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Costs and consequences mount when the ceasefire breaks down and both sides get serious about forcing a decisive battle for the Kashkin.

Sorry it's taken so long to post this. I was hoping to get around to doing maps for this chapter, like I did the first two, but I haven't had the the time and it was getting in the way of posting the actual novel. Second chapter and epilogue will follow later today or tomorrow. Thanks for stickin' with me, and I hope it works for ya.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Aux Armes, by Rob Baird — Ch. 4, "Full of Anger; Dark with Wrath"

***

The earth is full of anger,

The seas are dark with wrath,

The Nations in their harnessGo up against our path:

Ere yet we loose the legions —

Ere yet we draw the blade,

Jehovah of the Thunders,

Lord God of Battles, aid!

High lust and froward bearing,

Proud heart, rebellious brow —

Deaf ear and soul uncaring,

We seek Thy mercy now!

The sinner that forswore Thee,

The fool that passed Thee by,

Our times are known before Thee —

Lord, grant us strength to die!

— Rudyard Kipling, “Hymn Before Action"

***

Diplomatic vessel Malinche

In orbit of Jericho

13/7/2538

Korteran Halinchi faced her human counterpart across a table, a handful of half-full coffee mugs, and a meter of chilling air. She was the only other person left in the room. The representatives of the Jericho Business Council and the Jericho Representative Alliance had left five minutes before.

Not a word had been said since.

I'm done with this.

Allenby had given up. It had become clear to all of them that the negotiations were essentially pointless. Maintaining the CODA task force in orbit cost exorbitantly, and the sector ecclesia was not in the business of paying money simply to delay the inevitable. Our mandate expires on the first of August, 2538, at which point the task force will depart and the sector ecclesia will no longer intervene in local politics, Janet had said. And then: I'm done with this.

She hadn't moved from her chair. Neither had Halinchi. The badger was the one, finally, to break the silence. “Do you blame me?"

“I blame all of you," Janet answered at once. “But I know what you're going to say next, and you're not wrong. I don't know what you should've done. I don't know what I should've done."

“Can I ask a different question? What would you have wanted? If there was a… what's the old human fable? A magic lamp?"

Janet stared blankly. “A genie?" And then, to Halinchi's surprise, she laughed.

“Did I say something wrong, Ms. Allenby?"

“No, it's just funny, that's all—the way you called it a 'human fable,' as if we were all the same. You know we're different, right? I'm not the same as Shaeffer Moody. God, I hope I'm not the same as Shaeffer Moody."

“Human cultures weren't part of my education," Halinchi tried to explain. “I was only guessing."

“Oh, I suppose that's fair… it isn't as though I didn't know what you meant, is it? If I had a magic lamp, I'd wish for the status quo from five years ago. Your autonomy, and the JBC putting up with it, and nobody fighting over anything. Of course, we have another saying, too—about trying to put a genie back in its bottle. You can't."

“Things have changed too much for that," the badger agreed. The Kashkin government, to say nothing of the average citizen, was unlikely to accept even the appearance of submitting to human authority.

A government poll in June said only 15% of the Kashkin saw 'autonomy' as an acceptable compromise. That came after the forcible disbanding of the Hashida: so far as Halinchi could tell, most people believed it had been imposed by humans, and it only deepened their antipathy for the government in Ford City.

She didn't go over the numbers with Allenby—the woman was despairing enough already without needing to confront anything so blunt in its rejection of the human mission.

“What are you going to tell your president?"

“Negotiations have finally broken down completely. And as of August, we're on our own. I'm not even sure that he'll be disappointed—it's been hanging over us for so long, at least now we have a date…"

“And what did he want? If I'd given him your magic lamp."

“Mostly, the safety of our people. Honestly. He's never been as much of an ideologue as some. If he trusted the JBC, even remaining in the Alliance would've been acceptable to him. A hard sell, but acceptable."

Janet nodded, staying quiet for a minute or so. She picked up the computer on which she took notes, scanning through seven months of futile discussion. “In the interests of guiding your… explanation to your government, you should stay here for a moment. I've asked General Mazzanti to join us."

The military leader of the CODA's task force arrived just a minute later; judging by the only two people remaining in the room, he seemed to have understood what had transpired. “Reporting as ordered. How can I help you?"

“I informed the other parties that your mission is terminated as of August, general. You can begin making preparations for that at once, like we discussed. You have the documentation from Gemini."

“Yes, ma'am."

“Everything is still on schedule?"

His head turned in Halinchi's direction, as if to remind Allenby that the moreau was still in the room with them.

“I know. What does it matter? I imagine Minister Halinchi might be interested in what you've learned. What you told me earlier, do you recall?"

“I recall, ma'am. I must remind you that the information is classified, as I explained to you at the time."

Allenby smiled. “I speak with the authority of the Gemini sector ecclesia—that does give me the ability to change the data's classification, does it not? Consider it open for review in this room."

Mazzanti, deferring to her station, did not continue the protest. “You're referring to our report on West Jericho's defensive forces, correct?"

“That's right."

“We assessed their military to have expanded over the course of this year by two thousand active-duty soldiers, not counting a reserve of around fifteen hundred. We further assess that they have doubled their number of tracked armored vehicles, and replaced sixty percent of their troop carriers with Soviet BMKs. Finally, we assess that they have tripled their quantity of mortars and acquired two batteries of guided rocket artillery, one of which remains inactive."

Janet Allenby summarized in three short words: “You've been busy."

Halinchi kept herself deliberately insulated from details, to maintain a degree of plausible deniability. She did recall, however, that General Altalanuk had mentioned something about rocketry, and the numbers seemed accurate. “If you knew all this, why didn't you confront me during the negotiations?"

“Because you would have accused the others of doing the same thing. Correctly," she added quickly. “I'm telling you now because I want you to know that I didn't make any of these decisions lightly. We have also given consideration to the likely consequences of these activities."

“What do you mean?"

“Your assistant, General Mazzanti—the one you had present this report to me the first time. Do you mind bringing him down? Might as well go all the way, right?"

The man nodded without protest—or answering—and pulled a handset from the wall. “Please ask Captain Gabriel to report to Conference Room B." He hung up the sound-powered phone and turned around. “He's one of our most reliable tacticians. Works largely with computer modeling."

Captain Julian Gabriel looked surprised to see Halinchi; she was surprised to see him, too. Gabriel was a Rottweiler, old enough that his muzzle was beginning to go white. Between that and his name, he had to have been a corporate dog at some point in his life. “432G-VER," he confirmed, when she introduced herself.

“But you go by Gabriel?"

“The name 'Verne' has a kind of… reverence," the moreau explained. “And 'Gabriel' was Jules Verne's middle name, so I chose to go with that."

“Captain Gabriel, please briefly recap the last update on our models. The conclusions, not the underlying assumptions."

Gabriel nodded. And he seemed to know why he had been asked to join them. “We think it's likely that West Jericho will prevail in a second direct confrontation."

“And we're not in the business of wasting our resources on behalf of a colony that can't support itself. Mind you, Ms. Halinchi, I'm not very happy with this turn of events—I don't like that it's going to come to fighting. But I don't see that we have a choice."

“What would you like me to do, then?" the badger asked.

“For starters, we need to speak with your allies. I've scheduled a meeting with a representative of the Orion Soviet. I think that you should be there, if it's possible. I don't know how it will go—they deputized the first person willing to talk to us. But if you can make time…"

She thought it was a good idea; the meeting took place the following day. Ilya Lavrov, who managed a trade syndicate, explained that she had not been deputized by the local soviet: she had volunteered.

“Volunteered?"

“There's a lot of interest in these affairs, within our country. It's something of an honor."

Allenby shook her head. “I'm not going to say that I was worried this might happen, but it points to an issue that we'll have in the Gemini ecclesia. The cold reality is that we're just not as invested in Jericho as you are. That doesn't mean that we'll just abandon it, of course."

“Of course," Halinchi said. “We wouldn't expect you to. Jericho has plenty of Alliance citizens."

“Indeed. So, Ms. Lavrov: this plays a whole lot easier if we all believe you're not going to push your gains on Jericho. Obviously, I don't need anything in writing. But it would settle my nerves, and ultimately, I'm accountable to the sector government."

Ilya looked puzzled, as if she'd lost something in translation. “Gains?"

“Your vassal state."

“You think that's what this is about?"

Allenby scoffed. “You're saying that it isn't? I can understand the perspective of Minister Halinchi, and her president. But you—a sympathetic new country, beholden to you, in a contested system? The political ramifications are obvious."

“To you, perhaps. Our support for the Commonwealth is not unanimous government policy. Not everyone agrees, and not all who agree do so for the same reasons. Perhaps some have a dash of realpolitik about them, yes. Had you not considered that we might genuinely sympathize with the plight of the moreaus here?"

The rest, she left unstated: as you did not? But even without it, Allenby understood. “You won't move to annex the Alliance territories?"

“No. Their borders are... how would we say it? An inviolable truth, paid for in blood."

Allenby gave no sign that she was aware they were Halinchi's words being quoted. “If only we were done paying."

***

Kashkin Self-Defense Forces Headquarters Complex

Corsini, Kashkin

16/7/2538

Alta hoped that she was not making a mistake, though she would never have said as much. What she said, instead, was: “congratulations, colonel."

The fennec nodded in thanks. “Thank you, ma'am. May I propose that the next step is I prepare an operational plan for your approval?"

She had given Marel command of Central Brigade, the newest formation—and a substantial departure for the OVKK. It was the first not to have been assigned a sector to defend; the first whose mission might, if it came to it, be outright counterattack.

Alta hoped his innate aggression would serve the army well in that role; his instinct was to attack, and he was good at identifying opportunities to do so. Colonel Genakhot, by contrast, was cautious and methodical—reliable, and she trusted the defense of the northern sector to the Border Collie unquestioningly. But he was not the man she wanted in charge of taking the fight to their enemy.

Besides, there were other things to do. The new recruits needed integration—the Hashida, and the Soviet immigrants who might have been veterans, but weren't up to speed on Commonwealth technology or the Rukhat language.

This disparity dampened her general sense of optimism. The OVKK's twelve battalions were too loosely integrated—two entire companies in the 11th Battalion spoke only Russian and had dedicated translators attached until their command of Rukhat improved.

Still, it was better than it could've been. All the same, they had much to do over the coming two weeks. Logistics came first and foremost. As long as peace remained an option, she'd ordered most of the materiel kept at the depot.

Now it needed to be moved forward, close to the front lines. Soviet expertise helped with that: the Kashkin had never needed to move large quantities of goods under such circumstances.

And, she could admit, they weren't familiar with the details of planning for the demands of a sustained campaign. Things were likely to move too quickly to allow them the luxury of running out of ammunition, or spare parts.

Or medical supplies: that, she promised to Khalizai, would be an absolute priority. Even if she dreaded the implication, lives depended on it. Two weeks. Still time enough for someone to save them from themselves.

***

Ford City, Yucatec Jericho

20/7/2538

“My title's still the same. It still says 'Supreme Commander, Alliance Forces Jericho.' What the fuck does that mean?"

Elodie Mott was light-years away, having settled into her new job. Jericho's subspace link lacked the bandwidth for a full-resolution hologram; all he could see was her face, and its sympathetic frown. “At least you're not supposed to be responsible for them. Right, Max?"

At least.

Being responsible for Shaeffer Moody's militias was, in any case, a meaningless statement. They would do what they wanted. They wanted to avenge the humiliation of their defeat in the Dun valley, and they wanted to unequivocally take back the southern half of the rebellious Western Jericho.

“They're better armed than we are. Angrier, too. I feel like my men can see the writing on the wall."

“But they won't let you out?"

“No. And your replacement quit. Just thought you wanted to know."

Elodie frowned sympathetically. Her successor as liaison between Max and the Jericho Business Council had been hand-picked, a middle manager in one of the consulting firms. Elodie said the man was reliable; that he wouldn't try to bullshit Kastner.

And, for the seven weeks he lasted, that had even been the case. But, presumably, he'd intuited that one of them would need sacrificing, and he had no eagerness to volunteer for the job.

“Have they announced a replacement yet?"

“Amir Blakely. From..."

“Digital. Oof, I'm sorry."

“Not good?"

“Amir means well, but he's been bounced around from organization to organization for almost five years. Do you remember last year when you asked to rent space in the DEC warehouse? Amir pushed for it, but he didn't have the political clout to get the rest of the Business Council to approve letting you pay them. Maybe he's learned a few tricks."

Max felt that this was unlikely, given everything he'd seen so far. Neither Kastner nor Blakely had been able to solve the fundamental disconnect between the Jericho Military Authority and the Jericho Business Council that it reported to.

The JBC had managed to convince themselves that the moreaus would be easy to dominate—that the JMA's underperformance in the short, disastrous war was due to identifiable problems that had since been fixed.

The JMA itself bordered on open despair. When he suggested to his senior staff that their goal was to hold the border until the moreau army had exhausted itself, and then try to force concessions given the vast disparity in resources, nobody argued.

Nobody asked why don't we start with a major attack? Certainly, nobody suggested they could be at the coast within the first day of fighting.

The most pragmatic option, and the one Kastner committed to, was to watch and see. The militias wanted to attack simultaneously in the south and in the north. He'd at least been able to convince them not to split their resources.

But he didn't know how well they'd perform. The enemy commander wasn't stupid: they'd have spent the previous months fortifying the south and learning their lesson from the sack of the town they called 'Shadesh.'

Maybe Shaeffer Moody would succeed, though. In any case Max himself intended on a diversionary attack at the northern border crossing, and then to circle around Carabi Hill—an exact inversion of what the moreaus themselves had tried.

In the best case scenario, Max felt, he'd be able to catch them off-guard and punch through the defenses at Encha. That would, at least, give them a fighting chance at forcing the so-called 'Commonwealth' to capitulate.

In the worst-case scenario—the one that, honestly, he considered most likely—it would tie down the moreau army and prevent them from acting freely to counter whatever else the militia planned to do, and they could be bled white until they were willing to talk.

“So you think we'll succeed this time," Amir Blakely asked, cheerfully. Max gave some noncommittal non-answer and went home.

His moreau, Luna, occupied her ordinary place in the corner of his apartment. Her ears were splayed; her muzzle was tilted down while she focused on a computer.

“Keeping busy?" he asked.

She straightened, tilting her head. “No. There were no tasks provided to me. I've simply been… attempting to anticipate what you might be interested in. Apologies for the assumption, sir."

“It's fine. What would I be interested in?"

“The expenditures and cargo manifests of the militia groups. Some of it must be intuited. There is only fragmentary data from the reports provided to you."

Max had poured himself a small helping of whiskey; he looked at her curiously before taking a sip. “You were reading my comm logs?"

“You instructed me to do so two weeks ago, sir—that was never expressly rescinded."

“Guess it doesn't matter. You just figured, as long as I didn't say something, I must not've changed my mind, eh? Didn't want to act without orders?"

“I am generally not permitted to do so."

Max chuckled, and let the whiskey burn his throat, sighing. “You're lucky. Nobody asks you to make decisions. Nobody expects you to."

“No, sir," she agreed. “It is not my place to do so."

“Yeah. Imagine if it was."

***

OVKK base Sun k'Shadesh

South of Shadesh, Kashkin

31/7/2538: 2100

Colonel Ishiri looked at the new reports flickering in across his computer terminal. The leopard curled his lip: “I thought we were still under a ceasefire, officially."

Major Harkush Enajet, the brigade's XO, already had a radio clipped to his ear. “Perhaps it's one of those human customs, sir—fashionable earliness. Narrakta-Ulak confirms contact in sectors olitan-one and olitan-two."

“Well, at least we know what we're dealing with. Execute order Ghorja and have Kolodin pull back. Let me know when it's done." Ishiri switched on his own radio and turned up the noise isolation. “Satar, Ostoj actual. New picture, over."

“This is Satar. Go ahead."

Ishiri took another look at the computer. “Our sensor data has just been confirmed by observation from our patrols. Incoming across two sectors. Two hundred plus contacts, probably mechs. No more specific details yet." His terminal flashed with a message from Major Enajet, listening in: direct sighting 16+ haljan-k. “Strike my last. We now have confirmed sixteen-plus walkers, type Kan-Haljan."

“What are your intentions, Ostoj?"

“We're executing the pre-briefed defensive operations. It should be completed within thirty minutes. If we're fired upon, we may need to return fire."

“Understood. This serves as a general update to the rules of engagement. Advise your command that any unidentified contacts in the olitan sectors are presumed hostile. Destroy them."

With pleasure. Altalanuk was determined not to repeat the mistakes of the November War. Ishiri's brigade was at more-or-less full strength; the western bank of the Little Falls River had been extensively fortified. Behind those automated defenses he had two battalions waiting. A third guarded the southern reach of the Little Falls, where it became shallow enough to be forded. Attacking Shadesh required capturing either the bridge or the ford.

Nearly every element of the situation was in Ishiri's favor. But he wasn't confident, and he fully expected that General Altalanuk shared his anxiety. The attackers outnumbered them, and they were well-equipped. Nobody had fought a Rooijakkals 65, one of the newest walkers produced by Denel.

Their existence was only a rumor. Enough of a rumor that OVKK intelligence gave them a name, Kan-Haljan, but a rumor nonetheless. Fast, agile, and built from the outset with integral artillery support. He didn't look forward to facing them.

***

Lieutenant Aktana Ghezni didn't look forward to it either—and unlike Genakhot, the samoyed didn't have the luxury of distance. Her rangefinder marked the vehicle as only two kilometers distant. Its smooth, almond-shaped hull gave the Jackal a sort of alien elegance. The movements of its legs were fluid and organic, like a stalking cat.

And then two rocket pods slid gracefully from either side of the hull. Each held sixteen projectiles. Briefly, the mech disappeared behind a flash of smoke; when it cleared the pods had retracted again and its sleek lines were unbroken.

“What's their target?" The question came from the company commander.

Aktana let her computer do its work, but the track extrapolation wasn't helpful. “I don't know, sir. It almost looks random—somewhere along the west bank of the river." The mech was one of three, and out of ninety-six rockets Aktana could not find one that seemed to be aimed at anything in particular.

“We need to take them out." Shanik was an infantry company, though; the newer Jackals were impervious to even their heaviest weapons. “Can the artillery handle this?"

“I think so, sir."

“Get it done."

Lieutenant Ghezni checked the numbers and decided the artillery attached directly to the battalion would do the job. She dialed in her radio and brought her display into a mode that would provide the necessary information. “Khizar, this is Kondan-Shanik 9, fire for effect, over."

“Khizar, fire for effect, out."

“Direction 9-9-5, distance 2-1-0-0. Three mechs of type Kan-Haljan, on the move."

Her counterpart at the artillery battery dutifully read back the directions. “Do you have terminal guidance, over?"

“Affirmative. Terminal guidance is IR, code narha-2-5-idlak."

“Narha-2-5-idlak. PATCH, type 2 on Kan-Haljan, three rounds. Out."

Aktana watched through her rangefinder until, a few seconds later, a flashing indicator announced the rounds were in flight. 'Khizar' was the callsign for Colonel Ishiri's rocket artillery, in cover well to the west of Shadesh.

Their first stage carried them up in a ballistic arc; at its apex the samoyed switched her active targeting on and tagged the three Jackals she could see. The rockets would be looking for her unique code, N25I, to augment their image-recognition systems.

The 'P' in 'PATCH' stood for 'precision,' and the 'H' stood for 'homing.' 'AT' meant 'anti-tank'; four seconds later the three rockets struck their targets, heartbeats apart. Sudden, violent impacts—she saw a spray of dirt from under one of the mechs as the penetrator slammed clear through the hull.

Automatic systems saved the crew of the other two—probably—but her surveillance equipment no longer picked up any signals. Out of curiosity, she checked a thermal image: parts of the mechs were cooling from nearly a thousand degrees. “Khizar, Kondan-Shanik 9. All targets neutralized. Over."

***

Two hours of trading salvos brought the mechs to within direct-fire range of the defenses on the riverbank. Headquarters had been asking for updates, but Colonel Ishiri wasn't certain what to say.

They were taking heavy, continuous fire. It just wasn't accurate. On a whim, he'd launched a decoy onto the east side of the river. The enemy couldn't really have thought a Tarvos had appeared from nowhere, but they poured a platoon's worth of railguns in its general direction until a lucky shot finally put the decoy out of commission.

4th Battalion, monitoring the river ford, hadn't moved. Lieutenant Colonel Tagar hadn't even heard whispers of any attempt to cross the river there; Ishiri was increasingly convinced that the humans weren't going to try for it. They intended to take the bridge.

Why, though?

Perhaps because it was closest to Shadesh, and that was their eventual goal. Perhaps they feared being outflanked and pinned against the river. Perhaps they weren't convinced their mechs could successfully manage the river bottom without becoming stuck.

Perhaps a combination of all of these. The outcome was the same: the human advance was slow, deliberate, and messy. Every time they encountered defenders, they called down everything they had, reducing the position to rubble and moving on.

By that point, though, Ishiri had been able to pull the troops manning those positions to safety—in some cases the equipment, as well. It was, he felt, time to take the initiative.

***

“Contact, dead ahead. Six mechs."

Type 65 Jackals, at that. Deadly and powerful. Captain Itanija acknowledged the message and brought them into view on her scope. The company's Khalitsaja were powered down, waiting—all but blending in to the background noise.

The Jackals were not. Their cloaking devices had been activated but, as far as Itanija could tell, they weren't optimized for the environment. That made them mostly useless.

Cocky, Itanija decided. They were cocky because they knew how dramatically they outclassed their moreau opponents. Six mechs was plenty. Six mechs could keep a tank company pinned down. They could keep the battalion from getting into position for their counterattack.

“Narrakta, Shek 6." She decided it was best to ask for express orders. “Six mechs are approaching our position. Their targeting scanners are active."

“Probably scouts. Hold your position and wait for orders, Shek."

Itanija reviewed her intelligence file on the Jackal 65 again. Sophisticated antimissile defenses. Strengthened armor that could pretty much endure a direct hit from a Khalitsa cannon. An automated targeting suite designed to identify the source of incoming fire and put a round on it in under a second: the very act of opening fire would expose them to reprisal.

Maneuverable, too—the 65 was thirty percent heavier than its predecessor, the Jackal 55, but the main reactor was more than twice as powerful. Their ability to evade fire was dramatic and impressive.

And the battalion commander came back on the radio. “Engage those mechs. We're going to have to attack now."

The six Jackals had closed to five kilometers away. At least her tanks had a good line of sight. Itanija would take every advantage she could get; she assigned targets to her 450s individually. With luck, they'd disable enough of the Jackals to minimize the counterfire.

“As soon as we open fire, they'll start evading. Don't get confused. Stick to your targets, and keep up the volume of fire. Single, rapid shots. Sokesh."

A tank commander in one of the other battalions came up with the strategy in the first independence war—slaving the targeting computer to the driver's systems so that the gun fired while the following evasive maneuver was already underway. Sokeshja—mongooses—knew how to bait snakes and get away with their lives.

Itanija hoped her company was up to the challenge. As soon as they called in their readiness she took a deep breath, and gave the order to fire.

Just as she expected, the rounds were ineffective. All six of the human mechs took hits; only two of them went down, and even those remained largely intact.

The others didn't evade, which did surprise her; they dropped immediately into a defensive crouch, stabilizing their cannons. A series of impacts staggered one of the Jackals until it dropped hard, sparking—but that left three, looking for revenge.

Rocket batteries slid from their hulls, opening up at once. It was brutal, intense barrage: dozens of guided rounds, far more than the Type 450s could protect themselves against. Only the fact they were high-explosive warheads, designed to take on infantry or closed structures, saved the tanks from annihilation.

That, Itanija suspected, and at least some of the missiles had been fired without guidance. They were trying to suppress the 450s, probably while they called up reinforcements. It made sense—they wouldn't want to abandon the lost mechs, after all. And there would have been reinforcements, surely. Two more of the Jackals went down, and with all the company's fire concentrated on the remainder, its 'sophisticated' defenses didn't really matter. The engagement was over.

She had lost three Type 450s—out of action with damage to their driving gear, but the crews were safe. Captain Itanija called in the report. She did not add her own puzzlement.

Who are we even fighting?

***

“Colonel Kolodin encountered and destroyed a scouting party between checkpoint alva-yondin and checkpoint alva-tharino. We held for about twenty minutes, but there's no sign of anything else. They're back on the advance."

“Sir." A feline sergeant appeared briefly, handed over a computer to Ishiri, and then retreated back to his station.

Ishiri scanned the report, looking at the map. “9th Battalion has made it as far as checkpoint alva-zuru. We expect to be back in contact with the main body of the human attack within half an hour."

General Altalanuk was impressed; Surya Kolodin had been an intelligence officer only a few months before, with limited command experience. The tigress was proving to be more than adept. “Minimal losses, it looks like. A handful of damaged tanks."

“We'll run out of ammunition before we're forced back by casualties or equipment losses, yes, ma'am."

“Our intelligence has come to the conclusion that this attack was not the JMA's intent. Their forces are split, acting without support."

“Explains why there hasn't been any," Colonel Ishiri snorted.

“All the same, don't be reckless. Keep them from advancing, but don't overextend yourself. They may be inexperienced, but there's a whole damn lot of them."

“Of course, ma'am."

***

Type 450 “Khalitsa," Sh Company, 5th Bn

West of Terr Chanat

1/8/2538: 1200

Lieutenant Hassanza recognized almost every tree in the hills before him—ten years of hiking and camping and hunting for mushrooms made them seem familiar. Soothing, almost, even seen through the false-spectrum imaging hardware on the khalitsa.

Off to his right side, Terr Chanat seemed foreboding despite the geological similarities. Alien, somehow. The horizon brimmed with intermittent flashes of radiation. Radios, scanners, computers—plenty of evidence for the human occupiers.

“Command net, this is Hakost 9. Stand by for new picture."

Hassanza swung the tactical display in front of him, and the husky put all thoughts of hiking from his mind. He knew Colonel Genakhot's division was taking fire around Encha, and that Colonel Ishiri had been fighting in the east since early in the morning.

“A major attack is underway at Na'hosh. Chizukh and Shutan battalions are engaged by hostile armored units of equal or greater strength, probably with the intent to compromise the Na'hosh Line and exploit a breakthrough. They're using walkers and IFVs, like last time, with guided artillery rounds designed to disable our armor."

Six months before, Hassanza had been up against them—he knew what it would be like, and he didn't envy the soldiers manning the Na'hosh. Their time would come soon enough. It wasn't more than another five minutes before an update came in on his private channel.

“Shanik 2, this is Shanik 6. New orders."

“Shanik 2-6. Go ahead."

“Everything in Hakost is being ordered to prepare for a diversionary attack around Terr Chanat. Your platoon will cover Kossik Company's advance until 1400, then they'll cover you as far as the Ha'Shunza. Are you ready to move? Over."

“Affirmative, Shanik-6. We're in good condition. I'll take us forward to point narha-idlak. The summit of the hill bearing… 0-8-5 from our current position."

“Sounds good. Stay alert, and be advised, Shanik 3 will be to your south and immediate west, advancing in a similar direction."

Hassanza made a note of it, and signaled the other three tanks in his platoon to move forward. Carefully, though he didn't know what they would be up against.

They'd reached the summit when Hassanza saw a brief shimmer in his visor, a disturbance in the trees. “Sergeant Atan," he asked; Atan was their signals specialist. “What is that?"

“I'm not sure, sir. Checking it out. Hold on…"

The flickering was abnormal, Hassanza knew. Unlikely to be a sensor malfunction, too, but just in case he switched the computer to draw in data from one of the other tanks in his platoon. Hassanza had been a data synthesis specialist before officer training—knew the job even better than Atan, probably. His intuition was piqued.

“Look at this, sir."

The husky snarled, and felt his stomach tighten. “All units, hold position. Shanik 2, contact, enemy mech at seventy degrees, four thousand meters."

“Shanik 2, say again. You have enemy—"

“We're being targeted—evasive and find cover," the tank's commander interrupted. “Now-now-now!"

“—contacts in your area?"

The Khalitsa lurched as its driver spun the treads and threw the tank into an emergency maneuver. The first of a two-shot salvo missed them by centimeters; the second was wilder. “Shanik 2 is taking fire from two—strike that, four—mechs, type Haljan—"

“Contact, estash, class two, bearing seven-two. Multiple—"

He filed the information from the C&S sergeant away without even noticing. “Plus another probable eight by class-two EM interpolation from sensors, please advise."

“Engage them!"

The enemy walkers were moving slowly, using active camouflage and jamming to hide their presence—as the Kashkin's tanks had been doing. Four kilometers, the lieutenant thought. Yassuja—right on top of us. “Nalkal'ja, engage at will, sokesh, prioritize contacts west of the clearing and—"

“3-2, we're hit, losing power, we—"

***

“How did we miss that?" As soon as Colonel Marel asked, though, he knew it didn't matter—they could hash that out later. “No, never mind. What are we looking at?"

Forty walkers, infiltrating west from Terr Chanat. The attack on Encha, Marel knew immediately, was only a diversion. This was where the Jericho military intended to act: circling around the hill, both to block a counterattack and to bypass the defenses at Na'hosh.

They'd missed it—he allowed himself a moment to consider it—because the terrain was bad. Unfriendly to mechs, and preceded by an open plain that the OVKK watched like hawks. How long had the humans been advancing, to do it slowly enough they could avoid detection? Twelve hours? Sixteen?

Now, by accident, they'd cut a wedge right through Marel's brigade. Two tank companies were now trapped to the south. Three more were pinned down in the north, where the shallow slopes offered no cover at all. Reinforcing either meant traveling open territory, along paths the humans must've registered for their artillery…

“Hakost to Satar. This is Colonel Marel. We have problems."

***

One eye let Sanuk Kara see as clearly as she needed to. Her comrades in the south were relatively safe, but trapped. The samoyed's own battalion couldn't see the battle—as soon as they tried to cross the last ridge, the walkers opened fire. Two Khalitsaja had already been disabled that way.

But they had to act, before the enemy commander realized the opportunity they'd created. Colonel Adarka's two tank companies were outnumbered and outclassed. In close quarters, against the firepower and maneuverability of a Jackal, it would be all but over.

What do they know?

What would the humans know?

They know Adarka opened fire on their vanguard. They know I'm here… but… if they knew there was a full battalion on the other side of the hill, would they be so aggressive in pressing the south? Probably not. Maybe they thought there were only the handful of tanks they'd actually engaged…

In that case, one for one, the Type 450s would be vulnerable and exposed. They'd be under accurate counterfire… but the 450 was sturdy enough to take a hit, unless the Jackal gunner's aim was precise—and they'd have the element of surprise, however briefly…

She started drawing lines on her map, testing different approaches to keep them hidden, working as quickly as she could. “Tanja-Ulak, Tanja-Kossik, get ready to attack. On my signal, advance east at full speed from here to... point narha-lakan on your map. Then find cover and be ready to evade close-range fire. Tanja-Shek, advance to point narha-gin and suppress the top of the valley."

The patch over what had once been her right eye was uncomfortable; the tactical visor cut into it. But the pain only sharpened her sense of clarity, as the company commanders read back her orders. She knew the attack was risky; would cost them. She also knew it had to be done.

“Move!"

***

Airborne over the central “Kashkin"

1/8/2538: 1530

“Victor 24, I have another mech down. I can't seem to move here no matter which approach I take. Can we get some support?"

Keeping out of the range of moreau antiaircraft weapons meant that Kastner's command plane was ten kilometers above the ground and twenty north from the actual fighting. He had enough perspective to see that Major Bridger's Jackals were engaged on three fronts, but they seemed to be holding their own.

Perhaps the situation was different on the ground. Perhaps, on the front line, Major Bridger thought her position was more vulnerable than it looked. Perhaps something hinted the moreaus were planning something. In any case, she'd asked for support earlier, and now she was asking again.

It was already on the way, but now the relief task force had also run into fire. Colonel Thabane, his companion in the command plane, looked just as perplexed. “I don't see much from up here. It looks like the tanks in the north are pretty well suppressed. Do you have visual on them, Shield 24?"

“Shield 24. Negative. If we move, they light us up. The last Jackal we lost was to something closer. A mine, I think?"

“They can't have mines," Kastner said, over the intercom rather than the wider net. What were the odds the moreaus had guessed his plans and deployed antiarmor mines along it? It made no sense. “Something must be hitting them from closer in. Infantry?"

Katiso Thabane—“KT," to his men—shrugged. “We're not picking up anything on thermal, but the environment's not good for the scanners. Who knows? But the longer they stay engaged, the more the zoo can dig in."

“I know. Bridger needs to get moving."

But Max knew, too, that just saying that didn't accomplish anything. Major Bridger was obviously worried about being surrounded, and continuing to advance only strung out her lines. A third of her Jackals had been disabled, even if they'd more than repaid the favor to the enemy tanks.

Breaking through left him with an understrength, exhausted mechanized battalion and questionable lines of resupply back to Carabi Hill. He'd wanted to be positioned and resupplied by nightfall.

KT was seeing the same thing. “What's the best case scenario, sir?"

“If Bridger can secure Raven Top in the next two hours, we can stay there. We'd be a thorn in their side. But," he admitted, second-guessing himself aloud. “It's also damn easy for them to harass us."

Even if they advanced no further, he could console himself that they'd given just as well as they'd got. He'd tied down the moreau army, stalled what had probably been meant as a counterattack, and kept the pressure off his men in the central valley. That was worth something.

It was better than things had gone last time, at least.

“Sam, the reinforcements are running into trouble getting to you. What do you think about Raven Top?"

“Uh. Wait one, Victor 24."

“Your honest answer, Sam. Don't try to make us happy. Can you do it?"

“Not without help, sir. Half the task force is skosh ammunition; we'll burn up the rest pretty quickly when we take 'em head on. I at least need a couple hours to rearm and get the wounded back to friendly territory. Can I have until… 1700? What about resupply?"

Colonel Thabane looked over, and Max shook his head. “Okay. Major, pull your mechs back, link up with Shield 21, and return to Carabi Hill with the rest of the unit. I'll let them know you'll be coming back under fire."

“Understood, sir."

“We can try again tomorrow," Max decided. “We know what we're up against, at least—that's valuable information."

“True," Colonel Thabane agreed. “Not much artillery, not as many tanks as we thought... our accuracy is still terrible, though. I'm not comfortable with that."

“I'm not either. But they're not necessarily familiar with the equipment... not under these conditions, anyway. It's just messy."

“Saw the militia drilling. Can I be honest?"

“Sure." He generally was; Katiso's forthrightness was refreshing.

“Hard not to be a little jealous. Or angry. They don't know their equipment. They're using brand-new Jackals—when I watched 'em, they didn't even know how to switch the new defensive AI online. If we had that, who knows how much more we could've done..."

“And how much less it would've cost us." Max shook his head ruefully—the thought had occurred to him, too. Retreating, Sam Bridger gave up another Jackal and two Pucaras. Darkly, Max wondered if it was better for the crews to have been incinerated, or to be captured alive. God knows what the dogs will do to them.

A waste; it was all a waste. He understood Thabane's frustration—particularly since, from all indications, the attack in the east had completely stalled out. They hadn't even captured the bridge over the river that separated animal-held territory from the Dun Valley.

And what had they been up against? Intelligence was slow to come in, but his remote observation only picked up a few scattered tanks and static defenses. Static defenses! And a battalion of Denel's newest mechs hadn't been able to do more than harass them into temporary submission.

Max signaled the pilot that it was time to return the observation plane to base; nothing more could really be done after the Jackals pulled back from the fighting and to safety.

Tomorrow. We'll make up the difference tomorrow.

***

Commonwealth Capitol Building

City of Davis, Kashkin

1/8/2538: 2200

Truthfully Kodja didn't—couldn't, perhaps—understand the substance of General Altalanuk's briefing, from the strategic point of view. He wasn't a strategist. Certainly, at least, not a soldier.

Instead he looked around the room, and watched the reactions of the others in the cabinet. Most of them seemed to be reassured. At the most basic level, General Alta said, the point was that the Kashkin remained secure. Their losses had been minimal, and contained.

“You said that the counterattack has not made progress, though," Minister Stara Koshath asked. “Will it?"

“That remains to be seen. More saliently, however, we have stopped their attack. That has meant Colonel Genakhot's position is still favorable. And the strategic situation is likely to evolve, of course."

“Of course?"

“With the ceasefire no longer in effect, we're able to bring in reinforcements. If it becomes necessary to do so, we can shift substantial resources to bolster the counterattack."

Levin looked up from his notes. “Where do we remain vulnerable? Where could they damage us?"

“Based on my present evaluation, the north is the most likely cause for concern. Shadesh and the eastern towns are safe. Encha and the Kurghen Corsini is safe. The smaller towns northwest of Terr Chanat could be vulnerable, but we would—I think—have ample time to respond if their compromise became likely."

“Then we don't need to order an evacuation?"

“Not yet, no. I'm monitoring the situation carefully."

When Alta finished, Stara Koshath was next. The Rottweiler shared Altalanuk's bluntness in discussing their manpower. With the OVKK's reserve called up, six percent of the regular workforce was now indisposed.

Minister Koshath thought they could manage for a few months if more recruits were not needed. “An optimistic assumption," the labor minister said. “But, for now, the one I'm using."

An optimistic assumption was the phrase that stayed in his mind when the meeting was over and the ministers left. General Altalanuk remained behind, catching up on messages from the front.

“You look worn, Kodja," she finally said.

“I am."

“I told you that, for now, we're safe."

“For now." The retriever sighed. “I didn't intend to be a wartime president. And I know it's going to get worse."

“There was no way to be our first president without also facing this conflict," she answered. Her voice was softer than usual: she was trying to be reassuring. “You'll manage. We'll manage."

“That does not make it easier."

Her ears swiveled, drooping. “No," the general admitted at last. “No, it does not."

***

Karlself, Mutually Guaranteed Neutral Zone

2/8/2538: 0700

“Let's see…" The attendant was young, and bored, and he kept looking back to his computer. “ArkMash Boreas 2.1, it says? Registry DVB-525. Yeah, that looks right. You're Arkady Sirotkin, then?"

“Yes."

“Your plane?"

Arkady did what he could to seem bored, himself; he pulled his ID chip from his breast pocket and held it up to be scanned. “Just pilot. Plane is with a company."

“Ah, yeah. So I see. Hm. Agricultural?" The Boreas had its chameleon skinning active; the livery was also from an agribusiness company. “Headed to the southern continent with a bunch of…" He squinted at the boxy equipment fixed to each of the Boreas' four pylons. “Triticale?"

“Wheat. Aerial seeding operation for a collective. I guess."

“Sounds fun." He tapped a few checkboxes on the computer. “Well, it looks good. You're a bit heavy, though, aren't you? Your flight plan shouldn't take more than a quarter of the fuel you're carrying."

Arkady rolled his eyes. “Don't have to tell me," he said, thickening his voice with scorn. “When I get there, I'm telling you, they'll want it flying slow enough to see. Forty kilometers an hour, maybe. Very inefficient."

“Yeah?"

He snorted. “The engines are almost powerful enough to make orbit. But they won't want it done fast. I know these people. Farmers—don't understand aerodynamics at all."

“ Really sounds fun, then." The attendant chuckled, turning the computer around for Arkady to add his signature. “You're clear, then. Check with control, though, they were talking about an advisory going out soon."

“I will. Thank you." He waited for the attendant to leave and climbed into the cockpit. His plane had been connected to the spaceport's power; most of the systems were ready and waiting for him. Most of them. His eyes flitted past the switch labeled 'ARM.'

While the reactor warmed up, Arkady double-checked his flight plan. The margin for error was small—they'd get to their destination with only fifteen or twenty minutes of flight time left. Any more fuel, though, and the Boreas would be heavy enough to raise more than the cursory interest of a junior checker.

“Karlself ground, this is DVB-525. At bay 37, request launch release."

“DVB-525. Confirm receipt of advisory Alpha 603, please."

It had appeared as a popup notification on his navigational computer. Arkady held his finger to the screen until the notification vanished. “Alpha 603 received, DVB-525."

“DVB-525, launch hold released. Contact tower on 121.300. Good day."

He read it back and dutifully switched his radio over. All of the other traffic had been given the same advisory. “Karlself tower, DVB-520 at bay 37, ready for departure."

Ten minutes later, airborne and over the water, he called the notification back up.

KNZFD 8.04 A603.38 SPECIAL FLIGHT RESTRICTION JEMC:

ALL FLIGHT OPERATIONS BELOW 50 KILOMETERS BY MGNZ-REGISTERED OPERATORS ARE PROHIBITED WITHIN THE MCKEEVER (JEMC) CONTROL AREA. ONGOING CONFLICT INDICATES THE POTENTIAL FOR HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS.

Air resistance started to catch the cardboard covering of the pods on his wing. If he craned his head, Arkady could just about see them peeling away to reveal the sharp-nosed rockets beneath. Eight in each pod—9M660 Prashkas, light, maneuverable, multipurpose weapons. The wheat packed around them scattered into the slipstream.

Potential for hazardous conditions, indeed.

***

Type 450 “Khalitsa," Sh Company, 4th Bn

West of Terr Chanat

2/8/2538: 0900

Captain Curnow tried to take out her tension on the rawhide, but their situation was getting worse than chewing alone could manage.

“Second platoon is requesting permission to withdraw back to the next closer hill," the radioman reported. It was only the most recent report. Only the most recent withdrawal, for that matter.

She understood—when she opened her muzzle to reply, she got two words in before a rocket salvo shuddered through the tank. “Negative," she repeated. “It's past our line. Tell them—“

Another impact, closer than the previous one; shrapnel rattled like hail along the 450's hull. “Thirty meters," the commander called out. “Taking us evasive."

The tank lurched back into movement. “Tell them to hold position," Curnow finished, at last. “But get me battalion."

“Yes, ma'am."

Shanik Company had lost four tanks already; third platoon was all but annihilated, its survivors folded into her headquarters unit. There were too many mechs—half again as many as they'd faced the day before, and the OVKK hadn't done enough to make up the difference.

In her opinion, at least. She worked the rawhide into pieces. “Shanik, this is Halash. Go ahead."

“Halash, it's Curnow. My company is in heavy contact—fifteen, maybe twenty mechs and infantry cover. If we stay here, they're going to kill us."

“Understood, Shanik. We need you to regroup with Ulak company. Can you link up?"

The Rottweiler had to spend nearly fifteen seconds trying to even find where Ulak company had retreated to. “Halash, Shanik 6. We'll be exposed. We can do it at the cost of... another four or five tanks. What about the artillery?"

“Shanik, our fire controllers say they can't aim into that valley."

Obviously someone can, she thought bitterly. Rockets continued to pepper the landscape. Even if they didn't score hits, they kept the battalion from moving freely—particularly the infantry, who were compelled to stay buttoned up in their armored vehicles.

And, too often, they did score hits; another marker for one of the tanks in second company went dark. She heard the radio chatter, trying to figure out if the crew had survived. Sounds like it. Good that fate gives us small favors.

“Halash, we can't get to Ulak's position. And if we stay here, we have another twenty minutes before they wipe us out. Please advise."

***

ArkMash Boreas, callsign “Crimson 2-1"

Over the ocean south of the Kashkin

2/8/2538: 0930

They would be “feet dry"—that was to say, over the continent instead of the ocean—in only a few more minutes. Arkady's control panel flashed a slow, steady alert. Forty minutes of fuel remaining.

Inefficient flying—low altitude and fast—took its toll on the Koptev M-3s. Arkady felt his hand work over the throttle, not quite enough to move the controls past their friction stops but enough that perhaps the craft would sympathetically extend him a little more time.

“Crimson lead. Listen up, everyone, there's been a change of plans."

Arkady frowned. Were they going to divert? There weren't many friendly airfields on the continent. Technically, the ArkMash Boreas was capable of operating from unimproved fields. It didn't actually require a prepared runway. But that didn't make the prospect of touching down in some woodland clearing any easier.

“Our friends are under attack. We're supposed to be ferrying our weapons to them. Let's just call this another part of the ferry operation."

One of the other pilots immediately read between the lines. “Lead, Crimson 2-2. Say again: this is a combat op, now?"

“Affirmative," Benjamin answered. “You guys know the drill, though. This will be fine."

Arkady 'knew the drill,' to the extent that he'd flown combat missions before. This was different—challenging. Particularly since none of them had been briefed.

Benjamin did what he could. Elements of the OVKK's Central Division were engaged in heavy fighting with Jericho armor—walkers of some sort. The ranges were close, the terrain was challenging, and they were low on fuel.

But it could've been worse. Arkady at least knew what he was looking for. He'd seen more than enough Type 450s to be able to identify them by sight.

Benjamin realized that; he gave Arkady the lead position for the first attack run. The first time he saw the Commonwealth, then, was from low-altitude—the western cliff rising to meet him, and then a blur of hills. And then the towns.

Arkady's targeting scanners were online and waiting. Searching. There were the Type 450s—almost as he recognized them, though without all the electronic equipment the Soviet Army could afford to put on its front-line vehicles. A few BMKs were even scattered here and there.

Almost like the pacification campaigns, he found himself thinking. He could've been back on Odessa, hugging the coast, watching for the signs of the separatists...

“This is"—then a pause, while the speaker dropped off the net. Their English was halting and uncertain. “Serrush, apparently. I'll try to guide you in. What's your location?"

Not a great start. “Crimson 2-1, we're south of you by about six zero kilometers. Do you have any data link?"

“Uh. Negative. We have—we don't have any data link, no."

Arkady banked his fighter over, and watched the bearing indicator tracking the location of 'Serrush.' They were in one of the valleys to the northwest of the capital city, surrounded by a host of friendly EM emitters. We're going to have to do this the hard way, Arkady decided, although it was never going to have been easy. His computer would be able to tag the Commonwealth's military, at least.

“Ben, it's Arkady. We need a couple minutes to gather the EM profiles."

“How much fuel do you have?"

Arkady looked at the gauge and chuckled darkly to himself. Not enough. “It'll be close." He could take shortcuts, at least—he knew how a Type 450 behaved and could bypass some of the control AI that would distinguish friendly vehicles from hostile ones. “But if they can't highlight our targets, what other choice do we have?"

“Make it quick."

Naturally. He kept the Boreas circling while the terrain-mapping systems talked to the tactical computer. Periodically Ben forwarded more updates from the ground: the defenders were being overrun, and reinforcements were another hour away.

He wouldn't be around for that. Arkady was down to twenty minutes of fuel. He was keenly aware that they needed to be able to strike fast, then get out. Serrush was out of their element; he didn't envy them.

“Serrush, this is Crimson 2-1. We're in position to support you, but what's the exact situation down there?"

The sound of incoming fire carried for nearly a full second over the open link. “Serrush, we're being—"

Nothing. “Serrush, come in, over."

Nothing.

The radio was no longer transmitting. “Ben, I think we just lost our contact on the ground."

“Agreed. What can we do without guidance?"

“So far, I can see about twenty-five Jackals. I guess we could..." Fuck, what the hell can we do? Shoot at random? All of them? “We can look for targets of opportunity, but…"

The radio came back. “Crimson, this is Serrush." The voice was different, though no less clipped. Under the same pressure, just barely on the safe side of panic.

“Serrush, Crimson 2-1. Go ahead."

“There's a platoon of Khal—correction, Type Enatalakchja pinned down and about to be overrun in—yassuja, I don't know, they're... north of me, about... six hundred meters."

Incomplete as the information might have been, he knew that he needed to be able to work with it. “Understood. How many friendly tanks?"

“I think... five. Five friendly tanks, plus some infantry immediately south of them. Callsign, uh... yassuja, they're not on our net. Bearing 3-5-5."

Some guesswork let Arkady dial it in. Off to the north, a pair of Jackals and a dozen IFVs were harassing the moreaus; the return fire was scanty, at best. “Crimson 2-1. Tally your hostiles, Serrush. What has priority?"

“I don't know—anything!"

It would have been a difficult attack to prosecute under the best of circumstances—ones where they weren't low on fuel, incompletely briefed, and without anything to help plan their attack. Arkady didn't figure he had much of an option. “Copy that, Serrush." He switched his transmitter over to the local channel. “Crimson leader, Crimson 2-1. Tally two Jackal 5-5s and one-three IFVs, IDed as group alpha on the tactical net."

“I see them. What do you think, Tovla?"

“We get one pass. South to north, ripple everything we have, and hope for the best."

Benjamin was a combat veteran, like Arkady, but he'd flown interceptors. The Black Hills Free State gave him some experience in ground operations, but not enough. “This is Crimson lead. I'm handing over command to Major Sirotkin for the attack. Crimson 2-1, take us in."

“Crimson 2-1. Our priority is the IFVs: anything classified as A4 or lower in the TMC. Crimson 1, take the west of the river. Crimson 2, on me, the east side. Come in low and fast, then break hard left and exit the AO west. We'll be low on fuel and low on advance warning, but do what you can."

The others checked in, and Arkady planned his attack with the time he had remaining. There'd be all of a two-second firing window on the IFVs. It would have to be enough.

“I'll take the first pass. Zuppka, follow up and hit what I miss ten seconds later. Turnkey, stay anchored here and be ready to counterfire on any SAMs you see."

“Tovla, it's Turnkey. I'm past bingo. I've got... six point four remaining, maybe ten minutes."

Blyad. “Copy. Turnkey, break off and land immediately. Zuppka, what about you?"

“Seven point six. Not much better, but hey. Nan'tag, Tovla."

“Nan'tag. Guess we don't have suppression." That made it even more imperative to get in and out fast. Nothing looked threatening, but that could change in a heartbeat. Without knowing details on Jericho's air-defense systems, they hadn't been able to program the countermeasures on the Boreas.

But, as the moreaus said, ' nan'tag': 'we can do it.' Zygmunt “Zuppka" Olszewksi wasn't a moreau himself. He came from a border kibbutz, though, with a few canine refugees. That, he said, was why he joined up: somebody's gotta be on their side.

Time to put some teeth in those words. Arkady flipped the master-arm switch and checked the rockets on his wings. Everything looked good. As good as it was going to be, anyhow.

“Serrush, Crimson 2 is in hot from the south. It'll be two planes. Sixty seconds. Be ready to take cover."

“Crimson 2, this is Serrush. Understood. Sixty seconds."

Arkady looked at the terrain map one last time. Left turn, left turn, right turn—the last would put him on the attack run. At no point would there be more than three hundred meters of air between him and the ground.

“Crimson 2-1, in hot." He dove, advancing the throttle as far as he dared.

Left turn. Left turn. The g-forces tugged at him. He swung the Boreas over. There they are. Three Pucara IFVs showed up first, slow to have noticed the new threat. He tagged both of them and squeezed the trigger.

Two seconds gave his computer enough time to salvo three missiles apiece on the Pucaras. Eight of them missed altogether; as he dropped below the far horizon he caught a momentary flash from the last missile finding a target.

“Tovla, looks like one hit on the westmost IFV. They're starting to scatter. I'm in position, though."

“Cleared hot, 2-2."

He couldn't see what was happening; everything he knew was secondhand. It didn't seem that Zuppka had done any better; the young Polish kibbutznik said he'd thought he hit something but couldn't be sure. He sounded upset.

And they were out of fuel. Reluctantly, he gave the order to return to base—now the Jericho soldiers would be alerted to the presence of the fighters. Making good on a second run would be difficult enough without having to worry about gliding in for a deadstick approach.

Better luck next time, he thought, dismally. If there is one

He brought the Boreas in to a gentle landing at Aless Ha'kin's spaceport—cautious and slow enough that nobody would've guessed he was down to his last three minutes of fuel. The ground team that met him dutifully guided the spaceplane to a parking spot in an armored hangar.

They had fuel and ammunition stockpiled there, enough for a few dozen sorties even without additional resupply. The head of the ground crew, it turned out, was a veteran of the Yucatec military; he'd supported Alliance aircraft for years and was eager to see their foreign counterparts. Arkady promised to show him everything when things had calmed down.

With all six of the Boreas parked, it made an impressive display. Benjamin had no more information on the mission, nor on what had transpired since: he checked to make sure the pilots were in good condition, and went in search of someone to report to.

That left Arkady in a waiting room with the others in his flight, Zuppka and Turnkey—Jane Peters, who called herself a mercenary though she'd lived in the Black Hills Free State for two decades.

“Rough mission," Peters said.

“Well, it definitely wasn't what we trained on." The training ops focused on the Commonwealth's plains and rivers, not steep hills with the opposing sides separated by only a few hundred meters. Arkady slumped into a chair. “Learn on the job?"

“Nobody told us to be ready to sortie again. Should we be?"

Before he could resolve to go find out, the door of the waiting room opened. A moreau's head poked in. His eyes widened, and he pointed. A moment later, two more appeared.

“Janhata! Yassuja, nalhatja—"

Arkady held up his hand to interrupt. “I'm sorry, not speak the—"

“Russki?" He nodded to the big husky, who immediately switched languages. “You're the pilots, then!"

“Yes…"

The husky hugged him—the heat of his soft fur almost oppressive with the tightness of the embrace. “They say you saved us."

Arkady translated quickly for the benefit of the other two pilots, then looked back to the dog. “Saved you?"

***

Somehow, it was quiet. Everything had gone quiet. Curnow tried to gather her wits, waiting for the other tanks to check in.

There'd been a sudden roar: deafening, even through the armor of the Khalitsa. Curnow had looked up to see the swift shape of a passing Boreas, highlighted in her tactical visor.

And then the enemy vehicles had scattered, abandoning their attack on her position to take cover. The order to advance was reflexive—they were trapped, and forward was the easiest way out.

In five minutes her tanks were back on the ridge they'd been forced to vacate, and she could pull what remained of her trapped platoon back to regroup.

Now the humans were over their distraction, but Curnow was out of the line of fire, and her commander promised them reinforcements would arrive within the half-hour.

The Rottweiler popped another piece of rawhide into her muzzle. She wasn't religious—almost no moreaus were—but she suddenly understood what it meant for prayers to have been answered. And for that matter, what it sounded like.

Quiet.

***

Kashkin Self-Defense Forces Headquarters Complex

Corsini, Kashkin

3/8/2538: 2315

The major hadn't heard her full name in so long that she sometimes forgot what it meant. Etkash-koha nor'Kalasos: 'with her toy, she watches everything.' Kalasosja were common playthings in the Kashkin—little dolls made of scrap metal or wood. Most pups settled for posing their ears and tails, teaching them to talk.

The young Kalasos had fitted hers with tiny cameras, which she used to keep her schoolmates from snooping around her possessions with impunity. The need to be so proactive had been one of the downsides of being a runt.

Valuable experience. Most of the others in the intelligence section were off-shift; Kalasos took the opportunity to fly one of the drone missions herself. It was very much like seeing the world through the kalasos had been.

Except far more accurate, and with wider-reaching consequences. The mixed-breed tilted her head and looked at the thermal readouts on her display.

“Sollich? You there?"

“Ma'am?" Lieutenant Kharesh Solukta's voice sounded close, just outside her headphones. He must've come over to see what she was up to.

“Who's closest to the northern rashon sectors? Say..." She panned around the map in her headset. “Wash, or the nal-Wash slope?"

“The 24th has two patrols in the area, it looks like. One of them's on the way back."

And what the drone was looking at definitely didn't look like a scouting patrol. Major Kalasos logged the contact scrupulously. When she was satisfied, she radioed the 24th Battalion's commander, Colonel Zhadan.

And then, more regretfully, she forwarded the message to General Altalanuk's emergency number.

***

It was just after midnight; not all of the cabinet could be roused and, Alta felt, not all of them would be needed. Major Kalasos had found credible evidence of human reconnaissance parties; Colonel Zhadan's scouts had all but confirmed it.

President Kodja—exhausted, his eyes bleary—sighed into the table. “Another attack, then?"

“We don't know. It might be a random patrol. My intelligence group is still coming up with their assessment. One possibility is they're planning on widening the attack that has slowed down at Terr Chanat and the Kurghen Corsini."

Minister Shenkiy jumped to the next conclusion: “But they did attack the north before. The massacre of Tascat."

The Ibizan nodded. “Yes. And there are some indications that the units in question come from the irregulars, rather than the mechs we're engaged with around Encha." If nothing else she was unsettled by the fact that Major Kalasos' drone flights and the surveying by the OVKK's scout battalion hadn't even seen walkers—only dismounted infantry, trying to move stealthily.

“What do you recommend, general?" Shenkiy asked.

She wanted to tread carefully, lest the cabinet—and Shenkiy in particular—get the wrong impression. “To be completely honest, every strategic assessment tells us that the human military simply doesn't have the manpower required to open a major new offensive. If this isn't simply a patrol, I expect it to be little more than a diversion."

“Are we at risk?"

“The river is a natural strategic obstacle. Salem is safe. With permission, however, I'd like to evacuate the smaller northern towns."

Kodja looked over. “That seems like a reasonable precaution. How long will it take to do that, though?"

“Unfortunately we don't have much in the way of manpower or vehicles. It'll be at least dawn before we can get the necessary transports. And we're short-staffed across the board."

“The civilian auxiliaries," Shenkiy proposed. “They've been keeping order in those towns, anyway—can we use them?"

“We can, of course."

Kodja hesitated, though. “But they're civilians. Are they in danger?"

Nuri, Altalanuk thought. Nuri's in the auxiliaries, and there's a school there. Kodja's wife must've been on assignment in one of the deghja. “Yes," she said, bluntly as she dared. “We can, of course, take precautions. But it's close to the front lines, Mr. President. There will be some risk."

“I assume we can't really afford to evacuate them, too. Not without putting the citizens there in danger."

“That's correct, minister," she told Shenkiy; she wondered how much he knew about Kodja's mate.

“Then we don't have a choice, right?"

“Right," Kodja said quietly. “Get everyone out as quickly as you can. And... hopefully you're right, and this is just a random patrol."

“We'll do what we can, inana Kodja," she promised.

And the retriever nodded. “I understand."

***

Sorren Degh

Near the Kashkin's northern border

4/8/2538: 1200

1300. Hagati grumbled to himself at the update. How long until they postpone it again? The young lieutenant double-checked his roster, and the time. Sorren Degh was the last of the northern towns scheduled for evacuation; the list on his computer said there were forty-two inhabitants.

“How soon before we can move out?" The question came from Nuri, a pine marten attached to one of the civilian auxiliaries—helping to supervise the evacuation. She was a schoolteacher; the dozen or so pups in the town knew to listen to her.

But they were going restless. The lieutenant understood that. “We're still waiting on the trucks from Elden to get back here. No more than an hour."

Nuri nodded, and went back to dealing with the pups. She was also dealing with their parents, he understood—Sorren Degh was a safe town, well away from the fighting. Their parents were elsewhere, many of them at the front, and they'd taken to the evacuation order with a bit of surprise.

So had Hagati. His company was in a battalion assigned to the Northern Front. The rest of Genakhot's troops were engaged; detaching an infantry company to supervise moving a few hundred civilians hardly seemed to be a good use of time.

His radio clicked on. “Ulak 2, Ulak 6. What's your situation?"

Hagati spared a look around the handful of buildings in Sorren Degh. “Ulak 2-6. We're waiting on transport, sir. Everyone is standing by."

“One of the trucks was accidentally misrouted. ETA's now 1315. Sit tight until then, Ulak 2."

Of course. Lieutenant Hagati said that he understood. He did understand, after a fashion. But there was fighting—real fighting—and the whole of Ulak Company was being kept out of it. Kept from where they might be needed.

At 1230, he ordered his platoon to break for lunch. Managing the evacuation took most of the morning; they were tired, and hungry. Just as restless as the pups, who wandered over to join them.

“Careful, now." One of them, a samoyed with immaculate fur, had reached out to touch the helmet he'd taken off. She looked over at him quizzically. “Well… here. Hold on."

The helmet was comically large on the samoyed; her ears barely poked through the holes meant for them. “Heavy," was her assessment.

“The burdens of command," his platoon sergeant joked, and helped to lift the helmet off the pup. “No new word on the trucks, LT?"

“No. 1315, that's the last they said. I—what was that?"

A distant, ominous snap. Then a few more. Then silence, and the echoes of the gunfire. Hagati put his helmet on and turned up the radio. He opened his muzzle to ask what was going on.

“This is Ulak 3-9, contact!"

***

“Third platoon C&S reports multiple incoming contacts in the northern sector" —“remote triggers, heavy EM readings at markers idlak khota 2-5, idlak khota 2-1"—“confirmed, acoustic triangulation gives us—"

Colonel Genakhot had been monitoring the slow back and forth along the Na'hosh Line; his paw brushed the map, swiping it away, and he called up a view of the northern hills. “Captain Kolesnikov, what can you tell me?"

“Trying to put it together now, sir," the intelligence officer answered. His muzzle was curled; his brow furrowed. “Definite incoming. Nothing from the scouts. They must not have come from Marel's sector…"

“What's their strength?"

“I don't know."

“Who are they?"

“I don't know."

“ Yassuja." Genakhot forced himself to calm down. “Hostile?" The intelligence group had raised the possibility of a human assault, on the basis of a reconnaissance party they'd identified. But if they were under attack, that suggested more than a simple patrol…

One of the radio operators spoke up. “Third platoon, Ulak Company says they're now engaged and taking heavy fire."

“Captain, I need information. Now."

“Understood, sir." Kolesnikov had been one of the first of the Soviet recruits—a fifteen-year veteran, but new to the OVKK's computer systems. The wolf's ears twitched in frustration. “First-order scans are in. Light weapons; targeting profiles match the human auxiliary forces."

“Number?"

“Directly engaged? Maybe a hundred, sir."

Ulak Company altogether was sixty people. Genakhot shook his head, and called the report in to OVKK headquarters. If they weren't attacking in strength, it would be possible to repel the new invaders—but not without difficulty. His forces were committed.

“Sir, Telana requests orders. Telana notes further that his Ulak company's third platoon is still holding position at Sorren Degh, and they have civilians waiting to be evacuated."

“How many?"

“Forty-two town residents and six assistants from the auxiliaries."

Genakhot considered his options, none of them ideal. 8th Battalion “Telana" was, notionally, the sector reserve. Defending Salem, the largest city in the north, was a secondary objective.

Because it was supposed to be safe. Because they weren't supposed to be attacking there! And now…

“Message from Satar, colonel."

He tapped his headset. “This is Holot actual, go ahead."

The intelligence group was still working on a new tactical assessment, but at the moment they still felt the attack was a diversion. Jericho simply didn't have enough forces to have opened up an entire new front.

Reluctantly, Genakhot acknowledged his orders to hold the towns as long as it took to get the last civilians out. The officer passing the message along listened carefully for the reply. “Telana says they'll do what they can, sir, but they're not optimistic about how long they can hold it with one platoon."

The Border Collie shook his head. “I know."

***

Commonwealth Capitol Building

City of Davis, Kashkin

4/8/2538: 1600

Altalanuk could have sent her deputy, Sol Solte, to conduct the update. There were even perfectly valid reasons to do so. She could point out that the changing strategic picture required her on the front lines. She could argue that a simple briefing did not really warrant the presence of the OVKK's leader.

She faced the cabinet and spoke, as dispassionately and concisely as she could. “The evacuation of the northern towns is complete. Elden Kodaw and Sorren Degh both came under fire before we could finish. One of the trucks carrying refugees from Sorren Degh was attacked, and we have lost contact. There were nineteen citizens aboard, and another five in the escort vehicles."

Shenkiy's face fell. Kodja had frozen, she saw; the retriever's muzzle was tense. Shenkiy was the one to speak: “What happened?"

“They were the last vehicle to depart. By that point, the degh was already vulnerable, as were the roads leading out. The two vehicles escorting it were the only ones left, considering the fighting."

“Do you know the identities of the missing?" Kodja asked, carefully.

She met his eyes, holding the gaze until he understood, and knew that she wouldn't subject him to hearing the clarification. “Yes. We're still trying to re-establish contact. But the strategic situation is... unclear."

Shenkiy growled. “Recovering them has to be a priority."

There are many priorities. Enemy forces had occupied the towns, and probably most of the roads and hills through the area. There weren't that many of them; they weren't particularly well-armed.

But the OVKK was stretched thin, and as long as the threat was minimal Alta didn't want to commit her reserve blindly. The outcome could be worse than a few raids.

She kept her reservations to herself. The car was waiting to take her back to the headquarters complex. Alta paused, her paw on the handle, and found Levin's contact information on her communicator instead.

“Good afternoon," the Border Collie started. “I've heard about what's going on. Is there…"

“Are you in the office?"

“Yes."

“Leaving soon?"

“I'm supposed to, yes—why?"

“Stay with Kodja, Levvich. Please?"

His voice went soft. “Oh."

***

“Thank you, Major Kalasos. Alright. Thoughts?"

Colonel Genakhot pointed to the strategic overview, particularly the area west of Terr Chanat. “They'll be fairly easy to contain. We could leave them be, more or less."

“Do nothing?" Alta prompted.

“Put the furthest east roads under fire and shift a few companies to harass them, yes. They don't have heavy weapons, they can't threaten Salem... if they move on myself or Colonel Marel, we can hold them off easily enough."

The Ibizan nodded. “Colonel Marel? What do you say?"

“We need to drive them out. A major counterattack is called for. The terrain isn't the best for our Khalitsaja, but Colonel Genakhot's infantry can move from the staging points in Corsini-West directly north towards Elden. Simultaneously, Central should circle around to cut off the northern area—lock down their most logical axis to retreat. They'll have to move west through the creek—with us pursuing them the whole time. We'd have every advantage."

“Except that I can't spare the infantry for an operation of that magnitude," Genakhot countered. “8th Battalion is depleted from the evacuation itself. I'm told it will be next week before we can expect to reorganize Ulak company."

“The reserve, then," Marel said. “Colonel Ivanovich's men are relatively fresh. With Colonel Adarkin's Shanik company, we can have an over-strength battalion in place by this evening. And all my artillery's positioned forward enough to provide support."

Major Kalasos fidgeted with her computer. Alta turned to the mixed breed, gesturing for her to speak. “In truth, we wouldn't need that. Remember, I said there's a maximum of three hundred militiamen engaged. Throwing half the OVKK at it isn't required. There could be a middle ground."

“I disagree," Marel insisted. “This is an opportunity for us. General, they have to be driven out immediately—if nothing else, it's bad for our morale and good for theirs to give the impression they can strike with impunity. And if we do this right, and hard, we can knock that whole organization out of the fight. The longer we wait, the more they dig in. And the more of them there are, the more can complicate our attempts to hold the Na'hosh Line. And our operations around Terr Chanat. They're providing reconnaissance to their commanders, putting themselves in position to hassle our supply lines..."

“I get your point," Alta said. “Colonel Genakhot, can you spare the 11th?"

“Yes. It leaves the Na'hosh complex understrength along the southern third, though. And we lose their cargo 'dynes."

“Not for long." She tapped her claw against the edge of her teacup. “Here's my concern: if we don't attack in strength, and things slow down for even a few hours, the JMA will see an opportunity. If we do this, we commit fully."

Genakhot puffed his muzzle, sighing. The Border Collie took another deep breath. “It's possible. The Na'hosh can hold out unreinforced for... eight hours. I can give you eight hours."

“Good. Marel's right; this will be mostly infantry in contact. Colonel Genakhot, you'll be the overall operational commander. By 2300, I need the 11th, the 8th, and Marel's 4th Battalion in position. Marel, your tanks—is al-Tanja in good shape?"

The fennec swallowed whatever reservations he had about her decision, clearing his throat. “Yes, ma'am. Colonel Sanuk got the last three khalitsaja from dispatch. They're more or less reconstituted."

“Good. They'll provide support. Be ready to throw everything you have at the Na'hosh Line if those mechs get... ideas. We need to be at the border by daybreak. Proposals by... 1930, is that doable?"

“ Nan'tag," Marel said.

***

Marel and Kalasos were right, Alta believed, which didn't mean things would be painless. Particularly not attacking at night, trying to coordinate between two major commands.

In the end she left the OVKK's headquarters in Corsini for the smaller camp where Genakhot was directly supervising the operation. It seemed to be going according to plan. Even so, she was on edge.

“Message from a lieutenant in the 8th Battalion. Somebody along the line said it should come to you directly, ma'am."

Altalanuk didn't know who that might have been. Colonel Genakhot himself, perhaps, or Major Kalasos. She had to trust them, particularly given the time—6 in the morning, with the sun just beginning to come up. “Put it through."

“General. This is—ah—speaking is Lieutenant Yashikan, Third Platoon, Ulak Company. We... we were policing—uh—we were, well, we're on patrol following the attack. We..."

“Calm down, lieutenant. What happened?"

“We forced a group of human mercenaries back from a defensive position they'd established just north of Sorren. With the... with—with a truck. A hoverdyne. Civilian markings."

Alta shut her eyes. “Are there survivors?"

“No, ma'am, it's..."

She had to prepare herself for the worst without knowing what that might even mean. Sorren Degh was only a few kilometers away; the road was littered with scattered debris and ruined trees.

Lieutenant Yashikan was not the youthful reservist she'd expected from his tremulous voice. He was a mixed breed with a lot of shepherd in him—clear-eyed and sharp-fanged. Even the soft pink of sunrise didn't blunt his features.

But his ears were back, flat. He pointed to the wreckage of the Tarvos behind him. “That truck, and two scout cars. All destroyed. We've counted twenty-three bodies, ma'am. So far."

And he walked with her, as she approached. “ Yassuja..."

“Most of them were like that."

She tried not to look, and failed. Closest to her was a foot, and part of its ankle. Diminutive—the fur, once soft, now stiff with drying blood.

“Twenty-three?" she asked.

“Yes, ma'am. Seven adults and sixteen children. Various families... we can't identify all of them with… uh… with what's left, not without more testing."

“We know the names," she said softly. “They were alive?"

Yashikan swallowed. “Yes, ma'am. As far as I can tell. It seems the last thing they did was to cut their throats. It must've been done before the battle."

Even knowing what she would find, the Ibizan kept looking. Kept taking it in. One of the figures was still in uniform—a sergeant, probably the driver of the hoverdyne. His limbs, at least, were still attached.

Distantly, pointlessly, she found herself wondering what had happened. The sequence of events—how it had begun, and why, and when it had ended. Except that, really, it didn't matter.

Nuri lay face-down, but the fur of her back was streaked with dirt. Little twigs and stones had tangled themselves in her pelt. Starting from just beneath her head, the grass was stained rusty, still slightly wet.

There was no point in turning the marten over, but Alta did so anyway. Nuri's eyes were open, blank—the shock frozen on them forever.

“There are some effects we haven't yet found," Yashikin murmured. “Her clothes... the weapons... some of the equipment was left behind, but not all. I'm still investigating. Making sure it's all documented."

Altalanuk slipped her jacket off, draping it over the marten's head and torso. “No," she said. Dead or not, she couldn't have said it with Nuri's eyes on her.

“No?"

“Impress upon your platoon that they're not to talk about this. I'll... make counseling available, I'll pull them off the front if it's necessary—but they need to stay quiet."

The mixed-breed blinked. “I don't understand. This is a war crime, general."

“I know."

“We have to do something."

She nodded. “Yes. Eventually. For now, burn the bodies and what's left of the truck. I can't have it getting out. Not even in rumor. Will your men listen to you?"

“I... permission to speak freely, ma'am?"

She didn't know if he was even capable; his voice was thin, and close to breaking. “No. There are too many of us too close to this. Too many who would take it upon themselves to exact revenge. Deserved revenge, lieutenant. Justified."

“Yes," he agreed, horrified.

“We can't. We might be in human territory tomorrow. We might capture human prisoners. This is not when we can afford the license of recklessness or vengeance."

He looked like he understood, intuitively at least. She wouldn't have to think about the reports from the recapture of Shadesh—the rumors of what the Hashida had done in Morris. The sight of other bodies, like these—but human. She had not looked forward to recounting them to make a point.

“We won't deny what happened here. Neither you nor I will forget it, I'm sure. Later. Later, we can open these wounds. For now, and until I say otherwise, the truck took a direct hit from an anti-vehicle missile. Everyone aboard was killed, along with the escorts."

“But someone... someone has to pay for this..."

“Yes. They do. A lot of people. And right now, lieutenant, it's us."

***

Commonwealth Capitol Building

City of Davis, Kashkin

5/8/2538: 1200

“Come in."

He was alone in his office. She closed the door behind her. “Koddich. Janhata."

“You found the truck," he said, quietly. His voice was thick; his eyes unfocused and dark.

“Yes."

“I knew when you asked for an audience." The retriever licked his muzzle; swallowed heavily. “Are you... certain?"

“Yes," she repeated. “Everyone has been identified. I went to see myself."

She watched his paws tremble, then clench. “Do you know what happened?"

“We will not know the exact details for some time. The truck was destroyed. Probably a missile. It would have been instantaneous. There's not much left."

“But enough to—that—but that—enough..."

He stopped, and his muzzle dropped, parting in a ragged, choking exhalation. Everything before that, she realized, had been rehearsed. Because he'd known, because he'd told himself he could handle it.

The Ibizan crossed the room, sat on the other side of his desk, and put her paws over his. He flinched at the touch; a few more gasps went by before his trembling stopped.

“It was enough, yes."

“Have you told the others?"

“I came to you first, Kodja."

The retriever nodded softly. “We—I—I should tell the others. They must be worried. I'd be worried..."

“I can handle that, janhata. You should—"

His muzzle snapped up; his ears twitched. “Should what? I can't go home, Talla. I can't stay here. I—I.. oh, yassuja, Talla. No. No, no, no..."

Alta forced herself to meet his eyes; forced herself not to look away from the sudden, haunting darkness there. She kept her paws firmly atop Kodja's own. And, knowing there was nothing for her to say, she didn't try.

After a minute, his composure faltered. But there was never more than the ghost of a whine on the retriever's breath, unsteady as it may have been. He did not cry out. He did not sob, as Shenkiy had at his own recognition of the struggle's cost; as would've been his right.

Ten minutes went by, and then twenty, with Kodja's shoulders hitching and his gaze blank. She stroked his fur softly with her thumbs, waiting.

At last, with his ears still lowered, he raised his voice. “You should go."

“I'll stay with you as long as you need, janhata," she promised.

His head twitched. He had to do it again before Alta realized he was trying to shake it. “They need you more. The…" Kodja swallowed hard. “The country needs you."

“The front lines are stable enough, Kodja. The Kashkin needs its president, too." He lapsed back into quiet for a minute.

When he lifted his head, the retriever's voice had strengthened. “I'll manage. There's work to do. Go."

As much as she might've hated to admit it, in that moment, there was work indeed before her.

***

OVKK Central Group Headquarters

On the Kurghen Corsini, Kashkin

7/8/2538: 0600

Altalanuk cocked her head, straining her ears to see if she could hear even the faintest hint of gunfire. No, everything was quiet. “Your group is in good condition?"

Colonel Marel nodded. “We've moved the ammunition supplies forward in preparation for whatever's coming. So far, none of us know. I'm hoping that you might, though, ma'am."

Not necessarily; she couldn't predict the future. The truth was that the lines appeared to be stable, as she'd told Kodja. The OVKK had reversed both of the major human attacks, and now the north had become completely static.

When she summarized it, clinically as possible, Marel nodded again. “That's what I would say as well, general. Which brings me to this."

He set his computer down on the table, turning the projector on to paint the surface with a map of the Kashkin's borders. By the map's boundaries, Alta knew what was coming.

“We need to go on the offensive. Jericho will be digging in on their side of the border. The path from Encha east will be... contentious."

“What are you suggesting?"

“The spaceport. It's more vulnerable than it looks. My scouts haven't turned up any sign of activity on the northern roads—if they're garrisoned at all, it's just by the militia and they won't put up much resistance."

Not with what was left of them after two days' fighting. Word of what had happened to the ambushed Tarvos hadn't gotten out—at least not in official channels—but the OVKK fighters were angry enough on their own to make up the difference.

There didn't seem to be a militia worth speaking of in the north. If Marel said his scouts had gone unchallenged, Alta fully believed him. That left only the next part: the proposal he'd made.

“McKeever," Altalanuk breathed. At a certain level the logic of the plan was undeniable: cut off the human ability to resupply and they'd be forced to the table far sooner than the Kashkin under those same circumstances.

Initially that frontier had been a red line—crossing it would brook a response from the Colonial Defense Authority. But now CODA was gone; there was nothing to stand between the OVKK and human-held Jericho except their own resolve.

“How far could you get? In your best-case scenario, what does it look like?"

Marel played with the map, revealing his strategy. “We drive towards Marleyville and then south, freeing up Colonel Genakhot's group to provide support if we need it. We'll have refuge in audacity for a few hours—we can be at Marleyville by then. Then we start heading south. Ideally, we cut them off."

“Their reserve is between Encha and the ETaN complex. They can hit pretty hard any time they want."

The fennec's right ear gave a gentle flick. Just as gently, he shook his head. “With respect, ma'am, I disagree. If we strike hard at Marleyville, they have to guess our intentions. Move to respond to an attack in force, and they leave themselves vulnerable to a flanking attack from Group North."

Alta considered what it would look like from the human point of view—the appearance of the OVKK's main body pushing so far into Jericho's territory. “Genakhot doesn't have the resources for a sustained offensive," she pointed out. “But they wouldn't know that..."

“They might not, at least."

“They haven't tried serious reconnaissance since the..." Alta couldn't help a soft laugh. “Since the air force arrived. Their intelligence will be outdated."

“And they have to defend more territory than we do. If the resistance is too great southeast of Marleyville, we can turn northeast instead—perfect territory for the Khalitsaja."

What could Genakhot do? The Border Collie would want to help; Alta guessed that he'd ask for a day or two to adjust his defensive posture.

Could they spare that time? Possibly, though it would only leave the defenders on the human side of the border that much stronger. There would be some advantage in acting decisively.

“The cabinet should be informed before we take an offensive stance," Alta said. Acting on her own volition raised the possibility that she would be accused of acting rashly.

“How long will that take?"

Alta looked at the fennec's map again. She ran her fingers through the hologram, pivoting it, taking a closer look at the border. What if they counterattack? What if they reinvest Terr Chanat? What if...

Dozens of possible scenarios unfolded, but the truth of the matter was that Marel was right: they were in a position to take the fight to their enemy. Who knew when it might come again?

“I'll speak to them at my earliest convenience," the Ibizan finally said. “Probably this evening. Until then, I'll be out of contact, reviewing the lines in the south with Colonel Ishiri."

“Understood, ma'am."

“This is your command, Marel. I trust you. If, for example, a priceless opportunity were to present itself... we can pick up the pieces later."

“Such an opportunity might present itself in the extremely near future," the fennec suggested cautiously. “You've considered the possibility?"

“I have. Inform high command if you move. The message will get to me when it gets to me—I'll deal with the rest."

***

Jericho Military Authority forward HQ

West of ETaN, Yucatec Jericho

7/8/2538: 1300

“From what we can interpolate, sir, we're facing a coordinated attack in strength. The militia forces guarding the highway were holding two checkpoints at last contact, but they've gone silent."

“They've been overrun," Max said—might as well put it out in the open. He was still left short of actionable, trustworthy intelligence. Somewhere between twenty and two hundred tanks were on the move; they'd broken through the desultory array of automated defenses west of Marleyville and were on the highway itself.

Maybe the attack was inevitable, in some way. Depending on how optimistic he was willing to be, Kastner could even tell himself they were simply trying to preempt the possibility of another raid against their northern towns.

But that made no sense. As far as he knew, nothing was even left of those northern towns—civilians weren't likely to return while the fighting might resume at a moment's notice.

They're attacking us, then. Finally. They had the materiel to exact some payback—not the haphazard, hasty raid on Port George Moody in the earlier conflict, but something far more significant. With air cover, and artillery, and motivation.

“Message from Ranger," someone spoke up.

Colonel Katiso Thabane took the call. “Ranger, Victor 24."

“Victor 24, we've been forced back from the 7-207 interchange by enemy armor. At least twenty tanks. They're not stopping. Moving east at high speed on highway 207. They're going to take Booker. We need immediate support, over."

Kastner double-checked his own forces; shook his head. “Understood, Ranger," Thabane said. “We'll advise you when we can support. Out."

“Is Divya close enough to get eyes on these bastards?"

“She's been calling for trucks to take off her wounded since mid-afternoon. The company is down to seven Jackals and some IFVs, sir."

“Is she close enough to tell me what's going on?" Kastner repeated.

Katiso pursed his lips, but finally nodded. “We can try. They may not be able to get close."

They wouldn't be able; Kastner knew that. But they could approach near enough to the advancing moreaus that, for once, Max thought the militias had underestimated what they were facing.

Gaining that perspective from Divya Basak took two hours; in that time the Rangers fell back three more times. Their calls for help were becoming more and more urgent.

And they repeated that, without intervention, Booker would be taken. That put the northern plains under threat; most of the corporate campuses were all but ungarrisoned. Max brought his commanders in for a crisis meeting.

No point in mincing words. “We need to withdraw," he told his senior staff. The shift in their mood was immediate, stark, and palpable. “Start preparing now."

“How far, sir?"

“ETaN, at least. And a secondary line between there and the Lockheed compound. Everything we can put there. What is that—Rowland Canyon? We need to make our stand there."

Colonel Faraday, head of their logistics section, cleared her throat. “Abandoning the border, then?"

“Yes."

“What about Booker? We'll be leaving it completely undefended. They won't stand a chance, sir, not with just the Rangers."

“They don't care about Booker."

“But the militia have said that appears to be their objective," someone else protested.

They don't understand, Max realized. They don't get how fucked we are. “No, major. They're headed for us. For the spaceport. By this evening they'll be regrouping south of Marleyville. They can attack tomorrow morning. We'll be overrun—we might not even be able to contain it before they're all the way through. If nothing else, we'll lose all the equipment here and at Camp Leighton."

“But… McKeever? The spaceport is... it's almost impregnable."

“ Wake up. You need to do it now. With line of sight on the spaceport, they won't need to occupy it to shut down traffic. We can't bring in new supplies. If we hold them in Rowland Canyon, we can find a way out of this. Once they're through that, it's over."

He could still see the objections on their faces. Still see the way half of them still wanted to say it: they're dogs, sir. They can't do a thing like that.

But they could.

Max noted, with some bitter satisfaction, that when he went to meet with the JBC there were fewer people in the room. He'd told Amir that they were withdrawing—that couldn't be kept a secret, anyway, given that ETaN's complex needed to be abandoned.

The highest-ranking businessmen had found ships willing to take them offworld. A few of the others were trying to do the same, and probably not finding much success.

They were panicked enough not to argue with him, at least.

He might even be able to get some real work done.

***

Commonwealth Capitol Building

City of Davis, Kashkin

7/8/2538: 1600

Alta folded her paws before her, and considered her words. “That's correct, Mr. President."

Kodja seemed to have asked the question assuming he'd misheard something. “We're attacking them?"

“Earlier we identified strategic vulnerabilities in the disposition of enemy forces. I didn't think that we could afford to wait. But I resolved to bring it up with the cabinet at the earliest possible opportunity."

“What are we doing?"

“Colonel Marel has taken his brigade across the northern frontier to the city the humans refer to as Marleyville. The roads in and out of the city are now secure. Marel is moving south. Our aim is to disable McKeever Spaceport, and to force Jericho to abandon their attempt at military conquest of the Commonwealth."

Minister Shenkiy knew the continent's map well—the borders of his colony, and the threatening world that lay beyond. Those threats were strongest on the mixed-breed's mind. “What about the defense of Encha, though?"

“As expected, directly attacking the human lines has forced them to take up a new defensive posture. Encha is no longer under threat. As Marel makes progress, I expect to see fighting die down in the east, as well. They'll have to shift additional men and weaponry to shore up their positions west of the city."

Stara Koshath understood 'threats,' too—but Alta could see the labor minister running the numbers in her head. The Rottweiler's ear flicked, lightly, as though perhaps a fly had settled upon it. “And the OVKK, general? What about our losses?"

“So far, they've been minimal. This is, to be clear, as we expected—the human resistance in the sector was always going to be limited."

Minister Koshath, though, remembered the lessons of the previous war. “And overall? What do you project the casualties to be for this operation?"

“In the hundreds, probably." No way to, as the humans said, sugarcoat it. A ripple of concern ran through the ministers. “But an opportunity to end the war."

“Where will they hit back?"

“We don't know."

Koshath's fingers drummed the table. “I have a report here from your intelligence section, provided to the Labor Ministry. The report is titled S167."

The general stiffened. “As you know, inanu Stara Koshath, the 'S' is short for solessa-ur-kol." 'Contingency.' “We don't believe it's likely."

“But it is possible."

She's just doing her job, Alta told herself; it was enough to calm the Ibizan down before answering. “S167 refers to the possibility of an attack against the dam at Ikashta. We have been aware of this possibility since open conflict was first discussed. We're prepared for it."

“I don't doubt your preparations, al-inanu. I am asking for an honest opinion—would they try it, if their… what is the expression—if their backs were up against a wall?"

“No. They wouldn't. Destroying the dam would be too far, even for them. But it has figured into our planning. We'll take the roads along the north bank of the Arkadiensee as quickly as we can, and secure them. I've also posted guards to the south bank, and we have the sentry units."

The shepherd listened, carefully, and finally. “You can't guarantee our safety, but you feel it's an acceptable risk. Again—I have no doubt about your preparations. I suppose we have to trust you. I vote to continue the attack."

The vote was six to four, with two abstentions. Kodja was one of them. Alta stayed behind when the meeting was dismissed. The retriever didn't seem to mind—he stayed quiet, staring at his computer.

“Do you have a place to stay?" she finally asked.

Kodja looked up, and then gestured with his muzzle to the private office next door.

“You're sleeping here?"

“For the moment. I tried going back to my apartment this morning. Briefly—just for a change of clothes. I don't think I'm ready. It's only been a couple of days… I'm allowed to not be ready, right?"

“Of course," she said.

“I'll be…" He paused, and set the computer down gently. “I don't mean to say I'll be 'fine.' I'll live. You don't have to worry about me, Talla. you have other things to worry about."

“I can manage both."

He gave her a subdued, sad smile. “I trust that you do. If you want to know the truth… the truth, Alta, is that I don't know what to do other than keep going, as best I can."

It was understandable. She told him that, and gingerly pulled out a chair to take a seat next to him. “I don't think our faith in you has been misplaced."

“Not yet. Listening to the discussion earlier, I thought… I thought that… I don't want to know if it's worth it. I don't want to be told that, for sure—like that would make it… better? Nothing makes anyone less dead, Alta."

“No. No, it doesn't."

“You think that this attack is best for us? It will help to end the war faster?"

“I do."

“I abstained because I… I didn't want to be the one to force us into it, if the vote was close. It's not that I don't trust you. I trust you. If it needs to be done, I…" The retriever took a deep breath. “I understand."

***

OVKK Checkpoint “J-4" on Highway 207

East of Marleyville, Jericho

9/8/2538: 1200

“The city stays secured. Nobody gets in. Nobody gets out. If necessary, you're authorized to use force." Captain Dathina didn't explain what 'force' would mean; he didn't have to.

“Yes, sir." It was all the young shepherd could say. The only thing Teshkaja Hakhalsul could reasonably give as an answer.

Not: Yassuja, captain, I'm an agricultural researcher. And certainly not that Teshkaja had joined the OVKK out of a sense of duty, without knowing what that duty really was.

Aghatja Kodaw seemed desperately far away. The orchards, and the machines that the shepherd maintained—he had a degree in computational horticulture!—and of course his boyfriend, tending their apartment. The cozy little building that looked out over the town center...

Six months earlier, they'd gone without calling up most of the reserve—Teshkaja among them. This time was different. This time nearly all of them were in uniform. Abandoning their offices, and their fields, and their workshops...

His only consolation, and it wasn't much of one, was that the rest of the platoon was no more of a professional soldier than he. They were qualified to operate the armored Tarvos trucks, and their mounted weaponry... but not more than that.

“Contact, sir." The platoon's C&S specialist, responsible for their surveillance and intelligence, spoke up calmly.

But the shepherd's ears were already up, listening for any sign of what was going on. “Where?"

“Coming down the road. Mixed signals... maybe half a dozen vehicles."

Five minutes later and Teshkaja could see them: civilian trucks, it looked like, crowded with passengers. “Button up," the shepherd ordered. “But hold your fire."

He tried to control his breathing—tried not to think about what might be about to happen. Maybe they were just trying to escape—there'd be some arguing, sure, but there'd been arguing at the research station, too.

The air above his head snapped, sharply, at the same time as he saw the twinkling flash of muzzles born by the riders of the truck. Warning shots. “Hold fire," he repeated, but activated his radio. “Shendal, this is outpost Yondin 4." For a few seconds, until his commander answered, Teshkaja had a chance to marvel at how he'd remembered their call sign. Where had he even learned it? How had it come so easily?

“Shendal actual. Go ahead."

“We have incoming human vehicles. They're armed, and they've fired a couple of warning shots."

“Yondin 4, hold position. Do you require support? Over."

Teshkaja took a few deep breaths. Yes, of course we do. But what would Narhich say? “I'll try to defuse this before it gets to that, Shendal. Over."

The phrase that came to his mind, though, was al-chesh helat kadak kostanag. 'Merely howling doesn't bring the food.' As the humans would put it: 'easier said than done.' How many were there? Twenty? Thirty?

The truck pulled to a stop, and the passenger door opened. A human woman stepped down to the smooth tarmac; her hand was on her sidearm, but it stayed holstered—for the moment. “Stand aside," she said.

The C&S sergeant leaned over, whispering in his ear. “We count twenty-eight soldiers. Light arms only."

Teshkaja nodded, and tried to remember his English. “The road closed itself. You we cannot permit to… to going on it." Yassuja, but their language tangles my muzzle. “You have forbidding. You forbid yourself from leaving."

“We do no such thing. You'll stand aside—or we'll open fire. This is our town, dog, not yours. You don't get to tell us when it is or isn't 'closed.'"

He swallowed. “I understand that you're—“

“No, you don't. You don't understand. Move these trucks off the road or we'll start shooting." Teshkaja had no doubt at all of the woman's sincerity—even before she raised her fist, sharply, and a dozen rifles were suddenly pointed right at him.

He hoped his nerves didn't show—hoped humans weren't attuned enough to pick up on the way his ears quivered. “Shendal, Yondin 4. Come in, over."

“Start moving," the human repeated. “We're not going to ask again."

“Yondin 4, go ahead."

“How quickly can we get reinforcements here? Over."

“Wait out, Yondin," Captain Dathina answered.

Teshkaja licked his muzzle. “Shooting, to start shooting, you do not want this," he said, trying to be calm. “If we have shooting, have fight…" Sut urtek talkhuskillag, nalkan naluharna. It was so easy in Rukhat. Great suffering will be the inevitable consequence if we must fight one another. “If we have fight, you will surely suffer."

“I know," she answered. “You don't think I know that?"

“We don't want to hurt you. We have no reason to hurt you. But, the town closed itself until we settle the border disputes."

The woman scowled. “Border disputes? What border disputes? Marleyville has never been in your territory, dog."

“ Yondin talek. Hasstalkhå hindakja—ilurgosha, hasstalkhå hindakja. Sålwasa negetiy khintothja, iljika sålhash adokheliy, ilurgosha adokheliy duran. Kaned."

“ Shendal. Talgastu. Nalhasarnag al-khalitsaja. Halt."

Teshkaja let the conversation continue in his ear, distantly processing it. “We don't intend to stay here. If you don't cause trouble—“

“Cause trouble?" she cut him off. Her finger stabbed behind him, at the three hoverdynes blocking the road. “Like that? You, coming into our territory? Like you wouldn't kill us all if you had the chance."

“Why? Why would I do that?"

In his right ear, the platoon's C&S sergeant was continuing to negotiate for fire support with their commander. Hindakja, he heard her say again: 'soldiers.'

But they weren't, clearly. As unprepared as Teshkaja felt, these were soldiers by no reasonable definition of the word. They were businessmen, drivers, schoolteachers... and before she could answer the rhetorical question, he asked a different one. “Who you? Who have yourself? What's your name?"

“Lori Kaler. Why?"

“Teshkaja Hakhalsul. I call myself Teshkaja Hakhalsul. What do you do?"

She narrowed her eyes. “What's going on?"

“I work myself an agricultural scientist. I live at an orchard in Aghatja Kodaw. Soil monitoring equipment I design. For the olives, I—it lets us track the yearly, ah, the— nestahja—food? Nutrients. The nutrients in the soil."

Lori's expression stayed puzzled. “So?"

“I don't want to kill you. I just want this to be over so that we can go home. All of us. I imagine that's what you want, too. Right? You want this?"

“You don't get to trespass here—trap us in our town—and tell us you have no ill will, dog."

Teshkaja shook his head. “We have ourselves plenty of ill will, Lori Kaler, but it doesn't have to end in shooting. If you want to start fighting, a battalion of tanks to us comes from fifteen kilometers away, that they would have no problem with fighting. Please don't make them."

“What possible reason would I have to trust you?"

“If you go, if you wait… when this is over, you come to me. I'll make sure you can have all the olives you want. Good olives. I would be happy… happiest? I would be happiest to give them to you. Because to give you the olives would mean we were at peace. And I would think of this day, when we didn't have to shed each other's blood. That is why, Lori Kaler. Because it is that, or it is the tanks."

She stared at him, and looked behind him to the soldiers at the checkpoint, waiting expectantly. And then she sighed, and turned around. Teshkaja watched the trucks slowly recede, back the way they'd come. He didn't even realize he was shaking until he felt the sergeant's paw on his shoulder. “Sir?"

He wanted nothing more than to call Narhich. To hear his mate's voice; to confess to him that it had all been a mistake, that he had no idea what he was doing, that he needed to come home...

The shepherd took a deep breath, and looked away from the western horizon. “Tell Shendal the humans have stood down. Yondin 4 is secure."

***

5th Battalion Headquarters

North of ETaN, Jericho

11/8/2538: 1600

Someone had neglected to tell Jericho's defenders that they were beaten. They were fighting for every last meter—every single rock and burnt shrub, it seemed.

It didn't matter. Wouldn't matter, in the end. Since the morning, 5th Battalion had pushed forward half a kilometer. One more hill and their tanks would have a clear line of sight on the approach path to McKeever Spaceport.

The city itself remained safe, guarded as it was by a network of antiartillery lasers and a ring of defensive installations three or four deep. Powerful enough that the OVKK's close air support insisted on keeping their distance; the battalion was on its own.

“Colonel?" a voice drew Sanuk Kara's attention away from the terrain map. “Ulak Company has been halted by intense resistance here, at this point. Hill 37."

The samoyed took a closer look at the hill. It wasn't hard to see why the tanks were running into trouble; the terrain limited their ability to maneuver, and although the tank commanders were brave, they were hardly stupid—blind advances in the face of human obstacles were costly to the point of suicidal.

“Hakost is on the line requesting an update, ma'am," the officer went on. “Colonel Marel wishes to know if we still expect to be able to take the heights by nightfall."

“Advise Hakost I'll let them know within a few minutes. I need to study this."

Really what she needed was not a moment to study but more infantry at her immediate disposal. This was not an option; the OVKK was short on IFVs and high command was loathe to authorize assaults without that kind of protection for the men. Colonel Sanuk understood, but it limited how quickly she could respond.

She closed her eye thoughtfully, listening to the quiet chirp of the computer announcing its regular updates, and the radio going off in the background. The safest option would be to wait for reinforcements. Colonel Marel promised that two mechanized companies could be spared—but not for another eighteen hours, while one of the reserve battalions was reorganized.

A lot could happen in eighteen hours. The Jerichoans might find reinforcements of their own. They might discover a weakness in the OVKK's deployment. They might just get lucky. And she was so damned close. So close to being able to take the hill. To putting McKeever in her sights.

To avenging Shadesh, although she would not have said that aloud.

Sanuk opened her eye again, focusing it on the tactical map; the samoyed's paw went to her communicator.

HAKOST

UPDATE 1610: U CO IN HEAVY FIGHTING; N CO OUT OF CONTACT BUT CANNOT APPROACH; S CO WITHDRAWN; K CO WITHDRAWN CASUALTIES MODERATE

INTEND DIRECT ASSAULT ON JERICHO POSITION HILL 37 BY 1700

TANJA

***

“Medic!" The shout was futile—anyone could see that. Whatever the round was—powerful and high-caliber—it had put a hole clean through the mutt.

But they were trying. They had to try. Jeff put the yelping from his mind as best he could. Anyway, the longer it took for them to disable the defenses, the more would join the hapless dog.

Another shot, closer. Unaimed—their foe couldn't see shit, not with the jamming and the dust. But dirt sprayed Jeff's armor, and the sound of the impact deafened him.

The dying mutt had gone quiet when he could hear again. He checked his watch, brushing dust away from the crystal—nothing to be done for his bare skin, which was hopelessly dirty. If he had a chance to shower, it would only be because he'd accomplished what Sanuk Kara wanted of him.

Twenty seconds since the last shot. Either their enemy was running out of ammunition or they were growing more cautious; the time between shots had slowed down.

But he still wanted them dealt with, and at twenty seconds between shots they'd gone half a dozen more than he was willing to put up with. “Where the bloody hell is the artillery?"

If there was a problem with dogs, Jeff had begun to think, it was that their profanity wasn't very versatile, and they used it sparingly. Fortunately his radioman spoke English. “They say another thirty seconds, sir."

Yes: bloody hell. That about summed it up. His counterparts on the other side, at least, must've been thinking the same thing. Their fire was nearly random, and openly desperate. They saw what was coming.

Jeff guessed the position suppressing them was no more than a squad of Jerichoan soldiers, plus two or three semiautonomous cannons. Anti-armor weapons—probably the one that had taken out their marksman.

They'd get their own back soon enough. Four hours earlier the position had uncontested control of the whole valley west of Hill 37. Three hours earlier Jeff's platoon had taken out a supporting turret, allowing them to approach unmolested until the JMA figured out what was going on. Two hours earlier they'd captured an emplacement on one of the lower hills, within shouting distance of the enemy.

Now he and his soldiers were a hundred meters away, and every time the defenders tried to find a new firing position it was only a matter of a minute or so before it had been compromised.

At cost. Nothing was free. The armor plate over Jeff's right thigh was cracked, and it hurt like a bitch—he was pretty sure there was shrapnel in his leg somewhere. Most of the others in the platoon had marks to show for it, too.

Four of them were dead. But—

30S. A number flashed in his visor and started counting down. Twenty. Ten. Jeff found the biggest rock he could between him and the defensive position, and rolled to take cover behind it.

Six rounds had been fired, a full timed salvo from the battalion's mortar section. All of them hit within two seconds of each other. He lifted his head: a good chunk of the ridge had been blown away completely. What was left slid unevenly down the broken slope.

Not only dirt. The mangled breech of a heavy cannon tumbled, followed by a scattering of spent magazines. And a gunner—hands out to steady himself as he rolled down the slope. When he came to rest, Jeff put the man in his sights and squeezed the trigger.

He'd been starting to rise when the shots hit. Now he collapsed forward. A moment later, though, he moved again—shuddering, trying to crawl up the broken slope. The closed helmet muffled his ragged screaming, mostly, or Jeff was getting better at ignoring it.

Fellow human did not have the chance to cross his mind. He fired again; the man dropped, and this time he stayed down.

An act of mercy.

Probably.

“Let's move!"

***

Altalanuk's tea fluctuated between cold, and too hot to drink—every time she reheated it, something was there to distract her the moment she sat down. This time it was an updated tactical picture.

“It's from Central," someone said. “Colonel Marel reports they've broken through at their primary objective. Sanuk Kara's 5th Battalion now holds Hill 37 and controls the east-west approach."

“Update," another voice added. “Mixed-intel, estash and lakan. Sensors are picking up movement in the direction of the McKeever road."

“Confirmation from sachek, we have direct observation now—the enemy's withdrawing eastward."

“Major," Alta ordered. “Tell me what we're up against."

Kalasos nodded sharply and swiveled her headset into place. “Galin, this is actual. This is a consensus call. I need integration on the reports from 1715 to…"

Alta let the mixed-breed do her work, looking with fresh eyes at what the Ibizan knew already. There had been no fighting on the eastern front in three days. If McKeever could be neutralized, Jericho was as good as finished. She thought about her earliest plans, her earliest estimates for what it would take to secure the…

The Chartered Colony, she recalled. She'd told Kodja they needed to control the northern bank of the Arkadiensee, and Terr Chanat, and the valley east of Encha. Just wild speculation. Just hypotheticals.

“Ma'am." Major Kalasos had raised her voice. “Between direct and interpolation, we've identified heavy movement eastward. The JMA is in full retreat. There doesn't appear to be anything left in the hills themselves. The next human defensive line is immediately outside the city of McKeever, below the heights."

“What's there? Do you know?"

“Heavy weapons, sentry guns—PPC mines are highly likely on the road. It's prepared, and well-equipped. They knew they would have to fall back. This is a consensus analysis, ma'am," she finished. “There is no minority report."

“Thank you," the Ibizan said.

“Hakost has moved forward to take the hill. They're requesting permission to pursue the retreating humans as far as possible," someone announced. Alta watched the markers drifting on her map. Dangerous, she thought. Easy to go too far.

But when would they get another chance? “Approved. And see how quickly we can get Marel and Genakhot in conference."

“Yes, ma'am."

The Ibizan reached for her tea, and found it cold.

***

Supreme Command, Alliance Forces Jericho

Ford City, Jericho

22/8/2538: 1100

The dispatch began: we continue to hold position, and Kastner ignored the rest. Others could take care of the rest of it—or, more accurately, they could not.

There would be, for example, a request for additional men: this could not be fulfilled. There would be a tally of their wounded, which continued to escalate. There would also be a report on their ammunition, which was beginning to come in short supply.

Finally—too late—what remained of the Jericho Business Council understood the gravity of the situation. It left them, at least, slightly chagrinned. And every time he remembered it, Max had to swallow his abject disgust.

He'd learned enough of politics to secure his paper trail, and that had been what terrified the businessmen. Not the recognition of their own hubris, but the sense that Max would take them down with him, if it came to it.

And it might. “I can't have them becoming complacent," he muttered.

Colonel Thabane looked up from the report he was scanning. “Why not? What would it matter?"

Max drummed his fingers, then got up, jerking with his thumb to an empty meeting room next door. Katiso Thabane followed him in; he locked the door behind them. “You think it's hopeless?"

The colonel had carried the report with him; he looked down for a moment to read it, then looked up with a pointed stare. “I think it's close."

“They still won't accept it."

Not while the JMA had eight thousand soldiers remaining under arms, and the remaining militia were still capable of fielding at least a few Jackals. The numbers looked good. As long as all you have is a calculator.

Those eight thousand soldiers were spread out across a massive front. He still had to defend Port George Moody, to say nothing of the vulnerable area behind it. The east had been quiet; it wasn't guaranteed to stay that way.

Abandoning everything north and east of Marleyville had bought them time—but not enough. That was the crux of the matter, really. Noel K. McKeever was threatened, and nobody was willing to take the chance at landing there. Not even the mercenaries, who could see the writing on the wall.

Even if the front lines hadn't changed in a week and a half, nothing could help the essential calculus that his enemy was becoming stronger, and he was not.

“I'm inclined to make the current line our last stand," Kastner finally said. “If we have to pull back there..."

“The cities come under direct attack, and there's no where else to run," Thabane finished. “I don't know how long we can hold."

***

He tapped the control panel and flinched as soft, sunset-golden light blossomed over the walls of his apartment. There was a painting in the foyer—a Borgenstam, mid-22nd century. Rockets docking at a transit station in orbit of a cloud-shrouded emerald paradise.

Max couldn't remember when he'd bought it—perhaps with his second or third paycheck. It came in on one of the transports during the cease-fire, and for some reason he'd hung it up. And now...

Now it was all he could do not to turn his pistol on the fucking thing. Everything that had happened, every new casualty list he had to sign, and he still came back to the painting.

Still ate dinner. Still had orange juice, from the supplies they were rationing out in Ford City. With domestic stockpiles and perilous overland transport, Jericho had food for years. Spare parts for months, at least.

They could endure, albeit with a little less orange juice, if they were allowed. If.

“Almost two weeks since anything happened on the eastern front," Max said aloud. Luna would be listening; she always was. “Do you expect they think we've given up?"

“I don't know, sir."

Of course you don't, he thought, and poured himself a fresh glass of juice. Could he spare the Jackals for a counteroffensive?

As long as the Jackals stayed mostly stationary, they could be run off Jericho's power grid and their own internal batteries. Mobile operations meant starting up their reactors, and his army was running out of parts to keep those going.

Conservatively, General Kastner guessed he could keep a battalion of Jackals actively engaged for perhaps seventy two hours and a hundred kilometers.

That was a thin lifeline. A counterattack in the east would stall out well before reaching 'Commonwealth' territory—the moreau army might well stop it before they even sighted the Little Falls River.

But they'd have to commit men and weapons to do so. How many? With luck, enough that he could order Thabane to push the attackers off the hills in the west. Reopening the supply line from McKeever would put them back in the fight.

It had to be done.