“How many did you hook up like this?” asked Keel, intrigued.
“All of them.”
“Good.” Keel thumbed on his fire control, and one by one, he launched all of his ten missiles at high atmosphere. Then he took his ship in low for its landing. “Well, this should be fun. Get the war bot outfitted, quick as you can.”
***
Prisma sat on a bench in the armory, loading and unloading a charge pack. Tyrus Rechs had taught her how to handle a blaster.
“How much longer until the bot’s ready?”
Garret looked up at the armory ceiling, as though hearing a voice from heaven. It was, in actuality, just Captain Keel checking in over the comm. “A minute?” he answered.
Prisma slammed the charge pack back into place and glared upward at the comm sensors. “You’re not sending Crash outside without me,” she yelled.
Keel could be heard sighing into the open channel. “We’re dropping the bot from low orbit to hit a column of dark legionnaires en route to our landing zone. You’re more than welcome to jump out with him, though.”
“Maybe I will!”
Garret closed a shoulder hatch freshly stocked with anti-vehicle missiles. “Oh, you shouldn’t,” he said to Prisma. “Crash is made out of an impervisteel alloy designed to absorb the impact of a low-altitude jump. He’ll just tuck his legs and roll a bit. But if you did something like that, you’d probably—”
Prisma rolled her eyes. “I’m not actually, Garret.”
“Oh,” he replied. “Good.”
“Prisma…” The voice over the comm was Leenah’s. “Crash is a tough bot, you know that. He can really help us out by keeping Goth Sullus’s troops occupied while we land. He’ll come back to us.”
Prisma pursed her lips and blew out her breath. “Fine. I guess it’s okay if Crash kills some of Goth Sullus’s bad guys. Will you stay with me on the ship until he gets back?”
“Of course,” Leenah said, her voice sweet and compassionate. “In fact, why don’t you head over to my quarters? I’ll teach you that game I told you about.”
“The one from your planet you used to play when you were little?”
“That’s the one. Malcalla.”
Prisma hopped down from her bench and tucked the blaster pistol into her belt. Keel wouldn’t like that, which made her happy to do it. She looked up at the war bot. “Okay, Crash. Kill all those bad guys. Especially Goth Sullus if you see him.”
“I am programmed to terminate all targets identified by my handler,” Crash answered in a low, menacing voice.
Prisma snarled in displeasure. “I hate your soldier voice.”
“Sorry,” Garret said. “I have to make his war bot programming primary in order to maximize his chances of battle survival. If I let too much of friendly Crash have control, he might not—”
“It’s fine,” Prisma said. “As long as you can switch him back once he gets back home.”
“Oh, I can,” Garret said. The comm on his lapel chimed, and Garret tucked his chin into his chest in an attempt to look straight down at it. “Who’d be calling me at this port?”
Masters stepped into the armory. “Is the war bot ready?” he asked Garret, then paused at seeing Prisma. “Oh, hey, Prisma! You’re not in your armor. I thought you were going to kit up and go on the raid with us.”
Prisma grinned and then pointed to the blaster tucked into her belt. “I don’t have any armor, but I’ve got this. I know how to use it, too. Tyrus Rechs taught me.”
Masters tasseled her hair. “So cool,” he said, and then pressed Garret again. “Is the bot ready?”
Still preoccupied with his comm, Garret answered, “Yeah, he’s ready. Can you lead him to the bay door? He’s programmed, but I’ve got this weird call I need to look into.” The slim coder muttered to himself, “Why would Cade Thrane call me?”
“Sure, I can do that,” Masters said. “But only if Prisma will come along as my backup. You know, in case the war bot decides it wants a piece of all this.” Masters modeled his armored body.
Prisma giggled and blushed. “Crash is nice,” she said, gathering her composure. “He wouldn’t try to hurt my friends. But I’ll come with you anyway.”
Masters, Crash, and Prisma left the armory and made their way through the corridors to the main lounge. The Dark Ops team was already assembled next to the main ramp. Chhun, his helmet on, put a hand on his helmet, next to his ear. He motioned for the war bot to come near.
“It’s time to deliver our special package,” Masters said to Prisma. “You’d better stay on this side of the room. Grab hold of something if you’re not going to strap in, okay?”
Prisma buckled herself into a crash seat and watched as one of the legionnaires lowered the ramp, causing gusts of wind to whip their way inside the ship. Prisma’s hair flew around her face wildly. The outside smelled lush and sweet—a rich mix of new growth and the decomposing vegetation that fed it.
Crash walked to the edge of the ramp, and without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped out into the dark night sky. The spot where the bot had stood afforded a view of treetops rushing by. Even as the ramp was raised, the sound of distant blaster fire and explosions could be heard penetrating the darkened still of the pre-dawn morning.
“Prepare for landing,” Keel announced over ship-wide comm. “I found us a good vantage point to paint the shipyard for orbital strike.”
11
Personal Memoirs of C. Chhun
There’s a terrifying point in war, when you comprehend just how much your survival depends on luck. For me, that realization came in my first combat deployment. This was before Kublar. Before Dark Ops. I was Corporal Cohen Chhun, and I had no idea what I was in for.
The destroyer Chiasm—yes, that Chiasm—had just kicked us out for a six-month deployment on Marat. There was a Republic-sponsored spaceport on planet, named for some regional governor. I don’t even remember what the place was called, though I’d sworn I’d never forget it. But you do forget these things. Or at least, I do. This spaceport was a case study of contrasts. The areas controlled by the Republic, around the customs buildings, Legion camp, selectmen halls, and regulated trade zones, was spotless. Streets kept so clean by the bots that you could eat off of them. It was actually a great place to be stationed, even though no one ever actually did eat off the streets.
In fact, the only problem with being stationed at this spaceport on Marat was the daily trips to the parts of the city where people did eat off the streets. Which, considering everything else the native kellochs—and humans—did on those streets, was a phenomenally unhealthy thing to do. Even with Republic anti-bacs handed out at every aid-shanty that peppered this rougher part of town.
But out we went, our squadron taking patrols on alternate days. Sometimes to take a VIP to hear grievances from the local selectmen, or to meet with a Republic aid worker and listen to requests for stronger security, additional medical supplies, stuff like that. The reason for the patrols was never really offered. We just rolled out and did our job, knowing that by simply leaving and showing that leejes weren’t afraid of what was outside the wire, we were dealing out psychological victories to the kellochs and humans who bristled at the Republic’s presence.
You don’t like that three squads of leejes are walking down your streets? Do something about it. Otherwise, the rest of your town will know that all you’ve got going for you is a gut full of talk and a spine full of cowardice.
Most of the natives stayed inside their homes when our sleds came floating down the street. But every so often, at least one in four trips, someone would test you. A gunman with a fifty-rate sniper rifle would ping a sled’s windshield or take potshots at a basic turret gunner. And then get dusted by a leej. Usually Twenties when they messed with our squad. We came in together, Twenties and me.
I miss him.
So one day, we’re on foot, walking out alongside our sled as it moves slowly through a particularly crowded street. There was some so
rt of local bazaar, like a festival shopping event. Everyone was out buying, selling, trading, drinking—puking on the streets. Fun times. We were stalled behind a throng of intoxicated locals, all of them leaning on one another, each one the only thing that prevented the other from falling down drunk. They simply would not clear out off the street, no matter how much the basic gunner in our sled cursed and yelled and motioned for them to move to the side.
“Lieutenant Ford,” I remember Private Clauderro asking, “can we just have the driver run over these idiots?”
“No,” Ford answered. “Pappy feels like we’re making inroads here. Wants to leave Marat a better planet than we found it for the next rotation of leejes. Doomsday, move up and help these beings find the sidewalks.”
“On it,” replied Sergeant Giorgis, LS-67, who was in charge of Doomsday Squad. We called him Life, because if there was ever a career legionnaire, it was him. A decade older than us, he already seemed to have lived a lifetime in the Legion, from our frame of reference. Not Pappy levels, but old enough that he could call us “kid” and we wouldn’t think anything of it. He could cite every legionnaire rule and reg from memory, was an absolute beast in combat, and learned whatever he needed to know the first time, every time. Officers in Victory Company were all constantly trying to nab him for their squads, but Wraith had a way of getting what he wanted. And so Life was going to be in Doomsday, Specter, or Hyena for as long as Second Lieutenant Ford had Pappy’s attention. And given the way Wraith performed on the battlefield, he didn’t look to give it up any time soon.
“Chhun, Twenties.” Life signaled us out. Even his hand motions were crisp and perfect. “Let’s clear the way.”
We waded into the revelers and began herding them off the street. But it was like digging a hole in the sand. It seemed that for every drunken local we got to the side, a few more slid back in front of the combat sleds. Nothing nefarious, not like they were purposefully blocking our way, just too many people having too good a time. Like I said, packed street.
Zzzziim!
A long rifle shot sizzled over our heads, fired at range from a point north of us. That cleared the streets. The celebrants ran for cover, ducking in alleys or behind sleds so that the leejes had to hurl them out of the way in order to stay protected. I spun around as the crowd around me dispersed in a panic. The gunner on the twins of the sled behind me had been hit right where the neck meets the shoulder. He was slumped back, his mouth open and moaning in some kind of pain. Someone from the inside pulled him back into the sled, and a legionnaire popped up to take the basic’s place.
“Where did that shot come from?” Wraith called out over L-comm.
“North,” Life answered. He ducked behind an open-air caff stand that pushed out onto the sidewalks.
North of us, at the end of the street we were on, about a half click away, stood a cluster of four-story buildings. They had been condemned, were supposed to have been abandoned, and should have been torn down. But Republic officials rarely took much stock in the “shoulds” when they came from the Legion.
Life gave an arms briefing on the all-squad channel. “That was a Penderan Arms hunting rifle. Big game on New Penda, takes special permits to have one of those. Shouldn’t be out this far. So I’m saying don’t count on your armor to keep you safe. Heads down.”
“I want some fire on those buildings,” Wraith said.
Immediately the twin heavy blaster turrets on the combat sleds opened up. Ripping fire through the windows. But… there were a lot of windows.
Zzzziim!
Another round came streaking toward us. It went right through a leej’s arm and hit a fleeing kelloch in the back. It would have hit the leej in the head, had the leej not stumbled over an overturned cart of salash—a sort of local ice cream—right at the crucial moment. This guy, wherever he was, was good.
While leej medics scrambled to take care of the wounded, Sergeant Life was hyper-focused on finding the sniper.
“Twenties!” he called out. “Did you see where that last shot came from?”
“No, Sergeant.” Twenties had his rifle out and was scanning the north buildings. “Shooter knows what he’s doing.”
Life nodded. “Everybody, keep out of sight. Twenties, hand me your rifle. I’m going to show you an old, old trick.”
Life removed his bucket and put it on top of the barrel of Twenties’s N-18. “Okay, keep eyes on those buildings.”
“I’ve got a peeper in the air looking for incoming blaster fire,” Wraith said.
“Let’s hope our shooter doesn’t take out the bot,” I replied.
“Nah, this’ll be too tempting to resist,” said Life. With the helmet’s visor facing the direction of fire, Life raised the helmet above the caff stand as if it were a soldier taking a look just a bit too conspicuously.
Zzzziim!
The sniper sent a blaster bolt directly into the helmet, sending it and the N-18 clattering onto the ground.
“Okay,” Wraith said. “I’ve got positive confirmation. Shooter is dug in deep into the center building. Way in the back. Don’t think our twins can get the right angle. I’m transmitting building grid number to you all. Anyone have a shot?”
The replies came back negative.
“That’s fine,” Wraith said, talking to himself as much as to us over the L-comm. “Just trying to save the Republic some money. I’ll get Chiasm to target for orbital bombardment.”
That was the nice thing about serving on the Chiasm. Captain Vaneers had no qualms about going all out in support of the legionnaires on the ground if we asked him for it.
Zzzziim! Zzzziim!
The sniper sent a pair of additional blaster bolts down range. These two didn’t find any targets.
“Okay, listen up,” Wraith announced over L-comm. “Chiasm says expect targeted bombardment in thirty seconds. They’re not looking to take the whole block out. Just the one building.”
We watched as the target building was bathed in a red glow from the precision laser painting the path of the ship’s main laser batteries. Seconds later, what sounded like thunder shooting down a metallic traffic tunnel filled our bucket’s audio receptors. Three massive bolts blasted their way through the roof of the target building, causing all the windows—in not only the target building but those buildings surrounding it—to shatter and spray shards of glass onto the streets below. Doors and structurally weak sections of wall buckled and were flung outward, some of them landing within a couple hundred meters of us.
The shots were perfect. Right through the roof, essentially hollowing out the building while maintaining the structural integrity of the exterior walls. If you could fly up and hover over the top of the building, you’d be able to see straight down into the sub-levels.
As the dust cleared, we stood up and began to re-form on the column. But Life wanted to retrieve his bucket, so we waited for him. He came back with his bucket in one hand and Twenties’s rifle in the other.
“Here you go,” Life said, handing the rifle back to its owner. “Don’t lose your weapon again, Twenties.” Life winked and examined his bucket. It had a hole right through the visor. He put his hand inside the helmet and wiggled a finger out through the hole. “Told you those Pendaran rifles packed a punch.”
“It’s not often a leej looks scarier with his bucket off,” Twenties joked.
“Ooah,” replied Life. “Let’s get you ladies back to the C-S.”
I held out an arm. “After you, sir. Age before beauty.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a wise-ass, Chhun?”
And with that, Life took his first step from behind our meager cover and back onto the street.
Pek!
The blast came from a standard, run-of-the-mill blaster rifle, fired by a kelloch who’d jumped around the corner at the very end of the street. He didn’t even aim. Life went down hard, his head slamming directly onto the street, nothing left in his arms to protect his face.
Twenties swiftly r
aised his N-18 and tracked the shooter, who was attempting to flee back around the corner. All he could see of the attacker was the thin calf muscle of his right leg. Twenties blew it off at the knee.
Legionnaires rushed to the end of the alley and captured the shooter, who was writhing in pain from the loss of his limb. I heard later that the kelloch took the shot not because he had any problems with the Legion, or even with the Republic, but because his old lady always told him he was gutless—and he figured shooting a legionnaire would put that insult to bed once and for all. Out on the edge, it’s not just disgruntled militias and war-thirsty tribes mixing in with rebels that pose a risk. Everything out there can kill you.
I looked down at Life. I didn’t bother to call for a medic, because there was no point. The hole in his head left no doubts that he was dead. A medic came anyway, but after a few seconds, it was obvious that he was just going through the motions. I just stared at this flawless legionnaire. And I realized that if he could get dusted like this, that no amount of training could save you when your time came.
The blast that killed Life was from a rifle that our armor was fully capable of deflecting. If Life doesn’t lose his helmet. If I walk out first. If Life is a few inches shorter. If any of those things… Life is still alive at the end of that day. But his luck ran out.
So, yeah. It doesn’t matter how good you are. You could be the perfect soldier, but if it’s your time… you’re dead. No arbitration hearing.
I say all this because as this Naseen freighter called the Indelible VI cycles through its systems check after landing, I see Wraith emerge from his quarters wearing his armor. It’s more or less Dark Ops legionnaire gear, but with a few extra tricks added on. After-market stuff that can’t be afforded on a Legion salary. A neuro-dart attached to the wrist plate, and what look like jump jets built into the heels of his boots. You can’t fly with those, but they’re enough to get you clear of a hot spot. His helmet is still off, and I see this man I’ve fought beside in the most desperate action I’ve ever witnessed. It’s a strange sight, seeing him without his bucket. Wraith always kept his bucket on when we served together. He was known for it. A switched-on leej who never cycled off.
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