Minutegirls

by George Phillies

  "Estimate another ChiComm platoon," she announced. "Time to go." She fired her last trio of rifle grenades at the corridor entrances. She wished she had a half-dozen Vixens. Challenged by Dreadstar on why she was carrying any, she'd announced that they made fine lockpicks, in case they found a sealed bunker. Chinese hit the dirt and began firing in their general direction.

  "Out!" she shouted. "Back to the first chamber! I'm rear cover." She pulled her final Vixen from its shoulder strap. Of course, the crates and barrels neatly packed well away from everything else at the far end of the bunker, carefully roped off and painted bright red, could be food and water. The last rocket went into the barrels. She rolled up and over the berm and crawled for the corridor. A change in the light marked the storage area going up in sudden flames.

  Wonderchick scrambled to her feet and ran down the corridor. Time crawled. There was a colossal roar. A gust of air swept her off her feet. She rolled, bounced off a wall, smashed back first into a support column, and dropped into the rock floor. Try to stand. The simplest motions were too much. She staggered ahead. What was wrong with her?

  When her vision cleared, she was approaching the front cave entrance, half running, half being carried by Smart Blonde. Full auto fire behind her must be Princess. What was there? She realized she had heard Smart Blonde's explanation: yet more Chinese were rapelling down one of the old elevator shafts.

  "Starzh!" Her voice slurred. "They're after ush. Check your own shikch, may be other exitsh." She couldn't talk. Stars' voice came distantly to her ears. What was Stars saying? She couldn't tell.

  The last bits of sunlight came as a hammer blow. Smart Blonde and Wonderchick splashed through the pond, dropping to cover on the far side. Princess was a few seconds behind them. There was another rumble. The ground shook. Dust boiled from the cavern mouth. Spumes of smokes blew out from spots on the hillside.

  "Ah imagine those clouds are the elevator shafts you found." An unexpected male voice reached Wonderchick through her radio. "A've got an autogun set for indirect on each of them and two supporting you," it continued.

  "Mr. Cheng?" Stars' voice came through. "I think my team-mates could use some medical support. If you were willing, I mean, I'd really appreciate it."

  "Have them come...oh, my, I see what you mean. Just have them stay in place," came the voice.

  Wonderchick glanced at her goggle HUD. Detectors claimed the area was free of biologicals or poison gas. Goggles were signaling they were too dirty. What was wrong with them? A fast rinse in the pond would let the internal micromachines clean them up. She pulled dirty low-light goggles from her face. The goggles were sticky, coated with blood. Her blood, she saw, looking in a reflection. The edge of her scalp was torn. Suddenly she felt chilled. She touched the diagnostic pad for her autodoc. A dozen warnings flashed. She forced a smile. If the autodoc was working correctly, not a sure bet after the way it had just been abused, nothing wrong with her was short-term critical. Switching the pad to check on her team mates brought the same answers. None of them was about to die, pretty decent considering they'd run into fifty times as many Chinese as planned.

  "Status?" she croaked. Something was wrong with her voice. Everything came out in whispers. "Proceeding," announced Stars on the bonephone, her voice breaking up. "You guys got out first. Other teams are getting hits, ChiComms in hiding or supply bunkers. MinuteMoms and MinuteDads and locals woke up when they were fed tapes from your headcams. Any hour now they'll be here."

  "Any minute, ah believe you mean, young lady," the voice came in the phones. "Mah neighbors and Ah aren't so slow as those North American types. And we're kicking ourselves already, not being there from the beginning. That's mah land you're clearing, sure enough." The landholder, Wonderchick thought a bit distantly, the fellow who gave us the go-ahead, that's who was tied through Stars into the tacnet.

  "Damn!" Wonderchick cursed under her breath. "I forgot to get range and bearing on the far end of the cavern. No idea where it is now," she announced.

  "Spread out over five acres of my land," landowner Cheng said. "That last boom blew it right out. I've got video into that cave, or will when the smoke clears. I'm impressed if someone's still alive in there."

  "Stars, is our rear covered?" asked Smart Blonde. The Chinese cavern seemed to have an unreasonable number of possible exits. Hiding from them sounded impractical. Their ultracamo was not in the best shape, not after a cave fell apart on top of it.

  "Tarantulas out 200 yards, active ultrasound and radar search," Stars announced. "That's over the ridge. Group One Reserves are here in two minutes. The local militia gets here before tarantula battery packs run down. And we're getting active cover on all those blowout points. No one's been spotted coming out."

  "Ammo check," Wonderchick asked. "I seem to be a bit light." The serviles driving their ultracamo compared notes, prodding Stars and Smart Blonde to pass grenade and rifle clips to Wonderchick. Her left-arm reach brought scintillas of pain across her shoulder. She cursed to herself. The Taifun was officially not a hand-held weapon. Four in a row, fast as she could position them, must have bruised something.

  "Confirm my med check?" Wonderchick asked.

  "On it. Do we hit sunset soon?" Princess asked.

  "Not quite," Stars said. "You weren't in there more than thirty minutes."

  "Seemed like hours," Princess responded. "Wonderchick, I owe you an apology, saying Taifuns were overkill. If you hadn't had them, we'd have been in a bit of trouble."

  "You were in trouble," Vera Rubenstein agreed. "You are in trouble." The four women started. They hadn't realized that Major Rubenstein had joined their tacnet.

  "Did I take too long again to kill them again, Major?" Wonderchick asked innocently. Her team-mates groaned. Wonderchick was always a bit over-focused.

  "It's always too long," Vera Rubenstein explained. "Unless they're dead before they shoot back. Systems claim none of you are dying, despite trying hard. You'll have Medevac as soon as the Troop reaches your positions."

  "The Troop?" Stars asked. "You're coming?"

  "The whole Training Battalion. You thought we were going to leave you all alone?" Rubenstein asked. It wasn't quite a question. "Funny thing is, when you first found the ChiComms, half the troop was already ready to move out. In under thirty seconds. The other half were ready to go before you got into trouble."

  "Got it," Stars said. Their friends, those without free time to join them, had been ready and waiting to come to their aid.

  "You did notice you were in trouble, Rachel, didn't you? Or do you think it's normal for Girl Guides to attack when you're outnumbered 50:1?" Major Rubenstein's voice was significantly more pointed.

  "Yes, ma'am. And no, ma'am, unless necessary, ma'am. And Girl Guides Never Shrink From Danger!, Ma'am." Wonderchick quoted the oldest maxim in the book.

  "I'm glad you have that clear," Major Rubenstein agreed. What was she going to do with the girl? Rachel had pulled at least three not-quite-brain-dead moves, not counting sneaking into the Flying Crane Spa to bed one of Morbius's trained hunks. Training Command was not supposed to know about that. Spa Security still didn't, after all. Sooner or later Rachel was going to get herself killed, which would be a real waste of a potential leader.

  "That reminds me," Rubenstein announced. "Are you listening, Schumacher?"

  Chapter 18

  "Alien Invader: Any person found within the territory of the United States who is not a citizen of the United States or a foreign diplomat is by definition an Alien Invader. It is the legal and moral duty of the Militia of the United States, the Armed Forces of the United States, and the State Defense Forces of the several States to exterminate or expel from the territory of the United States all Alien Invaders, by violent force or such other means as is momentarily most expedient."

  ...Militia Reorganization Act of 2052

  FORMATION HEADQUARTERS

  MINUTEGIRL SPECIAL FORMATION ONE

  HARBIN, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


  October 20, 2174, 8:46 PM HLT

  "Ma'am, yes, Ma'am. Though I'm a trifle busy, ma'am," Schumacher answered briskly.

  "I should expect so, given that you had twenty-three target sites, found volunteer teams from fourteen different groups of Girl Guides and MinuteGirls to investigate all of them at the same time, and are busy doing so." Rubenstein paused ominously. "Do you realize that your friends outnumber my entire training battalion, Schumacher? And you have four times the recommended number of recommended formations reporting to you?"

  "Ma'am, yes, ma'am. And that's twenty-seven sites. Also four MinuteBoy Groups. And two Wedges of Lambda Scouts." Schumacher bit her tongue. She'd save mentioning the command structure she'd cobbled together until she had more time. When annoyed, which was always, Rubenstein really really disliked long answers. Her last explanation of 'dislike' had involved introducing a totally antique instrument of culinary torture known as a 'potato peeler'. Then she had explained that no, the guilty parties were not allowed to program servots to work a peeler. The sacred potato peeler was fit only for human hands. Along with the several hundred-pound sacks of potatoes.

  "This is the largest combat operation Girl Guides and MinuteGirls have had in more than a decade," Rubenstein said blandly.

  "Yes, Ma'am!" answered Schumacher. And it was in decent part her doing. Though Smart Blonde had had the MinuteBoy contacts. That had been a surprise, especially when all Smart Blonde had said in advance was "There are a couple guys I dated. I'll ask them." The value of ‘couple’ seemed large. Shumacher wasn't quite clear how the coed Lambda Scouts had learned what she was planning.

  "And you didn't invite Cadre to join your fun," Rubenstein noted grumpily.

  "Begging the commander's pardon, ma'am, but we did report the implicit flaws in the border screens. And, ma'am, proposed investigating," Shumacher said, squeezing every possible ounce of politeness into her voice. Supposedly potato peelers also worked on cucumbers. She really didn't want the Major to prove that one on her. "And asked permission before seeking volunteers, ma'am."

  "I thought you meant from your Troop," Rubenstein answered.

  "Oh. I did, ma'am. Wonderchick is out there." Dreadstar sounded to be the picture of innocence. "Yes, ma'am, I did seek volunteers from the Bella Abzug Brigade." She'd asked the whole Brigade, Cloudshadow group being a dozen Phoenix Guards in power armor looking at what had appeared to be the dangerous site, and then let the word spread farther.

  "I'm sure you did," Rubenstein said. "But sometimes..."

  "BREAK BREAK. UNDER HEAVY FIRE ON APPROACH AT B-5!" The voice screamed in Dreadstar's ears, cutting off the Major. Holodisplay identified the voice as Team Leader, Target Area Eight, and put up the local terrain map.

  "Pardon me, Major," Dreadstar said.

  "Get on top of it! Out!" Rubenstein cut off the connection.

  "HEAVY FIRE BOTH SIDES AND REAR. Three, four, five, seven down," Team Leader Eight continued. Names and Med Statuses came up on a side screen. Two dead? Dreadstar thought. Two needing temporal stasis? Four others wounded?

  "This is Havelock, Group Three Leader," was the next voice on the net. Dreadstar had known all along she couldn't run 28 teams and their reserves. Twenty-eight teams and ten reserve elements was five Groups in one Special Formation, Team Eight being in Group Three. Now she would see if people cooperated. The voice continued. "Reserve 3A, Point L4. Reserve 3B, Point R5. Advance and engage on the double. Team 8, about five minutes. Comm, General Announcement. Anyone near grid N3704-W2162. Hostile forces engaged within the United States. My people at Paine-Hancock Two-One-Niner pinned." The General Announcement net -- wherever the message made it through the spam silencers -- would reach anyone not behind a privacy wall in that township.

  A half-dozen voices answered near-simultaneously. Voice-to-text converters captured them all, leaving them for Havelock and Dreadstar to read seriatim. Reserves 3A and 3B were on their way in hoverlift vehicles flying nap-of-earth.

  "Team Leader Eight, link to Hong Two One Four Seven," Havelock said. Hong was the local large householder, now powering up a pair of 8" rail guns. One might not bear; the other certainly did. Servile links showed exactly where Team 8 was on the ground. Very soon, Miss Hong's house defenses would be improving the terrain around Team 8's position.

  "Massive incoming fire," Team Eight Leader shouted. "We're down and pinned." Dreadstar clenched her teeth. A servile was toting up additional dead and severely wounded. Team 8 had been six Girl Guides, four MinuteGirls in power armor, two Turtle heavy recce walkers... Team Eight Leader's AutoDoc was signaling every alarm it had. Headcam signals showed her rolling over a fallen tree and fast-crawling from cover point to cover point. Flashing gold hashmarks 'Patient Personal Override' on a list of stimulants suggested how she could still do this. Sounds in the comm background had to be Americans returning fire. There didn't sound to be many Americans shooting back.

  "Hong 2147 opening fire." Hong's voice was young and high-pitched, with distinctly odd pronunciations. Dreadstar found her mind wandering, wondering if Hong 2147 was one of those very rare Americans who knew something about a foreign language. "Ranging shot, shallow. Ranging shot, deep. Please advise on depth...I copy. Hong firing for effect."

  Headcam shots -- someone else, thought Deadstar, someone only tagged 'Left Flank' -- showed that someone backing rapidly out of a firing position, dropping back and left into a shallow depression in the ground. She'd backed just in time -- a half dozen rifle grenades went off near her previous location. Doppler overlays showed moving targets, still hidden in the brush, running toward the former position. Damped thuds marked 'Left Flank' using autofire against the doppler radar targets, all of which went to ground a good 75 yards out.

  The ground rocked. Display markers announced that the headcam had acoustic overload. Miss Hong's eight-inch fire marched up one flank of Team 8's formation and down the other, one round per second dropping into the ambusher's apparent locations. Finally the fire reached the people pinned by Left Flank's autofire.

  Dreadstar's coverage of Team 8 broke up. "This is Group Five Leader, Emergency Interrupt." Dreadstar thought for a moment. Havelock of Group Three was perfectly competent, would scream for help if it were needed, wanted a dithering CO microsteering her like she needed an extra hole in the head. Put Three aside, she told herself.

  "State the emergency, Five Leader." Dreadstar tried to stay calm. She should have handed off Team 8's engagement so soon as Havelock had it in her hands. What had she missed in the meantime?

  "We have a..oh, grelk!.." There was a background clatter, several large crashes, punctuated by the staccatto tap-tap-tap of an M-37's slow-auto three round burst. "...Cease Fire! Cease grelking Fire or I'll shoot you myself!" Five Leader shouted. Voices in the background might have been clearly audible if there had been fewer of them.

  "Group Five, are you under attack?" Dreadstar asked calmly. She had not allowed for that contingency. She knew she had not allowed for that contingency because it was impossible. Why should she have allowed for that contingency? It was obviously impossible.

  "Witless grelking MinuteDads..." whispered Group Leader Five. What was Five Leader's issue, wondered Dreadstar? Patricia Ruiz might be the weakest of her Group leaders in theory courses, but stubbornness and hard work made up for other limitations. At the moment, though, she could be communicating better.

  Someone's headcam came up at the Group Five HQ. Bless you, thought Dreadstar. They were under a large tree. An overturned table, workspaces and laptops spread across the ground where they fell, explained the clatter. Two MinuteGirls, people Dreadstar knew she had met, were facing off a group of older men, all in Alabama State Militia dress uniforms. The men's faces were bloodshot with rage. The MinuteGirl closest to them had teeth bared. Dreadstar's stomach knotted. If their weapons were not all pointed at each other, they were way closer than they had any business being. Holes in a transparent rain canvas showed where the M-37 had been pointed when it went off.
/>   "Five Leader," Dreadstar said, "I'm getting you cover for your Group Command."

  "Group One Leader," said Dreadstar, trusting the servile to forward her message properly, "we have a problem at Group Five HQ." Group One Leader was Teresa Holt, a MinuteGirl ten years older than anyone else in the operation, who had marched herself through a long series of Staff and Command courses. When offered overall formation command, she had read the plans and turned the offer down, on the grounds that Dreadstar and the Girl Guides had everything under control. "Group Five Teams, report your status now to Group One Leader. Group One Leader, collate and advise Formation Leader on arising problems in Group 5."

  "Dreadstar, Group One acknowledges and will execute." Teresa answered. The slightest hint of bafflement whispered through her voice.

  "Teresa," Dreadstar said, "I have an armed standoff in Five HQ with some MinuteDads. Group Five Leader is a bit distracted. Something about an M-37 going off in her ear. Her group needs extra eyes doing overwatch."

  "Got it," Teresa answered. "Don't get it, but got it. Slasherette, get me a full page on Group Five. Now!" she said.

  Dreadstar started to speak, then checked herself. The standoff was not in the ops plan. Asking Group Five Leader what was happening was the very wrong thing to do. Ruiz was obviously busy with her people, and didn't need someone shouting over her shoulder. She was also distracted, so her teams needed someone extra to look out for them. The second was taken care of. Now the first. "Janelle?" Her records wiz had volunteered after extracting the promise that never again would her friends use her nicktitle. "Find and edit what we've got from Group Five HQ, last fifteen minutes. I've got angry people with drawn weapons."

  "Our people fighting each other!" Janelle sounded shocked. Fingers caressed a keyboard.

  "Our people and MinuteDads at sword's point. I want a why. Find and summarize," Dreadstar said. She put the Group Five map on the main screen. There was a platoon of MinuteDads -- 18th Alabama -- parked two hundred yards outside the Group Five Command position. A position, she noted, that had a dozen perimeter guards and three autocannon -- where had someone borrowed them from? And how had the MinuteDads crossed the sentry line?