The tanks were the heavy Terran machines. Weighing between 750 tons and 1,000 tons (Called Kiloton Tanks) they were engines of mass destruction. Fifty feet long, twenty feet wide, twelve feet high, massive tracks and thick armor they were rolling engines of destruction built sturdily enough to take a 12.5 megaton hit to the front glacias and keep on coming. Single barrel main gun with multiple secondary weapons, including mortars, vertical launch missile systems, drone launchers, and smoke ejectors, even the Lanaktallan commanders admitted that a Terran tank, even without support, was a battle changer. Crewed by six humans and five mantid, the tank crews were highly trained for their positions at tank commander, gunner, loader, commo/electronic warfare, 'machine gunner' (which covered everything from the tactical urban survival kit machineguns to the VLS artillery systems), and assistant loader/gunner/drone operator. The mantid crew was usually a single medical specialist and four engineers. Combined with the heavy nanoforges, the logistics lines of old that were required to maintain the massive machines were largely redundant since the tank could produce its own ammunition as well as even repair damaged hull sections.
Lords of the Battlefield they were usually called by the Terrans, with Artillery the Red Leg King of Battle and Infantry the Blue Leg Queen of Battle.
Where most species had moved to hovertank, usually using grav-systems, the Terrans still used treads for their main battle tanks with hover systems for their 'light' tanks and scouting tanks.
The tanks rolling across the ravaged and savaged landscape were part of 3rd Armor Division that, using Terran Confederacy standards, had over a thousand heavy tanks. They were all damaged to one extant or another, some 'rolling coal' with thick black smoke pouring from a damaged section that the greenies were still trying to get under control. They still moved forward in a serrated formation, firing arcs cleared for the forward and flanks, the ones in the rear rolling 'head back' with their turrets turned around.
They had landed three days ago, a 'hard drop' in tank cradles with the 1st Telkan Marines and 8th Infantry Division drop-podding in with them.
Three days of fighting and the Precursors had been pushed back far enough for the front lines to rotate out.
A'armo'o was the Great Most High of the planet Slatmurt's armor forces. He had been in charge of a quarter million tanks when the Precursor Autonomous War Machines had come across the resonance zone through hellbreaches and assaulted the entire system.
For eight days Great High Most Ca'antur had thrown his ships against the massive war machines of the Precursor forces, steadily losing ground, steadily having his lines penetrated, until of the seventh day the Precursors had begun landing on Slatmurt itself.
A'armo'o had been in charge of a quarter million tanks and three million troops, just as the Great Most High of the Armor.
That had been five days ago.
Four days ago he had been down to less than 50% of his original forces, most of his maintenance and support units ground beneath the armored fist of the Precursors.
Three days ago he had been at 25% and had resigned himself to failure. He had recalled all of his tanks and had them ring the last of the metropolises, dedicating his tanks to anti-air defense as his remaining troops dug in.
The majority of the infantry had deserted four days ago.
Then he had heard it.
The roar that every Lanaktallan commander dreaded to hear.
HEAVY METAL INCOMING!
He had despaired. The Terrans were coming. Even if A'armo'o was to obtain victory he knew that the Terrans would smash him like a bug on a windshield.
Less than an hour later the second roar was heard.
HEAVY METAL IS HERE!
He had looked at his staff, shaking his great head, and told them that they were all surely doomed.
Third Great Most High Sho'opaloo had reported that the Terran ships had not attacked him, but had immediately engaged the Precursor vessels. Slamming into them with fire and fury that had left Sho'opaloo's analysts and staff shaken.
A'armo'o had noted that the Precursor forces had broken off the attacks against his own forces and had retreated, regrouping, as the Terrans had attacked the Precursor forces that had virtually owned the entire system.
The Great Most High of Armor had put his face in his hands in despair when the next lines roared out.
HOLD THE LINE!
He had seen the footage. He knew that roar meant that the Terrans would be making planetfall with all the fury one could expect from a savage primate armed with high tech. He made sure every one of his secondaries knew that any engagements with the Terrans would result in his own people firing upon anyone too stupid to live.
The Terrans had opened with orbital strikes on the massed Precursors, including several of the Precursor ships that were the size of small cities that had made planetfall and begun to extract resources and produce hordes of ancillary combat machines.
The drop cradles and drop-pods had come next. The massive warmechs that were hundreds of feet high had slammed into the ground, using their very velocity as a weapon to clear their landing path. The drop cradles had disgorged the tanks of Third Armor Division.
That was three days ago.
Now Great Most High A'armo'o stood outside of his tank, feeling more than a little concerned when he saw the size and lethality of the Terran tanks.
It was one thing to see it one drone footage, it was another to see the massive war machines with the naked eye.
Part of his felt as if he should be angry when his implant pinged the armored figures of First Telkan Marine Division, beings who had been neo-sapient servants only two years before.
But he'd seen the footage, seen that they fought just as fiercely as the Terrans.
The tank that slowed down and came to a stop nearest to him was massive. The huge turbine engines whined as they shut down and the Terran who was half out of the hatch pushed himself out and stood up.
A'armo'o knew enough about Terrans to know that the being climbing down was tall and broad even for the Terrans. He took off his helmet and revealed that the helmet's smart-visor had concealed a set of black metal cybereyes.
He also knew the Lanaktallan people were at war with the lemurs.
The Terran walked up, spitting brown juice on the broken tarmac, before nodding.
"General Trucker, Terran Confederate Army, Third Armor Division," the big human said, putting his opposable thumbs into his belt.
"Great Most High A'armo'o," the Lanaktallan said, looking over the human.
The adaptive camouflage uniform kept shifting to conceal the Terran. He had on heavy boots, a belt with a holstered pistol, and his helmet hanging from what looked like a water container on the belt. There were patches on each upper biceps of the uniform, two different ones, as well as "T.C. ARMY" on one chest patch and "TRUCKER" on the other. Above the "T.C. ARMY" were three different embroidered tags that A'armo'o had no idea of the significance of.
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It was threadbare compared to A'armo'o's decorative sash with his badges of rank on them, his flank covering, or his jeweled and inlaid pistol.
"Glad we got here in time to keep them out of the remaining cities," Trucker said, spitting at the end of the sentence. A'armo'o realized that the Terran had some kind of cud between his lower lip and lower mandible gumline. "Sorry we didn't get here earlier, we were a few light weeks out when we detected the Helljumps on our scanners."
A'armo'o knew that what he said next would make the difference.
"Better late than never," A'armo'o said carefully.
"Ain't that the truth," Trucker said. He waved at the scorched and shattered terrain behind him. "My men, and 8th Infantry, as well as two brigades from First Telkan, are going to set up here. Get our refit, reloading, and rest done."
A'armo'o nodded. "I read that transmitted from your Admiral No'drak."
"Smokey No," Trucker nodded, spitting again.
A'armo'o took the time to reach into his satchel and pull out a wad of stimcud. He was exhausted from trying to balance keeping the Precursors out of the cities and keeping his men alive. He jammed it in his mouth and chewed for a moment, looking over the area as if he was envisioning the encampment.
"How are your men for facilities?" Trucker asked once A'armo'o emulated Trucker and spit cud-juice on the ground.
"Our bases were destroyed days ago. My men are overstressed, our vehicles are beginning to break down, we are nearly out of ammunition," A'armo'o said, to the horror of his subordinates.
"Give us a few hours, I'll have the boys from 3rd COSCOM set up an R-Cubed area for your men. Those boys could make a refit point out of a pile of sticks and some old gum," Trucker said. "How's the city's power grid?"
"Failed," A'armo'o admitted. "The Precursors destroyed the power plant the day before you arrived."
"I'll have COSCOM see what they can do," Trucker said, frowning around the black metal of his cybereyes. "I'll have them prioritize water purification, sewage control, and power for the city, take the pressure off of the civilians."
A'armo'o nodded slowly.
"The native species, can they fight?" Trucker asked.
A'armo'o spit cud-juice on the ground. "We have not armed them."
"They're neo-sap..." one of A'armo'o's adjutants began to object.
"You will shut up now," A'armo'o said, glaring at the Fifth Most High with his side and rear eye on that side.
The adjutant shut up.
"MilInt thinks the reason the Precursors are moving the way they are in-system is because they have another wave coming in. They wanted the planet and the processing plants intact. COSCOM believes that they're going to use this as a logistics base to stage another jump further into what you called neo-sapient rim worlds," Trucker said.
"We need more guns," A'armo'o said slowly.
"A lot more guns. These guys were a mix of Type-I and Type-II Precursors, with a smattering of the hybrid upgrade ones. The two big Harvester Class AWM's are Type-III and are hanging back," Trucker said. He sighed and spit out on the ground again. "The Type-III's are bad news, the hybrids are pretty tough customers."
A'armo'o waved at his subordinates to bring a pair of chairs and a table. He shuddered and inflated his crests before slowly letting them deflate in an approximation of a yawn.
"Tell your men to begin digging in," A'armo'o said tiredly.
Trucker nodded and A'armo'o found himself jealous that the lemur was so energetic after three days of mobile combat. Trucker turned away, talking too quiet to hear, one hand pressed to the side of his implant.
A'armo'o settled gratefully in the chair and looked at the Terran tanks.
They looked like every armored being's nightmares. Where every other race used laser compressed ion slugs, plasma, or high wattage lasers, the Terrans used mission variable kinetic munitions with a variety of payloads and fuze types.
He'd seen a single Terran tank shoot through three Precursor tanks with a single shot, killing all three.
Worse, they were fast, could fire on the move, and even fire on the inside arc of a high speed turn.
And apparently the lemur and mantid crews could live in the tanks for days, weeks, months at a time.
A'armo'o could see where several tanks had crews getting fires under control and shook his head at the idea of a crew staying in a tank that had a fire in the internal spaces, much less still driving it into combat and afterwards.
Trucker came back, saw the table, and sat down. He pulled the water container from his belt, then a metal cup from inside the carrier, and set it down. He dug in a thigh pocket and pulled out a plas bottle, pouring some in the metal cup and then adding the water.
"You able to metabolize alcohol?" Trucker asked.
A'armo'o nodded.
"Tannic acid and caffiene?" Trucker pulled two red packets out of a pocket, then dug out a few tan packets.
"Yes," A'armo'o admitted.
"Got a canteen cup?" Trucker asked, pouring a red pack and a few of the tan packs into the alcohol and water. He twisted the red packet and slapped it on the side of the metal cup.
"Bring me a metal cup to drink out of," A'armo'o ordered.
He would rather die than show weakness in front of the big Terran lemur.
"How bad was it?" Trucker asked, spitting off to the side.
"Nearly sixty percent of the planet's population is dead," A'armo'o said. He caught himself wringing his lower hands together, almost stopped, then decided that he had nothing to hide from the big lemur.
Trucker shook his head, wincing. "Like I said, we would have gotten here sooner."
A'armo'o realized that the big lemur wasn't just offering empty platitude to make A'armo'o feel better.
He honestly meant it.
"Sucks when civvies get caught in the grinder, but the Clankers, they go after the civvies," Trucker said. He spit again as one of the A'armo'o's subordinates trotted up.
And set down a small metal cup that belonged in a child's playset.
"Here you are, Great Most High," the functionary said.
Trucker narrowed his eyes then shook his head. "You're an armor man, right?"
A'armo'o guessed at the context. "Yes. I have commanded tanks for over two hundred years."
Trucker touched his temple then turned to face his own tank. One of the front hatches opened, one of his men stood up and threw something once and then again before vanishing back into the tank and closing the hatch.
A'armo'o realized it was a shell casing. Sixty millimeters wide and 120 millimeters tall. It still smelled of burnt propellant.
Trucker slapped the black painted shell casings on the table. The first one he poured the contents of his own cup into. The other he poured water and alcohol in it, then packets before twisting the red packet and slapping it against the side of the shell casing.
"Tank commander don't drink out of something like that kid's cup," Trucker said, shaking his head.
Terrans are a martial people, went through A'armo'o's mind.
"Try that, Great Most High," Trucker said, tossing the packets into the breeze. "Keep Terra beautiful, litter Slatmurt."
A'armo'o knew that it had to be a joke, the inflection, the slightly sarcastic tone, but he was unsure of how it was a joke.
A'armo'o sipped at the steaming brew and almost gagged. It was thick with tannic acid, caffeine, and alcohol as well as propellant residue that had dissolved into the liquid.
"Salut," Trucker said, raising his shell casing and taking a drink off of it. He smacked his lips and gave a tooth bearing grimace of happiness. "Nothing like the taste of victory."
A'armo'o nodded. I will make this a ritual my commanders must follow. Victory or defeat, they will taste it with their own tongues.
"What will you do with my men, Terran Trucker?" A'armo'o asked the question that had been burning in his mind for three days.
Trucker took another drink out of the shell casing and set it down. "Well, we could ignore the Precursors and go at one another like two drunks in an alley fighting over the last narcobrew and let the civilians all die," Trucker said.
"That... is an option," A'armo'o said.
"We can have separate theaters of operation," Trucker suggested.
"Where you would be forced to rush in to save my men due to inferior equipment," A'armo'o said. "They have fighting spirit but..." he trailed off.
"I don't doubt your men are brave. Bravery and confidence doesn't stop a hyper-vee round though," The big lemur said. "Or, I can help you figure out how to refit your men, interlock you into the battleplan, and you can help us by taking on the lighter clankers while he lock horns with the big boys.
A'armo'o nodded. "That would be better. My tanks are much much smaller than yours."
"Wait till you see a BOLO, sir," Trucker laughed. "They make my tanks look like toy cars."
"I hear three of them have been successfully defending a metroplex," A'armo'o said. "Our satellites cannot see much."
Trucker nodded. "Three BOLO's can take out a Balor in open combat. The Balor can't take off or the BOLO that gets a bead on it will blow it out of the sky. It can't bring in another Balor or other reinforcements of the BOLO's will blow it scrap metal. The city is safe, since they can even interdict orbital shots."
"I hear you have former neo-sapients," A'armo'o said slowly.
"First Telkan Marine Division and our First Recon Division," Trucker said. "They're disciplined. They'll fight next to you if ordered."
A'armo'o knew better than to question Terran discipline.
"I am loathe to ask, but have you heard from your homeworld?" A'armo'o asked.
Trucker shook his head. "No. It doesn't matter though."
A'armo'o raised his eye crests. "It doesn't?"
Trucker took a drink from the shell casing. "Nope. Casualties are to be expected in war. The Sol System is one stellar system. An important one, sure, but even without it," he leaned forward slightly. "We can still beat your people."
A'armo'o, before seeing footage of Terran fight over the last three days, would have scoffed at that statement.
Now he just nodded in agreement.
Trucker leaned back in the chair, taking another drink. "But that's not this fight. There's almost a billion sentient beings here that are relying on us. If you want to fight after the clankers get thumped, you and I can go somewhere private and punch each other in the face. Right now, there's civilians relying on us."
A'armo'o nodded.
The Terran made sense. Made more sense than his orders that he had refused to carry out.
"Let us work together, Terran Trucker," A'armo'o said. He took another drink of the horrible substance in the dirty shell casing, finding it tasted better the second drink. "Save these neo-sapients and let our governments worry about the rest."
"Works for me," Trucker said.