“Follow that bouncing ball . . . but you just wait until the real story gets out. How we’ve been used out here. That the Sims are human. That the war can never end.”
How the Emergency Senate can be an “emergency” body for over ten years.
“You sound almost like a radical there, Corporal.”
“I am a radical. I’m radically in favor of my own ass. And nothing else.”
CHAPTER 6
Walking. Walking. Starving.
Tiring.
Doubting.
The stars that had been providing such fine illumination had dimmed behind a veil of clouds, making it almost impossible to see where they were going. The shroud enfolded Mortas, cutting him off from the others even more than he already was. It seemed that the very ground conspired against them, as they were forced to walk along the side of the ridge for fear of encountering the enemy on its crest. The slope made walking uneven and chancy, and Gorman clearly suffered anew as the different angle of his footfalls reopened his blisters. Trent walked either directly behind him, or beside him on the downward slope, and Cranther took the lead the entire way.
We’re splitting up into two groups. At least two.
Fracturing. Coming apart. Not supposed to allow that.
The scout seemed able to see in the dark, never stumbling, but still he didn’t push the pace very hard. Every time loose rocks went tumbling down the slope because of the others he would simply freeze, and so would they. The frail forms would stand there on the angle, one tired leg bent and the other stretched to the limit, until Cranther was sure no enemy was nearby. Fingers of rock stretched across their path from time to time, running downward from the crest and forming excellent block positions. Every time they approached one of these the Spartacan would stop the group and go forward alone, silent, to see if anything waited on the likely ambush spot.
Each time he disappeared, Mortas feared he wouldn’t come back.
The movement was simply endless. His own toughened feet began to heat up in unusual places because of the awkward positioning of his boots, and he feared he’d end up in even worse shape than Gorman. The mapmaker was moving along without complaint, and Mortas had to question whether or not he’d be able to bear up as well if injured in a similar fashion. The backs of his knees protested every step now, and he’d scraped the palm of his uphill hand more than once when the scree gave way beneath him.
The hours wore on and they continued the nonstop movement with no encouragement from the blackness that surrounded them. In the daylight they’d been able to gauge their progress, modest as it had seemed, but now there was no way to know if they were getting anywhere at all. The ridge that held the Sim retransmission antenna curved toward their own somewhere in the distance, and Cranther had recommended that they move to the spot where the two escarpments were closest. The idea was to cross the flat at that point and then gain the heights that presumably looked down on the settlement, but Mortas began to doubt the plan the longer they walked. He couldn’t make out his hand in front of his face, and doubted how Cranther would know when they’d reached the right spot for the crossing. What if they’d already passed it?
Mortas had been surprised to lose sight of the antenna’s intermittent glow early in the walk, and without that as a reference he couldn’t tell how far they’d come. As the pain of his straining muscles and blistering feet slowly increased, he began to wistfully count off all the tools he would have had available for this march if he’d been with a regular Force platoon. He and his men would have been wearing goggles allowing them to see in the dark, and the enemy antenna would have been a bright line in the green field of vision. They would have been communicating through subdued microphones, passing everything from orders to information to encouragement. As a platoon leader he would have carried the additional aid of a navigational tablet that would not only tell him where he was, but also how to get where he was going. The wondrous thing would even tell him if he’d taken a wrong turn.
And that was only counting what his platoon would have been carrying. Even operating alone, they would be accompanied by silent drones cruising above and around them, searching for the enemy. Command frowned on the use of flares because they interfered with the operation of the goggles and also because the Sims relied on them heavily, but under emergency conditions he could have requested enough parachute illumination to light up the ground for miles. In big operations, where his platoon would be a small cog in a massive, searching machine of destruction, spacecraft in orbit would be monitoring their movement, ready to deliver a cataclysmic bombardment if necessary.
It was almost comical; here he was, an officer in the most technologically advanced species known to man, someone who’d grown up with every kind of device and machine imaginable, and his world had devolved into mere rock and dirt. He could feel the gravel shifting every time he put a boot down, straining the outside of one ankle and the inside of the other. His concentration on not falling took up almost all of the consciousness that his exhaustion and hunger weren’t consuming, and yet he could still shake his head in amusement that his life aspirations at that moment could be summed up in the burning desire to simply sit down.
Much later, after his legs were so sore that he couldn’t identify a muscle that wasn’t shouting, they abruptly turned and started walking downhill. Incredibly, this reprieve turned out to be even worse than the relentless inclined walk. Each step reached out into inky nothingness and then dropped until it found dirt, gravel, or rocks large enough to trip over. Mortas found his hands reaching out in front of him, grabbing air, and he slung the Mauler behind him to free up both his palms for the pointless effort. The stars had disappeared, and his only indication that the others were present was the sound of their own struggles. From those noises, he assumed they were doing a similar blind man’s walk.
He finally gave up and turned sideways again, as if they were still hugging the ridgeline, and found it an enormous relief. They’d been headed in one direction for so long on the same incline that there had been no way to alternate the foot that was lowermost, but now he was able to face the opposite direction as he slide-stepped down the slope. The new blisters were finally protected from the harsh abrasion of his boots, and he almost groaned in release.
Cranther must have been angling them toward the plain for some time, because it didn’t take long to reach level ground. Mortas knew this only when he bumped into the others gathered at the bottom in various postures of exhaustion. He mumbled a soft apology that was returned with a muffled chorus of surprising mildness. A variety of phosphorescent pebble was scattered across the flat expanse in front of them, reflecting what dim light was available, and he was finally able to make out the features of the other three. Cranther was leaning forward, his hands on his knees while Trent and Gorman stood resting against each other. As much as those postures of fatigue might be expected, their sunny expressions were not. All three were smiling, and it took Mortas a few seconds to realize that he was doing the same thing, overcome with joy at leaving the brutal incline behind.
Without knowing why, Mortas stepped up between Trent and Gorman. He laid a hand on each of their shoulders, leaned in, and whispered, “Good job. Good job.”
Sweaty hands came up to squeeze his arms, and they stood there grinning at each other until Cranther joined them. The short man stepped in across from Mortas, his hands on the others’ shoulders as well, trying to catch his breath but doing it without making a sound. Mortas saw the other two placing their free hands on the scout, and couldn’t have been more amazed until Gorman lowered his head to rest his temple against Cranther’s. His dulled brain tried to sort through what he was seeing and feeling, and Mortas fought to understand. The pain and the soreness was still there, but it had now receded into a muted throb and he decided that the others must have been experiencing the same thing.
It was only much later, walking along in the darknes
s, that he realized he’d just gained a valuable piece of life wisdom. He spent much of the rest of the march turning the idea over in his mind, repeating it mentally as if polishing a rare gem.
Some of the things that beat the absolute shit out of you—like that slope back there—can beat the bullshit out of you too.
They encountered the dead body in the ravines just as the sun was coming up. They were getting close to the next ridge, and Mortas had directed Cranther to pick a spot for them to hole up through the daylight hours when they turned a corner and saw the corpse.
He turned out to be human, marginally taller than Cranther, dressed in an olive drab coverall and boots. His brown hair was matted with dirt and dried sweat, and he wore no headgear. Insulting rents had been blasted through his uniform front and back, but it had taken him a long time to die; a rust-colored stain ran all the way down one of his legs and into that boot.
Cranther scrambled forward as soon as the corpse came into view, rolling it over and grabbing at a small shoulder bag it had been carrying. The others, mad with hunger and mindless of the danger, clustered around him as he upended the sack. Mortas recognized a plastic medical kit when it hit the dirt, and then his entire being seemed to lurch toward a handful of energy bars that tumbled out as well.
They counted the wrappers later, and discovered that there had been eight of the chocolate-covered life-givers. The food was consumed with such joyous abandon that it was gone in moments. Chocolate, nuts, a gooey substance that tasted like pure sugar, all stuffed into their mouths and swallowed in such a rush that only the aftertaste and the wrapping material proved they’d existed at all. Mortas could feel his stomach coming alive again, saliva and bitter juice rushing out of his throat as he consumed the first bar in less than two bites. The water at the first river had been ecstasy, but the sensation of the nutrients entering his body was simply miraculous.
Collapsed on the dirt, utterly mindless of the dead man, he looked at the faces of the others and wasn’t surprised to see that Gorman and Trent were fighting back tears. He only remembered the corpse when Cranther began searching it methodically. He found nothing on the body, and further examination of the bag’s contents revealed only the aid kit.
The small box gave off a slight pop when he opened it, and Cranther looked at Gorman with a broad grin. The chartist didn’t understand at first, so the scout tipped the container to show stick-on bandaging and a pair of tiny scissors.
“Our lucky day. Lucky lucky lucky us.” Cranther muttered. He glanced over at the dead man’s feet. “And we might just be able to throw away those for-shit boots you been wearing, too. Look like they’d fit you, and believe me, he doesn’t need them anymore.”
Mortas was expecting Gorman to object, but Trent spoke before he got the chance. She wore a frown, and was regarding the corpse in confusion. “What’s he doing here? Is he even human?”
“A Sim wouldn’t be carrying our rations.” Cranther gestured toward the body. “From the uniform and the boots, I’d say this was a crewman on one of our assault vehicles. No weapon, no headgear . . . probably had to bail out fast. Only time to grab the bag, and from the look of him, maybe not even time for that.”
“What do you think got him?” Mortas began to look around, becoming aware that they’d posted no security at all.
“Could be slugs from a Sim rifle, but from those tears I’d say it was fragments of something else. Maybe spall from the inside of his own vehicle.”
“Spall?”
“Yeah, a round hits the outer hull hard enough, it fragments the inner lining and blows it through the personnel compartment. The Sims have gotten real creative with munitions like that.”
Mortas was already climbing up the ravine wall when Trent spoke, her voice trembling. “So where’s this vehicle? Why is he here? And why’s he alone?”
The plain stretched out in front of him when he peeked up over the edge of the gully, and he saw nothing unexpected. The brush was thin here, and he could see a great distance even though the sun had not yet risen. The next ridge loomed in front of them, but the high ground spread away on both sides and he was certain he could see thicker vegetation where the river they’d crossed was located. He heard Cranther’s voice behind him.
“Who knows what went on while we were in the transit tubes? No one’s supposed to be here, but there’s a brand-new Sim colony and at least one of our guys in a tanker suit. Probably explains that ration bag we saw.”
“You mean there was an attack?” Trent, growing even more upset.
“Had to be. What else would explain him being here? Bailed out when his vehicle got hit, ran off, probably covered a lot of ground from the looks of that bloodstain.”
Movement caught Mortas’s eye, and he hissed down to the others. “Hey! Birds!”
Cranther was beside him almost immediately, looking at the brightening horizon. Three or four birds of indeterminate size were slowly circling in the distance, perhaps all the way back at the bridge. Their behavior reminded Mortas of vultures on Earth, and he shuddered at the thought that they were closing in on the remains of the guards they had killed.
“Don’t seem to be ’bots,” Cranther mused. “Hey El-tee. You think maybe we didn’t see any of these things for the first couple of days because there was a battle here? Scared them off?”
“I thought fights attracted birds.” Remembering a history lesson about how medieval armies marching toward each other were sometimes accompanied by huge hungry flocks, eager for the coming feast. “You know, scavengers.”
“Sure, when they’re used to it. But on a new planet the life forms usually run off for a while, just from the settlers. Add in the bang and the boom of an actual battle, something they’ve never seen before, and they clear out for a long time.”
“Makes as much sense as anything else.” Mortas looked over his shoulder and saw Trent pulling off one of Gorman’s boots, the aid kit open at her feet. He leaned closer to the scout. “That body couldn’t have been there for long. And chewed up like he is, he couldn’t have walked all that far from wherever he got hit.”
“I know. So you’re thinking there might be friendlies in the area and we could link up?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Sure. That would be great. Except for one thing. We haven’t heard any shooting or any explosions the entire time we’ve been here. Those guards we nailed were colony militia at best, but they didn’t act like they were in any danger.”
“What are you saying?”
“If there was a fight here, I think we’ve missed it.” Cranther raised his head a little further, straining to see. “And it looks like our side lost.”
Mortas stayed on guard when Cranther slipped back down into the ravine to fix Gorman’s feet. It was warm up there in the sun, and he could feel strength returning as his body rapidly processed the nutrients he’d just consumed. His stomach still wanted more, but he found it comforting that the rest of him seemed to know it had been fed. He listened to Cranther’s gentle criticism of Trent’s attempt to bandage Gorman’s blisters.
“For a distance runner you don’t know much about this.” The scout whispered evenly. “See what I’m doing? You cut a piece that will cover the blister and a small area around it, then you cut out the center of that piece so that it leaves the blister exposed to the air. The bandage keeps the boot from rubbing against it, but the air will help it heal faster.”
Mortas glanced down in time to see Cranther peel off the backing and stick the first bandage onto Gorman’s outstretched foot. The blistering didn’t look too bad from that distance, but the pale, wrinkled flesh spoke volumes. The synthetic material of Gorman’s shipboard boots had trapped the moisture from his feet, and so he’d developed his own little case of immersion foot in the middle of what amounted to a desert.
Trent had already removed the dead man’s boots and soc
ks, and Cranther took them before turning to Gorman. “You’re not gonna refuse these, are you?”
“No.” The chartist’s thinning face showed the relief he’d already gleaned from the small amount of food and the medical attention. “If the roles were reversed, I’d want him to take mine.”
“Imagine that—something about the Holy Whisper that I can understand.”
“It’s not possible to understand all of it, Corporal. That’s why they call it faith.” Gorman looked at the corpse. “Can we bury him?”
“We’ll be holing up nearby for the rest of the day, so I can’t see why not.”
“I can.” Mortas called in a startled grunt. “Get up here.”
Cranther hopped up onto the ledge next to him and followed his pointed finger out onto the plain. At the base of the next ridge, in the direction from which they’d come, four massive machines had rumbled into view. Brown or black, belching exhaust from stacks, they moved in a lurching motion side by side. Though it was impossible to gauge the distance, they were clearly enormous and still far away.
“What are they?” the lieutenant asked.
“Sim mobile excavators. See that diagonal bar sticking off the back? It’s a conveyor belt. They can shift it in a bunch of different directions, depending on the job. Taking down a hillside, digging a ditch, whatever.”
“So what are they doing?” Mortas could now make out the shapes of movers like the one they’d seen at the bridge, tiny against the mechanical mammoths, bumping across the plain. More birds appeared, fluttering up from the brush as the machines approached and flying off in haste.
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