Technokill

by David Sherman

  "I'm busy," Gunsel replied testily. "Besides, I don't want to get drunk from your breath." When reasonably sober, Herbloc could be very funny and entertaining, but the more the scientist drank, the more maudlin he became. Herbloc's boozy bonhomie made Gunsel very nervous, and he couldn't stand being around Herbloc when the man had been drinking.

  "Oh me, oh my, we are in a bad mood today, aren't we?" Herbloc laughed.

  The land of the Cheereek lay in a southern hemisphere just below the planet's equator. Their continent was as yet undiscovered by the more advanced races in the northern realms. The nomadic tribes that inhabited the deserts and steppes were constantly at war with their neighbors. War was a way of life with them, so Patch and his sponsors knew that once the Cheereek realized the vast potential in gunpowder, a brisk and profitable trade in gems could be established.

  Neither Patch nor anyone else involved in the human side of the venture considered what might happen on Avionia if the Cheereek, with their newfound firepower, ever figured out how to cross the ocean that separated them from the civilized tribes. In fact, they didn't care.

  The Marquis de Rien landed in a narrow valley between two buttresslike ridges that flowed from the flank of a long, steep mountain range. A vast dry lake bed separated the great massif from the Cheereek country, about forty kilometers south. Henderson immediately established his base there. Except for the security detail, however, most of the crew preferred to stay inside the ship, since the weather was very hot just then. The air was also full of nasty flying things, insect analogs that were attracted in swarms by the movement of large animals.

  Despite those discomforts, the crew was ecstatic to be on Avionia at last. Each man had been promised a percentage of the profits according to his importance to the mission. The crew of the Marquis de Rien was being paid the standard union wage for such a voyage and would receive a hundred percent bonus when the operation was over; Art Gunsel and Spencer Herbloc would each receive five percent of the profits. And five percent of what Patch expected to make would be enough to set any man up for the rest of his life.

  "What the...?"Art Gunsel exclaimed as he walked in on Herbloc and heard him making strange, birdlike noises.

  "Oh, just practicing my maiden speech in the trade language of the Avionian nomad tribes. Loosely translated, I was telling them, ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen! Lend me your ears.’ Very important, Art, I get it right, or our first meeting with the Cheereek mugwumps might just go awry."

  "Have a nip?" Herbloc offered Gunsel his flask. Gunsel shook his head. "Boy-o, you should not look down your nose at the nectar. As Scotland's poet laureate wrote, ‘Well oiled by thee, the wheels of life gae skreekin' downhill with rattlin' glee.’ What is it, boy-o, what is it?"

  "I just came to tell you the landcar is ready." Art Gunsel's heart raced. Only he and Herbloc were to make the first contact. "You really do speak that crazy lingo, eh, Doc?"

  "To perfection, boy-o, to perfection!"

  "Doc, what's it like to go into one of their camps? You know, what are they like?"

  "In the wild, Artie?"

  Gunsel hesitated, not understanding the question. "Yeah. Where they live and all that. What're they like?"

  "Oh, 'fraid I can't say." He shrugged, taking a nip from the flask. "You see, I've never talked to one in the ‘wild,’ as you might say."

  Gunsel stared at Herbloc in disbelief. "Wha—You—You've never been in one of their camps, Doc?"

  "Well, contact with the natives is against the rules, you see. I was only allowed to study them from concealment and from a distance," he answered lightly. "But not to worry. We took several specimens and I was able to interrogate them extensively on the station. None from the Cheereek tribe, unfortunately, but in our situation, mastery of the trade language is what counts, boy-o."

  "But—But what about the rituals these Cheereek follow? I mean we can't go in shaking feathers if they greet each other by scraping their coxcombs!"

  "Tut tut tut," Herbloc said. "We shall manage. Leave it to me, boy-o."

  "Oh God!" Gunsel groaned and put his head into his hands.

  "Artie, boy-o, calm must now prevail! Worry not! When we encounter these Cheereek, we shall, ah, um, well, ha ha, we shall simply ‘wing it,’ no pun intended."

  Chapter 7

  Eventually, almost everyone got off third platoon's back over what really happened on Society 437, but Gunny Thatcher still had a wild one up his nether end over the mess the company had made of their hull-breaching training. True to his word on the McMahon, he had them spend every free minute training on the hull-breaching equipment.

  "This doesn't make a damn bit of sense," Claypoole grumbled.

  "Right," MacIlargie agreed. He hefted the blower he was supposed to be clamping onto a scrap of metal that simulated an airlock hinge. "This sucker's heavy; it isn't heavy in null-g."

  "It still has mass in null-g," Corporal Kerr said with more patience than he felt. "Think of the weight as mass."

  "You turn something in null-g, it turns you." Claypoole wasn't about to give up on complaining.

  "Learn the basic moves. Then you can replicate them in null-g. Now shut up and do it." Kerr's patience was wearing thin.

  MacIlargie got the blower clamped onto the simulated hinge and gave its handle the right twists. He pulled the trigger. The shaped charge went off with a loud bang and slammed its force into the "hinge." The metal glowed briefly and let off a series of pops. He lifted the blower and looked at what it had done. A small hole had been bored through the hinge, but was barely cracked. He handed the blower to Kerr and accepted another with a fresh charge. He clamped it to the hinge and fired. The metal broke!

  Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, Claypoole clomped high-footed onto the plate of metal simulating a hatch.

  "Step it up, Rock!" Kerr snapped.

  "I'm simulating walking with magnetic shoes in null-g;" Claypoole snarled. He clonked the end of the puller onto the middle of the metal plate and twisted its handle. The mollies slammed through the plate and locked in place. Claypoole lifted his arm to signal the winch team that the puller was in place, then clomped off the "hatch."

  Lance Corporal Chan, in charge of the winch, clapped PFC Rowe's shoulder and said, "Lift it."

  The winch screamed in protest and might have overbalanced if Chan and PFC Longfellow hadn't stood on its rear steps to counterbalance the metal plate. The slender boom bent under the weight it lifted.

  Claypoole watched the winch. "See? That's what I mean," he said. "None of this stuff works right in the bottom of a gravity well. The metal's not cold enough for one hit with the blower to break it. The winch has to deal with weight as well as mass."

  "And we aren't doing this in the right gear either," MacIlargie added.

  They had the blowers, the pullers, and the winches, all designed to be used in null-g by men wearing armored vacuum suits, and they were using them in the bottom of a gravity well while wearing their normal garrison utility uniforms. It was a wonder the equipment worked at all and that nobody got injured using it. But Gunny Thatcher was determined, so as often as he and Sergeant Souavi could cobble together scrap metal to simulate an airlock hatch, the company worked with the breaching equipment.

  Around the time they were having difficulty finding usable scrap, Captain Conorado made a surprise announcement at morning formation.

  "A new suite of equipment just arrived at FIST," the captain said. "You'll begin training with it sometime in the next few weeks. I'm sure you'll do well enough with the new equipment to make Gunny Thatcher happy."

  A pace to Conorado's left and rear, Thatcher's glower didn't look like he was anywhere near becoming happy.

  "Someone high enough that mere company commanders aren't told how high," Conorado continued, "has come to the conclusion that the existing Fleet ship-breaching equipment is inadequate for the job. A new hull breaching system has been designed and is being distributed to every amphibious ship and ships of t
he line in the Fleet that carry Marine complements. A ground-training dummy has just been delivered to 34th FIST. An amphibious ship and a training hulk are due to arrive next week. Commander Van Winkle has selected Kilo Company as the first company in the FIST to train on it. They'll begin their training with the ground dummy tomorrow."

  Gunny Thatcher's glower grew fierce. He thought Company L should be the first to train on the new breacher. Captain Conorado understood that his commander had selected a different company for the first training evolution because of Gunny Thatcher's almost fanatical attitude toward training with the existing equipment. Conorado was glad Van Winkle had picked a different company because he'd hate to see Thatcher's reaction if everything didn't work exactly right the first time some Marines from Company L used it.

  "I'll tell you everything I know about it. The Tweed Hull Breacher"—Conorado didn't bother to consult the specs he carried on his clipboard—"is a self-contained, semiautomated unit designed to cut an opening through the hull of a ship without going through airlocks. It forms its own airlock, which will hold a full squad of Marines in armored vacuum suits ready to enter a ship as soon as an entry has been achieved." He smiled lightly. "No more blowers, pullers, and winches. That's all I know about it. That's also all the announcements I have this morning."

  He turned toward Thatcher. "Company Gunnery Sergeant!"

  Thatcher made a right face and raised his hand to salute Conorado. "Yessir!" he barked.

  Conorado returned the salute. "The company is yours."

  "Sir, the company is mine. Aye aye, sir."

  Conorado cut his salute. A beat later Thatcher cut his. The Gunny turned to face the company.

  "COMP-ny, ten-HUT!"

  The hundred plus Marines of Company L snapped to. Conorado about-faced and headed back to the barracks. The platoon commanders broke ranks and followed their company commander.

  Gunny Thatcher waited until the company's officers were inside, then clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing in front of the company. After a moment he stopped and faced them. "You heard the Skipper," he said with slightly less volume than a bellow. "We don't get to be the first to train with the new hull breacher. But I'll tell you this: we will be the best at its use. There will be no company in the Fleet more competent in the use of the Tweed Hull Breacher than Company L, 34th FIST And I don't care how hard I have to bust your asses to get you that competent." He came to attention and looked the company over from one end to the other, then said, "Platoon sergeants, you have your assignments. Your platoons are yours." Glowering, he executed an about-face and marched to the barracks.

  Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, third platoon commander, had experience with new equipment. A few years earlier, on Fiesta de Santiago, he was the gunnery sergeant of a company that was assigned to give a new field computer its first true field test. Unfortunately, they were chasing real guerrillas at the time, and the guerrillas were armed with modern Confederation weapons and wearing Marine chameleon uniforms. The Universal Positionator Up-Downlink, Mark I, failed just before his reinforced platoon ran into two companies of guerrillas. Most of the Marines in that reinforced platoon were killed before Bass was able to establish alternate communications and get help. Unlike Gunny Thatcher, he wasn't at all unhappy about Company L not being the first unit in 34th FIST to use the Tweed Hull Breacher. He was downright suspicious of new military technology.

  "Skipper, who tested this thing?" Bass asked as soon as the officers and senior NCOs reached the company office.

  Conorado stopped at the entrance to his office and slowly turned around. He knew about the incident on Fiesta de Santiago. And he was aware of how the UPUD, Mark II, had failed on Elneal when 34th FIST was there; it was his company—and Charlie Bass's platoon—that tested it.

  "I don't know, Charlie," he said softly. "That wasn't in the briefing material."

  "Then who made it?" Throughout history some companies made superior military equipment and some could be counted on to make inferior products. Matters hadn't improved in the twenty-fifth century.

  Conorado slowly shook his head, concern visible in his eyes. "I guess it was designed by someone named Tweed. Probably his company made it. Other than that, I really don't know anything."

  There was nothing else Bass could ask that the captain could answer, so he simply nodded and said, "Thank you, sir."

  When Conorado entered his office and walked around his desk, Bass turned to Thatcher. Thatcher was glaring at him. Bass ignored the look and dipped his head to the side, wordlessly indicating that Thatcher join him in the passageway outside the office.

  "Gunny, can you find out?" Bass asked when they were outside. Thatcher had contacts that Bass didn't; he was able to find out a lot of things.

  "If it was someone named Tweed and his company, what's that going to tell us? They don't have a record with military equipment." He looked like he wanted to punch Bass.

  "If it's Tweed and his company, it'll tell us what their business is. Then we can find out how good they are."

  "It was designed and built by Tweed Submersible Recovery Operations," Top Myer said, the company first sergeant joining them. "I had the same questions you did, so I checked it out during formation."

  "Submersible Recovery Operations?"

  Myer nodded. "They design and manufacture equipment to allow people to live and work in the deep oceans."

  "What does that have to do with space operations?" Bass asked.

  Myer shrugged. "They're both environments that'll kill an improperly protected man in seconds."

  "There's a universe of difference between deep sea and vacuum."

  Myer spread his hands then pointed a finger up. The decision to use the new equipment was out of his control.

  "Any idea about how thoroughly it was tested?" Bass asked.

  "I'm sorry, Charlie. I wasn't able to find out anything about the testing."

  "Well, thanks, Top. I guess we'll just hope Kilo Company comes out of it all right."

  "Let's," Myer rumbled deep in his chest. He turned and headed back into the office.

  Bass looked at Thatcher. The Gunny still looked angry, but his expression also had a trace of doubt.

  Under the command of a petty officer first class, navy ratings maneuvered the bulky Tweed Hull Breacher into position against the skin of the training hulk that hung in orbit over Thorsfinni's World, then applied a sealant to form an airtight lock where the breacher met the hulk's hull. Two squads of armed Marines in armored vacuum suits were already in position on the hull facing outward, forming a defensive circle around the unit. As soon as the first-class seaman was assured that the sealant was holding the large box in place, he signaled his sailors to jet back to the amphibious landing ship. When he saw that all his men were on their way, he jetted to the hatch in the outboard side of the breacher and signaled the squad of Marines who had trailed it from the ship to enter the breacher. Ten Marines tapped the jets on their suits and aimed for the lock. The first-class seaman caught each man as he reached the hatch and gave him a nudge to redirect him through it.

  "All right, people, you've been through this planetside," Sergeant Sianfrani, first squad leader of K Company's first platoon, said into his suit's radio. "You know what to do. Move carefully and take your places."

  Inside, the Tweed Hull Breacher was an almost empty room three meters high, six meters wide, and five meters deep. The side attached to the hull of the training hulk held the two halves of hatch that could join together to form the inner door of an airlock. With the hatch halves open, the cutter mechanism was visible, a rectangle bearing the gas nozzles that pointed at the hull. A sailor stood to the side of the opening, in front of one of the hatch halves. The controls for the hatch and the cutters were on a panel in front of him.

  The Marines activated their magnetic soles as soon as they entered the hull breacher and took their places. One stood a meter in front of the blank wall that would soon be an opening into the interior of the s
hip. Three abreast behind him, the others stood back to belly, their blasters held at port arms. The compartment barely had space to hold them all.

  When the last Marine was inside, the first-class seaman shut and dogged the hatch from the outside, plugged into the communications jack next to the hatch, and said, "Ready, Quincy. Run it."

  The sailor inside the breacher pressurized the compartment then fired up the torches. Unfortunately, the hull-cutting torches had been designed by engineers accustomed to working deep in the ocean, in the high heat-absorption medium of water. The gasses, compressed appropriately for use at the bottom of a gravity well and under many atmospheres of pressure, shot from the nozzles at a far higher temperature and pressure than the breacher's nozzles were rated for. Tiny globules of molten hull metal began to spray about. The rest of the gases, far too great a volume to be consumed in the selfdestruction of the nozzles, recoiled backward and ignited the atmosphere inside the chamber. In seconds overheated gas canisters exploded and the hull of the breaching unit burst open, propelling charred, dented Marines into space.

  The two squads of Marines forming the protective ring around the breaching unit were jarred loose from their magnetized holds on the hull and tumbled away. The first-class seaman in charge of the breaching unit was hit in the chest by a jagged chunk of metal torn from the bulkhead in front of him. The vapor that sprayed from his vacuum suit was tinted red with blood.

  In seconds rescuers from the CNSS PFC Thomas Parrish, some in maneuver suits and others in equipment haulers and escape pods, raced out to snare the scattering Marines. By then many of the Marines had stopped tumbling, but only a few were drifting back. The Marines' armored vacuum suits had small attitude controls, but very little in the way of propulsion; they were designed for movement on a surface, but not for travel between surfaces more than fifty meters apart.

  It took the sailors more than twenty minutes to get all the Marines back to the Parrish. Long enough that most of the men whose suits had been breached died before they reached an atmosphere.