We are informed, upon achieving orbit, that the mining colony at Seta Point and the Eisenbrucke Research Station are the only two human settlements affected by this foul weather, which has acted as a temporary protection against Tersae attacks. Rustenberg, which lies at the southernmost edge of this massive storm front, has experienced high winds and freezing rain, but this has not been enough to protect them from enemy aggression.
Thule’s axial tilt, almost directly vertical, has created a narrow band of tropical luxuriance at the equator, bounded by vast regions of forest and tundra and enormous ice caps which reach from the planetary poles to more than thirty degrees of latitude. Thule’s seasons are brought about by its eccentric orbit, which brings it closer to the system’s star in summer. With Thule rapidly retreating from its primary, the entire planet is now entering the winter season. Within weeks, even the equatorial belt will turn cold, plunging the entire planet into its long winter.
Rugged mountain chains, thousands of kilometers long, are visible as dark and jagged scars across the sun-bright glare of snow, where tectonic plates have collided or pulled apart in fiery volcanic violence. Ancient impact craters are visible as faint outlines in snow-free areas. The Thule system is thick with debris from the ancient supernova which created the star system, making trans-system shipping for ore freighters and our own naval transport a tricky proposition. If the saganium were not so critical, prompting Concordiat underwriting, shipping costs through the muck flying loose in the Thule system would be prohibitive.
Despite the difficulties of trans-system navigation, we achieve orbit without incident and orbital drop proceeds smoothly. Captain Roth and Unit XPJ-1411 leave our transport first. I depart the Aldora’s cargo bay six point two five minutes later and plunge into darkness as my heavy lift sled enters the night side of Thule. The glowing contrail from my powered drop platform leaves a trail of fire across the nighttime sky. If anyone—or anything—below is watching, our arrival will certainly be spectacular.
My trajectory carries me in a streaking arc to the planetary west, toward the edge of the storm system which has brushed so closely past Rustenberg. As I plunge into heavy cloud cover, we experience strong buffeting from storm winds. My commander grips the padded consoles of my command chair, thins her lips, and says nothing. Combat drop is always stressful for humans, this one particularly so.
To our mutual relief, I drop below cloud cover and sight Rustenberg using infrared sensors and radar. The bleak landscape beyond Rustenberg’s outermost structures—terrain I must hold against enemy incursions—gives me new cause for anxiousness. The colony sits in a vast and ancient lava field, fissured by deep gorges and steep-sided valleys. A mantle of forest covers the surface of this ancient basalt, making it doubly difficult to see anything in the deep cracks. Hundreds or even thousands of enemy soldiers could congregate within a few dozen meters of Rustenberg, completely undetected until the moment of attack. I have a limited number of aerial survey packages on board, which is cause for concern. If our mission briefing was correct, the Tersae will attempt to blast out of the sky anything we put up into it.
On the heels of that thought, my heavy lift sled comes under enemy fire. “Seven incoming missiles of unknown configuration.”
“Get ’em.”
I attempt to lock onto the missiles—
—and am horrified to discover a devastating unsteadiness in my new target-acquisition and weapons-guidance systems. I am unable to secure an accurate weapons lock. A disorienting stutter of incompatible signals ghosts across the interface between old circuitry and new.
We are all but helpless in the air.
The best I can do is fire heat-seeking missiles of my own, which do not rely on my internal, malfunctioning guidance systems. They are not the weapon of choice, given the speed at which the enemy missiles are closing with my heavy lift sled.
I slew us around midair, overriding the sled’s auto-programming. This cants us so any missiles which elude my return fire will detonate against my war hull, not the lifter. My commander shouts in shocked reaction. I am built to withstand high explosive rounds, but the underside of my lift sled is vulnerable without my guns to take down incoming fire. I log the frantic observation that this constitutes a serious design flaw in the lift sleds. I cannot risk a fall from this altitude, since the impact would crush my commander. As we twist sideways in the air, three enemy missiles reach my war hull and explode. A brief flare of pain registers on my damage-control sensors, but I am barely scratched. I slew us around again to continue the descent.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her voice is more a sob of terror than a demand for information.
“I am experiencing an unknown weapons-control malfunction, originating in the interface between my original and upgraded systems.” As I speak, I take careful note of where each missile originated, backtracking heat signatures and missile-launch flares against the darkened, ice-covered rooftops. “Mapping origination points to my forward data screen. Coding enemy emplacements in flashing red. The enemy has penetrated most of the settlement.” Indeed, the Tersae have ringed Rustenberg in a vast circle of death.
“The enemy is firing from rooftops as indicated, Commander.” I superimpose flashing pointers over the launch sites, laying down a gridwork map to show the extent of abandoned habitations below. “I detect a plascrete wall four meters high around this central core, which could serve no logical peacetime purpose.” I highlight the structure, which encloses an area of approximately five acres, on which numerous structures have been built.
“They must’ve retreated as far as they could, then threw up a defensive barrier. God knows how they got that wall up under enemy fire.”
There is no point in speculation about the ease or difficulty of the wall’s construction. The colonists have abandoned most of Rustenberg as indefensible, a fact of immediate and critical importance. The open-pit mineworks north of town and a crude-oil refinery capable of cracking crude petroleum into useable fuels have been likewise abandoned.
More missiles arch upwards in a blaze of fire against the darkness. Most are aimed at my lift sled, which has dropped to a mere five thousand decimeters, but five of them streak over the settlement’s defensive plascrete wall. I fire interceptors at both sets and once again slew us sideways in the air. We are hit by four more enemy missiles. Our transport rocks and shudders. The lift sled has taken a direct hit in the armored engine nodules. Another such hit and we will lose the engines. I cut power to drop rapidly, making us a more difficult target to acquire. My commander shouts once, violently, then digs her fingers into the padded armrests.
My interceptor missiles knock down four of the five missiles racing toward the heart of Rustenberg. The explosions spread burning debris across the rooftops and streets, well inside the defensive wall. The fifth missile slams against a tall structure. The warhead explodes and its target burns fiercely. If this building was occupied by refugees, they had no time to escape, for the entire structure ignites within zero point six seven seconds and burns unchecked.
My commander snarls ugly and helpless curses.
Fury and shame engulf my battle reflex circuitry. I do not understand what is wrong. I have failed to stop easy targets. What can I say to my commander that will put this right? Nothing. I struggle with diagnostic programs and restore power to our heavy lift sled for final descent. “Ninety-seven heat signatures detected on the rooftops surrounding Rustenberg’s core,” I say with a sense of desperation. “These heat signatures correspond with missile-launch points.”
“Verifiable as nonhuman?” Captain DiMario’s voice grates with tones of anger.
I attempt verification at the top speed of which I am capable. Using laser range finders to give me exact distances and using the size of human-built doorways and windows as a gauge, I determine that these heat signatures are too large to be human in origin, although the temperature range they exhibit is within 0.2 degrees of human-normal. “Heat signatures register as bi-pedal and biological, averaging two point five one meters in height. These cannot be human heat signatures.”
“Fry ’em.”
Her voice is terse, ugly. I fire ion-bolt infinite repeaters and HE short-range missiles, raking the Tersae’s rooftop positions in a broad dispersal pattern that does not require the pin-point accuracy of antimissile fire. The Tersae’s visible heat signatures vanish in a flare of violent explosions which destroy the buildings they have occupied. Fires raging from these initial explosions ignite neighboring structures, until the outer circle of Rustenberg burns fiercely.
“Goddammit, Senator! We’ve got live refugees down there and you just ignited a firestorm!”
I know deep and desperate shame. I am unable to properly carry out even the simplest of tasks. That I have, at least, destroyed ninety-seven of the enemy before reaching the ground is of little consequence, given the enormity of my failures and the unknown cause of the drift malfunctions in my weapons-guidance and fire-control systems.