Stars & Empire: 10 Galactic Tales Read online

  “Alright evens, move it out! Odds, continue covering fire.”

  Half of the squad leapt over the crest and ran forward. I kept up my fire, stopping only to grab another clip off my waist and reload. The guys who were advancing were immediately targeted by the defenders shooting from the trench, but our covering fire was definitely hampering the enemy response. Their shooting was sporadic and poorly aimed.

  “Evens, stop and hit the ground! Covering fire!”

  The advancing troops dove forward onto the ground and began spraying the enemy positions with fire.

  “Odds, move out! Seventy-five meters.”

  I stopped firing and climbed up over the hill. Although we were to advance in 50 meter intervals, our first move was an extra 25 so our positions would be staggered with that of the evens. It took less than 20 seconds to cover the distance, but it seemed like we’d been running forever when the comlink crackled again.

  “Odds, down and fire! Evens, forward 50 meters!”

  When I flopped down on the ground I let out a deep breath. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, and I tried to breathe the way they taught us in training. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t hit.

  We continued in this manner until we had covered half the distance to the trench. We still had no one down. Not yet.

  The evens had just hit the ground, and the order came for us to advance. I scrambled up and headed forward. Before I had covered 10 meters, something else opened fire from the enemy trench. The volume of fire increased dramatically, and I saw two of our guys go down within seconds of each other.

  “Odds, hit the dirt! Cease all movement! All units fire!”

  I dove to the ground, bringing my rifle up to bear as I went down. Damn! They had a heavy weapon in there. I remembered something from my ordnance training—the Shadeng-7 heavy auto gun, primary infantry support weapon of the CAC assault forces. I couldn’t recall all the details, but I was pretty sure the thing had a rate of fire of better than 3,000 rounds per minute.

  The sergeant spoke again. “Ferguson, report your condition.” He didn’t ask about anyone else, though I was sure that I’d seen two casualties. I found out later the other was Jenkins, and the sergeant’s monitors had already confirmed he was dead.

  The reply was quick but a little shaky. “Took one in the leg, Sarge. I’ll be OK. Don’t think I can walk, though.”

  The armor was designed to minimize the effects of a wound—the longer an injured Marine can survive, the greater chance he will be recovered and given real medical treatment. The injury control mechanism automatically injects drugs to treat shock, minimize pain, and slow the metabolism to reduce blood loss. Additionally, there is a kit attached to the exterior of the armor containing bandages and other items the Marine himself can use if he is able, though there isn’t really much you can do when suited up.

  “Stay put, Ferguson, keep your head down. We’ll be back for you.”

  In a larger operation we’d probably have an embedded medic with us. But with a single company spread over 100 square kilometers there was no workable way to provide support services. The wounded just had to depend upon their suits’ trauma control and hope the battle was a victory.

  “Second squad, maintain positions.” The lieutenant’s voice. “Evens, continue fire. Odds, I want a grenade attack. Target the section of trench in front of those storage tanks, three rounds each. Reserve team, I want you to flank that heavy weapon—advance 500 meters to the right of the second squad.”

  My rangefinder confirmed my estimate that I was about 1100 meters from the target area. I clicked the small button under my left thumb to lock the range into the firing system and, pointing my arm in the direction of the target, I loosed three grenades in rapid succession.

  A few seconds later the ground all along the target area erupted as nine 100-milliton high explosive grenades exploded within a 5 second period.

  The automatic fire from the trench stopped, at least momentarily. We had no way of knowing if the gun had been hit or if the crew had merely been stunned or knocked to the ground.

  “Odds, covering fire. Evens advance 50 meters.”

  We had leapfrogged another 200 meters with only sporadic enemy fire when we got our answer, as the big gun opened up again, pinning us down about 800 meters short of the trench. This time we weren’t surprised, and no one was hit, at least as far as I could tell.

  By this time the flanking force was in position on a small hill to the right, and they opened up on the trench. If there had been a few more enemy troops, they could have engaged the flanking force and held the entire position strongly. As it was, however, the Marines on the flank were only challenged by a single enemy trooper, firing from behind one of the small buildings on the edge of the settlement. About thirty seconds after he opened fire, a lucky shot landed a frag grenade a meter behind him. Five or six pieces of osmium-iridium shrapnel slammed into him, one tearing his head clean off his body, eliminating the only effective opposition to the flank attack. Our guys quickly moved into position and began firing down the enemy line.

  With no other protection from the enfilade fire, the enemy had to hurriedly fall back from the trench, leaving three casualties and the auto gun behind. A few seconds later, with the other half of the squad providing covering fire, my team took possession of the trench.

  The flank force then pursued the three retreating enemy troopers, picking one off as he ran for the cover of the nearest building. The two survivors sought refuge in a small, plasti-crete structure that looked like some kind of warehouse.

  Sergeant Harris’ voice barked over the comlink. “All troops, cease firing. Kleiner, take that building out.”

  With no fire coming from the broken CAC forces the rest was child’s play. Kleiner moved down the trench about 10 meters to get a clean line of sight to the building. Once in place, she braced herself against the wall of the trench and selected a high explosive, short range rocket (we were way too close to use the normal charge, and an armor piercing round would blast right through a small building). She yelled, “Clear!” Then she pulled the trigger. Less than half a second later the area where the building had been was engulfed in fire, smoke, and shattered plasti-crete.

  The sergeant was on the com before the chunks of blasted ‘crete hit the ground. “Flanking force, advance north. Fire team A, advance east. Leapfrog house to house with at least two men covering each move. Fire team B, stand by in reserve at the trenchline.”

  The sergeant’s orders may have seemed overly cautious, but they were strictly by the book. I think we all agreed there were no more live enemies in the town, but there was no percentage in betting anyone’s life on that assumption.

  It took about half an hour to complete the house to house searches. As expected, the town was deserted. We’d won the first engagement.

  From their insignia we determined that the six CAC troopers killed in our attack were the remnants of a single squad. If so, they had already suffered losses of more than 50% in the campaign (CAC squads have 13 men). It looked like the militia had put up one helluva fight.

  We spent the next four hours fortifying the eastern and northern approaches to the town. Our armor made each of us a miniature backhoe, and in a few short hours of work we had extended the trench along the entire northern and eastern perimeters of the town.

  We moved the CAC auto gun and set up a real strongpoint at the corner of the northern and eastern sections of trench. We had plenty of ammo for the gun—one of the buildings held crates full of extra ordnance.

  By nightfall we were ready for any attack. We had detection devices positioned out about five klicks; whatever happened, they wouldn’t take us by surprise. We even managed to grab a few hours of sleep in shifts. We were ready for the counterattack. But it never came.

  Later, I managed to piece together what had happened. Apparently the plan was working perfectly. The enemy had sent an entire platoon supported by two light support vehicles to deal with us and retake t
he town. That would have put us neck deep in it, but it would also have fatally weakened the northern perimeter where the main attack was coming.

  Our attacking forces were supposed to wait until dark to give the enemy time to divert his forces. Unfortunately, one of the planetary militia units ran into an enemy patrol, and the local commander panicked and sent his men in five hours early.

  Without the expected coordinating attacks along their flanks, the militia was in big trouble from the start. The regulars could either hold back and watch the locals get chewed to pieces, or attack immediately, hours ahead of schedule. The captain had no choice.

  Realizing that a major attack was developing in the north before the force heading south toward us was engaged, the enemy commander recalled those troops to strengthen the main defensive line. He left a small force to delay any thrust we might make out of the town, but the rest of the diverted forces were recalled in time.

  With no way of knowing that the forces we expected to attack us had withdrawn, we remained in our defensive positions all night. By the time we got the order to advance it was just about over.

  The firefight had raged through the night, but just about an hour before dawn the enemy lines were broken in two places. After that it was just a question of mopping up.

  On our way north we ran into a few enemy troops who tried to surrender. They must have known what to expect, since they’d used gas on the locals, but they tried anyway. We gunned them down on sight. They were more fortunate, at least, then the ones who fell into the hands of the militia. That is if the stories I heard later were true … and I have no doubt they were.

  The reconquest of Carson’s World was complete. The tactical plan had been excellent and would have worked perfectly, except for the failure of one militia officer to follow orders. But such is the friction of war, and few battle plans survive contact with the enemy.

  After the battle the captain made some noise about bringing the responsible officer up on charges, but it didn’t get very far. I suspect if the battle had been lost instead of won, there would have been more of an appetite for an investigation. But the planet was back in our hands, and the attitude seemed to be that no harm was done.

  We felt differently, of course. The company lost almost 20% of its strength, and most of the casualties occurred in the heavy fighting on the northern perimeter. How many of those losses were caused by the foul up? No way to tell. But there was nothing to be done. The high command made its decision. We didn’t have to like it, but we had to accept it.

  Our squad had one killed and one wounded. Ferguson’s wound turned out to be a single clean shot through the left leg. He’d be back in the line before our next assault.

  The rest of the squad—the entire company, actually—remained on the planet as garrison for six weeks. This kind of duty is usually pretty slow, but not this time. We were busy as hell the entire time. We rebuilt and expanded the ground fortifications, digging trenches and constructing new bunkers everywhere. We provided the strong backs for the engineer platoon that arrived a week later with a freighter full of ground-to-air defense systems. We emplaced them not only around the developed area, but also near what looked like the entrance to a large mine. We built a veritable fortress there.

  By the time the relieving force arrived, every one of us was exhausted, and we were in line and ready to go the morning the shuttles from the Guadalcanal landed. While waiting for the order to board, I watched the new garrison troops unloading and forming up. They were Marines, not assault troops, but Marines nevertheless. And there were a lot of them. From where I was I couldn’t see the whole formation, but they landed in at least a dozen ships and there were a good 300 already formed up in the center of the landing area. I guessed there must have been seven or eight hundred in all.

  Extensive prepared defenses and a reinforced battalion as a garrison? It seemed like a lot of effort to defend a small, relatively insignificant mining colony. Of course, that was up to the high command, and they didn’t ask my opinion. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have understood, but at the time I had no idea. One thing was certain—if the CAC wanted to take this planet again they were going to need one hell of a bigger force than they sent the first time.

  A few minutes later we boarded the three transport shuttles and headed back to the Guadalcanal in a considerably more comfortable and leisurely fashion than we’d departed six weeks before. The ships were designed to evac a full platoon plus wounded, medical personnel, and equipment, so there was plenty of room for the 28 of us.

  After docking we had to hang around the landing bay until we got checked out by the doc. There were two other newbies in the company. We’d actually landed with five, but one was killed and the other evac’ed with a partially severed spine. The three of us were last, so I had a few hours to kill. We’d been in the field for six weeks, so the captain gave us a break and cut back on the discipline. We pretty much had the time to ourselves. I played a game of chess with Vergren, the platoon’s sniper, but he was really good, and I lost pretty quickly.

  A lot of the guys had been pretty standoffish since I joined the unit, but now people who’d barely said two words to me in the past four months were coming up and asking me how I was and congratulating me on the mission. A few of the privates from the first squad invited me to play poker while we waited. I won about 15 creds.

  After my examination I headed down to my billet. It was about midnight, ship time, but there was a message waiting. I was to report to the landing bay in full dress uniform immediately.

  My mind raced. What had I done? I figured I must be in trouble. My heart was racing as I threw on my dress blues and hurried down to the bay.

  I was in the corridor outside when the lights went out. I felt at least two pairs of hands grab me from behind and someone threw a sack over my head. They dragged me into the bay and threw me down to the deck. Someone pulled the sack off my head and then the lights snapped on.

  The entire platoon was standing in a circle. Sergeant Harris was standing over me holding a small container. No one said a word. He leaned over and poured a few drops of the contents on my forehead. At first I didn’t know what it was, but then I realized it was blood. I figured it was animal blood of some kind. I was wrong, but I didn’t find that out until much later. Everyone in the bay started cheering.

  The sergeant reached out his hand and helped me to my feet. The blood ran down my face as I got up. I nearly retched when a drop trickled down to my lips, but I held back the impulse. I was beginning to understand. This ceremony had meaning—it was a baptism. I had proved my worth to them in battle. I was one of them. After so many years on my own, I had finally found a home.

  CHAPTER 2

  Manhattan Protected Zone

  New York City, USA

  Western Alliance

  The Marine Corps saved me.

  I was born Erik Daniel Cain in 2232 AD in Lenox Hill-Fargus hospital. My father, John Cain, was a project manager for Metadyne Systems Corporation, and we lived in a company-owned apartment block in the Midtown Protected Zone of Manhattan. My family wasn’t rich, but we weren’t poor either, and we lived better than most people in 23rd century America.

  New York was the third largest city in the country, with over a million residents, though you could tell that this was a small fraction of the number that had once lived there. North of the Protected Zone, outside of the 77th Street gate, was the semi-abandoned northern sector, and beyond that the badlands of the Bronx, a wasted area filled with centuries-old factories still producing basic goods and decrepit ancient apartments occupied by the lowest strata of workers. The whole area was ruled at night (and day) by the Gangs, who owned the illegal narcotics trade and terrorized and preyed upon the outcasts living beyond the armed bastions of the Protected Zone. Below the 10th Street gate was a forbidden buffer area and 500 meters farther south, the Crater, the still radioactive pit remaining from the worst terrorist attack in human history.

&nbs
p; Between these two urban no-man’s lands was a clean and well-ordered cityscape where law and order reigned. The Protected Zone was the home of the educated workers who ran a modern, high tech society, and if there were some murmurs that past generations had enjoyed far higher living standards and much greater personal freedom, they were never more than hushed whispers. Certainly such things were never taught in school, where we studied how modern America and the whole Western Alliance was the highest pinnacle yet reached in the development of the human condition. If anyone had any doubts, all they had to do was take a look outside the gates of the Zone to appreciate what they had. And keep their mouths shut.

  Manhattan was crowded, but there was enough food, more or less, and there were plenty of diversions to keep people busy in their free time. Twenty-third century bread and circuses, though I never thought of it that way back then. If laws were strict, the mail monitored, and people conditioned to accept the wisdom of their leaders without question, in return they were fed (well enough), entertained, and protected from the harsher realities facing those unfortunate enough to live outside the walls of the Zone.

  The northeast corner of the Zone was called Sector A, and it was the home of the Political Class and their Corporate Magnate allies. Most of the residents of Manhattan never set foot inside the inner walls that separated Sector A from the rest of the Zone. I did, but that was years later, under circumstances I could never have imagined as a child, and I can tell you that no one in America lives like the politicians and their corporate cronies. The luxury is almost unimaginable.

  My parents managed something extremely rare for anyone outside the Political Class—they had three children. Reproduction rates were strictly controlled everywhere in the USA, but they were especially restricted in crowded Manhattan where the legal limit was two—and that only for the most skilled workers.