Her Brother's Keeper

by Mike Kupari

  Catherine’s heart was in her throat. They’d done it. Marcus, that magnificent son of a bitch, had done it. “I’m monitoring the feed from the drone, Captain,” Azevedo said, snapping her out of her elation. It wasn’t over yet. “Lang’s militia is on full alert. There’s a convoy of vehicles arriving at Lang’s Burg now. Sensors detect more coming in from nearby settlements. I’ve got eyes on our ground team. They’re in a two vehicle convoy headed toward extraction site Charlie. The terrain is rough and they can’t go that fast. Captain, they’re being pursued. They’re . . . stand by.”

  “Luis? What’s happening?” Catherine asked, unable to hide the concern in her voice. Lang’s men, gathered all around the Andromeda’s landing jacks, were either unaware of the firefight in Lang’s Burg or didn’t care about it.

  “Captain, the ground team is in trouble. Their big truck, the one carrying the powered armor, is stopped. Something wrong with the wheel I think, I can’t tell from the feed. The other truck isn’t big enough to transport them all. Hostile vehicles are about to catch up with them. What are your orders?”

  “Prep the ship for liftoff. Sound general quarters. I want a short-hop trajectory to get us to the ground team. High altitude, come straight down on top of them, as close as we can get without burning their hair off. Tell them to we’re coming for them, and to hold on. I’ll be on the command deck momentarily.” She turned her attention to the crew on the cargo deck as the ship’s general quarters klaxons began to sound. “Mr. Kimball, is the cargo secured?”

  Kimball turned to Annabelle Winchester, who had been hustling through the cargo deck, doing final checks on everything. She flashed him a thumb’s up. He nodded and answered the captain, “It is. We can lift off at any time.”

  “Very good. Secure the hatch. Get to your stations.” Captain Blackwood turned for the ladder.

  Azevedo piped up over her earpiece again. “Captain, what about the guys on the ground? External feed shows they’re not moving. I don’t know if they’re waiting for orders, or if they thought we’d tell them when to clear out, or what, but if they’re still there at ignition they won’t be there a second later. What do you want me to do, ma’am?”

  “Do nothing,” Catherine said coldly. “They’ll move when we start spinning up the engines. If they don’t have the sense to do that, well . . . how unfortunate.”

  * * *

  “Suppressing fire!” Marcus shouted, even though there was no need for him to do so with his helmet’s communications suite. Jeremiah Hondo, covering behind a damaged heavy truck, ripped off a long burst from his machine gun. Benjamin Halifax’s plasma gun lanced out into the dim light. The heavy truck, overloaded with the weight of the powered armor, had broken an axle on the rocky, uneven terrain. Devree and Randy’s vehicle had been pursued by Lang’s militia from the moment they’d left Lang’s Burg, and now that the convoy was stopped, the pursuers had caught up. Now they were firing heavy weapons, mortars and rockets, at the mercenaries, pinning them down. Even Halifax, in his powered armor, had to make careful use of available cover. The heavy weapons were powerful enough to destroy his suit, and even enough concentrated small arms fire could damage it.

  Covering behind a rocky outcrop in a pile of spent plastic cartridge cases, Marcus slammed a fresh magazine home and leaned out, looking for targets of opportunity. Beside him, Wade Bishop fired off two shots from his own rifle before ducking back down, barely avoiding a hail of incoming gunfire.

  “They’re pretty pissed off!” Wade said, reloading his rifle.

  Marcus snapped off a controlled pair, dropping a rifle-wielding militiaman only two hundred meters away. “Lang must’ve figured out what we did!” he said. “Probably told them to get Cecil back or he’d kill them all!”

  “Bloody hell!” Cecil exclaimed, rock chunks pelting him as bullets impacted all around. He was farther down the sloping rock formation the mercenaries were using for cover, tending to the Zanzibaran woman who’d taken a bullet for him. He’d been given a pistol, but hadn’t yet fired it. Whenever an incoming missile or mortar detonated nearby, he’d shelter the unconscious woman with his own body. “I’ll shoot myself before that bastard gets me back!”

  An unguided rocket screeched overhead, grazed the roof of one of the disabled trucks, and veered off-course, exploding in midair. Ken Tanaka responded with a missile from a single-shot, disposable launcher. Unlike the crude munitions the militia were using, this rocket was guided. It impacted one of the militia gun trucks with a loud bang, knocking the vehicle on its side and leaving it burning.

  Another gun truck rounded a rocky outcropping. In its bed was mounted a large caliber machine gun, blazing away at the mercenaries’ position. These improvised gun trucks, called “technicals” for reasons that had been lost to history, were the mainstay of Lang’s forces, and he seemed to have an endless supply of them.

  Ken Tanaka was able to get a missile lock on the truck through the smart-link to Wade’s rifle scope. He fired his last single-shot missile launcher upward, at an angle, without leaving cover. The rocket’s engine kicked on with a roar an instant later. Thrust-vectoring paddles flipped the missile over in midair, sending it shrieking down on top of the technical. It detonated with a flash, engulfing the truck in a hydrogen and ammunition-fueled fireball.

  Several of his Cowboys let out cries of victory, but Marcus knew they weren’t in the clear yet. One more gun truck had been destroyed, but there were still probably three dozen gunmen and several more technicals out there. The team was running low on ammunition, were saddled with a wounded woman they couldn’t move very quickly, and had no working vehicles. The Andromeda was inbound, but Lang’s forces had reinforcements on the way, and the gunmen already on the ground kept pushing closer and closer.

  There was only one thing to do: attack.

  “Listen up!” Marcus said, speaking to the whole team on the radio. “Dev, Randy, you two move off our left, push forward, and find a position to fire on their right flank. Ken, Ben, same thing, but head right. Halifax, me and Wade will fall in behind you, using you for mobile cover. We’re going to provide fire support for the flank elements until they get into position, then we’re going down the center. Cover to cover, move fast, keep going forward. We gotta take ’em out before they regroup. Any questions?”

  “Ah, yes!” someone said timidly. “What shall I do?” It was Cecil Blackwood.

  “Mr. Blackwood, it’s my job to get you back to your sister alive,” Marcus said. “I’ll do everything I can to keep them off you until the ship arrives, but I can’t promise you anything. No matter what happens, stay here, and stay alive until then. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Alright, Cowboys, let’s do this! Overwatch team, move, move, move!”

  “Hey!” Cecil said, getting Marcus’ attention. “Mr. Winchester? Thank you for this. I won’t forget this. No matter what happens, you and all your families will be taken care of! I swear it!”

  Marcus and Wade both nodded at Cecil. “Just stay alive, man,” Wade said. “One thing at a time, yeah?”

  * * *

  Off on the left flank, Devree and Randy vaulted from one rocky outcrop to the next, bullets snapping overhead in the thin air. Randy went prone behind a windblown boulder and fired off several short bursts from his carbine, allowing Devree to leap to the next available cover.

  “Gotcha covered!” she said, shouldering the little 5.45mm personal defense weapon she carried as a backup to her unwieldy rifle.

  “Moving!” Randy said. He pushed himself off the hard ground, feet skidding in the dust, and ran for Devree’s position as fast as he could. He dove down and slid to a stop next to her, grateful for the knee pads integrated into his trousers. “I gotcha covered! Put that rifle together!”

  Devree nodded, took cover, stripped off her pack, and began assembling her rifle as Randy fired off single shots at the enemy’s position. The militiamen were holed up behind a rocky terrain feature about two hundred
meters from the mercenaries’ position, and had taken enough casualties in their assaults that they were now mostly keeping their heads down, waiting for reinforcements of their own. Off in the distance, Hondo and Tanaka pushed forward, flanking them from the right.

  Halifax was using his suit’s plasma weapon sparingly, as he was running low on fuel cells and spare barrels for it, but the enemy militiamen seemed to be terrified of it. Even near-misses caused horrific burns. Direct hits caused the fluids in a human body to flash-evaporate, blowing the victim apart in a cloud of steam and boiling blood. Hits on solid objects like rock and stone caused explosive decoupling and dangerous secondary fragmentation. Plasma weapons were banned on most worlds, and were heavy, expensive, and maintenance-intensive on top of it. But a full-up plasma gun, mounted on powered armor, in the hands of an aggressive killer like Halifax, was a fearsome instrument. His voice boomed over the suit’s PA system. “Cry some more, you sons of whores! I’m a comin’ for ya! Ha ha ha!”

  As Devree slid her rifle’s barrel into place and locked it in, Captain Blackwood’s commanding voice crackled over the teams’ battle net. “Cowboy, this is the Andromeda,” the captain said calmly. “We are on our way. ETA nine minutes.”

  “Cowboy-Six copies!” Marcus replied, breathing over the radio. “We’re holding them off, but enemy reinforcements are en route. The package is still alive, but he has another person with him who’s wounded. She’s going to need immediate medical attention.”

  “Copy that. A med team will be standing by. We’ll have to land at least five hundred meters from your position. Can you make it that far?”

  “We’ll hold our own, Captain, but sooner would be better. Cowboy-6 out.”

  Devree set the heavy sniper rifle down in front of her, pulling her thermoptic cloak down over her head. The rifle’s bulky, camouflage-painted shape stuck out from under the active camouflage garment, which mimicked whatever colors were around it and masked (if only temporarily) a person’s thermal signature. Using them was power intensive and had to be done sparingly.

  A warning from their little recon drone flashed in the sniper team’s smart goggles. “What’s that?” Devree asked.

  “Balls,” Randy muttered, before transmitting over the battle net. “Cowboy-6, Overwatch! Be advised, incoming enemy aircraft, high rate of speed, ETA momentarily, how copy?”

  Marcus sounded confused. “Say again?”

  “Get down!” Randy shouted into his microphone. “Incoming gunships!”

  A pair of ungainly looking aircraft came into view a moment later. The Orlov Combine refugees from Sanctuary had warned that Lang’s forces were getting some attack aircraft put together, but they didn’t know how far along they were. Pretty goddamn far along, Devree thought bitterly, as the armored VTOL roared at them forty meters off of the deck. It was an ugly thing, held aloft by two massive, screaming, ducted-fan engines and bristling with guns and rockets. It was headed right for the sniper team.

  “Do you have a shot on that thing?”

  “I think so!” Devree replied. “Hold on a sec!”

  “We don’t have a sec!” The gunship blasted off a volley of rockets that shrieked toward the sniper team at hundreds of meters per second. Randy barely had time to throw himself over Devree and push her head down before the first blast, and all was lost in darkness, dust, and the roar of explosions.

  * * *

  “Marcus!” Wade shouted. “They hit the sniper team!” The militia survivors on the ground were using the gunship attack as cover to flee. One slapped-together, blunt-nosed, armored beast slewed sideways, firing a pair of heavy machine guns in the direction of the mercenaries, kicking up dust and shattering rocks as it went. The other circled higher, firing at its leisure.

  “Open fire!” Marcus ordered. “Everything you got! Shoot them down!” He tried to pop up, to fire off a burst at one of the marauding aircraft, but blast from twin machine guns kept him from getting a shot off. Only Halifax’s suit weapons and maybe Hondo’s machine gun were going to be effective against them. The aircraft hovered sideways again, circling like a hungry shark, firing burst after burst from its machine guns.

  Halifax pivoted his suit from behind cover and tried to get a shot off, but the higher, circling gunship answered with a pair of rockets before he could fire. “Damn it,” he snarled over the radio. “I’m hit. Stand by.”

  “What are you doing?” Marcus asked, but Halifax didn’t answer. The powered armor took off at clunky run, back toward the destroyed vehicles. The higher of the two gunships broke off and followed, firing burst after burst. The aircraft’s guns were inaccurate, and Halifax jinked side to side as best he could to avoid fire. After a few seconds, the suit slid to a stop, turned around, and ran back toward Marcus and Wade.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Wade asked, but it became apparent a second later. The pursuing gunship overshot Halifax, allowing him just enough time to get a lock on it. He raised his left arm and fired streak after streak of white-hot plasma at the aircraft. One hit exploded an engine nacelle. The other punched a hole through the main fuselage. The mercenaries cheered as one gunship crashed to the rocky ground, but the other one turned on Halifax with a vengeance, firing a full volley of rockets at him. He tried to dodge, but was lost in cloud of dust and smoke as the rockets detonated.

  “Goddamn it!” Wade snarled. He and Marcus both fired off shot after shot, but the damned thing kept jinking, slewing, and changing altitude while returning fire. The two mercenaries jumped to the other side of the rocks they’d been hiding behind, getting behind cover just as big-bore machine guns blew chunks off of boulders and turned rocks into dust. “Marcus, Halifax isn’t answering his radio. It looks like the heavy is down. What are we gonna do?”

  Marcus didn’t have an answer. He’d failed his team. He didn’t anticipate enemy aircraft. They were out of missiles, half his team was likely dead, their vehicles were disabled, and they were out of time. In desperation, Marcus keyed his mic. “Andromeda, Cowboy-6! I need fire support, now! Target the enemy aircraft and shoot it down!”

  “Roger,” Captain Blackwood said calmly. “Stand by.”

  * * *

  Devree’s ears were ringing when she opened her eyes. Face down in the dirt, she couldn’t see anything, was having difficulty breathing, and couldn’t remember where she was. A heavy weight rested upon her, and her head throbbed. She fumbled with her hand until she touched the stock of her rifle. It was lying on its side, covered in dirt, but the feel of it brought everything back to her. Her head shot up, but she could barely see anything and gasped for air. She pulled the no-longer-functioning thermoptic cloak off of her head, took off her helmet and goggles, and removed her respirator.

  Panting and wheezing in the thin air, she tried to push herself up, but pain shot through her left arm. Her legs weren’t responding as they should; she knew her prosthetics were damaged. She was able to leverage herself off of her artificial right arm, push, and roll out from under whatever was on top of her.

  Randy Markgraf slumped to the ground, unmoving. Devree gasped when she realized that the weight had been him. “Randy!” she said, her voice weak in the thin air. She forced herself to sit up, panting, sweating, aching, her balance screwed up and her ears ringing, and pushed on his shoulder. “Randy!”

  It was like pushing on a bag of sand. There was no response, no give, only dead weight. “Oh God, Randy,” she cried. Devree pulled herself up to her knees, and examined her partner. Blood leaked from several wounds on his body. His armor had protected him some, but he was bleeding from every place the armor didn’t cover. She grabbed the drag handle on his vest and grunted as she rolled him over on to his back.

  Randy was dead. His smart goggles were cracked, his respirator clogged with dirt. Blood trickled from a head wound under his helmet. He wasn’t breathing.

  “Oh my God,” Devree said quietly, her ears still ringing. As her hearing slowly came back, she was able to hear the roar of the remaining gunshi
p’s engines and the firing of weapons. There was no time to mourn! She had to get back in the fight and take that damned thing down! Scrambling back to where her rifle was, she lifted it up out of the dirt, checked to make sure it was locked and loaded, and settled down behind it. Her left arm was injured, throbbing with pain, but she didn’t need it. The rifle’s weight sat on its bipod and buttstock monopod. Her prosthetic right arm was functional enough for trigger control.

  Fuck, she snarled quietly. The scope was smashed, nonfunctional. She hit the quick release and pulled it off, then flipped up the rifle’s back-up sights. Range . . . about four hundred meters. Moving about fifty KPH. Winds, northwesterly, ten KPH. 0.95 gravities. The open sights didn’t correct for environmental conditions like the smart scope did, but she didn’t need it. The rifle’s powerful rounds were high enough velocity that very little correction would be needed at this range. It was just a matter of hitting a moving target. With no magnification, she couldn’t be especially precise. She lined up the sights, waiting for the gunship to come to a hover. It stopped slewing momentarily, firing its machine guns, and became blurry as Devree focused on her front sight. She inhaled, exhaled partially, and squeezed the trigger.

  CRACK! The suppressor had been damaged along with the scope, but the rifle was still comparatively quiet. The barrel recoiled smoothly into the action as it fired. The massive, explosive bullet struck the gunship’s starboard-side engine cowling just as it was about to fire a volley of rockets. The impact and detonation threw it off enough that the rockets went wide.

  Devree barely noticed another, louder roar coming from high above. She fired off a second shot, again with a muffled CRACK, but this one missed. The roar grew louder and she looked up. High above her, slowly descending on a magnificent, smoky plume of fire, the Andromeda was coming in for a landing. A brief flash from one of its weapons ports, the slightest shimmer in the air accompanied by an electric crack, and the hostile gunship exploded in midair. The ship’s laser weapons were meant to destroy other ships or missiles thousands of kilometers away. At a range of less than a kilometer, they were devastating.