Bravo Company could hold out a little longer now. Maybe long enough for the battalion to regroup.
Fromm might have lost his career and soon enough his life, but at least he hadn’t allowed the asshole to kill his men.
* * *
“Sit down, Lieutenant.”
Colonel Macwhirter’s office was unusually Spartan, with few of the pictures and holographs that would comprise a typical ‘I-love-me’ wall. Most of the mementos Fromm could see marked some eventful moments in the colonel’s life: a picture of a young Captain Macwhirter leading a warp assault on a pirated passenger starship; a holographic display of a battle in Vega-Eight, where Major Macwhirter had been wounded and nearly killed. And so on. Hardly any pictures of the officer paling it up with other VIPs.
Fromm sat down. Normally, meeting with the regiment commander would have been a nerve-wracking experience. At the moment, he was too numb to care. He’d spent the wait outside the colonel’s office writing letters to the families of the dead. In the end, he hadn’t saved his platoon. All of them had ended up as casualties; almost half had been killed.
“It appears that your implant’s records were irretrievably lost when you were wounded. Same thing happened to Captain Chastain, strangely enough.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he stayed silent.
“The Captain had an… interesting history, you might say,” Macwhirter went on. “Some people thought he walked on water. Others had some reservations but nothing solid to base them on. The fact that he married the granddaughter of one of the wealthiest men on Earth didn’t hurt, either. In any case, it’s been decided that to look further into his demise will do nobody any good. Which leaves us with the question of what to do with you.”
Remaining quiet seemed to be working, so he kept at it.
“For now, it means a promotion, Captain Fromm. Your actions saved most of the regiment, even if it cost you half of your platoon. Far better than anything that cowardly piece of shit would have managed, beyond saving his own sorry ass.” The expression in Macwhirter’s eyes told Fromm the officer had watched both imps’ feeds before they were ‘lost.’
The Colonel’s eyes bore into Fromm’s. “You’re getting away with murder, Captain. Almost literally. The question is, what will you do now? Maybe you’ll decide you’re invincible, and fuck up until you get yourself and your command killed. What do you think you’ll do with your free pass?”
“My duty, sir.”
“Good answer. You better mean it. Now get the fuck out of my office. I need to think of a good place to put you.”
Twelve
Year 163 AFC, D Minus Three
Timothy Brackenhurst winced when the heavy mortars fired off another volley.
He knew the carnage those weapons would inflict upon reaching their targets. He’d spent his obligatory service in an artillery unit with the Marine Auxiliaries, and seen firsthand just how destructive plasma and shrapnel bombs could be.
Part of him was horrified at the slaughter; the other part rejoiced, because those men the mortars were killing had come to the Enclave to kill, and they were now reaping what they’d sown.
They had decided to keep the refugees at the mission, which was inside the force field perimeter encompassing the embassy compound and the Caterpillar Building. That meant finding room for almost two thousand Kirosha in facilities meant to accommodate a tithe of that number. Classrooms had been converted to dormitories, furniture and bedding been salvaged from nearby abandoned houses, and they’d gathered and stored every bit of food they had been able to purchase, beg or ‘borrow.’ The swimming pool was now a covered water reservoir, just in case. While the embassy had their own well, its water supply would be strained by so many people.
President Jensen had held a meeting with the ambassador the day after the refugees’ arrival, and it hadn’t gone well. Timothy wasn’t privy to the details, but the rumors made it sound like the ambassador would only provide aid for the humans in the mission, giving the Kirosha only whatever could be spared, if anything. The Catholic and Baptist missions had been similarly rebuffed; their facilities were too far from the embassy to be safe, so those missionaries and their charges had ended up setting up camp in the Caterpillar building, living off the charity of that corporation.
Now all of them huddled inside their makeshift homes, listening to the distant thunder of war and wondering when it would come nearer, and whether it would claim them.
“Oh my God!” Jonah Ruiz said suddenly, startling Timothy. His companion looked terrified.
“What happened?”
“They blew up two Navy ships.”
“That’s… How?”
“I don’t know. Some say there’s a stealthed Viper destroyer in-system, and that it ambushed our ships.”
“That’s ridiculous. If the Vipers were here, they would be bombing us from orbit already.”
Jonah looked towards the sky, as if expecting city busters to start raining down at any second. “I hope you are right, Tim.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about a ship, but the Kirosha are getting Starfarer help,” Timothy said. “My guess is space mines. Maybe they bribed a Wyrashat or Vehelian – or even a human – merchant to drop them off on their way out the system.”
“Either way, that means war.”
Timothy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes. War.”
The last major conflict between America and other Starfarer civilization had ended a couple of years before Timothy was born. His father had been in the Navy then, and had helped battle the Vipers, who were distantly related to the Snakes; both came from Class One biospheres, carbon-based but very different from Class Two DNA-based species like humans, Hrauwah or Vehelians. So far, every ecosystem discovered by Starfarers was descended from one of four possible ancestors. The Baptists claimed it was certain proof of Intelligent Design, or even of the existence of God. Timothy tended to agree with their conclusion, but more as a matter of faith rather than reason; as an engineer, the level of proof needed for such extraordinary claims had not been met. Those four ancestral forms of life could have evolved independently somewhere, and simply overrun the galaxy before others could arise.
In any case, most Class One biospheres produced highly aggressive, antisocial species; there were exceptions, like the mercantile and service-oriented Biryam, a.k.a. the Butterflies, but not many. Four of the five wars humanity had fought in the century and a half since First Contact had been waged against Class One species. If Timothy had to guess, the most likely culprits were the Vipers or the Lampreys. The Wyrms would be a distant third possibility, although if that was the case, they could be attacked at any moment from their embassy. Something else to worry about.
Timothy’s father didn’t talk much about the war. His stories about his time in uniform had been mostly funny – misadventures while on leave, shipmates who always seemed to get in trouble, and other amusing anecdotes. Only once, while in a somber mood, he’d spoken about the destruction of the human colony of New Houston – five million dead – and the thousand-fold revenge America had extracted from the Vipers.
“The universe is a harsh place, son,” he’d said when he’d finished. “Harsher than the road to Deseret, and the Lord will test us sorely for centuries to come.”
“Heavenly Father preserve us,” Timothy muttered, much as he had that day.
The shooting had stopped, but he didn’t notice until he’d uttered his prayer, and for a moment he wondered if his wishes had come true. “Thank thee for this day,” he added.
Jonah nodded solemnly.
They looked out the window – or rather, peered out between the nailed boards that had replaced the glass, a precaution they’d completed the day before. This side of the main mission building overlooked the south side of the Enclave. They were on the third level, which allowed them to see the Enclave’s wall – no longer a defense, since it was manned by Kirosha, although they hadn’t used it as
a firing platform yet – and beyond it billowing smoke rising from distant fires. The attackers had not restricted their violence to the Enclave, it seemed.
“They’re probably burning out suspected Christian converts,” Jonah said.
“Or simply destroying things for fun.”
Jonah started saying something, but a sound Timothy couldn’t identify at first silenced him. They leaned against the boarded window, trying to figure it out.
It was chanting. Kirosha voices, thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands, singing in unison. It was terrifying.
And the sound was getting closer. Coming from every direction.
“I think they’re going to try again,” Jonah said.
“And they might succeed.” Timothy’s heart was racing. He had to do something. The mission had no weapons; they had come to this world to help, not to do harm. But weapons could be found.
And he had the will to use them.
* * *
Heather’s heart sank as she read the QE missive from the Department of State.
URGENT. SEVERAL US TRADE POSTS, EMBASSIES, CONSULATES UNDER ATTACK. ELEVEN ALREADY OVERRUN, 100% CASUALTIES. FLEET ELEMENTS ENGAGED BY UNKNOWN ENEMY FORCES, PRESUMED TO BE LHAN ARKH AND NASSTAH. ALL FLEET FORCES IN LOCAL SPACE ENGAGED. HOLD UNTIL RELIEVED.
She looked at the steaming pile of a message one more time while the chanting of tens of thousands homicidal maniacs out in the city made the windows vibrate. HOLD UNTIL RELIEVED. Less than three thousand Americans and about half as many other Starfarers, in a Kingdom of three hundred million. And she’d thought Captain Fromm had been too paranoid when making his plans. She wanted to vomit.
RSO Rockwell looked at the senior members of the American delegation. Llewellyn wasn’t there, of course; he was in his quarters, recovering from the fractured jaw he’d incurred during the incident that had led to his forced resignation.
“First things first,” Rockwell said. “When he got the news about the corvettes, Llewellyn wanted to surrender the Embassy and all American civilian and military personnel to the Kingdom. Magistrate Eeren called him shortly after the incident and assured him we would be interned on a nearby island after being disarmed ‘for our own protection.’”
“That’s insane,” Heather blurted out.
“I concur. We’ve all seen how the Kirosha treat their enemies.” Imp footage of the royal reception and the ensuing executions had been made readily available to rest of the embassy. “I tried to convince Ambassador Llewellyn that accepting such an offer would lead only to our deaths, but he ignored my advice. I took matters into my own hands. If you want to arrest me and reinstate the ambassador, or take over from me, be my guest.”
Nobody said anything.
“All this happened before that QE message arrived, not that it would have helped matters. We are at war, people, and the situation in Kirosha is part of that war. Human outposts across the galaxy have been targeted. It appears they are slaughtering every American they can find.”
“Can we hold?” Deputy Chief of Mission Janice Norbert said. She was the most senior embassy staffer after Llewellyn. Heather didn’t care much for her, but she was miles better than the former ambassador. Still, the older woman was clearly out of her depth. Nobody had attacked an American embassy in decades. US policy in those circumstances had been swift, disproportionate retribution. A thousand-to-one was the standard casualty exchange, and Norbert didn’t strike Heather as being bloodthirsty enough for the job at hand.
“If we work together, we can,” Rockwell replied, exuding confidence that Heather was certain was at least partially an act. “We’ll need all Americans – all Starfarers – in the Enclave to cooperate. The security contractors on site have all volunteered already and Captain Fromm is already integrating them into his forces ASAP.”
“We’ll do whatever we can, too,” said Gordon Melendez, Caterpillar’s vice-president in charge of the Kirosha Distribution and Service Division. “I already had some of our earthmoving vehicles help build the entrenchments around the embassy and our own facilities. I’ve put together a list of employees with combat experience; they’ve all volunteered to assist in the defense of the Enclave.”
Heather nodded. One could say a lot of things about the Obligatory Service Act, but it certainly made sure every able-bodied American knew which end of a gun to point towards the enemy. And most Caterpillar managers would have served more than the mandatory four-year term in the military; the company made it a point to hire people who went above and beyond the minimum. Those policies helped mitigate the hatred most people felt towards Rats in general. A Rat who’d had some sort of career in uniform was slightly less likely to be an asshole, or at least less likely to be a typical corporate asshole.
The Planetary Director of Caterpillar’s local competitor, Star Mining Enterprises, also chimed in with pledges of support. Most of that corporation’s heavy equipment was out in the field, but he offered everything he had in site, as well as the services of the small but well-equipped security forces he’d hired on. The local missionaries also volunteered their resources, which included a small but well-staffed clinic. Everyone seemed willing and able to do what they could. It was only a matter of figuring out how to organize things and coordinate with the Marine platoon.
They needed to get Fromm in on this, but he had to fight the current battle first. If he lost, none of their tentative preparations would matter.
* * *
“They’re massing on all sides,” CPO Donnelly said. She’d used the fabbers to add some stealth capabilities to the next batch of drones, but that only bought them a few extra seconds of life; the Swatters tracked on their grav-wave broadcasts and blasted them out of the sky shortly after they transmitted. Still, by having them record fifteen second clips and then sending them off, they’d been able to keep an eye on the Ruddy movements. “Looks like twenty thousand personnel, mostly armed with hand weapons, but at least a thousand have rocket launchers. They’re coming from all points of the compass, sir. It’s a general push.”
“We’ll push right back. Great job, Chief.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Fromm took a moment to assess the tactical picture. The Oval Embassy masked the northern side of his perimeter; the Wyrms did the same on the west. There hadn’t been enough time to coordinate with the other Starfarers so far, other than a general sharing of information and assurances of mutual support. The aliens’ own drones had also been swatted away, but an observation post on top of the Wyrm embassy could look all the way into the city proper, giving them some much-needed intelligence. CPO Donnelly had linked the ETs’ data to the Marines’ network, not bad considering none of the three Starfaring polities had worked closely with each other before.
It looked like the US compound would be getting hit hardest on the east and south, the east particularly so, since that side faced the Enclave’s Main Gate, which was wide enough to accommodate hundreds of people at once. The southern gate was the smallest one; Fromm detailed one of the mortars to it; a regular dose of 100mm canned hell would slow down any attackers there. Fromm thought about thinning the line on the north side and use it to reinforce the east, but decided against it. He sent the Black River volunteers there instead.
That would have to do, until the Ruddies massing outside the walls decided to make their move. He could have kept up some harassing fire from the mortars, but he wanted to have them ready and fully loaded when things really got started. As it was, he’d burned through nearly a day’s worth of mortar bombs and the fabbers had replaced maybe a quarter of it.
It looked like the Kirosha Army and Royal Guard were still staying out of the fight. Strange, given that he’d already blasted a tank company, but maybe the Crown was angling for some sort of plausible deniability in case the next in-system ship turned out to be American instead of Lhan Arkh. It didn’t make much sense, but little about this situation did.
The Ruddies’ singing increased in volume, if not in quality. Th
ey were working themselves into a proper berserk rage.
“Movement on all sides,” CPO Donnelly reported.
The second round had begun.
* * *
“They ain’t stopping for shit this time,” Russell said. He had to turn up the volume on his imp to make himself heard through the hammer of the hundred-mike-mike explosions.
He could watch the feed from the Wyrm tower, thanks to the Navy NCO handling commo and intelligence, and the vid wasn’t pretty. About two, three times as many Ruddies as last time were pouring in through the gate and heading towards them at a dead run, and their flag-men were doing a good job directing traffic and getting them moving through half a dozen different streets. The mortars – only two of them were covering that side – couldn’t spread out their fire enough to stop them all.
“I got ‘em,” Gonzo said, opening up with the ALS-43 and filling his sector of fire with plasma and frag rounds. Further down the line, an LML turned a pack of Ruddies into crispy critters.
And they kept on coming. He had to hand it to the fuckers, they didn’t quit. And they were in range. Russell leveled his IW-3a and sent a 15mm grenade their way. It wasn’t as impressive as the mortars or the ALS-43, but the little frag sent a few Ruddies tumbling to the ground, and that was A-Okay. He tagged others with single shots, his imp painting one target after the next. It was as easy as could be; nobody was shooting back, at least not yet. His Iwo’s plasma rounds blew the poor fuckers apart.
Some of them could shoot back, though. His imp tagged a Ruddy with a rocket launcher; the ET was trying to aim it but other bastards kept bumping into him before he could get it right. If he finally fired the rocket, anybody behind him would get barbequed by the back blast. He didn’t get the chance, though.
“Nope,” Russell said as he put a round through the rocketeer. The plasma jet speared right through the Ruddy – and into the two spare rockets in his backpack. The ensuing explosion swallowed up the charging aliens in a cloud of smoke and flames.
Decisively Engaged (Warp Marine Corps Book 1) Page 19
