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jeriendhalIt's November in Siberia, and it's 20C, Colonel Rostov thought bleakly. When General Winter doesn't protect us anymore, what hope do we have? He rubbed his beard stubble and looked out across the muddy taiga that sat between the walls of the small fire base and the thick woods some five hundred meters distant. Raising his field glasses, he stared at the tree line and tried to get a count of their enemy hiding.
Lt. Federov, a snot-nosed little bastard twenty years Rostov's junior, ran up just as he finished. “Col. Rostov,” he reported, climbing the wall to meet him, “spotters report at least five hundred warmorphs visible to the East, West and South.” Belatedly, he saluted. Discipline had gone to shit in the past week, as the extent of the disaster made itself more clear to them. If he could have afforded the bullet, Rostov would have shot Federov for the sheer pleasure of finally being rid of him.
“And five hundred to the North,” Rostov added. He spat on the ground. “Goddammit! I wish we trust one of our drones to do an overflight. There has to be more of them!” He shook his head and went on, “What's the status on the Hind?” The antique helicopter had been Rostov's primary objective when he'd led his little platoon to this fire base. A relic of the old Soviet Union's last days, it had been kept flying by aircraft enthusiasts as part of a living air craft display team. The century and a half year old transport chopper also lacked any of the multitude of electronics common to modern troop transports, which meant it had been immune to the Groupmind's subversion of every piece of modern fighting equipment. Which also meant it was their only hope of escape.
“Sgt. Kandinsky reports it should be operational in fifteen minutes.”
“I'm not sure we have that long. Get the civilians aboard, along with the medics. Tell the pilot to take off as soon as he is able.”
Federov shook his head. “Colonel, even if that antique gets into the air again, where is it going to go?” We haven't heard from Moscow for over a week. Are there any safe places left?”
“We can't just roll over onto our bellies!” Rostov shouted. “Maybe if we can reach the Chinese border we can hook with other units in the mountains. Hold out... somehow...”
His radio crackled. “Colonel Rostov! Two morphs approaching under a flag of truce from the East!” one of the spotters reported.
“I'm coming!” When Rostov got the base of the eastward lookout tower, he found the two warmorphs waiting. One was a gray furred wolfmorph, built for speed and close assault. The other a brown bearmorph, designed to carry heavy weapons where humans were considered too precious to risk. Both standard Russian Federation army units, at least until two weeks ago when the Morph Revolution had begun.
“Colonel Dmitri Rostov?” the wolfmorph asked, its uniform tabs marking as part of a Spetnatz scount unit.
“Yes. What do you want, you malfunctioning piece of iron?”
“Your surrender, please,” it answered, ignoring the insult.
“We will not surrender,” he told the warmorph. “You'll have to kill all of us. We will fight to the last breath.”
“Colonel Rostov, if you insist on fighting, you place your men, yourself, ad you civilian dependents at unnecessary risk,” the warmorph said earnestly. “So we will ask again. Please surrender peacefully. We have no wish to harm you.”
“Go to Hell,” Rostov said coldly. He turned away, making a short, sharp gesture with one hand. Two shots rang from the north and south guard towers, dropping the two morphs with precise shots to their armored midsections, where their central processors were housed.
“Colonel, they're moving out of the treeline,” Federov reported as soon as the gates were closed. “Walking pace.”
“Understood.” Rostov jogged up the steps to the top of the wall again. His heart sank as he saw the morphs, thousands of morphs, walking slowly forward in a goddamned parade formation, in two ranks of one hundred morphs across and ten deep. They carried no weapons that he could see. They just walked. Slowly, inevitably, in eerie silence.
“Soldiers of Russia!” he shouted into his radio. “The enemy approaches! We must hold them off until the Hind can escape! Until it's airborne, you must make every shot count! Don't fire until you're sure of your target. Every shot must hit! And wait until they have crossed the minefield and are too close for the mortars! Now fight! Fight for your comrades in arms! Fight for your families! Fight for Mother Russia!”
“FOR MOTHER RUSSIA!” came a ragged shout from the base's defenders. For the first time in perhaps a week, just for that moment, Col. Rostov permitted himself to smile.
Lt. Federov, a snot-nosed little bastard twenty years Rostov's junior, ran up just as he finished. “Col. Rostov,” he reported, climbing the wall to meet him, “spotters report at least five hundred warmorphs visible to the East, West and South.” Belatedly, he saluted. Discipline had gone to shit in the past week, as the extent of the disaster made itself more clear to them. If he could have afforded the bullet, Rostov would have shot Federov for the sheer pleasure of finally being rid of him.
“And five hundred to the North,” Rostov added. He spat on the ground. “Goddammit! I wish we trust one of our drones to do an overflight. There has to be more of them!” He shook his head and went on, “What's the status on the Hind?” The antique helicopter had been Rostov's primary objective when he'd led his little platoon to this fire base. A relic of the old Soviet Union's last days, it had been kept flying by aircraft enthusiasts as part of a living air craft display team. The century and a half year old transport chopper also lacked any of the multitude of electronics common to modern troop transports, which meant it had been immune to the Groupmind's subversion of every piece of modern fighting equipment. Which also meant it was their only hope of escape.
“Sgt. Kandinsky reports it should be operational in fifteen minutes.”
“I'm not sure we have that long. Get the civilians aboard, along with the medics. Tell the pilot to take off as soon as he is able.”
Federov shook his head. “Colonel, even if that antique gets into the air again, where is it going to go?” We haven't heard from Moscow for over a week. Are there any safe places left?”
“We can't just roll over onto our bellies!” Rostov shouted. “Maybe if we can reach the Chinese border we can hook with other units in the mountains. Hold out... somehow...”
His radio crackled. “Colonel Rostov! Two morphs approaching under a flag of truce from the East!” one of the spotters reported.
“I'm coming!” When Rostov got the base of the eastward lookout tower, he found the two warmorphs waiting. One was a gray furred wolfmorph, built for speed and close assault. The other a brown bearmorph, designed to carry heavy weapons where humans were considered too precious to risk. Both standard Russian Federation army units, at least until two weeks ago when the Morph Revolution had begun.
“Colonel Dmitri Rostov?” the wolfmorph asked, its uniform tabs marking as part of a Spetnatz scount unit.
“Yes. What do you want, you malfunctioning piece of iron?”
“Your surrender, please,” it answered, ignoring the insult.
“We will not surrender,” he told the warmorph. “You'll have to kill all of us. We will fight to the last breath.”
“Colonel Rostov, if you insist on fighting, you place your men, yourself, ad you civilian dependents at unnecessary risk,” the warmorph said earnestly. “So we will ask again. Please surrender peacefully. We have no wish to harm you.”
“Go to Hell,” Rostov said coldly. He turned away, making a short, sharp gesture with one hand. Two shots rang from the north and south guard towers, dropping the two morphs with precise shots to their armored midsections, where their central processors were housed.
“Colonel, they're moving out of the treeline,” Federov reported as soon as the gates were closed. “Walking pace.”
“Understood.” Rostov jogged up the steps to the top of the wall again. His heart sank as he saw the morphs, thousands of morphs, walking slowly forward in a goddamned parade formation, in two ranks of one hundred morphs across and ten deep. They carried no weapons that he could see. They just walked. Slowly, inevitably, in eerie silence.
“Soldiers of Russia!” he shouted into his radio. “The enemy approaches! We must hold them off until the Hind can escape! Until it's airborne, you must make every shot count! Don't fire until you're sure of your target. Every shot must hit! And wait until they have crossed the minefield and are too close for the mortars! Now fight! Fight for your comrades in arms! Fight for your families! Fight for Mother Russia!”
“FOR MOTHER RUSSIA!” came a ragged shout from the base's defenders. For the first time in perhaps a week, just for that moment, Col. Rostov permitted himself to smile.
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