The survivors had been pushed back to the northern side of the ridge that overlooked the ice plain and the ruined facility behind them. They had lost a further two Outcasts and one staffer who had taken up a gun and joined them on the front line.
Solomon pulled the trigger for it to click impotently and the warning light to flare along its side. Dammit! He was out. He kicked himself backwards as he ejected the empty ammo case and reached for the next.
There was only one left on his belt.
Damn-damn-damn! He snarled, jamming it home and racking the first round.
The ‘front line’ was now in front of the buggy, parked halfway up the southern incline. The cyborgs had taken the ridge from them, cutting off the two Green Squad members at the practice hulk.
If they even still live, Solomon thought angrily.
BAP! BAP! The sounds of gunshots were loud over his suit communicator channel, whilst only being muted from his external suit mic. He realized that the person next to him was firing a Marine Corps service pistol, and that it was Warden Coates, stalking towards the front line as if his indignation alone could defeat the enemy. Solomon had never seen the small, wiry man fight, and he had automatically assumed that a man as cruel and as authoritarian as Coates would still be hiding in the buggy.
Not the case, however, as he saw his superior officer stride forward and take up arms with two hands, firing expertly in single shots to sever another cyborg’s spine sheath.
They were all down to single shots now, though. There wasn’t enough ammunition to go around and burst-fire from the Jackhammers was too imprecise to guarantee the kills that they needed.
How many are left? Solomon did a quick tally of the soldiers around him. He was relieved to see that all members of his Gold Squad had survived so far, although Karamov appeared to not be getting up from his crouch by a rock. Had his legs been injured? They were down to seven surviving adjunct-Marines versus five cyborgs. Although they had the greater numbers, and Malady, they were still a long way from winning. Solomon didn’t like those odds.
So far, the best tactic had been to gang up on the cyborgs. Two or three Outcasts firing on one, with one or two of the attackers firing shots to drive them to the ground, while the remaining Outcast went for the kill-shot on the thing’s back or neck.
But now that their numbers were pretty evenly matched, Solomon was starting to fear that they wouldn’t make it.
“Warden, sir! Oxygen check!” Solomon called out to Coates when the man slid to the floor and behind the boulder beside him as he reloaded his pistol. The man should have looked ridiculous in his flappy, cloak-like emergency suit, but Solomon was beyond resentments and grievances right now. We’ll have time to resume our usual hatred if we’re both alive at the end of it, he had decided, mostly thanks to the actions of Arlo Menier.
“Marine?” The warden’s voice was brusque, but Solomon heard him grunt in approval and watched him check the small reader on the side of his wrist. “I’m fine. But the rest will be running out in twenty minutes,” the warden said tersely, checking his pistol and standing back up to continue his sharp-shooting.
But you put your suit on at the same time as the other staffers, Solomon realized as he watched the man fight. That meant that Coates had only twenty minutes of oxygen left too, and that the warden didn’t care, just so long as he was still able to fight.
The understanding that they were all in this together spread through Solomon, and it was like a breath of fresh air, strangely.
I hated it here, he admitted to himself as he targeted another cyborg, attempting to push forward from the top of the ridge, but instead meeting a barrage of shots from him or the others around him. I hated Ganymede. I didn’t want any part of the Marine Corps.
And the ex-thief had good reason to hate it, perhaps. The training facility had been run on austere, demanding lines. Absolute commitment to regulation, alongside a dangerous genetic—and chemical—program that had seen almost a third of the total Outcast forces die of seizures and toxic shock.
Ganymede had seemed more like a prison camp than a military academy, he thought.
But now, in the baptism of blood and war, Solomon caught a glimpse of something else that had been hidden away here. It was in the way that Warden Coates fought alongside his men—well, attempting to put his men and women to shame with his fearless outrage, perhaps. It was in the way that, when death was a certainty, Arlo Menier had stepped up and saved his life, and then fought alongside him. It was in the way that the different colored squads had been forced to fight, and die, together.
And it didn’t come from Ganymede, or the warden’s commands, Solomon realized. This new thing, this camaraderie, this brotherhood of arms came from each other. From the other Outcasts who were all just like him, ex-convicts, the mad, bad, and dangerous whom Confederate society had sent to the prison moon of Titan for the rest of their natural lives.
Here, together, these outcast men and women had forged something new between them. A reason to stay alive, if only for each other.
Even Warden Coates, Solomon had to grudgingly admit, was a little bit of an outcast here, too. A man with a strangely powerless military title who only had authority over the most hated military brigade in the entire Corps, but who had given this project his all, just the same.
It was in that moment that hope broke over them all like manna from heaven.
Searing phosphorous stars were falling to the moon’s surface in streaks of boiling, burning white light along the ridge that illuminated the battlefield too sharply.
Illumination rounds, Solomon recognized, as the general band of his suit communicator burst into life.
“Attention Outcast Marines. This is the forward dropship the Humbolt, Rapid Response Fleet. Hold your positions.”
Following the illumination lines came a burning light in the skies behind the ridge. Solomon saw a small, dark shape enter the lower atmosphere and fire at the ridge.
“Cover!” Solomon shouted as he and the other survivors dropped to the floor.
The Humbolt had fired missiles at the top of the ridge as it entered Ganymede’s atmosphere, and Solomon tucked his head under his arm as the ground shook and the brightness of the explosions managed to break through even his closed eyes. There was a deep, vibrational rumbling followed by more bursts of light and noise, and then it was over.
Solomon raised his head just in time to see the Humbolt scream overhead on atmospheric rockets, performing a wide turn over the ruins of the training facility. The ridge where the last remaining cyborgs had been holding was now a charred, broken series of craters. The cyborgs may be nigh unstoppable, but the advanced Hellfire system of the twenty-second century was enough to destroy them.
They had done it, Solomon could have laughed, or cried, the relief was so palpable. They had survived the hour it would take for the distress beacon to call for support from Mars. And for them to arrive so quickly must have meant that the general had dispatched the dropship as soon as she could.
“Good job, Commander,” he heard someone saying over the general channel, and when Solomon looked up, he saw that it was Arlo Menier of all people, offering him the meaty power glove to help him to his feet.
“No.” Solomon shook his head, feeling disorientated by this change in the bully. “You saved my life, Marine,” he murmured back.
“I know,” Arlo growled, tightening his grip on Solomon’s gloved hand for a moment in a squeeze that would have popped finger bones had Solomon not been wearing power gauntlets. “Hm,” the Frenchman grunted. “You’re still an idiot, but you can fight,” was all that the big man said before turning to start the grisly task of loading the bodies of the dead.
Behind him, Solomon wavered on his feet, wondering if that meant that he and Arlo were friends now.
“Cready!” Coates barked. “Get those staffers to the Humbolt and hooked up to some real oxygen now!” the warden demanded, just as outraged as ever.
11
Counter-Strike, and Welcome
“The cyborgs knew what they were doing.” Solomon nodded in agreement with Asquew’s words as he, his squad, and the other survivors of Ganymede looked up at the form of the woman on the overhead screen.
They sat in a small briefing room on board the Humbolt’s mothership, a battleship by the name of the Oregon, capable of fielding three dropships like the Humbolt, as well as a full company of a hundred Marines—had they even been on board. Instead, the Oregon was staffed with only two platoons of roughly twenty Marines each, as all the others were still engaged with the siege of Mars.
But still… Solomon considered. For the general to send a full battleship to the rescue of Ganymede when it could have been employed in the Martian theater was a sign of how seriously she had taken the situation, he knew.
The Oregon was in orbit around Ganymede as there was nowhere for it to dock or to make landing now that the facility was destroyed. And it really was. Solomon could view the aerial pictures right now, as they scrolled down one side of the overhead screen, along with reports and analyses of that day’s action.
“The Outcast Training Facility is gone.” Asquew appeared able to read Solomon’s mind. “This was no doubt a targeted attack against a key Marine Corps capability.”
What was more, the crashing of the Marine transporter had only been a diversion for the real attack of the cyborgs, hidden in their landing module and making moonfall on Ganymede moments before the transporter had hit.
“But why us?” Solomon heard one of the other survivors ask—one of the Green Squad team he had sent to activate the distress beacon. “And what were those things?”
“Why you?” Asquew’s eyes flicked to Solomon and the other Gold Squad members. Solomon knew what was coming next. She had to tell them the truth of what they faced, and she did so in clipped, efficient sentences. When she was done, and everyone in the room now knew about the Ru’at, NeuroTech, and the cyborgs and killer robots of the colonies, a newer, tense sort of silence settled over them.
“The secret war has gone public,” Asquew muttered as her eyes stared into the middle distance. “The colonies are using alien technology against us. We have already sent a very clear counter-message.”
The scrolling images on one side of the screen suddenly displayed a new image. It was of the Red Planet, but the image was taken from too high for Solomon to see just which of the Martian habitat-cities it was featuring. Before he could try to trace any familiar craters or mountains to get his bearings, there was a tiny pinprick of light on the surface.
Which rapidly grew larger—a perfect circle of light that was growing wider and higher in moments.
Oh frack… Solomon realized what he was looking at, as the bubbles of light started to glow around the edges while they burned up the lower atmosphere.
“We’ve nuked Mars,” he breathed.
“Affirmative, Specialist Commander Cready,” Asquew confirmed. “Two mega-ton thermonuclear devices were deployed at fifteen forty-eight hours today, on the plains outside of Armstrong and Pavonis Habitats.”
“Outside?” one of the other Outcasts wondered aloud.
“We are not in the business of mass slaughter,” Asquew said. “But the shockwaves of the blast alone will be enough to cause a major setback to the Martian habitats, their economies and futures.”
Solomon could see the reasoning. The supersonic, super-heated shockwaves would be powerful enough to wipe off the face of Mars any of the smaller settlement bubbles on the sand plains between Pavonis and Armstrong, as well as cause major widespread damage to the habitats themselves in the form of ripped bubble-fabric, building collapses, and power outages. Maybe not hundreds of thousands would die, but a thousand certainly might…
“Which will give us the breathing space we need to recalculate our strategy in the light of this present attack,” Asquew intoned.
“General, sir? Permission to speak freely, sir?” The warden stood up from where he had been sitting at one end of the metal table, throwing a perfect salute as he addressed his superior officer.
“As you wish, Warden. This is an informal meeting, given the outstanding acts of bravery you and your people have performed today.” Asquew nodded.
“Thank you. But I must ask… How did the colonists get a hold of a Marine transporter? And when did they have the opportunity to load it full of the NeuroTech cyborgs?” Coates asked, his eyes flaring with righteous indignation as his facility, his baby, had been totally destroyed.
“A good question. Our records show that earlier yesterday, this man boarded the Marine transporter that attacked your base, where it was stationed in orbit around Mars.” Asquew nodded, and the side-show of nuclear terror was replaced with the Marine Corps photographs of Specialist Kol’s identity card.
“Kol!” Jezzy spat, standing up in fury. For once, this lack of protocol wasn’t remarked upon by the warden.
Solomon nodded. It made sense, after all. Kol had been a member of his squad, and he had been their technical specialist, trained in electrical and mechanical engineering. If anyone would know how to fly a Marine Corps transporter, or how to override the door controls, it would have been Kol.
Just like he would also know how to fool the Ganymede satellites when he sent the transporter crashing into his old home… Solomon sighed. Kol had been trained here on Ganymede, after all.
“Report, Specialist Wen.” Coates nodded at her.
“I last saw Kol in the ventilation tunnels under Armstrong.” Jezzy ran through the story that Solomon knew well by now. “He was meant to fit a device that would blow a part of Armstrong’s power grid, making it easier for me and the rest of the Gold Squad to sneak in and destabilize the separatists on Mars,” Jezzy said.
“But he had no intention of blowing the power grid, and instead overpowered me and left me to die, stating that he was joining the Chosen of Mars/First Martian separatists,” Jezzy explained. “Needless to say, the device didn’t work, and our mission failed, forcing the Confederacy to engage in outright warfare with Mars instead of infiltration.”
But it was also there that we discovered the cyborgs, Solomon had to admit. Who were being sold by the mega-corporation NeuroTech.
“Agreed,” the general intoned. “We will continue to search the Ganymede crash site to see if this traitor went down with his ship. In the meantime, I have alerted all officers that this man is wanted for treason…but I am sure that he did not act alone.”
“Sir?” Warden Coates asked.
“Kol managed to get a good-sized force of these cyborgs on board the transporter without raising alarms. There is every likelihood that there are further traitors loyal to Mars inside the Marine Corps,” Asquew said heavily, and a gloomy silence fell across the briefing.
“But the Director of Defense has told me that we have every permission to act fast and decisively,” she said, “against the threat that is NeuroTech. NeuroTech supplied Mars with cyborgs, and NeuroTech must have supplied ex-Outcast Kol with the cyborgs to attack Ganymede.”
“While we have seized their New York, London, and Shanghai offices, they all pale in comparison to its interstellar headquarters…” The side panel beside her face flickered to reveal tall buildings that tapered near the top, made of a fabulous bronze but whose balconies were overflowing with greenery, like a hanging garden.
“The NeuroTech headquarters are on Proxima Centauri, our sister planet,” the general said. “And while Proxima’s role in this conflict has been little more than blockades of Confederate goods coming into their space, as well as a few riots and provocation on the streets of their capital, they have long been voicing the same concerns for greater independence as Mars has. They have not sent active soldiers to face the Confederacy, but we fear that it is only a matter of time.”
Especially now that you’ve nuked a fellow colonial planet, Solomon thought a little despairingly. When faced with such total destruction, any rebellious force really only has two options left
: either total capitulation, or the decision that they might die anyway so a total commitment to the war effort instead.
Solomon didn’t like to guess which way it would go.
“Despite repeated demands by our ambassador for the Proximian Imprimatur to exile NeuroTech from their territory, the Proximians haven’t done so,” Asquew stated with a grimace. “Which leads the Secretary of Defense to conclude that the only possible explanation is that Proxima has been working with NeuroTech all this time. Perhaps funding or facilitating the mega-corporation to send these new weapons to Mars, to feed the Martian uprising, in an effort to strengthen their own.”
Solomon saw Warden Coates nod one brittle, hate-filled nod.
“So, this will be your new mission, Outcasts,” General Asquew said. “I will be sending what remains of you to Proxima to infiltrate and destroy the NeuroTech factories where they built the very things that destroyed your home and killed your fellow Marines.”
A loud cheer went up from almost all corners of the room, even from Warden Coates.
Everyone always likes a little payback, Solomon thought, smiling disingenuously and nodding along with others, even as his heart fell. Maybe the rest of the Outcasts here were too upset to think about what the general had just offered them. This wasn’t just a chance at revenge. This was traveling to a potential enemy territory, at the other end of human space. Their odds of a successful mission were tiny. Solomon and Gold Squad had done infiltration work before. They knew what it was like to be surrounded on all sides by the enemy.
They’re desperate, Solomon realized. The Marine Corps top brass are desperate to end this war in any way they know how, and now they are going to bet on a bunch of embittered ex-cons.
Invasion- Proxima Page 6