The Tetra War_Fractured Peace

by Michael Ryan

  “I don’t carry an EPL,” said one of the corporals.

  “Hold on, everyone,” I said.

  I struggled to my feet. The workers moved, and a soldier spider attacked. The needlelike stinger eventually fractured against my armor, but the beast continued its onslaught in spite of its broken weapon. Another soldier spider joined its attack. I plunged my blade into the head of the first spider, and dark, sticky goop oozed from the wound. It thrashed its mandibles in the air as though trying to bite my head off, and then finally collapsed dead.

  After a tussle with the surviving pair of warrior spiders, which I killed with my EPL, I went to work freeing the rest of the squad.

  “Don’t use anything explosive,” I commanded. “That’s a direct order.”

  Our one chance to survive depended on the enemy above us assuming everyone who had fallen into the lair was dead.

  There were only seventeen of us left alive to form our new makeshift squad, and they were expecting me to lead them to safety.

  ~~~

  As fearsome as the spiders were, they proved easy to kill with a plasma laser. We eliminated the fighter class a few minutes after everyone was free, although their tenacity was astounding. The big warrior spiders didn’t stop their assault even when they had to climb over the gooey dead bodies of their comrades to get close to us. We cut down the remaining workers, but the smaller classes scurried off into dark recesses of the lair.

  Callie programmed a new Raiders Squad comm, incorporating the Bravo Company members who were trapped with us. She also made a leadership comm that included Abrel and Mallsin so the four of us could strategize privately. I would work to protect and save everyone, but an unspoken reality in military campaigns was that friendship and long-standing relationships affected decisions. All things being equal, a soldier is going to save a friend before saving a stranger.

  “Run through your squad and company comms,” I ordered the group. “Listen only.”

  The first order of business was to establish if anyone was still alive above us. The sand cavern blocked most signals, but even so there would be traces. If none of us picked up a trace of chatter or any system notifications, it would indicate a complete massacre of the regiment.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten.

  “Anybody?”

  There was no indication that there were any survivors besides ourselves.

  “What do you guys think?” I asked over the private leadership comm.

  “Lead us to victory, sir!” Abrel said. Abrel was a fan of inappropriate irony, sarcasm, and dirty jokes. I didn’t mind, but sometimes he annoyed Callie and Mallsin.

  “At least we’re alive for now,” Callie said defensively. “We need to work on getting out of here.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest leaving that way.” Abrel pointed toward the ceiling.

  I scanned the lair and concluded from the appearance and disappearance of the worker spiders that the arachnids used a hive or nest structure, like ants and termites. If that was the case, it was possible that there was a network of tunnels and perhaps another exit. I suggested this to the group.

  “Yes, the sand-wolf is eusocial,” Mallsin said.

  “Stick to Common English.” I tapped my helmet. “I’m plenty smart when it comes to killing, but I never did well in advanced biology.”

  “It means they have a complex social organization,” Mallsin clarified. “The hive is organized into different castes. We saw examples of this with healers and workers. I believe, although it’s been a while since I studied this, that the sand-wolf has over twenty specialty groups. The top of the hierarchy, of course, is the queen. But unlike a video game, the boss is not the threat. Her job is to lay eggs.”

  “How’s this going to help us get out of here?” Abrel asked.

  “I’m getting to that,” she answered. “It seems that a colony can live indefinitely. Workers create new queens when needed, and the construction of a hive can span hundreds of years. There have been studies of hives that are believed to be over a thousand years old.”

  “And this helps how?” he prompted.

  “Think about how signs of animal activity were absent in the desert we just hiked through. This cavern might be two hundred years old, or even five hundred years, built when this area was filled with prey. The desert’s changed over the centuries. What I’m saying is that the spiders must have built tunnels stretching out in all directions, searching for areas to hunt.”

  An image filled my mind. “You’re saying the spiders don’t go up and down, like a giant termite mound, but rather build outward?”

  “Like a spiderweb.”

  “I get it,” I said.

  “So we just have to pick the right branch tunnel,” Callie said.

  “True,” Mallsin agreed. “If we aren’t careful, we could end up deeper in the desert. The only good news is that regardless of which direction we head, eventually we should find another trap like this one. Then we can surface and reevaluate.”

  “We could sit tight,” Abrel said. “There’s a good argument for not leaving. Command could send a rescue party.”

  “Or the Prostosi could be up there watching,” Callie said.

  “Prostosi?”

  “You don’t think those were Pros?”

  “It was Ted hardware,” Abrel stated.

  “Could have been confiscated.”

  “We’re on Purvas. Why would human separatists be on this planet?”

  “Terrorism.”

  “But what about–”

  “Stop,” I said, interrupting the pointless speculation about the nature of the enemy’s makeup. “We can worry about where they got their technology and who’s funding them some other time. Right now we need to figure out how to get out of here.”

  “You’re the boss, Avery,” Abrel said.

  “I’m going to the squad comm,” I said. I opened the new Raiders’ comm and got everyone’s attention. “We’re going to look for a tunnel system and then move along it until we reach another sand trap. We’ll operate under ‘no-contact’ orders, and we’ll maintain discipline in order to remain undetected by the Teds…or the Pros, or whatever is out there. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the group said.

  “I’m going to have my second set up a division of troops. You’ll be assigned to either Master Sergeant Specialist Ford – that’s me – or you’ll be under Sergeant Velesment – that’s Abrel. Use the chain of command for questions or problems. That is all.”

  We marched, and sometimes crawled, through a series of tunnels for six days before we reached another killing chamber. Apparently because we’d entered the lair from inside, the soldier spiders didn’t recognize us as threats, so we were spared the messy task of having to destroy them. Our group had seven combat engineers, and I had them build a ladder and then sent a recon scout to the surface.

  “It’s clear, sir,” he reported back an hour later. “But…”

  “What is it, soldier?” I demanded.

  “You’re not going to believe what’s up here.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Very few things happen at the right time, and the rest do not happen at all. The conscientious historian will correct these defects.

  ~ Herodotus

  Two years before the destruction of the third regiment

  Harea Desert, Tedescon Territories, Purvas

  Lieutenant Colonel Balestain stepped from the heavily reinforced troop heli-jet into the heat of the desert.

  “Sir,” an aide said, looking past the colonel’s scarred face. “This way, please. It’s not safe out here.”

  Balestain was impervious to the reactions his battle injuries triggered, inured to the stares or awkward attempts to avoid staring at his face, the two most frequent. The deep burns on the left side were too extensive for bone and flesh replacement to make him whole. He’d settled for practical fixes, declining further surgeries beyond what was necessary for functional purposes, believing that vanity was
a luxury exercised by the weak.

  He considered his scars to be subtle reminders – he still wore a uniform on the off chance of obtaining revenge.

  Irony had partnered the remaining loyalist Teds with the Pros. As much as he detested human beings, it was the Guritains who were ultimately responsible for his misfortunes. Besides, if the Tedesconian nation could regain its power, dealing with humans would be nothing more than swatting flies.

  A new left eye would have been helpful, but was out of the question. The nerves had been damaged too extensively for replacement, even with bionics. Instead, he wore a metal implant over the left side of his face.

  When his mecha had burned to the ground in the Biragon during the failed defense of the bio-laboratory that had given him false hope about the direction of the war, Balestain had refused to take the fatal dose of pain-deadening meds. He more than understood that the primary purpose wasn’t pain management but to keep the Gurts from taking prisoners and gaining intel. But the Gurts hadn’t bothered to check the wreckage for survivors. They’d obviously had only one priority: to get off the planet with the prize that ended the war.

  “Lead the way, Corporal,” he said, and fell in behind the soldier. The younger man walked to a troop transport that had been fortified with extra armor, as the heli-jet had been. Apparently the upper echelon of leadership put a high value on his life. He often wondered why, since he’d failed so spectacularly when it had most mattered, but as long as a chance remained to be a warrior, he played along.

  He had nothing else.

  Balestain strapped himself into the command seat and logged in to the system. He called up the intel interface screens and pinged the major who was in charge of the operation.

  “Lieutenant Colonel, sir,” the major said over a private comm. “Shall I transfer command to you, sir?”

  “That won’t be required,” he answered. “I’m here only as an observer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve read the latest report. Please update me on the current situation.”

  “We’re reasonably certain now that the ship isn’t purely warcraft. Its armaments and defensive technology are advanced enough to be sure that if they’d expected a dangerous situation, they’d have come with more offensive weaponry, or at least with escort craft. We don’t recognize all of their equipment, but since this species obviously developed a Belkinotic drive–”

  “Or they stole it, Major,” Balestain interrupted.

  “Yes, sir. That is a distinct possibility. We’ll board the ship after we neutralize the landing party, sir.”

  “An optimistic outlook is to your credit, but the last report I received indicated you’d taken considerable losses without success in killing any of them.”

  “That report was going through official channels, sir. I’ve lost only humans and haven’t deployed any of our own special forces.”

  “Excellent, Major. I apologize for underestimating you.”

  “I’ve scheduled an assault at twenty-three hundred hours, sir. Shall I patch you into my lead TCI-Armor sergeant at that time?”

  “That will be acceptable, Major.”

  “In the meantime, Lieutenant Colonel, some of my more industrious staff have managed to capture a live sand-wolf spider queen.”

  “Is she berried?”

  “With color you wouldn’t believe, sir. Shall I set a place for you?”

  “That will be acceptable, Major.”

  “Nineteen thirty for cocktails, sir.”

  Dining on spider roe was a luxury in the field, but the eggs were fragile and spoiled quickly after harvesting. And while Balestain’s authority was unparalleled by anyone under the rank of general, transporting a live sand-wolf spider back to civilization was beyond even his reach.

  Five minutes before the assault, Balestain logged into the CPU of the platoon leader, Lieutenant Tralesblate.

  “Sir, welcome aboard,” Tralesblate said.

  “Carry on, lieutenant,” he ordered. “Pretend I’m not here.”

  “Sir.”

  The lieutenant gave his assault team the green light to move against the alien landing party.

  Balestain watched the assault as if he were in the louie’s suit.

  “Get that…fuck…don’t you guys pay attention!”

  “Move, move, move…”

  “Contact. Watch sector four.”

  “They’ve got a missile I can’t–”

  “Green Actual?”

  “Green Actual is dead, sir.”

  “Get me a status on that mecha.”

  “The mecha has been disabled. I have four TCI down already. We need a bigger–”

  “Incoming. There, left, left, left…no your other left. Versus! Get that human platoon out of the way.”

  “Cannon fodder, sir.”

  “I need a mortar team to put some smoke into sector two. Yesterday!”

  The lieutenant moved closer to the defensive position the aliens had formed. The aliens were suited, and their gear concealed their form, but they appeared to be a half meter taller than the largest Ted in the advance team. Unless their armor was partially robotic or bionically enhanced, the creatures were bipedal and had two arms. They also had long tails, or had designed fighting suits with extra appendages. It would be impossible to tell until Balestain’s men killed them and got one out of its suit. Assuming that was even possible.

  One thing years of war against the Gurts had taught him was that some enemies wouldn’t give up their armor easily.

  The aliens soon proved to have a similar philosophy about leaving equipment behind. The first alien to take a critical hit ran full speed into the fray and took out a squad of armored Teds, as well as half a platoon of human mercenary troops, in the self-triggered explosion that vaporized its suit.

  “Pull back half a click,” Tralesblate ordered.

  “Belay that,” Balestain said, breaking into the company comm. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Balestain. I’m taking command of this operation. I want Fourth Platoon to move into sector six immediately. Third Platoon, close your position.”

  Tralesblate opened the private comm. “Sir, your orders are suicidal.”

  “My priority here is their ship, Lieutenant. The squad you’re attacking won’t be taken alive. They’ll self-destruct, as you’ve just seen. We gain nothing trying to obtain intel from a disciplined soldier with the ability to turn himself into a bomb.”

  “Sir,” the platoon leader said, “shall I move my reserve mecha…oh, bloody Golvin.”

  The alien warriors left their position and practically flew into the middle of the enemy troops before exploding like small tactical nuclear warheads. The connection between Balestain and Tralesblate went dead.

  “Major,” Balestain said after switching to the command comm.

  “I see it, sir.”

  The top of the grounded ship blew in a fireball into the night sky, and its multicolored flames lit the devastation on the field for kilometers. Hundreds of dead troops littered the sand, and in the near distance a mecha burned.

  Balestain absently rubbed the scar that ran down his neck. “Get a team in there to put out the fires, Major. Let’s see if we can make something positive out of this…unfortunate turn of events.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Balestain was experienced enough to know that expressing his displeasure over things that couldn’t be changed was counterproductive. Besides, he’d expected nothing different than the disastrous outcome. A species advanced enough to possess the kind of hardware they used wasn’t going to surrender and hand it over.

  Important questions remained: who were they, where had they come from, what did they want, and were more of them on the way?

  Knowing answers wouldn’t be forthcoming, Balestain ordered a transport to take him back to his office.

  Plans needed to be formulated.

  An alien species had discovered Purvas and had shown itself to be a martial one. The imperative, given their obvious
superiority on the battlefield, was for alliance negotiations to take place between the Tedesconians and this new species – assuming they were interested in anything but annihilating the planet’s population. The importance of the Guritains not having a chance to communicate with them first could not be overstated. Balestain needed to set plans into motion.

  “Corporal, notify all senior council members the second we enter Valtrian airspace,” he ordered his transport pilot. “I’m calling an emergency meeting for zero seven hundred.”

  “Yes, sir,” the corporal said. “Sir…what were those things?”

  “Maybe our salvation. Or maybe the end of hope. I don’t know yet, Corporal. But I intend to find out.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Peace obtained by persuasion has a pleasant melody, but I’m certain it would never work. We should have to tame the whole purvast race first, and history seems to indicate the impossibility of such a task.

  ~ Master Malkz Teezled

  Present day

  Purvas

  I climbed out of the spider funnel and stood on its rim.

  The night sky was clear. The tangerine moon of Purvas was waning but still nearly full. The sight of my ghostly shadow caught me by surprise – I had adjusted again to the disembodied view presented to me by my display screen. Being out of the darkness of the tunnels where I’d relied on night-vision enhancement brought a distinctive shift in my perception of the world, especially in the amber hue of the moon.

  In the distance, the remains of a starship lay half buried by the surrounding dunes.

  “It’s not purvast made, sir,” the scout said to me.

  “I can see that. It’s not human, either.”

  “Avery,” Callie said as she reached the rim, “what the hell’s that?”

  “We’re going to see if we can figure that out,” I said. “Abrel, you and Mallsin join me. Callie, you’re in charge until we make it back. Keep everyone down below. If there’s a trap up here…”

  “Be careful,” she said. It was her tactful way of saying “I love you” on the squad comm.