Guerrilla (The Royal Marine Space Commandos Book 2)

by Jon Evans

  “Bugger. Bugger me,” she said, “bloody buggering hell. Buuugger.” Finally, she looked up at him in, her eyes wide and a frown creasing her forehead. “Bugger it. Atticus, these buggers are going to bugger us up completely if these figures are right! Do you have any idea how much more production capacity they'd have available, compared to us, if this estimate is even halfway toward being right? They could bugger us up and down the street all week and twice on Sundays. Their economy could bugger the entire sector without so much as a please or thank you.”

  “That was among my many concerns. But think about that for a moment. They've been out there and even a pessimistic option that they only settled on a colony world seventy five years ago and came back in this direction at a leisurely pace could still mean their economy is huge. We've already seen they've made improvements in a wide range of technologies, as you might expect from a society entirely composed of people with that sort of background,” Atticus said.

  He projected a map of the local sectors of space on the conference table they were sat at. New Bristol was far away from the nearest colonies. It wasn't the only colony that existed outside the main bubble of human space but it was the furthest out in this region. A blinking icon sprang up further away from Sol.

  “What if this is where they went? Just for the sake of argument. It's one of the possible colony worlds the boys back at the Puzzle Palace have identified. We know there are exo-planets, so it'll get probed one day and colonists will follow eventually. If their voyage ended here,” said Atticus, pointing at the gently strobing icon, “and they set up shop on a Goldilocks planet, they could have had more than a century to build their colony, their world.

  “How big would their population be by now? It might be enormous, by young colony standards. If they went the route their interests suggest, they could have a truly vast number of people. These other systems,” he pointed at a string of other stars between New Bristol and the icon, “could also hold colonies and they'd have known that before they left their new paradise. Any suitable exo-planets were already known before they launched,” he paused and seemed to be struggling for words.

  “Yes? If all that is true, then so what?” she asked, not sure where Atticus was going with this line of reasoning.

  “If all that is true then they already have a functioning colony, a functioning civilisation, even, of their own.”

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “With all due respect, Governor, what the fucking hell would they want with New Bristol?”

  She took a deep breath and held it for a moment, exhaling slowly before answering.

  “You're quite right, Captain. I have no idea what they want. New Bristol is the very definition of a fixer-upper. In fact, if you review our colonist files, at least the adult ones who chose to come here, you'd see that most of them, myself included, came here for precisely that reason. We wanted to challenge ourselves in a universe gone bland with the ease of modern convenience. Some people want to create art, raise families, grow organic vegetables or conduct scientific research. Some become Marines. Some become pirates.”

  She sat back in her chair.

  “We wanted to be explorers, I suppose. We wanted to turn a dead world into a bountiful paradise. We can do that now, you know? Terraforming isn't a pipe dream anymore, we have the technology. New Bristol is in a race to create a fully functioning ecology capable of supporting human life. The planet has everything we need to start an Earth-like world, we just have to add a few asteroids and a great deal of elbow grease. There are far easier targets, with not much more defence in place, that they could have attacked.”

  “I know, and worse than that, why bother to attack at all? There are plenty of systems out there they could have colonised if population growth or expansion was there issue. So, bearing that in mind, why did they go all that way to get away from Sol, to obtain freedom, then come back? It doesn't make any sense,” he said, trailing off.

  “What's your ‘or else’?” she asked quietly. He looked at her, his eyes haunted by some vision he'd seen of the future. “I can tell you have one. They wouldn't have come back unless…?”

  He sighed and closed his eyes, not really wanting to give voice to his deeper fears.

  “Unless they had no choice. Unless they had no choice but to leave their world and come here. Unless something so bad has happened, they can't stay there anymore and New Bristol is the first world on their flight path that is safe.”

  “And what sort of threat could that be?” prompted Denmead when Atticus ground to a halt.

  “I have no idea but if I'm right, they aren't going to stop coming. They won't give up just because we fight off this attack. They want a new colony world and they've picked New Bristol. They'll get it too, unless we find a way to stop them.” He paused again. “And I'm not sure that's possible,” he added quietly Atticus.

  Denmead digested that for a while as they sat in silence. Finally, she looked up at him.

  “Right, so they have more advanced clones?”

  “Yes.”

  “They have more of them?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “They have more advanced ships?”

  “Probably.”

  “They have more advanced weapons?”

  “Some, certainly.”

  “They have a huge population and economy?”

  “Almost definitely.”

  “And they have a really good reason for abandoning their planet and taking ours?”

  “I think so.”

  “Ok, but aside from that, what have they got going for them?” Denmead asked.

  Atticus smiled.

  “I'm serious, Captain. Fuck these, what was it? These crew of the Koschei the Deathless?” he nodded, “Fuck these Deathless bastards then. Lets you and I put on our adult trousers and work out how to send these rude buggers back the way they came with a bloody nose, alright?”

  “Deathless. That's a good name for them, that'll stick.”

  “Good, that's a start then. They're The Deathless, and they're bastards, all those in favour, say aye.”

  Atticus said, “Aye,” and Denmead followed suit.

  “See, Captain? That's one problem solved. They might have a lot going for them, but they're just a series of small problems we have to solve, one after the other. Now, what else have we got going for us? Aside from an immobile philtrum?” Denmead asked.

  Atticus looked at his notes then back up at the Governor. “We know they started out human and they're basically still human. We know that most of their founders were Russian.”

  “Which means?” Denmead asked.

  “Which means we have a way to crack the code of their technology. It's based on models from Sol, we even have the technical specifications and original data. It means we have a chance of deciphering their glyphs, translating their language and accessing their systems. They aren’t using Cyrillic but they may still be writing in something that’s recognisably Russian or a combination of it and some other languages. Maybe that’ll be enough to give us access to their computers. Which would mean we can use their captured gear properly.”

  “That sounds useful, particularly with all those weapons and armour you've captured. Let's solve that problem first then,” she said.

  Atticus summoned Barlow and gave him a brief outline of the information from the private package.

  “I want you to have a look at some of the texts we think we’ve understood and try to match them to equivalent Russian words. If we can do that and work out the alphabet, we should be able to translate their UIs and, finally, get complete control of their computers.”

  “Yes Sir, makes sense. We’ve got images from the dropships and other bits of short text from weapons and armour, so it shouldn’t be a problem.” He paused, suddenly aware that he'd inadvertently made a promise to a senior officer without having appropriately managed expectations. A rookie error. He coughed. “That is, I’ll get started right away and let you know when we mak
e progress, Sir.”

  Barlow hurried out before his runaway mouth could get him into any more problems.

  10

  They had a few minutes warning, no more. The techs had set up sirens at key points around the city but it was mostly deserted with only a few teams still working to clear supplies and equipment.

  Everyone froze, just for a moment, as the sirens wailed and personal communicators pinged increasingly desperate warnings of imminent doom. Then things started to move as tasks and machinery were abandoned and the teams rushed to clear the impact sites.

  “Kinetic bombardment,” said Atticus in a matter-of-fact tone as he reviewed the stream of updates coming in from the ground-based monitors they’d been able to set up over the last few days, “at least, I hope it’s kinetic.”

  They had discussed contingency plans for other forms of attack - nuclear, biological, chemical, high-explosive and the old favourite, boots on the ground - but kinetic bombardment from orbit was always the most likely option, now that the Deathless knew they were opposed.

  “Simple, cheap, effective and with little lasting environmental impact,” Warden had said as he summarised the advantages of dropping high-velocity asteroids on the city, “and there’s bugger all we can do to defend against it.”

  And now it looked like Warden had been right. The monitors had found several fast-moving missiles heading toward Ashton but there were bound to be others, possibly hundreds of others, that wouldn’t be spotted until they struck the ground.

  Atticus and Denmead made their way to the designated lifters, chasing the last of the salvage teams from Government House as they went. The people were surprisingly calm given what was happening but the atmosphere was one of tense excitement. After days of fevered work under horrible pressure, the time of preparations was now over and, soon, the real fighting would begin.

  “Is that everyone?” yelled, Atticus, standing up in the lifter to get a better view, “Come on!” he yelled at a pair of stragglers who were moving slowly under the weight of an archive crate.

  “Leave it,” screamed Denmead, the delay now starting to disturb her. The pair struggled a little further then one tripped, pitching over onto the road and dropping the crate.

  “Shit,” said Atticus, springing down from the lifter and sprinting across the open ground. This Deathless body had a few advantages over the standard human combat clones and speed was one of them. He covered a hundred metres in a few seconds, shouting at the two salvagers to forget about the archive drives that had fallen from the crate.

  “Just move,” he yelled. He gave one a shove then grabbed the half-full crate, hefting it easily. The two men sprinted away and Atticus loped easily along behind them, crate tucked under one arm.

  “Hurry,” shouted Denmead, one eye on the sky as the time ticked down.

  The two men scrambled into the lifter and Atticus tossed the crate in behind them before leaping up onto the flatbed.

  “Go, go, go,” yelled Denmead and the driver needed no further encouragement. She punched the controls and the lifter pulled away, slowly at first but accelerating all the time.

  “Fifteen seconds,” said Atticus, shouting to be heard across the sound of the rushing wind, “Five seconds, everybody down.” He ducked down as low as he could and closed his eyes, pulling one of the salvage men and Governor Denmead down as well.

  Then there was a flash of light so bright it was clear even through closed eyelids. The earth rumbled beneath the lifter and then the noise arrived, a great, long, rolling boom that battered at them and seemed to go on forever. The lifter shook and rocked as the blast wave passed over them and then it was gone.

  Atticus looked back at Government House but could see only dust. Then it started to rain stones. They pinged off the body of the lifter and bounced from the bodies of the humans that sheltered within it. A rock the size of a fist caught Atticus on the shoulder and knocked him down. For a moment it looked like they were going to be buried alive under a shower of rock but then they were clear, and the way ahead was open. The lifter shot forward, heading down a road that would take them past the cloning facility.

  Too late, Articus realised the danger and shouted at the driver to turn off the road. Even as she looked back to see what was going on, Atticus’s HUD lit up with a warning of incoming projectiles. The Captain had only enough time to register the warning before the missile landed, striking directly at the cloning facility just as the lifter was passing by.

  This time the flash and the shock wave arrived at the same time. The lifter swerved wildly across the street as the blast struck, engines screaming as they tried to hold the driver’s course. Then it struck a low wall and bounced into the ruined forecourt of a school.

  The engines failed, dumping the lifter on the ground as the noise finally passed. It skidded across the courtyard, spun around in a slow circle, and blasted through the remains of the school’s front door to end up wedged against a staircase.

  11

  The bombardment had been swift, heavy and brutal. In the aftermath, drone surveys and the feeds from the remaining ground monitors showed a wrecked city of craters and shattered structures. Almost all the government and important infrastructure buildings had been destroyed or severely damaged, but the strikes had been carefully targeted to leave civilian buildings untouched.

  “Lucky we didn’t land in a target building,” muttered Atticus as he and Denmead reviewed the damage. The blast wave had carried them into the foyer of Ashton High School and they had gathered in the main hall with the other survivors of the crash.

  Atticus put down his tablet and looked at their kit. They had gathered everything from the lifter and their salvage now sat on a pair of folding tables.

  “This lot won’t keep us alive very long,” said Atticus looking at their meagre collection, “we need to find B Troop and get these people to the caves.”

  Denmead nodded. The crash had aggravated her shoulder wound but she wasn’t going to let it slow her down. She hefted her rifle, one of only two they had.

  “It’s a pity there aren’t any flying mammals on this planet,” she said to Atticus as she collected her gear. He frowned, unable to see the relevance. “I’ve always wanted to issue a ‘To the bat cave’ order but without bats...” She shrugged then grimaced a little at the pain.

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a fan of the winged vigilante,” said Atticus, grinning.

  “Only the classics,” said Denmead, “and I prefer the darker material.” A rumble shook the walls and dropped dust from the ceiling. Atticus reviewed his HUD.

  “That’ll be B Troop getting started,” he said with no small degree of satisfaction, “so let’s make like the three shepherds...”

  “...and get the flock out of here? I see you’re one for the classics as well.”

  Outside, the city had become a dark, dust-strewn hell-scape. The sun had gone, hidden from view by the vast quantities of muck thrown into the atmosphere by the bombardment. Beneath the darkened skies, the city had taken on a menacing orange hue and visibility was no more than twenty metres.

  “Stay close,” said Atticus as he led the Governor and four colonists into the open, “we’ll head for B Troop’s position and try to link up with them.”

  They walked through the dark and eerily quiet city, weaving around buildings damaged by the fighting, making their way toward the positions that B Troop had taken up. Occasional bursts of gunfire could be heard in the distance as they walked but they saw nothing until they rounded a corner and Atticus halted the party, waving at them to take cover.

  “A four-man drop-pod, by the size of it, but no sign of the enemy,” he said to Denmead, “they may have moved away, or they could be in the building. No way to know.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Atticus was silent for a moment, checking his HUD again for any information that might help. “Nothing on the monitors but that doesn’t mean much, given the dust. We’ll circle around, try to avoid exposi
ng ourselves,” he paused as Denmead touched his arm and nodded at the street.

  Four Deathless troopers in thin, mobile clone bodies and armed with light armour and weapons were walking down the street. They were in pairs, moving slowly and cautiously, checking doorways and alleys, but they hadn’t spotted the humans yet.

  “Back,” hissed Atticus, “get inside.” He ushered the group back into the building they were crouching behind. “Stay down, make no noise.” He squatted down with them, well below the windows, and called up the monitor and drone coverage in his HUD. “Nothing,” he muttered, “this bloody dust is covering everything.”

  They could hear the Deathless in the street chattering quietly and walking with care. As the second pair passed by and disappeared into the dust cloud, Atticus risked a look out of the window. It was clear, as far as he could tell, but the air was so clogged with muck that nothing was certain.

  “Out the back,” he muttered, leading the party through the building to the back door. It lay ajar, unmoving in the dead air but somehow foreboding and ominous. Atticus crouched down, raised his rifle and gently pushed the door.

  It swung open to show a narrow, deserted alley whose every surface was covered in fine orange muck.

  “Let’s go,” said Atticus, motioning for the party to head out into the alley. There was a bang at the other end of the building, and Atticus’s head whipped round. “Shit. It looks like they spotted our footprints. Go, quickly, turn right at the end and head that way for a couple of kilometres. I’ll catch you up.”

  The party moved off but Denmead hung back.

  “What are you going to do?” she said, one hand resting on Atticus’s arm.

  “Something nasty. Go, I’ll be right behind you.” She looked very doubtful, but he slipped her grasp and pushed her away. “Go!” Then he took a grenade from his pack, wedged it into the door and pulled the pin. He stepped back carefully and almost stood on Denmead.

  “Why are you still here? Go!” She backed off, following the rest of the party, and Atticus hurried after her, no longer caring about making a noise.