“Michelle, slug hologram to squad view,” said Mike as he finished readying the missile launcher. It was set to track his fire and add its own weight offset ten meters. He started to set up the M-300 on the opposite side of the squad’s position. It would be set to do the same thing. Thus he would be controlling not only his own light grav gun but two other heavy weapons. It was not a hard technique to train for or to set up. But the battalion, of course, had not prepared for it.
“Huh,” Sergeant Reese said after a moment, “I didn’t know they could do that.”
“Yours can’t, not in any detail. Command suits have extra processing and data collection ability.” There was a moment of silence, then Mike said in a flat tone, “There they are.”
The words came as a surprise and Sergeant Reese popped his head up from hologram and peered down the darkening canyon. “AID,” he said, “Mag six, enhance and stabilize.” The view leapt forward and brightened.
The way the stabilization system worked, the world moving at a different rate than reality, always made him a little queasy. What Reese saw in his view-screen just made him sick. He broke out in a cold sweat and goose pimples as his sphincter tightened. He wanted badly to piss and his mouth was dry. When Pat started to vomit he was forced to join in. This caused a complete loss of control.
The Posleen had regained control of the front rank and the remorseless abattoir was in full swing. To either side they could see the late-moving Indowy pouring out of the megascrapers, trying to avoid the oncoming horde. It was easier to empathize with these Indowy, having watched movement within and among the megascrapers during their setup. The peaceful little boggles that the Posleen were slaughtering had become like neighbors and seeing them slaughtered was a terror.
They always told you it was okay to be afraid, but surely they didn’t mean this stark terror, this abject fear. The briefings had been clear. Although the suits were proof against many things, the Posleen palmate blades had mono-molecular edges; they could chop apart a suit like a housewife with a chicken. All Reese could think of as the Posleen advanced remorselessly on the fleeing Indowy was that those knives were headed for him and the whole world seemed to be filled with flashing steel.
He couldn’t understand it. He was one of the brave, the fearless Airborne. For five years he had jumped out of planes over fifty times, enduring the occasional injury, without the first qualm. He enjoyed the thrill that terrified others. He’d laughed, inside, at the guys who were white-faced and shaking, who closed their eyes and headed for the sound of the open door. He loved the sight of the chutes opening out the door, the earth, plane and sky tossed in a chaotic kaleidoscope for those first brief moments after you stepped out. The chute opening was almost a letdown and the landing no hassle, except when something broke. But no fear, ever. Now, he feared. He feared the Posleen and wondered why those white-faced troopers put up with this over and over again.
The cold-blooded rendering of the defenseless Indowy was almost more than Reese could take; with their tiny stature and love of bright colors they seemed almost like children to him. As the Posleen closed the distance he found himself pulling his M-232 tighter into his shoulder and rubbing the breech. “Come on. Come on.” As his eyes flicked to his ammunition level readouts he did not notice the tears running down his cheeks or the stink of an overloaded environmental system. His fear slowly began to be replaced with anger, a white hot rage at the evil yellow dog-men coming towards them. “Come on, you bastards.”
Mike drew his magazine again and actually looked at it this time. Yup, thar’s bullets init. He reseated it and touched the charging button. With an unnoticed whine the first teardrop-shaped bead of depleted uranium was lofted into place. He felt as though he were looking at the scene through deep water. He recognized it as a fear reaction and ignored it; his mind was going faster than it ever had in his life. He had thorough plans for virtually every contingency. He had prepared so hard for this moment that it seemed as though he had lived it before: a lethal déjà vu.
“ ‘It seems to me as though I’ve been upon this stage before,’ ” he quietly sang. The AID, correctly surmising that it was a personal moment, did not broadcast it. “ ‘And juggled away the night for the same old crowd…’ ”
“Charlie company, stand by.”
Mike snugged the butt into his shoulder. Talk about target-rich environment. “ ‘These harlequins you see with me, they too once held the floor…’ ”
“Fire!”
Over three hundred rifles and machine guns, the combined firepower of Charlie and Alpha companies, and four terawatt lasers, belched coherent light and metallic lightning at the Posleen horde. As if one animal, the whole phalanx was shocked, its front third vanishing in the silver fire of detonating relativistic projectiles.
Fuckin’ A! thought Mike. It fuckin’ works! We’re gonna get our asses kicked, ’cause there’s too damn many of ’em, but the hardware fuckin’ works! The HVM launcher began to spit kinetic missiles at the area designated as hostile and the M-300 followed.
Then the thousands of remaining Posleen in view raised their weapons at the source of the fire.
“For what we are about to receive…” whispered Mike, shifting fire to the rear body.
In the front phalanx there remained eight thousand normals and twenty God Kings. The combat suits were proof against the majority of the weapons, but there were still fifteen heavy lasers and five multiple HVM launchers with automatic targeting systems, nine hundred 3mm flechette guns and four hundred fifty handheld HVM launchers. As a storm of fire struck the battalion’s positions the battle descended into an orgy of mutual annihilation. In the first two minutes following the opening volley six thousand more Posleen died, but over sixty paratroopers died and twenty more were injured. In that moment the battle was lost; there was a finite number of paratroopers, but a steady stream of centaurs replaced Posleen dead. As the output from the battalion reduced the Posleen were able to advance, pouring like a yellow avalanche towards the source of the fire. And as they advanced they were able to search out the sources of fire more effectively.
A heavy laser, targeting on the Charlie company machine gun, scythed into the room housing Mike and the squad. Spec-Four Bennett would never see Trenton, New Jersey again. The laser cut sideways, exploding the wall inward and momentarily blinding the squad with debris. It narrowly missed Sergeant Reese, bubbling the hologram projectors on his helmet, and sliced diagonally across Spec-Four Bennett from left shoulder to below the right nipple unchecked by his force-screen or the immensely refractory armor.
The laser slashed through the front of his armor but was stopped by the combination of his mass and the rear armor from cutting all the way through. The tremendous heat of the coherent beam of light caused his torso to flash into steam and sublimed calcium. The armor held together, however, except a two-inch-wide strip blasted out of it, and Bennett’s pureed remains squirted out like cherry soda from a shaken bottle. This ejecta flipped him backwards across the room.
The laser served as an aiming point for the God King’s brigade of Posleen normals and a broadside of flechette and missile fire vomited at the hapless machine gun team. The missiles were wildly inaccurate at the seven-hundred-meter range of the current engagement. It would have been the greatest of bad luck to be hit by one, but Madam Chance knows no favorites.
Lieutenant O’Neal and Sergeant Reese were hurled backwards by the weight of metal. For a few moments O’Neal returned fire, riding the wave of rounds as he had practiced, and his heavier prototype armor was proof against the hail of fire. Private McPherson was less lucky. Two 3mm rounds penetrated his abdominal storage, setting off a cache of grenades and popping the blowout panels in a sea of actinic fire, then through his body armor. After that they were unable to exit and began bouncing around inside. McPherson’s suit began to hop and flip randomly through the air, arms and legs flailing to keep up as the two hypervelocity flechettes bled off their kinetic energy within the body of his suit. Two seconds later, when it finally, mercifully, stopped, the only evidence of damage were two tiny holes, one above the right hip and one almost centered on the navel. The storm of directed fire had died to a light shower and Sergeant Reese started towards him.