Three hundred kilometers above, the Turemok cruiser dropped its sheath, revealing a design of such evil, such distilled menace, its mere presence had driven lesser beings to madness.
In the face of such an opponent, only a man of infinite bravery, or a complete idiot, would stand his ground. So it should come as little surprise that Maximus listened with growing boredom as Vel Noric issued the now-familiar ultimatum.
“Therefore, your vessels are ordered to submit to restraint for the geocide of—”
“Yes, yes,” Maximus interrupted. “We’ve already been through this once with one of your frontier managers. Now look, Mr.… Noric, was it?”
“Vel Noric. Vel is my rank, Captain.”
“Groovy. Anyway, Vel, we’ve already done this song and dance in the last system. Your guy realized we couldn’t have been responsible with one look at our ship.”
“Your point, Captain?”
“I was coming to that. Since we didn’t do it, that leaves you.”
Noric’s image recoiled. “That’s preposterous.”
“Is it? We know you were there. Your ship was hiding deeper in the system the whole time. Magellan spotted you. We’ve got her sensor logs. So I guess I’m putting you under arrest for the Solonis B massacre.”
Noric snorted unpleasantly, a low, rhythmic sound. Maximus decided it was either a laugh or a hairball. “A Turemok cruiser, surrender to you? My dear captain, you must be joking.”
“I’m a very funny guy, Vel. So funny, I can’t help but laugh at my own jokes.” Maximus cleaned a bit of dirt from under a fingernail. “I’m not laughing, Vel.”
“Your species is barely out of the nest! The only advanced technology you possess was stolen from a lowly warning beacon. Please, amuse me further and tell us what weapons you have capable of forcing my capitulation.”
Maximus smiled coolly. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Very well. I look forward to your interrogation, human.” Noric’s face disappeared.
A short alert chime came from the tactical station. “Bandit One’s power output just spiked, sir. I expect they’re charging energy weapons.”
“Launch countermeasures, full spread. Is Magellan in our shadow?”
“Yes, sir, but she’s bigger than we are, and our decoys’ EM signatures won’t match.”
“Make sure some decoys drift to cover her anyway.”
“Yes, sir. Launching now.”
A tiny rumble ran through the hull as dozens upon dozens of scuba tank–sized CM canisters blew into space. As soon as they cleared their launch tubes, gas charges lit off and inflated each canister like an airbag. A tenth of a second later, over three hundred Mylar balloons the size of city buses floated in the space surrounding Bucephalus. Each was a false radar signature and a mirror to reflect lasers.
“Do we have a lock on Bandit One?” Maximus asked.
“Affirmative. Hard lock.”
“Feed telemetry to missiles one through five and prepare to ripple fire.”
“Prep missiles one through five for ripple fire, aye. Telemetry uploading … telemetry accepted. Missiles one through five read Active. Launch control is green.”
Maximus bared his teeth. “Tactical, fire.”
“Firing now.” The deck under their feet shuddered from the recoil of the launches. Each SSM-1 weighed nearly fifty metric tons. Magnetic rails kicked them out of their tubes at three hundred KPH, enough to get them clear of the hull before lighting their motors.
“Missiles away, sir. Time to impact, seven-eight seconds.”
A tangible excitement infused the bridge as the missiles lit off in sequence. Every eye watched the master plot while the outbound birds’ speed climbed faster than smack-talk before a pro wrestling match.
“Missiles are tracking on internal radar. Lock is good.”
Something wasn’t sitting right with Maximus. “Status of Bandit One?”
“Power levels are still elevated. My guess is they’re charging capacitors.”
“All right, but they have birds incoming. Why aren’t they trying to evade?”
“Unknown, sir. Time to impact now three-five seconds.”
“I don’t like this.” Maximus absently tugged on an earlobe. “Tactical, prep missiles six through fifteen.”
“Prep missiles six through fifteen, aye, sir. Thirty seconds to impact.”
The seconds fell by as the machines of annihilation powered closer to their intended target. Then, in a patch of space directly ahead of the lead missile, a hole appeared.
“Missile One is gone!” shouted the tac officer.
“Did it detonate?” Maximus asked.
“No, sir. It’s just gone. Wait … there was an energy spike localized ahead of—”
Maximus groaned. “A hyperspace window rigged for point defense. Nice trick.”
As he said it, the hole shifted position and swallowed up missiles two through five in rapid succession.
“Tactical, set missiles six through fifteen for simultaneous launch and fire!”
“Aye, sir. Firing now.” The Bucephalus lurched nearly ten meters to port as five hundred tons of missiles kicked free of her starboard side. They screamed mutely through space toward their target. Fifty seconds later, ten windows opened and swallowed them whole.
A chime sounded at the com officer’s station. “Bandit One is hailing, sir.”
Maximus shielded his eyes with a hand and sighed deep and long. “Put him through.”
Vel Noric’s triumphant face solidified in the air. “Thank you for the evening’s entertainment, Captain. It was most gratifying. Now let me show you mine.”
* * *
Harris dropped behind cover and ejected the empty magazine from his rifle. I need a mag over here!
Heads up, LT. One of the men in Unit One lofted a slim box in Harris’s direction. He picked it out of the air and rammed it home.
The ammo supply was holding, for now. The marines’ M-118 rifles fired heavy, guided rounds. Each bullet could home in on the range-finder beam of its gun, or any other gun in the squad. Their large size was a double-edged sword, however. When they connected, they did tremendous damage, but each mag carried fewer of them.
Guided rounds seldom missed, so this wasn’t typically a problem, but their enemy wore stealth cloaks that simply diverted the range-finder beams. Harris’s men were trying to hit shadows by eye, wasting precious bullets in the process.
Their Turemok opponents suffered no such ammunition shortage. They were using lasers.
A flash from a beam pulse exploded the masonry right above Harris’s head. Tiny, white-hot marble shards pinged off his helmet and neck.
“Ow!” He danced a little samba of pain as a sliver of red-hot rock fell down his shirt and burned a line straight down his back. Everyone, keep your heads down. Only show them your scopes.
But then we can’t see clearly enough to hit them, LT.
I know, just put enough rounds in the air to pin them down for the sniper team.
Tillman and Lyska were the only bright spot in the whole boondoggle. While the aliens could absorb center-mass hits, headshots still did the trick. They’d already downed three Turemok, but without a proper lock, they needed time to line up the shots. Time the Turemok were motivated not to give them.
Felix grabbed his shoulder. Tom, look, they’ve deployed something. Drones maybe.
Harris lifted his rifle and sighted downrange. Sure enough, three dozen faceted orbs the size of softballs floated a few meters above the ground. They moved lazily toward the firebase. Harris zeroed in on one and cracked off a round. It shattered like hollow glass. Disco balls. Now it’s a party. Keep the pressure on the enemy units.
The orbs continued their slow advance as the marines tried to scare their opponents stiff long enough for the sniper team to deliver the coup de grâce. Without his notice, an orb took up position just above and behind Harris’s back.
“Look out!” Felix kicked Harris in the side with all his strength, which moved him less than a foot. But it was enough. A flash explosion erupted in the exact spot where Harris’s head had been. Felix grabbed a chunk of concrete and knocked the silver orb out of the air.
What the hell? They’re armed?
No, Tom, they’re reflectors. Don’t you see? They let them shoot at angles.
Man down! Unit One’s leader shouted into the implanted com. Conway’s hurt, shot through the stomach.
Harris cursed. Shoot the disco balls. They’re using them to flank us. Corpsman, fall back with Conway into the building.
He pulled his sidearm out of its holster and threw it to Felix. Here, I want you shoot any that slip past.
Okay. How do I do that?
Harris stared at his friend for a moment. Seriously?
Yes, Tom, seriously. I grew up in a city where a plastic bubble was the only thing holding the air in. Firearms weren’t encouraged.
Harris grunted. All right, this is a gun—he pointed at the muzzle—and this is the boo-boo end.
I know that! How do I shoot it? There’s no trigger.
When do you think we are, the Old West? It’s a link trigger. Set a command word, like fire or shoot.
Shoot? So all I have to do is think, Shoot—
The gun flashed with a bark that left Felix’s ears ringing. A ten-millimeter round drilled into the dirt between Harris’s legs, leaving a tiny, smoking crater.
Holy crap! Tom, are you okay?
Harris gritted his teeth and gingerly pointed the muzzle in a more productive direction. See, you’ve got it. Now, if you’ll shoot at the disco balls instead of my balls, we can stay friends.
One of Tillman’s rounds connected with a Turemok head left carelessly peering at the firebase. That’s four. You guys have to catch up.
Harris smiled. The tide of battle was turning in their favor. Provided the ammo held, they might just push through to—
Contact north, coming in hot. It was Lyska in the tower. It’s the drop-ship.
Bearing?
They’re charging our position.
Harris was surprised it had taken as long as it did for them to get smart and call in air support. Sniper team, evacuate immediately.
Roger, sir. Bugging out.
To Harris’s right, the drop-ship streaked into view on its attack run. Although the laser wasn’t visible, its path most certainly was. The beam cut a straight line of vaporized marble and steel through the third floor of the tower. The angle of the attack sliced the building diagonally. Groaning like a rockslide, it slid and then collapsed into a heap. A cloud of gray smoke rolled into the air.
Sniper team, status?
…
Tillman, Lyska, report!
…
Felix shook his head gravely.
Harris’s grip tightened around his rifle, as if his hands wrung the very necks of his enemy. We’re done playing two-hand touch. Everyone, switch over to paint rounds. Spread them out good, and then fall back into the building.
Harris reached into his left shoulder pocket and pulled out what looked like a standard rifle magazine, except it was bright green. He swapped it out and held his M-118 overhead, lined up with the closest Turemok soldier, and fired. He moved on and fired at the next position, and the next. The rest of his remaining rifle team did the same.
Tom, this isn’t a training field. What good are paint rounds?
You’ll see in about two minutes, Felix. Fall back with the others, and pop any of those balls that try to follow our retreat.
Felix didn’t need coaxing and ran for the safety of the building. Harris fired the last of his paint rounds and switched back to the standard magazine. He waited, laying down cover fire until the last of his men had reached the building. A glancing beam burned the unit patch off his right shoulder as he ran for cover.
Leaning against the inside wall, Harris called up the menu for the Gargoyle platforms overhead. Platform seven was only five degrees from apogee. At his command, it went hot. He selected Antipersonnel from the list of ammunition modes. When the lockup tone went steady, Harris smiled viciously.
“Fire,” Harris said aloud, not caring who heard.
Two hundred and fifty kilometers over the heads of their foes, OOP number seven took a millisecond to authenticate the origin of the orders it just received. Satisfied that Lieutenant Harris was who he claimed to be, gas thrusters fired, making a tiny adjustment to better align itself with the target. Electric motors whirled, and twelve barrels arranged in two contra-rotating bundles of six started to spin.
Once the revs had built sufficiently, thirty-millimeter caseless rounds, each weighing almost a kilogram, poured into the feed. They came scorching out the muzzles at six thousand KPH, nearly five thousand rounds per minute. The recoil was intense enough to push the platform backward at nearly seventy KPH.
At the heart of each round was the same guidance system used in their standard rifle bullets. All they needed were aim points, conveniently enough, provided by the transmitters in the paint rounds Harris’s squad had just fired.
After a five-second burst, OOP seven went silent, awaiting further orders as it cooled. The demonic torrent of metal spikes actually accelerated as the planet’s gravity well pulled them into a terminal embrace.
Harris’s spirits were much improved. “Good work, people. Just hold them off for the next ninety seconds.”
“And then what?” Allison asked.
“And then get your head down and cover your ears. Corpsman, how’s Conway?”
“I gave him a sucker, sir, so he should feel better shortly, but the laser went straight through his liver and collapsed a lung. It cauterized as it went, so there’s no bleeding, but he needs surgery. Soon.”
“He’s not a kid going in for a checkup,” Felix said. “A sucker hardly seems helpful.”
“It is when it’s swimming in painkillers derived from conch shell neurotoxin,” replied the corpsman.
“Oh,” Felix said. “Can I get one? I think I twisted an ankle.”
“No.”
A laser pulse sent shrapnel flying off the back wall with a sharp crack, reminding everyone they were still in a firefight. Harris ducked out and threw half a magazine downrange. Rifle team, keep them pinned down. Forget conserving ammo—fire everything.
They responded, spraying bullets indiscriminately, utterly disregarding everything their instructors had drilled into them. After a mad minute of nearly continuous fire, their barrels smoldered from the heat, and the magazines finally ran dry. Harris’s countdown had fallen to fifteen seconds.
Everyone, get down, Harris commanded. Raising the empty rifle over his head, he stood cautiously in front of the shattered window. “Whoa. Hold up for a … rakim!” Harris shouted.
Zek’nel threw open his shroud and stood, a hand clutching the chest wound from Tillman’s opening shot. “Yes, human? Do you finally wish to surrender? I expect your little slings are out of pebbles by now.”
“Actually, I just wanted to ask you something. Do any of you boys have an umbrella?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad, because it’s about to rain.” With that, Harris dropped to his knees and threw his hands over his ears.
Even at six thousand KPH, the burst of fire from the Gargoyle platform seemed to take an eternity to arrive, but arrive it did. Hundreds of drops of iron rain fell upon the courtyard. Each round contained an explosive charge with a fuse set to detonate three meters above the ground in the antipersonnel mode.
The world was consumed by a rapid-fire sound like standing on the floor of a burning fireworks warehouse. After exactly five seconds, the hellish noise and light display ended, replaced by a deadly silence.
“Is it over?” Allison asked.
Harris lifted his riflescope out the window to survey the results of his handiwork. The courtyard had been reduced to a ruined, cratered landscape. Brushfires burned in a dozen places.
“Uh, yeah. I think we got them.”
Felix peeked out of the doorway. “Looks like my yard back home. Except for the burning grass, of course.”
“We’re clear. Rifle team, switch to sidearms and secure an LZ for the shuttles. Captain Ridgeway, call your pilot and tell him we’re going to need an evac pronto.”
Allison leaned in to whisper to Harris. “What about your men in the tower?”
“I’m not getting any com signal, which means their backpacks were destroyed. Those packs can take a lot more abuse than a human body. They’re buried under who knows how many tons of debris. We’ll have to retrieve the bodies later.”
Allison’s head dipped. “I understand, but they deserve better.”
“They always do.” Harris looked out into the smoke and fires of the decimated courtyard. “C’mon, move your people out. We have to dust off before they send reinforcements.”
“Yeah, then what?”
“Then we hope Captain Tiberius is having as much luck as we are.”