by Richard Fox
Another man made it to Camacho’s intended suit first. The other jumped on the platform and turned to slam his back into the opening when Camacho grabbed him by the waistband and yanked him back.
Camacho ducked an elbow and hooked a punch into the man’s gut. Straightening up, he bashed the top of his head into the man’s chin and he crumpled to the ground. Camacho used him as a step onto the platform and slapped his back into the frame.
Pads closed around his legs and chest as he gripped two handle frames. Needles jabbed into his arms and neck as the suit closed around him. A snarling wolf head lowered over his face and the smell of piss and old sweat enveloped him.
The suit activated with blurry screens and a waft of air from the hangar.
“Subcontractor CCI-8C, welcome to obligatory employment phase six,” a pleasant computer voice said. “You’re indentured amount remains…eighteen thousand, seven hundred and twelve pula, adjusted for interest, inflation and exchange rates to Bahadur-Getty Incorporated company script.”
“What? It was only eighteen K when I went under.” He flicked switches around the hand grips and pushed one forward. The suit’s left arm came up and gave the finger to a camera dome on the ceiling.
“The contract terms of your service from the Moho Caye government remain unchanged. Would you like to lodge a complaint?”
Camacho laughed, and a cold pit formed in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was from the drugs wearing off or the mental math: every time he suited up to fight for the Corporation, the amount he knocked off his debt got smaller and smaller.
“Ravagers.” Hulegu’s voice sounded through his suit and there was a slight pressure against the drug port on his neck.
“Come on, come on, give it to me.” Camacho tapped a heel against the ground and his armor echoed the motion slowly. Warmth flowed down his neck and into his body and Camacho breathed easier.
“Simple sweep and clear,” Hulegu said. “Indig tech level is rated mid-twentieth century. You get killed down there, it’s your own fault. Your suit gets damaged, the repairs go on your tab. This is a cakewalk, so there’s no excuses.”
Camacho felt a bit of relief. At least this drop would be simple.
“No indig survivors. No tech captures. Squad with the highest kill count gets a performance bonus of five percent off their debt,” Hulegu said.
“Aw shit.” A grainy holo frame of a man in another suit came up. “Straight ’zerker time, ain’t it?”
“Can’t spend the money if we’re dead,” Camacho said. “You stay on my leash or I will cut your feed. You go ape-y and you won’t get support.”
“I got a shitty suit,” a gaunt woman said from a different frame. “Bad rep for crap systems and overdosing ’scripts.”
“Learn to run faster at the light. Corps’ got our squad on a…shit—a fifteen hundred kill an hour quota? We don’t even carry that much ammo. Supervisors will ding our drips if we slack, so you better produce skulls, Darla,” Camacho said.
A blue liquid flowed through the line on his neck and his hands tingled.
“That’s the stuff,” Darla said, eyes rolling to the back of her head.
An alert icon flashed on Camacho’s screens.
“All units, report to arms and ammunition. All units, report to arms and ammunition,” a pleasant computer voice said.
Camacho stepped off the platform, then pulled and twisted the handles. His suit’s fists beat together then slapped at the wolf face on his helmet.
Chapter 43
“Riktan, I need you to make contact with him.” Fastal was in the backup communications center for the air bases—the original now a smoking hole on the other side of the runway.
A Toiler in singed work clothes and a Blooded line sergeant were at a bank of radios and a printout machine. The Blooded woman shook her head.
“General, there’s no signal for us to even broadcast on. The jamming is too strong and every transmission gets stepped on. Even the landlines back to the nearest town aren’t working,” she said.
“Have I made it clear just how vital this is?” Fastal asked.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “We’ll keep at it, but for now, we’re reduced to messengers and maybe a smoke signal if anyone knows to look for them.”
“I’ll leave a soldier outside. You get comms with Riktan’s headquarters—or anyone—you send him to get me.” Fastal shouldered the door open to find that the group of beaten-up, demoralized soldiers he’d arrived with had grown larger.
A too clean Royal lieutenant had a dirty, terrified-looking Blooded soldier with him.
Fastal looked out to the still burning hangars and the darkening sky as the last of twilight faded away.
“If my sergeants haven’t driven you off, then you must be here for something important.” Fastal waved the lieutenant over and slapped his pockets until he found a crumpled pack of cured ambary cigarettes.
He lit a match as the lieutenant rushed over and started to salute before catching himself, not wanting to invite any watching snipers to shoot Fastal.
“General, sir, Lieutenant Tarthon, Auraline Spears air defense reg—”
“Spit it out.” Fastal took a drag from his cigarette.
“Blooded Garta here destroyed one of the…planes…that attacked us. I had to see it myself to believe it,” Tarthon said. “It’s still mostly intact and—”
“Where?” Fastal looked to one side. “Get Clay over here, now!”
“Two thousand and ninety-five strides from here,” Tarthon said, handing over a map with a red circle over a ravine. “I’ve got a platoon with eyes on it, but comms are spotty and they’re not infantry.”
“What is it?” Clay asked, his synth layer set to a Royal.
“Tell him everything.” Fastal leveled a knife hand at Garta then jerked a thumb at Clay. Fastal whistled to get a major’s attention, then the two had a brief conversation.
“One of the support tenders,” Clay said. “Not meant for frontline duty, more for back-line fire support and recovery if needed.”
“How’d he manage to shoot it down?” Fastal asked.
“That low to the surface…the gravitic engines have a higher error rate. If one bullet gets through, it would throw off the entire equilibrium…which allows more bullets to hit. Which causes damage. And then there’s a cascade of—”
“So it isn’t a trap?” Fastal asked.
“I’m surprised they haven’t destroyed it yet,” Clay said.
“Sir, how does this Royal know anything?” the lieutenant asked.
“Survivors?” Fastal took a deep drag on his cigarette, then crushed it beneath his heel.
“Possible. Normally has a crew of four, but they can carry more,” Clay said.
“Did he get lucky,” Fastal asked, putting a hand on Garta’s shoulder, “or did your advice actually come through? For once.”
“No heat source. No emissions. Multiple anti-radar layers…sounds like he did everything like I said,” Clay nodded quickly.
“Of course,” said the lieutenant, “my men are—”
Fastal took the lieutenant by the shoulder and walked him away, Garta trailing behind.
“Your men are in a fair amount of danger right now,” the general said. “You’re going to swing by the back of that truck over there and get as many shoulder-fired anti-tank weapons as you can carry and take them back to your men. Have them keep the enemy under observation. I will be there as soon as I can and then we’ll deal with this together. Go!” He slapped the lieutenant on the back and clapped his hands twice.
“Mount up! We’ve got a target!”
The Blooded around him snapped into action and loaded into the back of cargo trucks and jeeps.
“Why?” Clay asked when Fastal linked up with him at his jeep. “That ship isn’t going anywhere. Just hit it with artillery or have your fighters use it for target practice.”
Fastal seized Clay by his top and pulled him almost nose to nose. “Because your cast
e just murdered our King,” Fastal said with a growl. “Because if I can’t prove to my soldiers that your caste can be killed, there won’t be a war. You get that? I have to strike back. I have to have your blood on my hands or they won’t fight. That course of action get your approval?”
Fastal let Clay go.
“There could be Myrmidons aboard, or worse,” Clay said. “You don’t have enough men. And even if you did have another battalion here, the casualties you’ll take—”
“Will be the price we pay for a victory. No matter how one-sided it is,” Fastal said. “Now hold your hand up.”
Clay did so and Fastal kissed his knuckles.
“I touched a Royal without consent. Thank you for maintaining appearances,” the general said, opening the door to his jeep.
“What was all that?” Sazon half crawled out of her spot in the back to look up at Fastal with big, excited eyes. “Are we finally leaving?”
“Do you want to get aboard one of their ships?” Fastal asked as he and Clay got into the jeep.
Sazon gasped.
“Do you want to examine more of their tech?” Fastal asked.
Sazon squealed.
“You might die in the process.” Fastal looked her dead in the eye.
“Will there be computers? Sacred texts? Maybe even …” her voice lowered, “the chance for an unadulterated urine sample?”
“I remember being that young and excited,” Clay deadpanned.
“We’ll see if her motivation keeps up.” Fastal stuck an arm out a window and waved it forward.
Chapter 44
Every sound made Nemsi’s heart beat faster. The rustle of insects in the grass. The snap of twigs in the forest. Everything was a demon from the Far Darkness come to swallow his soul, just like his grandmother had promised would happen to him if he disobeyed the gods. That it was past nightfall and he could feel the gaze of the gods from the constellations making up their faces made his fear and guilt even worse.
His muscles ached from digging the fighting position he lay in at the edge of the plateau overlooking the riverbed where the…thing had crashed. He didn’t have enough time to dig out something he could stand in—like grenade pits and everything else he’d been taught in training. With his sleeves and pants stiff with Estan’s blood, which looked even worse in the thin moonlight, Nemsi scraped out just enough to make a shallow grave. A field telephone in a small depression he’d dug out next to him felt like a time bomb. At any second, it might rattle and alert whatever was out there to exactly where he was hiding.
Not hiding, he told himself, observing.
He gripped his rifle as tight as he could, then crawled out of his position and peeked over the edge of the plateau. The crash site hadn’t changed: it was still lit up by intermittent sparks from beneath and a weak glow from still burning grass fires along the stream banks.
All he had to do was call in any activity. Why he had to do so while completely alone made no sense to him.
The sound of pounding feet and the rattle of metal sounded in the distance and Nemsi froze. His imagination put demons with a taste for his flesh crawling through high grass on spidery limbs and crystalline teeth dripping with—
Something covered his mouth and his rifle was jerked from his grip.
Nemsi screamed, but his face was pressed to the ground and his body held fast by a heavy weight.
“Friendly, friendly!” a loud whisper said in his ear. “At ease, soldier.”
When he didn’t feel himself being eaten alive, Nemsi stopped struggling and the press against him eased off. The hand over his mouth turned his face to one side and he came face-to-face with General Fastal.
“Anything down there?” Fastal asked.
Nemsi tried to answer, but managed only, “B-b-b-b—”
“Hard to believe there hasn’t been an extraction or demolition yet,” Clay said as he crawled up beside Nemsi on his other side from Fastal. A bandage over one eye and a heavy machine gun lay on the back of the Royal’s arm so he could move low to the ground and keep it out of the dirt. Nemsi’s jaw dropped. How could a Royal without a Close Guard’s bulk and size move that weapon with such ease?
“And what does that tell you?” Fastal asked.
“The crew thinks they can get it moving again, which I doubt as the grav engines look cracked from here,” Clay said. “Or the mother ship’s attention and resources are elsewhere…”
“Their attack on the airfield wasn’t their main effort?” Fastal looked confused.
“I know their procedures. Leaving something like this behind where it can be recovered has only so many explanations…and they did pull back from their raid here…”
“Sir, what’s—”
Both shushed Nemsi before he could finish his sentence.
“The Azure Islands,” the Royal said.
“I hate not having radio. Makes me feel like we’re trying to fight a war back before there was electricity, when we were reacting to Slaver horde raids on the plains. It wasn’t until we could coordinate elements to catch the bastards that we managed to put a stop to them…different discussion,” Fastal said. “But the Slavers got decent at electronic warfare. After a while, they’d back-trace signals and ambush the ambushers. My first company command was near the Baktin River basin, had to use old tactics to outfight the Slavers.”
“That’s great,” Clay said. “Old war stories are definitely what this situation needs.”
“That wasn’t for you.” Fastal reached over to the field telephone and picked up the wire that was absolutely not plugged into the receiver.
“Oh…” Nemsi said.
“The next time you’re on overwatch of a key target, just anticipate that the phone will ring constantly,” Fastal said as he fixed the wire.
A bird call sounded from farther down the plateau and Fastal whistled back.
“Got one platoon in place,” Fastal said. “Waiting on the assault force. Will the ones down there surrender?”
“No. Likely they’ve been told that they’ll be burnt alive if captured,” Clay said. “So why not hold out until rescue, try and escape, or fight and get a quicker death?”
“What’s happening?” Nemsi whispered and was shushed again.
“How much time do we have once they call for backup?” Fastal asked.
“If they’re over the Azure Islands and the mother ship decides to actually help…maybe fifty dreths,” Clay said.
Nemsi heard a long bird call downstream from the crash site. Fastal called back.
“Just long enough,” Fastal said. “Thank the gods some of the older Blooded know the calls. The caste in that ship won’t know that dalar birds aren’t native to this area.” He picked up the field phone and twisted a crank. “Illumination mission over the target. Constant. Fire on my command.”
“Oh dear,” said Sazon, crawling up to Nemsi’s boots. Her face and the front of her clothes were inundated with dirt and mud. “So…difficult. How can you two crawl…so fast?” She went limp and panted.
Clay raised his head to get a better look at the crash site, which was still a mass of shadow amidst a low glow from the fires and the occasional arc of electricity.
“You see any movement?” he asked Nemsi.
“Nothing, sire,” the soldier said.
“Any unexplained nausea? Tingling in your extremities?” asked Sazon as she took out a small pad of paper and a pencil. “It appears you were exposed to an intense amount of ‘gravitational energy,’ is that right, Mr. Clay?”
“No, it’s the Baumgartner effect from oscillating gravity fields,” Clay said, his eyes still on the crash site.
“So do you feel heavier? Lighter?” she asked Nemsi.
Nemsi stared at her for a few seconds. “What?”
“Incoming,” Fastal said, putting the handset to his chest and looking over the edge with Clay.
“You’re going to lose men,” Clay said. “Even if there’s just a few in there, they can fight.”
“Just remember you’re not a company commander anymore,” Clay said. “Riktan needs you.”
“He doesn’t need a coward at his command.” Fastal cocked an ear to the sky. “Here we go.”
Clay brought the heavy machine gun up to his shoulder, holding it with the same ease that Nemsi held his own much smaller rifle.
A parachute flare burst to life over the crash site, flooding the area with white light. A pair of shadows with oversized heads and unnatural bulk ran into the ship.
Nemsi yelped and ducked into his fighting position. He clutched his rifle to his chest and squeezed his eyes as tight as he could, repeating over and over again an old prayer against evil that his grandmother taught him.
****
“Forward!” Lieutenant Tarthon blew hard on his whistle and charged down the stream bed, pointing his revolver at the crashed ship with one hand and waving ahead with the other. He heard soldiers cursing, their footfalls behind him, but he refused to look and see if they were with him.
It was an old saying from Marshal Hawn’ru: if an officer’s men won’t follow him into battle, then he never deserved the rank—but he’ll deserve whatever death the enemy gives him.
The flare cut hard shadows against the crash, and dark angles shifted across the stream and nearby tree trunks like a whole day’s sun travel across the sky compressed into minutes.
Tarthon faltered as he got a glimpse inside the craft. It reminded him of the interior of a naval ship he’d been in during his academy days, but what he glimpsed through an open oval-shaped door was pristine—white walls and a lacquered deck. Luxurious compared to the painted steel and iron of a warship.
His lead foot hit a wet rock at just the wrong angle and he pitched forward, splashing into shin-deep water and gripping his pistol as tight as he could. Bad enough to trip over himself leading a charge, worse to lose his weapon in the process.
Hands grabbed him beneath the shoulders and hauled him up from the freezing water.