Glory Main

by Henry V. O'Neil

  “Shhhh.”

  He palmed the scissors and looked over the edge to see the first Sim pass not twenty yards away. It was the same troop who’d been on point with the first arrivals, and he was no more alert now than he’d been then. The others then started filing by, most with their weapons slung carelessly, and after a third of them had passed Mortas saw the leader. If he was exercising any control over this gaggle, it wasn’t apparent. Perhaps he was as dead on his feet as the others. Perhaps he was annoyed that they had to walk back. Perhaps he didn’t want to push his soldiers any further by insisting they assume a proper defensive posture.

  Although they were barely moving, the tail end of the column came up much too soon. Mortas studied the last walkers, fearing they would be leaders posted there to encourage any stragglers. That didn’t seem to be the case; if anything, these were the ones in the worst shape and the most likely to fall out. Their eyes were vacant as they moved, and most of them were unarmed. One of them sported a field dressing on his head that had seeped runnels of blood that had now dried on his cheek, and he looked ready to collapse at any moment.

  With a fearful look into Trent and Gorman’s equally petrified eyes, Mortas slowly came to his feet and started walking down the embankment after the Sims.

  Mortas was amazed that they covered so much ground in so short a time. He wondered if the heart-­racing fear of the first mile had made the distance fly by, but then he realized that couldn’t be it. The Sims were walking slowly in deference to their wounded, but even so they climbed the first ridge and then left it behind in under an hour. That was when he saw both the truth and the strangeness of it: After having lived so long using cover and concealment, he was surprised by how rapidly they moved in the open because he was now unfamiliar with this careless form of travel.

  And that was the correct description. Instead of seeking the higher ground in order to survey their surroundings for possible enemies, the weary Sims had climbed the ridge just far enough to find a notch that let them descend onto flatter terrain. Then they’d really begun to put the miles behind them. The brush wasn’t as thick here, and the only obstacles were the crooked ravines that the humans had so recently viewed as the only safe way to move. The column, strung out in the open, twisted and turned as the lead soldiers tried to navigate around the gullies. Most of the time they found segments that were narrow enough to be jumped, but even those were too much for many of the injured. When the ravine proved too wide to leap, they were forced to slide down one side and clamber up the other.

  And that was when Mortas began to believe their desperate subterfuge might actually work. Going up the opposite side of the first ravine, digging his fingers into the fresh dirt clawed by the many Sims in the front of the column, he was shocked into near-­paralysis when the enemy soldier just ahead of him reached down and offered his hand. It was a common act for human infantrymen negotiating an obstacle, but Mortas was so surprised that he almost went over backward. His boots dug into the ravine wall and his legs began pushing wildly, and the Sim on the top lunged just as he was about to slide back down. The hand that gripped his was familiar, four fingers and a thumb, and the face could have been any human lieutenant from his training class.

  It was all he could do not to thank him, but the Sim had already turned and moved on.

  Mortas crouched down himself at that point, helping Trent and then Gorman with the last steep yards, wishing he could tell them what had just happened. Trent must have seen it, because she gave him a sympathetic look before gesturing with her chin to get him moving again.

  They picked up another group of walking wounded a few hundred yards after that. These troops were sitting off to the side of an unimproved Sim road as if waiting for them, and they filled in behind Gorman once the growing column had stepped out on the new thoroughfare. It was really nothing more than a straight track of leveled dirt, and if they weren’t standing on it they wouldn’t have known it was there, but it was another indication that the settlement was near.

  The unreality of the situation was losing its impact on Mortas, but he attributed much of that to his own exhaustion and the somnolent effect of the march. When they’d first joined the enemy formation, his mind had filled with scenes of disaster such as a Sim NCO twirping a question at them or ordering them to do something. The images had all ended in gunfire and death, but now that they’d been walking for so long without incident he came to believe this was unlikely. The Sims had stopped talking among themselves for the most part, and many of them limped along with their eyes planted on the ground.

  Smelling the barn. That had been the term the instructors had used when he’d been taught basic patrolling, referring to the lapse in awareness and concentration that frequently accompanied the end of a long mission. He and his fellow lieutenants had been warned against this time and again, and on one operation they’d been attacked by a mock enemy just short of the hilltop where they planned to spend the night. Surprised, disorganized, and lethargic, they’d been easily defeated by a force not even half their size.

  Despite that experience, Mortas didn’t criticize the inattentive Sim soldiers because he knew they’d been on a multiday combat operation that had frequently involved close fighting against a desperate enemy. Most of that time they’d been the only active defense of their one hope for survival on this barren planet, which was the settlement. And after they’d almost completely destroyed the humans who had come to conquer them, they were clearly being shunted aside by the Sim troops who had only just arrived. Despite the presence of large numbers of aircraft and the end of major hostilities, they’d still been left to walk in under their own steam. Given the circumstances, it was an achievement that the Sim commander had gotten this thrashed-­out band into any semblance of a tactical march formation at all.

  Walking along, Mortas wondered if he’d do any better with disgruntled human troops under the same conditions. He was on the verge of admitting he would not when he remembered where he was, who he was, and what he was trying to do. The laxness of this column of Sims was bringing three of their enemies closer to the settlement, and was likely to grant those three humans access to the very installation they’d fought so hard to preserve. They were inadvertently protecting three of their foes who meant to steal one of their ships and were willing to kill large numbers of their fellows in order to make their escape.

  To prevent that tragedy, all the Sim leadership had to do was walk up and down the column telling the troops that humans were still on the loose and that they had to be vigilant. Reminding them that a doomed opponent has nothing to lose and that desperate enemies are capable of amazing feats. By failing to do that, they were endangering some of their comrades and maybe even the base itself.

  Mortas felt his face twisting into an expression of unwilling awareness, a grave perception that now spread out and occupied his mind. A coldness grew inside him as he saw for the first time the unrelenting nature of warfare, and the ruthlessness it required because the consequences could be so mercilessly absolute. The unfeeling calculus that had called for the deaths of the two Sim guards on the bridge because they had simply been in the way. The foot-­blistering, tendon-­straining demands of walking down the ravines because to do otherwise was to be seen, and to be seen was to die. The necessity of fighting an unknown enemy for the habitable planets of the universe because ceding them meant the race would perish.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a scout craft passing over the column, so low that he felt the warmth from its thrusters. No one in the formation acknowledged the machine’s presence, and when Mortas looked down the double file he was reminded of a centipede back on Earth, its many legs working ceaselessly as the entire entity moved forward. The Sims were so covered with the planet’s dirt that they blended into uniform lines on either side of the track, heads down, shoulders stooped, and the only indication that they were alive was the ceaseless tread of the hundreds of feet.


  Mortas looked at his own boots then, as if seeing them for the first time. They were muddy and scuffed from all the hard days and nights, and he noted a long, deep gash across the toe which had obviously been there for quite a while. It stood testament to all the walking and crawling, the climbing and jumping, the frenzied punching and kicking in the fight the night before, and still he had no idea where he’d acquired it. The mark came into view when he took a step with that foot and disappeared when he took one more, and he became fascinated with its reappearance as if it were part of a mechanism repeating the same function over and over again while he watched from above.

  He was practically asleep on his feet when a hand squeezed his upper arm from behind. His head came up with a jerk, but he quickly saw what Trent was indicating: A wheeled Sim vehicle sporting a large gun turret was parked next to the road, and several soldiers sat on top. The distinguishing feature about this tableau was its cleanliness, for even though both men and machine were lightly flecked with dirt, their dark camouflage colors stood out against the orange plain.

  Reinforcements. Fresh troops. Wide awake, and looking for action.

  Everything about them said they were recent arrivals. Their combat smocks were in one piece, they all wore helmets, and with the exception of the two manning the main gun they all carried individual weapons. There wasn’t a bruise or field dressing among them, and their eyes swept up and down the file as it passed.

  A checkpoint of some kind. They weren’t just parked there; they’d been told to guard the road. And if they weren’t on the lookout for humans trying to blend in with their own kind, just what purpose could they have been serving? Mortas felt his already dry mouth lose its remaining moisture, and he struggled to decide if it was better to look at them or to look away. He glanced at the troops in front of him and saw that most of them were paying no attention to the soldiers on the vehicle, and so he decided to imitate them.

  It was maddening, not being able to warn Trent and Gorman to follow his example, but then again that was why he was in the lead. Unable to communicate his orders, he was relying on their ability to pick up on his signals or at least to imitate his every movement. So he now looked down at his feet in an exaggerated fashion, hoping it would serve as sufficient inducement to the others while not attracting too much attention from the watchers. He knew he was getting close to the checkpoint, and felt his heart rate climbing with each step.

  A flurry of deep chirp-­chatter suddenly erupted a few yards ahead, and he flipped the Scorpion’s safety switch to combat mode before looking up in exhausted defeat. He was pondering the absurd notion that his puny five rounds might create enough confusion for Trent and Gorman to get away when the entire column came to a sudden halt. The troops on the gun vehicle were standing and shouting now, but not at him. A clutch of the Sims just ahead had stopped, and they were now exchanging harsh chatter with the reinforcements. Angry hand gestures were flying now, and he was struck by how human they seemed.

  It took a moment, but then he recognized the source of the problem. One of the marching Sims, bareheaded and unarmed, was brandishing a ration canister at the guards. Obviously one of the troops on the vehicle had just finished eating his meal and had stupidly tossed it in the direction of the worn-­out soldiers filing past. It must have hit one of them, providing the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. As worn out as these troops were, they weren’t about to tolerate an insult like that from soldiers who had come late to the fight that they had won at so great a cost.

  The Sims behind Mortas now crowded forward, and he was surrounded by a chorus of hoarse chirping before being carried along toward the vehicle. In an instant he was in the middle of the argument, his head turning frantically as he looked for the others. As tall as most of the enemy, he was on the verge of panic when he felt Trent pressing up next to him and then saw Gorman in the crush only a few steps away. Trent’s arm now wrapped around his waist, anchoring herself to him, but he hardly noticed because Gorman’s performance simply had him spellbound.

  The pacifist was right next to the armored skin of the gun vehicle, and he repeatedly smacked an open palm on the plate while staring at the guards with a look of extraordinary pugnacity. He knew better than to utter a sound, even hidden in this avian cacophony, and merely played the part of a Sim so lost in anger that he couldn’t even shout an insult. His expression of righ­teous indignation matched the snarling faces around him, and it was difficult to distinguish him from the enemy. Mortas tried to push forward through the throng, fearful that Gorman would get carried away and attempt to mimic the Sim language, but he didn’t make it before the Sim commander was on the spot.

  In a bizarre mirroring of Mortas’s attempt to restrain his subordinate, the enemy officer waded into the group. He wasn’t shouting, though, instead relying on a calm voice spoken very close to each of the troops to convey the obvious message that he wanted this madness to cease immediately. Mortas watched in admiration as he slowly peeled the soldiers away one at a time, his insistent twirping causing others to find their composure and then start helping him regain control of their comrades.

  The mob broke up slowly, and there were more than a few parting chirps exchanged, but the column eventually returned to its original shape and left the checkpoint behind. Walking away, Mortas fought to keep from muttering the words that were screaming inside his head.

  That was too close. Too damned close.

  CHAPTER 10

  They passed into familiar terrain a short time later, skirting the base of the ridgeline where they’d first watched Sim excavators filling in the ravines. Quite a bit more of that work had gone on in their absence, but here it was patchy and obviously meant to aid the movement of the enemy vehicles. The walls of the gullies had been knocked down in several spots so that multi-­wheeled movers could roll down and then climb out of those canyons that were too wide to simply run over. These cutouts were marked with metal poles and bright red flags that stood out well against the dull soil, and the column snaked first one way and then another to take advantage of them.

  Still marveling at the sensation of walking freely out in the open, Mortas looked up at the sky and was alarmed to see that a lot of time remained before the sun would set. Passing through the colony’s perimeter, and then separating themselves from the Sims, would be much easier if done in darkness. The encounter with the checkpoint walked with him, spooking him more with each step, because he now saw the fatal flaw in his hasty plan. They might be passing for Sim soldiers right now, but that was mostly due to the ragged condition of the enemy with whom they traveled. The cutouts on the gullies were just one more indication that large numbers of fresh troops were now operating all over the area, and there was no telling what responsibilities those reinforcements had assumed at the base. All it would take was a squad of alert troops manning the wrong gate for them to be uncovered.

  He saw a brief movie in his mind, the column halted in front of miles of reactive wire and enemy fortifications. A winding passage through the obstacles, covered by fire and controlled by guards checking each soldier through individually. The obvious decision to run even though there was no way to escape, the genuine Sims throwing themselves prone on the ground as the reinforcements opened fire. The three of them crumpled on the sand, bleeding from multiple death wounds, and the film ending in blackness. Strangely, he imagined enemy soldiers discussing the event over chow later on. Did you hear three of the humans tried to sneak into the settlement with us? Must have walked ten miles, right in the middle of our column. One of them was a female.

  They went over a small rise, allowing Mortas to see the long line of shuffling troops ahead of him. He observed that they were headed toward the plain where the stranded assault vehicles were buried, and after that it couldn’t be too far to the settlement entry points. It made sense; the assault force had chosen a flat piece of ground that should have allowed them a straight run at the enemy
just after touching down. And every footfall now narrowed their options just a little bit more.

  Gotta get away from this bunch. But how?

  He’d thought of simply falling out and taking the other two with him, as if he’d reached the end of his strength or succumbed to an injury and was being assisted by his friends. Unfortunately, legitimately tiring Sims had already dropped off to the side more than once and he’d watched the medics in the group approach them right away. There had been a conversation each of these times, so that option was out. The sun was descending, but not fast enough for him to hope that darkness would fall in time to let them slip away before they reached the settlement.

  And yet even if it did, where would that leave them? The subterfuge had certainly brought them a great distance in safety, and scattered shots echoing in the distance had proved that the enemy was still out hunting for survivors, but leaving the column would leave them outside the wire. A mad, fluttering sensation rose in his stomach when he considered just toughing it out, trying to bluff their way through the gates and hoping for a lucky break. The penalty for not getting that break was certain death, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t think of a better plan.

  I wonder what Trent and Gorman would come up with. Fuck I wish I could talk to them.

  He covered his mouth with his hand, as if trying to wipe away perspiration but actually to hide a smile when he remembered Gorman’s antics back at the checkpoint.

  Guy should have been an actor. For a pacifist he sure looked ready to kill somebody.

  That thought resurrected the image of the Sim he’d killed at the bridge, the wide eyes, the surprise, the startled chirp he’d given off. He’d just been some poor slob—­settlement militia assigned to watch a small bridge far from where the enemy was supposed to be. Even then he’d tried to do a good job, and what had it gotten him? A knife in the throat, and then his body devoured by those horrible reptiles.