The Feeding of Sorrows

by Rob Howell

  The Cochkala moved uphill when the man fired another burst. Now he could almost touch the Human and, when he fired again, Kiial pounced.

  Cochkala claws weren’t what they once were. They hadn’t needed them as weapons for centuries. However, in the right situation, their claws could still be effective.

  Kiial ripped right through the man’s throat. In the cacophony of the battle, no one seemed to notice.

  With his bloody paws, he reached for the man’s Colt-Browning M-93. He hadn’t actually held one before, but it wasn’t that different from the AK-218s he had fired on the Foresters range.

  Besides, it’s not like I have to figure out how to unsafe the weapon.

  He pushed the ambusher over to get the man’s remaining magazines, stuffing three into random pockets. The M-93’s bullpup design made it easier for Kiial to use, though it was still awkward.

  But I guess the devil’s driving, as McWhorter would say.

  He started to move to the next ambusher in line when they let loose a volley of grenades. Again, they landed among his platoon with agonizing accuracy.

  Kiial pushed his fear away as he saw the ambushers start moving uphill from their positions. He steadied the M-93 and let loose a burst.

  He missed his target completely. The recoil of the first shot yanked the barrel up and all he hit were leaves and branches.

  The startled ambusher turned his way and replied with a burst of his own, far more accurate than Kiial’s. A bullet grazed his cheek.

  Kiial fired again, this time prepared for the recoil. The ambusher disappeared. He had no idea if he’d hit him or if the man had ducked.

  Gotta move.

  When he reached a new position, he looked for more ambushers but saw none. As his mind cleared, he realized the only shots he could hear came from the Kalashnikovs.

  After a moment, McWhorter must have realized that too, because Kiial heard him yell, “Cease fire! All fire teams, reform.”

  Kiial yelled, “Sergeant McWhorter, I’m coming down.”

  “Recruit Private Kiial, is that you?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Come down slowly.”

  “Will do, Sergeant.”

  Kiial crept down to the trail south of the platoon and moved along it until McWhorter spotted him.

  “Where the hell have you been, Recruit Private Kiial?”

  “Up the hill, Sergeant.”

  McWhorter noted the blood covering Kiial’s claws and uniform, the slash in his cheek, and the M-93. “Found yourself a new toy, I see.”

  “Yes, Sergeant McWhorter!” Kiial said. “I’m not terribly good with it, though. I doubt I hit anything.”

  “Most people don’t hit anything in a firefight. Especially their first one. You must have done something, though.”

  Kiial looked at his claws. “Yes, sir. If you don’t mind my saying, Human throats aren’t as well-protected as a Cochkala’s.”

  “Ha!” snorted McWhorter. “That’s fair. Where’s the Human throat in question?”

  Kiial pointed and the sergeant ordered it brought back to their perimeter.

  Twenty minutes later, a squad of Foresters in CASPer Mk 6s advanced up the trail. They picked up the bodies, including the ambusher Kiial had killed and warily made their way back to West Rocks.

  Once inside the training compound, McWhorter insisted the platoon clean its equipment. “Recruit Private Kiial, get that cheek looked at.” He moved toward him and muttered, “The schematics for the M-93 are in the system. Download the manual and clean it. Clean that toy well enough and you can keep it. We’ll even scrounge up some ammo so you can learn how to shoot it.”

  Kiial started to walk away.

  “Recruit Private Kiial?”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Not fucking bad at all.”

  Kiial straightened and saluted. Yes, it was certainly a useful word.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 10 – Binnig Corporation

  South of Port Severn, Ontario

  Trans-Canada Highway

  Provincial police closed the Trans-Canada Highway through Port Severn to all civilian traffic and cleared the way for the convoy to cross the bridge over Tug Channel. There wasn’t much, not at 0430.

  A section of scout-configured CASPers leapfrogged ahead of the convoy, spreading out among the decrepit remnants of an ancient resort south of the channel. They paused, using their sensors to look for anything out of place.

  CASPers were expensive and Binnig had learned long ago that a convoy carrying a major order made a juicy target. And if Binnig had not, their insurance adjustors surely had, and the security they required was, to put it mildly, significant.

  For a convoy of this size, that meant two platoons of fully-armed CASPer Mk 8s escorting Binnig-designed transport trucks. The trucks boasted more armor than assault-configured CASPers; a dual MAC turret on each end, and an automatic 50-megawatt air-defense laser in the middle. They carried a small fusion plant to provide energy for all the firepower.

  Binnig had also designed the airlift transports. The aircraft were tough, powerful, and too big to land at just any airfield. Dropships could land at Billy Bishop Airfield in Owen Sound, but not these behemoths.

  The convoy had landed at Earth Defense Base North Bay. In the mid-1900s, the Canadians had almost abandoned the base. They had even demolished the airfield. But they didn’t depart completely. Then, well before first contact, the base was repurposed as part of Earth’s space surveillance network. After first contact, that mission had continued to expand, and so had the base.

  The Binnig transports landed in the middle of the night, and the lead CASPers moved out long before dawn. Recon drones spread out above them.

  The first hint of a problem came when the drone feeds dropped. Frustrated techs slapped their monitors in time-honored fashion. Then they spat every curse word they knew, also in time-honored fashion, as they realized their network had crashed.

  Unfortunately, all the firepower and reconnaissance capabilities required alert sentinels to properly assess threats. Binnig didn’t hire simple rent-a-cops, but it had been many decades since anyone had tried to hijack a Binnig convoy.

  The designers of Binnig’s network had put safeguards in place to prevent their network from crashing. Every tech knew the redundant systems couldn’t fail all at once unless there was enemy action, hence they knew someone was attacking the convoy almost immediately. But Human nature being what it is, it took them a moment to convince themselves of what they knew to be true.

  They didn’t have that moment before the first missiles arrived.

  The air-defense lasers should’ve picked them off, but whoever had taken out the network had also compromised their targeting systems. Gunners swung their MAC turrets around to fire in manual mode, but supersonic missiles aren’t easy targets for Humans to see, much less shoot at.

  The turret gunners did manage to kill six of the missiles. One gunner shot down three. In their after-action reports, Binnig managers noted his skill. A company commendation, with a bonus, was included in the letter to his next-of-kin.

  A dozen missiles each carrying the equivalent of five hundred kilograms of TNT targeted every truck. The immense overkill sent a shockwave rippling across the southern shores of Georgian Bay. Port Severn wasn’t completely leveled, but the bridge was destroyed, as was the lock holding back Little Lake.

  The blasts didn’t destroy all the CASPer arranged around the main convoy, though, and troopers picked themselves off the ground and, after shaking their heads to clear them, immediately started hunting for the launchers.

  They eventually found them on Murray Island, a small abandoned island about a klick and a half away from the bridge in Georgian Bay. The launchers were remotely-operated and Human-designed. Produced in mass quantities, there had no readable serial numbers on any of the individual parts.

  Investigators used satellite imagery to track a freighter sailing from Detroit to the island the ni
ght before the attack. It left the island after only a few hours, and it exploded and sank in the middle of Georgian Bay at about the same time the missiles struck the convoy.

  It was the worst disaster in Binnig Corporation’s long and distinguished history, and the only clues available lay scattered a hundred meters deep in the cold, cold waters of the inland seas.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 11 – Recruit Pvt. Rhan’Kiial’Tala

  West Rocks Recruit Depot

  Owen Sound, Ontario

  Kiial turned over at the sound of thunder and immediately went back to sleep. He had barely closed his eyes when the alarm sounded. Recruit Platoon Alfa-29 rolled out of their bunks. This wasn’t the first time the alarm had awakened them, but Kiial noted something different in the mannerisms of McWhorter, Cox, and the rest of the cadre.

  Cox especially. If he had a decent tail it would be flapping about like mad.

  For the first time, McWhorter directed them to get into their training CASPers and fire them up. Kiial had no CASPer, so he spent the time assisting others. He had the M-93 slung over his back and four spare mags in pouches on his belt, but McWhorter’s insistent training meant he moved efficiently despite their size and weight.

  McWhorter deployed the platoon around their barracks. He kept Kiial at his side since the Cochkala couldn’t slot into the fire teams properly without a CASPer.

  And then they waited.

  The platoon sergeant’s CASPer hid his face and obscured the vast majority of his body language. As Kiial didn’t have access to McWhorter’s comm traffic, he had little to back up his conviction that something was truly wrong. But he knew it to the tip of his tail.

  After a couple of hours in position, McWhorter sent out, “Stand down, Recruit Platoon Alfa-29. Return to your armory and unass your CASPers.” After a pause, he added, “You have twelve minutes to be in the briefing room with your pads!”

  The platoon exploded into action as they ran to the armory. Kiial did the same. If they were going to make the sergeant’s deadline, the other troopers would need his help.

  Even so, the unit didn’t arrive until fourteen minutes had elapsed. McWhorter took advantage of the opportunity to point out just how stupid they were, clearly because their ancestors were “fat as moose and half as smart.”

  Kiial had seen enough of these rants to know McWhorter took pride in them. He had a rhythm, a practiced ability to take away every shred of arrogance from the platoon.

  He’s distracted today. What the hell is going on? Everyone’s been jumpy since the attack on the trail, but this is worse.

  McWhorter concluded his rant by ordering them to clean their “filthy” barracks, which they all knew meant a ‘surprise’ inspection.

  Knowing the inspection would come made the scuttlebutt wilder. Some rumors, like the one that Earth was going to be invaded, and Humans needed every CASPer they could scrounge up, were over the top. Ericson said he had heard that the thunder the previous night had been artillery being fired at a supply convoy. Everyone scoffed at that.

  One man insisted the Four Horsemen were going to draft the best of them. Johnson snarled, “No one’s taking us since tailboy brought our platoon scores down.” His comment elicited worried chuckles. They made us take him. They wouldn’t penalize us for him, would they?

  Sky Pilot, so nicknamed for his constant praying, pointed out how many casualties the Foresters had taken recently. “God’s calling, boys. Best you answer the call proudly.”

  It’s all bullshit, thought Kiial. But it passes the time.

  The real surprise came after the inspection.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen. And Cochkala,” snapped McWhorter. “Your barracks are…tolerable. But then, I have given up hope that you possess more than a tolerable ability to serve in the Foresters.”

  Kiial controlled the twitch prompted by that remark. What the hell?

  McWhorter continued. “Tomorrow, you’ll assemble at 0700 in your dress uniforms on the parade ground. At that time, Captain Gregg will formally enroll you in the Foresters. After the ceremony, you’ll march to processing and learn your assignments. Any questions?”

  He waited for exactly two seconds. Then he turned about face and left the barracks as precisely as he had entered.

  Corporal Cox, with an odd look on his face, yelled, “Dismissed!” and the platoon looked at each other with wonder in their eyes. Then smiles broke out, and their voices filled the room.

  Cox cut through the hubbub. “Make sure your dress uniforms are spotless,” he snarled. “We can still downcheck you before you’re sworn in.” He looked at Kiial. “Especially you,” he hissed. “I may just downcheck you for the good of the regiment.”

  Kiial took great pleasure in seeing the narrowed eyes of most of the others in his platoon. Several even moved to stand next to him. Cox sneered at this sign of unity and left.

  “You’re a piece of shit, Cochkala, but you’re our piece of shit,” muttered Recruit Johnson.

  Kiial raised a paw, and the two shook forelimbs.

  The platoon spent the rest of the evening polishing shoes and buttons. Kiial buzzed around, using his smaller, more dexterous fingers to assist the other members of the platoon. He had done so before, but never so willingly.

  Other than my uncle, my clan will never understand. I wonder if Tlanit anticipated this.

  The morning inspection turned out to be even worse than Kiial had expected. Cox ripped into the platoon for far longer than anyone anticipated. Somewhere along the way, the Cochkala realized McWhorter was pissed about something.

  Pissed about something today?

  He couldn’t follow through on the thought because Corporal Bag O’Dicks saved his best for Kiial.

  Cox slid his white gloves all around the M-93, finding a litany of problems.

  I know that weapon better than he does, I’ll bet. Where the hell is he finding all of this?

  “Beret cocked incorrectly.”

  Never mind that it was the best adaptation cadre had come up with for the Cochkala skull.

  “Boots not properly shined. Buttons tarnished. And what the hell did the Recruit Private do to his belt?”

  Kiial could feel every eye in the platoon on him, though not one of his platoon mates moved a muscle.

  Cox finished his inspection and reported to McWhorter. “Recruit Platoon Alfa-29 inspected. I apologize for my failing in training this platoon, Sergeant—”

  “Hold that thought, Corporal Cox. I believe you’re being unfair to yourself. Let’s see what we have here.”

  Cox opened his mouth, but McWhorter’s look stopped him. The sergeant went through the entire platoon, just as Cox had. His litany of complaints was similar, but nearly all of the items the corporal had noted on Kiial passed without comment.

  He turned around and rejoined Cox. “I appreciate the corporal’s attention to detail. I believe he has done an outstanding job preparing this platoon for admittance into the Queen Elizabeth’s Own.”

  McWhorter turned about face. “Recruit Platoon Alfa-29. Left face!”

  The platoon turned.

  “Forward! Harch!”

  The sergeant led the platoon to the training grounds where Major Dozier and Captain Gregg stood at attention with the company colors. They assembled in front and saluted.

  “Recruit Platoon Alfa-29, stand at ease,” announced Gregg. “According to the reports of your cadre, you have met our minimal expectations, and they have found you tolerably acceptable as full members of the Queen Elizabeth’s Own Foresters.”

  The final confirmation from Gregg went through the platoon like a whirlwind.

  “Congratulations to all of you.” Gregg smiled. “As you have discovered, we may not be the wealthiest unit from Earth, but we are the best! We have reached the point of decision, however. Some recruits, after seeing all we demand, wonder if this is the unit for them. That’s a fair question. You can expect hard and constant service in unpleasant places—,” his face twisted, �
�—without the most advanced equipment.”

  He paused for a moment, looking into their eyes.

  “We take our company motto seriously. You’ll have to be tenacious in the face of the enemy and versatile in the pursuit of our goals. We have carried on this tradition for centuries, from Robin Hood to Sam Steele to the recently deceased Lieutenant Frasier MacKenzie.”

  Gregg took a breath. Even if they hadn’t been at attention, the mesmerized platoon couldn’t have moved a muscle.

  “As such, it’s our custom to allow all recruits to take this last opportunity to move on from the Foresters with no repercussions. We’ll assist you in finding a place in a merc unit that is more what you expected.” He smiled sharply. “We’ll even accept you back. If there are any of you who wish to choose that option, please do. We want only those wholly committed to the Foresters to swear our oath at this time.”

  He paused again.

  “I repeat. There is no penalty for making that choice. Nor is there shame. We’ll toast your skills and your memory, for passing our training course is a feat in and of itself.”

  Gregg waited with a pleasant smile on his face. Dozier eyed each of them keenly. Cadre wore inscrutable looks. Cox glared at Kiial.

  But none of the recruits moved, and the moment passed.

  “Excellent!” said Gregg. “Recruit Platoon Alfa-29, please raise your right hands and repeat after me.”

  They swore the oath, then the rest of the day disappeared in a swirl of preparations. As they packed their gear, Gregg summoned each of them to his office for their assignment. He informed the vast majority of the platoon they would go to Forward Base Maquon before receiving final assignments.

  Kiial was one of the last summoned to Gregg’s office.

  “Recruit Private Kiial, please have a seat,” instructed Gregg.

  After he did, Gregg continued, “We have a problem, Recruit Private.”

  Kiial’s tail twitched. “A problem, sir?”