by Jack Hanson
“Tell me these are friends,” Jane demanded of the major, who only shook his head.
“I couldn’t tell you,” he admitted, looking skywards.
After a minute, a radio transmission began to feed itself into Jane’s headset. It was distant and scratchy at first, but gained strength quickly and began to issue its demand:
“This is Fleet Colonel Christina Prince with the Fifth Retributive Strike Force. Ganymede, we are coming to your aid. Continue to fight, janissaries, for help has arrived. Enemies of the Terran Empire, prepare to suffer in misery before we send you screaming back into the dark.”
Up above in the stars, corvettes, cruisers, and destroyers boiled out from behind the shadows of Ganymede’s moons, their solid-state weaponry slamming into the Dominion’s elegant ships. Blue shields crackled as the bulky Terran ships disgorged their firepower, but soon enough, hulls began to shatter under the strain. Raider air to air fighters screamed out of carriers and capital ships, some intercepting the Dominion’s own fighters, others providing an escort for Tuareg bombers and Saboteur electronic warfare fighters, and more driving down into the atmosphere to help the beleaguered planetary defenses. Heavily-shielded impact cruisers closed the distance with enemy capital ships, and began launching dart–like craft that punched through the skin of the enemy ships and spewed Assault Janissaries forth to slaughter anything that stood in their way.
Some drop pods began to scream towards the planet, sending in teams of janissaries who were aching to meet with the foe that had haunted the Imperial colonies for so long. Several wings of Raiders avoided the aerial melee and plunged into the atmosphere, escorting bulky jets that seemed made up of a blocky fuselage with stubby wings, weighted down by all the armaments attached to them.
Two of these Viking air-to-ground close-support fighters passed over Jane’s position, their Raider escort soaring overhead protectively as the Vikings began to fire on targets, their massive cannons belching fire.
Jane looked down at her display, and saw one of her flanks was engaged with the enemy. A breakthrough was imminent. Help had arrived, but she didn’t know when they would arrive here, and she had a responsibility to the troops on the ground. Her mind raced, and she realized that there was something she could do.
“Paris,” she said into her radio, muting her voice to the outside world.
After a moment, she received her response.
“Go ahead, Jane, this flank is secure,” said the calm voice of the Rillik.
“Paris, can you see about a mile to the north of you?” she asked him.
Far away, the optics in Paris’s helmet zoomed in, and he could see the close-quarter combat that had Jane so worried.
“If you’re concerned about that, the two of us can go fix it,” Paris told her.
“No, you’re all I have at that flank, and I don’t want to pull you away in case they throw more at us and then I’m dealing with a worse problem,” Jane responded. “How’s your aim?”
“I can’t shoot them all from here,” Paris said, misunderstanding.
“No, I need you to call in a close-air support mission,” said Jane.
Paris was silent for a moment. “Those troops are right on top of each other,” he murmured, half to himself and half to Jane.
“Paris, I know that, but I need you to make it happen,” she said, not expecting a response. Paris didn’t give her one, instead beginning to calculate the necessary coordinates and angles while ordering his HUD to scan radio frequencies for the Vikings.
Paris found the channel in short order, and cut into the chatter between the two pilots. “Viking leader, this is Herald Three,” Paris said.
There was a pause, and the Viking leader spoke up.
“…Herald Three, this is Broadsword Six. It’s been a while since I’ve heard someone use that call sign,” replied a rough and cracked voice. “Are you the real deal then?”
Before Paris could answer, a woman’s voice cut in. “Broadsword Six, this is Sapper Six – I have been informed by the League of Silence that we have FOSsil assets on the ground.”
Another pause and Paris watched the jets begin to do a long sweeping turn towards him. Broadsword Six spoke to him again. “Aye aye, Ma’am. Herald Three, consider us at your command,” the flight lead said.
On their private channel, Paris could hear the wingman’s younger voice query the older pilot. “What’s the big deal? I thought they were just super infantry?”
“Son, you are about to see some fucking magic occur,” Broadsword Six responded, making Paris smile as he completed the calculations.
“Broadsword Six: Fire Mission! Approach heading at one-three-two degrees, beginning at grid coordinate Lima Sierra Seven Niner Five Six Niner Zero Zero Two, begin your run at my mark, weapons hot. Target is troops in the open,” Paris said, feeling a savage rush of joy as the planes began to circle around. Ground fire spattered up occasionally, but from what Paris had seen he doubted anyone was carrying enough fire to drop a Viking.
“Herald Three,” said the younger pilot, “this is going to be beyond dangerously close. We are risking annihilating our own troops.”
“Viking wingman, you have your orders,” said Paris.
The wingman’s objection was cut short by the lead. “Broadsword Six-seven, follow your orders,” said Broadsword Six as he made his final pass. Paris watched the fighter cruising low and slow as a grid overlay scanned over his HUD, indicating where he should call his mark for the closest, most effective fire without wiping out the harried defenders.
“Mark!” cried Paris over the radio, and the Vikings erupted in a pyrotechnic display. Missiles screamed towards the earth. Jellified fuel ignited, coating the enemy troops in a modern version of napalm. Four heavy cannons roared at once, and the ground was instantly churned and made soggy by the liquefied corpses of the attackers.
Paris watched in silence as the Vikings made another sweep over the battlefield, carving up more of the enemy that was now beginning to disengage from the fight, running for some sort of sanctuary in their own lines.
The voice of Broadsword Six-seven came over the net, clearly shaken. “Herald Three… how did you call that?” he asked incredulously.
“Broadsword Six, I need a battle damage assessment,” said Paris, ignoring the other pilot.
“The enemy has broken contact, but casualties are unavailable at this time,” said Broadsword Six. “Permission to continue pursuit?”
“Permission granted. Happy hunting,” said Paris, smiling at the instincts of the old eagle.
“To you and yours, Herald, welcome back,” said Broadsword Six.
Epilogue
Brokehorn and Ripper had posted themselves as guards near Jane’s command and control post. There had been attempts to treat their wounds, but Brokehorn had insisted in the foulest language that the medics spend their time saving the troops that were trickling in. He was old, but he had been dealt worse wounds before, and would survive this as well just a little longer.
Jane stood with Major Hayes, watching for the return of her friends. Finally, forms started to coalesce out of the smoke.
Paris arrived first, his massive rifle slung over one shoulder, walking taller than he had since he realized that he was different. He seemed his full height now – larger than life and every bit the hero he had been trained to become. Pairna walked alongside him – equals now in spirit, if not in title and deed.
The standing janissaries parted for Salem as she walked through them. The story of what had happened out there had already made its rounds, despite Ostler’s best attempts to defend her. For her part, Nemesis seemed not care. She had saved every squad she had come across, and that was just enough to keep the sorrow from her friend’s response from overwhelming her.
The janissaries gave the FOSsils a wide berth, although a lot watched them. The FOSsils themselves l
ooked towards the fire-infested lines of the enemy, now under assault from the ground and the air. As they were preparing to go find the last member of their coterie (or perhaps, his remains), they saw his slight figure appear. He was covered in blood and dragged the point of his dreamblade on the ground behind him. There were perhaps inches of his black armor that were not coated in gore from his battles. His friends rushed towards him, and he collapsed on his knees in front of them. Salem caught him in her arms as consciousness fled his body.
Medics began to run towards the group, but were driven back by the high-pitched engines of a vertical take-off and landing craft descending from the sky, its wings bearing the golden crescent moon and three arrow motif of the League of Silence. A voice coming from the jet commanded everyone to stay back from the landing zone as the plane descended. Those close enough could see a sigil thought lost for decades: a fossilized raptor skull with the motto of the FOSsil Corps circling it.
The ramp lowered and the three conscious members seemed to radiate tension. Then they saw who was at the top of the ramp. Paris tried to heft Sand in his arms, but was nudged aside by Salem. She took the unconscious Reaver up the ramp into the belly of the transport, Jane in front and Paris behind her.
The cadets and janissaries of Ganymede Academy watched the new generation of the FOSsil Corps ascend to the stars.
* * *
In the heavy cruiser Artemis, Fletcher finished a radio communication just as Clay walked in.
“Colonel Prince wanted them, and you, on board her capital ship. She called me an old spider. She threatened to raise her own Rogue Fleet if I did any of you wrong,” said Fletcher, more amused than annoyed. “She also wants to know if you introduced yourself to your daughter.”
“She saw the wisdom of not having every curious sailor and janissary trying to pop their heads in on the newest FOSsils?” Clay asked. He was wearing clean grey fatigues, but still bore the grit from the battle on his skin, and carried the smell of smoke and blood with him when he entered the room. “As for the second, tell her to keep on honoring the agreement we made. There’s no need for that girl to have this complication shoved into her life.”
“Of course. We’re making for Aurelius III right now,” Fletcher said, standing and walking over to a wet bar. He mixed two drinks, and walked back to Clay, who had seated himself on one of Fletcher’s chairs. The man’s cabin was Spartan, but the few objects he decided to bring with him were luxurious. The scotch was no exception.
The men sipped their drinks for a moment, and then Fletcher breeched the silence. “Do you think it will work this time?” he asked Clay.
The FOSsil paused, swallowed, and then responded.
“I think that anything is better than locking them up on a moon in a forgotten solar system,” Clay said dryly.
Parrying, Fletcher asked another question. “How are the children?”
Clay smirked, and let the matter drop.
“Sleeping. They’re exhausted, and rightfully so. They’ll probably stay that way until we arrive at the first shift node,” he said.
After a few seconds, Clay said, “You’ve changed, Fletcher. Fifteen years ago you wouldn’t have cared, or at least wouldn’t have verbalized it.”
Fletcher shrugged, a wry smile playing over his lips. “Fifteen years ago I would have been worrying about you among so many people for so long, let alone bonding with strange adolescents.”
“Touché,” said Clay, raising his glass.
“After Aurelius, are you still set in your decision?” asked Fletcher.
“I am. They need to have the help of the others, and they need Scytheclaw companions of their own,” said Clay.
“They might kill you. The reports from Elysium have been less than… positive,” admitted Fletcher.
Clay shrugged. “We both have our fights, Old Man,” he said.
“Apparently the attack at Ganymede was part of a coordinated strike across several systems. Ganymede and Jain were able to fight off the attacks, but Huntsman has fallen. The League and the Commands know what is going on though. The wheels are already turning,” Fletcher said.
“The Illurian Dominion… How did you miss them returning? I thought we had driven them off once and for all when we attacked Illuria,” said Clay.
Fletcher paused for a moment, steepling his fingers before responding. “My boy, I wish I could answer that. I want to believe that they had a contingency plan in case they were betrayed, to have rebuilt so fast. The other option is…”
“Treachery from the Illurians who stayed with us as part of the Armada, which makes no sense considering they thought the royalty was decadent and straying from the principals of their Truth to begin with,” said Clay.
“Treachery rarely makes sense to those outside of it,” countered Fletcher. He reached over for a small tablet on the table, and passed it to Clay. “Tell me what you make of this,” he said.
Clay took the reader, and exhaled slowly as he laid it on the table and made the picture larger. The photo projected upwards for the two men to look at. Children were crawling over the corpses of fallen citizens, the weapons in their hands instantly recognizable to the Reaver. He was silent as he turned the picture this way and then the other, looking at the tiny figures bearing dreamblades. All were wearing the same helmets with stylized hands, but some were wearing piecemeal armor, while most were naked and ragged with long jagged scars visible on their flesh.
“They’re making FOSsils,” Clay said, his voice a whisper. “But why are they so skinny?” He knew firsthand the demands the body made when a FOSsil Manifested.
“Look in the back,” murmured Fletcher. Clay did as bid, and gave a soft “Ah” as he saw two of the naked children fighting over an arm that had been sliced off, with several chunks missing where teeth had ripped flesh from the bone.
“Hunger as a weapon and a reward, I imagine,” said Fletcher. “I believe the Dominion is training their FOSsils to look at us as a moving larder, and not as a safe haven from the ones responsible for those scars.”
Another deep breath from Clay, and Fletcher took a step back. He was not worried about Clay making him answer for what was done to him as a child, not anymore. Still, this was the man who burned his way across the galaxy for a lost love and to finish the job Arch-Strategos Young had started, dragging the Peace Federation to the negotiating table by the throat. Prudence was advisable.
“I notice there are no Scytheclaws present. Do you think they used dogs as well?” Clay asked conversationally.
“If there were dogs involved, I imagine that was probably the first meal they had as their Catalyst,” he said.
“Those children are what, nine or ten?” asked Clay.
Fletcher nodded, watching the big man’s hands. “I’d say so,” the older man agreed.
Clay nodded. He had Manifested at sixteen, and been brought into the School when he was five years old. Eleven years of conditioning and scarring had been compressed into five, and Clay could only imagine the damage done. The presence of those physical scars only hinted at the acts committed by the children.
“What of their strength? Is this a vanguard we’re facing, or did they throw everything they have at us?” asked Clay.
Fletcher suppressed a smile, remembering when Clay had thought of himself as an arm with a blade, and not the tactician Fletcher had molded him into.
“We don’t know. There are too many questions here for the League to be comfortable with. Fortunately, we have no shortage of young saboteurs and intelligencers who are chomping at the bit for something beyond the intrigues of petty ‘independent’ systems and the ruins of the Peace Federation.”
“Speaking of them, will they come in on the side of the Dominion? Is the Dominion as much a threat as the Federation was?” Clay asked.
“The Federation is no longer in a position to be a threat. The issue wi
th the Illurians was always their numbers. It was never technology, tactics, or any of the other issues that plagued the Federation. If they have fixed that drawback…” said Fletcher, trailing off at the end. “It may be problematic, but we are not in the middle of recovering from an internal revolt, learning as we go. We’ve had nearly two decades of peace, established alliances and cooperation between the races we represent, and had a chance for our military to rest and refit. If they expected to catch us by surprise, they’ll reap a bloody harvest of their own soldiers.”
The two men let that speech fill the silence, and Clay stood up, nodding at Fletcher.
“You’ve given me some things to think about. I won’t be sleeping easy. Good night,” he said.
“I don’t see much sleep for either of us in the future,” Fletcher said as the big man nodded, and let himself out.
* * *
Deeper in the cruiser, Jane woke up and looked around the dark room that held three other bunks. There was a deep, faraway engine hum that probably would have lulled her to sleep if she had needed a lullaby. She had not needed such after the trial they had all been through, and Jane was thankful that someone had seen to them being sent to a secluded landing bay on the cruiser where League of Silence personnel were waiting for them.
She lay back in her bunk, thinking of how banal everything had seemed afterwards, as if they hadn’t just turned the thrust of an invading fleet. Jane sighed, and wondered if this was a common reaction or just her body’s stress hormones returning to normal. Well, as close to normal as she could be, considering what Clay and Fletcher had told her about stress responses and her new status.
A dark form stirred, illuminated by a dim blue light strip that ran the circumference of the room, and Jane saw Salem toss her hair back and forth before stretching.