The Halls of Montezuma

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  He smiled, again, as he studied the terminal. They were advancing so rapidly the marines simply didn’t have time to prepare any traps. A couple of tanks had been disabled by rockets and a third by plasma grenades, but the remainder were untouched. Dylan would mourn the dead later. Someone would complain, later, that he’d thrown away lives for nothing, but he knew better. He’d had the word directly from a cousin who worked under General Gilbert himself. The marines had to be crushed, even if it meant pushing the offensive forward at breakneck speed. Dylan promised himself he’d ignore all complaints. The idea of war was to win ...

  An alert flashed up in front of him. The marines were trying to shell the tanks, but the tankers were charging forward too quickly for dumb shells to find their targets. They were probably running short of guided shells, projectiles that could be counted upon to hit their targets. Dylan wasn’t too surprised. Commanding a troop of tanks had given him an excellent understanding of logistics. The reports suggested the marines were running short of everything and it looked, from his point of view, that the reports were actually accurate. He snapped commands into the terminal, trying to call down shells of his own onto the enemy targets. The advance was more than a little chaotic - they’d been given warnings about outrunning their antiaircraft defences, giving the enemy pilots a chance to land a blow - but it hardly mattered. They were piling so many soldiers and firepower onto the enemy lines that they could easily trade ten for one and still come out ahead.

  It’ll be over soon, he thought, as another bullet cracked off the hull. And then we’ll all be promoted.

  ***

  General Jim Gilbert knew, without false modesty, that he was no fool. He also knew he was short on options. Too many staff officers had received seditious emails for him to feel entirely comfortable drawing the war out, even though a more sedate advance might preserve men and equipment for future campaigns. Julia Ganister-Onge hadn’t been entirely wrong, he conceded, although the marines hadn’t had any time to devise a trap. The problem was that they needed to win quickly or not at all.

  He studied the reports as they flowed into his console. He’d prefer to wait for the fleet, but ... there just wasn’t time. He wasn’t sure how many enemy agents were on the streets - the security forces had issued a series of estimates, each one more absurd than the last - yet it was clear they were causing too much damage. They had to get the troops on the streets too ... he sighed, bitterly. Why couldn’t people just accept their place? Why did they have to aim for the skies?

  The advance was picking up speed, an endless row of men and machines racing into what had been enemy-held territory. The marine lines were breaking. The tactical staff were projecting that Roxon would be back in friendly hands by the end of the day, then ... there’d be no reason to stop. A couple of days would see the end of the marines, unless they did something desperate. But what? They’d played their last cards and lost.

  He keyed his terminal. “Continue the offence,” he ordered. “And don’t stop until you reach Roxon.”

  ***

  “Captain,” Tomas said. “The enemy are entering the killzone.”

  Kerri let out a breath as she studied the live feed from the stealthed sensor platforms. The fighting in space had continued, friendly and enemy forces alike paying no attention to the struggles on the ground. Both sides had refrained from committing atrocities - slamming a missile into an asteroid habitat was an atrocity, no matter how one looked at it - but there was a steady stream of debris spinning out in all directions. It hadn’t been hard to deploy stealthed weapons platforms as well, knowing they wouldn’t be detected until they brought their targeting systems online. Hell, they barely even needed those. The ships - and the sensor platforms - would do all the targeting the weapons needed.

  “Check with Major-General Anderson,” she ordered. “Is he ready for us to deploy the first salvo?”

  She gritted her teeth as she waited. She’d known Imperial Navy officers who would have gloated if the Imperial Army had taken a bloody nose. She knew too many people on the ground to even think it might be a good thing ... even if defeat hadn’t ensured more work for her and her people. They’d have problems lifting even a tiny fraction of the survivors out of the wreckage before it was too late. She knew they might have to abandon the remainder to their fate.

  Her eyes moved to the in-system display. It was blank - the enemy facilities had largely gone dark - but that was meaningless. Their ships were supposed to be returning piecemeal, yet ... she shook her head. There was no point in worrying about it. Either Anderson’s plan worked, or they’d suffer the greatest defeat in their long history. By the time the enemy concentrated its fleet, the engagement would be decided ...

  “Captain,” Susan said. “Major-General Anderson has cleared us to engage.”

  Kerri nodded. “Begin firing sequence one,” she ordered. She doubted the firing would be very accurate, but it shouldn’t be an issue. All that mattered was that the projectiles would be falling in the right general area. “And move to firing sequence two the moment the enemy reacts.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Tomas said.

  ***

  Colonel Hank Feingold scowled as he sat in the command core and watched the display. The high orbitals were crammed with debris, enough to make life difficult for his crew as they struggled to monitor events in orbit. The PDC had enough firepower to give an enemy ship a very nasty surprise indeed, if her CO was foolish enough to come within range, but ... there was little they could do about the fighting in space. Hank was entirely sure the enemy hoped he’d try to engage suited men with ship-killing plasma cannons. He’d blow away half the orbital industry if he tried.

  “Colonel!” The display filled with red lights. “They’re firing on us!”

  Hank stood. The enemy had taken out one PDC with a shipkiller or something - the sensor records weren’t entirely clear on just what had smashed an entire mountain - but so far, they’d refrained from targeting the remaining PDCs. They’d probably thought they could take the installations for themselves, when they won the war on the ground ... a war they were currently losing. And yet ... he swallowed as he saw the red icons gaining speed. The enemy were suddenly firing on all five PDCs within range.

  “Deploy point defence,” he ordered. If the enemy widened their control over the high orbitals, they might still win. They could start dropping KEWs into the cities, harrying the government until it conceded defeat. “Take them all down.”

  He sucked in his breath. The star system was littered with space junk that could be turned into simple kinetic projectiles. They wouldn’t be that accurate, but the marines could just keep raining them on the PDCs until they overwhelmed the defences and pounded the installation into scrap. Hank’s operators were already trying to prioritise the targets, shooting the projectiles that seemed most likely to strike the PDC. The remainder would have to be ignored. Bad news for anyone nearby, he thought, but the marines were unlikely to fire on civilian targets. They hadn’t set out to slaughter people for fun ...

  “Sir! They’re firing again!”

  Hank saw it, too late. They’d been tricked ...

  ... And the men on the ground were going to pay.

  ***

  The terminal bleeped an alert, too late.

  Something hit the ground, close enough to the tank for the shockwave to pick the vehicle up and throw it over and over until it slammed down again. Captain Hiller’s body ached as the straps held him firmly in place, his head pounding as a series of crashing sounds echoed through the tank. He blacked out - he must have - for a second, only slowly realising that he was upside-down. The tank was upside-down! Ice ran through him as he fumbled with the straps, allowing himself to fall to the floor. No, the ceiling. Everything was topsy-turvy. The display was dead, the screen cracked ...

  He crawled towards the hatch and peered into the gunner’s compartment. His body was a mangled wreck, his head crushed as if an angry giant had popped it like a grape. Dylan c
ouldn’t bring himself to touch the remains. He’d mourn later, if there was a later. Instead, he opened the emergency hatch and scrambled out of the vehicle, dropping neatly to the ground. The driver’s hatch was firmly closed. Dylan knew that wasn’t a good sign.

  His head spun as he tried to process what he saw. The tank was upside-down, half-buried in a ditch. The remainder of the troop was a shattered ruin, from what little he could see. Half the tanks under his command appeared to be completely missing. As far as he could tell, he was the only survivor. He saw smoke rising along the battlefield and shuddered as he realised what had happened. They’d been clobbered from orbit. They’d been told the PDCs would cover them, but ... they’d been wrong.

  Dylan forced himself to scramble onto the tank. He could see flames licking up from a dozen places, each marking a destroyed vehicle. The ground itself was blackened and dimpled, what little left after two successive campaigns wiped from existence ... he stumbled, nearly tumbling off the tank as he heard aircraft in the distance. He turned to peer towards Roxon, towards the marine lines ... it was just a matter of time, he knew, before they went back on the offensive. His troop had been destroyed ... no, the entire army had been destroyed. He couldn’t imagine the marines holding back, not now. It was easy to believe he was the sole survivor.

  He felt numb. He’d known victory was within their grasp. He’d known they were going to crush the marines. He’d known ... he’d been wrong. He felt weak as he tried to find something - anything - that would make him feel hopeful. But there was nothing. If the marines had taken out the PDCs, they could hammer the entire planet into submission. The war was coming to an end ...

  There’s no point in going on, he told himself. The men under his command were dead. He’d failed them, as surely as he’d failed himself. This is the end.

  He sagged, dropping to his knees. The tank felt hot under him. He knew he should start walking, he knew he should report back to his superiors, but ... he felt liquid under his shirt and realised, dully, that he’d been wounded. It was hard to understand how. Had he been shot? Or ... or had he been wounded when his tank had been hit and he simply hadn’t noticed? He wanted to cover the wound, to try to stop it from bleeding, but it was hard to muster the will. The war was over ...

  Dylan closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Capitalism, therefore, holds out the promise of eternally bettering one’s self. A poor man might climb into the middle class, while his son climbs into the upper class. A wealthy man who inherited his money might discover, too late, that he simply isn’t the man his father was and lose his business to cutthroat competition.

  - Professor Leo Caesius, The Rise and Fall of Interstellar Capitalism

  Lieutenant Boris Timbisha felt a flicker of fear as he looked at the sky.

  The entire city had seen the flashes; the entire city had heard the thunder. Boris didn’t know what they meant, but he was certain they weren’t good news. He glanced at his rifle, wondering if he’d have to use it soon. The days when a pair of green tabs on one’s shoulders had been enough to compel instant obedience were long gone. Boris had lost friends and comrades who’d gone into the disputed parts of the city and never come out again. A couple of bodies had been recovered, hideously mutilated. He knew it was just a matter of time before he was ordered to re-join his unit and start patrolling the rougher parts of the city. He wouldn’t be allowed to keep his cushy billet forever ...

  He tensed as an aircar came into view, landing neatly outside the security HQ. There was no reason to think he really had a cushy billet. The underground had bombed buildings inside the security zone, somehow; they’d even killed the population monitoring system. He watched the aircar hatch open, disgorging a man wearing a staff officer’s uniform. Boris’s lips thinned. The man wore a uniform that suggested he had powerful connections, perhaps powerful enough to punish Boris for doing his job. He certainly wouldn’t show the proper respect.

  “I’m here to check on the prisoners,” the newcomer said. He shoved a datachip at Boris, seemingly unaware of the rifle in his hand. “Take me to them.”

  Boris kept his face impassive as he slotted the datachip into his terminal and scanned the orders quickly. Commander Archer, special aide to General Gilbert ... a man who could make real trouble for a lowly security officer if Boris got in his way. Boris was fairly sure his superiors wouldn’t protect him. General Gilbert had the ear of the director himself, if the rumours were true. Who knew?

  He checked the biometrics quickly, then called for a replacement guard before leading Commander Archer into the building. The HQ was dangerously understaffed, the majority of the guards ordered away on short notice. Boris didn’t know what was going on, but he’d heard enough hints to be glad his unit hadn’t been ordered away as well. He led Commander Archer though the security scanners, half-hoping they’d sound the alert. The guards had standing orders to give anyone who triggered the alarm a full-body search, something that always knocked people down a peg or two. But there was nothing. Commander Archer wasn’t even armed.

  Idiot, Boris thought. A staff officer might be more dangerous to himself than anyone else, if he carried a pistol, but the streets were unsafe these days. You should have drawn a gun from the armoury if you knew you were going out in the open.

  The air grew colder as they walked down a long flight of stairs. The prisoners were being held in the lower cells, being treated reasonably well. Boris was mildly surprised they hadn’t been sent further below ground. Very few people left the building, if they were arrested and marched to the cells. They’d be lucky if they were simply executed, their bodies thrown into the furnace and their ashes dumped somewhere nicely isolated. The marines were unusual prisoners, but ... they’d invaded the planet. They deserved to die.

  “You can see the prisoners through the viewscreens,” he said, as he led Commander Archer into the monitoring room. There was no privacy in the cells beyond. The bored-looking operator glanced up at them, then returned his attention to the screens. “If you want to talk to them in person, you’ll have to go through that door ...”

  “Good,” Commander Archer said. “And now ...”

  He reached out in one smooth motion and yanked the operator away from the console, throwing him right across the room. Boris gaped, his hand dropping - too late - to his pistol. He was still trying to draw it when a hand gripped his throat and tightened. Boris had only a second to realise that he’d failed in his duty before he felt something snap ...

  ***

  Haydn stood in the cell and waited. The guards had clearly received at least three sets of orders while they’d been driving the prisoners around, practically giving them a tour of the city before finally arriving at the prison complex. The cell didn’t feel like a POW camp. It was dark and dingy, clearly designed for only a handful of prisoners. The forty marines, including some who’d been captured separately, barely had room to move. He couldn’t decide if it was a form of torture without quite breaking the rules or if the enemy hadn’t been able to decide what to do with them. The cell boded ill for the future. He hadn’t been able to think of a way to escape, not yet. Most of the ideas he’d come up with required being on the other side of the bars.

  He studied the cell thoughtfully. It reminded him of the brig on a starship, complete with metal bars keeping the prisoners in place, except on a far larger scale. The chamber seemed completely airtight. The enemy interrogators could shoot into the cell, if they wanted, or simply dump knock-out gas into the vents. Or poison them ... he was starting to fear their rights as POWs weren’t going to be respected after all.

  The hatch snapped open. A man hurried into the chamber. “Family Man,” he said, as he started to fiddle with the lock on the bars. “I say again, Family Man.”

  Haydn blinked. He’d been told the code Pathfinders used to identify themselves, when they were behind enemy lines, but he’d never expected to use it here. He hadn’t even known th
ere were Pathfinders on the surface, until ... he blinked as he recognised the man. “You’re a Pathfinder who just wanted in through the door?”

  “Yep.” The door clicked open. The newcomer pushed a rifle into Haydn’s hands, then motioned for the marines to hurry out of the cell. “We need to move. The streets are in chaos right now, but that’ll change pretty damn quickly.”

  He cocked his head, clearly accessing the complex’s security systems. Haydn didn’t envy him, even though he’d wanted to be a Pathfinder. The neural links weren’t always reliable. If they went wrong, when someone was attached to a computer net, the results could be utterly disastrous. Or ... he followed the newcomer out into the next room, spotting a pair of bodies on the floor. They both looked as if they’d had their necks snapped.

  “There’s an armoury on the upper levels, but I want to try to sneak out if possible,” the Pathfinder said. “You being here might come in handy.”

  “We should get back to the lines,” Haydn said. “Quickly.”

  The Pathfinder glanced at him. “That might not be possible. From what I picked up before I arrived, the enemy advance has just been smashed from orbit. You’ll have miles to go before you reach safety, if you made it through at all. And you could do something much more useful here.”

  He held up a hand as they reached the top of the stairs, then ran forward so fast he almost blurred. Haydn glanced forward, just in time to see the Pathfinder taking down two guards at incredible speed. The bodies didn’t even have time to hit the ground before the enhanced soldier was pulling open the door, revealing the armoury. The marines hurried forward, scooping up enough weapons and ammunition to fight a small war. Haydn couldn’t help wondering if that was what the Pathfinder had in mind.