The Midnight Sun (The Omega War Book 2)

by Tim C. Taylor

  A CASPer came crashing toward him through the trees. It paused, unsure whether Branco was friend or foe.

  Branco had no doubts. The other CASPer was far too clean to have spent eleven days soaking in this swamp. He swung low, slicing through the CASPer’s knee joint and stomping the torso into the ground as it fell.

  Then he ran into the night, making for the rendezvous point.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 92

  “Where’s the major?” asked Branco.

  “I heard she was with you,” replied the CASPer. Branco thought it might be Cleggy, but with comms and everything else down, it was impossible to be sure.

  Rendezvous Point Sigma was high up on the bluffs above the river, which churned white as it ran along a tight bend about 200 feet below. For Venix to have chosen this location as a rally point would soon reveal itself as either an inspired choice or a fatal mistake, but it was without doubt a sign of desperation. Here on the bluffs, the trees ended a hundred yards away from the edge, yielding to a rusty, barren rock that was slowly being eroded over the decades by the river below.

  By heading west along the top of the bluffs, their progress could be far more rapid. But what was good for them was at least as good for the Condottieri.

  And with the way the Midnighters had resorted to blasting the hell out of the trees by unleashing the full and noisy fury of the CASPers, the Condottieri could follow their trail out to this point with ease.

  They were down to just fifteen functioning CASPers. Most of them, like Branco, were forming a defensive perimeter, while Venix and the others worked frantically on the two huge tugs that had been the cause of their woes.

  Why hadn’t Sun rejoined them? She must have realized where they were headed. If she wasn’t here yet, it had to be because she couldn’t make it.

  That didn’t mean she was dead, though.

  With his HUD and comms still out, he clung to the hope that she was here, merely unannounced.

  He tried again, amping his suit volume. “Hey, anyone seen the major?”

  “Listen to me, Branco,” said maybe-Cleggy. “She’s not here. Focus.”

  “I’ll go find her.”

  “Like hell you will,” growled Sergeant Albali, who strode over to their part of the line. There was no mistaking Top’s voice, nor his annoyance. “The major is not here. If she’s able to find us, she will. If she’s not…then it’s too late for her. Either way, put her out of your mind, Branco.”

  “Let me take a couple of troopers and look for her.”

  “You’re not listening. Just over thirty people made it to the rally point, and half of those are injured. I can spare no one.”

  “But we can’t leave her.”

  “That’s enough. That’s not even your CASPer, is it? Report to Sergeant Kruse over by the tugs. We have six fit CASPer drivers without a ride. Tell Kruse to allocate your suit to one of them.”

  “Yes, Top.”

  With a stony heart, Branco obeyed the first sergeant.

  Kruse’s team was frantically stripping the tugs of a great deal of the weight they’d carried through the jungle. Suit spares, rations, ammunition – all of it was being dumped to lighten their loads.

  Branco jumped out of his CASPer, which Kruse reallocated without comment to Corporal Hoang from Ultra-V Squad. He ordered Branco into a set of scout armor – several of which had been dumped unceremoniously on the rocky ground. “Get that on,” Kruse told him, “and help to ready the tugs.”

  “Ready them for what?” he asked.

  “The jump.”

  Oh, boy. Kruse wasn’t the type to joke. Branco pointed to his pistol. “I’ve only got this Ctech high power,” Branco informed the sergeant, eager to avoid the topic of how they were going over the edge without dashing on the rocks or drowning. He couldn’t help himself. He took a step toward the cliff edge and looked down a long, long way to the river below. “Since I’m out of my CASPer, what can I arm myself with?”

  “Wit and charm,” Kruse replied. “We lost the rest in the attack. Better pray they’ll be enough.”

  Venix gave a high-pitched whistle. Branco swung round to see the Zuparti beckoning him over while he was being lofted onto the top of the lifter tug.

  On his way over, Branco grabbed a laser pistol he saw lying on the ground.

  “First Sergeant Albali tells me you know where the major was when this shitstorm hit us,” said Venix.

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  Venix curled his whiskers. He didn’t look happy. “I warned you back on the Exuberance that I didn’t trust your unfortunate connection to the major. Ironically, it makes you unfit for Albali’s perimeter team, but perfect for my purposes. Find her and bring her back. Meet us downstream. Hurry. Dove will be here any moment now.”

  Branco saluted, sprinting along the stony bluff and back to the trees. He’d scarcely been swallowed by the jungle half-light when machine gun fire sprayed across the cliff top.

  CASPers were stomping toward him through the trees.

  In a blind panic, Branco forgot Sun and climbed the nearest tree as the metal monsters crashed through the jungle below him.

  To get a good view, he crawled a little distance along his branch, flicking a tree scorpion away as he did so. Inspired choice or fatal mistake? Venix’s rally point was turning out to be the latter. Branco counted eight squads of about half a dozen Condottieri CASPers. The way they were bunched so they didn’t lose sight of each other and a slight hesitation to the movements suggested his trick with the purge command was still affecting them. But the enemy had superior numbers. The guns were trained on the trapped Midnighters.

  There was no escape for those he’d left behind.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 93

  “Surrender or die,” barked DiAngelo in English.

  In his youth, Lorenzo DiAngelo’s voice had developed the rich confidence to carry over the bustle of Turin street markets, and in more recent years had proved effective at compelling tired and frightened troopers to obey.

  The Dove had assumed that if the Midnighters had struggled against so many challenges to get this far, they wouldn’t meekly back down. That was why he awaited signals from the teams at either side of the line to indicate their heavy, tripod-mounted railguns were ready to fire.

  Expecting a bloody shootout, he’d waited for these heavy support weapons – six in all – to make short work of the enemy, but it seemed his fears were unfounded when bloodied and battered unarmed mercenaries began walking toward his line of CASPers with hands high on bowed heads.

  But a hard core of resistance remained at the cliff edge beside the lift tugs with their priceless contents.

  “What is this game?” the Dove roared at the Zuparti officer perched atop the broad and slightly convex cover to one of the tugs. “You think you can unload your old and infirm on me? My conscience prefers that you live, but my profit and loss account prefers you dead. Don’t force me to choose.”

  “You have no choices here, Il Colombo,” said the Zuparti from his perch on the tug. Interesting. It seemed Blades’ report of Commander Venix’s demise was premature.

  Zuparti were strange creatures, with short legs and stretched bodies that were vaguely reminiscent of stoats and ferrets. But they were hardly a martial race. This one even walked with the aid of a short metal spar that it waved at Dove.

  Dove admired the alien officer for more than his pluck. You, Mr. Zuparti, would make a very fine fur hat.

  At last the gun teams signaled their readiness. Dove simply had to say the prearranged codeword, and the brave, yet ultimately pointless Midnighters would be dead within seconds.

  He kept watching the Zuparti, though. If there was one thing he’d learned in his mercenary career fighting across the Union core worlds, it was that aliens were unpredictable. One could only trust an alien when you were backed by a carefully-worded contract and overwhelming firepower.

  Venix planted his bandaged leg firmly on the meta
l surface and with his other front leg raised his walking stick high.

  The Dove magnified the image. Venix’s spar was more than a crude walking aid; it had a button on its top. A button the alien pressed.

  The upper half of his stick turned red.

  “Tell your teams to stand down,” shouted the Midnighter Zuparti. “Our Javelin dropships each carried one GNX-B thermonuclear warhead. These 145 kiloton yield devices are now nestled inside each Raknar. In my hand is a deadman switch. I’ll allow you to draw the connection between these two statements.”

  “No,” said the Dove. He waggled his CASPer’s index finger at the little alien. “No. Tcht! No, no, no! You’re a spirited little creature, but I don’t believe you’d murder your own people in a nuclear firestorm. They depend on you. They trust you. No, you make a dramatic gesture. No more.”

  “Your human talk of trust is pointless. As you know perfectly well, I am betrayed.” Venix glared at the Flatar turncoat who had proven so useful in reporting on his comrades and hacking their tactical network. “Let us go. If you fire upon us, we’ll all be blasted to hell.”

  “Even so,” said Dove calmly, “this charade is outrageous.”

  “You want to chance that, human? I am Zuparti, renowned for being the most paranoid race in the Union. Of course I set a bomb. We always set a bomb.”

  “Everyone calm down,” said the Flatar from the back of a particularly ugly-looking Tortantula. “Let’s act like grown-ups. Think like the more intelligent species of the Union, not as humans.”

  “You should be dead,” said his Tortantula mount. “I saw two CASPers who had you for dead, and they let you go.”

  Dove cursed himself. His darling Margherita liked to tell him that greed would be his downfall, and he’d hate for her to be proven right. The only reason the wily little creature still lived was because of his lure of further valuable data secrets.

  Tatterjee – for that was the name the Flatar used amongst humans – raised his hands in supplication. “It’s not what it seems, big girl. I’m your friend, remember? Your best pal.”

  The Tortantula took its time to think that over. Really, the situation was farcical. The Zuparti was watching the exchange between Tatterjee and his mount and seemed irritated that he was no longer the center of attention.

  “What do you think?” Dove asked DiAngelo over the command channel. “Is Venix bluffing?”

  “I think so. But we can’t be sure.”

  “I think not!” came a translation from the Veetanho language.

  “It’s such a pleasure to benefit from your guidance in person, Commissar Penree.” In his rear camera, the Dove fixed a view of the Veetanho who was taking cover in the trees.

  “Zuparti don’t normally bluff,” the alien said. “Not without extensive training. Such foolishness is uncommon outside of your species.”

  “This Venix has surrounded himself with humans,” said DiAngelo. “Perhaps our bad influence has led him astray.”

  “Quiet,” Dove hissed. “The Tortantula’s speaking. It may prove important.”

  “…Is that what you’re saying, Tatterjee? That you cut a deal with the other side so I wouldn’t die?”

  “You make it sound so immoral,” answered the Flatar. “I was merely limiting the bloodshed. Particularly mine. And yours, of course. And for that I had to make myself valuable. I have information they still want desperately. If you had any idea of what I know. Hey – Betteeee!”

  The Tortantula ate Tatterjee.

  It happened so quickly. Dove blinked in surprise as the Tortantula ripped the rider from her back. Before he could process what he was seeing, the Flatar was inside her jaws, powerful grinding machines that crunched bones and flesh for a few seconds. Then, after a momentary constriction in its neck as this Betty creature swallowed, the Flatar was gone.

  Then the tugs followed.

  “Hold your fire!” shouted the Dove as, with a roar of flame from their rear engines, both tugs slid off the cliff edge before sinking out of sight. Most of the Midnighter CASPers carried an unsuited comrade down in their arms, bursts of jumpjets slowing their plummet.

  The Tortantula simply skittered away and jumped off.

  Two of his marksmen raced to the edge and started to set up their sniper rifles.

  “Keep those rifles out of sight,” Dove told them, watching the enemy falling into the river. Venix rode the top of his tug like an accomplished surfer. The alien’s balance was so assured, he barely reacted when the four tilt-fans cut in to provide lift. “You see that, DiAngelo? Zuparti have a low center of gravity. It seems having a body like a dachshund has its advantages after all. Though not for long. I want Commander Venix shot and stuffed, and I’m relying on you two snipers to deliver. A thousand-credit bonus for the one who kills him. Another five thousand if you do so without ruining his hide for my furrier. Alas, I fear we must give the Zuparti a few hours to calm down first. We still have time.”

  “We do not have time!” shouted Penree. “Not with the possibility the enemy will be relieved.”

  “I promised General Peepo I’d return with three Raknar. Nothing less is acceptable. The Condottieri always deliver. How about you, Commissar Penree? Do you propose to deliver to the general what you promised?”

  “Your insolence is noted.” The Veetanho’s words sounded so bland in the pendant’s translation, but they struck fear into the Dove’s heart. “As is your incompetence.”

  “General Peepo spent years running a merc pit at Karma,” said DiAngelo. “She knows her shit, and she expects you to flatter yourself in your report and stab us in the back without hesitation. Are you so sure she won’t look beyond the words of your report and decide that you, Commissar, are to blame for any failings? You are, after all, assigned to handle the dumb human apes so we don’t do anything stupid. How’s that working out for you so far, Penree?”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 94

  “The worth of your species is on probation,” said Penree.

  The Dove wondered how bad it would look on any probation report if he buried his fist in the Veetanho’s snout.

  “It’s up to you, Colonel, to prove your lives have value. For the moment, you have none whatsoever. I want you two to get back in your mech suits and lead your mercenaries over the cliff in pursuit. Immediately! I don’t care how many humans die on either side. All I want is what General Peepo wants – the Raknar safely delivered to her.”

  “No!” said DiAngelo. “My personnel will lay down their lives at the right time, if they’re required to do so for the good of the team, but there’s a corollary of understanding that we do not throw lives away unnecessarily. We’re not yet at that point, and you don’t command here, Commissar.”

  An awkward silence fell over the clearing.

  The Dove had led DiAngelo and Penree a short distance through the trees, away from the bluffs, to carry out their ‘tactical disagreement’ out of sight of his personnel. It didn’t look as if he could paper over the cracks much longer.

  “Your second-in-command should be replaced,” said the Veetanho.

  Dove nodded gravely. “I agree.”

  “What?” DiAngelo screamed, throwing up his arms in dismay. “Son of a whore, Nicolo. Would you throw away your oldest friend so easily?”

  “It’s regrettable,” said Dove. “But this is now war in all but name.”

  “But…Il Colombo…you cannot. I am Lorenzo DiAngelo.” He thumped his chest as his bulging eyes watched Dove draw his laser pistol. “I rescued you from the SleSha slave pens. Does that mean nothing?”

  The Dove shook his head with the solemnity of a funeral bell. “My hearing never recovered from my time at the pleasure of the SleSha. Did I hear you correctly, Commissar Penree? You did say you think my military advisor should be replaced?”

  For a fraction of a second there was absolute silence. Then the Veetanho reached for her weapon.

  Madonna! The alien was fast. Damned fast. Its gun was charged and almost
at Dove – but not quite. Her blaster blew a hole in the ground cover, but Dove had already moved in to fire before he’d finished speaking. His laser pistol sliced the Veetanho’s head from her torso.

  He watched the alien head bounce along the ground.

  “You know, Lorenzo, even after all these years, I find that when the people I shoot dead were trying to kill me at the time, I sleep a little easier at night. Even aliens.”

  * * *

  “Lieutenant Chau, double the perimeter guard,” ordered DiAngelo when the two men emerged from the trees. “We were beset by Midnighter stragglers. We barely escaped with our lives, but we lost Commissar Penree. I want a squad with me to recover her body.”

  Dove let his friend respond to the nonexistent Midnighter outrage while he considered his prisoners. They weren’t much – just a handful of sick and wounded. But their insights could prove critical.

  “Double check they’re properly disarmed,” he told the sergeant in charge of them. “Then prepare to carry them back to Seven Hills as soon as Provost-Major DiAngelo returns with Penree’s body.

  “Sir? Carry them?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Look at them! They’re hardly going to walk back, are they?”

  “In our arms?”

  “Yes, in your arms. How else does one carry someone? Madonna! Why am I surrounded by idiots?”

  Dove looked again at the sorry prisoners. “When they get there, strip them and burn their clothes. Hose and delouse them. Full bio-hazard protocols.”

  He drew closer to the prisoners, but not too close; they smelled of rot. “It’s a little undignified, my new friends, but you must admit that you’re not well, and you’ll need your strength before you tell me everything.”

  “And then you’ll kill us,” said one of the wretches. “Why should we talk?”

  “Oh, you’ll have no choice in the matter. You won’t be properly conscious. But there’s no need to be so melodramatic. I’m not normally a murderer; I’m a businessman. Why would I kill you when I can claim ransom?”