Sergeant Droma ducked the first laser blast, then a Protectorate soldier was on him. Too close in for their lasers, they crashed into each other, each trying to find a handhold on the other's armor.
The Armor suits weren't really designed for hand to hand combat, but soldiers of every faction had realized that such confrontations were inevitable. Too often enemy troops landed close to each other, too close for ranged energy weapons to be effective. And energy blades were the sole province of higher-ranking officers. So they learned to fight directly. The armor prevented the usual punch-and-kick schools of fighting; instead the idea was to break open your enemy's armor at a weak point, exposing their flesh to space or the planetary environment, and finish them off with a strike to the exposed area, usually the faceplate. Faceplate glass was laser-reflective, up to a point, but a few good punches usually broke it in.
The Protectorate soldier tried to get a strike in at Droma's faceplate, but he saw it coming and grabbed the hand. With his other hand Droma grasped the enemy's leg, and flipped him onto his back. The Protectorate soldier hit the ground hard. Droma stamped down into his faceplate, breaking it, then planted his armored boot heel on the bridge of the enemy's nose.
Another Protectorate soldier fired a shot at him; he
ducked to the side and it grazed his helmet. He
charged the enemy, head down like a battering ram, and
knocked him off his feet. Before the enemy could
regain his feet, he drew his own gun. Droma smashed
the gun barrel through the faceplate, and pulled the
trigger.
Above the planet, the Socialist attack was in full
swing. The Protectorate ships made the mistake of
concentrating their fire on the Socialists, while the
Free Staters divided their attacks between the two
rival factions almost equally. As a result, the
Protectorate lost three ships in a matter of minutes.
The Protectorate fleet commander panicked, and ordered
a retreat, leaving his troops behind.
The Protectorate Sergeant heard his fleet's withdrawal signal via his suit communicator, and froze. This was a fatal mistake, as Droma cannoned into him, sending him back over the mountain peak. The Protectorate Sergeant went bouncing down the steeper north side of the range.
Droma watched his fall, then turned, to see that no Protectorate soldiers were left. Only Free Staters were still standing; but there were significantly fewer of them. He estimated their losses at a third. His eyes narrowed, and he sucked in breath. He could fight, and fight well. But he didn't enjoy the body count, on either side.
"Sir," a corporal called, "Fleet says the Protectorate's buggin' out. It's just the Socialists now."
"Can the fleed hold them?" Droma asked.
The Corporal shrugged. "Too close to call."
A Socialist gunship blew up in a spectacular fireball. Another lost gravity and slowly began sinking into the atmosphere of the planet.
The Free Staters had actually lost more ships, but they stood firm. They would not lose this planet now. The Socialists, however, were likewise determined, and fired all their weapons in an attempt to break the Free Staters' resolve.
Abruptly, all the Free States' ships seemed to lose power. Before the Socialist Fleet commander realized what was happening, and EMP Wave burst from the Free State's Flagship. The Socialist fleet lost power to all systems, while the Free Stater's re-energized. The Socialsts could activate backup systems, of course, but while they were doing so the Free States opened fire on their helpless ships.
In less than two minutes, the Socialist fleet was
destroyed.
Droma's troops cheered. "We've won!" a new recruit cried.
Droma shook his head. "Not yet we haven't; we still have to secure the planet."
But in truth, taking control of the mining probes and agricultural domes was simply a matter of reprogramming. It took longer, but didn't require any fighting.
Three days later, the planet was theirs.
Droma had returned to the Fleet, and was resting in his bunk, when the ship's Captain came to see him.
"Sir!" he shouted, dropping off his bunk and snapping into a salute.
"Stand at ease, Droma," said the Captain. He was an older man, short, with a thatch of unruly black hair and wizened face. "You've pleased people in high places, apparently."
Droma frowned. "Sir?"
"You've been requested, by FSI. You're to meet with Director Colun on Nolan."
FSI was Free States Intelligence, their network of saboteurs and infiltrators. Director Colun ran FSI, and hand-selected new agents. The fact that he wanted to meet Droma on Nolan, the Free State's HQ planet, meant something very big up was up indeed.
Droma swallowed nervously. "When?"
"Pack your things; you leave in the morning," the
Captain replied.
Four days later, a high speed shuttle dropped out of hyperspace in the Nolan system, the heart of the Free States faction. Nolan was a waterlogged planet, with only three small continents and many smaller islands.
The shuttle came down through the atmosphere above the largest continent, where the FSI's training facilities were located. Droma, in full dress uniform, looked out the window at the slowly growing landscape. His nervousness had not decreased; if anything, it had intensified. He was a good commander, but had never considered himself FSI material. What Director Colun wanted with him, he still wasn't sure of. To train FSI operatives in field combat, perhaps.
The shuttle touched down on a small landing pad outside the FSI offices. As Droma walked down the landing ramp, he was greeted by ... nobody.
The ramp closed behind him. He looked around himself, but could still see no one.
Then there came a light tap on his shoulder. He whirled, and snapped into a defensive stance ... then gawped as a young woman faded into existence in front of him. She wore the standard FSI uniform; black and unadorned. She was an attractive redhead. She gave him a curt salute. "I am Lieutenant Hedler. The Director is expecting you. Follow me."
Droma weakly returned the salute, then he was following her into the squat black building at quick-march pace.
After several corridors and security checks, he finally was led into an office. It was small but well furnished. The walls were lined with shelves, full of books, data discs, and security recordings. In the center was an oak desk, the corners so rounded that the desk was almost oval-shaped.
Director Colun rose from behind the desk. Like Lieutenant Hedler, he wore a featureless black uniform. He was tall, with a mop of curly yellow hair, which was slowly whitening with age. He shook Droma's hand firmly. "Sergeant Droma, please sit down."
Droma did, watching Hedler take station behind her commander.
"I imagine you're wondering why you're here," said Colun.
"Yes sir. With all due respect to FSI, I'm more of a front-lines combatant. I don't know what use you'd have for me, though I'm glad to be noticed, sir." Droma tried to pitch his tone midway between respect and polite confusion. Inwardly, he was still worried. Was there some element of his career being brought into question?
"Oh, I know your primary skill is combat," Colun assured him, "But I requested you specifically for a mission that will ultimately have significant combat ramifications. Significant."
Droma paused, feeling that information sink in. "And what mission would that be, sir?" he asked.
Colun looked him in the eye. "A reconnaissance mission to Earth...to evaluate the planet's defenses for invasion."
Droma tried to gasp, but couldn't. It felt as though all the wind had been knocked out of him. The Free States wanted to try for Earth!
To Be Continued....