Sexy Space Babes: Chapter Seventy Four (Patreon)

Kincaid felt yet another icy cold drop of water drip on his head. The third in as many minutes.

“For fuck’s sake,” he hissed, swatting away the offending liquid from his brow.

He glared up at where it was coming from, the hatch just above his head where he was ostensibly supposed to escape from in the event the tank suffered some kind of major malfunction. Like being perforated by laser fire. Or being set ablaze. Or filled with toxic gas from any number of sources.

Of course given the massive vehicle’s current circumstances, the only thing that waited for him if he was actually dumb – or desperate - enough to open that hatch was a watery grave; given that the tank he currently occupied was sat at the bottom of a lake doing its level best impersonation of a submarine, with an exo sat atop it using its anti-grav to keep the larger vehicle from simply bobbing to the surface.

A set of circumstances that only served to highlight just how cockeyed this entire plan was.

Another drop of water splashed against his forehead.

“Fucking logistics,” Kincaid roared, his patience for this entire situation finally reaching its breaking point. “How hard is it to keep a fucking space age tank from having leaks?”

From his position down near Kincaid’s feet, his driver simply shrugged laconically. “They’ve been busy.”

“Busy preparing our vehicles for this shitshow of an op by trying to make our vehicles able to operate under a goddamned lake,” Kincaid spat, utterly unaffected by his compatriots disinterested response. “A set of last minute retrofits I hurry to remind you, that somehow failed to account for a final check on the seals for leaks.”

Which was a pretty large fucking oversight in his books. Almost as large as the puddle of water that was gently sloshing around his feet.

“Heaven help us all if all this water fucks with the controls,” he spat, running yet another diagnostic scan on the vehicle's central computer. A central computer than unerringly returned an ‘all-green’ response.

Which somehow only managed to further irritate him. Because that meant he had to grudgingly acknowledge that for all their other myriad faults, the purp's shit was built to last.

Though they don't build 'well', he thought, glancing around the frankly criminal amount of space available to the three crewmen. They’d tried to fill it as best they could with supplies and other equipment, but their was an upper limit to what they could do.

Which meant the tank was needlessly large for no real reason, which meant it had a truly massive targeting profile. A profile that had already seen them take a number of hits during this campaign that they could have avoided if they’d just had a reasonably sized tank.

“And you do realize that this leak means that we’d all have been fucked in the event of a chemical attack, right?” Kincaid continued. “Because if water’s getting in then poison gas certainly can. How’d you like that? All of us dying because some wrench jockey decided they couldn’t be bothered to perform a decent seal check?”

Ahead of him, his driver shrugged, before reaching up and pulling something from his mouth.

“Here,” he said, twisting back to present the ornery gunner with a well masticated bit of gum.

Kincaid stared silently at the substance for a good few seconds, before irritably swiping it and pressing it against where the leak was coming from.

It held. Much to his irritation.

“Still a piss poor performance,” he grumbled.

Fortunately the other two occupants of the Aggravated Assault they were spared any more of his diatribe as a heavy thunk racked the vehicle’s hull.

“That’s the signal,” the commander grunted – because of course they’d been reduced to an even cruder equivalent of handsignals in lieu of the regiment’s ongoing jamming problem. At least when they pulled out of the water they’d be able to switch back to the laser signal system some engineer had whipped up. “Forward, ten meters.”

Looking through the tanks targeting system, Kincaid watched as the murky blackness of the lake bottom was swiftly replaced by the familiar stormy skies of Raknos-Three, as their tank breached the water's surface. It pulled forward alongside thirty of its contemporaries until it was ‘hull down’ relative to the nearby sand bank.

Almost instantly, Kincaid’s gaze honed in the objective of this insane little excursion.

"Enemy on visuals now. Range, 6000 meters," he reported to their tank’s commander – some asshole that had been called in to replace Dobry now that the man had been poached by the Colonel’s command staff.

Kincaid knew the man’s name, but it usually took him a few weeks to refer to anyone in his mind as anything other than ‘that asshole’.

Not that he’d give any hint of that right now. They were on the job. Which meant ego took a back seat. Kincaid wasn’t Kincaid right now. He was simply the Aggravated Assault’s gunner. Just one part of a single animal.

The flick of a switch brought the vehicles powerful digital sights into focus, displaying a long line of APC’s and other vehicles. Their was a small smattering of exos gathered around the flanks of the convoy, but Kincaid knew for a fact that bulk of the enemy’s exo force was ahead of the main formation. Ostensibly scouting for possible ambushes.

A task they clearly failed in, given that we’re here, Kincaid thought.

…Though he’d refuse to acknowledge that the Colonel’s plan to use the planet’s aboveground waterways to sneak up on the enemy had any real merit.

They’d have been totally fucked if they had been discovered en-route. Saying they’d been fish in a bucket wouldn’t have even come close to clarifying just how fucked they would have been.

The Colonel had gambled with all of their lives and come out ahead.

This time, he thought.

"Weapons to tight beam. AP burn.” The commander relayed.

Kincaid did so with a practice flip of a switch, though he still felt a little odd being both the tank’s gunner and ‘loader’.

“Tight Beam. AP Burn.” He confirmed.

"Units one through five will target the leaders of the formation.” The commander relayed, no doubt receiving information through laser-comms from Captain Friska now that they were above water. “The rest shall divvy up targets to avoid redundant kills.”

As Kincaid watched, one of the vehicles on his scope was highlighted green as the commander selected that target for destruction. All across the line, other tanks in the company would be receiving similar information on – mostly – different targets.

Once upon a time they’d have had access to a wireless command and control platform that would allow tanks to seamlessly share targeting information. With the current jamming though, they’d been reduced to each individual commander’s best guess as to which vehicle was ‘theirs’.

"Range 4200.” Kincaid relayed. “Enemy in top-most weapon range!"

"Hold.” The commander cautioned. “We want as short as burn time as possible.”

They also wanted the enemy to be close enough that retreat would be impractical – but not so close that they’d be able to close to their own effective weapon range before the tanks had sufficiently decimated them.

Which Kincaid was more than fine with. He’d seen what happened when Exos got in and amongst a tank formation and he had no desire to see it again.

…Even if he was now sitting in a Purp tank with their own Exos waiting in the wings. Possibly – though unlikely - the same Exos that had slaughtered his friends all those years ago back on Earth.

He put the thought from his mind. It didn’t matter now.

All that mattered was keeping his reticule trained on center mass of the Alliance APC ahead of him.

"Hold.”

"Range 3000."

"Hold."

"Range 2400."

Kincaid watched as one of the APCs suddenly exploded, the vehicles engine pierced by an invisible beam of intense UV light.

"Fire!" The commander’s order came not even a moment later.

Kincaid squeezed the firing mechanism with all the softness of a lovers caress.

He didn’t see the beam of his weapon, just the effect, as every drop of rain between him and his target instantly vaporized into hot steam.

The effect on the APC itself was only slightly less spectacular. Given that the Alliance apparently used some kind of anti-grav rather than the more mundane tracks and wheels favored by the Imperium and the Roaches, the first thing that happened was that the angular vehicle simply dropped out of the sky, slamming into the bare stone ground with an explosion of sparks as smoke and flames started to billow from the deceptively small hole that had been melted in the side of the vehicle.

If Kincaid had stayed to watch the effects of his handiwork like some kind of green horn rather than immediately switching to his next target like the professional soldier he was, he would have seen the rear hatch of the vehicle explode open as emergency release bolts triggered and the occupants spilled out into the mid afternoon sun.

Some were alight, flames licking at their partially melted suits as they dropped to the floor and started rolling about in panicky desperate attempt to put out the flames. Some simply dropped and lay still.

Kincaid noticed none of that though. His focus was on putting another beam through his next target, compensating his aim as the enemy driver started to jink to the side in response to the sudden ambush.

It was a decent response time on the part of the pilot, given the unexpectedness of the attack, and her move was aided by the almost inhuman nimbleness of her vehicles anti-grav nature.

It just wasn’t enough to compensate for Kincaid’s practiced aim as he put a shot clean through the engine compartment, sending her smoking vehicle crashing to the ground. A scenario that repeated itself all across the convoy as the veteran gunnery of the Terran First’s tankers took a bloody toll on the Alliance scout company.

Though the Alliance was not slow to respond.

“Exos are coming about,” their tank’s commander relayed. “Remaining APCs are launching rockets. Bringing missile interdiction systems online.”

It was a little surreal to see, an arrowhead of exos rocketing towards them, a series of small missiles shrieking through the air ahead at a speed only slightly faster than their manned machine fellows.

“Switch target to incoming Exos. Independent targeting.”

Kincaid did so, only to curse as the Alliance Exo he’d been drawing a bead on jinked to the side with enough speed that the pilot should have been reduced to little more than pulp as a result of G-Forces alone.

Unfortunately for him, magic anti-grav bullshit nullified that little quirk of physics, allowing the ridiculous suits of power armor to dart about like something inside a pinball machine as unerringly zigzagged toward the tank company’s location.

It didn’t help that the tank’s main turret had a limit on how fast it could traverse, making drawing a bead on the incoming machines all the harder.

Though not impossible, the man thought with some satisfaction as he plucked one of the enemy exos out of the sky with a well place shot that saw the machine not so much crash to the dirt as explode violently.

Unfortunately, his success was the exception not the rule, which meant that ultimately the act of picking off the incoming Exo force was down to the tank company’s secondary computer controlled weapon systems rather than the main guns and their Human operators.

A task made more difficult for each tanks four turret mounted laser systems by the fact that they were unable to coordinate their fire control systems with each other due to the ongoing jamming effect. A system that normally would have allowed them to trap incoming Exos between overlapping fields of fire.

That, and the fact that some of those turrets were focused on the act of sweeping the skies clear of incoming missiles. A task much easer than taking out exos given that the missiles had a fairly linear path and little armor, but it still cost precious seconds.

Which was likely their intended purpose. Not so much to bombard the enemy, but distract them while the Exos closed in. Though if a rocket were to slip through and destroy a tank or two, well that would be just fine too.

Even as Kincaid continued to fire on the incoming enemy, he couldn’t help but feel a sinking sense of déjà vu. They weren’t killing the incoming Exos fast enough. Some were going to get in and amongst their ranks

And without infantry support, that meant the Imperial tanks would be little more than metal coffins as the nimble mecha ran roughshod through their line.

Despite himself, he could feel a bead of sweat forming on his forehead – one that had nothing to do with the heat that was slowly building inside the vehicle from continuous weapons fire.

“Range 100.” The commander’s relayed professionally, though Kincaid could detect just a hint of tension in his voice. Which was why his next words came as such a relief to all of them. “Allied Exos launching. Cease main guns. Secondaries only!”

Kincaid heard as much as saw the Imperial exos launch forward into the fray, maneuvering rockets blazing as they shot toward the larger Alliance models.

What had been a straight charge towards Imperial lines turned into a dogfight as Alliance and Imperial pilots tangled right in front of the tank gunline.

An engagement range that was a lot shorter than it needed to be.

“Must have taken them longer than expected to peel off the seals,” Kincaid murmured, just a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Which is what you get when you pull new tech out of your ass right before a major operation.”

Because Exos weren’t designed to walk across the bottom of a lake any more than tanks were. And unlike tanks, were fitted with a number of thrusters that would react poorly to being filled with water. Which was why the logistics company had rapidly fabricated a number of seals for each of them.

Seals that were apparently a lot simpler to apply than remove, given that Captain Gremp’s Exos were supposed to launch much sooner than this.

Which only serves to reinforce just how much of a gamble this entire clusterfuck of an operation has been, Kincaid thought.

From there, the fight was pretty much over. The enemy pilots might have been talented, but they’d been savaged on the way in and were outnumbered, with the Terran First’s tanks plucking away at any Alliance Exo that dared to break too far from the main furball that had formed in front of their lines.

As quickly as the battle had begun, it was over.

From there, it was a relatively simple feat to rundown the remaining infantry and convince them of the merits of surrendering.

-----

There was a celebratory mood at Nexus Site Five.

The Terran 1st had encountered the new Alliance attackers and bloodied their noses. More to the point, they’d managed to take prisoners.

Though hostages might be a more apt term, Jason thought as he made his way through the command post with a stack of omni-slates in hand.

Not that he held much sympathy for the ragtag group of Alliance commandos that were now cooling their heels in the regiment’s new makeshift prison cells. Nor was he alone in mindset. Which wasn’t unexpected, given that their new guests were both black ops and in violation of interstellar law by refusing to take prisoners.

Which meant that Cleff would have been totally within her rights to have them all summarily executed – after violently pumping them for whatever information they knew.

Fortunately for him, that wasn’t what the regiment’s command staff had decided to do. Their prisoners were being accorded all the rights and benefits of prisoners of war.

Because as much as the Shil’s nobles oblige and manifest destiny bullshit can be grating, it does have its advantages, he thought as he stepped into the briefing room.

And startled a little at finding it occupied.

“Dobry,” he said, acknowledging the dour looking Russian who was sat at the room’s main table. “I’m surprised you haven’t turned in for the night.”

Along with just about everyone else who had taken part in the day’s operation, went unsaid. Because I know I’d be tired as shit after driving across the bottom of a lake to ambush an incoming scout company.

Jason had been very glad to sit out of that particular pile of bullshit. And he knew just how bullshit it was, because he’d been part of the team whose job it had been to retrofit the Exos so that they could pull it off.

Which had been a small nightmare. Because void-capable did not translate to submersible.

No matter what our illustrious Colonel chooses to believe, he thought.

“Champion,” the man acknowledged before falling silent.

Awkwardly silent. At least for Jason. He had a feeling the Russian man cared less. His mind was elsewhere.

A mindset Jason chose to emulate after a few seconds. If the former major didn’t want to talk, that was fine by him.

He had cleaning to do.

And wasn’t that galling? Because that was something his role entailed. As if he was some kind of office manager. An office manager that was allowed to enter highly restricted areas.

He was just in the middle of placing his stack of omni-pads into their designated locked and secured charging stations when Dobry startled him by speaking.

“Today was not a victory.”

Jason paused, glancing at the man.

“I think the small platoon of prisoners we’ve got sat in our brig might care to differ,” he responded.

“Perhaps,” the other man allowed. “Tactically, I cannot fault our success. Strategically, I am not so sure.”

Jason could only shrug. Strategy wasn’t his strong suit. Hell, tactics wasn’t his strong suit. No matter what his accomplishments to date might have suggested. They’d involved as much incompetence on the part of his enemy as luck and skill on his.

If Dobry was bothered by the lack of answer on his conversational partner’s part, he didn’t show it as he continued. “Our Colonel grows bold. Too bold.”

“She’s always been bold.”

“Yes,” the man allowed. “Bold, but not reckless. And that was what today’s operation was. Reckless. Callous.” He looked to Jason. “You must understand, a commander must always gamble. It is the reality of war. Not all facts can be known. We are given limited information. With that information we must make decisions. Judge the odds. Our chance of survival against the success of our objectives.”

His fingers drummed across the tables surface. “But our Colonel, I fear her objectives have changed.” He pinned Jason with a stare. “I think she believes we will all die here.”

Despite himself, Jason felt his heart seize in his chest, just a little. Not so much from the information Dobry had just conveyed. Everyone knew that. It hung over the regiment like an executioner’s axe. A veritable sword of Damocles.

But no one had said it aloud. Or at least, not where Jason could hear.

Until now.

“Perhaps,” Jason allowed, his throat a little dry as he spoke the word.

He wouldn’t argue, for it was the truth. And for as much as Jason considered himself to be a man of few virtues, a fear of harsh truths wasn’t one of them.

An acknowledgement that seemed to satisfy Dobry.

“I fear that our Colonel’s objectives have shifted. No longer is the survival of our people a consideration. Merely how much damage they can do before they fall.”

“To spite the Alliance?”

The Russian shook his head. “I imagine that is only part of it. Know, I imagine her true goals have more in line with that of martyrdom. For she does not fear death. Her race is short lived. She lives knowing her days are numbered shorter than most. That each moment matters. That gives her a cavalier attitude that I believe has been kept in check until now.”

The man’s fingers continued to drum. “Yet now, with death seemingly inevitable, I think she has accepted our fates as fact where a more… cowardly soul might still seek alternatives beyond a final glorious stand.”

Jason kept his tone steady, even as he knew the pair of them were essentially discussing dissension – inside the regimental command center. “Do you think… do you think you might have some alternatives in mind?”

“Perhaps. Precious few. None of them good.” The man ceased his drumming. “We might make a break for the nearest funnel. Seek evac from there. We’d lose many along the way. The majority of our logistics personnel, certainly. We could not fight a running rearguard. Our enemy would outmaneuver and re-encircle us with their faster machines. It would need to be a mad dash. Disparate groups splitting to the wind such that some precious few might make it to their objective before their destruction. Most would die. A few of our combat elements might make it.”

“That sounds…” Jason didn’t quite know what to say.

“Defeatist? Fatalist? Cowardly?” Dobry said. “I know. More to the point, I was told as much by our esteemed Colonel when I broached the possibility nearly a day ago. Back when it was a more viable option. I believe my time as a trusted advisor has reached its end.”

Jason frowned. “Do you have any other ideas?”

The man’s gaze turned on him. “If I did, I imagine I would not be sat here pondering well into the night when I might otherwise be resting these tired bones.”

Jason had nothing to say to that. Instead he simply stood up and left, leaving the older man to his tired ruminations.

Though as he did, he found himself thinking. Really thinking.

Because Dobry was right.

A more cowardly man would consider alternatives where a braver one might accept the inevitability of a heroic death.

And Jason was nothing if not a cowardly man.