Lance

by Scott Bartlett

Genres: Military Sci-Fi; Space Marines; Space Opera

Synopsis

Planet Nibiru wants them dead. All of them.

Trapped by the destruction of their own satellites, the Marines on Nibiru suddenly find themselves without orbital or air superiority.

With help months away, Po and his brothers must quickly figure out how to stabilize and survive against an exploding alien insurgency.

Po learned young to rely on no one but himself. Now, he's slowly realizing that nothing from bootcamp, or from his trials on Earth's moon, could have prepared him for this.

If he can't rip up some deep-rooted beliefs about his place in the universe, and fast, it may cost him his life.

Get ready for this exciting next chapter in the Conscript series. If you're a fan of Marko Kloos' Frontlines or Ender's Game, you'll love this epic military scifi series.

 

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Release date: September 10, 2024

Publisher: Mirth Publishing

Print pages: 257

Sample

1

Po suppressed the urge to shudder as ants—or whatever the Nibiran equivalent was—crawled
past the collar of his suit and down his neck.
He’d chosen an awful time to take off his helmet. Something had been caught in his eye, and it
had been driving him nuts, so he’d risked taking off the helmet to dig whatever it was out.
That was when the party of Janus operatives he and the rest of Second Squad had been
waiting for decided to come crashing through the jungle.
Now, Po could only lay here, perfectly still, and hope the Nibirans soon wandered close enough
for his squadmates to glimpse them with their night vision and engage.
Trying to put his helmet back on would risk blowing their cover. Doing anything risked blowing
their cover. So instead, he remained prone on the jungle floor while insects invaded the inside of
his SERAPH suit.
You’re somewhere else, he told himself. Anywhere else. You’re back on Psyche, lying in your
bunk and arguing with Lorenzo. You’re flying through a microgravity warehouse. You’re
watching the salmon swim past on the fish farm level.
This was a technique he’d often used during bootcamp. The DIs hadn’t even allowed them to
move their eyes the wrong way when they were in formation, let alone scratch themselves. Now
that Po was a Marine, it was moments like this that helped him realize why they’d put the
recruits through such pain and torment for those thirteen weeks. If he hadn’t gone through it, he
seriously doubted he’d have the fortitude to just lie here while alien ants started biting him all
over his neck, shoulders, and upper torso.
He gritted his teeth, and forced himself to keep his breathing quiet.
Colonel Tuffin had received an intel report that Shiv Horan, the Janus luminary the Corps had
most wanted to bag during the assault on Eremus, was now operating in this region. The
colonel had decided that Staff Sergeant Young’s Second Squad was just the unit to pay the
area a visit. An AC-900 had dropped them off miles from here, where the Sodalite Desert
bordered this jungle, and they’d hiked to the perimeter of what was rumored to be a well-
trafficked Janus base. Their orders were to hunker down in the bush, wait till a patrol passed,
and hit them. The ultimate goal being to bring back a prisoner for a little gentle questioning at
FOB Longhorn.
The patrol was getting close. Po could hear them talking and laughing in their dry, croaky
voices. A squad of Marines would have been in for a chewing out from their sergeant for being
so chatty, but who could expect insurgents to have any discipline?
Po’s Circuit threw up a message in the corner of his vision, transparent enough to see through
but opaque enough to read. It was from Staff Sergeant Young:
“Get ready to fire on my mark.”
Po marveled at Young’s situational awareness. He’d clearly picked up on the fact Po’s helmet
was off and hence the suit’s soundproof seal was broken, so he’d messaged his order to their

implants instead of speaking over the squad channel. It was details like that made you trust a
man enough to follow him into the most dangerous situations.
As quietly as the grave, Po shifted his M37C against the gnarled root he’d laid it on, peering
through the scope at the spot where it sounded like the aliens were about to emerge.
Give me a flash of robe, or some of that wrinkly frog skin.
Give me anything, and then you’re mine.
It was Nibiran night, without even Gnara’s celestial lava flows to lighten the endless darkness.
There was a good chance the others would see something before he did, using their helmets’
thermal sensors. But his eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now, and he strained to watch
for any changes in the otherwise motionless tapestry of the jungle wall.
Movement flickered between thick tree trunks, and he started to squeeze his trigger, when the
telltale hiss of an approaching AC-900 gunship reached his ears.
“Hold your fire.”
Po winced as the yips in the base nearby raised a ridiculous-sounding chorus, which would
have been funny if it wasn’t so frustrating. The Nibiran patrol started croaking excitedly, then
broke into view, pounding across the moist jungle floor, their ears bouncing against their heads
as they ran.
“Everyone sit where you are,” Young said. “They’re running past.”
The implant’s messaging app played the sergeant’s reconstructed voice through Po’s auditory
taps, directly into his cochlear nerve, so that there was no worry of the insurgents hearing it. The
synthesized voice sounded irritated, but he was sure the reconstruction didn’t sound anywhere
near as irritated as Young actually felt.
More yipping and croaking rang out through the night from the direction of the insurgent base,
with searchlights coming on, and the yips only growing more frantic by the second. The last
Nibiran ran past, within a couple feet of where Po lay pressed against the ground, and once the
alien was clear, he started breathing a little easier.
“Get your helmet back on, Abbato.”
As reluctant as Po was to seal legions of ants inside the suit with him, he obeyed, scooping up
the helmet from the soil and lowering it over his head. The collar suctioned it into place
automatically, the force getting stronger as he achieved the correct alignment.
Young spoke then, sounding less irritated than his reconstructed voice had—and again,
probably a lot less than he actually felt. “This op is blown. That base is on high alert now, thanks
to what I’m assuming is a serious breakdown in communication.”
As always, Po admired the sergeant’s professionalism. He might easily have called the gunship
pilot an idiot who didn’t seem to know there was a war on, but Young didn’t even mention him.
The throaty rasp of a SAM being launched cut through the noise, but no one commented on it.
“We withdraw,” Young said, “smooth and quiet. As soon as we have enough distance between
us and them, we hike back to the jungle’s edge for our ride back.”

They slid backward on their bellies, and Po’s night vision painted the ground green, whereas in
reality he knew it was a rich red. It would have been a welcome change from the blue of the
Sodalite Desert, if he could see it. Instead, he had this sickly green to look at.
Nibiru’s version of the humble ant crawled down his body in ranks, on a forced march toward his
feet, biting all the way. With his helmet back on, he probably could have screamed with the
agony of it without alerting any Nibirans, especially with the ongoing cacophony that had
obliterated the night’s silence. But he wouldn’t let himself. He gritted his teeth and bore it.
As they crawled, he noted the lack of anything crashing through the foliage from above to shake
the jungle floor, which meant the AC-900 pilot had dodged the Nibirans’ attempt to shoot it
down.
Po was glad for that. Even if the idiot had botched Second Squad’s mission.

***

Po was the last into the waiting gunship, and the second he made it to his seat he began
stripping off pieces of armor.
“Whoa,” Taylor said over the squad-wide as he settled into one of the crash seats. “Feeling the
heat, Abbato?”
He ignored him, struggling to get as much of the armor off as he could before the pilot took off.
Steam rose from his body as each piece came off. The hatch sealed a moment later, and the
shuttle’s jets roared. He staggered, gripping his seat’s armrest for balance. Then they surged
forward, soaring over the desert in the direction of FOB Longhorn.
Young stood to help him, more easily keeping his balance with all of his suit on and sealed.
“You’re covered in welts,” Young said. “What happened?”
“Ants got inside my suit when my helmet was off. Or whatever the Nibirans call ants.”
“Whatever they are, it looks like you might be allergic to them. The things are really swelling up.
Check your IFAK, there should be some calamine lotion in there or something. I’d take an
antihistamine, too.”
Po pulled out his Individual First Aid Kit from where it was stored in a pouch in his suit’s leg, dug
through it for a likely looking cream, then started slathering it over the bites.
The gunship pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Staff Sergeant, did you and your boys get
the alert that went out?”
Young had returned to his own seat, but now he straightened in the middle of strapping himself
in. “We didn’t, sir. What’s up?” Ever since Janus had knocked out all of GEA’s satellites in
Nibiru’s orbit, the Marines often missed transmissions while out in the field.
The pilot sighed. “Rin’s making another move in the region, it seems. The insurgents hit
Longhorn hard, coming up from the ground again in multiple spots throughout the camp. This
time, they tunneled up through the floors of buildings that are empty in the night, and amassed

in there before attacking. How they knew where those structures were…well, probably they had
spies in Longhorn, and it’s not hard to guess who. Either way, they forced everyone in camp into
the bunkers—those that could make it, anyway. Last I heard, the survivors are still holding out
inside them.”
Po’s heart was hammering in his chest. His first thought was for Navarro, and then for Zhang.
But he’d come to know plenty of the Marines in FOB Longhorn.
“And that’s where we’re headed now?” Young asked.
“Correct. A lot of units were called back from ops—those that could be reached, anyway.
Colonel Coleman requested assistance from Halberd, but it seems they came under attack
around the same time.”
FOB Halberd was the closest base to Longhorn. If they were under attack too, then this was a
big move from To’sheth Rin. The biggest he’d made since removing the Marines’ orbital
supremacy during the Battle of Eremus. Po wondered how many other bases were under
attack.
“I’ve been trying to raise other units converging on Longhorn—I’m gonna go back to that,” the
pilot said. “Hopefully we can rendezvous with at least one or two others, and figure something
out for retaking the base.”
The intercom fell silent, and the Marines of Second Squad just sat there, each lost in their own
thoughts.
Po finished applying the calamine lotion, popped some allergy meds, and started putting his suit
back on. After the pilot’s news, it seemed clear he’d need it. Gomez lent him a hand from the
seat beside him.
But he found himself distracted as he worked with Gomez to don the armor once more. He
couldn’t believe how much things had changed in the months since he’d taken a shuttle down
from the S. S. Gear Issue down to Nibiru’s surface. When he’d first arrived, the Corps had
seemed invincible inside the various bases that had been set up around Basalt Country and the
Sodalite Desert. A serious attack on an FOB had been virtually unheard of, then. Sure, the
Nibirans had buried IEDs under all the surrounding roads, and sometimes they’d sent RPGs
flying at the guard towers. But back then, any sustained assault was met with strafing runs from
AC-900s. The Corps had owned the skies, and Janus had been like vermin scurrying before
them.
But To’sheth Rin had apparently been playing his cards tight to his chest, waiting for the right
moment to reveal them. Eremus had been that moment. While the Corps was focused on its
biggest campaign yet on Nibiru, Janus had used concealed launch facilities on Maw, the
planet’s smaller moon, to destroy all the ships and satellites in orbit. At the same time, Rin had
distributed more advanced SAM launchers to his troops, which he must have been keeping in
reserve before then. The new launchers posed a much bigger threat to Marine aircraft, making
even single-unit insertions dicey…let alone the large-scale bombing they’d visited on Eremus.
The Nibirans couldn’t have produced all that advanced gear on their own, leading many to
conclude they had to be working with outside forces. Who, no one knew…though the fact they’d
had Marine-issue weaponry in Eremus, even before the satellites went down, was worrying.

Either way, the better gear hadn’t been the only surprise. Janus had also clearly been
concealing its numbers. The Marines got a hint of that when their checkpoints around Eremus
had all been hit simultaneously, the same day they lost orbital supremacy.
But that had only been the beginning. Either Janus was a much bigger organization than GEA’s
intel showed, or their recruitment was skyrocketing. Po suspected it was a combination of both.
A sputtering roar reached his ears, jerking him from his thoughts. A split second later, the back
of the gunship disintegrated.
A wall of intense heat crashed over Po, who’d only finished putting his suit back on seconds
before. Without its cooling systems, which kicked in immediately, he probably would have been
done for.
The pilot came back on the intercom. “That’s our main engine gone,” he said, with admirable
calm. “We’re going down. Brace for impact.”

2

The gunship shuddered violently as it screamed toward Nibiru’s surface, and as it did, Po
thought of his sister Nicky lying sick in her bed back in their unit on Psyche, looking frail but
peering up at him with bright eyes.
I never wrote to her.
He couldn’t have if he’d wanted to, with GEA’s satellites down over Nibiru. But now it seemed
he’d never get the chance.
The shuttle hit hard, then skidded for what seemed like an impossibly long time. At last, it came
to rest, the hatch opening across from Po as it did. He couldn’t believe it still worked—but it did,
just the same as it would have if the entire back of the craft hadn’t been choked in flame and
smoke.
Young had already ripped off his restraints, and was standing in the middle of the smoky aisle.
“Move, Marines!” he ordered over the squad-wide channel, before sprinting for the open hatch
himself.
The others quickly followed, their training taking over, so that they didn’t try to fight to be the first
ones out. Instead, they exited single-file, in orderly fashion, their weapons and other gear in tow.
Second Squad assembled a safe distance from the shuttle, then turned back to watch it burn.
The pilot was sprinting toward them, and Po’s implant placed an IFF tag over his head that read
“Captain Jorge Diaz.” Beyond him, Po saw the deep furrow the gunship had left in the sand for
hundreds of meters behind it. It seemed Captain Diaz had managed to angle their descent so
that they crash-landed just past the peak of a massive sand dune, which they’d ridden most of
the way down. Thanks to that, no one seemed to have been injured. Shaken up, for sure, but
not seriously hurt.

“Nice flying, sir,” Staff Sergeant Young said as Diaz reached them. “That could have been much
worse, for all of us.” They’d both lowered their visors, and the Marines of Second Squad
followed suit.
The captain shrugged. “We were just lucky that dune was there. I didn’t have many options.”
“What do we do now, sir?” Krikorian said.
“I’ve already started trying to arrange another lift.” Diaz glanced at the Armenian before
returning to Young. “But it’s not looking likely, I’m afraid. What I’m getting back is that all
gunships are on lockdown until things get back under control locally.” He shook his head.
“Before Eremus, it was ground units that relied on air to stabilize things. But with these modern
SAMs Janus seemed to pull out of nowhere, and with orbital support gone, we pilots need at
least some assurance that you grunts have a handle on the ground situation before we go
zipping over your heads. If the Nibirans can get those launchers in position, it makes things
troublesome for us.”
“Meaning, we’re walking,” Taylor said, ever-ready to cut to the chase.
“Seems that way,” the pilot answered.
“We’re sprinting, to be perfectly accurate,” Young put in. “Right now, we’re still about fifty-seven
klicks east-northeast from FOB Longhorn, and some of it’s pretty rough terrain, especially since
it’s best we stay clear of any roads. In our suits, we should be able to make the run in under
three hours. Hopefully time enough to make a difference to the survivors at Longhorn.”
Diaz was nodding. “I’ll follow after you, but I’ll be a lot slower, going on just my own two legs.”
Young hesitated, as if reluctant to leave the captain behind. But he seemed to realize they had
no choice. “Suggest finding shelter before night falls, sir. From what I understand, the desert’s
predators are small, but incredibly brazen when moving in packs. Apparently, their black-backed
wildcats will even attack a lone Nibiran, and I doubt they’d quibble over doing the same to a
human.”
“I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to lay my head.”
“We’ll keep in touch, and send someone back for you as soon as they’re available.”
“Somehow, I doubt anyone will be. At least, not before I make it back on my own.”
“Yes, sir. Stay safe.”
“And you, Staff Sergeant. And your men. As safe as it’s possible to stay on this planet.”
With that, Second Squad was off, sprinting across the desert in a loose group. The going was
excruciatingly slow, at first. The enhanced strength their suits lent them did mean they could
propel themselves forward more powerfully, but the suits also meant they weighed more, which
meant they sank deeper into the sand. As team leader, Po had been assigned a Multi-Shot
Grenade Launcher in addition to his M37C, and that only weighed him down more.
The ground toughened up after a while, allowing them to make better time. Young led them
along a wide, looping route, one which largely avoided roads, and crossed them only when

necessary. The closer they got to the FOB, the more likely they were to encounter buried IEDs
on roads.
None of the Marines spoke as they ran, all of them intent on conserving their energy for the
fighting that almost certainly awaited them back at Longhorn. But Zanth appeared at Po’s side
after an hour or so, loping effortlessly alongside him with his darting footsteps. He seemed
content enough to talk.
“Are you a student of the Emancipation Doctrines, my friend?” the alien asked him.
Po wanted to laugh. He couldn’t remember the Emplor ever calling him “friend.” He was being
sarcastic—or he wanted something.
Or maybe he’s just being extra polite, to try to counter those nasty rumors that have been flying.
About the Emplor being the ones to supply the Nibirans with all those missiles they used to take
out our satellites. Not to mention the upgraded SAMs that stole our air superiority.
Either way, Po didn’t feel like devoting any of his breath to talking, so he used the messaging
app instead. Zanth had complete access to his implant, as he’d demonstrated multiple times
before, and so messaging would be just as good as speaking. Po didn’t even need to send the
message—just inputting it was sufficient.
“No,” he input, in answer to Zanth’s question.
“Pity. If you were familiar with the Doctrines, you’d know that everything is alive, including each
grain of sand on which you tread. Nibiru herself is alive. Every planet has a consciousness, just
like you do, though if you could experience them they would seem more alien to you than I do.”
“Do you follow Mother Nibiru too, then? Like the Nibirans?”
“Of course not. The Nibirans do have a few pieces of the puzzle, like worship of their Giru-Giru,
but their perspective is extremely limited. Just like humanity’s was, before we gave you the
Doctrines.”
“Not everyone follows your Doctrines.”
“Because you do not understand them. But anyone who seeks such an understanding, and who
endeavors to live according to it, soon begins to experience the rewards. The Doctrines are so
valuable that it is the purpose of the Emplor to tumble through the stars and make a gift of them
to every unenlightened species we find.”
This part of the run was fairly monotonous, so Po decided to humor Zanth, out of boredom.
“What kind of rewards we talking about?”
“The reward of self-knowledge, for example. The divine is found in the self, since each individual
consciousness is like a cell that makes up the divine being. Therefore, to know yourself is to
know the divine.”
“How can we know ourselves?”
“Through contemplation of the self. And through its elevation, since it is obviously divine—given
that it forms part of the divine body. To know yourself, you must come to know how you feel in
different situations. And how you react to various stimuli. Our appetites play a central role in

knowing what we should seek to experience next, you see. By indulging them, without
reservation, and without condition, we come to the greater self-knowledge we were always
destined to have. If we want something, we should go after it. Every time. Without exception.”
Zanth’s tail swished back and forth across the sand as he ran, leaving swaths that by now, Po
knew none of the others would see. “You desire power,” the alien continued, “but not for its own
sake. You want it because you know the influence and control it gives might one day lead to
your being able to influence and control your dear sister’s future, and your little brother’s. The
more powerful you become, the more capable you’ll be of helping them. The impulse is
noble…and therefore, the power you achieve in its fulfillment is also noble. Don’t you see?”
Po hated to agree with the Emplor, but he had to admit the alien was making some degree of
sense. It also made him feel a little better about some of the choices he’d made since joining the
Marines. And before.
“If we’re all a part of this ‘divine being,’” he said, “then why am I headed to kill Nibirans right
now? Is the divine being fighting itself?”
“Of course. Just as your body will seek to eradicate cells that become cancerous. Illness and
disorder can take hold in the divine body, just as in any body. Those that excise diseased cells
are akin to an immune response. And those diseased cells, once destroyed, can be
reincorporated into the body in other forms.”
“Reincorporated? Sounds like you’re talking about reincarnation.”
“As I said. The Nibirans do have part of the puzzle.”
With that, the Emplor vanished, as abruptly as he always did.
“I just made contact with a unit on their way back from Eremus,” Staff Sergeant Young said over
the squad-wide, and Po jumped a little. He hadn’t expected the sergeant to talk on the heels of
his conversation with Zanth, and the timing startled him a little, even though the sergeant
couldn’t possibly know the alien had been there.
“It’s an armored platoon, which was stationed in the city’s southern outskirts to maintain order
there as civilians moved back in. Now they’re on their way back to push the Nibirans out of our
FOB. We’re altering our course to meet up with them.”
The Marines responded with a few “whoops” and “oorahs.” With that, Young changed direction,
and they followed behind him, in scattered formation.
Within minutes, the already hardened ground gave way to the cracked and sere terrain that
surrounded Longhorn.

***

The armor platoon consisted of two Polliver-4s and two Torres tanks. One of the mech pilots
turned out to be none other than Second Lieutenant Karl Grieg, who’d pulled 131st platoon’s
bacon out of the fire during the clash across the 2-203.

He wasn’t nearly as light-hearted today as he’d been that day. Everyone had gotten at least a
little grimmer since the Nibirans had blown their satellites and trapped them on this planet, Po
had noticed, and the second lieutenant was all business now. After a brief conference between
him and Young, the two units headed south together.
Nonetheless, the lieutenant seemed happy enough to have a squad of Marines to accompany
his platoon to FOB Longhorn. If there were other units available to help take back the base,
none of them were answering Young’s and Grieg’s transmissions, and an armor platoon without
infantry support was an armor platoon asking to get taken out by insurgents wielding anti-tank
weapons.
After the journey south from Eremus, the mechs needed to stop and recharge from their bots.
They found a natural divot in the ground where they’d be sheltered from all but aerial strikes,
which Janus wasn’t capable of performing anyway.
The stop worked out well, since there was still some daylight left—or rather, lava-light, from
Gnara—and hitting the enemy before dark seemed like a poor way to take advantage of their
technological superiority. They needed an advantage in order to have a hope of retaking the
FOB from Janus, and waiting until conditions handicapped the enemy while barely affecting the
Marines seemed wise.
Lieutenant Grieg got out of his Polliver-4 while it recharged, but the other mech pilot stayed
inside his, for the sake of readiness. Grieg was a short Norwegian man with a mustache.
Shorter than Po had expected, but he guessed that lent itself well to piloting a mech. The officer
sat with his back against a rock while he used his com to try to raise Longhorn on various
frequencies.
“Any station this net, this is Lima Tango Golf, Wolverines 6, how copy, over?” He said this a few
more times over different channels, until finally he got some satisfaction. Po was close enough
to hear Grieg’s side of the conversation that ensued.
“I’m eleven klicks from Bravo Big Tree and have just rendezvoused with a squad from platoon
designation Kilo Mike. We’re charging our two Alaskans and will be ready to move out by
nightfall, to assist the forces trapped in Bravo Big Tree. Can you tell me what the situation is in
and around there?”
Grieg listened for a few seconds, his face a study in neutrality.
“I see. What kind of assistance will you be able to offer, should we gain entry into the Bravo?”
He listened a few seconds more.
“How much is ‘very little?’”
More listening. A frown began to tug at the corners of the lieutenant’s mouth.
“That may be, but we can’t exactly let them continue to control one of our major FOBs, can we?
While Marines huddle together in dim bunkers? Frankly, it’s an embarrassment.”
Grieg paused, long enough for his frown to deepen.
“Are you the highest-ranking person in that bunker?”

Relief washed over the lieutenant’s face. “Good. Put me on with the colonel.”
Grieg waited, apparently for someone else to get on the line.
“Hello, sir. Did the corporal relay what I told him?”
More silence.
“Good. And how many other units made contact with you?”
Grieg exhaled, causing his mustache to flutter.
“I see. Well, sir, I don’t see any other choice. I’m sure you agree that this situation is completely
unacceptable.”
They talked for a few minutes more, until at last Grieg terminated the connection, slipping his
com into a breast pocket.
“Was that conversation as promising as it sounded?” Staff Sergeant Young asked from the
boulder he sat on nearby.
Grieg shook his head. “It seems the FOB is completely overrun with Janus. They have the
surviving Marines pinned, so their mobility is obviously limited. They can fire on whatever
targets they’re able to see from their pillboxes and bunkers, but unless we can make a lot of
headway with clearing out insurgents, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to leave their cover to back us
up.”
The sergeant nodded. “We’d better make a lot of headway, then.”
“Indeed.”
Nibiru’s night—which was really just a darker dark—had begun to steal over the land when they
set out again. The armor had four drones with them, which they launched simultaneously just
under four kilometers out from the FOB. The Nibirans tended to shoot down drones as soon as
they spotted them, but judging from the patter of weapons fire that was already reaching them
from Longhorn, there was a decent chance they’d be distracted long enough for the Marines to
collect some valuable intel. Especially considering Grieg was sending four of them at once, all of
them entering the FOB’s airspace from different directions.
The lieutenant gave everyone access to the four drone feeds, and Po kept them running in a
semitransparent, two-by-two window off to the side, which he could look at when he wanted to
but which otherwise floated unobtrusively in his peripheral vision. Darkness had fallen by now,
but the drones had night vision. The cloak of night would hopefully help them stay active a little
longer.
The FOB’s walls looked almost completely intact on approach, without even a gate open. And
yet, Nibirans now virtually owned the base. It was a testament to the fact that their ability to
tunnel up into the middle of a base had rendered walls obsolete.
Po figured that was a bigger problem than most grunts realized. The Corps had a lot of gear to
protect here on Nibiru, and when they’d built these mega bases, they hadn’t known the aliens
could bypass walls like this.

If he was Rin, he wouldn’t be launching these massive, coordinated attacks on multiple bases.
Not yet, at least. First, he’d continue the guerilla approach that Janus had taken before, which
the tunnels would make much more effective. Rig an armor platoon with explosives, and melt
away into the night. Silently kill a Marine platoon while they slept, then vanish.
That would strike even more terror into the Marines’ hearts, and their war effort would fall apart
all the quicker. But Rin couldn’t win like this, trying to take the Corps head-on. Not without
weakening them substantially first.
But maybe winning isn’t his goal. Janus numbers were rising the longer this war continued, and
Gunny Emery had told them before they’d ever reached Nibiru that first and foremost, Rin
wanted to recruit new members.
Once most Nibirans are on his side, maybe then he’ll get smart. Maybe.
The drones converged on Longhorn, climbing all the while. Before long, they’d advanced far
enough to give the Marines of Second Squad and the armor platoon a good look at the entire
FOB.
There were fewer combatants visible than Po had been expecting—human or Nibiran. That
meant that even though they’d withdrawn into the base’s bunkers, the Marines were doing a
good job of keeping the enemy pinned down, too. That was important. Janus had mortars, and if
they were allowed to set up a firebase, they could start cracking those bunkers.
It looked like they’d already taken out a couple, toward the center, where the angle worked out
for mortars to get them from outside the base’s walls. A startling number of the Containerized
Housing Units were destroyed, too. The massive mess facility was a smoking, charred husk,
and the stalls where Nibirans had been allowed to hawk their wares had taken perhaps the most
damage, the wood burnt and the corrugated-metal huts flattened and scattered. It seemed
Janus didn’t take kindly to their brethren making nice with the enemy.
Or is that just to hide the fact that there were Janus spies at those stalls, mapping out the FOB
for them?
“Wow,” Taylor breathed over the squad channel, his voice a little unsteady. “They wrecked the
place. Now what, Staff Sergeant?”
Before Young could answer, two SAMs streamed up from opposite guard towers, taking out half
their drones.
“Seems they’ve noticed we’re here,” Grieg said over the channel they’d established between
Second Squad and his armor platoon. “Worse, it looks like they’ve managed to take over the
guard towers. We need to strike now, unless we’d like them to start taking out our armor with
anti-tank weapons from those walls.”
“How do you want to go about this, sir?” Young asked.
“Well, do you see any reason why we shouldn’t blast ourselves an opening?”
Young was looking at the mech as they carried on their conversation. Presumably Grieg was
looking back at him, but it was impossible to tell with him concealed from view by his Polliver-4.

The sergeant shrugged. “The walls don’t seem to be doing us any good anymore. I say blast
’em.”
“See, this is why I like working with NCOs,” Grieg said. The mech’s top swiveled toward the
Torres tanks on the mech’s right. It was a completely unnecessary movement, but it did suit
Grieg’s style. “You heard the sergeant, boys. Make me a hole in that wall, and see what you can
do about removing that closest tower as a threat while you’re at it.” ...