CHAPTER 1- RED AFTERIMAGE
"Arsenyev's dead! And so's Brinkmann!"
Miles thought "frantic" best described the panicky soldier on the other end, but Sergeant Cheng exhibited little feeling except cold rage in combat.
"Soltyk, you fucking, chickenshit Polack," Cheng's words were enunciated with careful menace. "You get your bearings and point your suit, your PIG, your lasers, and whatever else you can lay your hands on and slice those hoppers from shitter to mandible or I will personally rip out your gutless spine if you don't die running, you get me?"
"Y-yes, sergeant!"
Just over a few hours before, Miles' squad hit their mark. The opposition at the initial landing was easy. Only a few prawn drones and few of their warriors armed with HIVELOC (HIgh VELOCity) small arms guarded the beach grazing area when Webster's recon bots pounced. They were soon followed by the manned rigs and the slower bots.
Raptors, fast bipedal hunter killers resembling beheaded ostriches, raced ahead and poured weapons fire from their stubby weapon pods into the hapless sentries while the rest of the squad advanced from the ocean floor. The aliens didn't stand a chance.
The heavier Mastiffs came in next, along with their lighter Jackal cousins on the outer flanks. The Gibbons waded ashore last, protected on all fronts by a moving wall of bots. Once the beachhead was established, the squad separated into strike teams while Miles followed Doyle's and Webster's Bactrian.
The three of them were slowly moving east into enemy territory, approximately a few dozen kilometers behind the forward teams, when Soltyk's frantic call came through.
Miles was to protect the two women while they did their thing. While Doyle acted as the driver, Webster was free to direct the bot forces and attack the enemy in coordination with the Gibbon strike teams. With everything before them completely devastated, there was little chance of any hostile activity this far back.
The rookie found he could follow the advance by opening a comm line and tapping into the bot feeds and gun cameras of his squadmates. From there, it was almost like a live spectator sport, with very real results.
Cheng's Gibbon was peppered by a flurry of HIVELOC rounds from a prawn mech's linear launcher. Within seconds, Miles saw the enemy machine get shot to pieces with PIG rounds from the sergeant's rig; Cheng's machine suffered little thanks to the energy absorbent graphene plates and nano-carbon fiber weave used in its armor.
"You missed a mech, Faraz," Cheng managed a joke with his choice veteran. "Your killers are starting to slack."
"Almost all," Faraz corrected himself. Other sounds came through the comms, like the death screams of a dozen burning prawn as laser-fire raked across their unprotected bodies.
"Rachid say one, maybe two, ran away probably towards you. Sorry," the Arab team leader managed a snicker, and Miles heard the electronic bleep-bleep followed by the chuck-a-chunk of grenades being launched. The rail launched bombs detonated in mid-air over its target, each scattering a cloud of marble sized antimatter explosives. A second later, the landscape bloomed with explosive death.
"Sounds like you have most of your zone covered. Have Hasan or Rachid take over for you. I want you to lead my advance while I check north."
Miles heard Faraz's acknowledgment, but Cheng was already talking once more.
"Ginny? How are the EaRLs doing?" The sergeant was nonchalant as he took aim and fired at something at the edge of his vision.
"Teams One and Two are still clearing the south - your zone. 100%," Webster's slender fingers danced across her glowing panels. "Teams Three and Four are supporting Faraz's team. They're at 95%. Five and Six are reporting at 35%. I think they have two Jackals, one Mastiff, and a Raptor remaining."
Not a good sign, Miles thought.
"Something's holding 'em up." Sergeant Cheng sounded more annoyed than worried. "If it is what I think it is, we may need some serious commitment and Soltyk isn't the cowardly bitch he's making himself to be."
"Have the bots complete their sweeps," Cheng turned his Gibbon and fired downrange at a group of prawn, "then prep me an EaRL team with the most firepower."
"Just don't send 'em 'till I give you the go ahead." The sergeant jumped back on the comm channel as he finished off some dying aliens.
"Understood," the Newcomer looked busy, keying in commands and touching displays out of Mile's view.
"D'you want us to move with you, boss?" Doyle asked. "We've got Miles and me. We can mix it up -"
"Negative on that," Cheng's response was prompt. "Don't go wandering until we know what's there. We may need to fall back. Where'd you say the Rook was again?"
"He's here-"
"Right here, sarge," Miles cut in as Doyle replied.
"Sounds like you're ready to do something useful," Cheng sounded smug. "Make a quick jog to where Rachid is. His team should be near a major highway entrance. Help them secure the area around it, then let Tanya know. The high road will be marginally safer."
"Yessir." Miles cut off the sergeant before he could complain about being so addressed.
He tuned a private channel to the British bimbo's Bactrian, "You two going to be okay, right?"
"Personally, I'd feel better if we had a bodyguard," Doyle stated flatly, "but the quicker you scout, the faster we'll know where we'll need to go, so don't dwaddle. Hurry it up."
Miles took that as his invitation to leave, and he did so with gusto. His Gibbon lurched forward awkwardly at first, then slowly regained its composure as he adjusted his gait to get the machine into a slow run.
His Gibbon's PIG was heavy enough to throw the his machine off balance, hence the tendency for rig drivers to hold the weapon in both hands; however, the weapon's antimatter cyclotron - essentially its "magazine" - could be crushed by the Gibbon's off-hand, with catastrophic, if not fatal, results.
'If you need to hold it like a rifle,' Miles remembered from his training, 'grab the bracket anchor like you would a fore-stock, except it's on the side, so it's like a side-stock. It'll feel funny at first, but no matter, 'cause your machine's actuators takes on the weight, not you.'
Miles had to marvel at the amount of thought the engineers put into incorporating ergonomics into such an ungainly device. The bracket anchor was designed to hold the PIG upright during maintenance and resupply, but Gibbon operators soon learned it was just as useful as a supporting grip.
Because of how the bracket anchor surrounded the PIG's linear launcher and the cyclotron, gripping the anchor on its top bar gave the laser mitt a clear line of fire (albeit off-center to the PIG's centerline aim). Miles had seen combat footage of this being done, although it was never officially taught in training.
The rookie's Gibbon, now at ease in its balance and running full tilt forward at about 45 MPH (about 72 KPH) crossed the terrain scalded bare by antimatter weapons. A few uneventful minutes later, he came across a lone Gibbon standing guard along with a couple of bots.
"What are you doing here, Rook?" the other rig driver asked. "Thought you were babysitting the slaggot's secretaries?"
"New orders," Miles let the man's bigotry slide, "is it secure to bring up the Bactrian? Sergeant says we need to secure this position, then head out on the highway across town."
"The Arabs are clearing out some last minute hold-outs," the other operator sounded bored and lackadaisical. "Decided they didn't need a Jew to go along with their XT jihad. Sat me here with some bots as a fallback."
"Looks like this place is secure enough," Miles clicked the pop-up window to Doyle's Bactrian. "Tanya? Miles here. I think it's clear. I'll head back and meet you halfway. How's that sound?"
"Sounds s'alright."
Moments later, Miles watched as the Bactrian waddled leisurely towards him. Doyle was moving carefully like walking across a patch of ice in high heels while pregnant. Webster's battle blister was prominent on the upper back of the larger machine.
Any wild spinning motions of the suit would probably jostle the Newcomer female silly or even knock her out. It was probably why it made sense for him to guard them in a separate Gibbon - to do all the wild moves while Doyle moved their precious cargo across the battlefield.
"... Sergeant Cheng?" It was Webster. In the confusion of battle, she must have transmitted over the general channel. "I have a Colonel Hammer on the line. Says his tanks need some fire support."
"I hav' none t'give," Cheng said simply. "Just found th' problem up north. Shut th' fuck up Soltyk," the sergeant snarled at something on his own display and went on, "It's a 'zerker wi' warriors in tow."
A berserker? Miles felt his heart skip a beat. Rare footage showed fauna native to the prawn homeworld used for illegal "pit fighting" back when District 9 still existed. No one knew those small creatures were in fact, the early-stage instars of large beasts native to the prawn homeworld.
Prawn berserkers were huge by Earth's standards; each one stood about ten or twelve meters tall - as high as a flat-roofed three story building - and about the size of one as too. Despite their bulk, they were also fast, capable of keeping up with a Gibbon at full trot. And that wasn't the worst part.
The prawn grafted their linear launchers, ARC guns, and other weapons onto the animal, using integrated targeting computers to operate them. Anything that identified as human or Newcomer was fired on by these quasi-automated systems. The beast was dropped in enemy territory, and used as a siege-and-suicide unit. What didn't get destroyed by the rampaging juggernaut would be decimated trying to take it out.
Mop up by prawn ground forces proved much easier after one of those bastards went through an area - one of the many reasons human-Newcomer forces haven't been making much progress past the foothills. The only thing that kept the berserkers out of the mountain fortresses were the narrow defilements and passes that worked against their voluminous bulk. And any prawn mothership that tried to airdrop a berserker would see its cargo destroyed long before it reached the ground, thanks to self-guided anti-matter warheads.
As for the prawn warriors, they were essentially larger drones, but their second set of arms were fully grown, allowing them to carry a second weapon. Additionally, they were much more aggressive, and did not require the presence of a hive coordinator to direct their attacks; theirs was a true hive-like mentality when it came to full-on war.
The presence of a berserker with warrior escorts hinted strongly that there was something major the insect aliens wanted to protect - that or they were here by mistake.
"Soltyk's damag'd but o'erwise fine," Cheng went on with his sit-rep. "Sikarna's 'ere too, plus a scrap pile o' fo'mer bots. Where's the colonel, Ginny?"
"About twelve kilometers northeast of ... us," Webster paused then added, "Less than eight klicks due east of your own position."
"What's holding him up?" the sergeant asked.
"Looks like a dozen mechs," the bald bot controller replied.
"His channel?" Cheng barely flinched as his Gibbon's hand crushed a warrior who thought it could win in a hand-to-hand duel with a machine.
"Those tanks are not on standard comms," Webster's slender hands crisscrossed her face, her fingers moving furiously to keep up with the action. "Shall I bridge your conference?"
"Do it. His tanks are too slow agains' mechs," Cheng echoed Miles' thoughts; however, the sergeant was ahead of the rookie's curve. "but good enough distraction against a 'zerker. Tell him help's on th' way."
Jesus, thought Miles. What good were a bunch of tanks - even if they were firing antimatter rounds - against something that was eight times more massive, more heavily armed, and moved faster than you did?
"Listen up," Cheng's voice carried across the general channel, "all Gibbons wi' two PIMPs to spare, send a one-two t' these spots -" a list of targets came up, and Miles selected six.
:: targets selected. standing by. please finalize strike ::
"Rook, choose three." It was Cheng again. "Double up one target. Hav' t' make sure there's enough of the colonel left for phase two."
"Got it." Miles deleted three of his choices, and re-selected his first three targets.
:: targets re-selected. standing by. please finalize strike ::
The list quickly became filled by the other members of the squad. Every PIMP (Portable Indirect Munitions Platform) was loaded with three cruise missiles. Each missile carried six antimatter warheads. Each warhead was the same size as a single soda grenade and equipped with their own guidance and propulsion system.
Standard engagement procedure was to launch one such missile over the combat zone after designating targets on the Gibbon's guidance systems.
Each missile's payload would act like a pack of well-coordinated predators against a single prey once they were released, with some circling waiting to strike while others would pounce and attack when the prey's defences were distracted.
The system's user can designate six targets, hitting them with one warhead each (usually done against concentrations of enemy troops or bunkers), or hit a single target with six deadly blows (often a high threat target - like a prawn berserker), or make any combination of such strikes with his six shots.
:: system alert. munitions deployed ::
The sergeant (or Webster) group-fired the squad's PIMPs and Miles felt the clunk-whoosh from the back of his Gibbon. Somewhere on the other side of the battlefield, there will be some unlucky recipients of antimatter-laden death from above.
Miles counted to himself. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand. In the middle of his count eight, his blister's display came alive with new chatter and an update from his weapons system.
:: target one destroyed. target two destroyed. target three destroyed ::
"The colonel extends his thanks," Webster sounded relieved. "He's asking what can he do to repay the favor?"
"Give him th' sit-rep," Cheng said calmly. "Tell him to have his tanks gang-fire on the berserker once in range, but fire an' retreat, fire and retreat. I don't want him overrun by the warriors, and we need to buy some time. Sikarna, Soltyk, and myself will hit the 'zerker from one side. Send me that bot team you've been cobbling together. The rest of you, prepare to PIMP slap that 'zerker with an all-or-nothing shot."
Holy Jesus, though Miles. That meant zoning all six target selections on a single spot. That was pretty much overkill. Assuming the prawn berserker was only crippled and not destroyed outright, it'd have other ordnance on it, and ... of course. Miles felt like hitting himself.
Once the enemy juggernaut was stopped, weapons intact or not, they could lob grenades and carpet bomb the giant bug into oblivion from cover. And if there was any weapon with plenty of destructive potential, it was the grenade launchers almost every unit carried, down to the Mastiffs and Jackals. Plenty of ammo to go around.
"Rook, pay attention."
Miles blinked and his mind came back to reality as Doyle tapped loudly on her pop-up window to get his attention.
"D'you hear me?" Doyle sounded annoyed, "The sergeant wants us on that highway, ready to move in case the 'zerker lives and decides to rip us a new one. That's ev'ryone. Us included."
"Oh, gotcha," barely had Miles replied when several metal blurs zipped past him.
The faster bots had already raced into position and were waiting patiently for the slower units to mount the assault. A quick change of formation as well. The southern strike team had pulled closer to the rest of the team, in range to lend direct fire to the team in the center. It would seem that the firepower of the entire squad - or what was left of it - would be directed against the enemy juggernaut and its small cadre of prawn warriors.
The colonel's tanks were sending shells downrange towards the berserker by now, and Miles' external microphones was picking up the booming cracks of the hits. The rookie followed the Bactrian up the highway entrance ramp. If his Gibbon wasn't so geared for line combat, he could have tacked on a thruster pack to go faster. But Miles was thankful for the extra firepower. Who knows when he'll need it?
"Er, Sergeant Cheng?" It was Webster again. "Something big incoming. It's not hostile. Weird. Has our signature. I wonder what -"
The Newcomer's transmission was quickly squelched as the prawn berserker was engulfed in a blaze of nuclear fire. Even safe inside his nano-carbon fiber cocoon, Miles thought he felt the warmth from the nuclear flash, and that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
"WH-T TH- LIV-N- F-C-?!" Doyle screamed, her feed sizzled with static. Their comm systems were hardened against EMP, but even they had problems dealing with tight stream pulses at close proximity.
"- that - nuke?! Was - a nuke?!" Webster lost her composure and asked repeatedly, "Was that a nuke?!"
Miles could barely hear over the multitude of chatter, and started closing the comm channels to reduce the noise. It finally dawned on him to leave the channels open, but to squelch the noise by lowering the volume inside his battle blister. Eventually, a simple text message clarified the situation. It played across the blister display like a marquee.
:: SQUAD TO ESCORT BOT UNIT TO HIGH PRIORITY TARGET. OBJECTIVE PRAWN VESSEL ::