First Contact

Chapter 156: (Telkan)

Cry Little Sister's tracks rattled and clattered as the massive heavy main battle tank navigated the rocky draw. Ash and dark red rain fell from the sky, fizzing on the weakly flickering battle-screens, getting through now and then as the tank struggled to keep the screens up. Its armor was pitted, scorched, melted, pierced in two places. The back deck was bent up and outwards from the explosive charge that had ejected the reactor only moments before it had exploded and washed the entire rear of the 750 ton tank with plasma and radiation. The other had pounded through the side and into the crew compartment, reducing the crew to carbon ash. The barrel of her might main gun was gone, torn away only a meter from the frozen cupola, the aiming mechanism cover torn away to reveal stripped and half melted gears. The driver's hatch had blown open, the coax missing, the armor slagged and running like frozen tears down the front glacias of the massive tank.

Trucker drove the tank with his implant. The flesh-like coating was stripped off of his legs below the knee, exposing black warsteel cybernetics. His hands were around the quadbarrel, the last weapon still operational on his faithful tank. His remaining cybernetic eye glowed red in the darkness as he drove Cry Little Sister with only his one eye to guide him.

He alone remained to tell thee.

But still Cry Little Sister drove on, crushing rock beneath its treads to spew them out behind her in a spray of crushed rocks and gravel.

The river had run black for three days after the mountains had blown their guts out and the Dwellerspawn had gone berserk.

He was technically AWOL. He had ignored the recall order that morning, turning his battered and hammered tank to the north-west, toward the junction of the two mountain chains. The rest of his Division had gone back, Third Armor Division covered in glorious victory after they had trapped the main body of the attacking dwellerspawn wave against the walls of Log Base Echo and hammered them into obliteration then turned to crush every plant they could find.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for. His vision kept going double, supposedly impossible with cybernetics, but happening all the same. Again he wished that his tank medic had survived, but she'd been reduced to atoms just like the rest of the crew when the barrel-bull had inverted into a directed 250kt directed nuclear penetrator.

His tank had been the first hit, but Trucker had survived to pass on the data.

No other barrel-bull had gotten close enough after that.

Next to him, in armor, was the last member of his crew still alive. 584 had survived, kept Cry Little Sister running, and now had climbed out of the carbonized crew compartment to join Trucker.

Trucker spit tobacco juice over the side, slowing down the tank and slowly making the corner, the river, chunks of ice floating in it where before it had been steaming and streaked with black viscous fluid that had burned on contact with air.

Normally Trucker would be able to use Cry Little Sister's sensors to sweep the area, but the tank was blind now, the sensor systems fused or carbonized, the creation engines and nano-forges burned out.

But Cry Little Sister still rolled.

His men were in the mess hall, lifting beers, and toasting their General.

Most of them privately believed that he had driven off to find a quiet spot to park the tank.

And die.

Trucker was injured, just like Cry Little Sister, wounded both inside and out, but he was still alive, just like Cry Little Sister, and that sixth sense of his, that ability to hold everything together, told him that the battle wasn't quite over.

He still had some part to play.

Trucker didn't know what. It was hard to think clearly, his head fuzzy and full of cotton, his thoughts drifting.

Several times he nodded off and the tank slowed to a stop before he woke back up with a jerk and ordered the tank to move again.

Once the rain woke him up. Another time it was 584 tapping on his cheek with his one remaining bladearm. A third it was when he shifted wrong and the pain in his side jerked him awake with a shout. The last time was when a dream woke him screaming.

Each time he ordered Cry Little Sister back into motion with his implant.

Finally it was too narrow for Cry Little Sister to get past the corner. Trucker climbed out slowly, stiffly, the radiation haven eaten deep into his cybernetics and his meat nerves. He climbed down, stopped next to the tank to bend forward and retch, his guts aching from radiation poisoning, then waited for 584 to climb onto his shoulder.

Rocks clattered under his feet as he moved forward, staggering, around the corner.

Only a hundred meters away was where the side of the mountain had blown out three days ago. His cybernetics started wailing at him that the area was radioactive but he shut the alarms off, grinning through bloody teeth in a gap-toothed grin.

A suit of Telkan Marine power armor was halfway out of the water, face down, arms outstretched, holding a heavy magac submachinegun and a chainsword. It looked strange to Trucker, he'd never seen one with a hump between the shoulder blades. Both shoulder weapons were missing. The warsteel was slagged and warped, water washing over it as the river ebbed and flowed. On the shoulders red LED's flashed, showing that the operator was injured and the suit too damaged to continue.

An elf sat with his back against the cliff face. As Trucker staggered forward the elf slowly got to his feet. The side of his face was deeply scarred, his cheek burned through to show his teeth, his eyelid burned away and a tendril of flesh stretched across the permanently open eye.

"Come no further," the elf coughed. His armor was warped and damaged, his crystal and silver sword broken, but still he held it ready to go on the attack.

"General Trucker, Third Armor Division," Trucker said. He looked down at his chest, where black warsteel cybernetics were exposed, his shirt missing. He shouldn't be alive, he was half out of the tank when the penetrator had hit, yet alive he was.

Behind him he could hear the rumble of the two remaining engines of Cry Little Sister.

The slow moving water splashed and Trucker half turned, his hand reaching down for a pistol he'd lost two days ago, to see a little mantid wearing a diving mask paddling toward the shore. He wasn't at the right angle to see the icons it flashed.

"The valiant one says you are a leader for his people," the elf gasped, staggering back against the wall and slowly sliding down.

Trucker moved over and sat on a rock, breathing heavy. He spit into the river and watched the little green mantid climb out of the river. It had a toolkit on its chest and rebreather tanks on its back.

It was missing a leg and a bladearm and an antenna as well as its datalink antenna.

--Sigma wakey wakey-- the mantid flashed.

"The deathless ones are revived, then," the elf said.

--quick time march-- the mantid answered.

"This all of you?" Trucker asked, spitting. His implant let him know that Cry Little Sister's last zero-point reactor was fluctuating.

"Yes, the rest are in the arms of Queen Gal-And-Dell beneath the burning light the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol, whom we here, in this small place, all serve," the elf said. He made a slight motion. "I am Tran-Due-Ill, Elven High Lord, he is 471, and we have traveled far."

"Yup," Trucker said, spitting on the rocks. The air was still acrid, biting, but breathable now without a face mask.

The work of the Elven Queens.

The Telkan armor shifted and Trucker heard a groan. The chainsword shifted, the teeth caught a crack in the rock, and the power armor troop pulled himself forward a little further and then went limp again. The LED's flashed and a breeze made a low moaning sound.

"He yet lives," the elf coughed.

"We need to get him back, get all of us back," Trucker said. He stood up and wobbled a little before catching his balance. He looked at the little mantid, which had taken off the rebreather mask and was sitting on a rock. "Help me get him up. We'll drive back."

The elf nodded, struggling to his feet. Trucker moved over, bending down with the hiss and grind of damaged cybernetics, and lifted up the Telkan. The green mantid climbed up his back and sat on his other shoulder, opposite of 584. 584 leaned over and touched both of his antenna to the other green one's single one, reassuring the mantid that the vehicle still ran.

Not much else, but it still ran.

Trucker let the elf lean against him as he staggered back to Cry Little Sister, which sat idling in the darkness.

"We'll have to leave him in his armor, Cry Little Sister's hull is too hot to take him out," Trucker said, setting the power armor on the front deck of the tank in the moonlight shadow of the shattered barrel. He looked at the elf. "I don't know about you."

"I will sit next to him. The Queen will heal me," the elf said.

"All right," Trucker said. It took him two tries to climb up the tank and get into the commander's hatch. The rear shield was slagged, warped, beads of liquid warsteel frozen in place. Both atomic blasts he'd taken on the shield, and between that and his armor, he'd survived.

His guts hurt.

His intestines, what remained, shedding their dying lining.

Trucker used his implant to drive, turning Cry Little Sister in place and driving down out of the mountains.

Cry Little Sister was down to three of her eight tracks, her roadwheels showering sparks. Her armor was warped and twisted, pierced in two places, her back deck exploded outward, and her hull hot with the howling rage of radiation. Her VLS banks were shot dry, her mortar tubes were warped and empty, her APERS strips were depleted, her point defense slagged and melted, with only her commander's quad-barrel coaxial still functioning. Her battle-screens had finally failed letting the ash and rain streak her hull with blackish bloody streaks. Two of her four great engines were dead, only one of her zero-point reactors remained and it struggled.

But she still drove.

-----------------

Ekret paced back and forth, looking at the personnel report. Trucker was still listed as MIA, his men believed that he had driven Cry Little Sister to somewhere quiet. The big Terran had turned north when the recall sounded and 3rd Armor had driven south. Ekret knew from the video logs that the massive tank should have been dead but somehow it still ran and Trucker had fought the last six hours of the battle with only his coaxial and the sheer mass of the tank.

He pinged his men and walked to the motor pool bay with sure steps.

His men met him at their tank, climbing into the crew compartment. The mechanics yelled that the tank wasn't ready but Ekret ignored them, shuddering on three of the six hoverfans, heading toward the door. When the mechanics refused to open it he ordered Cheapshot, loudly, to load a HEAT round.

The mechanics opened the door.

He didn't know how, but Ekret knew where he had to be.

--------------

Old Iron Feathers was exhausted, but some instinct had told him to make another pass. He'd ordered the rest of his SAR team back to 13th Evac and began running a search pattern, flying nap of earth in an outward spiraling circle.

He could feel that the job wasn't done.

He'd found joy in SAR that he'd never felt stomping the boot of the Lanaktallans onto the faces of the other species.

Now Old Iron Feathers had the feeling that the job wasn't quite done.

He was almost ready to quit when he saw it.

It was smoking, black smoke pouring out of the back deck through a hole where an internal explosion had blown the warsteel upward. The barrel was missing and fountains of sparks flew from under the sides of the tank.

A suit of Telkan power armor was on the front deck, under the shattered barrel of the main gun. An elf sat beside the suit, a broken sword in the elf's hand. A big burly Terran that Old Iron Feathers instantly recognized was in the commander's hatch, one hand on the quad-barrel the other hand on the top of cupola. On either side were two massive war-frames, limping and staggering but still under their own power, the designs foreign to Old Iron Feathers. They marched next to the smoking and roaring tank.

The tank was barely moving, lurching forward in fits and starts.

Another tank was moving behind it, slowly moving forward till the smaller tank bumped into the back of the damaged heavy tank. It thudded against the damaged back and started pushing it forward.

Old Iron Feathers signaled 13th Evac.

There were wounded men who needed dustoff.

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"Madame Director," Colonel Harvey said, touching Brentili'ik's shoulder, distracting her from the atmospheric reports. The Elven Queens already had the atmosphere cleared enough to breathe outside without a mask, without fear of disease, pollen, or spores, but it was still thick with ash from the volcanoes that had exploded.

Brentili'ik looked up. The fur around her eyes was white now and her whiskers drooped slightly. Not enough for most to notice, but enough for Colonel Harvey to notice.

"Yes, Colonel?" she asked. She flinched inwardly, wondering what more he had to tell her. She had already spent the last three days trying to figure out how to tell the broodcarriers and the podlings that her husband was dead.

"Trucker's coming back," Colonel Harvey said.

"Trucker? I thought he was dead. His men all say he's dead," Brentili'ik interrupted. She pinged her datalink and saw it. KIA - Killed In Action.

Harvey shook his head. "The big bastard's tougher than a Martian miner, Madame Director. He's still alive and coming in."

"Notify any family that he lives," Brentili'ik said, turning her attention back to the holodisplay.

"That's not why I came to find you," Colonel Harvey said. He touched her shoulder again, this time keeping his hand in place. "It's your husband."

Brentili'ik stood up straight, lifting her chin. "I am prepared to identify his remains."

Colonel Harvey shook his head. "He's alive. SAR brought him in, they're rushing him into surgery now."

Brentili'ik sagged for a second and Colonel Harvey reached for her. Before he could touch her she straightened up, her spine rigid.

"Take me to him," she ordered.

For a split second Colonel Harvey was amused at the difference between the half-terrified young female Telkan he had met a year ago and the solid female in front of him now.

"General Tik-Tak has a ship standing by," Colonel Harvey said. He held out his arm. "If I may escort you, Madame Director?"

------------------

Wakefulness came slow to him. Several times he lapsed back into sleep, back into dreams of his wife, his broodcarriers, his podlings, his friends, his comrades in arms.

It was the beeping that woke him up. It was annoying. It kept manifesting as an alarm clock, as an armor warning, and once as a podling toddling around making the beeping noise.

He opened his eye hoping to get it to shut up.

His other eye was dark.

He was staring at a white ceiling. Lights shined soft white light down.

He could only hear out of his right ear. He turned his head to look at the beeping noise.

A female Telkan was staring at him.

"I love you," Brentili'ik said to her husband, staring into his one remaining eye. "By the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol, I love you, Vuxten." She bent down and laid her muzzle next to his, crying into his short shaved fur.

He lifted up his arms and hugged her tight.

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The welders sparked and the grinders howled as Trucker watched, leaning on his crutches. He knew he was supposed to still be in the hospital but he'd ignored them to put on his uniform and crutch his ass out to watch.

Cry Little Sister had given everything she had.

Ekret stood next to Trucker and 584 and 471 as they watched the mechanics decommission the tank.

When they were done Trucker moved forward, holding out his hand to the lead mechanic. Ekret moved up and put his hand on the burly human's shoulder as if to steady him.

The mechanic dropped a chunk of warsteel, sticky with the carbonized flesh still adhered to it, into Trucker's hand.

"Thall shalt not fall," Trucker whispered.

---------------

General Takilikakik AKA Tik-Tak stood next to the holodisplay in his dress uniform. The awards had been handed out, the vehicles of Seventh Army and V Corps were refit, repaired, and replaced.

The Telkan Campaign was over.

He sighed in relief as he caught his reflection.

He still had no Combat Action Badge.

His finger still shook with how close it had come as he reached out and transmitted the memo.

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V CORPS MEMO

TELKAN-ONE COMBAT OPERATIONS ARE NOW AT AN END. ELVEN QUEENS AT OPTIMAL. DWELLERSPAWN AND DWELLER INFESTATION AT 8% AND DROPPING.

REQUEST RELIEF AND REFIT

---NOTHING FOLLOWS---

VII ARMY MEMO

DEFENSE OF THE TELKAN SYSTEM SUCCESSFUL.

REQUEST RELIEF AND REFIT.