The words were flat and unemotional. St. James wasn’t sure who had uttered them and decided that it didn’t matter.
“All of Fort Camerone’s offensive and defensive weapons systems have been destroyed. At least a brigade of marines has landed and is digging in.”
St. James mustered some saliva and rolled it around his mouth. The muscles along the top of his shoulders hurt and his right foot had fallen asleep. He worked it back and forth.
“Casualties?”
He recognized the voice this time. It belonged to an intelligence office named Tarker.
“We have two casualties, sir, both deaders, killed when their scout car went off a cliff.”
St. James swore silently. A goddamned accident. Such things were inevitable with so many men, women, and cyborgs milling around, but it was unfortunate just the same. He’d hoped for a zero casualty rate going into phase two, and would’ve had one too, except for the errant scout car.
Knowing that Scolari could access the battle plans filed on Earth, and knowing that they focused on defending Camerone, St. James had decided to sacrifice the entire installation, while preventing as many marines from reaching the surface as he could. With that strategy in mind the legionnaire had evacuated every single human being and Naa from Fort Camerone prior to Scolari’s attack. Now with the marines on the ground, and his forces almost completely intact, it was time to turn the tables.
Way out in the wastelands, more than a thousand miles from the spot where Mobile Command Post One had burrowed its way into a hillside, something moved. The vibrations it made were transmitted through the soil around it to a nearby burrow. Roused from its sleep a buka nuzzled her thumb-sized pups, found everything was okay, and yawned. And, having felt the vibration many times before, went back to sleep.
Above the ground, where the eternal winds whipped across the rock-strewn plains, a metal rod poked its way up through the gravel, gave birth to a microsecond-long burst of coded radio traffic, and retreated underground.
This particular transmission meant nothing at all, and was intended to confuse the enemy, but other similar bursts of code did have meaning, and the Legion started to stir.
First came their mechanical minions, tiny robots that crawled, hopped, and flew around the marines, collecting information and passing it along to low-powered relay stations that took the intelligence and sent it to MCP One and Two via hardened cable. Many of the robots were identified and destroyed, but those that survived kept on reporting.
Which is how Colonel Pierre Legaux knew that six companies of Imperial marines were in the process of setting up a defensive perimeter around an area just east of what had been Fort Camerone.
Since the size and shape of the perimeter suggested a rough-and-ready airstrip, he knew it was likely that the jarheads planned to land reinforcements, followed by a wing of atmospheric fighter-bombers, followed by god knows what else. Armor probably.
Now, if there’s anything that an armored officer hates more than attack aircraft, it’s enemy armor, and Legaux was no exception. The grunts would have to die, and that being the case, there was no point in waiting around while they got stronger. Legaux made a plan, ran it by his company commanders, and fed it to MCP One. Authorization arrived ten seconds later.
Villain, along with an entire company of Trooper IIs, had been buried four feet underground. And why not? Her brain, the only remaining portion of her original anatomy that required oxygen got more than enough from a pair of tanks located where a bio bod’s kidneys would be.
The idea of being buried alive bothers most people, including Villain. But the fact that she was strong enough to break through the surface on her own helped to lessen the cyborg’s fears, as did the knowledge that an ultralow-frequency radio link tied her to the rest of the company, four of whom were buried no more than five or six yards away.
And so it was that she was able to relax while sleep tugged her downwards. Villain had been through the dream so many times by now that she no longer feared it. Even as she lifted the cool-case and carried it towards the front of the store, she knew what would happen next.
She saw the customers, rejected the woman as unimportant, and focused on the man. It was strange to see Perez-Salazar the way he’d been then, good-looking in an underfed sort of way, silly in the ball cap and wraparound sunglasses. She felt her heart beat a tiny bit faster and forced a smile.
“May I help you?”
“Yeah,” Perez-Salazar said, “keep your hands where I can see ’em and give me everything in the till.”
Conners-Villain shook her head. “Go ahead and shoot ... you will anyway.”
She watched the gun come up, watched him aim it at her chest, and heard the hammer fall. Click. Nothing happened. Perez-Salazar looked confused. Villain laughed, and was still laughing when the orders came over her radio.
“Roller One to Roller Team. Rise ‘n’ shine, jerk weeds, we’ve got grunts to grease, and the colonel’s in a hurry.”
The voice belonged to Roller, who, along with five bio bods, was holed up in Gunner’s cargo compartment. The atmosphere was more than a little ripe by now and the noncom would be glad when they could pop a hatch. His next order was directed at Gunner.
“Roller One to Roller Two ... time to rock ‘n’ roll.”
Gunner sent a pole-mounted sensor up through the surface of the ground, took a quick look around, and followed with the gatling gun. It would provide covering fire in case of an attack. Then, gathering his strength and directing it to his legs, the quad stood. Dirt erupted upwards, sprayed in all directions, and streamed downwind.
The other quads did likewise, like crabs emerging from the sand, their sensors sweeping the sky for signs of threat. Then, like zombies rising from their graves, the Trooper IIs sat up and scrambled to their feet. Systems checks were run, air jets were used to blow dirt from moving parts, and intelligence was downloaded to on-board computers.
All of the information gathered by the Legion’s robots had been combined to create a composite map. The marines, their positions, the perimeter, and the implications thereof were crystal-clear. So was the fact that “B” Company, 1st REC, was ideally positioned to attack the jarheads, being only ten miles to the north and screened by some low-lying hills. Speed would be of the essence, however, since the navy’s orbital spy-eyes would detect them within the next ten minutes or so and dispatch attack craft to their position.
Knowing that his troops understood the situation just as well as he did, Colonel Legaux wasted no time on unnecessary instructions, and gave a single order.
“Charge!”
Mounted behind a Trooper II named Hanagan and possessed of a body only slightly more natural than the one he rode, Legaux looked like some sort of mythical war god charging into battle. He wasted no time looking backwards, nor did he need to, since every borg in his command was traveling at flank speed. The attack involved three companies of cyborgs, totaling 296 Trooper IIs, 26 quadrupeds, and 168 bio bods, some of whom rode inside the quads, while the rest hung onto Trooper IIs. They made an impressive sight loping towards the enemy, pennants whipping in the wind, dust rolling up to fill the air.
All the borgs, with the exception of a quad and a pair of Trooper IIs with mechanical difficulties, traveled at approximately forty-five miles an hour, which meant that they covered the intervening distance in a little over ten minutes. And, given the fact that the 1st REC rolled over the jarheads’ outlying sentry posts about the same time as word of the attack arrived from orbit, the air threat was temporarily neutralized. The brass knew that once the two forces were intermingled, an air attack would do as much damage to the marines as it would to the legionnaires.
So, unless the ranking grunt, a major named Hu, wanted to call in an air strike on her own position, she didn’t have much choice but to fight the legionnaires on their own terms, and the 1st REC took full advantage.
The countryside seemed to sway and jump as Villain ran. The hills grew larger, the gr
ound sloped upwards, and tracer stabbed down from the ridge. A cyborg stumbled, slammed facedown in the dirt, and skidded to a halt. It had been a lucky shot but telling nonetheless. Villain traced the bullets to their source, ran a lightning-fast solution, and fired a shoulder-launched missile. There was a flash of white light followed by the sound of an explosion. The tracer stopped.
“Nice shootin’.”
Salazar had moved up on Villain’s left and positioned himself to protect her flank. She started to snap at him, remembered the dream, and thought better of it.
“Thanks, Sal. Watch your ass.”
“I like yours better.”
“Shut the fuck up and pay attention to what you’re doing.”
She could almost hear his grin.
“That’s my baby.”
Gunner chose the point where two hills came together, knowing it would be easier to negotiate, and more likely to get him killed. Surely it was his turn to burn, to die like his family before him, to join them in the great hereafter. After all, he’d earned it, hadn’t he? Damned right he had.
Gunner dropped his bio bods, stepped out onto the plain, and opened up with everything he had. Missiles raced out of his launchers, found targets, and destroyed them one at a time. His quad-mounted energy cannon probed the rocks, found ceramic armor, and cooked the flesh inside, as the gatling gun swiveled right, locked onto an APC, and turned it to scrap.
Then, feeling sure that he’d drawn enough attention to himself, Gunner illuminated the bull’s-eyes on either side of his hull. The lights were a new wrinkle, added only recently, and almost sure to have the desired effect.
Fully aware that they’d be forced to face the Legion’s cyborgs, and more than a little concerned about that possibility, the marines had been issued double the normal complement of fire-and-forget shoulder-launched missiles. These were put to use with devastating effect.
Gunner took five SLMs within seconds of illuminating the targets on his sides and felt his entire body shake as secondary explosions followed the initial impacts. System after system went down, until he could no longer move. The incoming fire slackened as he went down.
No! he screamed. I’m still alive! Fire, damn you, fire! But the marines had more than enough targets, and turned their attention to those that moved, leaving the blackened hulk to sit where it was, smoke pouring from its belly, weapons useless.
Gunner disengaged his spider-form from the larger quad body, scampered free, and waited for some enterprising marine to shoot him. None did. Depressed, and still very much alive, he made his way back towards one of the predesignated assembly areas.
Villain and her fellow cyborgs felt all-powerful as they strode through the marine defenses, dealing death with both arms, stepping over piles of dead bodies.
Later, when the battle was over, she would remember what it felt like to die and wonder about what she’d done. But not now while bullets flattened themselves against her armor, and friends vanished inside yellow-red explosions, and hate pumped chemicals into her brain, and voices screamed in her nonexistent ears.
“Watch him, Roller Six! He’s toting an SLM!”
“Damn! Look at that sucker burn!”
“Roller Eight’s down . . . I’m pulling his box . . .”
“I have an APC on bearing two . . .”
“Wait a minute ... cease fire ... cease fire, damn you! They’re waving a white flag.”
It took a conscious effort to stop firing, to stop killing, and see the scraps of white cloth that fluttered in the breeze. Villain saw a pair of men’s shorts and laughed.
The message torp had started its journey in normal space, jumped hyper out near Jupiter, and dropped well clear of Algeron. One of Scolari’s scouts had homed on its radio beacon, had pulled the device aboard, and hightailed it for the flagship.
Once aboard, codes were entered via an external jack, and a hatch popped open. The data cube was extremely small but capable of carrying an enormous amount of information. The color, plus the code stamped on the plastic casing, screamed “High Priority-command eyes only.”
A crypto tech, accompanied by two heavily armed marines, carried the cube to the ops center, where it was handed over to Scolari herself.
Curious, and grateful for an excuse to retreat to her cabin, Scolari accepted the cube and left. It was only when the hatch was safely closed and she was all alone that the naval officer removed the pressure suit. She wrinkled her nose. What a horrible stink! What should she do? Shower? Or play the cube?
Curiosity won out. Scolari walked over to her desk, dropped the cube in the player, and pressed her thumb against the recognition plate. A fog appeared over her desk, swirled, and took on form. The Emperor looked years older than when she’d last seen him and extremely tired. He looked straight into her eyes.
“Hello, Admiral. Things are going well, I trust. The same can’t be said for things here on Earth unfortunately. A group calling itself ‘The Cabal’ broke Mosby and her legionnaires out of prison yesterday. They are well armed and headed this way. Those elements of the Navy and Marine Corps not with you continue to stand by me. They may require some assistance, however, so I’m ordering you to withdraw and return to Earth.”
The Emperor started to turn away and looked back again. He smiled crookedly.
“Oh, and one more thing. I’d hurry if I were you.”
Contrails made white streaks across the sky and missiles rose to meet them as Hardman arrived in his village. The ride had been long and hard, frequently interrupted by the need to hide from both the Legion and the sky soldiers. Both had a tendency to fire at shadows.
But finally, after many wasted hours, Hardman made his way home. Shootstraight and the other warriors had already shooed most of the females and cubs underground and done what they could to camouflage the village. They knew that just as they could feel warmth through the soles of their feet, the humans could see it through the eyes of their machines, and send death to find it.
So all fires had been extinguished, the dooth herds had been released into the mountains to forage for themselves, and no one ventured outside except at night.
The chieftain slipped into the village at twilight, released his dooth, and sought his home. Tired though he was, some clean clothes, a good hearty meal, and a mug of ale would set him right.
The entry had been covered with a large basket filled with dirt. Hardman lifted a corner, slid inside, and made his way down into the living area. He used a flashlight to find his way.
Hardman knew that most of the villagers would be in the underground cavern, so didn’t expect to find anyone at home, but called anyway. Windsweet would be frightened if he appeared without warning.
“Windsweet? Shootstraight? Anybody here?”
There was no reply. His normally cheerful home was silent and empty.
Hardman passed the now cold fireplace and made his way into the corridor that circled the living area. He stepped into Windsweet’s room. She was gone, but the smell of her lingered behind. The flashlight caught and held the carefully polished writing slate. Hardman walked over and picked it up. The note was addressed to him: Dear Father,
Booly came back. He wants me and I want him. We know that our relationship will be difficult, that it may end in tragedy, but are helpless to stop ourselves. I am sorry about the pain I caused you and wish the gods had blessed you with the daughter that you deserve.
Love,
Windsweet
The Naa chieftain read the note over and over, let the slate fall to the floor, and held his head in his hands. He hadn’t cried since his wife’s death. The tears flowed for a long time.
The company of Pioneers, with help from some sturdy-looking robots, were hard at work enlarging the tunnel that housed MPC One. A side cave had been dug and turned into a makeshift meeting room.
Natasha, feeling less out of place than she had a few days before, sat on a cable reel with her arms wrapped around her knees.
Crazy Alice, her right
arm resting in a bloodstained sling, sat on a folding chair. Her pencil pushers had been forced to go one-on-one with a marine recon unit. They hadn’t won, but they hadn’t lost, and she was damned proud.
Colonel Legaux, his metal parts gleaming with reflected light, preferred to stand. The battle for the marine airfield spoke for itself.
Iron Jenny had led the 13th DBLE against a mobile landing force and fought them to a standstill. She sat on a .50-caliber ammo box and looked fresh as a daisy.
Colonel Ed Jefferson leaned against the dirt wall, arms folded in front of her, a frown on her face.
“Where’s Tran?”
“Dead,” St. James answered as he came into the room. “Killed in action when the 2nd REP took on a battalion of marines in the southern hemisphere.”
Jefferson’s frown deepened. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” St. James agreed. “That about sums it up. We lost a lot of good men and women over the last few days.”
“And kicked some serious butt,” Jenny put in happily. “The grunts ran like hell.”
Everyone knew that the diminutive officer was referring to the fact that the marines had departed as suddenly as they had come, breaking off all contact, lifting as quickly as they could. Not only that, but the warships had left as well, leaving two scouts to keep an eye on them.
St. James looked Jenny in the eye. “That’s one way to look at what happened ... but I’m not so sure. We put up a good fight, yes, and might have won. But when? A week, two, if things went well, but victory was never certain. No, I think they pulled out for some other reason.”
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