by Richard Fox
Booker leaned back in the sauna, sweat dribbling down her body and into the towel wrapped around her waist, and tried not to think of Duke and his obsession with titty bars. Garrison was nearly as bad, but somehow less of a creep about it. Maybe it was Duke’s near-constant consumption of chewing tobacco when not on a mission. None of the men or women in the steam tent cared about nudity, or if they did, they were orders of magnitude politer than her Strike Marine companions. A woman braided her hair, arms up in a way that accentuated the shape of her breasts, her towel laid carelessly across her legs. Booker was certain the men appreciated the view, but not one of them catcalled or whistled or even let their eyes linger too obviously.
Clouds of steam drifted up to the ceiling, then spread downward as water was added to the heat source at the center of the tent. Some of the Koen men and women had towels; others didn’t. She kept hers around her waist but toyed with the idea of losing it entirely. She wanted all the relaxation she could get while she could get it.
Wood benches lined the walls. Booker thought setting up the tent had to be a regular thing—probably a welcome break from the harsh weather on the planet.
“I didn’t even know Benji had been shot until we reached base camp,” Lieutenant England said. “Total failure on my part. I should’ve known he’d taken a bullet through his calf.”
“He could’ve said something. But why? We were fighting. Showing our stuff to the Strike Marines,” somebody said in a corner of the room. “Sergeant Booker, how long have you been training with that sniper? The Rakka call him the Ice Claw or something like that. Buddy of mine in Third Platoon heard it from a guy who heard a Rakka was caught and interrogated by Captain Pine’s people.”
“The Kesaht freak out if they think the Ice Claw is watching them,” a soldier said.
“They shit their pants every time a sniper takes one of them out,” England said.
“They probably think there’s only one sniper on the planet,” said another man near the heating element as he poured a cup of water onto the rocks.
Booker shrugged, enjoying the relaxing and sensual feel of finally taking a break. “We’ve been on the same team for a while. If you think he’s scary, you should meet Opal.”
“That’s a weird name for a sniper.”
Booker laughed and it felt outstanding. “Opal isn’t a sniper.”
“Is that the doughboy? I heard you guys had a doughboy. Didn’t they all die after the Ember War?”
Booker’s good mood drained away. “I think there are two or three left. Opal’s the last one on combat duty.”
“If we weren’t needed here, half of us would try out for the Pathfinders or the Strike Marines. Our own selection process is pretty tough.”
Booker nodded and concentrated on the steam relaxing her muscles. The PDF scouts told her story to several other soldiers, describing the chaos and the physical trials. She’d heard similar talk before, but this seemed almost ritualized.
“Strike Marines know sisu,” England said. “Booker and the Ice Claw never hesitated to take action. Never complained when the storm hit and bullets flew in our faces.”
Booker closed her eyes, listening, hoping they would leave her out of the conversation. She didn’t think they were praising her or trying to kiss up to her. Post combat time was a mess of raw emotions, and even thought she was on their side, she felt like an outsider…but a warm, steam-shrouded outsider at least.
One by one, the PDF scouts gave examples of team members overcoming impossible odds. No man or woman talked about his or her own exploits.
“You’re familiar with sisu, Sergeant Booker?” England finally said.
She opened her eyes. “Grit.”
He nodded. “The North Americans call it grit. Similar. I think you and the Ice Claw have both.”
“What do you call this field spa?” she joked.
“Hygge,” England said without hesitation, pronouncing it hoo-ga. “Coziness.”
“It’s very nice,” she said.
“I heard you were on the Breitenfeld,” Lieutenant England said.
“It’s true,” Booker said. “Wasn’t on it for that long. Just enough time to get a selfie on the flight deck.”
“Where is it? Every rumor I hear about that ship says something different,” England said.
Booker had a new appreciation for the PDF scouts but still marveled at how young they seemed. In reality, they weren’t much younger than she was, but after several missions with Hoffman’s team—the Dotari rescue mission especially—she felt wiser and older. And maybe more damaged.
“Still in deep space. Getting the Dotari home,” she said.
“I still can’t believe you were part of that. The news channels basically said the entire Dotari home world would’ve been wiped out by a plague without that mission,” England said.
Booker didn’t answer. It felt good to keep her eyes closed and be warm.
“What are you doing on Koen?”
Booker’s eyes flashed open. She didn’t move; she just stared at the ceiling, hoping no one had seen her reaction. “Training mission.”
Booker leaned her head back as steam opened every pore in her body. A few of the men and women of the PDF lounging on benches resumed their stories of the desperate fight at the bridge. Their companions murmured appreciation.
Everything was nice until somebody yanked open the tent flap. A familiar Strike Marine stood there wearing his lightweight sniper armor. Booker’s arm shot across her chest.
“Felt my ears burning,” Duke said. “Get dressed, Booker.”
“Never a dull moment,” she mumbled as her relaxation faded abruptly away.
She stood up and wrapped a towel over her chest, fully aware that Duke was standing behind her, waiting.
She looked over her shoulder and saw him mostly facing the door, almost like a guard or protective big brother. He put in a dip and shifted foot to foot. She smiled, thinking about his reputation for less than savory establishments in Phoenix…or anywhere he could find them.
When she turned around, he was holding a gun case in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. He spit some of his precious tobacco into the cup and nodded toward the rifle case. “Found a sniper rifle in the arms room. No one signed for it.”
“Something happened to Buffy?” She stepped out of the steam tent and onto a sidewalk made of wooden boards. She’d seen plenty of the locals walking from the steam baths to the barracks in just towels and had assumed they carried enough heat with them to get through the open air comfortably. Instead, she felt her pores seize up and chill nip at her toes and earlobes.
“What the hell? Cold, cold!” She hurried to the barracks as Duke laughed.
She got into the next tent and ducked into a small room with a cot and her gear on it. Duke tossed the weapon case around the corner and onto the bunk. Booker huddled next to a heater and finished drying herself off.
“It’s for you,” Duke said. “PDF is having trouble with Sanheel. That’s where you and your newly acquired skills come in,” he said.
“Is this one zeroed?”
“Foundry settings. So it would take me a few minutes on a VR range to get it to where I like it. I can probably get it keyed to you before the spring thaw. How’s your breath control?”
She snorted. “Never a problem with that.”
“Then why can’t you hit the broadside of the barn at a mile out?”
“Because the stupid weapons is—you know what? I’m going to get my gear on, then I’ll be-be-be knocking a grain of sand off an ant’s head at two miles! See how you like me then.”
“Want to make a bet?”
“No. Just shut up while I change.”
Chapter 12
Hoffman took the lead, trudging up the mountain as dusk descended on the pass. The wind died, but the cold blossomed in the darkness, a sensation that shouldn’t have been more than a nuisance, but he felt it through his armor.
A squadron of human fighters
cut across the sky and crescent fighters engaged them from three directions—right, left, and above. He wondered what Sakkatos would think of their skill now.
Hoffman continued until he found a defensible position, then called up the rest of the team. “Rally on me for rest and recovery. Check gear and consume calories. Run some snow through your water reclamation filters for later.”
He waited until the rest of his team was situated, then attended to his own needs. With the Sanheel and Rakka far behind, the last several hours felt like grunt work. He watched the dogfight and didn’t like how it was shaping up. Human ships were faster and more agile, and from what he understood of aerial warfare, the Terran ships fought better and smarter, though the crescent ships were more numerous and aggressive.
A salvo of missiles fired from the Eagles and mauled the Kesaht. Hoffman pumped a fist in the air, then his spirits fell. Two dozen Kesaht fighters dropped out of the clouds and shot through the Terran battle formations. Bits of flaming wreckage rained down on the mountain tops as the tide turned for the worse.
“We call for an evac now, we might as well hang big ol’ ‘kick me’ signs from our necks,” King said as he watched the one-sided dogfight play out. “We don’t have air superiority to protect a Mule coming in and out. If we send a radio blip and the Kesaht detect it…”
“They’ll be all over us.” Hoffman looked back at the prisoners. “I don’t even know if they’re worth that risk. They’re high-value targets, but there’s no value in them unless they talk and give up intelligence on the Ibarras’ spy network.”
“There are ways to make people talk,” King said. “Ways I don’t think we’d ever use against other humans. You think we should cut them loose?”
“Hell no. You know what a pain in the ass it was to even catch them. And Medvedev will pay for what he did to Max, one way or another. They’re our prisoners and we still have a duty to keep them safe until we can pass them on to intelligence.”
An Eagle fighter exploded, casting a sharp yellow light across the dogfight.
“I used to envy the flyboys,” King said. “All hot meals, bunks…crew rest. Now they’re in the shit with the rest of us and getting the worst of it.”
“King and Garrison, help me look for parachutes, anyone that managed to bail out,” Hoffman said.
“There are too many Kesaht fighters,” Masha said. “And they make no distinction between a pilot that can or can’t fight back. They see someone bailed out, they’ll be dead before they hit the ground.”
“They take no prisoners?” Hoffman asked.
“They do…but those they take are never seen again,” she said.
“Kesaht fight to the death,” Medvedev said. “None have ever surrendered. Remember that.”
Ships went down on the other side of the mountain pass while others disintegrated from direct hits. Hoffman moved the team farther through the pass and took up another position to watch the end of the battle.
He saw a ship go down but couldn’t identify it. “Anyone see if that was one of ours?”
“Not sure,” King said. “Lot of smoke and debris in the air.”
“Garrison, you have command while we’re gone. King, come with me. Let’s have a look,” Hoffman said.
They moved quickly, then slowed their pace as they neared the smoking wreckage.
“Kesaht fighter,” Hoffman said.
“That’s probably best. All we need is more walking wounded. Maybe this pilot can give us some information,” King said.
Hoffman didn’t respond as he shouldered his gauss rifle and moved forward. Gunney advanced on the left flank.
The crescent fighter was wedged into the earth with both wings broken off and the cockpit smashed.
“Sakkatos was right about their landing skill at least,” Hoffman said.
“Doesn’t look much different from our Mule at this point. Sorry, not trying to be a dick.” King advanced beside Hoffman, both aiming their rifles from two separate angles into the cockpit, whose glass was shattered. The cover buckled as small explosive bolts blew the hinges and the top slid off to one side. The pilot was slender, with an oval-shaped head concealed by a smooth helmet. Neither Sanheel nor Rakka at first glance.
Hoffman shouted, “Terran Strike Marines, don’t move!”
The alien pilot lay huddled against one side of the unpowered cockpit, purple blood dribbling down a cut across one shoulder.
“We don’t have their language in our translation gear, do we?” Hoffman asked his gunnery sergeant.
King shook his head.
“I am Lieutenant Thomas Hoffman, Terran Strike Marines. Keep your hands where I can see them,” he said, motioning up with his rifle.
The alien pilot unsnapped its helmet and pulled it free, staring at Hoffman with huge deep-blue eyes that dominated its slender features. Long-limbed, its tin arms moved with grace, despite the injuries. The humanoid looked better-suited for the cockpit of a combat fighter than other members of the Kesaht coalition. The flight suit concealed most of the pilot’s body and was pressed tight to the alien’s left side. Blood soaked through the tightened section, and Hoffman was sure the flight suit had compressed to combat injury. The lieutenant locked eyes with it as he aimed his rifle at the pilot’s chest.
“I speak your foul language,” it said. “You are abominations and will be destroyed. Murderers!”
Hoffman stepped back and leaned close to King. “I don’t think they like us.”
“Us or the Ibarrans? We’re not all on the same side. You Kesaht know this?” King asked.
Hoffman stepped onto the sheared-off wing base as the pilot struggled to release himself from the cockpit. Hoffman aimed his gauss rifle at the alien’s chest and watched. “I think this one is what Masha described as an Ixio.”
“I don’t like it. Just like I don’t like poisonous jungle frogs. We should blow it in the ship. Only way to be sure.” King reached into his pouch as though looking for a breaching charge.
“You are all tainted,” the Ixio said as it struggled to get up, then fell back into the cockpit, panting. “There will be no mercy…only redemption by fire for…you all!”
“This thing talks about mercy?” King asked.
“How badly are you hurt?” Hoffman asked the alien.
The Ixio shook its head, and the lieutenant saw a thin sheen of crystals against the base of the alien’s head.
“Just kill me,” it said. “Prove what you are. That your kind is beyond all hope. I know what you’ve done!”
King shook his head. “That blood loss isn’t stopping. You move him, you kill him. Might as well blow the ship and be done with it.”
The pilot spat dark blood. “I took down five of your fighters! I will go to stovasha with honor. I will spill more human blood in the next fight.”
“Your war’s over.” King stepped onto the rim of the cockpit, aiming his gauss rifle at the Ixio’s face.
“Hold,” Hoffman said. “There’s no such thing as a mercy killing in war. Only murder.”
“I was at New Caledonia after the massacre,” said King. “The entire colony was wiped out by an attack…I don’t know…just like this one. Can I personally prove the Kesaht did it?” He hit himself in the gut. “I know they did it. How many xenocidal alien forces have we encountered since the Ember War? We fight wars for territory, resources, and tactical advantage—for survival, not mass murder.”
Hoffman lowered his voice. “I understand.”
“Look at the way they assaulted this planet. You know they hit NC.”
“Calm down and think. A prisoner of war is worth more than this,” Hoffman said.
“They killed every man, woman, and child!”
“Not…the children…” The Ixio laughed painfully.
Hoffman and King whirled on the man.
“What about the children? Where are they? What did you do with them?” Hoffman demanded.
The Ixio shrieked in pain, then assaulted Hoffman and King with a
lien words.
Hoffman raised his gauss rifle. “There’s no redemption for murdering children.”
“The Kesaht never murder children.”
“Tell us where they are. We will trade prisoners for recovered children.”
“Kesaht never kill the children. We take them to the…” The Ixio coughed blood, then reverted to swearing at them in its native language.
“Where do you take them?”
“And now I go to my reward.” The Ixio reached up to its neck and pulled a ring dangling from one side. The Ixio’s flight suit loosened and the pilot let out a groan as blood gushed out of its mouth and seeped through its chest. It slumped over, its last breath gurgling in its throat.
Hoffman reached for the dead alien, then pulled his hand back. As he studied the body, he saw an intricate jeweled bracelet wrapped around the wrist of the wounded arm. He wondered what kind of family charm it might be or what it meant, then moved away from the cockpit.
“Do we have time to pull him out and ransack this thing?” King asked.
“I don’t like the look of the lights. Might self-destruct or start sending out an electronic beacon if it hasn’t already,” Hoffman said. He climbed down and backed away from the wrecked fighter.
“I’ll call Garrison over here to booby-trap it,” King said.
“No. If a trap goes off, the Kesaht will know we were here. Best to leave him to the wolves.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 13
Hoffman’s team, still unable to contact the base or the garrison in the city, moved higher into the pass, and he saw evidence of ancient civilization—trail markers and the occasional handrail near what could have been steps. On the switchback trail, he lost sight of his team. “Let’s tighten it up. We’ve dodged enough Rakka over the last two nights. No need to spread out here.”
“Received and understood,” King responded by IR comms.
“Thousands of years ago, the entire mountainside was a city,” Masha said.
“I can see that in places,” Hoffman said.
“It will become more obvious.”