Behold: Humanity!: Total War, page 12
He was aware of the liquid in his mouth, but it didn't seem to do anything beyond being aware that there was fluid in his mouth. He tried to swallow it but it was like jelly. It was doing nothing to moisten his mouth, just sat in there, like some kind of liquid plastic.
After a moment Do'ormo'ot spit it out and lowered his head as the water turned back into liquid and spattered across the black stone. As Do'ormo'ot watched it began to steam, black vapor rising off it that quickly turned to dust the then dissipated.
The Terrans watching all started laughing.
"How's that taste, cow-pie?" was one shout.
There were other mocking shouts and Do'ormo'ot stood up, shaking in rage.
One of the white gloved figures drifted up. "Prisoner 4582143, returning to your cell at this time will give you a one-half socialization period credit. Do you wish to return to your cell?"
"Yes," Do'ormo'ot said, still shaking as the Terrans kept laughing.
As he was led back to his cell he heard one of the Terrans call out to him: "Get used to it, cow-pie!"
The slide snapped back. “Prisoner 4582143, you will report for interrogation. Move back from the door. End of Line.”
Do’ormo’ot shifted, keeping away from the window, which he was slowly learning to dread looking out even by accident. The omnipresent purple made him flinch at the way sometimes it seemed to go on for eternity and other times it seemed to press against the window trying to find a way in.
The door opened and Do’ormo’ot trotted out. The door closed and the figure paused.
“You will follow. End of Line,” the figure stated.
The winding path was different than last time, Do’ormo’ot paid close attention to the route. Twice they moved through strange rooms. One had bench seats arranged in a row and a black statue of an armored Terran male wearing a laurel leaf crown. Another had murals painted on the walls of obvious religious figures.
Finally, the figure led Do’ormo’ot back into the office with the uncomfortable chair and the single desk made up of twisted Terran figures and the interrogator.
Do’ormo’ot sat down without prompting.
“Beginning interrogation stage two of Prisoner 4582143,” the figure behind the desk said.
The door was gone, leaving nothing but a blank wall. There was only the desk, the window looking out on the purple sky, the couch, the interrogator, and Do’ormo’ot.
“Identification of paternal genetic donor? Reply,” the figure stated.
Do’ormo’ot knew the program. He’d used it himself. Start with basic, harmless questions to get the subject to open up, slowly move onto more and more in-depth questions slowly leading to what the interrogator really wants to know.
Do’ormo’ot knew not to answer that.
After a few moments the figure repeated the question. Then again. Finally, it made a motion.
“Interrogation of Prisoner 4582143 terminated. Subject non-compliant. Return to Cell. End of Line,” the figure said.
The figure erupted into a puff of black granular mist that roiled and then sucked back into itself and vanished.
Do’ormo’ot got up stiffly from the seat, the nodules on the bench hurting his abdomen, the width of the bench hurting his hips. He turned around as the bench poofed into mist and vanished at the same time the desk did.
Another figure, wearing white gloves, was waiting.
“Prisoner 4582143 is being returned to his cell. End of Line,” it said.
Do’ormo’ot planted his hooves. “No. I want to see who is in charge of this facility.”
“Prisoner 4582143 has verbally stated his refusal to return to his cell. Level Two Negative Stimulus will be applied if Prisoner 4582143 does not comply. End of Line," the figure said.
Do'ormo'ot’s instinct was to go back to his cell, remembering the pain of having his jaw squeezed and his eyes pushed on, but he was determined to confront whoever was running the facility.
"Level Two Negative Stimulus shall now be applied. End of Line," the figure said.
Right when Do'ormo'ot went to turn his sneer into a cutting verbal tirade something kicked him in the lower ribs.
Hard.
He slammed against the wall and felt someone grab his neck, pinning his head against the wall, as fists, knees, and feet hit his upper and lower ribs. He felt one rib go, and suddenly he was released to fall kneeling on the floor. The pain was sharp, intense, and made it hurt to breathe.
"I'm hurt," Do'ormo'ot moaned.
"Prisoner 4582143 has insufficient privileges for medical treatment. End of Line," the figure intoned.
Do'ormo'ot got to his feet. "You have to treat me for injuries. It's in your own rules."
"Prisoner 4582143 is being returned to his cell. End of Line," the figure said.
Do'ormo'ot stared, his eyes almost bugging out, but followed slowly, favoring his right foreleg so he didn't put too much stress on the rib. It was more than bruised, the bone was cracked, but not broken.
Finally, he got to his cell and the door closed. He moved over to the wall and leaned against it to take the pressure off his ribs. The stone felt like slightly giving hard plas, no texture, no temperature, just that it was present.
After a long period of time he noted that his rib stopped hurting.
Another long bout of indeterminable time passed and the slot snapped open.
"Prisoner 4582143, you are allocated two hours of religious observance, solitary exercise yard attendance, or one hour of library time. You have sixty seconds to make your decision," the masked figure on the other side said. The discordant voice again scraped on Do'ormo'ot's nerves.
Do'ormo'ot thought quickly.
"Library time," he stated.
"Prisoner 4582143, move back from the door," the figure said.
Do'ormo'ot complied then moved out of the cell when instructed. He followed the figure as it seemed to just glide across the floor. Again the path was long and winding until he reached a large area with shelves, covered with printed books. No computers, no lights, just ever-present dim illumination from no apparent source. Do'ormo'ot believed the light was from airborne nanites, an old trick that always seemed to be one of the first uses of nanites a species discovered.
"Prisoner 4582143, you have one hour of solitary literature time. Books pertaining to your culture have been provided as well as literature from Terran allied species and Terran cultures. End of Line."
Do'ormo'ot looked around, realizing he was alone. He moved through the stacks.
Perhaps here he could find something to help him plan an escape.
ALL BY YOURSELF BUT YOUR NOT ALONE
He'd been forced to fall back to his primary point. BOLO Cutter could only spare so much artillery support and the Precursors had begun devoting air mobile units to the attack, putting further stress on the few air defense systems he had left. His mortars were exhausted, the nano-forge supplied ammo-hoppers glowing a faint red as the entire system overheated. The two 155mm snub nosed artillery pieces were down, one from overheating, the other from a lucky hit by a Precursor penetrating HEX round. The integrity field holding the cliff together was starting to overheat and the northbound battle-screen had completely failed.
Which meant that Ralvex was up to his metaphorical ass in metaphorical alligators.
"Prep the charges, 525," Ralvex ordered, kicking away a snake he had decapitated with a single shot from his overheating and beeping autocannon. "Timmy, Stampy, fall back to point Charlie."
--fall back time?--
"No choice," Ralvex said, squeezing the grip-trigger again. The autocannon chugged, the timing taken all the way down to 120 rounds a minute. The weapon roared, hammering at the approaching Precursor machines.
On the little window in the upper right of his vision the Hesstlan reporter was sobbing in relief. The Precursor forces that had been invading her building and killing everyone inside, floor by floor, had left a little over an hour ago and she was now reporting that they were streaming out of the city by the thousands.
All heading south.
Ralvex began backing up, Stampy scuttling over next to him and then hurrying up the sloped highway. Stampy's 80mm hellbore was beeping loudly, smoke wafting up from the half-shot-out barrel. Tiny Tim rolled up, beeping a happy little tune, his guns overheated and quiet.
Ralvex began stepping backwards, watching as the Precursor machines threw themselves against the battle-screens, being thrown back shattered and ruined, only for more to climb over the corpses to attack the battle-screen again.
It's like they've never seen one before, Ralvex thought to himself, keeping his fire on the collapsed northbound battlescreen.
At the right point he flexed his knees and jumped, throwing himself up into the air and backwards. He bobbled in mid-air then landed on top of the trailer. The side was blown open by Precursor high-velocity rounds, several appliances were nothing more than twisted metal and pipes.
The Precursors rushed through the gap.
--FIRE IN THE HOLE--
The entire inside of the position exploded, the creation engines, already red hot, exploding as the slush splashed out and caught fire. Pieces of armor and robotics sailed skyward as Ralvex jumped backwards again, landing where several cars were parked across the two highway lanes. The highway tightened there, the median vanishing and going from three lanes to two.
As soon as he hit the ground, 525 activated the battle-screens, opened the protective cover, and jumped off, using the jump assist thrusters in his armor to sail over to Stampy.
--swapping barrel--
"I gotcha," Ralvex said.
**STAMPY HELP** the little wheeled robot said.
Ralvex checked the telltales. The little wheeled gunnery assist's weapons were cooled off.
More Precursors were rushing up the highway.
"I have the high ground, Anakin," Ralvex whispered to himself an ancient morale boosting meme he didn't really understand the context of but had heard the Terran Marines say.
It made him feel better as he tabbed up another piece of gum.
The spider mines hiding on the sheer walls of the draw jumped off the stone, their adaptive camouflage coverings blurring as they flew off the rock and onto the armor of the lead Precursors.
They detonated with an eye watering bluish-white flash, their whole bodies inverted into a shaped charge forged penetrator that blew clear through whichever Precursor they attached to.
The Big Mommas were exhausted, dug in deep and cooling off while they deslushed and built more thermal cores.
A hovercraft came in low and fast, gun firing, tearing into the cliff face to the right of Ralvex even as Ralvex raised the aiming point of his autocannon and squeezed the grip.
His first two rounds hit the front of the hovercraft and it exploded, the third round detonating on a chunk of armor that had already been blown out the back of the vehicle.
"Cutter to Ralvex, do you read?" came the terse signal.
"Ralvex here," he replied, chewing the gum and raking the Precursors below him. The steep grade gave him a high enough elevation that he was able to hammer the 20mm APHEX shells into the top of the rear deck of the Precursors.
--almost done-- 525 signaled.
Stampy beeped with concern.
"Can provide limited artillery and rocket support. File VSR (Verbal Situation Report) or TSR (Text Situation Report) or VRGSR (Virtual Reality/Graphical Situation Report) for fire plan. Over," the big BOLO said.
"VSR: Give me another round of FASCAM and submunitions between me and the city, drop air defense autonomous systems to my east and west, drop autonomous indirect fire support devices to my south. I need a resupply pack for a Mark II Roboboi and a Mark III Direct Fire Gunnery Assistant, both Telkan Marine versions," Ralvex said. He was panting with the heat buildup. "Pack of Heavy Scout Armor thermal cores if you can shake and bake a pack. Over."
"That is within my capabilities," the BOLO said. "Be advised, drone reconnaissance shows you are about to come under heavy enemy attack. I will provide assistance. Over."
"Are there any Telkan or Terran units close to me?" Ralvex asked. He let go of the firing handle and slapped the core eject on the side of his autocannon. The glowing and flashing thermal core popped free, bounced off the cliff wall, and rolled down the pavement. "Over."
"Negative. Not with enough of a presence to cut through the interference, over."
"All right. I'm still alive. I'm going to keep fighting. Can't let them get to the town. Over."
"I have broken the enemy communication algorithm, Private. The enemy is convinced that you are a reinforced infantry division and seek to destroy your unit to prevent you from launching a counterattack to liberate the city of 12.25 million remaining citizens," Cutter said.
Ralvex waved the barrel back and forth for a second to cool it and resumed firing. His smartgun harness was showing wear on the right upper arm strut, but that was to be expected now that he was over 30K rounds through the gun and on his last virgin barrel. He'd have to switch to the first one soon and hope the cooling hadn't warped it.
"High praise, I guess?" Ralvex laughed.
"Have you been trained in Terran Autonomous Field Warfare Systems?" Cutter asked.
"No. What's that?" Ralvex asked. "Shit shit shit."
Three hovercraft came in fast. He traversed the weapon, hitting one and blowing it out of the sky over his old position. The second one came apart in mid-air and spun down to hit the side of the man-made canyon, and the other heeled over to the side, crashing on the mesa's flat top to his east.
"A method of seizing control of the battlefield with only a single Terran operator. There is one near you, but it has suffered damage. I can deploy a recovery vehicle to bring it to you," Cutter said.
"If it'll help me out, I'll take it. I need more barrels for a standard Telkan 20mm Carmex XM-4811e1 autocannon and another Telkan Heavy Scout Armor XM-393e2 smart harness," Ralvex said.
"Manufacturing now. Hold the line, Marine," Cutter said.
"No choice. Can't let them past me," Ralvex said, panting inside his armor. He raked the autocannon across the top of the back decks of more Precursor machines, blowing them apart. They were having to climb over the wreckage of their own dead now to get line of sight on him.
"Understood. Cutter, out," the big heavy metal answered.
"Ralvex, out," the Telkan replied, panting.
**STAMPY HELP!** the little warboi beeped.
"Give 'em a shot in the wreckage berm, Stampy!" Ralvex yelled. "525, I'm overheating. Timmy, go to point defense!"
**TIMMY HELP** the little warboi beeped, separating its tandem guns and deploying two laser wands.
--gotta blow dust off heatsinks-- 525 said. --thirty seconds--
"Do what you gotta do," Ralvex said. "Give it to 'em, Stampy!"
Stampy fired his 80mm hellbore, lighting up the night as the compressed and directed nuclear explosion hit the middle of the piled up scrap metal. The round's backwash rolled over Ralvex, who set his feet and leaned into it, trusting the graviton generators in his boots to hold him in position as the 25kt blast hit the pile of scrap metal and blew a fan-shaped chunk out of the wreckage.
And the Precursors beyond.
And the six-lane freeway.
And five hundred meters of desert, that was instantly turned to glass - superheated bubbling liquid glass.
Ralvex used the few seconds of reprieve to move to Stampy, grab a spare barrel, and swap the barrels out on his autocannon. He grabbed a strip of thermal cores and slapped them into the weapon, then ran the weapon through the self-test as he turned back.
More of the Precursors were charging.
Bright streaks dropped out of the sky on a high arc, slamming into the ground. His armor labeled them as air defense and point defense autonomous systems and started synching them into his armor's battle tactical net.
--two cracked heat sinks-- 525 said. --replacing. gonna get hot--
"Give us some music while we work," Ralvex said. He felt the heat suddenly increase and took a long drink off of his water-tube. The water was flat, tepid, recycled from his sweat and urine as well as what moisture it could pull out of the air. Since it was the desert, that wasn't much.
The music was hard, pounding, and the Precursors that could hear it kept trying to analyze it, trying to figure out what the unit they were facing was trying to communicate. There was a 15% chance it was tactical battlecode and nearly 40% chance it was a form of sonic warfare that the Precursor machines were immune to as the heavy bass vibrated the metal of the units that got close before they were cut down by autocannon fire.
Two of the larger machines, which had stayed back and surrounded themselves with smaller machines, noticed that there had been a brief lull in the firing, then the enemy had started firing from a second position. Additionally, firepower dedicated to anti-artillery and counterbattery as well as air defense had started firing from previously unknown positions.
Is this an ambush? one asked the other.
No matter. The enemy is in strength and must be eliminated before it can arrange a counter-attack. The enemy is tenacious and difficult to fight. The population center must be secured so that the biologicals can be harvested.
Both gave the orders to press the attack.
Ralvex was having to compensate for barrel wear, the rounds no longer pinpoint accurate, but it was either that or not being able to use his heavy weapon.
He wasn't quite ready to fall back on his battle rifle.
--sink 1 replaced-- 525's words appeared on the inside of Ralvex's faceplate.
"Just keep me in the fight," Ralvex said between clenched teeth, cranking the cyclic rate back up to 500 rounds a minute and clamping down on the trigger.
If you are in a target rich environment that is the only time you should bring your cyclic rate above three hundred fifty rounds a minute. And before you ask, you will know beyond a shadow of a doubt when that time comes, the words of his Terran instructor came back to him as he raked the autocannon fire back and forth across the swarming oncoming Precursor machines.
**STAMPY HELP** came the warning.
