by David Gunn
“Stick with me,” I tell them. “Anyone asks, you’re already obeying orders. Got it?”
They nod like the neat little row of cannon fodder they are. It’s all I can do not to turn my back on the lot of them and walk away, leaving the group to fulfill their manifest destiny, which is get slaughtered for the greater good of OctoV. But being a lieutenant without men to command, that sucks.
So I order my new sergeant to choose himself a corporal.
“Franc,” he says without hesitation. His choice looks young and nervous, but it’s the sergeant’s decision.
“Okay. Now hit some batwings.”
Neen smiles, nods. Catching his mood, the others do the same.
“You’re going to fire this,” I tell Neen. “And I’m going to show you how.”
The belt-fed is a new model. More complicated that any machine gun I’ve handled before, but the thing about belt-feds is that they all follow a basic pattern, and it’s a pattern that is centuries old. A belt goes in, spent ceramic is ejected, somewhere down the line the block and barrel overheat and the firing mechanism jams. An experienced gunner can read the signs, letting his weapon cool between bursts for just long enough to keep it firing the rest of the time.
“Okay?”
He looks doubtful, so I run him again through the routine, doing my best to keep my temper, which is never good at the best of times. We touch on range and the fact that the gun has no brain at all, and why that can be an advantage when the Enlightened start letting off logic bombs.
We’re all aware there’s a battle going on around us.
“Got it this time?”
He takes one look at my face and nods.
“Good.”
Batwings continue to cut swaths through our troops before they can muster. Half the time new drops don’t even get clear of the pods. And our pods are still dropping, providing the batwings with a limitless supply of fresh meat.
We have twenty thousand dead already according to a readout on my visor. From habit, I double that for a true figure, and then double it again for what we’ll have lost by nightfall. Eighty thousand out of two hundred thousand, pretty much what the high command must be expecting.
The fleet can be seen in low orbit; General Jaxx’s mother ship is a black fleck in the sky above that. An early drop managed to set up an anti-aircraft gun. Most of their time is spent trying to take out high fighters before they can chase our pods to the ground. About one shot in ten hits its target. I’ve been in battles most of my life, but combat like this is outside my experience.
Dragging the belt-fed to the edge of the trees, we place it facing the city, because that’s where the batwings are obviously based.
“Kill them all,” I tell Neen.
Remembering his training, he snaps me a salute.
I smile.
Our belt-fed attracts attention, as we knew it would. As soon as the enemy realize we’ve moved it, a batwing peels off from the pod run and doubles back toward our small circle of trees. Bullets rip apart branches and then the batwing’s behind us, banking tightly for another run.
“Anyone injured?”
“Me,” says a voice.
Behind me lies a trooper. A sliver of branch protruding from his stomach. Out here that’s a death wound, three days of blood poisoning and flesh rot. It takes me a moment to remember his name. It’s Will, the smallest of the five.
“You,” I say to Franc and Neen. “Keep firing.” Franc feeds belt to the gun and Neen targets a batwing, making it swerve.
“That goes for you, too,” I tell the others. So Haze and Shil drag their gaze from the injured grunt, sight along their pulse rifles, and start firing. Haze is a shit shot, but at least he’s pointing in the right direction.
“You’re Will, right?”
He nods. “It’s bad, isn’t it, sir?”
“Hell,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
His eyes want to believe me. “You mean it?”
“Oh yeah, definitely.”
The trooper smiles, and he’s still smiling when I stab him through the heart. Flipping his jacket back into place, I close Will’s eyes and make the soldier’s sign over his body. Godspeed, and a better life next time.
“Dead,” my gun tells his friends. “Never had a chance.”
They’re doing well, not yet hitting a batwing but definitely tying up several of the bastards and taking them out of the fight. And they keep doing well, right up to the point their belt-fed jams.
“Fuck,” Neen says.
Franc grabs for the belt, burns his fingers, and swears.
“ Enough! ” I shout.
Both troopers freeze.
“Panic, and I’ll shoot you myself.”
The batwing is finishing its circle and readying itself for another run. My gun’s power pack now holds less than 38 percent, so I’m not keen to waste shots, but needs must…
Coming out of sleep, it scans for local threats and finds plenty. “Don’t tell me,” it says. “We’re up shit creek again.”
“See that batwing?”
A diode on the gun lights for locked on, and then blinks out again. “Thing’s shielded,” it says.
“So deal with it.”
The SIG diabolo whirs, a dozen diodes flicker, and it runs some routine to talk its current load through whatever needs doing.
“Done,” it tells me.
The batwing comes apart like a cheap firework. We destroy a second in the same way, and the others peel off and climb out of our range.
“Out of here,” I tell my new sergeant, grabbing his belt-fed by the barrel. He’s about to help when I shove him away. He looks shocked and I have to remind myself how green this lot are.
“It’s hot,” I say. “Burn your flesh to the bone.”
Flicking his gaze to my arm, Neen realizes the obvious. “Shit,” he says, then, “Sorry, sir.”
I almost ask him, What for?
We run back to our own lines, crouched low. And as we do, the first salvos of an enemy barrage reduce our previous position to splintered wood and an ugly black column of smoke and fire.
“How did you know, sir?”
It’s Franc, the new corporal. No such thing as a stupid question, I remind myself; just several thousand that sound that way.
“Cost them two batwings,” I say. “You think they’re going to let that go?”
“No, sir.”
A line of militia opens to let us through. Some of them are whistling their approval, although this stops the moment a fat young uniformed officer appears. He’s from a later drop, obviously, and the only reason he’s been able to keep his uniform clean is that we’ve pushed the enemy back the best part of five hundred yards.
That’s us, the entire first drop, most of whom are now dead.
“What’s your unit?” he asks Franc.
The grunt glances at Neen, who glances at me. And I’m standing there, dripping mud and clutching a red-hot belt-fed, my uniform splattered with blood and slivers of other people’s flesh. The young man’s gaze sweeps over me and returns to Franc, who’s beginning to look nervous.
“I asked you a question.”
The lieutenant has one of those voices. The kind I’ve always hated, right from my early days in the legion.
I tap him on the shoulder.
He swivels, mouth already opening in outrage. So I knee him, hard enough to lift him from the ground and drop him in a heap at my feet. When I roll him over his face is slack and his eyes have tipped back in his head.
“The name’s Sven fucking Tveskoeg,” I announce to no one in particular. “Lieutenant, Death’s Head, Obsidian Cross, third fucking class…Let him know that when he wakes.”
CHAPTER 27
Troopers move out of my way as I make my way through the camp. Maybe they’ve heard about what just happened, or maybe it’s just the way the SIG at my side keeps up a running commentary on their shortcomings.
“Crap tent.”
“Bloody awf
ul uniform.”
“Call that a pulse rifle…?”
The battle is over for the day and both sides are busy licking their wounds. I don’t know about the Uplifted’s forces, but ours taste pretty sour. We’ve taken heavy losses and the ragged militia through which I walk are sullen and afraid.
With the last of our pods landed, the enemy’s high fighters have returned to their landing strip on the far side of Ilseville. Their batwings are also gone, leaving the sky empty except for strange stars.
“Over there,” I say, pointing to a low hillock that looks slightly less sodden than those around it. A group of militia are doing their best to light a fire from damp twigs and strips ripped from someone’s uniform. A foil tent is already erected with its flap facing where they hope the fire will be.
Their best is pitiful.
“Move,” I tell them.
One of them stands and finds my gun under her chin.
They pack their possessions in silence. As they turn to go, Neen tosses them a fresh tent from his pack and I shrug. “Send someone along in a few minutes,” I tell their leader.
She turns back.
“We’ll have a fire going.”
I’m speaking the truth. When she returns, flames dance against sodden logs, which hiss and spit with escaping steam. Mind you, setting a fire is easy when you have a holster full of incendiary rounds. Fixed properly, a single round can burn for hours, assuming it doesn’t blow your hand off first.
“Frederica,” she says. “Sergeant.”
She’s tall, dark-skinned, and dark-haired. Frederica looks as if she’d be good in bed and good in a fight. Life needs more women like her.
“Sven Tveskoeg,” I tell her. “Lieutenant.”
She feels better after that, because I outrank her and that makes losing the spot easier. “Which regiment?”
“Death’s Head.”
Her glance checks whether I’m joking.
“I’d better be going,” she says.
I watch Frederica retrieve a burning brand from our fire. She’s a good sergeant, and she’s going back to tell her troopers how narrow an escape they just had, but it makes me wonder about the outfit I’ve joined.
In the legion we regarded officers in the Death’s Head as mythic beings, the elite of an elite. Frederica’s response is based on something other than respect, something much more primitive.
“See you around,” I say.
She doesn’t look back.
Being semi-chameleon, our tents have already adopted the dirty green of the ground beneath. Fooler loops will help dampen their thermal pattern should the Enlightened bother to overfly this site. Although given the fires and the smoke that curls up into the darkening sky, few people in Ilseville can have any doubt that we’re here.
Behind our camp is a muddy-edged pond. It feeds from a narrow stream on our side and soaks away into marshland beyond. We’re filthy, stink of smoke, and need a wash, plus I’m tired and need something to snap me awake.
Cold water should do it.
“Get ready for a swim,” I tell Neen, stripping off my combat armor and tossing it into the pond.
My sergeant looks shocked.
There was an oasis behind Jebel Jebel, south of Karbonne. I remember the lieutenant making us wash away the memories of our first battle. Of course it was high summer back then, and we were filthy and the water was cool.
Unbuckling his boots, Neen discards his jacket, strips off his shirt, and climbs out of his trousers. He has the body of a farm laborer, rangy but lacking muscle. No implants, no augs. It makes me realize I don’t know which world he came from. Somewhere backward, from the looks of things.
“And the rest of you.”
Franc strips next, unbuckling heavy boots and fumbling with fastenings. When his shirt hits the ground to reveal breasts I realize the obvious. Franc’s a she, and the troopers in my group are mixed. Franc has no augmentations, either, but she’s been in battle before, because three knife scars cross her gut like claw marks.
“Seen enough, sir?”
“No,” I say. “Come here.”
She glares but obeys my order.
The scars are raised, stitched badly, and poorly healed. “Nasty,” I say, though I’ve seen nastier. “How recent?”
“Six months ago.”
“Combat?”
Franc’s smile is sour. “Family argument,” she says, and then waits for me to dismiss her.
I make her wait.
She’s got broad shoulders, small breasts, and tight hips, with no body hair anywhere, not even on her head, which has been shaved or something.
“Do you have ferox on your planet?”
It’s obvious from the bemused expression on her face that the answer is no.
Neen and Haze are male, Franc and Shil are not, although Haze has a body almost androgynous in its softness and whiteness. Shil is the eldest, at least that’s my guess. She undresses with her back to us all and discards her shirt only when she’s already in the water.
“Scrub your uniforms,” I order. “The fire will dry them quickly enough.”
The water is cold and fresh and tastes metallic. After a second even Shil is grinning and gasping as the coldness of the water takes her breath away. I make them stay in until their clothes are clean and the battle forgotten. And then I turn my mind to other things.
“We need food.”
“But we’ve got…” Neen hesitates, uncertain if he’s allowed to disagree.
“Go on.”
“We’ve got our food packs, sir.” He nods toward the tents. A cart has just been around, piled with extra battlefield rations. Vacuum-packed foil sachets of dried shit that just needs water to taste like dried shit with added water.
“Have you eaten that stuff?”
As one, they shake their heads.
“Keep it that way.” Having wrung the worst of the water from my uniform, I dress and go check my gun.
“Call this a camp?” it says, coming out of sleep mode.
“You seen better?”
The SIG names three campaigns noted for their viciousness. And my respect for Aptitude’s bodyguard reaches a new level.
To Shil I say, “Get your rifle.”
She does as she’s told, scowling furiously.
“Be back in an hour,” I tell Neen. “Anyone asks, I’m on reconnaissance and your orders are to wait here.”
He salutes, his eyes flicking to the woman beside me. And I wonder if there’s anything between them. She’s in her late twenties, scrawny as a skinned rabbit, and smiles when she sees him. The rest of the time she looks like thunder.
“Shil,” I say, when we’re on our own. “A couple of questions…Have you known Sergeant Neen long?”
Our fat-wheeled combats cool on a hillock behind us. God knows the machines are hopeless in battle; they might as well be used for something, even if it’s just a hunting trip into the marshes.
“He’s my brother, sir.”
Fucking great.
“And Franc and Haze?”
“My cousins, but Haze lives in a different village. So I don’t know him that well.”
“And your militia mixes sexes?”
Shil slicks me a sideways scowl. It asks, How can he not know something that basic? Only she swallows the comment and nods instead.
“Got a flash bang?”
She nods to that, too. “Good,” I tell her. “Go around that way. Quietly as you can. Toss it into a channel and come back, making as much noise as possible.”
“Where will you be, sir?”
“Waiting.”
THERE IS A right time for things and a wrong time. I want to explain this to the SIG diabolo, but it’s too busy turning off a row of diodes to listen, and it’s all I can do not to hurl the useless machine into a ditch and let it sit out the next fifty years underwater.
“Shutting down,” it says.
“Wait…”
It doesn’t, so I hurl it at the alligator in
stead.
The bastard is black and leathery, longer than Shil and probably four times her weight. Six legs power it through the mud toward me as it flees Shil’s stun grenade. Its teeth are blunt, but its jaws are tough and when they close on my thigh I can feel bones crack.
Nothing shatters, which is good.
“No you fucking don’t.”
As the beast rolls, trying to drag me under the water, I grab my laser knife and twist the handle until the blade flares brightly enough to be seen a mile away. Startled by the light, the alligator freezes and a smell of freshly seared reptile suddenly fills the air.
“Sir…” It’s Shil and she’s shouting.
We’ll need to talk about that.
“I’m fine.”
She slams to a halt, scowling. “Thought you were dead.”
“Well, I’m not. And, Shil…”
Shil looks at me.
“Don’t shout,” I tell her. “It unnerves people.”
Her eyes flick to the empty wastes around us.
“In battle,” I say. “It upsets people.”
“That why you killed Corporal Haven?”
A memory of an NCO with his legs smashed enters my mind. Only happened this morning, I remind myself, although it feels much longer ago. Can’t remember killing him, but that probably means nothing.
“Help me up.”
She struggles with my weight but gets me standing. My hip is better than I deserve, although it hurts and blood has filled my boots. My uniform is shredded down one side. If I were still in the legion I’d be carrying thread, a needle, a knife, and wind-dried meat, our basic survival pack. As it is, I’ve got my laser blade, throwing spikes, cracked bones in my leg, and a gun I’m going to need to find.
Looking at Shil it’s easy to understand my earlier mistake. She’s not bald like Franc, but her head’s been cropped back to her skull and her uniform is a baggy mess of cheap cloth with too many pockets, patches, and fasteners, all guaranteed to fill with water every time it rains. She looks like any other grunt.
“Got a needle and cotton in one of those pockets?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How are your nerves?”