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.”