by David Weber
“And I’m also gonna put you on report if I see anyone without a weapon again. We don’t know a thing about this planet, and until we do, we will consider it hostile at all times. Understood?”
She listened to the chorus of agreement, then nodded.
“The Captain is going to give a little talk before we get started. Get your teams together and get loaded up. We’ve got fifteen minutes before move-out. I want you to mostly finish your bladders, then refill from the tanks on the shuttles. I want you sloshing when we start out.” She glanced around one more time. “Let’s go over this again. Drink?”
“Water,” the squad responded, more or less in unison and with a few smiles.
“When?”
“Always.”
“How much?”
“Lots.”
“And carry . . . ?”
“Your weapon.”
“When?”
“At all times.”
“Very good,” she said with a blinding smile. “You’re a credit to your squad leader.” She gave them a wink and headed back over to where Sergeant Major Kosutic was standing.
Kosutic waited until the company’s NCOs had gathered around, then raised an eyebrow.
“Well?”
“Just like you said,” Julian said, taking a sip of water from the bladder in his armor. “Nobody had finished his water. Only a couple had refilled.”
“Same here,” Koberda said. “You’d think they’d learn. We’re all vets, and we all went through RIP. Hell, most of us have spent time in Raider units! This is just same shit, different day.”
“Uh-huh.” Kosutic nodded in agreement. “How’s your water level, George?”
“What?” Koberda’s hand tapped the bladder on his back. “Oh.” The bladder was mostly full, and Kosutic chuckled as he popped the drinking tube into his mouth.
“This is gonna be a long mission, By His Wickedness,” she said, scratching her ear. “And we need to get the right habits right at the beginning. Most of your troops think they’re tough. Hell, they are tough. But there’s tough and there’s tough, and, frankly, they’re the wrong kind of bad news for this. Give me a bunch of fringe world mercenaries for an op like this one. We’re used to having everything on a silver platter, and all we gotta do is drop, kick ass, and go home. This is about staying in the fight for months. That’s not something we train for or plan on.
“The troops are gonna get worn out. They’re not gonna want to eat. They’re not gonna want to drink. They’re not gonna want to keep alert. They are not, By His Evilness, going to care.
“So you’ve gotta be their momma and their poppa. You’ve gotta make them eat. You’ve gotta make them drink. You’ve gotta make sure they keep up their hygiene. You’ve gotta make sure they keep up their heads.
“Let the troops keep on the lookout for the bad guys. You squad leaders and platoon sergeants have to keep an eye on the troops.
“And I’ll keep an eye on you,” she finished with a laugh. “Now, drink!”
“Have you had anything to drink this morning, Your Highness?” Captain Pahner asked as he watched the prince unpack his weapon.
The rifle would have been a point of contention if Armand Pahner had had an ounce of strength left for silly arguments. He had nothing against the weapon as a hunting rifle: the Parkins and Spencer eleven-millimeter magnum was a gem among heavy caliber rifles. True, it was a “smoke-pole” rather than a bead gun, but the selectable action weapon (it could be fired in either bolt-action or semi-automatic mode) was the end product of over a millennia of development. The big, chemical-propelled round had excellent penetration and muzzle energy, and in the hands of an expert, it was deadly out to nearly two kilometers with the Intervalle 50x variable hologram scope mounted on it.
Yet whatever its virtues, it was also incredibly heavy, nearly fifteen kilos, and used nonstandard brass-cartridge rounds, which meant the prince would be unable to trade ammunition with the other weapons. Eventually, the prince’s own ammo would run out, and he would be left with an extremely expensive, very heavy stick.
But Armand Pahner was done arguing with the arrogant young prick. About most stuff.
“Not recently,” Roger replied with a headshake as he snapped the receiver into the walnut stock.
“Then might I suggest that His Highness drink water?” Pahner said through gritted teeth. He knew that the prince had all the military’s nanite and toot enhancements, and a few that even his bodyguards didn’t have. But he still had to have some water in his veins for the nanites to swim in.
“You can suggest it,” Roger said with a slight smile. “And I even will, in a minute. But I’m going to get my rifle assembled first.”
“Very well, Your Highness,” Pahner said after a calming breath. It was hot as the hinges of hell already, and he didn’t need this. “We’re going to be moving out in a few minutes.” The captain smiled faintly. “O’er Marduk’s sunny plain.”
“I’ll be there,” Roger said with a glance at the captain. The Marine’s last phrase had not made sense to the prince, but he had other things to worry about, and he started loading ammunition into his combat vest. The handspan-long cartridges would eventually cover the chameleon cloth harness, actually providing an ersatz armor. He had a pack at his feet which was intended to accept additional rounds, and there were loops sewn into the legs of his combat suit. He would eventually be covered in bullets.
God help us if he gets hit by a stray bead, Armand Pahner thought.
Pahner glanced at Poertena. The armorer was racked out in the shade under one net-draped wing of the shuttle. The captain knew most of the troops had bitched about hauling the camo nets into place and staking them down, but he’d been adamant. The shuttles’ hulls and wings were essentially one huge crystal display; as long as their internal power held out, their programmable skins could produce better reactive camouflage than a chameleon suit or even powered armor. But even though the power requirement wasn’t huge, it was more than enough to eventually drain the shuttle capacitors, at which point the craft would stand out like elephants on a golf course if anyone happened to overfly them and look down. Even if that hadn’t been the case, the best reactive skins in the universe couldn’t do much about the shadows they cast, so he’d ordered the nets out. Not only would they take over when the power did run out, but they broke up the artificial angularity of the shuttle hulls and wings, which also broke up the artificiality of the shadows they cast.
Roger, predictably, had considered it a waste of time, although at least he’d managed to restrict his bitching about it to Pahner himself instead of whining in front of the troops. The captain had wanted—badly—to ask why he’d been so upset when no one was asking him to do the grunt work, but he’d decided against it after only a brief struggle. They’d already gone around and around about his decision to maintain a round-the-clock listening watch on all frequencies. It would only require a single trooper to monitor them through the sophisticated com equipment engineered into his helmet, which would hardly pose a crippling drain on their manpower. Despite that, the prince had done a deplorably poor job of concealing his opinion that worrying about possible communications traffic when the entire mass of the planet lay between them and the only high-tech enclave on it made no sense at all, and Pahner had no doubt that Roger had written him off as a terminally paranoid security dweeb.
Fortunately, the captain had discovered that he was remarkably immune to worries about the prince’s good opinion of him, and Roger’s arguments hadn’t changed his mind about the listening watch or the camo nets. No doubt the prince was right when he pointed out that the chance of any one coming in low enough to see the shuttles, assuming there was any reason to be looking in the first place, on the completely opposite side of the globe from the only spaceport or landing facility on the entire planet was virtually nonexistent. Armand Pahner, however, was not in the habit of exposing his people or his mission to avoidable risk, however remote, even if the “extra work
” did piss them off.
And it was remarkable how the troops’ attitude had shifted when the sun came back up and they realized what nice shade the nets provided for anyone who could come up with an excuse to get under them. Like Poertena, who looked indecently comfortable as he snored with his head propped on a gigantic rucksack. The captain wondered, briefly, what was in it, then walked over and kicked the Pinopan on the sole of his boot. The armorer’s eyes popped open, and he scrambled to his feet.
“Yes, Sir, Cap’n?”
“Circulate around. Leader’s conference. Here. Now.”
“Yes, Sir, Cap’n,” Poertena acknowledged, and trotted off towards the knot around Kosutic, bead rifle at high port.
Pahner turned and looked towards the distant mountains. Trees were faintly visible on the lower slopes.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The trees were spindly and very tall. There were branch scars on their lower surfaces, but the first actual limbs were nearly twenty meters up the trunk. From there, the trunk continued upwards another ten or twenty meters in a spreading crown. They looked misshapen, like some sort of odd, oversized toadstools. The bark was generally gray and smooth, but some of the trees showed gouges that reached nearly to the spreading crowns.
Roger glanced up at the trees through the extruded plastron of his helmet and shook his head.
“Bad sign. Strop marks,” he commented. There’d been chatter about the gouges on the tactical net, but he was still having a hard time making out what everyone was talking about. Now, looking up the trees, some of the comments made more sense.
“Pardon me, Your Highness?” Eleanora said, pausing to take a couple of deep breaths. The pace Captain Pahner had set wasn’t fast—he knew better than to rush forward in terrain about which he had no knowledge—but combined with the heat, it was terribly debilitating to a woman who’d practically never set foot outside a city. She’d kept up with the Marine company so far, but only by dint of iron determination, and it was obvious that she was exhausted.
The company had been walking for nearly six hours, marching for fifty minutes and then taking a ten-minute water break as per doctrine for the environmental conditions. It had taken them that long to get off the salt flats, and now they were entering an alluvial outflow from the mountains. The outflow, unlike the salt flats, had some vegetation. But not much, and the trees that made up the majority of it were widely spaced. And scarred.
“Strop marks,” Roger repeated, absently offering the academic the left arm of his armor to support some of her weight. The prince was sweating profusely, but didn’t look particularly worn. That might have something to do with carrying less gear than the rest of the company or being in powered armor, but mostly it had to do with the fact that he preferred being on safari to anything else.
He’d traveled, hunted, and studied in more unpleasant, out-of-the-way places than almost any of the Marines realized. And he rarely hunted game that didn’t hunt back.
“Marks on a tree like that come from two things,” he explained. “Animals eating the bark, and territory marking. And if it were bark-eaters, all the trees would be marked.”
“So,” O’Casey asked with another gasp, “what does that mean?” She knew it should be obvious, but she was wilting in the heat. She checked her toot and suppressed a whimper. Twenty minutes until the next rest.
“It means that there’s a something around here that’s territorial,” Roger said with a glance at the marks high overhead. “Something really, really big.”
Sergeant Major Kosutic watched the point guard, PFC Berent, from Julian’s squad. The company was moving with two platoons forward of the headquarters unit, and one behind, and they’d started with Third Platoon forward, since Third had the only squad with armor. The private on point not only had her suit sensors on maximum, she had a hand-held scanner in her left hand. The hand-helds were more sensitive than the suits’ systems, and this one was dialed to maximum. So far, though, there’d been no signs of the predators the brief entry on the partial planetary survey report had alluded to. Kosutic had just opened her mouth to make a comment on that to Gunny Jin when the point held up a closed fist. Almost as one man, the company jerked to a stop.
“Well, if we run into whatever it is,” Eleanora said, taking a deep gulp of water, “just let it kill me, okay?” She suddenly realized that she was talking to herself and that the whole company had stopped. “Roger?” she said, and turned to look back.
Pahner had a repeater of the scout’s data on one-quarter of his visor, and general data on the company and its formation on two other quarters. The fourth was left for figuring out where to put his feet. Currently, the only one he was paying attention to was the repeater from the scout.
The beast that had come into sight around a pile of boulders was dark brown and nearly as high in the shoulder as an elephant, but longer and wider. The head was armed with two long, slightly curved horns that looked useful for fighting or digging, and the neck was protected by a ruff of armor. Massive shoulders were covered in armored scales that faded back to pebbly hide, and it had six squat, forward-thrust limbs and a fleshy tail that flailed back and forth as it pounded from left to right across the company’s path. As it ran, it bugled in rage at whatever it was chasing.
The captain examined it for just a moment. The beast was fearsome looking, but a closer examination confirmed his initial judgment. There was no sign of canines or any analog; only grinder teeth were revealed when it opened its maw to scream. Nor did the beast have the sort of long, lean look one found in virtually all predators. It was undoubtedly something to keep an eye on and could be a problem, but it wasn’t a carnivore, and was therefore unlikely to attack the company.
“All units,” he said, knowing that the tac-comp in his communicator would set the radio to all-frequency broadcast. “Don’t fire. It’s an herbivore. I say again, do not fire.”
There was chatter on the net, and although Roger’s inexperience with the com link kept him from following it at all clearly, he could certainly understand its excited overtones. He looked at the creature and its paws. They were odd for a desert creature, webbed and clawed like those of a carnivorous toad. And it was just about the right length and design to be able to rear up on those trees. It was obviously an herbivore, but it was just as obviously a part of whatever herd had marked these trees as its territory. That put it in the “dangerous” slot, and Roger wasn’t about to let it circle around and hit the company from behind like a Cape buffalo, or a Shastan rock toad. Or go and get the rest of the herd to squash them all to paste.
He put the rifle to the shoulder and drew a breath. Lead it, easy squeeze.
Pahner’s jaw dropped as the giant beast snapped at its side. It turned on its tail once, then slammed over sideways in a self-made hurricane of dust and gravel. The ground shuddered underfoot with the impact, and it lashed and snapped at the air for several seconds until it was still. He watched it for one sulphurous moment more, and took a deep breath.
“Okay! Who the hell fired?!” There was complete silence on all the nets. “I said, ‘who fired?’!”
“That would be His Highness,” Julian said ironically.
Pahner cut out the snickering on the squad leaders’ net and turned to where Roger stood with a smoking rifle propped on his thigh. The prince had the Parkins and Spencer set for bolt action, and Pahner watched as he jacked the spent round out of the chamber and caught it in midair. He pulled a fresh round out of his vest, chambered it, and put the empty case where the new one had been. Each of the movements was precise, but jerky and over-muscled. Then he reached up and cleared the chameleon field from his helmet so that he could meet Pahner’s eye.
Pahner stepped over to where the prince stood and switched to the command frequency they alone shared.
“Your Highness, could we talk for a moment?”
“Certainly, Captain Pahner,” the prince said sardonically.
Pahner looked around, but there was nowhere t
o have a private conversation. So he touched the control that opaqued the prince’s visor again.
“Your Highness,” he began, then drew a deep, calming breath. “Your Highness, can I ask you a question?”
“Captain Pahner, I assure you—”
“Your Highness, if you please,” Pahner interrupted in a strangled tone. “May. I. Ask. You. A. Question?”
Roger decided at that moment that discretion was better than valor.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to live to get back to Earth?” Pahner asked, and Roger paused before responding carefully.
“Is that a threat, Captain?”
“No, Your Highness, it’s a question.”
“Then, yes, of course I do,” the prince said shortly.
“Then you’d better get through your overbred, airheaded brain that the only way we are going to survive is if you don’t fuck me over every time we turn around!”
“Captain, I assure you—” the prince started to respond hotly.
“Shut up! Just shut up, shut up! You can have me relieved once we get back to Earth! And I am not going to wrap you up in ropes and carry you the whole way, although right now that sounds like a good idea! But if you don’t get a grip and start figuring out that we are not on some backwoods adventure where you can go and blast anything in sight and walk away without consequences, we are all going to get killed. And that would really piss me off, because it would mean that I failed to get you back to Earth so that I can give you back to your mother in one goddamned piece. That is all I care about, and if you don’t get with the program, I will sedate you and carry you to the spaceport unconscious on a stretcher! Am I making myself absolutely, positively, crystalline clear?”
“Clear,” Roger said quietly. He realized there was no way he could possibly explain the situation as he saw it to the enraged captain. He also realized that with the helmets opaqued and on a restricted frequency, no one else had heard the dressing down.