Killzone, Ascendancy

by Sam Bradbury

  Not that matters had gone according to plan, certainly not at first. Six months ago, the senators had enjoyed the benefits of their hermetically sealed environment in order to view the action below. Watching the Arcturus escape, there had been much pursing of lips, and one or two disgruntled mutterings. The senators had watched Admiral Orlock carefully. In turn the Admiral had showed no emotion, simply standing with his hands clasped behind his back, watching events below. The next development was one that had pleased the assembled dignitaries greatly. And they’d allowed themselves a smattering of applause when the flaming wreckage of the Dauntless had sliced into the body of the Compulsion, sending the cruiser hurtling towards the ground, enveloped by fire; next breaking into laughter as the three ISA Intruders, bound for the sanctuary of the Dauntless, were suddenly forced to make their escape.

  Stahl of course had watched the proceedings with a rising sense of trepidation, realizing that there were a number of outcomes that might prove unfavourable to him – not conducive to his plans. His tactics rather depended on Admiral Orlock being made to look foolish and incompetent. The MAWLR was after all a product of Scolar Visari’s development labs; if it succeeded in destroying all three of the ISA’s cruisers it would be seen as a vindication of the dead autarch’s policies, not to mention his industrial and business acumen. It would be a victory for Visari and thus also for his fawning disciples. When the Arcturus had left, Stahl had felt a little warm thrill in the pit of his stomach – the exquisite sensation of a well-laid scheme coming to fruition; a sweet, luxuriant tingle; a reminder of his own great skills as a tactician.

  However, the thrill had been short-lived. Next, Visari’s MAWLR had destroyed the Dauntless, and it might as well have destroyed the Compulsion too, for that ship was annihilated in the same action. The MAWLR, then, quite a success – a success for Visari, by proxy Admiral Orlock; a defeat for Jorhan Stahl.

  Nevertheless, there was a handful of ISA troops who had escaped. This despite the fact that the skies had been full of Helghast fighters and battleships, and the ground crawling with infantry, including commandos and elite shock troopers. The escapees had been allowed to somehow evaporate, like mist, their tiny Intruders able to avoid an onslaught of missile batteries and AA fire, even blasts from petrusite cannons. They had gone to ground. Two groups of them, as far as they knew. But as for where they were the senate was clueless.

  There had followed six months of cluelessness during which Stahl had basked in that same delightful sensation of his own cleverness. Six months of meetings during which he had been able to remind Admiral Orlock of the failure of his tactics. What tremendous sport – the only drawback being that he could not allow himself to gloat as fully as he would wish. There would, however, be time for that.

  And so now they gathered, as usual: Stahl with his capture troopers and Orlock with his personal bodyguard, and Stahl gazed across the great meeting table at Orlock with flinty eyes, ready to bait the old warhorse once again.

  ‘It’s been six months since Visari was murdered and where is the ISA?’ he announced airily. ‘Why haven’t you found them yet?’

  Senator Gunsteling, who Stahl despised above all other senators, being the oldest and most decrepit of Visari’s lickspittles, replied in a wheedling tone, ‘But they’ve proved to be more tenacious than expected.’

  Stahl allowed himself a smile. This was so easy. There were senators here he had to bribe. But quite honestly he sometimes wondered why he bothered when those who remained loyal to Orlock were so hapless in their defence of him.

  ‘Which was my exact point six months ago,’ he said, and turned his gaze on Orlock. ‘If you had just listened to me, offered them whatever they wanted, we could have killed them and been done with it. But, no, you had to do it your way. You had to pound them until they scattered.’

  ‘The ISA will be dealt with in due time,’ rasped Orlock.

  ‘When?’ Stahl was playing to the room now. ‘Hours you said, not months. The people of Helghan want results, not empty promises from you, Orlock.’

  Inside Stahl was gleeful. No, Orlock had not managed to locate the ISA forces – he on the other hand knew exactly where they were; indeed, had taken several of their number prisoner.

  ‘Once again you’ve somehow managed to distract us from the real topic at hand. Why haven’t you delivered your weapon prototypes to the military?’

  Now we get to it, thought Stahl. The weapons.

  It was no secret that Stahl Arms had collected irradiated petrusite from close to the Red Dust blast and had been experimenting with it in order to create super-weapons. The military were keen to lay their hands on the prototypes, and at each meeting of the senate Stahl had assured members that matters were in hand.

  Of course, he had no intention whatsoever of handing anything to the military. It was quite frankly an insult to his intelligence that the senate thought he would meekly hand over his weapon prototypes – in other words, relinquish control of the most powerful weapons on the planet to his enemies. Yet they seemed to believe this and at every meeting Orlock would repeat his requests for updates into the development of the weapons and Stahl would smile and inform him that prototypes were being built ‘as we speak’ and that he would soon be in a position to show to the senate his development team’s schematics and models.

  The designs, he informed them with a smile, were going to blow them away.

  It seemed that Orlock assumed that Stahl would indeed do this at some point and it suited Stahl’s purpose to let the admiral continue believing this – except during those moments when he wished to rile the admiral.

  One of those moments being imminent.

  Now, in fact, and he smiled sweetly as he said, ‘Let me see … Why haven’t I delivered prototypes? Because, Admiral, this is irradiated petrusite far beyond anything you’ve used before. I refuse to place weapons of this magnitude in the hands of an incompetent.’

  Incendiary words, he knew, and they had the desired effect. Orlock stood, shaking with rage, while around them the other senators burst into excited chatter, some shouting, the bodyguards tense, eyeing one another.

  ‘That’s going too far, Stahl,’ yelled Senator Gunsteling, obedient lap dog that he was. ‘The admiral has been instrumental in the negotiations with the Vektan government.’

  ‘Too little, too late,’ smirked Stahl.

  Opposite him sat Senator Kuisma, whose predilection for young boys and his recklessness in pursuit of them had left him open to blackmail. Stahl had been more than happy to oblige, compiling several hours of footage of Kuisma in action. And he looked at him now, giving him an imperceptible nod, his cue to speak.

  ‘Given the admiral’s continued failure to eradicate the ISA from our home, I motion for the Helghast military to be placed in the direct control of someone who will use it more effectively: Chairman Stahl,’ said Kuisma obediently.

  Stahl nodded gratefully at Kuisma, as though this commendation came as a surprise to him, just as the rest of the table erupted into a rage, chief among them Orlock, who spluttered, ‘He is an industrialist.’

  ‘With a sizeable private army and the technology to back it up,’ countered Kuisma.

  If only they knew quite how sizeable, thought Stahl, who had spent the intervening months building his forces.

  ‘Is there a second?’ asked Senator Gunsteling.

  There was silence.

  ‘Motion denied,’ said Senator Gunsteling. The relief in the room was palpable.

  Stahl stood, disgusted. He pointed to Orlock. ‘As long as this man remains in sole charge of the military, I refused to commit my resources to your cause.’

  His capture troopers fell in behind him as he went to leave the room, doing so in full expectation of being persuaded to stay.

  He was not disappointed, hearing one of the senators mutter, ‘We need him.’ And there was a moment of silence at his back before Senator Gunsteling, with an accompanying snort of disgust from Admiral Orlock, said, ‘Jus
t a moment, Chairman.’

  Stahl stopped. And still with his back to the men he rearranged his expression so that as he turned he projected an air of hurt into the room.

  ‘Will you give us time to consider?’ asked Senator Gunsteling.

  ‘What?’ snapped Admiral Orlock.

  ‘In two days’ time,’ said Stahl, assuming a haughty air, ‘I’ll be making a live broadcast to the Helghast nation.’

  ‘About what?’ questioned Senator Gunsteling.

  ‘Something that will make your decision much easier,’ said Stahl enigmatically. And with that he turned on his heel and left, his shoes ringing on the polished floor, the huge double doors of the cavernous Senate Room clunking shut behind him, so that he was forced to imagine the shocked faces of the senators he left in his wake.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Six months we’d been hiding in the jungle. Six months of hell in a hostile, alien place where every tree and every mutant, luminescent plant hid a potential deadly poison, and every living thing was a mortal enemy; where the heat sapped our souls and the dense air burned our lungs.

  On the bright side, we were now the alliance’s most experienced jungle troops. On the not-so-bright side, we’d learned everything the hard way. Like PFT Oakley, who discovered that you should never reach for one of the countless vines and creepers that hang from the dark canopy of the jungle because they might shatter into sharp, lacerating fibres. He found that out when he ripped open most of his left arm, then picked up an infection in the wound. He wouldn’t be grabbing any more creepers any time soon. Not with both hands anyway – Doc Hanley had been forced to amputate.

  Infection: there was something else we got to learn about the hard way. Poisons were everywhere and could be absorbed in the most unexpected ways. Like certain fungi – if you brushed up against them, two days later your skin would start to change colour, take on a greenish-grey tinge. Two days after that the MO would be frowning at your readings. Two days after that you’d be screaming and begging for mercy. One of our guys put a bullet in himself just to ease the pain.

  Then there were the insects. Grotesque crawling things with wings that rustled, which would settle on your skin then pulse blackly as they began a meal of your blood; or the swarms of culicidae, long-legged and with sharp, flesh-piercing probosces. Each of us was stung hundreds of times a day – stung or feasted upon – knowing that each bite might bring death to our bloodstream. Death from what the Doc didn’t quite know, but the symptoms were similar to malaria or yellow fever, so he said, though neither he nor Junior had first-hand experience of either malaria or yellow fever. We didn’t have that back on Vekta. We didn’t have several billion flying insects capable of transmitting these diseases on Vekta. We had trees and meadows and picnics with Mom and Dad. Not small, slithering, poisonous creatures that only came at night, things out of a nightmare: spiders, frogs and snakes with their big bug eyes, skins gleaming green and gold, ruthless, indiscriminate survival experts.

  And we had no experience of the parasites that attached themselves to our skins as we slept. On Vekta the water was clean and you didn’t die from dehydration even though you were surrounded by pools and streams. If we took a bath in a stream or waterfall pool, we could expect to get out, dry ourselves off, relax and open a beer. Not here – not in this venomous, poisonous place. I saw a grunt come running from a river, screaming, covered in pulsing leeches, all over. And I do mean all over. He screamed loudest when they pulled the bloodsuckers from his dick. Nobody bothered taking baths after that.

  We were used to an enemy we could see and shoot, an enemy that had an ideology; that was who we’d been trained to face. Here in the jungle we were so far out of our comfort zone it wasn’t even funny. Dehydration, malnutrition, exhaustion – all of it was gradually defeating us. And the heat was killing us. Jesus, it sucked the energy from you, right from the moment you woke up until last thing at night, when the temperature would suddenly and violently drop so that while a mere hour or so ago your clothes had been dripping with perspiration now they froze to the skin. Men shivered with fever, then groaned with the heat, then trembled through the freezing nights.

  After a while it got to you that you rarely saw proper daylight. It was as though you were stuck in perpetual evening, surrounded by the moans of your feverish comrades, with the ticking, buzzing, humming, scratching, shuffling, scuttling and slithering sounds of the jungle all around you.

  Like I say: hell.

  So how come we were there? Why put a bunch of grunts into hostile, unfamiliar territory, limiting their chances of survival, gradually whittling down their numbers? Why do all that?

  First, because the jungle was a good hiding place. In the six months since the failed evac, the Helghast had been looking for us, and thanks to the canopy it was almost impossible to find us using ground infantry, while the foliage jumbled their tracking systems. Even if they knew we were here, they couldn’t find us.

  Just as importantly, though, the jungle was where the uplink was based.

  All those months ago we’d set up our first base in the vicinity of the grounded cruiser, Valiant, which had been shot down during the first wave of the Helghast fight-back. Bandit Recon had made forays, hoping to find it, and had done, discovering that most of the Valiant’s comms equipment was still operational. Bandit was able to establish an uplink capable of relaying a signal from the camp and boosting it to Earth. We got happy that day and, minutes after Earth came online, Narville had entered the makeshift comms room to speak to them, the hopeful cheers of his men ringing in his ears. Some had even begun to pack their things. Grunts were talking brightly about evac being in a matter of days, and how we’d need to oscar mike to an evac zone, and as soon as we were there the ISA cruisers would appear in our orbit and the next thing we’d see would be Intruders dropping to rescue us, our comrades inside smiling and waving and drawling, ‘Hey, what the fuck took you so long?’

  Didn’t play out like that, though.

  Narville had emerged a defeated man. First of all there was to be no immediate evac. Negotiations were taking place between the UCN and the Helghast senate. Sure, we were still at war. But a major military operation – a rescue attempt, for example – might be seen as an escalation in hostilities, and jeopardize the negotiations.

  As Narville spoke, his voice flat and emotionless, his chin set, the soldiers’ heads had begun to drop. They began to murmur, ‘This is bullshit. Bullshit.’

  However, said Narville, quietening them with a hand, Earth would be prepared to mount a covert operation to effect a rescue. And their heads went up a little. We should hang tight, he said, while Earth set the wheels in motion. The operation would require careful planning and preparation. We can’t expect miracles, gentlemen.

  No, there are no miracles in the jungle. Because that was three months ago. Three months of survival and three months of living for the uplink like it was our God.

  We stayed close to our God – when we had to move base, we stayed within comms distance of the uplink. And we protected our God. We kept Bandit Recon out there to guard it night and day.

  And each day it looked more hopeless, until I was beginning to think that we should move base – only right out of the jungle now, because it was killing us – one by one. We could leave a squad by the uplink, I was insisting whenever Narville would listen – which was never. Told to stay as close to the uplink as possible, he was damn sure going to obey that order.

  Then we lost Gedge and there was still no sign of an evac date. I was beginning to wonder whether Earth really had our best interests at heart, and that just maybe, to them, we were expendable, and I was still wondering that right up until the morning that Kowalski came running over to me, more animated than usual.

  Like most of us, he was bearded, his hair unkempt, but, unlike most of us, it suited him – gave him the look of an old-time trapper. The rest of us just looked like guys in need of hair clippers. We’d come into the jungle looking like grunts;
we were going to leave it looking like prehistoric men.

  If we ever left it.

  Kowalski leaned in towards me, lowering his voice. ‘Sir, Bandit Recon missed their last check-in. That was two hours ago.’

  ‘What about the signal?’

  ‘There isn’t one, sir.’

  ‘The uplink’s down?’

  ‘Looks that way, sir.’

  My stomach did a flip. ‘We’d better go see Narville,’ I sighed.

  We found Narville across camp. ‘Sergeant, tell me something good,’ he said. ‘What’s the news on our evacuation transport from Earth?’ He was doing his best to sound as though he had his act together. Like that shit with Gedge had never happened.

  ‘Bandit Recon is gone, sir,’ I told him. ‘We’ve lost the radio uplink to Earth Command.’

  His head dropped. ‘Tell me it’s not the Helghast.’

  Kowalski butted in. ‘If it is, they’re using a new kind of comms signal. We’re not picking up anything. Not them … not Earth …’

  ‘And they’re gonna find us,’ I interrupted. ‘It’s only a matter of time. We’ve got to keep moving.’

  Narville shook his head. ‘Listen. We stay put until Earth Fleet arrives. Like you said, it’s only a matter of time. Until then, get that radio uplink working.’

  Kowalski moved off and Narville took hold of my arm. ‘You know what’s at stake here, Sevchenko,’ he said. He looked me in the eye for what was probably the first time since Gedge had been taken. ‘That uplink’s our only hope of getting out of here alive.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘I know.’

  I grabbed Kowalski and we pulled on tactical vests and body armour, slipped M32 combat knives into sheaths and packed grenades into packs; we adjusted knee and elbow pads, secured M4 revolvers and silencers, checked our M82s, checked them again and packed maximum ammo. We looked at each other: groovy.