by Jay Allan
The reserves were a different story. They were decent troops, and at least half of them had combat experience during the rebellion. But civilian life sapped readiness quickly, and they weren’t even close to a match for his regulars. Their equipment was substandard too. They had decent partial body armor, but nothing powered. Without nuclear-powered fighting suits they couldn’t handle the hyper-velocity coilguns his fully-armored troops wielded…and that meant a lot less penetrating capability if the enemy was powered infantry. The slower muzzle velocity of the standard assault rifles necessitated a larger projectile to cause the desired damage on impact. That meant 50 rounds to a clip instead of 500, which contributed to an overall firepower differential of at least 80%. Simply put, the powered units weren’t just better protected…they could outshoot the reservists by a wide margin. That would be true of invading powered infantry too.
They didn’t know what the enemy had, but they were about to find out. The ground stations had detected the incoming landers 12 minutes before. They’d be on the ground any time, and shortly after that, Lucas and the rest of the Columbian defenders would have a better idea of what they faced. And what kind of chance they had.
An analysis of the landing pattern suggested a move on Weston from the east. That meant they’d be coming right at Lucas’ entrenched defenders. “I want all you to keep your eyes on those scanners.” He was on the unitwide com. He knew his people were scared, but he be damned if any of them were going to do less than their 100% best. “Anybody falls asleep at the switch they’re gonna have to deal with me.”
The com crackled with an incoming message on the command line. “Sergeant Lucas…Captain Charles here.”
“Yes, sir. Lucas here.”
“Your people ready, Jed?”
“Yes, captain.” Lucas could hear the tension in Charles’ voice. The captain was another veteran from the rebellion who had transitioned into the new army. Lucas didn’t think Charles had expected to be back in the field this soon any more than he had. “I have all the reserve units in the rear until we can see what we’re facing.” He had a bad feeling about what was going to come out of those landers.
“Alright, Jed. Stay sharp. It looks like they’re coming our way.”
“Yes, sir.” He was nervous, but he shoved the doubts aside. They were unproductive, and he didn’t have time for that now. “We’re ready.”
“It looks like you were right, sir. The landing pattern suggests an attack on Weston.” Stillson was focused on her scanner, relaying data to Tyler as soon as she got it. It was no surprise that Weston was a primary target, but the enemy was coming in close, apparently forming up for an immediate drive on the capital. That was a bad sign. A precise landing close in to an objective was a tricky piece of soldiering, something only veterans would usually try.
“Advise Captain Charles.” Tyler’s voice was unemotional. His game face was on. Maybe it was his new powers…or maybe it was seeing his world threatened for the third time, but he’d never felt harder resolve. If these people wanted Columbia, he was going to make them bleed for it. “Tell him I want his people 100% ready.”
“Yes, sir.” She relayed the message. “General, sir!” She sounded upset, confused.
“What is it, lieutenant?”
“Sir…the landing craft.” She hesitated, looking back at her screen confirming what she already knew. “They’re Gordons, general.”
Tyler’s head snapped around. “Gordons?”
“Yes, sir. Confirmed.”
What the hell, he thought…what is going on? The TX-11 Gordon landing craft had been used by the Alliance Marines for 25 years. They’d been partially replaced in recent years by the newer, larger TX-15 Liggetts, but it was still an active Marine system, and he’d never heard of them being used by anyone else.
Could there be some kind of mistake? No, he realized. Whatever troops were on those landers, their naval escorts had pulverized the orbital forts without so much as a perfunctory demand for surrender. These weren’t Marines; they couldn’t be. They were enemies.
Still, the invaders were using Gordons. He had no idea how that had happened, but he knew it meant one thing for sure. “Lieutenant, advise all units that the incoming enemy first wave consists entirely of power infantry.” The Gordons were open sleds, designed to land troops in self-contained powered armor units. No one unprotected would survive the trip to the surface.
“Yes, sir.” Stillson scowled, angry at not realizing that herself. “Attention all units.” She spoke into the main com, addressing every soldier on Columbia. “Incoming enemy forces are powered infantry units. Repeat, enemy forces are entirely powered infantry formations.”
Tyler stood almost entirely still, silent, thinking. How are we going to do this? He was hesitant to guess at enemy strength, but based on the number and size of the transports, it looked like his people were dealing with at least 10,000 powered infantry…and maybe as many as 20,000. The more he thought about it, the more he felt his helplessness grow. There was no way his army was going to turn back a force of that strength. Confidence and courage could accomplish a great deal, but eventually, mathematics asserted itself.
He felt himself pushing back against the growing despair, defiance rising up within him to counter his fear. He had total power…he could do anything, employ any means he deemed necessary. What, he wondered, would he be willing to do…how far would he go?
He turned and walked back into his office. Stillson was watching, but she stayed silent. She was scared of what was coming, but she was grateful, at least, that she wasn’t in Tyler’s shoes. She couldn’t imagine the pressure on him.
“Close the door.” He snapped at the AI, walking toward his desk as the hatch whooshed shut. He moved around the edge of the worktable, flopping down hard into his chair. What are you willing to do, he thought again…how far are you willing to go to win this fight?
“Display file Omega-12.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed as he massaged his forehead.
“File Omega-12 is classified subject to level 7 protocols.” The AI had a slightly mechanical sound to it, but it was more the cadence of the words rather than the tone of voice. “Voice recognition confirmed, Tyler, Jarrod Scott, General, ColCom. Please provide secondary passcode for final access.”
Tyler let out a deep breath. “Access code alfa-7-foxtrot-whiskey-delta-3-3-8-papa.”
“Access code approved. Displaying file Omega-12.”
A series of columns scrolled down his screen. He opened his eyes and leaned forward, looking at the first few rows. “Yes,” he whispered softly to himself, “how far will you go if it comes to it? What are you willing to do for victory? Will you destroy Columbia to save it?”
His eyes focused on the file now displayed on his screen, and he started reading softly to himself. “Inventory number 17034A – Fission-triggered lithium deuteride warhead, yield 2.14 mt, A4 missile delivery system, quantity 7. Inventory number 17034B – Fission-triggered tritium warhead, yield 214kt, portable battlefield delivery system, quantity 22. Inventory number 17034C…”
“Keep that fire going. You guys are doing great.” Lucas hopped over the small berm and into the shallow trench. “Now I want you to angle that fire more to the left. The troops in sector D are getting slammed.”
“Yes, sarge.” Tony Paine swung around the heavy auto-cannon, guiding the barrel as his gunner moved it left.
“A little more.” Lucas was watching the line of fire as it flashed across the field. The fire from the auto-cannons looked almost like an old time idea of a ray gun. The atmosphere super-heated the hyper-velocity projectiles almost immediately, creating an orange glow all along the line of fire. “Perfect.” He put his hand up, signaling for Paine to stop.
Lucas turned, starting to climb back up and behind the trench. The battle was young, but things were already hot. His people were holding their positions, but barely. He’d been running back and forth for three hours, micromanaging, adjusting every emplacemen
t and encouraging his soldiers’ faltering morale. “You’re doing great, guys.” He’d already told them that, but he figured a quick repeat couldn’t hurt. “You gotta hold here, you understand me? Until you get orders otherwise.” A short break. “No matter what. I’m counting on you both.”
“Yeah, sarge, no problem.” It was Private White this time, sounding almost cheerful. He was a natural-born gunner, and he’d been sweeping the field clean with the massive auto-cannon. His blood was up, and he was ready for the fight. It hadn’t even occurred to him yet to be scared or worried about the battle.
“You got it, sergeant.” Corporal Paine was a little less enthusiastic, but he sounded solid. “You can count on us.”
“I know I can.” With that, he cut the line and hopped over the edge of the trench…off to the next trouble spot.
“C’mon, your motherfuckers!” White was firing the heavy gun on full. He must have taken down 50 of the enemy in the last ten minutes or so.
Paine was watching, prepping another ammo reload. The gun was redlining on temp. Reggie really needs to slow it down, he thought. He almost told the gunner to take a break, but he stopped himself. Reg White knew that auto-cannon like it was part of his arm. He’d get everything he could out of it, and there wasn’t a chance in a million he’d blow the thing.
White was a little crazy, but he was a natural soldier. He’d have been a sergeant at least by now, and maybe an officer, but when he wasn’t firing his gun, he was getting into one kind of trouble or another. Paine still had a hard time making himself give the more experienced soldier orders and, despite his higher rank, he relied heavily on the older man for advice.
“They’re gonna break through in the center.” White spoke calmly, with a firmness that suggested he didn’t have a doubt about what he was saying. “It doesn’t matter what Sergeant Lucas said…we’re gonna get the bug out orders in a minute or two.”
Paine looked up from the ammunition box he was opening. “You think?
“Yup.” He kept firing at full as he spoke. “Two of the other heavies are out already. Haven’t fired in more than ten minutes.” Paine was talking about the other heavy hyper-velocity SAWs along Lucas’ section of line. There were only four to start, so if he was right, there was only one other one still operating. And that meant trouble for the whole line.
Paine was always amazed at White’s ability to track what was going on halfway across the battlefield. The guy would make a great officer, he thought…if he could just learn to keep his mouth shut and stop picking stupid fights.
“Well, now I know why you’re redlining that thing.”
White laughed. “Yeah…She’ll hold out for another minute or two, and I doubt we’ll be here longer than that.” His voice was terse, distracted. He was focused on taking down as many enemies as he could. “Can you get one of those flash cooling modules ready just in case?”
“Sure.” Paine reached into the resupply canister. There were three of the small cylinders. The cooling modules were charged with nitrogen slush. They were designed to rapidly cool the gun while it was in the field.
“We’ve only got three of these things. This fight doesn’t look like it’s gonna end any time soon.”
“Yeah…that’s why I’ve been holding off. If we can get away with not using it now we’ll be glad later. But if we don’t get the recall in the next minute or two we’re gonna have to pull the trigger on it.”
Paine nodded, more for himself than to communicate anything. “What do we do when they’re gone?”
“How the hell do I know?” White was suppressing a laugh. “Crack our suits and piss on the thing?” He paused for a few seconds, staring at his tactical display. At least five minutes had passed since Lucas left. “OK, maybe I was wrong about that recall.” He stopped firing, looking out at the gun’s barrel. “We better crack that thing…”
“Attention Company C.” The incoming command message shut down his person to person transmission. “All personnel are ordered to pull back immediately to designated secondary positions.” He couldn’t place the voice on the com…somebody from HQ, he guessed. “Repeat, Company C is ordered to withdraw to secondary positions immediately.”
Paine slammed the cylinder back into its slot and closed the resupply box. He knew White was going to say it…he was just waiting.
Reggie pulled the auto-cannon down into the trench, folding its extensions into their retracted positions. “Let’s get this shit packed up and outta here, Tony.” It was quiet for another half minute, while they expertly packed up the heavy weapon and prepped for the retreat. The gun was harder to move when it was so hot, but White was still glad he’d saved the cooling module.
“Ready?” Paine threw the supply box over his shoulder onto the specialized rack strapped to the back of his armor. He doubted he’d even be able to push the thing without the strength enhancement from his servo-mechanicals, but the 400kg was manageable for his suit.
“Good to go.” White had the gun itself mounted on his back. The thing was big, sticking half a meter over his head. The suit could handle the weight, but the asymmetry of the weapon made it hard to carry comfortably, especially under combat conditions. An inexperienced gunner could easily end up flat on his back, but White wore the thing like a second skin.
“Oh…and Corporal Paine?”
“Yeah, Reg?
“Told you so.”
Chapter 6
AS Pershing
Entering Sandoval System
Delta Leonis IV
“This just keeps getting worse.” Garret was sitting at the head of the conference table, a sour expression on his face. They’d been inundated with urgent communiqués as soon as they emerged from the warp gate into Sandoval’s system. The messages contained nothing but bad news, most of it very bad.
“We’ve got six systems confirmed under attack.” Elias Holm had been reading the summary the admiral’s staff put together for the meeting. He was sitting at the other end of the table, looking no happier than Garret. “And another four that have ceased all communications. We can only assume they have also been invaded.”
“Things have gone well beyond a manageable crisis.” Garret slammed his hand down on the table. “All of Alliance space is under attack, and we have no fucking idea who is behind it all.” Garret rarely swore, but he was extremely frustrated, and the pressure was getting to him. The last few months had been the most difficult of his life, and he was worn down and brittle. Those close to him knew something dark and ugly was gnawing at him, and that sooner or later it would burst free.
The scale of the attacks had escalated dramatically in the seven weeks it had taken Grand Fleet to return from the Far Rim. Garret agreed with Cain…the likeliest answer was treachery by one or more of the other Powers. But he still had a lot of doubts, and no matter how many hours he thought about it, he couldn’t make it add up. He just couldn’t see any of them pulling it off, not after the losses they had all taken fighting the First Imperium.
He hoped his analysis was correct, that it wasn’t any of the Earth nations. He couldn’t even imagine the catastrophic implications of war between the Powers after all the loss and bloodshed of the First Imperium conflict. But he was rapidly running out of alternative explanations. When it was only one or two systems, he held out hope they were dealing with rogue First Imperium forces or even some type of criminal or terrorist activity. But the sheer scale of the problem had pretty much discounted anything but an organized effort by another Superpower…or, most likely, more than one. And that would mean full scale war.
Erik Cain sat quietly, listening, a dejected look on his face. He’d gone into the Grand Alliance with great skepticism, as prejudiced against old enemies as anyone in the Corps. But once battle was joined, he changed his mind, embraced his new friends…even led the way for others to accept a new way of things. By the end of the war he’d become a role model for cooperation between old adversaries. Now he was angry with himself for letting his gu
ard down. You had no excuse, he thought to himself…you knew better. Now he wondered what would happen when he found himself facing some of those new friends across a battlefield. What would he do? What would they do?
“We must move past hoping this is something else and accept the fact that it is extremely likely we will soon be at war with one or more of our former allies…powers that have vessels in this very fleet.” Camille Harmon spoke coldly, with no emotion. She’d performed her duty with ruthless efficiency since her son had been stranded in First Imperium space with Terrance Compton, and no one had seen the slightest sign of any emotional response from her. How long she could keep her anger and grief suppressed was anyone’s guess. “We cannot know what Powers will be opposed to us or if we will have any remaining allies, so I strongly suggest we prepare a plan utilizing only our own resources.” She paused. “Which, as you all know, are extremely inadequate to the task at hand.”
Harmon had addressed the matter more starkly than any of the others, but no one could disagree with her. The room was quiet for a minute, all those present deep in thought and not sure what to say. It was Cain who finally broke the brief silence. “Admiral Harmon is correct. It is time for us to stop fooling ourselves and wishing things were different than they are.” His tone was thick with disgust. “This should not be a surprise to us.” Cain had initially doubted it was one of the other Powers behind the attacks, but no longer. He cursed himself for naivety, for believing that the governments would ever allow peaceful coexistence…whatever the warriors did. We’ll always be puppets, he thought, biting down on the seething anger his mind dredged up, forever jerked around on our masters’ strings. Now we will go into the field to kill our friends, once again at the behest of our political masters. “Tell me, when the Grand Pact first came into existence did any of you think it would end differently? I mean truly, honestly, notwithstanding whatever you may have convinced yourselves later? Any of you?”