The Bayern Agenda

by Dan Moren

  Interlude

  Outpost SD73, The Badlands, Earth – May 23, 2397

  The private’s ears were ringing.

  The concussion shell had hit ten meters away, but the radius of its effect was at least twice that. From his place at the top of the ridge, he watched, frozen in horrified fascination, as the shockwave flattened the grass in front of him like an invisible wave, then knocked him off his feet, sending him tumbling down behind the emplacement.

  He shook his head and managed to crawl to his feet, the grass hot under his hands despite the cool of the morning. The knees of his fatigues were torn and grass-stained from his slide, and somewhere he’d acquired a gash on his upper right arm. Still, other than the high-pitched whine in his ears, he was more or less unhurt. He pulled himself to the top of the ridge and looked over.

  The lieutenant had not been so lucky.

  His commanding officer had been standing ahead and in front of the emplacement, on the grassy slope – exactly why, the private wasn’t quite sure, except she had evidently overindulged the previous night. The private had seen the flask that had been passed among the officers before they were all sent out to their emplacements. Then there had been the lieutenant’s bloodshot eyes this morning as she’d stood on the hill, hurling abuse at their adversaries, even though they couldn’t have possibly heard a word of it.

  He wasn’t sure if it were chance or deliberate aim, but the concussion shell had landed squarely next to the lieutenant. Even from his position atop the ridge, the private could see the blood streaming from the woman’s nose and ears. There was a chance she was alive, but even if she was she’d never be the same again.

  A hand suddenly descended on the private’s shoulder and he started and spun around, but it was just the third member of their emplacement team, a middle-aged sergeant whose brown hair was already starting to turn gray. His mouth moved, but all the private could hear was the ringing. Pointing at his ears, he shook his head, and the sergeant frowned. The older man took him by the shoulders and turned him around, then pointed at the lieutenant and then at the two of them.

  Dirt loosened by the concussion shell’s impact shifted under their feet as they picked their way down the hill. They crossed the ten meters to the lieutenant quickly, grabbed the woman by her armpits, and dragged her back to the emplacement.

  The private wiped his palms on his trousers. He’d never touched a dead body before – and he was certain now that the lieutenant was dead – and he felt the overwhelming urge to scrub his hands.

  “She was a bleeding idiot,” said the sergeant. Relief flooded through the private at any sound making it through the ringing in his ears.

  The older man stared down at the lieutenant, a disapproving look on his face, then gave the private a bleak smile.

  “But I guess she was our idiot.” Hard brown eyes swept him from head to toe. “How old are you, son?”

  “N-Nineteen,” the private stammered.

  “Goddamn if they don’t keep getting younger,” muttered the sergeant.

  The private straightened up. “This isn’t my first engagement,” he said stiffly. “I was at Salinas.”

  “Salinas?” said the sergeant, raising an eyebrow. “How long?”

  Scratching at his cheek, the private evaded the other man’s gaze. “Evacuated on the third night.”

  “Before the whole place was drop-bombed from orbit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You even fire a shot?”

  “Maybe one.”

  “Hit anything?”

  The private didn’t reply.

  “Well, for fuck’s sake,” said the sergeant, throwing up his hands. “They send me up here with a greenie and a drunk. Who the hell did I piss off?” He looked up at the sky. “And to top it all off, that.” He jerked his chin at a point behind the private, who turned to follow his gaze.

  The morning haze had begun to burn off, revealing the huge ship that hung miles overhead. Its massive engines glowed in the atmosphere, the waves of heat shimmering like mirages. It bristled with gun turrets and the gaping mouths of fighter bays, all of it topped off by a coat of crimson paint. Letters were stenciled, what must have been tens of feet high, on its bow, though they were still hard to read at this distance. The private lifted the binoculars on his belt and swept them across the prow.

  “The Hammer of God.”

  “Modest, ain’t they?” said the sergeant. “That’s a dreadnought – there’s a dozen of them in the fleet, all told, and ain’t nothing we’ve got that can stand against them.”

  The private lowered the binoculars, gaping at the sheer enormity of the war machine. The ships had appeared suddenly only a few weeks ago, barreling from the outer reaches of the solar system straight towards Earth. All attempts at communications had been met with puzzling silence, but when an outpost on Saturn’s moon Enceladus was obliterated with little fanfare, Earth had scrambled to mobilize what little space-based defenses it had.

  It didn’t look like it was going to be enough.

  A lump rose in the private’s throat. “How are we supposed to fight monsters like that?”

  “Hey,” said the sergeant sharply. “None of that. They may put on a good show, but don’t forget they’re human.”

  “Bullshit. How could humans do this?” said the private. He waved a hand and it encompassed the ship, the hill, and even the lieutenant’s body.

  “People do awful things, kid. Out of anger, fear, pain… In this case, I think it might be all of the above. The crims think we failed them – and maybe we did – but when they sucker punch us, that doesn’t mean we don’t punch back. You get me?”

  For a moment the private said nothing, then he let out a breath and nodded. “So, now what?”

  As if in answer, a loud whirring issued from behind them, and the two men turned to watch a boxy shuttle glide in for a landing behind the ridgeline, about twenty meters away. The grass around it flattened in the wake of its repulsor fields. The two men exchanged a glance, but the ship was clearly one of their own; they made their way down the hill.

  A hatch in the side slid open, a ramp descending and planting almost viciously into the dirt. From the darkness inside, a woman appeared – dark hair, average height, a bandage on her right cheek – and waved at them; her rank insignia pegged her as a corporal.

  “Hey,” the woman yelled over the shuttle’s engines. “One of you Lieutenant Carlin?”

  The sergeant pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “LT’s dead,” he said.

  “Shit,” said the woman on the shuttle, pursing her lips, then shrugged and continued. “We’re here to evacuate you.”

  “Evacuate?” the sergeant echoed.

  The corporal looked back and forth between them, her eyes widening. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Beijing fell this morning.”

  For a moment, everything seemed to go quiet: no thrumming engines, no whistling shells in the distance, not even the chirping of a bird.

  “Holy shit,” the private breathed.

  “Pretty much,” said the corporal. “We’re pulling back.”

  “Pulling back?” shouted the sergeant. “To where?”

  The corporal leaned out of the shuttle and pointed towards the sky.

  The sergeant’s face morphed into an expression of disbelief. “You’re joking.”

  The corporal shook her head. “I don’t give the orders, sergeant, I just relay them. Speaking of which…” She gestured at the ramp.

  Looking as though he’d dearly like to punch something – or someone – the sergeant gritted his teeth. He cast a look over his shoulder. “We gotta get Carlin’s body,” he said. “We’ll be right back.” Tapping the private on the shoulder, he motioned him back up the hill.

  The private wasn’t looking forward to dragging the lifeless body of his commanding officer – former commanding officer – anywhere, but he guessed the sergeant wouldn’t indulge his squeamishness. And, mo
rbid as the thought was, he kind of hoped someone would do him the same favor were he in the lieutenant’s position. He shuddered.

  Once again, they each took an arm, pulling the body towards the waiting shuttle. They’d covered about half the distance when a loud whistling filled the air. The private looked up in alarm: he’d already heard that whistling once this morning, and the result hadn’t been pretty.

  The sergeant had heard it, too, and unceremoniously dumped his portion of Lieutenant Carlin’s body into the dirt. “Down!” he yelled, hitting the ground and covering his head with his arms.

  For some reason – he never could figure out why – the private didn’t react as fast. He even turned and caught sight of the angry, burning red star hurtling towards them. It wasn’t until the last moment that he thought to throw up his arms.

  For the second time that morning a shockwave bowled him over, sending him sliding across the grass. He thought he glimpsed the shuttle being flung away in the instant before he briefly lost consciousness.

  When he came to, he was on a boat in the middle of the ocean, bobbing and weaving unsteadily, and trying not to lose his lunch. A blurry face swam into view over him – the sergeant, who was urgently mouthing something. His eyes tried to focus and failed, though he managed to divine that he wasn’t on a boat, but a shuttle – the shuttle, he realized as his wits came back to him.

  His head lolled to one side, and through the transparent viewport he saw the waves of grass rippling and then tilting crazily to one side as the shuttle lifted off. The body of Lieutenant Carlin was still there, too, splayed like a chalk outline. From the corner of his eye, he saw the sergeant draw back a hand and then felt the stinging slap across his face. He blinked again, this time pretty sure he could make out the words the sergeant was saying. It looked a lot like…

  Chapter 3

  “Wake up.” A slap caught Kovalic across the side of the face.

  The room spun slowly into focus. Sparsely furnished, it looked like something out of an Earth history book depicting life in the pre-spaceflight era. There was a crude table and chairs that appeared to have been fashioned by someone with a less than comprehensive knowledge of woodworking, and a pair of lamps that had stepped right out of a museum; even the walls themselves seemed to be built of hewn wood, the chinks filled with some sort of pitch or mortar.

  Addled as he was, Kovalic almost wondered if he’d somehow slipped through a temporal vortex into the past, but the face above him – and the hand readying another slap – was all too familiar.

  Instinctively, Kovalic threw up his right hand to block the slap – or at least he tried, but when he made to move that arm, pain lanced from his shoulder across his chest and back, convincing him that it maybe wasn’t the smartest move.

  Fortunately, Tapper seemed to have realized he was conscious, and refrained from giving him another wake-up call. Peering at him, the sergeant raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  “You awake, then?”

  Kovalic swallowed, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. “Where the hell are we?”

  “A farmhouse about twenty klicks west of the city.”

  “Farmhouse?” Kovalic’s head spun. They were on… Sevastapol?

  “One of those little dachas the cityfolk build to feel like they’re in touch with their rural roots,” said Tapper, with a roll of his eyes.

  “Well, this guy is certainly not in touch with his ability to make furniture,” said Kovalic dryly.

  The smile on Tapper’s face was genuine enough, but Kovalic had known the man long enough to see the relief beneath the surface. “Glad to have you back, boss.”

  Kovalic wiggled his fingers and toes, testing the rest of his body. Bruises and cuts, certainly, but the only thing that really hurt was his shoulder. His memory flashed suddenly, as though hitting play on a vidscreen, and he remembered the bee stinging him in mid-air.

  “Sniper?” he hazarded.

  Tapper confirmed with a nod. “Page got him almost immediately.”

  Another image sprang to mind: he’d hit the edge of the roof right in his chest, then held on for dear life as Page and Tapper had hauled him over. It was the last thing he remembered, and even that was a bit fuzzy.

  He tried to squirm around to look at the extent of damage, but his neck protested so he settled for catching Tapper’s eye. “How bad is it?”

  The sergeant shrugged – a measured shrug. “Not too bad,” he said. “You lost a decent amount of blood, but I think we’ve managed to stabilize you. Scavenged some blankets to keep you warm.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and a smile crinkled his face. “Page found a hatchet in the shed and chopped up one of those ugly goddamn chairs just in case we needed to make a fire. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so happy.”

  Kovalic chuckled. “Sorry I missed it.”

  Tapper’s smile faded. Back to business. “Anyway, we managed to get out of the city pretty quickly – you’ve only been out a few hours. Page hotwired a hovercar and we hightailed it out here. But it ain’t going to be long before the crims put two and two together.”

  Pressing his good arm against the floor, Kovalic struggled upwards until he was slumped against the wall, and shook off the slight vertigo. “Resources?”

  “You, me, Page,” said Tapper, ticking off on his fingers, “the hovercar – although we had to rip out its transponder, so the second anybody sees us we’re getting reported – and the guns we took off the armed response team. Oh, and the hatchet,” he added.

  “Pretty good, considering,” said Kovalic. “Hell, compared to that job we pulled on Theros, we’re practically packed for a picnic.”

  Tapper nodded, but the levity didn’t reach his eyes. “How we getting out of here, boss?” he asked quietly. “With Jens gone, we’ve got no way off planet.”

  Jens. He winced at the thought of the big, bluff, blond man who’d piloted them on half a dozen ops, always with a grin and a ready joke. He’d seemed solid. Dependable.

  Kovalic closed his eyes and saw the flash as the laser punched right through the ship, like a knife through a wet paper towel. He’d been assured the transponder code they’d purchased – at some expense – would keep them clear of Sevastapol’s orbital defense network, but, as with the mission itself, it appeared their information had been faulty.

  His eyes slid open again. “We’ll have to do what we always do,” he said. “Make it up as we go.”

  There was a click as the latch from the front door caught, and Page slipped in. The lieutenant looked unflappable as always, though Kovalic thought he could detect a slight note of reassurance from seeing his boss up and at it. Then again, perhaps that was just the blood loss playing tricks on him.

  “We’ve got to go,” said Page, without preamble. “Patrol ships coming in from the east.”

  Kovalic sat up straighter, and Tapper swore under his breath.

  “The good news,” Page continued, “is that I found a garage underneath the house, with a small truck.”

  Tapper and Kovalic exchanged a glance. “Remember New Karachi?” Kovalic asked.

  “Just what I was thinking,” said Tapper.

  Glancing back at Page, Kovalic struggled upwards. “Lieutenant, think you can get that hovercar’s guidance system online?”

  Page nodded briskly. “Not a problem. But the second it shows up on the grid, they’ll be all over it.”

  “That’s kind of the idea,” said Tapper.

  The next few minutes were a blur of activity, as Page left to get the hovercar set up, and Tapper and Kovalic – though, thanks to his shoulder, mostly Tapper – assembled their gear and hauled it down to the garage.

  The truck in question was really more of a jeep, and, like most of the rest of the house, Kovalic found himself doubting that it was as sturdy as the historical object it was meant to resemble. But it started when they hacked the ignition, and that was good enough for him. They slung the weapons in the back, making sure they were loaded and ready, in
case – well, when – they ran into resistance.

  As they worked, Tapper voiced the inevitable question. “Where are we going?”

  Kovalic grunted as he checked the magazine on a carbine with his good hand, bracing the weapon against the side of the jeep. “Our best bet is to get on a legitimate flight out of here – either on a commercial spaceliner or on a cargo ship, if we can find one that’ll risk smuggling us out. If we try to hijack a ship and fly it out of here, we’re going to get blown out of the sky by those defense platforms.”

  “Security’s going to be high at the spaceports. More to the point, you’re not going to get very far bleeding all over your shoes,” he said, nodding to Kovalic’s shoulder.

  “Fair point,” said Kovalic. “Cargo ship it is.”

  Tapper swung into the driver’s seat and transferred his comm control to the in-dash holo display; clearly the owner had been willing to sacrifice some historical accuracy in the name of modern convenience. Kovalic maneuvered himself next to the sergeant, even as Page appeared from the door to the house and hopped into the backseat.

  “Hovercar’s ready to go,” said Page, pulling out Kovalic’s backup comm unit. “I can start it up from here and do some limited maneuvering, but we’ll be lucky if it doesn’t crash into the first tree it sees.”

  “Just keep the patrol ships’ attention for as long as possible,” said Kovalic. “Tapper, any hits?”

  “If we double back towards the city, there are plenty of warehouses on the outskirts,” said Tapper, pointing at the map on the holoscreen. “But we also run an increased chance of road blocks.”

  “Is there anything that’s not back towards the city?”

  Tapper panned around the map, then shook his head. “Sevastapol’s not very well-developed outside of its urban areas – any further and we’ll mostly be contending with frozen tundra.”

  “In that case: Page, we’ll need to send the car west – once the patrol starts following it, we head back east. Like ships passing in the night.”

  “Right into an iceberg,” Tapper muttered.

  “I’m starting to think we need a morale officer,” said Kovalic. “Page?”