by Jay Allan
The mission had been a search and destroy that turned into a trap. The Machines were unimaginative and tactically weak, but they were highly organized and uniquely able to move rapidly to exploit an opportunity. And the 213th had walked right into an ambush. It had been a poorly planned op from the start. Too far from base, inadequate support, and a long march that practically telegraphed the objective. It wasn’t Lieutenant Cadogan’s fault…it was Battalion that screwed the pooch. They sent a crack strikeforce into an unwinnable situation with insufficient intel…and now it was all shot to hell.
It was without a commander too. The 213th had suffered just under 50% casualties, and those losses included the lieutenant. He wasn’t dead, not yet at least. But he was in bad shape…or at least that was the rumor going around.
Taylor was on his way to the infirmary. The pain in his chest had migrated to his back. He was pretty sure he’d broken at least one of the cracked ribs, and he figured he’d have to deal with it sooner or later. He was also hoping to get some info on the lieutenant.
Cadogan was the only man in the 213th who’d been on Erastus longer than Taylor. Jake looked like he’d make a poor soldier when he first stepped out of the Portal into the searing heat of Erastus. The skinny kid almost passed out, and he certainly didn’t look like he had what it took to survive. But Cadogan had been the same when he arrived, and he saw something in Taylor, something that wasn’t obvious on a cursory glance. Then-Sergeant Cadogan took the shaky new private under his wing, teaching him how to survive, and later, how to lead.
Like most of the guys who’d been around a long time, Cadogan had a nickname…Scholar, though it had largely fallen into disuse as his original peers died or moved on to other units. Taylor certainly never dared to call him that, though Cadogan was fairly tolerant of informalities around base. The lieutenant himself never called any of the men by their nicknames either, usually referring to them by their ranks and surnames. When he wanted to be more informal, he used first names, but almost never handles.
Cadogan had been a teacher of some sort; Jake knew that much. He’d been older than most of the recruits when he first got to Erastus, and highly educated too. It was a mystery to everyone how he ended up in the off-world military. As far as Taylor or anyone else seemed to know, Cadogan had never talked about it. At all. There were plenty of guesses, but no real facts.
His age was another frequently discussed topic. There were rumors – never spoken of in his presence – that the lieutenant was over 30 years old. Most of the recruits who came to Gehenna were 19 or 20, and some were even 16 or 17. Not many of them survived their first year, and lasting a decade was unheard of. The UN supervisors and appointed senior officers were older, of course, but a 30 year old combat soldier was rare indeed.
Jake was 25 himself, which made him pretty old too, at least on Erastus. He’d picked up the handle Mad Dog not long after he arrived. No one seemed to know why…it didn’t match his personality at all. But the mystery would remain unsolved…whoever hung that tag around Taylor’s neck was long dead, and Jake himself wasn’t talking.
Except for the lieutenant, no one had been on-planet as long as Taylor. He was a Five Year Man. He’d been wounded three or four times and had a few close calls, but no Machine had been able to put him down for good. At least not yet.
Nobody could remember how the use of handles and had become so widespread in the UN forces on Erastus, but the tradition seemed to date back almost as far as the original expedition. Sooner or later, nearly all the veterans picked up nicknames. It didn’t take too long, usually just a couple months. A new guy would survive a few battles, make a few friends…then someone would pick something out – a personality or physical trait – and pin a new name on him. Most of the time it stuck. It was OK to call someone at or below your rank by his handle, even in combat. In camp you could usually call an enlisted superior by his nickname, though generally not in the field. It all depended on the non-com. Things tended to be much more relaxed among the real veterans, guys who’d been on-planet two years or more. With first year casualties averaging over 80%, that was a small group.
Taylor reached the end of the rough tunnel leading from the barracks area to the infirmary. The field hospital was several levels lower than the main base, in the most secure section of the facility. The 213th was lucky…they shared their HQ with the battalion hospital. The other strike forces had only rough aid stations. They had to get their serious casualties evac’d to Base Delta, which was anywhere from 20 to 50 klicks from the other strike force HQs.
There was a rough metal ladder built into the stone wall, leading down through an opening. UN Forces Erastus didn’t waste time on anything fancy. Everything needed for the war effort had to come through the Portal, and it took a dozen nuclear reactors on Earth to power the thing. Casualties brought in from the field came through a larger tunnel that ramped down from the surface, but lightly wounded grunts making their own way from the barracks had to climb.
Taylor reached out and grabbed the first rung, wincing as he felt the predictable pain shoot through his chest. There were 36 rungs leading to the infirmary level, and every one of them was going to hurt.
“I told you to stay off-duty, didn’t I?” Doc Evans had what was generally considered to be the least original handle on Erastus. He’d been there for a long time, so long that no one Jake had ever met could remember a time when Doc wasn’t the battalion surgeon. His handle was so ubiquitous, Jake wasn’t even sure he’d ever known Evans’ first name. If he had, he’d forgotten it.
Jake made a face. “It’s a damned good thing I went, Doc.” Evans was a captain, an exalted rank that should have precluded a sergeant like Jake from using a nickname. But everybody called Evans “Doc.” Everybody. “Somebody really screwed the pooch on that one. We’re lucky anybody made it back.”
Taylor sat on an examination table, gritting his teeth while Doc slid the bone fuser across his back. The fuser didn’t hurt, not exactly. But it was an unpleasant feeling, sort of a cross between electric shocks and bugs crawling across your skin. It was worth it, though. One short session was as good as a month’s normal healing.
Jake had been in a lot of pain since the battle, but he’d stayed away from the infirmary for over a day. He’d always believed the first day was for the seriously wounded. He couldn’t stand the idea of sitting around the hospital whining about his sore ribs, while his boys where having their guts sewn back together.
“Yes, I know you’re indispensable, Jake.” Evans smiled. He had a pleasant disposition; even his sarcasm was gentle. He was condemned to spend the rest of his life on Erastus, just like all the grunts he put back together, but it never seemed to bother him. Doc was the most liked guy Jake Taylor had ever known. In five years, he’d never heard a negative word uttered about the battalion’s surgeon. “But still, you should listen to your doctor once in a while.” He paused, his smile broadening. “Just to be polite.”
“OK, Doc.” Taylor didn’t mention he was dragging his section out for unscheduled maneuvers in a little over 14 hours. “I’ll try to take it easy.”
Evans nodded, but he looked unconvinced. He’d known Jake Taylor for a long time, and he didn’t expect his suggestion would accomplish much. Still, he figured, at least I tried. Doc had dealt with a lot of the old timers on Erastus, and they were all pretty much the same. He wasn’t sure if they thought they were invincible, or they just didn’t care. But not one of them listened when he told them to take it easy.
Taylor sat quietly while Doc finished up. The light in the treatment room was glaring, the strips on the ceiling augmented by several focused spots. It wasn’t as bright as Erastus’ two suns at high noon, certainly, but it was an unpleasant change from the welcome dimness of the rest of the base.
Taylor didn’t utter a word about Cadogan until Evans was almost done. Then he worked up the courage to ask what he’d been wondering, what all the guys had been wondering. “How’s the lieutenant, Doc?” There
was a nervous edge to his voice. Taylor had been hesitant to ask for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that he wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer.
Doc let out a long sigh. “He’s not good, Jake.” His eyes met Taylor’s. “There’s a decent chance he’ll pull through, but even in the best scenario he’s looking at a long recovery. At least a year. Maybe more.” The surgeon paused again, his eyes dropping, looking down at the floor. “And I doubt he’ll ever be 100% again. Without a miracle, he’s done in the field.”
Taylor sat quietly for a few seconds before he slid off the table and started getting dressed. It just wasn’t right. He hated casualties…despised the whole bloody slaughter…the waste of good men. He blamed himself for his own KIAs, reviewing every aspect of each mission over and over, trying to figure what he’d done wrong, or what he hadn’t done…why his soldiers had died. It wasn’t entirely rational, and deep down he knew it. But it didn’t matter. That was just who he was.
Jake was lost in his thoughts, and he almost walked out without another word. He caught himself at the door and turned. “Thanks, Doc.” He swung his arm around. “It feels better already.” He paused. “And let us know about the lieutenant, will ya, Doc?”
“Sure thing, Jake.” Evans’ voice was soft…sympathetic and sad. “But I doubt anything will change for at least a few days.” Doc was looking down at the table, slowly putting away the instruments he’d used. “But Cadogan’s a tough old bird.” The lieutenant was old to the grunts he commanded, but Evans was at least ten years older still. “He’ll make it.”
Taylor nodded and ducked through the door into the hallway. The lieutenant wasn’t his responsibility, and he didn’t blame himself like he did with his own men. But Steve Cadogan was one of the best combat officers he’d ever known, and it twisted him in knots to think of such a good commander – such a good man – going down because of a botched assignment. He could reconcile with losing someone like Cadogan in a straight up fight, but he knew that’s not what the combat on Blackrock Ridge had been. The whole thing had been one administrative fuck up after another, and Taylor knew no one would be held responsible. Cadogan might die, but the planning staff officers would cover for each other. They weren’t lifers on Erastus like Jake and Cadogan…or even Doc. They were UN permanent staffers doing two-year rotations on-planet. They had return tickets through the Portal and political patronage and careers waiting back home. None of them were about to let the deaths of a few footsoldiers interfere with any of that.
Jake knew why there were men fighting on Erastus. He hated the pus-sucking Admins from New York and Geneva who treated the combat troops with callous disregard, but deep down he believed in their cause. The Machines, and the Tegeri who built and commanded them, were mankind’s enemies, a deadly alien menace who would destroy or enslave humanity…unless men like Jake and his brothers stood in the breach and barred the way. The methods UN Central employed to conscript soldiers or blackmail them into volunteering sickened him. But he couldn’t blame them for the war. He even had to acknowledge that, however imperfect the methods had been, the UN Consolidation had saved Earth from invasion, mankind from defeat. The individual nation-states could never have stood against the Tegeri, as a united mankind had done. Wars between nation states were a thing of the past. All the resources and production of human civilization were pooled together against the common enemy.
There were 8 known Portals on Earth…8 transit points to other worlds, and none of these had fallen. Men were fighting and dying on more than three dozen worlds, but not on Earth itself. The Machines were fighting Taylor’s men, and thousands like them, on distant Portal Worlds, not in the streets of terrestrial cities and towns. The enemy wasn’t rampaging through helpless villages, ravaging farmhouses like the one Jake had called home for most of his life. They weren’t murdering civilians and helpless children or destroying the civilization it had taken man millennia to build. And for that, Jake would hold back the anger and the bitterness, the resentment over his own treatment and the tragic fate that had been his lot. He would take his place in the field, pick up the rifle…and he would protect those he’d left behind.
Chapter 3
From the Journal of Jake Taylor:
We try to help the new guys. Most of them don’t last long. Just surviving on Gehenna is hard, and fighting the Machines is like something out of a child’s nightmare. They are meticulous, and you need to be cool and deliberative to counter their attacks. Their tactics are mediocre, but there is an inhuman relentlessness to them. If you lose your focus they will tear you apart. It’s hard for the rookies to stay cool under fire, and a lot of them hesitate, give in to fear. They panic. And they die.
I was different when I got here…calm, resigned to my fate. I can’t really explain why. I was bitter, of course, mourning a life that had been taken from me. All I’d ever cared about had been stolen away – home, family, love, writing. But for all the wrong that had been done to me, I’d always clung to the thought that it was not entirely in vain…that my sacrifice had been made to a good cause. I was protecting Earth, standing between others like me, like I had been, and the doom of a relentless alien horde bent on destruction. That was a powerful salve, one that kept me going for years.
Then there were the vids. They showed them to us when we got to training camp, the records from the first colonies. Peaceful little towns, outposts on new and untamed worlds…and adventurous families blazing a trail into the frontier. The first expeditions had been before the Consolidation, and the colonists were national heroes, citizens with the courage to leave Earth behind and help build mankind’s future.
Then the Machines came. They swooped down on the tiny settlements, slicing through their meager defenses and slaughtering everyone. The videos showed it all…the hideous creatures, manlike but grotesquely different too, rending the helpless civilians, feasting on the flesh of the children. After a few minutes, we all wanted to run from the room, but they made us watch. They made us watch it all. By the time we left we were consumed with rage, straining to get at these inhuman monsters…to kill them, to tear them apart as they had done to the colonists.
Our hatred drove us, and our sense of duty…but it was still an odd feeling, fighting to protect something you knew you’d never see again. This was no old-style war, where the boys would come marching home after a glorious victory. For us, it was a one-way trip. We were soldiers for life. Sending someone through a Portal took an enormous amount of energy, and a return trip was far too costly for us footsoldiers. There’d be no parades for my comrades and me, no ribbons tied to trees, no sweethearts waiting for us to come walking through the front gate. We were dead to our loved ones, already mourned and gone forever.
“That was pathetic.” Taylor’s voice was angry, scolding. He knew the troops were still tired from the fight at Blackrock, but that was no excuse. Not for such a lackluster effort. “We’re gonna do this again. We’re gonna do it as many times as it takes you to get it right.”
He looked out at the downcast faces, dripping with sweat. Bear stood in front of his team, his drenched fatigues plastered to his massive body. He looked like he was about to fall over, but Taylor knew the big man was tough as nails. Chuck Samuels would stand under the heat of Erastus’ two suns for as long as Jake told him too.
“I’m hot and tired just like all of you.” And my fucking ribs are throbbing too, Taylor thought but didn’t say. “But I don’t want to watch a fucking Machine put you down, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen if you continue to let them outperform you in the heat.” He was speaking to the new guys, mostly. The vets knew already…and they’d heard it a hundred times before. But a reminder never hurt.
“So I better see some rapid improvement from all of you, or we’re going to be out here all day…and all night too.” He panned his eyes across the entire assembled section. “You think I’m kidding?” His voice was growing louder, harsher. “Don’t fucking try me.”
Th
ere 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.
