Hammerfall

by David Adams

  “This is a small raiding party?” asked Ilyukhina.

  Something was wrong, but Pavlov shrugged it off. “It’s about ten to one, their favour,” he said, “but we’re spetsnaz.”

  “Always outnumbered,” said Jakov, “but never outgunned.”

  “I’m helping with that,” said Chainsaw. “Guns are hot and ready to play.”

  Through his scope, he could see them approaching. Creeping through the jungle, eyes fixed ahead, on the facility.

  No time like the present. “Time to kick off this shindig,” he said, picking out one unlucky son of a bitch and lining up his sights on his head. The rifle’s computers did their work, calculating wind, distance and round trajectory. His crosshairs flashed green, and Pavlov gently squeezed the trigger.

  The round travelled for nearly four seconds, then the target jerked and slumped forward, falling into the mud. He fired again, making sure. All around him, the Dogs fired as well, staccato beats silencing the jungle birds for barely a moment.

  “Damn,” laughed Jakov, “you ruined his whole day.”

  “I don’t think it’s a whole day for him now.” Pavlov shot a third time, then lined up on a new target. Crack. Crack. Crack. Down they went.

  Shooting fish in a barrel. The Separatists were known to be spotty in terms of training; some were defectors from every branch of the military, while others were little more than civilians with pilfered firearms. These ones were clearly the latter. Their fellows charged forward, sprinting across the mud.

  “Die for freedom!” Their war cry echoed across the jungle. “Die for freedom!”

  “Die for freedom,” echoed Pavlov under his breath as he pulled the trigger and took down another.

  The Separatists broke through the thick jungle. Pavlov aimed his rifle down, coming up into a kneeling position. His enemies came in a human wave, disorganised and staggered, firing wildly on full automatic.

  Fucking amateur hour over here. Pavlov lined up one that seemed to be coordinating the effort, standing completely out in the open, firing his rifle with one hand and waving others forward with the other. A single shot blew him backward onto the ground.

  Crack. Crack. Crack. The shots came faster now that the Separatists were exposed.

  “Chainsaw, you have a green light on engagement. Waste these clowns.”

  The dropship’s miniguns spun up and fired with a loud roar like a giant ripping paper, followed by the staccato rain of shell casings onto the metal landing pad, and quad lines of fire leapt out into the dark jungle, scything through Separatists and splashing into the mud. Shells designed to pierce spaceship hulls didn’t even slow down when they cut through people.

  Still the Separatists charged onward, heedless of their own destruction, seemingly empowered by the hopelessness of it all.

  Brave but stupid. Pavlov’s Dogs engaged them with ruthless precision, employing three-shot bursts to cut them down. Meanwhile, Chainsaw’s miniguns slashed across the foliage, carving them up. Fifty men became forty, soon thirty, and soon half that.

  Thirty seconds later, the red outlines were lying on the ground, their blood splashed over the muddy jungle floor, dead to the last man. The dropship’s guns spun down and went silent once more.

  “No retreating that time,” said Pavlov, his ears ringing, nose full of the thick, sweet smell of gunfire.

  “Wait,” said Ilyukhina, “I see one last contact.”

  Movement snagged his eye. A Separatist with an axe, charging forward through the tree line, like he was going to chop the facility down from its base.

  A volley of fire from the spetsnaz sent him sprawling face down in the brown slop. Pavlov almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “That motherfucker brought an axe to a gun fight,” said Karpola, her face still aglow. “Look at him twitch down there.”

  Pavlov put a round through the dying man’s brain and he twitched no more.

  “Nice work,” he said, pulling back his rifle. “Let’s check on our new people.” Pavlov touched his radio, opening the channel. “Apalkov,” he asked, “you out there?”

  The voice that came back to him was definitely Apalkov, but it was different. Excited. Happy. “Yes, sir! Just sitting at the edge of the Separatist lines. We didn’t want to get in the way of your beautiful massacre.”

  Combat high. He knew the signs. “That’s what we do best,” said Pavlov. “Nice work out there. Now get your arses back to the kennel. I’ll do a debrief and send through our report to the Varyag. Whatever bullshit the Separatists were trying to pull, they’re done here.” He smiled widely, even though the guy on the other end couldn’t see it. “You earned a drink. Don’t tell Chuchnova.”

  “Aye aye,” said Apalkov. “But that’s not necessary.”

  He didn’t want a drink? After all that?

  “We’re heroes,” said Ilyukhina, a thin trail of smoke rising from the muzzle of her rifle. “We saved the cow-fuckers.”

  It was hard to dispute that. Pavlov removed the magazine from his rifle and clicked the safety on. “Here’s to hoping the rest of our deployment will be uneventful.”

  “I’m going back to sleep,” said Chainsaw. “Wake me if you need anyone else massacred.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Hammerfall

  THE SQUAD DISPERSED. THERE HAD been a lot of Separatists; Pavlov wanted to make sure there were no surprises.

  He went back into the building to prepare his report, but halfway there, some urge came over him. A powerful tiredness that crept in slowly, almost unnoticeable at first, but when it hit, it came hard.

  It was the smell. The smell of mud and jungle and death, of gunpowder and oil and the heat of Syrene’s star, baking the wet world, its long days growing the jungle, its heavy rains creating the endless mud.

  He was back on Syrene. Back in the field.

  Like nothing had ever happened.

  His breath came quicker. Shorter. He felt a tightness in his chest, at once familiar and terrifying.

  No. Not now. God, no, not now…

  Pavlov found a side passage deep in the building, an adjunct to a maintenance shaft, and he leaned up against the wall, loosening the straps on his armour and trying to keep his breathing even. Just focus. Breathe.

  He tried to think of something else. Anything else.

  But all that came to mind was him.

  He’d never truly grieved for Minsky. That dumb, hick Ukrainian all tangled up in the neo-Communist movement. So stupid and annoying. Why did he have to go and get killed like that? That was the worst. The absolute worst.

  Or so he told himself.

  Every breath came as a faint wheeze. Pavlov loosened the clip on his shoulder armour, yanking off his helmet. That didn’t help. It felt like a giant was clutching his throat, squeezing the life from him from the inside. All he could think about was Minsky. That one time Minsky had gotten him a grenade for a present. A grenade. What kind of guy gave another guy a grenade for their anniversary? He’d even put a little blue bow around it. He was so proud of it. What kind of guy did that?

  Pavlov slid down the wall, squatting on the ground, spots dancing in front of his eyes. His heart thumped crazily in his chest. The scar on his shoulder hurt, a scar earned in the same battle where Minsky had been killed.

  Not killed. Executed.

  They had been on a mission. A Separatist tank had beaten their dropship to the rendezvous. Pavlov surrendered the unit. For reasons he could not possibly understand, the Commander had reached into her pocket, withdrew her pistol, and shot Minsky. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like…like…

  Just try to breathe.

  It wasn’t working. Nothing was working.

  He needed a drink.

  With shaking hands, Pavlov took out Apalkov’s flask and took a deep swig. That helped. The burning alcohol numbed his senses, numbed his mind, and the memories went from screaming in his ear to a dull murmur at the edge of his consciousness.

  Slowly, slowly, the
thoughts faded completely, and with considerable strain, Pavlov’s breathing returned to normal.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. Sitting with his back against the metal wall of Hammerfall. Nobody had come, or if they had, he hadn’t seen them.

  Pavlov wiped away the mostly dried tears, stood up, and clipped his helmet back on.

  There was still a lot he had to do.

  CHAPTER 9

  Hammerfall

  ON PAVLOV’S ORDERS, APALKOV AND the new meat took care of the bodies. Surprisingly, he and the others did it all without complaint. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem—the steaming hot jungle would rot them away in no time, to say nothing of the myriad predators and scavengers that would help with the job, but a body was typically a treasure trove of intelligence. Orders, uniforms, even details on the state of their equipment could provide valuable information for a military unit.

  Yet when Apalkov returned, all he had was a bunch of blood-soaked rags, a handful of dented firearms bearing the scratched-out insignia of the Russian Confederation, and a stack of personal effects. A comb. A photograph of some girl. A flask of whisky.

  “Nothing interesting,” said Apalkov. “Just this junk, carried by malnourished farmers trying to fight for their survival.”

  Was that sarcasm? Apalkov had shown absolutely no such sympathies before coming here. It was a strange change—like the punchline to a joke that you just had to be there for. Pavlov squatted down and picked up the flask. “Still full,” he said, giving Apalkov a playful smile. “Surprised you didn’t lighten your burdens some.”

  “Chuchnova’s orders,” Apalkov said, sifting through the armfuls of stuff, not looking at him. “Like you said, sir. No drinking.”

  Blink.

  “You’re fucking with me, right?” Pavlov tapped his breast pocket. “Give it a few days, then you can have it back. I just didn’t want Little Miss Glasses And Clipboard to see us acting like the dogs we are.”

  “No thank you.” Apalkov shrugged absently. “I don’t want it back, and you shouldn’t be having it either. We’re on duty.”

  Weird. Apalkov had almost fought him to keep it, but now he couldn’t care less? It must have been the battle. Pavlov cracked a crooked smile. “Because neither of us have ever drunk on duty before.”

  “We shouldn’t be doing it.”

  As though to prove a point, Pavlov picked up the flask of whisky, unscrewed the blood-spattered top, and took a big, long drink. It burned as it went down, fiery and warm, and then he slowly, pointedly, re-screwed it up and slid the bottle into his pocket. “На здороÏвье, random dead Separatist.”

  Apalkov said nothing but had a vaguely disdainful look on his face.

  “What?” asked Pavlov. “You’re Russian. You’re basically obligated to like vodka.”

  “That’s whisky. And just because I’m Russian doesn’t make me alcoholic.”

  “Correct,” said Pavlov. “Being an alcoholic makes you an alcoholic.”

  Again Apalkov said nothing.

  “When you’re done being a weirdo,” said Pavlov, standing with a soft groan, “let me know. In the meantime, I should go and give my report to Chuchnova.”

  “Okay,” said Apalkov, and with that, Pavlov left.

  What a weird moment.

  It wasn’t the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Combat could change even the hardest, most jaded soldier. This wasn’t Apalkov’s first time on the surface, but these things could creep up on you…or hit suddenly, with no warning.

  Advice which totally didn’t apply to him, of course. The whole thing with Minsky wasn’t clouding his judgement at all.

  Not even a little bit.

  CHAPTER 10

  Hammerfall

  APALKOV WAS WEIRDING HIM OUT. Fortunately, the chug of whisky he’d taken muffled those strange, nagging thoughts and pushed them out of his mind. The station’s computer guided him toward Chuchnova, a little marker appearing in his visor. He followed the electronic guide, which led down toward her quarters.

  A simple steel door, closed, labelled Chief Scientist. He pulled out Apalkov’s flask, took another quick sip to wash down the whisky, and knocked politely.

  “Ah,” said Chuchnova, pulling open the door with a wide smile. “Lieutenant Pavlov.”

  “Doctor Chuchnova,” he said, inclining his head formally. “Just giving you my report.”

  She beckoned him inside. Did that woman ever stop smiling? “That sounds wonderful,” she said. “I’ll make you tea.”

  He was always partial to tea, but for some reason, he didn’t want to be indebted to this woman, even through a minor politeness. “Kind, but unnecessary,” said Pavlov, but he stepped into the threshold of her door anyway. The inside of her room was sparsely furnished: a single bed pushed against the wall, a steel work desk, and a handful of computers. A small white vase, empty, sat on a coffee table by her bed. It was starkly plain, no pictures, no photographs, no dirty clothes lying on the floor—Minsky had called it the floor-drobe—no…personality. No life.

  “You and your men really cut those Separatists apart,” said Chuchnova. “Боже мой, you were right. I have to hand it to you…you handle yourself so much better than we ever could. You fight like the Devil.”

  Sorry, God, he thought to himself. I’m not the Devil. I’m your hand. You’re with me.

  “Surprisingly enough,” said Pavlov, “professional soldiers fight better than civilians.” He held up his hand. “It’s not a slight against you. Pretty sure you can work that computer much better than I can. I could barely ask the system to find where you were. Killing people is what we do.”

  Chuchnova poured water into two mugs, put them in the heater, and in an instant, they were boiling. She dipped a tea bag in each. “How do you like yours?”

  “Black like my soul,” he said. “And no sugar. I’m sweet enough already.”

  “Right,” said Chuchnova, cupping her mug in both hands, her strangely persistent smile continuing unabated. “So. The Separatists…”

  “Two spetsnaz were slightly injured,” said Pavlov. “Their fingers hurt from pulling the trigger so much.”

  Chuchnova chuckled. “Like I said, you did well.” She paused, bringing her drink up to her lips and sipping. “Do you know much about the neo-Communist movement?”

  Pavlov groaned audibly. Minsky had been into that shit…bringing back that memory put him on edge and once again tightened his chest.

  No, not now. He had this…he had this.

  The feeling passed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Enough to know how stupid it is. And I know how defectors from the USSR would see American supermarkets and break down crying because there was so much food, and so many varieties, available that it didn’t seem real to them. The neo-Communists forget all that; they see the good, not the bad. They’re people venerating a police state, an idea that’s hundreds of years old, a plan for government that failed wherever it was implemented.”

  Chuchnova nodded in agreement. “Regretfully, post-Communist Russia took the worst parts of American capitalism and the worst parts of USSR communism and created modern Russia. Which is basically the same as old Russia. Karl Marx forgot to consider human nature.”

  “Communism would work great if it were robots, not people, involved. Humans like being arses to each other.”

  Her lips curled up even more. “We do,” she said. “Which is why the neo-Communists have a much better way. A stronger way. A way we can forge ahead without any of these…human frailties.”

  “We?” Pavlov stiffened slightly. “Doctor Chuchnova—”

  “Call me Mika,” she said, sipping more of her tea.

  The woman was mighty political for a cow-fucker. “Doctor Chuchnova, I’m just here to give you my report, then I’m going to go back to protecting this facility. When the fighting and dying are done, I’m going to go home.”

  She tilted her head. “It’s odd that an officer would bunk down with enlisted men. Are yo
u sure you don’t want to stay here?”

  First she had tried to brush them away, up on the landing pad, and now she wanted them to stay? “Live here with the scientists?” Pavlov laughed. “I may be an officer, but I’m a Dog, too. Dogs go in the kennel.”

  “I meant,” Chuchnova said, with a softness that implied far more, “in here.”

  His eyes nearly fell out. “I-in…your room?”

  “That’s right,” she said, something in her eyes lighting up. “Stay here with me. I’ll show you how to live without human greed, human weakness, human selfishness. Together.”

  What in the galaxy…what was she babbling about?

  “You’re…sure?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s been a long time, army boy.”

  Army? Pavlov was Navy. He tried to defuse the situation. “It would never work,” he said, trying to smile. “I’m a guy, you’re a girl…we’re just so different.”

  Chuchnova laughed, putting her hand in front of her mouth. Sure, she was pretty. Even a half-wit could see that. But Pavlov, well…Minsky’s body wasn’t yet cool, and he had never been interested in women.

  That didn’t mean they weren’t interested in him, though. It had been this way for—well, since forever. Spetsnaz were strong, and in peak physical condition. Women liked that. Too bad he didn’t like them. “Um, Doctor, I’m afraid it’s true, though. I, uh, kind of like boys, so that’s—”

  She went to touch his arm.

  There was a significance to it that he didn’t understand. A moment where, briefly, Chuchnova’s whole face lit up as though experiencing some kind of release, the culmination of some kind of great excitement, executed in a single moment.