Osdal (Harmony War Series Book 3)

by Michael Chatfield

  Mark had seen people do amazing things during war, but he had also seen terrible things.

  He no longer looked at it as some kind of honorable fight. It wasn’t clean or pretty, and people didn’t just slap medals on you like he’d seen in holo-movies.

  People died, brutally, accidentally, from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, all of that shit, and he was tired of it. He’d embraced the fact that he would probably never see retirement, even the 35 years that the EMF gave a Trooper before kicking them out.

  He’d come to embrace his anger; it was his shield, the thing that kept him going. Anger and care, anger at his enemies and care for his brothers and sisters.

  “I don’t know what I would do if I lost them,” Mark said, crying. Nerva made no move to comfort Mark. For that Mark was grateful, he didn’t want a hug, he didn’t want pity, he just wanted to be told how to fix the scars that lined his mind instead of his body.

  Mark restrained his simmering, his need to destroy his enemies totally, else he might drive away his section and the people he cared for. His resistance was slipping away, and as Harmony got crueller, he continued to become numb.

  His anger was starting to feel justified, and that scared him.

  Mark wanted to kill all of the Chosen, he wanted to kill those that had come up with Harmony. He wasn’t just a Trooper any more, he actually cared about the colonists.

  What he’d seen on Masoul he wouldn’t wish on anyone, it was worse than any slum back on Earth.

  Mark let it all out, his fears and doubts for controlling himself. If he let himself slip an inch, he might fall a mile. The anger inside him was just looking for an excuse to be released.

  Nerva listened, and the weight of it all lifted from Mark’s shoulders.

  I never knew that just talking about things could help so much.

  ***

  Jerome got up from the medical table, and checked his implants, the settings had changed over from his first set to his second.

  While augments improved things within the body, like a person’s chemical outputs, accelerating healing, improved lung capacity and so on, implants referred to everything else. Things that didn’t necessarily improve the body, but gave someone more tools.

  The implants that Jerome had been given were made to look like another part of his body, they were thin and with sensor baffling equipment throughout. He could now talk through his implants without ever moving his lips.

  Better sensors dotted his skin, microns big and unseen, others were linked to his hands and arms so he could change things on the HUD, which was being relayed into his optical nerve, without using voice commands or specific gloves or non-stealthy implants.

  Moretti made them all mandatory, and augments were usually small and worked in someone’s body, few people were looking for them. Implants connected someone to the net and allowed communication across the known universe, if you had the credits to pay for a FTL relayed message.

  Harmony would be looking for them. Those that they found with implants they disabled, usually by pulling out the command chip that was located in the collarbone.

  Jerome checked himself over; there weren’t even any scars from the surgery, just those left behind from Sacremon and Masoul.

  He pulled his clothes on and stepped out of his cubicle. He’d seen these floors awash with blood and bodies crying out for aid. Now it was almost empty, with bored medics at the desks.

  Memories hit him as a wave, he knew it had been coming, but there was nothing you could quite do to protect yourself from the emotional turmoil of seeing so many injured people, knowing only too well that it could be you, or that under that blood they might be a friend, someone you’d shared a beer with, or talked to at the gym.

  He pulled his smart clothes tight, letting them connect themselves, and made his way out towards the training areas.

  Jerome was going to head to the cafeteria but he no longer felt like he had an appetite. His implants alerted him to people in his platoon in the auditorium, they had added their green icons to his view even through the doors and a level down. Holm was going over the heavy machine guns that they’d seen on Masoul and they even had a few hundred of the weapons.

  Holm was talking about the heavy machine gun in detail; one was mounted on a crude tripod, the other was pulled apart into its component parts.

  “Anything interesting?” Jerome asked, using his sub vocal implant as he looked at the stage, his lips unmoving.

  “You sound like a Resolute Station hooker,” Dashtund said, hearing Jerome’s voice garbled as he got used to the sub vocal implant.

  “And you would know?” Dominguez asked. The two of them had a thing but they kept it on the down low while they were in the same section. From what Jerome had seen they were more open about it now they were in separate sections, but they were still testing the waters.

  It was odd to see the strict Dominguez and snappy Dashtund’s verbal sparring.

  “Course he did, all of us do,” Niemi responded, the whole platoon clearing their throats to hide their smiles and laughs.

  Dominguez couldn’t quite hide her own smile as she shook her head.

  “To answer the original question, no, we already know these things as well as our own E-12s, it seems from Moretti’s back checking that these are not only heavy machine guns but really crude versions of them. They’re so big because Masoul wasn’t able to produce the proper materials. Bigger breeches, barrels and tripods to make up for the weakness in the materials. Each one was made individually, where every E-12 is identical, these ones are all different. The barrels only work with one gun, and a firing pin will only work on one gun. Once a gun goes down they have to replace the entire thing or remake the part perfectly, and that’s why Masoul’s Chosen could only bring 40% of their guns to work. Holm believes that Osdal will have smaller and lighter versions,” Mark said.

  “Great, so less carts needing to move the thing and more two or three-person groups,” Jerome said.

  “Exactly,” Dooks agreed.

  “While he’s just thinking about that for the gun, I’m wondering about the rounds, their regular rifles and armor plates.” Ko’s lips didn’t move but he looked to the group.

  “We’ll have to assume the worst. Better to go in thinking we’re going to be up against the worst instead of underestimating our enemy,” Mark said.

  “You been reading Sun Tzu again?” Sasaki asked.

  Mark shrugged which seemed to say Maybe, so what? “I just hope that they don’t have full-body armor,” Tyler looked to them all no one wanted to fight people who could have the same armor as them.

  “Heard that they’re going to let us have Anti-Material Rifles,” Dooks countered, there was a few grins at this. Including Tyler who rubbed his hands together like Christmas together, getting a few chuckles and snorts.

  “Damn, those things are like a credit a magazine,” Dominguez shook her head.

  “Yeah, I must have forgotten to tell you, I’m looking for volunteers to shoot on the AMRs and then train up others, any takers?” Tyler asked, a smile on his unmoving lips. It widened as Jerome and the others agreed with a twitch of their pinkies.

  “Alright, looks like I’ll have plenty of volunteers!” Tyler shook with a laugh, his screen looking like Christmas really had come around, a few pressing accept and not multiple times.

  Jerome and the rest of the platoon turned their attention back to the front of the auditorium. Holm was finishing up his briefing and invited everyone to come down and look at the weapons and ask questions.

  Jerome watched who went up first, and it was mainly veterans and those in higher ranks that he’d heard good things about in passing conversation.

  The information, while dull, could help out in a firefight.

  Holm’s section of only four people spread out around the weapons to answer questions and discuss the machine gun and other insights they had into Harmony.

  “Mind giving us a hand?” Holm asked, look
ing to them all as the stage and the area around it filled with people asking questions.

  “Come on ladies and gents,” Mark said, pushing through the crowd to get to the front. The rest of the platoon followed, happy to share their knowledge.

  ***

  Mark slapped a new clip into the AMR and pulled the cocking handle back. Augments in his ears were reducing the deck-shaking and ear-drum bursting noises of twenty Anti Material Rifles firing.

  “I’m gonna have a fucking bruise from this,” Bairamov complained. The man was a Repulsor gunner, and he was a decent shot, mostly due to Tyler’s tutelage, but his baby was the Repulsor with extra ammunition.

  “Oh shut up yah big crybaby,” Iliev said, happily firing away at the targets.

  They all wanted to be the best, which made them listen to the better shooter’s advice with a keen ear. All of the best shots welcomed a challenge. It was a good dynamic, but one that pushed people to do their best in a friendly way.

  “Alright, timed reactive shots. I’m going to give you each a scenario in your lanes, and you have five minutes, so prep. Enemies will react to your shooting,” Tyler called.

  They were shooting dummy rounds, which simulated the kickback of the rifle, but the range did everything else. They were segregated into ‘tunnels’ five meters wide with view screens along the walls, roof, floor and directly ahead.

  The screens could make up a scenario, fans would simulate air and the view screens would show it, adjusting to make the target appear further away or closer.

  The platoon swapped out magazines, and Mark took extras and put them next to his gun.

  “Ready!” Tyler warned, people finished up their last touches, Mark peered over his scope, the tunnel black.

  “Begin!”.

  The tunnels came to life; Mark was looking at a slum of some kind perched on a raised building.

  He saw movement, and bringing up his scope he locked onto the movement, counting people and watching their paths. He heard someone start firing.

  Someone else started moments later. Mark waited, he had ten minutes and he took his time, marking targets and estimating where they were going to go.

  He breathed, slow and careful.

  He checked his targets; there were fourteen, meaning he’d need to change magazines.

  Time to rock and roll. Mark thought, remembering all that Richter, his training staff for basic, and Tyler had drilled into his skull.

  He fired, expelling air as he changed targets, fired, changed targets, fired, let out air, new target.

  The enemies started running for cover and chaos ensued.

  Mark was fixated on his targets, but he missed a few times reloading, with only eight targets down. He got another three before the scene froze.

  “Clear weapons!” Tyler yelled.

  Weapons were unloaded and breeches left open as they waited for the results of their shooting. The view screen in front of Mark showed a replay of his rounds and placement. Mark made mental notes as he watched, data on correction, trigger pull, breathing, all of it was there.

  Mark looked for a few pieces of key information, using his implants to go back and forth through the shoot to see what he’d done well and badly.

  “Bring it in,” Tyler said a few minutes later, and everyone left their weapons where they were and gathered around Tyler, and Haas and Zukic were also there. Not about to let their egos get to their heads that they were the best shots around, they too were learning from Tyler.

  It made Mark respect them more, rather than think any less of the two leaders.

  “Alright, so this exercise was to see how well you were able to adjust to multiple targets that reacted like they were being shot at. It was an exercise in precision, your ability to think about the situation and adjusting on the fly. Some of you decided to start shooting as soon as you saw a target, not taking the time to search out the other targets in the area. This meant you got at least one good kill, but the others were sloppy. Others took too much time planning out the moves of their targets and didn’t have much time to actually shoot. Some of you made the right kind of estimations, and with educated guesses matched with knowledge of the weapon system, did well.” Tyler looked at everyone, his eyes never resting on anyone to single them out.

  If people wanted to reveal their scores, that was up to them, otherwise Tyler wasn’t going to put them on the spot. They were all adults, they knew what they had done wrong and what they had to do next time.

  “We’ll do another reactive shoot and then go grab some food?” Tyler said, looking to Haas and Zukic.

  “This is your show Tyler,” Haas said, waving to Tyler with a grin.

  Haas was happy to just be another Trooper for a while, sometimes being a leader was a lonely business.

  “Alrighty, get behind those guns, same rules as before, but this will be a different scenario.”

  Mark was hungry, but shooting guns, it was cathartic and fun when there wasn’t a real person at the other end of the barrel.

  Over the next shoot Mark improved and Tyler called a food break. People locked their AMRs in the armories and headed off to the cafeteria. Mark found himself in a group with Sergeants and above, talking about the AMRs and best practices.

  Mark saw a familiar face.

  “Ollie?” Tyler said first, and Mark saw the boy’s face go through recognition.

  He wasn’t a thin boy any more, he was a well-built young man with his hair cut short and his uniform crisp.

  “Tyler?” Ollie asked.

  Mark waded through the people, grinning.

  Ollie held out a hand, and was wrapped up in a bear hug by the two brothers, laughing as he was lowered to the ground.

  “The Victor brothers, fuck I’d never thought I’d see you two! Been a lifetime!” Ollie said.

  Tyler smiled, introducing them all. “Ollie, this is Jerome, another Victor, Second Lieutenant Haas, Warrant Zukic and this is our resident gun nut, Sergeant Holm.”

  They smiled and nodded to the young man who looked a bit overwhelmed to be talking to higher ranks so casually.

  “Good to meet you,” Ollie said, looking nervous.

  Ollie looked past them, seeing people from his platoon waving to him.

  “We’ll catch up later,” Mark said, tapping Ollie on the back.

  “Yeah, we should catch up, heard that you boys have been through some shit,” Ollie said, pitching his voice low in commiseration.

  “Yeah, it hasn’t been pretty,” Mark said feeling older.

  Ollie nodded, the smiles from before dissolved into grim nods and looks. “See you guys, good to meet you all,” Ollie said, nervous he’d fuck up in some way and get reamed out.

  “He’s so new he squeaks,” Tyler said as Ollie raced to catch up with his platoon.

  “Yeah, that’ll change,” Mark said, remembering a lifetime ago when he’d talked to Ollie about the first time he’d killed and seen his friends die.

  It didn’t feel like that life was real anymore.

  Chapter 7

  Mining City Twenty-One

  Masoul Actual Masoul System

  5/3266

  Caroline heard the screams first, then the grinding noise of the Diggers. She had heard the older people refer to it as fingernails on a chalkboard; it sent razor blades down your spine.

  The shift siren went off and didn’t stop. She could hear shooting, and it wasn’t just the loud cracks of the Chosen’s rifles, but heavier thuds that brought back images of the Chosen’s last end to a riot.

  Green lines spat out from their muzzles, cutting through humans, leaving their remains unrecognizable.

  Then she was up and running, and adrenaline made her alive.

  People were running in every direction; most were headed towards the towers that made up Mining City Twenty-One.

  She looked to the strip mines, where a Digger came up from under a truck. They looked like an octopus with a squid’s head. That head had teeth capable of eating through Osdal Actu
al’s metal crust.

  Its head smashed through the bottom of the truck and vibrated, cutting the truck apart. The truck exploded, but the Digger was unaffected, protected by its metal scales.

  The rounds fired by the heavy machine guns hit the scales, bouncing along the Digger’s body, and rounds that hit its head went careening off.

  Ellie, one of the few people that Caroline had become friends with, pulled on her arm.

  “Let’s go!” she urged, trying to get her to go in the direction of the city.

  “If we get to the sonic pad we’ll be fine!” Caroline said, pointing to the cermite pad where most of the machines were charged and worked on. There were three large towers with what looked like a bell on them at each corner of the pad. It was only a few hundred meters away, instead of kilometers.

  Caroline looked to Ellie as another Digger vibrated to the surface in the middle of the people fleeing, its teeth cutting anything it touched to shreds.

  It let its head fall, crushing hundreds as its tentacles lashed out; this one was as large as an in-system freighter, each tentacle eight foot wide.

  Other Diggers were rushing out of the ground.

  “Trust me Ellie!” Caroline said.

  “Alright, go!”

  Caroline turned and ran for the maintenance pad.

  They got there unscathed, but Diggers were bursting out of everywhere, the night sky filled with lines of tracers.

  A digger convulsed, and its teeth stopping moving as it came crashing down like at tree in a storm.

  Two others joined it, but there must have been twenty Diggers, ranging from as big as an air-car to mountainous ones, the size of inter-system freighters.

  Caroline and Ellie huddled on top of a powered down truck, watching the horror as Diggers disappeared, only to reappear in front or among the running Earthers.

  The Chosen scrambled into their air cars and flew for the city, and the heavy machine guns in the city’s towers opened up on the Diggers, occasionally hitting Earthers as they got in Diggers way. The Chosen didn’t care, everyone down in the strip mines was just cattle to them.

  Ellie started crying, and Caroline felt hot tears on her own cheeks. If the Chosen and their mines didn’t kill her, then the Diggers would.