Doveshire
Chapter 4
Downtown Doveshire
McAuliffe VI
Sullivan wondered for the hundredth time just how he and McCoy ended up in this foxhole with a genuine crazy Marine. Corporal Larson was head of an autocannon team; two to carry the weapon and a third for the ammo. Only problem was, one of the team was dead. As long as the gun did not have to move, it could easily operate with a gunner and a reloader. Unlike old machine guns with their belts, autocannons housed their rounds inside drums. Five hundred tungsten rounds in each drum. The autocannon had fewer moving parts than most weapons, simply being a small mass driver, firing its rounds with electromagnets.
With so much fire coming from both directions, neither of the riflemen felt much like leaving the relative comfort of a foxhole. They reckoned this was once a park, but could not confirm it. The park was a kilometer from either river, and near the commercial district of the city. Where once stood towers exceeding fifty floors, now rested piles of concrete and steel, twisted like industrial fossils. The buildings came down only a few hours ago, and dust still clogged the air. McCoy told him that their collapse was a good thing. It meant the Kilrathi were losing. Once a position is in their claws, they only destroy it when they know they can not hold it.
If the implosion of downtown was good news, Sullivan dared not think of bad. Larson was a veteran of a few invasions himself. Sullivan could tell by not just his cool under fire, but the homemade necklace he wore over his body armor. Precious metal or gems did not hang from them. Instead, the big blonde wore a necklace of claws. Each claw came from the trigger finger of a Kilrathi soldier he killed. A gruesome means to keep track of kills, and not a very effective one. Did he really kill that many Cats? Perhaps, but only with an autocannon and not the rifle slung over his back. Certainly never with the Kilrathi hunting knife that rested in his belt.
“How you feeling, McCoy?” Larson called over his shoulder. The two of them served together on a previous campaign, one that involved taking back a starbase. “Ready to kill us some more Cats.”
McCoy gave him a mean grin. “I’d say it’s time to kick ass and chew bubble gum, but I appear to be all out of gum.”
Larson laughed despite the battle raging around him. “Anyone who can quote Duke Nukem is alright in my book.”
Nukem was another one of those tidbits of information one picked up in the Corps. Sullivan never found any records or documents to support his existence, but Marines insisted he was the first Terran to plant his boot on an alien face. He was a legend among them. Sullivan would have called him a myth; he was suppose to have existed before humanity ever left Sol, so there was no way he could have fought aliens. Not to mention no alien invasion has ever struck Earth.
“You suppose he’s related to John Wayne?” the ammo feeder asked. “They’re both Dukes after all.”
Larson shook his head. “No, wrong generation. Wayne took part in one of the big world wars. Killed on some island fighting the Japanese.” John Wayne was another of those legendary figures from centuries past. Marines insisted he was one of their own while the Navy insisted he was a sailor, and had documents to prove it. Even the Army claimed him as their own.
“I thought he was wasted in Vietnam. I saw some footage of him with weapons more advanced than the Pacific War.” McCoy had a point. The Duke, as he was known, did seem to get around. Sullivan could not put much stock in any of it. Sure, there was solid evidence he existed, but media records before 2090, were incomplete at best. Since the hard copies were neglected after the data was transferred to computers, and those computers were destroyed by the EMP of a nuclear war, the truth may never be known.
Larson waved away McCoy’s idea. “No way, he was a Pacific War man, hoping islands like we hop planets.”
The ammo feeder, following the argument, dropped in his own two credits. “I could have sworn the man was a pilot.”
The other two Marines glared at him as he just blasphemed. “That’s what the Navy would like you to think,” Larson replied, as if there was a solid conspiracy aimed at the Corps.
Sullivan shook his head at the surreal debate. Here they were, trapped in a fox hole, in the middle of a burning city, and these grunts were fighting over to which branch of the service some long dead man belonged. They could be killed at any moment, and McCoy and the gunner were trying to hash out when he died. It was ridiculous. It was laughable too, though Sullivan still dared not to laugh for fear of being unable to stop.
“Is this really time to be having this talk?” Sullivan shouted over a nearby explosion. Rounds from Kilrathi artillery made his ears ring, and left him wondering if he was ever heard.
McCoy shot him a mockingly annoyed glance. “It’s never the time for you, Sully! Just once, think of my needs.”
Sullivan rolled his eyes, wanting to smack him with the butt end of his rifle. With comrades like McCoy, were the Cats even needed?
The Kilrathi believed as much. For as soon as McCoy spoke, Larsen let out a string of vicious curses. “Not this again!”
Sullivan peaked over the rim of the foxhole, and what he saw was surprising. In what had developed into a dead zone, dozens of Terran civilians were shuffling forward. If it was not the time for historical debates, it certainly was not the time for refugees. He saw nothing astonishing about them. They were just a motley collection of civilians, their clothes turning into rags, moving slowly forward. Something about how they moved puzzled him. They looked like they were being herded.
Behind the wall of civilians, he saw the helmets of several taller, larger people. Way too big to be Terrans, and he knew of no Wu on Mac Six. They were large enough to be Kilrathi– McCoy noticed this too, and let out his own imaginative oath. “I’m getting sick of this human shield nonsense,” he spat. “They know bloody well we’ll shoot through them.”
Sullivan dreaded the idea of killing civies just to waste Cats, but McCoy was right. If they did not shoot through them, the Cats would move with impunity. Some of those refugees were probably plants too, suicide bombers in case the Cats could not reach their target. McCoy raised his rifle at the oncoming wave. “You know what we need? Some sort of genome-based weapon. Something that’ll kill Kilrathi and leave the civies alone.”
Such biological weapons did exist, according to rumor. They were seldom used, and never on Terran worlds. Aside from centuries of ethical repulsion of the weapons, a great many Kilrathi Prides lived in the Confederation, and actively aided against the Kilrathi government. None of those Prides had any love fro the Imperial Pride. It was all big news, and Confed milked it for everything it was worth.
“What, and kill of the Cats who like us?” Larsen said with a sneer. “Didn’t you know it’s more important to protect aliens than our own kind?”
McCoy shrugged, jostling his weapon in the process. “The Cats haven’t used them. Maybe they haven’t thought of them, so why go giving them ideas?”
Larsen muttered something strong, but so low that nearby explosions drowned it out. He looked over at his ammo feeder. “Alright grunt, when they cross that toppled street lamp, we open up on them.”
The idea of shooting through them sickened Sullivan, but he knew there was little choice. Artillery was already bringing rounds down behind the refugees. Fragmentation rounds bursts in the dim hope of killing the Cats behind the wave, and minimizing casualties among the civilians. In his few days on Mac Six, Sullivan discovered a hundred new reasons to hate the Kilrathi. Why could they not just come out and fight?
Cats always boasted at being mighty warriors, but what sort of warrior used noncombatants as shields? Even the nastiest humans from Earth’s history seldom did such things. The Cats had no value for life, especially that of aliens. If a Kilrathi would throw his own life away in defiance, it should not be a surprise they would throw masses of Terrans at other, and better armed ones. His hopes jumped when he saw two of the Cats crouching behind the refugees fly into the air in more than two pieces. Maybe artillery would kill them all.
Or perhaps not. As they approached the toppled and slightly melted lamp post Larsen designated, Sullivan knew they would not stop. Marines would be forced to shoot through them. Sullivan wondered if the families of those refugees could forgive the Marines for what they were about to do. Less than a second later, he decided it would not matter, for he knew he could never forgive himself for doing what needed doing.
Chapter 4
Downtown Doveshire
McAuliffe VI
Sullivan wondered for the hundredth time just how he and McCoy ended up in this foxhole with a genuine crazy Marine. Corporal Larson was head of an autocannon team; two to carry the weapon and a third for the ammo. Only problem was, one of the team was dead. As long as the gun did not have to move, it could easily operate with a gunner and a reloader. Unlike old machine guns with their belts, autocannons housed their rounds inside drums. Five hundred tungsten rounds in each drum. The autocannon had fewer moving parts than most weapons, simply being a small mass driver, firing its rounds with electromagnets.
With so much fire coming from both directions, neither of the riflemen felt much like leaving the relative comfort of a foxhole. They reckoned this was once a park, but could not confirm it. The park was a kilometer from either river, and near the commercial district of the city. Where once stood towers exceeding fifty floors, now rested piles of concrete and steel, twisted like industrial fossils. The buildings came down only a few hours ago, and dust still clogged the air. McCoy told him that their collapse was a good thing. It meant the Kilrathi were losing. Once a position is in their claws, they only destroy it when they know they can not hold it.
If the implosion of downtown was good news, Sullivan dared not think of bad. Larson was a veteran of a few invasions himself. Sullivan could tell by not just his cool under fire, but the homemade necklace he wore over his body armor. Precious metal or gems did not hang from them. Instead, the big blonde wore a necklace of claws. Each claw came from the trigger finger of a Kilrathi soldier he killed. A gruesome means to keep track of kills, and not a very effective one. Did he really kill that many Cats? Perhaps, but only with an autocannon and not the rifle slung over his back. Certainly never with the Kilrathi hunting knife that rested in his belt.
“How you feeling, McCoy?” Larson called over his shoulder. The two of them served together on a previous campaign, one that involved taking back a starbase. “Ready to kill us some more Cats.”
McCoy gave him a mean grin. “I’d say it’s time to kick ass and chew bubble gum, but I appear to be all out of gum.”
Larson laughed despite the battle raging around him. “Anyone who can quote Duke Nukem is alright in my book.”
Nukem was another one of those tidbits of information one picked up in the Corps. Sullivan never found any records or documents to support his existence, but Marines insisted he was the first Terran to plant his boot on an alien face. He was a legend among them. Sullivan would have called him a myth; he was suppose to have existed before humanity ever left Sol, so there was no way he could have fought aliens. Not to mention no alien invasion has ever struck Earth.
“You suppose he’s related to John Wayne?” the ammo feeder asked. “They’re both Dukes after all.”
Larson shook his head. “No, wrong generation. Wayne took part in one of the big world wars. Killed on some island fighting the Japanese.” John Wayne was another of those legendary figures from centuries past. Marines insisted he was one of their own while the Navy insisted he was a sailor, and had documents to prove it. Even the Army claimed him as their own.
“I thought he was wasted in Vietnam. I saw some footage of him with weapons more advanced than the Pacific War.” McCoy had a point. The Duke, as he was known, did seem to get around. Sullivan could not put much stock in any of it. Sure, there was solid evidence he existed, but media records before 2090, were incomplete at best. Since the hard copies were neglected after the data was transferred to computers, and those computers were destroyed by the EMP of a nuclear war, the truth may never be known.
Larson waved away McCoy’s idea. “No way, he was a Pacific War man, hoping islands like we hop planets.”
The ammo feeder, following the argument, dropped in his own two credits. “I could have sworn the man was a pilot.”
The other two Marines glared at him as he just blasphemed. “That’s what the Navy would like you to think,” Larson replied, as if there was a solid conspiracy aimed at the Corps.
Sullivan shook his head at the surreal debate. Here they were, trapped in a fox hole, in the middle of a burning city, and these grunts were fighting over to which branch of the service some long dead man belonged. They could be killed at any moment, and McCoy and the gunner were trying to hash out when he died. It was ridiculous. It was laughable too, though Sullivan still dared not to laugh for fear of being unable to stop.
“Is this really time to be having this talk?” Sullivan shouted over a nearby explosion. Rounds from Kilrathi artillery made his ears ring, and left him wondering if he was ever heard.
McCoy shot him a mockingly annoyed glance. “It’s never the time for you, Sully! Just once, think of my needs.”
Sullivan rolled his eyes, wanting to smack him with the butt end of his rifle. With comrades like McCoy, were the Cats even needed?
The Kilrathi believed as much. For as soon as McCoy spoke, Larsen let out a string of vicious curses. “Not this again!”
Sullivan peaked over the rim of the foxhole, and what he saw was surprising. In what had developed into a dead zone, dozens of Terran civilians were shuffling forward. If it was not the time for historical debates, it certainly was not the time for refugees. He saw nothing astonishing about them. They were just a motley collection of civilians, their clothes turning into rags, moving slowly forward. Something about how they moved puzzled him. They looked like they were being herded.
Behind the wall of civilians, he saw the helmets of several taller, larger people. Way too big to be Terrans, and he knew of no Wu on Mac Six. They were large enough to be Kilrathi– McCoy noticed this too, and let out his own imaginative oath. “I’m getting sick of this human shield nonsense,” he spat. “They know bloody well we’ll shoot through them.”
Sullivan dreaded the idea of killing civies just to waste Cats, but McCoy was right. If they did not shoot through them, the Cats would move with impunity. Some of those refugees were probably plants too, suicide bombers in case the Cats could not reach their target. McCoy raised his rifle at the oncoming wave. “You know what we need? Some sort of genome-based weapon. Something that’ll kill Kilrathi and leave the civies alone.”
Such biological weapons did exist, according to rumor. They were seldom used, and never on Terran worlds. Aside from centuries of ethical repulsion of the weapons, a great many Kilrathi Prides lived in the Confederation, and actively aided against the Kilrathi government. None of those Prides had any love fro the Imperial Pride. It was all big news, and Confed milked it for everything it was worth.
“What, and kill of the Cats who like us?” Larsen said with a sneer. “Didn’t you know it’s more important to protect aliens than our own kind?”
McCoy shrugged, jostling his weapon in the process. “The Cats haven’t used them. Maybe they haven’t thought of them, so why go giving them ideas?”
Larsen muttered something strong, but so low that nearby explosions drowned it out. He looked over at his ammo feeder. “Alright grunt, when they cross that toppled street lamp, we open up on them.”
The idea of shooting through them sickened Sullivan, but he knew there was little choice. Artillery was already bringing rounds down behind the refugees. Fragmentation rounds bursts in the dim hope of killing the Cats behind the wave, and minimizing casualties among the civilians. In his few days on Mac Six, Sullivan discovered a hundred new reasons to hate the Kilrathi. Why could they not just come out and fight?
Cats always boasted at being mighty warriors, but what sort of warrior used noncombatants as shields? Even the nastiest humans from Earth’s history seldom did such things. The Cats had no value for life, especially that of aliens. If a Kilrathi would throw his own life away in defiance, it should not be a surprise they would throw masses of Terrans at other, and better armed ones. His hopes jumped when he saw two of the Cats crouching behind the refugees fly into the air in more than two pieces. Maybe artillery would kill them all.
Or perhaps not. As they approached the toppled and slightly melted lamp post Larsen designated, Sullivan knew they would not stop. Marines would be forced to shoot through them. Sullivan wondered if the families of those refugees could forgive the Marines for what they were about to do. Less than a second later, he decided it would not matter, for he knew he could never forgive himself for doing what needed doing.