Steven Kent - The Clone Alliance

“Unless you have a better idea,” I said. I knew he did. We should have shot the boys; but coming after a platoon of Marines with kitchen knives and an old pistol did not seem like capital offenses.

I watched Greer and two of his men lead the boys down the hall at gunpoint. One of them stopped and turned to face me. “Devil!” he screamed. Greer grabbed him by the hair and kept on walking without breaking stride. As they stepped onto the elevator, I replaced my helmet.

“Any other problems, gentlemen?” I asked over a platoon-wide band.

The colonel, the highest-ranking Marine to accompany the invasion, called me over the interLink. “Sergeant Harris, are you and your men comfortable in that cozy little hotel you’ve captured?”

“Just dandy, sir,” I said.

“Sergeant, I have it on good authority that the first wave of Mogats will be here in less than ten minutes. I would like to offer you and your men front-row seats if you’re feeling up to it.”

This was neither a friendly offer nor an order. It was a challenge. “Scared we’ll miss the action?” I asked.

“I just thought you’d want to be in on it. Your choice, train station or traffic ramp,” the colonel offered.

“You know, sir, I’ve always had a thing for trains.”

Two other platoons replaced us as we left the building. They would fight from behind the shielded walls we had captured. Leaving the tenement gave me the same feeling I sometimes got when I parachuted out of a transport. I had the uneasy feeling of leaving safety behind.

Watching my men, I saw that they knew the countdown had begun. We might have three minutes, we might have seven, but the Mogat Army was coming with its shielded tanks and vehicles and its endless supply of men. Leaving the shielded safety of the tenement, we entered the street. To our right was an elevator station from which a steady stream of Marines continued to pour.

The neighborhood around us looked like a ghost town. No one stood in the streets. By this time everyone had found cover, even the people we evicted from the apartment building. No one stood in the doorways or courtyards of the three-and four-story tenements we passed on the way to the station. Running alongside my platoon, I scanned those buildings and occasionally saw Marines peering through open windows. If the Mogats wanted this neighborhood back, they would have to take it floor by floor.

“Harris, you and your platoon better hurry if you want to catch your trains,” the colonel called to me.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

The colonel transmitted virtual beacons to guide us to the station. The beacons led us through alleys rather than along main streets. Unless we got very lucky stopping the Mogats, we would need to retreat. The colonel’s path would let us fall back more safely, leading the Mogats through gauntlets in which our men would already have high ground.

We ran another three blocks, crossed an open square that was probably the Mogat version of a commons. The park had benches and sculptures of people, but when it came to plant life, it had not so much as a single bush.

Then we arrived. The train station had a roof but no walls. Weather was not an issue in this artificial environment.

Another platoon had already set up. The lieutenant in charge came out to greet us. “Sergeant Harris, am I ever glad to see you,” he said.

“Find cover,” I told my men, then I turned to the lieutenant. “What’s the situation, sir?” I asked.

“We’ve mined the tracks,” he said. “I have snipers on every roof.”

“Do you know how much longer till they arrive?” I asked.

“How could I know that?” the man asked.

“Evans, search the station. There should be a computer monitoring which tracks are in use. I want men with rocket launchers watching each of those tracks,” I said.

“Got it,” Evans said.

Turning back to the lieutenant, I said, “My men and I will have a look. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

A moment later Philips called me. “Hey, Master Sarge, ain’t those trains shielded?”

“They are,” I said.

“So what’s the use of shooting rockets at them?”

“We’re going to shoot at the front car,” I said. “Let’s see if we can derail a train or two.”

“Derail the suckers; I like it,” Philips said.

“Thomer, keep a leash on Philips, will you?” I asked.

“I found your control system,” Evans called back a moment later.

“Open band,” I told Evans. “We need everyone to hear you. Where’s the first train?”

“Track number seven. It arrives in thirty-eight seconds.”

“I got this one,” Philips called over the interLink. He trotted off toward a track carrying a rocket launcher in his right hand and his M27 in his left.

“I’ll watch him,” Thomer said.

“No, I’ll go with Philips,” I said. “Take care of the rest of your squad.”

“There are trains coming down tracks one, three, eight, nine, and eleven,” Evans radioed me.

“Did you get that, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“Got it. My men can take eight, nine, and eleven,” the lieutenant said.

The tracks were trenches with plasticized edges and metal floors. They were five feet deep and fifteen feet across, and they seemed to worm their way under the horizon. The trains used magnetic levitation. The Mogats had undoubtedly shielded the tracks and the trains floating inside them, but the men inside those trains would be as vulnerable as eggs in a carton.

I ran to join Philips. At the edge of our vision, the train sped toward us. At first it was nothing but a tiny spot of light. Soon I saw the massive wedge of its engine, then I could identify the dome on its nose and the airfoils along its top. A mine blew up beneath it, and the train seemed to wriggle in the track. Another mine exploded. A small burst of flames erupted under the heavy engine; the cars kicked from side to side in the track.

“Steady, Philips,” I said. Now I was calm. My combat reflex had begun, and warmth spread through my veins. I knew I could have made the shot, but I trusted Philips to shoot as well as me.

“I hope they shut down those shields soon,” Philips said.

“Hit the train low,” I said. “Let’s try to upend it.”

“Damn it, Master Sarge, I know that,” Philips snapped. He fired the rocket. A long rope of smoke appeared three feet above the floor of the track. The rocket reached the train so quickly that the smoke and the explosion seemed to all happen at once. A star-shaped flame exploded beneath the base of the train. Philips had fired a damn-near perfect shot.

What happened next was as beautiful as any ballet. The train veered toward the edge of the track as its nose kicked up. Magnetic levitation had placed that train in a nearly frictionless environment, so its bulk and momentum continued forward despite the upward thrust of the rocket.

Barreling forward at hundreds of miles an hour when the rocket struck, the engine bounced nearly three feet on its magnetic cushion, enough to leap the edge of the track. The rest of the train followed, twisting over on its side as it did. The track sort of ejected the train.

The rear cars slid over three more mines as they threaded their way out of the magnetic tracks. I expected sparks and a trail of destruction to follow the derailed train, but it did not happen that way. The shielded train slid across a shielded street, hitting a couple of shielded walls. The train gave off no sparks; but smoke rose from its windows as its cars slid along the street, rebounding against walls before skidding to a rest. The outside of the train went undamaged; but liquid, maybe blood, maybe oil, maybe both, slowly seeped out of the wreckage.