The Gods of War

by Graham Brown

  The second thing in his favor was universal: the tedium of guard duty. Personally James would rather fight than draw sentry’s watch. And though it was a hanging offense in every army, plenty of soldiers had fallen asleep on a long, boring night like this.

  “No time like the present,” James whispered to himself.

  He climbed out of the hole and began crawling slowly toward the rig. About half way there he was able to make out a hint of light coming through the armored windows from the control screens inside. He also noticed that the entry ladder on the right side was down and the top hatch propped open. It took a moment for him to see why.

  Near one of the huge mechanical legs he spotted a tiny glow of incandescent red. For a second, it grew brighter like a firefly and then dimmed to an almost invisible ember. One of the crew had come down for a smoke. That, James thought to himself, was a problem he didn’t need.

  CHAPTER 32

  The mercenary stood at the foot of his aging machine. Taking a draw on a cigarette and savoring the aroma. It wasn’t much in terms of tobacco. In fact, most of the flavor came from composted muck. But it wasn’t half bad.

  He smoked about half the length of the cigarette and then tamped it out carefully before wrapping it in a piece of plastic to save the rest for later. Even these synthetic smokes were hard to come by on Mars. That made them too valuable to waste.

  He glanced at his watch. The mid-shift horn should be sounding any minute. That meant it was time to move the MRV to a new spot, where the second half of the boring night would be spent. He slid the stub of a cigarette into his pocket, clambered onto the ladder and began to climb back up the side of the big MRV.

  He’d made it to the third rung when a sharp pain he’d never felt before shot through him from the center of his back.

  He might have screamed but at the same time a hand had clamped firmly over his mouth. It pulled him from the ladder and he was body slammed onto the ground sideways. Only now did he see the metal spike sticking out through his chest.

  He grabbed for it feebly and then his hands fell away.

  The last thing he saw was a filthy man—so covered in the red soil as to be nearly invisible up against it—holding him down and pulling the sidearm from his holster.

  James made sure the thug was dead before he uncovered his mouth, then glanced around with the pistol at the ready looking for any sign of trouble. Nothing moved in the desolation around him and the only sounds came from the worksite in the distance. The other crewman had to be up in the MRV’s cockpit. Someone had to remain at the controls even when nothing was going on.

  Stuffing the pistol into his waistband, James climbed onto the ladder, scaled it to the top and eased his way toward the open hatch on the roof. Flat on his belly, he eased to the edge and looked down into the cab. He could see only the right arm of the MRV’s driver. The man was sitting in the left seat, the command seat, unmoving until he reached up and tapped on one of the gauges.

  James smiled. The unit was an old Mark V. They were good rigs, but they had hydraulic issues and bad sensors, always had, even new off the factory floor. That was half the reason the military dumped them. They were supposed to be destroyed like all military surplus hardware, but it seemed many of them had ended up in the hands of the Cartel.

  James moved to a crouching position and then dropped through the hatch and into the cockpit, landing in the space between the two chairs. The driver turned with a start and, to James’s surprise, was holding his own pistol. He swung it towards James and two gunshots detonated simultaneously in the small space of the cockpit.

  CHAPTER 33

  The sound of the twin gunshots echoed across the camp. The strange acoustics of the hill and the metallic wall of the Core Unit caught the vibrations and they echoed back, sounding like distant thunder from the cloudless sky.

  Most workers kept going, another execution they assumed, but Bethel, stopped in his tracks. Kamahu was right behind him. Both of them glanced in the direction of the sound, back towards the lonely MRV in the distance.

  “Do you think…” Kamahu asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bethel said.

  “Keep moving then,” Kamahu said.

  Bethel wrenched his gaze from the distant machine, hoping and praying that his friend hadn’t been killed in the attempt. He noticed some of the guards pointing towards the camp. As he neared the drop off point he heard one of them on the radio asking what had happened. Unlike the earlier executions, none of them had been expecting this.

  Bethel dropped off the parts he’d brought in and started wearily back down the hill. He found his legs shaking and his feet catching the ground. He nearly tripped at least twice. Up ahead, a group of mercenaries were converging by the gates and moving toward the camp.

  Kamahu caught up to him. “They got him,” he said. “They caught your friend.”

  “We can’t be sure,” Bethel whispered harshly, trying not to think about it. The first half of the shift was almost over. They were so close. Not now, Bethel thought. Not this close to the end.

  “We have to tell the others,” Kamahu said. “We have to call it off.”

  “No,” Bethel said, sick to his stomach.

  “Face it,” Kamahu said, grabbing Bethel’s shoulder and turning him. “He failed. He’s dead. No reason we should die too.”

  Bethel tried to pull free but Kamahu’s grip was like steel.

  “We won’t get another chance at this,” Bethel repeated. “Who else will try what he tried? We have to hope. We have to believe. It’s now or never.”

  Before Kamahu could reply, the sound of a commotion sprung up at the slave camp’s entrance, just beyond the roll call gates. Spotlights came on and two men were seen running out from beneath the tarp. Even from this distance Bethel could see that the collaborators had broken free.

  “We should have killed them,” he muttered, fully aware that it was he who’d argued to keep them alive.

  “It’s over,” Kamahu said dejectedly. “We’re all dead now.”

  The collaborator and his partner ran up the hill toward guards, who seemed shocked and surprised at their appearance. The guards forced the men to their knees and blinded them with the spotlights, but it was only a matter if time.

  Bethel could see them trying to explain, he could hear them shouting. And though he couldn’t make out a word at this distance, he knew what they were saying.

  The guards seemed wary, never lowering their weapons. And between the strange gunshots and this new commotion, work around them had ground to a halt.

  Shoot them, Bethel thought. Please, shoot them.

  But the guards didn’t shoot and eventually the slave-master could be seen trudging towards them in the blinding glare of the spotlights. They spoke back and forth and Kek began to gesture wildly. He shook his head repeatedly, showing the wounds he’d sustained and the gash on his arm where the ID strip had been removed. Finally he pointed out into the work site, and Bethel felt as if the accusing finger were pointed straight at his heart.

  In what seemed like slow motion, the slave-master turned toward the hill, his eyes squinting from the glare of the lights, his hands on a long barreled rifle. He motioned to one of the guards, and began to move up the hill raising the radio to his mouth as he went.

  “We’re dead,” Kamahu said.

  Almost without thinking, Bethel picked up a narrow strip of plating and shouted at the top of his lungs. “Attack!”

  He flung the plating at the nearest guard and then lunged for him, tackling the man. Kamahu followed suit grabbing another of the mercenaries by the neck and clubbing him to the ground with his arm.

  The guard Bethel had attacked flung him off and was pulling his handgun, ready to put Bethel out of his misery, when the clock ticked over and the shrill blast of the air horn sounded above the work site.

  The blaring signal drowned out everything for several seconds, but as it faded a roar went up from around the camp and the slaves who knew of the p
lanned rebellion acted in unison with those who didn’t know. Three men swarmed the guard with the pistol and buried him in a pile, punching and kicking him into submission. One of them came away with the gun and began firing down the hill at the slave-master. While all around them hundreds of others were attacking any mercenary within range.

  Within seconds, every man, woman and child on the hill had joined in; even those who knew nothing about the plan realized the moment to strike was at hand.

  The viciousness of the attack took the guards by surprise, as the hatred for their taskmasters burst out from deep inside the prisoners.

  Down below the gates, the slave-master looked on in shock as the riot engulfed the worksite. For a moment he froze, so used to being in control, so used to dominating, he didn’t know how to react. Few slaves had shown enough backbone to look him in the eye, let alone fight.

  When he finally shook loose of his paralysis, he did so based on his primary method of responding to anything—utter violence. He began to fire into the crowd. “Kill them!” he shouted to the guards that remained outside the fence. “Kill them all!”

  He mounted the APC beside them, shoved Griggs out of the gunner position and took over. As soon as the power came on, he swung the twin barreled weapon toward the hill, switched off the safeties and opened fire. Within seconds he’d stitched a line of blazing plasma across the closest section of the fence line, frying sixty people in the process.

  Return fire soon came their way, courtesy of captured rifles and handguns. But while this volley forced the mercenaries on foot to take cover, the small arms fire was nothing against the armor of the APC.

  Soon the other APCs and the guards outside the fence line joined their leader, and the angry slaves that had come surging towards them were driven back and scattered in retreat up the hill.

  Certain that his quick thinking had turned the tide, the slave-master turned to the APC’s driver. “Get the Vultures up and running”

  “What should I tell them?”

  A new surge of gunfire came at him, ricocheting off the gunner’s shield. A chip hit him in the face drawing blood and ire. “Tell them to take aim inside the fence!” he shouted. “And to kill everything that moves!”

  With that, the slave-master swiveled the turret, took aim and pressed the double triggers once again. The blazing plasma lit out across the field, leaving a swath of carnage and burning bodies.

  The slaves’ initial surge had quickly overcome any resistance from the mercenary guards, but in its wake the fencing around the worksite had become the front line of a battle the slaves were rapidly losing.

  Bethel, Kamahu and a dozen others barely escaped being fried by the APC’s plasma guns, and they were soon hiding behind a huge stack of pipes in the staging area.

  As the gunfire grew in intensity, dozens more joined them, crowding into each other to keep out of the line of fire. At various spots around the hill, similar bands were cowering, trying desperately to survive the mercenary counterattack. About the only safe place was inside the tower of the Core Unit itself, which the mercenaries obviously didn’t want to damage.

  “Now what?” Kamahu asked.

  “Why are you asking me?” Bethel shouted.

  A series of explosions from unguided rockets blew out part of the protective wall, flinging a group of men and women into the distance like they were rag dolls.

  “Give me that rifle,” Bethel said. “I’ll draw their fire. The rest of you run for the Core Unit. They won’t shoot at you in there.”

  Instead of giving him the rifle, Kamahu stepped out and fired off a spread of shots. The group started running and Bethel grabbed Kamahu and pulled him back into the safety of the shelter just as the return fire set the desert alight once again.

  “Let’s go,” Bethel yelled.

  He and Kamahu took off running. They were halfway up the hill when even larger guns sounded, blowing apart the hiding spot they’d just left. A quick look behind them gave Bethel chills. Not only were the APCs firing at them but the closest of the MRVs–the mercenary’s Vultures–had come stomping into the fray.

  The hulking machine obliterated one hiding spot after another then crushed down the double fence with a giant armored foot. Its head turned to the side and unleashed a flight of missiles and cannon fire with devastating results.

  As soon as this machine had cleared a section, the APCs came racing across the downed fence and mopped up any survivors.

  Bethel looked away and kept running. With his heart pounding and his lungs feeling as if they might explode, he charged up the hill.

  As they neared the outer edge of the Core Unit’s foundation, the ground began to shake. From behind the bulk of the reactor another of the giant rigs appeared. The vast majority of the survivors were now trapped in between the two.

  Bethel dove to the ground as the evil looking machine charged down towards them and unleashed a hail of rockets. But instead of laying waste to the ragged band of slaves the missiles screamed over their heads. Bethel turned just in time to see them hit the other MRV, which rocked backwards in a ball of smoke and flame.

  The big machine looked as if it might recover when a final missile hit, penetrated the armor and blasted it apart from the inside.

  “That’s James,” Bethel shouted. “It’s got to be.”

  The machine pivoted on one huge leg and opened fire again, this time using the rotary cannon. The roar was tremendous. The air burned above them with tracers and the scream of forty millimeter shells racing past at a thousand miles an hour.

  Covering his ears, Bethel watched as the armored personnel carriers took the brunt of it. Their plating was not up to the task, and the machines were riddled and burning in seconds by the combined effects of hundreds of small explosions.

  Only one of the four avoided the onslaught, turning just in time and racing back towards the mangled fence with reckless abandon.

  The cab of the MRV pivoted from side to side like a living dinosaur looking for any sign of challenge, and then with a roar from its engines began moving forward once again giving chase to the fleeing target.

  In the surviving APC, the slave-master was screaming at the driver. “Go! Go!”

  The driver had the throttle floored and the tracked vehicle was racing out over the desert, rapidly picking up speed but to no avail. The renegade MRV was following and slowly gaining.

  The slave-master spun the turret and pressed the triggers once again. The plasma fire lit up the hull of the MRV but the big rig shrugged it off and kept coming.

  “Contact base!” the slave-master shouted. “Tell them we need help.”

  “I can’t,” the driver yelled back. “All frequencies are being jammed.”

  The slave-master could hardly believe what had happened. Never could he have dreamed of such a thing. He turned and depressed the triggers once again. Holding them down until the guns began to overheat. The hailstorm of plasma would have cooked almost anything it found, but the tungsten armor of the MRV was impervious to the onslaught. It shrugged off the attack and charged through the black cloud of smoke like an avenging angel coming from the depths of hell.

  As the slave-master cycled the guns and tried to get them back up and running, he saw the missile pods deploying above the shoulders of the big rig.

  “No!” he shouted.

  The scream of a rocket launch followed. An armor piercing missile streaked towards him, the flare of its engine and the trail of smoke made it seem as if the missile was stretching out as it came. It hit like a clap of thunder, obliterating the fleeing vehicle in a single instant.

  CHAPTER 34

  In twenty minutes, the battle was over.

  On the hill beside the Core Unit the slaves began gathering the wounded and the dead. At least three hundred had been killed. Another hundred or so were dying from burns or other wounds. The sight of it and the smell of burned flesh left many of the survivors retching, and very few had the strength to help Bethel tend to the wounded.<
br />
  The young boy whose theft of a water bottle had started the chain of events was one of them. He came running up to Bethel with something in his hand. “I found this in the guard’s shack,” he said.

  It was a first aid kit the size of a small toolbox. There wouldn’t be much in it, but every little bit helped.

  “Thanks,” Bethel said.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The heavy thudding of an MRV could be heard approaching, but shrouded in the darkness it was impossible to see the machine until the reflected glare of the work lights began to illuminate its angular, menacing shape.

  As Bethel looked up from his work, Kamahu eased over to his side. “That’s him right?”

  “I hope so,” Bethel said. “Otherwise we’re in big trouble.”

  As it came towards them, Bethel studied it. It moved with a menacing grace, but because it walked instead of rolled, there was something different about it, something almost sentient. It seemed more like a mechanical form of life than a machine. The armored cab, now covered in black soot and burn marks, seemed to hold wisdom and intelligence. The sound of its ragged gears and overworked hydraulics suggested a weary soldier, like Bethel knew his friend to be.

  It came to a rest nearby and settled onto its haunches, with the cab twisted off to the south as if it were watching for trouble.

  Bethel returned to working on the wounded as Kamahu walked over to greet James.

  “You were late,” Kamahu said. “We almost got massacred.”

  James straightened up. He was covered in dust and soil, but the side of his shirt was soaked in blood.

  “I ran into some problems,” he said, and then dropped to the ground.

  Bethel could see clearly. James was clutching his side.

  “You’re injured,” Bethel said.