Chapter 23: The East Gate

The Yagda’s thrusters belched blue hydrogen flame as it cruised over the dunes, the engines stabilizing it in the wind, the sand whipping at its curved hull. Sarif stood on the bridge beside his table with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his eyes scanning the many displays that surrounded him.

“I wish we could see a little further in this damned storm,” he muttered under his breath, watching the icons that represented the different companies move across the three-dimensional map.

The crew were all manning their consoles, each responsible for a different system, half a dozen of them tapping at touch panels and talking into their helmets as they coordinated.

“How long?” he asked, the driver answering him.

“A few minutes until we reach the gate, sir.”

“Full power to the main gun,” Sarif snapped, waving his hand. “I want all sponsons firing at will, keep the Rask infantry off us. Elevate cruising height to three meters, and activate the plasma shield.”

“Sir ... the shield has never been tested under combat conditions,” the Chief Engineer replied, swiveling in his chair to face him.

“Why do you think we’re here?” Sarif shot back. “I want it powered up, and the point defense systems scanning for targets. Let’s see what Mars’ most talented engineers have been able to come up with.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied as he turned back to his console.

As Sarif kept his eyes on the forward camera feeds, the hull of the vehicle sloping away in front of them, he caught a glimpse of the first of the tank traps. The Rask had scattered Czech hedgehogs around haphazardly, welded I-beams jutting from the sand. They posed no danger to the Yagda, the vehicle simply floating over them. Those that passed beneath it became momentary weightless as they were caught in the AG field, rising a few centimeters into the air before falling back into position.

There were long spools of razor wire here, too. Perhaps the Rask had expected the infantry to dismount when they encountered the impassable hedgehogs, but they were about to be sorely disappointed.

They sailed over a few hundred meters of traps, the first of the enemy trenches coming into sight through the haze. The Rask opened up with LMG nests, streams of tungsten slugs bouncing harmlessly off the armored hull like showers of glowing sparks, scarcely enough to scratch the paint. Louder reports soon rang out, the enemy firing AMRs, the higher-caliber slugs leaving craters in the armored hull like tiny meteorites. The shields wouldn’t even kick in for something this trivial, the system would only react to projectiles with more mass and energy to save on power.

It looked like a scene from the first World War, a line of soldiers peeking out over the lip of their trench, the hastily-built fortifications reinforced with wood. Their long rifles were affixed with bayonets, the defenders firing in volleys.

“Hold!” Sarif commanded, the Yagda coasting to a stop. “Put a line through to the artillery company and have them shell the following coordinates.”

He reached out and pressed his finger into the holographic representation of the terrain ahead of them, a red circle appearing around his digit, the system transmitting his selection to the comms officer. He waited, the bridge silent save for the whirring of the electronics, and then shells began to rain down on the trenches. Cracks of thunder rolled across the dunes as the projectiles impacted, hurling great plumes of sand into the sky, turning the terrain inside-out. Flashes of billowing explosions cast their orange glow through the haze of the sandstorm, as bright as daylight, silhouetting bunkers and scurrying figures. Sarif couldn’t feel the ground shake, as the Yagda was floating a few meters off the sand, and he was surprised to find that he missed the sensation.

There were a series of larger impacts, the Rask battleship joining the ongoing bombardment, sending salvos of heavier shells downrange. The naval railguns pounded the enemy positions, digging deep craters that could be seen even from a distance, the wind carrying the clouds of airborne dust away. Sarif saw one of them strike a pillbox, the unlucky structure practically vaporizing as it was torn apart by the sheer kinetic energy. Pieces of shattered concrete and twisted rebar were sent whizzing through the air, turned into deadly projectiles, a few nearby figures thrown off their feet by the blast as they scurried for cover.

Sarif watched through his displays as the artillery company walked their fire away from the Yagda, each new volley impacting a little further West, blanketing the ‘gate’ in flame and shrapnel. Over and over, the Avalanches pounded the Rask positions, the true extent of the damage hidden from view by the storm.

“Cease fire,” Sarif ordered, one last salvo churning up the sand before the guns finally went silent. “Move in.”

The Yagda began to coast forward, Sarif keeping one eye on the map, the icons that represented the rest of the battalion moving along in real-time. He turned to see one of the tank companies on the monitor directly behind him, the Kodiaks forming a column, the mechanized infantry taking up the rear in their IFVs. The Kodiaks had deployed their bulldozer prows and were pushing through the hedgehogs, clearing a path for the trailing troop transports, their progress slowed somewhat as they forced the heavy obstacles out of their way. Their tracks fought for purchase, churning up the loose sand, their armored side skirts rattling as their engines roared. With any luck, the Rask would focus their heaviest guns on the biggest target, and leave the smaller vehicles be.

The Yagda passed over what remained of the tank traps, nearing the first line of trenches. The six blister-like sponsons that ringed its hull began to fire on targets in the trenches, spitting streams of thirty-millimeter slugs, creating splashes where they impacted the sand. The enemy were ill-equipped to deal with the floating fortress, armed only with rifles, the projectiles skipping off the hull harmlessly. Their railgun nests opened up, but even concentrated fire from the machineguns couldn’t scratch the five hundred ton behemoth. Its armor was so heavy that it could only move by defying the laws of physics.

Their fortifications provided no cover as the tank simply drifted over them, firing down into the trench from above, sending its occupants scrambling for cover. Those who were caught in its AG field as it passed over them lost their footing, their limbs flailing in confusion and alarm as they drifted through the air, trying to figure out what was happening to them. The defenders scattered for cover, the gunners abandoning their posts, but the sponsons tore through their ranks before they could reach safety. The molten slugs eviscerated the fleeing soldiers, the sheer force of the hypervelocity munitions dismembering them, blood and viscera painting the wooden walls of their trench. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

More thuds began to ring out, the rapid-firing MGL that was mounted above the main turret pounding more of the enemy positions. It was soon joined by those of the vehicles to their rear, high-explosive grenades raining down on the trenches, flushing the Rask from their hiding places.

There was a sudden flash of light, the Yagda rocking as something struck the hull with far greater force. Sarif glanced at the leftmost monitor, seeing a churning field of blue and green plasma, wavering arcs of what resembled electricity coursing through it. The point defense system had activated the plasma shield, brand new tech that had been reverse-engineered from captured Betelgeusian specimens. The system projected a directional magnetic field, then injected superheated gas into it, creating a wall of boiling plasma that would hopefully render incoming projectiles ineffective before they reached the hull. As he watched, the field dissipated, the plasma dispersing into the atmosphere.

“What was that?” Sarif demanded, leaning on his table as the tank’s thrusters steadied the vehicle.

“Another naval gun, sir,” one of the crewmen replied. He zoomed in on the source of the hit, a concrete pillbox at the limits of their visual range. A long, thin slot had been cut into the domed building’s face, a beefy railgun barrel protruding from it. It looked like another weapon that had been sourced from a decommissioned UNN ship. “The shield did its job,” the crewman continued. “It melted the slug as it passed through, enough that it was too soft to penetrate the armor.”

Through the external cameras, Sarif could see the partially-melted shell. The heat of the plasma had softened it enough that it had crumpled against the forward armor, leaving a crater in the panel, but failing to get through. It had flash-welded to the hull, now resembling a melting marshmallow.

“Let’s not give them a second chance,” Sarif replied, waving his hand at the display. “Target that pillbox with the main gun.”

The Yagda’s turret swung to face the target, the ten-meter long, oval-shaped barrel tipped with a plasma compensator the size of a truck tire. The rails beneath its shroud charged with electricity, the hum audible even inside the bridge, the entire vehicle shuddering as the weapon fired. There was a crack like a thunderclap, the gun accelerating a 155mm sabot to speeds approaching five kilometers per second. It reached its target quicker than the flap of a hummingbird’s wing, so fast that there was no perceptible delay. The pillbox was pulverized into a fine powder as the shell passed straight through it, barely slowing down, the projectile presumably continuing on into the jungle beyond. Its occupants were turned to red mist, the naval gun becoming a shower of molten metal that rained down on the surrounding sand, a cone of deadly debris spreading out in the sabot’s wake.

“Target eliminated,” the gunner announced, the calmness of his tone at odds with the destruction that had just been wrought.

“It’s a good job they chose to fire at us and not at one of the Kodiaks,” Sarif said, “those things could do a lot of damage. Put out an order to prioritize those bunkers.”

From their right came a sudden, desperate charge, a group of maybe thirty Rask soldiers leaping out of their trench. They made their way through the tank traps and razor wire, using the hedgehogs for cover, making for the Yagda’s rear. It seemed that they meant to attempt a boarding.

“Brave, but foolish,” Sarif muttered as he watched the sponsons mow them down with overlapping fields of fire. If the aliens actually managed to get behind the Yagda, where the ramp was located, there were two blisters mounted directly above it that would defend it.

The Kodiaks were making good progress, rocking on their tracks as they fired their main guns at fortified positions and bunkers, return fire sparking against their bulldozer prows. The blisters mounted atop their turrets swiveled this way and that, firing off chains of grenades, or bursts of railgun fire. Each one seemed to have a different combination of weapons mounted on their hardpoints, glowing tracers bouncing off the sand as they chewed up Rask infantry, mortars creating showers of sand and torn bodies as they impacted inside the trenches. They waded through the tank traps, smashing the crudely-fashioned log ramps, and tearing up the spools of barbed wire. They were beginning to reach the lip of the first trench now, coming to a halt, providing covering fire as the eight-wheeled IFVs drove past them.

Bouncing on their suspension, the IFVs skidded to a halt, the troop ramps to their rear opening as their turrets spewed suppressive fire. Squads of black-armored Marines and towering Shock Troopers dismounted, fanning out to duck behind the deployable barriers that swung out from the flanks of their vehicles to provide cover. They fired their PDWs and automatic rifles over the low walls, catching a few of the Rask who dared to raise their heads above the sand. The same was happening all along the enemy line, the mechanized companies disgorging their troops as they prepared for a coordinated assault.

When the order came, designated teams charged into the trenches, leaping down into the maze of passageways as their companions continued to provide cover. Sarif switched some of the monitors to display views from their helmet cams, his eyes scanning the feeds.

The walls of the trenches were lined with wooden panels, raised platforms allowing the occupants to see over the lip, sandbags helping to reinforce the structure. They had been set up in a zigzag pattern to break up the lines of sight, almost making them look like rows of teeth from afar. They wouldn’t have looked out of place on a First World War battlefield, if not for the total absence of any mud or water.

There were already shattered bodies lying limp on the ground where the Marines dropped down, some of them stumbling over the dead, their dark blood soaking into the sand. The survivors wasted no time engaging the attackers in combat, Sarif watching as one of the Marines was skewered by a bayonet, the Rask lifting him off his feet as he drove his XMR into him like a medieval pike. He was quickly cut down by a burst of PDW fire, a hail of slugs chewing through his ceramic armor like butter, shattering the chest plate that he wore beneath his leather jacket. The eight-foot feline slumped against one of the reinforced walls before sliding to the ground, leaving a smear of blood in his wake. The squad formed a perimeter around their wounded comrade, several of them working together to pass him up and out of the trench to safety.

More Rask came running around the bend, gunfire erupting as the two sides exchanged salvos, the fighting close and dirty. One of the aliens produced a serrated blade the size of a machete, swinging it into one of his human opponents. The weapon couldn’t penetrate his armor, but the man was knocked to the ground by the force of the blow, the Rask raising the cruel implement for a second strike. As he lifted it above his head, the Marine reached for his sidearm, emptying the magazine into the feline’s chest. The magnetic coils on its stubby barrel glowed with residual heat as the Rask crumpled, the Marine rolling clear of the falling body, his comrades rushing to help him to his feet.

Sarif had a dozen helmet cam feeds open at once in tiled windows, his eyes darting between them, focusing on the scenes of carnage. The squads were moving through the trenches, clearing out the Rask with deadly efficiency. The enemy were in fortified positions, but the artillery strikes and the constant rain of grenades and mortars had left them in disarray, their forces scattered and disorganized.

He watched as a pack of allied Shock Troopers came upon a bunker, the concrete structure joined to the trench network via a branching passage. He could make out the barrel of a railgun configured as an LMG protruding from a slot in the structure above them, its intermittent bursts of gunfire echoing across the desert. They stacked up beside the entrance, their hands resting on one another’s shoulders, following their UNN training to a tee. The leader primed a grenade, then tossed it through the opening, Sarif watching a puff of sand and smoke billow into the trench as it exploded with a loud thud. The Troopers breached, swinging their oversized PDWs around the domed interior as their helmet-mounted flashlights cut through the swirling dust, finding that the trio of occupants had all been slain by the blast.

The Kodiaks were moving up to the next trench now, striking the pillboxes with their main guns as they went, the railguns pulverizing the concrete fortifications. One of the tanks from Foxtrot company on the far right flank suddenly started emitting a distress call, Sarif switching one of the feeds to a nearby vehicle. One of the more poorly reinforced trenches had collapsed beneath the weight of the Kodiak, sending it sliding down into the furrow, where it had become stuck. Its treads spun in the loose sand, but it couldn’t find the purchase that it needed to free itself.

Seizing the opportunity, Rask flooded in from both directions like a swarm of angry ants, seeking to overwhelm the crew through sheer numbers. The main turret had no room to rotate, but the commander’s blister remained unhindered, the thirty-mill unloading into the crowd with a series of deafening cracks. The Rask were knocked off their feet by the impacts, the three-inch tungsten spikes punching through their ranks, airborne particles of sand turning to glass and melting to the barrel as the coils burned red-hot under the sustained fire. A single projectile passed through three soldiers as Sarif watched, leaving a trail of glowing, molten slag that seemed to hang in the air for a moment like a bright afterimage. Another burst of cannon fire hit one of the Rask square in the chest, obliterating him, fragments of ceramic armor and bone turned to shrapnel as they tore through the soldiers behind him in a deadly cone. Their comrades climbed over the ruined bodies, undeterred, the turret swiveling as its operator struggled to cover both flanks.

They reached the hull, leaping up onto the Kodiak, jamming their bayonets between the armor plating and beneath hatches as they struggled to find a way inside. The blister spun, the barrel knocking some of the assailants off the turret, catching one of the Rask point-blank. The unfortunate feline was tossed clear by the blast, his blood staining the desert camouflage paintwork.

The Marines finally came to the rescue, taking the Rask by surprise as they appeared over the lip of the trench, firing down on the enemy. Their XMRs stood no chance of damaging the Kodiak, so they fired at will, the muzzle flashes reflected in their opaque visors. Their slugs sparked as they impacted the tank’s armor, the whiz of ricochets audible even over the helmet cams, a dozen Rask crumpling to slide off the turret and tumble down the hull. An IFV took up the rear, jolting to a stop above the trench, its grenade launcher throwing dust into the air as it pounded the nearby positions.

The troops slid down the sides of the collapsed trench, creating a perimeter around the Kodiak, covering the crew as they began to clamber out of their vehicle. They had to exit via the hatches on the turret, as the troop ramp at the rear was blocked.

“Getting reports that the Rask have rallied on the left flank,” the comms operator said, Sarif turning his attention away from the feed. He glanced at his map, noting that Bravo and Charlie seemed to be bogged down, lagging behind the rest of the companies.

“Get me a visual,” Sarif said, more feeds opening in windows on the nearest monitor to display views from turret and helmet cams. One of the IFVs was smoldering, a large hole torn right through the engine compartment, dark smoke billowing from the breach. The troop bay had been hit, too, punctured in several places by something far heavier than an XMR. Marines were dragging the wounded down its ramp, one of the Kodiaks sidling up beside it to provide support, its guns blazing.

“What happened?” Sarif asked. “That damage looks like it was done by an anti-material railgun. If there are more AMRs on the field, then we need to find them. Our transports are vulnerable out in the open.”

Through one of the helmet cams, Sarif saw another transport take a hit as it provided covering fire for a team that was fighting in the trenches, the slug penetrating the vehicle’s cab from the left. It created a shower of sparks as it punched through the armor plating, liquidating the crew, blowing a ten-inch hole as it exited the other side. The vehicle rolled to a stop, its blister going silent. A second shot followed up the first, blasting through the troop compartment, filling it with spalling shrapnel that would have eviscerated anyone still inside. Mercifully, the IFV had already unloaded its troops.

A third shot rang out, this one hitting the side skirt of the nearby tank, a spray of molten metal erupting as it impacted. It penetrated, sending pieces of shattered track flying, slagging a couple of the wheels as it embedded itself deep in the tracks. The Kodiak lurched to a stop, disabled, but still spewing tracer fire from its gun pods. The next shot bounced off its front armor, the turret swiveling to return fire. It wasn’t clear where the shots were coming from, but the crew saw fit to destroy a nearby pillbox all the same, the vehicle rocking as the shot kicked up a cloud of dust around the main gun.

Another view, this one showing a bobbing helmet cam feed from one of the Marines in the trenches. The squad was moving through the earthworks, clearing out the passageways, the resistance here seemingly more organized than anywhere else. As they rounded a corner, they came across a firing line that was lying in wait for them, the Marines dodging back into cover as one of their number was torn to pieces by flying tungsten. The microphones picked up the whistle of the slugs as they shot past the helmet, its wearer breathing heavily as he slammed his back against one of the wooden panels. He turned to one of his comrades, making wild hand gestures, the other Marine tossing him a grenade. Before he could prime it, something came flooding around the bend.

Sarif watched through the feed as one of the Marines was barreled over by a huge creature, one of the alien warbeasts that the men had begun to refer to as ‘Razorbacks’ for the boar-like quills that ran down their spines. It was like a nightmare blend of a pig and a hyena, five feet tall at the shoulder, its skull the length of a human torso. It opened its jaws, its jagged tusks dripping with slaver, clamping them around the Marine’s helmet. He reached up to beat his fists against its scarred snout, but the thing began to violently shake him like a dog with an old rope, his body going limp as his neck was pulverized.

More of the things hurtled around the bend with such haste that some of them skidded into the far wall, their clawed paws scrambling in the sand as the bulky things struggled to change direction, bounding towards their quarry. The Marines responded by firing wildly from the hip, cutting some of them down. The heavy creatures skidded to a halt as they fell to the ground, but more clambered over them as they jostled for space, the guttural snarls of savage beasts joining the chatter of automatic fire. The helmet’s owner raised his PDW, the short barrel giving him a little more maneuverability in the narrow trench, struggling to control the recoil as it spewed hot tungsten into the hounds. Another Marine was dragged down by the pack, the creatures piling atop him like lions feeding on a carcass, their furry bodies hiding most of the grisly scene from view as they tore him to pieces.

The Marines were not so easily routed, quickly regaining their footing as they slew the warbeasts, blocking the trench with their bodies. As they began to advance, it became clear that they had only weathered the first assault. One of the men was decapitated as he trudged over the dead dogs, his head blown from his shoulders by a Rask’s rifle, the leather-clad alien leaning around the corner. More followed, the enemy squad pushing deeper into the trench, covering one another with suppressing fire as the Marines dove for safety.

There was something off about these Rask. Sarif noticed that they moved differently, more like Coalition auxiliaries than the usual fare, their tactics far more refined. What’s more, they were clad in full Shock Trooper armor, and the jackets that they wore over the top were embroidered with purple threads that flowed across the garments in elaborate patterns. Each one had a short cape made from purple fabric that hung over one shoulder, itself embroidered with gold trim, not unlike the dueling capes worn by ancient fencers.

Sarif watched as the purple Rask pushed up, closing into close quarters quickly to maximize their advantage. One of them was felled by a burst of XMR fire as he approached, but another took his place, knocking the weapon from the Marine’s hands with a vicious swipe. The Rask was already reaching for his hip, letting his long rifle dangle from its sling as he brought up a giant, crudely-machined revolver. The alien pressed it beneath the Marine’s chin, pulling the trigger, the hammer striking as the bulky cylinder rotated. Whatever ammunition the weapon was using didn’t have the power to penetrate the helmet, but it turned everything inside it to paste, the Marine slumping to join the dead hounds at the bottom of the trench.

The two sides met, and what ensued was a short, brutal fight. Muzzles flashed as sidearms were discharged at point-blank range, cruel blades whistling through the air, Sarif’s eyes darting between the windows as he tried to get an idea of what was happening. It was all blurred, chaotic, the sounds of labored breathing and yells of pain bleeding through the mics. When the dust began to clear, the only helmet cam that was still upright was showing a view of human and Rask bodies lying atop one another, its wearer leaning against one of the wooden panels as he sat on the ground. His helmet rose and fell with each rasping breath, the man glancing up as one of the surviving aliens made its way over to him. It drove a bayonet below-frame, a stomach-turning gurgle coming through the mic, the Marine slumping over onto his side.

“Get me Admiral Korbaz,” Sarif snapped, the comms operator tapping frantically at his console. After a few moments, a flickering image of the alien appeared beside him at the table.

“How goes the battle, Lieutenant Colonel?” she asked as her voice crackled with static.

“Who are these men in the purple jackets?” Sarif demanded.

“Purple?” Korbaz asked, crossing her translucent arms as her brow furrowed. “Describe them.”

“They have purple patterns on their jackets, and purple capes on their shoulders,” he replied. “I just watched them butcher a whole squad of my Marines.”

“Palace Guard,” Korbaz hissed, baring her teeth as she bristled. “They are the Matriarch’s most trusted soldiers, selected for their loyalty, and for their combat experience. Most are ex-auxiliaries who have previously served alongside Coalition troops. Their job is to guard the palace and other sensitive areas. I have never known the organization to be deployed against enemy forces in all its history, they are strictly bodyguards.”

“Looks like they’re rallying the troops on the left flank,” Sarif muttered, examining the map. “We need to focus more of our firepower on that side. Let’s divert Delta company to reinforce.”

“If you wish, I can order Crewmaster Torzi to deploy her packs from the Volcano,” the Admiral suggested, but Sarif shook his head.

“We have the situation under control, thank you, Admiral.” He closed her connection, directing his attention back to the comms operator. “Find me some Shock Troopers and have them assault that position ASAP,” he snapped, “and somebody figure out where that goddamned AMR is firing from!”

The right flank was making headway, pushing through the enemy fortifications, routing the defenders as they cleared out the trenches. Some of the broken packs fled into the jungle, while others surrendered in the face of overwhelming force, the Marines cuffing them and holding them at gunpoint as the tanks rolled past. The presence of these ‘Palace Guards’ seemed to be inspiring the troops on the left flank, however. The aliens were deeply hierarchical by nature, and the purple-clad warriors were whipping them into a patriotic frenzy, coordinating them with tactics learned during their Coalition training. They had never been Coalition soldiers, not really. Their loyalty had always been to their Matriarch first and foremost, but Sarif couldn’t help but feel betrayed all the same. If these Palace Guards fought to the last, all the better. He would take no small pleasure in seeing them eradicated.

“Change course to bearing two-four-zero,” he commanded, the pilot beginning to tap at his console. “We’ll sweep into them from the right, give them something else to shoot at.”

The Yagda veered off, its sponsons still firing at what targets the gunners could make out in the storm, the occasional ping of a slug bouncing off their armor audible in the bridge.

He watched a platoon of four Kodiaks advance in a line through the feed, their tracks rolling over the trenches with ease, their prows cutting swathes through the tank traps and razor wire. The Rask were still putting up a fight, popping out of cover to take potshots and to toss grenades. None of it was very effective, the tanks pushing through relentlessly, their guns firing in all directions.

There was a sudden eruption of flame along the line, the entire length of a trench seeming to explode, as though a volcanic fissure had opened up in the planet’s crust. Great plumes of sand and rock were thrown high into the air, the heavy Czech hedgehogs sent tumbling as though they weighed no more than jacks, the force of the blast lifting some of the tanks a clear foot off the ground. It wasn’t enough to overturn any of the vehicles, but the shock rocked them as they landed, the MBTs listing as they became mired in the sand. Debris rained down on them, bouncing off their hulls, showering them with dust. As the smoke was carried away by the wind, Sarif saw that a couple of them had thrown their tracks, others sinking into the wide furrow that had once been the trench.