by P. L. Nealen
He steadied for a fraction of a second, waiting for a better shot. The front glacis plate of a tank was a bad place to aim a missile, even an HV missile. Too much chance that it would glance off. But he had to fire soon, before that thing got through the breach. “Backblast!” he roared, his helmet’s exterior speakers amplifying the words helpfully, and then he fired, just as the base of the turret came into view.
The fat, pyramidal turret had already been turned toward him, and it looked almost as if he was staring right down the barrel of its long railgun as he fired. He half expected to die right then and there. As good as Caractacan armor was, a direct hit from a 70mm railgun would turn him to mist.
But the Unity gunner must not have seen him, the armor’s chameleonic coating successfully disguising him amid the rubble. Or he was just too slow. The HV missile struck the turret ring so close to its firing that it almost seemed like it was instantaneous. In the same heartbeat that Scalas squeezed the trigger, the tank’s turret blew apart, the sheer force of the HV projectile blasting the debris away from the breach, tumbling and whistling through the air.
The tank started to burn as its power systems surged in the backlash of liberated energy from the destroyed turret. The railgun must have been charged up for a shot. Capacitors in the back deck exploded with bright flashes, even as Scalas switched to his secondary tube and inched forward, looking for another target.
He was just behind two more of his men, who had formed a similar hunter-killer team, crawling up the slope of the crater inside the breach itself. The gunner lifted just his head and his launcher above the lip of the crater, sighted in, and fired. Another booming detonation sounded on the other side of the wall as another tank exploded under an HV missile impact.
Caractacan Brothers always hit what they aim at.
He shifted his aim, spotting what looked like an infantry assault carrier trying to move around the far side of the tank he’d killed. That HV missile had a bit longer to arm, and blew a glowing hole through the carrier’s flanks. Most of the men inside were sucked out through the exit hole. What was left of them.
Then a powergun bolt slammed past his head with a blinding flash and a tooth-rattling thunderclap, accompanied by a howling roar that was definitely not the rattle of Unity treads.
The lead tank of Century XXXV would always be Costigan’s. Its rounded prow looked sleek and deadly compared to the blocky wedges of the Unity tanks, and its domed turret seemed to almost blend into the hull. It glided forward on a thin cushion of air, its fans roaring, dust and ash billowing out from beneath. The stubby powergun muzzle protruding from the turret flashed again, and the shockwave slapped more dust away from its path, scouring the Caractacan infantry’s armor with grit.
The lead tanks formed a wedge as they pushed up the slope toward the crater, powerguns firing as quickly as the gunners could find targets. The turrets were moving smoothly and quickly; the R-17 Destrier was designed for rapid engagement, and built to the highest tolerances.
The pair of infantry Brothers on the crater lip had to scramble to get out of the way. The Destriers were well-designed, but as with any tank, they had limited lines of sight. A friendly could get turned to mangled paste beneath the steel skirts of one of those one-hundred-fifty-ton behemoths just as easily as an enemy, and there was no way to be sure the driver avoided the foot soldier except by getting out of the way.
Three heavy powerguns on rapid fire quickly turned the breach into a hellstorm of sheet lightning. The gunners were traversing back and forth, tripping the weapons as soon as their sights crossed an enemy vehicle. The Destrier’s powerguns were semi-autos, the loader dropping a new cartridge in as soon as the remains of the first were ejected.
The tanks drove through the breach, laying down a curtain of powergun bolts as they went, the rest of the century’s tanks following. They were outnumbered, but Costigan was holding to Caractacan battlefield doctrine of speed, surprise, and aggressiveness. The speed with which the Destriers’ gunners could engage was also lightning quick, compared to the considerably less capable Unity tanks.
Scalas did not wait around to watch. “Squad One and Two, with me!” he roared. The other three would hunker down and stand by, just in case. He turned and dashed along the wall, heading for the nearest set of stairs leading to a hatch. The fight wasn’t going to wait for him and his men to gawk at the power of the Caractacan tank charge.
He took the steps two at a time, bounding up toward the rectangular armored hatch, his powergun knocking against his torso armor while the HV missile launcher swung on its sling and beat at his sustainment pack. His breath was rasping in his throat, and his armor was turning up the oxygen mix to compensate.
Reaching the top, he hammered on the hatch. There was no response. The rolling thunder of powergun discharges and flat cracks of railgun fire in response was nearly deafening—it would have been deafening if not for his helmet. The fight was still going on in earnest, and he was stuck banging on a hatch. Irritated, he hammered harder on the metal, seriously considering calling Vargas up with a breacher charge.
Before he could decide to blast the hatch open, it unlatched and swung inward. Instinctively, he stepped aside, out of the funnel of the hatchway itself.
Which was probably wise. Four Valdekan soldiers were crouched inside, barricaded on the short passageway to the hatch, rifles trained on it. They weren’t sure that the Caractacans weren’t more clones, so they were being cautious.
“Friendlies!” Scalas bellowed, his helmet amplifying the word into a battle roar that could be heard even over the cacophony of the armored clash on the other side of the wall. “Caractacan Brotherhood!”
The men inside spoke rapidly in what must be Eastern Satevic. With a sudden sinking feeling, Scalas realized that that might be the only language most of these men spoke. “Caractacans!” he shouted again, hoping the name at least was recognizable.
“Caractacans!” a voice inside called back. The words that followed were gibberish to Scalas’ ears, but the tone was not threatening. He took the chance. He stepped into the hatchway.
The Valdekan soldiers had lowered their weapons. What might have been a noncom waved them forward.
“Where is your commander?” Scalas asked, as he walked through the hatch, followed by the rest of his squad. He hoped that the other Squad Sergeants were keeping their heads and making sure that what little communication was possible was established with the Valdekans in the defense.
The Valdekans just looked at each other, then back at him. Behind his visor, he grimaced. Yes, they only spoke Eastern Satevic. He tapped a key on the inside of his vambrace. When he spoke, his voice reverberated down the passageways, making the nearby soldiers flinch and cover their ears. “Does anyone here speak Trade Cant?”
After a moment’s deliberation, the noncom keyed his comm and spoke rapidly, holding up a hand to Scalas. Scalas gritted his teeth and waited. There was a battle going on, and his friend and his men were in combat, while he stood here and waited for a translator. He briefly considered simply driving on toward the nearest firing ports, but held his place. The Valdekans were likely worn thin, and without being able to work with them, he and his men might do more harm than good.
An older man, his hair mostly silver and showing deep lines around his eyes, wearing the insignia of a corporal on his flak vest, jogged up through the passageway, halting and reporting in front of the noncom. That worthy pointed to the looming, armored figures in the passageway, and barked something.
“I speak Trade Cant, a little,” the corporal said. “I am Corporal Slovo Viloshen.”
“We need to see your commander, Corporal,” Scalas said. “Or at the very least, we need to know where to deploy to do the most good.”
“Come with me,” Viloshen said. He turned and jogged down the passageway.
The hall was narrow and low-ceilinged. With Valdekan soldiers moving up and down it, it was hard for the armored Caractacans to move quickly, but they soon r
eached a pillbox set into the side of the wall, about twenty meters up from the killing ground below. Valdekan soldiers were manning heavy powerguns and what looked like a couple of remote control units for HV missile launchers. Viloshen called out, and the blond-haired man with a rifle in his shoulder, standing between two heavy powergun mounts, turned.
“This is Warrant Officer Coram Raskonesh,” Viloshen said. “He is commander.”
Scalas moved up next to Raskonesh and peered out the firing slit. The pillbox was too enclosed for the HV missile launcher; the backblast would kill every unarmored man in the chamber. So he could only watch.
Two of the Caractacan tanks were dead and burning. Costigan’s standard was still fluttering from the turret of his own tank, so he was still alive. Even so, the chameleonic coating was already showing new scars that were visible even from Scalas’ vantage point. He saw a railgun round glance off the turret, immediately answered by a thunderous flash of a powergun bolt.
The combat sleds were moving through the gap behind the tanks, but the tanks were very much still in the fight, and still firing so fast that their barrels were glowing. The HV missile pods on the back decks of the combat sleds were beginning to add their own fire.
It was a contest of firepower and reaction time. The killing ground between Defensive Line Three and what had been Defensive Line Four was flat, without defilade or cover. Up against the Unity’s numbers, the Caractacan armor should have been mowed down quickly.
But the Destriers were faster, more agile, and more heavily armored than the lumbering Unity tanks. They could stand up to multiple railgun hits, while their powergun bolts killed wherever they struck. And their turrets were made to move as fast as a gunner could react, while the relatively crude railgun turrets on the Unity tanks seemed to move in slow motion by comparison.
And yet, the Unity armor continued to try to advance in the teeth of that deadly storm of energy. Only when they had been pushed back five hundred meters, their strength nearly cut by a third, did they fall back, dumping smokescreens that were all but useless against the scanners on the mammoth Destriers. Even then, they moved as a unit, the tanks firing back over their back decks as they withdrew.
Costigan did not pursue. He had lost three of his tanks, which for a cavalry century was no small loss. And Costigan knew as well as any of them that they were not there to win the war.
Scalas straightened from the slit. The killing ground before them was a hellish graveyard of burning vehicles, the smoke being whipped away by the still screaming wind. He faced Raskonesh.
“Where is Commander Rehenek?” he asked. “We need to find him.”
Viloshen translated, then said to Scalas, with a bit of a chuckle, “He was here, but probably no longer. He always looks for the hardest fight. It is like he can smell it. He will be moving to where the next big attack will come.”
“Where is that?” Scalas asked. If Viloshen was telling the truth, they might still be able to intercept the man.
But both Viloshen and Raskonesh shrugged. “Only he knows,” Viloshen said. “He does not tell.”
Kahane snorted. “This is great. A simple retrieval turns into a manhunt.”
“It was never going to be ‘simple,’” Scalas replied. “We just have to find him. If that means rushing to every hot spot on the line…”
A titanic impact made the ground itself shudder. A moment later came another. Through the blowing dust and smoke, Scalas could see flashes in the distance, in the direction where the Unity survivors had retreated. “They regrouped quickly,” he said dryly.
But Viloshen was shaking his head. “No, now they change tactics. They bombard wall, infantry come up behind bombardment. Try to get into breach and through to take defense positions.”
“Centurion,” Dravot said, “these men would have been overrun if we hadn’t arrived when we did. With that gaping hole in the wall, are they going to be able to hold on their own?”
Scalas looked around. The Valdekans looked exhausted and shell-shocked to a man, and he knew Dravot was right about the breach. Smoke drifted through the passageways, and looking down the line, he could see dim light that was not the interior lamps. Some of the railgun rounds had penetrated the wall in places. It was still possible that they might hold on their own, but a part of him rebelled at just leaving them to their fate, no matter what the mission given by the General-Regent might be. He keyed his comm. “Brother Legate, this is Centurion Scalas,” he called.
“Kranjick,” was the reply.
“The Valdekans are reporting that Rehenek has likely moved on from the breach, sir,” he said. “There appears to be a renewed attack on the way; I am requesting permission to aid the Valdekans in repelling it before we go looking further for Rehenek. These men won’t hold long without us.”
There was a long pause. “Our primary objective is still to secure Commander Rehenek and get him offworld,” Kranjick said. “But it is in accord with the Code to aid those we can, when we can. We will help the Valdekans secure the breach as best we can before moving on.”
“What?” Dunstan protested, breaking in on the circuit. “How is that going to accomplish our mission? If Rehenek is not here, how will getting more of us killed in a hopeless defensive action help? This is stupid. We should be lifting and going after Rehenek.”
“Your input is noted and rejected, Centurion Dunstan,” Kranjick rumbled. “Deploy your Century and prepare to repel infantry.”
Dunstan did not reply, but Scalas could imagine him fuming.
“Acknowledged,” Scalas said into the momentary silence. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Raskonesh. “Where are your defenses the weakest?”
Chapter 10
The wall shook, and dust sifted down in a steady, if quavering stream. The bombardment had been going strong for at least an hour.
“How long do they usually keep this up?” Scalas asked Viloshen. It had taken only a scant few minutes to get his Century’s squads set in, reinforcing the most likely spots where the Unity infantry would come. Since then, it had simply been a matter of waiting, peering out through firing slits and cracks in the wall at the smoking, dust-scoured no-man’s land between the wall and the enemy.
Viloshen was peering out into the haze, sitting on an ammo crate, his sleek K-74 powergun across his knees. His fatigues were ragged and covered in dust, but his weapon was nearly spotless. Scalas had seen him take out a rag to wipe the dust and soot off of it twice already.
The older man shrugged. “They do not set patterns,” he said. “Smart, that. They pound wall with fire until they are ready.”
Scalas nodded in reply. He had not removed his helmet, making him a hulking, armored statue, faceless and grim. But the stark prow of his visor and faceless eyeslit did not seem to bother the Valdekan corporal.
After a moment, he spoke again. “Aren’t you a little old to be a corporal?” he asked. “I’d think a man of your age might be a Warrant Officer, or a Colonel.”
Viloshen chuckled. The sound of amusement was jarring in the hushed revetment, as the thunder of the bombardment continued outside. He shook his head. “I was corporal when I mustered out from my term of service, many years ago,” he said. “I took berth as spacer, on deep-space trade vessel.” His chuckle died, and his pale eyes got far away. “I was lucky to be on home leave for Iveniya’s latest voyage. Sure that he was destroyed in orbit.” He shrugged again. “I join up again. They give me last rank I had.”
Scalas nodded solemnly. It was not a new story. He had been in countless wars on countless planets, over the ten years since his novitiate had ended. In the really grim ones, the really desperate fights, you could always find men like Viloshen. Men who had served their time in their youth, gone on to other things, and been called back when the war got bad. Some came willingly, like Viloshen. Others were dragged back into the ranks, kicking and screaming. Some recalled their training, and were better soldiers than they ever had been when younger. Some resented their recall so mu
ch that they became a danger to themselves and everyone around them.
He had Viloshen pegged as one of the former. Especially given the almost obsessive way the man kept his weapon clean.
Raskonesh ducked through the hatchway to join them. The hatches between pillboxes had been designed to be defensive chokepoints; they could be sealed, with firing ports that could only be opened from the inside of the defensive position itself. Presently, the hatches were all open, to allow for easier communication and movement within the defenses from hotspot to hotspot. Only if the Unity forces penetrated the line would they start getting locked down.
Raskonesh, apparently younger than Viloshen by most of a decade, dropped onto another ammunition crate with a gusty sigh, battering some of the dust off his trousers. His weapon, another K-74, was noticeably dirtier than Viloshen’s, but he soon pulled out a rag of his own and started to wipe it down.
Dirt rarely affected a powergun much, but when it did, it could be catastrophic. There were nightmarish stories, told far more often than they had ever actually happened, about obstructions in the workings managing to divert the energy of the bolt just enough that some of it bled somewhere besides out the barrel.
Needless to say, the shooter in such stories had not survived.
Raskonesh looked up at Scalas. His dark eyes, set in sunken sockets, were almost black, in stark contrast to his hair. His cheeks were hollow, as if he had not eaten well for days. It was entirely possible that he had not. Blond stubble showed on his jaw, though only when the light was right. He spoke in Eastern Satevic, speaking directly to Scalas’ faceless helmet.
