by B. V. Larson
“Pretty good. She was one of their top fighters.”
Candidly, I had to agree with her, but there was no percentage in admitting that. I laughed quietly instead.
“Natasha, get real! That girl is fifty lights away—and anyway, why do you care so much? Do you want to start going out with me again?”
“Certainly not.”
I tried not to smile, but I failed. I knew she wanted to go out. Why the hell else would she care so much about the ghost of Della, someone who probably wasn’t even—
“Legion Varus, 3rd Cohort, 3rd Unit,” Turov announced.
It could have been my imagination, but I thought maybe the Imperator had given the camera a little flickering smile as she listed my unit designation.
“I don’t believe it,” Natasha said. “That bitch.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “She said we’ll train with auxiliary cavalry, right? That sounds pretty cool.”
“Not if it was her idea. Not if she picked us off the list for this special assignment. Didn’t you see her smirk at the camera? We’re doomed.”
I shook my head. Natasha could be overly dramatic sometimes.
-7-
The flotilla dropped out of warp near an orange-looking K-class star system encircled by lifeless worlds. Before we went back into warp, my unit was transferred off Minotaur and onto Cyclops. The ships were all armed Imperial transports, so they looked pretty much the same. Cyclops had the same bulbous hull and a full broadside of sixteen big guns for armament.
The main hold of Cyclops was occupied by a stack of modules in the same manner as the other two ships. The number of modules was smaller, however, and they’d been pushed together to form a single mass about three modules high. On top of these modules was a wide, flat area about a kilometer square.
My unit was brought in first before any other unit had transferred. Marching into the hold in columns four abreast, we exited the lifter’s ramps and were ordered to climb up to the top of that stack of modules. We hustled, not wanting colonials to see us looking weak.
I noticed one thing along the way up stairs of steel tubing to the top: the gravity was turned on full-force. Usually while traveling in space, they maintained a centrifugal force of half-gravity to keep us fit and to make it easier to get around. But today my body weighed over a hundred kilos and my kit was twice that much. Fortunately, our exoskeletal armor helped out with the load.
Once we stepped out on top of the modules, we were wowed by an unusual sight. Arrayed on this large, flat surface were long lines of fighting machines. I recognized them immediately.
“Hey,” Carlos said, coming up to me with a broad grin. “I know those machines! Turov drove one of these babies when she snapped off your head back on Tech World.”
“That’s right. But as I recall, she killed you first with one snip.”
“Whatever.”
“These look bigger,” I said, marveling and stepping toward them, “and improved.”
They were bigger. As we walked closer, we could see they were at least three meters tall. I bet when they stood up and were fully operational they’d be even taller. When Turov had driven a suit like this, it had been little more than a heavy-built exoskeleton wrapped around her body. These machines were more leggy. I figured right off that the pilot’s legs probably only went down to about the knee-joint while his hands terminated where the elbows were.
“They look like mean ostriches,” Carlos said.
“No,” I replied. “I’d say they’re more like a small T-rex. Ostriches don’t have tails that whip around or big fore claws.”
“Good point. I bet getting yourself murdered by Turov while she was driving one of these suits turned you on, didn’t it McGill? You’re sick.”
“I’m not the one who can’t stop talking about it.”
“Come on, let’s pick out our machine and start riding!”
Carlos trotted toward the line of hulking metal vehicles. I walked after him watching them warily. They all seemed unoccupied, but one could never be too—
Up and down the line, about every twentieth machine perked up when Carlos was about a hundred meters away. Carlos’ rapid approach faltered then stopped altogether. He glanced back at me with a worried expression.
Veteran Harris moved in front of the group. He was smiling, and right away I knew he was in on the surprise.
“They’re quite something, aren’t they?” he asked with his throat mike cranked up to top volume. “Fantastic fighting machines—we call them dragons.”
I walked to Carlos and slapped him. “See? I told you they weren’t ostriches.”
He waved me away.
“I’m sorry to say,” Harris continued, “that these fine dragons are about to be totally wasted on a unit of sorry shit-sacks like you. I told them not to do it, but the brass never listens to me.”
“Uh…” I said in concern. “Some of those suits are occupied, Vet. Who’s in there?”
“Your trainers. Zeta Herculis people. Think of them as advisors.”
“They built these things?”
One of the machines started walking then. It stalked forward on its hind legs like a predatory bird. It flexed fore-claws that terminated in sharp grippers, and the tail moved on its own to balance the machine when it leaned and stepped. Twin, stubby cannons were built into the barrel-like chest. Inside the dim-lit faceplate, I could make out the vaguest outline of a human face. We felt like little kids facing a Halloween monster. Reflexively, our line of troops fell back a few steps.
“We’re here to train you in the proper use and maintenance of these systems,” the pilot’s voice boomed. The amplified voice was kind of creepy coming out of the robotic fighting vehicle. It was as if some kind of mechanical nightmare was talking to us.
None of the Varus people approached any closer.
Harris grinned. “Stand down, Scout,” he said then turned back to us. “Now, this is how we’re going to do things today. We’re going to have a little sparring contest. A full unit of Varus regulars up against—”
Already, troops around me were shifting into a fighting stance. We were no strangers to surprise drills—Varus loved them. Unfortunately, they were often deadly to the troops getting surprised.
A number of men around me unlimbered their rifles and dropped to the deck. Up and down the line of dragons, nine more had started moving. This was pure Legion Varus: training on the fly.
I took a half-second to glance over my shoulder. Just as I’d thought, our officers were nowhere to be seen. Adjunct Leeson and Graves were no doubt sipping a cold one and watching this contest on a vid screen in the officer’s mess by now.
As a weaponeer, I knew I was critical to any chance my side had to take out these machines. By my estimation, my belcher was one of the few systems heavy enough to punch through the enemy armor.
Accordingly, I threw myself flat and shot the nearest one in the leg. This seemed to take everyone by surprise. Harris was still talking, describing his contest, but I was done listening. It was me or the dragons, that’s all I knew.
The target machine took the hit, and for a second I thought it was going to stay up, but it didn’t. The leg buckled and the machine went down on one knee, servos whining.
Harris charged at me, shouting.
“HOLD!” he roared. “No guns! Neither side is supposed to damage—”
The pilot of the machine I’d hit seemed to take exception to my breaking of the rules. Smoothly, two cannons protruded from the chest cavity and barked.
Harris was in a bad place at a bad time, right between me and the dragon I’d just crippled. He was hit in the back and blasted off his feet. He went into a tumble that finished up about a five meters to my left. His eyes were as dead as boiled eggs, and his back was a smoking ruin.
All up and down the Varus line, my fellows opened up, rattling fire at the line of active machines. The machines rocked back with the shock, then returned fire with their cannons. The weapons s
eemed to have short range but explosive power. If I had to guess, I’d say they were firing rocket-powered grenades of some kind.
“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” boomed a command in our headsets. It took me a second to recognize the voice of Centurion Graves.
Somehow, Graves managed to cut through the confusion. A few more shots were popped off by both sides, but we lowered our weapons and stared at one another distrustfully. Three of the dragons were damaged, and at least twenty troopers were dead.
“No guns, no shields, no force-blades!” Centurion Graves’ voice ordered in my headset. “Both sides are to use only melee weapons. This is to be a hand-to-hand contest. GO!”
Reluctantly, I dropped my belcher. The temptation to launch one more salvo was strong in me, but I managed to resist it.
“What are we going to do, McGill?” Carlos shouted from nearby, breathing hard.
“We’re going to have to get in close and take them apart by hand.”
“Shit!” he said, and I had to agree with the sentiment. “Those grippers—there’s no way. This is a setup. We’re supposed to get slaughtered.”
All up and down the line, the Varus troops were forming up in knots. They had a grim look on their faces. The enemy line formed up as well, transforming into a wedge-shaped group of seven functioning dragons.
With all my heart, I wanted to extend my force-blades and do battle—but I didn’t. Instead, I advanced and a knot of troops formed around me.
Veteran Harris was down as was Sargon. That left me as the senior noncom in my platoon. This was my chance, I decided, to show I could lead men if I had to.
“All right,” I said. “Form up, spread out. We’re going to have to—”
That was as far as I got. The enemy wedge charged. There weren’t that many of them, but they were ferocious. They came on with those powerful legs churning. If I had to guess, I would say they could run twice as fast as a man.
The wedge plowed right into a knot of troops to my left. They went down like bowling pins. Screams and roars sounded from both sides. Men struggled in their exo-skeleton suits, but they couldn’t compete in either strength or weight. The troops had out knives, but although they gouged the armor of the machines and even cracked a few faceplates the squad was soon just a struggling mass under the crushing weight of the machines.
It was already clear to me what the enemy was going to do. They’d charge each group of us as we formed up and break us, destroying us in detail. The leader was already rotating a predatory head, the dragon’s tail lashing with a whining noise as it fought to maintain balance, standing on the backs of fallen troopers.
“Break apart!” I ordered. “Squad, spread out. Their commander is looking for a target, and we don’t want that to be us.”
They did as I asked, separating and dispersing with rapid side-steps in every direction.
“Good thinking, McGill,” Carlos said. “Let these mechanical monsters wreck everyone else first. With any luck—”
“Shut up, I’m trying to think,” I ordered, and for once in his life he did what he was told.
“Natasha?” I asked. “Can you do anything?”
“Like what?” she demanded, breathing hard.
“I don’t know. Maybe you could remotely hack the dragons or something.”
“Tried it. No go, McGill.”
“Okay. Plan B.”
“They’re charging again!” Carlos shouted.
The cavalry had chosen another group of victims by now, and they charged in tight formation. This squad of troops had retreated to the edge of the battlefield and stood with their backs to a hundred meter drop. The results were almost as bad as the first time, with one exception. The troops to push of the dragons over the side.
That gave me an idea.
“Squad, follow me! Attack! Redirect all suit-power to your legs!”
Without explaining, I ran across the field toward the struggling knot of men and dragons. The Varus troops were losing—badly. But they weren’t all dead yet. Using only grippers, the machines had to pretty much amputate limbs methodically to win.
We crossed the intervening distance quickly. In powered suits, we could run almost as fast as the machines could when we sent the full power of our exoskeletons to our legs.
“What the hell are we doing, McGill?” Carlos shouted.
“Hit them. Like a football tackle. Knock them over the edge. It’s the only way.”
“McGill’s right!” Kivi shouted, somewhere behind me. “Let’s push them over the side!”
The best part of the next minute as I later looked back on it all had to be when the enemy turned to see us coming. They had to be thinking “what the hell” but before they could react, we were on them.
My boots were clanging on the metal roof of the modules with perfect, powered rhythm. My face was a death’s-head snarl of rage. Lowering my shoulder, I crashed into the nearest dragon.
The shock was tremendous. The vehicle was so massive it was as if I’d just rammed myself into the bumper of my parents’ family tram back home. The machine rocked but didn’t go down. The driver must have set himself for the impact.
But then Carlos came in beside me and added his weight. Finally, the machine began to move. It was sliding, I realized, sliding on the bloody mess they’d made of the last squad who now formed heaps of helpless dead on the ground.
We struggled, grappling their legs and heaving. One machine went over the side, taking a howling trooper with it. They crashed to the bottom of the hold, and I dearly hoped the pilot had died for his sins.
Still, the contest was uneven. There were only five of them, but there were only about ten of us left. While we shoved and grunted and forced them back, they weren’t idle. Those grippers reached out snapping and snipping. Heads and arms were lying everywhere.
Ten of us—we couldn’t do it. I decided as the dragon Carlos and I were working on got a gripper on my left elbow that I’d do my damnedest and die well. My arm didn’t come off right away as my weaponeer’s armor was heavier than that of the average trooper. If I could kill just one more of them—
Wham! I felt a slamming weight against my back. My despair had been premature. More men had arrived. Legion Varus troops, seeing our plan and seeing it was working, had charged from all around the battlefield.
More and more of them joined in, adding their weight to ours.
I couldn’t see—I could barely hear. So much blood had splattered my cracked faceplate, and everyone was roaring in my ears so loudly I didn’t even realize I was near the edge until I went over.
There was a sick feeling at the final second. It was a moment without parallel when I realized I was falling through the air and crashing down to certain death.
The dragon I’d been struggling with all this time was under me, and I was riding it down. It felt like I was falling all the way to Hell itself.
I don’t remember hitting the bottom. I think I was knocked out at least for a few seconds.
I came awake groaning. I flipped up my faceplate painfully, and I could see again.
A tangled mass of death lay all around me. One of the machines and three or four troopers squirmed, but most were still.
On impulse, I reached up and opened the faceplate of the nearest machine—of the one I’d ridden over the side.
To my shock, I recognized the face inside.
“Della?” I asked in a coughing whisper.
She didn’t answer me because she was as dead as a stone. I stared into her face. It was strange meeting up with her again—it was even stranger to know I’d just killed her.
A cheer swelled louder and louder above me. I flopped and rolled onto my back, looking up. A line of Varus troops stood along the edge, shaking their fists and whooping.
“Look at McGill!” Carlos shouted. “He’s still alive!”
More cheers went up. Grinning through bloody teeth, I forced one gauntlet to wave at them before I passed out.
-8-
Bio
people are lazy. They don’t like to fix the bodies of the badly injured. They preferred to recycle broken flesh and start new. Theirs was a throw-away culture, and I was therefore surprised when I woke up in the infirmary in my old, badly damaged body.
“Seven broken bones, not counting ribs,” Bio Specialist Anne Grant read from her tapper while standing next to me.
I had to turn my head pretty far to see her as my right eye had swollen shut.
“Contusions, punctures and a collapsed lung,” she went on. “We even had to remove your spleen. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve bothered to do that, James?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me,” I said with stinging, cracked lips.
“Eight years, I would guess. That’s how long ago I signed up with this crazy outfit. We just don’t do organ removal. Not from a living person, that is.”
“Sounds like it would be boring, just running the revival machine all day.”
She gave me a reproachful look. “And you, you’re hurting aren’t you? Is this better than a fresh revive?”
I didn’t know why she was giving me a hard time, but I was getting tired of it. After all, I was the one in agony. She’d only suffered inconvenience. Then again, maybe I was just feeling sorry for myself.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m feeling pretty good. I figured I might go for a jog around the top of those modules later today. I’ve got a few kinks in my legs I need to work out.”
She shook her head and huffed. “Those aren’t kinks, they’re staples. I nu-skinned the hell out of them, but they’ll still sting for a week. They’re sunk in all the way to the bone.”
Groaning, I levered myself into a half-sitting position. Her small hands pushed on my chest.
“Lie back down, please. You’ll pass out if you get out of bed now. Graves wants to talk to you. I think that’s why you’re still alive.”
I let her push me back down. In truth, it felt a lot better that way. I was a mess. As a person who’s been killed and injured countless times, I could tell this was a bad one.