The Mongrel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 1)

by Walt Robillard

  The bot slammed into the wall, like a bolt magnetized to a metal surface. Confused, it tried to pull itself away, straining gears and motors to do so. It struck the wall again. As it lifted an arm to try and counterbalance the force, it swung back hard, further stuck in place. The machine looked like it was being crucified.

  The bot sought to free itself, overtaxed motors whirring in protest. Gears could be heard shredding themselves, as the determined AI attempted to move in any direction that would free it.

  The sand in front of the frozen mech shifted. Doom-Snuggle rose from the breach, forcing it to part like the sands of an hourglass. Prehensile tentacles slithered from its back, the same vibro-technology causing them to blur as they moved. A maw of vibro-enhanced teeth glistened. “I wonder if this is how trap door spiders feel at this point in the game.”

  Lasher came over the com. “Not a game and you're not a spider, Fluff! I can't hold him much longer. Finish it!”

  Without ceremony or word, the Doom Cat wrapped tentacles around the Vinny’s neck, tearing through the armored chest plate with teeth and talons. It was over in seconds. The bot slumped to the ground, its eyes flickering to cold dead embers. Fluff took a moment to celebrate by ripping off its head and batting it in the distance to land close to the downed space wizards.

  Lasher walked from the fort, panting hard and sweating. He look like he had fought through an army. He glanced over to the RIM-IV. “You good?”

  “Took a hit from that particle blaster in its palm.” Fluff said in his typical gravel grinding tone. “Armor held. I'm good for the moment. You?”

  “I'm going to need a long nap after this.” Lasher walked down to where the commander was holding Brand. He stared at the pair, dispassionately as he waited for Hylaeus to speak.

  “He hasn't got long. He's in and out of consciousness,” the commander said with more than a touch of sadness in his voice. “If we could get him on my ship, we might be able to get him to Kabran City.”

  Lasher raised a hand with his palm facing up. His fingers curled together as though he were gripping something. “We both know he won't make it there. Besides, we have something better.”

  The first worm slithered from the ground, winding around the commander's leg before crawling up to Brand's damaged abdomen.

  “Bloody Hells!” the commander snarled through gritted teeth at the strange creature. It was nearly a meter long and armored. Looking at it this closely, Hylaeus noted its eyes running the ridges of what looked like a brow line on top and a bifurcated mouth below. It was a heavily protected beast that appeared more predatory than an invertebrate snack for birds.

  Within seconds, more of the worms climbed from the sand to cover the wound. Hylaeus was amazed as he realized how closely connected these creatures were to the Crucible. They flared and glowed in the second sight of the Way. Judging by how strong their link was, he guessed they might even be able to influence the flow of the Crucible itself. “What is this?”

  Lasher and Doom-Snuggle were already walking away. Lasher stopped at the entrance of the fort while the murder mech was walking along the wall toward the cliff. “It's a stopgap,” he called back. “They'll keep him alive until the fight is over and we can get him out of here.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to regard the commander. Hylaeus was tired. This affair had taxed him. He had lost lancers, a lion, and almost lost a friend. Marshals that rose to his rank frequently had to contend with a host of demons, many of their own making. With the weight of so much loss on his shoulders, Lasher felt a sense of relief that he wouldn't have to lose another marshal today.

  Lasher saluted the sand covered commander. “They'll keep him alive because I need him that way. I'm not doing it for him or you. I'm doing it for her.”

  Twenty-Seven

  “Stop fidgeting,” Doc Jordan ordered.

  Corporal Shane shrugged to get free of the poking and prodding Doc was leveling at the back of his skull. “I am trying to work here! Can't do all this complicated math stuff with you poking me.”

  “You're typing. Stop whining.” Doc said.

  Shane furrowed his brow and scowled. “I'm not whining. I'm winning! Got some good and bad, Sarge!”

  Sergeant Bolaji sat next to Shane, stacking up the privates and lancers of his squad, ensuring they had ample energy mags to go along with the world of hurt they wanted to put on the bots. He had also added to his crew with members of Striker Company. “Hit me.”

  “Battle-net is back up. Purged and powerful as ever. Bad news is Lance Sergeant D is down. He has a security element covering him. Brother has a broken back.” Shane said, the remorse and anger as readable as the screens he was working.

  Everyone looked at Shane with disbelief. Private Sugon was first to jump at the news. “What are we waiting for? Let's lance up and go get him! Doc, stop fussing over angry Grandma and let's do some real work.”

  Doc, Shane, and Bolaji all laughed.

  Sugon “What?”

  An explosion rocked the field. Smoke and the sound of broken glass quieted the battle space for a few heartbeats. Corporal Shane rolled his eyes. “And there's the drop-pod with our enemy reinforcements.”

  Sugon flicked his ear, slightly knocking out the com-bead. “Thank you, Captain Obvious! You are full of wonderful news.”

  “He has to be promoted to Lieutenant Indicative first.” The group turned to see Captain Gerard bounding up, with Marshal Truveau and Lance Sergeant Locke in tow.

  “I see Devil Hunters and Strikers sitting here doing a lot of talking but not a lot of stalking. Any reason y'all are lying around friending and not fighting?” Locke was quick to provide a bit of biting wit.

  “Corporal Shane.” Gerard shot a leveled knife-hand gesture at the young trooper. “Did you receive word that the Battle-net is back up?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I need you to find Sergeant Guerreiro and get his squad up and active. I need one of those battle-frames for air support.” Gerard demanded.

  “On it, sir.” Shane replied, tasking the Battle-net to work out the captain's orders.

  Gerard turned to Truveau, his words more request than required as she outranked him. “Marshal, now that we are getting the band back together, I need you to take Sergeant Bolaji and some of his crew toward that wadi and recover Lance Sergeant D'Marco.”

  “Will do, sir.” She bowed slightly before leveling the across-the-chest salute used by the Marshals Templar.

  Warning indicators flared to anyone wearing a combat helmet. Those with in-ear coms all began to receive the same instant action message. “Prepare for Heavy Drop.”

  Locke tapped Gerard's shoulder. “I thought the Battle-net was purged of the corrupting AI. Who's dropping heavies now?”

  Sergeant Bolaji pointed to Shane, who was giggling and kicking his feet in celebration. “What did you do?”

  “Oh, baby! Come to Daddy...”

  “Will!” Shane called over the net.

  Private Williams pumped another mag into his weapon. He highlighted the icon in the Battle-net for Corporal Shane as he charged the rifle.

  “Hey, Will! You remember telling us that story about you not getting a pony when you were a little girl?”

  “So not the time for this! And it was a stallion, ya punk.” Williams said, dropping rounds on target to get its attention.

  “Well, I went and sent you an early birthday present.” Shane remarked.

  Williams ducked into the wadi. Members of First Squad had coordinated with Second Platoon, Striker Company, to take on one of the remaining crab-walkers while simultaneously ducking mortar fire from two of the newly arrived Vindicators. Mortar shells collided with APCs and dug in lancers around the landing pads. They had entrenched themselves well enough to dodge the first few volleys, but the bots were walking things in. They couldn't stay here long. “My birthday was last month.”

  “Belated present – whatever! You have mail.”

  The Battle-net
lit up. An emergency action message flared across Private Williams' HUD. It was the four most beautiful words he had ever read.

  >>>PREPARE FOR HEAVY DROP.

  Rolling thunder, deep and grating, accompanied a falling object from orbit. The smoke plume it left as it plummeted toward the surface of Tythian could be seen for kilometers. Atmospheric shielding pulsed, cooling off the outer skin of a drop pod while extinguishing the flames from its entry.

  The pod was over seven meters tall and vaguely teardrop-shaped. The fat part of the drop was leading the way, only barely trailing smoke after the shields had done their job.

  Lancers on the ground pointed up, drawing the attention of their comrades. The last drop pod had brought an extra helping of death to Striker Company. The three recently arrived Vindicators had reinforced the remaining crab-walkers, turning a battle of attrition into a stand still. The mechs were dug in and firing on one side of the field, augmented by indirect fire from the Vinnies. The lancers were dug in on another, coordinating attacks and holding the robots' forward momentum at bay.

  It also didn't help that smaller AI-controlled munitions and tech were also affected by the enemy system virus. Anti-personnel and surveillance drones were buzzing in and out of the battlefield, keeping the lancers from using fire and maneuver tactics. Spider-mines and Spike-runners made abandoning the cover of the deadlined APCs a dangerous prospect. Even defensive huddles turned into kill boxes.

  NCOs and enterprising lancers regrouped and got wise to the tactics early. They formed a defensive perimeter while drawing in hostile units, allowing them to send out skirmisher teams to test the enemy, not without some losses.

  Above the mayhem of the fight, retro-pulse engines fired to slow the drop pod from its terminal velocity. The machine bucked and shook before attitude thrusters put it back into a level descent. Secondary pops from the guide engines also stopped its rotation.

  Percussive mayhem from the platform echoed seconds after it ejected its frame, blowing apart to send shards of prosteel and resicarbon for hundreds of meters. It was then that the lancers could see that it wasn't a hot drop of more robots or their own tech usurped by a virus to kill them.

  This was a Thumper.

  Larger than the biggest battle-frames, robot vehicle mechs encased the pilot like a fighter cockpit rather than a suit of powered armor. They carried massive munitions stores and were used against armored vehicles or other mechs.

  The one descending through the clouds, dragging misty vapor with it, was a light striker mech. While not as big or as heavily armored as a medium or heavy system, the LSM was great for small skirmish engagements against vehicles or as an anti-personnel equalizer. In this case, no one cared what its role would normally be so long as it would serve in anti-robot operations.

  Booster jets fired, further slowing the incoming LSM while thrusters in its back and calves controlled its forward momentum as it fell. Everyone on the field held their breath, waiting to see where it would land.

  The LSM didn't disappoint. It was aiming its landing on top of one of the crab-walkers. Recognizing the incoming mech-missile was going to collide with it, the crab folded its legs and shot laterally to avoid being crushed.

  The Thumper hit the ground with a resounding thoom! Its descent was slow enough that its impact only displaced a small amount of dirt and dust. Sand motes hung in the air, highlighted by the dawn, making the battle-worn robot look as though it were a gift from the heavens. The sounds of gears moving in their housing and power core turbines spinning up signaled that there was a new player on the field.

  “Artemis-717 reporting for duty. Locating pilot. Pilot location locked. Proceeding to pilot.” It was a woman's voice speaking in Trade-1. Her voice was deep, like some drill instructor out of a private's worst nightmare. There was a hint of digital reverb in it that gave it an air of command.

  It turned to run, removing a large rifle from a magnetic housing on its back. “Deploying dégage defensive protocol.” The rifle voiced its desire to “get away from me” through a high-cycle burst of twenty-millimeter explosive rounds. It dumped half a drum on the move into the closest crab-walker. Shields sputtered and came close to failing as the LSM fired backwards in its search for the operator.

  Twenty-Eight

  Members of Striker Company watched in awe as the crab-walker listed and finally exploded.

  Private Adona came loping up to Captain Gerard and jumped beside him. “I remember, sir. No saluting in the field. I greatly apologize. My radio got fragged in the first part of the fight this morning, so I had to rip out one of the multi-role jobs from one of the APCs. That crab-walker seemed to be attached to it, so I had to wrestle him for it.”

  Lance Sergeant Locke looked over to the predatory Zelesni. “You can take these things out at will? What are you waiting for?”

  “No, Lance Sergeant. Not at will. That one had a damaged blaster turret. The rest of them still have their guns. Besides, if I make all of you look weak, you'll never promote me.”

  Locke put his hands on his hips. “Son! I'll give you my job if you kill the rest of those things!”

  “Have to wait, Lance Sergeant.” Adona said, not bothering to act according to a private's submission to a senior NCO. There just wasn't the time. “Sir, I have several EAMs for you.”

  Gerard was stifling a giggling snort from the always jovial Private Adona. “Send it, Lancer.”

  “Stalker Squad has a line on the Vinny out past the landing pad near the broadcast dish. They want to know if you want some high-angle hell rained down on that broken wire... their words, sir.”

  Gerard Nodded. “LS Locke, can you handle that?”

  “On it, sir.” Lance Sergeant Locke stepped away from the captain and began working the fire mission from his lid.

  Gerard nodded again. “Next message.”

  Adona continued. “The monk we brought in earlier is fighting something up in the fort. Pretty nasty stuff from the sound of it. She thinks we can end this if we get an ICOM to Corporal Shane on the Devil Hunters' side. Liuetenant Surran has it so they're going to toss him to us out a window.”

  “What?”

  “Twin Hells!” Lancer Costa shouted as he dove under the boarding ramp of the Devil Hunter shuttle. The APC hadn't moved since arriving on Tythian. Heavy blaster scorches dotted the landscape leading to gouges near the boarding ramp, a reminder of the battle that took place only yesterday.

  “Can't do this all day, Costa. Get your hurt on!” Sergeant Guerreiro was wearing his angry voice.

  Costa was sure it had something to do with the sergeant playing tag with one of the remaining crab-walkers. He was keeping it busy. He had needed a distraction before entering the shuttle to grab his battle-frame. The armor was under repair when the mechs attacked. He suspected that it would be clear of the virus. At least he hoped it was.

  Costa ran into the cargo bay, his helmet filtering out the stench of burnt bodies. Four human techs were in various poses surrounding the two damaged battle-frames, an eerie telling of how they died. Costa surmised that it was the anti-personnel spike-runners that took them out, judging from the damage around their corpses. One of the techs died with a pistol in his hand. Looking behind, Costa saw several burn marks on the wall leading out of the ramp. They died fighting. They died as lancers.

  “Costa. Lancer LOX-17881 Confirm.”

  The chest, thigh, and upper arm plates of the armor opened. The frame was scarred and scorched in places but appeared to be up and running. Costa slid one leg in first before turning to glide in backwards. He dropped his body into position surrounded by the plates closing again. An outer helmet cover closed over his head from behind, sealing him in completely.

  Costa had a grin on his face. He liked to joke with Solere about the method he used to mount the armor. Costa always told him that he was elegant in his turn, like a ballerina. Solere would usually throw a wrench or cable harness at him when he made the joke. He hoped Solere and the medics were hunkered dow
n somewhere riding this out.

  The HUD lit up in rapid start mode. No time to do pre-flight checks. As the combat coordination AI came online, it asked Costa if he wanted to connect to the Battle-net.

  “Confirm net purge from maintenance sub-menu.” The HUD gave him green indicators that the Battle-net was clear of any subversive programming it could detect. “It'll have to do. Connect.”

  The whine of the power core filled his ears, stirring memories of cadence sung in pilot's school. He began to hum a few bars, flicking switches and toggling processes in time with the tune.

  “Lancer, Lancer, where ya been?” A rotary gyro mount dropped a heavy blaster rifle into his hand as the power core came to full push. “Out on the battlefield purging sin!” He took a step, the combat coordinator filled his HUD with threat analysis and flight data.

  “4-2 to 4-7-Alpha. Frame is hot. Grabbing some sky!”

  Guerreiro responded as though he were out of breath. Blaster bolts hitting rock could be heard over the com. “Take it, Lancer!”

  Flight track overlays burst into his vision. It was going to be tight. Real tight. He'd never taken off from inside the APC before. He would have to practically sit to exit. Jets on his back roared to life, sending him from standing to a rocket-propelled knee slide. The battle-frame screamed from the boarding ramp, taking flight with a hard climb.

  The armor tore its piece out of the sky, wings folding from behind the shoulder, to turn flat before descending to look like two surfboards jutting from its back. Costa throttled for more altitude. “4-2 to 4-7. Micro-burst missile inbound. Set personal equipment to flutter freq.”

  Costa fired one of the armor's micro-missiles set for ion burst. His goal was to fry the crab-walker's shields while keeping Sergeant G's gear intact. As the armor and missile jetted apart, warning indicators flashed in his head's up display. The Vindicator near the far landing pad had acquired a target lock.