by Scott Moon
“What happened to Foster?”
“On the way to the rear with the gear. Get moving.”
Kevin rolled to his feet as he had been trained and scanned the area for danger. The surface of Brookhaven for as far as he could see was nothing but artillery craters and scorched earth. “You made it sound like this isn’t as hot an LZ as Oman said.”
“Do you see any bodies?” Davis asked, already moving to check on the other fire team.
“No.”
“Then it wasn’t that bad. Guard the left flank. Chaf and Edwards are your fire team. Foster should live, but he ain’t walking anytime soon,” Davis said. He squared away the other four-person team — Uriah, Peterson, O. Sanchez, and A. Sanchez — then took a position in the center with a medic and a comms corporal Kevin hadn’t realized were part of the squad.
“Do you have a question, Connelly? You keep looking at me.”
“Where did you get the medic and comms people?”
“Their Thunderbolt took a shit right before landing. They ejected. Please welcome Kingsly and O’Brien to the team. These things happen after perfectly conceived plans encounter reality. Let’s move forward three hundred meters to that hilltop and set up security so O’Brien can contact headquarters.”
“Roger that,” Kevin said. He looked at Chaf and Edwards. He had led during training exercises, but now it seemed pretentious to tell them what to do, especially since his often-imagined confidence was thin at best. Daydreaming about his first battle hadn’t accounted for what this felt like. He wasn’t sure where he was — his global positioning icon told him he was in the right place, but that meant nothing as he looked at destruction and isolation in every direction. Other squads were, or should be, in positions just beyond line of sight. With modern communications and weapons capabilities, the platoon didn’t need to march in lock-step or hold hands when things got scary.
“Double-time! It’s a race for that hill. Command just contacted O’Brien on a personal link and advised there are significant DU forces attempting to take Hill 401 and 402. Get moving, Marines!”
“You heard him,” Kevin said on his fire team link. “Edwards, you’re the fastest and on point. Chaf, bring up the rear. As soon as we get to our GPS marker, we get on line and look for DUs.”
A hundred meters later, Kevin regretted putting the fastest member of his team up front to set the pace. Orbital bombardments rained down on Brookhaven, closer than he expected but still kilometers away. Distant flashes of light blinded him in the thickening dusk. The ground vibrated after each godlike thump.
One moment, the squad and fire team seemed alone on the planet, facing certain death for no clear reason. As they gained the height of Hill 401, he saw other squads and platoons rushing up neighboring hills. The sight took his breath away and he thought of his grandfather. With the Brookhaven sun falling behind and to the east of him, the shadow of the MSRG poking over his shoulder fell before him. A powerful feeling of kinship with all the warrior-soldiers who came before Kevin and the Marauders gave him strength.
Kevin and his fire team reached the top of the hill seconds before Davis and the others.
“Get on line and get down! Weapons hot. Here they come!” Davis shouted.
Kevin landed on his stomach, spreading his feet wide behind him to create a better shooting platform. He thrust both arms ahead of him on the scorched soil, activated his armor weapons, and felt his gauntlets and forearm bracers lock together. The stink of burnt things and vomit permeated his air filters.
The main gun of his armor slid out of the protective housing on his back, over his shoulder, and locked on Armor Combat Setting One: Prone Armor Rifle. With his entire body turned into a weapon platform, he only had to wait for seconds before Davis gave the order.
“Fire as they cross. DU squads are cutting in front of our position to assemble for an assault on Hill 402. Enfilade fire, now!”
Kevin darkened his visor and let loose a hellish barrage of ballistic death. The micro-rounds were deadly without any fancy science, moving so fast they nearly became plasma — it was the shock wave the projectiles pulled behind them that did the most damage.
Plumes of heat generated by the projectile propulsion systems erupted from the vents on his back. He understood from AIT that infantry units needed to move. Heat made them visible for miles. In his peripheral vision, he saw members of his fire team sprouting “dragon wings” as heat sprayed from backplates.
His fire team damaged the fast-moving enemy, ripping off one DU soldier’s legs and causing another to explode like a bomb.
“Cease fire. Move and recalibrate weapons systems. Put down heat sinks if you can,” Davis said, already sliding to a new place on Hill 401. “We don’t have a lot of room right now. Do what you can.”
Kevin collapsed everything with a single command and log rolled to his right three times. As soon as he stopped, he spread-eagled facing the ground and sent heatsinks — silver alloy cable-screws — ten feet into the earth. As the heat sink screws formed from a series of links stored in the frame of the armor, he readied his main gun and watched for an attack.
None came.
The Dissident Union troops seemed to want Hill 402 badly.
He tried to raise his head for a better view, but the heat sinks locked him down. Training swarmed his thoughts now, details he barely remembered studying at the time — like how he could detach from the heat sinks and come back to them later for a quick systems cool off.
Terror whistled down from straight above. He couldn’t see. Two seconds later, he used his armor systems to give him a low-resolution video of what was happening, wishing immediately he had spent that time moving. Before he could disconnect from the heat sink screws, blunt force slammed him into the ground. The armor held, he thought. Ears ringing, he disconnected and moved — only to find his chest and leg plates still anchored to the ground as though he had ten-foot-deep metal roots.
“Move, Connelly!” Davis shouted over the squad link.
“I can’t!”
Not a direct hit! Not a direct hit! He’s okay, keep moving…
Kevin wasn’t sure if he heard or imagined the voice of his sergeant and blackness enveloped him.
26
Arthur
SHIRT torn, pants undone, and shoeless, Arthur Connelly staggered up the stairs of the after-hours saloon into the alley. He could see the light of the electric billboards coming from the street and knew if he made it that far, he would see constant coverage of the Battle for Brookhaven. Half the analysts were crying for the end of the Coalition of Worlds. The other half systematically explained why the war was actually a small event that looked worse than it was due to the relative peace of the last few years.
He stayed away from news involving the SMC or Sirens, thinking of his brother when he was trying to think of Ruby. Memories of the twins hurt too much to even consider, like his parents and grandparents.
“Hey, stud. I’d almost do you for free,” a young woman, maybe a girl with a curfew and high school credits to complete, said as she slipped beside him and ran a hand over his chest.
“But she won’t,” said a huge thug. “Not for free.” The tattoos of a freelance criminal covered the man although he probably wasn’t. Few individuals could survive without the favor of a crime boss. He had a metal shank of high quality assembly-line steel.
“I’m too drunk,” Arthur said, but he didn’t move.
“You’re not too drunk,” the thug-pimp said without looking up from his blade-honing project.
The girl pouted and pressed her body against him, hands caressing in broad, bold strokes, eyes asking for things he didn’t understand or want to understand.
“I don’t do alley sex,” Arthur said, gently pushing the girl away.
“Fuck you, then!” she hissed.
“You still have to pay.” The thug sheathed the weapon and stood. He towered above Arthur, thick as a tree and probably juiced with plenty of black market testosterone p
roducts.
Arthur resisted the pounding of his heart and the beating of his red vision. He wished he was more in control, more like Kevin, who always did the right thing. Thinking of his brother should have either calmed or infuriated him. Weakness and despair swam though the alcohol and mood-damping chemicals in his blood.
The oversized thug moved his tattooed mass nearer Arthur, confidence searing the air between them like a psychic blowtorch.
“Come on, Kroger. He ain’t worth it,” the girl said.
“Stay back, Eve. Remember what happened last time you acted soft,” Kroger said.
Arthur barely heard the words. This man and his massive potential for violence was just what he needed. The twins were gone. Kevin and Ruby were gone. His parents and grandparents were gone. Arthur wanted to vent his frustration and beat back his loneliness.
“Listen to the girl,” Arthur said.
“I’ve got a name,” Eve said. “You don’t like girls or something?” She followed the question with an insult so foul he could not believe it came from her sultry lips. How could such a little thing contain so much bitterness and hate?
Anger flared. Arthur felt heat pounding the vein in his temple and arteries along the sides of his neck. He aimed his wrath at Kroger, trying to ignore whatever had poured vitriol into the young woman — who was someone’s sister or daughter.
Without warning, the tattooed monster bellowed a back-alley war cry and charged. Arthur hadn’t expected that. Big guys didn’t need to stoke their courage. Usually, they were overconfident, slow, and crybabies once they felt pain — since it was rare for men like Kroger to actually fight.
Unable to get out of the way, Arthur pushed off from Kroger. Most opponents would have been easy to shove back or to one side; Arthur understood his enemy was too big for that and instead launched himself backward. He reversed the momentum to dive at Kroger’s knees, grabbing hard with two strong arms and torqueing the left leg like a lever.
Kroger went down to prevent blowing out his knee, hammering his left fist on the side of Arthur’s face as they hit the dirty concrete together.
Again, Arthur was surprised. Big guys fought slowly, using weight and strength to pin victims and dominate through suffocation. Kroger fought for a better position, seeking chokes, wristlocks, and strikes.
The man was a pit fighter, probably a good one.
“Not bad, you big bastard,” Arthur gasped as he squirmed free of a bear hug and punched Kroger in the jaw.
The next fist hit Arthur so hard that he went blind, regaining his senses several unexplained strides farther into the alleyway.
“You’ve still got to pay, pretty boy,” Kroger grunted, gasping exertion. He picked up Arthur with brute strength and threw him through a door.
It was decision time. Arthur never backed away from a fight or left an enemy unvanquished. To do so invited extended vendettas. Until now, Arthur left his enemies without the will to fight him ever again.
Kroger pushed his way through the wrecked door.
Arthur fled into the building and lost himself in the maze of the lower levels of Tenement Building 401.
“I’ll find you and you’re going to pay for the alley fucking you didn’t feel obligated to pay for!” Kroger roared into the hallway.
“Big words, jackass!” Arthur darted up several floors and searched for a fire escape. At least he had been correct about his foot speed relative to Kroger. A moment of regret passed for Eve, but he’d been around long enough to believe she would only find another abuser if he liberated her.
And he thought she might be a lot meaner than the tattooed pit fighter.
He made his way from Building 401 to 595 and climbed the stairs rather than risk the elevator. A few people asked about the twins. Some asked about Ruby with obvious satisfaction and malevolent contentment. He mumbled and continued to the Connelly domicile on the tenth floor.
Only to find his key didn’t work.
New locks gleamed on the door. He didn’t bother to read the eviction notice.
Mrs. McGuire approached from down the hall. “Do you need a place to stay tonight, Arthur?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. Leaving the building hurt more than getting punched in the gut.
27
Siren and Nix
KEVIN experienced real panic for the first time in his life. No nightmare was this intense. The worst gang fight in his old neighborhood had the appeal of a vacation to the lake just south of Greater Kansas City. His ears rang. His thoughts made no sense. His eyes looked for a miracle and saw an SMC Recon squad moving fast up the hill.
“We don’t have time for this,” a voice said on a proximity link.
“Make time. Stand security while I check this one. I recognize this cocky bastard. Who else could express this kind of attitude while smashed face first into the ground?” Priest said, kneeling. He looked Kevin over, then moved to examine the damaged heat sinks. “This might hurt.”
Kevin closed his eyes as his armor bent and twisted under Priest’s efforts to free him. The force it took to separate his hips and torso plates from ten feet of silver alloy cable-screws tumbled him down the hill when they finally released.
“Davis, I need this fire team for a priority mission,” Priest said.
A scratchy reply struggled through the chaos of escalating battle noise. “You got it. Bring them back alive.”
“K. C., get up and gather your fire team. We need to move to Hill 595, right now,” Priest said.
Kevin did as he was told, dizzy and not quite believing his ears. Chaf and Edwards joined him, checking his mangled armor without fixing the awkward stride he was forced to adopt. Both of his friends did, however, seem impressed.
“I thought you were dead. DU artillery came down on you like the hammer of God,” Chaf said.
“Yeah,” Edwards said. “Holy shit.”
“Let’s go. Recon is already moving on the new heading,” Kevin said, forwarding the mapping coordinates Priest had sent to his visor screen. Cracked and smeared with grime, the tough material gave everything he looked at an ominous haze.
Two hills later, Kevin found an off-kilter rhythm in his stride. Running became easier, and he adapted to the constant course corrections Priest sent to him by secure text messages.
“Halt. Take cover and conceal your location as best you can,” Priest sent to everyone in the patched together unit. “I have eyes on three unknown humanoids near the river delta to Lake 029.”
Kevin directed his long-range sensors, relieved to look at a view panel not obscured with chips, cracks, and the distortion of partially melted clearplate. Three figures strode toward a river delta, bounded partway across the water, then splashed down. The speed they lost upon submerging over their belt lines was minimal.
“Would you look at that,” Edwards said.
“They’re not ours and they’re not Dissident Union troops,” Chaf said.
Kevin watched them drive onto the shore and race toward a hazy shape that might be a ship.
“First Platoon is en route to join us,” Priest announced over the expanded squad link.
“Joining you now, you slow-ass prima donna,” Lieutenant Lovejoy barked, voice echoing over the communication link.
“Good to see they let you play with the big dogs, Lovejoy.”
“Whatever,” Lovejoy said. “Davis, get over there with K. C. and his fire team. Give me a report on the Nix.”
Kevin moved as the situation demanded. He wasn’t sure what Priest and the other Recon Marines were doing. Probably he wasn’t supposed to know, so he ignored his curiosity as best he could. Priest disappeared from sight behind a slight rise in the terrain sloping toward the lake. The radio went as silent as a void-space fire drill for a moment.
Sergeant Davis pounded across the area Kevin and his team had recently covered. He dropped to the ground and slapped Kevin’s shoulder. “Goddamn Nix.” He relayed orders from Lovejoy but never looked away from the three figures for long.<
br />
Kevin and his fire team moved to new positions, relieved to be reunited with the platoon but anxious at the unexplained disappearance of Recon.
Lovejoy moved between Kevin and Davis, just within the general talk-around radio link. “Just hold this position.”
“I assume Priest is looking for Doctor Robedeaux again,” Davis said.
“Yeah, that is what it looks like. Rotate your team. I want them ready for a fresh fight,” Lovejoy said, then melted toward another concealed squad position like he was more Recon than Recon.
Davis checked on Kevin and his team twice. Both times he ranted about the “Goddamn Nix.”
Time crawled. Kevin watched a silent landscape undamaged by bombardment, clenching his fists against sleep. His stomach rumbled, so he maneuvered the nutrient tube into his mouth and sucked down sweet paste that made him think of Christmas cookies and cough medicine. The water tube was easier to reach. The contents tasted better, despite being recycled sweat and urine.
Gentle but firm tones sounded in his earpiece, warning him and the rest of Delta of a priority order.
“Delta, proceed on heading 3-5-0 degrees, soonest,” an unfamiliar voice said.
“That means haul ass!” Priest said with uncharacteristic force and impatience. “We are trying to get there but won’t make it unless you can slow them down.”
Kevin started running at the same time Davis jumped to his feet and repeated the orders.
From a dead stop, overwhelmed with boredom and fatigue, Delta Squad lurched into action. Armored SMC infantry often moved in traveling wedge formation. Today, the formation was off balance and shaped more like a soup bowl.
“Ugly,” Priest commented through static. “But fast. Keep it up.”
The terrain in this area of Brookhaven was something from a travel advertisement, even with a new bombardment from orbit streaking down like a curtain near the horizon. Running across the rolling flatlands that wanted to be hills proved more challenging as time passed.