Daystar

By Scott G. Gier

Two super alliances compete for the galaxy as mankind spreads like a bloody stain, consuming entire planets for resources. Some colonies will live, but most will die. A rebel organization and its messianic leader strive to obstruct the devastation, as the overwhelming power of humanity collides on the planet Daystar.

Good will always battle evil...but how do you tell the difference?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott G. Gier
• Release date: Apr 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452373096

Scott G. Gier

I am a lucky man. Born and pretty much raised in Hawaii, I graduated from the US Naval Academy and became a Naval Aviator. There are no smarter, more genuine, more professional people than those that you will find in the American armed services. I am honored to be a veteran. There are also no better toys than Navy jets, and there are few adrenaline-pumping routines on this planet that can match landing on or taking off from an aircraft carrier. I was also privileged to be a regular watch-standing officer-of-the-deck, underway, on board the USS Hancock, a WWII vintage attack carrier.After six years in the Navy (the Vietnam War was ending), I went to work for the next quarter-century or so in Silicon Valley, California, where I was again privileged to work with individuals of exalted intelligence and ambition: entrepreneurs. Working primarily in manufacturing and later in project management and customer service, I participated in the technological miracle of lasers, computers, and corporate software almost all at the start-up company level. Believe me, if you want to have fun (and angst) working, go join a start-up in the San Francisco Bay Area...I have always enjoyed hiking and the outdoors and have come to believe that humanity's most important asset (after our respective families) is the Earth beneath our feet. That love of nature and my experiences in the military and high-technology companies define my novels.

Book preview

Section One – Rivalry

We compete, therefore we are.

Chapter One – Home Again

She had traveled too many light years to count. A holo of Telympus Two floated above the ship’s bridge, a lustrous planet, green and white. Myna Li Coo studied it, her neck growing warm. Settled by a fourth wave vector after the Taurus evacuation five centuries earlier, Telympus Two was at the nether reaches of the GINC influence sphere, a jewel in an otherwise sterile region where both GINC and Federation probes had long since ceased exploring. But Telympus was not just another star system, and T-Two was certainly not just another planet. T-Two was the one place in the galaxy that Myna Li Coo could call home.

Colonel Coo, we will make standoff orbit in three hours, GS Kraken’s captain reported. Do you have orders?

Coo could not take her eyes from the vid image. Memories of thundering ocean waves and brilliant beaches flooded her consciousness, overwhelming an iron discipline.

Colonel? her operations officer persisted.

Standard reconnaissance spread, Coo replied, suddenly impatient and a little frightened—an emotion rarely experienced by the hunter/killer group commander. Uplink the latest interrogation reports. Announce our arrival and order all departures to stand down. There will be no movement from the system until I say so.

Grim-faced, her operations officer acknowledged. The ship’s captain issued commands, and the four hyperlight frigates of Coo’s hunter/killer squadron deployed to their blockade stations. She tore her eyes from the holovid and pushed off from her command station. Her fear rising, she left the bridge. Callihan’s trail had gone cold, but he was last reported on the GINC side of the frontier, headed for this sector. She prayed that he had not returned to Telympus Two.

Carry on, Coo said as she entered the intelligence center. Her staff, swamped with new data, barely glanced up. Coo took a station. Her implant signaled. She accepted the incoming.

Colonel Coo, the governor has lodged a protest, her operations officer reported.

Noted, she snapped. A blockade would cost the planetary government billions in tax revenues, but the GINC High Council had given her license to interdict commerce. Her orders were to seek out and destroy agents of the Planetary Independence Movement, and smuggling was the PIM’s primary source of funding. If there were PIM agents in the T-Two system, disrupting commerce was the quickest way to shake out the rats. Honest smugglers always turned on the competition.

Coo discarded the emissarial traffic and scanned the intelligence reports, trying to gauge the loyalties of the local enforcement agencies. She was gifted at recognizing subterfuge, the best in the GINC intelligence apparatus. That was why she was the youngest hunter/killer commander in the fleet—and the most feared. Coo had taken down Matthias Herndon, the movement’s founder, and a half-dozen of his senior disciples. Daniel Enos Callihan, the most notorious of the surviving fomenters, was next. It was just a matter of time.

Her implant signaled. She ignored it.

Time! Time was not her side. Against all odds her chase had brought her home. She needed to act fast; once PIM established itself in a system, the GINC High Council would reevaluate the planet’s value. Too often it was cheaper to harvest the planet than it was to reform a rebellious population. Coo clenched her teeth, her fury rising. Telympus Two was a frontier planet, and any resource harvested this close to the neutral zone would be contested by the Federation. There would be no time for evacuations.

Coo renewed her focus on the reports, gleaning information as quickly as possible, but her worst fears were too quickly answered; those most dreaded words thundered across the compartment.

He’s here!

What do you have? Coo demanded, stomach churning.

Wasn’t hard to find, Colonel, the analyst replied, transferring an image collage onto the master holo-vid. It’s his name, Colonel. Callihan’s name is everywhere. They are writing it on the walls.

Chapter Two – Rivals

The analysts remained silent as their commander stared at the graffiti. The messages were fawning, even worshipful—Callihan the Messiah.

Damn fool, Coo muttered beneath her breath. She had had him within her grasp too many times to count, but the man had always eluded her. It worked both ways; Callihan had come close to assassinating her more times than she cared to recall. Theirs was a savage rivalry, but it had not always been that way; they had both grown up on this very planet. She had been his student at the university, so very long ago. Once they had even been lovers.

Find the bastard! she shouted, cursing herself for past failures. If she could kill Callihan quickly, there might still be hope. She could not fail this time; Telympus Two was in play, its very survival at stake. Competition to survive had reached interplanetary proportions. Mankind had traveled the stars, discovering new planets and building new societies. There were many of both, some more bountiful than others. It was the first-tier worlds that had created the Federation, for it was the populations of the most successful planets that had grown the fastest and become the most powerful. And it was the resources of these most powerful planets that had been the first to be depleted. Paralyzed by their own excesses, these core planets looked outwards, coveting the minerals and ores of their neighbors. For centuries these needs were satisfied by harvesting moons, asteroids, and uninhabitable planets, but as the Federation core expanded, resource recovery costs grew even faster. In time the economics of survival eclipsed all else. When their own resources could no longer suffice, and when it became unfeasible to harvest distant new discoveries, the privileged citizens of the Federation voted to destroy planets more recently inhabited. It was, after all, for the greater good.

Her implant signaled. Coo accepted.

Colonel, the governor requests an audience, her operations officer reported.

What do you want? she asked, accepting the link. She was not surprised; politicians were notorious for their survival instincts.

Colonel Coo, we extend our fullest cooperation. The governor’s holo materialized.

Then you know why I am here, she said. The blockade was forcing the local government to act. Her intelligence reports indicated that thousands of enforcement agents were being roused from their barracks and field posts to search bars and back alleys of all major cities for any PIM intelligence. No doubt they were already grilling suspects for information, torturing them if necessary. The local PIM cells would be driven deep underground. To survive, Callihan would have to act quickly.

Rebel activities have only recently become known to us.

Spare me, Coo snarled. What are you doing about it?

The governor whined his intentions, but they sounded more like excuses. Coo barely listened. Despite the high-flown language of the GINC and Federation constitutions, planetary populations had no right to exist. There were no rights; there were only economic principles and power. Some nascent societies took longer than others to comprehend that vulnerability. Those that could took action; they built their own spaceships, they discovered new planets—and they went to war. But a single planet could not defeat a powerful federation. Beleaguered planets united with others to fight back. These alliances coalesced into larger alliances. Most were short-lived, their pitiful fleets defeated or their leaders corrupted. In time two unions against the Federation were sustained: one was euphemistically called the Galactic Independence movement, the other became known as the New Confederation. Both achieved modest success in thwarting the Federation from harvesting their planets, but in time they also succumbed to the pathologies that had created the Federation. No longer was it sufficient to just defend their planets; they, too, had to expand, to compete for new discoveries; and in order to compete they had to combine. Combined, the Galactic Independence/New Confederation (GINC) alliance attained sufficient critical mass to contest the actions of the Federation. The greatest rivalry in human history was formed.

You offer nothing but words, Governor, she interrupted. You are a fool. Your planet is in mortal danger. You must find every rebel cell, and you must destroy it. Do you understand? It is your only hope.

Yes, Colonel, of course—

Coo terminated the link. She prayed that the incompetent government would be able to eradicate the PIM cells on the planet, but she knew they would never apprehend Callihan. That was up to her.

Chapter Three – Engagement

Colonel Coo, the officer of the deck reported. We have identified twenty ships rising from commercial orbit for the departure lanes. They are queuing up for release in spite of the blockade.

They may be waiting a long time, she muttered. What else?

Six contacts are moving outbound on irregular trajectories. They appear to be maneuvering randomly, but computer analysis predicts two convergence nodes: one with a Federation vector; and the other a deep-space jump. Transponders indicate they are non-aligned ore-loaders of various flags; however their signal emissions do not match expected parameters. We have detected shield emissions.

The calculated jump vectors were not unusual. Transit into Federation space was a routine event, as were forays into deep-space. A robust trade still flourished between the rivals, and ore-loaders would ever ply the outer reaches, squeezing the last crumbs of ore from marginal claims. But itinerant ore-loaders could rarely afford shielding generators. Coo brought up the trajectories on her opscan. She studied the plots, noting their departure stations and their casual course changes. It was not like Callihan to be so ham-fisted.

They are trying to be stand out, she muttered. Still, she could not let them go unchallenged. "Verag and Ornax, maneuver to intercept, she commanded. Manta and Kraken will remain on primary blockade station."

Her orders were carried out. Coo settled into her command chair to study the latest intelligence reports and to wait. Callihan had to react soon; the net on the ground was closing. Hours slipped by. The intelligence reports were depressing, revealing an inarguable PIM presence catalyzed by Callihan’s almost Messianic leadership. There could be no question that Callihan had to die. She also found herself imaging her family’s seaside vineyards and the forested hills of her childhood home. Much had changed in the decade since she had last been on the planet. The population had doubled. There were over a dozen new urban nodes large enough to be called cities.

Meanwhile her frigates had closed into contact range with the vagrant ore-loaders.

"Verag is reporting, Colonel. The ships are in fact ore-loaders, but they are equipped with shield emulators. They’re decoys."

"Order them to reverse course. Destroy them if they hesitate. Have the local authorities pull their operating licenses and throw their crews in prison. Recall Verag now and Ornax as soon as she can break loose," Coo commanded. Her anger welling, she stared at the operations plot. The confusion had commenced—something was about to happen. She noticed a constellation of fast-moving contacts at the same time that the watch officer announced the alert.

Sir, hot-runners coming up! the officer of the deck reported. Six ships, a leading group of four heading for the core. The trailing two are heading for deep-space. Emissions indicate that all ships have shield capability and jump drives spinning.

This was it. Callihan had managed to pull half her frigates out of position, but she still retained enough firepower to ruin his day.

Any identification? Coo asked.

Negative. They are ignoring all hails. Departure control disavows any knowledge of flight plan or purpose.

"Manta and Verag to intercept the lead group at maximum speed. Turn them around, Coo ordered calmly. Should they start negotiating, you will not listen. Shoot to kill. Kraken will intercept the trailing group. Same orders."

Kraken’s skipper acknowledged, maneuvering his ship onto a hard vector. Coo grunted against Kraken’s building gee-load as she studied the threat plot. Callihan was in one of the last two ships, she was certain. His protectors would do everything they could to keep their leader from getting caught. They would try to spread out her defenses and create as much havoc as possible. Coo settled into her command station.

Manta’s hurtling approach forced the leading group to turn from their jump vector. They were running at top speed, but Verag, coming up, had an angle to intercept. The rebel ships were not going to get away. Manta, now in tail-chase, started firing at maximum range. The rebels, fully aware of their plight, engaged shields and turned hard into the oncoming Verag. They were no longer running. Manta cut inside the angle but was still near the limits of her firing range when Verag engaged. The rebel ships’ individual firepower could not match the GINC frigate, but their combined energies were considerable. Verag blasted two of the rebels into eternity and severely wounded the other two before one of the cripples pounded the GINC frigate into oblivion with a kamikaze attack. The remaining rebel ship streaked through the fireball, too late to impact anything solid. Manta annihilated it seconds later with a barrage from her main battery.

Coo observed the engagement with measured satisfaction, but her primary focus remained on the last two rebel ships. They were now running at over maximum rated power levels, their engines radiating like supernova; but they were less than half way to their hyperlight threshold, ample time for Kraken to close and engage. The frigate’s bridge crew moved at their stations with muted efficiency. They were accustomed to the chase—and the kill. They had done it many times before. It was Coo’s heart rate and respiration that were increasing, as were her anger and her fear. They had to get him. They had to. Killing Callihan was T-Two’s only hope of reprieve.

They are splitting up, the officer of the deck reported. The trailing ship was veering off, falling away from the jump vector, possibly to draw them away. Or was Callihan in that ship? Coo studied the tactical plot for any clues. She located her other frigates; Manta and Ornax were streaking up to support Kraken, but both ships were out of position for intercept.

We still have time to get both ships, Colonel, Kraken’s skipper said confidently.

Then do it, Coo replied, less certain.

Altering course, Kraken easily closed and dispatched the first rebel ship. Coo’s confidence returned as Kraken turned to her new pursuit vector, accelerating at full power. The last rebel still remained below threshold velocity but was climbing steadily toward the jump range.

Two minutes and she will be destroyed, Kraken’s captain boasted. The hunter/killer frigate closed on her target, main batteries locked onto their objective.

Range limit, sir, the officer of the deck reported.

You may open fire, the captain replied.

The frigate vibrated with the low-frequency hum of main battery discharge.

Captain, we are getting resonance signals, the officer of the deck reported. She’s going to execute a panic jump. Jumping sub-threshold was a crapshoot. There was no way to tell where they would fall out of hyperlight.

At all costs, Captain, Coo snapped, you will stay with that ship.

Section Two – Twenty-five Years Later

Everyone dies alone

Chapter Four – On the Ground

You gotta have men on the ground.

Not to fight; FAAUs and SAAUs did the fighting, and UCAVs and TROLEs. Machines were better at mayhem, but sooner or later you had to put bleeders on the ground. You had to have skin in the game. That was how you won.

Captain Robert Duncan was a Federation ground pounder, and from where he stood the ground was ugly. The whole damn planet was ugly, but then Duncan was exhausted. His patrol had just humped a mountain range, and the hydraulic return on his thigh actuator was sticking. He slowed to a full halt and flexed, warding off a cramp. BAG triangulation kicked in; Duncan’s visor reticules registered azimuths and elevations on the snow-draped ridges, updating his DR position to the last satellite topo. In the mid-distance a ruptured peak hemorrhaged a glowing flood of black-scabbed magma as the lowering sun struggled to penetrate the greasy pall spewing from the mountain’s riven flanks. Patrol limit was close, less than a klick. Not close enough to suit Duncan; the sector was hot. Tacsats were getting blown out of orbit faster than SatCommand could deploy them. Duncan’s patrol was off the board, anybody’s piss-ant little target.

Focus on the mission, Duncan. Focus or die.

He blinked up the terrain plot on his head-up. In front of him the blasted land fell away into a vast lowland, a strategic conversion zone in which ten GINC robotic divisions stubbornly held ground against fourteen divisions of the Federation's finest full autos. That was a problem; the fighting should have been over by now.

Duncan’s visor displays twinkled with sensor inputs, jammers jump-shifting across the spectrum,fire-control lobes throbbing; while beyond his visor, laser beams streaked the horizons, and chemical detonations flashed against low clouds. The air rumbled. He blinked up patrol force status. His eight SAAUs came back as gold circles: two semi-autonomous attack units spread on the point, two in trail, and two on each flank. Inside the SAAU perimeter, his six pounders formed a constellation of gold stars flowing past his position. Human pounders—automatons with pulpy cores—were little different from robots. Their Mark 6, Mod 14 Body Armor, Ground, kept them alive. A Mark 6 BAG could do POG-forty and leap thirty meters in one gee. Duncan could see, hear, and feel the planet—but he could not smell it; to inhale a war planet's atmosphere was to die.

Duncan pushed into motion. BAG servos drove him up to pace, synching into BIT rhythm at POG-six, faster now with the fading ambient light. His pounders and SAAUs maintained BIT discipline; except for their low power transponder returns, they were optically and thermally invisible. Descending darkness permitted a longer stride, but Duncan kept close tabs on his suit values. Increased respiration raised BAG temperature, raising the background integration threshold—the BIT. If a pounder’s armor stood out from ambient, visually or thermally, batsats would get you. Put out heat, you were dead meat.

Duncan’s patrol slanted over an escarpment. The great valley opened beyond, its broader floor still obscured. Laser beams fenced in the air; roiling infernos bubbled upward, orange and black. Explosions lifted from the din, while pulverized lava crunched underfoot. BAG sensors monitored the surface scab, scanning for minerals, uploading data with every satlink. Strategic minerals—that's why Federation and GINC fleets were in the system; they were fighting for resources. Planets die; minerals are harvested.

A sharp defile opening into a small valley intercepted the patrol’s line of march. Nothing more than a sterile hollow hanging above the lowlands beyond, it marked the terminus of their patrol. A grimy crust of snow blotched its bottom, its melt water twisting through the cinders like molten lead. A matte-black BAG appeared from thin air, arcing over the void—Corporal Barron on the right point. The pounder plummeted to ground, bounced once with thruster recoil, and disappeared. Two seconds later Tech Sergeant Kline, number two on the right, soared into view, repeating Barron's leap. Gunny Graves and Private Garros on the left remained invisible, opting for a more deliberate descent.

It was an eight meter drop. Duncan pushed off, his abrupt motion triggering BIT alarms. He landed in black talus, his thrusters pistoning with impact. In half a step he was invisible again, following the melt water toward a small body of water whose surface blazed with sanguinary reflections. Duncan imagined the hanging valley to have been attractive once, with trees and waterfalls, and then he snorted in self-disgust; it was a battle planet—a world reduced to scorched rock and oil-soaked crud. The planet's resource designator was Tango Papa One Six. Its old name was Telympus Two. Its population was mostly dead, the survivors refugees. No one would ever again call T-Two home.

An explosion shook the ground and lifted a fireball above the valley rim. The background shift was too abrupt for background integration; Duncan’s number one and two SAAUs stood, momentarily silhouetted, like immense insects, secondaries off the ground, hard-chined sensor masts aligned to the blast. From a distance the semi-autonomous attack units appeared delicate.

Delicate as one-ton meat cleavers.

Duncan’s abort indicator flashed—still no satlink. They had been off the board for too long. Duncan disabled the alarm. His patrol held position, awaiting orders. Duncan’s sense of mission argued with his desire to live. They were too close to the observation point to turn around now. He signaled to proceed. Drawing closer to the edge, the valley floor lifted into view—revealing the jaws of hell. As the patrol came even with the tarn, its silvery surface trembling with shock vibrations, Duncan’s motion detectors warbled. A string of glowing shrapnel heaved into view, arcing gracefully upward from the valley floor. Duncan dove for the deck.

Kar-rrump-p-p!

The tarn exploded into white froth. Mud and rock clanged off Duncan’s helmet and carapace. Shouting profanities into his helmet, Duncan waited for his pulse to settle and for the ground to stop trembling. Then he resumed crawling. Blurred forms streaked overhead, exploding the air with their afterburners. Their gull-wing silhouettes distinct against the bloody sky, the unmanned combat attack vehicles screamed across the ridge. Duncan’s rage grew; what were pounders doing on the ground with enemy UCAVs still in the air? A scarlet barrage ripped through the first wave, knocking half from the sky. A following wave of automonmous interceptors responded with cobalt counter-battery and eye-jerking evasive action.

Gritting his teeth, Duncan edged his way to the brink, his view expanding as he closed the distance. The valley was obscured in mustard-gray haze. To the south, manic detonations strobed against a cloud deck through which an armada of TROLEs descended, their retros stabbing at the planet like white-hot blades. One of the monstrous landers, its holds filled with unfeeling mechanical warriors, exploded. Below the descending fireball was a sight witnessed by few breathing organisms: a robotic battlefront slashed the broad valley, a ragged demarcation defined by white-hot energy, ebbing and flowing in sensual rhythm. Robotic reinforcements surged in from both sides, mindless fuel for an insatiable furnace. Closer, Duncan could see the carbonized valley floor, a fathomless blackness beneath a lacework of incarnadine fire. Beams—cobalt, scarlet, and emerald—lanced the battle pitch. Flowers of flame rippled overtop the fiery lattice, blossoming malevolently. Sound arrived late, a nightmare audio out of sync.

An alarm broke his trance. SAAU number two registered a threat. Tactical telemetry scrolled across his HUD:

SAAU2: enemy contact. reinforced GFAAU company. 014/4.5. Approaching.

GINC full-autos! Duncan’s weapons reticule swung to the threat axis. A fire-control alert tweedled—displaying a GFAAU-9 signature! His heart throbbed into his throat. What were bleeders doing on the ground in the same sector with dash-niners? His HUD twinkled. More signals:

SAAU2: enemy drones up and closing. Brg 016/3.8.

Focus, Duncan. Below him, grotesquely eroded hills stair-stepped toward his position. It was a steep climb for a human, but robots did not fatigue. Duncan ran his visor magnification to maximum and picked up a recce drone. Below the hovering RD, he gained visual on full-autos ascending—the unmistakable, jerky-stride of dash-niners.

Another tone—satlink alert! Uplink initiated, he authenticated. At last his patrol was back on the board. TacStaff would know they were in trouble. Duncan signaled that he intended to pull back. Anticipating that the GINC full autos would go south along the rim, he indicated that he would retreat to the north.

Another tone, irritatingly familiar; the obnoxious message scrolled across his HUD:

Vandal, Stratmin alert. Nickel/Titanium Trace plus three. Shift patrol axis to 045 and investigate. Stratmin alert. Priority One.

Stratmin Alert! They wanted him to dig for minerals. Duncan shouted an obscenity. He was not turning over any rocks—except to get under one. Another alarm flickered across his visor, stunning him:

Vandal, SBS. Disregard axis shift. Strategic Battlestaff taking command of your patrol. Acknowledge and authenticate.

Strategic Battle Staff! Confused, Duncan eyed the authentication keys. Incoming text streamed across his HUD:

Vandal, SBS. Enemy spillover your sector. Multiple incursions. You are within salient. Find cover, Hold position and report.

Hold position! Like hell! A company of robotic killers was coming over the valley’s edge. Even if the order came from some orbiting four-star, Duncan intended to bust butt. He started to reply, but another alarm went off. Unbelieving, he stared at the output:

Immediate thunder rose alert. repeat thunder rose. thunder Rose. thunder Rose. thunder Rose.

Ohcrap! Duncan commanded his BAG onto its thrusters and exploded into a power sprint. Movement erupted on both sides as pounders and SAAUs jerked into view, covering ground in thirty-meter chunks, all desperately scanning for cover. With brain-freezing suddenness, a nightmare incandescence illuminated the tortured terrain. Duncan’s visor filters slammed shut as he dove for the ground, stabbing his gauntlets into the lava wrack. His BAG fairing deployed and his blast anchors triggered, just as the nuke’s dynamic pulse swept his position. A maelstrom of shattered bedrock swirled mere centimeters from his fragile brain, submerging all thought beneath a banshee howl of flying grit. Duncan focused his flash-battered eyes on his HUD horizon, seeking sanity. He was scared. That meant he was still alive.

You gotta have men on the ground.

Chapter Five – Hiding Place

The atomic turbulence subsided. Duncan’s displays glowed dumbly as his BAG sensors flickered into recalibration. A threat axis illuminated on his display, destroying any residual relief at surviving the nuke.

Where were his pounders? Force status came up on Duncan’s HUD. Like stars popping through clouds, position links restored, but only five pounder icons refreshed. Private Garros's status showed as unknown. That meant he was dead. More importantly, all SAAUs reported in. Duncan grunted; his brain engaged. It was time to haul butt. He retracted his BAG fairing; debris tumbled about him as the blast shell sucked into its dorsal sleeve. He released his blast anchors and pushed onto his thrusters. Fickle illumination came from the battlefield's infernal luster, boiling into the low sky with escalating fury.

A message alert twinkled on his HUD:

Vandal, SBS. Report.

Duncan snarled. The goddamn generals were sitting up there watching his fanny get pounded. They were not the only ones; an enemy search system bent over the valley rim, weapons acquisition signals sweeping his position. His HUD flickered with SAAU telemetry:

SAAU2: Enemy approaching. BRG 085/2.5. Shifting to attack mode.

SAAUs were programmed to avoid conflict; they attacked only when out of evasion options. Duncan’s gaze darted about, looking for an escape. He glanced at the lake. Much of its contents had been vaporized, uncovering slab-sided shores.

The alarm again:

Vandal, SBS. Report status.

Situation unstable! Duncan barked into his recorder. He hit the burst and initiated emergency marshal, falling back toward the lake.

Collapse on me! Duncan snarled, daring to use UHF. Within seconds a pattern of hypervelocities, back-tracking his active broadcast, screamed overhead, ranging a quarter-klick long. The ground trembled with their impact. Damage assessment drones would be on the way. Duncan sprinted to the lake’s edge. His SAAUs arrived first, matte-black bodies looming from the hazy gloom, primaries scraping stone. They decelerated in choreographed precision, squatting like monstrous dogs, motionless as rocks, secondaries poised as if to jab. Number three telescoped its sensor pod to full extension, providing group telemetry. Tech Sergeant Kline, hitching on number two, was the first pounder in. The robot technician leaped from her semi and touched Duncan’s gauntlet, establishing a hard link.

What now, Captain? she gasped.

Get ‘em in the water, Duncan said.

Yes, sir, Klein replied, inscrutable behind her opaque visor. She used hand semaphore to trigger their action. The huge machines scuttled down the embankment, stopping with faceted sensor pods awash. Kline looked up for further instructions. Duncan nodded. With a sweep of her arm she sent the SAAUs under water as Private Jergens, Private Kanakawa, and then Corporal Barron arrived. Gunny Graves came last, stalking backward, gig-blaster poised. Duncan put a hand on the non-com's dorsal.

Seen Garros? he asked.

He got jellied, Cap’n. Rookies be cheap, Graves rasped, his helmet pivoting nonstop. Gunny Graves still used his eyes as his primary sensor—a habit from the past. Probably why the old fart was still alive.

Get in the water, Gunny.

In the water, sir?

Yeah, you stink.

Damn, Cap'n, you starting to sound like Sergeant Kline, Graves replied.

The surly veteran broke contact and shepherded the other bleeders into the lake. Duncan clambered after, his thrusters clawing the steep granite. With just their helmets above the surface, his pounders established BAG to BAG contact. Duncan made contact with Graves, joining the network. The daisy-chain chatter was rising.

...get a medal for this one, Kanagawa said, his voice pitched high with emotion.

Shutupdumbass, Kline snapped.

Get your empty friggin’ brain buckets under the water, Graves snarled, and his pounders submerged to join the SAAUs, leaving Duncan alone on the lake's mercurial surface. The alarm again:

Vandal. Report.

He looked up. A few dim stars peeked through the atomic haze. The generals were still up there. They could wait. Duncan took a deep breath—as if it would be his last—and slipped beneath the black water.

Chapter Six – Game Board

He waited, his only external reference provided by the faint luminescent visors of his patrol fading into the silty distance. Duncan’s message diode never stopped flashing:

Vandal, SBS. status when able.

Battlestaff's persistence was unsettling to Duncan; that orbiting generals were even aware of his patrol was confounding. But immensely more disturbing was what enemy full-autos might be doing mere meters from his current position. Were they still up there, waiting in ambush? Unlikely; GFAAUs were not famous for their patience.

Where'd they go, Gunny? he asked.

Passed us by, Cap'n, Graves replied.

Good guess, old man, Klein replied. We’re still breathing.

Can it, Duncan muttered. He eased upward until his helmet periscope broke the perfect surface. Night was fallen full, but the great battle in the distance cast its ferocity against the overcast, flaring Duncan’s optics with reflected energy. He secured IR and pushed upward until his visor was clear. The electromagnetic ether vibrated but held no active threats. Opstatus diodes on his HUD twinkled merrily; his transponder was being interrogated. They were still on the game board. His comm alarm illuminated:

Vandal, SBS. positive id. Report.

Stand by for data upload, Duncan dictated. He verified satlink, updated his patrol stats, and commanded a laser burst. Next he brought his SAAUs and pounders to the surface and shifted to hard-coupled laser communications. He verified positive link with each of his assets, human and robot.

Get a SAAU up, he ordered.

On it, Kline replied. Number three scuttled up the rock far enough to clear its mast, its sensors groping for threats. Nothing showed, at least nothing close enough to matter.

No heat or motion in sensor range, Kline verified.

Let's move, Duncan said, clambering past the SAAU. He conducted an IR visual. Except for the full fall of night, the terrain remained unchanged, battered beyond destruction.

Staggered squad line, he ordered. Sergeant Kline deployed her charges. Number three eased into a clearing search, its wet sheen wavering and melding with the night. The other SAAUs heaved from the lake, shedding shimmering sheets of water. The black giants slid outward, submerging under BIT as they dried.

Tactical interval, Duncan ordered. Gunny Graves took point. Duncan assumed position on the squad line, his thigh valve showing only a slight hitch. His patrol moved out, fading into invisibility.

Vandal is up, he dictated. One MIA. Withdrawing along mission egress. He triggered the burst. His message diode illuminated almost immediately:

Vandal, SBS. new orders. Downlinking mission profile. target moving east. Pursue on assigned track. Report anomolies. Do not attack. Repeat do not attack.

Attack, my ass! he growled. There were a hundred GFAAUs between him and his extraction point. Attacking was the last thing on his mind. Satlink beeped. Duncan reviewed the download. The GINC full-autos were ahead, climbing an east-west spur. His patrol was vectored to a higher traverse. Duncan narrowed the