Crises and Conflicts: Celebrating the First 10 Years of NewCon Press

by Ian Whates

  “Eyes front, soldier,” said Valys. “Check your breathing.”

  Slowly, Wachman’s head rose, mud streaming from the helm, and the rebreather re-set.

  The air on the right flank was dense with the mist kicked up by the incoming auto-fire. One shot had caused Five to turn all its attention on three squads of the enemy.

  Narbrot fired a second hot-shot, taking down another of Five. This time commander Pupka did make eye contact. The hard stare was not approving, but Narbrot held the gaze.

  Then the order came in.

 

  “Too soon,” said Valys again.

  There was no cover, the soldiers were on their bellies, visibility was less than fifty percent and not everyone was as good a shot as Narbrot, or had the same optical ranges built into their sepio-suits.

  Wachman shot blind into the haze, the first of Valys’ squad to fire. The hot-shot round seared through the sheeting yellow rain, lighting the heavy drops as it passed between them, evaporating those it hit, leaving no mist, no trace. No one else in the squad stirred. They watched the shot piercing the atmosphere, and they watched their visor displays. It was all there.

  “Hold fire,” said Valys. “Don’t shoot, Wachman.”

  Wachman wanted to confirm the order, but was too nervous to speak.

  “Tactical recommendation,” said Valys into the throat mic.

 

  “Select squad snipers to lay down hot-shot fire for target identification,” said Valys.

 

  “Confirm with squad leader Pupka,” said Valys.

  For the next five seconds low energy auto-fire continued to stream in over Three, but there seemed to be confusion on the battlefield. The auto-fire was still falling short of its targets. Five had stopped advancing.

 

  “Nostus, Skrobel, Bledis, you’re up,” said Valys. “Everyone else, follow their shots, short bursts, half-energy. Let’s do some damage.”

  Before the order was completed, Narbrot had got off another shot, and Pupka’s squad had begun firing on Five, using the clean light of the hot-shot rounds to trace the outlines of the enemy.

  “De-select hot-shot, Wachman,” said Valys

  Wachman’s hand shook against the selector, but it was done.

  Five were going down, initially with injuries from the medium auto-fire, and then with fatal sniper fire.

  Five continued to advance, but Three were behind a curtain of light, so Five were fighting more blind than before. They broke and ran, or ducked into the foxholes and trenches that pitted their home battlefield.

  With the main battle on the right flank, the pincer movement that tactical had set up had shifted focus. On the left flank, squads Storper Kluk and Yoff were covering a lot of ground to swing south to form a new right flank. Sepio-suits handled the wet mud well, and rebreathers cleaned air and pumped it fast, but the process cost joules. Glinsky and Broslavsky formed a new left flank, coming into the battle sooner than expected, but with less ground to cover.

  Five was under attack on two fronts, but Three could not sustain their weapons’ higher energy settings. The cost to the tally was too great.

  “We need to move faster,” said Valys, triggering another burst of medium auto-fire. “Tactical recommendation to advance.”

 

 

  “Cunno!” said Valys. “Hold fire. Glinsky and Broslavsky can keep them busy until Storper, Kluk and Yoff come on-line.”

  The advancing squads finally reached their positions, adjusted arms and elected snipers. Precipitation had been transformed into a dense yellow-black cloud, but soldiers with the best visor optics buddied up with those with the best audio feeds, and the snipers set to work.

  Five came under attack from their rear to the south-east from fresh troops, with Glinsky’s and Broslavsky’s squads covering the north. As Five defended the latest onslaught, the west end of the battlefield grew quieter, and drops of rain began to reappear in the cloud.

  “Permission to advance,” said Valys into the throat mic.

 

 

 

  Valys, Pupka and Eicas gave the signal, and the three squads advanced as one. The black cloud was dense and wet, and visibility was poor. They were all aware of the tally, and the general order for close combat fire only. All weapons were set to minimum energy, single-shot. Disabling shots would happen inside ten metres, kill shots inside five.

  Five were massed at the centre of the battlefield, taking cover, or belly-down in the filth, maintaining low energy auto-fire. They concentrated their efforts to the north, south and east, satisfied that their mass attack to the west had disabled or disbanded their enemy.

  Light-spread from a minimum energy single shot was negligible, so when Yesner fired a round into the ribs of a soldier squatting side-on a few metres ahead, it attracted no attention. The corpse slumped into the mud, and Yesner stepped over it and kept scanning.

  The three squads made a dozen kills and disabled thirty more soldiers as they covered another hundred metres.

  The light was fading and precipitation reappeared in the black cloud. More of the Five’s auto-fire hit targets, causing injuries. From Valys’ squad, Bledis had retired to a foxhole with a leg wound, but would keep scanning for targets until the final klaxon sounded. Petusky wouldn’t fight again this rotation, and probably not the next, either. Every squad had lost a handful of combatants, but casualties were mercifully low.

  Wachman was still at Valys’ shoulder, steady, but stuck there.

  Wachman and Valys fired in unison at the same target. Valys’ shot, taken from a squat, drove hard through the soldier’s gut. Wachman’s hit a partial armour chest-panel, and died.

  Wachman turned to say something. Then knocked Valys down, throwing the commander into the mud with a swinging blow. Wachman cleared the body in one sepio-assisted bound, and lunged at the Five who was coming at them. Wachman threw an elbow that connected with the Five’s helm, and then brought a knee up to meet the soldier’s unguarded solar plexus. Wachman was light and agile, and had been selected for a sepio-suit that would complement that flexibility and augment with strength.

  The Five went down hard from the surprise attack. A round to the head from Valys’ weapon finished the job.

  “Don’t forget to breathe, soldier,” said Valys, taking in Wachman’s shocked expression, before scanning for more of the enemy. “And next time, a heads-up before you drop my arse.”

  “Yes, Valys,” said Wachman.

  Time ticked on, and with it the tally grew as Three continued the slow advance into and through Five’s lines. They took the Five out one at a time in an achingly slow battle of attrition. The enemy dug-in or took cover, and then gave their positions away too easily by persisting with random, desperate bursts of auto-fire. Three were less visible, but that didn’t prevent them being hit by the scattershot, and at close-quarters it could prove lethal.

  Valys dropped a fist hard down on Wachman’s arm, and the shot died in the mud at their feet as Pupka and Narbrot scrambled through the sludge and rain.

  “Sit rep?” asked Valys.

  “We’re in among it,” said Pupka, scanning all the time.

  Narbrot began to say something.

  “No one wants to hear from you,” said Valys. “This mess is your fault. The tally’s on you.”

  Narbrot nodded, dropped and began to crawl away.

  Auto-fire clipped in low around their legs, missing them, but they all stepped and ducked, scanning the ground for cover. A round died on Wachman’s shin armour and another fizzed out on Pupka’s knee-joint. Valys ducked behind a low earthwork, partially washed away by the deluge. Wachman followed suit. Narbrot cleared both of their squatting forms, powering through the air, legs leading and rigid to take out a Five ri
sing behind them.

  The combatants landed in a mess of limbs, and the Five fired. Narbrot powered a fist into the Five’s visor, and then squirmed into position to effect a stranglehold. The Five thrashed beneath Narbrot, and tried to get off another shot, but the weapon was pinned between their bodies at an awkward angle.

  Valys turned and aimed, but the target was almost entirely beneath Narbrot, and there was no shot to take. Wachman could do nothing but follow Valys’ gaze.

  The Five twisted and brought a knee up to connect with Narbrot’s kidney’s, but not hard enough. Narbrot had the Five’s neck in the crook of one elbow, the other hand pulling tight. If the sepio-suit had a standard neck seal the Five’s neck would break under the strain of Narbrot’s augmented arm joints. If not, the tide could turn.

  Wachman thought the look on Narbrot’s face was physical exertion. A second glance told a different story.

  The Five’s neck stretched, Narbrot’s arms relaxed, and the corpse’s head dropped into the mud. Then Narbrot’s eyes rolled back.

  Wachman’s knees hit the mud before Narbrot’s head landed on the Five’s chest.

  It was the rebreather. The Five’s round had shot out the hose on Narbrot’s mask-rebreather. The thing was shattered, with no chance of a field repair.

  Wachman had this, so Valys covered both soldiers.

  Wachman took out a boot-blade, cut a hole in the rebreather mask and quickly plugged it with a thumb.

  Pupka, who had crawled back to the earthwork to check on the others, found Wachman pulling the rebreather tube of E309 through the vizor valve, which sealed behind it, cutting off the soldier’s air supply.

  Another Five crawled towards them out of the gloom, and Pupka fired two shots. The first clipped the armoured edge of the visor; the second penetrated, killing the Five.

  Pupka didn’t see Wachman push E309’s rebreather tube through the hole in Narbrot’s mask, or pound on the soldier’s chest.

  Valys glanced over a shoulder at the thudding sound, and saw Narbrot’s head come up in a cough of consciousness.

  Wachman transferred the tube back and forth between the vizor valve and the mask hole, prioritising air for Narbrot until the soldier was fully conscious.

  Valys signalled to Pupka to maintain cover, and went searching for somewhere safe for Wachman and Narbrot to hole-up.

  The final klaxon sounded. The battlefield was cleared, and Tres prepared for embarkation.

  As the lights went down in the liburna’s cabin, Valys turned to Wachman and said, “What you did for Narbrot, it was nice... Stupid, but nice.”

  “I didn’t do it for Narbrot,” said Wachman. “I did it for the tally. A soldier dead or disabled counts against the tally. Carrying a soldier off the field costs joules. Narbrot walked out. I did it for the tally.”

  “That one soldier cost us the tally,” said Valys. “Maybe Narbrot should’ve died on the field.”

  “Nobody likes Narbrot,” said Wachman.

  The lights were out. It was more than eleven minutes into the flight, but Valys was not asleep.

  “Narbrot saved both our lives today,” said Valys after another minute.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Wachman. “I saved yours and Narbrot’s. We’re soldiers. It’s the tally that counts, and we were too far in the hole; a life saved counted in our favour.”

  The last twenty minutes of the flight were given over to the tally, the comparison between Five’s performance and Three’s on the battlefield: how effectively they had used their resources, the cost/benefit. The lights came up and the harness check light blinked amber for several seconds. Then numbers began to appear.

  No one wanted to look. Valys and Wachman sat side-by-side in silence.

  In the other transit bay, Narbrot watched the tally, one figure at a time: Ammo +1.2, Rebreather units +0.3, Sepio-suits +2.1. Narbrot breathed out slowly. The others were wrong. They were all wrong. They’d all said the tally would be a disaster, but it was good. It was better than good. The numbers continued to scroll: Body-mass retention -1.5, calorific expenditure -1.3. Narbrot stopped breathing for a moment. The soldier had been an outcast. This had to turn things around. It had to, but suddenly the tally was swinging wildly.

  The numbers scrolled on: Casualties +3.

  Narbrot threw a fist in the air and whooped. Heads turned towards the tiny blinking screens, and soldiers started to chatter. The commotion could be heard from Valys’ bay. Wachman’s eyes flicked up to the screen: Disabilities +2, Injuries +4.

  There was a mixture of disbelief and euphoria in the liburna. The figures must be wrong, surely? The battle hadn’t gone to plan. Narbrot’s early shot had changed the course of the entire skirmish. They’d used too much fire power, spent too many joules too soon, hadn’t they? They’d had to fight too close for too long. The numbers had to be wrong.

  The harness check lights blinked amber again for several seconds while the numbers were collated and the final tally was made. Silence fell in both bays of the liberna. They waited.

  When the figures started scrolling again for the steadings allowances through the rotation, the fist-pumping and whooping started in earnest: Rations +8.2%, Fuel +6.7%, Leisure +2.5%, water +1.4%

  They didn’t need to keep watching the figures. It was a triumph. All they had dared to hope for was the survival of the steading. Now it had the chance to flourish.

  Someone started a chant of, “Nar-brot! Nar-brot! Nar-brot!” and applause rang out through the liburna.

  The battle at Caepina would be studied, and tactical would make adjustments to future operations handbooks. Times were changing.

  Storper and Valys were among the first through the showers, with Wachman close behind. Storper stopped at Narbrot’s locker and asked, “Anyone got a pen?”

  Someone threw a pen that Valys caught.

  “What are you doing?” asked Wachman.

  “Just watch.” Storper drew a heavy line through the script on Narbrot’s locker. It was the same script stencilled on every locker door in every transit-prep in every steading on Earth. It was the call to arms that had gone out five centuries before and had been implemented ever since, until Narbrot.

  When it was done, Valys took the pen from Storper and wrote ARM EVERY SOLDIER on the locker before tossing it back to its owner. Then she strode back to her own locker. Before opening it, she traced the fading letters of the ancient call to arms, the one that she had answered, and millions of others before her. It read: ARM EVERY WOMAN.

  Narbrot exited the showers to more cheers and backslapping. He didn’t notice the handwritten words on his locker when he opened the door.

  Hill 435

  Tim C. Taylor

  A steady curtain of rain drapes Hill 435, cascading down channels carved by nature over the peaceful eons before war came to Nourrir-Berger. Through my binoculars, I study the fleeting patterns of spray as the natural watercourses meet the grass-covered mounds of the western embrasures, and plunge off the upper surfaces like a waterfall. The embrasures look like eyes crying incessantly.

  An interruption flickers through the falling rain, an interference pattern that is visible only for a fraction of a second, but it’s what I’ve been waiting for.

  “Shield powering down,” I say as calmly as I can. “I repeat. Shield powering down.”

  I’m sheltering in a trench dug into the western base of the hill, but the network of repeaters and boosters has enough redundancy to carry my words along tight-beam comms to both the company HQ section in the reserve trenches, and the regimental artillery battery 10 miles away in the grey ruins of Chambroix.

  I know the squad command post is online too, because the electronic voice of Lieutenant Fangfade cuts in across the command channel. “Take cover!”

  Before the words are even spoken, I see the vibration from Chambroix in ripples pulsing through the muddy pools covering the trench floor. I check to ensure the green youngsters of my squad are diving for the safety of the mud before crouching
down myself. Angry screams shake the sky as the first salvo from Chambroix draws near. The regiment is lightly armed, having carried all our kit down with us on the drop ships, so we only have mortars and GX-cannon. But even the mortars at Chambroix can place a tac-nuke within 10 meters of a grid reference, and as fancy as Hill 435’s defences might be, it ain’t going anywhere.

  I throw a quick glance at the figures around me, wondering what is going through their heads. I can’t see inside the helmet visors, which have been blacked out by the battlesuit AIs even if the Marines inside forgot to do so. If I were able to see those young faces, I would hope to find fear written there. It’s the soldiers who have gone beyond fear that worry me. Sergeant Mitchell reached that stage, which is why Crimson Squad is now my responsibility and the sergeant is scattered across a shell hole in the landing zone.

  I’ve got my back to the trench wall but I’m still linked with the binoculars I’ve secured to the lip. As the spotter, it’s my job to see what happens next through human eyes. Some tasks can’t be entrusted to suit AIs alone.

  The first salvo slams into Hill 435, or rather over the enemy position. Even in the modified artificial viewpoint the nuclear flashes are searingly bright, but I can still make out the curved shape of the blast front. At sight of this, my hopes for an easy victory drown in the mud. A dome of fire crowns the hill, but beneath that dome I see no fire and no rain. Just calmness. How did they reset the shield so quickly?

  I make a rapid calculation. The mortar bombs took fourteen seconds to reach the hill. The defenders detected the salvo and reset the shield within that time frame. I begin to tremble when I consider what that will soon mean for me in an underground hell.

  Then the shockwave hits, splashing me into the mud, and a gale of hot wind howls overhead, almost drowning the sound of the second incoming salvo.

  The second wave strikes home, and the pattern repeats: wind and flame wreathed in steam from the rain. I barely notice. The enemy have re-established their shield faster than any of us thought possible, and that’s all I need to know. Somewhere on another planet is a team of scientists and engineers who developed this improvement to shield technology, and have damned us to take Hill 435 the hard way. In person.