Chaos Quarter: Imperial Ambitions

by David Welch

  The nearest warrior was stunned, his eyes wider than the poor woman’s had been. He swung his gun around to fire, and then jerked violently as a cascade of slugs came from the house.

  The remaining warrior broke into a sprint, dashing south, toward the burning house. Jake let him run, turning his attention to the house.

  “Get to the spaceport! There’s a ship waiting to get us out of here! Go now!”

  That was it. There wasn’t time for anything else. He was off again, running for the southern end of the valley and the remaining homes.

  ***

  Longshot

  Second sat on her bed, cradling her rifle. She could not hear the battle in her cabin, deep within the ship. She couldn’t see it either; she had no holograms floating above her bed. But Second felt it all the same. Her mind conjured up unwanted images of carnage; of herself in the middle of it; of herself on the ground, bleeding; herself, screaming; herself, paralyzed and motionless, watching armed men walk toward her, dark lust on their faces…she hated her mind right now. It was not functioning the way she wanted it to. It was being difficult again. It did this far too often.

  It shifted suddenly to an image of Rex screaming, dying in a street. Her grip on the rifle tightened, and she felt the need to run out, to shoot every Europan she saw until there was nobody left who could hurt him.

  She got up, walking from her cabin. She was unsure why she did it, but it felt better, the movement. This made no sense to her, as it was her thoughts that were bothering her, and you could not physically walk away from them. But she walked, making her way toward the cargo bay. There she paused atop one of the steel stairwells that led down to the bay. Two hundred people had already made it into the ship, most before the battle had started. They pressed against the back of the cargo bay, crouching low to avoid any bullets that flew in over the heads of the people on the barricade. So far they clustered near the front of the cargo bay, the back half-empty except for the people manning the barricade itself. Cindy and a dozen others stood guard, guns ready, but firing at nothing. No warrior had gotten close enough yet.

  It made her feel bad, seeing them down there while she stood up here. It made her feel…weak? As if they were stronger than her because they were facing possible death boldly while she hesitated and cowered. She wondered if she should ask them what their secret was. How did they stand there, waiting for death to come at them, waiting to deal it out? How did they force aside the hesitation, the doubts?

  Or would their answer be like Helen’s? Would they just tell her that you somehow had to push it aside and do what needed to be done?

  She wondered if people trained for that. Was there some system of exercises that could make a person capable of just ignoring their emotions and acting on a purely pragmatic basis? There had to be something to it. She knew that Rex had been a pilot in the fleet, and that despite past military training he had never been in a battle of this size or nature. Yet he was out there now, able to perform despite the fear, despite the magnitude of death. Jake had even less fighting experience than Rex, and he too was in combat.

  But there she hesitated. Jake had no combat training, yet he fought. So maybe a formalized training wasn’t the answer. Or not the complete answer? Perhaps it was something natural that was augmented by training. Jake had it, as did Rex and Lucius. The latter two had developed it through their martial experiences. Did that mean she had it too? Was she like Jake, possessing the ability but not the training that honed it? Or had her killing of the ambassador just been a fluke—

  A crackle of gunfire filled her ears, snapping her out of her thoughts. One of the militia on the barricade had fired at something in the distance and then stopped. The shrieking roar of the ship’s defensive turrets echoed through the cargo bay: Lucius taking aim at whatever the militiaman had been shooting at.

  Second took a moment to realize that her rifle was tucked tight against her shoulder, at eye level, just like she’d been shown. She didn’t really remember doing that. She hadn’t decided to do it; it had been automatic. But seeing the danger had passed, she relaxed, lowered her rifle, and stared back at the militia guarding at the barricade.

  What is their secret?

  She shook her head in frustration, and went back to musing.

  ***

  Valley Town

  Two blocks in was all the progress they had made. It grated on Aetius. The damnable serfs were chewing up the warriors, laying down a murderous fire from their makeshift barricades. He would not have believed them capable of it were he not standing mere feet away from a trio of dead warriors. So many more carpeted the ground behind them.

  All the vaunted speed of the Forlorn Hope Brigades had been for naught. No man could outrun a bullet. Their sprinting style of war had just meant they’d sprinted to their deaths all the quicker. Worse, since the only body armor they wore were vests, to save on weight, they were far more exposed than any normal warrior would be. How many of the dozens lying dead behind him had bled out from legs and arms, limbs that would’ve been covered were they regular warriors.

  Blasted serf vermin!

  He took cover in a doorway, inches away from the hail of fire. His powered armor could’ve probably withstood the assault, for a while at least. With the number of guns out there, a focused attack would test even his suit’s abilities. And that was not counting the powered armor the serfs had somehow gotten their hands on. He had noticed it almost immediately—the giant, hulking, dark-gray, metal form. It was a Terran powered armor suit, every bit as powerful as his own. How the devil these animals had gotten their hands on such a thing, he did not know. He doubted they had done so themselves. Probably the Terrans, in their misguided crusade to help “lesser” people, had given it to them. And they had figured out how to work it, well enough to rain blood on the empire’s warriors.

  “This has to end,” he said to himself, seeing the serfs moving out of the corner of his eye. Across the street, behind a house, Proeliumira marshaled troops for another attack. The enemy had noticed and was shifting its people to counter. Aetius did not have to be a seasoned veteran to see how this would end. As long as the defensive line held the serfs would mow down any human wave sent against them.

  He looked behind him. Another cluster of warriors waited behind the building whose doorway sheltered him. They glanced around the edge and then ducked back, waiting. Aetius looked at them, then at Proeliumira, and then back to the men. An idea struck him.

  With a jolt he was off, darting back to the far edge of the building, away from the serfs and the makeshift fortifications. A spattering of bullets greeted his sprint, several bouncing off his back. He swerved behind the building, ducking in among the warriors.

  “Listen here,” Aetius said, doing a quick count of the men around him. There were twenty or so. “Your commander is about to launch another attack. We are to follow them in. Form up around me and prepare to charge.”

  “Yes, lord-sire!” came a dozen voices.

  Without another word they formed up in two parallel lines behind him. Aetius moved back to the edge of the house. Directly across from him, Proeliumira waited, his men similarly arranged. The commander undoubtedly thought Aetius had read his intentions, and confidently looked in his direction. Aetius nodded the armored head of his suit.

  Proeliumira spun around the corner, and sprinted for the barricade. Thirty men fanned out around him, presenting a broad front to the enemy. Their guns blazed as they ran, their shots inaccurate and wild due to their sprint. But it was a mass tactic, throw enough lead at the direction of the enemy and something was bound to hit.

  Aetius heard his men bunch up behind him, waiting, unsure as to why they weren’t running. He held up his hand, staying them, and watched. The serfs opened fire, cutting down a handful of warriors from the mass. But Proeliumira kept on, the whole of his force focusing on one point. His intention was obvious, split the line, make a breach, and disorganize the serfs.

  Aetius smirked. Whether the
warrior knew it or not, his plan would be carried out.

  “Now!” Aetius said, leaping from his hiding place. He sprinted after Proeliumira’s men. A few steps in he slowed to keep from catching up too quickly, and to keep his protection around him. The warriors behind him appeared at his side, guns up and ready, waiting to get a clear shot. At this moment they were blocked by the first force as it closed on the barricade.

  A barrage of fire came from all along the serf line, ripping apart Proeliumira’s warriors as they charged. Bodies jerked violently, hit by scores of bullets at a time. But Proeliumira kept on, his few remaining warriors charging valiantly besides him.

  Aetius put on a burst of speed, leaping ahead of his men. They opened fire behind him, their line of sight cleared by the fall of the men before them. Shots leaped up to meet them, and they began to fall as their fellows had.

  But they played their part, drawing fire from him. Aetius could hear a dozen bullets bounce off his armor, when it should have been several dozen. And the barricade was only ten meters away.

  In front of him ran Proeliumira and three remaining men, preparing to leap the barricade. One went down, riddled from the side. Then another fell, a serf emptying half a magazine into the man at point-blank range. Aetius lifted his left arm, waited for the sights of his grenade launcher to align, and fired.

  His rounds hit just as Proeliumira made the leap. He, his one surviving warrior, and a pair of serfs disappeared into a cloud of fire and steel. Three grenades pounded them to bloody shreds, and sprayed nearby serfs with jagged shards. Aetius heard his own shrapnel ping against his suit, saw his display register the damage, but did not stop. He dropped his right shoulder down and slammed hard into a table that had been thrown up.

  The wood splintered and gave way, the force of his impact sending it and a dying serf hurtling through the air. Aetius pushed up, finding himself behind the barricade, behind the serfs.

  He jerked hard, flinging his right arm around in an arc, blasting away with his machine gun. The surviving warriors burst through the gap, pushing aside debris and furniture to widen the breach. Slugs pounded away at Aetius, pelting his armor, seven or eight serfs letting loose on him.

  “Cover right!” he roared to his men. They turned as one and fired into the flank of the defending serfs. Aetius spun left, pumping out three grenades into the nearest of his foes. Two bodies went flying, caught by the blasts. He sprayed bullets at those remaining.

  He heard a roar and saw the rest of the brigade forcing their way through the breach. Hundreds of them poured in, splitting the line. The serfs pulled back, the two halves withdrawing down the length of the line, in opposite directions.

  “Form up into companies! Prepare to—”

  His words were cut off by an explosion. Fire and smoke filled his field of vision. He stumbled backward, his suit alarms blaring. A quartet of warriors ran in front of him, shooting back at his attacker.

  Aetius shook his head to clear it and then glanced about, looking for his attacker. He found him soon enough. The man in the Terran armor was twenty meters away, covering the retreat of his compatriots. He fired grenade after grenade into the warriors. Each hit sent bodies flying, the men still bunched up near the breach.

  “Move clear!” Aetius roared. “Move clear and pursue!”

  He straightened up and then sprinted for his armored opponent.

  “On me!” he cried. “On me! Attack!”

  ***

  “Pull back! Reform at the school!” Keith shouted.

  Rex could barely make out his words. He stepped back slowly, spraying bullets at the horde of warriors approaching him. The line was broken, the defenders split in two. He, Keith, and what looked like most of the defenders were retreating to the east. Beyond the press of warriors he could see others, pushed west by the attack. Most worrying, there was now nothing standing between the enemy and the spaceport.

  He had little time to think about it though. The warriors were coming, closing.

  He ducked behind the corner of a building, away from the east-to-west street he’d been on. Five or six serfs were behind him, trying to make sense of the now fluid situation. They were separated from the bulk of their fellows, and they had seconds, at best.

  “Keith, not exactly sure where the school is,” Rex said. “Some help would be—”

  A press of warriors exploded around the corner, and Rex let into them with his fifty cal. Blood and limbs exploded around him as warriors fell. A hail of rounds answered him, striking hard against his armor from close range. His HUD blared at him: chest at 80 percent, legs at 87, helmet at 93. A bullet struck the headpiece, snapping his head back.

  Ninety-two.

  The serfs opened fire, taking cover in doorways and behind dim streetlights, wherever they could find even the smallest cover. But the warriors pressed toward them, around Rex, filling the street. Two militia went down, the others falling back. With them so close the grenade launcher on his left arm was useless, he’d catch the militia in the explosion.

  “Retract left firearm! Deploy left bayonet!” he barked.

  From the underside of the suit’s left forearm, a triangular, three-edged blade shot out, extending twenty-four inches past his hand. As it did the grenade launcher reeled back on the track, clearing the blade to work. Rex lunged forward, spearing a warrior as he charged. The blade plunged through the man’s sternum, the warrior’s eyes wide with pain as realization set in. Rex jerked hard right, smashing the warrior into two others, knocking them down. He spun left, bringing the machine gun around. He put a half-dozen rounds into each as they lay dazed and then brought the gun up to the man skewered on the bayonet. The dying warrior’s eyes went even wider. Rex set three rounds into the man’s chest, killing him instantly.

  A wave of slugs pounded into his right side, nearly knocking him down. He turned to see five warriors charging him, mere feet away. He spun to face them, blasting one with his machine gun. His target went down, but the others charged, hurling themselves at him, meaning to knock him down by any means necessary.

  He slashed wildly around with the bayonet. Made to be able to punch through other armored suits, it carved into flesh and bone with disturbing ease. The blade cut through the chest cavities of two men, cutting them both in half, so easily that Rex himself was stunned by it. It looked like something out of a horror movie, the bodies lying in pieces.

  His enemies showed no such hesitation and threw themselves at him. Rex stumbled back under their weight, his field of vision a blur of rifle butts desperately clubbing at his faceplate. His right hand shot up, the metal glove grabbing one man by the neck and hurling him clear across the street. He smashed through the window of a home. Rex lurched forward to detach the remaining attacker, sending him sprawling across the road. He lifted the gun to finish him off—

  When another shape caught his attention. It was eerily familiar, metallic and tall, studded with weapons too heavy for any human to hold without robotic help. It had a tan-paint scheme and squarish shoulders, looking just like something he’d seen in briefings years ago. It was another man in powered armor, a Europan. And the only Europans who wore powered armor were nobles.

  “Fuck,” he grumbled, retreating back. He turned, looking for the militia he’d been fighting alongside. Three lay dead; the others, gone—no doubt falling back east to this school Keith had chosen as a rendezvous point. Turning back, he saw the noble step forward, blades of his own extending from both arms. Warriors stood behind him, but made no move to get in front, leaving an empty space between them where no living man dare tread.

  “Impressive cutlery. Though perhaps you’d like to cross blades against someone who can offer you a challenge?” the noble said. Here they were, in the heat of battle, and they still sounded so damn stilted?

  Rex thought for a second. Marines and army soldiers trained in powered armor suits, and were taught close-in fencing for just such an occasion. He was neither a marine, nor army, nor trained. Europan nobles,
on the other hand, were born swashing blades around.

  “Engage missile,” he ordered.

  “As I suspected. Suit or not, you’re just as cowardly as the next—”

  The missile shot from Rex’s shoulder, streaking straight for the Europan. The noble dove to the ground, the weapon missing by a hair’s breadth. It streaked on, slamming into the gut of a warrior before exploding forward in a hot, dense jet of metal. It shot through a half-dozen men, carving a jagged hole in the ranks.

  Rex did not stay to admire the handiwork. As soon as the missile leaped from his shoulder mount he ran, a hail of bullets pelting his back as he fled. Retreating back a block, he turned a corner, getting out of the warriors’ line of fire. It would only last a moment though. Undoubtedly they sprinted after him in that annoying way of theirs. Lucky for him he could do double their speed without breaking a sweat.

  “Rex, you hear me?” Keith’s voice crackled in his ears.

  “Yeah. Kind of on the run.”

  “Our people see you; keep going three blocks and then turn left. You’ll see us by the school,” Keith informed.

  “Copy. Raise Lucius. Tell him they’re coming,” said Rex.

  “Don’t worry,” Keith replied. “He’s been told.”

  ***

  Longshot

  “That would be them,” said Lucius.

  “There’re a lot of them,” Helen replied.

  “At least fifty,” Lucius said, forcing a cooling breath through him. They were coming down one of the town’s main cross streets, straight for the spaceport, sprinting as always. They were ever so eager, these Forlorn Hope types. It seemed odd to him now, looking from the outside…so willing to die, and what reward awaited them? Nicer food, an extra few hours with a whore, a lord who “turned” his head a bit more than usual, giving them just a taste of freedom…that was what they fought for? That was why they charged headlong, in the open, into the jaws of a thirty-millimeter gun?