"Nothing is more frightening that a lower enlistedbeing with a plan." - Former Grand Most High Sma'akamo'o, from I Have Ridden the Hasslehoff
P'Kank watched as the clock hit hour thirty-eight. New Atrekna leadership caste point sources had appeared, almost desperately, and the Atrekna were still trying to fight off serious pushes into their final temporal zones.
They'd brought in more ships to attempt to stop Space Force Naval Vessels, but that had come out exactly as P'Kank knew it would.
The Admiral had ripped their ships apart without taking a single hit in return.
He checked his force levels again.
Active Duty was back up to 80% effectiveness and 98.54% personnel. He had tapped the Active Reserve forces at hour 26, ordering them from deployment areas and having them report to whichever unit 21st Replacement assigned them according to the planning. They had been on alert since Operation Billy Mays had started, waiting in the staging areas.
Planetary Guard was at 80% effectiveness and 96.28% personnel after a nasty attempt to take two of the cities with Dwellerspawn aerial forces.
P'Kank had tapped the Inactive Reserve and put them on notification at hour 24.
He still had 22.4 million troops in his reserves. All having undergone armor fitting and weapon/MOS re-familiarization in the last 12 hours. They were all in 21st Replacement awaiting their assignments, or moving out to take over Green Zones from the Active troops.
And I'll put everyone behind a gun if that's what it takes, he thought to himself. The people of Hesstla have put up with you for long enough.
P'Kank lit a cigarette, blowing out smoke from his footpads, He stared at the holotank, rotating it with one bladearm as he put his cigarettes away.
The command center smelled of old stale stress pheromones, stale cigarette smoke, kaff drinks, and sweat.
He had to admit he missed the smell of Terrans. The command center just didn't feel the same without the pheromones that told you that they were ready to kill you and everything you loved and anyone who might have seen the dim light of your star in their sky to achieve victory.
They may be gone, but they are not forgotten, nor are the lessons they taught us all, P'Kank thought to himself as he saw the lights blinking for several of First Cav's combat arms units committing themselves to battle. Their extinction is merely proof that the universe is malevolent and will wipe anyone out no matter how strong they are.
He zoomed in on a section and cocked his head slightly. 15th Forward Support Battalion, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Regimental Combat Team, First Cavalry Division, was listed as 98.5% personnel and 80% combat ready.
Puffing on his cigarette he checked the records. They'd gotten reinforced from the reserves being moved around by 21st Replacement. For a moment, just a moment, he thought about ordering them to pull out.
But the unit's icon was blinking a steady green, stating they were in position and ready ti deploy. The Regimental Commander had pushed it up to P'Kank for the decision to keep them in position after the heavy casualties they'd suffered.
P'Kank tapped open a window and ordered a message sent.
"Witnessed."
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In ancient days, Terrans used to mark their medical vehicles with the hope that the enemy would not attack them, to honor the idea that wounded warriors should be allowed to withdraw from the fight. That arguably naive belief had been tested over and over by warfare during Terran history. Even when enemies would strike Terran hospitals and medical vehicles, the Terrans withheld their own fire. At first the Terrans had only lightly armed or prohibited arming at all ambulances and medical transport vehicles, even forbid their medical personnel from touching anything heavier than a personal sidearm or small arm.
Melinvae had learned about that in medic training, just like she had learned how to treat injuries with little more than the equivalent of torn rags and scrap plastic and wood.
She was glad that the vehicle she was in was heavily armored and armed, as the Atrekna forces didn't care about wounded except to eat them or kill them. She was in a Shulacker Armored Fighting Vehicle, something most races would consider a light tank, maybe even a medium one, at 350 tons of armor, engine, and 'light' weapons. It was designed to deliver 13 man squads of bipeds or 7 man squads of Treana'ad quickly to the battlefield with enough armor to survive getting there.
It was heavy enough that the heavy weapons could be removed, integrity fields added, and sterifields added and the vehicle was lighter. Stretchers, medical equipment, medical supplies, and enough room for medics to work in the back.
It was cramped, but Melinvae knew that for the troops pulled into it, it beat dying in the mud.
Now she was in the back, with one other medic, working as fast as she could. She could hear the external guns being run, but put it out of her mind.
The Tukna'rn on the stretcher in front of her, there were four per side of the vehicle, had taken a chest hit from an autonomous war machine rail gun that would have gutted a Lanaktallan tank. She'd gotten his armor off, throwing it on the floor, and unsealed his pilot's suit.
She could see the mottled markings across his chest. She left his helmet on, merely retracting the visor so she could see his face. He was struggling to breathe and she looked closely at his neck.
His trachea was diverted to the left.
"Do you see it, ma'am?" Melinvae asked.
The russet mantid in the upper right of her vision nodded. "I do. Do you know what to do?"
"He needs a chest tube," Melinvae said. "I've done it before."
"Right. I'll walk you through it," the russet mantid said. "Gently thump his chest, you'll feel the spot where the air is collapsing his lung."
Two years ago Melinvae would have apologized to the Tukna'rn for how much it would hurt to have a chest full of fractured cartilage rings thumped, but that was then, and this was now.
"Got it," she said as soon as she heard the hollow sound.
A dot appeared in her vision, with a blue hazy ghostly image of a needle and her own hand. She didn't even look as she reached out with muscle memory and pulled open the auto-close drawer, grabbing a needle. She yanked it apart with one hand and her teeth even as she kept her hand on the Tukna'rn's chest.
"HOLD ON!" she heard over the intercom. She grabbed one of the 'poles' that the stretchers were locked into.
The hit rang the hull and Melinvae felt her ears pop, but the armor and the spalling liner held. The vehicle tilted slightly, slammed into something, then leveled out, the drive train roaring.
The lights didn't even flicker.
"YOU'RE GOOD!" the TC yelled.
Melinvae nodded, even though she knew the ambulance crew couldn't see her. She worked quickly, following the instructions. There was no time for any anesthetic, the Tukna'rn's skin was darkening as it lost oxygen.
The Tukna'rn merely stared upwards, his mouth working silently. Melinvae knew it was just as likely to be part of the Soldier's Manual of Common Tasks as it was a prayer to the Digital Omnimessiah.
When the blood and air sputtered from the needle the Tukna'rn took a whooping breath and Melinvae moved to getting him oxygen.
She straightened up and looked at the second patient, on the upper tier.
"How ya doing, soldier?" she asked the black mantid, who was missing two legs and a chunk of his abdomen.
"Will I be able to play the piano, doc?" the mantid asked, his antenna trembling with the pain.
"I'm sure you will, your bladearms and hands are fine," Melinvae said.
"Good, because I couldn't before," the black mantid said.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Melinvae chuckled, then shifted to the back stack, using the poles to keep her balance.
The "Chimper" up top was unconscious, laying face down. Melinvae checked his vitals, saw that while his blood pressure was slightly low, it was still within acceptable ranges. She checked the spray on bandage that ran up his back where his spine had been, nearly halfway.
She shook her head. Terran Descent Primates, AKA "Chimpers", were apparently one of the uplifted primates from Terra, with tails, and were just as tough as she had heard Terrans were. A Dwellerspawn group had caught the Chimper scout and in the fight one had grabbed his armored tail and ripped it up and off, tearing out part of the Chimper's spine.
Melinvae knew that most species would be dead right there.
"You're on the way to the hospital, trooper," Melinvae said, putting her hand on the unconscious Chimper's shoulder.
Training had stressed that sometimes the patient could hear you even if the instruments said they were unconscious, especially if they were of Terran Descent.
She knelt down and checked the bottom rear starboard side patient. A Rigellian female who smiled at her. The Rigellian looked down at the chest spray bandages and the shining gel from the spore counter-agent and then at Melinvae, still smiling.
"Gonna get these scars tattooed," she said. Her eyes were slightly glazed and she was panting slightly.
"How are you feeling?" Melinvae asked.
"Um, my left shoulder itches, can you scratch it?" the Rigellian asked.
Melinvae cocked her head. "Are you sure it itches?" she asked, pointing one finger at the restraints.
"um, yes?" the Rigellian said.
Melinvae shook her head and carefully leaned down, reaching across the Rigellian and gently scratching the skin on the shoulder.
"Kiss?" the Rigellian asked, trying to grab Melinvae's shoulder, the restraint holding her arm down.
"Uh-uh," Melinvae said. She used a penlight to check the Rigellian's eyes. The pupil was still sluggish, still dilated wide. The Rigellian's greenish-gray skin was sweaty and flushed. "Still feeling it, I see."
"Uh-huh," the Rigellian said. She started panting for a second. "It's... it's sooooo goooood."
"That's because you're full of the anti-toxin, otherwise your muscles would be turning to liquid," Melinvae said. "A chest full of red-dart spore shrapnel will do that to you."
"Feels good," the Rigellian panted, squirming.
"We'll get you to the FOB and run some blood cleaners through you, get that out of your system," Melinvae promised.
The Rigellian just nodded and Melinvae stood up and turned around.
On the top stretcher was a massive primate. Just over six feet tall, heavy black fur trimmed short, flat black face with wide nostrils, and wide eyes.
"How ya doing, Staff Sergeant?" Melinvae asked.
"OK. Arm hurts," the Grodd said. He grunted. "Oh great, now my palm itches."
"Here," Melinvae said. She lifted up the arm, in the stasis sleeve, and scratched the palm.
"That's the stuff. Thanks," the Grodd said.
"No charge," Melinvae smiled, setting the arm back down.
"You could bill the Army," the Grodd smiled. He looked to the left, the C-collar keeping him from looking down. "How's the Telkan?"
"Unconscious, but he'll make it," Melinvae said.
"Tough little fucker. The whippersnapper grabbed us both and started slamming us together," the Grodd said, his voice thick from the anesthetics in his system. It wasn't safe to use the beamer when moving, a hard hit could make it swing around and the last thing Melinvae wanted was for it to beam directly into her face while she was working on a patient.
"He's going to live, Sergeant. Don't beat yourself up about it," Melinvae said. "They're the enemy, it's what they do."
"Still," the Grodd looked up. "I feel like a fool, letting it grab me like that. Kid's lucky, not too many non-Terran Descent could take a hammering like that and live."
"His pressure sleeve largely held," Melinvae told the half-conscious Grodd. She patted his still attached arm. "You'll feel all right once they put your arm back on."
"It's that damn shoulder joint. It pops too easy," the Grodd mumbled as Melinvae ducked down to check on the Telkan. "I've told them over and over they need to do something about it, but they never do."
The Grodd's voice got thicker and deeper, his speech slowing down. "They never listen. Never. They never do."
Melinvae checked the Telkan. His skull was fractured so Melinvae had made the call to leave his helmet on. He had internal injuries, multiple broken bones, but from what Melinvae had seen on the fast incident replay when her eVI Canton had run the damage estimates, he was lucky to be alive.
Cranial pressure was stable once a cranial line had been run up through the Telkan's nose, his O2 was good after Melinvae had run the tube up his nose, and he was unconscious from the anesthetic. He was still pumped full of suit quikheal as well as emergency medical nanites.
Melinvae knew it was up to the surgeons at the FOB.
PV2 Vrokek was kneeling down, still working on stopping the bleeding from a Saurian Kobold that had been unlucky enough to be caught outside his armor when the attack had hit his unit. He was torn up pretty bad, but would stay stable if Vrokek could stop all the bleeding.
Melinvae looked at the patient on the top stretcher. The green mantid was still in a bubble, floating inside. Melinvae checked the green mantid's vitals. Still stable, although he had lost an arm, a bladearm, and a leg, as well as head chitin damage.
The little greenie was still inside the medical bubble that the Telkan's suit had wrapped him in. He was unconscious but stable.
"Little guy all right?" the Grodd asked.
"Stable," Melinvae said. "Shouldn't you be asleep, Staff Sergeant?"
The Grodd didn't answer.
Squatting down, Melinvae looked at where Vrokek was working.
"Something new," Vrokek said. "Spray bandage isn't hardening, isn't clotting."
Melinvae reached out and dug in one of the drawers, pulling out a bag of blue crystalline powder. "They teach you to use this yet?"
Vrokek shook his head. "No, Specialist."
"Watch," Melinvae said. She poured it on the Kobold's leg. She grabbed out a handful of cravats, dropping them next to the Kobold. "Battlefield medicine, troop."
She wrapped the cravats tightly even as the crystals began to hiss where they contacted the Kobold's blood.
"It's pretty basic chemistry, apparently. Some kind of Terran Pre-Diasporia battlefield medicine," Melinvae said. "Blue, pink, green, orange, yellow, depending on the species."
"How do I know?" Vrokek asked.
"Check your datalink," Melinvae said. She held up the bag. "Look at it, blink twice, then look at your patient."
Vrokek did it. "Oh. Says it's safe to use."
"Right," Melinvae said, still wrapping the cravats. "You still need pressure, but it'll coagulate the blood outside the veins and arteries, but you need to put on light pressure wraps to keep it stable."
The Kobold's eyelids fluttered open and the transparent inner lids flicked back forth.
"He's waking up," Melinvae warned.
"Oh," Vrokek said, reaching up for the anesthetic beam.
"HOLD ON BACK THERE!" the crew up from yelled.
Melinvae grabbed the handles across from her and laid her body on the Kobold's body. Vrokek grabbed the side handle.
The vehicle tilted down, rocked to the side as something hit repeatedly, hard clangs like an insane blacksmith hammering on the anvil during a meth binge.
Melinvae saw that Vrokek was looking up worriedly.
"Don't worry, we're just getting lawn darted. You can tell that it's unfolded and uncollapsed battlesteel, probably biological created, hucked at us by one of the Dwellerspawn," Melinvae said.
The vehicle slid slightly then leveled out with a crash.
"WE'RE CLEAR!" came over the intercom.
Melinvae sat up, going back to work. "Help me spread this on him, he's losing a lot of blood and we don't have much more volume expanders," she told Vrokek.
It only took a couple more minutes before Melinvae sat down on the floor. The vehicles were shipped with swivel out seats, but that was the first thing that the mechanics ripped out since the swivel seats had broken legs and hips more than once.
"Check the patients," Melinvae said, closing her eyes for a moment. There was two low toned beeps across her datalink and a visual warning.
"You OK, boss?" Canton asked.
"Welcome back, Canton," Melinvae said. "You all right?"
"I'm doing better," Canton said. "Heat's down. You all right, boss?"
"Patients are stable, I'm alive, ambulance is still running," Melinvae said.
"FOB, ninety seconds," the intercom said.
Melinvae felt the vehicle slow down.
"Boss, are you all right?" Canton asked.
Melvinae waited until she felt it come to a stop, slowly standing up. Vrokek hit the back deck button and it whirred as it lowered. Beyond, the Evac Hospital was a busy hive. Melinvae pressed herself against the back as members of 19th Evac rushed on, grabbing the patients, a doctor going over them, snapping orders.
In less than 120 seconds the back deck was whirring up.
"Got a striker crash, looks like fatalities," the intercom said. "We're closest, it's not under fire. Fifty minutes."
Melinvae touched her implant. "Roger."
She sat back down and closed her eyes.
"Wake me when we're sixty seconds out," Melinvae said.
"All right, boss," Canton said. "Uh, you're near you limit with stims."
"It'll be OK," Melinvae answered. She reached up and fumbled for a second before finding one of the restraining straps. She pulled it across her chest and locked it onto the hull plating she was sitting againt. "Sixty seconds out. Check the loading frames, we might need them, full diagnostic."
"OK, boss," Canton said.
Melinvae relaxed, letting her body just go limp inside her thin shell armor.
She was asleep less than three minutes later.
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Undrat looked around one more time. The battlefield was clear. Each of the machines had been triple checked, marked electronically and with paint stick.
His platoon had only suffered two casualties, both expected to survive.
He felt pride in a job well done as he grabbed the side bar and pulled himself up into the striker, taking the door gunner position. He locked himself down and deployed Madame Three-Eighteen into door gunner mode.
She was indeed an excellent weaponry, and he knew the defense of Hesstla would be an excellent addition to her pedigree.
"Music, please," Undrat said softly as the grav striker lifted off.
His unit was heading for an FOB. They needed refills, their nanoforges having run high slush too often, their mass tanks depleted.
538 checked his playlist and selected a song from the seventy-sixth century. Something upbeat and with good lyrics.
Undrat smiled as the grav striker got in formation.
It had been a good mission.
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P'Kank stared at the holotank.
It was down to the mopup.
He tagged an icon he'd been holding back. It transmitted the orders to over three hundred military police units around the planet.
We'll clear up the black-eyes, finish mop-up, and let these people get back to their lives, he thought.
He lifted a can of carbonated sweet drink, taking a long sip off it, still staring at the holotank.
Military Intelligence Predictive Analysis Section estimated that III Corps and the Reserves would take 23% casualties, he thought, staring at the glowing hologram of the planet as it rotated. Was it the plan? Was it the new Warsteel Mk 5? Was it the new weapons?
P'Kank just stared.
But he heard the voice. The little one. The one all commanders heard toward the end of the operation.
You got lucky. Your plan was shit. You lost 11% of your troops. If you'd been better, maybe more would survive, he heard his own voice whisper.
"The battle isn't over yet. There's still mopup," he said softly to himself.
There were still three Atrekna unaccounted for. His scouts had lost them in an area of high concentrates of natural metals. He had them out looking, but until those three could be found, the Third Hesstla War was still on.
He tabbed a notification to the MP unit that was deploying to kill or arrest the black-eyes to keep an eye out for chronotron leakage or Atrekna sightings.
"Where are you?" P'Kank asked, staring at the map.
The lake and the forest didn't answer.