Mike had divided his force, sending Delaney ahead to attack and buy some time for his lot and Spence’s to dig in. The first contact had been similar to the battle at the Bloody Pass. The marines fired from the slopes and held the enemy on a narrow front, until mag cannon were brought forward, well protected this time with a ring of ground troops to prevent miraculous seizures. Forced from the slopes, Delaney’s men had fallen back fast, through a long straight stretch with little cover, to Mike’s position in the first of the low rises that crossed the trend of the valley. Here the valley widened as it ran over the patterns from old impacts. The enemy came forward cautiously and Mike fired on them from a distance with the few mag cannon that he had. Set in crude frames built and bolted into the rock on the spot by the servicemen, they were functional, and more importantly, stable. The fields were too strong for the cannon to be accurate but he was happy to slug it out with the enemy. It used up time and his men were safe behind the rise. Killing the enemy was not the object of the day. The Rim would do that. Already the sky was lighting up over their heads and a strong constant wind blew in their faces, down the valley. The enemy advisors must have felt the pressure, for they brought up light cannon, three of them on wide carriers. These monster lasers were twice as heavy as stabilised mag cannon and harder to move, but they were accurate and powerful under all conditions. As soon as he saw them, Mike called the retreat. ‘Spread wide and run, marines. All the way back to the last ridge. Don’t stop with Spence’s lot. Don’t even look at them.’
Delaney had not seen any sign of road works but they must be close for the enemy to get big carriers like these up so fast. Probably being built forward as we fight. That is when his doubts had set in. With a Passage behind them and a roadway for delivery, there would be no end to the enemy’s men and machines.
The sight of the marines in full flight drew the enemy on, and once over the rise the foot soldiers surged across the broken ground ahead of their guns. They paid for their lack of discipline. Spence’s crews had had plenty of time to prepare. They cut the enemy down from the cover of rock-lipped trenches. Devastating as this fire was, it was not enough. More men came on and the enemy cannons trundled forward. The marines rose from cover and bolted. The carriers found narrow lanes of flat ground and sped up to target the fleeing men and those still scrambling up the far ridge. Their foot soldiers ran beside, cheering. It looked like a total rout until the laneways exploded, throwing men, machines and tonnes of rock into the air. Prepared and mined by the servicemen, the laneways had been their last trick.
The howling wind stripped the dust from the scene and raced it past the ridge. When it cleared, Mike scoped the battlefield. The flow of grey-suited marines and streamers of smoke from burning wreckage headed his way were the only constants. Enemy soldiers ran in all directions. Two carriers had survived the trap. A mag cannon out on the left flank was swivelling and firing indiscriminately, blasting anything that moved near it. Beyond, and more central, a light cannon was slowly backing away, up onto the rise. That’s the one to worry about, thought Mike. The other is panicked.
Spence’s commands came through over the static on the comm. Mike found him with the scope, standing tall and clear, on the overturned chassis of one of the carriers, near the centre. Spence was pumping his fist, flashing hand signals to back up his commands. Taking the scope from his eye to view the full scene, Mike saw spots of grey stop in the rush, turn and head back against the flow. Two squads. He’s called two squads. They ran close to the wreckage, in and out of the smoke, and on toward the rise, overtaking the fleeing enemy alongside of them. They hit the light cannon from both sides. A white flash told of its chamber failing. Mike did not hear the sound of the explosion over the din of the wind but felt a rumbling under his feet. The trembling did not stop and he knew that there was more happening. The sky was coming down, somewhere close, ripping off the tops of the ridges. He hoped the Armourer was out from under it.
The comm was useless now and he clicked it off. Most of his men were on the ridge with him. He signalled the squad leaders for a count. Below, to his right, down in a defile, the servicemen hurried to set up two of the mag cannon. The defile was the entrance to the enemy’s valley, and the exit. The only way out when the sky comes down. The marines had used it themselves earlier. We’re back too soon, thought Mike. It was still hours to the time the Scholar had given them. We have to hold!
‘The ridge should be safe,’ the Scholar had said. ‘It is part of an older pattern, along with the low behind and the long northwest trending valley and ridge system you will use for access. This collision should be similar to the last. Its bounds should be the same. Out of the bull’s-eye pattern you should be safe.’
A hell of a lot of ‘shoulds’, Mike had thought at the time. Tollen could build a fort out of them, there were so many. It didn’t seem much better now. At least it gave them a defensible position. They could man the ridge and direct crossfire into the gap. And then there were the mag cannon. The broken ground to the north funnelled into the drop of the defile. The enemy wouldn’t be able to see the cannon until they were on top of them, more importantly they wouldn’t be able to target them with their own guns. With the enemy forced onto the mag cannon, accuracy would not matter. It would be a killing ground. Like the pass. Mike had directed the servicemen to cut the platforms for the cannon up on the foot of the ridge, one on either side of the break. The floor of the defile would have been much easier, the men had told him, not understanding his request in the face of such short time. His explanation, he kept to himself. That he didn’t want the cannons flooded by the blood. He had learned at the pass. I am almost as bad as the Grey, to be able to plan such devastation, he thought. No, we are the same now. It did not matter to him whether the ridge was safe or not. The aim was to hold the enemy.
Spence’s men spilled into the top of the defile. For them it was safety. Only the two squads out. Mike scanned the broken ground. He found them on the left. They had cleverly used the chaos caused by the operating mag cannon to make their run, silencing it as they passed. Or maybe he had it wrong, maybe the cannon was their objective, to take it out before someone with sense took over. That would be like Spence, Mike thought.
The ground continued to vibrate, shaking violently at times, but the enemy’s panic was fading. Knots of men were forming around gesturing figures. Come on Spence. Run! Mike signalled the squad leaders to send their sharpshooters out, down the slope and out onto the edge of the broken ground to target the enemy leaders and give the running squads some cover. Close, it will be close. Come on!
The enemy was pursuing now, closing. They marines were slowing, some stumbling as the ground heaved. They had run and fought all the way through the enemy and back. Mike tried to breathe for them, to lift them with his arms. Something tapped at his armour. It was Seca, at his side, helm off, ready to report. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the returning squads … that maybe if he did, the pull to bring them back would somehow lessen. But he needed to command.
Helm off, he squatted and turned his back to the wind, to the battle. Seca spoke into his ear, numbers of men, injured, dead, weaponry. Delaney was across the gap with most of his men but they were light.
‘Send three squads across to Delaney. Tell him to space by threes, a third on the line at a time. To twos once the enemy reach the ridge.’ Mike turned to check on the progress at the cannons. They were in place and the servicemen were feeding out control cables. Tonno, the leading hand, gave him the thumbs up. The guns would be on automatic. He didn’t want anyone to have to be on them, to do what he had done at the pass. Mike waved to Tonno to come up. Seca started to rise but Mike stopped her with a hand. ‘Back me on this,’ he said as the serviceman joined them.
‘We’re just about done, Sergeant,’ said Tonno as he squatted down. ‘All that’s left is to bury the cables. Where do you want us?’
‘I want you to take my wounded across the low.’
Tonno checked both
their faces. ‘But we want to stay. We can fight.’
‘But we can’t,’ said Seca. ‘Not with our wounded here. We have to be able to move back and forth, and we can’t with the wounded amongst us.’
‘All the wounded go with you,’ directed Mike. ‘Pick a spot on the far side that is defendable. Find the end of the comm cable and hook up. Let Chalkley and Tollen know what has happened. Then set up to receive us. If we don’t come across, take your orders from the Captain.’
The serviceman stood. He shook his head. ‘We proved ourselves, you know.’
Seca cut in. ‘You won the battle of the broken ground for us. Now it’s our turn. We will see you soon enough.’
‘They won’t like it,’ he said, still shaking his head as he stepped off down the slope.
‘Tonno,’ called Mike. When the man turned, Mike said ‘I lost my wounded after the pass. I can’t have it happen again. Look after them for me.’
A cheer, strong enough to be heard over the wind, turned Mike back to the battle. The last squads had reached the defile. Stretched out by their run, they made the head of the cut one at a time, leaping into the gap without slowing. Marines below were dragging them to their feet and running them in, a man at each shoulder. Only about ten were left on the broken ground now, coming fast. The enemy was rushing forward; the sharpshooters weren’t enough to stop them. This is building to a full attack. Mike motioned for his troops to take their positions. Seca relayed it across to Delaney and raced off to gather his extra squads.
The race down below turned tragic. The last figure was having trouble keeping his feet. Shocked or wounded, Mike first thought. Yet the man moved well between falls. Balance. He can’t keep his balance when the ground shakes. The tremors had grown heavier, building almost unnoticeably with the wind and the wildness in the sky. The gap between the stumbling man and the others grew greater than the gap to the enemy behind. The last two of the runners made the lip of the cut and turned to kneel and give cover fire. The tall figure went down again. As he struggled up, the two marines on the lip rose and started to run back toward him.
It is too far, thought Mike.
The man on the edge of the broken ground knew it, too. He gained his feet and signalled his men to stop. Then he turned and faced the enemy. They cut him down, swept over his still form, and the battle was joined.
CHAPTER 70: THREE-LEGGED RACE
‘Woooeeee!’ Chalkley yelled into his faceplate. ‘Woooeeee!’ I’m flying!
‘You don’t have enough legs for the frontline but I have to send you anyway.’ That’s what the Armourer had said. Hot damn, he should see me now! The scouts could barely keep up with him and the others were well behind. A three metre stride, damn near six if you measured it from each stab of the crutches! He was on solid rock, a broad curving slope leading down to the valley floor. He was close enough to see the tracks Mike’s men had left and the thick black cable laid out by the servicemen for communications.
Stab and swing, stab and swing. His pace built up going downhill. ‘Woooeee!’
They had plenty of space between them and the sky now, but the air was so charged that his crutches were lit with an ambit glow and flashed small arcs of blue lightning every time the steel points came to contact the rock. Now I know how Ahab felt. Bring me on a white whale!
The exhilaration did not all come from the run. They had done their job and not lost a man. Held the enemy in the bull’s-eye until the sky came down. With hardly a shot fired. A cunning idea for a marine, they would say. Worth having a one-legged man there. To be honest, it was only a continuation of the Armourer’s bluff. With great effort they had managed to get one of the craft into the gap on the backmost ridge, not with the aim of continuing through, but as a firing platform. The ship’s armament was immense compared to what they had on the ground. Cannon of all sorts, beams and fields, with a near unlimited power source. Faced with that firepower in the confines of the close topography, the enemy had abandoned their advance and moved back into the central low, to wait for them to make the first move, to try to break out with the ships. The stand-off bought all the time necessary. Less than the Scholar had estimated.
The sky came down early. The ship was their only warning. One minute it was there then it was gone. Sucked up into the sky so fast that the air snapped behind it. He went down almost as quickly, the scouts on top of him, pinning his arms to the ground. Everything shook as the sky bit into the ridges around them. ‘Run?’ they asked. ‘Run,’ he had confirmed from his back. They didn’t return his crutches until they were out of the heights. Then he had found his rhythm, this ground-eating, lightning propagating advance.
He looked behind to see what the others thought of his grand spectacle and one of his crutches skipped off the rock. He spun and slammed down, his momentum skittering him sideways. Then he was off across the slope, airborne over the dips, ricocheting off irregularities, sparks flying. He hit hard at the bottom. He had his crutches up in time to prevent damaging them and his suit took most of the blow. The stump side hurt where the suit leg had been cut off and welded flat. No sense carrying extra weight. Must have jarred against it. He eased himself back. The pain ran out of the stump and for a minute he felt his missing limb, all of it, down to the toes. He dropped the crutches and reached into the empty air past the weld. His questing fingers were separated and pulled away as hands went in under his shoulders and lifted him to his foot.
‘No time to look for your leg now, Captain. We have to make tracks.’ The scouts ran him around the curve of the rock and over to the cable.
The fall had sobered him, knocked the foolishness out. Their job was done. They were onlookers now. Time to head west along the cable, to the last saddle in this long valley, where they could look down into the low and across to the battle, the one that mattered.
CHAPTER 71: LOSS
Steamsetter watched the Armourer head back down the line again. The man can’t keep still. He should be resting. They had a long pass to crawl through. Crawling was harder than trying to run in the suits. The sky was right on top, and when you crawled you tried to hold on to the rock, to burrow down. The fields tugged. They had been through three tight spots already. Those had been bad enough, but this one was longer. And higher, it seemed. Steamsetter had never felt so big as he did now.
‘Belts on the back,’ the scouts said. Their way of describing it. Even those mad bastards had the sense to free their bodies of anything metallic, coiling the web belts they wore that held their knives and tools, and laying them on the small of their backs when they crawled. So the belt could go into the sky by itself.
Steamsetter took of his helmet and craned his head to keep sight of the Armourer. He had gone back past all of their party and moved off their track onto a ledge. Arms out, he seemed to be talking to the sky.
‘He is fey tonight,’ said an Amazon beside him. She turned and tapped his hip with her shield. ‘Come on big fella. We need you to go through in front of us to smooth it down. Bethane will keep her eye on him for you.’
The ‘shields’ had been his idea. When they had planned this raid, the scouts had told them that the rocket packs would have to be dragged through some of the high passes, too much metal to wear safely. Steamsetter had cut discs out of the side of a plastron container then heated them to dish them out a bit. Made a sort of a small sled to hold the packs. Each Amazon carried one and used it to make the drag easier. It worked if the ground was smooth, otherwise the lip caught and they had to crawl back or half rise to free it, both dangerous. Should have made them more pointed with a higher front. After the first use, he had gone in front of them and ploughed the ground with his chest. No one joked about it and the Amazons weren’t too shy to ask him again.
After one last glance back at the Armourer, he put his helm on and made his way to the start of the pass. Then down to his knees. An Amazon on each side of him patted his shoulder. He lay forward and off he went. I must look like a great turtle or something, he thought.
It embarrassed him in front of these women.
The pass was long for a crawl, maybe fifty metres, and he was exhausted when he reached the other end. He did not go on to join the scouts and the marines, stopping instead on the break in slope at the lip and swinging his legs around to face back up. The highest point was just inside. He had pushed his chest down to bedrock but was worried it wouldn’t be enough. One by one the Amazons came through. Each tapped his leg as they passed. He saw some of the rocket packs shift and one had lifted, stopping his heart for a second, before settling again. They all glowed with a strange blue light.
The sky seemed lower to him, closer. Waves of light washed through it. He felt the static in his hair. He counted. The last Amazon was Bethane, her scars visible through her faceplate when she came close. He caught her arm and pulled her the final few feet. She let her legs slide so that she swung around to face back up like him, a little lower on the slope. One of the scouts crawled up opposite them. He pointed at the sky and made two urgent slashes with his hand. The Armourer was the last to come, a smile on his face illuminated by the blue glow from his arms.
Still crazy, thought Steamsetter. ‘Fey’ the Amazon had said, a better word for it. Steamsetter sighed with relief. Then it hit him, the slides in the arms are metal, for the cannon, and he dove forward. He felt something catch his leg and come with him. Bethane.
The Return of the Grey Page 40