by David Weber
“You shall be cast out of the clan,” the elder said calmly. “Coward. We shall deal with you after the victory.”
“Go into that hell yourself, coward,” the younger Mardukan hissed. “Then come tell me of ‘victories’!”
Eleanora O’Casey wore one of the “spare” helmets and the same uniform as the Marines, but unlike them, she’d never been trained to break down the net’s clipped transmissions or the military technobabble which comprised them. For her, the majority of the bursts that came over her radio were cryptic “Tango at two-fifty” conversations which, unfortunately, her translator software was useless for deciphering, so she generally depended on some friendly Marine to interpret for her.
In this case, however, the only available translator was Poertena. Which created its own problems.
“What’s happening?” she asked the armorer. She, Matsugae, and three of the pilots sat on a pile of ammunition boxes halfway back into the cave that made up the majority of the keep’s interior. The noncombatants shared the space with the wounded, Doc Dobrescu, the mahouts, and nineteen nervous flar-ta. Flar-ta reacted in a predictable animal way to nervousness. It was a hot, smelly existence.
“Tee scummies, they off tee wall,” the diminutive Pinopan said with a shrug, “but they getting ready to ‘tack again. Tee Cap’n is gonna say somethin’ soon.”
“How is Roger?” Matsugae asked quietly. He had his own helmet and had heard the terse report of the prince’s injury.
“He fine,” Poertena said. “Jus’ shock. He be fine.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” Matsugae said. “Very pleased.”
“Great,” Pahner said, nodding as he listened to the transmission. “Great. Get him to Doc Dobrescu as soon as possible. I know you don’t dare now, but as soon as we open that door, I want him in the keep.”
He looked out the slit at the reforming enemy and shook his head. Bravo Company had really whittled them down that time, but the barbs were still coming back for more, and he sent his toot the command that opened the general frequency.
“Okay, people, they’re coming back for another round. We took some wounded that time, so we’re a little thin on the walls. I want platoon sergeants to select your best walking wounded for bead rifles and send out everyone else you can to stand by as grenadiers. They don’t seem to be bothered by casualties, so I’ll call for fire a little further out this time.
“Grenadiers, when they start coming through the gate, I want you to fill the bailey with their dead. I think they’ll still come on in, so when they start coming up the stairs or over the walls, retreat to the bastions.”
He thought of trying to say something stirring, but the only thing that came to mind was “once more into the breach, my friends,” which was both technically inaccurate and too theatrical for him. Finally he just keyed the mike.
“Pahner, out.”
There was silence over the com for several seconds, except for the occasional laconic transmission of firing points and targets. But then Julian’s distinctive voice came over the Third Platoon net.
“Okay, Second Squad. I know I can’t be up there with you, but I want you to remember that . . . that . . . you’re members of The Empress’ Own, damn it.” There was a cracked sob, and he choked out the next words. “I want you to do me proud. Remember: long, wildly uncontrolled bursts!”
A tide of laughter welled up over the net. Gunnery Sergeant Jin was faintly audible, protesting the bad radio discipline, but it was almost impossible to understand him through his own barking belly laughs.
“Remember,” the squad leader continued with another sob. “You’re Marines, and The Empress’ Own! We’re the best, of the best, of the best. Well, maybe not the last best. That would be Gold Battalion, actually, but—”
“Juliannn,” Jin wailed, “stoppp!”
“And, I just want to say . . . if these are our last moments together . . .” the NCO continued.
“Company, stand by to open fire!” Captain Pahner’s voice crackled over the general frequency, oblivious of the transmissions on the platoon net.
“Gronningen,” Julian said, with another choking sob, to the biggest, ugliest, most straightlaced private in the entire company, “I just want you to know: I love you, man!”
Eleanora looked up in surprise and fear as one of the armored plasma gunners fell over on her side, bent nearly double. The academic started to get up to try to render assistance, but Poertena held up his hand to stop her as he switched frequencies on his helmet radio. She watched in fear as his expression slid from worry through annoyance while the plasma gunner first tried to get to her knees, and then fell over again, twitching. O’Casey couldn’t imagine what could have happened to the woman, but then the armorer began to laugh. He slid down from his perch on the ammunition boxes, holding his sides, and the civilian’s eyes went wide as Doc Dobrescu opened his mouth and began to howl with laughter of his own.
“Third Platoon!” Pahner barked as a burst of bead fire went flying off into the distance and a grenade volley rolled through the enemy’s ranks like a surf line of fire and death. “Sergeant Jin! What the hell is happening down there?”
“Ah . . .” Jin replied, then burst into laughter. “Sorry,” he choked out. “Sorry, Sir, ah . . .”
A wild rip of bead fire lashed out from Third Platoon’s position and sliced into the Kranolta like a hypervelocity bandsaw. Then another. The Mardukans went down like wheat before a reaper, and Pahner heard the distant sound of almost maniacal laughter from the parapet.
“Sergeant Jin! What the hell is happening down there?” He couldn’t fault the effectiveness of the platoon’s fire, but it wasn’t like they had ammo to spare.
“Ah—” It was all the gunnery sergeant could say as he tore off his own wildly uncontrolled rip of automatic fire . . . and dissolved into helpless laughter of his own.
Pahner started to bellow furiously at Jin, but the firing quickly got itself back under control, and he clamped his jaw tightly. Then he tilted his head to the side and flipped to the platoon frequency just in time to hear “ . . . no, man, really. I love you!” followed by hysterical laughter as Gronningen explained exactly what was going to happen to the NCO when he got his extremely heterosexual fingers around Julian’s throat.
“Juliannn!” Pahner began, then paused as he realized that not only was the firing steadier, but he could actually see smiles on the faces of the troopers on the parapet. Some of those smiles might be a little crazed, but it was obvious that at least one platoon had stopped contemplating the likelihood of death in the near future.
“Buuut, Caaaptain!” the NCO whined.
“And,” sobbed Jin, who was well known for his own interests, “I’ve gotta tell the Sergeant Major I love her, tooo!”
“Okay, people,” Pahner said, shaking his head but unable not to do a little laughing of his own. “Let’s settle down and kill us some scummies, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” Julian said. “Sorry, boss.”
“I’m still gonna kill your ass, Julian,” Gronningen growled. A burst of fire echoed over the open link. “But I’ve got other things to do in the meantime.”
And so Bravo Company, Bronze Battalion of The Empress’ Own, went into battle against overwhelming odds . . . with an uncontrollable chuckle on its lips.
Morale is to the physical as ten is to one.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Are these stupid bastards ever going to realize that they’re beaten?” Pahner wearily asked no one in particular.
Damage from repeated plasma blasts had finally forced him to abandon the gatehouse, which was now a pile of rubble, and move into the Third Platoon bastion. The Kranolta had taken unspeakable losses throughout the long Mardukan day, but still they insisted on charging the castle. And in so doing, they’d whittled their opponents down to practically nothing.
Of the seventy-two members of The Empress’ Own who’d survived the initial Kranolta ambush, barely half were still on their
feet. Pahner had come to the point of regretting his decision to immure Poertena and Cord’s nephews in the keep. They were safe there, but he could have used them on the walls.
He shook his head. There were still several thousand Kranolta out there, and they’d stopped trying to take the keep. The last wave had avoided the smoldering killing ground of the bailey and hurled itself solely against Second Platoon’s portion of the wall and its bastion. The attack had crashed in behind a massive javelin launch, and Second Platoon had taken terrific casualties before it could beat off the assault.
As always, the Mardukans’ losses had been enormously higher than the humans’. Unfortunately, the Marines could kill hundreds of the barbarians for every one of their own casualties and still lose. It was insane. Whatever happened to the company, the slaughter of the Kranolta’s warriors had already been so extreme that the clan itself was almost certainly doomed to extinction, but they didn’t seem to care. Or perhaps they did. Perhaps they knew their people had already been effectively destroyed this bloodsoaked day, and all they wanted now was to drag down and kill the aliens who’d slain them.
Whatever they were thinking, they were also lining up for yet another attack on Second Platoon, and he lifted the visor of his helmet to scrub his eyes in exhaustion.
He could shift some of Third Platoon over to Second’s area, but if he did that and the scummies hit Third’s bastion simultaneously, they would sweep away the reduced defenders. No. The only option was to order Third to fire everything it had into the flank of the assault. That hadn’t stopped the last one, but maybe it would work this time. Something had to break these bastards.
He shook his head again as the scummies surged forward. The ground was so thickly covered with their dead that they literally had to climb over drifts and hills of bodies just to reach the wall, but they didn’t even seem to notice. They just came on through the hail of bead and grenade fire from front and flank until they hit the wall. Then the ladders went up again, and the Kranolta swarmed upward.
The plasma cannon in the keep and Third Platoon’s bastion could bear on them as they topped the battlements, but the gunners had to be careful. Not only was there the danger that they might inflict human casualties in the wild melee atop the wall, but one twitch to the side, and the plasma bolts could blow the door right out of the other bastion.
Now that door rang to the sound of axes again, and bead gunners from Third Platoon’s bastion picked off the axmen carefully. Again, a burst of beads in the wrong spot would do the scummies’ work for them.
Only three of Third Platoon’s spear slits overlooked the other platoon’s doorway. Against any rational foe, that should have been enough, but these were Kranolta. A bead rifleman stepped back with a jammed rifle, and for the flicker of time required for someone to replace him, a single scummy was able to survive long enough to drive three more blows into the hastily assembled timber barricade.
The barrier had finally taken all it could stand. It crumbled, and a wild, hungry scream of triumph went up from the Kranolta as they saw their chance at last.
Pahner dropped down to the plasma cannon and slapped the gunner on the helmet. He pointed to the open doorway and the line of scummies clawing towards it against a solid wall of bead fire.
“Fire it up!”
“But, Captain—” the gunner began. The angle to the doorway was acute, and it the odds were better than even that none of the plasma bolt itself would carry through it. But they were just barely better than even, and even if the bolt itself didn’t, blast, fragments, and thermal bloom through the doorway and its covering spear slits would be more than sufficient to turn the bastion’s interior into a vision of Hell.
“Do it!” Pahner snapped, and keyed the general frequency. “Second Platoon! Duck and cover!”
The gunner shook her head and triggered three rounds into the mass around the doorway, clearing the narrow walkway. Someone shrieked over the radio as the rounds impacted, but there was no time to think of that, and Pahner leapt back to his previous perch as the Kranolta recoiled again.
But they didn’t recoil far, and the Marine cursed. They’d barely retreated at all this time, dropping below the level of the now unmanned wall, which put them just out of the angle of fire from the defenders clinging to the bastions and the keep. His taccomp threw fresh strength estimates up on his HUD, and he swore again. There were still three thousand or so of them left. Which wasn’t very many for a force which had begun with eighteen thousand, but his readouts showed only thirty-one of the company still mobile.
We can still win this thing, he thought. They’re wearing us away, but we’re wearing them away even faster. Two more assaults. Maybe three. That’s all we’ve got to make it through, and—
The enemy’s horrible trophy horns brayed as they worked themselves up for yet another assault, and Pahner’s nerves tightened. But then he heard another sound, an answer to the Kranolta horns. A harsher, deeper braying came from the west, and Pahner looked in that direction and his heart seemed to freeze.
Another entire army was deploying out of the forests beyond the ruined city. It was barely a fraction of the original Kranolta host, but it was also fresh and unbloodied as it marched to join the assault. The new warriors were heavily armed and armored, and they were accompanied by flar-ta—the missing baggage train the initial Kranolta army had left behind, no doubt. Some of the pack beasts seemed to be covered in glittering bronze, and as the taccomp projected the new numbers, Armand Pahner knew utter despair.
The Kranolta reinforcements outnumbered the mangled force at the foot of the wall, and their addition to the next assault would break the Marines’ back at last.
He stared at the death of every one of his people for perhaps ten seconds, then sucked in a deep breath. If he and his people were going to go down, he would be damned if they died cowering in these holes like Voitan’s last defenders.
“If you can make a heap of all your winnings. . . .” he whispered then opened the company frequency. “Bravo Company. All units, prepare to sally. A new force has just arrived. If we can hammer them badly enough in the open field, it will give us a little time to regroup. Immediately upon return to this position, I want everyone to fall back to the keep. We’ll reform our line there.” As if any of them were going to return, he thought bitterly. “All units, arm your wounded and prepare to sally.”
“Oh, fuck,” Julian muttered as he began to tear at the barrier across the keep door. Like the curtain wall gate, the keep doorway had been too large for them to hang a portal that could be easily opened and closed. Instead, it was barricaded by a pile of braced tree trunks, hammered together by the armored suits. Taking it down was a permanent operation; putting it back would not be an option.
“It’s cool,” Macek said unevenly. “We can do this.”
“Sure, sure,” Julian said as he ripped down another support with the mechanically enhanced power of the armor. “We’ll live until the juice gives out. While we watch the damned Kranolta kill everybody else. Then we’ll have a choice between opening up or suffocating.”
“We’ll kill them at the same time,” the private said. “We’ll kill most of them that are left.”
“Sure, but they’ll wipe out the company while we do it. Which is why the Old Man didn’t send us out in the first place.”
He pulled down the last support and opened up the door to the bailey.
The door to Third Platoon’s bastion was already open. Nobody was in sight, yet, but Julian figured they would be coming out as soon as Captain Pahner gave the word. Second Platoon’s door was just . . . gone. He didn’t want to think about what it must be like inside that tower.
He looked out over the rubble where the gatehouse had been. From the elevated “porch” in front of the keep, he could just make out the distant army that Pahner had spotted, and it looked formidable indeed. He dialed up the magnification on his helmet, and his jaw tightened. Most of the new force was armored, and if bronze armor wo
uldn’t do the Mardukans much good against the rifles, it would let them hammer the Marines right under when it got down to hand-to-hand. And it would.
He jumped off the platform and onto the rubble in two long “bounces,” then checked to be sure his chameleon system was engaged. The active system on the suits was more effective than that of the uniforms and made the armor virtually invisible, although the suits were “loud” both electronically and audibly, which gave advanced enemies many ways to target them. There were ways to counteract that as well, but not easily or when the suits were moving fast.
Not that it mattered in this case. The Mardukans weren’t going to see anything but a flicker and bursts of bead fire punctuated with plasma bolts. It should seem like evil demons in their midst . . . as long as the juice lasted.
The original Kranolta force had moved around the shoulder of the hill and was preparing to hit Second Platoon again. He thought about triggering a burst of bead fire into them, but waited for orders. They would be coming soon enough, and he saw Third Platoon filing out of its bastion even as the army by the jungle started up the long slope to the battleground. The scummy reinforcements were at least four or five thousand strong, and their banners flapped in the breeze. Their horns brayed again, and some of the survivors of the original Kranolta force turned and spotted them. They blared on their own horns, and waved their weapons in excitement as the newcomers hurried towards them.
“Who is that?” Danal Far asked.
“I don’t know,” his second in command replied, but he sounded uneasy. “It looks like . . . the host of Voitan.”
“Hah!” It was the first good laugh Danal Far had had since this slaughter began. But they’d nearly taken the outer defenses, now. But for the damned fire-weapons, they would have already. The next push would see them in firm control of the bastion, and from there they could roll up these damned humans easily.
