The Rask Rebellion

The Marines began to lift their wounded comrades out of the trench, ferrying them to the troop bay on stretchers, six humans required to carry a single Borealan. The loose sand and uneven terrain made it hard going, but there was a steady stream of casualties, the Marines passing off the wounded to the Yagda's medical personnel at the foot of the ramp. The sponsons loosed sporadic bursts of fire, keeping whatever enemies might be lurking beyond the haze suppressed.

To their left, Sarif watched another Kodiak advance, a squad of Marines jogging behind it in a column as they used it for cover. It paused for a moment, jolting to a stop when it neared one of the trenches. Mounted on one of the hardpoints on the side of the turret was a cluster of long tubes that resembled a rocket launcher, the device pivoting as it took aim. There was a puff of smoke, a small missile sent spiraling out of one of the tubes, unraveling a spool of cord that trailed behind it. The rocket flew for a couple of hundred meters, then fell to the sand, the line draping itself over the uneven terrain. There was a loud thud as the cord detonated, creating a column of billowing smoke, the device designed to clear a safe path through mines and IEDs.

The tank was suddenly torn to ribbons before his eyes, a projectile impacting the front armor with enough force to punch straight through. Like a road car being struck by a semi, the front of the chassis dented inward, the armor rendered as pliable as aluminum foil by the force of the impact. The plating was shredded, the turret thrown clear of the hull, the twisted wreckage sent skidding backwards in the sand. The column of Marines behind it were tossed off their feet by the subsequent spray of molten metal and debris, pieces of slagged wreckage scoring the sand, those who had not been killed instantly writhing on the ground.

"Another naval cannon!" Sarif warned, turning to the weapons officer. "Where is it firing from?"

"Unknown, sir," he replied as he cycled through view modes on his scope. "They're firing from outside visual range, they must have a spotter!"

Another impact rocked the Yagda, the plasma shield flaring on the forward monitors, the oversized slug bouncing off the sloped hull as the superheated gas melted its armor-penetrating tip.

"Extrapolate based on the angle of the impact," Sarif snapped, walking around the table and making his way over to stand beside him. He placed a hand on the helmeted crewman's shoulder as he furiously typed in calculations, knowing that each passing second could bring a new attack. The computer displayed a zone on the map where the cannon was likely to be located, large and imprecise, but it was enough. Sarif turned to the comms operator, giving another order with a wave of his hand.

"Send these coordinates to the artillery company and have them saturate the area with fire. I want everything in that radius dead. Warn the Marines on the ramp that we're about to move."

"Yes, sir!"

Next, he turned to the driver, not even pausing to catch his breath.

"Put us between the remaining Kodiak and the probable location of the cannon. They might switch targets once they realize that they can't get through our shields."

He felt the Yagda begin to move, glancing over his shoulder at the rear monitor to see that the Marines who were loading the injured had vacated the ramp. They could resume their work once the tank had repositioned.

A distant rumble began to roll across the desert, explosions erupting in the distance, blanketing the left side of the gate. The artillery was raining death on the coordinates, salvo after salvo pounding the trenches, the bright flashes visible through the sepia fog.

"Tell the medics to recover the Marines behind that damaged tank," Sarif said, returning to his table to examine the hologram. "We'll hold here until they're done loading. We need more teams clearing trenches so the IFVs can move up."

The right flank was still pushing, the vehicles advancing behind the Marines as they flushed out the Rask positions, the Kodiaks laying more cables to trigger explosives. The enemy seemed to have been routed on that side, their resistance had crumbled. Soon, those mechanized companies would be able to get behind the remaining Rask on the left flank and trap them in a crossfire.

"Tell the artillery to cease fire," Sarif said. "Have the Marines finished loading the injured?"

"They're all aboard, sir," the comms operator replied. "They've been taken to the infirmary."

"How many active Marines are on-site?" he asked, the comms operator taking a few moments to reply.

"Two squads, sir. Three including our own complement. We have several more IFVs waiting for clearance to advance once a path has been cleared."

"Bring them aboard, then close the ramp and make for heading three-one-zero. We'll advance with the Kodiaks from Charlie company and assault the remaining enemy positions directly. I want Bravo clearing the way for the IFVs. I want Delta converging on our coordinates while Echo and Foxtrot keep pushing up the right flank."

The Marines piled into the Yagda's bay as they waited for Charlie to arrive, their ten operational Kodiaks emerging from the storm to their rear. The Yagda matched pace with the slower tanks, the company pausing every so often while the lead vehicle launched its mine-clearing cable, the Yagda helping to cover them with its sponsons. They soon came upon the fresh hellscape left by the recent bombardment, the outlines of trenches barely recognizable. They passed the naval cannon that had been firing at them earlier, its twisted barrel jutting from a collapsed bunker, a few partially buried bodies visible in the sand nearby. They had been expecting to defend this position from an assault, but it had never come.

The Kodiaks rolled over the shattered concrete, their bulldozer prows shifting some of the debris, pushing aside more tank traps. As they passed the ruined bunker, they came upon the final line of trenches, encountering a row of pillboxes. The artillery had hit them pretty hard, but many were still intact. Sarif caught glimpses of the jungle's border to their left, the twisted trunks waving back and forth like palm trees in a monsoon as the storm tore at them, a far larger structure coming into view through the obscuring haze ahead.

This was the watchtower that the scouts had reported seeing, a large, sandstone pillar that resembled a lighthouse. Its domed roof was maybe fifty meters high, not very impressive by Earth standards, but certainly a feat in this high gravity environment. He could just about make out figures on the platform that ringed it, and the flowing banners that were fluttering in the wind, their heraldry embroidered in purple and gold.

They were met by a wall of gunfire, the pillboxes opening up on the tanks, machine gunners painting molten trails through the air as they fired from the trenches. The attack would have torn infantry to shreds, but the slugs bounced off the Kodiaks like hailstones, throwing up showers of bright sparks. An anti-material rifle hit one of the vehicles in the formation, the molten round ricocheting, bouncing up into the sky and out of view. The Yagda was taking hits too, but they weren't being shot at with anything that warranted activating the shields.

The line of Kodiaks responded in kind, the long barrels of their main guns swiveling to put the bunkers in their sights, cracks like thunder echoing as they unleashed their payloads. Every shot created enough air pressure around the muzzle that it threw up a cloud of dust, the recoil rocking the vehicles on their tracks, their targets erupting into showers of pulverized concrete. The Rask fortifications might as well have been made from packing foam when faced with a railgun of that power. Sponsons and blisters joined them, the gun pods mounted on the sides of the Kodiak turrets loosing streams of tracers, painting the enemy lines in an unbroken trail of glowing bullets. Mortars pounded the Rask positions, forcing them to take cover, sending others scattering.

Sarif zoomed in on one of the camera feeds, getting a closer view of their lines. There were more of those purple-clad Palace Guards scattered along the fortifications, gesturing at the lower-ranked soldiers as they gave out their orders, rallying the packs. Were they the only reason that the left flank had endured while the right had collapsed?

"They have no more naval guns," Sarif said, sweeping the camera down the line. "I want the locations of those AMRs, we need to take them out before they can target the IFVs."

"Got a fix on one of them, sir," the gunner said. He swiped the view from his scope to one of the monitors, the crosshair pointed at the watchtower. Sarif could make out a Rask wielding a very long rifle, balancing the barrel on the stone rim of the walkway, fat cables trailing out of view. The AMRs were so energy-hungry that they needed a portable battery pack to feed them, the weapon usually operated by a team of two as a result.

"Target that tower with the main gun," Sarif replied, "bring it down."

"Sir?" the gunner asked, glancing over his shoulder as he looked to the Lieutenant Colonel for confirmation. "It looks...old."

"It's not a goddamned UNESCO site," Sarif snapped. "If they wanted to keep it intact, then they shouldn't have put a sniper up there, should they? Fire."

The gunner didn't need to ask a second time, keying in commands, the ten-meter railgun barrel slowly rotating. It began to elevate, targeting the walkway, his finger hovering over the fire button. Sarif felt the deck shake as the weapon loosed a shot, the top third of the sandstone tower seeming to transform into a cloud of dust, great chunks of rock that must have each weighed a ton tumbling to the ground as the structure lost its integrity. The whole thing gradually collapsed in on itself like an old brick chimney being demolished, leaning to the right as it fell.

The cloud of dust rolled over the trenches like a pyroclastic flow, a few chunks of sandstone landing dangerously close to the defenders. Some of them leapt from their trenches to escape the falling debris, only to be cut down by a hail of gunfire from the Kodiaks.

"Delta is on station, sir," the comms operator said. Sarif glanced at one of the monitors to the right of the bridge, seeing another formation of a dozen tanks converging on their position.

"They have to know that this is over," he muttered, watching as another pillbox was decimated by railgun fire. "Why do they persist? Are they more afraid of their Matriarch than they are of us? No matter. I want the last of those pillboxes destroyed, then I want the Kodiaks to hit the enemy positions with a coordinated mortar strike. That should soften them up ready for the IFVs to arrive. It should be clear, I'm not seeing any more AMRs."

The row of concrete fortifications was in ruins. Only a handful of the two dozen bunkers and pillboxes remained intact, and they were soon destroyed by the Kodiaks. Round after round impacted them, reducing them to piles of rubble, twisted rebar jutting from them like ribs from a carcass. Next came the mortar bombardment, the projectiles whistling through the air, raining down on the trenches. It was like a miniature artillery strike, airburst shells erupting just above the enemy lines, showering them with red-hot shrapnel. They created donut-shaped clouds with trailing tendrils that were quickly carried off on the wind, so dense and numerous that they looked like low-hanging storm clouds.

"ETA on the IFVs?" Sarif asked.

"Two minutes," the comms operator replied.

"We need to proceed carefully," he warned, his eyes darting between the displays. He examined the scenes of carnage with the cold detachment of a man who has grown accustomed to such sights. "An animal is at its most dangerous when it's cornered."

The Kodiaks kept up their suppressive fire as the troop carriers arrived, driving along in columns that were led by tanks equipped with IED countermeasures. There were eight IFVs in each mechanized company, about twenty of them remaining from Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, excluding those that had been disabled.

Under the endless stream of fire, the Rask couldn't even raise their heads, the IFVs breaking formation as they raced across the blasted terrain. Their eight wheels rolled over craters and razor wire, the thirty-millimeter cannons on their blisters joining the barrage as they neared the trenches. They skidded to a halt, deployable cover swinging out from their flanks on hinges, the armored walls planting themselves in the sand. Their troop ramps descended, a flood of Marines and Shock Troopers pouring out, taking up position behind the barriers. There were even a few flocks of Valbaran Commandos, the diminutive aliens clad in black pressure suits that seemed to include plate carriers, clasping small PDWs in their three-fingered hands. Sarif had initially been skeptical about allowing the aliens to serve alongside the other species, but they were some of the most disciplined soldiers that he had ever come across, their brutal efficiency more than making up for their lack of stature.

The troops coordinated all along the line, tossing dozens of grenades into the trenches, the explosions throwing up plumes of sand and smoke as they detonated. Before the dust had even had time to clear, the Coalition forces let out a war cry, charging into the fray. Marines vaulted over the deployable cover, Shock Troopers brandishing their bayonets, the Commandos leaping effortlessly over the barriers. They descended into the trenches, Sarif watching their camera feeds as they met the enemy.

The Rask were in disarray after the sustained bombardment, but the Palace Guards were already trying to rally their warriors, barking orders in their guttural language as they organized a defense. What the Rask lacked in training, they made up for in loyalty and subservience, continuing the fight at the behest of their purple-clad slave drivers.

This engagement was no less bloody than the last, Sarif's eyes switching between the myriad of video feeds as the troops flooded the fortifications.

A pack of Shock Troopers descended directly on top of a few surviving Rask, comrades that had been felled by grenades or mortars already slumped at their feet, the enemy scrambling to respond. One of the Elysians dropped onto a Rask with his bayonet pointed down, knocking his opponent to the floor, and planting it through his chest plate like one might plant a flag in the ground. The other defenders didn't have time to bring their rifles to bear before the pack was upon them, a violent scuffle breaking out, dark blood staining the wooden walls of the trench as they turned to their blades.

Already exhausted and disoriented, the Rask were quickly overcome. One of them stumbled over the blackened remains of a body that had been rendered unrecognizable by the mortar fire as he retreated, falling to the ground, an advancing Trooper skewering him with her bayonet. One of his packmates bellowed a challenge, launching himself at her, but he was intercepted by another Trooper. The Elysian stepped in to catch him in the visor with his elbow, the Rask's head snapping back. Before he could recover, the Shock Trooper whipped out his sidearm, the leather-clad warrior's body jerking unnaturally as the magnetically-accelerated rounds tore through him.

Another view showed a squad of Marines who were assaulting one of the collapsed bunkers, a passage branching off from the trench and leading into the bowels of the ruined structure. One of them tossed a grenade inside, the rest of the squad taking a knee, opening fire as the building's occupants were flushed out. They clambered over one another in their attempt to escape the blast, a barrage of slugs cutting them down, an explosion throwing a torrent of sand and debris through the door in their wake.

Sarif was curious to see how the Valbarans fared, the view from the Commandos' helmets bobbing as they walked, like someone had strapped a camera to a pigeon. The nine-foot-high trenches were like the walls of a canyon to the four-foot-nothing reptiles, the aliens leaping deftly over the charred remains of the unfortunate defenders.

As they rounded a bend in the winding trench system, they happened upon a pack of Rask who were headed the opposite way, the Commandos reacting before Sarif had even processed what was happening. With lightning reflexes, they brought up their PDWs and opened fire, the rounds chewing through the bunched-up pack. The felines didn't even have time to raise their rifles, crumpling to the ground, perforated with tungsten. The Valbarans hadn't said a word, communicating through the color panels on their suits, Sarif not even realizing that they had also taken up a new formation until they were hopping over the felled Rask. They were fast little bastards...

Similar scenes were playing out all along the enemy line, the Rask defenses buckling under the sustained pressure, some of the isolated pockets of resistance beginning to surrender. One of the feeds showed a handful of Rask who were being held at gunpoint by Marines, their frightened, yellow eyes darting about as they knelt with their hands behind their heads.

The only place where they were still meeting a lot of resistance was a location towards the center of the trenches, where there was the largest concentration of bunkers. Sarif zoomed in on the area, identifying the nearest helmet cams. The Marines were under fire from the ruined pillboxes, the enemy taking refuge in the jutting rubble, firing down from an elevated position that was difficult to assault. The bunkers had been above ground level, and the Marines in the trenches were another nine feet below that.

"What's going on?" Sarif demanded.

"Getting reports that the remaining Palace Guard are holed up in those ruins, sir," the comms operator replied.

Another loud crack rang out, an anti-material round punching into one of the IFVs on the defensive line, going through the armor like paper. Its gun fell silent, smoke beginning to billow from the still open troop ramp.

"Damn it!" Sarif snarled, "I thought we'd taken out all of their AMRs?"

"Your orders, sir?" the comms officer asked.

"We can't use heavy weapons, our own forces are too close," Sarif muttered as he tried to think of a solution. "We can't get anyone up there from inside the trench, it's too high, even for the Shock Troopers. Damn it, the position is surrounded by open ground, there's no safe approach for the IFVs with that AMR still active. Nice to see that all the time and effort the UNN spent training the bastards didn't go to waste..."

Another loud report rose above the background noise of railgun fire, this round tagging the left track of one of the stationary Kodiaks. It burrowed into it like a drill bit into wood, the skirt armor bulging outwards as the vulnerable machinery was slagged. Whoever was firing that thing was an expert marksman.

"Get me three...make that four tanks," Sarif barked, a spark of inspiration hitting him. "We can fit six Marines in a Kodiak's emergency troop bay, and they can weather the fire from the AMR. The Kodiaks will drive over the trenches, splitting into pairs and flanking around the ruined bunkers. Once they get behind the enemy position, the tanks will cover the Marines with suppressing fire as they launch an assault from the rear."

"Transmitting orders," the comms offer said, Sarif crossing his arms as he examined the displays.

"Let's give these Palace Guards the last stand that they so desperately want," he muttered.

It only took a few minutes for the plan to be put into action, four Kodiaks loaded with Marines racing across the battlefield at the highest speed they could muster in this gravity, their nine-meter length allowing them to pass right over the trenches. They split into two pairs, slowing when they reached the line of crumbling bunkers, their tracks fighting for purchase in the loose rubble. The enemy squad that now found itself sandwiched between them soon realized what was going on, but there was little that they could do about it, Sarif watching an AMR slug bounce off the side armor of one of the tanks.