by P. R. Adams
Benson stewed the entire way over to Major Fero’s position at the easternmost shuttle. The older woman was sitting inside the airlock, rubbing her injured arm.
“Major. How’re you holding up?”
“I’ve been worse.”
The burn scars, the flesh replacement. That must have been a terrible injury. “We’ve got people on the south wall.”
“Did the sensors go off?”
“No. They’re still above the sensor line.”
“Uh-huh.” The major stared off to the north, dull-eyed. “How many?”
“Captain Gadreau counted nineteen. I thought I saw more.”
“Want me to have my Marines take up positions to watch for these people? Azoren, right?”
“We think so. But we’re worried about this being a diversion.”
“I see. So you want us watching the north wall?”
“Yes. Whichever side turns out to be the real threat, we can reinforce with people—”
“The technicians?” Fero snorted. “Do they even know how to use those weapons?”
“They’ve had some training.”
Fero’s chin dropped to her chest. “It’s a pretty mess.”
“It is. I’m sorry.”
“Colonel McLeod should’ve given me command. It’s not right.”
Benson didn’t want to point out that Fero ran a group of reservists or that she hadn’t been in a real Marine unit for years. It was better to focus on the positives. “If things escalate, you may get your chance—”
“Escalate? You think we’ll survive this, Commander? You get that promotion and flash your pretty smile, and get command, then you lead us down here into this hole, and you think even one of us is making it out?” Fero snorted.
The hostility was born from the tension and resentment, the fear of an enemy creeping in unseen.
But it was still hostility. And Fero’s words hurt.
Benson shivered. Insubordination wasn’t something worth worrying about, not at the moment. It was isolated. But the root of it all, the lack of discipline and the breakdown in structure—
It’s McLeod’s fault. Agent Patel’s fault. Everyone down here feels abandoned. They feel like they’re expendable resources, not people.
“Major, if you could have your Marines prepare, in case something happens on that north wall?” Benson did her best to sound positive, to smile.
Fero squared her shoulders. “We’ll be ready, Commander.”
Was it resolve? Resignation? Benson couldn’t be sure.
She shambled back to her own shuttle. Fero’s mood was sinking in like a virus, rushing through Benson’s bloodstream, spreading fear and anxiety.
Pretty smile. Family connections.
They were painful words. Benson hadn’t fallen back on her looks at any point in her career. She’d never slept with a superior officer. She’d never teased or been a decoration or in any way presented herself as anything other than a serious student and officer. And she’d never asked for her mother to help out. It was almost impossible to imagine Sargota doing anything other than sabotage, actually.
Fear. It was just fear. And Benson was letting that get to her, too.
She climbed back into her shuttle and leaned against the airlock wall, out of sight, getting her emotions in check. There was a real and deep anger building, and that wasn’t what she needed as a commander, especially with battle imminent.
But there was also irritation slithering around in her head. The words used by Fero and Gadreau were misguided and damaging, questioning Benson’s legitimacy.
Yet those same sort of thoughts had been in her own head when she’d considered Stiles.
It was petty and wrong, and Benson owed the younger woman—
An apology? A clean slate?
Both.
Parkinson’s head poked into the airlock. “Hey, you asked about the sensors?”
“Yes, and you told me they were online.”
He frowned. “They were. But now I can’t see the gun turret.”
“Chief—”
“Wait! I mean, I can see it, but…” He groaned. “I think the team they’ve got in there to handle reloading the ammunition drums must have knocked something loose.”
“Or you didn’t give it a thorough check when I asked you to.”
“I did! I’m telling you, it was online! These are just reservists! And they’re wounded. They don’t know what they’re doing.”
Benson’s head ached. Even without Martinez running the show, Parkinson found a way to be sloppy and irresponsible. “I need to know that the turret’s online. We have enemy forces out there.”
“We do? Where?”
“On the south wall.”
“You didn’t say that!” Even in cover and safe from combat, Parkinson was ready to crack.
“Help them get the gun back online, Chief. Please.”
“I will!” His eyes were huge as they searched the gloom outside.
“Now, Chief. You’ve already put us in a bad spot.”
“But I—”
“Chief!”
His shoulders slumped, and he hurried through the airlock, nearly wiping out on the hard ground. Before he disconnected, it sounded like he made a whimpering sound.
Because he was frightened. Anxious. Confused.
Just like everyone else.
And I jumped on him.
Benson smacked the top of her rebreather mask. She was making mistakes, reading people incorrectly and reacting improperly. It was the kind of sloppy behavior she’d seen in Martinez. In Scalise.
Maybe Fero and Gadreau were right. Maybe the promotion had been a bad idea.
Benson had been put in command of one of the most important missions ever, and she wasn’t ready for it.
And her failure was going to plunge the Republic into war.
It took all of Parkinson’s considerable discipline not to blow up. Blood pounded in his ears, and heat burned his cheeks. It was like being on a beach with huge waves pounding against boulders. Freezing rain smacked against his helmet—thunk, thunk, thunk. Like a drumbeat. It had turned the crater floor into an ice rink that threatened to plant him on his butt with each step.
He should walk right back to the shuttle and tell her no way. This was crazy! He’d just fixed the turreted weapons system! He’d found ways around failed redundant circuits that would have kept the gun offline, things a less observant engineer would have missed. He’d confirmed several times that the old weapon was connected to the sensors strung up along the crater walls. He’d done his part!
And where did this woman think she was coming from? What did she know? Command? Leadership? That made her think she could just boss him around?
He missed Martinez. There was a commander who appreciated brilliance.
Parkinson slipped and crashed against the hard stone. “Dammit!”
Fire lanced through his left wrist. His knee ached.
“No! I just started to recover from my other injuries!”
He shook his hand until the wrist pain eased.
She should’ve sent a Marine, maybe her big brute of a boyfriend, Halliwell. What could she possibly see in such a simpleton? She might as well just screw a gorilla if all she wanted was muscle.
The chief got back to his feet, made sure his boot had a good grip, then continued forward a little slower.
And he tried not to focus on the sting.
The sting of how Benson had rejected his advances when she’d come aboard.
The sting of seeing such an attractive woman hook up with a big jerk.
The…sting of consistently…failing in her eyes.
No amount of lying to himself would get Parkinson past the cold, hard truth: Benson was better than him and always would be. Sure, she wasn’t as pretty as Stiles, but…
He hated being rejected. He hated the way the others ostracized him.
But he couldn’t stop himself from saying the things he said. It really was hard being so smar
t and skilled. And it wasn’t his fault people were jealous. That’s what it always came down to: jealousy.
A tear ran down his cheek. So damned much of life was like that: Anger. Sadness. Loneliness.
You’re just too brilliant, Willie. That’s what his mother had always said.
And she was right. From the first days of school, all the way through advanced education, he was too brilliant. It was easy for him—math, science. And he loved letting everyone else know.
Why couldn’t people appreciate him?
“Because you’re an egotistical jerk, that’s why.”
Parkinson jerked his head left and right. He confirmed his communicator was off.
No one had heard him. His confession was safe.
Ahead of him, the turret was a dull, gray shape barely visible in the darkness. There should have been a light coming from inside, coming from the control panel he’d so carefully set up. It had to be the stupid “munitions crew”—a couple useless Marines. Injured.
They should have come to him once they broke things, not the other way around.
He stomped forward, nearly face-planting.
The turret had been built up into a fairly big position, surrounded by empty crates that had held ammunition and equipment. It didn’t offer much cover if there were heavy weapons or explosives, but it would protect the Marines from snipers and most surveillance systems.
Except drones.
Parkinson ducked through the low opening, ready to snap his communicator to speaker mode and yell at the Marines—
Who were lying on the ground.
He froze.
They’d been wounded, but they weren’t dying.
But there they were.
Dead.
His heart thudded. His lips trembled.
How far was it back to the shuttle? How long would it take for someone to come to his rescue?
In his peripheral vision, he saw the control system he’d rigged for the gun. Turned off. Not destroyed. A button pushed, a gun silenced. And the sensor light on the panel blinked, barely visible.
The sensors detected movement.
There were people inside the crater!
To his left, at the back of the little shelter, shadow separated from shadow. Something was watching him, coming for him.
His brilliant engineering mind laid it out instantly.
There were three options: One, run; two, shout into his communicator to request rescue; three, hit the button to bring the weapon back online.
The shadow moved closer. It looked like something dark dripped to the ground.
Blood.
Parkinson lost control of his bladder. He couldn’t scream. All he could think about was the Azoren Marines shooting him, blasting away chunks of flesh.
What was the percentage chance of someone being brought back to life?
Would they do it again when nobody liked him?
Parkinson reached for the control panel button to activate the gun, and the shadow came for him.
19
The rift walls reflected the Badger’s rumble back on it so that the armor seemed to vibrate against Lieutenant Stiles’s helmet and the ancient, frayed padding of her seat. It was just the uncertain engine and even more unreliable transmission, but to her the experience was like being caught in an earthquake. She could feel the sheer walls of the ravine cracking and crumbling down on them, and she was certain that at any moment they would.
And she would suffocate, either from the noxious exhaust that leaked in through a hole in the floor or from the tons of rock burying them.
She closed her rebreather mask back down and tugged her helmet tight.
But the rumble continued, the wheels kept pushing them forward, and they drew closer to the ruins with every second.
She coughed, frowned at the sharp diesel tang on her tongue, then sighed.
What could she do that she hadn’t done already? She had Sergeant Simms on the turret gun. He was old and hard of hearing, but he had the most combat experience of anyone, even Staff Sergeant Halliwell. She had Halliwell on one side of her and Carruth on the other, and they were both providing constant updates. She was keeping an eye on the tracking device and comparing it to the maps Commander Benson’s people had put together. Stiles had reviewed objectives and procedures with the entire team, so that if anything happened to her the mission wouldn’t fail.
It didn’t seem like enough.
That was anxiety, the one thing she couldn’t completely control, no matter how much conditioning she’d undergone. Time was running out, and with it the odds of success were becoming slimmer.
Simms ducked his head inside the vehicle, a true feat considering how tight the space was. He was a tall man, maybe half a head shorter than Halliwell, and with age had come some weight. Still, the older Marine managed. “Coming up on a serious bend in the path.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” She smiled and noticed the way his own smile—yellow and broad—seemed to light up the interior of his rebreather mask.
He rubbed a thin layer of ice from his helmet and glanced back up at the dark outside. “Seen a few ambushes in my time, ma’am. Blind spot like this is ideal.”
“We’ll be ready.”
That satisfied him; he popped back up to man the gun.
But his pale eyes lingered on her, just like with most of the younger men—a hungry look. It was by design, but there were times when it became annoying, like when Commander Benson had brought it up.
I’m capable. I know it. I was created to be capable.
Still, it was curious the way Carruth didn’t really pay her much mind. She leaned toward him and connected privately. “Sergeant Carruth, how much trouble can we expect from Captain Gadreau?”
A crooked grin twisted the sergeant’s face. “Well, he’s one to take offense easily.”
“You find that amusing?”
“It’s not my particular approach to things.”
“I noticed you’re your own man.”
“Noticed the same thing about you, Lieutenant.”
“Excuse me?”
“Independent, I guess. Not saying you’re a man, if you took the meaning that way. Some things an environment suit can’t hide. And there’s been plenty of talk amongst folks in the ranks about you.”
“Talk about what?”
“Oh, mostly about surviving on a boat full of people given resuscitation.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I don’t think I need to go into detail about what most men would say about you, now do I, ma’am?”
“No. Not you, though?”
“I’m not most men. Like them just fine, but they can be a touch crude.”
“I see.” That explained things. “You don’t care for resuscitation, either?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. It was in how you said it.”
He shrugged. “I’ve developed my own beliefs over the years. Way I see it, we get one shot at this life, and it’s a bad idea to try to play around with it when the time comes. No offense to the staff sergeant and corporal, it’s just how I see things.”
Religious. “Your family didn’t support the Khanate during the war?”
“My family has its own set of beliefs. Not every believer’s a radical.”
The corporal driving the ancient tin can must not have heard Simms earlier, because she slowed and twisted. “Big bend coming up! Ready!”
Halliwell, Carruth, and Grier didn’t need the warning. They had their weapons at the ready and their eyes were now trained on the rear hatch. There was just enough room inside the vehicle for the three of them to squat in the rear, using the vehicle armor to their advantage during an engagement.
Assuming the enemy was behind them.
Assuming there wasn’t some armor-breaking weapon just waiting for a clean shot.
Assuming they weren’t all instantly killed by a mine.
While the Badger was built to last,
it was at the expense of a lot of technology that made it a risk in modern combat situations. The armor was simple metal plating. The driver relied on an even simpler periscope and viewport. The engine was diesel combustion, the transmission an ancient physical shift assembly. Electromagnetic pulses wouldn’t affect it. Sensor-blinding weapons were pointless.
But they were effectively blind without a drone connection, and the controls were demanding.
Despite all that, the armored vehicle had survived wars across multiple generations. Things like the Badger had kept the Kedraalian Republic from collapse when the former factions had declared themselves independent and attacked without pretext or negotiations.
Now here she was, in its ancient metal shell, rumbling toward who knew what, essentially attacking the deadliest of those factions.
No provocation. No warning. Tit for tat, apparently.
Grier took a hand off her weapon just long enough to pat the lap of Kohn, who sat to her left. He was obviously tense, his gloved hands wrapped tight around the weapon grip and butt. She gently pushed the muzzle down and pulled his finger away from the trigger guard.
Kohn nodded, as if maybe she were coaching him over a private connection.
Good. He needed distraction and reassurance. Despite Stiles’s absolute confidence that what she’d done to Kohn was necessary, she realized it had scarred him. He didn’t seem to be the type to shake it off quickly, either.
Corporal Lemke growled from the driver’s compartment. “Freezing rain! It’s collecting on the periscope and headlamps!”
Simms didn’t complain about it. He’d probably fought in worse.
Stiles shivered. Their gear would keep the rain and wind out, but she felt naked and couldn’t shake the idea that she was alone in the dark and the weather was slowly killing her.
Something banged against the undercarriage, and the Badger shuddered, then slid sideways.
The engine tenor changed. Gears ground together. They slowed, then abruptly stopped.
And the engine went silent.
Once again, the driver twisted in her seat. “Goddammit! Something cracked!”