by P. L. Nealen
It was a delicate balance that the Brother Legate had to strike, and Scalas admitted to himself that he was glad it wasn’t a decision that lay on his shoulders.
“Infantry Centurions,” Kranjick called, “begin to converge on my position, but keep behind cover. Engage only if necessary. Once Century XXXV’s vehicles are in position, we will move. This is going to be a dead sprint through enemy fire, gentlemen. Once I say, ‘Go,’ you move hard, you move fast, and you do not hesitate. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Soon replied. Scalas added his own acknowledgement, then turned to begin to brief his own Squad Sergeants.
He had just turned his face away from the fight around the wreck when it seemed like the whole world split asunder.
The flash would have been blinding to anyone looking directly at it. Even turned away, his visor dimmed to compensate. The thunderclap sent enough of a shockwave across the ground that the wind made him sway, almost knocking him off balance, as flying grit hissed against his armor.
He and Kahane looked back toward the wreck, to see a scene of utter devastation.
Through the dust and smoke, he could just make out a faintly glowing furrow blasted through the middle of what had once been a formation of Unity tanks. Most of the tanks were burning wreckage. Any that might have survived weren’t moving; either they had taken damage that wasn’t immediately apparent, or their crews had been shocked into immobility by the magnitude of the blast that had just cut through their formation.
Another blast raved through the dust, a little farther away. The flash was slightly dimmed, though his visor still nearly blacked out to compensate for it. The concussion was almost as intense, and the wave of high-velocity grit was just as brutal.
“Those are starship powerguns,” Kahane said. “Got to be.”
Scalas agreed. But they seemed to be coming from the wreck…
There was suddenly a sharp crack and a brilliant flash that darted upward from the crater rim, near the crash site. Scalas suddenly understood.
“They managed to dismount a shipboard powergun and fire it,” he said, faintly amazed at the audacity and the desperation needed to try such a stunt. “And I think it just failed.”
Kranjick must have reached the same conclusion, though he didn’t comment on it. “All infantry Centuries, that’s our opening,” he said. “Go, go, go!”
There wasn’t time to fine-tune who would go where. They had to move fast to take advantage of the sudden lull in the fight; even the seemingly mindless clones appeared to have been stunned by the twin heavy-caliber powergun blasts. The hard-shot fire had died away to nearly nothing, though the Brotherhood powerguns from the crater seemed to be blazing away as intensely as before. No, not quite; there was nothing coming from the vicinity of that last flash.
“By squads, fighting wedge, on me!” Scalas snapped over the Century comm. Then he was moving, ducking out from behind the wrecked machinery and running for the next hummock in the dusty, windswept ground.
It was not a straight-line sprint. Even after the twin shocks of those massive powergun bolts, that would have been suicide. Someone would have recovered by the time they covered four hundred meters, no matter how hard they ran. So, the Caractacans moved forward in short dashes, moving from crater to unidentifiable debris to wrecked vehicle, their armor shifting shades to make them dim shadows of movement flitting through the smoke and dust.
Scalas was almost in front; Dravot had pushed hard to get in front of him and take point. The dust and smoke had thickened, as the debris thrown up into the atmosphere by the powergun blasts began to settle. Still, it was not so bad that they couldn’t see where they were going, or see the enemy start to regroup.
That crackling, amplified voice speaking that unfamiliar language roared out over the battlefield, audible even over the rolling thunder of powergun bolts. It sounded angry, strident, and Scalas was struck by the sense that the voice was having to try to push the clones harder than before. Maybe they weren’t quite as mindless as they appeared; maybe a sharp enough shock could actually break them, make them huddle in cover and not want to move.
That it had taken two shipboard powergun bolts from point-blank range to do it made him slightly less hopeful that it was a weakness that would be useful anytime soon.
Movement ahead caught his eye. Dravot saw it too, and swung his powergun to his shoulder and fired. A moment later, the other Brother ducked flat as cone-bore rifle fire buzzed through the air like a squadron of flesh-tearing insects.
They were still seventy meters from the crater, and cover was thin. They couldn’t afford to get bogged down there. Scalas dashed forward, firing as he went, smacking clones off their feet with blue-tinged lightning bolts as they became visible. It looked like there was the ragged remains of a platoon hunkered down in the lee of a wrecked tank, one that appeared to have gotten dangerously close to breaking through to the crash site before its turret had been taken off by an HV missile. They were spraying gunfire in the general direction of anything that moved, but seemed confused and scared.
They died quickly, especially as Geroges hit the ground a few meters behind Scalas and opened fire with his MT-41. A long, ravening burst that crackled and thundered like sheet lightning tore the clones apart.
Then Scalas and Dravot were forging up the crumbling outer slope of the crater. “Friendlies, friendlies!” Scalas was broadcasting over his comm. It would be the height of stupidity to get that far and get his head blown off by a friendly powergun because he failed to communicate.
Nobody shot him as he crested the crater rim. Caractacan Brothers and a few Valdekans lined the rim to either side of him, their powerguns aimed over the heaped dirt and debris, watching for clones. “More are coming through,” he said, as the nearest, a Squad Sergeant by his rank insignia on his pauldrons, stood, cradling his powergun. “Where is Centurion Dunstan?”
The Squad Sergeant pointed toward the crushed bow of the Sword of the Brotherhood. “He is in the command post, against the hull,” he said, “coordinating the defense.”
Of course he is. Scalas did not express his contempt for a Centurion who “coordinated” from a command post behind the fighting. It fit Dunstan’s “pragmatism,” though. Still, he would not speak ill of another Centurion before that Centurion’s subordinates. Or his own, for that matter. “Brother Legate Kranjick is behind me,” he said. “When he gets here, tell him where the command post is.” Without another word, he stalked down the slope of the crater, in the direction the Century XXXIV Squad Sergeant had pointed.
The crash site was a nightmare. The smashed remains of the stricken starship loomed overhead, casting darker shadows over the crater, blocking out half the cloudy, dusty sky. The crater floor was loose, crumbling dirt and shattered steelcrete, making for treacherous footing. Dead and wounded lay amidst the debris, and there were far too few men up on the crater rim, crouched behind powerguns and firing back at the clones that swarmed around the wreck. He wondered just how many had survived the crash.
He could see Dravot looking around as they crossed the crater floor. While the armor disguised the younger Brother’s expression, he could see the anger building in the man’s carriage, as he looked at the dead and wounded, never mind the towering wreckage above them.
Scalas knew what Dravot was thinking. His own thoughts echoed what was doubtless going through the other Caractacan’s mind. He was remembering the dead from Cobb’s squad, too.
The command post was little more than a hole in the stricken starship’s flank, where Dunstan, the Sword of the Brotherhood’s executive officer, Chang, and a couple more Valdekan officers were crouched, barricaded behind twisted hull plating, watching the action. It was elevated above the crater rim, which would allow Dunstan a better view of the battlefield, had there been less smoke in the air. Scalas still could not help but see it as the man hiding from combat, instead of leading his men like he was supposed to. Caractacans were trained warriors; they did not need step-by-step d
irection.
He lengthened his strides as they neared Dunstan’s command post. He did not want Dravot to get there ahead of him.
Even so, by the time he clambered up onto the curved bit of outer hull, Dravot was right beside him and picking up speed. “Traitor!” Dravot snarled. “Deserter!” He was lunging for Dunstan, and Scalas grabbed for his arm. “Coward!”
Scalas snatched Dravot back with a heave. The younger Brother didn’t look at him; his visor was still locked on Dunstan like a targeted powergun. “How many died, Dunstan?” Dravot demanded. “You were supposed to be with us!”
“Enough.” Kranjick had moved quickly; he was already heaving his bulk up onto the warped and smashed plating. His armor was dusty and scored by several deflected cone-bore rounds. He straightened, towering over Scalas and Dravot both, and stared at Dunstan.
“This disaster had best be worth it, Centurion Dunstan,” he said, his voice flat and heavy. “Where is Commander Rehenek?”
But Dunstan shook his head. “He was here, but he pulled out just before we arrived,” he said. “It is my belief that this force was diverted here expressly to kill or capture him once the enemy figured out he was here; they were on approach as he left, which was why we were shot down. If he hadn’t retreated…”
“Enough,” Kranjick repeated. “I don’t want to hear your excuses for disobeying orders, deserting your post, and getting your ship destroyed and many of your men killed. You will answer for it. But now is neither the time nor the place. Squad Sergeant Yen!”
“Squad Sergeant Yen is dead, sir,” one of the Caractacans below reported. “Squad Sergeant Rokoff is the only Squad Sergeant still alive in the Century, sir.”
Kranjick’s helmet turned toward Dunstan like a weapons turret. “Squad Sergeant Rokoff!” he bellowed, his armor’s amplification sending the call echoing across the crater.
The same Squad Sergeant who had greeted Scalas and Dravot as they’d climbed over the crater rim appeared. “Yes, Brother Legate?” he asked, stiffening to attention.
“Brother Dunstan stands relieved for cause,” Kranjick said. “You are now brevet Centurion of what remains of Century XXXIV. Begin assembling your men for evac.”
Rokoff saluted, lifting his powergun, muzzle-up, in front of his visor. “We don’t have many left, sir,” he said. “Twenty percent of First Squad died when that powergun blew up.”
“They bought you time,” Kranjick said. “Their sacrifice will not go unremembered. Now, quickly. Before the enemy regroups.”
Scalas was about to ask about how they would re-board the dropships with enemy tanks still roving the open ground beyond, when a deep, ground-shaking rumble answered his question.
With heavy, thunderous roars, the Boanerges, Dauntless, and Challenger appeared overhead, leaning forward, their drives both propelling them toward the enemy and holding them off the ground. Powergun bolts began to flash down into formations of armored vehicles and beyond, deep into the dust-shrouded reaches of the spaceport’s support yards and the smashed defenses beyond.
Kranjick was looking at Scalas, as if he had heard the question that had gone unsaid. “One ship, unsupported and unready, flying into a prepared enemy, was shot down. Three ships, ready to fight and on the heels of the kind of disruption those dead men created by dismounting one of the Sword’s powerguns, are another matter entirely.
“Now, hurry and assemble your men. We will need to board quickly and lift before the enemy manages to regain their equilibrium. Our hunt for Commander Rehenek will require some further planning.”
Chapter 15
The command center looked much the same as it had the first time, except for the lights flickering as the latest starship fly-by pounded the fortress from above. Each hit shook the fortress, and the bombardment was a continual low, thumping rumble in the distance.
The Caractacans filling half of the room, however, were covered in dust and soot, and stank of ozone, smoke, and less wholesome odors. They smelled like combat.
“Yes,” the General-Regent said wearily, “Amra is gone from the fortress. I became aware of my son’s new mission only a few moments ago, after I would be able to recall him.” The old man looked tired, deeply weary in a way that went past his wounds and his age. He was tired in his soul, weighed down by the destruction being wreaked upon his people and the even more personal strain of seeing his son, whom he probably thought of as his world’s last hope, throwing himself into the thick of battle, seemingly trying to get himself killed.
Scalas had no son, and never would. He was sworn to the Brotherhood for life. He could not truly understand the fears that were part and parcel of seeing one’s own flesh and blood go into harm’s way. But he had lost enough brothers in arms, and knew the weight of command. He could understand enough.
With a wince of pain, the elder Rehenek steered his exoskeleton toward the briefing theater where he had earlier showed them what they were up against. Kranjick and the Centurions followed him. Rokoff seemed slightly hesitant, as if he still wasn’t certain that he belonged there, but Rehenek did not seem to have noticed the change in personnel.
Of course, none of them had doffed their helmets, so he had no way of noticing, unless he spotted the different markings on Rokoff’s shoulder pauldrons.
Inside the briefing room, there was already a holo up in the tank, depicting what appeared to be the entirety of Gorakovati and the country around it. The holo was more detailed than anything the Caractacans had had available shipboard; it showed settlements and towns all over the shoulders of the towering volcano.
It also depicted several pulsing red malignancies, most centered around population centers. One of the largest was around the planetary defense fortress itself, on the shoulder of the massive shield volcano. Another was some four hundred kilometers away, on the other side of the mountain. There was a thin blue thread running from the fortress toward that farther red blotch.
The General-Regent pointed, and that same red stain pulsed brightly. “Recent signals intelligence has pinpointed that position as a groundside command post,” he said. “My son believes that, given that our remaining ground-based defenses make low orbit too dangerous, and the distance to the Lagrange points makes direct command-and-control from there unfeasible, this so-called ‘Galactic Unity’ has landed a starship there, and is using it as a command center.”
Kranjick nodded slowly. “And he is going to attack it.” It was not a question, but the General-Regent nodded in response nevertheless.
“He hopes to disrupt their attacks sufficiently for us to regain some initiative,” he said. The heaviness in his voice bespoke his ultimate despair. The General-Regent knew, clear down to his bones, that Valdek was lost. Even if his son succeeded, the old man’s spirit was broken. He was hanging on to life through sheer stubbornness, and to try to give his son a chance to escape.
The Duchess stepped into the theater. She said nothing, but stepped to her husband’s side. The message was clear; whatever was to come, they would face it together. Equally clear was the fact that there was increasingly little that the command center could do in the way of coordination. Scalas had seen that much glancing at the overall situation holo tank in the command center itself. The defenders were set in, and they would stand or fall in place. Every resource the Valdekans had in the fortress was committed. They could not reinforce if a sector of the defenses began to collapse, not without opening another hole for the seemingly endless swarms of clones to take advantage of.
The elder Rehenek looked up at Kranjick’s visor. “He has a head start,” he said, “but he is going around the shoulder of the volcano. I know that Caractacan armor is proof against vacuum. If you could go over the mountain, you might be able to catch up with him before he can make contact with the enemy.”
“Do you wish that we prevent him from fighting further?” Kranjick asked quietly. His voice was as low and monotone as ever, but Scalas knew his mentor well enough to know that he was somewhat conflicted a
bout the request. They were being asked to convince a man not to fight any more for his planet or his people. It would be a bitter pill to swallow for any of them, and Scalas knew that he himself would be hard-pressed to make such a request of another. He knew he would refuse, if he were in Commander Rehenek’s place.
“Getting him off this world is the only hope a Valdekan resistance has left,” the Duchess said. “Explain to him that unless he finds allies and returns with enough of a fleet to finally defeat these abominations, then all is truly lost.” She held out a small data chip. “Show him this. It is a last message from me. He will obey his mother.”
Kranjick took the chip gravely. “I will do so, Madam,” he said.
“I have drawn back a company of Valdekan First commandos to accompany you,” the General-Regent said. “Along with what combat vehicles we still have left that we can spare. I fear they are few. Any of the commandos who survive must go with you when you leave the planet. They will be the core of my son’s resistance force. The vehicles are mostly tracked or wheeled, but they should be able to negotiate most of the mountain, provided you don’t go right through the caldera.”
Scalas was frowning a little, and would have expected Kranjick to be doing the same behind his visor, had he not already been entirely familiar with his superior officer’s near-constant expressionlessness. “If time is so pressing, we will do a short-range lift by ship,” Kranjick said. “That means we will also have better fire support once we manage to rendezvous with the Commander.”
But the General-Regent was shaking his head. He tapped another control, and suddenly the holo zoomed out, until it showed the entire planet, and the formation of Unity starships already moving away, toward the L4 point.