Til Valhalla

by Richard Fox

  Roy shouted a warning as gunshots broke out. He went for the knife at his belt, then grabbed a carbine hanging from a strap on the dead soldier’s chest. It held fast in the rigging.

  Bullets snapped overhead and thumped into the dirt around him as more fire came from the barn. A trio of Chi-com had gone prone in a patch of wheat just ahead of him, and Roy realized he’d look just like one of them in the darkness if he stood and made a run for the barn.

  “Oh…come on!” He yanked hard on the carbine but couldn’t get it free. He twisted the muzzle toward the enemy soldiers and gripped the weapon at the base of the carriage as he pulled the trigger, his hands awkwardly positioned.

  He emptied the magazine into the patch of wheat with a long rip of bullets. Tracer rounds snapped from around the barn and into the same area.

  Roy knew he had no good options. Stay exposed until one of the Chi-com realized he was there or wait until one of the Australians thought he was a target. Keeping his head down and staying prone in the field struck him as the best idea…then he heard a mechanical whine not far away. Armor shifting from travel to walker configuration.

  He ripped his flannel shirt off and waved it over his head as he ran back to the barn.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he shouted, waving his arms, unsure if he’d get a bullet through the chest or the back first.

  He made it past Australians hunkered down against the raised dirt on the edge of an irrigation ditch, ignoring a storm of expletives as he raced into the barn and jumped over the fire pit.

  Roy thumped into the wall next to the pack with the captured camo cloak.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Bailey shouted from the doorway.

  “Armor!” Roy pointed at the door chest heaving. “There’s—”

  A massive fist smashed through the roof and tore the wooden beams away. The bronze helm of a Dragon Armor panned from one side of the opening to the other, then stopped, staring right at the pack.

  The Armor kicked through the barn wall, spraying Roy with splinters.

  Roy snatched up the pack and ran right at the Chi-com suit. He skipped to one side, avoiding a swipe of an arm as big as he was, and slipped through the Armor’s legs and out into the night.

  He’d seen more than one of the Australians with anti-armor grenades. If he could give them a chance to react while the Dragon was focused on recovering the pack, they might stand a chance.

  Even if he had to buy them that time with his life.

  Bailey appeared at his side and grabbed a strap on the side of the pack, helping carry the load. A pair of anti-armor grenades bounced against her hip.

  “What’re you doing?” Roy glanced over his shoulder and saw the Dragon stomping toward them as rifle fire from the Australians bounced off the suit.

  “Trying to help,” she gasped, her short legs struggling to keep pace with him as she carried the pack in one hand, her rifle in the other. “Where are we—”

  “Use your frigging grenades!” He waved a hand behind him.

  A heavy-caliber weapon roared and dirt exploded around Roy, showering him with clumps of sod and pebbles. He stumbled and lost control of the pack, which landed on him, knocking his breath away.

  Catching the pack before it could roll away, he swung it back, putting it between him and the Dragon.

  Bailey was on her knees, fumbling with the two grenades.

  Roy grabbed her by the collar and pulled her down behind the pack. A round split the air over their heads with the crack of a falling tree.

  The girl was sobbing, her hands shaking with fear. He took one of the grenades by the wooden handle then closed his other hand over hers, helping her grip the weapon.

  “At the same time.” He looked her in the eyes. “Beats his point defense. On three.”

  Roy twisted the warhead on the grenade and it snapped twice, armed for close detonation. Bailey nodded furiously. As the Dragon stomped closer, Roy could hear the servo whine and realized it was seconds away.

  “Shit. Three!” He popped over the backpack and threw the grenade overhand with everything he could muster. He ducked back as his and Bailey’s blossomed into twin fireballs.

  The plastic explosives packed behind concave copper plates ignited, and the force morphed the plates inside out, turning them into hypervelocity jets of metal that pierced the Dragon like lances.

  The overpressure slapped Roy and his ears rang. He shook his head, fighting against dizziness. He lay over Bailey, protecting her with his body. When he raised his head, he found the Dragon on its feet, two glowing rings on its breastplate. The smell of burnt sugar was thick in the air.

  The Chi-com Armor pitched forward, its helm sinking into the rain-softened earth.

  “Get off!” Bailey pushed him away and scrambled on her hands and knees until she found her dirty sniper rifle.

  A bullet snapped over the edge of the fallen Dragon and kicked up a shower of dirt next to her. There was another Armor out there.

  “Come on!” Roy rushed to her and gripped her collar. He dragged her to the Dragon as more rounds whacked into its back, each impact ringing like a church bell.

  Bailey clutched him, burying her head into his chest as the rain of hits continued. One punched through the back of the armor and slammed into the breastplate, knocking out a divot next to Roy’s head.

  The snap of high-caliber rounds increased in fury, and Roy felt the slap of air from bullets going overhead. He put an arm around Bailey’s shoulders as she curled up. He barely knew this girl, and now they were about to die together.

  The fire died out and the stomp of heavy footfalls rumbled beneath them. A floodlight snapped on, covering them with white light.

  “Roy?” came from speakers.

  He looked up at a suit towering over them, blinking against the harsh light.

  “Captain Sigmund?” Roy shouted up, struggling to hear his own words against the ringing in his ears.

  Bailey looked up from his chest and sniffed. “That your mate?” she asked.

  “Even if he wasn’t a Telemark, he didn’t crush us, so yeah, I’d say he’s our mate.” Roy tried to remove her fist clenched full of his skin suit, but she held firm.

  The floodlight cut out and Sigmund lowered his cannon arm to one side. “We got intel of Chi-com Armor in this sector,” he said. “That your kill?”

  Roy leaned away from the downed Dragon. His back was slick with bathwater-hot amniosis. He stood and backed away from it. The two punctures from the anti-armor grenades must have instantly killed the man inside. His mind went to what must remain within the inner pod, and the burnt-sugar smell in his nose suddenly made him retch.

  “Hey, pommie,” Bailey said as she grimaced and pulled the shoulder of her inundated uniform top off her skin, “I know your voice. We’ve got some Chi-com gear that has to go back to base.” She pointed at the pack lying nearby. “And you two owe me some new clothes! It smells like a kangaroo pissed all over me!”

  “Glad you’ve made some friends,” Sigmund said. “Digger and Payne are with the rest of the levies by what’s left of the barn. We’ll transport them all back to Brisbane.” Treads popped out of the back of his legs and his suit settled down in travel configuration.

  “Worst ride’s better than the best walk,” Bailey said to Roy, going to the pack and dragging it toward Sigmund. “Come on. Doubt he’s got any extra room in there for you.”

  As Roy took one last look at the dead Dragon, a strange sensation filled in his chest. He nodded quickly and helped her haul the pack onto the metal skirt over Sigmund’s tracks.

  “You hurt?” Sigmund asked him.

  “No.” Roy steadied himself against the treads. “No, sir…just tired of being a crunchy.”

  Sigmund leaned to one side and put his palm to the ground. Roy climbed up the joints and onto the skirt over the tread. The metal felt good to the touch, like he’d come home.

  “Is that what you are? A crunchy?” Sigmund asked.

 
; “I am Armor.” Roy let out a long sigh and helped Bailey up.

  “Thought you two were mates?” She knocked the butt of her sniper rifle against Sigmund’s treads, cleaning mud off it, then touched a breast pocket. Her eyes went wide. “My smokes. My smokes are out there somewhere.”

  “That’s nice.” Sigmund spun around in place, then drove off with a lurch.

  “It was my last pack!” Bailey looked over the edge of the treads and was about to jump off when Roy pulled her back.

  “You want to walk?” he asked.

  “Ah…filthy habit anyway. There any of your Strike Marines in-country yet? Maybe back at Brisbane?” she asked Sigmund.

  Sigmund’s helm turned to Roy. “Way to represent the Corps, bean head.”

  Roy sat down behind Sigmund’s torso, his muscles going weak as the adrenaline faded away. He touched his chest where his and Bailey’s grenades killed the Dragon, and thought of what he’d just done.

  Chapter 9

  Sigmund rolled into Fort Bernakin, past heavy equipment unloading Atlantic Union Air Force craft and through an inner fence topped with razor wire. He kept going after the Light Horse Armor stopped behind him.

  “Oy, let me off!” Bailey beat a fist against the Armor’s torso and pointed back to the rest of her squad, still with the other suits.

  “They want the pack and they want it now,” Sigmund said through his speakers.

  Roy, one hand gripping the pack with the camouflage screen, the other holding onto a handle on Sigmund’s back, craned his neck up to a dark hangar. Beside it was a matte-black shadow of an aircraft, all hard angles and shaped into an arrowhead.

  “That a UFO?” Bailey pointed at the aircraft.

  “Might be,” Roy said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  Sigmund came to a stop outside the closed hangar doors.

  “Take it in,” Sigmund said. “I’ll wait here.”

  “No complaints if this is the last time I have to carry this damn thing,” Bailey said, jumping off the tread skirt and hauling the pack off. It hit the ground with a heavy thump. A red light turned on over an access door.

  “Careful,” a woman said, appearing out of nowhere. Middle-aged, she wore a business suit with a slightly loose coat, and her short dark hair ended just below her jawline.

  “Who’s this bird?” Bailey stepped between the new arrival and the pack.

  The woman came closer as Roy got off the tracks. Her face was attractive with features indicating a mixed ancestry.

  “Let me help you with that.” She reached for the pack, but Bailey slapped her hand away.

  “You know what me and my mates went through to get this?” the Australian asked. “You think I’m going to just let some Yank have it for nothing? Just who in the hell do you think you are?”

  “My name is Shannon Martel.” The woman smiled and Roy caught a glimpse of a pistol in her jacket. “I run security for Mr. Ibarra.”

  “Ibarra?” Roy’s brows shot up. “Ibarra…Ibarra? That Ibarra?”

  “Who else on Earth has their own private stealth jet?” Shannon smiled. “He’s inside and he’s waiting. His time is very valuable, so if you don’t mind…” She motioned to the access door.

  “If anyone asks,” Bailey said, lifting up one side of the pack, “we take tips. Let’s go.”

  Roy did a double take over his shoulder toward Sigmund, then helped carry the pack to the access door, which opened for them.

  Inside the hangar was a line of Australian and Atlantic Union military personnel. Two soldiers in power armor flanked an elderly man sitting on a cargo pallet. The old man had both hands on the head of a cane, and his suit and shoes were immaculate and custom-made, which befitted Marc Ibarra, the richest man on Earth.

  “Are those Strike Marines?” Bailey asked, walking faster across the empty hangar toward Ibarra.

  “Those are a bunch of generals and there’s Colonel Carius,” Roy said, suddenly very conscious of his dirty civilian attire. “I am still in flip-flops.”

  “Bring it here.” Marc Ibarra waved them over, his voice reedy, but still strong for one past seventy. “Let’s see if you’ve really got what you say you do.”

  “My men wouldn’t lie about something like this,” General Calhoon said from where he stood behind the power-armored guards.

  “Don’t think I won’t bill you for gas if this is a snipe hunt,” Ibarra said.

  Bailey and Roy set the pack down. Bailey went to one of the Strike Marines and peered at his rifle, the barrel thicker and more angular than the rifles her fellow soldiers carried.

  “Is that a gauss?” she asked, wide-eyed. “I heard they can get a round up to—”

  “You’re doing show-and-tell first, my dear,” Ibarra said and tapped his cane against the ground twice. The two Strike Marines opened the pack and began spreading out the camouflage screen.

  “You were there when it was captured?” Ibarra asked Roy.

  “No, sir, but she was,” Roy said, wiping grime off his face and glancing at Carius, who remained silent and stoic.

  “Circumstances?” Ibarra asked.

  “Spotted a Chi-com filling a water can at a stream,” she said. “We followed him through the bush a ways…and then he just up and disappeared. Thought we’d all had a bit too much sun at that point, but Monaro went to poke around and then he ran into…that.” She waved a hand over the flat panel as it unfolded across the hangar bay floor. The edge of the screen seemed to meld into the floor, fading away from one edge to the other.

  “Damnedest thing,” she said. “Chi-com inside heard him and started shooting. We rushed the place and got them cactus. Just three in there. Bunch of commo gear, couple satellite dishes they hadn’t set up yet. Looks like we got them right as they’d made camp. My sergeant had us bring that heavy bastard back in.”

  “Well, well,” Ibarra said. “Not a snipe hunt after all.” He tapped his cane against Calhoon’s leg. “I do appreciate the heads-up on this. Very helpful.”

  “After all you’ve done for Australia, we thought of you first,” Calhoon said.

  “We need to get this back to the Union,” Carius said. “We can reverse-engineer it and—”

  “I don’t remember saying a word about giving it to you,” Calhoon said. “Pom or seppo, don’t care which you are. This is Australian property.”

  Roy’s mouth went dry. Even out of his Armor, Carius cut an intimidating figure. The mix of Australian and Union officers in the room had migrated to their own groups, and Roy wasn’t exactly sure who the two Strike Marines actually worked for.

  “Now, now,” Ibarra said. “We’re all on the same team, yes? Let’s not forget about the multi-ton, rail-gun-armed elephant on a slow course to Brisbane. The one we can’t exactly find right now.”

  “What was that?” Bailey asked.

  “Whoops!” Ibarra held up a palm and Shannon handed him a small box. “Pretend you didn’t hear that. And then I need you to pretend you don’t see this either. I need to bring in an off-site expert.”

  “Sir,” Shannon said, “we don’t have secure comms to Euskal Tower yet. We—”

  “We’ll be fine,” Ibarra said, squeezing the side of the box and tossing it out in front of him. It sprang to life and floated up on a set of thin rotor blades that popped out of the side. “Lives are at stake here, Shannon. We can bend my rules just a bit. They are my rules, after all.”

  The small drone floated back and forth over the nearly invisible screen, a beam of light emitting from the bottom.

  “Mr. Ibarra, sir,” Calhoon said quietly, “the prime minister asked me to inquire as to…licensing fees…for whatever you find here.”

  Ibarra reared back slightly, as if offended.

  “Did the prime minister mention how I provided the blueprints to the Armor systems to your government sans ‘license fees’? Smuggled Dr. Eeks over to perform the necessary surgery so you could have soldiers to fight in those suits? Loaned you the auto foundry in Pert
h that’s manufacturing most of your small arms ammunition?”

  “You did what?” Carius asked.

  “He didn’t mean smuggle.” Shannon glared at Ibarra. “He meant—”

  Ibarra waved a hand over the head his cane. “Hush. We’re all friends now.”

  The drone stopped, then floated back to Ibarra and hovered a few feet from his face, a line of lights circling the middle.

  “What about a finder’s fee?” Bailey asked. “If not for the cloaky bit, then for this lug,” she said, pointing at Roy. “Bet you’ve got some dollars wrapped up into his skull.”

  “That’s why you rescued me? For a payday?” he asked.

  Bailey elbowed him.

  Ibarra leaned to one side and stared hard at the war refugee turned child soldier. His wealth was measured in the trillions of dollars and his companies were the technological and manufacturing lynchpin of Europe and North America. Roy didn’t know how to adjust to his position as apparent middleman between them.

  “She assumes we want him back,” Carius muttered.

  “Wait, what?” Roy’s face flushed.

  The drone chirped.

  “Hold that thought.” Ibarra wagged a finger at Bailey. “Jerry, what have you got for me?”

  “A significant advance in Sinochem material capability.” The answering voice was clipped and unnatural, almost robotic. “The electromagnetic pass-through rating is well beyond our iteration models. They’ve used a quantum wave field function I hadn’t anticipated.”

  “Who is that?” Calhoon asked.

  “We encrypt the voice channel,” Ibarra said quickly, his head lowering ever so slightly. “Makes Jerry sound a bit odd, doesn’t it, Shannon? Shannon’s met him several times, haven’t you?”

  Shannon seemed caught off guard by the question, but she nodded after a pause.

  “Jerry’s a bit of an introvert,” Ibarra said. “Doesn’t bathe. Lives for tech. Ain’t that right, Jerry?”

  “I’ve recorded the identities off all present for future action,” came from the drone.

  “Nondisclosure agreements!” Ibarra laughed nervously. “Paperwork. For the blue file,” he said to Shannon.