by Jay Allan
Of course, Farooq thought. The PBS drones were new…General Sparks’ plasma bombardment system installed in multiple independent warhead drones. The PBS had been highly effective when it was dropped from atmospheric fighters, but so many of the planes were shot down only a few managed to deliver their payloads. The drone system was designed for massive attacks intended to overwhelm the enemy defenses and truly carpet bomb a section of the battlefield.
“Continue your offensive forward and take the enemy position if you can.” Cain was speaking loudly and clearly. Farooq spoke decent English and understood it very well, so he had his AI-translation turned off. “But then hold firm until I give you further instructions. You may prepare for your flank attack, but do not execute until you hear from me. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Farooq was relieved. His first thought was that Cain would be upset that he’d exceeded his authority. But the Alliance general hadn’t scolded him at all. And he was going to soften up the enemy troops before Farooq’s people went in. “Understood.” The Janissary commander had a broad smile on his face as he resumed his advance.
The missiles were long and sleek, designed for maximum efficiency in an atmosphere. They streaked along at 20 times the speed of sound, low to the ground, just above the tops of the rolling hills that covered the area. To the troops below they looked like flashes of light ripping through the sky.
There were hundreds of them…almost a thousand, launched from the rear areas of Cain’s army. They were short-ranged…their forward heat shields wouldn’t last long at such intense velocity. Their massive acceleration and high speed were their primary defenses, reducing the amount of time they would be exposed to enemy fire before they reached their targets.
Cain watched the strike on the large display in his command post. It would take the drones less than 20 seconds to reach their target area, and they’d covered about half the distance when the enemy defensive fired started. The PBS drones were too fast to be intercepted with missiles…there wasn’t time to react and get them in the air, even for the robots of the First Imperium. But the enemy particle accelerators ripped into the formation, knocking dozens out of the sky. The energy weapons were much weaker in an atmosphere than in space, but they were strong enough to take out missiles at close range. The drones closed quickly, but the AI-directed enemy forces managed to fill the air with high velocity projectiles as well, disintegrating hundreds of the approaching weapons.
Cain watched silently, grateful that he was seeing unmanned missiles being blown to bits and not brave pilots he’d ordered into the maelstrom. He couldn’t help but be impressed by how many drones the enemy managed to take out in just a few seconds. But they couldn’t get all of them…not even close. Cain had sent in most of his ordnance in one massive attack. He needed the firepower. He had to push the enemy, force them to commit all of their reserves. Then he could begin the final fight.
The drones weren’t normal missiles; they didn’t arc down to hit enemy targets or explode in an airburst. They simply continued across the battlefield, releasing their PBS modules as they did. The missiles themselves would continue on their trajectories until their heat shields gave out and they were incinerated. By then they would have dropped their deadly ordnance on the enemy formations below.
Cain had seen a plasma bombardment up close, and he knew the fury the white plumes on his display represented. The weapons would sweep away virtually anything that was caught in the area of effect. But the superheated plasmas would penetrate into trenches as well and incinerate dug in forces. He flipped his com on as he watched. I wonder, he thought with sadistic satisfaction, if there has ever been a more perfect weapon to precede an assault?
“Cooper…Cain here.” His voice was predatory, displaying his hatred of the enemy, his lust to destroy them by the thousands. The battle had looked as if it was about to settle into a stalemate, two dug in forces facing each other across a sort of no man’s land. Then the enemy attacked in force, pushing Brown’s people back, threatening to break the lines. But Erik Cain wasn’t about to let that happen, and his PBS bombardment had stopped the enemy dead in its tracks. Now it was time to turn the tide, put the pressure back on the enemy. “Get your people ready, Coop…you may begin your attack in three minutes.”
Cooper Brown hunkered down in a trench on the very edge of hell itself. The intensity of the maelstrom Cain had just unleashed was like nothing he’d ever seen…or even dreamed in his worst nightmares. The thought of his battered forces advancing across that tortured field was inconceivable. He’d never imagined ordering men and women to advance into anything like that. But he’d never served under Erik Cain fighting against the First Imperium before this either.
“All units, prepare to commence assault.” He was clammy and sweaty, and his hands were shaking…as much as they could inside armor. His head pounded, the dull ache making it hard to focus. He punched the small button under his index finger and felt the pinprick as his suit injected another stim. He could have asked the AI, but he had a feeling it was about to start arguing with him, telling him he’d had enough already. After everything Cooper Brown had been through, if he wanted a motherfucking stimulant, the last thing he was going to do was fight with some machine to get it. “We’re going over the top in two minutes.”
He was proud of his Marines, though it was hard to think of them as his exactly. They were all veterans, and most of them had been fighting the enemy while Brown was hiding in a cave deciding how hungry the terrified civilians of Adelaide would get each day.
I should never have left the Corps, he thought grimly as he monitored the acknowledgements coming in from his companies. Brown had been troubled after the Third Frontier War, torn between his allegiance to the Marines and his growing hatred for the Alliance government. As devoted as he was to the Corps, he felt he had to leave. Rebellion was coming, he knew that much, and he was deathly afraid the Marines would be used to suppress the insurrections. Rather than risk being a part of that, he chose to retire and take command of Adelaide’s militia.
I underestimated men like Elias Holm and Erik Cain, he thought. When revolution finally came, the Corps didn’t fire a shot at the rebels and, in the end, detachments of Marines intervened in favor of the independence movements. I should have had faith, he thought…I should have stayed. But now I’m back. I can either wallow in misery and self-pity…or I can act like a Marine and live up to what these men and women deserve in a commander.
“One minute.” He spoke into the com, his voice louder, stronger. It was time…and he knew it. He understood, and he knew the path he had to take now. He pulled the lever and listened to the loud click as the autoloader slammed a clip into his rifle. “Thirty seconds, people.” His voice was booming, the weakness and regret draining away, shoved back into the deep recesses of his mind. He knew he’d have to face them again one day, but not now…now his Marines needed him, all of him. “Let’s do this, Marines. General Cain is counting on us.”
He watched the chronometer count down…ten seconds…five… “Alright 9th Regiment…attack!” He lunged himself hard over the edge of the trench, stumbling forward, almost tripping, struggling to regain his balance. It had been a long time since he’d fought in powered armor, and his reflexes were rusty. You had to be careful not to let your excitement – or the stims – push your arms or legs too hard. The suit’s servo-mechanicals were extremely powerful, and they needed to be managed carefully. Otherwise you could end up flopping to the ground…or leaping high into the air, giving the enemy a juicy target.
He pulled himself upright…and he almost stopped dead, his mind momentarily blank as he truly saw the devastation before him. The plain was flat, almost featureless now. There wasn’t an enemy bot to be found, nor a patch of grass or a tree. Even the smaller rocks were gone, melted by the massive heat of the plasmas. The entire field looked like a candle that had completely melted and had solidified wherever the wax had flowed. It was one monochromatic shade of brown, the
combined colors of everything that had been on that hillside when the plasmas erupted.
“AI…scanning report on the field. Is that rock solidified yet?” Brown had been encouraged to name his new AI, but it hadn’t seemed terribly important to him, and he hadn’t gotten around to it.
“Yes, Colonel Brown. The rock temperature is currently in a range of 600-800 degrees. Your forces may encounter scattered tackiness on the ground where there are localized densities of lower melting point materials, however it is moderately safe for transit by armored personnel.”
Brown shook his head, wondering, does Erik Cain know everything? His attack timing was perfect. Even a minute earlier would have been too soon…and any later would have given enemy reserves time to start advancing.
He glanced at his display as he started forward again. His lead elements were almost a half a klick ahead of him, meeting no resistance. In another two minutes they’d reach the enemy line…and slice right through it. Brown picked up the pace, following his front lines forward, his excitement building. There was one word in his mind. Breakthrough.
Chapter 19
East Ward
Washbalt Metroplex
US Region, Western Alliance, Earth
Alex Linden was groggy, not sure where she was. This was no normal sleep she was coming out of…even in her addled state she knew immediately that she’d been drugged. Whatever it was someone had slipped her, she had one hell of a headache.
She tried to roll over, but she recoiled in pain. She looked down at her leg, seeing the blood even through her blurred vision. She panicked for an instant, but then she realized it was just a cut, deep but not too large. She’d rolled onto a jagged shard of metal in her stupor.
Her vision slowly cleared and she looked around, taking stock of her surroundings. It was a building of some sort, old and abandoned. It was gloomy and dark, but she knew it was day outside. A shaft of sunlight lanced through a hole in the ceiling, lighting the garbage strewn floor a few feet from where she lay.
“Where the hell am I?” she asked, slowly pulling herself up to a seated position. The pain in her head increased, like a dull saw cutting through her temples. She tried to remember…she’d just disembarked at the Washbalt Spaceport. It was coming back, slowly and in disjointed bits. The security office…yes, that was it. She’d been detained by spaceport security. No…something was wrong. She remembered her doubt, then the realization…these aren’t spaceport guards…they’re Alliance Intelligence.
Now she began to remember it all. She’d been around enough AI agents to know them when she saw them. She screamed out commands, threatening, identifying herself as Number Three…ordering them to release her, to take her to Alliance HQ. But they didn’t say a word; they just dragged her into a back room. She was still shouting, demanding to see Gavin Stark, when she felt the injection…then, nothing.
She looked around the room. She was lying on a pile of debris, wreckage from the structure and assorted garbage. The building had probably been a residence once, but now it looked like it was barely standing. Her head snapped around quickly toward a noise to her left. There were two rats tearing into a discarded bag in the corner.
Her head was clearing, and with it, she started to feel the rest of the pain. The cut she’d just suffered began to throb, and now she noticed other wounds, one on her arm, another on her leg. Rat bites, she thought, reaching down to tear off part of her tunic to wrap up her injuries. But it wasn’t there…her tunic was gone.
She was wearing a black dress, a very short one. Her feet were bare, but there were two shoes lying nearby…evidently they’d fallen off. They were heels, extremely expensive ones, she noted. Realization slowly dawned on her…they were hers, and the dress too. Someone had stolen them from her apartment and changed her into them while she was unconscious.
Her anger flared. She was Number Three, one of the most powerful women in the Alliance. Whoever was responsible for this would pay, that much she promised herself. But her enthusiasm for revenge quickly faded as she began to think things through, to understand. Only one person could have done this to her. Gavin Stark.
Her senses were coming back, and the stench of her surroundings became unbearable. She had to fight back the urge to retch. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought…figure out where I am. She slowly rose to her feet, looking around for something to bind her wounds. He first thought was to tear off a piece of her dress, but it was a garment she used for seductions, and there wasn’t much material to spare. Besides, it was made of high grade hypersilk; she’d practically need a molecular blade to cut it. Tearing it by hand was impossible.
She found a filthy rag in one of the piles, and tied it around the gash on her leg. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the only way she could stop the bleeding. She staggered over toward the doorway. The door itself was half knocked in, hanging from one hinge. She walked over to it to get a look outside. Her shoes were best suited for Washbalt political functions at fancy hotels, not trudging through abandoned buildings. But the ground was strewn with broken glass and shards of metal - she needed something on her feet. Finally, she broke off the heels. It wasn’t a great solution, but it worked after a fashion. At least she could get around without tearing her feet to shreds.
She peered around the edge of the doorway. The Washbalt skyline was looming above the decrepit buildings along the street. Until then she hadn’t had any idea where she was. She could have easily been in Detroit or New Cairo or Shanghai. It took her a few seconds to get her bearings, but she managed to put together a good idea of exactly where she was. That motherfucker, she thought…he had me dumped in the East Ward slums. The East Ward was a notorious gang battlefield, so dangerous, even the Cogs had mostly deserted it, preferring to sleep in the streets in the marginally safer northern ghettoes. The Marines swept through once in a while on recruiting runs, but the police avoided it entirely.
She leaned back inside, taking one last look to see if there was anything useful in the building. Nope, she thought with a sigh…nothing but garbage. She turned to step outside when the door came flying in and broke completely from the hinge. She stumbled backwards, landing painfully on a pile of broken masonry.
Three men walked in and stood inside the door. Two held mid-sized knives, like machetes, but smaller. The third had a small, gunpowder pistol tucked in his belt. Training kicked in, experience, instinct. Her eyes focused on them like lasers, scanning, evaluating the respective threat levels. Her mind flashed back, the years peeling away to a different Alex, a young girl trying to survive in a brutal slum very much like this one…a 14 year old girl who had been pursued and victimized by animals like this.
But this was a different Alex Linden now. She’d been confused on Armstrong, conflicted about her feelings. But now, familiarity began to return. Her mind was focused, feral…combat reflexes ready. The gang members looked at her with hungry, greedy eyes…like hunters stalking cornered prey. But this was no helpless Core-dweller lost in the slums. Alex Linden was an ice cold killer who’d put more men and women in their graves than all three of her would-be attackers combined.
She crawled back slowly, whimpering. Use fear, she thought…increase their confidence, turn their own sadism against them. She forced out a tear, then another.
“Look what we got here, boys.” One of the knife-wielders turned and looked back at his companions. His voice was thick with menace. “She’s a damned pretty one.” His eyes panned back to leer at Alex, lying on the ground, golden blond hair a riotous mess, her already short dress hiked up over her waist. “And the man said we could have our fun before we did the deed…didn’t he now?”
The man? Alex was focusing on everything, watching every move, listening to every sound. That fucking piece of shit, she thought, rage coursing through her body…“the man” could only be Gavin Stark. He’d sent these gang-bangers here. To kill her? Or just to torture her? If he’d just wanted to be rid of her, she knew she’d have never seen it coming.
Get a grip, she thought…time for Stark later. The man who’d spoken was moving toward her, reaching down to grab her. But her eyes were on the one in the rear, the one with the gun. He was the bigger threat. She had to take him down first. She looked up at the closer one, tears streaming down her eyes. “No…please.” The sound of fear in her voice was utterly convincing.
He smiled broadly, eyes glittering. “Don’t you worry, girl. It ain’t gonna hurt. Much.” He leaned down, grabbing her exposed thigh.
She lay there, immobile, whimpering softly as he moved his hand up, grabbing for her panties. Then she lunged, planting her fist in his groin as she flew by, her body heading straight for the gun-armed assailant. She planted an open palm just above his sternum, a death blow taught to Alliance Intelligence’s elite assassins. He was dead even as his body began to fall. Her hand whipped down, grabbing the gun from his waist as he crumpled and putting two shots in the head of the third man.
It was all over in just a few seconds. Two of the men lay dead on the ground; the third was doubled over, groaning on the garbage pile where Alex had lain just an instant before. She walked over toward him, leaning down and picking up the blade he’d dropped. She looked down at him holding the knife as he shook in fear. “I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken, my good man.” She glared at him with a predator’s eyes. “It’s going to hurt. Quite a lot.”
Gavin Stark sat at his desk, a self-satisfied smile on his face as he watched the scene reach its graphic conclusion. He leaned over, pressing his com button. “Please send Agent G in.” He loved the anonymity of his new elite team. They were part of the Shadow project, and if everything else worked as well as they had, his plans would be very successful indeed. He was the only one who had complete information; everyone else involved in the program had only partial data…and much of that was fake. He had a few vacancies in his new spy corps…he’d been using them hard, and some missions required a certain amount of…cleanup...afterward. But for the most part, things were going very well.
