A Fighting Chance

by William C. Dietz

  Cosmo grinned. “Climb the stairs and get set. When the car comes, blow it out of the sky.”

  Mubu looked quizzical. “But what if it doesn’t come?”

  “Oh, it’ll come all right,” Cosmo assured him. “Now get up there.”

  Mubu turned and began to climb the stairs. “Okay,” Cosmo said, as he replaced the SMG’s partially used magazine with a fresh one. “I’m going to invite the car to return. Feel free to shoot at it.” And with that, he was gone.

  “Stay here,” Vanderveen said to Sullivan. “And guard the stairs. I’ll provide covering fire for Mubu.”

  Sullivan opened his mouth to protest, but Vanderveen had already turned her back on him. She took the stairs two at a time. They turned, and turned again, before delivering her to the top of the tower. Judging from a corner heaped with trash and the strong odor of urine that hung in the air, someone had been camped there until very recently. But they were nowhere to be seen as Vanderveen drew her pistol and thumbed the safety off.

  Mubu glanced her way before raising the cannon on his shoulder. “There’s Cosmo,” Vanderveen said, as she peered over the waist-high wall. “He’s standing in plain sight.”

  “Crazy bastard,” Mubu mumbled, as he turned a slow 360.

  “There it is!” Vanderveen said, as the car emerged from between two buildings and sunlight glinted off the driver’s windscreen. “To your left at two o’clock.”

  Mubu swiveled as the aircraft appeared and opened fire on the ground below. Geysers of dust erupted all around Cosmo, who ducked behind a block of stone. That was when Mubu fired. Everything seemed to go into slow motion as the blob of coherent energy sailed toward the air car and missed by less than a foot. “Damn it!” the sailor said, as the shot blew a huge divot out of the building beyond.

  “Uh-oh,” Vanderveen said, as the air car began to turn. “You pissed them off.”

  Mubu made a slight change to his stance and took careful aim as the airborne vehicle turned and the bow-mounted machine gun began to chatter. Vanderveen swore and emptied an entire magazine into the car. That was when she saw the Ramanthians and knew Cosmo was correct. The bugs knew where the Warrior Queen was and were determined to reach the monarch first.

  Bullets sang all around. But having missed once, Mubu was determined to score a hit this time. So he stood fast even as Vanderveen shouted, “Fire!” Then, at what seemed like the very last moment, he pressed the firing stud. The bolt flew straight and true. There was a flash as it hit. The car flipped onto its starboard side, and a Ramanthian fell free. He attempted to deploy his wings, but there wasn’t enough time. Dust exploded upwards as the body struck the ground.

  Meanwhile, the engine screamed in protest as the air car slip-slid down into the plaza below, where it crashed and burst into flame. Black smoke poured up into the sky.

  “Nice work, sailor,” Vanderveen said, as she patted Mubu on the back. “I owe you a beer.”

  Cosmo and Sullivan were waiting when the twosome reached the ground. “You said you were good with that thing,” the merc said with a grin. “I was beginning to wonder.”

  “The first round was a ranging shot,” Mubu replied with a straight face. “I’ll bet the driver shit himself.”

  “I know I did,” Cosmo said, as he offered Vanderveen a scrap of fabric. “Here . . . I took it off the bug who landed on his head. He was wearing civvies—but look at what was stamped into his body armor.”

  Vanderveen accepted the offering and removed her sunglasses in order to see it more clearly. A dark delta shape had been imprinted onto the bullet-resistant fabric. Cosmo’s eyes were waiting when she looked up. “A file leader?”

  “An assistant file leader,” he responded. “But good for you. And it amounts to the same thing.”

  “They were Ramanthian regulars. Not tomb raiders.”

  “Exactly.”

  Vanderveen put the glasses back on. “I wonder if we got all of them.”

  “I don’t know,” Sullivan responded. “But I wouldn’t count on it. Once they’re in your house, bugs can be real hard to get rid of.”

  Cosmo laughed, but Vanderveen didn’t. A sand fly landed on her arm. She slapped at it and was rewarded with a bloody smear. “We got what we came for. Let’s get off this crud ball.”

  14

  They died hard—these savage men—not gently like a stricken dove folding its wings in peaceful passing, but like a wounded wolf at bay, with lips curled back in sneering menace, and always a nerveless hand reaching for that long sharp machete . . .

  —General Douglas C. MacArthur

  Reminiscences

  Standard year 1964

  PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The Ramanthian transport was badly overloaded. Engines strained as they struggled to lift twenty-eight bio bods and cyborgs off the power plant’s roof. Lieutenant Ponco was at the controls, and Santana was standing in the doorway behind and to the left of her. “You’re sure you can fly this thing?” he inquired doubtfully.

  “I can’t, but my computer can,” Ponco replied confidently. And, as if to prove it, the transport staggered into the air.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Santana said dryly, as the aircraft banked to starboard and began to spiral upwards. “Keep up the good work.”

  Santana turned and made his way into the crowded cargo compartment. Captain Ryley was on his feet. Their eyes met. “Go ahead,” Santana said. “Blow it.”

  Ryley grinned. “Yes, sir!” The remote was already in his hand. He flipped a cover out of the way and thumbed a button. The charges in the geo tap’s control room went off one after the other. While the ship continued to climb, Santana caught a glimpse of three secondary explosions followed by a tongue of fire that shot straight up. Then a thick cloud of black smoke closed in around the site as if to conceal it.

  “Nice work, Captain. My compliments to the second platoon,” Santana said. He intentionally put the comment out over the company push, so that Ryley’s people would be able to hear it. The bio bods grinned proudly.

  Satisfied that the power plant was off-line for good, Santana turned his attention to Major Temo. The renegade had received some first aid by that time and sat with her injured leg resting on a Ramanthian ammo box. Santana went over to stand in front of her. “It’s time for you to earn your keep. I want you to go forward and get on the radio. Who was the bug in charge of the power station?”

  “Sub Commander Remwyr,” she answered sullenly.

  “Okay. Tell Commander Dammo that Remwyr was badly wounded during a surprise attack on the power station—and that you’re bringing him to Headstone for medical treatment. If you say anything else, Sergeant Major Dietrich will show you to the door. And the first step is a lulu.”

  “It won’t work,” Temo replied stubbornly.

  “You said the attack on the G-tap wouldn’t work,” Santana observed. “Yet here we are. Now get your ass up to the cockpit—or start flapping your wings. Which is it going to be?”

  Temo stared up at him. Her hatred was plain to see. Then, with some difficulty, she stood. Santana helped her forward and into the cockpit. “Sit there,” he said, and pointed to a Ramanthian-style saddle chair. “Do you know how to use the radio?”

  “Yes,” Temo said, as she pushed her leg out in front of her.

  “All right. Make the call. I’ll be listening.”

  So Temo took hold of the cylindrical mike, squeezed the handle to activate it, and identified herself. It took less than a minute for a com tech to summon Dammo. It quickly became clear that the officer knew that power had been cut. So he was pissed, and what Temo had to say did nothing to improve the officer’s mood. He was still ranting and raving when Headstone appeared in the distance, and Santana drew a line across his throat. Temo mumbled something about giving Dammo a full report and broke the connection.

  “Okay,” Santana said. “I think he bought it. Return to your seat.”

  Once Temo was back in the cargo
compartment and had been secured to a seat, it was time for the rest of them to get ready. “Listen up,” Santana said over the company push. “The landing pad is about a hundred feet below our objective. But if we work things correctly, we’ll be able to ride an elevator up to the cannon. Of course, the bugs won’t like that, so you’ll have to kick their pointy asses. Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Grisso said. “Once the cannon has been destroyed, how do we get off the mountain?”

  “I’d like to say that we’ll be able to board the transport and fly off,” Santana replied. “But the odds are against that. So the simplest thing to do is kill all of the chits and move in.”

  That got some chuckles but not very many. Santana saw their expressions and smiled grimly. “Those of you who served in the Legion will remember that Captain Danjou and a company of sixty-two men were attacked by two thousand Mexican soldiers in the village of Camerone and fought ’em to a standstill.”

  It was true, and the legionnaires gave the traditional shout of “CAMERONE,” thereby lifting the spirits of the ex-militiamen and -women as well. Santana smiled approvingly but felt guilty. Because he knew that only a handful of legionnaires had survived the fateful battle on April 30, 1863.

  The transport had to climb in order to reach the landing pad located a hundred feet below the summit. Santana had seen a model of Headstone in Colonel Antov’s study. And that had been impressive enough. But as the slipstream buffeted his face and he looked out at the mountain’s sheer cliffs, he realized that any attempt to scale Headstone under fire would be a waste of lives. Even with a thousand troops and air support. Which was why the first attempt to do so had failed.

  Now, as the ship gained altitude, all of the missile batteries continued to track it. Was that because they were programmed to follow movement? Or because Dammo was aware of the ruse and about to blow the transport out of the sky? What felt like a steel fist took hold of Santana’s stomach and refused to let go as the landing pad appeared. “Get ready!” Santana shouted, as a crosswind hit the transport and caused it to wobble. “T-2s first. There aren’t any friendlies on this mountain. Kill anything that moves.”

  The tension in the cargo compartment was palpable as bio bods checked their weapons, and the transport touched down. “Now!” Dietrich shouted from his place next to the door. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The cyborgs hit the ground first. A stretcher party had been sent to fetch Remwyr. Half a dozen troopers were lounging next to a double-barreled antiaircraft weapon. And the ground crew was waiting to refuel the aircraft as the engines spooled down. All of them were swept away as the T-2s leveled their weapons and opened fire.

  The result was a bloody mist as the Ramanthians ceased to exist, and what looked like pink confetti fell onto the landing pad. The surprise was complete. And by the time the bio bods jumped out of the transport, all the enemy troopers were dead.

  But the advantage wouldn’t last for long, and Santana knew that as he waved the troops forward. “This way! Follow Lieutenant Ponco. The cannon is above us.”

  Temo had been forced to sketch the complex. So Santana, his officers, and their NCOs knew that a tunnel led from the landing pad back into the heart of the mountain. That was where they hoped to seize control of a lift that would take them straight up and into the STS battery. By doing so, they could avoid the need to climb a very steep slope while being fired on from above. But as with everything else, the plan required speed, overwhelming firepower, and a measure of good luck.

  So time was critical as the troops surged off the pad, entered the mouth of a dimly lit tunnel, and followed a row of ceiling-mounted lights toward the back. When they were fifty feet in, double doors parted at the other end of the passageway to reveal a group of Ramanthian troopers. But rather than standard infantry, these bugs were members of an armored unit. Their helmets had side-mounted bubbles through which they could see, hook-shaped protrusions to accommodate their beaks, and chin flares designed to protect their neck seals. Their bodies were protected by what looked like high-tech chain mail. It shimmered and flared as energy bolts struck it.

  Santana knew that, while the Ramanthian warriors might lose a toe-to-toe contest with a T-2, their power-assisted armor could rip a bio bod apart. Never mind the offensive capability resident in the Negar IV assault rifles they were carrying. Both sides fired as they began to close with each other.

  What ensued was a horrible melee in which both T-2s and Ramanthian troopers fired at point-blank range, powerful bodies grappled with each other, and any bio bod unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle was torn apart.

  Having led his troops forward, Santana found himself at the very center of the fracas with no way out. So he fired his carbine at an advancing Ramanthian, saw dimples appear on the trooper’s armor, and waited to die.

  The Ramanthian raised a bulky arm and was about to deal the human a crushing blow when Ponco entered the gap between them. The pincerlike fist struck, penetrated her globe-shaped body, and produced a shower of sparks. Ponco was killed instantly.

  But as the Ramanthian attempted to free his pincer from the recon ball’s housing, Santana took advantage of the opportunity to step in close and press the muzzle of his weapon up against a bulbous eye guard. He pulled the trigger repeatedly. The second and third bullets blew holes through the clearplas bubble and went straight through the Ramanthian’s brain.

  Santana was going to turn his attention to another trooper when a T-2 plucked him out of the mix and harm’s way. “Sorry, sir,” a voice rumbled over the speakers in Santana’s helmet. “But it isn’t nice to hog all of the fun. Leave some bugs for us.”

  The tide began to turn as a phalanx of cyborgs shouted “CAMERONE” and pushed forward. It was hard to get traction on the bloody floor, but they were so tightly packed together that there was no room in which to fall. The cyborgs were angry, a bit stronger than the Ramanthians, and their armor was thicker. Taken together, these advantages made a critical difference as they shoved, kicked, and stomped their opponents into submission.

  Even as the Ramanthians were forced to give ground, Santana saw the double doors start to close—and knew that if the lift rose without his troops on board, they would be trapped in the tunnel as the enemy flooded in behind them. “The elevator!” he shouted. “Stop the elevator.”

  But the T-2s were still locked in combat, and the doors were only two feet apart when they came to a stop. Santana heard a girlish voice over the radio. “This is Alpha Six-One. I have control of the lift. Over.”

  Santana knew the voice belonged to Leesha Stupin. By crawling on her hands and knees, the bio bod had been able to scuttle between the battling giants above and enter the elevator unopposed. And that was wonderful. But once the chits backed onto the platform, Stupin would be easy meat. “I need two T-2s on the lift now,” Santana said over the company push. “Execute.”

  As it turned out, three cyborgs were able to break through the crush and attack the Ramanthians from behind. That was the turning point, as all of the remaining enemy soldiers went down. They lay in broken heaps, but a price had been paid. In addition to Ponco, the company had lost three bio bods and a T-2. Gradually, bit by bit, the already-small unit was being whittled down to nothing. “Board the elevator,” Santana ordered grimly. “There’s more work to do upstairs.”

  “Reload if you need to,” Santana ordered, as the doors slid closed. The lift had been used during the construction process and was large enough to accommodate twice their number, had that been necessary. “They’ll be waiting for us,” he warned. “And they’ll pin us down inside the elevator if they can. So charge out and get in among them. Remember the ambush, remember the people we buried, and remember what we came here to do.”

  Someone shouted, “Camerone!” And this time legionnaires and militia responded as one. “CAMERONE!”

  “T-2s first,” Santana said, as the lift jerked to a halt. “And remember . . . If you’re a bio bod, get in there and protec
t your cyborg’s six.”

  Then the doors opened, a vertical slice of sky appeared, and all hell broke loose. Some enterprising officer or noncom had ordered his troops to reposition an auto cannon so it could fire on the elevator. It roared as the T-2s charged into the open. Three of them fell in quick succession. But by that time the fourth cyborg, a private named Willy Haber, was on top of the gun crew hosing them with gunfire. He screamed epithets the Ramanthians couldn’t understand, stomped their dead bodies, and turned one of them into paste.

  Then Dietrich and a bio bod named McTee arrived to slew the weapon around so that it was pointed at the Ramanthians. A corporal stepped in to fire it. Half a dozen enemy troopers were blown away as the rest took cover behind the STS cannon’s dome-shaped housing. “Chase the bastards down!” Santana roared. “Captain Ryley . . . Take some people, get inside that housing, and plant the demo charges. Let’s finish the job before the bugs can counterattack.”

  Ryley tossed a casual salute. “Sir! Stupin, Rajuta, Praxo . . . Follow me.”

  Certain that the lift had been put out of commission by the Ramanthians themselves, Santana knew that the bugs would have to climb upwards to try to retake their mountain aerie. But by which route?

  Sporadic gunfire was heard as the last of the defenders were tracked down. Santana took a quick tour of the mountaintop. The need to do so reminded him of Ponco and how she had given her life to protect him. The thought of it made his throat tight and threatened to choke him. Later, he told himself. Focus.

  There were two ways to approach the cannon. The first was to climb uphill from the landing pad, which was back under Ramanthian control. Enemy bullets pinged the ramparts around Santana whenever the officer showed himself.

  The second way to reach the cannon was over a narrow path that zigzagged up the northeast side of the mountain to the antiaircraft batteries located there. Santana figured that if he was in command of Ramanthian forces, he would send a small force up the path, try to draw the defenders to that location, and send the majority of his troops up from the landing pad. Because even though the slope was steep, it was wide enough to accommodate fifteen or twenty soldiers marching abreast. And they would be harder to stop than a column of twos at the top of the mountain path. But would Dammo, or whatever bug was in charge, see things the way he did?