Attack of Shadows (Galaxy's Edge Book 4)

by Nick Cole

  Hang on, boys, he thought. This one’s for all the marbles. That was what was in the pause.

  “Moving, sir,” replied First Sergeant Indiro. “KTF.”

  Black Fleet Shock Troopers, Third Group

  Tarrago Prime

  0552 Local System Time

  “Standby, TAF02…” was all that came back from Nightstalker Actual.

  A star scream split the air high above their heads. All the shock troopers in the alley, stacked and ready to rush the grounds of Central Hall, craned their buckets skyward and watched as the beautiful smoking stars lit the morning sky. The multi-colored smoke trails had come from off to the east. Back near the shipyards. Now, as the stars arched overhead, their sudden smoky glory blotting out the focus on air raid sirens and emergency sirens raining across the city soundscape, the dying stars began to fall down toward them. Upon them. And across the grounds and steps leading up to the grand entrance of Central Hall.

  “Oh my…” someone whispered over S-comm.

  “Ready to move, troopers,” Bombassa alerted everyone in his deep whisper over S-comm. “Switch to thermal and stay close, watch your fire and call out your targets. Next rally point is the lobby of Central Hall. Secure the exits and…”

  And now more flares fell down at them like slow thunderbolts. They hit the grounds around Central Hall and exploded into a million fireworks gone suddenly haywire.

  “Move forward!” shouted Bombassa. And… “KTF!”

  The sudden firestorm caused the Repub marines who had survived it to pull back inside the main lobby of Central Hall. The shock troopers surged through the hailstorm of smoke and burning phosphorous, crossing the main avenue into the Central Hall grounds unimpeded. They took the steps that led up to the central courtyard where strange and enigmatic sculptures, sculptures that had once represented diversity and correct thought, were now made even more bizarre by the drifting smoke and bonfires of everything that could not be planned for.

  Fifty meters ahead lay the main entrance.

  Bombassa passed an abandoned N-50 emplacement. He slung his subcompact blaster over his shoulder and disconnected the mounting clamps for the massive gun. He hefted it out of its mount with one hand and grabbed its heavy-duty battery charge pack with the other. Both were weighty, but Bombassa had once benched more than any legionnaire in the 131st.

  Barrel forward, he led his squad into the swirling smoke that surrounded the lobby entrance to the massive state administration building.

  Two Repub marines in full combat armor with the open-faced helmets, rifles at port arms, saw him first. Their mouths fell into ‘O’ shapes as their bodies shifted into firing positions to engage him with their blaster rifles.

  Un-aimed, he ventilated both marines with the powerful heavy automatic blaster. Then he sprayed the tall lobby glass, frosted with conceptual pictograms and words that had lost all meaning. He had no idea if he was hitting anyone, but he was certainly keeping heads down in there so his men could get good and close to toss in their explosives. In moments they were lobbing fraggers and bangers into the darkness beyond the shattered glass.

  Good boys, he thought as he continued to unload, slowly drawing a line of heavy automatic blaster fire across the smoke-draped lobby.

  Then he dropped the gun, unslung his subcompact blaster, and gave the hand signal, along with a verbal over S-comm, to sweep the lobby.

  Double-tap stab in effect.

  Like a line of spectral wraiths appearing in the mists of a morning that would never become day, they entered the silent lobby and did the killing work that needed doing.

  There were dead marines on the floor. And wounded marines too. Others were falling back to defensive positions deeper inside the endless bureaucracy and mazes of hidden power for the few.

  Bombassa watched as one of his troopers targeted a marine crawling across the floor. The trooper fired then rushed forward, sticking the subcompact blaster into the marine’s upper back. An industrial black diamond blade shot out from underneath the stubby barrel of the blaster, and the trooper pushed it in with a swift economy of motion that spoke of both professionalism and a kind of mercy.

  A trooper on his six covered him as this happened. They moved forward to find variations on the scene repeated all about them.

  The battle that came next was both violent and sudden. In moments they were pinned down behind massive pillars that ran the length of a wide ceremonial hall. Blaster fire and smoke swirled as marines and shock troopers shot each other down. But the troopers had the upper hand. One of the squad leaders flanked with three men and wiped out the remaining marines.

  “TAF44,” ordered Bombassa once they’d secured a tight perimeter at the end of the hall, “use that terminal and locate the governor. I need to know how many marines are left in this facility… if you can find out. Squad leaders, I need to know if we can access the elevators and what the stairwells look like. Let’s move, we’re running out of time.”

  Two narrow corridors led behind a wall that rose into the heights of the opulent hall. The flag of the republic was stamped into the marble up there. Troopers paused to swap out charge packs and adjust gear, while others ran off to scout access routes into the upper levels.

  A moment later TAF44 had the info. “He’s on the executive safe floor. And I got no idea, Sergeant, on how many marines we might have up there because they’re using their own comm… but it seems they issued a general evacuation alert to all building personnel to make their way to the landing platform on the ninety-first floor. Hammerhead’s comin’ in to pull ’em off the roof.”

  Two of the scouts returned from the elevators. Locked out. And one stairwell had been demo’d. The other was ominously quiet.

  “How long until that corvette’s due?” Bombassa rumbled over comm.

  “Nine minutes. They’ll load the governor first. No doubt they have some private boarding passage for him secured already. We’ve either got to grab him inside his safe floor, or knock out the corvette, and I don’t think anyone brought a Scorpion surface-to-air.”

  Bombassa ran though his options. They could demo as much of the building as they could with explosives on hand in order to destabilize the landing platform and deny the corvette an LZ. Or they could breach the elevators and attempt to somehow ride one upward. But the marines would be in control of that. And if the marines had surveillance, they could end their rise short of the goal.

  The one remaining stairwell looked like the only available option. Bombassa checked his remaining troopers. It would be a slaughterhouse in there. But there was the mission. And who knew how valuable this governor would be in the final tally.

  And that’s above my pay grade, thought Bombassa as he checked his blaster once more. More by habit than need. Giving himself another minute to find any way other than the hard way.

  “We move into the stairwell by twos. Cover and move. Rifles up. They drop a fragger then cover. Once we get contact, we rush. Fast. Get close. Make it violent. We can force them to give ground all the way up if we keep moving no matter what.”

  No one complained.

  But they all knew it was suicide.

  There were only twenty of them left now.

  Seven minutes until the corvette docked with the landing platform.

  And ninety-one floors to go.

  How many minutes to load the governor and as many high officials as they could? Maybe another fifteen minutes.

  Or would they take the HVT and run?

  “Let’s go,” ordered Bombassa.

  Bridge of the Corvette Audacity

  Tarrago Atmosphere

  0604 Local System Time

  “Message from the governor’s secretary, sir. He says enemy forces have entered the building. We need to pull him out now.”

  Desaix was busy trying to keep his ship together. They’d been jumped by two tri-fighters coming through the atmosphere. Turret targeting had decided to go inoperative and they were coming through heavy cumulus on final f
or Tarrago and the pickup.

  So of course the gunners were on optical targeting. And of course the wicked little tri-fighters were dancing in and out of the clouds to make runs across the Audacity’s rear deflectors.

  “Rear deflector malfunction, Captain,” announced the co-pilot. “We got nothing back there!”

  As if on cue, the ship shook from a barrage of high-pitched blaster fire. The strange tri-fighter howled off and away through the front cockpit window, disappearing into a boiling cloud mass that looked like some golden high-altitude canyon.

  “We lost our ventral repulsor array. Chief says it can be fixed PDQ.”

  Well that’s not going to help things, thought Desaix.

  “Hold course. ETA to arrival?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Tell the marines to be strapped and ready to secure the platform. We’ll take the governor and as many as we can. First sign of trouble, it’s gear up and we’re outta here.”

  Black Fleet Shock Troopers, Third Group

  Central Hall Stairwell

  Tarrago Prime

  0605 Local System Time

  Hard-charging and moving full-tilt, what remained of the strike force to capture the governor took each floor as fast as they safely could.

  “Sergeant, this is Nightstalker. Corvette in sight. Need to move, time’s running out!” The urgency was implicit.

  Halfway up, they met the first defenders.

  A small listening or observation post that seemed only half interested in doing their actual job. One of the marines literally yelled down, when the shock troopers were five flights below, “Who’re you guys?”

  Bombassa shouted out the name of an old unit he’d been in an attempt to buy them a few more feet to get close enough to start killing.

  And one of the marines literally whooped for joy that the Legion was here.

  As they closed the distance up the stairwell, they heard one of the marines calling it in to his CO. A second later he shouted down, “Halt and identify. I say Doorstop…”

  Bombassa knew they were now waiting for the countersign. Some innocuous word that would let them through the perimeter. He motioned for everyone to keep moving forward. They had something on their side for just a minute more. Indecisiveness, momentum… whatever. Use it, Bombassa yelled at himself as his men surged forward.

  “Victory!” shouted Bombassa, knowing that any word he chose would be the wrong countersign. But maybe it would be enough for his men to at least get a few more feet out of the indecisiveness in order to close so that the defenders couldn’t pop a fragger and drop it on them.

  Best-case scenario, his troopers could do them before they’d sitrepped their CO. Best case.

  Blaster fire lit up the dim, emergency-lit stairwell above Bombassa. S-comm confirmed a moment later that both marines were down.

  And no doubt the CO would now be flooding the stairwell with a reserve force to buy time for the governor to escape.

  “Move! Move! Move!” shouted Bombassa over the comm. “Go for broke! It’s our only chance now.”

  Move faster than the enemy can react.

  Ten floors above, one of the reserves tossed down the first fragger. It exploded, killing two troopers. The others ran upward, pushing hard, sweating buckets to get as close as possible to their enemies. Marines were flooding into the stairwells above and below.

  Just a few steps above Bombassa, a door slid to the side, and an open portal of light flooded the landing. As the first marine stepped through, following the nose of his light blast rifle, Bombassa put three center mass shots on target, dropping the marine against the gray concrete wall.

  Tired, his legs already turning to jelly, Bombassa pushed up the steps, firing into the open portal. Because no doubt they were working in teams. Keep them back, he thought. And fraggers work both ways. He unclipped one from his belt, popped the contact, underhanded it out into the hallway beyond the portal, and flung himself against the wall.

  It exploded.

  Marines were pouring up the steps from below. Bombassa looked down to see his platoon’s moving rear guard firing to keep them back. And up above it sounded like a close-quarters blaster fight gone psychotic.

  A trooper fell from above, disappearing into the dimly lit levels far below. Bombassa leaned out, aimed his weapon skyward and fired. He struck a marine looking down to watch the man fall. Right in the chin.

  Bombassa turned to check the hall he’d tossed the fragger down. He fully expected to see some marine coming for him with a popped bayonet at the end of his rifle. But he saw only smoke, fire, and dead and dying marines. He signaled the rear guard to move, and they cleared that floor.

  Two floors up, troopers were shooting point blank into marines rushing down the stairwell. Both sides knew it was too mixed to use explosives now. Troopers were firing from one landing right into the next. And the marines were returning the favor.

  And this is where the difference is made, thought Bombassa.

  For most of the combatants, this was literally the most vicious firefight they’d ever been in. For the few marines that had actual combat experience, it had often been blasts on target from a distance, or pirates seeking to save their lives by shooting it out in the corridors of some junk freighter. They’d never fought legionnaires in CQB.

  Or wild predators.

  Both would have been the same.

  The one percent of the one percent of the one percent was a terrible thing to be at arm’s length with.

  And these shock troopers had trained as former legionnaires, knowing that one day they’d come face to face with the Legion they’d once served.

  Rage. Anger. None of that played a part in the desperate stairwell fight no one would ever mark down in history’s record. These former legionnaires—who’d cast it all aside for something new, who’d let the dice fly—didn’t need to be taught that only one man ever walks away from a fight. And that man was the one who caused the most pain and suffering to the other man in the shortest amount of time.

  The training at Tusca had reached levels some had called sadistic. Why? Because one day the Legion and the troopers would meet. One day. It was inevitable. It was like a violent summer storm brewing on the horizon. Coming for you. And everyone could see it.

  ***

  TAF34, one of the troopers under Bombassa’s command, was hit already. Right in the chest. Upper right quadrant of his armor. The blaster had shot hit him like blue thunder out of a clear sky. The guy who’d shot him was not more than ten feet up the stairs.

  And for some reason TAF34’s right arm, the arm holding his blaster, wouldn’t respond anymore. Wouldn’t aim the weapon or pull the trigger needed to kill the man who’d shot him.

  All that was background. TAF34 literally threw himself up the stairs and slammed his bucket headfirst into the marine who’d shot him. Like some wild bull, half mad and blind with rage. Except TAF34 was neither. His blaster wouldn’t work. That was okay. He had other weapons. Bucket to the marine face was one.

  Blood spray.

  The marine to his left gave him a shoulder that felt like a battering ram. Now TAF34 was in and among a squad of marines who would’ve told you they were heartbreakers and life takers any night of the week on leave in any of a hundred bars where the flesh is on fire and the drinks are ice cold.

  TAF34 pulled his combat knife with his off hand. He pushed that under one guy’s armor, under the soft spot between chest and belt. And pulled it wickedly out and away like he was cutting some cord he didn’t even think about. The man fell back into his squadmates, screaming bloody murder because he knew he was dead.

  But TAF34 wasn’t finished just yet.

  One marine leaned over from the upper stairs and tried to butt-stroke the mad black-lacquered bull rampaging into their front ranks.

  Which was a stupid thing. Butt strokes worked on tribal natives on distant backwaters where body armor wasn’t a thing beyond bone necklaces handed down generation to generation. It wa
s typical indigenous pacification thinking. But the butt of the marine’s blaster merely glanced off TAF34’s bucket and caused the marine to fall forward into the raging bull, who plunged a combat knife into him like a H8 addict surging toward an overload of chemical nirvana. The marine fell to the floor as his life ran out all over his armor and onto the stairwell.

  At this moment in the battle, TAF34 had been shot two more times. Once in the leg. Once in the chest.

  The leg had opened a wound to his femoral artery, and he was going to die in about three minutes. Except he wasn’t even aware of this. He was using his own blaster rifle like a mace now. He was raising and smashing it down into any marine near him.

  Other troopers, including Bombassa, followed close behind in turtle formation, shooting at everything all around TAF34’s mad charge into the marines’ ranks.

  As TAF34’s blaster rifle snapped atop the head of one marine, who went down like a sack of potatoes, a fragger from farther up landed on the railing, bounced past the remaining marines and rolled toward the steps leading down to Bombassa and the other troopers. TAF34 kicked it away from them with his good leg, and felt his wounded leg give way in the same instant. It was only at that moment he realized how blood-slick the inside of his armor was, and that he was being pain-tranqed as his armor tried to save his life.

  The marines dove away from the kicked fragger, which had rebounded off the wall and back onto the landing, mere feet from where it had been kicked.

  TAF34 rolled over onto it and hugged it to himself as it exploded.

  Both the marines next to him also died.

  And why, and really who, was TAF34? No one knew. But he had his reasons all the same. So his new brothers fought on to make sure his sacrifice wasn’t in vain.

  Bridge of the Corvette Audacity

  Tarrago Atmosphere, Approach to Tarrago Central Hall0610 Local System Time