And into this uncertainty, the Marines and humans fired until their barrels glowed.
A few amongst the enemy crouched down, passed their rifles from tail to hands and returned fire through the retreating forms of their reeling fellows.
The Hardit retreat was like the tide ebbing to reveal a few stranded individuals who stayed and fought... and attracted the fire of the Marines. These brave few lasted only a few seconds before the Marines blasted them away.
Arun shot one of the few monkeys diving into the forward firing holes abandoned by his forces in favor of the shorter second line. Were the Hardits tumbling into the holes because they were the nearest cover, or because they intended to establish a position to fire on the humans? Probably the enemy themselves didn’t know and the humans weren’t going to give them time to find out.
Frag grenades lobbed from the second line soon silenced any Hardits in the first.
As he watched this latest Hardit advance being beaten back, Arun marveled at Sergeant Gupta. It was his idea to hide a line of troops on the reverse slope and wait until the Hardits were close enough to see the burning trees reflected in their eyes before firing. It felt like an idea taken from the earliest days of gunpowder firearms, but Gupta insisted that in facing such overwhelmingly superior enemy numbers, the shock to Hardit morale of hidden troops emerging with guns blazing was more valuable than steadily thinning their numbers as they advanced up the slope.
And the Hardit mob was so poorly coordinated that they never seemed to learn their lesson.
With the unarmored liberated slaves sheltering down in their firing holes, Marines scrambled out from the second defensive line, weathering sporadic enemy fire, to reclaim the front line of holes along the hill’s crest. From here they poured fire down into the retreating enemy.
With the militia recoiling north, back down the hillside, the second line set back on the reverse side of the slope was spared Hardit rifle fire, but they kept to the bottom of their holes, knowing what was to come.
Sure enough, automatic fire raked the hill from the west and the east. Bombs rained down on the hillside. The enemy had exhausted their supply of mil-grade munitions and were now lobbing homemade plasma bombs out of their catapults. Many of the bombs burned rather than exploded, and some were launched so inaccurately that they fell on Hardit heads, adding burning Hardit fur to the flaming trees that lit the night.
The Hardit bombs didn’t need to be mil-spec to take a steady death toll of the humans.
Barney amplified the sound of more Hardit automatic fire. This came from the north, not the flanks, and its purpose was to remind the militia mass that any individual retreating would be shot.
The militia’s rearward creep slowed, and then reversed. Once again, the individuals in that mob were transfixed by a deadly balance of forces. If they fled they would be shot by their own side. If they assaulted the hill, they would be blasted by the desperate human defenders.
Staying put and hugging whatever rock or bush felt like cover was only slightly less lethal. Marine railguns were steadily taking their toll. For a little while, sheer numbers gave the Hardits a false sense of invulnerability. Hiding in the crowd meant it would be some other poor veck trembling nearby whose skull was perforated by a supersonic kinetic dart.
But every time they saw another comrade shot dead sharpened the terror that they would be the next to fall.
It wouldn’t take long before cowering there and taking the incoming fire would become unbearable, and clumps of Hardits would begin inching up the hillside once again, taking increasingly accurate shots at the Marines in their hilltop defenses before unleashing another assault.
How long before that attack came? Another five minutes? Chances were the Human Legion would beat back the next assault. But how about the next one? Or the one after that?
Arun’s forces had survived four waves of attack. With every militia assault, more of the unarmored liberated slaves were wounded or killed. Carbine ammo states reported across BattleNet were only heading in one direction.
At first, he’d thought the enemy commander was an idiot. Now he realized they were contemptuous of militia lives. Which meant they would happily grind this out until every last human was dead.
He had to risk a breakout. Few if any of the weak and injured would survive, but the hope in his heart had frozen. The only alternative now was total annihilation.
He glanced across the trench at Corporal Narciso. For some reason he saw a bright memory of Novice Puja Narciso on the day she had become his first kiss. They’d been practicing concealment techniques and by chance had selected the same hiding place. Instead of bickering over who had the right to the spot, they decided to enjoy it together. He laughed. She was so good at hiding, he used to tell her she must have a heavy dose of chameleon blood in her ancestry.
He stopped laughing.
“Narciso!”
“Sir.”
“Stealth up best you can and head east across the stream. Assess enemy deployment and mark targets but do not engage. I want us to break out to the east. Maybe the smoke from the trees will help to confuse them.”
“Acknowledged.”
Puja crawled out the trench but not in the direction of the eastern flank. She detoured to the bunker at the center of the trench ring.
As part of the defensive preparation for what Arun had only intended to be a temporary rest stop, the Marines had scooped out a shallow ammo cache. A few meters away they then constructed a deep hole suitable for the two infants and their mothers.
Baby bunker. The name had been meant as a joke. But no one was laughing now.
Puja shared a few words with Rohanna and Shelby before disappearing. A moment later, she vanished from BattleNet too.
For a few more moments, Arun could see a slight trail being scuffed into the dirt leading away from the baby bunker. Then it too disappeared.
Good luck, he mouthed, before contacting Gupta to explain what he’d done.
“She’ll need to be quick,” replied the senior sergeant. “The gaps between the monkey attacks are shortening.”
“Then we’ll need to buy more time, Sergeant. Tell Yoshioka to release everyone in 2nd Section still capable of running into a mobile reserve. I want her to hold the east flank with the remainder while you lead the reserve to charge the enemy’s left wing.”
Arun could imagine Gupta’s jaw slamming into the bottom of his helmet. “A charge, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, but we neglected to equip 2nd Section with cavalry horses and sabers.”
“It’s not as stupid as it sounds, Sergeant. You said it yourself. We can’t win with firepower or numbers. There’s just too many of the vecks. Our only chance is to make this a battle of morale.”
“I did say that, Major.” He paused, but only for a heartbeat. “I’ll need Halici from 1st Section,” he said with growing confidence. “Shame that Kantrowicz and Zane are stuck back in Detroit.”
“You mean the old Marines from Umarov’s vintage?” Arun frowned. He couldn’t figure Gupta out. “Why?”
Gupta slithered along the ground to organize his charge. “There was a reason we used to train with combat blades,” he said. “You’ll soon understand.”
— Chapter 40 —
After abandoning the broken bottom half of her battlesuit, crawling along the battlefield had smeared enough mud to veil Springer’s nakedness, but not nearly enough for her to ignore. It wasn’t the idea of lusty Marine eyes feasting on an unintended sexy display that nagged at her when she should be concentrated on marshaling the fire of the liberated humans. That would be merely embarrassing.
What shamed her was the prospect of hidden glances of revulsion at her left leg that ended above her knee, and her right that was puckered and scarred by the kiss of the plasma blast she’d taken back on Antilles. Worse still would be watching the eyes of her comrades switching into pity, crushing her from comrade into victim.
Frakk that. I
’m not finished yet! The others are relying on me.
At long last, the order to advance came through from Lance Corporal Yoshioka, and she could frakking do something.
Springer acknowledged and waved at the pairs of resistance fighters on either side to follow her to the front line.
What had been a pleasant hill a few hours ago, covered in small-leafed groundcover, had been melted, dried, and pulverized by the plasma bombardment. As she wriggled on her belly, making for the firing hole fifteen meters away, she felt the ground’s heat burn her legs. With her lower leg and lower armor gone, she found crawling didn’t work. Instead she dug her gauntlets deep into the crumbling dirt and pulled herself along, her carbine on her back.
She checked to either side. The fighters were welted, burned, and caked in dirt and dried blood. None were truly fit to stand, let alone fight, but they were all products of the Human Marine Corps system. None of them knew when to give up.
Springer and three others made it to the front line, one of the resistance fighters succumbing to a burst of automatic fire from somewhere to the east.
No sooner had they tumbled into their firing holes when Yoshioka ordered them to open fire on her mark in approximately twenty seconds.
Springer relayed the command to the three resistance fighters in her own words. “Gupta, Umarov, Schimschak, Halici, and Binning. Just five Marines to charge an entire army. It would be a miracle if they broke the enemy, wouldn’t it? But they will succeed, and we’re the ones who’re gonna make them heroes. Keep them busy to begin with and don’t get shot. Once the good guys get close, target anyone who doesn’t run, and don’t miss. Wait for me to fire first.”
She waited for Yoshioka’s mark and then sent a long burst of fire along the front of the enemy down the slope. Rifle fire barked from the holes to her left and right.
The enemy returned fire, sending a bullet pinging off her helmet.
Springer fired back, desperate to distract the enemy for as long as possible because when her worm camera swiveled slightly to the right, she saw a sight so remarkable she made damned sure she was recording it in her personal archive. A stirring example of valor or utter lunacy: she hadn’t made her mind up yet. Gupta, Umarov and the other three Marines were already halfway down the slope, straining to close with the enemy. Through external helmet speakers distorting under maximum amplification they screamed their battle cry: “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”
They could be shouting ‘get your flea treatment here’ for all the alien enemy knew of Human speech, but the cries won the monkeys’ attention, though that was soon diverted to the pairs of crescent shaped combat blades carried by Umarov, Halici and… surprisingly Sergeant Gupta too.
Most of the Hardits stared, perplexed. It made no sense for five humans to charge them, so there must be another, hidden, threat. They ignored the Five and searched for the true danger.
A few ran, choosing to risk the ire of their own guns.
A tiny number saw the Five as targets, steadying themselves to take aimed shots at the mad, charging humans.
Springer and the resistance fighters shot as many of these resilient Hardits as they could. It was enough. Gupta’s madsters screamed down the hill without slowing. The human line transformed into a spearhead as Umarov and Halici, the two century-old Marines in the center began to outpace the others.
With a final, bestial ululation, the tiny human spearpoint pierced the Hardit mob. Springer watched for a moment as her buddy, Umarov, flashed his blades in a lethal blur that left dying Hardits to left and right.
Springer remembered what she was there to do and shot any monkey with any fight left.
Most of them were too dumbfounded to do more than watch as the humans passed inside the mass of Hardits and were soon lost to view.
It looked as if the Marines had been overwhelmed.
Those Hardits farthest from the point of entry forgot the Five and began such a heavy rain of fire up the hill that Springer ordered her Resistance comrades to take cover and leave the suppressive fire to her,
When the Hardit fire slackened, Springer chanced a good look to see why.
She whistled inside her helmet at what she saw. Gupta’s Five hadn’t been overwhelmed at all. Like a red-hot spear thrust into water, fleeing Hardits were bubbling out from the spearpoint’s passage, knocking their fellows into the dirt in blind panic to escape the deadly humans.
“They’ve done it!” screamed Springer through her helmet speakers. “They’ve only frakkin’ gone and done it! Told you they would.”
Then a familiar sound whistled through the air. A terrible sound. Springer’s elation froze.
“Incoming!” she cried, diving for the bottom of her hole.
Plasma bombs landed all around her position, releasing blinding flashes of violet starfire that burned the air and melted the ground.
Springer curled into a ball, hands over her head. As if that would protect her.
The bombardment was merciless, unceasing.
Then her luck ran out.
A bomb landed against the lip of her firing hole. It was a glancing impact that splashed most of the plasma along the ground, but the impact spattered a little into the hole… onto Springer.
“No! Not again! Please!”
She was back again on that Antilles moonbase where that plasma blast had burned her; where first Arun and then the Jotun ensign had shielded her with their bodies, crushing her under their weight.
Trapped! Burning!
Burning!
Everything turned black. The scorching of her body continuing in darkness.
Deep instinct and training took over.
She undid her neck seals and ripped off the ruined helmet with its melted visor. She could see once more… see that her uncovered legs were burning, but with the covering of hot dirt that had showered onto her, not plasma.
By wiping off the worst of the burning soil with her gauntlet, and rubbing fresh mud over her legs, most of the pain subsided. But still she couldn’t fix the burning pain in her lower left leg.
She had to force herself to stare at the space where the missing part of her leg should have been, until her brain convinced itself it could no longer burn. That it had burned away two years ago.
Only then did she look around at her comrades in the neighboring firing holes. She saw melted rifles stuck by smoking black strips of meat to the charred skeletal hands of bodies more bone than flesh.
The grins of the corpses mocked her. One more hit from a plasma bomb and you’ll be the same as us.
They were right.
The survivors of Arun’s force were massively outnumbered. Springer’s helmet and lower armor were gone. Comms out. Mobility limited. Ammo low.
Everything said she was dead except for one thing. She knew Arun would survive. Xin too, the worthless piece of drent, and with Xin safely out of the way on Beowulf, the sly veck hadn’t yet turned Arun’s mind.
Which meant, Springer knew, that she was the one that Arun still loved.
And while he loved her, he would never leave her behind.
Arun was her only hope now.
— Chapter 41 —
Arun had heard no word from Puja for forty minutes. It had been twenty since Springer vanished from BattleNet and still his mind skidded around that fact, unable to face the implications of what her going off grid really meant.
For a while, Arun had dared to believe that Gupta’s charge had broken the Hardit spirit. When Gupta’s heroes had returned up the hill, the enemy had been too consumed by their headlong retreat to even notice. But the merciless Hardit gunners at their rear had lashed their lines, stemming their retreat. Since then, the hapless militia had twice swept passed the first two lines of human defenders, beaten back at great cost but only as far as the first line of firing holes, which were now in enemy hands.
The Hardits were targeting individual Marines now, mobbing them in packs armed with pneumatic drills which they used to smash open helmet visors�
� and through the human face behind.
Arun couldn’t deny it any longer. The enemy was winning this battle of attrition, and was in such close contact that the Legion couldn’t disengage.
The situation was hopeless.
“They’re coming from the rear!”
The warning came from Curtis, one of Spartika’s resistance fighters they’d liberated from the labor camp.
Arun turned in time to see a group of Hardits coming for him from the south.
His muscles felt leaden as he brought his carbine to bear. We’re surrounded. It’s over! Despair gnawed at his stomach, not for his own sake but for his fellow Marines. They had trusted him, followed their mustang officer faithfully, and he had led them to this. So much for destiny.
He only managed to shoot one dead before they jumped him, half a dozen at once… enough to topple him backward into the bottom of the trench.
Two of the little vecks wrenched his carbine out of his grip. The others pinned him down. All except one, who brought out a drill and set its bit spinning.
A drill bit that would shatter his visor and tear through his eye…
“No!”
Blind panic gave Arun enough of an emergency shot of strength to dislodge the Hardits, spilling them over the trench.
He punched the nearest Hardit in the snout, delighting in the blissful sensation of the filthy veck’s upper jaw shattering as he drove his armored fist deep into its mouth.
Every nerve was firing like a perfectly engineered machine, thoughts of failure deserting. This was the way to go out!
He rose to a crouch “Come on, you dirty monkeys,” he taunted the Hardits, who had backed away a half step. “Who’s next?”
“Behind you!” screamed Curtis.
Arun threw himself against the side of the trench as a Hardit behind him tried to shoot him with his own carbine.
The burst of fire missed him and blasted the Hardits in front.
Arun dove at the Hardit who seemed stunned that she’d killed her own comrades. He snatched his carbine back, jabbing its stock into the Hardit’s belly, making her stagger back into the pack trying to rush him.
Renegade Legion (The Human Legion Book 3) Page 14