Lacuna: The Prelude to Eternity (25 page)

She scratched her prosthetic arm. The itch had returned. Was the destruction of Earth the
casus belli
with whoever they wished? “The decision is not mine to make.”

[“Sometimes we think we do not have a choice. The truth is, we
always
have a choice.”] Saara folded her hands behind her. [“I know you well enough to trust your judgement in this matter. Whatever your decision, I know it was the best you could have made.”]

“Thank you,” said Liao, although the words did not have the confidence she wished she had. “Let’s head back to Operations.”

Liao led the way. The spectre of Qadeem loomed before them, larger and larger in their monitors.

“Four hours until we are in reconnaissance range,” said Iraj. “Once we get eyes on the surface, we can start our assault.”

“Good,” she said, slipping her long-range-communications headset onto her ears. “Patch me into the lead Broadsword.”

The speaker crackled. A thick Israeli accent came through. “This is
Warsong
.”

“
Warsong
, this is
Beijing
actual. We are about four hours out from launching our operation. How are you holding up over there?”

“Well,” the pilot said, “I have a ship full of angry Marines who want something to fight. I’m not sure they’ve had a shower since we arrived on Eden, so maybe it’ll rain.”

“Judging by all the sand, there’s not much rain that goes on there.” She smiled despite it all. “You’re carrying the special piece of equipment Decker-Sheng requested, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Liao looked at Kamal—his face was a confused mask—and then toward Saara. “Let me know before you deploy it. I want to be there personally.”

“Aye aye, Captain. Anything else?”

“No.
Beijing
actual, out.”

Neither a yes nor a no. Liao had four hours to decide.

It didn’t seem long enough.

C
HAPTER
X

Phase One

*****

Surface of Qadeem

“I
NCOMING
!”

T
HE
PILOT
’
S
WARNING
ECHOED
in her tac-helm as Cheung raced out of the Broadsword
Warsong
, legs pumping, moving the moment the ship’s metal ramp hit the sand of Qadeem. Her heavy boots crunched on the unfamiliar, alien territory. An explosion directly in front of her sprayed her suit with sand, a tuneless hiss as the scorched earth scratched her armoured combat enclosure.

She immediately threw herself to the ground. The serenity of the insertion was gone. A peaceful ride down, in low gravity, checking and rechecking her gear, giving last minute instructions and support to the rest of her team, sitting in the dim, barely lit hold of a Broadsword. Dwelling on the execution. On the death.

On her culpability.

Her thoughts churned and were not silent, and then suddenly she was thrust from that eerily quiet, sombre environment to the blinding light of day, a world so full of energy she could barely think. Dealing with the change took training. Discipline. To run straight from a peaceful jaunt through low orbit into a maelstrom of fire.

Her tac-helm scanned her surroundings. Blue diamonds appeared around the heads of friendly assets: Broadsword gunships, their maws open, disgorging troops onto the battlefield. Other soldiers and sailors were running out onto the ground.

Green circles appeared around fleet assets high overhead. The tiny glint that was the
Beijing
, their mothership, was sending thin streaks of weapons fire streaming down to the surface in an endless wave, striking unseen targets. A second stream poured down from two other stars, the
Washington
and the
Madrid
.

Red squares marked the targets, framing the blue glow of their eyes as four constructs marched across the sands and down a dune, firing with eerie precision—Bevra drones. They were targeting the gunship with their energy weapons, bright lances of light like the fingers of a giant, seeking to reach out and crush the flying machines still discharging their soldiers.

A bright-blue beam leapt from the claw of one of the metal monsters, sizzling into the Broadsword’s hull only meters above her head. The
snap-hiss
of disappearing ablative armour drowned out all sound and clouded her visor with soft white smoke. When it cleared, Cheung extended the bipod on her Dragon’s Breath rifle, clicking the safety off and ranging the target in one smooth motion. Six hundred meters—a difficult shot for an average soldier, but the computerised chips built into her weapon would do most of the heavy lifting.

“Fan out! Get clear of the bird!”

She fired as she spoke, grateful for the tac-helm’s noise cancelling. The round followed a ballistic trajectory, bursting above the line of machines and showering them in debris, to little effect. She surmised only direct hits would do.
 

The rest of her squad, eight soldiers in total, pounded down the ramp behind her, forming up in a defensive position around her. The muted whine of the gunship’s engines intensified behind her as it lifted off.

“
Warsong
away,” came the call from the gunship’s copilot. “We’ll remain on station to provide cover for your advance. Good hunting.”

“Copy,
Warsong
. We’re pinned down here, receiving a lot of fire.”

“I noticed. Lemme help you with that.”

The Broadsword moved overhead, and its ventral gun battery spoke, its quad 20mm cannons spitting flame and destruction down to the ground. The shells glowed red hot as they tore a gash in the line of machines and exploded. Chunks of smoking debris rained over the dunes, plinking off her suit.

“Great shooting,
Warsong
.” She picked herself up off the sand, taking the hand her sergeant offered. “Thanks.”

“No worries, Lieutenant,” he said. “Let’s move.”

Together, the unit crested the rise, boots crunching as they stepped over the smouldering remains of the Bevra drones. Before them lay their objective: a large storage facility, many square kilometres in size, one of the crucial objectives for the ground team.

“How’re you holding up,
Warsong
? You got hit pretty good.”

“We lost about a centimetre of armour, and we’re venting atmosphere from the hold. Containment’s holding for now. We’re still good to remain on station.”

The Broadswords finished dropping their soldiers, and as a unit, the group moved toward the facility, weapons ready.
 

It didn’t make any sense to Cheung. “Four tin can’s ain’t an army. That’s a distraction.”

A voice, female and heavily accented with German, spoke into her headset. “Yes, but that’s four less we have to deal with later.”

Cheung turned her head, scanning the sea of blue diamonds for the one glowing. The tac-helmet would track a user’s eye movements. If it was looking directly at a friendly unit, it would radio that person directly. Otherwise, it would remain on the current frequency.

“Agreed,” she answered. “Hey, is that Oberleutenant Keller?”

From the sea of armoured suits, one emerged to stand with her. “Yes, Oberleutnant
zur See
Hanna Keller. I remember you from the escape pod.”

Cheung laughed. “If you say so.”

Keller waved her hand dismissively. “It’s the same thing. Just call me Keller.”

“Got it. What’s the situation?”

Keller beckoned her Marines over, and the two groups merged into one, spreading out. “American Rangers are on the north side, along with some Canadian special forces. Like Santa Claus, they brought us a little present we’re going to use to assault this structure.”

Cheung continued to talk to her as they drew close to the facility, scanning the area in thermal. There was substantial heat present, indicating activity. “A present?”

Keller’s tone became impish. “Yes, like for kinder. They discovered you can fit a Lincoln Mk IV into the hold of a Broadsword.”

“The Americans have a
tank
?” Cheung reached down and adjusted her suit’s noise cancellation. Then she could hear it, the low rumble of a diesel engine, thumping across the desert. A glance around confirmed its position at the other side of the facility. “They have a
tank
. Well, fuck me.”

Keller laughed. “Not on the first date, sweetheart.”

“The day’s still young,” Cheung countered, watching as the tracked vehicle rolled to a stop on the desert sands, its turret whining as it turned toward a large square opening she presumed was the door.

She had worked with tanks before and, in preparation for the deafening roar of the main gun, clicked her noise cancellation back on.

Joaquín Torres, tank commander of
Steel Bitch
, the only surviving Lincoln Mk IV in the whole world, peered through the thermal sight at the flat metal door several hundred metres away.

What the hell kind of round would be the best to breach it with? Might as well go with the basic boom-round. “Gunner, sabot, HE.”

“Up,” said Jessica, his loader, through the intercom.

“Identified three hundred metres.” Samson, the gunner, lined up the crosshairs on the target. “Lased.”

They were already in position, so no other preparations needed to be made. “Fire.”

“On the way!” said Samson.

Steel Bitch
shook as the cannon roared, spitting from the tip of its weapon. Dust exploded in all directions, billowing and snuffing out sight of the world. Through the thermal camera, struggling to be seen through the muck, a flower of flame blossomed on the door. The steel had buckled but not broken.

“Hit it again,” he said.

“Up,” said Jessica.

“Identified three hundred metres.” Samson repeated his lines.

“Fire.”

“On the way!”

The door splintered in a spray of molten metal. Safe and secure in their armoured shell wrapped in dust, Torres knew he’d done his part. “Cease fire. Driver, back down. Adopt hull down and cover the infantry.”

Steel Bitch
lurched as she retreated, nestling into a cocoon of sand, turret exposed.
 

“Pick up another scan,” Torres said. “And signal the Marines. Tell them it’s their turn to get some.”

“Yeah,” said Jessica. “Oorah. Go us. Blowing up a door and shit.”

They all laughed, but a voice from the outside cut them off. “
Steel Bitch
, this is Lieutenant Yanmei Cheung. Contact, contact. Incoming air units.”

“Shit,” said Torres. “Aren’t we supposed to have air superiority?”

“Fuck knows,” said Jessica. “See if we can—”

The top of the tank glowed, the four crewmen shouted in unison, and then there was nothing.

Cheung’s voice evaporated before she could shout another warning, overshadowed by a terrific roar from above like an enraged animal, and a flash of light so bright it overwhelmed the glare filtration unit on her visor, forcing her to snap her eyes closed. A powerful shockwave blew her over onto her back, her weapon tumbling away from her hands. She could see the ghostly outline of the tank, through her squinting eyes, evaporate in a brilliant ball of light. The heat seared through the protective layers of her suit, causing an involuntary shriek of pain.

“
Steel Bitch
, report!”

No answer save static. The tank didn’t move, and for a moment, everything seemed okay—then grey smoke poured from the barrel, from the commander’s cupola, and from between the tracks. With a roar, the vehicle became a bonfire, flames bursting from the turret and the engine, casting a fierce glow over the sand as it burned from within.

Scalded, half blind, and stunned, Cheung stumbled to her feet, scrambling for her weapon. It was nowhere to be found. Raising a glove to cover her eyes, she looked skyward, at a massive ship coasting to a stop in the sky above her, the underside illuminated a menacing red by the burning wreckage of the tank, punctuated by golden flares of light as the ammunition and fuel within
Steel Bitch
popped and exploded.

Cheung scrambled away from the fiery heat of the inferno, her weapon forgotten. Her suit’s life support protocols kicked in, dispensing painkillers against her burns with a soft hiss. She ran across the dunes, tapping her arm-mounted radio control.