Into the Maelstrom

by Loren L. Coleman

  The nebulous curtain dimmed and brightened to some alien rhythm, and slowly began to expand. Before its immense size occluded the moon, Brygan noticed how it bulged toward the planetoid as if drawn toward it. One tendril whipped past the survey ship, a solid white wall of pulsing force that hung there for several long seconds as he flew right toward it. Then it was past, and once more he faced a world snared in some cosmic storm.

  And he flew right into it, with no hope for escape.

  * * *

  With one hand, Vladimir Leonov held the hapless major a meter off the floor by the front of his uniform and shook him roughly. “Do not mention again the advantages of being a guerrilla force or you will be ejected out the nearest airlock. I care nothing for losses to date. I want answers!” He slammed the officer down onto the floor and stood glaring about the control room of the Ascraeus Mons base. “The same applies to everyone in here. I want that Union force located, or we begin to make room for the next shipment of experts. I will toss you outside one by one until someone starts thinking.”

  It was amazing how much busier his people looked, though they continued to do the same jobs as a moment before. The power of positive thinking.

  It infuriated the general no end that the Union continued to elude him. Neo-Soviet scouting squads had found traces of a large force, and several booby-trapped sites that had cost him fifty-two men so far, but no hard evidence of where the enemy had set up base. He regretted sending Brygan Nystolov after the renegade Mental, needing the scout’s affinity for Mars more than ever. Actually it was the talents of a Mental he needed more than ever, but he hated admitting it. But Ascraeus Mons’s Mental had gone rogue, the two at Elysium were beaten to death by Colonel Teklov for lack of cooperation, and now the rest were all reported as catatonic.

  “Sir,” a technician called out from a telemetry console. His face was dead white, looking almost bloodless. His voice faded to a hoarse whisper. “General Leonov, we’ve lost Terra.”

  Again, the general finished silently. Not that they had been able to maintain any kind of credible communications lock on Terra for several days now.

  “Turn it over to communications,” Leonov ordered curtly. He clasped his hands gloved in metal exoskeleton behind his back, forcing himself to think of anything other than smashing the nearest console into useless parts. It might make him feel better, but then the console would only require replacing.

  “Nyet. I mean Da, Comrade General.” The tech looked flustered and completely terrified, though not of Leonov. He turned back to his console screen with dawning horror. “I mean, we’ve lost Terra.

  “Sir, she’s gone.”

  9

  * * *

  A n overcast sky the texture of gray cotton batting looked down on Gory Putorana and the conflict escalating within the southeastern foothills. The morning’s light rain had passed, leaving the alpine meadows a touch slick. The pale blue buds of saxifrage and the yellow and pink of alpine primrose were quickly stomped into the earth by booted feet or chewed up along with the short bluegrass by the steel treads of Neo-Soviet armored vehicles. A few rifle shots routinely punctured the crisp air, at times drowned out by heavy guns or the thump-whistle of artillery fire that ended in roaring explosions of fire and shrapnel somewhere in the no-man’s-land neither side yet attempted to cross in force.

  But the building growl of Neo-Soviet Rad Troopers, their officers psyching them for the concerted rush at Union lines, promised that the full battle would not be long in coming.

  To Sergeant Tom Tousley, the battle was shaping up into the classic confrontation between Neo-Soviet and Union armies. Both sides had drawn up into their line of attack, deploying and then shifting assets in response to the other commander’s movements. The Fifty-sixth Striker fielded a larger force, especially with the high numbers of Rad Troopers and Vanguard infantry they would throw forward in a human shield. The Union held its edge in advanced technology.

  Antigrav tanks, the hum of whose field generators were becoming high-pitched shrieks when stressed under tight maneuvers, currently faced off with their heavily armored Neo-Soviet counterparts up and down the line. Units would feint outward and then, more often than not, retreat in an effort to draw the other commander into a mistake. Occasionally, the unit might slip in and manage a solid strike against the enemy before pulling back.

  If they could pull back. A Wendigo ag tank already lay burning in mid-field, caught and smashed by a lucky barrage of Neo-Soviet Thunder artillery. A few broken squads that had strayed too far came staggering back in singles and pairs, a few of them fleeing in panic from loosed rad-hounds. The mertvaya sobaka usually met a quick end amid Pitbull cross fire.

  Across the dead zone, the Union claimed its due in one devastated Vanguard division and two smoking hulks that had been Avalanche troop carriers. A squad of Chem Grunts had strayed too far forward, trying to sneak around the Union flank with their toxin-wash chemsprayers. An Ares heavy assault suit on guard smashed them with a single discharge from his shoulder-mounted plasma cannon. Charred flesh and half-melted metal littered the ground where they had stood.

  All the while both lines inched forward toward that point of no return. Like some chess match of titans, played out with living pieces by the opposing colonels Raymond Sainz and Katya Romilsky.

  And out on the edge of that game, a very deadly pawn or perhaps a knight, Sergeant Tousley led his squad in repeated feints and strikes at the enemy line.

  On the Union’s curling left flank, where the fighting was beginning to turn brutal, Tousley led his men forward in the shadow of a Hydra transport. Tired of Sainz’s cautious approach, he was trying to work his people in close enough to strike at the pair of large Class F Cyclops mutants that prowled the edge of the Neo-Sov line. These two-plus-meter monstrosities were partially armored by exoskeletons encasing their lower bodies, the better to support massive upper body musculature and implanted devices. Monomolecular-edged titanium blades replaced fingers that could easily slice a man in two or tear into vehicle-grade armor. The single laser-beam eye that glowed in the middle of the armored headgear was powered from a large system surgically embedded in the back and shoulders.

  Take them out and the mutants lost two of their most-powerful members. Maybe that would finally persuade Colonel Sainz that it was time to press forward on the attack.

  Tousley heard a low whistle building up into a higher-pitched scream. “Down!” he yelled, then obeyed his own order and tried to melt into the damp ground.

  The Thunder barrage bracketed his men and the Hydra, rocking the ground and showering them all with bits of fire-blackened earth. Tousley had thought his squad outside their effective range. Stunned, his ears ringing from the explosion, he stumbled to his feet regardless.

  “That was for sighting,” he croaked out, then swallowed to clear his voice. “They’ll fire for effect next time. Move it!”

  The Hydra had already powered into a quick stop, spun around 180 degrees, and was heading back toward the relative safety of the Union line. It was a race the foot soldiers couldn’t win. With his squad stranded and exposed, Tousley cupped his ears against the ringing-whine sound plaguing him and made the only call he could. “Forward at a sprint. Get under the arc of those guns.” His people scrambled to their feet and forward, urged on by the distant thump of heavy artillery launches.

  When the first shell slammed into the ground behind them, Tousley was certain they’d never make it. He dived forward, mentally railing at Colonel Sainz for having waited so long to commit to battle, leaving Tousley and his men exposed to the enemy this way. True, the Seventy-first could not hope to draw on reserves as could the Neo-Soviet colonel, but you didn’t win a battle while on the defensive.

  A wall of fire leapt toward the sky behind them, oddly mirrored as the gray clouds took on a strange red cast. The Thunders drew a line of destruction that fell directly across the retreating Hydra. A shell tipped in depleted uranium punctured the Hydra’s armor, detonating in
side. The vehicle’s sides bulged outward, fire spilling out burst seams and shattered plex windows. It cartwheeled over, coming down on its roof. Metal shrapnel, razor-edged shards from the artillery shells and bits of the Hydra, cut through the air. They sliced into the back of Lance Corporal Danielle Johnson, who was a bit slow taking cover. She tumbled along the ground and fetched up against a dwarf pine, still alive but her lower back and legs covered in blood. No telling how seriously she was hurt, but the fact that she could still pull her legs up under her told him that at least she wasn’t crippled. Not yet.

  From the frying pan, Tom Tousley thought. He shook his head, still trying to clear the whining ring from the earlier close call. Already, sporadic fire from advanced Vanguard infantry was churning the turf just a dozen meters in front of his people. The larger mutants were shambling forward, scattering other Neo-Soviet soldiers, who scattered frantically to escape the path of their own monsters. The shouts of the Rad Troopers massed along the forward right flank of Romilsky’s line rose to a deafening crescendo.

  Tousley’s squad staggered to their feet, a few bleeding from minor wounds as they returned fire. All were still hardy enough to fight, though facing certain death. Tousley ejected his Pitbull’s spent clip and slammed in a fresh one, preparing to sell himself and his squad at a high price.

  Then the first crimson-and-gold blur flashed by. And another. The whine that filled Tousley’s ears peaked and then quickly faded as the Doppler effect muted the Aztec antigrav cycles’ trademark scream.

  Having moved forward under the shadow of low hills, two squads of the experimental Aztecs now burst onto the field, re-forming into a perfect double-column staggered formation. They swept by the besieged infantry squad, drawing fire that might have broken a ground unit but that the armored ag cycles could weather for a moment.

  The Aztec cycles moved at incredible speed, crossing the contested ground and hammering the Thunder artillery sites with SPEAR missiles before many Neo-Soviet officers could react to their presence. The Separate Penetration Explosively Armed Radials each held five submunitions which, on contact, drove forward at obtuse angles to each other to detonate independently. Where standard Arrowhead or DART missiles might have merely hurt a target, the SPEAR almost guaranteed a devastating hit. The problem was their decreased range, which is why they were traditionally mounted on fast-intercept vehicles like the Aztec.

  Earlier shouts of victory from the Neo-Soviets turned to dismay and outrage as the Aztecs completed their run with devastating effect. Only one of the expensive cycles was lost when a Cyclops mutant ranged in with its laser and burned through the chest and neck of one driver. Hardly a fair trade for half a dozen Thunders, which the Neo-Soviets relied upon to cover their massed forces.

  Tousley felt the shift in mood along both lines, and knew that right now he held an advantageous position if he could make it work. With a final burst from his Pitbull, he crabbed over to where Private Alex Kipp had been sighting his Draco launcher on the forward Cyclops. Kipp now knelt on the ground, gazing up at the clouds roiling and shifting into a sky tiger-striped heavily in reddish hues.

  “Whatsamatter? Never seen a red sunset before?” Tousley said, slapping Kipp hard on the shoulder. “Get that Draco up and hit them.” He pointed not toward the Cyclops, which was angling after the returning Aztecs, its red eye blazing, but at the small command team that had been whipping the Rad Troopers into a frenzy.

  Kipp’s eyes flicked momentarily over to Tousley, but he still didn’t raise the Draco. “Sarge, that ain’t no sunset.” He pointed to a glowing patch of clouds. “It’s afternoon. That’s the sun behind there.”

  Tousley felt the moment slipping away as fast as the blur of Aztecs racing for the Union line. It was now or not at all. And not at all meant certain death for his squad. He gripped Kipp’s uniform, thinking to shake some sense back into him. “I don’t care if the sun supernovas. You get that launcher up and fire! Everyone! Hit the Rad Troopers with everything you’ve got. Now!”

  Weapons spat controlled bursts into the throng of Rad Troopers. At this range, killing one outright would be more luck than skill, but there was always that chance. Corporal Jerry Richardson, hammering away with his Rottweiler, dropped several wounded to the ground. Danielle Johnson managed to pump off two grenades from her Bulldog’s M-81 launcher, one falling far short, but the other arcing into a cluster of Rad Troopers. Then Kipp finally responded, shouldering the Draco launch tube and instantly firing off the Arrowhead round. Spiraling out on a light contrail of smoke, the rocket flew unerringly into the knot of officers Tousley had pointed out, scattering them like cinders in a bonfire.

  Whipped into a bloodlust, stung by the infantry squad’s weaponry, and now bereft of leadership along a large stretch, the Rad Troopers hung in a critical balance. At first Tousley thought he’d acted too late. Then one soldier broke ranks to charge forward, his Nagant spitting its uranium-tipped death. Then two and then half a dozen.

  Like a building avalanche, the charging warriors led packs forward until the Neo-Soviet wing crumbled in a mad rush for their Union enemy. Rad-hounds leapt into the forefront of the charge, their mutant handlers confused by the charge into thinking Colonel Romilsky had ordered the general attack. Two squads of Vanguard infantry moved forward, then paused when they realized that the main line had yet to advance with them. The Vanguard milled about in confusion, then retreated rather than support a poorly organized and doomed attack. Tousley laughed bravely, waving them a wide salute.

  A last act of defiance, most likely. As the Neo-Sov right flank pressed forward in haphazard advance, he took stock of his situation and how slight was the chance of rescue. The Aztecs were too far behind and as yet unaware that the squad was in trouble. Two Hydras moved forward, but lacked the speed to rendezvous and extract Tousley’s men before the rad-hounds were on them and the first Rad Troopers could begin firing for effect.

  “Scatter and grab cover where you can,” Tousley ordered, rather than risk a rout in the face of the enemy. Better a brave finish that wouldn’t stall a Union advance.

  Then twin shadows crossed over the ground, and two blackened-metal turrets fell from the sky just ahead of his squad and in the path of the advancing Neo-Soviet forces. Automated Defense Drones, courtesy of Major Howard no doubt—just another case of Texans looking out for each other when they could. The drones hovered on independent vectoring antigrav thrusters, the head supporting a quad-barreled machine gun that would fire 7.62-millimeter rounds. Suspended below each was a large drill mechanism, the sharp-ribbed bit spinning at a rapid rate. As the ADDs drew close to the Siberian taiga, the bits grabbed hold and quickly anchored the drones into the earth. They spat out their first bursts, taking down the forwardmost rad-hounds.

  Tousley felt like cheering.

  “Ribbed for your pleasure, boys and girls,” he said, referring to the old but not obsolete drill anchors. “We’ve done our part. Recover our wounded and let’s fade back.”

  Scrabbling to the side of Danielle Johnson, Tousley waved over PFC Brian Scott to help. Between them they shouldered her weight easily, one of her arms around each of their necks. Corporal Richardson brought up the rear, guarding against anything that might make it past or around the ADDs. Privates Nicholas and Kipp ran point, the latter unable to help frequent glances at the strange cloud formations.

  All Tousley noticed at first was that the cloud cover was beginning to break up, the red-stained cumulus quickly burning away. A patch would thin, then break into small bloodred clots, and finally be drawn upward as if snatched away in pieces. No lightning flashed, but a distant thunderclap pealed. He didn’t understand any of it—the strange terrain changes or frozen Khela River or now the bizarre weather, nor did he truly let it concern him. He was a sergeant of infantry in the Seventy-first Assault Group, and his job didn’t change because of such abnormal events. But he bade the cloud cover good riddance if it would alleviate any distraction to his squad.

  And then he sa
w the sky behind.

  * * *

  Commanding from the crest of a low hill just off center of the Union middle line, Colonel Raymond Sainz had also kept a watch on the strange atmospheric conditions while directing the opening feints of his battle plan. The whole time he and Colonel Romilsky traded goads and disinformation over open frequencies. It surprised him when Rebecca Howard brought him an unsecured link and informed him of the transmissions. What Neo-Soviet commander would bother to send the enemy a message when battle had already commenced? All doubts, though, were put to rest with Katya Romilsky’s opening demand.

  “The Seventy-first will stand down and surrender within two minutes,” she ordered him in flawless English, “or I will be forced to destroy you.”

  “Strasvicha, Colonel Katya Olia Romilsky.” His Russian was as flawless as her English. “A pleasant day for battle. Da?”

  His grasp of the Russian tongue and easy disregard of her warning flustered her response for all of three long seconds.

  “Da, very good, Raymond Sainz,” she replied, switching to her own tongue. “But you know you cannot win. We have armies across your line of retreat to Karskoye and Laptev More.” Her voice hardened. “The empire will not tolerate your obliteration of Dikson.”

  Dikson? Sainz recalled the name of the small city mentioned by Captain Fredriksson and the strange storm of that moonless night. “Dikson?” he asked. “Above Murmansk? We would never have beached near your military base there.”

  “If you know our language so well, I can only believe you know Neo-Soviet geography, too. You would not mistake Dikson for Polyarnyy. And we intend to prove you destroyed it as you did Novo Cocarada in Angola.”

  So that would be the empire’s game, to make United Africa believe the Union had turned a new weapon against their soil. And they had apparently destroyed one of their own cities to give truth to the lie. A heavy price, to sacrifice a whole city for so little gain. Two could play such games, though. “We tracked the missile that destroyed Novo Cocarada to a site near here. We came for the proof, and we’ll have it before we leave.” He winced when a Union Wendigo fell beneath a Thunder barrage, weakening his strong claim.