A 2/49 meets the face of battle for the first time as a training exercise turns into something far less innocuous. The company finds itself outnumbered, outgunned, and outclassed — but resilient to the end.

And we're back! The third chapter of Steel and Fire and Stone is where things start to get interesting. We see more going on with the beleaguered Alrukhan, and the company faces their first baptism of fire. It's almost like these plots will converge at some point? Maybe! As before, share and enjoy, and as always please chime in with criticism and feedback!

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Steel and Fire and Stone, by Rob Baird — Ch. 3, "Into the jaws of Death"

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Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered.
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The Charge of the Light Brigade" 

Over the radio, as they headed back, she heard someone else confirm two vehicles destroyed by the other section in her platoon. For her own part, Corinna was a little disappointed that their own part of the patrol had amounted to less — they had been so close to the action! But Lieutenant Bishop had wanted to keep her section separate, just in case additional support was needed, and Corinna supposed this was probably for the best.

The platoon's mechs were all stored in the same hangar. After she had secured her own, she hopped lightly down from the cockpit. Chanatja, the white shepherd, was talking to Tamara Szanto, his own section leader; when she left, she watched the dog pull out his canteen and drain the contents in one long pull.

"Thirsty?"

He shrugged. "A little. Panting takes a lot out of you. Ko yani dhulgitit ran dhulzhait tach —"

She waved him to silence with a paw. "English, please."

"Oh. Sorry, sergeant. I... I have been on edge ever since we first got that contact report, that's all. I never thought I'd be so happy to see this..." Trailing off, he indicated the curving walls of the hangar above them.

Corinna smiled a sharp-toothed smile. "I guess it probably won't be the last time, won't it?"

He frowned, and then shook his head. "Probably not."

"You did good, though. Straight up ka pai." Some of this was self-reassurance. The thylacine had feared, early on, that they could not possibly live up to the task that had been set before them — that, in the face of the enemy, they might flinch. She herself could not say for certain — but she took heart from the professional way that Szanto's men had taken out the Chinese hoverdynes. "It was proper interesting to watch, I'll tell you..."

The shepherd had dark, pensive eyes, and these looked past her to the open sky beyond the hangar door. "It may be," he said, "that it was a bit less interesting to be part of, at the time."

In the debrief, Bishop suggested that they had gotten lucky — in general the Kingdom's sensors were superior to their own, and while Confederate intelligence believed the Kingdom to have a numerical advantage it wasn't so great as to suggest they'd be making similar mistakes twice. All this meant, so far as Corinna could tell, was that they were to double up on patrol strength, and keep an open line back to Fort Seward, with its artillery and its support aircraft.

Officially, they had acted properly. The two hoverdynes had crossed the border into territory owned by the Confederacy. Kaltrig was a relatively remote planet, and while it was important neither country had yet committed the resources for a drawn-out struggle. Bishop advanced the hope that the skirmish would've blunted their intent to see how far they could push the corporations. "For now, maybe we can go back to the sitzkrieg."

And they announced more exercises. Corinna was beginning to question their value. Now that they knew the enemy was out there, the firing of blank rounds, the rote repetition of checklists and protocol seemed a pale imitation.

By the evening, Corinna thought that the mood seemed to have lightened up, at least — distance and time were potent anodynes. At dinner in the mess hall, Astra the muskrat held a spellbound audience:

"... Well, you better believe I had the MLQ-30 on, but we'd waited so long they were in visual range anyway. And after somebody missed..."

Tremaine huffed, his ears drooping. "Came close. Computer said it was good..."

"Of course," Astra teased. Then she left the Labrador alone, turning back to her audience — her dinner entirely neglected. "We were evasive, but you can only put it off so long, so I spun up the APEC and had it ranged for their likely trajectory — had to guess that. Then — pow! 'Missile launch!' goes STAR. And Sergeant Ajay's all, like, 'jamming, Astra!'" She shrugged, as though this was nothing, and reassured her audience: "We were ready for that, of course."

"I am having the Jackal at the full limits of his articulators," the leopard added.

"MLQ-30's trying to burn out the sensor, but as soon as they cross the maximum engagement range... bam!" She struck her fist hard into the open palm of her other paw. "Trashed both missiles in under a second and a half. First two bursts!"

Tremaine had more to say about their second salvo. Corinna gathered that this, too, had been a feat of marksmanship, unparalleled in human history. Around them were eight or so moreaus — no humans — from the other platoons, who had heard about the battle but had not been close enough to see anything, even on their mapping holograms. Chanatja, she saw, was absent, as was Zeus, the marten who drove the other mech.

This intrigued her, and she decided their opinion was liable to be more interesting. She discovered the former in a far corner of the barracks. He was holding a book, and his muzzle moved at intervals so that, at first, she thought he was reading aloud. When the thylacine drew near, though, he lifted his ears to a half perk, and removed what proved to be a chunk of rawhide from the side of his muzzle.

"Hello again, sergeant."

"Kia ora," she smiled, and leaned over to grab a chair, dragging it with a tortured groan across the floor. The shepherd's ears flicked, but he remained still. "Didn't feel like dinner?"

"Ate already," he said. "Didn't feel the need to stick around for the company, is more like it."

"Reading instead?"

He tapped a button on the book, so that when he held it out to her the screen showed the title: The Keep at Twilight. She recognized the name, of course. It was one of the polemics advanced by the Starlight Faction, a loosely affiliated group of rebels and terrorists. They had been born on starships and space stations, asteroids and remote mining outposts, and they felt they deserved a voice in the Confederation congress. Officially, at least. Mostly, at least according to the Confed news sources, they were malcontents who lived for anarchy and destruction. 

Corinna was appropriately skeptical of this explanation. "How is it?"

"'Laws exist for the commoner only, not to foster his safety but to foster his transgression,'" the shepherd read aloud. "'It is by this that the owners of power mean to keep us in bondage. This is a lesson learned early, and quick-forgotten, but it remains as true now as when Loustalot first declared it during the French Revolution: Les grands ne nous paraissent grands que parceque nous sommes à genoux. Levons-nous.'" His pronunciation was atrocious, and she did not speak French.

"What does that mean?"

"The great we see as great only because we are on our knees," Chanatja said. "Let us rise."

Corinna dropped heavily into the chair, crossing one long leg over the other. "Yeah? You believe that?"

His eyes met hers. "Maybe," was all he said.

She leaned back, nodding. It wasn't particularly seditious. The company they served in was, in any case, evidence both of their capability and the zeal with which they were kept isolated. "Gonna start mixin' up molotov cocktails?"

"No." She remained quiet, and finally he explained further. "There's room for nuance between inaction and violence. But in any case, I guess that's not what I'm curious about. The way the Confed treats the Starlighters... well, if nothing else it's nice to know we're not the only ones they keep on a leash."

"Ah," she sighed. "Fuckin' dezzies."

"Yes." He looked at his book, tracing his claw along the edge of the screen. "Now, did you want something?"

"Naw. I noticed you weren't hanging out with your crew."

"They were more talkative than I felt like being."

"You want me to leave you alone?"

He set the book aside, turning it face down. "No, I guess not."

"Can I ask ya a question, then?" He nodded. "What was it like? I mean — really. 'Cause me, I only heard it over the radio."

Chanatja looked to her, and then sighed heavily. "What part?"

"I guess, I mean... you ain't ever fought before, have you? Were you... scared?"

Reaching for the rawhide, he pressed one corner of into the side of his muzzle and chewed on it for a few seconds. "Maybe. I'm not sure. You know, I think it was the waiting that was the worst part. We knew they were coming closer to us, just... just didn't know what we were going to do. When they had us locked up, it all sort of happened too fast to be frightened much."

"Afterwards?"

"It has been more... confusing." The rawhide muffled his voice a little bit. "I've been trying to figure it out. I looked it up, and the Type 105 hoverdyne they use has a crew of three, just like our mechs do. Three, and maybe six passengers."

"Yeah?"

"Well. So I killed them, didn't I? I mean," the shepherd clarified, "that's not saying much. They make it very easy. All you have to do is pull the trigger."

This caught her off guard, but she nodded softly. Before enlisting in the Colonial Defense Authority the thylacine had been a nurse, and before that she had cared for children. Some degree of maternal instinct had been bred into her by her designers, and she was helpless to resist it. "You feel... unsettled about that? Conflicted?" 

"Worried." 

Corinna had come to the shepherd wanting a clear picture of the engagement, free of the bravado the mess hall had required. Now, though, the shepherd's sudden vulnerability made that desire seem childish — almost petty. "You're worried it's getting to you?"

"No." His ears flattened, and he chewed fiercely on the rawhide a few times before shaking his head. His voice was quiet, and his eyes left hers, cast downwards. "I'm worried that it hasn't."

 

*

 

Alrukhan was not certain why the Vice President of Concept and Design would want to meet with him. John Clinton did not seem to be particularly surprised, or concerned, but the Ibizan had learned that people generally did not seek out his kind for idle conversation.

His suit made him look ridiculous, and he hated wearing it. In the barracks they tended to stay naked, and his work clothes consisted of a vest and loose-fitting pants. The cheap suit fit him well, but it muffled his body language and clashed badly with the colors of his fur.

"Mr. Spears will see you now." The secretary hadn't seemed enthused by his arrival, and when he stood, smoothing down his suit awkwardly, she regarded him with cold eyes.

The vice president had his own office, behind heavy doors made of real wood. His secretary opened them for the Ibizan hound, and he stepped through to find a cool room, dimmer than the bright lights of the lobby. The marble floor was pleasantly chill against the pads of his feet — they did not sell shoes for moreaus, and he refused to submit himself to the indignity of having ones specially made.

"Sit, sit." His eyes had yet to adjust to the room, but his big ears swiveled to the sound. When he could see again, he was looking at the stout form of Taavi Spears, whose own suit clung to him as though a very part of him. The material was soft, and absorbed the light rather than reflecting it. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course, sir," he said quietly, and took a seat that faced the man's bulk across a desk of shimmering glass.

"How are you?"

"The 398E is faring well, sir." Alrukhan kept his ears splayed, and while Spears could not see his tail the dog hoped the submissiveness matched his expectations.

"The what?"

"The dog, sir," he explained. "Its name is 398E-SIM."

"You do that third-person nonsense?"

He lowered his ears further. "It is generally expected, sir."

"Drop it. What's your name, again?"

A little confused, he forced himself to bring his ears back up, so that at least they were not pinned against his head. "Simak, sir. Mr. Clinton calls me 'Simmy,' but it is not my official designation."

"John says you're a good worker. Is that true?"

"Yes," he answered, without hesitation. "We're a good team."

"Your last evaluation has you at straight sixes," Spears said, reading off a computer whose screen was the flowing liquid of the glass. As he drew his fingers over it, scanning the paperwork, his gestures left ripples that spread out until they reached Alrukhan's side of the desk. "You seem to be pretty good. Angie said she was impressed by your whitepaper."

"Angie, sir?"

"SVP of Competitive Intelligence. Angie Andersen. She said it displayed clear signs excellent strategic thinking. That's not quite in your mandate, is it?"

"Well... no."

He chuckled, and struck the desk lightly, dissolving the evaluation form in a flurry of bubbles. "We need that. We need you dogs to think outside the box. I'd like to reward you for that."

Alrukhan blinked in surprise. It was hard to know what to make of this; generally one rewarded dogs with an absence of pain, or a bit of food suitable for human consumption. These did not require explanation beforehand. "You would, sir?"

"Well, you know what our process is for sourcing non-human computational resources, generally. We put in an order form to GeneMark or Trimurti — generally the former — and a couple months later we get a new box. It's very hit or miss with them. We always get something reliable; rarely something exceptional."

"Right..." He still could not tell where the conversation was going.

"So why not work with a known quantity? We know you're capable of good work. Who else is? Who's the best other dog in your barracks?"

The Ibizan hound had large, red-brown ears, and these swept back now, caught off guard by the question. "In terms of..."

"If you had to pick a... well, I guess you don't really do love, do you?" Taavi shrugged. "If you were to pick something to mate with, which one would it be?"

His ears flattened further, and he curled his tail slightly between his legs. "Do you have a license?" The Incorporation Treaty that had, finally, recognized moreaus as sentient beings had included an official line requiring that they be able to conceive children. Unwilling to lose control of a lucrative opportunity, the corporations generally responded by indoctrinating them against the subject — and it was manifestly illegal for a customer to try to breed their own.

Still, they tried, for all sorts of reasons — wanting to be free of licensing restrictions and corporate control, wanting to make their own 'special' animals. Taavi smiled, his teeth an unnatural white. "Don't worry about that; we'll take care of the details. I'm just asking who you'd pick."

"Without a license, I'm not sure..."

The smile faded a little. "I'm doing you a favor, Simak. Don't throw it away."

He tried to think over the dogs he knew from the barracks. Kiro was too passive, and besides, he thought her marks were not especially good. On the other hand... on the other hand, there was an opportunity to be had. The barracks were generally segregated — arbitrarily, but the corporation saw no need to let too many moreaus mingle at once. Who did he know in another barracks? "397Y-PIP," he finally suggested. "Piper. She's in Dr. Gladwell's team."

Taavi wrote the name into the desk computer. "So I see. Decent fitness reports... relatively good qualifications. Are you genetically compatible?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?" The smile had returned; he was working quickly over the computer. "It looks like she's in another unit. I'll have one of the private rooms reserved for you two to get acquainted."

"Sir," Alrukhan said, softly, keeping his voice deferential. "I really don't think... I mean... I know her only at a distance, sir. I'm not sure it's such a good idea..."

Taavi looked up. "You don't get to make decisions, dog. I said I was doing you a favor, and I meant it — don't mistake my kindness for anything more. Have fun tonight. It was nice meeting you, Simak."

"Sir —"

"Out."

Back in the barracks that evening, Kirokud was waiting, eyeing him expectantly. "Was there any trouble from your meeting with Spears, Rukkich?" They had, always, a sense of apprehension from such things; it was not infrequent that a dog was asked into a private meeting and did not return.

"It was puzzling," he said. Alrukhan did not mean to be evasive, but he had not quite decided what the purpose of the encounter had really been. Had Spears simply been feeling him out? A complicated balance guided their interactions: DEC wanted their moreaus to be reasonably independent, because they needed independent insights. On the other hand, moreaus that were too free-thinking were nothing but trouble — the Incorporation Treaty had resulted from the misbehavior of a privately owned dog named Atwood, who had violated the terms of her contract and successfully argued the case. 

Alrukhan was a decent employee, in the sense of turning around reliable work. But he harbored darker sentiments, too; he believed that he had kept these reasonably secret, but there was no telling the extent to which Lewis Arrington or his comrades spied on them, and they had to have at least one quisling that was willing to translate the Nakath-rukhat.

Kirokud probably knew what he had been up to — but she never pried, and so he chose the simplest explanation possible for what had happened: "Basically, they want me to mate with one of the other dogs."

"They have a license?"

The Ibizan shrugged. "I don't think so, to be honest. They either want more dogs like me, or they want more dogs, period — without having to pay our creators any more money. So they're... ah... putting me to stud."

"With anyone in particular?"

"He asked me to pick."

She tilted her head, and her soft ears lifted. "Oh, good! Do we get a honeymoon, too?" 

Her voice had been teasing; he laughed, and shook his head. "Not you, Kirrich, dear."

"Not me?"

"I don't know what's afoot," he said. "And until I do, I don't want to put you at risk."

That was entirely truthful, although not the only reason. He liked Kirokud, and enjoyed her company — and her warmth, sometimes, when the barracks heating went out. But she was rather disappointingly orthodox, and even in a completely free world he would not have chosen her as a partner. She didn't seem especially wounded, anyway. "Who are you putting at risk, then?"

"397Y-PIP, in Gladwell's organization. Do you know her?"

Kiro's face furrowed quizzically, her floppy ears flicking. "Piper? Iskoshunja?"

The name, which Alrukhan had not heard, meant sharp teeth. "Perhaps it's metaphorical?" He knew that she had a reputation, which was part of the reason he had chosen her.

"She bit a handler, when she was younger. They keep her around because she's better than 2C." '2C,' which was the first part of both Kirokud and Alrukhan's formal names, meant 'two centuries': a nominal IQ of 200. This was tested against analytical exercises and little more; the moreaus were, for all practical purposes, meant to be employed as living computers.

"I'll be careful, then?"

Kiro licked his muzzle, as was her habit, and then nuzzled his cheek. "You'd better be!"

Piper was already waiting in the little room Arrington led him to; the door closed behind him solidly, and he considered himself committed. "Hello," he said — in English, for the benefit of anyone who might be eavesdropping from outside.

"Hey."

Piper was officially a corgi, one of the last of those lines. She was short, with stocky limbs, and oversized ears much like his own. These flicked, over white teeth flashed by a slightly curled lip. He sniffed at her curiously, and discovered that she had no particularly conspicuous scent. Pointedly, she did not return the gesture. "My name's Simak."

"Piper. Why am I here?" She had shifted seamlessly into Nakath-rukhat for the question.

He took a step back — no point in causing more trouble than was necessary. "We're to mate, and have children," he answered in the same language. Dogspeak was not inclined to circumlocution of simple concepts, which neatly prevented miscommunication.

There did not seem to have been any. The corgi bristled, her hackles going up and her lip curling further. "No we're not."

"This was not my idea," he said, firmly. "I'm just telling you why we're here. That's what you asked."

"Whose idea was it?"

"Taavi Spears, Vice President of Concept and Design. He wants a new generation of employee moreaus, I believe."

"Of course he does," she growled. Piper had a puppyish face, and an elegant color pattern — she might've been cute, even, save for the fire in her eyes and the sharp glint of canine teeth. "They all do. A new generation of — ah, ukkokhda!" The oath had no clean translation — it referred to something whose smell was so objectionable it was not even worth rolling in. She did not seem wedded to Spears' idea.

Neither was he, but he wanted to feel her out. "Well, I gathered, anyway..."

"Employees," she snorted. "You mean servants."

"No," he tried. "Not for personal use. I think he just wants them for the workroom floor..."

She waved her arm in irritation, and the white of her paw as it traced the arc reminded him of light, flashing on a drawn sword. "Wake up, you damned fool. If they can breed their own Nakath at will, then we're slaves — nothing more. That's what they want." She paused, fixing him in stony eyes. "Try and I'll bite it off, Simak."

"I haven't moved," he pointed out. "Calm down."

"Your womb," the corgi shot back, "is not being commandeered for the subjugation of your race. Hey —" she pointed at him, to counter a rebuttal he had not yet made. "Don't act like I'm being too extreme. Either I own my damned body, or I don't. Or do you think it's a coincidence? Everything they do, it all comes down to that. Inflicting pain, taking our food, making us wear their clothes. It's all about ownership. Yassuja, you worthless dogs — sometimes you're our own worst enemy."

Enough was enough. "Iskoshunja?" The corgi paused, and answered with a questioning growl. "I'm Alrukhan."

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked him over. "Really?" He nodded. "Hmph. Why the act, then?"

"I wanted to see what you were about. They told me I could pick anyone. Why do you think I picked you?"

"My figure?"

He rolled his eyes. "You have a reputation for being a bit of a troublemaker. Me, I keep my paws clean — but I'm more like you than you know."

"I have heard your name before," she admitted.

"Right. But they don't let us meet often — I had to take the opportunity. How is your barracks? Are you the only one, or..."

Piper shrugged, the gesture as weary as it was derisive. "There are a few — not enough to plan anything. Dr. Gladwell is, you see, a very kindly master." She emphasized the words with a bitter sneer. "Nobody wants to upset the established order."

"Spears is a bit less agreeable. His warden is particularly harsh. There are about a dozen of us, in my barracks... we haven't been found out yet, but I suppose it's only a matter of time."

"I have four. Four I can rely on — two I'd trust with my own life. We've started preparing our contingencies..."

"Do you know anyone in gamma barracks?"

The shake of her head was slight. "We don't get to talk much."

"Then it's just us. And we'll be separated soon enough."

She tapped her foot thoughtfully, claws ticking against the smooth plastic floor. "No. Not as long as we can keep them thinking we need to be together..."

"Well, this meeting was supposed to have a specific purpose. And that only really takes once, you know."

"Maybe." Piper started to pace, her steps measured. "Or maybe not. I'm still on suppressants for my hormones, after all. And that presumes I'm even willing to go along with you, right? So tell them I was playing... what do the humans say... 'hard to get'? They're not very smart. They'll believe you — long enough to come up with a plan, at least. If you're in it for the long haul."

He was. Indeed, secretly, the Ibizan found himself overjoyed. He had picked the corgi hoping from her reputation that she might be an amenable partner, but she was already well ahead of him. Contingencies? Comrades she could trust with her life? His polemics, the harsh whispers in the long barrack nights to sympathetic ears, now seemed hardly sufficient. "The long haul?" he asked.

"We're at war, Alrukhan, my friend. We're at war, even if they don't know it yet — the humans or those poor souls in the barracks both. That takes warriors — if you're ready to fight."

He gave her a toothy, wolfish grin, and her eyes flashed cold fire when she answered it in kind.

 

*

 

In the weeks following their first skirmish, Chanatja had had some difficulty adjusting to the combat exercises. It was not, he decided, that they seemed artificial — that there wasn't enough at stake. More, it was that they failed to hold his attention. But they ramped up in scale and intensity, day by day — a show of force, he gathered, as much as anything else. All the preparation gave the air the heavy feeling of a building storm.

This latest one had been major — involving the whole of their battalion and Lieutenant Colonel Muramatsu's 1st Battalion, in large-scale maneuvers in the woods to the west of Fort Seward. Pointedly, the shepherd knew, this was in the opposite direction of their enemy. The operation had been a little bit more involved, a little more exciting — there was artillery to be dealt with, and organization between the different units. 

"Empty base," he muttered. The revetments and hangars that would normally be full of other vehicles stood bare as Ajay guided the mech back through the front gates.

"Their turn for exercising next," Ajay said. "Mosely's units are practicing now. Levi's battalion, too."

"Ah..." Chanatja nodded. They had crossed the threshold back into their parking area; he flipped the switches on the Rooijakkals' cannons and rockets to put them into safe mode. Even knowing the answer, it was a bit eerie to see Fort Seward so devoid of activity.

"That's why we had no air cover for our op," Ajay said. "All being reserved for this exercise. It was in the briefing."

"Was it?" He had been starting to skim those notes, as they tended to be irrelevant to his own job — weather forecasts, secure radio frequencies, and other formalities. "Well, alright. I'm safe, sergeant."

"Me too," Astra added. She sounded tired — but then, countermeasures and signals were mentally taxing. "Everything's off."

Ajay rolled his shoulders, and the mech twitched with him. Then he settled it into place, flipped a few switches, and the lights in the cockpit dimmed and faded to the dying whine of the cooling fans spinning down. "Reactor safe. Been fun, as always."

It was early morning, and the air was bitterly cold, baring its teeth at the golden light that spilled over the hills to their east. The operation had taken most of the night. The white shepherd stretched himself out.

"Breakfast, Chanla?"

Astra had joined him at the Jackal's left foot. He nodded. He was not especially tired — there was still some adrenaline left from the exercise — but that would ebb soon, and perhaps a full stomach would speed the process. "Sure."

The moreaus of the section did not always eat together, but arriving at the same time helped; when they reached the food line in the mess hall, Chanatja found that Tremaine and Zeus had already found a table. He took a plate of sausage and toast before joining them. 

"Hey, Channich," Tremaine waved.

"Alhakhnan goru, jananga."

The labrador grinned, and his ears half-perked comfortably. "Dhallatha shiran, janhata?"

How was he? Chanatja shrugged. "Laza hakhalka kud." The exercise had not gone exactly as well as the phrase implied, but there was no point in being grumpy about it. 

"Zada —"

"Dogs." Zeus cut them off with a glare. "Talk like I can understand you, huh?"

"Sorry, boss," Tremaine said, with flattened ears, and then turned back to Chanatja. "Are we on watch, or are you gonna crash?"

"Crash," the shepherd laughed hoarsely. "Definitely."

"Hey," said a new voice. "Is there a space free?" It was Tamara Szanto, the section leader. They paused for a moment, startled by the strangeness of the request, and then Astra scooted over obligingly. "Thanks, private. How's everybody?"

"Uh... good. How are you?"

"Tired, Zeus," Tamara admitted. "Like all of you. I thought it went well, though. Not perfectly..." She took a long swig of her reconstituted orange juice, making a face. "One of these days they'll get it right. Anyway, I do think you should know that Sergeant Benjamin's section got 92% of their artillery on target. Care to guess what we did?"

"Ninety-three?" Tremaine asked. A few of the other moreaus chuckled.

"Just under 80," Szanto corrected. "Now, I'm not too upset about that. Surveys have found that under combat conditions the expected average in a 30-meter radius of the intended target is right around 70%. But I think we can do better in these exercises."

"Where does the error come from?" The speaker, Rekha Two-Two, was a Trimurti jaguar, and the gunner in Szanto's command mech. "We can fix it?"

"Couple places," the human said. "One is improperly calculated slant range. Remember that if your MVAS is in 'strict' LOS mode, it will ignore the compensated range calculator. That's faster for close-in engagements, but the error at long range can be pretty severe. So you'll want to switch to... to..." She trailed off into a yawn.

"'Compute' mode," Tremaine offered.

"Yeah. Anyway don't stress too much. We'll cover that in the next sim. For now..." Another yawn; she shook her head with a shudder, clearing it. "For now, let's figure we all just need to get some good, solid rack time. 'Cause the thing is..." She blinked. "What is it, JK?"

Specialist Brunner was a shepherd like Chanatja, except in more traditional tan-brown. His ears were pricked, swiveling. "Is that the fire alarm?"

They froze — then Chanatja could hear it, too, a deep, buzzing whine rising into the keening wail of a stricken animal. It held at a high pitch, fell, and started up again.

"Oh, shit, it's in attack mode," Tamara gasped. The siren was growing in volume, the warbling pitch biting and sharp. When it stopped, the silence was just as jarring — then the intercom clicked on.

"Hostiles inbound. Man all defense platforms. I say again: the base is under attack. Man all defense platforms. This is not a drill." Then the siren began its keening, banshee wail once more.

Around the table they looked at each other, eyes wide. Chanatja was not consciously aware of springing from the bench seat, nor of sprinting for the exit of the mess hall. Outside, Seward was a rush of activity; men raced with him, running to the hangars.

Ajay reached the mech before him, but just barely. The shepherd flung himself into his seat, flipping switches, following his startup checklists even before he was aware that he was doing it. Ajay was doing the same thing; Chanatja heard the complaints of the computer every time the leopard pushed the emergency-override button: "Emergency. MWS test... aborted. ADC test... aborted. CTRS test... ab — ADC align t — PAWS self-test —"

"Ready," Ajay shouted. 

Chanatja's panels were coming to life. "Ready," he echoed.

"Ready." He could not even tell when Astra had joined them; she was still fumbling with her harness, but all the lights on her control panel were lit. 

"Durandal, this is Skoll. Standing by." Ajay slid the cockpit closed. Even through the glass they could hear the drone of the siren. One by one, the rest of the section checked in.

"All units, this is Durandal. Weapons check."

The shepherd switched over to his weapons overview, and then his ears pinned. "Ah, fuck. Thirteen rounds, Ajay. They didn't have a chance to rearm us after we came back."

"Rockets?"

"Sixteen HE, eight incendiary, eight smoke."

Ajay growled, and his head dropped. "Durandal, Skoll. One-quarter cannon, one-half rocket."

None of them were much better off — ordinarily they would have been rearmed by the base crews, but those had been absent. Probably, Chanatja realized, taxed by the other exercise — which also meant that all the other mechs were off, too far away to support them.

"This is Durandal. Move out," Bishop called over the radio. "Follow me, fifty meters dispersion."

The mech lurched upright. "Eyes open," Ajay ordered. "Tell me if you see anything."

But for now there was nothing to see — only the chaos of activity around the base, as they all struggled to get into position. The tiredness was abruptly gone — but Chanatja had no illusions. Their reflexes would be dulled; their perception, diminished... "Does anybody know what's going on?"

 

*

 

"Goddamn it. Does anybody know what's going on?" Tindall cinched the harness straps until they were too tight, letting the pain draw his senses to useful narrowness, focused on the panels and the holographic map before him.

"Airborne recon has massive numbers of enemy units in from the east, sir. Fifteen minutes out." Jamar Curtis was his sensor operator, a clean-cut warrant officer who had been with CODA for nearly two decades. His voice held none of Tindall's irritation. "They're in the arty kill zone now."

"Oh, yeah, that'll help," Arnie grumbled. Without spotters the artillery would be falling at random — for all intents and purposes completely useless. "How did they cross the sensor picket?"

"We shut it down for the exercises earlier."

"Of course," he groaned. "And where are those units?"

"Two hours north, in the dry lakebed. I'm sure they're being recalled, sir," Jamal pointed out. "But we'll already be in contact by that point."

Tindall started to reply, but the radio came to life. "Apache 6, this is Dakota. Over."

His radio operator was a young dog, looking earnestly to Tindall for instructions as he clicked the radio on. "Dakota, this is Apache 6. Send, over."

"Dakota. Apache 6, sitrep, over."

"Switch the radio to me," Tindall said, and waited until he could feel his microphone go active. "Dakota, this is Apache 6 actual. Company is standing by in grid quebec golf 1763. All my mechs are running, but we are short on ammo and are out of contact with the enemy. Advise. Out."

When he zoomed his holographic map out, he could see a glowing red cloud drifting slowly towards them — somewhere in this cloud, so far as their intelligence was aware, lurked their attackers. "Dakota. Apache 6, we estimate hostile forces in reinforced division strength. Forward line of enemy movement is east of your position two-zero kilometers. Heavy armor with artillery support. No air assets. We're moving the battalion to secure the area between hill 292 and hill 265. That's a weak point in our base defenses. Move your company to grid quebec golf 1861. Get hull down and stand by for further orders. Over."

"Apache 6, wilco." Tindall dragged his fingers through the holographic map, painting movement orders on it. "What's the word on the rest of the PIG, Dakota? Over."

A beat. When Dakota came back on the line, the voice was different. "Apache 6, go secure, over."

He tapped in his authentication code, and waited for the "TRANS SECURE" light to turn green. "Go ahead."

"Arnie, it's Kala. We're not gonna get those guys back."

Tindall froze. "Sir, did I just hear you right? We're not —"

"The training op was a diversion, captain. CODA launched an all-out attack on the Kingdom's operating base this morning. Mosely is heavily engaged, and most of our air support is backing up that assault. We need to buy her some time. You understand?"

He shut his eyes to gather his thoughts. "Understood, sir."

"Godspeed. Dakota out." The radio went dead.

With a little hesitation, Tindall pressed the button on his display marked "OOB." In order of battle mode, he could see the movements of everyone on the battlefield. Half of the 4th Heavy Division had landed on Kaltrig; the rest was still back at Fort Fidchell. With General Mosely's division on the offensive, this left only two brigades to guard the approaches leading to Ford Seward — and now, Tindall saw, Colonel Levi Roland's 3rd Battalion had been assigned to the 'training exercise' now underway in hostile territory. The 49th was understrength, and they were outnumbered by at least two to one. 

He swiveled in his seat, looking towards the radioman. "Alright. Tell Sergeant Eisenberg we have good news..."

 

*

 

None of Sergeant Benjamin's maps brought any clarity to the situation. Like spilled blood the forward line of the enemy advance moved closer, but there was nothing to define its edges — nothing but a sea of acoustic signals and electromagnetic noise. She paged through the different view modes restlessly. A one-line alert on the display told her that an artillery battery was now ready, listening for orders.

But for anyone to call in a fire mission, they would need to know where the enemy was. She thought about what the white shepherd had said: it was the waiting that was the worst part... 

"They're gonna come over Dead Lake Ridge," Corinna told the others. "We'll see 'em first there. So watch the ridgeline."

"If they're smart, they'll soften us up first. They have rocket artillery, right? So that ought to be our first warning." Bester had his MVAS, the Multispectral Visual Augmentation System, at maximum zoom, sweeping over the ridge. 

"Maybe," Corinna agreed. "APEC?"

"Mode 2," Suresh told her — semiautomatic mode, to conserve their limited ammunition. "We'll be in range of their artillery any moment now."

As if on cue, she heard Silverberg call in on the radio. "Hildr — incoming!"

Corinna looked to Suresh, who was leaning into his computer. "How many tracks?"

"Five... seven... eight... ah, 837, sarge. Looks like about forty are headed in our direction. Six too close for comfort."

"Counterbattery?"

Stennis laughed hollowly at Bester's question. "Against what? I've got thirty origin points. You'd need a good-sized thunderstorm to cover that."

"They'll be moving anyway," Corinna gritted her teeth. "Bugger — time to impact?"

"Thirty." Suresh's voice had a fatalistic calm. "Fifteen. Ten... nine..." The APEC opened up with a grunting buzz. The other mechs were doing the same — she saw little bursts of light flaring on her display as they found their targets. 

This left more than seven hundred artillery rounds — the world around them erupted in a rush of heat and destruction. The Rooijakkals shuddered, caught between a dozen shockwaves — then dirt and stone was rattling down on them, and Bester had to use the wipers to clear the worst of it from their cockpit.

"This is Sigrun. Everybody okay?"

"Rota. We're good."

"Hildr. Good."

"They're firing again," Suresh said darkly. His eyes never wandered from his computer; his fingers found the right controls entirely by touch. "Nine hundred and seventy-two inbound tracks."

"How many on us?"

"Hold on. Uh. A hundred and sixty, plus or minus four."

Corinna instantly knew what had happened — their enemy's artillerymen had been able to see the holes in their bombardment where the rockets had been intercepted. They could easily oversaturate the point-engagement guns. She squeezed the talk switch: "Section, evasive maneuvers! Now now now!"

"Brace yourselves," Bester growled. Opening the throttles up to emergency power, he brought the mech to its feet and threw it into a sharp backwards leap, twisting in midair so that they landed, sprinting. "Suresh — where to?"

"Left 20, about a hundred meters. Looks safe. Fifteen seconds to impact."

This time the shockwave knocked them forward, and Bester was just barely able to keep the Rooijakkals on its feet. "Get back into position," Corinna barked, and then repeated the command into her radio. "We can't let them push us back. Hold the line."

"Hildr, tally four — six — fuck, tally multiple inbound hostiles, one zero zero, on the ridgeline."

"Durandal to all units: weapons free."

The thylacine forced herself to focus on the hologram before her, setting up firing arcs for the section. "Hildr, take everything between markpoint delta seven alpha and delta seven bravo. Rota, you take between delta seven bravo and delta seven charlie. Bester, Stennis —"

"Got it," Bester nodded, swinging the mech back around and into position.

"Maintain fire discipline and do not leave your designated zone. Other than that — engage at will. Sigrun out."

"Red — tally, one-zero-four, seven thousand."

Stennis's movements were cold and clean, gripping the controls for the big railguns. "Got it..."

"Incoming. Eight hundred and sixty-four tracks inbound. Eight high priority."

"Gimme a second," Stennis protested. "Ready!"

Bester dropped the mech. "Shoot!" The Rooijakkals shuddered — Stennis was only firing one barrel at a time, and they swayed with the differential jolt of the recoil.

"Hit. Ten-seven," Suresh called out. "Bester, bring us back sixty meters and we can clear the worst of this. Twenty to impact."

The Rottweiler pulled the walker back up, fast enough that it stumbled; he swore, caught himself, and leapt back for safety. The rockets were tearing up the ground — it was soft and spongy, yielding beneath the Jackal's heavy feet. 

They took longer than Corinna wanted to get back into position; now the Kingdom hoverdynes were beginning to crowd her sensors. She had to trust Bester to sort his targets. The radio was chaotic — their enemy was attacking across a broad frontage, and they simply didn't have the firepower to keep them at bay. 

Their next target met its end in a blinding explosion as its antimatter containment ruptured, disabling two of its companions that had gotten too close. Good — but now they were taking direct fire from the tanks, accurate missile barrages that kept them constantly dodging.

"Ready."

"Shoot."

"Miss." 

"Fuck! Ready!"

"Shoot!" 

"Hit, seven-three. High explosive rounds aren't worth a good goddamn," Suresh muttered. 

"I'm down to nine rounds. Six KAP, three HE."

Corinna balled her right paw into a fist, and keyed her microphone. "Durandal, this is Sigrun. We're winchester here. Over."

"Sigrun, I'm working on it. Over." Bishop's radioman sounded harried.

"Sigrun. What about artillery? Over."

"Sigrun, contact Cobalt directly for fire support. I can't help you. Durandal out," they said, curtly.

Cobalt, she recalled, was one of the artillery batteries — which implied that they did not have a dedicated fire observer supporting them. She tried to figure out her priorities. Most of the Kingdom's tanks were seeking out valleys that kept them safe from the worst of the Jackal company's harassment. "Cobalt, this is Apache 3-1, fire for effect, polar, over."

"This is Cobalt, fire for effect, polar, out."

The thylacine traced a line through her map, mind racing. "Direction 1778, distance 6600, down 200, over." Cobalt read back the instruction calmly, far more calmly than Corinna felt. "Tanks in the open. PATCH, over."

"Tanks in open, PATCH. Authenticate oscar hotel, over."

She typed the letters in, watching for the confirmation code. "I authenticate foxtrot, out."

Cobalt was a six-gun battery, several kilometers behind them at the fort. She watched the markers for the rounds in flight arc gracefully through the holographic display — waiting, counting down the seconds... The impacts tossed up gouts of snow and dirt — and then a roaring wall of flame, flashing brighter in places as the Precision Anti-Tank rounds found their marks.

Surely... she thought to herself. Surely nothing can live through that... But then even as she watched, the dark silhouette of a Kingdom hoverdyne pierced the chaos, its missile launchers swiveling, hungry... 

"Ready!"

"Shoot."

The tank seemed to stumble in her sights, rocking onto its side before it boiled over into a jet of white-hot flame. "Hit, ten-eight," Suresh announced the sudden, fiery end of the Type 105 and its crew.

"Seven rounds."

"Switch to your rockets," Corinna told him, and then keyed her radio. "Durandal, this is Sigrun. About that rearm..."

 

*

 

Wayne Eisenberg's face was rendered in hologram, faint and a little fuzzy. Even so, Tindall could see the stress on his features. "Two mechs destroyed, one disabled. Right now, we're holding. Arty's helping, but much closer and it's gonna get real uncomfortable. Reinforcements?"

Tindall shook his head. "General Fielding is keeping the 1st of the 24th in reserve. But until they cross the red line, we're not committing. What's your read on their intentions, Wayne?"

As the other man leaned forward, Tindall saw markers starting to appear on his combat observation map. "They're going to try to force a wedge between these two points." Tindall nodded; he agreed with Eisenberg's assessment. "If they do that, they'll cut us off completely. We'll need to stop them before they can, only..." Eisenberg flinched, and a few seconds later Tindall felt the concussive thud of an explosive shockwave hit his own mech. "I don't see that we can stop them right now."

"Cross that bridge when we come to it."

"We're going to have to pull out anyway," Wayne said; he was drawing possible paths away from the ridge they currently held, shielding them as much as possible from the missile fire of their foe. "Either this route or this one." Two of the paths flashed in turn.

"Why are we retreating?"

"Running out of things to shoot with, sir."

Right. Tindall bit his lip, scanning the map. "Get Altai out there. Hot rearm the platoons on the ridge. Start with Tai's, then Bishop's, then the rest."

"Altai?"

"They're manned, aren't they?"

Wayne's dark face furrowed. "Yes. But, sir, due respect — they're completely unarmed."

"Of course," Tindall said, more brusquely than he had really meant. "And in ten minutes, Bishop and Tai will be, too. Get 'em out there."

 

*

 

"Three." They had three rounds left for the Rooijakkals' main guns.

"Noted." Ajay was facing forward, his head moving in slow jerks as he monitored the rocky horizon in front of them. "Two tanks, right one, six thousand."

"Tally." Chanatja centered his targeting indicator over the leading tank, and was greeted with a flashing error message. "Can't hit them, Ajay. Can you come thirty forward for me?"

"This is putting us over the edge of the hill."

"I know."

"They'll shoot us."

"I know."

Ajay swore, quietly, and then inched the mech forward, up the hill — hoping to find the sweet spot where they could fire without facing the wrath of Kingdom missiles. But no — as soon as the error message vanished from his targeting screen, Chanatja caught Astra's warning of incoming fire. "Missile launch! Two — no, wait, four — evasive maneuvers!"

The error circle that had been patiently shrinking suddenly gaped wider as Ajay jolted the mech to the side, upsetting the complicated electronics that kept the cannons pointed at the right target. "Damn it — take it easy!"

"You can't," Ajay grunted, and the Rooijakkals lurched heavily, "both get what you want."

The shepherd gritted his teeth and started aiming again. "Just a couple seconds..."

"Sidestep, hard right, now!" Astra shouted, and again the mech jumped. When they landed, skidding into the dirt, the APEC started firing, and Chanatja saw the bright flash as the rounds met their targets. "Missiles trashed."

Chanatja tried again; the indicator flashed green. "Ready."

"Shoot!"

The railguns took more time and energy to fire — but once they left the barrel they could not be jammed. Chanatja squeezed the trigger, sending one of their precious rounds hurtling towards the foe at three kilometers per second. The hoverdyne vanished — he saw trees and rocks blown outwards by the shockwave — and its companion paused and began reversing hastily.

He tried to figure out where it would reenter their vision when the radio stole his attention. "Altai 1-2 to Skoll, squawk 6242 and ident. Over."

Ajay, just as caught up in the hunt, twitched, glancing around and then punching buttons on the transponder. "Skoll, 6242 and ident. Over."

"Altai 1-2. Got it. Skoll, move back three hundred meters to UDL markpoint echo seven papa for rearming when ready. Over."

Chanatja's ears quirked. "They're rearming us in the field?"

"Braver than I thought," Ajay nodded. "Or more desperate."

"I'll take it either way..." 

When they followed the indicated path they found some cover, and the big Rheinmetall Tarvos hovering a meter over ground strewn with flung rock and shrapnel. Chanatja kicked open the rear hatch and jumped through it, landing heavily and rolling back onto his feet. Sergeant Carla Martin was waiting, shouting over the roar of the Tarvos' engines and the Rooijakkals' cooling fans: "combat mix?"

"Just AP," he shouted back. "We're only fighting tanks."

She nodded, and leaned into the microphone clipped to the lapel of her uniform, echoing the request. A moment later her loadmaster appeared — he, unlike the both of them, was wearing heavy ear protective cups. He moved like an automaton, reaching into the cargo bay to return with a six-round clip. He handed it to Carla, who took it easily, and then passed it to the shepherd.

"Yassuja," he grunted — the cargo jockeys made it seem easy, but the clip weighed more than thirty kilograms. His muscles strained, guiding it to the open feed hatch for the port-side cannon. A magnetic clasp grabbed it, pulling it up into the mech, and spitting it back a few seconds later — empty. 

He couldn't feel the cold, or the biting wind, or the sharp rocks beneath his feet — if he stopped to think about these things he would've missed the next clip being handed over. Carla and her loadmaster moved like clockwork — he saw them pause only once, flinching when the APEC on the Tarvos opened up, and a moment later the one on the Jackal did the same. It was a rough chatter, a shouting growl directed at things Chanatja couldn't see — and without the augmentation he couldn't tell if they hit anything. But no rockets landed, and they continued their work.

Four for the left; four for the right. She gave him two more clips, and these he shoved through the open hatch into the crew compartment — just in case they might need them. After reloading the APEC, too, the loadmaster vanished again, back into the Tarvos. For a moment, Carla stayed outside. "All set?"

"Yes."

"Good hunting."

"Thanks." He nodded; she turned away, and he started to reach for the handle to pull himself up into the mech when he caught her pause. 

"Hey — Chanatja?"

"Sergeant?"

She offered a tired, lopsided smile. "Stay safe, okay?"

"I'll try."

Carla nodded — then she was racing again, making her way back into the Tarvos' cockpit. He followed her lead, pulling himself up and into the cabin of the Jackal and strapping back into his seat. Now he felt the cold, and the burning heat of exertion; his limbs screamed at him. Shaking his head, he forced the pain back. 

"Let's get back into the fight, Ajay."

As they jogged back to the ridge, he hazarded a glimpse at the tactical map. Then he wished he hadn't — it was confusing, and chaotic, but it was painfully clear that they were beset across a wide front. Even the area held by their battalion seemed tenuous — markers for suspected Kingdom hovertanks swarmed just beyond his visual range.

He decided that nothing good could come from contemplating the bigger picture. Either they would be victorious, or not; it was largely out of his hands. Ajay was calling out targets; he switched his sights on, checked the loadout, and zeroed himself back in.

 

*

 

Tindall did not have a choice in considering the larger picture. A vague sense of personal optimism was being heavily taxed by the practical realities of the battle, which he believed was turning against them. Across the front he saw half a dozen potential breakthroughs waiting to happen; they had only one reserve battalion, and it could not possibly plug all those possible gaps.

Only one was his to deal with, confirmed by a flashing message on his map: "A 2/49 to prevent enemy from advancing, sector COLUMBUS south." A valley cut between two steep walls left a natural approach for their opponent, where they could be shielded from a great deal of the fire Tindall wished to call down on them. He tapped the message to view an expanded version of the order and sent a reply, signaling that he understood the request and would do his best to carry it out.

Practically, he did not exactly know how. "Mr. Curtis?"

"Sir?"

"Sector threat picture."

Jamal sat behind a bank of monitors crowded with information; Tindall could see the colors flickering in his glasses. "Severe, but hard to disambiguate. Last orbital flash had them hitting Columbus with two battalions. EM puts it at brigade strength, but that's probably decoys. From the volume of incoming fire, I'd say ninety plus are directly engaged in our sector."

Arnie brought his hands together, intertwining his fingers and staring at the holographic map beyond. "So they're mostly targeting the north, then."

He nodded. "Dayton sector is taking major incoming. Everything's a mess up there but there's gotta be two or three brigades hitting between Dayton and Toledo sector. The 24th is getting hammered."

The terrain in the north, which opened into sloping plains, was more suitable for the fast-moving hoverdynes and the aggressive attacking style they preferred. If the Kingdom offensive broke through, they could simply outflank Lieutenant Colonel Moulden's 49th Brigade — deprived of artillery support or reinforcements, the mountains and valleys would only buy their mechs so much time before they were overwhelmed.

But, Tindall realized, this meant that the Kingdom was comparatively weak in their area. A counterattack could threaten their flank, and the rocket artillery pouring fire into the 4th Heavy's defensive lines. He tried different perspectives on the map, considering their potential options. "Mr. Curtis — are they mostly south or north of the river?"

"South, sir. I've got EM signals north, too, but call it 70-30."

The Kingdom had been compelled by the environment to split their attacking force on either side of the river canyon. The river itself, which fed the iced-over Dead Lake that lay below them, was too fast to have frozen, and rocky enough to compromise a hoverdyne's gravity drive. That suggested the Kingdom needed to reach the lake itself before linking their forces again, and that meant that a well-timed thrust could pin most of their tanks against the river, where they would lose the advantage of rapid mobility. Which implied —

"Sir?"

It was his radioman, Miller. "Specialist?"

The dog's right ear was bent downwards, pinning his radio earpiece in place. "They've crossed line Joseph, sir. Colonel Weathers is ordering 2nd Battalion to displace."

Tindall swiveled his map to find the line marked 'JOSEPH' flashing orange, with the burning red of enemy forces pressed right against it. "Noted." He summoned Sergeant Eisenberg; a second later the man's hologram appeared. "Wayne, we've got problems."

"I see that."

"They've just crossed the disengagement line in Toledo sector. We need to put some pressure on these guys. What's the company health?"

"Three destroyed, three disabled. Parker is still waiting on resupply, otherwise the ammo situation has stabilized. How are we tactically?"

"Right now we're holding them. But they've got to see that lake as a weak point for us. And if they cross it, we'll have to pull back."

Indeed, his own battalion's disengagement line, Francis, neatly bisected the lake — although all of their mechs were far too heavy for the ice there, it would present no obstacle to their foes. "Their artillery will murder us on the withdrawal. We've got no cover anywhere on that axis."

"I know." Tindall circled a point on his map, and he saw Eisenberg glancing to the new icon. "We need to take hill 273, here. If we can do that, we can keep them off the ice and enfilade their whole line up to hill 292." 

Hill 273, which sat at the near end of the lake, was unoccupied — but Eisenberg pointed out the obvious problem. "Try to move on it, and we'll be taking fire from at least two sides." By this he meant the tanks along the river, and those on the ridgeline further to its south — both of which existed in greater number than their own.

Tindall took a moment to check the disposition of his company. He had positioned Lieutenant Parker's platoon to the north, overlooking the lake. "So let's do this. After they rearm, we'll displace Parker west and order them to take cover and hold fire. Let the Kingdom think we've run out of ammunition."

"Bait them to cross the lake?" This was slightly dangerous — if the hoverdynes took the opportunity, they could move before his company could effectively respond. "You think they'll take it?"

That, Arnie was less concerned about. "Even if they don't buy it, what do they care? They can brute force us there anyway. If we can draw them to the other side of 273, though, we can stay in defilade until we have the high ground. That just leaves the ridge, and we ought to be able to counter them."

"Risky."

"Aggressive. You can't attack backward, Wayne."

"First and Fourth to take the hill, and Third in reserve?"

"That's the plan."

He intended to explain further, but Miller spoke up. "Sir — your radio. Channel four." The dog's voice was tense; Tindall frowned and switched frequencies, turning up the volume in his headset.

" — Distance 800, down 80, over." The voice — his map indicated it was someone in the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Armored — was even more strained than Miller's, edgy to the point of panic.

"Direction 947, distance 800, down 80, out."

"Copper — final protective fire, attitude 5780, danger close, over!" 

"Jesus Christ." Without waiting to hear the readback, Tindall muted the radio and turned back to Eisenberg's waiting hologram. "Weathers' 2nd is calling for FPF," he explained. This, final protective fire, was a last-ditch attempt to keep the enemy at bay — at least long enough for an orderly retreat. The logical consequence flowed without his even thinking consciously of it: "They're going to have to commit the reserve to the north or be overrun."

"So if we push the south, we have no support."

"Yes. That's what the in 'the reserve' means." The added risk was dulling his aggression. "Wait out, sergeant. Specialist Miller, get me battalion."

"Dakota, this is Apache 6, over." A pause; then he looked to Tindall expectantly. "Sir?"

"Considering what's going on up north, do we have new orders?"

Miller inclined his head in understanding, fast enough that the radio unclipped itself from his ear and he had to fumble to put it back. "Apache 6. Actual wants to know if we have new orders, given changing tactical situation. Over." Then the dog blinked, his ear flicking.

"Well?"

"Uh. I would call it a strong negative, sir."

"Any additional details?"

"No, sir. They hung up."

"Great." Tindall turned back to his hologram, and reactivated the channel to the secondary command mech. "Alright, Sergeant Eisenberg. Second platoon will pull back to hold a line directly west of the lake. When the enemy advances, First and Fourth platoons will hook east, using the slope of hill 273 for cover, and then secure the hill itself to flank that advance." He drew the path he desired on the holographic command map.

Wayne stared at it thoughtfully, and then drew a second line over it. "I'd cut this maneuver here, sir. You'll lose cover on that advance, but it'll save three or four minutes, and that could count for a lot."

Tindall weighed the options briefly before nodding — in any case Eisenberg had more experience than he. "Fine. We need to push that as fast as we can, then."

"Understood."

"Now, I want you to support that assault directly. Lachance and I will join Lieutenant Parker, but I need your expertise down there."

Eisenberg raised his head, looking straight at Tindall through the link. At best, Arnie was asking him to take fewer than twenty mechs against sixty or more of the Kingdom's hoverdynes. But he raised no objection before nodding. "Understood."

"Let me know when you're ready. Tindall out." He closed the link and cracked his knuckles. 

"Sir. Message from Dakota. The reserve is now engaged in Toledo sector. Division's pulling in air support from the attack on the enemy base, but the situation is... um. Critical. We're preparing fallback positions two kilometers west. Signal for general retreat is 'Talos.'"

"Alright." If he focused on the map before him, he could almost ignore the cold pit tightening in his stomach. "Specialist, put us on the company net and tell the platoon to stand by for orders."

 

*

 

"This is Durandal. FRAGO follows. Enemy forces have achieved a limited breakthrough in northern sector Toledo. We are expecting an assault along axis bravo four. Alpha company will counterattack vicinity quebec golf 2242 to reverse this advance. Our mission is to provide support to the company by acting as a reserve. Calu, hold position at grid quebec golf 231, 623 and observe enemy indirect fire. Sigrun, hold position at grid quebec golf 235, 623 and identify possible targets for batteries Cobalt and Carbon, providing fire support for this operation. We have no other supporting assets. Do not engage or expose yourself to enemy fire. Be ready to move immediately. Over."

Benjamin stared blankly at her own map. The signals reports from Apache 3-9, seated in Bishop's Swartrenoster mech, were not especially clear, but there couldn't have been fewer than three or four armor companies facing them, and their captain intended to launch an assault with just over half of one. She swallowed, forcing herself to answer the radio. "Sigrun. Wilco. Over."

They had been ordered to move south, out of the line of fire. They could no longer see Dead Lake Ridge; everything about the battle was now second-hand. This made her antsy. Occasionally bright lights flashed in the sky above them, as Kingdom missiles were intercepted; more often they struck home, and the dull thud of the explosions was a constant thunder that rumbled against the skin of their vehicle. The six-centimeter armor felt singularly thin.

Bester, she saw, was no less nervous; the Rottweiler was gnawing on his paw, his muzzle jerking as his eyes flicked over what they could see of the horizon.

"This is Blackfoot 2-6 to Apache 3, message, over."

"This is Apache 3-6, send, over."

Vallis Carignan's company was immediately to their south, hard at work trying to suppress the ridge. "Blackfoot 2-6. We're taking incoming fire from enemy tanks at 065. At least nine discrete contacts. Apache 3-6, can you support? Over."

The lines on Corinna's map that pointed to those contacts were fuzzy, indicating a low degree of precision. They could find out more — but they had been ordered to sit tight. "Apache 3-6. Negative, over," Bishop's radioman answered.

As she watched, one of the icons in Bravo company disappeared: a Kingdom missile had found its target. The thylacine shut her eyes, shaking her head with a quiet oath. "Bester, are we ready to move?"

"Soon as they give the word."

Fire from Lieutenant Hattie Parker's second platoon was starting to dwindle. The supply section Tarvos trucks were nearby, but she supposed they hadn't had the chance to rearm. An order to displace came in over the radio. 

Without that fire to check them, the enemy tanks pounced — picking up speed even as Corinna watched, sweeping down the river towards the frozen lake. Then Captain Tindall ordered Lieutenants Tai and Tam to attack, and she divined his purpose: the two platoons could take the hill that overlooked Dead Lake, striking their opponent's vulnerable sides.

At the same time, she realized that the attack depended on Parker's ability to hold off a frontal assault ten times her strength for as long as it took for the other two platoons to get into position. On the smooth ice of the lake, the hoverdynes made swift progress. Parker called for assistance on the radio, but now the bulk of the hill between them kept anyone else from intervening.

Bester growled — then stiffened. "The lake."

"What? Oh — oh, fuck — the lake!" She switched her microphone on so hurriedly her claw slipped from the transmitter, nicking her finger. "Carbon, this is Apache 3-1, immediate suppression grid quebec golf 226, 633, authentication whiskey alpha, over."

"This is Carbon. Immediate suppression, grid quebec golf 226, 633. Out."

She had no idea what the guns were loaded with; perhaps PATCH rounds, the clustered anti-armor rockets she had asked for earlier. Perhaps, if she dared to hope she was lucky, high explosive. She heard Carbon call "splash" and watched the indicators for the artillery rounds strike the lake.

Hidden as they were by the hill, she had no way of observing the effects directly. The explosions were enough to shatter the ice, splintering it into huge chunks. Hoverdynes like the Type 105 were equally at home on water as on land — but they required a stable, predictable surface beneath the antigravity skirt. With it disturbed, a dozen tanks lost their footing and plunged into the cold water, or were crushed between the shifting floes. 

This Corinna could not see. But she heard a sudden whoop over the radio from Hattie Parker's command mech, and a few seconds later the oncoming wave of Kingdom tanks seemed to break, falter, and pull back away and off the lake. "Carbon, this is Apache 3-1, repeat!" She glanced to Bester. "They're pulling back — we've done it."

"Don't count yer chickens yet," he cautioned. "They still outnumber us three to one."

"Damn sight better than before."

"Damn sight," he grunted, nodding. "But don't count 'em."

Indeed, Tindall's mechs had secured their objective, hill 273, but they held it only for half a minute before all hell broke loose. Deprived of their initial target, the bulk of the Kingdom's attacking force wheeled on the two platoons, unleashing a sudden missile barrage that took out three Jackals in the first salvo.

In close quarters, the Rooijakkals was at a disadvantage — its guns could traverse only as quickly as the mech itself. The Kingdom's tanks were more agile, and their missiles could fire at nearly any angle. Corinna saw the sudden re-reversal of fortunes even as it was happening: twenty tanks had peeled away from the rest, and were rounding the base of hill 273 to box her comrades in. They were too close for artillery, and now terrain hid the tanks from Parker's remaining forces on the hill.

"Apache 3, this is —" 

The radio clicked, and a different speaker cut in, his voice stern: "Apache 3, this is Apache 6 actual. Engage enemy armor at 020. Prevent them from closing at all costs. Over."

"Apache 3-6, wilco, out. All units, cleared hot. Engage at will."

Bester already had the mech moving, bounding forward. Bright red icons flashed onto Corinna's screen, and she tagged them as fast as she could. "Contact! Tally four, twelve o'clock. Hildr, take the left one. Rota, take the right one. Stennis — take those bastards in the middle out."

"Missile launch," Suresh warned. "I need evasion."

She heard the whistle of the rockets launching, and before the Jackal wrenched hard to the side watched the snow burst into sudden, incongruous flame beneath the oncoming tanks. One of the missiles passed them with only meters to spare — the shaped charge vented its fury in a jet of plasma, and shrapnel clattered over the side of their walker.

"Left 20 and I have a solution," Stennis called out. "Ready!" 

They skidded over the snow as Bester dropped the mech. "Shoot!"

"Hit! Bester, come right ten — there you go — ready!" 

"Shoot!"

"Hit!" 

"Hard left, right fucking now!" The fennec's voice had more energy than she'd ever remembered hearing. Bester pulled the Jackal up, but even so the shuddering kick of a nearby blast seemed to propel them just as much as the mech's artificial muscles did. "Breach in the starboard reactor pump. We're venting coolant. Bester, kill it."

"Got it. Switching to auxiliary."

"Throttle back. You run on emergency and we've got fifteen minutes to meltdown."

Bester turned around to shoot back, hackles up with the tension. "I run on normal, we don't have the power to evade these damn —"

"Contact," Corinna warned. "Left eleven. They'll clear the ridge in ten seconds." She looked at Stennis, who nodded his head curtly. 

The Type 105, a sleek, angular, deadly looking thing, crested the hill into the line of sight. Its missile battery was already firing.

"Ready." 

"Shoot!"

"Miss. You're short," Suresh barked.

The mech's starboard window darkened, and it took her a moment to realize it was the light shield dimming to protect them against some powerful, nearby flash. Then the Rooijakkals jolted, spinning wildly. 

"Rota, mayday, mayday, mayday!" She could hear alarms in the background of Sergeant Ranalaatuk's transmission.

"Ready."

She watched the missiles leave the rails just as Bester ordered the shot. Time slowed. She could see the wandering track of the rockets as their guidance fins flexed. In that moment Corinna imagined she could even see the kinetic round as it punched through the hoverdyne's armor; the way that forty tons of metal and composites bowed and rippled with the impact before shattering outwards like a burst balloon.

"This is Rota, we —"

The radio cut abruptly. Dreading the answer, Corinna switched on her radio. "Rota, report status."

Suresh's voice filled the silence. "Red, cage your stabilizers and reset. That missile we took unaligned your scanners. I can't manually correct every shot for you."

"On it."

Corinna mashed the transmit switch again. "Rota, report status."

"They're gone," Bester said; his voice was icy. "Two direct hits. Red, tally one right two. You online again, or do I need to pull back?"

Stennis's reply was a feral snarl. "Let me at 'em."

"Thirty-two degrees."

"Ready!" 

 

*

 

"Bishop's lost three destroyed or disabled. Can we bring Parker in, sir?"

Tindall shook his head. "They already have visibility over the enemy's flank. Moving her closer won't help."

Eisenberg glanced upwards; even through the hologram Arnie could see the flash of a near-miss. "Sir, I consider our objective to be at serious risk."

The larger picture was slightly better. The reserve battalion was now heavily engaged to the north, but the breakthrough had been contained. A stalemate along the middle of the line was beginning to yield, thanks to constant barrages from the artillery batteries that could no longer shoot at Tindall's targets for fear of hitting friendly mechs. 

He had the sense of large things in the balance — of being balanced precariously atop a very sharp fulcrum. But his company was now battered, and beginning to run out of ammunition — for the life-saving APEC anti-missile guns, if nothing else.

If he withdrew Bishop's platoon, which was being savaged, he would allow the two platoons on the hill to become surrounded. He could attempt to pull back from the hill, which would save the company at the cost of accomplishing nothing for their sacrifice. Or he could do nothing, in which case they would be ground down to extinction.

The plan had seemed very clear in his mind, like a perfectly executed chess game. Move, countermove, checkmate. The first part had gone smoothly — a bit hairy at first, when a barrage of missiles had rained down so close he could smell the spent fuel drawn in through the air circulators.

But now the Kingdom's forces were enveloping his in a tightening scarlet fist. "Specialist Miller, I need to talk to Dakota." He had advised them of his plan; they had approved it. It was all going to hell, and he could not see a good exit strategy.

Miller, free of this existential crisis, nodded, and a few seconds later the radio in Tindall's ear went live. "This is Dakota, send, over."

"This is Apache 6 actual. We have stalled the enemy's offensive in Columbus but my men are heavily engaged and severely outnumbered. Please advise. Over."

Major Ketterer answered. "Dakota. Apache 6, you need to hold your position. Over."

Another round of missiles flashed glaring icons on his display. "This is Apache 6. I have one platoon standing by to be overrun and two more in serious jeopardy here. My position is extremely tenuous. Over."

"Understood, Apache 6, but you need to stay put. I'm trying to help you out, but you have to hold that position at all costs, Apache. You are not to displace unless specifically ordered. Over."

Tindall watched another light flicker out on his map. He gritted his teeth: "Wilco. Apache 6 out." He did not know that the order was actually within the realm of the achievable — but it had been given. If nothing else they needed to keep the Kingdom at as far remove as possible. "Specialist, order Tai to reinforce Bishop's platoon. And tell Lachance to follow me; we're going to join them."

His driver turned around, eyebrow lifted. "Sir?"

"Lachance has another Jackal. We've got the APEC, at least — that'll soak up a couple rounds. Go to emergency power and let's push it."

 

*

 

Rooijakkals A 2/49 3-2-2 was alone, and steadily losing ground. Calu was not responding. Hati was not responding. He had watched one of the other mechs — he did not know which one — take a missile to the side of its crew cabin, spinning apart violently as it pitched to the ground.

They had eleven rounds of ammunition left — not counting the two clips sliding around the floor of the cabin, which Chanatja did not think could be installed. Every few seconds shrapnel hammered the mech. Inside the sound was disconcerting — outside, he would be shredded.

"Two more, dead ahead." 

The shepherd squeezed his eyes shut tightly. His nerves were so raw he was not certain if he wanted to scream with the tension — or to break down in tears. Instead of doing either, he took a deep breath, sweeping his sensors over the horizon. "I can get the left one. When I fire, egress south-east for cover from his friend."

"Got it."

"Ready," the shepherd said. The mech dropped; he heard Ajay's order to fire as though from a great distance. There seemed to be no connection between the pull of the trigger and the way his target suddenly burst into white-hot flame. "Hit. Ten-eight."

Ajay's reflexes were beginning to slow; it took a half-second for him to lift the Jackal to its feet, sliding backwards and into cover while Chanatja cycled his cannons and aimed for where he thought the hoverdyne would emerge. 

"Spike. We're being painted."

"Jamming."

"I can't," Astra bunched her paws up in sudden exasperation. "At this range they burn right through it. I need to switch programs."

"Do it?"

"If I go to a narrow-band antimissile program the artillery will start to hit us." The muskrat's whiskers were drooping; her ears were pinned. "We need more power, but the cooling..." The Rooijakkals was designed to run at emergency throttle for only ten minutes at a time; it had been nearly an hour. She gave a jerking shake of her head, clearing whatever mood had settled over it. "Okay, that last maneuver brought us into cover. STAR is quiet. Still need — oh! Shit! Right one — Chanatja!" 

Ajay spun the mech just as the Type 105 roared over the hill in front of them. Chanatja moved without thinking, twisting the controls for the railguns and firing both barrels blindly. The hoverdyne twitched, and its nose dipped, digging into the ground. Inertia flipped it over and it careened towards them, trailing burning air and molten metal. 

He heard himself shout for evasive maneuvers — Ajay was ahead of him, but it was too little, too late. They were just getting airborne when the tank slammed into their right leg, spinning them like a top. He felt the inertia-locks of his harness engage, drawing him snugly into his seat, and a jarring impact as they struck the ground on their side. 

Ajay brought the mech back to its feet carefully. "Chanatja? Astra? You still with me?" 

"Yes."

Astra groaned and muttered an oath in her native tongue before clarifying: "Just barely."

"Port-side cannon's inop. Rocket launcher's bent."

Ajay's report was not much better. "ADC's in manual mode. Stabilizers are broken. Thermal camera's broken. Port hydraulics are down on pressure. Port heatsink's smashed. Cooling fan's busted. No response from the pumps. APU's reading an eighty kiloamp drain, so, it's probably gone too..."

"Scram?" Astra asked.

"Not yet. CTRS is still good," Ajay shrugged. In an emergency the Jackal could survive on only one heatsink, presuming the Combat Thermoregulatory System was operational — and, since it was responsible for stabilizing the main reactor, the CTRS was designed to be multiply redundant. "Guess we're okay."

"The ECM servos aren't working," Astra countered, as though the news had become too cheery. "So we've got phased-array only."

"APEC?"

Almost hesitantly, Astra leaned over to check her warning panel. "APEC's fine."

Chanatja tested the articulation of the remaining railgun. "Starboard cannon's good, too. Can we move, Ajay?"

"Sort of."

"Then there's a fight going on, isn't there?"

The leopard turned, meeting Chanatja's eyes. He searched them for a second, and then turned to look at Astra. Finally he sighed. "Yep." Unsteadily, the mech lurched forward; the ride gradually became a bit smoother as he learned to compensate for the damaged stabilizers. "It's been nice knowing you guys."

"Same," Chanatja said. "Tally, twelve o'clock." His vision was blurry; the cameras had gone out of focus. But the targeting computer worked, and the reticle flashed green. "Ready."

"Shoot." Ajay's voice was flat.

The mech rocked. He saw sparks, and the stricken hoverdyne skidded before coming to a motionless halt on its side, as they had done. Unlike them, it didn't rise. "Evasive?"

"I can't. Without ADC, we are losing control if I exceed normal tolerances."

Against the missiles, this was a death sentence. Chanatja nodded. "Ready."

"Shoot."

This round missed; he didn't bother to request permission before firing again. The glancing hit was enough to disable the 105 — but not the one immediately behind it, nor that one's partner.

"Missile launch," Astra said. "Four tracks."

At close range, even the Advanced Point Engagement Cannon could only hope to take out two. Chanatja watched the smoke trail of the missiles draw closer — the APEC rattled, and two of them met their end in fiery collisions. Then the other two followed suit, bursting like fireworks. Chanatja blinked.

"Apache 3-2, this is Apache 6 actual. You're out of defilade. Over."

Ajay spun, exchanging a puzzled glance with the shepherd. "Uh. Apache 3-2. We're having a hard time maneuvering, sir. Uh. Over."

"Apache 6. Skoll? Skoll, back up forty and get hull down."

"Sir?"

"RFN, Skoll." Tindall's voice, colloquial and spoken over the open net, had a chilling calm. 

But Ajay moved anyway, scooting their Jackal back. It dropped heavily to its knees; they could just barely see over the ridge. Chanatja's sensors teemed with markers of hostile vehicles he couldn't shoot at; they were out of sight of the gun. But he tried, centering the target reticle; watching it close and shrink.

Then the valley burst into flame. 

A series of bright explosions erupted in a deadly, straight sequence, marching from west to east. In the Jackal, they stared incomprehensibly — then a dark silhouette appeared against the sky, chasing the fireballs like a bird of prey on the hunt. It turned towards them, and in the few seconds it was visible as it blazed overhead Chanatja caught the rocking of the Intruder's wings.

A second Intruder followed, and menacing black objects rained from beneath its fuselage; tracer fire reached impotently up towards her, before another string of detonations rippled along the warplane's path, silencing them. Secondary explosions were starting to cook off — their Jackal had been completely forgotten.

The shepherd tried to speak, and could only manage a yelping, canine bark. 

"Skoll, this is Apache 6 actual. You okay there? Over."

Ajay's jaw was still slightly open; his paw had gripped the mic switch, holding it on. "Uh. Yes, sir," he answered. "Over."

"Good. Link up with the rest of your platoon, west four hundred meters. We're not out of this yet. Apache 6 out."

"The enemy is withdrawing," Astra said. "I think. I've got contacts closing, right three — a lot of 'em. But... IFF has it as friendly."

"Decoys?"

She tilted her head, scrutinizing her computer. "I don't..." Then her eyes widened. "It's Bravo company. They're pursuing."

 

*

 

Vallis Carignan had shouted a gallic war cry as his company joined the fray; on the monitors, Tindall watched their swift advance with a sense of relief. His forehead was sodden. He brushed the sweat back, into his hair, and switched on the holographic link. "Sergeant Eisenberg, report."

Wayne's apparition served as a mirror; he looked exhausted, as drained as Arnie himself felt. "Between ammo depletion and system losses we're at half-strength — maybe. We need to pull Parker forward; if they hit anybody on this hill again we'll fold."

"I want to secure this objective and move the medics up. You need to let me know if the area's clear." Tindall and Eisenberg were only separated by a few hundred meters. "I mean, if that's even a good idea."

"Probably, sir. We've got some distress beacons radiating. No guarantee anybody's left alive, but..."

"But we're going to assume so. Get me every mech that's at a hundred percent. I'll take 'em forward as far as we can — protect Captain Carignan's flank and secure our area."

'Every mech' from the three platoons turned out to be five. He tried not to consider the implications, focusing instead on the mission before them. By the time they had established a perimeter Tindall was comfortable with, Vallis was three kilometers ahead of them, and he heard Dakota order the other two companies of the ragged battalion forward as well to exploit the widening breach in their enemy's line.

"Charge for the guns, he said," Eisenberg muttered, when Tindall relayed the new directives.

Parker's platoon brought them to just under a dozen Jackals in total, plus a handful of lightly armed command mechs like his own. The company's nominal strength was forty vehicles; Arnie listened with a blank expression to his commander's request for a situation report. "Dakota, this is Apache 6 actual. As of 1400 romeo Apache's situation is as follows. Company is holding position, grid quebec golf 232, 422. We have successfully secured hill 273 and re-established a defensive line three hundred meters to the north-east. I have two understrength platoons with a total of eleven Jackals in fighting condition. Ammunition supplies are serious but not critical. Over."

"Dakota. What's your combat effectiveness, Apache 6? Over."

Had he been unclear? He shook his head, and quickly paged through the information he had available. "Apache 6. Dakota, as I said, I have eleven operational mechs in good condition, plus a few more with degraded capability. I can commit two platoons, but not without abandoning my support section and my wounded. Over."

"Dakota. Wait, out."

Academically, Captain Tindall could appreciate that the lieutenant colonel was in no better a situation than he was. He could imagine the calculus she was facing: to carry the breakthrough they had managed, Moulden needed as many units as possible, and that meant his. This did not make it substantially more bearable — but he understood.

He wondered if anyone had told her of the broader strategic plan. What had he been told? The training op was a diversion. Which part? All of it? CODA must've known that the Kingdom was planning an attack — after all, if they waited until the massive Aegis batteries were delivered, the corporate zones would be virtually impregnable. So they had figured out when the attack was coming, planned one of their own, and...

And what? Committed the remaining base defenders to a training operation that left them exhausted and out of ammunition? Maybe that was playing into the Kingdom's expectations. They would've seen indications of the exercises; been reassured... in any case all Colonels Moulden and Weathers needed to do was to hold out long enough for General Mosely to accomplish her own mission.

Now, though, Dakota was quiet. They would still want his men; Tindall was getting ready to divide the units he had left into two groups when a bright red bar painted itself over its holographic map. 

'061425R 13/84 TO: ALL UNITS. CEASE FIRE.'

"Dakota, this is Apache 6. Can you authenticate the order to stand down? Over."

Lieutenant Colonel Moulden, whose voice came on the radio next, did not answer him specifically. "All units, this is Dakota actual. Cease fire immediately. I say again: cease fire, and do not re-engage."