Oddly enough, Vuxten recognized the barely visible name on the tank's barrel.
Black Betty was barely visible through the black carbonization, the soot, and the warping of the warsteel, the barrel twisted and sagging slightly. There was a hole clean through the tank, silently showing everyone that the crew compartment had been completely blown out. The armor was pierced in three other places, not counting the jagged teeth formed when the engine had blown out through the back deck.
The tank was still smoking, the insulation, molycircs, and other synthetics still burning inside the heavy 1,000+ ton hull of the heavy tank.
It was surrounded by destroyed PAWM, sitting in the middle of a crater that Vuxten could see the striations of, showing that the crater had been pounded deeper by no less than four other detonations.
Barrel bull? Something new? Vuxten wondered as he opened the channel.
"All troops. Ahead slow, keep an eye out. Whatever's tough enough to take on Third Armor could eat us like popcorn," he warned.
One by one the icons flashed.
His men were rested, heat and slush were back down, repairs taken care of. The Division had taken 297 casualties, all WIA, not a single KIA, although Second Lieutenant Yrektarm had made a good attempt at it when a Whipsnapper Dwellerspawn had broken the Telkan's neck.
Another tank slid by, then another. Then a pocket of a half dozen, all backed up together, facing outwards, all of them missing their tracks. They were in the middle of a cluster of craters that were full of the slowly liquifying bodies of the Dwellerspawn.
"Something bad happened here," Vuxten said softly to nobody in particular.
--bad feeling boss-- 471 said.
"You and me both, buddy," Vuxten replied. He looked around. Here and there were the sprawled bodies of troops of V Corps. He frowned, looking at them.
None of them were in heavy armor. Not even adaptive camouflage with protective plating.
They were all wearing OD green cloth, white name patches, large rank on their sleeves, and what looked like metal helmets.
"Recognize that gear?" Vuxten asked.
--nope nope helmet steel not warsteel steel steel-- 471 sent back. --no armor no personal protective fields some wearing gas masks most not weird weird weird--
"All units, stay back from the dead Terrans. There's something weird going on and I don't like it," Vuxten sent out.
One by one the CO's blinked their icons affirmative.
Vuxten glanced over at the big human and saw he had stowed his cutting bar and heavy weapon on his hips. He was opening and closing the clawed hands of the suit, electricity snarling through his fingers.
Something about the whole thing was making Vuxten's combat antenna go off.
"I think that's a live one," one of the Marines in the lead flitter Vuxten was riding in yelled, pointing to the side.
Vuxten saw a human get up, clumsily, uncordinatedly, staggering a few steps and falling.
The medic vaulted over the side, jogging toward the injured human, which had gone face down again.
Vuxten frowned and followed, waving a pair of Privates to join him.
"I got you, buddy, I got you," the medic said. They knelt down. "Where are you... by the Digital Omnimessiah!"
Vuxten saw it and skidded to a stop.
The Terran's ribs and spine were visible. The internal organs were bloated, swollen, blackened and foul looking. The back of the skull was visible, the flesh torn away.
The Terran looked up and the medic swore, scrambling backwards.
The Terran's face was greyish, the eyes white, the jaws were gnashing, black teeth clashing together in a constant clack clack clack clack. Black blood ran out of the jaws and down its chin. It lunged forward, fingers scraped but not bleeding, two fingernails missing, underneath the fingernails black.
The medic got up one arm as the Terran lunged for his face.
Vuxten knew that the Marine was wearing warsteel laminate armor capable to shrugging a main gun round from a Lanaktallan tank, or even medium caliber PAWM fire.
The Terran knocked the Marine down, onto his back, pressing one hand against the Telkan's chest, the other grabbing the Telkan's wrist.
Vuxten heard the Telkan Marine's armor servos scream as the Terran pulled the Telkan's wrist forward and bit the forearm.
--DIGITAL OMNIMESSIAH PRESERVE US-- 471 screamed over the link.
The jaws bit deep, the Terran pulled his head back, and the wiring and internal systems of the suit's forearm stretched between the Terran's chewing mouth and the forearm of the armor. Kinetic gel flowed out of the torn hole, steaming in the cold air. Vuxten could see the hand pressing against the chest of the armor clench, see the warsteel laminate bunch like warm clay.
Vuxten stepped forward and kicked, catching the Terran in the ribs. He knew the kick was strong enough to dent battlesteel, he expected his boot to rip a hole through the Terran's body like it was tissue.
Instead there was a solid thump and the Terran tumbled off the Telkan, rolling to a stop and facing up.
"STAY AWAY FROM THE BODIES!" Vuxten screamed over the comlink, nosing the 'Command Push' icon.
The Terran sat up, still chewing, black blood and steaming red hydraulic fluid pouring out of its mouth and it chewed up warsteel laminate and internal systems, including the thin aerogel liner of radiation protection and sensor systems.
Vuxten lifted up his stubber and raked the Terran. The antimatter mass reactive gyrojet shells hit with dull thumps, slamming the Terran back down.
Vuxten noticed that the uniform had patches of scorched and blackened cloth, bruised looking flesh explosed, rather than the gaping holes that a ten round burst of antimatter rounds should have caused.
It sat up again.
Vuxten just stared as it opened its jaws and hissed.
A stubber barrel came in from the side, pressing against the side of the Terran's head.
"Mors est in gloria," Casey's voice sounded out over the speakers.
A single shot blew away most of the Terran's head.
The body slumped down.
"You have to shoot them in the head, sir," Casey said, turning and moving away.
"Sergeant!" Vuxten snapped, backing away from the body.
Casey stopped. "Yes, sir?"
"What in the name of the Digital Omnimessiah, was that?" Vuxten asked. He glanced over and saw that the medic's greenies was spraying sealant on the armor breach.
"A myth, a legend, something that some people whisper about at the table at the back of the NCO Club at two in the morning," Casey said, stopping.
"Tell me. My men, and you are one of them, are marching into this. What is it?" Vuxten asked.
"It goes by different names. Shiva Protocol, the Pale Horseman Project, the Black Cauldron Doctrine, Raccoon City Blues," Casey said. "It's all the same, though."
"What's al the same?" Vuxten asked.
Casey stepped forward, put his boot on the back of one of the dead that had begun crawling toward one of the flitters. He aimed his heavy magac and pulled the trigger. The soldier's helmeted head exploded.
"The walking dead," Casey said softly.
Vuxten looked around for a long moment. He tabbed the icon again. "All CO's, make sure your men know that only a shot directly to the head will drop these guys. They aren't the Terrans we've fought with, they're something else. They're already dead."
The icons blinked, some showing disbelief, as Vuxten walked back to the flitter.
"Move out, but take it slow. Don't engage, don't go to help, don't dismount the vehicle to provide assistance. Keep at least 10 meters from any armored vehicles, hell, any vehicles," Vuxten said. "Headshots put them down, that's about it."
There was a crackle of cloud borne thunder and drops started falling. Sporadic at first, more spitting than anything else. It started in spits and spats, the odd drop there and there, and slowly gained momentum until the heavy-metal and debris laden drops were everywhere.
Vuxten kept one eye on Casey even as they kept moving forward, trying to link up with whatever was left of V Corps.
"How the hell did he bite through warsteel?" Vuxten asked.
--not know-- 471 admitted. --bad bad juju--
-----------------
The Atrekna watched with cold satisfaction as more and more of the mammal bipeds slumped to the ground, as if they were puppets who's strings had been cut. More and more of the tanks clattered to a stop and started smoking, the crews slumping in death.
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The pressure was less and less, but still there.
i saw the black dog
The primitives were all around them, encircling them, drawing closer and closer.
The Atrekna, down to just a handful, noticed that the closer the primitives got, the harder it was to stay aloft.
With the beginnings of concern, they realized they couldn't lift higher. They couldn't shift out through temporal mechanics.
They tried drifting to one side, hoping to just move above the slowly constricting ring and get beyond it to escape the pressure they were feeling.
A multitude of cold whispers reached them.
i cried like i was going to die when i realized that i'd never own a kitten
my mother refused life extension procedures and died before i was fifty
i wish i had died with my wife and children when the mar-gite attacked
my mom always said i was never worth a shit
i never loved anyone as much as i loved my husband
hungry i'm so hungry
so cold and you are warm let me touch you
saint lentimat burned with white fire as they am-bombed it to eradicate the mar-gite i was nine as i watched
being a woman is my favorite part of garrison but i'll be damned if i won't reskin as a male during deployment
i saw the black dog on that hilltop
The Atrekna pulled away, the thoughts receding, sliding off of them like cold porridge down an iron plate. They shuddered at the cloying, greasy feeling of those thoughts, how they left a physical taste in the Atrekna's mouth.
They had been pulled even further down.
One attempted to rush the thickening line. It screamed as it flew forward, its feeding tentacles whipping crazily, its eyes bulging, forming a wedge of psychic power in front of it.
It tumbled from the sky, landing in the mud.
The others watched as it started to get up. It was halfway up when a single bullet hit it on the top of its head, the hydrostatic shock exploding the eyes from the socket even as half of the brain was pulled out the hole by the suction of the round passing through.
The dead feet trampled it underfoot into the mud.
Look. Look. one said, a thin trickle of hope in its thoughts.
More and more were dropping, just slumping to the ground. Two of the great tanks coughed and wheezed, the engines at the back exploding, sending up shards of rent armor and plumes of greasy black smoke.
The Atrekna struggled to hold themselves aloft.
The line moved closer, the ring tightening.
One broke ranks, wrenching itself free of the communal mind, lashing out at the primitives with his psychic power. He was hundreds of millions years old, had survived the ever encroaching darkness, had survived the death of the universe he had been hatched within.
The psychic lashings did nothing. He attacked the ground at their feet, turning it to soup. They marched into it and slowly thrashed their way across. He hardened it, trapping them.
Still more advanced.
A tank ran those over, crushing them.
Emboldened, the others joined him in lashing out. Attacking, not the primitives, but the ground they walked on. Hardening the air on either side to slam together two great plates of hardened air. They picked up rocks, using their telekinesis for more than keeping themselves aloft and other minor things.
They strained as they began to fight for real. Trying to remember ancient methods, or trying to learn on the fly as they struggled against the primitives advancing.
Still they drifted lower.
Half of them kept up defenses, deflecting attacks by tank guns, small arms, heavy guns.
i just want a pink golfball daddy
The others kept attacking, genetic memory and the communal mind guiding them at first, then they grew more and more skilled as they kept fighting.
They had rediscovered what had allowed them to overwhelm every race in their galaxy one by one until only the Atrekna reigned supreme.
Even so, more and more of the primitives kept just slumping down, collapsing. Tanks exploded for no reason.
But they kept fighting.
Even as their feet touched the ground and they gathered close, shoulder to shoulder, back to back.
hungry i'm so hungry i'm so cold and you're so warm i saw the black dog pink golfball smokey no cheats at cards i can taste nipplegloss and blood i miss hearing the ducklings sing the most wonderful thing i ever heard was a broodcarrier song when i was in icu we're space force we don't die we burn up on reentry for lost terrasol my mother died when i was fifty
------------
Cry Little Sister gave it up with an explosion that threw Trucker against his gun and bounced the front of his helmet off the butterfly trigger of the quad-barrel. Black smoke billowed from the jagged tooth hole in the back deck as the engine started to burn.
He climbed out, drawing his pistol, and moved to the front deck.
The barrel of the main gun gave a groan as it sagged like warm taffy.
Trucker looked around. There was no other tank nearby. His datalink was full of hash, but as near as he can tell, Cry Little Sister had driven four more miles than any other tank.
He dug out a pill bottle and took two more. A combination of anti-biotics, immunosuppresents, and nanites. He dry swallowed them as he tucked the bottle back into the pocket of his Legacy Uniform.
"Old Blood," he said, his voice a dry rasp. He leaned against the cupola, undid his canteen cover, and took a long drink.
The bite of lemon juice helped clear the sticky gross feeling from his mouth.
He pulled out his can of chew and repacked his lip, feeling the fever burn through his body. His datalink told him that his fever had dropped to 102.87F, that he was on the mend, his body having fought through the cyberware and bioware rejection.
He struggled to his feet, moving over to the pennant snapping in the wind, blinking as rain water ran into his eyes, the cyber eye lenses clicking. He pulled down the pennant that signified that he was the 3AD CO. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket before moving over and sitting down.
He sighed, closing his eyes for a long moment.
He knew it had been close. Knew that they almost hadn't made it. But he could tell now, through that feeling he had, that "In the Zone" feeling he got, that he'd done it.
V Corps had done their part to break the back of the enemy.
He tapped his comlink and activated his emergency beacon, signalling that he needed a pickup.
-------------
The Atrekna fell one by one, exhaustion, weapons fire, or psychic backlash dropping them one after another.
The last one, ankle deep in the mud, shrieked as it fought.
It knew it was over, that there was no escape. Dead hands clawed at his protective shields, magac rounds sparked off his protections, the pounding cold waves kept his abilities pinned.
He was alone against a thousand.
But he refused to go down easily.
--------------
"Got a beacon, sir," Vuxten heard.
"Who?" Vuxten asked, straightening up from where he'd been staring at the surrounding scenery.
"Third Armor Division Commander."
"How far?" Vuxten asked.
"Fifteen miles," the Lance Corporal said.
"Divert course. Let's see if Trucker's still alive," Vuxten said.
He saw Casey swerve to keep pace with them.
-----------
Trucker reached up and touched his implant.
"All units, all units," he gasped, feeling the fever twist his guts. "Gurgi is," he coughed and spit juice over the side. "Gurgi is brave and bold."
----------
The Atrekna was beset on all sides. Moaning, gnashing jaws, clawing hands pressing against the psychic shields that should have torn apart any who got too close. It had retreated into a building, its back against the wall, as more and more pressed in, moaning and gnashing, trying to reach the Atrekna.
There was a cold wind that the Atrekna felt in its bones. It tasted rotting blood and bad meat.
With a sigh, the primitives all collapsed. Not one at a time, but all at once.
It stood there for a long moment.
It felt cold satisfaction as it managed to lift itself a few inches up and glide from the house.
-----------------
Trucker saw the blinking warning on his implant.
DECOMMISSION FAILURE - ONE (1) UNIT
He tried again. "Gurgi is brave and bold."
The warning kept flashing.
He sighed. One out of tens of thousands wasn't bad. He struggled to his feet and moved over to sit on the edge of the tank. He could see one of the Telkan Marine fast grav-lifter strikers heading toward him, see the markings of First Telkan Marine Division on it.
He squinted and frowned. There was what had to be a Novastar power armor jogging alongside.
Which was strange, since it was a court martial offense to even have the templates in a database.
The ground effect grav lifter slid to a stop and Trucker's implant ID'd the highest ranking and the Novastar pilot.
"Lieutenant Vuxten, Sergeant Casey," Trucker said, standing up.
"General," Vuxten said. He shifted to the side. "Looks like we're your ride."
"I'm gonna need a medical clinic," Trucker said, accepting the assistance of getting down from the tank and into the lifter. It bobbled a bit as he got his feet out from under him. "First, though, I have to take care of something."
"What, sir?" Vuxten asked.
Trucker pointed in the direction Cry Little Sister was pointing. "There's a Black Cauldron failure that way. About two miles. I need to fix it."
"Oh," Vuxten said. "Follow the General's direcctions."
-----------------
The Atrekna glided out of the house, through the doorway, satisfaction filling him. He could tell he'd be able to take to the sky again, be camouflaged again. The oppressive pressure was gone. He could feel more enemy approaching, but they'd take almost a full minute to reach him and by that time his psychic powers would have moved him beyond their reach.
The Atrekna gathered its power.
From the shadows of the doorway one of the primitives lunged out. Bluish face, eyes covered with a white film, black teeth clacking as the jaws gnawed on empty air.
The Atrekna screamed as those cold hands grabbed him, pulled him down. He struggled, and only succeeded in landing in the mud with the primitive on top of him.
The pink enamel on the nails flashed as it tore away the Atrekna's feeding tentacles. The teeth sunk deep into flesh and ripped away mouthfuls that the primitive chewed and swallowed.
The Atrekna screamed again as the pink painted nails sunk into his flesh and pulled out a double handful of things the Atrekna would have preferred to remain inside.
hungry so hungry i just want a pink golfball i'm so cold and you're so warm i'm so hungry
------------------
"Only one decommisioning failure," Trucker said, leaning against the side of the lifter. The big General was sitting on the bed of the vehicle, being checked over by one of the medics. "Not bad, but by Chromium Saint Peter, I wish I hadn't had to do it."
Vuxten just nodded, his mind reeling at what Trucker had explained.
"I'm going to have to resign my field command," Trucker said, his voice exhausted. "I'll never command men in combat again."
"Why?" Vuxten asked.
"Because of what I've done. My men will never trust me again," Trucker said. "Not ever. They'll all know just how far I'll go to attain victory."
Vuxten wasn't sure he understood, but stayed silent as Trucker kept talking, the fever loosening his tongue.
"They've always wondered. Just how far I'd go if I was pushed to the wall," Trucker said. "It wasn't for me. It wasn't for some stupid medal or commendation or a ribbon to attach to the guidon, it was always about one thing."
Vuxten just nodded.
"Save the civilians, stop the war as fast as possible, apply firepower with precision," Trucker half raved. "But my men will never trust me to lead them into combat again after what I've done."
"I'm sure they will, sir," Vuxten said. seeing a cluster of ruins drawing closer. There was a single building that the grav-lifter angled toward.
"Not after this, kid. Not after this," Trucker said.
The grav-lifter slowed and came to a stop.
Vuxten could see an OD green clad figure, the cloth almost black in the rain and the fluids that soaked it, crouched down next to a torn apart purple form.
"I'll handle it," Casey broke his silence.
"I'll come with you," Vuxten said.
"If you insist, sir," Casey's voice was cold.
"I would not advise this course of action, Casey," Lozen said, appearing in a window.
"I need to be the one to do it," Casey said slowly. "I can see who it is from here."
--you get sudden pucker feeling-- 471 asked,
"Yeah, real bad," Vuxten said softly on the private channel.
Still, he vaulted over the side, landing with a splash in the water of a puddle.
The heavy Novastar power armor suddenly unfolded and Vuxten stared. Casey was wearing a body suit that was soaked with sweat. As Vuxten watched Casey reached up, grabbed the memory metal cable embedded in his eye socket, and slowly withdrew a three inch long needle. He turned and opened a small panel, removing a pistol.
"Let's go, sir," Casey said.
Vuxten was quiet as they walked up to the crouched figure.
When they got close the dead face raised and the figure hissed, an inhuman sound made all the more horrible by the white filmed eyes, the blackened purple tongue, the black teeth, and the cold bluish skin.
But Vuxten recognized her.
Casey stepped forward and put the barrel of the pistol to her head.
"Goodbye, Peel," Casey said. "Mors est in gloria."
The sound was muffled, a small thing after just over four days of constant fighting.
The back of her head exploded, a blackish fan of blood, brains, and tissue.
The woman dropped on top of the dead Atrekna as Casey stood there.
He fired twice more into the back of her head.
--ooooh boy-- 471 said.
Vuxten followed Casey silently as they walked back.
Casey paused, turning and looking into the back of the lifter.
"Trucker," he said.
The General looked up.
"I'm applying for a transfer out," Casey said, his voice empty, dead, leeched of all emotion. "Out of V Corps."
Trucker just nodded, his eyes shielded.
"I see you again, Trucker," Casey said softly, but perfectly audible even over the low rumble of thunder, the hiss of rain, the pinging of cooling and heating metal.
"I'll kill you."
Trucker just nodded as the lightning in the sky was reflected by the lenses of his cybereyes.
Vuxten suddenly understood.