Dawn of the Mad

by Brandon Huckabay

  The heavily muscled troopers wore identical uniforms and carried their gear in exactly the same places. Their black pants had numerous pockets and a thigh holster on each leg, and each holster held a large subatomic pistol. They each also carried a plasma boot knife. They wore vests with no shirts underneath. The vests had several cables connected to a large box on their backs. Two of the cables ran from the box to the helmet, with the others attached to various parts of the vest. Numerous frag and thermite grenades hung off of the vests as well. Each trooper carried an EMR modified with a large scope, grenade launcher, and what appeared to be a slug thrower. Some of the troopers carried large rocket launchers and satchels of spare rockets slung over their shoulders.

  A booming voice from behind the two workers startled them. They turned around, red-faced, like children who had just been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. A behemoth of a man almost too big for his overalls stood before them, with his arms crossed. His rolled-up sleeves exposed biceps measuring well more than twenty inches. “The supreme chancellor would appreciate it if you two would get back to work and quit wasting his time.” The two workers averted their eyes and looked at the ground momentarily.

  “Ah, sorry, Boss,” the taller worker said. “We just saw the troopers coming in. They sure don’t look like regular troopers.”

  The boss replied sternly, “You two didn’t see anything. In fact, if you are caught again neglecting your duty, you will be arrested. Is that understood?”

  Both workers replied in unison, “Understood.”

  The boss turned walked briskly to another nearby maintenance crew, also seemingly distracted by the procession.

  The short, fat worker grabbed the handle on a crate. “What was that all about, saying we didn’t see anything?”

  The tall worker grabbed the other handle. He looked at his partner sternly. “Exactly what he said—we saw nothing. Now let’s hurry up and finish, so we can get that drink.”

  The smaller worker looked slightly bewildered but said nothing further. The two quietly finished loading the crate and finished their shift in silence.

  Battalion 3 marched inside a large, empty building that appeared to once have been a gymnasium, complete with a large swimming pool, which was now drained. Grime-stained windows lined the top of the walls where they were joined with the roof, allowing a grey light to permeate the dusty space, which was rapidly filling with troopers. They formed perfect ranks, and their boots rang out in a rhythmic stomping symphony. Several robed figures brought up the rear, with their hands clasped together in front. Heads bowed, these figures silently stopped, off to the side, as the troopers formed six long ranks. Their boots stomped the pavement loudly as they came to a halt and again as they executed a right face in perfect unison. Several high-ranking officers entered, with several junior officers and noncommissioned officers trailing behind.

  The main body of troopers, wearing identical uniforms devoid of any name tags or unit markings, waited at attention with their battle rifles held at port arms. The noncommissioned officers, equipped with full battle gear, took up positions in front, at various intervals. In contrast to the troopers, there was nothing perfect about them, as they each wore their kitand uniforms to their liking. Each of them was accompanied by a private or junior corporal who wore a large radio pack on his back. The high-ranking officers made their way to the front and began walking across the ranks, inspecting the rigid troopers. The robed figures stayed to the side, save for one, who conversed with a colonel near the drained swimming pool at the rear of the formation partially hidden by the shadows of the building.

  “The battalion will remain here,” said one of the robed figures, “out of site, until the drop ships are fully prepped. I do not want any prying eyes, colonel.”

  The colonel turned and faced soldiers displayed before him with great satisfaction. He placed his gloved hands behind his back. “Security is tight,” he said. “We will handle any problems accordingly.” The colonel turned and stared into the blackness of the robed figure’s hood. “The troops will be airborne soon and will rendezvous with fleet. I am more concerned that they are not fully ready of the mission they will undertake. I still have concerns about their built-in cooling units and the logistics of keeping them supplied.”

  The robed figure’s voice came out as almost a whisper. “Do you not have faith in the program? It was you who were so enthusiastic when you were given this opportunity to build it from the ground up.”

  “There is no way to know if their human minders can keep them under control when in the heat of battle. Ten battalions with less than what amounts to a handful of minders may not be adequate. If they go berserk like the original did, that could be a problem for the human troopers sent to reinforce them.”

  The robed figure responded with the same barely audible rasp. “You have fulfilled you mission by getting them prepped and ready for war. Do not worry yourself anymore. The Shadow will take over command once we are in enemy space. If they adhere to their programming long enough for the human battalions to take over, the mission is a success. You have done well, and I sense you have a bright future ahead of you, Colonel Brenneke—perhaps as a provincial governor of X713 Delta?”

  Colonel Brenneke quickly smiled as he envisioned the realm of possibilities. “Yes, I am indebted to you. There is just so much more work to be done. I fear the cloning may have been rushed, that’s all.”

  “We did not sense that.” The robed figure raised its bowed head and started walking away. “You worry too much, colonel,” The robed figure said as it walked away. “Take it for what it is, a marvel of science and prophecy.” The robed figure paused and turned back around. Two red orbs stared into Colonel Brenneke’s eyes. He almost gasped but held fast, transfixed. “You are serving the supreme chancellor, and that is what puts fulfillment in your life, is it not?”

  After a couple of seconds, Brenneke broke out of his brief hypnosis. Stuttering, he replied, “Ye-yes. It is my greatest honor to serve the supreme chancellor.”

  The red orbs vanished, leaving blackness. “Good. The hour is near. Farewell, colonel.” The robed figure left without saying anything else, leaving Brenneke wondering what exactly was in store for the populace of the unfortunate planet soon to be invaded.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 41

  Roman let Petor in on his plan just before they entered the stasis pods for the journey to Earth, or X713 Delta, as everyone else was calling it. They had both been standing in a long line of underwear-clad penal battalion troopers awaiting a vaccination of some sort within the hold of a massive battle barge.

  “You will take me with you, won’t you?” Petor had hissed in a low whisper. He had taken great pains to try to remain inaudible, even though medical staff and regular army sergeants shouted orders seemingly almost every step of the way.

  “Shh! I already told you I would. Now be silent before we get sent to the mines instead!”

  Petor put his hand on Roman’s shoulder. “Chana wishes to accompany us as well. We cannot leave her behind.”

  Roman’s brow furrowed slightly. “How do you know that? She doesn’t speak.”

  “I have become quite adept at communication with her now,” Petor replied.

  Nodding, Roman kept his eyes forward. “We all need to stay together.”

  “Next!” A medical orderly brought a small pistol-shaped device to Roman’s shoulder. On the top of a device was a reservoir holding a lightly colored purple liquid. Roman felt a prick as a needle penetrated his skin. A loud hiss emanated from the gun, and the purple liquid vanished from its reservoir.

  “Ow!” Roman’s shoulder instantly felt numb. As he looked at the injection site, he could see it beginning to bruise before his eyes.

  “Let’s go, move out!” the technician said. “Next!”

  A trooper grabbed and led him by the shoulder through a door into a vast corridor lined on both sides with stasis pods. He already felt a bit loopy and extreme
ly tired. The trooper him to one of the cylindrical stasis pods, into which he gratefully entered. Sleep quickly overcame him as the computer took control of the pod’s ambient temperature and began to monitor his vitals. Behind him, Petor and later Chana were entered their respective pods, along with dozens of others.

  Dozens of massive dreadnaughts parked themselves in low Earth orbit, causing satellites and space junk to disintegrate against their outer shielding, adding to an already dense debris field. Once in position, the dreadnaughts commenced with a precise surgical bombardment, executed by an experienced battle fleet. The full force of their laser batteries and tactical missiles were loosed on the blue planet below. Power stations, suspected military bases, and other targets of infrastructure were eliminated. These attacks dropped numerous cities into perpetual darkness, from Belize and Honduras to the current front line on the Rio Grande, separating Mexico and Texas. Weapons technicians monitored hits and acquired new targets on large holomaps. Once the bombardment ceased, numerous egg shaped dropped pods carrying assault regiments and equipment descended to predetermined LZ’s.

  Lord Sabis advised Chuikova to separate the campaign into two distinct offensives, a southern and northern. Once the southern offensive was underway, clone units would spearhead the northern offensive. Once all resistance was crushed, occupation and subjugation could begin.

  Local police stood no chance against these forces; they were too few in number, and their small-caliber pistols were ineffective. Small groups of the local populace attempted to repel the invaders, but their corpses soon littered the streets. There had been no word of a response from the White House or the Pentagon. The survivors felt alone and isolated, eventually going into hiding to wait it out. After the initial shock had worn off and the reality of what was happening had settled in, a few local National Guard units north of the Rio Grande managed to assemble a few platoons of mixed personnel, along with tanks and some artillery, but their efforts also were too little, too late. No one could get answer on who was attacking, the Russians? The Chinese? Were nuclear weapons detonated on American soil?

  The northern offensive continued north at a breakneck pace until it stalled at a natural water boundary, the Rio Grande River waiting for supplies and reinforcements. After the rear area was secured just north of the Texas/Mexico border, Penal Battalion 7 touched down with its full complement of drop ships and equipment, just north of the Rio Grande near Brownsville, Texas. As his company charged down the ramp of the drop ship, Johnny Roman paused and raised his face shield. He could instantly smell the sour waters of the Rio Grande and the smog generated by the nearby maquiladoras in the Mexican city of Matamoros. A thin smile broke across his face as his company charged into the scorched-earth landscape. Fires from nearby buildings lit the evening sky like funeral pyres. “I’m home,” Roman said with neither joy nor sadness. He slammed his face shield down and vanished with his company into a grey, ashen wasteland.

  “I’ve got hostiles all over my position, where are those damn jets?”

  First Lieutenant Lance Chapa of the Texas National Guard yelled hoarsely into radio handset as the dying screams of men around him threatened to drown out his transmission. The past hour had been far more intense than Chapa had ever experienced in Afghanistan. The ground all around Chapa’s position was littered with the corpses of a few black armored invaders and several of those who dared to oppose them.

  Chapa’s handset came to life. “Calm down, lieutenant, you need to give me a proper report so I can send in those jets,” the faint voice broke through the static just barely. Chapa had a sick feeling starting to rise in his gut. Radio comms shouldn’t be that weak. He was only 40 miles or so from Kingsville Naval Air Station.

  “This is General Shimanek, 7th Cav. Now hang on down there, son. I’m trying to get reinforcements your way. Those bastards hit us all over. We got caught with our pants down.”

  Chapa sat down and leaned back against the smoldering husk of a State Highway Patrol car. He stared blankly ahead, the faint silhouettes of the strange egg shaped ships still visible off in the distance. The only thing that really slowed down the black armored invaders was the Rio Grande River. They seemed confused on how to get across, almost as if they were afraid of it. Chapa thought maybe the fire mission he called wasn’t such a good idea. Once the first few 155mm HE rounds hit, they scattered like angry ants and stormed across the river in rage. Within seconds of the first salvo, a half dozen or so missiles rained down from space, annihilating the battery.

  “My defensive line is breached, my arty and armor is gone, how copy?” Chapa whispered into the radio handset. He was surprised he was actually holding it together. A weekend a month and two weeks in the summer hadn’t prepared him or his men for a situation anything like this.

  Static crackled over the radio. Chapa raised his Steiner binoculars up and couldn’t count the invaders approaching his position. Time was running out quickly. Chapa tried again, “Hotel two five actual this is Phoenix 6. I need flash. Drop everything you have on my pos.”

  “Roger, flash on your position. Coordinates adjusted. You have jets inbound on your position. Keep your head down.” Chapa detected a hint of sadness from the voice on the other end of the radio, the situation now being fully understood. The front line wasn’t tenable; there just weren’t enough soldiers mobilized yet. He couldn’t get a word from Kingsville Naval Air Station and 7th Cav was out of Ft Hood, over 250 miles away. He could only assume the worst, that it was vaporized like most other military bases across the country.

  Chapa threw down the handset and grabbed his M-4 carbine and stood up. He marveled at the black armored figures storming his position just north of the smoking remains of Brownsville Border Patrol Station. The few of his men who stood their ground were quickly cut to pieces under precise rifle fire. His soldiers were well equipped with ceramic plates and soft body armor, but the invaders weren’t firing bullets. A trailing green smoke followed the rounds as they penetrated their targets with ease. After penetration, the rounds kept going, tunneling through cars, walls, and whatever else got into their baneful path.

  Rifled shotgun slugs and 5.56 rounds tore into the lead invaders chest and blew of its right arm as it crested the hill. As Chapa watched, the severed arm still twitched on the ground. Even without his arm, the soldier got up and continued on. It took another magazine of 5.56 and several slugs from two County Sheriff’s Deputies to drop him for good after concentrating on the helmeted head, which vaporized into a mass of high- density plastic and black mist. The body hit the ground just shy of the Chapa’s feet, convulsing and leaking black ooze out of its neck. Chapa longed for a single .50 cal machine gun, but unfortunately, the Humvees that the .50 cals were mounted on had long since been destroyed. The following invaders spread out and drove on as the remaining human defenders opened up with everything they had.

  Chapa inserted a fresh magazine and raised his M-4 and squeezed off controlled bursts as he lined up targets in the reticule of his Aimpoint sight. He quickly depleted his magazine, and fell back against the burned out car behind him. Within seconds Chapa heard the telltale sounds of fast movers approaching low, at treetop level, dropping ordnance from their pylons. Chapa watched with satisfaction as the cluster bomblets hit the scorched earth, bounced upward, and exploded in the air, sending lethal shrapnel everywhere.

  Ground Marshal Chuikova stood in the bridge of The Emperor’s Fist in his ceremonial battle armor, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. The bridge was busy with technicians and crew attending to their various tasks. Chuikova observed the waves of troop ships and larger supply ships being discharged from the other capital ships in the armada.

  “Sir,” a grey-suited technician said as he held a hand up to his headset. “We have an incoming transmission from the Battalion 3, Company 6 commander. They should be one of the leading assault units.”

  “Patch him through.”

  The technician nodded and punched a few red buttons on his conso
le. Immediately, static and explosions could be heard.

  “Go ahead with your traffic. Ground Marshal Chuikova is present.”

  “Understood!” After a brief pause of silence, the transmission clicked back on. “Captain Siminov reporting, Sir!” The captain yelled into his mike. Judging by the sound of gunfire around him, he probably couldn’t hear himself talk.

  Chuikova stared absently into the view screen, which was dominated by the blue planet. He had a feeling that he was being watched by some unseen presence, even though he could detect only his officers and the technicians around him. Neighboring dreadnaughts on either side of The Emperor’s Fist occasionally let loose with a volley of blue plasma fire or tactical missiles, trailing white smoke as they exited launch tubes and streaked for the planet’s surface.

  “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “Ah. Copy. We are experiencing pocket resistance at the moment. We may have to dig in until we are reinforced. Tac strike missions will follow this transmission. Ground forces are being neutralized effectively; however, we are now under aerial attack. We are drawing casualties and may need resupply soon.” The captain’s voice was not panicked, but calm. Chuikova was grateful that at least he was able to review the personnel files of his troopers going into battle with the clones to ensure that experienced officers were leading. He always preferred to deal with war veterans in combat.

  “What of the clones? Are they holding up?” Chuikova asked.

  “Copy. They are able to withstand a lot of damage. Most are still following their programming.” The transmission static clicked off as a tremendous explosion resonated throughout the bridge.

  “Captain! What do you mean ‘most’? Respond!”

  Silence ensued. Chuikova immediately turned to the technician and yelled, “Get him back!”

  The technician was already busy over his console; his hands were a blur as he punched various buttons. “The frequency is still open. He is not responding, Sir.”