by B. V. Larson
“On my way,” he said. “Hang in there, Loco.”
“I hang, you hang, we’re all well hung. Well… I am anyway.”
When Straker reached Loco, he saw three full platoons of Hok advancing on his friend. Loco was sheltering behind debris, but that wouldn’t last long. Light tanks pounded at the mechsuiter’s position while hovers skittered around the flanks, firing bursts from their autocannon.
Squads of battlesuited infantry bounded forward. If they reached Loco, things would get a lot harder. If a mechsuiter had a weakness, it was at the battlesuiters’ hand-to-hand range. Like a man beset by monkeys, he would take a few with him, but soon succumb to their molecular cutters.
Straker announced his arrival by hosing a long burst of gatling fire at the largest concentration of battlesuiters. He thinned them out and forced them to go to ground. Simultaneously, he hammered a force-cannon bolt into the rear of a light tank. Its power plant detonated in a burst of superheated fuel, and the vehicle tumbled to rest on its top, severed tracks whipping like legs on a dying cockroach.
The speedy hovers were first to react, swinging around in floating curves while redirecting their stabilized chain guns in shining streams of tracers. To Straker’s accelerated senses, the bright lines reached for him like lazy ropes of Christmas lights. He dove between them and rolled up into a run, instinctively causing the enemy to mask each other’s fire, reducing the number of weapons that could be aimed at him.
Abruptly, the ground shook and his visor darkened as it struggled to adjust to photonic overload. He threw himself into a hollow for long enough to determine that whatever had caused the effect remained far enough away not to be a direct threat. When he rose, he saw multiple gouts of flame and several mushroom clouds, the signatures of Fleet orbital strikes behind enemy lines. He glanced upward to see the traces of ships skipping off the edge of atmo, getting as close to the battlefield as possible while retaining their speed.
Despite the welcome firepower, he knew the velocity of the vessels meant Fleet had lost space superiority. Otherwise, they would be remaining above the battlefield, hovering on the brute force of their drives, their computers talking to his battlenet.
Without top cover, things would get even more hairy in the open. If the Hok ships could bring their own capital weaponry to bear, they would overwhelm the mechsuiters one by one, sacrificing their own troops if necessary.
“Come on, Loco,” Straker said. “We have to retreat to the city so we can hide among the buildings.”
“If we give up the close-in battlefield, we’ll lose our advantage,” Loco protested. “Let’s stay here and keep shoving it up their asses. They’ll crack soon. I feel it.”
“No, there’s too many. We have to change tactics. We’ve done a lot of urban sim under vertical suppression.”
“I know—and it always turns out bad. What the hell is wrong with Fleet anyway?”
“I’m sure Admiral Braga did his best. Remember, he doesn’t have any dreadnoughts. Now get moving toward the city. I’ll cover you.” Straker ran across Loco’s position toward the flank, drawing enemy fire.
Loco launched his remaining two antitank missiles. They arced upward, causing enemy vehicles to detect them and take countermeasures.
Hok tanks and battlesuiters alike scattered under the threat and retreated rapidly to try to avoid the top-attack weapons.
Loco used this time of distraction to hightail it toward the line of low-rise apartments defining the edge of Helios city.
Straker took the opportunity to reverse course under the lee of a high berm, popping up long enough to smash a bolt into an unwary hover. It tumbled and disintegrated as it bled off velocity.
Caught between the deadly high-tech missiles and the even more deadly mechsuiters, their rear areas under bombardment, the enemy facing Straker retreated—firing all weapons wildly in defensive mode. This allowed Straker to follow Loco without being shot in the back.
Straker used this short breather to check his battlenet for instructions from Regiment. The command WITHDRAW TO NEAREST KILO RALLY POINT flashed in the C3I box.
That confirmed it: the CO’s assessment agreed with Straker’s. If they didn’t get some top cover soon, they’d be slaughtered.
Straker keyed his comlink. “Triple-one, this is Straker. Withdraw toward the city. Rendezvous at rally point four-kilo.” He switched to tactical and saw Orset and Chen’s icons off to his left to the south, but they weren’t moving as fast as they should be. “Loco, I’m diverting to help Orset and Chen. Break open the resupply module and see if you can get your gatling working again.”
“Yeah, I call dibs on all the Chicken a la King. Suckers!”
“If your mouth ever gets in the way of your shooting, Loco…”
“Yeah, yeah, heard it all before, boss.”
Straker shrugged. Loco would never change, and what he said was true. His never-ending blather didn’t seem to keep him from posting above-average battle stats.
At a dead run, Straker reached his men’s position within thirty seconds. He saw Chen dragging Orset’s mechsuit while trying to keep some low, landscaped hills between himself and the enemy. Straker quick-fired a bolt at the nearest tank, destroying its track on one side and sending up a spray of dirt, and then grabbed one of Orset’s arms.
“Run!” he ordered.
The two hauled their downed comrade along the ground. As they ran, Straker accessed Orset’s datalink. It showed no life signs. “Dammit, Chen, he’s dead!”
“I’m not leaving him,” Chen snapped. “Besides, if this gets as bad as it looks, we’ll need the spare parts.”
“All right. Keep running.”
They hit a major road toward Helios and used it to accelerate. Showers of sparks flew from beneath Orset’s suit as the two mechsuiters dragged it along the concrete surface.
Scattered fire reached out from the buildings in front of them, but when he automatically computed trajectories, Straker dismissed the attacks as non-threatening. The shells and beams reached beyond the running mechsuiters to strike at the Hok chasing them. It must be the efforts of dug-in militia.
Straker felt a hot spot between his shoulder blades and instantly dodged to the right, losing the speed and ease of the highway but disrupting the enemy laser targeting. Flashing red showed he’d taken some damage, but as long as he didn’t get struck from behind again, he’d manage.
Mechsuits had a limited nanotech self-healing mechanism, but it took time and energy for the microscopic robots to patch and rebuild. Even then, they were only good for simple repairs, filling holes and cracks, or thickening thin spots.
He’d had to let go of Orset, and Chen had dragged the mechsuit in the opposite direction, so Straker circled behind an overpass and used it to snipe at the enemy. He tried to access an overhead drone. It took longer than expected, and the view wasn’t optimal, coming in from long range and at a difficult slant. The close-in recon network must have been ripped to shreds by a combination of orbital strikes and enemy defensive fire.
Still, he got enough of a lock to fire a missile at the heavy tank constituting the nearest threat. The weapon leaped off his back and arced upward.
The target blazed with countermeasures, but too late. The missile exploded above the tank, firing a self-forging hypervelocity projectile directly through its thinner top armor. Flame shot out of every port, and Straker felt grim satisfaction as he envisaged the crew blown to bits.
Like his mother, his father, and his sister so long ago.
Straker nursed the hot coal of rage that drove him, giving new energy to aching, tiring legs. He dodged across the battlefield under the confusion of the tank’s explosion and grabbed Orset’s arm again, joining Chen in a section of sunken light rail that allowed them to reach the city in relative safety.
“This way,” he said, leading Chen toward RP four-kilo. The mark on the map turned out to be a courtyard set among apartment blocks. Loco waved at them.
Straker looked u
p. “This won’t hide us from above once the Hok have overhead supremacy. We have to burrow into the buildings.”
“We take care of Orset first,” Chen said with gravel in his voice.
“All right.”
A moment later the dead man’s capsule extruded from the back of his suit. Chen picked up the thing that was now their comrade’s coffin and placed it gently on the ground. With one giant gauntlet he scooped out a trench. In less than thirty seconds, it yawned three meters deep.
Kneeling, Straker carefully set the coffin into the bottom of the grave and said the words the regimental chaplain spoke at every mechsuiter’s funeral. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Unknowable Creator, into your hands we commend his body and his spirit. As he was worthy, resurrect him on the Final Day, that he may fight honorably in your Celestial Legion once more. Amen.”
“Amen.” Chen covered the body with dirt and packed it down. Then he turned to the empty mechsuit. “Loco, you need a new gatling?”
“Yeah.” The two men detached Orset’s suit forearm from elbow to hand and replaced Paloco’s, one for one. It integrated immediately and effortlessly, as designed.
“Where’s the resupply pod?” Straker asked.
Loco pointed at an open vehicle door in a nearby block. “I stuck it in there.”
“Let’s reload and juice up. We don’t have much time.”
The three quickly opened the drop pod, replenished ammo and power, flushed wastes, and topped off water and medical supplies. All during the process, Straker’s shoulder blades had begun to itch, his battle-tested intuition urging him to hurry. “As soon as we’re done, split up the rest of the ammo three ways and shove the power module back inside,” he said. “One orbital shot could take out all three of us.”
“Roger, sir,” said Chen.
“Yes, Mom.” That was Loco.
Accessing his interior optics, Straker gazed for a moment, as he did so often, at Mara’s Glory Girl action figure, mounted securely inside his suit. Other than his memories, it was the only thing he had of hers. The only thing the Hok had left him.
Murderers of children. War criminals. Beasts.
Straker’s hatred revived with his suit charge. He unplugged after loading ammo and extra missile packs. Chen and Loco did the same.
“We fight like we trained,” he said, “as an urban infantry fire team. We shoot, we scoot, set up and shoot again. Chen, take the north, Loco the south. Burrow in and let me know when you’re ready. They’ll hit us soon.”
Chapter 6
Planet Corinth. Orbit.
Caught between the suicidal remnants of one flotilla ahead and a new, fresh enemy force crawling up astern, Admiral Braga saw only one option. “All units, at my order, advance through the remnants of the Hok ahead of us. They’re in bad shape. After we break through, turn to form on my flagship. We won’t be able to win this fleet action, so we have to help our ground forces to hold. To do that, we need to keep their ships busy.”
Braga paused to let his staff relay his orders and prepare. “Execute!”
His battlecruisers leaped ahead, slashing at the battered enemy as they slid by, gaining distance from the Hok reinforcements behind. Stalwart took a glancing strike from a frigate and wobbled, but righted herself.
Braga’s flagship, Vigilant, pressed her bulk through the enemy line, smashing the beat-up smaller ships in her way with point-blank fire. Covered by a screen of cruisers and destroyers, Stalwart soon rejoined Vigilant and the rest of Braga’s command. This formation turned to begin a slow retreat, sniping at the fresh enemy force as they advanced.
“Orders to all light cruisers and destroyers,” Braga personally broadcast on the command channel, “maximum firepower is to be directed at the enemy ground forces for the next… two hundred seconds. Dive down until you brush the upper atmosphere and rain hell on them. When time’s up, continue in low orbit to circumnavigate the planet and join us from the other side.”
His staff double-checked to make sure every ship had received his instructions. Shortly afterward, his larger ships wheeled to face the new threat from behind. What was left of his command stood at bay, facing the fresh Hok battlecruisers.
In response, the scattered remnants of the Hok flotilla he’d smashed through fled to join their relief group.
As ordered, Braga’s light elements dove below the oncoming enemy. They relied on their speed and evasive maneuvers to preserve them as they unleashed all of their weaponry against the divisions of Hok ground forces below in one mass strafing run at the edge of the atmosphere. The bombardment lacked precision, but for three minutes their enemy suffered a blizzard of death from above.
In response, a dozen Hok destroyers peeled off and fired their engines in retrograde to swoop down behind the Hundred Worlds light units. Braga estimated they could harass his fast squadron, but the enemy wouldn’t catch them before they made their attack runs on the Hok divisions and fled around the curve of the planet. In this case, momentum was their ally.
As his battlecruisers and heavy cruisers dueled with the oncoming Hok, Captain Verdura turned to face him across the crowded bridge, punching up a private channel in the internal battlenet.
“Sir,” she said, “we need our light elements’ firepower to help soften up this new flotilla. Without it…”
Braga shook his head. “Even with it, we’ll lose. They outnumber us two to one, they’re fresh, and we’re out of shipkiller missiles. It looks like they anticipated us, expecting us to send in a fast force instead of a full-strength one, as we ended up doing. They’re trying to trap us and wipe us out, but I’m not going to let them. Since we can’t win, we’re fighting for an overall draw. They’re going to dominate the battle in space, but if our ground forces are victorious, we can hold the planet until our heavies arrive.”
“At which time the Hok may perform a strategic bombardment and run, leaving Helios a smoking ruin. We have to gamble, sir! We should try to win right now!”
Braga worked his mouth to moisten it and cleared his throat. “I feel your pain, Captain Verdura, but I’m not going to sacrifice my fleet-in-being on the faint chance of taking the whole ball game. The smart thing to do is to tie up the enemy for as long as possible. Our dreadnoughts and super-dreadnoughts are on their way. We have to be here to join them when they arrive.”
“What about our dropships, sir? We’re leaving them behind.”
He’d forgotten. “Tell them I’m sorry, but we can’t cover them. They’re on their own. If they can’t rejoin us, the should land or punch out. We’ll come back for them when we’re able.”
* * *
Flight Lieutenant Engels saw her own death approach as the new enemy flotilla loomed from behind Corinth. Braga’s fleet was clearly outgunned and would have to fall back, though she had no doubt he’d make a fight of it. Now, she found herself caught in the middle, flying a dropship unsuited for space-to-space combat.
She turned and blasted toward the Hundred Worlds ships, hoping to reach them in time and be taken aboard. She could see the flares of other dropships doing the same. When her gun recharged, she fired its heavy projectile sternward, using its reaction mass to give her extra speed. Even as she did this, she felt guilty for not employing her primary weapon to kill another ground target.
Her efforts failed in any case. In front of her, Braga’s force accelerated away, driving through the remnants of the first enemy flotilla in order to open the distance between him and the second. A group of Hundred Worlds light units forced themselves downward, their drives flaring brightly.
These dove below her and began strafing the enemy ground units while continuing to accelerate. If they continued, they’d pass under the new enemy flotilla.
Datalinked orders appeared in her battlenet, telling her to evade at will and eject if necessary.
Eject…? She’d never ejected from her Marksman, never even contemplated it. She could see the current rationale, though. In orbit, the enemy would soon pick her off. But she
wasn’t ready to leave her little ship yet.
Rolling inverted, she pushed her engines and impellers to the redline and forced her craft downward, toward the planet. Without much orbital velocity, she fell with frightening speed toward the battlefield below. Angling westward, she braved the madhouse around her as bolts rained from the Hundred Worlds light ships still making their strafing run. Air defense lasers, guns, and missiles reached up toward her from the enemy divisions below, but without coordination. They had other worries.
Though a pygmy in orbit, she became a relative giant above a ground fight. Her armor shrugged off lasers and gunshells while her defensive beams picked missiles out of the sky. Fortunately, the Hok ground forces had been badly rattled by the strafing destroyers, and the density of fire remained light until after she streaked over the city and out of their targeting arcs.
Engels searched for her boys’ transponders and noted them on the east edge of the city, on the battlefront as expected. Slowing, she searched for a place to land among the columns of refugees. She’d just picked out a promising open field when a hot lance of agony drove through her spine. A missile had tracked her after all, and she’d missed it.
She screamed once before automated systems damped the pain feedback, and Engels found her ship in an uncontrolled fall. Minimal airfoils and thrusters got her oriented, but she had no power to fly and only seconds to make a decision.
Aiming for open land to spare the refugees the crash, she waited as long as she could before punching out. After a moment of shock and disorientation, she found herself floating down on nullgrav, tiny thrusters keeping her stabilized. Her gunship, her workhorse and her weapon for years, slammed into a farmer’s field a kilometer away and began to burn.
She splashed into the water at a river’s edge and stumbled, falling facedown. Hands helped her stand and slog up onto a narrow, sandy beach. She found herself in the company of a squad of militia, clothed in fatigues and carrying battle rifles. Fortunately, her body appeared unharmed, unlike her Marksman.
