"Yes, sir!" Whatever their individual doubts, as a unit they could say nothing more. Pride and unit-integrity, sin and savior, drove the soldier as always.
"So, what are we gonna do?" he asked as he took the first step forward.
"We're gonna dance, sir!" they responded, following.
"WHO WE GONNA DANCE WITH?" His helmet crept out of the water and the fury of the battle beyond was shocking. Tank cannons jutted from the ground floor windows exchanging point blank fire with God King saucers while Posleen normals grappled hand to hand with the gray uniformed grenadiers. The thin line of beach was a charnel pit, impassable from the bunkers of bodies gathered from building to waterfront, the grenadiers and Posleen grappled even in death, their blood mixing in stagnant pools to flow to the cleansing sea. A volley of grenades opened a hole in the Posleen mass then it surged forward over the ruck of bodies. A tank gouted fire and threw its turret into the air as a plasma gun searched its vitals. The white curtain of fire incinerated the packed grenadiers and Posleen alike.
"THE DEVIL!" screamed the troopers, the powered grav guns dipped to drain in awful synchronicity. A blast of fire from a God King's heavy railgun sawed through lead Posleen and grappling grenadiers, their red and yellow blood flashing up in a fountain of gore. The fire from the God King saucer was abruptly silenced by a German sniper.
"WE GONNA LEAD OR WE GONNA FOLLOW?" shouted Mike as he cycled his rifle and charged his grenade launchers.
"WE'RE GONNA LEAD!" they shouted as the guns raised in unison. Barrels shifted slightly as individual Posleen were targeted. In the midst of the battle one of the God King saucers rose up and leapt across the battleline, diving on a panzer grenadier holding only a knife. Mike, and several troopers drawn to the movement, tracked in on the Posleen saucer.
"Michelle, engage program Tiamat." His command suit began to rise into the air under its antigravity system, the energy level indicator dropping like a waterfall. The air in front of their suits shimmered for a moment and then cleared. "PLATOON, OPEN FIRE!"
37
Andata Province, Diess IV
1004 GMT May 19th, 2002 AD
Tulo'stenaloor, First Order Battlemaster of the Sten Po'oslena'ar, considered himself a connoisseur of war. He had studied the three disciplines and all the history available to his rank. Not for him the te'aalan battle madness that he had seen destroy his nest mates. But never in all his study, in all the time upon this conquest and other conquests, during his rise from scoutmaster to his current rank, had he ever faced ferocity such as the gray-clad demons his oolt'ondai now faced. The enemies' ill-favored red fluid stained the walls in the fury of the combat, and still they resisted the might of the Sten Po'oslena'ar.
"Tele'sten," he shouted over his communicator, "take your oolt to the left to support Alllllntt's, and prepare to receive his oolt'os."
"Your wish," chimed the communicator. The nearby eson'antai was panting with exertion. He had dropped from his tenar to aid another kessentai, wounded by the thrice-damned threshkreen. Such selflessness was rare among the Po'oslena'ar, almost unheard of. Possibly even immoral. The young kessentai leapt back to his tenar, the mission successful. "You believe he will fail upon the path?"
"As sure as the sun rises," said Tulo'stenaloor. He looked up at the ill-favored green sun of this blasted world. He should have stayed on cloud-shrouded Atthanaleen. It might be well on its way to ordonath, but at least there was rain! And none of these fistnal gray thresh!
"Those thrice-damned demons infest the upper stories no matter how we flail them. Note how he moves his tenar in a regular pattern, soon one of their simple chemical rifles will remove him from the path. Learn from his mistakes, eson'antai!"
"Your wish my edas'antai."
"Tulo'stenaloor!" His communicator boomed at him in turn, "get your tel'enalanaa oolt'os into that building or I'll pass through you!"
Al'al'anar, his fellow battlemaster, had been heard from.
"I wish you would, Al'al'anar. Then you could lose oolt after oolt on these threshkreen."
"You always have been too soft! Move or lose the path, a'a'dan!" snarled his fellow battalion commander.
"You want the path!" shouted Tulo'stenaloor, sudden rage turning his vision yellow. "Take the fistnal path!" He had lost half his oolt'ondai so far and was in no mood to listen to this puppy's complaints.
"Tulo'stenaloor! Al'al'anar!"
"Your wish," said Tulo'stenaloor, the rage still rippling in his voice. He clacked his teeth and fluttered his crest in a battle to regain control.
"My edas'antai," chimed Al'al'anar.
"Tulo'stenaloor will take the path," ordered the higher commander from the distant dodecahedral landing circle. "Al'al'anar will wait and learn wisdom."
And I will lose my whole oolt'ondai because he is your eson'antai. "Your wish, aad'nal'sa'an. However, soon I will be without oolt to progress."
"I discern this. Al'al'anar, pass behind Tulo'stenaloor's position and prepare to attack from the seaward flank again. I discern a weakness there; there are less of those tel'enalanaa tenar."
"Your wish!" exulted Al'al'anar.
"Your wisdom," said Tulo'stenaloor. Thus I lose status, he thought. Now, to make the best of it as that thrice-damned puppy bungles a simple movement.
Again and again Al'al'anar had failed to effectively support other oolt'ondai, instead succumbing to battle madness and chasing the defenseless green thresh like a wild oolt'os. Without the influence of his gene derivative he would be a scoutmaster at best, or more likely dead. Such is the battle of the Path.
Alllllntt's saucer suddenly spun out of control as the God King's head burst like a melon; a German G-4 had successfully targeted him after he raised his tenar for a better angle on the front line. The oolt'os of his company flailed the upper stories of the building for a moment in a berserk rage, then began clawing their way to the rear. As they did the panzer grenadiers pressed in a hard local counter attack and retook their secondary positions.
"Tele'sten! Get your oolt in there now!"
"Yes, aad'nal'sa'an, your wish." The young God King, only recently promoted from scoutmaster, was attempting for the first time in his life to rebind the normals of a deceased God King in the heat of battle. At the same time he was trying to retake the lost positions. Since each normal had to be physically touched, there were, for a moment, simply too many demands on his time and he paused in his random shuffling. A single 7.62mm round ended the path for the young company commander.
"Tel'enaa, fuscirto uut!" cursed Tulo'stenaloor at the death of his son. "Alld'nt! Drive the oolt'os of Tele'sten and Alllllntt into the gray demons and be damned with them!" Tele'sten, my eson'antai, how many times did I tell you: Never stop moving.
* * *
"Major Steuben, we have retaken the secondary positions!"
"Wonderful Lieutenant. Hold them hard! I am trying to get some help here but I am now confident we can hold this position until relieved!"
"Yes, sir, the Tenth Panzer Grenadiers will never surrender!"
"Good job, Lieutenant Mellethin. I have to go now. Hold like steel!"
"Like steel, sir."
Like steel, indeed, thought Major Joachim Steuben, even the steel is burning.
From his position on the lower floor of the megascraper he could clearly see the tanks of his depleted division burning, charnel pits for their dead crews. Worse than the sight was the smell, strong even at this distance, of burning pork and rubber. The remnant of the 10th Panzer Grenadiers could not make a decent reinforced battalion and they were out of contact with the majority of the supporting divisions of French, British and Americans elsewhere in the megascraper. If something didn't happen, and soon, they were all finished.