by James Evans
“Worse, this level of production activity suggests a long-term strategic plan,” said Atticus, looking around the room. “Colonisation was always the most likely explanation for their presence; now it looks like the only possible explanation. They're building for future needs, not for the troops they've already deployed,”
“So, what?” said Smith, “We go in, guns blazing, and hope to do enough damage to scare them off? Is that your plan?”
“No,” said Atticus, “our key advantage remains that they underestimate or at least fear us. Their attacks have tickled our defences, destroyed some landmarks and killed a lot of clones, but they haven’t seriously damaged us. They’ve been probing, testing maybe, to keep us busy and find out what we’re made of and learn how we would respond. They're overconfident.”
“Now they know that we’re here for the long-term and that we’re prepared to fight, so they’re bound to change their tactics, sooner or later. They'll learn better habits soon enough. As long as they keep probing, we know they’re not ready for an all-out assault. Soon, though, the phoney war will end, and the real fighting will begin.”
“Real fighting?” said Idol, one of the civilians whose leadership and tenacity had quickly earned the respect of Bristolians and Marines alike. He raised an eyebrow and scratched at the scabs of a long cut on his arm. “You think we’ve maybe just been playing so far?”
“So far,” said Atticus, leaning forward to take advantage of the disquieting appearance of his Deathless clone body, “since they found we weren’t just going to roll over, we’ve seen only small numbers of Deathless. As I said, they’re probing, searching for us, nibbling away at us while they dig in and prepare for the final assault.
“When they’re ready, they’ll come in great force, very fast, and they won’t stop. Everything we’ve seen so far is just a prelude. They’ll try to overwhelm us, drive us from our positions and kill us all until there’s nothing left.”
“You make it sound like we’ve no way of winning,” said Idol, still smarting from Atticus’s comments, “so what was the point of fighting at all?”
“The point,” said the governor firmly, looking at each of the councillors to make sure that they all understood her words, “was to hold out long enough for the fleet to arrive.”
“And to get us to this day, where we finally have the information we need to strike back,” said Atticus before Idol could object to the hopelessness of the situation. “And now, that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Lieutenant Warden, whom you all now know, will take all the Marines from A Troop who can be spared, including those now working in Deathless clones, and attack the enemy in an attempt to destroy their principal operating base and set back their plans.”
“Lieutenant Hayes and B Troop will remain here in Ashton with the militia to defend the city and keep the enemy focussed on us,” Denmead finished.
The silence around the table said it all. Nobody believed it was feasible.
“You’re sceptical and I understand. That’s why Lieutenant Warden is here to explain the plan. We want your input and support, so it’s important that you all understand what we’re going to be doing.”
Warden stood up and sent a projection from the old satellite network to the display screen, an entirely different site to the enemy base but one with which all the colonists were familiar.
“This is the first stage of my plan,” said Warden, aiming a laser pointer at the image.
“After all you’ve just told us,” interrupted Idol, carefully fitting his words together like shells being loaded into a magazine, “how can you possibly hope to win?”
“We’re Royal Marines Space Commandos, Mr Idol,” said Warden, “it’s what we do.”
17
“Grenade!”
Idol pulled the pin and threw the grenade through the hole in the wall that had once held a window.
Would the rounds spattering through the opening and against the far wall hit the grenade in flight and throw it back in his face? He didn’t know, but the thought flashed across his mind as his arm cartwheeled around.
There was an explosion that could have been across the other side of the street, in the area he thought the Deathless had taken cover. For twenty minutes, bursts of fire had been going through every window in the brewery just enough to keep them pinned down. It felt hopeless. His HUD screamed at him that a number of people already had gunshot wounds, some minor and some probably fatal.
Adams leaned out and fired a burst across the street, then slammed back against the foamcrete, turning his face away from the window as a cacophony of bullets answered him. When the shooting abated, he turned his head to his left and shouted to Idol. “Yeah, that didn’t do much of anything. If we keep this up much longer, we’ll be out of ammo and grenades.”
Idol nodded in agreement and called Lieutenant Hayes via the HUD. “We’ve been pinned down here for twenty minutes or so. We’re running low on ammunition and taking casualties. Are there any Marine patrols coming that could outflank the Deathless here?”
“Negative, all my teams have their own firefights,” said Hayes, gunfire audible over the HUD. “Including me.”
“What should we do then, Lieutenant? Hold out here?”
“One moment,” she replied. There was another burst of gunfire. “Sorry, some rude bugger interrupted me. I’m just checking our tactical data.”
There was an interminable pause while she reviewed the recent updates that flowed continuously from skirmishes all across Ashton. Around him, Idol’s team exchanged fire with the Deathless in a pointless stalemate exercise.
“Right, sorry about that, I’ve been too bogged down to keep up to date. We don’t have anyone to send to help you out. Your position is good, but if you’re running low on ammunition, evacuate any walking wounded immediately. Then manage an orderly retreat to your fallback. I’ve checked, it’s still clear. Remember, use bounding overwatch for the retreat. Understood?” Hayes asked.
Idol’s mind went blank. He hissed to attract Adams’s attention then mouthed “Bounding overwatch,” raising his hands to beg help.
“One team moves, another gives covering fire, then they flip,” said Adams. “Attacking or retreating. Why are we whispering?”
Idol nodded as memory came hurtling back. Less than a week of training wasn’t anywhere near long enough to master all the new jargon.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Understood, we’ll have teams covering each other as they move.”
“Good luck, Captain. You’re holding out well. We’ll make it through this. Hayes out.” The Marine Lieutenant, much younger than him, he guessed, sounded supremely confident. But here was Idol, glad still to have all his limbs and thanking his lucky stars that he’d been to the toilet before the shooting started.
He crawled away from the window and motioned for Adams to do the same. They headed back into the room, away from the windows, and hid behind a cluster of thick piping and foamcrete supports that hadn’t been removed when the brewery was stripped of useful materials.
They had left their rations and supplies here, safely away from the windows and the firefight.
“You got the idea, yes?” Idol asked as he stuff a ration bar that tasted of cardboard into his mouth. He washed it down with water then began replenishing his ammunition. The water was unnaturally sweet, stuffed with sugar and electrolytes to replenish energy.
Adams nodded, gulping from his canteen. “Yeah. We evacuate the wounded, then run away from these bastards and hope we don’t have to keep doing that until they’ve overrun our entire colony.”
Idol looked up at his friend in surprise. Adams was a quiet man, usually, contemplative and compassionate. Now he was seething with anger. Idol hadn’t seen him this pissed off since the infamous plant transcription incident, and that had happened long before the invasion. Clearly, Adams was not impressed with the lieutenant’s orders.
“You don’t like the plan?” Idol as
ked.
“No, I don’t, Roger. It’s bollocks. Yeah, we can run away with our tail between our legs, but we’ve done enough of that already. These bastards come here and they want to take our planet from us, they kill our friends and kids even. Kids have been killed, Roger, and now we’re just supposed to back off and let the Marines fight our battles for us?” said Adams, his teeth gritted and his face turning a nasty shade of puce. He spoke quietly and emphatically, despite his anger, so the nearest militia wouldn’t hear.
“Well, we have orders to retreat, Charles. We can’t just disobey.”
“No, no,” said Adams, shaking his head. “You asked a lieutenant for advice, she gave you some. But you’re a captain and you’re in charge of our militia company. The decision is yours. You outrank her. If you say we attack, that’s what we’ll do. It’s not the Marines’ city, it’s not up to them to defend New Bristol. It’s our home, it’s up to us.”
“It’s their job, Charles. They’re Marines, it’s what they're paid for! I may be a captain, but she’s a professional, Charles. We’re strictly amateurs.”
“Fuck that. I’ll do what you say, but don’t hand that decision to her. It’s yours to make,” insisted Roger.
“What are you suggesting, Sergeant Adams? That we forget about our casualties and what, just hold out here until we run out of ammunition? What then?” Idol asked.
“No. We evacuate the casualties and send the walking wounded to escort them to safety. Then the rest of us attack. We give them everything we’ve got and overrun them,” Sergeant Adams said.
“We overrun them? Do you even know how?”
“Yeah, I do. How many of them are there? We’ve got about eighty people still fresh. What have they got?” the sergeant asked.
“I’ve no idea. I only see one or two at a time. Can’t say I fancy doing a headcount, do you?” Idol said with as much sarcasm as he could muster, which was quite a lot even on a bad day.
Adams smiled then called someone on his HUD. “Captain Smith, this is Sergeant Adams of G Company.”
“Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you?” Priscilla asked.
“We’re in a bit of a stalemate here, we’re taking casualties and running short of supplies. We need to make a move, and that means either retreating like beaten dogs or attacking. Problem is, we don’t know the enemy numbers or disposition, and if we stick our heads up to look, we’ll lose them,” he explained. Idol listened but didn’t interrupt.
“One second, let me check something,” Priscilla replied. They waited for a tense minute. “Okay, we have your position on the Grid. We have assets nearby. Can you hold out for a few minutes while we get you some updates? If you want discretion, that is. We could just pop some micro-drones in and get you a rough headcount, if that’s all you want, but if we rush the job, they’ll probably be spotted.”
Adams looked at Idol, who put his finger to his lips to indicate silence.
“We can hold out for ten minutes if it gives us the element of surprise.”
“Roger that. Standby for updates,” the drone queen confirmed.
Sergeant Adams took another swig of water. “What do you think?” he asked.
Idol looked at the HUD data as it currently stood. Then he nodded and issued orders for the wounded to be evacuated. He took another swig of water before responding. “Okay. If we get the enemy numbers and disposition, we’ll know if your plan will work. But if we don’t outnumber them two to one, we retreat.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Sergeant Adams replied with a wink that he probably meant to be masculine but came across as a bit suggestive instead.
“I’m pretty sure that’s sailors, Charles, not soldiers,” said Idol with a sigh.
“I have updates for you, Captain Idol, Sergeant Adams,” said Priscilla after patching them both in to a HUD conversation.
“Go ahead, Captain Smith,” Idol replied. Priscilla fought to keep her blushing under control. Her teammates on the Ashton Blues had called her captain for a few years but it was weird when adults did it. She’d been given the honorary rank in the militia when Governor Denmead had thanked her and the team for their work discovering the enemy base.
“You’ll see updates on your HUD now. We’ve placed micro-drones behind all the enemy positions near you. You’re clear to the east and west. We count twenty-four Deathless troops, six in power armour. There’s live video feed of all of them,” said Priscilla, walking them through the feeds and maps.
The Marines didn’t need the guidance about HUD tactical updates because they used them habitually. The drone pilots flagged anything of interest and let the Marine officers and NCOs deal with it. This was the first time the militia had made a specific request, though, and they were as new to this as she was.
“Have you seen any railguns?” asked Sergeant Adams. “We don’t seem to have been shot at by any.”
“No, these troops are flagged as light infantry. They don’t seem to have any heavier weapons, just rifles,” said Priscilla. “If you’re going to attack, Captain, can you hold off for just a few minutes more?”
Idol frowned and looked at Adams, who shrugged.
“We can,” he responded, “but why?”
“It will give us time to get you some more support. Go to the coordinates I’ve marked on your HUD. It’s the south side of the brewery where the first-floor wall is blown out. You’ll have help in two minutes,” said Priscilla.
“We’re on our way,” said Idol.
Priscilla’s chosen rendezvous had previously been a windowless storage room, but now the south wall and part of the floor had gone. The other end was a safe flat space for a brew, but it looked like someone had taken a giant bite out of the floor and the militia were staying well away, even though the lack of windows meant the area was safe from enemy fire. Nobody wanted to fall three floors through a hole in the floor.
That left a nice big space that ran the whole length of the brewery. The contents of the room had been stripped out a week earlier and taken for reprocessing into raw materials for the fabricators. Most of the offices and buildings in New Ashton had been similarly cleared as part of the colony’s struggle to survive.
Idol and Adams got to the other room just as a large drone almost three metres long hoved into view. It manoeuvred delicately through the gaping hole in the wall, hovered for a moment in the middle of what remained of the floor, then settled briefly amongst the dust and rubble. There were a few brief clicks, then the drone lifted off and backed out the way it had come. In moments, it was gone, disappearing across the shattered city and leaving behind four large crates.
Each of the crates was covered with messages in marker pen, like “Kill them all!” and “Drink me!” and “Just say no to aliens!” as well as smiley faces and messages of good luck.
Adams grinned as he opened the first box and pulled out some of the contents – chocolate bars, boxes of fruit drink and packets of snacks – it looked like the drone pilots had raided a set of vending machines in the kids’ break room. The militia had ration packs, but nothing you’d choose to eat given a choice.
The second crate contained an assortment of unfamiliar drones and the last two, on opposite corners of the drone for weight distribution, held ammunition.
Idol called Priscilla back. “Where did you get all this from?”
“We requisitioned it from the armoury, of course,” replied Priscilla.
Idol smelt something fishy. “And by ‘requisitioned’ you mean what, exactly?”
Priscilla paused before replying. “This was our first chance to test the resupply drone, but I realise now we forgot to send the consignment note from the quartermaster. I’m happy to retrieve the supplies if you want the paperwork sorted before you accept the delivery, Captain. I’m afraid it might take a while, though, ‘cos the quartermaster is on a lunch break.”
Adams waved his hands urgently at Idol and shook his head vigorously, indicating that he didn’t care how the cheeky little buggers had got hold
of the stuff, he just wanted the grenades. Or perhaps it was the individual fruit drinks.
“Err, no, that’s fine, the paperwork can wait,” Idol replied as a series of loud bangs sounded from the front of the building.
“I’m sure we can sort that out when this war’s over,” Priscilla promised.
Idol chose to ignore that. “What are the drones for?”
“Just some new models we need to test. If you could lay them out on the floor, we’ll take it from there. If you decide to proceed with an attack, please let me know so we can make sure to give you the best updates and support possible.”
“Roger that. We will be proceeding, once we’ve distributed these very welcome supplies. Thank you, Captain Smith. Thank you very much indeed,” said Idol.
While Adams distributed the junk food, the ammunition and, more worryingly, the grenades it seemed the kids had purloined without too much trouble, Idol dealt with the drones.
He unpacked each carefully and laid them on the floor near the edge of room. There were six in total, four were long and looked for all the world like flying flutes. The other two were… sparkly? They were brightly coloured, had boxes of what looked like glitter attached to them, and lots of unidentifiable electronics, all of which were painted in psychedelic fluorescent colour schemes.
“What the hell is all that about?” he muttered to himself, before deciding that it really didn’t matter. Priscilla had given him the tools he needed to turn a huge risk, with luck, into a minor victory and perhaps win this skirmish. He wasn’t going to quibble about the odd drones they’d included.
They gathered in the empty room and projected their battle plan on the floor space the boxes had previously occupied. It was a simple layout of the street across which they’d been duelling with the Deathless for the better part of an hour. Except now they had precise locations for all the Deathless troopers. Idol patched in the NCOs and the company’s two surviving Lieutenants via their HUDs and went over the strategy Adams had suggested.