He shook his head. The aliens had gone to too much effort to gather the POWs merely to leave them alone. Perhaps, once the POWs were recovered, they could shed light on how they’d been treated — and why. Or perhaps they'd be as ignorant as their fellow humans.
There was a bleep from the tactical console. “Wait,” Farley said. “One large ground-based transmitted, several hundred miles from the POW camp. It’s broadcasting out into space.”
Ted didn’t hesitate. “Kill it,” he ordered. That far from the POW camp there would be no risk of hurting the prisoners. “Can you identify the intended destination?”
Farley shook his head. “The signal was beamed towards Tramline Four,” he said. “But I don't know what — if anything — actually heard it.”
They won't have heard it yet, Ted thought. Tramline Four — leading further into alien-controlled space - was five light minutes from the planet. But even though the transmission had been terminated, there was no stopping the first signal burst from reaching its destination. There must be a ship there, lying doggo. They’ll bring help from the next system.
Farley looked up. “The transmitter is dead, sir,” he said. On the display, a fireball was rising from where the frigate-launched KEW had struck the transmitter. “But I still don't know where it was aimed.”
“Launch a pair of additional drones towards Tramline Four,” Ted ordered. “If there are reinforcements within shouting distance, they’ll have to come from there.”
He tried to work it out in his head, then gave up as he realised there just wasn't enough data to make even educated guesses. What was on the other end of Tramline Four? If there was an alien fleet in the system, how long would it take them to power up and advanced to Alien-One? Long enough to get the POWs off the surface… or quickly enough to force Ted to abandon some of them on the ground.
“Vector two frigates towards the tramline,” he ordered, after a moment. The frigates weren’t stealthy, but their sensors were better than the drones. Besides, they could pop through the tramline themselves and see what was on the other side. “I want advance warning if something pops through. If nothing does by the time the frigates arrive, one of them is to jump into the tramline and investigate.”
He turned back to the main display. “And order the Marines to proceed with all due dispatch,” he added. “We may be running short of time.”
Chapter Thirty
Charles suppressed the urge to whoop and cry hurrah as the shuttles plunged through the planetary atmosphere, lurching from side to side as if they expected the alien ground-based defences — if there were any defences — to open fire at any moment. This was what he'd signed up for, a daring combat drop right into the heart of enemy territory. Maybe the enemy weren't as heavily armed as he assumed they would be, when the human military actually hit an alien colony world, but it was still a combat drop. Drills just weren't the same.
“Ten seconds,” he called, as the shuttle lurched violently. There was no incoming fire, thankfully, but he was sure it was just a matter of time until they hit a heavily-defended world. By then, the lessons from a reasonably placid combat drop would have to be learned and learned well. “Five seconds…”
He was first out of the shuttle, as it should be. The magnetic field tossed him through the hatch and sent him plunging down towards the world below. Beside him, combat drones came online, spoofing enemy sensors and giving them a multitude of targets to engage… if they’d had anything to use to engage the onrushing humans. Behind him, the remainder of the Marines streamed out of the shuttle. He spared a moment of sympathy for the damn reporter — no matter how hard he’d worked over the last few days, he was utterly unprepared for a combat drop — then turned his mind back to the landing. Below, the alien camp was rapidly coming into view.
The chute popped bare seconds before he would have hit the ground, yanking him to a slow fall that allowed him to land reasonably gently. It disintegrated a second later as Charles moved forward, weapons and sensors searching for targets. The combat datanet came online as the other Marines landed, most of them fanning out in a wide circle around the alien camp. A smaller group would take care of the alien buildings to the south, dealing with any defences as rapidly and brutally as necessary, but taking aliens alive if possible. Charles knew better than to think that taking prisoners would be easy, yet he knew the human race needed to learn to understand its foe.
Pushing the thought aside, he led the way towards the alien camp. The wall surrounding it was solid metal; despite seeing it from orbit, he’d expected to discover that it was actually a fence when they hit the ground. It seemed excessive, somehow. The alien guards swung around, then opened fire, confirming Charles’s suspicion that the aliens had managed to construct plasma weapons that could be comfortably carried by a single soldier. Each of them, he recognised unwillingly, was capable of burning through a Marine-issue battlesuit…
“Return fire,” he ordered. Shots rang out as the Marines engaged their targets. He saw an alien head disintegrate as an armour-piercing bullet, intended to punch through armour comparable to the armour the Marines themselves wore, slammed through its target and went onwards. “Take them all out.”
Two Marines fell, alerts popping up in his HUD, as they rushed the camp, but the aliens suffered worse. Despite not being taken by surprise, they had had no time to prepare proper defences before the Marines came down and surrounded them. Charles couldn't help wondering if the aliens had seriously believed the human forces would never reach the camp or if the soldiers guarded it had been rated as expendable. But the aliens still fought, no matter how helpless their position, and died in place. Charles found himself caught between a kind of reluctant admiration and a cold, dispassionate disdain. The aliens could have withdrawn from the camp before the Marines landed and saved their lives.
The camp’s gateway was another piece of solid metal. Charles muttered orders and the demolition team went to work, blowing the gateway right off its hinges. Inside, he saw a handful of metal buildings — they looked to have been designed by humans, rather than aliens — and a number of human prisoners, staring at the Marines as if they were creatures from another world. All of them were naked, even the women and children. It made sense, he knew; it was hard for a naked human to conceal a weapon. Hell, the aliens weren't likely to be interested in human bodies…
…But it still didn't make it any easier to bear.
“Most of them are clearly Mexican,” Yang muttered. “But some of the others are not so recognisable.”
He was right, Charles realised. Who would have thought that the reporter had actually come in useful? Pushing the thought aside, he activated his suit’s speakers. It struck him, a moment later, that they might not actually speak English, before dismissing the thought as absurd. English was a common second language in space, as well as the official language for all deep space activities. Most of the POWs would definitely speak English.
“Attention,” he said. The POWs still looked listless, despite the appearance of salvation. It bothered him more than he cared to admit. “We’re the Royal Marines, from Earth. We’re here to take you off this mudball, assuming you want to go.”
The shuttles flew lower, then dropped down towards the cleared LZ. For once, the POWs showed some reaction — absolute terror. Charles blinked in surprise, wondering if they would have to knock the POWs out just to get them onto the shuttles, then relaxed as the shuttles touched down. As soon as the roar of their engines faded away, the POWs relaxed and stopped panicking.