Thirty-Five

(Kicking off with something I wrote last year, since I missed 1/1/11.)

Thirty-Five

She slammed down the broken stretch of highway at speeds the original architects never envisioned. It helped that she was piloting a last-generation Panzer, sitting on a cushion of air, propelled by a pair of alcohol-fuelled turbojets. Broken pieces of asphalt, downed light-posts, and abandoned vehicles meant next-to-nothing to the pilot, able to choose to float between inches and feet off of the ground.

Passive sensors augmented her awareness, full-spectrum vision extending a full three hundred and sixty degrees. Technical overlays informing her of possible hazards, fuel and weapons status; the occasional chirp of energy being directed at her Tank flitted across her vision. Those could only be the enemy, as she and her group were operating in stealth, avoiding conflict.



Somewhere to her left and right, two other Panzers pushed southwards along the road, their destination: Mexico. Two hazy circles, indicating the ‘best guess’ her tactical computer could provide. Occasionally those circles hardened into dots as one of the fast-moving vehicles moved into line-of-sight, a whisker-tight laser transmitting information and updates. Together, the three Panzers provided a detailed view of the immediate area.

Taking into account the various threat readings on the display, combined with the experience of a hundred battles in a dozen conflicts around the world, she chose to launch a single hunter-killer drone. A fairing on her vehicle popped open for the briefest of moments, discharging several thousand Yuan of murderous aluminum and steel. The drone arced off in a graceful turn, the chosen gunship disintegrating even as the momentary blip of danger appeared on the pilot’s radar. The Panzers continued on.

---

“No one makes the run to Mexico, anymore, Papi. It is too dangerous.” The petite Portuguese woman, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, took another swig of synthale, and then made a face at the bottle. “I’d almost do it for a real cerveza.” The older man looked out the window at the Canadian wilderness, the bar and its surrounding town a last bastion of civilization in a rapidly deteriorating world. He sighed. “Ah, Sierra, I know. And I would not ask if I did not think it was important.” The man who was the closest thing Sierra Garcia had to family leaned forwards in his chair. “Very important,” he said in a quiet voice.

Sierra drained her beer, placing the empty bottle on the table, joining several rings of condensation form previous bottles. It had not been a good week for her, and now here was Papi, asking her to go and get killed. She looked back at her old man, “There are almost no fuel caches left, and those that exist are probably guarded by bandits and fanatics. My Panzer is in bad shape, I’ve got almost no ammunition, and barely enough fuel to drive to the corner store, let alone Laredo, Texas. No, Papi. I’m not going to Mexico; no matter what you think is ‘muy importante’.”

Juan Baptiste Alonzo Ferrara, former commander of the 15th Paneuro Strike Group, veteran of The Last War, gave his protégé’ a long stare, before taking out a piece of paper, and writing a couple of words. He folded it in half, and slid it across the table to the Panzergirl. “If you change your mind, I will be there,” he said, standing up from the table, giving Sierra a pat on her hand. He then turned away, and walked out into the night. Janna looked after him for a bit, before looking at what he had written.

“Orbitals End. Platt’s field.”

---

“The Orbiting Ascendancy, or ‘Orbitals’, were a group of space stations and satellites placed into various geostationary orbits around the Earth. From their vantage point, these glimmering crystals of Corporate Sovereignty controlled all aspects of the planet’s economy and ecosystem. Most, if not all, of the important corporate interests had long migrated, via shuttle and elevator, up to the pristine environment of space. The rest of the surviving population had been left behind, either working to maintain robotic factories, or mine out the last of Earth’s resources. Anyone not engaged in these tasks were left to fend for themselves, joining various bandit groups or dying of starvation, heavy metal poisoning, or radiation sickness.” -- 21st Century History Volume 5, the 2050’s.

---

The trip from Fort Frances, on the former Canadian/American border, to Duluth was uneventful. The old US Route 53 was still well-patrolled, thanks to the trade route between the two bastions of humanity. Papi’s contacts in Duluth provided a top-off of the precious fuel, and a few extra tanks placed into internal cargo spaces within the Panzers. The group turned south, cruising easily onto what was once Interstate 35. Before leaving, their systems had been repaired, and ammunition provided, seemingly at Papi’s whim. A great deal of equipment, time, and talent had been mobilized, underscoring the importance of the run in Sierra’s mind.

Two other members of the local militia had been tapped to make the run. To her west was a man known only as Reno, piloting a General Motors M5B3/A Main Battle Tank. Certainly less than optimal for a fast and stealthy run, he would not be dissuaded for the mission, claiming that “At least he could take some of them with him.” Reno projected a care-free, cowboy image, claiming to be the last true Texan. When it was pointed out that Reno was in Nevada, he’d just grin and walk away.

Somewhere to Sierra’s left-side, holding the eastern corner of the loosely-shifting triangle was Major Natalya Gristan. She had returned with Sierra’s unit when the war sputtered out to a close, commandeering an Ocean Capable Roll-On, Roll-Off vessel by virtue of the fact that she had a large tank, and the crew did not. Her T-106 “Vadim” Tank screamed over the countryside, a blend of radar-invisible technology and ultra-heavy ammunition with a throw-weight nearly equal to Reno’s MBT when it was at its peak.
Sierra shifted in her padded command chair, which had molded itself to her slight form over twenty years of use. She patted a control arm lightly, content in the design of her chosen mount. For she was riding an actual Panzer Mark 14, built by Krauss-Maffei-Krupp GMBH, designed to be the most stealthy assault platform in the world. Sierra allowed herself a quirk as she thought about ten years ago, when all three of these tanks fought against each other, now united against a common foe.

---

“The Pan-Global Conflict, also known as ‘The Last War’ or ‘The End’, started as a series of regional conflicts erupting over dwindling resources, primarily water rights. Two medium-sized flare-ups, in the Balkans and South America, led to a near-overnight ramp up by weapons and munitions manufacturers attempting to supply any given side for the right price. Nations quickly went into hyper-debt, as the Corporations extended more and more credit, eventually owning entire countries. The end of the war came with the collapse of these Corp-States, when the space-based Corporations started to demand repayment of the loans granted to their ground-side ‘cousins’. Controlling both access to space and the massive orbital hydroponics facilities which provided all of the combat drugs in use, major combat theatres came to an end as factories shut down, and supplies dried up. Former enemies became loose allies, as they attempted to return home, only to find that the war had destroyed most of the infrastructure across the planet.” -- 21st Century History Volume 5, the 2050’s.

---

By mutual decision, they decided to take the Eastern loop of I-35, as they passed by the twin-cities of Minneapolis/St. Paul. Two rival groups had entrenched on either side of the river, the St. Paul Protectorate controlling the remnants of the airport. It was q quiet night at the twins, and only a few patrolling elements were discovered, easily avoided. Even for Reno. Swinging around the divided zone, Sierra led her group down the former Minnesota-Wisconsin border, and then a jump west back onto the Interstate, heading south.

Sixty miles south of the twins, the three Panzers swung off of the highway, having checked several cache-points, finding them empty. They dropped to earth a mile short of the next marked cache, setting up a defensive position. It was Reno’s turn to pop his hatch, and scout out the location, something no Panzer jockey willingly wanted to do. Arming his bull-pup carbine, he made his way towards the area, Sierra and the Major locked into their threat displays, looking for anything that might scream danger.

Within an hour, Reno’s dimmed heat signature edged back towards the tanks, an all-clear signal from the cowboy. “We’re good, none of the seals have been touched, no signs of anyone having been here.” Sierra nodded over the vidlink, and nosed her Panzer towards the cache of fuel. “That’s a stroke of good luck. I was beginning to ride on fumes.” Natalya slid her Tank over the berm, followed by Reno, as the group made quick work of re-fuelling.
They slaved all three tanks to Sierra’s tactical computer, as it had the best passive sensor suite of the group. Each Tank pointed in a different direction, forming a defensive perimeter which would, with luck, detect any incoming targets and issue an alert. Warily the three pilots set up their encampment within the protective shell of the Panzers, and tried to rest. Sleep did not easily come to the trio.


---

Natalya stood on a slight rise, looking down at the Missouri River, and the remnants of Kansas City. They had made good time, deciding to seal-up and blow through the nuclear wasteland that marked the former location of Des Moines. Their tanks were more than capable of operating for weeks in such an environment, if necessary. Now, they faced a decision as they took the time to eat rations and re-hydrate. “Well,” spoke Reno, “We can nose down the banks, and over the river, or we can try running the bridge.”

Sierra nodded, looking out over the landscape. “We could also swing east or west, avoiding this entirely.” She thought for a moment, looking at a map of the area, electronically marked with known and suspected activity. “Unfortunately, that would cost us the time we’re saving by using the Interstate.” She wasn’t very happy about the decision made a few hours back, and now that she could see the fires within Kansas City, her frown deepened. “This just isn’t a good idea.”

Reno and Sierra turned as Natalya spoke. “Perhaps not, but it is the choice we have now, it is not like we can go back.” She pointed towards the bridge. “We should make the run there, at full speed. Get across, get through. It looks like there is enough going on in the city, that we should be able to take advantage of the situation.”

The cowboy nodded. “Yeah, I’m guessing you’re right. We’ve got the fuel, and the ability to fight. I say we go for it.”

With one last look out over the river, Sierra shrugged, and climbed back into her Panzer. “We go for it.”

---

“Once the remaining Nation-States and Corporations realized what had happened, and how, it was a given that an attempt to take back control of the planet would be made. Initially, the Orbital response was limited to a few precise strikes with kinetic-kill weapons, which escalated to several nuclear strikes on relatively unimportant cities. The Orbitals did not want to destroy needed resources, so they attempted to demonstrate their superior position, to control negotiations. The remaining Nations refused to submit, and launched their nuclear arsenals. The conflagration lasted 68 minutes as ground-based weapons were swatted out of the skies with relative ease, or targets were reprogrammed by inhumanly-adept Artificial Intelligences roaming cyberspace like alien predators. The remaining places on Earth untouched by the War were devastated by local conflagrations as the remaining powers attempted to re-assert control.” -- 21st Century History Volume 5, the 2050’s.

---

Natalya did not die easily. The explosive device, so crude that it did not show up on sensors until it was too late, detonated as the T-106 passed over the southern-end of the bridge. With turbofans screaming, the group bolted across the spans, in an attempt to reach the other side as quickly as possible. For some reason, perhaps a detector, perhaps someone watching the bridge, the mine detonated directly underneath Natalya’s tank, blowing out her number three fan, sending her momentarily out of control. The Tank bounced off of the guardrails, sending sparks into the river, and fusing shut her port-side HK launcher, as well as destroying several sensor clusters. Red damage indicators flashed over Natalya’s face as she attempted to regain control of her vehicle.

“Nat!” yelled Sierra over the laser-link. She began to slew the mass of her Tank around, the difficulty of the maneuver increased by the fear of more mines, and the collection of wrecked vehicles on the bridge playing havoc with her air cushion.

“Nyet! Continue onwards, I will follow.” Natalya was always calmest during a crisis, and her cool but firm voice left no opportunity for debate. “You must go.”

Torn between a decade of camaraderie and the need to complete Papi’s mission, Sierra hesitated until Natalya spoke again, her voice soft. “Please. I can already see targets heading our way, attracted by the explosion. If we all stay, none of us will survive. Go, little one. Take Reno to Mexico.”

Reno’s joking voice shook Sierra back to reality. “Yeah, Sierra. You know I need some real beer, and Natalya can take care of herself. There’s a couple of safehomes nearby, she can make it and hole up in one until we get back.”

“All right,” Sierra said, as she turned her Panzer southwards once more. “But we ARE coming back.”

Two tanks roared down Interstate 35 through the wreckage of Kansas City. Sierra ignored the signs of the firefight that erupted behind her, only knowing that the kill ratio was a fifty to one, as Natalya distracted the city’s crazed inhabitants. Missiles and Autocannon fire ripped across the sky, fire blossoming as people and vehicles died. Only when the final fireball erupted, and Natalya’s telemetry link went down, did Sierra allow herself to cry.

---

They encamped within Wichita, an oasis of sanity in a world gone mad. A fortress town, Wichita had maintained order, building up defenses and stockpiling equipment. The self-styled Wichita Wraiths, a group of Panzer Jocks and Delta Pilots maintained a wide swath of order around the city. Sierra and Reno secured their tanks with Wichita Control, enabling the hardwired lockdowns required within the city walls. A motel, fresh sheets, and real food awaited them at a local hotel.

“Heh, remember the last time we were here?” asked Reno, with his usual grin. “We sure had a good time.”

Sierra turned on Reno, with a .45 caliber glare. “Fuck you, Reno. How can you even think about that with Natalya dead and hundreds of miles to go?”

Reno held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Hey, whoa, I’m just trying to lighten the mood, chica. No need to light me up.”

Sierra pushed past Reno, muttering “Jerk.” Before stomping up the stairs to her room, leaving him behind and confused. His voice floated up the stairs behind her. “Sorry.”

She awoke to the sound of her door being opened, her hand sliding under her pillow to grasp her pistol. “Stop right there, or you’ll not see the morning.” she said, aiming the gun at the intruder. The lights clicked on, revealing Reno holding a bottle, a couple of glasses, and a box. A box that smelled pretty good.

“Hey, now, woman! Don’t shoot the man with dinner!” As Sierra lowered her pistol, Reno set the food and drinks on a side table. He grinned, “That’s better. Now I know you have to be hungry, and you could use a bit of a washing up.”

Sierra rubbed her face, pushing the pistol back under the pillow. She knew he was right, but she let him stand there for a few moments before giving him a “Meh”, and walking into the bathroom to start a shower. “I’ll be back out in five, don’t drink all of the wine.”

Water cascaded down her body, washing away the sweat and grime of the past few days. She’d already grieved over the death of Natalya, now the heat of the shower washed away what was left, steeling her resolve, cleansing her imagined sins. She didn’t even hear Reno sliding into the shower behind her, and she jumped as his rough hands slid over her. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Reno’s voice, a slow drawl, gave her an answer. “Just picking up where we left off, last time we were here.” Sierra tensed, then relaxed back against the jock. “Yeah, all right cowboy. But you’re getting us fresh food when we’re done.”

That would end up being breakfast.


---

“The Empire once known as America was one of the hardest hit areas in the world. Cities were vaporized in an instant as the country attempted to fight an enemy that held all the cards. Years later, a few remnants of civilization clustered around aging infrastructure, falling back into medieval-style fortress towns. The governments of these bastions of humanity ranged from enlightened theocracies to brutal dictatorships. One of the worst of these was centered nearby the ruins of Oklahoma City, referred to as the OK Corral. There, surrounding a collection of active oil wellheads, a large, well-armed collection of rabble followed Jiminez Algordo, a self-styled Warlord. Life in the Corral may have been nasty and brutish, but Warlord Algorado controlled a large swath of territory, effectively controlling travel between was the remnants of Canada and Mexico.” -- 21st Century History Volume 5, the 2050’s.

---

One hundred and fifty miles south of Wichita, the pair traveled in silence. News of their mission had spread ahead of them, leaving both Reno and Sierra with a general sense of unease. In small groups, people had come up to them as they tried to depart. Most offered well-wishes, or small tokens. A priest offered to bless their Panzers, Reno’s Tank sported a palm frond. Eventually, they were able to make it out of town, with the benefit of being fully-fuelled, and intel from a recently-returned trader.

Aware that their progress was now well-known, they moved flat-out, trading off stealth for raw speed, an attempt to race to the finish line. Their Panzers glided above the ground, turbofans pushing them hard into the south. Sierra tried to relax in her acceleration couch, aware of lingering sensations from the morning’s exercise. She glanced over at the red locator, marking her Panzer as being firmly connected to Reno’s as one could get on the modern battlefield. She mused about the dot for a moment, chuckling at the layers now contained in the word connection, as the pair roared south. The moment of contemplation did not last long, however, as a pre-set demarcation line flashed onto her display. She toggled the tightbeam link, “Reno…”

“…we’re in the Corral.”

They expected to be met at the edge of the Corral’s claimed territory, but sensors remained clear. To Sierra, this meant one of two things; either the enemy was exceptionally well-hidden…or they simply were not there. She wasn’t sure which one worried her more. She clicked over the comm. Toggle again. “I don’t like this at all, Reno. What’s your take?”

Reno mused for a moment before responding. “Well, either they’re having a big ole’ Siesta, or we’re in a lot of trouble. I don’t suppose you have any Juice?” he asked, his drawl belying an underlying concern. “We may need any edge we can get.”

Sierra gave a harsh laugh, then toggled back. “Reno, I haven’t been juiced since the mid-40’s.”
“Damn.” He pondered awhile longer. “If Jimi’s anything like he was during the War, we’ll be facing a Zulu Bullfight. He’ll keep his main force in the center, and fall back, hoping to catch us in his horns…two groups that’ll try and encircle, cutting us off. If we punch hard down the center, we can then zig left or right, between two of his Elements.” Reno ran down his list of available armaments, allowing himself a slight smile. Time for a re-match, compadre. You’d best be ready.

“Didn’t you serve with him in the War?” Sierra asked, as she kicked her Panzer into a set of pre-planned evasive maneuvers. No reason to make it easy for anyone.

“Served with and against, Panzergirl; kicked his ass all the way into Oklahoma, before everyone ran out of give-a-damn. If he knows we’re coming, it’ll be personal.” He paused. “You might be able to use that. If he concentrates on me, you should be able to blow past on Stealth, get to the border.”

Sierra shook her head. “Not a chance, cowboy. We’re in it together, we stick it to these bastards, and get out.”

Reno toggled back with a little more force than necessary. “No. You, me, we’re not important. The mission is important. Getting that data south is important. If I go down, you go on. No heroics, no mush.”

She flushed, angrily, a stuttered response forming faster than her brain wanted to think. Girl, he’s right. You can’t let a little thing like your feelings get involved. Maybe it was just a good time for Reno. Always has been, right? Get the job done, then think about it. “Okay, Reno. You got your Panzer driver back, for now. But when we’re in Mexico, you’d better be ready.”

“For you, Panzergirl? Always.”

---

“Juice was the slang term for a variety of combat drugs. Used by all front-line combatants, Juice increased the speed of one’s mine and body. A non-juiced solider saw a Juicepup as a blurry form, limbs moving impossibly fast. A Juicepup saw normal solders as moving in slow motion. There was a price, of course, most soldiers burning up within a few years of use. Tank commanders lasted longer, as they tended to only ‘drink up’ before combat, their mobility allowing them the relative luxury of downtime. Juice was also the means that allowed a full Panzerlink, the chemicals speeding up the human brain to handle a full immersion with the Tank’s onboard computing system. The end result was simple: If you didn’t have Juice, you lost. Once the Orbitals cut off the Juice supply, the end of the global conflict was near.” -- 21st Century History Volume 5, the 2050’s.

---

On the plus side, they weren’t even trying to be subtle. Sensors picked up the active emissions miles before they would be detected. As if the Warlord had risen up a flag: Here I am! You don’t have any choice, go through me, or go back! The Panzer’s onboard systems marked several hundred vehicles, ranking them by probable threat levels. Reno flicked on the comm-link, marking a cluster of points. “Janna, that’ll be Jimi and his gang. My grid marks them as Panzers, probably Ex-Mexican Guard. If I know Jimi, they’ll be in pretty good shape, and probably loaded for bear…or us. But he probably doesn’t have Juice, either.”

The former Paneuro Tank Commander sighed. “Well, we don’t have Juice, either, so I guess it’ll be a fair fight, right?” She chuckled. “I guess we don’t have any reason to be stealthy, anymore. Full active?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Yankee Search the bastiches.”

Both drivers opened their respective sensor locks, and engaged their Panzer’s full sensor suite. Several stealthy sensor drones launched, and the Tanks’ own primary radar and lidar systems surged with energy. A full battlefield picture emerged, in 3D computer-enhanced glory. Both Sierra and Reno relaxed back into their chairs. It had been high-upon a decade since the drivers had been in full-active, and the information flowed into their links like an old friend.

Sierra mentally selected a few targets, and drew a route on the display. “I suggest Leapfrog-Twelve, at two click intervals.” She said over the link. L12 referred to a series of formations and maneuvers their group had developed while retreating out of Europe. She twinged momentarily, missing Natalya. Nat was the master strategist, and would have come up with something brilliant, she was sure.

“Roger that, Leapfrog in ninety seconds, mark.” Reno gave a last glance over his systems board, the Christmas Tree showing all green, for now. Red and yellow lights would be joining them soon. He locked all of his launcher bays in the open position, no need to risk a panel jamming in a fight, and slowly accelerated his Tank up to combat speed. Reno grinned, Comin’ for ya, Jimi.

Janna dumped her sensor emissions to zero, becoming a hole in the ground as Reno lit off towards battle. Using minimal speed, she drifted off to the west of their initial display of sensor power. With luck, the enemy would fix on Reno, still blaring away as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Taking up a position behind a ridgeline, she began to program her Panzer’s attack routine, waiting for the signal from Reno.

The American MBT streaked directly towards the cluster Reno hag tagged as J-Probable, the most likely location of the Warlord, in an attempt to spook Jimi into making a bad move. A voice transmission indicated the likeliness of that scenario actually working. Reno’s hand hovered over the firing locks, and listened.

“Hello, Reno. I know it is you, out there. They told me you and some chicas were coming down Thirty-Five to pay me a visit. Wasn’t that nice of them to let me know? You can’t win, Reno. I’ve got enough firepower to move the Mississippi, let alone deal with a couple of Panzers leftover from the War. So why don’t you power down, hand over your vehicles, and we’ll have a cold one back at the Corral. It’ll be like old times, Cowboy. You and me, together again!”

Reno’s right eye twitched, his fingers touching the comm-toggle. “Lemme think about it, Jimi.” Then, Reno gave an answer. Fire erupted from the MBT, as he jinked his Tank right. A dozen trucks, nothing more than missiles strapped to a ramshackle chassis, erupted in explosions, their high-velocity penetrators removed from the threat list in an instant. He clicked the tightbeam back to one of the sensor drones. “Frog, execute Alpha-Strike.”

Upon receipt of the signal, Sierra smiled, and unleashed hell. Having no reason to conserve munitions, she flushed her entire ready magazine of missiles, each one programmed for a particularly important target. Ignoring the main group of Mexican MBT’s, her missile swarms, coming from an entirely unexpected direction, slammed into groups of fast-moving aircushion vehicles. Only she and Reno would have mobility, thank you very much, and have a nice day. As the results were fed to her display, she toggled back to Reno, “Fire mission complete, eighty-eight percent of initial targets destroyed or disabled.” She fed power back into her other combat systems, and moved away quietly, disappearing back into the fog of war.

This leapfrogging continued, Sierra launching three more strikes against groups of high-threat targets, while Reno’s armament hammered away, sending round after round of sabots into heavily-armored vehicles. Against nearly any other vehicle on the planet, the Warlord would be triumphant. Against two battle-hardened veterans, with over a decade of operational experience working together…it was a slaughter.

In the first ten minutes of the engagement, the two Panzers had eliminated a full third of the Warlord’s forces. Precise targeting had weakened a particular point in the Warlord’s lines. Jimi had ordered his bull horns in to encircle, but staying in the killing fields was not part of the plan.

“Sierra, Tac-Com shows a…”

Reno’s voice stopped mid-transmission. Her display showed that a concerted attempt to find and destroy their sensor drones had been successful, the loss of their overhead advantage erased in a moment of firepower. She switched to backup encrypted radio, and transmitted, unthinking. “Leap, Status.”

Reno swore, loudly, and launched a salvo of penetrators towards the Warlord’s Tanks, in an attempt to draw attention to his MBT. It wouldn’t be enough. He triggered his own radio, “Sierra, EVADE!”

Waiting for any fix on the Panzer that had devastated his forces, Warlord Algorado gave a grim smile. “It’s been fun, chica. Game over.” In a world of hyper-velocity munitions, air power had been relegated to back-of-the-battlefield support, and safe-zone transportation. A handful of Fighterjocks remained, an elite cadre of near-suicidal pilots, willing to take their craft, and themselves, to a deadly edge. Equipped with the last generation of stealth technologies, the Deltas were used for precision strikes against hardened targets.

The trio of Delta-winged craft streaked over the battlefield, each launching a salvo of anti-tank munitions. Sierra’s skill avoided most, her Panzer’s anti-missile gatling cannon spitting a stream of metal in the path of the incoming strike. A near-miss kicked up debris, momentarily fouling one of her maneuvering fans, a second missile impacted squarely into her Panzer’s aft compartment.

Reno watched with horror as Sierra’s Panzer erupted in flames, then exploded, a turbofan arced off savagely, debris scattering. Reflexively, he swatted the Deltas out of the sky, ensuring the removal of the threat from that direction. Cold emptiness filled him, and his Tank drifted to a halt, a momentary lull in the fighting as the combatants looked on in awe at the death of the woman that had wrought such destruction.

“I didn’t want to have to do that, Reno. You didn’t have to come here; you could have taken my offer.” The Warlord spoke, almost kindly, to Reno. “It can still end here, compadre. No-one else has to die.”

---

“The last MBT produced by General Motors was the M5B3/A Main Battle Tank. An armored air-cushion vehicle, GM’s philosophy came down to ‘Are you sure we can’t fit one more gun?’ Trading off speed and stealth for raw firepower, each M5 was capable of taking out an entire element of less-sturdy opponents. Only a few Russian-made Paneuro battletanks ever came close to matching the firepower and survivability of these emperors of the battlefield. Unfortunately, even the great ‘Powell’ MBTs couldn’t be used to threaten the Orbitals’ supremacy. Few remained into the mid-century, even fewer in good condition.” -- 21st Century History Volume 5, the 2050’s.

---

Reno sat back in his acceleration couch, and reached down to unlock a worn storage compartment. Lifting up a vial, he shook it, tapping at the clear plastic container. Last call, he thought, and slotted the last known ampoule of Juice into the injection system’s receiver. Within seconds, the world simultaneously sped up and slowed down, the odd chill of being Juiced surging through his veins. Jimi’s voice was slightly slurred now, and flashbacks of Reno’s previous encounters with Jimi, good and bad, raced through his brain, a side-effect of the neural stimulation. “Sure, Jimi. No-one else has to die.”
The main gun of Reno’s MBT elevated and locked into its firing position, his twin secondary turrets spinning up as well. The Tank came fully to life, a sleeping dragon awoken one last time. Turbofans whined as Reno returned to action. As fast as thought, targets begin to die. The 250 millimeter main cannon simply erased anything Reno tasked it to remove, the sabots spit from the secondary turrets carving through lines of lightly-armored vehicles.

Sheaves of miniature cluster munitions rippled from the Tank at Reno’s whim, bomb-lets spraying forth over a group of infantry trying to sight down man-portable anti-tank missiles onto his MBT, which then exploded, sending forth fire and flesh. GM’s finest MBT moved forwards, straight for the Warlord, its master and commander unleashing a level of firepower unseen since the War. Nothing on Earth could stop Reno’s relentless advance, a vengeance born of fire and loss.

It was a long time since the Warlord Jiminez Algorado felt fear, but he knew what it was, and knew he had to run. He ordered his bodyguards to flee, turning his own Tank away from the destruction in an attempt to reach safety. Jimi uttered several Hail Marys, a desperate attempt for preservation from the Heavens.

Reno’s threat display highlighted the departing group of five MBTs, marking the Warlord’s tank as a priority target. Before he could send a cluster of hyper-velocity vengeance towards the Warlord, Reno was interrupted by symbols he hadn’t seen since the war. Symbols of death incarnate, falling from the skies. He threw everything his turbofans could take into full thrust, redlining his already overtaxed engines in a desperate attempt at survival. Above, kinetic lances fell from orbit, creating Hell on Earth.

---

Somewhere in a bunker, far away from the border between the former American States of Oklahoma and Texas, a word was uttered. Several satellites, thought dead by the Orbital AI Hive, came to life, their computers and programming repaired over time. Years of effort had gone into gaining control of these old GeoSats, teams moving from transmission point to transmission point, carefully avoiding the possibility of discovery. These satellites thrust out of their orbits, aiming for the now-revealed kinetic lance platform, in an attempt to take advantage of the only weakness of the Orbital Ascendancy, overconfidence.

No defenses were mounted on the platform, because no threat from the ground could possibly reach it. The last attempts to mount an attack into orbit were swatted down with depressing ease. Those who live above the gravity well control the gravity well, and the Orbitals took every advantage of that fact. Now, however, their weakness was to be exploited.

Evasive action was taken; ships were launched in an attempt to intercept. None of them would have an effect on the outcome. Too many variables, too many targets, too little time. The satellites collided with each other and with the platform. Debris spalled outwards from every impact, colliding with other pieces of orbital wreckage. An ever-growing cloud of material began to fill high orbit, a place the Orbitals felt was untouchable. A Kessler Cascade had begun, and this marked the Fall of the Orbitals. The AI Hive desperately attempted to download themselves into disused groundside havens, only to find that the disruption of Earth’s network left them locked into easily traceable locations, to be destroyed one by one.

It would take years to eradicate the last traces of the Orbital Ascendancy, hunting down the last of the AI Hivemind. Fractured, unable to effectively communicate, humanity took back their home world, and began to rebuild.

No humans from the Orbiting Stations survived the fall.

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Somewhere in the border town of Laredo, at the end of the once-mighty highway known as US Interstate Thirty-Five, the last Panzer Cowboy raised a bottle of cold beer towards the sunset, a sky marked by streaks of falling debris.

“This cerveza’s for you, Panzergirl.”