded, as a new tacnet feed on those ships showed something alarming. They were moving, engines flaring—and this feed was coming from her own circling assault shuttles, well off beyond the Droze perimeter. “Hold and cover, their shuttles are lifting! They’re leaving!”
Her troops cut thrust and dropped to the ground or crashed through building windows, seeking cover. The sounds of combat lessened enough to hear the huge, rumbling thrust of shuttle engines from closer to the zone’s common center, that space of the zone shared by all corporations, not just one.
“We’re not going to stop them from leaving?” Singh asked tersely.
“We might be able to handle them on the ground,” said Sandy, “but I’m not taking any chances against their spacecraft. If they want to leave, let them leave.”
Because Fleet had had an almighty struggle to drop her team in the right place, and Reichardt had told her endless tales about just how outmatched every Federation starship was against the near-magical Talee vessels. That ship ahead could be packing something very nasty, and the whole point of this exercise was to make them leave.
And then she could see them, angular lifting-body shapes, like nothing she’d seen documented anywhere. Familiar enough to those who knew the aerodynamics involved, but significantly different, in short cuts taken that human designers wouldn’t dare. They hovered a moment longer, as the final hoppers leaped their way, landing on the wings, and disappearing inside. Sandy was momentarily surprised, but then asked herself why. It was the alien cliché, that aliens wouldn’t have human standards of self-preservation, would all work by some hive mind, would sacrifice themselves pointlessly, instead of risking large vessels in order to save the last few remaining soldiers. Many in the Federation believed the same thing of GIs—the synthetics cliché again. Those who thought they were “normal,” liked to believe that they were the only ones who knew and valued individuals.
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