“Setting up a three-sixty around the ship. They're expecting trouble,” Troya said.
A striker bot walked from the ship, the plates of one of its forearms flaring open. A slight green glow flared from its arm before the display went out.
“Twin Hells,” Corporal Brasson cursed. “They just dead-lined my drones. Troy, feed me that view from your scope.”
One of the bots from outside the ship fired a single bolt. It sailed in, as though on a guide wire, blowing out Van Eiber's scope. The force of the impact sheered it clear from the mounting bracket, ripping the rifle from the lancer's hand.
“Man! If he had been eyes on that scope!” Brasson screamed, yanking Van Eiber away from his firing point.
“Lucky they stream to our HUDs,” Troya said over his shoulder.
Van stuffed the ruined optic in the dump pouch behind his armor.“Troy, trade out.”
They tossed their rifles at each other. Troy flipped open the back up sights on the CR-12 to cover the team’s backs while Van Eiber's combat computer altered the holo-sights on the CR-55 to match his preference.
“Tag. You're it.” Van Eiber pulled the trigger. The bolt flew back toward the bot that offended him. It knocked the mech over, sprawling it into the wet gravel. The heavy infantry mech slammed down to a knee, raising its arm to produce an energy shield in their direction. The other bots closed ranks, huddling against the shielding mech. The woman was the only one who didn't change her position. To her credit she was already behind the heavy and not in danger of being shot from the recon team.
“Hey Troy. Your scope's all gaffed.”
“It was fine before you touched it, Van!”
Van trained the new weapon on the target area, giving his team leader a clear picture of unfolding events. “Brass, I'm feeding you.”
Two identical Orin Lashras climbed from the elevator shaft. An instant later, Fluffang Doom-Snuggle shot from the hole to land beside the downed bot. He hoisted it onto its feet, dragging it after the group hurrying up the ramp. Splashes of loose rock flew in all directions as the pilot slammed the repulsors into full push. The ship unleashed a hailstorm of blaster bolts on its mad scramble for the upper atmosphere.
During the rain of fire from the ship, the three lancers pulled themselves as deep as they could into the outcropping. Stone cracked under the barrage, showering the troopers in stone fragments. The large rock shelf succumbed to the attack, crumbling on top of them in an avalanche of roots and shale. Several minutes passed with only the wind passing over the stretch leading toward the Sink.
“Are we done being dead yet, Corporal?”
“Knock it off, Troy. I'm trying to talk to Lance Sergeant Zane.”
“Is he mad we got made?”
“He's going to be mad if you keep interrupting me,” Brasson growled. “Right now he wants to know if we're dead.”
“I am,” responded Van Eiber.
The other lancers stopped for a moment before erupting in side splitting laughter.
“Hey, Brass.”
“Yeah, Troy.”
“I really love how compact and lightweight this recon armor is but can we please keep in mind that the battery on the frame is not as good as the full blown sets?”
“Are you telling me to get some help here, ASAP?” Brasson asked.
“That would be nice.”
Van interrupted his teammates. “And tell them to bring soup.”
Both lancers glared at their uncharacteristically chatty teammate. They were lucky if they could get a full sentence out of him during an operation. He had once quoted a family recipe to Brasson who had been complaining about food from the dining facility. That performance had elicited a betting frenzy against the rest of the Devil Hunters to see if anyone could get him to say as much again.
“Why soup?” Troya asked.
“When I was in the Force Majeure, anytime it got cold and wet on the range, the cooks would send us hot soup.”
“That's cute,” Troya said. “But does this look like the range?”
“I want my soup.”
“Help is on the way,” Brasson said. “Troya, stop stepping on me.”
The Battle-net lit up like the racing lights at a Solvineaux Grand Prix. Rapid fire commands from the line corporals blanketed the HUDs of junior lancers, depending on their ready status. The Devil Hunters, locked into the recon variant of their renowned armor system, looking much more like the rest of the Elysian Forces.
Lance Sergeant Zane moved to the medium assault shuttle, checking in with the sergeants as to the readiness of their squads.
Mara bounded down the ramp, stopping at the gargantuan lancer. “Our boys holding out?”
“Roger that, ma’am. We have Balaji moving to them now, but odds are that we’ll get to them first.”
“Load ’em and bolt ’em, Lance Sergeant.”
“You keep talking like that, ma’am, you are going to get kicked out the space wizards and end up a lancer!”
“Don’t you threaten me with a good time, Lance Sergeant.”
Zane watched the much smaller marshal bound back to her spot in the shuttle. She preferred to be by the door, wanting very much to be the first one out when the ramp dropped. She locked the helmet on her head, adjusting the recon armor she was assigned, like a child fiddling with a scratchy collar on a shirt. He smiled at the thought of many years telling lancers that their marshals were no different than they were. Sure they still put pants on one leg at a time, even if they could do it while using space voodoo to hover a meter off the ground. “Lancers! Load and lock. Chalk Leaders forward me your jump-stat on the quick.” He fiddled with the holo-display floating over his wrist. “Hey, up there. We good to jump the wild blue?”
“Kind of a dusky grey right now, truth be told,” came the gruff voice over the comm.
“L.T., I have a bay full of lancers, a marshal giving me the stink eye, and three deep on the ground that need immediate evac. You telling me to get my fourth point of contact in a seat so we can light this candle would make my day.”
“Lance Sergeant, get your fourth point of blah blah blah so we can go.”
Zane raised his arms to flag crew in the bay. One of them signed back, using the VTOL hand signals common to the Elysian Navy. The tech waved back that they were launch ready. It also meant it was time for him to stop fussing about and load up. Zane smiled, placing the rebreather over his mouth. Three things you didn’t mess with in the Elysian Navy: the one who does your laundry, cooks your food, or launches you into the void of space.
The shuttle pilot, Lieutenant Bellasso, came over the Battle-Net. “Lancers, we are clear from ATAC to break the boredom and go dirt-side to make a mess. Skies are overcast with winds at six KPH, north by north east. DZ is half a klick from a large sink hole leading to the mine. Asset recovery for on site recon team is marked on your overlays. Stay frosty, Stay Safe and faith forward, Devil Hunters.”
The combined group in the shuttle responded, “Ever onward!”
Zane tapped a display in the Battle-Net, sending a message to the marshal. “Time to target, four minutes.”
Mara whirled her hands in the empty air over her lap, the display visible on the HUD in her lid. She was double checking the roles they assigned in the pre-combat briefing, ensuring the tactical overlays matched with the info everyone was given. Target data coming from the surface showed that their crew, caught under several tons of rock, still had strong vitals as well as plenty of power to the skeletal combat frames in their recon armor.
The entire bay of lancers rocked after pounding noises knocked outside the hull. A few of the newer members of the platoon looked around curiously, looking for the source of the noise. Corporals did their work of assuring the younger members that lancers were the real boogiemen of the universe. Bumps outside the hull need not apply.
There was a sensation of weightlessness as two more pops rang out through the bay. The feeling was cut short when powerful thrusters came online to push
everyone into their seats. After a moment under direct thrust, the ship took on a decidedly downward angle like an arrow descending to target after reaching the apex of the arc. While normal lancer armor was fully environmental and fitted with pressure force compensators, the recon armor they all wore were little more than a heavily armored skeletal combat frame with an environmental helmet system. Periodic grunts or groans made it through the helmet filters into the Battle-Net, much to the chagrin of the line corporals who immediately locked down their charges against their lack of discipline.
Mara sat relaxed on the seat close to the door. She always wanted to be first. She had to be first. It was the way she was trained, the way Seladriel had trained her. Lions hunt from the front. A signal from one of the loadmasters brought her to her feet. She worked the interface in her helmet to direct message Costa and Solere in the Fourth Squad. “Delta Hotel 4-2 and 4-6. You’re up. Recon and close air support on station to Drop Zone Alpha. Wide and clear until Delta Hotel element is one hundred percent drop.”
“Aye ma’am. Faith Forward.”
“Ever onward, lancers!”
The rear ramp of the shuttle dropped, exposing the interior to a violent rush of air. The nearly three meter tall armored pilots jumped into the clouds outside. There was a loud pop flash from their accelerator packs coming to life. Surfboard wings extended from them, granting extreme maneuverability in the dense skies of Doseidos. They split apart, darting left and right out of sight of the shuttle back.
“Stand up!” came the loadmaster command. Lancer HUDs flashed warning indicators with short lived alarms to alert the lancers to the current conditions.
“One minute!” The loadmaster held his arms above his head, index fingers on both hands pointing to the roof of the fuselage. He was at the top of the ramp, standing in the center of two columns of lancers ready for an airborne operation. Magnalock boots secured him to the deck. Attached to the armored vest he wore was a jump-pack in the event he fell from the aircraft.
“Thirty seconds!” Everyone held their hands up, cupping their fingers together as though they were pinching something. Each man yelled out the time hack, showing the man behind him this gesture.
“Delta Hotel Actual, this is Razorback 2-Alpha, the sky is yours!” came the excited call from the pilot.
“Go! Go! Go!” the loadmaster yelled as he dropped his hands and walked to the nose of the aircraft between the two columns of fighters.
They ran from their positions, flying out from the bay into the uncertainty of the clouds. The last lancers jumped into the expanse, prompting Mara and Zane to point to each other with thumbs up before looking at the loadmaster in the front of the bay. He had his thumbs to them, a gesture indicating all lancers had jumped. The two platoon leaders launched from the deck, adopting spread eagle postures to control their descent.
A map overlay appeared in Mara's HUD, showing the position of the falling lancers with the two battle-frame pilots providing overwatch. At five hundred meters, warning alerts lit up on the displays, showing threat levels tied to the rapidly evaporating elevation. More cautious lancers activated the jump packs at higher elevations, giving them a clear view of the veterans rocketing past them. Mara waited until the last second to pop the arms on her jump pack.
The top of the pack coughed out an energized fiber that slowed her descent and brought her from horizontal to vertical. The pack closed, severing the lines. Rocket arms came from the pack to provide direction and thrust. Her descent slowed until it was barely a deteriorating hover. She landed an the wet, rocky ground with a couple of running steps to stabilize her landing.
“Delta Hotel Actual to Delta Seven.”
Zane was quick to respond. “This is Delta Seven. We are one hundred percent drop. Lima, Alpha unchanged. Network is up. We have zero casualties, and all equipment accounted for. Over.”
“Good LANCE report. Break. 4-2 drop onto the hole and secure. 4-6 stay sky-side and cover. How copy?” Mara didn't wait for either of the frame pilots to signal in the affirmative. She ran toward the beacon for the downed recon team.
Sergeant Bolaji was already there. He had pried loose a few stones but had gotten to the limit of what he could do himself. “One of the rocks shifted. Van Eiber is holding up the bulk of the weight but the battery on his armor is dying quickly, so I slaved my power system to his. We only have a few moments to dig them out before this collapses.”
“Stand aside, lancer,” Mara ordered. She felt her perceptions shift as she tapped into the Crucible. Strands of reality made themselves clear to her, giving her the ability to rearrange them in any form she chose. The Way showed her where she needed to push or pull to alter the fabric of space to what she wanted. She stretched out a hand toward the crumbling overhang, sensing the lancer's fear. She could feel the faith they had in the Way and in each other. Then she caught hold of what she was looking for, the weight of the stone. Something in the ground shifted at her command.
“Sergeant. Please pull Troya out.”
Bolaji went to work, sifting mud encrusted wet stone until he came to an arm. He pulled on the offered limb until the young private wiggled free.
“Thanks for the assist, Sergeant. Just in time, too. I think Brasson had tacos.”
Bolaji slapped the private on the shoulder and the two went to work digging out Corporal Brasson. They were showered in small stones coming from the trooper pulling his way free of the ruined hill.
He rolled from the hole, laying on his back to stare into the cloudy night. “I think my leg is broken.”
The two ignored him in their frantic dig to grab Van Eiber. There was another shift in the stone, scaring both men into a sitting position. The entombed lancer yelped.
“Van!” Bolaji called.
“I'm good. Stones shifted. My arm is trapped.”
Mara grunted, “Get him out. I don't know how much longer I can hold this!”
Solere dropped from the sky to land right beside the digging duo. He propped the battle-frame under the largest of the stones. Knowing better to get in the way of Marshal space voodoo, he called over the loudspeakers in the armor. “Marshal! Can I push up the rock here for support?”
“Yes! A meter to your left is good. That will take some of the pressure off of that arm.”
“We got him!” Bolaji shouted.
The second Van Eiber was free, everyone backed away with a quickness. Mara released her hold on the brittle piece of geography, letting it crumble into a craggy pile of earth.
She stumbled to her knees, ripping her helmet from her skull to reveal a panting tangle of braids tumbling onto the muddy ground. She was barely aware of a series of plodding splashes storming in her direction. An intense beam flashed into one eye, then then next.
“Marshal. You okay? Can you tell me your full name?”
“Apply your medical mojo over there, Doc. I'm good. Just need a minute.”
“I use to serve with a young marshal that lifted before he looked, ma'am. He nearly stroked out.”
“I am neither young nor ignorant of my ability, Doc. Go fix the broken leg.”
The medic helped her to a sitting position, showing her the injured corporal. “He's not broken, Marshal. He's punctured. There use to be a tree or something on that particular hill. Part of the root system tried to use his leg as a shortcut.”
“Great. Even the salad here wants us dead. Go. Leg. Fix.”
“On it, Marshal.”
She looked up in time to see a hand reach for her. “Easy, bigness. Levels.”
“Levels?” Zane croaked.
“Yeah. I have to get up in levels. It's not the age, it's the mileage.” The marshal winked at the Vosi senior lancer. The gesture and the half grin forming on her face told Zane everything he needed to know about her condition.
“Good to know. Doc is stabilizing that leg and we're going to yank him out. Should have him back to us in a day or so once he gets some right proper medical science applied.”
Mara
reached for her helmet, clearing the muck from the visor. “Good to know. We have a status on that ship that just took off with our boy?”
Zane ignited a holo over his wrist, showing the video feed and a picture-in-picture freeze frame of ship in question. “ATAC is tracking it back to Outpost-7. Razorback wants to know if we want a pick up or for them to heavy drop in a batch of Rovers for us to roll on over to the place.”
The marshal fanned her hands into the universal, 'i-don't-know' gesture. “What is it with fly boys always wanting to drop tons of credits out the back door, never once paying attention to cost? Tell them to save the chutes. Have them drop in dirt-side past the south side of the DZ where they're less visible. They can pick up Brasson and roll out a few rovers. I don't want the whole platoon out in force if I don't have to. Have Solere stay on station so we have some air cover. First squad rides into the town with us. Corvin and second squad as QRF.”
“On it, ma'am.”
There was a trumpeted howl somewhere off in the distance. It reverberated around the rocky terrain, making it hard to tell where the sound was coming from.
“Lance Sergeant. Let's get a rush on that. Sounds like the neighbors don't like us here playing our loud music and messing up the place.”
“You got it, Marshal.”
Thirteen
The doors to the Palladium opened, allowing a small procession of skeletal, blank faced robots to spill into the building. A gaggle of the armed machines staggered in, leading two heavy infantry mechs. People sitting in the entrance hall folded up their belongings to shuffle to anywhere else but here. The concierge took a steadying breath before offering his much rehearsed greeting. “Welcome to the Palladium, Doseidos North. My name is Brandon. How may I assist you? Oh. Mr Lashra. I hadn't expected you to come in with such... guests.”
The Revenant: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 2) Page 16