Sudden Strike: The Chronicle of the Final Light, #2

By P R Adams

Operation Noble Defense was supposed to establish the Kedraalian Republic as a new superpower in the galaxy. It failed.

When the front line collapses, Private Avery Shetty finds himself isolated behind Oranian positions. Cut off, close to collapse, and low on supplies, he's just another forgotten member of the failed planetary defense force. Any hope of rescue starts with sneaking past the Oranian war machines hunting down survivors.

But the ground war isn't the only element of the conflict. If the combined fleet can't stand against the Oranians' unstoppable dreadnoughts, there will be no escape from the doomed planet.

There's only one chance for Avery, and time is running out.

Fans of tales of action, intrigue, and strife will love Sudden Strike, book two in The Chronicle of the Final Light series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Promethean Tales
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215373088

Book preview

PART I

1

Kedraal

Kara Goode

Freezing water woke Kara Goode. It rushed in through the ruptured metal of the cockpit frame somewhere under the console, splashing onto the aircraft floor with a dull thunder. Even dazed, the Group for Strategic Assessment operative could smell the saltiness mixed in with the smoky ruin of the aircraft’s sparking electronics. Her head felt heavy, her joints tender.

It came to her in a flash: The plane had crashed. She recalled now fighting the controls, trying to keep the nose up as lights flashed warning after warning of system failure.

And then came the impact.

A quick glance around confirmed the unconscious flight crew hadn’t handled the crash well. Any hope of the pilot surviving was gone now, his head dangling at a terrible angle. The co-pilot she’d lowered to the floor…

They’re out to get you.

As she wrestled with the belt holding her to the seat, the memory floated in and out. She couldn’t attach it to any one thing, but that didn’t make the memory any less powerful.

Someone was out to get her, and that wasn’t a paranoid thought, one of the things she always had to watch out for in her line of work.

Out to get her. Coming for her. The plane crash.

There’d been some sort of oxygen problem, and she was pretty sure that was part of the reason she had such a headache. That had been the first issue, before the fires and radio going dead and the avionics alarms.

Once she finally had the buckle undone, she pushed out of the seat, already shivering. Cool air came in through the shattered windscreen. Simply walking seemed impossible, and not just because of the water now up to mid-shin. The pants of her outfit clung to her legs, an encumbrance she’d have to worry about later. For now, she needed to get to the side door and pop it before there was so much pressure that she wouldn’t be able to open it.

When she exited the cockpit space, her eyes went to the corpse of the fellow GSA agent sprawled on the floor.

In the dying red light coming from shielded bulbs that ran the length of the interior, Ronald Shilling looked like a rag doll, limbs impossibly twisted, lifeless bulk clearly without a spine. The water covered his homely face, and for some reason, she expected bubbles to slip from his nostrils, for his eyes to open. Maybe he’d reach for her ankle and start talking about the good time he could show her.

Goode shuddered and stepped around the broken man’s form, then splashed to the door. Water bubbled up through the floor, too. The way the old fuselage showed wrinkles and tears, she imagined the flooding would only accelerate once they began to sink.

After studying the latch, she realized she’d opened a similar one during her parachute training days. That had been a smaller plane, but it, too, had belonged to the Army, and she imagined it shared a good bit with this sinking tub.

When she gripped the metal lever, though, she knew without testing it that something was wrong. It was…off.

Desperation washed through her, and she wrapped both hands around the bar before testing it. Thanks to her Genesis 5 genetics and all the training she’d undergone, she was stronger than average—a lot stronger. Her height, the intense workouts, knowing how to best use angles…

Yet the handle wouldn’t budge.

She squatted and tried to use her leg muscles, but all that did was leave her palms raw.

Exiting the aircraft wouldn’t be happening through the side hatch.

This aircraft had a ramp to it. You could stuff crate-laden pallets or a couple small vehicles at the rear. Drop the ramp, and the passengers could throw themselves out after the cargo.

Would the ramp work after taking in so much water already? If it did, wouldn’t that just sink the aircraft faster?

Her training had never gone into this sort of scenario. Who could possibly suspect that a GSA operative would be double-crossed by her own organization, set up to drown out over the ocean, hundreds of kilometers from home?

There was so much to process, and her head wasn’t up for it.

She held a hand up in the red light, saw the trembling and the way the bulbs made her warm brown skin seem bloody and dead.

Wouldn’t that be what the old woman would say about her, that she was lucky to be alive and wouldn’t have the toughness to fight through a situation like this? She was doomed to collapse under pressure, to surrender rather than being able to fall back on training meant to get her through any situation, all because she couldn’t handle difficulty.

If that was what a mother was supposed to offer her own kid for support, well, Goode didn’t need a mother, thanks.

While distracted, the water had risen to the young operative’s knees. Her teeth chattered, and her breathing had become short.

Survival wasn’t just about getting out of the plane but getting out of the water.

Goode peeled off her pants, then her coat and shirt. She powered down her computing device, then knotted the shirt around the machine to prevent it from slipping away. Next, she tied the clothing items together, sleeves to legs to sleeves, before slinging the whole thing around her shoulders and hips like a coil of rope. When it came time to swim, she could tighten everything around her hips. For now, though, she didn’t need the clothes restricting her movement.

Back in the cockpit, she tested the window that had cracked. There was still too much glass to squeeze out without shredding her skin, but if she could find something hard enough—

The fire extinguisher!

She searched around the tight space filled with the dead crew, searching for the shape of the thing rather than the color. Everything was red in the wash of the remaining bulbs.

Her eyes latched onto the protruding nozzle and the smooth slope of the top of the tank, mounted next to the navigator’s station and almost hidden by some of the plastic-sealed hardcopy maps curled inside a thick canvas sheet of pouches.

At first, she thought the clip securing the extinguisher in place might be broken, but it proved to be her shaking fingers. Once she had it undone, the metal canister came free easily enough. It felt slick to her touch, of course. Her hands were wet, the skin already like prunes.

To get to the window, she had to lean against the flight console. Just her luck, a piece of glass had hung up in the physical buttons and switches. She discovered that when her thigh stung and she saw blood—black in the red light—trickling down.

If she came out of this with nothing worse than her aching joints, a record-breaking headache, and a nicked thigh, she wouldn’t complain.

Promise. Hope to die.

After flicking the bloody glass away, she hammered the shattered window with the extinguisher. It was nice to really let loose, to work up a little heat through the exertion, to feel actual progress when the small chunks of glass punched free and slid down the aircraft nose and out of sight.

With each chunk of glass that fell away, she developed a better idea of the night outside: black, flickering flames, a cool breeze.

Things just kept getting better.

She finished clearing the last of the glass, then slammed the extinguisher against any hint of slivers jutting out from the frame before running the canister around the rim to be doubly sure.

Just as she readied to rest a hand on the frame, she realized there was no way she could be sure she’d completely cleared the jagged material. Going through would be a tight squeeze, and any little remnant would make the slice on her thigh seem like a shaving accident by comparison.

Something made her turn around, and she realized it was the navigator’s station. Her eyes went to the pocketed sheet of canvas.

Wading through the water, shivering uncontrollably, she splashed to the station. The canvas was thick, sturdy. Stainless steel snaps were all that held it into place, and those came undone with a little effort. When she had the sheet pulled away from the bulkhead, the maps made it ungainly. She dumped them into the water, now partway up her thigh.

For a moment, she stared at the floating maps, watching them unwrap and flow out toward the back of the aircraft.

She folded the cover in half, then pressed it against the side and bottom portions of the window frame. When she ran her hand over the covered area, there were small bumps, but nothing poked through.

It would have to do. Black water already covered the tip of the nose.

Squeezing through the opening should have been easy, but she couldn’t stop shaking, and her headache made it impossible to concentrate. Her coordination was gone, and panic hung at the edge of every thought.

How many kilometers out from land was she?

Had the emergency transponder fired off?

Would whoever had been behind the sabotage—and she was sure it was sabotage—send people out to ensure she was dead?

Finally, she pushed the nagging doubt away and worked through the contortions necessary to get through the opening. Once her shoulders were outside, the rest was easy enough. Still, she was cautious, not wanting to cut herself any worse than she already had.

Now out on the nose, she stood, carefully twisting around. The sense of being alone in impossible vastness hit her. There were no lights other than the moon, stars, and a sputtering fire slowly being swallowed by the sea as a meter-long section of the plane bobbed in the black fluid. Beyond that, she thought she saw a much larger section of the aircraft and realized it had to be a piece of one of the wings.

Would wings float? Were there airtight sections? Were there insulation materials that would keep something so heavy from sinking?

Without a doubt, the plane itself wasn’t going to stay afloat much longer.

She eased over as far as she could to get toward the floating piece of the aircraft, then lowered herself into the water.

The instant she sank up to her chin, she gasped. Her breathing became even shallower. Something about being nearly fully immersed made the cold worse, more dire and threatening.

To fight the chill, she kicked off from the aircraft and began swimming, clenching her jaws tight and breathing through her nose. While the fire on the sinking chunk of debris still burned, she had at least a modest way of gauging distance to her objective, but the fire went out after a few seconds, and for a moment, she thought she might’ve been tricked by an illusion and no wing segment remained on the surface.

Then her eyes adjusted, and she saw the long stretch of whatever debris still floated.

Her heart pounded, and her brain told her it was too far away. There was nothing but water out here, nothing but darkness and cold. It should’ve been warm, the sun cooking the water all day, but she thought she recalled that there was a current not all that far from the coast that kept this area colder than others.

How lucky for her.

For a few seconds, she simply treaded water, staring at the unending expanse of black, seeing the faint sparkle of moonlight on the choppy surface, and considering how easy it would be to close her eyes and nap.

Then something nudged her, drifting past the back of her thighs, and she jerked free of the distraction.

New shivering overtook her, born of the worry about what was in the water with her, unseen and hungry. Whatever it had been, the thing had been big, its surface rough. When it had swum past, there had been an unmistakable pull in the water, speaking to its mass and power.

She started swimming again, slow and steady rather than thrashing. One thing she could recall was that thrashing drew attention you didn’t want.

As she glided through the water, she tried to focus on other things besides the big shape she couldn’t see.

They’re out to get you.

The warning message that someone was out to get her was foremost in her thoughts. She recalled receiving it not long after takeoff, then remembered that she’d figured out quickly that it must have come from Diana. It had been the animation and the way the message had simply disappeared that had made the connections possible. Who else could understand the cucumber and cayenne reference?

So Diana had seriously tried to help, even though the two of them had never been friends. If anything, they were enemies, especially after Goode started toying with Walter.

Walter Kim.

Transferred out of the blue.

And the attack in the apartment.

Goode kept her strokes steady, tried to breathe evenly, tried not to think about what she couldn’t see.

Two men in her apartment. They’d stolen her computing device, but she’d banged them up enough that they’d dropped the device, and Zane had found it.

Focus on that. Remember what had precipitated—

Something skimmed beneath her, the touch of it like an emery board, the body long and powerful. It had to be the same thing that had bumped into her when she’d stopped swimming after dropping into the water.

She stopped and rubbed her belly, her legs, testing for an injury she hadn’t felt yet.

Nothing.

How many billions of things lived in the oceans, and of those, only thirty or so real threats existed to human life? In all the millions and millions of cubic meters of ocean, why had she gone down in the vicinity of something big enough to be a concern?

Something splashed nearby, and she felt a disturbance in the water around her. Then something bumped into her hard, pushing her along for a few meters.

Panic seized her, and she began kicking, began thrashing. There was training and caution, and there was the real world and a threat that casually redirected you meters off your course.

It took a moment to register the tenderness in her flesh where the thing had banged into her: bruising and maybe worse.

There was no doubt about it: Whatever was in the water wanted her.

She turned her thrashing into more disciplined strokes, summoned the rigorous training from her time in the gym, pushed aside the aching joints and tender ribs, told herself that her own genetic mother would probably be applauding the unseen monster.

The wing took on greater clarity: at least five meters long and nearly as wide, riding high enough in the water that she could make out its slick contours.

As she reached out to try to pull herself up, the thing in the water slammed into her, dragging her underwater. Teeth dug into her flesh, piercing deep like needles. She screamed out bubbles and twisted, scraping her fingers along the rough flesh of the dark thing, probing for anything she could gouge.

Her thumb slid over something smooth, and she dug in, roaring at the beast.

It thrashed then released her, and its movement nearly dragged her deeper.

For a few seconds, she hung suspended in the cold water, unsure if she was still alive, then her survival instinct kicked in, and she kicked to the surface, shrieking and sucking in air. Her skin stung, and her muscles felt too savaged to ever work again.

The primitive core of her brain told her to get out of the water before the hidden monster returned. Gasping, she spun herself around until she could see the wing again.

And beyond the wing, she saw the lights: helicopters racing over the sea, crisscrossing the surface with search beams.

They’d come to finish the job.

If she stayed in the ocean, they wouldn’t need to.

She raced for the wing, grunting and cursing, gulping and spitting out the salty liquid, hacking and stretching.

And then her fingers were on the wet metal, and she had enough of a grip to lever herself up and onto the surface. She had her torso on the wing, and when the other side didn’t flip over onto her, she swung her legs up and over the rest of the way, crying in terror as the metal structure started to tip up ever so slightly until she centered herself.

Arms and legs splayed out to distribute her weight, she searched for the aircraft and saw it was more than halfway under.

The chop of the helicopter rotors was loud now, the beams like miniature suns.

They were going to see her, and they would probably simply shoot her, knowing that her body would never be recovered. Whoever was behind this, they had resources and a twisted determination.

Just as she considered slipping back into the water and risking the stalking aquatic terror, it bumped into the wing segment, its nose visible just below the water. As big as the piece of debris was, the creature moved it. Its fin splashed, and the water churned, and it kept banging against the wing, hammering it and rocking it and pushing it up until Goode thought for sure the beast would knock her back into the water.

Her eyes went to the three blinding lights of the nearing helicopters, saw the way they were spreading out, the middle one racing ahead of the other two, speeding right for the sinking aircraft.

A fresh series of bumps and nudges drew her back to the furious creature. Its pointed head came fully out of the water, and it smacked down on the wing, tipping it down enough that she slid toward the horror before finding some traction on the wing’s slippery surface and halting her descent.

Then it sank back into the water.

Being gunned down would almost be a mercy in the face of the toothed horror.

She yelled at it to go away, but her screams were lost in the roar of the helicopters.

Instead of leaving her, the creature slammed into the wing again, this time driving it straight back, nearly sending the far side of the wing under but never quite managing it. All Goode could do was search for a grip with her palms and fingers. Her legs were spread as wide as they could go, with her thighs pressing down to keep contact with the wet metal.

For long seconds, the fish just pushed and pushed, driving the segment back without fully tilting it up.

Then it stopped and swung away, a fin breaking the surface as it curled back toward the sinking aircraft.

And Goode saw it then: bubbles bursting on the surface where the nose had been, three helicopters over the churning water, illuminating it with their searchlights, and divers plunging into the depths to bring this to a conclusion.

The stupid fish had somehow detected the divers, and it was going after easier prey.

She laughed, then cried, then slipped into a state close to unconsciousness, only aware enough to think she might have heard screams and gunfire at some point before finally fully slipping into the darkness.

2

Ferekon

Private Avery Shetty

Low trees branched wide a handful of meters above the soft, dark soil and tapered toward the top, cutting a conical shape in the early-morning light. Cloaked in shadow cast by those trees, Private Avery Shetty felt sure he was hidden from sight. His assault mechanized unit still had enough camouflage capability to mask its gray skin with ripples of black to match the dappled shade. He hadn’t moved in several minutes, which helped. When he could take his eyes off the Wolfhound’s instrumentation, he scanned the video display spread across the inside of the access hatch.

He’d slept in the vehicle, stopping beneath an overhang after following a winding gulch for three hours. By then, he’d been sure nothing was tracking him, the last sounds of combat silenced for most of that time.

After waking, he’d panicked, coming out of a suffocation nightmare to the stench of his own sweat and the stuffy air of the sealed AMU. He’d popped the hatch and sent Loki to scout before sliding out to relieve himself and stretch out the kinks of a night stuck in the cockpit.

Then he’d exited the gulch and taken a more direct route to intercept the retreating forces, all while accepting that they were likely all dead.

And that had led him to this: the tree, the shade, and, ten meters away—the corpse.

Either the Wolfhound’s seals were going bad, or the Oranians stank worse than he’d imagined. This one had been savaged by something, its shell split nearly in half where the wide disc-like portion had been separated from the extended tail section. Ropy guts spilled out from the fractured carapace, the entrails pink against the black of what Shetty assumed was blood caking the ground.

From this distance, it stank like a long-abandoned fish market, all spoiled meat and concentrated excrement.

Maybe his own stench wasn’t so bad after all.

Wind rattled the tree branches, which sounded over the AMU’s speaker system like moaning babies.

He dialed down the audio intake sensitivity and popped the hatch, reaching at first for his Scorpion submachine gun, then for the MAR-2A assault rifle. If he ran into trouble without the Wolfhound’s armor, he wanted to have the best firepower available.

Loki’s three green slits glowed, and its head rose above its small body. Private Shetty, are you exiting the AMU?

Just for a little bit. I need to stretch my legs again. They’re cramping.

You have been examining the Oranian corpse for several minutes. Would you like me to inspect it?

The little machine didn’t have olfactory sensors. It wouldn’t be sickened by the sight of a dead sentient, which was having a surprising effect on the Marine private. Odds were, the robot wouldn’t trip any booby traps, either, while having a good chance of detecting them.

But Shetty knew this was his task. You can come along with me. I’ll activate the Wolfhound’s proximity alarms.

Audio?

Shetty pulled his helmet on and tapped the side of it. Only for us.

That seemed to satisfy the little robot, which unclamped its fingers from the frame of Shetty’s piloting seat. It then clanged over to the unlocked hatch and nudged it open just enough to extend itself out, grip the opening, and roll then unfold itself until its legs stretched down the front of the vehicle.

It dropped to the ground with hardly a noise, then slowly rotated its head in a circle. No visible threats.

Thanks, Loki. Shetty stretched one leg out, then the other, dropping his butt to the cockpit floor before pushing out and planting his boots on the ground. You should be happy you can’t smell.

The video revealed what would appear to be serious wounds to the creature.

Yeah.

He rolled his shoulders, clipped the assault rifle sling to an anchor point on his armored vest, then ambled forward, head on a swivel. Closer to the corpse, the stench became so intense he could taste it, even over the foul film coating his tongue and teeth. It was all he could do not to gag. Fortunately, he’d skipped breakfast.

As good as the Wolfhound’s functioning cameras were, they couldn’t truly capture the horror of the Oranian’s mauling. He’d missed the black trail it had left before collapsing because it was lost against the dark soil and low, stiff vegetation. His unconscious compensation for the faint green hue of the display cobbled from Phan’s destroyed machine had blinded him to the dried blood being a deep green rather than the inky black he’d imagined.

And then there were the worms, or at least that’s what he called them. White, finger-sized creatures burrowed out of the ground, wriggled in the guts, and rolled in the blood until saturated and discolored to the point that only their movement gave them away.

To better stave off nausea, he focused on the Oranian’s body, trying for a detached clinical observation. I count six perforations of the shell.

Loki stepped around several worms, then ducked beneath the near side of the carcass before making its way around to a slumped eye stalk. There are eight, but two of them failed to penetrate both bottom and top armored segments.

The automaton plucked a curious worm from its leg and tossed the writhing creature aside, creating a gooey web of excretion by dusting its digits against each other. Once clear of the gore, it bent at the hips and rubbed its hands against the ground until dirt clotted in the goo and it was able to work the clumps free.

Shetty smiled. When we get back to the Wolfhound, I’ll pour some water over your hands.

Perhaps something a little stronger would be better. Do you have cleansers?

Sure. He jerked his chin to indicate the rising ground where the bloody trail originated. I want to see where this guy came from. I’m not used to seeing them without their armored vehicles.

Should you bring the AMU with you?

I think we’re safe enough. Anyway, it could really use a good airing out.

He started up the slope, moving parallel to the smelly path. Now that he had a better feel for the terrain, he realized the vegetation the dying creature had dragged itself over had been pushed down by its weight. At first glance, it had seemed the ground had been left undisturbed, but now that he knew what to look for, he could pick out the indentations left by the Oranian’s limbs and the way the vegetation hadn’t fully recovered from the weight pressed against it.

At the top of the rise, he froze, looking back to the AMU and the corpse, then down the fifteen or so meters to the wide basin of what must have been a dry lake. Not far from the center of the open space, a collapsed walking machine lay unmoving in a field of snow. Black soil showed where the machine’s massive prints sank through the powder. Along with a weaving streak of dark blood, that was the only break in the uniform whiteness.

The Marine licked his lips. I want you to stay up here and keep an eye out.

You intend to investigate the destroyed armor?

Whatever took that machine down, I’m betting it mortally wounded the pilot, too.

That would seem to indicate there is a threat in the area.

That’s why I want you to stay up here. Keep an eye out for any movement.

The proposition seems extremely risky.

Shetty shifted the assault rifle on its sling. Just stay alert, okay?

He descended, stopping every few meters to scan for anything he might have missed before or that changed as he was moving. It was a quiet, desolate place, although it wouldn’t have been just a few hours ago. From the tacky blood and the condition of the crab carcass, he felt confident the kill had happened a little before dawn and no earlier.

When he stepped onto the stalklike growths of salt rising from the lizard-skin ground, the white structures crunched. A few steps in, the sharp mineral smell of the place replaced the reek of the crab’s gore.

At the feet of the ruined war machine, Shetty took a moment to search for any tracks other than his own and the obvious trail of ruin left by the dead pilot. It was easy to see where the thing had landed after ejection and started to haul itself away, but it took real effort to locate tracks coming from the opposite side of the basin. The one clear track he found froze him in place: naked pads marked a foot wider and longer than his, with claw tips dug into the dark soil.

Anirii, he was sure.

Using the weapons built into the armored vehicle’s arms for grips, he was able to get to the top of the machine, then carefully creep across it to the blown hatch. When he studied the area around the hatch, he found telltale flakes of white salt and black soil that told him the Anirii had been here ahead of him.

No threat remained inside the comparatively huge cockpit. The Anirii must have only come to confirm the kill, then returned to the hunt.

He lowered himself into the reeking compartment, coughing and blinking away tears. Just the sight of the interior left his mind spinning. Delicate electronics lay exposed from what must have been a powerful blast or impact. Dry blood covered almost every surface, but he could still make out what he guessed were piloting controls and sensor panels. Everything showed the same sort of fine interfacing of a human-built system rather than the sort of hardened, simplistic devices he’d imagined for creatures with huge pincers. Several surfaces had what he thought must be antennae embedded in them, and a heavy wire bundle connected a slightly curved piece of metal to a mount in the left wall.

Without the appropriate tools, he couldn’t tear the electronics apart, but he already had a sense of intuitive understanding building in his head. The curve of metal gave the impression of a helmet that might be secured to the crab’s shell, and the antenna mounts could indicate wireless connectivity.

That would eliminate the need for most physical interactions with the equipment, but it wouldn’t explain the construction of the armored machine itself. Somehow, the crabs piloted these mobile weapons platforms using the delicate sticks and buttons on the console, and more inexplicably, they built those same intricate systems.

After returning to Loki, Shetty led the robot around the wide playa until they found the spot where the Anirii prints originated.

The robot scanned the area. There are no heat signatures in our proximity.

Yeah. I think this happened three or four hours ago. They’re long gone.

But you wish to pursue them?

Not pursue, no. I…guess I want to see where they operated from. Maybe they left a shell behind or something that could provide an idea of what sort of weapon they used to drop that machine. It must’ve been a pretty wicked hit. The armor around the cockpit is crumpled, and there were a few points of penetration, but most of the energy seems to have gotten into the cockpit. That’s the sort of precision we could use with our own systems.

You destroyed a war machine with the missile battery.

And maybe that’s what they did, but it didn’t leave any debris around that mechanized unit. If I can find anything to point to what they’re lugging around that can pull something like that off, I think it’s a win.

Loki didn’t protest the entire walk back to the Wolfhound, although it did offer a few observations as Shetty sprayed it down with a detergent meant to clean the AMU interior. After assurances those thoughts would be kept in the forefront of the Marine’s thinking, the robot went silent.

Eighteen minutes later, Shetty popped the Wolfhound’s hatch again and climbed out. Five bodies lay in the center of a charred mound that must have been an improvised pillbox. Sections of raised dirt crumbled to dust when he pinched them between thumb and forefinger. Meter-long stretches of cooled metal were all that remained of what he guessed must have been weapons. At the very edge of the ring of blackened earth, wind fluttered singed feathers along the head and shoulders of a sixth body that sported enough sinew and even skin that it was safe to make a guess what species had been hiding in the defensive position.

Shetty squinted at the Anirii tracks that led past this point and at the crumpled trees not so far from where he knelt. They set them up.

The green lights of Loki’s three optical sensors flashed, indicating it was processing the observation. You presume the Anirii ambushed this position?

No. I think the Anirii tricked these people into attacking that war machine or tricked the Oranian into attacking this position. Whichever one, the point was to get the Oranian pilot focused elsewhere while they fired on it.

There is evidence to support this?

I don’t know if you’d call it evidence. The Marine brushed ash from his pants leg, then jogged over to the Anirii tracks. They were easier to make out here, possibly because they’d been in a hurry. I’m pretty sure those were Iviryn. The corpses look to be about the right height and build.

Loki followed along, head spinning slowly. Is that the evidence—?

I told you, there’s not really evidence. The point is, those weren’t Anirii. Those knocked-over trees—? Shetty pointed to the spot where the mechanized unit must have come through. That’s where the Oranian came from.

This fails to provide any significant support for the proposed supposition.

It’s…I don’t know, an intuitive leap? I’m not good at this. I’m usually all about numbers and facts, but this…? He shrugged.

The robot remained silent as they followed the tracks, which took them into brush about thirty meters away. Moving through there, they lost the trail, but a faint, pungent smell caught Shetty’s attention. He followed it until he almost stepped into a shallow pit.

When he knelt beside it, he shuddered. They must’ve been camped out near here.

What is it?

It’s like a field toilet.

And sure enough, a few minutes later, he found bones and a few carapace segments. At the sight of them, he felt ready to throw up. And now we have further proof of predation.

Loki’s optics blinked as it processed the message. Bones indicate predation?

More searching produced a Marine sidearm and knife, along with a utility device and what must have been cracked chitin and cartilage. Shetty held the utility device up before sliding it into a pocket. Human remains and belongings, and I’m betting that chitin chunk is all that’s left of a Gythal.

Does this indicate predatory activity or scavenger activity? Such a distinction would seem to be critical before rendering charges.

I’m not charging anyone, Loki. I’m telling you that it looks like this was where the Anirii were encamped. He went up onto his tiptoes and searched until he spotted the blackened circle. And they could see the Iviryn position from here.

When the robot extended its neck to search for what he was looking at, Shetty lifted it and pointed it at the circle of ash.

After a few seconds, Loki asked to be lowered to the ground again. You wish to continue tracking the Anirii?

I think we have to. Something like this, using allies to lure an enemy into a trap…that’s unethical. And if we assume those body parts were scavenged, that doesn’t mean the Anirii weren’t responsible for the deaths. If anything, it might simply point to further exploitation of allies.

Perhaps, then, it would be better to hook up with the retreating forces to increase the odds of survival. That would seem the most important objective now. Without your survival, the information of Anirii abuses cannot be passed along to your superiors.

There hasn’t been a single transmission from anyone about retreating in at least three hours.

From that, you suppose the retreat has failed?

Don’t you?

They searched for more Anirii tracks, then headed back to the AMU and climbed inside. Shetty put them on the path the wolflike aliens had taken, moving slower now to avoid risk of stumbling upon the cunning creatures. In the back of his mind, thoughts of vengeance tumbled around with the freezing terror of being ambushed himself, if not by one of the Oranian mechanized units then by the Anirii, who’d apparently feasted on human flesh.

The image of Petro’s butchered corpse with its mouth stretched in agony flashed in Shetty’s mind. It was too terrible a death to contemplate.

His attention was yanked back from the horrific thoughts when heat images flashed on his screen.

He brought the AMU to a stop. Loki, you see that?

It would appear to be Marines hidden in the ruins of a building.

Marines? But Shetty saw it now: the electronic signature of battalion mates’ gear tracking across the display. Oh. No. Look. He highlighted further heat signatures, almost undetectable about fifty meters beyond the Marine position in the ruins.

You suspect those are Anirii?

Would anyone else be hiding from Marines? I think they’re planning to—

Shetty saw it then, a shape on the northern horizon, long legs striding over low brush as it hurried toward the low sprawl of debris that must have once been some sort of outpost or village.

He keyed his mic. Marines hidden in the rubble, do you copy? This is Private Avery Shetty in Wolfhound-3. I’m about two hundred meters…south, check that, south-southwest of your position. Do you copy?

Seconds passed, then someone responded. Avery? Shit. Avery? This is Erin. Where are you? We can’t see you.

Erin? She was alive? His heart raced. Um, I’m turning off camouflage. He powered down the system, licking his lips as seconds dragged by. See me?

Yeah. Yeah! Hey, get your ass in here, hotshot. We’ve got a good hiding spot.

No. Erin, listen. There’s an Oranian mechanized unit incoming.

Good. We laid out a trail for it to follow. When it gets here, we’re going to blow it to pieces.

Don’t! Listen to me. There’s an Anirii unit deeper in the ruins, about sixty meters west of you.

No way. We searched the ruins last night when we got here.

I’m telling you, they’re there, and they’re going to give your position away before you can get a shot off.

What?

Come to my position. We’ll get out of here. I’ll cover your movement, but you have to hurry. The Anirii are using League members as bait. They’re eating them, too.

Seconds crawled past, and the Oranian mechanized armor closed. What was taking so long?

Static came from the radio. All right. Hold your position. We’re coming.

Far too slowly, the Marines slipped out of their hiding spot, some cradling a big weapon between them. As they moved, the other heat signatures exited their hiding spots, at first following the Marines, then moving in the opposite direction. It wasn’t the sort of proof Loki would accept, but Shetty didn’t need to convince someone else. He knew what had nearly happened, and he wasn’t about to forget what he’d seen.

When the Marines finally reached him, he stretched out one of the Wolfhound’s arms, taking the heavy machine gun the two Marines had hauled from the rubble. He didn’t have the heart to tell them it wouldn’t have been enough to finish the armored unit off.

He pointed them back the way he came. Run. Follow my tracks. I’ll be right behind you.

They were all young, only Erin older than him, but one of them was big, almost hulking. The guy glared at the Wolfhound. Erin slapped one of the other guys on the shoulder and signaled for the rest to follow after, then they raced away, leaving him to watch the gigantic alien machine as it drew toward the ruins.

When he was sure the Marines were far enough ahead, he turned and sped after them, hoping they’d managed to escape the Oranian’s attention.

If it spied their retreat, they were all going to die.

3

Ferekon

Major Famke Teuling

When Major Famke Teuling’s Bulldog left Ferekon’s atmosphere, she eased back in her seat and breathed a sigh of relief. Her body ached from the exertion of the last day, and every time she shifted just right, the reek of her sweat slipped into her helmet. The second she got back to her cabin, she was tearing off her foul, sticky uniform and getting under a steaming hot shower. And when she was scrubbed, she was going to sleep until her next rotation, if it came.

Please don’t let it come.

That thought had come on its own, slipped free when she hadn’t even known it had been inside her.

As far as she was concerned, she was done with this war, with this planet.

Even though the mission to engage Oranian vessels in the atmosphere above Ferekon had succeeded, she’d nearly lost her sister, and just the thought of that had nearly driven the older Teuling to dangerous recklessness.

She checked her sensors to be sure Gerda’s Bulldog hadn’t gotten lost and smiled when the kid waggled her fighter’s wings, silvery against the backdrop of clouds.

Famke keyed her mic. You knew I’d be checking in on you.

Did I? The younger Teuling laughed. You didn’t say—how many did we lose?

One was too many as far as Famke was concerned, but admitting that would dishearten Gerda. They were already in a fragile situation, with Gerda’s almost paranoid views about being second-class citizens creeping toward…what? Radicalization?

No way would that happen. Famke had always been there to protect her little sister. Gerda’s views were sometimes misguided, all the abuses heaped on her enough to cripple a lesser soul.

But radicalization?

A shudder ran through Famke at the last memory of her mother, the stern countenance made unbearably cruel and ugly by starvation and her own ravings. Wrinkles had appeared in her year of isolation, and her cheeks had sunken in until she had a skull-like visage. Even in that condition, with skin as pale as milk, the woman had held her head high and had looked down upon her own daughter in disgust.

That couldn’t happen to Gerda.

Famke blinked away tears and took in the wonder of the stars, sparkling bright against the empty blackness of space. Between her and those stars were the cruising vessels of the combined League and Republic fleets. That was all she needed to see right then.

She keyed her mic, swallowed saliva to moisten her throat, then glanced over her shoulder as if she could see her sister’s star fighter. "We won’t know who made it back until we get aboard the Zulu."

But you have an idea.

Not really. Let’s get back—

Signals flashed on her sensor display: one, three, five, six.

That wasn’t possible. These weren’t human or League ships. Her systems painted the targets red, and when she tapped one, the details revealed Oranian fighter craft like the ones she’d splashed on Ferekon.

Gerda had seen them as well. You picking that up? Six Oranian—?

—star fighters. Yes. I see them.

They’re coming right for us. I’m out of missiles, Famke.

Me too.

Can we outrun them?

We can try.

Famke pushed the Bulldog’s throttle forward and checked her fuel. She had enough to get to the Zulu and not much else.

She flipped the connection to Fleet Command aboard the Achaemenid. Fleet Command, this is Major Famke Teuling, squadron commander of Marine Squadron 2. Do you copy?

Static answered, and as she readied to key the mic again, she thought that would be it, that she and Gerda were on their own.

Then the static cleared. Fleet Command reads you loud and clear, Major.

"We are two Bulldogs returning from Ferekon, headed for the Zulu. Are we on your sensors, Fleet Command?"

"Roger, Major. We are tracking two Bulldogs headed for troop ship Zulu."

Copy that, Fleet Command. Are you tracking six Oranian fighters on intercept? They launched from enemy dreadnoughts.

Seconds passed before the Fleet Command speaker returned. Continue on present course, Major Teuling.

Copy that, Fleet Command. Did you hear my last message? Are you tracking six Oranian fighters on intercept course?

Nothing but the soft hiss of static answered.

Gerda activated their private link. They’re not answering.

I’m getting that impression.

Why? They have to see those fighters. They have the best sensors of any ship in the fleet.

Maybe they have to get approval to acknowledge it.

Acknowledge what? Six sensor blips. That’s not open to interpretation. Gerda made a growling noise, venting her frustration. "And they’re firing on us. Are you seeing that? Does that need to be acknowledged?"

Famke already had her fighter evading. Even over the vast distances between the Bulldogs and the enemy fighters, rail gun rounds would be on them in the blink of an eye.

She reconnected to the Achaemenid. Fleet Command, enemy fighters have opened fire on our Bulldogs. Request assistance. Our fighters are low on fuel, and we have no missiles. Repeat, we are low on fuel and have no missiles.

While she waited for the flagship to respond, she checked her own rail gun load, then flipped to Gerda’s private connection. I have fifty rounds left. You?

Eighty.

They couldn’t hope to outrun the Oranian ships, not and reach the Zulu with fuel. Acceleration would burn fuel, and a hard deceleration would require even more.

When Fleet Command didn’t respond, she toyed with the idea of connecting directly with the Zulu and requesting support from any available Bulldogs. That would be seen as circumventing the chain of command, though. After angering the powerful Chen family years ago, the best rank she could hope for if she kept her nose clean was colonel.

But did colonel matter if she died before achieving it?

Just as she started to switch to the Zulu, the Achaemenid broke its silence. Copy, Major Teuling. We are now tracking six Oranian fighter craft on intercept course and firing on your craft. Admiral Vindman requests an update on your load-out.

Load-out? Famke couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had an appointment with the showers and clean undergarments. Maybe she’d make time for a plate of slop and something cold to drink, then it was lights out.

How could Admiral Vindman seriously be asking about what weapons she had?

Famke realized she was grinding her teeth and worked her jaw to relax it. "Achaemenid, be advised that both Bulldogs have zero missiles and are low on fuel as well as rail gun rounds. Do you copy?"

Copy, Major. Maintain your course.

The moment felt like an absurdist comedy. It was beyond improbable, dipping into impossible. Why weren’t at least the Republic ships laying down defensive fire to drive off if not destroy the enemy fighters?

Gerda connected again. They’re not going to help us.

Of course they’re going to help us. Famke sent the Bulldog through another series of jukes. They’re trying to figure out the best way to do that. You know how it is.

I know that they’re terrified of agitating the Oranians. Better to lose two Marine pilots from the Azoren camps than risk all-out war.

Stop it.

It’s true. We’re expendable. The promise that military service would grant us full citizenship was a lie. We’ll never be allowed to erase the stain, Famke.

The Achaemenid cut in. Major Teuling, be advised that Fleet Command has determined there is no viable option to render assistance without escalating the engagement with the Oranians.

Famke had to suppress her budding rage. Say again, Fleet Command? It sounded like you told me you’re leaving two of your star fighters on their own?

It sounded like the Achaemenid’s microphone keyed, then went silent, then it keyed again. Major Teuling, this is Admiral Vindman.

Thank you for answering our request, Admiral.

I’m afraid we’ve already answered, Major. We cannot render assistance without risk of provoking those dreadnoughts.

For a moment, maneuvering kept Famke so distracted, she couldn’t answer the transmission. When she was done, she simply had no energy to continue the discussion. Copy that, Admiral.

Sensors showed the enemy fighters closing, the way back to the Zulu blocked. Black spots filled Famke’s vision, and her hands shook.

Gerda killed the moment of silence. We’re on our own.

I figured that out, thanks.

The sarcasm didn’t register with the younger Teuling. Do we turn and fight?

That was what the admirals wanted, apparently, to have the two Marine pilots go out heroically. Looking at the fleet arrangement, though, Famke had a different idea. "No one aboard the Achaemenid or Zulu’s going to disobey orders, no matter how badly they disagree."

Who’s going to risk their necks for us?

It’s not about us, Gerda. This is about careers.

If you say so.

I am saying so. Famke’s eyes went to the League ships. They were farther out from the Oranian fighters than the Republic ships, and some of the larger vessels were significantly closer to the Bulldogs. Change course. Stay on my wing.

She angled toward the closest of the League ships, dropping speed and making the maneuver seem like an evasion tactic rather than a tactical repositioning. For several seconds, the Oranian fighters didn’t adjust, then they apparently figured out something was going on and turned to parallel the Marine star fighters. With such a heading, they couldn’t bring their fixed rail guns into play.

Famke smirked. I think it’s time we see what our League allies think of Fleet Command’s decision.

For minutes, the Oranian fighters continued their pursuit without overtaking the Bulldogs, then as the Marine pilots came closer to the League ships, Famke accelerated again before turning back toward the Republic fleet.

Gerda followed as ordered, but she wasn’t happy. What are you doing? They’ll have broadside shots at us.

And they’ll be firing on League ships if they do it.

The League is under Fleet Command.

Maybe. Let’s see.

Famke recalled the way League fighters broke when the Oranian dreadnoughts showed up. That had put Fleet Command in a tough position, forcing them to redeploy their own star fighters. Maybe the League would find its own way once more.

With a clear broadside profile on both Bulldogs, the Oranian fighters wasted no time, opening fire with their rail guns and launching missiles. There was no time to watch for the League ships’ reactions, as Famke had to immediately go into defensive twists and rolls to avoid the incoming attacks.

As she’d hoped, the closest ship opened fire on the missiles, blasting them before they became a threat.

With their missiles detonating harmlessly, the Oranian fighters swung away, splitting into two groups of three.

One of those groups curved back around to come at the Bulldogs from behind, avoiding any risk of hitting the League ships, but the other group banked and opened fire on the big ship that had destroyed the Oranian missiles.

Gerda was just as shocked as her older sister. They’re attacking that Gythal cruiser!

Let’s focus on our own problems.

But even as Famke brought her Bulldog around to take shots at the Oranian fighters that had elected to avoid provocation, she wondered at the enemy pilots now firing on League assets.

Were the Oranians looking for an escalation?

Gythal defenses flashed as they blasted Oranian missiles and shields deflected rail gun rounds, but nothing seemed to be aimed at the fighters themselves. Famke had no limitation on her response, though. Fleet Command had clearly left the two Marine fighter pilots to contend with the enemy threat.

She squeezed off short bursts at two of the closing craft, then pulled up, banked, and rolled around.

Her system flashed red and warned of a lock-on, then went silent.

One of the Oranian fighter craft exploded, then another.

Gerda squealed in delight. They flew right into my sights!

We’ve still got four to deal with.

The survivor of the group that had come around to attack from the rear now arced over the Gythal ship and out of sight. Before Famke could react, Gerda said she would pursue the fighter.

Famke still had thirty rounds left, and the three Oranian fighters seemed occupied with the cruiser, swirling around and pelting it with concentrated bursts of rail gun fire. If any damage got through the defenses, the Gythal might see her as responsible, and who knew what that would mean for the already-fragile League relations. From what she’d heard, the Gythal weren’t popular with other League members, but they were also the wealthiest and most advanced by far.

She managed a wide turn without drawing the attention of the Oranian fighter pilots, so she lined up below one that was diving at the Gythal ship. The pilot must have seen her coming in, because it adjusted at the last second, banking away from the cruiser.

It wasn’t enough to escape all her shots. One of the rounds mangled the rear of the big fighter, and a second later, fire vomited from the shredded fuselage, followed by a bright explosion.

Now it was three on two—much better odds.

That thought died when the two Oranian fighters on her sensors abandoned their strikes on the capital ship and turned around, coming for her.

Her console flashed, and an audible warning sounded in her ear: Fuel low. Ammunition low.

Maneuvers chewed through fuel with amazing speed, and now she would have to spread her last rounds between two fighters probably well stocked with fuel and ammunition.

At least they seemed to have wasted the last of their missiles on the cruiser.

She flew beneath the massive starship, taking away any opportunity for the enemy fighters to come at her from above. If they wanted to strike her from two angles, they would be angles she dictated.

Famke connected to Gerda. How’s it going?

This one’s not as stupid as the other two. I’m running low on fuel, but I think I’ve got him.

Watch yourself.

Telling her younger sister that she wasn’t the only one low on fuel and ammunition would’ve been an unnecessary distraction.