by P. L. Nealen
The holo display jumped and fuzzed a little. Scalas expected that it was a combination of the nearness of the drive flames and the intense ECM battle going on, as the Unity starships got higher in the sky. Even so, orbital weapons strikes began to hit the mountainside, laser pulses, powergun bolts, and kinetic munitions sending pulverized rock and smashed trees flying high into the sky.
“There is a relatively clear ridgeline ahead that leads to the installation entrance,” Kranjick called over the comm. He must have been in direct contact with Rehenek. “Full speed, cross the gap, and we will be under cover.” He paused. When he spoke again, there was an unfamiliar tone in his heavy voice. Was it a note of sorrow? Despair? “Challenger, Dauntless, Vindicator. Launch immediately and get away from the planet. Linger on the edge of the system if you will, but someone must get away from here and back to the Avar Sector Keep. If we succeed and launch with the Pride, then we will rendezvous and return together. If not…honor our names.”
It took even longer for the reply to come from Mor. “As you command, Brother Legate,” he said. His voice was slightly choked, heavy with grief. Not only for those who had fallen, and might still fall, but for being ordered away from the battle.
“It is not flight to obey the orders of your superiors, Captain,” Kranjick said. “Your honor is intact.”
“Yes, Brother Legate,” Mor replied.
A moment later, a small green light blinked in the corner of Scalas’ visor. He answered the private call from Mor.
“You had best get to that ship and do whatever menial tasks it takes to help get it off the ground, Brother,” Mor said, his voice thick. “This ship is empty enough as it is.”
“We’ll make it, Brecan,” Scalas assured him, “if God is willing.”
“God willing,” Mor replied. “Go with Him.”
“And you as well,” Scalas answered. “I’ll see you on the other side. One way or another.” The connection was cut. Mor had a lot of work to do to get the Dauntless past the ships in orbit.
The armored column raced out from under the trees, onto the dusty, rocky ridgeline leading to the buried dreadnaught. Above, lights flickered in the night sky, as weapons of incredible power punched through clouds and smoke, and fires and explosions dotted the shoulders of the giant shield volcano.
***
High above, a trio of angular, variable thrust shuttles shot out of the Unity dreadnaught’s massive bays and dipped toward the lower slopes, moving fast.
Chapter 20
The installation entrance was not as thoroughly camouflaged as Scalas had expected. Instead, the gate was a massive, arched tunnel leading into the mountainside, covered over in gray metal. There was a sign in white lettering over the entrance, but it was in Eastern Satevic. Scalas couldn’t read it, and didn’t bother to ask Viloshen. He had more pressing concerns.
The departing starships had beamed them their last scanner reports before they’d gone inertialess and raced out of the atmosphere. Those reports had shown the unfamiliar shuttlecraft incoming from the looming ziggurat of the incoming dreadnaught, which had slowed its approach, standing on its tail and descending down the mountainside. Before the shuttles could land and disgorge their unknown cargo, the ships had been out of range, and the holo display had gone static beyond what the blowers’ own scanners could detect.
Rehenek must have called ahead, because the gates were already rolling back as the lead vehicles approached. Farther downslope, the holo display showed the stricken Boanerges’s dropships landing on the lower pads. At least the crew that had survived would make it out, if any of them did.
Then they were rolling into the echoing tunnel that had been bored into the mountainside, and the outside darkness gave way to dim green lights set into the rocky ceiling. They were further obscured by the dust kicked up by the Caractacan vehicles’ fans, but the purpose was obvious. They were the color and dimness they were to protect the installation’s defenders’ night vision. As they moved deeper into the tunnel, the lighting slowly brightened, until they were in bright white light, nearly as bright as day.
Rehenek’s vehicles led the way nearly a kilometer underground, before coming to a halt in a large vehicle hangar, which was still about a quarter full of wheeled and tracked vehicles. The Valdekans didn’t seem to use ground effect vehicles much.
Kranjick was out of his sled almost before it had stopped moving, and Scalas stepped off the ramp of his own before it had touched the ground. Rehenek was already ahead of any of the Caractacans, making for a nearby elevator, a clutch of his commandos in tow.
The Brother Legate did not seem to rush, but somehow closed the distance, reaching the elevator even as Rehenek stepped into it. The towering, armored bulk of the Caractacan leader was enough to keep the doors open while the Centurions, including Rokoff, caught up.
“The command center is above us,” Rehenek said calmly, even though a flash of annoyance had crossed his face at having to wait. “I need to talk to the installation commander, and see how ready the ship is.”
“Is the ship crewed enough to lift?” Kranjick asked.
Rehenek grimaced. “He has always had a skeleton crew at best,” he replied. “The Pride was never the front-line ship of the fleet; outfitting him with modern weapons that we could support has proved more difficult than anticipated. In fact, some of my father’s advisors had strongly recommended abandoning him and making him a monument instead. I expect that once the war started, and the fleet was destroyed, all but the most vital personnel were reassigned to more immediately useful posts.”
“But the installation is still manned, obviously,” Soon pointed out.
“Because it is still an asset, and one of the last that has not fallen,” Rehenek said grimly. “I cannot say much more than that. Hopefully the spacers you brought from the Mekadik can fill out the crew, but they will have to familiarize themselves with its control layout.”
The elevator started upward, and conversation stilled. All eyes seemed to be turned upward, wondering when the first blows would fall.
After a short time, they came to a halt, and the doors slid open. Rehenek led out at a fast walk, looking like he was fighting to keep from breaking into a run. Even underground, the oppressive threat of that massive dreadnaught in the sky outside was palpable.
It was a short walk to another thick, armored door, with recessed defensive emplacements on either side, ports covered by thick armored transparency. The guards in black and green battlesuits stepped out, recognized Rehenek, and stiffened to attention, saluting. One reached back inside his guard post and touched a control, and the doors began to rumble back into the rock walls.
Another elevator door opened behind them, and Scalas glanced back, to see the ragged remnants of the Boanerges’s crew, along with Horvaset and her handful of Valdekan spacers in tow. The spacers hurried to catch up, as Rehenek looked back. A momentary look of surprise crossed his face, and he stopped, turning back and saying something in Eastern Satevic.
Horvaset replied breathlessly, and Rehenek looked glad. At the blank stares from the Caractacan helmets, he explained, “I had not known that Captain Horvaset was with you, but I’m glad that she is. It will be good to have another Valdekan spacer captain with us, even if she has not been briefed on the Pride.” He held out a hand to Horvaset, and ushered her into the command center with him.
The command center itself was a darkened amphitheater, the floor sunken nearly a meter below the door, with three rows of consoles facing a large holo tank. The tank was currently split between two displays. One was a tactical overlay of Gorakovati, showing the incoming dreadnaught, yet another wave of fighters beginning to rise from the distant command ship, and the enemy shuttles setting down across the ridgeline causeway that they had crossed to reach the entrance to the Pride of Valdek’s underground installation. The other was a holographic wire-frame readout of the Pride of Valdek itself, a massive cylinder with a tapered ring housing her launch bays just below midship
s, her enormous engines housed in tapered cones jutting from her lower hull. She was massive, nearly twice as tall as the Challenger.
A man in a Valdekan service uniform stepped up toward the door as Rehenek came through, saluting and giving what was unmistakably a status report. Rehenek replied briskly, and turned to the Caractacans.
“Commander Schukhin tells me that the Pride’s reactor is hot, and has been since the first strikes began,” he said. “He does not, however, have an operational crew. Captain Horvaset and your remaining spacers should be enough to at least fly him, if not fight him efficiently.” His face turned grimmer, if that was possible, as the installation commander continued. “There are ground forces even now advancing on the installation’s entrance. They have taken the defenders under fire from the shuttles, and are crossing the causeway. The defenders have them under fire, but are not stopping them.”
Scalas glanced up at the tactical overlay in the holo tank. Sure enough, the blood-red indicators for the enemy forces were pushing toward the entrance, with heavy fire being directed toward the defenders’ casements from the shuttles at the landing zone. Whatever those ships were, they were heavily armed, and apparently heavily armored, as well.
Kranjick keyed his comm. “I need two squads. Volunteers only. Be at the vehicles in five minutes. Everyone else, proceed to the upper levels and prepare to assist in getting the ship ready to lift.” Without another word, he turned toward the door.
“Brother Legate,” Scalas began, as he turned to follow, but Kranjick turned and put a heavy hand on his shoulder pauldron.
“No, Erekan,” he said quietly. “If I do not make it back in time to lift, you are acting Legate. Both of us cannot go down there, and I have the advantage of rank.” There might have been a faint smile in his voice, though his heavy, immobile face was still hidden by his visor. “Get the men boarded and make sure you and they are doing everything possible to help Horvaset and the spacers. If we can get back to you in time, we will, but do not hesitate to lift if we cannot.”
Scalas looked up at the Brother Legate, feeling his throat tighten, realizing just how much of a father this big, slow-speaking man had become to him. He didn’t want to obey, didn’t want to be acting Legate. If Kranjick was going down there to make a last stand, Scalas wanted to be by his side.
I’m not the one to lead the Legio. I’m not that good, I’m not that leader. I’m no Michael Kranjick.
But almost two decades of discipline spoke for him. “Yes, Brother Legate.” His voice sounded choked in his own ears.
Kranjick put both hands on his shoulders. “Every man has his time, Erekan,” he said softly. “A time to die. A time to say goodbye to his mentors and stand in their place. Perhaps this is that time. Perhaps it is not. Let it be as God wills it.” He clapped Scalas on the arm, an impact that would have been bruising if not for his armor. “Now, we both have work to do, and time is pressing. Do your duty, Acting Legate.”
Scalas saluted. “Yes, Brother Legate,” he repeated. There was nothing more to say.
Then Kranjick was out the door, striding toward the elevator with a speed and purpose that belied his bulk and his slow, deliberate manner.
***
Michael Kranjick had been living on borrowed time for fifty years. He felt every one of them as he jogged down the tunnel toward the entrance to the mountain installation, hearing the thunder of weapons fire echoing down the passage toward them. The heavy demolition charge that he and Kratzke had pulled out of one of the combat sleds weighed him down and made every joint ache.
As he’d expected, he’d gotten quite a bit more than two squads worth of volunteers. It was not the Caractacan way to shrink from a fight, much less one so desperate and vital. If anything, he was slightly disappointed that he had not had to turn most of the entire Legio away. It was still the bulk of his men who wanted to go with him, but the handful who had not stepped forward made him wonder if he had truly done all he could to lead his Brothers, almost his sons, down the right path.
But it was too late for such regrets. Together with thirty of some of the oldest of the Avar Sector Legio’s Brothers, he trotted toward what could very well be the last fight of his life.
Trite thinking, old man. Every fight could be the last of your life. It is in God’s hands, not your sense of drama and portentousness. Even so, the weight of the demolition charge clenched in one gauntlet seemed to have a certain finality to it.
The charge was a last-ditch measure. They would not set it off until it seemed that all was lost. But it was there, nevertheless, as ominous and devastating as the distant rumble of the dreadnaught’s drives, dimly audible even over the sound of the desperate fight ahead, down the tunnel.
The lights were turning dim and green as they proceeded, and the Caractacan armor seemed to darken along with them. They were armored shadows, specters clumping through the stone passage toward the fight.
The gates had been shut after the vehicles had entered, but the Unity forces outside were hammering at them with everything they had. Heavy ordnance had already blasted several gaps in the barrier, allowing the thunder of the fight to come through what should have been a nearly impregnable bulwark. Intense flashes flickered through the gaps, momentarily lighting up the darkened tunnel ahead of them.
Kranjick and Kratzke moved to the gate itself and set the demolition charge down. The other men flowed past them, splitting to move to the bunker entrances on either side of the gates, hurrying to reinforce the beleaguered Valdekan defenders.
Glancing through the nearest hole in the gate, Kranjick quickly assessed the situation as best he could.
The shuttles appeared to be hovering on their thrusters at the far end of the causeway, taking the bunkers and the gate under fire from above, while a company-sized force advanced by fire and maneuver across the causeway itself. Even as he looked, a pair of HV missiles slammed out from one of the shuttles, and he ducked as one punched through the compromised gate above his head, showering him and Kratzke with debris.
He turned to prepping the demolition charge. It was a short priming sequence, followed by syncing the initiation system to a remote control in his gauntlet. Now they could seal the tunnel as they retreated back toward the Pride.
As he turned back toward the nearest bunker entrance, another HV missile hit the gate only a few meters in front of him. For a brief moment, the world went black as he was thrown backward, landing heavily on his back with a crash. Only the padding inside his armor saved him from serious injury, and his visor’s display flickered from the shock.
He rolled over in the cloud of dust and smoke, and heaved himself up off the ground. Fragmentation had severed his powergun’s sling, and he had to scramble over to pick it up, checking it over quickly to make sure it was still operational. Bright scars had been scored in the metal, but it appeared to be otherwise intact. He looked toward the gate.
The missile had punched a hole the size of a man in the barrier, and cracked enough of the rest that he suddenly had to jump aside as a chunk nearly three meters tall fell away with a crash, thankfully missing the demolition charge as it struck the floor. The gate was completely compromised. The enemy would have been able to simply walk right in if it weren’t for the defenders’ fire.
The nearest enemy soldiers were now less than two hundred meters away. There was little cover on the causeway, but they were still advancing cautiously, rushing forward in short dashes before dropping prone or to a knee and opening fire. They were making up for the lack of cover by sheer volume of fire.
And most of that fire was powergun fire, he realized. He focused on one of the nearest Unity soldiers as he took a knee behind some of the wreckage of the gate and leveled his powergun. Off to his right, Kratzke was already shooting, having apparently decided there was no time to get to one of the bunkers.
These weren’t the same barely-trained, cheaply-equipped clones that they had fought at the fortress. Fully armored, with strange, faceted helmets, they mo
ved like elite soldiers, and carried powerguns and HV missile launchers. And there was more.
A figure stalked forward in the middle of the formation, making no effort to take cover. Not as quick, perhaps, as the shock troopers making their short dashes, but its bulk was unmistakable.
Power armor was rare, for the simple reason that its disadvantages often outweighed its advantages. It wasn’t as flexible or maneuverable as a man in articulated battle armor, it often presented a very large target, and it was heavy. But it was actually well-suited for this sort of assault, for one reason; it could soak up an unholy amount of punishment, some of the heavier suits even being proof against powergun fire.
And this one looked like it was one of the heavier suits, though of a design that Kranjick wasn’t familiar with. It had no “helmet,” therefore less of a vulnerability to precise shots. It’s entire torso and head were a single, vaguely egg-shaped plastron of armor, and the quad-barrel powergun on its shoulder was spitting green-tinged lighting fast enough that it seemed like a single, continuous beam of destruction sweeping across the defenses.
Kranjick returned fire, peppering the front of the power armor’s plastron with a tight grouping of six bolts, even as he analyzed the overall situation and tried to think of a plan, short of simply falling back and detonating the demolition charge. But as he looked at the firepower the shuttles, the advancing assault troops, and that power-armored figure could bring to bear, he started to think that that wasn’t going to be enough.
The power-armored monster staggered as his fire sublimated metal and composite off the front of the plastron, but it didn’t stop. He ducked back as a stream of hypervelocity plasma chewed into the metal and steelcrete above his head, blasting a deep, smoking furrow in the remains of the gate with a crackling roar of thunder.