by K. J. Coble
“Our drones have made contact near Rose Lake. I expect your reconnaissance screens will meet with similar.”
“I see.” Rovan seemed uncertain what to say next. “Very well. We will be alert. Your courtesy in informing us is appreciated, Zarven.”
The connection cut so abruptly, Zarven almost didn’t immediately realize the conversation had ended. He gave a mental shake of the head and cursed his superiors. The bitterness was not long lived, though, as a predator’s glee lit through Zarven’s mind.
The hunt was on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Janotski’s umpteenth cigarette of the morning filled the Station command chamber with its stench as Crozier regarded the tactical display. He wrinkled his nose and thought about telling the older man to put it out. A spark lit across the holographic map to the east of the ridge occupied by the partisan southern wing and drew his attention, instead.
“Another drone,” Crozier said before the AI highlighted the spot and suggested that very analysis.
The drones had been sliding forward with increasing regularity over the last twelve hours. So far, the partisans had done an adequate job of taking them down, but it was only a matter of time before one slipped through and got a decent look at what was going on. Not that it mattered. Their drones not returning would give the Korvans a detailed enough picture.
Faint red blocks—faint designating that the units in question had been identified by observation and guesses rather than hard sensor data—shuffled across the map, closing on the thin lines of blue. Crozier felt a tingle down his spine, knew that the blocks would only solidify when the Korvans were practically on them.
The wait was always the worst part, when Crozier had time to think. Time to think about the fact that he’d never held a command higher than company and now was directing roughly six thousand partisans in a battle for their survival. Time to think about how he’d left only one company in the northeast to hamper the Korvan northern prong on the gamble that it was a feint and not a determined push. Time to wonder what his children might be doing now and wishing he was with them.
Crozier forced himself to concentrate on the map. No sense in worrying. He had done all he could do, from the logistical nightmare of feeding and arming the “Coreal Mountain Brigade”, as the partisans had taken to calling themselves, to sorting out the personnel entanglements of officers and units of varying quality and temperaments. And he had a lot of good people helping him out who believed in what they were doing.
Still, he felt that wretched loneliness.
The computer chimed and a light blinked on the hologram from one of the hills southeast of Rose Lake. That would be Choson, the Group Leader reporting via laser-bursts relayed along a chain of receiver/transmitters all the way back to the Station. The transmissions couldn’t be intercepted unless someone actually bumbled into the path of the beams and the energy signature was so low as to be indistinguishable from natural background clutter.
Hopefully.
Crozier leaned toward the HoloScreen and rested a hand on Janotski’s shoulder. The Station AI had to decipher the transmission—something the Korvans could probably manage, but not without effort.
A box appeared on the hologram and crude text began to scroll across. “SCOUTS REPORT MOVEMENT NORTHWEST OF GRANITE CREEK. SMALL RECONNAISSANCE TEAMS. LIGHTLY ARMED. WILL CROSS GRANITE BY MIDNIGHT, TONIGHT. HAVE PULLED OUR SCOUTS BACK RATHER THAN RISK ENCOUNTER. ENEMY DRONES IN INCREASING NUMBER ALL ACROSS OUR FRONT. CANNOT CONFIRM ALL DRONES INTERCEPTED. BELIEVE RECON TEAMS ARE GUIDING DRONES. IF OPPORTUNITY PRESENTED, MAY I ATTACK AND DESTROY KORVAN RECON?—CHOSON”
“That will be their central prong,” Crozier said to himself. He considered her request, the aggressive move. Smash Korvan observation, blind them temporarily, confuse and perhaps precipitate a rash or ill-conceived response. Part of him howled for more time, for her to pull back further, avoid the confrontation. His eyes flicked to the map, to the white dots indicating refugee camps and streams of supplies scrambling to evacuate further into the Coreals.
There wasn’t more time and their backs were already nearly to the wall.
“Send to Choson,” Crozier said the young girl at the workstation to Janotski’s right. “‘Use own discretion. Destruction of Korvan recon elements encouraged, where practical. Prevention of Korvan crossing of Cedar Creek is primary goal, at this time.’” Crozier gave the holographic map another look. “Also, ‘Dispatch scouts to watch for possible Korvan move north of Rose Lake. Right flank is in the air.’”
The red-clad girl keyed and transmitted. The message would flick out to Choson at the speed of light. From her headquarters, the word would spread to her units by a network of runners, mostly wilderness-savvy volunteers who had grown up in the region.
The anachronism nearly set Crozier to grim chuckling. This limitation, and its inherent clunkiness, had dictated the Movement’s plans for this engagement, simple and unambiguous so that the partisans knew where they had to be, even in the confusion of battle. Any radio communication, even if the Korvans failed to break the Movement’s encryption, would give away too much: unit positions, hints of intent, numbers.
Numbers. The Movement’s only real advantage now. Nearly three-to-one. Crozier had read handbooks with entire chapters devoted to the ratio needed for successfully combating Korvans. Two-to-one for a veteran force of Regulars to hold a fortified position, five-to-one for Regulars to take an entrenched position, ten-to-one with green troops...
Crozier shook the thoughts aside and searched the holographic map for any other advantage he could find.
THE SHAKES WERE BACK. And wasn’t the fact that Cole was wading across the swollen Cedar Creek with its icy, fast-moving currents foaming up around his waist that had brought them on.
A tether stretched across the watercourse between two pines and partisans clung to it as they crossed the churning waters ahead of Cole’s platoon. The wound-steel chord slashed into cold-numbed hands as he staggered along and the creek bed slid beneath his feet. The Cedar could sweep a man away in its rain-choked state, especially one weighted down by packs full of mines, high explosives, and ammo for the grenade launcher strapped to his chest.
Cole turned his ankle on a rock and he fumbled, barely holding to the tether as water rushed over his head, roaring, frothing. With the slow-motion strength of terror, Cole managed to regain his grip and pull to the surface.
“Yer fuckin’ holding up the line, Worthy,” snarled the partisan behind him.
Cole wanted to swear back at the kid, so damned young that his soaked synthe-leathers and gear looked like it could just slide off his scarecrow’s frame. But something about the boy reminded him of Cameron. He resumed his progress, now over halfway to the opposite bank.
A wave of melancholy swept over Cole in a way that the Cedar had not. Cameron and Ro were dead. The rest of the old group was scattered through the Movement. Vorsh was off in another squad, in another platoon—they had been separated only days before the orders came to march forth. And Kat and the kids...God knew where they were...years gone...hundreds of kilometers away...maybe even...further...
Hand over hand, Cole struggled, his fingers wracked with tremors so bad the fear of falling again threatened. He paused to marshal his will, to hell with the punk behind him.
Ahead, his Squad Leader, the first across and waiting on the opposite bank, watched with glaring eyes. She was pissed, not just with him, but at the officers that had forced this stranger on her and her team, who’d trained together for months, found cohesion.
Cole looked down as he stumbled onto the opposite bank. She said something pissy. He ignored it and trudged on into the wet dark.
Alone.
BY NIGHTFALL, VORSH’S company reached its designated deployment area, a low ridge wedged between the Cedar and a smaller tributary to the west known as Ora Creek, probably for some sentimental human bitch. Though word passed down through the ranks that the company was to be held in reserve, th
e officers had exhausted partisans immediately settle into the well-practiced ritual of entrenching.
Vorsh was among the last to reach the position, dropping to hands and knees and nearly collapsing under the weight of his load. Reaching up to undo the shoulder straps of his pack, he found his mud-slicked hands shaking so badly they wouldn’t clench. Shivers spread through his form; the hellish wet and cold seemed to have seeped even into his joints. He hated the wretched climate and he hated his human companions, who didn’t seem as affected as he.
And he hated himself, for showing weakness.
A pair of human youths slumped down near him, peeling off similarly huge loads, the disassembled pieces of a 10-kilo missile launcher system. The fool Platoon Leader had designated the pair of newbies as load bearers for the thing and Vorsh had the honor of hauling its extra ammo, two double-shot clips weighing over fifty kilos in addition to his personal load. Uttering a curse in his native Smali, Vorsh managed to get the reloads pulled off his back.
“Come on, get yer asses up.” A mud-spattered figure in battle armor trudged by the young men, who had all but collapsed on the cushion of leaves. “There’s no time. We need that launcher assembled and this position prepared.” He gave Vorsh a wide berth as he moved on but his eyes flashed with a cold light. “That means you, too, you sumbitch.”
Vorsh watched the Squad Leader’s back. His hand itched for his dagger, strapped to his chest. His vision narrowed, following the human’s progress along the reverse slope of the ridge, hunched low with caution.
Vorsh’s hands reached for the entrenching tool in his pack and pulled it free. He began to shovel, hacking and tearing the soil with an energy that caused the two youths with the launcher to widen the distance between him and themselves.
A cloudburst dragged a soaking haze through the trees, evoking a chorus of low groans from the company of guerrillas. Vorsh went on digging, teeth clenched, ignoring the shivers.
The Squad Leader stopped and kneeled beside another human. Even in the rain, Vorsh could make out his Platoon Leader, leaned close to the NCO, their heads together. They were too far away and the ambient noise too great for him to glean any meaning. For an instant it looked like the two of them were glancing back his way.
Something familiar about the way they... Vorsh thought of Cole in that storage cavern. He thought of the masked men who’d jumped him, their threats. Ah. Recognition lit his mind like lightning. It becomes clear, now...
Vorsh’s hand itched uncontrollably for the dagger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Zarven jerked awake with screams and flame behind his eyes. He shook himself, had been dozing again in the turret of his battle car. Looking around at monitors and displays, everything seemed quiet. Another damned nightmare. The images were changing on him, almost seemed like...
“Rovan just lost one of his scout teams. Shit.” Ozer’s voice crackled in Zarven’s head. “Worms took them out just as they were through those damned marshes.”
Zarven blinked, tried to focus as his AI projected a tactical display across his vision. Rovan’s southern wing had been edging toward a long line of ridges surrounded by dense marsh. The recon teams had pushed ahead of their main body, had crossed through to the higher ground where they intended to wait and observe. An icon blinked where the team, the southernmost one, had been hit.
Zarven reached across the Awareness and pulled in the last seconds of the scouts’ approach. He found himself in the memories of the team Senior Fanrohaust, watching as the point man halted and kneeled in dense undergrowth. They had come upon one of their drones, the metal sphere down in the muck and blackened where circuitry had burned out after a burst of HERF.
The Fanrohaust’s senses went instantly sharp and he flicked out warnings to his team. Worms were close, had to be. He toggled through visual options, took a deep breath of the air, green and crisp with the dropping temperatures, and he listened to branches creek and drops of condensation patter through leaves.
And...something. A rustle of movement, a metallic click—
A blaster bolt caught the lead scout in the face and the forest exploded around the recon team. The Senior Fanroharust found himself on his back in a tangle of spinebush, the thorns’ prick barely noticeable over the roaring pain in his arm and side. Explosions rattled through him, shrapnel whirred overhead, and leaves fluttered across his face. He caught a flicker of cyan, one of his team returning fire. More blasts and the rattle of conventional arms. A worm screamed. The Fanrohaust coughed warm, salty ooze as he cursed his clumsiness.
A shattering flash blanked out his world.
“That will be their main force along that ridge line,” Zarven said, casting aside the image. “Where are our scouts?”
“Just about to cross Granite Creek,” Ozer replied. “The waters are still high, but receding.”
Zarven considered the map. “Send them across and have them dig in atop this low ridge, pull in close for mutual support, and hold in place.”
“You don’t want them to push on? Cedar Creek is only a little over a kilometer more. That’s where the drones last reported.”
“No. Hold them in place. And consolidate the rest of your company west of the Granite on the high ground there. Bring up your heavy weapons and stand by.”
Ozer paused and Zarven sensed the younger Korvan’s displeasure as he understood. “You want the worms to see the scouts.”
“A little trap of our own,” Zarven answered. “I’ll be joining you shortly. I’ll see what I can do to hurry C Company along. We’ll develop the worm positions and see what nasty little tricks they think they’re going to play. Understood?”
“I understand.” Ozer’s harmonic was chilly. Zarven decided not to take it as disrespect. Ozer didn’t have to like it. He wasn’t in charge.
Zarven sensed a rumble in the sky. His AI informed him of long-range artillery on the way from Outpost 9, heavy mortar rounds hoisted skyward on rocket boosters. Some might be tipped with tactical nukes. Rovan didn’t appear to be interested in subtlety.
Zarven felt through the Awareness, now lighting up with shock, tension, and confusion. The surviving scout teams in the south were pulling back, taking fire as they did so. Rovan was rushing his main force forward and the lead units were beginning to receive light mortar fire. Icons blinked into existence, worm gun positions and projections of worm units. Every shot they fired gave the Korvans a little clearer picture of them. Still, it wasn’t clear enough. Yet.
Bars of solid white hell slashed across the sky with a crash like the world ending. Most of Rovan’s artillery mission vanished in brief globes of plasma and the Awareness shrieked with the energy displacement. Another pattern of particle beams rent the overcast at a slightly higher angle, finishing what was left.
Zarven’s temples throbbed as the confusion grew.
“HaustColonel, we have HaustLieutenant Totten reporting movement below him, down by Cedar Creek.”
Zarven stood outside his battle car, watching the preparations of A Company’s heavy weapons sections in a hollow on the opposite of side of the slope west of Granite Creek. At Ozer’s communication, Zarven’s mind immediately acquired the view seen through the eyes of HaustLieutenant Totten, commanding the recon teams waiting on the ridge between Granite and Cedar Creeks.
Nightfall had brought an end to the drizzle but near freezing temperatures, as well. Fog rose in a wave from the Cedar, dulling the senses as tendrils of it crept as high as the scout teams, waiting in their fighting holes, shivering.
Totten raised himself, peering over the edge of his hole into the mist. Vision was terrible, even boosted Korvan vision, but his AI picked out flickers of shadow, began amplifying sounds of booted feet swishing through damp grass and the gentle rattle of weapons and gear not quite taped down. Shapes materialized in the gray nothingness, stooped figures scrambling upward in leapfrog patterns, shifting from dips in the ground to patches of spinebush. Close, very close. Suddenly, targeting dots seeme
d to light up the entire slope.
“By the Imperative...” The HaustLieutenant’s young stomach knotted. “There must be at least a company coming up. Request permission to—”
First a lone cry, then an entire chorus of howls erupted from the fog. Bullets and blaster fire crackled and snarled in a wave across the Korvan position. The host of shadowy figures rose and pounded up the low slope.
Totten stroked his trigger, splashing cyan bolts across worms as they came on, bodies dropping, writhing as they burned. Teeth ground in determination but Totten knew with scrotum-tightening certainty they couldn’t get them all before they reached the fighting holes. He caught the gleam of a bayonet in the mist.
The clip-fed automortars of A Company’s heavy weapons section opened up with a jarring crump-crump-crump that startled Zarven from his viewing of the attack. He grappled mentally for and reacquired the HaustLieutenant’s harmonic in time to see mortar rounds come down across the front of the worm push.
Because of the low azimuth there was no way for the worm Station to target the incoming shells. A wavefront of exploding dirt and metal swept the partisans away in screaming ruin. The explosions walked downslope, chasing the worms before them.
Totten ducked, head jerking as a bit of shrapnel cracked across the top of his helm. He was up a moment later, firing into the back of a worm dragging himself downhill. Cyan bolts flicked out from the Korvans, probing the bodies, finishing the wounded. Sudden calm settled amongst the smoke and fog.
“More movement down by the creek,” Totten reported unevenly. “They’re regrouping. Bringing up more, I think.”
“Steady, Totten,” Ozer told the younger Korvan. The HaustCaptain turned his thoughts to Zarven. “They’ll be back soon.”
“I have no doubt.” Zarven glanced southward where nervous flickers of plasma fire underlit the overcast. Rovan had been probing the worm line all day. A series of blasts from the worm Station tore the clouds and every Korvan in sight flinched.