Live Echoes

by Henry V. O'Neil

More concealed positions burst open near the trucks, and moments later dozens of camouflaged men and women were swarming over the defenders. It was over soon after that.

  “The Orange study the responses of our security people better than any other rebel band. No matter how we change procedure, they adjust within days.”

  With the action ended, Mortas saw that the knife-wielding ambushers weren’t camouflaged at all. Their skin was bronze, and the few of them with unshorn heads showed the same tone in their hair. They were soon joined by many others, bearers who ran up with empty pack boards hanging from their backs. The rebels quickly broke the bulk ammunition down into cases, which were strapped into place and carried off by multiple relays.

  “You’ll recognize this one. His skin hasn’t changed yet.”

  Walking down the center of the road, accompanied by a bushy-haired child who was completely orange, Hugh Leeger spoke into a small radio.

  “No. Stay up there and keep your eyes open. If they’ve got a react force waiting, you’re our warning.”

  Jan studied the face of the man he knew so well. Unlike the others, Leeger wore a complete set of fatigues and boots. He’d lost some weight, but seemed otherwise unchanged from when they’d last met in Roanum’s orbit.

  “Got it all?” the Leeger image asked a rebel who had run up as if to make a report, and the woman nodded before jogging after the departing pack train. “Okay, burn ’em.”

  Flames sprouted all over the stripped convoy, shrinking the picture as the heat consumed the cameras generating the video. The footage flickered as the different devices died, and Leeger and his young bodyguard appeared to melt in the inferno before the throne room returned.

  “As you can see, Hugh Leeger is one of their leaders.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “So there’s nothing you can tell me that might help us catch him?”

  “The man I knew wasn’t a traitor, so I doubt anything I’ve learned still applies to him.” The words burned in his mouth, but Jander wanted this interview to end.

  “All right.” Asterlit brought the lights back up. Stepping closer, he loomed over Mortas. “Keep this in mind. We caught his protégé, the operative known as the Misty Man, and hanged him in the courtyard outside. We’re going to catch Leeger too, and I promise you his passing will not be nearly as quick.”

  The governor stopped talking, waiting for a response with the face of a statue. The whole performance rekindled the resentment of overbearing authority that Jan had developed early in life, but he managed to keep silent. Finally accepting this response, Asterlit made a motion as if to lay the remote control on the nearest table.

  The room dissolved again, instantaneously this time, into strobing light and throbbing shadows. It was another video, shot right there in the throne room, and so he was in the dead center of the replay. Loud music boomed out a disturbing, discordant beat, which he felt in his teeth.

  All around him, men and women in different stages of undress were writhing and wrestling. Facial masks abounded, as did strange loincloths and mesh clothing. The darkness made it difficult to determine exactly what was taking place, but it was obviously a violent orgy. In one flash of illumination he saw several men ganging up on one female, a single bare arm reaching into the air for help. Several yards away a large woman in a mask was lashing someone with a cat-o’-nine-tails, her laughter rising above his cries of pain.

  Seated in the throne wearing a robe open to his midsection, Asterlit looked on without any emotion at all.

  The projection disappeared a second later, leaving him back in the room with Asterlit.

  “I’m sorry.” The governor spoke without remorse. “I hit the wrong button.”

  Knowing Asterlit wanted a reaction, Jander gave him a bemused smile.

  “Something struck your fancy there, Lieutenant?”

  “Struck my funny bone, is more like it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Mortas feigned sudden contrition. “Oh, I’m sorry, Governor. That was rude of me. I’m sure you felt that was quite a party.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I’m in the infantry. What you just showed me, for us that’s not even good pornography.”

  Asterlit appeared flummoxed, but spoke anyway. “I imagine you’ve seen your share of true pornography. Out there. Outright obscenity.”

  “Yes.” Jander considered stopping there, but the ham-handed attempt at rattling him had struck a nerve. “On Fractus, I killed a Sim infiltrator by beating his head against a boulder. That was after he and his buddy had killed two of my men and then emasculated them. They also killed my medic right in front of me.”

  “Certainly sounds obscene.”

  “You may get to see it yourself, one of these days. There’s a whole Sim armada out there somewhere, trying to find a way to get to the settled planets without being detected. When they figure that out, you may wish you spent more time supporting the war than torturing slaves.”

  “So it’s true. You did speak with them.”

  “No.” Jander decided he’d already gone too far. “I just believe the rumor about that armada. It’s been going around the war zone a long time.”

  “What were they like? Did they seem malleable? Suggestible?”

  “The only Sims I ever encountered were actually quite obstinate.”

  Asterlit studied him a moment longer. “You’re more like your father than you think, Lieutenant Mortas.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “My attendants will show you back to the roof. Another shuttle is on the way.”

  “Thank you, Governor.” The notion of the sun and the breeze on the empty rooftop was suddenly quite appealing, and Mortas tried not to show his relief. “It’s been an honor meeting you.”

  An armored shuttle carried him from the SOA to the sprawling base where the Orphans got their logistical support. As a separate brigade, the Orphans had no permanent parent organization or dedicated sources of supply and maintenance.

  That didn’t appear to be a problem once Jander limped down the ramp from the shuttle. Ten miles south of Fortuna Aeternum, the base could have been a city in its own right except that none of its temporary structures was higher than two stories and most were only one. The spacedrome where he stood roared with activity, with transport planes, shuttles, fighters, and drones lifting off or landing. Movers, trucks, and armored cars were parked in seemingly endless fenced-in lots, and in the distance he was just able to make out the cannon on a row of tanks.

  The shuttle had been diverted from another mission to pick him up, and so the crew had no idea where Jander was supposed to go once he landed. Normally his handheld would have synced up with the Force systems running the base, but the device was still useless. The sun was high overhead, warming him as he scanned the row of tan huts where he’d been dropped off. Various signs displayed acronyms that probably made sense to base personnel, but were total gibberish to him. He’d decided to enter the nearest hut to ask directions when a voice called out.

  “Is that the famous Lieutenant Jander Mortas?”

  He turned to see a tall, slim captain coming toward him in desert camouflage. He wore no insignia, but Jander knew him well as First Battalion’s intelligence officer.

  “I’m not famous when I’m in the same spot as Captain Erlon Pappas. Legendary explainer of military graphics, sometime weather forecaster, and tolerator of the infantry.” They embraced after exchanging salutes.

  “Who says I tolerate you assholes? You guys kidnapped me from a cushy headquarters job.”

  “Long before I got to the brigade.” Jander leaned in to study the other man’s short hair. “Longer than I thought. You going gray on us?”

  “Blonds don’t go gray. We go silver. Come on. I’ve got a mover waiting.”

  They walked between two huts, with Pappas studying Mortas’s gait. “How’s the leg?”

  “It’s coming along, but I re-injured it on Roanum. You hear
what happened there?”

  “That part of the story didn’t make it onto the Splat.”

  “The Splat?”

  “Sorry. That’s a new one. We don’t call it the Bounce here. News might rebound all over the galaxy, but everything that happens here gets censored really hard. It doesn’t bounce so much as go splat.”

  “I think I hate this place already.”

  “No reason to wait. Everybody else hates it.” A broad parking lot spread out in front of them, but Pappas stopped just on the other side of the huts. “You’ll get the full briefing, but this whole scene absolutely sucks. That asshole Asterlit somehow got appointed as the governor, and Command decided that means he runs the show. You hear about him yet?”

  “I just met him. That’s why I’m late.”

  “Uh-oh. What did you tell him?”

  “What could I? I only just got here.”

  “Not what I mean. He’s got a strong propaganda arm, so just assume he taped everything. Get ready for him to twist that on the Splat so you sound like his biggest fan.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Don’t worry about it—nobody believes any of that nonsense anyway.” Pappas made no move toward the vehicle park. “What did he want to talk about?”

  “Hugh Leeger. He wanted to know if I had any tips for fighting him.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Don’t.”

  The mover took them to the other side of the airfield, passing enormous hangars and maintenance bays. Jander was staring at a sea of cargo containers when Pappas leaned over the back of his seat. He handed Mortas a new handheld, and took the old one.

  “It’s a completely different war here. Sammy Sim might not understand our speech—” Jander thought he felt the intelligence officer’s eyes drilling into his memory of meeting the Sim delegates on Roanum “—but the Rogers sure do. Worse, half the Celestian units mutinied when they were sent back here. So our opponents have got lots of trainers telling them how the Force operates.”

  “I heard it was bad.”

  “It is. We’ve fielded encryption that should have secured our comms, but that’s only been partially successful. Some of the defectors must have been commo experts, because they’re still getting into our systems. A week ago, they juked a target identifier on this one Tratian outfit. It shifted the rockets right on top of the guys calling for them.”

  “Shit.”

  “It gets worse, but that’s gonna have to wait. Right now you need to meet your new assistant, Sergeant Strickland.” The mover stopped outside a long segment of fencing, and through the mesh Jander could see it was a motor pool.

  “Supply? I’m working supply?” Mortas was already well acquainted with Sergeant Strickland, who was widely respected as First Battalion’s supply NCO.

  “We would have put you on the battalion track team, but we don’t have one, and you can’t walk.”

  “I have no training in this at all.”

  “Don’t worry—that’s the new job description. We haven’t had a real supply officer in this battalion since Drew Follett.” The name brought back a memory from Jander’s first days with the Orphans, when he’d met Captain Follett. The man had been vomiting outside the battalion HQ late one night, and he’d died a short time later. Obsessed with finding new sources of food for Orphan units locked in combat, Follett had been ingesting small portions of captured Sim rations even though they were deadly to humans. “It’s a temporary position, until you can walk again. Strickland’s been running this show on his own, whether he’s had an officer to babysit or not. He’ll bring you up to speed.”

  Mortas took this as his cue to dismount, which he did with reluctance. His mind pushed back against the very idea of the new role in such an unfamiliar environment. Varick’s face appeared unbidden in his mind, compounding the sensation of letdown. In an effort to push that thought away, he made himself focus on the job. “What are we doing right now? The battalion, I mean.”

  “We’re moving.”

  Pappas’s words were borne out by the scene in front of him. Laden movers were marshalling in files, engines running, while soldiers ran around them securing last-minute additions. A hundred yards away, he could see even more activity inside a row of open-air maintenance bays. Deciding that the trucks were someone else’s concern, he started limping across the ground.

  As he drew closer, Mortas felt consternation at not recognizing anyone. Half the troops were bundled up in body armor, helmets, and tactical goggles, but the remainder had stripped down to fatigue pants and T-shirts and Jander felt he should have seen a few familiar faces. He’d almost reached the bays when an armored man crossed in front of him. Medium height and carrying a Scorpion rifle, he resembled many of the other soldiers in the area. Even so, recognition clicked somewhere in Jander’s mind.

  “Dak? Sergeant Dak!”

  The man turned and looked around as if not seeing him.

  “Sergeant Dak. Don’t recognize your old platoon leader?”

  A smile spread across the man’s dark skin while he slid his goggle lenses up under his helmet. “Lieutenant Mortas! When did you get back?”

  Elation flooded Jander as he stumped up to Dak and swatted him on his armor. “Just now. How’s the platoon?”

  “As good as can be expected. They’ve had us pulling every job the Orphans were never meant to do. Guarding the perimeter, riding shotgun on supply convoys, heck there was even a rumor they were gonna make us take over security for the SOA. Can you imagine that? Palace guard for Asterlit.”

  “So what are we doing now?”

  “Finally a real mission. We’re bustin’ loose from this rear-echelon grab-bag and heading for the boondocks, where we always shoulda been. We’re gonna be hunting Roger in a big patch of nothing, right between two sectors controlled by the Orange and the Flock.”

  “Heard of the Orange—who’s the Flock?”

  “Nutty bunch. Mostly ex-slaves, high on freedom. They tattoo bird symbols on their faces. Free as a bird. Get it?”

  “This place is crazy.”

  “You always did catch on fast.”

  “How are the men?” Having been gone for the entire time the brigade had been on Celestia, Mortas couldn’t make himself ask if there had been any casualties.

  “Not too happy, but nobody is. I didn’t join to put down a slave rebellion, or to keep fat cats safe behind a wall. Never thought I’d say this, but I miss Sam.”

  “But they’re hanging together? The platoon, I mean.”

  “Of course. Lieutenant Wolf’s made some good moves, volunteering for the lousy jobs before we could get assigned to the really shitty ones.”

  “Lieutenant Wolf? That’s his name?”

  “No, but everybody calls him that. His real name’s hard to pronounce, and it’s a thank-you for him and his scouts saving our hides from the wolves the night you got nailed.”

  “Are you kidding me? He got there for the last five minutes of that fight, riding in an armored car.” Mortas was barely able to keep himself from saying the nickname should have been his by all rights. His wounded leg throbbed, as if in confirmation.

  “That’s true, but most of us would be dead if he’d been a minute later.” Dak pointed at the leg brace. “Admit it, sir. We put up a good fight, but those brutes had us by the balls at the end.”

  “I guess so.” Jander’s mind whirled with the overload of information and his platoon sergeant’s obvious affection for his replacement. “So, any idea where you’ll be tonight? I’d like to drop by.”

  “We’re going straight out on patrol, three days at least, but I’m sure we’ll catch up.” Dak started walking away. “What are they gonna have you do while your leg heals?”

  “I’m the new battalion supply officer.”

  Dak laughed. “God help us, then.”

  “Yeah, don’t eat your last ration.” Mortas called, but the man had already disappeared.

  “Lieutenant Mortas? Over here, sir.” The voice belon
ged to Sergeant Strickland, standing next to a flatbed truck under the maintenance awning. The short man went back to supervising a team of soldiers who were tightening straps around a trio of large metal tubes that looked like rockets.

  “Hey, Sergeant Strickland. Good to see you again.”

  “You too, sir. Sorry your leg is still messed up, but you’ll have plenty of time for rehab, where we’re going.” Strickland squatted down, inspecting the underside of the flatbed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “A smaller version of here, but out in the boonies. A supply base we’ll be sharing with the support outfits from a couple different units.”

  “Who’s running security there?”

  “Not Orphans. The brigade’s shuttling out to different patrol areas in that vicinity. It’s a real hot spot for the rebels.” Strickland stood up, wiping sweat from his dark skin. “You’ll be riding in one of the only shuttles going right to the base. I’ll see you there in a few hours.”

  “I’d rather go with the convoy.”

  “No armor, goggles, or weapon, and you can’t run. You’re flying on this one, sir.” The NCO gave him a sympathetic look. “Once we’re unloaded at our new home, I’ll get you outfitted and briefed.”

  “Makes sense.” Mortas gestured at the rocket-like tubes on the truck. “What are these things?”

  “A holdover from Captain Follett’s time. He was always trying to find different ways to deliver rations to the troops.” Strickland paused. “I’m sorry, sir, I forgot you met him.”

  “Briefly. He cared a lot.”

  “Yeah, he did. And it killed him. Anyway, these things here are a kind of space dart. One-man capsule, launched from orbit, with automatically deploying parachutes to slow them down before impact.”

  “I’ve heard of these. From the Spartacan Scout I was marooned with on Roanum.” Mortas put his fingertips on the bed and inspected the darts. Twenty feet long, with a single porthole and engines near the fins. “He said they were deathtraps.”

  “He was right. They got phased out a couple years ago. So Captain Follett found a whole yard full of ’em gathering dust and thought they’d work fine for emergency food deliveries.”