Dead Men's Shadows(Comments Welcome)

[HemlockGrey]

Note: While doing research for my other fic, this is just something I banged out in my spare time. I haven't done much plotting or outlining, just had a thought for a fairly cool scene and went from there. It's in an original universe and is something of a typical futuristic war story. I didn't edit this copy so there's probably a few typos and grammaterical errors that I'll iron out tomorrow morn-er, later today. Not sure if I'm going to follow up on the prolouge or not.

Enjoy.

EDIT: Will a mod fix the freckin' poll?

Prolouge

The troop pod screamed into the atmosphere trailing volcanic fury in it's wake. A thousand like it rained down from the stars, rocketing past orbital platforms and embattled starships. Searing flames engulfed them, raged around them as inside the hot pitch-black air men crouched and prayed and simply waited, alive to the world but dead to themselves. In the darkness men's souls were swallowed by the shrill howel of the hellish inferno which tore all about the fleet of black pods.

In the darkness silent shadows lurked, feasting on the courage of men.

Without warning the pods slammed into the thick, snow-covered ground. The men inside tumbled about, blacked in and out, felt their bodies subjected to a gut-twisting array of unpleasant inertial laws. The compenstators helped filter out most of the shock but one never did get used to the feeling of falling hundreds of miles and impacting on the icy surface of a planet.

Vast cloud of steam bellowed into the air as the pod vents blasted air to sweep them away. Enemy guns had shot down dozens of pods, the phased beams cutting into the air and neatly slicing the troop pods apart, dooming their crews to short, bloody deaths.

The hatches began to open. The black pods vomited forth a vast multitude of soldiery. Some were caught in steam clouds and fell screaming, their skin boiling off. Others tripped and fell against the red-hot hulls of the pods, inflicting massive burns upon their flesh.

Andrew Jackel leapt to his feet, grabbed his gun in one hand and a pod ladder in the other, and hurled himself out of the black pit facefirst as his comrades swamped the field. Spitting mud and snow and debris he took to his feet and began darting ahead.

A wave of infantry surrounded him, racing ahead, all clothed in the bright blue and red uniforms of the Interstellar Federation. The uniforms were woven of flexible, alloyed metal, nigh-invunerable to sidearm fire and nothing else.

Armor pods, resting in the snow-filled field like massive black spiders, began to regurgitate armored personal carriers, treaded personnel trucks and jeep-mounted machine guns. They joined the human wave, driving on relentlessly toward the enemy stronghold that dominated a hilltop posistion, it's sweeping guns commanding the ground of the city that lay within a valley below it.

The Federation forces were disorganized and disoriented, but they had the element of surprise and they were driving on the fortress with the ferocity of a pack of wild boar. Aircraft streaked overhead, strafing the fortress' outlying troops and launching missle after missile at the Union stronghold. Interceptors took to the air, blue streaks against a blue sky, impacting against and detonating Federation missles in midair whilst phased beam cannons, laser batteries and flak guns filled the blue yonder with smoke, flames, and death.

The fortress was near. Modified antimatter shells began to land amidst the horde, shattering what little formation it had. From the surrounding hilltop Federation artillery responded, trying to silence the Union guns.

Jackel surged ahead blindly, the nearest enemy posistion in sight, within gunshot, perhaps- loose fortifications guarded by machine gunners, barbed wire, and landmines. To combat a gauntlet of steel and fire, the Federation forces had a mass of infantry, minimal air support and a few mechanized units.

The promised armor support was nowhere to be seen. Jackel did not hear the roar of hovertanks or the deep, thundering booms that accompanied the ion blasts of an Ulysses.

The enemy machine gunners cut loose, tearing wide swathes of bloodied corpses through the Federation mass. Men screamed and died and were cut down in clumps as they threw themselves on the ground, crawling foward under a line of barbed wire, cutting their way through steellink fences.

Jackel recongized a half-dozen men from his company slither up next to him as soon as he was under the fences. To his left a machine gun nest blazed merrily away, a light jingle compared to the thunderous crash and clatter of the fortress' heavy antimatter guns slaughtering men and machines. Soon they would fall silent, as the Federation troops were nearly all engaged with the Union defenders, but before they did they would take an expensive toll upon their foes.

The mechanized units were near useless. Those unable to roll through the fences and wire quickly enough were vaporized by rockets launched from trenches and shell fixtures. The scream of dogfighting drowned out all other sounds as planes blossomed into fire overhead.

Jackel's radio headset was alive with the buzz of communication. His HUD display was blurry- not from tears or smoke, but from the crackle of heavy jamming. His radar was near dead and his IR display was not working properly, but, then, it never had.

One of his comrades rose to one knee and hauled back his arm to toss a grenade just as the machine gunner's buddy cut loose with a burst of atomatic fire. The Federation trooper dropped the grenade and crumpled to the ground. Jackel and four other men all let loose the fires of their own wrath, cutting down the enemy soldier. Someone threw another grenade and the nest erupted in smoke and screams.

The snow covered ground began to slope upwards as the men made their run towards the fortress. Without armor support, they had no hope of breaching it, but the armor wasn't here, it was late, it was supposed to have been here by now, where is it, where is A company, where is B company, what is happening to the left flank? A thousand voices roared in Jackel's head. He hit the snow again as a flight of Union F43-L fighters soared overhead, strafing the lines of infantry.

Most of the mechanized units were gone, now, but all hope was not lost. Many of the heavier Union guns had been silenced by the belligerant Federation artillery, and if the infantry could break though the forward Union line they could bask in the relative safety of the fortress' shadow, where heavy guns and mortars could not reach them as they did now, the shelling taking a terrible toll on morale and men.

The plan was good. The plan was simple. The plan was agreed on by all the major officers and noncoms in an exclusive voicechat session. Jackel, still moving forward through the mire, occassionally firing his gun at whatever crossed his path, heard the voice of his captain crackle over his radio unit, directing him and his buddies and the other ninety-something people closet to him.

The armor was late, he said. They would have to make due, he said. The air support was still battling for dominance and the protracted space battle was unlikely to be resolved anytime soon. The infantry would have to do it alone.

All this without a single damning word cast upon the planners and armchair generals who had somehow managed to turn what should have been a great victory into a world-class fuckup. The heavy Union weaponry was mincing men by the hundreds. There was only one shot at safety- up and against the fortress walls, while mighty guns hammered at the soldiers and enemy planes strafed their lines.

Up and against- and through a battalion of armored vehicles, anchored in position, their swiveling turrets a thousand fingers of doom.

Up and against. Jackel kept crawling forward.

[MKSheppard]

A wave of infantry surrounded him, racing ahead, all clothed in the bright blue and red uniforms of the Interstellar Federation. The uniforms were woven of flexible, alloyed metal, nigh-invunerable to sidearm fire and nothing else.

Maybe if it wasn't so BRIGHT, they wouldn't be getting massacred. But still
an excellent fic.

[Stormbringer]

Very good. I can't wait for more.

[HemlockGrey]

Maybe if it wasn't so BRIGHT, they wouldn't be getting massacred.

Ah, right. That was a fuckup. Well, it's not my fault, there's a reason they're bright. Probably.

Anyway, thanks for the positive comments. More coming anytime from Thursday to Sunday.

[Evil Sadistic Bastard]

Why not drop the armor pods INTO the fortress?

" Sir! We've got tanks coming up on our right! "
" Okay, direct the anti-arm- "
" No sir, I mean it! "
" What the f- "
(Tank comes in the right side of the HQ)
BAKOOOM!!!!

[HemlockGrey]

They'll get nailed by flak and anti-aircraft before they can hit. Should have probably explained that.

[Evil Sadistic Bastard]

Then the flaming wreckage drops down onto the guns and decomissions them. And no pre-assault orbital bombardment to soften the area up? Oh well, it was a fuckup anyway. I assume the main character is going to be a hardcore infantryman?

[HemlockGrey]

Orbital bombardent from the warships would vaporize most of the city; plus the warships are currently engaged.

Don't worry. I'll all be explained.

[Evil Sadistic Bastard]

Orbital bombardent from the warships would vaporize most of the city; plus the warships are currently engaged.

Don't worry. I'll all be explained.

I shall wait with baited breath. Today's bait is a 40K Wave Serpent.

[HemlockGrey]

I recently showed this to a friend. He liked it and asked if there were any female characters. After I answered this, he then asked if there were any shower scenes, any bedroom scenes, and if I was doing 'ships'.

In case you have these questions...

Yes, there are female characters. They simply haven't been introduced yet.

No, there are no shower scenes, and bedroom scenes will be limited to a character waking up in the morning, going to sleep, or, in the case of the grunts, shoveling shit off the bed.

I'm not sure whether I'm going to include boats, but apparently that wasn't what my friend meant when he said 'ships'. Bizarre.

Following installments will be sporadic. With no further ado, I give you:

Chapter One
Fill the Walls

The dogs of war are real bitches, and the hammer of guns is enough to drive unfeeling men mad.

Andrew threw himself into the snow, his uniform stained with dirt and sludge and soaked by snow and sweat. His tactical display was useless, buzzing to the tune of jamming static. The radio crackled nonstop as noncoms deliberated on a variety of useless things that did exactly nothing to resolve the situation at hand.

The sunken turrets had reduced the struggling Federation line into a scattered mass of individual soldiers. Federation shells from the hills fell thick and heavy but did more harm than good. The sky-fighters were engaged in furious dogfighting and the mechanized infantry units littered the field, trucks, personal carriers and mobile machine guns wasted by persistant rockets that were launched from the belly of the turrets.

And there was still no goddamn tank support!

Slapping another round into the chamber of his rifle, Andrew crawled forward on his belly. To his right a sunken turret banged away, defended by a loose garrison, a long steel fence, and two machine guns.

A blaze of rifle fire lit up the snow beside Jackel. Terrified, he returned fire, spraying ammo everywhere but hitting absolutely nothing. An unknown comrade nearby tuned his headset to Jackel's frequency and identified the attacker. Andrew went up on one knee, fighting panic, pivoted, and unleashed a merciless hail of steel that ripped a half dozen holes in a purple-and-black clad Union soldier.

A machine gunner swiveled toward his posisition and cut loose. Screams echoed around him as the nucleus of a possible rally was cut to shreds. Jackel was on his feet and running, spraying wasted ammunition at the machine gunner who calmly sustained his fire for a few seconds before switching to a secondary barrel.

Jackel took two steps and leapt into a foxhole formed by explosive artillery.

Bang!

Searing pain rushed through his shoulder for a half-second before the uniform's anestetics started working. The agony faded almost instantly but a wordless cry still escaped from Jackel's lips. He raised the rifle stock to his shoulder but lowered it when he saw his attacker.

It was a fellow Federation soldier, with blood leaking out of his leg. The faintest whisp of smoke was swept away by the breeze that carried the stench of death and steel. The man was mouthing something but he had lost his headset and Andrew could not make out what he was saying. He shoved the man out of the way and hunkered down for the long haul, gun resting on the rim of the cramped foxhole. The other soldier peeked over the edge, pistol at the ready.

The long hours-or perhaps it was just minutes-passed with burning monotony. Smoke and fire and steel hurtled about the foxhole and Jackel would be one minute huddling in the hole and the next reloading his weapon. Sometime during the general chaos fourteen-or was it forty?- gigantic tank-shaped killing machines made their way onto the field, only to be summarily destroyed by concentrated artillery. Sometime during the chaos a bullet ripped through the chest of Jackel's holemate. Sometime during the chaos the corpse began to stink, and Jackel realized he was low on ammunition, and the foxhole was surrounded by dead or dying Union troops, and the shells were now falling much, much closer to the fortress.

He climbed out of the hole, saw the Federation line established a hundred meters ahead; a stone's throw from the sunken guns and too close for them to be of much use now. He upped stakes, slammed his last ammunition cartridge into his gun and surged forward, zigging and zagging and generally running amok through bloody snow and mud and spent shells and massive craters while all around him the grey overcast sky was illuminated by the great streaks of missiles and rockets and grand explosions.

A few brave Federation soldiers had established a string of offensive strongpoints nearby. Rockets hurtled out and slammed into fences and sandbags but did little damage to the turrets. The secondary line of Union machine gunners directed their fire toward the forming line but the showers of steel merely whizzed over the dugouts. Jackel hauled ass toward the strongpoint, dove in and fell on a slowly freezing corpse, it's eyes squeezed shut in shock and terror.

A similiar grimace flickered across the still-living private's face.

He glanced up, took stock of his surroundings. Seven other men, one wounded in the leg, three firing at whatever targets presented themselves, and one hanging back by a radio. Two were furiously operating a mobile rocket launcher, popping up, aiming, firing, then dropping back down to reload.

Jackel tried to shout at the radio-man but his cracked voice had no chance of drowning out the shouts, screams, cries and general cacophony of the battlefield. Understanding the private's intent the radio-man used his hands to flash numbers in quick sucession. His frequency number. Jackel understood at once.

Attuning his headset to the frequency, Jackel whispered, "Is that radio working?"

"Yes." was the brief reply.

"Can you use it? I mean, call down some fancy airstrike or artillery attack?"

"The hell? You think I haven't tried? Aircraft are all tied up and artillery is damned near useless now."

"Wha? What the hell are we supposed to do, then?"

"Far as I can see, we're supposed to sit here and die gloriously. You up for it?"

"Ah...not really, no."

"Pity. Man's gotta make his peace."

Jackel grimaced again. There was a crack and one of the three riflemen shrieked and died gloriously as a lucky Union shot ripped apart his braincasing, splattering gore everywhere.

"Ya see?" said the radio-man, "That was some glorious dyin'."

Jackel shook his head and stepped over the mutilated body of his fallen comrade and filled his place. The voice of his company's lieutenant overrode the frequency attunation and demanded his immediate attention even as he battled for his life.

"As of this moment, command of D-5 Company has passed to me. All units are to advance on the enemy position immediatly."

The radio-man grabbed a nearby rifle.

"Great minds think alike."

***

Space is cold and sterile and there is little blood in the vacuum. The screams and shouts and hellish sounds of terrestial combat are lost in the cold recylced air of warships and the antimatter blasts they pummel each other with are silent killers in the void.

The battle here has long been joined and the stars are littered with the hulking wrecks of vanquished cruisers, destroyers, and frigates. The tiny cadavers of a thousand fighters float and twist in an agonizing ballet whilst phased beams flash and antimatter cannons flare a microsecond before hurtling their blazing globs of annhilating death forward at the foe.

The great blue orb highlighted the little war as two opposing fleets clashed. The gigantic warships cruised and slid between each other, the cannon-laced ridges that streaked from bow to stern. The shudder and flare of defensive screens lit up the action early and often and occasionally with a flicker those screens would fail and a barrage of flashy missiles would shatter the hull and pulverize the ship.

Like a lasershow filled with smoke the clear beams of phased disruptors lanced through the frozen night, pinpointing the dancing little fighters and mines that juked and jagged through the combat flying one way while firing all forward guns another, strafing capital ships, hunting mines, and other fighters. Tiny little automatic mines weaved and bobbed through the battle, firing their thrusters to carry them one way and then instantly switching direction, tiny pulse guns blaring loud obnoxious bolts of plasma non-stop. Occasionally one would slam into a warship's defensive screen and vaporize on contact, but some would slip under the screen and smash into an undefended hull with the force of a ten megaton bomb. Individually, they did little, but there were fifteen thousand of them and even fifteen thousand ants can kill a man.

The sector flagship of the Federation fleet, the Victory Black, immersed itself in the attack. It's antifighter defenses where lacking, but a swarm of friendlies surrounded it and provided cover as it plunged headlong toward the battered Union navy.

The bridge of the ship were clean and cold and mostly silent but for the buzz of comm chatter. With his hands neatly folded behind his back, his crisp, pressed uniform and a slight twinge of gray hair at his temples, Captain Vander Grey was the picture of the quintessetional 'perfect officer'. His gaze was focused on the viewscreens and the swirling, three-dimensional tactical display to the exclusion of anything else and the orders he gave were brief and snappish.

The Union forces began to slowly slip away and over the crackle of the bridge's comm Grey heard the Federation admiral order the fleet to withdraw, secure their orbital posistion and deploy the bombercraft.

But on the tactical display Grey noticed two Union destroyers still within easy reach and guarding the rear of the retreating fleet. Their destruction would demoralize the Union forces and secure the Federation minefield and bombercraft from any spherebombs they might deploy on their way out. It was clear, and logical, and utterly contrary to standing orders.

"Belay that last order. Scan the nearest two Union destroyers and accelerate to catch up. Drop port screens and divert power to starboard." The increased buzz on the bridge was the only sign of acknowledgement. Somewhere deep in the ship mechanical contraptions were rearming the cannons and here on the bridge, deep within the battlecruiser, the targeting computers were beeping like mad, ready to deploy the weapons at the press of a button.

"Defensive screens full to starboard. Ignite afterburners and take us in between the destroyers." the captain ordered. With practiced faithfulness the crew complied and the warship shuddered as the ion afterburners propelled it forward.

A voice sprang over the static of the comm, an Asian voice, speaking what would have been flawless English had not it been filled with anger and contempt. "Victory Black, this is Admiral Taikadi. You are ordered to cease your pursuit at once! I repeat, you are ordered to cease your pursuit at once!"

A lesser man would have sighed. This was a mere formality. The Admiral could not touch him and they both knew it, but even in war formalities but be observed.

"Very well, Admiral. Your orders are acknowledged." He flicked his hand toward the back of the bridge.

"Excellant. Reassign your fighters to par-" The voice died in mid-sentence as a lower officer flicked off the interfleet comm. Grey commended him with a terse nod.

Had there been anyone outside the ship, and if they did not die of explosive decompression, they would have noticed the purplish tinge that formed a curved square a few dozen meters off to the port side of the ship vanish, whilst witnessing a corrosponding increase in the hue of the starboard ship, and had they been even a casual newswatcher, warmonger, or teenager, they would have correctly assessed that this was caused by the ship's reactors shifting the power allotment of the defensive screens.

Grey snapped an order only when it was necessary, letting an otherwise competant crew take over the basic functions of the ship. As it pulled up along the destroyers, the Victory Black rotated to bring it's starboard screens to bear with one of the destroyers while keeping three of it's six ridges aimed at the port destroyer.

The two destroyers spun to bring two of their three ridges to bear and began cutting loose before all cannons had been properly aimed or targeted, but the salvo was enough to drop two equally powerful, battle-damaged screens.

Thus the peculiar order given by Grey. The starboard screen held fast. The port side shuddered under the impact, steel and armor subliming to vapor and twisted chunks of metal spiraling away but the battlecruiser withstood the assault sans a dozen antifighter batteries and six cannons.

The Victory Black returned fire and three ridges spat out such a tremendous blaze of glory that as it hurtled through space it seemed a vast sheet of fire covered the stars, burned deeply upon the subconcious.

Half the shots splattered on contact with the enemy screens but they pulverized it into a thousand shards and continued on their merrily destructive way, smashing into the hull of the destroyer and eviscerating it's shell.

The destroyer was rocked by explosions and screamed it's last death throes as iron plumes blossomed into death and twisted, melted metal spiraled off into the great shadows of the endless night. The wounded starship continued breaking up into oblivion.

The other destroyer brought it's remaining ridge to bear and staggered it's shots, a tactic designed to keep the enemy ship from pulsing it's screens, a necessary precursor to an attack.

Having just proven the capabilities of his ship's armor, Grey had no compunction against pulsing his screens. He cut loose with two ridges' worth of destruction, crushing the destroyer's defenses just as it ignited it's afterburners, rapidly outpacing the battlecruiser. As it suddenly lurched ahead the tactical display registered over two hundred small objects hurtling away from it, toward the Federation fleet. The Victory Black's phased beams slashed at the spherebombs, for that was what the objects were, and the yellowish-silver Interceptor missiles lunged for the darting missiles but not a dozen were destroyed before they passed under the ship, making a beeline for the Federation ships which even now had registered their flight and were launching waves of Interceptors.

"Ignore them," commanded Grey, "Anticap nukes; penetrators. Lock and fire, forward four tubes."

Four deadly pearls streaked out forth from the Victory Black. Quickly catching up with the fleeing destroyer they ignited a powerful beam that sliced and diced and did generally nasty things to exposed hull. The pearls slammed themselves into the destroyer's metallic flesh, blasting at and then punching through individual plates. In a glorious, cacophonic trumpeting of flash and flare the nuclear warheads exploded with tremendous force and burning rage, ripping the bow of the destroyer to shreds from within.

Simultaneously, the last vestiges of the spherebomb cluster detonated but their explosion but more conservative; a mere rapidly expanding globe of force and energy with no pyrotechnics to speak of- if one did not include the fighters, mines, screenless frigates, gunships, and recently deployed satillites that exploded at a similiarly rapid rate.

By now the main Union fleet was around on the other side of the planet. Grey flicked a finger and the interfleet comm snapped back on.

"Inform the Admiral that we have finished our business and will be returning to the fleet. He may deploy the bomberships without fear of futher reprisal."

"Aye, Captain. No other orders?"

"Yes. I will retire to my quarters, and I do not wish to be disturbed by anyone. You have the bridge until I return."

"Aye, Captain."

***

I am cold, and hungry, and filthy, and there is still no goddamn armor in sight.

Huddled in the shadow of the battered, cracked and fallen fortress, Jackel shivered occasionally as the cold winds bit at him through the rips and tears in his uniform. The bayonet of his gun was caked with dried blood and his last three bullets lay forgotten in the snow. As far as he could tell, his company had been reduced to him, the Lieutenant, and four other men. The Federation force was a bruised shadow of it's former self and only through blind luck had Jackel survived to make it to the top of the hill. The bodies of the fallen littered the slope.

Guns. More guns. The guns never really fell silent. Jackel, his back to the field of dead men behind him, saw the smoke and fire of guns rising from the city below. Squinting he could make out a line of Union soldiers, tanks, and armored personal carriers, preparing for a counterattack that would sweep the Federation from the hill, the fortress, and, perhaps, the province.

Jackel considered surrender. But he had fought too damned long and too damned hard for this hill. He had fought with little air, no armor, no reinforcements or reserves. He had taken this goddamned hill with his own sweat, blood, and tears and so the goddamn Unnies would have to riddle him full of holes and step over his cold fucking corpse if they wanted this fucking hill.

Yeah. You can have this hill when you pry it from my cold dead fingers, you sons of bitches.

Tough talk for a man with three bullets.

He had no idea where the artillerly was. He supposed it was racing across the field of dead of men but it would never make it in time. He saw the beginnings of the counter-attack as the tanks began to race ahead. Around him battered and disheveled Federatin soldiers, soaked in mud and grit and gore, began to prepare for the final defense. Digging themselves into dirt or snow, setting up the last few machine guns and the last few rockets.

Jackel slapped the last three bullets into his gun, fell prone on the snow, and decided it was time to die gloriously.

Salvation fell from the sky.

In droplets first, then a drizzle, then a raging storm, salvation fell in the form of precision rockets and bombs and missiles from space. Interceptors streaked to meet the storm and cut down dozens of rockts and bombs and missiles in midair but the storm was falling too thick, too heavy, too fast. It annhilated Union strongpoints, blew up batteries and command centers, decimated tanks and armor.

Over the yonder hillside behind the fortress and the field of dead men the choppers came, their retrojets keeping them well above the ground, landing on the hilltop. Doors slid open and fresh Federation soldiers came spilling out. The dull roar of hoverfields reverberated throughout the valley. Abandoning his posistion and his gun to the mercy of the snow Jackel darted around the fortress, and when he beheld the field of dead men he was short of breath and his chest was heaving in exhaustion and amazement.

For across the field of dead men raced a battalion of tanks. The armor had come at last.

Son of a bitch.