The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II (47 page)

The miserable Eldari screamed in pain, but he managed to fight through his fear and agony long enough to hold out a shaking arm. “That one,” he managed to rasp softly. “Down at the very end.”

Darius stared for a few seconds, trying to decide if he believed the man. This would be a moment for treachery too, though he doubted the Eldari had the courage for that…and the prisoner had to know that whatever happened in the next few minutes, Darius would find a way to repay betrayal.

The room was filling with armored figures, more of the Teams pouring in. “I want a single Team down each of these corridors. Conduct a quick recon, but don’t get too far from here.” He believed his prisoner, but not enough to forego checking out the other hallways. “Ernesto, organize three Teams and come with me.”

Darius took a couple steps and stopped, turning to stare back at the terrified captive. “And bring him,” he said as he moved swiftly toward the designated corridor.

Alcabedo rushed to keep after him, gesturing for the designated Teams to follow him. He grabbed the prisoner himself, dragging the man roughly behind him until he was able to hand him off to one of the troopers.

Cain stopped in front of the closed hatch and paused for an instant. He looked like he might be thinking of how to unlock the door when he whipped up his assault rifle and opened fire on full auto. The tiny shards of hardened iridium left the weapon at almost 5,000 meters per second, and when they struck the metal around the edge of the hatch, both target and projectile vaporized.

It took less than a second for Darius to blow a large hole on the edge of the hatch, and then he leaned forward and shoved it open with all the force his fighting suit’s servos could manage. The door let out one loud creak, and then it tore off its track, falling to the ground into the corridor.

Darius’ rifle was already down in front of him when the hatch gave way, and he opened up almost immediately, targeting the half dozen Eldari troops standing in the corridor.

The hall was long, two hundred meters or more, and there were small doors on each side. Cell doors, Darius thought, feeling a surge of unfocused anger when he wondered how many of the occupants of this prison had committed no greater crime than speaking freely or seeking to protect their families.

Whatever I find, that kind of thing is over here. When I leave, if Eldaron survives it will no longer bow under the rule of one who calls himself Tyrant
.

Darius wondered for an instant if he’d ever heard of a dictator who actually took the title Tyrant. It was supreme arrogance, but he couldn’t help but admire the honesty of it…the sheer brazenness.
But that won’t stop me from spilling every drop of his blood…

He ran down the hall, and he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. Sweat poured down his neck, his back, making his armor even more uncomfortable that it usually was. But he ignored it all. “Have a Team cover the rear,” he snapped to Alcabedo. He didn’t know the layout of the Eldari prison, and he suspected the way they had come was the only entrance…but there was no point taking chances.

“Already done, General.”

Darius nodded, a cumbersome gesture in armor.
Of course you did
, he thought, allowing himself a fleeting smile. Ernesto Alcabedo was one of the Eagles’ best, and he took his job as bodyguard very seriously. But he hadn’t faltered in his regular duties, not an iota.

Darius stopped abruptly. The corridor ended in front of a door, similar to the others, but a bit larger.
This is it
, he thought…and he summoned all his discipline, all the calm he could muster. He took half a step back and aimed his rifle at the locking mechanism. He was more careful this time, concerned about any rounds or debris going through the door…and hitting anyone inside the cell.

I’m have come, father. I have come for you…if you are here
.

He took a deep breath and opened fire.

*  *  *  *  *

“Stay down, you fucking assholes. These aren’t Eldari toy soldiers firing pop guns. Those are hyper-velocity rounds coming in, and they’ll rip your suits open like you’d pop a can of beans.” Joseph Trent was crouched low, peering out over the small ridgeline at the enemy position a klick and a half to the east.

Trent was a sergeant, but he didn’t hold a sergeant’s post. He was Dan Sullivan’s backup as company commander, and one of the few non-coms in the whole outfit who had a direct line to Darius Cain. The Eagles were a precision outfit, and in the field they usually stuck pretty close to regs, calling each other by proper ranks and the like. All except Joseph Trent. No one called him by his names, first or last…or even his rank. No, to everyone in the Eagles, from newly recruited private to the regimental commanders and above, Sergeant Joseph Trent was known as Bull.

No one was sure whether the name had attached itself to the veteran non-com because of his size and enormous build…or because he was stubborn enough to pound his way through an obstacle with his head. But however it had come into the Eagles’ lexicon, Bull Trent was one of the great heroes of the organization, a man Darius Cain had personally decorated half a dozen times.

Darius had tried to promote Bull as well, but the pigheaded sergeant had refused, insisting he was a non-com at heart, and that’s what he would stay. Nevertheless, ability could not be long denied in an outfit like the Eagles, and though his fatigues still bore the three stripes of his official rank, it had been a long time since he’d stepped onto a battlefield to do a sergeant’s job.

“Bull, it looks like we’ve got another attack coming in…I’d guess brigade strength this time.” Dan Sullivan’s voice blasted into Bull’s helmet. Sullivan was another over-achiever, a platoon commander who had taken over company command on Lysandria…and performed brilliantly. Cyn Kuragina’s entire White Regiment had been deep in the fiercest fighting on that world, when the Eagles had been surprised by several thousand well-equipped troops emerging from hidden positions. Just like now. Only there were a hell of a lot more this time.

“The boys are ready, Cap. They come out of those trenches and we’ll blow ‘em to hell.” There were both men and women serving with the Eagles, but Bull Trent had his own way of speaking…and nobody tried to change it. Darius had long decided it was a pointless effort, and the last thing he wanted to do was tinker around with a natural fighting machine like Trent. And there weren’t more than a handful of others with the guts to try, even in an outfit as known for ferocity and bravery as the Black Eagles.

Sullivan glanced up at his display. He knew Bull was the kind of fighter who never gave up, never even admitted the possibility of defeat. But he could also read the data in the shimmering projection just in front of him. There were a lot of enemy troops over there. A
lot
.

The captain took a look down the line his company had formed. Bull had them just behind the ridgeline…great cover against an attack from the enemy’s position. The ground rose slowly from their hasty trench line to the high ground his people occupied. There was very little undulation, and that meant there wouldn’t be much cover for the enemy forces if they attacked. It was a textbook killing ground, one he knew troops as good as his would use well. But he still doubted they could beat back a truly concerted attack. Not unless the enemy broke and ran.

And that won’t happen…not with this enemy
.

There was something too familiar about these enemy soldiers. He had seen it before…the discipline, the equipment.

“Bull, do these guys remind you of the enemy on Lysandria?”

“Yeah, Cap. I’d bet it’s the same crew, whoever the hell they are.”

Sullivan sighed softly. It was the same force…he was ready to bet his last credit on that. But what did that mean? What did Lysandria and Eldaron have to do with each other? They were far apart, almost on opposite sides of Occupied Space. Lysandria was a backwater, a democracy of sorts that had brought invasion on itself by provoking a stronger neighbor, one that could afford to hire the Eagles. Eldaron, on the other hand, however poorly its military forces had acquitted themselves, was an economic powerhouse, a strong world ruled by an absolute dictator.

So where are these soldiers from? There must be 25,000 of them here, at least. Who could field such a force?

“Cap, it looks like we’ve got some activity over there…”

Sullivan snapped out of his thoughts…just as something exploded fifty meters behind him. A huge spray of dirt blew up into the air, landing all around.

“Mortars,” he heard Bull shouting in the com. The sergeant had recognized the activity along the enemy line…and he’d been the first one to shout out the warning.

Sullivan ducked low, pushing himself forward, into the soft dirt of the hillside, just as shells began landing all along the line. Mortars weren’t an enormously dangerous weapon for fully-armored troops. It pretty much took a direct hit to kill or seriously wound a powered infantryman. But enough of them could drive a force to ground, stalling an advance…or suppressing defensive fire.

“Alright boys,” Bull said harshly, “these bogies are going to be coming our way soon, so I don’t care how many firecrackers they send over here, your fucking eyes better be where they need to be. ‘Cause if you don’t blow these bastards away when they’re out in that nice open ground, you’re gonna be fightin ‘em right here…ten of them to one of you.”

Sullivan nodded to himself. He’d been thinking the same thing, but once again, Bull had beaten him to it. He wondered if he’d ever seen a more natural soldier than the hulking non-com. He was still wondering when his com unit went crazy, and his whole line opened fire.

His eyes snapped to his display. There were waves of enemy soldiers moving forward. They were all powered infantry, as well-equipped as the Eagles themselves, or nearly so. The moved quickly, covering ground like only powered-infantry could. Their form was excellent, and they moved ahead side to side, keeping themselves low and offering as small a target as possible as they advanced.

His soldiers raked the open plain with fire. Enemy troops began to fall, a few dozen at first…then hundreds as they came closer. The dead soon covered the field, the heaviest concentrations in the lines of fire of the big autocannons. The SAWs and SHWs spat death all across the field, but still the enemy came on. And behind the first wave, fresh lines moved up.

Sullivan peered over the ridge. He knew every shot counted, so he added his own rifle to the fire of his company. He was a crack shot, one of the best in the regiment, and every time he squeezed the trigger, an enemy soldier went down.

But the approaching force just kept coming, despite losses that would have sent most armies reeling in retreat…if not an outright panicked rout. Sullivan couldn’t help but be impressed by the courage that was on display. This was a dangerous enemy…that much was obvious. But there was something strange about them, or at least a doctrine that was utterly foreign to the Black Eagles. He had to grudgingly admit that their training and drill was as close to that of his own troops as any enemy he had faced. Yet there was a difference, one that was downright chilling. The Eagles were as fierce as any fighting force that had ever existed, but they valued the lives of their soldiers. Every plan was created to minimize losses. The equipment, tactics, support services…they were all designed to keep casualties as low as possible. Darius Cain set the standard, and down the ranks, every officer, every squad leader…they spared no effort to keep their men and women alive.

This enemy—and Sullivan was sure now it was the same force his people had fought on Lysandria—didn’t seem to care about losses. They were willing to incur enormous casualties in their operations…and their soldiers seemed immune to fear. They pushed ahead into withering fire, entire lines serving as little but human shields for those who followed. He wondered how such a force could exist, why well-trained soldiers would follow leadership that valued their lives so little.

Sullivan watched, and his confusion grew. The first wave that had crested the enemy trenchline was almost gone. A thousand soldiers, perhaps, had first stepped off into the no man’s land between the armies, advancing quickly under the cover of the mortar barrage. They used cover where it was available, crouched low behind undulations in the ground to block the Eagles’ fire. But the terrain was wide open most of the way, and Sullivan doubted more than a hundred of the original thousand were still standing. The others were scattered across the field…dead, wounded, suffering from severe armor damage. But more had come up behind them. And yet more behind that second wave. And they all kept coming.

Sullivan knew his people couldn’t hold the ridge, not against such fanaticism. The enemy was almost there, and when they reached the defensive line, their numbers would decide the issue. His company would fight, and he had no doubt they would kill two for one or three for one. But there were just too many of the enemy.

He wanted to pull back, to retreat now to the secondary line a klick behind. But he couldn’t take his company back, not while the rest of the battalion remained. He had to wait for Colonel Kuragina’s orders. His people would live or die with their comrades.

He kept firing. His desperation pushed him ever harder, and he directed his rifle with even greater speed and accuracy. He was on full auto now, gunning down every enemy he could. But still they came on.

This is it, he thought. This is where we will die…

“First Battalion, this is Colonel Kuragina. You are to withdraw immediately to the secondary battle line.” Sullivan could hear the stress in her usually calm voice, and in an instant he knew what was going through her mind. Did I wait too long?

“Alright, let’s go,” he yelled into his com. “Evens, fall back halfway to the second line. Odds, stand firm and continue to fire.” He paused for an instant. Then: “Bull, I want you with the evens…go!”

He turned and brought his rifle to bear. He and the odds had to buy time, to keep the enemy under fire until their comrades were in position to cover their own retreat.