Chapter 302.5 (1/2)

A'armo'o waited until the back deck lowered from his tank before trotting out. He took off his helmet as his hooves thudded against the dirt and brown grass, blinking his six eyes as he brought everything into focus.

Terrans were running everywhere. Before his driver could even finish shutting down the fusion reactor there were a half dozen Terrans wearing loading frames with built in tools pulling the damaged armor from his tank.

One Terran, a big human with a patch over one of his two eyes, stopped in front of A'armo'o.

”Staff Sergeant Casey, Terran Army, 3rd COSCOM, 144th Ordnance Company,” the human said, introducing himself, to A'armo'o, quickly and succinctly. ”My men are going check your tank out, double-check your plasma shells, your compression chamber, the alignment of your magnetic rails,” he said. He turned and pointed at the hoverfan skirts. ”We'll check your plenum chambers real quick, see if its something my boys can spot repair or if we need 3rd Shop over here.”

”Very good, human,” A'armo'o said, slightly startled at the way the Terran had not even bothered trying to polish his hind hooves and just jumped into the important stuff.

”Your computers are really last-gen. We can probably get a warboi into your tank, but it'll be tight. I can have a warboi case loaded in and wired up if you can spare, oh,” the Terran stared off into the distance and A'armo'o knew he was consulting his datalink.

A'armo'o expected computer hardware to take a month or two, maybe even six, if it could be done at all.

”Three hours per tank. Two if I get the greenies from 19th Electronic Warfare Maintenance over here,” the Terran said. ”Little guys are wizards with the tech. Saved my ass.”

”You have eighteen hours to do what must be done to my men's tanks,” A'armo'o said, emulating Trucker's attitude and tones.

The Terran male turned to his men that were working on A'armo'o's tank.

”You heard the man! Eighteen hours! I want all his tanks racked, packed, stacked in six!” he yelled. ”Dominguez, get your footpads in gear!” he yelled at one of the massive insectiod soldiers.

A'armo'o turned and stepped back, surprised to see one of the big black Terran warborgs.

”General Trucker's compliments, sir,” the warborg growled, making a 'follow' motion. ”He's at the Theater Tactical Operations Command.”

”Very well, Terran,” A'armo'o said.

The warborg led him on a weaving course through the refit area, letting A'armo'o see that his men and his vehicles were getting priority (at least to A'armo'o's eyes) on refit and repair. His wounded were being treated, his men being fed, and A'armo'o saw a tent put up and makeshift sleeping slings being set up. He saw two Terrans helping an exhausted Lanaktallan to a sleeping sling, telling the Lanaktallan that things would be better after some sleep.

What boggled his mind was that eight hours ago he had met with Trucker and the humans acted as if they had benefited from weeks of relaxation. There was a group of Terran soldiers jogging in perfect formation, packs on their backs, weapons held in their hands, backs straight. The lead one had a pole with a flag of a Terran 8 with an arrow through it on it that he held up into the air.

”Eight UP!” a Terran jogging beside the formation yelled.

”PUT 'EM DOWN!” the Terrans roared.

A'armo'o managed to not flinch or flee.

”That was out of respect for your rank, sir,” the warborg growled after they had gone by.

”They seem... eager,” A'armo'o said.

The warborg made a grinding sound. ”Nobody likes PT, sir. You're right though, sir, everyone's chomping at the bit to go slambang some awmer metal.”

”Aw-mer?”

”Autonomous War Machine,” the warborg said, pausing while a large wheeled vehicle moved by carrying a steam driven turbine engine. ”Slamming clankers isn't like killing some poor bastard sent to die by his leaders. We'd rather smash metal than people.”

”Oh,” A'armo'o said softly.

”Great Most High,” his datalink pinged.

”A'armo'o here,” he answered.

”The Terrans are all insisting the engines on our tanks be replaced. They say the engines and fan mechanisms are all showing something called microfractures and resonance induced crystalline alignment,” his Twelfth Most High, now his Second, said in outraged tones. ”I told them that those engines had been reliable for test starting for over a million years.”

”Are you a maintenance technician?” A'armo'o asked.

”No.”

”Do we have any maintenance techs alive and here to work on the tanks?”

”No.”

”THEN GET OUT OF THEIR WAY AND LET THEM WORK!” A'armo'o bellowed out. He cut the link and looked at the warborg. ”My apologies. My second in command does not believe that our tanks need repair.”

”They were in storage before the clankers arrived, correct?” the warborg asked.

”For almost ten million years. They are a reliable design,” A'armo'o stated.

”Uh-huh. If you say so,” the warborg said as they passed a Terran 'light armored fighting vehicle' that weighed nearly a hundred tons and had armor thicker than A'armo'o's heavy tank.

A'armo'o would have been offended as little as six days ago. He knew his heavy tank only qualified to the Terrans as a 'light armored hover vehicle' suitable only for scouting and fast attack raids. The Terran light armored fighting vehicle mounted a heavier cannon than A'armo'o's tank, which had a 90mm rapid fire tri-barrel plasma cannon that could put out twelve shots a minute. The 'light vehicle' by the Terrans had a rapid fire single barrel 60mm autocannon that put out up to two hundred rounds a minute. He's seen one of those light tanks shred a Precursor AWM that his tank could not face without at least five others through careful maneuvering that would leave at least three tanks dead. The Terran vehicle had killed the AWM one on one.

In less than ten seconds.

A week ago it would have grated on his nerves. Six months ago he had not understood how the Terrans just tore through the Lanaktallan forces like they were made of cheap plas.

Now he got it.

What made him slightly afraid was the way the Terrans hadn't even asked for his surrender, just landed, attacked the Precursors, and just maintained that the Lanaktallan forces who did not fire on them would not be fired upon.

It was an uneasy truce.

A'armo'o knew that he was facing punishment for refusing to attack Terran forces while they were engaged with the Precursors.

But he wasn't going to throw away the lives of his men to follow the orders of the System Most High who was hiding in a bunker.

The Theater Tactical Operations Command was in a metal cargo box buried under dirt and protective plates. Cables ran out of the box, out of holes cut with a torch, and vanished into pipes that were buried in the dirt.

”I'll be out here, sir,” the warborg growled.

”Thank you,” A'armo'o said. He went through the airlock door and into the TTOC, preparing for the debate he knew would be taking place about the best way to destroy the Precursor machines with the least amount of dedicated resources.

Instead there were nearly a dozen beings, Six Terrans, two of the large insects, two Telkan, and two large gray skinned saurians, all in the adapative camouflage, all looking at a holotank. Around them were consoles where troops were passing on messages or handling incoming messages, as well as putting data up on large dataslates.

”Have Nineteenth Armor rotate out with Fifteenth Armor. The Precursors are breaking contact, we'll send in 11th Air Cavalry Regiment to rip them up while they retreat. Get those boys in there with the brrrt in the dirt,” A large insect was saying. ”Once Fifteenth is in position, have them do a lockhorn. Pinch them from the sides, bunch them up, and slam up through the middle.”

”Yes, sir,” one of the saurains said. A'armo'o was surprised that the voice from the big muscular bipedal lizard sounded female.

”Trucker, how long till 3rd Armor is field capable?” the insect asked, taking out what A'armo'o had learned was a cigarette and lighting it. He puffed smoke out of his legs.

”My men need sleep. Say, fifteen hours?” Trucker said, lifting up a bottle so he could spit into it.

”You have eighteen,” the insect said. He turned to A'armo'o. ”Ah, Great Most High of Armor A'armo'o, kind of you to join us.”

”Thank you, Confederate,” A'armo'o said, still unsure of the Terran rank system.

”Your men are exhausted and in need of rest,” the big insect said, puffing smoke out his legs. ”That is not a criticism of your men's bravery. You fought on despite terrible casualties, refusing to give up because the civilians were behind you. That is admirable.”

For some reason, having the massive insect praise his decision that was being criticized by his own people, made A'armo'o feel much better.

”The problem, Great Most High, is one that cannot be sugar coated,” the insect said. He huffed smoke. ”I came up blue legged, so perhaps have a black-leg like Trucker tell you will be more palatable.”

”Yes?” A'armo'o said, turning to the big human.

Trucker spit into the bottle and shook his head. ”Thanks, General Ko'Draka.”

”No charge,” the insect said, then turned back to the others. ”We've got the Precursors AWM's contained for now, but those big boys on the ground are pumping out reinforcements like a runaway Clone Worlds Nu-U Shop.”

Trucker moved over to A'armo'o. ”No offense, Great Most High, but your tanks all need refit at the least. Badly need refit,” he moved over to a smaller holotank and made a motion.

The schematic wireframe for his tanks appeared in the holotank.

”Your tanks were in storage for too long,” Trucker said. ”You started them every couple thousand years, but that's not good enough. You also just fired them up and drove the ones that worked into combat.”

A'armo'o nodded. ”We had little warning.”

”I want to tell you that that's no excuse,” Trucker sighed. ”Terrans learned that hard lesson several times.”

”What is the problem? Directly inform me forward,” A'armo'o said, trying out human slang.

”Tell you straight?” Trucker asked.

”Yes,” A'armo'o said, feeling proud of himself.

Trucker sighed. ”All right. Your tanks are shit.”