A mechsuit diverted from its path and, with hardly a pause, scooped up the battlesuiter like a child would seize a doll, its gauntlet crushing several Rhinos. The mechsuiter held his prize high until he caught up with another mechsuit, setting the battlesuiter on its shoulder on the run. It was a feat of athletics impossible to fathom, all executed at more than 100 KPH, yet the pilot made it look routine.
Pride welled in Straker’s heart.
Until the sky flared anew.
The missile clashes in the air above had ceased with the last battle, where the Guard and First Battalion linked up to withdraw. Now, Straker’s HUD marked far-off ballistic missiles climbing fast on the horizon, from every direction.
“General Straker, I have over four hundred missiles inbound to your location—less than two minutes,” Indy said.
“I thought—”
“They wouldn’t target in proximity to their own people? Apparently they have. We’re dropping down to pick many off, but some will strike. I strongly suggest you disperse and return to nuclear protocols.”
“They wouldn’t, would they?”
“General, they might.”
Straker opened the Breaker-wide channel. “Nuclear protocols. Disperse immediately. Expect detonations starting in one minute. Straker out.” He followed his own instructions as the Guard increased its spacing from fifty meters between mechsuits to three hundred, squashing Rhinos with every step.
If what he feared manifested, those he crushed might be the lucky ones.
The fireworks ahead approached a crescendo.
“Indy…”
“We can’t stop everything. Ten seconds to inevitable detonation.” This last was accompanied by a chrono countdown.
“Breakers, take cover, max reinforcement. Nuke coming!”
Two seconds after the countdown ended, a nuke detonated. It was larger than the earlier, battlefield blasts, though still not in the megaton range.
The fireball touched the ground, compressing and reflecting the blast, making it more effective. It swallowed up a quarter of a square kilometer instantly. Straker’s HUD estimated 200,000 Rhinos were simply vaporized—along with four mechsuiters and twenty battlesuiters. Straker, Loco and the rest of the Guard threw themselves backward, putting the low ridge between them and ground zero. That deflected the worst of it. Their armor and reinforcement handled the rest.
The Breakers got off easy.
Electromagnetic pulse shut down all unshielded machinery. Thermal pulse—the instant application of heat and infrared light—flash-ignited anything that would burn, even flesh. Seismic waves smashed Rhinos from below, pulverizing them to death. Atmospheric overpressure moved at sonic speeds, first shattering their ears and then stripping the meat from their bones. These four forces scoured the plain clean of unprotected life within seconds, leaving a thin layer of meat-and-bone jelly half a meter deep.
The final wave, hurricane-force winds, sent this mix of organic matter and debris over Straker’s position like an airbrush sprayed paint. As its power diminished, a rain of hamburger and ash dropped in a thin layer across everything within twenty kilometers.
“Get up!” Straker croaked, appalled.
He told himself not to think about it.
Get up and do your damned job, Derek.
Get up.
He got up, his psyche stunned by the carnage.
From somewhere far away, he felt the cool spray of a stim and the expansion of his brainlink as his SAI diagnosed his shock and medicated him. Emotions seemed to recede, and a welcome crystal-clarity descended on him.
“Breakers, get up, extract southward by squads. No more waiting. Split up and run. They might do it again.”
Across the naked field, surviving suiters leaped up and continued to lope southward, skirting the hole in the center of the land beneath the mushroom cloud. The sky had disappeared again, leaving nothing but an overcast of dust and ash. Straker’s HUD and sensors told him where his nearest troops were—Loco, the Guard, who all survived—but the network was still recovering.
“General, do you copy?”
“Here, Indy.”
“Commodore Gray ordered detonation of a single nuclear weapon of similar size atop the nearest Rhino division, rendering it combat-ineffective. She reasoned—”
“Tit for tat, huh?” Straker asked.
“She said it was the least of evils.”
“I agree. Keep up that policy. They use them, we use them. But Indy?”
“Yes?”
“Tell the Rhinos the next one lands on their capital—or wherever their political leaders are. Make that clear.”
“I’ll relay your orders to Commodore Gray.”
“You’ll enforce my orders, Indy. Independent command only goes so far. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, sir. As long as I’m a Breaker, I’ll follow—and enforce—your orders.”
“Good—and thanks. I couldn’t run this outfit without you, Indy.” That might be an overstatement, but not by much.
“You’re welcome, General. Indy out.”
With no opposition and nothing on the ground but wet, bloody ash, Straker and the Guard made it across the plain in minutes, to link up with the waiting Breaker armored battalions. These escorted the suiters back to the wetlands where the Salamanders waited.
Several mechsuits ran low on fuel on the way, but those with a little extra were able to buddy-pass enough to get them into the water and onto the waiting Salamander submarines.
Part 3: Savior
Chapter 21
Straker, aboard Independence in orbit above Premdor-2
“General, your sister has taken a courier and departed,” Indy told Straker. It was the day after the battle on Premdor, and he was taking the first sips of his morning caff in his empty quarters aboard Independence.
Indy informed him that his children, Johnny and Katie, were in the robot nanny Stephanie’s care—in Mara’s quarters. Damn, it was Aunt Mara that was supposed to be supervising the kids. It wasn’t that he didn’t know they’d be perfectly safe though—Indy controlled the nanny and watched everything aboard ship.
“Gone where?” Straker asked.
“She left a vid, your eyes only.”
“The kids?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve taken the liberty of moving Johnny and Katie in with Doctor Campos and expanding her quarters to compensate. Her son Derek will enjoy the company, and Campos will be happy to have Stephanie there.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll swing by and visit them.” He checked his chrono. Seven hours he’d slept, enough to recover from the battle—helped by the new biotech, no doubt. He used to need more sleep. “Play the vid. You can listen in.”
Mara’s face appeared on the wall. “Morning, Derek. By the time you get this I’ll be gone, so don’t bother chasing me. I took one of our four-place couriers, with my friend Jennie Becker to back me up. The round-trip should take about eight weeks.”
Eight weeks, Straker mused. In a high-speed courier, she could reach anywhere on the map—human space, Opter space, the Thorians, or any of ten thousand other known systems.
“I’ve taken a complete set of Rhino biological samples,” Mara’s vid continued, “and all the data we have on them and their misguided biotech. My first thought was to go to the Ruxin homeworld and get their scientists working on it, but given the current politics, I can’t be sure they wouldn’t detain me. Also, without someone like Zaxby along, why would they help me? I could go to the Nebula, but I doubt Freenix has the biotech facilities and expertise in her small domain.”
Straker paused the video. He was irritated, but he decided to force himself to pay attention to what she was saying. What was done was done. Who knew? Maybe she’d pull this off.
He hit play again.
“That left two possibilities in my mind,” Mara continued. “Terra Nova, or the Miskor. It may seem weird, but frankly, I trust the Miskor more. The Opters are remarkable biologists, and they prac
tice genetic manipulation on other species, so I have high hopes they can take my information and come up with a better biotech for the Rhinos. Without it, the situation will never stabilize. Bye, Derek. Wish me luck.”
Straker pondered a moment. “Indy, what do you think of her chances?”
“There are too many variables to calculate the odds. Mara is driven and competent. It seems she may succeed. However, we should prepare for all eventualities.”
“What happens if nothing’s done about the Rhino biotech?”
“My projections say we have six months to two years. After that we should expect increasingly aggressive political-military moves from the Rhinos.”
“Meaning, if the biotech problem can’t be fixed, we can’t make this planet our home.”
“Agreed.”
Straker sighed. “Sucks for the Salamanders.”
“Humanity’s had its hot and cold wars—as most species do. It’s best not to become deeply invested in alien concerns.”
“Says the one-of-a-kind AI deeply invested in alien concerns.”
“Touché. Yet the exception proves the rule. You must resist your savior complex. You’re a mercenary leader now.”
“And governor of a civilian population,” Straker said. “That’s what really bothers me—having to always think of the children. Military people sign up for duty, so they take what comes to them—even death. Not the civilians, and especially not the kids. We really need a secure base, a home. I sure wish Freiheit was large enough.”
“Perhaps if we gather enough resources, we can build a larger habitat in the Starfish Nebula.”
“Long-term project. For now there’s too much to do.”
“Understood,” Indy said.
And there was no doubt a lot to do. “What’s first on the docket?”
“After your visit to your children, there’s a situation briefing at 0900 hours,” Indy said with pointed emphasis. “The executive summary is on your desktop.”
Straker seated himself at his desk, where the desktop displayed text and a holoscreen provided graphics. He took five minutes to eat a food bar, finish his caff and hit the highlights so he wouldn’t be blindsided by the briefing.
Glad for Indy’s reminder, he made an important stop before getting swept up into the day’s demands. Blond and precocious, six-year-old Katrine was much like her mother except for the hair. His quieter boy of five, solemn dark-haired Johnny played with Straker’s own namesake, Derek—Loco’s son by Doctor Campos. After spending an hour with the kids, Straker headed for the briefing.
“Morning everyone. Take your seats,” Straker said at the full conference table amid the muted bustle of the CCC. “First, let me congratulate everyone on a job well done. It was tough, and we lost some good people, but we fulfilled our contract, and we’ll get what we’ve paid for in blood.”
“On that note, with your permission, sir…” Colonel Winter said, remaining on his feet and nodding to Straker. “There will be a memorial service tomorrow at 1900 hours on Flight Deck Two, followed by an open-bar wake.”
“Hear hear,” Straker said as Winter sat. “Let’s get started,” he said after a respectable pause.
Commander Sinden waved a cursor and brought up the holotank, which showed orbital space around Premdor. “Commodore Gray will brief aerospace ops first.” She handed the cursor to Gray.
“Good morning Generals, commanders and staff. We currently hold high orbit. Low orbit is still subject to interdiction by Rhino ground batteries. We assess their weapons stocks are low, however, so low-orbit operations can be undertaken with confidence if necessary. Ship readiness states are as follows.”
She brought up graphics showing mostly green with some yellows, and one red blotch. “The Battenberg is technically operational, but a spitwad could puncture her bow armor. We’re slapping on some cheap steel patches, but she’ll need a complete strip-down and rebuild in a real shipyard. The orbital shipyard facilities here are in poor shape, and the Salamanders will be using them for their own ships anyway.”
“Options?”
“Send her to the Nebula and have Freenix’s people do it, though we have to figure out how to pay. Or, she can be left in high orbit as a defensive station until we can work something out.”
Straker scratched his chin, remembering how he paid Freenix when he needed her help with Freiheit. He turned to Keller. “Get a team of Ruxins together, people with life-science skills. Have them work with the Salamanders to acquire live samples—seeds, plants, breeding populations—of anything that seems tasty or useful to Ruxins in their aquatic environment. Send the team and samples with the Battenberg to Freenix. Make sure you include a Ruxin with negotiation skills. Get the best deal you can—repair the ship, and anything left goes to buy spare parts or supplies we need. And ask her what she wants for the next trip. I’m sure we’ll be doing this again.”
Keller made notes. “I’ve got it, sir.”
Straker turned back to Gray, who was still briefing. “Fuel and stores?”
“Adequate for two more weeks. We need to start landing the civilians on Breaker Island, and establish a fuel processing station at Premdor-5, their gas giant. Grab some comets for water, oxygen, and raw materials… Colonel Keller has more on that, sir.” Gray handed the cursor off to Keller.
Keller stood. “Here’s a list of fuel, ammo and supplies on hand, by category.” The graphics showed a lot of yellow, but no red. “I have a plan ready to establish a minimum space infrastructure to support us here, with Salamander permission and help. Our contract stipulates resupply of all expended materials, so as long as our clients don’t renege, we should be fine for the jobs smaller than Battenberg. The details will be in the daily annex. All I need is your signature, sir, and we can get to work.”
Straker nodded approvingly to Keller. “Consider it signed. Next?”
“I’ve also established a transport schedule to put our people onto Breaker Island. I’ve been assured Fleet and the Salamanders can defend it against all attacks. It’s over six thousand kilometers from the nearest Rhino base, so we have a comfortable distance buffer. Even so, all housing will be underground, with concrete overheads. My comprehensive plan will put the engineers down first, to start building infrastructure. The Salamanders have already begun delivering construction supplies.”
“How long to get it all done?”
“Such a project is never done, but there’ll be a bare-bones base and housing for everyone within two months. All the details—”
“Are in the daily annex. Thanks, Monika. Next?”
Loco, in a neat working dress uniform, took the cursor in an unusually businesslike fashion. “Thank you, Colonel,” he said. “Here’s the ground forces status report. We lost nine pilots and fourteen mechsuits, leaving us with 188. The silver lining, if there is one, is that they were all older Foehammers rather than the latest models. All of the mechsuits we used will need extensive maintenance and overhauls, and we’ll be cannibalizing the reserves until we can get a new shipment of parts from Freiheit. The techs will be on extended shifts for a while.”
“Noted. Give them my thanks.”
“We also lost 76 battlesuiters—killed. Similarly, their suits were mostly the older models rather than the new Rippers. This highlights the need for survivability improvements and upgrades, when we get a chance.”
Colonel Keller cleared her throat. “We can barely feed and house ourselves, General. Such improvements will have to wait.”
“Got it. I’m just stating it for the record.” Loco continued with his report on the rest of the ground forces, which were in excellent shape. “I know we had to use suits for this mission, General Straker, but now that everything we do costs out of our own pockets, we gotta try to put the load on the conventional forces when we can. Tanks, tracks and hovers are a hell of a lot cheaper than suits to repair or replace.”
“Also noted. Thanks, Loco. Anything else?”
“Only that the troops need some shore l
eave, even if they have to build the pubs, clubs and bars themselves.” He shot a hard glance at Keller, who sniffed and straightened her jacket. “They want to walk in the grass so bad—I already have volunteers for construction duty.”
“Everyone’s going to be working long hours for a while, Loco,” Straker said. “I’m sure Heiser and Gurung will manage. If not, they’ll let us know.”
Another hour dealt with the bureaucratic details, and Straker called an end to the meeting. These things could drag on if allowed. He much preferred leadership in person.
With Sergeant Steiner shadowing him, he visited the First Brigade troops in their motor pools aboard the militarized transport ships—shaking hands and praising their victory as they busily performed their endless maintenance routines on their vehicles and suits.
Armor crew were relieved to be alive and back aboard ship. They laughed and joked as they worked while sergeants growled and cracked the whip. The whole picture was overseen by caff-wielding senior noncoms whose eyes missed nothing.
The battlesuiters, elite infantry with their powered battle-armor and multiple roles—as shipboard marines, as guards and military police, as battlefield support for mechsuits—seemed a world apart. In their own maintenance bays, each soldier had his or her own suit stripped down on a workbench, tools laid out and in use. They were expected to test and replace any modular pieces themselves. Anything they couldn’t handle, they bumped up to master technicians who circulated, checking the process, giving advice or teaching.
All of this took on a new significance to Straker as he was reminded that each piece of gear, each liter of fuel isotopes, every round of ammo was something the Breakers owned and had to pay for if expended.
Sergeant Major Heiser left off working on his own suit to join Straker in his rounds. Towering over him and even Steiner, Heiser ducked through the pressure doors as they walked. “Morale’s good, sir,” he rumbled in answer to his commander’s question. “We won. It was a shit-storm, but casualties were light. That’s always good. The Breaker Bug’s a big hit.”
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