Portal Wars: The Trilogy

by Jay Allan

Daniels leaned down, grabbing a rifle from one of his stricken soldiers, firing now with a gun in each hand as he lunged up to the landing and blasted away through the door.

  “Go, Jake,” he screamed as he pushed through the door and onto the floor beyond. “Good luck, my friend.”

  Taylor watched Daniels with admiration and amazement. He’d known Hank Daniels as long as he could remember, but he was still surprised by the strength and courage of his old friend. But there was no time, now, not for admiration…not to worry about Daniels, to respond to the feeling in his gut, the fear that he’d just sent yet another friend to his death.

  “Let’s go,” he yelled, glancing behind him as he did. His soldiers had been running by, following Daniels up the stairs and through the heavy door. Taylor spotted one of his veterans, a man he’d fought with on Erastus, back when they’d both been normal soldiers. “Captain Turren, bring three squads and follow me.” He stood where he was and yelled. “Everybody else, follow General Daniels!”

  Taylor’s eyes snapped to Turren. The officer nodded and said, “Ready, sir!”

  Taylor returned the nod. Then he raced up the stairs, ignoring the residual fire still rattling around the stairwell.

  Three more flights. Then the final showdown.

  Assuming Samovich is there. If he isn’t, four billion people will die.

  And I will kill Alexi Drogov myself.

  * * *

  Wickes was exhausted, beaten. He knew he was dead. And he was ready. He thought again of New York, of the millions dead, a great city gone, reduced to a few twisted bits of metal, poisoned by radiation. Of friends dead, of men and women who’d followed him. All dead.

  He’d felt the elation of victory, the surge of excitement that New York had been freed, that North America was in open rebellion. For an instant, he’d let himself believe it was possible. That UNGov could be defeated. But that hope disappeared in a storm of nuclear fury. New York was gone…and he had no doubt the same fate awaited any other city that threw off the yoke of UNGov.

  If it hasn’t happened already…is Boston still there? Philadelphia? Chicago?

  He hadn’t moved. He would stand right where he was, meet the enemy here for the last time. He had no illusions. This was his last battle, and it wouldn’t last long. Indeed, the enemy could have blasted him from the air. The fact that they hadn’t suggested they wanted to take him prisoner, another victim for their interrogation chambers. Wickes had no intention of being taken alive, but he intended to use whatever opportunities he had to take some of the enemy with him.

  The ships were on the ground, and he could see figures emerging. He couldn’t make out much in the shadowy gloom, but that didn’t matter. Their attempt to take him captive would give him one final gift. A chance to kill his enemies one final time.

  He’d had his gun in his hand, but he reholstered it. They had to believe he was surrendering…at least until they were close enough. Then…

  He saw them coming, a dozen at least. He knew he couldn’t kill them all, not before they took him down. But the numbers didn’t matter. What was important was that he die fighting, weapon in hand, true to his cause to the end. Death was inevitable, all he had left of free choice was to determine how he died.

  He watched as they came forward.

  They should fan out more…they’re all clumped together. An easy target. Sloppy.

  He squeezed his hand, trying to gather his fleeting strength for the last few seconds, the final battle. He focused on the lead figure, obviously the commander. Just a few more steps…

  “Don’t move,” the soldier in the front said. His voice was firm, demanding. But there was something odd. He’d heard UNGov enforcers for decades, and they shared an arrogance, one he didn’t hear now.

  No, no distractions…

  His hand moved slowly toward his pistol.

  Just another step…

  “Are you one of Captain Charles’ men? Or a member of the New York Resistance?”

  Wait…something’s not right.

  His hand twitched, ready to lunge for the weapon. But something held him back.

  “I am Major Arlington, Army of Liberation,” the man yelled. “Please, stand where you are. Don’t make us shoot you…”

  Wickes felt a wave of uncertainty. Was it possible? Or just a trick? The idea of yielding, of being taken by a simple lie was too much to bear. His choice was stark, fight now, and die…or allow himself to be taken. And if these were UNGov soldiers, yielding meant he would lose his chance to die in arms, that his last days would be filled with unimaginable torment.

  But they know Captain Charles…if these are General Taylor’s soldiers…

  He thought, for a second that seemed like an eternity. And then he made his decision.

  He held his hands out from his sides, and stood firm, totally still.

  “I am Captain Stan Wickes, New York Resistance.”

  * * *

  Taylor burst through the door and lunged forward, his soldiers streaming through behind him. “Where,” he screamed. “Where would Samovich be?”

  Drogov was right next to Taylor. He took a look around the large open area. “His office is this way.” He pointed down the hall, just as a group of guards came running from that direction.

  The Supersoldiers behind Taylor spread out and began firing, dropping close to a dozen of the enemy guards before they managed to return fire. By then Taylor and his people had ducked behind the makeshift cover the room offered.

  The UNGov guards were mostly in the open, and the deadly fire of the Supersoldiers was gunning them down in clumps. But these weren’t normal security troops, they were Secretariat Guards, the most elite soldiers in service to UNGov. They lost perhaps twenty of their number, but then they too dove for cover, and the firefight slowed, became closer to even. Taylor’s soldiers had the edge in ability and experience, but they were outnumbered. And worse, they were running out of time.

  “How quickly can Samovich destroy the cities?”

  Drogov was crouched behind a desk next to Taylor. “He has a series of codes to enter, but once he decides to do it, no more than a few minutes.”

  “You know him best, Drogov. Will he do it? And when?”

  “Normally, he’d wait to see if his security took your people out…especially if he knows you’re here. He would want to see if your army fell apart without you if his forces managed to kill you.” He paused uncomfortably. “But now, I just don’t know. I think he’s lost his rationality…and that means he could do anything.”

  Taylor sighed, and he turned and looked over at his troops. The entire expedition had consisted of the best of the best…long service Erastus men, Supersoldiers all. And Turren had brought the cream of those with him. And Taylor was about to order most of them to die…

  “Captain, we’ve got to break through…now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Turren replied, not a hint of fear or resentment at Taylor’s command. “General Taylor needs us to break through, boys. On my command we go…”

  The words cut through Taylor.

  Yes…go die for me…

  Turren turned back toward Taylor and nodded. “Just give us a few seconds, sir. We’ll buy you the time you need.”

  Taylor just nodded. He knew he should say something, express gratitude or appreciation. But no words came.

  Turren lunged forward, leaping over the desk as he yelled, “Charge!”

  Taylor watched as the soldiers followed, every one of them. Men who had served at his side for fifteen years or more. Men who were showing him now the true extent of their devotion.

  They started dropping immediately. They were charging soldiers armed with automatic weapons. They were slowed, forced to climb over desks and move around chairs and cabinets. But they didn’t waver, not for an instant. And they fired as they went, their enhanced eyes and neural implants making their aim deadly, even when running and jumping over obstacles.

  About half of them were down by the time they rea
ched the line of desks and overturned tables the UNGov forces were using as cover. But they didn’t hesitate…they threw themselves over the barricades, still shooting as they did. Those who had emptied their clips, or dropped their rifles as they jumped, attacked with fists and feet, breaking jaws and ribs with single blows, arms wrapping around the necks of the UNGov soldiers, squeezing, snapping.

  Taylor was horrified. He’d seen terrible battles in his life, but it never got easier to watch his soldiers die, especially when he’d sent them on a virtual suicide mission. But one thing would be worse. To allow it all to be in vain.

  “Let’s go, Drogov.” He paused, for just an instant. “And if we don’t get Samovich…if my men died in vain, I am going to kill you.”

  Drogov didn’t respond, he just nodded. And then the two lunged over the desk, running toward the Secretary-General’s office.

  * * *

  Wickes was lying on a makeshift cot in the back of the airship. He’d been fading in and out of consciousness since shortly after he’d been rescued. He still couldn’t believe it. His pursuers had indeed been AOL soldiers, sent to search for survivors from the crashes. It turned out only two of the four airships heading for Boston had gone down. The others had been shaken up but managed to stay airborne and make forced, but safe, landings. Their crews had just begun to search for survivors from the other two ships when a squadron of new flyers showed up, fresh from AOL headquarters and sent to reinforce the rebels in New York.

  Wickes realized his own survival instincts, his drive to press on immediately, had only delayed his rescue. If he’d stayed where we was he would have been found far sooner, and gotten medical treatment two days earlier too. He knew he was in bad shape, but none of that mattered to him. Not anymore. His rescuers had brought him more than an escape…they had carried word with them. The AOL had met UNGov’s main army, and they’d crushed it utterly. Even now, they were advancing on Geneva. Wickes was still heartbroken about New York, but the thought that UNGov might fall any day, that the world would regain its freedom—it was almost more than he could process. His friends, the people of New York…they had not died for nothing.

  “I see you’re awake again, Captain.” Lou Vane knelt down next to the improvised bed he’d managed to cobble together to accommodate his patient. “That’s good. I think you’re responding to the anti-rad agents. It’s time for another shot.”

  Wickes looked back at the medic—Vane wasn’t a doctor, just a non-com trained in field triage and first aid. But radiation was a fact of life on the modern battlefield, and Wickes knew he was fortunate his caregiver had both knowledge and meds for treating radiation sickness. Still, Wickes could tell Vane was worried. The sergeant had tried to hide it, unsuccessfully.

  “I do feel better, Lou. Thanks for all you’ve done.” He almost didn’t add anything, but he found he had no taste for playacting or lies. Not now. “But we both know I’m too far gone for this. You’ll buy me a few extra days, but that’s all. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

  “Did they teach you in Marine camp to be so pessimistic?” Vane grabbed Wickes’ arm and jabbed in the injector.

  Wickes winced. His skin was sensitive, almost sore…another side effect of the radiation sickness. It wasn’t the worst symptom by far, but it did make the shots hurt quite a bit. “They taught us realism, Lou.”

  “Well, you might be right, Captain. Save for one thing. We’re on our way back to army headquarters. When General Young heard about what happened in New York, he ordered us to bring you back at once. He wants to meet you…and to be sure you get the medical care you need.”

  Wickes looked back at the medic, his eyes wide with surprise. “You have trans-continental communications?”

  “Yes. That’s how we found out what had happened here. We picked up a signal from your broadcast.” He paused a moment. Then his voice turned somber. “The one you made with Captain Charles.”

  A shadow passed over Wickes’ face. Rod Charles had been a good man, one who’d become a close friend, even in the few days they’d spent together. It was wrong he hadn’t lived to see this.

  “Anyway,” the medic continued, “that’s when General Young sent us here. And we left a trail of airships on station to relay comm traffic back and forth.”

  Wickes felt a wave of energy…more than he’d had in days. He wasn’t sure if it was the meds or the news—probably both—but he picked himself up, raising his head for a few seconds before he dropped back down, overcome by dizziness.

  “Just rest, Captain. I know you feel better, but you’re still in rough shape. But as soon as we get you back to headquarters, you’ll get the treatment you really need. You’re going to be fine.” He smiled. “Just fine.”

  Chapter 27

  From the Journal of Jake Taylor:

  Four years of war. Hell unimaginable. Worlds traversed, friends lost. And for all those lost, the tens of thousands dead, the sacrifice and heroism and courage of legions of soldiers…the fate of Earth came down to a small battle, barely a skirmish by the standards of my army. And to the actions not of an ally, but of an enemy.

  Taylor’s heart was pounding in his ears, his body slick with sweat. It wasn’t the physical danger, nor concern he’d be killed or wounded. No, it was worse than that. He was afraid he’d be too late, that Samovich would have already detonated the warheads. That the blood of four billion people would be on his hands.

  Drogov was behind him. The ex-UNGov assassin was experienced and well-trained, in excellent physical condition. But he couldn’t keep up with a half-cyborg with more than fifteen years of experience fighting in the worst hells mankind had ever found. Taylor was about two meters ahead. He knew he shouldn’t take his eyes off his tenuous new ally, but he had no choice. He’d left his soldiers behind, in two desperate firefights. Those men were dying, many of them at least, to clear the way for him to get to Samovich. And he’d be damned if he would let their sacrifices be for nothing.

  He lunged ahead, running down the hall. A guard leapt in front of him, but he whipped up his rifle and fired, almost instinctively. The soldier’s head exploded, and he dropped to the ground, clearly dead. He was the third of Samovich’s guards to try and block Taylor…and the third to die.

  The door was ahead. It was closed, but Taylor didn’t slow down…he pushed harder off his legs, accelerating. Every second could be the one that saved billions. He lunged with one last, herculean push, throwing himself into the door with all the power his enhanced legs could manage.

  He felt the impact, the pain from the heavy door in the instant it held against his onslaught…then the cracking, the movement as it gave way. He fell forward, rolling into the room, his head snapping around, scanning his surroundings. The office was large, immense. It was plusher than anything he’d ever seen, with floor to ceiling windows on three sides and furnishings so luxurious, their value was obvious. But his eyes weren’t distracted by the view, and his focus settled on the three guards in the room, even now turning toward him, rifles drawn.

  He let himself continue forward, using his momentum to bring him back up to his feet, even as the rifle swung around and fired. The first guard fell back, a hole in his forehead and blood pouring down his face. But Taylor didn’t hold his gaze to watch. He was already turning, firing on the second.

  His enemy was bringing his own rifle around, but he was too late. Taylor’s first shot took him hard in the chest, and the next two ripped into his neck. He dropped his gun and fell, his hands grasping at the terrible wounds as he dropped.

  Taylor was moving around to the third. But these soldiers were no ordinary UNGov conscripts. They were Secretarial Guard, as well trained as Taylor’s own men, or nearly so. They weren’t cyborgs, and their capabilities were no match for Taylor’s. But they were ready and waiting when he burst in, and there had been three of them. The last one brought his rifle around, and even as Taylor took aim, he fired.

  Taylor felt the round slam into his chest. He gasped hard fo
r breath, feeling the pain of the bullet shattering a rib, burying itself in his lung. But he’d been wounded before, and his discipline was absolute. He ignored the pain, set aside the fear of a critical wound. His body was pumped full of stimulants, and he felt the wave of nanobots releasing, rushing through his blood toward the injured area.

  It was a bad wound, one that might have instantly killed a normal man. But Taylor was still on his feet, still bringing his weapon around. He pulled the trigger, and the rifle spewed automatic fire, dropping the soldier in a spray of blood.

  Taylor staggered forward, bringing his gun toward the man seated behind the desk.

  “Stop, General Taylor,” said the man, his hand resting on the keyboard of the workstation. “One keystroke and billions die.”

  Taylor froze.

  “At least I assume you are General Taylor. I am Anton Samovich. Pleased to meet you at last.” There was a strange tone in Samovich’s voice. Taylor recognized insanity. Samovich had lost his mind…and his button was on the deadliest trigger that had ever existed.

  “Don’t,” Taylor said, trying to keep the tension from his voice, but doubting he had succeeded.

  “I am tempted to pull the trigger no matter what, General. These people do not appreciate what I, what all of us at UNGov have done for them. They deserve this, no?” Samovich laughed. Then his voice became deeper, more threatening. “Drop the gun, General. Drop it now, or you will kill four billion people.”

  Taylor stared back for an instant, his eyes gauging the distance between him and Samovich.

  Can I make it? Can I get to him before he hits that key?

  No, he realized. It was just too far. And his wound would slow him down.

  He felt his hands tighten around his rifle, a subconscious protest against the thoughts in his mind. But then he opened his hands, let the weapon drop.

  “Very good, General. Now back up. You’re a little closer than I’d like considering those cyborg improvements you’ve got. A gift from me, I might add.”