Advance to Contact (Warp Marine Corps Book 3)

by C. J. Carella

  The aliens didn’t use clothing but wore a combination of implanted jewelry and body harnesses originally developed to carry tools and weapons. One could determinate a Lamprey’s status by the quality of those accouterments. Heather quickly spotted the leader of the enemy’s delegation, a Third Class Syndic, high-ranking but not quite on the same level as the American Secretary of State. It was accompanied by its staff, several prole servants and a handful of soldiers wearing the distinctive combat harnesses of the Popular Spaceborne Front, the Lhan Arkh’s equivalent to the Marine Corps.

  There was a barely perceptive hum in the air around Secretary Goftalu as her protective detail turned her force fields on and formed a ring around their principal, activating their own shields in the process. The lightweight devices were as effective as the ones combat infantrymen wore, and about fifty times as expensive. Nobody had drawn their weapons yet, but the DS agents’ hands were hovering near theirs holsters.

  “Please refrain from acting like barbarians,” the Hierophant said; the contempt in his tone was in sharp contrast to his former friendliness. “We are here to talk. There will be plenty of time for bloodletting later.”

  “We are in a state of war against the Lhan Arkh Congress,” the Secretary said. “We view this unannounced meeting with serious concern.”

  When diplomats used words like ‘serious concern,’ things were getting pretty close to devolving into volleys of gunfire. ‘Grave concern’ meant fleets were already sailing into harm’s way.

  “To have a pack of hairless apes sharing our air is an insult,” the Lamprey Syndic said. The Tah-Leen systems translated its words into English and piped them into everyone’s imps.

  “Nonsense, my dear Boosha” the Priestess told the Syndic from the other side of the room. “For one, you are most certainly not sharing the same air. For another, you both want something from us. It is only fair to hear you out at the same time.”

  “America is a threat to the security and stability of galactic civilization,” Syndic Boosha said without missing a beat. “The peace-loving Lhan Arkh Congress and People ask for your help in stamping out this plague upon the stars, so that order may be restored and all civilized sophonts be allowed to live in harmony.”

  “The treachery of the Lhan Arkh is well-known throughout the galaxy,” Secretary Goftalu broke in. “They attacked our nation without any provocation, or even a formal declaration of war. The Congress and People’s actions are hardly civilized, and their untrustworthiness is clearly manifest. It would be in Xanadu’s best interests to deny them access to your system.”

  “We could be here all day while you two repeat the same thing over and over, using slightly different words,” the Hierophant said. Both Goftalu and her Lamprey counterpart tried to respond, but nobody heard their words; the Snowflake leader had somehow muted them. “As I said earlier, the Community of the Unique prefers actions over words.

  “In order to determine your worthiness, we will have you demonstrate your battle prowess. We will conduct a simulated engagement between the company of Marines you Americans brought along, and a Lhan Arkh Combat Nest, which is roughly equivalent in numbers and fighting power. Each of you will bring your warriors to us in twenty-three hours. You will show off your skill in bloodless mock battle. If you prove entertaining and heroic enough, we will consider granting your requests. To the winner go the spoils.

  “This audience is at an end. You are free to go.”

  * * *

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” First Sergeant Goldberg said. The rest of the gathered officers and non-coms followed up with even more colorful comments.

  “Silence in the damn ranks!” Fromm shouted. “I don’t like this any more than any of you,” he went on in the sullen quiet that followed. “But those are the orders we’ve been given.”

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Berry of Second Platoon said. “Running an FTX with someone we’re at war with… The troops are going to go apeshit. Some of my boys joined up specifically to kill themselves some Lampreys.”

  “I’ve lost people to the Lampreys, Lieutenant,” Fromm said. “Believe me when I say nothing would give me greater pleasure than to wipe them out. But our hosts, as it turns out, are insane, at least from a human perspective. We’re dealing with lunatics with holding an impregnable position. They can pick and choose who uses this warp nexus.

  “If we lose, the Tah-Leen may let the enemy through their system, which will let them arrive at our doorstep. That means another border we’ll have to defend, without any way to strike back even if we beat them off. We’re already spread very thin as it is. On the other hand, if we win and they open their warp lines to us, we can take the Lampreys from behind, and link directly with the Puppies. That might convince them to go all in, as opposed to the half-assed way they’ve been helping us so far. This could be a turning point in the war. Think about it.”

  To their credit, they did, even hotheads like Berry. For several moments, they considered his words in silence.

  “It’s going to be tough,” First Sergeant Goldberg said. “But we can make sure everyone knows the score. Only thing is, what if the Lampreys try to cheat? Don’t want to go out there loaded up with blue rounds and end up catching real laser beams.”

  “We’ll have all our force fields running at full strength,” Fromm explained. “I know that during a field exercise we normally have them on low power to save a few bucks, but this isn’t a normal FTX. As for weapons, we’ll bring along a basic combat load of live ammo, under the control of our platoons’ officers and NCOs. In other words, those basic loads will be on your backs at the beginning of the operation, and you will supervise them closely. Don’t worry, the rest of the enlisted are also going to lug a lot of extra gear as well. I’ll explain that in a moment.

  “Moving on.” A virtual map appeared in front of everyone’s eyes, depicting what might once have been a city, now consisting of roofless, burned-out buildings and the occasional craters that marked spots where a ground-bursting shell had struck. Most of the war-wracked ruins were clustered on and around a shallow hill, with a maximum elevation of seventy meters. A large river ran on a rough north by northeast axis on the eastern side of the hill. Heavy woods covered much of the western edge.

  “This is our area of operations. It’s a compartment inside the station, but as you can see it’s large enough to accommodate a company-level action with room to spare. Our objective is to seize the ruins at the top of the hill and destroy the enemy. Winner is the last man standing on the hill, basically. Our line of departure is marked in green, on the southern edge of the map, about two klicks away from the objective. The enemy will deploy on the opposite side; their estimated strength is a company equivalent.”

  The known data on Lamprey land units scrolled down, projected into everyone’s imps as well as displayed on the central screen of the briefing room.

  “A Lamprey Combat Nest is comprised of ninety-three infantrymen and twelve Battle Bugs. The latter are roughly equivalent to our Hellcats; more armor, less speed. Add ten ‘Decurion’ non-com equivalents and two ‘Centurion’ officers, the unit’s commander and XO. That brings its total size to a hundred and seventeen. We are at our full TOE strength of one-sixty-seven personnel, so we outnumber them by a considerable margin. Even worse for them, Lampreys don’t have company-level mortars or dedicated heavy-weapon units. That is good news. I’ve been on the receiving end of their heavy ordnance, at Astarte-Three, and it’s no joke. Worse than the Vipers.”

  That made them sit up. Most of the combat vets in the unit had faced the Vipers and acquired a healthy respect for the aliens. Anything worse had to be downright hellish. Fromm only wished he was exaggerating.

  “On the negative side of the ledger, this particular Combat Nest is part of the Third PSF Phalanx, also known as the ‘People’s Immortals.’ To qualify for membership, troops must have served for a minimum of fifty-odd years in other combat units. The cream of the crop, in other words, well-eq
uipped and trained, used for the toughest assignments. The Lamprey in charge apparently thought bringing in an elite force would impress the Tah-Leen. So we’re up against their varsity team. Their standard-issue weapon is a combat laser, slightly inferior to what the Vipers have, but plenty good enough to punch through personal shields and body armor. Heavy weapons include anti-tank missiles, crew-served lasers plasma cannon mounted by the Battle Bugs, and self-propelled grenades. Most of the lessons we learned at Parthenon-Three apply here.”

  He let his words sink in for a few moments before continuing:

  “Overall, however, the Fang-Faces don’t conduct a lot of land operations, and most of those consist of mop-up missions and kill sweeps in the aftermath of a genocide bombing run. Even those elite troops haven’t done a lot of fighting against Starfarer enemies. They may also be overconfident, but we will assume they have bothered to read the after-action reports of our previous engagements with them and other ETs.

  “We have no transport. Our only non-infantry assets are the Hellcats from Fourth Platoon, the self-propelled mortars from Third and three hundred and fifty recon drones. A Lamprey Combat Nest has five hundred drones, by the way. The discrepancy is even worse with anti-drone swatters: they have eleven; we have five, one per platoon, plus one for the company headquarters. That means they will likely be able to win the ‘eyes on the sky’ battle. Cover and concealment are a primary concern here.”

  “Zero support, too,” Gunnery Sergeant Freito noted. Companies weren’t organized to perform field ops on their own. “We’ll have to bring rations, just in case this becomes an extended operation. On top of everything else we’ll have to lug on our backs.”

  “That’s why we’re going to sort through our logistics and figure out how to bring along as much as we can without compromising our battle effectiveness, and speed,” Fromm said. “At full power, our standard suits allow us to carry three hundred pounds of extra equipment; we are going to use that to our advantage. Lampreys do not equip their troops with powered suits, but they augment them via muscle and bone enhancement. We estimate their own carry load to be around a hundred and fifty pounds before their stamina and performance are significantly degraded. That gives us a logistical edge.”

  “Get there firstest with the mostest,” Lieutenant Hansen quoted.

  “Exactly.”

  “We can use my Hundred-Mike-Mikes as pack mules, too,” First Lieutenant Chambal said, referring to the self-propelled mortars in his weapons platoon. “They are over-engineered for their normal load; those little mag-lev engines can carry a literal ton of extra weight and still keep up with us.”

  “Good. We’ll make use of that. We are going to bring forward as much ordnance and equipment as we can, seize the objective before the enemy can reach it, and adopt a defensive posture. Our goal is to impress the locals so they will support us and not the Lampreys. Make sure everyone understands the stakes here. This is important.”

  Lieutenant Berry was still upset, but the anger was fading away. Verdi, the CO of the Mobile Infantry Platoon, didn’t look convinced, or maybe his glum expression came from the suspicion Fromm was planning to use his precious Hellcats to bring along more bullets and beans for the company. Unlike the 100mm mobile mortars, the four-legged battlesuits didn’t have a lot of spare power; if anything, they used more energy than their specs indicated. Overloading them would further cut down their battery life.

  “We’ll go over everything to determine everything we might need, and how we can bring it to the fight. We’re going to treat this like the real thing, and we’re going to win. It’d be nice if we had a company of LAVs to ride in, but this kind of situation is why we practice forced marches. Let’s treat this like a leadership opportunity, people.”

  Fromm went over the battle plan, noticing that the grumbling died down as the officers and NCOs focused on the mission at hand. Nobody was happy they were playing games with the enemy instead of doing what came naturally, but training exercises were designed to simulate the experience of combat as closely as possible. The only difference between a field exercise and a real fight was that you didn’t have to write as many deeply-regret emails at the end. And if winning meant the Tah-Leen cast their lot with the US, that would help the war a million times more than destroying a Lamprey Combat Nest. This was a lot more important than the dog and pony show they’d been expecting to perform.

  The whole thing still left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Eight

  Let the games begin.

  Heather had half-expected the Tah-Leen to recreate a Roman coliseum for this event. Instead, the large chamber awaiting the American delegation was a near-facsimile of the John F. Kennedy Conference Room that had once been located in the pre-Contact White House. Better known as the Situation Room, it had a rectangular shape with a long table at its center and 2-D screens on the walls. The Great Seal of the United Stars was on the wall behind the President’s seat; it was identical to pre-Contact America’s emblem except for the number of stars above the stylized bald eagle in the center. There were a few differences from the original room. It was bigger, large enough to fit three dozen people around the table and seat an additional thirty along the walls. Plenty of space for the small delegation and the ten Security Detail agents the Tah-Leen had allowed to attend. There was also a holotank in the middle of the table.

  One of the screens on the wall showed the Lampreys gathered in a copy of one of their Syndicate Halls: a round chamber that looked like an oversized igloo made of fitted stone rather than ice. The Lhan Arkh were seated, in a manner of speaking, on rows of reclining couches, since their bodies didn’t bend in a way that worked for actual chairs. The Spartan surroundings looked like they might have sprung straight from the alien’s version of the Neolithic era, except for the thoroughly modern screens and holotanks filling the central portion of the hall.

  The Hierophant was in the US President’s seat, still wearing his Buddha costume, while the Priestess, retaining the shape and dress of the Kirosha Queen, reclined in the central spot normally occupied by the Lhan Arkh Activist-In-Chief.

  As soon as everyone was seated and the usual fake pleasantries exchanged, the other screens switched on to display different areas of the impromptu battlefield, which covered a good nine square kilometers. The extravagant use of space in an enclosed habitat was a statement in itself. Holographic projections created the illusion of an open sky over the game board, and additional terrain extending dozens of additional kilometers away. They made it seem as if the two sets of combatants had been transported to some remote planet. An interior compartment that size was unheard of in a normal space station, but the Habitat for Unique Diversity had plenty of room to spare.

  The 3-d display on the central table came to life as well, showing the scene in perfect detail, down to the hills, forests and ruins dotting the landscape. Icons marked the initial dispositions of the Marine and Lamprey forces, just like they would in a game, except this one was being played with live sophonts as its pieces.

  At least they didn’t demand an actual fight to the death, Heather thought. That wasn’t surprising. Blood sports were considered barbaric among Starfarers. Funny they would have scruples about something like that when most civilizations would cheerfully commit genocide without batting an eyelash, but sophonts were weird that way.

  Both sides would be equipped with practice ammunition, the kind of stuff used in training exercises. Virtual Reality projections sent to the combatants’ sensor systems and the spectators’ screens and implant inputs would make the battle seem real enough, though.

  The Hierophant began to give a speech announcing the beginning of the contest. Heather tuned out the meaningless babble and concentrated on the work at hand. She’d spent much of the previous night studying the Tah-Leen network, using the access codes the Seeker of Knowledge had given her. The Conduit, as the Snowflakes called their intranet, was similar to every other distributed information system she’d studied, except in
its sheer size and redundancy. Her initial perusal had uncovered no less than three separate different networks operating in the habitat.

  A traditional client-server system comprised the Common Conduit. Heather had spent most of the night there, discovering that Tah-Leen data storage and communication technology was slightly faster and more efficient than current Starfarer equivalents, but not incredibly so. Apparently not much progress had been made in those areas in the past quarter million years. Disappointing but not unexpected. Passing on information technology to one’s ‘heirs’ would be easy enough, which meant fewer dark ages and also fewer breakthroughs. The good news was that some of her regular hacking tricks would work just as well here as they had in more primitive systems, especially if she could use the Seeker’s access codes for her own ends.

  A restricted-access network handled Xanadu’s vital systems: life support, security, weapon systems, and control over a host of robots that did most of the manual work in the station. There were over a million self-propelled machines at work in the base, and a good third of them could be turned into lethal weapons with a bit of creativity, not counting a hundred thousand dedicated combat platforms, each with the firepower of a main battle tank and about as hard to kill. The Seeker hadn’t given her any access to the Master Conduit. Breaking into it would be impossible unless her new magic implants worked as advertised. Maybe not even then.

  Finally, each Tah-Leen had a personal network that linked each of their drone bodies to a central node. The Snowflakes could somehow project their consciousness into multiple bodies. Each one was independent of the rest; they could communicate with each other through the network but didn’t share memories and experiences until they ‘uploaded’ them into the so-called Core. The Cores apparently held the actual consciousness of each Tah-Leen, and they were extremely well-protected. Even their physical location was kept secret. All she’d been able to learn of that network was the number of nodes, which had led her to discovering just how many Tah-Leen were around.