Chapter 5: Plan of Attack

Korbaz awoke to the Crewmaster’s snoring, his scarred torso on display as he lay on the bed beside her, his lower body partially covered by the sheets. She immediately felt a pang of disappointment. When she had invited him to her quarters, she had wanted to fight, to get her juices flowing before a night of violent passion. Blood was an aphrodisiac to her people, lovemaking should be treated the same as warfare, the winners and losers decided through a savage bout. Instead, he had acquiesced immediately, leading only to boredom and subservience. He had looked so brutish, his body a patchwork of scars earned in battle, but he had folded the moment she had shown any interest in him.

The greater her accomplishments and the higher her status, the fewer people were willing to challenge her. They were intimidated by her rank, by her association with the Matriarch. She missed the way that the Security Chief would defy her back on the Pinwheel, how little her status meant to him. Yes, it frustrated her. Yes, it could be infuriating. But at least it was interesting, at least it was stimulating, at least she was forced to work to get what she wanted.

She rolled out of bed, scratching her neck where her submissive partner had left token bite marks that hadn’t even broken the skin. On her way to the bathroom, a call came through on the intercom that was mounted on the wall, Korbaz pressing the receive button.

“What is it?” she asked wearily, stifling a yawn.

“Admiral, my apologies for disturbing you, but there has been a development.”

“I’m on my way,” she replied, beginning to search for her discarded clothing.

Korbaz strode into the conning tower, adjusting her leather jacket as the room’s occupants spared her nervous glances. One of the crew members was waiting beside the holographic table, which was projecting an overhead view of the desert between Rask and Elysia.

“Admiral,” he began, bowing his head as she approached. “As you requested, we ordered the raiding parties operating near the Araxie territory to divert and intercept the Coalition formation. They sent several sand skiffs ahead to scout out the area. Last night, contact was lost with one of them, they never reported in.”

He began to tap at the control panel, a dotted, red line appearing that led in a South-Eastern direction from the Araxie jungle band.

“They were experienced sailors,” the crewman continued, “and this is about where we expected to encounter Coalition recon. All signs point to them being intercepted by the aliens.”

“Then we have some idea of where they are now,” Korbaz muttered, her eyes scanning the flickering hologram. It was obvious what course of action the crewman wanted to suggest, but he held his tongue. Presuming to make a decision on behalf of one’s Alpha could be taken as a challenge to their authority that would be met with a swift reprimand.

“Send our forces near the Araxie territory to head them off at this position,” she continued, pointing to a formation of dark massifs. The volcanic rock rose from the sands, creating a two hundred kilometer barricade across the desert. It was a maze of ancient, dried-up riverbeds and rocky plateaus, the perfect place to stage an ambush. “If they’re headed where I think they are, then they will have no choice but to travel through the Black Pass. Going around it would waste time and fuel. What did our most recent survey of the area reveal?”

“Nothing, Admiral. A raiding party that was in the region two years ago noted that it was uninhabited save for a few nomadic tribes of Lakeless who frequent the area.”

“Good. My previous orders stand. Their objective is to bog the enemy down to the best of their abilities, but they are to avoid unnecessary losses. This is not to be a glorious last stand, they are more useful to the Matriarchy alive than dead. I give them permission to withdraw when necessary. Impress that upon their Crewmaster.”

“As you wish, Admiral.”

Vitza was waiting near the back of the room, Korbaz waving him over, the Chief Engineer trotting up to the table obediently.

“How long until the battleships are in range?” she demanded.

“The railguns have a range of around four hundred kilometers, my Alpha,” he replied. “The ballistic missiles that we carry have a range slightly in excess of that, around five hundred.”

“Then we still have some time yet before we can bring our full might to bear,” Korbaz muttered. “Tell me, Engineer, how accurate are our weapons?”

“Perhaps ... less than you might imagine,” he replied, wringing his hands nervously as though she might think that it was somehow his fault. “The railguns were taken from a derelict frigate, they are not designed to be fired in an atmosphere. The projectiles lack the stabilizing fins and guidance systems that such a weapon would have. They will work, of course, but they should be employed using a saturation fire method. Carpet a large area with multiple salvos for the greatest chance of striking a target.”

“And the missiles?” she asked.

“The fragmenting sub-munitions should make it difficult for the aliens to defend against them, but I fear for how the sandstorm will impact the launch stages.”

“Fragmenting ... what?” she asked skeptically.

“Sub-munitions,” he explained, becoming more lively now that he was discussing a subject that was of interest to him. “The warhead fractures into several smaller explosives shortly before impact, scattering them over a wider area. They should be used sparingly, we only have eight of them, four on each battleship.”

“The raiding party will have to fight without our support,” she continued, examining the icons on the map again. “Once the enemy formation comes within range of our light vehicles, the carriers Hurricane and Tornado will launch an assault force, sending them ahead of the crawlers. The fleet will then scatter to make themselves harder to pinpoint. Shortly before the assault force makes contact with the enemy, the Landslide and the Earthquake will open fire, softening up the Coalition and sowing confusion among their ranks. The battleships must fire and move, while the assault force must strike and fade. Once the Coalition realizes what is happening, they will rally quickly, and our forces cannot prevail against them in open combat. Speed will be of the essence. We must strike like lightning, and be gone before the enemy has a chance to react.”

“A sound strategy,” the crewman replied, Vitza nodding in agreement.

“Can we cover the assault force’s withdrawal with another salvo from the battleships?” Korbaz asked. Vitza thought for a moment before replying, his tail flicking back and forth nervously.

“To an extent, but we should wait as long as possible to minimize the risk of friendly fire. As I said, our accuracy is not reliable.”

“We have our plan,” Korbaz said, leaning on the edge of the table. “Now, we must put it into motion. This first attack will not defeat the Coalition, but if we keep up the momentum, we can slowly bleed them until they lack the resources to continue.”

She glanced at Vitza, noticing that he was fidgeting, averting his gaze submissively.

“Out with it, Chief Engineer,” she snapped. “Do you have concerns that you wish to share?”

“Far be it from me to bring into question the wisdom of the Matriarch, or that of her most trusted advisors,” he began.

“Speak freely,” Korbaz sighed, “you will not be punished.”

“The sandstorm will prevent the humans from replenishing their numbers, yes. Their heavy dropships cannot land fresh vehicles in these conditions. But what is the plan if more assault carriers arrive, as they surely will? What will we do when the sandstorms inevitably end, and the Coalition can sight our crawlers?”

“We must demonstrate the superiority of the Rask,” she replied, “break their will to fight such that they never return. We will show them that on this planet, only strength prevails. Those are the orders of the Matriarch.”

“Then, it will be as you say,” he replied.

“Finally, something that isn’t sand,” Ben said as he looked through the turret view. In the distance, he could make out dark rock rising from the endless sea of dunes like a squat mountain range. The map had it labeled as a massif, the old satellite image showing circular formations of black granite, probably the product of ancient volcanism.

“It is the perfect place for a Rask ambush,” Lozka muttered.

“Well, we’ve got orders to scout out a safe route for Charlie company. The place is full of dry riverbeds that should make pretty nice roads for the tanks. Can’t go around it, that’d add days to our mission and burn a whole lot of fuel.”

“It’ll be nice to drive on a hard surface again,” Mizi said, “all this loose sand is cramping my style.”

“Where did you learn that?” Ben laughed, the little Valbaran turning to look over her shoulder at him.

“Learn what?” she asked.

“You sometimes come out with such ... weirdly human words and phrases. The Borealans don’t really do that, they talk like people who are, well, speaking a foreign language.”

“My people learn to speak new languages through mimicry,” she replied, confirming his earlier suspicions. She really was like a parrot, copying the phrases and accents that she heard.

“So that’s why I couldn’t place your accent,” he continued, “you don’t have just one. So ... can you copy anybody?”

“If I hear someone speak, I can mimic them,” she replied as she steered them between two towering dunes. “Got a request?”

“Do Lozka,” he insisted, grinning at the Araxie as she spared him a displeased glance from her seat to his left.

“My people have given me the title of Silent Huntress,” Mizi began, Ben’s laughter filling the cab. She was spot on. The rolling accent, the inflections, it was uncanny. The only thing that she couldn’t reproduce was the deep, husky tone, but that only made it funnier. It sounded like a recording of Lozka being played back at a higher pitch. “I have met the Rask in combat many times, and I have slain my share.”

“I wish to hear the Commander’s voice,” Lozka added as she shot him a mischievous look, Mizi obliging.

“I don’t want to be known as the guy who got his cock bitten off by a sand spider while he was taking a piss,” she said, Lozka covering her mouth as she let slip a rare chuckle.

“Alright, alright,” Ben said as he turned his attention back to his console. “Enough fooling around, let’s get back to work. We’ll be coming up on the massif soon.”

Before long, the dark, volcanic rock was rising up before them like a sheer wall. Now, Ben could flex his navigation skills, zooming in on the satellite image to examine it in greater detail. The surrounding dunes might be constantly shifting in the wind, but these formations had been here for millennia, the image should be as accurate as the day it was taken.

“Mizi,” he began, “there’s a dry riverbed about five kilometers to our South. Looks like a good way into the massif, plenty of room for Charlie’s Kodiaks. It leads all the way through a valley and up towards one of the volcanic plateaus. Maybe it was formed by meltwater when there used to be ice up there, however long ago that must have been. Let’s start there and see if we can find a way through.”

“On it,” she replied, revving the engine as she turned the wheel.

“Commander,” Lozka began, “may I express my concerns?”

“Freely,” he replied. “Like I said, this isn’t a Borealan pack. I’m not gonna snap at you if you take the initiative, I ‘want’ you to share your thoughts.”

“I know the Rask,” she said, making no effort to disguise the contempt in her voice. “I understand how they think. Years of tracking them, observing them, learning how they behave. It has given me a kind of sense, a feeling in my gut, as the humans say.”

“A sixth sense,” he corrected, Lozka nodding.

“My gut is telling me that they will stage an ambush here. The proximity of the scout skiff was no coincidence. There is a raiding party nearby, and these rocks represent the only cover for hundreds of leagues. They would be foolish not to take this opportunity.”

“I’d be inclined to agree,” Ben replied, “but that doesn’t change our plan. Fleetcom wants a path through these rocks, and that’s what we’re gonna give them. I doubt the Rask’d blow their cover to take down a single scout vehicle, and attacking a UNN mechanized company sounds more like assisted suicide than an ambush. If they think they can hide behind rocks, then they’re not acquainted with the Kodiak’s main gun.”

“And if they are better prepared than you imagine?” Lozka continued, cocking an eyebrow at him. “The Recon Alpha ... your ‘Lieutenant’, he warned that the Rask may have obtained more human weapons illicitly when he gave his briefing.”

“Doesn’t change our orders,” Ben replied. “Charlie has to roll through here, and we’re Charlie’s eyes. No choice.”

“Then, I will trust your judgment, Commander.”

He nodded to himself, returning his attention to his monitors. There was something to be said for the whole ‘deferring to one’s Alpha’ thing.

“We’re coming up on the riverbed now,” Mizi said, Ben switching his view to the turret cameras. It was much wider than it had looked on the map, the formations of crumbling, black rock rising up to either side of the valley like the foothills of a mountain range. At some point in the planet’s ancient history, this would have been a deep river, its banks overflowing with greenery. Now, it looked more Martian than Amazonian. He could see the larger plateaus in the distance, rising up into the hazy sky like the flat-topped mesas of Colorado, albeit a lot squatter.

As they drove deeper, the fine sand began to mix with particles of volcanic rock, giving it a darker color. Mizi engaged the six-wheel drive, the terrain becoming less even, larger pieces of stone that had broken off the canyon-like walls and rolled down into the riverbed proving no match for the Timberwolf’s massive tires.

“Would you look at that,” Ben muttered. “I’d never expect to see trees all the way out here.”

Here and there were the desiccated remains of ancient trees, their leafless, gnarled branches reaching up towards the sky like the sun-bleached bones of skeletal fingers. Their trunks had been ravaged by the winds and sands, yet they still stood, a testament to the life that had once clung to the banks of the long-forgotten river. It wasn’t quite a forest, just a few of them scattered about in clusters, but it was enough to be creepy.

“I wonder what this place looked like back when the river still flowed,” Mizi muttered, watching them through the camera views. “What creatures might have called these forests home?”

“Someone still calls these deadlands home,” Lozka added, Ben turning his eyes to her turret view. “Look.”

“Is that... ?”

“That tree was felled using tools,” she said, zooming in on the splintered stump. It did indeed look like there were chopping marks in the ancient bark, as though someone had taken an axe to it. “There are no marks in the sand, no footprints or drag marks. This is not recent, but it bodes ill.”

“Rask?” Ben asked.

“Difficult to say,” she replied, keeping her cameras trained on the tree as they passed it by.

“You want to get out and like ... sniff the ground or something?”

“No need,” she said. “It is evidence enough that we should be cautious.”

As they proceeded deeper into the massif, the scenery changed little. The long-dead rivers and streams had cut channels through the terrain that served as roads, guiding them towards the larger formations on the horizon. Ben kept referencing the satellite images, choosing their route carefully. They had to keep in mind that the tanks weighed several times as much as the Timberwolf and that they were less agile. The place was starting to look like an Icelandic beach minus the water. The sand here was mostly made up of pulverized granite, the volcanic rock uneven and jagged. Everything was either black or some dark shade of grey, the somber tones seeming to absorb the blazing heat of the suns like baking asphalt, creating a shimmering haze everywhere he looked. It made Ben feel like they were driving into the mouth of hell. It didn’t help that the sandstorm was nearly upon them, darkening the sky to the West. They’d be in the middle of it in a day or two, no doubt about it.

The winding river led them into another valley, sandwiched between a low cliffside on their right, and a towering massif to their left that jutted out of the sand as though it didn’t belong. It resembled the cap of a giant mushroom, almost perfectly dome-shaped, rising out of the ground a good four or five hundred meters. It had been eroded by time and the elements, the remnants of what could be primordial streams striping the dark rock of its jagged face. Its steep slopes were littered with the remnants of landslides, alarmingly large boulders that had been displaced eons ago resting at its foot. Behind it loomed a far larger volcanic cone, its cap blasted away in some ancient explosion to leave it flat.

“Hang on,” Ben said, spotting something odd on one of Mizi’s viewports. “What’s that strange coloration on the rock face to our right? You guys see that?”

Lozka swung her turret in that direction, giving them a closer look. Where the sloping sand met the exposed face of the massif, there were uniform discolorations in the rock a good ten feet high, noticeably lighter than the surrounded granite. Ben blinked his eyes, not understanding what he was seeing for a moment, then it dawned on him.

“Those are petroglyphs!” he exclaimed, “look at that!”

“What are petroglyphs?” Mizi asked, her feathers flashing yellow as she examined the display.

“Someone has picked away at the rock, carved it out to expose the lighter layers beneath it. It’s a form of primitive artwork, someone climbed up there and chiseled it into the cliff by hand. Looks like ... humanoid figures, some kind of four-legged animals, I can’t tell. What do you make of that, Lozka?”

“Those are crude representations of Borealans,” she began, “but I do not recognize their quarry. It appears to be some manner of hunting scene, not unlike those that we carve into wood or weave into tapestries back in my home territory.”

“How old do you reckon they are?” Ben asked, making sure to take some screengrabs as they passed by.

“Impossible to say,” she replied. “My people know little of the lands beyond our jungles save for what others have told us.”

“With no water erosion, they may have been there for millennia,” Mizi chimed in. “Just like the dead trees, the dryness of the environment could have preserved them for a great deal of time.”

“Damn, I wish we could stop and get a proper look,” Ben grumbled. “I bet there are caves up in those hills chock full of artifacts and paintings that haven’t been seen by living eyes for thousands of years. A Borealan Lascaux.”

“Maybe they lived here when the rivers were still fertile,” Mizi suggested, the truck bouncing on its suspension as it cleared a rocky area. “My planet is so lush, it’s hard to imagine people living in these conditions. Every day must be a struggle to secure the most basic necessities.”

“Do you miss the trees as I do?” Lozka asked. It seemed like a strange thing to say at that moment, but the flush of pink and green in Mizi’s headdress suggested that the Araxie’s words had touched her.

“All the time,” she sighed, her feathers slowly collapsing back down into their sheaths. “Everywhere you go on Val’ba’ra, there’s water. Pools, streams, artificial lakes. We tend gardens of flowers, our walkways are lined with trees that provide shade, there are insects and birds everywhere. There’s so much humidity in the air, everything is always wonderfully wet. Perhaps I’ll follow your example and take a swim in the next oasis we come across,” she said as she steered them around a fallen boulder. “That’s how we bathe back home. Each dwelling has its own private pool that’s designed to look like it’s a part of the natural scenery, hidden from view by landscaping and strategically placed patches of forest.”

“That does sound appealing,” Lozka sighed, leaning back in her seat as she turned the turret’s view away from the carvings. “Based on what you have told me, I admire your people, Mizi’pal’otl. I am encouraged by the thought of a race achieving such an advanced level of technology, while still retaining their connection to nature.”

“Thank you, Lozka,” Mizi replied with a flustered flush of pink.

“When we made our pact with the Coalition, our greatest fear was that our culture, our way of life would be eroded. But you give me hope that we can retain what makes us Araxie, even as we adopt alien practices.”

“What’s it like where you live?” Mizi asked.

“My village lies in the depths of an ancient jungle,” she began, seeming wistful as she reminisced. “The canopy protects us from the daylight, provides us cover, shelter. I feel so ... exposed in its absence. We are shielded by the old growths, a ring of trees and vines that were raised by our ancestors, carefully tended over generations to create an impenetrable wall. It is so masterfully camouflaged that it would be impossible to stumble upon, the only way inside is to be guided by one who already knows its secrets. To be invited into an Araxie stronghold is a sign of great trust.”

“We have walls too!” Mizi said with another flash of pink feathers. “They protect our cities from large predators and let us regulate the climate within them. We strive to minimize our impact on the environment outside of their bounds. What’s it like inside your village?”

“We Araxie build our homes in the roots of the giant trees,” Lozka explained. “Their lives are intertwined with our own. We erect guard posts in their branches, we hollow out their felled trunks to serve as dining halls, we run to them for shelter in times of danger. I would like very much for you to see it one day.”

“Maybe I can,” Mizi replied cheerfully. “Perhaps I’ll bring it up with my flock next time we’re debating where to spend our shore leave. What about you, Commander?” she asked. “What’s your people’s relationship with nature?”