Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

  Wessen rubbed his hand over his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that had accumulated there. “Now, let’s assume that my AI designs another. That second generation system will never precisely match the level of sentience of the AI that created it…and so on, exactly like replicative decay.”

  He reached down to the table and grabbed a glass of water from the table. “So, if you will bear with me, the First Imperium command structure could consist entirely of computers, each layer at least somewhat less sentient than the one immediately above it.” He put the glass to his lips and took a short drink. “Let’s assume that our supreme commander is a highly sophisticated AI, one that may or may not be under the control of organic beings. Considering the enemy level of technology, there is little doubt they could create an AI of staggering sophistication. Indeed, such a system could very well feel emotions, at least based on most common definitions of the concept. It could become angry, even obsessed, but it would still be less sentient that its creators. Its actions would be more predictable, even if marginally so.”

  He set the glass on the table. “By extension, any systems it created lower in the command structure would be less sentient than the master system…and so on down the line. This would mean that the lower level of command, the more predictable…the more ‘machine-like,’ for lack of a better term, we can expect them to behave.”

  Hofstader stood up slowly. “Thank you, Dr. Wessen. I believe you have offered us a theory that will be of great interest to the military. It would be very helpful if you can organize a presentation to be included in the dispatch to Admiral Garret.”

  “Certainly, Dr. Hofstader. I believe I can have that ready in a day, perhaps two.”

  Hofstader nodded silently. Yes, he thought, Admiral Garret will want to hear this immediately.

  Chapter 23

  Battlezone Alpha-Omega

  Northern Continent

  Planet Sandoval

  Delta Leonis System

  “The Line”

  Linus Wagner could feel the sweat streaming down his back. His suit was climate-controlled, of course, but there was only so much even nuclear-powered air-conditioning could do. The fight was raging out on the ridge, and he could feel the tension – the fear – in every sinew of his body. It was sweating out of every pore, as if his body could expel his stress like some toxin. The Martian general had been in action non-stop for almost 48 hours and, despite the stims, he could feel the burning fatigue in his arms and legs. He doubted he could even lift his rifle if it wasn’t for his powered armor.

  Wagner had never seen a battle like this…or a commander like Erik Cain. He’d met Cain on Phobos during the Alliance rebellions. Roderick Vance and Cain were working together on something secretive, and Wagner was there for security. He’d liked Cain immediately, but he didn’t get a true feeling for the man’s relentless intensity until he’d fought with him on Farpoint. They’d lost that fight, but they did better than anyone expected, forcing the enemy to commit reserves and supplies, and delaying their advance to the Line for almost a year.

  First Army’s general in chief had ordered all senior officers to the surface to command their units personally in this final stage of the battle. Never one to lead from behind, Cain set the example himself. Somewhere out on this nightmarish battlefield was the commander in chief, rifle in hand, fighting the enemy alongside his Marines. It defied every convention of warfare for a general lightyears away from his replacement to be up in the front line, but Wagner understood it. In a war against an enemy so powerful, so relentless that even veteran units wavered at their approach, what could inspire the ranks more than to see their generals in the line with them?

  He was prone in a small dip in the ground, meager cover, but better than nothing. He was with a Martian platoon that was in the middle of a nasty firefight with a cluster of enemy battlebots. Both sides had gone to ground, and the combat had stalemated.

  It was strange for a general to be up in the line, hooked up with a single platoon, but across the entire battlefield, the army was deployed in small, scattered units engaging their counterparts. Cain had loosed over 15,000 veteran troops on the surface, their only orders to find First Imperium units and destroy them.

  Wagner hesitated, watching the action. By God, he thought, Cain was right again. The First Imperium forces had taken cover, but their deployments were sloppy, sub-optimal. Enemy ground tactics had always been mediocre, but Cain’s seemingly crazy plan had them even more uncertain and disordered. Their deployments failed to maximize their overwhelming firepower and left their flanks vulnerable to attack.

  The Marines, on the other hand, were masters of small unit tactics. Wagner was about to order the lieutenant in command to move on the enemy position, when he saw one of the squads begin to advance to the flank. They moved swiftly, alternating, with one team providing cover while the other moved forward.

  Wagner remained silent, crouched behind his tiny patch of cover, watching. The platoon had no idea their general was standing behind them, observing their maneuvers – and Wagner didn’t see any reason to put them on the spot. He just stayed quiet and observed.

  A second squad was on the move now, advancing in the same manner. The first group was in a small gully, off to the side of the enemy front. They had partial cover, and they were out of the primary firing arc of the enemy formation. Wagner knew he was watching a textbook example of a small unit attack, one conducted against the most fearsome enemy man had ever faced. His pride waxed strongly, watching these men and women he’d trained for so long. The Alliance Marines were a celebrated formation that had fought far more battles than their Martian counterparts and sometimes allies. But his Blackhats were holding their own with Cain’s veteran leathernecks.

  He glanced down at his display, IDing the unit he was watching. It was 2nd Platoon, B Company, 1st Battalion, Lieutenant Wren commanding. Wren’s service record scrolled slowly down the display. He hadn’t seen a lot of action, but he was a promising young officer. He’ll be a captain before this battle is over, Wagner thought…if he survives.

  Wren’s first squad had almost worked around the enemy flank. Another few seconds and they’d be firing from an enfilade position, raking the First Imperium line. Wagner nodded approvingly to himself. Wren was executing the attack well. His advancing units had decent cover, and a clear path to a great firing position. If the enemy tried to hit his weak spot – the hinge between his two attacking squads and the two covering ones – both wings would catch the advancing force in a crossfire. If they stayed where they were, the enfilade fire would hit them hard.

  They should pull back now, Wagner thought. If he was the enemy commander, he would acknowledge he’d been finessed out of a poorly chosen position, and he’d drop back 500 meters and find a better chunk of ground…and protect his flanks next time. But the enemy stayed in place, focusing mostly on the covering force, but beginning to send some fire in the direction of the attacking squads. But, by the time they reacted, the lead teams were in place and deploying their SAWs. A few seconds later, the enemy position was taking heavy flank fire from two autocannons, and losses started to mount.

  Wagner knew what would happen next, and he watched with growing respect for Lieutenant Wren and his platoon. They had just sent a team out to move around the other flank when Wagner’s com crackled to life.

  “General Wagner, Major Kluck here. We’ve got a major force of Reapers moving on our position.” Kluck sounded sharp, but worried too. The heavy enemy units were a bitch, well-armed and almost invulnerable to small arms attacks. “We need more heavy weapons, sir.” Kluck’s battalion heavy weapons had been detached to deal with another crisis, and that left him in rough shape against a Reaper attack.

  “I’ll get you what I can, major.” Wagner climbed to his feet, still crouching low to stay in cover. “And I’m coming over there myself.” He took one last look at Wren’s people and skittered down the slope toward Kluck’s position.

  Cain w
as firing on full auto, and he picked off two of the smaller battlebots. He had to rely on the heavy-weapon armed teams to hit the Reapers…his assault rifle wasn’t strong enough to take one of those monsters down. He saw the ammo warning light flash, and he felt the brief delay in his fire as the system fed a new clip into his rifle. He was used to having 500 shots a load, and he was burning through the new, larger rounds way too quickly. He switched to semi-auto, three round bursts. Ok, you dumb jarhead, he thought, time to actually aim.

  Cain hadn’t been this thick in the fight for a long time. He thought about General Holm and how horrified the Commandant would be to see his protégé in the front line fighting like a private. But Cain knew what he was doing. He needed to be where he was…it was the only way he could bring himself to ask such sacrifice from his people. The only way he could live with himself.

  He felt his heart pounding…in his chest, his head, his ears…like a drum beating the call of battle. He was tense, edgy…scared. He hadn’t been sure he cared enough to be afraid anymore, and he was glad to see he was. The fear made him feel alive, like something more than a ruthless automaton sending his people to their deaths. He remembered what he felt like on his first mission, as a green private dropping onto an enemy held world. That was a good squad, he thought with a smile, though his grin quickly faded. Everyone in that unit was dead now…all but Cain. He wondered, would he have been happier to stay a simple soldier…remain in the enlisted ranks? He’d be a very senior NCO now, probably a regimental sergeant major. He’d have responsibilities, no doubt. But not the crushing pressure of the top command. Not the blood of thousands on his hands.

  He shook out of his daydreams, scolding himself for wasting time on such nonsense. He was what he was, and his responsibilities were his and his alone. Someone had to be here, and shirking his obligations, refusing to accept the mantle of command, would have been the worst sort of cowardice. Sergeant Major Cain would have been a failure, he told himself, a man who chose to hide from the true call of his duty.

  His forces were heading south, slowly pulling back to the original defensive line, still anchored by the battered 5th and 6th battalions. That position had seemed about to fall again, but Cain’s attacks all across the field had disoriented the First Imperium forces and taken the pressure off Colonel Grant’s savaged battalions and the reformed but shaky units of II Corps.

  The enemy units between Cain’s attack force and the line to the south were caught between two fields of fire, and they went down in huge numbers. But the Marines were losing heavily as well…too heavily. It was a battle of attrition, and the First Imperium was winning. Their forces would fight to the last bot…no fear, no fatigue, no doubt. The final one left standing would fight with the focus and relentlessness it had when it first exited the landing craft. Cain’s veterans were the best warriors Earth and its progeny had to offer…but they were still human. They wouldn’t run, not the veterans, at least…Cain had faith in that. They were prepared to die here if duty demanded it. But they were exhausted and disordered. Their effectiveness was slipping. They were going to come close, but they were going to lose…or at least it looked that way. But Cain’s mind was still focused, and inside his visor his face bore an unseen grin. Things were going exactly as he’d planned.

  Commander Farooq’s Janissaries were pulling back toward the main line, retreating by halves. They’d popped a line of smoke to the north, covering their pullback. The dense radioactive steam seemed to work as well at confounding the First Imperium’s targeting as it ever had against their old human adversaries. Farooq never understood why the Alliance hadn’t copied the system.

  The cover was welcome. Farooq only had about half his men left, and they still had two klicks to go before they linked up with the defensive line. And those two kilometers were swarming with enemy forces, cut off and soon to be trapped between the Janissaries and the main line. All across the battlefield, disordered groups of First Imperium bots were sandwiched between the dug in remnants of II Corps and Cain’s attack forces.

  “Green teams, cover the approaches from the north. Red teams, engage encircled enemy forces.” Farooq had never fought a battle like this before. At first he’d thought Cain was crazy, that his bizarre plan would get their forces sliced up and destroyed. But the First Imperium units had failed to react to the lightning assaults. They seemed confounded and unable to understand what Cain was doing. The departure from battlefield orthodoxy confused them…and the Marines and Janissaries slaughtered thousands of them.

  “Reds, advance to the south by leapfrogs – 100 meter intervals every minute. Red 1s first.” Farooq was directing 2,800 Janissaries scattered over six kilometers of front. He allowed himself a moment of pride as he watched his units execute perfectly while facing enemy forces to their front and rear. He’d come to respect the Marines even more than he had when they’d been his enemy, the one adversary that could take on his people and win. Now he smiled as he saw his own troops behaving as the veterans they were. We may not be enemies anymore, he thought, but we’re damned sure not going to let the Marines show us up.

  He thought of Cain, of Darius Jax, whom he’d known for all too brief a time on Farpoint. Kyle Warren, dead now too. James Teller, General Holm. He’d fought these men and their comrades his whole life. Now he hoped he would never meet them again except as friends, as brothers in arms. He hoped that with all his heart, but he had his doubts. If mankind won this war, if they survived and drove away the First Imperium, would the political masters change? Would they learn anything? He doubted it. One day, and sooner than most would expect, he and others like him would be ordered to battle their old allies. What would happen then? He didn’t know…and he didn’t have time to think about it now. But if he got off Sandoval he would. He would think about it very seriously.

  Farooq watched his troopers advancing south, moving well but paying for every meter. When they reached the battle line to the south, his people would have pinched out the pocket of First Imperium units, and cleared a section of the field. He had another motivation as well. Commander Jaffer’s force had been detached earlier in the battle. They’d stood their ground during the routs, and they’d paid the price for their courage. Barely 1 in 3 was left standing, and Farooq was determined to link up with them as soon as possible.

  His tactical alarm sounded, and he glanced at the plot on his visor display. The enemy pressure from the north was slackening. The enemy was moving forces away, marching them up north. Why, Farooq wondered, would they be doing that? All of the attacking forces were driving south. What was going on in the north?

  Jarvis peered out over the lip of the trench, watching the maelstrom to the north. Even his tactical display was a jumbled mess, with friendly and enemy forces intermingled throughout the combat zone. I Corps had finally attacked, emerging from the hidden tunnels running under the battlefield. The most veteran troops in the army were now fighting a confused melee across 300 square klicks of ground.

  He wasn’t sure how it was going, but it was damned sure taking pressure off his people, at least for a while. Jarvis had been there when Kyle Warren was killed trying to rally II Corps’ routing units. He blamed himself for Warren’s death…a good portion of those routers were his own people. If he’d only managed to keep them in the line a little longer. Somehow.

  Jarvis commanded II Corps now. He understood why Cain put him in charge, but still, the battlefield promotion to brigadier felt somehow…wrong. Standing so soon in Warren’s shoes only inflamed his guilt. But there was no time for such nonsense now, he thought. He’d only let Warren down again if he didn’t take care of the corps…and he wasn’t about to fail Cain either. The rallied II Corps wasn’t exactly a solid formation, but they’d held their place since returning to the line. Cain had handled the situation speedily and ruthlessly…and stopped the morale failure cold. He’d given Jarvis clear instructions…easy to understand, though perhaps harder to follow. In no uncertain terms: he was to shoot anyone who ran
.

  He hadn’t been tested on that. Yet. He was grateful, and he knew it would tear him apart to shoot his own people. But he’d do it. He’d do it because he’d been ordered to…but also because he began to understand Cain’s motivations. The Corps was more than a group of men and women with deadly weapons. It was an idea…more than that, an ideal. The Marines were brothers and sisters. They may face more powerful enemies; they may march off to hopeless battles. But wherever they went, they knew their fellow Marines were at their side…that they had their backs. If their comrades couldn’t depend on them to stand shoulder to shoulder through the fires of hell, they weren’t Marines. Not to Erik Cain.

  The great crime committed by the routers wasn’t being scared. Every human being on Sandoval was afraid, even the grittiest veteran in the ranks. But the broken units let their fear overwhelm their duty to their comrades. They turned their backs on their fellow Marines, many of whom died because of it. These recruits didn’t yet understand what it was to be a Marine. Fate had denied them the chance to learn it in training or in battles fighting alongside experienced cadres. They should never have been part of the Corps, not without more training. Now they would learn the hard way exactly what that meant. What the Corps expected of every Marine.

  Jarvis forced his mind back to the tactical situation. I Corps was driving the disordered enemy forces south, against the anvil of II Corps and the 5th and 6th battalions. “All units…General Cain and I Corps are driving the enemy to the slaughter. And that’s us. All units on full alert. If you have a shot, take ‘em down. And watch your transponders…I don’t want anyone taking out friendlies.”