[GZG Fiction] A Bloody Nose

While perhaps not as optimistic as Colonel Baxter, the solid advances on
the southern Martian front do seem to support the view that the tide of
war may be turning, on Mars at least. The long years of terror and
deprivation that the Xenowar has brought to the Sol System may truly be
ending. Maybe. How many of us have forecast wed be home for Christmas,
New Year (for whatever calendar you follow), Mawlid or Qingming?

This war had taken me to many places. Now I found myself sitting in an
assault craft with a section of the OUs elite 3/7. We were bouncing
across the choppy northern waters of the Xonak Dary, its grey waves
flecked with greasy patches of mushy rose and barley coloured ice. My
stomach was in revolt and icy brine crystals were stinging my cheeks. I
was finding it hard to believe that four days ago I was in a firefight
in northern Severns and hadnt seen a body of water larger than my own
bowl for more than 6 months. I had shifted to a new regiment. When I
arrived it was to find the 3/7 had just been tasked with making an
assault by sea on the docks on the south eastern rim of the Severns
crater.

The Krak must have had the coastal approaches under surveillance and
from the time we cleared the Asher headland we had come under
bombardment. The landing craft I had been assigned to sped crazily
across the waves. The pilot was throwing it about sharply, dodging
through the pluming fountains of waterspouts kicked up by mortar shells
dropping to left and right. The air was thick with clouds of black acrid
smoke.

I staggered against the side of the landing craft as it again veered
sharply to the left, barely avoiding a direct hit. The spout dropped
straight on our heads and drenched me further, it was an absolute
deluge. I had thermal bands around my chest, waist and wrists, but they
were only just holding icy numbness at bay. I could just hear the
crackle of machine gun fire and the bark of small arms. We skimmed past
the point of another headland, missing a submerged rock by a stones
throw. The sound of combat was growing louder.

I dialled up the zoom on the feed in my specs, so that I could observe
our approach. A pebbled beach came into view. There was a network of
buoys, breakwaters and piers arranged at the far end. Even with the feed
as resolved as possible, I found it very difficult to pick out much real
detail amongst the sea spray and smoke. The final run in was extremely
fast. The engines of the craft were whining under the strain. The beach
raced to meet us and suddenly there was a terrific grating sound. It
jarred even through my headsets external audio dampers. I thought that
the deck was going to be torn out from under me. Everyone on board
lurched forward with the impact. I patted down my pockets and pouches
going through a final quick mental checklist. Another lurch saw me grab
hold of the superstructure and grip hard. Wed hit barrels of something
slung just below waterline in the last few metres to shore and the
stench of its contents was clear even through the filters of my mask. My
nose stung and my eyes had begun to water. This made me unexpectedly
nervous, we hadnt met anything like this before and I was worried wed
collided with something toxic.

I could see on the feed that there we were still about 10 metres from
shore. The surf was kicking around the nose of the landing craft. The
pilot was desperately trying to push us forward, to close the final gap,
but to no avail. There was the screech of incoming shells and two
explosions split the surf about 40m to our right. The water that
showered down onto us this time was mixed with a slurry of sand the
colour of pumpkin. That was going to play merry hell with the rifles and
our RT if we didnt get out of here soon.

The landing craft rolled back a bit with the slow roll of the waves and
then surged forward toward the beach again. This time it dug in and
held. The armoured front ramp crashed down onto the beach and we pounded
out. I followed Sergeant Billy Clarke in a sprint up the beach. There
were some rocky dunes where the first scraggily bushes had colonised the
head of the beach and we dropped in behind them.

Krak fire was raking the top of the dune we were sheltering behind, it
was kicking stone chips over my head. The rest of the platoon likewise
assaulted up the beach and dropped into firing positions shy of the
crest of the first dunes. The young corporal to my left already had a
trickle of blood pooling in his eyebrow, where a stone chip had clipped
him, his slim line specs not giving as much protection as my larger
goggle-style ones. It wasnt only his specs that were different, his
uniform contained nano-threads that did a crude form of pattern matching
with the terrain, it wasn't chameleonic by any means, but it did shift
with changing scenery. In place of my half-face covering mask the 3/7
wore small bar-like re-breathers that sat over the jaw, with a skirt
covering the lips, a cap that extended up and covered the nose (sitting
nicely between the lens of their specs) and another pocket that cam down
over the chin.	Despite their small size they allowed free verbal
communication, though they all wore throat mikes too, and were true
re-breathers with the circulated gasses shunting in and out of the cheek
bars. They were incredibly robust, Id never seen the bars of one
breached, though I didnt look forward to the day I did as the pressure
must be so large it would ripe the unfortunate victims head clean off.

I was snapped out of my momentary musing by a loud explosion behind us
and the bone-jarring screech of tearing metal. I stayed flat but rolled
on my side looking back down the beach. The last of the assault craft
was peeled back like a banana, lying broadside in the surf. Its windows
were shattered. The propellers on one side were spinning uselessly in
the air. The deck visible above the water line was a tangle of bloody
pulp and equipment. I could see a mutilated arm, still holding a rifle,
sticking up at an odd angle and another body head down into the surf,
the lower half of the body caught on the jagged metal of the splintered
ramp. The water sloshing about the wreck was deep red with pink tendrils
spinning away.

Another less damaged assault craft was also stranded, lying inert,
tilted and speared into the pebbles further up the beach. It looked
largely intact except for a gaping hole in its aft section. I could make
out the shimmering flick of orange flame and thick grey smoke was
billowing from inside.

>From my vantage point up the beach I could see that there were quite a
few submerged obstacles, increasing in density closer to the breakwaters
at the far end of the beach. I rolled back onto my stomach and
considered the mote feed to see what we would have to clear to penetrate
further inland.

The first hurdle was a formidable sea wall, made form concrete and
chunks of pitted saprock. It had originally protected the human
inhabitants of Severns form the large wind driven storms of the Xonak,
but the Krak were now using it as a line of fortification. They had
added a nasty bastard wire fence along the front of the wall and another
strand of curled razor wire along its top. After the wall there was a
narrow parkland covered in rows of vicious looking pronged constructions
that reminded me of pictures of ancient caltrops; except they were
enormous, larger than a man is tall, and hung with what I recognised as
Krak motion sensitive heavy mines.

A loud voice cut through the pounding sound and confusion. Two section.
Take the wall! We need off this beach! Clarke was directing the assault
on the first line of Krak defence.

Third section. Follow up. One section, get ready. He said to those of us
immediately around him. Well have to cover them if they cant clear that
wire fast.

I watched with keen interest as the first two squads vaulted the dune
and made their way to the fence. Each section had 2 or 3 human troops,
supremely skilled elites, but the rest of the section were RT  robotic
troopers. All odd shapes and angles, they made me think of headless
animal skeletons. They dynamically reconfigured their shape as the
terrain required. Most had risen from prone positions and unfolded on
four or more servoed legs with low mechanical whirs, moving seamlessly
with their human squad mates.

Almost immediately fire started to tear up the ground around them.

Wheres that coming form? Clarke bellowed.

We looked about frantically trying to source the fire. I spotted muzzle
flash in the window of a bombed, half destroyed warehouse about 15m past
the sea wall. Top windows of the warehouse, at 10 oclock I called.
Immediately rifle barrels around me swung in that direction and started
laying heavy suppressing fire.

Two section were quickly through the first segment of the wire fences,
the RT slicing through with motorised saws before pushing the diced
metal strands to the sides. One got tangled in a strand that sprang
back, wrapping itself around two of its legs. It wrestled for a moment,
before going still and dropping into a lower power level. One of the
human squad members (or squishies as they called themselves) used bolt
cutters to cut it free in a few seconds and they joined the rest of the
squad by the wall.

The RT were also assigned the role of clearing the wire from the top of
the wall. To do this they stretched to stand as tall as the wall 
balancing on two or three legs, with the other legs placed against the
top of the wall, the saws extended perpendicularly to snip the razor
wire attachments off at the base. The human squad members were lying
back against the walls covering the RT watchfully. Once the wire was cut
the RTs started pushing it back off the wall or slicing it into smaller
sections to clear passages through. They then leapt over the wall in
single easy bounces. Even the squishies cleared the wall in an easy
leap, using their rifle butts to make sure the wall was clear of any
wire before stepping out 3 or 4 steps and running back at the wall and
leaping up. One private hit the top at full sprint, his booted foot
pushing off the rock in a terrific (if somewhat risky) leap, the others
twisted in mid air choosing to go across almost horizontally, landing
one hand palm down on the top of the wall  the other still griping their
rifle  and using the momentum to propel them clear over the other side.
I had largely forgotten the odd advantages afforded by Martian gravity
as the 2/34 hadnt had much chance to make use of them, beyond the
looping gate everyone tended to use and the more forgiving landings
vehicles could make if they mis-judged a turn or crossing. Seeing the
3/7 bounding around like human fleas drove home to me afresh how skills
are shaped by the conditions.

Two section had cleared the sea wall and was now standing tight against
the nearest warehouse wall. Three section had stayed on this side of the
wall, using it as cover, while the troops around me stepped up their
fire.

There was another enormous crash behind me and this time I felt the heat
of the blast roll over me. A new wave of assault craft had reached the
beach, bringing in the other two platoons and the company command. One
of the craft had been straddled by mortar fire and was burning fiercely.
It looked like at least some of those on board had disembarked, diving
from a rent in the underside of the upended vessel and swimming for
shore, but there was no hope for her crew. At first I thought all the RT
had been lost too, but they were too heavy to stay atop the waves and
must have walked ashore instead. The appeared suddenly in the surf,
striding through the waves, pushing the dead body of one of their squad
mates out of the way as they strode ashore.

Krak mortar shells continue to whistle overhead, trying to disable more
of the craft pushing on to the beach. Eurie VR fighters were now
swarming back the other way though, firing missiles into the Krak
defences beyond the warehouse. It was rare to see true VR fighters on
Mars anymore, the Krak jamming had made them useless for so long that
any aircraft were typically human crewed or fully autonomous UAVs.
However, the Euries had recently managed to make some inroads on
defeating the jams, even this close to Krak held territory. Moreover I
knew the VR pilots werent as far from the battlefield as they would have
been in the last Solar War. These pilots werent tucked up nice and safe
far from the front line but were actually sitting on board a sea going
cruiser just over the horizon. Safer, but not completely immune if the
Krak opened up with some of their longer range missiles or artillery.

Much of this first day with the 3/7 will be indelibly etched on my mind,
but the overpowering memory I have is of the smell. I had a standard
military issue filter mask, Ill skip the excruciatingly boring technical
details, but unlike atmospheric suits it wasnt closed cycle, it drew in
the small amount of breathable air in the atmosphere and effectively
filtered and concentrated it. This meant that the masks filtered most
smells and contaminants as standard operating procedure, which had
become even more necessary as the war undermined the atmospheric
components of the terraforming efforts. But the filters were no match
for the obnoxious stench that filled my nostrils and came to define my
time in combat with the 3/7. I had lived up close with men and women and
the odours of modern warfare, but nothing prepares you for the harsh
artificial stink of ruined RTs. The mangled frames of five or so RTs
littered the beach. Vivid blues, greens and yellows of coolants,
lubricants, hydraulic fluids and other evil smelling liquids oozed from
the broken machines, puddling around them or trickling down through the
pebbles to mix with the turbid water and sand stirred up by the breaking
waves. The whole area reeked with the aroma of spoiled RT. It was
stomach turning.

Id been around earlier generations of RTs and seen vision of them in
action against the Krak, but for all that I had not had much exposure to
severely damaged RTs and I found the experience quite unsettling. The
worst Id seen previously were ones disabled by severely bent struts or
due to blinded electronics. In fact in my mind they had seemed fairly
indestructible. Whether as items of industry or in the military it was
their unstoppable productivity that had made them attractive to me, a
sensible tool to employ. The Krak jammers had put a lot of the dumber
remote systems at peril and mechanical logistics had seen them dwindle
amongst long-range patrol groups, like the 2/34. Ironically in
unforgiving environments, in contact with hostile forces, it had proven
easier to supply humans with the basics than power up and maintain the
inanimate long-term.

Looking round quickly I reassured myself that our section was largely
unharmed. I was glad to see we had suffered no casualties and my
equilibrium returned.

Ok one section. Lets get moving Clark said, signalling that we were to
clear the fence and join the other sections of the first wave by the
warehouse. Just as we started to rise a new stream of Krak fire lanced
our position. The Sergeant was up and going though and I rose to follow.
I noticed that the young Corporal who had the firing position to the
right hand end of our harbour hadnt moved, he was still lying prone and
intent.

Hey, heads up I yelled through the surrounding noise. As I took another
step forward though and could more clearly see his face I realised his
head was lolling not intently peering down his scope. He was dead, his
far temple missing below where his helmet sat. My heart leapt at the
deception, recoiling I went into a stumbling sprint after Clark. Then
the sand and small pebbles by my feet began jumping, like rain drops on
water. I was already tense and now the adrenaline was surging. With the
wind up me I ended up flashing past the rest of the section, hurling
myself over the wall and against the warehouse with a maniac fixation.
All my careful plans to keep a wary eye out for mines completely
forgotten.

Bloody hell Newsman. What the fuck have the 2/34 been doing with you?
They make sure you gotta be fast in the shower or was your mother half
jack rabbit?

Gulping down great lung fulls of air I spluttered out I just hadnt
wanted to hold them up. Calm down Jock, this is just another job, dont
get all starry eyed.

Clark quickly sent two section in to clear the upper windows, to give
the following platoons a better chance of clearing the beach without
being cut down. With that done it was time to push further in land, to
secure the main port buildings by the edge of the Severns crater.

We moved further along the water front warehouses, so that Clark could
get a better look at the ground we would have to cover next. Wed moved
about 600m, with the other platoons slotting in behind and were in cover
amongst the lower stories of the old seafood and shipping supply market.
I crept about on my haunches, squatting, exploring the refuse that
remained of the once vibrant commercial thoroughfare. All the
advertising surfaces were dead and cracked, or completely broken, but
there were old containers here and there. The Krak must have been using
the area relatively recently too as I found the odd discarded or
forgotten tube covered in angular alien scripts and a hard plastic crate
that had been abandoned when the bottom gave way.

I was resting against a wall looking over my finds when I noticed what
sounded like a maglev off in the distance. I stopped still, listening,
trying to discern the source, the noise rapidly growing louder. Suddenly
a large shell went screeching over our heads, slamming into a row of
silos about 100m away and destroying them. Great chunks of saprock
cement and rebar, as much as 30 or 40cm across started raining down
around and on us. I dived for cover into what turned out to be an
overturned garbage skip. Thankfully it hadnt been full and even what it
had contained had long ago petrified. The stale odour was only just
detectable past my masks filters. I didnt dwell on the insect and vermin
inhabitants that my entrance sent scuttling. Rather I lay there hoping
that the sides would hold as large chunks pounded into it, creating
large indentations.

Madly cycling through the tacmaps I zoomed out to a more regional view
and realised the fire was coming in form the cruiser offshore. It was
firing its large shells in an arc that hugged the planets curve tightly.
I wasnt sure if it was being called in on purpose or not, but the
closeness of its targets was doing nothing for my case of nerves. One
round even fell on the market itself, the clanging of shrapnel hitting
my refuge was deafening and I was completely disoriented, only just
managing to avoid being crushed as one end of the skip was suddenly
rammed in.

After a couple of minutes the noise ceased and I dared to crawl out and
try and take stock. Miraculously most seemed unhurt, barring the odd
scrape or bruise. The one exception was a private, Ben Hollsworth, from
two section. He was almost completely naked, his uniform in tatters and
his exposed skin covered in small scratches, streaks of blood, and fine
red dust. He was starting to shiver, both from shock and cold and he had
the panicked look of someone who couldnt breath.

Setting down my pack I shook out a foil lined thermal blanket and a half
sized spare mask, which just covered his mouth and must have left his
eyes smarting (I didnt have any spare eye ware). After a huddled
conference Sergeant Clarke came over and informed us that Ben would be
staying behind. He gave him another blanket and some thermal bands for
his chest, waist and limbs and a collection of bandages and other
medi-kit paraphernalia to clean himself up with. Then one of the larger
TRs came up, these were tasked with carrying extra ammunition, power
cells and the like. Clarke detached a shoebox sized black container and
handed it to Ben.

Sit tight and microburst your location in 35 minutes. UAV swing
extraction is likely so try and get those blankets into some semblance
of a pair of trousers by then or things could get nippy.

Ben nodded as he quickly, expertly slapped the thermal bands on and tied
one blanket around his waist sarong style and the other around his
shoulders like a cloak.

As we formed up ready to move on I watched Ben, who was still shaking
almost debilitated by the cold, drop into one of the shell craters and
shake out the contents of the container Clarke had handed him. It was
some kind of cloth, but it was hard to focus on, as the gauzy material
was hard to keep your eye on  it kept melting into the background. With
a final sharp snap Ben pulled it over the top of the crater and
disappeared. It was a cloaking field, well-cloaked material at any rate.
Not completely hidden if you knew what should be there or looked really
hard, but light bending enough that it hid Bens shelter exceptionally
well, especially form any rapid visual searches. Flicking my specs to IR
he was invisible on that too, completely shielded. No life signs or
power sources turned up on an EM sweep either. Thats probably why they
used a cloth rather than powered cloak, youd risk a power bleed from
even a small cell if you didnt use passive cloth. This was a very
different philosophy from what Id seen in other patrols where things
could slow to a crawl as soon as a few were injured or encumbered. These
guys were intentionally leaving someone behind, sure he had a planned
pick up, but it was a very different style. They didnt look happy about
it, but no one was making a fuss and even Ben had accepted it without
argument.

* * *

The shell strikes had knocked our timeline behind, but they had exposed
the presence of a large minefield to our northwest. Unfortunately it was
between us and our final target on the ridge marking the craters edge.
Moreover, initial probes suggested it stretched a long (or at least
inconvenient) distance in either direction along the coast. There was no
choice; we would have to pick our way through it.

There were three draws we could use to get up on to the ridge, each was
about 150-300m long and salted with Krak mines. The RTs were the first
up the draw, dropping blinking markers over any mines they sensed. There
were three activations before the RTs reached the top. The first two saw
the RT lose a limb or two, continuing on with a reconfigured gate. The
last however saw the triggering RT shredded, its frame metamorphosed
into thousands of lethal shards that scythed through the surrounding
area. Fortuitously all the human troopers were all still at the bottom
of the draws, ducked into the rocky cover and no one was hurt, and the
metallic splinters bounced fairly harmlessly off the metal frames of the
other RTs.

When the last RT had reached the zenith the sensors in the draw started
connecting up with small beams of light, which switched and flickered
rapidly between the different nodes in the network. They were painting
the ground, indicating what was safe and what was not. There was a mesh
of pale light over any unsafe ground, while the pathways remained clear
dull red earth.

We wound our way to the ridgeline quietly and without incident. A road
system ran along the inside lip of the crater, it was recessed into the
side of the ridgeline so even if we walked erect we were protected from
any eyes along the coast and did not stand out in silhouette for any
Krak down in the crater proper.

About 3km from our current position there was a crossroad with branches
leading down to the water and back into Severns. We started moving along
the edge of the road. It was no easier going than most of the
undeveloped terrain though, as the thawing and refreezing that had come
with the more erratic weather had seen the roadway become pitted and
degraded. I guessed the Krak love of grav meant that a flat road surface
wasnt as crucial.

The fine dust of the surface kicked up in gentle puffs with each
footfall as we moved along, coating us ever more thoroughly in a fine
rusty red patina. It was so fine that it felt velvety to the touch of an
ungloved hand. I hoped that it hadnt formed a sufficient dust cloud to
drift up above the craters lip and alert the Krak to our presence.

About 300m from the crossroads we moved back over the ridgeline dropping
down onto a complex of buildings that lined the old main arterial
shuttleway to the port. Clarke told us to get into cover, wed made good
time and were now a little ahead of schedule - by about 20 minutes. Most
of us lay in the narrow gully rents and scrapes that ran down the slope.
The RTs mostly literally dug in, digging straight down and covering
themselves with the fill.

Many of us also took the opportunity to get some food and water in us
while things were relatively quiet. Nothing too much, it wouldn't do to
have an overloaded stomach, just enough to keep the hunger pangs at bay.
I didn't bother to reconstitute the dried blocks of porridge, potato and
minced meat. Instead I crunched into them like biscuits and then washed
them down with a couple of large mouthfuls of water.

Eventually a series of loud cracks jerked my attention back to the
buildings below us. A flight of UAVs had arrived, flying straight up the
shuttleway drawing fire. Every gun along their approach and from further
along the coast opened fire. Great snakes of Krak tracer fire twisted up
to greet them, chasing them towards our hidden position. It was not a
one sided affair however and missiles and bombs streaked across the sky
silencing a few of the Krak positions. As the UAV raced across our
position and banked hard to rerun they were so low I could pick out some
of the slogans written on their undersides. I pondered for a second
whether Krak were capable of any of those anatomical actions or
contortions.

This shooting gallery was an amazing spectacle. The UAVs weaved
violently as they raced back out to sea, turning much faster than would
have been possible even if flown by VR. The sleek bodies of the aircraft
set again a vibrant background drawn with a palette of harsh lights.
There was a myriad of flashing luminescence, streaking exchanges and
incandescent explosions.

Before the fury of action below us had quietened Clarke signalled we
were to move out, pushing down into the buildings. As we began rapidly
descending the slope I realised that the guns Id seen firing on the UAVs
werent all from fixed emplacements. There were tanks down amongst the
buildings. Skilfully camouflaged they were hard to discern even when
they sat in alleyways and warehouse forecourts. Some were hidden inside
shells of ruined buildings. I was suddenly very glad I was here with a
3/7 foot patrol not a 2/34 vehicle convoy. This scene would have spelt
deadly ambush for the later. They would have presented prime targets if
theyd lumbered into the sites of the giant killers lurking amongst the
partially ruined commercial district.

Id repeatedly heard that elite infantry were the best way of dealing
with a tank force. I hoped fervently that held true on the Krak home
worlds too.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a new line of icons appear on the
tac-map. A UNSC grav force, of 12 Samakab heavy grav tanks, was
attacking from the sea.  These titanic tanks were named for the giant of
a man who had been the first General Secretary after the signing of the
Freisland Accord, who had signed the UNSC into existence. These monsters
were nearly 7m long, and effectively double hulled. The main body of
each tank had great sloping sides and front plate, bedecked with
hatches, plates, shield emitters, anti-personnel charges as well as area
defence systems. On top of this sat an equally festooned turret that
covered the rear half of the tank and carried the snub-nosed direct fire
fusion gun. A large electronics array sat in a mushroom shaped dome in
the rear corner of the turret, partnered by a long vertically directed
antenna.

These tanks are amongst the most lethal atmospheric vehicles in any
human arsenal. Their massive plasma charges are capable of liquefying
rock and metals and even just witnessing a coronal discharge from one of
their plasma arcs is enough to blind unprotected infantry.

The Krak behemoths were no less imposing, but seemed broader, stout and
brutish with hard angles and unaesthetic protrusions. They still had the
same basic plan, undercarriage propulsion, main hull and turret; but
they had augmented side thrusters, bulky hexagonal scattergun plates, a
forward mounted twin barrelled gauss autocannon and an enormous railgun
that ran along the length of the left of the turret and then onward to
overhang the length of the colossus. Lastly there was a pair of forward
sensor and deflector mounts that, to my mind at least, were reminiscent
of fangs or tusks.

Most of the Krak crawled form their hiding spots to confront the UNSC,
but they were greater in number and a few also turned their attention
our way, now that our presence was known. Shells rained down on us, with
the forward RTs badly mauled by raking autocannon fire. My first
instinct was to go to ground, find cover, but that would have been a
deadly mistake and Clarke had us push on. The idea was for us to use our
agility to stay ahead of the large Krak tanks cumbersome size. While
they could rise above the buildings and swivel relatively easily in
place, this made them prime targets for UNSC plasma shots. If they
stayed low and hidden instead they were constrained by the scenery
hemming them in.

Once we got in amongst the semi-ruined commercial precinct it was much
easier to avoid the Krak tank guns and to get close enough to attempt to
place disabling explosives. It wasnt completely one sided. The small
forward mounted autocannons were deadly, ripping into any infantry they
could get into arc; and the scatterguns could tear through human and RT
like. To make the situation worse, as we crossed a small dry causeway
enfilading fire let us know that there were nests of Krak heavy gunners
covering the port end terminus of the shuttleway. Clarke was just
coordinating a counterattack to neutralise the closest nest when a
Samakab efficiently dealt with them by flying in low over the Krak
position and skid turning on top of the weapon pit, crushing all inside.
A lone Krak did crawl free, one arm and both legs nothing but a
gelatinous mass, but a RT quickly dealt with it.

It wasnt long before wed had to resort to mote enhanced viz, with the
UNSCs smoke screens mixing with the omnipresent Martian dust to reduce
visibility to nothing. We climbed through breaches in one rapidly
crumbling building only to have to immediately dive for cover as a Krak
sniper used his own sensor suite to find us amongst the ruddy gloom.

Clarke lead us right, on to a disused urban tube line that was shielded
from the Krak sniper by a row of low, deserted, shops. He quickly
conferred with Elie the only other human trooper remaining in One
Section. Elie and an RT quickly moved off, back around the corner,
picking their way forward by a different route as I followed Clarke and
two RT down the tube line. I heard the crack of another Krak slug and
the RT that was about a meter away and to the right behind me
mis-stepped one of its limbs now a shattered mess. Clarke and I picked
up our pace and rolled into cover in the remnants of a haberdasher.
Faded signs proclaimed exotic linens and the finest silks at never to be
repeated prices. Clarke sat against the rock partition searching his
scanner screen for sign of the sniper.

Suddenly he tapped his throat mike twice and ordered an RT to step out
into the tube line as he turned and knelt bringing his rifle up to his
shoulder. There was the crack of a Krak sniper round, the spark of a
ricochet bouncing off the RT and the simultaneous bark of answering
rifle fire.

Kilo Sierra Tango Uniform. Over. Elie reported quietly

Roger. Rendezvous at 5-7-Lima-Delta-Juliette-5-6-0-1-6-3-9-8-7-6 ASAP.
Over.

Copy.

The sniper had been dealt with.

* * *

Much of the next hour was spent in a game of cat and mouse as we tried
to hunt down the tanks while avoiding our own demise. Despite staying
within sight of Clarke or Elie the entire time, I felt supremely
isolated and disoriented, it wasnt like any combat Id ever participated
in before.

Confirm tango at 5-7-Lima-Delta-Juliette-5-8-2-5-0-3-8-6-0-1. Over.

Clarke was once again conversing with the remote designators, who
painted new targets on the platoon tac-maps.

Wilco. Clear.

He spent a couple of minutes feverishly mumbling to himself, his eyes
flickering furiously as if possessed. Then he snapped his attention back
to us.

Weve got a new tango, 11oclock, 100 metres.

We moved cautiously along yet another line of deserted shops. Clarke
motioned us to a stop just before the corner. Down on one knee he
quickly indicated how we would make the final approach. He was
interrupted however, by the rushing roar of an incoming rocket and a
loud tearing BOOM. The dust shrouding the road beyond the corner
momentarily burned brighter, then settled back to a crackling flicker;
throwing the edges of the buildings into stark contrast.

Clarke was suddenly intent on a voice in his ear.

Copy. Will confirm tango uniform of all kilo in vicinity. Over.

I cautiously followed Clarke toward our quarry only to be met with a
scene of utter confusion. The Krak tank had a gaping hole ripped in its
side, I could see arcing electronics in the interior. Krak equipment was
tumbling out across the ground, most of it twisted or broken. One torn
body could be seen inside the hull, parts of another scattered in the
debris.

Clarke and Elie approached slowly, checking around rifle first, but the
RTs crawled over the tank like insects on a carcass. One RT seemed to
fall apart, shedding smaller bots, which swarmed inside, soaking up data
for later analysis.

By this point the UNSC had disabled or destroyed at least 13 Krak tanks
and the 3/7 had disposed of another 9. We moved away from the wrecked
Krak tank into the lee of a partially destroyed wall. Elie and I took a
moments rest while Clarke took sitreps from the other platoons. I sat
watching the small icons duel on the tac-map, almost like AI-controlled
pieces in a chess game. I noted that one Krak tank was marked as being
at the other end of the road that we were beside, largely pointed in our
direction. It was an even chance they knew we were there. There was a
lot of electronic jousting going on and the DFFGs were causing severe
electromagnetic flares, which sent many sensors screaming. Most of us
had muted the proximity alerts soon after moving down into the
shuttleway, as they were in a permanent state of agitation. I could only
assume any Krak equivalent would be likewise sub-optimal in these
conditions.

A new target marker flared into life in the tac-map and we moved back
along the wall, away from the Krak tanks (ruined and lurking). Clarke
was on comms confirming the kill and getting details on the new mark
when a whining shriek marked the passage of an incandescent railgun slug
passed the shattered nose of the tank. It hit the rising slope of the
road and ploughed into the front edifice of a building a block up the
road. Clarke dropped into a crouch in place, while Elie took cover
behind the remains of a retaining wall. I ducked, artfully lost my
footing and slid sideways and toppled into an exposed shuttle rail
recess	ending up lying wedged between the metallic rail and the rough
rock surface of the recess. Really outshining yourself today Jock!

My bunker like position didnt seem quite so stupid when a series of Krak
mortars dropped one after the other along the road and the entire area
was swept by wickedly chattering autocannon fire. Lying in place I
switched the view in my specs to that of one of the RTs. The air was
thicker (if possible) with dust and smoke and there was an almost
continuous din of Krak autocannons and the answering BRRRRP of OU
weaponry. Jumping between RT views and then the spotty mote cover I
scanned the immediate area trying to judge if it were safe to stay where
I was or if I needed to move. Incredibly, despite the fact I had direct
evidence of weapons fire tearing up the ground just above my refuge  and
Clarke and Elies icons were still clearly marked on my tac-map	I
couldnt actually see a single living soul. A few RTs could be seen in
this or that feed from the 4 blocks around me, but even they were fairly
judicious about minimising their exposure to terminal fire.

Newsman. Krak foot patrol is between us. Keep your head down. Were on
the move. Will guide you in for safe hook up. Said a quiet voice in my
ear.

Copy. Over. I whispered in return. Instantaneously my gut was a knot of
nerves and I could feel sweat leaking down the sides of my face and
across my chest leaving cool sticky trails.

A different voice took over then. One that was more relaxed and cocky,
most likely from a remote observer who wasnt under immediate threat of
being overheard. Krak jamming meant he couldnt have been too far away,
most likely on the cruiser just out to sea.

Ok Dorothy just follow the yellow brick road home to Mama. Part of me
internally revolted at the inaccuracies in that statement, while the
greatest part of me tensed to follow the flashing yellow line of
electronic breadcrumbs that had just materialised in my specs.

I rolled over on to my stomach and started to crawl along beside the
rail line. Trying to keep my body low, below the level of the recess.
Small explosions continued to tear up the road surface above me and
there was a continuous rain of small chunks of rock and clods of clay.
After about 175m I reached the end of the exposed line. I would have to
move back up on the roads and lanes of the commercial district. The
mortars had quietened, or at least moved to new targets, but I could
still hear the crackling of small arms. Just as I rose a line of indigo
tracer rounds ricocheted off the road close by me and I quailed,
slipping back down into the rough cut depression that held the rail
line. I knew if I tarried much loner though sooner or later a burst (or
worse) would get me, I had to move.

Going into a crouch, like on starters blocks I took a deep breath and
then launched myself up and forward, leaping up out of the recess in one
step and sprinting off across the road. I focused solely on following
the yellow dotted line superimposed on my view. I could see almost
nothing for the dust and smoke, except the slicing trails of tracers,
but I could hear the constant BRRRP of fire and the buzz and crack of
bullets and slugs that had barely missed me.

Four figures abruptly materialised out of the murk in front of me,
moving away along the road. My skin froze and I dodged into doorway,
heart bursting. Shit! Those ropey tendrils and ribbed armour didnt
belong to the OU. I was exceptionally glad theyd been trotting away from
me.

I was still gathering myself when a store of something, chemicals or
other flammable materials exploded in the block of buildings diagonally
across from me. There was a terrific WHOOSH and a flare of liquid flame
shot high into the thin atmosphere above, its blazing glare obvious even
through the vision defeating banks of smoke and dust. I was convinced
the extra illumination of the spreading fire would make my exposed
position even more untenable. Doubling back along the shop fronts, I
pounded along the street and skidded around the corner, trying and get
back on course. This street was in no better condition than the last.
Great gouges and pock marks from mortar strikes and heavy weapons fire
had made its surface treacherous, as I continued to sprint from one thin
piece of cover to the next. I got an image of the place as a mercantile
graveyard and no matter how I tried to draw in my focus I couldnt shake
the depressive feeling the image left on my sub-conscious.

My breath was coming in stabbing gasps now. It looked like I was close
to my end point however, no new yellow dashes appeared as my churning
legs ate up the closest ones in my view. Tracers skipped off the
footpath beside me as I hit the final path marker. Unsure of my next
move I needed to find cover until I got further direction. I spotted an
old trolley collection point, one of the solid-based ones that were used
to recharge the fancier hover trolleys. I hurled myself into it at full
stretch and was very nearly bounced out again as I landed on the
strongly protesting and massively muscular back of Artie Wirrpanda.

Fuck me Newsman. I nearly ripped your head orf!

Sorry. Krak- foot- ahead- probably- I- ducked- back- I gasped out, chest
heaving.

Yeah. Theyd be the fuckers firing on us.

I gave a frantic glance about our shelter, which was now over full with
the combined bodies of myself, Artie and an RT covering the rear  he
must have recognised me even if Artie hadnt or Id be dead.

At that moment the RT unfolded itself and skittered out into the
roadway, staying below the lip of our shelter  all I could see of it was
a thick, black, squat antenna poking up about 6cm above the rim. Artie
must have directed it to vacate our position as moments later he spoke
to me again.

Get your arse down that end and keep your eyes peeled for any fuckers
sneakin up that way.

Krak slugs spattered the walls of the trolley station, most bouncing
away to smack into the road and footpath around us. Artie would
periodically pop up and fire a burst off into the dust, relying on the
virtual images in his sites  I was convinced he couldnt see a thing for
real. I hugged the ground, largely relying on sensor feeds to monitor
this end of the road. I occasionally poked my head up so my eyes just
cleared the rim, but while it was mildly reassuring to be eyes on it was
futile as the dust was universally pervasive.

There was a fairly continuous stream of chatter by the platoon, keeping
each other appraised of the situation, with subtleties that were beyond
the visualisations provided electronically. A flash like lightning lit
the scene casting harsh shadows in the nooks around me and I got the
greasy tingly feeling of a high-energy electrical discharge. My first
thought was that we must have gotten to close to the discharge of one of
the UNSC DFFGs. Before I could pose the question however, alarms
suddenly cut across the comms, shrieking the approach of a pressure
wave. Artie and I both curled as low as we could. Heads tucked down and
legs up against the gut like a foetus. Nevertheless as the wave rolled
over us it still felt like a giant hand tried to use us to burrow into
the saprock foundations. My ears were ringing, the comms squealed with
static and then came back in fits and starts. The maps had dropped in
resolution back to the barest of mud maps. We were almost blind.

I could hear Artie desperately trying to get a smooth reconnect with
platoon comms. Risking a peek over the lip of our shelter I could see
the RT whirring slowly back into life, small lights flashing in
sequence, shutting off and restarting again. I doubted whether all its
electronics had survived, but hopefully enough had. I opened my mouth to
tell Artie about the RT, but the words died; cut off by a WHOMP and the
world quaked again. More rocks, clods, concrete and metal shards came
pelting down on us. Risking yet another look, there was a new crater in
the road and the RT was gone. I briefly wondered how the troops in the
opening days of the Krak invasion had withstood this mind shattering
experience for weeks on end.

I jumped as Artie touched my arm.

Sarge says motes are out. Main comms are down and hes pinned by heavy
fire one block down and another across.

How? I hadnt heard anything and the comms were so broken I was
surprised, and a little incredulous, that such a coherent message could
have gotten through so rapidly.

We have our means. Deep embedded, short burst, but too energy hungry to
use except in an emergency. We need to get some old fashion face-to-face
happening.

Let me guess I hazarded.

Yep, were putting your speedily little legs to good use Newsman. Ill get
the 4 guys west of us, you get the 3 east. He pointed out their
approximate positions on a map that blanked out spasmodically on a
semi-opaque flexi-sheet he held between us. I jotted down the locations
on my own map, a page Id torn from an old street directory Id found in
the mess back at the 3/7 launch point. Id intended to keep it as colour
for the piece. It was at least 60 years old, if not older. The basic
street layout was correct, as were the position of a couple of the most
dominant buildings, but a lot had changed. I hoped it would do as my
flexi-sheet was caught in an eternal boot cycle.

We meet up here Artie said stabbing his gloved finger at a point on the
northern end of the big building on the other side of the road, his map
image dying completely.

I nodded marking the spot on my street map with my charcoal crayon.

And I thought you were dumb arse lame doing those artsy sketches. Youre
going to be the only fuckin one of us who knows whats going on soon.
Artie commented. I tried to smile.

We both rose into a crouch; heads down, but with backs exposed. Catching
my eye he counted down from three on his fingers and then we both leapt
up and raced away.

Repeating the punctuated sprints that had gotten me to Artie, I made my
way around to the warehouse and climbed in through a ragged hole in the
wall. From there it was a matter of creeping hand over hand through the
over turned packing cases and half-destroyed internal walls. The spilt
contents of the Krak storehouse were intriguing but I had not time to
stop and investigate.

I found the first two soldiers relatively easily, but the third was
tricker  due in part to the inaccuracies of my old map and the fact shed
moved to avoid being shredded by autocannon fire. The hail of large
slugs was eroding the eastern most wall of the building, making that
whole side of the building sway precariously.

None of them looked surprised to see me and I could only guess that they
had been privy to the same comms burst as Artie.

We crunched our way forward to Clarke as stealthily as possible, staying
to the shadows and moving in short coordinated relays. We reached a
large open area, it was probably a delivery or display area. It was
largely empty now, machinery neatly parked to the sides. Holes had been
punched in the roof by shells, mortars or plasma fire and fragments of
roofing sheet littered the concreted surface, highlighted in the pale
light penetrating the holes above.

I spotted Clarke on the far side, lying flat to the floor behind a v of
large crates. The fire on his position was so intense it would have been
a lethal impossibility for him to lift his head. One of the others, Vida
Johnson, spotted Artie and three others who had approached from the
western side. They were halted in shadows half way round the clear
space, figuring out how best to extricate Clarke rather than join him.
Tossing a short life flare Vida got Arties attention and patting her
head called him over to her  Artie had the rank, but we had the superior
physical position which meant it was more sensible for Artie to join us
than the other way round (the 3/7 were pragmatic rather than regimental
about such things).

You got Sarges directions? Artie said as his group dropped in around us,
spreading themselves amongst the crates along the edge of the space.

Yep. How many RTs did you find?

I got 2 up via touch command, they should make their move in 7 minutes.
Arties said checking an old hand-wound nurses watch he had hanging on a
silver chain around his neck. He dropped it back inside the neck of his
chest armour.

I got 1 functional and Zel got one going too. Rest were KIA. Kerry got
one bootable, but its legs were still fucked.

Four will have to do. If we can get some cover fire in we should be able
to get Sarge out before they do their end run.

Whats the ammo like?

Couple of magazines each after the realloc. Petes fastest, his ready to
go tag Sarge.

Actually Newsman is fastest.

Seriously?!

Yep. Bona fide speedy Gonzalez and besides that way we keep up max fire
for the extraction.

It felt a little weird to be spoken about as if I wasnt right there.

Ok.

Hey Newsman. We need for you to get the Sarge. Well cover.

Yep ok. I said picking my way down between two crates that opened out
onto the flat of the open ground.

I braced my arms against the crates and rocked back ready to push
forward

Go! Go! Go! Artie roared and I shot forward, the BRRRRP of rifle fire
flying overhead.

I sprinted as if my life depended on it, which I suppose it did. Krak
slugs cracked past my head and OU fire spat overhead.

I dove in beside Clarke, who rolled arm raised. Realising who it was he
looked at me in astonishment.

Better- meet- point- back- there-  I pointed to where the stuttering
spurts of muzzle flashes from the OU soldiers lit up the loading docks.

Clarke nodded and we both scrambled to our feet. We nodded at each other
and then raced back at a flat sprint. Krak fire buzzing and cracking
around us almost continuously.

Back with the main body Clarke quickly started filling in his picture of
the situation. There was one tank at the T-junction at the northern end
of the road to the east of our position. There were also at least the
equivalent of three squads of Krak in positions in the upper floors of
the buildings to the north of us, both west and east of the road. They
had good firing positions and would be hard to dislodge short of
bringing the buildings down. Comms were effectively out and he didnt
know how the rest of the company was placed, but given that we were a
mix of two platoons and most RTs were less than fully functional the
situation probably wasnt rosey overall.

As of last good feed I was the most northerly squishy. Clarke said There
were a section of RTs on overwatch in the northern outskirts, but we
cant guarantee theyre functional so treat anywhere north of her as
hostile. We withdraw to the coast for pick-up, collecting any wet ware
we can find on the way. Hopefully the rest will have also figured the
jigs up and go for the default pull out too. I reckon thats a safe bet.
Its scorchin north so youd have to be a fuck knuckle to try and push
through that.

Turning to me he pulled out a strange looking handgun. It was about half
the length of an OU rifle, but about twice as thick. He handed it to me,
grip first.

I picked this up on my travels. Best as I can tell you point and click,
same as with ours.

Thanks. I swallowed, as I took the bulky piece from him. I was shocked
to find a curled Krak claw-like finger still clamped to the pistol grip
around the trigger. I glanced back at Clarke, but his attention had
moved on. I prised the finger off and threw it into the shadows amongst
the crates. Even through the gloves I could feel the revoltingly sticky
sensation associated with whatever substances still adhered to the
stock. I tried to ignore it.

We were to move out as a cohesive group, but were effectively tasked in
pairs. Given the incredibly poor visibility and lack of comms and
sensors it was likely the bigger group was going to become hopelessly
separated quite quickly. I was paired with Artie again.

We would be one of the first pairs to head out, the others providing
cover. As a group we moved back through the warehouse, intending to exit
at the southern end. We reached the far end without incident. We had to
devite a but, as the collapse of the upper floors had blocked off the
hole in the southern wall. In the end we were forced to exit via large
heavy doors on the south eastern corner  which opened on to the same
road the Krak lined to the north.

Vida and Kerry were the first to re-enter the dangerous arena of the
roadways. They quickly disappeared into the dust, as the rest laid fire
north along the road. Next Artie and I paused by the doorway. Artie
looked to me and nodded. I nodded in response and we slid out with our
backs against the wall, preparing to run. Almost immediately a burst of
fire danced down the edge of the footpath in front of us and those
inside, as well as Artie, sent an answering hail back along the road. I
also fired blindly at what I perceived as shadowy forms flitting about
in the murky distance. It was probably an ineffectual gesture. It did
however, give me a feel for the powerful weapon, which whined as it
charged and then jolted solidly as the slug was released. I doubted Id
be a particularly accurate shot with it, but at least it hadnt broken my
hand or anything with the effort.

I didnt wait for the torrent of fire passing over my head to slow before
clapping Artie on the arm and yelling

Im off.

Artie ceased firing, turning and joining me.

We kept on a fairly straight path, keeping fairly close to the wall for
cover; really only varying the route to navigate around any large
craters or other holes that had been dug in the footpath. After a few
minutes we reached an intersection, where the road joined the main
shuttleway. We turned on to the main road, heading straight for the
port. Suddenly there was a terrific booming THUD and I felt myself
launched bodily into the air. I hit the ground hard, caught in the
sternum by the concreted edge of a street drain and slid down into a
culvert that had been unroofed by the blast. I was unconscious by the
time I came to rest.

* * *

Groaning I clawed my way back to consciousness. I didnt know how long Id
been knocked out or what had happened to Artie. I pushed myself up into
a press-up and then rolled over on my shoulder, lying on my back to
survey for any wounds. My left foot felt swollen in its boot, but a
tentative tap and then stomp indicated that the bracing in the boot
would hold me. When I circled my ankle I had to acknowledge that it
would be tender though. I hoped I wouldnt have too many more flat
sprints ahead of me. My biggest concern however was my left hand. It
looked as if it had been dipped in a tin of red paint, a chunk of tissue
missing from the meat of my hand between the thumb and first finger. I
knew I wasnt going to die, but it still looked disconcertingly
unpleasant. Strangely it didnt seem to hurt all that much. I also
suspected that I had concussion as any sudden movement made my head spin
and I had to fight to keep conscious when I tried to sit up, fainting
twice.

I rolled on to my stomach ponderously, pulling my limbs under me again,
preparing to push up again. I tried to get my legs under me and head
towards the port once more. Out of nowhere a ham-sized hand grabbed the
kit straps over my shoulder lifted me up out of the culvert and on to my
feet.

Come on Newsman. Artie said guiding me forward, restarting our perilous
journey. Blood coated his upper arm and was discernible through his
cracked specs. The nose cap of his re-breather was partially crushed. It
too was brimming with blood, his nose obviously broken. His breathing
and speech had an eerie whistle to it and I wondered how long itd be
before the low oxygen levels would disable him. We continued our
staccato progress along the road, from one section of shop fronts and
doorways to the next. We were going more slowly now, but still
maintained a steady pace.

Pausing in the damaged shop front of what had once been a small
machinery mechanic, the nanoreplicator still dominating the main body of
one wall, we had a swallow of water and tended to our wounds. Artie
griped my hand looking it over. He dug in his hand and pulled out a
small box of wipes.

Sorry, its all Ive got. I had to use the medkit on Ben.

Actually I have a fair number of supplies left. I replied, digging in
the pouches on my thighs and pulling out padding to stuff the wound and
a flexible false skin glove I could slip over my combat glove.

Now what about you?

Scratches mostly Artie assured me, but he winced even as he spoke. He
spat out his re-breather to inspect it and that simple movement made it
clear the lacerations were fairly deep. One in particular, which began
by the corner of his mouth and cut across 3cm of his cheek, was shaped
like a toppled L or inverted V. It was deep and gaped, sitting open like
another set of lips.

Well let me clean them up a bit while you sort you mask. I offered,
pulling out a tube of pain killing salve. I wiped the skin clean and
rubbed the salve into the deep chocolate skin of his cheek. Then I
patched the cut, as best I could. I pulled it shut with a couple of sots
of contact cement and covered it with a temporary skin seal. Luckily it
hadn't penetrated all the way through the flesh of his cheek into his
mouth.

When I was done he fingered the nose cap of mask, which disintegrated.
Sighing with both aggravation and resignation he pulled what looked like
a combined nose clip and nostril plugs out of his pack. He grimaced
awfully as he snapped the clip over his already badly abused nose; and
while the patchwork I had done on his cheek sat quite snuggly under the
rest of his re-breather, it must have been quite painful to have the bar
sitting against the wound.

 This will have to do he said irritably, and quite nasally. Bloody
stupid little things, but better than nothing. Lets have a look at that
map of yours.

I pulled the increasing rumpled piece of paper from a pocket in my vest.
I tried flattening it against my thigh, but with only partial success.

Were here I think. Artie said Thats the culvert I found you in.

Yep and theres that set of stairs we went down.

This set of tunnels is the most direct route to the port, but its likely
their integrity has been breached so well need to stay on the surface.

I didnt like that conclusion, but it seemed inescapable.

Before we get to the main pier well need to cut back west to the marina,
theyll have a better chance of pick up off the breakwater or that beach.
At least thats what they said this morning.

Ok.

We moved back into the road and headed for the port.

A few blocks down we turned a corner to find the rubble of a collapsed
building spread across the road. In amongst the rubble was the twisted
body of a Samakab tank. The front end was crushed, the barrel was bent
double and the top had been peeled back, a shredded body inside exposed.
A gaping hole was

drilled right through the upper body. Artie and I saw the weakly moving
body lying half buried in the rubble at about the same time and moved
towards it. We approached cautiously; we didnt want to be baited into a
Krak trap too enthusiastically. As we got closer we realised the person
was groaning and crying out. With no tools to hand we began clawing at
the debris. Artie and I coordinated our efforts to lift away oddly
angled bits of metal and a slab of prefab that was caught between two
great blocks of concrete and cantilevered over the body.

After a good deal of heaving, panting and grunted expletives we managed
to get the man free. I wanted to check him over, but not in the street
that could be ankle deep in Krak any minute. I had no doubt Artie could
have slung him over his shoulder with relative ease, but even without a
serious examination it was apparent that the man was in such a state
that less than careful handling would have been madness.

I slipped my pack off and began wrestling with it to reconfigure it as a
lightweight field stretcher. We lifted the quietly groaning man gently
onto the stretcher. With Artie in the lead we carried him a little way
down the road until we found a building we could force the door on.

Once we were safely inside I quickly began assessing his status. Wiping
away the coating of red dust I could see his cheeks were ashen and
turning grey. His legs were broken and his right arm was jelly like, all
the bones crushed in the horrendous impact. Miraculously he was still
conscious.

Transporting him would slow us down considerably, but he stood a chance,
albeit a slim one, and so it would be wrong to leave him behind. We all
knew what Krak did to the dead and dying.

Thankfully Artie agreed that we couldnt leave him behind and so we
continued on, moving in a shuffling run to minimise jarring. Our
progress felt painfully slow, but we managed to reach the breakwater and
then the beach without contacting any more Krak or running foul of any
more shelling. The entire area was growing still, the battle done for
now.

We were challenged as we lowered the stretcher down the craggy side of
the breakwater. It was Kerry who was sheltering nearby with Vida in the
entrance of subway transit tunnel. Clarke and Madson where there too, as
were three members of third platoon, who had withdrawn to the beach, as
Clarke had rightly guessed. Despite our many delays wed still beat Pete
and a few others back.

With a boat load now congregated Clarke risked a microburst request for
pick up. It was a long 45 minutes until Vidas sharp eyes picked out the
swirling turbulence of a surfacing transport sub. It was one of the
fully autonomous subs that had been developed for use on the ocean
worlds of the outer solar system and inner colonies. There was no
particular reason I could see that the military had gone with this
design over the equally robust subs that scuttled about in the depths of
the Terran oceans. No doubt there was a political tale to tell in there
somewhere. It was however roomier, though less lavish, than the tourist
transports used to shuttle people to ocean floor hotels back on Earth.
Nevertheless, it was still fairly cramped once all ten of us were
aboard, the wounded UNSC trooper laid out on the small amount of clear
floor space. Clarke had quickly settled himself by the communications
panel and was having a rapid conversation with someone at the far end.

As the hatch sealed overhead and the sensors indicating that we were
moving back out to sea, I briefly wondered why we hadnt been picked up
by surface ship or grav-air as first planned. I guessed it might
indicate the area was still too hotly contested to use those more
straightforward options.

After the nerve jarring start to the day I fully anticipated wed hit
some further gut-wrenching hurdle, underwater mines perhaps. Hence it
was rather anti-climatic, though a thorough relief, to arrive back at
the cruiser unhindered. The odd sharp course correction mid-transit the
only activity of nervous note. The quiet gave me time to think about the
day, to try to get it in some semblance of order so I could get it all
down later. If I had to sum up my first day with the 3/7 it would be as
the extra whos whole role was to scuttle about frantically like a
terrified ant dodging the lethal blows of invisible alien giants
wielding very large and heavy sledge hammers. Not exactly poetry, but a
pretty good description of the bewildering fear and confusion Id felt
for the majority of the day. I had another moments doubt over Colonel
Baxters recommendation, but decided it would be pointless to dwell upon
it.

* * *

It was again a bit of a challenge lifting the wounded UNSC soldier out
of the sub and onto the boarding lift. I had expected to arrive in some
diving pool deep in the bowels of the cruiser. Instead it was a rather
unglamorous pontoon that bounced beside the cruiser and lifted us up the
side until we were even with the deck. Rather than being stowed on board
it seemed the little subs circled the cruiser like chicks around a hen.
Conveniently doubling as decoys, sensor platforms and defensive
weaponry.

The cruiser had a fairly small crew, less than 50 in total, and all seem
completely subsumed in the frenetic activity of running the largely
automated ship at full alert. Despite the throbbing of my ankle and the
leaden weight of my arms, Artie and I opted to carry the wounded man to
the sick bay, down below decks. As we moved through the tight corridors
I tried talking to the man but got no response, I hoped he wasnt
completely beyond help.

When we reached the sick bay it was already quite full. A large number
of casualties either sat or lay on the beds and floor. The single
harried orderly indicated we should deposit our man on a bed by the
wall, shooing three other less wounded men off on to the floor. Artie
and I lingered wondering whether we should get our own wounds tended to
here and how long it would take for someone to check on the dying man.
We didnt have to wait long however, as a doctor soon emerged and
announced that

If youre conscious, not bleeding out and can move at anything beyond a
crawl then get yourselves back up to the deck. Well be in a friendly
port with a full med-station in under a couple of hours. This sick bay
is now for the critically ill only.

Artie looked at me and shrugged and we joined the crush to leave the
sick bay and get back top side. When we were finally got up on deck
Artie led me over to where first platoon had gathered. Kerry pointed out
the bloody state of the backs of my legs and asked why it looked like I
had a boxing glove in place of a hand. I shrugged off the question about
my hand as I twisted around to look at my calves. As if seeing it
somehow made it real, all of a sudden everything hurt.

Here lets get a look at that Vida said skidding forward on her backside
to sit one leg either side of me. Nasty. Doesnt look like you've got any
bone dame, but wed best get that cleaned up before you get some kind of
metal poisoning.

With nothing better to do for the next two or more hours I stood, with
dropped trousers, on the deck of a cruiser crossing the freezing waters
of Mars, as Vida gouged bits of metal out of my legs with the medical
tweezers  the latest in medieval torture devices. Kerry and Artie tried
to create a screen between them, less to save my modesty and more to cut
out the cold, but it was still freezing. By the time the procedure was
over I was in aching pain, stomping to try and warm by legs and feet.

It was another hour to shore and then another hour of debrief before we
could finally get some rest. It had been a mixed day for the 3/7. Theyd
neutralised the Kraks industrial precincts along the cost and softened
up the south eastern side of Severns for a concerted large scale human
assault. In addition, of the 33 men and women who made up the company of
elite soldiers 26 had actually made it out. Ben Hollsworth had been the
first to be extracted, soon after wed left him, and then the rest of us
had pulled out soon after comms had been lost. Wed been amongst the last
off the beach. As a counterpoint to these achievements all RT had been
lost. While that was what they were really there for, to be low cost
(emotionally at least) casualties it was still a blow. They werent too
hard to maintain or replace while you were connected to functional lines
of supply, but they werent the cheapest of kit. Based on a few of the
muttered comments of the 3/7 it also appeared that the RTs AI did
develop some level of individual personality, or at least
idiosyncrasies, and their loss led to muted sadness. Although Elie tried
covering it with a dry proclamation that Now Ill have to break in
another troop of the fuckers. It took me weeks to house train the last
lot. They wont know how to serve my beer just so for at least a week

* * *

I was fast getting a sense of how unique the 3/7 were. They were elites 
which marked them out as different to any one Id ridden with long term
before	but they were of a kind I hadnt heard much about previously.
They were very different from the completely independent forces that
could be inserted and then left to their own devices. Those came in two
major flavours, at one extreme there were the fully cybernetically
enhanced and at the other the standard human (at least mostly human)
chicken strangler who wasnt really that much different to the
generations of special forces soldiers that had existed for centuries.
Instead the 3/7 was like a special assault force, well fed by logistics
and used for short range, short term nut cracking. This facilitated the
best use of the high ratio of robotics to humans without running foul of
supply lines and continuous power needs.

This was a topic that had fascinated me since my first degree course, in
mechanical neotechsophia  which was a fancy name invented some time in
the late 21st century for the study of the history of technology post
1970. My eldest brother had done advanced techtronics and I had intended
to do the same. That was until the very attractive blonde in line in
front of me said she was registered for history.

What a coincidence! Im down for history too

Didnt you say you were a tech major? asked the red head who Id been
chatting to earlier. She was registered for stellar navigation.

I did. I mean I am. Im- ahh- Im doing both!

Both? they asked in unison and I might add with a heavy dose of
suspicion.

I tried to look hurt, as if it was not complete improvisation. Yeah. the
history of technology you know back when they had separate screens and
shit all the way through to now.

I hadnt ended up getting either girl. Fortunately, the actual course
hadnt been as bad as I might have expected and in the end Id seen in
through to masters level. I guess I should be more embarrassed about it
than I am. Id worked damn hard to get the chance to a have a free pick
not a mandated assignment and in the end Id let my libido make the
decision. I dont actually regret it though as it set me on the path to
my current career. Funny how things worked out.

One of the most interesting facets of the course had been the section on
early speculation about what robotics would mean for the restructuring
of society. From the advent of industrial scale robotics there had been
conjecture about the degree to which automation would replace or
displace human labour and skills. Many commentators had seen no place
for humans in any repetitive or dangerous roles  whether the mindless
drudgery of a production line, subterranean or submarine mining or the
icy lethality of deep space. This same speculative logic had lead to the
assumption that mankind would be completely and forever removed form the
battlefield, at least for conventional forces. As we know history proved
them all half right.

Quite a list of people have been attributed with saying No plan survives
contact with the enemy, but it was actually Helmuth Graf von Moltke, who
was born before modern robotic soldiers were a twinkle in any early
engineers eyes. Nevertheless he was as spot on there as anywhere. From
their earliest deployment robotic soldiers did mean less casualties, a
more calculated exposure to risk. However, as was so tragically proven
during the Seige of Caulcot Downs, during the First Solar War, when
supply lines were broken the robots eventually follow. Surprisingly, at
least to those at the time, the bots succumbed before the humans did. In
the right circumstances bots could last a long time, in times of war
some times as long as the exhausted or wounded, but eventually another
long ago statement proves its ongoing validity. In 1965 a researcher at
the national pre-stellar space agency NASA stated Man is the lowest-cost
non-linear, all-purpose system which can be mass produced by unskilled
labour. This remains as true now as it did then, despite the exponential
increases in all technologies since. There are certainly many fully
automated defence systems, particularly among the space fleets, but
where logistics proves difficult humans, of one kind or another, still
make up a sizeable proportion of the ground forces. They might be star
grunts now, but they are still grunts.

Consequently, in an age where virtual reality, nanomechanics, fusion
power, faster than light, genetic modification, longevity extension,
cybernetic enhancement, full automation of all but the poorest dwellings
are common place a mixed unit like the 3/7 stands out as unusual. As
Clarke called an end to the evening I hoped I continue to get the
opportunity to learn more about them.

* * *

Our camp was in a quick erect hall, pre-fabricated on site from Martian
materials in the last couple of days. It was solid enough, but still
pretty cold. The ground was too hard here to dig far into it so sangers
were built around the barracks using rocks placed one upon another.
Clarke informed me that, despite the fact we were behind human lines on
the map, there were still the odd Krak sniper in the area and that
movement outside camp, night or day, could still prove pretty lethal.

So any call of nature had better be answered best you can, but with keen
eyes on. Understand?

I nodded. It frustrated me a little that they were treating me as if Id
never done this before, but I also knew that from their perspective it
paid for them to be cautious. They had at least taken me on. I guess
Colonel Baxters word meant as much here as elsewhere.

With the immediate threats of danger gone I had again slumped with
fatigue. It felt like this was becoming a habit. I was dragging with
monumental tiredness and didnt even think I could upload my logs for the
day. Although I knew I had to. So I economised in other ways and just
climbed into my sleeping bag armour and all. My only concession was that
I placed by boots carefully by my head. I was rubbing my hands together
so theyd stop shaking long enough for me to get the upload to work when
Artie walked over and dropped a long coat on me.

Here Newsman youll need this. Use it as an extra blanket. The other
morning I woke up and my boots were frozen to the floor.

Thanks I said eagerly and very sincerely as I arranged it, pulling it
over me.

 No bother. You aint no Joni, but youll do. Artie said dropping down
beside me. He reached in to his pack and pulled out some rations,
crunching the packet in his big hands and then juggling it back and
forth as it heated up.

* * *

The following day dawned slightly clearer, the dust had finally started
to settle. I came out to find the younger members of first and second
platoon playing an improvised game of cricket. They had fashioned the
bat from an extraneous board of prefab and the ball was a rubber tape
covered rock, which kind of bounced. At first I though only a handful of
people were playing, but when the ball came rocketing in from Elie, who
was standing over 350m away near the sangar at the far end of the camp,
I realised the fielders were correcting for the low gravity and were
scattered to the periphery in every direction. They were making a lively
time of it, dancing around the rest of the company as they went about
their business. I sat on the steps of the barracks and watched a while,
charging my batteries and checking over my kit.

All fun was called to an end however, when a supply convoy made its way
over the horizon and landed just outside the northern sangars. Then it
was all hands on deck to unload. Once that was done and the VTOLs were
heading back over the Pyrrhae Sea it was time to crack open the crates
and break out the new RTs. The company literally began to reconstitute
itself.