Descent into Mayhem (Capicua Chronicles Book 1)

by Bruno Goncalves

  Ray wasn’t there. Nor was Gordie, nor any of the femmes. Hirum was there, although his presence didn’t boost Toni’s confidence in the least; Hirum was a decent friend, but his test scores were well on the lower end of the performance spectrum. The remaining members were more comrades than mates, and only Clive Bowker, whose bed was beside his, was a closer acquaintance. The tall cadet’s natural reserve, however, had kept them from being anything more than that.

  Don Kimble, on the other hand, suffered from a bad case of androgyny. His skin was soft and rosy, he possessed no facial hair to speak of, and he was handsome in an almost feminine way. Toni suspected exogenous genes at play. The cadet also got along quite well with the femmes, which only served to ensure he remain at arm’s length from the platoon’s male members.

  Jim Grimm was officially an OK guy. He hung out with Shinji Yamato and Daryl Cato, and together they formed their own little special-interest group. The corn-haired cadet happened to be a hardcore programmer, thus adding his expertise to what they referred to as the Terrorbyte Crew. They constituted their own nation, but diplomatic relations with the remainder of the platoon had always been friendly.

  Toni was glad for Jim’s inclusion in the 1st section; they were currently rivals in the race to the summit of the performance spectrum.

  “Toni?” Hirum inquired hesitantly.

  “What?” He replied, still focused on his thoughts.

  “What happened between you and Tani?”

  “Why would you think there’s something between us?” He answered, thinking it wise to answer an unpleasant question with another.

  Don sniggered and answered in Hirum’s stead.

  “She’s been looking at you like you shot her dog, man. Look at her.”

  Toni turned towards the 2nd section and, sure enough, Rakaia stood there watching him like a hawk, her irises half-hidden by her eyelids. Toni turned away, his face expressionless.

  No need to be the good guy, he told himself. Turning to Hirum, he finally answered.

  “I only presented her with a few unpleasant facts, that’s all. She took it a little worse than I expected.”

  Don thought on the answer for a moment, and then fixed Toni with a cold look.

  “Rakaia doesn’t need someone like you to tell her the facts, she knows them for herself already. She escaped some domestic issues back at the Terminator Hub. She’s had some real problems, unlike you, and it just wouldn’t be a good idea to poke her like I expect you did. Especially not since she’s about to be handed a four ton piece of military equipment to play with. And a live Lacrau. And a twenty five millimeter cannon. What do you say?”

  Toni nodded weakly, figuring he’d only make a bigger fool of himself if he opened his mouth again.

  “First section! Form up on me!” Sergeant Dunn suddenly barked.

  The powwow was over and their secleader stood at the doorway with two fingers above his head. The five cadets formed a double column before him and then they were off at a quick march.

  The entire base was unrecognizable in its novel level of activity. The caserns had disgorged more footsoldiers than he had ever thought existed, and many were already formed up beside their impossibly large T4 travel-packs on the parade ground. The packs presently rested at their owners’ feet, the personnel having yet to requisition their exoskeletons from the 3rd War Materials Deposit.

  Over the course of the following hour, time became a blur of confusion as all the promised equipment was requisitioned and distributed. Toni had to hand it to his new secleader; none of the WMD grunts gave the sergeant any hassle, his threatening demeanor proving to be a most efficient lubricant against the customary bureaucracy. Some of the clerks still parted with their equipment reluctantly, as if the loss was a personal one.

  Before long the requisitioned material found itself before each driver’s feet, the platoon forming a U on the parade ground as nearby footmen clad in combat exoskeletons clomped towards their destinations.

  Had he not seen the array of armament and equipment being fielded by the footmen, Toni would have believed that Kokubo intended them to fight on foot as well.

  One Lacrau rifle with 180 rounds of 8 millimeter caseless ammunition in four magazines. One Hornet TF-33 sidearm with 80 rounds of 6 millimeter caseless ammunition in four clips. A light-duty ballistic helmet. One light-duty ballistic vest, including sternum and dorsal anti-trauma plates. Frag-resistant combat fatigues, including integrated tourniquets at the nub of each extremity. A travel pack containing three combat rations (each providing a day’s worth of nourishment), a collapsible thermal oven, and a first-aid kit that included enough combat nootropics to fight for three days without pause. One MFES Mark 4 Comm. device, apparently only for emergencies. And one sleeping bag, which also served as a one-man tent or raincoat, depending on need and imagination.

  It all totaled 22 kilo-mass of equipment which, allowing for the local gravity, culminated in more than 30 kilo-weight to be carried. That number did not include some of the other goods they’d have to carry in their T3 travel packs.

  “Why can’t we get one of those?” Someone pointed to the exoskeletons nearby.

  “‘Cause then you wouldn’t fit into the Moca, you idiot.” Sergeant Dunn replied dryly.

  “Couldn’t they get one of those combat suits to interface with the Moca instead of the HINT?” Toni wondered out loud. The question drew a short pause from the sergeant.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He finally answered, ordering them instead to shoulder their equipment and return to the casern for the remainder of their gear.

  It took the better part of an hour to take care of breakfast, and then the platoon joined the traffic jam of overburdened soldiers awaiting transport to the stables. As he laid his eyes on the mass of combat-ready men converging upon the shuttle pick-up point, Toni began to feel giddy with the unreality of it all.

  There were at least three different types of exoskeletons to be seen, or at least three different modes of the same suit. Heavy weaponry, including anti-armor missile launchers and entire base-plate-and-tube mortar assemblies were shouldered nonchalantly, their carriers possessing the wired expressions of those under the effect of performance enhancers. The level of hyperactivity amongst the soldiery far exceeded their commanders’ abilities to quiet them, and so the volume of conversation slowly escalated as each bus arrived and then departed, followed by the vocal cursing of those left behind. Some officers began to warn their men against popping combat pills for the buzz. There were others, however, who seemed to have nothing to say. Some stood very still, while others kept searching the skies as if anticipating an attack.

  Suddenly not feeling so well, Toni stared down over the curve of his frontal pack and into the well-trodden dirt beneath his feet, only to discover that someone had already beaten him to the punch; he was treading what was left of someone’s partly-digested meal. He prayed for the next shuttle to arrive, if only so he could leave the unsightly mess behind. Before long, he began to feel his jaw tighten, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he did the same.

  Feeling a sudden clap on his shoulder, he turned to find Sergeant Dunn leaning towards him.

  “Take it easy. What’s your name, kid?”

  “Tuh ...Toni.”

  “Well, listen here, Toni. A soldier’s life is ninety nine percent waiting and one percent combat. The trick here is not to let the waiting part ruin you for the rest, alright? Find your zen.” He added with a smile, giving him another clap on the shoulder before he moved on.

  Toni thanked him silently as he left, feeling ashamed for having nearly fallen apart when so many were laughing and jeering around him.

  Time began to stretch out, and Toni eventually found his zen. It consisted mainly of not thinking too much, or looking at his watch, or counting the number of shuttles that had already departed, or trying to pay attention to the conversations around him.

  They have nothing interesting to say anyway, he thought from deep
within his anesthetized mind.

  Their shuttle eventually did arrive, an old bus with the appearance of having very recently participated in a bumper car rally. It stunk of sweat and, by the time it began to move, every window had been opened, buffeting his platoon and the better part of another with some welcome fresh air. The journey woke him up a bit, but he kept his peace for a while longer, observing complacently as the forest glided silently by.

  Far from being stopped at the usual checkpoints, the shuttle ploughed straight through, entering the “mountain” directly from a discreet side-door to stop beside the warehouse district. The immediate area had fallen into confusion, a scuffle having broken out moments before between footmen and local technicians, the footies’ commander having been forced to shut down his entire platoon’s exoskeletons before they killed anyone. More than thirty men suddenly fell to the ground in unison under the weight of their packs, the invisible troupe of puppeteers pulling their strings having apparently decided to take a coffee break.

  Better that than remote detonation, Toni thought.

  As quickly as could be managed, LOGIS was directed towards Stable 3, where a frazzled-looking Ruka impatiently awaited them.

  “Listen up good, ‘cause I’m only going to say this once,” the sergeant began,” inside each Moca’s cavity you will find a stowage compartment directly to the HINT’s left. The first to try and squeeze his back pack in there will get a kick in the head. Your Lacrau and sidearm are to be kept there in their respective holsters. All other equipment will have to be stowed against the cavity walls using the straps present there. It is vital you strap it all down well, otherwise you might have your pack sliding into your legs in full locomotion. Which is a pretty stupid way to get yourselves killed or put out of action, by the way ...” she added.

  “Aside from that, strapping into your HINT is no different from the simulators, except you’ll have to insert your pen-key into its slot directly before the interface first, otherwise it’s a no-go. Each interface has already been adjusted for your specific biometry, so make sure to enter your unit in order of seniority; the eldest takes unit one, number two takes unit two and so on. Any questions?”

  A timid soul raised her hand.

  “What is it, Sueli?” Ruka asked irritably. The sergeant appeared to remember the cadet.

  “Will we get a chance to go before we go, Sergeant?” She asked apologetically.

  “What? Oh, for the love of ... Lieutenant, your steeds need to make water, so please see to it. I need them strapped into their units within ten mikes or it’s my hide, understood?”

  Nine minutes later Toni was easing into his hydraulic interface with care, his sense of peace having collapsed. Toni was upset, partly due to his failed attempt to apologize to Rakaia after the bathroom break, which had resulted in her sweetly cautioning him to watch out for friendly fire incidents. However, for the most part he was upset due to Unit Seven’s present condition.

  As he had been about to enter his unit, Ruka had approached him with a somewhat apologetic look on her face.

  “Miura, may I have a word?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I feel there’s something you should know. Your unit might only recently have been allocated its number, but it’s still the oldest unit of the lot. Make no mistake, its systems are sound and its APU is almost new, but the chassis’ and appendages’ tolerances are no longer very high. You may want to be careful regarding any precision movements.”

  “You mean like aiming a cannon?” Toni asked, unreality beginning to creep over him once more.

  “That doesn’t worry me, Miura. I’m told you’ll suffer greater chances of coming under fire from friendly forces than from the enemy, so precision won’t help you at all there.”

  “No shit ...” Toni moaned, remembering Rakaia. He felt his hold on his nerves begin to loosen a bit.

  “Listen to me, ‘cause we haven’t got much time ...” she continued urgently, “Because of this, interface errors will tend to build up and Unit Seven will be more challenging to control. I didn’t want to field it, but the higher-ups insisted on deploying the entire platoon without exception. I allocated Unit Seven to you because you have among the highest scores in mobility proficiency.”

  “Wow, that’s just great, ma’am, isn’t it?” Toni exclaimed with a pained smile.

  He fought back tears of frustration, taking out the turnkey he had been given moments ago to open the Suit’s hatch. Ian’s mobility proficiency scores were higher than his, but no doubt the unit allocated to him would soon be purring like a kitten. He knew why the special one would not draw a defective Suit, and it enraged him beyond anything words could describe. Ruka descended the scaffold without another word, leaving Toni alone to consider the smell wafting up from the open hatch.

  There were two simple words to describe that smell. Sweat and piss. Ruka had apparently neglected to inform him that the unit’s previous occupant had somehow relieved himself inside the HINT.

  “LOGIS Prime here. All units inform current status.”

  Toni heard the call coming from the helmet still suspended before him as he strapped into his interface. The stench was having a strange effect on him, making him want to pee despite having gone only a few minutes before. He pushed the thought out of his mind and forced his head into the helmet, the suspension coils instantly relaxing their tension in response.

  The screen was pitch black, with only a password prompt in green lettering floating before his eyes.

  “Mushima.” He declared. The prompt disappeared and the screen turned a pale blue.

  “This is your first live session, standby for user customization.” A strong masculine voice suddenly spoke into his ears.

  The voice did not surprise him; it belonged to Unit Seven’s CPU, and he would have to parley with it over the following few minutes. By now his remaining comrades were well into their status reports, and he realized he was falling behind. Without delay, the voice continued.

  “Ocular Motion Capture targeting in three ... two ... one ... mark!”

  A glowing red dot, barely the size of a mosquito, suddenly appeared one palm away from Toni’s nose. He focused his eyes carefully on the object.

  “Mark.” He declared, at which point the dot disappeared, only to reappear a foot away and slightly to his left, challenging him to look again.

  “Mark!”

  Toni kept up the exercise for about as long as the CPU required to calibrate the ocular cursor, which turned out to be a little over a minute. Without a calibrated cursor, most of his orders wouldn’t get through to the unit’s main processor, so he focused on the task completely.

  “Calibration complete. How should my voice sound?” It inquired.

  “Female. Young. Soft.”

  “Is my voice now acceptable?” A pleasant female voice spoke.

  “Yes.” He replied. That voice, so often chosen in their simulations, was not too different from Sarah, his youngest sister and his favorite.

  “What is my name?” She asked.

  “Sarah.” He answered.

  “My name is Sarah.” She replied confidently, as if that had always been her name.

  The blue screen disappeared and Toni finally gained stereoscopic vision, only just glimpsing the stall gantry as it automatically slid out of his way. To the extreme left and right of his field of vision were several compact virtual targets. He decided to leave them alone for the moment.

  “Unit Seven, you done debating with your OS, or do we need to leave you behind?” Dunn’s irritated voice sounded over the comm, making him realize that they had all been waiting for him. Which would not have been the case if his predecessors hadn’t torn out so many cavity wall straps, obligating him to use his imagination to tie down his gear.

  “You do realize you’re never going to shed the Tardy handle that way, don’t you?” He heard Hirum voice over the comm. It put a smile on his face, but the Lieutenant quickly preempted any retort.


  “That’s the last time I hear you wasting air time, Unit Fourteen. From now on I want radio discipline. If what you have to say isn’t important to the mission, don’t say it.

  “Brother One, continue.” The Lieutenant finished.

  “Let me hear it, Unit Seven.” Dunn rasped.

  “Systems up and operational, Brother One.” Toni replied.

  “LOGIS Prime, this is Brother One. All units ready.”

  “Very well. Brothers One, Two and Three, form your sections up at the mustering ground.”

  “Brother One to Section One, muster up and be quick about it.” Toni heard over the comm.

  As Toni eyed a red virtual target it began to glow, and he prepared to activate locomotion.

  “Engage.” He declared, feeling his HINT suddenly envelope him more snugly, each of the sensation pegs hidden in the interface giving his skin a good poke before settling down again.

  He took a step forward, disliking the vibrating shudder that shook the unit as his right footpad hit the ground. Belatedly he realized that if he kept it up he’d eventually shake the Suit into a junkpile. He began to cat-walk, laying each footpad on the ground with care as he turned towards the mustering ground; the shaking ceased at once, and Toni began to hear the stomping of the other titans as they left their stalls. Grimm’s Unit Four strode into view.

  The Moca Suits appeared somewhat less impressive than when last he had seen them. Almost their entire surface area had been outfitted with light, flexible armor. It appeared quite reptilian in nature, grey-brown in hue and scaly, with occasional loose folds at the joints that became apparent only in movement, like the elephant skin he had seen in documentaries. The protection afforded by such armor was hardly worth the ugly, elephantine look the Moca currently possessed; it was expected to stop Infantry rounds, artillery shell fragments and direct hits from some grenade types, although any direct hit from a 25 or 30 millimeter round, or the occasional artillery or mortar shell, would put a very abrupt end to the driver’s dreams of glory. It was obvious why the platform was no longer considered adequate for combat.