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CONTENTS First Strike Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32

Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 13 Mercs Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31

Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 One For All Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27

Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Thank you for reading Brothers in Arms

BROTHERS IN ARMS ©2021-2022 SCOTT MOON This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

Aethon Books supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

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Published by Aethon Books LLC. Aethon Books is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is coincidental.

All rights reserved.

FIRST STRIKE

BOOK ONE

[ 1 ]

LOCATION: Volger’s World / Red System VII / Contested Status SUBJECT: Encrypted Communications Intercepted PASSWORD DECRYPTION PROTOCOL INITIATED: *hi*p**ces***** *hisp**cesuc**1 Thisplacesuc*s1 REQUEST: additional processing power to complete decryption

Dear Mom, I don’t regret turning down the appointment to the College of Professional Officers. The experience I’m gaining in the Expeditionary Force will serve me well. I may not be writing for a while, please forgive me. We are embarking upon our toughest mission yet. I’m still the new guy, but my peers respect me at least.

There’s much to learn and many adventures to be had.

The galaxy will be a better place when we reclaim Volger’s World.

Give sis a hug and don’t forget to feed Duke. This war can’t last forever. It won’t be too late for the CPO. With Father’s recommendation and my service record, I should have a lot to offer the United Galactic Government.

Your loving son, Michael

Brother, I’ll be honest, Jeb. Life would be a lot easier if I’d taken the CPO appointment. Everyone would hate my guts and fantasize about an enemy round hitting me in the forehead, but at least I’d get to eat real food and sleep indoors most of the time. My decisions would never get me killed.

We’re going into the field again, trying to force maneuver warfare against fixed emplacements as usual. Don’t tell Mom, but every day is a bloodbath. Gov casualty reports minimize the ferocity of this engagement. They only count KIA and MIA statistics. If the people back home understood how hard our medics work… In one mission briefing, our commander was instructed to keep casualties below one hundred percent.

I’m here to tell you, nonlethal injuries are still injuries.

We have a saying in the Expeditionaries when attacking the Skull fortifications: everyone gets something—meaning an injury. Which sucks, because out here the smallest bit of damage can be fatal.

My unit is packed with a mean bunch of killers. Straight-up freaks, most of ’em. All they do is work out, clean guns, and talk about chasing tail. (Trying to keep this clean in case Mom gets a hold of it. You know how she is.)

Sergeant Abel Sergeant (yeah, his rank is the same as his surname) came back from a ten-mile training run and then tackled a ninety-minute leg workout with tow chains he borrowed from a tank crew. I ate candy from the ratbag while he draped the metal links over his shoulders and did about a thousand squats. There was a certain music to the way each link in the chain clinked against the tarmac.

Like I said, brother, these guys are freaks. Despise the bad officers, love my team, and fight for our people every day.

Gotta go, we’ve got incoming.

Later bro, Michael

Dear Uncle Bartholomew, I must respectfully decline the internship with the Blasted Tree Intergalactic Hedge Fund. And yes, I remember the safari with Grandfather Rodrick. That’s the tree reference? It would amuse him that you named a business venture after him. Why not a building or a charity foundation? Just a thought.

I’m certain Blasted Tree is an excellent company, but my career as an Expeditionary must come first.

Please don’t throw your weight around on my behalf. I need to do this my way.

Respectfully, Corporal Michael Priam IV 9th Expeditionaries, Steel Company

I touch my ear pad , muting the sound of the ship alarm . “P riority alert, 87 Alpha Xray.”

Crew, Marines, and Expeditionaries of the United Galactic Government Fleet Ship Dominion move through the primary hallways of the main deck. Everyone has someplace to be five minutes ago.

No one panics. Everyone understands his or her place in what is about to happen. My job is to stay out of the way; I’m an Expeditionary, a dedicated ground pounder.

“Proceed to secure stations. Priority alert, 87 Alpha Xray,” the officer of the watch broadcasts. “We’re running the enemy blockade now.”

The dreadnought-class starship carries a full division of UGG regulars, the 9th Expeditionary battalion, and two squadrons of the grotesquely massive main battle tanks clamped onto the lower deck for eventual deployment to Volger’s World. It’s a busy place.

As for running the blockade? The vessel is so large I probably won’t notice much. There are a hundred noncombat personnel on this ship for every man or woman in a combat specialty.

The Dominion’s sister ship, the UGGFS War Bird, is empty except for the chunks of asteroids she’ll need if she gets the order for an orbital bombardment of the planet. Some of this is within OPSEC. The rest of my insight comes from my family despite how I’ve turned my back on House Priam.

Lights flash down the center of the hallway. I step aside as a grav-pulse vehicle loaded with ship ordnance for the guns races by.

Not far behind comes a squad of Marines. Their confident swagger marks them as veteran ship fighters, something even Expeditionaries respect.

“Trooper, do you have an assignment?” the squad leader asks, calling me a trooper because Marines have never figured out exactly how to address us. We’re not Marines and we’re not regulars.

“No, Sergeant,” I answer.

He offers his hand. “First Lieutenant Nathan Davidson, UGGFS Dominion Marines.”

“Corporal Michael Priam, 9th Expeditionaries.” I shake his hand while wondering if he offered it because he respects the 9th, or

because he’s an agent of my father or one of my uncles. Salutes between Marines, Expeditionaries, and regulars never seem consistent on the Dominion.

“Thought that was you,” the Marine officer says. “You’ll be meeting my big brother soon. He’s just an Expeditionary—black sheep of the family.”

“Yes, sir. Your name did sound familiar.”

“I sent word to your transport battalion. You’re with me until this alert is over,” this Davidson says. “There are some things I need to warn you about my brother.”

“Of course, sir.”

The tall, broad-shouldered Marine studies me, no longer smiling.

“He’s a good man, probably better than you, or any other of you Expe jocks, deserve.”

I wait for more.

This doesn’t seem to be what the Marine wants or expects from me.

“Do you keep up with your letters, Priam?” he asks, his eyes almost feverish with emotion. It’s an unnerving expression to see concealed in a man obviously as tough as this one.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

“Why do you ask, sir?”

Nathan Davidson hesitates, glances at his feet, then once at his squad, who are holding their positions without a word or apparent emotion—just guarding the hallway like it is their job.

“The Slog is a bad place, Priam. Keep an eye on my brother.

Don’t let him do anything brave.”

“Sir?” I ask.

“All hands, we’ve penetrated the Skull blockade and are en route in-system to Volger’s World,” the officer of the watch announces.

“Resume duties.”

Davidson looks at me, seeming to regret this entire encounter.

“That is all, Corporal. Good luck on the Slog. Forget what I said.”

He salutes.

I return it.

The Dominion Marines continue on their way.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I follow the instructions my uncle Bartholomew sent me via an encrypted message so advanced it is probably treason against the UGG to even know about. There isn’t much time left before I have to report to the galley for the evening meal with my transport unit—other random replacements also en route to Volger’s World but for different assignments than mine.

Priam secret codes get me through automated security doors into passages barely illuminated because people weren’t meant to come this way often. Everything on this deck is long-term storage, more than likely full of Priam Defense Tech (PDT) material the United Galactic Government paid for at least twice—and then insured at exorbitant biannual rates.

I’m glad to be free of my family. There’s no way to escape completely, but this little errand is a small thing. All I have to do is check to be sure PDT contracts were actually fulfilled.

The storage bay is massive. A cruise ship could fit inside this place. For thirty minutes I check and compare numbers on my datapad to numbers on shipping containers, listening to classical music in my earpiece to relax. The rest will need to be checked by someone else loyal to House Priam, or I’ll need another pass to wander the ship—which won’t happen because I’ve almost reached my assignment on the Slog—Volger’s World.

A final spreadsheet column remains. The corresponding freight takes me a long time to find because I was expecting fuel or ammunition containers when the items are actually vehicle frames.

Stepping back, I finish with the datapad and put it away. There are rows and rows of the frames, each stack five times my height. For a light armored vehicle concept my father said would never go into full production, there are a lot of these things.

None of that is what bothers me. The Assaulters are highly advanced, precision machines manufactured on Kaloon. Sending them out piecemeal like this is a really bad idea. Priam Defense Technologies is risking its reputation.

Not that it matters to me. I know two things. I’m done with House Priam, and the Assaulters will never be used on the Slog. It’s

the wrong kind of war for light vehicles.

[ 2 ]

M y new company commander , 1 st L ieutenant A rno D avidson , greets me in the spaceport, welcoming the eldest son of House Priam to the planet with brutal honesty. The moment I stride down the ramp of the shuttle—alone—he locks his hard stare on me and doesn’t relent until I’m standing before him.

“Welcome to Volger’s World and the 9th Expeditionaries, Corporal Priam. Walk with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He holds out a small data device.

“Sync this chip with your helmet the moment you arrive at quarters. You’re assigned to Steel Company, 1st Platoon, Angel squad. Sergeant Abel Sergeant is your squad leader. Corporal Shelia Banks runs Angel day to day if Sergeant and I are otherwise occupied with the rest of the platoon. That means Banks will greet you every morning with PT, so respect her. She’ll get you squared away.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, striding to keep up with the tall lean lieutenant, who doesn’t resemble any officer I’ve met during training or previous deployments. It’s the way he measures me, like he expects zero excuses and will hold me accountable for everything I do or don’t do. His eyes are hard like ice, his pace says let’s get after it, soldier —there’s work to do. The man is a walking warning sign about the ruthlessness of this world.

Lieutenant Davidson stops and looks me straight in the eyes. “I know who you are, what you are, and won’t hold it against you as long as you do your job.”

I wait for more. There’s always more because of my family and my too public rebellion against them. It follows me everywhere I go in the Expeditionaries. Defines me in a way that I wish it wouldn’t.

“I don’t understand why they would make you enlist,” LT Davidson finally says. “When I see your name, I get a nasty feeling the Uni Gov is up to more of their shenanigans.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When I saw your rank—I got drunk. And that isn’t something I do.”

That’s not the sort of thing an officer tells his subordinates.

Something is happening outside the bounds of proper etiquette.

Something un-Expeditionary.

“Sir, may I ask a question?”

“One.” “Does everyone in 1st Platoon already know who I am?”

He studies me longer than is comfortable, staring straight through my eyes into my soul. “I haven’t made an announcement, if that’s what you’re asking. Some might. Politics isn’t something we have a lot of time to worry about on the Slog.”

The lieutenant resumes our march.

“I’m not here for special privileges, sir.” I jog a couple of steps to fall back in line. “I’m a regular soldier. Like all the other guys.”

A squadron of bombers flies south. I wonder if they’re coming back. According to the galactic news services, anything or anyone sent beyond no-man’s-land is gone.

“No shit, Corporal.” The lieutenant keeps his eyes forward as we stride down the recently paved street. He focuses on the outbuildings, barracks, and fighting pits of my new home. “Wouldn’t make much sense to appoint a man to corporal, would it? Can’t influence much or doctor profit and loss statements as a grunt, can you?”

“I’m not here for politics or commerce. I’m here to fight.”

Davidson gives a half smile. Not quite condescending but something close. Like I don’t have any idea what the hell I’m talking about.

“I’m a good judge of character,” Davidson says. “Prove yourself, and every man in 1st Platoon will be your brother.”

“Yes, sir.”

We continue in silence for a while. Once or twice, I almost speak.

Maybe I open my mouth and close it again and the lieutenant sees it.

“Anything else on your mind, Corporal?”

“Why’d you get drunk, sir?”

“Because, Corporal, you’re my problem now. And you’re not what I expected. Not what I wanted. I need killers in the Slog.”

“I’m a killer, LT.” “Maybe. But it takes more than one killer to survive out here. The Skulls are killers, too, Corporal. You can’t stand alone against them.

No one can. You need your fellow Expeditionaries, and I need to be sure you’re not gonna be soft.”

“I won’t be, sir.”

“Sacrifice for your brothers. They’ll sacrifice for you. When you’re hungry, feed them first. When you’re scared, stand together. When you have a question, try to figure out the answer before you bother your sergeant—but don’t ever wing it if you don’t know the truth of a situation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Prove yourself, and every man in 1st Platoon will be your brother.

My CO’s words burn into my psyche—I almost feel it, and despite how much I want this to happen, it scares the hell out of me.

I wake up early and get after it. By the second day, I’ve learned the routine and that no man in Angel squad is going to cut me slack.

I’ve also figured out that three Expeditionary troopers were recently lost in a poorly planned assault, resulting in three transfers,

including me, to 1st Platoon. The men were Carl, Ron, and Marsten and they had been like brothers to Corporal Peter Vanderbilt.

Famous in this theater of war, they’d been called the Four Friends.

Ten minutes after my eyes open, I’ve showered, dressed, and groomed to Expeditionary standards. Five minutes after that I’m in battle dress uniform, boots shined and gig line straight as God’s honor. Not everyone is here. Sergeant Abel Sergeant, Corporal Peter Vanderbilt, and PFC Ghost Jamison are missing. Their armor and weapons are gone as well, so I know they didn’t run for chow or get put on sick call.

I’ve only seen Jamison, never spoken to her. She’s easily the best-looking thing here. I know the rules against intra-unit fraternization. It’s not like that. I just notice her is all.

“Relax, new guy,” Private First Class Henry Fink says.

Holding back my instinctive reply is hard. I’m not a new guy and I outrank him. But I’m new here, on the Slog, with Angel squad.

There are two options, take everything personal and draw more negative attention, or let it go. Pretend I didn’t even hear the nickname. Prove myself one task at a time.

PFC Fink and PFC Desmond Kent are equally squared away, but I think they cheated, waking up a few minutes before reveille to get a jump on me. They’re physically fit, serious, and marked with more than one Expeditionary Force tattoo but also relaxed in a way that reminds me they have the home field advantage. They know all about the Slog.

“Where’s Sarge and the others?” I ask, but I’m really only concerned with Vanderbilt after what happened to his friends. Maybe I’m thinking about Jamison, just out of curiosity.

“Same place we’re going, I bet,” Fink says, stretching his back.

He’s probably already logged more kilometers than any five runners in the company combined. They say the guy turned down some sort of track scholarship before he enlisted.

“You think that’s a good idea after what happened to Vanderbilt’s —” “Not my job to think,” he says. “But we all know Van is on edge.

We’re all watching him. Couple of days, it’ll be fine. Just don’t try to

talk to him about it. That’s not your place.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

Fink squares off with me, turning just enough to suggest he’s ready to fight. “Never said you were, new guy. Relax.”

Corporal Shelia Banks strides briskly into the room, assesses the squad, then studies an assignment tablet in her left hand. When her eyes come up, everyone pays attention.

“We’re moving out in fifteen minutes to pull some Home Gov grunts out of the shit,” Banks says. “LT has Sergeant, Vanderbilt, and Jamison with him now. Gear up and complete a pre-combat inspection. No mistakes. I’m not getting a chit because you jerks half-assed it.”

I retrieve my gear from my locker, strip, and slip into the under suit. Next come critical components—a network of silicon pads and haptic feedback buds that adhere where the suit doesn’t cover skin: my wrists and the back of my neck. The gloves are almost delicate and feel like they’re going to tear—unlike the gauntlets that will go over them.

Last is my armor, which includes boots and helmet—possibly more important to a combat-deployed Expeditionary Force trooper than his actual brain.

I’m done in minutes, much faster than anyone in Expeditionary Advanced Training ever managed. As for my assignment just before transferring to 1st Platoon—gearing up had never been a race.

Expeditionary armor is full of proprietary technology that not even the United Galactic Government military fully understands. My family knows how and why it works, because Priam Defense Tech (PDT) has saved them from the Skulls and their generation fleet swarms more than once.

What I’m getting at is this, the exterior of my Expeditionary Force trooper (EFT) armor is flat gray but shifts colors depending on its environment. The effect is almost subliminal, but it works. Calling it anything other than gray is wrong, but right now there are black and purple swirls caused by predawn shadows—unless you stare directly at the patterns. Then it just seems gray.

My pre-combat inspection partner is Banks, who will also do the entire squad one last time before we jump a transport. She ignores me, which I appreciate. I knew how to put this armor on before I learned to read. The PCI is standard procedure. We check each other’s gear because there won’t be time to adjust it later.

Moving as fast as I can while still doing it right, I pull on my gauntlets then hold my helmet under my arm, realizing Banks has been done for several seconds. She’s not exactly waiting patiently but isn’t cursing me out or treating me like a Gov grunt. Like everyone in 1st Platoon, she’s hard faced and merciless around me.

The new guy doesn’t catch any breaks—that’s the way it is everywhere.

“You’re surprised I geared up faster than you did?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her look tells me that everyone knows I’m a Priam. Some of them understand what that means, others might even care, but none of them back off or treat me differently than any replacement.

Which is exactly the reason I chose to enlist in the Expeditionary Force instead of heading to the College of Professional Officers.

“Your MB-1 harness is too tight,” Banks says, her voice low, clear, professional. “Mostly, I want you to remember everything they taught you in your advanced training and whatever tips you picked up on your previous assignment. But I know what I’m talking about here. That’s going to bind you up.”

“Thanks,” I say, then make the fix.

“That’s better. We’ll need to rough you up a bit, get some texture on that armor. Trench camo.” She pauses. “Owning the company that makes it and using the gear are different things.”

Controlling my annoyance, I check Corporal Banks from head to toe, making sure her kit is squared away and her pulse magazines are topped off and ready to go. The exchange is short but necessary.

“The units are designed to tolerate trench camo, but it isn’t necessary,” I say in a low, almost confidential voice. “The alloys and forging tech is what gives them the environment adaptation properties. I can activate them.”

“I bet you can, Priam,” she says. For a moment, she seems to wrestle her own dark anger, but decides to act for the good of the team. “Don’t hold back, Priam. No one will love you for your tech hacks, but they’ll use whatever you can bring to the table and live a bit longer.”

“They teach the codes in Expeditionary School, but none of the instructors take them seriously. I bet you and the rest of 1st Platoon can remember how to use the active camouflage but never do because it’s not sexy,” I say.

“I remember my training. Barely did anything to my armor. Never trusted it.”

“You should,” I say.

“Trust camouflage I can’t see? Wait until I’m being shot at to find out if it works?” Banks asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Just call me Banks right now.”

Other members of Angel squad are noisier than I expected from seasoned professionals—constantly shit talking and making inside jokes I have not learned yet.

“Where’s your blaster activator?” Fink asks someone nearby.

“Must be broken. I’ll have to use this one,” Kent says as he extends his middle finger.

“All right, get in line,” Corporal Banks says.

Angel squad complies immediately. There are more jokes, but mostly the members of Angel are focused and ready to go. My heart beats too fast and I hope no one notices.

Banks gives each of us a once-over before sending us out to the transport.

I find myself sitting next to PFC Kaden Semsroth. The man is bigger than any soldier I’ve worked with and has an easygoing smile that’s full of confidence. He pats the heavy blaster on the floor between his feet. “Maybe you’ll get to see Kate do some work.”

“You named your HMB-90?”

“I did, new guy. Maybe someday you’ll get a name half as fine.”

He shoves me good-naturedly.

“Who’s Kate?” I ask. The rail transport picks up speed, taking us closer to the front line, where I can see flashes of light but hear only muted sounds from here.

“My aunt,” Semsroth says.

“You told me it was the name of a stripper you met on Ridgedale 7,” PFC Ichabod Mayer says.

Semsroth laughs, shrugging it off like it’s nothing. “Same thing.”

The joke makes me uncomfortable, but I keep my mouth shut. It won’t be long before we deploy.

Corporal Banks changes position, sitting beside me. “We’re normally stationed much closer to the front line. After we lost three of the Four Friends, they rotated us back for some downtime.

Doesn’t always work out like that, so never take it for granted if it happens in the future.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

I nod, then address her by her rank.

She looks me over, searching for I don’t know what, and continues talking. “Jamison and Mayer are replacements too, but they’ve been here longer.”

“So I’m the new guy?” I ask, wishing I hadn’t.

She pretends not to hear. “Don’t try to impress anyone your first time out. Take care of the guy next to you and follow orders.”

When the rail transport arrives near the front line, I finally get a full appreciation for how bad my time on the Slog will be. For a moment, right before we disembark, I see all the way to Nap City—a major industrial complex we’ve been trying to recapture for years.

No-man’s-land spreads like a dark scab all the way to the sunset.

The trenches are so complex they’re more like spiderwebs than battle lines. There’s a murky river meandering this way and that, and far to the north of this post, several massive bridges cross to the metropolis—all of them blown to hell or fortified like castle gates from storybooks.

Corporal Banks directs from the transport. We assemble as Lieutenant Davidson strides to us, all business. “This section of the front line radiates farther than usual into the southwestern quadrant.

Normally quiet, there’s been some problems. Namely, a redoubt has been cut off from the rest of the line and is full of Gov grunts running low on food and ammunition. 1st Platoon will advance through the trench system, deploy into the Skull-held section, and destroy the enemy.”

“Why’d they get cut off?” PFC Nathan “Ok” Oaks asks.

“It probably seemed like a good idea at the time. With Gov grunts, who knows?” Davidson says. “Angel squad will lead; Dragon will bring up the rear. Beast and Chimera will travel in a staggered column until able to deploy and flank the enemy if the passage—or connecting passages—allow.”

“Yes, sir,” the four squad leaders answer.

“Then we do some work.” Semsroth shifts the weight of his HMB90 out of habit.

“DSW, baby,” Ghost Jamison says, her feminine voice sounding twice as threatening as the giant’s grumbles.

“Banks and Jamison, you’re on point,” Sergeant says, then directs the rest of us into position. Davidson is with Angel squad, but he lets his top sergeant do his work.

CPL Banks and PFC Ghost Jamison move forward about ten meters, holding their MB-1 blasters across their armor, ready to transition into combat but still conserving energy until the fight starts. The spacing feels tight, like we’re bunched up, but I fall back on my Theater Specific Training. Everyone in 1st Platoon, especially Angel squad, knows what they’re doing. This is a real-world interpretation of the TST. The terrain in a primary trench like this is almost three dimensional, and not in a good way. I can’t believe how fast shadows cover us or how the temperature drops. Gov grunts along our way to the contested area stand aside. When I look up, I see grim-faced men in the heavy blaster turrets—ready for an attack that will come if the break in the trench system isn’t remedied.

“Vanderbilt and Priam, get up top and don’t get seen from here to our objective,” Sergeant says.

Vanderbilt mutters a curse I don’t quite hear, even on the secure comm, then motions for me to follow. “Come on, new guy. Now’s as

good a time as any to learn how not to get us killed.”

“Thought we were going to DSW,” I say, pushing back a bit.

“Keep it simple, soldier. New guys die first. Remember that.”

This should really aggravate me; I’m an Expeditionary, not some grunt. But it’s clear the Slog is serious business. So instead of resenting Vanderbilt’s comment, I focus on my job—determined to show everyone that I’m not just a child of privilege. Expeditionary training proved—to myself—I can endure anything for a while, including being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing.

We ascend a spiral staircase, then creep along the very top of the wall, staying low and avoiding exposure to Skull lookouts in the trench complex or from more distant observation points in no-man’sland. Dragon squad moves along the access road in the bottom of the trench. The bulk of Angel, Beast, and Chimera use the middlelevel catwalks for the height advantage. None of these options are good. Clearing a trench this size is like moving through a half-buried city or fighting on a starship. Parts of it have been recently repaired; other sections look abandoned—black mud spilling into the trench system from one of the assault hills Skulls make with their bulldozers whenever they can.

Our mission is grueling, time-consuming drudgery where the biggest challenge seems to be staying alert and not daydreaming.

I’ve always had a propensity for flights of imagination but try to use it as a tool rather than a crutch. What I see here is a band of brothers moving into a maze of danger—warriors on a quest to find a dragon or a cyclops or a gorgon, then do some work with their blasters.

We move through trenches, huge metal structures reinforced with alloy beams and ceramic sections that would be equally functional on a starship. Grav-pulse vehicles could, in theory, move through here and still have room in most places for infantry to march along one side.

Vanderbilt holds up one hand, not a fist, just an open hand signaling me to stop and stay alert. Then he points at a burnt-out gun box. I give him the thumbs-up and he clears it. The space is too

small for both of us to enter. Normally we’d stay together, but this is more like checking a closet.

He pops out, glancing at me to make sure I’m where I’m supposed to be—just a quick check. I try not to take it personally.

The guy just lost his three best friends. Of course he’s wound tight.

“Vanderbilt to Sergeant, cleared one antipersonnel gun. Total loss of equipment. No bodies,” Vanderbilt broadcasts, already on the move.

“Copy,” Sergeant says. “Do you need another fire team?”

“Negative. This looks like a good place to peek out at no-man’sland,” Vanderbilt says.

Sergeant’s voice is solid rather than abrupt. “Do it.”

We take a look, log our observations, and get moving with the rest of 1st Platoon. “Not much to see beyond the trench. Heavy smoke clouds hanging around out there. Not sure what’s burning or how far away it is.”

“Copy that,” Sergeant responds.

“Update from fleet warns last big strike uncovered another lava flow,” Lieutenant Davidson says. “Nothing we have to worry about since we’re not going into no-man’s-land on this mission. 1st Platoon, we’re moving toward contact. Stay sharp.”

“Did you see the view on the way in?” Vanderbilt asks, walking beside me and watching his zone rather than looking at me for an answer.

“I did.”

“Good. You won’t get a clear view like that often.”

“Should be hard to forget,” I say.

“You read, new guy?”

“Weird question,” I say, unable to elaborate as we navigate around another gun that was turned completely inside out by an explosion.

“You look like someone who reads. Got an imagination. Came out here on a big quest, some civic duty to save the UGG from Skulls,” he says. “Or did you get in trouble like all the other rich kids you grew up with?”

We’re close to our objective. Talking makes me nervous. Maybe it’s easy for him, but I don’t want to screw up my first mission on the planet. “What’s your point?”

“Two things,” he says. “I’m surprised you’re even here. United Galactic Government regulars never see action during the first month, and even some Expeditionaries slow roll it a bit. Second, you’re a Priam, someone who wouldn’t normally enlist.”

He’s not wrong. I could’ve justified a trip to the armory for recalibration, or a sick call for agoraphobia. A lot of people transition poorly from space travel to planetary service. Doesn’t matter whether you’re a good soldier or not.

“Do you read?” I ask.

“Pay attention, new guy,” he says, pointing down into the trench system. “And yeah, sometimes I do. Don’t always have much else this close to the front lines.”

“Banks for Davidson, we’re getting close,” Banks reports over the secure comm. “We’re beyond the Gov-held trench but haven’t encountered Skulls yet. This place is a ghost town.”

“Understood,” Davidson answers, then signals Sergeant to move up the rest of Angel. When they are in position, he also brings Beast, Chimera, and Dragon squads closer than they had been during our travel phase. “Let’s get ready to do some work, men.”

The answering oorah is a spoken word rather than a shout. We’re all in our helmets that regulate volume anyway.

“DSW, boys and girls, I should get paid by the blaster charge,” Semsroth mutters, and his squad mates chuckle.

“Sergeant for Vanderbilt, do you have eyes?”

“Vanderbilt has eyes on target,” my partner says. “Three platoons of Skulls stacked up like they’re in the chow haul, right around the corner from Banks and Jamison. They’re on the ground level like the shit-brained Skulls they are. The high road is open.”

“LT for Banks, can you confirm?” Davidson asks.

Banks answers, “Can confirm. They’re not as quiet as they think they are. Something is making them nervous.”

“1st Platoon, stand by for assault,” Davidson says, then adjusts our order of attack.

Something isn’t right, I can feel it—I can imagine something going wrong and must say something. Checking the scene a second and third time, I see more than their bulky armor and the distinctive skull graffiti on their helmets, chest plates and anywhere else it will fit. I spot tarps where there shouldn’t be tarps. We haven’t observed anything like that since we started this mission. A second later, I zoom in as best I can and see the trap.

“They’ve filled the trench with forward-facing pressure mines, and the catwalks are rigged to explode,” I say, forgetting radio standard operating procedures in my excitement.

Below, all of 1st Platoon freezes.

“LT for 1st Platoon, hold,” Davidson says.

Vanderbilt stares at me for a second, like he’s never seen me before, then talks after he’s looked back to his zone of responsibility.

“Good catch. Real good catch, new guy.”

“Banks and Jamison, start pulling back. Don’t be seen. I want them to stay right where they are,” Davidson says. “I’m calling in a strike.”

“Copy that,” Banks responds.

“Keep your eyes on the fucking Skulls,” Vanderbilt says. “They move, we report immediately—even if we have to break through something Davidson or Sergeant is saying on the secure comm.”

I can’t look away. Time passes. My heart pounds in my chest.

“Strike inbound,” Davidson says. “Banks and Jamison, get out of there.”

The point element hauls ass back another hundred meters to rejoin where Davidson has relocated 1st Platoon. Moments after that, a hellish barrage of artillery fire pounds the trench. The Skulls scramble, some of them darting into their own trap and blowing their legs and feet off before the wrath of the Gov guns erases the section of trench they’re already dying in.

No one speaks until it is over. At first, the spectacle is thrilling—a fireworks show that makes me feel like a kid. By the time it’s done, I feel sick to my stomach from the repeated shockwaves rolling through our position. Expeditionary armor helps, but if I never witness another danger close strike, it will be too soon.

Vanderbilt finally faces me. “I owe you for that.”

“No, you don’t.”

He leans closer, his helmet staring at mine like we might fight.

“Yeah, I do, Priam. You’re not what I expected from a rich kid. The team might be impressed too, but don’t let it go to your head. You’re just another soldier here.”

“That works for me,” I say, nearly deciding to elaborate that being a regular Expeditionary trooper is all I want.

“How long are you staying?”

It’s a test question I don’t answer, unsure if he’s asking for a commitment to the team or a promise to leave ASAP. “Good work, 1st Platoon,” Davidson says. “Set security. We’re holding this until an ordnance-disposal team can move up and help us check for any other surprises.”

I settle in for the boring part of the job. “Why didn’t they use an artillery strike in the first place?”

“Getting an airstrike is easier said than done,” Vanderbilt answers. “You don’t get everything you ask for on the Slog.

Davidson is respected by all the people who matter here. I’d say he gets twenty or thirty percent of what he requests when it comes to strikes.”

“Good to know.”

“And the engineers hate rebuilding trenches like this. Easier for them if we take it back without breaking too much stuff,” Vanderbilt says. “Welcome to the Slog, where every decision is a bad one based on the cheapest bid.”

[ 3 ]

B efore the conflict began , before everyone called this place the Slog, Volger’s World had three things that both sides, the UG Gov and the Skulls, needed to win the war in this system: access to variable hyperspace lanes, a variety of raw materials, and three huge continents in the proper temperate zone with an already wellestablished agricultural industry.

That last one is ironic, because two years of total war has destroyed most of the farms.

You’d think there was nothing left worth fighting for but pride… maybe. Not sure how proud anyone is of this mess. The space lanes are constantly flipping hands, and the orbital shipyards are a debris field—with the occasional meteor storm of falling space stations lighting up the sky above the planet.

No one wants to be a loser.

The system still has raw materials, but mostly it seems like we just keep fighting because that’s what we’ve always done here.

For the first time in decades, the citizens of Volger’s World require resupply, imported food to stay alive. They run private generators for power. The common belief has always been that everything can be put back together when it’s over. Maybe that’s changing.

The land is still the land, and the climate is still the climate—or so say the big brains in charge of this war. It’s not so easy to kill a biosphere.

They might be right, they might be wrong, but when did either condition end a war? Neither side has dusted out the truly terrible weapons that would change any of that. Skulls and our United Galactic Government leaders still want this world—or at least don’t want the other side to have the place.

On the ground, it doesn’t look like anyone has showed restraint for a while. Some battlefields have craters two hundred meters deep.

Our current assignment is on the northeast coast of Arden’s Continent. Three of the four major cities are skeletons of high-rise buildings and warrens of perpetual guerrilla warfare. Before the war… before the struggle began, most of the planet’s industry was located there.

Now the place is a maze of miles-deep bunkers. Heavily armed redoubts have more defensive armor than a galactic cruiser, and thousands of miles of purpose-built trenches dug in zigzag patterns and fortified to last an eternity if they escape a direct hit from sustained artillery bombardment or an orbital strike. Between the trench lines are hills and dales of black mud and vegetation always struggling to grow more than a few inches before the next artillery barrage.

Some of the less successful Skull trenches can be seen on a good day, massively tall structures more like armored aqueducts on the horizon. They love primitive engineering, like water towers for their cities and wheels for their vehicles. The most rudimentary Uni Gov bases have state-of-the-art pump stations and vehicles with gravpulse tech. So we’re better than them—obviously.

Not every day is a good day on the Slog, and none of the training is easy. Weeks then months pass before I start to think I belong, but I always wonder—I always think back to that first week.

There have been harder fights, some serious screwups, but the first mission is always the most important. That was where I started

to prove myself.

Nothing is ever certain. In this place, it doesn’t take long to get the kind of scars that prove it.

“Van, you are out here?” I ask over the squad comm.

“Yeah, I’m out by the revetment.”

“Copy that.”

“I saw an entire company of plumbers or something heading toward the front line,” Vanderbilt says. “They must really think this is a shit show after all, working on that drainage.”

I don’t really have anything to say to that, so I just start looking for him.

Corporal Peter Vanderbilt is full of insights and cynicism. Probably daydreams a lot. Lacks proper respect for plumbers, apparently.

I spot him standing high up on the back end of a tank revetment —a parking space the engineers dig in the dirt for the MBTs—looking toward the distant enemy redoubts. The revetment trench is open at one end for the death machine to roll out and attack at a moment’s notice and go to work with its oversized plasma gun.

MBTs don’t go near the maze of concrete, steel alloy, and ceramic trenches radiating out from LZ City. The big bastards weigh about a hundred tons and can hold a whole company of Gov grunts inside.

You’d think these tanks would have won the war for us, but no.

They’re just too big to succeed.

Vanderbilt’s got one foot up, with his hand on his knee, and the other hand holding his MB-1.

Images of another world drift through my mind—dragons flying over castles, blasting no-man’s-land with vengeful fire. Shaking the dark daydream away, I realize not for the first time where the fantasy comes from—hundred-meter-high walls and redoubts could be castles in the distance, and Skull marines scouring the landscape with flamethrowers could be dragons crawling in the mud and breathing flames.

Using my imagination while in this environment isn’t useful. I refocus on my job, and my friends, and staying alive.

Vanderbilt wears his Expeditionary gear with the casual looseness of a veteran. It looks like he crawled into it and didn’t bother to lock

it down, but I know from experience it’s squared away like everything else about the corporal. I’ve seen him fight, and I’ve seen him take hits. His gear holds up, as does his courage.

Vanderbilt’s armor is no longer covered with the DIY camouflage Steel Company Expeditionaries preferred before I showed them some less known technical hacks—a password here, a data chip activation there…

Mostly, my biggest contribution has been to convince them to trust the technology. Expeditionary troopers in the field are well known for applying grease paint and burlap strips to augment their ability to hide.

What I showed them is the simple and powerful nature of the proprietary stealth systems. It doesn’t make an Expeditionary trooper invisible, though I’d been told by one of my uncles there are units with that potential in development. The color-shifting abilities of regular Expeditionary armor is subtle and adapted to variations in light, mostly.

I’m supposed to be heading for the mess hall, but I’ve already eaten a protein bar and want to check on Vanderbilt. He’s staring so intently that he looks like a statue—or maybe a tree that’s been blasted by artillery fire. That’s probably what he is going for—the tortured and intense hero look—but I still worry about him.

Blasted Tree, I think. My uncle doesn’t name the family’s corporations whimsically. He has a reason for the strange moniker, but I can’t think what it could be. Every time I hear the phrase, I’m going to wonder.

Thanks, Uncle.

I decide right then that when I take over the family business, I’ll find a new director of operations. Uncle Bartholomew has never bothered to hide his resentment of my status. His time is up, as far as I’m concerned.

But first, I need to serve the Expeditionaries and the Home Gov. “Corporal Priam, a minute if you please,” comes the voice of Captain Waller behind me.

He’s a gutless rank-climber in my book, almost too stupid to live.

Eventually, he’ll realize my family could write my ticket and resign

him to the farthest corner of the galaxy. Hell, I could have skipped the CPO and gone straight to being a general’s aide. I acknowledge him with a walking salute, a gesture soldiers know, but isn’t taught in basic. He hurries after me.

“You’re really moving there, Corporal. I’m glad to see the physical conditioning regimen I assigned Steel Company is having the desired effect,” Captain Waller says. He’s breathing hard by the time he pulls alongside me.

I halt, careful to avoid giving away Vanderbilt’s position on the revetment. Seems like a simple thing, but it’s borderline insubordination, because now that Waller has built up the speed to match my stride, he’s forced to stop abruptly. The man doesn’t recognize the slight, which makes me respect him even less.

“I’ve chosen to recommend you to a new research project,” he says as he waves his hand toward the tanks in the revetments. “All these things will be obsolete before long, mark my words. I’m putting you on the Assaulter test and evaluation team.”

“We’re going from too massive to too light,” I say before thinking.

Expeditionaries don’t talk to officers like this, but he’s never around during training—or missions, for that matter—so I forget how to act.

Images of the Dominion storage bays linger like a dark dream of what might be, half-completed war machines rented from PDT when it was all said and done.

He’s looking at me as though I should jump up and down and hug him. The man is ten years older than me, but I treat him like a child.

I should be in college, going to frat parties and appreciating the benefits of the United Galactic Government before I embrace the reality sweeping the galaxy. The idea of drinking beer and chasing enduro-ball cheerleaders plays through my imagination for about the time it would take to switch a charge pack out of an MB-1 blaster.

Decadence and irresponsibility are what’s expected of me. It’s what my father and my uncles did at my age. And the reason I chose this path instead.

“Well, I guess I should thank you.” I stare at him and let the moment draw out. He’s realizing I’m not impressed or thankful. “But

I’m not a good candidate for Assaulter warfare.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not leaving my team. Not in the middle of this mess.”

He smiles awkwardly and steps back, shaking his head as he readies another surprise for me. “I wouldn’t recommend just you, it’s your entire platoon. I saw you first, so that’s why I’m telling you right now.”

“I thought the Assaulter test and evaluation teams were assigned their units on Kaloon where they’re built, then travel to whichever theater of war they are to operate,” I say. Unless they’re shipped in pieces to be assembled by UGG mechanics with less than half the training and tools they need to assemble them properly.

“How do you know that?”

I should stop, but I don’t. “Test teams also receive advanced training on standardized reporting methodologies. It’s a two-week course.”

He waves his hand like my words mean nothing and we are confidants who know better. “That’s for grunts. We’re Expeditionaries.”

There are so many things wrong with this conversation I don’t know where to start. This man has been to the CPO but does not understand how to lead. He should have addressed my platoon leader, 1st Lieutenant Arno Davidson. I also know—even better than most of my peers—that the Assaulter project isn’t what it seems.

The extensive test and evaluation program is just another cash cow for my family—a way for taxpayers to cover the infrastructure expense to and from the manufacturing plant, security team salaries, and benefits packages for both family and non-family executive officers.

I know how my uncle Bartholomew works. It’s one of the reasons I ventured out on my own, enlisting rather than going into the company. Just because the frames have been delivered doesn’t mean the Assaulters don’t need further study—and funding—or that PDT will give the government budget experts a deal on the final price.

House Priam is a juggernaut in the defense industry. The last time I was home for Christmas, my uncles were ranting about all the setbacks and supply snafus that would kill the project, but hopefully not before earning its return on investment. They thought the Assaulters were a stupid idea. An embarrassingly easy way to bleed the Uni Gov of money.

I disagreed, even back then. If the Assaulters could be all they were promised to be, then the mobility, armor, and firepower would be just what this campaign needs. Forcing maneuver warfare on a battlefield that had been long dominated by siege warfare is nearly impossible. We need a new strategy, better tools, and leaders to use them properly.

Captain Waller fits the bill about as well as a wet dog in church.