by S. A. Tholin
For the Primaterre, he squeezed the trigger.
For Joy, he chambered another round.
32.
CASSIMER
The embrasure was gone, its concrete walls eaten to dust by relentless machine gun fire. The long-range cannons were under Cassimer's team's control, and though that would be clear to Rampart's scanners, no Primaterre backup had arrived. No shuttles in the sky, no air support. Seven RebEarth vehicles had pulled up outside the perimeter, unloading troops before beginning to circle the bunker, laying down covering fire.
The bunker reverberated under the stress of thousands of impacts. Cassimer hugged the rooftop, rain and shrapnel beating down on his armour. RebEarthers were climbing the comms tower, travelling up its metallic skeleton like ants. Daneborg and Valletta stayed hidden, providing targeting data for Cassimer and his gunners.
A heavy calibre round punched through the concrete next to Cassimer. His HUD calculated the trajectory to the comms tower's fifth level and relayed the data to Hopewell. She took the shot, but as soon as she did, another sniper saw his opportunity. The reactive plates on her left pauldron shattered with a loud crack. Sparks arced between raindrops. Hopewell's rifle clattered to the floor, dropping down the open hatch.
"Northwest, Commander." Rearcross's voice was clipped and tight as he provided Hopewell cover. She crawled towards the hatch, one arm clutched to her chest. "Bad news."
Inevitable news. The backs of a trio of armoured vehicles had opened up to reveal missile batteries. Cassimer had hoped they wouldn't use such force for fear of striking the comms tower, but perhaps they considered a hundred meters enough of a margin. Perhaps they considered one comms tower a sacrifice worth making to kill half a dozen Primaterre and delay the landfall of thousands more. A good decision, a smart decision, but one hell of an unfortunate one for him and his team.
As the batteries prepared to fire, rockets streaked towards them from the edge of the forest. Wedlake and Quick battered the clear-cutting, destroying two vehicles, but hostiles swarmed up their crest and the gunners had no choice but to abandon their position. They disappeared with gunfire hot on their heels, into a forest teeming with RebEarth activity.
"Where the hell are Rampart?" Hopewell shouted, looking to the sky. "They said fifteen minutes, but it's been over two hours!"
Good question, if they had the time for such things. The third missile battery had locked on, about to fire.
"Into the bunker." Cassimer turned his Hyrrokkin on the comms tower, providing covering fire for Hopewell and Rearcross. His HUD warned of the incoming missile, and as he dropped through the hatch, he saw it coming, saw it screaming through the air, and then–
–a brief moment of disorientation. The air was grey fog, alarms going off all around. Rubble trapped his legs, one armour plate warped and digging into his side. Rain fell through the bunker's ruined ceiling, making torn wires hiss and spit. Tallinn was at his side, Lucklaw shifting debris to get him clear. Ratatosk sniper fire barked outside as Daneborg and Valletta opened up. Once more, Cassimer's HUD warned of an incoming missile.
"Right." Hopewell hobbled over to one of the weapons control chairs. She pulled a dead RebEarther from his seat and slid into the blood-slicked leather. "That's enough of that."
"Those are long range cannons, meant to shoot ships in orbit. In orbit, Hopewell. Do you even comprehend–"
"Believe it or not, Lucklaw," Rearcross said, taking the other control chair, "but if it's got a trigger, we know how to use it."
The RebEarth missile struck the bunker's side. Before the shockwave subsided, the gunners opened up.
The main cannons were too large to target ground troops, but the chain guns and lasers meant for gunships had no such limitations. Searing light cut across the open ground, turning tree stumps to ash. Chain gun rounds made craters, spewing mud across the perimeter. Trucks and armoured vehicles were turned to scrap metal, and while the fireworks bloomed, Daneborg and Valletta descended through the comms tower. RebEarthers died and RebEarthers jumped, and through Daneborg's eyes, Cassimer watched an entire unit turn heel and flee.
And then the logging road darkened as a tank rumbled down it, trees snapping like twigs as it forced its massive hulk through. Its three pulse cannons were trained at the bunker. On its side, a light strip phoenix opened and closed its wings.
"This model of long-range railgun is a little over three decades old. It was manufactured by Caldera Munitions, a company based in the Andromeda Conglomerate. Caldera's long gone, and so is the Conglomerate, but this cannon, it's still a popular choice. It boasts impact velocities of nearly four kilometres an hour and dense explosive projectiles. Catch a ship with its force fields down and it's all over. Fields up, you might need another shot. So yeah," Hopewell said, squeezing the trigger, "I do comprehend–"
The cannon spat a thunderclap. Blue light blazed against the bunker's walls. Through Daneborg's eyes, Cassimer saw the quivering gouge where the tank had been, the tumble of shattered trees and scorched earth. A kilometre-wide strip of the forest shook and undulated as an explosion flared in the distance. The soil moved, tugged forward in a great ripple, concertinaing into new shapes.
Everything was silent for a long time after that.
When the shock wore off, Cassimer shook off the last of the rubble and stood.
"Tallinn, open the door to the lower level." He drew his Morrigan. "We've got some cleaning up to do."
* * *
Morning came, and with the rising sun, the Primaterre Protectorate arrived. Cassimer stood outside the bunker and watched the great war machine land on Hereward. The comms tower's shadow cut a dark line across the logging road, shading a column of troop transports. Pine needles and mud churned underneath the wheels of Eponas and the tracks of heavier armoured vehicles. Reminders of purity glowed on their coachwork. Some of the soldiers waved as they passed the banneret team's position.
"You're welcome," Hopewell shouted, returning a vanguard man's wave. The gunner had dragged a sofa from the depths of the bunker and propped it on top of a crumbled bunker wall. She reclined in it, leaning against Tallinn, who was affixing new reactive plates to her damaged pauldron. "Hope you enjoyed your cushy landing!"
If they had, they wouldn't have time to enjoy it for long. The assault on the city had begun an hour before dawn. The clear-cut perimeter was now a landing zone, Primaterre ships delivering troops in their hundreds. The engineers and sappers had set straight to work, improving the fortifications and building makeshift bridges across the gouge cut by the railgun. The comms tower buzzed with activity as it was repurposed to serve Primaterre interests. A unit of young vanguards marched past holding buckets of paint. Before too long, the compound would turn from red-and-black to Primaterre grey.
The city, however, would not be taken so easily. What few reports had reached Cassimer indicated heavy resistance, but what troubled him was the mood of the officers in charge of the incursion. They'd set up base inside a hab. Its clear walls had progressively darkened with every hour, slowly turning a forbidding black. Whatever was being discussed in there couldn't be good.
A sharp crack of bullets sounded to the north, where a firing squad had just carried out the executions of RebEarth prisoners. Processing of the captives taken in the night had finished, and for those deemed impure beyond redemption, that was the end of the line. Those whose names and DNA hadn't matched the identities of known killers and terrorists had been marched onto ships. Prison camps awaited them, but if they proved themselves redeemable, they would be transported to worlds outside the Protectorate willing to take in new citizens. A hard life, but life nonetheless, and far more meritorious than any RebEarth could ever have offered.
"None of them were vessels." Major Juneau came walking across the muddy grounds, taking great care not to step in any puddles. She had arrived shortly after dawn, immediately setting to work scanning RebEarthers, dead and alive.
"Good." Rearcross sat in the doorway where light spilled
in from above. The night before, he had scythed his way through the bunker without hesitation, but now he seemed less keen to enter its shadows. "This place is bad enough as it is. The murals don't creep anyone else out?"
"Yeah." Hopewell tapped her finger against the mural behind her, scraping red paint from concrete wall. "The proportions are all off, and don't even get me started about the line work."
"I can't really tell what it's supposed to be," Tallinn said, squinting.
Cassimer could. A black and faceless figure stood wreathed in fire, bright wings stretching from its shoulders. Or was the red supposed to be lichen, not fire? Perhaps both, licking and coating the figure, always moving in the corner of his eye. The Primaterre were invading Hereward now, but Skald had come here first. It hadn't revealed its true self until after Cato, of that Cassimer was certain, but it could have been here for years, whispering and working its roots deep into Hereward's soil. A new lick of paint wouldn't do – this world needed a purge.
"It's shit," said Hopewell.
"Language, Lieutenant."
"Apologies, Commander. What I mean to say is, it's just like the rest of Hereward. The whole place looks dirty, feels dirty, and if I opened my visor, I bet it'd smell dirty."
"I can confirm your hypothesis," Juneau said, grimacing.
"It's a dump, all right. Though I will say, I found this box of pastries downstairs, and stars, they look so tempting. " Hopewell picked up a chocolate profiterole from a dusty-lidded cardboard box and eyed it longingly. "I am this close to just eating it."
"I wouldn't if I were you," Tallinn said. "I doubt RebEarth have heard of food safety standards. You don't know what ingredients went into that, or if the baker washed his hands after visiting the bathroom."
"Oh sure, but the chocolate is whispering to me that hey, what's the big deal? Go on, have a taste." She turned over, throwing the profiterole towards Rearcross, who caught it effortlessly. "Careful, Rearcross. Maybe it's a chocolate demon trying to corrupt us."
"You shouldn't talk like that, Hopewell," he complained, shifting to allow Lucklaw entry into the bunker.
"And that makes six." Juneau pointed her index finger at Lucklaw. "The remaining two?"
"Wedlake and Quick are clearing tunnels with a vanguard unit that picked them up earlier this morning," Cassimer said.
"Very good. Glad to see our forlorn hope intact."
"Intact and successful," Valletta said. "How does it feel to have earned your first Valiance Ribbon, kid?"
"It's my second. And my name's Lieutenant Lucklaw."
Bastion Command had decreed that Lucklaw's stand on the Rossetti Cascade had qualified him for the Valiance Ribbon, bestowed upon forlorn hopes – units undertaking high-risk missions with near-impossible odds. It was a great merit to a soldier's name and, despite the danger, hotly sought after as each one meant a five percent merit increase. Of course, that was of no relevance to Lucklaw – nor to Cassimer, who had more ribbons than he cared to remember.
"Second? Stars, they hand them out in preschool these days?"
"Welcome to the team, Valletta. Fight under our commander's banner long enough, and maybe even you will earn a few medals one day," Hopewell said.
"Yes, well..." Juneau gave Cassimer a long look. "There are those who would prefer it if the commander didn't volunteer for missions like this. Bastion Command were trying very hard not to panic during the five hours you were out of contact."
Cassimer shrugged. "Worrying about morale is their job, not mine." Command wouldn't want to lose their champion so early in the invasion. Certainly wouldn't want to give RebEarth the psychological advantage.
"I don't think morale is the reason," Juneau began, but Hopewell interrupted her.
"Who cares what Command thinks? I'm more interested in those five hours you mentioned. What took reinforcements so long?"
"I'm not privy to the details, but the delay appears to have been courtesy of an old friend. Kivik and his Victual Brothers joined the fight last night, and Rampart had to prioritise protecting our Cascade relay ship."
"Kivik?" Daneborg looked up from the rifle he'd spent the past hour cleaning. "Don't suppose he'll come down here."
"Not if he knows what's good for him," Hopewell said. "So fingers crossed that he's a moron. Considering he's RebEarth, I'm thinking the odds are good. I'd love to get a shot at him, or better yet, for you to get one. That's Kiruna's rifle, isn't it?"
"She left it to me in her will, splitting her merits evenly between an animal shelter and the company's ammunition budget. Every shot we took last night, bought and paid for by Kiroo. She was a lifer, you know... No family but us, no home but Scathach. I asked her once if she didn't want more out of life, and she gave me this look, like she honestly couldn't understand what I was asking, and pointed to her head and said: 'More? I have an entire universe in here. What more could I want?'." He laughed, a short, shaky sound. "An entire universe spilled across a Velloa landing pad. What a fucking waste."
Daneborg's words left a silence in their wake, as great as that left by the railgun. When the team's transport finally pulled up outside the bunker, nobody hesitated. A city awaited them, and their guns were loaded with vengeance.
* * *
"I feel kind of dumb saying this, Commander, considering the things you must've seen, but..." The transport driver glanced over his shoulder at Cassimer. "You should brace yourself. The city, it's... it's like nothing I've ever seen. It's a bad place."
"RebEarth were never going to make this easy for us."
"It's not the fighting. I mean, that's bad too, sure, but... stars." He took a hand off the wheel to wipe sweat from his face. "It's the city. It's real bad, Commander."
The vehicle rocked as it crossed a makeshift bridge. At the edge of the forest, the road was covered in splintered wood. The deep groove cut into the ground continued deep into the woods, terminating at a new ridge about twelve kilometres out, where pine trees leaned precariously against the sky. Fresh geography added to an old world, at the press of a trigger.
Gunfire echoed between the trees. Distant or nearby, it was impossible to tell. Vanguard units had been sent in to investigate the tunnel network, and Commander Ilminster's banneret team were on their way to join them. Grey-armoured figures moved between the trees, flanked by dogs.
"Real bad," the driver repeated as the road smoothed out. His knuckles whitened as he hardened his grip on the wheel. Cassimer wasn't interested in asking for clarification. The troops could hear the driver, and the younger ones were starting to look edgy. Real bad. As if it mattered. None of them had a choice as to their destination, only in how to face it.
"Primaterre protects us all." A cheap shortcut, he knew that now, but it worked.
The Epona lumbered down a road striped with shadow and afternoon sun. The long stretches between Primaterre checkpoints saw bullets pinging off the vehicle's armour plates. The Epona's gunners returned fire, shredding tree trunks and mossy ground.
They passed one armoured transport, its side scorched by rocket fire and its nose wedged firmly in a ditch, being winched by another. The soldiers at the scene dismissed offers of assistance.
"Just got to get the Pony running again, and then we're heading into the woods anyway. Command wants artillery set up on Hopewell's Hill ASAP," the officer in charge said, filling the next ten minutes of their journey with excited boasting from Hopewell.
"My very own landmark!"
"Anybody can leave a lasting mark with a railgun," Lucklaw muttered.
"But I'm the one who did, and that's what counts. Stars, if only Florey were here."
"The man's been retired near enough six months now and you're still looking for ways to impress him?" Rearcross frowned.
"Impress him? He'd hate it! Didn't you see how many trees I wrecked? He'd say, well, that's not very environmentally friendly, and I'd say says the man who likes to use depleted uranium rounds, and he'd be all uranium was provided by Earth, and I'd say, so were railgu
ns, and..."
"Seems even without Florey, you don't need the rest of us."
"I did need you back at the bunker. All you had to do was eat one of those pastries and give it thirty minutes to see if they were poisoned, but no..."
A sudden flash of sunlight filled the vehicle as the logging road turned onto a tarmac motorway. The city lay in a valley below, surrounded by woodland. A haze of pollution shrouded high-rises and fluttering phoenix flags. The Primaterre incursion was an arrowhead of soldiers and vehicles pushing north from the motorway.
Then the wind picked up and swept a cloud of rust-red motes against the Epona, and Cassimer understood that the miasma that fogged the city was not pollution at all.
It was lichen.
33.
JOY
Once reduced to facts and figures, war was easier to live with. The monitors in Joy's office glowed with satellite footage and fly-over shots of Hereward. The latter showed the fighting in a strange delayed fashion. An intact city block would suddenly be razed as the next hourly update was pushed to Tower databanks. So clean and tidy, here and then gone, and in the next update, there'd be a Primaterre checkpoint in place of the ruins. A blink-and-you-miss-it war.
The satellite footage told a different story. The quality was poor, but good enough to show the smoke and the fire and the rumbling vehicles. The people were tiny specks, too small to spot unless amassed in great numbers, and then they were a swatch of muddy colour. No way of telling if they were Primaterre or RebEarth, or fleeing Hereward civilians.
"I think these are refugees." She pointed to a crowd clogging a street in the southern part of the city. "They're trying to reach the designated Primaterre aid zone outside the city limits, but they're trapped between RebEarth blockades."
Elsinore, sitting at his desk, shrugged. "The chaos suits RebEarth's tactics and makes it difficult for our soldiers to separate civilian from combatant. And if we decide to dispense with niceties and treat them all as hostiles, you can bet RebEarth have cameramen on the scene. They're not above using propaganda to rally support. We start mowing locals down, the footage will be streamed across the galaxy by noon."