Symphony of War: The Polema Campaign: Symphony of War, #1

By David Adams

Lieutenant Marcus Servus, officer and prisoner of the Penal Legion, serves on the desert world of Polema, the final bastion of the outer colonies. He and his soldiers, scum of the colonies, stand against insectoid boogeymen from another galaxy.

Marcus has a gift. A curse. An edge against the Myriad: he hears music. Songs in his head guide him, granting him knowledge and foresight, a weapon against the alien hordes.

The music is his ally, but who plucks the strings?

War rages on Polema, and Marcus's men hold the balance of power in their hands.

Book one of the Symphony of War series.

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Novels:

Symphony of War: The Polema Campaign
Symphony of War: The Eris Campaign (coming soon!)

Short stories:

Demon and Emily
The Immortals: Kronis Valley
The Immortals: Anchorage
The Immortals: Southport (coming soon!)

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Adams
• Release date: Sep 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781386112457

David Adams

David Adams served as an Officer in the Australian Army Reserve, trained alongside United States Marines Corps and Special Air Services SAS personnel, and served in the A.D.F as a Platoon Commander of Military Police. He has worked alongside Queensland Police Officers and held investigative roles with The Commission for Children and Child Safety.

Book preview

POLEMA

When confronting the enemy, the only thing a good soldier should feel is recoil.

— The Modern Infantryman’s Guide to The Art of Warfare, 3rd Edition, page 60

PROLOGUE

Kronis Valley

Polema

2243 A.D.

0430, August 16th

On the desert world of Polema in subsector Erini, the battle was to be decided in the air. On that grim twilight steel met flesh, and a full group of Interdictor gunships—enough to provide air support for an entire planetary hemisphere—assaulted a swarm of Myriad biofliers two million strong.

I am not crazy, Marcus Servus murmured to himself, his boots soaked in alien blood. It’s just music.

The fighting was so thick that the sky rained blood. Ichor fell in waves of faint red mist, a blanket of red gore that glazed the iron-red sands with dark crimson, as though a dark God were baking a cake made of sand and death. The clouds overhead roiled with flashing weapons’ fire. Marcus zoomed his tac-helm on a single craft harassed by a swarm of red dots. The eyes of the Myriad glowed in the dark.

Marcus stared up into the rain, watching the beautiful and macabre display, a moth drawn to flame. Music played in his head. It came and went, always violins, sometimes other instruments. He usually ignored it, but tonight he listened. The distant hum of plasma fire blended with the tune, a haunting melody carried through the still desert air.

Drops of ichor plinked off his tac-helm. In the dogfight above, Interdictors weaved and ducked out of clouds, trading fire with winged horrors that spat acid and tore steel with their claws. A series of black blobs grew as they fell, each roughly the size of a truck. He studied them intently as they plummeted, trying to determine if they were smashed gunships or blasted Myriad.

The debris landed far enough away that it posed no danger to his team on the ground, but there was something fascinating about it. Two organisms had fought for survival, and one had failed. Now the loser was paying the price, slowly tumbling toward Polema’s sand. A mist of blood flowed from a severed limb.

Wings. This one was a Myriad. One of the stubborn insectoids that had crept out across so many worlds. They were resistant to chemicals, to radiation, and to electricity. Some called them bugs, but Fleet scientists had concluded they were more akin to arachnids than anything else. They were as tough as cockroaches, but between twenty and a thousand times the size. Some strains were the size of housecats, others as big as tanks. Some grew to the size of warships, drifting through space, spreading the infestation to new worlds. Each was different; their strains evolved for a specific purpose. Some had wings. Some tunnelled. Some swam.

All were lethal to some degree. Their weapons were poison, claws and jaws, or sheer mass. They hunted the living and consumed the dead. A fascinating enemy, but an enemy none the less.

His sergeant appeared at the edge of his vision, her combat armour splattered in gory rain, a white 2 on her helmet. Sergeant Sally Beaumont. She had the same steel collar around her neck as he did, rigged to electrocute or explode at the hint of disobedience.

The lady played rough. She fought rough too, favouring the flamethrower, always eager to attack despite unfavourable odds. Marcus was more than happy to indulge her penchant for violence as long as she kept her hands off the new recruits. Normally she was painfully informal, but stationed as they were in the Kronis Valley alongside regular marines and their officers, military discipline had to be observed.

Apart from him, she was the longest surviving member of their unit, Platoon 1, Squad 1. The Yellow Scorpions. Officially named for the venomous predator that lurked beneath the sands of Polema. Unofficially for alleged cowardice.

Lieutenant Servus? she said. The sun’s setting, sir. The squad needs orders.

The music picked up, the lone violin becoming a chorus. Marcus wiped the liquid grime from the emitter of his plasrifle strictly out of habit. The heat of a discharge would clear it and more, but he wanted his first shot to have the same punch as his last. Plus, it distracted him from the music in his head. The music no one else heard.

Order the men to prepare for night operations, he said. The air battle isn’t going well. When the surviving Interdictors break to refuel, the sky will be lost. The Myriad will make their big push before dawn. We have to push first.

Beaumont stared at him. He may as well have ordered her to eat her own heart. If they’re going to advance, then shouldn’t we dig in, sir? Shore up our anti-flier defences? Lay more mines?

He forced his gaze down to the moonlit valley, quiet and still and as cratered as the surface of a moon, dripping with blood and littered with wrecked corpses. The land mines had served them well. Slowly, he returned his eyes to the silent suborbital space battle that was occurring directly above him. A roiling grey cloud, punctuated by flashes of lightning as an Interdictor’s plascannons claimed another victim. Thousands of ships, millions of bioform signatures, all fighting for air superiority over this tiny ball of hot, dry dirt.

If we play defence against the Myriad, Beaumont, we can’t win. They’ll learn to tunnel under the mines. Or fly over. They’ll soon adapt. We gotta hit their hatchery.

Beaumont jabbed her finger out to the sun-baked desert sands, to the thousands of Myriad corpses that lay dried out after days of sun, mixed in with fresh ones from above. "Are you kidding me? Defence is the only chance we got. We gotta hold the line here—this far, no further."

The Prophets Wept, said Marcus. Not this again.

This again, said Beaumont. We can shoot the little ones, but the big ones will come soon enough, and whatever we’ve got practically bounces off them—being shot just seems to make them madder. She flicked her visor up and spat onto the ground, a white streak in the dark blood. It’s like the Earthborn, during the Reclamation. They devoted so many units to offensive manoeuvres that we were able to hit their logistical network with impunity. That cost them the war.

Sure did.

So I don’t know why the Myriad keep attacking our strong points. You’d think they’d get sick of being killed over and over.

The Myriad don’t think like us, Beaumont. They won’t stop, no matter how many times our weapons repel them. They want this world. Casualties aren’t something the Myriad really care about or even understand.

She shouldered her flamethrower dismissively. Like you know what the Myriad are thinking.

Of course, Sergeant. Just reading the patterns. They’ve gathered strength long enough.

The Myriad were a mindless scourge, creeping over every world they came across like mould consuming damp books. Slow. Steady. Its advance was almost imperceptible and unstoppable.

Besides, I don’t know about night ops, sir, Beaumont continued. Not right now. There’s no guarantee we could even find the hatchery before dawn, and we’ve been deployed for almost two full days. Commander Wren says the men need to sleep.

Inform Commander Wren that The Yellow Scorpions’s wrath doesn’t rest. She should know that better than anyone.

Beaumont screwed up her face. Well, you know what she’s like, sir.

He nodded. I know, but we haven’t killed anything today, and that makes it a bad day. I’m not fond of bad days.

You want me to tell her that just as you said it, sir, or paraphrase?

Marcus couldn’t help but smile. Paraphrase, Sergeant. Just like always.

She gave a defeated sigh. Just like always. What a beating. As though to punctuate her words, an Interdictor—smoke bellowing from its guts—splashed into the ground nearby and erupted into flame. For a moment, night became day, bathed in warm light which faded to a subtle glow.

That’s gas, said Marcus. Let me know when we’re ready to move out. A sudden urge rose in him. Tugged at him to think harder about their supplies. And Beaumont? Bring two detpacks, one for you and me. And some rations, we might be out there a while.

Why detpacks? she asked. All we’re doing is scouting, right?

He didn’t know why. Not really. But the music had returned when he thought about them, and that was beginning to be enough. Call it a hunch.

Beaumont saluted crisply. Very well, sir. I’ll get on the comm and make this crazy night op of yours happen. I’ll get some rest…and send for your relief, too.

No, no need for that. I’ll remain on watch until the op’s ready.

That conjured a strange look. Maybe the commander’s right. You’ve been awake for the whole drop. Her tone grew exasperated. Snappy. Don’t you ever sleep?

Marcus shrugged, returning his gaze to the cloud of biomass and steel above, the bloody mist stroking the exposed lower half of his face. Not really.

ACT I

When the people lived in caves

they fought with bones and stones,

Now the soldiers live in space

and fight with guns and drones.

— Poem from The Modern Infantryman’s Guide to The Art of Warfare, 3rd Edition, page 19

CHAPTER I

It was just as he predicted. The Interdictors were beaten back, and the rain stopped. The sky buzzed with bioforms, and the rest of the platoon prepared to engage as The Yellow Scorpions hitched a ride on a Phoenix armoured car, dismounted at a forward observation post near their target zone, and then slipped into the night, Marcus at their head, detpack strapped to his back.

The blackened desert sands crunched under standard-issue boots as he and the squad moved past the observation post’s defences: land mines. Red lights flickered amber as they came close, talking to their steel implants. After a brief communication, the lights shone a solid green, permitting them egress from the mortars, autoguns, and heavy MGs that defended the high ground. The further away they got, the more untamed and wild the land became. Small shrubs, survivors of the various horrors that had visited upon the land, sprung up here and there, soon becoming a dense carpet of waist-high foliage.

This planet used to be so alive. Now Polema was a desert world, the few plants hardy enough to survive were toxic and inedible. The Myriad had eaten everything else.

The planet was green in his night vision; Polema was trying to pretend it was still alive. Even passing through the input directly to his optical implant, he could barely see a few hundred metres in front of him, but Marcus led them with the same confidence he always had. They had to move before Polema’s red sun rose, and the advantage of night was lost.

He set a blistering pace. Within half an hour, they had left the safety of anything but long range artillery. Until then, however, if the Myriad found them they would be overwhelmed and slaughtered within minutes.

The killers would be, themselves, killed. These thoughts were only an occasional indulgence. Death didn’t truly worry him.

How far? Beaumont’s commsignal whispered into his ear, her voice unusually loud in the still desert air.

We’re close, said Marcus. The ruins of nearby New Panama, the rusted skeletons of skyscrapers, distorted the horizon. He mentally adjusted his implant’s sensitivity, and then touched his ear with one hand to signal her in infrared, pointing to the ground with the other. The soil was a different shade than the flat sands under his night vision. There were burrowed Myriad here only a few hours ago. Their hatchery will probably be klicks away, maybe less.

A hatchery. The core of Myriad operations. Thousands, or tens of thousands of eggs, along with broodmothers, warriors, and other bioforms. They were always guarded, one of the Myriad’s few strategic weak points.

The plan was to find it, mark it with infrared strobes so bombers could find it, then escape. Simple.

Of course, it was never that simple. The Myriad burrowed deep, and surface units hid from orbital bombardments in tunnels in the earth. There, they cooled their bodies to hide from thermals and appeared much the same density as the sand. Once burrowed, they had to be rooted out by ground units. Infantry were the preferred tool for the task. Although vehicles could travel much faster and were significantly tougher, the vibrations would attract the larger bioforms. Even a Masada tank was no match for the greatest of the Myriad.

Plus, people were cheaper.

So it was left to the poor bloody infantry. Women and men would search each hole, crevice, and lump of sand manually, clearing out the warriors so the larger ones would be forced to fight. Not that this was routine; a warrior was easy to kill, but their numbers were seemingly limitless. Destroy one; another would take its place. The only kills that seemed to matter were the hatcheries. Take them out, and the rest would retreat and regroup.

Every tunnel to a hatchery was well guarded. Air strikes were the preferred way of sealing these tunnels, hopefully taking the hatchery with it. But sometimes detpacks—lumps of explosives that counted down and detonated once a safe distance had been reached—were another option. Finding the tunnels was miserable, dangerous, and thankless. They were often assigned such tasks, and their losses were high.

More criminals would always come to take their place, though. The Penal Legion had more in common with the Myriad than the rest of the military.

Goddamn bugs, said Beaumont. They’re hiding here. I can smell them.

Kyras flashed an infrared light over the area, enough to see by. They’re not bugs, he said, for the ten thousandth time. Fleet classifies them as arachnids.

I know that, said Beaumont. Everyone fucking knows that. Bugs is just easier to say.

Easier but less accurate, said Alexi.

Marcus could do without the bickering in his ears. Keep moving, he said, shrugging to adjust the detpack, shifting its weight on his back. The hatchery can’t be more than a couple of kilometres away. Stay on course.

Copy, said Beaumont. Two klicks. Maintaining twenty-metre dispersal. Bearing 030.

Kyras spoke up again. Why don’t we just nuke the hole and be done with it?

That’s a great idea, said Marcus. "I’m sure Fleet Command has never thought about using nukes against the Myriad."

So why don’t they?

New guys. Always with the questions. Marcus indulged him. Nukes leave radiation, he said. The Myriad can tolerate a lot more than we can; that was one of the first things we learnt. They can absorb radiation, electricity, and the like so much better than we can. The amount of firepower required to bake them will destroy what’s left of the biosphere. A dead world isn’t useful to anyone.

Fuck it, said Kyras. I say burn the whole thing. There’s nothing here but sand anyway.

Good thing you’re not in charge, said Beaumont.

Kyras’s tone turned snippy. I’d do a gas job. I’d make sure everyone gets out okay.

Beaumont laughed, a long, mocking laughter that seemed genuinely amused. Are you kidding? There are only a few ways to get thrown into the shit with the rest of us, and they almost always involve killing someone. That makes us hard. We’re veterans before our first tour. We all have blood on our hands, some more than others, and we deserve to be here. We all have our reasons. She snorted bitterly. You’d have a mutiny on your hands within a day.

I’m tough, said Kyras. I can handle it.

I’m number two, said Beaumont. You’re eight. When you’re around five, you can tell me about being tough. Until then, shut the fuck up.

Marcus exchanged a look with Alexi, one of their other new recruits. He was number five. Alexi just looked back at him, his face impossible to read beneath his visor, and said nothing. Like always.

The Legion accepts volunteers, said Kyras. We’re not all killers.

You’re technically right, said Marcus. The Penal Legion accepts volunteers as long as they wear the collar. He reached up and adjusted his, a combination tracker, discipline tool, and safeguard against desertion. Heavy, uncomfortable, irritating. Eventually, though, one became accustomed to the weight. When I joined, there had been a handful of them in the various squads. I got to know them. Some sought penance for real or imagined wrongs. Some, the thrill of legally killing for a living. Others were fleeing family, arranged marriages, or crippling debt. He smiled to nobody. One woman from Eris was possessed by the laughably naive idea that her particular holy book could bring salvation to these poor, unfortunate Myriad.

What happened to her? asked Kyras. To the others?

All of them died on Polema. The kind ones first. Living in war is survival of the cruelest; it was ever thus, and it ever will be. The strongest, meanest, nastiest bastard wins. That’s it.

The LT knows all about that, said Beaumont. You should listen. He wanted to be in this shit.

It was true. He volunteered.

Marcus had gone into this willingly, and all for no reason he could determine. It had simply been an urge. An irresistible calling that compelled him to get out of bed one day, use his computer to resign the meaningless drudgery that was his job, stroll down to the recruitment office, and then sign the papers.

People had said he was crazy. He ignored them. Within two days he was in basic training—as a volunteer, he qualified for actual training—and twelve weeks later, the cruiser, Solitude’s Echo, took up low orbit around Polema, and he was given command of ten men.

Ten had dwindled to eight. Reinforced to twelve, in defiance of convention. Whittled to six. Bolstered to ten again. Butchered back to five.

Now, here they were.

Damn, said Kyras. What made you do that?

Perhaps Kyras wouldn’t last after all. Keep moving, Marcus said.

I mean, really, Kyras continued. What’s here worth fighting for? Some iron deposits on the southern continent? Fuck that. Leave it to the Myriad, I say.

Shut your mouth, cunt. Beaumont hissed the words. "I’m damn sick of your bitching. Stay off comms unless you’re calling contact. We’re here to kill whoever and