by K. J. Coble
“So, it’s a tactical theorist that will lead us to disaster?”
“Zarven, you forget yourself,” Tan-Ezatz said with a mental sigh. Zarven picked up on something behind her exasperation, something she made no attempt to hide: weariness. He softened his words with an apologetic tone. “What is it you desire of me, this day, HaustMarshal?”
“A clear vision, Zarven. Communication has not always been the greatest between me and the Coreal Valley commands. They require something of an...incentive, sometimes, to accomplish their goals as I see fit.”
“I will be crystal clear, HaustMarshal,” Zarven replied, left both touched and uncertain by Tan-Ezatz’s admission.
“And more. I need you to be ruthless, Zarven. I need you to destroy the worms and everything they possess. We will never have a better chance. The recent chain of events has rattled our people. I must provide them victories to keep them pushing forward.”
Zarven was shocked to sense a hint of desperation behind Tan-Ezatz’s words. Suddenly, he recalled the scrap of the Ubermind’s communication to him.
Protect her from whom?
What by the Imperative was that supposed to mean?
“You have always received my best,” he replied finally.
“Of course. And your concerns are noted.” She paused, the moment charged with uncertainty and frustration. Zarven wasn’t certain what she meant by sharing it with him. “Bring me victory, Zarven.”
Awkward with the HaustMarshal’s candor, Zarven could only answer, “I will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Crozier took a sip of coffee and ignored the three dozen eyes watching him. A fall chill had settled into the rocks of the cave complex surrounding the Station and he suppressed a shiver of delight as the coffee’s warmth spread through his belly. It was a small pleasure in a whirlwind of activity and uncertainty.
A HoloProjector had been set up in a cave that had once housed refugees. Its bluish light was the dome-shaped space’s only illumination, glinting in the eyes of the partisan officers. The image it portrayed was a three-dimensional map of the so-called Cedar Valley, a twisting maze of foothills, sandstone gorges, forests, and marshes, bisected neatly by Cedar Creek, running south from Rose Lake and swollen with autumnal rains.
Blue blocks—divided by a diagonal line for rifle companies, quartered for heavy weapon units—flashed into being over the landscape. The partisan companies were still moving into their final positions but had already formed a shallow arc that traced an uneven line of ridges from Rose Lake to the thick swamps where Cedar Creek petered out. Nearly thirty kilometers, the holdout line was strung perilously thin to cover the easiest, most direct route of attack against the Station.
Crozier took another sip and gave the projector a command, feeling his gut churn as the map zoomed back and red blocks came into focus. He looked up and cleared his throat to be heard over the not-so-distant echoes of shouts, machinery, and the general din of the Station’s evacuation.
“Our contacts in Teshima and Forlorn have been reporting large bodies of Korvan troops concentrating for over a week,” he said, eyes scanning but focusing on no face in particular. “Two days ago, those contacts reported that the Korvans had vanished from their assembly points. Only a short time later, our scouts observed the lead elements of what appear to be a Korvan task force moving southeast. The campaign we have been expecting for nearly a month appears to be upon us.”
Crozier stepped close to the hologram and gestured into it. “The Korvan advance consists of three obvious prongs maneuvering along widely-separated axes of advance. The Korvans’ primary objectives will be to limit our movements, force us to fight in defense of our resources and the refugee camps, and to cut off our lines of communication and retreat.”
“The southernmost prong is the heaviest, we think perhaps two battalions. More than likely, its goal will be to box us in from the west and to cut across our southern flank.” Crozier paused to sip. “The central prong consists of a single battalion, presently concentrating in the direction of Rose Lake. This is probably their assault force. Its initial objective will be containment, but after the southern prong has pinned down our main body, they will move in on us.”
He gestured at the Korvans to the north. “The northern prong appears to be made up of an under strength Korvan battalion out of Forlorn, backed by Collaborator Militia. Their course has them sweeping in, through the foothills, apparently in an effort to cut around behind us to the east. The terrain is especially rugged in that sector. This, combined with the smaller size of the force and its lackluster progress so far, suggests that the northern prong is a feint.”
Crozier took a long pull of coffee and set the cup down. He looked across the officers again. They had a hodge-podge look, despite efforts to homogenize the Movement. Near spit-and-polish warred with battered but functional. But a sense of dash, nonetheless.
Too many faces he didn’t know, he had to admit. Ro had been responsible for most of the construction of this machine. Perhaps it was better that way. The work of the next couple weeks would be desperate and deadly. He thought of Sandy suddenly.
“The Korvans are not making a demonstration or a reconnaissance in force. They are here to fight. The destruction of the Station, our destruction, is their goal.”
“Our goal is to buy time. Time to evacuate the heavier equipment, time to relocate our refugees, and time to liquidate anything of ours that the Korvans might use against us. We cannot stop them from destroying the Station. But we can make them pay for it, give those bastards a bloody nose.” Crozier watched the officers closely, knew this was a touchy point. “And we can live to fight another day. Never lose sight of that. As much as anything, we must preserve the Movement as a fighting force.”
Crozier picked up the coffee, now cooling, and took a hasty drink. “All right. Enough preachifying. Group Leader Choson, you have the north wing.”
Crozier nodded to a stiletto thin woman of vaguely earth-Asiatic descent with bristly black hair. Ro had flagged Choson for the slot of Group Leader months ago because she’d been a short Colonel with the Defense Force before her brigade had been chewed to ribbons north of Mondanberg. This experience, though, was perhaps not as important as the fact that her influence with the independent, often hostile guerrilla bands of the northern Coreal Valley was the reason they were mustered here now. Crozier wondered if that reason had been a good enough one.
“Group Leader Hrangar, the south is yours.” Crozier turned his gaze to a mostly grayed Grak with a patch of hairless scar tissue across half his face. Ro’s fanged visage flickered at the back of Crozier’s mind as he looked at the officer.
“Make certain my instructions are understood by all. Our tactics are to be primarily defensive in nature. If you locate an isolated Korvan unit, use your discretion. If you attack, do so with overwhelming force. We cannot risk a stand-up, toe-to-toe fight with the Korvans for long.”
“Company Leaders, understand that this will be the last time you have to clarify orders, assembly points, and contingency plans. After you are in position, strict radio silence will be enforced. We cannot give the Korvans any more advantages. After contact is made, communication will be extremely limited and difficult.” Crozier took a long breath and looked around the gathering. “Well, this is your last shot. Any questions?”
Silence answered him. The room was chilly, but a current flowed just beneath the cold. These people were ready. Some had been praying for this chance for months, even years. They were tired of fear, tired of running.
Crozier took another breath and tried to absorb some of their energy. He felt only weariness. “Very well. These will be our days of reckoning, friends. May God or the spirits or whatever you choose to believe in be with you all now.”
EARLY FALL HAD BROUGHT weeks of rain to the Coreal Valley. The lowlands between the hills became marshes, what paths and back roads existed were churned into river
s of knee-high muck, and rivulets that during the summer would not merit the name creek erupted into flash floods.
Through this mess, Sandy led her squad. The murky, low-hanging sky had just finished dropping a brief downpour on them and a mist rose from soil still soft and warm, despite falling temperatures. Sandy could sense, rather than see or hear, the lead squad of the platoon.
She was chilled and filthy and tired, weighted down by armor, double rations, water, extra ammo, and a cold-gas launcher strapped to her back. She had been told almost nothing, didn’t know where they were going, and did not trust the man who was her platoon officer. But she didn’t despair.
Sandy glanced over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of her squad in the building gloom. They were a motley bunch, no doubt about that. Most wore one version or another of smart-fiber fatigues and at least synthe-leather battle vests for some protection against fragmentation. The rest was a mismatch of scavenged battle armor, helmets, and gear.
Sandy had acquired partial body armor and a modern helmet with a full communication and sensor suite. Behind her, Sten had refused a helm and opted for his “lucky” frayed Defense Force cap. Both carried blastrifles but the rest of the squad had been issued NA-17’s. Bringing up the rear, Cally, the teenage girl from the Forlorn raid, and a newcomer named Toby carried the disassembled parts of a repeat blastcannon.
Despite their burden there was energy in the trek. The memory of a warm meal before they left the Station encampments was still a comfort. And they’d all been issued a generous rationing of stimulant patches to help keep the march swift, as well as extra coffee and candy.
More than physical reinforcement, though, was the knowledge of streams of their comrades filtering through the woods and hills around them, hundreds, moving towards the enemy. Sandy had heard some of the old-timers, survivors from units that had crumbled before the Invader onslaught, admit they hadn’t felt such optimism since the early days of the war. The Movement was spoiling for a brawl.
Sandy crested a low rise and had started down the opposite side before she heard Sten’s hiss. She halted beside a tangle of pine saplings, realizing her excitement had transferred into a burst of energy that had carried her well ahead of her squad. In a moment, Sten’s cautious form materialized from the mist.
“Ease up a little,” he said in a whisper. “The Screwheads can fuckin’ wait.”
“Sorry,” she replied, looking at the corporal. She realized she didn’t know a lot about the gaunt man. He had a wife cooped away in one of the refugee camps but he never talked about her. Sandy had caught him reading a letter from her once.
Sandy turned and started off again. Something about the tiny exchange had taken the steam out of her former enthusiasm. Cynthia, maybe? Sandy was glad her twin wasn’t coming with them, had been re-assigned—partly at Sandy’s urging—to one of the medical aid stations further back. The girl just hadn’t been the same since Forlorn. But not having Cynn to watch her back, having to trust these relative strangers brought on a sharp wave of loneliness.
Suddenly the forest around Sandy was more dark, more twisted, the ground slick and treacherous, and the swirls of fog menacing. The nature-hike thrill of before soured in her gut. Somewhere out there was an enemy that had ground her world under its heel and raped it for nine years. Now they were coming to finish the job.
Sandy bit down hard on the sick molar and renewed her determination with a little pain. She wore her mother’s crucifix under her chest plate and felt the cool of the metal against her skin, a small, golden reminder by her slamming heart. She saw her parents, her family, her past, and felt the talisman beginning to grow warm.
This time the Movement knew the Invaders were coming and was ready with more people, more firepower, and more hatred than ever before.
Come and get it, you sons of bitches...I’ve got years of payback waiting for you...
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Zarven sat in the open turret of a Kozra-type battle car, converted into a mobile headquarters with the weapons systems replaced by an augmented sensor and communications suite. It was early evening, the sky a thick gray overhead casting fitful drizzle that left a chill in the bones. Task Force Negator had been on the move for five days as the Korvans closed their mailed fist around the worms.
“Still nothing,” Ozer reported. His A Company prowled about ten kilometers ahead of the rest of the battalion and ahead of that were the scout teams. On Zarven’s tactical display the Commandos looked like three blocks forming a spear point with the glowing specks of the scouts a dotted line sweeping ahead.
“The drones keep coming back with no data,” Zarven observed. “Widen your search parameters. Send them in deep.”
“If we let them get too far ahead, the worms will pick them off. We’ll be too far away to make any use of the data.”
“I don’t care,” Zarven replied with a snap. There was a hint of nervousness in Ozer’s harmonic and it was beginning to annoy him. “I told you to use them up. The worms are there. We must feel them out.”
“Understood,” Ozer answered and cut the connection. Zarven could feel the other’s frustration linger on the Awareness.
Part of Zarven sympathized. This Cedar Valley was wretched ground, rocks and dense wood and undergrowth. Lurinari’s indigenous spineweed grew in thick patches in the hollows, snagging and entangling like barbed wire. The local ungulates, the rahillabuy, often burrowed into them for shelter, creating a maze of nests for worm snipers to hide in. The whole damned valley was a trap.
But the worms had remained silent and invisible. Zarven pondered his map. Data spilled in from the drones and from individual Korvans, the AI constantly updating, refining the imagery. Ample details. But where were the worms?
“We’ll be changing position, now, HaustColonel,” announced the battle car’s driver.
Zarven gave his mental ascent. Anti-gravity drives wound up with a muted howl and the hovervehicle lifted. Zarven ignored the knotting of innards as the vessel passed over the treetops for an instant, then dropped down into a narrow hollow. Just a few meters too high and the damned worm Station would spot and pick them off, just as it had to all their long-range artillery and any attempts at aerial reconnaissance. No air support, no heavy artillery...before you know it, we’ll be having at it with swords!
The battle car topped a new rise and settled into a clearing ringed with enormous pines. The battalion headquarters unit was waiting, Churvak and the others establishing a temporary perimeter. They would remain here while B and C Companies caught up. A game of leapfrog.
Zarven pinched the bridge of his nose and considered the map again. The shallow lake lay ahead. From it ran the creek from which this region got its name. A and C Companies would proceed south along the west side of the lake. B would split off and sweep down along the opposite, all the time both groups with recon elements from Ozer in the lead. Zarven would halt the west companies at the southern tip of the lake, where the Cedar broke off into a smaller tributary known as Granite Creek. They would wait there for B Company to catch up. At the same time, their southern flank should make contact with the left of the task force right wing under Rovan.
This movement would put twenty-two hundred Korvans within thirty-five kilometers of the worm Station without a fight. This couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be this easy.
“WE HAVE AN ANOMALY.”
Zarven shook himself from sleep and sat up in the cramped confines of the battle car turret. Blinking afterimages of the dead worm in the sewers of Tsing from his eyes, Zarven stood and cracked open the turret cover. Crisp morning air bit his face as he looked about. Just after dawn. He forced a cough and spit phlegm in a puff of crystallized breath. Part of him craved a chance to urinate.
“What?”
Ozer’s harmonic bristled with tension. “We’ve had two...no, now three drones fall off our scopes.”
Adrenaline sizzled into Zarven’s system. “Countermeasures?”
“Definitely,” Oze
r replied. “All three picked up the same energy spike the moment before they stopped responding. The signature is consistent with a burst of HERF.” High energy radio frequency. A localized blast could trash even hardened electronics and stood a chance of disrupting a living creature’s nervous system.
Zarven brought up a tactical display. His AI highlighted the points where the drones had gotten hit, just before a low ridgeline overlooking the divergence of the Cedar and Granite Creeks. Good spot for an ambush. This was it.
“Here’s what I want,” Zarven said. “Have your scouts slow their progress enough for your company to close with them. Proceed with caution. They’re going to attract attention when they cross that creek and I want your company’s total firepower present to back them when the worms spring their little surprise.”
“I understand.” Ozer sounded better, nervousness replaced by eagerness now that there was something to react to.
“Good. Don’t bite off more than you can chew. You still have a head start on the battalion. I can’t promise we’ll be in position for another thirty-six hours.” Zarven looked over his unit dispositions, saw B Company already split off and to the northeast of Rose Lake and Company C still trailing behind A and bogged down in more damned spinebush thickets.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ozer said.
“Caution, HaustCaptain.”
“Of course.” Youthful enthusiasm flickered behind the focused tone.
Zarven cut the connection and switched to a new, still unfamiliar harmonic. “HaustBrigadier Rovan?”
“Zarven.” Rovan’s harmonic rang with annoyance and a hint of poorly concealed unease, but little else. The commander of Task Force Negator was still largely an unknown quantity to Zarven and appeared to have no interest in changing that.