posted 11-25-98 02:42 PM ET            

It's getting light. From where I have been thrown, I can see outside, through a hole in the side of the compartment. Dawn is breaking over the mountains, sending bright fingers of light across what remains of my battle group. I can see one other assault crawler there on the sand. Split in two by those dreadful scything beams, it's scrap metal, nothing like the proud front-line battle wagon of the True Spartan alliance. Even my crawler is junk. None of my instrument panels work. Screens that should be glowing and monitoring my victories are cracked and silent.

I wished that I could reach the comm terminal. It's just behind me, I know, but I can't move. My legs are gone. Though I swear I can feel my feet, I can see the awful truth. One of those . . . rays, whatever they were, neatly shaved my legs off at mid-thigh. When my legs were severed, the suit resealed itself and stayed airtight by closing the iris seals at mid thigh. Unfortunately, that sliced off a few more centimetres of leg. I'm not complaining, the only reason I haven't asphyxiated is the nipper seals in my armour.

posted 11-25-98 02:43 PM ET            

We had suspected that the rebels had a base somewhere in these hills. Although they were far too cowardly to attack our base, raiders frequently harried our outworks. At first, the probes were poorly equipped and did little damage. They weren't even members of a army, just poor miserable ill-equipped refugees. However lately, the attacks were more serious. And more disturbingly, these attackers were members of an organization. They were Faithful Spartans, may they burn in h*ll. And the Faithfuls were allied with the Eggheads, the U of P'ers.

So we headed out. Twelve heavy assault crawlers with eight light hoverscouts under the command of me, Captain Guerre. We were ready for anything. One of the scouts picked up an infra-red signature in a small coulee. Fearing a trap, I sent in two scouts with a crawler for muscle. They flushed out three or four light tanks, too much for that small force. So we all stormed in. That's when we realised that it was a trap. Six or more heavy grav tanks cut us to ribbons. They were equipped with those new lasbeams, courtesy the Eggheads. Maybe we Spartans are the best troops on Planet, but when pitted against other Spartans, we lose our elite edge. Then when our foes have superior equipment combined with incomparable Spartan training, we are lost.

It took maybe five seconds. Quicker than humans could react, the alert monitors flared and the crawler AI opened fire. It was futile. We were overrun and cut apart. My crawler exploded and I went crashing headfirst into a bulkhead. Since then, I haven't been able to move.

posted 11-25-98 02:44 PM ET            

The sack of the city was well underway when we entered, but the force commander, General Coeurnoir of the 5th Army, had reserved a special honour for me. Santiago herself had ordered, that as a sign of Spartan superiority, the trees in the Gaians' special grove were to be cut down and burned. General Coeurnoir ordered me, personally, to act as a torch bearer. I felt so proud, a mere Captain, thrusting a torch into the piled wood. As we all watched the flames consume those trees, the Greenies' great symbol, I felt a fierce joy. In the flickering firelight, I could see the red faces of the greatest people ever to walk the Planet. We, the Spartans, were invincible. No one could stand in our way.

It was then that I heard the terrible news. Our Great Leader, the Santiago, the Preserver of the Race, was dead. While leading a sortie into Egghead territory, she was foully murdered in a cowardly ambush. She was dead. The Saviour and Protector of Humanity was no more.

That was when the decline began. At first, everyone wanted to know who her successor was. No one knew. She had not left any clear successor. Until three months ago, it had been assumed that General Patton would lead. However, accusations of incompetence had ruined her career. Some thought that General Foch was the logical successor. That was until she died in a mysterious plane crash only two days before Santiago fell. Just to prevent chaos, each general was hastily given command of all of the troops in their immediate area. For the moment, that seemed to restore order.

Then two days later, a bulletin came out from HQ. General Denise Quayle had appointed herself Supreme Commander over all Spartan personnel.

That did not sit well with General Coeurnoir or, as I later learned, with any of the other regional commanders. They considered General Quayle to be an officer without any real battlefield experience and to be unfit for supreme command. In an address to all true Spartans (that is what he called us), Coeurnoir told us that until the situation at HQ was resolved, we of the 5th Army would act as an independent force.

That is how it started. Quayle, of the HQ Loyal Spartans, refused to provision Coeurnoir, of the 5th Army True Spartans, until he swore allegiance to her. Coeurnoir refused. He said that we would never follow "that young unbloodied upstart." Quayle responded by cutting our supplies. We had no choice. With the Greenies still a powerful force in the area, and no fresh supplies, we had to retreat.

posted 11-25-98 02:45 PM ET            

As we pull out, we destroy whatever we can. I was supervising the destruction of the water purification system. It's hard work. The Huggers build to last. What's worse, we are low on ammo. One of my munition specialists, Sergeant Noirtete, scrounged together some crude explosives. I watched him drop a charge into the main pumps. They shattered.

I walked over to congratulate him.

"Well done, Sergeant. That will teach those Greenies for wanting drinking water."
He laughed harshly. "Yes sir, they can strain it through their teeth."
"Do you have any charge left?"
"Yes sir, just enough to drop down the well hole. There should be enough to collapse it."
"Good job, soldier, carry on."

I looked around the burning plant. My troops handled pacification duties well. Low on ammo, they are using crude physical means to turn the place to rubble. Axes and sledgehammers work well, especially on computers.

"Captain, Captain Guerre! We found ourselves a rat."

Three troopers were dragging an old man out of the wreckage. He was dressed in dirty rags, and his face was drawn and haggard. They threw him down in front of me.

"So, old man, how do you like our renovations," I snickered as the troopers laughed.
He said nothing.
"Then I take it you approve."
He mumbled something.
"Speak up, old man."
He spoke suddenly. His voice was low but steady, "Why are you doing this?"
"Well," I said, "The official reason is to deny the use of this base to the Greenie army and to punish your leaders for resisting us. But the real reason is simpler. We are destroying your lives because we can. We are strong and you are weak. That's all the justification the world demands."

That's when his face twisted. It was an expression of frustration, horror, and impotence but mostly hate. He spit on my boots. I had no choice.

They hoisted him up a flagpole in front of the waterworks. As they tied the rope around his neck, a crowd of Huggers gathered. I smiled. Object lessons like this should not go unwitnessed.

As he swayed above, I looked over the crowd. But they weren't looking at him, or my soldiers. They were all looking at me. All those faces, staring. Masks of contempt, insolence, and hate bore into me. They blame me. Every person in that silent multitude is glaring at me. Every face, young and old, is a study in hate.

I order my soldiers to open fire.

posted 11-26-98 01:59 PM ET            

We were moving slowly. Ten days ago, those d*mned Peacecreepies or Creepies, had declared war. They insisted that we apologise, rebuild Gaia's High Garden, and pay compensation, or face retribution. As if we, the Spartans, would ever apologise for war, the noblest pursuit of our race. After we rightly refused, the Creeps launched a psi-parasite on our air intelligence nexus. That hurt. Our air intelligence operator's brains suddenly interpreted friends as foes. Our anti-air batteries were ordered to fire on our own planes. The opening salvo was deadly. In panicked self defense, the surviving pilots returned fire. Before Air Command could intervene, three quarters of the planes currently aloft were shot down. A third of our air defenses were gone. Hastily, Command grounded our squadrons until we could regain control over our anti-air batteries. That was when a combined Creepie/Greenie force attacked. With no patrolling fighters, and a cooked air defense system that ignored the enemy and shot down our planes, the Creepie/Greenies had total air superiority. They moved in masses of troops, and we lost three bases. With one cowardly attack, we lost two years of victories.

With the capture of those bases, we were totally cut off. Just like that, we were trapped between two enemy forces. General Coeurnoir ordered us to scatter, break through the lines, and regroup at the Spartan bases at either Vimy Ridge or Trafalgar. I took my company southeast into an area of steep hills and valleys. This area had great cover. Combined with the zero heat signature shielding and chameleon shade control, the heavy cover made my crawlers virtually invisible. Unfortunately, at a maximum stealth speed of three klicks an hour, our progress was torturously slow. At that rate, we had enough food to get to Vimy Ridge, but not much more. Fuel was low. Ammo was critically low. One sharp attack would finish our munitions. The armour situation was even worse. The crawlers were coated with an ablative shield that would absorb the damage and burn off when struck. As long as there was enough ablat coating, the underlying metal would not be damaged. Most of the crawlers had huge holes in their shielding and we had run out of patch. Direct hits could now burn through. Food, fuel, ammo, and ablat patch, we really needed resupply.

It took days. We crept along, listening, watching, and inching forward. Although we remained hidden and saw nothing, the comm channels were alive. Creepies, Greenies, Eggheads, and even the Bugs from the Human Hive sent out strong signals. The Spartan channels were confused. At least three different programs were simultaneously being broadcast on all of our channels. As the signal strengths varied in the varied terrain, different stations would fade in and out. It was difficult to follow any of them. But, it seemed that the disagreements between some of the generals had continued. In my offtime, I was rereading an account of the Unity voyage. I remembered the story of the Great Santiago in Greenieland. She had been cut off in enemy territory, and the chain of command had held. That was before the reality of Planet had intruded. On the ground, in the day to day messiness and routine of life, such idealism was rare. The superb tactical flexibility that gave our troops the freedom to exploit opportunities was turning into factionalism.

Our crawlers crawled on. Yesterday, we crossed the last Creepie sound line, and now, at last, we have made it. Vimy Ridge is just ahead. As we began the standard decloaking procedure, to make sure we won't be accidentally detected and destroyed, I called up a schematic of the base. Vimy Ridge is one of the toughest bases in our command. It is a well reinforced stronghold with many well trained troops. Only the absolute finest armies, well trained and well led, could ever hope to storm the Ridge. I am very glad that they are friendlies.

The comm screen awakens. "Unidentified armoured crawler company, bearing 162, speed 1.39 m/s, identify yourself."
I enter the appropriate response. Already, I am starting to relax. Some good food, a couple of drinks, maybe a . . .
"Company halt!" squawks the voicebox. Instantly, I send the halt command.
Then the tactical display flashes, "Warning, unknowns approaching at 97 m/s, course to intercept."
"Captain, what's going on?" sends Lieutenant Enfield, "Are we under attack?"
"Negative. These are Spartans, Lieutenant, it's probably just a perimeter check."

posted 11-26-98 02:00 PM ET            

This is not procedure. Something is definitely wrong. Could it be another plague? Might a tailored disease have hit Vimy Ridge? That's the only reason I can think of.

I don a helmet and check the oxygen supply. The airlock toggle switch is sticky; it is coated in fine dust. My crawler badly needs maintenance but there just hasn't been time. Finally the switch sparks the right contacts and the lock opens. Two steps and I am outside. I start walking. There is a steep ridge just ahead, and I can't see the other side. Slowly I climb the hill.

As I step over the top of the hill, I can see Vimy Ridge in the distance. Located on a hill top like an old-fashioned castle, it is bristling with weapons. Massive railguns and las batteries are visible even from here. The massive walls glow red with reflected sunlight. Below me in the valley bottom, is a small army of hoverscouts and armoured crawlers. All of them are moving; all of them are fully ready for battle. I step toward them.

One of the crawlers stops its Brownian motion and creeps toward me. I stop. It slowly advances. Closer, closer, it is only 20 metres away. Do they want to kill me? Should I roll away? I doubt that would accomplish much except to make my last seconds of life appear foolish. The behemoth rolls on. Then it stops, only metres away.

The hatch opens. A suited figure emerges and approaches me. It holds up four fingers. I switch to Channel 4.

A harsh voice intones, "I am Major Garand of the Faithful Spartans."
"Captain Guerre, 5th Army, sir."
"Which faction," he says.
Has he gone mad? What a strange question. "Spartan Federation, sir."
"Very amusing Captain, which faction?"
I am beginning to think that this major is losing his mind. "Sir? Well, Spartan, sir."
"If I don't get some answers here, Captain, I'll spill your guts on these rocks."
What is going on? Why the hostility? Aren't we all Spartans? "Sir, I don't understand, we . . . "

The world goes black.

I am conscious of pain. I can feel some thick liquid dripping down my face. I can hear an angry voice.

posted 11-27-98 07:25 AM ET            

The new chapters are just as excellent.

Spartans killing Spartans ha-ha-ha; They should realize that true Strength and unity can only be found in the hive collective.

posted 11-27-98 02:19 PM ET            

The private speaker implanted in my left suddenly came to life, "Captain Guerre. Lieutenant Enfield, Crawler 4, request secure channel."
Using my throat mounted subvocal microphone, I responded, "Secure channel open."
"Captain. The fuel situation is critical. Even in economy mode, we'll never make it to Trafalgar."
What else can I do? I don't have any choice.
I switch to the open company comm channel. "All units converge on command crawler, and assume maintenance formation."

With my senior staff, we examined each crawler carefully, checked their patch levels, and looked at their fuel consumption. Of the twelve crawlers, nine were in fair condition. As for fuel, if we pooled all of our remaining fuel, and distributed it to the most efficient crawlers, seven crawlers should be able to make it to Trafalgar. I gave the orders.

As the soon to be abandoned crawlers were being stripped, I looked for my munitions improviser, Sergeant Noirtete. He was carrying ammo.

"Sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
"We can't leave this equipment to the enemy."
"No, sir."
"Find a way to destroy these five, using as few of our supplies as possible."