War Horses 6 - chpt 1-3

Hey all! I could have sworn I posted this already, but I can't find it on the page, so just to be sure, here are the prologue and first 3 chapters of War Horses book 6: The Sunstone Imperative

Prologue

Interim Catalan 222nd and 223rd Fleet Joint Intelligence Office:: Analysis Report RE:: Wyking Bloodletting Ceremony

Following event RE:: Operation SUTURE, Wyking clans have withdrawn approximated 85%-90% of their forces from regions bordering Catalan holdings in the Mazan Channel region of the Gulf of Heracles. Similar drawdowns have been observed in the Alpine Worlds, the Northern Light Systems, and the Strait of Damocles.

Counterparts in the Emirati 116th and 118th corroborate similar observed drawdown under shared Wyking intelligence program:: SUNSTONE Imperative.

Additionally, FTL listening posts and stealth transponders within Wyking-controlled systems have observed a 45% reduction in patrol activity and static fleet manning, but a 37% increase in encrypted messaging traffic.

After reviewing official records of military actions during the bloodletting ceremony in joint fact-finding sessions, the JIO draws the following conclusions::

The Bloodletting Ceremony predicted by the 229th-230th JIO and interdicted by Mazan fleets supported by independent contractor forces RE:: Operation SUTURE has been fully aborted:: High Confidence

Upsets within the Wyking leadership structure of multiple discrete, opposed factions have made occupation of worlds in Catalan and Emirati controlled space untenable or undesirable:: High Confidence

Upsets within the Wyking command structure have weakened the unified Wyking front bordering the Gulf of Heracles, creating strategic vulnerabilities withing Wyking-controlled space:: Moderate Confidence

Several major Wyking clans are in a state of active civil war:: High Confidence

While the JIO acknowledges that infighting within Wyking factions is common, and the possibility for a complex trap by the Wyking Jarls exists, this office’s primary conclusion is that the Catalan-Wyking front is at an unprecedented state of low readiness, and the SUNSTONE Imperative should be moved to phase 2 with a deliberate, strategic intervention to capitalize on assessed temporary vulnerabilities in the Wyking social/military structure.

Chapter 1 – Bashtu North

“Fuck, it’s cold up here,” said Dirty Rocco.

I shrugged, immediately regretting it as cold air shot up the back of my shirt. “At least it’s not Xenotia, yeah?”

“That’s true. There’s actually girls here,” he said, rubbing his hands together and looking up at the neon sign for a skin joint as we passed. “More women, more booze, less fucking explosions.”

He started to push up toward the doorman but stopped at a raised hand.

“Hey, what gives?” I demanded, moving up.

The bouncer pointed to a hand-written sign pasted to the inside of the strip bar. I read the big, hastily scrawled letters spelling out No off-world mercs and scoffed. “Really? Our cred no good?”

“I don’t make the rules, hackjobs, I just run the door. Find somewhere else to trash.”

Rocco tightened his fists, stepping up as if to make something of it, but I clapped a hand on top of his shoulder. “Come on, man,” I said, tilting my head back at a pair of local security watching us from the comfort of their ground cruiser. “I don’t want to spend the night with the marines, do you?”

Rocco planted his boot on the leg of the doorman’s stool by way of answer, spilling the hefty local onto the ground. But he backed off as the man scrabbled back to his feet with murder in his eyes. I tossed a glance back to the security, who hadn’t yet gotten out of their vehicle.

“C’mon Vandal. This place is probably full of used up burnouts and amputees.”

“Sure, Rocco,” I said.

Another night, another bar ban. These signs were becoming increasingly common in Northern Bashtu. Six months ago, we’d been protecting against local militia groups in Central. But now that so many had packed up or packed in, merc security was the convenient punching bag. Not to mention our image had been in the dump by the time we’d rotated up north anyway, thanks to the scags in Fifth Formation tanking our rep during their rotation up here. The further from Central you got, the more blue-collar support for the militias you found—people that didn’t have time or patience for the central government.

We trudged back toward our own transport amidst the falling snow, parked a couple streets over. Truth was, I didn’t mind the cold. Teutonia was cold, and like I said, at least it wasn’t the bone-biting freezer of Xenotia. Still, everyone had to take the outstation assignments from time to time.

Before we could emerge from the alley in line of sight of our vehicle, Rocco ducked back and pushed me against the dirty wall. “Hold up,” he murmured. And waved me forward with two fingers. “Look familiar?”

I sidled up and leaned over to peek around him. There was a kid next to our ground car. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Plenty old enough to know that working our trunk open with a prybar probably wasn’t a great idea. Not only was there nothing in their worth stealing, but our company badge was stenciled on the side. Which we probably shouldn’t have done, since it was a rental. But the kid had taken it a step further by rattle-canning a dick on the side door.

I grinned. Not dissimilar to how Rocco had found me a little over ten years ago. Only I’d been elbow deep in the engine, not struggling to pop a simple lock. Bashtu kids weren’t the brightest stars in the gulf.

“You want the honor?” Rocco whispered down, grinning.

“Far be it from me,” I said, ushering him on with an open palm.

Rocco sauntered out of the alley, all swagger—but silent as the grave. For such a big guy, he could move quiet when he wanted to. Perks of that preternatural jockey grace we develop from tiptoeing two-hundred ton war machines around parked ground cars. I used to wonder how he did it, but after a couple years in the cockpit I wasn’t far behind him.

The kid must have had a decent sense of self-preservation, or maybe he caught the beer on the old jockey’s breath. But the second he turned around, Rocco reached out and snatched the kid, twirling him around and pinning him against the boot with his forearm.

I walked out, laughing, as Dirty Rocco treated him to a familiar tirade of vivid bodily threats. So, this was what it looked like to be on the other side of this exchange. I picked up the empty rattlecan and looked at the kid’s handiwork. Hadn’t even managed to get into the vehicle. Amateur work, speaking as a former delinquent youth, myself. I tossed the empty paint away and pulled out my multitool.

“Rocc, let’s see how he does with this,” I said.

Rocco turned and looked at me, eyebrow raised.

I shrugged. “I got a tryout, right?”

My oldest friend in the Chevaliers chuckled and backed off enough for me to come up and slap the tool in the kid’s hand. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Derrin,” he said, rolling the R’s the way the northern Bashtu do. He looked at the tool in his hand.

“Get crackin’, Derrin. You’re in that trunk in forty-five seconds and we’ll consider not smearing you across the pavement, yeah?” I rolled up the sleeve of my uniform and glanced at my timekeeper. “Time’s burnin’.”

Derrin turned and jammed the multitool into the locking mechanism, trying to pry out the edges with the pliers before giving up and sticking the flat-driver into the tumbler and jiggling it around. Forty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then the kid, panicking, whipped out the knife attachment and thrust it at my gut.

My body reacted on instinct, stepping back out of range, and then in as Derrin’s wild swing pulled him out of balance. Before he could right himself, I clamped my left hand on his wrist and put my right knuckles across his jaw. The kid collapsed, dropping my multitool to the wet ground, where I picked it up and stowed it.

“Hey Rocc, I don’t think he passed.”

I glanced back at Rocco, who was replacing the sidearm he’d drawn when the local got violent. He looked down at the kid, then put a twelve-point boot in his gut. Not enough to break anything, but enough that the little shit would think twice before messing with anything sporting the equine skull and spades of the Chevalier crest.

“Help me get this grease stain off the road so he don’t get run over,” said Rocco. We each took an arm and pulled the kid up onto the crete walking path. But that was the only kindness we offered him. A few of the locals watched, pointing, some even snapping video with their commpads. None intervened. They knew who we were, and the big sticks we carried. Still, best not dally. We slid into the front seats of the ground car and burned rubber back to the compound.

We were fast burning out our welcome on Bashtu. Soon every window would have a sign like the one at the skin joint. But there was only one problem. The governor had just re-upped our contract for another two years.

Chapter 2 – Complacency

A few months ago, I’d left the easy milk-run job at Bashtu to compete in the deadly and harrowing Grand Melee on Sienne. After coming back, I’d struck a balance between the two. I no longer felt antsy the way I had before the tournament, like I had to keep moving forward in order to prove something. I started to appreciate the assignment more, and especially the time it afforded me to enjoy the little things in life again—tearing up the town with friends, for example. Rocco may have been my formation commander, but before that he was also the salty bastard that had pulled me off the streets of Teutonia.

But over the last couple months, I’d noticed myself slipping toward the other extreme end of the spectrum into complacency. The routine had started to become too comfortable, to the point that I could almost feel my edges dulling. That’s why, as we drove under passing streetlights and the beginning of an ice-rain shower, I was almost relieved when my commpad buzzed in sync with Roccos.

We locked eyes for a moment before Rocco reached into his jacket pocket and tossed his commpad to me. A mass notification only meant one thing: formation-level orders. I thumbed the screen on and had to keep myself from hollering with joy.

“What’s the word?” asked Rocco.

“Patrol in the AM. Looks like they finally tracked down those twins running arms down through to the Central militias. You’re briefing the formation at 0700.”

Rocco smacked the steering column with a meaty palm. “Fuuuuck yes! Bout time local inspectors sussed it out. Our shop only gave them the intel weeks ago. At least the Bashers want to move before they catch wise. Local law’s got more leaks than a target board at the CAS range.”

Fifteen minutes later we passed two of our uprights on maintenance patrol on the outskirts of the city. It was easy to tell that maintainers were driving them, thanks to the slow, deliberate steps of manual controls rather than the smooth, fluid responses of a shunt-controlled walk. We cruised through the entry control point of the Northern Bashtu compound, waved through by a pair of marines when they recognized us, and we pulled up to the overflow parking for the motorpool.

“Nice hull art, major,” one of them said.

Rocco leaned his head out the window as we passed. “Eat my tender asshole!”

I stifled a laugh. Times past, the idea of an impending patrol would have petrified me. Now, I looked forward to it. In no small part because my fellow jockeys in the Third formation were closer than any family I might have ever had. Time spent in the cockpit, listening to them bicker on comms? Closest I got to a holiday dinner.

We passed the open hangar where a collection of Chevalier techs swarmed around the uprights of third formation, ready and waiting for the patrol in the morning. Ardennes was third from the front, long-since repaired from the beating she’d taken on Sienne. We’d lost Naildriver at that tournament, but we’d gained two new Au’Duran jabaar. One of them was in Central with First Formation. The other, Surah, towered above the other uprights in the bay. Even kneeling down, its broad shoulders nearly brushed the rail cranes running the length of the gantry. Our facilities weren’t chosen with Au’Duran machine stature in mind.

Rocco pulled the ground car into the hangar spaces, and I got out, still looking at the massive jabaar. “What do you think, Rocc? You bringing her out with us?”

Rocco dug dirty fingers through the rough thatch of his beard, considering. “Nah, not yet. Still running through the sims. Marmaluk’s got plenty of firepower for a couple of gun runners. But you can bet your ass I’ll be the first in the company ready to rock Au’Duran tech.”

“Just don’t let Major Atherton beat you to the punch,” I said.

“Atherton couldn’t jockey his way out of a paper bag,” said Rocco. Not entirely true, as the formation commander for First was an ace in his own right. Rocco held his fist up, and I tapped it with my own. “See you at the brief, kid.”

                            *

“Alright people, just because we’re not expecting much resistance doesn’t mean we’re taking this raid lightly,” said Rocco.

A hand tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned to see Sable handing up a pair of coffee cups. I took one and passed the other to Stag beside me, who handed it on to Dathers, our newest jockey who’d been brought over from the Sixth to replace Diablo. So freshly minted he hadn’t even gotten himself a callsign, yet. He and Sable would partner up on Destrier to offer fire support for this patrol. He thanked me, took a sip, and wrinkled his nose.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “We ran out of sucra last night.”

“Still better’n the swill I’m used to in Eastern,” he said.

“Welcome to the Third.”

Rocco cleared his throat and glared at me, so I sat up straighter and shut my mouth.

“As I was saying, the Bashers have the lead on this op. They traced the arms ring back to another group of off-world security, so they’re understandably pissed that the guys they hired to provide security are instead destabilizing Central to line their own pockets. I don’t know if they’re going to fold or fight, but we’re going to plan for the second.”

He clicked over to the next slide, which brought up the info sheet for the renegade merc company: Gyralt Security Solutions. I recognized the logo. I’d seen it on a few uniform patches here and there in the northern province since our rotation. It hadn’t just been Fifth Formation ruining our reputation up here. These guys were also helping to give off-world mercs a bad name with fights, violence, and even a little extortion or protection rackets where they thought they could get away with it.

I sipped my own coffee and glanced down at it. Fuck me, Dathers was right. I missed the Tyunta local coffee. I put it down next to my chair and raised my hand.

“What is it, Vandal?”

“I’ve heard a bit of scuttlebutt with these guys. The Bashtu Central government cut the option years off their contract for failure to perform. Arms trade might be their way of getting whatever they can out of Bashtu before they shove off. But they’re not going to be selling their own stock. So where’s the surplus coming from?”

“Good question. Wish I knew,” said Rocco. “That ‘hours-from-functional’ upright we scuttled last year before you fucked off to the Melee? That was Gyalt. The Bashers have no intention of letting these guys ship off world until they’re tried and served time. We’ve checked with the Heracles Gulf agency repping them, and their security bond has already been shadow-revoked. They don’t know it yet, but their company is finished. We’re about to deliver the news with heavy calibers.”

He flipped to the next slide to show a detailed satellite view of the Gyalt compound. Looked like a retrofitted mining camp with a larger main building on the east side and a forest of smaller structures on the west. A large motorpool blanketed the southern third of the compound, and I recognized a mix of tactical and civilian vehicles. Seven perimeter emplacements were marked along the edges. It was well-protected, and they’d see the Bashers coming with Stag. But these guys were a local security and riot-control detail—special tactics, patrol vehicles, and light aircraft for recon and extraction, not a combined arms private military like Chevalier. They provided bodies in uniform and firebomb-proof cars, not war machines. Mobilizing a full formation of uprights with firebase support seemed like overkill.

“Primary assault is via the main road, here,” said Rocco, pointing. “Bashtu Security will be coming up the road in heavy technicals and armored fighting vehicles. A second element will lock down egress at the service road at the rear, and we’ll have upright elements here, and here—” he pointed to the two forested flanks. “—to show force and pop a quick surrender. Vandal, you’re with Rowdy east. Jacque, I want you on overwatch with the rear element. Stag, you’ll be with the primary Basher element providing anti-air in case these guys make a show of it. Any questions?”

I raised my hand again. “You’re going to be awful lonely on the west side. You sure you don’t want Rowdy with you?”

“Fuck you, Vandal!” hissed Rowdy. I shot a grin back.

“Nice try,” said Rocco. He dug his hand through his beard. “I recognize having a solo upright on the flank represents a vulnerability, but Marmaluk alone could clear that whole compound.” He traced a line on the screen between the northern service road and his position to the west. “Under catastrophic circumstances, the contingency will be Jacque rotating to assist.”

Jacque raised his hand. “Rules of engagement?”

“Bashers want to give these guys a chance to surrender without bloodshed. A corpse can’t stand trial or give up their sources. Even odds on whether these assholes take that chance or just open fire before we’re in loudspeaker range. Our directive is to not take overtly hostile action until Gyalt fucks up. Once they do, it’s gloves off unless they lay down arms. If they do, our highest priorities are taking out the heavy armor before the crews can get it up and running. Destrier has fire missions on standby, but there’s potential for more equipment inside the motorpool or the mining complex.”

Rocco looked around, but there weren’t any additional questions. He cut the power on the holoscreen and tucked his datapad into his bag. He had to raise his voice over the shriek of chair legs dragging across the crete floor to be heard. “Flight leaders, stay behind, you’ve got alternate tasking tonight that we need to talk about. Catalan VIP and entourage is inbound to tour the headquarters and out-stations. Everyone else, showtime at eleven-hundred local.”

Chapter 3 – Milk Run

I warmed up Ardennes in the Third Formation hangar, listening to her familiar reactor spool up. All the various whines and grinds felt completely normal to me. Everything out of the ordinary was completely ordinary with this old war horse. The shunt told me everything I needed to know—from the nominal pressure in my reaction chamber to the missiles in my tubes and the charged plasma level in the grenade reservoir above my chassis.

Reluctantly, I reached overhead and tugged down the goggles. I’d gotten a shellacking when I came home from the Grande Melee. There’d been a mix of incredulity and abuse hurled my way at the footage that had filtered back from my cockpit cams showing me not using the goggles at all for the majority of the tournament. Some blamed it for my early elimination, others claimed it showed the entire tournament was fake. A couple even managed to figure out the trick for themselves, now they knew it was possible. But all the brass agreed: they wanted no copycats getting themselves or others killed by fancy shunt tricks. Chevalier doctrine now explicitly forbid jockeying uprights without goggles, so I’d be wearing them if I didn’t want formal discipline.

I wondered if there was any other official doctrine I’d been directly responsible for. You know what? Never mind. I didn’t want to know.

Goggles secure and set to pass-thu (they said I had to wear ‘em, but they never said I had to use ‘em), I flicked on the radio and set my communication hierarchy up. My lip curled in disgust at having to bring Dan ‘Rowdy’ Harris into my subnet. But rather than talking to him, I flipped on my primary radio.

“Crow’s nest, Ardennes requesting startup clearance.”

“Granted, Ardennes. Good hunting, Vandal.”

“Thanks, Kayle,” I said. I finished running through the startup checklist as the reactor spooled up to full military power. “Always feels better to face the fires of war with your voice in my ear.”

“Or at least the fury of a few holdout mall-cops,” she said.

“That too.”

How many patrols had I taken Ardennes out on, now? Had it been over a hundred? You don’t get to hear about the mundane ones most of the time, but in reality, they make up the meat of my time in the cockpit, now. Even on Cinto DaSelva I was more likely than not to climb out of the cockpit without having primed my weapon systems. In the year we’d spent on Bashtu, it had only been when I’d gone to the Melee that I’d sent ordnance at another upright.

I hoped Gyalt, for their own sakes, weren’t about to break that streak. I might have grown past my hangups about killing in combat when necessary, but that didn’t mean I was eager to open up my guns on a bunch of glorified security guards toting small arms.

Pulling out of the hangar, I slow-walked Ardennes to the staging point. The marines who had stood watch at the entry point now barely came up to my ankles. There’s few things in the universe that make you feel more secure than wrapping yourselves in a hundred and fifty tons of war machine—at least until you remember that everyone else jockeying one has ordinance designed to penetrate your ultra-dense polymer armor.

With that sobering thought, I finished my transition out of the hangar compound and into the muster yard. Before long, the rest of Third formation joined me. With Sable and Dathers in Destrier, it felt as though we were running light, even though the super-heavy mobile firebase carried a bastion of ordnance for fire support.

“Rally point set, move out, single column. Watch your feet in the city. I don’t want to be explaining any twisted metal to the old lady!” said Rocco.

“A-firm,” I said, pulling over my aux screen and loading up the mission coordinates.

“Rowdy on point. Don’t get too far ahead of us.”

“No promises, Major.”

His Peregine-class recon stamped at the ground, as if about to break and tear through the city at a breakneck sprint. Everyone’s blood was up. Most of our patrols lately had been completely dead. This was the first active combat patrol where we might face resistance. I fought the urge to tell him to calm down. Sable apparently felt the same.

“Slow your roll, killer. Don’t leave yourself exposed.”

I relaxed. After Cinto DaSelva and the Grande Melee, I’d found myself with an annoying habit: missing the taste of leadership that I’d so vehemently rejected in the past. Pug once described leadership to me as being the first damn fool to open his mouth in a tactical situation because he couldn’t stand listening to silence on the radio while the bombs dropped.

I keyed my own mic. “Right behind you, Rowdy. Two-hundred meter spread, right quarter.”

“A-firm.”

I moved out of the yard, following Rowdy at a slow clip until he’d built proper spacing, then I leaned into the canter and started to eat up kilometers as the outskirts of the city drifted by to be replaced by forest and tundra. One thing Bashtu had no shortage of, and that played a massive part in its huge fossil fuel deposits, was megaflora. The trees here were massive, plentiful, and barren. Unlike the bio-rich world of Cinto-DaSelva, Bashtu had no animal life save the livestock the original Dutchie penal settlers had brought with them—and of those, only goats and hens survived. Occasionally, they tried to reintroduce cattle. But something on Bashtu killed them every time. Some blight in the local conifer pollen, or madness or…

Look don’t ask me to explain it, I’m a jockey, not a farmer.

The Gyalt compound was nestled in the foothills of a forest service area forty klicks outside the city. We linked up with the Bash-Sec element at the garrison and followed them north. A snow flurry slowed our progress, but it would give us better cover approaching the compound. Finished crete roads turned to gravel, which turned to dirt, slowing us further. The trees closed in, scraping the edges of Ardennes as we ate up the forest road. All told, it was a three-hour jaunt spent listening, and occasionally joining, the familiar banter of Third Formation.

I pulled over my tactical overlay and switched to element radio. “Rally is coming up. Let’s take position, Rowdy.”

“Sure. I see a break in the trees on the right, two-hundred meters. Tactical shows a forestry road leading most of the way around.”

“Confirmed,” I said, and switched back to the main circuit. “Rocco, we’re moving to take position on the eastern side. I’ll ping you once we’re in position.”

“A-firm, kid. Don’t let any of ‘em weasel up your ass.”

Rowdy slowed down off-road, but not by much. The forest spread out before us, high and daunting. I’d seen trees before, but northern Bashtu had trees. Some of the largest up here were almost the height of a gravity tower, and nearly as big around. I had to dodge over twisting roots just to keep up with my partner. I didn’t mind it, though. Ardennes is a war horse that likes to be given her head. I leaned into it and let her centrifugal leg joints spread. My breath came easy, thanks to the endurance I’d built. I was a far cry from the out-of-shape maintainer that had patched this MBU instead of jockeying it.

Jacque’s voice came over the radio. “Bash-Sec rear element moving into position, major.”

“Primary element is coming in view of the compound now,” added Stag.

“Good,” said Rocco. “Central government should be getting on the horn to demand they surrender. Let’s hope they don’t—”

Weapons fire rattled to the west of us, and I turned Ardennes on instinct, dropping my shrouds toward the Gyalt compound. My threat index had spiked, and identified the noise as heavy machine-gun rounds, likely from one of their technicals.

“Rocco,” I called.

“I heard it, move up. Sable, standby fire mission one. Stag?”

“Gyalt just opened up on the forward element, Major. Emplacements on the walls.

A pair of rocket launches accompanied the fire. I watched the twin plumes arc skyward before curving back down. When they landed, they turned the forest sun-bright, and I watched a wave of wind slam through the trees, blowing loose foliage and detritus throughout the forest—in the wrong direction.

“Shit! I saw that from here,” called Sable. “Rocc, was that nuclear?”

“Negative, those are thermobaric blasts. Sable, Go for fire mission one.”

Now my heart was up. Vacuum bombs weren’t exactly small arms fire. They were MBU killers, every bit as powerful as a plasma mortar, if lower tech. Many planetary governments banned their use, due to their inhumane effects on the human body—which, I don’t know why they’re considered less humane than just regular blowing something up, but for some reason they are. But Bashtu was one of those planets—which meant these were off-world munitions. I started Ardennes toward the eastern wall of the Gyalt compound.

“On the way!”

I could hear the I heard the clatter of Stag’s anti-air carbon rifles before I saw the flock of VTOLs heading north. My targeting computer chirped as it assigned seekers to individual targets. I keyed my mic. “Rocco, we’ve got birds taking off, looks like an evac. Engage or let fly?”

“If they’re not shooting, let ‘em go. Let Basher air defense handle it. Take Rowdy up the east side and breach the wall.”

“Understood,” I said. “Rowdy, I’ll take point.”

“On your five,” he said, stepping off my right rear quarter.

We moved through the foliage until I got a look at the compound walls. They were sloped out, to prevent an MBU from gaining easy access or using them as revetments facing in. There was a side entry protected by a sliding gate. Point defense roared up from the compound, and I started seeing explosions from where the guns picked out Destrier’s artillery shells from the air. Why did these guys even have point defense for indirect fire? Why did they have thermobaric weapons?

Emplacements along the eastern wall opened up with low caliber guns and a few rocket launchers that I stripped with my own forward array as rounds thumped off my shrouds. Rowdy stepped up beside me and spat rockets back at the positions along the wall while I charged my plasma coils. I no longer had the plasma mortar, but I had shorter-ranged grenades that would make quick work of that sliding gate. I sent a full volley out in a blue-white arc that blew the gate off its hinges.

Another bright detonation from a thermobaric warhead lit up the forest, and Rocco screamed over the radio.

“Rocco!” I shouted.