Chapter 485 (1/2)
Oddly enough, Vuxten recognized the barely visible name on the tank's barrel.
Black Betty was barely visible through the black carbonization, the soot, and the warping of the warsteel, the barrel twisted and sagging slightly. There was a hole clean through the tank, silently showing everyone that the crew compartment had been completely blown out. The armor was pierced in three other places, not counting the jagged teeth formed when the engine had blown out through the back deck.
The tank was still smoking, the insulation, molycircs, and other synthetics still burning inside the heavy 1,000+ ton hull of the heavy tank.
It was surrounded by destroyed PAWM, sitting in the middle of a crater that Vuxten could see the striations of, showing that the crater had been pounded deeper by no less than four other detonations.
Barrel bull? Something new? Vuxten wondered as he opened the channel.
”All troops. Ahead slow, keep an eye out. Whatever's tough enough to take on Third Armor could eat us like popcorn,” he warned.
One by one the icons flashed.
His men were rested, heat and slush were back down, repairs taken care of. The Division had taken 297 casualties, all WIA, not a single KIA, although Second Lieutenant Yrektarm had made a good attempt at it when a Whipsnapper Dwellerspawn had broken the Telkan's neck.
Another tank slid by, then another. Then a pocket of a half dozen, all backed up together, facing outwards, all of them missing their tracks. They were in the middle of a cluster of craters that were full of the slowly liquifying bodies of the Dwellerspawn.
”Something bad happened here,” Vuxten said softly to nobody in particular.
--bad feeling boss-- 471 said.
”You and me both, buddy,” Vuxten replied. He looked around. Here and there were the sprawled bodies of troops of V Corps. He frowned, looking at them.
None of them were in heavy armor. Not even adaptive camouflage with protective plating.
They were all wearing OD green cloth, white name patches, large rank on their sleeves, and what looked like metal helmets.
”Recognize that gear?” Vuxten asked.
--nope nope helmet steel not warsteel steel steel-- 471 sent back. --no armor no personal protective fields some wearing gas masks most not weird weird weird--
”All units, stay back from the dead Terrans. There's something weird going on and I don't like it,” Vuxten sent out.
One by one the CO's blinked their icons affirmative.
Vuxten glanced over at the big human and saw he had stowed his cutting bar and heavy weapon on his hips. He was opening and closing the clawed hands of the suit, electricity snarling through his fingers.
Something about the whole thing was making Vuxten's combat antenna go off.
”I think that's a live one,” one of the Marines in the lead flitter Vuxten was riding in yelled, pointing to the side.
Vuxten saw a human get up, clumsily, uncordinatedly, staggering a few steps and falling.
The medic vaulted over the side, jogging toward the injured human, which had gone face down again.
Vuxten frowned and followed, waving a pair of Privates to join him.
”I got you, buddy, I got you,” the medic said. They knelt down. ”Where are you... by the Digital Omnimessiah!”
Vuxten saw it and skidded to a stop.
The Terran's ribs and spine were visible. The internal organs were bloated, swollen, blackened and foul looking. The back of the skull was visible, the flesh torn away.
The Terran looked up and the medic swore, scrambling backwards.
The Terran's face was greyish, the eyes white, the jaws were gnashing, black teeth clashing together in a constant clack clack clack clack. Black blood ran out of the jaws and down its chin. It lunged forward, fingers scraped but not bleeding, two fingernails missing, underneath the fingernails black.
The medic got up one arm as the Terran lunged for his face.
Vuxten knew that the Marine was wearing warsteel laminate armor capable to shrugging a main gun round from a Lanaktallan tank, or even medium caliber PAWM fire.
The Terran knocked the Marine down, onto his back, pressing one hand against the Telkan's chest, the other grabbing the Telkan's wrist.
Vuxten heard the Telkan Marine's armor servos scream as the Terran pulled the Telkan's wrist forward and bit the forearm.
--DIGITAL OMNIMESSIAH PRESERVE US-- 471 screamed over the link.
The jaws bit deep, the Terran pulled his head back, and the wiring and internal systems of the suit's forearm stretched between the Terran's chewing mouth and the forearm of the armor. Kinetic gel flowed out of the torn hole, steaming in the cold air. Vuxten could see the hand pressing against the chest of the armor clench, see the warsteel laminate bunch like warm clay.
Vuxten stepped forward and kicked, catching the Terran in the ribs. He knew the kick was strong enough to dent battlesteel, he expected his boot to rip a hole through the Terran's body like it was tissue.
Instead there was a solid thump and the Terran tumbled off the Telkan, rolling to a stop and facing up.
”STAY AWAY FROM THE BODIES!” Vuxten screamed over the comlink, nosing the 'Command Push' icon.
The Terran sat up, still chewing, black blood and steaming red hydraulic fluid pouring out of its mouth and it chewed up warsteel laminate and internal systems, including the thin aerogel liner of radiation protection and sensor systems.
Vuxten lifted up his stubber and raked the Terran. The antimatter mass reactive gyrojet shells hit with dull thumps, slamming the Terran back down.
Vuxten noticed that the uniform had patches of scorched and blackened cloth, bruised looking flesh explosed, rather than the gaping holes that a ten round burst of antimatter rounds should have caused.
It sat up again.
Vuxten just stared as it opened its jaws and hissed.
A stubber barrel came in from the side, pressing against the side of the Terran's head.
”Mors est in gloria,” Casey's voice sounded out over the speakers.
A single shot blew away most of the Terran's head.
The body slumped down.
”You have to shoot them in the head, sir,” Casey said, turning and moving away.
”Sergeant!” Vuxten snapped, backing away from the body.
Casey stopped. ”Yes, sir?”
”What in the name of the Digital Omnimessiah, was that?” Vuxten asked. He glanced over and saw that the medic's greenies was spraying sealant on the armor breach.
”A myth, a legend, something that some people whisper about at the table at the back of the NCO Club at two in the morning,” Casey said, stopping.
”Tell me. My men, and you are one of them, are marching into this. What is it?” Vuxten asked.
”It goes by different names. Shiva Protocol, the Pale Horseman Project, the Black Cauldron Doctrine, Raccoon City Blues,” Casey said. ”It's all the same, though.”
”What's al the same?” Vuxten asked.
Casey stepped forward, put his boot on the back of one of the dead that had begun crawling toward one of the flitters. He aimed his heavy magac and pulled the trigger. The soldier's helmeted head exploded.
”The walking dead,” Casey said softly.
Vuxten looked around for a long moment. He tabbed the icon again. ”All CO's, make sure your men know that only a shot directly to the head will drop these guys. They aren't the Terrans we've fought with, they're something else. They're already dead.”
The icons blinked, some showing disbelief, as Vuxten walked back to the flitter.
”Move out, but take it slow. Don't engage, don't go to help, don't dismount the vehicle to provide assistance. Keep at least 10 meters from any armored vehicles, hell, any vehicles,” Vuxten said. ”Headshots put them down, that's about it.”
There was a crackle of cloud borne thunder and drops started falling. Sporadic at first, more spitting than anything else. It started in spits and spats, the odd drop there and there, and slowly gained momentum until the heavy-metal and debris laden drops were everywhere.
Vuxten kept one eye on Casey even as they kept moving forward, trying to link up with whatever was left of V Corps.
”How the hell did he bite through warsteel?” Vuxten asked.
--not know-- 471 admitted. --bad bad juju--
-----------------
The Atrekna watched with cold satisfaction as more and more of the mammal bipeds slumped to the ground, as if they were puppets who's strings had been cut. More and more of the tanks clattered to a stop and started smoking, the crews slumping in death.
The pressure was less and less, but still there.
i saw the black dog
The primitives were all around them, encircling them, drawing closer and closer.
The Atrekna, down to just a handful, noticed that the closer the primitives got, the harder it was to stay aloft.
With the beginnings of concern, they realized they couldn't lift higher. They couldn't shift out through temporal mechanics.
They tried drifting to one side, hoping to just move above the slowly constricting ring and get beyond it to escape the pressure they were feeling.
A multitude of cold whispers reached them.
i cried like i was going to die when i realized that i'd never own a kitten
my mother refused life extension procedures and died before i was fifty
i wish i had died with my wife and children when the mar-gite attacked
my mom always said i was never worth a shit
i never loved anyone as much as i loved my husband
hungry i'm so hungry
so cold and you are warm let me touch you
saint lentimat burned with white fire as they am-bombed it to eradicate the mar-gite i was nine as i watched
being a woman is my favorite part of garrison but i'll be damned if i won't reskin as a male during deployment
i saw the black dog on that hilltop
The Atrekna pulled away, the thoughts receding, sliding off of them like cold porridge down an iron plate. They shuddered at the cloying, greasy feeling of those thoughts, how they left a physical taste in the Atrekna's mouth.
They had been pulled even further down.
One attempted to rush the thickening line. It screamed as it flew forward, its feeding tentacles whipping crazily, its eyes bulging, forming a wedge of psychic power in front of it.
It tumbled from the sky, landing in the mud.
The others watched as it started to get up. It was halfway up when a single bullet hit it on the top of its head, the hydrostatic shock exploding the eyes from the socket even as half of the brain was pulled out the hole by the suction of the round passing through.
The dead feet trampled it underfoot into the mud.
Look. Look. one said, a thin trickle of hope in its thoughts.
More and more were dropping, just slumping to the ground. Two of the great tanks coughed and wheezed, the engines at the back exploding, sending up shards of rent armor and plumes of greasy black smoke.
The Atrekna struggled to hold themselves aloft.
The line moved closer, the ring tightening.
One broke ranks, wrenching itself free of the communal mind, lashing out at the primitives with his psychic power. He was hundreds of millions years old, had survived the ever encroaching darkness, had survived the death of the universe he had been hatched within.
The psychic lashings did nothing. He attacked the ground at their feet, turning it to soup. They marched into it and slowly thrashed their way across. He hardened it, trapping them.
Still more advanced.
A tank ran those over, crushing them.
Emboldened, the others joined him in lashing out. Attacking, not the primitives, but the ground they walked on. Hardening the air on either side to slam together two great plates of hardened air. They picked up rocks, using their telekinesis for more than keeping themselves aloft and other minor things.
They strained as they began to fight for real. Trying to remember ancient methods, or trying to learn on the fly as they struggled against the primitives advancing.
Still they drifted lower.
Half of them kept up defenses, deflecting attacks by tank guns, small arms, heavy guns.
i just want a pink golfball daddy
The others kept attacking, genetic memory and the communal mind guiding them at first, then they grew more and more skilled as they kept fighting.
They had rediscovered what had allowed them to overwhelm every race in their galaxy one by one until only the Atrekna reigned supreme.
Even so, more and more of the primitives kept just slumping down, collapsing. Tanks exploded for no reason.
But they kept fighting.