A sense of—helplessness?—had come over Pully when that happened. But the bot had continued to narrate the brief melee: the vibroknives slicing through alien flesh, the N-4 rifles swung as clubs, the legionnaire armor finally ripped away by a sea of Kublaren hands.
They were all dead. The Kublarens had made an example of some. Beheadings, mutilations, hanging bodies on the twisted spires of the ruined impervisteel compound. And all the while they chattered and croaked at Pully, wanting their story to be broadcast to the Republic. The bot didn’t understand their words—its translator software was damaged by the blast—but their actions were perfectly clear.
When they left, Pully began to recorded personal interest stories on the dead soldiers. Just the ones the bot’s databanks were able to identify. These would be of special interest to their home planets—or home systems, if the deceased were important enough. A House of Reason-appointed officer or the like. Pully did a generic broadcast for those disintegrated or missing in action. The planetary local stations would fill in the blanks.
Pully headed back into the camp. With the fires finally out, there would be many more it could now identify. Many more stories to tell.
The bot waded through the wreckage, seeking the next report.
PART TWO
13
My back is stiff, my right leg is asleep. I hobble out of the combat sled, shaking feeling back into slumbering limbs between every wooden-legged limp. Nights on Kublar are cold. Oppressively cold. I duck my neck down as deep into my armor as it will go. A turtle in combat gear. There’s a part of me that wishes I still had my bucket, if only to keep my ears from freezing.
The pre-dawn darkness is like a veil, and I wait for my eyes to adjust before moving too far from the sled. We drove hard from Moona Village, through the end of the day and into the night. When we got within striking distance of the Annek village, Captain Devers finally ordered us—well, more like relayed Kreggak’s order—to halt. We probably stopped too close, but the koobs in the valley below us haven’t appeared to notice. At least the drivers have gotten a few hours of sleep before the attack.
Sleepy drivers are a liability. Fact.
Koob trucks litter the area. The drivers park with no tactical precision whatsoever. Wherever the driver felt like stopping, he stopped. The Moona koobs sleep just as haphazardly. They’re sleeping in the truck cabs and beds where there’s space, and where there isn’t, they’re lying on the ground, wrapped up in their robes, all around the vehicles. Some have even crawled beneath the rigs, sleeping in between wheels and tracks. They’d better be early risers if they don’t want their koob spleens crushed out of them. Judging by the way the koobs drive, I’m guessing they aren’t the type to check their wheels before they get moving.
Unlike us, and virtually every other fighting force ever, the koobs don’t set a watch. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that they are literally all sleeping. So the job is left to the ever-vigilant legionnaires. It’s probably easy to have sweet dreams when you’re surrounded by heavily armed war machines peering through the darkness like sages looking through time. We leejes see all with our perfect night vision. Ready to kill whoever would seek to infiltrate our sanctum before the intruder even knows he’s been seen.
There is some moonlight. Not much, but I can see its pale blue rays on the massive stone spires that stand like sentinels on either side of the valley below. The glow makes the spires look vaguely like two towering koob warriors. The koobs down below could use a pair of stone giants. It would take something like that to prevent us from wiping the deck clean of every koob warrior in the valley who helped spring yesterday’s ambush.
Driving all this way gave me time to think. I’m thankful for the intel that will allow us to pay the koobs back, but I don’t trust the Moona Village koobs who presented us with the opportunity. And neither does Wraith. Devers trusts Kreggak completely, but Captain Ford will have full command once combat operations begin, and we’ve got a plan to keep eyes on Kreggak and his soldiers while still completing the objective.
“Masters,” I whisper into my comm. Into the darkness.
From his overwatch position behind the sled’s twins comes his reply. “Lieutenant?”
“I’m moving over to see Captain Ford at the command sled. Watch my back. Make sure not to let any koobs plunge a knife into it.”
“Copy.”
I move away from the sled only to hear Masters add, “Swords okay?” I make a big show of shaking my head so he can see it.
I find Wraith standing outside the command sled. He holds a pair of field mags up to his helmet’s visor. Our buckets have magnification, but to get a really good look at something, you need to use your field mags. Helmets can’t do it all.
Wraith lowers his mags as I approach, but doesn’t remove his stoic gaze from the valley below. “Couldn’t sleep, Lieutenant?” He somehow divines that it’s me approaching. “Neither could I.”
I take a place at Wraith’s side, joining him in his survey of the valley—though without my bucket’s night vision, all I see is mottled shades of darkness. The moonlight hits only the tops of the valley walls, casting inky shadows, like pitch on black. I have no idea what’s down there.
“Not a wink,” I answer, aware of the steaming puffs of breath that escape with each word. “Figured I’d come over and see what our final battle plan is shaping up to be.”
Wraith tucks his mags back into his belt compartment. “That depends on where our koobs set up. If they lead the charge, I’m content to send the sleds in and station legionnaires along the walls. Deliver plunging fields of fire.”
“That’s a big ‘if,’ Captain.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Footsteps approach, packaged with the soft back and forth of conversation. One speaker is using koob-accented Standard, the other the low external output of a leej helmet.
I turn to Wraith. “Sounds like Devers and the chieftain are coming. We’ll have an answer soon enough.”
Captain Devers strides into our midst with Kreggak at his side. Two koob bodyguards, specimens of strength compared to the average of their species, flank the Moona chieftain.
Devers looks from me to Wraith, as if inspecting us both. “Chieftain Kreggak says that the attack will commence at sunrise.”
I exchange a look with Captain Ford, wondering if he’ll take umbrage at Devers’s attempt to place command of the operation in the three-fingered hands of a koob. But Wraith simply nods, crosses his arms, and asks, “What will the attack entail?”
Pleased by this, Kreggak swells his air sac. “Moona Kublakaren are to use the artillery. K’kik. We shoot from truckas. Leejon-ayers drive in when big blasts stop and many big die from tribe Annek. Kill rest of Annek warriors.”
Holding out a hand plaintively, Wraith says, “We’re more than capable of destroying the enemy. What will Moona’s role be during the legionnaire assault?”
Kreggak licks his left eye with his tongue. “Moona stay here. Kill Annek that maybe flee away.”
Wraith nods. “Sounds like everything is all figured out.” He turns to face me. “Lieutenant Chhun, the sun will be up soon. Get the men ready.”
As I turn to carry out the order, Captain Devers speaks up. “So, we’ll follow Chieftain Kreggak’s battle plan, then?”
Ignoring the question, Wraith asks Devers one of his own. “Will you be participating in the legionnaire assault, Captain?”
This should be rhetorical. If you’re a legionnaire, you fight regardless of rank. The sole exception is the combat command team, and most of the time even they are in the thick of things. Our combat command, Wraith and Sergeant Powell, would both rather be in the fight. I promise.
“Well, I…” Devers begins. “Yes. Of course. I could. It’s just, I feel that someone should remain at the top of the valley.”
“I agree,” says Wraith.
“You do?”
“I do. I need to be in the fight.” Wraith points down to the va
lley. “I can lead better down there, from the front. You should stay up here as a liaison to Kreggak.”
“Right,” an enthusiastic Devers concurs.
Wraith inclines his head. “To be clear, that’s not a combat control position.”
“No, of course not.” Devers is quick in his agreement.
“Good,” nods Wraith. “I think we’re all set.”
***
The rising sun’s first rays shine golden at the top of the two spires framing the valley. I stand with Doomsday Squad. Wraith and Specter Squad are positioned at the far end of the valley, waiting by an anchored sled to use quick-drop ropes to reach the floor. The heavy ropes—impervisteel cables, really—are attached to our own sled as well, and hang down to a short ledge just above the valley’s bottom. The rest of the sleds are positioned around the koob trucks, ready to move down the rough road, but just as ready to open up on the koobs of Moona Village if they’re thinking double-cross.
Captain Devers’s voice comes over the comm. “Chieftain Kreggak is prepared to begin the Kublakaren artillery barrage.”
I notice he uses the koobs’ own term—Kublakaren.
“Acknowledged,” replies Wraith. “Doomsday-1, confirm your squad is ready.”
“Confirmed.” I don’t even need to look back at my men, coiled behind me like a serpent. Waiting for the order to perform a lethal strike.
“Copy. Have visual confirmation from Specter-1, Specter Squad is ready.” Wraith’s voice is calm, like a doctor explaining some terminal illness. “Captain Devers, inform Kreggak that he is cleared to begin the assault. Vic-1 out.”
A pause settles over the comm before Kreggak’s voice rumbles across the channel. “We are now to begin.”
I clench my jaw at this abuse of the L-comm.
A koob in the truck nearest to me bellows—a deep, croaking noise. The call is taken up throughout the Kublaren line—a primitive comm system—and echoes into the valley.
Just when I start to think that the noise is going to rouse the sleeping koobs below, a barrage of koob artillery booms. Now, this isn’t the big stuff shot from the hemispherical guns or down from the destroyers in orbit. When a koob talks about artillery, they mean manually fired mortar charges.
To his credit, Kreggak brought a lot of them. The beds of the koob trucks are continually firing from stacks of rounds supplied by warriors on the ground. It’s obvious that the aliens are comfortable with this sort of weaponry, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that it’s the preferred weapon for attacking rival tribes.
The bombs drop onto the village as sunlight drives away the lingering shadows. Compared to Moona, what I’m seeing go up in explosive flames below is practically civilized. There’s a mix of a permacrete and natural stone buildings, a basic street grid, even a fountain surrounded by a grassy commons. It makes sense. If Annek tribe is better off financially, that would explain how they acquired the tech and surplus they hit us with yesterday. But it’s all going to hell for them as the morning’s judgment continues.
Most of the koobs aren’t leaving their homes. That’s the smart strategy. The few who run outside in panic are blown apart as Kreggak’s barrage grows in fiery intensity. The assault is relentless, and the valley is soon shrouded in smoke, and dust from the collapsing buildings. There may not be a koob left alive for the Legion to deal with.
Fire is followed by fire, explosion after explosion, like some angry cosmic god bringing its hammer down upon an anvil. The legionnaires around me aren’t talking. They just watch as buildings crumble and dust clouds mingle with fireballs and black smoke. I would’ve called a stop to the firing long before now. But it’s not my call, and the koobs are in a near frenzy. I don’t think they’ll quit until there are no more bombs left to drop.
“So… why couldn’t these guys just do this without us?” Exo asks over the squad comm. It’s the same question I’m thinking. “Because ain’t no way the koobs down there survive that.”
“Let’s wait and see,” I answer.
The wait ends up being pretty short. The final trickle of koob mortars ends with a last whump. The valley doesn’t go silent for even a moment. The instant the last mortar hits, our squad’s automatic blasters lay down fire from the valley peaks.
Amazingly, a staccato of machine gun fire barks angrily up at us.
Twenties, standing close by, says, “Holy hell, they’re shooting at us. What’s the move, Lieutenant? Want me to find a spot to take some shots?”
“We wait on Wraith’s command, then we all go down together. Overwatch is being left to the sleds and basics.”
I’m not looking forward to quick-roping to the bottom with this sort of projectile fire coming our way. Still, I can’t help but be impressed with the Annek tribe’s resiliency.
Kreggak rumbles over our headsets. “You leejon-ayers all go down now. This is way of custom and friendship. Moona tribe will wait and stop Annek who flee this way.”
Flee up the walls of a valley? That’s not passing my think-test.
The chieftain’s voice is followed by Wraith’s. “All right. Doomsday and Specter Squads to the ropes. Get down fast and clear out that village. Sled Team Silver, remain up top.”
A muted croaking comes over the comm, then Captain Devers’s voice. “Captain Ford, Kreggak believes all the sleds should join in the assault so that Annek is without time to escape.”
“Not happening, Devers. I want a force to remain up here. Tell Kreggak he can drive his trucks down if he wants vehicular support.”
More croaking, of a distinctly more aggravated sort.
“Captain Ford,” Devers pleads across the open comm. “The chieftain just supplied us with substantial artillery support. To ask him to now lead the vanguard is too much.”
With a crisp, measured cadence, Wraith says, “I’m not asking Kreggak to do anything. Legionnaires will lead the way. He can stay or come along. Our sleds aren’t moving. Specter Squad, get down those ropes. Lieutenant Chhun, deploy Doomsday Squad!”
“Let’s go, Doomsday! Drop and pop!”
My legionnaires grab hold of the cables and zip down to the valley floor three at a time, relying on their grips to keep the fall controlled; synthprene gloves are tough enough to prevent the cable from eating your hand raw, but you feel the friction increase all the way down. The koob machine-gun fire from below is pelting the rocks around the descending legionnaires. Leej armor and quick-ropes are tough enough to withstand a slug thrower, but my concern is over one of my guys getting dinged too many times and losing his grip. Even with armor, they wouldn’t walk away from that kind of fall.
“This,” bellows Kreggak into the comm, “is insult to Moona!” He spouts off a string of gurgles and croaks.
“Chieftain,” a panicky Devers is picked up over an open comm, “this is a misunderstanding. The Republic appreciates the great service you’ve performed and in no way wishes to diminish our great alliance. Silver Team, this is Vic-2. I want all sleds moving into that valley, now!”
Doc Quigs is the first to push back. “I’m not sending any med-sleds into a combat zone.”
I quickly join in. “I’ve got legionnaires swinging from Silver-4. I’d rather it not move.”
Wraith settles the matter with finality. “No sleds will move unless I give the order. And if any of you basics go against that order, I’ll have you running a legionnaire gauntlet.”
The sleds stay put.
Half my team is in the valley and forming assault groups on the entrenched koob survivors by the time I hear the koob trucks start up.
“Captain Ford!” Devers shouts over the comm. “You’re causing a galactic incident. I’m ordering you to apologize to Chieftain Kreggak and get these sleds cleared out!”
“I assume you mean respectfully suggest and not order. Refused—there’s a war on. Vic-1 out.”
Sergeant Powell’s voice cuts in before Devers has the opportunity to further muck up protocol. “Specter-1 to Doomsday-1, Specter Squad is
fully deployed and engaging a preliminary line of hostiles. ETA to center rendezvous… eight minutes.”
“Copy,” I say. Blazing smokes, Specter Squad is fast. I’ve got five men, myself included, still waiting to get on the quick-ropes.
The Moona trucks, loaded thick with Kublaren warriors, begin to turn around and drive away.
“They’re leaving!” There’s desperation in Captain Devers’s voice. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What the impact of failing to secure Moona—”
Wraith cuts him off. “Maintain comm discipline. Lieutenant, send a pair of leejes to keep an eye on those koobs.”
“Twenties! Maldorn!” I call, shooting out my hand to get the legionnaires’ attention and bring them away from their place at the quick-ropes. The soldiers leave their ropes and report. “Follow those koobs, but stay out of sight.”
The legionnaires move stealthily in pursuit as I grab the last quick-rope and drop into the valley.
14
I can tell even before my feet hit the ground that something has happened. Doomsday Squad is in a defensive position, trading fire with a koob machine gun emplacement. We should have made more progress than this. Something is holding us up.
My boots hit with a thud and I take off running toward the rest of the squad. Bullets snap around my head. Not wanting a new hole between my eyes, I throw myself into a pile of rubble next to a leej who’s watching the squad’s flank.
“What’s the holdup?” I ask in panting breaths.
Masters shouts out an answer. “Guffer fell off the ropes!” Already having a casualty, combined with the adrenaline of the battle, has him all wired up.
I crawl over and see the legionnaire lying on the ground with two others working over him. He looks in bad shape: his right leg is at a ninety-degree angle and his shoulder is clearly separated and caught beneath his body. If he’s alive, he’s going to need a cycler and confinement to the med-sled.
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