Kaydie Brackenshaw descended the ramp of her battered skiff, weariness dripping from her bones and sweat dripping from her brow. Her rifle hung across her back like an anvil and it took all the strength she had left to heave the strap up over her head and let the weapon hang in one aching hand. Scrubbing a sleeve across her face, she unbuckled her helmet with a sigh of relief.

She shook her short tangle of dark hair loose, digging her fingers through the sodden locks and grimacing. She needed a shower. Or a drink. Preferably both. Such simple things were all a soldier of her tenure looked forward to after a difficult operation.

Difficult? Brackenshaw shook her head bitterly. How about disastrous?

Other exhausted soldiers from the Scout Cadre trudged down the ramp after her, heads hung low and words passing quietly between them. When they'd left Ozzmar these same men and women had been spoiling for a fight.

Now they seemed shell-shocked. She stopped at the bottom of the ramp, turning to face the troops and thumping a gentle fist down on their shoulder guards as she passed her. They spilled gratefully out into the makeshift base in Ozzmar's centre, and Engineering Cadre specialists flowed the other way, scurrying over the battered vehicles of the task force with frantic precision.

Brackenshaw let her eyes wander over the carnage. Half of her flight had been wiped out in the ambush. Most of the others had limped home, burnt, dented and damaged in their desperate escape. She shook her head, still trying to wrap her brain around it. The long range seismic detectors employed by Brekka's forces should have given them plenty of warning, but somehow the Scraegans had found away around it.

Could they have been masking their vibrations somehow? She doubted it. The Scraegan technology was brutal and unsophisticated; destructive, not creative. But what alternative did that leave? How long had those packs been waiting in the desert for them to come by? Somehow they must have anticipated the movement of the human forces, instinctively knowing their targets and setting up defensive ambushes far in advance.

Tactically their manoeuvre had been a master stroke, stopping the human army from consolidating its smaller strike forces to push south, and they'd caused horrendous casualties in the process. She almost admired it.

But her admiration evaporated quickly as she walked through the devastated strike force. Miquelon was dead along with six of his pilots – a hole not easily filled. Both HK-Rupture and HK-Praxis had taken casualties of their own, not to mention the dozens of tanks, self-propelled guns and infantry vehicles that had been wiped out. The survivors had been badly rattled, and her concerns now went far beyond the physical damage the Scraegans had inflicted.

"Hynan," she called hoarsely as the man slouched past her.

He turned wearily, drawing himself up with a salute nonetheless. "Ma'am?"

"At ease, at ease." She nodded to the straggled line of her platoon's soldiers. "Make sure they get something to eat and some rest. If anyone gets the shakes, you let me know, alright?"

Hynan nodded. "Yes, ma'am. You should get some rest yourself."

"I will, corporal," she replied, looking past him. "But I need to check on a few things first. Dismissed."

"Ma'am."

His broad shoulders sagged and he turned away again, following the other Scout Cadre troops to their billets. Brackenshaw set off in a different direction towards the grimy, smoke-wreathed ranks of the armoured column. Some of the more badly damaged vehicles were still crawling into place, directed cautiously be Engineering Cadre technicians. Engines sputtered in the twilight. She approached one vehicle crew who had disembarked, now sharing a flask of weak shiner and speaking in hushed tones. They directed her to the far end of the vehicle line.

She found Lieutenant Gaul there, sitting on a crate next to the battered, flame-scorched bulk of his battle tank. The man's shoulders were slumped in defeat and his helmet dangled from one limp hand. His short blonde hair was slick with grime and sweat, and she could see a hastily applied field dressing that had been slapped on the side of his neck. Glassy eyes flicked briefly to her, before returning to the ground.

Brackenshaw pressed her lips together, trying to think of something constructive to say to the haggard young man. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, and unlike her he hadn't spend the last decade on the front line of a war. In the end she sat down on the crate beside him, resting the butt of her long rifle on the ground and leaning the barrel against her shoulder.

"Do I know you?" Gaul murmured.

"Sergeant Brackenshaw – Scout Cadre." She extended a hand for him to shake, but he didn't even seem to notice it, staring blankly ahead.

"Guess we should thank you," he said after a moment. "If you didn't take command... I... I don't know if any of us would have made it out of there."

"You kept your head, Lieutenant," Brackenshaw told him, giving him a gentle thump on the arm. "In a situation like that, that's the most important thing. You kept your cool and you followed orders. That got your people out of that."

"Kept my cool?" Gaul looked at her, a short, hysterical laugh slipping from his mouth before he controlled himself. He cleared his throat. "Riverlords, I was panicking, sergeant. I didn't know what to do. And all those men and women, they knew Lieutenant Holze. He was the one they trusted, not me."

Brackenshaw's face darkened as she met Gaul's stare. "Listen to me, lieutenant. You'd better secure that kind of talk right now. I get it, you've had a kick in the teeth, but join the club. Like it or not you're the ranking officer for your column now."

He nodded bleakly. "I know."

"We all feel the heat from something like this," she told him. "But this war isn't going anywhere. We're going to need you."

Gaul squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, letting his head loll forwards. Then a low, hollow chuckle slipped out of his mouth.

"I'm not like you," he said. "I haven't been a soldier my whole bloody life. Drown me, two years ago I was training as an apprentice irrigation technician."

"What changed?"

"People said the war had changed; said the Scraegans were winning." He shrugged. "They wanted people to join up. Save the planet." He dug his hands through his hair in frustration. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"You wanted to protect your home, just like the rest of us."

"Well... yeah, but a lot of us joined up because our friends did. We didn't want to look bad. It was stupid."

"Whatever the reason, you're here now, lieutenant," she replied. "Cut yourself a little slack. You're still standing."

"I guess that's something."

Brackenshaw stood up with a groan of effort. "Hang in there, Gaul. We've got a long way to go, but we'll get there. You just need to have a little faith."

*

Two days later, Brackenshaw walked into the temporary command hub that had been set up in Ozzmar, nerves jangling as she stepped into a meeting that ordinarily would have been far above her pay grade.

The command hub was not particularly large – a room ten feet square with eight flat disks arranged in a circle on the floor. Each one was a vid pad that would project an image of distant officers from the various fronts the human army was advancing on. A technician stood off to one side at the plinth of a control platform, awaiting her instructions.

With Lieutenant Miquelon's demise, Brackenshaw found herself the senior officer of the task force, meaning she had no choice but to attend. She stepped onto her disk and took a deep breath. This was a lot more than a lowly sergeant should have had to to, even one of her tenure. Swallowing her unease, she nodded to the attending technician.

"Link us in."

"Ma'am." He saluted quickly before keying a command into the hub's control console.

It took a few seconds before the grainy, two-dimensional images of the other command officers sprang into life around her. Her fists clenched and unclenched reflexively as her eyes took in the displays. General Llewellyn took the centre space, and to either side of him were the ranking officers of the army: Colonel Harcourt, Major De Lunta, Colonel Hackley, Colonel Marrow who commanded Brekka's infantry divisions, and half a dozen captains and lieutenants in charge of smaller task forces.

I don't have enough bars for this party, she thought as she snapped a crisp salute.

"Master Sergeant Brackenshaw reporting," she said. "Acting commander of Task Force Ozzmar."

"Sergeant," Colonel Hackley gave her a nod of acknowledgement. "Still in one piece?"

"Walking and talking, ma'am."

"Glad to hear it."

"Alright," Llewellyn cut in brusquely. "You all know why you are here. We need to address the setbacks in our advance and reevaluate our plan of action. The Scraegans executed their ambushes at several points where our strike forces were consolidating. It appears we underestimated their intelligence network. They knew exactly where to strike."

Brackenshaw could feel her initial nervousness evaporate at the general's nonchalant description of affairs. A lot of good people had been massacred because of his 'underestimation'. She held her tongue for now, however, waiting for the briefing to unfold.

"How in the Everflowing did they know where we were going to be?" Colonel Marrow growled. The infantry commander looked incensed and she suspected a lot of the casualties in the ambushes had come from Marrow's people. "They didn't show up on any seismics. We had no way to be ready for them!"

"There are two working theories," Llewellyn replied. "Either they have found a way to mask their seismic readings when moving underground, or they have been remaining buried at pre-planned points for much longer than we could have anticipated."

"They did the same thing at Ozzmar on our recon pass," Brackenshaw interjected. "We didn't detect any movement on our long range seismics, but once we reached the town we were ambushed. The tactic was identical, just on a smaller scale."

"They can't hide their vibrations," Major De Lunta put in, shaking his head dubiously. "Our seismics should be telling us if anything bigger than a sandmole is digging around out there."

"Which means they must be a lot more patient than we thought," Hackley said. "They must have anticipated our next attack routes. We were too clear in our targets of the outlying settlements. Once our initial attacks landed they must have guessed our moves and placed their ambushes immediately."

Brackenshaw nodded in agreement, and a twinge of frustration jabbed at the back of her mind. They should have seen something like this coming once their initial targets had been taken. The Scraegan defences had been taken off guard by the lightning assault, but the human forces had reached too far, too fast, opening themselves up to the hit and run tactics the Scraegans had employed so destructively for decades.

"We will assume Colonel Hackley's assessment is correct," Llewellyn told them. "And we will adjust accordingly. I have already ordered reserves be drawn up from Brekka to replenish our lost troops in preparation for the next phase of the attack."

"Next phase?" Brackenshaw looked questioningly at their commander.

"There will be no more of this cowardly, guerrilla warfare," he growled. "We are going to consolidate our task forces into three larger battle groups. We will assemble at our securely defended positions before rolling south. If the Scraegans have more ambushes planted to guard other towns, we will ensure the effort is wasted."

Colonel Harcourt spoke next, a triumphant hint in his voice. "Once our battle-groups are assembled we will bypass what we know are heavily defended positions and strike right at the heart of the Scraegan forces in the region. Some of you may be familiar with the operation conducted last year by Brekka's forces that resulted in the capture of the Scraegan religious leader?"

"I was there," Brackenshaw said, unease beginning to crawl up her spine. "We hit a Scraegan warren – lost a lot of good people in the process."

"Indeed." Harcourt seemed unconcerned. "Our intelligence suggests there are several such warrens spread in a line just north of the Scraegar Labyrinth. These are where the main Scraegan packs deploy from. They are arranged in such a way that the Scraegans can deploy rapidly to within striking distance of most major targets in the southern region. Our objective is to smash these positions and cripple the main Scraegan force."

A murmur of appreciation passed around the junior officers, and Brackenshaw had to admit that the prospect of landing a decisive hammer-blow to the Scraegans was enticing. But it seemed too simple. Nothing in her war had been simple so far.

"Sir, will we not be exposing ourselves to flanking attacks from the Scraegans currently holding the outlying towns?" she asked. "If we bypass them to hit the main warrens we'll leave ourselves vulnerable."

"Brackenshaw, is it?" Harcourt turned a dubious eye on her.

"Yes, sir."

"I appreciate your concerns, sergeant, but we have factored this possibility into our plans. You and other designated task forces will be deployed defensively to the flanks of the main army to prevent such a thing. That is, assuming everyone under your command is still capable of following orders."

"Sir?"

"I've read the after action report of what happened to your column. It did not impress me."

Brackenshaw's hands snapped into fists by her sides. "Meaning what?"

"Your colleague, Sergeant Vannigan. He disobeyed direct orders from his commanding officer. This is not the first time I've encountered his indiscipline."

"Colonel!" Brackenshaw exclaimed. "If he hadn't taken charge of the Hunter-Killers none of us would have made it out of that ambush alive. Lieutenant Miquelon – River carry his soul – lost control of the situation. He was not able to direct the battle group effectively."

"He was successful in taking Ozzmar, sergeant. And we'll never know how he might have salvaged the incident of your ambush. By acting as he did Vannigan overrode any commands Miquelon might have wanted to give."

She stiffened. "Any orders he would have given wouldn't have mattered. The man was not ready."

"I have had just about my fill of this Brekkan 'exceptionalism'," Harcourt sneered. "Vannigan and his ruffians have already shown a disrespect for the chain of command that makes them a liability."

"A liability?!" Brackenshaw exploded. "With all due respect, sir, you ought to look to your own troops in that regard."

"Sergeant!" Hackley snapped. "Stand down."

Many more choice words wanted to leap off of Brackenshaw's tongue, but she suppressed the urge, instead clasping her hands tightly behind her back and inclining her head to her commanding officer.

"Ma'am."

"You are in temporary command of your task force because of your seniority, and because at present there is no-one else to do it," Llewellyn continued icily. "But you will keep a leash on Vannigan. If you do not, I will find an officer who can."

Brackenshaw didn't trust herself to speak, so she gave him a stiff salute. A moment of silence crackled on the joint comm link and she could see some of the junior officers exchanging awkward looks. Harcourt glowered at her; Hackley glanced irately around the room. To her surprise, she spotted a faint smile glimmering on the image of Major De Lunta's face.

"Very well," Llewellyn declared eventually "It will take three days for our reinforcements to arrive and integrate with existing units. You will all receive your deployment orders twelve ours before departure. On the fourth day we will move out in force and smash the Scraegans out of the south."