Glory Main

by Henry V. O'Neil

  The dark stillness was broken by a sharp cry, clearly human, somewhere on the surface above. It was immediately followed by the sound of nearby gunfire, a frantic burst cut short followed by more shots. Human weapons, and Sim weapons too.

  Cranther was already scrambling up the wall in the direction of the noise, and Mortas followed him in a reflex. The dirt came loose in dry handfuls as they went up, but they stopped short of exposing themselves as they’d practiced countless times in the days and nights before. A long, high-­pitched scream met them at the top and the scene before them was chaos.

  The few sentries still living were running toward them at a breakneck pace, terror stamped on their straining faces and some without weapons. Not many yards behind them the darkness seemed to ripple like an ocean wave, and then it cascaded into definition as a long line of armed troops charging forward. Not shooting because that would slow them down too much. Not throwing grenades because they were moving too fast.

  Sims.

  Cranther had his arm, yanking him back down into the gully. They landed in a pile on top of Trent and Gorman, but fear got them right back up again. All was sound and movement in the trench, the sergeant hollering “Up! Up! Up on the line!” dark figures struggling to their feet or up the incline, more screams from above, now bodies tumbling into the gully or landing full in its center, the remaining sentries reaching safety just a few steps ahead of their pursuers. A brief, roaring volley from the troops who’d made it to the top, the night illuminated by white light ripping straight out of the rifle barrels, Mortas taking in a rapid-­fire succession of images as the bodies in the gully leapt about in confusion, whipping his head side to side in search of a weapon just before the wave hit them.

  Dozens of bodies came jumping straight into the ravine as if they hadn’t known it was there. Sims bouncing off the opposite wall, dirt flying, humans pulled off the parapet, falling in a tangle of weapons and arms and legs and screams that rent the air. More shots now, close range, the whole world was shouts and booms and flailing arms and legs. A flare burst just overhead, swinging wildly on a parachute and casting the gully into daylight and then night as it whipped around. Light flashed off of Sim helmets, Sim combat harnesses, long Sim bayonets on the ends of Sim rifles. More humans running into the crush, more shots and screams, and a Scorpion rifle skittered down the slope a few yards from Mortas.

  He jumped for the weapon, but never made it because a falling body slammed into his neck and shoulder, knocking him over. The body rolled away but then there were two more, right on top of him, fighting, wrestling, biting, kicking, high-­pitched chirping and frenzied growling, he was turned the wrong way, his face stuffed against the dirt, and he couldn’t reach them as he tried to push them off. Now the gunfire was all around him, the yelling so loud and desperate that vocal cords broke in the effort, more weight crushing him, helpless, dirt in his mouth and his nose and his eyes, terror and madness mixing as he realized he was going to die right there under a pile of bodies—­and then the weight shifted and he fought his way out from under in a mad crawl.

  Coming to his knees just in time to get kicked or clubbed in the side of the head and back down again, pushed up against one wall, knowing in the darkness that if he didn’t get up now he would be pinned for good. The body against him rolled, spun; hands reached for his face and the horrible squealing turned into terrified chirps that sounded like an engine getting ready to explode. His own hands moved, found flesh—­fingers gouging, wrapping around—­and by some twist of luck he had the Sim by the throat, choking him. The thing thrashed, kicked, clawed at his sleeves as Mortas found he was strong enough to extend his arms to full length.

  The mass of bodies lifted the Sim and he went with him, his back against the wall, pushing to his feet in shock and relief and elated surprise and not even noticing that the form opposite him had gone limp. His eyes darted all around, no longer looking for a weapon, searching for an escape route in the mad crush, and then a face was next to his; somehow he recognized it, the black skull cap. Hands were pulling him away from the fight, and then Cranther was shoving him up the wall, shouting for him to move move move!

  The roar of the battle came back to him as he went up and over, amazed by his own speed until Cranther went by in a crouch. Shrieks and shots and the dreadful sound of gun butts striking bone, now below him but not far enough away—­Cranther grabbing him again and yelling for him to run—­and then they were both sprinting over the uneven ground, crushing the bushes and flinching at every shot. Driven forward by adrenaline, all thought of evasion and stealth and even thought itself gone, just the mad kick of self-­preservation driving them, until Mortas felt the tearing pain in his left calf that sent him tumbling head over heels when he reached for it.

  His fall took Cranther down with him, and they both crashed into the dirt. Mortas rolled up in a ball, both hands squeezing the calf muscle as if it were merely a bad cramp, fear seizing him again when he felt the blood. Cranther crawled to him on his stomach, his mouth open and sucking in great breaths of air. The scout’s hands reached for the wound, stopped, and then signaled him to let go.

  Slowly pulling his fingers off, Mortas was assaulted by a shower of thoughts and images that rebounded off of one another. The need for silence, and the way the distant shooting continued, but now there was less of it and it seemed muffled, like it was happening underwater. Gratitude for the little man who was now slowly tearing his trouser leg open, his face close to the wound because of the darkness. Fear that it would be bad. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to get up again. Fear that the endorphins had already kicked in and that it would hurt like hell when they wore off.

  The sudden, overriding fear that he had completely lost track of Gorman and Trent.

  He sat bolt upright, but Cranther stopped him with a palm against his chest and an angry shake of his head. He couldn’t leave it at that, though, and so he leaned forward and whispered.

  “What happened to Trent and Gorman?”

  “Not sure. Got ’em up and out, saw you weren’t there, so I sent them running and went back.” He stifled a cough and then gave the leg two quick pats. “You got grazed by something, just a scratch. You hurt anywhere else?”

  Mortas looked around, vainly seeking the image of the other two. It was the first time he registered the other pains, the scrape across his forehead and the muscles in his back that cried out for acknowledgment. That was pain too, but the athlete in him knew he could grit his teeth and keep going. Cranther’s observation that his leg wound was just a scratch shamed him slightly, and he finally spoke. “No. I’m fine. We have to find the others.”

  The scout slowly pushed himself to a kneeling position, and the effort made him cough loudly even though he tried to stop it. He looked around, as Mortas had seen him do a thousand times, checking the area for threats, but even in the darkness something in the gesture was oddly wrong. A ghost of the previous actions, performed simply out of habit. Mortas was reaching for him when Cranther collapsed.

  Somehow the stars got brighter just then, turning the ground under the scout gray. It also illuminated the spreading red oval high on his chest and off to the side. Mortas pulled up the filthy shirt and tried not to flinch when he saw the dark, ugly hole and the oozing blood. He slid a hand around, feeling Cranther’s back for more blood and an exit wound as he’d been taught. There was nothing there, and the smaller man’s eyes fluttered open when he pulled his hand away.

  “We gotta get out of here.” He croaked, and this time Mortas knew he was speaking as loud as he could.

  “Easy, easy, almost there.” Mortas slowly dropped to a knee and then lowered Cranther from his shoulder. At first he’d half carried him with the scout’s arm stretched across his shoulders, but he’d weakened quickly and finally lapsed into unconsciousness. Only now, as they approached the bank of the river they’d crossed earlier that night, did he show any signs of life.


  Mortas eased him into a sitting position against a group of man-­sized rocks, and the scout seemed to fold in on himself, his hand pressed against the wound. The water gurgled somewhere beyond the tall weeds, and Mortas took the Sim canteen from his harness even though he knew it was already empty. He’d washed Cranther’s wound and made him drink the rest almost an hour before, and so the decision to head for the stream had been simple. From time to time gunfire had erupted in the black void behind them, and flares had lit up the horizon more than once, but it seemed they’d eluded anyone who might be pursuing survivors.

  “Lieutenant.”

  The word was weak, and he leaned in close to the ashen face. “Don’t talk. Save your strength. I’m gonna get you some water.”

  “Wait.”

  The eyes that looked up at him from under the skull cap were dull. “You gotta leave me here. Go find the others, and get them off this rock.”

  “We’ll find the others, but you’re coming with me. We’ll rest here a bit, get you something to drink, and then push on. It’ll be all right.”

  Cranther tried to laugh, but the attempt only made him cough again. His earlier spasms had been wet and loud, but these were desiccated and low. “Get to the drome. That crazy major was right about one thing. When that Sim react gets here it’ll be total confusion. Steal a Wren and get outta here.”

  “I wouldn’t know how. You’re gonna have to do that.”

  “It’s easy. You punch in the coordinates.” His voice trailed off, and he took a long, slow breath. “Have Gorman do it.”

  “Coordinates? What coordinates?”

  “Main. Glory Main. The planet’s name is Sere. Not really a planet. Dead rock. Headquarters is inside. Not far from here. The bigs always set up near a Hab in case they have to bug out.” The chuckle turned into a cough. “Generals. Trying so hard to hide, no faith in anything, contingency plan points right to them.”

  “That’s perfect, then. Won’t take long to get there. Have you in a hospital in no time.” The fantastic notion that safety had always been so close was only eclipsed by the utter impossibility of actually getting there, but he had to ask anyway. “You knew that all along?”

  “Woulda told you when we got the ship. No one’s supposed to know. You hear things, I put it together myself. Gotta know where the safe places are.” The white face turned doubtful for a moment, but then relaxed. “You get a ship and head for Sere. You get close, you go on the distress channel, say you’re carrying key intel from a Spartacan, and they’ll come out to get you.”

  Mortas tried to laugh, humoring him. “Key intel.”

  “Tell ’em about the colony, about the mud munitions . . . don’t tell them we met up with friendlies. All dead back there . . . no good.”

  “Hold still. I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait!” Cranther’s free hand grabbed his sleeve. “Told Trent and Gorman to head for that spire I pointed out. Good chance they got away. You find them and get them outta here.”

  “I will. We will. Let me get you some water now.”

  His leg wound was hurting again as he limped around the rocks toward the sound of the creek. His back ached from the fight in the ravine and the long walk with Cranther on his shoulder, and a soul-­crushing weariness stole upon him while he calculated the scout’s chances. The grass brushed against his mud-­caked trousers and small rocks shifted under his boots, but Mortas didn’t notice. He was already kneeling by the black, moving surface and filling the canteen before he remembered the serpents, and he was only mildly surprised that the memory held no fear for him.

  Tears filled his eyes, and a nearly irresistible urge to just lie down right there stole over him even as he recapped the canteen and stood up. The stream had kept flowing without any sign of its terrible denizens, and he figured the fireworks might have scared them off. He and Cranther would need to cross the stream to reach the spire so many miles away, and he tried to imagine Gorman and Trent doing that at some other fording spot.

  He knew he would have to carry Cranther across, and then find a ravine that would get them started toward the rally point. At least the scout had picked a landmark that was easy to see, but now it was in the wrong direction. After linking up with the others, they would have to retrace their steps, cross the stream again, and then approach the drome even as it was filling with reinforcements and enemy ships . . .

  He almost didn’t realize he’d returned to the spot where he’d left Cranther. He trudged up, his mind spinning with the enormity of the challenge ahead, and found himself completely stumped. Cranther wasn’t there.

  Mortas looked around to verify he was in the right place, but fresh blood in the dirt near the rocks said that he was. His eyes had just followed the blood trail to a tall, shadowy crack between two large stones when someone spoke behind him.

  “Well well well.”

  He turned in a flash, prompted by a rocketing fear because he recognized the voice.

  Major Shalley stood there, the front of his uniform ripped from neck to navel and an ugly bruise swelling the side of his forehead. The shoulder holster and pistol were gone, but he held a Scorpion rifle in his hands. Light reflected off of it when an enemy flare popped, and Mortas could see the rifle was pointed right at him.

  “Good to see you again, Lieutenant.”

  Wide awake now. Amazingly wide awake. Mortas took a drink from the canteen, circling and trying not to look like it.

  “Why you pointing that at me, Major?”

  “Because I’m going to shoot you.”

  “Really?” His opponent turned in place, the gun tracking him. Just a little further and his back would be to the fissure in the rock. “What for?”

  “Treason. You brought them to us, didn’t you?”

  “Think that’s how they found you? There were so many trails leading in and out of there, it’s like you put up road signs.”

  “Wrong. We’d been there for three days and hadn’t seen a single Sim scout. And then you four came along, and minutes later they’re attacking in force.” Shalley’s eyes lost their focus and he shook his head as if to clear it. “Just about everybody back there’s dead, but I followed you to make sure you pay for what you’ve done.”

  “Are you even listening to yourself? You stayed in one place too long. Too many troops coming and going from the same spot, they probably found you days ago. I bet that bombardment was just cover so their infantry could get in close.”

  “That’s a good story. Almost believable.” The major looked around, suspicious. “The enemy teach that to you?”

  “What?”

  “Lemme guess. They caught you and turned you into some kind of Judas Goat. Taught you to betray your own kind.”

  “And how would they do that? They can’t talk to us!”

  Mortas watched as a hand slid out from the fissure that was now directly behind the man with the gun. The only problem was that the gun was still pointed directly at him. He flicked his eyes around, trying to decide which way to jump.

  “Talking’s not the only way, boy. But you already know that, right?” The major faltered, and the rifle shifted off of him. “Your headshrinker, that Trent, almost had me letting you go, back there. Those words . . . bored right into my—­”

  The hand turned into the rest of Cranther, detaching himself from the stone in the very moment that a string of flares lit up the sky. The blackened knife was in his right hand, and his left was out with the fingers spread. In a single blink he’d moved, one boot landing on Shalley’s calf to bring him down within the shorter man’s range, the left hand darting out and around, the fingers clamping down on the mouth as the other hand drove the blade straight in.

  Mortas was standing there, transfixed, when the gout of blood vomited into the air and both men crashed to the dirt, the major kicking and choking and clutching and the scout rolling up in an immobil
e ball.

  He leapt to Cranther’s side, pulling him into his arms and then seeing all the new blood, knowing the damage inside had been ripped even further, that the little man had thrown away what little chance he had in order to save him. Shalley’s boots were stamping out a mad tattoo that brought him close as he writhed, and Mortas kicked him away.

  “Nononononononono . . .” he crooned, rocking, sure Cranther was already gone when the eyes fluttered open. Though glazed, they saw him.

  “Get them out of here, Lieutenant. Sere. Remember Sere. Tell Gorman. ”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so so so sorry. So much I was supposed to do, I should have listened—­”

  “Hey.”

  He stared into the dimming eyes.

  “Yes. I’m right here.”

  “Tel.”

  “Tell who? Tell them what?”

  “My first name. You asked the day we met. It’s Tel.”

  “I thought it was Corporal.”

  “It was.” A smile slowly crept onto the relaxing features. “Not anymore. I’m Tel again. Just Tel.”

  He was still smiling when he passed.

  The horizon was already starting to lighten, but he simply couldn’t leave Cranther lying there. He considered putting the body back in the crevice that had sheltered him this last time, knowing that the short man had habitually taken refuge in spaces just like it. Perhaps he’d picked it up on the street as an escapee from the orphanage—­and the mines—­or maybe the Spartacans had taught it to him. Either way it was one of the many habits he’d adopted in the name of survival, and it seemed cruelly wrong to bury him in that fashion, as if throwing him away now that he was no longer useful.

  He’d seen larger rocks in the stream earlier, and decided to collect enough of them to build a small cairn. The serpents were out there somewhere, so he dragged Shalley’s body many yards along the bank before positioning it, head lolling obscenely, on an outcropping near the water. Returning to Cranther, he waited until the predators began swirling in the black liquid near the fresh meat before wading out and beginning to toss the stones up onto the embankment.