Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  He had the cockpit com on, but the pilots were mostly quiet as they struggled to keep their tiny craft on an evasive course, one that would confound the targeting systems on the enemy ship. Harmon had to admit, for shuttle pilots, they were doing a damned good jobs.

  He felt a wave of amusement move through his mind, pushing away the fear, at least for an instant. The condescending attitude toward shuttle pilots wasn’t his…it was Mariko Fujin’s. He’d never had the slightest thought about the respective skill levels of shuttle and fighter pilots before he’d heard Fujin express her opinions on the subject. Apparently, the fighter crews had a superiority complex when it came to their brethren flying cargo and passenger runs. I guess they deserve it, he thought, considering the casualty figures for Admiral Hurley’s crews.

  His mind stuck on Fujin, and he wondered if he should have included a message to her in his log entry. The two hadn’t been together long, only a few weeks, really. He’d thought of sending a message to her, of course, but the two had decided to keep their relationship secret, at least for a while. And the last thing his log would be was secret—if through some miracle it made it back to the fleet.

  He’d met Fujin a few times over the past year, but the two had really hit it off at Admiral Compton’s celebration dinner. They’d talked all through the meal and then they’d ended up in her cabin and spent the night together. He’d seen her perhaps half a dozen times since, as often as his crazed schedule allowed.

  Harmon tended to be cool emotionally, very slow to jump into friendships or romances, but he had to admit he’d become quite fond of Mariko…and he hated the idea of her thinking she hadn’t been in his mind at the end.

  If this is the end. The pilots are doing a hell of a job. The ship was bouncing around wildly, skipping off the upper atmosphere. Maybe they could escape…

  He came by his aloofness honestly. His mother was one of the fleet’s legendary cold fish, a woman who put duty above all else. He knew, better than anyone, that Camille Harmon’s reputation for callousness had been overstated, as often as not by those she had rightfully punished for poor performance. But he also realized there was truth behind it. And he knew he had inherited much of what he was from her.

  He could feel the sharpness of the shuttle’s descent angle as it began to enter the atmosphere. I hope Mariko’s wrong about shuttle pilots, because if these guys don’t know what they’re doing, we’re going to burn up.

  The shuttle bounced around again, and he could feel the heat in the cabin rising, as the life support system struggled to keep up with the rising temperature. He almost dropped his hand to the com unit to check with the pilots, but he held back. They’re in here with you…they know. And distracting them isn’t going to help.

  Suddenly, the ship shook wildly, and it flipped over, rolling hard. Harmon knew they’d been hit…and he knew this time it was bad. He could smell the charred and fused wiring, hear the sounds of atmosphere streaming out of the ruptured hull.

  The shuttle was out of control, spinning end over end as it fell toward the planet’s surface. The engines were dead, though the flickering lights told him the reactor was still functional, at least partially. He slapped his hand down on the com. “Lieutenant, can you restart the engines?” Nothing, no answer. “Lieutenant?” Still nothing. “Ensign Harris?”

  Fuck. He looked toward the door to the cockpit, and then he saw it. The hatch was banged out of shape, partially torn from its frame. He could see the outside light in the small breach, and he knew right away the cockpit had been hit. The pilots were dead. And that meant he was dead.

  He took a deep breath, trying to hold back the fear. He sat strapped into his chair feeling the sickening feeling of the shuttle plunging toward the ground. He felt the sweat pouring down his face and neck, and he knew the hull would melt any second. And that would be the end.

  * * *

  There were explosions everywhere. The heavy mortar shells sent up great clouds of dirt and shattered stone wherever they impacted. Lieutenant Kyle Bruce crouched low behind a large chunk of debris. It was some kind of strange metal. He’d never seen anything like it, but whatever the hell it was, it was great cover. Nothing seemed to penetrate it…or even scuff it up very much.

  “Let’s move!” he roared, staring at the display projected inside his visor. His Marines were strung out in two rough lines, one a hundred meters behind the first. They looked ragged, with some as far forward as he was…and others lagging behind, mostly where the shelling was heaviest.

  “We’ve got to knock out those weapons.” His Marines had been assigned to check out the First Imperium city, to confirm it was safe before the science teams moved forward.

  Mission accomplished. It’s not safe.

  He’d been part of the landing party back in X18, so he went in expecting trouble. But he was still surprised when his first patrols took about a dozen steps into the ruins and triggered an immediate attack. He’d lost three Marines in those first two minutes, and he cursed himself for not being even more careful. He took it as a lesson…no matter how pessimistic you are, things can always be worse than you expect.

  He looked around the pile of bluish-silver metal in front of him, scanning for another bit of cover farther forward. He’d had a passing thought, wondering what kind of material could look so new—almost shiny—after half a million years. But he quickly pushed those distractions to the back of his mind. When someone is shooting at you, pretty much everything else takes secondary status.

  He slipped around the side of the debris pile and ran forward, crouching low as he scrambled about ten meters forward and dove behind another bit of collapsed building…just as a burst of projectiles of some kind whizzed by, slamming into the ground a few meters from where he’d been an instant before. That was no mortar shell…that was an autocannon of some kind. He felt a shudder, and then a trickle of cold sweat sliding down his back. Mortars were only moderately dangerous, more nuisance than serious danger to an alert and armored Marine. But the enemy hypervelocity coilguns were deadly dangerous. Bruce knew they’d tear through his osmium-iridium armor like a knife through butter.

  “Bruce, report.” Connor Frasier’s voice was raw, almost guttural. The commander of the Scot’s Company was a Marine’s Marine, ready for almost anything in the field…but even he sounded a little stunned by the amount of resistance his people had encountered. And how quickly it had happened.

  “We’re about a quarter klick in, sir. I’ve got five people down…two dead. The others are walking wounded. I sent them back toward the camp.”

  “Good,” came the gruff reply. “We’re setting up an aid station. Move your casualties back that way.”

  “Yes, sir. Coordinates received.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant…I want your people to keep moving forward. We’ve got to stop this bombardment. The colonel’s got reinforcements on the way, but we’re on our own for now…and if these bastards start shelling the main camp, it’s going to be a disaster. We’ve got unarmored personnel all over the place.”

  “Yes, Major. We’ll press on.”

  “I know you will. Also, Finley’s section is coming up on your left. They’re about twenty meters behind your position, so they should be there in half a minute. Latch onto his flank, and don’t let anything get by you. We want to keep these fuckers in front of us…and then swing around and flank them.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “I’m sending up a spread of recon drones too…to try and get some better intel on whatever’s up there farther ahead. They should be passing over your position shortly. I will have the data transmitted to you as soon as it comes in.”

  “Yes, Major.

  “Carry on, Lieutenant.” Bruce heard the click as Frasier cut the line.

  “Carson!” Bruce snapped.

  “Sir!” came the reply, almost immediately.

  “Your squad is on our extreme left. Lieutenant Finley and his platoon are over there. I need your people to connect with t
hem, and make sure we’ve got a solid line…no gaps between platoons. Any of these bogies get through to the rear, and we’re fucked.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. We’re on it, sir.”

  “Keep me posted…and let me know if you have any problems.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bruce turned and looked forward from his position. The hyper-velocity fire had gotten heavier…and it was moving. Trying to work its way around our flank. And it’s not too far…just in front of me, off to the right…

  He crept around the edge of the pile of rubble, snapping off an order to his AI as he did. The system acknowledged, and an instant later he felt a clip of grenades slide into the launcher on his left arm. He crept forward another few meters, ducking low, listening to the fire just off to the right. Then he swung his arm up and popped off a spread of shells, running forward the instant the last one fired. He swung hard to the right…whatever was out there would know exactly where the incoming shells had come from…and he didn’t intend to be there when it responded.

  He drove himself about ten meters to the left ducking so low he almost lost his balance. He stumbled forward, powered by the servos in his armored legs. He was off-balance, committed. If he tried to stop, he’d fall. And if he fell, he’d die. The enemy would be on him before he could do anything about it.

  He swung to the right again, still barely staying on his feet, coming around another large chunk of debris…and then he saw it. It was about two meters tall, roughly manlike in shape, but not human, not even living. It had two large weapons, similar to Marine autocannons, attached to its arms…and there was a small globe at the top, like a tiny head. Bruce had seen its kind before on X18, and in the battles along the Line. A First Imperium warbot.

  The Scot’s eyes stared into his visor, focusing on the enemy. He’d caught it by surprise…it was facing back toward his original position. He knew that advantage would last a second, perhaps less, but he was already firing his assault rifle on full auto, spraying the terrible robot with hundreds of hypervelocity rounds as his body lurched forward. He felt the fear in his gut, and his mind cried out to run, to duck to the side. But he ignored it, let himself drop prone, struggling to keep from falling to the ground, firing right into the monstrous war machine the whole time. He had committed…he would either have the bot or it would have him. His clip had been full, five hundred rounds, and it took less than three seconds to fire them all. And when he was done, the First Imperium warbot was lying on its side, almost torn to shreds.

  He saw something, even as he was checking on his immediate opponent…a glint, perhaps the sunlight reflecting off another bot. He kicked his legs out behind him, diving forward with his rifle in front of him. He stared forward, and he scanned his display…but nothing came. He was just climbing back to his feet when he heard the drones moving overhead, a spread of six, about a hundred meters up, each one angling a different way, scanning the whole area.

  Bruce moved a few meters and crouched down behind a pile of twisted wreckage…part of the remains of a tower than had collapsed long ago, leaving only traces of the great metal frame that had supported it ages before. He turned his head both ways, doublechecking to make sure he had no enemies moving up on him. Then he instructed his AI to display the drone data…and he got his first real look at what his people were up against.

  “Fuck…”

  * * *

  Neil Carson lay flat on his stomach, his assault rifle extended forward as he scanned the rubble-strewn ground in front of him. He’d moved to the left end of his squad’s line, and he’d linked up with Corporal Hendry, who was on the extreme right of Finley’s section. Hendry was about twenty meters away, which was as close to a solid line as they were going to get, at least unless some reinforcements made it up to the front.

  There was heavy fighting off to his right, somewhere near the lieutenant’s position. He could see the squad deployed there moving around on the tactical display. They had a few casualties, three it looked like, but no KIAs, at least as far as the datanet was showing. But they needed help…and they weren’t likely to get it any time soon.

  Carson had fought the First Imperium before. On X18, of course, but before that too. He’d been a bright-eyed private, fresh out of training when he’d been sent to Sandoval…to Erik Cain’s army that almost bled itself to death holding that world against the massive First Imperium invasion. The battles along the Line had slipped into legend, and he suspected they continued to be revered in Occupied Space as the moment the First Imperium’s advance was halted. But for the men and women who had served there, it would always be remembered as the brutal hell it was, a battle where less than half of those who fought survived…and most of those who made it didn’t walk from the field, they were carried.

  His eyes darted to the display again, watching updates appear as the recon drones fed information into the datanet. The lieutenant was way up, maybe thirty meters ahead of the squad he was supposed to be moving with. Carson wasn’t surprised. Lieutenant Bruce had been on Sandoval too, and he’d been just as crazy-brave there. Bruce was the kind of officer who’d throw himself forward to flush out the threats and try to keep his Marines alive. Officers like that almost always had the undying love of those serving under them…but few of them survived very long. Bruce had made it through Sandoval and X18…but it looked like he was doubling down now, daring fate to put him down. Carson felt himself wishing the lieutenant would pull back, show a little more caution…that he would stay alive.

  “Sarge, we’ve got something coming…looks like half a dozen of those blasted ‘bots.” The voice on the com was heavy with a thick Scottish brogue. The company was full of Scots, but few spoke with much more than a faint accent, the result of years of attempted cultural homogenization by Alliance Gov. But Tavish Darrow was a throwback, and he sounded as if he’d been plucked from a time centuries before, from the serried ranks of Highlanders rising up and charging wildly across the field. The private was young, but Carson knew he had the makings of a great Marine…and someday perhaps, an officer.

  But for now he was a private, and Carson had sent him to scout the ground up ahead. “Alright, Darrow. Fall back…you’re up there for information, not to get yourself blown away.” He flipped to the squad line. “Listen up, we’ve got bogies incoming. You’ve all fought these fuckers before, so you know how dangerous they are. I want everyone one hundred percent focused…and I want those things blown to bits before they do the same to us. So dig in somewhere and wait for them…and the instant you see one, open up with everything you’ve got. Understood?” It was a rhetorical question, but he still got four or five acknowledgements.

  His eyes dropped to the scanner. Darrow was almost back to the line…and he could see the cluster of bots right behind him. The ground was covered with debris, the remains of a huge ancient building that had collapsed millennia before. Earth ruins a tenth as old would have blown away as dust, but the astonishing materials the First Imperium employed remained in place, fallen perhaps, collapsed in earthquakes and other natural disasters, but even after half a million years, it was obvious the massive chunks lying about were sections of once titanic structures.

  The broken buildings made formidable cover, and Carson knew that benefitted his Marines. Damned good thing for it too, he thought. Darrow would have been dead long before he made it back without that cover. And the rest of us wouldn’t last much longer.

  The First Imperium bots were stronger, heavily armed, their shielding far more durable than the Marines’ armor. But the obscured ground went a long way to equalizing things…or at least that was the idea.

  Carson crept along behind an especially large chunk of debris, a rough oval shape four meters high and eight long. He pushed himself against a small indentation, and he sat quietly…waiting. His scanner showed a bot just on the other side. He stood stone still, staring up at his display. He knew the data wasn’t necessarily perfect. His AI was constantly combining all incoming information—drone
reports, the scanners on his own armor, the entire company on the datanet, even the auditory input on his external speakers. But that didn’t mean every sign was picked up. He was trying to sneak up on his enemy…and he knew damned well the deadly battle bot was trying to do the same thing to him.

  His stomach roiled, as it usually did in combat, and he struggled to push the fear and doubt from his mind. He almost took a step forward to work his way around the giant slab, but he didn’t. He held firm, still, like a hole in the air. Let it come to me…

  He felt the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, along the back of his neck. He knew his AI kept his internal climate control perfect, increasing or decreasing heat to match physical exertion and other factors. But there were things beyond heat that made a man sweat.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled hard, loudly. At least he didn’t have to be quiet inside his armor…all that holding of breath and the like. He had his external speakers off, and the insulation of his fighting suit blocked normal sounds.

  He glanced up at the display again. The bot was in the same place. Had it detected him? The ancient remnants of the First Imperium forces didn’t seem to have drones or other sensor arrays in place, which meant that for all their superior equipment, on the battlefield as a whole, the Marines had the edge in scouting. But that didn’t mean the bot hadn’t found him. His mind raced.

  Should I move? Run? Attack?

  No…stay. Patience…the key to any effective trap…

  The icon on his display was stationary…but he didn’t believe it. The small image had a faint white outline around it, a key that said the data was old, that the enemy could be on the move, that any instant it could move to a spot where it had a line of sight…and an instant after that, Carson knew he’d be dead. Like a thousand others he’d seen fall in his battles.

  He hands were on his assault rifle, a fresh click snuggly in place. He was as ready as he could be…