by Nick Brown
'Doc give you something?'
'Uh huh.'
Forester – the only medic left – had now moved on to a badly injured trooper. Beyond him were the dead; a dozen or more. Drasic was one of five soldiers of the Federation force still able to fight: Corporal Zhou and Trooper Lopez were dug in to the right, about eight metres away. Zhou was currently doing something to his assault rifle while Lopez kept watch.
'It's messed up, huh?' Petit's English was good but held a heavy accent.
'Yep.'
'If only we could get it open.'
'Huh?' Drasic had assumed he was talking about the general situation. They had endured three hours of this siege. Coms were unpredictable at best on Cygna 8 and the surrounding rock added another complication. They had picked up enough before entering to know that the other patrol had also been attacked and that the evac point was compromised. There seemed no hope that help would arrive in time.
'The grenades,' explained Petit.
'Huh?'
Wincing at the movement, the Frenchman aimed the hand of his good arm towards a bulky black box resting at an angle close to the dead bodies.
'Frags. Twenty four. We could wipe out those sticks with half a box. Quarter, probably.'
Drasic wondered if twenty six hours without sleep was starting to affect her more than she'd thought. 'What? Why-'
'You didn't hear about it?'
'I've been a little busy.'
Petit slumped back into the sand and shook his head. 'Remember the three scouts we picked up from the recon unit at the gorge?'
'Yep.'
'One of them was carrying that box. He and a second guy got hit soon after joining us. The third bought it during that big rush.'
The attack had come about an hour ago. The sticks had got within five metres of the boulders and killed numerous defenders before being forced back. Drasic still had blood on her right cheek from where some poor bastard's skull had been blown apart.
'The code,' added Petit. 'In all the confusion they didn't have time to pass it on so we can't open the box. Three false tries and it locks itself. Security protocol bullshit. Toure tried two old codes but no go.'
Drasic felt her face form an enraged grimace. She struck the ground with her left fist. It hurt. She didn't care.
'Seriously messed up,' added Petit needlessly.
'Target,' said Lopez. Red light sparked in the gloom as his rifle spat metal at metal. Spent shells tumbled down into the pit to join countless others.
Drasic had seen a lot of 'seriously messed up' situations while with the Colonial Defence Force. Chronically underfunded due to various disputes between its national members, the CDF was charged with the protection of all Earth's offworld possessions. And even though Cygna 8 could boast only six hundred human settlers, three freshwater lakes and a single copper mine, the powers that be had decided it was to be defended.
Defended against the mysterious alien force known to troops like Drasic as The Techs (due to their apparently total reliance on automated units and weaponry). It seemed, however, that Cygna 8 wasn't much of a priority for them either as they had only sent sticks. Based on current evidence, that would be sufficient to do the job.
Over the last few weeks, Drasic had seen a troop transport shot out of the sky by ground fire because the ancient shielding hadn't been replaced. She had seen men die from treatable wounds because the medical droids hadn't been properly adapted for the conditions and wouldn't last more than a day in the field.
But this? This was ridiculous. She was going to die because they couldn't open a box.
'How are old are you?' asked Petit.
'Does it matter?'
'Just asking.'
Drasic reflected on the fact that this might be one of the last conversations she ever had. It seemed a tad wasteful to be rude.
'Twenty two. You?'
'Twenty five.'
'You in for six or twelve?'
'Six. Would have made it out in three months if not for this. Really thought they wouldn't bother with this place.'
'Me too. Looks like their orders aren't so different to ours.'
Petit exhaled through gritted teeth.
'Hurts bad?'
'Forester says I can't have any more painkillers. Let's keep talking - takes my mind off it. Who do you think they are? Whoever controls the Techs. People - like us? Or more machines?'
'No idea. Does it matter?'
'You know some people think it's the Chinese? They've got all those research bases in the ninth quadrant.'
'That's crazy. They've been hit as much as anyone. And don't let Zhou hear you spout that stuff.'
The Chinese corporal was up on his knees, peering down the slope, helmet strap hanging loose.
'I just want to know the truth,' said Petit. 'Before…'
Drasic noted two spare magazines on his belt. 'Can I have those?'
'All yours. I can't do much with one arm. Maybe if we had the new model.'
The assault rifles were Deguchi Mark 3s – very powerful but notoriously heavy. Drasic had heard that the new Mark 4s were a third lighter. She guessed she wouldn't get a chance to try one now.
'Thanks.' Drasic plucked the magazines off his belt and attached them to hers. That gave her a total of about 220 bullets. She wondered how many she could make count.
Petit turned to her. 'Can I ask you something?'
'Sure.'
'If we get through this, can we go on a date? It doesn't have to mean anything – maybe a coffee or something? It's just that I never seem to get as much … get as far with girls as the other guys.'
Drasic reckoned Petit wasn't much to look at. She was no beauty herself, though she always looked good in anything tight.
'What the hell – yes. But I reckon if we make it through this, a beer might be more appropriate. Or champagne maybe, if that's not racist.'
Petit matched her grin. 'It's not. But let's go with the beer.'
'You've got a-'
'Dres, get up here.'
Without another word, she crawled across the pit and up beside Toure.
'Forester, you too,' ordered the sergeant. 'Zhou, Lopez – you seeing what I am?'
'Yes, sarge,' answered Lopez. 'Massing again. More movement at both sides. Might be another charge coming.'
'Definitely,' said Drasic. The signs were there: the tell-tale increase in dust kicked up by the sticks, the glimpses of sunlight sparking off metal. She tightened her helmet strap and wiped her clammy hands on her thigh.
Forester thumped down on the other side of Toure and instantly began rearranging rocks in front of him.
'They come up in numbers - spread out.' The sergeant spoke loudly enough for all of his subordinates to hear. 'Conserve your ammo until they reach the cross.'
"The cross" had been formed by the body of a stick lying across the body of a dead soldier. It marked the point where the slope steepened and the cavern narrowed, giving the defenders the best chance of striking their targets with minimal wastage.
'How is he?' Toure asked.
'Fading fast,' said Forester. 'Just can't stop the bleeding. Nothing more on coms?'
'Only Central saying the same thing. They've got a rough fix on our position but its four to six hours for rein-'
'Sarge.' Drasic clicked off the safety.
Toure turned his attention to the mouth of the cavern. As before, the sticks had formed two lines. They trotted around the corners and up the slope at their maximum speed, which was generally reckoned to be a little slower than a human sprint. Their slender frames didn't provide much to shoot at but Drasic knew to aim low. Taking a leg off generally stopped them, though they tended to crawl onwards, still firing from the blasters they possessed instead of hands.
'Spread out!'
Drasic crawled to her right as the low hum of the blaster shots filled the air. Shards of rock peppered her helmet as she reached a good position she had used before. Resting the barrel of her rifle on a flat piece of ro
ck, she hid as much of herself as she could.
'Christ, they're still coming in!' yelled Lopez.
Drasic could now see only the line to the right: thirty at least, the first of them almost at the cross.
'Fire at will!' announced Toure - before doing just that.
As ever, Drasic found the percussive chatter of the rifles frightening and reassuring in equal measure. She set the burst limiter to six, leant into the rifle butt and depressed the trigger. Puffs of sand blew up in front of the first stick. The readjustment blasted the thing back into its compatriots and the combined fire of Drasic, Lopez and Zhou halted the right-side charge. Then they had to reload; and by the time Drasic had slotted in the next magazine, the sticks were coming up the steep section, no more than ten metres below.
She had just selected her next target when something exploded into the left side of her face. She dropped her head and turned away. Reaching for her left eye she feared some gory mess but – other than some small cuts above her brow – everything seemed intact. Her vision was still clear.
She glimpsed movement to her right. Lopez rolled down into the pit, the top of his head smoking. His eyes were closed. His helmet seemed to have vanished.
Unleashing a torrent of curses in his own language, Zhou got to his feet and poured fire down at the attackers.
Drasic and Toure called out simultaneously but he didn't seem to hear them. The first blast sliced into his chest. He slumped against the cavern wall then a second beam struck his face, melting his features into a charred horror.
Drasic moved back up and what she saw chilled her. Dozens of sticks were swarming up the slope. At least there were no more coming in.
Exposing only her arms, she fired again, sweeping the rifle across the right side. Some of the impacts sounded alarmingly close. Once the magazine was empty, she risked a quick look over the edge. The area immediately below was now clear but the next wave were jerking their way upwards. A blast shot over her head, singeing her hair. She sought cover and reloaded.
Just as she clicked the magazine in, Toure cried out.
The sergeant staggered backwards, clutching his neck. Another blast caught him on the shoulder, spinning him around. He fell face first into the sand and did not move again.
Petit slithered forward, grabbed the sergeant's gun and clambered up beside Forester. Only then did Drasic realise that the medic wasn't moving either. Petit seemed to be concerned only with attacking. Despite his injury, he wedged the barrel of the rifle against a rock and fired downward.
A waving hand.
It took Drasic several seconds to establish that it belonged to a dead man. He was dragging himself clear of the corpses, staring at her. Blood leaked from his mouth as he pointed up at the box of grenades. Drasic noted the badge on his upper arm. Recon. The third man. The code!
Without looking, she fired down the slope, spreading her shots once again until the new magazine was expended. Hunched over and reloading as she moved, she ran across the pit. Petit was still firing.
She dropped her rifle and knelt beside the resilient scout.
'Can you get it open?'
He nodded. Most of his face was encrusted with dark blood but one blue eye was open and bright.
Drasic grabbed the ammo box and pulled it close. The scout rolled onto his back and held up both hands. He dropped a finger and a thumb. Drasic hit the activator then the 8 on the keypad. The scout dropped all his fingers but two. His blue eye suddenly widened. He tried to speak but no words came.
Drasic spun around in time to see the two sticks haul themselves up over the rocks close to her previous position. Petit didn't even see the thing that shot him in the side.
Drasic already had the rifle back in her hands. She swept the barrel from left to right. The burst caught both sticks, blowing them off their three-pronged feet.
The scout signalled another 8, then a 1. As Drasic's finger hit the last key, the lock activator turned green and the top of the box clicked open. She pushed it all the way over, revealing the contents. The twenty four fragmentary grenades were tubular, about four centimetres wide and ten high. Stuck to the inside of the box lid was a yellow sticker.
DEFAULT FUSE SETTING: FIVE SECONDS
The cavern had suddenly become quiet. The only noise was the scrabbling of metal on rock and the occasional hum of a blaster.
Dragging the box with her, Drasic slid on her backside to the bottom of the pit. While arming the first grenade with her left hand, she kept the rifle up with the right. She threw the grenade well clear of the rock wall just as a stick raised its lifeless, featureless head.
The explosion caught it from behind, sending its spindly frame spinning up into the cavern roof. Along with several other metal limbs, parts of it landed in the pit. Even though something quite heavy had just bounced off her helmet, Drasic felt herself grin as she grabbed three more grenades and dispatched them in various directions.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Each burst of yellow light sparked off dissected metal striking every surface of the cavern.
'Yaahhh! Oh no you don't.'
A legless stick was hauling itself down the side of the pit towards her. She blew its head off then felt a chill as the rifle ran empty.
Her sweaty fingers slipped on the smooth metal as she reloaded but when she lifted the rifle once more, there were no visible targets. Drasic did not intend to take any chances. She plucked five more grenades from the box and threw them over the rock wall, the last lobbed as far as she could get it.
She waited; and listened. Silence.
Drasic hauled herself warily to her feet. One of the sticks had fallen across Toure. She pulled it off, felt the warm metal beneath her fingers. Close by was a decapitated robot head. At its base, a tangle of cables glowed turquoise.
Drasic climbed up to the rock wall and peered over it. Satisfied she was not in danger, she stood.
Black blast-marks had scorched sand and rock. Lonely detached limbs outnumbered intact bodies. There were so many components and fragments littering the ground that the cavern now resembled a refuse dump. Some of the sticks were emitting grey smoke, a few were still moving. These Drasic finished off swiftly, including one which was spasming across the slope like a dying fish.
She lowered the rifle and wiped sweat away from above her mouth. She turned her attention first to Toure, then Petit, then the man who had saved her. None of them were moving; and when she examined them she detected not a single hint of a pulse. The other four were dead too.
Drasic stood there for a while, waiting for her heart to slow and her mind to clear. Then she grabbed two packs and filled them with grenades, magazines, water flasks, rations and every piece of coms gear she could find.
It was hard to be sure exactly what brought the tears. Relief? Sadness? Loneliness? Possibly all three.
Alone, she walked down the slope, out of the cavern and into golden, shimmering sunlight.
Afflict
With half an hour to spare between meetings, Donald Matthews-Vartini withdrew to his office. Ignoring the spectacular view from the thirty third floor, he put his coffee down and slumped into the chair behind his desk. Almost certain he would flag during Budgets and Schedules, he retrieved an old bar of chocolate from his desk. He ate two squares, washed them down with half the coffee and stabbed a finger onto the inter-com.
‘Janet, buzz me in twenty-five, please.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Donald leaned back, crossed his arms and closed his eyes.
‘Secretary-General plus your name seems rather long. How should I address you?’
Donald heard someone moving around his office. He opened his eyes.
The man was sitting on the couch ten feet away, watching him. His suit was black, as were his shoes and his hair. The face was pale and even-featured but somehow unlike any Donald had seen.
‘Well? Matthews?’
‘How did you get in here? And who are you?’
Befor
e his question could be answered, he asked another. ‘What is that?’
A thin trail of smoke was spiralling up from under his desk.
‘Your alert system. I disabled it. Your phone too. I also locked the door. We won’t be disturbed. But don’t be concerned, you should still make your meeting.’
‘Who are you?’
The visitor gestured to the couch. ‘Will you come and sit with me, Matthews? Please. I mean you no harm.’
Donald kept his eyes on him every step of the way and sat as far away as he could. Nothing about the visitor seemed quite right. The shoes didn’t really look like leather and the suit didn’t look like cotton or any other material. The face was both flawless and eerily symmetrical. He – or it - seemed to be an approximation of a human being.
‘What … what should I call you?’
‘That’s complicated. Black will do.’
Donald felt he was doing well to maintain his composure. ‘What do you want from me, Mister Black?’
The visitor glanced out of the window. ‘Your world seems to be a rather chaotic place but I understand that you are well-positioned to speak for the populace.’