Bristol, England
Humming quietly in the corner the Druidth made heater easily warmed the room in which his squad was bunked. Almost everyone was asleep, Sekert purring as she slept in her bunk next to him, except Ezca. Too many questions ran across his mind to allow him to sleep tonight.
Closing the letter, he received from Tigris, his former squad mate who was in charge of his own squad now, Ezca pulled up the info net on his datapad and scrolled through the recent news. Most of it was the standard approved by Command drivel but occasionally some real information got through. The Americans had broken through the defensive line that protected the North American Command Center from their forces but a counter attack that would 'decimate their forces and bring the war on the continent to an end' was being planned. Ezca snorted through his nose. When a plan like that fails it was people like him, the troops in the field, always got the blame. It was a good plan but those incompetent soldiers messed it up. Yet when it succeeded it was the officers that got the glory. This is an example of what we can do with our might and technology.
Curious, he pulled up the news about Russia. Things were going good, if the news was to be believed. The Russian attack that was mounted after the nuclear bombs went off was routed and now they were on full retreat. But Tigris had reported how things had badly devolved into another defensive line much like the one that divided North America. But this one was much worse. His friend had reported that it was a slaughterhouse, with the Russians throwing everything they had at the Druidth. For every one they killed two more took their place. Men, Women, Old, and Young were all in the fight. Some were killed without bullets in their guns, some without weapons. Tigris said he overheard the Visi discussing use of area effect weapons, but so few of those had been brought with them that it probably wouldn't matter. Now he worried that their munitions stores were not as high as he was told in his weekly report sent out to every Kantotally. Each rank got one, filtered down based on their need.
At least the news from home can be trusted, He told himself. Crop yields were actually up this quarter, Ezca thought of his sister working on the farm, and the first group of pilgrims were underway.
What'll happen when they get here and there's no planet? Already some places had been pacified but nothing like what was promised by the Army.
Ezca swiped his finger across the screen and switched tabs. Now he was in the forum sections where soldiers could talk freely. <Has anyone encountered those traitors?>
<Sad day when our own take up arms against us>, Someone wrote back. This opened the gates for a slew of violent and insulting messages about those that Went Native.
He wrote, <What would cause someone to do that?>
As his message went unanswered, Ezca assumed they had forgotten about his question. Some time had passed and he was ready to just give up and go to sleep when a personal message popped up in the corner.
<Perhaps they found out the truth. That we're all murderers who came to steal what we could not gain. That our world is built on lies and we are happier not seeing that.> Ezca checked the sender but found the ID was blocked. Normally, no one could block their ID but this person had managed to, even hiding their network location.
His curiosity piqued, He wrote back, <And what lies are those?>
<Our whole reason for being here. To pacify the murderous Humans.>
<The Colonial Massacre.>
<Perpetrated by our own. Kings Guard sent undercover.>
Ezca puffed, then froze as Sekert rolled over in her bunk. He couldn't believe that he almost fell for an obvious prank. There was no way that the King would send his personal unit to kill his own subjects. Just to spark a war that would kill millions more. Where was the reason? What was the point? Sure Vasgyhrr was a bit over populated but they could have easily put a number of citizens in cryo sleep until they found a suitable planet; or until a plague wiped out a sizeable number as happened a few centuries ago. But what use was Earth to them? It was already heavily populated and, then again, the question of the fighting.
The King said it was to subdue the Humans. That they were already on their way to spreading throughout the galaxy and would soon be knocking on their home worlds door.
<You're curious now, aren't you?> The Unknown Messenger asked.
<What do you want?> He asked.
<To open your eyes, Ezca. Read this.>
His eyes flared when he saw his name on the screen. It wouldn't be hard for an officer, or Intel Agent, to look up who he was as every screen name was just the individuals service number. But whoever was speaking to him knew who he was. A file popped up in the corner, with the simple name of 'Truth'. Nothing ominous there.
<So you know who I am. But what do I call you?>
<Kyros will do. Read the file, Kantotally. We'll be in touch.>
Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the chat window had closed, leaving no trace of the conversation that had perplexed him to the point that his eyes now hurt. And now the mysterious person, or persons, was using the same name as the ancient god of truth. The powerful two-faced being that smiled on one side and frowned on the other. Stoic, he sat and watched over conversations that were invoked in his name, mainly trails, business deals, and promises of love or innocence.
Wishing there was some way he could disconnect his datapad from the net, Ezca toyed with the idea just deleting the file entirely. Of washing his hands of the matter and turning his datapad over to his commanding officer so they could track down the source of the messages and apprehend this Kyros. Of being a good and proper Druidth soldier and citizen.
Who was he fooling? The curiosity would eat away at him if he did not open it now. His finger double tapped the small icon which opened the folder. Inside was nothing more than a series of documents, official looking, that he could not tell if they were real of forgeries. Most likely, a forgery. But, curiosity unsatisfied, he selected the first in line and began reading.
At the top of each page was a list of numbers and letters that told the reader where it came from and for whom it was meant to be read by. The lower the number, the higher the rank. His eyes widened when he saw nothing but Druidth zeros followed by a single one. That meant...
"Chief Secretary of the Army?" He asked himself aloud, yet in a very hushed voice.
The letters beside the recipient showed that it was meant for someone in the Kings Guard, the similarly low service number said it was for the Commander-in-Chief. It was Druidth law, and in the oaths they took when they took their respective offices, that those two men never communicate. The Guard was sworn to protect the King and his family, and those he chose for special protective detail, and the Army was the sword and shield of the Druidth people. Each had their own jurisdictions and objectives. There should not be any reason for them to speak.
Yet here the document was. From the desk from one Chief Secretary to another.
Ezca scrolled down skimming the document, looking for any obvious discrepancies that would give it away as a forgery. When he saw none, his heart rate increasing, he began reading it more carefully. Often, he would go back and re-read an entire section. When he was through, he closed it and opened the next in line.
The titles were none of the super complicated and detailed ones that denoted almost all official documents. No, these were the condensed and clarified versions between one high ranking man and another.
Detailed Account of Human Military Infrastructure and Troop Strength.
Recommended Strike Zones for 'Retaliation'.
Tactics For Use to Control Population.
It was like a chat conversation. One would pose a question or problem in one document just to have it solved in the next by his counterpart. What he was shocked to see, despite all that he had learned so far, was that much of what he was doing or witnessing, training Loyalists, executing captured Human soldiers, indoctrinating civilians by giving them special privileges, was already clearly described.
When he was finished, Ezca closed the file and hid it in a secret subfolder that Tigris helped him set up so he could hide contraband images from prying eyes. It would open to his thumbprint only and if anyone else tried to open it, if they even found it, it would self-delete. He stowed his datapad in his kit and laid back on his cot and tried to sleep. But no matter how much he tried to clear his mind, it simply would not come.
New York City, New York
To say things were tense would be a major understatement. Sure, food was coming into the city on a regular basis now from the harbor but practically all of it went straight to one of the Druidth bases scattered around the city where they locked it up and only doled out what they wanted to the those who swore fealty to them. Then the Loyalists would sell the extra to the people for luxury items. The more despicable would trade food for young girls bodies.
Jackie hated them and often wished he could turn his rifle on them. But he had his job and they would be dealt with in due time.
Now, there was a division between the people, the Loyalists and the Natives, the name the patriotic New Yorkers had given themselves. And even though there was food, what little trickled down through to him and his family, there was still no heat. All of the wood had been consumed by the eight million people in the city, the iconic water towers that remained had armed guards on them to protect them from looters. And the Druidth refused to do anything about it.
He rubbed his hands over the little candle made from fat drippings to get the feeling back in them. In the little apartment he shared with his family, the apartment he grew up in, his mother worked with his sister to keep up her math skills. Jackie also wished he could help but he was never really an academic to begin with.
A hand fell on his shoulder and made him jump. Turning, he saw his liaison with the resistance commanders. "Red?"
"Get your gear, Jackie. It's time."
"Time for what?"
Red looked around to make sure there were no ears that could overhear him. He knew Jackie's family was safe to speak around, but he still did not like to do it in case his sister ever innocently repeated what she heard. "We're hitting the main depot tomorrow afternoon. The other guys have been riling up as many people as they can and we're gonna start a riot. We need you to take down a couple of guards and maybe the stray officer."
He did not have to say that there would be more than one sniper in the buildings around the supply depot in Prospect Park in Brooklyn. And there would be more weapons in the crowd.
"I can try setting up on the roof of the Pavilion," Jackie said, mentioning the theater, which was the tallest building nearby. Inside he was glad it was the Prospect depot as that one was considered less important to the Druidth and thus less guarded.
Nodding, Red stood up to leave. "Be in position at One." The tall black man that grew up in nearby Harlem left the small apartment with the smell of food cooking and stepped into the cold hallway. For Jackie, fighting in the resistance was more than a necessity, although the food and firewood they provided for their fighters was more than welcome.
He helped his sister, Robin, with her homework until the soup his mother was making, it was more like a goulash than actual soup, was ready. Eating quickly, he reserved himself to only one bowl to ensure the rest of his family had enough to eat. Jackie's stomach still rumbled as he sat in the bathroom with the door to the linen closet open. He had broken his weapon down and ran a cloth patch through the barrel until it came out clean. Then he wiped down the bolt and the receiver with oil before replacing them. He did the same with the detachable five-round magazine, paying special attention to the magazine spring lest it stick and cause a jam from a failure to feed. His scope lenses were clear and streak free and everything seemed in place. He had two magazines loaded and ready to go with a few dozen spare rounds, more than he would ever need at any one time. Jackie often wondered how the resistance continued to get weapons and ammunition and figured they used the river. Maybe even the Families were helping them; after the way the Druidth came down on their operations it would not be too farfetched for them to hold a grudge.
When he was finished he closed and locked the four by four wooden beam he used to hide the weapon and closed the closet. Jackie relieved himself in the toilet and left to get some sleep. Though the war had been rough on resources much of what already was still remained. His bed for instance, the mattress and box spring was still in his room waiting for him, the wooden frame had been broken down and burned long ago, with the familiar pile of blankets that had begun to smell lately.
Jackie slept terribly, nightmares constantly waking him. By the time he awoke with the morning sun shining in his eyes he found himself afraid. Still, he had a job to do.
Dressing in his clothes, with an extra coat that he could throw away to change his appearance if he needed to, Jackie grabbed a stale bagel from the kitchen and left with his usual armful of lumber. He never waited for his mother to see him off, if she knew what it was that he was really doing she would worry too much and probably get him in trouble by accident.
He lived relatively close to Prospect Park, it was only a few blocks away which was easily doable on foot in pre-war times but now seemed a laughable distance because it was so close. Some would have to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge twice a day just to get to their jobs in the city proper. Across the river, Jackie saw many of the high-rises had lights in the windows as the richest of the city quickly joined the Druidth to maintain their elite status. Just as he had no doubt they would use their pre-war power and their money to re-secure their status with the Americans once the city was retaken.
Well, he thought as he found a roof access ladder to the building he selected and began to climb, those that survived the anarchy and mob justice. Jackie had heard stories from people that lived in his building and worked in the city that many of the rich were still eating fine foods and drinking expensive wines.
Firmly atop the building, Jackie unfolded a rubber mat that he laid on, several hours on rocks would quickly get uncomfortable, underneath the air conditioning unit and set up his rifle. One of the Resistance weapons experts had coated the lenses with a non-reflective finish so he would never have had a scope glint that had killed so many snipers before him.
Looking out over the street below him, Jackie saw the grey concrete building that consumed most of the park, the trees leveled and hauled off for firewood, with the Druidth banner draped across the wall on either side of the door. The doors themselves were rather large with a swinging arm checkpoint across them and a pair of guards standing by. Obviously there were more inside and patrolling the streets. This was more than just the Brooklyn Area Storehouse; it was also the barracks of one of the company sized units.
Already there was quite a few people lined up, hoping to get their weekly rations, with more just milling about. Jackie found it impossible to find the Resistance members among them. Which, he supposed, was a good thing.
As the minutes passed more and more people began to arrive. More than had ever been here at one time and the guards knew something was happening. Backup was called in and the troopers there were reinforced.
There! He saw Red moving through the crowd to the front and speak to the Druidth at the gate. He was turned away and began shouting to the crowd, waving arms and gesturing at the Druidth. Like a ripple effect his anger swept through the crowd and many of them began shouting on their own accord. Red was still yelling and, through his scope he saw, the troopers were getting nervous and gripping their weapons tightly. Now, the crowd was surging, pulsing like a single life form. With a crowd mentality screaming out Injustice! and Revenge! the people began to push on the gates. Red's words were lost over the sound of the masses but whatever he was saying was really agitating the people nearby and the Druidth.
Much like the Boston Massacre in 1770 all it would take here today was a single spark that would ignite something that would consume the city. With the advances across the world by the Allied forces many of the Druidth that were originally stationed in the city were reassigned elsewhere leaving their numbers dangerously low. Sure, there were plenty of Loyalists to keep order, urged on by their alien masters, but what few knew, not Jackie or even Red, was that many of the Loyalists in New York City and the surrounding Burrows were Resistance double agents.
A single spark.
In the crowd someone raised a pistol, a small caliber .38 which would probably not even scratch the paint, and fired once at the guards. The bullet missed wildly and broke off a piece of concrete from the wall but the sight of the weapon caused the guards to level their weapons and begin firing into the crowd. The first wave fell easily to the onslaught of plasma bolts. Red was one of them, shot in the back by an officer's sidearm.
Jackie clicked off the safety and killed the officer with one well-placed shot to the head, he quickly worked the bolt and leveled on another target. Across the distance and with the shouts of over a thousand people the report of his rifle was barely heard. He killed one of the two guards standing by the gate leaving the other alone to face the wrath of the crowd. Isolated he was quickly overwhelmed and beaten to death by the people of New York. Unguarded, they rushed in to the storehouse and took what they could.
The dozen or so Druidth soldiers were either killed by those in the crowd with powerful enough weapons, or Jackie, or fled the area hoping to get to friendly lines before they were killed as well.
While the crowd surged, almost at the brink of turning on themselves, no one saw the trio of Cora shuttles arrive and come to a hover twenty feet above the ground. The rear doors opened and four black clad masses jumped out of each one, landing with a powerful thud, a few of them landing on some of the rioters.
Jackie panned his rifle scope to one of them and get a better look. Standing around ten feet tall, and easily weighing between five hundred and seven hundred pounds the beasts were humanoid but... huge. He fired at one and watched in horror as the round harmlessly hit the chest, the Druidth giant unaffected. As one they lifted their weapons, a form of the Druidth heavy machine gun usually only seen on vehicles, and fired into the crowd, killing many of the rioters. Scores fell before the rest turned and ran, trying desperately to flee certain death.
Lying next to him, Jackie's radio crackled to life. Reserved only for emergencies it was used for rapid communication between agents in the field.
"All units, Code Zero. Repeat," The voice, one he had never heard before, called out. "Code Zero."
Jackie's eyes went wide and jumped to his feet. Leaving his weapon and all of his gear behind, Jackie sprinted across the rooftop and slid down the service ladder while the noise of the massacre carried across the streets. He ran as hard and as fast as he could, desperately seeking an evacuation point, an open manhole or storm drain he could crawl into. Code Zero meant that things had gone horribly wrong and that all Resistance members in the area should run. Not go home, not take their weapons, just break and run. If they could make it to the river front a smugglers homemade submarine would take them out of the city. Perhaps they could return at a later time but for now, they would leave and try to assert themselves into a different city.
He found a storm drain, the street was clear of people, and fell to his stomach before rolling into it. Filth covered his clothes but he came to his feet and ran downhill towards the river.
St. Louis, Missouri
With three bridges leading into the city, and across the river which was the real obstacle, James was not sure if time was of the essence or not. After all, would the Druidth destroy the bridges before they got their own anti-armor forces across? He did not think so. But then again strategy was not his responsibility as he was just a ground pounder. Who was actually riding on the back of a tank for once.
The massive M1 Abrams, with Lead Belly painted on the barrel, stank of diesel fumes from the cheap fuel used to power the war machine. He rode with J and K Squad, his Thompson between his knees, and with his head back against the gunner's cupola. Yes, it was very cold with the moist wind blowing in off of the river but the sun was finally shining again and the gentle rays warmed his face.
They should have been riding into the city on a helicopter but Simmons had clearly explained that there were too many anti-aircraft batteries around the city. So instead, they rode. Dismounted infantry from Utah walked alongside the armored convoy for quick reaction in case they came under fire. Much of the snow had been cleared off of the road by heavy machinery to check for mines which made for easy travel for those on foot and the wheeled vehicles behind them carrying even more troops. James didn't think there were this many in the Battle of Denver, with a wide variety of fighting vehicles and aircraft.
Behind them, the body of a tank but with a multi-turret gun rolled along as well. Someone had decided if the Americans could not have aircraft then neither could the Druidth as the mobile AA guns could shred anything sent after them well before it got there. There were several with each convoy traveling into the city and rumors of a number of soldiers with Stinger rocket launchers. With all of this, James dozed peacefully in the knowledge that he did not have to worry about attack from the air. Everywhere else, however, did worry him.
Half a block away a Loyalist squad watched the convoy approach the street they were tasked with defending. The Sergeant, a former infantryman in the Missouri National Guard, knew there was little they could do to actually stop so much metal and so many men, but he hoped his five-man team could slow them down enough for the rest of the unit to get in position for a real attack further down. His was the equivalent of a light infantry squad armed with assault rifles taken from the armories and a single SMAW rocket launcher and a handful of rockets. The lead tank rolled closer and he set a steadying hand on his rocketeer's shoulder; every instinct he had screamed at him to kill the tank but the small round would barely scratch the armor. Sure, it would kill the dozen or so soldiers on top but why bother with them when he could take out twice as many, or more, with the cargo trucks following four spaces back.
Without warning, a rocket streaked in and penetrated the thin steel that made up the Deuce and a Half cargo truck, detonating the warhead and blowing the vehicle sky high. All twenty men, plus the driver and passenger, were killed instantly; the shockwave and shrapnel killing another half dozen that had the misfortune to walk too close to it.
Instantly, James was awake and rolling off of the top of the Abrams, his Thompson in hand. The whole convoy had stopped and the tanks had popped off smoke to obscure their location from further attacks.
"You see where there are?" Nick asked, having materialized out of the smoke.
"Nah," James replied. "Try to look for a glint."
A second rocket streaked in from the top floor of a house and just barely missed a second cargo truck that was not covered by the smoke, even though all of the troops had dismounted by now and were scrambling to take cover.
"There! There!" Cole shouted out, pointing at the origin of the rocket trail, a two story house at the far end of the street.
"Right. Nick, get you guys ready," James waved his hand to get his squad to him. Then grabbed his radio. "This is Cook, I'm with Burnside and we're moving to the firing point."
Simmons answered him back, screamed could be heard in the background. "Understood, Cook. We have a mortar team set up so let us know if you need fire support."
At James' urging the two squads moved off of the road and into the block of houses. Much like every other town that they had been through that the Druidth had occupied, the buildings were either boarded up before the owners left or otherwise broken into by looters and squatters. He had Andrews break down the wooden gate that lead to the backyard of the nearest house. It came down easily with a crash. Ryan and Logan were the first ones through the gate, Ryan keeping his weapon aimed toward the broken windows of the house in case there was someone waiting inside.
Both squads jogged across the yard where the snow was thin and through an open double gate that was used to move a car into the yard. Gunfire erupted off to their left causing everyone to drop to their knees in an instant. James craned his head and tried to triangulate the location of the shooter, deciding that it was pointed at the convoy as the tell-tale pops of semi-automatics fired back. They moved down the alley between houses, rotting trashcans lining both sides of the street, and watched a third rocket fly by high overhead. By the size of the explosion James assumed this one hit its mark.
"James, are you there yet?" Simmons demanded a second later. "Those rockets are killing us."
"Almost there," James replied out of breath. He peeked around the corner and saw a house on the corner with the shape of a human standing in the window with binoculars. A machine gun rested on the bay windowsill of the living room window, someone sitting behind it in the darkness. Above, the haze of the exhaust from the rocket still floated in the air, slowly dispersing. He followed it with his eyes and saw that it indeed came from the top floor of the corner house.
"We can't make it up that street in one piece with that MG sitting there," Nick whispered. "It'll chew us up before we get halfway there."
James peeked around the corner again and saw that Nick was right. No matter how they came, from the backyard or straight up the street, they would still die. He reached to his shoulder and keyed his radio. "J Squad to Mortar Team. We need fire support on," He looked over to where Logan held up a notepad with the map coordinates on it and read them off.
"Roger that, J Squad. Simmons says you've got priority; not like we've got anything to shot at anyway. What do you need?"
"Smoke. And lots of it."
The Mortar Team commander laughed a bit before signing off. Several seconds later the increasing whistle of the incoming rounds could be heard before the harmless shells landed, bursting in large clouds of grey smoke so thick that you could never see through it. The machine gunner in the window jumped and fired wildly into the smoke before regaining control.
"We've got maybe five minutes before the smoke dissipates," James instructed. "Nick, you squad goes through the yard and come in the back. J Squad, we go straight through the front. Stack up on the door and wait to go in." He peeked around, pointlessly, and was satisfied with the thickness of the smoke. "Go!"
As one the ten soldiers stormed around the corner and into the smoke, careful not to breath too deeply, and sprinted down the street. The sound of gunfire down where the rest of the force was fighting masked the sounds of their footsteps. But not well enough. With a rapid chopping sound, and glowing red tracers cutting through the smoke, the machine gun fired at them. Most of the soldiers spread out away from the path of the tracers but James kept straight for the flashes.
He came to a stop with his back against the wall of the house, the bay window with the machine gun just to his right. The gunfire had slowed down to the occasional burst, the gunner did not know where they were. Keeping his breathing slow so that the people inside did not hear him, James pulled a grenade from his belt and pulled the pin. Next, he looked to his left to see that Ryan and Logan were stacked up behind one another next to the door. He made a gesture as if to say 'Where are the other two' but Ryan just shrugged. Most likely they got lost in the smoke and ran past the house; he would have to find and collect them after.
James tossed the hand grenade into the broken window and readied to storm through the door, his grip tight around his Thompson. As soon as the grenade landed as shout came from the living room followed by a loud blast. He kicked in the door, whose latch was already broken and stepped in, dust wafted into the hallway from the living room. The house was once rather nice, upscale furniture still filled the living room and lined the hall.
A body appeared halfway down the stairs wearing a black uniform and holding a rifle. James reacted and fired a long burst from the hip watching the powerful bullets tear the drywall to pieces before doing the same to the Loyalist soldier. When the traitor was dead James looked into the living room and saw the gunner hunched over her gun and the loader lying dead on the floor. Ryan's M-1 barked three times behind him and James spun around in time to see a fourth Loyalist fall dead coming out of the kitchen. Two bursts of gunfire came from outside in the back yard followed by many rifle shots.
His radio crackled a second later. "James, were clear out here."
James waved Ryan and Logan forward to sweet and clear the rest of the house. "Yeah, we're clear inside. You see Cole and Andrews?"
"Nah. Just my guys. We got one dead from that last bout of gunfire."
Swearing, James stepped outside and looked into the quickly thinning smoke. "J Squad to Command, we took care of your rocket problem. We're making our way back now. But we've got a casualty."
Simmons was quick to reply, "Good job, Cook. Collect your dead and leave them somewhere SAR can find them. How many did you lose?"
A stiff wind came up and cleared away the rest of the smoke. James squinted into the street and swore, handing his head low. "Three."