by J. N. Chaney
“The general’s gonna be so glad to finally meet you!” Brinn said as he hurried into the darkness.
23
“So, you probably want to tell your people to start calling you General Warren,” whispered Brinn. “Maybe General Prescott. It’s up to you, but Second Corps will probably call you that, and if you’re not gonna claim it, then things might not go so good.”
Warren wasn’t sure what he meant by that but nodded to Rigby, who began passing the instructions to the rest of the platoon.
The tunnel started as dirt, supported by wooden beams, but soon gave way to a stone passage. The walls and floor were rough-hewn and had obviously been completed in haste. Every few paces, some of the stone jutted out into the passage. From what Warren could see using his night vision, it appeared to be a different color than the rest. Probably too tough for whatever tools had been used to dig this thing out, he decided. In most of the areas, the rock had been cut wider to provide enough space to get through without having to do more than lean a little to one side or the other.
Something on the ceiling caught Warren’s attention. He studied it for a few seconds, still walking. It looked like string—maybe some kind of finely woven twine. Every meter or so, it passed through an eye bolt, looped, and went through another. He was curious and glanced over his shoulder to see if Rigby had spotted it too. She had, but only replied with a slight shrug. She didn’t know what it was for, either.
They’d traveled about a hundred meters when Warren spotted the first change in their environment. The sound of his footsteps suddenly changed, becoming less sharp and pronounced. It wasn’t a drastic difference, but it was definitely something he noticed.
A huge piece of cloth which, upon closer inspection, was actually made from a lot of other pieces all sewn together, hung on the wall to Warren’s left. He had to speed up a little, then slow down to get behind Brinn to get a good look at it.
The sergeant glanced at what he was looking at. “It’s probably okay to whisper,” he said. “We’re pretty far underground, and we’re pretty close to all the soundproofing we’ve added. We’ve been digging this place out for a while. This was our first hidey-hole. Now it’s just storage. I’m sure the general will let you take a peek. Hell, he might give you everything we’ve got if we end up kicking the Commonwealth’s ass.
“Since then, we’ve been doing a lot more digging. Well, some of us have, anyway. Mostly DeNovy and Fippin. Their legs are busted up pretty good, so they aren’t much use in a fight. But they can stand around and swing a pickaxe. You’ll get to meet ‘em. Good soldiers, doing what they can.”
The passage made a ninety-degree turn to the right a few paces further where Warren and Brinn encountered their first barrier. It was more cloth, similar to what was covering the storage room. Brinn brushed it aside and walked through. Warren followed, scanning for threats as he did. The passage only went about a meter before it turned to the left again, probably because of the strange-colored stone. It looked like someone had gone at it for a while but eventually gave up.
The passage finally opened into a room roughly twenty meters wide and a hundred long. All the walls were covered in layers of cloth—probably the soundproofing Brinn had spoken of. Piled along the wall to the left were at least two dozen broken or worn pickaxes. To the right were stacks of boxes, crates, and woven baskets filled with an assortment of trash, stuff that might be food, and clothing.
Ahead fifteen cyborgs stood around something they were looking at on one of the walls while another four were gathered around a table in the far corner, observing some equipment—the only electronics in the place from what Warren could see. A quick glance at the ceiling revealed the string from the hallway continued into the room, ending at the back wall where it was attached to a crude-looking piece of metal shaped like a cowbell. A second later, the string moved, hissing softly against the eye bolts, and the bell clanged.
The fifteen standing around turned toward Warren and the others. None appeared surprised, but they did eye his platoon’s weapons with an expression he thought of as almost feral.
“At ease,” a tall, broad cyborg standing near the table in the back said. He tapped the cracked screen of a datapad a couple of times, nodded to one of the others, and turned toward Warren.
The big cyborg had been through some shit. Most of the skin on his head was gone. Burn marks and dents on the metal chassis underneath suggested it had happened in battle, but it could have easily occurred when the Conquest crashed, or even before.
Warren felt like he was being examined like a butcher might a cow he was planning to slaughter. It made him uncomfortable, but there was no overt hostility being displayed. Not yet, anyway. When the cyborg approached, everyone got out of his way, their eyes darting between him and Warren’s platoon.
“My name is General Clem Kaplan,” he said, still examining Warren like he was a slab of meat. “And who might you be?” His voice was rough, rattling like he’d taken a bullet to the throat but had recovered.
“General Warren Prescott,” he replied, though it felt foolish to refer to himself that way. He’d never been a general. Never wanted to be, yet here he was, a general for all intents and purposes.
“Good to meet you,” Kaplan said, holding out his hand. Warren took it, and they shook. “Glad you decided to join our little soiree here on Turano. I heard things went better on Reotis. Got yourself a little colony there tough enough to beat down a Repub cruiser and CoW… what was it, a frigate?”
“We’re calling it a mothership,” said Warren. “More of a troop transport for mechs.”
Kaplan nodded slowly, then glanced at the other fifteen cyborgs crowding into the room. “Most of my people are out on guard duty, collecting intel or committing hostile actions against our enemy. Your people are free to carry their rifles if they want, or they can put them up. Sergeant Brinn will be happy to run you through our procedures, and all I ask is that you respect and obey them. Although we don’t own the planet yet, we’ve managed to push back our enemies, while remaining invisible to them. They know we’re here, but they don’t know where here is.”
Warren thought he detected a smile on what was left of the general’s face, but so much artificial skin was missing, he couldn’t be sure. “I was told you have some of my people here,” he said.
The general nodded then motioned to one of the cyborgs standing behind him, who began walking toward the back of the room. “We’ve got some civilians here who said they’re with you. No harm has come to them, but for security’s sake, I had to isolate them. The ones you verify are yours are free to go.”
Warren felt relief wash over him the moment he recognized Hendrose. The others were Reotians who’d volunteered to join the mission at the last moment. The only light in the room came from the electronics on the table, so none of them could see where they were going.
“They’re all mine,” said Warren.
“Good to hear it,” replied Kaplan. He nodded to the cyborg who’d brought them out, then he gently began pushing them in Warren’s direction.
“Warren, good to see you,” said Hendrose, his eyes wide with relief.
“Yes,” he replied. “And it’s General Prescott.” Then he turned to Kaplan and asked, “Do you have a place for these full humans?”
“Yes,” he said. “The squishies must remain outside the command center, now that you’ve cleared them. As you can see, we don’t have any electronics that run from the building. Every piece of tech runs off Commonwealth batteries we’ve liberated from their forces. We’ve got a few dozen small solar chargers scattered throughout the hillside to recharge them, but even those are risky. You said you’ve encountered mechs, but have you seen a Ghost yet?”
“Yes,” replied Warren. “King told me about them. Showed me the footage you sent with him. After that, we got ambushed by one.”
Kaplan nodded slowly. “You’ll get another chance to meet them. So will your troops. As you know, they won’t be easy
to find though.”
“How do you spot them?” asked Warren.
“Usually, we don’t. They spot us and open fire, then we shoot back. In other words, anyone who isn’t one of us is a potential enemy. Not so much the civilians on this planet, but a lot of them are loyal to Kinsley. Maybe not the Commonwealth of Worlds as a whole, but definitely him. He’s got a lot of these people brainwashed into thinking he’s the only thing standing between them and complete annihilation. Maybe he is.”
“Any idea why comms are down?” asked Warren.
“Just so happens, I do,” Kaplan replied. He snapped his fingers and gestured toward the electronics table. One of the cyborgs there unplugged a datapad, then hurried over and handed it to him. “This is the source of the problem.” He turned the pad around so Warren could see what was displayed on the cracked screen.
It was an image of what looked like an old radio tower, an ordered spiderweb of rusty steel lattice reaching sixty or more meters into the sky. Near the base was a concrete-walled building. The image was grainy, probably taken at great distance—maybe using the pad itself.
Warren nodded slowly, piecing the situation together in his mind. “I heard you encountered some of First Corps before we showed up.”
“Indeed,” replied the general. “One or two may be injured, but whether that happened when they displayed hostility toward my troops, or it happened sometime before, I can’t say. Without comms, details are still sketchy at best. Sergeant Brinn can show you the last place he saw them and what direction they traveled if you’d like to link up with them. I’m assigning him to be your pathfinder if you’re agreeable to that.”
“That’s fine with me,” replied Warren. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I was hoping you’d ask that,” the general replied as he motioned for Warren to follow. When the rest of Warren’s platoon tried to tag along, Kaplan’s head snapped around. His fists were clenched, and Warren imagined he was probably frowning. “Please ask your people to stay back here,” he said. “If they’re worried about keeping an eye on you, please assure them we won’t be going anywhere. But no one, and I mean no one besides the commanders and my war planners are allowed in the command area.”
Warren nodded to his platoon and motioned for them to stay. Rigby’s body language suggested she might be thinking about arguing about it, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She wouldn’t have if comms were working, he knew.
Kaplan waited another three seconds before relaxing his fists and walking to the back table with the electronics on it.
Now that Warren had a better view of what was on the table, he was amazed any of it worked. There were Republic components, Commonwealth batteries and components, and a stack of items he was certain belonged to neither.
Kaplan gestured for the three cyborgs who’d been with him there to step aside as they approached, reconnected the datapad to the mess of wires, and swiped it a few times. “Here’s the current map,” he said. “Your troops can use the one on the wall. We keep it updated with what they need to know. These nearby towns are friendly. These ones are a mixed-bag—some friendlies but a lot of hostiles. These haven’t been confronted yet, so they should always be considered hostile.”
“What do these icons represent?” asked Warren.
“Waypoints,” he replied. “I’m sure you saw the one as you entered Souma? The cyborg chassis?”
“Yeah,” replied Warren. “Are these all chassis?”
“No. We literally had that one lying around. Once we pulled all the useful parts out, we stuck it up there as a marker. It made the town look like it was loyal to Kinsley—gave us a buffer and a point of reference. This one here is just a stack of rocks.” He pointed at an icon on the map. “This one’s a natural rock formation we’ve named The Spike. This one’s a crashed CoW transport. Every one of them stands out as being out of place, but either the CoWs are used to it, or they don’t stand out enough to draw attention.”
“And this?” Warren asked, pointing to an icon shaped like a crown.
“Ah,” said Kaplan. “That’s the prize, General. That is the capitol—the seat of power here on Turano, and that’s where Kinsley likes to hide.”
24
“Before we can take the capital, there are several other targets we will need to neutralize first,” said Kaplan. “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning squad leaders and prioritizing our targets. Next, I’ve designated areas of operation for each of us, should the worst occur. This will likely be a drawn-out war, especially since we know very little of our enemy’s capabilities, so there’s no time to waste. We can begin as soon as you review and familiarize yourself with my plan.”
“After we find the rest of First Corps, right?” asked Warren.
The general frowned. “Normally I would say yes, but my plan—“
“Maybe I misspoke,” said Warren. “After we find the rest of First Corps. Your plan might be brilliant, and I have no reason to doubt that it is, but my people are my priority. That, and the more we have, the easier and more effective your plan will be.” Warren was attempting to be diplomatic and tried not to remind himself it was what politicians did.
Kaplan’s expression was impossible to read, but the rigid posture and clenched fist suggested he didn’t like what he was hearing. His words left no doubt.
“I appreciate your desire to link up with your soldiers,” he said, sounding as if he were picking his words carefully. “But time is of the essence. The Commonwealth forces on Turano know of your presence. I believe they are hunting for you and the rest of First Corps as we speak. Therefore, I believe it is prudent to make our attack as soon as possible before our enemy has the opportunity to request backup. If that were to occur, we might be dealing with a dozen regiments of their best soldiers.”
Warren stood his ground. “Let me be clear. I’m going to go find my soldiers. I’m going to link up with them, then we can go with what you have planned”
“Then it may be too late,” snapped Kaplan, slashing a hand through the air between them. “Did you notice the bell when you came in?” He pointed to the handmade cowbell at the terminus of the string.
“I did,” said Warren.
“That bell is the only thing that has kept us alive. That, and my expertise, my caution, and my desire to win. That bell is connected to a small bolt at the house you used to enter this place. The woman who lives there pulls the bolt from the wall and tugs it when the air patrols pass. From that point, we know we have ten minutes to move about, make as much noise as we want, and move our plan forward. This entire facility was constructed in this way—ten minutes at a time. Anything else would have us all destroyed, so don’t lecture me about what’s necessary and what isn’t. Being the leader of First Corps doesn’t give you the right to question my authority. These cyborgs understand that the only thing standing between them and complete and utter destruction is me. I’m saving them, just like I have since the Conquest was destroyed. They owe me their lives and their futures.” He stopped short of saying he owned them, but Warren filled in the gap himself.
“Without the rest of First Corps, our chances of winning anything is diminished,” replied Warren as he worked to keep his voice even and calm. “I arrived expecting to find a way to the surface. I expected to have my war computer in orbit with twenty fighters protecting it. I expected to have communications and at least another seventy soldiers on the ground.”
“And plans only last until the first contact with the enemy,” Kaplan returned, turning back to the table. He leaned on it, resting his palms near the edge for a moment before turning his metal skull and glowing red cybernetic eyes toward Warren. His next words were low, barely audible enough for Warren to make out. “You will not take my command from me.”
That’s what this was all about, Warren realized. The guy was a panicky amateur who was so damned frightened, the only thing keeping him from falling apart was the feeling that he was in charge. He’d been on the planet for a month and s
till hadn’t made any significant progress. Sure, securing a base of operations and garnering the support of a village were no small tasks, but the enemy was far too comfortable.
“I have no intention of stripping you of your command,” Warren told him. “I only want to help you and the rest of Second Corps remove the Commonwealth from this planet, set up some defenses so you can manage it yourself, then return to Reotis. It’s what I came to do, and is all I intend to do.”
“So what do you propose?” asked Kaplan, waving his hand for Warren to continue. He leaned against the table, one fist on it and the other on his hip.
“Send Sergeant Brinn with me, as you mentioned. Have him show me the last location my people were spotted. I’ll figure it out from there and return with more soldiers to hear your plan, learn what our assets are. With any luck, maybe have something more powerful than small arms to offer you in the upcoming fights.”
That seemed to inspire him. He lowered his fist and uncurled his fingers. Apparently, the thought that he might be able to add a few Stingers to his plan had never occurred to him. Warren hoped there were more than a few left, and if there weren’t, that their former pilots were still alive.
Kaplan shook his head and stared at his feet. “Sending King to retrieve the First Corps was a huge risk—one I didn’t take lightly. If you encounter the enemy and do not win, Second Corps will be worse off than when we’d started. This mission is a ticking clock, as is our time here. If we wait too long, they’ll find us, and we’ll have to fight on their terms.”
“Are you sending Brinn with me?” asked Warren, getting to the point. “If not, I’ll take my leave and find them myself.”
Kaplan turned back to the table and began digging into the surface with his cybernetic fingers. The soft metal curled into ribbons as he did. Warren tensed, but the general leaned forward, lowering his head until it almost touched the table. He mumbled something incoherent, sounding like he was having an argument with himself before scratching the table again.