Agamemnon's Command Post

  From his position Agamemnon could look up and see the fighting taking place in Nyx Tower. The invaders had reached somewhere between floors 60 and 65. He was quite disappointed. From the reports he had received, Periscope was still functioning and had not even engaged in combat yet, letting the elite guard be fed into the grinder first while he preserved his mechs. It was a cold tactic, but Agamemnon could not say he would not have done the same if he were defending the tower.

  He was still quite disappointed in the rate the Vanguard was advancing. He'd estimated based upon previous engagements that they would have made a beeline for the throneroom by now. He'd prefer Persephone to be dead by the morning. Interjecting was a complete no-go for the vampire general. He had assumed the roll of ignorance in this matter. Many distress calls had been sent from the tower, even some from Persephone herself. He ignored all of them. He had to. If he acknowledged them then his treachery would be plain as day.

  The vampire general looked back out over the battlefield. The flashes of light and burning buildings in the night was even more beautiful than during the day. His gaze unintentionally, purely as a matter of coincidence, passed over another highrise a few blocks away which housed a decoy command center. It was convincingly dressed up with antennas, sensor hardware and even had real guards and personnel assigned to the charade to make it convincing. It was very close by, intended as a canary. If it fell, then the Vanguard was surely on to him.

  That was when a warning came in from the anti-aircraft defenses. There were targets diving on their position, but it wasn't the guns or missile batteries defending. The laser array powered up. Straight beams of blinding infrared light streaked upwards into the clouds. Their performance was greatly degraded by the rain, but large yellow blooms could be seen above the cloud layer as explosions erupted. It seemed they were doing job. But then he saw it, something falling from the clouds at hypersonic speed. Even with his enhanced eyesight he caught a brief glimpse of it as the object plunged downward. It was conical and spinning, its tip glowing bright orange from the heat of reentering the atmosphere. His eyes widened in shock. It was a ballistic re-entry vehicle.

  The ballistic projectile was the only one to make it through the laser defense. It fell directly on top of the decoy command center. The object penetrated through multiple floors in a tenth of a second before detonating in a brilliant thermobaric bloom. The entire top half of the structure ballooned outward from the pressure. Every single glass pane in the entire neighborhood shattered simultaneously. The interior furnishings vaporized instantly. The steel I-beams and structural supports bowed outward before superheating and melting into slag. The entire top half of the building was engulfed in fire. It was entirely consumed in the blast. What wasn't instantly turned into dust, was thrown skyhigh. Rubble was ejected into nearby buildings, causing immense damage to them as well. Shockwaves ripped down the street causing anyone standing in the vicinity to be flattened against the pavement. Cars, light poles and trees were ripped from the pavement and tossed like toys. Even soldiers at the edge of the blastwave were killed instantly as the pressure was enough to cause severe concussions and rupture lungs.

  Agamemnon's own position was shaken like a rattle. Personnel were thrown from their stations, him included. Some were blown clear off the side of the highrise and fell dozens of floors to their deaths in the streets below.

  The general was quick to rise. He ran back to his perch to observe the catastrophe. The decoy command center was entirely gone. Just gone, like it had never been there. The buildings around it were aflame. Ash now mixed with the rain.

  Had he miscalculated? What extent was the Vanguard willing to go to win? For the first time in his entire thousands of years of existence, a chill ran down his spine.

  Cry Havoc

  Tambor leveled his HR-15 and fired in burst-mode. He was pulling the trigger so fast, he might as well have been holding it. The weapon's boom reverberated around the interior of the hangar deck alongside the rest of the defenders. But while everyone else was safely behind a hastily erected barrier, the Leader-Commander had ventured beyond to retrieve wounded crewmen. Skeleton boarders were within arms reach as he fought to keep them away from an unconscious deckhand lying on the ground. He just needed to buy himself enough time and distance to pick up the wounded man and carry him back. But the skeletons pressed their attack hard and there were always more pouring in from the dragon's maw.

  He had nearly cleared himself a circle when one final assailant leapt from the overhead and brought its obsidian blade down on him. The sword blow came down hard on his left shoulder, the sharp edge cutting through his armor plating and into his flesh. His left arm went limp. Tambor reacted instantly, shifting the grip on his rifle with the one good arm to blow the skeleton's head off with a single burst. After that he dropped the heavy rifle and unholstered his pistol. The blade was still embedded in his shoulder. He fired off a couple rounds, shattering the calcium terror before holstering the weapon. With his one good arm, he hefted the crewman under shoulder and lifted his unconscious body off the ground. Some careful counterweighting and he was able to thrown him over his good shoulder. Cargo secured, he ran back to friendly lines.

  He hopped the barrier and made for a steel door that was being held open two Rifles. They waved him through and soon as he was in the passage beyond they slammed it shut. He didn't stop running. Carrying the wounded man, he began making his way through the winding passageways of the ship until he reached the infirmary. It was overflowing with wounded being treated in the halls.

  "Medic!" He shouted, and two volunteers carrying a stretcher immediately ran to his aid.

  He offloaded the wounded crewman onto it. A doctor and nurse tried to get him to sit down and take a look at the sword embedded in his shoulder. He waved them away. He stood up straight and placed his hand on the grip. He took in a deep breath and when he exhaled he ripped the blade and let it clang to the deck. The medical team watched in awe. Once the blade was out, he kneeled to let them get at the wounded. They immediately began working to control the bleeding, placing foam packs and trying to sew the deep cut shut.

  While trying to bear the pain, a voice cut into his helmet.

  "Boss, we got a problem. Need you in CIC." Camila said. Her tone was urgent, but her unusually casual choice of words are what indicated to Tambor that whatever was going on was a serious emergency.

  "On my way."

  Tambor entered the darkened room and walked straight to the holographic table at the center where Camila, Sky-Captain Kilmer and several of his staff were huddled. They all went silent when he entered. He could see that several Foxhounds had been dispatched to the bow and were using spear-tipped grappling hooks to try and dislodge the dragon. The aircraft flared their engines intensely, but didn't seem to be having any luck. All the while, skeletons continued to pour from its mouth.

  "SITREP?" He asked.

  Kilmer briefed him. "Fighting has intensified along the entire front. The vampires launched a massive counterattack as soon as night fell. Reinstead reports that his forces can hold, but he cannot advance. Additionally, ISR has located several decoy command centers. With Over-Commander Tycho's authorization, they launched thermobaric MRV modules from the Standoff array hoping the real one might be among them. Only one penetrated their anti-aircraft screen. Only one RV out of eleven launched made it through. We assess it didn't hit the real thing, but a decoy. Further attacks have been suspended."

  Tambor nodded.

  "But that's not all." Kilmer continued. "We've come into intelligence about the nature of the storm and that blinking red light above Nyx Tower."

  "How?"

  "That German spy. The Wagner girl. She managed to infiltrate the enemy command post. The real one."

  "Is she still there?"

  "She's... dead." Kilmer said, solemnly. "Reinstead had to launch a rescue mission to get the intel. The element he sent lost three tanks getting it back to us. As for what's in it, firstly: The commander of the vampiric forces appears to be an ancient vampire. His name is Agamemnon."

  Tambor furrowed his brow. "There are vampires that predate the current scourge?"

  Kilmer nodded. "It would seem so. ISR assesses he's the only one. Based on cross-referenced data from the data grab at the Texas communication center, he predates most human civilizations. He was entombed in Egypt until the 20th century when he changed hands multiple times. All the great powers seem to have stolen and imprisoned him at some point in the past hundred years and hidden him in various black sites, kept secret from even the governments that held him. Apparently, he was the Black Sun's first chosen. Then Persephone busted him out of an American prison to be her general."

  It all clicked for Tambor. "That explains how they suddenly got so good at fighting us. So what about the storm?"

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  "It's a ritual being conducted by Queen Persephone. She's... she's bringing the Black Sun here."

  Tambor was stunned into silence. He finger rapidly tapped the edge of the table, thinking.

  "We're not sure what that means exactly. Like into herself? Giving it a body to possess? Straight up, just making it appear directly over us? We don't know."

  "Regardless, it would catastrophic. We don't have anything that can defend us from that power. Yet." Dewitt said.

  Tambor studied the board. "That means our only hope lies with Whirlwind." His hands balled into fists. "Damnit, they were just supposed to hold her there. They're odds aren't good if they have to fight all the way to the top and then do battle with a fucking wizard... but we have no choice. Signal Whirlwind. Go on the offensive."

  Nyx Tower

  The maelstrom of violence continued in the multi-level battle at the heart of Nyx Tower. Weber ran from position to position, relaying orders and directing fire. He jumped over burning lagging and slid beneath crossfire to reach a corner where Kurt and Milo were fighting. Milo had his machinegun propped up on a toppled vending machine, firing long bursts.

  "You two doing okay!?" He shouted over the gunfire.

  Milo stopped firing. As he did, Kurt began engaging with his rifle.

  "I'm runnin' out of lead here, boss!" He said, exchanging ammunition boxes on the weapon. He also kicked the barrel release mechanism and let the glowing barrel drop to the floor. He slotted in a new one and tried to charge the handle. The handle stuck and couldn't get the round to chamber. The mechanism was caked in dust and powder residue. He slammed the butt of the weapon violently on the ground while hitting the handle with his fist. This dislodged it and the weapon chambered. He went back to firing.

  "We're also running out of barrels." Kurt added. "We can't slack or these fuckers will over run us."

  "You and everyone else." Weber said. "We have new orders."

  "What now?" Kurt said.

  "We've been ordered to go on the offensive."

  "What!?" They both said simultaneously.

  "Apparently, if we don't the world ends."

  "Well, is there a plan?" Milo asked.

  "Ya. Your masks got good seals? Armor integrity good and fully sealed?"

  They both checked, Kurt being especially thorough given his propensity for getting shot in the head. They both gave thumbs up.

  "Good. We're gonna gas them." Weber told them.

  "CS gas? These guys got masks too, they probably also have filters." Milo pointed out.

  Weber laughed. "No. We're hitting them with Sarin."

  Both Rifles gulped nervously.

  Wilhelm checked the belt of 40mm grenades on his launcher, being very careful with the payload.

  "Six rounds, poison gas." He announced with finality and an edge of disbelief. Then he muttered, "Never expected we'd use these."

  "Ready to go?" Perelli asked. He was huddled behind the assault trooper with Weber, Novak and Olsen.

  Wilhelm nodded. "GAS GAS GAS!" He shouted at the top of lungs both into the open and over the net. Then he rose from cover and began firing. Thump, thump, thump! The grenades spun through the air to the opposite side of the building occupied by the Ruthvenian Guard before detonating in airburst mode.

  The noxious gas rapidly expanded to fill the space, rolling outward in a thick, oily cloud that clung to walls, machinery, and the ceiling alike. It glowed faintly under the emergency lighting in an unhealthy green-yellow haze that moved with an unsettling ceaselessness.

  Almost immediately, the Ruthvenian Guard reacted.

  Shouts rose from the far side of the floor—first confusion, then alarm. Shapes moved frantically behind the veil as figures stumbled out of cover, some clawing at their masks, others colliding with machinery or each other as discipline broke down.

  “Gas is spreading fast,” Weber said, peering through his optic. “They weren’t sealed for this.”

  "Shit, I wasn't ready for this." Wilhelm said grimly.

  Perelli keyed his mic. “All elements, mask check. Hold position until the gas does its work.”

  The sounds coming from the far side of the floor changed. Automatic fire became erratic—wild bursts that stitched the air with no target in mind. One gun went silent entirely. Another clattered to the floor and discharged a few final rounds as its owner collapsed.

  Through thermal, Novak watched heat signatures fold in on themselves.

  “They’re convulsing,” he said. “Respiratory failure. Fast onset.”

  A Ruthvenian shock trooper burst out of the gas cloud at a dead run, armor smeared with condensation, weapon hanging uselessly from one hand. He made it three steps before Weber cut him down with a short, controlled burst.

  More followed, heavily disorganized now, some dropping to their knees, others smashing blindly into walls.

  Perelli leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the chaos. “Hold your fire unless they break the cloud,” he ordered. “Let it finish.”

  Wilhelm glanced at his remaining grenades, unease written plainly across his face. “I trained with these,” he said quietly. “Always figured they were deterrence. End-of-the-world stuff.”

  “Still are,” Olsen said. “World just ended for them first.”

  "Desperate times, desperate measures." Perelli said, more justifying the decision for using the weapon to himself than anything else. It made his skin crawl. He brief flicker of a thought crossed his mind. "How many lines am I willing to cross just to bring this all to an end? Does it justify it?"

  After less than a minute, the floor went eerily still.

  The gas spread, swirling lazily through the wreckage. It was beginning to seep harmlessly out through the blown open walls and windows, carried away by the wind. Bodies lay where they had fallen; some sprawled, others curled inward, hands frozen at their throats.

  Perelli finally nodded. “Alright. Masks stay on. Advance slow."

  "Wait, I have movement!" Novak said.

  "How could anything have survived that?" Someone said, incredulous.

  A lumbering metal figure emerged from the gas, the silhouette of a Kilo-class frame. It was followed by dozens more.

  "Shit! Engage, engage!" Perelli shouted.

  The floors were once again engulfed in gunfire. The Vanguard faced a sudden and brutal onslaught as the traitor Kilo-class frames surged in. Their movements were deliberate and terrifyingly coordinated, mechanical limbs swinging. The red lights of the eyes on their sensor pods glowed menacingly. Each frame carried heavy automatic weapons, and some bore shoulder-mounted launchers, the barrels twitching as they searched for targets.

  “Take cover!” Perelli barked, diving behind the remnants of a smashed assembly line. Sparks flew as a high-caliber round slammed into the floor mere inches from his feet.

  Wilhelm twisted his launcher, sending another 40mm round arcing toward a advancing frame. The airburst exploded against the enemy’s armor, denting plating and sending molten metal streaking into the fog, but the frame barely slowed.

  Every Rifle opened up, hot tracers tearing through the green haze. Every shot that struck sounded hollow against reinforced metal. Two of the frames staggered under concentrated fire, but others simply pressed forward, relentless.

  “Grenade!” Olsen yelled. He lobbed a high-explosive into a cluster of Kilos advancing down a narrow corridor. The detonation threw sparks, debris, and a few unlucky frames backward, but additional units were moving in from above and the sides.

  A frame broke through the center of the defensive line, spinning a rotary cannon. The whirring scream of the .50 caliber shredded the floor and sent Olsen sprawling. He rolled to his knees, firing as he recovered, barely dodging the next burst. It bought him only seconds before the next cut him in half at the waist.

  Perelli activated his own suppressive fire. “Focus on the shoulders and joints! Disable, don’t just waste ammo!”

  Wilhelm switched to beehive rounds from his launcher. The thick patterns of shrapnel quickly found any exposed openings in the frames armor. Fireteams capitalized immediately, hammering the exposed circuitry in open seams. Sparks flew, limbs jerked uncontrollably, but still the horde kept advancing.

  The Kilo-class frames pressed forward, closer and closer. Metal slammed against debris. Tracers seared the air. Every corridor and line of sight became a deadly funnel.

  Perellis voice cut over the chaos, sharp and controlled: “Advance in pairs! Overlap fire! Do not get surrounded!”

  Even with training, even with adrenaline, the Rifles felt the fear claw at their gut. The frames were more than machines. They were executioners, moving with intelligence and fury.

  And somewhere above, the fog shifted. More mechanical silhouettes appeared, their optics glinting with unnatural light, as if the very building had become a funnel for death.

  Then a Kilo swung a massive arm, smashing a workstation into Novak. Sparks and debris filled the air as he was thrown back, firing reflexively as he fell.

  “Chief!” Wilhelm shouted, racing to cover him.

  The fight had become a desperate, pitched struggle: every second a battle for survival, every burst of fire a chance to stay alive. And the traitors weren’t slowing down.

  In a tight corner, shrugging to present as little of a target as possible, Kurt slapped home a new magazine. Just as he did, a frame fell a few feet in front of him. Someone had hit it directly in the chest with a 20mm round from a salvaged autocannon. The hole bore directly through the armor and the harddrive at the center of the frame. The dead machine lay in the open.

  "Hey!" He hit Milo on the shoulder. "Cover me!"

  The confused Rifle shouted back, "What?!…"

  He saw where Kurt was looking, seeing a dead frame. When he glanced back at his squadmate, he was fishing through his dump bag. His hand came out holding an intact drive. Milo immediately recognized it.

  "Hey-No! You have no idea what that thing will do! They were all traitors!" Milo shouted angrily.

  "We need help!" Kurt shot back.

  "Don't!"

  Kurt had already made up his mind. He ran out into the crossfire. Rounds flew directly next to and over him.

  "Cover me!"

  "Fucking idiot!" Milo roared. He pulled long bursts, shooting at anything that turned its attention towards Kurt.

  The R3C slid to a stop next to the fallen frame. He pried the chest open and dug out the destroyed drive. Luckily the supporting hardware was intact. All he had to do was slot in Tetsu's. He plugged in the drive and leaned back. The frame instantly came to life. It sat up slowly.

  Kurt watched his friend come online and look at him.

  "System backup failure. Operating parameters reset. Directives reset. Awaiting operator input." Came Tetsus deep metallic voice.

  "Tetsu?"

  "Junior Rifle Kurt Schaft. 1st Mechanized Division."

  It seemed Tetsus last memory backup had been some time ago.

  Kurt smiled. "Close enough. Glad to see you big guy!"

  A round pinged off of Kurt's helmet, sending him falling onto his back.

  Tetsu's sensor pod snapped in the direction it came from. "Hostile's detected. Hostile's are-... friendly units. Request orders."

  Kurt forced the words out past the dizziness, gripping the floor to steady himself. “All frames are hostile. Everything not human, kill it!”

  Tetsu confirmed with finality, "Engaging primary protocol: Kill."

  The robot gracefully ascended to its feet. It picked up its dropped weapon and Kurts.

  Dual-wielding HR-15s, the frame stepped forward into the storm of gunfire.

  Both muzzles lit up at once.

  Short, surgical bursts. Target, lock, fire, shift. Every round found seam, optic or actuator. Traitor frames jerked and collapsed, armor sparking. Casings cascaded at Tetsu’s feet in piles. Enemy fire hammered against its plating in return, ricochets shrieking, paint and metal shaving away in bright sparks.

  The traitor frames began to break contact, Whirlwind's desperate barrage of return fire having blunted their assault. They retreated as orderly as they had attacked, ensuring the preservation of as many units as possible. Several floors above, Periscope recorded and analyzed the data from the mere probing strike that he had sent. In seconds he devised an adjusted strategy. One that would guarantee maximum casualties.