by Jay Allan
There was a loud whooshing sound, followed by a sharp click – her suit reloading the cannons. She sprayed the enemy position one last time before diving behind her new cover. She could hear the impacts on the other side of the rock, the return fire from the bots, perfectly targeted but just a second too late.
Her heart was pounding, and she was sweaty and uncomfortable. She would have given half her pension to get her arm around and wipe the grime off the back of her neck. But she was excited too, almost giddy to be hunting the enemy down. For the first time in the war, she felt like they had the upper hand. The First Imperium forces were confused, disordered, uncertain…and her people were focused like predators howling at the scent of blood. Finally, she thought…finally we have them on the run. At least on Sandoval.
She glanced down at her display. The line of Obliterators was advancing across the entire field. They were taking losses, but they were giving out fivefold. That was another new feeling for this war; up until now they’d felt like targets. Now they were changing that dynamic.
Her people were large blue ovals on the display, and the enemy Reapers were red versions of the same symbol. Now she noticed something else moving slowly onto the plot, a gray triangle…no two…three. All off to the left flank of her line. “Identify gray triangles.” She hadn’t spoken much to the AI. Simulated or not, she missed the camaraderie she’d had with Mystic, and the clinical coldness of the new unit made her uncomfortable.
“Gray triangles represent M-275A main battle tanks, class designation “Scott.”
“Yes!” she shouted, glad the outgoing com was off once she realized how exuberant her outburst had been. Merrick’s tanks, she thought, still excited. We’ve sliced straight through the enemy position, and now we’re linking up with the tank corps.
She flipped on the unit-wide com. “Let’s go people.” Her voice was loud and confident. “We’re linking up with the tanks. We’ve got these bastards on the run…let’s finish ‘em off now!” She started moving around the outcropping, getting ready to lunge forward to the next position. “And watch out for the friendlies!”
James Teller made his way slowly up the embankment. He was staggering a little, but not from any wound. The entire army had been fighting nonstop for days and days, a brutal slugging match. Teller couldn’t remember ever feeling fatigue like this before. He knew the stims were the only thing keeping him from falling over, but even they were losing their effect. He’d taken a shot less than half an hour before. It perked him up, but now it was already wearing off. He knew he couldn’t take much more of the stuff…he was already feeling like shit and pissing blood, which his suit helpfully advised him was interfering with the efficient recycling of his bodily wastes.
All across the field the 1st Army’s personnel had fought as small units…companies, platoons, squads…hundreds of savage little combats. In the radioactive craters and shattered ruins of cities and towns, the humans had the advantage, their experience at war and small unit training making the difference. For the first time, Cain’s forces were inflicting more casualties than they took.
Teller cleared the top of the ridge and looked out over the field. It was all over but the mopping up. The First Imperium army was gone, destroyed. Not broken…wiped out. Other than the scattered units being tracked down and exterminated, there wasn’t a functioning enemy robot on Sandoval. That hadn’t come without a price. They wouldn’t know the casualty totals for some time. No one knew how many of the missing were out there alive, with damaged suits, dropped out of the net. But it was a good bet that 1st Army lost half its number…and possibly more than that.
He turned and walked toward the makeshift command post. There were armored figures moving in every direction, and tables set up with workstations. He saw a lone figure, standing near the edge of the ridge, calmly looking out over the same scene he’d just surveyed. His armor was dented in several places, and scorch marks marred its torso. One of the arms had a bulge of stringy foam, the self-expanding material the Mark VIII armor used to seal breaches. The spongy gray material was tinted pink…the occupant of the armor had been wounded, and his blood had mingled with the sealant.
“Hello, general.” Teller walked up from behind, and he stood erect and offered the best salute he could manage in his armor. Saluting on the battlefield wasn’t normal practice, but Teller figured 1st Army’s now-victorious commander deserved one.
Cain turned slowly, stiffly. He was definitely hurting, though Teller thought it couldn’t be too serious if he was standing here so casually…without a crowd of aides begging him to go to the hospital.
“James…” Cain’s voice was hoarse, his speech slow, almost sad. “I’m glad to see you made it through this one in better shape than your last.” Teller had been grievously wounded in the fighting on Cornwall. Sarah’s people had put him back together, but it had been a close thing.
“Not a scratch.” Teller laughed softly. “Go figure.”
Cain turned to directly face Teller. “Seriously, James…your people fought like heroes. You should be very proud.” Cain glanced down at his arm. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m afraid my arm’s seen better days.” He let out a short laugh. “It’s always more trouble than it’s worth in armor anyway. You’ve got one coming to you, though. A handshake…and a chestful of medals too.”
“More fruit salad for my dress blues?” Teller’s tone was somber. “I’ll take a pass, if it’s all the same, sir. After a while it starts to feel like all these men and women get torn to shreds so we can pin decorations on each other.” He paused. “Sorry, sir. I don’t mean to be ungrateful…it just doesn’t feel right.”
“No apologies necessary, my friend. I feel the same way.” Cain turned back and looked over the field again as he spoke. “But all bets are off…they’re probably going to give me some too. And when they do I’ll be thinking of Kyle Warren. I coaxed him back into active duty, you know. I pulled his away from a good life on Arcadia so he could die on this miserable rock. But when they come at me with those medals, I have to be graceful and accept them…and you are damned well going to do the same.”
Teller paused, standing next to Cain, looking out over the plains below. “Kyle’s death wasn’t your fault, sir. And it’s not your fault he was here.” Teller’s voice was gentle, even wistful. “I didn’t get to know him too well. We’d met a few times on Carson’s World years back…and then not until we mustered in here. But a Marine like Kyle Warren doesn’t sit out a battle like this. He knew damned well what was at stake, and he came here just like the rest of us…like you and me, sir…ready to give whatever it took to win this fight. That’s what we are, Erik. That’s what makes us tick. It almost killed me not to be on Farpoint…and I was still eating through a tube when you guys fought that battle. You do Kyle a disservice taking the blame. He’d have been here no matter what.”
Cain turned again and looked over at Teller. “Well who knew? A philosopher Marine.” Cain’s voice was mocking, but gently so. He knew Teller was right. “Thanks, James. I know all that’s true, but it’s still good to hear someone else say it.”
Teller was silent for a few seconds. There wasn’t much else to say about Kyle Warren, so he changed the subject. “Are you worried they have even more bots up in that fleet, sir? Their LZ is toast, but there’s a whole planet they can land on.” Teller’s voice became softer, a little tentative. “The army is ecstatic, but I don’t think they can take on a fresh force. They’re spent, Erik…all of them. If that fleet lands another 10,000 bots, we’re screwed.”
“Well, I was concerned about it.” Cain smiled. Teller couldn’t see it, of course, but he could hear the lighter tone in the CO’s voice. “But now we’re picking up multiple transmissions. The fleet’s here.”
Teller stood still, in shocked silence. The fleet. They’d have one hell of a fight up there…he was sure of that. But he doubted the enemy would launch a new ground assault while they were facing a battle in space. They’d get some time a
t least. And if Garret’s people could prevail, Teller thought, maybe it was really possible…maybe the Line would actually hold.
Cain turned slowly, looking back over his shoulder. “If you can manage things here for a few, I’m going to head to the hospital. I need to check on the wounded.” He took a few steps and stopped, turning back again. “And I said some things to Sarah I wish I could take back. I’ve been hurting lately, in more ways than one, but that’s no excuse to take it out on her.” He turned again and started walking, adding softly, “And now it’s time for me to apologize.”
Chapter 24
AS Lexington, Flag Bridge
Approaching Planet Sandoval
Delta Leonis System
“The Line”
Augustus Garret pulled himself upright in his command chair. His acceleration couch had just retracted, and the stimulant was bringing him out of the dreamy state caused by the rigors of deceleration. His ships had been thrusting hard, reducing velocity as they approached the enemy forces deployed around Sandoval. He didn’t want to zip past the stationary First Imperium fleet. It wasn’t any hit and run raid this time. Combined Fleet was here for a fight to the death.
The enemy had expended all of their antimatter weapons during the initial fighting in the system; Garret was fairly certain of that. He didn’t know if they’d been resupplied, and he guessed it was 50/50 they had. He’d sent Admiral Vargus’ attack ships in first to find out…87 suicide boats, all blasting at 0.04c. He figured the enemy would have to launch whatever ordnance they had or risk taking plasma torpedo hits with antimatter weapons still in the racks. It was an inelegant way to force the enemy’s hand, but it was all Garret had. It was likely to be expensive too. He knew most of those boats weren’t going to make it back, and he didn’t want to think of how many of the 6,500 crew manning them would die in the next 30 minutes.
The main body was two light minutes back, still outside maximum missile range. If he’d timed everything right, he’d launch Greta Hurley’s bombers almost immediately after the suicide boats made their run, and then the rest of the fleet would move into range and launch its missile salvoes.
The fleet was blasting out announcements of its arrival to the planet, too. Garret had no idea if any of the signals would penetrate the enemy’s jamming screen and reach Cain’s troops, but he had to try. They’d been cut off and on their own for months, and they deserved to know the fleet had returned.
Garret wasn’t even sure that Cain or any of his people were still alive. The fleet around Sandoval was by far the largest concentration of First Imperium power he’d seen, and he couldn’t even begin to estimate how many thousands of battle robots those ships carried. Cain’s army was a powerful fighting force, the largest mankind had ever deployed off of Earth. But 1st Army had a lot of green troops, Marines who hadn’t even finished the normal training program. Throwing them against the First Imperium was something Holm knew he’d always regret, but there had been no choice. There just weren’t enough veterans left. Too many of them lay dead on the battlefields of the Third Frontier War and the rebellions…and the Rim worlds where the First Imperium initially struck.
“Sir, Admiral Vargus’ boats are making their run.” Max Harmon was Terrence Compton’s senior staff officer. Normally, Garret would never poach another admiral’s people, but Compton was still laid up on Armstrong, and Garret figured Harmon wouldn’t want to miss the battle. His mother led one of the task forces, and Max deserved to be there too. He’d give him back once Compton was on his feet again. Probably.
“Very well, Max. Keep me posted.” Garret found he tended to use Harmon’s first name, or he simply avoided using a name at all in responding to his new aide. Harmon had deserved the promotion to captain, and Garret had given it without hesitation. But Lexington already had a captain, so Harmon was typically given a courtesy promotion to commodore when addressed onboard. Garret thought the whole thing was a little silly, but even the navy’s top officer had to respect its traditions, ancient and inexplicable though they may be. Once these things were ingrained in the culture they were hard to change. Captain Muldoon would likely be offended if Garret started calling Harmon captain. She’d never say anything, of course, but he was sure it would bother her. Garret was always amazed at the amount of superficial silliness that accrued to the job of killing one’s enemies. But he didn’t care enough to try to change it.
“Sir, Admiral Vargus’ boats are entering missile detonation range.” The First Imperium fleet had launched a large volley at the attack ships. None of the ordnance showed the higher acceleration rates of the antimatter missiles, but that wasn’t conclusive. Now they would see. In a few minutes, Garret would know if Vargus’ people were flushing out the antimatter weapons…or if he’d simply wasted their lives.
Wolverine zipped straight through the barrage, her shotguns firing wildly, tearing apart missile after missile. She didn’t have a scratch yet, but that wasn’t something Desmond Vargus could say about the rest of his force. The Delta-Z transmissions were pouring in far too quickly. He wanted to ignore them, but he felt the least he could do for his people was listen to the reports of their deaths.
“Still no antimatter detonations detected, sir.” Lieutenant Lane’s report was businesslike, matter-of-fact. Lane was a veteran of the attack ships, and she was used to running gauntlets. The suicide boats didn’t take a lot of punishment, and a near miss by a large nuke could vaporize one of them in an instant. Experienced crews tended to become fatalistic, shoving aside insecurities, developing a bravado to cover the fear.
“Keep reporting to fleetcom in real time, lieutenant. Confirm that all ships are reporting as ordered.” There was no way of knowing when a missile would get close enough to take out a given ship, so Vargus had his entire task force sending reports back to the fleet every two minutes.
“Yes, sir.” Lane had just confirmed the transmissions, but she leaned over and rechecked them all. “All vessels sending full scanning reports every 120 seconds, as ordered, sir.”
“Very well.” Vargus leaned back in the command chair. There was nothing else for him to do right now but wait. The captain’s station was an odd place for him to be – fast attack ships weren’t designed to support an admiral’s flag. It was rare for anything more than a squadron to be commanded from a suicide boat…usually more than 3 or 4 ships would be part of a force with larger vessels as well. But this was a special situation. Garret had to know if he was facing antimatter ordnance, and only a major attack force would compel the enemy to launch their heavy weapons. The boats were relying on maneuverability for their survival, and a cruiser or other heavy ship would only slow the armada down.
Vargus was the right choice for the mission. Though he’d been an admiral running cruiser squadrons for four or five years, he’d come up through the attack ship service. The suicide boats didn’t always get the respect they deserved from the brass, but that wasn’t the case under Augustus Garret. The fleet admiral’s first command had been a fast attack ship, and he was very aware of what well-led vessels could do. And he knew any boats he sent in under Desmond Vargus would be superbly led.
“Sir, we have cleared the missile detonation zone.” Lane was reading from her screen as she spoke. “Projecting particle accelerator range in 15 minutes.”
Ok, Vargus thought. We’re through…and not one antimatter warhead. They didn’t make it unscathed, not by any definition. His own mental count had 21 ships destroyed…and at least another 20 that had taken serious hits. Any of those with damage affecting their engines had almost no shot of getting back. Not that anyone’s chances were all that great. And the particle accelerators were probably going to exact a greater toll than the missiles.
“Send this to Admiral Garret.” Vargus looked across the cramped bridge. His view of his tactical officer was partially obscured – the designers of the Snow Leopard class attack ships hadn’t been particularly concerned with comfort or aesthetics; that much was obvious. They were damned
good boats in battle, but they were a chaotic jumble of support structures and low-hanging conduits inside. “Admiral, we have passed through the enemy missile barrage. As per the real time data we have transmitted, it appears highly unlikely that the enemy is armed with antimatter warheads. We are about to enter energy weapons range. Will report before we launch our attack run. We’ll try to soften them up for you, sir.”
Lane worked her board for a few seconds. “Message transmitted, sir.”
“Ok, we don’t have anything to do for the next few minutes, so let’s have all ships doublecheck their plasma torpedoes. I don’t know how many of us are going to make it past the particle accelerator fire, but everyone who does better damned well paint those targets and land two solid hits. Or I’ll have their asses.”
“Yes sir…ordering all ships to conduct weapons diagnostic.”
Vargus sighed. He knew the energy weapons fire was going to be bad. The enemy’s particle accelerators had twice the range of the fleet’s lasers. That meant his ships would be in the kill zone for twice as long. And they didn’t have anything to fire back. The tiny laser batteries on the boats were no better than flashlights against a First Imperium hull. The plasma torpedoes were the real punch, but they had to get close first…and that meant silently taking all the enemy could dish out.
Garret sat stonefaced as he listened to Vargus’ transmission. It was all extraneous, really. The data had been transmitted multiple times already. To everyone else on Lexington’s flag bridge, it seemed like Vargus was just being meticulous. But Garret understood. It was a goodbye. Desmond Vargus was almost as old a spacehound as Garret, and he was under no illusions about his chances of making it back from this one. No more than Garret was.