Duty, Honor, Planet: The Complete Trilogy

by Rick Partlow

  This close, there was no way he could miss even with the camouflage projection and the electromagnetic interference. The round took the lead enemy square in the helmet and blew it to scrap with a deep-throated roar. Blood and bits of metal splashed away from where the head had been and the thing collapsed like a felled tree. Vinnie knew he couldn’t get back behind cover in time, so he shifted his aim to the second…thing in line and emptied his rifle magazine into its helmet. The rounds disintegrated on impact and if their tungsten cores penetrated, it didn’t even slow the creature down.

  A yawning muzzle swung towards him and he tried to move, knowing there wasn’t time…but then a fusillade of grenades followed his, most striking the one that had targeted him. The rounds struck it in the torso and the combined blast ripped away the armor in huge chunks that showed what could only have been the broken remains of stark-white ribs and the bloody, shredded remnants of living organs. The second creature staggered and managed to trigger once last blast of its energy weapon before it fell sideways with a crash of metal on concrete.

  What the fuck are these things?

  The rest of the attackers ceased their advance and moved to the sides of the front entrance, out of the line of fire, and Vinnie took advantage of the reprieve to scramble back behind cover. He saw Jock getting the others to better positions and getting the wounded man into the storage room for treatment. And he came to a quick decision.

  “Alpha,” he transmitted, “give your anti-armor grenades to Bravo and form on me down the stairs.” He switched to Jock’s private channel. “You think you can hold these things back, brother?”

  “As Tom likes to say,” Jock told him, a grin in his voice, “ain’t nothin’ but a thing.”

  Vinnie moved quickly down the stairs to Jock’s position and gave the man his remaining anti-armor grenades from the pouches on his vest.

  “Don’t pull an Alamo,” Vinnie told Jock firmly, catching his eye through their face-plates. “If they’re about to break through, fall back on us and we can take them on together.”

  “What are those things, mate?” Jock asked, frowning. “That’s not something Yuri cooked up in some lab in lower Asscrackistan.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Vinnie admitted, “but if I had to guess, I’d say they look an awful lot like those Destroyer things Misha was describing.”

  “Holy shit,” Jock muttered. “Well, that’s a disturbing thought right there. Hurry and go blow up that missile so we can get out of here, why don’t you?”

  Vinnie flinched involuntarily as a volley of energy bursts slammed into the front wall of the building, vaporizing the buildfoam coating, melting the steel girders and blowing the concrete apart.

  “Right,” Vinnie said. “Alpha Team, on me! Bonifacio, you have point! Let’s go!”

  “All right!” Jock was yelling at Bravo. “Don’t waste ammo! Keep to your sectors and call your shots!”

  Something twisted in Vinnie’s gut and he suddenly had a conviction that he would never see his friend again. He shook it off, trying to ignore the explosions and carnage behind him, and followed Sgt. Bonifacio down the stairs.

  * * *

  Brendan Riordan squeezed his eyes shut and cradled his head in his hands, his stomach roiling with incipient nausea and his pulse pounding in his temples. Everything was coming apart…everything he’d worked to preserve for decades, everything he’d managed to save against all odds four years ago. He looked up and across his opulent Houston ‘plex office and saw the news feed still streaming in his holotank. It was repeating Valerie O’Keefe’s declaration before moving on to the announcement of the assassinations of President Jameson and Vice President Shang, repeating the statement by the Chief of Staff that they believed that the Security agents who had carried out the killings had been conspirators with Captain Frank and Senator O’Keefe in their attempt to topple the elected government.

  Even the corporate-controlled news outlets and their talking heads didn’t seem to buy that explanation entirely, and the independents were openly calling it a lie. It didn’t help that no footage had been released of either assassination despite the fact that both the President and Vice President were supposed to be monitored at all times.

  Acting President Cumberland had also made a brief statement deploring the treasonous acts of Andrew Franks and Valerie O’Keefe and warning all military personnel that he was the lawful commander in chief of the Republic armed forces. Riordan had to snort a humorless laugh at that. Cumberland was a bullying windbag whose main redeeming quality was that, once bought, he stayed bought. And now he was supposed to be the damned President? Riordan was the one who’d bought him and even he didn’t think the man could pull that off.

  What the hell is going on? he wondered again. Had Ayrock really been controlling Jameson this whole time? Could he have been blind enough not to notice?

  That train of thought was interrupted by the chime of a ‘link seeking his attention. It wasn’t his personal ‘link, the one attached to his belt. It was another, one he usually kept hidden in a locked compartment in his desk. He’d had it in his coat pocket since all this had begun and he fished the device out quickly. Riordan stood from the couch and paced towards the center of the office, debating whether to accept the call. This ‘link was supposedly completely secure and impossible to trace back to him…and he could believe as much of that as he liked. He sighed with resignation and touched the screen.

  “Yes?”

  “Brendan, it’s Philip,” Ayrock said in an almost conversational tone. “Sorry I haven’t called before, but things have been a bit busy, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Of course,” Riordan allowed, trying to keep his tone as light and unconcerned as Ayrock’s as he continued to pace around the room. “I knew eventually you’d get around to explaining how you’d been controlling Greg Jameson and manipulating me for the last decade.”

  “What’s to explain?” Ayrock asked, his tone dismissive. “You’d have done the same thing if you’d been in position to get away with it. The thing is, Brendan, I don’t want you to panic. Everything is still under control.”

  Riordan had to laugh…he couldn’t help it. He was able to stop himself before it devolved into hysterical cackling, but only just. “Oh, Philip,” he said, finally, “I think we must have very different ideas about what that phrase means.”

  “Listen, Brendan,” Ayrock went on, a trace of annoyance in his voice, “they’ve thrown the Hail Mary pass here, but we still control the game. In a few hours, maybe less, McKay will be dead, and Homeworld Guard forces will be moving into the Old City to take care of Captain Franks and anyone stupid enough to join him there. Then I’ll have Valerie O’Keefe arrested and tried for treason.”

  “And what about Admiral Minishimi, Philip?” Brendan wanted to know. “What about the Fleet?”

  “What are they going to do?” Ayrock demanded. “Bombard our cities? Not with the Lunar Defense Base and the ground lasers to turn her ships to ashes the minute they drop field. We’ll have the legitimate Republic authority and a fait accompli that Minishimi won’t be able to challenge. At worst, she’ll take a few ships and start some half-assed government in exile and what do I care?”

  “How can you be sure about McKay?” Riordan wanted to know. “He’s survived worse than Yuri.”

  “He won’t survive this,” Ayrock declared. “I’m making damn sure of it.” His voice suddenly turned conciliatory. “I just need to make sure that you understand the situation. If we just stick together and don’t panic, we will own this world in a way no election can overturn. Are you still with me, Brendan?”

  “I don’t suppose I have much choice,” Riordan admitted bitterly. “My head’s on the chopping block right next to yours, isn’t it?”

  “And you should keep that in mind when the time comes that I need your help,” Ayrock reminded him. “Just stay cool and everything will be fine.”

  “All right, Philip, but I expect to be kept informed.�
�

  There was no reply and he looked at the ‘link to see that the connection had been broken.

  “Fucker,” he hissed.

  Brendan Riordan stared at the ‘link for nearly a minute, his brain turning over one possibility after another and trying to see a positive outcome from any of them. When that became too depressing, he tossed the device up and down in his palm a couple times, then wound up and threw it against the far wall of the office. It shattered against the real brick of his fireplace, shards of plastic and circuitry flying in all directions.

  He touched a control on his desk interface, then tried not to fidget in the two minutes it took before the door to the office opened and a tall, slender man with a face like the blade of an axe stepped inside.

  “Yes, Mr. Riordan?” the man asked, standing stiffly, almost at attention.

  “Jean-Pierre,” Riordan said quietly, “I need to get to Capital City without being detected…and I need to leave now.”

  Chapter Forty Two

  This is taking too long, McKay thought, checking the time again in his helmet HUD. They’d been set up by the stairwell door for nearly ten minutes, waiting for Gunny Kennedy and her squad to plant the breaching charges on the next floor down and every second that ticked away seemed like an hour.

  Finally, McKay saw the Marine down the hallway at the edge of the elevator shaft look back towards them and give a high sign. He almost gave the command himself, but stopped. These were Muniz’ troops, not his.

  “They’re in position,” Muniz said to the Marines stacked by the stairwell door, the first two with grenades prepped and ready to go. “Do it.”

  The third trooper in the stack hit a control and the charges they’d positioned at the door’s hinges and latch blew with an antiphonal series of bangs. The door pitched inward with a clatter of metal on concrete and before the echoes died, the two at the front of the stack tossed in their grenades and ducked back. Amplified by the confines of the stairwell, the blasts sounded like a clap of thunder and sent a cloud of dust and smoke billowing back up the stairs.

  Muniz waited a moment, pausing to listen for screams or shooting or any reaction at all. McKay saw the Captain glance his way, a hint of doubt in the man’s dark eyes, before slapping the point man on the shoulder.

  “Go!” he ordered sharply.

  The Corporal in the lead position and the PFC directly behind him both charged down the stairs, firing their rifles into the smoke at the landing below them. McKay switched his HUD feed to the view from the point man’s helmet camera and saw vague, dark shapes in the smoke, moving slowly…and then the unmistakable shape of a large gun barrel.

  A warning formed on his lips, but he never had time to sound it. There was a flash, the helmet feed blinked out and suddenly McKay found himself on his back, covered in rubble, the world wreathed in a cloud of grey dust and white steam.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, shaking his head clear and rolling onto his side.

  The doorway to the stairwell was a jagged, charred hole and there was another in the ceiling above it; to McKay it seemed that someone had fired the chin cannon from an assault shuttle right up the stairwell. Had it been some kind of booby-trap waiting for them, a mine of some kind?

  Then what seemed to be a white-hot flash of sunfire came up through the ragged doorway and crashed into the ceiling, enlarging the hole there, sending another rain of debris on top of the prone Marines and unleashing another cloud of smoke and steam as insulation from the ceiling burst into flame. Muniz, closer to the stairs than he was, threw another grenade through the opening, but the only response was another blast of…What? McKay wondered. Laser? Particle beam? Plasma? He didn’t know, but it was energy of some kind, not a projectile.

  Where the hell would Yuri get something like that?

  McKay forced his mind to work despite a storm front of panic that was beginning to cloud over his thoughts. Frag grenades hadn’t put a dent in whatever was down there…maybe anti-armor grenades would? He fished one from the pouch on his chest and loaded it into the launcher under his carbine barrel, then gathered his legs beneath him and lunged across the room, past what he was pretty sure was a charred and blackened human leg, to fall on his right side in the open doorway.

  Something was coming up the stairs…something big and covered in thick, metallic armor and mounting a cannon-sized weapon of some kind, its yawning muzzle glowing white hot in the darkness. McKay fought off an urge to gawk at it and fired his grenade launcher. The round took the thing in the right shoulder, just at the attachment of the energy weapon, shredding metal and flesh and tearing the cannon away in a shower of sparks.

  The thing staggered but didn’t go down and McKay was about to reload when one of the Marines went down to a knee next to him and opened up with his autogun. The gyrostabilized fire support weapon fed caseless 12mm rounds via an articulated feed chute from a backpack reservoir. The Special Ops teams didn’t carry them because they were heavy, unwieldy and restricted movement and concealment in ways that Vinnie, Jock and Tom found unacceptable; but McKay was happy to have one beside him at the moment. The 12mm tungsten-core slugs tore through the thing’s armor and sent it tumbling back down the stairs into the one behind it, tangling that one up and not allowing it to bring its cannon to bear.

  “Keep shooting!” McKay ordered on the general band, not taking the time to read the IFF and get the gunner’s name.

  His hands worked automatically, reloading another anti-armor grenade round as the Marine poured fire into the bunched up enemy…it had to be powered armor, McKay thought absently. Certainly no human could move that much weight unaided…not even a biomech. And the blood and tissue he’d seen erupt from the wounds meant they weren’t some sort of automaton. The next armor-suited figure went down as 12mm armor-piercing slugs sawed through its right leg, but that gave the third a clear shot with its energy weapon…

  “Down!” McKay yelled, grabbing the autogunner by an arm and yanking him away from the door.

  They’d barely cleared it when another eye-searing blast punched through the wall behind where they’d been standing. This time McKay felt the roasting heat at the discharge of the weapon that reached even through his insulated armor, and he saw more of the structure of the building catching fire. Hell, the concrete was burning…he idly wondered how much breathable oxygen was left down here.

  And where the hell is Kennedy?

  No sooner had the thought passed through his mind than he heard explosions and gunfire from the landing below, followed by the unmistakable sound of the energy weapons discharging. He scrambled to his feet and ran back to the stairwell, seeing the shredded and motionless forms of the two dead armored things but no more living ones: they were engaged somewhere out in the corridor beyond against Kennedy’s Marines.

  “Follow me!” McKay yelled, not waiting to see if anyone did before he bounded down the stairs three at a time.

  He nearly stumbled over bits of the smoking armor that had been torn from the things, but found his footing and ran down the rest of the steps through where the door to the fourth sub-basement had been before it had been enlarged by something about three meters tall and nearly two wide.

  One of the armored things lay just outside the exit, blackened and smoking from a dozen hits from autogun rounds and grenades, but McKay only spared it a glance to make sure it was really out of the fight. Three more were lumbering down the corridor into the teeth of First squad’s fire and McKay targeted the one closest to him, aiming at the mount for the energy weapon.

  It dimly registered through McKay’s adrenaline haze that he was just ten meters from the thing: the grenade’s rocket motor barely had time to ignite after leaving the launcher and when it hit, the concussion from the detonation knocked him backward off his feet. He landed on his right shoulder and grunted out a curse as his carbine dropped from suddenly-numb fingers. It retracted into his chest and he fumbled for it desperately, seeing that the armored thing wasn’t down, just sta
ggering drunkenly with its arm and part of its torso hanging by shreds of metal and bloody flesh. It turned, bringing up a left arm that terminated in a massively powerful metal claw…

  And then it rocked back as autogun rounds ripped through it, tracking from its ruined chest up to where the head should have been. Finally it fell like a downed tree, slamming into the floor with a crash of metal, and McKay realized that the autogunner had followed him down the stairs---it had taken him longer to negotiate the distance with the heavy weapon, but he was there and two more Marines were with him. The three of them opened fire on the remaining two enemy, catching them in a crossfire; and before McKay could push himself back to his feet, the things were down in a smoldering mountain of metal and everything was preternaturally quiet.

  McKay could hear the pinging and groaning of superheated metal as he stepped carefully past the remains of the things to check on Gunny Kennedy’s squad. He wasn’t sure what had been on this floor because whatever it was had been burned black by energy blasts and there were lumps of melted metal and plastic that could have been desks littering the floor. Most of the lights were blown out, fixtures hanging from the ceiling by wires or lying melted on the floor, but enough remained for his helmet’s night vision gear to make up the difference.

  That was how he could plainly see the bodies…well, the parts of bodies. His stomach curled up inside him at the sight of the burned flesh melted into burned armor, bits and pieces everywhere in the corridor between the stairway entrance and the open elevator doors. He didn’t want to look at them, but he was more afraid of stepping on one by accident. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it together if he did that.

  The only members of First squad still standing were a Corporal carrying the platoon’s other autogun and Sgt. Preston, the squad leader. Two others were still moving, but one had both legs burned off above the knees and the other was missing her left arm and most of the shoulder all the way into the chest…he thought he could see organs through the blackened flesh but he looked away quickly. The medical readouts from their armor were fried, but he knew there was no way to get them out of here alive. Preston was squatting next to the two wounded, talking to them quietly and injecting them with painkillers and McKay didn’t disturb him. The autogunner stood like a statue, staring at nothing.