Shadows of the Gods: Crimson Worlds Refugees II (15 page)

“Sarge, we’ve got something coming…looks like half a dozen of those blasted ‘bots.” The voice on the com was heavy with a thick Scottish brogue. The company was full of Scots, but few spoke with much more than a faint accent, the result of years of attempted cultural homogenization by Alliance Gov. But Tavish Darrow was a throwback, and he sounded as if he’d been plucked from a time centuries before, from the serried ranks of Highlanders rising up and charging wildly across the field. The private was young, but Carson knew he had the makings of a great Marine…and someday perhaps, an officer.

But for now he was a private, and Carson had sent him to scout the ground up ahead. “Alright, Darrow. Fall back…you’re up there for information, not to get yourself blown away.” He flipped to the squad line. “Listen up, we’ve got bogies incoming. You’ve all fought these fuckers before, so you know how dangerous they are. I want everyone one hundred percent focused…and I want those things blown to bits before they do the same to us. So dig in somewhere and wait for them…and the instant you see one, open up with everything you’ve got. Understood?” It was a rhetorical question, but he still got four or five acknowledgements.

His eyes dropped to the scanner. Darrow was almost back to the line…and he could see the cluster of bots right behind him. The ground was covered with debris, the remains of a huge ancient building that had collapsed millennia before. Earth ruins a tenth as old would have blown away as dust, but the astonishing materials the First Imperium employed remained in place, fallen perhaps, collapsed in earthquakes and other natural disasters, but even after half a million years, it was obvious the massive chunks lying about were sections of once titanic structures.

The broken buildings made formidable cover, and Carson knew that benefitted his Marines.
Damned good thing for it too
, he thought.
Darrow would have been dead long before he made it back without that cover. And the rest of us wouldn’t last much longer
.

The First Imperium bots were stronger, heavily armed, their shielding far more durable than the Marines’ armor. But the obscured ground went a long way to equalizing things…or at least that was the idea.

Carson crept along behind an especially large chunk of debris, a rough oval shape four meters high and eight long. He pushed himself against a small indentation, and he sat quietly…waiting. His scanner showed a bot just on the other side. He stood stone still, staring up at his display. He knew the data wasn’t necessarily perfect. His AI was constantly combining all incoming information—drone reports, the scanners on his own armor, the entire company on the datanet, even the auditory input on his external speakers. But that didn’t mean every sign was picked up. He was trying to sneak up on his enemy…and he knew damned well the deadly battle bot was trying to do the same thing to him.

His stomach roiled, as it usually did in combat, and he struggled to push the fear and doubt from his mind. He almost took a step forward to work his way around the giant slab, but he didn’t. He held firm, still, like a hole in the air.
Let it come to me…

He felt the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, along the back of his neck. He knew his AI kept his internal climate control perfect, increasing or decreasing heat to match physical exertion and other factors. But there were things beyond heat that made a man sweat.

He took a deep breath and exhaled hard, loudly. At least he didn’t have to be quiet inside his armor…all that holding of breath and the like. He had his external speakers off, and the insulation of his fighting suit blocked normal sounds.

He glanced up at the display again. The bot was in the same place. Had it detected him? The ancient remnants of the First Imperium forces didn’t seem to have drones or other sensor arrays in place, which meant that for all their superior equipment, on the battlefield as a whole, the Marines had the edge in scouting. But that didn’t mean the bot hadn’t found him. His mind raced.

Should I move? Run? Attack?

No…stay. Patience…the key to any effective trap…

The icon on his display was stationary…but he didn’t believe it. The small image had a faint white outline around it, a key that said the data was old, that the enemy could be on the move, that any instant it could move to a spot where it had a line of sight…and an instant after that, Carson knew he’d be dead. Like a thousand others he’d seen fall in his battles.

He hands were on his assault rifle, a fresh click snuggly in place. He was as ready as he could be…

Then he saw it…the tiny red light on his display panel. Sound. Something, outside his suit, coming from the south. It was faint, sporadic at first, but then suddenly he knew…and his eyes darted to the spot.

He saw the shadow first, a tiny sliver blocking the sunlight. Then, half a second later the bulk, a First Imperium warbot, gliding slowly around the edge of the debris. He felt his body tighten, and his breath held in his lungs. His rifle was already moving, swinging around to target the enemy.

There was no room for error. He had a second, no more. One second, to destroy the enemy…and save his own life. His own movements would alert the bot at this range, even if it hadn’t already known he was there…and the enemy’s weapons would be on him.

He acted without thought, on almost pure instinct, his finger pulling down hard on the trigger, his assault rifle spraying the area around the warbot with over a hundred hyper-velocity rounds in less than a second. Then he leapt, diving to the side and swinging around, bringing his weapon to bear again and opening fire.

His jump had been just in time. His initial volley had torn into the enemy bot, but not in time to prevent it from returning fire…and blasting the spot he’d just occupied.

He let his knee drop, pushing the armored joint into the soft ground, steadying himself as he unloaded the remaining four hundred rounds in his cartridge. The enemy bot was turning, trying to bring its own weapons to bear again. But Carson’s fire was too much. Too accurate, too deadly. The great war machine of the First Imperium had been bested. It staggered for a few seconds, caught in the blistering fire as the Marine emptied his clip. Huge chunks of it flew away, blasted apart by the spray of projectiles. And then, just as Carson’s cartridge emptied and expelled itself from the assault rifle, making way for a fresh clip, it fell over.

Carson scrambled over the few meters between the two combatants, cautious, wary. He’d seen First Imperium ordnance go down and still retain combat capability. A dying robot, even an almost destroyed one, could kill him as dead as a horde of fresh ones.

He heard the sound of the new cartridge snapping into place, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He’d been less than a second without ammunition, yet it had seemed an eternity he was naked, vulnerable. But then he scrambled up next to his adversary and got a close look.

He knew immediately. It was dead, half its midsection torn out by the dozens of rounds that had slammed into it. He’d won, at least this small fight. But there was a long way to go before the battle was over. He looked back up at the display. There were two more bots moving toward his position. The combat had given his location away, and enemy units were responding.

And Marines too. He could see two of his people rushing toward his position. They might beat one of the bots to him, but the closest enemy was going to get there first. He ducked back in between two chunks of debris and waited. One more bot to kill…one more and then his backup would be there.

He slipped deeper into the pile of shattered wall sections and froze, rifle at the ready, watching the enemy approach on his display…

Chapter Ten

From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

The enemy is back. I can only imagine what is going through the minds of many of the crews, the disappointment and despair after half a year of relative peace. I tried to encourage caution, to warn them about becoming too complacent, too certain we had passed by the enemy fleets. Yet, how far could I go with that? Morale is crucial too. Should I have simply harangued them every day, warned them again and again that death was still stalking us? I don’t know. Perhaps I should have…yet men and women have their breaking points. And I do not regret the moments of peace and joy they might have had these last six months. I would not seek to snatch them back, replace them with endless darkness, even if I could do so.

Nevertheless, we are back in the fire now, and I must confess I do not understand what the enemy is planning. When the First Imperium ships began appearing, I was certain it was a large fleet, come to face us once again in a climactic battle, one for which we are ill-prepared. But no additional forces have transited since the initial twenty vessels…twenty of their smallest. Even over the past months, when I maintained by caution—even pessimism perhaps—I never imagined they would move against us with a force so small. Indeed, the fleet could easily defeat this entire enemy incursion…something the Intelligences directing the First Imperium surely know full well.

I can only assume this is a trick, an attempt to draw our forces close to the enemy’s entry warp gate, and then to release the rest of their forces…and destroy us before we are able to disengage. Indeed, I have no other thought now, not even the barest hypothesis. I am far from confident, but as I have only one explanation, I have no choice to embrace it. And that means I must withdraw the fleet…and leave a rearguard in position.

That duty, I am afraid, must fall where it has so often before, on John Duke’s fast attack ships and Greta Hurley’s fighters. The brave men and women of those services have done far beyond their portion of service…and they have lost many more than their share of casualties. Yet, though they deserve naught but rest now, to take their positions in reserve at the end of the fleet and lick their grievous wounds, I must again order them forward, into the maelstrom.

I will send help with them this time, Aki Kato’s cruiser squadron. Captain Kato is an extraordinary officer, one of the first to undertake a deadly mission in the aftermath of our becoming trapped. His forlorn hope with our damaged ships was instrumental in securing the fleet’s original escape from X2, and he was one of the last personnel to transit out of that system. Now I must send him on another mission, one no less deadly. I only hope these intrepid souls I leave behind will find a way to win their fight…and escape from the almost certain death the arrival of enemy reinforcements would carry with it.

AS Jaguar

X56 System – Near the X58 warp gate

The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,644 crew

“All ships are to maintain thrust.” John Duke’s voice struggled to remain audible, to force the words out through the crushing pressure slamming into his chest. He was pressed back against his chair, like everyone else on
Jaguar
…everyone on all fourteen of his engaged ships. Eight gees of acceleration was a lot to take outside the tanks, especially for any sustained duration. But he wasn’t about to ease off…not until his ships had closed for their attack runs. Then his people would get a short break—a few minutes of freefall, broken up my short bursts of thrust while the gunners lined up their shots. After that his vessels would reorient their engines and begin decelerating for a return run against any enemy survivors.

He’d ordered injections for all of his crews, drugs to strengthen cell walls and help them endure the torturous trip he was putting them through. He’d almost ordered them all into the tanks and kicked the thrust up to 30g, but he’d decided against it. He didn’t have any shots to miss, and his gunners would lose a lot of their effectiveness if they were buttoned up in the tanks, trying to take potshots drugged half to oblivion. No, he’d decided, this was the only way, the only chance to take out the entire enemy fleet.

He moved his head, slowly, carefully—it was too easy to injure yourself at 8g. His ships were displayed in a short row, a compact formation that was getting tighter every second. The enemy had launched their missiles along a wide trajectory, covering the original position occupied by his ships. But his people were accelerating at carefully chosen angles, closing the distance to each other as they increased their velocity toward the enemy. It wasn’t a panacea—the enemy missiles were guided, and they would attempt to follow his forces. But the abruptness of the formation change would confuse their targeting systems. Hopefully. It wasn’t enough by itself, but if they could knock out even a quarter of the strike with the maneuver, it would be a big help.

And then we’ve got Commander Fujin and her people…

John Duke had worked closely with Greta Hurley’s fighters before, in the battles along the Line and later in the combats leading up to the final engagement in X2 and the fleet’s subsequent entrapment. He knew just what they could do…and by all accounts, Mariko Fujin was one of the best, a rising star in what remained of Hurley’s decimated corps.

I’ll bet she’s pissed about pulling point defensive duty. From everything he knew about her, Mariko Fujin was classic fighter pilot, a predator through and through. Her blood called to attack enemy ships, he knew, and not to chase down missiles.

Still, she will do everything in her power…and her people will save a lot of fast attack ship crews. Surely that’s something in return for being denied the kill…

He stared at the main display. Fujin’s fighters would be engaged any minute. And if her people could take out enough warheads, maybe…just maybe…most of his ships would close, and deliver their plasma torpedoes. His vessels were lightly armored, built for speed and hitting power, not endurance. They weren’t called suicide boats for nothing. But his flotilla was even more vulnerable than usual. In their bomb bays they carried triple-shotted plasma warheads. He’d used double-packed weapons before, and they were fragile and unstable, a dangerous wildcard for any vessel to carry. But this was the first time his people had triple-powered a plasma torpedo, and calling the precarious weapon systems fragile was an understatement of epic proportions.