Battle Station (21 page)

“Unable to comply,” Marvin said with maddening calm.

“Why not?”

“They are almost on us,” Sloan said. He was crouched on the line with the rest of us, firing for all he was worth. Each Macro that we disabled was quickly caught and blown up, but there were too many and they were seconds from overrunning us. If just one of those spider-bots…

“The spider-bots have limited sensory equipment, sir,” Marvin explained. “I made several design edits to provide much needed space for—”

“I don’t care,” I shouted. “Just tell them all to blow themselves up! Right now!”

“Message sent.”

Explosions blossomed and thundered from every direction. A fresh shower of metal parts, dirt and slag came down on us. Even as we ducked and wiped at our visors, the surviving Macro workers hit our lines.

It was the first hand-to-hand combat I’d been in for a while. If it hadn’t been for our powerful battle suits and our training, we might have been annihilated. As it was, we struggled with the mass of thrashing Macros, slamming our laser projectors against their joints and thoraxes, even as they sought to chew through our suits. Only one marine was torn apart, screeching. The rest of us lived. We used the smoking hulks of Macro corpses to form a barrier encircling our crater.

Everyone was tired—almost exhausted. We quietly took up firing positions and waited for the next onslaught. I worked on programming the next batch of spider-bots. The rest of the men were doubtful about the wisdom of producing any more of them.

But I kept at it. The Macros had turned the bots against us, but we’d survived. If I tweaked the design, I was sure they could still be useful.

The Macros had stopped coming, but we all felt sure they were out there, coming up with another sly move. We watched every inch of ground with intense, unblinking stares.

When something finally did happen, it was two minutes before the next spider-bot batch was ready.

“I see movement at the edge of dome, Colonel,” Sloan said. “We have new entries—lots of them coming through now.”

I cursed. “Reinforcements? How many?”

“I—I can’t even count them. They are coming through from every direction at once.”

“What kind of Macros? Do they have lasers?”

“I can’t tell. They are still blurred as they come through the field. Should we fire?”

I had reached the top of the crater now, and crouched beside Sloan. I knew a sick feeling as I saw what he saw. There were hundreds of shimmering images, coming through the field. They flared white as they pressed against the bubble of force. A few more steps, and they’d be through.

“Hold on, don’t waste power,” I told Sloan. “You can’t hurt them until they are through the field entirely.”

Then I heard a voice in my helmet. “Colonel Riggs?” the voice asked. “This is Captain Miklos. Are you here, sir?”

“Stand down, marines!” I shouted. “They’re ours!”

A ragged cheer went up from the survivors. As the marines kept coming, we stood up and watched. Men in battle suits led the way, then Centaurs followed. There had to be at least a thousand of them.

I’d expected a brief firefight as my men arrived, but there was very little action. Captain Miklos soon found me, and we stood around the crater we’d called home for so long. By that time, it was obvious we’d wiped out the last of the Macros when they’d made their final charge to destroy us with our own spider-bots.

“Looks like you had quite a party here, Colonel,” Miklos said.

“We did indeed.”

“I’m sorry to have taken so long. A back-up invasion was not part of the original plan.”

“I know,” I told him. “I’m not blaming you. This entire operation didn’t go as planned. But we did capture the production unit.”

“Does it still work?” he asked doubtfully.

Together we surveyed the machine. It was the prize for which so many had sacrificed so much. “Yes, it appears to be sound.”

I explained about the spider-bots, and the tank, and the steel-planks we’d built with this amazing machine.

Miklos flipped up his visor and stared at it. “A wondrous machine. So much power. What are you going to do with this monster, Colonel? This has to be more production output than Earth has ever had.”

I nodded. “I have plans, Captain. I have lots of plans.”

Miklos laughed. “I should be happy to hear that sir—but somehow, I’m not.”

-21-

The battle for the production facility on had not gone smoothly, but at least we’d won. We’d captured the machine, and already my eyes were on the next goal: the third and final Macro dome. I wanted it badly. After I’d seen what one machine could produce, I wanted these factories more than ever now.

My reasoning was simple in the extreme: with a combined set of Nano factories and Macro factories—several of each—I could build more hardware than we’d ever seen before. I could make new things no one had even thought of yet. They would be big, smart, and flexible—but mostly big. My dream of a battle station on Hel could quickly become a reality. I sternly reminded myself I still had six planets to liberate, and they weren’t going to do it on their own.

After Miklos had set up a perimeter around the huge pit, I felt less confident. A few thousand troops looked pretty thin when stretched around in a ten mile circle. I immediately improved our numbers by creating my own Macro workers. These looked exactly like normal Macros, but they were enslaved to our programming, and could not be used for military purposes.

“I don’t like these things, sir,” Sloan complained to me, sneering at the first twenty or so I’d produced. “Do we really have to have them? I feel like I’m consorting with the enemy.”

“I’m done building them for now,” I told him. “We had to have them to bring raw supplies to the Macro factory. I want this monster to keep churning out new equipment. But I don’t blame you for disliking the look of these machines. In fact, I’m putting you in charge of making them more friendly.”

“Uh, I’m no programmer, sir.”

“Not required. Order a load of paint to be brought down from our ship’s stores. Coat these things thickly, and then put them back to work. It doesn’t have to be art. A typical marine paint-job will do.”

“You want me to
paint
them
, sir? Why?”

I looked at him for a second. I didn’t like my orders being questioned several times in a row.

“Sorry sir,” he said, catching my look. “I suppose the paint is intended to allow us to identify them as friendly. What color do you want them to be?”

“Whatever you want,” I told him. “But not pink. I hate pink.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” he murmured, then walked away to order the paint.

Once I was given a chance to think clearly, I changed the big factory’s production orders. With Marvin’s help, I ordered six thousand Centaur infantry kits to be produced. Then I had the Fleet destroyers bring down fresh troops. We had no lack of native volunteers, but we never had enough equipment to give them. I meant to change that.

Once the factory was humming, all my marines were dug into defensive positions, and the ships were bringing down loads of fresh troops every hour, I had time to ponder my next move. The Macros had remained quiet as we consolidated around our captured prize, and that worried me. They’d never cooperated previously, so I didn’t expect them to give up so easily. They were out there, planning and building something.

The new worker machines were very effective at gathering elements from the stockpiles that had been made all around the factory. The infantry kits were being produced in large batches, more than a hundred at a time. Smiling, I ordered ten thousand more.

After that, I decided to build tanks. I’d always wanted to build heavier armor units, but had never had the required levels of production to sustain it. Now, I had a system that could chunk out steel like—well, like a factory. I ordered up a platoon of tanks, sixteen in all. After a few design changes, the two-turret monsters were more functional than the prototype I’d built under the dome. Producing about one an hour at a steady rate, intermixed with more loads of infantry kits, I soon had quite an army.

I slept and showered on one of the destroyers, then went back to work. Miklos called me from HQ in the sky.

“The Macros still haven’t made a move, sir,” he said.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? You sound worried.”

“No, I don’t think it’s good. They are up to something. I wish I knew what.”

“Well, we aren’t going to give them any more time. I’ve already decided how we are going to take the last dome. We’ll do it by marching overland. It’s only about sixteen hundred miles away. Centaur troops are much faster being four-footed, and my tanks can travel overland about as fast.”

“Won’t that take days, sir? And won’t it wear out your native troops?”

I sighed. “Yes, probably. They aren’t nanotized. I can’t expect them to do the impossible, but this is their planet. I want their help for the final push. We simply don’t have the airlift to transport them all to the next target. We would have to put down on a new LZ without cover, too. The Macros might object.”

“I have a suggestion, sir.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Take your tank platoon first,” he said. “The destroyers are capable of carrying one each. I’ve already done the math.”

“Okay, what then? Without support, my sixteen tanks might not survive long. The Macros will storm them with missiles.”

“We have to put the rest of the fleet on station over the region to shoot down missiles. When the tanks unload, we set up laser turrets.”

“Okay…” I said, taking off my helmet and thinking about it. Cool winds tousled my wet hair, chilling my head. The wind felt great. Somehow, suit air-conditioners never seemed to quite keep up with a man’s level of perspiration. There were always hot wet spots and freezing cold dry spots.

“What about my infantry?” I asked.

“We take them in last, as they are the most vulnerable. These destroyers have much more lift than the old Nano ships. They can carry five times the payload. I recall a primitive design for landing pods you used back on Earth—a boxcar like unit.”

“Hmm,” I said, thinking it over. “The problem is the Centaurs themselves. They don’t like being cooped up.”

“Yes, but these systems do not have to survive in vacuum. They do not have to be sealed. You could build them quickly with planks of Macro steel, and cut many holes in the walls. They would be able to look out and see the sky and the grass around them. This should prevent panic.”

I laughed. “You are describing cattle trailers. You know that, don’t you? You want me to build a hundred-odd cattle trailers?”

“
Flying
cattle trailers. Exactly, sir.”

In the end, I went with Miklos’ idea. It was risky, but it would get a large force onto the field at the Macro dome’s doorstep very quickly. I didn’t like the idea of losing these forces to an enemy missile barrage, or a rush of Macro war machines, but I liked the idea of giving the enemy another week to prepare even less.

By the end of the second day, as the sun fell below what we now called the western horizon, we were ready to launch. The destroyers used their large, black arms to pick up and carry my tanks. Like mother cats with squirming kittens, they sailed away into the sky. There were a few near disasters when wind-gusts caused the tanks to creak and tip. With only one arm holding onto each one, they weren’t very well-balanced. But they made it over hills, forests, lakes and grasslands—hundreds of miles of grass.

When they finally landed, some fifty miles from the enemy dome, I fully expected to hear about a counterattack. I did not, however. Instead, there was no response. No missiles, no war machines—nothing. I didn’t like it, but I kept going with the plan. I didn’t have a better move to make.

When the destroyers left us there on a hillside, sixteen four-man crews in each tank, it was a lonely feeling. The ships had to go back and transport the centaur troops next. But still, it felt as if we’d been abandoned.

All our sensor systems showed no movement out there. Satellite recon had reported activity: Macro workers were busily transporting supplies to the enemy factory, but no one had seen anything come out. What were they doing in there?

By midnight, I had my army assembled. We rolled forward the minute we were prepared. Just before dawn, we reached the dome.

This dome wasn’t at the bottom of a lake, at least. It wasn’t in a spiraling pit, either. Instead, it was nested in-between a set of craggy mountains. Not really a valley, the spot was more of a shallow depression where the peaks met. The mountains around were riddled with holes and were heavily mined by the Macro workers running in and out. As we advanced, we destroyed every harvesting system we ran into. They didn’t put up much of a fight—we simply had too much firepower for them. With the big guns on every tank and literally thousands of native troops charging forward with heavy beamers, every enemy was destroyed within minutes of contact.

I began to feel elated as we drew closer. The Macros had made a mistake. Perhaps they’d had some complex plan, something that took a week to put together. But we’d moved faster than they’d thought possible and arrived with a valid force before they were ready for us. Now, they scrambled and worked desperately under their domes, but it was too late.

It was a nice fantasy, but like most fantasies, it didn’t survive its inevitable impact with reality. What they were really up to none of us had expected, not until the last minute.

When I saw the dome shut off, and the glimmering surface dimmed down and flickered out entirely, I knew this was it. The moment of truth. What had they been building under there?

Under the dome were three large ships. I knew them all well. The one in the center was the most interesting—it was a transport. I’d spent months in the belly of a ship very much like it. The other two were cruisers. Their arrowhead shape was unmistakable. As the trio lifted off, they released a swarm of missiles.

“Defensive fire!” I screamed into the com-link, flipping it to general channel override. “Forget the ships, I want every vehicle laser we have engaged. Take out those missiles! Infantry, advance and scatter!”