by John Ringo
“Recommendations?”
“Halt Army Group Reserve in place. Let them reorganize and shift them around. Then throw them at that landing.”
The chancellor thought, weighing options. Though he had done his military time as a young man he was no soldier and knew it. He was, however, a supreme and — at need — a supremely ruthless politician; his resurrection of the SS showed that.
“No,” he answered. “if Berlin falls so soon it will take the heart out of our people. Let local forces contain the landing athwart the Rhein. After Army Group Reserve has cleared out Saxony-Anhalt, Pomerania and Mecklenberg we can turn them around. But for now? No.”
South of Magdeberg, Germany, 25 December 2007
The artillery storm was not abating. Even so, unnoticed, it was lifting from over eleven narrow preplanned axes. Indeed, the axes were so narrow that the shell-shocked Posleen cowering there barely noticed any change in the pummeling they were receiving.
Under the lash of the guns, terrified Posleen, normals and God Kings both, huddled and trembled. Never in all their previous history had the People experienced anything against which they were so completely helpless as they were against this threshkreen “artillery.”
Worst of all, no place and no being was safe. Oolt’ondai Chaleeniskeeren, as much as the lowest of his oolt’os, shivered and quivered and quaked in a bunker fronting the bay of a trench at each near miss. Unable even to eat of the thresh’c’olt, the Posleen iron rations, brought to him by a cosslain, the God King alternately cursed the cowardly thresh who infested this world and the fate that had brought him and his people here.
The Posleen knew he could have taken his tenar and climbed above the shell storm. The problem with that was a certain number of the enemy’s projectiles operated off of electronic fuses that were perfectly capable of being set off by the near presence of a tenar. Reports from Posleen refugees from the south made this abundantly clear; the sky was no safe place to be when the threshkreen unleashed their unholy storm.
Thus, the tenar of each God King, as much as the God King himself, lay vulnerable in hastily dug holes in the ground. Chaleeniskeeren’s, or what was left of it, lay ruined in its hole a few strides away. Idly, the Posleen wondered how many of the tenar would be left riderless by the barrage, even while other God Kings were left with ruined transportation. Robbed of their flyers, much of the host’s power would be lost.
The ships were safe enough from most artillery. Built of materials thick and strong, they shrugged off all but the worst of the threshkreen’s projectiles. What they could not shrug off were the radiation-emitting weapons. These turned the very metal of the ships into radioactive poison. Within the effective radius of those weapons the end, even for those in the ships, was only a matter of time, that… and shitting, puking, twitching agony. Fortunately, the thresh seemed to have few of them.
The artillery impacting near Chaleeniskeeren lifted off and began to strike another area. It had done so half a dozen times before. The first few times it had lifted, the Posleen had rushed for firing bays and tenar. Then it had returned, slaughtering them like abat. Now the lifting was cause for nothing more than a brief sigh of very temporary relief, not for exposing themselves.
Chaleeniskeeren couldn’t help the nagging feeling that the threshkreen were actually training him to stay put when the fire lifted.
Though half deafened by the shelling, Chaleeniskeeren felt rather than heard a strange rumbling coming through the ground. Shelling or not, trained by the thresh to stay put in the relative safety of the bunker or not, the rumbling was too strange, too out of his experience, not to investigate.
Lowering his head to squeeze under the bunker’s low door, the God King stepped out into the bay of the trench and risked looking out into the smoky haze.
Nothing, nothing but craters and smoke.
And then he saw it, a low-lying predatory shape, moving cautiously on treads through the haze, an angular projection on top swinging its main weapon right and left, searching for prey. Soon the first shape was joined by another, then a third and fourth. Wide eyed, the God King saw thresh on foot scattered among the larger shapes. He watched, shocked, for but a moment before raising the shout, “To arms! To arms! The threshkreen are upon us!”
Tiger Anna, Saxony-Anhalt, Germany, 25 December 2007
God, this is worse than Kursk, Hans thought as he watched on the main screen as infantry and tanks, locked in a close-quarters death struggle with the alien enemy, rolled back the shoulders of the eleven narrow lanes the artillery had torn in the Posleen line. For the Germans, this was a combined arms fight with a literal vengeance. Their lighter panzers, Leopard IIA7’s, blasted apart bunkers, lent their machine guns to the fray, and ran over individual aliens to squeeze out their lives like overripe grapes. In close support, carrying the detailed fight to the foe, the German infantry, heedless of loss, cut, slashed, blasted and burnt their way through the trenches. Meanwhile, the artillery concentrated on sealing the areas of penetration off and pureeing any large groups of the enemy that attempted to mass for a counterattack.
But the affair was hardly a massacre. Stunned, demoralized and weakened though they were, the Posleen still fought back with more ferocity than any human enemy, even the mindlessly brave Russians, would have shown after the pummeling they had received.
Part of this, Hans suspected, was merely a matter of numbers. Given more defenders, there simply had to be, as a statistical matter, more who would be capable of rising above the shell-spawned terror. While Posleen trenches were being filled with alien bodies, more than a few German soldiers richened the manure.
On Anna’s main screen, Hans saw a Leopard take a direct hit from a Posleen hypervelocity missile. The tank seemed to belch fire as the turret, propelled by its own on-board ammunition and fuel, was hurled nearly a hundred meters into the air. That the Posleen firing almost certainly succumbed to return fire within instants could have been scant comfort to the spirits of the disintegrated Leopard crew.
Brashe’s 1c, or intelligence officer reported, “Sir, we are getting emanations consistent with the movement of between twelve and twenty enemy landers, C-Decs, B-Decs, and Lampreys, all.”
“All Tigers,” Hans ordered over the radio. “Targets appearing in the next few seconds. If they are joining the battle, kill them. If they are fleeing, kill them. When you reach them on the ground, kill them.”
South of Magdeberg, Germany, 25 December 2007
Chaleeniskeeren and his oolt’os had held their line as long as possible, even inflicting some losses on the enemy. That period of time had not been long enough. Now, engaged in something like a fighting withdrawal, with his children being mercilessly butchered alongside him, the God King once again cursed both the evil, heartless and merciless threshkreen even as he cursed this planet and everything which had led to it.
Cowering in a deep crater, peering over its lip, Chaleeniskeeren was lifted bodily and slammed down by an explosion of a power he had not imagined outside of the major weapons. The night sky, for the battle had already lasted through the day and into the night, was briefly illuminated by some monstrous, incredible thing. From off to the left, another massive explosion shook the earth and by its momentary light Chaleeniskeeren caught a clearer glimpse of the monster to his front.
“Demon shit,” he whispered, wide-eyed and awe-struck.
Tiger Anna, Saxony-Anhalt, Germany, 25 December 2007
“Clear emanations, C-Dec, Eleven O’clock, Six thousand, five hundred meters,” intoned the 1c.
“I see it,” answered Brasche. “Gunner!” he ordered, “Sabot! DU-AM… point one kiloton. C-Dec!”
“Target,” Schultz responded, robotlike, as he swung Anna’s turret to the left, elevating her gun until a tone told him he had a target lock.
“Fire!”
As always, the tank was rocked back, shuddering under the recoil of the main gun. Ahead, a roughly spherical ball of light appeared as the depleted uranium sabot f
rom Anna’s gun first penetrated the Posleen ship, then released ten percent of its antimatter to react and annihilate itself with the DU, splitting the ship along its seams.
To left and right, other Tigers fired to briefly light the night with muzzle flash and, often enough, impact on the selected target. There was no return fire from the Posleen ships, leading Hans to suspect they were more interested in flight than fight.
“But that won’t last,” he muttered.
“Sir?” asked the 1c.
“They’re trying to get away,” he answered. “That would be fine; I’d encourage them in flying away. The problem is they won’t stay away. The other problem is that if they see no escape they’ll turn on us.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the 1c. “But they are pretty bad at working together. We have a fair chance of taking them on, even all of them, if they come after us.”
“I concur, Intel. Orders remain unchanged. Kill ’em all.”
Forward Headquarters, Army Group Reserve, Halle, Germany, 26 December 2007
It had been a long night, as the rising sun promised another long day. Mühlenkampf barely listened to the reports of successful penetration of the Posleen lines, barely listened to reports of casualties and objectives taken.
The worst part, thought he, looking out from a glassless window at the street below his commandeered headquarters building, is the emptiness of the town, that, and the piles of bones everywhere. He shook his head sadly. This town had a quarter of a million people in it even before the war, nearer to a third of a million since. Some got away to the south before the aliens entered it. But most did not and we have found not one living soul. God damn these aliens to the deepest pits of Hell! God damn whoever or whatever it was that made them come here.
The town was still standing; the Posleen had not had time to begin deconstruction before the initial counterattack had driven them out on the twenty-second. But human beings were easier to kill and eat than buildings were to demolish.
Below Mühlenkampf’s lookout, a column of truck-borne infantry passed. He studied the faces carefully, looking for signs of panic or demoralization. He saw none. What he saw instead was simple hate, as the message of Halle’s depopulation sank through even the thickest skulls.
“Good,” he whispered. “A little hate will give them the spine to go on a bit longer.”
An aide interrupted Mühlenkampf’s reveries. “Herr General, we have reports from the 501st that they have reached the main concentration of enemy landers. General Brasche reports that his Tigers are destroying many of them on the ground and almost at will.”
Tiger Anna, Saxony-Anhalt, Germany, 26 December 2007
Today it was a massacre. Unable safely to lift their ships to escape, the Posleen were fleeing to the north on their tenar or, more commonly, afoot. The 47th Panzer Korps was pursuing with as much speed and fury as the old SS had ever pursued routed Russians. While the SS pursued, the remainder of Army Group Reserve continued the drive to the northeast and northwest to relieve still embattled Magdeberg and Berlin.
The trail of Brasche’s mixed brigade was littered with the ruin of Posleen hopes. It was also littered with the ruin of hundreds upon hundreds of ships, large and small.
More and more, though, the Posleen, individually, were turning at bay to go down fighting rather than be helplessly butchered from behind. Because this was, in every case, the decision of individuals or, occasionally, small groups, the ships facing Brasche’s Tigers were, generally speaking, both outnumbered and, because they had to lift about the ground cover to move at all, easily spotted and shot down.
This is not to say that the massacre was entirely one-sided. Five Tigers, three of them lifeless smoking hulks glowing cherry red in places, also dotted the path behind the brigade. Hans had hope that the other two might be recovered and recrewed.
“Emanations. C-Dec. One o’clock. Eight thousand meters,” announced the 1c.
“Brigade halt,” Brasche ordered. “Engage her as she shows.”
East of Magdeberg, Germany, 26 December 2007
Chaleeniskeeren knew it was the end, as it had been the end for each of his followers. He knew that he could run no further, certainly not in his weakened condition.
The God King rested against the metallic side of a C-Dec, a Posleen Command Dodecahedron. The C-Dec was unmanned, and Chaleeniskeeren strongly suspected he knew why. The waves of heavy gamma radiation cutting through his body like knives told him this ship had fallen to one of the threshkreen’s radiation weapons.
“No matter,” he snarled. “I am dead anyway.”
Arising, he walked unsteadily on his four legs until he reached the main hatch.
“Halt and announce yourself,” the ship commanded.
The God King knew the drill. All Posleen Kessentai knew the drill for taking over abandoned property without incurring edas, the often crushing debt that was the common lot of all but the most senior and richest of the People.
“I am Oolt’ondai Chaleeniskeeren, son of Ni’imiturna, of the line of Faltrinskera, of the clan Turnisteran. Is there anyone aboard?”
“My internal sensors show no life aboard this vessel, Chaleeniskeeren of the Turnisteran. I am called ‘Feast-deliverer.’ ”
“What is your radiation count, Feast-deliverer?” he asked.
“In the range of certain death in less than one twenty-fifth of this planet’s revolution about its axis,” the ship answered.
“I claim this ship for myself and my clan, in the name of the Net and of the Knowers; in the name of the People, and of survival.”
“This is the way of the Path,” the ship answered, as it lowered the ramp.
Chaleeniskeeren’s olfactory organs were immediately assaulted by the smell of feces and vomit. Clearly, those of the People who had died within were many, to raise such a stench. Steeling himself, he entered the ship.
Near the ramp, just inside of the hatchway, Posleen lay everywhere in every manner of undignified death. Here a cosslain had ripped open his own torso to get at the source of his pain. There another lay in a pool of mixed vomit and feces. Some few had, apparently, gone feral, lashing out at each other in their death agonies.
Stepping over bodies with every third lurch forward, Chaleeniskeeren made his own tortured way to the control chamber. There he found God Kings slumped in death, their faces twisted with the horror of their passing. Staggering, the sole living being aboard, Chaleeniskeeren reached the command panel. He had to tear away the God King who clutched it fast in full rigor mortis.
Standing in the command position, Chaleeniskeeren heard the ship intone, “Oolt’ondai Chaleeniskeeren, son of Ni’imiturna, of the line of Faltrinskera, of the clan Turnisteran, I recognize you under the Law of the Net, and the Ways of the Path and of the Knowers, as rightful lord of this vessel. What is your command?”
“Lift off,” answered the new commander, unsteadily. Already the edges of his vision were darkening. “Lift off and head generally for the human forces. Control to me.”
Tiger Anna, Saxony-Anhalt, Germany, 26 December 2007
“I can’t get a lock, sir,” shouted a frantic Dieter Schultz. “That ship is behaving like I have never seen an alien ship act before.”
Hans saw that this was true. Weaving, bobbing, even skating along the ground, the ship was an impossible target. A few rounds from other Tigers of the brigade passed nearby the target; passed, and missed. Suddenly, the alien ship shot straight up, moving faster than Anna’s elevating mechanism could follow, moving eventually further than it could follow.
“That ship shrieks gamma radiation,” announced the 1c.
“It’s gotten away,” exclaimed Schultz, in frustration.
Hans shook his head in short, violent jerks. “No. The Posleen never act that way. That ship had a dying alien at the helm. Anna, send the message to the brigade. All hands, brace for impact and a major antimatter explosion.”
Aboard Feast-deliverer, 12 miles above Saxony-Anhalt,
&
nbsp; Germany, 26 December 2007
“Take control… Take control, Feast-deliverer, for I no longer can hold the helm.”
“Your orders, Oolt’ondai? Shall I head for some safe planet?”
“No, ship. There can be none, not in the long run. Can you identify the huge threshkreen war machines below?”
“There are more than twenty, Oolt’ondai.”
“Pick one, ship; one that is near others.”
“I have done so.”
“Good,” said Chaleeniskeeren, crest gone flaccid and head hanging in pain and shame. “Crash us into it.”
Tiger Anna, Saxony-Anhalt, Germany, 26 December 2007
Hans dreamt of happier times…
* * *
The wedding was informal, as was to be expected in the austere Israeli compound. The girls had pooled their resources, come up with a makeshift dress and veil, some high heels. The only building suitable for the gathering was the mess. There was, of course, no organ to play the wedding march. Even so, a young Israeli trooper was managing a fair rendition on a violin.
Looking back over his shoulder, to where his bride appeared, Hans noted with interest that his Anna wore no mak up anyway. Well, it wasn’t as if she needed it.
After that first night there had been no others. He had asked her to marry him as the sun arose the next morning and brought a filtered light for the hut. Lying there, the faint sun illuminating her hair spread across his one thin pillow, she had taken his breath away.