Hostile Planet

Chapter 1 – Blackshoals Sergeant Jerry Harper's recurring nightmare began as it always did: with water, fire, and blood. “All units,” General Stone's voice said in Jerry's helmet comm, “friendly bombardment will begin in twenty seconds. Evacuate the outer perimeter and pull back to the inner wall. Fort batteries, cease fire until friendlies have reached the wall. Snipers, continue firing. All others cease fire and wait for the go-ahead.” It was the Claim War's third battle on the planet Blackshoals, and Jerry crouched behind the parapet of Fort Baker's inner perimeter wall. He and the rest of the Agrarian Commonwealth's forces were tasked with repelling the invasion at all costs. It was looking like the “all costs” part would happen. Fort Baker sprawled across the south end of the oceanic planet's largest island. The rain came down in cold sheets, as it often did on Blackshoals, hammering the outcropping and drumming against his helmet. In the distance, waves crashed on the black rocks, slowly pounding them to gravel over eons. Grav engines hummed here and there, adding their whines to the noise. The vehicles themselves remained mostly hidden by the rain, clouds, and steam from the island's geologically active north side. Shouts and screams of men could be heard from all directions, both inside and outside the fort. The cacophony was topped off by the sizzle of purple-white plasma bolts streaking through the air. Jerry and his squad didn't need to pull back; they were already at the inner wall. He fired a final shot over the parapet and tried to ignore the intermittent bacon-like smell of fried human flesh. He paused and waited for the bombardment, counting down the seconds and taking advantage of the lull to swap out for a fresh magazine. The outer courtyard was full of brown-skinned Agrarians running from the outer perimeter as fast as they could. Their forest camouflage uniforms were ill-suited for the volcanic terrain, and there was no place to hide. Some of those men were with the Homestead Volunteer Rifles, like Jerry, and he silently urged them on. An Agrarian Commonwealth battlecruiser, the A.C.S. Sandstorm, emerged from the dark storm clouds and descended towards the island. It had already taken heavy damage in the space battle, but it wasn't out of the fight yet. Jerry allowed himself a grim smile. Things were about to take a bad turn for the enemy's foot soldiers. The Sandstorm's main plasma cannons—guns designed to take on frigates, not men—swiveled on their turrets and opened fire. Incredibly powerful plasma bolts pounded the island, vaporizing enemy soldiers and shattering the volcanic rock. The land glowed a dull red in spots where multiple bolts struck, and the rain flashed to steam, enveloping the island with fresh clouds of mist. Almost as soon as it began its bombardment, the Sandstorm took fire from above. Plasma bolts from unseen vessels shot through the clouds and peppered the battlecruiser's top side. Sandstorm's shields fluctuated, threatening to fail completely. One of the enemy plasma bolts sneaked through in one of the split seconds the shields were down, and there was an explosion. Jerry cursed under his breath. Sandstorm tried to maneuver, but its grav engine was damaged, making it sluggish. It crept forward and fell, belching thick black smoke. There was a dull boom, as if from an internal explosion, and then the ship began to yaw. It turned over, banked, and plowed itself into the fort's outer wall. It tumbled across the rocky island for several hundred yards with the horrible screech of twisting metal. It came to a stop atop the outer wall and exploded in a ball of white fire. Jerry watched with horror for a moment, and then a shock wave of hot wind slammed him in the face. He was blown over and landed on his back, his head bouncing off the prefabricated deck. His helmet absorbed the impact, and he lay there motionless for a stunned moment. He finally came to his senses, scrambled back to his feet, and resumed his position at the parapet. Sandstorm's crash had taken out a portion of the outer wall, and now enemy soldiers, a mix of gray-skinned Reliants and orange-skinned Felids, poured through the gap. The fourth Breed of humanity, the copper-skinned Paragons, remained in space, content to use their own Reliants as cannon fodder. “All units,” General Stone said, “retreat inside the inner wall and repel invaders from there. Do not attempt to re-take the outer perimeter. Infantry, open fire.” Jerry opened fire, as ordered, striking down one soldier after another. The mindless, conformist Reliants were slow and unimaginative—easy kills. The Felids, the “warrior” Breed of the galaxy, were very different. They were dressed in a variety of uniforms and civilian clothes, were quick and unorganized, and they moved in unpredictable patterns. Shooting them was a challenge. But the courtyard was now full of enemy soldiers, and hitting someone was almost a certainty. Jerry hosed them down with plasma bolts, quickly exhausting his magazine. He ejected it, inserted a fresh one, and resumed firing. “Fort batteries,” Stone said, “prepare to open fire at my command.” Several seconds passed, presumably so the last of the Agrarians could get to the inner wall. “Fort batteries, fire.” The fort's plasma cannons had been still while the fighting was hand-to-hand at the outer wall, but now they started pounding away. Their bolts were too powerful for personal energy shields to absorb, and any hit was an instant kill. Reliants and Felids were torn apart, and the courtyard was soon littered with severed limbs and charred torsos. Jerry appraised the situation for a moment and decided he didn't like what he saw. The batteries were doing their part, but there were too many targets. Some enemy soldiers would reach the inner perimeter. And they were just the ones who had already landed. There were more in space waiting to descend. The Agrarians would need a miracle to hold the fort. A pair of enemy officers, Felids, were arguing out on the rocky beach near the ruined outer wall, and they had foolishly allowed themselves to wander out from their cover. The men wore different uniforms, which meant they were from different clans, and that was no doubt the source of their disagreement. They were protected from the fort's batteries by the terrain, but Jerry's position on the wall gave him an angle between piles of rubble. He aimed at one of the men, switched to full-auto, and fired a string of shots from his plasma rifle. The Felid's energy armor absorbed the first three hits, but the fourth proved too much. That last plasma bolt burned through, leaving a charred hole in the man's orange face. Or woman's. Jerry couldn't tell at that distance. Before joining the Homestead Volunteer Rifles, he hadn't believed some of the crazier stories about Felid women in combat. The Claim War had opened his eyes. He switched back to single-fire and targeted the other man. That other Felid officer crouched behind a rock, raised his own rifle, and returned fire. Jerry ducked behind the parapet. The plasma bolts sizzled on the wall, adding a whiff of scorched metal to the wet, musty air. An explosion from above caught his ears, and he looked up. A warship of some kind had been partially destroyed in the space battle, and what was left of it was plummeting to the surface. It emerged through the cloud cover black and smoking. There was a second explosion, and the ship broke apart, sending burning pieces of men and machinery splashing into the heaving ocean swells. Jerry squinted. One of the exterior panels floated on the surface for a moment before sinking beneath the waves. It bore the insignia of the Agrarian Commonwealth Navy. “Breeder's name,” he muttered. His people only had so many ships up there, and they'd been outnumbered from the beginning. If the Commonwealth lost control of space, then the other Breeds could land at will. The invading trickle would become a flood, and that would be the end of the Agrarian occupation of Blackshoals and its treasure trove of Chevenite. It would also be the end of Sergeant Jerry Harper. As if on cue, a Reliant Mentarchy troop transport descended from orbit, no doubt squeezing through the hole left in the blockade by the destroyed Commonwealth warship. It slowed until it hovered about a hundred yards over the sea's surface. Large doors in the bow opened, and the transport vomited forth its assault craft. Reliant troop landers poured out of the transport and fell towards the water. Some were destroyed by fire from Fort Baker's batteries, but the landers were small and agile, carrying only twenty soldiers each, and most survived. They shot forward, zipping just a few feet above the waves on their grav engines. They reached the island, stopped in the shallows, and discharged their troops. The Reliants, guided telepathically by their Mentarch, splashed ashore like automatons. They assembled on the beach in their usual formations, carrying plasma rifles with Chevalloy bayonets, and looked for all the world like ancient battle squares from the age of horse and lance. Their gray skin and uniforms stood out nicely against the black beach. Jerry remembered that the Mentarch usually didn't order troops to activate personal shields until they were in formation. Those soldiers out there were probably defenseless. It was a weakness of their enslaved minds, and he took advantage. He switched his rifle's selector back to full-auto and unloaded his magazine's seventy-five rounds on the formation. Dozens of them went down before his bolts started to be absorbed by energy shields. The Mentarch had apparently noticed their deaths. Jerry took cover again and inserted a fresh magazine. He wouldn't get a chance like that again now that they had their shields up, but he had seized the opportunity while it existed. It wasn't much—the Commonwealth would probably still lose the battle—but it was something. “Harper!” came the voice from his helmet's comm. It was Lieutenant Boatwright. “Some Felids—” He was interrupted by an explosion from overhead. Jerry ducked and wrapped his arms around his helmet. Shrapnel from a destroyed something-or-other showered Fort Baker from overhead. After a moment, it was clear, and he looked around. A man of Company D—Jerry's own company, the Stonefell Guards—lay on his back. A piece of shrapnel had sliced into his neck. His eyes were as big as saucers, and he gasped and trembled. Shaky fingers clutched at his throat, trying to stem the tide as his life's blood squirted out. “Auxiliary!” Jerry waved a hand frantically. A pair of women from the Ladies' Auxiliary noticed him and ran over. “Sir, say again,” Jerry shouted into his comm. “There was an explosion. You got cut off.” “I said some Felids broke through at Gate 7.” Boatwright's voice was tense and higher-pitched than usual. “Get your squad over there and seal the breach.” “Yes, sir.” Jerry pulled away from the parapet and began running towards the ramp. He keyed the comm channel for his squad on his wrist control. “C squad,” he shouted into his helmet's microphone, “we're pulling back to Gate 7! Move it!” He reached the ramp and ran down, his boots thundering on the metal. He jogged across the rocky ground, weaving his way between people and machines. Squads from a variety of Commonwealth planets ran to and fro. A number of women from the Ladies' Auxiliary raced about, their tan uniforms making them stand out among the camouflaged soldiers. Those Auxilians tended to the wounded, carried away the dead and dying, repaired equipment, and ferried ammunition to the fort's defenders. Everyone in the courtyard was soaked from the rain, and they all seemed to be going everywhere at once. The southern side of the inner perimeter bordered a cliff, not a beach, so it was more lightly defended than the other sides. The southern gates opened up to narrow, winding staircases that led down to small platforms near sea level. The stairs had been mostly destroyed by the Agrarian defenders before the battle. General Stone had guessed the Mentarchy's Reliants wouldn't attempt an assault there, nor would the Paragons' Reliants, and he was proven correct. The terrain was all wrong for their tactics. But the Felids were capable of anything, and it seemed they had swum in from submersibles, scaled the cliff, and finally reached the top. A dozen or so Felids had broken through Gate 7 and were now battling the Agrarian defenders. “Brown Team,” Jerry said into his comm, “head for the gate itself and see if you can get it shut and sealed. Then take positions at the wall and fire at any climbers on the cliff. If their shields are on and they're inside minimum range, then shoot at the rock instead and try to get it to crumble away. Maybe that'll make them fall into the ocean. Green Team, Gold Team, come with me. We're going to clean house.” “On it, Sergeant,” Corporal Brandon Woods said, though not without a note of fear in his voice. “You heard the man, you lazy sodbusters. Let's go!” Jerry's stomach roiled. Like everyone else in the battle, the Felids wore energy shield vests. At a long enough range, a few shots from a plasma rifle would deplete the shields. Inside the minimum range, though, plasma bolts only shattered harmlessly. The Felids at Gate 7 were too close for plasma weapons. They had already engaged the Agrarians with bare blades, and now it was Jerry's turn to get nasty. He slung his rifle and drew his sword. Its pale yellow Chevalloy blade, lighter and stronger than steel, glinted in the dim light. Eleven ocean-drenched Felids fought two dozen Agrarians, and the defenders were hard-pressed. Both sides hacked at each other in what quickly became a blood-soaked melee. Many bodies—some brown-skinned, some orange—lay on the ground already, along with parts of bodies, and the low spots in the black rock sported red puddles where rain and blood had pooled. Jerry dashed towards the nearest Felid. The man was grappling with an Agrarian, and his back was turned at the moment. Jerry raised his sword and slashed at his neck. “For Homestead!” The blade ignored the Felid's energy armor and sliced through his spinal column, nearly decapitating him. The man fell towards Jerry, splattering him with blood from severed neck arteries. Another Felid saw him, a woman this time. Her orange hair was cut short, and the normally lean, angular lines of her body were bent, coiled like a snake ready to strike. Her blade was already red with Agrarian blood. She glared at Jerry, boring into him with bright yellow predatory eyes with slitted pupils. She bared her fangs and charged, swinging her sword with a demonic fury. It was all Jerry could do to fend her off. He retreated, barely avoiding her blade. She whirled and lunged and stabbed, missing him by hairbreadths. Jerry slipped on the wet rock and fell over backwards. His helmet struck the ground hard, and his head rang like a bell. The Felid dashed in for the killing blow, but then she slipped, too. Her foot slid sideways, and she fell to one knee. That was Jerry's chance. He scrambled up, lunged, and swiped his sword at her thigh. It bit deep, and she screamed and toppled over. He pounced, driving the point of his blade into her eye socket. She spasmed once, and then was still. He put his boot on her face and yanked his sword free. Before he could turn his attention to another Felid, a Reliant frigate materialized out of the gray clouds. It dove towards the fort and opened up with its plasma cannons. “Hit the deck!” Jerry shouted into his comm. He threw himself down and covered his head. The plasma bolts pounded the inner courtyard around Gate 7, incinerating some unlucky defenders as well as a few Felids. He scrambled towards the wall for cover. The Reliant vessel hovered in place, seeking out targets and methodically destroying them. Then it lurched into motion and sped away. A Commonwealth destroyer, the A.C.S. Hacksaw, fell from the sky and chased the smaller ship. The Hacksaw pounded away with its own guns. The Reliant frigate absorbed several hits before its shields gave out, and then holes began to appear in its hull. Hacksaw kept firing mercilessly. The Reliant ship belched smoke and flame from its various wounds, tumbled and yawed, and finally smacked the ocean hard. It bobbed for a moment like a cork in the roiled sea, and then it quickly sank. Hacksaw ascended back into the clouds and disappeared. Jerry scrambled to his feet and picked up his sword. He looked around for Felids. Some had been killed by the ship, but more were still coming in from the cliff. The men of C squad had regained their feet and were now engaging them again. Jerry saw an unopposed Felid and took a step forward. Before he could take a second step, someone collided with him from behind, knocking him back to the ground and driving the breath from his lungs. Jerry rolled over, shoved him off, and looked at him. It was an Agrarian defender, though not one from Jerry's planet. The name stitched on his uniform read “Collier,” and he was one of the Oakland Sharpshooters. Collier's eyes were wide, and his mouth was open in terror. A raspy hiss oozed from his mouth, and then he fell silent. Jerry stared at him for a moment. He had never been to the planet Oakland before. For some strange reason—some bizarre psychological effect of war and emotional trauma, probably—he felt the sudden urge to visit it. He swallowed hard, and then pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He looked up, but the Felid he had seen before was gone. Jerry was about to stand up and look for another target, but then he saw a man vault over the parapet and attack the Agrarians. The man was a Felid, but not like the rest. Unlike the other Felids who wore clan insignia, there was no telling this one's clan, and that was by design. His orange hair was dyed gray, and his orange skin was covered in gray camouflage paint. He wore a sleeveless black fighting tunic, black trousers, and soft doeskin boots instead of heavy combat boots. He looked more like a shadow than a man, a blur of death and destruction. He carried a Felid sword with a bright Chevalloy blade, and the skin of his left forearm bore a brand, three crossed swords inside a nine-pointed star. It was the brand of the Felid assassin-monks, the fabled Harowaith. The sight of that brand filled Jerry with horror, and he froze. He remained on his hands and knees, unable to do anything other than watch. The Harowaith was impossibly lithe and graceful, and he danced among the Agrarians, severing arms and legs and heads in a manner so effortless as to be almost beautiful. In a matter of seconds, half of the Agrarian defenders at Gate 7 lay dead or dying. The Harowaith, now covered in blood splatter, focused his gaze on Jerry and walked towards him. There was a euphoric look in those yellow slit-pupiled eyes, and his lips were slightly parted in what could only be ecstasy. His stride was casual and confident, arrogant even, as if he knew—correctly—that no man in the fort was his match in single combat. Jerry wanted to run, but his body refused his brain's commands. He could only stare up at those yellow eyes, knowing his death was imminent. His bowels turned to water and let go, warming his crotch and thighs. He tried to beg for his life, but could produce only a whimper. “Breeder's will be done,” the Harowaith said. He raised his sword.