Authors: Mark Kalina
Established
doctrine had been wrong. The Arcadians had managed to hack the security codes
for a UEN patrol fight and, for a few crucial minutes, had convinced the
sensors of the UEN laser emplacements that the inbound aircraft were UEN
planes. The pissers had tumbled on to the ruse soon enough, but not in time to
stop over a hundred Arcadian frame infantry from landing. Only the last
transport had been burned down by UEN lasers... but that had been the transport
carrying the heavy weapons. So now the framers were fighting a desperate
battle. And Tara's tank company was the only chance they had of getting
support.
"Keep
moving," she said into the company push. "Those framers won't last
long without support."
"What
happens if we don't shut down the gate?" asked Corporal Ishida, her
gunner.
"What
happens?" Tara said. "The UEN wins. The push tens of thousands of
pisser troops through the gate and we lose our planet. All of the Defense Force
personnel that survive get sent to re-education camps. The UEN ships in a few
million more 'economic refugees,' confiscates everything we've built and micromanages
our people's lives until they're reduced 'economic refugee' status themselves.
That's what happens. So what we do is, we don't lose."
"I
think we're past their missile pods," came a call from Lieutenant Feldman,
the 3rd Platoon leader.
"I
think you're right," Tara replied. "Who has drones left? I doubt the
pissers are going to leave that ridge undefended, but whatever they have isn't
showing up from this distance."
"None
left for us," said Johnny, her sensors operator.
"I've
got one left," sent Sergeant Kemp, the tank commander of 1st platoon's
only other surviving tank.
"I've
got four left in 3rd platoon," said Feldman.
"Hold
a couple back, Feldman," Tara ordered, "and send out two. Kemp, you
send yours out, as well. We can't afford to charge in blind."
The
drones launched and sped forward, little ducted-fan-tilt-rotor aircraft, less
than a meter long, each one loaded with an assortment of sensors. The sensors
operators were about to earn their keep.
"Hostile
framers!" came the call from one of the 3rd Platoon's tanks. "We've
picked up camouflaged UEN framers in position in front of us. They've got
adaptive camouflage netting laid over 'em, but I'm picking up thermal and
electro-magnetic leakage from their power packs. I think they didn't shut down their
cooling systems."
"Alright,
put the drones in a good search pattern; not too tight. Don't give away that
we've found them, but let's get some good targeting data," Tara ordered.
Fucking
amateurs, Tara thought. As stars went, Luhman-16A
—colloquially called "Ravi,"
after a Hindu sun god—
was a
tiny "brown dwarf," not quite even a proper star. But as far as
Arcadia was concerned, the star was plenty hot, and close; a huge red-orange
ball of fire in the sky. Lying out under the looming rays of the local sun
would be brutal, so the UEN troopers had run their infantry combat frames'
cooling systems... which had allowed the drones to pick up the power signature,
and ruined any chance they'd had of an ambush. Or of surviving.
"All
tanks, download target data from the drones, lock it in, and engage,"
Tara ordered.
All
hell broke loose.
The
closest of the hiding UEN framers were within two kilometers; close enough to
engage with the auto-smartguns. Bursts of precisely targeted 10.5mm
steel-tipped copper slugs arced out at over a kilometer a second, ripping into
the desert. Each burst tracked precisely across the indicated probable position
of a "hidden" enemy framer; some of the bullets deflected off armor;
infantry frames allowed their operators to wear heavy articulated plates of
carbon-ceramic armor.
But some
rounds found weak spots or gaps between armor panels and punched right through,
into the flesh and bones of the framer troopers, and other rounds shattered the
armor panels they struck, leaving them useless against the next bullet.
Some
of the bursts were aimed at probable locations and found nothing. Most found
targets and blew them apart in sprays of shattered polycarbonate, flesh and
blood. A few of the enemy framers were fast enough realize what was happening
and lurched up to dodge out of the way of a burst; from two kilometers out,
they had two or three seconds to dodge the incoming rounds. But with their
power pack motors still spinning up, they were burdened by the hundred kilogram
weight of their frames, armor and weapons, and follow-up bursts cut them down.
The
more distant framer positions called for bigger weapons. One by one the tanks
fired single rounds from their 41 megajoule main guns, blasting the hidden
powered infantrymen into small, gory fragments.
Not
all of the enemy framers were hit; some probably kept still, huddling under
their camouflage and praying that the next second wouldn't be the last one.
Others popped up and launched anti-tank missiles, but without surprise none
made it past the onrushing tanks' defenses, and the soldiers firing the
missiles died to a man within seconds of their brave, desperate act.
And
then the company was running up the shallow slope to the ridge-line, with the
enemy left behind them.
"We're
almost there!" called Tara, unable to keep her voice calm now. The
ridge-line was just a kilometer ahead, and in the distance, the massive,
reinforced concrete dome of the gate structure was now visible.
"Take
positions on the ridge and prepare for precision fire in support of our
infantry," she ordered.
"Stop
us as soon as we have a line of fire over the ridge," she instructed the
driver.
"Roger,"
he replied, and the tank came to bone-jarring halt, throwing up a plume of dust
even bigger than the plume it had raised as it raced across the desert.
The
gate dome dominated the shallow valley below, and she could see faint, distant
flashes of small-arms fire, and blasts of infantry-carried missiles and
grenades, around it. The fighting seemed to be within a few hundred meters of
the huge gate structure. As soon as she had confirmation of the enemy
positions, her company could rain 41 megajoule fire down upon them; there was
no way the pissers would be able to hold against that sort of firepower.
Tara
switched her communication set to the push that the Arcadian framer unit,
code-named Cinnamon, was supposed to be using, and prayed that there would be
no communications fuck-ups.
"All
Cinnamon units, this is Nutmeg-Lead. I am in position on the ridge to your east
with a light company of tanks. Direct fire mission requests through this comm
push."
"Roger,
Nutmeg-Lead," came a strained sounding voice. "This is Cinnamon-Lead.
Glad to finally see you. Fire missions forthcoming. Stand by."
A
few seconds later, Tara was getting targeting data from the framers below. She
brought up the positions of her tanks and the lines of fire on her tactical
display and began to assign fire missions.
"Lock
this one in," she told her gunner.
"All
units, double-check your fire missions and open fire. Single rounds."
Five
main guns went off, raising dust clouds for dozens of meters around the tanks.
Seconds ticked by, and then the ground near the gate building began to erupt
into geysers of pulverized concrete as the rounds impacted. Some of the tanks'
main guns twitched onto new targets and fired a second round, and a few seconds
later, a second series of blasts showered down on their targets.
"Good
shooting, Nutmeg!" came a shouted call from one of the Cinnamon units.
"More fire missions coming up."
"Roger,"
Tara answered.
There
was suddenly movement off to the left of her tank; a burst of displaced dirt
and sand. Tara slewed her view over and got a brief glimpse of a missile pod
ripple firing its dozen missile load into the sky, less than a hundred meters
from her tank!
At
the same moment, the tank's laser detectors went off, screaming alarm as a
guidance laser illuminated the tank from behind.
The
automatic aerosol grenades thumped and began to envelope the War-Hammer in a
fog that was opaque to laser energy, but Tara had time to realize that the
laser-homing missiles would reach her tank before the aerosol had time to cover
it.
"Driver,
reverse! Evasive!" she managed to shout.
There was a sudden crash that made the
seventy-five ton mass of the War-Hammer lurch, and Tara thought she saw a
momentary white flash. Then it was past, and she became aware of a growing,
searing pain, rising to unbearable intensity. She couldn't even tell where it
hurt, but she could hear someone screaming. Smoke filled the turret fighting
compartment, and a second later she felt the sudden pressure as her survival
pod inflated around her and then the massive jolt as it launched her out of the
tank.
The
inflated pod's bouncing impact on the desert floor was soft in comparison. The
survival pod deflated, its job done, and Tara drew a breath. Someone screamed,
shrill and violently loud, close by, and it took her a second to realize it was
her. She was lying on her side, drawing ragged breaths and screaming despite
all her will to stop herself. Some of the crew of one of 3rd Platoon's tanks
had dismounted and were running towards her.
The
pain was unbearable, too strong for her to know where it was coming from, and
it wasn't dying down at all. Tara tried to look herself over to see where she
was hurt, and suddenly she had no will to even try to stop screaming.
Around
her, her company's tanks were still firing, the deafening concussion of their
big guns momentarily drowning out her screams. In the valley below, 41
megajoule shots were pulverizing the UEN positions, and Arcadian infantry was
surging forward, moving fast to take the gate structure and its control
facilities.
But
she saw none of it. All she could focus on, as she screamed, were the charred
bones protruding from the bloody stumps of her legs, raggedly burned off above
the knees.
Lieutenant-colonel
Tara O'Connor blinked back the unbidden memory. She still got episodes from
time to time; flash-backs to seven years ago. This had been a bad one, she
knew, an almost total recall, so intense she had almost been able to feel the
searing pain again.
She
shook her head and let herself come back to the here and now; it was about as
far from the fighting compartment of a tank as could be imagined. The sound of
laughter and splashing water filled her ears and the smell of chlorinated water
and lush, decorative plants scented the air.
Tara
let her eyes focus on the crystal blue water of the swimming pool, and felt her
shoulders relax. At least she hadn't screamed or cried out; something that had
happened with embarrassing frequency in the first few years.
These
episodes never seemed to happen when she had something to do, and they didn't,
thank god, haunt her dreams. But relaxing and letting her mind wander sometimes
brought them on. Even so, she decided, she wasn't going to head back in. She
was on leave, and she'd told her colleagues that she was going to work on her
tan. And she wasn't about to let some flashbacks derail her plans.
She
stretched, rather deliberately, and shifted her weight in her lounge chair.
This was a family-friendly facility, so she was wearing a swim-suit, though it
didn't cover much of her. Maybe another time, she'd get a chance to use a more
adult-oriented facility, where she could sun-tan nude to get rid of any
tan-lines.
Tara
was getting looks, she knew, and she accepted those as partly her due, and
partly just something that couldn't be avoided.
It
was her due because she knew herself to be very good looking; she had a pretty
face, somewhat long-featured, with pale gray, almond-shaped eyes that hinted at
her quarter-Japanese ancestry. Her eyes, she'd been told, were well suited to
her short, straight, chestnut hair. Her body was long limbed, athletic and
trim-figured... and only somewhat decently covered by her little black
two-piece swimsuit. Lots of men —and a few women— tended to look at
her; it was nothing new.
It
was something that couldn't be avoided because of her legs; they were long and
shapely, sleekly curved. But her flesh ended just above her knees, and from the
knees down, her legs were gleaming, sculpted, chromed metal. Her prosthetics
were top of the line, looking like something from a sexy-robot picture. The
shape of a woman's legs and feet was reproduced in artistic, if somewhat
stylized detail, down to non-skid soled feet with articulated toes. They were
even equipped to give her some tactile feedback. But they were obviously,
defiantly artificial. It was something that got looks, but she had decided to
embrace it.
Even
the best synthetic skin couldn't make her legs look quite normal, and she had
decided that the blatant metal was better than either the somewhat uncanny look
of fake skin, or the idea of trying to perpetually conceal her prosthetics with
long pants. After all, the Arcadian colony was a warm, desert climate where
people often wore shorts. As far as Tara was concerned, if the gleaming metal
prosthetics made some people uncomfortable, then too bad. It was even possible,
if only just, that someone might see the legs, recognize who she was, and
remember that they were free people, living on their own free planet, in some
part because of the pain she had endured. If the sight of her reminded someone
of the fact that their freedom came at a cost, she wasn't about to regret it.
"Yo!
Legs!" came a bull-bellow shout from near the changing rooms, and Tara
looked over.
Looming
over a cluster of swim-suited pool patrons was a man, hugely tall and wide in
proportion, wearing a faded tan, sleeveless cut-off, Armored Corps jumpsuit
that had been emblazoned with a slogan in neon orange letters; Tankers Have Big
Guns. The man looked like he was slouching, but his height still dwarfed
everyone around him. A shock of wild red hair topped a pale, square face that
looked like a candidate for perpetual sun-burn or a commercial for anti-UV
supplements. Farcical purple-colored sunglasses hid his eyes.
"Legs!
There you are!" the man shouted again, and Tara sighed and stood up.
Some
of the other patrons were frowning at the man's shouts. Others were watching
with wary expressions. A few parents called children over to be closer to them.
A few took in the Armored Corps jumpsuit and smiled.
"Still
scaring the kids, Younger?" Tara called back as she strode to meet him,
her metal toes clicking slightly on the tiles of the pool-side.
"Hey,
Legs! Looking good, Lady! Looking good!"
"Coming
from you, I might take that as an insult, Younger. What's so important that
you're here, frightening children and ruining my leave?"
"Aw,
hell, Legs, I ain't scary," the huge man said with an exaggerated smile.
Daniel
Younger was a giant; an even two meters tall and over 150 kilos, and none of it
flab. He claimed his heritage had been Danish and Irish, but Tara had been
among a majority who suggested that alien abduction might have been involved in
his family tree. That or maybe something like a Nepalese Yeti or a North
American Bigfoot.
"You
are so, Younger... scary that is. Most people don't even know that ogres are
real. 'Course they're scared when one shows up. Only natural that they try to
hide their children."
"Well,"
Younger said, "maybe if they gave us better rations, the child-eating
wouldn't be such an issue. How’s about it, Colonel Legs? You could get us
better rations huh? You've got some pull now, don't you?"
"Only
a lowly lieutenant-colonel," Tara replied, smiling. "I'd have no
chance going up against the Supply Corps. Seriously, Younger, what are you
doing here? I'm on leave for the three more days."
"Well,
no. You ain't. Captain Dan Younger reporting, and the Lieutenant-colonel has
been recalled from leave."
"What!?
Why?"
"Emergency
deployment to the Isthmus Highlands. 8th Battalion is assigned to a convoy
escort mission with, and I quote, 'maximum possible priority,' unquote."
"You
have got to be kidding me! Now!? They need a convoy through the Highlands now?
They cancel my leave for convoy duty?"
"You
bet. They want your battalion on station within an A-day."
"Shit,"
Tara said. An A-day —an Arcadian day— was 27 hours long, more or
less; better than a 24 hour E-day, but not by much. She didn't have much time
at all.
"Do
my officers know? Wait, why my battalion? I'm short a company."
"No,
you're not. Company commander Captain Daniel Younger reporting for duty!"
"You?"
"Me,
Legs. Me."
"They
gave you a company?"
"Yup,"
the huge man agreed, nodding. "Close to full establishment. I've got
eleven War-Hammers. Nine are new production; still got that new tank smell.
Newby crews, but not bad as far as raw material goes. My platoon leaders aren't
bad, either. Freshly minted lieutenants, but not bad as far as that breed goes.
House-broken at any rate."
"Shit.
Let's go," Tara said, moving purposefully for the gate. "I still
don't understand how you even fit into a tank, Younger," she quipped to
him, over her shoulder.
"Hey,
Legs," Younger called, "don't you think that swimsuit's a bit too far
out of uniform, even for the Armored Corps?"
The
only "staff car" Tara could find at the nearest Defense Force post
was a battered 50-year-old Hyundai "Eco-Cruizer," a pick-up truck
that might have come to Arcadia with the original United Nations colonization
survey. It had been painted white, once. It ran, though, which was enough.
The
car had no communications system, so Tara spent the entire drive using her
wrist-phone while Younger drove.
"Yes,
Major Feldman, it's a full battalion call up. I want you and your company at
the staging area north of Baker's Station, and I want them there before
sundown. We move out to meet the convoy at dawn. If I have to move without you,
you'd better damn-well believe I will. I'll move out if all I have is the staff
car I'm in now, Major. Cut whatever corners you have to, Major, but get your
company in place on time. This is supposed to be a maximum priority operation,
so even though we both know it's chicken-shit, we're going to act like it's a
maximum priority operation."
By
the time she disconnected, Major Feldman had sounded mildly annoyed, Tara
thought, which wasn't altogether a bad thing. She and Feldman had never really
gotten along that well. On the other hand, he was one of the few officers still
serving with her who'd been part of her company seven years ago, when she'd led
the armored charge across a hundred kilometers of desert, punching through
three UEN defensive lines to relieve the Arcadian troops fighting at the gate
building.
The
Arcadians had taken the gate building, in the end. The infantry framers who'd
been dropped to capture it had endured over 70% casualties. For that matter,
her tank company had suffered 50% casualties... and she'd been one of those
herself. But they'd taken the gate, cutting off the flow of UEN reinforcements
and trapping the surviving UEN forces on Arcadia with no support.
The
commanding officer of the UEN Peace Forces on Arcadia had requested a cease-fire
within a few hours of learning that the gate was shut down, when it became
obvious that, even if UEN forces somehow managed to take the gate building
back, there was no possible way to keep the Arcadians from destroying the
irreplaceable equipment needed to actually generate the Tannhauser gate back to
Earth.
Once
she thought of it that way, a pair of legs seemed like a small price to pay.
And Feldman had been there with her. It had, in fact, been his tank that had
picked her up and gotten her back to a field hospital.
So,
she might not like Major Feldman —the man was too serious, too formal,
too cold-fish— but she respected him, and she trusted him as far as it
was possible to trust another human being. And she thought that he probably
felt about the same way about her.
For
now, though, her main concern was making sure her battalion got to the staging
area on time, ready for the convoy run south into Isthmus Highlands. Apart from
her thirty-one Type-51 Mk.IIIb "War-Hammer" tanks, that also meant
getting the support section and their utility vehicles ready. The two-and-a-half
ton, four-wheel drive "utils" were the unglamorous
jacks-of-all-trades for the battalion; they could serve as ambulances, as staff
cars, as transport inside towns and cities, or for any of a dozen other jobs
where a seventy-five ton tank was too big. The battalion never had enough
utils; they were assigned "as needed" and poaching —or even
outsight stealing— utils between different Defense Force units was
treated almost like some sort of sport. If Tara had been given more warning
about this deployment, she could have arranged to have gotten more utils,
either assigned, or just "requisitioned" from other units that were
stood down. As it was, she had only three of the utility vehicles still in her
battalion; not even enough for her to use one as a proper staff car. Of course
the utils were usually a bit of a drag on the battalion's mobility; they could
outrun the tanks on roads —though not by much— but were nowhere near
as fast off-road. But since they'd be escorting a convoy, they'd be sticking to
the road this time, so it wouldn't be an issue. There was only one main road
through the Isthmus Highlands, but it was a solid, well graded road, suitable
for anything more rugged than an electric scooter or a street-racer sports car.
The road served to connect the Arcadian settlements south of the Highlands to
the main population centers of the north, but that was incidental to its
intended purpose; the rapid deployment of military force.
The
Highlands and the Southern Wastes beyond them were one of two possible trouble
spots that the Defense Force had to watch out for, the gate building being the
other one. Granted a battalion of tanks was, without doubt, overkill for the a
convoy escort job, but for all her griping about convoy duty, in Tara's book
overkill was a lot better than having insufficient force to do the job. Besides
which, deploying the battalion this way was both a good exercise for her
people, and an unmistakable message.
As
long as the trouble-makers south of the Highlands knew that overwhelming
firepower was ready to respond to any attempted raid, the odds of such raids
were substantially reduced.
The
threat from the south tended to piss Tara off, though; constant thefts, raids,
attack of convoys, outright terror attacks on isolated settlements, and even —despite
the Defense Force's draconian policy regarding hostages— kidnapping
attempts and crude demands for ransom.
As
far as Tara was concerned, nothing good ever came north from over the Isthmus
Highlands; nothing at all. It was a mess, it was all the UEN's doing, and when
the UEN had left Arcadia, seven years ago, they'd done nothing clean up the
mess they had caused.
For
that matter, Tara mused, it had been that mess which had led to the uprising
against the UEN in the first place.