by Scott Moon
Everyone in the man’s retinue flinches at my tone. Figman sputters nonsense, half outrage and half legalese.
Redmore drills me with his I’m-such-a-rich-hotshot glare.
“Pat is correct. We must help trade minister Redmore,” James says quietly.
What neither of them are paying attention to are the shot up vehicles Redmore probably stole from some farmer to get his family out of the invasion zone.
Totally inappropriate vehicles for this kind of task. And stolen. From someone who actually needs them. And who probably knew what to do with the pickup trucks and tractors, like head the other direction, away from the combat zone.
Redmore’s attempt to make it into the city has probably gotten him and his family killed.
What I see, in addition to the man’s handsome wife and two charming children, are the wounded. Dozens of bodyguards have been dumped on one flatbed truck with only a single volunteer trying to help them. The man is an old preacher well past his prime from a local abbey. He’s doing a heroic job keeping Redmore’s goons alive.
“I’ve got an idea.”
Mrs. Redmore is the first to realize I relented on my firm decision to leave them right here. She comes forward graciously. “Thank you, Mr. Dane. We were terrified. My poor children have never been through anything like this.”
“Don’t start thinking I’m an angel or some kind of hero.”
Her confused expression suggests that wasn’t what she was thinking at all.
One of the bodyguards starts screaming. Understandable. I would too if I had a shattered fibula and was watching my buddy bleed out.
The screams are driving me bonkers. I’m not a hero, or an angel, or a good Samaritan. I’m a selfish jerk who just wants to get through this alive.
But that doesn’t change the fact that Redmore is a selfish coward who wants to take Katrina’s armored limousines when she not only paid for them but needs them. She has her own crop of little girls to protect.
“Trade minister Redmore asked you a question, Mr. Dane,” Figmman says. He’s so pale with fear I can hardly blame him for being a sniveling douchebag.
“Here’s the thing. Your boss’s failure to plan isn’t my problem. Not Katrina’s problem. Not even your problem, dude. Let’s be real, he isn’t paying you enough to die. He’s correct in one thing, however, the spaceport at the center of Delta City is the safest place right now—since your boss was too stupid to head for Alpha Base and avoid this battle altogether. The DC spaceport has the best bunker system and is heavily guarded.”
“I’m glad you finally see reason,” Redmore drawls.
“I wasn’t finished. Let me give you the facts. Katrina is my client. I have a contract with her and her family, not you. So what’s gonna happen, is I’ll take my client to safety. If you want a ride, ask Katrina.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Beats the fuck out of walking.”
“You are a pure mercenary!” Redmore says.
“You better thank your fucking stars I’m a mercenary. Otherwise, take your people and head for Alpha. That’s your best chance.”
Katrina interrupts, looking bad ass in the safari pants, high boots, and long-sleeved shirt she changed into. “I’ll take them, but their wounded have to go in my baggage car or they’ll frighten the children in the main cars,” Katrina says. “Chief Crash, make it so.”
What happens next makes me want to punch Redmore in the throat. He steps past Katrina, not even looking at her, treating her like she’s some type of trailer park trash.
“If you expect me to cram my family in with those people for a nine-hour drive over rough terrain, you’ve lost your mind. I can get your operator’s license pulled just for that little bit of poor judgment.”
I retinal tap my HUD for privacy. “CAI, what would the repercussions be for smashing this asshole?”
“You’ll feel great about yourself in prison, while waiting on death row for murder,” CAI says.
Redmore keeps digging his hole. “I’ll pay you each two million Quibdotti and another million for you to go back and try to recover these people once my family is safe. I’m not a complete monster.”
Pat and James chatter desperately on our squad channel.
“It’s not right, but we can’t lose our operators licenses,” Pat says. “We need to talk the trade minister into taking everybody.”
“There’s no time for that, Patrick,” James says. “We’re already dangerously close to the enemy. They blocked seven highways into the city already, and before long we’ll be completely surrounded.”
I mute the channel.
“Last chance, Mr. Dane. I’ll forget this conversation happened, even though I should report you to the mercenary’s union,” Redmore sneers.
“Fuck that. You want to get into the city, cram into those armored limousines and share.”
“That’s not safe. It’s not dignified.”
“Zero fucks given, Red. Load up, or start walking.”
Redmore waves his hand to make it happen and calls me something nasty under his breath.
I wait for him to start toward Katrina’s limousine. “You ride in the baggage car with your wounded. And, you’re paying each of us the two million Quibbdoti.”
“That wasn’t my offer. You rejected that part.”
The man’s face is so red I’m worried he might have a stroke. I mean, I’m not that worried, just a little bit worried. Because he does have money. I’d like him to pay me.
“You’re not very smart for a trade minister. Supply and demand. You need to get to the spaceport in Delta City and I’m the only one who can get you there.”
“Fine.”
Loading the minister’s family into one of the limousine buses and the wounded into the baggage car takes longer than it should.
“Pat, you got eyes on the CCE scout units without your enhanced optics?”
“One second.” He pauses. “I see them. Looks like two squads advancing in a bounding overwatch near the ridgeline. They’re coming from the beach area, out of view.”
“James, what about you? Can you see them? The lighting is pretty good right now.”
“I’m not sure I understand your question,” James says. “It’s obvious. Anyone can see them.”
I look at the minister’s group. “Let’s pick up the pace, people. We’ve got enemy softies gaining on us. It doesn’t matter to me, but I have a feeling it will matter to you. Unless one of you’ve got a force field crammed up your ass I don’t know about.”
The minister and his assistant curse me and threaten to complain to the union and have my license is revoked.
Whatever.
“I’ll lead. Pat, get these people moving so you don’t get too far behind. James, you can bring up the rear.”
“On it,” Pat says.
“Understood. I’ll make it happen.” James says.
I run one last systems check as I move out. The 197 mech feels slow and awkward but I’m getting used to it.
It isn’t long before I encounter more of the CCE force. Thankfully, these aren’t mechanized units. I identify a company of CCE paratroopers who’ve dropped behind enemy lines with infantry and some light armored vehicles—basically cars with dune buggy style wheels and slightly more armor than they’re made for.
“Shorty for Pat and James, keep this on our squad channel. We have hostiles blocking our route. Looks like softies and some wheeled vehicles. At least one of the squads has tank and mech killer rocket teams.”
“Mech killer?” Pat asks, voice quivering with fear.
“Keep the column moving but slow it down a bit. I’m going to see if I can do a little hard negotiation with them.”
“You should be able to cut them down with the 197,” James says.
“Not really a big fan of slaughtering softies. I’ll give them some warning shots and play it by ear.”
“CAI, send out the standard broadcast to clear the way or face my undeniable wrath.”<
br />
“Sure thing, sir. Would you like me show them a video of you spanking the Goliath?”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“Message sent. It seems they’re massing for a charge with their mech killers poorly concealed on the flank.”
“Options?”
“Recommendation: engage the lead vehicle with our howitzer and use the 50 cal for suppressive fire. The 197 has 68 minutes of shield capacity that should protect us from the mech killer rockets.”
I’d forgotten about the shields. Other than that, CAI and I are on the same page. “Let’s do this. Can we transfer these shields to the Ranger when we get back?”
“That would be stealing, and we will likely die first.”
Aiming the main gun is a thrill I could get used to. The reticule crosses the lead vehicle and shows me adjustment vectors for range, weather, and other factors. I really don’t want to blow these poor bastards to hell, but they keep coming. I can see them fanatically screaming war cries.
Kind of weird, I know. They’re too far away to hear but there’s no mistaking the crazy in their eyes.
“Shot away.”
The 197 braces against the recoil for an instant, then continues forward. I grab the machine gun joysticks and spray anyone stupid enough to keep coming. Tracers stitch the air and tear up the ground.
“Hell yeah!”
“You’re doing great, Shorty,” CAI says.
I ignore the lame encouragement. “Keep the shields ready. I don’t want to take a rocket when I’m not paying attention.”
“Activating shields in three, two, one.”
The 197 hums as the energy fields surround it. The timing is perfect. As soon as the protective layer is up, rockets hit, like it had been planned that way by me and my attackers. Two more rockets salvos end the same way.
I hear Pat’s anxious voice on the squad channel.
“Are you all right, Shorty? Please respond. Our clients are getting very nervous.”
“Fine, fine. Everything’s going according to plan. You can pick up the pace just a little bit. I’m scattering the softies. We want to get through before they call in their max or heavy tanks or battle mechs.”
Pat and James respond but I don’t listen to them. I’m seeing something else. From my new position, I can see the road from the beach these units were trying to secure.
“What are you laughing at?” Pat asks.
“They have a pair of CCE XX mechs creating a bottleneck on one of the roads up from their beachhead. Good news for us.”
“I’m not sure how anything involving a pair of CCE XX mechs can be good news,” James says.
4
The sight of the Communist Chinese Empire forces bottlenecked on the road sets my imagination on fire. Electricity tingles at the base of my spine. Colors seem brighter. I feel like I can fly.
Reputation matters. Reputation keeps you alive and gets you paid.
“You’re not even listening to us,” Pat says.
“Sorry, you guys are on your own for the rest of the trip into the city. I’ll hold them at the ridgeline.”
“That’s insane,” James says. “Why would you do that?”
“The CCE guys are bigger assholes than the UNA. And besides, reputation’s worth a fortune to guys like us.”
“You have to live to have a reputation,” Pat says.
CAI chimes in, “I agree with your biological companions. This course of action doesn’t make sense. What does reputation have to do with the tactical situation?”
“Nothing and everything.”
CAI makes a series of clicks. I can almost hear his logic processors whirring. “If I said what you just said you would call me a pretentious douchebag.”
“Yeah, I would.”
“Trade Minister Redmore is requesting communication,” CAI says.
“Put him through.”
“This is Redmore, can you hear me? Please respond.”
“I hear you, Redmore. Cut to the chase. I got things to do.”
“I’m being told that you are needlessly engaging CCE forces. Is that necessary? I’m paying you good money to get us safely to the city.”
“The invasion force will come directly into the flank of our column if it gets past the chokepoint. I’m gonna slow them down.”
The man’s tone loses confidence. “Can you do that? I mean, is it even possible?”
“If I had my Ranger, I’d be able to stop the entire invasion. I fought a Goliath in it, after all.”
“Can confirm. It was bitchin,” CAI says.
I want so bad to give my digitized best friend a high five. CAI is on the ball right now. Definitely got my money’s worth with the personality upgrade.
“I’m going dark. Pat and James will get you and the rest of the convoy to the city. If you see a bunch of CCE mechs chasing you, that means I’m dead. Write a song about me or something.”
A short time later, I’ve left my squad and my clients behind. Around me are rolling green hills and small country farms. Just beyond the horizon is Delta City and beyond that, Delta Foundry, where mountains of wrecked mechs and other war machines clutter the landscape.
The blue skies are starting to fade to red, increasingly filled with attack ships and surface to air missiles. I’m in my element. I know these types of battlefields. James and Pat, however, make entirely too much noise on the squad channel so I turn it off.
The treads of my 197 churn up dirt as I cut across country to reach the road leading up from the CCE’s beachhead. From a distance, I see the problem. The CCE XX are massive—far too heavy for this little country road. They had to steer off of it and got mired in the loamy soil.
Green grass only looks likes its holding down what’s mostly wet sand in this area. Two inches into the surface the terrain is a sinkhole waiting to happen.
The CCE officers aren’t stupid. They know the big machines are vulnerable. Two smaller mechs race toward me, firing on the move and forcing me to veer sideways to avoid getting struck by rockets and mortars. The 197’s shield flares.
“I gotta have that on the Ranger.”
“Unlikely. We’d overheat.”
“Such a spacing killjoy.” Annoyance over the inability to put new toys on a mech I’ll probably never get out of impound anyway gets pushed to my back burner. “I’ll need a firing solution as fast as you can provide it. Target the first XX. Disable it right where it is.”
I aim the fifty-caliber shoulder gun at my smaller adversaries, peppering them with tracer rounds, annoying them and disrupting the return fire.
“Firing solution acquired,” CAI says.
I let go of the fifty-cal joysticks and shoot the big howitzer. The 197 shakes and rattles. “Hot damn!”
The first CCE XX twists to face me, aiming one of its huge energy weapons even as it topples sideways. It doesn’t fall all the way to the ground, but sinks deeper on one side, causing it to aim at the sky.
The pilot fires anyway, slicing the air with man-made lightning.
“Pat for Shorty, are you okay?”
I slam my thumb on the mute button. “Can you make this thing stay off?”
“All channels have emergency override protocols—for emergencies.”
“That’s fucking annoying.” Releasing the howitzer joystick, I grab the steering controls and ram them forward. Sand and grass spray up from the 197’s crawler treads.
CCE infantry and armored vehicles open fire. All I hear for several seconds are bullets pinging off the 197. Smaller mechs are getting close. I need to deal with them.
“If we don’t disable both of the CCE XXs, that entire invasion force will be on us in less than an hour.”
“Of course, Shorty. I’ve already plotted the next shot from your big gun.”
I fire on the move, piercing the second CCE XX through the neck. The cockpit pops off like I beheaded a dragon. Electricity fountains from the wound.
“Suck it, you son-of-a-bitch!”
“Al
ert: the two CCE IVs are closing fast. Three more have climbed over the ridge and will be en route to assist them.”
I laugh on the open channel.
“Shorty, get control of yourself,” CAI says. “Recommendation: get the hell out of here.”
“I can do that, CAI. Let’s see how fast this hunk of junk can go.”
Smoke fills the cockpit. “CAI, damage report.”
“Calm down. No new damage since I last advised you of the forty-seven high-caliber kinetic rounds that struck us when we broke away from the CCE forces. The rocket damage to the treads is the worst problem, but we’re still moving.”
I slide the fifty-caliber machine gun to the back of the 197 and aim short bursts at each of the CCE IV mechs. The Chinese recon units aren’t much different from my Ranger—bigger, carrying more weapons, but not quite as fast. They’ve been made too slow for true scout work and will never be big enough to handle a siege.
But they’re just right kick my lonely ass.
My tracer rounds strike the CCE mechs on the faces of their cockpits, which I know from experience is distracting as fuck. I might even get one through eventually.
The memory of a tracer round burning my flesh makes me cringe. “CAI, how are we doing for shields?”
“You have 20% on your left side only. And while I have your attention, you have incoming rockets. Recommendation: stop and face your shield toward the attack.”
Can’t argue with that. I jam the brakes and pivot. There are only four of the CCE IVs now plus a company of softies in crazy-ass, Chinese attack dune buggies.
Dune buggies. I ain’t afraid of toys. Please. “Did we destroy one of the mechs?”
“We did, Shorty. But it left us dangerously low on ammunition.”
“What do we have left?” I say as the 197 rocks side to side from repeated impacts.
“At your current rate of fire, you have less than one minute of sustained fifty-caliber fire.”
I slam the 197 into gear and race for the city. The walls loom high enough to see from a distance. “Correct me if I’m wrong, CAI, but it looks like the gate is closed. I thought they’d be expecting us.”
“My logs show Pat and James asked for the gates to be left open until your arrival. That request, however, seems to have fallen on deaf ears. Sucks to be you.”