Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles)

by Ervin II, Terry W.

  We sat in darkness. After a half hour the artillery’s rumbling stopped. Two hours later we counted two deafening detonations.

  Shortly after that, Captain Ermot called over the com-set. “Two enhanced radiation warheads detonated over New Birmingham. Five-megaton warheads. Our allies took out the big ones.”

  Potts listened over his hand radio. “What does that mean?”

  “Neutron bombs,” I said. “Minimal blast, excessive short-term radiation. Kills people but leaves buildings and equipment intact.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Moorsheen. “You haven’t had military training.”

  “No, but I’ve spent time on an exploration shuttle with engineers and scientists familiar with war and the Crax. Pillar mentioned them. Plus, I used to read a lot.”

  Potts jammed his heel into Moorsheen, still huddled in his blankets. “If Keesay says they’re firing flaming goat crap at us, believe him!”

  Twenty-eight hours, or a little less than a day on Tallavaster, passed in silence. Boredom mixed with anticipation and sweat. The first few hours were filled with speculation, Moorsheen’s whining concerns, and Potts’s muttered threats. We took turns catnapping and whispering.

  “Wish I had my deck of cards,” I said to O’Vorley. “Tic-Tac-Toe, even Chicher-style doesn’t last.”

  “Too dark right now,” replied O’Vorley. “You notice Pillar’s change?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, maybe it’s because we’re soldiering under him. He’s not as mean. When I found out he was leading my squad, I figured I’d get a daily thumping. We all would.”

  I shifted my seating position from a cross-legged to a crouch. “He’s a Colonial Marine, trained for combat and killing. Without a war or an enemy, he’d settle on any target.” I stretched my legs. “Now that he has one.” I recalled the pregnant woman. “And a cause to fight for.”

  My com-set crackled to life. “Enemy forces are on the move,” called Captain Ermot. “Shutting down bunker defense screens.”

  Everyone heard it. O’Vorley and Moorsheen over their implanted chips, and Potts over the hand radio next to his dried alfalfa-stuffed sack pillow. Potts reached under his bedroll and pulled a machete from its sheath.

  “Where’d you get that?” I asked.

  “A farmer gave it to me.”

  “Gave it to you?”

  “He owed me.”

  Potts’s antisocial tendencies were re-emerging, but I’d worry about that later. “Useful if they make it to the trenches.”

  “Yep.” O’Vorley smiled, checking his gear. He slipped a chisel-tipped rock hammer into his belt.

  “What about me?” whined Moorsheen. He grasped his assault rifle. “Nobody told me.”

  O’Vorley checked his MP rifle and snapped its scope in place. “Have I ever forgotten about you?”

  We all continued to prepare our gear. I took a drink and handed the canteen to Potts.

  “Yes, you have,” Moorsheen complained. “More than once. This is life and death.”

  O’Vorley hefted the two-kilo hammer used for chiseling shelves in the wall. “I told you about this two weeks ago. Remember? This’ll crack Stegmar exoskeletons and Crax skulls.”

  “Oh, right,” Moorsheen said. “Thanks.” Then he turned pale. “If they make it to the trenches—”

  “We’d better hold them,” I said. “They aren’t likely to take us prisoner.” What I didn’t tell him was that if they made the trenches, we’d better get reinforced, quick. I stood and performed a double-check of my revolver, shotgun and laser carbine. I strapped on my helmet. “Everybody out. Positions and keep low.”

  Chapter 41

  Nine dots, in three rows of three, represent the foundation of the Umbelgarri written language. The pattern of colored dots translates to sound. Any gray lines connecting one or more of the dots adds deeper meaning.

  Oral communication between the Umbelgarri takes place through vibrant body colors and patterns emphasized by variations of low frequency sound similar to that of pachyderms, or elephants. The dots represent the color patterns, the lines the sound pattern.

  The rumble of artillery fired from secured emplacements was infrequent but welcome. A soldier’s surprised scream followed by silence was not. The prolonged screams were sure to haunt me. Dawn approached, and traces of whatever the enemy was firing zipped overhead. I could guess.

  “Corrosive canisters,” I called to O’Vorley on my left, who was surveying with periscope binoculars. “Countering our high explosive artillery.”

  “Maybe chemical laced,” he replied. “Wind’s in our favor.” He pulled down his binoculars. “Damn, here they come.”

  I chanced a peek with my old-style 12x binoculars through the heavy rocks I’d piled along the lip of our trench. The enemy was two miles away, advancing across the flat cropland. A distant, eerie call sent chills down my spine. “Correct,” I said. “Mechanized units closing. Stegmar must be closer.”

  “White Mule,” called Captain Ermot over my com-set. “Activate CNS modulators. Self-administer one dose of Stegmar weapon anti-toxin.”

  I’d already performed the first action. To my right Moorsheen fumbled trying to carry out the directive. “Moorsheen,” I called. “Relax. CNS first, then the anti-toxin.”

  He turned, wide-eyed and reached behind his neck. “Right. Thanks.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up and edged closer to support our weak link. Black dots appeared in the distant sky. Hundreds. As they closed, I spotted movement on the ground, passing over the groundhog positions. Knowing the answer I called to O’Vorley, “What do you see?”

  “Fighter and attack shuttles, troop carriers and tank-bots,” he said. “Oh, damn!”

  I saw it, too. A curtain of advancing impacts. The crops disappeared. The ground sizzled. Everyone ducked into alcoves and under trench ledges. “Trying to take out our minefield,” I yelled to no one in particular.

  Five yards to the right the trench lip cracked and sizzled. Hundreds of acidic droplets splattered. I dug my shoulder deeper into the rock hollow and observed three inch-wide holes fizz near my boots. Continued impacts permeated the trench line with an acidic stench that mingled with screams. I said a quick prayer.

  A flash followed by an explosion reverberated through the rock. It had to be a tactical nuke. Friendly.

  Minutes later I opened my eyes. Friendly artillery impacted closer. Smoke trails crisscrossed the sky as our side’s surface-to-air missiles raced toward targets. “SAMs, take them out,” I urged. Nobody could possibly hear.

  I ventured a look. A vanguard of enemy dome-shaped tanks advanced across the crater-filled fields. Smaller wedged-shaped combat vehicles raced along in support. My com-set sizzled and crackled. I shut it down before the crisscrossing electronic warfare destroyed it. Mine detonations mingled with the artillery, hammering the enemy.

  I ventured a second peek. The artillery found random success, but the minefields were taking a toll. Enemy defense screens angled forward or above, not beneath. Some smaller combat vehicles simply stopped. One even turned and fired on its leader.

  “McAllister,” I whispered into the increasing rumble, screeches, and explosions. Several more enemy units went rogue. “That should upset them.”

  Overhead, more SAMs sped, most almost vertical. The enemy was above. Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement. An enemy attack craft had lined up to strafe our trench.

  “Cover,” I yelled, and hip shot a laser blast before tucking into my alcove.

  O’Vorley saw my fire, looked at me and followed suit. A squeal of pain, then silence, reported Moorsheen hadn’t.

  I ventured another peek. Less than a mile. From behind our lines an odd combination of old-style helicopters and prop attack planes raced forward, firing air-to-ground missiles while I-Tech jets engaged enemy shuttles. The effort momentarily stymied the advance, until the enemy blotted the old-style aircraft from the sky. Only two helos retreated.

  A wave
of friendly tank-bots mixed with manned tanks rumbled over the trenches. Dirt and crumbling rock threatened to give way but held as the tanks spanned our trench. Too heavily armored for efficient use of anti-grav sleds, the theory was that what they lacked in mobility they could make up for in staying power.

  I snuck my laser carbine between a pair of rocks, aimed and fired on what I guessed to be a smaller troop carrier. I pulled back before someone returned the favor. My primary firing position fizzed and sizzled. Lasers offered more killing power, but also gave away a position as surely as any tracer round. “Think I’ll wait,” I muttered.

  Friendly troop carriers rumbled overhead, some on anti-grav sleds. A follow-on-formation of Colonial Marines in servo-armor leapt across the trench. Two fell back between O’Vorley and me.

  O’Vorley checked the bodies. “Casualties,” he called. “Should we advance?”

  “No,” I shouted back. “Hold the line was our order.” I peered through my rock wall’s gaps. Strafing attack craft and enemy armor hammered our tanks. About half the time they took it, shed explosive armor, maneuvered and returned fire. A second wave of friendly aircraft engaged. The pilots were skilled and brave, and outgunned. The Crax obliterated them in short order, same as the first wave.

  We gave the marines support fire. O’Vorley shifted to within five yards. “They’re outnumbered. The Stegmar are tough to see in the crops.”

  I scanned the carnage. “What’s left of them.” Twenty miles away the mushroom cloud from the friendly nuke climbed skyward. Maybe it took out the reserves or command and control. Five more SAMs rocketed into the sky. Two explosions.

  “The marines are getting torn up,” O’Vorley shouted over the din. “They’ll fall back.”

  I watched and fired as the surviving marines engaged the closing enemy with small arms fire and larger anti-armor rockets.

  “Here they come,” I said.

  A damaged tank and a scattered platoon maneuvered over our trench. I scanned for pursuing targets and spotted a trio of Gar-Crax. I poured a series of blasts into the leader. O’Vorley added his MP rifle. The Crax ignored us and continued to keep six marines pinned thirty yards to our front. Two Stegmar squads leapt forward in a pincher move.

  “Not enough firepower,” shouted O’Vorley. He switched to the Stegmars.

  I followed his lead. A rain of needles tore at the ground and rocks near our position. “That got their attention,” I said more to myself than anyone else.

  I was caught by surprise when a squad of women marines dropped next to us. The delivering armored personnel carrier swung left, lending cover fire with its auto cannon.

  A husky, freckled marine yelled, “Keep firing!” She slid her heavy-duty laser rifle over the trench lip while her partner inserted the line into the crate-sized power pack. Three marine teams opened up.

  I took out two more Stegmars while the female marines cleared the fire zone of Crax. A second retreating tank rumbled overhead, followed by a supporting troop carrier. Three marines dropped into the trench. “Thanks,” said a narrow-eyed, black marine.

  I thumbed over my shoulder. “Thank them, Private Zalton.”

  The freckled marine shouted, “Move now!” and pointed my direction. Everyone ducked and ran. Seconds later my home of the last few weeks erupted into a frothing crater. Before the air cleared we shifted partway back.

  “They’re regrouping,” said the freckled sergeant. Her nametag read, Sayrah.

  “How are we doing, Sergeant?” I asked.

  “We’re getting our ass kicked, soldier. This is a secondary effort. They’ve broken through north. All reserve assets are closing the breach.”

  I replaced a drained power pack and handed my laser carbine to a marine armed only with an MP pistol.

  “Thanks, soldier,” he said. “Acid bolt got my rifle.”

  I tossed him two remaining power packs. I unslung my shotgun and fixed the bayonet. Ca-chunk. “I prefer this anyway.”

  “You’ll need it,” said Sergeant Sayrah. She shouted up and down the line. “We’ve got to hold!” She looked at my nametag. “Keesay, they’ll be sending bulldogs. Take them down. Leave the rest to us.”

  “Understood, Sergeant.”

  Private Zalton peered ahead with his narrow eyes. “They’re almost regrouped. Only cover they got are those two acid-killed tanks.”

  “Let’s hit’em before they’re ready,” Sergeant Sayrah shouted. “Pick your targets and fire at will.”

  In less than a minute we cut down dozens. Return fire burned huge gouges into our defensive position. I spotted only Zalton, Sayrah, and O’Vorley standing. Experience had numbed my nose to acid-burned bodies. O’Vorley had some experience but still struggled with the rising stench.

  Sergeant Sayrah growled out, “Marine communications failing.”

  I turned on my com-set. Selected Command on Channel A. It crackled. “Command, this is White Mule Position. Do you read?” I tried again. “Nothing,” I said to Sayrah.

  “We’d better do something.” She took a second and reset my com-set. “Try that one. Artillery. Call down fire on White Mule grid sixteen.”

  “Artillery control,” I called, “this is White Mule, star-crimp-two-laugh. We’re under heavy assault. Request fire on White Mule grid sixteen. Repeat, WM grid one six.” I waited a second. “Do you read, over?”

  A distorted response crackled over my set. “Gun...ments...d...hold...ing your...to...”

  I repeated what I heard to Sergeant Sayrah. Listened for more, then shut it down.

  Before she answered, Private Zalton barked a string of oaths, then finished. “They’ve got a company of armored reserve and we’re out of anti-armor rockets.”

  “Lasers are down to eighteen percent,” reported O’Vorley, leaning over the first power pack. He examined the second. “And twenty percent.” He dragged a third power pack from under some fallen rock. “Four percent.”

  “Plenty of small arms and lasers,” Sergeant Sayrah said. “Not enough anti-tank, tactical nukes or even grenades and mortars.”

  “Crax intercepted some transports,” agreed Zalton, still peering with his standard Marine-issue binoculars.

  “I wouldn’t doubt if CGIG informed them of routes and destinations,” I said.

  Sayrah scowled. “I heard something about that. You one of those that ran the blockade?”

  “Technically. I was in cold sleep.” I reached into my breast pocket. “But I managed to import a popcorn nuke.”

  “Relic conscript with a nuke.” Sayrah adjusted her helmet. “Ever heard of that, Zalton?”

  “No,” he said. “But he’d better get ready to use it. They’ve formed up. And with the pillboxes wiped out.”

  Two more female marines, followed by Potts, climbed over a collapsed section of the trench line. The lead marine reported to Sergeant Sayrah, “This is all that’s left. Mink section is nothing more than a crater.”

  “Acid’s still percolating,” Potts added. He set a heavy laser power pack down.

  The private held up Potts’s hand radio. “We’ve been ordered to hold. Reinforcements are on the way.”

  “Damn,” Sayrah cursed. “Well, without transportation we’d never make it anyway.”

  “Damn nothing.” Zalton sent a laser blast. “Get on the line here before they overrun us.”

  Sergeant Sayrah glanced at my tag again. “Keesay, you know what to do?”

  “When they get to three-hundred fifty yards,” I said, “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Let’s hold, Marines,” she urged. They were already firing.

  I handed Potts a salvaged laser carbine. “Just aim and pull the trigger.”

  “What’re you going to do?” he asked while looking over the weapon.

  Zalton called, “Shotgunner. Two o’clock low.”

  I popped up and sent four loads of buckshot into a swarm of bulldog beetles. Three of the five went down. O’Vorley picked off the other two.

  “Ouch!” O’Vorl
ey plucked a needle from his face. His right eye and cheek went slack. He administered another anti-toxin injection.

  I spied over the edge. “Stay down.” A trio of medium tank-bots was less than 400 yards out. I thumbed in the popcorn nuke and pumped it into the chamber. “Nuke away!”

  The ground rumbled with the explosive blast. Before it stopped we were following Sayrah to the Rock Mole position. I stepped over what had once been Moorsheen.

  Potts grabbed his assault rifle. “Undamaged,” he said. “O’Vorley, see if there’s any ammo. My hands are full.” O’Vorley did as Potts lugged the last power pack.

  Our previous position erupted in acidic fumes.

  “They’re in the line,” called Zalton. He laid down a line of laser fire, slicing through a dozen Stegmars.

  “Push on,” ordered Sayrah. “Get to the tee. We have to fall back.”

  I popped up to peek over the edge. “Move! Move!” I fired three shots into an enemy wave, forty yards and closing. “Stegmar!”

  No more encouragement was needed. We charged ahead, over the rubble and corpse-filled trench. Zalton went down. Sergeant Sayrah drained the last of the power pack and threw the heavy laser aside. O’Vorley, Potts, and I laid into the wave of Stegmar. The two marines near Potts died while downing a Crax trio.

  They came on. Thirty yards. Twenty yards. I reloaded. O’Vorley turned and fired on Stegmar in the trench line to our rear.

  I emptied my shotgun and Potts did his assault rifle as the insectoid enemy leapt over the edge. Everything was a blur. Stab, slice with my bayonet. Block with stock, smash with shotgun butt.

  Potts’s machete flashed. He beheaded one Stegmar and whacked two arms from another before three came down on him. He bellowed, hacked and punched. I smashed one on his back before it could tear into him with claws and hooked knives.

  That was all I could do. Instinct called. I swung my barrel overhead and clipped one in mid-flight with my A-Tech bayonet, shearing through its abdomen. I stomped what was left of the tenacious mantis warrior, only to have three close and fire needles. Most deflected off my helmet or didn’t penetrate my combat gear, but two pierced the flesh of my left hand.