“Pull up,” Santana ordered, as Snyder placed her right foot pod on a wounded Naa and crushed the life out of him. “Give the rest of the squad a chance to catch up with us.” Then on the radio: “Three-Six? This is Alpha Six. . . . Give me a sitrep.”
“We’re in position,” Ibo-Da replied laconically. “Over.”
“Okay. . . . Let’s squeeze them. Six out.”
By prior agreement, the first squad turned toward the west, the second squad pivoted east, and they began to close in on each other. The whole idea was to squeeze the bandits into an increasingly compact mass. Fifty-caliber machine guns thumped in the distance, assault weapons chattered, and Santana heard a metallic ping as an enemy slug flattened itself against Snyder’s chest armor. “They’re up on the roofs!” the cyborg warned. “Hold on!”
Santana felt Snyder start to sprint, and because the cavalry officer knew what to expect, he bent his knees to absorb some of the shock as the T-2 jumped fifteen feet into the air and landed on a flat roof. The sniper had begun to backpedal by then, but barely managed to fire a single shot before a bolt of blue energy burned a fist-sized hole through his chest.
That was the good news. The bad news was that a human holding a shoulder-launched missile (SLM) had just popped up out of a stairway and was preparing to fire his weapon. Snyder had started to turn, but knew she would never make it in time, which left Santana to deal with the threat. He stuck a hand into the bag that hung at his side, felt for a grenade, and pulled it free. What felt like an hour passed as the officer pulled the pin, threw the bomb, and ducked.
There was a loud bang, followed by an even louder secondary explosion, as the missile blew. Flying shrapnel made a rattling sound as it struck the T-2’s armored body. “Good one, sir,” Snyder commented mildly. “But you might want to warn me next time. . . . That stuff stings!”
“Sorry, Sergeant,” Santana replied. “I’ll try to do better. . . . How ’bout the next roof? Can you make it?”
“Let’s find out,” Snyder replied, as she took six giant strides and launched herself into the air. But rather than land on the roof as she had the time before, the big cyborg crashed through it, and into the room below.
Six bandits, all of whom were busy firing at Alpha Two-One through the store’s slit-style windows, were caught by surprise as the T-2 and its rider fell through the roof and landed immediately behind them. Dust billowed, and loose debris continued to fall, as one of the bandits said, “Oh, shit,” and tried to bring his weapon to bear.
What followed was a murderous frenzy of close-quarters mayhem as both Snyder and Santana opened fire, and the bandits fought back. But the bio bods couldn’t see through the swirling dust, and the cyborg could, since the enemy heat signatures were plain as day. The entire exchange of gunfire was over within five seconds.
But short though the unexpected engagement was, Santana had been fighting rather than leading. It was a loss of situational awareness that could cost the company dearly. Especially when battling a numerically superior force armed with SLMs. “Get me out of here,” Santana ordered, as he fired at a figure in the surrounding gloom.
“Your wish is my command,” the cyborg replied cheerfully, as she kicked a hole in the stone wall. “Watch your head!”
Santana ducked as the T-2 stepped through the newly made door and out into the rubble-strewn street. Two bandits lay dead where they had fallen, their bodies surrounded by a halo of spent brass.
Without benefit of the usual helmet, and heads-up display (HUD), the company commander couldn’t access an electronic display showing the way in which his troops were deployed. That meant Santana had to rely on what he could actually see, hear, and to some extent feel as the battle progressed. And not all of the news was good. Three explosions shook the ground as a voice spoke in Santana’s ear. “Alpha Three-Six to Alpha Six. Over.”
“This is Six,” Santana replied. “Go.”
“I have a problem,” the Hudathan replied. “Alpha Three-Five committed suicide. Over.”
Despite the fact that Husulu Ibo-Da had been court-martialed for killing a cowardly officer, Santana had put the big noncom in charge of the first platoon’s second squad, knowing that if anyone could keep the convicts in line, Ibo-Da could. And now, assuming that the Hudathan was telling the truth, his T-2, a head case named Lazlo Kappa, was dead. Why was anybody’s guess. Although it was common knowledge that the cyborg had been convicted of negligence where a friendly-fire incident was concerned. “What the hell happened? Over.”
“I was forced to dismount in order to retrieve an enemy com set, and the minute my back was turned, Five took off down the main street. He was yelling, ‘Shoot me!’ and they did. Three times. The last SLM took his head off. Over.”
Santana remembered the explosions he’d heard earlier and swore. Because as a result of Kappa’s death he was one T-2 short, one of his squad leaders was on foot, and valuable time had been lost. “Okay, keep up as best you can. . . . First platoon, form on me, we’re going to take this party downtown. Over.”
Snyder turned left onto the main street, and units from both squads followed. The wreckage of Kappa’s war form was scattered far and wide. “This is X-ray Two,” the female voice said. “There are approximately three-zero, repeat three-zero, XL heat sigs moving north toward your position. Over.”
Santana said, “Roger that,” and was just about to issue orders when the ground began to shake, and a swirling mass of fear-crazed dooths appeared to the south. The stampeding animals filled the street from side to side as they sought to escape the spear-brandishing bandits who pursued them from behind. It was a clever strategy on Throatcut’s part and a very real threat. Because if the dooths could knock the T-2s down, the bandits could attack the cyborgs with SLMs, grenades, and rifle fire. But there wasn’t enough time to retreat. That left the cavalry officer with a single choice.
“Stand fast!” Santana ordered, as rifle shots were heard, and a wall of flesh and bone thundered toward them. “First rank, kneel! Prepare to fire! Fire! Second rank, prepare to fire. . . . Fire!”
Even though there hadn’t been much time in which to prepare, the net effect was to focus the combined firepower of six Trooper IIs and seven bio bods on the charging animals. The results were horrendous. The front rank of dooths seemed to falter as the full weight of the fire swept across them. Their heads went down, and some of the big beasts completed full somersaults, as a blood mist rose to envelope the oncoming herd.
The second and third ranks continued to bawl loudly as the bandits prodded them from behind and drove the animals forward. It was difficult for the dooths to climb up and over the bodies heaped in front of them, and many beasts died trying, but some were successful. And, because the desperate animals could absorb up to twenty .50-caliber slugs before finally going down, each successive wave managed to advance.
Having dismounted, Santana felt his stomach fill with lead as he emptied clip after clip into the oncoming horde. Could the platoon stop the stampede? Or would the dooths roll right over them? The outcome was still very much in doubt. Meanwhile, the din around the officer continued to grow as the T-2s fired both their heavy machine guns and their energy cannons. Gunsmoke swirled, and the acrid stench of ozone filled the officer’s nostrils as Maria Gomez appeared at Santana’s side. The squad leader was armed with a grenade launcher, and each time one of her rounds landed among the dooths, the resulting explosion sent a gout of gore up into the air. A bloody mist blew back over the animals and dyed them red. Finally, just as Santana was beginning to wonder if the stampede would ever end, the remaining dooths began to falter. “Second rank, cease fire!” the cavalry officer ordered, as he took his place on Snyder’s broad back. “First rank, charge!”
By happenstance, the first rank consisted of Gomez on Vantha, Sato on Prill, and Darby on Nacky. All of them fired their weapons as they made their way forward. “Ignore the dooths!” Santana shouted. “Kill the bandits!”
The order made sense sin
ce the bandits were driving the squealing beasts forward, but a price had to be paid. Nacky fired, attempted to sidestep an enraged bull, and felt the dooth slam into his side. The T-2 lost his balance and fell. Darby barely managed to jump clear and take refuge in a doorway. Nacky wasn’t so lucky and took a terrible pounding as the last of the panicky animals trampled him.
But Santana and the rest of his platoon continued to advance, firing on targets of opportunity as they entered the small town square. Dead villagers dangled from the wooden lampposts that circled the plaza. Each corpse wore a mantle of crusty snow and the ropes creaked as the bodies swayed. “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said, as Snyder paused to scan the area with her sensors. “That’s the council building over on the right. . . . Alpha Two-Six will secure the area while Six-One and I take a peek inside. Over.”
Gomez nodded. “Roger, that. Okay, people, spread out. And put those sensors on max. The party isn’t over yet.”
The council building’s front door was open, which was an ominous sign insofar as Santana was concerned because it suggested that at least some of the bandits had escaped. Possibly including Throatcut and his renegade Trooper II. “Let’s keep a sharp eye out for booby traps,” Santana suggested, as Snyder approached the door.
The cyborg paused to look for trip wires, pressure plates, or any other signs that an explosive device might be present. Then, having assured herself that the way was clear, the T-2 advanced.
Santana ducked his head as Snyder entered the highceilinged room, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and was struck by the horror of what surrounded him. Disemboweled bodies hung along both walls. Intestines dangled like ropes of obscene sausages each ending in a pool of blood. Cookware and other odds and ends rattled as Snyder kicked them out of the way on her way to the platform and the chair it supported.
Santana didn’t know the village chief, but would have been willing to bet that the severed head that had been left on the thronelike piece of furniture was not only his, but a message of defiance from Nofear Throatcut. But where had the bandit gone? The officer could guess. “Alpha-Six to X-ray Two. . . . Please confirm movement of hostiles toward the south end of the valley. Over.”
“Confirmed,” came the almost immediate response. “Over.”
“Copy that Bravo Six?” Santana inquired, knowing that Farnsworth and the second platoon were deployed south of the village.
“I not only copy, I can see the bastards coming,” Farnsworth replied gruffly. “And one of them is riding a T-2. Over.”
“That’s him,” Santana emphasized. “Don’t let the bastard escape! And watch for friendlies. . . . We’ll tackle the bastards from behind. Six out. Over.”
“This is X-ray Two,” the unseen woman said. “I have two fly-forms chasing their tails at angels twenty. Would you like some help? Over.”
“Thank you, but no,” Santana replied grimly. “There won’t be any air cover where we’re going. Six out.”
Dooths couldn’t run, not in the true sense of the word, but they could achieve a clumsy canter. And the sight of two columns of heavily loaded animals, some carrying as many as three bandits each, was truly impressive. There was a thundering sound as clods of half-frozen muck were thrown high into the air, and scattered rifle shots were heard as some of the less-thoughtful fugitives celebrated what they assumed to be their imminent escape.
Behind the dooths, and running with a lot more grace, came a single T-2. Throatcut was determined to escape by following the main road south into the badlands, where he and what remained of his gang could hide in a maze of ravines and canyons while they regrouped. But as Lindo topped a rise, and Throatcut looked out over the T-2’s left missile launcher, the Naa could see that the off-worlders had anticipated his move. Because there, half-hidden behind the crude stone wall the villagers had been forced to build across the road, stood seven T-2s. All ready to fire the moment the oncoming horde came within range.
Throatcut considered calling his warriors back, especially since they were carrying most of the loot, but concluded it was best to let them go. “Turn back,” Throatcut ordered via the T-2’s intercom. “The force behind has been weakened. Make both of your missiles count. Maybe we can break through.”
Lindo had identified the Legion cyborgs before the bio bod had and knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against them. Not even with twenty-five dooths and as many as sixty bio bods running interference for him. So the T-2 skidded to a halt, turned back toward the north, and began to run.
Neither Santana nor what remained of the first platoon was expecting a counterattack as the renegade Trooper II topped a rise and paused long enough to fire a pair of heat-seeking SLMs. The range was short, very short, which meant that outside of the electronic countermeasures triggered by the incoming weapons, there wasn’t much that the Legion cyborgs could do except fire their energy weapons in a last-ditch attempt to intercept the missiles.
There was a loud explosion as one of the weapons detonated ten feet in front of Ichiyama, blew the cyborg’s left leg off, and sent him spinning to the ground. A Naa deserter named Noaim Shootstraight had little choice but to ride the T-2 down and was fortunate to escape the fall without serious injury.
Meanwhile the second missile hit a second cyborg dead center, blew the T-2 in half, and killed his bio bod. Santana swore and shouted into the intercom. “Close with him, Sergeant! I want that one-armed bastard!”
With both cyborgs running at something like half speed they came together quickly. Too quickly to fire their weapons for more than a couple of seconds. There was a crash as their torsos collided, followed by the urgent whine of overworked servos, as both cyborgs battled to position their podlike feet.
Then, as the T-2s continued to grapple with each other, Santana and Throatcut were left to fight it out from atop their respective mounts. Both had pulled pistols by that time and fired at each other from point-blank range. But the movement of the battling cyborgs made it difficult to aim. And, although Gomez and the rest of the platoon had arrived on the scene by then, they couldn’t fire without running the risk of hitting Santana or his cyborg. But the stalemate couldn’t last forever, and didn’t, as the legionnaire shouted into his headset. “Snyder! When I say ‘break,’ back away as fast you can. Understood?”
“I copy,” the cyborg replied, and repositioned her feet.
Throatcut saw the legionnaire duck out from under a strap and wondered what the alien was up to as he dropped the newly freed loop over Lindo’s head. Then the bandit leader spotted the bulging satchel and saw the human grin as he dropped a grenade into it. Throatcut shouted, “No!” But it was too late by then, as all of the grenades in the bag went off, and blew both the Naa and the cyborg to bits.
Even though she was backpedaling by then, Snyder was still blown off her feet. Fortunately, Santana was able to leap free as the T-2 went down. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, but Sergeant Ibo-Da was there to help the human to his feet. The officer noticed that the Hudathan wasn’t out of breath in spite of the fact that he’d been forced to run all the way from the village. “Congratulations, sir,” the big noncom rumbled happily. “We slaughtered the bastards!”
“But we lost most of the first platoon,” Santana countered, as he turned to look around.
“Not true, sir,” Gomez put in from her position high atop Vantha. “We lost Kappa, Himby, and Imbo. But Nacky’s going to be fine—and so is Ichiyama. Assuming you can requisition some new war forms, that is.”
“And the second platoon is intact,” Farnsworth added, as he and his cyborg arrived on the scene.
The engagement didn’t feel successful, not from Santana’s vantage point, but as the officer stood on the blast-blackened rise and looked around him, he decided that there were some things to feel pleased about. With the exception of Kappa, none of the criminals had mutinied, deserted, or turned on each other. And there was something new in the air. Something about the way both the bio bods and the cyborgs held themselves. Something
called pride.
10
Pity us, for we live beyond the realm of horror, at the very edge of hell.
—Graffiti scratched into a Ramanthian cargo module by a human POW Standard year 2846
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
There were thousands of pieces of debris in orbit around Jericho, plus a number of spaceships, the most impressive of which was the Ramanthian dreadnaught Imperator. The warship was 262 standard years old, more than six standard miles long, and completely outmoded. All of which made her perfect for use as an orbital counterweight, which, once the space elevator was completed, would function to keep the long, thin cable aloft.
But that was in the future. When construction was complete. In the meantime the Imperator was slated to function as both the platform on which the crystalline graphite cable would be manufactured—and the habitat in which the slaves would live during the first phase of construction. That was why a team comprised of Vanderveen and five other prisoners were deep inside the once-proud dreadnaught making use of vacuum hoses to remove tons of graphite from a hold. And, because large sections of the ship’s interior weren’t pressurized, the POWs had to wear space armor as they worked.
The Imperator’s argrav generators were up and running, however, which made the process easier and contributed to productivity—the very thing Tragg and his Ramanthian employers were primarily interested in. Unfortunately, the graphite was so light that the artificial gravity wasn’t sufficient to hold it down. The powdery material rose to swirl around Vanderveen and the others like a black blizzard.
When All Seems Lost Page 17