Ok so I've done a little bit of work on my rewrite of Zenu, the novella I wrote in high school. You can find the original
here on my portfolio site. Please feel free to leave comments or critiques.
Captain
John Marx sat atop a hill on a cold April morning looking out at the
world around him. The sun rising at his back, was shedding its first
light on the town below which lay cold and empty; a ghostly shell
haunted by the murmur of soldiers drifting over the wind from where
they stood at outskirts, waiting for what was to come. Marx gazed
down at the streets and buildings packed closely together, save for
the wide road that ran through the center and off into the mountain
pass to the west. Nestled in a bay of rock the town had served as a
trade post where trucks from the west would drop of their cargo to be
used in the cities of the east. It was that one way system that had
gathered the winds of the coming storm and they were now experiencing
the preceding calm.
Marx
stood from his chair, then folded and carried it with him down a ways
to the command bunker. As he walked he felt the ground beneath his
feet; it had been a cold year and the ground was yet to warm from
winter's hardening chill.
“All
the better”, he thought, “hard ground is best for fighting.”
As
he entered the bunker Marx passed a soldier standing guard who, like
many under his command was young; barley grown enough to fill out his
uniform. The outfit itself was much like to boy, it was new and
clean, yet to be worn by the ways of war. Between the soldier and his
uniform the only thing which had any sense of war was the flak jacket
he wore, left over from some ancient war of the Old World and
salvaged for the youth when supplies of fresh gear had run dry. Such
apparel was not uncommon among the soldiers of the Western
Territories as they had been slow to adapt their manufacturing to the
needs of war and weapons took precedent in that regard; a gun can
kill, a shield cannot. That said it was often those with the older
gear who counted themselves lucky as the newer equipment, rushed
into production from hasty designs, could not match the quality of
the Old World kit.
Marx
decided to put the soldier out of mind. He instead looked briefly
around the bunker making note of its few inhabitants hunched intently
over various equipment and documents before taking his placed by the
slit of a window that stared like a visor down at the field of battle
below. It would not be long now before the waiting would be over and
as much tension as it caused, he knew it would be missed.
His
eyes scanned the horizon, the open plains before them stretched out
for miles and would give ample warning should the enemy come. But
that same visibility was a double edged sword, each spec on the
horizon making his heart skip a beat before realizing it was a bird,
or a tree, or nothing at all. As the minutes passed he kept having to
look away and rub his eyes, burned by the cold breeze blowing from
the east; but the wind was not the only thing coming their way.
At
first it was just another spec, making his heart race as always, but
this time the beating didn't slow. The spec grew, first a dot, then a
shape, then an army. Marx grabbed his binoculars for a better view,
he had to be sure of what was coming. The line of of vehicle
stretched out across hundred of feet of bare ground. not a man on
foot among them. The wall of steel advanced with a disconcerting
haste and a growing noise of track and tread as they rolled along the
hard hard earth.
Marx
looked to his men, the tension between them was palpable. Each of
them knew this moment would come, and each had feared, yet it could
not be avoided. Marx took a a breath to steady himself and gave the
order for which they had all waited, “It's time, ready arms and
open the gate.”
With
the command given the bunker burst into life, no longer were they
speaking in whispers and hushed tone; each of them felt the same fear
and it gave them focus. Command operators called out over comms to
their respective units and Marx was joined at the window by observers
each trying to get an accurate assessment of the enemy force.
Marx
looked out again, they were much closer now, close enough to see what
they were dealing with. The front line of the advancing force was
comprised mostly of heavy combat vehicles: tanks, heavily armored
transports, and mobile motors expecting to take the brunt of the the
initial attack. The sight was impressive, each vehicle painted a dark
green with the bright white emblem of the American Continental
Republic; two hands clasped in greeting. The irony of a civil war in
a country with a sign of unity as its symbol was not lost on Marx.
But then again if unity had really been a priority the Western
Territories would never have been so segregated. He put the thought
aside for another time, he couldn't afford the distraction, not while
the enemy was so close at hand.
One
of the observers to his left called for his attention, “Captain
Marx!”
“sergeant,”
“The
A.C.R. have slowed their advance.”
“You
think they're going to shell us from there?”
“Looks
like.”
Marx
called out to a man in the back of the bunker, “Chief Andrews, is
artillery online?”
“Ready
and waiting sir.”
“Have
them target the enemy artillery, drive them forward.”
“Towards
the mines or do you have something else in mind?”
“The
mines will do nicely Chief.”
“One
cattle drive coming up.”
Marx
nodded his thanks to the Chief then called out to a young man at a
radar station, “Lieutenant Daniels, any sign of those cangers?”
“Clear
skies Captain.”
“Well
keep watching 'em, day like this the weather's likely to change.”
The
sergeant turned back to Marx, a confused look in his eyes, “Cangers
sir?”
“Cangaris
Unmanned Weapon Platforms, C.U.P.S.s, its a mouthful so I call 'em
cangers for short. We got word from our man inside an A.C.R. tech lab
that they were deploying a new air-to-surface attack vehicle, with
luck we won't see any, but I'm not going to play the odds on this
one.”
“And
if they do show up?”
“Military
salvage was able to get us a couple of Old World surface to air
missiles and if we're very, very lucky they may even have fixed them
before shipping 'em out here. I've got Daniels working with our
artillery teams to track and deploy if necessary.” Marx turned
again to the back of the room, “Chief, how are we doing with that
artillery!”
Chief
Andrews checked his watch, “First volley firing in five, four...”
The
sound was deafening, like thunder from a mighty storm. The bunker
shook and cement dust rained from from the ceiling like fog
descending on the earth. The first thunderous crack was followed by
another and another as the shells flashed through the sky and
planting a second storm front on the first line of enemy armor. And
like a mighty echo the enemy returned the damaged in kind and the air
was filled with the sounds of war.
Marx
looked over the battlefield to see what their strike had wrought.
Through the cloud that enveloped the enemy force the tanks and
transports began to emerge, their plan had worked and the enemy was
on the move again.
Marx
turned once more to the sergeant, “Have the rocket units ready at
defendable points behind the front lines, we can't stick them to far
out or we'll loose to many in the first volleys. Put a few general
infantry units out front to engage the enemy once their passed the
mine field, that should tie them up long enough to get rockets
trained on them.”
“But
the men we put up front will get slaughtered.”
“Men
are going to no matter what we do, this way we at least get to choose
which of our resources are diminished.”
“Understood
sir.”
“Daniels,
those skies still clear?”
Daniels
looked up from the radar screen, “Yes sir.”
“Good
to hear”
Marx
took a moment to look around the bunker, he had that long at least
until the enemy reached the minefield and fresh chaos ensued. All the
men were keeping busy, even the guards had spread out into the bunker
to help the others in whatever way they could; it kept the fear from
eating at them to feel that they were at least doing something. Marx
had known some of these men for a long time, Chief Andrews and
Sergeant Keen had been members of the separatist movement before it
had fully organized, and he had known Lieutenant Eastman since they
were both kids. Others however he barely knew like the guards, and a
few of the command operators. Lieutenant Daniels he had met the week
before during the final civilian evacuation. He was young, perhaps no
more than nineteen, but he had an enthusiasm for the work that was
uncommon even among the more experienced officers and fanatical
separatists. Marx figured he must have a romantic notion about war,
the way kids sometimes do, but it served him well, at least for now.
He would learn the harsher realities of war soon enough, if not
today.
Marx
noticed a change in the bunker, it had suddenly become much quieter.
He
called out to the back of the room, “Chief! What happened to my
artillery!?”
“The
enemy's front line is getting to close to the minefield, if we keep
firing on them we may set of off the mines prematurely and they'd be
wasted.”
“So
change targets.”
“Already
working on it, but its going to be a about 10 minutes.”
“I
can't wait that long, you can have five, pull someone off comms if it
helps but get it done.”
